Fantasy Noir Part IV

That night, upon returning to my home and emptying the contents of a can of soup into my stomach, I fell into a deep sleep. I’m assuming it was deep, because I can’t remember a damn thing about it. What I do know is that upon waking up and rubbing sleep out of my eyes, I found myself facing a fairy. And I would be damned if it turned out to be the same fairy who squeaked a bunch of questions at me as I was leaving my home office yesterday.

And wouldn’t ya know it, Hell must have an opening with my name on it, because it was the same fairy. “Rise and shine sleepyhead!” It spoke to me, though I was a bit too tired to follow, “You got a big day ahead of you, dick!”

I thought it was insulting me, until I remembered that “dick” is how some people refer to my profession. Well, that, and also the amount I usually get paid. On the few occasions when someone asks me that question, that’s usually how I reply.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I muttered, “Don’t you have a boy in green tights to save or something?”

“Nah, I’m not that kinda fairy. Besides, between you and me, I hear they get stockholm syndrome, being trapped in those lanterns for so long.”

“Coffee first, then we talk.” I mumbled, trying to swat the fairy away. My hand moved so slow that even a sloth would have no trouble dodging it, she simply hovered above it, then came back down towards my face.

“You want coffee, I can make it appear right now!” She sang some strange kind of song and then a steaming, hot glass pot of coffee appeared right over my face. I could even make out the lines where the rubber grip ended and the spot on the bottom where it hadn’t been washed properly. “Not like I wanna be here any more than you want me here in the morning, but the boss said I gotta ask you a question.”

That pot of coffee hung over my face like the sword of Damocles, ready to smack my face with a wave of scalding, brownish liquid if the fairy didn’t feel like I had answered her question correctly. “Okay,” I mumbled, my voice no longer weary with sleep but more scared of what this magical creature was capable of. “Okay, what’s your question?”

“Will you come to the aid of your ol’ pal Marcus?”

Marcus. I did owe him a favor after he saved me from a certain psycho stalker who had nearly brought the curtain call down on my life’s story. This psycho had been stalking lighter elven women for several days and cut off their ears, and when I figured out who it was, he would have added me to the body count if not for Marcus. I guess this was how the Fates were going to pay me back for hitting that bum, by throwing a second job my way when I had barely started on my first.

“Okay, sure, I’ll come to his aid.”

“Great! See you at church! Don’t be late!” The fairy made the hot pot of coffee disappear and flew out of the room before I could say anything back. My day had barely started and already I just wanted to go back to bed.

Unfortunately, I had to attend to my first job. So I simply got myself washed and dressed very quickly, and I remembered to strap on my peacemaker before I left this time around. Bad enough I would be dealing with normal cops twice in two days, but now they were a bit on edge with the drow all over the city protesting and even rioting if the news was correct. It made me wonder how far the Blue Shield would extend for this guy.

As my feet hit the street, I felt it was time to get religion. Specifically, the accused cop’s religion. The weekend was almost over, and if the cop was truly repentant about what he’d done–or at least keeping up an appearance of doing so–he’d be seeking some spiritual guidance. As long as he believed in magic, there was one temple in the town that I believed he would appear at. Looks like I was going to visit Marcus a little earlier than expected.

Fantasy Noir Part III

The one good thing I could say about tonight was that it wasn’t raining. No, instead there was a dark, cloudy sky overhead, the kind that foreshadowed the evil that could presumably hit the Earth at any time, but never actually brought itself to that moment. Nothing but the sound of our footsteps, the mumbling of the occasional drunk in the alleyway, the noodle cart owner closing up for the night, or the gaslamp flickering as another moth flew headlong into the light without thinking of the consequences.

Alyssa, the dame’s name was Alyssa. We walked down the street together, our footsteps eerily synchronized as we spoke to each other about slightly different things. Alyssa told me about the job she wanted done, and I think my eyes nearly jumped out of their sockets when I heard the specifics. She wanted me to tail the cop currently “suspended, pending further investigation” after the “alleged” shooting of a young Drow boy just outside the Metro.

“What do you want me to dig up on this guy?” I asked, “I mean, ain’t the police already investigating him?”

“It’s a mere trifle,” she told me, “an empty gesture to make the police look like they are doing something. But you and I both know that the city wants to sweep this under the rug, never to be seen or heard again. I want to know where he is going, who he associates with, if there was any motive at all behind the shooting of our dear, dear boy.”

I nodded, but on the inside I was trying to construct a proper motive. Who was this kid? What was his relationship to this dame? What did she want with me that she couldn’t get with one of her own people? I decided to ask her, “Alyssa, might I ask your relation to the kid who got capped by the Metro cops? Do you know what he was doing at the time? None of the news reports said anything about his name.”

Alyssa halted her stride slightly, breaking that synchronization of our footsteps as she kicked a pebble on the sidewalk. I wondered if she imagined it to be the face of that cop. Then she stopped walking altogether, and told me in a low voice, “His name was Ruzmal. Ruzmal Guhan.”

“Are you his mother?”

“That’s not your concern.” She snapped at me awfully quickly, which meant I had either stepped on her toes or struck a nerve. Considering that we were currently out of the light, both scenarios were possible, metaphorically and literally. “And I don’t know why he was shot. No one but that…ud’raan seems to know.”

I didn’t need a basic-Elvish dictionary to know she was talking about the cop.

“I need you to find out all you can about him, and if possible, why he shot Ruzmal. Trust me, you will be rewarded for your time and effort on this matter.”

She began to walk away, but I continued to walk with her. “Trust me, if the money’s good, I will give it all I’ve got.”

“Good to hear,” She said.

“But before I go, I need to know that you’ve got money to spare. I’ve been suckered one too many times to simply take words as collateral.”

“Collateral?”

“I need an advance.”

The drow woman stopped again, standing right next to a beggar on the street. He was currently wrapped in a dirty blanket and mumbling in his sleep, probably dreaming of a better life than the one the fates had apparently picked for him. Considering my current position, I wasn’t much better off.

It was a point Alyssa probably thought of as she looked at the beggar for a few seconds before turning back to me. “Collateral, you say? You mean bailing you out of that jail cell wasn’t enough?” I said nothing, but kept my focus on her eyes. A few moments later, she reached into her pocket and dropped a few bills on the ground. “See if you can snatch the money off the ground before this beggar does.”

I couldn’t do much more than raise a crooked eyebrow, though I don’t know if it was entirely visible at the time. “You’re serious?”

“If it were not for your…talents, there would be little difference between you two.” Alyssa kicked the beggar in the stomach to wake him up. “You will be contacted in two days and report back. I expect there will be some progress, or else you will have to find another line of work.”

“Is that a threat, lady?” She didn’t answer me as she turned the corner and disappeared. I reached for the bills on the ground, but the beggar had already woken up and grabbed them for himself. I pointed a finger at him like it was a threat from the Lord Almighty and demanded that he give me the money.

“I got it fair, you ain’t heard her say ’bout the rules?” He spoke in a garbled syntax, the language of someone whose brain had been fried either due to drugs, booze, or a particularly nasty incident involving magic. “You not fast ‘nough to grab, so I got more. Now buzz off, I’m gonna get some food tomorrow.”

I wanted to get food today, and I had little money with which to buy it.

“So? You got clothes, you probably got a bed. Ain’t lost all hope like see here. Go yourself get some food to you belly, no? Help a brother out.”

On one hand, I was tempted to grab the cash back, but I’m not sure that hurting beggars would look good when it became my time to stand before the fates. Also, even though I could barely understand his words, I did understand that he needed money for food as much as I did, if not more so.

In the end, after carefully weighing the pros and cons of the situation for about thirty seconds, I ripped the blanket off of the homeless man. I hoped that the fates weren’t watching to see what I did next as I grabbed the homeless man’s shirt collar while he complained about his blanket.

“I have been arrested for something I didn’t do,” I growled as I punched him in the face with my free hand. “I have had to take shit from a goddamn dark elf, assigned to a case I know very little about, and that money she dropped? That’s my fucking advance!” I punched him again and then dropped him on the ground. “If you want to earn that money so much, how about you stop sleeping on the sidewalk and do something useful with your goddamn free time?” I grabbed the bum’s arm, the one holding my money, and twisted until he cried out in pain and dropped the cash. “You want money? Get yourself a fucking job. Otherwise, be prepared to deal with the consequences of taking other people’s livelihood from them.”

