The Edger Collection

by David Beem

  “They’re clearly not just sheep,” says Yourmajesty, gesturing with his hands at the sheep milling around the warehouse floor with, quite frankly, spectacularly large asses.

  “Guys,” says Wang. “We have before us the spoils due for our toils. Drink! Be merry! Live our best motherfucking lives! Tomorrow, we’ll be richer than your wildest dreams!” He lowers his voice and adds, “And I’ll be richer than your wildest dreams times eleven.”

  “What was that again?” asks Yourmajesty.

  “Come on.” Wang trots down the half flight of stairs onto the warehouse floor. From this angle, all those boxes are like skyscrapers of pure gold beaming their riches down on him. He heads for the end of the nearest aisle, checks the tag on the box. “Astroglide here! Astroglide all the way to the heavens!” He trots over to the next aisle, peers at the label. “Something called Aviane.”

  “It’s the pill.” Christine strolls up behind him, rubbing the back of her neck.

  “Great.” Wang claps her shoulder. “You can have two percent of everything out of this aisle.”

  “Two percent?”

  “A case could be made for three?”

  “Fuck you, Wang.”

  Wang sidesteps to the center of the aisle and spreads his arms out like the ringmaster of a circus. “I feel like we need a really great soundtrack right now. What was that song from Die Hard 3? When they finally break into Fort Knox? Anyone know that?”

  “It wasn’t Fort Knox,” says Ralph. “It was the Federal Reserve Bank of New York. And the music was the ‘Ode to Joy.’”

  “It was ‘When Johnny Comes Marching Home’?” says Shmuel. “The ‘Ode to Joy’ is the last movement of Beethoven 9? Die Hard 2, they used Finlandia by Sibelius, but Die Hard was Beethoven 9?”

  “Dammit, Shmuel,” says Ralph. “How do you know that?”

  “Because I used to be a cello-ist?” he replies. “But now I have a pathological dizerbility?”

  Wang rolls his eyes. “Neurological. You have a neurological disability. Fuck, Shmuel! You need to be a better advocate for your own health!”

  “The doctor said I should drink lots of Listerine.” Shmuel stuffs his hands in his pockets and stares at his feet. Yourmajesty drapes his arm over Shmuel’s shoulder.

  “Whoa-kay,” says Wang. “This is the saddest fucking story I ever heard in my life. Come on, guys! Temple of Cock Block here! We made it!” A soft weight bumps up against his leg. One of those damn sheep. Wang pushes his shin into it. “Go on. Scram.” The sheep looks up at him, its tiny eyes dwarfed further by the enormity of its interplanetary ass looming like climate change. “Fuck off!”

  “Guys,” says Ralph, and Wang turns around. A half dozen of those big-assed sheep are pushing into him. A half dozen more have Consuelo, Christine, Yourmajesty, and Shmuel surrounded.

  Wang raises his hands. “Okay. The important thing here is not to panic.”

  “I heard about this on the internets?” says Shmuel. “It’s called the Deep State?”

  “What?” Wang scoffs. “No, dumb ass, the Deep State is the federal government.”

  Shmuel shakes his head. “Nuh-uh, it’s a secret underground facility with S-A-L-Bees, just like this?”

  “S-A-L-Bees?” says Ralph.

  “Sheep with Abnormally Large Butts,” says Yourmajesty. “They’re very dangerous. They—”

  “Abnormally Large—?” Wang shakes his head. “You knew about this? You couldn’t have maybe for one second thought to tell us that—” An S-A-L-B bumps into him again. A rancid odor wafts up from its abnormally large butt. “Oh fuck.” He presses the bend of his arm into his nose, but it’s no good. “Oh fuck. Smells like…if feet had an ass.”

  “See?” Yourmajesty waves to clear the air in front of his nose. “The boss said he had something special in mind. I wouldn’t have advised coming if I’d known it was this.” He takes his helmet off and tosses it aside, then presses his arm into his nose. “Oh! It’s horrible. That smells like a used jockstrap stuffed with salami and kimchee.”

  Christine gags. “Smells like…projectile strawberry milk vomit.”

  “Dude,” says Consuelo, who’s nudging his hip into an S-A-L-B with an ass the size of a Smart Car. “Did you get an asshole stuck in your teeth? Ewyech.”

