Chapter Two: The Quiet, Angry-Faced Girl
The girl with the quiet, angry face did not, of course, call herself ‘girl with the quiet, angry face.’ She was Charlotta Phelps, but Charlotta was the kind of young woman who did realize strangers must call her ‘quiet, angry-faced girl’ and she relished having a quiet, menacing demeanor that kept people unseated with her—she was able to project her frustration, sharpen it, and then strangers didn’t approach. A little girl, she looked like one, but she set it up so that men on the street must have been frightened of her. Who needs mace in this city? She was really very good at scaring the men on the METRO, and that was her best defense, and also her favorite game. She reasoned that she had better like doing it to them. Her offense.
There were more than the homeless-looking men who stared to play the game with. She played the ‘don’t you dare touch me’ silent treatment with the business-looking men who stared at the way she wore her coat, her purse, her body. Leaning on the silver pole on the METRO train with hips cocked, as if she had had enough. All those business-looking men could not have been from DC, almost no one living in her city was anyways, but Charlotta had learned that these men could hurt her with their misunderstanding, shame her by making obvious the distance she (knew she feared she) saw between them, if she ever allowed them to get near and take her, and tap her number down, and text her later,
Ur so beautiful. Nice finally talking to someone on the bus. Wanna get coffee later?
One Black woman's mad-feroz fantasy fiction world of talking horses, cheeky damsels, lesbian assassins, cat cities and bedtime stories...
Showing posts with label DC. Show all posts
Showing posts with label DC. Show all posts
Saturday, February 2, 2013
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Party in Mount Pleasant
Jawbreak Blue, Chapter Seven: A Party on the Pleasant
Mountain
When last we traveled with Gyra, Dansel Darrons and their Boatman
Stinson, the three had just finished up a holiday at the biggest
Red-And-Gold-Reserve any of them had ever seen.
Their time at the Anacostia River resort and casino had also refreshed
them—happily—and refunded them a bit of tangible fortune—finally—such that they
could continue on their adventure through post-apocalyptic 2012 Washington, DC…
Stinson, though he’d left their
boat behind (and it also did possess a gasoline engine), still went along using
the lone wooden oar as his walking stick. As they hiked up out of the Columbia
Heights subway station, he ignored the swell of echoing young-people’s
argument, or love spat, or God knows what it could have been coming out of
Dansel and Gyra:
“A gentleman will not insult
me, and no man not a gentleman can insult me.”
“You already used that one back
in Anacostia, Dansel—and what are you calling me now, a man? You’re such an
ass!”
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Random Skeevy Writing Contest vs NPR
Once upon a time, a long time ago, I decided to make a brave second attempt at submitting something of mine to a literary contest. The first literary contest I'd ever entered was most likely a scam.
I had to send them my piece and then twenty dollars and then last year's winner would choose this year's and then I didn't hear back for several months after the deadline and the typeface on the rejection postcard was crooked, and by then it didn't matter anyway because the crying was already done—Oh writers! We do get into our 'I NEEDZ PURBLISHED!' shennanigans now and then, don't we? That stupid scam became the bad ex-boyfriend throttling my future shy attempts at contest-writing.
I had to send them my piece and then twenty dollars and then last year's winner would choose this year's and then I didn't hear back for several months after the deadline and the typeface on the rejection postcard was crooked, and by then it didn't matter anyway because the crying was already done—Oh writers! We do get into our 'I NEEDZ PURBLISHED!' shennanigans now and then, don't we? That stupid scam became the bad ex-boyfriend throttling my future shy attempts at contest-writing.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
A Snowball Fight
This week's snow reminded me of this short story about how a really lopsided snowball fight brought two taciturn DC neighbors together. Totally a shameless re-post!
Blizzard of 2009
by J.Ingram
Dear Mr. Tannenbaum,
Please consider the following before you file criminal charges, or whatever:
A few years ago, I also threw a snowball at Dr. Somiley. Maybe you don't remember his family? They were at the open house. Dr. Somiley was a dentist. Also, no one liked him either. Not that I don't... dammit, I can't cross that out. I hate handwriting things, which means I have no intention of re-writing this either. But considering how late it is after being up all night, and that I want to get it through your mail slot before you leave the house, I hope you will understand. Well, in any case, like a lot of the more terrifying dentists, Somiley had one of those names that matched his profession. It should have been my first warning, I guess.
I don't know why I aimed the snowball at the old man's head. I have a wife and kids. I'm always telling them not to do it, because we can't afford it if someone gets it in their eye and we have to go the hospital. It's also the reason why we have a rule not to put rocks inside of snowballs, because that possibly doubles the bill compared to a regular snowball to the face. But it was right after that blizzard of 09. I hadn't done any Christmas shopping and we were stuck under two feet of snow. The last weekend before the holiday and I had to spend it shoveling out, that is, if anything was even open. The boys were inside, going crazy, but I was the one who had to get waist deep in it and make sure the walk was shoveled, salted, safe and all that. My wife would have helped but she was sick with the flu. Then, that old Somiley parks, gets out of his Cadillac, hobbling up the stairs to his rowhouse somehow looking decently good. To this day, I have no idea where he had been the previous night. Top hat, cane and all. I swear to goodness, he looked like a black Mr. Scrooge to me, cursing at the snow, scattering it with his cane, hating Christmas out loud when--however it was going--I'd worked my ass off this year and it was my one break before the big break. All two extra days of it. Did I also mention that I was once stuck on crutches for about half the year as a kid after I tore my ACL playing football? Defensive tackle for the Carroll Lions. It was the Tiny Tim inside of me, the kid who got cut and couldn't come back, then got fat in college. It was the man with two kids, a wife who is so happy sometimes, I'm afraid to ever be negative... it was the English major in me who hard-packed that snowball, leaned back and aimed for Somiley, in the head.
Only, in this case I slowed a little before I let it fly. In fact, I honestly threw under-handed so the poor guy could see it coming. Okay, so my voice broke and I might have gone, "Oh, look out there, Old Somiley."
It must have been hard to see it coming out of the winter sky, snowball against the drifting cloud remnants of yesterday's snow storm. I braced myself when he caught it. Caught it in leather gloves. Just like with you yesterday, right then, I thought Old Somiley was gonna kill me. That cane was still hanging off of his arm. He could chuck it real good if he wanted to. He'd already caught a snowball I wasn't even ready for.
I said something like, "Meant to throw it at you, actually. But then I thought it would be sort of mean. So, you know, I went underhand."
