“Incoming!”
We ran for cover. Most of us made it. Teddy… grenades are unforgiving. But there’s no time for tears.
“On the left! On the left!”
“There’s too many.”
What was it Shakespeare said? Something like: “The fire-eyed maid of smoky war all hot and bleeding will we offer them.”
“Where are they coming from?”
“Cover me.”
“I’m hit. I’m fucking dying!”
Poor kid, first time in gets dropped right in the shit.
“Where’s our backup?”
“They’re coming. Keep firing.”
“What’s that sound?”
“That’s my phone. Hang on a sec.”
“We’re in the middle of an alien invasion. You can’t answer your phone.”
“Can and will.”
Hit mute so I don’t hear the other gamers litany of rape-related insults. Or god forbid the person on the phone hears them. A bit of chitchat before I hear the gold I’m anxious for. Hang up smiling, and jump back to the game.
“Hey, guys. I got a job.”
“Fuck you. Nobody cares. What the hell is that?!”
#
The company wanted clean cut, professional looking people, preferably with any type of military background, but they settled for me. There’s a certain victory in soothing such desperation. Not as glamorous as being the best, but I’ll take a tarnished crown. After miraculously passing a drug test, I cut my hair, shaved my beard, and donned my uniform.
My marching orders sent me to a gated community in Buffalo Grove. The sign out front read Paradise Circle, and the gate honestly didn’t look able to stop a loud fart. Stuffed into a coffin sized booth, I spent most of my shift waving to residents and opening the gate, doing my best to smile while an uncomfortable stool seemed to slide further and further up my ass. The job could’ve been done by a machine, but it’s my experience people prefer flesh and blood servants. Yelling at tech just doesn’t provide the same sense of superiority as bitching out human beings. That said, I got some reading done, the pay kept my bills from rising against me, and so I settled in.
Part of the job required driving around in this off-white sedan to check the streets. Playing the part of living home monitor, I idled through Paradise Circle keeping a vigilant eye out for burglars, fires, and whatever myriad worries plague homeowners. Then back to the coffin-booth to lodge the peg in my ass, lean into the ground, and turn a few more pages.
Honk, honk. Wave to Mr. Marquette, open the gate, and back to the book. Phone rings; noise complaint. Some teenagers are throwing a party over on Fiesta Boulevard, so off I go to tell them: “Hey, here’s the deal. I come first, but this keeps up the real cops get called, and nobody wants that. Ergo, this is what can happen: you keep it down, and next time you party I’ll buy you the booze… good stuff not this shit beer you idiots got cuz you have no taste. Alright?” And silence reigns once more. Contented by success, I return to my one man rampart to keep watch over the feudal lords.
When I get back, however, I notice the gate is wide open.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.” I speed through the neighborhood keeping an eye out for anything unusual. Fortunately, it isn’t long before I spot a guy stumbling down the street in a pink and purple toga. The tiny crown aslant on his head is eye catching as well, though not as much as the drooping pair of wings he has. They look like a dragonfly’s. Every time he passed under the light of a streetlamp, the wings shimmer like the rainbow in an oil slick.
Pulling up alongside him, I cruise with my window rolled down until he notices me. His eyes have heavy bags. The lines in his face suggest a permanent scowl, though some wrinkles hint he might’ve been inclined to routine grins once upon a time.
Waving a bottle of vodka at me he says, “No concern yaself rent-a-cop.”
“Okay.”
“I mean it.” He takes a swig from the bottle. Coughing, he drools a bit when he continues, “Ain’t no problem yours. Ain’t no problem like this motherfucka – lemme tell you. I say it, I mean it.”
“Coo cool. I’d pay less attention to you if I could get some of that vodka.”
He stops walking. I stop the patrol car. Swaying in place, an eyebrow cocked high as he can, he holds up the bottle:
“This bottle?”
“That bottle.”
“You want summa dis?”
“That’s what I said.”
“How ‘bout you suck my dicks al at once?”
“You want me to suck your dicks?”
He grins, “Hey, if ya offering.” Pulling up the toga he flashes what can only be described as an echidna penis at me.
My curiosity definitely peaked I ask, “What’s the plan this evening? Where you headed?”
Laughing, hands lost in the folds of his toga, he glares down the road. He opens his mouth, gets cut off by a gag, but shakes it off before flying into the sky. Once I got over him flying away, it wasn’t hard to follow the glittering shower of gold sparkles trailing after him.
I find him on Pilgrim Pass. He’s banging on a door with his fist, and shouting at the top of his lungs:
“Bill! Bill Stevenson! You get out here Bill.”
The lights in the house come on. I get out of the car. The front door opens. A thirty something man and his wife stand there in their pajamas. I’m too far away to hear what they say at first, however, it seems like they’re oddly familiar with the drunk screaming at them.
