Prologue
|
Changes. Life's full of them. In nature, the most famous
example of change is the transformation of a caterpillar into a
butterfly. One minute, there's this slow moving, gross-looking
hairy worm inching its way across a tree branch, and the
next-PRESTO! You've got this airy, delicate butterfly which gets
out of its cocoon, takes one look at it's old branch, and flies
off, never to return.
While people don't change in that big a way, they go
through a lot of big changes too. Like the first day of school.
Or meeting your first friend. Even going to the dentist by
yourself for the first time can be a big change. One of the
biggest changes in anybody's life, though, is the day they first
leave home for college. The safety of the warm, comfy, family
cocoon is cast off, left behind for the wide, wide world of
whatever's out there. It's a weird, scary change.
Like butterflies, some people never come back after that,
choosing to stay out there, somewhere in the world, for the rest
of their life. But a lotta people do come back, even if just to
visit.
And sometimes, coming home can be way weirder than leaving
in the first place. It makes you look at old, familiar things in
new, unexpected ways. And it makes you realize that no matter how
much you've changed, the people you used to know have changed
too. Sometimes, you have to get to know them all over again.
|
July 14th, 1995 9:00 AM
Silverware clicking against cheap china. Soft slurps of
coffee. Idle murmurs of conversation. Breakfast was a quiet, calm
affair as usual at Evanston's only MacDrekky's fast food
restaurant, punctuated only by the odd ring of a payphone in the
rear of the eatery. The few cashiers on duty mindlessly stared at
cracks in the tiled ceiling as patrons meticulously chewed their
cud.
Nobody noticed the two teenagers as they entered.
They were definitely a mismatched couple. He, a tall
brawny, muscular sort, dressed in leather and denim, she, a slim,
petite girl in hideously mismatched clothes that somehow managed
to exude an underlying sense of elegant style. Nobody could have
ever predicted that their relationship would have taken off as
quickly as it had, or that it would have lasted as long as it
did. But it was love, alright. Anyone could see that.
"Buy me a Big Drek, or I'll beat your head in."
"Yes, dear," Clifford Spleenhurfer said meekly, shrinking
from the acid gaze of his girlfriend as he sat down beside her at
a booth.
Presently, however, his eyes began to wander back to her
face.
"What is it?" the girl asked, annoyed at his stare.
Clifford gulped and said nothing. He hated it when she got
like this. It scared him. Fright had a way of dampening his
appetite.
"Well?!" the girl asked irately. "What's the 411?!"
"Umm--" Clifford began slowly, his voice trembling in fear.
"Spit it out!" the girl said, her oddly shaped earrings
rocking back and forth as she moved her head, "A piece of me is
dying every few seconds, you know. Blood cells only last 90 days.
My fingernails and hair are already dead. By the time you finish
your sentence, I'll probably be nothin' but a pile of dust in
this chair!"
"Umm," Clifford continued, pointing at her face with a
trembling finger, "your eye fell out again."
"Ugh," the girl said. "It's always doing that. Now I have
to pull out the other one." Raising a hand to her head, she
briefly paused to brush aside her bangs, plucking at her one blue
eye until she was able to peel off a thin layer of colored
plastic.
With a flick of her thumb, the girl tossed the plastic lens
into Clifford's Sani-Shake.
"Why do you even wear those, Eve?" Clifford asked tiredly.
Eve Biderberg, the most popular girl at Thomas Tupper
Senior High School, Editor-in-Chief of the school paper, and
inherently better half of Clifford Spleenhurfer, scowled at the
idiocy of her boyfriend's question.
"Because," Eve replied slowly, a hint of anger in her
voice. "It's a requirement. You can't be a blonde with brown
eyes. That would be gross." She frowned and donned some
sunglasses.
"But your hair isn't even really blonde-" Clifford said,
not thinking.
"Yes it is!" Eve hissed. "It's always been blonde!" She
smacked him on the side of the head. "Understand!?" she demanded,
her voice dripping menace. "And don't call me `Eve' in public!
Got it?"
"Hi, Claire, Hi, Clifford!" a pack of girls said, passing
by the table.
Eve smiled to them. "Hey, guys! What's the 411?"
"We were just thinking," one of the girls said rapidly,
detaching from the pack, "there's this new fad at school.
Everybody's wearing their clothes inside out. We were gonna do it
too."
"Now," Eve said in a friendly, yet strangely commanding
voice, "always remember to be yourself. Live your own life. Don't
just blindly imitate other people."
"You're right!" the girl said, returning to the fold.
"She's so cool!" the other girls whispered to each other,
giggling and moving off.
Clifford sighed. "I remember when she would get that
reaction," he said, staring into Eve's face. For a moment, her
features seemed to shift slightly, and someone else, looking
similar, but different, stared back at him.
"Ugh," Eve exhaled. "Thinking about her again, are you?"
"I love *you*" Clifford said quickly, suddenly slightly
afraid for his life. "I love the way you smile, the way you
look-you are so beautiful--" he said, starting to break into
song.
"--but I look just like her," Eve interjected brusqely. "So
when you say you love my appearance, you mean you love her
appearance, yes?"
"Yes, uhh. no." Clifford said, confused.
"Don't think, dear," Eve said soothingly, her mood swinging
completely. Any man other than Clifford would have been instantly
suspicious. As it was, Clifford was too busy contemplating the
subtle intricacies of Pie.
"That's never been your strong suit. Your other talents more than
make up for your lack of brain cells."
"Yup," Clifford said proudly. "But I'm not doin' that stuff
anymore. It's too gross and disgusting. Every time, it makes me
sick."
"Eh?" Eve sat bolt upright in her chair, offended. "How can
you say that? Every time, you swore it was the most wonderful
thing you ever experienced!"
Clifford shrugged. "That was just in the heat of the
moment, baby."
Eve growled. "I go out of my way to satisfy your hideous
appetites, and you have the gall to trivialize it? I gave you
everything! I showed you things, techniques I'd never shared with
anyone else!"
"Don't care," Clifford said, stuffing his face with a
glazed MacDrekky's Dairy Doughnut O' Doom. He liked Dairy
Doughnuts o' Doom. They were soft and squidgy, and melted on his
tongue. Sugar gave him strength. Strength made him strong.
"I'm not doin' it with you anymore," he continued
defiantly. "No more dumpin' roaches into dinner plates just to
scam free meals from restaurants."
"Gah!" Eve clenched her hands into fists, her knuckles
going pale. Looking around to make sure none of the staff was
paying attention, she leaned forward, speaking in a rapid, raspy
whisper. "You're the best I've ever seen at the dead roach scam!
Nobody does it better than you! The look of cluelessness when you
sit down to order, pretending to mangle the French meal names--"
She paused. "--well, that's just your native ignorance. But then
the look of righteous shock and indignation-"
Clifford nodded and looked at Eve angrily. "Is that a
palmetto bug in my souffle?" he asked her with mock gravity.
Eve cooed in delight. "Precisely. And you're so big and
strong, those pasty-faced waiters don't dare question you. You're
perfect! You can't quit! I've grown used to fine cuisine!"
Clifford frowned. "No way. I've changed. I got ethics now.
I'm goin' straight."
Eve's eyes narrowed, and she leaned forward in a fluid,
serpentine motion. "There was a time when you were all too
willing to forget your ethics." She held out a sandwich, waving
it slowly in front of her vassal-err, boyfriend's nose.
Clifford shook his head, eyes following the sandwich
automatically. He shuddered, and a huge drop of sweat trickled
down the back of his head. As he spoke, he desperately tried to
ignore the sandwich. "Yeah, well, the days of me forgettin' are
over, and the days of me rememberin' have just begun. I'm
Clifford Spleenhurfer, Thomas Tupper High's first Super Super
Super Senior, not some insane human eating machine!"
Clifford closed his eyes and turned his head away from the
sandwich. "My stomach's not the boss of me! Not anymore!"
Eve snickered, still holding up the sandwich. "When you go
on like this, you know what you sound like?"
Clifford shrugged, eyes still closed. "What? What do I
sound like?"
"You sound like a freshman. Whine, Whine Whine Whine Whine.
Not like the manly super senior that I fell in love with. The
Clifford who stood up for his rights! Who didn't even let the ex-
girl of his dreams get in his way!"
Clifford shuddered. He flashed back to an incident that had
happened some five months ago, just before Clarissa had gone off
to college. Boy, he recalled. That architect had sure liked his
fridge.
The day had been a particularly hot one. Chicago had been
caught in the grip of a particularly vicious heat wave, with the
mercury hovering above 102 for the sixth day in a row. The
Darlings had responded by retreating into the cool, air
conditioned sanctuary of their comfortable two-story home,
basking in cool processed air. For two days, life had been
perfect. Then, on the third day, the air conditioner had simply
decided to stop. The house was transformed into a hot box that
would have sent Southern prison wardens packing in terror.
Each member of the family had adapted in their own unique
way. The kids had retreated to their rooms and ceased
hostilities, finding heat more oppressive than the presence of
any sibling. Janet had taken up hydroponic gardening, ostensibly
to facilitate the growth of pure organic foods, but in reality to
generate an excuse for piping large quantities of cooling water
into the house's basement, where she had set up a pool. And
Marshall simply went mad.
Marshall Darling was never very good at being cooped up.
True, he spent most of his time in his study, or sitting on the
couch watching TV, but those were activities he enjoyed by
choice. Sitting around in the house all day because of the heat
wave somehow made these common activities seem like a prison
sentence imposed by an all-powerful captor. So, he did the only
thing a child of the sixties could under the circumstances. He
rebelled-- against the hideous hand of boredom. His weapon of
choice? Home repair. He chose to upgrade all the appliances in
the house. Again. And he had decided, quite logically, to start
in the kitchen. It had always been far too insecure.
"What's that for, dad?" Clarissa asked, pushing some sweat-
soaked hair from the front of her face. She watched incredulously
as her father leaned in front of the refrigerator, trying
desperately to stick some kind of funky computer lock on the
thing's front.
"Well, Sport," Marshall said, standing upright and looking
at his daughter, eyes full of enthusiasm, "That kid you're always
hanging out with-"
"-his name is Clifford, dad." Clarissa said reflexively.
"-whatever. Well, as you know, he's always coming over and
eating food. Our food. MY food." Marshall winced. "The food that
I need to keep myself going. To keep my brain in prime shape, so
that I can design new and innovative architectural plans- to
boldly imagine buildings no architect has imagined before."
Marshall's eyes glazed over. "Why, I remember the time I
made the first model for a building. The `Gerkins a go-go'. Do
you remember, sport? I always thought the thing was groovy. So
groovy, in fact, that I even thought it would get sold at
auction. Why, I think I saw it on eBay."
Clarissa sighed. Her dad's 8-track mind was slowly
beginning to take a one-track cruise down memory lane, and pretty
soon the engine would be stalling out. She had to detour him
ASAP. "Dad!" she snapped, getting no reply. "Dad!" she insisted.
"DAD!"
"What, Sport?" Marshall asked, snapped out of his reverie.
"The thing on the fridge?" Clarissa waved at the
contraption on the refrigerator, which was studded with an array
of blinking lights and flashing LEDs. If the year was 1966, it
would have looked right at home on the bridge of the starship
Enterprise.
"Oh," Marshall said after a moment. "I saw plans for this
thing in an issue of Popular Home Gadgets. It's a `Magnetomatic
9000.'" He smiled in satisfaction.
"What does that mean?" Clarissa pressed. Sometimes talking
to her father was like trying to converse with a dyslexic mime.
"Oh," Marshall said again. "It keeps people out of the
fridge."
"No way," Clarissa said incredulously. She walked over to
the fridge and tugged at the handle. She was confident her dad's
natural knack for mangling hardware would result in a quick
victory against the Megalomaniac 9000, or whatever it was called.
"WARNING," the Magnetomatic chirped. "UNAUTHORIZED SNACKER
DETECTED. HANDPRINT REQUIRED."
Clarissa frowned. "Get real." She tugged at the handle
harder. A small electric shock jolted her, and she reflexively
let go. Well, that was Pavlovian, she thought.
"Dad," she said, stunned. "You've made a fridge lock that
shocks your family?" Her respect for him grew a notch.
"No," Marshall said. "I'll add your palm prints to the
database. It's here to shock just one person."
"Clifford," Clarissa realized slowly. This could get
interesting.
"That kid," Marshall confirmed.
Clarissa shrugged. It was true that Clifford tended to eat
the Darlings out of house and home. Of all the people she'd want
to be locked in a bomb shelter with, Clifford was the last. His
stomach was like a transcendentally dimensional black hole. He
could make a two-year food supply last five minutes-if he
bothered to chew. Her dad's new gimmick was understandable, if
under powered for the task.
"So what are you trying to protect?" Clarissa asked. The
irony of his trying to preserve the sludge mom called "health
food" was not lost on her.
"A Carvel Ice Cream Cake," Marshall said happily.
"No WAY!" Clarissa said happily. "Those are the BEST! I
thought the stores were sold outta that stuff days ago!"
"Yup," Marshall said. "But I bought one before the rush
hit."
"I woulda noticed it," Clarissa replied. If Ferguson's
eaten it, she thought angrily, I'll strangulate him.
"Nope," Marshall said, placing his hand on the palm scanner
embedded in the Magnetotron.
"IDENTITY CONFIRMED," it boomed, and the fridge door opened
with a hiss. Marshall stuck his hand into the freezer and pulled
out a box marked "Tofu Kudzu Celery Balls".
"Ick!" Clarissa said, pulling back. "That stuff's gross!
Not even Mom'll eat that... that... gelatinated goop!"
Marshall looked at her askance, raising an eyebrow. Then,
with a dramatic flick of his wrist, the box snapped back,
revealing an immaculate ice cream cake hidden inside.
"Cool," Clarissa said in awe.
"Yup," said a slightly husky voice, as a huge gloved fist
smashed into the cake, splashing bits of ice cream all over
Clarissa's face and Marshall's glasses. "Mmph," it said. "Taftes
gmfd."
The voice of Clifford Spleenhurfer was unmistakable.
"That kid!" Marshall said with venom, trying to wipe the
ice cream from his glasses, but succeeding only in smearing it
all over the lenses. Taking them off, he saw a huge blur heading
for his fridge. "It's like he's got a radar system built into his
stomach or something."
Marshall smiled. His new lock would teach that kid what
for. His smile faded as he realized he had left the fridge door
open while showing Clarissa the cake.
"Quit it!" Marshall said, trying to keep Clifford from
discovering the other tasty treats he had stashed in the back of
the cooler. If Janet saw those candied snacks, his life would be
a story of misery for the next few weeks. Stalin would show
more remorse.
"Can't talk," Clifford mumbled. "Eating." He shoved
Marshall sideways and pressed himself into the fridge. His whole
body seemed to plug up the entrance to the massive icebox.
"Hey!" Ferguson said as he walked into the kitchen. "That's
our food! Dad, stop him!"
Clarissa leaned over to Ferguson and whispered in his ear.
"Shut up, Ferg-Wad! Clifford'll eat the tofu for us."
"Yes, and the bacteria on the shelves, but he eats
everything else too!" Ferguson protested. "He eats whatever he
sees! Or is this just a fashion statement?" He pointed to a half-
chewed, ice-cream cone shaped earring on Clarissa's left ear.
Clarissa sulked as Marshall, who was feeling hot, hungry,
angry that his security system had been breached, and mad that
his beautiful ice cream cake-the one he had bought for his
family, and HIS stomach-had been defiled, finally snapped. He
shoved himself in between Clifford and the fridge.
"If you want this food," Marshall said defiantly, "You'll
have to go through me."
"Dad!" Clarissa said incredulously. Bizarre images of a Pay-
Per-View wrestling/boxing/food fight match entered her mind, with
Clifford and her dad as participants.
"Okay," Clifford said matter-of-factly and cracking his
knuckles.
"Clifford!" Clarissa admonished.
"It calls to me," Clifford said, entranced. "The food is my
master. It calls, and I must obey. I hunger." The heat had put
him into survival mode, deprived of whatever little reason he
usually possessed.
"Clifford, don't do this," Clarissa began dangerously.
She'd seen this coming for quite some time. Her imminent
graduation and departure had been depressing Clifford, who,
despite his age, was still somehow classified as a Freshman. As a
result, the boy had been retreating further and further into the
arms of his first love- a good meal.
"Must. Eat." Clifford moved forward, a towering colossus of
gastronomic proportions.
Clarissa imagined two western style gunfighters, hands
poised at their hips, each gazing at the other with a calm,
steely-eyed look that belied their nervousness. Clifford and
Marshall, fighting for the honor of the Darling fridge.
Tension. The camera switches between the faces of the two
combatants. Somewhere, a clock strikes high noon. Then, someone
blinks, and the men explode into action.
Clarissa covered her eyes to avoid the raucous scene.
After a few minutes, she took a peek.
"And stay out!" Marshall yelled, wincing a bit, hurling a
small apple at the vanishing sight of Clifford's posterior. He
nursed his arm and turned back to his dented fridge, looking at
the remains of his shattered Magnetotron. Then he looked at his
kids, and at his wife, who had just entered the room.
Clifford, for his part, watched through the window for a
while before leaving. Spying on Darling family life was like
watching a good TV show.
"Marshall?" Janet asked in her customary
surprised/shocked/accusatory tone. Amazing, the range of emotions
the woman could pack into one word.
"The terror is finally over," Marshall said slowly, sinking
down in front of the fridge. HIS fridge. "The war... is won. The
Darling fridge is secure."
"That's nice, dear," Janet said in her trademark disenchanted/
bored/dismissive tone, completely deflating the awe and wonder of
the moment for all concerned. "Oh, look," she said, "Clifford left
something behind."
All eyes turned to the only "food" item left in the fridge,
an orange-green loaf of some kind that was emitting a fetid stink.
"No wonder," Ferguson muttered quiety. Clarissa nodded in
agreement.
The loaf was totally gross. It looked like a B-Movie monster had
come alive in the hideous depths of the Darling refrigerator.
Janet's eyes lit up as she extracted the loaf from its icy tomb.
Holding it close to her as a mother would her child, she took a spoon
and scooped up a bit of it. Smiling, she proffered the spoonful of
goop to her husband.
"I don't think so, honey," Marhsall said tactfully. "I'm not
very hungry right now."
Janet sighed and turned towards the fridge. Marshall sighed in
relief, but panicked as his gaze zoomed in on a microscopic particle
of ice cream cake on the fridge door. Anyone else would miss it,
but Janet had sensors for that kind of thing. If she saw it--!
"Honey!" Marshall interjected, quickly stepping between her and
the fridge. "On second thought, I'd love some." He deftly removed the
particle from the fridge by brushing his hand against it.
"You won't regret this," Janet said as the children looked on in
horror.
"I can't believe he's gonna eat it," Clarissa said in shock.
"Believe it," Ferguson said with almost Klingon stoicism.
Let's get this thing over with, Marshall thought to himself.
"Oh, Marshall," Janet gushed. "It's one of my favorites--
Bolger loaf."
"Whoa," Marshall said as he took a bite of the loaf. "I think
these fumes are starting to get to me." His eyes lost focus. "Captain
America and Billy," he muttered, a psychadelic 60's beat pounding in
his brain, "thumbin' their noses at society and its roles, takin' off
on their choppers in a cloud of dust and experiencing whatever lay in
front of them."
"Dad!" Clarissa yelled. There was no effect.
"DAD!" She insisted. Marshall barely responded with a twitch.
"DAD!" Ferguson attempted.
"Dad?" Clarissa asked with concern in her voice. Something was
very wrong.
Deprived of his meal ticket and feeling betrayed, Clifford
had stayed away, seeking food and friendship elsewhere.
Clarissa had gone off to college a week later, and Janet,
discovering Marshall's snack reserve in the shattered remains of
the refrigerator, had cracked. In the heat of what she saw as
culinary betrayal, she had decided it was time for the whole town
to get healthy.
If her family wouldn't get the message, others would, and
then Marshall and Ferguson would learn by example. Yes, they
would learn. EVERYONE would learn. They would all die... et.
Marshall, for his part, had never quite recovered from the
Bolger Loaf.
Clifford snapped back to his present surroundings. "But
that Ice Cream cake sure tasted good."
Eve nodded, imagining the scene. "It was your moment of
greatest triumph. You didn't let anything stop you, not even that
aggravating Clarissa."
"Right," Clifford said slowly, seeing the contours of
Clarissa's face in Eve's again. She was so much like Clarissa.
Much of that, of course, was by design. She was very much like
Clarissa. In fact, he mused, she was Clarissa. Just without the
capacity to tell good from evil. He liked and feared this
Clarissa. She was more like him than he was. Wow. That was a
heavy thought. Brain need food now. Eat.
"But now you just sit in front of me and whine," Eve
continued as Clifford shoved a MacDrekky's Anti-Hero sandwich in
his mouth. "What's the matter with you?"
Clifford scowled. "Nothing," he whined. "You'll never hear
me whine again, because since I'm never gonna do it again, you're
never gonna hafta hear me whine about how I'm never gonna do it
again!" Clifford guzzled a pitcher of Coca-Cola, relishing the
benzene aftertaste.
"After today," Eve smoothly hissed.
Clifford looked at Eve incredulously, but the last of his
reserve crumbled as she waved her sandwich right under his nose.
Grabbing it with his mouth, he devoured it. "Right."
Eve smiled dangerously. "But not the roach plan. I have a
better idea." She started to speak, then stopped as a waitress
came by.
"Can I get anybody anything?" the waitress asked.
"Coffee, thanks."
Eve smiled and unceremoniously dumped and poured a ton of
cream and sugar into her drink as the waitress left. "See this
coffee?" she asked after a moment.
