Time for a brief biography of Jack, just so you understand where this is coming from.
Jack is your average teenager. He doesn't have a job, he's lazy, he eats Oreos with chopsticks, and he picks fights with people ten times bigger than him. His parents used to give him a... quite generous allowance until they discovered that their son is a crackwhore and was using the money to fuel his porn and caffeine addiction, so he was SHUT DOWN. So, what's a moron to do? Well, he can't get a normal job at McDonald's, heavens no. He has to do a bunch of odd jobs, apparently because the 'variety' is 'fun'. On the bright side, he always has several stories about how he screwed up to keep his friends amused (or bemused, take your pick). So this story is (very) loosely based on Jack's own, uh, experiences.
It's actually kind of addicting talking like Jack, too. You know, repeating yourself constantly and having the mood swings of a PMSing girl. Plus arguing with your conscience is fun, fun, fun.
~~~
Another morning, another mad-dash across the castle yard after some dog who hasn't yet learned its place in the world.
"Give me back my scarf you sonuvabitch!"
To which he quite boldly retorts, "Ruff!"
I'm too old for this. I should've left my dog-chasing days back in my twenties.
I stop running for a second, leaning against a tree to catch my breath. The dog slows to a trot before completely stopping and turning around.
"You know what?" I pant. "Keep the damn scarf. See how much I care, you worthless mongrel." I dead-eye him. "Aren't you going to keep running? Because I've barely broken a sweat yet, dog. And I've still got plenty of sanity left! You might as well trash that too! So keep running!" The dog stares at me in befuddlement. Perfect. Now the dog thinks I'm crazy. Just perfect. "I hope you're happy knowing you're ruining my life."
I know, I'm turning the old 'ruining my life' phrase meant for parents on a dog, but they say animals are sensitive to emotion. And the emotion I want to convey to this dog is that I'm broken man without my scarf.
Hm? He's not seeming to take the hint. In fact, he's not even moving.
I put my hands on my knees, bending over. "Now be a good doggy and come here."
He obviously doesn't understand plain English, because he just stands there.
"That's all right. I've got all day, mutt."
No, actually, I don't. Since, now that the castle is spotless (and it's all thanks to me) and I don't have anymore jobs coming from there, I made a deal with Budehuc's jeweler. Long story short, all I have to do is put together a few beaded necklaces with some kit he gave me, and then sell them back to the store when they're completed. They're paying me to slap some beads on a string.
So basically, this dog is three seconds away from meeting the business end of my boot unless he hurries the hell up.
...
...It's freezing out here...
Taking tiny baby-steps, I move closer to the indecent, scruffy animal with steady hands. No sudden movements, Nash, just...
"GRRR!"
OH MY GOD!
IT BIT ME!
That's it. I don't care who says I'm overreacting. Dog--it's what's for dinner.
"You are dead! Dead!"
And before I can clench my hands around the dog's flea-ridden neck, he's already sprinted off across an open-field. I tear after him, barely missing a tree that I'm about to run into.
I feel my foot snag on a rock, and with perfectly horrible reflexes, I simply fall. I don't even yelp. I just fall. I'm too tired for all of this. Let him have the damn scarf.
Two or three minutes pass (I wouldn't know, since I still can't afford to buy back my watch), and I just lie there on the ground, contemplating the greater meaning of my life. When I was born, was I meant to spend my mornings chasing dogs who make off with my scarves? Does God have bigger things in store for me? Such as next time, will the dog make off with my pants instead?
And just as all this abstract, outside-of-the-box thinking was making me feel very philosophical, I feel a nudging against my arm.
"If that's you, mutt," I muffle into the ground, "you have a thirty-second heads-up."
It doesn't stop; if anything, it just gets harder.
"For Christ's sake, would you--" I shift my head over, glaring at the dog. Or, as I discover, not a dog, but some sort of bird.
At first, my heart stops. It's Dominguez! Of course! But... why does he have white feathers? And since when did he cluck like a chicken?
Oh joy. It's some other birdbrain here to ruin my day. And this one doesn't even come with money.
Truth be told, I prefer birds to most other animals (such as dogs, canines, and puppies), so I stroke this one's feathers a few times and instantly feel a little better. Yeah. Birds are--what do they call them--therapeutic. Just let go and release all your stress...everything's okay while you're tranquilizing via chicken.
Who the hell am I kidding? Molesting a chicken isn't going to fix a damn thing.
