by David Beem
“Aw, ma-an,” groans Shmuel. “But is it gonna be hard?”
Wang glances up from his computer. “Da fuck. Maybe.”
“Well, that’s it. I quit. I don’t want hard. I give up.”
“Do you really give up?”
Shmuel frowns. “What do you mean?”
“Well, do you really give up or not? It’s a yes-or-no question.”
Shmuel shrugs uncomfortably.
“Dumbass,” says Wang. “You can’t say you give up if you don’t mean it. Because that’s what losers do.”
“Are you trying to confuse me?”
“Losing at giving up is literally the loseriest way a loser can lose.”
“Technically that makes me a winner?”
“Shut up,” replies Wang, a smile blooming on his face. “Look at this tweet.”
Shmuel smiles, mainly because Wang is smiling, though the idea of being a winner is a close second. He rounds the table and reads the tweet from over Wang’s shoulder.
Pray all day at Cluck-n-Pray!
“Aw, dude,” says Shmuel. “Then Chicowgo has truly gone evil. My innocent baby…reduced to a corporate shill?”
“What?” Wang slaps his arm. “No, you idiot! This is a clue!”
Shmuel rubs his stinging arm and pulls away from Wang, feelings hurt more than anything else. “So you wanna just drive down to the Cluck-n-Pray? Hey. Doesn’t your dealer work there? That kid with all the fart sounds?”
“Consuelo,” replies Wang, sitting back in his seat and rubbing his chin. “Yeah. Let’s give him a call.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Christine speaks into her headset as she passes a large Cherry Coke through the to-go window.
“Welcome to Cluck-n-Pray. May I take your order?”
Electronic static.
“I’m sorry,” says Christine. “Can you say that again?”
“MOO! MOO-OO!”
“Consuelo? Is that you?”
Electronic static blares into her headset, followed by the earsplitting commotion of what could be a skydiver butt dialing at thirty-thousand feet. She rips the headset off, leans on her creaking stool, and peers back into the restaurant, scanning for Brad. She spots an elbow sticking out from behind the splatter wall blocking the fry machine. The telltale creased short sleeve, pressed just so through copious amounts of starch and ironing, is the giveaway.
“Hey, Brad!” she calls. “Consuelo’s at the drive-through again.”
“God bless it,” Brad murmurs, his head now sticking out from behind the splatter wall as he shovels an order of Cheezin’ Spiced Fries into a carton. “Mathew! Go grab Consuelo, please.”
“Where do you want me to take him?” says Mathew, grinning, his hand on Consuelo’s arm at register two.
“What I do now?” asks Consuelo, hurt.
Brad turns and faces Christine, his eyebrows lowering and head ticking to the side in confusion.
Christine frowns. Tentatively, she puts the headset back on, which tangles in her hair and tugs slightly before she manages to get situated. She taps the microphone, then pulls it closer to her mouth. “Hello? Is somebody there?”
A gleeful voice comes back.
“See you later, suck-ahs!”
Tires squeal. A horn blares. Christine thrusts her head out the to-go window. A mustard-yellow Hummer towing a livestock trailer bounces right over the curb. Her eyes widen; a cow—their cow—is loaded into the trailer. A drawn-out moo fills the parking lot before fading away.
“They’re getting away with our cow,” says Christine, cracking her head as she jerks it in from the to-go window. “Brad! Brad!”
“Spawn of Satan!” Brad yells, throwing down a carton of Cheezin’ Spiced Fries and charging out the front door. Christine races after him, blinking back spots and rubbing the knot on her head furiously, her heart pounding.
Mathew, Mark, Luke, and John follow.
Followed by Consuelo.
From the parking lot, they watch, stupefied, as the Hummer, horn blaring, weaves through oncoming traffic before cutting into the correct, southbound lane. The driver’s-side window powers down, and the driver’s face is clearly visible for a split second. That’s all any of them need to instantly recognize the man who has come to personify all that is unholy in intra-store rivalry at the Cluck-n-Pray.
Judas S. Carryout.
A fist shoots out the window, middle finger at full mast.
HOOOONK-HONK-HONK-HONK-HOOOONK!
