Dan and Frankie and the End of Everything

by Richard Langridge

  But then, if we did that, all hope would be lost. Boot and her gang would do... whatever it was they planned to do with the Novamite—something I had the sneaking suspicion wasn’t good. Then the world would end, all because the two of us got spooked by a town that wasn’t what it appeared to be.

  I sighed.

  ‘Let’s just go inside and see who’s there. Maybe they know where this A’doy guy lives.’

  ‘Should we, uh... go get Burrito Dude?’

  I shrugged. ‘Nah. Besides, he could probably use the rest.’

  The inside of the diner was pretty much exactly what you’d expect. Just your typical American diner, populated with an array of different men and women, all of whom really should have been at work, now that I think about it. Blue, shiny upholstery. Checkered floor. A jukebox that looked approximately a billion years old in the corner, blaring some old Elvis song or other I didn’t remember the name of. The rich smell of frying grease in the air.

  Frankie and I made our way over to a booth, trying not to notice all the slanted glances pointing our way as we walked. It was like that scene in An American Werewolf in London, where the guys walk into that pub, only to have all the regulars stop and stare at them. Christ, I hoped there weren’t werewolves, too.

  After what felt like an inappropriately long time, a waitress appeared, dressed in a mint-green waitress’ uniform and white apron (an apron I noted didn’t have a single stain on it, just by the way).

  She was a young girl—maybe late teens, early twenties—with dirty blonde hair tied loosely behind her head in a half-assed ponytail, fine strands bleeding out every which way like a star exploding. I’d never owned a ponytail, but I’d been late to work practically every day of my adult life, and so knew just-got-out-of-bed-hair when I saw it.

  ‘Welcome to Wallie’s!’ she said. ‘C-can I get you b-boys anything?’

  I noted the forced smile, the way her hands shook and jerked the pencil in her hand as she spoke.

  Jesus, look at her. She’s fucking terrified.

  ‘Some c-coffee, perhaps?’

  I cleared my throat. ‘Actually, we were just after some information. We’re looking for someone—name of A’doy? Maybe you know him?’

  What happened next surprised me.

  The pencil in her hand fell to the floor.

  Her eyes widened, and her face went alarmingly slack, like she’d just had a major stroke or aneurism or something.

  I thought—with no exaggeration whatsoever—I might have just killed this girl.

  ‘Are... you okay?’ I asked.

  I noticed the conversation inside the diner had stopped, could feel the eyes on me, like an actual, physical weight.

  She tried to speak, but her voice cracked. She mumbled a handful of poor excuses, bent and scooped up the pencil, before hurriedly disappearing off somewhere out back in a whoosh of skirt and perfume.

  Frankie and I shared a glance.

  ‘That was weird, right?’ I said.

  Frankie leaned forward and put a hand to the side of his mouth. ‘You know what I think? I think some people are actually robots. I mean we already know aliens exist. Think about it—robot people, Dan. It would actually explain a lot.’

  ‘How exactly would that explain a lot?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, for starters—’

  ‘And what about the people who are aliens?’ I said. ‘Are they robots, too?’

  Frankie shot me a look. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Dan. They made the robots, of course.’

  Of course.

  We sat there a while longer, listening to Elvis song after Elvis song, me wondering where the waitress had gone, if she was now dead.

  After several minutes of this, we got up and stepped back out into the cold.

  Frankie put his hands on his hips.

  ‘So. That went well.’ He thought about it. ‘Although I never did get that coffee...’

  ‘So what do we do now?’

  He shrugged. ‘We could always go ask that guy.’

  He gestured over my shoulder to where a navy-blue panel van sat parked along the roadside behind us. A sign on the side for some local business or whatever—something to do with plumbing, if the little caricature plumber staring gleefully back at me was anything to go by. Even from where we stood, I could see the front cab was empty—that, or the person driving it was invisible. Maybe he was even a ghost. At this point, nothing would have surprised me.

  I began to ask what the hell he was talking about, when I noticed what it was he was pointing at—a pair of boots, shuffling back and forth on the panel van’s other side, just visible under the chassis.

