Checkout Chick

Gary’s only purpose in life was to guard the east gate at Sydney International Airport. He had no wife, no kids, and no social life. He lived alone in a dingy one-bedroom unit at the end of the main runway and he’d lost all pigmentation in his skin because of nearly three years of nightshift work; he nearly glowed in the dark, his skin was that pale. The few friends he had never saw him due to his irregular nightshift schedule and he was staring down a tunnel without a metaphorical light shining at the end of it. He stared at his watch in the dim glow of the flickering lamp post.

‘And… there it is,’ he said as he watched the minute hand tick over to midnight. ‘Another Saturday night lost.’ He kicked at the empty Red Bull can he’d dropped on the ground moments earlier, emptied of its sleep-depriving glory. It was a tradition he’d maintained for a full year: drinking five cans of Red Bull before midnight every Saturday night, then kicking the empty cans down the stormwater drain by one o’clock the next morning. It wasn’t brain surgery, but it kept him occupied during his twelve-hour-long ‘how not to fall asleep while no one breaks in’ exercise.

By one o’clock the Red Bull cans had all skittered down the drain, making way for the next activity – throwing rocks at circling moths – which ran until 2 o’clock. Gary used this time to pretend he was a fighter pilot. He swooped around the lamp post and guard booth, arms spread wide, mouth making engine noises, before lining up for a strafing run. The area around his tiny booth was covered in fine white gravel, the sort one might put in a kitty litter tray, so he had ample ammunition to conduct his dogfight with. Despite all probability, the strafing game lasted until just before the sun came up which meant that Gary had to pretend to be alert as the first of the dayshift workers turned up to start their working day. He lifted the boom gate as they drove in, gave them a wan smile and a wave… and cursed their names under his breath as his fatigue-fogged brain started to shut down. When eight o’clock rolled around he swapped out with the dayshift guard, Steven, and made his way home via the supermarket.

Gary parked his car in the near-empty supermarket car park and winced as he got out of the car. His diet of crap food and energy drinks was catching up with him, especially in the stomach department, and the extra weight was taking its toll on his knees and back. By the time he reached the store’s automatic doors he’d walked off his limp and was moving more comfortably – perhaps spurred on by loosened joints, perhaps by the thought of his delicious impending purchases. He picked up a basket and strolled down the aisles, stocking up on the essentials: Red Bull, instant noodles, biscuits and finger buns. He tried starting a conversation with a pretty woman in a business suit, but she just scowled at him and walked away. Heart firmly in his stomach, he walked glumly towards the checkout, thinking of how he was going to fall into his small cold bed, alone.

When he got to the checkout he started unloading his basket onto the counter. He glanced over at the customer ahead of him and his heart skipped a beat – it was the most beautiful person he’d ever seen. She was just shy of five feet tall, had luxuriant brown hair and a big smile – everything Gary could possibly hope for in a woman. He looked at her basket of groceries. ‘That’s a lot of fruit you have there. Making a fruit salad?’

The woman just stared at him.

‘Shit shit shit,’ Gary thought. ‘That was such a stupid line. I screwed it up.’

The object of Gary’s affection looked at his basket of groceries and sneered.

‘Yeah, my diet ain’t too healthy, but what can you do?’ said Gary, shrugging his shoulders.

As if in answer, the woman started thumping the counter with her hand. The cashier didn’t even look surprised – she just treated the situation as if was a daily occurrence.

Gary was surprised at his new-found friend’s behaviour, but wasn’t as taken aback as many people would be – he’d worked nightshift for three years, and had been awake for a good twenty four hours, maybe this is how people interacted with one another now? He turned away momentarily to empty the rest of his basket, and when he turned around again the women was standing with a palm-full of money held out in front of her. The cashier very delicately took the exact amount of money from the proffered hand and put it in the cash register, almost as if she was handling a bomb. Gary’s mouth was agape. ‘Where on earth did you keep that money? You’re not wearing any pants!’

The brunette grinned widely, revealing a mouth full of pearly white teeth. Gary felt light-headed and a bit wobbly – he’d always been a ‘teeth man’; it was as if this woman was reacting to his every lustful thought. As Gary paid for his groceries he summoned up every shred of courage he possessed and said, ‘My name’s Gary. What’s your name?’

