Why, do you think it's your fault?
Kind of.
There were a hundred of you.
Well I'm still sorry–
It wasn't any of that. I left because I hated school.
I hear you.
Whole day sitting some place I didn't want to be. My mom fucked but she was a good mother. She made me do homework. If she'd been a bum like you think I would have stayed.
She posts about you on Facebook all the time. She says you're on the autism spectrum–
Yeah I saw that. Maybe she thought it'd make people care. I got tested for it once and she talked about it nonstop after. I think she thought it meant I'd be rich. It just makes girls not want to fuck me.
She's worried about you man.
Yeah well she married some guy and he moved in and just... there's one bathroom. I'd have to go in after him. The smell of a forty year old man's shit– no offense. The toilet seat was still warm with one of his old ass pubes on it. First thing in the morning. And then after that, fucking school, and after that fucking homework, and dinner with them asking how's school how's homework. Nothing else.
She cares about you.
She fucking called my science teacher about how I might do better in class. I don't even care about science. But she thought I had to. Because she had this thing about me being autistic. The teacher tried to fuck her. Anyway I bailed.
Been a while now.
Two years. I moved out and went down the street and then just kind of kept getting farther away. I ended up slinging pills with the Juggalos for a while in Hollywood. The FBI scattered that scene and I was living with a couple trannies who had me jerkin off on cams for rent. People got sick of my videos when I hit puberty so they kicked me out. I was trying to make Arizona but I got caught up in the meth scene down here. They needed a whiteboy to take the shit up to Hollywood. I told them I was German. They call me Four Finger Fritz–
He held up the hand with the stump. The end still swollen, crawling with red veins that looked warm.
How did you lose it–
Fritz laughed. Punching a guy off a moped.
You hit him that hard?
No but I took the moped and must have crashed it. I was blacked out. Some guy found the finger but it was rotten.
Fuck.
I was doing great with the 13's down here, easy money. Had a nice Mexicali girl too. But then shit went down with the Somalians.
I didn't know we had those–
Yeah they come from Maine, the government brings them there. They speak English like the Pepperidge Farm guy but they're mean as shit man. They had this shotcaller Abdullah, he was a fuckin hardcase. Came out of the military. They started moving in on 13 territory by LAX. They were beefing but then check this out– he fell in love with a 13 woman–
Wait how do you even know about the Pepperidge Farm guy–
It's on Family Guy. You must be old enough to know the originals–
They're a client.
A client of what? What is it you do exactly, anyway?
It's complicated. It has to do with marketing.
Like what
We gather information to help... brand elevation. Purchase intent– for brands, like, Verizon–
What does that even mean, said Fritz.
We provide data driven solutions for market leading brands– and suddenly Fritz was laughing.
What?
That's fucked, said Fritz.
**
Abdullah fell in love with Xochitl Sanchez who was fifteen years old and the sister of the 13 shot caller. The Somalis and the Salvadorans went to war. It was, Fritz said, exactly like Romeo and Juliet. Julio the 13 shot caller ultimately told Xochitl: stay away from that fuckin Captain Phillips lookin ass nigga. At some point she obeyed. It broke Abdullah's heart. He made peace with the 13s, which was how Fritz came to do business with him. But inside he'd gone nuts. Got into some hard shit, said Fritz. Organized shit. Do you know what Al Shabaab is?
No–
The guys you're down with, Abu Sayyaf, it's the African version.
I'm not down with them.
They work together. The Somalis are down with dudes in Pakistan. They got guys in the ports, they work with Filipinos on the ships. Which must answer a question you had.
Is this ISIS?
Kind of. ISIS doesn't mean anything. Mostly it's a bunch of commercial operations. Abdullah said it’s just a name for the believers to work under–
… a brand.
I guess, said Fritz. How'd you get into this shit anyway?
Into what?
Blowing up the world.
I'm just giving information.
But you know what they're gonna do with it, right?
I assume get money. They have some utopian project–
They want nukes man. Your company has credit card records of every big general. Every other government big shot– they're gonna find a couple who fuck kids like the guy from Subway. It'll probably be the first two they look at. They're gonna get the targeting system. The codes. Data driven solutions for the market leading brand.
No way–
Yes way man. These guys know how it works. Abdullah was in the Air Force. He was an officer in the Missile Command.
They gotta be bullshitting you–
Nah man. These guys are on bath salts all day. It reminds of them of this leaf they chew back home. They got loose lips.
The phone made a sound. Then the computer. Fritz was typing suddenly. It worked, he said.
OK–
I'm gonna get fifty grand for this. Go down to Venezuela. Stay out of the cities man, they're only gonna hit where the “abominations” live. What are you getting–
Not fifty grand.
A girl huh.
… yeah
Must be some good pussy–
Hey man, are you serious about this shit?
Fritz stood up. Slid a giant rough hand on his shoulder. The ring finger stump hot on his clavicle. Don't feel bad man, he said. This is coming one way or another.
Jesus Christ. Why did you tell me?
You can't stop it now, said Fritz. And if you could, you wouldn't anyway. I mean do you look at this fucking place and think: how could I leave this behind?
