The Edger Collection

by David Beem

  The Cow in the Porn Store

  The store is not large. The lighting is dim, yellow, and hazy. The stench of barn and patchouli permeates everything; it is in the worn corduroy sofa behind the register; it is in the drab, no-color carpet, the beads hanging in the doorway. And it is in the box of buttless red leather pants on clearance for only $7.99 in Aisle Two.

  Until this moment, it has been business as usual in the El Cerrito Adult Emporium, where the highlight of Dhruv’s nights is to harry the sneaking underage teenage boys, bellowing at the top of his lungs, and swatting the Purple Paddle of Passion at their fleeing rear ends. But on this night, even the teenagers are in short supply. The place is dead. Has been for hours. And then…barn stench.

  Dhruv had just stepped out for a quick trip to the john. The Maker’s Mark he’d started an hour earlier had broken the seal. He’d figured, what’s the worst that can happen? Not like he can’t keep an ear on things from the back. The orgasm doorbell’s plenty loud. That’s what drew him out, hands dripping wet, shirt corner crammed through his fly hole.

  The brown cow’s chewing mandibles are hypnotic. Peaceful. Like it doesn’t have a care in the world, despite it having wandered into his store. Dhruv folds his arms. His forehead tightens. Is this cow even eighteen?

  He glances over his shoulder. No one there. Good. No one around to get the wrong idea. He certainly hadn’t left that pile of hay in the middle of the store. He isn’t trying to attract cows. Cows aren’t his thing. His thing is to stock a cornucopia of pornography. And while he did recently shelve a DVD called Graze Anatomy and Udder Offal Tales, never once did he imagine selling it to a literal cow.

  Dhruv scans the four security mirrors. Whoops—not alone. Aisle Ten. Short guy. Asian. Mid-twenties. Long bangs sticking out like black straw from beneath a pantyhose cap. Not one of the regulars.

  “This your cow?” asks Dhruv.

  The customer’s gaze darts left and right. Dhruv’s stomach knots. The customer snatches an inflated blowup doll from the display stand and squeezes it against his chest.

  “Hey,” says Dhruv, uncrossing his arms. “Stop that!”

  The customer squeezes harder, and the doll’s head swells and tips back like a pornographic Pez dispenser.

  “Hey!” yells Dhruv.

  Yanking the pantyhose down over his face, the customer bolts for the door.

  “Stop!” yells Dhruv at the same time a loud slap issues from the cow’s backside. The animal squeals and lurches forward, a large dart now protruding from its flank. Dhruv, his heart racing, scampers backward—

  A crash from behind wheels him around.

  A second man emerges from beneath a toppled lingerie rack in Aisle Two. One bra is hooked to his ear and a second is hooked to the diving flippers he has inexplicably worn into the store. Tall, salt-and-pepper hair, linen shirt, Bermuda trunks. This man’s eyes widen at the sight of Dhruv, and then he reaches into the pile of lingerie at his feet. Bras, G-strings, and corsets are chucked into the air before he comes up with a dart gun and clomps for the door like it’s the Frog Olympics.

  Dhruv dives for cover behind a six-foot-three cardboard zucchini. Can dart guns shoot through cardboard zucchinis? He has no idea, but the erectile-dysfunction display is the nearest hiding spot, so it will have to do. Pulling in his arms and legs, panting, he tracks the invaders in the security mirrors.

  The doorbell emits an ecstatic moan as the thief and blowup doll exit first, followed by a second, louder moan as the flipper-footed gunman triggers it again. He swats the beads hanging in the doorway, shoves the thief’s back, and chances a glance over his shoulder—but the cow skids to a halt at Aisle One.

  A droplet of sweat falls from the tip of Dhruv’s nose. The drubbing inside his chest won’t slow. He silently berates himself for having ever stocked Graze Anatomy. He thought he’d been so clever at the time. Oh, look at this title. I bet it’s a real cash cow. He’d like to go back and slap himself. He couldn’t say whether the movie had caused all this trouble. He only knew stocking it seemed to him now to be the mother of all cock-in-bull ideas, and one he was unlikely to repeat.

