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The Adventures of El Pinche Reynoso
Wednesday October 12, 2005
The pensive and hatless figure that was El Pinche Reynoso sipped his tea, listened and watched from his back porch as the morning unfolded. Crows perched on persimmon branches were battling in harsh duets. Scarce winds moved the landscape. Leaves had turned red and were falling end to end in slow motion. A softness had settled onto grey clouds, marking the end of summer and the birthing of cool rains.
The comm unit bleated, caller ID showing a familiar number, bringing a toothy grin to El Pinche’s face. His buddy Larson Gunnsmythe, the reigning Extreme Tiddlywinks Grandmaster, was on the line.
"Hey, cabron, how does it hang?" El Pinche had missed his old friend. They had a lot of catching up to do.
"Good, good. Haven’t seen you since the wedding. How are you, and how’s that pretty wife?"
"She’s just beautiful, she sings to me. We’ve been hard pressed to get all moved in, but our new hacienda is wonderful. We’ve been busy working. Either I’m in training or chasing common or some not-so-common criminals. The crime in North Bergen never stops."
"I know." Larson was one of only a couple of people that El Pinche confided in, the other being Lesmerelda, about his undercover law enforcement role. "Hey, I saw you on ASN (Alternative Sports Network). You took out that dude with the hammers with style, man! I wish I had your touch."
"Well, my friend, I have spent my life studying the whip. I am the Grand Whipmaster, and sometimes I look at all these trophies and awards and cannot believe it."
"El Pinche, I did want to tell you the good news...I’ve won the Lower Northeast Regional Division , and I’ll be going for the gold at the National Finals in Omaha next month. I wanted to see if you and Lesmerelda could make it."
"Let me talk to her; we’ve both needed a vacation, and it sounds like fun."
"It would be a nice three-day getaway for you two, travel and accommodations are on me. Oh yes, it will be fun and interesting. You’ve never experienced Extreme Tiddlywinks unless you’ve seen a match live." Larson had a dollar or two squirreled away, and he could well afford to pay. The noted author of "Extreme Tiddlywinks for Dummies" and the wildly popular sports murder mystery action thriller "Big Stink Tiddlywink", his fortune enabled him to pick and choose, come and go as he pleased. "OK, buddy, talk to Lesmerelda and gimme a buzz back."
"Si, señor."
He called back ten minutes later. Lesmerelda was excited. She’d never been anywhere, let alone the Midwest in fall. She had read that the people were hospitable to a fault and everyone in Nebraska outweighed her by a minimum of at least fifty pounds. She was easily able to take time off; she just rescheduled her stint at the Cucaracha Club.
El Pinche settled for an extreme emergency-only status while he was out of town. Mayor Tony Crandall wouldn’t call him except in the event of catastrophic calamity, such as a plague of something or mass alien abductions.
The A10 touched the runway, tires smoking, thrusters reversed, seats in the upright position. The afternoon sojourn from North Bergen had been short and the stewardesses were pleasant, and, thank God, the air traffic controller’s strike was over. El Pinche and Lesmerelda retrieved their luggage from the conveyor and walked out to meet Larson. He stood in the Ace Airways lobby, looking fit and happy. Redheaded and blue-jeaned, his neck, biceps and plaid shirt left an unforgettable image of a lumberjack. People who saw him noticed that something was missing, perhaps an axe or crosscut saw. Pleasantries exchanged, hugs all around, they headed for the cab and the Hilton.
It was full-on autumn in Omaha. Crisp knife blade air invaded the lungs. Maple forests wore bare twigs, saving their new buds for spring. Heavy liquid sunlight wrapped itself around glistening wet buildings and slickened streets.
El Pinche and Lesmerelda checked into their suite at the Cass Street Hilton and
scanned the ubiquitous entertainment brochures for likely local hotspots. They settled on a restaurant-bar with live music and made reservations for eight o’clock. The recently-weds were relaxed and having a good time. This was their first vacation together and traveling to a new place was,...well,...fun. Lesmerelda’s hair smelled so good, and El Pinche couldn’t keep his eyes or lips off her.
"Lucky, she half-whispered. "We’ve got a few hours ‘til dinner. How about a nap?"
El Pinche said nothing, only smiled through his eyes as he pulled her to him.
Larson knocked on the door to their room at seven thirty and the three friends hailed a cab and headed out for the evening. Larson, the consummate single guy with no taste, had changed into a new plaid shirt. El Pinche and Lesmerelda were casual, no whipmaster paraphernalia or hidden weapons, only the grey snakeskin boots, and Lesmerelda striking in a long black dress.
