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Everything Jake. #615. Saturday Matinee. Hey, just a reminder, that there is no EJake on Saturday anymore. But, for those who must simply have their fix (all three of you, including me and my dad) I’m going to try and put some text based short stories up, and the cool thing is they all won’t be by me. If you want to do a short story, outside of continuity but with the characters, feel free to e-mail me and, if I like, it, I’ll put it up. But you’ll have to have the quality high, like, Amy Lewis high (from the fan art week), because she said she’s going to be doing some more stuff (at my request). So, EJake Saturday is now EJake Saturday Fan-fic day. But, today, it’s my turn. This is something I recently wrote which features the cops from the last week of strips. It’s a little rough around the edges, and if you read the message board, you’ve read it already, but most of you don’t, so, without further ado, here it is. Oh, there some cursing. Par for the course. War Machine. by Mike Rosenzweig. 1. “I said menthol. I said menthol, and you get me... this. What the hell is this? Marlboro fucking Christmas blend? I said menthol, and you bring me mistletoe in a black box. Are you really this stupid all the time, man?” “You never said menthol. You said, if you want my help, go get me a pack of smokes.” “I said menthol.” “If you would have said menthol, I would have got menthol.” “I said menthol.” “If you’re gonna cry about it, I’ll go back, return them, and get menthol.” “It’s too late now, I’m smoking them... but I said fucking menthol.” “Are you going to help me this or not?” “Yeah, I’ll help you, but next time you get me Marlboro mistletoe I’ll shove em up your stupid white ass.” Jason Martin starred a blank stare with the Marlboro Mistletoe dangling from his thin, hairy lips. Wisps of white smoke twisted around his gangly long hair. A sly, untrusting smile curled up on the sides of his mouth. This was not getting off to the start Sean Mitchell had wanted. Sean shook his head, shifting his weight in the dirty easy chair in the corner of his compatriot’s midtown apartment. What a hole, Sean thought. The small square first floor apartment was strewn with old Maxim magazines and empty bottles of what looked like Labatt Ice. What kind of person drinks Labatt Ice? Jason made a revolting sound from inside his chest and then spat out a yellow piece of phlegm onto Jules Asner’s almost exposed chest. Martin starred at it for a second, fascinated, and then went fell back into his beanbag and the glaze of no expression re-filled his face. This kind, Sean thought, how did I get into this mess? “You almost ready?” “Gimme a second, writer, I’m gaining my nerve.” 2. “You want me to do what?” “A story, I want you to write a story for me. It’s not just any story, it’s the story. A story of all stories. So you in?” Sharp anxiety sparked in Sean’s belly and quickly turned itself into a nice, cool sweat. Finally, he thought, finally. “Uh, yeah, I’m in...” The editor (he said he was an editor, right? He must’ve...) paused for a second, for effect, Sean thought, and then spoke again in his pleasant, friendly, editor voice. “But... and yes, there’s usually always a but, Sean, get used to it, kiddo... but... the but is you have to write something else first. A shot. That’s the but.” “Right, the but. Comics are a ‘the but’ industry.” If there ever was a moment where he had said something that he wanted to retract instantly, this was it. It was followed by a silence that seemed to last eight hours. I blew it, I fucking blew it-- “Well, yeah, I like that. An industry of ‘the but’. Catchy. Right. Anyway, Sean, to prove your salt I need you to write me up a nice little script, we probably won’t use it, I need to see how quick you are on the deadline, so I’ll give you this and then offer you a regular salaried job. A writing job, full time, great, isn’t it?” “Yes, yes sir.” “So here’s the assignment, I need you to write a good crime story. Not just a good crime story, no, one that would make Bendis cream his pants and shave his head.” “Isn’t... isn’t he already bald?” “Stop making excuses. Get me this in seven days, a full thirty-two-page script.” “What type of crime?” “What do you mean, what type of crime?” “Well, uh, you said crime, I was just asking what type. Homicide, gang, mob, cops--” “Just... crime, man. Make it good. Did I mention that? Make it good. No. Great.” “You got it. Seven days. Is there a contact number or something I could--” “I’ll e-mail you or call you. Good luck, kid. Make it great.” “Okay. It’ll be good. No. Great.” The phone went dead, and Sean instantly went over to his Orange flavored iMac laptop and fired it up. A crime story, he thought, okay, this shouldn’t be too tough. Who am I kidding? This isn’t my forte, I’m a freaking superhero guy. Tell me to write about some dick in tights saving the girl, the world, the whole omiverse, and I’m set, but crime? Crime? This is going to be tough. Where do I start? Research. I need some good research. Do I know any cops? No. He didn’t know any cops, detectives, not even a Customs agent. The library, I could go