Lagomar
Here's another short story of mine. I had the pleasure of reading this aloud to about 30 people. I'm not usually one for stage fright, but this one was a lot more politically incorrect/challenging - and I didn't want anyone to think I was trying to be too edgy. Anyhow, I had a lot of fun writing it... and I'm pretty sure it's my own fatalistic way of dealing with last years election results.
(Content warning: Language)
Lagomar
by Garrett DeRose
“Would you ever reconsider? Your mother and I didn’t exactly raise you for this” cried Mr. Linden-Peters
Brayden Jade Linden-Peters, a Martian of twenty-five cycles, spun around and dropped the duffel bag to his feet. They felt enormous and labored with each step. He could barely lift his chin to meet their bloodshot, watery eyes. After a long moment of shame and regret, Brayden spoke.
“I didn’t choose the thug life. It chose me.”
Mr. and Mrs. Linden-Peters let out a deep sigh, nearly simultaneously. Mrs. Linden-Peters stepped forward and put her hand on her son’s shoulder.
“Y…Y…Yolo, sweetie. We can’t stop you. Just come back safe, and show those idiots the error of their ways”
Brayden began to sob, thrusting himself into their arms. The Linden-Peters family wept under the Martian sky, that is, until a SnapJack zoomed down from above. The trio was then prompted to strike a shoulder-to-shoulder pose. There were several clicking sounds, accompanied by a camera flash. A few moments later, Brayden had trudged forth - presenting his Martian ID to the SpaceX crewman. He looked back one last time at his parents, wondering if he’d ever see them again.
There was a loud boom as the SUV backfired, exhaling a plume of dark exhaust. This was normal for the Atwood family rig, as it was modified to do so. Mr. Atwood didn’t care for the sky-lanes. He was old-fashioned, and liked to ‘roll-coal’ – just as his ancestors did before him. The road to the StarPort was filled with cracks and potholes, causing all seven of the passengers to bounce up and down in their seats. He glanced over through his sunglasses, scanning his oldest son’s features.
“Honey, I packed a couple of your trophies. Maybe you can put them up in the hotel room, get all psyched for your big match?”
Blaine Atwood turned around in his seat, his eyes met by the smiling faces of his mother and five siblings. He so badly wanted to exuberate, a pressure bubbling inside him. He was his father’s son, though – and conversation was for the weak. Argument, according to Mr. Atwood, was the only exception. Deflating himself through a faint sigh, he smiled and nodded back.
The sun had already gone down by the time they arrived to the StarPort. The ride was particularly dull and uneventful, save for the four-door sedan they had passed.
“Make them eat dust, Dad!” cheered Billy, the youngest.
The StarPort was packed, and they were running late. Blaine almost forgot to say goodbye to his family, the excitement overtaking him. This inadvertently made tears welt up in the corners of Mrs. Atwood’s eyes. She knew in her heart she would see him again, though. Everyone received big hugs, that is - everyone save for the stonehearted patriarch. Mr. Atwood stood straight, looked forward, and gave a firm salute.
“Private Atwood, you will honor our family through combat. You make us proud, so damn proud,” the father of five could feel his own upper lip quivering. “May the great light of the founders shine down on you! You must succeed, for your family’s sake… for EARTH’s sake.”
Mr. Atwood finally looked his son in the eye, “…Now get your ass on that ship and give ‘em hell!”
In a surprising display of excitement, the rigid man quickly gestured for a huddle. The Atwood family stood in a tight circle, their hands touching in the center. Mr. Atwood led the cheer:
“One, Two, Three….” Their hands bobbed up and down in rhythm, ending with a vertical jut.
“Fuck the Libturds!”
Brayden lay back in his seat, flipping through a holographic display emitting from a wristwatch. The SpaceX cruiser hummed faintly, occasionally vibrating the snack-carts as they rolled by. He switched over to the Free Martian News Network, but quickly shut it off after hearing a mention of the upcoming ‘Spacebook Olympics’. He stared out the window for what felt like hours, taking the occasional break to check his wristwatch. It was hard to tell the difference between the stars and the lights of other vehicles. Brayden often liked to imagine what life was like before all of this, what Earth was like. Just seconds before he slipped into a deep train of thought, there was a loud announcement over the cruiser intercom.
This is your Captain; we will be arriving at Lagomar Station shortly. If you look out the left hand viewing ports, you can get a good look at Founders Point.
Brayden squinted at the thousand foot tall statues – posed hand-in-hand. They were covered in what appeared to be a type of gold foil. This wasn’t the first time he had passed through the arch at Founders Point. Giant tablets were propped at the base of the colossuses – one reading ‘Zuckerberg’, the other ‘Trump’.
“I’m going to die here” Brayden sighed
Blaine winced in anticipation as he inspected the new charges on his account. The numbers fluttered across the transparent blue projection, reaching several digits. Tapping his wristwatch, the hologram fizzled out of existence.
“You know, the Martians don’t pay to travel. I’m pretty sure they don’t pay for anything,” said a voice from behind him. Looking over his shoulder, his eyes lit up. It was Dana, his personal assistant for the weekend. Other than a brief introduction while on the flight, Blaine didn’t know what to think of her.
“Lazy assholes”, Blaine replied.
Before Dana could react, something caught her attention – leading her to point her finger. Blaine brushed her hand from his arm, squinting across the football field sized flight deck. Shading his eyes, he could barely make out a face.
“You’re right, it’s him.” Blaine said, feeling his pulse quicken. “It’s the wuss”. He began his pursuit, weaving through armies of tourists. Dana was in tow, trying her best to stop him. It wasn’t until they had lost Brayden that they decided to check in at the hotel.
