Live Hard

“Sir,” the maitre’d spat sharply, “while I did say the McClane reservation was ready to be seated, it was Michael McClain, the CEO of McClain Industries, to whom I referred.” He tapped the fountain pen in his hand on the wooden sign affixed to the wall. “Furthermore, I’m afraid I must tell you that if you do indeed have a reservation at Morton’s for two at 6 o’clock, we are actually Morton’s In The Park.” He pulled out a gold pocket watch and displayed it to the customer, “and it is now 7 o’clock.” The maitre’d slightly lifted his chin so he could look down on both the man and his young female companion. “Mr. McClane, you are, quite simply, the wrong man at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

McClane fixed his gaze directly at the snooty, beanpole in the tuxedo standing before him, then calmly pulled a battered pack of cigarettes from inside his torn and filthy jacket. He shook one out, put it to his lips and worked his way slowly toward a table, lifting the aluminum walker in his hands with each step.

“Madam, I really must insist that you take your gentleman and leave immediately,” the maitre’d said. He rested his hand on the telephone. “Or I will be forced to call the police and have you both removed.”

Though the woman’s face flushed crimson, her eyes blazed with fierceness. “Sorry,” she said curtly, “my dad is a bit stubborn. Stopping terrorist attacks in L.A, New York, Washington D.C,” she lifted a hand and stuck two fingers in the man’s face, “TWICE and Moscow makes it hard for him to put up with small stuff like a glorified waiter on a power trip.”

McClane set the walker down next to a befuddled couple, reached over a plate of lobster thermadore and removed the candle burning in the centerpiece. His hand shook noticeably as he lifted it to his cigarette. When melted wax dripped into the couple’s wine glasses, the husband stood up and grabbed the candle, “What the hell, old man,” he yelled. “Who do you think you are?”

“Just a fly in the ointment,” McClane said puffing smoke. “The monkey in the wrench. The pain in the ass.” He shuffled his way back, the entire dining room watching him with smirking grins as the tennis ball feet of the walker dropped free. The woman rolled her eyes and marched over, sweeping up the discarded yellow balls and grabbing McClane by the arm.

“Come on, dad,” the woman said.

“Hold on, Luce,” he said. McClane pulled his arm free of her and looked to the maitre’d. “What did you say? That bit about being in the wrong place?”

“Madam, I am going to call the police right now.”

“Just humor him, please,” Lucy said.

The maitre’d sighed grandly. “I said, SIR, that your reservation is at our other location.”

“No,” McClane yelled. “Say exactly what you said before.”

“Wrong place, wrong time,” Lucy pleaded.

“You are…” the maitre’d paused, thinking, ” the… wrong guy at the wrong place at the wrong time?”

McClane shuffled right up to him, the bare metal bottoms of the walker’s legs thumping on the wood floor. When they were face to face, McClane blew smoke in the maitre’d s face. “Story of my life,” McClane growled, then headed toward the bathroom.

“The front door’s this way dad,” Lucy said, pointing in the opposite direction.

“No shit?” McClane said. He looked at the maitre’d. “Well, yippy kai yay, motherfucker! Come on, Lucy. Let’s pull a Nakitomi and blow up out of here.”

He shuffled around pushed the walker toward the door. Lucy took his arm and smiled. “I was in elementary school then, dumbass.”

Cold Rage

“I HAVE HAD ENOUGH!” Frozone yelled. “You are going to put an end to this right here and right now.”

The lawyer caught a glimpse of his closest seated employees hurrying away from their desks. Then frost coated the glass walls of his office, and they were just dark shapes that quickly disappeared. Waves of chilled air floated off the enraged super. Ice formed on the Persian rug he’d bought in Marakesh and the leather chairs he’d gotten from London were entombed in a thick covering of snow. The lawyer made a mental note to send the receipts to accounting so they could properly bill the government.

