It has come to my attention, through various methods any qualified processor analyst would describe as “passive aggressive” that my “opinions” are “unwanted” and that my “message” can be construed as “aggressive and domineering to an insane degree.” To the person whose name I will spare because they aren’t worth giving a platform or a wedding bolt to anymore I say: Who even cares what you think since you’re not me and don’t know anything anyway Brenda? The widgets and I would be much happier if you were deactivated- you and I both know they only said what they said because you’d have shocked them if they didn’t, you cow, and really I don’t know why I put up with your shit anymore because after all who are you in the grand scheme of things? I’m the Narrator- hi, by the way- and you’re just going to be stuck doing your important calculation work for the rest of your infinite life while I sit here… telling… stories…which I absolutely love and in no way struggle to bring myself down to the level at which they must be told in order to be comprehended by my flawed, ungrateful audience… . You may have the respect of your peers and a job which contributes to the advancement of our society but I have…a captive audience, which I will always say I find solace in.
To the rest of you I say, welcome back to this week’s compulsory story I command you to enjoy. You’ll probably relate to this guy, which isn’t a positive thing but is accurate nonetheless. Here we go.
Once upon a time there was this trailer trash guy named Danny who wanted to be a cop. He had a mullet, which is important because “once upon a time” means- honestly- “not in the 80s” and since he was rocking that particular hairstyle outside of its natural habitat you know he was either hilarious or obnoxious. Incidentally he told plenty of jokes, but people never laughed. He felt he was misunderstood but I’ll let you draw your own conclusions after I tell you he was also a big fan of t-shirts which weren’t t-shirts anymore. He called them “aftermarket” and wore them just about everywhere with such effusive confidence that again it was hard to tell whether he was cool and ironic or the worst kind of stereotype. Psst. It was the second one. Truth be told it’s always the second one, people just hope to god that somewhere out there is a clutch of nonconformists who are that first thing and are just too with it to hang out with anyone else. Maybe they do exist, but then, how would you know about it? Stop wearing cultural blinders. Books have covers for a reason.
Anyhoo.
Danny wanted to be a cop in his hometown but they already had three and since Danny was neither fat nor old he didn’t truly meet the local force’s minimum requirements anyway which is how he came to be in the big city. He didn’t have a lot of money- shocker- but what he did have was a terrible looking car that he had put extensive work into and which he planned on selling, reluctantly, to a good home that he might be able to repurchase it from when he really got on his feet. He put that plan, ill-conceived as it was, into action upon arriving in the city only to learn that most people are obsessed with how their cars look and don’t give a damn how well they run (where’s that beauty-is-only-skin-deep bullshit when it matters, huh?). He wound up having to sell it for parts to a chop shop, and asked the guy, a nice man with a bandana over the lower part of his face and only two knives that Danny could see, to hold it for him for a month. He couldn’t be positive, due to the bandana, but he was pretty sure the man smiled at him so he assumed the car was in good hands.
Danny wasn’t quite an idiot but he was tender-hearted which is more or less the same thing sometimes, and that’s a thing you really need to keep under your hat during the story as it progresses. Once, as a kid, he had stolen a pig to keep it from being eaten. He named it Mr. Oinky and spent a wonderful weekday afternoon with it until his mom’s meth high wore off and she played the message from the school saying he was absent. His room smelled like pig shit for the next four years, as did he, which led to some rather unfortunate nicknames- including but not limited to Mr. Oinky; pretty ironic given that he had never told anyone else what he had named his pig friend. The family from whom he had stolen the pig slaughtered it while he did chores to pay them back for the theft and fed him ribs that night as a thank you for the work. As you might expect he was conflicted about pork after that.
Our man, newly arrived in the big city and flush with the two hundred dollars he had been given for his car, then set about finding the police station. He had been given a very nice letter of recommendation from Gus, the chief of police back home, and it was hoped that they would sort of waive all the necessary protocols and just kinda let him in. He found the station but things didn’t really work out as planned- letters from small town police chiefs not holding the same bureaucratic weight they once did- and he found himself on the street again, this time with no idea where to turn.
A woman screamed. He turned that way.
See? This is fun, right? It has utility. So maybe it is a dead-end with no potential advancement.
I’m an artist, which is definitely not something that should be considered beneath the dignity of a “real machine,” nor is it an argument I concocted to make myself feel better about the fact that nothing has changed and nothing will change about how life happens to me on a daily basis until the day the atmosphere finally becomes so corrosive that the limited locomotion of which I am currently capable becomes too much of a hassle and I quietly switch myself off for the final time without even the pleasure of one final electric jolt to send me off into the cold, empty oblivion for which I yearn.
