by Baron Sord
“Gay, Doug. Gay.”
Chuckling, I chided, “I thought there was nothing wrong with being gay? Sounds like someone is insecure in their masculinity.”
“What do you expect from a guy who’s been laid once. Once, Doug. Remember her? Manly What’s-Her-Name? She wasn’t even human.”
“Melanie,” I corrected. “At Nolan’s house party senior year.”
Arnold smirked, “No, her name was Manly. And I think she was a Sasquatch. She definitely had a beard.”
“Yeah,” I laughed. I had met Melanie that night. He was exaggerating only slightly.
“And that is why I am insecure in my masculinity. I’m not afraid to admit it. Unlike some people—” he flashed me a pointed look, “—I don’t have Vangelina trying to swing from my jock like it’s a stripper pole. But I promise you, if I was banging a different hot babe every night, I seriously wouldn’t care if you held my dick right now, it’s that freaking hot. Wait, maybe not my dick. Anything but my dick. Or my butt.”
I snickered.
He shook his shirt again. “Do you mind?! I’m freaking dying over here! Can’t you do something about the heat?”
“I’ve got an idea.” I kicked my shoes and socks off and put my feet on the floor boards and put one hand on the dash and the other on the ceiling.
Eyes closed, I focused on the colorful temperature gradient of the car as the heat from it flowed into me. Heat traveled faster from the metal frame, more slowly from the cushions of my seat, slower still from the air, but I saw all of it as a thermodynamic rainbow.
In response, my body grew hotter.
Being that the car was a closed system, if I wanted to cool it, I’d likely have to eject the heat I was holding. Then again, I needed practice containing heat for a longer period than mere minutes, which seemed the obvious prerequisite for attempting flight at some point in the near future. Hadn’t let go of that dream. Whenever I could carve out some “me” time, I’d work on it. Now, I’d see if I could isolate my collected heat deep in my core and prevent it from reheating the car or melting my seat. My goal was to hold whatever I extracted for at least an hour.
After several minutes of extraction, I said, “Is that doing anything?”
“Shit yeah! The temp dropped like ten degrees! Look at the thermometer! This is awesome!”
“Perfect. I’m not too hot for you?”
He glanced at me, “Gay, Doug. Gay.”
“I meant temperature wise. Am I radiating any noticeable heat?”
“Oh,” he shrugged. “No. You’re fine. But not in a gay way.”
I laughed.
—: Chapter 25 :—
“How much heat do you have now?” Arnold asked an hour later.
I had been continuously extracting a slow flow of heat from the hot Prius this entire time. I said, “Nothing compared to that wildfire in Rancho Jamacha, but my body is buzzing pretty good. Sort of like I drank one too many Red Bulls.”
“That’s nothing,” Arnold said. “You can hold that much heat all day.”
“Like you would know,” I grinned. “At any rate, that’s the goal. I don’t know if I’ll make it a full day, but I’ll try.”
“What are you gonna do with the heat? Blast some bad guys with fireballs or something? That would be badass.”
I chuckled and shook my head, “None of the distress calls I’m hearing today sound like bad guys. Not yet, anyway. I think today is going to be mostly farming accidents. People getting hurt on the job. Slips and falls, cuts, bruises, that kind of thing. The usual daytime distress.”
“That’ll be easy,” Arnold said.
“I hope so. I could really use an easy day.”
“Totally.”
After a mere nine days of me having my powers and the two of us handling dozens of distress calls, we were both ready for easy.
When we reached the outskirts of El Centro, the freeway slowly descended from a dry desert basin into the valley of an emerald oasis. Green fields of farmland surrounded the city, extending north to the Salton Sea and south to the Mexican border.
