Lash Out

“Really,” I shouted, “You’re telling me this now?” I was gesturing angrily. I knew I looked violent, and I didn’t care.

She leaned into my rage and yelled right back. “It’s not my fucking fault that you got fired-”

“I didn’t get fired! They eliminated my position!” I emphasized the jargon protecting me from misery.

“Sure, if that makes you feel better!”

“It’s different!”

“Fine! But it’s not my fault, and I’m not obligated to baby you! I’m moving to Oakland, and I’m moving on!”

“Why can’t we just talk about this?”

She screamed in my face, harsh and primal. “We had plenty of time to talk about this. You never wanted to talk about this.”

“You never asked!”

“I did! It was always a bad time!”

“If it was that important, you should’ve made me talk about it!” On “made,” I punched the wall. It was stupid; the brick wall could’ve broken my hand.

The wall broke instead. The whole thing fell in, and I stood dumb in the rising dust, absently brushing powdered brick off my fist.

“Um,” she said. “You want to talk about this?”

“No,” I said. “You go to Oakland. I think I’ll be okay.”

Electric Fence

Fuck, did I regret pissing on that electric fence. ‘Cause now I had a Johnny at gunpoint and all I could think about was how my junk ached. Colin giggling, like a fucking schoolboy. Every time he stopped, he looked at me and burst out laughing again. The Johnny looked scared.

I hated everything about this job. The dew-heavy grass soaking and freezing my feet like I’d stepped in a puddle in January. Getting up at three in the morning to drive to God-knows-where and tromp across a mile of farm to pop this guy doing whatever you do on a farm at buttfuck am in the morning. The goddamn horses and their goddamn horse smells.

Another giggle put the cap on it. “Last request,” I said. Colin stopped laughing, ‘cause he knew what was coming. “Hey, just ‘cause you took the dare-”

“Shut it.” To the Johnny: “Last request.”

“Do it away from the horses. Blood’ll upset ‘em.”

“Fine,” I said. I popped a few into the horses, and as their freaky horse screams started, I popped him in the chest. Let him nod off with that in his ears.

What a goddamn shitty way to start a day.

Was Going To

I was going to lie to you, but I have too much respect for you to do that. You’ve always been able to see right through me anyway.

Russia needs me. As a former KGB spy turned traitor, you’d think I wouldn’t care about the turmoil and injustice in the motherland just now. But defecting was never about the money, that was just icing on the cake. It was because I love Russia, because Russia needed to change. And now she needs me again.

More than that, I may not have much time left. The anti-aging drugs were experimental, but I volunteered anyway. They’ve worked this long, as you can see, but I have no idea how they’ll proceed as time goes on. Worse, some of my comrades from the bad old days have been falling off the radar. If that’s not the drugs, someone’s out to get rid of the last of the old guard.

And I just couldn’t bear to put you in danger. I won’t be able to write or call, or I might put the enemy on your trail.

And if you see me, it’s a plant trying to draw out my allies. Don’t make contact.

The Parable of the Warrior

The Master said to the Apprentice, “There was once a warrior who trained to be best at fighting with his hands. One day in battle, his hands were injured. He was at first despondent, until an idea struck him. He trained to fight with his elbows.

“One day his elbow-fighting was defeated by an opponent and his elbows damaged, and he trained to fight with his shoulders. When his shoulders were injured, he trained with his feet. When his feet were damaged, his knees. When his knees were injured, his head. When his head was injured, he had nothing left to him.

“What can we learn from this warrior?”

The Apprentice said to the Master, “Dude shoulda used a gun.”

From the Dust Farm

“We can’t pay you,” she said, and she stepped protectively in front of her son. Marika just nodded. She pulled up her dust mask and goggles, checked her sword and gun, and walked down the road. Minutes later, she stepped out of lee of the soy farm’s windbreak, a line of tired evergreens, and sandy wind hit her like a wave. She leaned into it and walked on, leaving the dust-yellow farm behind.

Marika didn’t look back. If she looked back, she’d want to go back, ask them to let her stay, to earn her place working in the fields. It never went well. Farm work didn’t suit her. The same thing, day after day after day, and always feeling exhausted, on her last legs from the endless toil in the fields. She never stayed more than a season.

Not to mention the way farmers treated her like a viper who might bite at any time, but hope that she’d be their viper if it came down to it. That’s what farmers do: promise her pay, point her at the local bandits, and hope everything works out when they can’t pay.

Maybe the next group of farmers would pay her.

Portrait of a Person

His sight followed his trail of piss down into the toilet. Blood in the bowl. Never a good sign. He sighed, finished, zipped up, and went to flush, then didn’t. Maybe it would serve the next visitor here as a warning.

At the sink, he washed his hands and looked in the mirror. Four days of stubble, lip swollen, eyes shot through with cracks of blood, and a bruise of deep-purple blood pooling under his cheek. Looking close, he could just about see the pattern of knuckles from the ugly customer last night.

When was he going to learn that he couldn’t live night to night, drinking and fighting? The friends he had gone out drinking with had evaporated, and now it was just him. Days in demo, nights talking to strangers, hitting on strangers, fighting with strangers.

He wanted to change. He wanted to strip his torn, blood-dirty clothes from him and run from the gas station bathroom naked, a new man reborn. He also wanted to not go to jail, so that was out.

He washed his face instead and made a resolution: Tonight, he’d only take enough cash for three drinks. One little rebirth at a time.

Softball Game

Click. Whirrrrrrrr. Up went the garage door, revealing two ski-masked men holding handguns. I was halfway to my car before I noticed them.

“Took you long enough,” said the short one.

“Seriously. We were out here for, like, an hour,” said the fat one.

“Uh, sorry,” I said. “What do you want?”

“We’re stealing your car,” said Short.

“Yup,” said Fat.”

“Really?”

“Yup,” they said in unison.

I looked at each of them, then at their guns. “Okay.”

“Really?” said Fat.

“Just like that?” said Short.

“It’s either that or, what, get shot?”

“Yeah!” said Fat.

“I choose not getting shot.”

“Wow,” said Short.

“That was way easier than I thought,” said Fat.

“Maybe you’re just really good at this,” I said. They smiled. “Listen, guys.”

“Yeah?” said Short.

“I was on my way to my daughter’s softball game.”

“That’s sweet,” said Fat.

“Thanks. She’s pitching. She’s really excited”

“Good for her!” said Short.

“Could I get a ride?”

Pause. “What?” they said.

“Well, now I don’t have a car, and the game starts in twenty minutes.”

Short and Fat started at each other for a minute.

And that’s why we need to wait for Mommy to drive us home.