DISCLAIMER: See previous entries.
…they didn't shoot me. They pulled out a BB rifle and took three shots, but they missed. I sighed, figuring they tried and going back to talking to the thing that was about to use me as food/reproduction material/entertainment/ possibly furniture.
"…so, does your race value money?"
"…you mean the tiny pieces of metal that don't taste like pizza, and the green paper notes that are very tasty but also do not resemble pizza in texture?"
…the pizzas…that's it! Wait, I made that oath about dying before giving up my parcel…man, what was I on…hold it…
"…you say your friends ordered the pizza…"
"Correct, Lord of Pizza!"
Well, in that case I can save my life without having to commit suicide out of shame. I clear my throat, hard to do upside-down.
"…you realize that now that you are holding the pizzas, my services are not required?"
Silence from above me.
"…I mean, you can just tip me and drop me off…"
Before I could specify 'on nice, soft ground close to a place that serves cheap alcohol' she got the message a bit too early and dropped me without a word into the lake. On a reflex I yelled as I cut through the air, twisting to land feet down. By some good twist of fate, I hit the water cleanly and cut through to about twenty feet of relatively clear water.
Insert thirty seconds of swimming to the surface, wasting my air bubbles to loudly curse underwater every few seconds. I break my head into fresh air, gasp for a minute and curse some more as I take a look around. Is that…oh, that just figures…
Right in front of me was the island in the middle of the lake. With that Tower that appears on Sesame Street every 26 episodes. I glared at it, hating who ever lived in that thing. Then I saw a little orange speck in the sky float down onto the top and disappear. Holding a tiny black speck in its hand. The pizzas…
"…I knew those tip-mongers weren't human…"
I spit a stream of water out the side of my mouth and started my second glance around the lake. Looked like I needed to get over two miles of water against the tide. And I'm guessing the perky, yet psychotic orange aliens in that simply designed tower won't let me borrow their pontoon. And even if they did give me a ride, what would we talk about? I can handle being eaten, but sitting there silently as some one gives you a ride? That's just awkward
I just sighed and started swimming away from the little island toward the building-lined horizon. Maybe I'd get back before the shop closes. About a quarter mile out those kids in the speed boat sped by, saw me and curled around next to me, cutting the engine. Some one called out.
"Dude!"
I stopped swimming forward, dog paddling in one place.
"…yeah?"
They got out the loud speaker.
"You alright?"
I just stared at them, up to my shoulders in clothes that were definitely not made for swimming, my pizza bag stolen, and for the third time in my career, no tip. Wait, I'd sacrificed my tip to live another day. I'm still debating whether it was worth it. But in the mean time, I waved my arm behind me, signaling the drunken teenagers to pull up closer.
"I'm fine, back in Atlantis this is a walk in the-GET ME OUTTA' HERE!"
A few hours of me shivering in the back of a party boat later…they got lost a few times. Eventually I shoved the frat boy out from behind the wheel and did it myself.
Later on I walked into the pizzeria, soaking wet, missing my pizza bag and reeking with the stench of not getting a tip. Oh, and that green algae stuff in the lake also smells like burning rat feces.
And, my hat was gone.
...I had ten back at the parlor...but the hat...was gone...
My boss didn't look up from the dough he was rolling, he just clicked his tongue and nodded toward the back room. I squished through the gap into the counter and shoved my way through the swinging door, when the door swung back out behind me I walked in from behind it wearing an identical, but dry and fresh outfit, hopping onto the counter next to my boss. Don't ask. I can change my clothes very fast. Helps to go commando, word from the wise.
"…got dropped in the lake. No tip. Lost my bag, and I think it's the same stiffs from yesterday."
And...my...hat...
He shook his head at the dough and muttered.
"Some people…I come to this country for new life. One week's tips? They pay for my house! And I had bicycle, go few blocks over to apartments. You? You get dropped in lake, fall off cliffs, things bite you. Why they no tip? You good boy, I always like to carry my pizzas."
…every time he starts talking in Italian like that I just wanna hug him. He's like a tiny little Godfather dude, who makes pizza and does mob deals on his days off.
"People change, boss. People don't watch the Yankees and go to the pictures with their buddies. They fly around, use terrible grammar and drop people in freezing lakes because they find out you're not low-carb. And the economy sucks."
Boss sighed, stepping back and tossing the dough up to flatten it out.
"Yes it does, my son. Yes it does."
He gave me the night off because that thing stole my pizza sack. I honestly don't need one, but it's bad publicity to fight off hoards of pitbulls balancing pizzas on your head. And then people won't see the logo on my...hat, and people won't order us, we've all been there.
I catch the underground over to my apartment, an artsy high ceiling deal above a dance studio. Low rent, good neighbors, internet access and the owner of the studio gives me deals when I do favors. Did I mention it's above a dance studio? Who needs a stereo, I just open my vent ducts leading to a room playing music I like. This evening, it was tango. Also, that locked closet of mine that houses whatever I may need for work. Equipment, apparel, lots and lots of knives, and my collection of baseball caps that have nothing to do with baseball.
