by Jeff South
“Marlene!” I call out. She turns to me and our eyes meet for a brief second. This proves a distraction to her and the old woman lands another body blow. Marlene grunts and spins away to regain an advantage. She starts spinning her electric nun chucks. Her surprisingly worthy elderly opponent backs up in defense. Marlene continues her advance and strikes the old lady across the jaw with a blow from the nun chucks. This knocks the dip out of the woman’s mouth as she spills to the pavement in a heap. The old lady hits the ground right after.
“Are they dead?” I look around to see if anyone noticed or maybe spot the convenience store clerk coming out to investigate. No one is around. “They look dead.”
“No.” Marlene pulls a small Taser-looking device from her waistband. “Just unconscious.” She rolls each of the bodies over onto their stomachs and sticks the device to their neck for a few seconds.
“What did you do?”
“Deprogrammed them. They were about to turn.” She pulls her cell phone from her pocket and makes a call. “Targets located and subdued. Situation secure here. Call 911 so these two can be looked after.”
She ends her call, stomps toward me and grabs my face. She kisses me and the warmth of her soft lips turns my knees to plasticine. Her hand caresses my hair on the back of my head and for these brief seconds all is right with the world again. She pulls away and looks in my eyes.
“You shouldn’t have broken off our prom date, you jerk tool head. And you need to stop driving by my house because it’s a little creepy even though I know you’re not creepy. Just a jerk tool head.” She kisses me again with a quick peck and then gestures to the two bodies. “By this way, this never happened.”
I should speak but my lips still tingle from her kiss so forming consonants is out of the question. She jogs to her motor scooter, wisely puts her helmet on, and speeds away.
*
I drive toward the portal with the Marlene-Is-Some-Kind-Of-Ninja Encounter still playing in my mind and my lips still tingling from her kiss. Her words to me were “this never happened.” What never happened? The assault on a seemingly possessed old woman and my therapist? The kiss? All of it? What did she mean by “deprogramming them?” I don’t know what to do with this information. I keep thinking my sudden infinite knowledge of all things random will kick in and inform me, but it is dormant, I guess. Never around when I need it.
I chastise myself for driving by Marlene’s house so much. It’s sad, pathetic, and even a little creepy. She even said so. I can’t help it, though. I’m drawn to her. I like to sometimes think of high school as a microcosm of the universe and its celestial bodies. Some people fit together in a well-ordered galaxy that functions as it should. Others form black holes that suck people into an awfulness from which they can’t escape. A few of the so-called popular kids view themselves as suns around which all others orbit. I think most are stars singularly shining as best they can. My best friend Jeff Harper was a quark. My favorite object in the night sky is a binary star, which is really two stars that can’t operate without each other; orbiting together around a shared bond. That’s how I see Marlene and me. Binary stars.
*
Tonight is the first time I’ve been to the portal since the Prom Night of Which We Shall Never Speak. Everything looks the same. Large signs proclaiming this to be private property and trespassers shall be prosecuted still line the roadside. Thick brush and tall trees hide the 10-foot tall electrified fence around the perimeter. The same automated security checkpoint is still there to run me through the same overly complicated drill to enter. I swipe my Corporate ID to initiate.
“Welcome, Tony Pershing,” says the voice inside the box. “Please initiate Rube Goldberg Protocol 819 for clearance.”
“I don’t want to follow Rube Goldberg Protocol 819.” I promise this is what I’m supposed to say.
“What do you mean you don’t want to?” The voice becomes defensive per the Protocol. “You must follow the instructions as directed to gain access.”
“You don’t have to get so defensive. I’m merely expressing I don’t want to follow the Protocol. Let me in, please.” I let out an audible sigh. According to the Protocol, it must be an audible sigh for the voice to respond.
“I’m merely trying to do my job. It’s not easy being a disembodied voice out in the middle of nowhere. No one comes by to visit. I don’t get to take breaks. I don’t have a pension. I’m a voice designed to serve one function and here you come trying to take away my sole reason for existence.”