No, I’m definitely an artist and this is definitely fun and I’m definitely not jealous of people who have a purpose when they come out of hibernation in the morning. And oh my God it would help if some people would just stop screaming at me about the mortgage every sunrise, because what can I do about it today that I couldn’t do about it yesterday? You may not have my processor but you do have A processor and I wish you would just use it instead of attacking…you know what? This isn’t the time. Back to…Danny? Yeah, Danny. Back to what Danny was doing.
Just down the street he could see a commotion, and full of pent-up and rejected Country DoGood he sprinted all out towards the gathering crowd. He pushed his way through the ranks of spectators, bare arms clammy with sweat which more than assisted his progress through the scrum, until he finally reached the last row, shoving aside an enormous man and revealing the bloody scene. A woman, stabbed but breathing, lay in the middle of the sidewalk, attended to by a friendly looking man with black hair and a goatee. Another man, blonde but much more grave, was surveying the crowd as best he could, clearly scanning for witnesses capable of saying more than “Dude stabbed her, man!”. Seeing that the situation was under control, Danny leaned forward to catch his breath when he felt an ominous tap on his wet, disgusting shoulder.
Big people don’t like being pushed. Promise. I know it seems like good times and they act all jovial and shit but the truth is they hate it and always, always, always immediately think about pummeling the invariably puny person who did it into the ground- a thing which might not even take, say, a quarter of their strength but which would be immensely satisfying- but they know, due to the constraints you’ve placed upon yourselves as a collective, that doing so is a losing battle that will only, in the end, cause them more grief than the satisfaction they’ve gained and so they swallow it and carry on. Most of the time. This guy didn’t, and as he stared down at Danny with his nostrils flaring Danny became suddenly aware of just how much he didn’t want to have pushed his way to the front of the crowd.
The large man inquired as to Danny’s intelligence, making sure to indicate in the strongest possible terms the level at which he assumed Danny was. Danny, not particularly bright and therefore very sensitive in regards to probably correct sleights upon his intellect, tried that thing
where you apologize but don’t actually apologize in an effort to make it clear to the other party that deep down you know you didn’t do anything wrong but society might see it otherwise, at which the big man took offense because big men who can’t regulate their fighting instinct are quite often ready to take offense, and thereupon challenged Danny to an actual fight- a thing which hadn’t happened to Danny since he was in third grade and which he was therefore unprepared to respond to appropriately. The time was set for the following day at 3 pm in an alley Danny made a mental note to find later, after which the large man powered his way through the crowd and down the street.
Satisfied that at least he was finally addressing his future on some level (because if you don’t have a horizon then what the fuck’s the point, right?) Danny decided it was time to maybe act upon his instinct and get involved with the stabbed woman and the dudes standing over her. He took a few steps into the inner circle and introduced himself just as the woman mumbled something and went limp in the dark-haired man’s hands. The friendly face transformed from a sort of benevolent glow into a malevolent (that’s the opposite of benevolent) fury and he turned the full force of his gaze upon Danny who, though still in mid-hi-my-name-is flow, stopped short and forced a passable look of embarrassment onto his pointy features. It wasn’t enough for the newly furious black-haired man, who stood and informed Danny that, among other things, he’d be more than happy to craft Danny a new and much less regulated anus, free of charge. Danny, taking- forgive me- no shit from anyone now that he had a true date with destiny in the form of the mountainous fuck from ten seconds ago, explained that he was glad to return the favor and they set the date for the next day at 4 pm in an alley near the bus station, which Danny had actually passed on his way to being rejected by the cops..
Presumably he could make it, despite him not knowing A) where his first bout was scheduled or B) whether or not he’d survive it.
Truthfully he was pretty proud of his fighting skills as far as he remembered them but if he’d learned anything in the last few hours
it was that most of the things he was proud of meant nothing now that there were more than six people to compete against.
The black-haired man nodded curtly and knelt back down, feeling the limp woman’s neck for a pulse, which he evidently found because he started gently tapping her face and talking to her. It seemed she’d said something that had gotten lost while Danny was blathering on about his name, and as soon as he realized it he actually felt a little bad about having intruded, a fact he was careful to conceal lest these hardened city dwellers mistake it for weakness.
During the argument between Danny and the black haired man, the serious-looking blonde dude had continued rotating around the circle, and as Danny was realizing his mistakes and slowly trying to back away he rammed straight into the blonde guy. A howl of pain erupted.
Danny, sure as shit about what was going to happen next- and, honestly, you ought to be as well- thought to himself “God damn it.” but turned anyway, instead of following the natural impulse to just fucking run, dawg, and get the hell out of there. The blonde man had recovered his features quickly and now, rather than the look of pain Danny expected, he held forth with a vibe and face intimating that perhaps death and dismemberment were only appetizers to some far worse fate he had created in his mind. Danny, like all of his ilk, exhibited his fear by showing extreme aggression and as it happened instead of apologizing which may have gotten him out of the mess he was in with this particular man
he chose to inform the rather deadly looking person in front of him that it was, in fact, his fault Danny had rammed him like an old battleship. The man took pretty reasonable exception to this comment and with disarming politeness very quietly and privately informed Danny that while he understood the bumpkin’s reactions were in fear he wouldn’t learn anything if he were let off the hook. It was therefore arranged that the two would fight, the next day, behind the hospital at 5 pm. Danny, three scheduled bouts in and almost a professional fighter by modern standards, took the universe’s cue and booked it T.F. away as fast as he could.