But then, Mr. Tannenbaum, old Somiley did the one thing you failed to do for some reason yesterday. That old man set down his hat and his cane, and he threw the snowball back. Before I knew it, I was making a new one, and then he was stuck down on the sidewalk, pitching them up at me. He couldn't get into his yard or up on his porch. I was stuck just beyond mine, up in the yard. Somiley had the advantage, because I never fixed my fence. Somiley ducked like he was in a war, not even laughing too hard when I got him. He was all under-handed, sent them soaring high up in the air. Those snow-bombs could have been heat-seeking, I swear. I was constantly looking up while I ran to make more. I'd see these things hovering, really stopped and thinking at the arc of their trajectories, before they plummeted right down on my head. Every time. Every single time, these snowballs came right out of my line of sight. I finally plunged into the snow, almost swam through it knit hat and all, to get close to the end of my yard, you know how it's stacked up off the street, like a fort wall? Note, that is the reason why I had to leap over the fence, sort of. Not because I was attacking you in a rage, like you started yelling. I also thank you for not calling the police like you promised you would. Remember that too, okay?
The other rowhouses across the street are sloped like the wrong side of a trench. Behind enemy lines, that upper crust sunny side of the street, Northwest DC. By the way, I thought you weren't like the rest of them.
At the edge of my yard (because our fence is brand new, now. It didn't lean into your side, like you accused), I finally got Somiley good. He was wheezing with laughter, crouched on the sidewalk directly beneath my perch, when I looked. Then, I called him 'Smiley', he actually responded to it, and I let him have a mud-flavored ice ball, right where he could taste it.
We laughed so hard together, we forgot how cold we were. He was pitiful, he really was. I felt bad for him, I said, but he didn't feel bad for me at all. He said that to my face.
"Can I help you get up to your porch?"
"Yes, Tim, you can, in fact shovel my walk for me. I earned more points than you did, that is how people tend to win games, isn't it?"
I got as far as his front steps in snow shoes when he gave me his house keys and explained where a second shovel was, by his front door. Then, Dr. Somiley did the last three stairs in his Sunday coat and I did his porch and the first two. Five stairs up to the porch just like my house. Just like your house. In case you forgot, though some might have the advantage of melting snow faster than others or growing greener lawns on the other side of the street, they're all the same, Mr. Tannenbaum.
He and I would say hello from time to time, after that. I eventually caught my wife's flu--with everything else going on, I forgot to get my shot--and Somiley came by with tea, which I don't like to drink, and homemade pork chop soup, that I didn't have any freaking clue existed! What I'm trying to say is, after the Phelps-Somiley Snow War of 2009, that creepy old dentist guy and I became better neighbors. Whenever it snowed, every year, we'd come onto our porches, shovel at least as far as the yard and then re-start the battle. Well, we’d try as early as the first snow, but there isn't always enough of it in DC. So then we’d wait until there's at least an inch. That's a normal, healthy snowfall here.
Somiley beat me every year, except for, I think it was two years ago, when the kids got involved. Charlotte screamed--I was already yelling too and she told us to stop before we broke any of our windows. Snowballs are pretty great at getting through wire fences if they're hard packed and small enough, and even past iron bars over your front windows. Not that I was hoping to aim for your front windows. So, the Phelps-Somiley Snow War of 2010 ended in a draw.
The following year, he and I got up really early and shoveled our back porches together. There’s perfect quiet in the back yards, here. The alley was almost completely quiet. And I never really liked my back yard. Very primordial. Mountain lions kill deer in the silence of the woods all the time--okay, so, not around here, but I hear it does happen. But to go out and do that with a friend, and for there to be no more flare than the thrill of adrenaline, no snarky kids with snot-noses, just aiming into the silence, daring to see it land before ducking again for cover. Cars pass through the alley and slow, peer up into our yards to tell if it really is an old black—err, African American man and his pudgy, winter-pasty, worse-for-wear neighbor. No neighbor able to deny that both of us have the bravery of real athletes in that pristine moment, to have risen to the occasion. Amazing.
Afterward, Somiley asked me about my two boys. Daniel is a freshman in college now with the Facebook page I'm not allowed in and all at, but back then he was just a shrimp starting out with texting callouses on both thumbs. I told him how Dannie drove me crazy, and Dr. Somiley gave a half-hearted snort, I think it was laughter. He said his son Bo never grew out of it, but that the father's attitude has more to do with how the son comes out and not to get upset if I can't make Dannie work harder right now, or eat better, or back-sass less.
"Back-sass? Bo? Pork chop soup? Did you say you were Southern, or did I always just assume as much from your accent?"
Somiley said, "No, Mr. Phelps. You never did ask. You appropriately minded your own business until now. I was born in Georgia, came up here to live with my father and then got sent back to finish out with his mother and my grandmother, down South. Satisfied?"
So, I assumed it wasn't a happy shuttling back and forth. Somiley became aware of his tone and assured that Washington, DC was now his home and he'd raised his kids here and all, in our very neighborhood, in fact. I didn't realize this because their son was about my age and living in another part of the District with his own family. They never visited.
Last year, I did not see Somiley as much. We weren't those kinds of neighbors to go over to one another's houses. I had my family and my work, and he had an axe to grind that I sensed I could never ask about. I didn't see any of his house except for the front door where the snow-shovel was kept during winter. Once, I was locked out and asked to use his bathroom and he stayed inside the house, though I could hear PBS Create blaring from the living room. He sort of shrank into his chair and pretended not to be home. I was, of course, perplexed, though one can't be perplexed about peeing for very long. Afterward, I didn't judge. I made myself forget about it. Then, late that year, Somiley started to have visitors. First, my wife said Somiley's son was there--wasn't it funny that he was named Bo?--she said. Charlotte's always interrupting herself. 'Not really, Charlie' I must have said because she shoved me at some point during that conversation. Charlotte remarked at how Bo had two boys to match our own, and that she couldn't tell if his wife was wearing a weave or not. Her hair was styled so beautifully and she wondered if she could try it? Was there a way to politely ask? One of my wife's co-workers took her to see Good Hair, with Chris Rock in it during the summer. I assume it was a funny movie. I also assume that Charlotte likes me making fun of her, for coming to me with such easy set-ups. Oh, dammit, I can't cross that out, either. Anyways, my wife is charming, really charming if you would just try to get to know us, Mr. Tannenbaum. She's silly, but she doesn't mean any harm.