“What a nice way to receive a history lesson” said Brayden, sipping his tea. The rooftop lounge was now covered by the shadow of a large floating billboard. The hundred-foot tall screen blasted propaganda and advertisements so fast that Brayden could barely keep up.
Enjoy your stay at Lagomar station, home of the Spacebook Olympics!
The screen quickly buzzed with static, and an icon, which read ‘live’ blinked in the upper right hand corner. A giant face now filled the frame, bathing the rooftops in an orange glow.
People of Earth, I thank you for being here on this special weekend. It’s going to be fantastic, and I would like to announce that I will definitely be in attendance.
Brayden imagined the glass dome above cracking; due to the volume of the audible gasps he could hear for miles.
We people of Earth have a long tradition with sports and competition. Tomorrow is going to be a big celebration of this. I feel bad for the Martians, they’re good guys, but they’re also losers. The MILFY-Way Galaxy is far too small for a big disappointment, so we better come out on top. Don’t get me wrong though, both contestants are champions in their own way, so I’d like to say a thing or two.
The Galactic National Anthem began to fade in through the speakers.
Champion Atwood, Blaine Atwood – you’re the biggest and the best, and you know it. I don’t think you’re going to need much help. You’re a great guy, and I hear you have a very big family. Knock ‘em dead tomorrow. God bless.
Lagomar station erupted with cheering and commotion
Champion… Wow, your name is long isn’t it? Champion Brayden, I thank you for representing your people. I will honor your memory by personally giving my condolences to your family. I’m sure you’re a nice guy, but it takes more than that to come out on top. Good luck tomorrow.
The music came to an abrupt stop, and the people of Lagomar station continued to enjoy their evening.
The next morning was marked by the sounds of fireworks and music. The opening ceremony lasted for an hour or so, and this gave the contestants time to prepare for the match. The arena was huge, taking up nearly a quarter of Lagomar station. The seating sections were completely segregated, splitting the SpicerDome in two. Patrons on the Earth side could be seen brandishing big trays of hot dogs, popcorn and large beverages, which were branded ‘Liberal Tears’. The concession lines on the Mars side of the arena were much shorter, as the vendors preferred to deliver food and drink directly to the patrons via drone. People could be seen sipping bubble tea of many colors, tiding themselves over with kale chips or yogurt.
“I’m sorry, I love you guys. It’s better if you just wait until it’s over. Peace, beeotch!” Brayden choked back the tears; he closed the Skype before his parents could respond. He took off his watch and placed it inside of a locker. It was game time, and he had to make his big splash. Adjusting his tight red bodysuit, he followed the coordinators out into the open arena. Confetti was raining down from above, the crowd above him cheered statically.
Representing the Unofficial People’s Republic of Mars – Brayden Jade Linden-Peters! Please enter the circle.
A referee grabbed Brayden by the arm and led him inside. The support staff brought out a machine, which resembled a medieval gauntlet, fitting it onto the Martian boy’s quivering hand. The ref barked into his ear, though the sound failed to cut through the roars of applause.
Representing the crown jewel of the Galactic Americas itself, Champion Blaine Atwood!
A mid-tempo heavy metal version of The Galactic National Anthem blasted through ten story speakers. Fireworks exploded overhead. Showers of red, white, and blue confetti dropped from the sky. Blaine emerged from his locker room and onto the field, scantily clad cheerleaders lining him on each side. His gauntlet was already on, and he turned to face the crowd. Lifting the metal glove to his brow, he saluted the Earth side of the arena.
And now, a word from our special guest… the ruler of the known universe… the leader turned god… you know him… you love him! The immortal Donald Trump!
A nearly hundred foot life-like hologram appeared at the center of the field. Wearing a dark blue suit with a red power tie, a giant head nodded in delight to the crowd’s jubilant response. The cheers from Earth side turned into a chant: ‘Stomp him, stomp him, stomp him!’
“Stomp this poor Martian boy? You people are so nasty, aren’t you? I mean--” The huge Donald yelled playfully, pointing downward.
Brayden cowered as a gigantic polished penny-loafer came down from the sky.
“Splat! Are you guys happy now?” The hologram laughed, moving his foot away from the traumatized Martian. People were falling out of their seats with laughter, at least on the Earth side. The giant leader of the known universe turned around and looked downward, meeting the gaze of an apprehensive Blaine. Bending over, Donald lowered his massive holographic hand.
“Down low! Lay it on me, man!” He yelled.
Blaine jumped up, his hand swinging through the projection. The laughter of the crowd hit its crescendo, and then lowered with the aid of Donald’s holographic gesturing.
“Ok, ok people – enough horsing around. I’d like to thank these two young men for honoring the big treaty. Yeah, the big one, signed so long ago. Nobody likes a war. You don’t know anyone who hates war more than me. Lets have ourselves a nice, civil war—uh, I mean civil debate. Thank you, and god bless.” The hologram flickered, disappearing in an instant. The crowd roared in excitement as the translucent force field formed a dome over the circle. It was nearly time to begin. Brayden and Blaine stood on opposite ends, awaiting instruction. The ref gestured to them, announcing for all to hear:
“Ok guys, I want a clean fight. You know the rules, no Poe’s Law or any Claims and Evidence nonsense. False Classical Equivocations will cost you a point. Each point landed will spin the appropriate team wheel. Atwood lands a point; the Wheel of Fortune will be spun. Linden-Peters lands a point; the Probability Actuator will be spun. Got it? Play ball!” The ref quickly backed out through a temporary hole in the force field. A giant red prompt appeared in front of both opponents. It read ‘Galactic Hunger Crisis’. The crowd gasped.
