Catch’A’Mon: Gotta Enslave ’em All

He poured himself a cup of coffee. Took a seat at the table opposite Marcey.

“Talked to my cousin the other day,” He said as he sipped his coffee. “Insightful conversation.”

“What you talk about?” Marcey asked.

“Well… insightful shit of course,” He replied.


The other day…. 

“Got that new Creature Hunters game,” He said.

“Squad based game where you capture and kill monsters?” I asked. 

“No capture,” He replied. “Just kill” 

“Oh…dude,” I said. “That’s some savage shit.”

“Huh?” He asked.

“Imagine you having date night with ya girl. Eating a dinner box and watching a flick. Just chillin,” I said. “Suddenly a squad rolls up. Shoots you in the face with a freaking crossbow. Then deep fries ya lady with a flamethrower.”

“What?” He replied.  

“Creature hunters… from the perspective of the creature,” I said.

“Oh… shit,” He said. “I see.” 

“Catch’a’mons worse!” I said.

“How worse?” He asked.

“Imagine… You playing an intense game of handball with the homeys,” I said. 

“I like handball,” He said.

“Me too!” I said. “You on the court racking up aces. Setting records. Speed and accuracy is at a whole ‘nother level.”

“Okay…” He said.

“You at point game. Some dude rolls up and zaps you with something.” I said, looking over my shoulder to make sure nobody was watching me. “You open your eyes. You’re in a white void. Alone and no place to go.”

“Trapped?” He asked.

Inside a cage no bigger than a bocce ball,” I replied. 

“Damn,” He said. “Crazy ass pocket dimensions.”

“Word,” I said. “That’s not even the worst part.”

“No?” He asked.

“Nope,” I replied. “Crazy part’s when they let you out.”

“That’s crazy?” He said.   

“Crazy like cat shit,” I said. “You come out looking around confused as hell. Realize quickly you’re a ways from home.”

“On some transantlatic slave trade shit,” He said. 

“Indeed. And they only let you out to fight other abductees,” I said. “Your opponents leave their catch’em balls looking lost like you. But you have to fight. Its fight or return to the void.”

“Tragic,” He said.  

“Word… Then they force y’all to scrap til someone’s unconscious… And win, lose, or draw,” I leaned in to whisper. “Yo ass end up right back in that pocket dimension.”

“Bruh,” He said.  

“I know,” I said. “I’m buggin.”

“Nah you good,” He said. “Shit’s kinda funny.”

“Nothing funny about kidnapping, slavery and exploitation, bruh,” I said. ”Nothing funny at all.” 

He sighed.


He stirred his coffee while returning Marcey’s befuddled stare.

“What?” He asked.

“Ummm…” Marcey replied. “Where and when did this conversation take place?”

“Yesterday,” He replied. “Earth… Not sure which earth or which version of me. But the conversation took place yesterday.”

“I see,” Marcey said.

Urban Fiction…. Wow

“Urban Fiction” is fascinating.
 
Currently reading an excerpt from “A Gangsta A$$ Love Story: Pt 1.”
 
The sample chapter ended on a cliffhanger.
 
“See you in hell, muthafucka,” a deep baritone voice promised as the intruder placed the gun on the back of Beast’s head and pulled the trigger.
 
Dang.
 
“Beast” just spent the entire first chapter in an intense lovemaking session with his main squeeze, “Heaven”.
(Love the names by the way)
 
The lovemaking was so intense that Beast didn’t notice when Heaven took two bullets to the back. Damn heroic, Mr. Beast. Protect your black woman.
 
“Beast continued to plow into Heaven until a pillow exploded beside his head.”
 
Beast actually flipped Heaven over and took several bullets to his back, shielding her from further harm.
 
Wow.

Not special.

He wasn’t special. Never was. Likely never will be special. If he had known he was an infinitesimal, insignificant speck in the universe he would have worked harder in High School. Taken more risks. Focused more on refining a skill rather than relying on a superpower he never really had.

