Your Candidate Sucks: Rick Santorum

NAME: Rickford “Sanny” Santorum
DOB: Born continuously in a loop confined to the 1950s
BIGGEST FANS: RedTail
BIGGEST ADVANTAGES: Has a +10 relation bonus with the Pope
BIGGEST DISADVANTAGES: Suffers a -1.0 conversion penalty
QUALIFICATION STATUS: Has-been

Santorum is trying his second hand at being President, like Mitt Romney in 2012. Unlike Mitt Romney in 2012, he possesses basically none of the things a mainstream candidate needs to actually be nominated. So this is gonna be quick.

Santorum has two huge things going against him. One: He’s been out of action since 2006, and his last experience was flaming out in the 2012 primary. This time around, being successful politically doesn’t seem to be that big a drawback, but his inability to gain ground as a known quality isn’t a good sign. Voters don’t seem to be interested in giving him a second chance.

The other big problem is he has no potential footholds for getting into the race. His two big issues, abortion and loving everything Israel, are already done better by candidates like Huckabee and Carson. Voters probably want a fresher face this time around espousing those two points.

There was a brief time in the 2012 race where Beltway types believes he could build up a campaign that focused on lower-class conservative issues by focusing on things like coal miners. That didn’t go anywhere in 2012 and shows no signs of being relevant this time either. He hasn’t even brought it up yet.

Santorum has no major backers and nothing to distinguish him, and unless literally all the other non-“establishment” candidates drop out first, it’s unlikely he’ll even stay in the race long enough to be given a look. One chance seems to be enough for the fundy wing.

Between Two Sanctuaries

This wasn’t supposed to be happening. Again and again, it went through Cpl. Al Coffey’s head as he held on for dear life to the safety strap.

How long ago was it when they left from China? It took hours and hours of flying. Bullshit banter with the guys. Going over the orders again and again. Going over the procedures again and again. He hated it all.

Two hours ago (or thereabouts), they were over the sea. Japan was right in front of them. It was pitch black outside, but morning would be coming soon. No matter. They were going to be outta there before the first rays of sun.

An hour ago, they must’ve been spotted. This was supposed to be easy. Easier than doing it by day, at least. He heard stories about how the first raid went. “Not that successful” beats “abject failure.” That’s what Cpt. Briarcliffe said when he griped about this.

Abject failure came at them soon enough. The Zeros came in on them like a junkyard dog. They saw the fear in his eyes. It must’ve been him because this kind of shit always seemed to happen to him at home.

He strained to look over his shoulder towards the cockpit. It was a bit quieter now. Were the Zeros taking a breath, or did his hearing get that bad? It was all dark around him except for the night sky which had a blush of dark blue contrasting against the jet black of the Superfortress’ interior. It was better this way. Fifteen minutes ago, the Zeros caught up with them again, just after they let their payload go on some poor saps on the mainland. At first their guns made no impression on the Superfortress’ armor. That was the cinch, he thought. Then someone, maybe a knuckleheaded Jap too frustrated to think straight, drove his plane into the starboard side. At least that’s what Roger said right before the nose of the Zero tore him in two.

“It’s turning right for us!” he said as he tried desperately to reload his MG. Seconds later, a blast, a crack, and Roger’s upper torso bounced all over the inside. Al remembered getting blood on him, and the dumb look on Roger’s face that he caught for a brief moment. He didn’t know where Roger was now, but the Zero left a gaping hole in the side. Air was constantly rushing out, taking all the shell casings from the bomber’s MGs with it. At least the floor wasn’t that dangerous to walk on.

Then there was Keith. He was stunned by the suicide attack. Another Zero must’ve came in, seeing the wound in the bomber’s side and attacking like a rabid animal. Keith was torn up by a hail of bullets.

Meanwhile, Al was hiding in the back by Chuck the radio man. Chuck was getting scared now as Cpt. Briarcliffe and Lt. Solomon must’ve been fighting like hell to keep the plane airborne.

That was five minutes ago, maybe. The truth is that Al had been lying on the floor, a bit past the now-empty bombardier compartment. The Zeros had been strafing them for a while, cutting into that hole and even making some little holes of their own with their MGs. The last thing he heard Chuck say before he left him was him trying to hail the others in the wing. Al would’ve looked out the hole to see if anyone else was out there, but he could still hear the Zeros a little. So far they hadn’t shot him as he hid in his little corner of the plane.

Unfortunately for him, Cpt. Briarcliffe was on the radio. “Corporal!” he yelled. “Get up here! I need your help!”

What for? Al was no pilot. He was about to ask when another Zero let loose a hail of bullets into the rear of the plane. Some of them came through the hole, though, sending lead dancing around. It was a nifty light show, and some of the shrapnel grazed Al’s cheek. Lesson learned. Keep your eyes closed. And keep your knees tighter to your face.

“Corporal!” yelled Briarcliffe again. God dammit what did he want? “Get up here now! Stalworth (that was Chuck), we need clearance up ahead!”

Clearance wasn’t a good thing here. Clearance to land, probably. The only friendly territory was in China and there was no way in hell they were near China.

Briarcliffe yelled again and again for him. Why didn’t he just think he was dead? “He’s in the middle compartment!” yelled Chuck. “Al, get going!”

“Why!?” yelled Al as poked his head up.

“Solomon’s been hit! I need your help!” said Briarcliffe.

If Solomon got hit then that must mean the ball turret got knocked out. Now there was no way in hell he was moving. Anyone who could fire a gun at the Japs on this plane was dead.

Five minutes passed, and in those five minutes Briarcliffe called for Al 17 times. Zeros hit the plane six times. This thing was gonna land, all parts at least serviceable even if the entire crew was not. That’s how they designed these things.

When Al was drafted, they said the air force was a good job for him. No need to face the enemy, thank you very much. Al was a librarian back at home, and he very much enjoyed the quiet. Plane rides were quiet in the same way. A buzz from the engines and little more. But everyone liked to talk on the way to and from missions. The simplest bombing run had more narration than “War and Peace.” And those were the good ol’ days. This was the first time they had trouble.

The plane had started rocking. Or maybe he was just noticing it now that his knees were bumping into his face. If this kept up, he’d be out of teeth before they hit the ground. He stuck his head up again to relieve the pounding. How much time had gone by? Briarcliffe was still alive at least. “Help me goddammit! Solomon’s in trouble!”

“What the hell are you doing?” yelled Chuck. Not through the radio, though. He was standing over Al. “What’s the matter?”

The easy answer was to say he was hurt. It was too dark to tell anyway. But Al’s instincts answered before his brain could.

“I ain’t moving,” he said.

“The fuck you aren’t!” yelled Chuck. He bent over to pull Al up when the familiar buzzing sound the Zeros made wafted through the big hole again. Chuck couldn’t react in time. Another hail of bullets. One or two of them hit Chuck in the lower back. He crumpled immediately with a yelp.

When the Zero passed, Al crept to him. He could barely see the dark wounds on Chuck’s back. “Are you alright?” said Al.

“No,” said Chuck between gasps. Al tried to drag him to the side but Chuck kept resisting. “You’re hurting me!” he yelled.

Al stayed over his body. This was his fault. Chuck’s the radioman. He should be calling for help. “What’s going on?” he said to Chuck.

“The radio’s out. They hit it,” he said. “Doesn’t matter. No Chinese in a thousand miles for us to land in. Not gonna make it to Russia, either.”

“How do you know?” asked Al.

“We’ve been getting chewed up, you idiot!” Chuck was gasping more rapidly now. “We’ve diverted north. It’s too late though. We’re not gonna make it.”

Al slumped back to his corner of the plane. Not gonna make it? Where the hell were they gonna land? Korea? Were they even gonna land or were they just gonna slam into the ground and be done with it?

Another five minutes passed. Zeros came lunging at them again and again. Or maybe it was just one Zero, nipping at the defenseless Superfortress. A small fry nibbling away at this behemoth floundering along on the way to its death. Al was not amused.

Briarcliffe came again and again. “Help me please! Corporal, we are going to crash and I need you up here at the controls!”

Chuck came again and again too, though he mostly just groaned and flopped over on his back.

And there Al was. Ever since he was old enough to know what he wanted to do with his life, he knew there could not be a God. This minute’s events were only reinforcing that belief. But deep inside he felt terror as the plane pitched uneasily from side to side. The Zeros were still lurking outside. There was no way a God could allow this to happen to him.

So he began to pray. Please, he pleaded into the darkness, closing his eyes as tightly as he could. Please! Please let me get through this! Please get me out of here! Get me out of here! Anywhere but here!

A loud bang from the darkness interrupted. There was a whining noise from one of the engines, and the plane, already struggling to stay level, slouched forward into a decline. He gripped the safety strap tighter. The buzzing of the Zeros turned into the ghostly whisper of air rushing through the wounds in the fuselage. The whistling became higher and higher pitched.

“Brace yourself!” yelled Briarcliffe. Seconds later, the plane hit the treeline, trembling mightily before hitting an open field and flopping on the ground. All Al was cognizant of was loud banging followed by intense repeating pain in his wrist and shoulder.

He didn’t know how much time had passed, but not long, for the sun hadn’t reached the horizon yet. But it was bright enough to see outside. It was mostly quiet.

Al let go of the safety strap at last, though his hand hurt so much that it was better off remaining in a fist. He pulled himself up. Something was terribly wrong with his other shoulder, the one leaning against the plane’s fuselage.

The plane was mostly level, so he was able to pull himself to his feet, though he immediately fell down, for his trembling knees were in no shape for holding him just yet. He nearly fell on top of Chuck, who managed to hold onto his own safety strap, though he was now bleeding from the head and was unconscious.

Some more time passed. When the sun finally made its appearance, Al could hear voices from outside. He couldn’t guess where they had landed. Their only hope was that they were Chinese, but that was frankly a stupid hope to have.

He could also hear someone stirring from the front. Briarcliffe emerged, walking from the darkness into the light shining in from the gash in the plane’s side. He stumbled down the cracked walkway, past Keith’s pulverized remains, which splashed on his boots. He saw Chuck incapacitated, then Al lying near him, clearly alive. Briarcliffe could only stare at him as he took a seat on the floor.

“…Solomon?” asked Al. Briarcliffe just kept staring at him.

Sure enough, the visitors were the IJA. They happily dragged Briarcliffe, Al and Chuck out from the plane. By now, Chuck was awake but seemed only able to look with confusion at what was happening around him.

None of the Japanese spoke English, so all Al could understand was loud, ceaseless yelling from one of them, apparently a sergeant. Two soldiers went around pulling their quarry to their feet by the shoulders. Briarcliffe could stand without much trouble. Al’s knees still refused to work, so he stumbled backwards. That earned him a kick to the hip and arm, followed by a rifle butt to the chest. Now his knees were more afraid of the Japs than anything else, and so stiffened enough.

Chuck had no such fear. He had no such anything, just pained stares at the Japs surrounding him. They hauled him up and he crumpled like a marionette. They hauled him up again. And again. And again. Every time he sunk to the floor, groaning pathetically, tears welling in his eyes. He tried to call towards the fuselage, and they indulged him a bit before dragging him back to Al and Briarcliffe.

When they got bored, they tossed him onto his stomach, then perforated him with a volley of rifle shots.

Their sergeant spoke a quick order and they fell back in line. Al and Briarcliffe were put at the center of a column marching back through the forest they just crashed through. Al finally had his strength under him, though not much was remaining. Briarcliffe seemed fine enough.

Al wanted to ask where they were going, but the smarter half of his brain vetoed doing anything that could provoke their captors. He didn’t even dare to look at them. He just kept glancing at Briarcliffe, who stared straight ahead, also as silent as he could be.

There was no telling how long they hiked through the craggy terrain of God knew where. As the sun continued along its way, turning the air hot and muggy, Al finally felt his hunger pangs asserting themselves through his sore shoulder. He was getting hit by dizzy spells. He was going to throw up. Oh my God, if I stop to vomit, they’ll kill me, he thought, stealing a glance at a nearby sentry. He silently begged his stomach to hold on, for the both of them.

At last they made it through the forest into a clearing. In this clearing was a high fenced-off area, inside of which they could hear random shouts and yells. One of their captors pointed at it and yelled something. It seemed pretty evident what they wanted, but the Japs took no chanced and kicked both of them in the ass to hurry them up.

They were let into a prison camp. Al had heard about these before and, more importantly, saw them on the posters at home. Kill every last murdering Jap, said one, or so he remembered. Otherwise it was death in the Philippines. Or Korea. Wherever they were.

He and Briarcliffe were processed, he supposed, or at least introduced to the camp’s commandant. This involved having any insignia on them torn off, followed by a fierce slap to the face. They were then herded out into the main work area, a large field tilled by caucasians. Americans, even! Al was filled with relief, as if he had just came home.

And then they were brought to a Jap sergeant. He turned away from observing another pair of prisoners, both shirtless and digging a ditch with splintery shovels.

The sergeant gave them a quick once-over. He said something to one of the sentries nearby. “Hai,” said the sentry. Al recognized that as “Yes.” The sergeant turned to them.

“You were the ones chased here?” he asked in unbroken English. Al didn’t know what to say.

“That’s right,” said Briarcliffe.

“You are to work here, then,” said the sergeant. “I am Sgt. Hisano. I will interpret for the commandant. No doubt he has told you to get to work immediately. You are to assist these men in digging an irrigation ditch, and then afterwards to assist in the planting.”

Al didn’t really comprehend what Hisano was saying even though he understood every word. He looked to Briarcliffe, who kept his eyes on Hisano.

“You will be fed twice, once at sunrise and once at sunset. You are too late for breakfast, however. And when the time comes, you will be sent to your barracks for sleep. Until then, get to work. Ask these other men what to do, but do not talk of anything else. The guards will be listening.”

They were then dragged to a line of men, all caucasian, digging a ditch about a hundred yards long. Nobody looked at them. A guard was nearby, tapping the butt of his with his fingers.

Briarcliffe started digging right away. Al had trouble lugging his shovel, though. Nausea was battling its way into his stomach, but he had nothing to throw up, thankfully. He looked at the guard again. He was staring back. Al started to dig.

The others, many of whom were shirtless, with reddened skin and thin arms, chipped away at the soil. Al had no idea how far along they were in this project.

“Captain,” whispered Al. Briarcliffe didn’t respond. Did he hear him? “Captain?” he whispered again.

“Hey,” said a POW on the other side of the ditch. “Shut up.”

“They can’t hear me,” whispered Al.

“I can hear you,” replied the POW. “So shut up. And stop digging so fast, you’re making us look bad.”

Al was used to working in silence. But this was unsettling. Very few voices could be heard, just the tearing into the ground of shovels and the occasional grunt. Everyone worked slowly, scooping once every ten seconds, then moving down to dig the ditch deeper.

It was too hot. The humidity was working its way through his shirt, weighing him down like a suit of mail. He wanted to take his shirt off, but seeing the ruddy bodies of his compatriots, he figured he was one of the lucky ones. But the heat quickly slowed his pace.

Al tried to focus on his work, but without knowing what they were digging for, he found himself looking up constantly, even as the others kept their eyes on their work. He managed to see (and hear) a POW two rows down leaning feebly on his shovel while clutching his lower back. A guard charged up to him and, shouting something in his native tongue, kneed the helpless POW in the face. It was hard to see what he did after that, but he could hear a pathetic, staccato moaning from over there.

His eyes wandered to another guard. They met eyes for a split second. It was then he learned to look no place else but downwards.

The sun took its time, lingering until it mercifully set. A whistle was blown from the main camp. The POWs pulled their shovels onto their shoulders and trudged to the barracks.

Hisano was waiting for them. “Good news you rats,” he said. “You have completed the ditches. Now you get to plant. It should be easier work for you from here on out. As a reward, you will get a potato along with your dinner tonight.”

Al was handed a bowl of soup, or so he was told. It looked more like discolored water with bits of lentil and pumpkin floating in it. He was also given a potato no larger than an apple.

“Where do I sleep?” he asked one of the POWs as they entered the barracks. He looked around and found his answer: anywhere he could find a mat and lie down was where he’d sleep. The mats they were provided were paper-thin. Al managed to find a discarded one, but it was only large enough to sit on.

He drank down the soup and bit into his potato. The food wasn’t spoiled or poisoned, but it was tasteless. He noticed that the other POWs went through their potatoes in seconds.

Briarcliffe was already lying down. Al set his mat down next to him.

“Captain,” he said. But Briarcliffe kept his eyes closed.

“Hey, you,” said the POW who scolded him earlier. He too was lying down against the wall. “What’s your name?” Al realized that the man spoke with a kind of accent, vaguely British. This must’ve been the Australian accent.

“Albert Coffey,” he said.

“Name’s Redding,” said the POW. He had a full, dark beard and hazel, cracked eyes. “Don’t talk too much, even at night.”

“How the hell are we supposed to do our job then?” asked Al.

“What?” asked Redding with a grin. “Oh my God we have a comedian.”

“I’m just asking what the hell they’re making us do out there.”

“We’re farmers now, mate,” he said. “We’re soybean farmers. We are the breadbasket of the Jap army now. Happy?”

The nausea came back to Al. Slave labor. That’s what the Japs did to POWs. He was a slave now. He remembered reading about slavery in high school.

“How long have you been here?” asked Al.

“Seven months,” said Redding. “Seven beautiful months. You can tell by looking at the rings around me trunk.”

Al didn’t get it. Another POW, a short man with a stubbly face came by and sat down next to Redding.

“Hey, did he make it?” asked Redding.

“No,” said the other POW. “Who’s the new guy?”

“Coffey,” said Redding.

“No,” said the new POW. “Don’t call him Coffey. Get a new name now.”

The new POW had an American accent. “You can call me Al,” he said.

“I’m callin’ you Shit,” he said, “because it’s something I wouldn’t want to eat. Don’t ever use your real name around me.”

“He’s been here 11 months,” said Redding. “He’s Jones.”

“Where are you from?” asked Al. Jones bristled and made a shooing motion with his hand.

“We lost two today,” Jones said to Redding.

“Shit,” said Redding, scratching his beard. “This is gonna be tougher than I thought.”

“Yeah, and I understand that something big is comin’ our way too,” said Jones.

“What do you mean?” asked Redding.

“Dunno, got the info from Jackie up front,” said Jones. “We’ll see tomorrow maybe.”

“Excuse me, but what the hell is going on here?” asked Al.

“Shut up,” said Jones. “You stay out of our way, got it?”

Another whistle interrupted them. The meager lights they were given were cut. Then there was just the sound of people settling down.

“Sleep now,” said Redding.

“But…”

“No. Shut up.”

Al tried to sleep with the mat on his upper back. It made no difference.

*     *     *

They were given more soup at breakfast. Al was still hungry afterwards.

They returned to the ditches. They had been partially filled with water over the night. Now they had to start planting soybeans. It was actually easier, as they split the digging and planting duties up.

Al and Briarcliffe were near Redding and Jones. Briarcliffe handled the planting while Al briskly dug some holes.

“Hey mate, told you not to work so hard,” said Redding. “You’re not getting any prizes for digging the most beans.”

“Sorry,” said Al. He kept looking at Briarcliffe, but he couldn’t get the captain to return his gaze.

“What’s his story?” asked Jones.

Al looked at him. “I thought we weren’t supposed to talk.”

“I can talk because I know when to talk. Otherwise you shut up,” snapped Jones. “So what’s his story?”

“We were shot down,” said Briarcliffe. Al was surprised to see him speak.

“Figures,” said Redding. “Did you hit the mainland then?”

“We tried,” said Briarcliffe.

