Ripping a guy’s throat out kept me there a bit longer than I anticipated. But it was self defense. I wasn’t gonna be anybody’s ass pony. Had to draw the line. Anyway, since it was ruled self dee, I was out in fifteen.
Got a job. Got an apartment. Got a connection,so I could get the stuff I loved. Didn’t deal. Didn’t hold too much. Never drove.
Where was Gail?
Met her at a bar. Just having a couple of beers to get a littlebalance, if you know what I mean. Sweet little piece. Nice smile. Perky. Mentioned she had an eight ball. Seemed like a good idea.
Then we had to pull into Megamart.
Said she wanted some Cherry Chapstick, for chrissakes. Left me in the passenger seat with the car running.
Then came the lights out of nowhere.
I slowly moved my hands to the glove box. Grabbed the bindle. Faked a cough. Brought my hand up to cover my mouth. Popped the stuff in and tried to swallow. Oh God. Oh sweet Jesus. It wouldn’t go down. My mouth opening and closing like a guppy out of water. Choking. Damn.
A beer. A Coke. Water. Anything to help it slide down my sticky throat. I could see the cops walking to the car. Two on the right. Two on the left. Could they see me choking?
At last. The shit was starting to go down. Oh so painfully slow.
It seemed to get caught just above my breast bone. A hard knot of pain. But at least I could breathe. A cop tapped on my window. I rolled it down, trying to smile through the agony spreading through my chest.
“License and registration, please.”
Where was Gail?
I fumbled around the glove box. Tissues. Insurance card. Mints.
“License and registration.” Stern voice. Didn’t say please this time.
“Just a second, officer, you see this isn’t my car and—”
“License, please—”
“Yeah, sure.” I bumbled around my wallet, hands doing the shakey-shakey. Finally, found it. “Here you go.”
The cop took the license from me and walked back to his car.
Gail!
I saw her. She was chatting with another cop in front of the Megamart. She was pointing over at me. Good. Things were going to get copasetic. I was gonna come out on the other side of this okay.
The other cop, the one who had been talking to Gail, walked over to the passenger window.
“How are you doing?” He gave me a friendly smile.
“Fine.” OK, this was feeling right. “I saw you talking to Gail over there.”
“Gail? Her name is Marty, Martha. She’s my sister.”
“Well, she explained everything then?”
“Yes, she did.”
“Good. Good. Things are cool?”
“Very cool.”
He pulled his gun and pointed it at my head.
“But wait. Wait! I thought she explained.” I looked around. There were four other po-po with their guns drawn.
“Yeah, she said she was getting groceries for our mother. This seems to be a stolen car.”
“But it’s not mine.”
“Yes, that is the definition of stolen.”
“No, I mean, it’s Gail’s, I mean, Martha’s.”
“Marty’s never seen this car before or you.” The cop motioned at me with his pistol. “However, I have.”
“You have?”
“Yeah, I got your photo over the Internet when my brother died.”
“Your brother?”
“His name was Charles Laughlin. You probably knew him as Chuck.”
I had held Chuck’s bloody neck in my hands twelve years ago when he tried to rape me in the shower.
I had a feeling there’s one thing as bad as killing a cop.
Killing his brother.
Once again, it wasn’t the drugs that messed me up.
Discount Primrose
By Todd Mason
Long ago, folks used to leave the store. I don’t know for sure why or what they did, but that’s what they used to do. The Greeters went to the doors and welcomed people in. They weren’t yet the priests they would become, or at least not the same way. Remarkable.
The big doors in the back used to be for bringing things in. The last things they brought in were the refabricators, or so the stories go. You feed things in when you’re done with them and they make new things for you. I can’t imagine what life was like before the refabricators and the little robots that fix them up when they break down. I can’t imagine what it was like to leave the Megamart for any length of time, or why you’d want to leave the comfortable store to go out into hot air and see land beyond the front glass. I’ve been out once—with a crew to fix the power access from the Plant. (I didn’t do much, but it was unpleasant enough.)
Apparently all the folks who had homes of their own, in their own little buildings, who could afford it, had their own little refabricators, before the big plagues came through. The plagues and the droughts meant ever fewer folks who wanted to come to Megamart. My ancestors, and all the others who live here now, are descended from the folks who were locked in every night…didn’t really have any other place to go.
Some others came to join us. After the plagues but before the droughts got really bad. The crusty punks, carrying forbidden things like beer and “adult magazines,” so unlike the texts the Greeters used to teach some of us how to read and write. We still occasionally have the refabricators make us some beer, but it doesn’t taste good to me. The Everclear they had and fed us is better, and it only takes a little to have its magical effect.
Once, after I’d drunk some Everclear and fallen asleep under the Big Smile, I dreamt the Big Smile told me I was Truly Among the Discounted: The Very Special. And it was a very special day. When I told the first Greeter I saw, she patted me on the head and gave me a candy, and said I should always remember. I always have.
