Universe W-2020: Holidaze 3
December 24th, 2015
The Id Mk I
“KAAAAAHHHHHRRREEEEEENNN WHERE THE FUCK AAAAAARRRRRE YOOOUUUUUUUU?!!?!??”
Despite the many hollers Chuck ejects into the airspace of his office, his lovely secretary Karen refuses to appear in a cloud of smoke in front of him. Usually she comes running at his every beck and call, but not today, evidently.’ Maybe the cold weather’s getting to the lass, maybe that nonsense she was spewing about having a gaping hole in her bedroom on the fourth floor of the building was more than a mere conversational trump card… wait, no, she doesn’t live in the Cape compound. Not yet at least… well maybe she’s just ignoring Chuck to make a total ass out of him… yeah, it must be that one. Hmm then, how to solve this problem… maybe… okay, maybe if Chuck makes it seem like he has some super important mission or something for Karen, it’ll make her feel special and she’ll be tricked into helping voluntarily.
“Kah-REEEEEENNNNNNN! I HAVE a very, VERY important project-slash-mission for youuuUUUU!!!”
Fuck. After a few more failed conjuration attempts and a burned joint, a wild and unprecendented idea crosses Chuck’s mind: maybe, and stay with me here, but maybe if he were to, I don’t know… get up from his desk, walk over to Karen, and talk to her like a human being, she’d be more cooperative.
In one uninterrupted movement, Chuck lifts himself from his wheelie chair and bashes the back of said wheelie chair into the sheet rock wall behind his desk, evolving the dent to the status of a full-on hole – excellent. A whole thirty seconds later, Chuck’s got his hands full with trying to decide which one of the myriad of bongs at Karen’s desk he wants to use. There’s the one that looks like a skull, the one shaped like a naked woman (he can’t help but think the bottle would be much more attractive if it was tinted purple, but that’s neither here nor there), the one that used to hold absinthe… wait, duh. What better to use to smoke a Psychedelic than a bottle that once housed hallucinogenic alcohol?
When the bowl’s empty and Chuck’s afloat just a tiny bit higher off the ground, he finally looks at where Karen would be sitting if she were sat at her desk and finds that, surprise, Karen’s not even here! Never one to deal with the logistics and paperwork side of owning and operating the single largest and most lucrative business in all of New Manhattan by himself in any way, shape, or form, Chuck begins counting to thirty-three in his head to avoid the oncoming bumrush of panic. Then he gets bored and sits down in Karen’s chair, thinking, ‘If I was Karen The Secretary, which I might as well be right now, where would I go?’
An especially gray winter’s day turns to a moonlit night which eventually blossoms into a morning sunrise that sweeps over the snow-blanketed city of New Manhattan after it rises over the wall. A singular beam of light strays from the rising herd and ricochets itself through one of the window-walls of Chuck’s office. With the forcefield breached, the beam bounces off of no less than fourteen different metallic surfaces and hits Chuck dead in the sunglassed eyes, forcing him to blink for the first time in literally hours. He’s still sat at Karen’s desk, his mind whirring away with contemplation over the inner workings of a woman’s mind; zero progress has been made. A few endless, wretched moments drag before the intraocular fluid returns to Chuck’s eyes, but once his peepers are nice and moist Chuck slams his head down on the desk and knocks himself out, taking a quick power nap of sorts.
Jesus, of sorts is fuckin’ right.
When our suited man comes to, he knows exactly what he must do: get an ice pack for the golf ball that’s sprouted from his forehead, for some reason. After that: do this year’s Christmas shopping and gift deliveries alone.
Meaning without Karen.
A few years back, Chuck found himself acquainted with a dude named Alvey Fratto; the two embarked on a run-of-the-mill fishing trip up in New Hampshire together in which they caught zero fish, but what they did catch was far more valuable: friendship.
Alvey’s the type of human that Chuck utterly despises: all about getting “the job” done and being “good,” you know, really earning that days’ worth of a fraction of what Chuck would consider to be a respectable paycheck. Alvey places value on the ideas of hard work, integrity, honesty, and character; Chuck values nothing because life is probably just the Universe’s energy cycle and values aren’t real anyway. Actually, that’s a lie, Chuck does value his ability to not give a fuck, and very much so, at that; do with that what you will. Anyway, normally dudes like Alvey are of the species of human that Chuck would prefer to, say, leave for dead inside a cave, but for some reason, Alvey stood out to him. Something about his energy, his aura, his tendency to pop out of Chuck’s life for months, years at a time, just does it for Chuck, so the two wound up staying friends. Chuck occasionally stops by Alvey’s house for a bong and a bacon strip, and Alvey occasionally contacts Chuck when his life depends on his doing so, the scamp. Ah, friendship.