there, but it’s closed now and I want to start, I want to start tonight. No cops... what about criminals? Do I know any criminals? He shook his head no. Of course he didn’t. One thing about Sean Mitchell, he kept his nose clean. Once he felt so guilty about getting an extra dollar for change back at Starbucks he was up all night contemplating on how he would return it. When he did, waiting ten minutes outside the Shoppe before it opened, he only got a strange look from the teenage girl with long black hair and ugly earrings working there. ‘Uh, thanks’, she had said, looking as if he just got off the last flight from Alpha Centurion Minor. He felt stupid, really stupid. He spent the rest of that day beating up on the weaker NHL teams with his create-a-team in NHL 2002. That’ll show her, he thought, as he scored his 50th goal of the day. That’ll show her. But was this true? He thought hard. Surely he must know someone who can help him, someone who wasn’t your average law abiding citizen. James? What about James? No, James may not have all the proverbial cards in his proverbial deck, but he wasn’t a bad person. Roger? No, the only thing wrong Roger ever did was screw his cousin’s finance on her 18th birthday. Sean thought that a story of almost statutory rape wouldn’t fly with one of the big comic book companies. He racked his inner Rolodex of names from his past. No one at Vassar, the college he went to. High school. He thought back to high school. Wait... there just... there just might be one person... He went to he yearbook, which was under his bed, wiped the coating of dust off it and looked through the pages. Yup, there he was. Long hair, long goatee, evil gleam in eye. Sean flipped to the back page, where there should have been much more signatures from classmates. In the bottom left corner, there was one which stood out. It was in black Sharpie, the thick black Sharpie, and it’s message clear and true. Hope you die, writer, love Jason. Sean smiled. Jason Martin, scum of the Earth, he would do fine. 3. In a matter of speaking, this should not have been his case. A robbery where no one died is no case for the Homicide Division of the NYPD. But here it was, staring up at Steven Epel, detective, with all the intention of being his case. He thumbed through it. Two guys walk into a midtown bodega, one pulls out a piece and asks for the cash. The too proud owner refuses, pulls out his shogun, a shouting match ensues, shots fired. Owner’s face loses a fight with one of the perp’s bullets, but not without squeezing out a shot into one of the perp’s chest. The other one, in a move that either seemed incredibly stupid or incredibly clever, calls 911. The chest wound lies near death in one of those coma‘s where interrogation is impossible, and the owner is declared brain dead. Not real dead, mind you, but brain dead. More like face dead, Epel thought, and slightly smiled, which made his headache that much worse. Epel brought two fingers from each hand to his temples, and pushed hard in a circling motion. The pain intensified slightly, but it was the kind of pain that was supposed to make the other pain go away. It didn’t work, his head just hurt more. He collected the file, got up slowly, and went to the office. The Office was where there would be yelling, Epel thought. A lot of yelling. Captain Traynor liked to yell, as if he was in some god damn cop show. If Epel went in there, he was certain he would be yelled out. Yelling and headaches don’t mix, he thought, but this should not be my case. I have enough to worry about. “This isn’t my case,” Epel said, holding the file under his arm. He was waiting for the yelling. Traynor smiled. “It is now, Epel. Why are you flinching, are you expecting me to yell at you?” “No, uh, it was a little bright in here compared to out on the platform--” “I’m not gonna yell atcha, not now, anyways. The chest wound just died. That’s homicide. That’s Epel and Blare. We have one of those guys, the genius who called 911, up in The Room.” “Cap, it’s almost seven, and I have dinner planned with--” “Cancel it, or work fast. Just ask him some question, find out what happened, see if we need to keep him here in the five star.” That was Traynor’s little joke, Epel thought, and it still wasn’t funny. He called the six cells on the ground floor “five star”, as if it was a five star hotel, Epel figured. Probably because half the slime they have in there are only in there overnight. Therein, Epel frowned, lie the irony. “Yeah, sure, but this shouldn’t have been my case.” “Just get it done, okay, Epel? Come in here again and I will yell at you. Now get out of my--” Epel closed the door before Traynor could finish. `Fuckin sight’ is what he would have said, what he always said. Epel crumpled into his highly uncomfortable chair, and his head pounded more. He then realized how much he didn’t like Traynor, with his little “funny” sayings and cop show mentality. Cop shows were good and all, especially that Third Watch, but nothing like the “real world“. Ninety eight percent of police work, especially here, in the city, was boring as all hell and usually was the same thing. All his cases