Kilroy was Here

by Jeff South

  “Let’s be monster hunters,” he said in a bout of inspiration.

  “How does that work?” I asked, new to the whole monster hunter live-action role play thing.

  “Easy,” he said with surprising intensity. “Follow my lead.” He then formed a pistol with his thumb and forefinger, looked off at some invisible target, and started firing. “Look! There’s a wendigo! C’mon!”

  I ran after him firing my own imaginary gun because he was the only other kid I had met who knew the term wendigo.

  He soon decided to name us Kilroy and Mr. Roboto and he shared his love of the song “Mr. Roboto” with me for the first time. We listened to the song on repeat for about half an hour.

  “So, I’m a robot?” I asked him.

  “Yes. My robot sidekick built by a mad genius scientist.” That addition confused me because no mad genius scientist is mentioned in the song or in the entire album of Kilroy Was Here.

  “So, we’re a monster hunting rock star and his robot companion built by a mad genius scientist?”

  “Yep.”

  I decided to roll with it because he was my friend and our times together were fun. We roamed the playground ridding Michael Dukakis Elementary School of imaginary monsters, protecting our unwitting classmates, teachers, and administrators. As we progressed through middle school and eventually high school, we grew out of hunting imaginary monsters and focused on taming the beasts of adolescence. Dating. School. Bullies.

  One day our junior year, while we sat eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and drinking green Kwench-Aid, I showed Jeff an ad for a job I found on Craigslist.

  High school student with unique skills? Looking for a different kind of after school job? We are looking for someone with excellent computer and communication skills to service our very diverse clientele with their unique needs. Flexible hours. Part-time schedules. Opportunities for advancement. Click here to fill out the online application and set up an interview!

  I needed a part-time job because I had turned 16 and needed money to put gas in my car. Mom and Dad provided me with a sturdy, reliable Toyota Corolla for my 16th birthday and the arrangement was they would pay the insurance and I would pay for the gas and general maintenance. My occupational options as a teenager were limited to food service, cashier, or working at a local business sweeping floors, taking out the trash, and being taunted with no way of reporting anyone to Human Resources.

  “Sounds like an ad for a male prostitute,” was Jeff’s reaction. “Go for it.”

  “I dunno. I mean, answering a job listing on Craigslist? Why don’t I create my own ad that says I’d be interested in meeting up at an abandoned warehouse to be disemboweled?”

  “You’re so boring I can’t even be bothered to yawn at how boring you are.”

  He was right. I’ve played by the rules my entire life. Risk-taker is not a term used to describe me. Prior to applying at Corporate, the last chance I took was deciding to order the mysterious casserole in the cafeteria, a gastrointestinal mistake that my parents still talk about. My track record of going out on a limb is spotty at best. I remained skeptical.

  “Would it make you feel better if I applied, too?” he offered.

  “I think you would make a lousy male prostitute,” I told him. “You’re selfish. To be successful in that vocation, I imagine one has to be a giver.”

  “First of all, I’m not selfish,” he protested. “Also, did you say ‘vocation?’?”

  We went back and forth like that in a dance of I’ll-do-it-if-you-do-it and alright-well-go-ahead and you-apply-first-and-then-I-will. Eventually, we agreed upon the logical let’s-apply-at-the-same-time. After completing a fairly standard online application, we both completed a couple of assessments and the next thing we knew we were out in the field with Randi Williams guarding the portal.

  A massive and secret private company hires teenagers to guard a mysterious portal and, based on what I now suspect about Marlene, hunt aliens. What kind of business model is that?

  *

  Beeps and dings from the Space Vega’s dashboard pull me from my memory and jolt Jeff from his nap. He wipes away some drool which had formed in the corner of his mouth and rubs his face. The swirling, stormy opening of yet another portal looms ahead. He engages the cannon at the front of Miss America and fires into the portal’s mouth. The car jerks as usual and within seconds we are sucked into the exit to planet Lloyd.

