I kicked my legs straight up, bringing the chair upwards and into Muscles' hand, the one holding the wrench. I brought my legs to my chest and drove them, and the chair, up into his chest then kicked up to catch his chin. Not much chin on this one as he went down hard. Skinny was fumbling in the desk, trying to find something better than a tool I figured, so I hurried my hands out of the tape and untied my legs. I grabbed the wrench off the cold floor, walked over to Skinny, and drove it into his temple. Good timing too, he'd found something better. I pulled it out of his limp hand, clicked the safety back on, and tucked it in my pocket. Those things can be useful.
Skinny protested little as I hauled him up, tied his hands and feet, and sat him up on the ledge in front of the window. He'd probably have something to say about it when he woke up, but with some persuasion the only talking he'd do would be the kind I wanted to hear. Muscles, even with the weak chin, wasn't going to be moved so I rolled him up against the opposite wall. I set the wrench on the desk, straightened my tie, and started checking out the cabinet in the corner. The smile hurt my swollen cheek but it was worth it: a twenty-year single malt and a clean glass. Things were looking up.
Skinny's eyes rolled open. It took a while for him to figure out where he was, and would take him longer to figure out how things had gone so wrong.
"Hi there."
He looked up at me, sitting on my chair, gun in one hand and a reload on the rocks in the other.
"Let's have a chat, eh?"
He said nothing, and looked over at Muscles.
"He won't be moving for a while. Just you and me."
Skinny's eyes had no expression, a blank slate that I figured I needed to write a script on . Something with emotion, something maybe dark. It's best to let your creativity take over.
"It's late and I'm tired, so let's keep this short. What's the deal here?"
Still a blank white canvas. Sometimes getting started is the hardest part of writing anything.
"Too complicated, I see. Let's try this. Who are you, who's your friend, why do you care about the girl?"
The best way to start, even if you don't know where you're going, is just to write something, anything, that'll get things moving. I clicked the safety off the gun.
"Come on fella, let's hear something."
Oh hell, I'll edit the thing later.
"FUCK!!!!" yelled Skinny as the bullet went through his shoe and into his foot. No loss on the shoe, but any more favors and he might not think I was serious.
"If you still want to hobble home tonight I'll need something more specific."
"You pathetic piece of fucking shit! You don't have any fucking clue what you're getting yourself into!"
"Usually don't. Talk."
Skinny tried to smile, but it was a struggle. His breath was fast now, heart pounding away like it was opening at a jazz club. He'd drenched his suit in sweat too, which was like spilling coffee on an old newspaper. Normally it would be a problem, but in this case...
"You'll be lucky to live another day after what you've done tonight, if you think this is going away you're in for a fucking surprise."
Skinny's eyes looked past me for a split second. I whirled around to find Muscles up and about to bring that wrench down, but he quickly changed his mind. Or would've, if he had one. My own arm was a little faster, and Muscle changed his direction in a hurry. In a moment, the only movement in the room was smoke rising from the gun barrel, as Muscles lay still on the floor after slumping down the wall. Nice piece, I thought, could've been a tough skull to penetrate. I turned back to Skinny, finished my drink, and smiled.
"Was that it? Was that the surprise?"
I'd broken through, finally. Skinny was looking as all his confidence, his backup, his manhood, lying on the floor behind me. His outer defense gone, his inner defenses has little protest left in them.
"I asked you earlier why you cared about some girl whose name you didn't know."
I said nothing.
"It doesn't matter anymore. She's dead now. We had eyes on her as soon as she left your office."
"Why was she killed, she didn't tell me anything."
"We don't believe that. She told you something, or gave you something, and we need to know what it was."
"Who's 'we,' you and your big friend?"
Skinny snorted. "Of course not."
"Then who are we talking about here."
"Have you ever heard of the Legacy Foundation?"
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
The interview
"The girl. What did she tell you."
"What girl?"
Not the answer he wanted I guess, as Muscles reached into the desk and pulled out a monkey wrench. Skinny was wrong, this wasn't much different than my divorce proceedings after all.
"The girl in the trench. She came to your office three hours ago. Stayed for ten minutes, then took a cab down East Sherman. What did you two talk about."