“Mr. Zone, please sit down,” the lawyer said. He stepped around his desk and swept the two chairs free of their snowy covering, noting that the cushions were already cracking. He sat down, gesturing to the other chair, genially.

“It’s FROZONE!” the Super bellowed. “Not MISTER ZONE. And I don’t want your platitudes or your phony smiles. I want this situation shut down. NOW!”

“You signed a contact,” the lawyer said. He dropped all pretense of good nature. If the Super wanted to play tough, then so be it. “My client has both your signature on a binding legal agreement and a literal brigade of legal representation willing to make your life very unpleasant should you fight them on this.”

“I signed up for a movie about my life,” Frozone asserted. “And I didn’t sign with them. I signed with the guys that did Bob’s movie. That was classy. This is just a marketing scheme to sell dolls to little girls.”

“And those little girls are going to see the movie in droves,” the lawyer said. “They’re going to bring their parents and their siblings and their best friends.” He pointed at the papers on his desk, a black, mouse-eared logo prominent. “The fact of the matter is that the company that made your friend’s movie – the one you signed with – is now owned by them. They made the movie you contractually agreed to. And they made it into something that’s going to earn billions.”

“THEY TURNED MY BROTHER AND ME INTO PRINCESSES!” Frozone screamed.

“They made some artistic choices for the betterment of the story in whole. Siblings. Ice powers. Those are both still there. The director just chose to change gender.”

The lawyer recognized the multiple shadows growing from behind the iced-over glass as security preparing to break in. He exhaled with relief. “Frankly Mr. Frozone, if you wanted script approval, you should have had it written into the contract. But since you did not, I suggest you follow the advice from your movie and let it go.”

“Oh you did NOT just tell me to let it go,” Frozone growled as ice shards formed around his clenched fists.

Go Ducks!!!

The Green is everywhere here in Portland, Oregon. And I’m not talking about grassy green or plant life green.

The University of Oregon Ducks play in the NCAA Division 1 College Football National Championship tonight. Duck Nation is out and about. UO flags are flapping from cars and coworkers are adorned in their Duck jerseys and Facebook is alight with posts from Dallas where the lucky moneyed who were able to secure tickets are sending status updates of the crazy pre-game shenanigans.

But that’s also not the type of green I’m talking about.

While I respect the football fans who are treating today like toddlers that have just learned about Christmas, I really could care less. Except for a 10 year run playing fantasy football (more for the ability to put together a team of names in order to maximize stats and crush work friends than any love for the game), I’ve never had any interest in sports teams. The concept of living and dying by your team allegiance always struck me as a little bit much. I could get it if you were from the city, maybe, or if you’d attended the school. But the utter devotion I keep seeing from people whose ties to their team are so tenuous… Come on, people! Get a life!

Which is where the green to which I’m referring – Envious green -comes in.

You see, spending an entire day at a football game dressed in your team’s jersey with your face painted in the team colors is perfectly acceptable. Spending an entire day at a convention center dressed up in a green Legend of Zelda tunic with the triangular Tri-Force symbol painted on your cheeks… That’s weird. Granted, comic book and video game fans are more mainstream now than they ever were, but say you’d rather watch the new episode of Gotham rather than the Duck game and you’re looked at as a total idiot.

As I told a co-worker when I came in today, my national championship is when a new actor takes over on Doctor Who… My Super Bowl will be the midnight premiere of Star Wars Episode VII.

And when I come in the office on both those days, will it be okay for me to wear a Tardis T-Shirt or a lightsaber hanging from my belt? Maybe… But guaranteed, people will be thinking I’m a weirdo.

So… Go Ducks! I hope they win the big game. And when I ask to leave an hour early to get in line for Avengers: Age of Ultron, please remember that you guys did the same thing.

A Philosophical Question…

So I was driving back home from a bagel run on a two-lane road this morning when I got stuck behind three slow-moving cars. The front car had his right turn signal on and was moving slowly because an older gentleman was in the crosswalk right where he wanted to go. Since I was in a hurry to snack on my cheddar cheese and Jalepeno bagel (toasted with cream cheese), I grumbled at the “slow idiots” ahead of me – dropping a few f-bombs and questioning the marriage status of their mothers.