  *

  The training database downloaded in my brain has provided a better understanding of portals. I always operated under the narrow-minded assumption that the one in Poplar Bluff was the only one. The reality is, of course, they’re all over the universe and they come in all shapes and sizes. Entering a portal involves the same process. Your vehicle or spacecraft arrives at a checkpoint and you must present proper registration to proceed. You then move to the hangar with the coordinates of the location to which you wish to travel.

  The coordinates, however, do not always lead you to a planet’s atmosphere or a moon’s orbit or some other logical destination. Instead, you’re likely to enter some random place, like over a small river running through an open field outside a small town in Missouri. Or, in the case of planet Lloyd, you pop out of the sky into a prison yard filled with the most hardened criminals the planet knows. Jeff eases Miss America through the crowd of inmates. They all nod and wave to him and say things like, “Hey, it’s Kilroy again!” and “We need to quit standing in front of the portal. That’s how you die.”

  *

  After leaving the prison yard, we glide above the apocalyptic sprawl of high rise slums. Thick, soupy smog hangs in the air. My nano knowledge tells me the atmosphere is similar to Earth’s and doesn’t require oxygen suits. I roll the window down to take in the air quality. My gag reflex kicks in due to the smell of sulfur and the population’s collective body odor.

  “Quite the shithole, eh?” Jeff says.

  “It’s like a demilitarized zone.”

  “There’s a great pizza place here, though. We’ll get some while we’re here.”

  “This is where Grandor lives? I expected something more elegant.”

  “According to the coordinates, his house is at the end of that street below.”

  Miss America descends to the roadway and eases toward a large multi-leveled dwelling at the road’s end. The house sits atop a slight hill and consists of three circular lemon yellow pods connected by tubes. Pastel-colored chaser lights line the windows and outline the frame of the house. The same lights line the sidewalk leading to the front door. A flashing sign in the front yard reads “Happy Chvalta!”

  We each tote behavioral weapons. I carry the Gulliball and the Existential Crisis Inducer. Jeff packs a JazzHands Phaser and a Passive Aggressive Agitator. He also carries Simon Tybalt’s Grand Illusion in his pants pocket. We ring the doorbell and the front door opens enough for the long barrel of a space gun to poke out.

  “I forbid all solicitors from these premises,” announces the female voice behind the door. “State your business or leave immediately.”

  “Can Grandor come out and play?” Jeff asks.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “His drug dealers,” I say, because Jeff shouldn’t be the only one who gets to say snappy one-liners.

  The door opens to reveal a human woman in a terrycloth robe. She holds the space gun that greeted us through the door. She wears no makeup and appears to be in Year Four of a ten-year plan to develop perpetual bedhead.

  “Do you work for Grandor?” I ask.

  “I’m Grandor’s mother.”

  I don’t know why but the statement strikes me as a shocking revelation.

  “His mother?” I ask. “I thought Grandor was an artificial intelligence. He was created in a lab.”

  “I took him in when he was a small boy.” The woman’s eyes turn hollow like a homeless veteran spinning a yarn about their war experiences. “Or, should I say, when he was attached to a boy. Every so often he wou
ld come home in a new form, having downloaded himself into some new consciousness. Before this merchant that he is now, he was a teenage girl from Mongalisonia. Moody little bugger the whole time. What a nightmare.”

  “But you didn’t create him?” Jeff asks.

  “No,” she says. “The scientists responsible for making him sold their plans to someone and got rich. They bought a tropical moon in the Qartanian Sector. He never hears from them. Don’t think that doesn’t come up every year on his birthday.”

  “Yeah, I’ve never met my dad, either,” Jeff says. “I hear he’s a big shot record executive now.” That is a lie. Jeff Harper has no clue what his father does or even if he is still alive.

  “Sorry about the mess in the front yard.” Her voice suggests she says that to everyone who visits. “I have told Grandor to take down those Chvalta decorations for months, but he refuses.”

  “He’s been doing the dishes, though, right?” I ask.

  “If you could point us to his room or his den or whatever, that’d be great,” Jeff says.

  “He lives in the basement,” she points down the hall. “Last door on the left.”

  “Grandor the Malevolent lives in his mom’s basement?” I ask.