 “Things going good or bad, eh?” asked Jones.

“They’re going,” said Briarcliffe.

“Fuck. Never changes,” said Redding.

Jones glanced around, then abruptly tapped his shovel on the ground. Everyone around him fell silent. Al looked over his shoulder briefly at the pair of guards moving towards them.

It was silence for the rest of the day. No lunch. No breaks. No reprieve from the sun. No reprieve for the men who passed out and had to be beaten back into working. Just rows and rows dug into the dirt, rows of graves in some dusty land he never even heard of before a year ago.

Al thought back to boot camp after he was drafted. The running they made him do, the terrible calisthenics, the preparations for war. But boot camp ran out and he was transferred. They all had to go fight, after all. There was nothing for a guy like him at home. Boot camp ran out. When would this?

Only until the last speck of sunlight left the sky were they taken off work. Today was the day they’d be allowed to bathe. They were stripped and put on line for the watering hole.

Briarcliffe looked straight ahead as he stood in front of Al. “Captain,” Al said, “when are we getting rescued?”

Briarcliffe turned and looked Al right in the eyes. “We’re not getting rescued,” he said plainly, then turned back.

He wanted to ask it again, but there was no need to. Unless the Russians entered the war, it wasn’t going to happen. They might as well have been on another planet for all the Allies cared.

Al returned to the barracks that night, not feeling much cleaner after bathing in dirty water, and now without his shirt. He never found out who took it. The next day was sunny and clear, and the skin of his back peeled and burned away.

He wanted to ask Briarcliffe again, but the guards patrolled closer to them all day. It was just quiet digging, quiet planting, quiet contemplating. Al had nothing more to think about though. The tedious boredom hurt more than the sun.

The night was no better. Jones and Redding had something to whisper to each other, but he couldn’t hear them. Briarcliffe would go right to sleep, whether out of tiredness or some kind of exceptional endurance, Al couldn’t tell. Al was having trouble sleeping, his body refusing to get used to the half-mat to sleep on and the unforgiving floor.

Weeks could not go by. It was just hours punctuated by a few hours of sleep. They made little progress in the planting; the temperature seemed to rise every day and more men began to pass out. Some were taken away into another set of barracks. Al couldn’t tell if any ever came out.

For their part, the Japanese were generous with the water. But their constant patrolling meant silent workdays. For Al, a break came when Briarcliffe jammed his wrist when his shovel accidentally hit a rock hidden under the dirt. He suffered quietly through it even as his wrist swelled and reddened. By the end of the day, he had to switch hands.

And so Briarcliffe lied down that night, cradling his wrist on his abdomen. Usually he was asleep before lights out. Al took the chance to break the ice again.

“Captain,” he whispered. Briarcliffe looked to him. “Are we gonna get outta here?”

“I told you, we’re not getting rescued,” he said.

“There has to be a way outta here,” said Al.

“Maybe. Maybe someone can dig out. Maybe someone can sprout wings and fly away. I don’t care.”

“What? How can you not?”

“Because we’re too weak to survive out there,” said Briarcliffe. “If we’re meant to get out alive, we will. And if we’re not, we won’t.”

Al suspected he’d say something like that, but he was still surprised by it. “How can you say that, Captain?” he said.

“Everything happens for a reason, Coffey,” said Briarcliffe. “If you believe otherwise, then you’re just setting yourself up for disappointment.”

Al didn’t know how to take that. He looked again at Briarcliffe, but now his eyes were closed and his head was leaning back. Asleep that fast, eh? Maybe the captain was right all along…

 The hours came and went slowly the next day, as usual. No matter how Briarcliffe worked, he couldn’t avoid using his bum wrist. It keeps swelling as the day went on.

“Let me take that, Captain,” said Al when the night came. But Briarcliffe wouldn’t turn over his shovel.

“I don’t need your help, Coffey. And don’t call me captain,” he said.

“Why not?”

“We’re all the same now, in here. It’s pointless to keep that charade up.”

In the barracks, Briarcliffe settled down by sitting up against the wall, nursing his wrist in his lap. He only just closed his eyes by the time Al reached him.

“Captain. Erm, Briarcliffe,” said Al.

“Just call me by my name,” he said, keeping his eyes closed.

“How do you go to sleep so fast?”

“I don’t. I pray for it first.”

“Pray?”

Briarcliffe opened his eyes and glared at him. “What do you think? You think anyone sleeps like a log in here? When you’re in Hell, all you have left is prayer. So I pray for it, and it comes eventually.”

Jones and Redding, still whispering urgently to each other as they ever did, took the time out to laugh at that.

“What’s so funny?” asked Al.

“How about you pray for a way outta here, Charlie?” asked Jones.

“Because none of that is coming,” said Briarcliffe. “Might as well pray for the sun to collide with the earth.”

“Oi, I’ll take that too,” said Redding with a laugh.

“Does it really work?” asked Al to Briarcliffe.

“If you’re sincere, God answers all prayers,” said Briarcliffe. He closed his eyes again and went silent.

Al was never religious. Sundays were meant for rest, and nothing was a bigger chore for him than having to go down to church every week to sit for an hour. He hated it all. Now it seemed like he was stuck in church all the time.

Might as well pray, then, he thought as sleep came to him.

He remembered that for the next day. He looked to Briarcliffe who, though his wrist showed no signs of improvement, worked as if in a trance. His face was serene, while Redding’s and Jones’ were thin and wan. Their bodies, he noticed, were thinning as well. But Briarcliffe’s body, ruddy as it was, showed vigor.

God, give me strength, said Al silently. He remembered the “O Lord” part, at least, but the other, formal prayers didn’t come back to him. He didn’t think they’d be necessary at any rate.

He kept it simple. Help me dig out this rock. Keep my hands from being scraped. Let me keep my strength today.

His thoughts focused, he found that, like a gift, the day was suddenly over. The prisoners returned to the pile, the place where their tools went when work was done. Everyone limply dropped their shovel or pick in the pile, but not Al. He threw his on top, proudly. His strength had not left him yet.

And at night, he prayed silently for sleep. He couldn’t remember how long it took him to sleep beforehand, but it came to him with quiet bliss. The next day, an officer had to grab him by the legs and drag him across the floor to wake him up.

Don’t let my hands blister, he prayed as he worked a plow. And keep the sun off my back.

The sun did not let up. Men began to collapse as water was diverted to the crops instead of the workers. Two men on Al’s line lost all their strength and sank to the ground, trying to lean against any equipment they could. It wasn’t enough for the guards, though. The men were thrown into the ditch and beaten with rifles until all they could do was twitch. Hisano was summoned, and he briskly ordered his men to finish off those wounded workers, which they did with a few shots to the head and chest.

Hisano then paced up and down the line, ordering a temporary (and blessed) halt to the work. “It is very important that we finish planting within the next few days,” he said. “We need to look our best, and if you cannot work, then you will be made useful. As fertilizer. You cannot escape your duty, and if the planting is not completed in time, you will all suffer much worse than those men did.”

Al looked to Briarcliffe, but all the captain cared about was his wrist, now turning a shade of purple. He was given plow duty, so all he had to do was push with his shoulder. It didn’t seem to help him too much.

So they had to bury their comrades in the dirt. Even as Al looked at their faces, distorted by the bullet holes in the forehead and their dull stares betraying the lingering pain they felt when they went down, Al kept his composure. Thank you God for not letting me be these men, he prayed as he shoveled dirt on their faces.

That night, they were permitted to bathe. Five minutes per man, with 20 men bathing at a time. By the time Al sat in the pool, the water was already dirty, but he relished the opportunity to sit down. Jones and Redding sat nearby. Their low voices were muffled by the sound of everyone breathing (and occasionally groaning), but Al could hear them.

“It’s gotta be soon mate. Did they say how far along, then?” asked Redding.

“A few nights. Perfect timing, really, what with all this rush,” said Jones.

“Good. I ain’t dying here,” said Redding as he slouched deeper into the pool.

“Only a few can make it out, but…” began Jones when he noticed Al looking at him.

When they settled for the evening, Al made a beeline for them. Jones rolled his eyes when he saw him approach.

“What were you talking about earlier?” he asked.

Jones tightened his lips and glanced over the barracks. There were no sentries nearby. “What d’you think mate?” he said.

“An escape?” said Al.

“Course. You think we’re staying here?” said Redding.

“When?” asked Al.

“Hole’ll be dug within two nights I hear. So we’re outta here by then,” said Jones. “Course, not everyone can make it out, y’know. Not that big a hole and not too much chance to get in it.”

“But if I were you,” said Redding after he glanced around again, “I’d go for it. You don’t want to stick around for when they find what happened, eh?”

Al only stared back at Redding. He couldn’t comprehend that. The prison was now his sanctuary. He found peace through his prayers. Why couldn’t Redding or anyone else see that? If they escape, his peace would be shattered.

He had to sleep on that fear for the night. The next day, he was on the lookout. But it was difficult to tell if anyone was missing because he only stuck with his platoon of workers. He couldn’t get a word to Briarcliffe, either, as guards had camped out near them.

Without prayer, the day went back to being a long, long haul. Al grew tired quickly and nearly gave up working. His arms and back, tanned more than ever, were thin, like the time in primary school when he caught a terrible flu and was bedridden for weeks. But more than a month of hard labor wore all his fat away, leaving stringy muscles barely able to repair with a meager meal each night. He never noticed the way he felt, the way he looked since he took to prayer. Now, with his attention focused on his scheming platoonmates, he realized that he was also stuck in his wretched body.

Frustration returned to him for the first time since he found God. He tried to take it out on the ground as they redug a ditch, but it was to no avail.

He survived the day without a beating, fortunate since he almost collapsed a few times. He dragged his shovel back to the pile at the end of the night, only able to sling it down next to it, then trudged back towards the barracks. But this time something was missing. Jones and Manning, their Aussie voices going back and forth, were nowhere to be found.

He knew they weren’t disciplined, but now he found that he couldn’t remember the last time he saw them. Did they go on ahead to the shovel pile when work was over? But then they weren’t on the line for meals either.

“You don’t want to stick around for when they find what happened, eh?” Eh, Redding? Was that it?

But even his mind was too exhausted. His thoughts swirled into an impotent rage. They were missing alright, and now… Well, now Al found that his legs had gone numb from overexertion. He had to fall to his knees, but even that wasn’t good enough, and he flopped onto the floor. He was more embarrassed than anything until someone pulled him up by the armpit, someone way too strong to be a fellow prisoner.

A guard was in his face, but of course he couldn’t understand what the shouting meant. Al was thrown near the line of prisoners, but his legs still weren’t up to the task of holding him up. The guards kicked him in the hip and back a few times. The kicks didn’t really hurt because his lower body was going numb.

He finally was able to get on all fours, which was apparently good enough for the guards. He pulled his head up to see one of them standing right in front of him. “Get in line!” he yelled. It was one of the few phrases all the Jap guards seemed to know.

It was hard to see the guard’s face in the low light, but they all looked the same anyway. He just wanted to crawl back to the line, but his legs…

“Wait,” he muttered. He saw the guard’s eyes flare just before his face hit the ground. He was punched, hard. He tasted blood and dirt.

“Wait,” he said again as he pulled himself up.

“Get in line!” yelled the guard as he approached Al from behind.

Al managed to turn around. He got to one knee and looked back towards the shovel pile (or at least its general direction). It was out there somewhere. That’s where they had to have escaped. It was located next to one of the camp’s walls. A simple hole, and the tools for it were right there. And now Jones and Redding and God knows who else were out there, idiots that they were. Briarcliffe was right. There was no way a bunch of Aussies or Brits or whomever were going to survive out there. When they were caught, they’d probably just be shot. But here…

And so Al’s arm went up. He pointed towards the shovel pile. The guard stopped and glared at him.

“There,” said Al. “They went there.”

The guard looked where he was pointing, then back at him. There was an impasse.

“They went there,” said Al again. “They’re gone.” His arm stayed up, shaky as it was.

The guard said something in Japanese to his comrades. They looked at him. One of them went off towards the shovel pile. Al hoped his message got through. In the meantime, another one kicked him in the chest, sending him back towards the line. A prisoner pulled him up and helped carry him to get his food.

But by the time they reached the front of the line, they were abruptly cut off. “We have to go to the barracks,” Al heard someone say as a group of guards came to corral them.

He could hear dogs barking now, a rare thing to hear. They were usually sicced on someone who couldn’t work anymore, but now it was evident what else they were being used for. When he realized what he had done, he felt serenity. He wouldn’t suffer alone now.

They were herded back into their barracks. This time, though, no one was ready for sleep. A lot had gone without food and were complaining, but a few older prisoners shushed everyone.

“We are in serious trouble now,” said one of them. “I think someone tried to escape.”

“Oh really?” said another. “How did they know?”

Al sat in a corner while the other prisoners talked amongst themselves. Briarcliffe was already sitting there, silent. He stared blankly ahead.

“What’re we gonna do now?” asked Al.

“I really can’t tell you that now,” said Briarcliffe has he looked glumly at Al.

Before long, they heard Sgt. Hisano, who stood in the doorway to their barracks. He was illuminated from behind by a group of guards carrying flashlights.

“Prisoners, I have some unfortunate news for you,” he said in his near-perfect English. “It seems that some of your comrades have escaped. We will find them in time, but you must understand that this was very bad timing. We have a mission in this camp to produce food for the Imperial Army. That mission cannot falter at any time. Yet, with some of you escaping, not only will that hamper production, but it has also embarrassed me and the camp’s commandant. And until we find those who have escaped, we must remind you that you are a part of that mission, a part of that service for the Empire. If you refuse to do this work, you will be treated like any Japanese who also is derelict in his duty.”

Hisano made it apparent that derelict Japanese were treated to beatings around the head and shoulders, bayonets to the ribs (not too deep, of course), and lashes. The brutality came over the members of the barracks very quickly, as groups of soldiers were dragged out. They could hear the thuds of the beatings and muffled screams even from inside.

They took the men out in groups of three, eventually leaving Al, Briarcliffe and four men Al never bothered to get to know. They all sat near the back, trying to be quiet, but one of them was starting to sob as the screams amplified.

The next three were dragged out, Briarcliffe among them. Al looked in terror at him, but Briarcliffe’s face remained unmoving, even as a guard pulled at his swollen wrist. Al couldn’t bring himself to speak. Briarcliffe was carried through the door outside into the midst of the bone-breaking and flesh-rending.

Now Al felt all alone. He backed himself against the wall, all sweat and nerves. He was nauseous and his skin was white for the first time in ages. And before he could even think of what was to come, the guards came back in.

Al flopped onto his back and pushed himself towards the bunker’s corner. There was a floor mat behind him, which he clutched at as soon as he brushed against it.

The guards were moving towards him. He couldn’t see their eyes, but the batons in their hands, ruddy, splintering…

And then he remembered something.

Please God, he prayed as his eyes slammed shut. Help me. Help me!

But the footfalls still came closer.

Please help! Get me out of here!

They were close enough to grab at his feet. He curled up and held onto the mat as hard as he could as they silently tried to lift him up.

Get me out of here! Take me anywhere, anywhere but here!

He then heard a loud bang. Not of a baton hitting flesh or a body hitting the floor. No more yelling or crying or screaming. Just a loud, metallic bang.

His eyes remained closed even as his body felt colder. But he shivered not from the chills inside but from cold air blowing over him. There was a low whistling noise, a droning he hadn’t heard since…

He finally opened his eyes. There was no more wooden bunker, no more Japanese guards, no more worn floor mat. Just a plane’s fuselage falling through the night, its engines dying, and a large gash in its side where the murky darkness of the night stood out.

His brain finally caught up with where he was. And his body pitched forward as the plane finally lost its strength.

“Brace yourself!” yelled Briarcliffe.

Great Rexpectations

“Guys, every team has an opportunity to do something great…”

No no, that sucked.

“Guys, we came a long way to get here through some tough shit…”

No.

“Guys, a lot of people said we couldn’t do this. A lot of people are fags…”

Then came the knock on his door. It was Schotty.

“It’s time, Rex,” came the muffled voice. “Let’s go.”

Rex was torn. One last White Castle 16-pack to go. He was behind schedule all day today. But the team needed him. He’d just have to stick with the hoagie.

The whole team was in the locker room, still buzzing about what the Post was saying about their chances against Peyton. Someone had the balls to whisper, “Peyton’s got our number, man,” before Rex made it to the middle of the room. Probably that ass Cromartie.

“Alright guys, settle the fuck down,” he yelled. “Alright, so here we are, guys. We’re in the playoffs. We’re right where we need to be, at this stadium here in Illinois. And this game is really important for a lot of reasons.

“Y’know what really matters about this game? The city needs it. The city of New York. All five, six burroughs. Because we had 9/11. And the city hasn’t won anything after 9/11. Everyone is waiting for us to finally bring one home, for the city. Now–”

“Coach,” came a voice in the back. “Coach, umm, the Yankees won like last year.”

“What?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” said (Brad) Smith. “They beat the Phillies.”

“Okay well aside from that–” started Rex.

“Don’t forget the Giants too,” came the voice again.

“Shut the fuck up!” said Rex. “Does it matter? We’re the only team left standing in New York, like the Empire State Building. And the Chrysler Building. We’re the new skyscrapers of New York, and we’re gonna play like it, okay?”

The team nodded, giving him enough time to take another four inches off the hoagie.

“Nowf we’re here, andf we’re going upf againft duh tuffest QB in the league.” He swallowed. “That means we have to play harder than we ever have before. And I know we can do it, because our mission, our destiny, this year, is to go to the Superbowl. And then win it. That’s like fours games we need to win before we get there. We win four first–”

“Coach, coach,” came the voice again. “We need to win three first, and then we’re in the Superbowl.”

“God dammit nobody cares!” yelled Rex. “Now, we need to win like three games, and then we just win one more. But tonight we have to win this one. So I want to lead the league in fucking wins, with four.”

He held out the correct number of fingers when he said “four,” and everyone clapped.

“And you know what guys? Hey, I think we can win it all. We can win all these games. Like I said, we want to get right out there, and I think we’re the best Jets team ever assembled. Aside from the one Parcells coached and shit. We can beat the fuck out of that one,” said Rex.

“Even better than the Superbowl-winning one?” came the voice.

“What?” said Rex.

“Yeah coach, the one with Namath,” said Conner.

“Namath? What? That’s impossible. Have you fucking seen what him?”

“No, it’s true coach,” came the voice. Rex just shook his head.

“Okay guys, so let’s beat this piece of shit Peyton Manning here in Illinois, okay?” Everyone started clapping, but before Rex could speak again, the voice shot up.

“Coach, we in Illinois. It’s next to Indiana, but we in Indianapolis. Y’know?”

“No, I do know,” said Rex. “You know what? Whoever the fuck you are, you can just get out! You’re not even benched, you’re benched… in the stands! Or seated, I guess! Just get the fuck out of this locker room!”

Darrelle Revis got up and crept out, muttering “Thank God,” along the way.

“That’s what I don’t want to see,” yelled Rex. “Fucking backtalking, fucking backstabbing… the only thing you can do to my back is rub it. By the neck. But we don’t fucking backtalk our coaches here. We’re… this is team unity, okay? We can’t win without a unit. Being a unit. We are a unit and we’re gonna win this fucking game!”

Everyone cheered, and this time they sounded like they meant it.

“So let’s go out there, let’s get the ball to Rick… so he can get the ball to some of you, okay! Let’s fucking win one for the team and the city! By the end of the night, I want Peyton Manning dead! I want his torso torn apart, disembodied so I can plop it on my desk every night and rape it myself, every night! You understand? Let’s fucking rape!”