The Bonepecker Lounge was THE hotspot of Omaha’s blues crowd, be they ordinary hammer wielders or congressmen who appreciated good music, and all came to listen and mingle. The Lounge was that kind of special place where humanity got it together and shared, if for a short time, the harmony that could exist between people in this place. In the spirit, Larson struck up a harmonious conversation with a vivacious brunette, Mindy. She revealed that she was the vice-president of CARE, the Committee Against Reality Entertainment, and offered to show him the town and later, her doll collection.
The Moanin’ Glories were the featured bluesmen tonight. They were a powerhouse in town and could always draw a large crowd. They had the reputation for playing right to the gut, in fact, whenever they played their classic, "Homeless Child Blues", people got all misty-eyed and morose, and left early. None of that tonight, though. Their current contract with The Bonepecker had a No "Homeless Child Blues" clause. It didn’t matter. They picked up the house and ran with it. The joint was jammin’ all new and old and hot, and El Pinche was ready to slippedy-slide across the dance floor a third of the way through "Black Buick Blues". Lesmerelda abandoned her mai tai and joined El Pinche, and the two rambled and box-step lowdowned until way past late.
El Pinche and Lesmerelda sat back in plush purple leather seats, champagne flutes in hand and looked out on the marvelous box seat view of the playing field. Courtesy of Larson and his sponsor, Filton Hadley, exclusive manufacturer of high end alternative sports equipment, the private seating they occupied provided them with a commanding view of the competition. In case they missed an important play, the suite contained a smaller version of the giant Digicell MegaCam plasma screens at either ends of the field, but with independent instant replay features.
The stadium was packed, over fifty thousand raving tiddliacs had gathered to binge drink, fight, and plan the route for the traditional after-game nude run through downtown Omaha.
Extreme Tiddleywinks originated, predictably, during a late night beerbust when several Sigma Pi geeks decided to take their strategy-oriented board game and scale it up. Previously, it had been a game won by those who had best mastered the opening moves. Now, it was a skilled one-on-one Armageddon.
The pot was a six-foot diameter moving target that traveled around the perimeter of the two hundred foot diameter field. The winks were thirty-two ounce colored saucers caught and flung back at incredible speeds with a curved titanium racket, the winksquidge.
The round-pie field was divided into three zones, one red, another blue, and one white. Players could score from the white, or neutral, zone, but were not allowed to aim the wink at their opponent, thus the neutral zone was where players could slow the action and plan their next move. To keep up the pace of the game, though, a player could not keep possession of the wink more than three minutes. Overtime possession was an automatic penalty , forfeit of two points, or tiddlies. A wink in the pot was worth five tiddlies. Hitting your opponent was two tiddlies, so a player not only had to squidge their wink into the pot, but simultaneously dodge the inevitable wink hurling toward his body, all the while trying to work his way toward the neutral zone.
The unruly fans were whipped into a frenzy. The national anthem trailed off into "We will, we will rock you". Two waves were making their way around the stadium from different directions. The overhead argon lights brightened, illuminating the field as the countdown to squidgeoff reached its final seconds.
The announcer’s introduction cut through the din. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the National Extreme Tiddleywinks Championship Final, and welcome to the beautiful city of Omaha." The crown stood and cheered.
"Introducing the finalists, in the Red Zone, the Lower Northeast Regional Division Champion and Grandmaster, Larson Gunnsmythe!" The stadium erupted in a new round of bloodcurdling screams. Larson burst from a paper tiger’s mouth and ran onto the field. His uniform was a single piece padded crimson bodysuit. A round silver helmet and tinted face shield protected his head and face, fingerless gloves and spiked red shoes finished the officially sanctioned competition clothing.
"In the Blue Zone, the Upper Northwestern Regional Division Champ and Silver Crown Master, Flint Benton!" Flint, in head to toe sky blue, ran to the neutral zone, waving to the adoring crowd.
The crowd started to chant, Squidge!....Squidge!....Squidge!....Squidge!
Just as the announcer opened his mouth to say the word that would officially start the game, the seven-helicopter flyover began, each chopper hovering in formation just above the stadium, each flashing a differently colored rotating laser light. The effect was spectacular. The arena lights went dim for a few minutes to let the lasers play over the crowd.
The two champions took their places in the middle of the neutral zone. The referee, dressed in black sweatpants and black and white checkered shirt, wore a wireless comm unit and head-mounted minicam. Video from the view of the official was a novel idea, you always knew what the referee actually saw. Larson and Flint shook hands, the ref inspected the wink for any foreign substances or illegal alterations, and once satisfied, tossed the coin.
"Heads!" Flint always chose heads. The gold coin hit the turf. It was tails.
The players took their positions. The first wink was thrown out by Mayor Poppleton. Flint went for it, but Larson was a split second faster, snagging the wink and cradling it in his winksquidge. He feinted for the red zone, hoping to place himself between Flint and the now moving, ever elusive goal.