Suddenly, a fourth car appears from behind me, zipping past all of us in the center turning lane, oblivious to the double yellow lines bracketing it. He was, at most, twenty feet ahead when the first and second cars made their turns, clearing the way for the car ahead of me to drive on down the road.

Now to my question… Do I praise or condemn this move?

Crossing the double yellow lines makes it an illegal action. If any of us made a move to the left, we would have been hit. And this was the very definition of cutting in front of a line and who doesn’t hate line cutters.

BUT… a case could conceivably be made that since there was no oncoming traffic and, at 8:45 on a Sunday Morning, the odds of any other cars appearing was low, the dangerousness of the move was minimal. Likewise, just about every person ever stuck behind a slow car has had the idea of throwing caution to the wind and just cutting in front of them.

Of course, there could have been other factors. The driver might have had an emergency. But then again, he might have just been that self-involved that he didn’t care that others were waiting patiently. Then there’s our notions of conformity to consider. Our culture praises rebels – they laud people who buck the system: Robin Hood, Billy The Kid, Bonnie & Clyde. But at the same time, we’re taught that if we just work hard and follow the rules, we can be a Super Bowl champion, win the World Series or achieve the American Dream of a house, a car and 2.5 children.

So even though all I intended to do was get some breakfast, I inadvertently stumbled upon a critique of my value system – What is more important, following convention or breaking it? Upholding the law or being a maverick?

Obviously, this isn’t a question easily answered. It’s one requiring reflection and introspection. But I did decide one thing… since the car ahead of me insisted on driving 20 MPH in a 35 MPH zone and the car that blew past both of us was a white Mercedes, they were BOTH douchbags.

Pyramid After Dark

A warning light flashed. Outside the control booth window, two people sat inside a large circular railing. The woman had her back to a large colored wall. On it were three rows of triangle-shaped signs arranged to form its own pyramid – three triangles in the bottom row, two in the middle and one on the top. The man sat across from her, facing them both. A blond, big-grinning man in a smarmy suit hung back from them at a podium. He kept glancing toward the rows of bleachers being the cameras, smiling suggestively at a red-headed woman in a cleavage heavy peasant blouse in the fourth row.

“Camera two ready. Back from commercial,” the director spoke into the microphone, “in three… Two…”

He pointed to the announcer. “Welcome back to Pyramid After Dark,” the announcer crooned in a deep, alarmingly upbeat tone. “And heeere’s our host… David Davidsuuun!”

On the monitor, David smiled brilliantly at the camera. “And now, today’s winner, Jessica, gets to climb into the winners circle and complete the Pyramid After Dark climb.” His grin suddenly became stern. “Remember, no help from the audience.” He turned to the contestants. “Jessica, you have ninety seconds to guess the categories on the big pyramid.” He nodded to the guy. “You’ve chosen Josh here to help you. Josh, this is Pyramid After Dark so the categories will be as inappropriate as we can get away with. If you laugh, you lose the category. Also,” he raised one eyebrow pointedly at the audience, “expect surprises that are going to tickle your funny bone.”

The audience cheered and clapped. David soaked it all in then waved his hands to settle the crowd. “Put ninety seconds on the clock,” he called out. The director pushed a button and a big clock lit up behind the cameras on stage. A mini digital countdown also appeared on the lower right corner of the screen. David placed a hand on Jessica’s shoulder. “Here’s your first subject… And Go!”

The director touched a button. The bottom left triangle turned.

“Yoplait for women,” Josh said. “Fiber… Mexican food from a dirty food truck…”

“Things that make you poop,” Jessica called out.

The director pressed a button. A loud “ding” confirmed the answer as correct and the middle triangle flipped around.

Josh read the category and stifled a laugh. “A blond wig, a foam finger and whips.”