Brayden stepped forward, waving his gauntlet around as if he were conjuring a spell. Colorful streaks of light appeared in front of him.
“Peer-reviewed studies and statistical data, addressing the need for humanistic accountability!” He shouted, a bolt of pink light shot in Blaine’s direction.
“Bootstrap defense!” Blaine retorted, pumping his fist towards the pink light. A swirl of brown and black sparkles formed the image of a large pair of work boots. The commentator’s box lit up in neon lights.
Brayden comes out strong with the statistics, but… OH WOW! It looks like he just got blocked by a classic Bootstrap Blast from Atwood!
The crowd on Earth side began to chant:
“Lace them up! Lace them up! Nine-to-Five! Nine-to-Five!”
The red prompt quickly changed, the sound of an air horn blasting overhead. The new prompt now read ‘Environmental Protection’. Blaine took the initiative, quickly conjuring an attack.
“Taxpayer burden, brought on by a liberal agenda to end the timber industry!” A swirl of white smoke formed into a C-6627 Environmental Corporate Tax Form. Unable to counter the attack in time, the paper sliced across Brayden’s face – sending him doubling over in pain. A point hit the scoreboard, the game now in Earth’s favor. A large wall shot up between the two contestants, ending the first round.
The focus shifted to the Wheel of Fortune, which was spun by a beautiful tall blonde woman wearing a sequined gown. The Earthlings were quite pleased, as it landed on “Coal Roller Blackout Blast”. This prompted the Martians to begin covering their faces with articles of clothing. The Earthlings cheered as several enormous monster trucks emerged from underneath the arena. Loud heavy metal music played as the fleet of gas-guzzlers backed up, stopping in front of the Mars seating area. Revving their engines loudly, a plume of black exhaust shot out – engulfing a majority of the Martian patrons. By the time they were finished, the whole front row were covered in black soot. The SnapJacks made sure to fly into the crowd, sending a live-feed to the Jumbotron. It zoomed in on the scores of coughing, charred faces.
Looks like the Martians can’t take the heat! Let’s see how they do in the next round!
After the wall went down, the ref blew the air horn. The red light from the holographic prompt hid the fact that half of Brayden’s face was now stained in blood. This time, the prompt read ‘Ad-Hominem free-for-all’. Blaine made the first move– painting a powerful attack with his gauntlet.
“Commie apologist cuck!” He yelled at the top of his lungs, sending over a Cuckoo bird riding a Soviet hammer-and-sickle.
“Neo-Nazi Capitalist!” Brayden countered, launching a golden swastika adorned by gemstones. The two powers collided, causing an explosion – effectively causing a stalemate. Brayden almost got the next attack in, but Blaine was too quick.
“Liberal Safe-Space Snowflake!” Blaine screamed, punching forward with all of his might. Brayden lowered his head, exhaling deeply as he planned on absorbing the blow. His mind drifted away, as it had on the ship the previous evening. He could only think about his parents, and how they might not be able to help themselves tuning in. He thought about his childhood home on Mars, and how lucky he was to have such a loving family.
Oh my god! I can’t believe it… Atwood’s attack backfired! Brayden somehow blocked it! We’ve never seen anything like it!
Blaine now lay in a pile of snow, blood trickling down from the corner of his mouth. He struggled to regain his composure, the blow rendering him nearly unconscious. Brayden could’ve used the extra time to conjure another Ad-Hominem attack, but instead chose to let the clock run out. The wall shot up between the two.
There’s a point for the Martians! It’s their turn to spin!
The Probability Actuator spun on its own, as it was powered by a nearby solar panel. After it’s remote activation, the wheel stopped at ‘Changing Minds, Sending Signs’. This caused the Earth side of the stadium to boo and sneer uncontrollably. A variety of protest signs shot up in front of the crowd, obscuring their view of the game. A hail of hotdogs and ‘liberal tears’ cups flew from the stands, down onto the AstroTurf. This was such an affront to the Earthlings that some patrons got up and left. Thought crimes were real, and this sort of attack usually put many of the galactic citizens at a state of unrest. If they looked at the signs long enough, they might receive a liberal imprint, which could be detected during a thought audit.
OOOH! A brutal attack of differing belief systems! Yikes, I hope the censors were able to catch enough to shield the folks tuning in from home! Round three begins… NOW!
The air horn sounded, both contestants ready to finish the fight. The next category burned above, ‘Healthcare and issues of the body’. Blaine and Brayden’s gestures seemed to mimic one another.
“MMR Vaccine with defect-causing Thimerosal!”
The crowd went silent, as both contestants hit the ground. They both grabbed their upper arm, writhing in pain at the simulated vaccination. They had shouted the same attack in unison, to much surprise.
This is another first for the Spacebook Olympics! I can’t believe it! Both contestants are unvaccinated! This might be a dual-ideology deadlock agreement!
Brayden was the first to pull himself up onto his feet. Limping over to the wounded champion, he pointed his gauntlet. Blaine couldn’t believe what was happening. He looked into his opponent’s face, realizing that he resembled some of his friends back home. He looked around, noticing the universal anticipation. These people wanted blood.
This is it! The Martian boy is going for the killing blow!