"Yeah," Clifford said slowly.
"I heard about this lady who walked into a McDonald's,
bought a 45 cent cup of coffee, gulped it down, burnt her mouth,
and said "You didn't tell me this coffee was hot! Now I've hurt
myself, and I want 28 million dollars. Twenty-Eight Million. She
sued."
Clifford's eyes lit up. "That's a lotta ding-dongs! Did it
work?"
Eve grinned. "Of course it worked! Think about it! A lady
walks into a McDonald's with pocket change, not a fake rat, not a
dead roach, but a few dimes, then cleans the place out, and they
don't lift a finger. Well, except to put a sign on their counters
that says "Warning: Coffee is hot" to keep enterprising
entrepreneurs like us from pulling the same stunt."
Clifford grinned. "So you want us to do that here?"
Eve frowned, pointing to a drool-covered sign, which was
located under the chin of a spaced out MacDrekky's employee. A
short, comically drawn gnome in whiteface grinned at the reader,
and the speech bubble near his mouth read: "Dexter MacDrexter
says `Warning: Coffee is hot.' Now that you've read this, you
can't sue us any more. Ha Ha."
"Nuts," Clifford muttered.
"Yeah," Eve confirmed. "Literacy. Ruining another perfect
plan. Sometimes I think we're too smart for our own good. But it
doesn't matter. I wasn't planning that. Merely illustrating that
if we did do it, it would be easier than what we've been doing so
far."
Clifford frowned. "No more roaches in food, then?"
Eve shook her head. "No."
"And no more Pizza Delivery bug scares?"
"Remember what happened last time you tried that?"
Clifford nodded. "Yeah, It ain't the giggle it usta be.
Too many college kids work for Pizza Delivery services. Big
College kids. They just can't relate to the threat of high-school
bully violence. You act tough, try to scare `em, and they don't
know what it means. They fight back. Not like the Freshmen at
school. They make it too personal. We keep messin' with them,
one of `em's gonna put me in traction."
"And we can't have that, my precious Chunky Monkey. But
since Marshall Darling was your only meal ticket, and you've lost
that gold mine, we've got to support your inhuman appetite
somehow."
"I'm listening," Clifford said.
"This place."
"Here?"
"Yup," Eve said quickly. "Just like McDonald's, these
places are insured. The managers don't care, they're just trying
to get you out the door before you start trying to sue them.
Waitresses, forget it, they aren't taking a lawsuit for the man.
Customers are sitting there with food in their mouths, not
knowing what's going on. One minute they're having a Denver
omelette, the next somebody's had a slip and fall right in front
of their face."
"Slip and Fall," Clifford echoed, liking the cadence.
Eve scanned the restaurant, looking at the calmly eating
patrons, who were all lost in conversation. She smirked as she
saw the tired waitress, who was mechanically taking orders like
some worn-down robot. She would never be like that. No, Eve
Biderberg was destined for bigger and better things. A smile
broke out across her face. She turned to Clifford.
"Remember, same as before, you're crowd control, I handle
the employees."
"Got it."
Eve picked up her coffee and saluted Clifford with it. "I
love you, Chunky Monkey."
"I love you, Money Honey," Clifford replied as Eve slowly
poured her coffee onto the floor, listening to the tinkling sound
it made. Her eyes darted to the growing tan pool of liquid on the
green-and-gold tiled floor.
Clifford slowly got up and made as if to walk to a counter.
He then stepped squarely into the spilled coffee. Eve stuck out
her foot and causally tripped him. As he hit the ground with a
massive thud, he yelled to the crowd, "Everybody be cool! I'm A-
OK!" Then he winced and groaned in exaggerated pain.
Eve jumped up and yelled to the dazed employees, holding up
her notepad. "Don't any of you wage slaves move! I'm gonna get
statements from every last one of you!"
Sam Anders could barely keep his lunch down. Jerked from
one side to the other, bounced up and down, and being subjected
to G-Forces more powerful than the ones jet fighter pilots have
to deal with, he felt like his insides were desperately trying to
become his outsides. It was all he could do to avoid re-
upholstering the tacky white seats of his reconditioned '74 Chevy
Nova a chunky acid green.
"Clarissa!" he yelped. "Will you slow down?!"
"Huh?" she asked, the wind blowing through her hair as she
gazed at the road in front of her, hands clamped around a
steering wheel, jerking them left or right as the situation
demanded. Teeth gritted, she was singularly focused, in a Zen-
like state of oneness with Sam's car. She felt herself moving
over the road, slicing through the wind, weaving through traffic
at a pedestrian 85 miles per hour. Now if only that Porsche would
get out of the way...!
"SLOW DOWN!" Sam yelled. "I dunno why I let you drive!
You're like a maniac every time you get behind the wheel! I
swear, you should race at Long Beach or something!"
Clarissa frowned and lifted her foot from the accelerator,
an action which felt incorrect somehow. The car slowed to an
acceptable pace.
Sam exhaled, feeling his heart pound against the side of
his ribcage with incredible force. "Thank you," he wheezed. "I
don't get it. If you wanted to speed so bad, why didn't you take
your car?"
"Because mine is too conspicuous for this job," she
replied.
"Yeah," Sam replied sarcastically. "Look, Clarissa. The
speed limit is 35. 35. Thirty-Five. Which is about how old I
feel, considering the years you just knocked off my life!"
"I think it's torture," Clarissa retorted. "Look at your
speedometer. What's that number?" She pointed to the number at
the far right of the gauge.
"150," Sam replied tiredly. "What's your point?"
"Well, that's your car's maximum speed, right? It's total
potential?"
"Yes," Sam said weakly.
"And shouldn't we all strive to achieve our full potential,
Sam? Isn't it wrong of me to limit your car by blindly obeying
some bureaucrat's narrow-minded perception of what it's full
potential should be?"
"It's a car, Clarissa, not a monk. It doesn't need to
maximize its potential."
"But the rules were written by guys who sit behind desks.
Now desks, Sam, they move slowly. Real slowly. Desk jockeys don't
understand the need for speed like I do." Clarissa gazed into
the middle distance for a moment, enthralled.
"Nobody understands your need for speed," Sam exhaled.
"I mean, you know why they do it, don't you?" Clarissa
pressed. "They make speed limits so bad drivers can look just as
good as terrific ones. If everyone's going the same speed, no one
can stand out. And by the same token, no one can look stupid.
It's enforced mediocrity, supported by middle-aged slowpokes who
are afraid to look bad next to fast-moving teenagers."
"So the speed limit's a plot by the Republican Party," Sam
exhaled tiredly. "Just don't speed, okay? I have enough to worry
about right now."
"Fine," Clarissa said, sulking for a moment. "So anyway,"
she said finally, "tell me about the Jolt."
"You mean the jolt I got when you did 100 on the exit
ramp?" Sam asked sarcastically.
"No, Sam," Clarissa replied, giving him a nasty look. "The
Jolt. Come on, I wanna hear all about it."
Sam frowned. "So whaddya want to know, Clarissa?"
Clarissa barely afforded him a sidelong glance. "Well, Jolt
is legal at Bibbington, right?"
Sam nodded. "Yeah, it's legal, but it isn't a hundred
percent legal. I mean you can't walk into class, pull out a can,
and start guzzling. You're only supposed to drink it in your home
or certain designated places."
As the car pulled up to a stoplight, Clarissa turned to
look at her friend. College hadn't changed him much, but there
were bags under his eyes, and he seemed a bit weaker then when
last they had met. Of course that could just be because of her
speeding. "Designated being anywhere other than in class?"
"Yeah, it breaks down like this: it's legal to buy it, it's
legal to own it and, if you're the proprietor of a convenience
store, it's legal to sell it. It's legal to carry it, which
doesn't really matter 'cause -- get a load of this -- if the
teacher stops you, it's illegal for them to search you.
Searching you is a right that the faculty at Bibbington
College doesn't have."
Clarissa grinned at the happy news.
Jolt, as you may or may not know, is one of the four basic
food groups for computer programmers and other college kids who
live on the edge. Pizza, Ramen, and certain other beverages round
out the other three groups.
Jolt is full of caffiene, so it keeps you awake, which is
why computer geeks worldwide love it. It lets them stay up for
days on end just perfecting that latest bit of computer code.
Unfortunately, it's not terribly good for you. And so, like every
other sweet thing in my hometown, it was illegal.
Ever since mom had become a Community Councilwoman, every
kind of junk food imaginable had become contraband. In the
sixteen weeks since I'd gone off to college for the winter,
Evanston had gone from an obscure Chicago suburb known only for
its Perceptual Robotics webcam to the "healthiest town in the
USA."
The town was famous, and so was mom. She was so famous, in
fact, that she had almost absolute power over all the goings-on
in city hall. And absolute power, as Jackie Gleason said so
eloquently (or was it Napoleon?), does nothing so well as corrupt
absolutely. Let's face it-- old Janet Darling had turned into
a fanatic.
"That does it, Sam -- I'm going there, that's all there is
to it." Clarissa grinned. "Being a Journalism major in College
means a lot of all-night study sessions, and I need Jolt to help
me stay up late. Heck, I just need the caffeine."
Sam frowned. "What about Vivarin? Or Caffiene pills? I hear
those are the in things now."
Clarissa looked at him askance. "Are you nuts, Sam? That
stuff's bad for you." She pondered for a moment before
continuing. "I just want the king of all caffinated sodas. Is
that so much to ask for? It's like nobody in this town sells the
stuff."
Sam smiled slowly. "As far as I can tell, nobody does
anymore. It's your fault for choosing a two year city college
near home instead of finishing out that internship in NY with the
Daily Post."
Clarissa bristled at the mention of her abruptly terminated
internship. "Hey! CC is just a stepping stone to the university,
Sam. As for the internship, I already told you- it just didn't
work out, that's all."
"That's all?" Sam asked, a smile playing across his face as
Clarissa started driving again.
"That's all," Clarissa said firmly. "Doesn't matter. I
already got one lined up for next summer."
"Uhh, that was your roommate's." Sam corrected.
"She broke her legs in a freak snowboarding accident, Sam,"
Clarissa replied a bit sharply. "She said I could go in her
place."
"Yeah. as long as you call yourself Mary Stuartson," Sam
replied sarcastically.
Clarissa bristled. "I'll just treat it like my first
assignment in undercover journalism."
"And when your cover gets blown?"
Clarissa laughed. "Bah. I've already hired actors who are
gonna play my `family' while I'm in town. Trust me, Sam, it's
airtight."
Sam nodded, impressed. "But what if--?"
"--They'll admire my ingenuity, Sam." Clarissa replied
almost fanatically. "They'll want to make a movie of the week
about it on NBC!"
"This would have been a lot easier if you'd stayed in New
York," Sam pressed.
"Will you stop talking about New York?!" Clarissa snapped.
"You were there for no time at all! It seemed like only
half an hour! You never gave it a chance!"
Clarissa fumed for a moment. "Hey, I was the one who wasn't
given a chance. And that's all I'll say about that. I swear,
sometimes I think the universe is run by network executives.
Either that or bad fan fiction writers. But anyhow, I think I'll
have to go check out your campus."
"You'll dig it. But you know what the funniest thing about
Bibbington's campus is?"
"What?"
"The little differences. A lotta the same stuff we got
here, they got there, but there they're a little different."
Clarissa raised an eyebrow. She'd always been curious about
what an all-girls campus would be like. She figured it would have
to be different than a coed school, at least in some ways. It
would be interesting to get a boy's perspective on it. "Example,"
she replied.
"Take Pizza. Here in Evanston, we have a large pizza. They
have a large pizza. But here, our large Pizza is 18 inches
around. There, the large pizza is only 12 inches around."
Clarissa shook her head. "That's nuts! That's the size of a
medium pizza."
Sam nodded in confirmation. "Exactly."
"But then why don't they call it a medium?"
"Because then their medium would have to be called a small
and a small would have to be called something else completely."
"Yeah," Clarissa said, figuring it out. "Invisible."
Sam chuckled.
"So what do they call our large?"
"I dunno, I've never seen one that big. But you know what
they do with their pizzas out there that's even weirder?"
"What?"
"They eat them with forks and knives."
"What the--!" Clarissa had to avoid swerving the car into
the oncoming lane. If there was anything city dwellers knew, it
was that pizza was a delicacy eaten with the hands.
"Yeah!" Sam said, a tone of amazement in his voice. "I've
seen 'em do it. And I don't mean a few people. They ALL do it!"
Clarissa made a displeased face. "Heathens! It's like
they're not human or something!"
"I think they do it to be classy," Sam offered by way of
explanation.
"That's the quickest way to ruin something, Sam." Clarissa
noted. "Making something classy just means you have to act stuck-
up in order to enjoy it. And then it's no fun anymore."
"Yeah," Sam agreed. "You have to take special classes to
learn how to act stuck up enough. And by the time you've got that
down, nobody wants to be around you because you're acting so
stuffy, and you end up hating what you set out to like in the
first place."
Clarissa was about to reply when she noticed a ratty old
apartment complex to her left. "We're here, Sam," she said,
jerking the car to the left.
Within a few moments, Sam's Chevy pulled up in front of a
run-down, Hawaiian Village-themed apartment complex. Creaking to
a slow stop, the car groaned as it finally came to rest. Clarissa
and Sam got out, Sam being careful to aim his remote control
alarm trigger at the rusting, ancient vehicle.
As he was rewarded by two chirps from the alarm system, Sam
watched as Clarissa opened up the trunk of the car. He had to
admit, she looked kind of odd wearing a "traditional" black suit
and white blouse. The only splash of non-conformity in her
wardrobe was a garish green checkered tie, a stark contrast to
the thin black one Sam wore with his suit.
Neither of the teenagers liked being saddled in monkey
suits, but it was the "request" of their employer that they
project the proper image while on the job. And with an employer
like theirs, it was unwise to step out of line. Very unwise.
"It's so humiliating to have to take these stupid summer
jobs to pay for our tuition," Clarissa muttered, rooting through
the trunk and pulling out some rather small water guns.
Sam nodded. "And what's worse is who we're working for."
Clarissa scowled as she looked at the water guns
disapprovingly. "Yeah. Who knew he could create an elaborate
financial empire in just sixteen weeks? Without me at home to
stop his megalomania, that microbrain Ferguson's become the
biggest player in town."
Sam looked around nervously. "Don't you mean `Fergus'?"
Clarissa sighed at the mention of the name. "Yes.
Microbrain Fergus. I can't believe I'm working for him. And
wearing this." She gestured to her suit. "Corporate image my
foot. He just made me dress this way because he knows I hate it.
What a jerk."
Sam shook his head. "Hey, be fair. He's gotten a lot nicer
now that he has a constant money supply. And besides, he pays
real well. And you do owe him. That car of yours didn't come
free, you know."
Clarissa frowned as she and Sam filled their water guns
with black ink. "Yeah, yeah. I would've gotten out of it, but I
do want this particular assignment." She looked at Sam
quizzically. "I know why I want this job, but why do you? And why
are you so nice to Fergface all the time?"
Sam shrugged, running his hand through his hair and
shuffling his feet. "So," he finally asked, breaking the silence,
"How many up there?"
Clarissa followed his gaze up to the second floor of the
ratty old apartment complex.
"Three or four," she said slowly, remembering Ferguson's
`briefing' earlier in the day.
"Counting our guy?" Sam asked in response.
"I'm not sure," Clarissa replied.
"So there could be five guys up there?"
"Wow! You can add!" Clarissa said, exasperated. "It's
possible."
"Geez," Sam muttered, "We should have super soakers for
this kinda deal."
Marching in lock-step, the duo marched through the
courtyard of the dilapidated village, trying their best to look
nonchalant in their "Men in Black" style suits, passing through
the throng of normally dressed teens staring at them.
"So", Sam asked. "You've been back in town longer than I
have. What's her name?"
"Who?" Clarissa asked, with a half smile.
"You know," Sam pressed.
"Elsie," Clarissa replied, knowing the reaction that name
would elicit. Ever since she'd let it drop that Ferguson had
fallen in love with someone, Sam had pestered her for details.
Sam's face froze. "As in Soaperstien?" he asked in shock.
"Her?"
"The same," Clarissa confirmed. "But hey, they're perfect
for one another."
"But she's the spawn of Satan! She tied him up and tortured
him!"
"As I said, they're perfect for one another."
"But..." Sam said, trying to wrap his head around the
concept. "But Fergus hated her after the babysitting deal! How
did they hook up?"
"I dunno," Clarissa said after a moment, clearly trying not
to dwell on the subject. "However people hook up. I think she
became a minor league child actress, and he met her on the set of
her TV show. He was star struck. There were dollar signs in his
eyes."
"She ever do anything I woulda saw?"
Clarissa shrugged. "I think her biggest deal was she
starred in a pilot."
"What's a pilot?"
Clarissa sighed. "Well, you know the shows on TV?"
"I don't watch TV," Sam replied. "Not anymore."
"What?" Clarissa asked dubiously. "No way."
"I go to an all girls school, remember?" Sam replied
tiredly.
"I see," Clarissa said flatly.
"They won't let me have a minute to myself!" Sam cried out
in anguish. "Always following me around, checking me out, making
comments about me behind my back!"
"Sam!" Clarissa exclaimed, chastened.
"I'm their token Y chromosome!" Sam blurted out. "The
subject of gossip and innuendo. It's horrible! It's like I'm on
display for the whole world and I hate it! I hate having to make
myself look cool every morning just so I can walk outside and not
be mocked! I want to be treated just like everyone else, darn it!
I don't want to be treated any differently just because I'm a
guy!" Sam exhaled, spent.
"I had no idea," Clarissa said sympathetically. "If you
want to talk about it-"
"Uhh, no." Sam said, suddenly embarrassed. "You were
telling me what a pilot was."
"Yeah," Clarissa started slowly. "you're aware that there's
an invention called television, and on that invention they show
shows?"
"Unh-huh," Sam replied dryly.
"Well, the way they pick the shows on TV is they make one
show, and that show's called a pilot. And they show that one show to the
people who pick the shows, and on the strength of that one show,
they decide if they want to make more shows. Some get accepted and become
TV programs, and some don't, and become nothing. She starred in one of the
ones that became nothing."
Sam nodded in understanding. "I wouldn't know what to do if
my pilot went nowhere. Or, worse, if I made one pilot and had a
show that was really cool, like a mega hit."
Clarissa raised an eyebrow. "Uhh. that's a good thing, Sam."
Sam nodded. "Yeah, for a while. But then, what if I tried
to make a second pilot, like a sequel to the first one, and it
bombed. It would be like I'd been rejected by the entire world.
Like I was a flash in the pan or something."
A cloud came over Clarissa's features. Quietly, she
muttered, "Shut up, Sam."
Before Sam could ask why he'd suddenly hit a nerve,
Clarissa stopped him. They had reached the outside elevator
doors. Holstering their ink-filled water pistols, the duo waited
for the next elevator going up.
"You remember Wally Butterman?" Clarissa asked quickly.
"Yeah, maybe," Sam said, scratching his head.
Clarissa shot him a surprised look. "Sam! He mauled you on
the football field! The flying elbow block to the face? Your head
had a dent in it for weeks?" She looked at him expectantly.
"That's why I maybe remember him. Fat, right?"
"I wouldn't go so far as to call the boy fat. He's got a
case of OMS."
Sam winced. "Do you have to make acronyms for everything?"
Clarissa looked at him as if he was uttering blasphemy.
"What? You have a problem with acronyms or something?"
"Well, no. When they're established, I guess. But you keep
making them up. A new acronym for every situation."
"Like when?"
"Remember when you said you had EPS?"
"Empty Pockets Syndrome."
"Yeah. Why couldn't you just say `I don't have money' like
everybody else does?"
"Because that's boring," Clarissa replied, tossing her hair
indignantly. "Think about it. A syndrome says that there's
something serious going on. A plague, a disaster, something that
you've just gotta fix. If I went on the street right now, and I
said to a guy, `I have no money', d'you know what he'd say?"
"No," Sam said slowly. "What would he say?"
"That I was a lazy bum who doesn't wanna work. But if I
said I had a syndrome-"
"It makes you an object of pity," Sam concluded. "It makes
people feel sorry for you, and want to help out." He paused.
"Waitasec." He paused again, thinking. "All these years." He
paused again, lost in thought. "You know, at college, there's
these guys who hang out at a cafe off campus. It's the last stop
before downtown. They even have a cool website."
"What's your point, Sam?" Clarissa asked, irked.
"Well they have this theory, called Situationism."
"Is this like one of my acronyms, Sam?"
"Y'know," Sam spat back, " I have a bad case of IASDOYAAC!"
"IASDOYAC? Sounds bad, Sam. What is it?"
"I Am Sick to Death Of Your Annoying Acronyms, Clarissa!"
Clarissa frowned. "Heretic."
"Anyway," Sam continued, "According to this theory, people
set up situations specifically to manipulate others into doing
what they want."
"Sorta like a fan fiction writer who places other people's
characters in odd settings just to see what their reactions would
be like, huh?"
"Uhh... no," Sam countered. "They treat real life like a
play, and by setting the scene they exert control over how events
play out."
"What are you sayin', Sam?" Clarissa asked dangerously.
"That I, uhh, someone, has been manipulating people around me,
err, them, for my, uhh, their benefit?"
Sam frowned. "Well, there was the time you made me climb
onto your roof to set up a mini satellite dish. Then there was
the time you tried to trick your Aunt Mafalda into thinking her
husband Owen had come back from the dead, or when you pretended
to be terminally depressed in order to get to a carnival, or when
you tried to make your own holiday at school, or--"
"Enough!" Clarissa snapped angrily. "You make me sound like
Ferguson!"
