The Edger Collection

by David Beem

  Historic Sayonara, by Herodotus (c. 484—c. 425 BCE)

  It has been said all good things must come to an end. And it’s terrible this has been said, because bad things get to go on forever. Torture, war, famine, and the unholy apotheosis of the Big Three: the turducken. As sayings go, it sucks. It’s right up there with “the customer is always right.” Or “I’ll just take a minute of your time.” I mean, come on. Nobody ever takes just a minute of your time, and everyone who’s ever worked in customer service knows the customer is not always right.

  And since we’re riffing on clichés again, here’s another: it’s the little things which make life worth living. This one happens to be true. Just ask Christine of the El Cerrito Cluck-n-Pray. For Christine, the “little things” began when a nano-artificial intelligence made its new home behind a tiny booger forming in her left nostril. Next, the little things developed to include dozens of ATMs miraculously spitting out all their money into her duffel bag; her hair in the wind when she’s doing ninety in her brand-spanking-new Maserati convertible as she speeds east on Route 66; the feeling she got after forcing Brad and the Apostles to line up and get kicked in the nuts. For Christine is a young woman who has come to appreciate life’s little gifts. Presently, these gifts are: sharing a road joint with her lover, Consuelo; new clothes that don’t smell like chicken; daydreaming about the rustic flavor of really great grass.

  Chapter Ninety-Eight

  The sun is shining directly above by the time Mary and I reach the Baseline Avenue exit going into Ballard, a small town just outside of Santa Barbara. Mary cuts around me at the last second to reach the exit first. I’m tempted to summon Mario Andretti, but the residential traffic changes my mind. I downshift, and the Ferrari releases a sigh of disappointment. The wind dies in my hair and ears. I follow Mary through three turns. We slow to a crawl and scan addresses on picket mailboxes. Then, we’re there. I roll to a stop behind Mary’s Jag, put it in Neutral, pull up the parking brake, and let out the clutch.

  “Made good time,” says Mary, coming over to meet me.

  “You’re a lead foot,” I reply.

  We open the white gate and head up the boardwalk, then a short flight of stairs to reach the front porch of a modest two-story home. Mary knocks. A minute later, a woman appears in the doorway. Farther inside the house, her teenage daughter rises from the kitchen table.

  “Who is it, Mom?”

  “Can I help you?” asks the mother.

  “Are you Jill?” asks Mary.

  “Yes.” Jill unties her apron. Her gaze tracks over Mary’s shoulder to take in the Porsche and Ferrari. The screen door creaks as she cracks it just enough to slip out and onto the porch.

  “We’re friends of your late husband, Trevor,” I say, and Jill lays her hand over her mouth.

  “Oh my God,” she says.

  “Mom? What is it?” asks her daughter, coming to the door.

  “Go back inside, honey.”

  “We can’t stay,” says Mary. “We’ll just give you these and be on our way.”

  Mary holds out the keys to the Ferrari. Jill gasps. She peels a hand from her mouth, tentatively. Mary takes it, puts the keys in her palm, and closes her hand.

  “It’s free and clear,” I say. “It’s in your name. There’s a signed document in the glove compartment promising you’ll never owe a dime to Uncle Sam for it.”

  At the gate, we pass a mailbox that reads “Killmaster.” Whoops of joy follow us from inside the house. We climb into the Jag and buckle in. We’re off for one crazy ride. My gaze lingers for a moment on the spine of the book sticking out of Mary’s purse, Now What? The Rest of Your Life Edition. Mary starts the car. We make a U-turn, ignoring Jill Killmaster’s cries for us to wait and explain and thank you and God bless us and have a nice weekend. It’s hard ignoring all that with her late husband, the big, strong Navy SEAL, weeping inside my head. But it feels like this is one of those times when less is more. There’s nothing we can say that she’d believe, and we’ve done what we came to do.

  We pull away, and I’m lost in thought for the long drive down the coast. It’s hard to imagine this new life ahead of me with all those old ones in my head. I guess I can make sense of it as being like the Golden Rule. If Gran can get a cartoon in the mail from beyond the grave, then Jill Killmaster deserves hers too. It’s no less than the dead would do for me. I know that’s true. I can feel it. We’re all part of the same tribe. That’s the message here. It’s clear to me. And while I didn’t learn anything at Notre Dame to prepare me for disco ball Chinese water torture chambers, assassin clones, superintelligent AI cows, or NFL supervillains—hey, life rarely takes the course we chart for ourselves. This is my course now. This is the new me. My name is Edger Bonkovich, and I am Zarathustra.