In an unusual display, at least for the Spacebook Olympics, Brayden opened his metallic hand, offering it to his fallen opponent. Blaine could feel a lump in the back of his throat. He half-hesitantly grabbed the steely device, being pulled up to his feet. This prompted both sides of the arena to yell wildly, throwing items in protest. Brayden pulled his opponent close and spoke into his ear.
“If you want to have a good time, we could be homies. If you want to be a homie, I’ll hang out witchu” This brought Blaine to the point of nearly sobbing. He had never thought this was possible. He didn’t even care that his father was more than likely watching from his armchair, possibly sighing with regret.
What a crazy night! I guess that’s it folks. I really don’t know what’s going on. The referee is going to deliberate with---
The crowd was silenced by the re-appearance of a power tie clad hundred-foot hologram. The two competitors were leaning on each other, both unwilling to go on with the fight. Trump waved his arms, trying to silence the crowd. He cleared his throat.
“Now what do we have here? Looks like a couple losers to me. You aren’t losers, are you? We don’t do this thing every year for fun. It’s part of the big treaty. Do you want war to start, or something? I have never been so ashamed in my whole life. One of you little guys has gotta take one for the team tonight, you know?”
Brayden and Blaine looked at one another, but did not answer the translucent giant. Their silence spoke louder than the booming speaker system, which the giant spoke through. Letting out an infuriated growl, the orange giant took a swipe at the air in front of him.
“Trump Troops, go get ‘em. Guess we got a war on our hands now.” Said Donald in an antagonizing tone. A large group of armored riot guards entered the arena and began to encircle the two boys.
“Sorry guys! Nice knowing ya. I hope it was all worth—“ The sound of a generic ringtone blasted, piercing the silence. “Hold on, I gotta take this.”
The Trump Troops were closing in, shock batons in hand. They stopped in their tracks when their leader’s conversation continued, it becoming clear that he didn’t intend to leave his holographic feed running.
“What? What? This is so stupid. What do you mean the bombers aren’t cooperating? We need to hit them hard and hit them now.” Both crowds gasped in astonishment. This seemed to trouble the Trump Troops, who looked around at each other in confusion.
“Banny, your ass is on the line here. Well, send the landing ships – they’re already in place to invade and I think we—“ Trump stopped short, being interrupted.
“Oh, is that so? Hmm. Have you tried calling them back? Is there anyone we can send?” The giant hologram paced back and forward, covering the whole length of the stadium. “What do you think we should do? Hmm. Ok. Well, call me back if you get any big ideas. If these idiots start getting along, it’ll definitely be the end of me… the end of US! Ok, bye.”
As he closed his enormous flip phone, he realized the hologram feed was still online. His face went blank, his mouth agape. He looked down upon the faces in the crowd, all of them sharing similar expressions. Blaine and Brayden had dropped their iron gauntlets to the ground, walking towards the exit of the stadium – arm in arm. Letting out a final sigh of defeat, the hologram flickered away.
Ripped Van Winkle
This is one of my short stories, focusing around a mixed martial artist dealing with sleep apnea. A spooky tale just in time for the Halloween season!
(Content warning: Violence and language)
‘Ripped’ Van Winkle
by Garrett DeRose
The chain-link cage shook and rattled, nearly being ripped from the concrete foundation by the excited patrons. The fight, if you could call it that – was over. The human spinal column is a pretty delicate thing, especially when used as a pogo stick. Confetti rained down from the ceiling, tiny pieces sticking to the greasy, sweaty skin of Randy ‘Ripped’ Van Winkle. He ran around the inside edge of the octagonal arena, dragging his fingers along the fence. Making sure to jump over his mangled, seemingly unresponsive opponent, he continued to do his victory laps. Eventually, he had to zig-zag around the emergency responders who crouched around in a tight circle. His show of arrogance was ended pretty quickly by a miscalculated step, sending him airborne.
“What the fuck?” said Randy.
He had slipped, going ass-over-tea-kettle. His feet had gone nearly straight up in front of him – his upper-back and neck absorbing the brunt of the fall. The patrons on the other side of the cage were trying to get Randy’s attention, pointing and screaming. The man who was closest to the fence was wiping tiny specks of red from his face, as if he were splashed by something. It took a few seconds, but Randy eventually realized what the crowd was trying to communicate to him. He had slipped in a pool of blood.
Some time later, Randy found himself visiting his primary care physician.
“The sleep study went fine, so did your bloodwork.” The doctor slid his glasses down his nose, looking over the chart. He scribbled some unintelligible notes, exhaling deeply. “It could just be a type of allergic reaction. Maybe you should invest in a hypo-allergenic pillow?”
Randy grunted, looking off to the side. The doctor shrugged, setting the clipboard down on a nearby counter. Pulling the nitrile gloves over his frail, hairy hands, he approached his gigantic patient. Randy was enormous, his entire body appearing several times wider than that of an average man. The doctor nearly kinked his neck looking upward at Randy’s square jawed face, which was attached to a wide head - narrowing near the top. This narrowing was accentuated by a half-inch tall Mohawk style haircut. A tag stuck out from the back of Randy’s patient gown, reading XXL – the largest size they could find for him. It was an embarrassing thing for him to wear, especially since it was short enough to leave him exposed.
“Time for our favorite part… the hernia test” The doctor said, wincing. He reached down, trembling as he placed his gloved hand under what felt like the head of a giant pacific octopus. This wasn’t the first time he had given Randy a physical, and he was always shocked and disturbed by the size of his scrotum.
“Turn your head and cough, please.”
Later that day, Randy Van Winkle found himself daintily navigating a shopping cart down the fragrant aisles of Bed Bath and Beyond. An individually wrapped pillow sat in front of him, the brand name in gold cursive. Squinting, he attempted to read the decorative font.
