Bookshelf Battle

The sound of the lock to the men’s restroom snapping shut was disturbing to me.  I’d never made a habit of hanging out with dudes in public restrooms and wasn’t about to now.  I had a reputation as a snatch magnet to uphold, and I wasn’t about to tarnish it for anyone.

“So, Mr. Smasher,” Humberto said.  “I see like Alice, you’ve chased the white rabbit, but are you prepared to find out just how deep the rabbit hole goes?”

“Umm,” I said.  “Is that an invitation to learn more about a conspiracy or a thinly veiled sexual innuendo?”

“It can be either,” Humberto said.  “Your choice.”

I coughed into my fist.  “Uh…the former, please.”

“P’shaw,” Humberto said.  “Typical outdated cis male.  Never willing to step outside your pre-conceived box and live a little.”

“My box is just fine, palooka,” I said.  “How’d you know my name?”

“Please,” the waiter replied.  “Your gorgeous face is all over the news, as well as social media.  Why, you’re Mack Smasher, who is, depending on who you ask, a menace to society who is going to kill us all over straws or save the world from straws, depending on whether you ask your fans or your detractors.”

“I have those?”

“Of course,” Humberto said.  “Dear me, you must get yourself connected online more.”

“In my experience, the Internet is just a breeding ground for weirdoes and perverts,” I said.

“Eh, you have a point there,” Humberto said.  “Still, you should check it out from time to time.  You’d be surprised to learn how many supporters you have out there.  In fact, you have one in here.”

“I could tell,” I said.  “Your hatred of straws is as genuine as mine, and that’s a feeling that’s hard to manufacture out of whole cloth, no matter how much cheap Chinese kid labor you acquire for three cents a day.”

Humberto took my hand.  I don’t think he meant it as a gay gesture but rather, as one of sincerity.  At any rate, it felt very gay.  I didn’t want to chance it, so I retracted my hand.

“They’ve found me,” Humberto said.

“Who?” I asked.

Humberto lifted the sleeve of his bicep to reveal his tattoo.  It consisted of two bendy straws, the tops bent at perfect angles.  In the middle, they crossed in an X.  A skull with vacant eyes appeared between them.

“What in the…”

“Please,” Humberto said.  “Relax, sir.”

“You’re…one of them aren’t you?”  I asked.  “Shit, I thought I’d seen all the symbols of all the pro-straw gangs in history but that’s a new one.  Is this a trap?”

“No,” Humberto said.  “Mr. Smasher, I swear to you, on the grave of my dear, darling, long lost Rodrigo, that I am your ally.  Yes, I was once an adherent to the terrible tenets of straw fascism, but I swear to you I am a changed man.  To quote the immortal words of Amazing Grace, I once was lost, but now, I am found and I like where I am, as a proud member of the underground anti-straw movement, though I must admit, I am much quieter about it than you are.”

“What is that?” I asked, pointing at the tattoo.

“You don’t know?” Humberto asked, a look of great shock on his face.

“No.”

“Dios mio!” Humberto exclaimed.  “Aw, my former cohorts are craftier than I thought, if they evaded detection by even the great renegade straw cop, Mack Smasher, all this time.”

“Start making some sense, fella,” I said.  “Because the longer we stand in this shitter, the longer people outside are going to assume we’re in here fuckin,’ and I can’t have that.”

Humberto calmed down.  “I respect your old-fashioned allegiance to misguided gender norms.  I scoff at it, but I respect it.  Mr. Smasher, this is the sign of…”

The waiter looked around.  Seeing no on was watching, he finished the sentence.  “…the Illumistrawti!”

“The Illumistrawti?” I asked.

“Yes,” Humberto said.  “Oh!  Be careful in invoking their ghastly name, for they have operatives everywhere, even in this very restaurant.  They watch me at all times.”

“Who are they?” I asked.

“Who…who are they you ask?”  Humberto slapped the back of his palm against his forehead, looking as though he might feint at any moment.  “And here I thought you were the world’s greatest detective of straw crime!”

“I am.”

“Yes, well,” Humberto said.  “It’s like there are many of them, are there?  So, it’s not like there’s a high bar for you to pass, but you’ll do.  Smasher, haven’t you studied straw history?”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m some geek of the street,” I said.  “I’ve been researching the history of straws for as long as I can remember.  Hell, I’m even in the process of constructing a time machine that would allow me to travel back to the 1800s and punch world class inventor Marvin Stone in the face until he agrees to not seek the patent on the world’s first mass production ready drinking straw.”

Humberto erupted in laughter.  “Ha!  Smasher, you ignoramus!  You think this hellscape we’re living in all starts with Marvin Stone and wait.  Really?  You made a time machine?”

“It’s mostly just a toaster oven that I connected to a tablet computer at the moment,” I said.  “It’s in a rudimentary stage but I’m getting there.”

“Ah,” Humberto said.  “Well, straws date way, way way, before Stone’s time.  Sure, he may have figured out a way to get them in the hands of the masses, but since caveman times, man has been torn between drinking directly from a container of water or to employ the use of a tube as a middleman between container and mouth.”

“It makes no sense,” I said.

“I know, right?” Humberto asked.

“Why add that extra step?” I asked.

“It’s ridiculous,” Humberto said.  “And yet, early man would fight over this all the time.  Some cavemen would say it’s perfectly fine to lift the hollowed-out rock serving as a bowl to hold water and tip it right into your mouth.  Others would say that’s disgusting for multiple people to put their mouths all over the rock bowl and to reduce the possibility of transmitting germs and diseases, they should use hollowed out twigs, rolled up leaves, or even pieces of bamboo to deliver the water from bowl to mouth.”

“Absurd,” I said.  “They could just wash the bowl between uses.”

“Exactly!”  Humberto said.  “Ah, but as time went on, straw related disagreements cursed the earth.  Historians wrote this fact out of the history books, but in truth, all wars since the beginning of time have been over straws.”

“In my gut I always knew that,” I said.  “Goddamn crooked historians.”

“By the late 1930s, a new pro-straw movement swept through Germany,” Humberto said.  “While Adolf Hitler sought to transform the world into one, giant dictatorship beholden the terrifying vision of an all-white master race, his lesser known cousin, Rudolf Spitler, lead a band of pro-straw zealots who marched through Europe, knee-capping anyone who refused to drink with a straw.”

“The Strawzis,” I said.  “I know of them.  They marched under the banner of the strawstika.”

“A disturbing symbol indeed,” Humberto.  “And those who gathered in secret to exercise their God given right to sip directly from a cup without an unnecessary interloquitor were hunted down and executed by the Strawzi party’s villainous enforcement wing, the villainous gestrawpo.”

“Bastards,” I said.  “I hope they’re all rotting in hell.”

“Of that, there can be no doubt,” Humberto said.  “After the war, a new pro-straw movement began, this one in Sicily.  They called themselves the Strawfia and soon they had infiltrated every aspect of American life, from politics to business to sports and entertainment, they spread the tentacles of their corruption, strangling every last dollar they could out of the system and using it to pay off politicians who gladly passed laws that allowed restaurants to flood the world with straws.  Bah, you hear debates about limiting the number of guns a man can buy, but nary a word on how many straws a single individual is allowed to acquire.  Why, thanks to the Strawfia, you can waltz right into a Fatty Burger, grab a handful of straws and the police won’t even show up at your door to strip search you and ask you a thousand questions.”

“That makes me want to puke,” I said.  “But you’re not telling me anything I don’t know.”

“Then let’s get to the last twenty years’ worth of developments in straw crime,” Humberto said.  “The knowledge of which seems to have eluded you.”

“I’m aware straw crime has never stopped,” I said.  “I just don’t understand it’s latest organizational format.”

“Few do,” Humberto said.  “And that is the genius of the Strawman.”

“The Strawman?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Is that when you get into a debate with somebody about whether tax rates should be raised or lowered.  You take a stance for lowering them and your opponent bypasses your argument and counters with an accusation that you’re a chicken fucker instead, so then to the untrained observer, it looks like your opponent has won because you’re up there, trying to prove your innocence of chicken fuckery rather than get into the substance of the actual topic of the debate?”

“No,” Humberto said.  “You’re thinking of a strawman argument.  Please, do not confuse that with the Strawman.”

“I’ve heard rumors of his existence,” I said.  “I thought he was just a myth, a ghost, a boogeyman that straw haters like myself tell to children to keep their lips on the cup and away from straws.”

“No,” Humberto said.  “He is very much real.  In the early 2000s, he brought the Strawfia to heel.  One by one, he waged civil war against the lesser straw gangs.  The Order of the Straw.  The Strawng Armers.  M-SIP 45. The Four Horsemen of the Strawpocalypse.  One by one their leadership either bent a knee and joined the Illumistrawti or suffered death by the Strawman’s hand.”