Approaching the scene I’m more interested in how it’s going to play out instead of how to resolve the situation.
Bill Stevenson says, “For the last time, you are not welcome here. Get off my property.”
Bill sounds like someone more used to fighting over the phone than face to face, able to batter customer service reps, but not pierce skin. His words don’t even phase the drunk.
The winged drunk sez, “Ya whan-me gone? I’m not gonna. I’m comin’ in dis house, and I am takin’ ya kidz teeth. Pig fucker.”
This statement inspired me to chime in, “What is going on here?”
Bill’s wife, not exactly hiding behind her husband so much as blocked from full participation by him, peers up over his shoulder, “I’m glad you’re here. Please remove this individual from our property.”
“Ima individ-u-all bitch.” The drunk chugs vodka. Swallowing hard he glares at Bill, slow blinks, smirks, then pukes.
Looking at me Bill points at him, “Do your job.”
I nod. Placing a hand on the doubled over drunk, “Come on buddy. Let’s...” – the vodka bottle hits me in the temple.
“Haiya!” The drunk dances in the puke puddle, “Now tuh get dat kidz teeth. Teeth!”
“Maureen call the police – the real police.” I hear Bill say, and am tempted to help the drunk get their kid’s teeth. The bottle blow staggered me a second, but it only takes that long to get focused again. Bill is standing in the doorway like a boulder in silk. The drunk is glaring at him, wings occasionally fluttering angrily, all the while swaying as if standing on the ocean. Faintly I can hear Maureen on the phone calling the cops.
I hold up my hands, “Okay, everybody calm down. Tell me what’s going on.”
“I’ll tell you what is going on,” Bill says, “This person has been harassing my family for years.”
The drunk spits at him. It doesn’t go far, mostly just glops down his chin. Shaking his head the drunk says, “You deny my existence. I’m standing right here, and you deny it.”
Bill folds his arms across his chest, “We don’t deny your existence. You’re standing right here. My wife and I just don’t believe in what you do.”
“Oh! my religion is fucking stupid now.” The drunks looks at me as if I have any better understanding of the situation and will now agree with him.
“That is not what I said,” Bill insists, “But as long as we’re on the subject, again, what are the teeth for?”
“I don’t fuckin’ know, Bill. I haven’t collected enough… to find out. Maybe you lemme get ya kidz teeth I can find out, come back tell ya. Sound good?” And the drunk starts walking towards the front door.
Grabbing him by the wrist I say, “Hold on there.”
He swings the bottle at me, but this time I’m expecting it. Ducking the attack I kick his legs out from under him. He falls to the ground like a wet pile of laundry. Turning him over I secure him with a zip tie which isn’t easy given how his wings keep slapping me in the face.
All the while he shouts, “Ya fuckin’ with my faith and my money, muthafucka… I know people. I know bunnies. You gonna get fucked you up.”
Once he’s plastic shackled, I pull him to his feet, and dump him in the backseat of the patrol car. Then I head back to check on the Stevensons. Maureen peers out from behind her husband.
She says, “The police are on their way.”
I nod, “Then I’ll wait here for them. They can take, uh…” – pointing with my thumb.
Bill informs me, “He’s a tooth fairy.”
Maureen adds, “We let our son do the whole tooth fairy thing once, and now they won’t leave us alone.”
“I see.”
Bill says, “We don’t believe in it. What’s the point really?”
Glancing over my shoulder I see the tooth fairy banging his head against the window. Not hard – the frustrated thumping of defeat. I can’t help wondering if he was always like this, or if once upon a time he used to be of a sunnier disposition. Imagine what it’s like to have people telling you that you don’t matter, indirectly or otherwise, kindly or blunt; and being expected to smile politely when they do. Eventually, that would make anyone mean.
The cops arrive. I hand over the tooth fairy. They roll their eyes. Apparently they arrest two or three a week for similar disturbances. The tooth fairies aren’t always drunk, some are high, and some are just desperate, breaking into kids’ rooms with pliers, fueled by the fear they’re letting their gods down. I don’t pretend to understand their faith, but it isn’t any stranger than most others – deities limbed to the point of being arachnids, ceremonies that sound like cannibal feasts, denying decent people alcohol, et cetera, et cetera; madness ad infinitum. A whole way of life is dying off, and no one even pretends to care. Like I said, that’s bound to turn anyone mean eventually.
A few days go by. I’ve stopped thinking about the tooth fairy. I’m sitting in my tiny booth when I catch a sound like a low flow hose pouring on the roof. Liquid trickles down one window pane. I duck out of the booth. Looking up I see the drunk tooth fairy hovering above, peeing on it.
Twirling in the air, laughing madly, spraying piss all over he shouts, “How ya like me now?”
I’m tempted to laugh too until I see the bunnies coming, knives in their mouths. I get in the patrol car, and just drive. It doesn’t matter where I’m going, I quit.
