By Armstrong and Delany
"Fuck!"
Glen Manning looked in his rearview mirror. "Holy fucking hell!"
Picking up the package had gone down as easy as a high school floozy; stop at the hotel, drop the proper password, collect the goods and out the door. Now, however it was clear to him that he was being followed. Bad guys at six, seven, and eight o’clock. Three cars were on his tail: one yellow, one blue, and one green. It was a good thing they taught this stuff in Spying 101 that was for sure.
Manning punched the gas and gripped the wheel tighter, swinging the company car into the left lane scant seconds before the blue car caught up with him. Manning leveled the sawed off shotgun, pointing it out the window on the passenger’s side. The driver of the green car, a station wagon of all things, sneered at him and laid on the tough stuff, "Hey, asshole! Pull that hunk of shit over!" he yelled at Manning, "And make it snappy!" Then his eyes all but glazed over as he caught sight of Manning’s shotgun. He was actually transfixed by the sight of it, frozen like a deer in a set of headlights. "Now look…", He said, or rather started to say as Manning let fly with both barrels. It was more like he said," N…" as his poor round head vanished in a flash of red liquid and small white flecks.
The station wagon, now hopelessly out of control, veered to the right and tore a large and gaping hole in the side of a country and western saloon just before it exploded in a bright and oh so hot fireball. It was a shame it was ladies night.
This didn't bother Manning in the slightest, he had bigger fish to fry.
The green car, a mid-priced sedan, had caught up with him now, the driver looking as angry as a human being could possibly manage. The driver’s anger didn't bother Manning either. Sure his partner had lost his head moments before he lit up like a cheap cigar but some days are like that. Life can be a bitch and sometimes she bites you hard on the ass. There was a saying in the spy game. It went something like this, "Oh, well…" At least he had time to reload.
Manning gritted his teeth and pressed a small red button on the steering wheel. There was a whooshing sound as twin homing rockets shot out of the grille of his car. They flew in a smooth arc, doubling back and blowing the green sedan into what amounted to about twelve pounds of molten metal. "Thank God and the boys in Weapons Development for laser guided tracking systems!" Manning laughed, to himself.
"Two down…" He thought, as the yellow car pulled up next to him.
Manning swung the wheel to the left as hard as he could, and shot out the yellow driver’s front tire with the sawed off as his car slammed the other off course. Manning made his getaway as the yellow car made a wide left turn, cut through two lanes of oncoming traffic, and crashed straight through the plate glass window of a large supermarket. The car smacked into an aisle containing canned fruits and vegetables. The fruits and vegetables aisle tipped over and hit the soup and crackers aisle, which, in turn knocked over the cereal and breads etc., etc., etc. In a matter of minutes everything in the store was leveled, the displays falling down like dominoes.
When the driver hit the steering wheel a large gash in his forehead opened like an upside down Cheshire smile. Blood shot from the wound, spraying the cracks in the windshield with a thin patina of deep red ooze. He died on impact.
The store’s manager picked up a bottle of Jack Daniel's, sat down on a case of peanut butter, and started to drink. He sighed to himself.
It was going to be a rough day.
The Los Angeles division of The Department was located in a rather normal looking building located in Westwood, a small college town that was mainly known for it’s vast selection of movie theatres and it’s close proximity to UCLA.
Manning pulled his car into the parking area under the building and checked in with Control Sector. He gave the package to Krelman and listened to his next assignment. He had trouble believing it at first but Krelman swore it was on the up and up. After the funeral in San Diego he was to return to L.A., pick up a compact disc, and deliver it to New York.
The local news that night opened with a story about two homosexual men who ended their lives in a bizarre suicide pact. They drove their cars into buildings, killing both themselves and many innocent bystanders. The twelve-pound blob of metal was not mentioned.
It seemed as if the folks in Truth Arrangement Sector were hard at work.