"Yuh huh huh huh."
Hm. Where have I heard that before?
"Time to meet your end..."
Maybe... it's just my conscience trying to scare me.
"...I've got you cornered, and nobody's here but you and me."
"Stay back!" I pull myself onto my knees, grabbing the bird. "Don't come any closer--I've got a chicken!"
Yeah, yeah, real terrifying, killer.
Shut up.
No, really. I think a grasshopper just went into cardiac arrest.
Drowning you out.
You can't, I'm your--
La-la-la-la, I can't hear you.
I look around anxiously. Maybe it was just my imagination. The creepy laughter seems to have died, at the very least, so there's nothing to fear.
Yep. Nothing to--
"Yuh huh huh."
I pound a palm against my forehead. I amaze myself sometimes with my inability to notice the obvious. You see, common sense in the poetic form goes something like this: roses are red, violets are blue, Landis has a creepy laugh when he's about to kill you.
"Landis, is that you?" I ask, cursing myself when my voice cracks tensely mid-sentence.
And just when I'm about to call myself stupid for asking a question I'd rather not hear an honest answer to, he appears out of nowhere, looming over me with perverse eyes.
I'm too old to be jailbait, aren't I?
"Yuh. I'm here to collect."
"Collect what?" Don't tell me. Please, don't tell me. I've already got a good idea.
He grins, hearing the nerves in my voice. "Huh huh... Are you afraid of dying?" God, he's scary.
"I'm not afraid. I just don't want to be there when it happens."
"Yuh yuh yuh. Then hand it over to your friend the Grim Reaper."
Hand what over? Hand what over? Oh God, this is horrible. He wants me to hand it over. But what exactly would it be?
...My life?
No. Don't be stupid.
If you can help it.
Shut up already. I'm having a bad morning as it is--a dog ran off with my scarf, I assaulted a chicken, the Grim Reaper is about to kill me--and I haven't even gotten my coffee yet.
Oh, you poor dear.
Sarcasm?
AW, NO WAY.
I don't need this.
"I'll level with you, Landis," I start, looking him in the eye. "I'm still using this body here. In fact, I find it downright useful. So maybe we could... negotiate."
Oh right. I don't have any money. But maybe I could use counterfeit money or something. Landis is a freak and cut off from society, right? He doesn't have any use for money. It's a perfect plan.
"Yuh huh huh....No negotiations," he refuses, raising his scythe as I wince. I'm worried about how everyone's going to take the news that I died. Women across the nation will most likely be heartbroken when they realize their only chance at true happiness is gone. Just the thought of it depresses me. "...Hand over the chicken."
I cover my eyes with my free hands, just wanting to get it over with, when I hear words. I look at him through my fingers. "The chicken."
"Yuh."
"You want me to hand over the chicken."
"Yuh."
"Because it's the chicken you want."
"Y--"
"And not me." I grin. He wants to kill the chicken. The pickings around the castle must be getting real slim.
I'm just about to hand the chicken over when it looks at me. I mean, it really looks at me. With these big, round, innocent eyes that say, 'I'm a defenseless little creature, protect me Nash.' I feel a pang of guilt. Most chickens die a quick death and end up on someone's table, but just thinking about what Landis will do to it...
Ugh. Now I feel woozy.
"I can't," I hear myself mutter, unable to unlock my eyes with the bird. This is pathetic.
Landis jerks, taken aback. "Huh...You can't...," he repeats.
"That's right."
"Yuh...Why?"
"Because we bonded. Do you really want to break up a relationship between man and chicken?"
"Mm, chicken..."
"I'll take that as a no."
"Mm, man..."
I back away slowly. "So, I'll just be seeing you later, Landis."
"Mmmmmmmm. Yuh yuh."
"Right."
~~~
Stupid chicken.
Why do I have to have a good conscience? Most people would've just handed the goddamned thing over. But no, not me. I just had to be SuperNash, rescuer of chickens everywhere.
Well, on the plus side, it's just past noon and I've already done my good deed for the day. And maybe I get extra points for putting my own neck on the line.
It's almost time for me to get to work. I'm sitting crossed legged on the floor, making sure I've got all the essentials. Let's see--I've got my coffee, I've got the kit, I've got the chicken...
What should I name her? God, I'm bad with names.
I take a surreptitious sip of my coffee. Ahhh, caffeine: nurturing mother, secret lover.