We ran for cover. Most of us made it. Teddy… grenades are unforgiving. But there’s no time for tears.
“On the left! On the left!”
“There’s too many.”
What was it Shakespeare said? Something like: “The fire-eyed maid of smoky war all hot and bleeding will we offer them.”
“Where are they coming from?”
“Cover me.”
“I’m hit. I’m fucking dying!”
Poor kid, first time in gets dropped right in the shit.
“Where’s our backup?”
“They’re coming. Keep firing.”
“What’s that sound?”
“That’s my phone. Hang on a sec.”
“We’re in the middle of an alien invasion. You can’t answer your phone.”
“Can and will.”
Hit mute so I don’t hear the other gamers litany of rape-related insults. Or god forbid the person on the phone hears them. A bit of chitchat before I hear the gold I’m anxious for. Hang up smiling, and jump back to the game.
“Hey, guys. I got a job.”
“Fuck you. Nobody cares. What the hell is that?!”
#
The company wanted clean cut, professional looking people, preferably with any type of military background, but they settled for me. There’s a certain victory in soothing such desperation. Not as glamorous as being the best, but I’ll take a tarnished crown. After miraculously passing a drug test, I cut my hair, shaved my beard, and donned my uniform.
My marching orders sent me to a gated community in Buffalo Grove. The sign out front read Paradise Circle, and the gate honestly didn’t look able to stop a loud fart. Stuffed into a coffin sized booth, I spent most of my shift waving to residents and opening the gate, doing my best to smile while an uncomfortable stool seemed to slide further and further up my ass. The job could’ve been done by a machine, but it’s my experience people prefer flesh and blood servants. Yelling at tech just doesn’t provide the same sense of superiority as bitching out human beings. That said, I got some reading done, the pay kept my bills from rising against me, and so I settled in.
Part of the job required driving around in this off-white sedan to check the streets. Playing the part of living home monitor, I idled through Paradise Circle keeping a vigilant eye out for burglars, fires, and whatever myriad worries plague homeowners. Then back to the coffin-booth to lodge the peg in my ass, lean into the ground, and turn a few more pages.
Honk, honk. Wave to Mr. Marquette, open the gate, and back to the book. Phone rings; noise complaint. Some teenagers are throwing a party over on Fiesta Boulevard, so off I go to tell them: “Hey, here’s the deal. I come first, but this keeps up the real cops get called, and nobody wants that. Ergo, this is what can happen: you keep it down, and next time you party I’ll buy you the booze… good stuff not this shit beer you idiots got cuz you have no taste. Alright?” And silence reigns once more. Contented by success, I return to my one man rampart to keep watch over the feudal lords.
When I get back, however, I notice the gate is wide open.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.” I speed through the neighborhood keeping an eye out for anything unusual. Fortunately, it isn’t long before I spot a guy stumbling down the street in a pink and purple toga. The tiny crown aslant on his head is eye catching as well, though not as much as the drooping pair of wings he has. They look like a dragonfly’s. Every time he passed under the light of a streetlamp, the wings shimmer like the rainbow in an oil slick.
Pulling up alongside him, I cruise with my window rolled down until he notices me. His eyes have heavy bags. The lines in his face suggest a permanent scowl, though some wrinkles hint he might’ve been inclined to routine grins once upon a time.
Waving a bottle of vodka at me he says, “No concern yaself rent-a-cop.”
“Okay.”
“I mean it.” He takes a swig from the bottle. Coughing, he drools a bit when he continues, “Ain’t no problem yours. Ain’t no problem like this motherfucka – lemme tell you. I say it, I mean it.”
“Coo cool. I’d pay less attention to you if I could get some of that vodka.”
He stops walking. I stop the patrol car. Swaying in place, an eyebrow cocked high as he can, he holds up the bottle:
“This bottle?”
“That bottle.”
“You want summa dis?”
“That’s what I said.”
“How ‘bout you suck my dicks al at once?”
“You want me to suck your dicks?”
He grins, “Hey, if ya offering.” Pulling up the toga he flashes what can only be described as an echidna penis at me.
My curiosity definitely peaked I ask, “What’s the plan this evening? Where you headed?”
Laughing, hands lost in the folds of his toga, he glares down the road. He opens his mouth, gets cut off by a gag, but shakes it off before flying into the sky. Once I got over him flying away, it wasn’t hard to follow the glittering shower of gold sparkles trailing after him.
I find him on Pilgrim Pass. He’s banging on a door with his fist, and shouting at the top of his lungs:
“Bill! Bill Stevenson! You get out here Bill.”
The lights in the house come on. I get out of the car. The front door opens. A thirty something man and his wife stand there in their pajamas. I’m too far away to hear what they say at first, however, it seems like they’re oddly familiar with the drunk screaming at them.
Approaching the scene I’m more interested in how it’s going to play out instead of how to resolve the situation.