“Who is he?” I asked.  “I must know.”

“No one knows,” Humberto said.  “Few have seen his face and lived to tell the tale.  Those who have are his most trusted subordinates, die-hard straw lovers who would give their lives willingly just to see a world where everyone sucks.”

“If that’s the symbol of the Illumistrawti,” I said, pointing to Humberto’s bicep.  “And you’re no longer with them, why haven’t you had that removed by now?”

“It comes in handy,” Humberto said.  “I now consider myself a one-man warrior in the anti-straw movement.  In the past, I worked my way into Illumistrawti cells across the country, ingratiating myself to them before I help them meet their much-deserved demise.  In recent years, I have slowed my pace, opting instead to take up the mantle of a humble waiter, moving from restaurant to restaurant, convincing managers across the country to swap out plastic straws for paper before moving on my way.”

“Blech,” I said.  “Straw porn.”

“Yes, I know it’s straw porn,” Humberto said.  “But this is war, Smasher, and we must do whatever we can to get plastic out of the mouths babes and onto the ash heap of history where it belongs.”

“Why’d you join such a lousy band of assholes in the first place?” I asked.

“I was young,” Humberto said.  “Stupid and naïve.  My sister died from a deadlier than average strain of influenza.  Her doctor lectured my parents that if only they had gotten our family’s precious little one hooked on straws early, she would have lived, free from the germs that grow on communally used glasses, despite being run through the dishwasher regularly.”

“Germs that can outlive a run through the dishwasher?” I asked.  “Give me a break.”

“Yes, well,” Humberto said.  “What did I know?  I was young and unaware of the powerful influence the pro-straw forces had over the medical profession.  Immediately, I sought out my local chapter of M-SIP 45 in Guadalajara.  I joined and after a grueling initiation process, I was smuggling trucks full of untaxed, tariff circumventing straws over the border into the United States and selling them to restaurants at bargain basement, cutthroat rates.  Thanks to bandejos like me, it became cheaper and easier than ever for the food service industry to flood the market with plastic, choking our rivers and streams and worse, putting the life of every man, woman and child in mortal peril.”

“May God have mercy on your soul,” I said.

“Yes,” Humberto said.  “I pray that he will, for I am a reformed man.”

“What was your come to Jesus moment?” I asked.

“After getting shot in a straw deal gone bad, I realized that life was short,” Humberto said.  “I proposed to my longtime lover, Rodrigo, a jaw droppingly handsome specimen of masculinity, who was literally capable of cracking walnuts between his tushy cheeks.  Oh, and what a delightful heiney it was!  How the many nights I spend making sweet love to it brought me so much joy and pleasure beyond any possible stretch of the imagination, and also, let me tell you…”

“Let’s fast forward through this part,” I said.

“Very well, troglodyte,” Humberto said. “During our wedding reception, Rodrigo, now my husband, ordered his usual cocktail of cranberry juice and vodka.  Throughout the evening, he sipped on it with one of those little straws, you know, the ones that are so teeny they can double as both a straw and a swizzle stick?”

“Death traps if I ever saw one,” I replied.

“Indeed,” Humberto said.  “Poor Rodrigo.  He was such a prolific sucker.  One of the many reasons why I married him, but as you said, you don’t want to hear about that in any great detail.”

“I don’t.”

“Oh, you sad, sexually repressed little man,” Humberto said.  “I weep for you but moving on, Rodrigo sucked on his little straw so hard that it became lodged deep inside his lung, cutting off his air supply.  He turned blue, suffocated instantly, and my life was shattered.  I never enjoyed a man ass ever again.”

“You went celibate?”

“Don’t be silly,” Humberto said.  “I didn’t say that.  I just said I stopped enjoying it.”

“I’m sorry, Humberto,” I said.  “I can’t say enough for the sake of my machismo that I am the furthest thing away from gay, so I can’t imagine what it must be like for one gay dude to lose the gay dude that he loves, but if its any consolation, I’ve lost over a dozen or so ex-wives so I too know the pain of loss.”

“My goodness!” Humberto said.  “All your past wives died?”

“No,” I said.  “They just wished me dead on the way out the door.”

“Not exactly the same thing, Mr. Smasher, but your attempt to empathize is appreciated.”

The waiter stood up on his tippy toes, moved aside one of the flimsy ceiling tiles, and pulled down a stashed briefcase.

“What is this?” I asked.

“I lied to you earlier,” Humberto said.  “Plastic straws were given out in this restaurant.  I ashamed to say, by me.”

“Humberto!” I said.  “How could you?”

“The Illumistrawti is a difficult organization to leave,” the waiter said.  “Once their claws are in your flesh, they will never let go.  They tracked me down last week and forced me to deal these vile straws and track the results.”

“The results?” I asked.

“Yes,” Humberto said as he passed me the briefcase.  “After the past few days of watching your anti-straw exploits on television, I had been trying to work up the courage to seek you out, tell you my story and turn over this evidence, but alas, I was so cowardly.  But when I saw you walk through my door, I knew fate had brought us together.”

“Ahem,” I said.  “In a purely Platonic sense.”

“Right.”

“Just two straw haters on a mission,” I added.

“I’m not trying to get up your ass, Mr. Smasher!”

“Cool,” I said.  “Just making sure.”

As Humberto nudged me toward the door, I felt a cold breeze whisk through the bathroom.

“Sir,” Humberto said.  “I must beg you to take your leave now.  The Strawman’s agents are everywhere, always waiting, always watching.  If they learn I talked to you, my life will be…ACK!”

My new acquaintance fell to the ground, writing in pain.  He slapped his neck, then held it up – a tiny wad of wet paper.

“Egads!  A poisoned spitball!  This must be the work of…a strawsassin!:

Almost as if on cue, I looked up to the window on the other side of the bathroom.  It had been opened.  On that dark winter’s evening, I could only make out a pair of eyes and, you guessed it, a straw that was slowly moving back as the mysterious murderer pulled his head away, disappearing into the darkness.

I dropped to my knees and grabbed the waiter’s hand.  “Humberto!  What can I do?”

Humberto clutched his chest and gasped for air.  “Nothing!  Strawsassins coat their spitballs with a powerful, toxic chemical that works quickly, shutting down all bodily functions before the victim meets with a most unenviable demise!  Oh, the pain!  The horror!  The horror of it all, I say!”

I pulled out my phone.  “Hang on, pal.  I’ll call an ambulance and get you fixed up in no time.”

“No!” Humberto cried.  He choked and sputtered.  “It’s too late!  I am a goner.  Ah, fi on thee, fate, cruel mistress that you are, for we must all face death sooner or later and yet we are never prepared to do so as death is such a foreign concept to us, life being all that we know.”

I squeezed Humberto’s hand.  It’s important to me that you understand that I did this in a strictly, non-gay way.  It’s something I’d do for anyone who was about to kick the bucket, so don’t go getting any funny ideas about Mack Smasher being light in the loafers, see?

“Mr. Smasher!  Please, you must do something for me!  It is, my last request.”

“Anything.  Name it.”

“You must…fellate me!”

“Um…what?”

“There’s no time to argue, man!” Humberto said.  “I beg of you, take out my manhood and give it a good shine, so that I may know the love of a man one more time before I die.”

“Dude,” I said.  “Come on.”

“Oh, Mr. Smasher!” Humberto said.  “I know behind your gruff exterior lies the beating heart of a kind man.  Surely, you would not deny the last wish of a man who is about to shove off into the void that is the great unknown.”

“Damn it.”  Ever so slowly, I reached my hand towards Humberto’s belt buckle.

The dying man laughed.  “Bah!  I got you!”

My face turned red.  “You did not!”

“I totally…argh…ugh…I totally got you, man!”

“No, you didn’t,” I said.

“I did so!  You were going to blow me!”

“I was not,” I protested.  “You just had a little schmutz on your pants.  I was trying to brush it off for you.”

“Whatever,”  Humberto said.  “But seriously, Smasher, you must do something for me.”

“If it’s got anything to do with your dick, I’m leaving you to croak on this cold tiled floor all by your lonesome,” I said.

“No!” Humberto said.  “This request has nothing to do with my penis.  Smasher, you must take the briefcase.  Inside it, there is evidence that you can use to bring down the Strawman.  I wish I had more time to explain but I can feel the poison doing its work.”

I looked at my watch.  “Are you sure there’s no time for an ambulance?”

“No,” Humberto said.  “As I told you, the poison is fast acting.”

“It doesn’t seem like it,” I said.

“Well, I assure you, it is,” Humberto said.