"If you're going to live with me, then stop staring," I tell her as she clucks. Well, duh, how did I not see the obvious choice before? "Clucky. That's what I'm calling you."
She looks at me curiously. Why is it that animals always have a way of making me feel stupid?
Because you ar--
I'm not listening.
"Come here, Clucky," I call, patting the floor. "Come 'ere."
"Bawk?"
"Come here, damn it."
Oh forget it. I have work to do.
Lets see... the directions say to cut the string twelve inches long, put on beads and sequins, glue on the clasp, and dry. And I can approximately make six an hour, meaning by four I should be done with the lot of them.
Simple enough. Scissors, string, beads, glue. Scissors, string, beads, glue...
~~~
Oh God. Oh God. What stupid bastard is responsible for these directions? Twelve inches isn't enough to fit all the beads, the clasps keep on falling off, and the glue is all over my hands, along with sequins (or whatever the correct term is for those holographic sons of bitches).
So far, I've made two--one is a complete monstrosity that looks like it was made by a blind lobotomy patient. The other looks like the one in the picture, sort of, except completely horrible. In about five seconds, I'm going to throw the whole thing out the window. Literally.
I take the two of them in my hands, glowering. I'd rather spontaneously combust than make another one of these. I daresay I'd rather kiss Borus.
Well, no. But in any case, I hate these stupid necklaces. Who's bright idea was it to let some amateurish sap like me put these together? And whoever it was, why didn't they stop me? All this thinking is only making me angrier. Imagine all the time I've wasted.
Wait. How much time have I wasted?
I look at my wrist, only to find it watchless, and then spring to my feet. Clucky stares at me and does nothing (some friend she is) as I storm out of my room towards the clock in the hallway.
It's five-thirty.
Three hours of my life. Gone. Gone forever.
I can never get them back. Worse, I can't even make money off of it.
With strained muscles and shaky fingers, I stretch the necklaces between my two hands, trying angrily to rip them apart. But of course, I can't! This is incredible. You'd think somebody would give me a break but NO, everyone wants old Nash to loose his cool and go berserker so everyone can have a gooooooood long laugh at his expense and discuss his frail, broken spirit over cocktails that a person on a spy's salary could never afford. Why the hell was I talking in third person, you ask? I DON'T KNOW.
I throw them on the ground, stomping them with my foot like I'm trying to put out a fire. Then, with the greatest enormity, I shout, "I don't need this! I'm going back to MY room. I AM going back to my room! And do you know what I'll be doing back in MY room? I vote for no, you don't, so I'll tell you! I'll be BEING in my room. That's all. I certainly won't be making any more of YOU worthless bastards, now will I?"
I inhale, my eye twitching as I scowl at them. Then I turn on my heel to leave them there. To let them think about what they've done.
"I don't suppose you meant that to be ironic."
My hair stands on end as I hear the voice from behind me. I look around gradually, an awkward smile on my face. "`Evening, Chris. What a nice surprise."
She looks nice today, even better than usual; just sort of dressed down. She could almost pass for a... well, for a normal person. A normal person with superior genetics. She's beautiful in her armor, but it can be damaging to one's masculinity on occasion to see a girl better suited for battle than yourself.
She looks at me as though I have six heads. "What was that all about?"
"I had a fight with the necklace."
She shrugs in amusement. Great, she thinks my sanity (or lack thereof) is entertaining. "Should I bother asking who won?"
"It was a draw."
"I can only imagine." She looks at my hand. "Why are your fingers covered in red glitter?"
I'm about to come up with a decent lie when I realize there are none. What am I going to say? 'Gee, Chris, some kids were chasing me around with tar and feathers, but as a twist decided sequins would be more efficient'? That doesn't even make any sense. I could say I was making a card for my wife to send home, but I think that sounds too fake . What kind of a husband makes their wife a card? Women want diamonds and silk and things my missus can buy on her own damn paycheck.
"I was making necklaces," I explain all-too-vaguely. Maybe she'll loose interest. Maybe she'll--
Ask another question... "You never struck me as a man who was interested in jewelry."
"My missus sells jewelry." That's not a total lie. With all the rings and bracelets she owns, we could, in theory, open up a shop. "I thought I'd make a few necklaces and send them to her as a birthday gift, but as you can see..." I shove my hands out in front of me with a tongue-in-cheek smile.