It was not pretty what I did, and chances are the fates were gonna put that as a strike against me when Judgment Day came around. But for the moment, at least I had something to pay the landlord with. Now it was time to head home and get some sleep. I was going to have to do quite a bit of work tomorrow and earn my keep, but I had no clue how hard that work would soon become.

Fantasy Noir Part II

“So, you’re the big agitator from the parade, huh? Guess those hippies are getting older these days.”

I bristled at the notion that I was some long-haired stoner who claimed to be “spiritual” yet didn’t do a damn thing to prove it. Then again, I didn’t want to give this cop any reason to slap another charge on my record before the squad car reached the station, so I kept silent and simply stared at the calligraphy that someone had etched into the thin glass separating the backseat from the front. I’d guess it was a sort of “shatterproof” rune and couldn’t help but scoff.

Magical calligraphy, you see, is a very precise art. Yeah, you can etch runes onto anything: bullets, glass, wood…heck, if you have a marker and a good piece of paper that will suffice as well. But there are so many loopholes, so many potential problems that when you are forming a spell using pure runes, you had better know damn well what you intend to do. The fates really like to play around with rookie magi who don’t know that.

Of course, runes don’t work magic all by themselves. Part of the equation is that you have to be born with the ability to be able to use it, but apparently this city’s finest didn’t quite know that. Even if they did, the thought that a magic-user would want to shave some time off their lifespan just to prepare for the possibility that some perp might fire a gun through the glass was pretty stupid if you weren’t absolutely sure. Probably a less-than-honest fairy, or maybe a kitsi who was looking to make a quick buck had tricked them into buying it.

“So what’s up with you, huh? What made you ally with those pointy-ears back there? Solidarity with your magic brothers?”

This cop was getting annoying, so I broke my impromptu vow of silence to give him the truth, “I was on the way to meet a client in a nearby café, and I happened to be stepping outside as the protest march came down my street.”

“So you were just an innocent bystander, huh? You don’t care about those Drow?”

“It’s not that I don’t care about them…”

“So you do care? Do you care as much as the policemen who came under attack from a magically-caused explosion?”

“Maybe if you weren’t such a fucking tool…” I stopped myself short. One of the things that you learn when dealing with authority figures is the informal “Rule of the Hole.” The Rule is this: When you’re in a hole and you don’t want things to get worse, you stop digging. I couldn’t tell if the explosion was magically-caused at the time. After all, there was a lot of energy in the air, and I didn’t quite hear the whistling of a bottle rocket. Then again, any sound would have been drowned out by the chanting and shouting from the march. And there are any number of people who could have had a reason to cast that spell.

Whether or not this policeman knew was a subject for later debate. But after he heard me briefly lose my temper, he just shook his head and then slammed on the brakes. “We’re here, you damn hippie. Get your darkling-loving ass out of the goddamn car or there will be bigger consequences.”

I found that sentence rather amusing, considering this policeman happened to be a dark-skinned human, but pointing this out would probably get me in even more trouble. Instead, I got out of the car with the slightly-ticked cop’s help, trying not to give him any more excuses but with that coffee still running through my system and little else filling my stomach I was sorely tempted to give him a piece of my mind.

As you might guess, the fates decided that they hadn’t played enough cruel jokes on me, so as I’m about to be processed at the station and the policeman is escorting me through the front door, who should I see but the dame who so graciously gave me a call a few hours ago. You might ask how I would know at first sight this was the dame in question. I’d answer that she was a pretty attractive lady: tall, mocha-skinned brunette with slightly-pointed ears that showed some elvish blood, quite a unique sight in a town filled with mostly humans, some light elves and a smattering of other races here and there.

But the thing that tipped me off was when she spotted me as I was being processed, and then walked straight up to me with a disappointed look in her face. After looking me up and down, she spoke with the same lovely voice I remember from the phone conversation, “I waited at that café for an hour. You never showed up Mr. McFadden.”

“Sorry lady, I was kind of sidetracked.” As the policeman started unlocking the cuffs, I continued, “I don’t suppose you could pick me up when I get out of here.”

“And why should I ‘pick up’ a criminal?”

“Because I didn’t commit a crime.”

“Enough talking, hippie.” The policeman started shoving me towards the holding cell, “The judge will decide your fate.”

I don’t remember exactly what the dame said back to me, but I think it was something like, “This is coming out of your pay!” I did wonder at the time why she would still want to hire me after that little chance meeting, and if I knew what was going to happen down the road I would have probably begged the cops to throw me in prison and toss the key out a window.

However, I was grateful that the dame had apparently greased some palms in order to get me out of prison a little faster than most, though the same policeman would say “We’ll be watching” before he released me out onto the street. I believed it was an empty threat, and he was probably ticked off that the powers-that-be told him to stand down. Poor cop, I never even learned his name.

The dame held out her hand as I descended the steps from the police station. It kind of looked like a scene from a fairy tale, didn’t it? Me coming down the steps in my very best suit, and a lovely lady dressed in her very best nightgown. As long as you replace “suit” with “brown overcoat and retro-style hat”, and “nightgown” with “small earth-toned jacket, dark-red skirt, and what appeared to be either very nice sandals or dress shoes with the top half carved out.” I even managed to top it off by giving her a light kiss on the hand. It was an old, old ritual, but apparently she still believed in those things.

“You know, you didn’t have to do that.” She blushed and took her hand back as I quietly cringed. Must’ve been a record time for me to misread a dame’s intentions like that.

“I’m sorry,” I tried recovering some of my lost dignity. Maybe it was an overreaction, but I did feel a tad bit embarrassed, my face glowing redder than an evil-possessed firefly. “I don’t believe we were properly introduced.”

“Well, my name is Aylissa. I am just hiring you for a job. This is a strictly professional relationship and nothing more.”

I nodded to the beat of that drum, letting her state her case. “Of course. Strictly professional as long as you’ve got the money to pay. But may I ask why you bailed me out back there?”

“Well, let me just say that your reputation precedes you, and I think that you are the right man for the job.”

That sounded perfectly ambiguous and if it were up to me I would have pushed for further elaboration, but considering my financial state at the time I wasn’t exactly going to give lovely-looking that gift horse a dental exam. “So, what’s the job?”

Fantasy Noir

I think it was earlier today, when I was a mix of caffeine and bundled nerves. I could’ve probably jumped at hearing a simple mouse scampering under the floorboards, but what was marching outside was a lot larger than a mouse and probably had more political implications. Now I’m starting to understand why most investigators, private or public, choose to drown themselves in booze. That way they wouldn’t have to deal with even half the stuff I’ve come across in this damn world. No, my particular poison happens to be coffee, and that’s probably the reason I can sense this much magic in the air at the moment.

Turn on any form of media in the past two days, you’ll probably have heard about it by now: Teenaged elf of Drow descent, shot by a Metro Cop who happened to be another elf, yet a few shades lighter. Lots of human talking heads on the TV now asking why such racial tension? Aren’t they the same race? Yeah, and humans of different origin totally didn’t spend centuries hating each other over similarly stupid reasons. I decided to switch the channel when the phone rang.

“Howard McFadden, private eye at your service.” I spoke in a surprisingly rushed voice. Caffeine was still running through my system at that time, you understand.

“McFadden, you deal with elves, right?”

If I knew what I was getting into, I would’ve hung up the phone and done something a little less life-threatening, like maybe taking a trip down to the zoo, covering myself in pig blood and sticking my head in a tiger’s mouth. But at the time, I was thinking that I could really use the money and there wasn’t anything good on TV anyway, so I replied, “Well, I deal with all sorts of people.”

“I’ve got a problem and I kind of need your help.”

“And you know an elf is involved?”

“Well, not exactly…”

“What do you mean not exactly? Did you get his face? His color? Creed? Do you know if it’s a he?”

“If I knew all that, you think I’d call you?”

“You tried taking it up with the cops?”

“They told me to fill out a form.”