"Have you ever considered that it might be a hereditary
trait?" Sam pressed, beginning to smile. "That manipulation runs
in the Darling line?"
"College is filling your head with crazy ideas," Clarissa
muttered.
|
Me? Share a hereditary need to
control others?!
Impossible. There's no way that
I could have, crawling around in my
genetic code, the same evil-gene which
is the basis for my brother Ferguson.
It's just not possible!
Or is it?
|
"Sam!" Clarissa insisted. He looked at her with a beatific
expression on his face, like he had found something he'd thought
lost a long time ago. He seemed fulfilled, somehow.
"We happy!?" Clarissa insisted, snapping him out of his
trance.
"We're happy," Sam said darkly as he closed the case,
feeling hollow once again. "Happy."
Clarissa nodded, and glared at USENET boy, trying to decide
what to do next. Her concentration was broken as Deff spoke,
trying to defuse the tension.
"Look, I have to ask."
"Ask what," Clarissa replied slowly, not really listening.
"There's a malicious rumor going around."
"What kind of rumor?" Clarissa asked, listening a bit more.
"That you don't like wolves. Do you have something against
them?"
"Nothing!" she insisted, muttering afterwards, "that a few
flame throwers wouldn't cure. Stop trying to distract me."
"That was random," Sam interjected.
Deff sighed. "I just want you to know how sorry we are
about how messed up things got between us and Mr. Fergus. When we
entered into this thing, we only had the best intentions - but
then he showed up-" Deff motioned to USENET boy, "--and then we
all got delayed... trying to figure out how to torture him. To
avenge your honor!"
Clarissa looked him square in the eye and nodded, her hand
pulling her watergun from under her jacket. She aimed and fired
at USENET boy all without looking at him.
"AUGGH!" USENET boy screamed, looking down to see a hole in
the chair next to his head, caused by a nasty acid burn.
Deff looked at her with an expression of fear on his face.
Sam quickly walked over to Clarissa. "Hey, that's supposed
to be a water pistol! Filled with ink-or preferably, water!"
Clarissa shrugged and smiled brightly. "H20, H2SO4, what's
the difference?" She looked over at Deff. "I'm sorry. Did that
break your concentration? I didn't mean to do that. Please,
continue. I believe you were saying something about "best
intentions," and `avenging my honor'?"
Deff looked at her, frightened and mute. She shrugged.
"That's cool. I can see that. G'wan, get outta here."
As Deff nodded quickly and left, Sam began to freak.
"Hey! If Fergus finds out--"
Clarissa frowned. "Hey, Deff posts useful stuff about me on
his website to counter Ferg-face's electronic propaganda. I have
no idea why, but it's appreciated."
Sam growled. "Why is it that you get all the internet
attention? What about me? What about my needs? What about Sam?
What about Sam!?"
"I wrote about you," USENET boy interjected hopefully.
"Don't remind me," Sam said, turning away for a moment to
free his lunch at the recollection.
"Before I begin," Clarissa said to her target dangerously,
"it would be helpful to know the name they'll be putting on your
tombstone."
USENET boy began to speak. "They call me El--"
"It doesn't matter what your name is!" Clarissa snapped. "You
ever watch the WWF, USENET Boy?"
"I thought you hated wrestling," Sam interjected. "What did
you call it, a `bunch of sweaty guys in their underwear doing
battle?'"
"I've changed my mind, Sam," Clarissa said, smiling. "It's
really pretty funny nowadays. Like a Soap Opera, but for guys."
"I'm rather uncomfortable with that description," Sam
protested weakly, realizing he needed to find out if Hulk Hogan
had indeed been driving the hummer than ran over Kevin Nash.
"Anyway," Clarissa said, turning to USENET boy again,
"There's a passage I just made up which seems appropriate for
this situation: It's inspired by a wrestler called `the Rock'.
I've just adapted it for my purposes." She paused, and aimed the
acid gun straight between USENET Boy's eyes before beginning.
"From the Book of Clarissa, verse 3:16: `The style of the
righteous girl is cramped on all sides by the schemes of the
selfish and the stupidity of evil siblings. Blessed is she who,
in the name of coolness and good will, shepherds the weak through
the valley of deception, for she is truly her brother's better
and the finder of stolen diary pages. And I will strike down
upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger you who are
scummier than even my brother. You will shut your mouth and know
your role-- and you will know my name is Clarissa when I lay the
smackdown on ya!'"
Clarissa pulled the trigger on her water gun, sending a
powerful stream of clear liquid into USENET boy's face. Freaking,
the boy shuddered and fainted.
"Hey," Sam exhaled. "He didn't melt! It was just plain
water!"
"C'mon, Sam!" Clarissa protested, demonstrating that she
had switched water pistols during her soliloquy. "D'you think I'd
really hurt somebody like that?" She stared at the now concious,
but gibbering boy. "I don't think he'll be writing any garbage
about me for a long time."
"Heheheheh," muttered Deal, who was still in the room, and
looking a bit shaken up. "...hahahaha..." he muttered,
"hahahaha...that was messed up...damn, that was cold-blooded..."
"Yeah," Sam agreed. "way to manipulate him, Clarissa."
"Shut up, Sam," Clarissa muttered in response.
Sam waved a water pistol in his direction. "Friend of yours?"
"Yeah," Clarissa nodded. "He's cool. Deal-Sam-Sam-Deal."
As Sam began to say hello, the door to the apartment's
bathroom burst open, and another boy charged out, his hands clad
in very high-tech looking red gloves.
"High Energy Final Attack! DIE, YOU FIENDS!"
A roar of energy lanced out from the gloves, enveloping
both Sam and Clarissa in a corona of white-hot energy.
Uttering a maniacal battle cry, the boy continued to
discharge energy from his combat gloves, stopping only when the
power cells ran dry. Then, his expression of vengeance turned to
one of blank shock.
Clarissa and Sam looked at each other, and at the
scorchmarks on the wall behind them. They should have been
incinerated by the attack.
"I don't understand -" the boy began.
Sam and Clarissa did not wait for an explanation. Nodding
at each other, they cut loose with the full power of their water
guns, knocking the boy back and out of sight.
"I think," Ferguson said in his trademark snobbish,
aristocratic tone, "you're going to find -- when all this is over
- I think you're going to find yourself a very happy man, Sam.
The thing is, right now you have ability. And I paid you well for
the use of that ability."
Yeah, Sam thought to himself sarcastically. Too bad I only
get to keep half of it.
"But painful as it may be," Ferguson continued, "ability
doesn't last. It's a hard fact of life, but one you'll just have
to be realistic about. You're in college now-- almost geriatric.
This one last favor--"
Sam leaned forward. One last favor? Could this be his
ticket out of Fergitude?
"--will set you up for a whole semester."
Sam winced mentally. How long was Fergus going to keep him
on the hook like this?
Ferguson laid an envelope stuffed to the brim with notes on
the table in front of him. Sam reluctantly picked it up.
Ferguson smiled. They all take the money. Oh, they all
protest at first. They cite their ethics, their principles, their
high-sounding ideals. It makes for a good show, but when it comes
right down to it, it's all hollow. Even do-gooders like Sam Anders
come to heel when faced with the inevitable fact that their world is
a wheel which revolves around money, and Fergus Darling is the only
grease for that wheel.
"Now the night of the date," he continued, relishing the
broken look in Sam's face. "You may feel a slight sting. That's
pain. Believe me, I know that feeling."
Ferguson's hand automatically went to a lump on the top of
his head, which was still tender. Realizing what he was doing, he
pulled it back and adopted a stern gaze. "Fight it. 'Cause a few
weeks from now, when you're impressing the campus babes with your
wad of green, you're gonna say, "Fergus Darling was right."
Sam sighed. "I got no problem with that."
Ferguson nodded. "You're going to be nice to Elsie," he
said firmly.
Sam nodded, fidgeting with a small rollerblade pendant
which he was holding in his hand.
"Say it!" Ferguson insisted with such venomous desperation
that Sam dropped the charm on the desk before him.
"I'll be nice to Elsie," Sam affirmed.
Racing through traffic at ludicrous speed in her cherry-red
Chevy Malibu convertible, Clarissa smiled as the wind blew
through her hair. It was a good summers' afternoon, even if she
was stuck wearing a dumb "Death to Klingons" T-Shirt. Weird Al's
"Something Weird in the Fridge" was playing over the car radio,
USENET boy had gotten his comeuppance, and Fergus had finally got
his stupid black briefcase back, ending his need for her
services.
Yeah, she thought. It was a good day. It was a shame about
Deal, she reflected, but she tried not to dwell on that too much.
Nuts, she realized, she had just passed her turn.
Pulling on the emergency brake and twisting the steering
wheel hard, she sent the car into a rapid spin, after which she
released the brake and slammed down on the accelerator, taking
her car diagonally across three lanes of traffic and into the
parking lot of Ferguson's juice bar, where she stopped. Some
onlookers clapped at the sight of the dizzying action-movie style
maneuver.
"And Dad says I drive like a maniac," Clarissa said to
herself, bowing to the public ovation.
Getting out of the car, she walked over to the garish pink-
and yellow building Ferguson had chosen for the head of his
underground financial empire. Going to a side door, she knocked
quickly. It embarrassed her to be seen anywhere near her scumwad
brother, and embarrassment was her least favorite emotion.
"What's the password?" said a voice from the inside.
"Just let me in!" Clarissa said angrily.
"Oh. Hello Clarissa," the voice said tiredly. The sound of
a bolt being pulled could be heard, as well as the clicking of
several locks. Finally, with a groan, the door swung open.
"Eliot," Clarissa said dismissively, trying to ignore the
portly little rich kid who served as Ferguson's second in
command. He'd really let himself go after coming to work for her
brother. She followed him to the juice bar and took a seat.
"Where's Fergwad?" she inquired in spite of herself.
"He's over there, finishing up some business." The boy
pointed to the rear of the bar.
Clarissa looked in the direction he was pointing, and
winced as she saw Sam, still dressed in that ridiculous M.C.
Hammer outfit, shaking hands with Ferguson. It was too disgusting
to contemplate. She started as Eliot turned on the TV and a
hideous sound filled the room.
On the screen, there were some western folk dressed in
1890's gear sitting out on a porch, amusing themselves and their
children by playing fiddles and singing. They were happy and
obnoxious. VERY obnoxious. And the quality of the fiddle playing
was akin to fingernails being run across a chalkboard.
"Eliot Fundsworth!" Clarissa yelled, "turn that off!"
"But-" Eliot protested. "-Why?"
"See," she explained, "Back in the 1800's, when there was
no such thing as mass entertainment, families would make special
trips to listen to this stuff. It wasn't because it was particularly
good, mind you-- life was just so boring that this was better than
staring at the wall, and it was the only way fiddle playin' Cletus,
Billy Bob and Bubba could afford to eat for the winter.
But today, we have TV's in our homes so we can go inside and
keep ourselves from having to listen to this any more. But now, you're
using the TV to beam the stuff back inside. You're defeating the whole
purpose!"
Irately, Clarissa leaned over and flipped off the Television.
As she did so, Sam walked up to her and sat down.
"So that was the payoff, I'm guessing," Clarissa said,
noting the envelope of money in Sam's baggy pants pocket. "You're
definitely taking Elsie out tonight, then. Elsie."
"It's just a few hours," Sam weakly protested.
"Say cheese," Ferguson interjected, walking by, the flash of his
camera going off right in Sam's face.
"Oh great," Sam said, squinting. "I love seeing blue dots everywhere
I look."
"Thanks," Ferguson replied, walking off. "I needed a before picture."
Sam looked at Clarissa helplessly.
"Your funeral," Clarissa stated flatly.
"Look," Sam said firmly. "I'm not a idiot. I'm gonna sit
across a table, chew my food with my mouth closed, laugh at her
jokes and stay on her good side. That's all I'm gonna do."
Clarissa shook her head, accepting a slushie from Eliot and
slurping from it slowly, while staring intensely at her friend.
Sam frowned. "Why are you staring at me?"
Clarissa shrugged. "No reason. They'll just need someone to
help identify the body, that's all. Open your mouth so I can
check your teeth. I may need to look at dental records."
Sam went pale. "There's nothing I can do."
"You remember what she did to us last time. I'm tellin'
you, Sam, that girl's messed up. You take her out by yourself,
you'll regret--"
Clarissa was cut off as Ferguson's voice boomed across the
bar "Sam, get over here!"
"There's something else, Clarissa," Sam said slowly. "I
need a favor."
"Anything, Sam." Clarissa said- and she meant it. If it was
even remotely possible that Sam was right-that all these years
she'd been unconciously using the people around her to get what
she wanted, well, then she was going to make it right. Starting
now. There's no way she'd turn into a Ferguson. Not in this
lifetime. "Name it."
"I need to borrow your car for the date tonight."
Clarissa's heart stopped, turned to lead and dropped like a
rock into the pit of her stomach. She loved that car. Even if it
was a `gift' (read: trap) from the Ferginator, it was still a
sweet automobile- the first she had ever owned. It was like a
child, or a beloved pet. Not something to be placed into other
people's hands at the drop of a hat. Not even Sam's hands.
"Sam," she protested. "That's my car. You know how I feel
about my car."
"Hey," Sam replied, offended by the insinuation. "I'll take
good care of it!"
"Why can't you use your car?" Clarissa countered.
"Umm," Sam replied uncomfortably. "You know why, remember?"
"Oh yeah," Clarissa muttered. She'd been trying to block
that memory out. "Uhh. well," She stalled. "Come on, Sam!" she
said finally, in desperation.
"I see," Sam said at length, hanging his head. "I
understand."
Clarissa looked at his betrayed, weak expression. He looked
like a crushed man, whose only reason to live had been taken
away.
"Sam-" she began slowly.
"It's OK," Sam replied, voice choking. "Really. It's not a
problem."
"Here ya go," Clarissa said tiredly, dangling her car keys,
her most precious possessions, in front of Sam's dejected face.
"Thanks, Clarissa!" Sam exclaimed, his face lighting up
like a string of Christmas lights. Grabbing the keys, he ran off
to see what Ferguson had wanted.
Watching Sam go, she turned and faced Eliot, saluting
him with her slushie. "And they call me a manipulator," she
mumbled, musing about the futility of it all.
LATER THAT NIGHT
Sam nervously stood before the grime-covered wooden door,
unsure, but fairly certain of what he might find on the other
side. His whole body shook with anticipation, and his stomach
felt queasy. He adjusted the lapels on his sharp new suit jacket
and shuffled his feet nervously.
"Samuel, you can come in now," said a muffled voice from
behind the door.
Sam pushed the door forwards, wincing as a splinter
embedded itself in his hand. Moving into the dark bedroom beyond,
he narrowed his eyes, focusing on the silhouette of the person
standing between him and the only light source, a flickering
amber lamp.
The light snapped on, revealing a young man wearing a red
flannel shirt over a faded "Doctor Who" T-Shirt.
"Big K!" Sam said happily, shaking the man's hand.
"Samuel, my boy!" Big K replied in kind. "Long time no see!
You come for the stuff, College Man?"
"Yeah, dude!" Sam grinned. Both he and Big K. stood at the
foot of a huge bed. Upon its surface, a wide array of
confections, candies and condiments awaited their inspection.
"Okay," Big K said, waving his arm at the merchandise.
"these are Jelly Babies, from Britain. Very good stuff. These,
as you know, are Gummi Bears. They're American, less salty, but
equally good. And these are genuine Pop Rocks from the Wonka
himself. Now the first two are the same price, forty-five bucks
an ounce -- those are friend prices-- but this one..."
Big K pointed to the Pop Rocks, which were packed in
containers that looked like Pixie Stix tubes, ".this one's a
little more expensive. It's fifty-five. But when you taste it,
you'll know where that extra money went. Nothing wrong with the
first two snacks. They're real, real, real, good stuff. Sugar
coated. But this junk's just insane."
Sam snickered and shook his head in disbelief. "Gimme a
break, man! Remember, I just got back from campus. Snack Machines
as far as the eye can see! 8 ounces of Soda Pop a day. This is
minor league stuff, bud. Besides, you've got them packaged up
like Pixie Stix. That's weak."
Big K. shook his head. "Shut your mouth and know your role,
boy. You may have been Big Man on campus, but this here's
Evanston, Illinois. Thanks to that goddess, Councilwoman Janet
Darling, unhealthy snack foods have been banned by order of the
city government."
"Goddess?" Sam asked curiously, raising an eyebrow.
"She who has made me the controller of my fellow men, yes,"
Big K said proudly. "Without her knowledge, of course. Because of
the need she created-"
"You and Fergus got rich running a black market in
underground candies and commestibles."
"Bingo." Big K. grinned. "We got almost all the politicians
in Cook County in our pocket. They work for us. Face it, I am the
Source of All Things around here. You either get your stuff from
me, or you can take your partially gelatinated Tofu soy shakes
from Jansy Darling and like it."
Sam shuddered.
"I'm the only sign of civilisation in this barren
wasteland, and you know it. You're in the desert, and I'm Mr.
Oasis, baby."
"That's a bold statement."
"Well, I'm a bold man," Big K replied. "This ain't college,
Samuel. The cola wars are over. This is a seller's market. Coke
is as flippin' dead as disco. Pepsi lost out to RC. You can't
get Jolt to save your life. Pixie Stix are the only sugar rush
left for 100 miles in this town. And these," Big K said,
gesturing to the Pop Rocks masquerading as Pixie Stix, "are
definitely not Pixie Stix."
Sam reached into his back pocket and extracted a wad of
bills. "Give me three hundred worth of the rocks. If it's as good
as you say, I'll be back for a thousand."
Big K smiled and handed him a package of the super sugar
snacks.
"You mind if I eat some here?" Sam asked.
"Me casa es su casa."
"Mucho gracias."
Putting most of the candy in his coat pocket, Sam put a
tube of pop rocks to his mouth and sucked some in. Immediately,
the sugar rush slammed into his system. It was all he could do to
avoid becoming hyperactive right there on the spot.
"That's the stuff," he muttered, his eyes glazing over.
"Oh, yeah."
EVEN LATER THAT NIGHT (ALMOST EIGHT O'CLOCK, EVEN)
Sam stood in front of Ferguson's house, nervously fiddling
with his tie. He didn't want to be here. He knew what Elsie was
like. The note that was hanging on the door did little to improve
his morale:
"Sam,
I'm getting dressed. The door's open.
Get inside and wait for me. NOW.
What are you waiting for?
Stop reading This and GET INSIDE!
- Elsie"
Sucking in his breath, and still fueled with sugary
goodness, he steeled himself for the inevitable and walked inside
the house.
Ferguson's house was an unbelievable monument to the boy's
ego. It was more like a museum than a place of domicile.
Treasured relics from every phase of the teenager's short life
were carefully mounted on shelves or in frames, and illuminated
from every possible angle with soft, subtle spotlights.
Prominently featured in the center of the room was a small, spit-
stained blue blankie, which seemingly hovered in midair.
"Gross," Sam muttered under his breath, his ears barely
catching the whirr and click of multiple hidden cameras.
"Hello?" he said apprehensively, "Elsie?"
A door opened in the distance. Sam turned in its direction,
then jerked back quickly, a nosebleed forming as he realized
Elsie was behind the door, still dressing.
"Sam Anders," Elsie Soaperstein said darkly. "Long time no
see."
"Not long enough," Sam muttered.
"What did you say?" Elsie snapped quickly.
"Nothing, Elsie!" Sam yelled back, hoping he'd sounded
sincere.
"Good. I wouldn't like to think that you'd insulted me. I
don't like being insulted. It makes me cranky. And what makes me
cranky makes Fergie angry."
Sam gulped.
"I'll be out in a few minutes," Elsie said, her voice
sweetly dripping menace.
"Take your time," Sam said, a little too enthusiastically.
He turned his attention to a huge portrait of Elsie that had been
done by a painter who had obviously taken too many artistic
liberties with his work.
In her dressing room, Elsie quickly swallowed the contents
of a whole pixie stick, giggling all the while.
Sam sat down on one of the soft, comfortable couches that
ringed the livingroom.
"Be honored," boomed a clearly pre-recorded voice. "You are
sitting in the same seat, and breathing the same air, as his high
holiness, the Fergus does, every day."
"Oh, brother," Sam exhaled, rolling his eyes.
"Smile!" said Elsie suddenly. Sam jerked his heead towards
the source of the sound, and saw a camera with Elsie's body
staring back at him. "You're on the Elsie cam!"
Sam shuddered nervously. "Uhh, ready to go?"
"Not yet. I have to film you first."
"Why?"
"Before shots," Elsie said authoritatively.
"Before?" Sam asked, confused.
"Yeah. As in `Before' and `After'. It helps when they need
to identify the body." Elsie cackled mischievously.
"Swell," Sam muttered.
Elsie nodded, and began speaking to the camera in a
clinical tone. "Subject is in good health, no visible lacerations
or physical deformities, all teeth present, no sign of
concussion." She stopped and grinned. "Excellent. It's so good to
be dealing with a man who's still healthy."
Sam coughed. "Excuse me?"
"Most of the goons Fergie has me go out with are already so
scuzzy that you can hardly tell the difference after the date's
over from what they looked like before."
Sam was not liking the direction this conversation was
taking. But, like a driver slowing down to view the aftermath of
a train wreck, he had to know more. "Umm. do they all come back
looking different or something?"
"That's just it!" Elsie said angrily. "Most of them are so
messed up already it's hard to tell. An artist likes to see the
results of her work."
A small "eep" noise escaped Sam's throat.
Elsie's grin broadened. "You'll do fine." She happily taped
his frantic facial reaction, finally getting her cinematic fill.
"Cut. Print. Let's go eat."