*     *     *

Even with the biggest game of the season (thus yet) coming up at the end of the tunnel, Rex still had his mind elsewhere. He made all the big preparations for the team earlier this week: the hotel had the best available room service, he beat enough kids on Madden to get a real good feel of a gameplan, he ordered the best flavor of Gatorade for the bath (Riptide Rush), and he submitted “rexcellent” and “rexpectation” to Webster’s. He should have felt good.

But Peyton’s face was on the Jumbotron as soon as they made it out of the tunnel. There he was, that cylinder-headed bastard, staring him down from on high. Highlights of a Superbowl. A Superbowl the Jets never won. Or maybe they did. Namath kept saying he did but fuck him. This was Rex’s team now.

“You ready, Rick?” he said to Sanchez as he took some warmup tosses. Sanchez didn’t respond. “Rick!” he yelled, slapping him on the back.

“Coach?” said Sanchez, turning to him.

“You ready to win?” said Rex.

“Sure, coach, but…”

“But nothing. Trust me on this, this new scheme we got, fucking amazing.”

“Coach, I hate to say it but I’m not comfortable with–“

“Relax, we got this, okay? Did this a bunch of times. You’re gonna get six, seven TDs, easily. Okay? Hey, by the fourth quarter, we’ll have Peyton screaming, callin’ us cheatin’ niggers.”

He walked away. The coin flip was coming up in a few minutes.

*     *     *

The team won. Tails once again came through for Rex. “What’d I say?” he said as he punched Westhoff in the ribs. “I love tail. All kinds of it.”

After Smith returned the ball to the 35-yard-line, Schottenheimer’s voice came into Rex’s headset. “Rex, what the fuck?”

“Yeah, looks good doesn’t it?” said Rex as he eyed some popcorn chicken in the stands across the field.

“What are all these fucking plays?” said Schottenheimer.

“That’s how we’re gonna win. C’mon, Ricky!” Sanchez was taking the field, slowly.

“Rex, there’s not a single fucking run play in this thing. I thought you were joking.”

“No joke, Schotty. We’re in it to win it. I told you I figured some shit out.”

“This is ridiculous! There are like 30 slants in this! And everything else is like, fucking long crossing–“

“Hey, hey, Rick’s a big boy. He knows what to do. Now let’s call a fuckin’ play here.”

Schottenheimer managed to find an acceptable one before the play clock ran out. Two incomplete passes and a Sanchez sack later, they were facing 4th and 17.

“Let’s go for it,” said Rex.

“What?” said Westhoff.

“We’re not gonna show any fear. We’re gonna win,” said Rex. “Let’s go for it now.”

Westhoff had to wave Sanchez back onto the field. Meanwhile, Rex was looking for Peyton on the other side of the field. “Yeah, don’t get up just yet, Peyton!” he screamed. “We’re not afraid of your candy faggot ass!”

But it was to no avail. Sanchez’s deep pass landed out of bounds, and now Peyton was breathing down the defense’s neck.

“Don’t worry Rick,” said Rex as the offense trudged onto the sideline. “We got ’em tired. By the third quarter, they’ll be callin’ us all sorts of fuckin’ names.”

By halftime, though, things had gone all wrong. 27-0. Sanchez was facing three interceptions. Meanwhile nobody knew where Revis went. The 16-pack mysteriously disappeared from his office too.

“This is a fucking disaster,” said Rex as he flipped over the photo of the Jets’ No. 1 fan, a young, fat boy from Tennessee who reminded Rex of himself. The 16-pack wasn’t there, either.

“No shit, Rex!” yelled Schottenheimer as he slammed the door behind him. “The entire fucking team thinks you’re a retard!”

“No they don’t!” shouted Rex as he grabbed his emergency Twix pack in his desk. The room was silent as he tore into one of the bars. “These plays just need a tweak, okay? We can fuck these guys up! Just get my Xbox.”

“No, Rex. No,” said Schottenheimer. “That shit doesn’t work in real life. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

“Look, they’re overconfident, we can just–“

“NO, REX,” yelled Schottenheimer. “What happened to ground ‘n pound? What happened to our swarming, choking defense?”

“Ground ‘n pound? That shit’s never gotten us anywhere!” said Rex.

“Rex, just listen to me: let me bring back the old playbook, okay? If our defense holds, we can maybe win this.”

“Not maybe! We will! We will win this shit! Lead the league in fucking winning shit!!”

*     *     *

The rest of halftime was spent looking for those burgers. The team uneasily ambled out onto the field, with the crowd cheering wildly for the Colts, already warming up.

Rex found Tomlinson milling about the gatorade, the one marked “FOR CELEBRATION ONLY.” He patted Tomlinson on the shoulder.

“Look, Laddy,” said Rex.

“Coach, I said please don’t call me that,” said Tomlinson, trying not to make eye contact.

“Tommy, we can win this, okay? But I need you out there,” said Rex.

“You do? Coach, I didn’t even touch the dang ball once so far.”

“Look, even though you’re blind, you have to be good to be playing in this league,” said Rex as he slapped Tomlinson on the helmet. “So go out there and do what you do: win football games.”

“I don’t un–”

But Tomlinson was out on the field, shoved out there by Rex. “You can do it!” he yelled as Tomlinson stumbled around. He had to return to the sideline, though, as it was the Colts’ ball to start.

A miraculous fumble by Jacob Tamme was returned for a touchdown. Rex was ecstatic. His box of Gummie Worms was red-worm free. “We can win this shit now, guys!” he yelled as the Colts prepared to take the kickoff again. The defense was holding, just like Rex had planned, and Schottenheimer was doing something with Sanchez to make him pass above a high-school level again.

2:56 left to go in the 4th. It was 27-23, and Peyton’s pass on 3rd and 9 was incomplete. The Colts had to punt. The crowd was quiet now, unable to accept the meltdown that was happening before them.

But Rex was pacing. His stomach ground up and growled out. The tension was getting to him. The team needed him to be focused. They needed the best plays they could scrounge up.

“Okay, we gotta run this 2-minute offense, Rick,” he said to Sanchez as he pulled his helmet on.

“Coach?” asked Sanchez. “It’s not 2:00 yet.”

“It will be soon enough. The earlier we do it, the better,” said Rex. “Trust me on this. I’m taking over, Schotty.”

“What? Why?” came Schottenheimer’s voice.

“We need to do something bold. Trust me, I got this figured out,” said Rex. “These fucks won’t know what hit ’em. Let’s go Rick!”

“Why do you keep calling me Ri–” But again Sanchez was forced out onto the field.

Rex adjusted the mic to his face, now that the ribs were done. He licked the sauce off his lips, savoring the taste for a second, before beginning.

“Okay, Rick. Handoff to T1000.”

“What?” said Sanchez into his radio.

“Hand it off to Conner. End-around.”

“Coach, we have to go 86 yards and we’re doing the 2-minute drill, remember?”

“They won’t expect it.”

Sanchez stared at Rex as the play clock passed 20 on its descent.

“What’re you waiting for? Let’s fuckin’ do it!”

And so Conner did… for -2 yards. Undeterred, Rex ordered up a quick slant to Holmes for 3 yards. But on third down, Sanchez turned what was supposed to be a draw play into a miraculous pass over the middle to Edwards for 38 yards. With two timeouts and 1:32 left to go, Rex was pissed.

“What the fuck was that, Rick?” he yelled.

“What, coach?” said Sanchez as he jogged to the sideline. The whistle sounded for the 2-minute warning.

“I said to do a draw!” he yelled.

“Coach they were blitzing,” said Sanchez.

“So what, you’re scared now?” he yelled. “You want me to get Mark in here?”

“Coach…”

“HIT THE BENCH, RICK.”

Sanchez staggered to the bench where Brunell was busy making sure no one was molesting his daughter in the stands. He didn’t hear the first five times Rex called his name, but the sixth time, he was up and ready.

“What happened, coach?” he asked as he jogged over to Rex.

“You’re in. Ricky Rick is too bitchy bitch to play anymore. I want you to go in there and fuckin’ do this.”

“Okay coach,” said Brunell as he ran out.

Brunell did exactly what he was sent out to do. Three plays and 1:14 later, the Jets were on the Colts’ 40-yard line. A daunting fourth down marker seemed miles down the field.

“What now coach?” asked Brunell.

Rex pondered. Maybe Rick was on the right track after all. The draw play… they blitzed, expecting a run… Sanchez did the unexpected… the unexpected…

“Fake.”

“What?” asked Brunell.

“Fake the kick.”

“Coach, we’re down by three. We need a touchdown to win. There’s no time for a field goal!”

“That’s the point. They won’t expect it. This has worked before, trust me. Let’s do it!”

The kicking unit had to be told three times to take the field. In haste, they assembled just before the play clock hit 5 seconds. Folk glanced at Weatherford, who was on the verge of hyperventilating.

The ball was snapped. Every single Colt lunged forward at Weatherford as he grabbed the ball and shakily rose to his feet. He could only see blue flashes climbing over white blurs, all coming at him. He instinctively raised his arm and pushed it forward just as Robert Mathis hit him.

The ball sailed forward, finally landing on the turf 3 yards away.

“Holy fuck,” said Rex. How could that have happened? How? He almost sank to his knees. Even the trace amount of barbecue sauce he found on his chin was no consolation.

Rex could hear nothing as the clock ticked down to :00. The Colts held on. Rex felt himself drifting to the center of the field with the mass of Jets coaches and players. Everyone was somber, save for the deafening crowd and Peyton, always smiling, shaking hands with Cromartie and Taylor. At some point he shook some people’s hands, but his eyes couldn’t leave Peyton. He stayed away. He wouldn’t give Peyton the satisfaction. Not today. Not ever. Not on his watch.

As he drifted back to the tunnel, he heard someone yelling out “Coach!” But the his guys had already left. He looked up, his eyes nearly overwhelmed by the stadium lights.

It was him. His mouth full of burger patty and pickles. A whole burger, in his mouth. Revis was in the front row. An empty White Castle box was on his lap.

Revis laughed. Rex did not. There was no joy in Rexville.

*     *     *

The office was quiet. Everyone had left. Even Schottenheimer. There was just a whiteboard with the words “FUCK” scribbled on it. It used to read “FUCKIN’ WIN.” Was the board psychic?

His stomach growled. Losing made him lose his appetite, but not for long. But this one hurt. This one hurt, deep down inside where the rexperience was smoldering after crashing. His stomach hurt more than when he cut himself open to pull the lap band out.

This day couldn’t get any worse. He had to take his mind off of it before he lost it. He glanced at his laptop. Maybe some porn would be on it. But no. It was his Hotmail account. He looked at some new mail. His heart dropped another five stories.

The subject line read: “Dear Mr. Ryan: Webster’s regrets to inform you…”

For Whom the Bell Tolls

Evan nodded slightly. The coffee in his hand was getting lukewarm, way past how he liked it, but he wasn’t prepared for what he saw. Standing in front of the window of the break room in Lawton Chilles Elementary School, he stared at the little silver bell hanging on the staff’s Christmas tree.

“So let me get this straight,” said Evan as he took another sip. (Damn, it tasted like porridge now.) “So, okay… So you take a train to the North Pole. And you meet Santa Claus himself. And so Santa says to you, directly, that you can have anything in the world. Anything at all. So instead of asking for world peace or the cure for AIDS or some shit, or asking for super powers or x-ray vision, or, like, a trillion dollars, or something… You ask for a fucking sleighbell?”

“A silver sleighbell,” said Joe before his face returned to his arms, folded on the table.

“A silver sleighbell,” said Evan, almost taking another sip. “And it doesn’t even work. That’s the best story I’ve ever heard in my entire life. Anyway, back to work.”

As Evan tossed the coffee away, part of the cup brushed the tree. The branches swayed, and with that, the silver bell rang. Only Joe could hear it.

The Left Hand Knows Not

“Now, the issue I’m sure every one of you understands is whether or not the Government has created a fraud, and I call your attention that Mr. Frazier’s explanation of the sound of shots coming from the front, which was heard by eyewitness after eyewitness and after eyewitness [sic] — his explanation is that Lee Oswald created a sonic boom in his firing. Not only did Oswald break all of the world’s records for marksmanship, but he broke the sound barrier as well. And I suggest to you, that if any of you have shot on a firing range, and most of you probably have in the Service — you were shooting rifles in which the bullet traveled faster than the speed of sound, and I ask you to recall if you ever heard a sonic boom. If you remember when you were on the firing line and they would say, “Ready on the left, ready on the right, ready on the firing line, commence firing,” you heard the shots coming from the firing line to the left of you and to the right of you, and if you had heard, as the result of Frazier’s fictional sonic booms, firing coming at you from the pits, you would have had a reaction and you would still remember it. It simply doesn’t exist. It is a part of the fraud, a part of the government fraud, and the best way to make this country the kind of country it is supposed to be is to communicate to the government that no matter how powerful it may be, we do not accept fraud, we do not accept false announcements, we do not accept the concealment of evidence with regard to the murder of President Kennedy.

Who is the most believable — a Richard Randolph Carr seated here in a wheelchair and telling you what he saw and what he heard and how he was told to shut his mouth, or Mr. Frazier with his sonic booms? Do we have to actually reject Mr. Newman and Mrs. Newman and Mr. Carr and Roger Craig, and the testimony of all those honest witnesses — reject that and accept the fraudulent Warren Commission, or else leave the country? I suggest to you that there are other alternatives, and one of them has been put in practice in the last month in the State of Louisiana, and that is to bring out the truth in a proceeding, where attorneys can cross-examine, where the defendant can be confronted by testimony against him, where the rules of evidence are applied, and where a jury of citizens can pass on it, and where there is no government secrecy, where you do not have evidence concealed for 75 years in the name of national security.

All we have in this case are the facts — facts which show that the defendant participated in the conspiracy to kill the President, and that the President was subsequently killed in ambush. The reply of the defense has been the same as the earlier reply of the government in the Warren Commission, has been authority, authority, the President’s seal outside of a volume of the — each volume of the Warren Commission, made necessary because there is nothing inside of these volumes. Men of high position and prestige sitting on a board and announcing the results to you but not telling you what the evidence is, because that has to be hidden for 75 years.

You heard in this courtroom in recent weeks eye-witness after eye-witness after eye-witness, and, above all, you saw an eye-witness which was indifferent to power — the Zapruder film. The lens of the camera is indifferent to power, and it tells you what happened, and that is one of the reasons two hundred million Americans have not seen the Zapruder film. They should have seen it many times. They should know exactly what happened. They should know what you know now. Why hasn’t this come into being if there hasn’t been government fraud? Of course there has. But I am telling you that I think we can do something about it. I think that there are still enough Americans left in this country to make it continue to be America. I think that we can still fight authoritarianism: the government’s insistence on secrecy, the government force used in counter-attacks against an honest inquiry; and when we do that we are not being un-American, we are being American, because it isn’t easy, and you are sticking your neck out in a rather prominent way, but it has to be done, because truth does not come into being automatically. Justice does not happen automatically. Individual men, like the members of my staff here, have to work and fight to make it happen, and individual men like you have to make justice come into being, because otherwise it doesn’t happen. And what I am trying to tell you is that there are forces in America today, unfortunately, which are not in favor of the truth coming out about John Kennedy’s assassination. As long as our government continues to be like that, as long as such forces can get away with these kind of actions, then this is no longer the country in which we were born.

The murder of John Kennedy was probably the most terrible moment in the history of our country. Yet circumstances have placed you in the position where not only have you seen the hidden evidence, but you are actually going to have the opportunity to bring justice into the picture for the first time.

Now, you are here sitting in judgment on Clay Shaw, but you as men represent more than jurors in an ordinary case, because of the victim in this case. You represent, in a sense, the hope of humanity against government power. You represent humanity which yet may triumph over excessive government power, if you will cause it to be so in the course of doing your duty in this case.

I suggest that you “ask not what your country can do for you but what you can do for your country.” What can you do for your country? You can cause justice to happen for the first time in this matter. You can help make our country better by showing that this is still a government of the people; and if you do that, as long as you live nothing will every be more important than that.

Thank you.”

– Closing statements of Jim Garrison, trial of Clay Shaw, March 5, 1967

SADDLE RIVER, NEW JERSEY
SEPTEMBER 21, 2010

Chris didn’t know why he was watching “The Biggest Loser.” The news was on before he stepped out to let Sammy and the others in. The remote was around here somewhere, but he didn’t feel like getting it.

What else would he watch tonight, then? He didn’t usually watch TV tonight. Tonight was supposed to be Ramona’s birthday in Toms River. He could still make it if Victor didn’t call. He hoped he didn’t. Victor was on edge lately and was a real shithead to deal with.

 He decided to light up a cigarette. As the first puff of smoke wafted around the room, settling near the oven, his BlackBerry rang on the counter. His head drooped a few inches as he picked it up. An unidentified number starting with 908. Victor.

“Yeah,” he said as he put the phone to his ear.

“Chris, it’s us,” said Victor’s voice. Chris saw Sammy, Bill and Julio in the other room. Sammy was looking for a signal.

“We’re on for tonight?” asked Chris as he waved Sammy over to the driveway.

“Yeah,” said Victor. “We’re on in Glen Rock. You got the address?”

“Yeah,” said Chris, angrily spitting out some smoke. “Glen Rock? Really?”

“It’s 10 fuckin’ minutes,” said Victor. “Don’t start arguin’. We need this done.”

“Why’s that?” said Chris as he got up. The remote was on the counter by the door.

“‘Cause we’re in trouble, that’s why,” said Victor. “They’re talkin’ about the FBI now. We’re not takin’ any chances.”

“It’s paranoid,” said Chris as he turned the TV and lights off. “

“‘Scuse me, but you’re talkin’ about Richie here, okay?”

Chris grunted. He looked out the glass door. They were already in his black Sedan, waiting. Chris checked the end table in the living room. They made sure to bring their heaters.

“Warner’s not gonna talk. He can’t give the cops anything they need,” said Chris.

“Hey idiot, is the address tonight the governor’s mansion?” said Victor. Chris could hear Richie’s laugh in the background. Yeah, real serious-like.

“So who is it then? I only got an address.”

“Someone’s squealing. Someone in– with us. We got two rats, actually. One got away. You take out this one tonight, though, and we should be safe.”

“Who is it?” asked Chris as he locked the door behind him. He started the Sedan remotely with his keys.

“Someone big enough to do damage. Marty Fuscioni.”

“Don’t think I met him,” said Chris as he walked in front of the Sedan. The headlights made his shadow stretch out long down the gravel driveway.

“Who gives a shit. Go there now. Call us when you’re done.”

“Fine, fine,” said Chris. His cigarette was almost done but he wanted to suck the last bit out of it. “Hey, listen one more thing–“

 He was interrupted by the explosion behind him, caused by a half-pound of C4 right underneath his Sedan. The car similarly exploded, sending shrapnel into the back of his skull as it flung him onto his face. His phone skittered down the driveway.

The explosion was loud to the man who just stepped out from the bushes at the entrance to the driveway. He had watched from there the three goombas file into the car, counting them carefully when they came in two cars earlier that evening. And of course there was only one guy at home that night. All accounted for.

He was surprised to see the phone, its screen still lit up, lying on the driveway. He picked it up. The number was still onscreen, and as his hearing began to recover, he could hear someone talking on the other end. This was better than he anticipated.

“Hello? Hello?” said the baffled caller.

“Is this Richie Oltramoni?” asked the intruder as he climbed up the driveway, a silenced P2000 in his other hand. He could see the flaming remains of the Sedan, and not much of its former inhabitants.