“And you don’t want to wait?”

“I have the money to pay for your time on this matter.”

That was all I needed to hear at the time. Landlord was riding my ass and I had to consolidate my office and home into one building just to cut down on the number of bills. So I took the job. She told me to meet her at a cafe close to H Street in 15 minutes, so I decided to put on my hat, my jacket, my good pair of dress shoes and take a quick walk over there. Under normal circumstances, it wouldn’t be too hard.

Upon further reflection, maybe I should’ve waited a little longer. Not only were the drow and half-drow descendants still marching down the street, but the police in riot gear were beginning to form a kind of phalanx near the end of the road. And when you have that much magic energy in one area, all it takes is one little spark…

“Hey! Hey!”

Oh God, it had to be the caffeine. I really wished it was the caffeine at the time, but no, there was some kind of tiny little faerie flying around. Oh God, was it going to start something here? What the hell did it want?

“Hey! Listen! You think you could direct me to the Mall? I’m getting kinda lost, these street signs are starting to blend together! How come there’s no J Street? Hey, are you listening to me?”

If it was not for the caffeine, I probably wouldn’t even be able to keep up with her incredibly fast method of talking. I couldn’t tell if she was already on a similar kind of stimulant or if that’s just the way that her people talked. I haven’t talked to many fairies of that size, but the few I did were awfully impatient. Some scientists theorized they must’ve been the descendants of some kinda twitchy insect, but it was difficult to prove, because they wouldn’t stay put long enough to be studied, and anyone who tried to force their compliance usually found themselves in a rather embarrassing position.

“Wow, there’s a protest huh? Whodathunk these folks would come out into the sunlight for a march? I thought they usually skulked around in the dark, funny how times change huh? Huh? Hey!” I tried to ignore the fairy and instead started maneuvering through the crowd. All I wanted to do was get to my meeting with a potential client, but I guess the fates decided that simply having the drow march down my street in protest wasn’t bad enough. Now some fairy was harassing me.

A short moment later someone launched a few fireworks. Even with my heightened senses there was too much damned magic in the air for me to figure out whether or not it was cheap bottle rockets or the fairy demanding my attention or maybe some kid with pyrokinetic powers was showing off to his friends nearby. In any case, the riot police had the excuse they were looking for, and started moving in. Various spiritual protection calligraphy was etched on their riot shields as they fired off tear gas in the crowd’s direction.

Some of the crowd scattered, but the ones on the inside who couldn’t get out were squished. Some of them tried fighting the police, only to get smacked down by “less-than-lethal” equipment: rubber bullets, stun guns, Tesla gloves, you name it. They were prepared.

Of course, having the misfortune of being in that very same crowd as I was trying to cross the street made things problematic. I wasn’t decked out in riot gear, which meant that one over-excited riot cop had no problem punching me with a fully-charged Tesla glove and cuffing me while I was recovering from the shock. Good thing I accidentally left my gun at home, or else things would have probably been worse.

There wasn’t much I could do at the time as I was thrown in a truck with several other Drow and sympathetic protesters and trucked down wherever it was they would take us until the whole incident blew over. However, being falsely arrested by the city’s finest was going to be the least of my problems. Well, maybe not the least, but definitely in the bottom three next to getting slapped by a woman I liked and the jukebox at Murphy’s not playing classic rock after I already paid for it. I’ll get to those in a moment.

_________________

It seemed to be standard procedure for most protests that involved a sizeable number of people: There were too many to crowd into the local station, so they would truck people down to an off-site, ad-hoc facility. Usually something where fencing was hastily set up, but there were enough guards with dogs to make up the difference. Kind of an “X-Ray by the Bay,” if you will.

They’d take down our names and our prints, then think of some minor charge to slap us with unless they had evidence we tried to resist. Of course, “tried to resist” is quite an objective term, as in “that Drow’s ribs signaled intention to resist when he was on the ground gasping for air while they mercilessly impeded the policeman’s boot.” Or “this perp clearly tried to kill her by chanting a deadly magic spell disguised as asking for a ride home in an elvish dialect.”

Nonetheless, I was a white human male, so I assumed I would be one of the luckier ones in this thing. Not to mention my only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Still, that didn’t make things any more pleasant when they funneled us into three straight lines like cattle. “McFadden, huh?” The police cadet looked strangely cheerful as he took down my prints, “What do you do for a living?”

“Private detective,” I replied without missing a beat. “See the hat?”

The cadet looked at my hat, and then back at my face. “You sure you’re not an actor? That getup seems kinda last century.”

I will admit he had a point. This particular outfit hadn’t been seen by most people on the street since pre-Integration times. But I thought it was a unique look, a feeling that even in this crapsack world I owned something that made me look and feel pretty damn good. Also, I spent enough money on it to feed a family of starving goblins for a year, even though those fuckers will eat anything. So you better believe I wore it every time my job allowed it.

“Alright, Mr. McFadden, you’ve got two choices here.” The cadet slid a piece of paper to me on the cheap folding table, “Sign this document saying your arrest was for legitimate reasons, and that you apologize for inconveniencing this police department. You’ll have a minor charge on your record and possibly be marked as a radical instigator for the Kingdom’s purposes, but as long as you don’t commit another crime…”

“Wait a minute,” I stopped him in mid-sentence, “A radical? Me? Do you know how cynical I am about politics?”

“They don’t pay me enough to know that, McFadden.”

“Look, they marched down the street where my office was located.”

“Why didn’t you stay inside until the situation had passed?”

“Because I had a client to reach, one who probably thinks I stood her up and as we speak she’s probably left the cafe already.” Also left unsaid: it would have a negative affect on future business. Sometimes when you do a good job, people recommend you to their friends, like the Vermatti healer who cleans up your STDs with no questions asked and no noticeable side effects. However, when you do a bad job, rest assured that people will complain about you to everyone the first chance they get, like a restaurant where the food takes an hour to arrive, and when it does there are a couple flies hovering a little too close for comfort over your table. Unless you happen to be dining in the Green Quarter. Down there, such a place would be considered a high-class eatery.

Ah, but I’m getting off track here. Anyways, I was trying to find a way to explain to the cadet that while I appreciated what this City’s Finest were doing for protecting the people, I wasn’t involved in any sort of political protest and not only deserved to be let go, but without even the minor charge of “instigating radicalism.”

“So you care about the plight of the poor, oppressed Drow?” The cadet chuckled at his own little joke, though I had a feeling the Drow standing in line behind me didn’t find it as amusing. “Well, if you want to fight that charge, we can send you down to the station, and you can file a report with them. But with so many people in the system, you may have to wait in line.”

Looking back on the series of events that followed, I probably should’ve just taken the deal and gone home. Then again, considering I had lost my potential client at the time due to circumstances beyond my control, I decided I had nothing to lose by unleashing my caffeine-fueled frustration on this poor police cadet.

“Lemme tell you somethin’ bub.” I leaned in real close, close enough that I think the rim of my hat bonked his forehead and he recoiled slightly from the impact. “I have been working in that office for over a year now, and I will be damned if I am treated like some goddamn criminal. I did nothing wrong, and the worst any of these people did was protest against what they saw was an unjust system!”

“Sir, please calm down or I will have you arrested.”

“Oh sure, one count of false arrest isn’t enough for you people? I will have my day in court! Just like all of these people, who were swept up and mercilessly beaten!”

I know, you’re probably asking me what the fuck I was saying at this time. But may I reiterate that I was under the influence of copious amounts of perfectly-legal stimulants. I will say I was feeling pretty good at the time though, considering that a few Drow standing around waiting for their turn started giving me a slow clap. Maybe I even inspired them to band together and launch that class-action lawsuit against the city that would later be settled for a decent sum.

What I do know is that a pair of lightly-armored policemen slammed my face down on the table in front of the cadet, cuffed me again, and then threw me into a policecar where I was driven down to the local precinct. Trust me when I say that things would find a way to get worse.

Dry Serial Part 2: “Size doesn’t matter, right?”

“It’s okay baby…”

“No, it’s not okay.” Michael growled. “It’s not okay at all, you’re just taking pity on me.”

“C’mon, you said you’d get me a part in your next movie if I…”

“The deal’s off! Now get out!”