We traded confused looks in silence for a while.  Finally, Humberto spoke up again.  “Have you got any games on your phone?  Sweetie Smash perhaps?  Or maybe a movie?  Something to pass the time?”

“Oh,” I said. “I don’t know.  I don’t like to drain my battery unnecessarily.”

Humberto raised his hand.  “That is very wise of you.”

“I mean, I’m not trying to be a dick or anything,” I said.

“I don’t think you are a dick,” Humberto said.  “You are being very responsible.”

“Thanks,” I said.  “It’s just, you know, when you’re out and about, you never know when you’ll get to plug your phone in again and in the meantime, something unexpected could happen and you need help but your battery’s gone and…”

“Say no more,” Humberto said.

“This is nuts,” I said.  “I’m calling 911.”

“No!” Humberto said.  “Too late!  I am…gone!”

Humberto grabbed his chest and convulsed, his entire body shaking as though he’d just been electrocuted.  His eyes rolled into the back of his head.  He went silent.

“Oh, Humberto,” I said as I stood up.  “I hardly knew you, but your death saddens me so.  We could have been great friends, you and I, fighting straw crime and sharing our hatred for straws while hanging out and doing friendly and only friendly activities.  Nothing gay.  Oh well.  Goodnight, sweet prince.  Parting is such sweet sorrow.”

GASP!  Humberto lifted his head up and caught his second wind.  “Mr. Smasher!  I almost forgot.  I have one more thing to tell you!”

“What is it, Humberto?” I asked. “You can tell me anything.”

The goner curled his finger towards himself.  “I am so weak.  Come closer.”

I knelt down.

“Closer.”

I moved closer.

“Closer, still.”

I did as requested until the dying man whispered into my ear.  “Kiss me, you fool!”

“Blech!” I said as I lifted my head.

Humberto laughed himself silly.  “I got you again!”

“You did not!  Jesus Christ, will you let me call you an ambulance?”

“No!” Humberto shouted.  “How many times must I tell you in no uncertain terms that there is simply no time to save my life and therefore a call to the paramedics would be nothing more than a futile, meaningless gesture?  Why, I’ll tell you there’s no time now, and if you ask me again I will give you the same answer.  I just don’t know how much time I have to spend telling you that, Mr. Smasher.  I really don’t.  Why, in the immortal words of Charlemagne, King of the Franks and the Lombards, a better monarch the world has not yet seen…”

I grabbed Humberto’s hand.  “Forget the quote.  Just save your strength.”

Humberto spat a heaping helping of blood right in my face.  I closed my eyes, choking back my disgust.

“Oh,” Humberto said.  “I’m terribly sorry.  I had no control over that.  I’m dying you see.”

“I understand,” I said.  “You had something to tell me?”

“Oh, yes,” Humberto said.  “Please, if you are ever in Anacostia, my apartment is 118 Frederick Street.”

I released Humberto’s hand.  I pulled out a notepad and a pen and jotted the information down.  “118 Frederick Street.  Got it.”

“Tell my roommate Raul…”

“Your roommate Raul,” I repeated as I scribbled away.

“To feed Mrs. Fluffy.”

Confused, I scratched my head.  “You want me to track down your roommate and ask him to feed your cat?”

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble,” Humberto said.

“And that’s all?”

“Yes.”

“Raul doesn’t have a special hard drive or an important clue to give me?” I asked.

“No,” Humberto said.  “He is a nice man but very simple.  He does not get involved in such matters.  Just tell him to feed my cat.”

“Do I really need to?”

“Why wouldn’t you?” Humberto asked.  “I feed my cat all the time.  If I’m not there, then she will not get fed.”

“Do you think that’s true though?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?” I asked.  “I mean, Raul is probably a smart enough guy.  You don’t come home.  The cat meows.  He puts two and two together, realizes the cat is hungry and he opens up a can of cat food.”

“Right,” Humberto said.

“I’m not trying to shirk responsibility or anything,” I said.  “I just think you might be selling Raul short.”

“Yes,” Humberto said.  “I suppose I am.  Yes, Raul is more than capable of taking care of Mrs. Fluffy.  I’m sorry I bothered you with that.  Goodbye, Smasher.”

“Oh,” I said.  “This is it now?”

Humberto released a weapons grade fart.  The stench singed my nosehairs.

“Yes, this is it,” Humberto said.  “My apologies for the flatulence.”

“That’s OK,” I said.

“Goodbye, cruel world!”

Humberto’s head hit the floor.  He convulsed some more and then was quiet.

I stood up.  “Shit, that strawsassin has a hell of a head start, but I bet if I go right now.”

Humberto was up again. “Mr. Smasher!”

“Aw, what now?” I asked.

“Well, hello to you too, Mr. Snippy Pants!” Humberto said.  “What, is my death keeping you from something?”

“Yes!” I said.  “I’m trying to avenge you!”

“Oh,” Humberto said.  “Yes, I suppose I would like vengeance very much.  Although, I’d rather you not kill a man for the sake of killing him, as if that would somehow make my death any less tragic.  It wouldn’t.  If you do kill the strawsassin, do it so that no more victims fall to the fury of his fast-acting spitball of doom.”

I looked at my watch.  “Buddy, it’s been like fifteen minutes.”

Humberto reached out his hand.  “Come down here.”

“I don’t know,” I said.  “You’re not going to try to trick me into sucking your dick are you?”

“What?” Humberto said with a smile.  “No!”

“Are you going to ask me to kiss you?”

“No!”

“Alright, then.”

I crouched by the man who I wasn’t even sure was dying anymore and took his hand.

“There is something very important I left out,” Humberto said.  “You must investigate the Ajax Restaurant Supply Company!”

“Ajax?” I asked.  “What about them?”

“Their factory in Baltimore!”  Humberto said.  “It’s where the Strawman plots the impending…Strawmageddon!”

“I knew those bastards at Ajax were dirty!” I said.  “Wait, what’s Strawmageddon?”

Humberto barfed another batch of blood all over my face.

“Ugh,” Humberto said.  “Again, I’m so sorry.”

I closed my eyes, calmed myself down, then opened them.  “It’s fine.”

“I’ve lost all control of my body, Mr. Smasher,” Humberto said.  “I don’t know what’s going on.  I’m so afraid, so petrified!  Is there life after death?  Was life just a big waste, a meaningless exercise in existential masturbation, acquiring all types of memories that in the end are useless because they simply fade away into a black pit of despair?  Or, is there a heaven, a happy place where one knows only joy and never again feels pain?  A place where all our dreams come true and…BLARG!”

More blood.  On my face.

“Wow,” Humberto said.  “Three times.”

“It’s fine,” I said.

“I know you’re trying to cut me some slack because I’m dying but man, that’s gross,” Humberto said.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said.  “Humberto, focus.  What is Strawmageddon?”

“Strawmageddon?” Humberto asked.

“Yes!  What is it?”

“Strawmageddon is the end of days for straw haters,” Humberto said.  “It is an event that will arrive soon and when it rears its hideous head, the straw will reign supreme and all will be forced to bow down and pledge their allegiance to the straw, forced to suck upon it forever and ever and ever.  I am so glad I am dying imminently so I do not have to see that day come.”

“What day is it?”  I asked.  “How will it be brought about?  How can I stop it?”

Humberto said.  “All very important questions, to which I have the answers but alas, there is no time for me to give you the answers you so desperately need because I can feel the cold hand of the grim reaper on my shoulder now.  I shall drift off into nothingness any second now.”

“Not for nothing,” I said.  “But I really think you should have led off with Strawmageddon.”

“You’re right,” Humberto said.

“Maybe you could have forgotten all that shit about the cat,” I said.

“Exactly,” Humberto said.  “I’m such a dummy sometimes.  Oh well.  What can you do?  Oh, and Mr. Smasher?”

“Yes?”

“On your way out, do be very careful,” Humberto said.  “For I must warn you, a strawsassin always has back-up.”

“You mean?”

“Yes,” Humberto said.  “There are bloodthirsty killers intermixed with the customers.  They’ve got to great lengths to hide their identities.  Any person out there on the restaurant floor could be a homicidal maniac.”

“Do you know who I should look out for?”  I asked.

“I do,” Humberto said.  “But I…”

“Have no time because you’re dying,” I said.

“Precisely,” Humberto said.  “Oh, and Mr. Smasher?”

“What now?”

“No,” Humberto said.  “If you’re going to get short with me.”

“I’m not being short,” I said.  “It’s just, this is a lot of information coming at me all at once.”

“I understand,” Humberto said.  “Just be aware that the Strawman is also a master of disguise.  Over the years, he has taken many forms.  He is no stranger to plastic surgery and has stolen the identities of paupers and politicians alike.  You should trust no one, for when you least suspect it, the Strawman will strike!”

