“Hello?” A smiling woman with orange hair calls from behind a large desk in the center of the room. “May I help you?”
Adam hesitantly approaches the desk and says, “Uh, hi. I’m here to reclaim something that was taken by one of your sweepers, I think they’re called.”
The woman behind the desk sighs. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Well, no…”
She points and says, “Head down the hall and enter the third door on the left. Sign in and take a seat. Someone will be with you eventually.”
Adam grins, waggling his eyebrows, and Daizy shoves him toward the hallway. As they search for the room, he looks up at the lofty ceiling, holds out his hands and claps, sending an echo down the corridor.
“Quit fishing around,” Daizy says, pulling at his arm. “This is it.”
Adam presses his thumb to a display next to the door, adding his information to the queue, and they step into a room crammed full of people. Utilizing his innate inclination toward comfort, Adam manages to stake out an opening against the wall. In an unexpected turn of fortune, Daizy squeezes in close to avoid making contact with the living dead surrounding them. It occurs to him that for the first time ever, he’s the most desirable person in the room.
“I told you I’d get us in,” he says.
“Oh please, do it again Mr. Wizard,” Daizy asks. “I’m going to watch for an open seat.”
Most of the people in the room stare blankly at holograms stationed between the aisles, spouting information about the building in which they’re waiting.
“—great care to transport the house from the old capital,” a perky, translucent woman informs them. “The entire building was dismantled and rebuilt, piece by piece, in an effort to keep our great nation firmly rooted in the past…”
Losing interest, Adam glances around at his new neighbors. In the seat nearest him, a big woman dozes off as two screaming kids hang off her thick limbs. Next to them, a young couple shares a disintegrating book, trying not to rip it in half as they tug it back and forth. Adam accidentally makes eye contact with a tired geezer sitting across the aisle, and the man smiles and nods.
“Harya?” Adam asks.
“Fine, fine,” the man says.
“What are you here for?”
“It’s those fishin’ sweepers.” He takes off his bucket hat and runs a hand across his shiny scalp. “One of them stole the wig right off a my head. What’s this world coming to when a man’s hair isn’t safe?”
“Those sweepers are a real pain in the ack,” Adam says. “But I bet you’ll get it sorted out soon. How long have you been waiting?”
“You know, it’s a funny thing,” the man says, staring off. “I can’t remember.”
Horton‘s fingers navigate his shadowy keyboard as he scours the net for information on Adam Jones. So far, it almost seems like the guy is a nobody, just some lucky chidiot who happened to be in the right place at the right time.
As he blindly reaches across his dark desk, his hand bumps into something, and he hears a crash.
“Aww, chit,” he says.
Ripping his goggles from his head, he sees the contents of his Big L@lz gushing out across his desk. He grabs the can with one hand and pats the floor of his dark room with the other, frantically searching for something to keep the spill from spreading. As the purple liquid reaches the precipice, he thrusts a dirty cloth underneath the stream, narrowly avoiding a carpet stain catastrophe. He breathes a sigh of relief and begins sopping up the mess when the door to his room opens, and a bright beam of light shines in his eyes.
“Jor, your friends are waiting for you outside.” His mom is standing in the doorway, already dressed in her suit for work and staring at her phone. “Hurry up or we’ll both be late.”
Horton looks at the moist cloth in his hand, a dark purple stain bleeding over a grid of ones and zeroes, and moans, “Aww, my favorite shirt.”
He throws the rag onto the floor and dashes through the house, grabbing a brown paper lunch bag from the kitchen counter on his way out.
“Bye Mom,” he yells, slamming the door shut behind him.
The sky is bright gray, the early morning sun casting a dull shine over the browning lawns and drooping plastic siding common to all the houses in the neighborhood. Beer, The One, and Pants are standing at the end of the crumbling driveway, and Horton runs to meet them.
“Hey butty,” The One says, leaning his elbow on top of Horton’s head. “You look smaller than usual. You hungover this morning?”