“Chris? What’s going on?” came the voice.

“I said, is this Richie Oltramonti?” asked the intruder. Chris was lying face-down on the ground. The light from the flames reflected off a growing pool of blood around his head.

“…Who is this? What’s going on?”

“I  just lit up some of your made men. I need to speak to Richie Oltramonti,” said the intruder as he lightly kicked Chris. There was no response.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Listen carefully, you stupid guido shit,” growled the intruder as he checked Chris’ pulse. He was alive, a little. “I said I just killed a bunch of your men. Now let me talk to Oltramonti. Very urgent message for him.”

On the other end, Victor was staring at the phone. This couldn’t have been a prank, not after Richie made it clear that all hands had to be on deck. He jogged through Richie’s mansion, following the echoes of the trashy R&B coming from his room. He came to the double-doors, both closed and locked tight. He could hear Richie and his two (or three?) made women behind it, laughing over the music.

He pounded on the doors. “Richie!” he yelled.

It took a few seconds for Richie to realize someone was at the door. “What the fuck is this?” he yelled.

“Richie, I need to talk to you. Something serious just happened,” yelled Victor.

“Are you fucking with me?” said Richie. Victor waited, unsure if he was more alarmed by the mystery man on the phone or Richie being interrupted when he explicitly said he didn’t want to be. He sporadically put the phone to his ear, hearing nothing, but the call was still connected. Thirty seconds later, the doors unlatched, and Richie’s red face popped out into the hallway.

“Richie, the phone, someone… someone’s on–“

Richie snapped it out of his hand. “What the fuck happened?” asked Richie.

“It’s Chris, I think… he’s dead?” said Victor, though he felt stupid for saying that.

“What?” asked Richie as he put the phone to his ear. “Hello? Hello?”

“Richie Oltramonti?” came the voice. The intruder had wandered behind the car, surveying as much as he could through the black pillars of smoke. Half-pound was too much, he thought. A little less next time.

“Who the fuck’s asking?” asked Richie, not recognizing the voice at all.

“Three of your guinea friends are dead, four if the ambulance doesn’t hurry. Let’s make this quick,” said the intruder.

“Hey, is this a joke? This isn’t funny at all you fa–“

“Shut up. Listen, Oltramonti, I know you’re feeling some pressure lately over Warner. I know how you operate when you get threatened. I know you’re going to make a move on anyone prosecuting your pal in office. But I’ve got good news: I only give a shit about Warner. I could care less about your faggot cigarette operation or whatever you’re up to now. So step back and hide. Keep your greasy head down and stay out of this.”

As the intruder spoke, he walked across the backyard, keeping his eyes on a small, white camera stuck up on a post next to a bird feeder. It was looking right at him, and as the security lights lit up as he walked by, he knew it would reveal his masked face.

“You gotta be shittin’ me,” said Richie. “If I find out you attacked my men, I’m gonna fuck you up so bad–“

“Shut up,” said the intruder as he came to a stop a few feet from the camera. “No arguing. I’ve got my eye on you and your joke of an operation. If any of your wiseguys so much as piss in the direction of anyone involved in the case, and I mean anyone, I’m gonna personally visit you. And I know there’s not a fucking thing you’re gonna be able to do about it. That’s all.”

“You dumbshit, I don’t give a fuck who you are, you’re dead, you hear me?” yelled Richie. The intruder didn’t hear a word; he had hung up as soon as he stopped talking. Richie flung Victor’s phone across the hall, sending him scurrying after it.

He stormed over to his dresser, pushing Annelise out of the way. He never liked her or her fucking laugh anyway.

“What’s the matter, babe?” asked Maria as she helped Annelise up.

“Everyone, get the fuck outta here now!” roared Richie. “Don’t pick up your shit, I don’t care if you have to walk home naked, get the fuck out now!”

The three women evacuated at once, leaving their shit all over his bed. He’d toss it out the window later. First, he took his phone from his drawer. He called up Paolo, out in Brooklyn.

After five rings, Paolo picked up. “Oltramonti. Why are you–“

“Shut up, Paul,” he said. “I’m calling in my favor, right now. Call up your man in Messina. I need the best guy they got.”

Paolo didn’t respond for two seconds, way too long a wait for Richie. “I said call up Messina! This is dead fucking serious, do you hear me? If I don’t hear from them in 10 minutes, I’m gonna fuckin’ slit your throat, you hear me?”

*        *        *

Back in Saddle River, with the crackling of the flames dying down in the distance, the intruder stared right at the lens of the camera. He stood up on his toes to get his face as close to it as possible. “Remember what I said, Richie,” he muttered before bashing the camera with a ceramic pot.

Sirens now, from just over the hills. He still had plenty of time to escape. He patted himself down once more, making sure everyone was still on him, before he scaled the fence and dropped down into the brush. He made extra sure to pat his breast pocket, where Chris’ phone was. He never planned on an operation going this well.

Now Batting, the Designated Hitter, No. 1F

The lights from outside couldn’t compete with the lights inside the limo. The whole city was lit up for today’s game, the final game of the season, even though it was supposed to be daylight out. It was nearly impossible to tell in the Bronx, though. They always kept the lights on no matter what.

Anyway, his Tandy GPA said it was 3:26 PM (time brought to you by Swatch™). Only 20 minutes to dress? Goddamn. Traffic must’ve been even worse today. Maybe they were finally repaving East 101 St. (presented by KFC™) like they said they would.

He nearly jarred his ankle stepping out of the limobus, so the answer was no. His plasteel-reinforced ankle didn’t budge, but his Nike-Locker™ Retro-Gelled Hush Pupx® were officially scuffed. That might be enough to harm his Q score.

The team waded through the papparazzi, which was wasting its time. The new arrival wasn’t with them. His legs wouldn’t be able to handle a ride on the team limobus. Still they swarmed the team as security, already bought off, stood aside. Photographers invaded his face like frenzied animals sussing out a frightened mammal, but he remembered not to look them in the eye.

After punching three aside, he managed to stumble through the team’s entrance. So did 22 of his teammates. Wait, where was Lance? He was right behind him when they stepped off the limobus…

Well anyway, they were safely inside. They shuffled to the locker room, the best one in the league according to ESPN the Magazine: Illustrated™. Mike sat at his locker cubicle, one of the last places in the world he could sit down at and not feel creeping death coming at him. He saved up enough script to buy a Bose™ sound-dampening system, so when his teammates blasted the latest from 22 different sub-sub-metagenres, he was mercifully secluded.

He spent 15 minutes sitting there, letting his body rest as much as possible. He was getting headaches again, a side-effect of the Androneline® everyone was taking between games. It wasn’t really working for him, though. It just accelerated the migraines that came after being beaned in the head by a 162 mph fastball last week at Old Cleveland. (Though WebMD®, a subsidiary of Genovese™ said they may have also been caused by the smell.)

Even with his head pounding, though, the silence was well worth it. This shit wasn’t fun anymore. This time last year, right before the team set out to Neo Angeles (built in cooperation with Lowe’s™) for the playoffs, he felt the pangs of boredom that his dad talked about while working at StarbucksBank™. Even winning World Series No. 49 wasn’t fun anymore. For one thing, the riots on the field forced the cops to use USWs, one of which blew out both his eardrums. His new ears were fine but there was a loose part in there somewhere, causing a screw to occassionally roll around near his brain. It was annoying.

Fifteen minutes came and gone after a few seconds. Penny, the assistant manager, stuck her fake nose (fifth time was still not the charm for the poor girl) through his sound-proof bubble. “Yo, Mikey,” she said, her voice as welcome as a cobra in a toilet. “Have you checked the standings yet? Boss sez you haven’t checked ’em yet.” She left without even knowing if he heard her or not.

Okay Penny, I will. He said that every day, even though they stopped being relevant two months ago. “Know your enemy!” Hubie Steinbrenner would say. “I don’t want that Cuban beating me again!” Damn, the Royals win one lousy World Series, and the team was still paying for it. Mike wasn’t even in the league when it happened.

So anyway, his PDA automatically flickered to life. He tried numerous times to have it block everything from the boss, but he was legally required to be in contact with his employer at all times, so no dice. He took in the standings to humor the young shithead:

TEAM                            W    L    PCT    GB   RS     RA
The New York Space Yankees™,    155  88   .638   --   1,831  1,497
Brought to You by IBM™,
Toys 'R Us™ and Michelinyear™

Boston Red Soxxx®, Presented by 131  102  .539   14.0 1,700  1,663
Dunkin Donuts™ and The North
Face™

AirCanada™ and the Ottawa       108  135  .444   Who  1,510  1,966
Board of Tourism™ Toronto                       cares?
DeathJayz®

Wyoming Hostess™ Devil Dogs®    106  138  .436   Huh? 1,474    2,018
Devil Rays® of Tampa Bay

Baltimore Orioles               36   207   Just... just don't ask

Yep. Another meaningless game. Except for the fact that it was historic. But the history-maker wasn’t here yet (and neither was Lance…). Oh well. He’d know when it was time for him to come.

Slowly the players got dressed and ready to go. Mike kept lagging back. Earlier that morning, Al called him up. “Mikey,” he said. “I need your help with the new guy. I have no fucking clue what to say to him. I’ll tell you what we’ll do when it’s almost gametime.”

Mike wasn’t awake when he heard that, but the intrusion of Al in his dreams meant that his coach was either extremely drunk or extremely scared.

After Terry, Manny and Orby left, it was just Mike. He stayed in his sound-proof cocoon anyway. He was half dressed in his custom Versace™ Underarmor™ pants and stirrups. His favorite bat, a titanium Easton™, never polisheda and with the rubber handle on its last licks, was really the only prominent thing in his cubicle. Everyone else had PlayBoxes®, or an entire wardrobe of after-game clothes, or the latest space porn in theirs. Well, Terry also kept a disturbingly large collection of shaving cream even though he wouldn’t need it here. But yeah, his was mostly empty. He never thought a baseball player’s locker (when they were still called that) should be filled with non-baseball shit. Then again, he never thought baseballers could play into their 60s, not after what happened to Jamie Moyer…

“Mikey!” came Al’s voice right behind Mike’s head. Al Squilance, otherwise known as ASquicky due to his inability to figure out what “squick” meant, had stuck his head through the cocoon. He was probably yelling at Mike for at least three minutes before he remembered Mike had the damn thing.

Mike deactivated the cocoon, allowing Al to step back to semi-normal talking distance. “Good to see ya, kid.” Al was only older than him by five years, but a premature onset of Alzheimer’s made him think Mike was still 20.

“Why’re you so nervous?” said Mike as he chomped down on a wad of tobacco-free chewing gum.

“This kid,” said Al. “I don’t know what to do with ‘im, Mikey. I’ve been coaching this game for three years, and never before have I had to deal with this!”

“You’ve been coaching for 35,” said Mikey. “And he… it is not a kid. Do not call it a kid.”

“It!” yelled Al. “That’s just it! It’s an it! Not a he or a she like that bitch Cedeno on the Cubs!”

“Huh?” said Mike. “No, the Cubs were disbanded 10 years ago. She plays for New South Wales now.”

“Whatever! The point is, why the fuck am I the guy who has to deal with this… this thing?”

“You want me to hold your hand through the introductions?” said Mike as he pulled his jersey on.

“No, I don’t want you to hold my hand. I want you to deal with it on your own! I don’t want to look ‘im in the eye.”

“It!” yelled Mike. “Do not call them ‘he’ or ‘him’ or anything. Just it. They hate genders and shit.”

“And I hate them!” The outburst made Al look around the empy locker room just in case. He leaned closer to Mikey. “The truth is, they don’t belong in our game. They ain’t natural, like the rest of us. They’re plastic!”

“Whatever,” said Mike. “I’ll babysit it if you want to. Just go out and fill the lineup card or something.”

Al turned and stalked off. Mike looked down the lockers. The kid, Urbanfors, got sent down to make room for the new guy. Wait, he couldn’t call it the new guy, right? No, that was pretty much a faux pas. Shit, what to call it then? The new thing? No, that sounds retarded. Hmmm, maybe Al was right all along.

Then he heard it: the whirring sound of a motor, a small one, eletric, making its way towards the locker room. This is it! That’s what Mike shouted in his head, but that’s the most excitement he could muster. The truth is that he was going to retire in a few weeks, and the fucking chewing gum was spiked with urine taffy again. Goddammit, who did it this time? Was it Orchid? Or Smelly? No, it was Jewwy!

The locker-room doors slid open. Mike turned around, and there he was. IT was. It.

Staring back at Mike (he could tell by the focusing of the infrared eyes) was the newest player of the Walt Disney™ Presents the Major League of Baseball™: Honda X5-355614.F4 (assembled in Kinshasa).

The robot, scarely 5′ tall, carried a baseball bat in one hand and a metal box in the other. Its eyes, two muave circles sitting in a rectangular head, focused on Mike’s face.

“Hello,” it said in a metallic voice. Mike wasn’t sure where the voice came from.

“Hi,” said Mike. The robot pushed forward on its treads, which Mike just noticed. They were rather loud but still more pleasant than the Spip Spopera that Jewwy liked to listen to.

“I am to be your newest teammate,” said Honda as it rolled over to Urbanfors’ old cubicle. “I see the boss did not deign to properly relabel this cubicle.”

“The boss doesn’t like robots,” said Mike.

“Not many humans do, unfortunately,” said Honda. “Especially when we are not step and fetch Rosie types.”

“Yeah…” said Mike. “So you know who I am?”

“Of course,” said Honda. It gently put its box on the bench and flipped it open. It slid a plastic baseball cap on its head. It barely fit properly.

“So what do I call you? Honda?”

“Honda is my family name. You may call me X5-355614.F4.”

“Or,” said Mike, “we can call you X-ey.”

“That does not make sense, but you are free to do so.”

“Thanks,” said Mike. He took a glance inside X5’s box. All that was left in it was a bottle of lubricant, a glove and some microdiscs. A light traveler, just like himself.

“So, you’re ready to go?” he asked.

“I am now fully dressed and prepared for today’s game,” it said. It was only now that he saw that its bluish-gray body was spray-painted with pinstripes, the appropriate sponsor logos, the number 1F, and the interlocking NY placed prominently in the front.

“Then let’s go,” said Mike. He got up and walked towards the tunnel, with X5 following very loudly.

“You seem to be taking this in stride,” said Mike as he stopped by the Gillete™ BeardRemoverPro® mk. V.

“As are you,” Mike heard X5 say as he stuck his face in the BeardRemoverPro. After a few seconds of light burning, it concluded with a beep. Mike’s face was now regulation-smooth for the next two hours (when he’d have to do it again).

“You’re supposed to be the big star, the first robo to ever play pro baseball,” said Mike.

“That is only really because we robots do not value currency,” said X5. “If we did, we would have most likely destroyed your species by now.”

“Cute. But you’re not nervous?” asked Mike as they neared the field.

“Why should I be nervous? There is nothing to be afraid of. And yes, it is a myth that robots do not feel anything. The only emotion we are incapable of experiencing is ennui.”

“Well, here goes nothing,” said Mike. They were at the cusp of the dugout entrance. The field was clearly in view now, a wide, wide, wide spread of green FancyTurf®, a Monsanto™ specialty. It’s just like grass, except it’s actually just painted cement with grass holographically projected on it!

When they emerged, there was no crowd noise, though the 450,000 in attendance were going bonkers. They were safely muted behind a thick glass wall designed to prevent the repeat of the Bobblehead Riots. Nobody was killed, but so much merchandise needlessly wasted before it could be sold…

After a few seconds, the crowd noise was eventually piped in at a very managable and pleasant 145 dB. Mike stopped and took the sound in. Usually the crowd noise settled in as a very, very placid din, much like an air conditioner. But he could sense something different this time. This was a new day for pro baseball. A new player, scarecely taller than the QuesTec™ StrikeZone®, coming in. The anti-robos were out in full force for months when Hubie announced he had bought a new robot, and this time, it was not for cleaning up the couch.

“You can’t let the robos in! They’ll break all the records, and that wouldn’t be fair!”

“The robos already took all our jobs in manufacturing, medicine and theater. Do they have to invade our national pastime, too? Hell, it’s not even a North American robot!”

“Eveyone knows robos don’t have HUSTLE or GRIT. This sport is straight’d up enough with players playing strictly for the medical insurance, we don’t need more HEARTLESS NON-ROLEPLAYERS who don’t even bring their LUNCHPAILS with them.”

(Incidentally, the last quote was written by a ColumnScribe® automatic outraged column generator.)

Mike looked back to see if X5 was taking it in. It was not. It had already moved towards the first-base line, its bat still slung over its shoulder, much like Mike.

The other players stopped their warmups to stare at X5. Mike dropped his bat off with Kenny, the most prized soon-to-be-FA bat boy in the league, and joined Remy and Brophy in their warmup, forming a soft-toss triangle.

“This is such shit,” said Remy.

“What’s that?” asked Mike.

“This fucking metal box taking over all our juice,” said Remy as he snapped a toss.

“How much you think they’re– whoa!” said Brophy as Remy hurled the ball at his face. “How much you think they’re paying him?”

“It,” said Mike.

“What?” said Brophy as he threw it over.

“Robots want to be called ‘it.’ Like the kids’ show.”

“That’s fucking retarded,” said Remy. “Call him a he.”

“No, you’ll piss it off,” said Mike.

“Yeah, so?” said Brophy.

“He’s afraid it’ll kill him like, probs,” said Remy.

“I’m afraid of that thing even when it’s not pissed,” said Brophy.

“Maybe you should just relax,” said Mike.

“Oh boy, a robover,” said Brophy. “You and Scammy were meant for each other.”

After 20 minutes, warmups were over. Everyone took their daily prescription of Andrenoline, and after the initial psychotic rush was over, they stood on the basepaths for the National Anthem (this year’s contest winner, I Got a Job in Retail, by the Heartfishers). Mike kept glancing at X5, who was standing (or so he guessed, as X5’s chassis never really moved) at the end of the line next to Al. Its tube-shaped left arm was draped across its chest, its pincer-like hands straight out.

They retired to the dugout. Across the field, in their color-shifting jerseys, were the Texas White Hunters, the creme of the AL West and the most profitable subsidiary of AMCEntertainment™.

“They’re gonna play mad today,” said Brophy as he sat down next to Mike. “They got busted again.”

“More illegals?” said Craigy as he was stepping into his catcher’s armor.

“Yeah. I think they said that Williams and Johnson got deported,” said Brophy.

“Fucking retards,” muttered Remy.

“Alright, get out there and try not embarrass yourselves!” yelled Al.

“Yeah, remember you’re up for review after today,” added Keithy, the bench coach.

The defensive arrangement flashed on the bigscreen in center (and right, and left, and on the ceiling, and just behind the concession stand to the far left). Mike was at short, like usual. He was not surprised to see no “X5” or “Honda” up there. It’d be broken in via DH.

The top of the 1st went by without incident. Inside the dugout, Mike got his batting gloves on and looked over his bat. The new depleted uranium cores in the balls were taking their toll on it. What a shame.