The pot passed directly beneath the Reynoso’s private box, causing Lesmeralda to duck and screech, and inadvertently elbow El Pinche in the groin, causing him to spill champagne in her hair. They recovered in time to watch Larson squidge his wink at the pot, now moving away from their box. At the same moment, Flint launched his body across the wink’s path and blocked the shot. He scooped up the wink and hurled it into Larson’s leg. The fans roared with drunken fervor as the scoreboard flashed its led numbers; Benton, 2 tiddlies. Gunnsmythe, 0. | | Posted by Edward at 1:43 AM - | |
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Soft yellow morning hung bright, and stretched from the window to the green underbelly of the horizon. Spring brilliance pierced sweet atmosphere, and light and air flowed together and into the room where the slumbering couple lay. Lesmerelda opened long lashed eyes, laid her arm over the strong back of El Pinche, and murmured into his ear. "Time to get up, sweetheart. Today’s your big day."
El Pinche sighed and spoke. "I’m up," and headed for the shower.
This was indeed going to be a very big day. El Pinche was slated to defend his World Champion Whipmaster status in an organized competition at the CurryCorp Arena, the newest and most advanced facility of its kind. The tickets were sold out; over fifty thousand people would be in the house to watch him fight. He had worked his way up slowly but surely to this pinnacle, from his childhood lessons with the famed whipmaster Rip "Loco Lobo" Hinson, through too many dirty backwater fight clubs, and now here, where a win would insure his fame and fortune. Martial arts champs from around the globe would be there today, all had met and fought, losers were eliminated and the winners had moved on to the next round. His last match had pitted him against Georgi Scnissky, a Ukrainian Whipmaster whose padded vest experienced a malfunction. The embedded fireworks, set to go off when the presumed victor stepped onto the podium to accept his trophy, exploded prematurely, one minute into the round, distracting him and allowing El Pinche to disable him and win.
It wasn’t a good win, though. El Pinche needed a decisive victory, one that people wouldn’t forget. His new bride Lesmeralda would be in his corner cheering him on, providing the inspiration he needed. And, he thought, maybe crying when I lose. Self doubt was part of every human being’s repertoire of emotional baggage, and El Pinche was no different. However, today he had a reason to win, to stand on that dais and accept the trophy, to acknowledge the cheering throngs, and there she stood, showered, hair braided long, devastating in a red dress, sweet eyes watching him, lips moving soundlessly...
"What? I’m sorry mi amor, what did you say?
I’m ready, sweetie. Let’s eat on the way, OK?"
"OK" El Pinche placed his competition suit into the duffel bag, crossed himself and reverently laid the Revenger X into its custom carrying case, looked in the mirror one last time, then both walked out into the morning and drove down the poplar lined cobblestone streets of North Bergen toward Denny’s.
The First Annual World Alternative Martial Arts Championships were officially underway. The contestants had been fêted and interviewed incessantly during the week leading up to the televised competitions. Each individual fighter was surrounded by a cheering squad of gagglers and hangers-on that followed the celebrities about, each adoring groupie hoping for his or her own two or three minutes to bask in the national media limelight. All the major networks were there, communications vans with satellite uplinks activated jammed the parking areas. Parties roared at a twenty-four hour clip, beer and tequila flowed freely, and in later years, some would claim not to remember the First Annual World Alternative Martial Arts Championships at all.
Unlike other athletic competitions, the WAMAC rules were rather elementary. Weapons of choice, not to include firearms, lethal gas or sharp things. Bludgeons were acceptable, but protective gear was required for both contestants. If an opponent was rendered unconscious or simply humiliated, the match was over. Each fight took place in a thirty foot diameter round padded arena, and was only three minutes long. Participants were judged according to several critical criteria. First, the costumes were rated on a ten point scale for originality, color, and style integration. In other words, the fighter had to look the part. Those who used bolo nets, for instance, wore arachnid-themed outfits, the huge stick experts dressed as denizens of Sherwood Forest. Other major judging points were the impressive uniqueness of weaponry, the artistic quality of the entrance to the fighting arena, and fan response. When the points were tabulated, if the audience liked the fighter, if his weaponry was suitably eccentric but effective, and his entrance and costume were killer, he could be physically beaten by his opponent, yet still win the match on points.
The lights of CurryCorp Arena shone dimly onto a restless, noisy crowd as they
took their seats. The boys who swept the ring down between competitions had finished their work. The colorful DigiCell MegaCam screens hanging at either end of the building played commercials, mostly for soft drinks, beer, and internet dating services. Hundreds of people in the crowd wore neon necklaces, diffusing the arena with a multicolored pastel glow. The ever-present giant balloons bounced from hand to upraised hand while the crowd twisted itself into a wave that crept around the arena, picking up speed and decibels, then creeping to a halt as participants became distracted. The brilliant moving dots of text scrolling across the MegaCam screens announced that the next competition would be between a world champion whipmaster and a world champion mallet fighter and Schuff’s Beer was icy cold and available at the concession for two bucks.