It just so happens that the first human on this year’s Stuff List is, the one and only, Alvey fucking Fratto. Chuck hops into his elevator and takes it allll the way down to his underground garage, keeping his mind focused on Alvey’s present so his crippling claustrophobia doesn’t set in along the descent. When the eviltinyroom finally goes ding, Chuck steps out onto the glimmery gold-grouted, marble-tiled, ruby-encrusted floor of his garage, he stops and takes in the view. Vehicles, gadgets and physical expressions of an overinflated ego as far as the eye can see; everything from Chuck’s flying locomotive engine that Sigmund made for him to the backpack with extendable feathered bat wings composed of hemi-atomic nanobots Sigmund made for him are stored down here, and everything in between – so gorgeous. The lucrative walking lawsuit when lawsuits were still a thing maneuvers his way through his collection of dust collectors until he finds exactly what he’s looking for: a mountable vacuum cleaner built for residential use with an exterior shell designed to look and feel like an old-timey Western American rocking horse. ‘Merry Christmas, Alvey ol’ boy.’
Before long Chuck is up in the air above the Cape building in a fancy-shmancy little diddy he calls the Id Mk I. This… vehicle, I guess one may call it, built for him by Sigmund if you’ll believe it, is essentially a propellerless helicopter with no less than seventeen jet engines welded to it at different angles and positions around the body of the craft. That’s basically it, too; the thing can fly like an anti-gravity craft in space, because what the fuck can’t? but in the air it’s just a hot, slippery mess. Plus, for some reason the thing has a murderously delayed input reaction, so it’s damn near impossible to fly without causing this catastrophic disaster or that horrendous accident. Luckily, Alvey’s place is a quick airborne tumble away; Chuck won’t have a very long flight.
In fact, a mere five minutes pass between takeoff and landing, and by landing I of course mean Chuck crashing the Id Mk I into the roof of Alvey’s house, causing the structure to burst into flames on account of the metric ton of fuel that leaks from the mangled body of his aerostatic craft. The blaze quickly spreads to the rest of the houses on this, the last residential block in the whole city, whilst Chuck struggles to get his ass out of the very obvious death trap that makes him question Sigmund’s sanity.
Chuck falls to the plasti’spa’junk that makes up the ground and fortunately, the collective screams of the civilians who’ve just lost their residency within NewMann blocks out the sounds of every single one of Chuck’s leg bones shattering when he lands first on his feet, then on his hips. The first human to come to his side is Alvey – dude takes one look at Chuck, throws his gaze towards the hellish inferno that was once his cozy little neighborhood, and walks away without even saying hello. What a douche!
Chuck, unable to walk due to the lack of solid bone mass in his legs, removes one of his middle fingers (he’s not sure which one because of the unparalleled quality of pain he’s currently drowning in, you’ll have to bear with him) and presses a button jutting from the base, activating a small hypodermic needle that automatically syringes healing serum when it penetrates through a human’s flesh. Chuck then stabs himself in the large punctured waterskins that are his legs multiple times, not feeling a poke because of the eviscerated nerve endings below his waist. One stab is usually good enough, but like I said, he can’t feel the needle penetrating his skin, so he has to make sure he gets himself good.
A few minutes of agonizing screaming and bones, muscles, and nerves restructuring themselves according to the healing serum later and Chuck is good as… well, as good as he can be. After making a note to remind himself to talk to Sigmund about a pair of cybernetic legs to match his arms, hands, and torso, Chuck takes a step back and admires the flaming pyrotechnics engulfing the burning remains of the neighborhood, the heat singing his eyebrows from feet on meters away. It’s beautiful, it really is – there’s something about a bonfire that tickles Chuck’s fedora just right.
Once he’s breathed in enough ultra-carcinogenic smoke and tar, Chuck turns around to go home, then almost immediately freezes in his tracks – not immediately, but after a half-footstep – he almost forgot why he came here in the first place! The fuckin’ rocking horse thing!
With a quick unzipping of his tie and a press of one of the less apocalyptic buttons, Chuck is swallowed whole by his power armor, which is conveniently heat- and fireproof and equipped with anti-gravity flight systems and an interior frame for extra lifting power. I think the suit uses magnets or something for flight, I’m not… oh wait, no, it uses a different method for flight every time it flies on account of the thing being composed of hemi-atomic nanobots. I’m not going to sit here and pretend I understand the science behind it, but what I do understand is the struggle that Chuck goes through trying to remove the scorched and melting Christmas gift from the burning wreckage of idiotically upper-class NewMann suburbia. I also understand the fiery crash this struggle inevitably ends with; hey, at least this time Chuck has the honor, privilege, and delight of acting as the landing pad for the rocking horse thing. Woo!
