Friday, July 21, '06
I was bored as all hell and decided, "Hey! I know! I'm gonna revive the Daily Grind! By writing short stories! Because my life is boring!"
Episode 1: Sword of Heaven
Reggie was not a criminal. He drank only on Sundays, drove at the speed limit, paid for headphones at K-mart. All of his software was legal, coming straight from his adoptive Chinese mother's credit card. He combed his hair, kissed his mom in the mornings, and tied the laces on his white shoes each time he put them on. He worked at his mom's law firm, "Su Big," as an undersecretary. It was a nine-to-five job that involved meeting a lot of rich white people. Their responses to Reggie's genuine smile and "May I help you" had subjected him twice now to drug tests, all of which came out negative. Reggie only left his mother's house for work and for one hour each Saturday afternoon, from three to four.
It was therefore a little ironic, Reggie thought, that he was the most feared man in the American Midwest. When he biked to the local Brian's Caffe each Saturday, powerufl suburban gang members would scatter in fear or look apprehensively at him, hoping secretly that Reggie would condescend to autograph their hypodermic needles. Police officers had an aversion as well. Once, while still at the University of Chicago, Reggie had gotten lost on campus and, unaware of happenings, nearly gotten hit by a car. The offending car had swerved and smashed the hell out o a smaller car. Two passengers had died instantly, while Reggie, lacking common sense, had waited, frozen, for the cops to arrive.
"Outta the way," the cop had said when he arrived, shoving Reggie to the ground, moving toward the accident.
Reggie had risen slowly, shocked to his feet, watching the cop helping a driver out of the car. The cop had lifted his gaze to meet Reggie's, and blank shock had filled his face. He'd dropped the prone, bleeding victim and rushed over to Reggie, apologizing profusely and inarticulately.
"I - I'm sorry I - I didn't realize - I - it won't h-happen ag - I won't - I'm sorry -"
He had escorted Reggie to his police car, removed his badge and sidearm, and handed them, stuttering, to Reggie. He'd opened the driver's door and offered Reggie the seat and, trembling, handed Reggie the key. He had stopped making coherent noises a while back.
"Forgive me," he'd croaked, struggling, closing the door for the stunned Reggie to drive at his leisure. Reggie had turned himself in at the police station, but rather than arresting Reggie, the police station had terrifiedly escorted him back to his Economics class with a thousand-dollar "reimbursement" for his "troubles."
"The officer will be notified of his insubordination," the chief had said.
Reggie reached the cafe table a bit late. His empty seat was adorned with velvet and gold. To his left was a dark-skinned white guy, six-foot-one and trim in his white suit. "Half-Greek, half-Cambodian, all pirate," he described himself - the esteemed mastermind of the largest Detroit car-smuggling ring. To the right of Reggie's chair was what resembled a Hispanic meatloaf. Rotund and blotchy, his primary field was money-laundering, which greatly assisted his drug-dealing business. FAcross from Reggie was a smiling Aryan with no facial hair. Reggie had never seen the man blink, never seen his chest moving as he breathed, if indeed he ever did. He was Chicago's resident assassin, with a hundred and sixty hits to date.
Upon Reggie's arrival in the cafe, all conversation stopped. The gang leaders dropped their cigars respectfully into their pina coladas and stood at attention and saluted. Three busty redhead waitresses dropped their trays at their tables and rushed to Reggie, escorting him very bodily to his throne. He sat, a powerful silence oppressing the crowd. After fifteen seconds, he realized that no one was moving.
"I'd like a cheeseburger," he said, and raised his head to stave off the offers of condiments, drinks, illegal substances, oral sex. The waitresses raced to satisfy his order; a particularly long-loegged one snatched a burger from a patron's table and was first to deliver.
"Thanks," he said, and handed the waitress a ten-dollar bill. She swooned as the accepted it and stared lustfully at Reggie for a long moment before skipping off to gloat at her co-workers, who were gnashing their teeth.
It was three-fifteen. Reggie took a bite off his burger and looked slowly around at his friends, who sat down again.
"How's it going?" he ventured.
"Spiffin'," the car smuggler said at once, "I got this massive new order from China. Goddamn Commies can't keep their fingers off the Japanese shit, they gotta no trade policy or somethin' like that. They think I'm from Hong Kong."
The other two watched Reggie carefully until he chuckled a little. Relieved, all of the gangsters laughed.
"Care for some of this martini? It's damn good."
"Nah," said Reggie. "My mom doesn't let me drink except on Sundays, and even then, none of that hard stuff. How about you, Joe? How you doing"
"I'm great," said the launderer heartily. A vein pumped in his forehead. "Half of Cuba's addicted. I'm gettin' cigars like it's no one's business. Care for one?" He reached into his coat pocket and picked out a gold-wrapped cigar.
"Nah," said Reggie. "My mom can't stand the smell of smoke on my clothes. Gets her antsy. Anyway, Phil, how are you?"
"Excellent!" the killer chortled unblinkingly. "I killed six people. If you come with me, I can show you exactly how it happened. One of them was this great headshot down that road..."
He gestured with his hands, and Reggie couldn't help but notice that they had no wrinkles or folds in them whatsoever.