“Holy shit,” I said.  “That little tidbit just made my butthole pucker.”

“As it should,” Humberto said.  “Because, for all you know, the Strawman could be thousands of miles away on the other side of the earth, or he could be your best friend or worst enemy.  Why, he could even be one of your colleagues on the police force.  He could be your partner!”

“Mother of God!” I said.  “No, wait, my partner’s a woman.”

“Do you think a little inconvenience like cutting of a dick and sewing on a snootch would slow the Strawman down?” Humberto asked.  “He’s swapped out his privates thousands of times!”

“Yikes,” I said.  “That’s gotta hurt.”

“I just wish I had the time to tell you more,” Humberto said.

“It seems like you’ve got nothing but time now,” I said.  “Are you sure that spitball was poisonous?”

“I’m positive,” Humberto said.

We remained silent for a bit, until Humberto piped up.  “So, do you have a deck of cards on you?  Maybe we could play a couple rounds of gin rummy until I bite the big one.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.  “I’ve never been much of a gambler.”

“That’s fine,” Humberto said as his face turned blue.  “I must bid you adieu.”

“Goodbye, Humberto.”

Humberto’s head hit the floor.  He crossed his eyes, stuck out his tongue, and gasped one last breath.

“Finally,” I said.  I moved to the door, but…

“Tomorrow, and tomorrow and tomorrow!” Humberto’s head was up and he was hamming it up again.  “Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time!”

“Humberto,” I said.  “Look, I love you man.  You’re the best friend I never had, but I’ve got shit to do.”

“Oh!” Humberto said.  “I’m so sorry if my death is inconvenient for you, Smasher!”

“It’s not that,” I said.  “It’s just that I’ve got shit to do and I don’t have time to listen to you recite Game of Thrones!”

              “What?” Humberto asked.  “You think I’d allow my last words to be some pretentious hipster bullshit from that titty infested, pay cable, pornographic version of Lord of the Rings?  I’m reciting Shakespeare, man!”

I sighed.  “Fine.  Do what you gotta do.”

“Where was I?

“The last recorded syllable of time.”

“Oh,” Humberto said.  “Right.  And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death.  Out, out, brief candle!  Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more.  It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”

“That was great,” I said.

“Was it?” Humberto asked.

“I’m no theater critic,” I said.  “But I couldn’t have done any better.”

“Thank you, Mr. Smasher.”

“Please, call me Mack.”

“OK,” Humberto said.  “Goodbye, Mack.”

Humberto’s head hit the floor.  His eyes crossed.  He stuck out his tongue.  His farts bellowed.  He coughed blood in my face a fourth time.

I stood up.  I washed my face in the sink.  Dried myself with some paper towels.  I grabbed the briefcase.  I unlocked the door, put my hand on the knob and was about to turn it, when…

“To be, or not to be, that is the question!  Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or…”

“Nope,” I said as I walked out.  “You’re on your own.”

I despised places like Wisenheimer’s with the passion of a thousand red hot fiery suns, each one burning on and on until the end of all eternity.  Each piece of crap nailed to the wall was another affront to my keen sense of style.  If my internalized rage was a solar flare, it was about to go full supernova.  I’m sure all these words make perfect scientific sense and if you think they don’t, then most likely you’re wrong, so my condolences, but it sucks to be you.

Speaking of sucking, Rosie was losing a battle with a paper straw.  The first few sips of her raspberry soda water went just fine, but half-way through, her tube was limper than the dingus of a 90-year old man after a prostrate surgery gone horribly wrong.

“Paper straws,” Rosie said as she pulled a little wad of errant paper off of her tongue.  “Why even bother? Blech.”

“Paper straws,” I said.  “Washable metal straws.  They’re all the same to me.  Straight up straw porn, plain and simple.”

“Straw porn?”  Rosie asked.

“What does a man do when he watches porn other than to get off on something he wishes he had but will most likely achieve?” Mack asked.  “That’s what I assume anyway.  I don’t watch porn.  Don’t need to.  I get more pussy than a catnip factory.  I try to remind myself that not every man is as accomplished a cocksman as I am, so I sympathize with the plight of the porn watcher.  Now I suppose I’ll have to learn to sympathize with you lesser folk who cling to your plastic straws, desperately trying to replace them with poor facsimiles that will only give you a brief, fleeting sense of happiness until you blow your wad in your proverbial gym sock, leaving you to return to reality, more depressed than you were before.”

“I don’t understand you at all,” Rosie said.

“Few do,” Mack Smasher said.  “It’s a blessing…and a curse.”

“All I know is between the words, pussy, porn, cocksman and the added bonus of you telling me that I’m lesser than you, I could just call it a day, call up my lawyer tomorrow, sue the department for an easy million and never have to surround myself with aging, middle-aged, musclebound bores like yourself ever again.”

I tipped back a stein full of frosty brew.  “You won’t.”

“How do you know?”  Rosie asked.

“You’re a company woman,” I explained.  “I can read it all over you, like a cheap dime store novel trying to be the next best seller.  You crave the approval of authority and worse, you yearn to be that authority yourself.  You know getting there is hard, so you’re happy to settle for being an authority within a division that people would actually have to shit more just to find a shit to give about it.”

Rosie stirred her paper straw around and around inside her drink until it melted completely.  She sneered at the wet paper and pushed her glass away.  “Is it that obvious?”

“I’m sensing some sort of inherited sense of duty,” I said.  “Someone made you this way.  Come from a long line of cops, do you?”

“What?” Rosie asked.  “No, I’m…ugh!  Fine, yes.  My father and grandfather.  Both San Francisco PD.”

“You’re a long way from home little lady.”

“Thought I’d try for the FBI,” Rosie said.  “D.C. police got me first.  The first few years on the beat left me feeling comfortable, so I forgot all about the Feds.  But then I got promoted to detective and all the comfort went away.”

“Good story,” Smasher said.  “I give it about a three.  You wouldn’t pass a lie detector with it, though.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Let me take out my red pen and draw a big, fat X over that nonsense,” I said.  “Now let me replace it with all you ever wanted to do was make your old man proud.  You knew the only way to do that was to become a cop, but if you stayed in San Fran, you’d always be living in Daddy’s shadow.  Ergo, you put three thousand miles between you and him and now, you can call him once in a while, tell him tales of your daring do and since he’s got no contacts in the district, he’ll have to take you at your word because he’s got no way to check up on you.”

“Maybe,” Rosie said.  “OK, yes.”

“But nothing you do ever impressed him,” I said.  “Yakuza encounters and drug cartel busts be damned.”

“Possibly.”

“You never really wanted to be a cop so now that you’ve wised up to the fact that you could should cancer curing, AIDs reducing pills out of your ass and his response would be a tepid, ‘meh,’ you gave up moved onto the straw beat,” I said.

“More or less,” Rosie said.  “You might have tapped into my subconscious reasoning but bottom line –  I did my part to make the world a better place and now I deserve to live my life.”

“With banker’s hours,” I said.

“Exactly.”

I looked at my watch.  5:01 p.m.  “Looks like that’s not happening tonight, Toots.”

I perused a menu.  Jalapeno chili croquettes.  Big beef burrito slammers.  Cheese steak onion fries.  It was a cardiologist’s worst nightmare.

“While we’re talking about bottom lines,” I said. “I know what yours is.”

“Is that so?” Rosie asked.

“Yes,” I said.  “You’d never sue the department over my alleged chauvinism.”

“Alleged chauvinism?”  Rosie said.  “No, sorry pal, but proving your chauvinism is the easiest case I could ever make.”

“Chauvinism isn’t a real thing,” I said.  “It’s a made-up word, designed by flabby, blue-haired, hairy arm-pitted feminists who are pissed at the raw deal God gave them.  Too manly to make a boner twitch but too feminine to have any kind of meaningful upper body strength, so they just sit around, dumping on men, inventing words like, chauvinism and man-splaining, man-spreading and toxic masculinity, trying their best to drag real men down to their pathetic levels out of a misguided, unachievable attempt to make themselves better, rather than do perform a full assessment of what skills they do have and use them to trailblaze their own path through this rough and tumble world.”

Rosie blinked.  “O.K.  Now I’m positive I could sue.”

“You won’t.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Your old man would think less of you.”

“That’s…you’re way off and…shut up, Smasher.”

“Whatever you say, dear.”

Our waiter sashayed up to our table.  He was a total fruit.  Can I still say that?  Oh well, if you’re offended, hire Rosie’s lawyer.  He’s free because she’ll never hire him.

By the way, I’ve got nothing against homosexuals.  As far as I’m concerned, the only thing the government should be able to stop you from sucking on is a straw.  Anything else is your business and not mine.  What do I care?  More pussy left on the table is more pussy me.