Waffle Hut. Prime Competitor to MacDrekky's in the fast
food battle royale that is the quest to satisfy America's
burgeoning appetites and equally expanding waistlines. A tacky
mecca of blatant consumerism dressed in yellow-and-black tiles
and faux wood paneling. A new gimmick each week is their motto-
and this week, movies and TV are it.
Sam stalled in the entrance to the Waffle Hut, watching in
disbelief as a group of Keystone Cops mercilessly bludgeoned one
of the Three Stooges as punishment for the crime of being
different.
Elsie pushed him forward, and into the carnival like
atmosphere of the restaurant.
Godzilla and King Kong were fighting on a huge stage in the
center of the restaurant, crushing model buildings and getting
zapped by electrified ring ropes as excited onlookers both in
the eatery and across the world via pay-per-view expressed their
desire for the two creatures to mutually exterminate one another.
Godzilla was winning, having brained King Kong with a
clearly illegal boulder, but Rodan and Ghidorah swooped into the
ring, their fly-in stopping the count at two. A wicked skyscraper
shot by Kong evened the odds once again as Godzilla staggered
back from the force of the blow.
At a pause in the fighting, a young Shirley Temple walked
through the ring, sucking on a lollipop and holding up a placard
that read: "Round 28,403".
Sam and Elsie took their seats in what appeared to be the
carved out hull of a small flying saucer from the late 40's.
Elsie casually pulled a severed alien arm out of her area and
tossed it out of sight before Sam could see it. A small, deformed
man in a octagonal machine-seat glided over to their table.
"I AM DAVROS!" he said, screaming. RULER OF THE DALEKS!
MASTER OF SKARO! WHAT CAN I GET YOU TO EAT THIS EVENING?"
Sam shrugged. "I'll have a cheeseburger."
"EXCELLENT!" Davros screamed. "THE SHATTERED REMAINS OF
ANOTHER INFERIOR LIFE FORM WILL BE PROCESSED FOR YOUR
CONSUMPTION! WOULD YOU LIKE ANYTHING TO DRINK WITH THAT?"
"I'll have a Coca-Cola," Sam said, smiling.
"AND WOULD YOU LIKE FRIES WITH THAT?" Davros asked.
"No," Sam said.
"YOU WOULD LIKE FRIES WITH THAT," Davros said darkly.
"No," Sam said more firmly.
"YOU WILL LIKE FRIES WITH THAT!" Davros repeated, menace
creeping into his half-mechanized voice, "OR YOU WILL BE EX-TERM-
IN-ATED!"
"Aren't they taking this TV thing too far?" Sam asked
Elsie.
Davros fired an energy beam from his hand which singed
Sam's hair. "YOU WILL ORDER FRIES!" Davros screamed maniacally.
"OR-DER!" "OR-DER!"
"Yeah! Okay!" Sam yelled in a panic. "Fries! Fries! Gimme
Fries! Lotsa fries! Good? Happy?"
"HEHEHEH." Davros laughed to himself as he glided away.
"I like that Davros," Elsie said, smiling. "My kind of
megalomaniacal madman." She frowned. "Hey! I didn't get to order!"
"Vat'll it beah?" asked the new waiter, Arnold
Schwartzenegger.
"I'll have the large fries, ultra deluxe mega burger with
everything including onions, and the HyperSlushie 2000."
At the mention of the `slushie, everyone in the restaurant
became quiet and looked towards the table. While Waffle Hut was
one of the few places in town still allowed to serve sugary
treats, this was pushing the boundaries of legality-not to
mention sanity and common sense.
"Uhh." Arnold began. "Da Hyperslushie 2000 is 72 fluid
ounces of raw syrup und cherry flavoring. According to dis
chart-" He held out a crude chart, "--your body mass is too low
to handle da raw influx of sugah. You'd go crazie in no time
flaat."
"Like she isn't already," Sam muttered.
"Listen, little man," Elsie yelled, jumping onto the top of
the table and reaching up to grab Arnold's collar, "I'm Fergus
Darling's best girl, and-"
"Okayh! Okayh!," Arnold said in a panic. "I don't vant
Fergus coming aftah me! My heart is still veak from dah last
time!"
Elsie growled, pulling Arnold's face down to hers. "You
don't have ta worry about him coming after you. You just have to
worry about ME!"
"I'll get dah drink," Arnold said quickly. Then a look of
fear crossed his face as he realized she wasn't going to like
what he was going to say next. "Uhh, you know it costs five
dollahs, yes?" At her expression, he quickly added, "But for you,
on dah house!"
"No," Elsie said firmly.
"No?" Sam and Arnold asked simultaneously.
"No. I insist that you charge for the drink. It wouldn't be
fair otherwise." Elsie smiled diplomatically.
Arnold smiled in surprise. "Vhy, dat's very decent of you,
miss."
"No sweat," Elsie said. "After all, Sammy here's footin'
the bill!"
"Joy," Sam muttered in disgust-a little too loudly. Arnold
smiled as he left.
"What was that?!" Elsie screamed.
A huge drop of sweat formed on the back of Sam's head.
"Erm," he began slowly, "It's a... joy buying things for you,
Elsie."
"Why Samuel," Elsie said, her gaze softening, "I didn't
know you cared." She moved closer to him in the UFO.
"Oh no," Sam said to himself.
"Sammy, honey," Elsie began, "Let's dance."
Sam gulped hard. "Umm, don't you thing Fergus would mind?"
"He's too stupid to mind," Elsie said matter-of-factly.
"What?" Sam asked, his curiosity for the moment winning out
over his mortal fear of being near Elsie.
"Come on, Sammy," Elsie replied nonchalantly, "Fergus may
have the raw financial skill and the cunning, treacherous,
manipulative mind of a master criminal." she cooed in delight,
"--but he's a weak-kneed wimp when it comes to matters of action."
"Perhaps," Sam said carefully, wondering if he was being
set up. An awkward moment of silence sprang up.
"Who do you think keeps all his workers in line, Sammy?"
Elsie finally blurted out.
Sam shuddered. "Uhm. you?"
Elsie smiled the saccharine sweet smile of death. "Uh-huh.
I'm the iron fist in a stainless steel glove." She lightly
touched Sam's shoulder affectionately, but in Sam's hyper
agitated state, it felt more like a lead weight had fallen on his
shoulder blade. He pulled under and away from her grip.
"Let's dance." Elsie cooed. "...loverboy."
"Uhh!" Sam exclaimed, now in a full blown panic. "uhh. we
uhh. should be getting back. Back. Now."
Elsie was oblivious to his protests. "Fergus said you just
got back from College. You must be a man of the world-"
"--That's nothing," Sam said, thinking quickly. "I heard
you did a pilot."
"That was my thirty minutes of fame," Elsie said sadly.
"What was it about?"
"A typical teenager who takes a trip to the big city to
become a crack reporter." Elsie spat out the sentence.
Sam pressed a finger to his forehead. "Sounds familiar
somehow. Have I seen it?"
"I don't think so," Elsie said. "The meatheads at the
network canned it after just one episode. The fools!" She
growled. "They were just afraid of what a big success I would
become."
"Yeah," Sam said, playing along.
"Yeah! No show would have been complete without at least
one glimpse of the incredibly talented Elsie Soaperstein! I would
have been a media GODDESS!" Elsie was beginning to shake.
"Well," Sam offered, "you never know, you might always get
another job."
"They offered me some two-bit role as a witch who talks to
her cat. I told them exactly where to put that stupid idea. I
mean, come on! Who would watch?"
Sam shrugged. "Sounds cool to me."
"No," Elsie said, somewhat sadly. "This is my life now.
half of the most powerful criminal enterprise in Suburban
Chicago."
"Well, we all have to do something with our spare time, I
suppose."
"Right!" Elsie said brightly. "And right now I want to
dance. What makes me happy makes Fergus happy."
Sam sighed. "And what makes Fergus happy makes me happy, I
guess."
Elsie paused in her moment of triumph and looked at Sam
critically. An uncharacteristic sensation floated through her
body. Her mind struggled to identify it. Presently, she realized
it was something called pity.
"What did Fergie do to get his hooks in you so bad?"
Sam frowned, and almost decided to change the subject. But,
this was Fergus' more malevolent half. She'd find out one way or
another. "Well, a few years ago, I had really messed up hair. It
was the most poofy thing you ever saw. Like an afro, but without
the cool."
Elsie leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table and
her chin on her hands. She gazed into Sam's eyes. "Fascinating."
"Well," Sam continued, "Ferguson was running a two-bit
cosmetics scam at the time, trying to sell Mary Kay Oriental face
cleanser and beauty products to everyone he met. He sold me some
ultra-deluxe Nambian Hair-Taming gel."
"Lemme guess," Elsie said pensively, "It was defective.
Turned your hair orange, or something."
"No!" Sam said rapidly. "It worked perfectly!" He ran a
hand through his hair. Ever since then, I've had perfect hair
control."
"I'm failing to see the problem here." Elsie said flatly.
She didn't even have perfect hair control. How could she control
the world when she couldn't even control her hair?
"The gel was a little more expensive than I'd bargained
for. Fergus had been having rotten luck selling the rest of the
beauty aids, so he tricked me into signing an invoice that
granted him title to my dad's house and car if I didn't pay him
off-with interest, compounded daily."
"Devious!" Elsie said in admiration, then adopted a neutral
expression as she saw the pained look on Sam's face.
Sam took in a deep breath. "But luckily, Clarissa found the
invoice and hid it in her room. He couldn't collect-- until last
summer, after she left for New York."
"What happened then?"
"Well, my understanding is, that before she left, Ferguson
swore to her that he wouldn't touch her room when she was gone.
Pinky swore, even."
"Whoa," Elsie exhaled. "Deep."
"So naturally, the minute she left, he ran through the
place like a freak tornado. He found the invoice under one of the
hubcaps in her hubcap collection, and took me to court right
before it was my turn to leave for Bibbington."
"And you lost," Elsie concluded.
"No. My dad made me settle out of court. The legal fees
were just too much for us to put up a fight otherwise. Fergus,
unknown to everyone, had been saving up for some kind of mass
litigation all these years, and so was more than able to get good
legal representation."
"What were the settlement terms?"
"I have to work for Ferguson every summer until my debt to
him is paid. I have to do whatever he wants."
"How much longer does this go?" Elsie asked, concerned.
"Not too long," Sam said, smiling weakly. "just through the
summer of 2010."
Elsie smiled and put Sam's hand in hers. "Well, Sammy,
honey- if you dance with me, I'll whisper a word or two into
Fergie- Wergie's little ear, and you'll be off the hook."
Sam started. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. But
he so badly wanted to. "For real?" he croaked.
"I swear," Elsie said. "Cross my heart and hope to die."
Sam said nothing, stunned.
"You didn't know I had one," Elsie said, looking a bit
hurt.
"What?" Sam asked, feeling badly.
"A heart."
Sam blinked for a moment, then smiled. Still holding her
hand, he stood up. "Let's cut a rug!"
"Stupid homing devices," Clarissa muttered, thwacking the
side of her modified walkman for the umpteenth time that night.
It had taken all her skill to keep up with the weak signal which
was coming from the pair of fuzzy dice hanging from the rear view
mirror of her convertible, but she had tracked it all the way to
the Waffle Hut.
Standing back, she barely dodged a Mummy which was busy
fleeing from Edward Scissorhands. Looking at her elegant evening
gown, she realized that she'd miscalculated when she'd figured
Sam would have taken Elsie to a fancy gourmet restaurant. Still,
it was just as well. College students didn't make enough to eat
at those places anyway. Her heart leapt into her throat when she
saw Sam leading Elsie up onto a roped-off dance floor which
seemed to be covered in giant monster bits.
Oh brother, she thought. If Ferguson sees Sam dancing with
Elsie, he'll kill him! And I don't think even I could stop him!
She paused, asking herself "Why would Sam want to dance with
Elsie anyway?" under her breath. "He must be being coerced," she
concluded.
Looking at Sam's radiant face, she frowned. "Yeah.
Coerced," she muttered sarcastically. Cupping her hands in front
of her mouth, she yelled towards Sam, calling his name.
Elsie and Sam, mere seconds from taking the dance floor,
looked back to find the source of the yell, and saw Clarissa
heading towards them at top speed.
"Huh?" Sam asked both himself and Clarissa. "Clarissa?
What're you doin' here?"
"I need to talk to you!" Clarisa exhaled breathlessly.
Sam looked at Elsie, as if to get permission. Elsie
frowned. "I tell you what, I'll go to the bathroom and powder my
nose. But when I get back, you better be ready to swing, or the
deal's off! GOT IT, HONEY?!"
Clarissa watched Elsie stalk off. "Honey? Sam-"
In the roach-ridden flea trap of a cargo crate that was the
Waffle Hut's bathroom, Elsie quickly produced a box of movie-
theatre style Goobers candy, tossing a handful of the sweets into
her mouth and swallowing them all at once.
"Holy Sucrose, Batman!" she said to herself. "That's the
stuff!"
Back in the eating area, Sam was sitting in his UFO,
staring at Clarissa, who had gone off to a corner. Their
discussion had not gone well. He looked down at the food before
him. A sea of French fries dominated the table, along with his
burger and Elsie's meal.
"Don't you love it when you go to the bathroom and you come
back to find your food waiting for you?"
Elsie asked, her voice shocking Sam out of his brooding.
"Yeah." he replied glumly, "Your very expensive food."
"You get what you pay for... Where's the wench?"
In her corner, Clarissa scowled, but otherwise gave no
indication that she had heard the remark.
Sam sighed. "Clarissa's not going to get in the way of our
wonderful evening." He uttered the adjective with a healthy dose
of sarcasm.
Elsie sighed, took a tiny sip of her expensive slushie, and
tossed the rest of it over her shoulder, much to Sam's chagrin.
"Let's dance."
"Wait," Sam said, delaying for what seemed like the
hundredth time that night. "There's one thing I have to ask you
first."
"Make it fast, Sammy," Elsie said tiredly. "The dance
floor's a -callin'."
"It's about something I heard the other day."
"Go on," Elsie said impatiently.
"It's about Wally Butterman."
Clarissa turned her head, suddenly interested in their
conversation.
Elsie frowned. "He fell off a balcony."
"That's one way to say it," Sam said. "Another way is, he
was pushed off. Another way is, he was pushed off by Fergus.
And even another way is, he was pushed by Fergus-- because of
Wally giving you flowers."
Elsie's eyes grew wide, and a hacking, spitting sound came
out of her wide-open mouth. For a moment, Sam thought the girl
was choking. Then he realized she was laughing. Hard.
"What?" Sam asked. "What's so funny?"
"First of all," Elsie said, in between guffaws, "Wally
didn't give me flowers. He gave me some weeds that he'd found
along the side of the football field. Weeds. And secondly, Fergus
didn't push him off the balcony. What kind of a guy do you think
he is?"
"I didn't think so!" Sam looked happily at Clarissa, who
nodded in defeat. He was ten dollars richer, and he'd beaten
Clarissa for the second time that day.
"I pushed him," Elsie said nonchalantly.
Sam nearly choked on his cheeseburger. "You what?"
At that moment, a happening dance song from 1953 blasted
from the restaurant's speakers. Elsie grinned demonically. "I
wanna dance. NOW."
"Okay," Sam said weakly, the blood leaving his brain.
"And don't step on my feet," Elsie chastened. "Wally
Butterman stepped on my feet once."
A huge drop of sweat rolled down the back of Sam's head.
Clarissa watched dimly as Sam led Elsie up to the stage.
She hoped Sam knew what he was doing. It just seemed so wrong of
him to be caving in to Ferguson's every demand like he was.
Gritting her teeth, Clarissa decided that she was going to
get Sam off the hook any way she could.
Her heart stopped for a moment as she saw Elsie pulling out
what appeared to be a small switchblade from a pocket in her
dress. Time seemed to slow.
"You can't stop me," Elsie seemed to say to Clarissa as she
danced closer to Sam. "You can never stop me! I've gotten away
with murder, and I'll keep getting away with it."
"I better go help Sam," Clarissa said to herself quickly,
snapping out of her reverie.
Getting up, she dashed into the middle of the dancing crowd,
where she was intercepted by Shirley Temple.
"Will you let go of my leg!" Clarissa yelled, as the cutest
little girl in the world shook her head no.
"What do you want? I have to go save my friend!"
"Dance," Temple demanded sweetly.
"Ugh." Clarissa began to dance with Temple, at first
stumbling with the moves, but quickly picking up the beat. As the
awestruck patrons looked on, she subtly began leading Temple
towards Elsie and Sam, who were in the middle of some kind of
Saturday Night Fever routine. Purposefully missing a step, she
fell in front of Sam, putting herself between him and Elsie.
"Clarissa," Sam hissed, "what the heck are you doing?"
"She's got a knife!" Clarissa hissed back. "You gotta get
outta here, Sam!"
Before Sam could react, Clarissa snatched the closed
switchblade from Elsie's hand, pausing to share a bow with
Shirley Temple as the crowd gave them a standing ovation.
"Hey! Give that back!" Elsie growled, unceremoniously
shoving Shirley straight off the stage in her attempt to get to
Clarissa.
"You were gonna stab Sam!" Clarissa retorted.
"It's just a comb!" Elsie half-screamed.
Clarissa fumbled with the weapon, and sure enough, a comb
flipped out. A novelty knife. Swell.
"Oops," Clarissa said, feeling a bit embarrassed. She was
beginning to positively hate that emotion.
"Oops is right," Elsie snarled. "When Fergus hears about
this, that car of yours is going to the scrap heap!"
"Waitasec!" Clarissa yelled angrily. "You can't-"
"--Elsie, forget about it," Sam interjected. "Let's dance."
As Elsie melted into a puddle of compliant goo, Sam leaned over
to Clarissa and whispered "you owe me big time" into her ear.
Clarissa sighed and sat down offstage, watching Sam go to
insane lengths in order to avoid stepping on Elsie's feet. Her
leaving town had had more consequences than she could have ever
imagined. Ferguson, unchecked, had become a financially secure
criminal mastermind who now held her best friend in thrall. Her
mother, Janet, freed from having to worry about her children's
welfare, had channeled her energies into making the city a
healthier place to eat, and dad--
Clarissa sighed again. The unfortunate man.
"This is just a small setback," she muttered. "I can turn
this thing around. I know I can. I just have to figure out a way
to-"
To manipulate everyone, she thought glumly. Manipulate
everyone like I always do to get what I want. Like Ferguson does.
She shuddered.
|
|
What if Ferguson, as a tiny and impressionable infant, had
learned his wicked ways from me? After all, I'd been there first,
and that little brat was bound to have picked something up from
me during the years when he'd been too tiny to get into fights.
Nah. No way. I'm cool and he's not. I have good social skills, he
doesn't. I have dress sense, he lacks it. So if he got none of
those things from me-
|
"No," she spluttered, the fizz going up her nose like an
inhaled choclate milk shake. "Those," she shuddered, "weren't
Pixie Stix!" She gasped for air as her tummy began to vibrate
with the force of thousands of mini-explosions. "They were... Pop
Rocks!"
Elsie looked over at her empty bottle of Surge, and
realized that she had made a horrible, terrible, dreadful,
incredible error. Dropping to the floor, she began to vibrate
faster and faster, now on the king of all sugar rushes. It was
more than her young form was used to. No kid had ever taken this
much sugar before. It had never been done. And with good reason.
Quivering, her facial features began to contort.
Still in the bathroom, Sam continued to rationalize his
decision, shrugging and adjusting his collar, puckering up
experimentally. "It won't be so bad. I mean she is a semi-famous
actress and all."
His body shuddered violently in response. "But it's Elsie
Soaperstein!" he spat out. "I gotta have my principles. I already
did more than any guy can be expected to. I'm a man, dammit, not
a Ken doll! Deal or no deal, I won't sacrifice my dignity!"
In the living room, Elsie was back on her feet, moving at
three times the normal speed of any human, knocking over anything
that wasn't nailed to the floor. Babbling, she began doing
jumping jacks, only to go green in the face. Doubling over, she
hurled fizzing purple spew all over the immaculate white carpet.
"So I'm gonna go out there," Sam said to himself in the
mirror, "shake her hand, say `Goodnight, I've had a very lovely
evening', go home, and try to forget this night ever happened.
And take the consequences like a man."
Sam wept as he saw images of Fergus kicking his Dad out
into the street, himself living under a bridge, begging for
change and having Fergus slipping him a wooden nickel flash
before his eyes.
"Aww, heck," he exhaled. "One kiss won't matter anything."
Sam took a deep breath and walked back out into the house.
Sam froze momentarily as he saw Elsie lying on the floor
like a rag doll. Twisted on her back, she was jumping and
fidgeting like a fish out of water. And babbling.
"andthenwhensammysallmineillditchthatpeskyfergusandmakemyselfthe
queenofEvanstonandtheresnothingthelittlereadheadedsnotcandoabout
itandthenillgetrevengeonhissisterforthattimesheactaullyhadthegut
stooutthinkmeandthenimgonnamakeafictionaltvshowaboutherlifeithi
nkillcallitclarissaexplainsitallandillmakepeoplereallylikehertot
hepointofobsessionandthenwhenshesgotsuchahugethrongofragingfanst
hatshedoesntknowwhattodowithshellhavetoretreatintoisolationlike
GretaGarboandillpublicizeheraddressandshellgopermanentlyinsane
andiwillruletheworld..."
Sam stopped listening and pulled himself out of his stupor.
"My god!" he exclaimed. Moving as fast as he could, Sam
bent down over her and grabbed her by the shoulders, trying to
hold her down as she jerks, spasms and twitches.
"Elsie!" he yelled, panic filling his voice. "Elsie! What
the heck happened to you?"