Fillamina Mingon kissed Scott Carey yet again, full on the lips and with major tongue action. He swooned and gripped her closer to him as she lowered herself onto his throbbing phallus. He stroked her erect nipples and he could feel his mind yelp in pleasure as he was inhaled inside of her. "Yes!" she cried, "Yes! Yes! Yes! I always hoped it would be this good!" Scott could hardly contain himself and if she kept bouncing up and down this way he wouldn’t be able to contain himself very much longer. Good God, she was hot! Just exactly what he always wanted. In fact, she was perfect.
It was amazing to him: they had met in the bar only an hour and a half ago, but here she was! His favorite rock and roll singer was laying down the love stuff hard and heavy. And she had paid for the drinks too! This was turning out to be a great night...if only he could last long enough to let her finish first. All things considered it wouldn’t be easy.
She bit his ear as a low growl rumbled in her throat, "I’m almost there, baby! Just a little bit...Oh my God!" She sucked Scott’s neck as wave after wave of pleasure swept over her. He could feel her body shiver as she erupted in tiny liquid explosions. It would only be a matter of moments before he...
Suddenly Scott became aware of a strange sound. It didn’t come from Fillamina and it sure wasn’t a sound he had ever made before. No, it was an electric sort of hum. A buzzing that made Scott think that someone had hooked an AAA battery up to a cone made of notebook paper. A cheaply made device designed to...
"OH NO!" He screamed, "NOT NOW!"
Scott Carey rolled over and grabbed the alarm clock off of the nightstand. "Shit! I never get to the good part!" he cursed, and chucked the offending piece of plastic out the window. Or, to be more precise, though the window. It had been painted shut back in 1978. Glass rained on his bedclothes in small dry drops. It was a good thing he was moving to New York this afternoon.
Scott Carey grabbed a copy of Playboy and made his way to the bathroom.
From Scott Carey’s Tape Diary:
"...ure out how to work this thing. Um...lessee here...I’m Scott Carey and this is an audio taped record of my trip across this great country of ours! I have just left San Diego in a personal search for fame and fortune. Graduating from Bob’s School Of Taxidermy went off without a hitch and I expect to be in New York within a week or so...I’m gonna kind of take it easy...check out the sights and like that. Grand Canyon, that giant cave with all the bats in it, that other place...the one with that thing...um...well, I can’t remember just exactly what the thing is or where it is but I know I wanna see it...I’ve got it written down somewhere...anyway: I packed up the car, gassed up the tank, and here I am! On my way to The Big Apple! Pretty damn cool, huh? I’ve got one of those headset things like the Time-Life operators wear on TV, you know, with one of those little silver microphones stuck on the end of a bent piece of small plastic tubing? It’s great! I plugged it into my boom box so I can talk and drive at the same time. That way, when I’m old and gray, I’ll have something to remember this trip with...is that planning or what? So...wait, let me think...oh, yeah! I’m gonna stop in a little town called Rancho Enchilada for lunch then I’m off to Los Angeles for a basic tourist jaunt: dinner and a movie. Man! Can you believe I’ve never been to the Chinese theatre? Well, it’s true. I’ve lived here in California my whole stinkin’ life and I’ve never even been to L. A.! Not to worry, sports fans, that’s gonna change in a matter of hours! I AM PSYCHED!!! I’ll tell ya more later...my exit’s coming up. This is Scott Carey signing off...Shit! How do you stop this thi..."
Scott picked up his fork and tore into his ham and eggs. The food wasn’t the best he’d ever had but it’d do. He dipped a corner of his rye toast into an egg yolk and munched as he looked over the notes he had made for his trip. "Hmmm..." He pondered, to himself, "There’s a giant ball of twine in Minnesota. Might be worth checking out on the way to New York."
"That’s a song, you know?", a voice next to him said, "One of Weird Al’s best tunes.".
"Excuse me?", Scott asked.
"The Biggest Ball of Twine in Minnesota. It’s a Weird Al song. On the soundtrack to UHF".
Scott was confused. Where he came from people didn’t just start talking to you out of nowhere unless you had an ax in your face and didn’t seem to be aware of it. He tried again.
"Excuse me?"
"It’s a song. Off of an album. A guy sang it."
"Huh?", Scott asked.
"Music? It comes out of radios and TV’s? Sometimes you can hear it in elevators? Supermarkets? Although you can hardly call that stuff music. I mean, I can’t."