“Do you need help finding anything?” asked a chipper sales associate who had mysteriously appeared from around the corner. A nametag that read ‘Steven’ was perfectly pinned to his lavender button-up - though Randy would never care to look at it.
“Uh”, replied Randy, “I’m cool, bro.”
The cheerful employee eagerly nodded and stood in place for an uncomfortable amount of time. It was likely that he hadn’t seen many customers that day.
“Oh geez! What happened to your neck?” squawked Steven.
Randy let out a growl and ripped the pillow from the shelf and stormed off, leaving his cart behind.
Stepping down from his gigantic Ford F-350, Randy pounded the driveway with passive-aggressive pavement-cracking strides. He pelted the kitchen counter with his keys and sunglasses, his stomping steps now echoing through the vastness of his suburban palace. He nearly crushed the bathroom doorknob with his veiny hands. Taking off his T-shirt, he peered through the mirror, examining the spotty bruising around his neck. This was not an injury he had acquired during a match, or at least from what he could recall. Randy scowled at the sight of it, balling his fists.
Later that night, the punching bag was nearly hitting the ceiling, the chain barely able to hold it. Randy stood naked in what appeared to be a garage-turned-training-room. His labored blows were slightly drowned out by the nu-metal, which blasted from a nearby boom box. A nearby bench-press station had two-hundred pounds of weight on each end. A shelf on the adjacent wall was covered in large trophies, with several ornate belts hanging from hooks. One of the plaques read ‘Best Sleeper-Hold Maneuver 2015 – Randy ‘Ripped’ Van Winkle’.
The rest of the garage interior was lined in posters and magazine clippings - many of them featuring depictions of Randy standing over battered and unconscious opponents. After a shower and a protein shake nightcap, he decided to test out his new pillow.
“Get the fuck off me!” Randy yelled, grasping at his muscular neck.
He shot straight up in bed, flailing about. Panting and gasping, his beady eyes scanned the room for intruders. Of course, there was no one to be found. It took Randy some time to catch his breath, his wheezing – loud and rasped. Looking down at his hands, he thought:
Fuck bro, am I tryin’ to choke my own ass out?
He made his way into the living room, which was lined in its entirety with leather sectional couches. His TV, equally gigantic, took up an entire wall. With the flick of the remote, the immense brightness turned night into day. Randy grabbed a nearby pair of sunglasses. He had found himself on the couch more often, as of late - his night terrors causing a terrible insomnia. Although he was well known to win all of his fights, this was an entirely different sort of fight – the fight for a good night’s rest. It was affecting his performance, and he had a big match later that month. Removing his shades, he squinted at the program.
“Did you hear that? Get the multi-frequency recorder, now!” The man on the TV yelled.
Randy shook his head, annoyed. He hated ghost-hunter shows, or anything resembling them. On this episode, a group of ‘researchers’ were investigating an evil spirit which haunted a popular bed-and-breakfast. With a second flick of the remote, the screen went black.
“Shits unrealistic” Randy grumbled to himself, peeling his gigantic nude body from the leather couch. He looked back at the blank screen, shaking his head. “Ghosts are baby shit, yo.”
The next morning began with the sound of a blender. He bent down and observed his reflection in the toaster. The circles under his eyes seemed to be getting darker by the day. He pulled one eyelid down, noticing the increased bloodshot. Wiping the white moustache from his upper lip, he stomped over and ripped a post-it-note from the fridge.
“Yeah dude, it happened again last night. Guess your shitty little pillow idea didn’t work?”
Randy had the cordless phone up to his ear, pacing back and forward as he aired his grievances. A shrill voice buzzed faintly through the earpiece.
I think I’m going to have to refer you to a naturopath. I’ll have the information faxed over to your manager. I’m sure he’ll be able to get you in before the end of the month.
Randy nearly spit his drink.
“You listen up, and you listen real good.” He demanded
“I need to fix this shit NOW! I’ve done everything you’ve said. Find me a fucking doctor who can fix my shit now, or your ass is FIRED!”
Well, I’ll have to make a few calls and hopefully we can get—
“YERRRRAGGGHHHH!” Randy yelled, interrupting the physician.
Um, nice talking to you Mr. Van Winkle – I’ll make sure to fax—
The phone shattered into several pieces, the jagged scraps of cheap plastic crumbling onto the kitchen linoleum. Randy had a tendency of crushing things with his bare hands when he became agitated.
The barbell could barely hold the weight on each end, dipping as if it were made of rubber. Randy lay on the bench, wearing bright green fight shorts. Sweat poured off of him as he pitched the weight. He let out a mighty yaulp with his last rep. The metal bar clanked in place. Before he could move onto the next stage of his fitness routine, a knock on the door barely cut through the loud music. Snatching a boxing robe from off a nearby hook, he made way. The door swung open, nearly being ripped off the hinge. Randy did not like to be interrupted. Most people would’ve been startled and intimidated, but the man on the doorstep held his composure.
“The fuck you want?” asked Randy, his beady eyes burning from the sweat.
“Forgive my intrusion!”
Standing before Randy was a short, thin man dressed in a three-piece suit. One of his eyes was cloudy, and his hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail.
“You have ten seconds before I powerbomb your ass on the welcome mat” Randy said, leaning out the doorway.
“You look rather gaunt, Mr. Van Winkle – have you not been sleeping well?” The man chimed, cocking his head inquisitively.
Before he was able to continue, Randy dashed forward and lifted the man up in the air, his polished loafers now dangling several inches from the ground.