  ‘He’s been following us since the moment we arrived,’ Frankie went on. He thought it over. ‘Not very discreetly, either, I might add.’

  ‘And you’re only just telling me this now?’

  He shrugged.

  Goddamnit.

  ‘What do we do?’ I said.

  Frankie nodded. ‘Follow me.’

  I followed him half a block down to a little side-alley next to what looked like an old video store.

  And then, before I knew I was doing it, for the second time in only twenty-four hours, I ducked low behind a dumpster and waited to see if I was about to get murdered to death or not.

  ‘Okay, so now what?’ I said. ‘What’s the plan here, exactly?’ It occurred to me suddenly if things went badly, we had effectively just trapped ourselves—which technically I guess you could say was our own fault, though if I’m honest I like to believe that was all Frankie’s bad.

  Frankie nodded. ‘We wait until he comes, then jump him. I’ll hold him down, you punch him in the dick until he tells us why he’s following us. Got it?’

  ‘I’m not punching anyone in the dick, Frankie. Besides, he’s probably just some—’

  So this is the part where I’d like to tell you how I explained to Frankie all the logical reasons why it was highly unlikely the man in the heavy-duty snowshoes was following us. That we waited for a couple minutes, then when the guy didn’t show, we simply said screw it and went to go play video games or something.

  But, in the typical backwards-logic that is my life, that’s not what happened.

  The man in the heavy-duty snowshoes rounded the corner into the alleyway behind us. Some tall dude, black, dressed in a bulky winter-onesie, despite the fact that—here, at least—there wasn’t a single flake of snow on the ground.

  There was that moment where the three of us just kind of froze and stared at each other, like a trio of strangers might upon entering an elevator to find they were all wearing the exact same outfit.

  Then before I knew what was happening, Frankie was lunging out from behind the dumpster, salt dripping from each closed fist like sand.

  ‘EAT THIS, DICK-BAG!’

  The man bucked in surprise as a handful of my kitchen’s finest struck him directly in the face.

  Then there was some sneezing. And crying. A lot of crying, if I’m honest—more than you’d have thought for an evil, body-snatching space alien, anyway.

  After about a minute of this, the man said, ‘YOU THREW SALT IN MY EYES?!’

  Frankie and I looked at each other.

  Umm... what?

  I frowned. ‘Wait—you’re not a Phony?’

  ‘No,’ he said—somewhat pissily, too, I thought. Maybe it was all that salt in his eyes. ‘I’m not a “Phony”.’

  Frankie gasped. ‘I knew it. He’s a robot. See, Dan, what did I tell you?’

  ‘He is not a robot, Frankie.’

  At least, I hope he isn’t.

  The man finished wiping at his face and stared at us. ‘Look, I’m not a “Phony”—and I’m not a robot, either.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ said Frankie. ‘I mean, if you were a robot, how would you know?’

  ‘I AM NOT A PHONY OR A ROBOT.’

  ‘Please excuse us a second,’ said Frankie, pulling me over to the dumpster for a group huddle. He put his hands on his hips and sig
hed. ‘Okay, so I’m pretty sure this guy is a robot, Dan. They must have programmed his brain not to remember or something. Poor guy. Question now is, is he a good robot, or a bad robot? Because I’ve seen Terminator, Dan.’

  ‘Have you considered the possibility the guy might be human?’ I said.

  Frankie rubbed his chin thoughtfully and frowned. ‘You know something, Dan? That’s so crazy it might just be true. Hold up—’ He turned back to the man in question. ‘Hey, are you human?’

  Angry glare from Snowshoes.

  Frankie frowned. ‘Hmm. Guess he isn’t sure. I don’t like this, Dan. I don’t like this one bit.’

  Slowly, we stepped back over to him.

  ‘Okay, pal,’ said Frankie, thrusting a finger at him, ‘you’ve got exactly three seconds to explain why the hell it is you’re following us before my buddy Dan here goes ahead and makes your balls his own personal Disneyland. Capiche?’

  The man just stared at us. Man, his eyes were red.