Bill Stevenson says, “For the last time, you are not welcome here. Get off my property.”
Bill sounds like someone more used to fighting over the phone than face to face, able to batter customer service reps, but not pierce skin. His words don’t even phase the drunk.
The winged drunk sez, “Ya whan-me gone? I’m not gonna. I’m comin’ in dis house, and I am takin’ ya kidz teeth. Pig fucker.”
This statement inspired me to chime in, “What is going on here?”
Bill’s wife, not exactly hiding behind her husband so much as blocked from full participation by him, peers up over his shoulder, “I’m glad you’re here. Please remove this individual from our property.”
“Ima individ-u-all bitch.” The drunk chugs vodka. Swallowing hard he glares at Bill, slow blinks, smirks, then pukes.
Looking at me Bill points at him, “Do your job.”
I nod. Placing a hand on the doubled over drunk, “Come on buddy. Let’s...” – the vodka bottle hits me in the temple.
“Haiya!” The drunk dances in the puke puddle, “Now tuh get dat kidz teeth. Teeth!”
“Maureen call the police – the real police.” I hear Bill say, and am tempted to help the drunk get their kid’s teeth. The bottle blow staggered me a second, but it only takes that long to get focused again. Bill is standing in the doorway like a boulder in silk. The drunk is glaring at him, wings occasionally fluttering angrily, all the while swaying as if standing on the ocean. Faintly I can hear Maureen on the phone calling the cops.
I hold up my hands, “Okay, everybody calm down. Tell me what’s going on.”
“I’ll tell you what is going on,” Bill says, “This person has been harassing my family for years.”
The drunk spits at him. It doesn’t go far, mostly just glops down his chin. Shaking his head the drunk says, “You deny my existence. I’m standing right here, and you deny it.”
Bill folds his arms across his chest, “We don’t deny your existence. You’re standing right here. My wife and I just don’t believe in what you do.”
“Oh! my religion is fucking stupid now.” The drunks looks at me as if I have any better understanding of the situation and will now agree with him.
“That is not what I said,” Bill insists, “But as long as we’re on the subject, again, what are the teeth for?”
“I don’t fuckin’ know, Bill. I haven’t collected enough… to find out. Maybe you lemme get ya kidz teeth I can find out, come back tell ya. Sound good?” And the drunk starts walking towards the front door.
Grabbing him by the wrist I say, “Hold on there.”
He swings the bottle at me, but this time I’m expecting it. Ducking the attack I kick his legs out from under him. He falls to the ground like a wet pile of laundry. Turning him over I secure him with a zip tie which isn’t easy given how his wings keep slapping me in the face.
All the while he shouts, “Ya fuckin’ with my faith and my money, muthafucka… I know people. I know bunnies. You gonna get fucked you up.”
Once he’s plastic shackled, I pull him to his feet, and dump him in the backseat of the patrol car. Then I head back to check on the Stevensons. Maureen peers out from behind her husband.
She says, “The police are on their way.”
I nod, “Then I’ll wait here for them. They can take, uh…” – pointing with my thumb.
Bill informs me, “He’s a tooth fairy.”
Maureen adds, “We let our son do the whole tooth fairy thing once, and now they won’t leave us alone.”
“I see.”
Bill says, “We don’t believe in it. What’s the point really?”
Glancing over my shoulder I see the tooth fairy banging his head against the window. Not hard – the frustrated thumping of defeat. I can’t help wondering if he was always like this, or if once upon a time he used to be of a sunnier disposition. Imagine what it’s like to have people telling you that you don’t matter, indirectly or otherwise, kindly or blunt; and being expected to smile politely when they do. Eventually, that would make anyone mean.
The cops arrive. I hand over the tooth fairy. They roll their eyes. Apparently they arrest two or three a week for similar disturbances. The tooth fairies aren’t always drunk, some are high, and some are just desperate, breaking into kids’ rooms with pliers, fueled by the fear they’re letting their gods down. I don’t pretend to understand their faith, but it isn’t any stranger than most others – deities limbed to the point of being arachnids, ceremonies that sound like cannibal feasts, denying decent people alcohol, et cetera, et cetera; madness ad infinitum. A whole way of life is dying off, and no one even pretends to care. Like I said, that’s bound to turn anyone mean eventually.
A few days go by. I’ve stopped thinking about the tooth fairy. I’m sitting in my tiny booth when I catch a sound like a low flow hose pouring on the roof. Liquid trickles down one window pane. I duck out of the booth. Looking up I see the drunk tooth fairy hovering above, peeing on it.
Twirling in the air, laughing madly, spraying piss all over he shouts, “How ya like me now?”
I’m tempted to laugh too until I see the bunnies coming, knives in their mouths. I get in the patrol car, and just drive. It doesn’t matter where I’m going, I quit.
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