Sea Animals Toast At Six Feet

Jack makes the phone call. His job is complete.

Walls begin to shake and white mist enters our room seeping in through narrow vents along the ceiling. It’s poisonous to breath. Uncontrollably we all begin to cough, wheeze, eyes roll until they are glassed over and white. Bodies fall unconsciously to the ground, thud after thud… We all die in this white room. This is what the Man has ordered. This is what the Man paid for, satisfaction in the services of Jack.

Jack returns to his 7th floor condo taking off his boots when he enters. Settling comfortably in his newly purchased plush red leather sofa he kicks both feet up and sinks into the soft spring material.

The outside perimeter of his condo consists entirely of glass. Seven stories below Jack can watch the busy streets and little dark specs that represent people moving about. Horns honk, but Jack can’t hear them. Yellow cabs flood the black paved rivers like blood cells racing through veins desperately trying to get to their destinations. Jack falls asleep in cold empty silence. It’s been a long day.

At this point ‘it’ becomes a circus routine and a massive wall over one hundred feet tall erupts into the open daylight above. It consists entirely of four-foot diameter blue balloons stacked on top each other.

She is smiling, my sister. She has taken the liquid pill too and can see the little rubber mask men now. They are running towards us across the white cracked desert. Dry bleached cactus skeletons protrude into the air like dead scarecrows. Everything is flat and endless from horizon to horizon except the wall of balloons behind us and the hollow cacti scattered throughout. The little alien rubber mask men weave between and around the thorn-less white cacti like hungry rodents. Gobbling noise emit from their featureless, mouthless faces. They want to get us. Damn these little monster men! Damn them, why won’t they leave us alone? What do they want?

My sister points to the balloons. “They are easy to jump on and ride,” she says, “But what really gets ya going is to hop inside and float away.” She makes quick movements and encapsulates herself in one. I follow her lead and jump into the next available balloon. We’re lifting into the air weightlessly.

As we ascend higher racing up the great wall of balloons I pier down between my knees. Below I can see the rubber mask men grappling each other and fighting to reach us. They are trying to climb the blue balloon wall but cannot hold onto the rubber skin. They continually fall to the dry desert floor. A puff of white dust lifts in the air and barriers them. They become small details of the past.

Once my sister and I reach the top of the cliff we begin to bounce against the ground. It doesn’t hurt much. Our heads get a little shook up, but nothing a few cold beers won’t cure.

Bouncing our way into town we find a local bar to stop at. Parking our blue balloons in the lot next to the yellow-amber lodge we pop out and enter The Bar through the dark shaft entrance.

Sifting through crowds of standing smoking strangers like snakes weaving through a field of tall grass we make out way. We find open seats where the bartender can see us. We want him to know we’re eager, impatient and thirsty as hell.
Not to forget the a throbbing headache from bouncing all the way here. These streets aren’t paved in foam and our balloons aren’t padded. There is only a thin transparent membrane between us and everything we bounce into. The recoil of the after shock jerks the neck. The only benefit I see in riding a fake plastic balloon is not having to wait for traffic, wear a seat belt, or stop for any red lights.

After five minutes of waving our paper money like monkeys we get to order. He approaches us looking aged, worn, wise and balding. He wears a thick gray mustache drooping over his top lip. The red and black hunting flannel doesn’t quite cover the entirety of his potbelly. Thin black hairs sprout from a quarter size black hole belly button. There looks to be dried brown blood on his left sleeve. Our drinks arrive in large frozen mugs. Liquid golden goodness ready to be drank and at our fingertips.

I don’t hesitate and grip the thawing mug by the cold glass handle. Foam rims my upper lip and I slam the glass back down empty, “Another Sir please, Sir.” The bartender smiles a half grin and chuckles. With my next beer he serves us white curds of cheese. I toss a hand full in my mouth. It squeaks as I chew with my molars.

“That’s probably poisonous!” shouts my sister. Everyone seems to be out to kill us today.

I turn around and spit the chewed cheese in the guy’s face next to me. He doesn’t flinch and it coats his skin like white puss. I begin laughing… Loudly. Faces around the bar turn our way and begin to stair. I laugh so hard the jute box turns itself off. The man covered in cheese curds still doesn’t move. He is frozen motionless allowing the moist drool and white globs to streak down his cheeks and drip off the tip of his nose. I keep laughing and my sister is giggling. I think we’re probably drunk by now because this is pretty damn funny. A lot funnier then it should be.

But they’ve found us again! Those damn alien rubber mask plastic monsters! We can’t get away from them! They rush the bar like a swarm of bees. The rubber of their skin is white-gray and stretched tight over what should be the flesh of their faces. I don’t know how they can see through this haze but they did it. They’ve found us. I don’t know how they keep doing it, but they do and there isn’t a safe place anywhere.