  ‘You’re looking for A’doy, right?’ he said.

  A pause.

  Frankie and I shared another glance.

  ‘Who wants to know?’ said Frankie.

  ‘Follow me—I can take you to him.’

  Now, again, I’d like to reiterate that I am not usually the sort of person to readily accept help from strangers. Call me antisocial or a little diva-bitch or whatever, but I’ve seen enough movies to know that well-intentioned strangers—truly well-intentioned strangers—are few and far between, that in most cases the supposed Good Samaritan is just your typical Buffalo Bill-type looking to hatefully rape-murder you through the asshole before up and making a suit out of your skin. And I didn’t want to be somebody’s prom dress.

  But then, it wasn’t like we really had many other options, was it?

  And so, ignoring my instincts, Frankie and I followed the man in the winter-onesie out of the alley.

  Things only got weirder from there.

  TEN

  DRIVING AGAIN. BACK IN the Impala. Following the panel van as it led us swiftly out of town, the buildings flanking us being quickly replaced by pine tree after pine tree, interspersed by the occasional telephone pole.

  Up, up. Steeper than you’d have thought—steeper than I was comfortable with, really. It was like those early moments during rollercoaster rides, where it begins to dawn on you you’ve just made a terrible mistake.

  Huh. Would you look at that? We’re going up the mountain. Holy shit, I hope there aren’t bears.

  After what felt like a very long time, the panel van finally pulled to a stop in a crunch of loose stone.

  I looked through the windshield.

  It was a cabin. Small. Quaint. Rickety-looking porch for a front. Several cords of old-looking wood, all stacked up off to one side like a mass grave. It was the kind of place you’d only live when your primary goal in life is to remain as far away from other people as possible. Of course, I say “people”—but you know what I mean.

  Not hesitating a moment, we climbed out of the Impala and onto the gravel, our footfalls crunching loudly as we slowly made our way over to the panel van. I turned my attention once more to the cabin. Up this close, it actually looked more like some kind of frontier-era trapper’s shack—although I’ll admit I wasn’t really sure I knew exactly what one of those looked like. But still.

  I was expecting Snowshoes to get out and give us a pep talk, or whatever, maybe explain to us what exactly we were getting into—or at least elaborate on the whole bear situation. But he didn’t.

  Instead, the panel van suddenly banked round, brake lights flaring. Then it was pulling away, loose stones kicking up in a fine spray from its wheels as it quickly took off back down the path we had just come.

  Frankie and I shared a glance.

  Now where the fuck does he think he’s going?

  I let out a long breath. ‘I’m starting to get a bad feeling about all this, Frankie.’

  And I was. I mean, shit, first the town, now this? As if things weren’t bad enough already. Jesus, this was turning into the worst day ever—and I still wasn’t any wiser as to our current bear situation.

  Frankie shrugged. ‘Well—might as well get this over with.’

  He stepped over onto the porch, the old wood creaking loudly under his feet as if in protest at the sudden, unexpected weight.

  Now, in the interest of complete honesty, I should probably tell you I was pretty much shitting in my pants by this point. And I don’t just mean because of bears. It was the cabin. I had seen my share of horror movies, and so knew that this was how they always started; the unwitting heroes, walking around in circles with their thumbs up their asses, charmingly oblivious, right up until the point some monster or another suddenly ups and bites their genitalia off or whatever. Really, it was unfair of us to put our genitalia on the line like that. A person has a responsibility towards his or her genitalia, after all.

  I swallowed, hands now clasped tightly over my balls. ‘Hey, you know, maybe we should just forget—’

  Frankie rapped on the door.

  He waited.

  He waited some more.

  Nothing.

  I let out a long sigh. ‘Well. Looks like nobody’s home.’ I cast a quick glance around—you know, for bears. ‘Guess this was all just a waste of time. Come on—I’ll buy you a milkshake.’

  Canada—that’s where we’ll go. Let the Phonies have the Novamite and take over the world. That’s fine. We’ll just stay up in Canada. Nobody wants to go to Canada.

  I started to make my way back to the Impala, then paused as I heard a stiff creak.