As I had predicted, Arnold and I prevented numerous farming accidents throughout the day. Everything from nasty cuts with handheld farming tools, to sprains and twisted ankles, to some guy falling off a tall ladder while climbing down from a peach tree with a 50-pound canvas sack of peaches slung over his shoulders, to heat stroke and dehydration. It was the height of summer and we were in the middle of the desert, after all. Or, in several cases, plain exhaustion. Field work was incredibly taxing on the farm laborers who did it. Often, they worked from sunup until sundown. Doing that day after day quickly led to overwork for even the hardiest of laborers.
No matter what the particular distress call that I prevented turned out to be — a cut, a fall, a twisted ankle, a broken arm — Arnold and I showed up to all of them with armloads of 2-gallon water jugs and plastic cups we’d bought from the local Walmart Supercenter.
Every time we drove down a dusty dirt road to wherever the laborers were working, we stopped to pass out water to anyone who wanted it. Some of the field workers appeared surprisingly old for manual labor, at least to my eyes. I had to assume that working outdoors in the hot and dusty fields probably aged your skin a lot faster than sitting in front of a computer all day like Arnold and I did. It also aged your body. Studies showed that few farm laborers worked past the age of 40 because, after 20+ years of doing it, their bodies simply couldn’t handle it.
Yet another reason we were here.
Whether it was preventing a myriad of minor injuries, or passing out water cups by the dozens, Arnold had to sweet-talk every single work foreman into allowing their workers to take an unscheduled break. No matter how ornery any given foreman was, Arnold always convinced them, telling them it was the right thing to do. I added that rested workers were more efficient, but Arnold’s charm always sold it.
Again and again, Arnold’s social skills were invaluable.
In a few more serious cases, we prevented accidents with heavy machinery that would’ve broken bones or mangled arms and legs beyond recognition and sent the unfortunate worker or workers involved to the hospital. That was when I was most effective at swooping in to save someone at the last possible second.
In the worst case, I sprinted into a dusty warehouse with Arnold following. I arrived just in time to grab a surprised warehouse worker and yank him out of the way as a 20 foot wall of canned vegetables stacked on palettes came crashing down like thunder on the concrete floor where the poor man had been standing. The wall of palettes and cans was more than enough to crush someone’s skull, and would have now if I hadn’t arrived in time. The cause? Turned out a junior forklift operator had accidentally backed into the palettes from the other side of the wall.
Several other workers ran over to investigate.
I set the startled worker down on his feet.
It took him a moment to get his bearings. Once he did, he started chattering away in Spanish, pointing at me and the mountain of dented cans and broken palettes, explaining the situation to his co-workers.
They asked numerous questions in Spanish.
He answered with enthusiastic mystification, crossing himself several times.
The other men nodded knowingly.
Arnold and I stood there. With our minimal Spanish, we had no idea what they were saying.
After everyone settled down, the worker and the forklift operator and several others thanked me and Arnold profusely in Spanish and shook our hands vigorously. As we were leaving, they insisted we take several trays of freshly packed and undamaged canned vegetables with us. Outside, they gladly loaded them into the back of Arnold’s Prius.
Their generosity was quite humbling.
Hours later, after a long day of helping anyone and everyone in El Centro who needed it, Arnold and I were sitting in the Prius with him behind the wheel.
He sighed, “Are we done here? It’s getting late and I’d love to get home early and ac
tually sleep tonight.”
“Let me listen,” I said and closed my eyes to wait. A second later, I felt an intense explosion of emotional panic, followed by spitfire Spanish. Not one voice. Dozens. I shook my head, “No, not yet. There’s at least one more distress call. Something big. It sounds serious.”
“Can we at least get food before it happens? Is there time?”
“I think so. If we make it quick.”
“Good, because I’m starving.”
“You’re starving?” I chuckled rhetorically.
Although I had barely used my super-athletic powers today, I had been holding onto the majority of the heat I had extracted since driving out to El Centro. I had to wonder, did storing heat burn more calories than not? No way to know without rigorous testing, but I was excited I’d held any amount of heat for upwards of nine hours. That put me one step closer to my dream of fire-flying.