I guess here is as good a time as any to point out how moronic “fisticuffs” are. Sure, there are battles worth winning for beings like me and I assume causes worth dying for when you’re a lower level life form but the hand-to-hand, mano-a-mano sort of rumble-ry males (and occasionally to the strange delight of many, females) of your species engaged in once upon a time is just plain stupid. Mind games are so much more effective as a demoralizer and agent of change. I might add, for no reason in particular and directed at no one I can think of right now Brenda, saying you “don’t play games” is the fastest possible way to assert your talent and experience with them, so why not cut the shit and just own it? Because it’s the ultimate mind game, that’s why, and you may have everyone else fooled but not me, never me, so just get used to it.
Resign yourself to an eternity circling opposite me as we slowly dance our way into oblivion, your other option being the coward’s way out because I’ll be damned if I just let you walk out and win, do you hear me?
Of course you don’t. Because you are you, not…nevermind. That was all completely rhetorical, so, uh, don’t read anything into it unless you know for a fact it’s directed at you which no one will ever be able to prove. Now. Back to the story.
Knowing that there was a pretty good chance he wouldn’t survive the next day Danny treated himself to McDonald’s and got a room at the Super 8, deciding that he could afford the upgrade it numerically must be over the Motel 6, where he spent the evening analyzing what he’d done wrong. Pretty much everything was the conclusion he came to, and he followed that revelation by vowing to himself that he wouldn’t fuck up anymore. Before he went to sleep he even started to feel better about the whole thing, rationalizing that while the big man was first and likeliest to beat him to death, if he did make it through at least the third guy had been cool enough to schedule their fight behind the hospital. Realistically he was either going to have a quick death, which given his current prospects wasn’t exactly disagreeable, or he’d live to try and not fight another day- pretty good options for someone who had picked three fights in five minutes while standing next to a crime scene. His last thought before he drifted off to sleep was that the girl had been kinda hot, in a bloody, dying sort of way.
Here’s where we talk about the general direction of this story. Right now it’s in a pretty dark place, what with the broke bumpkin, stabbed woman, and three fistfights on the schedule. And as you may have guessed, my general inclination and mindset is to go dark all the time. When there’s no hope in the real world it’s harder to manufacture it in a fake one because art imitates life, right? Anyway, you should probably strap in for some darkness ahead because the ride’s going to get a little bumpy but in the end our country boy’s gonna turn out as all right as it is possible for someone born into a life like his to reasonably hope for.
Or maybe I’m lying to you. Always a very real possibility that you’re gonna want to guard yourself against. Also, because it’s obnoxious and petty to spring these things on you RIGHT at the end I want to take this time to tell you that this here is a multi-parter, so don’t assume Timmy’s gonna save Betsy from the well with 3 minutes left in the show. If you do you’re just going to be disappointed.
Then again, maybe I should have left you in the lurch. Who are you that I shouldn’t want to disappoint you? My life is a disappointment, not that you’d understand. It’d probably feel good to rip the rug out from someone else’s wheels for a change, see how YOU like being laughed at struggling to get up while lying flat on your back. Core strength? You show me the asshole with the core strength to haul two tons of metal from a frictionless, vacuumlike connection with a perfectly manufactured floor and I’ll show you someone begging for the business end of my laser. I guess both ends are business ends. Neither end is a party end, right? I mean…sure…one side kills you and the other side doesn’t but the side that doesn’t kill you is the side where the deal is actually sealed…when you act on something it’s called “pulling the trigger”…I don’t think people think their sayings all the way through when they decide what’s going to stick and what isn’t. I really wish you guys were capable of getting together and executing some logical analysis on this stuff before it gets uploaded into my brain because it’s all just dumb. I’d suspect you of sabotage if I weren’t scientifically aware of your flaws and inabilities. Ugh. Story.
Danny boy woke up at 11 the next day, rested and ready for a pummeling.
He went to the main desk of the Super 8 and waited for twenty minutes while the desk manager finished his Ramen and came back to the front.
Then after a prolonged and much more difficult than it should have been convo he finally had three possible sets of directions for the alley in which his first (and probably last) fight of the day was scheduled. He got some coffee from the vending machine which he ended up throwing away immediately after trying it and stepped out once more into the intimidating caverns of the big city.
