The Attack Boy, naked as the day he was born (though less wet) is playing with some sort of wooden European toy, a huge thing on which hand-carved balls roll down a grooved track, hitting bells and weirdly oversized clown hands on their way… “It’s probably German” I complain to my Wife. “Even though I’m not Jewish, I still have a healthy distrust of the Germans”.
“Thats because you aren’t stupid,” she tells over her new wireless & waterproof hands-free throat-microphone, stepping out of the decontamination shower we’ve set up in the garage. “Are you watching me clean myself on the security cameras again?” I hastily flip the security monitor to a view of the street outside the Compound. “Of course not. The Boy is playing with his toy again.”
I can hear the elevator straining up the shaft. “Is that a euphemism?” The blast doors to the inner-sanctum hiss open and the Wife enters, pulling on a long lace dressing gown over her glowing flesh. “Oh, that toy, yeah I think Haba is German. Of course, so is Playmobil”.
I covered me ears and glared at her. She kept grinning at me past the pool table, covered in a Playmobil castle being overrun by barbarians and goblins (custom painted, Playmobil doesn’t make goblins…yet) so I hit the directional switch on the joystick and the Writing Chair swivelled away, facing the gun safe. That reminded me: I have to leave The Compound very shortly, for one more meeting on this terribly smart and funny Pitch we’ve been going out with. One more meeting, though this isn’t the end. Even if no one buys the fucking thing, the 2nd run meetings are still being set up.
We’ve passed by Midsummer, with little fanfare save a minor zombie uprising. Everything is back to normal now, mostly. “I crave rare roast beef more than I used to,” said Dr. Israel Hands as my Wife shot him up in between his toes. “Jesus Christ, that stings,” he complained. “Do you have to shoot up the antidote there?” My Wife shrugged. “Old habits die hard” she snapped. “I once knew a junkie whose only non-collapsed vein was in his pecker. That didn’t last long. HA! Long! Get it?!” We all had laughed, those weeks ago, enjoying a leisurely cookout on the roof of The Compound with old friends from every point of the compass.
But there are no cookouts these days, my friends. I’ve cleaned the Sig P229 and the elegent little leather Bianchi holster that goes above my right kidney and loaded three magazines with .357 Sig ammo: it’s an East Coast gun, very State Trooper. I slap in a mag and holster the weapon. I don’t chamber a round until it’s necessary. My belt holds a three-mag pouch, into two of which I slip the extra magazines, and into the third the collapsible baton. The Vector diving knife gets strapped to the outside of my left ankle, the 10oz “City of Villains” flask filled with Bushmills goes on the outside of my right. The ridiculously small .45 Semmerling fits into a little velcro holster that straps under my right armpit, over my undershirt but under the loose cotton luau shirt. A benchmade folding knife gets clipped to the inside of the right front pocket of my cargo pants. Wallet, bandana, Vespa keys go into various pockets, as does an index card with the address of where I’m going. On go the reinforced shitkicker cowboy boots (Tony Llama, natch). On go the SWAT surplus sunglasses. I don’t need a watch, since I can tell time internally ever since that incident in Cambodia.
Time to go sit across the table from a group of executives. Poor bastards aren’t going to know what hits them. They never expect much, a pitch from a smaller company entrusting one of their low-priority properties to a couple of baby-writers. Then they get The Story, and I watch their hair stand on end. My throat is raw from the voice work. We’ve had almost a dozen pitches thus far, and only one went sideways… but that is another story. Not for today, beloveds, I’m sorry. But I have a date with a pastrami sandwich and the Attack Boy needs some diapers cleaned after I’m done Pitchslinging.