Leaping onto the smooth bar counter I start giving swift kicks to each rubber masked monster’s head. They wobble like rubber ducks up to the edge ready to be plucked. Their plastic faces sink in concave and wrinkle with a snap-crackle. Green mist seeps from the crack in their heads and they go off running like frantic spoiled children that have been unfairly punished. But these damn little bastards can jump and bounce and I keep trying to pop them in the face as they attempt to hop. Damn these little bastards. I’ll teach them! Kick-kick and another one goes off running, screaming and crying. Kick, crack and another one pops.

All the customers are frozen in their posses with blank expressions of terror and puzzlement. The bartender has pulled a bottle of Jack Daniels off the shelf and is drinking it like water. Lips around the bottle and spilling it down his dimple chin.

Across the room I hear my sister yelling. One of the little rotten rubber mask men has her by the hair and is trying to drag her out the door. I run down the bar counter and leap onto the nearest pool table. I land firmly on both feet and hook my toes under a pool stick. I flip it up and I grasp it like a spear. I aim. I aim. I’m patient. I aim and I hurl it like an over sized dart.

The narrow end pierces the white little midget monster in the ass sending him leaping into the air. He comes down breaking the stick in half and begins running in circles screaming in a high pitch frequency. My sister turns, grabs her mug, and finishes her beer.

I taught her that.

From outside a gust of wind whips open the front door. It swings wide and slams against the wall. A dartboard falls. Everyone looks. Damp darkness creeps in with the sound of approaching footsteps. It’s the walk of a cowboy, click, clomp, click, clomp, the noise of healed boots with spurs. Then, there in the empty doorway like a dusted ghosts from hell appears a man in leather chaps and a long dark gray tattered coat. He is shadow beneath a wide brim black hat. He looks up allowing the dim bar light to slowly climb and reveal the features of his face.

“The name’s Jack,” he says. His face is clean-shaven and handsome. “My friends call me Jack.” There is a faint twinkle in his left eye and he stretches a grin to one side. A black-gloved hand lifts and grips the toothpick from between his teeth. He spins it a couple times and moves it to the other side of his mouth. “My enemies call me Jack,” he goes on in a raspy voice while raising an eyebrow. “My customers call me Jack.” He takes a step inside and his face is fully exposed in the light. He tips it slightly back with wide-open eyes. “Even my prey calls me Jack.” He spits to the left and lifts both hands out wide at his sides. “If it's alright,” he half whispers, “Ya’ll can call me Jack,” his head quickly twitches to the left and he leans forward, “I’m the Mother Fuckin’ Hill Billy Rock Star,” he shouts while swinging his hips forward revealing two revolvers dangling at his waist. “And don’t cha’ll forget it.”

Jack takes another step inside and unholsters both guns. Spinning them like pinwheels he opens fire spitting bullets like a hungry woodpecker digging for a maggot in a rotten tree. Every bullet he fires lands in the head of a rubber monster mask man. They try to run but fall dead before making it a step. The bullets make a slight thud smack wet crunch on impact. Jack is a damn good shot. The black holes in their swollen gray skulls sink in and emit green steam. It swirls into the air. It smells of rotten two-week-old road kill in here. They are all dead.

“Welcome back Jack!” The bartender shouts with wide-open arms. “What can I get you to drink?”

“Whiskey Sour,” Jack’s harsh whisper of a voice echoes. “Light on the ice, light on the sour. And none of that cheap shit you sold me last time.” He holsters one of his guns and takes off his black hat. He calmly walks up to the bar stepping over horizontal bodies and takes a seat next to my sister.

He places his hat on the counter top. “How you doin’ little lady?” He asks. The revolver makes a solid clunk next to his hat. It’s real. It’s heavy. It’s metal. I’m feeling a bit nervous.

The bar patrons return to their conversations and drinks. Jack points to me. “Come here boy.” He says curling a long gloved index finger. He slams an open palm on the empty stool next to him. “Take a seat. We got some talkin’ to do.”

I hesitantly approach. My hands are shaking. There are dead little rubber mask men laying everywhere still steaming and no one seems to care. No one seems to notice. Is this all a normal occurrence around here? It’ll be the last time I come for a drink in this part of town.

I sit down.

“My boss has requested your presence, the both of you.” Jack says looking blankly towards the back rail of the bar. The bartender has delivered his Whiskey Sour and Jack spins the little glass between the thumb and fingers of his massive hands. Perspiration of the glass makes rings on the counter. He lifts it to his white-crusted lips and tips it back. The liquid brings color to his face.

“Your boss?” I manage to mutter.

