by Zack Murphy
“He seems like very nice.”
“But do you think he has the unmitigated capacity for bad.”
“I would say yes.”
“Send him in.”
“I think he’s the guy from the Christmas party.”
“Okay, send him in.”
“Wasn’t he Southern then?”
“Yes. Why? What he is now?”
“English.”
“But he’s still tall, dark and handsome?”
“Smoldering!”
“Thank god!” said Dana Plough, “Send him in.”
*****
Allison Carney was surprised to find herself still standing, since she had just been hit by a speeding truck while trying to cross twelve lanes of traffic on Interstate 80 just south of San Francisco. Her car had broken down a couple of miles up the road and she was trying to get to a gas station across the busy highway.
She had made it across ten lanes, but fate finally caught up to her and mowed her down on lane eleven; or so she thought.
For some reason the sky seemed a little clearer and she could have sworn that the world around her was moving a tad bit slower than she had remembered, but this was probably due to the fact she had just encountered a very life-harrowing situation; or so she thought.
Up ahead in the distance a small glow of bright white began to form on the horizon, and it was creeping closer. The light moved steadily until it stopped about fifteen feet from where she was standing. A cloaked figure emerged from the light and gestured for her to come nearer.
A wave of calmness overtook Allison as she stared at the motioning figure, she looked at the world around her and noticed that although everything around was starting to catch up and began moving at more normal pace, the sky became much darker and ominous.
A cool wind had picked up and she brushed long strands of blown hair out of her face. The figure seemed to be getting impatient and was restlessly tapping his foot on the gas station’s parking lot floor.
She scratched her head as the cloaked figure began to do some sort of intricate, albeit highly confusing, interpretative dance/mime routine that Allison wasn’t quite sure what she was supposed to do with.
After the figure had seemed to finish, Allison stood a brief moment taking in what she had just witnessed and remembered what her mother had always taught her: if you can’t say anything nice about someone, don’t say anything at all. So she politely applauded and smiled in confused approval.
“Hokou tsuujite runpu, temae bakabakashii American fujoshi,” yelled the Death of Japan, Korea and the Philippines.
“Oh, he’s a foreigner,” She thought to herself, and remembered another thing her mother always taught her. “IT WAS A VERY NICE DANCE YOU DID. I AM PLEASED TO HAVE SEEN IT!” She shouted at the top of lungs and bowed to her new Japanese friend.
“Chikushou! Kan Hokou tsuujite runpu!”
She had felt that somehow she had offended the poor street mime and tried to make it better by digging into her purse and pulling out eighty-two cents worth of loose change.
“THIS IS FOR YOU!” she shouted as she held out the coins intended for the DJKP to take home and feed his family, who were obviously starving if they had to rely on his horrible imitative skills to provide for them.
The DJKP looked at the offering, shrugged and grabbed them from her outstretched hand, then grabbed her by the hand and threw her gently, but firmly through the hovering light. After she had gone through, he looked down at the coins he had been presented and proclaimed,” eighty-two cents! bakabakashii Americans!”
*****
A small man wearing a bowler and dressed in a dapper tweed suit with bulky coke bottle glasses jumped into a cab. He had with him a small package wrapped in brown paper, held together with twine.
“Where to?” said the driver.
“I need to go the corner of Melrose and Vine in Los Angeles.”
“You want to go to California? You are aware that we’re in the state of Washington?”
“Yes, I know.”
“You know that’s a pretty expensive ride?”
“Yes, I know, I have the money.”
“Delivering a little bundle?” said the cabby, never missing an opportunity to point out the painfully obvious.
“Oh no,” said the man, “I’m hoping to stop one.”
*****
“Stand up straight and be still will you!” said the Death of Australia, New Zealand and Countries with a Population of less than 500 Total People. Sewing needles bounced on her lips, causing her statements to have a slight air of danger about them.
“But I don’t wanna go!” whined Barnaby.
“Why not? I think it sounds exciting.”
“Then why don’t you go and I’ll stay here and make pretty costumes.”
DANZ & C>500TP stabbed him with the point of a rather sharp needle. “I don’t understand why you don’t want to this opportunity?”
“Because,” moaned Barnaby. He was getting quite adept at complaining about anything and to anyone.
“Because isn’t an answer,” DANZ & C>500TP shot him an exasperated look. It was a look only women possess and is only used on men. The look has a number of abundant uses, yet they all say one thing loud and clear; “I as a woman am right and you as a man are wrong.”
Men had tried for centuries to find any weakness in their ability to debate this statement, but were never able to break through a common-sense resistance to mere manly stupidity. Also, most men knew the statement to be true.
“Besides,” said Barnaby “I don’t know the first thing about being human,” trying the “I’m a man and I’m an idiot” route, the only somewhat successful strategy to date.
“Well, I think it would wonderful to be human for a day. Just think of everything they get to do and we don’t.”
“Name one thing they do that we would want to do?”
DANZ & C>500TP gave it a minute of careful thought, “I don’t know, but some of things they do with ostriches look cool.”