The woman said nothing, but Gary noticed a bracelet on her left wrist which read ‘Jesse’.

‘Ah. Jesse. Nice name. Do you want to go out for coffee or something? If you’re not busy, that is.’

Jesse wildly flailed her arms and walked around in circles. She didn’t say anything, but, as Gary had read in a magazine, in these situations body language was everything. Gary took his shopping in one hand, and his new friend’s hand in the other. She did the same, and they walked out the door and down the street to a coffee shop.

Jesse got comfortable on a stool as Gary ordered a triple espresso for himself and a mango smoothie for her.

Gary sat down and tried his hand at small talk as they waited for their drinks.

‘So, Jesse, what do you do when you’re not eating healthily?’

Jesse just stared around the café and not-so-subtly scratched herself.

‘Relaxing, hey? Yeah, I’m the same. I work the night shift at the airport, so I’m used to spending time on my own. I’m not lonely per se; although I can usually find something to amuse myself with when I’m on my own.’

Jesse looked away, as if in disgust.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Gary laughed, ‘that came out all wrong. What I meant was I like reading or taking long walks. I’m happy with my own thoughts.’

Jesse upend the sugar bowl all over the table and chuckled.

‘Not a fan of sugar? I have to admit, it’s my one vice, except for the shelves and shelves of pornography I have at home. Do you collect Hustler? I collect Hustler, it’s a great magazine.’

Jesse got down off of her seat and started dragging the chair to another table.

Gary flinched. ‘Did I say something wrong? Oh I’m so sorry; I’ve forgotten what it’s like to talk to non-security guards. We’re always joking about stuff like that. I didn’t mean to offend you.’

Jesse took a bowl of sugar from another table, dragged the chair back to the table she shared with Gary and proceeded to pour the contents of the sugar bowl all over the seat. She started cackling wildly.

Gary relaxed. ‘Here I am stumbling over my own words and worrying while you’re just being all carefree and aloof. I envy you in some ways, Jesse.’ Jesse smiled and clapped her hands as the waitress arrived at the table. She gave Gary and Jesse a funny look and walked away quickly when Jesse started rubbing her leg.

‘If I did something like that I’d get in trouble,’ said Gary, ‘but I guess that’s one of the perks of being a vibrant young woman – you can get away with stuff like that.’

He sipped his espresso as Jesse gulped down her smoothie.

‘You don’t talk much, do you?’

Jesse continued to guzzle the pulped mango.

‘I don’t mind, it’s nice to just talk freely with someone. I don’t get much of a chance to do it at work.’ Jesse finished her smoothie and looked impatient. ‘Do you want to go? That’s fine, just let me finish my coffee,’ said Gary. He downed the remainder like an alcoholic doing shots at a bar, and rose from his seat. He picked up Jesse’s shopping along with his own and they set off down the footpath through the park. The sun was shiny and the birds were singing as the new couple ambled happily between the trees. Gary couldn’t help but notice Jesse’s unusual gait. ‘Do you ride horses by chance? I noticed that you walk a little bow-legged.’ Jesse let go of his hand and half-ran to the top of a small rise a few metres away. Gary walked quickly to catch her up. ‘I’m sorry, have I said the wrong thing again?’ He really didn’t want to blow his chances – it was the first sort-of date he’d had in years and he was going to do everything he could to hold onto Jesse for that bit longer. Out of the corner of his eye Gary noticed three men in khaki uniforms walking quickly towards him, and he glanced at Jesse. Her pupils were dilated and she was looking agitated. ‘What’s wrong? Do you know those men?’

Jesse tugged at Gary’s trouser leg and pointed at the approaching trio.

‘I don’t understand. What’s going on, Jesse? Are you in some sort of trouble with the law?’

Jesse let go of the trouser leg and reached her right hand around behind her back.

There was a damp sound and a brief pause before Jesse hurled the contents of her cupped hand at the uniformed men. ‘Don’t let him do that again!’ yelled out of the men as Jesse scarpered up a tree.

‘He?’ said Gary as he looked up at Jesse. ‘Oh… I see it now. You’re not a lady-monkey at all!’