Her gaze goes from the necklaces to me curiously as a wave of sympathy swipes over her face. She appears as though she's about to leave in a second, but finally I give her my best Nash-needs-your-help face, and she falls for it. Sucker. "If you'd like, I might be able to help. Is it difficult?"
"No, my hands are covered in glitter because it's sunshine and kittens."
"I'm reminding you, I don't have to help, Nash. I'm doing it as a favor."
"That's mighty generous of you."
"I suppose. Your wife sounds like a woman who needs help." She pops a hand over her mouth. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that."
I laugh, shaking my head. "It's all right. She does need help. After all, she married me."
"How does she stand you? You're terrible!"
"But I'm worth it, aren't I?"
"I'm beginning to regret agreeing to this."
Wait till your 'jeweler' wife finds out you've gone to all this trouble.
I couldn't tell Chris the truth. She'll think I'm broke.
You are broke.
Well... yes. I'm just trying to smooth the edges. 'Cause there's no need for Chris to worry about me for nothing, right?
She has better things to do than worry about you.
Such as?
Anything.
I saw that one coming from a mile away. I'm ashamed to be in affiliation with you.
~~~
Wow. She's good. She's really good.
Get your mind out of the gutter. The only thing I'm holding is a perfect necklace, put together by yours truly.
Well, that's not entirely correct. Chris helped me. But only a little.
I'm still sort of in awe. Chris never really seemed like the type to be good at arts and crafts. She seems more likely to rearrange your face than furniture, but I honestly couldn't care less. She's already made about ten, and it has only been an hour. So, by the directions standards, she's above and beyond the normal necklace-constructer. As if she already didn't have it good enough.
"What's that sound?"
I glance over at my closet. Clucky was, how you say, royally pissed about being shoved into a closet. I only did it for her own good; Chris wouldn't understand our relationship at this point and time.
"It's nothing."
"No, it sounds like--"
"It sounds like nothing."
"Would you let me finish?"
I fall back, sprawling out on the floor. "Are we done yet?"
Four words I thought I'd never ask Chris Lightfellow. It's a funny old world.
"We? You haven't lifted a finger."
I raise my hand, wriggling my index finger.
"Was that supposed to be funny?"
"Yeah, that was what I was aiming for." I can hear Nei, Toppo and Shabon in the tavern downstairs, playing music for all the people while they eat and/or get wasted. "Let's take a break. You're working yourself too hard."
She puffs air through her lips, and her fingers stop moving as she clips the clasp on the necklace together. Her eyes fly up to mine for a second before flitting away. "It's only stringing beads, Nash."
"Easier said than done."
Sure, it's only arts and crafts, but I think they should list this as a cardio-vascular activity. Never has my heart beat faster than when I'm screaming at those useless directions.
"The band downstairs sounds great," I begin, sitting up and studying her profile.
"They do."
"Too bad we're not down there."
"Yes, it's quite a shame."
"No, it would be a shame to waste it."
She drops the necklace, looking daggers at me. "What does that mean?"
"Do you want to dance?"
She appears to be knocked for six, so to speak. "With you?"
"No, Chris, with the statue in the corner."
Chris's face conjures into a frown for a second before she finally notices I was being sarcastic. "Why would I dance with you?"
"Why not?"
"Because you have a wife, whom I've been making necklaces for for the last hour."
"Who says she has to know?"
"Nash!"
"Chris, I'm asking you to dance. It's not as though I'm asking you to share your bed with me, or even kiss me."
She closes her eyes, her silver eyebrows creased. I probably shouldn't have said as much as I did.
I snigger, my hand encircling her wrist. "I've always had a way with words, haven't I? I'll be good, I promise. Besides, you girls can't have us married men so easily." I try to read the expression on her face, but all I can say is that she looks really uncomfortable. "I'm forbidden fruit."
Her eyes snap open. "For you even to suggest that I'm interested in you is ridiculous."
"Then why are you here?"
"Because... you needed my help."
"I think it's because you like me."
She pulls her hand away and rubs it as though she wants to wash it with hot water. "...If I say I'll dance, will you drop it?"
My grin broadens. "You have my word."
Because we all know how much that counts for.
Give it a rest. Moron.
~~~
It isn't long before Chris grows frustrated. "This is silly."
"For the thousandth time, I'm leading." It's hard to be serious when Chris is so genuinely irritated by the fact that she doesn't know how to dance. That's what happens when you over-achieve all the time. "Don't you know this dance?"