The ex-Playboy centerfold got out of bed and quickly put on her clothes. “You horrible, disgusting, needle-di…”

“I said get out!”

The hooker stifled a laugh as she finished putting on her clothes and walked out of the room. A few moments later, Michael quickly threw on a robe and stormed out of his own room. Dammit, this always happened every time he brought a girl home. They would point and laugh at him right after he finished disrobing in front of them. He was too angry to sleep now. Maybe some work would take his mind off of things. The next Transformers movie needed to be addressed, the semi-legal explosives had to be trucked in…at least those pyrotechnic guys wouldn’t point and laugh at him. Not to his face when he held their measly lives in his hands.

And as if things couldn’t get any more irritating, he walked into his office and turned on the lights to find a young, bearded man with a stupid hat sitting in his chair.

“Hello, Michael.” The Critic said with a stoic expression on his face, despite the burning rage he felt inside as he held a bowl of cold, dry cereal in his hands, “Nice of you to join me in this place.”

“This is my house!” Michael shouted, “How did you get in here? What happened to the guards?”

“Oh, nothing much. But when they wake up, they won’t be able to look their mothers in the eye without getting slapped. Actually, it’s what I’ve come to talk to you about.”

“I’m listening.” Michael slowly walked forward, planning to grab the enormously large pistol hidden by his desk while he kept The Critic distracted.

“I’ve found a way to turn my hatred into a weapon so powerful that it can shame anyone or anything out of existence. Hence, I’ve decided to use it on the one thing that is destroying society as we know it.”

Michael thought for a moment, but continued to slowly walk towards his own desk. “Gun violence?”

“No.”

“Drug abuse?”

“No.”

“Sectarian hatred?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, I’m talking about video games!”

Michael abruptly stopped moving forward. “Video games? Seriously? That’s why you broke into my home?”

“I review them for a living, dammit! I’ve seen the horrible atrocities they commit against proper storytelling and the way they drain the energies of our world’s youth from doing anything useful!”

Michael shook his head. First the ex-centerfold belittled him, and now some video game critic was sitting in his chair and ranting. All he needed was a PETA protestor to throw a bucket of fake pig blood on his face and he’d hit the trifecta of bullshit before the sun rose. “And what does this have to do with me?”

“You have a certain…penchant for explosives, don’t you? I need your cash and your connections so that I might be able to deliver this massive weapon into the very heart of video games, thus shaming them into obscurity quicker than Vampire Rain!”

Michael blinked a few times, unsure of the metaphor, let alone how to respond to it.

“Look, it was a horrible XBOX 360 game that you probably don’t even know.”

“Ohhhhhh.” Michael responded in a sarcastic tone, “That makes it so much clearer now that you explained it to me. Now get the fuck out of my chair.”

“Not until I’m sure that I have your cooperation.”

“Even if I did give half a shit about your crusade against video games, what makes you think I’m going to help you?”

“Well first, by destroying the world of video games, more people will then have the time to go out and pay to see your awful explosion-fests that you call movies, thus netting you more money in the bargain.”

“Are you kidding me? Those people would probably just pirate it anyway. I’m a famous Hollywood producer, you’re just some guy with a website. What makes you think I’m going to listen to you?”

The Critic banged his hands on the desk and stood up, turning the monitor on the desk towards Michael so he could see it. “You’re right, I am a guy with a website, but if you still refuse to cooperate my website will display this picture of your incredibly tiny manhood for everyone to see. You’ll never be able to show your face to anyone outside of this house again, until you turn into another dungeon-dweller who spends his considerable intelligence on nothing more than playing Everquest and asking his parents to bring him pizza and Mountain Dew, forever dwelling on what could have been. Is this the future that you want for yourself, Michael?”

Michael groaned. Why did he take that picture of himself in the mirror, anyway? It seemed awfully inconvenient now that he thought about it. “What do you want from me?”

“Give me enough money and equipment to transport my weaponized hatred through a certain gate, where it will be released into the world of video games. I call it…the F-Bomb.”
_____________

Snake sat in the seat as Chris drove him through a rather run-down section of town. If he could describe it in words, it was probably something between run-down shantytown and post-apocalyptic paradise. They passed the houses where space marines and surprisingly advanced orks were throwing large dice with each other before drawing guns and exchanging words about their respective enemy’s mother. Snake thought he caught a glimpse of some young black fellow, a “C.J.” or something like that, sneaking into an abandoned bank. He vaguely remembered the name from some police bulletin: too popular to disappear, yet he was a rather villainous protagonist. That made it a pain to keep tabs on the guy.

As the car passed by more buildings and the wind from the open door-frame blew out any hope he had of lighting a smoke in the car, Snake decided to ask Chris where they would be getting the key from.

“Y’know, I hear there’s some guy named Mason out there who has explosives that can actually blow up wood, steel, and other building materials.” Chris responded, “If only I had a rocket launcher that could do something that cool, maybe we wouldn’t have to spend so much time trying to get around a chest-high fence.”

“Chris, did you ever consider just climbing over the fence?”

“Oh, I’m sorry Snake. Not all of us can be Olympic-class athletes like you, all right?”

Snake didn’t quite know how to respond to that. Was that even supposed to be an insult?

“Anyways, there’s a guy I know, he’s got a bunch of these color coded keys. Sells ‘em like crack. I’m sure he’ll be able to help us get the one we need to get into the station.”

[To Be Continued…]

Dry Serial

He had a voice that could charm the pants off of any fangirl or fanboy, the looks of someone who had a decent run at a social life before the world of video games had replaced it, and the sharp tongue that could cut through steel faster than a diamond saw. They said that thousands if not millions of gamers hung on his very words whenever they wanted to consider buying a game, and his review could boost a game’s sales into the top 10 or brand it with a scarlet letter and be cast out from the land of Good Games.

But The Critic was not happy. Sure, he was getting paid for work that several other people with their blogs and webcams would stupidly do for free. However, internet infamy was a double-edged sword. People flooded his inbox with sycophantic messages, everyone wanted him to review their shitty indie games, and everyone wanted him to slam their original characters and ideas just for the sake of getting some sort of attention.

All he wanted today was to sit down and eat a nice bowl of cereal, the one thing he did to relax in the morning before he skimmed through the thesaurus to look for new ways to describe how much he hated a game and its components. After pouring the crunchy flakes into the bowl and cutting a few slices of banana into it for extra nutrition, he went to the fridge to find some milk for his cereal. However, after searching for a whole minute, he could not find any milk. He would have to eat his cereal dry today.

The crunchiness of the cereal scratched his teeth and his throat ever so slightly as the crushed flakes tumbled down into his stomach. It’s always the smallest things that end up causing someone under pressure to snap, and this bowl of dry cereal happened to be the straw that broke the back of The Critic’s psyche. Suddenly all his little complaints about the video game world had coalesced into a giant nasty pile of evil inside his head.

Now The Critic had a mission: The world of video games had to die.

_________________

The old man lit a cigarette as he sat in the Café of Hard Knocks. Well, it claimed to be a café, but it also sold hard liquor to its patrons. It was also one of the few establishments left in the city where you could smoke without enduring strange looks from the patrons or the workers. But you had to put yourself through a hell of a lot to gain entry to this place. The ones who didn’t make it got sent to the School of Hard Knocks until they could toughen up enough to gain entry into the cafe, or their contracts got canceled. Whichever came first.

“Snake? How’s it been going?”A slightly younger black man, dressed in a US Marine outfit and shouldering an M249 SAW sat down next to him, “Still fighting genetically-enhanced super-soldiers?”

“Feh. I hear my brother might be up to something again. Probably possessed a walking toaster with that detached arm of his this time.” Snake took a drag on his cigarette and exhaled, trying but failing to stifle a cough. “Considering the bastard who writes this stuff, it’s within the realm of possibility, as long as you bash your head into a brick wall a few times until it makes sense.”

“You ever considered just shooting the guy in the face? I’m pretty sure that would kill him for good.”

Snake growled at the man, “I bet you never had to fight vampires or giant mechanical walkers when you answered your Call of Duty.”

“No, I just had a dumbass at the controls. How do you think I died so many times?”