He paused. ‘I mean “Ape”. Not a lady-ape at all.’

As he watched the men negotiate with Jesse from beneath a large umbrella, Gary some math in his head. ‘Yeah,’ he thought. ‘Definitely the best girl I’ve ever been with. Even if she WAS male.’

In a Single Bound

Andy danced the ball across the court, bouncing through player after player. He faked his way around the last player and had nearly connected with the ball when he felt a stabbing pain across the back of both knees. He went down heavily, clutching his legs, not caring where he fell. The referee’s whistle blew and the offending player was sent off as Andy’s team mates gathered around.

‘You alright, mate?’

Andy twisted his face in pain. ‘How much blood is there?’

‘Blood? What? There is none.’

Andy winced as he moved his legs slightly. ‘It feels like it’s gushing out – are you sure there’s none?’

‘You’re a bloody wuss, mate. Open your eyes and look for yourself.’

Andy cracked one eye open and looked at the back of his legs. They’d turned a strange pinkish colour and a purple bruise had already started welling up behind his knees. After being abused by his team mates for another minute he slowly got to his feet and hobbled off to the bench. A couple of minutes later he felt better than ever, which was strange considering the colour of his legs, but he tested them, gave them a bit of a stretch, then subbed back onto the court for the rest of the game. Sure, it strengthened his friends’ belief that he had been overreacting but he’d never felt so alive! Andy scored three more goals before the game’s end and didn’t feel a shred of pain; somewhat of a concern for his girlfriend on the sideline since the area behind his knees had turned a greenish shade of black.

‘You should probably get those looked at, Andy,’ his girlfriend, Sophie, said.

‘Screw that, I’m fine. It’s just a bruise. I feel great.’
‘You’re probably in shock.’

Andy’s friends mocked Sophie behind her back, screwing up their faces and making talking motions with their hands. He ignored both them and Sophie, picked up his bag and walked to the car. He felt light, and walking seemed effortless. He felt... better, somehow.

Andy bounded out of bed the next morning as soon as the alarm sounded, energy coursing through his body. He’d never felt so good in his life. As he pulled on his jeans he noticed himself in the mirror and examined the previous night’s injury. The area behind his knees had regressed to a deep purple colour, but the black-green tinge had almost completely disappeared except for a few tendrils which extended up and down both legs. ‘Shock, my arse,’ he muttered as he pulled on his socks. ‘Something’s different’. He jogged downstairs, effortlessly jumping the last five steps, landing with the grace of a cat. Sophie called out from the kitchen, ‘Are you alright?’ but it fell on deaf ears as Andy was already out the door and running down the street, enjoying every second of what he considered to be his ‘new legs’. He was racing a taxi when he heard a cry for help from somewhere to his left. He changed course and spotted a baby in a shopping trolley careening down a hill towards a river, its desperate mother frantically chasing after it. Andy accelerated his enhanced legs and dashed past the distraught mother, making it to the trolley just before it plunged into the frigid water. The baby started crying as the tearful mother arrived. ‘Thank you so much for saving my baby!’

‘It was no problem at all, I’m happy I could help,’ said Andy with a grin.

‘You... you ran so fast. I’ve never seen anyone do that before. Call me crazy, but it’s as if you’re some kind of superhero.’ The woman laughed off the comment, but something in it resonated in Andy’s head.

Yeah, he thought, I AM like a superhero. I can run faster than a car, I can rescue the helpless! Getting kicked at soccer was just like Spiderman getting bitten by that radioactive spider! I’m a real-life Peter Parker!

As the woman consoled the crying toddler Andy straightened his posture and adjusted his shirt, his future clearly laid out before him.

‘I will use my powers for good, not evil,’ he pledged to himself under his breath. ‘I will save people in distress and aid the less fortunate. I won’t fight crime though, because that sounds quite dangerous.’ When the woman turned around to thank Andy again, he was already a speck in the distance – a running, jumping, slightly cowardly speck.

A duck quacking excitedly gave Andy sufficient reason to cease long-jumping alongside the river. Quacking could hardly be considered unusual behaviour for a duck, but it was the pitch of the quack that piqued the newly-branded hero’s interest. Oh wow, he thought. I can understand ducks! He crouched down next to the duck, which had started flapping its wings, violently fanning dust and blades of grass into Andy’s face. ‘What’s up, fella?’ he asked.