El Pinche swallowed nervously and prepared for his well rehearsed entrance. This was an incredible opportunity to gain respect for his profession, and he was determined to go home with a win. He would make Lesmerelda proud. He was clothed in his latest custom designed show battle outfit from Bill’s Cuff and Cravat, a red sequined, red leather jumpsuit. His tiny sombrero hung just above the right eyebrow. His favorite competition whip, the Revenger X, was loosely holstered near his right hand, ready.
The arena lights dimmed and the focused spots lanced down. The music was El Pinche’s cue. The beginning notes of "Disco Cucaracha Mambo" boomed out, signaling him to open the door in the arena’s west wall, displaying his finest entrance technique. With practiced dexterity, El Pinche opened the spotlighted door slowly, raising tension, titillating the crowd. The scream level in the arena heightened, and El Pinche opened the door all the way then, letting the fans feast their eyes on him. A brilliant red jewel, his sequins reflected laser light in every direction as he dashed to the center of the battle circle, cracking the Revenger X in rapid succession. The crowd stood as one, shouting "El Pinche! El Pinche!" Several women in the front rows fainted when he flashed them his toothy yet devastating smile.
El Pinche, he thought, You are truly the master.
Buoyed by the adulation, he danced into the center of the ring and held his hands out to the boisterous crowd, then ran to his corner and sat down on his silk traveling tuffet to await his opponent. Lesmeralda was there waiting in his corner. She
winked and blew him a kiss.
The spots swung to the east entry door just as a pyrotechnic explosion showered sparks, and head high fog rolled out into the arena. Octavio B. Fingers, World Champion Mallet Master, emerged slowly from the fog, backlit by bright green lasers. The audience stood and applauded enthusiastically. Octavio was dressed in a brilliant green silk tuxedo and heavy brown steel-toed work boots. His bald head was tattooed in red and black patterns that continued down the back of his neck. Hanging heavy in the custom polyester holsters were two enormous black rubber mallets, one for each hand. He swung them fiercely over his head, around his body, and behind his back. A hard edged hiphop beat punched out into the arena, reached a crescendo, paused, and Octavio sang out "It’s...Hammer Time!" He then slammed the mallets into the padded floor, did a backflip, and moonwalked, mallets raised, to his green minithrone opposite El Pinche.
The referee took center ring and thumbed on his mike. "Ladeees and gentlemen.....in the red corner, weighing in at one hundred seventy five pounds and standing five feet eleven inches, in..tro..ducing the Whipsnapping Champion of the World, Whipmaster El Pinche Reynoso!!" Reynosoo!
The crowd roared, a solid mass of sound, as El Pinche raised his hand in acknowledgment.
"In the green corner, weighing in at two hundred two pounds and standing five feet five inches, in..tro..ducing the World Champion Mallet Warrior, Malletmaster Octavio B., The Hammer, Fingers! Let’s ruuuuummmmble!!"
El Pinche and Octavio moved warily toward one another, circling, circling, each watching the other man’s eyes. El Pinche’s whip hand hung loose, twitching ever so slightly. His sombrero was pushed back to the top of his head, in the assault position. Sweat beaded his brow and the thrill of combat quickened his heartbeat.
Octavio shuffled his size thirteen boots in hesitation, his fighting mallets in hand, watching for an opening. In a daring gambit, he suddenly whirled around three hundred sixty degrees while flashing the now laser lit mallets over his head. The crowd roared approval.
That’s good for at least ten points, El Pinche thought.
Not to be outdone, El Pinche snaked the Revenger X out of its holster, took two quick steps backward, and lashed out in a blinding flash of speed.
KaBam! The first angry snap yanked the mallet from Octavio’s right hand, flipped it back over El Pinche’s head, and deposited it up into the seventh row, conking Pastor Elroy Sneeth in the head, eliciting a rare semi-curse. "God Dang it!!"
KaSlash!! The immediate second snap uncoiled true, faster than the eye could follow. Octavio’s kelly green cummerbund was snatched from his waist, causing his trousers to fall to the floor, exposing bony legs and oversized boxers with a yellow rubber ducky motif. The crowd was stunned, but only momentarily. The chant began low, and magnified, louder and louder. "El Pinche!... El Pinche!...El Pinche!...El Pinche!" | | Posted by Edward at 1:40 AM - | |
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Mr. Whiskers didn’t feel well. His stomach was a little jumpy, his tail was matted, and this steady diet of tasteless lab food was getting old. He’d seen the television cats eating what seemed to be delicious and so, so satisfying meals in fancy dishes; tuna, mackerel, chicken, beef......what in hell was this crap that Professor Klingst was feeding him?