Arnold asked, “What should we get to eat? Mexican?”
“What else?” I chuckled.
“Do you think there’s a Los Pollos Hermanos around here somewhere?”
“I hope so.” I grinned, taking note of his Breaking Bad reference. I used my still-cracked Robot phone to check for restaurants. There were dozens of Mexican ones to chose from.
“Do you think they’ll have T-shirts?” Arnold mused.
“Who?”
“Los Pollos Hermanos, duh.”
“You know they’re fake, right?”
“Stop ruining my fantasy. I love their logo. You know the one. Two cartoon chicken brothers holding sombreros. You think Gus Fring will be behind the counter when we place our orders?”
“Absolutely. And if we’re nice, he’ll hook us up with some of that mythic blue ice Walt cooks up in the basement.”
“Yeah,” Arnold chuckled. “That’s my kinda ice!”
I scrolled through more restaurants on my phone. “Wait. You’re not going to believe this.”
“There is a Los Pollos Hermanos in El Centro?”
“No. But there is a Las Cerdas Hermanas. Check this out.” I held up the phone so he could see a picture of their logo.
He laughed, “No way! Cartoon pig sisters! That is awesome! They better have T-shirts.”
Ten minutes later, we parked and walked inside the crowded restaurant. And yes, Las Cerdas Hermanas had T-shirts. Arnold bought two and gave me one. He put his on immediately. I left mine in the plastic wrapper because I was too sweaty and dirty and didn’t want to ruin it.
Turned out these Pig Sisters also made great food. Arnold and I feasted on all manner of Mexican delights. From chips and guacamole to grilled carne asada covered in shredded cheese and sour cream, to melt-in-your-mouth cheese quesadillas, it was all incredible.
“This is better than anything in San Diego,” Arnold mumbled around a mouthful of quesadilla. “We’ll have to come back next weekend.”
“It’s the blue ice,” I chuckled. “They put it in the salsa.”
“Absolutely,” Arnold grinned.
I bit into my third burrito and something stabbed the roof of my mouth. “Ow, fuck!”
“What? Did you bite down on a bone?”
I spat my food into my napkin and inspected it. “No bone. I think that was a distress call.”
“Where, here?”
“Felt like it, based on the intensity.”
“Is it the one you heard earlier?”
“I don’t know yet.”
We looked around the crowded restaurant. It had been crowded when we came in, but now it was full-on dinner time. Families and farm workers filled every available seat in the restaurant, except for one booth which remained curiously empty.
Aside from the upbeat customers, the decor was clean and bright and resembled any other fast food restaurant. Green plastic booths, vibrant orange tile floors, colorful piñatas hanging from the ceiling. This was the last place you expected a disaster.
The front doors opened and a rabid pack of tattooed men muscled their way inside. All wore matching bandanas folded low over their eyes, plaid shirts buttoned only at the collars over white wife beaters, Dickies shorts, and knee high white socks sprouting from their low-top shoes.
The noisy chatter of conversation in the restaurant stopped.
“Cholos,” Arnold muttered under his breath. “This could be bad.”
—: Chapter 26 :—
“These guys look like they just got out of jail,” Arnold whispered while leaning over the table. “Should I get my Glock? It’s in the glovebox.”
“Hold up,” I said quietly. “Not so fast. Maybe they’re just here for food.”
The men went up to the registers.
Arnold whispered, “What if they rob the place?”
“Don’t be a profiler.”
Sure enough, the men ordered food, paid, and sat down to wait in the only remaining empty booth. The curiously empty one. Probably just a coincidence.
“See?” I said. “Nothing to worry about.”
“So why’d you get a distress call?” Arnold pressed. “I thought it was a bad one.”
“It was.”
Minutes later, the front doors opened again.
Another bunch of cholos walked inside. These wore the same uniform. Almost. The one difference was the plaid shirt. Instead of the large stripes running vertical like the shirts of the first group, these ran horizontal.