  “I’m not gonna lie,” says Ralph. “That straight-up smells like the inside of an orc.”

  “Smells like zombie armpit!”

  “—smells like gum disease!”

  “—did someone’s colostomy bag explode?!”

  “—summer breeze scrotum!”

  “—greasy cheese wiener!”

  “Enough, enough!” yells Wang as off-white fur presses in from all sides. His eyes water. “Don’t—” He breaks off, coughs. “Don’t…panic!”

  “Doo—ood,” says Shmuel, teetering near a crate of Astroglide. “I don’t feel so goo…” He collapses into a box, his arms falling limp over his chest, hands in cowabunga position.

  Consuelo and Ralph collapse center aisle.

  Christine collapses into the birth control pills.

  Yourmajesty falls over like an oak tree into the Trojans.

  “Fuck.” Wang coughs and presses his other arm over the one driving into his nose. “Fuck…”

  Panic seizes him. Brown boxes veer left, veer right. He reaches out a steadying hand, misses the shelf frame, staggers—

  An S-A-L-B lumbers past. Thbbbbbbt.

  Gaseous fumes envelope him. His shoulder slams into the ground. He rolls to his back, and a familiar armored space ninja mask lowers into his field of vision…

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Fabio gives a dismissive wave at the five unconscious “ninjas” and Green Bay Packer lying in the desert on the shaded side of the pagoda.

  “Ah, they’ll be all right,” he says. “I’m half tempted to give them a quick memory wipe to protect my secret identity. Doesn’t seem so superhero-y though, messing with people’s brains.”

  “You think they knew it was you?” I ask, and Mary scratches her arched eyebrow as she turns her gaze from me to him. Fabio eases his shoulders back.

  “I don’t know. Call it a hunch.”

  From this spot in the desert, a flight to the nearest civilization is about twenty minutes. Farther in most directions, but in the modern era, random pagodas in the middle of a Mexican desert aren’t so easily hidden. What if a spy satellite finds it? And what if the spy agency operating it used to work for Nostradamus? Wang’s A-Team, his cult, and his half-baked scheme to control the North American supply of contraceptives are a problem, but they’re not the problem.

  Sitting in the sunny side of the pagoda, drenched in sweat with arms and legs tied in invisible chains, and under the watchful eye of Mufasa the artificially intelligent lion, an extremely cute baby goat named Clark, a pig in a tuxedo, and a flock of seagulls, are Mikey, his lieutenants, and his clones. The prime minister, first lady, Mom, and Caleb break away from that group and cross to intercept us.

  “Artificially intelligent animals,” I say, shaking my head in amazement.

  Mom returns a lopsided smile. “I’ve got a seagull named Karen asking for her own sandwich shop on Long Beach. How do I say no to that? How do I say no to any of the animals after all they’ve done for us?”

  “Maybe you don’t,” Mary replies. “Maybe the world’s just going to be different from now on.”

  You and your friends are going to have to help us do some clean up, Edge, says Dad.

  Mom wraps my arm in a hug and lays her head on my shoulder. I hug her back and smile down at her. Mary’s parents flank her, her dad’s arm draped over her shoulders, his wedding band still missing.

  Clean up? I ask. Don’t suppose you can help me find a few missing wedding rings.

  This is about more than missing wedding rings, Dad replies. The world needs peace of mind, Edge. We can’t change what the AI animals know, but we can change what people know.

  What people know? You’re talking about changi
ng people’s lives. Dad, Fiji got nuked!

  All the more reason to give people their peace of mind. Eight billion people, in fact.

  “He’s right,” says Mary, bursting my focus and bringing me back to the desert heat. Mom raises a hand against the sun and peers up at me.

  “Who’s right?”

  I stroke her shoulder. “Dad.”

  She takes a sharp breath, and her eyes droop. “Chuck. What’s he saying?”

  “Mom, he’s saying the world needs its peace of mind.”

  Her forehead creases, and she shakes her head. “But you’re talking about changing billions of people’s memories. Their lives. That’s too much like what Nostradamus would do.”

  “Mom,” I say, feeling my way through the inspiration coming to me from our ancestors. I know what needs to be said, but not how to say it. “Mikey was one guy. One guy choosing everything for everyone. And his plan was to do this forever. I’m proposing we use our one hundred and eight billion ancestors to set the world back on its axis and give it one good spin, then step away. The world is a wreck—and it’s okay it’s a wreck—but it needs to be its own wreck. I don’t think this is where our story ends. I think people will make it through whatever wrecks may come. This whole thing…it’s left me kind of…optimistic?”