"Do I know you?", Scott asked
"No. That is, not yet. Would you like to?".
Scott was really confused now. It was as if someone in his brain had gone home early and forgot to oil the machinery. It felt like steam was actually coming out of his ears. What was the deal with this guy? Was he gay and trying to lure Scott into some sort of bizarre party scene? Was he fooling with Scott, pulling his leg because he had nothing better to do? Or was the guy just insane? A maniac who kept a collection of human eyelids in a small box on his nightstand? Scott didn’t know and, more importantly, he didn’t want to know. This guy, this nut job was freaking him the hell out and when the going gets freaky the freaked take a fucking hike.
"Well...It’s been a real thrill meeting you...um..."
"Manning." the stranger said, with a low rent James Bond impression "Glen Manning. Universal Imports and Exports. And you are? ".
"Busy. Real busy."
"Oh!", Manning said, "Of the Cleveland Busys?"
Scott smiled as best as he could. He stood and dug into his pocket, pulled out a mangled wad of bills and some assorted change and dropped it on the counter. He said,"Thanks...", and all but ran to the door. Manning yelled to Scott as Scott yanked the door open ,"Hey! Call me!" But Scott didn’t answer. He kept going, dropping his keys twice along the way. Then he jumped into his car and peeled out of the parking lot.
Manning watched Scott’s exit and laughed lightly, to himself. "Wow!" He said, "I’d sure like to teach that guy a thing or two!"
From Scott Carey’s Tape Diary:
"...lousy record button? Oh, there it is! Wow! I don’t fucking believe it! I just escaped from a diner where this insane maniac son of a bitch was hitting up on me or something! I mean, I guess it’s okay if you’re gay or whatever, it’s a free country and who am I to judge somebody else’s lifestyle? I’m no sociologist or anything but this guy was fuckin’ nuts! I’m lucky I’m alive!… Shit!...Shouldn’t the cops be doing something about people like that? I pay sales tax! What? I can’t eat lunch in my own goddamn country without some crazy ass bastard getting in my face? I was scared shitless, man! Let’s say you want to grab a bite to eat at a local restaurant, no big deal or anything, so you sit down and order and then some whacko goes and tries to...HOLY SHIT! WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT? OH GREAT! THERE’S SOMEONE IN MY LANE! I’M GONNA HIT HIM! OH MY GOD! IF I CAN JUST KEEP CONTROL OF MY CAR MAYBE..."
Scott Carey sat on the bumper of an ambulance holding an ice bag to his head.
The accident hadn’t been all that bad, at least not for Scott. Aside from a large dent in the door on the passenger’s side it didn’t look like anything had happened to Scott’s car at all. A little hammering and some Bondo and everything would be as good as new. The other guy’s car, however was totaled. It looked like a Matchbox car that had been smashed flat with a twenty-pound sledge.
Scott surveyed the wreckage and tried to make his headache go away. It wasn’t easy. As he watched the driver of the other car talk to the police he was filled with disbelief. He had actually caused a massive car wreck. Sure, it was only his first but that didn’t make it any less of a wreck. The screeching tires and scraping metal had scared the piss out of him. It was amazing that no one was killed. It was also amazing who the wreck had occurred with...that maniac from the diner! He couldn’t believe it.
The driver of the other car (Scott couldn’t remember his name) pulled out his wallet and showed the cop something, most likely his driver’s license and talked with the cop. The cop seemed blown away by this. Scott was confused. Surely the cop had seen hundreds of licenses.
The driver must have gotten it in some strange place. Like Alaska or somewhere like that. Maybe Guam. Guam was part of the United States wasn’t it? Scott’s scrambled mind couldn’t remember that either. The driver said something Scott couldn’t hear and the cop laughed and nodded his head. Then the cop said something Scott couldn’t hear and the driver nodded his head rather seriously. Then they both walked to the ambulance. Great...now what?
"Well…" The cop said, "Here’s the story: since nobody got hurt I see no reason to make a big thing out of this. You both happen to be on your way to New York and, seeing as to how you ruined Mr. Manning’s car and everything it seems to me that if you agree to share the driving with him we can call it even and we can all be on our way. I mean, I don’t know about you but I can think of lots of ways that I’d rather be spending my time."
