Blood, Bullets, and Broccoli: Issue #3
A Muscular Mustache Is Where Any Great Warrior Gathers Their Strength
COMBAT LOG #3
Friday morning: 0700.
Mustache: Stubble.
Note to self: House insurance payment due next Tuesday.
Research: How to properly cut a mango.
Mood: Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’.
Mr. Mojo sleeps on my chest quietly purring. I don’t want to disturb him but it’s 0700 and time to evacuate my bowls. Standard operating procedure. After that, a warm bath. My dogs are barking because of that idiot, Charlie. Last night Charlie and I suited up and went looking for a fight. Charlie, in his ultimate wisdom forgot where the camp is. Classic Charlie. Like a bad cup of coffee, infuriating to the last drop.
If you don’t know anything about the Boreal forest trust me when I say there’s lots of it. Our little town is stamped in the middle of literally billions of trees, and if you don’t know where you’re going you can become lost until a hiker eventually finds your bones. My first thought was the camp would be close to town for easy access so we scouted the perimeter only to find more trees. After three hours of hiking through the dark woods with the town close to our backs we called it a night and sulked home. I still have blue balls from the pent-up excitement of battle.
Mr. Mojo jumps down from the bed so I take the opportunity to run a bath dropping in an organic lavender bath bomb. I don’t normally take baths because most residential tubs are too small, but when I do it’s a guarantee a bomb is going to be involved. I caress the stubble growing across my upper lip and say, “There you are my darlin. Keep growing.” I shaved her after I retired. Standard operating procedure. It was like losing my closest friend and I grieved for six months afterwards. An award winning mustache. When she was gone it felt like a part of my soul had died. We were attached for three decades. Most marriages don’t last that long.
A muscular mustache is where any great warrior gathers their strength. A confidence of this magnitude only lies within a properly groomed combat mustache. I’m being temporarily reinstated into Nomad Division and the first order of business is growing her back. Standard operating procedure.
Let me catch you up.
Two nights ago a pecking at my bedroom window woke me up. I pulled back the curtain and a raven highlighted by the moon was tapping his black beak against the glass. I opened the window and the raven squawked, “Caw. You’re back, Ian.” The raven stops to look around then turns back to me and with a scratchy voice said, “Sources say your town is turning into a Level Three shit storm. Caw. Wait for further instructions.” The raven flew away. Standard operating procedure. Ravens are one of the smartest birds in the world. At Nomad Division ravens are trained to speak four different languages. Only way to be sure information doesn’t fall into the wrong hands. Phones can be tapped. Computers can be hacked. Humans can’t be trusted when it comes to torture. Even the toughest soldier will eventually crack. A raven though, those spiteful bastards will take their own life. Just to piss you off a raven will bite down on a cyanide capsule tucked underneath its little tongue and then after death a few of his buddies will show up outside your bedroom for months cawing keeping you up all night. It’s so the enemy knows better than to take out a raven.
I dip into the tub, my knees jutting out from the water like mountains. A third of my upper body covered with suds. I wasn’t designed for tubs. It’s like throwing a tank in a swimming pool. Stroking the stubble with lavender I hear a faint whisper, “I’ve missed you Ian.” I close my eyes and smile.
My phone sitting on the edge of the tub dings.
Charlie texts: Dude, how about last night, eh?
Me: Uh huh.
Charlie: Slinky Dan told me crazy shit is happening on the streets, but Slinky Dan is addicted to whippits so I don’t trust his perception of the world so much. He thinks we’re all in a simulation.
…..
Slinky Dan also said he can shoot electricity from his finger tips so you be the judge on a scale of one to batshit, dude. Myself, I’d like to be able to go invisible, for like, obvious reasons, eh. Wink. Wink. I wonder if Captain Exploder is like Santa Claus. That’s not his real name by the way, but every great villain needs a great name.
…..
Do you think if I make a wish he will give me whatever super powers I want? Do you think it works that way, Remington? Maybe, because I was splashed with that dude’s innards, the powers transferred to me for a short time. What do you think? Slinky Dan says they’re building an army.
Me: You got a point here Charlie? Your rambling. Did you just do an eight ball?
Charlie: Dude, I just drank three Rockstar energy drinks. Dude, the can says to not drink more than one per day. Can you believe it? The company is telling you not to drink more than one of their product per day. I’ll take those odds. I say we smash more of that lentil loaf and hit the streets for hardcore action. I’ll bring my nun chucks. Slinky Dan gave me directions. I wrote them down on a napkin. That lentil loaf could use less lentil and more beef. Spice it up a bit.”