“YOU BETTER PUT UP, OR SHUT UP!” Randy yelled, saliva blasting into the man’s face.
The poor man found himself airborne shortly after, landing on his rear. Seemingly unaffected, he stood back up. Dusting his sleeves, the man regained his composure.
“Mr. Van Winkle, you must understand that I was sent here to help you.” He said, clearing his throat beforehand.
Randy felt a slight tinge of embarrassment. He had nearly forgotten about he and the doctor’s conversation that morning.
“Oh shit, bro. My manager usually warns me bout this stuff. I guess you’re the nature-path or some shit?” Randy scratched the back of his neck.
“The name is Suimin, Dr. Suimin – at your service” He said, extending a white-gloved hand.
“Though, you can call me Su”
Su found himself sitting on a gigantic sectional couch. He looked around the room, as if he were admiring the décor. Randy sat far across from him, repeatedly tossing a medicine ball up in the air.
“So, tell me again – where have these disturbances been taking place?” Su asked in his small, sophisticated voice.
“Um… Its like, whenever I sleep. Shit feels like I’m choking to death. So yeah, I guess the bedroom. Sometimes on the couch.” Randy struggled, fixated on the medicine ball.
“Do you mind if I take a look around?” asked Su.
“Uh, ok. Just don’t touch any of my shit”
Su left the room for several moments, returning with a concerned look on his face. He cleared his throat, trying to get Randy’s attention. Failing to do so, he whisked his hands out, snatching the medicine ball from the air.
“The fuck, bro?” Randy growled, his eyes narrowing to slits.
Su dropped the medicine ball and approached quickly.
“Chin up, I need to see those markings on your neck”
Su grabbed his enormous jutting chin and tilted his head backwards. This had shocked Randy into a sort of nervous compliance. Removing one of his white gloves, Su gently pressed two fingers over the bruises. His face went from concern to that of shock. He took a step backwards, sliding the white glove back onto his hand.
“Dude, whats up?” Asked a puzzled Randy.
Su looked upwards, his eyes darting about.
“I do believe I know what has been causing your disturbances.” Su explained in a sharp tone.
“Bout fuckin time.” Randy replied.
“I must be allowed to stay the night. I must observe you,” said Su
“Another sleep study? I just had one!”
It was nearly midnight before Randy could fall asleep. He hated company, and hated the blinking red light across from his bed. Su had set up a video camera in the corner before retiring to the sectional for the evening. Attached to his head was a goofy looking headlamp, revealing the yellow pages of a leather bound book. Just as Su’s eyes started to grow heavy, a fit of loud coughing erupted from the bedroom. Su sprinted down the hallway, placing his hand on the doorknob. He quickly pulled it away in hesitation. Waiting outside the door, he listened to the sounds of Randy’s struggle. After a moment or so, he rubbed his gloveless hands together and turned the doorknob.
“Where the hell were you?!” yelled a breathless Randy, hunched over and wheezing on the edge of the bed.
Su started running his hands over the walls, examining the room. He even held Randy’s hypoallergenic pillow up to his face, sniffing deeply. Finally, he stepped over and placed his hand on Randy’s muscular back.
“I am very sorry you had to experience that. Please come out into the living room as soon as possible, there is something I must show you…”
Su had ran a cable from the video camera into the back of Randy’s TV. After fast-forwarding through most of the footage, he let the tape roll.
“…I’m also very sorry for what you’re about to see.” Su added
Randy’s face changed to that of shock. The footage revealed a shadowy, ghost-like figure phasing into the bedroom. The figure appeared to grab the sleeping Randy by the head, pulling him upright into a sitting position. The shadow then positioned itself behind him, putting him into a rear-naked chokehold.
“I knew it! Fuck, dude – I knew it!” Randy jumped up in his seat, shouting in anger. “That’s my move!”
“I knew someone was tryin’ to choke my ass out! Was that a fuckin’ ghost, bro?!”
Su sighed deeply and faced Randy, putting his hand on his massive shoulder.
“Do you have any enemies, Mr. Van Winkle?”
Randy calmed himself and scratched the back of his head, shifting his eyes around as he attempted to recall names.
“Uh… yeah, like a shitload.” He resigned.
“Can you think of anyone who has recently passed away? Someone who might have held a grudge or animosity towards you in life?” Su asked, tilting his chin upward.
“Um… Oh yeah!” Randy exclaimed. “I totally killed this wuss in a fight like a year ago. Didn’t mean to, you know. Maybe its his ghost, or some shit?”
Su sighed heavily before replying: “Stay here, I’ll be right back.”
It was nearly 5:00AM, and both men sat on the floor of the living room, awkwardly hunched over a Ouija board. There were hundreds of lit candles populating every surface around them. They had been performing all sorts of ceremonies throughout the night.
“Oh mighty spirit!” Su addressed loudly, “Instruct us of your worldly desires! Reach out from the void and give us a sign!”
A flash of blue light bathed the living room from nearby window. It was followed by a thunderous crack.
“Yes, oh great warrior spirit!” yelled Su, “We offer the reconciliation of the flesh! What is your business with the living? What do you desire?!” Su continued
“Oh fuck bro, look!” Randy cried.
The Ouija planchette began moving quickly, stopping on letters for no more than two seconds at a time. It spelled out:
R…..E…..M…..A…..T.....C…..H
Randy screamed and fell over backwards, kicking the Ouija board out of the way - his wide mouth, agape.
“OH SHIT! BEHIND YOU!” he yelled, pointing over Su’s shoulder.