He felt his heart going. A sweat coming on like he had a parasite. Are we done, he said.
Yeah man. Good luck. Hope they deliver on the girl. I don't think they'll kill you at least. These Africans on the other hand–I gotta split so they don't machete me.
Then he was twenty feet from the Winnie. Walking fast googling “FBI phone number”. The phone showed five bars but he had no signal.
Blue Moon
The missile bunker was black inside. It smelled like the high school athletic cage where the assistant coach who didn't molest kids, and thus hated his job, handed out jock straps. Kent following him down on the steel ladder made sounds like a xylophone that pinged around the walls. The graffiti said Fuck Cunt Pussy. Kent had a mattress. It looked too big to fit in the hatch. He must have folded it. Big plastic barrels of drinking water. Boxes of flour, rice; store display racks worth of Jack Links beef jerky in Sweet & Hot, Teriyaki and Original.
Jack Links was not a client. They'd had adequate success building a campaign with in-house demographic data. Diverse 18-34's antagonized a bigfoot with summer camp style pranks, and were then dismembered. Bumpers on WWE's Friday Night Raw showed the cryptid driving industrial vehicles such as backhoes in a demolition derby setting. I think we got our demo locked, the National Branding Director told Larry, Vice President, Global Sales, on a conference call he'd listened to on mute. This in spite of the two Wisconsinites' rapport. The National Branding Director was perfectly polite. The women could be mean but the men had sales backgrounds. Respected taking your shot on a cold call. I don't have the genny up yet but it's a matter of time, said Kent, shining a pocket size Mag Light on food stores and first aid kits and housewares. Figuring out the air filtration. Gotta ventilate
the fumes or we'll smoke ourselves before Ivan does.
You've been a busy man, Kent.
Actually I had most of this stuff in my house. Getting it here was the bitch.
Did you have family?
I might still, said Kent. Two ex wives. His hands found something in the blackness. A black rifle from the box cover of a video game.
Is that a Bushmaster?
It is, said Kent. Would prefer the original given the circumstances, but this is what I had. Thank the great state of California. The pinging sound echoing again as Marcy came down. Were you two– married, said Kent. Marcy said no. We used to work together.
**
Kent had a camp stove and had opened two cans of Dinty Moore beef stew with his Leatherman. Neither a client. The meat chunks steaming and smoldering made his guts crawl over themselves. Light from white votive candles with no ornamental casing and the blue sterno flame made their shadows stutter on the Fuck Cunt Pussy walls. You know what I miss the most, said Kent.
What's that.
Not steak. Not lobster. Not hot showers. I miss Chicken McNuggets. Quarter Pounders. And he laughed. Like he'd just told his grandson a knock knock joke.
That's what I miss the least– you know, I used to work there.
Oh really, said Kent, with what seemed like unnatural interest.
Yeah, I was a “senior grill crew” member– I made the Quarter Pounders.
Yes, and you trained the junior crew–
That's right, how did you know– a grill wizard yourself?
Well I was an entrepreneur after the service, you know. Aerospace. And when it came time to hire that was the first thing I looked for. Advancement in a tightly-managed environment. Someone I could mentor to succeed.
Yeah I could flip a burger, he said. Remembering like he was doing it now that the burgers were not flipped. That McDonald's patented clamshell grill technology simultaneously seared each side to perfection. He'd once slipped on mop water and perfectly seared his hand on it. The manager scotch taped a bandage on and made him work through lunch rush. That day someone left a log long as a young Burmese python lolling over the lip of the women's toilet that it was his job to clean, to perfection. You'd get one every few months.
Did you know that only ten per cent of store staff attain the “senior” designation? They spent millions developing the metrics– performance. Speed. Accuracy. They would have given you an MMPI; honesty, trustworthiness–
Is that what they teach at Hamburger University–
You're being glib but perhaps you haven't thought about building an enterprise. Providing goods and services that people want and need. An employee who won't lie, won't steal, won't cheat you out of his time. I'm telling you it's worth more than gold.
You think we'll find a McDonald's out here?
Listen, said Kent. Let me tell you a story. My old Air Force buddy Kevin was training to be an F-16 pilot. The trainees have to stock the squadron snack bar. One day Kevin headed to the operations desk for his mission takeoff. And the commanding officer said “where's the creamer.” Kent paused.
Where was it–
Kevin hadn't stocked the creamer. Kevin said he'd get it later. Kevin's name was wiped off the mission board that day because if you can't trust a man with your snacks, why would you trust him with a 35 million dollar plane.
OK.
That was the most important lesson of his life. Kevin became one of the premier pilots of his time. Missions over Somalia you'll never hear about. Top Gun.
Are you Kevin?
No– you're not listening. Senior grill crew– this speaks to excellence. Your potential.
He couldn't help but feel flattered.
This is what we need. You make fun of McDonald's but details matter. If you didn't find your life to be such a joke you would see that this matters. I need people who get the creamer.
For what?
Because we have to organize against what's out there. We have to win. And we have to build again.