“You’re right.” Now, the next sequence is critical. If not said verbatim, the whole dialogue must start over again. “I’m very sorry for my petulant attitude. You bring value to our organization. Please accept my apology.”
The voice in the box waits for exactly five seconds before responding.
“Apology accepted.”
I once asked Randi why such a production was necessary for entering a secure area and she told me Simon Tybalt, the founder of Corporate created that particular Rube Goldberg Protocol because there was no way anyone could figure it out.
The gate slides open and I pull my car forward through the open field toward the river approximately one hundred yards away. I shut my engine off, take a breath, and get out of my car. The summer night air is thick and oppressive. The trees are still and the cicadas and frogs sing. I wonder if they know about the portal. Randi stands at the bank of the river and points her Multi-Phaseable Portal Accessibility Sensor Device.
“Seems calm for now,” she says, “but that could change.”
I don’t answer because all I can focus on is Marlene kicking the collective ass of Life Coach Gilbert and the little old lady whose name I don’t even know.
“Hey.” Randi taps my arm. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Sorry. It’s weird being back here.”
“I get that.”
“Do you think Jeff will come through?” I retrieve my bag of weaponry from the trunk and put on the familiar protective vest. It occurs to me I’m not sure how this vest will protect me from anything.
“Maybe.” Randi pulls her weapon from her hip for inspection. “Could be Grandor. Could be some other life form. It’s been crazy.”
“How has Jeff been getting through?”
“He has weapons that disable our interns. That’s all I know. The security footage has been erased somehow.”
“What do we do to Jeff if he comes through?”
“Rube Goldberg Protocols state we must detain him in a conference room, give him an online assessment to complete, and then wipe his brain of all memories.”
“Wipe his brain? That sounds very unethical.”
“It’s never been done before.” She holds her sensor toward the river once more. “But, civilians can’t know what’s going on here. He’s putting the portal and our entire operation at risk. If word gets out about this to the general public, it’ll be a shit storm unlike you’ve ever seen.”
My stomach knots and my hands shake. I don’t want to be here. The portal scares me now more than ever. Before, it was a mysterious, unknown entity. After the Prom Night of Which We Shall Never Speak, I know something lies beyond. Because of Jeff’s adventures, I know passage back and forth is possible. Because of my conversation at Corporate, I know other aliens have come through and could still be here.
“What about the other life forms?” I ask Randi. “What are they? Have they been found?”
“We have a special project team assigned to find them,” she tells me. “It’s a team we were grooming you for before everything happened.”
That statement twists the already massive knot in my gut. “What does this team do when they find them?”
She walks to me and locks her eyes on mine. “Whatever they have to.”
“I don’t think I’d be very good at that.” I walk back to my car and retrieve the drink I bought at the convenience store. I can barely hold the cup in my trembling hand. “I don’t think I’m really cut out for any of t
his. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing anymore.”
“You know,” she says, returning to her weapon to its holster, “to forget one’s purpose is the commonest form of stupidity.”
“That’s harsh.”
“That’s Nietzsche.”
Our conversation is interrupted by the sound of squealing tires and the crash of a vehicle busting through the security gate. I squint at the glare of a pair of headlights attached to a vehicle that doesn’t quite qualify as a monster truck, but easily reflects the feelings of masculine inadequacy of its driver. Much to my ever-growing dismay, it is the Truck of Overcompensation of Clint Hudson. I see Clint climb down from the driver’s side and two other figures exit the passenger side. Randi barks into her wrist communicator before clutching her laser pistol.
“Code Red at the portal! I repeat Code Red at the portal!” She keeps one hand on her holstered pistol while holding the other out in a defensive stance. “You’re trespassing on private property. You need to leave this area immediately. The authorities are on their way.”
The first response comes from one of the other figures in the form of a short blue laser blast that hits Randi in the chest and knocks her to the ground. A collection of blue electrical currents envelop her as she convulses. They fade and her convulsions stop, but she remains motionless and unresponsive. I try to cry out, but can only produce a choking sound. I’m gagging on my fear.