They began to teach me to read shortly thereafter. The ancient books and magazines kept in the Managers Office, even the forbidden Playboys, were at my disposal. It certainly was more fun than climbing to the tops of the shelves to dust them off every other day, which had been my task. (We carefully capture all the dust for the refabricator.)
We wait for the rains to come so we can put the plants out front, like in the old days. Maybe more new people will come.
Super People of Megamart
By Bryon Quertermous
The Vigilante’s assistant was a liberal, but that never seemed to be an issue except when they ended up at Megamart. Rumors of a Megamart popping up in Super City had been around for years, but it wasn’t until two years ago that the right mix of corrupt and/or right-wing city council members was able to push the store through. The Vigilante’s assistant thought Megamart was the corporate face of the devil, but he was there for every one of The Vigilante’s monthly trips, hoping to sway The Vigilante’s point of view. For his part, The Vigilante liked being able to get ammo, hand-to-hand weapons, and sewing supplies for his suit at a substantial and convenient discount.
“Regardless of their abhorrent business practices,” the assistant always said.
This time was different, though. The monthly visit fell on the Friday after Thanksgiving, and that exposed both The Vigilante and the assistant to a depravity shocking even two men used to battling super villains. Compared to a crowd of sleep-deprived soccer moms on the hunt for unsustainably priced foreign toy goods, Dr. Zap and The Chemist seemed like mere playground bullies.
“All these employees,” the assistant said five minutes into the visit. “All this overtime, and they still won’t make enough for a decent Christmas. And god forbid they get sick over the holidays.”
“You don’t believe in god.”
“And this company doesn’t believe in—”
“Not today. I don’t have the patience for your speeches today. These crowds are awful, and, I mean, look at that. If this is such a craphole why are there…two, four, eight, sixteen people standing in line to apply for jobs?”
“In this economy—�
�
“Nobody’s forcing them to work here. Now go get the stuff off your list from Housewares and I’ll be over in Sporting Goods.”
On his way to Sporting Goods, The Vigilante couldn’t help but think about the troubles of everyone he passed. His whole career had been devoted to fighting for those who couldn’t fight for themselves and to standing up to impossible foes. Did these employees need him like that?
* * *
Meanwhile, over in Hardware, Dr. Zap was pleased to find that the batteries and wiring he needed for his bomb were on sale. He would never normally have been in a store like this on such a busy day, but the lab he’d targeted was getting its latest shipment that night and he needed to act quickly. There was no denying the selection and convenience (and yes, price) of the evil empire.
Zap fancied himself a progressive villain. He drove a hybrid car, always recycled, and shared much of the wealth he accumulated with those less fortunate than him. His crimes were of a social nature. He robbed banks linked to Nazis and corporate raiders; he attacked organizations and individuals linked to a variety of crimes against humanity.
After grabbing a couple more things he couldn’t pass up, Dr. Zap was heading to the checkout when he saw The Vigilante’s assistant. The Vigilante was a violent, right-wing, hate machine as far as Zap was concerned. His particular bent was taking out citizens who had successfully defended themselves against criminal charges brought by the zealous and corrupt prosecutor for Super City. But the assistant was a fixture at area soup kitchens and gave much of his salary to charitable causes.
“Tell me you’re corrupting him from the inside,” Zap said.
“Oh, you. He’s a good—”
“He’s a thug, and you’re his accomplice.”
“Why are you here?”
“Plans are afoot,” Zap said. “Time is of the essence and such. I’m sure your boss has told you about it.”
“I just come along for the ride and to make sure he doesn’t screw up too bad.”
“You’re like Jiminy Cricket?”
The assistant didn’t answer, so Zap headed for the door.
* * *
The assistant watched Dr. Zap leave without paying for his goods but didn’t tell security, figuring the store deserved it. The Vigilante was indeed aware of Zap’s plan to blow up the labs, and he was getting supplies to stop it. The assistant suspected there was a broad commentary to be made about how, in the grand scheme of good versus evil, Megamart’s existence in the universe balanced out because for every poorly paid job it gave out and for every super villain who purchased his world-dominating goods there, the store also supplied heroes like The Vigilante and provided a lot of good things to local communities, even if only out of corporate guilt.
But the assistant couldn’t concentrate on any of this because he was too absorbed by the idea of a sixty-inch flat screen TV on sale right then for $400. A world that could provide such a thing didn’t need superheroes.
Heinie Man
By Sandra Scoppettone
He was wearing a skimpy skirt, sheer patterned stockings, cowboy boots, and a red long-sleeved top. His hair was long and rust colored like his full beard. It clashed with his blouse. I’d seen plenty of weird people in the time I’d worked at Megamart, but there was something about this one that put him in a class all his own. I think it was that he was over six-five and that I could see his heinie without him bending over.
An exposed heinie but not an exposed penis. Did he have one? Or had he had an operation? I’d read in The Enquirer that by the time you have that surgery you can’t grow a beard. He probably had his penis pulled back through his legs. Taped. I’d heard drag queens did that. Still, his heinie was showing, and though customer strangeness was tolerated at Megamart, this had to be beyond acceptance.