On the other hand, and what I want you to know is, your walls are thin. I heard you when you shouted that I was a terrible neighbor. Have you lived in a rowhouse before? When Somiley was there, we heard a few arguments come through the walls too. First, with his daughter-in-law with the 'good weave' as my wife says--sadly, I don't know this woman's name. She should have been the one who sold you the house, the real estate agent. Next, Bo would come without the kids or wife and he and his father would get loud. I heard only parts of their arguments. At that time, it was something about Somiley needing a ride to get places. His Cadillac hadn't been moved from its parking space all last winter, come to think of it. After I got laid off, I didn't have much else to do. I found a way to offer him a ride, politely, I thought, but that conversation ended badly. We heard less and less from him and more and more from his son. The Metro Access van and sometimes a shuttle from George Washington Hospital Center would drop him off. I was born at GW, not that I remember it. But I always think it when the name comes up. A worker would try to help Somiley inside his house every time, but he refused. I could tell by their looks, they hated Somiley like I did once. If it weren't for the economy, the one hospital guy I noticed would have pitched that snowball in his hand, during the winter of 2011.
The snow almost didn't come at all that year. In fact, I felt certain that it wouldn't, and I also wanted an excuse to talk to Somiley, so one day, making my snow shovel more than obvious where I stood on his back porch, I knocked on his door. He came bundled up and we sat on his porch. Somiley did not look good at all. Pale for him, even gaunt-looking. He wasn't going to the hospital anymore. I think I knew. Charlotte says that I can't have known, but right then, I knew. It was going to be his last Christmas.
"You know, my son works down at the National Zoo. That's why he's here sometimes."
I doubted that, until Somiley started to smile with his abominably straight teeth. I watched him talk about the Invertebrate House, Bo called it 'Inverts' and that his son cleaned a tank full of hissing cockroaches when he started out. Now, he ordered a team of volunteers around who giggled through cleaning up after animals, chopping earthworms... you name it, they did it with him and they loved it, for some reason. Somiley was proud, saying that about his son Bo. There was an octopus at Inverts--I'd seen the octopus, but I hadn't realized it wasn't the exact same octopus I knew as a child. Somiley knew all the good stuff, the real stuff. The reasons behind everything.
"I think I can... I think I can ask him. You could take your boys with him to see what goes on behind the lobster tank, or how they feed the spiders. Would they like that, Tim?"
"Oh, that's kind of you, but my boys are getting too old for the Zoo. They'd just complain at me and make fools of themselves. Don't trouble yourself. If I can't shovel your walk, since the forecast was wrong about snow, yet again... is there anything else I can do for you, Dr. Somiley?"
"Nobody's too old for nature, Bo. Don't go thinking that just cause you do something unconventional, that it's useless."
"But I'm Tim. Dr. Somiley, are you alright? I think you should get back inside."
"You chose to work from the heart. No shame in that. Sometimes it's not as tangible as looking inside a person's mouth and seeing that they need a filling. Sometimes, people need to smile. The one thing daddy, your grandaddy taught me. Nature can heal a body like nothing else. It's why I got sent back to Georgia."
I'm a bit of a sleuth, you might have already sensed it. "Was that really the reason?"
Somiley stood in the doorway, looking exhausted. He’d slipped into some kind of… I dunno, another way of speaking, as if he were at home, really down home. "No. But it's what your granddad told me. He had some stuff goin' on... but now that I'm older, I think it was nice of him, to go out of his way and make it bigger and better than it really was. Just because he did it in a strange way don't mean it wasn't gettin' at the truth. Now, you keep at it, Tim. Keep those boys smilin'. You reach out however you can. Whatsoever you do, do good work." He lifted his hands up and reminded me of a preacher. That's not racist, is it? I hope not. He looked like a preacher. He felt to me like a preacher. That was my last conversation with Somiley.
He also spoke a lot differently around his son than he did me. Sometime after New Years' an ambulance came to the house. Mr. Somiley had passed away.
So that you understand, the house you're living in right now isn't even yours. It almost went to Bo and his sons who are the same age as my sons. My wife was dead-set on asking Bo’s wife about the weave, over tea someday. We were ready to help the family move on. I found a plastic snow-ball gun thing at the Target on Columbia Road. I told Dannie and James that they would be in charge of artillery and would have to keep the snowballs coming. Dannie was a senior in high school. He actually wanted to be in the Phelps-Somiley Snow War of 2012. It was to be the snow-ball fight to end all snowball fights. But only if Dannie could use the Snowshooter Mega-Apocalypse 9000.
Mr. Tannenbaum, the land you live on is sacred ground. It is a battlefield where men who spend their entire summers wrestling with, um, lobsters and invertebrates and stuff come home then make ready to dig into the trenches. It is a place where oldsters and youngsters make a pact to be bad once a year, while the wives sit down to talk about fake hair, of all things. If you had any balls about you yesterday, you would have taken that snow-ball to the face. You would have liked it and you would have returned fire!
I suppose this started out as an apology letter, evidence of how I’m a good neighbor, but now it's not. This is documentation, with a copy for myself to-file, that when the Somileys could not move in and raise a third generation because it was too painful, I didn't give up. We invited you over and you never came. I asked you politely about where we should build our new fence and you only grunted at me. I always try and scooch up so that you can have a parking space if no one else takes it. I ask if you've been to the Zoo yet. I understand that people want their privacy, especially these days. Especially in this city. And just because you're of an age, I know you don't want others assuming that you need help, so after this, I won't push anymore.
But now you know that's why I did it. I was trying to be a good neighbor. I am sorry that I aimed for the head. Being out of work, I play too many console games not to make it a kills hot on the first try, it wasn't anything personal. But I no longer want to live in a city where people don't say hello on the streets or know how their neighbors are really doing. Nor do I want to live in a world where a grown man can't throw a friendly snowball across the fence.
Regards and have a Happy Holiday,
Tim Phelps
Northwest, DC.
Tim Phelps, his family, and all his neighbors are fictional characters based on many of my real life experiences growing up, volunteering, playing, and working as a black—err, an African American--uh, no let's stick with black woman in Northwest Washington, DC.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Sanur 2, Whiteblank
Champagne, Treachery and a little WhiteBlank
"You know," Jeremie snarled--or no, never that. Not on my baby. My baby love was definitely smiling, just gently off, when he said, "I didn't realize how close you and Tim still were. Only a couple of days ago, I was running for my life to an evacuation port, because the Hunter Alliance had been ousted from the Ruminati. It happened at our very own opening session. This is a new year, I could still taste the champagne on my tongue from that... oh you wouldn't believe the Victory Brunch of the Allies. Remember, I always dreamed of it, but it was Norton said to call it that, do you remember him too? But, as all the star-streaked galaxy flew by us on that flight from Wyle, I was stuck thinking... Who set us up? Who knew exactly which arms to twist votes out of in the Hunter's Alliance and surround the place with turned guard so fast?