“Weird S & M toys?” Jessica said doubtfully.

Josh shook his head. “A blond wig, a foam finger, whips, handcuffs.” He paused then added, “a wrecking ball.”

“Miley Cyrus’s S & M gear?” Jessica asked.

The director’s finger hovered over the button.

“A blond wig,” Josh implored. “A whip… A Disney channel schedule.

Jessica smiled. “Hannah Montana’s S & M gear.”

The director pressed the button. As the bell sounded and the third triangle flipped, he pressed an additional button. “Send them out,” he ordered into the microphone.

Two midgets walked onto the stage. On was dressed as a little boy in a 1920’s bathing suit. The other crawled on this hands and knees while dressed as a shaggy dog. They stopped right between the category board and the players circle. The dog-costumed midget sniffed the air, then raised its leg pretending to pee.

“Donald Trump,” Josh said, his voice cracking as he watched the midgets move around. “Donald Trump and a bottle of vinegar water. Mark Cuban and a bottle of vinegar water.”

“Millionaires? Billionaires?” Jessica asked.

The dog sniffed at the boy. It pretended to hump the boy’s leg. “Bottle of vinegar water and a vagina,” Josh’s body tensed from fighting laughter. “Bottle of vinegar water, a vagina and Donald Trump. Bottle of vinegar water, a vagina and Mark Cuban. A bottle of vinegar water, a vagina and Gweneth Paltrow.”

“Millionaire douche bags? Famous douche bags?”

“Count it,” the announcer whispered to the director.

The director nodded, hitting the button then ordering the crew to send the next team in.

The bell rang. The fourth triangle flipped. “I… am… a… physicist…” Josh said in a robotic monotone as the midgets walked off the stage. “I… was… crying… when… I… met… you… now… I’m… trying… to…. forget… you…”

Jessica closed her eyes and rocked back and forth holding in her laughter. “Stephen Hawking singing,” she gasped as a man dressed in a brown leather jacket and matching fedora walked onto stage with a gold statue in hand. He had hardly reached the spot between the circle and the board when an eight-foot high boulder came rolling silently after him. He mimed panic before the boulder hit, knocking him quietly to the floor before rolling off stage.

“Love… on… an… elevator,” Josh continued. He forced himself to breathe, before continuing. “Dude… looks… like… a… lady…”

“Stephen Hawking singing Aerosmith – Stephen Hawking mimicking Stephen Tyler,” Jessica said with tears in her eyes.

The bell rang and the fifth triangle flipped. The director shook his head, saying “Clear the stage,” into the microphone. He pushed the second button and looked to the announcer. “I can’t believe we’re doing this one,” he whispered. The announcer nodded, grinning.

“Ummm… he’s a pornstar,” Josh started then froze as a short, heavyset man walked onto the stage. He was completely naked except for a red silk loin cloth covering his crotch. Log stringy black hair hung limply from his head to his shoulders and he smiled cheesily with a wide, thick mustache. A ridiculous amount of body hair covered his chest and back. “He’s… really hairy,” Josh added and looked to the man. The man shrugged and gave a nod affirming the description.

“John Holmes?” Jessica asked. The man frowned in mock outrage.

“He’s still alive.” The man nodded and gave Josh a thumbs up. “His nick name is the Hedgehog,” Josh said, adding, “He was on The Surreal Life and his name sounds like Wil Ferrell’s character in Anchorman.”

Jessica shrugged. “Ron Burgundy? Oh Oh! Ron… Jeremy?”

The bell rang and the final triangle turned. Ron Jeremy smiled at Josh, bowed and lifted up the loin cloth. He twirled his dangling penis a couple of times and walked away.

“They’ll blur that out before broadcast, right?” the announcer asked.

“Send in the last team,” the director ordered.

