Another cover for another book I have yet to finish writing.
“Oh hey, did you hear about BQB? He ended up in the poorhouse, spent all his dough on book covers for books he never finished writing. What an asshole.”
Oh well, what say you 3.5 readers?
Bookshelf Battle
The only site where new bestsellers are forced to do battle for space on a nerd's bookshelf.
Tag Archives: Zomcation
Zomcation – Chapter 15
A middle-aged man sat Indian style on the floor of his office with his arms spread out, his hands held with the palms up.
“In with the good,” he said in an Eastern European accent as he breathed in deeply.
“And out with the bad,” he said as he exhaled loudly.
The man’s head was bald save for a patch of blue dyed hair in the middle of his head that came down to a curl over his forehead. His boney, nearly nude body was covered by nothing but a pair of tight, white underpants and a floral patterned silk kimono.
“Yes, very good, Mister Reynaldo,” the man said, referring to himself in the third person. “And now in with the ying….and out with the yang.”
Mister Reynaldo stood up, stepped into a pair of floppy yellow crocs and put on a pair of red shutter shades, the kind with the slats that go right across the eyes that were popular in the 1980s.
“Oh Mister Reynaldo,” the man said as he gazed upon his less than impressive physique in a full length mirror. “You are looking so utterly fabulous. How you do not just stay in this room and have sex with yourself all the live long day I will never know.”
A fist knocked on the door.
“Who dares disturb Mister Reynaldo?”
“Kevin, sir.”
Mister Reynaldo sashayed to his door and opened it to find his young, sweater vest wearing intern Kevin waiting for him with a water bottle, a clipboard and a Segway.
“Hydrate me, darling,” Mister Reynaldo said as he clapped his hands together. “Chop, chop.”
Kevin, who’d clearly done this many times and knew the drill, held his hand up in the air with the water bottle pointed downward. Mister Reynaldo, much like a thirsty hamster, wrapped his lips around the spout and sucked away for a full minute.
“Ahh,” Mister Reynaldo said as he wiped his lips on his forearm then mounted his Segway.
Kevin shut the door to his boss’s office. Stenciled on the glass were the words, “Mister Reynaldo: Coordinator of Wombat World Performances.”
“Tell me of my schedule this fine day, darling,” Mister Reynaldo said as he took off on his personal conveyance.
“The Power Action Ninja Soldiers have stunt shows at ten, noon, and three,” Kevin said as he studied the notes attached to the clipboard and jogged just to keep up with his boss as he zoomed down the hall.
“Oh those has-beens,” Mister Reynaldo said. “All the jumping and punching and kicking. So blasé. What else?”
“Sal the Sloth’s Ridiculously Slow Hoedown is at one-thirty,” Kevin said as he broke a sweat. “But the performer who usually plays Sal called in sick.”
“Sweet Streisand’s saggy knockers, Kevin,” Mister Reynaldo said. “I swear, no one is willing to suffer for their craft anymore. What’s he got?”
“A mild head cold, sir,” Kevin replied.
“Pshaw,” Mister Reynaldo said. “I once starred in the role of Lazarus Houlihan in an off, off, off, incredibly off broadway show of Sally’s Got a New Harpsichord with a severe case of pneumonia and a herpes sore on my lip the size of a pomegranate and not only did I not complain but the theater critic for Village Semi-Weekly Tattler wrote that my performance was among the best seventeen renditions of that role that he’d ever witnessed.”
“That’s impressive, sir,” Kevin said.
“Call this fool at once and tell him to drag his oily hide here this instant,” Mister Reynaldo said.
“I already called his understudy,” Kevin said.
“Ahh,” Mister Reynaldo said. “Even better. Give another actor a chance to breathe new life into the role of a hilly billy sloth who sings and dances country tunes in a ridiculously slow manner. What would Mister Reynaldo do without you?”
“I don’t know, sir,” Kevin said.
A.J, B.J, C.J, and Davey, the four shaggy haired members of Boyz a’Plenty walked down from the opposite side of the hall. Mister Reynaldo flew into a rage when he saw Davey chomp down on a candy bar.
“Davey!” Mister Reynaldo shouted as he screeched his Segway to a halt. “What is that?”
Davey balled a fist up around the candy bar and then quickly hid both hands behind his back. “What’s what?”
Mister Reynaldo tipped his Segway forward, which allowed him to stare Davey down until the boy band member started leaning back himself.