"Then we got back to base here in DC, and I saw the new campaign posters all over the streets. Each one roared in bold about how we Hunters hadn't worked hard to restore anything at all, and that this last surviving Imperial Ungulati with his new 'repentant' senators were going to enforce order. Feast on all dissidents... But it was Tim's face I wanted to rip down from every Metro stop or bike stand. Not some half-deer's. Then again, if Tim hadn't bothered to change his face, not even now, then I would have noticed him years before, sneaking among our ranks. But why would he even go so far in the first place? I would have welcomed Tim back, I prayed for him all these years, he must have known I would. Ohhhh... I can't think. It's been snowing on and on, for weeks because of the posters. Posters, then snow. What ever happened to us, Golga?"
How could Commander Jeremie Dutch of the 1st Region's Interplanetary Hunter Alliance not know?
"Or no. No, I would have definitely wanted to see Tim's cheating face because... While I was waiting for the others to regroup and reboot, the very thought of lying, scheming little bitches returned another wonderful memory. You had to still be alive, somewhere. You, Golga."
Jeremy got nearer, pulses of white breath parted to show the real distraught face and form of a man who always felt so soothing and right, somehow regal in nature, however life roughed him up. Jeremie wasn't supposed to didn't flinch or erupt. He brooded, then stood to act. This new sparkling anger didn't fit him. "Golga. We're frozen and at our end with Emperor Crush--Tim's siege, and I need you to help me understand... Three days ago, you were sitting up late in your apartment mangling this thing, right?" Jeremie held up what was now a gunmetal cuff with wires torn out of it.
The pink paint-stripped, pried apart edges weren't dripping blood, but something close. That rose red stuff-of-life all biotech was immersed in behind its metal housing became a gelatin at some temperatures, like raw salmon flesh. Now that Free Me's innards weren't being kept at proper conditions, it dripped against the laws of physics and clotted on the cold floor, where Liyane craned her neck to watch. Only reminiscent of blood, Biotech Blood was meant to alarm the human instinct to safeguard complex and delicate technology most people used but couldn't understand. Light passed through what was something more like battery acid, as if it were a jewel.
In case studies Liyane remembered by wrote, a negligible percentage of people, usually those with distressed childhoods, or other terrible trauma were drawn to covet the robotic blood, play with it, as Jeremie had been doing. He now slammed abused Free Me on the steel table next to her exposed thigh and placed, regretting his temper, a stained screwdriver next to it. His hands were dripping with Bio Blood.
"So, this is a child's toy, Golga? Hunting rifles are outlawed, but you rigged an old deer hunting game from before Invasion, to target and shoot real deer, anything with the DNA. This is clever, I admit that, just like your old work. Perfect for today's deer police. I see that you used your thesis work after all, though none of us got our chance to graduate. How do I modify this so that when the Ungulates come back, it actually works?"
Liyane tried to speak, but only a frozen shudder passed over blistered lips. Why? Cold and discomfort whited any more focused thought than memories of textbooks.
"You must know something about its matrix, no Hunter engineer can untangle it... And it can't be that difficult either. Golga--Liyane, whatever, and don't you dare lie to me... You kept sharp somehow, when the WPP records say you were working as a kindergarten teacher for eight years. You must have some idea, anything?"
Where were her clothes? What was he going to do? Liyane saw that she was surrounded by metal odds and ends, silver utensils, machine parts. "Look at me, Golga. They didn't send the deer police after you. We checked before we got snowed in. The Ruminati had nothing to do with your salvation, this time. The new Emperor San'ur Crush sent his special Unglate Ops after you. After your treacherous ass!" he sparked, for no reason at all. "When we went into the police station, get your records out of the damned imperial system, my Hunters were dealing with the freaking SOU, Golga!"
He spoke at times, as if they were still in the old skip-and-smoke hunting group together. At others, they were friends and lovers verging on a tenuous reunion after hurt. The human brain just didn't fizzle that way, because of the cold? "I knew you were in witness protection, but the SOU was looking after you? So then, you do still talk to Tim, you and the Emperor are connected. Was it you, like I was thinking... on the ship... Was it you setting me up again on Wyle, before the Ruminati? Do you know that, right now, the man who loved you most of all, and your old friends can't get out of this bunker for food or potable water? We're left with... surviving on... Not even off this damned planet? We can't go anywhere. We're stuck here on Earth beneath a blizzard now because Emperor San'ur Crush, now knows where the other senators have fled! Because of you!"
"I love you too, Jeremie. Oh my baby... I never ever stopped." and that cracked and hurt at the corners of Liyane's blue lips. "Reboot? Matrices? You were gone, then... What... happened to you?"
Jeremie leaned elbows on the edge of the work table and covered his eyes. "No. This isn't right. I came back from the dead, for this shit?!"
Better luck next rebellion, spaghetti legs.
Jeremie raged at the broken piece of Free Me, stabbed it with the screwdriver a few times, and then smashed it on the ground. "...I still can't get it to shut up, either."
Liyane shivered with smile, tested his lips with one patient, frost-white finger, kissed him. So warm, at last.
He returned, "I should not have let you do that..." But then Jeremie let Liyane do it again.
Why did he smell so strongly of biotech blood? All over him. Like the last time she had seen him. How long ago had that been... Jeremie's warm torso speared through by twelve-points, blood smear as his chest was forced up, let down the glass again. His death cracked the camera lens for even more dramatic effect... On a fine, Falcene biotech television screen. Rose at the flat frame edges... One could smell the crushed snow and copper blood, as if truly there... Beyond, was a floor-length square of winter's light coming from the window. Neighbors outside pushed up their fine apartment windows and threw turquoise streamers down into the streets of Falcinetya City.
Liyane remembered that she changed channel to a cooking show rather than react, but that filled the apartment with roasted garlic and it made her hungry. Ignore it. Tighten laces of the Nude Form, is it a little better? The buy-all-day channel smelled like the gentle parfum of a fancy downtown department store. Maybe plump here or tug down a bit more, tighten there... No. Not enough. "Turn screen off."
My lovely, as you wish. And then, the television extinguished.