"Human rights abuses in Sierra Leone."
Yeah, that was definitely the wrong answer. Muscles walked around the front of the desk and took a homerun swing that would've cleared center in the Bronx. That familiar taste of liquid copper brought back memories, the kind you don't quite suppress but try not to think about too often. I shook away the stars and spat on the floor. Dammit. Got some on my shoes.
"Did she tell you her name?"
"No, but I got her number without a name. Pretty good eh?"
"What other information about herself did she share with you?"
"Hey, I got her number didn't I? Broad like her, that's more than I should expect."
"Tell me, how much longer would you like this line of questioning to continue? For a girl you don't even know?"
"Got no appointments until Tuesday."
Skinny tilted his head to one side slightly, like a dog does when they don't understand something. I didn't care too much about the broad, fake phone numbers are one of my turnoffs, but I wasn't going to give her up to this chump. Not in a suit like that. Muscles looked at Skinny for direction and got none.
"What number did she give you."
"Never got to find out."
"Was it local or not?"
"This'll take a lot longer if you ask each question twice."
Skinny didn't move but his eyes flicked towards Muscles. That was direction enough, one straight shot to the moneymaker and I was flat on my back. Bigger stars this time, stayed around long enough to form a constellation or two.
"How long this takes is up to you."
Sure was. The backrest of the chair had broken away from the seat. Muscles was walking over and I started to slide the backrest further up my spine, slowly getting my hands loose. He looked down at me, holding the wrench in his right hand. He smiled. Good thing my feet were still tied to the chair. Otherwise it might've been harder.
"What girl?"
Not the answer he wanted I guess, as Muscles reached into the desk and pulled out a monkey wrench. Skinny was wrong, this wasn't much different than my divorce proceedings after all.
"The girl in the trench. She came to your office three hours ago. Stayed for ten minutes, then took a cab down East Sherman. What did you two talk about."
"Human rights abuses in Sierra Leone."
Yeah, that was definitely the wrong answer. Muscles walked around the front of the desk and took a homerun swing that would've cleared center in the Bronx. That familiar taste of liquid copper brought back memories, the kind you don't quite suppress but try not to think about too often. I shook away the stars and spat on the floor. Dammit. Got some on my shoes.
"Did she tell you her name?"
"No, but I got her number without a name. Pretty good eh?"
"What other information about herself did she share with you?"
"Hey, I got her number didn't I? Broad like her, that's more than I should expect."
"Tell me, how much longer would you like this line of questioning to continue? For a girl you don't even know?"
"Got no appointments until Tuesday."
Skinny tilted his head to one side slightly, like a dog does when they don't understand something. I didn't care too much about the broad, fake phone numbers are one of my turnoffs, but I wasn't going to give her up to this chump. Not in a suit like that. Muscles looked at Skinny for direction and got none.
"What number did she give you."
"Never got to find out."
"Was it local or not?"
"This'll take a lot longer if you ask each question twice."
Skinny didn't move but his eyes flicked towards Muscles. That was direction enough, one straight shot to the moneymaker and I was flat on my back. Bigger stars this time, stayed around long enough to form a constellation or two.
"How long this takes is up to you."
Sure was. The backrest of the chair had broken away from the seat. Muscles was walking over and I started to slide the backrest further up my spine, slowly getting my hands loose. He looked down at me, holding the wrench in his right hand. He smiled. Good thing my feet were still tied to the chair. Otherwise it might've been harder.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
That's a nice desk
So little while ago I dabbled in a self-aggrandizing noir adventure that I quickly became bored and displeased with. Now unbored and armed with lower standards, I'm continuing on. Here's where I left off. Here's where it begins again...
******
Damn, that's a headache only Jack and a broad can give you. I couldn't see any lights but I had to figure that was a blessing. As the world unmercifully started making sense again, I started seeing shapes in the fog. Big shapes, moving slowly. Where the hell was I?
I started to reach for a smoke when I picked up another funny detail about my situation, the kind of funny that gets polite chuckles at Mickey's on Tuesday nights. My hands weren't moving, a lot of duct tape was seeing to that, and doing its job real well. I shook off the last the cobwebs, found myself with my hands behind my back, tied to a wooden chair. The shapes started looking a little more familiar. And a lot less friendly.