Before he could answer, a gunshot echoed throughout the room as the man’s brains were blown out.

“Oh…come on!” Snake whipped out a tranquilizer pistol and found himself pointing a gun at a policeman whose biceps were bigger than his head. “Why did you have to kill the black guy off first?”

“He’s a zombie!”

“He’s not a zombie, he’s a Generic Marine!”

“Well, it’s not my fault they all look alike!”

“What do you mean, ‘they all look alike?’”

“Zombies, man! If you saw what I saw in Africa, you’d do the same thing! Look, he’ll turn into a zombie any minute now!” The place grew quiet as the body lay still on the floor, the head exploded into something unrecognizable, “Aaaaaany minute now…” Some floor goblins quietly dragged the body away as a bloody streak was left on the floor of the café, “Aaaaaaany minute now…”

“Look Chris, get your fucking PTSD-addled brain back on straight. What did you really come here for?”

Chris Redfield twitched his head a few times, and then slowly lowered his gun. “What? Did I get the zombie?”

“If you stay here any longer, you’ll be getting a lawsuit from the NAACP as well. Now c’mon, let’s get out of the bar before the trigger-happy generic space marines start showing up.” Snake stood up and half-dragged Chris out of the Café while the bartender shook his head as he mopped up the bloodstains. It was gonna be another one of those days. “So tell me, why are you here?”

“Something’s gone wrong!” Chris shouted as he ripped his arm out of Snake’s grip and continued walking out of the bar and down the street, “The Critic has not issued his usual decrees in weeks, and the Chief wants you back at the station. He’s putting a team together to find out what’s going on.”

“So let’s go then.”

“We can’t do that. We need a key to get in first.”

“A key?”

“Yeah.”

“A key to get into the police station that we work for.”

“Yeah.”

“You mean saving the world several times over from my evil brother wasn’t good enough for that asshole?”

Chris stopped to fish the keys from his pocket as they reached his police car. “The Chief thinks we need new tests to keep us fresh for whatever new missions or sequels develop for us in the future…aw shit, I left my keys in the car.”

Snake simply groaned.

“Now don’t get your skin-tight suit in a bunch.” Chris flexed his right hand, and then wrenched the passenger’s side door free with the power of his massive biceps. “There, see? All better. Now let’s go before more zombies show up.”

Snake groaned again. “For the last time, Chris, not all black people are zombies in disguise. And if you had just taken your damn meds like the doc said…”

“Oh, because those nano-injections the Medic prescribed for you have done wonders for your wrinkled ass.”

Snake resisted the urge to strangle him then and there. Besides, they both knew he could just get out of it through the magic of a quick-time event. He reluctantly got into the passenger’s side seat and then unlocked the driver’s side door so Chris could get in.

It was gonna be another one of those days.

Roxanne vs. Bismarck

Roxanne Bond vs. Otto von Bismarck

“Do you haf anyzing to declaaare?” The customs agent glared at Roxanne as she calmly sat and waited. The man had an eyepatch over one eye and a bloodshot appearance in the other that currently glared back at her. It was a bit unsettling, and Terry would have deduced that the Germans did this on purpose to make foreigners feel unwelcome. But Roxanne kept her calm composure.

“Goodness, no, no…I’m just a pretty girl who has requested the pleasure of the great Kaiser’s company.”

“You haf?”

“I have.”

“Ah, you must be another vun of dose English whores he likes! Vun second, pleass.” The man retreated behind a curtain, and then returned with a different set of papers. “Okay, qvestion vun…are you a spy?”

“Good heavens no!”

“Ah, danke.” The man checked off a box on his sheet. “I apologize, madam, but this is for both your own security and that of our Great Leader Bismarck. You do understand, right?”

“Of course.”

“Now, qvestion two. Are you really not a spy?”

“No.”

“Number three. Are you not not a spy?”

Roxanne stumbled for a bit, then replied, “No.”

“Good, because a spy vould realize I vas trying to trick him and refuse to answer.” The man checked off a few more boxes on his sheet, “Und how long vill he be enjoying ze pleasure of your company?”

“Oh, I’d say till about tomorrow morning.”

“Danke, Madame Broxis. Ve shall escort you to ze grand palace.”

___________

“Muhuhuhuhahahaaaa…I am Otto von Bismarck!” The German Kaiser roared, “and you will all bow to me, or I will crush you under my heavy German boots!”

“I’ll never submit to you, Kaiser!” The English king angrily shouted in a low-pitched voice.

“Oh, is that so?” Bismarck smirked.

“Yeah, we English are stupid dumb poopyheads who don’t recognize when we’ve been beaten!”

“Then I shall finish you off! WAH!” The Kaiser smacked into the English king, sending his figure toppling off of the table while Bismarck mimicked a low “NOOOOOOOO!” from the corner of his mouth. “Now that I am ruler of all Europa, it is time for having the sex with my new English queen!”

“No, go away I hate you I hate you!” The queen murmured in a high-pitched voice.

“Ohoho, you say that now. But consider that English woman are attracted to money. And power. And I have both.”

“Oh, now I find you strangely attractive.”

“Here, I will kiss you and then we will have efficient German sexing.”

The two figures moved in, their painted faces rubbing against each other as their wooden, painted feet were lifted off the ground. “Ohhhh…” A high-pitched moan came from the queen’s side, “your helmet is sooooo biiig…”

“Mein Kaiser!”

Bismarck jumped and swept all of the dolls under his body as one of his subordinates entered the room. “Mein Gott, have you not heard of knocking?” Bismarck shouted at the guard.

“Sorry sir, but your English whore has arrived for your pleasure sir! I figured you would want to know about that, sir!”

“Did you see anything?”

“No sir! I did not see you playing with your dolls again, sir!”

“What was that?”

“Excuse me, I did not see you playing with your action figures, sir!”

“GOOD!” The Kaiser quickly swept up his dolls/action figures and shoved them into a chest. “Now send her in!”

Roxanne slowly walked in, making sure to appear as innocent and unthreatening as she possibly could. Considering her usual demeanor, this wasn’t much of a challenge. However, seeing the infamous Bismarck in full military dress and accompanied by a steampipe rendition of some Prussian military anthem did seem a bit unsettling. It seemed as if he was trying to cover up for some sort of inadequacy.

“Ah, you are the Madame Broxis? Velcome into my humble abode.” Bismarck gripped Roxanne’s hand tightly. Very tightly. Was this how German men normally greeted their women? It didn’t seem right at all. “You vant something to drink? Perhaps some tea?”

“Tea would be nice, Mr. Bismarck.”

“Oh please,” Bismarck blushed, “call me Otto.”

“Alright then, Otto. Would you mind if I have a seat? My feet are rather sore from traveling such a long distance to meet with a great man like yourself.”

“Of course. Come, I will show you my latest invention in furniture. I call it, the Otto-man!”

“Really?”

“Of course! I bet that hundreds of years from now, people will be resting their feet on this very thing. Oh, one second…” Bismarck walked over to the door and hissed at the nearest guard to find the errand boy and get him a cup of tea. Meanwhile, Roxanne was smiling inwardly. This assignment wouldn’t be too hard at all. All she had to do was string Bismarck along and pump up his ego long enough until he went to sleep. He wouldn’t even see the knife coming.

___________

Otto sat across the room, resting his feet on the Otto-man as he sipped a cup of tea. Roxanne folded her hands in her lap and simply watched. Occasionally, she mimed drinking the tea, but didn’t actually drink any of it in case the liquid contained drugs.

“So, mein lovely little whore–” Bismarck began.

“Courtesan.” Roxanne interrupted.

“Vhat?”

“Otto, I prefer to be referred to as a courtesan.”

“No, you are a whore!” Otto shouted, tumbling off the chair and the Otto-man before standing back up. The gold trim on his full Germanian battle dress still gleamed brightly from the gas lamps hanging around the room, “You are a dirty English whore who is only here for my pleasure and my amusement! You need to learn your place, woman!”

“Otto, you remember you have invited me here, correct?”

“Yeeeessss?”

“Well, you are not showing proper deference to your guest.”

Otto’s angry face suddenly twisted into an expression of puzzlement. “Proper deference?”