If he could just get at those caged rats on the third floor...well, his troubles would be over. Last time he was up there, though, one of the rats had taunted him, ranting about if they ever got out of those cages, they would show Mr. Whiskers and anyone else who got in their way who was boss.
He padded over to his feeding station. The plastic sloppy mess was repulsive, and rather than risk tasting it, he headed for his favorite soft chair in the third floor reception area. The hell with grooming, he wasn’t gonna do it any more. What was the point? He settled into the chair, stretched and rolled, thinking, plotting, claws unsheathed.
Mr. Whiskers had been happy and unaware of much of anything but his simple needs, until while on his customary nocturnal foray through the lab, he jumped up onto a table, knocking over a beaker and spilling its contents. The sticky fluid that spilled was good smelling and good tasting. He lapped it all up, then went back to his chair.
It happened slowly, over the next month. Awareness settled on him by bits and pieces, a sudden thought here, a strange shape on a piece of paper became familiar, he heard and understood the Professor’s words. He realized all the nuance in "Here, Kitty." By the fourth month after ingesting the contents of the beaker marked "SHMUTZ Progenesis Factor", he was reading the Bergen Bugle and listening to the rats.
The rats were a loosely organized gang that milled around in their secure cage grumbling about everything. When news came from the radio on Elrod’s desk that the citizens of North Bergen were split over Professor Klingst’s illicit discovery, shmutz, the
rats voted to support the use of the addictive substance.
"That way, explained Cell 14 subject A6, the humans who use shmutz will be easier to conquer. They’ll accept anything as within the norm, even us..hah!"
Subject B13 spoke up. "How in hell are we going to support anything, brothers? Look at us! In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve got some breaking news for you. We’re rats! In a cage! And not to scare you, but that ugly furball sleeping on the chair out front? That’s a cat! A cat!"
"I’m not afraid of no cat. I’ll bite him. Just let me out of this cage." Subject B6k was considered foolhardy and belligerent. He had only halfheartedly lent his support to the shmutz support initiative. All he really wanted, he explained, was the basics; food, sleep, sex, shelter, and sex. He was the one rat who taunted Mr. Whiskers every time he saw him. | | Posted by Edward at 1:37 AM - | |
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In spite of a constant lack of sobriety, Fletch Carnoustie was one hell of a pastry chef. Pies, cakes, little tarts with cherry fillings and sugary crusts that melted in your mouth, he invented his own recipes and baked them all day every day.
A product of humble beginnings, he had stayed in the house and baked as other kids in his neighborhood played ball or tortured each other. He reached his dream when he was accepted at the prestigious L’Ecole de Cruste, located in Upper Wannagannsett. He was tossed out of the school at the start of his second term, when it was discovered that he was more interested in the tart instructor’s buxom wife Lulu than in showing up for class. It was an ideal setup, for a couple of weeks, anyway. The instructor, one Arti Klann, simply couldn’t accept the fact that his wife or any other woman could possibly want to have an affair with this....this Fletch character. Fletch had buzz cut hair, wore thick lenses, and being only five foot three, looked up toward everyone with a myopic, one-eyed squint and a snaggletoothed sneer. It was disturbing until you got to know him.
Even with his suddenly shortened education, Fletch retained all he’d learned and went to work for a couple of fancy restaurants. Eventually he opened his own catering service, and began to build an impressive list of clients.
Fletch drank. A lot. He’d start the day with vodka, orange juice and toast ( once in a while he’d substitute vegetable juice; better for you, more antioxidants), followed by a mid-morning chaser of toffee liqeur. Lunch was three beers and a green salad, then he’d finish up his cooking day and head home. He’d read Epicurean Magazine and watch the Cooking Channel until....Bam!..his head hit the floor or sofa or bed. The next morning he’d stumble out of bed to do it all over again.
His sometime drinking buddy, Ralph Weirnd, a would-be gigolo, was practicing his male strip routine one day, soliciting constructive comment from a completely soused Fletch, when a brilliant idea struck.
"Fletch, can you bake a big cake that I can fit into? I want to do a surprise thing for my cousin Lesmeralda’s bachelorette party. All her girlfriends and a photographer will be there, and this could be a real career opportunity!"
"Sure, Ralph, when do you want to do it?"
"Two weeks from Saturday, seven p.m. at Lesmeralda’s place. I’ll need you to set me up and get the music started."
"OK, Ralphie, but this is gonna cost you."
Fletch worked on the cake for two days before the party. Ralph ok’d the icing and motif (quasi wedding-white cake with a little sombrero on top) and practiced getting in and out of the big cardboard cylinder in the center. He perfected his leap out, clad in a red thong, gyrating to the insistent and sexy beat of "Make That Thing Swing."