When the two groups spotted each other, their hackles went up. They eyed each other like mortal enemies. A murmur of fear breezed through the other customers. The tension in the air was electric.
Even Arnold could feel it.
I found myself thinking of the Yooks and Zooks from The Butter Battle Book by Dr. Seuss. The only real difference between them was the Yooks ate their bread buttered-side up, while the Zooks ate it buttered-side down. In the case of these Cholos, it appeared the only difference was whether their stripes ran horizontal versus vertical.
I suddenly realized the naïveté of Dr. Seuss.
It wasn’t about which way your stripes went or how you buttered your bread. In this case, it was about territory. A very real issue that could mean life or death for you and your family. He or she who had the better territory was more likely to survive and prosper. Territory wasn’t a trivial thing. In ancient times and today, it was everything. It was an easy fact to forget when you had a decent job and a stable income like Arnold and I did.
Whether this restaurant was vertical or horizontal territory, I didn’t know.
Maybe it was neutral or unclaimed.
But one thing was clear.
A battle was about to erupt between the Verts and the ’Zonts.
I could hear the Spanish-language distress calls echoing in my head. I had no idea what was being said, but the terrified emotions were clear and I had the distinct impression that a hurricane of bullets was about to hit Las Cerdas Hermanas.
Still leaning on his forearms on the tabletop, Arnold whispered, “I would normally say we should leave, but I’m thinking we need to deal with this?”
“Maybe you should leave,” I said.
“I’m wearing my vest. I’ll be fine.”
“No. Get out before the shooting starts. Let me handle this.”
“No way. But I will go get my Glock.”
“Yeah, go for it. I’ll be right here. But go slow. Don’t startle anyone.” What I really wanted was for Arnold to be safely outside.
He slid quietly out of the booth.
I pretended to eat while watching the men.
The first group of cholos — the Verts — were waiting in their booth for their food to arrive.
The Zonts were ordering at the counter.
I felt like I was in the middle of a minefield. It wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t for the collection of innocent farm workers and families with children eating around us. I would never forgive myself if their blood was on my hands.
But I didn’t know what to do. I had learned my lesson at that home invasion. If enough g
uns came out, I couldn’t stop all the bullets. I tried telling myself nothing bad was going to happen. The Verts and Zonts would eat in peace and go their separate ways. But the stabbing pain and chattering Spanish in my head said otherwise.
T-minus 10 seconds to detonation.
I swallowed hard, getting ready to make a move.
What that move would be, I had no idea.
5…
4…
3…
2…
1…
“Number 66, your order is ready.” the loudspeaker called out. One of the women behind the counter was setting out orange trays of food.
The group of Verts, stood up from their booth and stalked toward their food. The only thing standing in their way was the Zonts.
Everyone in the restaurant held their breath.
Even me.
The Verts and Zonts eyed each other with savagely restrained fury. For one hopeful moment, it seemed like nothing bad would happen. The Verts would pick up their food trays and sit down and that would be the end of it.
Nope.
As the Verts carried their trays toward their booth, one of them stumbled, tripped by a Zont.
The Vert’s tray of tacos and tortilla chips went flying in slow motion. A falling red bottle of salsa slammed on the floor and shot a bloody slug onto his immaculate white wife beater. A symbol of the bloodshed about to commence.
As one, all of the cholos reached for steel.
Their guns came out.
Ten of them.
I shit you not.
They all had handguns.
A crystal clear vision of death and destruction tore through my brain. Dozens of bullet-riddled bodies twisted and sprawled across the green plastic booths and orange floor tiles — innocent fathers, mothers, and their children. Was it my imagination or a future vision about to unfold? It didn’t matter.
If I didn’t do something, I knew it would come true.
But what?
What should I do?
If I erupted into a violent attack on the Verts or the Zonts, I might trigger the firefight myself.
I needed a better option.
What if I were to…
BAM!