  THE Russian HOOKER

  It should be noted here the hooker is not, in the strictest sense of the word, a hooker. In fact, she is an assassin who’d rather kill than have sex for money. Her name is Olga.

  Being an assassin worth her gun oil, Olga isn’t standing around on the corner waiting for a trick. Olga is a woman of initiative. Olga makes things happen. Things such as blending in as a cosplayer at the San Diego Comic-Con. And given her Black Widow costume started off about the size of a nicotine patch before she’d squeezed it over her curvaceous frame, this is an impressive thing to make happen.

  The dizzying white noise of mega-fans geekifying in the reverberant convention center does not faze her. Nor do the ubiquitous Ninja Turtles, Pokepeople, or Wonder Women. There is one commotion that catches her attention. An American celebrity taking his seat at a signing table. Wall-to-wall costumed fans part for the square-jawed yet effeminate man as he makes his way to his seat. Blue blazer, no tie, silk scarf. He is the perfect picture of classic Hollywood. His name is Johnny Gemini.

  Olga pitches her weight to one side and twirls a strand of her beet-red hair. She pictures for a moment how it’d be to do an American celebrity and dismisses it before even getting to the good stuff. Gemini isn’t her type. Her type is doing Vladimir Putin on the back of a horse. But having already done that on no fewer than twelve separate occasions, she’d summarily stricken him off her to-do-on-the-back-of-a-horse list. Which goes to show why a career-driven, FSB-trained assassin has no time for romance. Gemini is a distraction. He is not the target. Her targets are the two hipster girls passing out pamphlets in front of Gemini’s signing table.

  It should be noted here the two hipster girls passing out pamphlets in front of Gemini’s signing table are not, in the strictest sense, hipster girls. In fact, they are men who’d rather get laid than die virgins. Their names are Wang and Shmuel. They are the A-Team.

  The Church of the Ladder Day Dudes

  The cosplayer outfitted in Doctor Franz Karzov’s lab coat, squid-mouth prosthetic, and lobster pincers reaches the front of the signing line, and Johnny’s stomach knots. He knew this was coming the minute Karzov had queued. It is the thing Hollywood actors most dread: the exchanging of lines with dorks. Fortunately, Johnny is a black belt in the Dork Arts.

  Activating Delighted Expression Number Two from the inventory of his quarter-million-dollar Juilliard education, Johnny deploys the Open-Mouth Smile with Teeth. Doctor Karzov staggers under the onslaught, one hundred percent pure baby-making charisma. The cosplayer’s squid mouth jiggles. He bends his knees, raises his arms, and snaps his pincers twice. Johnny tenses. This is it…cue Dr. Karzov.

  “I knew you were up to something, Neutron! Though I’ll confess, I hadn’t thought of transforming Voton Moon Base into a Zorgnarian dry rub. It sounds spicy…but delicious.”

  Johnny sneers. “It’s a simple recipe, Doctor. Now, away! Fetch the moist towelettes and extra napkins. We’ve got fifty pounds of ribs and only twelve parsecs to save the galaxy.”

  The cosplayer returns an idiot’s grin from beneath the squid-mouth prosthetic. Johnny relaxes.

  “Aw, wow,” says the cosplayer. “Wow. That was perfect! Just—ha! Wow. J
ohnny Gemini.” The cosplayer gestures at him with two pincers. “Dak Q. Neutron. In the flesh. You’re so awesome.”

  Johnny scribbles the Sharpie across the Hyperspace Hussies poster. He draws stars over the i’s in his last name and then adds his signature laser lines beneath the whole thing with a flourish. He slides the autographed poster across the table. The fan balances it on top of his pincers and is ushered away. Security steps in and ropes off the line.

  “Mr. Gemini will return in one hour!”

  Johnny smiles and waves. The chorus of despondent groans is music to his ears.

  “Hey, Johnny.”

  He turns his head to find a camera filming two inches from his face—raises a shielding arm. “Jesus, Ralph. We talked about this. Boundaries.”

  The light clicks off. Ralph lowers the camera. “Sorry. But I’ve got an idea. You know. For our project. Look.”