"Nice office, you let the boss know you were working overtime?" Pissing people off was a skill of mine, too bad it didn't pay better.
Two of them, opposite side of the room from me, looking like they owned the world. Skinny was staring at me behind a big wooden desk, twirling a pencil in his fingers while the rest of him sat still. Cheap suit, fit too tight, you could spot the bulge under his jacket across the street. Bad tie, no class. And sit back in that chair will ya, you can't scare people unless you look relaxed and this guy looked like his chair'd have diamonds on it when he left. By default you'd figure the other guy, standing to Skinny's left, was the brains but one look would put that thought to rest. Probably six five, three fifty, but you figure a track suit like that would add on a few. Didn't figure he was here to do the talking.
"This is my office" said Skinny. Deep voice, I was impressed.
"Last time I sat in an office this nice I was giving half my stuff away." Maybe they could be provoked with a bad joke.
Skinny smiled and nodded his head towards Muscles.
"Consider yourself lucky that day."
******
Damn, that's a headache only Jack and a broad can give you. I couldn't see any lights but I had to figure that was a blessing. As the world unmercifully started making sense again, I started seeing shapes in the fog. Big shapes, moving slowly. Where the hell was I?
I started to reach for a smoke when I picked up another funny detail about my situation, the kind of funny that gets polite chuckles at Mickey's on Tuesday nights. My hands weren't moving, a lot of duct tape was seeing to that, and doing its job real well. I shook off the last the cobwebs, found myself with my hands behind my back, tied to a wooden chair. The shapes started looking a little more familiar. And a lot less friendly.
"Nice office, you let the boss know you were working overtime?" Pissing people off was a skill of mine, too bad it didn't pay better.
Two of them, opposite side of the room from me, looking like they owned the world. Skinny was staring at me behind a big wooden desk, twirling a pencil in his fingers while the rest of him sat still. Cheap suit, fit too tight, you could spot the bulge under his jacket across the street. Bad tie, no class. And sit back in that chair will ya, you can't scare people unless you look relaxed and this guy looked like his chair'd have diamonds on it when he left. By default you'd figure the other guy, standing to Skinny's left, was the brains but one look would put that thought to rest. Probably six five, three fifty, but you figure a track suit like that would add on a few. Didn't figure he was here to do the talking.
"This is my office" said Skinny. Deep voice, I was impressed.
"Last time I sat in an office this nice I was giving half my stuff away." Maybe they could be provoked with a bad joke.
Skinny smiled and nodded his head towards Muscles.
"Consider yourself lucky that day."
Saturday, July 05, 2008
mountain f(molehill)
I'm running the risk of turning this blog into a Festivus gumbo, one part Incompetent Absolutist Movie Reviews and two parts Ha Ha Ha Youz A Stupid Customer! Onward...
Panasonic makes televisions. They also make everything else, except for toothbrushes and dwarf pony saddles. Other than that, they have your ass covered. They make two kinds of televisions. One is called "LCD," the other is called "plasma." When combining the total number of television types made by Panasonic, one being LCD and the other being plasma, we arrive, after some serious squinting, at the number 2 or, written out, "two." Stop me if I'm going too fast. Are you at the age where you use your children as printer repair people? Yes? Then I am going too fast.
Okay. LCD stands for liquid crystal display, which sounds Super High Tech except that is it not because the Ironman watch you are either wearing right now or threw in your top drawer because it was a crappy present from an ungrateful relative, is made of the same technology. So, think of LCD as a really big digital watch, except that this watch is a lot bigger, plays tv and movies, and won't tell time or go on your wrist. Got it? No? Plasma televisions are made out of halogen light bulbs, and follow the First Rule of Jurassic Park Economic Thermodynamics: Heavy=Expensive. Ever picked up a single halogen light bulb? Not too heavy right? Okay, now a plasma TV has literally infinity billions of bulbs on the inside. If you tried to pick up a plasma using all your strength the force would blow your colon inside out and your feet would be driven so deep into the ground you'd be kicking Asians in the shins. You need at least two people to lift a plasma television, from Panasonic, one of two kinds of televisions produced by that company.
