Bookshelf Battle

PREVIOUSLY ON BQB’S ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE SURVIVOR JOURNAL…

Part 1

“Oranges!  Get your oranges here!”

Oh great.  Bernie was taking advantage of the spectacle to sell his fruit.

Bernie “MC Plotz” Plotznick, one half of the defunct rap duo, “The Funky Hunks.”

It’s not easy getting a brief taste of fame at a young age only to spend the rest of your life in the entertainment industry’s shadow.

I managed to move on from my Funky Hunk days by becoming the owner/proprietor of a book blog with 3.5 readers.  Bernie, on the other hand, was still living in the past, refusing to do anything with his life because he was certain a Funky Hunk resurgence was just around the corner.

In the meantime, he eeked out a meager existence by buying oranges from the supermarket and reselling them to people who felt sorry for him.

“Full of citrusy goodness and your daily requirement of vitamin c, folks!”

“Don’t make eye contact,”  I said to VGRF.

“What?”

Too late.

“BQB!”

Bernie gave me a big hug.

“What up dawg?”

“Hey Bernie.”

“How you been, man?  I hear you’re taking the Internet by storm now?”

“Well, I don’t want to brag, but I do run a WordPress blog with 3.5 readers.  How are you?”

“Me?”  Bernie asked.  “I’m hella tight, son.  Hella tight.  Been kickin’ some sick rhymes.”

“Good for you.”

“Yo, you gotta check this one out.”

“No,”  I said.  “It’s ok.  Maybe later.”

Bernie launched straight into a non-threatening Funky Hunks style rap.

Yo.  Yo yo.  2015.  Funky Hunks back on the scene.

Check it.

Homework!  It’s what you gotta do!

To gain lots of knowledge.

Make your parents happy too.

Everyone started staring at Bernie and not in a good way.

After you’re done,

Practice those ABC’s.

It’s all about killin’ the SAT’s!

“That’s great, Bern,”  I said.  “Really great.”

He kept going.

Algebra!  It seems really tough!

But it totally isn’t when you practice that stuff!”

“BERN!  I got it.”

“That’s the shit, right?  Is that the shit or is that the shit?”

“Oh, it’s shit alright.”

BQB, back in his Funky Hunk days, when he went by the moniker, “Read N. Plenty.”

There was a sore spot between Bernie and I.  Back in the day, our manager thought we should rap about sex, drugs and violence like all the other rappers were doing.  I was willing to do it for the money but Bernie refused to rap about anything non-wholesome.

Sometimes I’m mad at him for costing me a ton of cash.  Other times I’m glad he saved my soul because sex, drugs and money isn’t what I’m all about.  Well, the drugs and violence parts anyway.  The sex part?  As a big time nerd, life decided that’s not what I’m about for me.

“We need to get together and lay that down on a track,”  Bernie said.

“I’ll get back to you on that.  I’ve been busy.”

Bernie spied VGRF.

“Yeah, I see you’ve been gettin’ busy.  BQB I heard you was knockin’ boots with a fine ass she-nerd honey but DAYUM!”

VGRF looked at me as if to say, “What do I do?”

“He’s attempting to compliment you,”  I said.

“Oh.  Thank you?”

“No doubt,”  Bernie said.  “Say BQB, I ‘aint tryin’ seperate you from your duckets or nothin.'”

Video Game Rack Fighter

Here it comes.

“I worry about you man.  You need your strength.  You want an orange?”

“How much?”

“Five Washingtons.”

“Are you serious?”

“MC Plotz don’t play, sucka.”

I handed over a fiver and received an orange.  God, I felt sorry for that guy.

Some boring elevator music played over the speakers and an old man wearing a tweed jacket and a bowtie trudged up onto the stage and rested on his cane.

It was Mayor Philbert T. Bramble.  He’d been the leader of East Randomtown for as long as I could remember, not due to his political prowess, but because no one else wanted the job.  He’d been running unopposed forever.

“Good afternoon, East Randomtown!”  the Mayor said.  “What a lovely audience and…”

Mayor Bramble looked directly at me.

“Is that Bookshelf Q. Battler?”

I tried to hide behind VGRF and Bernie.  Alien Jones was busy checking messages on his phone.  It was a suped up, hyper charged alien phone, much more awesome than ours.

“Friends,”  Mayor Bramble said.  “In 1985, East Randomtown resident Doug Hauser got himself a thirty-second spot as a dope pusher on Miami Vice. As I watched that young man get the tar beaten out of him by Don Johnson, I thought to myself, ‘Never again will East Randomtown experience such greatness!'”

Sigh.  It was true.  I was a virtual unknown to the rest of the world, but in my hometown, I was known as “The Man Who Ousted the Miami Vice Extra.”

It was a dubious honor.

The crowd started cheering.  “BQB!  BQB!  BQB!”

The Mayor continued.

“But then BQB came along and brought glory to our little burg by starting a blog with not one…not two…not even three…but THREE POINT FIVE READERS!”

Throughout the crowd there were utterances of “Wow” and “Oh my God!” and so on.

“Come on up here, BQB!”

“Uh,”  I mumbled from the crowd.  “I’d really rather not.  It’s Dr. Hugo’s big day and all..”

VGRF nudged me.  “Go ahead.”

“Yes.  You’ve earned it.”

What a supportive girlfriend.  Most women would demand a guy quit their bloggery by now but VGRF had always been there for me.

I headed for the stage.

“Bring your family with you!”

VGRF and Alien Jones, still icognito, tagged along.  Bernie invited himself.

As soon as I was on stage, the crowd went nuts.  A forty-something lady threw her blue denim stretch pants at me.  They landed right on my hand.  It was awkward.

“3.5 readers,”  Mayor Bramble said.  “How do you do it, son?  What’s your secret?”

The Mayor pointed the microphone at me.

“I’m just lucky I guess.”

He put his arm around me.

“Don’t be so modest.  These stories you tell about a magic bookshelf, a space alien, and a private detective and so on, you have quite an imagination to dream all that up.”

“Oh yeah,”  I said.  “None of that is real.”

Or is it?

“BQB, I’m so glad you came because this gives me the chance to announce a piece of important news.  Just yesterday, I signed papers ordering the East Randomtown Maintenance Department to knock down the statue of Doug Hauser in East Randomtown Park and replace it with a sculpture of your likeness!”

The crowd clapped.  One guy yelled “Doug Hauser sucks!”

“Oh no,”  I said.  “Please don’t do that, sir.  I don’t want to step on someone’s accomplishment.”

“Stop being so modest, my boy,” the Mayor said.  “Hauser is an old has-been.  You are this town’s future.”

Yeesh.  I felt sorry for the town then.