“Yes, my boss!” He doesn’t bother to look in my direction or set the drink down. Instead he tips it higher and pours the rest down his throat in one large gulp. I watch his jugular widen as he allows the liquid to slide straight down the hatch. He spits the ice cubes back into the glass. “I said light on the fucking ice Frank! Now fetch me another and this time don’t put any ice in!” The glass in Jack’s right hand comes down forcefully with a loud crash on the bar top.

“Wow!” My sister shouts. “How did you do that?”

“It’s the oldest trick in the book Hun.” He nods in her direction to his left. I’m sitting on his right. A new Whiskey Sour arrives without any ice floating.

“Sorry about that Jack,” says Frank.

Jack smiles at Frank. “Don’t worry about it.” He says and turns to me. “Look here pal.” He’s calling me pal. I don’t like the sound of pal. Pal means bad things. Being a pal is like being an unwanted friend. Oh God, I don’t like the sound of pal. The smile across Jack’s jester face widens. “We can do this the hard way… “ His black eyebrows lift and wrinkle his forehead in deep waves of white skin. “Or we can do this the even harder way. Which ever you want.”

I look at my hands and grit my teeth. “The what way?”

The next thing I recognize is an oscillating fan high above me spinning around wildly. It dangles loosely from the unpainted ceiling. The floor is sticky and cold. I taste blood in my mouth. I lay there for a few moments trying to collect thoughts and figure out what’s going on. It’s quite an interesting angle to view the world from. I suggest trying it sometime. Everyone wears different shoes down here.

I rub the blur out of my eyes and see Jack kissing my sister. I pull myself up and sit back down on the stool next to him.

This time I see the fist coming and still can’t do anything about it.

The floor recognizes me. It becomes familiar, welcoming. I regain consciousness and stair at the ceiling again. A firm black hand reaches down and grips my cotton woven, green and white striped dress shirt shirt. I’m lunged forcefully to my feet.

“ Sorry about that kid,” says Jack. “It was for your own good.” He pats me hard in the center of my back and straightens my shirt. “Now if the two of you will kindly follow me.” Jack starts heading for the door. I look around the quite room. There are bodies hunched over in seats and laying on their faces. Most of them are still gripping cold drinks. Nothing is moving except dark red liquid sprawling over counter tops and dripping to the floor. The puddles continue to grow. My sister has the look of terror in her eyes. Frank the bartender is standing still in the center behind the counter drying out a mug with a white towel.

“Damnet Jack!” He shouts. “I’m seriously cutting you off if you keep killing my patrons,” he sets the glass down next to the cash register and walks closer swinging a finger out. “Can you comprehend how long it is going to take me to clean up this mess?” He waves that finger wildly around his head.

“Sorry Frank.”

“No more sorry's Jack! This is the last time!” Frank is bright red in the face and steaming. “It took me over four hours to clean up your last mess Jack! Do you know how hard it is to get rid of a body? Do you! Do you! It ain’t like a trip to the friggin’ zoo!”

“I said I’m sorry Frank.” Jack stretches his lips in a frown and swings open both hands raising his shoulders. “It won’t happen again… I… I… I promise.” He mumbles looking down at his feet.

“That’s exactly what you said the last two time Jack!” Frank’s eyes slightly bulge when he says the word Jack.

Talking between his teeth Jack mutters, “I know, I know Frank, but the Doc told me I have to relieve my aggression. Too much stress, too much stress the Doc tells me. He says it’s therapeutic. Whatever the hell that means.” Jack puts his hat on. “And Frank, this is my favorite place in the whole world. It’s the only place I feel comfortable in. It’s kind of like a second home,” he has big sad puppy dog eyes.

Frank rubs the scraggly hair on the back of his neck, “I’m flattered Jack, but you’re going to have to find a new place to go. I got plenty of other things to do with my time other then clean up after you.” Frank takes both fists and crunches his knuckles on the bar counter. All his digits pop and snap. “Now get the hell out of here and this time, don’t forget your guitar.”

“Oh yeah, that thing.” Jack says reaching over and grabbing the rose-colored acoustic guitar leaning against the garbage can. “How about a drink for the road buddy?” He leans back arching his lower lumbar in a deep curve, smiling, gripping the guitar in his left hand and slapping his right palm on the counter with a mighty smack. “How about it bud? One last lick for old time sake?”

“Alright Jack.” Frank says. “This one last time.”

Jack snaps his hand through the air and jerks his body. “You’re the best Frank. Did anyone ever tell ya that? The very best. ‘A’-Number one bud, numero uno in my book!”

“What’ll it be Jack? Watch’a drinkin’? Scotch, whiskey, rum? Whatcha want?” It’s more then apparent Frank has little patients left for Jack and all his tricks.

“Well,” Jack rubs his naked chin. “How about three shots of tequila? No lime, no lemon, no salt.”

“Sure thing Jack.”

“Oh! And don’t forget my new friends here. They’ll each take one too.” Jack turns to us. “You all need training wheels?”