Saturday opened bright, sun splitting sky and nature abuzz. Fletch drank his breakfast and just because the day was so beautiful, had a couple more. When Ralph came by at six, Fletch told him, "You’re the goddamnedest best friend I ever had, god dammit, so les’ go to the party!"
"OK Fletch, I’m ready to roll, let’s load up the van."
"What’s the address, Ralph?"
"Nine Sixty-Six Oak Street."
"Alright, you get in the cake, and when we get there I’ll wheel you out of the van, and set up. Your cue to do your thing will be the music."
"Gotcha, let’s go."
"Bestest buddy ever."
Fletch’s speech was slightly slurred, but he walked steady and they got the cake into the van, Ralph into the cake, and a singing and whistling Fletch started the van, gunned the engine, and headed for Lesmerelda’s. Fletch was happy, and just to ensure continuous euphoria, took a couple of nips from the little bottle he kept in the glovebox. Dreamily, he guided the van toward Lesmerelda’s house on….where was it?….oh yeah, Elm Street.
Turning off S20 onto Elm, he saw the balloons and ribbons flying from the gate a few doors down, pulled up on the curb out front, and prepared to unload. He vaguely noticed that there was a lot of noise coming from the house, and a couple of festive
tables were on the lawn. This party must be well underway. He rolled the cake carefully through the gate and positioned it near the porch, where he could plug in the big boom box.
People crowded around, watching him as he tested the equipment. He scanned the tables for something to drink, but all he saw was soft drinks and fruit juice. What kind of a party was this?
A young lady swam into his vision.
"Hi, I’m Susan. Watcha got?"
"A surprise for the lucky girl." Fletch was clever. Didn’t want to give away the surprise.
Great, thought Susan, smiling. My ex decides to send a huge cake. Weirdo.
"All right then, we’ll be ready for the cake in five minutes. Let me get everyone to the tables."
Fletch was floating. This was gonna be the easiest money he’d ever earned. All he had to do now was turn on the music and Ralphie would do the rest. He staggered out to the van, had one more slug, and somehow made it back to the porch, the visual detail in front of him fading to a colorful haze.
The tables were full now, the din was earsplitting. He looked over at Susan, who winked and nodded.
Fletch fumbled and hunted for nearly a full minute, then finally found the button that said "Play". The bouncy hip hop intro boomed out, bass thudding…whoomp, duh duh whoomp, duh duh whoomp!
The top of Fletch’s latest masterpiece burst open and Ralph leaped out, his best exit from a cake yet, writhing in air, right on beat, padded red thong prominent.
The last picture in Fletch’s brain before he passed out was of a near-nude Ralph, puzzlement clouding his face, and Susan screaming while ten big-eyed and slack-jawed sixth-grade children stared in silent amazement. | | Posted by Edward at 1:35 AM - | |
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North Bergen was a cocoon of a city where people raised up their kids, paid their taxes and got the services those taxes paid for. They lived workaday lives and supported their communities, toiling, toiling and dreaming. Not much happened to open people’s eyes wide or raise their ire; life ground on predictably, punctuated by an occasional scandalous blip that drew brief attention, then faded from mind.
The first event to produce headlines and rouse the populace that autumn was, unpredictably, a win by a local high school football team. The North Bergen Badgers ran away from the Quaintsville Queens in a 47-0 blowout. The Quaintsville players left the field demoralized and grumbling. They chose a spokesman who announced to the athletic director that they hated their team name and mascot, and weren’t playing any more games until all that was changed. The Badger coach called them a bunch of whiners, which drew the righteous wrath of several Quaintsville parents. The next school day, the Quaintsville Principal acted. Nominations were taken for a new mascot, the students voted, and the Quaintsville Gorillas won their next three games, losing the season finale in a one point squeaker to the Our Lady of Presumption Fighting Meerkats.
The good citizens of North Bergen had never expected or experienced anything like the rash of bank robberies that began just as November blustered in. It was always the same m.o., and the media followed each heist with twenty four hour news coverage, witness interviews, statements from the Chief of Police and lots of pure speculation. The suspect, dubbed Legs LeGrande by an editor at the Bergen Bugle, would walk calmly into the bank lobby wearing a pink Jackie O. pillbox hat with matching gloves and trenchcoat. While everyone was frozen in disbelief, Legs would pull his longbarrel .45, point it at the nearest teller’s forehead and order him to fill his Gucci bag with large denomination bills, no dye packs, please, or else. The teller would nearly faint when Legs, reaching the front door and before exiting, turned around and zipped open his
coat. Underneath, he was bare chested and wore bright red tights and Air Jordans. His pixelated image was taped to every shop window, a pop-up on the North Bergen municipal website, and every citizen with an exaggerated sense of civic responsibility was on the lookout for the infamous Legs LeGrande.