  Johnny peers across the convention center floor. Despite his filmmaker friend pointing right, his gaze gravitates to the redheaded Black Widow cosplayer on the left. Now there’s someone who knows how to cosplay. Why isn’t she in his autograph line?

  A hand closes on his arm, shakes, and pulls him from his thoughts.

  “Ralph,” he says. “You’re wrinkling a one-of-a-kind Bijan jacket.”

  “Sorry.” Ralph’s hand slides off his arm. “But look at this.” He slaps a crinkled hot-pink flyer down on the table. Johnny removes his friend’s hand.

  THE CHURCH OF THE LADDER DAY DOODS

  THE MIRACLES ARE TRUE! ZARATHUSTRA LIVES!!!

  Last week, our Lord and Savior Zarathustra performed thrice fourice miracles:

  Cured Shmuel’s hemorrhoids

  Dance-battled forty-two evil clones (and won!!)

  Bested Tron-Tron in moRal combat

  YMCA’d terrorism.

  Johnny frowns.

  “It’s from those two weirdos over there,” says Ralph, grinning.

  Johnny follows Ralph’s gaze. It isn’t hard to tell who he means. Standing not far from Hot Black Widow are two cross-dressing proselytizers. Even by San Diego Comic-Con standards, these guys are a few screws short of a porno. On the left: middle-aged and scruffy, blonde wig, Catholic schoolgirl miniskirt. This one’s stuffed his thick, hairy legs into thigh-high white stockings to dramatic effect. On the right: blue-haired Asian. Short. Same skirt as the other, but wearing it better owing to the fact he’s waxed. His oversized fake breasts are concealed by a tight white button-down tied in front to make a crop top. For some reason Johnny can’t begin to fathom, this one puts on an R2-D2 head before passing out his next pamphlet.

  “Whaddaya think?” asks Ralph.

  “I think they’re living proof the human gene pool needs a lifeguard.”

  “Yeah,” gushes Ralph. “And it’s a fan-fucking-tastic film just waiting to happen.”

  Johnny recoils. “Dear God, no. Horror? Please don’t say porn.”

  “No, no, no. Cannes Film Festival!”

  Johnny laughs. “Don’t be ridiculous. There’s no category for…for that.”

  “Sure there is. Look.” Ralph jabs his finger at the bottom of the page. And there, just below a pencil drawing of what can only be described as an armored space ninja striking a Michael Jackson pose, is a list of…services?

  SOUL AUDITS! SOUL GOOD!

  Level: Blordiant Blark! $500

  Level: Extra Century Perception!! $1000

  Level: FREEDOM FALCON BEE-YOTCH!!! $10,000

  Johnny shakes his head. “This has a Cannes category?”

  Ralph’s face breaks into a broad smile. “Best Documentary.”

  “But why would I, a renowned thespian, dignified, and principled man of unsurpassed refinement, require…that?”

  Their heads turn in unison. Slutty R2-D2 is doing the robot and attempting to hand out fliers between jerky arm movements. Next to him, Catholic School Mole reaches behind his miniskirt and scratches his butt. A passing Captain America commits the grave error of making eye contact with them. Catholic School Mole’s hand flies out from beneath his skirt, snatches a pamphlet from the table, and thrusts it at the star-spangled hero. Cap raises his shield, backs away, hurries off.

  “Don’t you see? You can play anything, Johnny. Play that.”

  “Mm. Against type, eh?” His head tilts to the side. It could be fun. “There’ll probably be recreational drug use.”

  “We’ll probably need a camera too. It’s a movie, Johnny.”

  “What’s this film going to be rated?”

  “R. Definitely a hard R.”

  “Good. I sense I will require liberal use of the F-word.”

  “I’m sensing that too.”

  Johnny frowns. “I’m further sensing those two couldn’t get laid if they crawled up a chicken’s ass and waited for the arrival of the next geologic epoch. We could always hire pros. Maybe use the Haunted Bush?”

  Ralph grimaces. “Ooh-yeah. Um. There might be a problem with that.”

  “Problem? There’s no problem. The Haunted Bush never fails to delight, Ralph. Especially Isis Sizzle-Thongs and Rhonda Rumper Humper.”

  “Ri-ight. What I mean is…” Ralph clears his throat into his fist. “They’re asking for you to, um, pay your tab before, um, your next—”

  Gemini straightens his blazer. “Gah! Tell them we’ll have a proper paycheck next week when Space Pirates Five starts shooting. I’ll pay them then.”