On that day, Liyane breathed and renewed a focused admiration of her own naked silhouette in the mirror. Tightened laces up to a blue ribbon sewn through platinum eyeholes in her shoulder blades. Things were going to be alright. New body, new money, on the right side of the empire now. Life was already getting better. Liyane further willed it, and the lights thanked her for igniting them. A hopeful rose red mood light made the apartment smell like the hollow romantic burn of a candle. Liyane forced her need still more, and the wool curtains drifted together, to shutter out a Falcene celebration of justice, through use of excessive broadcast violence. Now, take a bow, little woman: the last conceited act of your life.
Liyane awakened again, tossed head and hair back to find her knees bent and dragging on the silver floor. The sharp pain made her gasp, flatten tongue against the roof of her dry mouth, but she couldn't hear her own screaming. And there would always be a terrified part of her that couldn't stand it if the Nude Form bruised in places.
Above the quake and roar of fire-bombs, rifle blasts, and the steel sides of the Hunter Underground shaking, Liyane could hear the crack of hooves tramping in a constant gait larger than her desperate race to keep from ruining her good body. They had her arms and she was being dragged.
One gray furred face turned beneath its helmet with holes for antlers. Wet nose was licked, “Make sure Emperor San'ur Crush knows the Hunters stripped her and sold it. How many lifetimes worth, do you think?”
Liyane hanged head low again. Her legs burned with the effort, her feet pumping calf muscles that were raw, oozed, bled a harder red than anything inside of Free Me. Quick, panicked pulses of breath. Where was it? What happened to it? How could he...? It had been her only thing, the one they'd promised that made any sense, the one reason she could stand to go through any of it these long eight years!
Jeremie, 'my baby', and all her old Hunter rebel friends in need, had been ripping the Nude Form from Liyane's flesh in that cold, cold room. Now that the pain was bringing her red, slick, analytical and back alive, Liyane recognized the sharp tang of WhiteBlank in her mouth. Years ago, it was a drug only the galactic mob had the power to trade in. Effects: numbness to cold and pain, enchanting hallucinations. And, in the long term: borderline personalities, severe memory loss.
“Let us hope beauty is not what the great Crush wanted her for.” said the other half-deer soldier. It flicked its white spade tail as these half-animals always did on mention of their Emperor, to signal a worse danger coming.
. . .
Next: The Holidays may be drawing to a close, but it's always wintery on Wyle, the Ungulati Imperial Planet.
(Randitty-O-Meter 9: You either want your own Nude Form, or a sweet-talking TV. Damned sexy, sustainable Biotech.)
Sunday, December 12, 2010
JBB, Fate and Basketball
Jawbreak Blue
by J. Ingram
It was hard not to pass the Thanksgiving holiday struggling back across the Anacostia River after Gyra and Dansel got a chance to see what was on the other side of it. Most of the makeshift town along those silvery shores was leaned up against the biggest Red-and-Gold-Reserve either of them had ever been presented with. And, taking care to use his lesser known alias, Bartel Barrons guided his good woman-friend inside those crimson-colored glass doors. Stinson the Boatman proudly read all the gilded gold signs for them once they all got inside.
"George-Ton and Tourism Co: for your realest DC experience, Target Presents: Columbia Heights Generalist's Store, and The Side Hustle Intranet Lounge--for all your real-world needs when you aren't hangin' out and having a life's-time." the old man grinned gray stubble, and leaned on his boat's oar that he used as a walking-stick. "Beyond this resort, my friends, are all points north-west. This is the grand gate to it. Now you two kids are glad you paid all this money to take me here, aren't you?" Then, their only ride departed for the Uno tables, without explanation. Gyra turned round again and flinched at where he now wasn't, wondering why the old man's voice seemed disembodied.
Gyra said, "I don't understand, Dansel. We aren't even in Northwest yet?"
Dansel wriggled flat fingers imbetween the buttons of his tan vest. He was watching something in particular and chewed lips on the far side of his mouth at wanting it. "That's just it, Gyra. Folks can come here, spend a lot less, and marvel that they've--kind of--been."
"Is that because it's so dangerous to go all the way out there on your own the way things are?" but Gyra found herself speaking to another ghost. The next time she spied her friend Dansel, the back of his head was turned to a Redskins game blaring on the bar's flat screen, and he was flipping through some of his bluest dollar bills faster than ever. Other men at the table smoked cigars and talked the talk. Gyra wondered at how some people slipped into their old moods so fast.
Then, "Ohmigosh! It's a real life fortune teller--please, Miss Mystic, can you tell me whether or not I'll finish college or at least grow up to be a DC Rollergirl?"
This merriment went on for days. The three travelers rarely saw one another, but that they shared a suite helped--at least at the bottom of the night, they kept the same sleeping hours. Later, that turned into two rooms done in faded bars-and-stars when Stinson lost his share of what Dansel had ultimately paid him for. This dwindled to just one bed with them sleeping in shifts, once Dansel finally lost what was left of his money. He gave them a spectacular Thanksgiving dinner with all the trimmings but it turned out to be his last good streak of luck at fantasy football. "I'm down to my Fenty Greens. Nobody'll want those." he frowned. "I just can't understand these guys--they know about Redskins games I've never seen before. And then I tried to bet on the Caps or DC United, but I hadn't a sense of those teams either. Damn and more damn."
Gyra rubbed Dansel's shoulder. She'd written to the Cannoneer of course, but he hadn't sent any money back or substantial correspondence other than to ask whether she and Dansel could stay away a little longer. This made Gyra screw up her face now and again, imagining what foolishness her father had fallen into.
Old Stinson kicked his boots off and went from the breakfast table where their coins and scraggly bills were pooled together, then and lay down on the bed. "Oh well, guess we'll have to just stay here forever, earnin' what we earn and lovin' what we love. And never having to see another snot-nosed, 'can I have some money grandad' relatives, ever.'"
It was uncomfortable, learning the spooky Boatman's scheme all this time was to supplant his grandchildren.
"If it makes you feel better, Dansel, I've been going to a fortune teller this last month and she says we're on the verge of a breakthrough. Just one more payment--and there's enough here for my last session."
"Why does it sound like you finally up and took yourself to therapy, Gyra?"
Gyra chose not to answer. "Can I take what's here on the table and go? I've spent the least money out of all of us, and I promise to bring back dinner later. I bet this old bracelet will go for something at El Pollo Sabroso..."
"But I don't like peruvian chicken." Stinson complained absently.
"No, Gyra, we need the last of this money." Dansel rested chin in palm, then found a smile for her. "Though I am glad you're getting help. What is this Mystic woman telling you, by the way?"
"I have a case of urban despair, like we already talked about. But she's also about to tell me what I have to do, to fix it. I don't want to end up like my Momma did, Dansel."