Me: I gotta go, Charlie. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but, go smoke some weed.
Breathing in the lavender I say, “Thirty years on the job arresting every sinister evil bastard around, and Charlie the dumb ass will be what gets me killed.”
A woman’s voice whispers, barely audible, “What if it’s true?”
“It’s absolute nonsense,” I say.
“With all we’ve seen can you honestly say that?”
I pause and say, “When you’re right, you’re right. Might be worth a looksee. If this crew is exploding people then they need a good ass kicking. You need your rest though, sweetie.”
I get out of the tub and stand in front of the mirror naked, muscles underneath a nice cozy layer of fat glistening as the sun peeks through the window blinds, highlighting my sturdy frame and collage of scars. I suck in my gut, stand up straight, smile and give myself a wink and a nod.”
The voice murmurs, “This old gray mare, he ain’t what he used to be.”
For the rest of the day I carbo load with a tofu and tomato pasta dish in preparation for tonight’s festivities. Slam back a mixed green smoothie and lift weights to Ian’s Eighties Mix tape for three and a half hours.
Charlie shows up shorty after sundown slightly buzzed on something slightly more criminal than energy drinks.
“Which version of Charlie do I have here Charlie?” I say.
“What do you mean, dude?” Charlie says.
“Do I have laid back paranoid Charlie or high-strung high-octane Charlie or god help us, intense introspective horny Charlie?”
“Duuuuude, chill out my buddy.”
I secure the last strap on my bullet proof vest and say, “Hey, Dickhead did you at least bring your nun chucks?”
Charlie says, “No, but I brought a walkie.”
Charlie holds up one walkie-talkie.
I say, “Great, Charlie, you brought one walkie-talkie.”
“The voice quietly says, “He’s going to get you killed, Remington. This is not a good idea. I can’t help you yet.”
After concealing most of my guns I say, “C’mon Charlie, let’s go. You lead the way. It’s about time we had a talk with a psychopath. No, one sec. Let me see this map first. We’re not having a repeat of last night.”
Charlie pulls out a napkin stamped with a coffee ring and a couple other unrecognizable stains. Charlie says, “Dude, relax. I know where it is this time. It’s in the trails. Other side of town.”
We stick to the shadows as Charlie guides me across town and back into the woods where we link up with a number of hiking paths not used by the general public. Charlie says, “Normal people know better than to go in here, dude. Yeah, the cops won’t even come in here.” I say, “What a shocker. Local cops not doing their jobs.” Passing signs nailed to trees that say: Percocet Path, Cocaine Alley, Skin boulevard, Charlie says, “You take the path you’re looking for dude This is the underbelly of Williamstown. A sort of seedy flea market.”
Passing obvious scumbags I say, “How did I not know this is going on, Charlie?”
“Because you’re not looking, dude.” Charlie says, “You’re in retirement mode.”
Three black figures creep out from the shadows. One guy says, “Is that you, Charlie?
“Slinky Dan?” Charlie says.
“Who’s your friend?” Slinky Dan says.
I say, “How ‘bout we cut the chit-chat here guys and you take me to Captain Exploder.”
The three guys say, “Who?”
I say, “Dickless, just take us to the magician swindling you idiots.”
Slinky Dan snaps his hands back and electricity flickers through the air lashing out into the darkness. Another guy’s eyes glow a blinding white and the third guy holds his hands out while trees pull closer to him, snapping, the wood splintering until the trees finally break in half.
Slinky Dan says, “You shouldn’t have come Charlie. I told you to stay away.”
I say, “Charlie, you told me he said to come.”
“Did I dude?” Charlie, looking at Slinky Dan says, “Didn’t you dude?”
“No,” Slinky Dan says, “I didn’t.”
A low weak voice says, “You’re in trouble Ian. Just go.”
I say, “Enough of the parlor tricks,” and pull out two .357 Magnums strapped to my sides and before I could fully extend my arms to aim, Charlie and I are picked up and launched into the air blasted back up over the trees. My stomach lifts as we meteor across the horizon. I’m waving like a lunatic trying to get myself situated the other way so I can see where we’re going. Charlie is doing summersaults and screaming bloody murder. Once we reach the lake we crash down into the icy water. I pull Charlie to shore and as we lay on the bank shivering, looking up at the moon, the voice says, “Remington, you stupid sonofabitch.”