Don’t worry about me. I’ve just been chillin’ in my new pad. Word to your mothers. You know which word. Didn’t bother getting the truck out of lockup. Different course of action. I think this little town could use a prolonged visit from me. Everybody should have a little Gecko in their lives.
I found a place to stay after getting out. Buddy’s still in jail, so I’ve been staying at his place. Decent enough accommodations. The food’s nothing to speak of unless you love bologna and beer, but there are little touches that make up for it. He had cheap food, but an expensive TV. I should know, I got a little bit of money for it. The real ancillary benefit are the guns.
I don’t really use them, as I’ve stated before. It’s much more fun to improvise with tools and appliances, especially because nobody expects it. Give someone a gun and they think they’re so big and bad right up until I take a spatula and spatulate them to death. Spatulate isn’t a real word, but it ought to be. Really, how badass can you be when you use a weapon that a kid can accidentally kill someone with if they find it laying around?
Moai agrees with me on this. He found me the other day. I was taking a shower and heard a knocking on the bathroom window. I turn and there he is, giant stone head pressed against the glass. After letting out a manly shriek that cracked said window, I went around and let him in. According to this precise diagram he drew, he got bored waiting for me in the truck and broke through part of the fence. Huh, now that I think about it, that’s why I wanted to get the truck back. Oh well. Now that means there’s a big hole in the impound’s fence I can exploit to get stuff out of there. Not a bad idea. Hey Moai, start looking around for a van to steal! Preferably one with art on the side, like Wil Wheaton shirtless in a kilt holding Felicia Day close.
So I made sure to file away all the nice identifying serial numbers and decided I’d set up shop. Oh, don’t worry. You can still technically find enough identifying marks if you know the techniques to recover them. I’d just rather that anyone finding these things have to go through trouble, time, and money having the guns analyzed than being able to just look at the number and go “Good, now we can find it in a few minutes.” Next step is to find some pent up individuals in this cozy little town and invite them to show the world how they really feel. It’s really generous of me, you know. I may not use guns, but it’s fairly handy for a lot of criminals to support gun ownership.
Here’s why. Most burglaries occur while the person is away from their house. So if you like to hunt, or just like to shoot, or if you’re one of these paranoid guys who wants to keep a gun around for self defense, someone like me breaks in while you’re gone and takes the guns. Just get rid of the numbers and there you go, criminals can now sell your handguns, shotguns, and rifles if they don’t want to use them. If I saw some guy walking around this town with a rifle trying to deter crime, I’d go find his house while he was on patrol and steal as much as I could get away with.
Speaking of patrols, I figured I’d do something to tie up the sheriffs while I went to work. Found that car that was eyeing me earlier and figured I’d attach a nice little balloon. Something to cheer up everyone. A public service. I fit it right over the tailpipe while it idled.
Before too long, the cop looked out the window to see a sex doll growing behind his car. There was a little boy near there walking with his parents who stopped and pointed as well. See? Fun times for the kids! He tugged on his mom’s purse and asked, “Mommy, what’s that?”
His dad turned first, “Shit. It’s Cally!”
His wife quickly looked from the doll to her husband, “Cally?”
The husband got this kind of look on his face like a wild-animal trapped in the middle of the road when a car comes around the corner. “Um…I don’t know what you’re talking about Lara.”
The officer, that same sheriff who pulled me over, got out of his car and walked around to the rear to look at the sex doll, which gave the family something else to focus on. The husband pointed to the sheriff. “Hey, what the hell are you doing with this thing in public?”
They were yelling at him and I joined in from across the street, “Yeah, have you no common decency? At long last, sir, have you no shame? There are impressionable fucking kids around here!”
With a little bit of an incident going on, I was able to meet Donna around the corner at the bakery for a brief chat and a small bag of a half-dozen donuts from the day before. “I need disgruntled people, Donna,” I said as we walked out.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“People who aren’t gruntled anymore. Put-upon assistants, bullied kids, the poor, the hungry, huddled masses yearning to breath free.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” she said and pulled away in her truck.
Found my first customer right after that. I saw a chubby mustached fellow in glasses walking toward a comic book store when his phone rang. He sighed, a defeated sound, and slumped over. He pulled out his phone and gazed upon it with dread. “Wish I could take a sledgehammer to this fucking thing.”