  In the security mirror, the cow’s dizzying black eyeball scans the movies on the shelf. Enlarged nostrils flare. A tail swats back and forth. The cow snatches a plastic case in her mouth and lurches back to a sprint, catching the still-closing door just in time and nearly blasting it off the hinges. The door rebounds off the exterior wall and bangs shut. The hanging beads crash to the ground and scatter. Then—silence.

  Dhruv does nothing at first but pant and sweat from behind the cardboard zucchini. A high-pitched tone glows like a clarinet in his ears. A DVD case, one near the spot where the cow had stolen the other, slides from the top shelf and slaps the floor. Minutes later, Dhruv emerges from his hiding spot and picks his way through the beads to the front door. He flips the bolt. He turns the sign from OPEN to CLOSED. He pulls down the security gate and locks the bottom. Having managed all this without further incident, Dhruv then resolves to do what any self-respecting porn proprietor in his situation would do—he fetches his bottle of Maker’s Mark and commits himself to finishing what he’d started over the next hour and a half.

  And he vows never again to stock animal porn of any kind.

  Ted, Ed, and the A-Team

  A black Escalade pulls into a 7-Eleven parking lot, headlights off. Its two silent occupants track the spectacle unfolding across the street at the El Cerrito Adult Emporium.

  There, a vintage black-and-metallic-gray Vandura squeals to a halt, momentarily blocking their line of sight to the porn store’s entrance. Its rooftop spoiler, black-and-red mag wheels, and signature red stripe are identical to the vehicle used in the eighties seminal television hit, The A-Team. Dust covers the back window where someone has written I pity the fool. The front windows are down. The radio is up. The theme song to the television show is blaring into the nighttime California sky.

  A man in a stocking mask, carrying a blowup sex doll under his left arm, rounds the front of the van. He flings open the door and shoves the driver over before tossing the sex doll in after him, buckling up, and peeling out. The theme song to the A-Team melts into the night.

  Next, a stampeding cow with a DVD case in its mouth charges down the street.

  The two men in the black Escalade exchange puzzled glances, sit forward in their seats, watch, wait, tense…

  The owner of the Adult Emporium closes the store, and the two men slump back in their seats. They’re too late. Their target—a dart-gun-toting neurologist in diving flippers—has eluded them once again.

  “Told you we shouldn’t have stopped for drive-through.”

  “It’s demoralizing is what it is. What say we leave the flippers out of the report?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  The two men are wearing Ray-Bans at night. They are dressed in identical black suits, ties, and wing-tipped black shoes. They’re holding identical .300 Win Mag sniper rifles. They’re also wearing identical Fruit of the Loom underpants. Their names are Ted and Ed.

  “Fine,” says Ted. “So we lost him again. We’ve been losing this guy for going on twenty years, so, you know, business as usual there. But, I mean, we gotta kill somebody, though. Right?”

  “Kill somebody?” Ed shrugs. “Well, yeah. By all means, kill away.” Tapping the dashboard clock, he adds, “But no way we’re makin’ the eleven fifty to Miami.”

  “No,” agrees Ted, targeting the cow, which is waiting for the light to change one block farther on. “What say I pop Moo Town?”

  “The cow? What’d the cow ever do to you?” says Ed. “How ’bout that guy there?”

  Ted’s scope pans across the El Cerrito Adult Emporium to a graffiti-laden Dumpster where
a butt and legs are flailing over the top like a malfunctioning squid.

  “Two points,” mutters Ed, gazing sideways at his partner.

  Wordlessly, Ted shifts the rifle, bracing it into his shoulder. He lines up his sights, squeezes the trigger. The gun recoils. The silencer mutes the shot. Across the street, the owner of the butt and legs falls into the Dumpster. Ted passes Ed the rifle before turning the key in the ignition. The engine roars to life. The headlights turn on.

  “Where to?” asks Ed.

  “HQ,” replies Ted. “Fred, Ned, Red, and Zed are probably wondering what the hell’s goin’ on.”

  Ed arches an eyebrow. “Not Ked?”

  Ted identically arches an eyebrow. “Ked? You kidding? Psh. That guy’s in bed.”