seemed to be like one, big boring case. I should have been a doctor, Epel thought. A nice freaking head doctor where all I have to do is nod and say things like, it’s your parents fault, and charge three hundred bucks an hour. Should’ve done that. But dad and grandpa and Uncle Jimmy all have been cops, damn good cops, so Steven would have to be a cop too. If I have a son, or a daughter, I'm going to let them be whatever the heck they want, Epel thought, and was rudely interrupted by his partner (partner in crime, Traynor would say) Matt Blare. To say that Blare rudely interrupted Epel’s thoughts is like saying that the day was light and the night was dark. Matt Blare didn’t do anything that wasn’t considered rude. “Picturing me naked, again Steve, you dirty, dirty daaaawg.” He said “daaaaawg” and it seemed to last forever, and it started a new thumping between Epel’s ears. “We got a case.” “We got a case.” “We shouldn’t have gotten it.” “We shouldn’t have gotten it.” “Cancel your plans, this might take a while.” “Tens of dozens of the finest New York upper class ass are going to bed lonely tonight.” “Here’s the file, we’re going upstairs.” “Ohh... the Room. I like the Room. Especially when the heat’s out of whack and they sweat so bad you could taste it. Did I say like? No. Love. Freaking Love.” 4. “So are you ready yet?” “I guess, but first, I need to go get a Peach Snapple and a pack of menthols. These mistletoe butts taste like your grandma.” This stung Sean, since his grandma had just died three months earlier, but Martin couldn’t have possibly known that, could he of? The plan, Sean thought, stick to the plan. Get out of this hole to a nice diner where you could buy crappy coffee and take notes as Martin spilled his guts. Martin got up and stretched his lanky body. Sean was repulsed by the sight of him, and again wished he had just waited for the library to open. Jason Martin in high school was no fashion plate, but he seemed to have let himself go even more since the eight years since graduation. Lost weight, if that was possible. Martin’s skin was a sickly white and Sean could see the acme on Jason’s exposed back when he stretched, lifting up the Megadeath tee shirt that had to be a child size small. What kind of crap was this guy into? Dope? Smack? Sean then thought that dope and smack might be the same thing, and felt silly. Yeah, you wanna be a writer and you’re not sure if dope and smack are one in the same. “What are you looking at, writer? Am I turning you on?” “Hardly. Ready?” “As I’ll ever be.” They walked out of the room and Jason locked his door behind them, which to Sean seemed an exercise in futility. The dead bolt echoed in the bare, urine smelling hallway. They walked through the double door of the apartment out into the brisk, chilly air. It felt like Sean had never smelt such clean air. Jason light up another one of the smokes Sean had bought him. “One for the road”, he said, to no one. “So what do you want me to talk to you about, writer?” “You don’t remember?” “Humor me. Refresh my memory.” “Well, I asked you if you had any good crime stories, you said yes, I said I’d buy you some Diner coffee and you said you could tell me some of the worst shit I've ever heard. You said it would make me scared at night and I’d cry for my mommy.” “Heh heh, I did say that, yeah. Hey, y’know something, after high school, I never thought I’d see your fat ass again. Weren’t we friends once?” “Once, but I wouldn’t call it friends. More like we were aware of each other, and we didn’t hate each other. I do have to say, however, that you look like shit.” “Took the words right out of my mouth, writer. What made you call me, after all this time? Looking for a hand job or someshit?” “If you were only so lucky. No, it’s... uh... little silly.” “If there was one word to describe me, I think it would be a little silly.” “That’s three words.” “You still don’t have friends, do ya?” “Nope.” “Why did you call me?” “The truth?” “I expect no less from such a fine gentleman.” “I was asked to write a story, a crime story--” “So you thought back in your past and you came up with me. I’m flattered. Honestly.” “Have you been in jail since high school?” “Touche. So, what’s this story for? Playboy? They have good stories sometimes.” “A... uh... comic book company hired me for it.” “A fucking comic book?” Jason stopped Sean in the middle of the sidewalk, flattening his arm across Sean’s chest. The move was so sudden it startled Sean, and he almost fell over. Jason grabbed Sean’s arm, and squeezed much harder than it looked like he could have. “You want me to help you write a... comic book... story, about crime?!?” He thinks he’s helping me write, Sean thought, and realized that he wasn’t about to get his ass kicked. Jason wasn’t angry, he was... flattered. “Well, yeah, that’s what I want to do, y’know, write comics, and this is my big break, in a way.” “One condition.” “Besides you yelling at me about cigarettes?” “Yeah. One condition. When you get this thing drawn, I want to have huge fucking muscles and I want to bang every hot chick out there. Like, have em line up at my door and crap. Rouge, Electra, even that chick in a wheel chair that helps out Batman. I wanna pork em all, okay?” “Like in real life?” “Funny guy, funny guy. Oh, here’s my favorite little bodega. Let me get my smokes.” 