After a few minutes to clear up the lineup Al submitted to the ump (once again, his lineup consisted mostly of players who were either retired or dead) they were ready to bat:

1. Peter Frampton, 1B
2. LaJerry Masshad, CF
3. Mike Esparza, SS
4. X5-355614.F4 Honda, DH
5. Remington Barth, RF
6. Duke “The Dumpster” Brophy, LF
7. Ike Hebrew National Hotdogs™, 2B
8. Craig BonHomme, C
9. Lance Draper Donald Pemperton-LoJack™, 3B

No wonder Remy was pissed. Being bumped from cleanup was gonna hurt his Q score, puttinh his Crest™ endorsement in jeopardy…

Petey and LaJerry both popped out. Mike took to the batter’s box, facing down Antonio Navarette DeJesus Polanco Escandion Telemundo-MTV™, Texas’ fourth and definitely most unhinged starter. Behind the plate, John Morrisez was settling in for the next pitch.

“Hey Mike Gringo,” said Morrisez through the voice-box attached to his reinforced visor. “I think you should strike out. I don’t want that stupid bitch robo hitting with men on.”

“Why?” asked Mike as the first pitch came by at 153 mph, for a ball.

“Because I want him to be allllllll alone when he steps up here. Or rolls up here. Mang what a fuckin’ dumb thing.”

“Shut up ‘Juan,’ said Mike as a curveball came by at 124 mph for a ball. No, wait, now it’s a strike.

“No you shut up,” said Morrisez. “Robos don’t belong in this game, mang. My dad played this the right way, with two legs! No servos!”

Mike didn’t feel like putting up with Morrisez anymore, so he flailed at the next pitch, golfing it pathetically to the first baseman. He didn’t even bother to run out of the box.

“Nice accent, you solar straight,” muttered Mike as he trudged back to the dugout. As he gathered his glove on the bench, X5, being unable to sit down at all, stood against the far wall nearest to the plate. It leaned on its bat, which was stubby but covered in an immaculate (and noticably blank) silver paint.

Finky retired the White Hunters in order. Then the time came. The White Hunters took the field. Navarette DeJesus Polanco Escandion Telemundo-MTV™ was warming up. They began piping the crowd noise through the speakers, gradually lifting it from its normal 65 dB until it was loud enough even to overwhelm the commercials playing on the big screen. Mike felt a tinge in his chest. A good tinge, this time.

After the seven minute commercial break was over, the PA announcer spoke up. “Now batting, for the Space Yankees: the designated hitter, X5-355614.F4 Honda. This at-bat is sponsored by Mattel™.”

The crowd noise hit 250 dB, overwhelming X5’s walkup music (inappropes, it was “Don’t Stick Your Dick in That Thing,” by Porn Pope). For once, Mike didn’t think they were simply pumping the noise up artificially. As X5 rolled to the plate, Mike got up, and he noticed that his other teammates had joined him (except Al, who was distracted by a piece of styrofoam lying near the dugout, and Cobby, who didn’t have legs). X5 stood in the right-handed batter’s box.

The left-field fence was 613 feet away, while straightaway center was 844, great dimensions for a hitter. X5 was facing a fastballer with no regard for human life or SIERA. The odds couldn’t be any more in its favor.

“Robots score a shitload more runs than we do,” said Brophy. “I wonder if he’ll hit it out of the park.”

“He won’t, the fucker,” said Jewwy. “I bet he strikes out.”

“You’re a retard,” said Craigy. “Don’t you look at ESPN Illustrated? Robos never strike out, even in their straight league.”

The crowd hushed as Navarette DeJesus Polanco Escandion Telemundo-MTV™ wound up. The pitch came by, a reckless 155 mph fastball right down the plate… which X5 took for a clean strike. The crowd stayed hushed as the ball was lobbed back to Navarette DeJesus Polanco Escandion Telemundo-MTV™.

The next pitch came. One hundred fifty-three slider, taken for a strike. Jewwy turned back. “See? I told you! He’s scared!”

Mike could hear a few boos rising up through the mostly listless crowd now. “Swing the bat you sexhaver!” yelled one fan near a microphone. Navarette DeJesus Polanco Escandion Telemundo-MTV™ was grinning. X5 looked like a rusted bucket waiting to be rolled over out there.

The next pitch was 159 mph, same place. Right before it reached the plate, X5’s arms flicked forward, connecting in a half swing. The ball lofted lazily to left and dropped in despite Enrique SCOOTER!!!’s titanium-reinforced legs. X5 rolled down the first-base line, easily driving over first base (which Arnulfo Vasquez abandoned when he saw it coming). A single.

The crowd barely cheered that. “The fuck was that?” yelled LaJerry. “That was the straightest hit I’ve ever seen.”

“Typical,” said Brophy. “Typical robo bullshit. Precision hitting my effusive ass!”

“Holy shit, Hubie must be fuming,” said Craigy. “We’re already gonna be destroyed by the Still Beating Brain of Mike Francesca.”

Remy, in protest of X5’s inclusion, lamely swung at his pitches to strike out. Brophy remembered a funny thing he saw on last night’s episode of “Car Keyers,” causing him to swing poorly at a ball and ground out. Jewwy struck out because he just plain sucks.

While Mike was in the field, he noticed X5 standing next to Keithy. They were talking about something, but his cybernetic eyes couldn’t zoom in enough to adequately read his lips.

The bottom of the 3rd rolled in. Mike sat down near the end of the bench, where X5 had once again resumed its seclusion.

“So, what were you and Keithy talking about?” asked Mike.

“He wished to know why I did not hit a home run,” said X5. Its voice never changed pitch, just like his cousin, Doug, and it was unsettling. He remembered the first time he took an at-bat in a pro game. He struck out. His dad later asked him how it felt. His voice trembled when he told him that he always wanted his first at-bat to be a home run, and his chance went by at 124 mph, low and away.

“Well, why didn’t you?” asked Mike.

“The chances of me hitting a home run were not high enough, while hitting a single against that poorly placed left fielder was basically gauranteed, once I recognized that Navarette DeJesus Polanco Escandion Telemundo-MTV™ would only throw fastballs.”

“Yeah, but couldn’t you smash one of those things out of the park?”

“In my judgment, it was not that likely. Please, I have been playing this sport for 11.4 years, I know what I am doing.”

Mike leaned back. “But could you hit a home run if you wanted to, basically?”

“Not necessarily. I can try, but I would make outs more often, and that would be highly disadvantageous,” said X5. “One thing you humans need to understand is that baseball is a sport that has much randomness in it, which is why it and skiing are the only sports robots play.”

Mike didn’t have any more questions for now. X5 seemed to be calm, or as calm as a faceless robot could be.

The team’s bats finally woke up. The rally, two runs deep, brought X5 back to bat. This time the piped-in cheers were non-existant even though the Space Yanks were putting it to the Hunters.

Navarette DeJesus Polanco Escandion Telemundo-MTV™ leered at X5. As his jersey melded into a vibrant green, he wound up extra slowly and delivered a sidearm toss, clocking in at a measly 101 mph. It was a screwball twisting away from X5. To Navarette DeJesus Polanco Escandion Telemundo-MTV™’s chagrin, X5’s torso stretched out, allowing it to lean over the plate. The ball dive-bombed towards the dirt, but X5’s bat swatted it to the right-side gap, faster than Jeb McSuarez’s cybernetic knees could carry him. As X5 rolled to first, McSaurez pounded his glove and spat at it.

The crowd was not impressed by another super-straight slap hit. Now the boos were audible even though the home team was up 3-0.

“Who let the kindergartner in?” Mike could hear as X5 stared blankly at the third-base coach for signs.

Three batters later, X5 came around third on a double. Its treaded legs took it at a maximum-allowable speed of 15 mph into home. Morrisez fielded the throw home, but he was waylaid as he turned into X5, who leaned forward like a tomahawk. The ball came loose. 6-0 Space Yanks.

The crowd was more appreciative as Morrisez rolled back over. His armor was scratched and he was suffering from his second concussion in three days. “You’re trash, you fucking sexhaver!” he yelled as X5 puttered off to the dugout. “Your mom was a stapler!”

The team gave a lukewarm welcome to their titanium teammate as it rolled back to the end of the bench. Mike, his legs sore from sliding into Morrisez’ armor, hobbled to the free space next to X5.

“You’re not getting it, are you?” he asked.

“Getting what?” said X5.

“You’re not playing it right,” said Mike. “I think you know what I’m saying.”

X5 looked him in the eye. “My objective is to help this team win this ballgame. I can do that by making the best hit possible given the circumstances. I am not an old-fashioned three true outcomes ballrobot.”

“Nobody said you needed to. Buddy Cedeno slap hits all the time, but people like him.”

“That’s because he gooses fielders as he rounds the bases.”

“Well whatever, the point is you don’t play the game the right way.”

“What is that, an anti-robot codeword? I cannot play like a sweaty ape. I am not programmed that way.”

“You’re thinking too much about winning, though,” said Mike. “We’re the Space Yankees. We usually win even when we have an off night, like tonight. It doesn’t matter. When you win all the time, people expect you to do more, like hit dingers or savagely beat hated minorities.”

“But I’m not programmed to give a shit about the crowd,” said X5, putting its arms akimbo.

“You have to. I don’t know what they do in the robot league, but we’re dumb, stupid humans, and we love our dingers and are stolen bases and our bench-clearing brawls and our batters who hit .320 and 70 homeruns. I don’t wanna say it, but you’re being a typical robot.”

Mike didn’t think X5 would get it, so he walked back to the middle of the bench. X5 remained motionless.

Donny finally flew out to deep center, ending the 3rd. The 4th was unremarkable on both sides of the field. The White Hunters got to Finky in the 5th, hitting a grand slam with a 2x bonus, since it was the last day of the season. 8-6 to the assholes from Texas.

“C’mon guys! It’s only five runs! We can do this!” yelled Al as he wandered up and down the dugout, his hands clapping.

“You mean he’s still here?” asked Brophy as Al passed by him.

Mike led off with a double. He saw X5 over Navarette DeJesus Polanco Escandion Telemundo-MTV™’s shoulder. Navarette DeJesus Polanco Escandion Telemundo-MTV™ turned to him, a shit-eating grin flashing across his face, before turning back to the plate. His first pitch was a 155 mph strike to X5’s head. The ball hit it just above its right eye, wobbling its head like the bobbleheads of old. X5 promptly tossed its bat aside and motored to first. Navarette DeJesus Polanco Escandion Telemundo-MTV™ could barely contain his laughter. Even from 120 feet away, Mike could hear the dull metallic ring from X5’s head, and to be frank it was rather funny, all things considered.

The crowd thought it was funny too. “What is this, the blind asshole robo?” jeered someone sitting in section 5D, the Pringles™ section. Typical.

The next three batters managed to get Mike home, but that was all they could muster for the inning.

The White Hunters took that run back with a triple followed by a single that struck Jewwy in the face. He was replaced by Arniey.

The bottom of the 6th saw no runs for the home team thanks to Petey flailing at ball four for strike three. A solo homerun from Aspercreme™ Mendez extended the lead to three. After the third out, the best part of the ballgame was upon them: the 7th-inning gala!

“Ladies, gentlemen, and those in between, please remove your caps and remain standing for the singing of ‘God Bless North America’ as sung by Kate Smith and as remixed by Rick Ross,” said the announcer as the crowd headed for the exits.

Mike spent the first part of the gala removing his five-o’clock shadow. He took a seat next to X5, who… stood, draping its cap over its chest.

“Nobody’s done that for years,” said Mike.

“I am well aware of your league’s customs,” said X5.

“You’re doing it because a voice told you to,” said Mike as the song entered its fifth and final verse.

“I am attempting to show proper respect for our glorious dictatorship,” said X5.

Next to Mike, LaJerry was cracking up over last night’s episode of People You Don’t Know Being Horribly Mutilated. His laughter made it difficult to hear X5, especially with the fireworks going off. But he had nothing better to do for 45 minutes.

“So, are you having fun then?” asked Mike.

“I enjoy baseball, so naturally I am,” said X5.

“You don’t look like you’re having fun.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Mike shifted in his seat as the stage for the dancing section rolled out onto the field.

“Maybe you should have some little mechanical eyebrows put on your face. Maybe get a mouth, or something,” said Mike.

“I do not understand what you mean other than your intention to belittle me.”

“Okay, see, what the fuck is that?” asked Mike. “Who talks like that? Do you robots talk like that all the time?”

“Yes.”

“Well look around you. Do you see any robots in the crowd? Aside from the concessionbots. And the groundskeeperbots. And the scorebots. And the camerabots. And the robot that wanders in from under the tarp occasionally? No! These are people and they expect everyone on the field to be a person too.”

“Excuse me, but robots have been considered people since the Keeping America Safe from Shifty Chinamen Act of 2021,” said X5. Mike scowled and turned away, having enough of arguing with this dumb brick of a machine. “I am playing the game to the best of my abilities, helping this team to win. Why is that frowned upon?”

“Nobody cares if we win if we play like we’re in the National League or something,” said Mike, almost turning to face X5.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Those shitty hits you come up. That half swing, blooping the ball like a little leaguer. Nobody likes that.”

“I told you that swinging for the fences is generally riskier.”

“So then take a risk! Isn’t that what you came here for anyway? You’re the first fucking robot to play this sport, and right now you’re going over worse than the first woman to play it. And she ran from the game in tears!”

X5 was able to calculate the logic of that statement in microseconds, but it dwelled on those words. Mike got up to stretch and adjust the plasteel screws in his spinal column. The twirlers were on-stage now.

“Listen, they don’t call this league ‘the show’ just because it has a 27-hour network devoted to it, and over 25 nightly programs dedicated to it, and a string of major motion pictures based on it, and all that shit,” said Mike. “This is a show, but you’re turning it into a freak show, and it’s rubbing off on us. You’re making the fucking White Hunters look respectable! So forget about helping the team to win. We’ve been doing that without you. And just so you know, if you make the team look stupid, you’ll be outta here no matter what, okay? It doesn’t matter that you’re playing great. You suck!”

Mike trudged off to find his oxycontin, leaving X5 still holding his cap like a retard. It’d take another 30 minutes to make it through the brief documentary and laserlight show. He timed his high to come down just as the piped-in singing of “Take Me out to the Ballgame” started.

Finally, the bottom of the 7th was upon them. LaJerry led off with a line-drive single, but Mike could only move him over to second with a groundout. X5 was rolling up to the batter’s box as he jogged by. X5’s eyes were focused squarely on the new pitcher, Danny Garcia (pronounced GAR-sha). Mike just got to his seat in the dugout when the first pitch came, a 133 mph slider aimed at X5’s head. This time, its head retracted towards its body, leading to a clean miss. The crowd roared in laughter.

“Oh good, it can learn,” said Brophy.

“Can it learn to not be so straight?” asked Craigy.

“Try again!” yelled Remy from the on-deck circle. Instead, Garcia (pronounced GAR-sha)’s next pitch painted the outside corner for a strike. The next one went low and away, a typical Garcia (pronounced GAR-sha) shitpitch.

X5 swung at the next one, a pitch low and inside. It clanged off X5’s body.

“Why’d he swing at that?” asked Brophy. “Are they sure they made it in Kinshasa? Looks more like they slapped him together over whatever hetero parts they had lying around in Bensonhurst.”

Garcia (pronounced GAR-sha) was ecstatic. He actually had a two-strike count on someone. His next pitch was a curveball to the lower outside corner. X5 swung at it, chopping it off down the 1B line. The next pitch was a fastball high. It was slapped straight back to the backstop. Changeup low; sent to the upper-deck on the 3B side. Another changeup; chopped away foul. Fastball inside again; it ricocheted over to the home team dugout where it was shot down by the anti-foul ball/anti-pigeon laser cannons, leaving a white-hot depleted uranium core that would take 15 minutes to cool. The crowd clapped in approval. The radiation drove everyone to the rear corner of the dugout.

X5 rolled out of the batter’s box to readjust its grip on its bat. Mike noticed it glance at Morrisez before rolling back in. Garcia (pronounced GAR-sha) leaned back in his stretch, checked LaJerry, then prepared to throw. At that moment, X5 tilted the bat in its hands instead of staying rigid as it had every other pitch. Garcia (pronounced GAR-sha)’s eyes widened as he threw. The curveball hung up beautifully for X5. The ball was sent flying towards the outfield. Never mind that, to the scoreboard. It was a no-doubter.

Fifteen seconds later, it bounced off the McWendy’s HIT IT HERE section. It was a home run and the crowd got free Big Macs®. The crowd cheered as soylent green patties rained down on them.

“Hmmm,” said Brophy. “I guess that was tubular.”

“Fuck that, nobody’s hit the McWendy’s sign in like five years,” said Craigy. “Now I’m hungry. Who’s got my cocaine dip?”

X5 speedily rounded the bases. It picked up its bat, which it had flicked away soon after connecting.

“Bribing the crowd’s not a bad way to get them on your side,” said Mike as he watched a pair of fans fighting over what appeared to be a cat meat patty covered in delicious, sweet secret sauce, the kind that just makes you want to kill. Kill for the secret sauce. Yes, yes, oh god what did they put in it? Oh my god, my life for this secret sauce. I will do anything they ask of me! ANYTHI

“I was not really aiming for that section,” said X5 as it stowed its bat away.

“You did good,” said Mike.

They were still trailing by one, though. The Space Yanks almost got a run in in the bottom of the 8th, but Mikey of course had to suck as usual, so they couldn’t. The White Rangers scraped one last run in the top of the 9th.

12-10 was not insurmountable, but the crowd was anxious. So was Petey, and he was struck out by the White Rangers’ closer, Orville Lidgez.

“We are not losing to this guy, give me a fucking break,” Keithy muttered. LaJerry managed to walk, so as soon as Mike stepped to the plate, LaJerry stole second. Well, he didn’t really steal it as it was awarded as “Defensive Not Giving a Fuck.”

Two pitches for balls came by. Mike was still waiting for Morrisez to say something cruel and inhuman, but the little man in the armor was silent and businesslike.

“So what’s new, J?” asked Mike after taking a strike.

“Just shut up, Esparza,” said Morrisez. Mike was walked on five pitches.

The crowd was much louder for X5 when it rolled up. Lidgez stared really long and hard at it, so much so that both Mike and LaJerry could’ve stole if they wanted to (though those would’ve been noted as “Defensive Not Knowing What the Fuck”).

Lidgez tried a changeup, and to his surpise X5 swung at it, sending it to the equally surprised third baseman. He bobbled it just enough to let LaJerry get past him, so he instinctively threw it to first. X5 leaned forward as far as it could trying to get to the base, and its treads hit the bag just before the pop of the ball in the glove. Sa– WHAT?

The flesh-bitten ump’s thumb was raised, though as far as the crowd was concerned, it was up his ass. X5 was out!

“That is the incorrect call!’ said X5, raising its volume to maximum. The ump ignored it.

“Look at me when I am talking to you! Wait, what were you looking at?” X5 continued. The crowd started booing as the replays showed X5 having a clean 0.7 seconds between its tread hitting the bag and the ball hitting the plastic glove. The ump refused to budge. Zero point seven seconds. Every stadium sensor indicated it was safe. But no. The decision was made. X5 retreated to the dugout.

“I hae dis weague,” said Jewwy. The team doctor was still screwing his replacement nose into his face.

“Nice try, X15,” said Craigy.

“It is X5. Thank you.”

Keithy had enough of Remy’s shit for one night, so he pinch hit Armandy for him. It only took Lidgez three pitches before he hed Armandy a juicy fastball up and in. Armandy didn’t miss with his swing, and the ball didn’t miss hitting the glass over the fifth deck. It was a homerun!

The crowd went ballistic, as did over 75 million viewers around the planet and two orbiting colonies, as Wendenny’s™ would have to give out another free taco for every man, woman, child and artificial human (as part of its “Ha Ha Orville Lidgez” promotion). Have you ever had one of their tacos? Fucking good, man.