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  The living…

  Edger Bonkovich (Dork)

  Mike Dame (CEO, Founder, InstaTron)

  Mary Thomas (Mike Dame’s Personal Assistant)

  Caleb Montana (Quarterback, Los Angeles Chargers; Butt Model, Calvin Klein)

  Wang and Shmuel (Stoners, The A-Team)

  Fabio (Edger’s Best Friend)

  Gran (Edger’s Dear Old Gran)

  Shep (Edger’s Gran’s Former Marine Boyfriend)

  Doctor Alexandra Hamilton (International Woman of Mystery)

  Cluck-n-Pray, Team El Cerrito

  Brad (Manager)

  Christine (Team Member)

  The Apostles: Mathew, Mark, Luke, & John (Team Members)

  Consuelo (Mouth-Fart Stylist, Drug Dealer, Team Member)

  Cluck-n-Pray, Team Mission Gorge

  Judas S. Carry-Out (Franchise Owner)

  Blake and Sheldon (Team Members)

  Bad Guys

  Chicowgo (Cow)

  Yourmajesty Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster (Defensive Tackle, Green Bay Packers)

  Ted, Ed, Ked, Ned, etc. (Nostradamus Agents)

  …and the dead

  Herodotus (Busted Greek Classic, Father of History)

  Bruce Lee (Martial Arts Legend)

  Lieutenant Trevor Killmaster (Navy SEAL)

  Tim from Philly (A guy named Tim who used to live in Philly)

  Indiana Tim (A guy named Tim who used to live in Indiana)

  Hattori Hanzo (Iga Ninja)

  Harry Houdini (Magician, Bit of a Dick)

  Samson (Strong Man, Ancient Romance Novel Cover Model)

  Michael Jackson (King of Pop)

  Bubba (Bomb Expert, Cutter of Red Wires)

  Historical Note from your Father of History, Herodotus (c. 484—c. 425 BCE)

  It has been said every story has to start somewhere. And it’s good this has been said, because otherwise there’d be no one starting anything and nothing for anyone to read. As advice goes, it’s solid. It’s right up there with, Careful, Robin, both hands on the Batrope. Or, When the Chinese buffet reopens, proceed with caution.

  It’s the contradictory advice that gets a person into trouble. The early bird gets the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, but better safe than sorry. Advice like that is the mental equivalent of a bird crashing into a glass door. It can be frustrating to constantly be told to get down to business if you’re in the business of going up, like, say, an astronaut. Especially since, in space, up stops being up. It can be sideways, diagonal, forward, or backward. Space is relative, and relativity tells us First Mouse can teleport the cheese straight into the hole where it can then be shared with Second Mouse and everyone’s happy. Everyone but Early Bird, because in this scenario, all the hungry neighbor birds conspired and murdered Early Bird in its sleep. They did this, first, because they were a band of homicidal maniacs with a long list of priors; second, because Early Bird was annoying everyone with its smug go-get-’em attitude; and third, because Early Bird had long ago lost the Eye of the Tiger and had become far too fat and slow to escape, due to constantly getting all the good worms.

  Where were we?

  Ah, yes. Every story has to start somewhere. Ours begins with a simple dork by the name of Edger Bonkovich. Prepare now to travel into his mind through the shared psychic network known as the Collective Unconscious. Prepare to know what he knows, feel what he feels, and think as he thinks…

  In other words, prepare to be disappointed.

  I’ll grant you, Mr. Bonkovich may not look like much at first. But, as they say, desperate times call for desperate measures. Or do they say better safe than sorry? It’s one of those things. The point is, the forces of evil are afoot, and the world needs its hero…

  Chapter One

  “Welcome to Über Dork,” I monotone, tapping my name tag. “My name is Edger, Ed-jer, and I’ll be your Dork. How can I help you?”

  I look up from my workstation, and my heart stops beating. Time chokes on the universe, which stops, rolls over, legs up, dead.

  Before me is an angel sent from heaven.

  I swallow, but it’s like swallowing the sands of Tatooine.

  Cough, cough. Hack.

  Heart kicks back in.

  For one timeless and exquisite moment, I escape the earthly confines of my job. There are no computers to fix. There are no laptops to sell. The tablets, cell phones, and smart TVs are gone too. The Über Dork fades away, and between one moment and the next, I find myself gliding on a rainbow slide in the sky—with her.

  Cue the bow-chicka-bow-bow music.