“Judas!” screams Brad, spittle flying. “You…you Judas!”
The Hummer swerves around the corner and disappears down El Cajon Boulevard. Christine’s heart is thundering in her chest. Her hands ball into fists. She hates that cow. But, dammit, that’s their cow. And even though she also hates the El Cerrito branch’s Gospel according to the Book of Buk-Buk-Buh-KAW, that hatred doesn’t light a candle next to Judas S. Carryout and the Mission Gorge Cluck-n-Pray. Those guys are straight-up dicks.
“Oh it is on,” she says, fuming. “It is so on.”
Across the street, a Black Escalade parks in a vacant cement lot where a straining blade of grass is reaching through the cracks toward a bar of sunlight. The driver and passenger who witness the spectacle at the Cluck-n-Pray are identical down to the fibers of their black suit coats.
“Late again,” says Ed.
“Is that mustard yellow?” asks Ted, tracking through his rifle scope the trailer-hitched vehicle speeding off with the cow.
“Who cares?”
“I mean—did you catch the plates?”
“Don’t have to.”
Ted glances up from his rifle scope and arches an eyebrow identical to the two on the man sitting next to him.
“You’re being awfully cagey. What do you mean ‘don’t have to’?”
“What I mean is, I happen to know who owns that vehicle. His name is Judas Christian, and by tomorrow, we’ll have that damn cow delivered to us.”
Ted pauses a beat before nodding and again raising the rifle scope. He pans back to the Cluck-n-Pray, and targets a red-faced, disheveled girl standing apart from the group of others gathered in the parking lot. “Uh-huh,” he says. “Okay. Well in that case…who’re we killin’ this time?”
Ed swats the barrel down. “My appetite.” He turns the key in the ignition. “Come on. Drive-through. I want some Cluckin’ Nuggets.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Electrodes attached to my head and chest.
A nerve firing randomly in my bicep.
A fly crawling on the wall across from my spot in the chair, its chaotic patterns mirroring the bustle of doctors, nurses, and technicians in surgical scrubs. One person helpfully informs me my blood pressure is high. Another asks whether I need to pee before we get started. I didn’t, but now I’m second-guessing myself.
Having endured the injection of nano-neuro medicine, I am told the next component of transforming me into a superhero will be the neural linking of me to the supersuit. What could go wrong? Going by the evil AI cow-at-large—plenty.
Mikey appears at my side and squeezes my shoulder.
“I still don’t understand,” I say. “I can already access the Collective Unconscious. Why do I need to do this?”
“I told you,” he replies. “Because you need all three parts of the technology for it to work the way it’s supposed to. The suit’s processors will shoulder some of the load so your neuronal cells don’t implode before happy hour. Besides, it’s body armor. And it looks cool.”
I frown.
“You’re going to be helping people,” he says. “Hold on to that. Everything’s going to work out.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No, you’re right. I don’t know that.”
“Good talk.”
“Listen. This won’t be like it was when I put on the ring. This is going to be…intense.”
“God, Mikey. Your bedside manner is as shitty as the way you talked me into doing this.”
&n
bsp; He grins. “But I did talk you into this.”
Mary joins us. She rounds the back of my chair and squeezes my other shoulder. A technician sticks a scanner gun in my face. I raise my arm—
“We need you to relax.” The tech lowers my arm and jams the scanner in my face like I’m a box of cereal to price check.
“And I need you to do a cleanup in Aisle Eight,” I reply, shoving the scanner aside.
“It’s okay, Edger,” says Mary.
The tech steps back, studies his scanner readout, then signals another technician. “Subject is ready.”
“Subject is ready,” I say, copying his tone.
“Copy that,” says Tech Two. “Do you have the ring?”
Mikey reaches into his pocket and pulls out the ring box.
“Good,” says Tech Two. “Commence initiation.”
Mikey nods. My ears start ringing. Mary’s eyes are unblinking and round.
“This is it, Edger,” says Mikey. “When your altered physiology bonds with the technology in that ring, the suit can help you locate the skills or information required from the Collective Unconscious, and assist you in finding InstaTron Tron in ninety-six hours or less. Are you ready to become the world’s first superhero?”