  *

  Grandor’s basement fills me with a combination of awe and envy. My house in Poplar Bluff has a basement we use for movie nights and other entertaining. Dad mounted a 60” smart TV on the wall and all in all it’s a pretty cool place. Yet, my basement is a crack house compared to Grandor’s massive lair.

  The room extends at least one hundred feet. From floor to ceiling must measure twenty feet. Various star maps hang along one wall with an assortment of charts and graphs. The opposite wall is covered with designs of condominiums, beach houses, and amusement park attractions. Across each design is printed “GrandEarth!” in exciting letters. In the middle of the room, a giant holographic globe of Earth spins. The back wall is covered by a massive monitor. In front of the monitor sits a console covered with buttons, smaller screens, knobs, and switches. An oversized leather high-back office chair faces the monitors. Next to the desk is a three-dimensional pyramid of empty aluminum cans of either beer or soda. The chair spins slowly and the familiar figure of Grandor faces us, dark glasses covering his eyes. The music of Andy Gibb, specifically “Shadow Dancing,” booms throughout the room.

  “Who goes there? Who dares enter my lair unannounced?”

  “Your mom let us in,” Jeff says.

  “I have told that insufferable woman a million times to follow the proper procedure for allowing guests into my quarters. I have top secret plans here. Highly sensitive information. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? What if now is not a good time? I am very busy after all.”

  I examine the GrandEarth globe and the miniature display of attractions on the table. Fully functioning tiny waterslides. Models of massive resort hotels. Gambling casinos.

  “Busy doing what?” Jeff asks.

  “Writing my memoirs in haiku form. Please provide some feedback on this stanza:

  “Born in a cold lab

  My parents abandoned me

  I got over it.”

  “Is that the opening?” Jeff asks. “You need a strong opening.”

  “Ah, Kilroy. Always the insufferable ass.”

  “I prefer the term amiable rapscallion.” Jeff plops down on the sofa against the wall and kicks his feet up on the coffee table. “Now, we had a deal. Let’s get this done.”

  “Jackie!” Grandor stands and claps his hands twice to summon his valet orb. “Bring the babe!”

  Jeff and I stand in anticipation of Leigh Ann’s arrival. Jeff fidgets and preens. He pulls his top hat off, messes with his hair, and replaces his hat. He leans into me a bit and whispers.

  “I have two questions. First, are you prepared to steal the quintonium drive plans?”

  “No. I want to throw up I’m so nervous,” I tell him. My mouth is void of moisture.

  “Second,” he adds, “what’s a haiku?”

  CHAPTER TEN

  A bookcase to our right slides open and a basketball-shaped orb floats in. I recognize it as Grandor’s valet Jackie and she is accompanied by the love of Jeff’s life, Leigh Ann Cantwell. She wears a rather snug black and silver unitard with a belt around her waist with a thin black duster.

  “Leigh Ann!” Jeff runs to her and kisses her. “You okay, baby?”

  “Can we get this over with?” Her face wears the frustration of a girl who’s been waiting for her boyfriend to rescue her from an intergalactic despot. “Can we go home? I want waffles. You promised me waffles.”

  “We’ll get some. I promise.” Jeff turns to Grandor and holds out the Grand Illusion drive containing the plans. “Alright, we got the nano whatever. It’s all yours.”

  “This was not part of our arrangement, Kilroy.” Grandor walks a slow circle around me and I fear he may sniff me like a dog inspecting an interloper in the kennel. “We agreed that only you and I would negotiate this exchange.”

  “He’s cool,” Jeff says. “He’s with me. He’s Mr. Roboto.”

  “Tony. Call me Tony.”

  “You were there that night,” Grandor says to me as he continues his circle around me. “I remember you.”

  “That was me. I was there.”

  “I shall be monitoring your presence here with extreme caution. Kilroy’s endorsement of you hardly impresses me.” He takes the Grand Illusion from Jeff and beckons Jackie to him. Jackie buzzes over and he inserts the drive into one of her ports. He hops up and down and claps his hand like a child about to open their birthday presents.

  “Show me the plans, Jackie,” he gushes. “I want to see them.”