  This isn’t the first time I’ve seen her. Usually I’m in the mall, before or after my shift. She’ll be shopping. I’ll be trying not to stare. Sometimes I see her talking to Frank, a custodian I know. And one time, I saw some teenagers litter in the food court, and she went out of her way to pick it up and throw it in the trash. Which, let’s face it, is pretty much rarer than spotting a pink Wookiee canoodling with a crapulent Klingon.

  But now she’s here.

  “Edger Bonkovich?” she says, smiling.

  She knows my name. The angel knows my name.

  She’s talking again—but—dang it, I missed it. Brain rewinds, plays it back. She has a slight accent. It makes her sound intelligent. I hope she’s intelligent. Or maybe she’s CIA and her cover is working at the Wienerlicious Hot Dog Shop like that one girl from that one show. Maybe she’s come bearing the Intersect and I’m about to embark on a life of international espionage, spies, and fantastic save-the-world feats of heroism. Maybe I even get to kiss the girl.

  “My name is Mary Thomas,” she says. “I work for Mike Dame.”

  Nope. Not like the TV show, then.

  She reaches into her purse, designer purse, I have no idea what kind, I mean, come on, I’m a guy, but this purse looks expensive, and so, right, she’s pulling out this business card and smiling, and it’s incredible, it’s like that minty gum commercial, right down to the little “ping” you hear when the light gleams off her teeth, and I know then and there I want to be friends with that smile, best friends, except that doesn’t make any sense, because you can’t be best friends with a smile.

  Oh my God, I’m practically panting.

  “Mr. Dame’d like you to take off early tonight.” She slides the business card over the counter. “He wants you to come up to his office. Nine o’clock sharp.”

  “Is this carbon fiber?”

  “Hmm? Oh. Yes.”

  Mike Dame

  CEO and Founder, InstaTron

  San Diego, California

  “Hey,” she says. “Are you okay?”

  Edge, get it together. Say something!

  “Meep,” I say. “Meep.”

  Okay, say nothing! Say nothing!

  Brain shifts gears: What am I doing? Right. Mike Dame wants to see me—wait—Mike Dame wants to see me?

  “Ah-hah,” I say, studying the card again. Mike Dame. Actual boss of my boss’s boss’s boss’s boss’s boss. “Wow. So, uh, did Mr. Dame say what this is about?”

  Her eyes sparkle. “He didn’t give me a reason. I assumed you two knew each other.”

  My mouth feels like someo
ne’s drawing a Charlie Brown smile on it. Probably there are Valentine’s Day hearts popping up around my head. She’s looking expectantly at me, and I remember I’m supposed to be doing something other than extruding cartoon animation from my face.

  “If you’d like,” she says, “I can clear it with the store manager for you.” She steals a glance over her shoulder. “I’m not sure Mr. Dame would like having to call down himself. Mr. Bonkovich, you do know Über Dork is our subsidiary. InstaTron is the holding company.”

  “Subsidiary,” I mutter. “Holding company.”

  And now she’s frowning at me like I forgot to pay my brain bill. Did I forget to pay my brain bill? And to think, just a second ago I was worried about her not being intelligent.

  “Psh,” I say. “Of course.” Her frown smooths out. “It’s just… Mike Dame. You know?”

  “I know. Mike Dame. Shall I clear it, then?”

  “Hmm? Oh. You mean with my momijer. Manager!”

  Her gaze drops for a second, then flits up to meet mine, and it’s like getting popped between the eyes with a baseball, if a baseball felt good and gave you the warm fuzzies. Otherwise, it’s nothing like getting popped between the eyes with a baseball.

  “Ah…right,” she says. “So, that’s your manager over there?”

  She points. I nod. This much, at least, goes smoothly.

  “Very well,” she says. “I’ll tell Mr. Dame you’re coming. Mr. Bonkovich.”

  She gives me a flirty wave with her fingers, and I watch, paralyzed, as she glides off to corner Jama Jan, our store manager. Mary Thomas reaches into her purse and hands out another one of those outrageously expensive business cards. At which point, the next customer steps up, blocking my view. Big guy. Wide. Black leather jacket.

  “Yo. S’up?” he says.

  But rational thought has left the building. Big Wide Black Leather Jacket Person is blocking my view of the Divine Being. I weave left. I weave right. I lean way, way over to steal a last, fleeting glimpse of Mary Thomas heading out into the wash of yellows and reds of the setting San Diego sun.