Elsie looked up at him, her pupils nothing more than
quivering dots.
"wellyouknowfirstiwasbornandthenthedoctorslappedmeandislappedhimb
acksohardhewentintoacomaand..."
Looking to one side, Sam noted the empty pixie stix tube.
To himself, he muttered, "No. Not the pop rocks."
Desperately, he shook Elsie. "Elsie! Elsie! Did you take
anything else with these? Answer me kid, what did you take?"
Elsie grinned broadly and cackled.
"afteritakepolandimighttakeczecholovakiaandthen..."
Sam dropped her drooling and babbling form back down onto
the carpet, noting the empty Surge bottle on the table.
"No, no, NO!" he yelled. "how could she be so dumb! Nobody
mixes Pop Rocks and Soda!" He turned to the hyperactive girl on
the floor. "Okay kid, we're getting you on your feet."
Picking her up in his arms, he began talking to her, more
to calm himself down than for her benefit.
"Stupid kid. Don't you know too much candy's bad for you? I
can't believe I just said that. We're on our feet now, and now
we're gonna walk out to Clarissa's car. Here we go!"
The red needle on the speedometer in Clarissa's car hovered
over the number "100" effortlessly. Close inspection of the dial
would have revealed that the patch of numeral under the needle
was a brighter white than the other numbers, it having been
protected from the harsh bleaching action of the sun via the
needle's constant presence there in days past.
Sam was driving crazier than Clarissa ever had, speeding
the car into turns and racing up hills like they were minor
inclines. But even in the pit of his fear, he still had the
capacity to admire the car's handling.
"This car's doing over at a hundred, and it feels like it's
barely doing fifty! Clarissa's really got this thing tuned up."
"killclarissasammakehersufferkillkillKILL!" Elsie shrieked
from the backseat, her outstretched arms, pinpoint pupils, pale
complexion, and windblown hair making her look more like a
Banshee than a girl suffering from a super sugar rush. She
cackled hysterically.
"Faster," Sam muttered, "Must go faster." Keeping one hand
on the wheel, his eyes darted back and forth with incredible
speed, scanning the road, and his other hand was working the
gearshift like a pro racer.
Finally, he got to a steep hill, released the gearshift,
and pulled out his portable phone. Hitting the speed dial, he
pressed the device to his ear while the car began roaring down
the hill at an ever-increasing rate.
"Come on, Clarissa," he muttered. "Answer!"
The phone was busy.
"Damn!" Sam hit another number.
Sunk deep into his big comfy couch, Big K was watching TV
and enjoying a small post-midnight snack with his stuffed bear.
"Ahh," K said, to no one in particular. "nothing beats
watching Army of Darkness at One AM in the morning."
On TV, Ash, the main character, was holding a group of
mediaeval peasants at bay with a sawed off shotgun.
"Shop Smart!," Ash yelled to the terrified peasants. "Shop
S-Mart! You got that?!"
As K laughed, the phone rang.
Scowling, he muted the TV and picked up the phone. "Do you
know how late it is? You're not supposed to be callin' me this
late!"
In the convertible, Sam pressed the phone closer to his
ear. "Big K, this is Sam. I'm in big trouble, man! I'm on my way
to your place."
Big K frowned. "Hold your horses, Anders. What's the
problem?"
"You still got the flavored coffee? The stuff you drink if
you're an insomniac? The stuff that calms you down?!"
Big K began to suspect what was going on, and he didn't
like it one bit. "Maybe. That stuff's hard to get, man. You don't
know what it's like dealing with the flavored coffee guy."
"I need it man, I got this girl with me, and she's hyper!"
Big K growled. He didn't need this. "Don't bring her here!
I'm not jokin' with you, man! Don't you bring some messed up girl
on a sugar kick to my house!"
"Hey!" Sam retorted. "Customer Support, man! You sell, you
service!"
"She's really hyper?" K asked, more as a formality than
anything else.
"Yeah. She's goin' nuts. Her blood sugar's so high, I
think she might go diabetic."
K shook his head vigorously. "No way, man. That's personal
liability right there. Prime litigation material. Bite the
bullet, take her to a hospital and call a lawyer! I'm sure
Councilwoman Darling will go easy on you, considering she knows
you so well." He laughed, his voice becoming a fairly good
approximation of Mrs. Darling's. "Samuel, did you feed this girl
an unauthorized sugary treat?"
Sam's voice was calmly frantic, if such a thing was
possible. "Negative. We all know Janet Darling favors jail time
for the snack addicted. Besides--"
"Look!" Big K snapped. "This girl of yours ain't my
flippin' problem! You messed her up, you deal with it - Oh god,
are you talkin' to me on a cellular phone?"
Sam sighed. He knew how paranoid Big K was these days.
"Sorry."
"I don't know you," Big K said in a panic. "Who is this? I
film music videos on my el cheapo vintage camera, don't have
anything to do with snacks! NO! don't come here, I'm hangin' up,
whoever you are."
"Too late," Sam said, "I'm already here."
Big K bit back his reply as he heard the unmistakable sound
of a car roaring down the hill outside his house. The screech of
brakes being pressed to their limit. Brake pads grinding into
dust. Two tires blowing out. A skid out on some gravel. The sick
crack of a mailbox going down. The death shriek of his garage
door and the sound of metal crashing on wood. Then nothing. A car
door opening, and falling off. Footfalls. A knock on the door.
Big K opened his door, livid. "Have you lost your mind?!"
he yelled. "You crashed your car into the side of my house!"
"Actually," Sam corrected, "I crashed Clarissa's car into
the side of your house."
"OH MY GOD!" K exclaimed. "You know how much that girl
loves her car! She'll kill us both! No. no, that's too easy.
She'll come up with some machiavellian plot to humiliate us and
get her revenge! Dammit, Samuel, you've doomed us both!"
Sam sighed, shook his head and nodded to the girl in his
arms. "Right now we've got a bigger problem on our hands! If
you're through havin' your fit, this kid's goin' hyper! Get the
coffee and get it now!"
"Are you deaf?" Big K said, blocking the way into the
house. "You're not bringin' that hyper kid in my house!"
Sam's eyes narrowed. "FYI, this hyper kid is Fergus
Darling's girl. Now if he sees her in the middle of the biggest
sugar rush since the Everlasting Gobstopper, I'm a grease spot.
But before he takes me out, I'm gonna be forced to tell him about
how you coulda calmed her down, but instead let her flip out on
your front lawn."
"Get in," K said tersely.
The next few minutes saw a madhouse of frantic activity.
Anyone in the house could have mistaken it for the set of a low-
budget medical documentary, with the only differences being the
lack of sterile conditions and actual medical skill. There was a
lot of running and yelling, with little else.
"Sam, kitchen, black box with the flavored coffee in it,
stat!"
"Uhh, stat?"
"Fast, like now! Yesterday!"
"Okay!"
"That's the only coffee in the world that makes you sleepy.
The flavoring acts like negative caffeine, making you go to
sleep, as if you're reading the world's longest spam e-mail. But
you gotta find the right one. If we use the wrong one, we'll make
her more hyper than she already is. Then she'd be liable to
explode."
"Explode?"
"Pop. Boom."
"POP?! BOOM?!"
"Yup. So get the coffee, and I'll get the recipe book!"
"What do you need a recipe book for?!"
"To tell me how to mix it. I've never made flavored coffee
before!"
"You mean you've had that box for six years and you never
used it?"
"I never had to use it! All my customers can take their
sugar! Of course, most of them are programmers or webhead
computer geeks!"
"Well then get the book!"
"I will, if you'll let me!"
"I'm not stoppin' you! You're talking to me!"
"Stop talkin' to me about talkin' to me, get the coffee an'
start talkin' to her!"
"Hurry up man! I think she's going permanently insane!"
"I'm looking as fast as I can!"
"If the book's so important, why don't you keep it with the
coffee?"
"I don't know! Stop bothering me!"
"Get your butt in here, forget the book!"
"Mix the coffee!"
"While I'm doing this, try to get her to stop babbling. She
can't drink the coffee if she's talkin'!"
"Does she have to be totally quiet?!"
"Heck, yeah! You ever tried drinking water and talkin' at
the same time? What's the matter with you, you gone stupid?!"
"Sorry, bud. She's startin' to freak me out!"
"Coffee's almost ready, I'll tell you what to do. Quiet her
down!"
"You quiet her down!"
"YOU quiet her down!"
"She scares me!"
"Tough! You brought 'er here, you deal with her. The day I
bring a messed up sugar-filled girl to your place, then I'll
quiet her down!"
"Fine. After we give her coffee, what happens after that?"
"I'm curious about that myself!"
"This ain't a joke man!"
"She's supposed to doze off. Now quiet her down!"
Finally, a semblance of calm descended over the room as Sam
and Big K took deep breaths and hovered over the quivering form
of Elsie Soaperstein.
"She's still talkin," Big K noted.
"...nowisthetimeofthegatheringtherecanbeonlyone." Elsie prattled.
"Elsie, shh," Sam said in his calmest tone of voice, which
was quite a feat considering his agitated state. "Calm down, kid.
C'mon, be quiet."
"...imgonnaputlittleclarissainatimeloopandsendhertogallifrey..."
"Elsie!" Sam hissed, unsure of how to get her to stop
talking long enough to avoid choking on the coffee.
"Shut her up, kid!," Big K growled. "If you don't shut her
up now, we'll lose her!"
Desperate for ideas, Sam looked around the room, his eyes
locking onto the TV, where "Army of Darkness" was still playing.
On screen, Ash, the hero, was about to woo the fair maiden
Sheila.
"Gimme some sugar, baby," Ash said as he took the girl into
his arms and kissed her.
Sam raised an eyebrow and looked down at the rapidly moving
mouth of Elsie. Without another moment's thought, he leaned down
and kissed her for what seemed an eternity. When he pulled back,
she was silent.
"Now!" Sam hissed. "Quick!"
Taking a funnel and sticking it in Elsie's mouth, Big K
grinned and poured the flavored coffee down it. Then, pulling out
the funnel, he and Sam looked at Elsie's momentarily tranquil
form, searching her features for any sign of reaction.
Without warning, Elsie's eyes popped open, and she screamed
out a hellish cry of tortured agony. Sitting bolt upright, she
continued to scream like an enraged banshee.
Sam and Big K looked at each other in horror.
"Gotcha," Elsie said with a smile, before dropping back to
the ground, now peacefully asleep.
"Whew." Sam exhaled.
"She'll be out for hours," Big K said slowly. "Might have
some weird dreams, though. Should be fine in the morning."
"Thanks, man," Sam said gratefully. He and Big K collapsed
for a moment on the floor, the stress of the night finally taking
its toll on their systems.
"Hey, man," Big K said, looking up at his ceiling. "You
want some more of those Pop Rocks?"
Sam sat upright and looked down at Big K like he was nuts.
Big K grinned.
Clarissa's convertible, pulling to the right every few
seconds, and dragging a muffler or two across the ground, slowly
accelerated to a whopping 30 miles per hour as Sam began the
agonizing drive back to Fergus Darling's house. While he worried
about Clarissa's reaction to the state of her car, he was more
worried about meeting an enraged Fergus Darling on the front
lawn.
Staring at the peaceful expression of Elsie, who was
leaning on his shoulder fast asleep, he could only help but
reflect on what Clarissa had said to him earlier in the day. She
had been right, of course, but he'd had no choice in the matter.
Sometimes, you have to do what you have to do.
Turning the wheel, Sam heard another hubcap go flying off
as he turned into the driveway of Fergus' house. The car lurched
to a stop, its front bumper clattering to the ground and
continuing for a few more feet before stopping.
"C'mon, Elsie," Sam said slowly. "Time to get up."
"Uhh?" She asked groggily, pulling herself up and stepping
out of the car. Shakily, she bobbed and weaved towards the front
door.
"Elsie!" Sam called out.
Elsie turned around, her mind a dizzy fog.
"How're we gonna handle this?" Sam asked, ready to spring
forward if she should start falling down.
"Whut's yur ideah?" she asked slowly, regaining her
composure slowly.
"I think Fergus can live his whole life and never ever hear
about this incident."
"Dun't wurry," Elsie slurred slightly, "If Fergus ever herd
of dis-this-- I'd be in as much trubble --trouble-- as you."
"I seriously doubt that." Sam replied more to himself than
to her.
"If you can keep a secret, so can I," Elsie said, a bit
more in control of herself.
"Let's shake on it," Sam uttered slowly.
The two of them walked towards each other, passing a piece
of statuary. They shook hands firmly and sincerely.
"Mum's the word," Sam said in a reminding tone.
"Of course," Elsie said, kissing Sam lightly on the cheek.
"Loverboy." She walked to her front door and turned to face him
again.
Sam suppressed a shudder, which was surprisingly light in
any case.
"You saved me," Elsie said. "So I'll save you. As of
tomorrow, you'll be free from Ferguson forever."
Sam smiled broadly for the first time in what seemed like
forever. "Gee, thanks, Elsie. Now, if you'll excuse me, I gotta
go home and have a heart attack."
Giggling, Elsie watched Sam turn and head for the crumpled
mass of dented red metal which was Clarissa Darling's prize red
Malibu convertible. "See ya 'round, Sammy," she said under her
breath as the Malibu backfired once, its engine wheezing for a
solid ten seconds, finally spluttering to life. She smiled weakly
as it drove off into the night.
"Sam," his dad began slowly, "stop watching TV a second.
Your mother has something she wants to tell you."
"Uh-huh," Sam replied slowly, subconsciously sensing
something wrong.
"You know I told you that your Mother and I were thinking
of. getting divorced?" Arnie Anders coughed nervously. "Well,
today we went to the courthouse, and uhh. made it official."
"No." Sam felt events turning around him as if he was in a
dream. Dimly, he noted his mom walking towards him.
Dropping down to one knee, Debbie Anders brought her self
down to eye level with her son, reaching out and putting one
gloved hand on his shoulder.
"Hello, little man. Boy, I sure wish I knew what to say
right now."
Sam felt his mouth go dry. "Mom, why are you dressed like
that?"
"Son, you know I joined the roller derby a few weeks ago."
"And that's what you wear?" He looked over at her outfit.
"You look kinda like a super hero."
"They call me "Dangerous Debbie" now, his mom said with a
smile.
"I like it." The little boy smiled weakly.
His mom nodded. "I finally feel like I found a place where
I belong, y'know?"
"Just not here with me," Sam uttered bitterly.
"No, son," Debbie exaled soothingly. "There's nothing I'd
like more than to be with you. But your dad and I, well, we don't
get along all that well."
"I always thought you guys'd work it out." Sam whispered to
himself.
"Maybe one day," Debbie said firmly. "But right now, I need
some time to myself."
"That seems to be all I have these days," Sam muttered.
"I know it's rough on you, Sam." Debbie replied, nodding.
"No kid should have this happen to him. But sometimes grownups
fight, and when they do-"
"--They quit on each other and one of them runs off!" Sam
half-yelled angrily.
"--I know it hurts-"
"--Forget it. You don't care!"
Hearing that, Sam's dad cut in. "Sam, don't say that about
your mother. Of course she cares!"
Sam looked at his dad askance. "I don't get it. You divorce
her, but you're still sticking up for her? Don't you hate her?"
Arnie Anders sighed, and shared a meaningful glance with
Debbie. "Sam, people don't always get divorced because they hate
one another. Sometimes they just can't get along. Like you and
that girl next door."
"Huh?" Sam asked. "Oh, Clarissa? She's a tomboy, that's
all. A stubborn, uncute tomboy."
Debbie shrugged. "But she likes the same things you do.
Cars, video games, pizza."
"That's not the point!" Sam protested. "She's a girl! She
can't be my friend. that would be weird!"
"But suppose you didn't know she was a girl, like on those
sitcoms on TV," Debbie hypothesized, "and you became friends.
What would happen later, when you did find out? Would you still
be friends?"
Sam thought about it for a moment. "I guess, but I don't
think we'd hang out after that. It would just be too messed up."
Debbie nodded. "Well, your father and I sort of are in the
same situation."
Sam narrowed his eyes and looked at his mom curiously. "He
didn't know you were a girl?"
Arnie slapped his forehead. "Deb, you're confusing the boy."
Debbie turned to look at her husband. "Shut up, Arnold."
She turned back to her son. "Sam, what I mean is, when your
father and I met, we thought things would work out one way. but
they didn't. So we have to go our own ways for now. Or things
would just get worse."
"I think I understand," Sam replied uncertainly.
"You will, someday," Debbie predicted. She smiled warmly.
"I got somethin' for ya." She pulled out a small chain with a
golden rollerblade charm attached to it. It glinted in the light.
"This chain I got here was a `welcome to the pack' gift
from Maggie the Mauler, baddest and best of all female Roller
Derby champions ever. She got it when she permanently crippled
her teacher, Brenda Backbreaker, who got it when she decapitated
her teacher, Cynthia Spinecracker."
Debbie said the last name with an air of awe. "It's my good luck
charm. After I got it, I won my first competition."
"You won a Roller Derby?" Sam asked, impressed. "Wow!"
"Oh," Arnie interjected, "she's had a lot of practice
knocking people out of her way and pushing for what she wants."
He smirked.
"Heh," Debbie exhaled. "Well, son, this Roller blade here
has a lotta history behind it. And now, I want you to have it. As
a guarantee on a promise."
"A promise?" Sam asked quizzically.
"That one day, when I hang up the skates for good, I'll
come back for ya." Debbie held out the chain.
Slowly, Sam reached out and wrapped his hand around the
chain, feeling the charm's cool metallic shape in his warm palm.
"I'll keep it forever," Sam whispered quietly.
Releasing the chain, Debbie stood up. Looking down at her
son with a sad smile, she turned and brushed past her ex-husband,
leaving her house for what was quite possibly the last time.
Sam sat on his front porch, watching his mom's car drive
off into the distance. Holding up the chain, he watched it
reflect the light of the afternoon sun. Mentally, he made note of
every tiny pit, every scratch, every sign of wear on the
rollerblade charm. He could feel the palpable sense of history
behind it, even if he was a little too young to fully understand
what he was sensing. And in its reflective surface he saw a
promise. A promise that he knew would someday come true.
"Neat chain," said a voice from his right, snapping Sam out
of his reverie.
"Huh?" Sam asked, momentarily confused. Turning, he saw the
girl from next door, Clarissa, clad as usual in wildly
mismatching clothes which somehow still managed to seem
coordinated in a bizarre sort of way.
"Oh. Thanks," he said slowly, not really meaning it. For
once, he wanted the tranquility of the moment to be restored.
Conversation just seemed wrong, somehow.
"You look kinda down," Clarissa said slowly. Her tone of
voice indicated that the words were coming with effort.
"Yeah, well, so what?" Sam said a bit more sharply than he
had intended. He went back to gazing at his chain.
"Nothing," Clarissa said quickly, sounding simultaneously
embarrassed and offended. She realized that she didn't like the feeling.
Sam was too wrapped up in his misery to notice her looking
across the yard to her parents, who were staring at her, nodding,
and making exaggerated gestures.
Clarissa sighed. This was difficult enough, but they were
gonna blow the whole thing if he saw them acting like hyperactive
chimpanzees. She shot them a warning glance, and they calmed down
slightly.
Clarissa didn't have anything against the kid, and yeah,
what they'd told her about what just happened between his folks
was rough, but she didn't need anyone telling her to make friends
with someone else. It felt too much like a chore. Besides, she
doubted this boy could have anything interesting to say for
himself.
Boys, she observed, were generally too busy beating each
other up or attacking small animals to actually do things of
value. Still, they got to play with cars, and video games, and
toy monsters and chemistry sets. That was much better than
playing with some dinky old Barbie or Cynthia doll. At the very
least, she speculated, he might have some cool toys she could
play with. And he did look pretty sad. Not to mention lonely,
which had to be rough.
"Uhm.," she said, trying to choose her next words
carefully, "I just got this new video game for my 2600, and was
wondering if you'd like to come play it with me. It's one of
those two-player things."
"Don't you have a brother?" Sam asked disinterestedly.
"Fredrickson, or something?"
Clarissa frowned. "Ferguson's too busy playing with his
stupid coin collection to care about Donkey Kong Jr."
Sam's face lit up for a moment, and for an instant, he
stopped looking at the rollerblade charm. "Donkey Kong Junior?
Wow! That's the best game out there!"
He likes Donkey Kong, Clarissa thought. Not too shabby.
"Well, if you wanna play-" she offered, a bit more
enthusiastically.
"Maybe later," Sam spat out almost guiltily, as he returned
his gaze to the rollerblade.
"OBKB," Clarissa said rapidly, her voice sounding more than
a tad hurt. She turned around and quickly walked back to her
house, brusquely bypassing her questioning parents and going
inside.
Later that night, Sam still sat quietly on his porch,
watching the reflection of moonlight against the rollerblade
charm. His dad had come out a few times to see if he was OK, but
had finally decided just to leave the boy alone.
Looking up and to the side of the Darling house next door,
Sam noticed the silhouette of a girl in the second story window.
She was hunched over, obviously trying to play some video game.
But the lazy way in which she held the joystick told Sam
immediately that her heart wasn't really in it.
Sam sighed. It might be fun to play a video game. Heck, it
might be fun to have a friend, even if it was a girl. Clarissa
didn't seem as prissy or, well, girly as the other girls. She
actually liked stuff that was important, like video games,
monster movies, cars, planes and sloppy ten-topping pizza, not
worthless stuff like jumping rope or jacks, or Cynthia dolls.
If he had to be friends with a girl,Sam noted with a
shudder, might as well be friends with her. There just weren't
any other kids around who were willing to talk with him without
beating him up and taking his lunch money first. And even then it
was only to tell him to bring more money the next day.
