Mark, There's a Beagle in My Bedroom!

by Michael Ciardi

The prospect of dodging the next drone strike seemed less promising to Bruce than Mel Gibson wearing a beaver puppet on his hand. But at least the bunker was in sight. Kip and the beagle angled down the sloping ground and crossed beneath the willow trees’ bowed branches. The robots descended the embankment in a beeline, reassembling for yet another assault. Kip already fetched the phone from his pocket. After accomplishing this, he depressed the power button and the phone’s screen illuminated.

  “Hey, it still works,” he said to Bruce, referencing the gadget.

  “Wonders never cease. Obviously, it wasn’t part of the last stimulus package,” Bruce said. “Now type in the password. We don’t have much time.”

  “How much?”

  “Less than Klinton Spilsbury had in Hollywood.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “I can’t remember, but he sounded a lot like James Keach.”

  Kip started to thumb-punch the password into the phone’s keypad: W-E-A-V….

  “They’re almost on top of us!”

  “I can’t go any faster!” Kip exclaimed.

  Bruce watched as the drones organized themselves in eight vertical lines and swerved toward him like tentacles. “Holy hulls! Octobeavers straight ahead, Captain!”

  When it seemed as though that the plan was about to become interrupted by a series of explosions, the beavers suddenly stopped in motion. It was as if the electronic circuits inside them fizzled simultaneously, rendering each of the thirty remaining drones as worthless as Ewok outtakes. Bruce had to do a double take to make certain that he wasn’t hallucinating. He wasn’t. The drones had all malfunctioned.

  “Da drones! Da drones!” he said in a Tattoo-ish tone. By this time, Kip texted the password and sent it to Dr. Wells’s phone number. But his urgency was soon replaced by confusion after he noticed the beavers stationed motionless in the grassland.

  “What happened?” he asked Bruce. “They’ve stopped moving.”

  “Must be a contagious virus. I can’t think of anything else that would make a horde of beavers peter out so abruptly. Contrarily, a peter out is usually what keeps them coming.”

  Bruce skulked forward with his nose pointed at the ground. Kip, of course, had his reservations about venturing too close to the drones, even if they were apparently deactivated. “Watch it!” he warned Bruce. “Those things still might blow up in your face.”

  “Still beavers don’t explode, Kip. That’s the first rule verbatim from a self-help book entitled ‘She-tisfaction 1Ohhh1’.”

  “Are you stoned? That’s not a real book.”

  “You wouldn’t know a real book even if you were in it,” Bruce countered. The beagle inched onward until converging upon the beaver closest to the willow trees. He nudged it with his nose repeatedly, but the robotic critter remained inoperative.

  “Do you notice anything strange?” Kip called to Bruce.

  “It’s just what I figured,” Bruce said. “They’re STDs.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeppers—Stupidly Transmitted Drones. These things are out of commission. You might as well send out beaverments now.”

  “You mean bereavements,” Kip said, but then realized he should’ve kept his mouth clamped shut. “I hate you sometimes, you know that, Bruce 5?”

  “He, He,” the beagle chuckled with a wink. “Yeppers, I know.”

  Although Kip believed he sent the message successfully, the doctor’s reply wasn’t immediate. If nothing else, the lull gave Bruce a chance to settle under the willow trees for a much-earned breather. Kip couldn’t argue with him on this occasion.

  “Let us cross over the river and rest under the shade of the trees,” Bruce said, almost in reverie. “How aptly does that describe us right now?”

  “It sounds almost poetic,” Kip commented. “Did you make it up yourself?”

  “Noppers. It’s the last words of someone famous,” Bruce said. “But he scrawled most of his poetry on battlefields. Wanna take a guess on who said it?”

  “Please don’t tell me it was General Custer.”

  “No, Custer’s last words were probably the same as what that kid said about ghosts in The Sixth Sense: ‘I see red people.’”

  “Wasn’t the line, ‘I see dead people’?”

  “Unless Custer was looking in the mirror, I don’t see how that could be right.”

  “Whatever. There’s no sense of stonewalling me on the quote. I’m not sure who said it.”

  Bruce snickered before he replied, “Kip, sometimes you know things that you don’t think you know and vice versa. Let’s just leave it at that.”

  Kip’s curiosity only lasted as long as his patience. After another two minutes, he still hadn’t received a reply from Dr. Wells with her portion of the password. He checked his watch, which although fogged on its face from an intake of water, still worked. He read the digital time as 3:45 P.M. Bruce looked on discerningly.

  “Must be a Timex you’re wearing, huh?” Bruce remarked.

  “How’d you guess?”

  “Because unlike those drones, it still ticks after taking a licking.”

  Kip was less interested in the quality of his watch than he was the actual time. He suspected that the MUTTS’ offense wouldn’t retreat to the sidelines after just one play. The woods suddenly became eerily silent.