He pinched himself.

Had to stay awake. Had to finish another chapter. He wasn’t special. He didn’t have the ability to warp reality or bend it to his will. Didn’t have telepathic or mind possession powers to make someone else finish his work for him.

“One more chapter,” He willed himself.

He saw a gift in realizing he wasn’t special. That the world nor people on his social media friends list weren’t looking for him. Weren’t waiting for him. That people weren’t aware he existed.

He went upstairs looking for Marcey.

Marcey was in her room. In her bed. Taking a practice exam.

“Hey,” He said to Marcey. “About to sleep?”

“Yeah,” She replied. “A little tired.”

Marcey’s big test was tomorrow. He understood if she chose to sleep an hour earlier than she said she would. He was -selfishly- disappointed. But he understood. Sleeping was the responsible thing to do the night before an important exam. Not drinking wine and watching superhero shows.

“Alright, cool,” He said. “Sleep well.”

“Have any tape?” Marcey asked.

“Sadly… no,” He replied.

“There’s a draft coming from the window,” Marcey said.

“I feel it,” He replied.

Marcey sighed. Looked disappointed.

“I’ll check my room,” He said, though certain he didn’t own any tape.

“Thanks,” Marcey said. “Well, good night.”

“Night,” He said before leaving Marcey’s room.

He wasn’t special. If he was, he’d have the superpower to regulate the weather and temperature in her room. Or… At least own a roll of tape.

 

Super-serum or Cybersuit?

Image result for Supersuit sketch

Hungry. Stomach sticking to the back of his spine hungry. He felt the if I don’t get food in my system soon I’m going to collapse kind of hungry.

The car emptied. Several seats were available.

He approached a seat. Removed his backpack. Pulled back at the last second. Remained standing.

He wanted the seat. In some ways he felt he needed a seat. Deserved a seat. But sitting down would be a terrible idea. He’d fall asleep the moment his ass hit the cushion. He’d slip into a coma the instant his head tilted back or his temple hit the window.  He’d Oversleep. Miss his stop. Be forced to wait another twelve minutes for a train. Bad idea to sit.

“Super serum or Cybernetic suit?” He asked himself in a whisper.

Super serum, he thought. Cyber suits would be too much to lug around on his commute. And he imagined a man with super serum couldn’t/wouldn’t suffer from extreme tiredness and hunger. And a super serum recipient could hold their pee much longer than the average man. Super serum it is, he thought.

He took a seat. Rested his head against the window.

 

 

Applications are a drag. (Thank goodness the apocalypse is coming).

14419932-doodle-style-global-apocalypse-with-mushroom-cloud-sketch-in-vector-format

He knew they made the application process mind-numbing-ly long and tedious on purpose. It was to scare away unqualified applicants and people who did not truly give a flying shit about working there. People like him. Unqualified. Not unqualified because they could not do the work. Unqualified because they didn’t give a shit about doing the work.

He squirmed in his seat.

It’d been an hour but it felt like longer.

Why the hell would they ask him to input his full job history and upload his resume. Seemed redundant to him considering everything they needed and asked for was included on his resume. What a drag, he thought.

“What?” Marcey asked him.

“Boring,” He replied. “And a waste of time.”

“Everything bores you.”

“Just this… this  worthless piece of shit process.”

“Well, its the process.”

He wondered why Marcey put up with his impatience. His immaturity. His stubbornness. His questionable attention span.

He completed his work history and saved his progress before moving onto the next section.

Training and Education. 

He took a deep breath.

Almost complete. Or so he believed. Or so he hoped.

He finished his wine.

If she could put up with him and his attitude for years then he could put up with filling out a single stupid application for a night. It was only fair. Though, the idea of sacrificing the few waking hours he had to himself to complete some stupid application for a job he didn’t want anyway filled him with dread. So much dread. Feelings threatened to cripple the application process.

“Shit.” He sank in his chair.

“Language,” Marcey warned.