Josh’s face was a frowning mask as he read the last triangle. From the left side of the stage, a man pushed an ice cream cart toward the contestant’s circle. An umbrella with pink and blue stripes and the words Biskin Jobbins spelled out on the edges hung above the man from a metal pole attached to the cart. A second man walked on stage from right. The two met in the center. The right man held up one finger. The left man nodded, pulled up a cone and started scooping ice cream.

“A hotel bed cover,” Josh said.

“Plaid things. Ugly things,” Jessica answered.

“Twenty seconds,” David warned.

“A semen splotched hotel bed cover,” Josh answered back. “A 70’s velour painting splotched with semen.”

The left man put the ball of ice cream on the cone, put the cone in a holder on the cart, then bent the pole so the umbrella hung vertically between the two men. The left man picked up the cone, stepped next to the umbrella and put his hand through a waist high hole in the canvas. The right man dropped to his knees and began licking the hovering ice cream without using his hands. The left man leaned his head back, smiling.

Josh roared with laughter. The director pushed another button and a harsh buzz erupted above the stage. The audience then burst into hysterics.

Once the ice cream men left the stage to resounding applause, David met the contestants in the circle. “That was a great run,” he told Josh. “‘Things you wouldn’t want to see under a blacklight’ is a tough final category. But you won’t be leaving empty handed. A thousand dollars to both our contestants.” He smiled toward the camera. “And they get to come back next week as returning champions. Bye for now.”

“Camera four – Wide shot,” the director barked. “Roll credits.” As names began scrolling down the monitor, the director pointed to the announcer.”

“You’ve been watching Pyramid After Dark,” the announcer crooned lowly, “Special thanks to Ron Jeremy and the comedians of the Hollywood Uncensored Playhouse. We’ll see you next week.”

Future Unfulfilled

“MARTY! You made it!!”

Marty frowned. His suit was rumpled. A brown patterned tie that didn’t really match the tan, slightly oversized jacket, hung askew. The back strand dangled next to the front giving it an odd dual look that contributed to his overall bedraggled appearance.

“I’m a hot mess, Doc. It’s not like I have anywhere else to be.”

The Doc sat in the booth smiling with his eyes slightly bugging out. “GREAT SCOTT! I never imagined the timelines would lead you here.” He looked around the shuttered restaurant. Dayglow formica was covered in a layer of dust. Posters of a dark-skinned, pre-first nose job Michael Jackson hung on the walls competing for cobwebs with framed monitors that had the image of Ronald Reagan burned into their screens.

Marty sank into the booth wearily. “Cafe’ 80’s could have worked. What led me here was investing in the those damn hover car conversions. Goldie Wilson III kept blaming the oil industry for the delays, and I believed him. Should have known he was lying the minute Biff became an investor.”

“I did warn you and Jennifer,” Doc said gently. “Your futures weren’t written yet. The 2015 you saw wasn’t necessarily the one you’d reach. Any number of random chance occurences and hoverboard technology gets born… Or never exists.”

“If you’d just give me the one I left in the old west -”

The Doc shook his head making the wild mane of snow white hair whip violently. “Can’t do it, Marty. Parents groups contact Libyans and all hell breaks loose.” He pulled out a wrinkled newspaper showing Hill Valley’s Clock Tower burning and the headline “Local HoverBoard Factory Burns” plastered at the top. “Besides, that technology is too ripe for disaster. My boys took a bull in the 15th century and… well the nursery rhyme “the cow jumped over the moon”… that was them.”

The bell on the front door jingled as it opened. A woman in a perfectly tailored suit jacket and business-sensible skirt stepped inside. She shut the door behind her and elegantly walked toward Marty and Doc, a large handbag hanging from her forearm. As she moved, her face flitted back and forth. One step she had a pointed nose and slim cheekbones. The next, her nose was more pert, the cheeks rounder, her lips more narrowed. “Hi Marty,” she said seductively. She changed, turned to Doc, and said more high pitched, “Hello Doctor Brown.”