  “I’ll try, but—”

  “Give them a spoiler! They can sell it. That’s gotta be worth something.”

  “I don’t know, Johnny.”

  “Space Pirates Five,” he says, his hands gesturing the words in the air. “The Stench at Galaxy’s Rear End!”

  “Yea-ah. I’m not sure that’s gonna—”

  “Very well. It’s settled. Now. Tell me: what motivates a man to sign up for soul audit level,” he skims the flyer, “Freedom Falcon Bee-yotch.”

  Ralph shrugs.

  Johnny smiles. “Hmm. Very well. I suppose that’s why they pay me the big bucks.”

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  THE LIVING…

  Z-Team

  Edger Bonkovich (Zarathustra, the World’s First Superhero)

  Mary Thomas (GSPOT Spy)

  Caleb Montana (Quarterback, Butt Model, HARDON Spy)

  Alexandra Hamilton (GSPOT Spy)

  The A-Team

  Wang & Shmuel (Stoners, Wannabe Cult Leaders)

  Good guys

  Dr. Charles Bonkovich (Father of Edger)

  Fabio Jimenez (Edger’s Best Friend)

  Okay guys

  Johnny Gemini (Thespian, Dak Q. Neutron)

  Ralph (Documentary Filmmaker)

  Consuelo & Christine (Cow Enthusiasts, Grass Connoisseurs)

  Gary Busey (Thespian, Professional Crazy Person)

  David Hasselhoff (Thespian, Knight Rider, Life Guard & Space Chicken)

  Questionable guys

  Danny and Leo (Collection Specialists, The Haunted Bush)

  Prime Minister Watson (Prime Minister of Australia)

  Okay, these are definitely bad guys

  Ed, Ted, etc. (Nostradamus Agents)

  Olga (Assassin, Jilter of Russian Oligarchs and Presidents)

  Vladimir Putin (President of Russia, Lover Boy, Election Meddler)

  Boris (Bodyguard to Putin)

  Nostradamus (Big Boss, Seer of All Things, Really Old Guy, As In: So Damn Old)

  …AND THE DEAD

  Herodotus (Busted Greek Classic, Father of History)

  Bruce Lee (Martial Arts Legend)

  Hattori Hanzo (Iga Ninja)

  Lieutenant Trevor Killmaster (Navy SEAL)

  Nigel Willianbottom (Brit, Orange Belt, Prat)

  Dr. Sigmund Freud (Noted Psychiatrist, Founder of Phrase: “Yo Mamma!”)

  HISTORICAL CATCHING UP FOR THE LOSERS WHO DIDN’T READ THE FIRST ONE, FROM YOUR BUSTED GREEK CLASSIC AND FATHER OF HISTORY, HERODOTUS (C. 484—C. 425 BCE)

  It has been said breaking up is h
ard to do. And in the history of inadequate things ever to have been said, this one’s a humdinger. It’s right up there with: Attention Hawaii! The incoming missile alert is a false alarm! Or: I’m really sorry your mom blew up, Ricky.

  And while we’re on the subject of inadequate things to say, here’s another: This tale is the second in a series. If you haven’t yet read the first, you should. For one thing, you’re dangerously close to encountering spoilers. For another, you may have questions which were covered in the first installment. Questions such as: Why is this ancient Greek philosopher narrating? And: Where do you keep your stuffed grape leaves?

  Essential for catching up you cheapskates (and those who may’ve slept since our last encounter):

  I am narrating from inside your brain in a shared psychic stratum called the Collective Unconscious. Everyone living—and everyone who’s ever lived—is in this psychic stratum. No one fully understands it, how it started, why it started—nothing. Elvis’s theory is the whole thing got cooked up one night by an alien named Keeyop-derp-dee-lerp over some fried peanut butter and nanner sandwiches aboard his UFO. This is as good a theory as any, and that tells you all you need to know about that.

  This brings us to the second point one must understand about the Collective Unconscious; namely, it’s akin to discovering the only toilet on the planet is a supersized outhouse with no walls and no door. There are certain things one takes for granted in a civilized society, and billions of people in the same door-less, wall-less outhouse, isn’t one of them. There are those who have developed the ability to cloak their consciousnesses. Most who do this are motivated by a sense of propriety. Some, however, are motivated for nefarious reasons. So that’s just something for you to think about.