I thought I would finish this earlier. But once again, the story seized me and I didn't want to let it go until I had given it some sort of definite shape. Now, to bed, as soon as possible. N.B.: revised June 15th.
Richochet
Inside the back of the white ClockWatchers Moving and Storage truck, Duchamp Froissart bounced from wall to wall in the heat and darkness. Duchamp let go a few choice words, namely "Hell" and "Damn!" He was mightily vexed when he thought of his own carelessness.
Two hours had passed since Jake Taggart's goons had knocked him unconscious. Duchamp came to consciousness as the truck's engine rumbled to life. Instantly he glanced at the glowing radium dial of his watch. Four P.M. In only an hour more, something terrible would happen.
The truck heaved up, gravel crunching beneath the tires, and came to a rest. The engine shut off, doors slammed, and it was quiet.
Duchamp sat down to think.
He had been a fool to fall for the charms of Misty Kareem. She had been so demure in her ribbons and lace. Too demure. No one is an innocent orphan at the age of twenty four. Not in this dirty time.
Still, having lived fifty nine years himself, Duchamp found he was increasingly susceptible. To everything.
But: to escape this mobile prison, what should he do?
Duchamp felt his way around the floor, locating a few heavy blankets, some twists of twine, and, yes, a crowbar.
He felt resolve in his breast and the beginnings of a plan stirring in his brain.
Then, gravel crunching outside. Footsteps. The bolt clanked.
Minutes later, his assailants battered senseless and rolled up like a giant burrito, Duchamp alighted from the lift-gate of the truck, and looked at where he had arrived.
A lot full of white moving trucks. A slate-gray sky. A chain-link fence topped with razor wire.
Duchamp slid quietly through the ranks of trucks. Found the gate...locked.
Minutes later, he hurried down the sidewalk, without a scratch on him.
He located the house easily, set apart by the gingerbread trim of its upper floors. It looked nothing like the neighboring brownstones.
Minutes later, in the parlor, he faced Ivy De Sire.
"Last time I saw you, you had flaxen curls and a shy but wounded girlish giggle," he said. "No ribbons or lace now, I see."
Indeed, she was clad in leather from head to toe.
"Mister Froissart, I knew you for a fool the moment you raised that demitasse to your lips with your pinkie extended. I took you for everything and you deserved it. I left you with only one thing: your life. That was a regrettable omission, and it's only because I've had more interesting things to do. Now, it's time to make amends. Jake, finish him off."
Jake Taggart stepped from behind the chenille wall hanging, pistolero brandishéd. His neck muscles rippling and twitching beneath his evenly-tanned skin, he smiled.
"I am going to take pleasure in finishing you off, ya big noisy. You irritate my baby-doll," Jake said, raising his gleaming magnum .45.
Minutes later, the brains of the woman called Ivy De Sire, who was also known as Misty Kareem, gleamed from the wall. Jake Taggart, now bound with his own necktie, gaped incredulously.
"Why are her brains green? I did not think her brains would be green."
Duchamp Froissart turned to the muscle-bound crime lord and explained.
"She was a nasty creature from the planet Quaruz, in the Telephor Sector. She found an innocent victim, and inserted herself into the poor girl's brain pan. She ate her victim's memories and used the knowledge to insinuate herself into your inner circle. Once there, she could move closer and closer to you, become a trusted confidante, and manipulate you into becoming a powerful crime lord instead of the mobbed-up moving company foreman you once were. Also, she started a pastry company, baked a lot of cookies, and convinced you to marry her.”
“Damn!" said the duped strongman.
“Your wedding was this afternoon, was it not?"
“You know it was. I had to have my boys extract you from the proceedings because, as it happened, you were shouting in a rude and incoherent way. No hard feelings. You were just making it hard to hear the guy who was marrying us.”
“That was most embarrassing, and I do apologize. I have been on her trail for a long time. And unfortunately I did not what form she would take.”
“What are you talking about?”
“My mission was to find A'amatha Pewruz, a rogue jelly-creature traveling via ionic beam from the star system Blastoplam 32.”
“You mean a space creature?”
“Yes, a space creature. A space creature that took over the mind of Misty Kareem; that became Ivy De Sire; the space creature that set you up for a fall. I know that you planned to consummate your nuptials in this charming house. I knew that you had planned it for 5pm this evening. And I knew that at that moment of bliss, this space creature planned to leap from the brain pan of Ivy De Sire to the brain pan of Jake Taggart. You would cease to exist. And the evil, evil space creature would have in its hands considerable power to do harm.”
“Garn!” said Jake Taggart.
“Garn, indeed. As a further demonstration of her cunning, I must tell you that the cause of the noise I made at today's ceremony, the disturbing noises that came out of my mouth--those were the result of my own weakness. A foolish susceptibility to damsels in distress.”
Jake sized up the unassuming figure in front of him, trying to figure out what the little guy meant. Maybe the little guy would say if he asked him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that--despite everything I knew--I had fallen for her too, in her guise as adult orphan Misty Kareem.”
“Wait one minute, fellow. Are you saying that you had eyes for my baby-doll? That you was trying to edge in on my game?”
“A most regrettable outcome, I admit. But yes, I felt a fondness for her. A fondness which she had encouraged in me for her amusement and her financial gain. A fondness that fueled a burning physical desire to have, and to hold, and to do some other sorts of things as well. It was because of this impossible, foolish, disturbing fondness that, despite having discovered her evil nature, I grew terribly jealous at seeing her hand in hand with you before the minister, and I acted in manner that might be considered indiscreet.”
“That is one sort of nerve I do not like,” Jake said, as he burst from his bonds, and prepared to pulverize Duchamp's face by punching very hard with his fist.
Minutes later, Duchamp Froissart strolled down the street a few blocks away. He paused a moment to power down the Automatic Narrative Editor; no point in running down the battery now that the evil jelly-creature was dead and Jake was in the custody of the NYPD.
Minutes later, Duchamp Froissart sat in the the patrol vehicle of J'oto'moola To'ole, a law enforcement jelly-creature from the star-system Blastoplam 32 in the Telephor Sector. The jelly-creature spoke through a boxlike device that crackled and wheezed, but the words it formed were very clear.
“Mister Froissart,” said the wheezing box, “We appreciate your efforts to do good and fine things. But you must understand that we, as law-enforcement professionals, do not look kindly upon amateurs engaging in vigilante sorts of operations.”
Duchamp did not say anything. He looked at the toes of his shoes.
“So I'm going to ask you to return to me the time-space warping device you call the Narrative Editor. Please, don't pretend you haven't got it. They're all equipped with transponders. Our detectors aren't perfect, but they're pretty accurate over short distances.”
Duchamp reluctantly drew the gleaming widget from his breast pocket, and set it on the speaking machine.
“Also the police radio scanner.”
Duchamp put that on the speaking machine as well.
“Thank you. And have a good life.”
Days later, Duchamp sat in his favorite cafe, reading the newspaper and drinking a demitasse of coffee, his pinkie in the air.
A well kept woman of a certain age alighted in a chair not far from him. She had a little dog with her; the dog had a beautifully trimmed coat, and a pink bow in its hair. The woman smiled at Duchamp.
After only the slightest hesitation, Duchamp smiled back.
(C) 2011 Michael Bernstein
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