Walking over to the front of the Darling house, Sam paused,
hearing loud words through the front door. Peering through the
front window, Sam saw Clarissa's parents lecturing the short red-
headed kid he recognized as her brother Fowlerman, waving some
really old-looking coins around and sounding cross.
Sam walked away from the door, figuring this was a bad time
to just show up. But he really did want to play that video game.
Tripping on a garden hose, Sam pushed himself up off the
ground, and spied a long, aluminum ladder down along the side of
the house.
Looking up, he gauged the height of Clarissa's window. The
ladder could get up there. And this way he wouldn't bother her
parents.
Lifting up the ladder with some effort, Sam staggered back
for a moment as it threatened to crash backwards and carry him
with it. Gaining control, he pushed it forwards, setting it
against the side of the house.
Climbing slowly, Sam wondered how he would introduce
himself. It's just like climbing up to your treehouse, Sam
convinced himself. Except this time, it's someone else's
treehouse.
In her room, Clarissa jumped as she heard a knock at her
window. On her TV screen, Mario had just been slammed in the face
by a rolling barrel, a victim of Clarissa's distraction.
"Nuts," she said to herself, then noticed the source of the
knocking at the window.
"Holy cow," she said to no one in particular. "It's that
kid! What's he doing out there?"
Going over to her window, Clarissa opened it.
"Hi," Sam said uncertainly. "I uhh, was wondering if you
were still up for that game."
"I suppose," Clarissa said noncommitally. "You're name's
Sam, right?"
"Yup," Sam confirmed. "Sam Anders."
"Heck of an entrance, Sam," Clarissa said, looking at the
ladder and nodding to herself. "Kinda cool."
"Really?" Sam asked in shock. Grinning, he recovered. "Uhh, yeah.
It's the only way to enter a room."
Clarissa helped Sam step in the window, and within a few
minutes, they were busily playing Donkey Kong Junior. A new
friendship was born.
Waking up with a start, Sam wiped the sweat off his brow
and tried to remember where he was. Looking around, he saw the
battered interior of Clarissa's convertible. Eyes fixing on an
old picture of himself and Clarissa as kids which had been taped
to the dash, he exhaled slowly, wiping some debris from the
shoulder of his black suit jacket. Amazed that he hadn't crashed
into anything, he continued the long drive home.
In one of the dark recesses of Ferguson's juice bar, Eliot
Fundsworth sat, a small videotape in hand, nervously fidgeting
with his suit and tie. In yet another dark recess, Clarissa
Darling stood, quietly observing the boy. Her bug on Ferguson's
phone had paid off big time. Something was going on, and it
involved Sam somehow. The conversation, as usual, had been in
some kind of wacked out code, but it involved some kind of Kiss
of Death, as far as she could figure.
Well, Clarissa wasn't about to let her brother put the kiss
of death on anyone, let alone her best friend Sam.
Now Elsie Soaperstein is walking in, she noted. I knew that
girl was trouble. Whoa. She looks like a truck ran over her.
Fergus walked in as well, giving Elsie a strange look. He
turned to Eliot. "You have it?"
"Proof absolute, Mr. Fergus, sir."
Proof of what? Clarissa mused.
"The camera in the statuary caught the whole thing," Eliot
continued.
Caught what? Clarissa's mind yelled.
Elsie Soaperstein swallowed. She hadn't thought Ferguson
would have been this devious.
On a small TV screen, a grainy black and green night vision
scene played out.
SAM: Mum's the word.
ELSIE: Of course. (she kisses him lightly on the cheek)
Loverboy.
Sam shudders.
ELSIE: You saved me. So I'll save you. As of tommorrow,
you'll be free from Ferguson forever.
Sam smiles.
Irately, Ferguson shut off the television. "So, he takes
out my girl and then turns her against me. Now he pays."
Sam, Clarissa thought in horror. What the heck have you
gotten yourself into? What the hell were you thinking?
Snapping his fingers, Ferguson was immediately surrounded
by a host of toadying sycophants, one of whom began to
instinctively lick his boots.
When Ferguson spoke, it was with an aura of anger and raw
determination Clarissa had never seen in him before. He actually
seemed hurt by what he had seen on the tape. Not just on a
professional "I've been betrayed" level, but on a personal "I've
been betrayed" level.
"Boys," he began, "I'm prepared to scour the earth for that
scumsucker. If Sam goes to Indo China, I want an thug hidin' in
a bowl of rice, waitin' to cap his sorry--"
"--assure yourself that I will take care of it," Eliot said
quickly.
"Fergie," Elsie began bravely, "if you do this, I'll leave
you! You won't have anyone to run your gang!"
Ferguson laughed darkly and looked his girl in the eye.
"Really, my dear. How stupid do you think I am?"
Very, Clarissa and Elsie thought simultaneously.
"I was just using your ability to instill fear in my
minions to give me the necessary capital to fund adequate legal
representation for my burgeoning criminal enterprise. Now that I
can afford both Johnny Cochrane and Bruce Cotler-"
"The men who got off OJ and John Gotti?" Elsie asked in
fear.
"Exactly," Ferguson said proudly. "With them in my corner,
I'm untouchable! Invincible! I can do anything I want!"
"No!" Elsie shrieked in horror.
"Yes!" Ferguson countered, his eyes lighting up. "I AM THE
ONE!" He cackled maniacally. "And you, my dear, are quite
unnecessary."
"You," Elsie spluttered in disbelief, "you used me-used me!"
"Exactly," Ferguson laughed, watching as Elsie's fists
shook in impotent rage.
"What a man," Elsie exhaled, smitten again with the love of
her life. Rising, she hugged Ferguson tightly.
"Exactly," Ferguson said suavely, grinning and pulling away
slowly. "Stay here, my sweet. I shall get us lunch from
MacDrekky's."
Smiling, Ferguson twirled a little golden chain in his hand
as he walked off, also carrying his black briefcase.
"I'll be waiting for you," Elsie said dreamily.
Clarissa suppressed her natural urge to barf and bolted as
quickly as she could. She had to reach Sam before Ferguson or his
goons did.
"Oh, that noise?" Sam said into his portable phone as one
of the convertible's fenders broke off and clattered down the
road, "that's nothing, Clarissa."
"I dunno," she said on the other side of the line. "I have
this bad feeling you're not telling me something."
"Uhh, we'll talk about that later," Sam said hastily.
"Thanks for the heads up. I'm already in a car, so I'll head
outta town for a few days. He won't find me. Don't worry."
Sam paused as he heard some loud yelling through the phone.
"You'll get the car back! More or less," he muttered.
"What? I didn't mean anything by it! Look-" Sam began shaking the
phone, and holding it alternately closer and further away from
his mouth, "I'm getting interference. I'll have to call you
back." He snapped the phone shut.
Ramming his foot on the accelerator, Sam jumped as the rear
suspension on the car failed, causing it to drag on the ground.
"Marvelous," Sam muttered in disgust. His eyes drifted back
to the picture of him and Clarissa on the dash. Around his neck,
he spied the little golden rollerblade charm.
Reaching for it unconsciously, Sam realized with a start
that it wasn't there.
"Damn!" he exclaimed, realizing that he'd left it at
Ferguson's Juice Bar earlier in the day.
Pulling the emergency brake and jerking the car to the
right, Sam pulled a tight U-turn, noticing only dimly as the
front radiator grill of the car ejected into oncoming traffic.
Releasing the brake, he floored the accelerator, heading for the
bar at 25 screaming miles per hour.
As he drove, a little voice in the back of his head started
squawking.
"What am I doin'?," Sam asked himself. "Have I taken one
too many hits to the head? That's gotta be it. Brain damage is
the only excuse for this dumb a move. Stop the car, Sam."
Ignoring his own advice, Sam kept driving.
"Stop the car, Sam."
"Sam, I'm talkin' to you. Put-your-foot-on-the-brake!"
Sam slammed the brake as hard as he can, jerking the
convertible to a rapid stop. The rear fenders dropped off in
protest.
Oblivious to the traffic, Sam continued to mutter to
himself. "I ain't gonna do this. Mom would understand. If she
was here right now, she'd say, "Sam, get a grip. It's a chain,
son. You lose one, ya get another. This is your life you're
messin with, which you shouldn't be doin', 'cause you only got
one."
Sam frowned. "No. This is my war. This chain isn't just a
dinky little keepsake from a gumball machine. It's a symbol.
It's a symbol of my mom, and her faith in me. And when I took
Ferguson's hair gel, I started a war. A war for my dignity and
self-respect. This is my World War Two. Fergus' bar... that's
Normandy, and this is D-Day. And using that perspective, going
back for it isn't stupid. It may be dangerous, but it's not
stupid. Because there are certain things in this world that are
worth going back for."
Flooring the accelerator, Sam rammed the car back into
traffic, leaving only the exhaust pipe behind.
A few minutes later, Sam found himself across the street
from the juice bar. Everything seemed normal, with more or less
the right number of cars in the street outside. None of the parked
cars looked out of place, or like they could have had couple of goons
sitting inside. Just normal early morning activity.
Idling the struggling motor, Sam waited nervously at a
stoplight. His plan was to park about a block down and infiltrate
the bar on foot. Glancing sideways, he noted the Green-and-Gold
MacDrekky's restaurant just across from him. Geez, Sam
thought. He was hungry. Just like that short redheaded guy
crossing in front of the car carrying a ton of burgers, shakes
and fries. That short redheaded guy who just happened to be
Fergus W. Darling!
"Keep movin'" Sam muttered under his breath. "Don't look my
way, Fergus."
What a piece o' crap car, Ferguson thought to himself.
Looks like the one I gave sis, but like it went through a
thermonuclear war or something.
Suddenly, Ferguson realized that was the car he'd given his
sister. And she hadn't paid it off yet! In this condition,
repossession would be worthless! Stopping and looking up to
chastise Clarissa, Ferguson saw instead--
"Mother--"
"-For cryin' out loud!" Sam exclaimed, in a full panic.
Instinctively, his foot hit the gas pedal, and the car lurched
forward at its new top speed of fifteen miles an hour. Ferguson,
his food, briefcase and drinks all hit the pavement.
Sam didn't have time to celebrate his triumph, however. By
hitting Ferguson, he'd moved into the oncoming lane, and his car
was right in the sights of a shiny Camaro Z-28, which promptly
broadsided him, mangling the undamaged side of the convertible
and sending it crashing onto the sidewalk.
Dazed, Sam managed to crawl out of the car just before it
exploded in a firey supernova of gasoline, shine protectant and
caranuba wax.
"Clarissa's gonna kill me," Sam muttered, collapsing onto
the pavement.
Elsewhere in the street, other pedestrians were gathering
around Ferguson's still body.
"He's dead!" one of them yelled. "He's dead!"
Ferguson moved slowly, awakened by the noise.
"He's alive!" the same guy yelled. "He's alive!"
"If you need a witness in court, I'll be glad to help. He
was a drunken maniac. He hit you and crashed into that car," another
person said helpfully.
"Who?" Ferguson asked incoherently.
"Him!" The pedestrian said, pointing to Sam's inert form.
"YOU!" Ferguson yelled in anger, staggering to his feet.
"You tried to steal my girl!"
"Eh?" Sam muttered, seeing three dazed Fergusons coming
right for him, stopping for only a second to pick up their three
black briefcases. "Oh, man," he burbled. "He's got clones now."
Clarissa, who had heard the commotion from her position
outside of the juice bar, ran up to Sam and checked his pulse. It
was weak, but steady.
"What happened, Sam?" she asked, a note of panic in her
voice. Looking at the firey remains of her car, her heart
stopped. "Sam? What happened here!?"
Hearing some incoherent screams, she turned to see Ferguson
running/limping towards her, proclaiming bloody murder. She
gritted her teeth. "Ferguson did this to you, didn't he? Blew up
the car and left you for dead-- didn't he?!"
"Fergus," Sam corrected reflexively before passing out.
Sometimes there comes a battle so vicious and so terrible that
you have to use every weapon imaginable. Some would say that describes
the relationship Ferguson and I have had for the past fourteen years.
In the old days, when I used to fight Ferguson, it was just to
teach him a lesson. After all, if as his older sister I can't set
him straight, imagine the incredible damage he could do.
That's what I used to think. But now he's gone totally over the
edge. He wants to hurt Sam! I can't just sit back and watch it happen!
This time, I can't just fight Fergwad-- I have to stop him. For good.
After all, if I don't, who will? It's a dirty, thankless job, but
someone's got to do it-- right?
Rolling up her sleeve, Clarissa got ready for the fight of
her life. "That's it," she said to herself. "This kingpin thing's
gone too far! A little blackmail here and there is understandable,
but he tried to kill Sam! My best friend! And for that, Ferguson
Darling DIES!"
Running forward, she tackled Ferguson, and they went down
in a heap, rolling back and forth as they fought, the briefcase
flying out of her brother's hand and tumbling to a stop near the
closed door of a food store.
"This has nothing to do with you!" Ferguson said angrily.
"You can't stop me! Na Na!" He stuck out his tongue.
"O Brother," Clarissa scowled. "What's that supposed to
mean?"
"This is what `Na Na' Means!" Ferguson yelled, hurling his
fist forward. "I am the stronger! When I'm through with you, the
city government's gonna be Wishing for Rain, because they'll need
it to wash your blood off the streets!"
Clarissa dodged the fist. "Oh yeah?" She grabbed a piece of
sharp debris from the street and slashed at her brother.
"Whoa!" Ferguson yelled. "PEACE!"
As Clarissa lowered her guard slightly, Ferguson kicked her
in the stomach.
Watching her crumple, he smiled, raising one foot off the
ground. The steel tip of his black leather shoe glinted in the
early morning light. "Of all the things I want," he began, "I Want
a Car, right now. so I can RUN YOU OVER WITH IT!"
Clarissa spun out of the way as Ferguson brought his foot
down hard, barely missing her face.
"You'd better get used to walkin'", Clarissa said,
springing to her feet, "because after I'm through with you,
"you'll be Walkin' in the Cemetery!"
"Au contraire, sis," Ferguson countered coolly. "You, not
I, will be pushing up a Dandelion when this encounter is
concluded."
"I've had it with you messing with my friends!" Clarissa
yelled. "You've gone too far! I made you, and I'm gonna un-make
you!" She lunged at him.
"You made me?" Ferguson asked incredulously. "HAH! Even in
my youth I was your intellectual better! You know for a fact my
IQ is a good twenty points higher than yours!" He dodged and used
his foot to kick backwards, pushing his sister down onto the
ground.
"There's what you think you know, and then what you know,"
Clarissa shot back with a wicked mulekick that sent Ferguson
staggering.
"I'm sick of you thinking you're better than me!" Ferguson
wheezed, limping out of range. "That you know what's right and
what's wrong! You left! Adbicated! I'm in charge now, as is my
birthright!"
Turning around to face his sister again, Ferguson scowled.
Her audacity was insufferable. To not only meddle in his
business, but to claim that she made him?! That was the last
straw. Ferguson Darling was a SELF MADE MAN!
Clarissa looked at her brother in shock. In the old days,
he would have given up-turned tail and run. But there he was,
huffing and puffing, battered and bruised, and coming back for
more. He had changed.
"You're an obnoxious twerp," she spat out, "who's too big
for his britches and needs to be put back into his place! If I
hadn't set a bad example for you-
"Example?" Ferguson spat on the ground. "You set no
example! I spent my life trying to get away from you! You, who
had everything easy in life! Everyone liked you, gave you things!
You made friends just by showing up somewhere! You got all the
breaks!"
"So?" Clarissa countered. "You spent all your time cheating
people! That's no way to get liked! And it's my fault, `cuz I
showed you how to manipulate others!" She squinted. "And now I
have to fix that mistake once and for all." She began advancing
towards her brother.
Ferguson nodded grimly. "I see the cause of your confusion,
sis. You think you taught me to manipulate? HAH! Every kid on the
planet knows how to do that. It's as natural as breathing."
Clarissa paused for a moment. What the toad was saying made
sense.
"But like any trait, people have it to a lesser, or as in
my case," Ferguson continued, "greater degree. Everyone can sit
down at a piano, but few can play. And I am a virtuoso."
"What're you saying, Ferg-Wad?" Clarissa asked dangerously.
"What you did for convenience, I did for survival. No one
noticed me unless I was using them in some way. And every time
you ratted me out, shot me down, kept me down, held me down, you
made me all the more desperate, all the more eager to refine my
technique, so I could win the next time. And your leaving left
the Wolf in charge of the lambs."
Ferguson sighed. "So I guess you did make me-but not in the
way you thought." He smiled. "Who knows what I could have been
without your oppressive influence?"
"I don't know," Clarissa said, cracking her knuckles. "But
what you are is sick, twisted, evil, and about to be put on ice.
permanently."
And so the fight resumed, an echo of the ones the two
siblings had had in the past, but with an air of grim finality to
it all. One Way or Another, it was going to end today.
Rolling on the ground, the two rose up just long enough to
smash through a glass door, pushing the briefcase in with them
and landing on the floor of a health food store called "Darling's
Dietary Delectables".
By now, a local news crew had arrived on scene to film the
car wreck, also managing to catch a group of men in white
coats picking up Sam, and placing him into the back of their
truck.
"He's definitely nuts," one of the doctors said. "He keeps
insisting that he goes to an all-girls' college. We need to get
him off the street and into a nice, safe, comfy hospital bed."
"Wait!" Sam yelled futilely. "Come on, I'm telling you,
it's true! I go to Bibbington! BIBBINGTON!"
As the truck drove away, the last thing the news camera
picked up was a soft "I shoulda quit while I was ahead."
The interior of the health food store was a shattered mess.
Broken glass, shards of wooden table legs and cracked dishes
lined the savage arena that was the last battlefield of the
Darling siblings.
On the ground, Ferguson was trapped, legs pinned by a
fallen table. He spat out some saliva as his sister hovered over
him, a chair in her hands. The look on her face was one of pure
contempt, and her arms were quivering as she prepared to bring
down the final blow in their life-long battle.
"I shoulda done this a long time ago," she said tiredly.
"Do it!" Ferguson yelled. "Put me out of my misery!
Anything's better than having to play second fiddle to you for
the rest of my natural life!"
Clarissa paused mentally, pity for her brother's situation
finally registering through the fog of war. But her instincts
were still on full attack mode, and before she realized it, her
hands were bringing the chair down at full speed-
"CLARISSA MARIE DARLING! FERGUSON WILLIAMSON DARLING! STOP
RIGHT THIS INSTANT!"
Clarissa felt the chair stop in midfall, arrested by the
iron grip of a livid Janet Darling, her mother.
"Oh no," Ferguson exhaled weakly. "We just trashed Mom's
store."
Clarissa meekly helped her brother up, both kids withering
under their mother's gaze.
Frowning, Janet grabbed them by their ears and pulled them
into the back of the store.
"Funny, mom..." Ferguson said, his form obscured in the
darkness of the back room, "I've never seen this part of the
store before. What's that trap door for? OW!"
Panicking, Clarissa found herself being pulled down some
rickety makeshift stairs. She'd never been in the store before,
and had no idea if this basement was supposed to be there.
Ferguson's terrified voice, however, indicated that it probably
wasn't.
"Mom," Clarissa began carefully. She knew the pressures of
politics had done things to her Mother's sensitive mind. "What's
going on?"
"Don't fret, either of you," Janet said darkly. "You'll
just take all the fun out of it."
As Janet pulled a chain, lighting up the tiny basement,
Clarissa and Ferguson looked at each other worriedly, their faces
alternately lighted and cast into shadow by the swinging bulb.
Pulling the cell phone from her daughter's jacket pocket,
Janet dialed a few numbers and placed it to the side of her face.
"Marshall? The spider just caught a coupl'a flies."
Clarissa and Ferguson stared at each other helplessly,
mutual anger having long since given way to fear. They were both
seated in chairs, with their hands tied to their backs. In front
of them were two small TV trays, each complete with a covered
dish.
"Mom," Clarissa slowly began, "don't you think this is a
little extreme?"
"Don't talk back to me, young lady!" Janet snapped. "If you
hadn't left for college your brother here wouldn't have become
such a vile delinquent! Giving candy to small babies and thumbing
his nose at my health food ordinances!"
Ferguson went paler than usual and tried to avoid his
mother's gaze.
"Umm, mom," Clarissa continued, "nobody likes health food."
At both Ferguson and Janet's shocked expressions, Clarissa
shrugged. "Well, it was about time somebody said it!"
"Shut up, sis!" Ferguson whispered. "You have no idea what
she's become since you've been away! The power's gone to her head!"
"I always knew your megalomania had to come from somewhere
in our gene pool," Clarissa retorted.
"Well, you two will learn to love health food," Janet said
darkly. "I won't have my own children serving as a counter
example. It won't do! Especially since my "Tofu for Tots" Public
Service Announcement airs in a few days. Excuse me."
Turning abruptly, Janet marched up the rickety wooden
stairs and into the back of the store, brushing past some red
curtains and off into the front. The sound of her letting someone
into the store could be heard.
Unobserved for the moment, Clarissa and Ferguson looked
around the room, frantically trying to see any means of escape.
They looked at each other, filled with terror at what they'd
gotten themselves into.
Creak. Creak. Creak. Janet and Marshall came slowly down
the stairs. Clarissa gasped as she saw her father's appearance.
She'd heard rumors, but, still-
His appearance was hideous. Pale and emaciated, he was a
shell of his former self. And, while she couldn't be sure,
Clarissa could swear that there was a greenish tint to his
complexion.
"You never told me things were this bad at home, Ferguson!"
she whispered angrily to her brother.