“No.”
Mikey holds my gaze a beat longer before passing the ring box to Mary.
“Ms. Thomas. Will you do the honors?”
Tension creeps into the corners of her eyes before she smooths it out. She takes the box, opens it, and removes the ring. Her hand finds mine. Her fingers are thin and graceful. She gives a gentle squeeze and peers into my eyes.
“Come back to us, Edger,” she says.
“I do. I mean I will! I will.”
Her smile is faint, but it’s good. This is what I wanted, I tell myself. To be in her orbit. Not to be sent back to the mall.
She bends over and kisses my cheek, her hair tickling my face. Tiny wings collide in my stomach and a thrill shoots down to my toes. She slips the ring onto my finger. My pulse ratchets higher like it’s on a contact-activated switch. Black goo slithers out, up my fingers—
Electrodes are ripped from my head and body.
Mary lurches away, clutching the ring box to her chest.
—the goo covers my hand, my arm, neck—face! My eyes clench shut. I’m panting. Can’t catch my breath—
“—neural connections are off the charts—”
“Edger!” yells Mary, but the goo is in my ears and her voice is muffled.
—My eyes pop open. Red letters, targeting crosshairs, range finders sprawl across my vision as the supersuit’s heads-up display springs to life.
Initiation sequence online. Initiating in 3…
A voice whispers into my ear: Be like water, Edge.
“Bruce Lee?” I stammer.
2…
Yes, Edge, Bruce Lee replies. I’m here.
1…
Sonic boom.
Deafening screams form a thick wall of sound. Billions of pinpricks of light speed past my face like the Millennium Falcon going to hyperdrive. It’s an epileptic seizure of galactic proportions. My body is shaking. Pressure is building in my ears.
“—pulse is too high—”
My teeth are chattering. I bite down hard.
“—not going to make it—”
Hang on, Edge!
“—he’ll die!”
The top of my head throbs like it’s going to blow. Everything is spinning, collapsing in on itself, and then—bam!
Silence.
Chapter Twenty-Four
For a timeless and serene moment, I’m swimming in the air above my body. The pressure in my head is lessening. My teeth are no longer chattering. My breathing is even.
I open my eyes.
I’m back in the chair. Light floods in. Blurry, indistinct shapes coalesce into the world. I’m like a fish inside an aquarium: the people, walls, cabinets, and sinks are distorted and bent. The heads-up display is still there, measuring distances, performing involuntary target locks and diagnostics like I’ve died and become Iron Man. Everyone is staring at me, eyes wide, lips parted and turned down. Mary is pale and clutching the ring box to her chest with both hands, recoiling like she’s seen a monster. One of the doctors sets a pen down on a metal tray. The sound detonates in my ears like a bomb.
I feel weird. Frozen in time. I hold my hand out, and, despite knowing what to expect, I’m stunned. Even though I saw it with my own eyes when it happened to Mikey, I can’t quite believe I’m wearing the same body armor he wore in our first meeting. And…a helmet. I knock on the top of it. Yep. Helmet.
Bruce?
Yes, Edge. I’m still here.
How?
I can feel Bruce Lee considering how best to answer. Strange… He’s in my head. I’m awake, but I can hear what he’s thinking, and feel what he’s feeling.
It’s the injection, says Bruce Lee.
Is it always going to be like that? I ask, meaning the experience of putting on the ring.
I don’t know, Bruce Lee answers. You’ll have to ask the doctor.
“Edge.” Mikey’s voice presses through time and space, and the world coalesces into the real world again. A stable world. The fishbowl effect is gone. Or else I’m getting used to the strangeness.
“Are you okay?” Mikey asks.
“I—”
“Talk to me, Edge.” Mikey.
“So this is how it feels being an armored space ninja,” I reply through the voice scrambler.
Mikey’s posture relaxes. “He’s fine.”
“The phone call is coming from inside the house,” I say, getting into the whole horror-movie vibe the voice scrambler is putting out. “Hello, Sydney.”
Mikey pats my shoulder. “Superhero, Edge,” he says. “We’re going for superhero. Not Halloween killers.”