Armandy swiftly rounded the bases to put a nice cap on the regular season. He stomped on home plate, then quickly sprinted away, seconds before it was ignited by a barrage of fireworks. The rest of the team rushed him, slapping him five and cursing genially at him.

He absent-mindedly slapped X5’s metallic hand, nearly breaking his knuckle. He scowled at the robot. Everyone nearly tripped over it as the crowd swarmed back towards the dugout.

With the regular season over, the team would be facing the playoffs. Up to 56 games to decide the World Series. Would it be the big 5-0?

*        *        *

The professional press managed to get inside the clubhouse without letting the paparrazi slip in, though their screeching and clawing at the door could still be heard over everything. X5 survived his barrage of tedious questions, mostly sticking to yes/no answers. It worked. After a few minutes, the press got bored enough to go question Brophy while he was still in the autoshowers.

Natually, X5 didn’t need to do a whole lot after the game, so it rolled over to Mike.

“You did good out there,” he said.

“Well. And yes, thank you. You also were effective,” it said.

Then it stuck out its hand, its pincers open. Mike stared at it.

“It is fine, my servos are functioning properly,” it said. Mike opted to slap it lightly instead.

“Are you excited about probably winning the 50th World Series in team history?” asked X5. Mike wasn’t happy to know that it learned the art of awkwardness.

“Not really,” he said, pulling on his FruitJockey™ socks. “I’m excited about retiring to a non-extradition country.”

“The only country left for that is the Empire of Liechtenstein,” said X5.

“I know. They have nice beaches, though. Not as much sewage.”

“Do you think I will be able to fit in with the team?” it asked.

“Maybe not so much with this bunch,” said Mike as she watched Remy scream at his agent through his PDA. “Maybe when more of you, uh, guys get into the league.”

“Perhaps,” said X5. “I am not sure I would like to go back to the Robot League. The fans here seem to be livelier.”

“Oh, that’s just the LSD. But yeah, they’re a real hoot.” Mike and X5 were silent for a while. Then he remembered something that had been nagging him since his at bat in the 9th. “X5, I got a big question for you.”

“What?” asked X5, its head turning back to face Mike.

“What’d you say to Morrisez to shut him up?”

“Him?” said X5. “I simply informed him that I know a computer in the INS.”

And with that, for the first time in over 15 years, Mike ran into a ballplayer he could respect. It was about time.

*        *        *

Despite a four-hour search of the premesis, Lance Draper was neither seen nor heard from ever again.

Interview

First day was next Monday; he just had to make it through The Big Interview. The office was in a house, renovated into an art supply store. It was just starting to get cool. Only a few days of summer left. He was glad to be getting inside soon.

The receptionist was quick to direct him to a set of offices in the back, just behind the fingerpaint supplies. The main one was carved out of the house’s former dining room, and it held three desks behind a beige wall with sales charts hung up on it. The desk to the left was occupied by an elderly man who didn’t move an inch when he stepped inside.

“Hi, name’s Greg,” he said, extending his hand over the man’s in/out box. The man licked his fingers and turned the page of the book he was reading.

Greg took a seat in front of the middle desk, occupied with a 1990s-era computer and sets of papers neatly stacked. There was a large, brown radio an arm’s length away. Greg nearly tripped over its cord as he sat down.

It didn’t take long for Mr. Nash to come in. He was wry with thick glasses and hair more white than black. His gaunt face showed no emotion as he greeted Greg, nor did his hand indicate any strength when he shook it.

“Morning, Mr. Nash,” said Greg.

“Morning, Greg,” Mr. Nash replied. His voice was higher pitched than it was on the phone. “Have a seat.”

Mr. Nash shuffled through some of the papers on the desk. Greg noted how pleasantly warm the room was as all the chills he had from outside were gone. They were directly under the heating vent, though, and some of papers on Mr. Nash’s desk twitched with each minor surge of air.

“Well, Greg, you’re one step away from taking the desk to my left,” said Mr. Nash.

“Yes sir,” said Greg, tapping his thin satchel that held extra copies of his resume. Mr. Nash already had a copy, though.

“I like the objective you have here,” said Mr. Nash, not looking at Greg.

“Yes sir,” said Greg again. He was proud of that objective: “To be the absolute best salesman I can be for any employer.” He had a feeling this job would be easy, but he wasn’t in it for the challenge. Mel’s Surplus Art Supplies was a good start for his three years’ experience.

“Y’know Greg,” said Mr. Nash, “We haven’t had a young salesman here since we began, and we began in this house over 30 years ago.”

“I understand, sir,” said Greg.

“Yes, so in a way this is going to be a challenge for me.”

“Really?”

“Yes. You see, nothing in this office was made after 1984. Not even the pens. Yes, we bought them all in 1978 and we’re only just now getting close to running out of them.”

“Wow, that’s… that’s impressive,” said Greg. He was actually more weirded out than impressed, and his fingers began tapping the satchel again.

“I’d like to think so,” said Mr. Nash. He was still looking at the resume, not reading it. His eyes were fixated. “I’d like to think that we’ve been doing something right–”

THUD. Greg heard it through the wall to his right. He glanced over, and it was only now that, just beyond the empty desk that was to be his destination, he saw a wooden door there. He guessed something fell over.

“–and that means that we don’t need to change. But we do. I hate to say it, but my dad founded this business and prided himself on selling quality art supplies. It’s a very simple thing we do. We sell quality art supplies. We don’t have a mascot or a, uh, a website. Everyone in town knows who we are.”

“That’s great, sir,” said Greg.

“It used to be great. But even though we save a lot of costs, the pressure is getting to us. It’s just not safe servicing a small town anymore, not in this economy. And, I guess, like a reminder from on high, we lost one of our salesmen of over 20 years.”

“Uhhh,” said Greg, tapping the satchel again. “Died, sir?”

“Hm?” Mr. Nash’s eyebrows went up, but his eyes didn’t follow. “No. No, he retired. And now we need to fill his shoes. But I won’t take anyone older than 25. It’s kind of a risky thing I’m doing, I think, but this business needs a fresh perspective.”

“I’m flattered, sir, and I’d like to think I could provide that.”

“I’m happy to hear that,” said Mr. Nash. He finally set the resume down and looked up. His eyes looked as if they were wider than his skull from behind his lenses. “I don’t want to say that we’ve fallen behind, because we still turn a profit. But as you’ll see, if you get the job that is, the profits have been going down, down. And I know that if the trend keeps going, we’ll find our backs up against the wall sooner or later.”

“Is it that serious?” Greg asked. Shit, maybe three years wasn’t in the cards. What were his options again? Oh yeah, this was the only option he’s had for the past three weeks.

“Heh, I don’t mean to alarm you,” said Mr. Nash. His mouth formed what could be described as a smirk. “It’s just that–”

THUD. Greg nearly jumped out of the seat when he heard it again. It was the same sound in the same place. He tuned it out and went back to focusing on Mr. Nash, who seemed to not notice it.

“–I mean, I want to keep paying people here a good amount of money. When I first got started in this business, you could be, hell, you could be a clerk and you could live comfortably. I mean on your own, in an apartment, with a big-screen TV. And if you had a spouse that worked, well, there you go. Some people don’t make a big deal of that, I think. But I’d rather–”

As Greg’s attention drifted back into the air, he began hearing something else aside from Mr. Nash’s droning. It was coming from that room again. What was it? It was a constant muffled noise, something like a saw cutting through a piece of wood?

Then there was something else. It was a voice, it had to be. Someone speaking slowly, but loud enough to be heard. He couldn’t hear what they were saying. His attention drfted back to Mr. Nash when

“AHH!”

Greg definitely jumped, almost to his feet. His satchel fell on the floor. He hurriedly picked it up and looked at Mr. Nash as his heart beat fast and heavily.

Mr. Nash’s eyes went up to the clock on his desk. He flinched a bit and reached out to the radio, turning it on. It was on a jazz station, a very low volume, but he could hear the bass well enough.

“Uhhh,” said Greg.

“As I was saying,” said Mr. Nash over the trumpets. “Well, so yeah, we’ve been here for a very long time, and we value consistency. Hell, we still have some customers still coming to us, just as they did when we first opened up. I’m proud of that.”

He could definitely hear a voice now, muffled and scratchy. It seemed punctuated by bouts of heavy breathing. It was hard to tell over the saxophone.

His eyes went back and forth between Mr. Nash and the door. Mr. Nash was looking at something else now… his cover letter?

“–Hey now, I’ve done a lot of talking here,” said Mr. Nash. He leaned back in his chair and looked at Greg for what had to have been the second time all interview. “I know what you’re looking for out of this job, but what are you looking for out of us?”

Greg had prepared for this question, but he could still hear the voice in the other room. His brain frantically searched for the answer, but time was wasting.

“Yeah… So, I, uh, well, I really want… to get a start on my career,” he managed to say. His fingers were piledriving a row of holes into his satchel.

“Of course you are!” said Mr. Nash with a grin. “This is your first ‘real’ job, and all. I like the honest answer.”

“Well yeah,” said Greg. “I mean, it’s–”

“RRGGH!”

Greg stopped cold where he was. He could feel the ground vibrate a bit, with a few dull thuds coming rhythmically from the other room. After a while, there was the faint sound of moaning.

“I mean, uhh,” Greg said. Mr. Nash was looking right at him, but his smile faded. He was waiting for Greg to say something. Greg was waiting for him to say something. But he wasn’t.

“What I meant to say was,” said Greg. “I love doing sales. I mean… I mean I really like to do it. And I want to know how to do it, uh, the right way. So…”

Mr. Nash’s eyes never left Greg. The thuds began again.

“Yes, we’re the training wheels, I guess? Or did you do much sales in college? Not a lot, I bet,” said Mr. Nash. “They didn’t train us too well at the school I went to.”

“Oh,” said Greg. He glanced over at the other man in the room. He was still reading whatever book he was reading. He must be hard of hearing. Mr. Nash must be hard of hearing too. That’s it, they can’t hear whatever that is.

“AH! AHH!”

Greg looked back at Mr. Nash.

“When I was in school, they focused purely on the technical stuff. I mean, the really technical stuff, like how to use a Xerox, how to calculate compound interest, things like that,” said Mr. Nash as he leaned over and slightly raised the radio’s volume. The DJ, his voice too soft to overpower the heavy breathing he could hear in the other room, droned on in the background.

“So I say to myself, ‘Man, did I accidentally take the accounting track or what?’ And they kept telling me that I’d need this stuff when I made my own business. They’re right, but I always felt they were missing the real essence of selling things. Did you feel the same way at Vanderbilt?”

“I, uh…” said Greg. He could hear someone talking in the other room, a frantic staccato voice, high-pitched. He couldn’t make out what he was saying. “I mean, I think you’re right…”

“Did they ever suggest you pick a minor in your ‘true’ passion?” said Mr. Nash, using airquotes.

THUD. “AHHH!” More heavy breathing, coming from him. Coming from whomever. Coming from the door, like a saw going back and forth, with sweat and spittle erupting from the cutline.

Oh for God’s sake, just say something.

“My dad sold golf clubs,” said Greg. “But… he was never any good at golf. I mean, he knew how to sell his clubs. ‘This putter really helps you on slick greens,’ he’d say. Or something.”

The voice warbled behind the door again. Greg could hear desperation.

“Heh, my dad wasn’t a salesman,” said Mr. Nash. “He was a bus driver. But I never wanted to be a bus driver. Every day he’d come home, sweaty, even in the winter. Of course, we grew up in San Francisco. But anyway, every day, he was a sweatin’ mess…”

The DJ gave way to another song, a staccato saxophone number. It was hard to hear. Mr. Nash’s voice settled into a drone; the heavy breathing had returned.

“NRGGGHHH. RGGGHHHH. AAHH!!”

Now Greg was gripping his satchel, cutting through the flimsy leather. His fingernails were turning black.

“Why… why’re you doing this…”

Then there was sobbing. Deep sighs, maybe. Mr. Nash pushed the volume up some more.

“So anyway, like we discussed, you’d be working mostly in here,” said Mr. Nash. “We haven’t sent anyone out ‘into the field’ for over a year now. It’s not necessary. We’re a fairly established name now.”

“Oh, good,” said Greg. The saxophone jumped up and down the scale, a very fast rhythm. Kinda catchy, actually. Greg didn’t normally listen to jazz.

“And of course you’ll be handling our northern sales division. It’s actually a bit of a struggling sector for us. Well, that is if you take the job, of course.”

“What kind of–”

“Oh god, I don’t know. I don’t…”

“I mean,” said Greg. “I mean, umm, what kind of competition am I seeing?” It was actually a stupid question, but Mr. Nash didn’t seem to mind.

“Now we’re getting nervous?” he asked.

“I’d say so. Wait, no.”

“It’s okay,” said Mr. Nash. His smile was not reassuring.

“Well, I, uh, I’d really like this job, so…”

THUD!

“Of course you do,” said Mr. Nash. “I don’t mean to brag, but we are a pretty established name. Not a big name, but people know us and respect us. And if you attach your name to us–”

“Oh God no, not again. Wait, wait–“

“–people will notice. Future employers, I mean. Not that I think you’d jump ship, but there is one thing I do know about this job market, and that everyone is always looking to move up. Maybe to the city. Maybe to–”

The lights suddenly went dark, but only for a split second. They flickered, barely noticable, but Mr. Nash’s face went on and off like a strobe. The radio strained to be heard.

“RGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!!” Heavy breathing. Spitting. Vomiting?

Mr. Nash pushed the volume up more.

“…Maybe to another state. You ever wanted to move to another state?”

“Umm…” said Greg. He glanced at his fingers. The nails were black with scratched, melted leather. His satchel’s handle looked like a pair of rats feasted on it. He wanted to put his hands in his pockets, but then his satchel would fall off. Just put the fucking thing down. No wait, answer him first.

“Not really,” he blurted out. “I… I never really thought about it, even when I interned.”

You idiot, you interned in the state. Wait, no, it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t care anyway.

“What about the city? We’re a small outfit compared to some of the firms in LA,” said Mr. Nash.

“I hate LA,” said Greg. “Sacramento was more fun.” Anything is more fun than Modesto, though.

Mr. Nash picked up his resume again. “Hmmm,” he said, scratching his nose.

“Why won’t you believe me… Why–RRRGGH!”

The lights went brown again. The saxophone became a tuba for a few seconds. The singer, his voice slurred like a retard, warbled on through his song. “Whennn I leaave youuuuu baabyyyyyyyyy, couunt the daaaays I’mmm gooooonnnneeeeeeee.”

Mr. Nash stayed smiling in his seat as the lights regained full power. He set the resume aside. “I feel the same way about Santa Barbara,” he said.

“Yeah… Santa Barbara’s nice,” he said, not having ever been there.

Mr. Nash put his hands together and pushes his chair back. “Well, Greg, I like what I heard from you today,” he said.

“You, you do?” said Greg, standing straight up.

“Yes! You showed me that you’re really interested, and I really value that at a place like this one. We usually don’t attract young candidates.”

“Oh, well, I’m glad.”

“When will you let me go? I can’t… I can’t… ugh.”

Mr. Nash put his hand on Greg’s back and led him towards the door. The safe one, the one to the exit.

“Greg, I’ll let you know when I’ve made my final decision. I really hope you consider us, and I have a feeling we impressed you,” said Mr. Nash.

“Oh, thanks,” said Greg. He heard a loud pop, but he wasn’t sure if that came from Mr. Nash slapping his back.

“Take care,” said Mr. Nash as he pushed the door open. Greg walked through, holding his satchel in both hands, sprinkling bits of hacked leather on the floor behind him. He didn’t make eye contact with the receptionist. He walked to the parking lot, looking back every few steps. The lights through the doorway flickered, winking at him as he made it to his car.

*     *     *

The next Monday, Greg sat in his kitchen, dressed up in a sweatshirt to protect against the cold. He checked the job listings and found something he had missed before.

“Hello, is this Angela Murray? Modesto City Schools? Hi, I’d like to know if that site maintenance job is still available.”

Promote the General Welfare

“This Research Program as been actively underway since the middle of 1952 and has gathered considerable momentum during the past few months. It is now evident on the basis of work currently underway that approximately 94% of the projects contemplated can be handled through regular procurement channels by means of the customary contracts signed jointly by the Agency and the organization undertaking to carry out the work. It has also become apparent that approximately 6% of the projects are of such an ultra-sensitive nature that they cannot and should not be handled by means of contracts which would associate CIA or Government with the work in question. This 6% of the current research effort now lies entirely within two well-defined fields of endeavor, namely:

(a) Research to develop a capability in the covert use of biological and chemical materials. This area involves the production of various psychological conditions which could support present or future clandestine operations . Aside from the offensive potential, the development of a comprehensive capability in this field of covert chemical and biological warfare gives us a thorough knowledge of the enemy’s theoretical potential, thus enabling us to defend ourselves against a  foe who might not be as restrained in the use of these techniques as we are. For example: we intend to investigate the deveolpment of a chemical material which causes a reversible non-toxic aberrant mental state, the the specific nature of which can be reasonably well predicted for each individual. This material could potentially aid in discrediting individuals, eliciting information, implanting suggestion and other forms of mental control;

(b)                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               
                                                         “

– Report of Inspection of MKULTRA, July 26, 1963

HACKENSACK, NEW JERSEY
SEPTEMBER 5, 2010

Tonight there was only the alarm to greet him when he came home. He turned it off and stepped back outside into the fast-approaching night to get the paper. Laura wasn’t home yet, and Denise was working another late night.

He tossed the paper, still slick from the afternoon’s rain, onto his living room table. He shut the door and momentarily forgot where he put the keys. He grumbled and started to look for them, probably dropped in the couch when he momentarily sat to take a breather. The whole room seemed to smell like rain. Bringing the paper in was a bad idea, he guessed.

And that’s when a shadow came into view. He first thought that a light had gone out, but no. Instead there was a man holding a gun on him.

“Freeze,” said the man, his voice more like a pair of rocks grinding together.

He could see that the man was wearing a poncho and some kind of mask. He couldn’t see his eyes, but he could see his hands, clad in fingerless gloves with black tape over the tips. The gun looked real enough, and it was topped with a silencer.

“Ryan McCormack,” said the intruder.

“What the–” said Ryan.

“Shut up. Sit down.”

Ryan fell back onto the living room couch. He reflexively put his hands up.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Nothing. Look at the table. Read,” said the intruder, gesturing with his pistol.

Ryan looked blankly at the newspaper. “Under it,” said the intruder. He pushed the paper aside, revealing a manila folder.

He picked it up, glancing again at the intruder and finally getting a good look at his mask. There was a wretched black smear across the bottom, forming a crude smile. He flipped through the folders contents; there wasn’t much, but he could see right away that they were important, for they featured the Oltramonti name in connection with someone from the Governor’s office. It didn’t take long for him to see what this guy wanted.

“Where’d you get this?” asked Ryan.

“Don’t matter. You have a job to do,” said the intruder.

“I do? And what’s that?” asked Ryan.

“Don’t fuck around. You’re right in the DA’s office. Make sure Warner goes down.”

“I can’t use this,” said Ryan, tossing the folder back on the table. “There’s no fucking way I’d explain how I got this, so it can’t be used in court.”

“No shit, but now you know where to look. Catch him on the next transfer. It’ll be easy.”

Ryan looked away at the nearby end table. It was light enough for him to see his wedding picture. He and Denise were smiling at him.

“I don’t get it,” he said. “Who are you? Who sent you?”

“What does it matter? You got a serious crime staring you in the face. You have to ask what to do with it?”