‘Quack,’ said the duck.

‘Oh, I’m sorry. “What’s up, ma’am?”’

‘Quack quack quack.’

Andy stared across the river as the duck explored the ground for worms. On the far side of the river was a solitary duck with a group of ducklings, all madly quacking at one another. ‘Oh! You’ve been separated from your family! Let me help!’ The duck struggled furiously and quacked rapidly as Andy picked it up. ‘It’s ok, it’s ok, I’m trying to help,’ said Andy.

He took a few steps back before running forward and leaping over the river, the duck quacking madly as it soared through the air. Upon landing, the duck pecked at Andy’s hands until he dropped it. Content in the knowledge that he’d saved another living creature, Andy leapt back across the river and went on his way, alert for the distress of his fellow citizens and their pets.

Sophie was watching television when Andy got home.

‘I have had the most amazing day, Sophe!’

‘How are your legs?’ she asked as she muted the television.

Andy hopped from foot to foot. ‘They’re amazing, they’re incredible, they’re better than ever! You would never believe what I am capable of now! I can run faster than a Maserati, I can leap over rivers, I can save ducks. Ducks, Sophe. Ducks!’

Sophie frowned and looked Andy up and down. ‘Are you feeling alright?’

Andy kept bouncing. ‘I feel better than alright, I feel amazing!’

‘And your legs aren’t sore from last night? You took a pretty big hit.’

‘I can’t feel a thing! Isn’t that weird? You’d think I would be in agony, but I’m not.’

Sophie got out of her chair and walked slowly over to her excited boyfriend. ‘Can I have a look at your legs? I want to see if the bruising has gone down.’

Andy stopped bouncing and undid his belt. ‘Sure. I want to see it for myself!’

Sophie pulled his pants down, took one look at his legs and threw up all over the carpet.

‘Jesus, Sophie! What the hell? What could possibly…’ Andy looked down. ‘Oh that’s just…’ he managed before throwing up on the coffee table. Both of his legs had swollen to twice their normal size and were a strange black colour – the veins radiating out from the dark masses were just thin dark green lines. Sophie wiped her mouth on her sleeve. ‘How could you not know your legs were like that? I’m surprised you can even walk!’ She poked his enlarged calf muscle. ‘Can you feel that?’

Andy shook his head. ‘How about that?’ she asked, poking his knee.

‘I can’t feel a damn thing.’ Andy’s face was pale now, his mouth flecked with bits of his lunch.

‘And you weren’t worried that you couldn’t feel your legs?’

Andy stayed silent.

‘I’m calling an ambulance.’

‘But I could talk to ducks…’

The ambulance took Sophie and Andy to the hospital where he was rushed into a surgeon’s office. The surgeon had been grumpy and wanted to go home, but the second Andy stepped into his office his mind was immediately clear and ready to tackle the challenge.

‘Hello…’ the doctor checked his chart, ‘…Andy. My name is Dr Sturgeon. Yes, I am aware that that makes me ‘Sturgeon the Surgeon’, but we have more important issues to deal with than my name.’

‘My legs don’t hurt, doctor,’ said Andy meekly.

Sturgeon frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

Sophie led Andy over to the examination table. ‘You’d better take a look for yourself.’

Andy pulled down his pants, and it was all the doctor could do to not throw up like Andy and Sophie.

‘What the hell happened to you?’ said Sturgeon, completely forgetting all pretense of professionalism. ‘Your legs look like eggplant! Disgusting, disgusting eggplant.’

Andy just closed his eyes, trying to shut it all out.

‘He took a hit across the back of his legs at soccer last night, but woke up feeling fine this morning. In fact he says he spent the whole day running around,’ said Sophie.

‘I’m amazed he can walk!’ said Sturgeon. ‘Just like a massive, hideous eggplant. Incredible.’

‘I was so fast today,’ said Andy. ‘I was running and jumping faster and higher than I’d ever done before. I could talk to ducks.’

Sturgeon glanced at Sophie who just shrugged her shoulders. ‘He seems to think that the kick he took to the legs at soccer gave him superpowers.’