“I’m Batman,” I say, trying to make my voice low and gravelly. “I’m Christian Bale Batman.”
“Stop talking now, Edge,” says Mikey, signaling with his hand for Mary to leave the room. Our eyes meet—that is, her eyes lock on to my mask—and she gives me a nearly imperceptible nod before pulling open the door and leaving, taking with her that Christmas-morning feeling I never seem to realize is there until she isn’t.
A tech comes over and plugs three different jacks into various ports on my suit.
“What are those for?” I ask, mentally readjusting to the here and now.
“Diagnostics.”
He wheels a chair over and opens a laptop. Readouts synched to the ones streaming through my heads-up display open on his screen. Some of it I can follow, like the basic computer diagnostics I do at the Über Dork. Others are more complex. Physiology, neural mapping, and other pieces of specialized medical practice Dad would’ve understood.
“Mr. Bonkovich,” says the technician. “You should be able to access the Collective Unconscious now. I’m afraid I don’t have any tips for you on how to do it, but it says here,” he says, consulting his computer, “subject may now access the Collective Unconscious, assuming subject survives the initiation run. Which, I’m pleased to report, you did. Congratulations.”
“Thanks,” I reply wryly. “But, yeah. I mean… I’ve already been talking to Bruce Lee. So that part all works.”
The tech stares at me, his expression unreadable.
“No, no, no,” says the technician. “You must be confused. That’s not how it works.” He holds up his laptop and points. “It says right here: Subject may experience spontaneous knowledge and skills at will, consistent with field requirements, but necromancy is quite impossible.” His eyes search for mine, but they’re hidden behind my mask. Giving up on that, he shrugs and returns to the readouts on his laptop, muttering, “Necromancy is quite impossible.”
“Dude. I’m telling you, I’ve been talking to Bruce Lee this whole time.”
The doctors and techs exchange puzzled glances. Mikey steps between them and grabs the technician’s shoulder.
&n
bsp; “Give us a sec, Fred.”
The tech hesitates for a second, then, a doubtful expression on his face, he shuffles off to join the lab workers on the far side of the room.
“Hey,” says Mikey, lowering his voice. “You feeling all right?”
“Sure. I mean, aside from the fact I’m on the clock with ninety-six hours to live.”
Mikey nods. “Okay, good, good. Listen to me very carefully. You can’t be talking to Bruce Lee.”
“Why not?”
“He’s dead, stupid.”
I chuckle, then knock the bottom of my palm against my helmet. “Well, I’m glad you cleared that up, Einstein. Because I thought talking to dead people was the whole friggin’ point.”
“No. No, you haven’t been listening at all. I didn’t spend all this time, effort, and, frankly—money—to produce a tarot card reader. The Collective Unconscious isn’t you running séances for a buck ninety-nine.”
“How ’bout two bucks, then? Extra penny do anything for ya?”
Mikey rolls his eyes. “I’m trying to tell you it doesn’t work like that. It’s more like you know what you need to know when you need to know it. It’s skills and knowledge at your fingertips, but it’s all down deep.” He presses his fingertips into his abs to punctuate the point. “It’s in your gut. You know?”
I shake my head. “Mikey. I’m telling you, I’m talking to Bruce Lee.”
“No. You’re not.” He frowns. “It’s possible you’re going crazy. And until we know for sure that you’re not, I want your promise you’ll take those voices in your head with a grain of salt, okay? And keep the Bruce Lee thing between you and me. And, oh right, in the meantime, don’t, you know, actually go crazy.”
“Oh, yeah. Yeah,” I say, waving it away like it was my crazy plan all along to go crazy, and then, having given it a second thought, decided my crazy plan to go crazy was just crazy. And from the way Mikey is nodding, I can tell that me waving the craziness away is a comforting response to him. He pats my shoulder, leaving me speechless as he rejoins the lab techs on the other side of the room who are bent over a laptop studying a PET scan of my brain and whispering words like “neural activity” and “cerebral cortex” and “Bruce Lee” and “crazy.” It’s all oh-so-terribly reassuring.