“Hey, don’t answer it!” I called out to him. I jogged over. I would have smiled, but I was trying to look friendly and people just don’t trust me when I’m happy about something.
“You don’t want answer that, do you?”
“It’s somebody you don’t want to talk to at all, right?”
I grabbed the phone and tossed it at the sidewalk. I stomped on it, then axe kicked it. Ok, what the hell? The Chinese never make phones this tough. I threw it through the window of the comic book store.
“Sorry about that,” I told the curious owner. I then kicked the glass open some more and dove in after the phone. “Get back here you cellular son of a bitch!” I punched it and split my knuckles open on its shiny screen. I picked it up and drove it into the linoleum floor of the store. The owner came at me with a newspaper in hand and swatted at me. His attempts to help me were woefully inadequate, so I grabbed the newspaper and beat the phone with it instead. Papercutting the phone also proved to be futile.
The owner pulled out his own phone. “I’m calling the cops!”
“No, you fool, you’re using a phone. This little ass-dialing asshole doesn’t need reinforcements. Put it away!”
Well, he insisted, so I really had no other choice than to grab his leg, trip him, and fling him on top of the phone. That’s when the phone started fighting back. By the 15th time I hit the phone with the comic shop owner, the guy had passed out. I left him laying on an overturned rack of mangas. That’s when I spotted it on the back shelf behind the counter. A replica of Aragorn’s sword from Lord of the Rings, aka Nerdscalibur. Needed room to swing though. Any married couples reading this, you know what I’m talking about, right?
The guy I was helping had seen me try to beat up his phone. He saw me throw it into a comic book store. He heard me fighting it and someone getting flung around and getting knocked out. Then it came flying back out through the door, followed by me stepping over broken window. I had a longsword in hand and my shirt tied around my waist. I leapt off the window sill and brought the sword down in an arc toward the mocking screen of my mighty foe. The sword’s blade broke off and flopped to the side.
“You can stop trying to kill my phone now,” said the guy I stole it from.
I dropped to my knees over the phone and starting stabbing at the screen with the broken, but sharp, blade. “No I can’t! I’m trying to help you. I’m helping!” Useless.
Drastic measures were called for. I walked to a car parallel parked on the side of the road and stick the blade through the little rubber protective sleeve and into the door of the car. I broke into a car across the street and hotwired. I backed it around on that side of the street, knocking down a display of daffodils outside a florist. They flew into the air as I gunned it, the tires squealing. “Crap, seatbelts, safety first,” I said as I remembered the belt. I strapped it on, then put it into gear and stomped on the pedal. The car shot across the road and slammed into the door where the phone hung, taunting me.
When I pulled myself out of the wreck, I found the phone laying on the sidewalk. It had flopped out of its little rubber sheath at some point in the crash and was just laying there. Why won’t you die, phone? Why won’t you DIE?!
At this point, the customer was a little dissatisfied and reclaimed his phone, but as he lifted it up, it slipped and fell on the sidewalk with a crack. Its screen broke and it shorted out before dying. My chubby client looked down at it. “Woops. These things are fragile without the rubber thingy.”
So the first day of my small-time attempt to solve a few problems before escaping in some grand, explosive getaway didn’t go very well. Sure, I screwed with the sheriffs, the people, and some cars, but I failed to kill a phone. Also, I kind of grabbed the chubby guy and threw him into a pile of flowers with thorns on them. Daffodils or petunias or roses maybe. Whatever, a flower by any other name would still smell as sweet.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go see a few more potential clients. Moai and I spent all day turning Buddy’s house into a good office space and now he has me on a schedule. In fifteen minutes, I have a meeting with a Mrs. Hughes who wants me to kill her husband because he’s been cheating on her and has stated he only sees her as someone to cook and have sex with him. Thirty minutes after that, I’ve got a meeting with some guy who wants revenge for getting fired for not answering his phone and then being involved in some weird car accident. Thirty minutes after that one, I have to meet somebody named Mr. Hughes who wants me to kill his wife because she beats him all the time, overreacts to every perceived slight, and she cheats on him.
No shortage of jerks out there, I’ve known that one for awhile. I’ll see if I can thin the herd a little bit. Hey Moai! Prepare some tea for our guests! And cut up some of those Kraft singles, we need a cheese tray. This is about professionalism.