  Jackie projects a holographic image of blueprints, computer formulas and mock-ups of the Araneae Max and Randi showed me at Corporate.

  “Oh, it’s marvelous!” he coos. “Isn’t it marvelous, Jackie?”

  “Yes,” she responds flatly. “Marvelous.”

  I want to leave, crawl under my blanket at home, and fight off an anxiety attack with a cocktail of green Kwench-Aid, thumb sucking, and “Bubbly,” but, I, too, have a mission to carry out. While Grandor prances around completely engrossed in the holograms, I take a few cautious steps backward toward the giant computer console. How exactly I’m going to access the quintonium drive plans remains to be seen. I make eye contact with Jeff and he sees he must help with a diversion.

  “Let’s move this along, okay?” He positions himself so that Grandor must face him with his back to me. “Exchange merchandise, payments, and knowing glances and wrap it up.”

  “Jeff,” Leigh Ann huffs. “Waffles.”

  Grandor pats Jackie’s spherical form. “Thank you, Jackie. Papa loves you.” He turns away from her and struts toward Jeff and Leigh Ann. “After some considerable thought, I have decided to amend our agreement, Kilroy.”

  My instincts tell me to clutch the Gulliball in my pocket and Existential Crisis Inducer on my hip.

  “What do you mean?” Jeff asks.

  “It is only fair I inform you something most unexpected transpired between me and Leigh Ann. We did not mean for it to happen, but love cannot be explained.” He extends his hand and fires a bolt of electricity from a ring that lassoes Leigh Ann. He jerks on the electric rope, bringing a squirming Leigh Ann to his side. Jeff fires his the Passive Aggressive Agitator, but Grandor deflects it with his cape.

  “Are you kidding me right now?” Jeff moves in a half circle around the pair.

  “Jeff! Do something!” Leigh Ann fights against the restraints of the electric rope. “I don’t wanna go with this freak!”

  I pull the Gulliball from my pocket, press the button, and roll it on the floor, unsure exactly of my endgame. Grandor sends a blast into my torso and the wind escapes from my lungs. I fall to the floor gasping.

  “Jackie.” Dismissive arrogance drips from his voice. “Dispose of these two. I find them pungent. A tepid broth I must spit out.”

&n
bsp; “I do not think I can honor that request, Grandor,” Jackie says as she lifts higher above us and floats toward Leigh Ann. “You are allowing your megalomania to proceed unchecked. You are exhibiting delusional behavior and need to take your medication.”

  Leigh Ann kicks Grandor in the kneecap and he cries out in pain. Reaching to clutch his injury, he releases Leigh Ann from the lasso and she runs to Jeff.

  “Jackie?” Grandor’s face droops with rejection as he looks to the two of them. “Leigh Ann?”

  Jackie buzzes toward the computer console, extends a mechanical arm from within her and attaches to a port. She beeps and bloops as data is transferred. I’m unsure as to whether she is uploading or downloading. Leigh Ann buries her head in Jeff’s shoulder. A sad and desperate Grandor looks at me and offers a pitiful shrug.

  “Look, Grandor.” Jeff continues to aim the Passive Aggressive Agitator. “I don’t know what you’re trying to pull but the deal was Leigh Ann for the nano shit. You got what you wanted. We’re going home.”

  “Jackie! Jackie! What are you doing?” Grandor steps toward his valet like a teenager whose mom confiscated his phone to read his text messages and go through his pictures.

  “I have the Araneae plans now, so I am also downloading the plans for the quintonium drive. You are clearly unfit to carry out our endeavor adequately.”

  “Please, my loyal Jackie!”

  I aim my Existential Crisis Inducer at Jackie, but she fires a short laser blast at my hand, knocking my weapon to the floor. My hand tingles like it did that time I stuck my finger in a light socket when I was 8.

  Jeff fires at Jackie, but it bounces off her. It’s as if she has an invisible deflector shield up. She fires two quick blasts at Jeff and he drops to the floor in pain. Leigh Ann screams out and covers her head like she is being attacked by a swarm of bees. Grandor stands frozen in confusion.

  “What is happening? What is this? Jackie!”