"You won't end up like her. But we don't have the money to entertain you either, nor myself, nor Stinson anymore. And someone like that Mystic woman is probably no help anyway if she's so money-grubby. Next thing you know, she'll want to introduce you to her friend the acupuncturist, or... I don't know. Let's all just breathe a moment and think about what we might do to get back home."
"Miss Mystic knows a real-life wizard, Dansel! That's who I'm on the verge of meeting--I didn't want to say it, because look at you, you're already looking it, but I've almost earned the right to see him, a true wizard with the power to change everything. Please don't deprive me of that, dear Sir!"
Stinson complained about their way of speaking, again. Gyra became so incredulous that eventually she had to remove herself from the room, claiming that she would find the money for therapy and wizardry somewhere, somehow.
When her voice was done echoing down the hallway, Stinson raised up a little on his elbows. "Her Miss Mystic does know a real Wizard. Dansel--how can you be so into fantasy sports and not catch it?"
Dansel wondered aloud between fingers folded before his mouth, "Who invited you to dip into my savings in the first place, or tag along with me and Gyra anyways?"
"You stupid boy--I'm talkin' about there being real celebrities downstairs, who play basketball! What if you chat one of them up, then they go back to Downtown-civilization and throw a game or two... that could be our way out. What if one of them even knows Michael Jordan?"
"Anybody could just call themselves a magician or whatever, especially out here. And, that whole Michael Jordan owning the Wizards, and then playing on the team and then fleeing DC... we already did that and suffered from that. Why would any professional athlete ever listen to me anyways?"
"Well, Dansel, if it can't be something so big, then it is about there bein' real people from behind the Beltway Wall way out here, in this part of the city. Somebody's bound to have a tip on what's really going on out there--stuff that not even those friends of yours downstairs could know. There must be scores and rosters nobody in this city has seen since the Near Revolution of 2010--if you don't get up right now, then I'm going to, and I don't know that I'll be so fast convinced about sharing my wealth when you're being so danged stubborn about a free lunch!"
And so, the two men went off to find Gyra, her Mystic, or the Mystic's Wizard, himself.
It took a whole night of sneaking around, asking questions without letting on that real people from beyond the Beltway Wall were someplace in the Red-and-Gold resort. Dansel and Stinson schemed their way backstage of a live junkyard band concert, they shuffled at bachata to navigate around a discotec dance floor unnoticed, while peering in people's faces for any celebrity they recognized. Stinson chatted up an old woman in broken Vietnamese that Dansel didn't think him capable of, and then later came Stinson's turn to cringe while Dansel attempted to pass off elementary French as Haitian Creole to a woman who put hands on her hips and left when she realized that, no, he wasn't flirting with her and not even selling anything. This polished off young man was going crazy after some kind of Wizard.
"I just realized, I don't know what in the world this guy looks like, and we can't even call him by name since we haven't seen a new anything-kind-of-game in two years. It really is pointless."
"But he'd be tall, and he'd have on sneakers, right?"
Dansel broke down and laughed. Or, was he crying? Something about Stinson was as sweet as an old man could get, but also tragic. If that was all his cohort had aimed for, then they'd surely wasted all these hours of search.
This latest miserable ruminating was about when a tall man in sneakers and wearing a bathrobe covered in gold stars stopped in front of them and waved a large hand across their faces. Dansel and Stinson frightened up straight, thinking some spell was cast. But, no, that was just the difference in height. The robed stranger had been waving hello. They also noticed his costume was really some standard-issue team gear the Wizards probably gave their players to use in the locker rooms. And, well, the Red-and-Gold-Reserve was a hotel and resort, wasn't it?
"I hear that you two are looking for a Wizard." Dansel tried to speak up, but he was snapped at. "I already know what you men seek. I have here, in the palm of this great hand, something that will grant you access to all of your dreams, anything you would have desired in life, I can make it, I can shoot it from all over the court, but only for those fans who are worthy. If you can answer my riddle, what is in my very hand, right now, can be yours--"
"No, I don't think so. You've got as many holes in your shoes as I did before I painted over them." Dansel said. "We just want an inside take on any of the sports teams out there in downtown DC right now. I've got guys down at the bar forecasting a season ahead of me, and it's not like anybody can look it up on the intranet."
"Ah yes, the intranet. So different from our... internet. I really miss being able to check my Facebook." said the Wizard. "I'm Howard Lanier, by the way. They had me at point guard before I decided to protest the latest section of wall and got banished from Downtown. Out here in the real city, though, nobody knows who I am--I wasn't on the team in 2010. So, I ended up speaking out for people who not only couldn't have asked for it, maybe they don't even deserve it."
Dansel wasn't or chose not to be offended. "Did you help the Wizards win anything, while you played with them?"
Howard shrugged, and the toll of dealing with more disinterested people seemed to wear in his voice. "My girlfriend Shandrea once did, but she won't speak about it. And, I never see her because she's lost her mind pretending to be a real mystic. Shandrea only tells fortunes these days. We got banished together."
So, they all were going to be stuck in paradise with no way to enjoy it. Dansel was also secretly horrified at the Cannoneer leaving Gyra entirely to him without any paternal restriction in his letters--the romantic hope and reason for their delay being so obvious in that sense, though it couldn't have been written. And then, Stinson having adopted he and Gyra so fast was still more frightening. Now that they three were broke together, perhaps he and Gyra even owed Stinson as much money as his real relatives, wherever they were.
When Dansel looked so dismayed, the Wizard Howard seized upon it. "Now then, I know you guys want to guess, what it is that I have in my hand?"
"That's not a riddle by the way."
"Fine, I'll just show it to you." and Howard uncurled long, strong fingers to reveal a rubber banded set of thin paper slips. The power latent in those small cards was suggested by the strange writing embossed everyhere--or was it an enchanted code, blacker than night itself? And then also, a soapsud metallic gleam smiled back at Dansel when he recognized it. "So, can I sell you guys some superbowl tickets?"
"How much?" Stinson srutinized.
"WHO'S PLAYING?" Dansel covered his mouth. He was shouting, anyone might hear and rush over... when he'd already seen, he already sensed it.
"Well the Redskins are, of course. Didn't I just explain to you guys that I got fired for protesting them moving the Beltway Wall, in order to build a stadium down on the National Mall? That's what Superbowl 2012 is--a sham. And the city practically bought the game. Meanwhile, so many of its residents are being disenfranchised. The people can't leave the city, most of them don't even have access to proper schools or even the internet..."
"...and they have no idea that the Redskins are back in the Superbowl." Dansel was amazed.