“Browser froze.” He tried returning to the previous form. “Didn’t save nothing.”

“Oh man,” She replied. “Do it over.”

“Can’t,” He panicked. “Won’t let me.”

His blood started to boil

A whole hour of his life, potentially wasted. There was no way in hades he would waste another doing another application.

“No way,” He said. “I’ll wait til it thaws.”

“What?” Marcey asked.

“Thaws… Unfreezes,” He replied.

Marcey shook her head. “Strange man.”

He threw his head back against his chair.

“Could have been halfway done with a new one,” Marcey said.

Of course, Marcey was correct. He could have halfway completed another application in the time he was waiting for the window to unfreeze.

“Damn.” He closed the browser.

“That computer is trash,” Marcey said.

He restarted his trash portable laptop.

“So stupid,” He said to himself.

“Sorry, babe,” Marcey said.

“Didn’t want to start over.”

He was furious but kept how he felt to himself.

He restarted the browser.

None of that nine to five plantation bullcrap was going to matter soon anyway. He planned to be self employed. No more putting in stupid applications and begging people for work. He’d rather be homeless or die than to spend the little youth he had left than taking peoples orders. And those horrible commutes… If he wasn’t so afraid of Marcey, he’d pound his fist on the table in disgust.

He entered his username and password.  Logged into the job site. Returned to the application.

A newsfeed window popped up on the bottom corner of his screen. Something about a conflict. Threats of nuclear war.

Soon that nine to five torture wasn’t going to matter. The direction the world was heading, the apocalypse was going to wipe out everything anyway. And only people like him were going to survive. People who understood how fragile and volatile the illusion of living a responsible adult life really was. One nuke. One meteor collision. One caldera eruption. One viral or zombie outbreak away from total anarchy. From wiping away the illusion. Christ will return Oh… he thought in his best Yoruba accent. The thought of judgment day and the impending doom filled him with joy. After the application he’d search Amazon for early Black Friday deals on survival gear and a crossbow.

His application loaded. Everything he’d input…. was…. there.

No survival gear or crossbow shopping now, he thought. The apocalypse would have to wait until after his interview. Marcey tweaked his resume. He was confident there would be an interview in the coming weeks.

“Hey.” He scrolled through his application. “Looks like it saved.”

“Great,” Marcey said.

“Yeah,” He replied. “All there.”

Marcey blew him a kiss.

“Thanks,” He said.

He wondered why she put up with him. But knew why he was able to be an adult and put up with another job application…. For her. Marcey was all the reason he needed.

 

 

You’re the distraction. SMH.

Finger

He added a resource to shared spreadsheet.

This was their first meeting. First week of their weekly conference call. Something he’d been waiting for since he started that literary project so many months ago. Since he decided he wanted to write stories for a living. To be a part of an actual team full of people who shared his literary goals.

Marcey was looking in his direction. Not only looking but staring.

He tried to ignore her but couldn’t.

“Yes?” He asked Marcey.

“Nothing,” She kept staring.

It was something. He knew it was something.

“What is it?” He asked.

The kitchen was cold. Definitely a draft coming from the window.

“You cold?” He asked.

“No, you?”

He shook his head.

He considered asking adjusting the temperature. Changed his mind when he remembered Marcey’s sixty six degree rule. Heat only goes on  when temperature drops below sixty six degrees. The thermostat read seventy degrees last time he checked.

It felt colder than seventy. At least ten degrees colder.

He caught Marcey staring again.

He groaned. “Stop staring.”

“Sorry,” Marcey said. “Your hair.”

“What about it?

“Your hair’s distracting.”

“Oh lord.”

“You need a cut.”

He’d heard that distraction talk before and promised himself he wouldn’t take the bait.

“Not doing this tonight,” He said.

“Guys? You there?” Stacey asked on the phone.

He almost forgot Stacey, third writing partner and Marcey’s sibling, was on the phone. Ready to work.

“Sorry.” He raised the volume on the phone. “No more distractions.”