I am sitting in a car with a priceless artifact in the passenger seat. I even did up its seatbelt. This is probably the oddest thing I’ve ever seen since I walked in on Jackson taking a shower in the bathroom sink.
You would think my options right about now would be pretty self-evident: take the Lemming, escape to Belize, and never think about this fucking hellhole again. I might even bring the car with me. Who knows.
But I remember what I wrote in my third-grade journal, way back before life had kicked me in the face this many times: I say to myself “before you escape this fucking hellhole, remember to kick Orlando Powderpuff’s ass.”
That may not be his actual last name. But he was one of those kids that was so effeminate that even the jocks didn’t beat him up, because it just felt wrong to be hitting a girl. He talked with a lisp because he thought it sounded cool. I hated him the second I saw his too-tight pink sequin sweater-vest. He defined a new kind of human for me at the time: the ones who are so fucking odd that nobody else wants to go near them with a ten foot pole.
The big problem with Orlando was that he knew he was invincible, so he thought he could get away with anything. So one day, after I failed to bow to his “lovely, dahling!” whims and give him my calculator in math class, he retaliated by pouring itching powder down my pants. To this day, if you reach for my belt, I’ll break your fucking hand.
Every year for New Year’s, my resolution is to go to Orlando’s house and fill his pants with pins. And then slap him on the ass.
Problem is, Orlando’s given up his fairy misdemeanour, and now bench presses small buildings before having sex with fifteen women at once. I’m pretty sure he’ll kick my ass if I try to get revenge. He was the first gay guy I ever knew, but he was fake gay. Not many people do it that way, but he did. Possibly only to fuck with me.
But this leads me to my real problem: if history is any indicator, I probably don’t have the real Lemming with me right now. I’ve probably picked up the decoy, and I’ll get to Belize and find myself a good black market dealer who will take one look at it and say “ha ha, sucker!” and I’ll die in poverty from whatever Third World disease they have going on down there.
I think the prudent thing to do is to figure out if I’ve got the real deal. Luckily, I have myself a handy sheet of names of all the art-like experts in town! I take out the paper, skip the douchebags who’ve already pissed me off, and dial the last name on the list: Geoffrey Wyndham-Price.
I wait for a second, then notice I hear a ringing noise. I fish around in my pocket and pull out Ryoma’s phone. That’s odd. I hang up my phone, and am about to dial the second name when I hear the familiar theme to the Ewoks, which means Jackson wants to talk.
“Hey furball,” I say happily.
“I need to hear you say something,” he says, almost weepy.
“Masturbate by yourself, bud,” I say.
“I need you to say you’re sorry,” he says. “I need you to tell me you’re sorry for what you did.”
I sigh. Really. I don’t have time for this shit.
“Jackson,” I say. “You’re out of your fucking mind. I’m keeping your money safe for you. If those idiots in Flatscreen City can’t wrap their minds around that, you’re probably better off without them. I’m not apologizing for saving your hairy ass from that. If you can’t accept that, then I hope you enjoy working for Ping. She only employs chicks, so I guess that tells you something about how she sees you.”
He’s about to protest when I shut the phone. Fuck that, I’ve got bigger fish to fry. I try dialling the next number on the list, but before I can finish, the phone rings again.
“What?” I snap. “I’m busy.”
“Marx!” yells Jimmy Scaz from a speakerphone. “I thought you were dead!”
“I am, Jimmy. You’ve dialled the afterlife hotline. The submissive Mexican teen hotline starts with 866.”
“You’ve got a set of balls on you,” he says.
“Also a different number,” I say.
“You think you’re pretty smart, don’t ya?”
“I’m smarter than you, at least. Though that’s not saying much at all. How did you get this number, anyway? Did someone read you the phone book?”
He starts to laugh. It’s like hearing a squirrel getting chopped up by a food processor on low speed. I can’t wait to be rid of this guy and everything he stands for. With the money I get from the Lemming, I will set up a special elite squad of mercenaries dedicated to blowing up all hair gel factories around the world. I’ll be a folk hero!
“You don’t have many friends,” he says. “That’s no way to live.”
“Jimmy, I keep telling you: they’re not friends if you have to chain them to the floor in your basement.”
“You know what they say about enemies, right?” says Jimmy. “They’re easier to get than friends, but cost a lot more.”
“Listen,” I say, holding the phone away from my face to make it sound like I’m going away. “I’d love to chat, but I’m kinda busy right now. Have a nice life, Jimmy. The next time I see you, we’ll both be in Hell.”
I hang up the phone, pick up the paper again, and just about wet myself at the sight of Jimmy and the Associate outside my window, guns pointing at me.