All I’m saying is I can read people.  It’s a gift that only the best detectives have.  At fifty paces I can tell if you’re happy or sad, if you’re being all you can be in life, if you’re in a failing marriage, if you have a sense of self-worth, if you’re cheating on your significant other, if you forgot to pay your gas bill, if you prefer cats or dogs, if you left the stove on, if you’d rather be anywhere else but here, if you’re a Scorpio or a Pisces, if you’ve got money problems, if you’re high on crank, if you’ve ever shot a man, or any other aspects of your life, be they important or trivial.

In this particular case, I knew our waiter was a fan of cock and who can blame him because I was rather fond of mine, though I must note, mine and only mine.  Maybe it was the way he moved – graceful, like a prima ballerina.  Maybe it was his perfect posture, like he hadn’t spent his entire youth glued to a couch playing video games as most males born after 1980 have.  Or, maybe it was just the way he talked.

“Ciao, bellas!  I am Humberto and I shall be your tour guide this evening as you venture forth into the wild word of Wisenheimer’s choice cuisine.  Kisses!  Muah, muah!  Aren’t you a lovely couple?”

Rosie raised her hand.  “Oh, no, we’re not…”

I interrupted.  I’d like to say it’s a man’s prerogative, but Rosie will probably read this someday.  Oh, who am I kidding?  We both know she never will.  “A couple!  Yes, that’s what we are.  Just a couple of tourists in from uh, Omaha.  Yes.  The Midwest.  Lovely place.  Cows, corn and apple pie.  But we’ve come to see sights.  I wanted to go to Cancun but the old ball and chain insisted we come here and learn a thing or two about the good old U.S. of A.”

“Well, isn’t that lovely?” Humberto asked.  “How long have you two been together?”

“Oh,” Rosie said.  “We’re not…”

“Fifteen years,” I said.  “Now that’s hard time.  One and a half decades with the same broad would make any man head for the hills…”

I reached across the table and took Rosie’s hand.  She played along, but I could tell she wanted to blow chunks.  I have that effect on some women, but not most.  “…but I met my wittle schnookums at a pot luck dinner at an Omaha farmer’s convention and well, we’ve been attached at the hip ever since.  Isn’t that right, dear?”

Rosie looked around for the nearest exit.  “Um…right.”

“Fabulous!” Humberto said.  “And who knew that farmers had such amazing fashion sense?  Look at you sir!  You look like you just walked off the set of a 1980s action flick.  Who are you trying to channel?  Arnold Schwarzenegger?  Sly Stallone, perhaps?”

“Bruce Willis was always my favorite,” I said.  “Sure, he came into the 1980s action scene late, but when he came, he came hard.”

Humberto patted me on the shoulder.  “Story of my life, darling.”

Our waited looked at Rosie.  “And my dear, that snappy looking business lady suit is absolutely to die for.”

“Oh,” Rosie said.  “Really?  This old thing?”

“Yes,” Humberto said.  “But oh, my!  It looks like you sat on Count Chocula’s face.  Can I get you some napkins?”

“No,” Rosie said.  “I think these are permanently ruined.  There was a little accident.  My cup was open and I didn’t have a straw and, well, never mind.”

I snapped my fingers.  “Say, Humberto, what’s the deal with these paper straws?”

“Yes,” Humberto said.  “Aren’t they positively divine?”

“No, not really,” I replied.  “They’re kind of dry and then after a few sucks, they go limp.”

“I’d say that’s the story of my life too, but I’ve never had that problem, darling,” Humberto said.

I slapped the table.  “Ha!  Highbrow humor like that is just something we’re missing in Omaha, isn’t it dear?”

“Yeah,” Rosie said.  “Sure is.”

“But no,” I said.  “Seriously, you don’t have some plastic straws around here?”

Humberto clutched his chest.  “Sir!  What an outrageous statement!”

“What?” I asked.

“My friend,” Humberto said.  “You’re not from around here, so I shall forgive you, but the District of Columbia has just passed a straw ban.”

“A straw ban?” I asked, feigning ignorance.

“Precisely,” Humberto replied.  “Plastic straws are now persona non grata at any restaurant within the city limits.”

“Why in tarnation would y’all ban straws?”  I inquired.  “And by the way, I’m from Omaha, so I say words like tarnation and y’all, all the time.  Isn’t that right, honey?”

“I think so,” Rosie said.  “Yeah, sure, why not?”

“Sir, I could nibble that cute little ear of yours off all day long while I inform you of the dangers of plastic drinking straws,” Humberto said.  “Why, did you know that plastic straws are not biodegradable?”

“They aren’t?” I asked.

“Not at all,” Humberto said.  “Why, if there were ever a nuclear war, the only thing to survive would be plastic straws and cock-a-roaches.”

Funny how the world works.  I was starting to get the sense that Humberto was the only other human being in the world who hated straws as much as I did.  Ah, but fate is a cruel mistress because as much as we shared in common, Mack Smasher gives up cooter for no man.

Humberto rested his hand on my shoulder.  I was instantly concerned that he was transmitting second hand gayness to me.  I knew that was impossible and yet, I feared the worst.

“Sir,” he said.  “I can’t get too personal as I just met you, but straws are also very dangerous to humans.”

My heart fluttered.  For so long, I thought I was the only one who knew that straws were a danger to humans.  Still, I faked ignorance.  It was hard to do, given that I am the world’s foremost expert on straw related homicide, but I did it anyway.  Frankly, the performance I gave that day should have won me an aware.

“Are they now?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,” Humberto replied.  “I have first-hand knowledge of this.”

Oh my God.  I did too, but I couldn’t tell him that.

“You see,” Humberto said.  “Many years ago, there was an incident.  It involved my soulmate, a dance party, a silly straw hurled about in a reckless matter and..”

 

 

The waiter choked back his tears.  “Oh, I’m sorry.  I get so emotional over this story.  Anyway, Rodrigo is no longer with us and let’s leave it at that.  I’ve said too much already.  What can I get you?”

I wanted so badly to reach out and comfort this lug – not in a gay way, mind you, for, as we all know, the only thing Mack Smasher will ever allow entry into his backdoor is a doctor’s colonoscope, and even then, I’m going to need a second opinion.

I kept up the façade.  “Wait.  So, you’re telling me I can’t get a plastic straw here?”

“Absolutely not, sir,” Humberto said.  “It would be criminal to do so and if you ask me, it’s about time.”

“Buckaroo,” I said.  “And again, I’m from Omaha, so I say things like that.  There was a little lady my wife and I met at uh…the hotel, and well, being a man of vast sexual prowess, the wife and I took her back and we had ourselves a little threesome.  I don’t mean to speak ill of my wife’s sexual abilities.  It’s not her fault that I’m so virile that no one woman could ever possibly satisfy me.  Anyway, that lady told us that this here restaurant was the best place in DC to get a plastic straw.”

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Rosie said.

“Oh, sir,” Humberto said.  “Whoever this woman was who lowered herself so disgracefully as to become your plaything was mistaken.  There have not been any plastic drinking straws in this establishment in six months.  Such a despiser of straws am I that I nagged and nagged and nagged the manager to replace plastic straws with paper ones and that, as they say, was that.”

“Come on, pal,” I said.  “My lady friend…”

“The one you brought into your marital bed because your wife is a doormat,” Humberto said.

“Right,” I said.

“I’m right here!” Rosie said.  “And I’m not a doormat!  I’m not even…”

I cut my partner off quick before she could blow our cover.  “She had a plastic cup from this restaurant with a plastic straw in it.”

“You’re sure?”  Humberto asked.

“Positive,” I answered.

“Wisenheimer logo with Golly Gopher on the front and everything?” Humberto asked.

“That’s the one,” I said.

“Strange,” Humberto said.  “I don’t know what to tell you about that other than when a cup leaves the restaurant I am powerless to stop a plastic drinking straw from entering it.”

“Hmm,” I said.

“Hmm?” Humberto asked.

“Hmm,” I said.  “Very well.  Gimmie a plate of the chimichanga cheese sticks with extra marmalade ranch sauce on the side.”

“An excellent choice, sir,” Humberto said before turning to Rosie.  “And you, ma’am?”

Rosie handed the waiter her menu.  “I lost my appetite.”

“I am so sorry to hear that,” Humberto said.  “Toodle-oo, Omaha farmers.  I shall enter your order presently.”

As soon as Humberto was gone, Rosie piped up.  “What was that?”

“We’re undercover,” I said.  “If someone’s violating the straw ban, they’re not going to fess up to a cop.”

“And Omaha farmer was the first thing to come to your mind?” Rosie asked.

“Pretty much,” I said.