"Yep, and their chance of winning is pretty damned good too. You know, because so much money got thrown at the team these last two years."
Dansel clamped fingers down over the Wizard's palm, smiled hard while he possibly crushed the man's hand. "I will sell you, the clothes off of my back and go crawling through the city naked for these. How much?"
How much?
How much?
How much?
To trudge penitent through the streets of DC,
To smuggle across the Beltway Wall to see,
Something right,
Something just,
How much?
But Dansel didn't have any money.
"Well," said Howard the Wizard, "I'm finding that these aren't really worth anything to folks here, you know, if you think about how impossible it is to get past any of the stilt-bridges or beyond the Beltway Wall. But if you two guys want them so bad that you'd actually take them off my hands and rid of me these stale memories in exchange for something... you can have this set of ten for a song if you just get your crazed friend Gyro-whatever away from my Shandrea so I can finally have an evening alone with her. I don't care if God himself comes to DC and sets up his throne on the National Mall, you couldn't pay me to go back Downtown again."
And so, when not even the Wizard would, Dansel was going to find a way.
Next: San'ur Crush is almost in town, kids! Hope you're nice and ready with your riot gear on...
by J. Ingram
Six: Fate and Basketball
It was hard not to pass the Thanksgiving holiday struggling back across the Anacostia River after Gyra and Dansel got a chance to see what was on the other side of it. Most of the makeshift town along those silvery shores was leaned up against the biggest Red-and-Gold-Reserve either of them had ever been presented with. And, taking care to use his lesser known alias, Bartel Barrons guided his good woman-friend inside those crimson-colored glass doors. Stinson the Boatman proudly read all the gilded gold signs for them once they all got inside.
"George-Ton and Tourism Co: for your realest DC experience, Target Presents: Columbia Heights Generalist's Store, and The Side Hustle Intranet Lounge--for all your real-world needs when you aren't hangin' out and having a life's-time." the old man grinned gray stubble, and leaned on his boat's oar that he used as a walking-stick. "Beyond this resort, my friends, are all points north-west. This is the grand gate to it. Now you two kids are glad you paid all this money to take me here, aren't you?" Then, their only ride departed for the Uno tables, without explanation. Gyra turned round again and flinched at where he now wasn't, wondering why the old man's voice seemed disembodied.
Gyra said, "I don't understand, Dansel. We aren't even in Northwest yet?"
Dansel wriggled flat fingers imbetween the buttons of his tan vest. He was watching something in particular and chewed lips on the far side of his mouth at wanting it. "That's just it, Gyra. Folks can come here, spend a lot less, and marvel that they've--kind of--been."
"Is that because it's so dangerous to go all the way out there on your own the way things are?" but Gyra found herself speaking to another ghost. The next time she spied her friend Dansel, the back of his head was turned to a Redskins game blaring on the bar's flat screen, and he was flipping through some of his bluest dollar bills faster than ever. Other men at the table smoked cigars and talked the talk. Gyra wondered at how some people slipped into their old moods so fast.
Then, "Ohmigosh! It's a real life fortune teller--please, Miss Mystic, can you tell me whether or not I'll finish college or at least grow up to be a DC Rollergirl?"
This merriment went on for days. The three travelers rarely saw one another, but that they shared a suite helped--at least at the bottom of the night, they kept the same sleeping hours. Later, that turned into two rooms done in faded bars-and-stars when Stinson lost his share of what Dansel had ultimately paid him for. This dwindled to just one bed with them sleeping in shifts, once Dansel finally lost what was left of his money. He gave them a spectacular Thanksgiving dinner with all the trimmings but it turned out to be his last good streak of luck at fantasy football. "I'm down to my Fenty Greens. Nobody'll want those." he frowned. "I just can't understand these guys--they know about Redskins games I've never seen before. And then I tried to bet on the Caps or DC United, but I hadn't a sense of those teams either. Damn and more damn."
Gyra rubbed Dansel's shoulder. She'd written to the Cannoneer of course, but he hadn't sent any money back or substantial correspondence other than to ask whether she and Dansel could stay away a little longer. This made Gyra screw up her face now and again, imagining what foolishness her father had fallen into.
Old Stinson kicked his boots off and went from the breakfast table where their coins and scraggly bills were pooled together, then and lay down on the bed. "Oh well, guess we'll have to just stay here forever, earnin' what we earn and lovin' what we love. And never having to see another snot-nosed, 'can I have some money grandad' relatives, ever.'"
It was uncomfortable, learning the spooky Boatman's scheme all this time was to supplant his grandchildren.
"If it makes you feel better, Dansel, I've been going to a fortune teller this last month and she says we're on the verge of a breakthrough. Just one more payment--and there's enough here for my last session."
"Why does it sound like you finally up and took yourself to therapy, Gyra?"
Gyra chose not to answer. "Can I take what's here on the table and go? I've spent the least money out of all of us, and I promise to bring back dinner later. I bet this old bracelet will go for something at El Pollo Sabroso..."
"But I don't like peruvian chicken." Stinson complained absently.
"No, Gyra, we need the last of this money." Dansel rested chin in palm, then found a smile for her. "Though I am glad you're getting help. What is this Mystic woman telling you, by the way?"
"I have a case of urban despair, like we already talked about. But she's also about to tell me what I have to do, to fix it. I don't want to end up like my Momma did, Dansel."
"You won't end up like her. But we don't have the money to entertain you either, nor myself, nor Stinson anymore. And someone like that Mystic woman is probably no help anyway if she's so money-grubby. Next thing you know, she'll want to introduce you to her friend the acupuncturist, or... I don't know. Let's all just breathe a moment and think about what we might do to get back home."
"Miss Mystic knows a real-life wizard, Dansel! That's who I'm on the verge of meeting--I didn't want to say it, because look at you, you're already looking it, but I've almost earned the right to see him, a true wizard with the power to change everything. Please don't deprive me of that, dear Sir!"
Stinson complained about their way of speaking, again. Gyra became so incredulous that eventually she had to remove herself from the room, claiming that she would find the money for therapy and wizardry somewhere, somehow.
When her voice was done echoing down the hallway, Stinson raised up a little on his elbows. "Her Miss Mystic does know a real Wizard. Dansel--how can you be so into fantasy sports and not catch it?"
Dansel wondered aloud between fingers folded before his mouth, "Who invited you to dip into my savings in the first place, or tag along with me and Gyra anyways?"
"You stupid boy--I'm talkin' about there being real celebrities downstairs, who play basketball! What if you chat one of them up, then they go back to Downtown-civilization and throw a game or two... that could be our way out. What if one of them even knows Michael Jordan?"