  “It’s quiet,” Kip whispered.

  “I know—too quiet, right?” Bruce said in his John Wayne voice. “Don’t get your coiffure tied in a knot, pilgrim. You’re luckier than a Texan to still be alive.”

  “Do you think Molek is gonna let us go free?” Kip asked Bruce.

  “That’s about as likely to happen as SNL ever being funny again.”

  “What else do you think he’s got up his sleeve? Those drones must’ve cost him a fortune.”

  “This is a government operation, Kip. They cost you a fortune. Make no mistake about that. But I know Hooty wouldn’t blow his whole wad on a fleet of second-rate beavers. Give him twenty minutes or so and he’ll be up for round two.”

  Kip checked the display on the smartphone again; still no reply from Dr. Wells. “Maybe she left the bunker,” Kip debated. “Or maybe she never even got here.”

  “There’s that positive karma that I favor so much,” Bruce huffed. “You know, you’re about as sunny as Bono after he went skiing. Cher up.”

  “Don’t you mean ‘cheer up’?”

  Bruce circled his eyes in exasperation. “Boy, you’re quicker than a teenage boy on prom night, aren’t ya? Stop worrying so much and remember, babe, I’ve got your back, babe.”

  “Mark told me that she’d respond to my text within five minutes.” Kip eyed his watch again, verifying that only three minutes had elapsed since he pushed the ‘send’ button.

  “For the love of larva! Give the lady a little leeway, will ya? You’re already starting to bug the bleep out of me. Just think what you’ll do to the entomologist? She’ll hit you harder than Mrs. Kinter slapped Brody.”

  “Pardon me. I just don’t want anymore sudden explosions going off.”

  “Well, you better not stand too close to Belladonna then. She’s hotter than a tin roof in the Tennessean summertime. Ten seconds after seeing her, your underpants will be slicker than the inside of an oil drum.”

  “So you’ve met her before?”

  “I might’ve sniffed around her once or twice.”

  “Is she really that pretty?”

  “At least 20,000 leagues out of your league, Nemo.”

  “I can’t fathom that.”

  “But Raquel Welch could, and that’s exactly who Dr. Wells looks like.”

  Kip took a deep breath and tried to appear disinterested. “It’s really not going to change anything, Bruce. I consider myself a professional, and I’m here to do a job. I’m sure Dr. Wells feels the same way about this mission.”

  “Uh-huh,” Bruce remarked, while glancing at Kip’s crotch. “Tell me, is that a periscope in your pantaloons or are you just taking a breath
of fresh air?”

  “Oh, stop it,” Kip said, adjusting his pants.

  “Wowsers, it’s not even nearly October and you’ve already got something red and submarine-shaped on the hunt.”

  Kip felt embarrassed by the accusation, which caused the blush to rise in his cheeks like a computer nerd discovering his first porn site. “I don’t want to talk about Dr. Wells, got it?” Kip said, testily.

  “I’m just yanking your chain a bit, Kippy,” Bruce assured. “Seriously, you’ve got to loosen up. You’re tighter than OJ’s leather glove at trial.”

  “Excuse me for not breaking out into fits of uncontrollable laughter. Government agents are trying to kill us and all you want to do is crack jokes.”

  “It’s called comic relief, Torpedo Speedo.”

  “Well, did you ever hear of overkill?”

  “You mean like the media doing another fluff feature on the First Family?”

  “Yes. Very similar.”

  “It’s too late for that, but I understand what you’re saying. I also think I know what’s bothering you,” Bruce said.

  “You’re the only thing bothering me right now.”

  “Nah, it’s something else. But I’ve got an idea to settle you nerves.”

  “Why do I wholeheartedly doubt that?” Kip replied.

  “Let’s talk about something that everyone can relate to in one way or another.”

  “I’m almost afraid to know what you think that might be.”

  “First loves,” Bruce said, matter-of-factly. Kip monitored the dog’s expression, trying to discern how Bruce planned to use such information against him at a later time. Besides, Kip wasn’t even certain he could recall his initial interest in this regard.

  “I don’t see how talking about my love life is vital to anything that we’re doing now,” he said, dismissively.

  “It’s not. That’s the whole point. C’mon and humor me. Who was it? And don’t tell me it was that termagant you called a wife either.”

  Kip suddenly took a firmer stance on the issue. “You think I’m a pretty square guy, don’t you?”

  “I’ve seen circles with sharper edges than you,” Bruce returned. Of course, the beagle was goading him.

  “I’ve got some stories that I don’t talk about too often,” he said.

  “Kip, for a fellow who’s dressed like a pirate, it’s obvious to me that you’ve gotten less booty in your lifetime than Sloth in The Goonies.”