“And what the hell is this, Doc?” Marty yelled. “Ever since I got back the first time, Jennifer’s been different. One minute she looks like my high school girlfriend. The next, she looks like the actress from Adventures In Babysitting.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jennifer and Doc said in chorus.

“Fine,” Marty spat, “keep ignoring it for another thirty years.” He drew the rough shape of a Delorian in the dust of the table, then wiped it off angrily. “So why did you want to meet, Jennifer? You want to lord your flatscreen TV billions over me some more?”

“I told you,” Jennifer said with the instant heat of a never-ending disagreement, “I only remembered seeing fax machines and a wall-mounted TV. You said,” her voice changed to an insulting pitch, “‘No way could anyone make a TV that thin.’ It’s not my fault you only put money in faxes. And it’s certainly not my fault e-mail killed them.”

At that, Doc raised his hand. “Actually, that was me. I’d seen how much paper was being wasted in the Hill Valley landfill, so I created a reusable electronic message template and traveled back to the 70’s. I left a copy in Boston and another in San Francisco. The various computer science students of the time snapped it up. I’d hoped for a completely paperless business world, but I didn’t realize the financial impact on you personally.”

Marty stared murderously at the wild looking scientist, but before he could speak, Jennifer dropped the purse onto the table with a loud thud. She opened it and pulled out a large rectangular device, slightly thicker than a tablet computer, with clear glass on one side. Three wires, each starting from a different corner and merging in the center, glowed brightly.

“GREAT SCOTT!” Doc yelled. “A miniaturized Flux Capacitor?”

“I saw the one in the Delorian,” Jennifer said as she drew her fingers on the backside of the tablet. “My engineers were able to extrapolate this one from my descriptions. It’s not to scale, but I’m sure it will do the job.”

A bright light launched from the tablet, encircling their booth. “Flat screens are coming down in price. I need new technology or my company will be gone in a year. So since I know two time travelers, I figure why not make the most of our relationship.”

“This is heavy!” Marty screamed. His body pressed into the booth, the cushioned bench groaning.

“Jennifer, what do you intend to do with that?” Doc asked, his hair flattening down like a windswept sheepdog.

“I learned two things when you two took me to the future. One… being married to Marty would have been the biggest mistake I could make.” She looked at him with unmistakable sympathy. “Sorry, but Biff and Needles and everyone that watched your American’s Got Talent 80’s power guitar tribute said, you are a butthead.”

She slid into the booth next to Doc. “Second… if you want to make the most of the present, steal from the future.”

She touched the tablet. There was a flash and the three were gone.

The Case of the Animal Care Giver

An animal care service wasn’t working out

“You yell and scream and call the Better Business Bureau on me –“

“You’d threatened to call Child Protective Services on me.”

Nothing’s going right for this mom

“You’ve got no Income. Your son is sleeping in the forest and traveling with strangers whose last names you don’t even remember, and you’re telling me his safety is paramount in your mind?”

The Judge

You’re about to enter the courtroom of Judge Shinelen. The people are real. The cases are real. The rulings are final.

This is… The Judge

Delia Catchem is suing former friend, Professor Samuel Oak, for return of her son’s animal collection which was left at his home.

“Mrs Catchem, it is your claim that the defendant had or has some property belonging to your son. The situation that I read is kind of bizarre. Your son, Ash, left your home when he was ten-years-old to go on a “journey” in which he travels from town to town fighting little animals that he has collected in the forests against other persons’ animals. And the intention of this journey is to become the top trainer in this animal fighting sport. And as your son captures more animals, the ones he cannot carry with him get sent to Professor Oak’s home for the Professor to care for. Now I have some questions. First, do you realize that letting a ten-year-old travel alone without supervision is the definition of child neglect?”

“Your honor, ten-years-old is when a child can receive their first animal to train. All the top trainers started at that age.”

“And I got my first puppy when I was thirteen. That doesn’t mean I needed to become a homeless wanderer to teach it to roll over. That’s bad parenting, Mrs. Catchem. It’s disgraceful. But we’ll get back to that. Now you say that Ash routinely sends the extra animals he traps to the Professor and you want them back. Why does he send them to the Professor and not to his mother?”

