Clash
of the Figments
by Blaine Staat
This is a work of fiction.
Duh. Names, characters, places, and incidents
are either the product
of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and
any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All
rights reserved. This book or parts
thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system or
transmitted in any form by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise – without prior
written permission of the publisher,
except as provided by United States of America copyright law.
Chapter 1
I didn’t
poop my shorts until much later – and I’ll never tell you exactly when I did –
but it all started like this:
The last body falls to the ground
and Tingaard the Mongol sheathes his sword.
He marches across the battlefield, oblivious to the smoke and human
carnage all around, making his way straight towards the shivering damsel. Wide-eyed with terror, she tries to push
herself further into the corner. A
whimper escapes her trembling lips.
Tingaard stops and stands like a
giant in front of her. His arm reaches
towards her with an open palm.
“Give me the delicious gum,” he says.
I reread
the page and pictured it again in my mind’s eye. It was epic.
It was bold. It was fraught with
glory, conquest, and the spoils of war. It
was also unbelievably stupid.
And,
upon further reflection, probably too introspective and moody for a Chiclets
commercial. I sighed, balled the paper
in my hand, and launched another air ball at the steel wire wastebasket in the
corner. 12 for 18. 66%. Not
a free throw percentage to brag about but good enough to be a multi-million
dollar center for any pro basketball team.
I’m not
a writer by trade, but business was slow.
In this town, business was always slow in my real line of work. This
writing biz, not really my strong point.
Just trying to earn a few Lincolns on the side. What puzzled me was that I was having such a
hard time with it. Four hours and still
at square one. I’d never tried to write
a television commercial before, but, jeez, how hard could it be? Especially for a stupid box of gum.
Kicking
my ass though.
I
threaded another sheet of paper into the beat up Smith-Corona and stared at the
field of white. Puzzled. Why should this be so hard? After all, I had a bachelor’s degree in English
Composition. Or was it Paleoanthropology? Maybe Medieval History . .
. . . Hell,
who could remember? That was nine years
ago at least. Point was, I had a degree
in something, and that in itself
should be enough to belt out enough mindless crap to fill 30 seconds of air
time.
I sat
back and pondered the mindless crap angle.
Could be something there. Then
came the knock on the door.
I turned
my head real slow like and stared at the door through the layer of smoke
undulating across the room. It was just
past noon but my office was dark; wood paneling, bookshelves, and those really
cool vertical blinds with the wide slats all working together to keep the
midday sun at bay. It wasn’t just me
either. Everybody thought they were cool. The blinds I mean.
The
smoked glass window in the door bore a human shadow, the letters “RETISSAL
DRAHCIR” stenciled over what would be
its neck. I’ll be damned. Could be a live one. And just in time. I leaned back, crossed my wing tipped feet on
the desk, and called out.
“Enter.”
I’m a
dick, you see. By birth, by profession,
and, yeah, sometimes by choice when needed.
Richard Lassiter. Private
Investigator. Run a little gumshoe
enterprise here called Top Dick
Investigations. And a damn good one
too by my view, despite the fact that business wasn’t just jumping through my
door. That wasn’t my fault. It’s just that where P.I.’s are concerned
– real hard-nosed, trench coat wearing, Stacey Keach looking motherfuckers like
myself – location can kill you. And
Orlando just didn’t lend itself to the cold, overcast, drizzly grayness that my
breed require.
Don’t
get me wrong. Plenty of crime in this
town. What attracted me to it in the
first place. I mean, we got enough
wackos, sickos, and knife toten’ street punks to make L.A. and New York look like a couple of blushing
schoolgirls. And one might think that
any town dwelling under the specter of a corporate mega-conglomerate whose
entire existence centered around a giant rodent would invite enough evil and
darkness to make a black fedora commonplace.
But that just ain’t the way it works in this town.
Little
thing they got here called sunshine. Hot,
bright, and, unfortunately for me, shitloads of it.
If I had
any idea what was coming I wouldn’t have complained, though. If I had any idea what was coming I would’ve
shanghaied an airboat out of here and spent the rest of my days chasing down
gators in the backwood glades.
Okay,
maybe that’s a little rich.