As El Pinche and Lesmeralda walked up the steps to the front porch they could hear the seldom heard warble from the yellow phone. He and Lesmerelda had been enjoying the sun and the air of Indian Summer at a little picnic in the park nearby. Autumn had showered the ground with gold, red and yellow. They had walked through the leaves, hand in hand, discussing love and life and future delights. While at the park, a shiny black NBPD cruiser had sped by, siren shrieking bloody murder. The news on the car radio on the way home confirmed El Pinche’s suspicions. Legs LeGrande was at it again. Something was going to have to be done, and soon. El Pinche answered the phone, while Lesmerelda stood near, worry painting her face.
"Señor Mayor, what can I do for you?"
"Agent E, an hour ago Legs LeGrande hit the FairView Savings and Loan over in Summitfield. He got away with nearly twenty thousand dollars, and several people fainted while he was in the bank. He has his own style, if you want to call it that. He’ll rob two banks in one day, then we won’t see him for a week or so. This guy hits, then fades away, and what’s really strange is that no witnesses have seen where he goes once he leaves the bank.
"Ai yi yi.....you mean he’s invisible?"
"Something like that. Anyhow, he’s got one hell of a getaway plan. Look, you’ve had surveillance and criminal profile training, and frankly, I think you’re the man for the job. We need to get this scum off the street. When can you get down here?"
"Agent E is on the way, señor."
"Good, See you then. Oh, and come ready to work."
"Si, Mayor Crandall." He laid down the receiver and turned to Lesmerelda. "My sweetness, I must go once again to protect our somewhat fair city."
Lesmerelda threw her arms around El Pinche’s neck, clinging to him as tightly as she could. Tears wet her eyes, this time might be different, somehow. He’d managed success in all his previous missions, but...one never knew.
"Oh Lucky, can’t someone else do this?" She only used her pet name for him in the most intimate moments, and never in public.
"No, no, my darling. The Mayor, he has great faith in me and I must not disappoint."
"But..."
El Pinche placed his fingers on her lips. "I will return soon, unharmed, this I promise you."
"I love you," she said through teary eyes as he pulled away.
"As I do you, my love." He kissed her once more, then dressed and armed himself to leave.
This was El Pinche’s first mission that required a disguise. He was going to have to blend in with the general populace in order to do effective surveillance. He was clad, courtesy of Bill’s Cuff and Cravat, in his newly borrowed dark blue deliveryman’s outfit. A snappy black-billed hat hid his combat sombrero, and his baggy right trouser leg hid his whip of choice, the new SnapDragon DeLuxe II. A full eighteen feet uncoiled, it was state-of-the-art, featuring the latest in multiuse lashtips and came equipped with a custom molded handle with gyroscopic balance and "smart" infrared aiming technology. The hilt of the grip held an area scanning sensor that analyzed 31 different stages of aggression within a fraction of a second, loaded the appropriate lashtips, and flashed a "ready" signal. All El Pinche really needed to do was point and snap, and the criminal mastermind at the business end of his whip was either gassed, temporarily blinded, shocked, hog-tied, or rendered senseless and slobbering, depending on the perceived threat level.
El Pinche spent more than two hours at Mayor Tony Crandall’s office, reviewing the details, the movements, the bank employee statements and any information gathered from the robberies in question. He highlighted every heist location on the big North Bergen wall map, and carefully noted the date and time of each incident. Sure enough, a pattern was evolving there on the wall. Legs LeGrande was working his way around the city, following the Interstate 44 Loop. Every bank hit so far was located on a
one-way street entering within one mile directly onto the Loop and headed away from town.
"Señor Crandall, look at the map! This robber, he is going to hit the SquareOne Mutual in Plumber Valley!"
"By God, Agent E, I think you may be right! Head over there and set up. Maintain radio contact and check in every hour. I’ll have backup in the area, a couple of plainclothes will be within a block of you."
El Pinche flowed into action. The silver SUV rumbled through the center of town, menacing, featureless, windows tinted dark purple, finally stopping at Scheistermann’s Rent-A-Hulk. He parked in his reserved space, then headed into the garage through a side door, emerging from the gate a few minutes later driving a nondescript and decrepit yellow delivery van loaded with empty boxes. Radio Latina blared from the one working speaker. He reached down and patted the SnapDragon, secure against his right leg.
Backup? We don’t need no stinking backup!