“Human life looks like a pathetic, never-ending circle of mistakes, followed by regretful bemoaning about the mistakes they’ve just made, then rueful self-pity about the mistakes they didn’t. They walk around in a constant haze of unprovoked dominance waiting to be hit by a speeding bus they mistook for a train.”
“See!” she said, “You do know how to be human.”
“I just don’t understand why I have to do it.”
“Because it’s happening on your turf; you know how these people think.”
“No one knows how people in L.A. think. It’s a well-known fact that southern California is filled with people who haven’t thought in years. It may be that all the collagen implants have finally crept their way into their brains and they’re one botox shot away from becoming a roaming band of plastic zombies.”
“Well, what about all the glitz and glamour and SeaWorld?”
“They put the whale on a diet and dyed it peroxide blonde.”
“You’re going to have a blast.”
“I know. I really am looking forward it.”
“Really?
“Yeah. Besides, if the apocalypse does come we’ll be overrun with these people. It’ll make the Rapture look like an intimate dinner party”
“What’s the Rapture?”
“Beats me. Something about getting away from the Jews and Muslims.”
DNAZ & C>500TP prodded him accidentally a few more times with her needles as she hemmed the leg of his pants. She lost herself in thought as she allowed herself dream of all the new experiences she would come across if she had gotten the assignment.
It was a well known fact that humans spent most of their waking lives pursuing one of three things; Barroom brawls, jumping out of airplanes with nonworking parachutes, and ingesting large amounts of habituates in dark basements while waving glow sticks and listening to electronic music. That was the way most of them died, so it seemed probable that was how they lived.
&
nbsp; DANZ & C>500TP was one of the few employees of the After-life that had a certain affection for humans and their existence. She found them fascinating and admired what they did with their lives. Whereas, most of her colleagues believed she was probably on drugs and that they really should, when they weren’t too, too busy, get some sort of intervention started.
*****
“I just want to know when it’s going to be out of me, that’s all,” said Dana Plough trying as tactfully as she could to tell her baby’s daddy that the organism inside her was slowly killing her with tiny kick.
“Soon, my sweet. Then our little guy will be born and everything will be as it should be. Okay?” Dana Plough nodded. “Good, now what I wanted to talk to you about was insurance.”
“There’s no need, I’m fully insured. I don’t need any money.”
“No, I didn’t suppose you did. No, what I’m talking about is life insurance.”
“You mean?” gulping Dana Plough running her finger along her throat.
“No, no, not you. I’m referring to our little bundle of joy. His life and its impending arrival need a little extra protection, you might say.”
“Why?”
“Well, you see, there are people, bad, nasty people, who don’t want us to be happy and may want to do harm to our son. And I just needed some guarantee that the birth will go off without any unforeseen, unruly side-effects.” Unruly side-effects of having the bringer of the end of humankind burst out of your womb are a bit of an understatement.
“Like what?”
“Now, don’t you worry about any of that. My men will take good care of you until the blessed day.”
“Men? What men?”
“Think of them as an Insurance policy.” Satan stuck his head out the door and called in thirteen enormous men, each more hideous and vicious looking than the next. The hulking beasts made Frankenstein’s Monster look like a baby kitten in an adorable little straw hat. ”These, my darling are our protection.”
“Who or what do I need protection from?”
“That’s for these men to worry about.”
Dana Plough stood up, took Satan by the arm and led him over to a corner where she could whisper without the men hearing her. “These men, darling,” she said, “look a bit- what’s the word I’m looking for?”
“Like if the Keebler elves had been seven-feet tall, on steroids and been run through the ugly machine a few times?”
“Exactly,” trying hard to keep both their voices down.
“Don’t worry, they’re going to take care good of both of you.”
“But if there are people out there who are trying to kill me!”
“Calm down, nobody’s trying to kill you.”
The thirteen Insurance Agents stood at complete attention on the other side of the office, their gazes fixed firmly on their task. They were single-minded about their duty, which was made even more difficult when being part of a group, but an excellent quality when your boss could have you spend the next five consecutive eternities scrubbing Genghis Khan’s communal Mongolian Horde toilet room.
If one were to decide to go into battle over heaven and hell, the men in Dana Plough’s office would be the first ones picked. Their rippling muscles carved out under their much too tight for any straight man’s tee-shirts would have put a lock on their selection, but it was the multitude of awe-inspiring and lethal weaponry they carried with them that would have sealed the deal.
There was a knock at the door and Juliet stepped inside. “Ms. Plough? Manuel has brought the car around for you.”
“Who?”
“Um, Marco?”
“Don’t you see I’m in the middle of a meeting a room full of very large and dangerous men?”
“Um, no. I only see you in a private meeting with a very good-looking man. But if you want me to see other men, point me in their direction.”
“She can’t see them,” whispered Satan.
“Why not?” she whispered back.
“Because, they can’t be seen until they start to work,” he whispered into her blushed ear.
“I thought protecting me and our son was their work?” she whispered back.
“It is. But they haven’t officially started protecting you yet, technically.” His nose wrinkled up knowing that this was a conversation he was dreading for many months. Most women don’t enjoy having unexpected guests drop by, and they really don’t like it when they’re Dana Plough.