“So, so what? Is this a favor from one of Oltramonti’s rivals? You want me to clip one of his big earners?”

“What is the fucking holdup?” said the intruder, his gun starting to twitch.

“I dunno,” said Ryan, his voice rising. “Maybe you breaking into my home and putting a gun on me?”

“Shut up,” said the intruder. “You want to know what this is? It’s like this: Warner is doing very, very bad things. He’s corrupt as all fuck. And I know all about it. He has to go down, plain and simple. As for Oltramonti, you can do whatever you want with him. Means nothing to me.”

Ryan thought for a moment. “So you want me to prosecute the Governor, and then what? You’ll leave me alone?”

“Don’t know. Probably. Just do the job.”

Ryan looked back at the papers. His head began shaking, and he heard the intruder scoff.

“Let me make this clear: You don’t have a choice. If you don’t do this, if you don’t do your duty, you’re dead. This is no game. This is not a fucking game or joke.”

It was now that Ryan started sweating. He leaned back, trying to make sense of the situation. He was too damned tired from the day to process all this, even with the simple sight of the gun on him.

“Can take all night to consider it, but I say again, you have no choice. You will pounce on Warner as early as you can. And this is great for you. Can finally move on up in the office, make a name for yourself.”

“Are you for real?” asked Ryan. “Are you f–“

He was interrupted by the double-beep of the alarm, announcing that the front door had opened. Laura stepped in, hauling her knapsack off her back. “Dad?” she said, closing the door behind her. “What’s for–“

She stopped when she saw the intruder. He jumped to his feet, putting the gun on her. “Freeze!” he said.

Laura gripped her knapsack in front of her like a shield. Her jaw clinched and her eyes went wide. She began to whimper, and the intruder rushed her, the palm of his free hand aiming for her mouth. He awkwardly shoved her into the wall, and she bounced back into him. He flung her to the ground, in the process losing his gun, which slid across the carpeted floor. He pounced on her back.

“Dad!” she managed to say as she flailed about. The intruder’s back was to Ryan, so he pounced. The second he touched the intruder’s burlap head, he took a solid elbow to the upper chest, then another to the ribs that sent him back onto the couch, gasping desperately.

Laura rolled onto her side and swiped at the intruder, still distracted by Ryan. Her fingernails just caught the eyeholes of his mask, pulling it away from his face. He blindly reached for her neck as she struggled underneath. “Dad!” she yelled again.

Ryan felt the pain in his chest. He wanted to go at the intruder again, but there was the nagging suspicion that he was having a heart attack. Instead, he looked over at the gun sitting on the floor, not far away. He could hear himself pleading to go for it, but his body would not obey.

The intruder knocked Laura’s hand off his mask and, still blinded, grabbed her by the hair. He slid off of her and jerked her to her feet, then put her in a headlock. She could only weakly punch him in the knee, to no effect. When he got his bearings together, he punched her solidly in the stomach, silencing her with a loud gasp. He then tossed her into Ryan.

The intruder pulled his mask back into place, though it was now stretched. He pulled it back tight against his face, revealing a pair of large, veiny eyes with tiny black pupils. He snorted at the two of them, hyperventilating on the couch, then rushed over to his gun. He knelt  and pointed it at them, using the living room table for support. For a few seconds, he and Ryan stared each other down, and only the sound of heavy breathing could be heard.

“Goddammit…” said the intruder at last.

“Get out of my house,” said Ryan. “Just get the fuck out of here, please!”

“No,” said the intruder. “No, I’m glad she showed up, because you’re just not getting it, McCormack. Just look at those documents. You’ll see. Warner’s a bad guy, Oltramonti’s a bad guy; all that money going to the mob, what do you think they’ll do with it?”

“Why can’t you just go to the police, then?” asked Ryan.

“You’ve been on your job for 17 years, so don’t fuck with me. The cops won’t do shit until they have to. You can make them. You gotta bring Warner down. Besides, he has something I need.”

“Like what?”

“Warner and Oltramonti aren’t just passing around bucks. They’re doing very bad things, and they ain’t the only ones. I need you to bring in Warner first, then we’ll go from there.”

“‘We?’ Goddammit, you can’t just drag me into whatever fucking–“

“Better get wise, McCormack,” said the intruder, almost yelling. “You think about what you’re doing if you let these fucks get off. Oltramonti’s a killer. Warner’s helping him. Warner’s helping him do a lot of shit to hurt people like you and me. You let him walk, and you make the world a lot more dangerous for your daughter there. Is that the kind of father you are?”

Ryan looked down at Laura, who was clutching him, her fingernails digging into his shoulders. Her breathing steadied, and she was very still, hiding her face behind in his chest.

“Got no choice, McCormack. Warner and his business are a lot bigger than you. So think about what you’re doing when you say ‘no’ to me,” said the intruder.

“Okay, so what if I say yes, then?”

“Then you get a nice fat ticket to stardom for doing something right. Fucking privilege, I say. You’ll be a hero.”

“To who? You?”

“I don’t give a shit about you or your boring problems. So I’m giving you a nice big problem. Listen up: You got until next Friday to nail Warner’s balls to the wall. If he’s not indicted by then, I’ll take that as a ‘no’ and wipe you out. I have a rather large bomb planted somewhere in this house, and I can trigger it at any time from anywhere. It should be enough to take this place down.”

“Are you fucking serious?”

“I’ve thought this through, McCormack, so shut up. If you or any of your family escape, I’ll make it a point to hunt you down. This is not a volunteer project, and sorry if this offends, but you seem to be the only decent guy I can find who can do this for me. Don’t prove me wrong.”

There was some silence while the intruder fixed his drooping mask again. “Another thing: Don’t even think about telling anyone else about this. Don’t call the cops, don’t tell your boss, nobody. I’ve got this place bugged fairly well, so if any cops come in here looking for traces of me or anything, I’ll know. And if you don’t believe me, your wife’s Lexapro is ready at the shop.

“Don’t fuck with me, McCormack. Your only options are to die or do the right thing, so count yourself lucky. And if you think this is bad, then take another look at those documents and tell me that out of me, Oltramonti and Warner, I’m the most dangerous. You’ll see.”

With that, the intruder got up and started retreating towards the back door. “Remember, I’ll be watching,” he said. After a few more steps, he turned and dashed off. Ryan could hear the door close softly.

It was several minutes before Laura, still cold from the sweat on her and still feeling the pain from the punch, pushed herself off her dad. Ryan looked at her, almost forgetting she was there.

“Laura?” he asked.

“Dad,” she said, not able to look him in the eyes. “You fucking coward…” She then walked slowly to her room.

At last, he picked the documents up and headed for the kitchen, his routine once again kicking in. He’d have to look at them again later as his mind was mostly blank now.

Inside the kitchen, he saw the phone and the answering machine attached to it. The red light was blinking, so he pushed the button.

“Hello, Mrs. McCormack? This is Rite-Aid. We have your Lexapro ready when you want to pick it up. Thank you.”

He looked again at the documents, then around room. Nothing looked out of the ordinary at all.

 

Memory Lane

It was just him, a table and an oppressive overhead light. The window was sealed shut, keeping a small cloud of smoke from his cigarette in and the bitter rain outside. His upper body felt warm and itchy while his legs stayed lukewarm. He wanted out of that room as soon as possible.

They were kind enough to provide him an ashtray, and he sprinkled the last bits of ashes into it. He was out of cigarettes, and it was only 20 minutes.

Finally the metal door swung open. It made him start, but he tried to stay as still as possible, keeping his eyes on the fading embers in the ashtray.

Lt. Brady sat down across from him. He waited for the chair to stop creaking before he started.

“You picked the right night to get caught, I guess,” he said.

“Why’s that?” asked J.L., avoiding Brady’s glare.

“You got something we could use,” said Brady.

“Oh?” J.L. picked his head up. Brady’s deadpan expression didn’t faze him. “It’s $200 an ounce.”

“Not quite,” said Brady. “We need your cooperation with something. I know that might be a price too high for you.”

“What do you mean?” said J.L. He was not expecting this at all.

“Just come with me. Take that stupid hat with you too,” said Brady.

*     *     *

He was taken by cruiser somewhere out in the suburbs, probably east of the city. It was too dark to really see where they were going, but it was someplace somewhat decent because there were streetlights. The air still had a sulfur smell to it, though. Not too fancy.

He was led up to a dark house. It was crawling with cops, Grays from the city. They saluted Brady as he came through.

He was taken to a foyer of some sort. He removed his wet hat and set it aside on the red sofa he sat on. A few lights were on, not enough to give a good look, but enough to see a large TV idling nearby, a blackened test pattern urging the user to turn it off to conserve power. There was also a few large bookcases, but they were mostly empty.

Brady sat down on a metal chair in front of him. Behind him emerged the silhouette of a Gray, suited up in a trenchcoat. He sat down next to Brady. He was carrying J.L.’s carrier bag.

“J.L., this is Cpt. Cofield, operating out of Brooklyn. He’s the reason you’re here now,” said Brady.

“I wouldn’t say that,” said Cofield, a large, dark-skinned man with a bald head, gray eyebrows and sunken eyes. “This is Stepback, right?” he said, pulling a vial of a clear, blue liquid out.

“It is,” said J.L.

“This is real, no-taint Stepback?” he said, holding it out.

“I couldn’t get away with charging that much if it wasn’t,” said J.L.

“That’s good,” said Cofield, dropping the vial back in the bag. “I’m sure you know we don’t usually do this…”

“Huh? I thought you hire felons all the time,” said J.L.

“Hey!” said Brady. Cofield elbowed him.

“No, we don’t usually ask ex-cops to help us out,” said Cofield.

“I don’t think you’re asking me, though,” said J.L.

“I guess not, because if you say no, you go down empty-handed. If you say yes, you go home empty-handed.”

“So what do you want?”

“We got a case, maybe you heard of it. Made the news, even.”

“The one about the retard’s missing kids? The one Nelson was going nuts over?”

“Yeah. We gotta find those kids. Nelson is serious about this, after all.”

“And Stepback has what to do with it?”

Cofield gave an annoyed glance at a door to the rear. “Hey!” he yelled. “We’re ready out here!”

“Just a minute, he’s not done eating,” came a muffled voice.

“I don’t give a fuck!” said Cofield. “Brady, go get him.”

Brady was already on his feet before Cofield could finish. He trudged off, leaving a trail of muttering behind.

Cofield turned to face J.L. “We got a guy who we think knows what happened to those kids. We need your help interviewing him.”

“Did you beat him a bit too hard or something?” said J.L.

“An attitude like that, wonder why you left.”

“Because the force is filled with the kind of people who need a drug dealer to help them solve cases. When they do try to do that, anyway.”

“Well I’m glad you found a more stimulating line of work,” said Cofield. The door creaked open, and in came a man strapped to a wheelchair. Behind him was his handler, and then Brady.

“J.L., meet Jason Fernandez,” said Cofield. Fernandez was kept near the back wall as his handler went back through the door. Brady pulled his chair next to Fernandez.

Fernandez didn’t seem to mind being strapped in. He stared blankly ahead, his eyes not quite able to focus on anything. Bits of uneaten lettuce sat on his stained shirt.

“I’m sorry, but Stepback doesn’t work with dead people,” said J.L.

“Actually, according to the people in this house, Mr. Fernandez is the brother of the missing kids’ mom. He turned up like this a few months ago. The kidnapping took place a few weeks after, and the same day, the mom is killed in just another street shooting. We brought him here to be with what’s left of his family,” said Cofield.

 “So what’s his problem?” asked J.L.

“Uh, Wells’ll tell you,” said Brady. “Here he comes now.”

Wells, the handler, rolled trolley loaded with medical equipment into the room. It nearly tipped over the door jamb. He immediately set about connecting it to the wall socket.

“We’re gonna need more sparks,” said Wells.

“Yeah I know. In three minutes we’ll get it,” said Cofield.

“That’s Dr. Wells,” said Brady. “Police medical unit. Pretty much the only guy who could really tell what happened to Fernandez, and he recommended Stepback for this… procedure, I guess.”

“I don’t get it,” said J.L. “This guy’s a plant.”

“It’s a memory problem,” said Wells ovr his shoulder. “I’ll show you.”

He turned on one of the machines, a PET scanner. He took out an EEG, but before he placed it on Fernandez’s head, he waved J.L. over. Cofield gave him a nod.

“This is what happened to Fernandez,” said Wells. He took out a small flashlight and lit up the back of Fernandez’s scalp. In a shaven section, there was a keyhole-shaped opening. The brain was just visible beneath it.

“That hole can only be made by one thing,” said Wells. He set aside the EEG and took out a device composing of many metallic tentacles, each tipped with a small hook. They ran into a battery, shaped like a key.

“They cut up his brain?” asked J.L., sitting back down.

“We actually call it the brain torch,” said Wells. “You see, with this they can erase memories. Well, ‘erase,’ isn’t the word, more like ‘destroy.’ You’d attach this to an EEG or some kind of brain imaging device, and then you’d ask the subject questions to get them to remember things. The torch looks out for any areas of the brain that light up when accessing those memories, and then…”

With the push of a button, blue arcs of electricity ran over the torch’s tendrils. Fernandez flinched just a bit.

“Looks like it took out more than just his memory,” said J.L.

“It’s supposed to be very precise,” said Wells. “We used to use it on prisoners for experiments. It’s very good at what it does. It can delete memories precisely, but there’s a problem. It has no way of telling what the subject is remembering when it goes to work. It just takes out whatever lights up. And it looks like you weren’t very careful, were you, Jason?”

Fernandez looked at Wells. “W-what?” he said. Before Wells could answer, he returned to staring blankly at J.L.’s knee.

“If you have this thing in your head, and your mind wanders, it’ll just as soon take out whatever pops up. We had people forget their own name, where they lived, what year it was, who their family was… We had a guy who couldn’t remember that your hair wasn’t some kind of creature trying to eat your brain. When you burn up connections in the brain, no matter how precise, something is bound to go wrong.”

J.L. looked Fernandez in the eye, getting no reaction. “So someone went to town on his memory with one of those things. And you say you had those in the force?”

Wells looked at Cofield. Brady was getting red again. “He would say that,” said Cofield.

There was the humming sound of more electricity than usual going through the walls. One lightbulb, not having to deal with that much stress for years, immediately burst. The room was now a dull orange, and the TV glowed its test pattern more clearly. Fernandez groaned and feebly covered his eyed with his hands.

“About time,” said Cofield. “Nelly doesn’t want us to wait, so let’s get going right now.”

“Not that I don’t want to be of service,” said J.L., “but Stepback doesn’t restore memories or shit.”

“No, nothing can reverse what the torch does,” said Wells. “I know what Stepback does.”

“Oh? Then what do you need me for?” said J.L.

“He knows what it does,” said Brady. “He doesn’t know how to use it, though, for what we want it to do.”

“Basically, I’m thinking that if we can make Fernandez think he’s back in time to when this happened, we can maybe figure out who did this to him, maybe figure out what happened with those kids,” said Wells.

J.L. leaned back and closed his eyes. He couldn’t stave off going without a smoke much longer. “Not a bad idea, I guess,” he said. “But again, if his memory is shot, it’s not gonna work.”

“Depends on how thorough they were with Fernandez, and judging by how much damage he’s taken, they were very thorough,” said Wells. “But it’s always possible that some small details were overlooked. We’ll see.”

“Nelly wants us to know what happened, J.L.,” said Brady. “When someone floated this idea, he went chub out for it. So go with the program.”

“Chub out is right,” said J.L. “More crackdowns than I’ve seen since the crash.”

“Yeah, we got tons and tons of all kinds of shit, enough to feed the force for years,” said Brady. “But tonight we finally got some Stepback.”

“Oh good,” said J.L. “You know, the shit’s in that bag, that alone’s about 10% of the total haul in the whole region, including all five fugee zones. So you really, really owe me.”

“Don’t worry,” said Cofield. “You wanna smoke?”

Cofield pulled a pair of cigs out of his trenchcoat pocket. They weren’t even bent. J.L. took them and lit one up. “It’s a start,” he said after he sucked in his first puff.

“Let’s go, Wells,” said Brady. Fernandez had the EEG on, and the machine had just finished scanning his brain. J.L. could just make out a few dark-blue regions all over Fernandez’s brain. Dead zones.

“Wait, hold on,” said J.L. Fernandez was still lamely covering his eyes, and his feet were shuffling back and forth. “Turn off some of these lights. They’re pushing on Fernandez over there. You want him to stepback right, you gotta keep him relaxed. If he has a bad trip, it’ll take a long time for him to come down, and you don’t have much liquid to spare.”

Most of the lights were killed, whcih is how many it took to get Fernandez to put his hands down and sit still. J.L. took the time to stand up and stretch. Brady’s eyes stayed on him the whole time.

“Okay, anything else?” said Wells, pouring some of the Stepback into a paper cup.

J.L. looked around. “Yeah. How many months ago did he turn up like this?” he said.

“Five or six,” said Cofield.

“You gotta make him think it’s five months ago, as close to that as possible. If you can, make this room a bit colder. You know what’d really help? If you had any music playing that was new back then.”

Cooling the room was the easy part, making it feel like the lukewarm mid-winters they’d grown used to these past few years. It took them an hour to scrounge enough “new,” terrible music from the cops milling about the house. Cofield was never more embarrassed to issue that APB.

There was now a soft techno ballad being played, quietly, by the old stereo system that miraculously worked. The song, its artist plunged back into obscurity since it debuted, didn’t seem to move Fernandez at all.

“Now what?” asked Wells.

“What was he doing before he was torched?” asked J.L.

Cofield took out a piece of grimy paper and unfolded it. “A year ago, he was working with NASDAQ when it closed for good. He parlayed his connections into a job in SoHo, helping to set up the new street markets there. Not a bad post. He disappeared for four days before they found him wandering the streets asking people for dollar bills,” he read.

The old stock market crew. When the market was finished, they tried to take over the southern parts of Manhattan. Most of them were run out to the outer boroughs, but a few managed to build up some new scams, trying to keep the gravy train going even when it was off the tracks. He dealt with them before, but they were shitty tippers and the cops usually weren’t interested in taking them on.

“So some fucking wizkid zapped Fernandez’s brain, probably covering up the eventual kidnapping,” said J.L. “Let me guess: He doesn’t know who did it.”

“Don’t know where, when, how, who or why. Well, I guess we know why,” said Brady.

“So they probably take him to a dark, cold place, like this. Strap him into a chair, like that. Put something on his head. Now all we need to do is rebuild that memory,” said J.L.

“I guess that’s where Stepback comes in,” said Cofield.

“Yeah, but I hadn’t considered this,” said J.L. “Never heard of someone trying to step back to something they couldn’t remember. I have no clue if this will even work.”

“Well whatever, can we give him the stuff now?” asked Brady.

J.L. took one last look around. The room was nearly all dark, with Fernandez only visible in the glow of the EEG reader. He was looking at the cup of Stepback, his lips stiff and parched.

“Go ahead,” said J.L. Wells tipped the cup into Fernandez’s mouth, and he swallowed it eagerly, apparently not minding the bitter taste.

“How long until he, uh, steps back?” asked Cofield.

“Depends. Shouldn’t take more than 10 minutes,” said J.L. “Just worry about keeping him in the timeframe you want.”

“Okay, six months ago. January 11 is when we think it happened,” said Cofield. “So, so what? We just ask him questions?”

“We gotta put him back in that chair when they fried his brain,” said J.L. “Ask him questions that would put him there.”

Brady, Cofield and Wells exchanged glances. “Like what?” asked Brady.