The nauseated doctor laughed and prodded Andy’s legs. ‘Superpowers? Like Spiderman? Ridiculous!’

‘I… yeah,’ said Andy.

‘You think you’re some real-life Peter Parker just because you got kicked in the legs and lost all feeling? If the world worked like that Christopher Reeve would have actually been Superman. His injuries just riddled him with “superpowers”.’

Sophie, already tired of the doctor’s manner crossed her arms and said, ‘Look, we’re scared ok? He can’t feel his legs and they’ve turned black. These little rivers of black are running up and down his legs, and that can’t be healthy!’

Sturgeon lifted Andy’s shirt and saw that the black tendrils had worked their way up towards his chest. ‘I’ll do some tests.’

Sturgeon the Surgeon returned an hour later with a sour look on his face and a serious clipboard in his hands. He took a deep breath. ‘Andy, I have the results here, and they’re not good for you. For me they’re excellent; a patient like you only comes along every so often. I’m going to write a paper about this and become famous.’

Andy cringed and Sophie started grinding her teeth, but the irreverent doctor continued.

‘It seems that kick you took to your knees catalysed a reaction in the stem cells which reside here,’ he said as he effortlessly and accidentally poked a pen through the back of Andy’s festering knee. ‘Oops. Anyway, the reaction meant that the stem cells metabolised at a vastly accelerated rate, building and repairing muscles like nobody’s business, which would explain your new turn of speed and ability to, what was it? Ah right, to “leap rivers in a single bound”.’

Andy propped himself up on his elbows. ‘What about being able to talk ducks?’

‘No one can talk to ducks. Going from these results I’m guessing that the infection which is now crippling your system caused a hallucination. Trust me, I’m a doctor.’

Andy sank back on the bed and Sophie’s eyes welled with tears. ‘What do you mean “crippling”?’

‘Exactly what it sounds like. It seems that septicaemia set in rather rapidly and that the stem cell reaction also increased the rate at which gangrene developed.’

‘So I’m going to lose my legs?’

‘Oh heavens no!’ exclaimed Sturgeon. ‘What ever gave you that idea?’

Andy breathed a sigh of relief.

‘You’re going to lose your life, probably within the next two weeks. This is a terminal case and a rather aggressive one at that.’

Sophie burst into tears and Andy went pale. ‘This is the worst superpower in the history of anything,’ he whispered.

‘Would you PLEASE stop using that term?’ said Sturgeon. ‘Every time someone suffers intense nerve damage they think they’re Superman. Which is sort of funny considering that Superman actually DID end up suffering intense nerve damage.’

He paused.

‘ Huh. Fancy that.’

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Singing Dixie

Jeremy Starfish was jonesing for Dixie Drumstick biscuits harder than ever before. A bad case of the shakes made it difficult to open his cupboards, and his cold sweats demanded that he hug himself for warmth every few seconds. It was the most sick he’d ever felt in his life – it was way worse than the time he’d eaten rancid salsa. Just thinking about the salsa incident made his stomach convulse for the fifth time that evening and what was left of his stomach’s contents went splashing across the floor in a flurry of orange and red speckles.

‘Th-this is it, J-j-jeremy,’ he stammered as he hugged himself in the corner, ‘You’re gonna be a statistic, just like the r-r-rest of them.’

He stomach heaved again and more orange chunks spilled onto the floor. His vision wavered as he stared at the sticky mess, trying to make sense of it all, trying to piece together the broken puzzle his life had become. He giggled as he mentally joined the dots of vomit together. ‘Looks just like my aunty,’ he muttered as he sucked in another breath. ‘I’ll just lie down f-f-for a minute, get m-m-my strength b-b-back.’ He pressed his face against the cool lino floor and felt marginally better, if only briefly. As he started losing consciousness he spotted a tantalising shape under the fridge; for the first time in his life being face-down on a kitchen floor might serve a purpose. He hauled his twitching, sweating body through the mess of saliva, vomit and stomach lining which bathed the kitchen floor, and hoped that under the refrigerator lay his salvation. He stretched out a trembling hand and snatched the rusty orange shape from the dusty clutches of the fridge’s condensation tray. He let out a whoop of triumph – the Dixie Drumstick biscuit was his! Jeremy didn’t bother dusting off the lint or layer of scum that coated the biscuit – he just threw it into his mouth and munched frantically, savouring every last greasy crumb. His appetite satiated, he lay on the floor and felt the warmth return to his limbs. It had been too close this time, much too close for comfort, and as far as he could guess it was only going to get worse.

