Going Shogun (5 page)

I apologize, tell him I’m too drunk
to know better.

“Bullshit,” he says.  “You’re always
letting the winky think for the binky.  That’s why you go glacier whenever
Fireball’s hovering.”

“Me?  You’re the one with the
‘different day, different lay’ philosophy.”

“The bombshells don’t tweak my
synapses like they do yours.  I can eat the honey without getting stung by the
bee.”

“Should I call you ‘Yogi’ now?”

“Why not?  You’ve already ruined
this pic-a-nic.”  Referencing Forklift’s favorite ancient cartoon seems to blur
the edges of his wrath.  He takes a moment to breathe and tucks a hand in his
gi, Napoleon-style.  “All right,” he says, “sorry for going shogun on you.”

“I deserve it.”

“Nah, you’re silky.  But...how could
you pop the top on the can, man?”

“I don’t know, Forklift.  The drinks
did something.  And her earlobe was talking to me.”

“¿Que?
”

I put my hand on his shoulder, lean
over.  The music and lights and cigarette smoke have my stomach on spin cycle. 
“Let me sober up for a few minutes, and then we’ll go talk to Mr. Androgyny.”

“Fine,” he says.  “Sugar.”

Bingo comes back with a frosty
orange drink and a glass of water.  She hands it to me and I chug some, wiping
my mouth with my sleeve.  “Thanks.”

She says, “You guys have some
serious bugs in your code.  You know that, right?”

Forklift says, “Straightjacket is
the only way to go in this biosphere, Bingolicious.”

The wailing noise emanating from the
speakers eases up and the water starts to help.  I watch Bingo as something
plays out behind her eyes.  She bites her bottom lip and shifts her weight from
foot to foot.  I remember that’s her “I’m thinking about doing something I
shouldn’t” pose.  It’s strange how much I
do
remember.  She hums when
she’s nervous, and I can make out a faint tune under the Aquaship Down song
oozing through the air.  Back at Wishful Thinking, she’d hum whenever she was
in the weeds on a full section of tables, even though she’d rather give every
level higher than her a glass of gasoline instead of Cashew Lemonade.

She says, “I want to help,” and
before she even finishes the sentence, Forklift is saying no and vibrating from
tooth to boot tip.

“That’s a negative,” he says.  “This
is too Bigfoot for you to skinny dip in it.”

“I don’t want any money.”

“No issue there, babycakes.  I just
don’t want to peep you nosebleeding from a manmade hole.”

She glares at me, hand on her waist,
hip cocked.  “Chris, let me in.”

I mumble, “Okay,” through half-open
eyes and a half-open mind. 

Forklift throws his hands in the air
then pushes the glass of water up to my mouth.  Perturbed, he says, “Would you
drink more of that,
please
?  Get your head out of the tar pits.”

I drink some of the water and burp,
leaving a taste like Wishful Thinking’s Vanilla Cottage Cheese Loaf on the back
of my throat.  “I’m gonna hurl,” I say. 

Forklift rolls his eyes and like a
rabbit out of a hat, two white pills show up in his palm.

“Take these.”

“What are they?”

“Necessary.”

Bingo watches me swallow the pills
with a concerned, strained look on her face.  Eyebrows cinched, the corners of
her mouth like dual divining rods pulling toward the ground.  I wish she could
find me some more water down there, but I don’t ask, because I don’t want to
seem too weak.  Pride has Reasoning in checkmate. 

Confident I’m not going to launch
them back out, she turns to Forklift and says, “Look, Forky, I want in on this
so I can stick it to Dorna.”

“What for?”

“Because she fired me.”

“I thought you took a high dive?”

She says, “Nope,” and plays with a
zipper on her pants leg. 

I watch her, remembering the last
day she was at Wishful Thinking.  There’d been shouting in Dorna’s office,
followed by Bingo storming through the dining room, throwing a bowl of Kiwi
Hazelnut Penne Pasta through the pick-up window that landed on Fireball’s feet,
and then yelling at the patrons that they were drones humping a fat, ugly queen
before she left.

I say, “You told me that you quit
because you couldn’t take the stress.”

“Yeah, well, I lied,” she says.

