Flying in Love
Oh my God what am I even doing
/
Life, in retrospect, sucked.
It sucked dripping donkey cock, and it made you watch.
And in the everlong cosmic joke that was Jack Spicer's pitiful life, life sucked elephant balls.
Jack Spicer, former self proclaimed evil-boy-genius stood outside the door of his apartment, clutching a pink slip, and a eviction notice in his right and left hand, grimaced at the small amount of boxes that seemingly mocked him with their presence outside his former apartment. Oh, if only he had the common sense to keep his big mouth closed, circumstances like so would never occur. But damn, she had been asking for it. Hell, she was begging for it. Begging like a puppy at dinner time. See, Jack used to be the assistant director of human resources in the east end branch of the widely known corporation Megatech. It was honestly some bootleg replecia of 'Best-Buy' in a ploy from some other business tycoon to effectively rape the Bronx of its humanity. It was pathetic, but the company paid well.
Anyway, it had been your average Tuesday afternoon in the backroom of the MegaTech building. Jack nonchalantly sipped his extra-cream-extra-sugar cup of coffee while fiddling with his phone due to boredom. Co-workers shuffled in and out lazily, occasionally raiding the refrigerator for some sustenance of the moldy kind.
To his error, he was so immersed in his phone; he neglected to hear the clank of sixty-three dollar knock off Chanel pumps that were two-sizes-too-small echo throughout the narrow halls of MegaTech's hindquarters. When she walked, the earth shook, and the sound that reverberated from the depths of her scraping thighs sounded like a cross between nails on chalkboards, and Godzilla's roar. A blonde wig, styled into a messy beehive had erected itself atop her cranium.
Her name was Passion Sweet, and she was anything but.
She was 376 ¼ pounds of bitch, if that's any consolation.
Passion Sweet had a reputation of doing whatever the hell she wanted, and getting away with it because she was the regional director's daughter, and got off at being the epitome of utter misery in a twenty foot radius. On a daily basis, she would torment the customer survive hotline, via unplugging the phones whilst the workers were trying to assist technology-challenged people about their Dvd players. If she gave you coffee, she most likely spit in it, and if you packed your lunch, she would sift through it, take the most appetizing parts, and leave you the bare minimum.
And that was on a good day.
But today would be the day her fat ass would hit the wall.
She would waltz her rolls into the room, clad in a skirt that couldn't have been cheap, and her blonde wig fashioned into ringlets suitable only of a twelve year old girl. She would eye Spicer from across the room, and then, like a morbidly obese cheetah, she would make her move. Her ass would smack his coffee, and the entire thing would stain his shirt a cream brown. She didn't even say a thing; she only glanced at him with her 'whore' eyes, and used her sausage-link fingers to suppress a giggle. And in those few short seconds, something in jack snapped. Maybe it was repressed childhood rage, or just being plain sick and tired of the blonde behemoth, but nevertheless, something in Jack Spicer snapped like a rotten twig in the forest. He stood up, nose to nose with the woman, and quicker than you could say "Evil Boy Genius," he snatched the wig right from her oversized head, and threw it down the trash chute, never to be seen again. Naturally, she put up a fit, and fired his ass, only after calling him a slew of rather rude names that should never be used in polite company.
Jack just told her that she was a fat bitch, and stormed out.
And so, here he was, sitting on his weathered old couch, wondering what the hell he was going to do to get by.
Then the thought struck him.
Today was Tuesday, and by Megatech's standards; pay day. If he was lucky, he would have his paycheck in the bank, provided that Passion was too preoccupied with making everything utterly miserable to eliminate him from the payroll. And if she'd already done the latter, he could always apply for unemployment. He sank back into his couch, ignoring the clunky springs pushing at his ass. Unemployment usually was delivered a month later, because the city of New York figured you had some means of getting by until the first of the month.
He sighs once more.
It was times like this that he wished he was still back in China with his mother and father, constructing robots in the basement and trying to get his mitts on some Shen Gon Wu. But alas, those days were over. Hannibal Bean had been annihilated by Chase and the monks. The monks were no longer needed, and after Chase Young pledged his allegiance to the Xiaolin order once again, the monks said goodbye, and went on to peruse normal lives. Master Monk Guan would assume master Fung's role after his passing, teaching new monks with little aide. In lieu of these events, Jack's father would file for bankruptcy, and in a final stand, he would try to regain his wealth via underground Chinese gambling rings. He would lose everything when he bet against the girl. His mother, a pampered and stuck up woman, who honestly never loved Jack, would flee into the arms of some millionaire's son. She hasn't been seen since. That would leave Jack with a small amount of money, and plane tickets to the big apple. His parents were cruel manipulative assholes, who were more concerned with money and whores than their own child.