"Anybody could just call themselves a magician or whatever, especially out here. And, that whole Michael Jordan owning the Wizards, and then playing on the team and then fleeing DC... we already did that and suffered from that. Why would any professional athlete ever listen to me anyways?"
"Well, Dansel, if it can't be something so big, then it is about there bein' real people from behind the Beltway Wall way out here, in this part of the city. Somebody's bound to have a tip on what's really going on out there--stuff that not even those friends of yours downstairs could know. There must be scores and rosters nobody in this city has seen since the Near Revolution of 2010--if you don't get up right now, then I'm going to, and I don't know that I'll be so fast convinced about sharing my wealth when you're being so danged stubborn about a free lunch!"
And so, the two men went off to find Gyra, her Mystic, or the Mystic's Wizard, himself.
It took a whole night of sneaking around, asking questions without letting on that real people from beyond the Beltway Wall were someplace in the Red-and-Gold resort. Dansel and Stinson schemed their way backstage of a live junkyard band concert, they shuffled at bachata to navigate around a discotec dance floor unnoticed, while peering in people's faces for any celebrity they recognized. Stinson chatted up an old woman in broken Vietnamese that Dansel didn't think him capable of, and then later came Stinson's turn to cringe while Dansel attempted to pass off elementary French as Haitian Creole to a woman who put hands on her hips and left when she realized that, no, he wasn't flirting with her and not even selling anything. This polished off young man was going crazy after some kind of Wizard.
"I just realized, I don't know what in the world this guy looks like, and we can't even call him by name since we haven't seen a new anything-kind-of-game in two years. It really is pointless."
"But he'd be tall, and he'd have on sneakers, right?"
Dansel broke down and laughed. Or, was he crying? Something about Stinson was as sweet as an old man could get, but also tragic. If that was all his cohort had aimed for, then they'd surely wasted all these hours of search.
This latest miserable ruminating was about when a tall man in sneakers and wearing a bathrobe covered in gold stars stopped in front of them and waved a large hand across their faces. Dansel and Stinson frightened up straight, thinking some spell was cast. But, no, that was just the difference in height. The robed stranger had been waving hello. They also noticed his costume was really some standard-issue team gear the Wizards probably gave their players to use in the locker rooms. And, well, the Red-and-Gold-Reserve was a hotel and resort, wasn't it?
"I hear that you two are looking for a Wizard." Dansel tried to speak up, but he was snapped at. "I already know what you men seek. I have here, in the palm of this great hand, something that will grant you access to all of your dreams, anything you would have desired in life, I can make it, I can shoot it from all over the court, but only for those fans who are worthy. If you can answer my riddle, what is in my very hand, right now, can be yours--"
"No, I don't think so. You've got as many holes in your shoes as I did before I painted over them." Dansel said. "We just want an inside take on any of the sports teams out there in downtown DC right now. I've got guys down at the bar forecasting a season ahead of me, and it's not like anybody can look it up on the intranet."
"Ah yes, the intranet. So different from our... internet. I really miss being able to check my Facebook." said the Wizard. "I'm Howard Lanier, by the way. They had me at point guard before I decided to protest the latest section of wall and got banished from Downtown. Out here in the real city, though, nobody knows who I am--I wasn't on the team in 2010. So, I ended up speaking out for people who not only couldn't have asked for it, maybe they don't even deserve it."
Dansel wasn't or chose not to be offended. "Did you help the Wizards win anything, while you played with them?"
Howard shrugged, and the toll of dealing with more disinterested people seemed to wear in his voice. "My girlfriend Shandrea once did, but she won't speak about it. And, I never see her because she's lost her mind pretending to be a real mystic. Shandrea only tells fortunes these days. We got banished together."
So, they all were going to be stuck in paradise with no way to enjoy it. Dansel was also secretly horrified at the Cannoneer leaving Gyra entirely to him without any paternal restriction in his letters--the romantic hope and reason for their delay being so obvious in that sense, though it couldn't have been written. And then, Stinson having adopted he and Gyra so fast was still more frightening. Now that they three were broke together, perhaps he and Gyra even owed Stinson as much money as his real relatives, wherever they were.
When Dansel looked so dismayed, the Wizard Howard seized upon it. "Now then, I know you guys want to guess, what it is that I have in my hand?"
"That's not a riddle by the way."
"Fine, I'll just show it to you." and Howard uncurled long, strong fingers to reveal a rubber banded set of thin paper slips. The power latent in those small cards was suggested by the strange writing embossed everyhere--or was it an enchanted code, blacker than night itself? And then also, a soapsud metallic gleam smiled back at Dansel when he recognized it. "So, can I sell you guys some superbowl tickets?"
"How much?" Stinson srutinized.
"WHO'S PLAYING?" Dansel covered his mouth. He was shouting, anyone might hear and rush over... when he'd already seen, he already sensed it.
"Well the Redskins are, of course. Didn't I just explain to you guys that I got fired for protesting them moving the Beltway Wall, in order to build a stadium down on the National Mall? That's what Superbowl 2012 is--a sham. And the city practically bought the game. Meanwhile, so many of its residents are being disenfranchised. The people can't leave the city, most of them don't even have access to proper schools or even the internet..."
"...and they have no idea that the Redskins are back in the Superbowl." Dansel was amazed.
"Yep, and their chance of winning is pretty damned good too. You know, because so much money got thrown at the team these last two years."
Dansel clamped fingers down over the Wizard's palm, smiled hard while he possibly crushed the man's hand. "I will sell you, the clothes off of my back and go crawling through the city naked for these. How much?"
How much?
How much?
How much?
To trudge penitent through the streets of DC,
To smuggle across the Beltway Wall to see,
Something right,
Something just,
How much?
But Dansel didn't have any money.
"Well," said Howard the Wizard, "I'm finding that these aren't really worth anything to folks here, you know, if you think about how impossible it is to get past any of the stilt-bridges or beyond the Beltway Wall. But if you two guys want them so bad that you'd actually take them off my hands and rid of me these stale memories in exchange for something... you can have this set of ten for a song if you just get your crazed friend Gyro-whatever away from my Shandrea so I can finally have an evening alone with her. I don't care if God himself comes to DC and sets up his throne on the National Mall, you couldn't pay me to go back Downtown again."
And so, when not even the Wizard would, Dansel was going to find a way.
...
To Be Continued, in 2011...
To Be Continued, in 2011...
Next: San'ur Crush is almost in town, kids! Hope you're nice and ready with your riot gear on...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)