The moment Kraft discontinued the Dixie Drumstick biscuit was the day part of Jeremy died. He went to every supermarket in town and bought every box of the precious biscuits he could find, partly because they were delicious, but mostly because he was properly addicted to them and got the shakes when he went too long without them. It was like a heroin addiction but about a thousand times more pathetic, and a thousand times more fattening. Heroin addicts look like skeletons after long-term use and struggle to put weight on, whereas Dixie Drumstick addicts like Jeremy (who am I kidding, he’s the only one) gained weight at an almost impossible rate. What’s more, the constant consumption of a high fat, high salt, and artificially-coloured diet left his skin yellow, pimply and waxy. He looked like the very thing he consumed, but much fatter, and nowhere near as tasty. Jeremy took to writing letters to Kraft begging them to put his favourite meal back on supermarket shelves. His pleas fell on deaf ears and his stockpile slowly shrank.

Jeremy was in a filthy state a mere two weeks into the discontinuation. He didn’t go outside, he didn’t shower, he barely drank enough water, and his bowels had slowly ground to a halt. Things were bad enough in that department before the tragic (his words, not mine) turn of events, but at least his daily walk to the supermarket had ‘mixed things around a bit’. The only physical activity Jeremy participated in daily could hardly be considered ‘strenuous’, unless ‘taking biscuits out of a box and arranging them in neat little rows’ classifies as ‘exercise’. The biscuits were not going to audit themselves, and his carefully-formulated rationing system depended on an accurate headcount if it was to work at all. Jeremy had worked out that if he consumed one biscuit a day, then he’d be able to hold out for nearly two years, as long as he maintained a balanced diet and only ate a biscuit to stave off withdrawal symptoms. That plan had gone out the window by day two as he’d neglected to buy any groceries other than biscuits, and he was too afraid to leave the house lest someone break into his house and burgle his towering collection of Dixie Drumstick boxes. Left with nothing to eat but his precious treasure trove, Jeremy gorged himself on his high salt, high fat, low, low, low, low, LOW fibre diet. The crazy thing about this biscuit addiction, as if an addiction to biscuits wasn’t crazy enough, is that the more Jeremy consumed, the faster the withdrawal symptoms would set in, so within a couple of hours of finishing a box he would require another just to stay lucid. He would set an alarm to wake himself every two hours, just in case.

With nothing left in the kitchen cupboard but empty boxes, Jeremy started to worry. He knew that he couldn’t get to the supermarket on his own – a lack of water had taken care of that – and he knew that even if he called someone they wouldn’t be able to help on account of Jeremy buying every last remaining box of Dixie Drumsticks in town. At the two hour mark he started to sweat. At the three hour mark he started to shake. By the fourth hour he’d passed out on the floor but was woken by the chattering of his own teeth a few minutes later, shortly before his sojourn through the pond of orange-flecked chunder.

Jeremy assessed his situation once his withdrawal symptoms were somewhat taken care of. He was a grotesquely fat man sitting on a kitchen floor, completely surrounded by (and covered in) vomit, and was fifteen minutes away from another attack of withdrawals which would surely prove fatal. He contemplated the series of events which had got him to this point and, as he wiped some of the saliva from his wobbling, yellow chins he admitted to himself that he was an addict. A strange, obese, yellow, pimply pathetic addict, but an addict nonetheless.

‘Jeremy,’ he said to himself, ‘You need help or you’re going to die.’ He struggled to his feet and, rather shakily, stumbled to the phone which sat on the bench top. Just as he was dialling the number for the ambulance he caught a familiar twinkle out of the corner of his eye. It was coming from his bedroom across the hall and, as he turned to get a better look at it, he yelped with joy.