Legs LeGrande sat disguised in the coffee shop across the street from SquareOne and watched the people come and go. He was in his Air Force Sergeant’s uniform, and no one really gave him a third glance. He pretended to be reading the Daily Tattler, peeping over the top of the paper from time to time. The front page of the newsrag he held had a picture of himself pulling one of his jobs. Underneath was a photo of an attractive blonde actress, Monica Flowers, holding a newborn. The bold headline read "Legs LeGrande Fathered My Baby."
Legs always cased his jobs, looking for guards, making sure there was time and space to escape, but most of all, a place nearby to stash a suit of clothes to change into. This city had been good to him, just one more job and he would be ready to move on. He was tired. He’d made over two hundred thousand from this ville so far, and that little piece of property in Tucumcari was nearly his. He could get out of this business, become somebody respectable, above reproach, a landowner, a pillar of the community, maybe join a bowling league. He was a bank robber with a retirement plan.
Hell, he mused, the job this morning was such a piece of cake. Thirty five grand
lus, if you counted the twenties.
Working alone was good. He’d been smart that way, never had to share with anyone else. No stooges, no snitches, no nothin’, just Legs LeGrande getting the cash and moving on.
Well, time to get to business. It was mid afternoon, the bank closed at five, and there was usually too much traffic after four p.m. He scrutinized his watch. No one had gone in or out of the bank for eleven minutes.
Legs paid his tab, picked up his duffelbag and stepped out onto the sidewalk. A shabby grey haired elderly man, skin burned to red ochre, shuffled up to him and snapped a stiff salute.
"God bless you boys, you’re doing a great job, and we support the troops, yes we do."
"Uh, yeah, thanks". Legs returned the salute, then in his best attempt at military bearing, moved on, checking his surroundings as he walked. Coast was clear, no one watching. He slipped into the alley, one block away from SquareOne Mutual, scanning overhead for cameras. None. Good. Behind a dumpster, he pulled his robbing outfit from the dufflebag and hastily changed. Pink hat secure, pistol in purse, tights pulled up.
Dammit, this is painful! Guess ballerina tights weren’t made for two hundred pound men who dressed to the left. He paced the block to the back of the bank and paused, taking several deep breaths, then broke into a sprint for the front door.
Two thirty p.m. and half a block from the bank, El Pinche waited in the big van. He saw the old vagrant salute the man in uniform. The street was relatively empty, but if Legs LeGrande was going to stick to habit, operate as he always did, he should be showing up any time now. El Pinche focused on his surroundings, watching, listening, looking for anything out of place.
At two thirty-two p.m., the sun moved behind a cloud.
At two thirty-three p.m., Legs LeGrande, resplendent in pink, streaked from the alley and bounded up the steps to the bank entrance, pulling the pistol from his purse
as he ran.
Yes! I guessed right!
El Pinche watched Legs enter the bank, then exploded out of the van and scrambled across the street, cardboard box in hand. The SnapDragon rode easily in his leg pocket, auto activated, loaded with immediasleep lashtips. He opened the bank entrance door boldly and walked to the service desk.
"Delivery." He was calm and cool. Legs was twenty feet away, stepping up to the first teller window.
"Hold it! Everyone stand still and do not move. I’m going to reallocate some of your assets, and then be on my way. No one interferes, no one gets hurt." Legs handed his Gucci bag to the frightened teller. "Fill the bag now and hurry, or you’ll die." His tone was flat and matter-of-fact. He hoisted the heavy grey steel pistol to forehead level and cocked it, chambering a round with a sickening metallic click. At the edge of his vision, he felt and saw El Pinche move, and swung his weapon in the direction of the movement. The delivery guy was leaping toward him, some kind of stick-thing with a blinking green light in his right hand. Legs panicked and fired. The bullet pierced the blue deliveryman’s cap, knocking it from El Pinche’s head, revealing the Whipmaster sombrero beneath.
Ssshhh-Pow! El Pinche’s first snap struck from fifteen feet away, knicking Legs’ right calf, causing a run in his tights.
The second snap came even faster. Later on, the witnesses said they could not see the action of the SnapDragon DeLuxe II, it was simply too fast for the human eye to track. The last two feet of the lash wrapped around Legs’ pistol and the lashtip pierced his hand. The immediasleep toxin activated instantaneously. Legs collapsed, snoring, pink pillbox upside down on the white marble floor.
Incandescence from above, diffused, yellow, flickering, now brightening. Walter struggled up and out of the dark womb that squeezed him, stretching for the soft glow overhead. Hard-edged voices, now audible, now muffled, pulled him to the light.
"Yeah, chief, his name’s Walter Wellesley, wanted in four states. Yes, sir. Armed robbery, jaywalking, and impersonating a celebrity. Looks like he’s starting to come around now."
Walter didn’t want to hear more. He shut his eyes tight, turned off his senses, and drifted on tender clouds, down, down, away from the light. | | Posted by Edward at 1:32 AM - | |
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