"Honestly? No."
"Well, what ones do you know?"
"Few." She pauses, slightly flushing. "If any."
"If any?" I repeat. "What do they teach you girls in finishing school nowadays?"
"I never really completed finishing school," she says in a small voice.
"Finishing school dropout. I see." I keep my face very solemn as though I'm disappointed, and Chris looks down. "I'm just kidding! It's nice to know I've ridden side-saddle more than you have."
"Why don't I keep normal people in my company?"
"Because you love me."
"You said you'd stop that."
"You're not denying it."
"I didn't get a chance to deny it!"
"Another denial."
"This is going nowhere!" She drops my hand.
"I was promised a dance, if you recall."
"I thought we settled this! I don't know how to."
"Well, for starters--" I take her hands and place them on my shoulders, then place my own near the small of her back before she can protest. I think I speak for the greater percent of the male population when I say: score! "And now, just follow me."
We just stand there a few seconds, taking small steps but mostly swaying as we stare at each other. Her eyes are wide with shock--I guess she's bowled over by my flair for slow dancing.
She draws back her hand from my shoulder, inhaling deeply. "The music stopped."
It's true, there's no sound in the air but our breathing. "...Yep. It stopped."
"Well, I better--" she cuts herself off as everything around us seems to go black. Her inhalation stops as we move closer and closer together, both of us not sure what to expect. She's obviously too curious to extract herself from the situation, and I'm not about to do it for her.
Nash, I hate to be a hassle--
Then don't.
What about your wife?
I knew you were going to pull the guilt trip at the last second. Listen, I've already danced with her, so who's to say kissing is worse than dancing? And should we continue it late into the night, then so be it.
Just think of your missus... at home right now, knitting by the window, wondering where her darling Nash is.
Haha, knitting. That's funny. And besides, she's always saying I'll never amount to anything. I'll show her I can mount things.
...Okay, yeah, that was pretty funny.
See? We're both having a good time.
Just explain one thing to me--why did you even get married?
It wasn't one of my better thought out plans, true. Even so, I love her on occasion.
If you love her, then stop what you're doing.
Come on, Conscience. It's Chris Lightfellow. Chris Lightfellow.
Chris Lightfellow? You mean silver hair, body-that-doesn't-quit Chris Lightfellow?
I mean I-can-make-the-Iceman-cometh Chris Lightfellow.
Well why didn't you say so!? Take no prisoners, Latkje!
Amen!
Make me proud!
And just as I'm about to...
...I realize I can't do it. I just simply can't, no matter how beautiful Chris is or how attracted to her I am. I think of my wife back home, and then I see Chris and how trusting and naive her face is. I can't simply force myself upon her. Even if kissing Chris is okay for me, she has her own morals that I need to respect.
What the hell are you doing?
I can't do it.
WHY THE HELL NOT!?
Because... it's complicated. I never gave this enough thought. There's no point in leading Chris on--I'm married. It'll never happen.
...So?
So? God, who's the conscience here?
I am, and I'm saying it's okay! Go for it tiger!
Sigh. I can't believe I'm about to do what I'm about to do.
Last second, I intentionally miss Chris's lips and instead head for her ear. "Thanks for all your help, Chris," I whisper.
I feel her posture straighten as she remembers herself. "W-what?"
"It was kind of you. Really." I try to keep the normal air to my voice, but it's lost. I can't believe I'm doing this. "And you're a great dancer, just to let you know."
"Oh." Her own voice sounds as though there's cotton in her throat. "Thank you, but there's no need for flattery." We separate, and she looks up at me warily. Her eyes aren't trusting anymore; they've returned to their same old aloof state. "I better go before they start wondering where I am. I hope your wife enjoys the necklaces."
God, this is terrible.
As I watch her go out the door, all I want to do is jump out the damned window. Why didn't I just do it? Kissing her really would pale in comparison to all the flirting I've been doing anyhow.
I open the closet door, gathering Clucky in my hands and glaring at the wall as I sit back down on my bed. Focus on the positive: money.
How much have I made?
Total earned over the past two days:
About 400 potch.
Expenses:
Two broken necklaces: 30 potch
Rent: 150 potch
Replacement mop: 50 potch
Replacement bucket: 25 potch
Replacement pair of pants: 50 potch
Coffee:
OH GOD FORGET IT.
~~~
~~~