  I looked round—

  The door was open.

  Oh, come on...

  The inside of the cabin was not what I had been expecting at all. For one thing, it was a hell of a lot bigger. There were tables all along the walls, filled with a selection of what looked like old ceramic pots and utensils. A collection of fur pelts on the walls—none belonging to bears, I noted, which was a good thing really, because I didn’t think I would have been able to handle that. A squat little metal-thing sat in the corner—what I thought might have been an old wood burner, though I couldn’t be certain.

  We became aware of a soft light emanating from somewhere further in back.

  ‘Uh... hello?’ said Frankie.

  Nothing.

  He stepped a little further forward, bent low in anticipation of an attack. I gripped my balls tight and tried to imagine I was somewhere else. For the first time ever, I found myself wishing Frankie still had his battle-axe on him, then scolded myself, because even if we were about to get our junks bitten off, that was just ridiculous.

  We stepped past a gnarled, wooden beam, and—

  We froze.

  There was a man sitting there. At least, I thought it was a man. He was sitting slumped in a chair, his body turned away from us, pointed towards the fire that was raging in the fireplace before him. Soft light flickered off the walls, casting shadows that seemed to move of their own volition, like shadowy limbs reaching out to grab people too slow or stupid to run away.

  Luckily for me, I was neither slow nor stupid.

  On legs suddenly alive with adrenaline, and whilst still gripping my balls tightly, I turned for the door—

  Frankie grabbed my arm.

  ‘Wait. Something’s not right.’

  ‘No shit!’ I hissed. I tried to pull my arm free, but he was insistent. Maybe if I bit him, or something...

  ‘No, I mean—look. He’s not moving. See?’

  I looked back round to where the guy was sitting. True, we could only see the top of his head, but it was enough to see that the guy hadn’t moved so much as an inch since we’d got here. Which meant he was either a ridiculously heavy sleeper, or...

  Releasing my arm, Frankie suddenly stepped over to the chair.

  He frowned.

  I held my breath. ‘What? What is it?’

  When he made no move to answer, I followed him rou
nd to the front of the chair and looked down.

  I frowned.

  It was a doll—a mannequin, to be exact. And a girl one, too, I noticed—not least of which because someone had apparently gone to a lot of effort to apply makeup to her.

  Lipstick. Eyeliner. Fucking rouge. It was all there. She was dressed in a leopard-print nightie, exposing a plunging neckline. A pair of fluffy pink slippers hung from the end of her rigid doll’s feet.

  I blinked.

  I was just so confused.

  From beside me, Frankie said, ‘Uh... A’doy?’

  ‘It’s a doll, Frankie.’

  If he heard me, he gave no sign. ‘Do you think it can see us?’ He leaned forward and waved a hand in front of its face. ‘Helloooooo? A’doy? Your friend sent us. We’ve come to ask you some questions.’

  ‘Frankie, for the last time, it’s not—’

  I felt my balls shoot suddenly up into my throat as, from behind us, a voice cried, ‘FREEZE, MOTHERFUCKERS!’

  I let out a yelp, hands flying above my head—

  ‘NOW TURN AROUND—SLOWLY. KEEP YOUR HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE ’EM!’

  Slowly, we turned around—

  And then, just like that, my mind broke. With the finality of a high-speed car crash, we suddenly reached the pinnacle of what was the allowable amount of retardation before the universe and all its bullshit imploded in on itself. The God of Retarded Things had played his final trump card, and boy, was it a doozy.

  It was a bunny rabbit.

  Now before you say anything, I know, I know—it’s dumb. Believe me—I know. When you spend as much time around ridiculous crap as I do, you get to know it when you see it.

  But it was what it was.

  The silver-grey talking bunny rabbit gestured with the revolver in his paws—oh, yeah, he had a revolver, too. Did I mention that? Yeah; seriously, fuck my life.

  ‘NOW STEP TOWARDS ME—AND DON’T TRY ANYTHING FUNNY. TRY ANYTHING, AND I SWEAR I’LL BLOW YOUR FUCKING BALLS OFF.’