"Of course not!", Ferguson replied staunchly. "Dad was
always the one who suspected my plans. Having him eaten into
submission by mother served my plans perfectly!"
"Don't you ever think of anything outside of your stupid
plans?!"
"For me, there is nothing but the plans."
Janet smiled as she watched her two bickering sprouts, err,
children. "Marshall, bring out the first course, will you, dear?"
"Yes, dear," Marshall exhaled in a weak monotone. Lifting
the cover off one of the dishes on the TV trays, he uncovered the
most foul looking piece of culinary drek ever created by man or
beast. The lumpy orange-green mass smelled to high heaven.
"Now," Janet began slowly. "Who'll be the first to die...
et?"
Clarissa and Ferguson stayed rock still, neither wanting to
volunteer.
With her little finger, Janet began doing a silent "Eenie,
meenie, miney, moe..." routine, with just her mouth mouthing the words
and her finger going back and forth between the two.
Clarissa and Ferguson waited in terror.
Marshall simply stood there, immobile.
Janet continued her silent sing-song finger gig.
Then it stopped.
The finger was on...
Ferguson.
"Mom, wait!" Ferguson yelled.
"What is it, dear?" Janet asked sweetly, making ready with a bib.
"If you let me go upstairs," Ferguson said quickly, "I can use
the phone to call in a camera crew, to let them film this! That
way the world will know that you've finally gotten your kids to
eat that shi- --uhh, shining example of culinary perfection you
call food!"
Janet raised an eyebrow and wagged a finger at her son. "Are you
sure this isn't a trick of yours? You're not trying to escape,
are you?"
"Of course not, mother," Ferguson said smoothly. "I've learned my
lesson."
Janet smiled, satisfied. "Very well, dear."
She untied Ferguson, who smirked at his sister. "She always
believes me," he whispered to her. "See you later. Have a good
meal!"
"Traitor!" Clarissa hissed. "Get back there!"
Ferguson waved at her dismissively.
"One day, I'll get you for--" Clarissa was silenced as
Marshall mechanically slammed a fistful of `food' into her mouth.
Shocked and in pain, she locked gazes with Ferguson, glaring at
him as he disappeared up the stairs.
In the back of the store, Ferguson paused for a moment,
rubbing his hands together. "All too easy," he said to himself.
Walking forward, he froze for a moment as he heard his mother's
voice.
"That's it... that's it dear, you're doing fine. Oooooooh,
just like that... that's good. Eat. EAT!"
Ferguson sighed in relief. He had feared for one terrible
moment that his mother had caught on and was calling him back.
Moving again, he paused as he heard a hideous sound.
Sobs.
Terrible, weeping sobs that were coming from his sister as
spoonful after spoonful of caustic tofu was shoved in her mouth.
Shaking his head, Ferguson kept going, his path illuminated
by the eerie red light from his mangled red briefcase which was
lying by the door. But with every mumble of defiance from his
sister, he slowed down.
Sure, he'd imagined forms of torture that would reduce his
sister to tears. Yes, he'd wanted to see her defeated, humiliated,
brought low. But now that it had finally happened, that her lowest
moment had finally arrived-- Ferguson realized that he didn't relish
it. In fact, he hated what he was hearing.
Steeling himself, Ferguson marched forwards. Standing
before the front door, the exit from the store, his hand reached
for the handle--
--of a fire extinguisher that was mounted on the wall.
Ferguson smiled grimly to himself. He knew what he had to
do. Reading the tag, his mind rapidly processed the text and
collated the instructions. There were some benefits to being a
hyperintelligent schemer. You didn't need to read anything twice.
Kicking his now empty, useless black briefcase aside,
Ferguson got to work, a man renewed.
Quietly, he snuck into the back of the store and down the
creaky wooden stairs, the pathetic whimpers of his sister
assaulting his ears like the sound of cannon shot.
He paused for a moment as he caught sight of his sister,
who looked miserable and tired, like a limp rag doll wearing
a bib. Bits of foul-smelling tofu goop dripped from the corner of
her mouth, and there was food spilt everywhere-she had put up
quite a fight.
Clarissa stated numbly forward, her eyes filled with water
from the hideous smell of her mother's "food". It was more like
some kind of biochemical weapon. Still, there was nothing she
could do to stop the spoon that was heading for her mouth.
"Open the hangar," Janet cooed. "Here comes the airplane."
Clarissa was about to squeeze her eyes shut when she saw
something that gave her pause. A hallucination. No. No way. Way.
Ferguson, her half-wit, traitorous smeghead of a brother. was
wielding a big red fire extinguisher, and creeping up on mom.
He'd come back. He'd come back!
"Mother, dearest." Ferguson said in his most ingratiating
tone.
Janet turned, her eyes widening in shock as her brain
registered the presence of the fire extinguisher.
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO", she bellowed in slow motion, raising
her hands in a defensive motion as a loud whooshing sound filled
the room. As a spray of high-velocity white foam flew towards her,
Janet rushed foward, still in slow motion, trying to thrust her
spoonful of fetid tofu forward. The foam hit its mark, pushing
Janet out of the way and temporarily disorienting her.
Time returned to normal as dropping the extinguisher and
sliding forward on the foam, Ferguson swung around Clarissa's chair,
bending down and undoing her bonds as fast as he could.
Pulling frantically, Clarissa scrambled out of the chair
just as Janet lunged blindly towards her with a spoonful of foam-
covered tofu. Ferguson grabbed the extinguisher and opened up
again, giving his sister time to get clear and up the stairs.
Bravely, Ferguson stood alone, his back to the stairs,
which were about a yard away. Janet, looking angry and betrayed,
her face still mostly covered with fire extinguisher foam,
advanced slowly forward, her belt now looped around her hand.
Instinctively, Ferguson squeezed on the fire extinguisher
trigger. A drizzle of foam shot out, then nothing. The foam was
finished. And so was he.
"Step aside, Ferguson." The voice was his sister's. Firm,
and in control.
Stepping aside, Ferguson revealed his sister, and the news
crew which had been outside filming Sam's "accident."
"And here we see," Clarissa began in her best news reporter
tone, "live and direct on Network 23, Evanston Councilwoman Janet
Darling, about to attack her own son in retaliation for defying
universally reviled anti-snack food ordinance 132-1995A." She
smiled grimly and stepped aside, allowing the real news reporter
to take over.
Janet, for her part, stared at her children in shock, then
numbly sat down in the midst of the fire extinguisher foam-- mute
and repentant.
Ferguson, who was shaking in fear, stepped back and stood
closer to his sister, saying nothing for a few moments.
"You okay, sis?" he asked slowly.
"No way, man." she said slowly. "I'm pretty far from okay
right now." The taste of turgid tofu was still fresh in her
mouth.
There was a long pause. A lifetime of thoughts ran through
the two siblings' minds.
"What now?" Ferguson finally asked.
"What now?" Clarissa answered, raw anger in her voice.
"Well let me tell you what now, dear brother. I'm gonna call a
couple more of my journalist friends, who'll go to work on mom
and her health food politicos with the PR equivalent of a pair
of pliers and a blow torch. They're gonna get mediaeval on her-"
"-ahh, sis, I meant," Ferguson cut in weakly, "what now, between
me and you?
Clarissa sighed, and turned her eyes away from the pathetic
sight of her mother, happily cooing in her pile of foam. "There
is no `me and you'. Not any more. Maybe we have spent too many
years picking on one another instead of helping each other out."
"So we're cool?" Ferguson asked, a little more
energetically.
"Yeah," Clarissa said after a long pause. "we're cool. One
thing I ask -- two things I ask: One, you leave Sam alone and
quit your criminal ways-"
"What am I supposed to do!?" Ferguson interjected. "This is
all I know!"
"Use your powers for good, or something!" Clarissa shot
back brusquely. Calming down, she decided not to take the easy
way out by re-igniting hostilities. She smiled diplomatically.
"You can do it. You're smart enough to figure something out."
"I'll consider it ," Ferguson said, pondering her words. "And
what was the other item you wanted?"
"Two: You're in charge of the house now that I'm only home
for the summers. So take care of it, and take care of these two
while you're at it." She motioned to the burbling Janet and the
motionless Marshall. "Deal?"
"Deal." Ferguson said at length. The two siblings shook
hands, and hugged.
Ferguson then pulled out a small golden rollerblade on a
chain and handed it to his sister. "I think Sam left this at my
place. You should give it back to him."
Clarissa gratefully accepted the momento. "Go on now, get
outta here."
As Ferguson turned to leave, he heard Clarissa say "one
more thing!"
Reflexively, he bristled. He'd given her everything she'd
wanted. What more could she want?! "What?" he asked a little
roughly.
"There's a sign on the back of my door," Clarissa said,
nonplussed. "The one with your face and a red line through it."
"Yeah." Ferguson said, beginning to think things were going
south.
"Trash it for me, will ya?" Clarissa said, smiling
brightly.
Ferguson nodded, relieved.
"So what was in that briefcase, anyway?" Clarissa asked him
as they looked at each other for the first time not as enemies,
or unwilling allies, but as family-and perhaps, maybe in a decade
or three-- even as friends.
Ferguson grinned. "Something I'd foolishly traded away a
long, long time ago." He put his arm on Clarissa's shoulder, and the two
of them spent a few moments looking at the chaotic remains of
their mother's health food store. The Darling Wars were finally
over.
A roar of energy lanced out from the gloves, enveloping
both Sam and Clarissa in a corona of white-hot energy.
Uttering a maniacal battle cry, The Innovator continued to
discharge energy from his combat gloves, stopping only when the
power cells ran dry. Then, his expression of vengeance turned to
one of blank shock. Something was wrong. The Electrolytic Tenshin
Amaguriken attack had done nothing!
"I don't understand -" The Innovator began saying to
himself.
Sam and Clarissa did not wait for an explanation. Nodding
at each other, they cut loose with the full power of their water
guns, knocking him back and out of sight.
"He tried to write me out," Clarissa said numbly. And he'd
come so close, too... too close.
"Aww," Sam said dismissively. "He'll never write me
anything."
"Y'know," Clarissa pondered, "Those gloves did look kinda
cool. Think they'd go well with my wardrobe?"
Sam chuckled. "Only if you planned to become a high-tech
crime fighting vigilante' or something."
Suddenly, The Innovator came charging out of the bathroom,
running past Clarissa and Sam faster than they had time to react,
only pausing long enough to chuckle once before running out the
door as fast as his legs could carry him.
Hearing a loud sparking and humming sound from the
bathroom, Clarissa and Sam grabbed Deal, pulling him with them as
they ran from the apartment, getting to safety just as the place
went up in a small thermonuclear fireball.
Outside, Sam helped get Deal into the backseat of his car.
Deal had been their guy on the inside, the man with the info. If
it wasn't for his help, they would have never been able to pull
this job off.
"We should be dead," Clarissa said, as Sam started up his
Nova.
"Yeah, we were lucky," Sam said, shaken.
"That wasn't luck, Sam." Clarissa pressed. "It was a sign."
"Of what?" Sam asked tiredly. "I thought you didn't believe
in signs. Or superstitions. Or stuff like that."
"Yeah, well," Clarissa mused, "when a huge bolt of electric
energy gets fired at me at point blank range and it misses, I
think that qualifies as a bona fide sign."
"Whatever," Sam said. "We gotta get this briefcase to
Fergus, or we'll be seeing more signs. The dollar signs in front
of the bill for the green we'll owe him."
"Sam, you nearly got FRIED today," Clarissa protested. "You
can't tell me you're still gonna work for Ferguson!" She turned
to look at him.
"Keep you eyes on the road!" Sam shrieked. "What're you
saying to me, Clarissa?"
"As of this job, right now, you can color me retired."
"Geez! But what about the car?"
I'm tellin' Ferguson I'm through. I'll find some other way
to pay him."
Sam sighed, grabbing a small, almost rotted out tofu burger
which had been sitting in his glove compartment for the last few
days. He was about to toss it out the window when a thought came
to him. He turned to the back seat, looking at Deal, who was
still unsure of his safety. The hand holding the burger was
draped over the back of the seat.
"Deal, what do you make of all this? Clarissa quitting, and
all."
"I don't even have an opinion," Deal said carefully, eyes
darting to the burger. His stomach rumbled.
"C'mon, Deal. Do you think Clarissa's nuts, or that she's
just crazy?"
"Heckuva choice, Sam," Clarissa said sarcastically.
When Sam looked back to say something to Clarissa, Deal
lunged forward and grabbed the burger, his hunger controlling
him.
"No!" Sam yelled, "Wait, Deal!" A moldy tofu burger was
some lethal sh--
The next few seconds saw a fountain of greenish-yellow
liquidized bile spewing forth all over the interior of
the car.
"Oh god!" Clarissa said, looking at the sight in her rear
view mirror. "It's like the Exorcist!"
"Was that his spleen?" Sam asked in shock as a lump of
something flew his way, splattering on the windshield in a goopy
mess.
"What was that you fed him?!" Clarissa asked in a panic.
"One of your mother's old tofu burgers," Sam said flatly as
the undigested portion of the item in question plopped back into
his hand.
"It's getting WORSE!" Clarissa yelled, as more and more
hyperaccelerated green spew lashed out into the car, impacting the
windows, seats, roof, everything.
Finally, the green stuff turned to red stuff, and at last,
a huge, pinkish-grey thing slammed into the car's windshield,
sending fragments everywhere. It was like a scene from The Evil Dead.
"Whoah," Sam said, trying to ignore the acidic stench,
"That's the biggest piece of cauliflower I've ever seen."
"Uhh, Sam," Clarissa said nervously, glancing at a piece of
the cauliflower that was on her blouse. "That isn't cauliflower."
"DON'T YOU THINK I KNOW THAT?!" Sam freaked. "And this red
stuff isn't catsup, either! But if I let myself think for one
second about what I'll see in the rear view mirror if I look back
there-"
"I know," Clarissa said, remarkably in control,
considering. "Just don't look in the rearview mirror then, Sam."
"What?"
"Don't look in the rearview mirror."
Instinctively, Sam looked.
"OH MY GOD!!!"
Clarissa could barely keep control of the car as Sam's
reaction to the sight in the back seat added to the chunky technicolor
sludge that was coating the interior of the car.
"Your mom's burger," Sam managed to wheeze out after a few
moments, "you mom's burger... it killed a guy!"
"This is uncool," Clarissa muttered. "Seriously uncool. But
not entirely surprising."
"I know," Sam muttered. "And geez, that smell. Clarissa,
crack a window or somethin'-"
"No!" Clarissa said archly. "Look at this mess! We're drivin'
around on a city street in broad daylight, with a dead-"
"-- I know, I know," Sam said apologetically, "I wasn't
thinkin' about the splatter."
"Well, you'd better start thinking about it, Sam! We haveta
get this car off the road! Cops tend to notice things like you
driving around in a car drenched in--"
"Can't we just take it to a friendly place?"
"We're working for Ferguson, remember? There are no friendly places."
"Well, don't look at me, Clarissa."
"Ugh," Clarissa exhaled, taking out her cellular phone and
punching digits.
"Who ya callin'?" Sam asked.
"Squigley."
"No way," Sam said in shock. "Has he forgiven you for
almost getting him killed by his big brother?"
"Sure," Clarissa said unconvincingly. "Old news." She spoke
into the phone. "Squigley! How are you? it's Clarissa."
There was a pause for a moment.
"Listen," Clarissa continued, "Sam and I are stuck in a car
we haveta get off the road, pronto! I need to use your garage
for a coupla hours."
There was another pause as she listened to his response.
"Squigley, I can't get into this on the phone. I
appreciate it. Uh-huh. OBKB. We'll be gone by then. I promise
he'll never know we were there. Okay. Yeah. Five minutes. Later.
Thanks!"
Folding up the phone, Clarissa turned to Sam. "We're set.
But his big brother comes home from work in an hour and a half
and we gotta be outta there by then."
Inside Squigley's bathroom, Clarissa and Sam worked
overtime trying to get their hands and faces clean. Deal's
unfortunate dietary accident had left them covered in icky bits
of clingy goop which was almost impossible to get off.
"We have to be real careful with this Squigley situation,
Sam," Clarissa said as she pulled a bit of hippocampus out of her
hair.
"I thought you said he forgave us for last time."
"Yeah, well," Clarissa shrugged. "He's still a little
sore."
"Mentally, or physically?" Sam asked as he tossed a tidbit
of thalamus towards the trash.
"Both. I tell ya, he's one remark away from kicking us out
the door."
Sam shrugged. "If he kicks us out, whadda we do?"
"Well," Clarissa replied, "Well, we definitely won't leave
until we make a few phone calls. But I never want it to get that
far. Squigley's our friend-- and you don't run into your friend's
house and start telling him what to do."
"Umm," Sam protested, "last time you were here you made him
do everything you said, even though his brother owned the garage
and the sound equipment."
"Do what I say, not what I do, Sam," Clarissa said tiredly,
washing off her hands.
"Just tell him not to be verbally abusive to me anymore. He
kinda freaked out back there when he saw Deal. He said things
that would make sailors blush."
Clarissa sighed as she watched Sam wash his hands. "Put
yourself in his position, Sam. It's eight o'clock in the morning.
He just wakes up, gets a call from his good friend Clarissa, goes
out to the garage and sees-well, what he saw. It was early! He
wasn't prepared for it! Don't forget who's doing who a favor."
"Clarissa," Sam chided, "I was completely awake and I
wasn't prepared for it."
"My point exactly, Sam!" Clarissa nodded authoritatively.
A few minutes later, Clarissa, Sam and Squigley were in the
kitchen, chowing down on some distinctly unhealthy breakfast
pizza.
"Wow, Squig," Clarissa said between chews. "This is some
seriously wicked pizza. Sam and I woulda been happy with toast,
or bagels or somethin'. But this, man, wooh! This stuff is the
tops!"
"Quit it," Squigley said, scowling.
"Quit what?" Clarissa asked, trying to look as surprised as
possible. "I'm not corn on the cob," Squigley said
sarcastically, "you don't need to butter me up. I don't need you
to tell me how good my pizza is. I'm the one who orders it, I
know how good it is. When my el-jocko brother goes shopping, he
buys tofu garbage. Tofu crust, tofu sauce, Tofu cheese. What the
heck is Tofu cheese, anyway? I order the good stuff 'cause when I
eat it, I don't wanna expectorate. Which brings me to the little
matter of the--"
Squigley's complexion paled. "--I don't even know what the
heck to call it in my garage!"
"It's a Chevy Nova," Sam said helpfully.
"Not the car!" Squigley half-yelled. "Though that's a scary
thing unto itself! I'm referring to the... the... thing in the car!"
Clarissa raised her hands in a conciliatory gesture. "Squig--
"-- I'm talkin'!" Squigley exclaimed, continuing
dangerously, "Now let me ask you a question, Clarissa. When you
drove in here, did you notice a sign out front that said, "Freak
Digestive Accident Victim Storage?"
"Squigley--"
Squigley growled. "ANSWER the question. Did you see a sign
out in front of my house that said, "FREAK DIGESTIVE ACCIDENT
VICTIM STORAGE?!"
Clarissa sighed and played along. "No, Squig. I didn't."
"You know why you didn't see that sign?
"Why?"
"'Cause storin' digestive accident victims ain't my business!"
"Squigley-"
"I ain't through! Now don't you understand that if my
brother comes home and finds that thing in the garage, I'm gonna
be executed. No arrest, no trial, no appeal-just flippin'
executed. AND I DON'T WANNA GET FLIPPING EXECUTED!"
"Squigley --"
Squigley went ballistic. "Don't 'Squigley' me! I can't be
Squigley'd! There's nothin' you can say that's gonna make me
forget how much I fear my brother! He'll be comin' home in less
than an hour and a half." The boy's complexion had gone totally
red, and it looked like he was ready to explode. "Make your
phone calls, talk to your people, than get the heck out of my
house! I'm not going to take the hit like I did last time!"
"Gotcha," Clarissa said, going a little pale and heading
for a phone.
"Who're you callin'"? Sam asked her.
"Unfortunately," Clarissa said slowly, "when it comes down
to stuff like this, there's only one person I can call."
"Fergus Darling here. Oh, hello sis. Any word on that
briefcase? Good, Excellent. Now bring it to me-whaddya mean you
can't? Oh, I see. I See. I SEE. Hmph. I fail to see your
difficulty, however."
Clarissa paced as she spoke into the phone. "Listen,
Ferguson. You've gotta appreciate what an explosive element this
Squigley situation is. If his big brother comes home from a hard
day's work and finds Deal--well, what's left of him--in his garage,
there's no telling what he'll do!"
Ferguson smiled as he held the phone to his ear. Squigley's
big brother was nothing to sneeze at. "Let us speak of the
unspeakable."
"Let's not," Clarissa said firmly. "You started this, and
you're gonna finish it. Because if we get taken out, so does your
precious little briefcase."
"I get it, sis," Ferguson said, nonplussed. "I've grasped
that. All I'm doing is contemplating the 'ifs.'"
Clarissa groaned. "I don't wanna hear about any 'ifs'."
What I wanna hear is: "you don't have any problems, Clarissa.
I'm on the case. Go back in there, chill out and wait for the
cavalry, which should be coming DIRECTLY!"
Ferguson smiled. "You don't have any problems, Clarissa.
I'm on the case. Go back in there, chill out and wait for The
Ferg, who should be coming directly. Feel better?"
"That's all you had to say."
"Okay, the address you gave me is forty minutes away. I'll
be there in ten. Bye, sis."
NINE MINUTES AND THIRTY-SEVEN SECONDS LATER
Sam and Clarissa stood outside the front of Squigley's
house, hands over their eyes, trying to block out the glare of the
early morning sun. A rumbling roar could be heard in the
distance.