‘Oh my word! I can’t believe I had forgotten about you!’ He clapped his pudgy hands together and bounced from foot to foot, all his worries forgotten. The first rule of overcoming addiction is admitting that you have a problem. The second rule of overcoming addiction is closing the door of a wardrobe packed full of unopened Dixie Drumstick boxes.

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When the world gives you lemons

It’s hard to be inconspicuous when you’re dressed in a rainbow poncho and matching sombrero, especially in a busy airport. Santo fidgeted as he walked past travellers decked out in business suits and holiday clothes, their judgemental gazes seemingly burning holes in him. He adjusted his large backpack and kept moving through the crowd, head down, gaze averted, short legs pumping away at the tiled floor. It was always like this when he travelled – the stares, the pointing fingers, the rude comments – but he was getting used to it, at least to a degree. It wasn’t as if he really had a choice though. For years he had been representing Mexico at the different Pokemon championships around the world, and the body which organised the events insisted that every entrant wear his or her nation’s traditional costume wherever they went. They said it was to foster a ‘greater understanding of diverse cultural backgrounds’, but Santo suspected that they were just arseholes having a good laugh at his expense. A small boy called out as Santo trudged through the terminal. ‘Look, Grandpa! It’s Speedy Gonzales!’
Santo flipped out. He could deal with snide comments and staring businessmen, but he couldn’t deal with slurs from children, which is why he turned towards the kid and kicked him in the face, sending him sprawling across the floor. As the grandfather reached out to grab his grandson Santo disappeared into the crowd, insofar as a rainbow-poncho-wearing Mexican can ‘disappear’ in a crowd of Japanese businessmen. There were no heavy footfalls behind him, nor was there any shouting from security guards, so he kept moving at a constant pace towards the security checkpoint.

Pokemon Master! Who would’ve thought such a thing even existed? As far as most of the world was concerned, Pokemon just existed on television or in computer games designed for children with ADD. Santo and his competitors knew differently, they knew that Pokemon had a purpose in the world, which is why he was walking through Tokyo International Airport with a backpack crammed full of the little bastards. Santo maintained a love/hate relationship with his Pokemon charges – on the one hand he loved travelling the world and participating in the championships, on the other hand he hated being abused for his pastime and his nationality. As in the past, Japan was the worst place to visit – once people stopped laughing at the idea of a world Pokemon Championship, they laughed at the idea of a Mexican Pokemon Master. Santo was a nerd at heart, despite his violent temper, and he knew that he couldn’t fight a whole country, so every time he visited Japan he kept his head down and took the insults on the chin, except the ones aimed at him by six-year-olds. He hated kids. As he passed a bank of money exchange booths he glanced up to get his bearings, and froze solid. The security checkpoint was ahead, and he started to sweat. It was the hardest part of any trip for him because he was completely at the mercy of the guards on duty. If they insulted him, he had to ignore it, if a six-year-old insulted him he had to control the urge to punch the kid in the neck, if a bag search was required he had to open it and stand there, completely humiliated. Santo ducked into a bathroom on his left, washed his face and straightened his ridiculous poncho. ‘Respectability,’ he said to himself. ‘Others will not respect you if you do not respect yourself.’ He didn’t believe it one bit, and but adjusted his sombrero anyway. He straightened his pack as he left the bathroom and walked with purpose towards the checkpoint where a line of people waited to be processed. He started to sweat again, but hoped that he could explain it away by saying he’d just washed his face – security guards LOVE bullying sweaty passengers. To an airport guard ‘sweaty passenger’ means ‘terrorist’, and ‘sweaty Mexican passenger’ means ‘terrorist drug dealer’, so Santa couldn’t afford to take any chances. He put his bag down on the conveyor belt and walked through the metal detector. The guard took one look at him and pulled him aside. ‘English?’ he asked.
‘Si. I mean, “yes”.’
‘Good. Is there something wrong, sir? Your face is red and you’re sweating. Is anything the bother?’
Santo relaxed – he could do this.
‘No, thank you. I’m fine. I just washed my face in the bathroom.’
The guard looked stared at Santo for a few seconds and said, ‘There was a problem with your backpack. Come this way please.’
Santo’s heart skipped a beat – he wasn’t worried in the way a bearded Muslim would be worried in this situation, he was worried in the way a nerd gets worried when a pretty girl finds his collection of action figures. The guard, carrying Santo’s backpack, led the way to a room with no windows, motioned Santo inside, and shut the door.
‘Would you please open your backpack, sir?’
‘I don’t understand. What’s going on?’
‘Open your pack.’
Santo sighed and his shoulders sagged. Here we go, he thought.
He unzipped his bag and flopped the top open, whereupon the guard burst out laughing. ‘What are these, sir? Your bag is full of dolls!’
‘They’re my Pokemon.’
‘You mean like the children’s toy?’
‘Yes. I’m here for the World Pokemon Championships. I’m representing Mexico.’
The guard was crying with laughter, tears streaming down his face. ‘That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard! A Mexican po…po… Pokemon master! Hahahaha.’
Santo stood stock-still, his eyes downcast. ‘What’s wrong with that?’
The guard kept on laughing. ‘Wait… wait here. Ah. Haha. Let me show my colleague.’
The guard opened the door and called out to someone. A few seconds later another guard entered the room, and after a brief exchange in rapid Japanese burst out laughing. He had to hold the table to stop himself from falling over. ‘Ridiculous!’ he managed, before doubling up with laughter again.
‘Can I go now?’ asked Santo.
‘Why? Are you… are you SLEEPY?’ the guard burst out laughing again.
It took all of Santo’s willpower to control the urge to scream at the guard. He instead opted for a ‘That’s not very nice,’ before zipping up his backpack. ‘Just because I’m Mexican doesn’t mean I can’t be a Pokemon Master!’
The guards were lying on the floor in hysterical fits of laughter when Santo walked out. Tears were blooming in his eyes as he exited the terminal; how dare they! He hailed the first cab he saw and climbed into the back seat and gave the driver the address of a warehouse on the outskirts of Tokyo. The driver, thankfully, didn’t bother him as they drove through the congested traffic, so Santo sat in quiet contemplation.