Television used to be like people, every single one was different (unless they are a different brand than you, then they're all the same), but then 9/11 changed everything. Today tv's (LCD+plasma=2(two) kinds) come in things called "models," because they're so attractive. Haaar! Actually, they're called models because each type is made to the same specifications and is expected to perform exactly the same for each customer. I'll say that again, with less words: each model is exactly the same. Can you hear me in the back? EACH MODEL IS EXACTLY THE SAME. Just the guys! EACH MODEL IS EXACTLY THE SAME!!! The kids in the front! EACH MODEL IS EXACTLY THE SAME!!! Now the women! I COULD COOK AND DO LAUNDRY AT THE SAME TIME IF YOU'D LET ME!!! Well, close enough...
A gentleman entered my department recently. I could tell this was going to be trouble; call me ambidextrous but I have a fifth sense for these kinds of things. He had purchased a Panasonic television from one of our competitors. Now, I'm not at liberty to discuss such matters with the public but I can say that it rhymes with Yuture Slop. He had questions about the functionality of his new television, and naturally went back to Queueture Flop to inquire further. Har! He came to us instead. We were able to confirm, eight times in total, that we did in fact have the same model using a little retail trick I learned. I'd like to pass it on, but...okay, you can keep a secret right? You take the model number of the customer's television, then hold it up next to the display model's price tag. Find the model number on the price tag, stare at it, then look at the customer's model number, then back at the price tag, then back at the customer's model number, back again, then again, and again, faster, Faster, FASTER until they start looking like the same thing. Now, this is crucial. If they do NOT look the same, if they aren't blurring together properly, then they are NOT THE SAME.
In this case, the numbers blurred together properly and we had an exact Television Model Coupling, meaning that the TNA was a positive match. Except there was a problem. You see, in the world of televisions and the stuff that goes through them, we are at the precipice of an enormous crossroad. Tv's used to look basically like squares, for every four inches horizontally there's three inches vertically. Now, boy howdy, have things changed. Not only has the resolution gone from around 200 lines of resolution to 1080, but the shape has actually changed. It's caused quite a ruckus in the thinking of conservative audience types, folks who think consarnit, mah pappy watchded tealo-vision on one a dem square boxes an' nat wud gud enuff fo him! It's not just the USS Enterprise from forty years ago that has a rectangle TV, now YOU can have one too! Instead of impotent, hamstrung, gutless 4:3 televisions we now have robust, virile, spleen-flexing 16:9 tv's! These are the kinds of tv's that, if you're not careful, will attack you on your own couch, leak excess telestosterone all over you and order you to make it a protein shake.
This shape-changing paradigm causes some problems. What if you were a total caveman, using your feet to drive your car and a hammer and chisel to drawn stickporn? By which I mean, what if you wanted to run a 4:3 source, like a tv show or VHS tape, on your 16:9 tv? Don't worry Amish, the Future has you covered with a wide array of zooming and stretching features, all designed to make the original source look like stomach tattoo on a pregnant chick. The Future is designed to make your current products Crappy Compatible (Crapatible, natch), rendering your entertainment lifestyle a model of syncronistic harmony. Until something goes wrong...
When comparing his own Panasonic to our floor model, the gentleman stumbled upon a shocking oversight: his tv was missing a feature found on the store model. I went into immediate Utopian damage control: "Sir, contrary to what you may believe, all the Panasonic PX-85's are equipped with the H-Fill zooming feature. There's simply no way your model is missing it for you see, Panasonic long ago perfected their Model Cloning Technique rendering the kind of individualism you're suggesting utterly impossible." I smiled blandly, indicating that he was foolish to belief that such a perfect system could be in any way flawed. He insisted, no, his was different, it wasn't the same as every other Panasonic PX-85! I increased Customer Patronizing Tone by 12% and tried again, still smiling. "I'm sorry sir, you must be mistaken. Perhaps you erred when reading the instructions, or were misusing the feature." He carried on, insisting his was unique, singular, special, all while his right hand rubbed his hairy sweating chest, picked his ear, then his nose, then grabbed a remote off the shelf and began clicking it frantically. I became worried at his increasingly loud outbursts and called for my supervisor. "Sir," my supervisor said, "You are mistaken. All the PX-85's are the same. They carry with them the same features, the same internal circuitry and as such are capable of reaching the same performance. To suggest otherwise would be...." he trailed off, unable to verbalize the implications of the alternative. The man wouldn't listen, he was lost in a state of panicking confusion. We realized we only had one option, for the betterment of the store, Panasonic and the man's very soul. I moved towards him, not too close because he smelled like old soup, and said calmly but urgently, in a low voice, "Sir, perhaps it would be best for you, for all of us, if you took your television back to Buture Glop and asked for an H-Fill infusion. They will understand." He looked at me, at my supervisor. We stared back, hard, hoping he'd come to his senses and take his television back for re-conditioning. He looked at the remote in his hand, which would soon be incinerated, slowly set it down on the shelf, and left.