  Mom’s blue eyes search mine, and I can tell she’s seeing Dad in there. Or maybe it’s Dad she sees in me now, I don’t know. I was little when we were separated. Must be weird for her seeing me grown up. She takes my hands, then releases one and strokes my cheek.

  “Go, sweetheart,” she says. “Go with your friends and set the world right.”

  I clench my jaw and hold her stare.

  “Do you think… Can we—do you think you and I can…?” She sputters out, and her gaze falls to her feet. I gently nudge her chin back up and nod.

  “Yes,” I say, and her shoulders slump in apparent relief. “Yes, Mom, I do.”

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

  It has been said “base” rhymes with “disgrace” and “lair” rhymes with “koala bear.” Who said that? Why did they say it? It doesn’t matter because this has never been said, until now, by me. But since I’ve said it, and now you’ve heard it, I think we can all agree it’s good.

  Base disgrace. Lair koala bear.

  One of the perks of being a newly formed telepathic superhero team who recently saved the world is getting to decide whether your secret superhero pad is a base or a lair. And while koala bears are cute, and that may seem like a good deciding factor, base also happens to rhyme with vase, and that’s the place you stash your begonias, not your superhero team. So you see, it really isn’t much of a decision to choose lair, because lair’s got flare and that rhymes too. Grab some eucalyptus leaves and you’ll have everything you need.

  The secret lair beneath the LA Chargers’ SoFi Stadium is as good a place as any to set up shop, especially since the special spy agencies formerly known as HARDON and GSPOT already put up the money to have it built. But in the post-Nostradamus world, such agencies are no longer needed. The predicate for their existence had been Nostradamus and his global cabal, but since those never existed, neither does any record of the sophomorically named agencies once dedicated to their eradication. What does exist is a round table at the center of a place formerly known as Fortress, and a crack team of armored space ninjas serving in secret as humanity’s dedicated protectors. This group does not believe in acronyms, and steadfastly refuses to name itself.

  Another thing that exists is a restaurant on Long Beach called Karen’s, where the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are said to be ah-mazing, and the wildlife tends to be a bit less wild than it used to.

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  “Welcome to Über Dork,” says the newb. “My name is Mikey, and I’ll be your dork.”

  “No-no-no!” Wang shoves him aside and takes his place at the Dork Desk. “You’ve gotta put some sophistication into it. People can go anywhere for technology. They come to the Über Dork for the sophistication. Shmuel!” He waves the human moob over from Home Theater, and Shmuel takes a last hasty glance at the TV wall before crossing to them. He stuffs the end of a donut in his mouth and wipes his greasy fingers on his breast pocket.

  “Welcome to Über Dork,” says the newb using a lower voice. “My name is Mikey—”

  “No, no, shut up, that’s all wrong.”

  “Montana just threw a touchdown? Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster tried to kick him in the balls, but—”

  “We do not say balls, here, Shmuel,” says Wang. “It’s vulgar. We say test-ee-kee-lays, which is Mexican for testicles.”

  The newb frowns. “Test-ee-kee-lays.”

  Customers cheer from Home Theater, and popcorn spills from bags onto the sales floor. A big guy in a Chargers T-shirt bumps over a life-sized cardboard poster of Caleb Montana in his Calvin Kleins.

  “Da fuck!?” cries Wang, and the big guy glowers at him from over his shoulder before turning back to the game. “Shmuel,” says Wang in a lower voice. “Fix that! No—wait. Fix it later. Do this, now.”

  “But Fabio will—”

  “Mr. Jimenez is in Scotland. And he left me in charge. And I’m telling you we are training Mister Michael Dame here to—”

  “Um, it’s just ‘Mikey.’”

  “Shut up. Mister Michael Dame requires our expertise.”

  Shmuel shrugs, wipes his fingers on his breast pocket again, turns his attention back to the new guy, and lets out a burp that sounds like a rusty chainsaw.

  “Cover your mouth,” says Wang. “Now. About our signature line. Allow me.” He clears his throat into his fist, straightens, and raises his left hand like he’s doing the rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain. “Welcome to Über Dork,” he says in a rush. “Say it just like that. Welcome to Über Dork.”