People wore their jeans so low you could see their cracks. Bellies flowed over waistbands or refused to stay covered. But this was something else. Even if he wasn’t in my department, I wondered, should I buzz my supervisor? But he might think I was incompetent, and I wanted to hold on to this job until classes started again.
A girl was with Heinie Man. There was nothing especially odd about her, except she was with him.
They were in the Toy department looking at dump trucks. I gave my tie a tug and went over to them.
“Can I help you with something?”
Heinie Man looked up from the red and yellow truck he was holding. “Huh?”
He narrowed his green eyes and looked at me as though I was an annoying bug.
“Like what?” he said. His voice was deep, which made the getup even more ludicrous. He was holding the truck like a weapon.
“Are you interested in that truck?”
“Why would I be holding it if I wasn’t interested, pal?”
“Good point,” I said. “But do you need help deciding?”
“Deciding what?”
This wasn’t working. What had I expected? I wanted him out of the store, and I could see I had to take a new approach.
The girl said, “You gotta problem?”
“Actually, I do.”
She looked at Heinie Man. “Act-ual-ly, he does.”
I saw a snip of smile cross Heinie Man’s face.
“That right? You gotta problem?” He put the truck back on the shelf.
“Yes, sir. Actu…. You have the problem. It’s what your wearing.”
He looked down at himself as though he’d forgotten what he had on. “You don’t like my shirt or something?”
“The skirt,” I said. I felt absurd.
“What’s wrong with it? I bought it here. Fourteen fifty. On sale. You don’t like your own merchandise?”
Heinie Man’s face was growing pink.
“It’s not that. Have you looked at yourself in your skirt?” I knew he had.
“What are you, the fashion police? Heidi Klum or somebody?”
I wanted to punch him, but he outweighed me by about a hundred pounds.
“Sir, are you aware that you’re exposed?”
The girl started giggling.
“Ex-posed?” he said.
“Yes. Your heinie is showing.”
They both screamed with laughter. I thought I’d have to call someone after all.
“It’s not funny. In fact, it’s against the law.”
Their new guffaws and shrieks were beginning to draw a crowd. I had to do something.
“You have to leave.”
Some people were pointing. At me as well as Heinie Man.
“Why?”
“Because I can see your heinie. The skirt’s too short.”
“Heinie? Heinie? Where the fuck are you from, mister? Heinie. Hey,” he shouted to the crowd, “this dickwad is calling my ass a heinie.”
Some people laughed. The crowd was bigger now.
Heinie Man twirled around and gave the crowd what they wanted. A nice view of his heinie.
“What’s going on here?”
It was my boss. I opened my mouth to explain, but he wasn’t about to listen.
Heinie Man, the girl, and some of the others continued to laugh uncontrollably.
My boss looked at me with disgust. “Ostrander, you’re fired. Get out now.”
I was stunned but I knew there was no use fighting this. Megamart supervisors had the final word.
The screeching laughter was like a force that pushed me back to the next aisle. I took my arm and swept everything on the shelves to the floor. The sound of breakage gave me a fantastic feeling, and I kept on doing it all the way to the locker room where the security guards were lined up waiting for me.
In and Out
By Stephen D. Rogers
I walked slowly toward the entrance to the store, half an eye on the surveillance cameras that covered the parking lot.
Old habit, I guess.
I hadn’t so much as nudged the speed limit since my release.
No way, no how. One tiny violation and I’d be where the sun don�
��t shine. I couldn’t afford to go back. Not again.
That’s what the kid didn’t understand. He couldn’t see the big picture. Didn’t understand long term. To him, it was all about the easy and the now.
I couldn’t fault him on that. I’d been the same myself.
Once upon a time.
I paused to let a car cross in front of me.
Two-year-old Toyota Corolla. No dents this side. Tires no more than six months old. Driver was female, early twenties, smoker but she wasn’t smoking at the moment, perhaps because of the girl in a rear-facing car seat.
Figure under seventy-five in the purse. Three charge cards. Cheerios.
I just stood there.
Stared at the entrance to the store.
The weight felt heavy on me. The weight of the past. The weight of fatherhood. The weight of the DVDs tucked into my pants.
The kid. He had to be like his old man back in the day.
The kid didn’t realize his old man would do almost anything to change the past.
The kid didn’t realize a thing.
I took a step forward and nearly got clipped.
The white car never even slowed down.
I lowered my head and crossed to the entrance.
Slowed as someone came out the door at me, charging at me with a cart filled with future obligations.
It’s easy to get it now. Pay for it someday. The next score, the next lottery ticket, the next year, you could be in the money. No problem.
I stood back as two women came through the door, one saying to the other, “Of course I still wear short skirts.”
Before the doors slid closed, I slipped in.
Whoosh.
Alone in the airlock entry.
The buffer between in and out, here and there, dreams and reality.
I could still turn around.
Maybe a few hard lessons would do the kid good.
I sniffed. What good had they ever done me?
Now that it was too late, I knew better.
And the one person I wanted to share that with didn’t hear a single thing I said.
Discount Noir Page 7