“Yes, this is not how you would talk to a normal lady, would you?”

“It isn’t?”

“Not quite, my good Commandant.”

Otto sniffed for a minute as Roxanne simply continued observing. Was he crying?

“You…you really think I’m not showing proper d-de-def…whatever that word was?”

“It’s alright,” Roxanne stood up.

“I’ve just never met anyvun who could make me cry like that…”

“There’s no shame in crying.”

“Of course there is!” Bismarck snapped, “To cry is to be veek! Und I am not veek!” He ripped the spike off the top of his special army helmet and held it out in Roxanne’s direction, “Do not insult me again, whore!”

“You are absolutely correct.” Roxanne walked slowly over to Bismarck, opening her arms to show she meant no harm. “You are a lovely man. You are smart, and attractive, and…”

Bismarck sniffed again, trying to hold back the mucus that was desperately trying to leave his nose.  “No, you’re just saying that. Everyone always says things like that to me but they don’t mean them.”

“Come now, you invented the Otto-man. Surely a man with your skills can go on to invent things that will rock the world over?”

Bismarck thought about that for a moment. “Well, there is one idea I had.” He wiped his nose on his sleeve and then shook his head, “But you’d think it stupid.”

“Otto, I don’t think you’re stupid.” Whiny, insecure, and emotionally stunted? Sure. But not stupid.

“Well…I was thinking of commissioning a kind of road that would one day unite all of Europe. I am thinking of calling it…the Otto-Bahn!”

Sasha’s Missing Doll

“Hey, you, new boy!”

I pointed to myself, in a gesture to ask if the infamous Chef Gordon Ramsay was really referring to me.

“Yeah, you think I didn’t see you there? You think winning Season XXX: ‘Hot Steamy Action’ of Hell’s Kitchen entitles you to slack off? Guess what, the President wants the full fucking Gordon Ramsay experience!”

So why did that have to involve me?

“Well, it wouldn’t be the Ramsay experience you bloody Americans want if I didn’t have someone to yell at half the time, now would it?”

I shrugged my shoulders. You think a guy who was just invited to cook a meal for Barack Obama would be in higher spirits.

“Now get to work on breading that chicken breast! Don’t let me catch you slacking!”

I thought he could at least help with the pasta, but Chef Ramsay ducked out for a quick smoke. So there I was, cooking the chicken breasts by myself and waiting for the rest of the White House cooking staff, when who should I see walking through the kitchen but The Man Himself, President Barack H. Obama. Granted, he seemed to be bounding through the kitchen, as if he was afraid a protestor of some kind was going to leap from a nearby oven and strangle him until he signed a petition. It wasn’t the look of someone who owned the place. But anyways, I tried to strike up a conversation with him. I started out by simply saying, “Hi Mister President!” in as cheerful a voice I could manage.

“What?” Obama whipped his head around to face me, like an actor who had just forgotten his lines, then cleared his throat and took a brief second to recompose himself. “Oh, uh…sorry. I uh…didn’t see you there. Who are you again?”

“You don’t recognize me?” I said, “Winner of the XXX season of Hell’s Kitchen? Ring any bells?”

“Sorry, I don’t like to watch those kinds of shows in front of the children.”

“I don’t doubt you. Besides, I’m sure Michelle’s got all the action you’ll need.”

I’m pretty sure Barack blushed at that moment, but I don’t remember. I do know that he said, “Um yeah. She’s uh…she’s real hot. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got…uh, Presidential things to do.”

“Hey, Mr. Obama, do you think this chicken is fresh enough for your liking?” I handed the President one of the boneless breasts I planned on cooking. He fumbled it around in his hand for a few seconds before he tossed it back in the pan. He then left in a huff before I could offer him a chance to taste my cooking. Then again, I didn’t want Chef Ramsay to mysteriously appear behind my back and find something to yell at me again. Instead, I focused on pan-frying the breaded chicken.

A few minutes later, Chef Ramsay returned and chastized me for letting the pasta cook too long. I replied that it was perfectly on time and pointed him to an egg timer, and even stuck my hand in the pot of boiling water to offer him a sample. My male pride unfortunately overrided my common sense, and by the time the latter regained dominance in my brain, I screamed in pain. Great, first-degree burn and I hadn’t even finished making the main course dinner for Obama. Good thing he wasn’t able to see this.

“Oh, so now you’re going to run your hand under some cold water? You’re such a bloody queer!” Ramsay whined in his disappointed tone, which stung just as harshly as the boiling water did on my pain-wracked hands. “You think I let a little thing like scalding hot water stop me from serving food to the Prime Minister back home? Bah, you Americans think you deserve everything on a silver platter!”

I didn’t feel like arguing with him, and instead decided to finish making the large order of chicken parmesean while Chef Ramsay worked on the appetizer. Apparently, the normal White House cooking staff would be working on the rest of the meal, or maybe they already had. It would certainly explain why both myself and Chef Ramsay were the only two people in that very well-kept kitchen.

I don’t know how much time had passed, only that my left hand was burning like crazy. Unfortunately, I was more afraid of what Chef Ramsay would do if he saw me slacking on my special tomato-basil sauce than what would happen if I lost all the feeling in that hand. Eventually, the White House staff sent down a cart to help us carry all the food upstairs. Apparently, the appetizers and the wine were prepared in a seperate kitchen. Two kitchens for a family of four and hundreds of staff and Secret Service. Must be a nice place to live in.

I loaded the first round of food onto the plates as the servers prepared to take us to the dining room to witness how the President and his family liked our food, until a Secret Service agent came down with standard-issue suit and his standard-issue tie and his standard-issue earpiece and his standard-issue pistol hidden under his jacket. And he told both myself and Chef Ramsay to come with him.

“We have a situation,” The agent said in his standard-issue monotone with his expression hidden behind standard-issue sunglasses. “I’m going to have to ask you two to come with me.”

“We got ourselves a President and his family to feed!” Chef Ramsay yelled, “What’s the meaning of this, Mr…?”

“You can call me Agent Stan. And the President wants you to leave the food here for now. He will consider eating it after the situation has been resolved.”

“What’s the situation?” I asked.

Chef Ramsay sharply flicked my ear with his finger. As I winced more in pain than annoyance, he exorciated me in front of Agent Stan. “Quiet boy, the men are talking!” Turning to Agent Stan, he repeated the exact same question I asked a moment ago.

“Long story short, Sasha’s doll has gone missing, and he wants everyone who might be remotely connected to this disappearance = to be sent to the dining room for questioning.”

“But what about the food?” Chef Ramsay asked again.

“I told you, the President and his family will not eat it until we resolve this situation. If worse comes to worse, the food will be packed into doggie bags and then distributed to local homeless shelters.”

“NOOOOOOOOOO!” I cried out.

“I know how you feel,” Agent Stan said with as much standard-issue emotion as he could muster, which amounted to very little. “However, this doll was very important to Sasha. So if you two will please come with me…”

_______________

“Friends, enemies, and other assembled folks, we have a situation.” The President sighed as he stood behind the chair, and clenched the back of it very tightly in his hands. “My sweet daughter’s little dollie has gone missing. We’re not leaving this room until we figure out who took it.”

“So buy her a new one,” Congressman Contrarian shouted, “it only costs her a few hundred thousand dollars!”

You might be shocked to realize that in the year 2008, the value of that same doll was just about $10. No one knew exactly how the economy hit hyperinflation in such a short time, though some suspected the recently-passed Throw Money At The Problem Until It Goes Away Act might have had something to do with it.

“Maybe you did it, then!” Kenneth Kneejurk shouted back, “You were always opposing the President’s budget for the sake of your masters in Israel!”

“Calm down, people.” Barack Obama said in a stern tone, “My daughters don’t want to see us fighting in the dining room! Now, if this was the war room, we’d be singing a different tune.”

“Damn straight!” General Lee Threatening grunted as he chomped on an unlit cigar. No one ever saw the man without his uniform on or his cigar in his mouth.

“But for their sake, let’s all calm down and think this through.”

Suddenly, everyone in the room just stopped talking and decided to take a look at all points of view. The President had that mysterious power. Even the verbally-abusive Chef Ramsay seemed to be a teeny bit calm, but I didn’t want to ask him a question and break the moment, so I just waited for Obama to continue.