The door
opened and, much like a fragged Messerschmitt, reality as I knew it took a
screaming nose-dive. Mr. Jackson Burroughs walked into my office. He was a Washington type, I could tell right
away. Gray suit. Schoolboy glasses. Military hair. No doubt a messenger from one of the many
acronyms they had up there in D.C. (And
what better place for those institutions to reside other than a place that was
in itself an acronym.)
“Mr. Lassiter.” It wasn’t a question. So either he had done his homework on me or
he’d picked up on the fact that my name was pasted all over the office door in
big black letters three inches high. Either
way, not a man to take lightly.
I picked
up the phone. No special reason. Then I put it back down. Made him look.
“My
friends call me Dick.”
“Okay,
Dick then.”
“You’re
not one of my friends. I was just
letting you know.”
He
sighed, uncomfortable and impatient. Good. I like to stay in control of the situation. Especially in my own office. And always with an uninvited G-man.
“Mr. Lassiter, I’m Jackson Burroughs. CIA” Acronym
identified. He held out his ID. To his surprise, I took it and gave it a
closer examination. Never been impressed
with a quick flash of a badge.
It was
legit alright. Burroughs, Jackson Samuel. Fancy seal, real plastic laminate, important
looking control number. I studied the
picture. From the look of him I figured
his ancestry probably had a long history of naming its children with the last
names of famous dead guys. Probably had
a brother named Johnson. Sister they’d
labeled Coles. Homely looking thing, but
with a rack of golden boheebos that could stretch a sweater so tight –
Jackson
reclaimed his wallet with a quick snap and it disappeared inside his jacket. I motioned towards a chair and he sat down.
“What
can I do for you, Mr. Burroughs? Don’t get too many visitors around here. I don’t recall having done anything recently
to invite attention from the government.”
“We’ve
got a problem William. A big problem. That’s why I’m here. We don’t know of anyone else to turn to
except you.” Burroughs apparently wasn’t
big on small talk. But for that matter
he wasn’t too stellar on accuracy either.
“The
name’s Dick.”
“Right,
Bill. Sorry. I’m just a little nervous. Like I said, this is big.”
I opened
my mouth to correct him again on the name but then realized that it would be
easier to just let it ride. Besides,
what if he was right? I’d look pretty
stupid then. So I just nodded and smiled
back.
“Mr. Lassiter,”
he said. “We know about your past. We know you’ve been involved with some pretty
sensitive cases. Lots of things that we
in the Agency term ‘Code Red’ assignments.
Top level secrecy and priority.”
I had no
idea what he was talking about so I decided the blank stare approach was the
correct route to take. My silence seemed
to impress him. He stood, walked to the
window, and continued.
“I
certainly don’t expect you to discuss them, of course. But we thought that with your experience in these
types of situations, coupled with the high percentage success rate that you
achieved in dealing with them, you might be able to help us with a current
problem that, to date, we have been unable to resolve.”
Talkative
little shit all of a sudden. He turned
away from the window and stared directly at me.
“In
short, we require your services in a matter of extreme national security,” he said sternly. He turned away from the window and stared
directly at me again. Damn, how’d he do
that? Had to admit, it fucked me up a
little.
He
opened his briefcase, pulled out a manila folder, and tossed it on my desk.
“This is
your assignment,” he said, tossing the
folder to me again.
I turned
the package over in my hands and nodded my approval upon seeing the markings
stamped on its rich Corinthian exterior: “Code Red Directives” and “Package contains 30% post-consumer
content”. What a fine, fine envelope it
was.
“Well? Open it.”
This was Jackson talking again. A
rather annoying habit that he seemed to have.
“What if
I’m not interested?”
“Then
we’ll be forced to reveal your true involvement in that pesky little incident
five years ago. You know, of course. The Cesium-131 debacle?”
I sat
there, a deer in the headlights. No clue
what this bozo was talking about. He
must have figured he’d struck a nerve. He
sat down, eyeing me expectantly. What
the hell. I wasn’t exactly booked up for
the month, and I didn’t really see a promising future in advertisements. I’d play his game.
“Ah. Of course,”
I said. I unwrapped the string
closure and pulled out the documents inside.
The top sheet was a picture of a moose wearing sunglasses. A lit cigarette hung from his lips.
“That’s
our problem,” Jackson said. “Code name is Zodar. He’s a rogue Soviet spy moose.”
Next Week: Chapter 1 (Part 2)
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