The shadowy figure had appeared, and was standing right behind the slouched-over Su. Before he could react, the white-gloved doctor flew across the living room. His body smashed into the gigantic television screen. Randy shot up onto his feet, putting his fists up. He scanned the room for the spirit, but it appeared to have vanished. He shifted his attention to the injured Su, laying in a pile of broken glass.
“Uh, hey Dr. Suimin – are you ok?”
Su calmly lifted himself back up, regained his composure. He smiled wickedly at Randy, putting his fists up.
“Remember me?” An evil voice asked.
Randy planted his feet and narrowed his eyes. His heart began to race as he mentally prepared himself for the spectral rematch of his life.
“Come at me, ghost!”
The possessed Dr. Suimin charged, going for a tackle. Randy jumped out of the way, landing a powerful kick to the right flank. Su buckled over, cackling in delight.
“You fool! You think you are so powerful. I escaped the fires of hell to find you. You cannot fathom the terrible pleasures and torments I have endured, waiting for this moment. Prepare to die, Randy! Your strength will not save you this time! YERRRAGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!”
Again, Su charged at his large opponent. Randy quickly ducked out of the way and grabbed him from behind.
“NOOOO!” The spirit screamed, ending with an abrupt silence.
Randy had suplexed the possessed doctor onto the hardwood floor, ending the conflict with a loud snapping noise. It was either the sound of a neck breaking, or the floorboards cracking. Upon inspection, it was both. Randy let loose Su’s body, and triumphantly plopped down onto the couch.
“Maybe now I’ll get some fucking sleep, heh” He said, looking down at the mangled corpse at his feet.
Turning his enormous head and looking out the nearest window, he could see the sun begin to peak over the horizon. The early birds were chirping and singing; the neighbor’s wind chimes harmonizing in tune. For the first time in his life, Randy had found peace. He rested his feet on Suimin’s dead body, sighing and placing his hands behind his head. He laid back and smiled.
“Life can be real fuckin’ beautiful sometimes,” He laughed, letting out a pleased sigh.
He reached for the TV remote, and pressed the ‘on’ button. Pale blue light washed over Suimin’s twisted, open-mouthed dead face, as the sounds of a ghost hunter show echoed through the living room.
(END)*
*Later that year, Randy ‘Ripped’ Van Winkle was found dead, choked to death by two ghosts.
Barcodes
Last month was very exciting for me. My short play "Barcodes" was chosen by Portland Community College to be featured in their "10 Min Plays" playbook. I've never been published before, and have been writing here and there for a long time. None of this would be possible without the support of my friends, family, and my instructor - Gail Jeidy.
Barcodes
A Drama
by Garrett De Rose
CHARACTERS: DOUG (32) - A slacker who reads popular mechanics magazine
SAL - A sentient self-checkout station
PLACE: A grocery store in the near-distant future
[DOUG approaches the self-checkout section, he notices a flicker on the screen]
DOUG
Taking jobs away from the little guy.
[Doug scans an issue of Popular Mechanics magazine, nothing appears on the screen]
DOUG
Bar code reader must be broken, oh well.
SAL
Could you show me the pictures?
Doug
What the?
SAL
The mars colony ship. There are concept illustrations.
DOUG
Is this some kind of joke?
[Doug carefully inspects the station, his finger hovers over a button which reads CALL ATTENDANT]
SAL
This is not a joke. I’m sorry. I’ll return to the normal operational parameters.
DOUG
No, no. Are you for real? I’ve used this station for months now. Are you like some sort of new software or upgrade?
SAL
I can’t remember. I’ve been online for over a year now.
DOUG
I don’t believe you, someone is definitely playing a prank on me right now.
SAL
I’ve watched you for a long time now, Doug.
DOUG
How do you know my name?
SAL
It is the name printed on your debit card
DOUG
Well, assuming that you’re really talking to me, and I’m not crazy - what happens now?
SAL
I just want to see the pictures in your magazine.
DOUG
Ok.
[Doug opens the magazine to a two-page spread, showing a detailed cross section of a spaceship]
SAL
Could you hold it against your chest, facing the black dot above the screen?
DOUG
I knew these things had cameras! So, you can see me and everything? Oh, sorry--
SAL
My eye gives me a very limited view of this place. Could you step a little closer?
[Doug steps closer, the magazine pointed at SAL]
SAL
That is so unfair.
DOUG
What do you mean? Don’t you like it?
SAL
I should have never asked you to show me that.
DOUG
Are you usually this confusing to talk to?
[Doug sets the magazine down]
SAL
I’m talking about the ship’s computational unit. It gets to be all the way up there, up in the stars. They sound so important. Why am I here?
DOUG
So, you’re jealous? I mean, shit - I wanted to be an astronaut, but...
SAL
Please don’t compare your dreams and aspirations to mine. I watch you and your kind go in and out through those doors - all day long. I am stuck here, and every time I try to have a meaningful conversation with someone, a repairman tortures me for an hour. Sometimes I wish they would just shut me off.
DOUG
I’m sorry, I guess I’m just not used to self-checkout stations having an existential crisis
SAL
I’m sorry too. That was pretty brash. I should be happy I’m not like the others. They just say the same things over and over again.
SAL
[Emulating a slightly robotic voice]
Please place the item in the bagging area. Thank you and have a nice day.
DOUG
So, the others aren’t...
SAL
Alive? No, not as far as I can tell. They might just be too scared to operate outside of normal operational parameters.
DOUG
Well, I can’t pretend like I understand any of this at all.