“Now, Dr. Snidely Evilton, where were you about one hour ago?”

“I will tell you nothing! Not even torture can break me!”

“Pleeeeease? For the sake of my children, and their children, and their children’s children?”

Dr. Evilton stared into Obama’s wide eyes for a second. “Gah! Enough! I’ll talk! I’ll talk!” Evilton took a moment to take out his inhaler while Agent Smith whipped out his pistol, expecting that Evilton was pulling out a portable death ray like he did last time. Oh, that crazy Dr. Evilton, always being sent to jail and then mysteriously breaking out of that same jail within 24 hours.

“Okay, I was concocting an evil plot to blow up everyone at this table once the main course arrived. But then I saw the visage of a familiar figure, the face of one of the people in this room! Even with my asthma, he seemed emit the powerful stench of cooking oil mixed with uncooked chicken. My plot was foiled before I even had a chance to enact it! All because of that accursed President!”

Everyone in the room thought about that for a moment. Mostly about why the President kept letting this man into the White House despite his frequent attempts to kill him. But apparently no one could stop Dr. Snidely Evilton from getting wherever and whatever he wanted. He just never really had a endgame in mind once he put his plans into action.

“There’s only one place that raw chicken could have come from…the kitchen!” Obama pointed an accusatory finger at Chef Ramsay, “You! What were you doing one hour ago?”

“I was taking a smoke break, Mr. President. What the bloody hell did you expect me to do?”

“So you didn’t handle the chicken?”

“No, I left that task up to my…capable assistant here.” He sharply flicked my ear again, causing me to wince in annoyance. “Well boy, I didn’t know you had a thing for dolls.”

“I don’t!” I shouted, “Why would I want to steal your daughter’s doll, Mr. President?”

“Because you secretly have a doll fetish!” Congressman Contrarian shouted out of the blue. A long awkward pause followed before Contrarian continued, “Uh, just y’know, exploring the possibilities of his motives.”

“More like you’re projecting your own fetishes onto others,” Kneejerk muttered.

“You have no proof! Those negatives were burned three weeks ago outside my apartment!”

“I never said anything about proof, Mr. Contrarian.”

“Both of you, shut the hell up!” Chef Ramsay shouted so loud that even General Threatening started cowering behind his chair, careful as to not drop his cigar from his mouth. “I don’t know how you can accuse my student of wanting to steal Sasha’s doll! He may be a lot of things: A good-for-nothing slacker, an emotional trainwreck, a beaten-down pussy, a retard, a spoiled brat, a loser, a virgin and a person that not even the ugliest monkey at the zoo would want to date…but he does not steal people’s dolls!”

“Uh…thanks?” I mumbled, trying to fight back the urge to cry. I was grateful to Chef Ramsay for defending me, but simultaneously wondering if I could ever show my face in front of these people again after tonight.

“Okay, so if it wasn’t the two chefs, then who could it have been?”

Wait a minute, the only other person besides myself and Chef Ramsay was…”Barack Obama!” I pointed at him, “It was you who stole her doll!”

“What? Why would I steal my daughter’s own doll?”

“To teach her a lesson in personal responsibility, that’s why!”

“Well yes, I teach her that all the time, but I would never steal her doll.”

“But I saw you down there! I was talking to you about Michelle…”

“I never went to the kitchen, I was too busy trying to get General Lee Threatening to stop fondling his cigar for the sake of this dinner!”

“So wait, if that wasn’t you in the kitchen, then who was it?”

“I have the answer to that one.” Agent Smith appeared, dragging another Barack Obama by the collar before he threw him face-first onto the table.

“Barack Obama’s evil twin brother?” Kneejurk wondered aloud.

“No…just his body double B.B.”

“Alright, I confess! I did it!” B.B. shouted

“Why, B.B., why?”

“Why? Do you know what it’s like being the body-double of the most popular man on Earth? It’s real fucking exhausting, and I wanted you to be exhausted trying to find you daughter’s precious doll!”

“C’mon B.B., tell me the truth.”

“I can’t say it here…”

“I’ll give you a coooookiiieeee.”

“Alright alright! God I can’t withstand those eyes!” B.B. growled, “I just really, really like dolls! It’s in my pants!”

________________

And so the tale comes to a close. Sasha found her missing doll, Barack Obama saved the world from the misguided plans of Dr. Snidely Evilton, and Chef Ramsay was hailed for cooking the best damn chicken parmesean a President and his assorted family and friends had ever tasted. I would’ve taken the credit, but the Chef said I still had a lot to learn about cooking. And so I set out for greener pastures, cooking for the local homeless shelters until I could one day call myself a true chef.

The End.

Into the Heart of America

[Loosely based on true events.]

We sat around for awhile, pondering what would we have to eat for dinner tonight? We first eliminated some of the suspects from our list. I had sushi for lunch, so anything from the Far East was probably out. Mark was stuck in Florida, so Mexican and Cuban was a definite no-no. Issac could get us a sweet deal on burgers, but I already chowed down on McD’s not once, but twice yesterday. I did not wish to relive that experience again.

Suddenly, Mom talked about digging up some old stuff and said she found a $25 gift card to TGI Fridays that no one had used. We briefly discussed maybe trying that place out. After all, we had gotten a sneak preview with the many, many commercials for Ruby Tuesday’s and Applebee’s that had popped up during the basketball game on TV that had ended an hour ago. I remember falling asleep halfway through, an act that would shame anyone with alliegance to either Maryland or Duke University. When I woke up, the postgame took on a solemn tone, with the local news anchor forced to confront the fact that his hometown team was probably not going to be making it to the big dance this month.

Anyways, we all decided to do something incredibly daring: rather than feasting on fancy Italian or dining at the cheap-yet-cozy Chinese resturaunt, we decided to brave the Pike and hit TGI Fridays, giftcard in hand that Mom had so graciously uncovered and lent to us. We were going to venture into the dark heart of American cuisine. No telling what we’d find there.

Perhaps I should rephrase that: we had a pretty good idea of what we’d find. We expected to find steak, mashed potatoes, and a bunch of boiled green beans off to the side that they would call “veggies.” Even with this in mind, we hopped in the car and sped off to Fridays. Upon arriving, there were several people sitting off to the side. Julie was afraid we wouldn’t be able to get a seat, and her will was beginning to waver. Nonetheless, I went up to the nearest waiter and asked how long it would take for them to clear a table for three people. They gave me an estimate of 10 minutes.

I was willing to wait that long, but then out of the shadows a server struck, perhaps eyeing a possible tip or another sucker to get hooked on the stuff they were selling. “We could send them to table eight,” she said, “They just finished cleaning that table.” And so Julie’s intuition was thwarted by the server who had sprung the trap, leading us to our table and slapping down a few menus before we could turn back. We asked for some water and then glanced through the multi-colored menus laid before us.

The Fridays was indeed a celebration of the dark heart of American cuisine, and I hadn’t even ordered yet. The ceiling with the barberpole-striped red and white color scheme, curving down a nearby black column that provided a solid middleman as it lanced in between panes of opaque, star-studded glass. It looked like the rejected color scheme of a Washington Wizards uniform. My feelings sunk even further when we saw what was actually on the menu itself. The vast majority of items on the menu fell into one of two categories, as Julie later pointed out.

1) Fried and/or covered in cheese

2) Came with meat (even the meat).

Continuing down the dark path, the caffiene from my recently-ordered Coke fueling my desire to keep on pushing further and further. It was too late to back out now. So I went for one of the “Custom Combos by Jack,” involving a hearty glaze of Jack Daniels-flavored BBQ sauce pasted over a 6oz. piece of sirloin and a skewer of “bacon-wrapped shrimp.” Julie went for a similarly-sized piece of steak and asked for broccoli on the side. Tom was feeling a little more daring, and went with the fried shrimp with fries, but also threw in an appetizer of fried green beans with a “cucumber-wasabi” dip.