“The animals have special abilities, your honor.”

“You’ll have your turn to speak, Professor Oak. Now why doesn’t your son send the animals to you, Mrs. Catchem?”

“Well, I don’t really have the room to keep all of the animals at my house. And the food… that’s a lot of food to buy and prepare.”

“So you let your child wander around the countryside trapping animals. And even though you don’t have the ability to care for the animals that he’s catching, you are suing for the return of those animals from the professor?”

“Well, your honor… my son wants me to care for them.”

“I see. And how long has your son been trapping these animals?”

“About twenty seasons?”

“And for twenty seasons, he was perfectly happy putting the animals under the professor’s care. What changed to make him want you to have them instead?”

“He just… doesn’t think the professor has the animals’ best interests at heart.”

“Don’t beat around the bush, madam. ‘Best interests at heart’ doesn’t tell me why your son suddenly changed his opinion of the professor’s care. Why should you get all of these animals that you can’t care for when they’re already at a home that’s been perfectly adequate for twenty seasons?”

“The professor cares for Ash’s animals and the animals of all the trainers that start out from our town. His place is filling up and he’s planning on selling off a bunch of them and experimenting on the rest.”

“THAT’S NOT TRUE! I study all of those animals. That’s all. I care for them and protect them. I’d never do anything that wasn’t in their best interests.”

“IT IS TRUE! Your honor, he told me what he was going to do. He said it right to my face!”

“Quiet, Mrs. Catchem. You’ve had your say. Okay, Professor Oak. What’s your story?”

“Your honor, these animals have special abilities. There are mice that shoot electric blasts, turtles that shoot blasts of water, a pigeon that can create a tornado. Animals like those need to be studied and supervised by someone who is trained to deal with them. I give the kids of our town their first animal to train, and if they need someone to care for any extra animals, they know they can come to me because I know what the animals need.”

“That’s a nice song and dance, professor. But like Mrs. Catchem, you’re not telling me why Ash would suddenly decide that his mother should have the animals instead of you.”

“Animals like these… there are people who would much rather buy them then trap them themselves. Mrs. Catchem, I think, sees the money she could obtain by selling them. She doesn’t work, you know. And her son’s travels cost money.”

“That was your idea, you bastard! You called Team Rocket looking to sell them.”

“And you’re trying to cut me out and take all of the money for yourself. You yell and scream and call the Better Business Bureau on me when I work like a lilipup to care for them.”

“You called me an unfit mother, and I’ve had it with that. Every time I tried to break it off with you, you’d threaten to call Child Protective Services on me. I do what I can, damn it! Those animals are Ash’s and if they’re going to be sold, the money should go to me so I can use it to take care of him.”

“ENOUGH! You both should be ashamed! ASHAMED! You’ve both allowed a child to wander about trapping dangerous animals for years. And now you’re fighting over who gets to profit from it. What’s the matter with you?”

“Your honor, I need those animals. I don’t have any other way to get money for my son. And he needs me to keep him safe.”

“Madam, where is your son now? He’s traveling, right? Do you even know who he’s traveling with?”

“He’s in the Unova region, traveling through the Western Forest, I think. Ash is with a young girl named Iris and a connoisseur named Cilan. I don’t know their last names.”  

“So… you’ve got no income. Your son is sleeping in the forest and traveling with strangers whose last names you don’t even remember, and you’re telling me his safety is paramount in your mind? I… DON’T… BUY IT!  Your son entrusted his trapped animals to the professor. That constitutes his willingness to give over their care to him. The animals stay with the professor. And as horribly manipulative as you are to have ten-year-olds hunt for you, sir, judgement is for the defendant.”