Horton angrily shoves his oversized, so-called friend and grumbles, “Thanks for ruining the game last night.”
“Ah, lighten up. I was just trying to have a little fun before we have to go back to that prison.”
“I can’t wait to go back,” Pants says, bouncing down the sidewalk, giddily, in what appear to be new pink sneakers. “I love school!”
“You would,” The One says.
Beer, nervously flipping through his textbook, asks Horton, “You finish reading?”
“I skimmed it,” Horton says. “It was actually sort of interesting.”
An older kid passes them on the sidewalk, smirking, and The One shouts, “What are you looking at? Yeah, keep walking!”
“I wonder what teachers I’m going to have this year,” Pants says, her pigtails bouncing.
“I just hope I don’t get Zhanghoff for gym,” Beer says. “I heard he makes you climb the rope until your hands bleed.”
“Hey!” someone shouts from behind. A little kid with scruffy brown hair runs toward them, his backpack bouncing on his shoulders. “You’re Pants Team Pink, aren’t you?” He catches up, huffing, and stares at them with a big, goofy grin.
“We don’t know what you’re talking about, kid,” The One says. “Go away.”
“I don’t believe you,” the kid says. “I’d recognize princessfluffypants anywhere.”
Pants cups her hands over her mouth and squeals.
“I’ve seen every episode,” the kid says, tripping along beside them. “The last one was the best yet. But what’s gonna happen next? Do you think you’re ever gonna find the black gold? And what about the Asteroid Jones II?”
“Hey kid, we’re called The Ack Kickers,” The One says. “And we don’t know what’s gonna happen. It could be anything. Leave us alone, will yuh?”
The kid’s face drops, and he stops walking.
“Don’t worry,” Beer tells him. “We’re down but not out.”
“Don’t encourage him,” The One says. “Soon everybody in the universe is going to be looking for the black gold.”
Beer scoffs and says, “He’s just a kid. He probably just has a crush on Pants. What’s the harm?”
“Thanks for watching,” Pants tells the little boy and squeezes her arms around him. When she lets go, he blushes and runs off smiling.
“See?” Beer says.
Before long, they come to the bottom of the worn stone staircase leading up to their school, a stomach-churning perfume of antiseptic cleansers wafting through the air, when The One suddenly stops in his tracks. “I can’t do it. I can’t go back there.”
“Come on, we have to go,” Beer says, pulling at his brother’s arm.
“Hey, there they are!” a voice yells.
Horton glances up toward the school’s entrance and sees a group of kids pointing and shrieking. He turns to find out what they’re all losing their chit over, and when he looks back, a kid tsunami is rolling toward the team.
“Pants Team Pink!” one of them shouts.
“What the fish?” The One says.
“My fans!” Pants gleefully greets the mob.
“We have to get out of here,” Horton says. He pulls Pants along, and the four of them sprint away down the sidewalk.
Stuffing his book under his arm, Beer checks the time on his e-phone. “Hey, we’re gonna be late for school.”
“So it goes,” The One says.
As they search for
shelter, a bus pulls up to the corner at the end of the street.
“There,” Horton says, pointing at the hovering vehicle.
Before the floating tub can get away, The One runs up next to it and smacks the side. With a couple hard whacks, it stops, and the door hisses open.
“Don’t be smackin’ my bus,” the driver, a big woman with dark curls, scolds them as they climb aboard.
Each of them presses a finger to a display at the top of the steps to pay the fare, and they hurry to the back of the bus. Kneeling on the seat, they look out the window and make funny faces at the pack of shouting kids chasing after them.
“Quit climbin’ on my seat,” the driver yells. “Shouldn’t you kids be in school?”
“Uh, no,” The One says. “We don’t start for another week.”
The driver stares at them, skeptically, through the rearview mirror and mumbles something under her breath.
“What are we gonna do now?” Beer asks.
“Who cares,” The One says, “as long as we’re not at school.”