“And when will when that start happening?”
“When you’re in danger,”
“And when will that be?”
The hushed whispering was starting to get a little awkward for Juliet. The office wasn’t that big and she could hear everything they were saying. Being able to hear what the whisperers were saying just made it uncomfortable.
“Very, very soon,” he whispered and kissed her on the forehead. “I have to be heading out anyway; I’ll see you soon dear. It was very nice meeting you Ms. Robinson.”
“Call me Juliet.”
“Juliet!” screamed Dana Plough, awakening Juliet from her puppy dog stare, "tell Marco I’ll be right down.”
*****
There are certain people who send out a ‘pick me’ vibe to school bullies, who would automatically gravitate towards them to take their milk money and, if they were feeling at all inspired, stick them in a locker or punch them unmercifully in the face until the bully became tired and need a nap.
Then there are people who look like they’d be fun to pummel about the head and neck for a while, but instead were the type to send the bully home crying with three broken bones in his or her nose, a slight concussion, and note to their parents telling them to make out a check for one hundred and fifty dollars or their child would be sent back the next day looking even worse.
Ketty Bauer was the latter; she was a three hundred pound gorilla in a 110 pound petite frame, a quality which was helpful for being a public school teacher.
She had finished saying goodbye to her students and was going through the next day’s lesson plans. She was trying to rush through it as quickly as possible, as she was late getting to her second job as an orderly at a local hospital. A public school teacher cannot, as badly as they pinch every last penny, survive on a teacher’s salary in America.
Though, some people would tell you that they make quite enough money for only part time employees, as she’d seen on a program called Plowing Ahead with Dana Plough. She had to buy a new television set after that, having thrown a bowling trophy through it.
Loman March, a fellow teacher and trying for the past three years to be something more to the beauty he admired in the teacher’s lounge, dropped by her classroom and stood in the doorway waiting for her look up.
“Oh Loman,” said Ketty startled, “I didn’t see you there. God you scared me.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, disgruntled.
“It’s okay Loman.”
“So, what are you doing tonight? Any big plans?”
“I’m working at the hospital tonight.”
“Oh, ‘cause I was wondering if you weren’t doing anything you might want to grab something to eat or something.”
“I’m working at the hospital tonight Loman.”
“Oh yeah, you just told me that.”
“Maybe some other time.”
“Really?”
Ketty had a hard time turning Loman down; he was on one hand one of the nicest guys she’d ever met, on the other hand he was the human equivalent of an Irish setter; if you left him alone in the house for more than ten minutes and he’d pee all over the furniture and eat the garbage.
“Maybe, I’m really quite busy. Two jobs and all, you understand.”
Ketty’s eyes went back to her work, which was the international sign for ‘I’m all done with you; now move along before I throw the nearest blunt object at your head.’ Loman peered through his horned-rimmed glasses and squished his face up into a tight little ball, which made him look
more like a pug than a setter.
His tall, bony frame collapsed at the shoulders as he pouted and turned around, sulking out of the room. As she watched him leave she added that little display of childishness to her mental list of reasons why she could find a better man than Loman March.
She had graduated from Loyola Marymount with a Bachelor’s degree in World History and received a Masters in Political Science at Georgetown University. At the time of graduation she felt she’d give something back to the community and decided on teaching for a couple of years in an inner-city school before going to Law School to do what she always wanted to do; give something back to herself.
That was eight years ago and she’d come to realize that she would never be representing victims of heinous gun violence against major gun manufactures for billions. She would be stuck defending heinous spitball crimes against nerds.
She had settled into a nice little rut teaching History and Drama at Frederick Douglas High School and working the five to eleven shifts at The Richard M. Nixon Memorial Medical Center and Cocktail Lounge every Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday evenings.
She finished up her day job and collected her things, putting them neatly into a brown leather carrying bag with her initials monogrammed into the flap. It was a graduation present her parents had given her, hoping she’d use it to carry her books to Law School in, but, much to her parents chagrin, it instead made a nice place in which to keep her grade books and a snack.
*****
Jeremiah’s plane landed on time at Los Angeles International Airport much to the amazement of both passengers and flight crew. After having been taken on the ‘scenic drive’ by his cabbie [Which costs triple than what you would normally pay, but you don’t get to see all the pretty palm trees.], he checked into his hotel room. He unpacked all of his clothes and toiletries and placed a picture of the Queen on the nightstand next to his bed. He always wanted to make his surroundings feel a bit more at home, even if he was sequestered in an airport hotel ten thousand miles away.
He took out his wallet and pulled a business card from the sleeve. He stared at the card for a minute then gently placed the card on the nightstand.
It had been a long day of traveling and Jeremiah tossed himself into bed without checking the phonebook to see where the nearest local waterhole was. He was on business and didn’t have time to sample the indigenous atmosphere this trip. He had read numerous books and magazine articles about modern America and watched a variety of television shows and big studio action-adventure blockbusters that had been shipped across the pond, but he had yet to see it firsthand.