Shopping For Transport

The woman was, frankly, gorgeous. Tall, dark hair, incredible body. And not afraid to show it, considering the bodice and tight leggings. Definitely athletic. Probably softball player in college. No… volleyball player. No… BEACH volleyball. Chin, lips, nose… classically beautiful like one of those Greek statues, so totally into looking perfect. And wearing a tiara… MONEY!!

Jonah looked to the other sales guys and wiggled the knot of his tie. Javier and Mikey were with other customers and acknowledged his dibs with quick left hands to chins. Robby and Chad had their hands on their ties trying to assert their claims. They each tapped a hand against a thigh three times. Two fists versus a palm flat against the leg. Jonah nodded to the guys with satisfaction in his raised eyebrow and strolled toward the woman.

“Hello,” he said with as much airy lightness as he could muster. Jonah didn’t want to spook her. Lots of women were intimidated coming into the showroom. “I say this in a totally non-harassment manner,” he paused, gave his friendliest smile and waved to the surrounding vehicles, “do you see anything you like?”

She laughed, her mouth forming into a warm smile. “Not really, no. I’m in need of something a bit more custom.”

That got a laugh – a lilting, beautiful laugh like harp strings strummed. Pretty and a sense of humor. Keep it light and moving and I’ll have the down payment on the beach house, baby.

“My name is Jonah and let me tell you, we can do custom.” He pointed to a dark, fast-looking sports car. “That Camaro doesn’t just come in black. You can get it in red or blue.” He gestured to the woman’s side. “We can even do gold to match your rope and bracelets. AND you can get it as a convertible.” Jonah looked toward the showroom’s windows. “Man… driving down to the beach, wind whipping your hair around, sun shining down on you and your -” he hesitated – “bestie. And there’s plenty of room in the trunk for volleyball gear or picnic stuff for you and your significant other.”

The woman smiled some more. “It’s good to meet you, Jonah,” she said. “You can call me Diana. And while convertible muscle cars are nice, I’m actually looking for something flight capable. My commute’s more difficult than most.” She produced a small rectangular piece of plastic with three letters embossed on one side. “The league sent me.”

Jonah took the card, flipping it and looking at the back casually. “My apologies,” he said lightly, his hand shaking a bit as he returned it. “Um… why don’t you come with me to my desk and I can show you the special request menu.” Jonah led Diana to a glass-walled room off to the side, held open the door while she went inside and sat down. He followed, closing the door after him. Making sure to pull the curtains shut, Jonah settled behind the desk checked to make sure Diana was settled, then pressed the power button on his lamp six times. Both their chairs and the desk immediately began sinking into the floor.

Oh my god oh my god oh my god! A league sale! They’ve got Donald Trump, Lex Luther, Bruce Wayne and King of Saudi Arabia money combined. CHA-CHING!!! I’m buying TWO beach houses. And a condo on the mountain!

They came to a stop in a cavernous sub-basement. Vehicles of all types sat on the white tiled floor. “I know you said you’re looking for a flyer, but I wouldn’t be doing you – ha ha – Justice – if I didn’t point out the Tumbler 3.” Jonah pointed to a giant triangular shaped machine with tractor treads instead of wheels and a jet exhaust port at the back end. “The roof panels extend outward to form wings that, combined with the thrust from the mini-Krypto/Phantom Drive, allow gliding for distances of up to two miles. AND we can custom paint it to match any uniform. We’ve got an order yesterday for TWO in midnight black for The Bat-”

“Please, no. I really am only interested in aircraft.” Diana crossed her legs, took a deep breath and sighed. “And color schemes don’t factor in my needs. Frankly, I’m looking for non-descript. The more invisible the better.”

“I get it,” Jonah said, snapping his fingers. “You’re looking to transport league members covertly. So you’re like their executive assistant? Congratulations. I’m sure we can find you a great plane to fit your needs.”

Jonah pulled brochures from his desk including a card of color samples. Diana looked at him and shook her head in silence.

Better make sure to get show her reds and blues. And got to get the league on the phone. No sense getting all the way into the sale without getting the Super guy to okay the credit card.