“Yeah, well,” Rosie said.  “Call me your wittle schnookums again and you’ll find out where I’ll stick those chimichanga cheese sticks.”

I grinned.  “Duly noted.”

I took in the scene.  As a cop, it was crucial to take in the lay of the land and survey my surroundings.  All across the joint, there families chowing down on fat laden fried foods, doing to their best to contribute to America’s burgeoning obesity epidemic.  I didn’t agree with Michelle Obama on much, other than the fact that kids today are a bunch of little fat fucks.  The former first lady and I disagreed on approaches though.  She tried to better the kids with motherly advice and love, whereas if I’d ever been given the authority to do so, I would have marched all the little lard-buckets in the land on daily ten-mile death marches until they sweated the pounds right out of their veins.

Sorry, I meandered off-topic.  Back to the scene.  I was about to down the last of my bear when some schmuck decked out in a big, furry Golly Gopher costume stopped by our table.  Giant head.  Googly eyes. What a disgrace.

“Hey there, wise guys!” Golly said in a silly voice.  “Golly Gopher here to give you a great, good golly day!”

“Buzz off, rodent,” I replied.

“Aww,” Golly said. “Someone’s caught a case of the grumpy wumpies.  I know how to cure those!  With a golly wolly doodle doo song!  Oh, my name is Golly and I’m here to say…”

I looked into the unmoving eyes of the mascot’s head.  “Listen, imbecile. Creeps like you are a dime a dozen and during a sale you can get a gross for thirty-five cents on the barrelhead.  What’s your story?  Let me guess.  You’re a struggling actor.  Your performance in the high school play went over gangbusters so you thought you’d move to a big city, see if you can try your hand at some theater, gain some experience in a smaller acting market, earn a little scratch before you head off to Tinsel Town.  Only problem is, debasing yourself in this cartoon animal outfit is the best gig you were able to come up with.  You’d give it up in a heartbeat for a job that paid a livable wage, but you’ve gone too far now. All your high school friends live substantive lives.  Cars.  Houses.  Wives with big titties.  And you?  You’ve spent so much time in this get-up that you figure the only way to make it is to double down in the hopes that what?  Some random talent scout will wander into a D.C. family restaurant of all places? Discover you, whisk you off to Hollywood, where you’ll be in so many pictures that you’ll be able to call your father and laugh at his offer to let you take over his vacuum cleaner repair shop?  Am I getting warm?”

The mascot lowered his cartoon head.  “It’s a tuxedo rental shop.”

“Good money, man,” I said.  “Why don’t you go back home, apologize to your old man and learn the tux trade before you end up opening your back flap for two bucks a pop to any sicko with a furry fetish to saunter in?”

“That only happened one time and…hey, come on man.  Just let me sing you a song.”

I reached into my jacket and cocked Thunder’s hammer.  The distinctive sound traveled to the costumed weirdo’s ears.

“Is that a gun?”

“Wanna find out?”

“Not really,” Golly said as he walked away, his furry head hanged in shame.

“Smasher,” Rosie said.  “I’ve been wondering where I should draw the line with you and I feel like threatening Golly Gopher should be it.”

“Nonsense, doll,” I replied.  “The night is young.”

Humberto returned to the table, a plate of hot chimichanga cheese sticks in hand.  He sit them down on the table.  As he did so, I couldn’t help but notice the lines of a prominent tattoo emerging out from underneath the short sleeve that covered his supple bicep.

“Oh, how foolish of me!” Humberto said.  “I forgot your marmalade ranch sauce.  I will be back in two shakes of a bunny’s nose.”

I watched our waiter walk away toward the kitchen.  As he reached the swinging double doors, his eyes locked onto mine, the look on his face betraying a sense of urgency.  I stood up.

“Smasher?”  Rosie asked as I walked away.  “Where are you going?  Your overpriced appetizer is getting cold.”

“Don’t worry,” I said.  “I’ll be fine it’s just…sometimes a man has to get his own marmalade ranch sauce.”