“Don’t take me for a nincompoop, darling,” Mister Reynaldo said. “I saw that unapproved chocolate treat that you were shoving in your gaping maw as if you were some kind of put of control gorilla with an insatiable appetite.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, bro,” Davey said.
Mister Reynaldo scoffed. “Swear on one of Liza Minelli’s nine thousand black dresses that you are not being a little piggy!”
“What?” Davey asked.
“Swear to me!”
“OK,” Davey said. “I swear!”
The coordinator looked the boy band over. “Weigh-ins are now twice a week.”
The boys groaned in disgust as they walked away.
“Damn it,” A.J. said.
“And I was going to have an almond on Thursday,” B.J. added.
Mister Reynaldo and his intern continued down the hallway.
“Was I too hard on them?” Mister Reynaldo asked.
“Not at all, sir,” Kevin said.
“I hate to be such a catty bitch but I like to think that one day those boys will be in movies and when they’re having the sexy sex with all the ladies they’ll thank me for keeping them from becoming little piggies,” Mister Reynaldo said.
“I’m sure they will,” Kevin said.
“I once lived on nothing but broth and storm drain water for an entire year while I played the role of a lean longshoreman in a high school production of Love on the Wharf,” Mister Reynaldo said. “The authorities eventually escorted me out of the building when they realized I was forty-seven but still, if I can suffer my art then those boys can too.”
“An excellent story, sir,” Kevin said.
“Oh Kevin darling,” Mister Reynaldo said. “Promise me you’ll get out of show business. The entertainment industry has become such a dirty whore in bargain basement pumps that I perish the thought of her getting her claws in another soul.”
“I promise, sir,” Kevin said.
A dozen very angry little people wearing medieval cloaks walked down the hallway towards the duo.
“Mister Reynaldo,” a little person said as he held up a pair of pointy plastic ears in his left hand and a stapler in the other.
“What?” Mister Reynaldo asked as he stopped his Segway. “Why are you vermin in Mister Reynaldo’s way?”
“I need a word with you,” the little person said.
“Fine, fine, Marvin darling,” the coordinator said. “But make it snappy, for Mister Reynaldo is busier than a one-legged prostitute on a pogo stick and he does not have all day to listen to your foolishness.”
“Would you care to explain why the wardrobe manager just informed us that the studio is no longer willing to spring for the non-toxic glue we use to fasten our pointy elf ears?”
Mister Reynaldo clutched his chest. “Surely you are pulling Mister Reynaldo’s leg!”
“No,” Marvin said. “And then we were told if we want to keep our jobs, we need to staple our elf ears onto our regular ears. We realize that most people are too ignorant to treat us with the respect we deserve, Mister Reynaldo, but its downright unconscionable for a multi-national corporation worth billions of dollars to expect us to maim ourselves just so they can save a few bucks on glue.”
“This is an outrage, darlings,” Mister Reynaldo said. “I shall not stand for this. I shall demand that ear glue be ordered posthaste. Ohh…”
“What?” Marvin asked.
“It’s just, when the children visit the elf grotto and don’t see any elves there…”
“We can still dress like elves,” Marvin said.
“Oh no, darling, no,” Mister Reynaldo said. “I appreciate the thought but you see without the pointy ears you are just teensie weensie little people that God took out of the oven too early before you were all fully baked and the children will begin to doubt whether or not elves are real and frankly, they might lose faith in Wombat World altogether.”
Marvin and the rest of the little people looked down at their feet in sadness.
“Gee Mister Reynaldo,” Marvin said as he looked up. “We wouldn’t want that.”
“I know darlings,” Mister Reynaldo. “But really, its fine. We must put your ear comfort above the hopes and dreams of baby children.”
“We’ll do it,” Marvin said as he led the little people off. “Come on, gang, it will only hurt for a minute.”
“Oh what wonderful tiny men you all are,” Mister Reynaldo said as the diminutive actors walked away. “I shall tell everyone they are wrong about little people. They have souls after all.”
“Should I order more elf ear glue, Mister Reynaldo?” Kevin asked.
“Are you kidding me?” Mister Reynaldo asked his intern. “I cut that shit out of the budget because it was either that or my morning espresso and we all know Mister Reynaldo can’t make the magic happen without his jolt of va va va voom.”
The pair pressed onward. As they turned a corner, the sounds of a girl fight filled their ears.