I sat down in front of my 'desk' (…the box my computer came in) and pulled out my cell phone, the pizzeria pays for the service, and I can't exactly afford to have a phone line installed in here. I speed dialed number 3 and wait for the ring tones to stop. Soon enough a chalky voice answers, sounds like it's full of nachos.
"Herro?" Munch.
"Chico? It's Dave. Where ya' at?"
The sound of some one swallowing.
"Still at work. Just got another box of files, it'll take all night to put them in order. So I'm waiting until my shift is over and the other guy gets here. So, how are tips, Mr. Delivery?"
I nearly crush the black and silver flip phone, but the beat of the tango music calms me down.
"…actually, somebody has been skimping."
The sound of a rolling chair and a computer firing up.
"One file search, coming up."
Enter Chico. My buddy who works down at a census academy downtown as an intern. He does files. That's about it. I didn't realize the advantages of this until that moth-guy's daughter grabbed my ass and I needed their last name to file a lawsuit.
"'Kay, we're online. Start yakkin'."
I picked up a stress ball off my desk/cardboard box and started squeezing it as I thought about what I'd seen after being grabbed from above.
"…eh…this may sound weird…"
I heard him crack his knuckles over the phone.
"This is Jump City, how weird?"
"…flying-through-thin-air weird."
He whistled and typed that in. A few seconds later he coughed loudly, making me win away from my phone before he answered.
"…346 results, seems like a popular hobby."
I blinked, letting that sink in.
"…wow, everybody gets powers but me."
He laughed before asking.
"Get specific. What was it? Male, female, other?"
Hmmm…other…nah, that's too easy of a joke target. I tossed my stress ball to my other hand and added.
"…sounded like a chick, never saw its face though."
He snorted as he began typing.
"Not gunna' ask…237 results. How about nationality?"
…oh boy…
"…is it still acceptable to say skin color? I mean, how can you call some one African American if they're from Jamaica?"
"…yeah, we still use color down here."
I nod in relief. Thank God the Feds are narrow-minded idiots.
"Orange. Her hand was, at least."
Typing sounds, man, that headset of his has a strong mike.
"7 Results, assuming the rest of her is orange. I'll print them out for you before my shift gets out, I don't think there's much else we can look into."
I sighed. No tip, I'm sitting on a tiny chair I bought from a kindergarten that closed down, my desk is a computer box left over from when I actually had a computer, the tango class is over and now I have to track down orange people because their room mate is cheap. I tried to ease my pain with humor.
"Well, she had terrible grammar…bit of a ditz, but I bet that secretary down there would sue if you used that as a census, eh?"
We both broke out laughing at the inside joke, but Chico suddenly stopped silent. I did the same, thinking his supervisor walked in.
"…I put that in as a joke, Man…got a match."
I wasn't sure whether to smile, or be very, very afraid of what the government knows about us.
"…she say any weird words? Like Tamaaran, Gonkarky, did she not use contractions?"
It all came flooding back to me. Much like that lake she dropped me into.
"…yes, yes, and yes."
Silence on the other line, until I heard him clear his throat and state.
"…dude, she's from that Tower."
I rolled my eyes.
"I know, is that like an alien embassy out there? And if it is, why don't they tip? Was there a political assassination or something that resulted from being tipped? The Grand Emperor doesn't have anything smaller than a fifty, bam?"
He didn't laugh.
"…Codename: Starfire…she's registered as a super-weapon. And for some reason we have police records of her ears being registered as lethal weapons."
My usual smirk faded. It gets worse. Worse, than lethal weapons for ears.
"Dave, I think she's a superhero. That Tower houses a younger group, they censor some files about them. I think my boss should have deleted this file, actually."
I shrugged, makes sense.
"So, they're superheroes…this is Jump City, who isn't?"
"…I got bad news, man."
…what could be worse than whatever else this day could throw at me?
"They're government funded. They have a credit account, quota for personal spending, the works. Whatever these guys can do, the Government likes it and pays extra for it."
…so that's why they didn't have to answer the door…
"I'm sorry, man. There's no way you're getting a tip out of them, half of them aren't even human. I think one is one of those vigilantes from Gotham, and another…"
I let the phone slip from my hand, letting it clatter onto the dusty wood floor. He kept calling through the speaker.
"Dave? Dude? You hear me?"
I didn't. I was staring right at the broken mirror that was built into the wall behind my desk. Staring back at me was the greatest pizza boy who ever rang a door bell. And by God Himself, the greatest always gets his tip…my cell phone kept going, he hadn't hung up.
"Dude, listen to this."
A very obvious fart noise came from the phone on the floor, right as I was staring symbolically into the mirror.
"…way to break a moment, Chico…"
And he farted again. Once upon a time, this would be funny. It may sill be, but he ruined my vow of…hehe, he did it again…who am I kidding, farts are still funny. Oh yeah, yadda yadda yadda, I want my tip. Unless you want to hear an orchestra of flatulence, I suggest you stop reading.
...But by all that is sacred, I want that hat back...
Author's Note
I have removed the second and third chapters in order to start over. I have recieved the first honest, helpful review for one of my stories on this site. It really made me look at the monitor and realize I need less subtle humor, and more Chicago-style action. Thank you, honest reviewer. When pizza boys take over the goverment, your life assignment won't involve lonely farm animals.