Chapter 3
Her name was Quan. Rosie Quan. She’d only been my partner for a week, but whenever I looked into her eyes, it felt like we’d known each other for a lifetime. There was something about her that made me feel safe, and at home. Like I could tell her anything and she’d still stick by my side, albeit begrudgingly.
Did I mention she was a tall drink of water? And boy howdy, was I ever thirsty. Ah, but that was crazy talk. Dipping your pen in the company ink is a good way to write your own death warrant, or worse, your co-worker’s. After all, you can’t save your partner’s ass if you’re too busy staring at it.
We met up later that afternoon and I can’t deny it. As I sat across from her, listening to her hammer me over the morning’s events, all I wanted to do was stop her and ask if I could dip my eggroll into her spicy Szcechuan sauce. Would that have been racist? Most assuredly, but it was a sentiment that came from a place of love, and if loving is wrong, then this guy doesn’t want to be right. At any rate, I held that comment back as the last thing I needed was another letter of reprimand from human resources in my file. I already had enough to paper my walls at home.
“Let me get this straight,” Rosie said. “A friend of yours in the seventh precinct told you that Lt. Jeffries’ unit brought in a high-level suspect. Wanted all over the world.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Tons of blow.”
“Right.”
“Heads in the fridge.”
“Correct.”
“Video evidence showing the suspect in the act of murder.”
“True.”
“A living victim saved in the nick of time who was willing to testify.”
“You got it.”
Rosie shook her head in disgust. Her disapproval frustrated me, but it was hard to be mad at her. She looked so cute in her fancy business lady attire.
“And so, after hearing about this rare, virtually unheard of mountain of damning, sure to convict evidence, the only thing that caught your attention was the fact that your source in the seventh precinct told you that when the suspect was brought into the station, she was sucking on a plastic straw inside a take-out cup?”
“Yes.”
“And with laser focus, you honed in on that straw and nothing but that straw, the department’s priorities be damned?”
“That’s about the straight and skinny of it, sister.”
Rosie sighed. “I don’t know, Mack. Sounds like Lt. Jeffries was right to be angry.”
“Sure,” I said. “Take his side.”
“I’m not taking sides. It’s just, Jesus. If anything, it sounds like he was remarkably restrained.”
“Whatever.”
“Had I been in his shoes, I would have pistol whipped you until you stared coughing up blood.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I would have deserved it. Maybe I would have done that to me if I had been him as well, but I’m not him, I’m me and as me I have different priorities, see?”
We were sitting at a table in a Moonbeam Coffee. You know, that chain of shops that hipsters love to congregate in? They were all around us. Wearing their fedoras, eating their artisanal scones, typing away on their laptops, each one working on either a novel that will never be published, or a screenplay for a movie that will never be seen. Worse, they were all drinking cups full coffee with a dash of this and a sprig of that. Try ordering just a straight, black coffee in this place and the kids at the bar will look at you like you’re a six-foot tall lizard person wearing polka dot underwear.
Hanging on the wall over the bar, there was a flat screen television. It was playing the news of the day. Reporters were following Kowalski down the steps of the courthouse, each vying to stick a microphone in the jamoke’s face. Eventually, stopped to address the crowd. The short, stubby little prick ran his hand through his bad combover, then spoke.
“Look, everyone. I’m sorry. No, I’m very sorry. I understand that tensions are running high over this case, and that many of Miss Thibodeux’s victims hail from right here in the district. Hell, my secretary has been fielding angry calls from their families all day. But I’m not about to get into the arcane complexities and technicalities of legal procedure. Suffice to say, Lt. Jeffries did a shitty job. I can’t stress this enough, Lt. Neal Jeffries is the one to blame for this mess, so if you want to blame anyone, blame Lt. Neal Jeffries. Further, I would add that I have taken shits that had more structural integrity than the flimsy case Lt. Neal Jeffries built here and in conclusion, this is all the fault of Lt. Neal Jeffries.”
Rosie and I looked away from the television.
“Neal doesn’t deserve this,” Rosie said. “He’s a good man, and his case wasn’t flimsy at all.”
“You know him?” I asked.
“Sure,” Rosie said. Her eyes looked like they were staring off into space, trying to recreate a scene from long ago. “We worked a drug bust together. He said we should wait for backup but back in those days, I was young, dumb, full of cum and didn’t know any better. I went charging in, head first, guns blazing, only for some chump to get the drop on me with a Tec-9. Jeffries saw it before I did. Threw himself in front of me and took the bullet. Thankfully, he was wearing a vest. I doubt I would have been able to forgive myself if I hadn’t.”
I drummed my fingers on the table. “Were you two…”
“What?”
“You know?”
“I know what?”
I rolled my eyes, then inserted my right pointer finger into a circle I made with my left pointer and thumb – the international sign for making whoopie. It was a mistake to do so. It grossed Rosie out.
“Ugh! Of course not!”
“O.K.”
“You’re disgusting!”
“Alright,” I said. “Sheesh. No need to get all worked up about it.”
“What business is it of yours anyway?” Rosie asked.
“It’s not,” I said. “I don’t know. I’m just making conversation.”
“Yeah, well,” Rosie said. “Converse about something else.”
“Fine,” I said. “And don’t worry about it.”
I looked around the room. None of the hipsters were listening. They were all too busy listening to third wave tribal ska fusion on their oversized, overpriced, overhyped, rapper endorsed headphones.
“Can you keep something under your hat?”
“Sure.”
“No, I’m serious. Can I trust you?”
“We’re partners, aren’t we?”
“Past partners have failed me before,” I said.
“Join the club,” Rosie replied.
“OK,” I said. “Between you, me, the four walls, and these dipshit millennials, Jeffries is going to be fine.”
Rosie was understandably skeptical. “He is?
“Yeah,” I said. “You think I would have screwed him over and secured a bloodthirsty psychopath’s release over a straw without a backup plan?”
My partner glared at me as if to say that she and I already knew the answer to that question.
“Fine,” I said. “Yes, I would have, but luckily, I had a backup plan here. The third ex-Mrs. Smasher…”
“Third?”
“Yes.”
“How many ex-Mrs. Smashers are there?”
I looked at my fingers and began to count. “Carry the one, add the remainder and…I don’t know. Too many. What business is it of yours, anyway?”
“It’s not,” Rosie said with a smirk. “Just making conversation.”
“The third ex-Mrs. Smasher is an Israeli national,” I explained. “Used to work at the embassy until she was promoted to a high rank in the Mossad. They’ve got agents en route to Mongolia. They’re going to pick her up the second she lands in Ulaanbaatar.”
“Ulaanbaatar?” Rosie asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “Ulaanbaatar. It’s the capitol of Mongolia. I thought everyone knew that. You don’t know that?”
Rosie cocked her head and looked at me sideways. “Why would I know that?”
“I don’t know. Because…”
“I’m Asian? And Asians know everything about Asia?”
“No.”
“I’m fourth generation American, asshole.”
Suddenly, I realized that holding back on the spicy Szechuan line had been a good judgment call.
“No,” I said. “Because you’re educated. You’ve got that master’s degree and…whatever. Let’s move on. They’re going to grab her, bring her to Tel Aviv and then, I don’t know. Beat her. Torture her. Hook her twat lips up to a car battery. Basically, do a lot of things that are frowned upon here in the states but they’ll get her to talk about all her accomplices and conspirators. They’ll be able to bring down a lot of bad hombres, more than we could have, what with all our civil rights bullshit.”
Rosie pondered what I had just told her. “I suppose that’s good. I mean, the part where a lot of criminals get brought to justice, not the parts about the twat lip torture and the civil rights being bullshit and so on. Still, this doesn’t help Jeffries.”
“It will,” I said. “The third ex-Mrs. Smasher has some pull. She’s going to make sure that the Israeli Prime Minister himself gives a big speech, praising the Mossad for catching Mo-Mo and that they couldn’t have done it without the work Jeffries did in America. Blah, blah, blah, there will be some procedural crap that no one understands but ultimately, he’ll spin a good yarn about how from watching all the details about the case Jeffries built on American TV, Mossad agents were able to construct a profile on Mo-Mo and track her to Mongolia and all that jazz.”
Rosie folded her arms. “Bullshit.”
“Huh?”
“You’re going to sit there and tell me that not only did you orchestrate the release of a mass murderer but that also, you hatched an international espionage plot that involves kidnapping a suspect from a nonextradition country, all over a plastic drinking straw?”
Now I was disgusted. “You talk about straw law ban enforcement like it’s a joke.”
“Well, it is, isn’t it?”
Funny how fleeting feelings can be. One second, I wanted to get down on one knee and propose that Rosie become the next Mrs. Smasher. The next, I wanted to stand up and walk away, leaving her in a cloud of my own dust to contemplate how badly her laisezz faire attitude towards straw crime had disappointed me.
“You think this is some kind of game for me?” I asked.
“No, I just think you’re going overboard,” Rosie answered. “Way overboard. Ridiculously, insanely overboard.”
“One can never be too vigilant when it comes to straw criminals.”
“Straw criminals?” Rosie asked. “Eight days into a new initiative to monitor what essentially boils down to a civil infraction, and you’ve already trashed six department issued cruisers, incinerated three buildings, pulled your gun on twelve minimum wage fast food workers and now this fiasco.”
Rosie looked up at the TV. The media was bending me over and giving my reputation a vigorous pounding, sans lube. The first head on the pundit panel was right-wing blowhard Jim Claymore, a crusty old bastard who looked like he’d been fed one too many cheeseburgers. Funny, you don’t see too many elderly fat people. Their addiction to pizza and curly fries usually cuts them down in middle age, but somehow old Jimbo was still plodding along, I assume thanks to the best doctors his big pile of dough could buy.
“Great,” Jim said. “The far left has finally gotten their wish in the form of Mack Smasher. He’s a jack-booted thug, a Gestapo agent ready to gun down anyone who so much as thinks about sipping on a straw. Come on, people. Is this the America we want? Oh sure, the liberal whack jobs say they’re pro-choice when it comes to abortion but when it comes to deciding whether or not to use a straw to guzzle down a nice, cold glass of lemonade, you’d better chose not to use one lest Mack Smasher kick down your door and blow your face off.”
I leered at the TV. Rosie shot me a look as though she agreed with that clod.
“That’s not true at all.”
Rosie looked at my footwear.
“OK,” I said. “Maybe I do wear jackboots, but only for the heel support and the steel toe. You could drop a hundred wrenches on my toes and I’d be fine.”
“And the other part?” Rosie asked.
“He’s got his facts wrong,” I said.
“Does he?” Rosie asked.
Rosie flashed me the stink-eye. “But…does he?”
“I haven’t shot anyone in the face over a straw,” I said. “Yet.”