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Horton calls. “Where’s this bus headed?”
“Downtown,” she grumbles.
As they travel closer to the city, the buildings begin to squeeze in on each other, and a rotten perfume of trash and dead fish permeates the air. The bus driver angrily and constantly lays on the horn at cars and people crowding the streets, though they hardly seem to take notice. At the end of the line, she wrenches the door open and glares at the team as they climb off.
Stranded with no place to go, the four of them stand on the corner, glancing at each other uncertainly as streams of adults rush past.
“Let’s hit the scrap shop,” The One finally says. “I wanna see if I can find some paint to touch up my bun.”
They nod in agreement and weave into the crowd, navigating the human tide as only native kids can.
“Move it,” The One says. “Coming through. Get out of the way.”
“I’m gonna beat you this time!” Beer announces.
“Ow, that was my toe,” Pants yelps.
When Horton emerges from the throng, The One is already standing underneath the shop’s familiar raspberry-blowing smiley face. Beer and Pants soon follow, tripping over each other into the alley, and they all rush for the door. Horton briefly holds the lead, but The One, defying his girth, nimbly breaks to the front of the pack and glides across the finish line to an easy victory.
They tumble into the store, and the clerk, without taking his eyes off a rotting old issue of Fangoria, tells them, “Look with your eyes, not your hands.”
The room is filled with artifacts from some distant, inconceivable past – walls lined with movie posters and rusty metal signs; metal racks piled with worn books, magazines, action figures, and wax boxes; drawers overflowing with knick-knacks and gag toys. For every object Horton recognizes there are ten others he’s never laid eyes on. He glances through a shelf full of trinkets and picks up an ornate puzzle box inlaid with intricate gold motifs. Feeling a strange compulsion, he runs his finger along the box’s edge, and it shifts in his hands.
“Hey kid, I said no touching,” the clerk yells. “You have no idea what some of this stuff can do.”
“What’s this thing?” The One asks, pulling up the lid of a metal trash can oozing thick green goop.
“Don’t mess with that,” the clerk says. “You’re not even supposed to be in here without an adult.”
“It’s not like we’re going to break anything,” Pants says.
“Listen, why don’t you…” The clerk’s eyes suddenly stretch open wide, and his mouth drops open as he looks up from his magazine. “It, it’s you guys… You’re Pants Team Pink!”
“Not so loud, Dante,” Beer says.
“This is awesome!” the clerk shouts. “Will you sign…” he looks around and grabs a box of tapes off the shelf, “this?”
Pants takes the heavy box and stares at it. “Jazz a film by Ken Burns?”
“Yes fine,” The One says. “Just keep your voice down.”
They print their screen names in silver marker on the front of the box, and the clerk lifts it up gingerly, as if it were something precious and fragile.
“Wow, this is great.” He carefully places the box on display inside the counter and beams. “I love your show. If there’s anything you guys need, look no further.”
“I need bun paint, for my ship,” The One says.
“Let me see what I got.” Still grinning, the clerk disappears behind the counter and into the dark recesses of the shop.
Horton absentmindedly pokes a glowing green orb on the shelf next to him. “Wouldn’t it be funny if we found the black gold in a place like this, next to all the other scrap?”
“Did you say black gold?” the clerk asks, returning with a rusty bucket covered in dried paint. “That’s a coincidence. Some guy was just in here asking about that. I didn’t have Burger Bun, but this Graham Cracker should be pretty close.”
“What are you talking about, Dante?” Beer asks.
“Um, my name is Todd,” the clerk says. “I have kind of a limited selection of colors.”
“No, I mean about the black gold,” Beer says.
“It was some guy and a cat-girl,” Todd says. “They were here earlier, trying to sell what they claimed was black gold. But there’s no way it was real. They looked like they were on space.”
Horton leans against the counter, causing it to tip back. “Did you see where they went?”