“Well you’re a fucking cop,” said J.L. “What do you do when you pull up some punk and harrass him?”

Cofield turned and looked at Fernandez. His face, barely visible, was expressionless, though his eyes began darting around more than usual.

“How will we know he’s stepped back?” asked Wells.

“When his eyes dialate, that means he’s no longer seeing us,” said J.L. “He’ll also begin to act like he’s back in time. By the way, I hope that brain torch thing doesn’t hurt too much because he might break his back or something if he fucking spazzes.”

“He’ll be fine,” said Wells.

“Stop wasting time,” said Cofield. “Let’s… let’s try to suss this out of him, or something.”

Brady pulled his chair closer to Fernandez. “Hey, Jason, can you he–“

“Don’t call him that,” said J.L. “I don’t think his captors would’ve called him by his first name.”

“What? I do that all the time,” said Brady.

“Well, I wouldn’t do it if I were you,” said J.L.

Brady shook his head. “Fernandez, ummm, so, what’re you, uh, what’re you up to today?” said Cofield.

Fernandez looked in Cofield’s direction. “W-what?” he asked. “N-nothing…”

“You, uh, you get into any trouble lately? Maybe with your friends?” asked Cofield.

Fernandez seemed to struggle to answer. His head began shaking. Cofield looked back at J.L., and he relished that look for a second.

“Fernandez, you okay? You’re not in trouble, are you?” said Brady.

“Hey Fernandez, can you believe it man? A year to the day, almost,” said J.L. At least he thought January 11 was the day the NASDAQ closed. It was close enough at least.

“You mean… yeah… my job…” mumbled Fernandez.

“But we got through it, right? Took us only a few months to take over the joint.”

“We did… Not still making money and… but…”

“Ain’t the same. Ain’t the same at all. Now we’re just running… shit, uhhh, some crack, some blue–“

“Nyeh?” said Fernandez, shifting in his seat. Wells quickly flashed a light in his eyes. They were still focused on something, probably Brady. “No no, what? No… Just some metal, some, some meat we take out of the trucks. Good prices.”

“Yeah that’s right,” said J.L. “Yeah, we got a good thing going here.”

“I hope so,” said Cofield. “I mean, everything’s okay?”

“When… when is it ever?” mumbled Fernandez.

“Well, nothing’s going on with your sister, though, right?” asked Brady.

J.L. immediately waved Brady off, prompting an angry shrug in response.

“…I have a sister?” said Fernandez, twitching in his seat.

“No no, not her,” said J.L. “Umm, anything going on with… with the girl you’re living with?”

This time Fernandez couldn’t even muster a response.

“Y’know, umm,” J.L. started. He walked over to Cofield. “What was her job?”

Cofield looked through another document from his coat. “Ummm, here, says here she was a social worker at… one of the hospitals. Not a whole lot of useful–“

“Yeah you know, that girl who works… on the East Side?” said J.L.

Fernandez furrowed his brow. “Lots of people work there…”

“Yeah but she has… ummm…” J.L. looked at Cofield again. “What does she look like?”

Cofield pointed at the wall. J.L. saw (thanks to Brady’s flashlight) a picture of the Fernandez household: an old, mustachioed man standing next to a fat woman with a receding hairline. Fernandez, his crew cut really the only thing he shared with the image in the picture, stood to the side. In front of them was a short woman with long brown hair and a pleasant face.

“She’s got brown, shoulder-length hair… You know the one… A birth mark just above her nose?” said Cofield.

“…Ohhhhhhhhh…” said Fernandez. His face relaxed.

Wells kept his eyes on the EEG reader throughout the ordeal. He turned around to face J.L.

“Okay, I think I’ve been tracking what parts of his brain he’s trying to access. I think I’ve isolated the parts where the memories related to his sister. He’s been trying to access them,” he said.

“That’s great,” said J.L., trying to keep his voice down. “How does that help, though?”

“I’m thinking that there may still be in-tact connections in there. If he can access them, he might remember what we need.”

J.L. nodded. He turned back to Fernandez.

“Yeah, you know her. What’s she up to today?” he asked.

“Ah… That reminds me, I gotta pick her up later today,” said Fernandez, though he wasn’t looking at anyone now.

“Pick her up?” said J.L.

“Haha, no, not anymore. Um, but yeah, gotta… gotta walk her… somewhere…”

“Walk her home?” asked Brady. J.L. wanted to kick him in the face.

“Uhhhhh, no… I wouldn’t… wou– wouldn’t… uhhhh…”

“No no, just, you’re gotta take her someplace,” said J.L. “But, this isn’t something you normally have to do, right? I mean, the market’s still open at night…”

“She asked me to. She said… something about… I guess we have to talk about something.”

“Something about the market? Maybe the guys who work there?” said Cofield. Fernandez could only stare blankly ahead.

“Those guys probably had his memory deleted,” said J.L. “Good lucky trying to identify them from anything he said.”

“If we can’t do that, we’re fucked,” said Cofield.

J.L. turned back to Fernandez. He thought for a few seconds as he watched him, helplessly sitting there, his brain shifting between times.

“So she needs to see you, but everything’s alright at work right?” he said.

“Sure, why not?” said Fernandez.

“And everything else is okay with the family? Mom and dad and all that?”

“… What mother?”

“Holy shit,” muttered Cofield.

“Nothing about the market? I mean, everything’s okay…?”

“What? What’s wrong? I don’t know,” said Fernandez.

“Wells?” said J.L. He felt like he was on a balance beam, struggling to stay on it. Wells simply shook his head and shrugged, not taking his eyes off the EEG reader.

J.L. sighed and thought a bit more. “Well, okay Fernandez, I got news for you: Cancel your appointment with her,” he said.

“Huh? Why?” said Fernandez.

“Because we need to talk. There’s something you don’t want to do, and if you ain’t gonna do it, we’re gonna have to rub you out.”

“What? Wait, guys…”

“Look, Fernandez, we’ve talked about this before… maybe. But you have to understand that we’re under serious fuckin’ pressure here. And you’re not playing ball.”

“You know I’d do anything for you guys, but…”

“We needed you to do this one thing, and you’re killing us, Fernandez. So we need to take you out… out back…”

Fernandez shook his head feverishly. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Yeah you do,” said J.L. “You do. I’m asking you one more time to just be quiet about it, or we will take care of you.”

“It’s insane… It’s just… It’s…” Fernandez suddenly became rigid, and he stared dead ahead. Wells turned around in his seat, giving thumbs up. He flashed a light in Fernandez’s eyes. They were as wide as wide could be.

Cofield stiffened up. “Now what?” he whispered.

“He thinks he’s back to that day, I suppose. He no longer sees us, though it’s anyone’s guess what he sees now,” said J.L.

“Just keep going,” said Wells.

“Right, well why are you being so stubborn, Fernandez?” said J.L.

“…About what?” asked Fernandez, his voice calm an clear.

“About her, you know! Shoulder-length brown hair, you gotta pick her up today? Well forget it!”

Fernandez could see her again, some time ago, holding a kid in her arms. Her face was a blurry mess, but she was asking him for help…

“No, it’s insane. What you want is insane, and you’re not gonna get away with it!”

“Oh that’s right,” said J.L. “You wouldn’t cooperate even if we gave you all the money in the world, if it was still worth a shit. So that makes this easier. We’re just gonna torch your memory, so when the cops find you, you won’t be worth a shit either.”

“That’s… what? You can do that?” Fernandez’s vision went blurry again.

“Forget that. She was up to something, though. We’re gonna stop it. Her and her fuckin’ kids.”

Fernandez’s vision was still blurry. “What kids?”

“Uhhh, you know…” J.L. was stuck again. “How old’s the youngest kid?” he asked Cofield.

“Five or something.”

“Five? How old is Fernandez?”

“Thirty-three. She’s around 36.”

J.L. thought back to the family portrait. That was taken over a decade ago. He looked around the room, but from what he could see, none of the pictures there had any of the kids in them. He spat the cigarette butt out of his mouth.

“Well yeah,” he said, returning to Fernandez. “You remember, five years ago? You had that party out in…”

“Flushing,” said Cofield.

“Yeah, in the back yard with the rest of ’em?” said J.L.

Fernandez could see her, holding the kid. Their faces were just a blank.

“Oh, oh yeah…” he said. “But what do you want with her?”

“You know what we want,” said J.L. “You know exactly what we’re after. And we’re getting paid handsomely. Tough luck, Fernandez!”

She was walking with him a week ago. She was worried. He could tell by her expression, a blank face. What was she saying?

“That kid can’t stay with her,” said J.L., keeping his voice just below a shout.

“From the party? No, he belongs with her. Don’t you go near them!” said Fernandez.

“Oh shut the fuck up, we have to do this. So what’s wrong with that kid?”

She was telling him something. What did she sound like? Another voice came in his head talking about a clinic. Two people were standing in front of him in a pitch-black room.

“Nothing’s wrong with him. Why would there be anything–“

“Oh shut up, Fernandez! What was she doing? Was she poking around someplace she wasn’t supposed to be looking at?”

“No!”

“It was the kid then. What’s wrong with that kid?”

She was saying something. He saw a hospital. They used to call it Bellevue. Now it was hobo central…

“What about his dad?” continued J.L. “What’d he do?”

Actually J.L. was wondering that himself. While Fernandez fidgeted, trying to come up with something, he turned to Cofield. “Why’d she marry a retard, anyway?”

“I thought he wasn’t born that way?” said Brady.

“No, he wasn’t,” said Cofield. “He picked up some kind of disease… Here, something about lead poisoning from paint in their apartment.”

“Huh,” said J.L. Wells was giving a very frantic thumbs up from his seat. “But that boy’s gonna be sick, isn’t he?”

“What?” said Fernandez.

J.L. thought a second. “That boy doesn’t belong with her. He needs a real home. He needs to be back in the back yard, where it’s safe!”

“He belongs with her. You can’t take him away!” said Fernandez.

“Or what? What’ll you do about it?”

“Mmmh, you can’t do that! It’s insane and it’s wrong!”

The people were shifting in front of him. He could see them clear as day, their faces blackened into nothingness. He couldn’t move. They trapped him like she said they would.

“He’s gonna be sick, Fernandez. Is he gonna turn out like his father?” said J.L., getting close enough to get in his face. Behind him, Cofield was quietly summing a trooper to get his binder that contained even more of the case material.

Fernandez looked him right in the eye, both of them wide enough to swallow up the whole room. “No… You stay away from her. I gotta walk her back… She needs to see it for herself.”

“No, it’s too late Fernandez. We got you now. She’s not going anywhere. That boy’s coming with us. And we’re gonna clean you out. We have ways of removing those pesky memories.”

She asked him if he wanted to move out west to one of the fugee zones. Why leave Manhattan? It was safe here. But he could see the worry in her eyes, two blank, white marbles in her blurred face.

“You stay away from him,” said Fernandez, starting to twitch with rage. “And you stay away from me! We’re not gonna leave! You can’t do this to me!”

“Who’s gonna stop us?” asked J.L., going eye-to-eye with Fernandez. Fernandez gritted his teeth, spittle jumping out between them. “That’s right… They’re on our side. You got nobody. She can’t help you, and you can’t help her. You’re just stuck here, and when you wake up,” he said with a snap of his fingers, “all of this will be gone.”

Someone walked behind him. Then his head dipped forward and his eyes bulged. There was incredible pain in his head, and it felt like his skull would break apart. What were they doing?

“Stop! Stop! Stop it!” Fernandez yelled. His legs started dancing as much as they could while the rest of his body contorted, except for his head, which stayed pretty much in place. “Oh God stop it! Stop it!” he continued. The chair swayed, seemingly ready to fly apart.

J.L. backed away, overtaken with the sight of Fernandez reliving something painful and incomplete. Fernandez had dove head-first into one of the black holes in his brain. The appearance of Wells before him abruptly snapped J.L. back to reality.

“Good news!” he said. “I think I’ve mapped out the exact part of his brain that correspond with the specific deleted memories.”

“That’s great,” said Cofield, his attention fixated on the binder he was thumbing through.

“Holy shit,” said Brady. He was standing a few feet away from Fernandez, who was struggling with all his might, which wasn’t much, these days. “Is he going through what I think he’s going through?”

“I guess this is how they burn brains down in SoHo,” said J.L.

“Look at this,” said Cofield, pointing to a page in the binder. “The father’s name is Ryan Celezny, lives near old Union Square in apartments built during the first migration to the city. Moved there four years ago. Turned into a retard two years ago. Guess who built those apartments?”

“You’re kidding,” said Brady.

“Ricardo Fernandez,” said Cofield. “Grandpa.”

J.L. and Brady looked at each other. “Guy marries her daughter, has kids with her, moves into his apartment, gets sick. She notices the similarities between him and the clinic she works at, realizes it could happen to her kids, tries to bail out…” said Brady.

“Yeah but everyone knows those apartments are shit,” said J.L.

“Not those apartments. In that area, people expect to live in places that aren’t fucking slow-burning death traps,” said Cofield. “If she steps forward with that, it could turn the city against Ricardo.”

“So he takes her and the kids, the only evidence anyone would really buy that his shit was dangerous; turns Jason into a blathering idiot; then when it all blows over, maybe arranges for the kids to be found so he can raise ’em out here…” said Brady.

“I expect nothing less from these people,” said Cofield.

“Can you make it stick?” said J.L.

“Maybe. We’ll worry about that,” said Cofield.

Cofield got up and tossed J.L. his bag. He motioned for him to follow. They walked to the front of the house as Fernandez, finally without strength, slumped in his chair.

“The APB on you is lifted. Get the fuck outta here. Don’t come back,” Cofield said as J.L. looked out into the darkened street.

J.L. wondered how long Fernandez would be on his trip, reliving a story he thought was mercifully obliterated from his mind. He could still hear him begging those guys not to destroy half his soul just to cover up a cheap power grab. He also wondered if he’d ever meet Cofield again. It was hard to see how they wouldn’t. In a city this large, a million stories are told every day, and sometimes they even end.

*     *     *

Ricardo Fernandez was caught trying to flee the state after he caught wind of police interest in his whereabouts. Patrick, Ryan Jr. and Celeste Celezny were found alive and relatively unharmed in a construction sight in Chelsea.

The Action News

Tonight was one of those nights. Down the street from the Daily Chattanooga Choo Choo, the city’s biggest hostage crisis was unfolding. And there was Robbie, stuck at his desk between the sports and general news sections.

The clock on his desk was slowly lurching toward 11. There was no way he’d make it home in time for the Hogan main event. “It’s probably gay anyway,” he said as he squinted again at the story he mostly wrote up.

The editor-in-chief left him in charge to go cover any updates with the police. Robbie broke the story himself, though. He heard it over the police band. A robbery, multiple hostages, one of them being the Vice President. Five hours later, he was 3/4 through the story, outlining its characters and the meticulous descriptions of the North Face ski masks they wore.

“Chris!” he yelled over the cubicle wall. “What color shirt was the Vice President wearing again?”

Chris Derps already tuned him out an hour ago.

Robbie shook his head and winged it. “Light azure,” he wrote. He leaned back and smiled, and the chair once again threatened to disintegrate under him.

His masterpiece, all 1,700 words of it, was ready as far as he was concerned. But the editor insisted he wait for another update. Apparently something big was about to go down.

The clock finally passed 11. He got up to stretch and grab a Mountain Dew from the cafeteria. It was risky; Cliff could call at any second.

Angelica was in the cafeteria, pulling a late night drawing up the paper’s art. She was staring at the bulletin board intently.

“So, Angelica,” Robbie said, pulling a can out of the fridge. “D’you know if Legacy won?”

His booming voice was enough to startle her. She spun around, barely holding onto the cup of coffee she held.

“Who?” she asked. Her wide, bulging eyes met him.

“Legacy! Y’know, Orton and the gang?” He tilted his eyebrows up and down. She knew what he was talking about.

She didn’t know what he was talking about. She just turned and fled back to her work.

He walked back to the cubicles. Derps was still working hard at something. Robbie never really knew what he did but it looked difficult. “Did Cliff call yet?” Robbie asked.

“No,” said Derps, desperately keeping as still as possible.

“Y’know, it’s amazing,” said Robbie between sips. “The VP walks into a bank, and a robbery breaks out. In our town. This is the biggest story of the year, and we’re right in the middle of it?”

“No we’re not,” said Sue, the copy editor. “Cliff is. You just have to write the backstory.”

“Hey, I first brought it to his attention,” said Robbie. It was his finest moment. He felt like a real reporter, like Clark Kent, telling Cliff that the Vice President was a hostage. And if Cliff was quick enough, the Choo Choo would be the first to blog about it.

“It’ll be my blog,” he said. “The ODarby Report. Do you think maybe it should be RobBlog, though?”

Just then, he heard the phone ringing in his cubicle. He flung himelf towards it, nearly taking out the garbage can next to his seat. He picked up the phone with his free hand.

“Daily Chattanooga Choo Choo, Robbie ODarby speaking, how can I–”

“Robbie, shut up,” said Cliff’s voice. He was breathing hard and the sound of sirens was clearly audible in the background.

“Robbie, are you listening?” asked Cliff.

“Right here, sir,” said Robbie.

“Get this out now: the Vice President is dead. The cops tried to storm the bank but he was killed in the crossfire. All the robbers are dead, none of the other hostages are harmed. Okay?”

“Wait,” said Robbie. He couldn’t type anything in this condition. He chugged back the remaining 8 oz. in a few seconds, then tossed the can. “Okay, so wait, did the cops enter in the side entrance? The one with the yellow bushes?”

“Robbie, did you hear me? The Vice President is dead!” said Cliff. “Hurry up and get this out! I’m the only one who knows so far and we need to be on top of this!”

“Okay okay, I got it,” said Robbie through a scowl. He hung up.

“‘The sound of gunfire was all encompassing,’ he began the next paragraph. ‘Soon, after approximately 152 shots (his guess), there were a number of casualties, all of them fatal. The shootout had claimed lives this day. One of them was a very special life.'”

“Robbie, what happened?” asked Sue.

“The cops attacked or something. The VP’s dead,” he said. “What’s a better word? Perforated or blown away?”

“What?” said Sue. Her face soon appeared over the cubicle wall, along with Derp’s.

“Perforated or blown away,” said Robbie.

“No, the VP! You said he died?” said Sue. Derps started flipping through the channels on the overhead TV. NBC, CBS, CNN and Fox were still reporting it as a mere hostage situation.

“Yeah, I guess,” said Robbie. But he had no time to waste. This story needed to go out, fast.

His fingers raced like never before. The scene was recreated in pristine detail. Maybe it wasn’t authentic, but it would be real to the readers. The smell of gunpowder. The screams. The crackling plaster and chipped bank counters. He pressed on past midnight. Past 1:00. Past Sue and Derps leaving. Past 2:00. Past printing. 3,000 words. 4,000 words. 5,500 words.

“‘And so a nation mourned once more a great man who was shot.'”

He leaned back. At last, it was ready. He clicked the SUBMIT button. Seconds later, it was up on the newspaper’s blog. The scoop of the decade, and his face was right next to it.

He only went back to edit in Cliff’s name as a “contributing reporter,” but he was never more satisfied with a story he wrote. He got up, slung his jacket over his shoulders, donned his stetson and walked out of the office onto the streets, still busy with federal agents and police taking stock of the situation.

*   *   *

“Bank Held Hostage by Criminals” was the 1,174th most-read blog concerning the tragedy that occurred that night. The Daily Choo Choo’s blog took a total of 14 hits, the most ever for a Robbie ODarby News story.