“Ally, you bitch!” Jess shouted. “Take that dress of right now or I will roundhouse kick you right in the cooter!”
“I’d like to see you try it, slutzilla!” Ally replied.
Mister Reynaldo gasped at the sight of Jessica and Ally, both clad in pink Princess Paulina dresses, blonde wigs, and crowns, locked in a rigorous slap fight.
“Ladies, ladies!” Mister Reynaldo said as he beeped the horn of his personal transport. “What is the meaning of this? You know that the only drama Mister Reynaldo wants to see is on the stage.”
“Mister Reynaldo,” Jess said. “Tell this psycho hose bag that I am Princess Paulina.”
“No, Mister Reynaldo!” Ally said as she stomped her foot. “You already gave this part to me.”
Jess’s nostrils flared. “What?”
Mister Reynaldo slowly backed his Segway up, then stopped. Jess confronted him.
“Is that true?” Jess asked.
“Darling,” Mister Reynaldo said. “Didn’t you get the memo?”
“What memo?” Jess asked.
Mister Reynaldo slapped his cheeks with both hands. “Sweet Mariah Carey’s underwire! You didn’t get the memo.”
“No,” Jess said. “I did not get a memo.”
The coordinator turned to his lackey. “Kevin! Why did you not send Miss Flynn a memo?”
“What memo?” Kevin asked. “I didn’t know I was supposed to send anyone a memo.”
Mister Reynaldo looked to the ceiling and rested the back of his hand over his forehead, took a deep breathe, then looked at the young man.
“Darling boy,” Mister Reynaldo said. “Whenever an actor or actress turns thirty they’re supposed to be sent a memo explaining official Wombat World policy which clearly states they aren’t able to play a human character anymore.”
“I’m so sorry sir,” Kevin said.
“Yes,” Mister Reynaldo said. “You really should be darling.”
“Are you kidding me?” Jess asked.
“No darling,” Mister Reynaldo said. “Yesterday, you hit the big three-oh so you playing Princess Paulina is now a no go.”
“But I’ve been playing this part for ten years,” Princess Paulina said.
“Ugh,” Mister Reynaldo said. “Don’t remind me darling. You’re not helping your case at all.”
The coordinator turned to the younger princess.
“Alyson, you are dismissed.”
“Hooray!” Ally said as she strutted away. She assumed a Princess Paulina voice. “Tra la la la la!”
“This is bullshit!” Jess shouted as she took her wig and crown off and spiked them both on the floor. “That is my ‘tra la la la la!’”
Mister Reynaldo’s lips pouted. “Oh you poor, precious thing. You’ve yet to wrap your little brain around the fact that you are aging.”
“I’m thirty,” Jess said.
“Oh please, darling,” Mister Reynaldo said. “Don’t say it so loud. People might hear you. Eat your fruits and vegetables and you might pass for an out of shape twenty-nine year old for at least two more years.”
“This…this…you can’t do this.”
Mister Reynaldo turned his conveyance around and started back the way he came.
“Walk with me, darlings.”
Kevin followed on his boss’s left. Jess took Mister Reynaldo’s right.
“My dear Miss Flynn,” Mister Reynaldo said. “An actress’s career is beautiful, yet tragically short. Like a daisy in a grassy field, she grows, she blooms, she dazzles, she inspires and then, BZZZT! She’s cut down by the lawn mower of time and a prettier, younger flower grows in her place.”
“Thirty is not that old,” Jess said.
“Oh darling,” Mister Reynaldo said. “If you insist on advertising your ghastly age to the world there’s little Mister Reynaldo can do to help you.”
“I can’t believe this,” Jess said.
“Darling,” Mister Reynaldo said. “Little boys come to Wombat World to ride Wombat Copters and dance the Willy Wombat shuffle but little girls? They come to dream…yes! Little girls dream of being beautiful, of being rich, of being famous, of being a princess married to handsome prince but do you know what they don’t dream of?”
“Having self-worth?”
Mister Reynaldo laughed. “Oh good for you, darling,” Mister Reynaldo said. “You made a funny. That, but also, little girls do not dream of being thirty. No one wants to age past twenty-ninee. Darling, Mister Reynaldo is fifty-two and he would slaughter a thousand adorable baby kittens with a rusty butcher knife and drink their blood if doing so would cause him to remain twenty-nine or younger forever.”