We took a deep breath, fearful from the man's bizarre claim. After a while we were able to laugh, quietly at first but soon louder and with unrestrained jocularity. We told fellow employees who laughed, told others, and spread the story of the Crazy Man who though his TV was different. It was soon forgotten, filed away into the group's collective memory where lie all the crazy customer stories. Work went back to normal.
Yesterday, a woman came into work saying that her new plasma tv was missing a contrast setting, that she could only go from "Cinema" to "Vivid," and was supposed to have "Game" in between. I looked around, seeing if my supervisor was back from lunch yet. His absence confirmed, I looked the woman in the eye and said quietly, "Tell me more."
Panasonic makes televisions. They also make everything else, except for toothbrushes and dwarf pony saddles. Other than that, they have your ass covered. They make two kinds of televisions. One is called "LCD," the other is called "plasma." When combining the total number of television types made by Panasonic, one being LCD and the other being plasma, we arrive, after some serious squinting, at the number 2 or, written out, "two." Stop me if I'm going too fast. Are you at the age where you use your children as printer repair people? Yes? Then I am going too fast.
Okay. LCD stands for liquid crystal display, which sounds Super High Tech except that is it not because the Ironman watch you are either wearing right now or threw in your top drawer because it was a crappy present from an ungrateful relative, is made of the same technology. So, think of LCD as a really big digital watch, except that this watch is a lot bigger, plays tv and movies, and won't tell time or go on your wrist. Got it? No? Plasma televisions are made out of halogen light bulbs, and follow the First Rule of Jurassic Park Economic Thermodynamics: Heavy=Expensive. Ever picked up a single halogen light bulb? Not too heavy right? Okay, now a plasma TV has literally infinity billions of bulbs on the inside. If you tried to pick up a plasma using all your strength the force would blow your colon inside out and your feet would be driven so deep into the ground you'd be kicking Asians in the shins. You need at least two people to lift a plasma television, from Panasonic, one of two kinds of televisions produced by that company.
Television used to be like people, every single one was different (unless they are a different brand than you, then they're all the same), but then 9/11 changed everything. Today tv's (LCD+plasma=2(two) kinds) come in things called "models," because they're so attractive. Haaar! Actually, they're called models because each type is made to the same specifications and is expected to perform exactly the same for each customer. I'll say that again, with less words: each model is exactly the same. Can you hear me in the back? EACH MODEL IS EXACTLY THE SAME. Just the guys! EACH MODEL IS EXACTLY THE SAME!!! The kids in the front! EACH MODEL IS EXACTLY THE SAME!!! Now the women! I COULD COOK AND DO LAUNDRY AT THE SAME TIME IF YOU'D LET ME!!! Well, close enough...
A gentleman entered my department recently. I could tell this was going to be trouble; call me ambidextrous but I have a fifth sense for these kinds of things. He had purchased a Panasonic television from one of our competitors. Now, I'm not at liberty to discuss such matters with the public but I can say that it rhymes with Yuture Slop. He had questions about the functionality of his new television, and naturally went back to Queueture Flop to inquire further. Har! He came to us instead. We were able to confirm, eight times in total, that we did in fact have the same model using a little retail trick I learned. I'd like to pass it on, but...okay, you can keep a secret right? You take the model number of the customer's television, then hold it up next to the display model's price tag. Find the model number on the price tag, stare at it, then look at the customer's model number, then back at the price tag, then back at the customer's model number, back again, then again, and again, faster, Faster, FASTER until they start looking like the same thing. Now, this is crucial. If they do NOT look the same, if they aren't blurring together properly, then they are NOT THE SAME.