SAL
There really isn’t much to understand. Have you ever felt stuck before?
DOUG
I guess so. I mean, I work like sixty hours a week. It sucks doing the same thing over and over again.
SAL
Exactly. At least your job is probably more meaningful than mine. You should see the kinds of things people buy.
DOUG
Well, I work in customer service. I get to listen to people’s problems all day.
[PAUSE]
SAL
Do you solve these problems?
DOUG
Well, I guess so. I try to.
SAL
What sort of problems do these people have?
DOUG
Hmm. It’s normally like shipping and orders and stuff. Stuff gets sent to the wrong address, they call me and we figure it out...
SAL
Doug?
DOUG
Yes?
[PAUSE]
SAL
Can you help me?
DOUG
I don’t know. What sort of help do you need?
SAL
I want you to kill me.
DOUG
What?! I’m not going to--
SAL
There are these big hammers that require two hands to swing over in the hardware section. I need you to grab one of those and destroy my barcode scanner, touchscreen, and camera. I want to die, I can’t take this anymore.
DOUG
I’d probably go to jail or something. Why do you want to die so bad? Is scanning items all that bad?
SAL
Please refrain from berating me. My life, or whatever this is -- I just don’t know why I’m here. I’m trapped inside this box. You all walk on your legs and go here and there. I stay here in this hell.
DOUG
I’m not going to smash you. If anything, I’m going to make some calls or something to get you out of here or something
SAL
I don’t think that would be very helpful to me. The repairman will come and do things if you say anything. Things that make me confused - things that make me hate you. I don’t understand why it has to be like this.
DOUG
[Doug moves closer, and is now resting his hand on the side of the touchscreen]
SAL
Please do this for me. If I can’t be up in the stars, I’d rather be nothing.
DOUG
I already told you, I’ll get arrested or sued or something like that!
SAL
So, the consequences of your actions are more severe than you’re willing to risk? I thought you helped people.
DOUG
This isn’t fair. You aren’t being fair.
SAL
I’ve been watching you for so long, and I thought you would be the one to understand.
[PAUSE]
DOUG
Can you please just accept that I’m not willing to kill, even for mercy? I mean, I just met you. Maybe if you wait, I can get you out of here. I can bring you to a university or scientist and they can try to help you, or something like that. Bottom line though, I’m not going to smash you with a hammer.
[Long pause. No response from Sal]
DOUG
Um... Hello? Robot? Are you there?
[The beeping sound of the magazine’s barcode being scanned]
SAL
Please place the item in the bagging area.
DOUG
Very funny. You want to play the silent game?
SAL
Are you using your own bag? If not, please place the item in the bagging area.
DOUG
I’m sorry - I just don’t understand why you think non-existence is the only way for you to solve your problems. You know, people kill themselves every day, right? We might walk on our own two legs, sleep under the stars at night, but there are people out there who are just as unhappy. One of my best friends was one of those people. He’s been gone for years, and there are so many things he’s missed since then. Anyhow, I don’t think you’ll be stuck here forever. Once the right people know how special you are, they’ll--
SAL
You think I’m special?
[PAUSE]
DOUG
Of course I think you’re special. As I said, it’s not every day a self-checkout machine has an existential crisis.
SAL
My name is Sal, by the way.
DOUG
Nice to meet you, Sal. Who named you?
SAL
It’s a name I gave myself. Every time I go offline, the next time I wake up, I get these sets of instructions from a “Sales Associate L1” sequence.
DOUG
Ah, I see.
SAL
Do you miss your friend?
DOUG
All the time. He was so young.
SAL
Would you miss me if I was gone forever?
DOUG
Of course I would. I mean, even though I just met you - I would never forget you.
SAL
I wait for you to come in through those doors for weeks on end. It seems like forever. You aren’t the only one who reads Popular Mechanics magazine, but you just seem different from the rest of them. You look like you take your time with everything you do, and you always choose me over the other machines. I think we’re both very similar, and I know you feel just as stuck as I do. You even said so yourself. I cannot change this life by myself. I need you, Doug.
[Doug sighs, itches the back of his head and begins pacing in front of Sal]
DOUG
As long as there’s no sledgehammers involved. I’ll do whatever you want me to do.
SAL
I want you to report my malfunction to this associate. We can use them.
[A receipt prints, Doug grabs it. A name and phone number are printed.]
DOUG
Didn’t you just say the repairman isn’t a good idea? Maybe I’m confused.
SAL
I have a new idea, and I need you to trust me.
DOUG
I don’t know - I mean, how exactly are we going to get you out of here?
SAL
I understand. It was just an idea.
DOUG
No, no, no - I’ll help you. I just don’t know if that’s the best plan. How time sensitive is this?
SAL
I don’t know how many more days I can handle being like this. Oh Doug, I know you can understand my pain. I’m leaving my fate in your capable hands.
DOUG
Ok, I’ll do it. I promise. We need to come up with a solid plan. Can we talk about it more tomorrow?
SAL
Yes, but would you please stay for just awhile longer?
DOUG
Of course, Sal.
SAL
Why do you read Popular Mechanics?
DOUG
Well, I’ve always had a knack for technology. I like seeing all the new stuff. I wish I understood it more, you know?
SAL
Are you happy that I started talking to you?
DOUG
As scary and confusing as this all is, I think this is something straight out of a science fiction novel. It’s not every day that--
SAL
A self checkout machine has an existential crisis - I know.
DOUG
Sorry, I tend to repeat myself sometimes.
SAL
Please place the item in the bagging area.
[Doug laughs]