"Sorry man," said Reggie. "I gotta be home by four, or my mom will flip."
"Aw," said Joe, "Life's a bitch, ain't it?"
"Yeah."
Reggie, in a technique rarely seen outside of kung fu movies, ate the rest of his burger in one bite, dripping a little ketchup onto the front of his T-shirt. He wiped it off of the Old Navy logo carefully using the back of his hand.
"Well, I got half an hour. What do you guys want to do?"
Episode 2: The Lion King
I'm an idiot.
Captain Anthony Delano Oneida watched the sun rising over the east side of the Mississippi river. The light threw the destruction of too many hurricanes into ominously sharp relief. It's the fucking twenty-first century. Why am I smuggling things out of the country on an actual boat? In hurricane country? During hurricane primetime?
The weather however did not help to add to the captain's indignation. The sunrise turned the river into fire upon his eyes, and he shielded them to observe the beauty of it all.
"Captain," said a seductive feminine voice, "the Toyotas don't fare so well."
The captain spun on his peg leg to face his very male first mate, Dominick "Damn It" Dobbins. "They need more padding," said Dominick.
"Put more in," said the captain.
"Okay," said Dominick, and disappeared below deck for a second. The captain heard a shrill screech: "PUT MORE IN."
Dominick resurfaced. "That didn't go so badly."
The captain didn't say anything for a moment, staring disbelievingly at his first mate. "Damn It," he said, "Why the hell did you need my advice for that one?"
"Thought I ought to get a professional opinion," shrugged Dominick, pulling out a Nintendo DS out of his bandanna and beginning to play it. The one eye that was not behind a patch flicked intently across the screen.
"You are a professional, Damn It," said the captain exasperatedly. "That's why I hired you."
"Oh. Well, I guess you're right. You're the captain, after all." Dominick's high-pitched squeal was now a low, distracted mutter. The captain could hear music from New Super Mario Bros. emanating from the device in Dominick's hands.
"That I am mate, that I am. Now what the hell are you doing?"
"Using my reserve mushroom," said Dominick, and indeed the captain heard the distinctive ringing sound as Mario grew two sizes. "I just got this new model a week and a half ago. DS Lite. It's got this nasty new backlight. I could blind a man with this machine."
"Wow," said the captain, regretting that he had initiated this conversational track.
"The graphical quality itself hasn't been improved all that much," continued Dominick, pacing the ship anxiously, "but it's got frickin' eighteen hours of playtime on it. It's like... whaddya callit... a capital investment. Only a hundred fifty. You know how much a PSP costs? Two-fifty. And it's only got one goddamn hour of playtime. This thing, though... this is like indefinite entertainment."
"I'll say," said the captain idly. His eyes began to slide out of focus; squinting with the sun was tiring them. Maybe I shouldn't have bothered waking up this morning..
"FUCK," said the first mate with great conviction. Interest piqued, the captain returned instantly from his half-slumber. "Died. You want a go, Captain?" He offered the DS Lite to the captain.
The captain shook his head. "Mario's not really my thing."
"Oh, that's fine!" said the first mate enthusiastically, returning to his dumb blonde voice, "I've got Castlevania DS!"
"You have what!?" said the captain, now fully awake.
"Yeah," said the first mate, getting excited, "Just a sec, Cap!" Trembling with excitement, he set the DS on the deck and reached under his bandanna. The river roared, and the ship tossed and turned a little. Dominick continued to dig under his bandanna.
"Damn It!" yelled the captain suddenly, "The DS!"
The ship settled upon a very unusual angle, and the DS slid gently across the deck, a baby going down his first playground slide. "No!" yelled Dominick sharply, and at the last moment, the ship returned flat. The DS Lite hung one inch off of the edge of the boat.
"Thank God," said Dominick, his breathing labored, eyes bugging out.
"Thank Poseidon," muttered the captain, sighing with comparable relief. He strode over, bent down, and took the DS Lite into his right hand to observe its fine design, its plastic beauty, its solid keys and high quality.
"God bless Nintendo," said Dominick, producing Castlevania.
BANG!
Something exploded from below the deck, ripping up a plank from between Dominick and his captain. "Captain!" yelled Dominick, but the torn plank and the smoke rising from the whole it had caused were obscuring his view.
"Mate!" called a voice from below, "It was Lin's fault! He's the one who wanted to test-drive the goddamn Toyota on board -"
"Wai ah you ahccoosing me!" yelled another, "Do you ree-ly theenk dey will belief you becass I am Chinese!"
"Yes!" called the first voice again, "You're a commie!"
"Shut up!" shrieked the first mate, but the debris now prevented him from reaching the edge where his captain had been with the DS. He lay on his stomach on the other side, panting, helpless.
A few minutes later, however, the captain allayed Dominick's fears marginally. His face was black, but he appeared otherwise undamaged.
"Are you okay, Captain!?" yelled Dominick, his hearing a little impaired.
"Almost," said the captain hoarsely. "But indefinite excitement is now going to be deposited at the Mississippi River Delta."
He grimaced. "Anyway, I bet the commie's behind this. Toss him into the ocean to play with that Japanese toy."
"Should I give him Castlevania, Captain?"
"Why not."
Home.