“Why do you care?”

“I don’t like her.  Dorna fired me
because she found out I’d Rescinded.  She said having some pixie rebel on her
staff would botch her chances at going R9.  I don’t care that I got fired.  I
just want to slow down her Ascension plans.  Toss a little anarchy into her
secret ingredient.”

“I hate to tell you, but she made
it.  Almost has R8 now.”

Bingo huffs, looks up at the
ceiling, then back to me.  “That bitch.  I want in.  R8, R9.  It’s all the
same,” she says.  It seems forced, like she doesn’t believe it herself.

The pills, whatever they were, are
kicking in quicker than expected.  I can feel my head clearing up some, but not
in a rush, like when you open the bathroom door after a steaming hot shower.  Some
rationality remains in my thought process, so I say, “Wait...you know we’re doing
this so we can Ascend, right?  I know I was slammed, but I told you that much,
didn’t I?”

“Yeah.”

Forklift says, “Then why hoe the
garden with us?”

Speaking his language, she replies,
“Because you’ve gotta skin the cow to get the leather, true?”

“Ah,” he says.  “Blue sky.”  He pops
a couple pills of his own and chomps them like candy.  Head tilted, chew
function in overdrive, buckteeth pumping like a sewing machine, he thinks.  And
thinks.  And then he says, “Okay.  You’re greasy.”

She smiles.  “Thanks, beaver face.”

“Whatever,” he says.  “Let’s shimmy
with Boy Meets Girl over there before I waffle this.”

Bingo and I shoulder our way through
the crowd, mostly made up of kids hyped on Whiz Sticks and Pop Roxy.  Highly
addictive drugs that, when mixed together, enable you to specify an exact
feeling, like a twenty-four hour orgasm or the feel of rain pelting your skin. 
I’ve never taken them, but I’ve heard that all you have to do is imagine the
physical sensation and it happens.  The drugs are so sophisticated, you can
change up the feeling like flipping a light switch.  We bounce off a moaning
girl, and fall into another one spinning in circles.

We have to fight our way through,
but Forklift glides along, untouched, smooth as water through a trash-filled
drainage pipe.  The guy’s got some sort of invisible shield around himself,
like people should be laying palm fronds at his feet.

The three of us emerge into a
clearing.  Mr. Androgyny sees us coming, and his face gets a million-watt
sparkle.

In a voice that sounds like a
grizzly bear growl filtered through rose petals, he says, “Forklift, darling. 
I thought we’d never meet again.  I’m flattered by your presence,” as he
extends a hand.  Limp wrist, palm down.

Ever the lady.

I squirm. 

Bingo touches my elbow. 

Forklift does a short, hillbilly toe
tap dance and I think he’s going to end with a “ha cha cha,” but instead, he
takes Mr. Androgyny’s hand lightly and plants a smooch on the back of it.  He
says, “Positive gold, my lady.  Positive gold.”

Forklift is never uncomfortable. 
That’s a law of nature.  Like how gravity keeps us from flying into space or R5
soccer moms drive unnecessarily large SUVs to tote around her soccer kids that
would rather be watching the Classic Cartoon Network. 

Mr. Androgyny says, “To what do I
owe this honor, fine sir?”

“It shames me, but I fear my
intentions are only of the business nature.”

I almost laugh out loud.  It’s odd
hearing Forklift be so formal, and I wonder why he’s doing it.  I snort a
little through my nose.  Bingo pinches a love handle to keep me quiet.  She
flashes me a look that says, “I’m thinking exactly what you’re thinking but don’t
ruin this because it’s your only connection, or least the best one you can find,
and if you don’t lock it up you’ll have a really long line of dead ends to
follow before you ever come close to getting an information source as
knowledgeable as this one.”

Message received, Cap’n.  Roger. 
Over and out.

Mr. Androgyny groans, “Aww,
business?” like he was expecting diamonds for a present and got argyle socks
instead.

Forklift says, “Perhaps we could
shama lam the ding dong another time,”
wink
, “but at the moment, we’re
looking for someone.”