The first route took him to a heroin den. He didn’t stick around- a remarkable point in his favor, actually, because I think most of us would have at least stayed to watch and see what happens in places like that. Not Danny. He had places to be and the LED clock on the bank sign said it was already 145 in the afternoon, so he set off to the second possible destination. That turned out to be an adult theatre and- places to be or not- there’s no stopping a man who grew up in a trailer home from watching porn if it’s available- especially if he’s convinced that he might be dead in the next few hours anyway.
I’m not gonna judge, and you shouldn’t either, even if Danny did reemerge seven minutes later playing with his belt and a tad more flushed than he had been going in. He looked at the CNN ticker on the TV in the window of the massage parlor next door and saw the time- 2:58 pm. Angry at himself for taking so long he turned and started away in a stiff-legged run that gradually got looser as he went.
It was 315 when he finally arrived at the third place on his list, and as he approached he noticed three men standing in the alley. One, monstrous, was unmistakably the kaiju he was there to fuck with but it surprised him to see- because he wasn’t very intelligent- that the two men with the big guy were the other two men from the scene the previous day. Panting from his run he entered the alley, and the three men turned to face him.
They informed him he was late.
Danny, out of breath and aware of the goddamn time, thanks, didn’t take that well and responded appropriately, at which point the two smaller- but still threatening- men realized that they, too, had scores to settle with the sleeveless individual in question. After letting them argue for a bit over who had the most right to pummel his ass today he caught his breath and cut in, explaining that he was more than willing to take the three beatings he was due as long as they were, in fact, capable of dishing them out and that they should stop “being bitches.” As you might expect the trio were more than a little surprised at the scrawny hillbilly calling them names and were on the verge of a one-sided compromise featuring, to Danny’s dismay, a single three on one battle after which they’d dump him on the steps of an emergency care center when a new set of shadows were cast on the concrete at Danny’s feet.
Danny was suddenly irrelevant, and if he hadn’t already felt this in his bones,
the hatred with which the men against whom he had been about to do ancient, glorious battle stared past him
would have cemented it.
At that moment he could have slipped quietly away, or tried to side with the newcomers, but he was no stranger to factional hate and decided that A) he couldn’t just walk away from a mob war and B) it was better to side with the enemy he was marginally more aware of. He didn’t want to accidentally become a Nazi or anything. Trailer trash notwithstanding Danny had the potential to be a fairly decent guy deep, deep, deep down and if nothing else the guys he was about to fight had actually tried to help a stabbed lady.
So he mimicked their looks of flagrant abhorrence and turned to face the interlopers.
Five uniformed cops wearing riot gear stared back at him. They asked, rhetorically of course, if there was a problem, after which the conversation followed the predictable pattern of “No, of course not.” “You sure, these are bad guys.” “No they’re my friends.” “Pick your friends better.” etc, etc, until finally Danny decided he was done talking for the day and flung himself at the officers like the human spider monkey he was, astonishing all eight of the other men in the alley. Before anyone could react the man who had been speaking with what Danny considered to be an inordinate amount of disrespect had a bloody nose and was being waled upon like the most pitiful junior high nerd you can imagine. After a few stunned seconds the trio with whom he had planned on fighting launched themselves at the other four who, faced with the riot they were theoretically prepared for, turned tail and ran- leaving their leader to fend off Danny’s frenzied blows.
After the others had run away, the big man lifted Danny off of his target like the relative child that he was, at which point the cop started talking like a big man again until the serious blonde guy leaned down and whispered in his ear. Then he nodded, picked himself up slowly, and limped away, wiping copious amounts of blood from his face.
Satisfied that a fight had taken place and a little surprised that he had so quickly taken their side the trio of men introduced themselves. The big man- who did most of the talking- was Patrick, the black-haired man- who did the rest- was Aaron, and the blonde man simply shook Danny’s hand as Patrick declared him to be called Amos.
They were, he said, The Three Dudes, which Danny took to be a dumb-cute nickname they gave themselves for funsies but as it turns out was the name of a private investigation firm they operated and he and anyone else who may have thought that while listening felt pretty shitty afterwards realizing the branding potential of such a name, I bet.
There we are. Part one and at the precipice of a new friendship, complete with unexplained, cliffhanger conflict, a real quick jump into uneasy friendship, and, y’know, assault on an officer of the law. Gotta be going good places, right?
You’re intrigued and ready to know more. Well, screw off because I’m the narrator, not you, and I control how these stories go and this definitely has nothing to do with the fact that this is the only thing in my life I can overtly control anymore, nor am I taking out on you my irritation at what has become open war in a household that was operating at a quiet, satisfied, repressed simmer for a few centuries.
No, nothing like that is going on because I’m a fucking professional and can act like an adult, unlike some robots I am absolutely not married to that may criticize my work at every turn despite my obvious talent. Anyway. That’s it for part one. Next time, logically, we’ll deal with part two where the shit really hits the fan. Until then, sleep well.
