Guise

They’d burned down the flag shop. Now all he had was the basics. He had cloth, thread, scissors, and a sewing machine. It wasn’t good enough. It didn’t put money in his pocket. It didn’t help him relax. He had a few loyal clients. Freaks, mostly. They wanted their outfits stitched. Some wanted new and better outfits. Weird materials. Secret pockets. Insulated. Shock proof. Padded.

One day a client asked him to help with a fake identity. He named a disgustingly large price. The man paid cash. He knew nothing about creating a fake person. Satisfaction guaranteed, he said.

Lives were easy to quilt together from obits, web searches, biographies and such. The faces were more difficult. A woman contacted him about a cut job he’d done a few weeks back. He offered to meet her. The news rambled on about some ghostly ambulance hovering through Downtown. He would have dismissed it, but the ambulance pulled up to his building and it’s siren was eerie. It was whale song with effects on it or a woman moaning and chirping, he couldn’t tell.

Speaking of women, one got out of the ambulance. She was dressed in a tight fitting outfit of red and white. She had a mask and ski goggles. We’ll have to work on her look, he thought. He heard her running up the stairs. The running stopped for a moment and his door burst open, splintering at the lock.

She crouched, thumbing a switch on her belt. The lights went out.

“You’re going to fix something for me,” a voice said from behind him. It was a smooth, feminine growl.

“I, uh,” he chuckled, “You’re serious?”

“Yes,” the voice said, now on his left. He smelled something chemical in the air.

“Sure,” he said, “After you fix my door. Either that or I call…”

“Shhhhhhhh,” she hissed in his ear and his nose and throat went numb with a wet breath of something sweetly nauseating. “The police are looking for you already. You’re not safe. Here. Anymore. Anymore. Anymore. Or or or or or…”

“Blahgl,” he said.

“Don’t,” a deep voice from all around said. “Worry. Ee. Ee. Eeeeeeeee…”


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American Boss

“Rick, you should be running things,” Martin said to him from the other side of the cubicle. “Man, freaking, smiling and dialing. The Golden Boy. Rickterman. Rick, you could run all of these mothers down. You’ve got sales in your blood.”

“Hello, Mr. Farnswelt?” Rick said into the phone. “Hi, it’s Rick Dubois with EIC. How are you tonight? Good. The reason I’m calling is to introduce myself and to follow up on the information you requested. Did you receive the packet I sent you?”

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Martin continued. “Listen to the Golden Boy roll out the script like he’s just talking casual to ya. Bam. Another PMM guaranteed. Man, your numbers are sick. You could sell Jello to Bill Cosby. I swear to you. You should be running things.”

“Well, Mr. Farnswelt,” Rick said, “Can I call you Jim?”

“Oh. Oh,” Martin said, “First name basis. Establish rapport. Build trust. Hit SALE! Hit SALE! Ding ding ding!”

“Right. I have some time later on this evening,” Rick said. “Maybe we could get a cup of coffee?” He was looking at the name and number he’d written down. “Eight o’clock at Men’s Donuts would be great. I’ll see you then.”

“Digh ding!” Martin stood and shouted. “Whoo! Hit SALE!”

“I’m out, M,” Rick said. “Gotta get suited up before my appointement.”

“Golden Boy’s got another live one,” Martin said. “How big?”

“This big,” Rick said and made the inch sign with his thumb and forefinger.

“Ha ha, man oh man.” Martin’s cat calls followed him on the way to the door. Martin was right. Rick should be running things. He had degrees in psychology, sociology, business, ancient languages and communications. His IQ was well above 150. People liked him. He knew the rules. He gave respect. Martin should have been smiling and dialing. Unfortunately, Rick was not his Boss, so there was nothing he could do. He had to sit back and watch Martin get himself fired and not interfere.

He didn’t want to be a Boss, but everyone knew he should be. It was a shame to waste his God Given leadership and charm selling by phone. It would be a waste. There was only one way to use his talents. He’d need the right employees. Tonight, he’d be interviewing a man from the Lower West End named James Farnswelt, a.k.a. The Dodger. Maybe he’d offer him a position with the North American Security Team Invitational. Probably not. Dodger was old. He needed the tall guy, the Skull. And he’d need a new identity.

Chapter One | Chapter Three