“Age is just a number,” Jess said. “Its how you feel, isn’t it?”
The coordinator laughed again. “Oh stop it darling! You shall have to try out to be a comedienne of the deaf comedy jams.”
“I’m glad my pain amuses you,” Jess said.
“It doesn’t, darling,” Mister Reynaldo said. “Mister Reynaldo also knows what it is like to be aged out of show business, to one day be twenty-nine, in the starring role of Bartleby Ashcroft in the Sheboygan Dinner Theater production of Bartleby’s Back from War to being thirty and being cast as random peasant number twenty-seven in an indie film about the dark ages produced by three college students. By the ring of Beyonce, so many people were naked on that set and…Kevin?”
“Yes sir?”
“When we’re done here Mister Reynaldo needs you to look into whether or not he might have accidentally starred in a pornography film.”
“Right away, sir.”
The trio entered Mister Reynaldo’s office. The coordinator parked his Segway, hopped off, took Jess’s hand and led her to the full length mirror.
“Do you know what I see, darling?” Mister Reynaldo asked.
“No,” Jess said.
“A beautiful butterfly that is aging slowly, gracefully, thanks in large part to good habits and excellent body maintenance,” Mister Reynaldo said.
“Well,” Jess replied. “I do work out.”
“Oh and it shows, darling, it shows,” Mister Reynaldo said as he placed his skeletal hands on Jess’s cheeks.
“What are you doing?” Jess asked.
“Such distinct features,” Mister Reynaldo said. “Such high cheekbones…such porcelain skin…”
“Umm,” Jess said. “Thank you?”
“But look!” Mister Reynaldo said as he pinched a bit of Jess’s cheek flesh between his left thumb and forefinger. “A wrinkle!”
“You’re making that,” Jess said as she watched the coordinator pinch her cheek in the mirror.
“Am I?” Mister Reynaldo asked.
“You clearly are,” Jess said.
“Oh,” Mister Reynaldo said as he took his hands away. “Aren’t you a smart one.”
“So that’s it?” Jess asked. “Ten years of working for this company and I get tossed out like a piece of trash because I’m not in my twenties anymore?”
Mister Reynaldo chuckled. “Oh darling, don’t be so dramatic. Just because you can’t be Princess Paulina anymore doesn’t mean you can’t still perform.”
“What did you have in mind?” Jess asked.
The coordinator wagged his finger in the air. “Wait right here. I have the perfect role for you.”
Mister Reynaldo opened the doors to a large, luxurious walk-in closet. Kevin and Jess stood in the office and watched as Mister Reynaldo threw all kinds of crazy garbs out of the closet and onto the office floor.
“Where is it?” Mister Reynaldo asked as a big, gray Ernie Elephant mascot suit came flying out of the closet, followed by a Zed Zebra outfit, a Ginger the Fox suit, and a set of leather BDSM gear complete with chains and a red ball gag.
“Woopsie!” Mister Reynaldo shouted. “That last one is Mister Reynaldo’s! Ahh! Here it is!”
Mister Reynaldo walked out of the closet holding a large, furry, googly-eyed Willy Wombat mascot head in his arms.
“No,” Jess said.
“Yes,” Mister Reynaldo said.
“Not happening,” Jess said.
“Darling, please,” Mister Reynaldo said. “You’ll be the star of the show! The character that everyone comes to see.”
“I refuse,” Jess said.
“I’m sorry, darling,” Mister Reynaldo said as he placed the mascot head down over Jess’s head. “But its either this or the unemployment line.”
Jess gagged as she sniffed the putrid, sweaty stink of at least twenty of the past wearers of the suit.
“Son of a bitch,” came Jess’s muffled voice from inside the mascot head. “Do you people even wash these things?”
Mister Reynaldo sighed. “Kevin, you’re not washing the funny animal character suits?”
“Umm,” Kevin said. “I was supposed to?”
Mister Reynaldo threw his hands in the air. “Mister Reynaldo needs an espresso.”
Zomcation – Chapter 13
The Wombatorium, an immense plexiglass structure built high into the sky in order to resemble the large, luxurious mountain Willy Wombat lived on in the hit animated show, Willy Wombat and Friends, served as a majestic marker to indicate to one and all that they had arrived to America’s number one theme park dedicated to a cartoon marsupial.
Inside, there were a few gift shops, a stroller rental stand and Freezey the Penguin’s Ice Cream Parlor, none of it nearly as appealing as the exterior.