"Could that be...?" Sam asked, his voice trailing off.
"Yup," Clarissa said, her voice a mixture of apprehension
and acknowledgment.
A huge dustcloud came into view, out of which shot a sleek,
jet black Pinto. Unlike normal Pintos, which were objects of
universal scorn and ridicule, this one inspired awe. Everything
about it was black in some way, from the tinted headlight covers,
to the black chrome bumpers and front grill, and of course, the
deep black windows.
Engine purring like a Formula 1's, the Pinto easily passed
by the duo, making an impossibly tight turn and roaring back
towards them, finally gliding to a precision stop in front of the
house.
Clarissa shook her head. As much as she loathed her
brother, there were definitely rare instances when his intellect,
which most times expressed itself in terms of threats, bluster
and rampant egoism, shone through as something else- a cold,
keen, calculating computer that worked with clockwork accuracy.
It was this side of Ferguson she was counting on now. Not
Ferguson Darling, the pest, or Fergus Darling the crime lord, but
"The Ferg", a no-nonsense troubleshooter whose only purpose in
life was to clean up the messes he'd started in order to cover
his own tracks.
With a smile, she remembered the first time "The Ferg" had
ever shown up. It was about the same time that her dad had
decided to build a new addition to the house, a combination game
room/library, which had ended up being the new home for his
architect stuff.
In order to prevent his sister from ever locking him in the
downstairs closet again, Ferguson had meticulously altered his
father's plans so that when the contractors had finished their
work, there was no downstairs closet anymore. Ferguson had conned
them into lowering the whole staircase-- and to the untrained eye,
it looked as if the house had always been built that way.
The door to the Pinto opened slowly, and out stepped
Ferguson, clad in an elegant tuxedo. His hands were covered in
tight leather gloves, and rectangular sunglasses covered his
eyes.
"Squigley," Ferguson said formally, looking past his
lackeys to the owner of the house-the only man who mattered at
this point.
"Yeah?" Squigley said nervously. Ferguson didn't look like
the wimpy, scheming brat he'd seen those years ago, trying to get
Clarissa and Sam's short-lived garage band to sign an agency
contract with him. This kid looked dangerous. Nonetheless, as the
boss of Clarissa and Sam, he was the cause of this whole messy
situation.
"I'm the Ferg. I solve problems." Ferguson stuck out a
gloved hand.
"Good, `cause we got one," Squigley said, ignoring the
proffered hand.
"So I heard," Ferguson replied calmly. "May I come in?"
"Please," Squigley said coldly. The two kids walked in the
house, flanked by Clarissa and Sam.
"I want to convey my gratitude with the help you're
providing on this matter," Ferguson said with no hint of
insincerity. "Let me assure you Squigley, my gratitude is worth
having."
Squigley nodded curtly.
"Let's get down to brass tacks. If I was informed
correctly, the clock is ticking, is that right, Squigley?"
"100%."
"Your brother..." Ferguson paused, checking a pad,
"...comes home at 9:30 in the AM, is that correct?"
"Uh-huh," Squigley said, a look of fear crossing his
features.
"I was led to believe that if he comes home and finds us
here, he wouldn't appreciate it."
"No, he won't."
Ferguson nodded, satisfied by the look on Squigley's face
that his sister had not indulged her tendency to exaggerate in
this instance.
"That give use forty minutes to get outta here, which, if
you do what I say when I say it, should be plenty. Now you have
a messed up freak dietary accident victim in a car, minus a head,
in a garage. Take me to it."
Clarissa, Sam and Squigley stood a respectful distance from
the foul-smelling, regurgitus covered vehicle, all of them doing
their best not to throw up at the disgusting sight.
Ferguson, for his part, quietly and calmly explored the
interior of the car, any revulsion he felt neatly suppressed
under his omnipresent veneer of clinical detachment.
"Squigley?" he said at length.
"Yes?" Squigley asked.
"I thought I smelled some pizza in there. Would you bring
me a slice?"
At the thought of eating in the sight of the mess in Sam's
car, Squigley rapidly produced a slice-slightly digested, and
smelling as bad as the car.
Ferguson sighed. "A slice from the kitchen, please? One
that hasn't been soaked liberally in your personal digestive
juices?"
Squigley nodded mutely and ran inside.
Turning to Sam, Ferguson continued his inspection. "How's
this car run? Any problems?"
"Tip top," Sam confirmed. "Uhh, what's going to happen to
it?"
Ferguson shook his head. "Put not the cart before the
horse, Samuel. Let us repair to the kitchen."
"How can he think of food at a time like this?" Sam asked
Clarissa incredulously.
"He's inhuman," Clarissa said, shrugging.
Pacing, and munching on his slice of pizza, Ferguson
quickly began laying out a plan of action.
Pointing to Sam and Clarissa, he tersely rapped, "You two.
Take what's left of the body, stick it in the trunk. Careful.
It's still digesting itself." Turning to Squigley, he nodded.
"Squigley, this looks to be a pretty domesticated house.
That would lead me to believe that you have a bunch of cleaners
and cleansers, am I correct?"
"Yeah," Squigley said. "Under the sink."
"Good," Ferguson replied, nodding in satisfaction. "What I
need you two to do," he said, again pointing to Clarissa and Sam,
"is to take those cleaning products and clean the inside of
the car. And I mean fast, fast, fast. You need to go in the backseat,
scoop up all those little pieces of cauliflower-"
"Uhh," Clarissa interjected, "That's not cauliflower."
"I know that!" Ferguson shot back. "Just get it out of
there. Wipe down the upholstery - That part doesn't need to be
spic and span, you don't need to eat off it."
"Don't mention eating," Sam and Squigley chimed in unison,
going green.
Ferguson exhaled in frustration, then quickly covered any
sign of dissatisfaction. "Give it a good once over. What you
need to take care of are the really messy parts.
The pools of stuff that have collected, you gotta soak that up.
But the windows are a different story. Windshield especially.
Them you really clean. Get the Windex, do a good job."
Turning to Squigley, Ferguson began slowly, knowing his
next request would be more difficult. "Now Squigley, we need to
raid your linen closet. I need blankets, I need comforters, I need
quilts, I need bedspreads. The thicker the better, the darker the better.
No whites, can't use 'em. We need to camouflage the interior of the
car. We're gonna line the front seat and the backseat and the
floor boards with quilts and blankets. If a cop
stops us and starts poking around in the car, the subterfuge
won't last. But at a glance, the car will appear to be normal."
As Squigley took this in numbly, Ferguson snapped his
fingers. "Squigley -- lead the way, you two-- get to work."
As Ferguson and Squigley turned and headed for the linen
closet, Clarissa called out "A `please' would be nice."
Ferguson's back stiffened, and he spun around. "Come
again?" he asked archly.
"I said a `please' would be nice," Clarissa repeated, hands
on hips.
Ferguson took a deliberate step towards her.
"Clarissa, what the heck are you doing?!" Sam asked in a
panic.
"He can't just boss us around like this, Sam." Clarissa
said calmly and confidently.
"Man," Sam hissed back in a whisper. "You just can't resist
a chance to lock it up with him, can you? Even when you need his
sorry-"
"Get it straight, sis," Ferguson began coldly. "I'm not
here to say "please." I'm here to tell you want to do. And if
self-preservation is an instinct you possess, you better obey and
do it quick. I'm here to help. If my help's not appreciated,
lotsa luck. You can cruise the streets in your filthmobile for
all I care."
"It ain't that way, Mr. Fergus," Sam said as Clarissa shot
him a very angry look. "Your help is definitely appreciated."
Clarissa's eyes narrowed, and in a very low, strained
voice, she said, "I won't let you bark orders at me. I don't care
what you're calling yourself this minute, Ferg."
Ferguson took off his sunglasses specifically so his sister
could see him locking gazes with her. "If I'm curt with you,"
Ferguson said with barely controlled rage, "it's because time is
a factor. I think fast, I talk fast, and I need you to act fast
if you want to get out of this. So," he concluded
condescendingly, "pretty please, with sugar on top."
Clarissa smiled, but frowned inwardly. Her little victory
had been nothing of the kind. And by the looks on Sam's and
Squigley's faces, everyone knew it.
In Squigley's bedroom, Ferguson was burning up the phone
lines while Squigley gathered his linen.
"1974 Chevy Nova, White. Nothing, except for the mess
inside. About twenty minutes. Nobody who'll be missed much. See
you soon."
Putting down the phone, Ferguson looked at Squigley. "How
are we doing Squigley?"
"Mr. Fergus," Squigley said nervously, handing Ferguson a
pile of linen, "you gotta understand somethin' -"
"Ferg," Ferguson said calmly. "Squigley, -- please, for
this operation, Ferg."
"You gotta understand something, Ferg," Squigley said
nervously, "I want to help you guys out and all, but that's my
brother's best linen. It was a present from our dad, and he
isn't with us anymore--"
Ferguson held up a hand. "Your father obviously wasn't a
millionaire." He looked around at the simple house appraisingly.
"No," Squigley said. "He ran off and joined the merchant
marines. All this is paid for by my Brother's grunge band."
"Well, your Uncle Ferg is. And I'm positive if your dad
was a millionaire, they he'd've furnished you with a nice house,
which your Uncle Ferg is more than happy to do."
Ferguson produced a roll of bills as thick as a billiard
ball. "I like brownstone myself, that's what's on my house. How
'bout you Squigley, you like Brownstone?"
"But the only Brownstones I've ever heard of are in
Brooklyn, New York," Squigley replied slowly.
"I can fix that," Ferguson replied flatly.
"Brownstone's nice," Squigley said, hungrily grabbing the
bills and forgetting all about linen sheets or soon-to-be-living-
alone mean older brothers.
In Squigley's garage, Clarissa and Sam were inside the car
cleaning it up. Sam was in the front seat washing windows, while
Clarissa worked in the back seat, picking up gobs of
"cauliflower". Both were twice as filthy as before they'd cleaned
up.
"Ugh," Clarissa said, looking briefly at a piece of
"cauliflower". "I will never forgive you for this, Sam. This is some
messed up, repugnant stuff! Why'd you go feed Deal that sandwich!?"
"Did you ever hear of the philosophy," Sam said slowly,
"that once a man admits he's wrong, he's immediately forgiven for
all wrong-doings?"
"Sam," Clarissa said flatly, "I've had it with you and
philosophy today. First that situationism stuff, and now this
instant `I'm not in trouble `cuz I apologized' stuff. Whoever
made that up never had to pick up little pieces of brai- ahem,
cauliflower from the back seat of a car with her fingers because
of your insane mistake!"
Sam quit rubbing the interior of the windshield. "I have
limits, Clarissa. And you're pushing them. I'm a race car and you
got me in the red. It's dangerous to drive a race car when it's
in the red. It could blow."
"Don't talk to me about cars!" Clarissa replied as her knee
landed in a puddle of something. For once she was glad she was
clad in this black and white monkey suit. If any of this had
gotten on her good clothes-- hmm, she thought. It'd probably be
invisible. She turned back to Sam. " You're getting ready to
blow? Every time my fingers touch brainyflower I go
thermonuclear! In fact, what the heck am I doin' in the back?
This is your fault, We're trading! I'm washing windows and you're
pickin' up what's left of Deal's, umm, cauliflower."
Within a quarter of an hour, thanks to Clarissa and Sam's
cleaning job and Squigley's linen, what had looked like a
portable slaughterhouse now passed for a non-descript motor
vehicle.
As Ferguson circled the car, muttering his approval, Sam
and Clarissa stood back, their clothes a stinking fetid mess, but
proud of their work nonetheless.
"Fine job," Ferguson said, impressed. "You may get out of
this yet."
"I can't believe that's the same car," Squigley said under
his breath, clearly in awe.
"Let's not go overboard," Ferguson snapped. "Phase one,
clean the car, is complete. This moves us right along to phase
two, which is to clean you two."
In Squigley's backyard, Clarissa and Sam stood side by side
in their black suits, covered in filth. The Ferg held a garden
hose with a gun nozzle attached.
"Uhh," Sam asked. "What's that for?"
"We've got to get you two clean," Ferguson said flatly. "Strip."
"What?!" Clarissa and Sam exclaimed simultaneously.
"Whaddya think this is?!" Clarissa yelled. "A Movieline
magazine shoot or something?!"
"You can forget the stripping idea," Sam said firmly.
"I wasn't really expecting you to go along with it anyway.
Just had to get you off your guard."
"Eh?" Sam and Clarissa asked each other in unison.
Grinning, Ferguson squeezed the trigger on the hose's gun nozzle,
blasting Sam and Clarissa with a jet of high velocity water.
"FERGUSON! THE WATER'S FREEZING!" Clarissa yelled, getting
hit in the face by a stream of water for her trouble.
"Soap," Ferguson said to Squigley, who lowered a bar of
soap into the water stream. Within seconds, Clarissa and Sam were
covered head to toe in white, bubbly foam, them and their clothes
soaked from head to toe.
Turning off the water, Ferguson grinned. "You'll find
towels and replacement clothing around by the side of the house. I
selected the wardrobe myself. Toss the soiled clothing into the
garbage bag when you're done."
"You mean we have to change outside!?" Clarissa asked
angrily.
"It's secluded!" Ferguson shot back. "And you'll go one at
a time. There's no way you're tracking soap and grime into my man
Squigley's house."
Waving, Ferguson indicated that Sam should go first.
Nodding and dripping a trail of foam, Sam stalked around to
the side of the house.
"I don't believe this!" Sam could be heard yelling. "I'm
not wearing this!"
"Hurry up, Sam!" Clarissa yelled, shivering. "This morning
air is chilly!"
After a few moments, Clarissa and Sam again stood side by
side, Sam in an MC Hammer style outfit and Clarissa in a funny
dress, wearing a "Death to Klingons" T-Shirt, both teenagers
looking a million miles from the cool, confident, black suited
people they had been before.
"Perfect," Ferguson said, allowing some evil glee to slip
through. "Perfect. We couldn't've planned this better. You guys
look like... what do they look like, Squigley?"
"Dorks," Squigley said, laughing. "They look like a couple
of dorks."
"Ha ha ha." Clarissa said flatly. "They're your clothes,
stupid."
"I guess you just gotta know how to wear them," Squigley
said smarmily.
"Yeah, well, we're not the experts on wearing dorky outfits
that you are."
The duo got ready to leave.
"Wait a minute," Squigley said, "before you guys split, I
wanna get a picture of this."
"Squigley," Clarissa said tiredly, "have you forgotten
about your big brother coming home?"
"It won't take a second," Squigley said, stifling a laugh.
"Aww man," Sam protested.
"Sorry -- my house, my rules," Squigley said with glee.
Ferguson leaned on the side of his Pinto and pointed to
Sam's Chevy Nova.
"We're going to a place called 'Endless Mike's Truck and
Tow.' Endless Mike is sympathetic to our dilemma. Now I'll drive
the tainted car. Clarissa, you ride with me."
"I don't want to ride with you!" Clarissa shot back.
"I'm not letting you touch my Pinto," Ferguson said icily.
"Sam, you follow in my Pinto."
"Cool!" Sam said, his face twisting into a frown. "Wait.
What is gonna happen to my car?"
Ferguson frowned. "Best not to dwell on that now. Just be
sure to take good care of my car. If I get it back any different
than I gave it, Endless Mike's gonna be disposing of two bodies.
Let's move."
"Wait a minute," Squigley said. "I wanna take a picture of
you guys."
"We don't have time," Clarissa protested.
"We have time for one picture. You and Sam get together."
Clarissa and Sam stood next to each other.
"Okay Ferg, get in there."
"I'm not a model," Ferguson protested.
"After what a cool guy I've been, I can't believe that you
treat me like this. It's the only thing I asked."
"Okay," Ferguson relented. "One photo and we go."
"Everybody say `Pepsi'!" Squigley commanded.
"I am not saying Pepsi," Clarissa protested.
"Smile, Ferg," Squigley said.
"I don't smile in pictures," Ferguson replied curtly.
There was a brief flash, and the moment was preserved
forever.
In the head office of Endless Mike's tow yard, which was
actually little more than a dilapidated shack in the center of a
junkyard, Ferguson and Endless Mike concluded their negotiations
via the exchange of five thousand dollar notes.
"Your business is always welcome," Endless Mike Hellstrom
said with a smile.
"I would think by now I've earned the equivalent of
Frequent Flyer miles," Ferguson said with a smile.
"I'll tell ya what," Mike said, "if you ever need it, I'll
dispose of one part for free. Your choice."
"How 'bout an upgrade?" Ferguson asked. "You dispose of a
whole one for the price of a part."
The two of them shared a laugh. "That one I need to speak
with my accountant about," Mike said with a grin.
Exiting the tow yard, Ferguson met Clarissa and Sam by his
Pinto, which, much to his relief, was in perfect condition.
"Are we cool?" Clarissa asked Ferguson.
"No," he said slowly. Observing his sister and Sam's
worried reaction, he concluded "you're dorks," with satisfaction.
"Very funny," Sam said tiredly. "So where's my car?"
Ferguson pointed to a pickup truck which was carrying a
large cube on its flatbed. Clarissa grasped the answer well
before Sam did.
"Uhh, Sam?" She asked. "I just want to take this moment to
say I'm sorry for snapping at you like I did earlier."
"Forget it," Sam said with a smile. "I did mess up, didn't
I?" It was then he noted something familiar about the cube on the
back of the truck. "No..." he exhaled.
"Yup," Ferguson said proudly. "compact, efficient,
untraceable."
"YOU REINCARNATED MY CAR AS A PAPERWEIGHT!" Sam bawled.
"Well executed, if I do say so myself," Ferguson replied,
smiling. Sam made a choking noise.
"Relax," Ferguson said coolly. "I'll give you and sis a
ride back into town. And after that I'll hook you up with a new
set of wheels."
"That's decent of you," Sam said, impressed.
"I'll add it to your obligation to me, of course," Ferguson
said flatly, getting into the drivers' seat of his car. "A few
more years in my employ ought to do nicely."
"Swell," Sam said, slumping into the back seat of the
luxuriously appointed vehicle.
"Where to?" Ferguson asked.
"You know I could go for some breakfast," Clarissa said.
"Want to have breakfast with me?"
"Sure," Sam replied, exhausted by the morning's events. He
just hoped things wouldn't get any crazier today.
"Who's that?" the boys started to protest.
"So right now I don't look even remotely cool," Clarissa
said to the crowd, acknowledging her outfit and generally messy
condition. "But I'm a person, you know, not just an object. I've
got qualities that go beyond simple appearances. And so does Eve
here, if she'd only let them show through!"
"Boys," Eve replied sweetly, "which would you rather have?
A long conversation with geek girl over there, or fabulously
photographed stills of my tres cool self?"
"Hey!" Clarissa retorted. "I know lots of stuff about cars,
video games, art, movies, and just life in general! All you have
to do is take the time to talk to me about it! Are you even interested in
talking to Eve? What're you gonna do with a picture of her,
anyway?" She paused, looked at the hyperactive freshmen and
frowned. "Don't answer that!"
To Sam, who was still standing in the audience, it was like
there were two Clarissas on stage, battling it out. One was the
real her, and the other was this larger than life cliche', a sort
of parody. Unfortunately, the parody seemed to be winning.
"PICTURES!" the crowd yelled. "WE WANT PICTURES! PICTURES!
PICTURES!"
"what about conversation?" Clarissa pressed
desperately. Most of the crowd hissed in reply.
"Conversation is off-topic," Eve whispered snidely. "This
is all `you' are to them, Clarissa! A photogenic girl with funky
mismatched clothes! Take out the photogenic," she waved at
Clarissa's shabby state with contempt, her voice raising triumphantly, "and
you're less than nothing! Dirt city!"
"Fine," Clarissa replied, jumping down off the table, and
pushing her way through the crowd with Sam following. As they
reached a booth near the exit, Clarissa turned and looked back at
the figure of Eve, who was standing above her crowd of
worshippers like some kind of pagan goddess. She pushed open the
exit door, but then turned around, slowly and confidently.
"Like someone once said," Clarissa yelled, as Eve and the
crowd turned to look at her. "You're nothing but a walking
shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets her hour upon the
stage, and then is heard no more."
A hush fell over the crowd. A few understood what Clarissa
had said, but most were just trying to figure out the antiquated
prose.
"Didn't know I knew Shakespeare, didja?" Clarissa asked the
slackjawed crowd. "Can't get that from a photograph."
Eve watched as Clarissa turned her back to her, and balled
her fists in impotent rage. No amount of pretty smiles would
erase the stinging truth of Clarissa's words.
"Sam," Clarissa asked quietly as the crowd continued to
gawk at her, "remember when I told you about that big Mack truck
called the Future?"
"Yeah."
"I dunno. I think it's ready to take us somewhere new." She
glanced back one last time at Eve.
"I think I see what you mean," Sam replied slowly. Looking
down at the booth next to him, he saw the coffee Clarissa had
ordered earlier. "Coffee?"
Clarissa shook her head. "No thanks. It's old n' cold." She
pushed the drink aside.
"I think we oughta leave now," Sam replied as he felt the
myriad eyes of the crowd boring into his back.
Clarissa nodded. "That's probably a good idea."
Then, to the amazement of the crowd, the girl wearing a
"death to Klingons" T-shirt and her weird friend in the MC Hammer
pants walked out of the MacDrekky's without saying another word.
I did it, didn't I? Created the evil Ferginator. He'd
copied my techniques during his terrible twos or something, and
in his own evil way, refined them into a science. And, fettered
as I am by notions of ethics and fair play, there's no way I can
stop this amoral creature without becoming just like him! I've
brought doom to the land!