5. “That’s when he went in, pulled a gun, and went f’ing crazy. Yelling at the guy behind the counter, asking for money, all that shit.” “Go on.” “The freaking guy pulls out a shotgun, a shotgun bigger than any gun I’ve ever seen. It looked more like a rocket launcher than a shotgun. You ever see one of those?” “I have one of those. Go on.” “So they start yelling at ach other. Screaming. One is like, give me the fucking, uh, I can say that right?” “Is that what he said?” “Yeah.” “Then you can say that.” “Uh, okay. He was like, gimme the fucking money and no one will get hurt, and the clerk yells back that he would have to pry the money from his dead, cold hands.” “Wait.” Epel let the silence sink in. He looked over to Blare with `his look’, the one they had practiced time and time again. It was the one with the eyebrow raised and the eye thin. The one as if to say, I don’t believe this guy, do you? Blare strode across the room from where he had positioned himself. How many times, Epel thought, how many times we have rehearsed this. It was like art, he thought, like a Rodan sculpture. Blare stopped behind the guy in the Chair, who didn’t seem as nervous as he should have been. “He said that? He said you have to pry it from my cold, dead hands?” “No. His dead, cold hands. I know it sounds like a freaking movie or cop show, like something you hear on Third Watch--” Epel’s eyes tightened. “-- but I tell you, that’s what he said.” “If you say he said that, we have no reason not to believe you.” “Shall I go on?” “Yes, go on.” “So they’re yelling, and I tell this kid, who I haven’t seen since high school I told you, he’s not my friend, I tell him to chill, and he points his piece at me. I’ve never had a gun pointed at me, so I back off, y’know?” “We know. Go on.” “The clerk sees this as an opportunity, and squeezes off a shot, and it hits my ‘friend’ directly on his chest. Blood spurt out, and the look on his face was something I’ll.... I’ll never... sorry, this part is a little tough....” “Do you need a minute?” “Yes... no... I’m... I’m okay. The clerk is just as surprised as I am, as this kid is. He’s even more surprised when the kid gets enough chutzpah... you know what chutzpah is, right?” “Yes.” “He manages enough chutzpah to get a shot of his own off, which takes the clerk’s face right off. I mean, his face... was off. Like the Nic Cage movie. Face/Off, y’know? It disappeared in a cloud of blood. The kid is now on the ground in a pool of himself, and I’m standing there with my dick in my hand. I’m surprised I didn’t piss myself right there, and I swallowed a huge wad of puke that really wanted to come out. Almost lost it, but, I got all cool. Call the cops, I thought, I have to call the cops. So I dialed 911 on the pay phone and ran outside, almost into one of you guys.” Epel looked at Blare, who was still behind the guy. Blare shrugged, and then pointed to his watch. Epel nodded. This was cut and dry. This kid’s story was too good, too real to be made up, especially on the fly. But something bothered Epel. Something, while as everything seemed right, something was still amiss. “You said you’re a comic book writer?” “A wanna be, that’s how I got into this mess. I needed someone who had a past so I could dig his brain for some meaty scratch. That’s research.” “But the guy who was shot, he was wearing an Iron Man shirt...” “War Machine.” “What?” “It wasn’t Iron Man, but War Machine. Kind of like the poor man’s Iron Man. Iron Man is usually in reds and yellows, while War Machine is silver and black. I asked him why he was wearing War Machine and he said he thought it was from a band or something. Do... do you need me anymore? My girlfriend is probably worried sick...” “No, we don’t need you here anymore, unless Detective Epel has something to add?” “Yeah. Don’t leave the city, and if you have to, run it by us, okay, Mr. Martin?” “I don’t expect to, Detective Epel, I don’t expect too.” “Good. You can go now.” “I hope I’ve been some--” “Just. Go.” 6. Jason Martin walked out of the precinct into the frosty mid December air. He couldn’t help but to smile. The sight of the fat kid he went to high school with’s face made him chuckle. He wasn’t expecting the towel head clerk to miss him totally and drop a slug into his chest, Jason was sure of that, because he wasn’t expecting it, either. He had to blow the clerk’s face into oblivion, he was sorry about that, but it was necessary. Putting the gun into Sean’s hand wasn’t hard, and calling 911 himself was fucking bril, man, fucking bril. But the best part, he thought, after taking in a breath of sweet, sweet menthol, was the Iron Man /War Machine bit. The look on the cops face, beautiful. Jason started his walk back to his shithole apartment, puffing away on his menthol cigarette. copryright 2002 mike rosenzweig    
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EVERYTHING JAKE is TM & (C) 2000-2011 by Mike Rosenzweig. | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