In this case, the numbers blurred together properly and we had an exact Television Model Coupling, meaning that the TNA was a positive match. Except there was a problem. You see, in the world of televisions and the stuff that goes through them, we are at the precipice of an enormous crossroad. Tv's used to look basically like squares, for every four inches horizontally there's three inches vertically. Now, boy howdy, have things changed. Not only has the resolution gone from around 200 lines of resolution to 1080, but the shape has actually changed. It's caused quite a ruckus in the thinking of conservative audience types, folks who think consarnit, mah pappy watchded tealo-vision on one a dem square boxes an' nat wud gud enuff fo him! It's not just the USS Enterprise from forty years ago that has a rectangle TV, now YOU can have one too! Instead of impotent, hamstrung, gutless 4:3 televisions we now have robust, virile, spleen-flexing 16:9 tv's! These are the kinds of tv's that, if you're not careful, will attack you on your own couch, leak excess telestosterone all over you and order you to make it a protein shake.
This shape-changing paradigm causes some problems. What if you were a total caveman, using your feet to drive your car and a hammer and chisel to drawn stickporn? By which I mean, what if you wanted to run a 4:3 source, like a tv show or VHS tape, on your 16:9 tv? Don't worry Amish, the Future has you covered with a wide array of zooming and stretching features, all designed to make the original source look like stomach tattoo on a pregnant chick. The Future is designed to make your current products Crappy Compatible (Crapatible, natch), rendering your entertainment lifestyle a model of syncronistic harmony. Until something goes wrong...
When comparing his own Panasonic to our floor model, the gentleman stumbled upon a shocking oversight: his tv was missing a feature found on the store model. I went into immediate Utopian damage control: "Sir, contrary to what you may believe, all the Panasonic PX-85's are equipped with the H-Fill zooming feature. There's simply no way your model is missing it for you see, Panasonic long ago perfected their Model Cloning Technique rendering the kind of individualism you're suggesting utterly impossible." I smiled blandly, indicating that he was foolish to belief that such a perfect system could be in any way flawed. He insisted, no, his was different, it wasn't the same as every other Panasonic PX-85! I increased Customer Patronizing Tone by 12% and tried again, still smiling. "I'm sorry sir, you must be mistaken. Perhaps you erred when reading the instructions, or were misusing the feature." He carried on, insisting his was unique, singular, special, all while his right hand rubbed his hairy sweating chest, picked his ear, then his nose, then grabbed a remote off the shelf and began clicking it frantically. I became worried at his increasingly loud outbursts and called for my supervisor. "Sir," my supervisor said, "You are mistaken. All the PX-85's are the same. They carry with them the same features, the same internal circuitry and as such are capable of reaching the same performance. To suggest otherwise would be...." he trailed off, unable to verbalize the implications of the alternative. The man wouldn't listen, he was lost in a state of panicking confusion. We realized we only had one option, for the betterment of the store, Panasonic and the man's very soul. I moved towards him, not too close because he smelled like old soup, and said calmly but urgently, in a low voice, "Sir, perhaps it would be best for you, for all of us, if you took your television back to Buture Glop and asked for an H-Fill infusion. They will understand." He looked at me, at my supervisor. We stared back, hard, hoping he'd come to his senses and take his television back for re-conditioning. He looked at the remote in his hand, which would soon be incinerated, slowly set it down on the shelf, and left.
We took a deep breath, fearful from the man's bizarre claim. After a while we were able to laugh, quietly at first but soon louder and with unrestrained jocularity. We told fellow employees who laughed, told others, and spread the story of the Crazy Man who though his TV was different. It was soon forgotten, filed away into the group's collective memory where lie all the crazy customer stories. Work went back to normal.
Yesterday, a woman came into work saying that her new plasma tv was missing a contrast setting, that she could only go from "Cinema" to "Vivid," and was supposed to have "Game" in between. I looked around, seeing if my supervisor was back from lunch yet. His absence confirmed, I looked the woman in the eye and said quietly, "Tell me more."
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