Classic rich people.
After hiding the small boxes that contained a scarce amount of clothes and other miscellaneous items, we find Jack shuffling down Fordham road, red eyes searching for a bodega that harbored an atm. He was in the side of town with the higher crime rate, so ATMs in this part of town were knitted enigmas straight from the yarn bundle of lies. He sighed, and sat down on a park bench, watching the florettes of cultures pass him by. He orders some shaved ice from a Hispanic woman pushing a rickety cart. The small paper cup is flimsy and thin, but that is trumped by its flavors.
As the woman begins to leave, Jack remembers his primary objective. "Uh, Perdone, ¿usted sabe dónde puedo uuh, encontrar un cajero automático?" He speaks, Spanish reeling off his tongue in discombobulated clumps.
The Hispanic woman chuckles lightly at his use of her native language, and gives him a motherly look. "I can speak English, most of us can." She wipes her hands on her blue apron. "There is one at the bank up the street." she gestures to the hill left of him. Jack thanks the woman with a hug, and a generous tip of five dollars ((the shaved ice is a dollar)) and jogged up the hill.
Eager hands pressed filthy buttons, as the albino paced in place. If this didn't work, he had three options; he could file for unemployment, and sleep in a parking garage, he could go to the homeless shelter, or he could rob people for a living. Suicide was another option, but he wasn't that unstable.
Yet.
The screen flicked to a page that read "check account", and anxious as ever, jack practically raped the 'yes' button. He grimaced as the loading screen returned, and began to wonder how much a crowbar cost. Prying open an ATM couldn't be that hard, right? But then there's the fleeing from the police part, and the NYPD were not to be dealt with lightly. He turned back to the machine.
And nearly jumped for joy.
His bank account read two-thousand dollars, which meant that the MegaTech officials hadn't snuck into his account and taken half for benefits. Oh joyous day!
He withdrew half of his money, and went into the next-door bodega for a small snack. When Jack walked in he nearly tripped over a stack of bundled newspapers. He cursed as he picked them up, despite it not being his job, and just as he was about to toss the stack into its proper cradle, something caught his red eye.
-Looking for Roommate, rent four-hundred-and-fifty a month. Three bedroom, one-and-a-half-bath. 263 Creston Avenue, apartment 29D-
Jack squealed. His luck had to be turning around. I mean, the apartment was right around the corner! Lady Luck had poked her head up from her hole of happiness, and sprinkled him with her luck dust.
Jack grinned as he tore the excerpt from the paper without the cashier seeing, and skipped right out the door.
/
263 Creston wasn't the most pleasant of the Bronx's low-rent-high-rise complexes, but the elevator and lobby didn't carry the faint aroma of urine, and the locks worked on the mailboxes, which was more than enough to sway him, after his last apartment. Hell, his last place had higher rent, and looked worse than this. The building soared twenty-nine floors high, which wasn't uncommon for this part of town; the buildings were in small clusters of four to six, with a small courtyard of dying flowers and brown grass in the center. It was one of the Bronx's projects, like Hunts Point, without the abundance of prostitutes. It wasn't meant to be some luxury apartment, just a place to live, and Jack didn't have any problems with that.
When Jack had rode to floor 29, he immediately found the apartment by its bright orange door. It was most likely a shorthand replacement formulated by neglectful superintendents, coated in gaudy orange to make it look better than it actually was. He rapped on the door a few times, the gloss of the cheap paint under his fingers crackle. Someone inside seemed to be startled, at that, as a string of curses and profanities streamed from said persons mouth in Spanish. Jack arched an eyebrow, and placed a hand on his hip. The door swung open, and Jack squealed.
Again.
Raimundo Pedrosa stood in all his Brazilian/Columbian glory, a tight fitting wife beater encasing his fitted frame, and baggy sweatpants entwining tanned hips.
Not much of him had changed, his hair was still in brunette spikes, and a slight stubble had formed at his chin and cheeks. His overall Physique hadn't been altered too much. He had retained his body from training during his teenage years, most likely from bi-weekly trips to the local gym.
Or that's at least what Jack perceived from his demeanor.