An hour later they arrived at a dilapidated warehouse which a surprising number of cars had parked outside. Santo paid the driver and entered the building through a side door, making sure no one saw him. Inside were lines and lines of trestle tables, behind which a number of men stood, each dressed in their national costumes. There was a German in lederhosen, a Russian in a tall fluffy hat, an Englishman in a top hat and tails, and many other people from many other countries. Santo walked up to the Japanese table and, without a word, opened his pack and lined up his Pokemon in front of him. The ‘Samurai’ curtly nodded. They stared at each other like seasoned combatants for a moment, stiffly shook hands, then burst out laughing.
‘Your costume looks ridiculous! It’s even better than last time! Rainbow? Really? Unbelievable!’
‘Yours isn’t much better. Who ever heard of a Samurai who stands five feet tall?’
The Samurai chuckled. ‘We all have our little fantasies. Did you have any trouble at the airport?’
Santo smiled. ‘Some, but the guards were too busy laughing at my poncho and my Pokemon to do a proper search.’
‘Good, good. It sounds like it went just as planned. Do you have our product?’
‘I do.’
Santo reached down and picked up a yellow Pokemon that he didn’t know the name of; what did he care what the stupid thing was called? It was just a doll. He tipped it over and stuck his hand up the bottom of it, rummaging around before pulling out a neatly-bundled package of white powder which he handed to the Samurai.
‘Outstanding. You really have a knack for this business, Santo. We’ll transfer the money into your account immediately.’
Santo lifted the brim of his hat slightly and smiled. ‘Thank you, you are most kind.’
As they rummaged around inside the rest of the dolls the small Japanese man turned to Santo and said, ‘I was disappointed to lose the last shipment, but I’m glad you adapted after such a negative development.’
Santo just shrugged. ‘It’s like they say back in Mexico: “When life gives you lemons, sell the lemons, buy some cocaine, and smuggle it to Japan inside the anus of a small animal.’ He paused. ‘Or something like that anyway.’

Topics needed for this week's story

Last week's story worked quite well, so I'd like to make it a regular thing. If you have ideas for me to write a story about, put them in the comments section of this post.

Same as last week, any topic goes, 5 topics per person so there's some variety of input, and we'll see how it goes. I'll choose which one to write about on Wednesday night.

Get suggesting!