Clint Hudson stomps toward me like a Neanderthal. Seriously, it’s like I can hear his knuckles scraping the ground. From the glow of the headlights, I can see his eyes are heavy from intoxication. Behind him are his tag-alongs, Tyler and Dalton. Tyler holds the pistol that immobilized Randi. Both guys fix their weapons on me.
“I’ve been looking for you, you pussy.” He pokes his finger in my chest. He’s close enough to smell the wintergreen tobacco and raging testosterone on his breath. His eyes are yellow and the pupils are more oval than round. I swallow hard and work my mouth in a desperate attempt to produce moisture. My chest tightens and my legs tingle.
“Look, fellas.” I hold my hands up in peace. “I don’t know what you want, but you might wanna get outta here. My bosses will be here soon and they’re gonna be pissed you tore up their gate. And I kinda wanna know where you got those guns.”
“How did a hot piece like Marlene ever want to hook up with a homo like you?” He grunts in derision while Tyler and Dalton harrumph monosyllabically the way teenage henchmen do.
Anger heats my blood at his referring to Marlene as a hot piece. An ill-advised sense of machismo nurtured by a steady diet of action films instills me with the desire to respond with a flippant wisecrack. Common sense derived from a quick analysis of the three-against-one data screams at me to get out of here. Dalton and Tyler creep toward me. I hear a low, rumbling guttural growl coming from them. I should take action here though my only potential options appear to be running away or falling to the ground and curling into the fetal position.
For the briefest of milliseconds, I think about apricots.
I see it all perfectly; there are two possible solutions – one can either do this or do that. My honest opinion and friendly advice is this: do it or do not do it. You will regret both.
Ill-advised machismo wins this time. “You know,” I say. “If you to want to mask your latent homoerotic curiosity about your two partners there with homophobic jabs at me, that’s fine. But, please watch how you talk about Marlene.”
With a quick movement, Clint is in my face and grabbing my shirt. “I know you drive by her house, you freak. I know you still want her. But she’s mine.”
“And she’s ok with that?”
He sneers at me and his hot breath smothers my face. “I think it’s time you woke up and smelled the coffee on the wall.”
“What are you talking about?” I say.
Dalton chimes up as he walks toward us. “You’re mixing your metaphors again, Clint. We’ve talked about that.”
“Yeah,” Tyler says. “You know what a grammar Nazi Dalton is.”
“Shut up, dicks!” Clint spits when he yells. “I’ll mix whatever the hell I want. And right now, I’m about to crack some eggs and mix up some lemonade.”
“God,” Dalton says. “It’s like an icepick in the ear.”
“I’m about to teach you not to mess with my girl. You got anything to say before I kick your ass?”
“Violence is the last refuge of the incompetent,” I say.
“Are you gonna let him quote Isaac Asimov like that, Clint?” Dalton challenges.
A sinister smile spreads across Clint’s face. “I’m really gonna enjoy this.”
“Will you cuddle with me when we’re done?” I wince at that example of ill-advised machismo, but I can’t help myself.
Clint’s first punch pounds the left side of my face and my vision in that eye goes black for a few seconds before bubbles of color and light dance. We received self-defense and basic hand-to-hand training at Corporate and those instincts take over as I stand and kick Clint in the groin. As he doubles over, gasping for air, I land a punch of my own to his jaw and he drops to his knees. Common sense now intervenes and tells my ill-advised machismo it is time to get the hell out of here, so I turn and try to run to my car door. Tyler and Dalton grab me and start dragging me back to Clint, who is now standing again and wiping blood from the lip I busted. I really want my mom right now. Sure, Dad would be handy, but I think Mom would inflict more damage in this situation.