Underneath, there was a long, wide walkaway that connected the front entrance to the park itself.
And in front of that walkway, Wombat World Security Guard Doug Crocker went above and beyond (many often said way above and much farther beyond) in earning his eleven dollars an hour.
Doug’s pink uniform was neatly pressed. His boots were polished until they shined like mirrors, as was the wombat shaped badged pinned to the right side of his chest. His baby blue clip on tie was stain free.
And his shades? Mere coverings to mask the disgust he felt at all the potential threats he perceived around him.
“Mother of God, Earl,” Doug said as he rested his hands on the shiny belt buckle that sat underneath his protruding belly. “Look at all these rule breakers.”
Earl, a Wombat World Security guard in his mid-sixties, shook his head and sipped his morning coffee from a styrofoam cup while doing his best to ignore Doug.
Oblivious to Earl’s desire to be left alone, Doug prattled on. “Any one of these people, any one of them could be an undercover messenger of doom.”
Earl rolled his eyes.
“That sweet little old lady over there in the motorized scooter?” Doug said. “She might walk just fine. Maybe she’s an assassin trained in the ancient art of kung-fu sent by some vicious crime syndicate to take us all down. We’d never see it coming.”
“Oh Lord,” Earl mumbled.
“See that little boy wearing a Ferdinand Ferret backpack?” Doug asked.
Earl didn’t respond.
“Do you see him?” Doug asked.
Earl groaned. “Yup.”
“How do I know that there isn’t a pair of deadly nunchucks in that backpack?” Doug asked. “Here everyone is laughing it up, having a jolly old time like a bunch of morons while this kid could be preparing to nunchuck us all to death.”
“All bags are checked at the front gate,” Earl said.
“Oh,” Doug replied. “Right. But, do I know that kid’s backpack was actually checked? Perhaps he slipped the guard at the front gate a fiver to look the other way.”
Earl silently closed his eyes and prayed for strength.
“What about that little girl with that balloon?” Doug asked. “How do I know that balloon is filled with helium? How do I know that it isn’t filled with poison gas?”
Earl sighed. “Because poison gas wouldn’t make the balloon float.”
“I’m sorry, Earl,” Doug said. “I didn’t know you were a scientist. I wasn’t aware that you had a degree in Advanced Knowledge of Which Gases Make Balloons Float-a-nomics.”
Earl winced, quietly counted to ten, then took another sip of his coffee.
The duo of security guards stood there quietly for awhile, watching as one happy family after another passed by.
“Hey Earl?” Doug asked.
No response.
“Earl?”
Still, no response.
“Earl, buddy?”
Coffee sip. No response.
“Hey!” Doug shouted. “Earl!”
“What?!” Earl shouted back, finally losing his cool.
“Geeze,” Doug said. “No need to be snippy.”
“I’m not deaf,” Earl said.
“OK,” Doug said. “I just thought maybe you were, due to your advanced age and all.”
“I ought to advance age your ass,” Earl said.
“Remember from before, when I mocked you for not being a balloon gas scientist?” Doug asked.
Earl grunted in the affirmative.
“I just want to apologize for that,” Earl said. “It was uncalled for. We’re a good team, you and I…me, a young white man in my prime, you a decrepit, elderly black man with one foot in the grave…”
“You’re almost forty,” Earl said.
“I’m thirty-six, Earl,” Doug said. “No need to round up so vigorously.”
“Good lord I wish I could just have five minutes of peace,” Earl said.
Doug was oblivious to Earl’s wish.
“It’s just, you’re Murtaugh to my Riggs, you know?” Doug said. “Buddy cops. A duo of unlikely partners who somehow make it work.”
“Son,” Earl said. “Let’s get a few things straight. We’re not cops. We’re not partners. We’re private security staff who are paid to stand around, look presentable, make the tourists feel safe, and occasionally if asked, we give someone directions or help a lost kid find his family. If shit were to ever go down, we’d call in real, actual cops. That’s it. That’s all there is to it.”
Doug frowned. “You just took a whopper of a dump in my creme brulee, Earl.”
Earl sipped his coffee. “It needed it. Did I ever tell you what I did before this job?”
“No,” Doug said.