Rosie shook her head. The panel continued. Monica Blather, an equally gassy blowhard but on the left side of the aisle. God, that dopey old bag’s glasses were the size of a pair of goggles and I was willing to bet her snootch was filled with more spider webs than a Halloween blow-store. Don’t even get me started on her get-up. Why the hell do liberal broads insist on wearing those Old West Mexican outlaw style poncho sweaters? I’m not trying to offend anyone. I’m just saying I’ve never met a liberal woman over fifty who didn’t dress like The Outlaw Josey Wales.
“I don’t care what Jim says. Cis male scum like him shouldn’t be saying anything as far as my colleagues and I at More Blame for America Now! are concerned. Someone needs to be thinking about the environment. Now, are Mack Smasher’s methods violent? Of course. But is it any less violent to drop a straw in a trash can?”
“It absolutely is,” Jim said.
“Disagreeing with me is violence!” Monica snapped. “Your words are violence!”
Rosie and I returned to our conversation. “Mack…”
To my surprise, she reached across the table and grabbed my hand. “I need to ask you a personal question.
This was it. In my mind, I just knew she was going to ask me to dip my eggroll into her spicy Szechuan sauce.
“Partners shouldn’t keep secrets from each other, should they?”
“No,” I said.
“I never kept secrets from any of my partners,” Rosie said.
“Neither did I,” I replied.
“Good. Can I ask you a personal question?”
Oh man. Here was my big chance.
“Let me stop you right there,” I said. “I already know what you want to ask.”
Rosie let out a sigh of relief. “Thank God.”
“Nine inches,” I said. “Nine and a half on a good day. Shaved. Cut, because I’m no heathen.”
My partner pulled her hand away fast. She looked ready to bolt for the door. “What in the…”
I changed the subject fast. “Sorry. I missed the mark. What do you want to know?”
“What have you got against straws?”
I laughed. “How much time you got?”
“You’re serious?”
“As a heart attack.”
Rosie frowned. “I can’t tell if you’re being serious or engaging in some type of semi-artistic, avant garde performance art. It’s like you’re a bad caricature of a straw law enforcement officer, straight out of a self-published parody novel.”
“Ha,” I said. “Like I’d be caught dead in a self-published novel. It’s traditional publishing for me or bust, baby.”
“Please answer the question.”
“I could ask you the same,” I said. “You volunteered for this assignment, didn’t you?”
“I did,” Rosie said.
“I did too.”
“Right,” Rosie said. “But I’m starting to get the impression that you and I signed up to become Washington, D.C.’s first straw law enforcement officers for very different reasons.”
“You’re going to have to paint this picture by numbers for me, sweetheart,” I said. “If there’s one thing Mack Smasher doesn’t do, it’s abstract watercolors.”
Rosie pointed at me. “See? It’s stuff like that, that creeps me out.”
“What?”
“This,” Rosie said as she waved her hands in my direction. “This whole persona of yours. Your noir style manner of speech. Your tough guy swagger. Your action hero lines. And the whole referring to yourself in the third person thing.”
“If Mack Smasher wants to refer to himself in the third person, then Mack Smasher’s going to refer to himself in the third person.”
“OK,” Rosie said. “Whatever. I signed up for this gig because I’m tired.”
I interrupted immediately. “You’re too young to be tired, doll-face. What are you, 31, 32, 33? No more than thirty-four, tops, I’d wager.”
“Congratulations. You can count.”
“My apologies. When it comes to age, a gentleman never asks and a lady never tells. Ma Smasher taught me better than that and I’m not representing her well at the moment. Please continue.”
“I’ve been through some shit,” Rosie said. “I’m not whining. Every cop has. But every cop has their limit of how much shit they can take and I reached mine long ago. Smasher, I’ve been beaten up, shot at, stabbed twice, thrown out a ten-story building only to fortuitously land on a soft canopy…”
“Pbbhht,” I said, blowing my co-worker a raspberry. “You haven’t lived until you’ve been thown out of a twenty-story window only to fortuitously land on a soft canopy.”
Rosie carried on with her tales of misery and woe. “I’ve been kidnapped by the mob and barely escaped with my life.”
“Who hasn’t?”
“I got into a round robin sword fight with six Yakuza assassins and somehow, miraculously bested all of them.”
“Typical Saturday night for me.”
Rosie was exasperated by my nonchalance. “The Russian mafia swapped out my sister with an exact double who was ordered to kill me.”
I rubbed my pointer finger and thumb together. “You know what this is, kiddo? It’s the world’s smallest violin and it’s playing a sad song for you. Why, if I had a nickel for every time someone close to me was replaced with a phony replica assassin, I’d be a rich man.”
“You know what made me finally decide to slow down?” Rosie asked. “When the Salazar Cartel kidnapped my daughter.”
I raised a quizzical eyebrow. “You have a kid?”
“I do.”
“And here I thought we weren’t keeping secrets.”
“I met you the day after New Year’s, Smasher,” Rosie said. “We hardly know each other. My kid isn’t a secret. She’s just one of many topics of conversation we haven’t had yet.”
“Huh,” I said. “I heard talk of a lady cop who went into full mama bear mode last year. Told to stand down, let the SWAT team handle it, but she went in on her own, iced sixteen narco-terrorists, rescued her kid then set the whole operation ablaze while walking away without looking back at the ensuing explosion. That was you?”
“In the flesh,” Rosie replied. “Why? You don’t think a woman is capable of getting her hands dirty?”
“No,” I said. “I just thought I was the only one who enjoyed walking away from an explosion without looking back.”
“Enjoy is a strong word,” Rosie said. “Smasher, I’m done with that life.”
“You sure about that?” I asked. “A shame to let all that talent go to waste.”
“I’ve done my part to keep this city safe,” Rosie said. “Now all I want is a nice, cushy job where I walk around the city, hand out informational packets on the straw law ban to food service business owners, issue the occasional fine for non-compliance and be home in time to spend a nice evening with my mom and daughter.”
“Your mom?” I asked.
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I guess I just assumed there was a Mr. Quan somewhere in the picture.”
Rosie laughed. “OK, I suppose I did say there should be no secrets between us.”
“You did.”
“The idiot ran off with a stripper,” Rosie said.
“Been there,” I said. “Done that. Bought the T-shirt.”
“It gets worse,” Rosie said. “He drained our joint bank account, told me he was sorry but this woman as the true love of his life and he hoped I would understand. Three weeks later, I get a call that he’s stranded in Tijuana. She took it all and left him to rot. He asked me to buy him a plane ticket and begged me to take him back.”
“What’d you do?”
Rosie snickered. “Hung up the phone. Haven’t heard from him since.”
“Interesting,” I said. “Oddly, I sympathize with you both. I’ve been on both ends of that phone call.”
“Keeping the ex-Mrs. Smashers a secret from me?”
“No,” I said. “I’d just need at least a year to tell you about all of them.”
We grew quiet. It was weird. We were so new to each other and yet I felt we were already comfortable enough to sit in silence.
“Smasher,” Rosie said. “We’ve meandered off track, so let’s get back to my question. You and straws? What gives?”
“Nothing.”
“I told you why I signed up,” Rosie said. “Honestly, I don’t give a shit about straws. If the city dumps the straw ban tomorrow, I’d find something else to do. But you really seem to despise them.”
“I do,” I said. “All my life.”
“Why?”
“You’ll never understand,” I said as I looked off into the distance, my eyes getting lost in the void. “No one ever understands.”
“I can’t promise I’ll understand,” Rosie said. “But I’ll try.”
“I could go through all the statistics,” I said. “What straws do the environment, our oceans, rivers and waterways. That alone should make even the most straight-laced John Q. Citizen go berzerko bananas over straws, but you know how people are. No one gives a shit about anything unless it affects them directly.”
“Aha!” Rosie said. “So, straws have affected you directly!”
“What?” I asked. “Wait. Listen, Toots. Just because you’ve got a Master’s in Psyche doesn’t mean you’re a bonafide headshrinker, so stay out of your brain, baby, because I promise you, you want like the goblins and ghouls who call that place home. Hell, I don’t like them either and I have to spend 24 hours a day, 7 days a week with them.”
“There was a straw related incident, wasn’t there?” Rosie asked. “Something that hurt you, changed your life, and not for the better. I can tell. It’s written all over your face.”
“I..just…listen. Straws aren’t just dangerous to the environment. They’re dangerous to people as well. Let’s just leave it at that.”
“Dangerous to people?”
“Yes.”
“How?” Rosie inquired. “They’re just little, long pieces of bendable plastic. People use them all the time and I’ve never heard of someone getting injured by one. How could…wait. That’s it! Isn’t it? Someone in your life, someone close to you…”
“That’s enough.”
“Come on,” Rosie said. “Once you let it all out, you’ll feel so much…”
I pounded my fist on the table, startling not only my partner but all of the super woke hipsters in our general vicinity. They took five seconds away from their laptops to stare at me, then returned to their works in progress.
I instantly regretted what I had done. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s cool,” Rosie said. “Touchy subject, apparently.”
“We’ll get there,” I said. “But we aren’t there yet.”
“Duly noted.”
“Straws,” I said. “They’re a tool of evil. Some say the greatest trick that the devil ever played was to fool mankind into thinking he doesn’t exist but no. The greatest trick he ever played was to dupe the masses into believing that the average drinking straw poses threat to a human being whatsoever. Oh, but I’ve been on the devil’s tail for quite some time now. I joined the force so many years ago, biding my time. I trained. I honed my skills. All those busts. All those perps I hunted down. All those harrowing car chases and near-death experiences. All of it was to prepare me for this.”
“This?” Rosie asked.
“This very moment,” I said. “The time I’ve waited my entire life for. The day that people wake up, pull their heads out of their asses and realize the danger of straws is finally here.”
“You really joined the force in the hope that one day you’d be able to secure a transfer to a newly created straw law enforcement division?” Rosie asked.
“I did,” I said.
“Hmm,” Rosie said. “You’re right, Smasher. I’m not a fully licensed psychiatrist but for what it’s worth, I think you need one.”
I pulled my shades down over my eyes. “Maybe I do. Or maybe we’re all just a little bit crazy.”
“Do you do that a lot?”
“What?”
“Pull your shades down when you think you have something clever to say?” Rosie asked.
“Maybe,” I said as I stood up. “Are we going to do this thing or what?”
Rosie looked dumbfounded. “What thing?”
I rolled my eyes. Good thing they were covered. “Wisenheimer’s.”
“What about it?”
“It’s a lead, baby, and if there’s one thing Mack Smasher doesn’t do, it’s abandon a good lead.”
“If Mack Smasher keeps saying stuff like that, Rosie Quan is going to be sick.”
“Enough talk,” I said. “Time for action. Are you in or out?”
Rosie stood up. She looked at me with the eyes of a stern mother, disappointed with her petulant child. “I’m in if you promise me that you’ll keep your gun in your holster, that you won’t rough anyone up, and you won’t do anything else that’s going to get us in trouble.”
“I can’t promise that,” I said. “Stop trying to clip my wings, cupcake. A stranded eagle is a terrible sight.”
“Then I’m out.”
“Fine. I promise.”
“Good.”
Joke’s on her. I had my fingers crossed behind my back.
“Wait a minute,” Rosie said. “What happened to my coffee? I ordered it like a half hour ago.”