I jerk and pull against the henchmen but their grasp is too strong. Pain surges with each pulse of my racing heart. Clint sizes me up, draws a deep breath, and plunges his fist into my stomach. He pulls his fist back and then smashes it into my ribs. I cry out and slump in Tyler’s and Dalton’s clutches. They drop me to the ground and the threesome takes turns with blows and kicks. Pain consumes my body and I gasp for the wind that has been knocked out of me. If you’ve never been kicked in the ribcage with a cowboy boot, I don’t recommend it. As I lie on the ground, I hear one of them say, “Someone’s coming. We should get outta here, Clint. You’ve made your point.”
“Hell, no,” Clint snorts. “We’ll get rid of ‘em and then finish off this douchebag.”
“What if it’s the cops?”
“It’s not the cops.”
Tyler and Dalton pull me up and I watch as a vehicle pulls beside Clint’s truck. I look to Randi. She struggles to get to her feet and shake off the effects of the blast she took. White splotches and tears cloud my vision, fogging any chance to see what kind of car it is. After a few blinks, my vision clears and a surge of shock rocks my body. The car is a red Vega station wagon with a white stripe on the hood. A lone figure walks toward us wearing cargo pants and a tattered tuxedo shirt with ruffles under a light jacket. A tattered top hat rests on his head and he takes a drag from a hand-rolled cigarette before flicking it to the ground.
“Step away from the Tony, please.”
I gasp at the sound of the voice of Jeff Harper.
“Get outta here,” Clint warns Jeff. “This don’t concern you.”
“It kinda does,” Jeff says. “That’s my friend’s ass you’re kicking.”
“Hey,” Dalton says. “You’re Jeff Harper.”
“Yeah,” Tyler says. “Jeff Harper. You back in town?”
“Nope,” Jeff says. “That’s not me.”
“Well, then, who the hell are you?” Clint asks.
“My name is Bart. I work on a fishing boat. Do you like to fish? Do you like guys named Bart?”
I stagger to my feet. The metallic taste of blood coats my tongue.
Jeff steps toward us and I see that same wild spark in his eyes. “Let my friend go, fellas.”
“We’ll do whatever the hell we want, Bart.” Clint shoves Jeff in the chest and Dalton and Tyler aim their guns at him. I don’t know why Jeff is calling himself Bart other than to mess with an intellectual inferior.
Jeff turns to him. “You seriously don’t
remember me, do you? Jesus. You made my life a living hell since fifth grade. You bullied me all the way through high school. Threw me in lockers. Duct-taped me to the flag pole with a sign that said ‘I touch myself in class.’ And you don’t know if my name is Jeff or Bart?”
“Whatever, asswipe,” Clint says. “Get out of here before I kick your ass, too.”
Jeff spins quickly and lands a kick to Clint’s face, knocking him to the ground. It’s a move I’ve never known Jeff capable of making without pulling a muscle or falling down. I crash to the ground in a thud and the wind leaves my lungs. I roll around gasping for air as Clint stands back up and moves to attack Jeff, who suddenly produces a laser pistol and points it at Clint.
“Whoa! Whoa!” Clint holds out his hands and backs up. “What the hell you gonna do with that?”
“I dunno,” Jeff says. “I’ve never used it before. I stole it from a Sarcillian in the Western R-7 Quadrant when he tried to steal my green Kwench-Aid. It might be a Phobia Inducer, which causes you to see the thing you fear most, or, it could be a quintonium-powered laser pistol. Those explode you like a watermelon dropped from a skyscraper. You really want to find out? Because I’m dying to know what this thing does.”
“We’ve got guns, too!” Dalton says and he and Tyler aim their weapons at Jeff.
“Those are cute,” Jeff says. “Looks like we’ve got us an old-fashioned Mojito Standoff.”
“Jeff Harper!”
We all turn in the direction of the voice to see Randi Williams now standing and pointing two weapons at Jeff and the others.
“What the hell?” Clint says.
“Hi ya, Randi,” Jeff calls out. “But call me Kilroy.”
“You’re crazy.” It’s the first time I’ve heard anything approaching fear coming from Clint.