“For thirty-five long ass years, I worked for a portable toilet company,” Earl said. “I delivered them. Set them up. Picked them up when they were no longer needed at a site and worse, I had to clean them. Let me tell you boy, you know how people don’t give a shit about the condition they leave a public bathroom in?”
Doug nodded.
“Well multiply that times a hundred and that’s how people treat a damn porta-potty,” Early said. “I’m not just talking about the two substances you’d expect to find in a privy, no sir. I’m talking drugs, used needles, dead raccoons, dead rats, dead porcupines, dead animals of every kind including humans.”
“Dead humans?” Earl asked.
“Three times in my life I opened up a door to a stank ass toilet only to have an overdose victim fall the hell out of it,” Earl said. “That shit messes with a man for life.”
“That’s terrible, Earl,” Doug said.
“It is,” Earl said. “And I haven’t even mentioned the baby.”
Doug’s jaw dropped. “You found a dead baby in a portable toilet?”
“No,” Earl said. “I found a live baby in a portable toilet.”
“How did the baby get there?” Doug asked.
“I don’t know,” Earl said. “Do I look like Creskin? I walk up to the John. I hear a baby crying. I open it up and a damn baby is lying on the floor. I don’t know how it got there. I assume the kid’s mother didn’t want her. I called the police and they came and took her. I hope they found a happy home for the kid.”
“I had no idea you had it so bad, buddy,” Doug said.
“Yeah,” Earl replied. “So you can imagine the elation I felt when I retired, moved to Florida, and was able to find a nice, do-nothing job at a theme park where the only requirement is that I remain standing and smile politely at the tourists for eight hours.”
Earl took another sip. “But I guess like everything in life, there’s a catch. This job was nice for about a year. I stood here. I was nice to everyone. I had my coffee. I enjoyed the sun on my skin…then they had to go and post your dumb ass here, a Goddamn police academy washout who won’t stop running his mouth, never giving me a second of peace.”
A twelve-year-old girl walked up to Earl. “Where’s the arcade?”
Earl smiled and turned around to face the underpass. “Why, all you need to do is walk right underneath the Wombatatorium here, then keep going straight until you see the Willy-Go-Round. Take a right and you can’t miss it.”
“Thanks,” the girl said.
“No problem,” Earl replied. “You have a good time, now.”
Doug flipped the top of his shades to reveal the regular prescription glasses hiding underneath. Doing so gave him a better look at the mouth full of gum the girl was chewing on.
The girl started to walk away.
“Hey,” Doug said.
The girl ignored Doug, so he took a whistle that was hanging around his neck and blew it loudly, to an ear splitting degree.
“Hey,” Doug repeated. “Stop!”
“What?” the girl asked as she turned around.
“There’s no gum showing allowed in Wombat World, missy,” Doug said.
“But I just put it in and it still tastes like watermelon,” the girl said.
Doug hunched over and stared the girl right in the eyes. “Do I look like I care, delinquent? Spit it out right now.”
The girl puckered up, sucked up some wind, then spit the gum out…right at Doug. It landed square on his right lens.
Doug stood upright and slowly picked the spittle covered wad off of his glasses.
“Behavior like that is going to get you thrown into juvie right quick you know,” Doug said.
Earl slapped his forehead in protest of the spectacle that was unfolding in front of his eyes. The old man then reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a small booklet, and flipped open the cover.
“Oh, you’re in for it now, girly,” Doug said. “My partner’s going to write you up. You’ll be banned from Wombat World for life.”
“I’m all out of Willies,” Earl said. “You like Chester or Ferdinand?”
“Ferdinand,” the girl replied.
Earl pealed a ferret sticker out of his booklet and stuck it to the girl’s sleeve. She smiled, then skipped away.
“Nice, Earl,” Doug said. “Take the enemy’s side.”
“Enemy?” Earl asked. “She’s a little girl. And there’s no rule against chewing gum.”
“There should be,” Doug said. “This whole park is living history. I’m not going to stand idly by while ne’er-do-wells cover the Caruthers Brothers’ masterpiece with chewed up bubblegum.”
“Observe,” Earl said. “Report illegal shit. Help people with their problems to the best of our ability. That’s all we’re required to do.”
“You should get your partner’s back,” Doug said.
“You’re not my partner,” Earl replied. “You’re a guy assigned to stand in the same vicinity as me. That’s all.”
“That hurts, Earl,” Doug said.
“Don’t care,” Earl replied as he sipped his coffee.