Scott was confused again. "Huh?"
"Simple!" Manning said, "You and I drive to New York and I won’t press charges or sue you into your next life! Have we got a deal?"
Scott looked at the cop. "And that’s okay with you?"
"Sure. Seeing as to how…well, you know. You know?"
"No. I’m afraid I don’t…not really."
"Cool!" Manning said, with a smile "We’re all in agreement then. Let’s roll!"
The cop shook Manning’s hand and smiled widely. "It’s been a pleasure, sir! And don’t you worry about the paperwork, I’ll take care of everything!"
Manning smiled back. "You boys in blue really make it easy. Say hello to the wife and kids for me, will ya?"
Manning then turned to Scott, "I’ll drive, tough guy! Hop in!"
It took Scott three tries before he got the door open. And another four before he got it closed.
Scott sat nervously, the ice bag still held against his head. Who was this guy? And what the fuck was going on? The guy sure seemed insane or, at least a little weird but could he actually be dangerous? The cop didn’t think so. In fact, he and the cop got along famously. The cop looked like he was impressed by this guy and cops have to take all kinds of tests before they are allowed to become cops. They don’t give a gun and a fast moving car to just anybody. There are psychological profiles, background investigations, review boards, any number of checks and double checks before someone is allowed to be a policeman. It’s not like everybody who applies gets to be a cop. If that was the case the force would be full of maniacs and assholes, like the kind of men and women who become security guards. And why do those dip shits become security guards anyway? Because they can’t become cops that’s why! The cream rises and becomes cops and the cheese sinks and becomes security guards. The cop must have seen something in Manning that Scott couldn’t. The cop’s keen sense of detection and his ability to think on his feet enabled him to size up the situation and make an educated and rational choice. This guy must be all right. Scott had nothing to worry about. This is California for Christ’s sake! Cops here never make mistakes!
Scott relaxed and let Manning drive. Everything was gonna be okay. Scott started to drift off to sleep safe in the knowledge that no harm could possibly come to him. Cops are levelheaded and always know what’s right, Scott thought.
Then he remembered Rodney King, rolled down the window, and puked his guts out.
"We’re here!" Manning said, cheerfully.
"Wh…where?" Scott asked. He was still groggy and his head still hurt. He had managed to sleep a bit but it didn’t seem to help much.
"Toxic Media." Manning answered.
"Huh?" Scott asked, "What’s a proxo reedeeum?"
"Toxic Media." Manning repeated, "We’re at the Toxic Factory…in Los Angeles. I have to pick something up and then we’ll head for Las Vegas. Maybe you should hop in the back and snooze for a while. I shouldn’t be too long".
"No thanks…" Scott said, "You go on without me. I think I’ll get in the back seat and take a nap. I don’t feel so good."
"Okay!" Manning laughed, "Have it your way. I’ll be back as soon as I can."
Manning entered the building and walked to the front desk. Dolly Lamma was sitting at her post answering phones. She looked up at Manning and winked.
"Hang on a minute, Glen!" She said, "I’ll be right with ya!" then she spoke into the phone "Yes…that’s right…you add some Captain Morgan’s and swish it around a little…yep…some juice from one of those plastic limes…no, just a squirt…uh huh…then you swish it around a little more and drink until you feel better…that’s right…oh, two or three…any more than that and you’re on your own! Yes…no problem…any time. You’re very welcome! Right, goodbye."
Dolly hung up and turned to Manning. "What’cha need, Glen?"
"Is Radcliffe in? I’m supposed to pick up a CD."
"Yeah, he’s in the dubbing room. Go on up!"
"Thanks, babe! You’re a peach!" Manning smiled, and headed for the elevator.
WHAT’S ON THE CD?
HOW’S SCOTT DOING?
WHO THE HELL IS RADCLIFFE?
FIND OUT IN CHAPTER SEVEN – "VEGAS AWAITS"
COMING SOON FROM TOXIC MEDIA!