"Spicer? Is that you?" Raimundo asked dark eyes full of surprise. He leaned against the doorframe. "Shit man, I haven't seen you since the showdown over..." He places a tentative hand below his chin. "It was over the Gemini splitter. Clay wagered the mantis flip coin, and I have a memory of me wagering the share of lightning. I won, but Hannibal Bean slapped the shit outta me, and made off like a bandit." Jack mumbled a bit too keen on remembering defeats. Rain chuckled at the ginger's expense. "So why are you here exactly?" Raimundo inquired.
Jack furrowed his brow. "Well this is going to be weird, considering our history and all, but..." Jack swallows nervously. "I'm here about the ad in the paper."
That look of surprise had plastered itself back on Raimundo's face, as he came off the doorframe. He placed his hands on his sides and bore all his weight onto his left side. "Dude, you serious? Cuz I'd really appreciate that." The Brazilian male said, still awestruck with surprise.
Jack shook his head yes.
Rai gave him a ceremonial pat on the shoulder. "Then I guess I should give you the tour!"
Jack had to admit that the apartment was nice. Despite the status of the building, the a apartment had a loft-like quality to it. Long carpeted floors that were in their prime, The windows were clean, and the light cream paint looked as if it was done recently. According to Rai, this was a new floor, so it generally looked better than the rest of the building. The bedrooms had nice soft magenta carpet, and the stove and refrigerator were up to date. Raimundo's appliances seemed nice too; saying that he made a good amount of money is what the thirty-five-inch TV in the living room said.
When the tour concluded, Jack looked him in the eye, and asked him a inquiry that had been nagging him the time. "We used to be enemies, so why are you so inviting of me?" He made a face, as Rai fixed the curtains. "All that shit happened in the past bro. Let bygones be bygones ya know? Now, if you want a grudge, you can try Kimiko."
"She still pissed about the monkey staff thing?"
"Yup."
Rai handed him some paperwork, which Jack eagerly filled out, lying on the part that asked if he was currently employed or not. He handed it to Rai who looked it over, and welcomed him to his new home. Jack smiled, and patted his new friend on the back.
"Hey Rai, can you do ne a favor?" Jack asked, while Rai changed into his jeans.
"Hmm?"
"Do you know of anyone who can help me get my shit from my old place?" He looked down at his shoes, a pair of red converse that had writing and childish doodles laden all over the white rubber parts. He looked up to see Raimundo grin once more, and grab his keys. "I have a truck, so I can help move your shit. Though, if you have a lot, we'll need to make two trips."
"Rai I'm poor. all I had was my laptop, some books, a bed, and clothes."
Rai gave him a look.
"It was a really small apartment, okay."
Rai only chuckled.
Raimundo's truck was actually pretty nice, at least that's what Jack thought. It was a silver Nissan Titan. The front was rather large, despite hie small it looked on the outside, and it provided adequate leg room, so Jack couldn't complain.
"So, where are you on the whole 'world domination' thing?" Rai sled as he made a sharp right turn on to Wilbur Avenue. Jack made a face, and began to twiddle his thumbs. "Its, uuh...its on hiatus." By hiatus, he meant he was too damn poor to plan any dominating activities. Rai smirked. "For the record, we all knew you couldn't do it."
Jack made a face, clearly hurt. "Hey, just because I'm taking a break from my plans doesn't mean I can't do it!" He shouted, causing his adjacent to laugh wholeheartedly. In response, the albino just crossed his arms and rolled his eyes.
"We're here, the brown one on the left." Jack pointed to the small complex on the left, a drab and shoddy pimple on the face of New York.
"Aww shit."
"What?"
"They took the couch."
The latter, was unfortunately true. The blue futon that Jack slept on was gone with the wind, not a single trace left behind. Jack sulked as he retrieved the boxes of clothes he'd hidden earlier, Raimundo aiding him in his efforts.
"You don't mind if I crash on the couch 'till I can afford a bed, do you?" Jack inquired while he loaded the boxes into the flat of the truck with meager effort.
The Brazilian man just flashed his signature grin, and patted him on the shoulder.
"Dude, you can just sleep in the bed with me."
TBC
/
I shouldn't have done this. It's short, choppy and disgusting. I'll go back and alter it later. I promise the next chapter will be better. But whatever. Keep in mind I only update if people give me decent feedback, opinions ect. Thank you for reading.
—Ivan