A few minutes passed. Doug spotted another troublemaker. A dude in his early-twenties listening to music through his ear buds.
Doug blew his whistle but the dude paid him no mind.
“Sir,” Doug said. “It’s not really smart to walk around and listen to music at the same time. You might not pay attention to where you’re going and hurt yourself.”
“Eat a dick, Rent-a-Cop!” the dude shouted as he walked through the underpass.
Doug shook his head. “Did you hear that? The mouthes on some of these kids today.”
“Son,” Earl said. “Let me help you out with this. The thing you’re failing to realize is that it costs one-hundred and sixty-eight dollars to step foot in this park for one day. Just for one day. So if I’m one of these people and I shell out all that dough to come to a theme park and then some turkey in a pink uniform with a wombat shaped badge tells me not to listen to music, I’d probably tell him to eat a dick too.”
“No one has any respect, anymore,” Doug said as he pinched his thumb and pointer finger together. “I was this close to being a real cop, you know.”
“I know, kid,” Earl said.
The old man sipped from his cup again, then stoically stared up at the sky for a moment.
“But when it comes to horseshoes or life, ‘close’ doesn’t mean Jack shit.”
Doug nodded. “You’re a wise man, Earl. Tough, but wise. I needed to hear that.”
“You’re welcome,” Earl said.
“I’m glad you’re my partner,” Doug said.
“I’m not you’re…you know what? Forget it. I don’t have the strength to argue anymore.
A few more minutes passed until another family made its way to the underpass. Mack was being regaled by his niece and nephew with tales of everything they wanted to do first, while Abby slurped soda out of an extra-large Gassy Gulp cup.
“Look,” Dylan said. “If we get in line now, we’ll beat the rush to the wombat copters,” Dylan said.
“But it’s going to take at least three hours to Princessify myself,” Paige replied.
“Paige, you can slather makeup over your face all day long back home,” Dylan said. “This is my one and only chance to ride a wombat copter.”
“Kids,” Abby said. “Just stop. We’re here all week. Everyone will be able to do everything they want.”
Doug’s heart fluttered when he spotted Abby. As he watched her sip her convenience store soda and walk away, a 1980s hair band power love ballad played inside his head.
“Damn,” Doug said.
“Yeah,” Earl said. “I saw it too but don’t make a fool of yourself.”
“Huh?” Doug asked, his mouth still slightly agape.
“That lady brought an outside beverage into the park instead of buying one from a Wombat World concession stand,” Earl said.
“She did?” Doug asked.
“Yeah,” Earl said. “So don’t blow your damn whistle at her because you know it will just end up with her dumping the soda on your head or something. For a hundred and sixty-eight bucks, she can keep her soda.”
“I didn’t even notice that she had a soda,” Doug said.
“Oh,” Earl said. “Then why are you staring at her like an idiot for?”
“She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” Doug replied.
Earl squinted at Abby as she and her family approached the end of the underpass.
“Who are you talking about?” Earl asked.
“Her,” Doug said as he pointed at Abby.
“The hefty white bitch in the Lonnie Llama tank top built for a skinnier white bitch?” Earl asked.
“That’s the one,” Doug said. “Damn, I wish I could get me some of that.”
“You’re serious?” Earl asked.
“That I am,” Doug said. “I may come across as a cold blooded, unrelenting champion of justice, but my heart beats like anyone else’s and that woman has just stolen it.”
Earl shook his head. “To each their own I suppose.”
“Yeah,” Doug said as he shrugged his shoulders. “But what can I do? You see the big, musclebound lummox she was with?”
“Yup,” Earl said.
“I swear, Earl,” Doug said. “Only the stupid jocks get the hot babes.”
“Son,” Earl said. “I think you really ought to get your head examined.”
Earl’s walkie-talkie squawked.
“Earl,” came the gruff voice of Chief Weber, Head Supervisor of Wombat World’s Security Guard force.
“Chief?” Earl replied.
“Got a Funky Cola truck coming in soon at the loading dock,” the Chief said. “Bobby usually handles that but he’s out. You think either you or shit for brains can take care of it?”
Earl looked to his right only to witness Doug blowing a whistle at a woman for wearing sandals.
“Open toed shoes are definitely going to get your feet sun burnt, ma’am. You really should be wearing sneakers or perhaps a nice pair of boat shoes.”
The old man sighed. “I’m on it.”
Bookshelf Battle 