Kent, what are we building again exactly? McDonald's is fucking horseshit. And the way they built it– two guys made the restaurant and then some fucking salesman stole it from them. From the people that did the actual work–
And he turned it into an enterprise that made a billion people satisfied–
Jesus Christ– I'm glad it's gone–
I find your attitude so disappointing. You're throwing away the greatest lesson life has ever taught you. We need good people to make this world work again. If you're going to stay you're going to understand that I run this show. And I do things right–
Who said anything about staying–
Look around out there, said Kent. This place can take a bomb. This place can be defended. Have you had to do any killing since this tragedy?
We don't know, said Marcy. There was a guy, he shot him with an arrow but we let him go–
Marcy didn't know he'd brained Larry, Vice President, Global sales with a fire extinguisher.
So someone died in agony because you didn't have the guts to finish the job.
He might be alive–
If you think someone is living in this with so much as a hangnail– listen. I have water. I won't force you to do anything. But if you want to live you're going to work. We'll find a radio. There are people out there. The police, the military. This is the United States of America. You could be my right hand, if you would correct your attitude.
There was a long silence as the cubed carrots roiled in the camping pot. Almost done.
Marcy, can we talk about this alone for a minute, he said. Climbing the ladder took a very long time.
**
It was night now. The sky clear in places. A giant moon with an odd cold color leered through the clouds, huge and brilliant. It's beautiful, he said.
It's a blue moon.
I didn't know they were really blue.
Well no, this one looks blue. Which is rare– only in times of atmospheric catastrophe, like a volcano. The dust bends the red light. Or a nuclear war apparently. But it’s also a blue moon- two full moons in one season. It's rare. “Once in a blue moon-” like a second chance.
You know about astronomy too–
Why don't you just do what he says
I can't believe you're asking me that.
I want to stay alive.
We'll be fucking fine–
No we won't. Are you kidding me? I don’t like him either but he's right, we have to stay together, we have to get organized–
That's not alive.
What is your problem? He has food, water- he's going to have electricity! Why don't you compromise? You can stay in the tent– we can figure it out–
I'm not going to do this anymore. We lived, Marcy. We had a second chance. I'm not going back. I'm not going to just make shit the same as it was. And I can't fucking believe that you would–
I'm not leaving.
Get fucked, you dumb bitch– I should just take you.
Like you have the balls.
Don't test me, he said. Then knew she had. And he'd failed.
I'm staying, she said. You can go. I'm staying.
She meant it. He walked back into the hills alone. The face in the moon seemed to laugh.
Funeral
She won't come with me. She doesn't care about me. The world ended. I'm still the lesser option.
God let her have everything I want, he prayed. Let her be desired and loved. Interesting and important to somebody. Let her have happiness, let her not be alone, feel alone. Praying as he'd been taught. No one heard.
Out in the desolate hills, a mile past the water tank. Only the high passes were burned. On the lower slopes the fall grass was coming up. It had rained early.
He set up the tent. A fine product. It required no tools. He'd bought it for a trip to Montana. Saw bighorns in tall weeds in the hills outside Lincoln. Woodpeckers big as chickens. Two of them together on a collapsed pine. Man and wife. Birds always found each other.
When he heard a sound like outboard motor on a lake he crawled on his belly to a hilltop. The sky was brown-black and full of thin clouds that moved like worms. But in the brilliant blue moon everything was lit. From here he could see the freeway. The black twisted cars. The crater. And something moving. A semi truck. No trailer. Black diesel smoke poured out the tall chrome exhaust pipes. It looked like Optimus Prime. Dirt bikes behind it screaming. Ahead a procession of tween girls naked in chains, marching, faces down. An honor guard. Brutes in masks whipping at their backs. He saw three Lord Humungus', one Reddit Unicorn, one Fluttershy. These men were dentists once. Or not even– not the jobs animals had in Richard Scarry's Busytown. A worm driving an apple who did something children had heard of. They were Regional Brand Managers, Hispanic. Blockchain Business Development Account Executives. Executive dangled in the want ads with the understanding you'd say it to women. Now they were living the dream.
It had been five days.
He watched them steer around the cars. Stop at the crater. The truck had been a bad idea. But then they could just get another one. Where were they trying to get to. The big burned hole in the ground and now what. Move up into the hills. They'd find the grass. The snow peas. The water tank.
Or maybe not. None of his business now.
With Marcy gone he could fold her blankets under his sleeping bag. Less bothered by rocks grinding in his hipbones. The hot wind made a pfoom sound on the nylon tent cover. At the gas station ruins where the Slim Jims were poking out from charred concrete there'd been a few magazines flapping around on the pavement. They hadn't thought to pick them up. Now he would have liked an Us Weekly. Something. Inside Ashton Kutcher's $20 Million Bachelor Pad. Stars, they're dead. Just like us.
He lay awake in the pfoom sound. Played with a flashlight on the ceiling. The light would make the tent visible to cannibals. But his life was over. There was nothing to steal.
**
He was in a church talking to his mother. He was saying I'm sorry and she said it's OK, it's OK. Nothing you can do now. He reached out to touch her hair and she seemed put off. It wasn't OK after all. Are you alive, he said.
Are any of us.
Do you think I did this? It’s not my fault–
Everybody works, you know. Everybody suffers. You didn’t have to do what you did.
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