  “Well, I guess you don’t know everything about me after all, Bruce.”

  “Prove it, Casanova.”

  What harm could it really do? Kip pondered the notion, and despite its ridiculousness under the circumstances, he concluded that a little levity might not be such a horrendous antidote for his anxiety. It took him a moment to recollect what he deemed as his first true venture into love.

  “If I’m being honest,” Kip reminisced, “the first woman I really fell in love with I never even met.”

  “Weird. But because it’s you, I’m not entirely surprised.”

  “I was ten or eleven I’d say, and my dad bought me a poster of Farrah Fawcett. It became her most famous image--the one of her in a red one-piece bathing suit. Anyway, I thumbtacked that poster on the wall next to my bed, and it stayed there until I left for college.”

  “Farrah was a major angel, at least as far as Charlie was concerned, or was that Lee?” Bruce said. “The fact that you were obsessed with a one dimensional image of her is another matter, but we’ll tackle that issue at a later date.”

  “Her darn cute smile is what got me, and something else I’d rather not mention,” Kip blushed.

  “Her nipple, Kip. You can say it. You’re talking to a dog here. I’ve seen more nipples than a laborer on a dairy farm.”

  “Okay, it was her boob,” Kip said, grinning like Bill Clinton at an intern-infested cigar party. “Anyway, the wildest thing about it was that I used to imagine that Farrah was watching me every time I got undressed for bed.”

  “Holy mother of Thor,” Bruce chuckled, “your mom must’ve folded your sheets with a hammer.”

  “No, it wasn’t like that.”

  “Talk about your burning bed! Did they call you DiMaggio back then, cause you must’ve been one hell of a Yankee?”

  “Seriously, I didn’t do that when I was a kid.”

  “Oh, don’t play that flaccid act with me, Stroker Ace. Your folks probably hung your bedspread like a piece of drywall by the time you got done with it.”

  Whatever happened beneath that iconic Farrah poster or his bed covers, Kip wasn’t volunteering the details, but his face was almost as mischievous as his idol’s smile for a few seconds. He then redirected his blissful energy toward the beagle. “Alright,” he said, “now it’s your turn, Bruce.”

  “I don’t remember saying we were taking turns, thunder balls.”

  “Stop. Please never say that again.”

  “If you insist, Kip. I’ll never say never again.”

  “Now, it’s only fair that you share. I told you about my Farrah poster, including her boobs.”

  “Tit for tat, huh?”

  “Sure. Unless you’re too chicken to talk about puppy love,” Kip goaded. Bruce didn’t require much encouragement. He spilled his guts more often than the ritual of hara kiri.

  “Let’s see,” Bruce mused. “Where should I begin? I guess it all started when I first saw Lana Wood. She gave me Plenty O’Toole back in the day.”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t Peter O’Toole?” Kip said, whimsically.

  “Hey, you’re a real card, Kip. But the last time you were funny, Eddie Murphy was still getting offered good scripts. Now here’s the real deal: leave the jibes to the pros from now on, okay?”

  “Sorry for interrupting.”

  “Anyway, I keep having this reoccurring dream of Bo Derek riding naked on horseback along a beach. I’m the horse,” Bruce said confidently.

  “You’re also a delusional pervert. Besides, she’s already done that bit in a movie called Bolero.”

  “So you don’t believe in sequels? Picture it: Bolero: II in 3D. She’ll be coming at you and you’ll be coming at her at the same time.”

  “Someone call Scorsese. I think you found his next project.”

  “Yuk it up all you want, but just remember this: that thing don’t eat hay.”

  “Are you talking about the horse?”

  “I’m not sure,” Bruce confessed. “Back in the day, a bulldog used to say that to me every time a pretty female pranced by our cages. I couldn’t ever really figure out what he meant.”

  “Hmm, maybe it’s best you don’t,” Kip advised. “Seriously, I thought you’d pick someone like Lassie.”

  “The collie? Bleep no. She’s too goodie-two-paws for me. Besides, did ya ever take a gander on how woolly that thing is? I’ve seen mammoths less furrier. After sniffing around her tail, I’d be snorting hairs out of my nostrils for weeks.”

  Bruce might’ve challenged the wisdom in that suggestion, but the cellphone suddenly lit up in Kip’s hand. The incoming message was from the only person either of them wanted to hear from at this point. The text simply read: SPIDERS.

  “Hey, I got one!” Kip exclaimed, showing Bruce the message.

  “Great, Kip. Don’t get cocky!”

  “Where have I heard that line before?”

  “Beats me, Spy-walker.”

  “Maybe we’re gonna be okay after all.”

  “That’s exactly what Stonewall Jackson thought on his way back from the Battle of Chancellorsville.”

  Chapter 28