“Pity it’s not me,” Mr. Androgyny
says.  “I like your friend here.”  His eyes give me the ol’ one-two and I
instinctively clench my butt cheeks together.  I’m not homophobic at all, but
there’s something about a four-hundred pound, salivating transvestite that
causes the rear admiral to retreat his ships. 

I force a grin, and thankfully,
Bingo swoops in to save the day.  With a mock gasp, she hooks my arm with hers
and says, “He’s mine, Andy,” then playfully adds, “but maybe you can step in
when I get tired of him.”

I know it’s only for show, but I
like her staking a false claim.

Mr. Androgyny flutters his hair comb
eyelashes.  “Maybe next time.  So who’re you looking for?”

The music reaches a zenith, and
Forklift has to lean in to shout, “The Minotaur.”

Mr. Androgyny says, “Oh my God,”
turning
God
into two syllables, valley-girl style.  “This must be
serious.”

“Utmost.  Know where he lives?” 

“Yeah, but why do you want
him
?”

“Classified, big mama.”

Mr. Androgyny leans back against the
wall, crosses two albino light pole arms over the hills and dales of his
chest.  While he studies Forklift with a subtle smile, I look down and notice
Bingo’s arm still entwined with mine. 

Briefly, I think about Fireball and
feel a teaspoon of guilt because I want her so badly, but at the moment, this
little reconnection with Bingo is working big time.  Maybe I do let the winky
think for the binky.  But, the way my luck runs with women,
any
physical
interaction with the fairer sex has me doing the happy dance on the inside. 
For an Untouchable, Bingo sure does have a tight grip on me.

Mr. Androgyny is letting the mouse
run the treadmill.  I’ve known Forklift long enough to recognize when he’s
getting impatient, but he manages to downsize a snide comment, and instead,
says, “So how ‘bout it?”

Satisfied that he doesn’t need to
know what we’re up to, Mr. Androgyny says, “He’s got a place in Urine Town,
over the convenience store on Fourth and Birdneck.”

Shit.

Urine Town.

Bingo sucks in air through gritted
teeth.  I wince.

I should have guessed as much.  I’d
rather have my skull drilled with a baby’s knuckle than set foot in that
place.  It’s the worst section of the city, so void of anything desirable
diseases won’t even venture in.

Well, that’s not true.  It’s
infested.  A swarming beehive of everything not pure.  Drugs.  Murder. 
HIV-Type 2 spreads like Wishful Thinking’s Red Velvet Tuna Paste over whole
wheat. 

Urine Town is the devil’s perineum.

Undaunted, as usual, Forklift
delivers a shockingly simple, “Thanks,” and then rubs Mr. Androgyny’s wrecking
ball stomach.

The big cross dresser giggles. 
“Anytime, love.”

Forklift exits stage left.  Bingo
and I trail him, caught in his slipstream, leaving behind the Lost World
atmosphere and stepping outside, into another.

Chapter
4

The night air has gotten cooler. 
Bingo doesn’t have a jacket and I’m worried about her sliding into deep
freeze.  Naturally, I don’t mind when she huddles up next to me, trying to
block the wind.  I give her a look and she says, “I’ll be fine.”

Forklift agitates up to
Machine
and pops the locks on both doors.  It doesn’t have a back seat, so Bingo has to
sit on my lap.  We wedge in like a gaggle of clowns in a circus car then
prepare for takeoff.

With all systems go and the band Lord
of the Fries jamming at the loudest possible volume, Forklift wriggles his car
into the street. 

We cruise at a respectable speed,
meaning slightly over twenty miles an hour faster than the posted limit. 
Forklift doesn’t seem to be in a hurry and I don’t blame him.  We’ll be there
soon enough, and I can only let my imagination and the feel of Bingo in my lap
delay the inevitable.

There’s nothing to say about Urine
Town that hasn’t already been written.  It’s so other side of the universe, The
Board won’t even bother touching it.  They’ve let it go.  Forgotten about it,
hoping eventually it’ll rot away on its own, but that place has a half-life of
a thousand years.  The longer they leave it alone, the bigger it grows, like
mold on one of Wishful Thinking’s Cauliflower Trout Sourdough rolls.  (I’ve
seen this in Forklift’s apartment, and by the time he threw it out, he could’ve
used it as an afro wig.)