“Don’t lean on the glass.” Todd scratches his head and looks at them curiously. “I told them they could take it to The Big Guy, but I was joking. The black gold is just a myth. You guys don’t really believe it’s real…”
“Lemme pay so we can get the fish out of here,” The One says.
Todd rings up the paint, and the team scrambles for the door.
“Thanks, Todd!” Pants shouts.
Todd waves and yells after them, “Anything for Pants Team Pink!”
Pi indifferently scrutinizes her appearance in the mirror, pulling her hair back into a tight ponytail. She raises the corners of her mouth and then lowers them, searching for a suitable smile as the argument in the next room seeps through the walls in muffled bursts.
“These chidiots can’t go five space minutes,” she whispers to herself, pausing for one last prolonged look in the mirror before stepping out of the restroom.
“As a representative of the UE, I am expressly bestowed far greater authority than any that you may think you possess!” Zok’s faux authoritative howl dominates the conversation as he furiously paces the room.
“Yeah well, I called dibs,” Steve says from the couch, splashing a small fortune’s worth of thousand-year-old whisky onto an ancient Earth rug that will be much harder to replace than he is.
“Dibs?” Zok grabs the sides of his head. “What does that mean? Will you talk to them?” he pleads.
“I thought we were all in agreement,” Pi says.
“They’re bickering over which of them gets to question Silas Jones first,” Dave explains.
“We can’t risk leaving him alone with Zok,” Steve says. “He might kill the guy before we ever get a crack at him.”
“There is nothing to fight about,” Pi tells them. “We will interrogate Silas Jones together. Everyone will know what everyone else knows.”
“It’s my right—” Zok begins to argue, but Pi glares at him, and he wisely chuts up.
“Now that that’s settled…” Pi folds her arms and pivots toward the door. “Bring him in.”
The wide double doors swing open and Zilch, her head of security, rolls Silas Jones into the room. The old man is strapped to a wobbly office chair, clothed in the same thin flannel pants and knit sweater he was picked up in. A souvenir t-shirt from the gift shop covers his eyes, and in his lap rests a peculiar metal box.
When Zilch removes the blindfold, Silas nervously whips his head around and grins. “Uh, hi.”
“Ahoy!” Pi says, stepping in front of him. “Do you know who I am?”
“No,” he says, looking her up and down. “But I wouldn’t mind getting to know you.”
“Most people call me The Foreman.”
“That doesn’t seem right,” Silas remarks, his eyes glued to her legs. “But I like it.”
“Do you know why you’re here?”
“I got a pretty good idea,” he says. “Listen, don’t hurt my grandson. He didn’t know what he was getting himself into. Neither did I, otherwise I never would have told him anything about the black gold, or this place.”
Pi glances back at the three men impatiently hovering over her shoulder. “That saves us some time.” Turning to Silas, she says, “As long as you cooperate, no one will get hurt. Now, where is Adam Jones?”
The old man squirms, spinning in his chair. “I wouldn’t tell you even if I knew. I’d never give him up.”
“I was hoping you would be smart enough to work with us. But I wasn’t counting on it.” She kneels down and breathes into his ear, “No matter. Your mere presence should be enough to serve our needs.”
Pi reaches into the front of her dress, seizing the attention of every man in the room as she tugs down on the sheer fabric, and emerges with her phone.
She selects Adam Jones from the contact list and, after a half dozen rings, he appears on the screen. “You’ve reached Adam Jones.”
“Ahoy! We meet again,” Pi says. “I think you’ll be interested to know—”
“I’m not available right now,” he cuts her off. “If you’re looking for a good time, you want the Ass-teroid Jones. Otherwise, leave a message and…”
“Fish! Uh yeah, ahoy! This is The Foreman. I have your grandfather. If you ever want to see him again, you will deliver the black gold to me.” She turns her phone and faces the camera at Silas. “Call me when you get this. Bye. It’s The Foreman.”
“How did you get his number?” Silas meekly demands, squirming under his restraints.
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