  “Welcomedaubbaduh,” says Mikey. “No, sorry. Hang on. Welcomedaubbaduh. Shit.”

  “Welcome to Über Dork,” says Wang, lifting his hand like a pompous ass.

  “Welcomedaubbaduh?” says Shmuel, lifting his hand like a regular ass.

  “Shut up, Shmuel,” says Wang. “It’s Mister Michael Dame’s turn.”

  “Welcomedaubbaduh. Welcomedaubbaduh. Welcomedaubbaduh.”

  “You’ll get it,” says Wang. “Keep trying.”

  The newb collapses on the desk and buries his head in his arms. “I’m never gonna get this.”

  Wang smiles. “Come on, Shmuel. Mikey’s got the desk. Let’s go watch the Chargers game.”

  Shmuel grabs a donut from the box underneath the Dork Desk as Wang lifts the gate and steps onto the sales floor. He thumps Shmuel’s elbow and signals with his fingers for him to bend nearer for a secret.

  “Are we gonna invite him to Friday Night at the Palace?” whispers Shmuel.

  “What? No. Fuck no. That guy is a Class A Dingleberry. No, no. I got an idea for how to mix it up some this Friday night.”

  They cross to Home Theater, and Wang snaps his fingers and points. Shmuel looks down, picks up the cardboard Caleb Montana, and “accidentally” caresses a nipple. Wang slaps his hand.

  “Da fuck are you doing?” he says, lowering his voice as the crowd releases another cheer. “I got you this job, now don’t fuck it up. It’s my rep on the line. Now, listen. I’ve got three words for you.”

  “Aw,” says Shmuel. “I love you too?”

  Wang scowls. “Alas, Shmuel, we are not meant to be. This may come as a shock to you, but even if I was gay, which I am not, I would not end up with a guy who looks like a saddle bag with eyes.”

  “That’s just…hurtful?”

  “My three words. Remember? This Friday night… Murder Mystery Night!” He parts his hands, wiggles his hips. “Eh? Eh? Whaddayathink?”

  “I think I don’t look like a saddle bag with eyes? I think you like me, and I think you should say you’re sorry?”

  “Okay, okay, fine. I’m sorry. I do like you. There? Okay?”

 
Shmuel brightens.

  “Now look. The way I see it, if we’re gonna do Murder Mystery Night, we do it with style. So there’s this porn store down in El Cerrito—”

  “Can we invite Consuelo and his girlfriend?” asks Shmuel.

  Wang slouches. “They smell like chicken, Shmuel, so no. I know he’s cool, but she smells like chicken. Have you ever spent any time with Christine? Well, have you?”

  Shmuel shakes his head.

  “Well, she smells like chicken, Shmuel, so no. She can’t come.”

  “Can we invite Mikey?”

  “Da fuck? No. I already told you. Class A Dingleberry. Now shut up. Okay, we’re gonna need your cow, but it’s gonna be great. Legendary, even.”

  “Something about this seems very familiar?” says Shmuel.

  “Da fuck? No! This is original as hell!”

  “And you can’t use my cow! I just have this really strong feeling you shouldn’t use my cow!”

  The cheering customers go silent. Dark looks are cast their way. Wang hunches his shoulders, and then grabs Shmuel by the arm and leads him to the side.

  “Jeez, Shmuel. No need to yell. If you feel that strongly about it, we’ll use your pig instead. Okay?”

  Shmuel strokes his chin. “Spy Pig? Hmm… Yeah, I guess that’d be okay.”

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  The sky is a wash of pinks and purples by the time we reach Eagle Brae, a Highlands destination about forty-five minutes west of Inverness and nestled between two Scottish glens. Mary signals the turn from one dirt road to the next, despite the fact there is absolutely no traffic, and we get our first glimpse of our remote log cabin and its wildflower roof nearly hidden amidst the birch trees. She signals again, and we slow to a crawl into the driveway, the four of us oohing and ahhing over our private pond, covered deck pointed toward Erchless Castle far in the distance, and a small picnic table on the end. She puts it in Park and pulls up the brake. Wendy springs to all fours from the back seat, where she’s been sleeping between Fabio and Anna, and wags her tail like mad.