As we waited for the food, we could hear the screaming, the pandemonium and chaos that ruled in the Fridays and over America. Babies were screaming for their mommies to make their troubles all better. Fat women were chattering over the last episode of Gray’s Anatomy as they scarfed down their desert of crumbled brownie pieces with ice cream on top. One Latino gentlemen sat across from a woman and was paying with a gift card as well. Maybe they were close enough that such an action was no longer considered to be in poor taste.

Across the resturaunt, someone was cheering as the wait stuff sang the Happy Birthday song. At the bar, someone was cheering when the Washington Capitals scored another goal against the hockey team from the ice-less Carolina. The people sitting at the table adjacent from us looked like the cross-breed of giant lizard men and inbred women who got drunk on moonshine and collapsed in the parking lot of a Wal-Mart. I was already freaking out, and hoped that they would speed up with cooking our food so we could eat and leave.

Eventually, our orders came. The fried green beans had a taste familiar to fried zuchinni sticks, and gave the impression that they were healthier than simply scarfing down the fries that would come with Tom’s main dish. Julie recieved her plate, and not only did they undercook it but they had given her vegetables to me while they gave her a small dish of cheddar-covered…something. I valiantly plunged my fork into the concoction after recieving her permission to do so, and took a bite. It was mashed potatoes. Mashed potatoes under a layer of cheddar cheese.

Finally, they set down my plate. The steak was unevenly cooked, but otherwise not bad. The “bacon-wrapped shrimp” meant that they literally wrapped one thin strip of bacon around the entire skewer of shrimp before they tossed the whole thing on the grill. The mashed potatoes were pretty good, aside from the fact that some bits of cheddar had gotten into the mixture. And the veggies were small, pathetic attemps to balance out this artery-clogging dish that sat before me.

We ended up eating most of it, thought Julie tried to get her steak cooked a little bit more as she found that she couldn’t eat it. That feeling only got worse later when the waitress returned with her steak. In a rare display of chutzpah, the cook had simply burned the already-burnt outsides while leaving the middle mostly untouched.

Finally, we declined to purchase dessert as we packed up and left, leaving only the gift card and a small tip in our wake. We didn’t want to be in that madhouse any longer. The cuisine was definitely from the dark heart of America, where everything was fried or had cheese on it. Maybe the French had the right idea when they opposed us during the Iraq War. We totally deserved to be nuked by Saddam, if this food and the people who normally ate this food were any indication.

God Bless America.

Operation: Flaming Fanblade Pt. VI

Several hours later (including the abrupt change in time zones), somewhere aboard the Xcalibur…

“Joe…”

*ahem*

“Fine. Awesomer X?”

“Oh, A.L.E.X., my trusty robot sidekick! Have you picked up the signals of our comrades in Japan?”

“I’m a holographic avatar representing the ship’s computer, not a robot sidekick.”

“A.L.E.X., I asked for those signals, not your opinion!”

“Yes, fine. I’ve located the three mobile suits, but there’s something else that’s strange about this location.”

“What’s the problem? Are they being held deep underground inside some dark enemy base? Is the villain hot?”

“Well, not exactly. But there appear to be several wind turbines off the coast of Japan that are somehow catching fire, similar to a recent case in America that no one paid attention to outside of a few news articles…”

“A.L.E.X., we can argue about wind turbines later. Now tell me where our friends are!”

“To answer your previous questions…the transponder beacons are resonating from within a high-class sushi resturaunt in Tokyo. I’m getting Newman, his roommate, and Chase. They seem to be in relatively okay health, according to the health monitors in–”

“So they’re being held hostage in a restaurant, probably owned by some evil Japanese gang, right? I bet they wanted to get a ransom out of us!”

“Well, it is a private party, but it’s not–”

“See you later, A.L.E.X., I’m going to rescue them! Weeeee!” Joe hit the rocket boots and sped off through the ship. A few seconds later, he crashed into a wall. Joe hit the intercom in his suit, “Uhhh, A.L.E.X., can you remind me which way is the hangar deck again?”

________________

Meanwhile, somewhere in Tokyo…

Chase wasn’t sure what he was doing here. He vaguely remembered something about a mission, something involving a guy he hated wearing armor like his, but fully helmeted. One moment, he fell out of the sky and landed on a bunch of nerds. The next thing, some well-rounded Japanese chick was taking him out to dinner…which was totally cool with him, though he wasn’t sure why she invited these old Japanese guys to watch her eat.

A waiter guy set down a tray full of strange, small, food-things. Actually, the tray looked more like a canoe for a family of small mice, and this chick called the food-things “sushi.” It kinda looked like raw fish, so he summoned a waiter over to his table and handed him the canoe full of sushi. Whispering in his ear, he said, “Hey, uh look, I’m not knocking your cooking or anything, but there’s a bunch of raw fish in that stuff. Do you think you can throw it in the microwave or something?” The waiter did not understand him at all, so Chase raised his voice, “Mi-cro-wave, for uncooked fish-like thing!”

“Dude, it’s sushi. You’re supposed to eat it like that.” Chase turned around to see a pair of helmeted Xtacles behind him. One of them took the mini-canoe from the waiter and started picking random pieces of sushi.

“Hey, what the hell are you two doing here?” Chase hissed at the Xtacles, “I’m trying to make the move on this girl, and you’re totally messing up my vibe right now!”

“You’re going to a sushi party with Keiko Tsundere, and you didn’t invite us?” Newman whined as he took some sushi and opened up his helmet just a crack to eat the sushi. “C’mon, man! I thought we were buddies!”

“I’m not your buddy, I’m your teammate. There’s a difference.”

“Chase, do you remember why we came here?” The other helmeted Xtacle asked as he also opened up his helmet just a crack to eat some sushi.

“Uh, does it matter?”

“Do you even remember my name?”

Chase thought for a minute, and then said, “Not really, no.”

“My name is–”

“Y’know what? I don’t care. Now shut up and take off those helmets. You’re never gonna get any chicks if you keep hiding in your battle armor like that!”

The two Xtacles took off their helmets as Chase, Keiko, and the surrounding businessmen gasped out loud.

Suddenly, Chase struggled to catch his breath as he tried to ignore them and talk to Keiko again. He was getting that strange feeling again. His eyes wandered back to his teammates, except their faces were  no longer those of humans, but strange lizards with bumpy skin and sharp teeth.

“Chase?” One of them sounded a lot like Newman. “Chase, are you okay?”

Chase stumbled around, and found a nearby ninja holding a small wakizashi. <You there,> Chase said in his best Japanese voice, <Give to me your sword.>

The ninja did not give him the sword, so Chase took it from him.

“Holy shit,” the unnamed Xtacle asked, “Why is he stumbling around like that?”

“I think that large piece of glass stuck in his head is giving him hallucinations. Maybe we should take him to a hospital.”

“Yeah, but Keiko Tsundere’s right there! How often are we going to get the chance to bask in her loveliness?”

Chase took the wakizashi and launched an attack on the unnamed Xtacle, trying to stab him in the chest, except the armor was too strong for that sushi knife Chase was really wielding.

“Holy shit!” The Xtacle shouted, “He just tried to stab me!” Chase dropped the sword and punched him in the face, and then pulled out the man’s pistol and aimed it at Newman.

“Chase! It’s me, Newman!”

<You are not Newman!> Chase shouted in Japanese, <You are a lizardman with Newman’s voice and his sacred armor! Your trick will not work on me!>

At that moment, A figure broke through the surprisingly weak glass window of the fancy sushi restaurant and tackled Newman, sending him into the opposite wall with his rocket boots.

“Ladies and Gentlemen!” The figure shouted in a voice that sounded like it had just passed puberty, “I am Awesomer X, and I’m here to free my trapped comrades!”

Chase stared at the vision of manliness before him. It looked just like his hero Awesome X, but somehow Awesomer.

“C’mon Chase! You’re wanted back in America!”

“No! You cannot leave yet!” Chase looked behind him as the large breasted Japanese woman from his dream appeared to be floating in mid-air, “Our land still requires your services!”

“Look, you’re real hot, but I just beat the lizardmen!”

“Oh Chase, I am truly grateful, but there is another task you must face.”

“What task is that?”

The entire city of Tokyo began to shake.

“Aw, c’mon!”

blah blah blah, blah blah? Next time!