An hour and a half later when Chuck finally wakes up, he’s quite upset to find that his gift to Alvey is now a ball of burning wood and melted plastic and metal. After one or two or seventy high-powered facepalms, our man suddenly has a moment of intuition – instead of getting Alvey some weird-ass contraption that he’ll definitely never use, Chuck should just rebuild all the houses on the street! Well… actually, that sounds like a lot of work… maybe he should just pay somebody else to rebuild the houses as ASAP as ASAPly possible. This sounds like a good plan; it shall be done!
A Flying Yeti
It’s nearly sundown by the time construction is finished. Christmas Eve is almost over and Chuck hasn’t done any Christmas shopping yet due to the houses he was (re)building for all of the (temporarily) homeless NewMenn and NewWoMenn that keep accosting him on the street. Well, he was mostly supervising the construction because, honestly, the shit was cool to watch! Chuck’s never encountered this specific firm before; he was originally going to call the Illuminati Company (because when in doubt on the NewMann streets, who else to call but the Illuminati?) but they didn’t answer, probably because they recognized the number. Oddly enough though, shortly after our man hung up the phone and just before he exclaimed his tiredness from exhausting all of his options, an aircraft in the shape of a hunk of a planet appeared out of nowhere and shined a beam of glowing purple light down upon the still burning wreckage, which extinguished the flames completely. Then the craft reconstructed the houses, seeming to fabricate them out of thin air, before returning from whence it came. With a gaping maw and a, “Huh!” Chuck hits a few miscellaneous buttons on his suit’s sleeve. This activates the autonomously piloted search and land mechanism on his flying scooter.
Yep, dude’s got a flying scooter, and I don’t even mean a moped. No, it’s one of those fantabulous solid stainable steel ankle crackers that everyone remembers from their childhood, that perfect toy that doubled as a weapon just in case any bullies tried to chase Chuck off the playground, through the woods, and into a creek infested with radioactive crawfish with a taste for human flesh… I mean… what?
Chuck glides ten feet over the active roadways at speeds that are quite painful to his neck, yet he presses on without regard. The next gift is very important, quite possibly the most important gift of all – the only thing is, Chuck can’t deliver it himself. Only Chuck can deliver this one, and between you and Chuck, Chuck is a degenerate twerp asshole who doesn’t deserve the seed he hand-splatters onto his hairy-ass belly every night. BUT ANYWAY!
Our flying maniac scoot-scoots his way over the ocean and into northern New Jersey until he finally touches down in a little village called Treering. Chuck’s scooter leaves a skid mark that runs from the beginning of Chuck’s street all the way up the driveway until it cuts into the lawn, where it leaves a massive trench leading to, and stopping at, the stairs leading up to the front door – damn, stopped short this time. What a shame.
Chuck hops off his scooter and trots up to the front door that’s only attached with a single hinge and knocks three times. He then knocks thirty more times to get his point across, because if there’s anybody that Chuck can’t stand, it’s Chuck.
Chuck perceives the sound of empty cans rattling and a bottle shattering against the floorboards and knows that Chuck’s heard the knocking, but a whole half of a second goes by without the door being answered, so, naturally, Chuck has the power armor raise his left foot (because the healing serum’s speed has yet to be perfected) and kicks the door in, breaking the brass hinge into three distinct pieces. The door flies into the house and clobbers Chuck right in the body, not helping the hangover that he was nursing with more grain-based alcohol. Chuck slowly steps into the house and looks over the slightly bloody and greatly battered ex-husband of some random woman and chuckles to himself before looking around and taking in the poverty.
“Well, merry Christmas there, fella. How are we today?”
“Ggnunghhhhhhh,” Chuck answers back, feeling a great deal of trouble in the moving of his bottom jaw.
“Yeeeaaaahhhhh that’s great and all, but I don’t actually care. I was just being polite… huh, I guess being polite’s a waste of time after all. Imagine that!” Chuck says, taking a moment’s pause to mull over the implications of what he just said.
Then he notices something squirming around on the floor, as if it wanted to stand up. Now that’s a problem.
“Whu–… what do yew want, Charlie? I’m in no mood for your shit…”
“Yeah, shove a bottle in it, asshole. You know why I’m here,” said with a menacing sneer. Chuck then pulls out a check and lets it float down to land on Chuck’s bloody nose. “As always: you give her the check, you make sure the kids know beyond any reasonable doubt that you’re a piece of shit fucking scumbag who doesn’t deserve the neurotransmitters that let you perceive consciousness, and then you walk away. Got it?”
Chuck Monta says nothing, which doesn’t exactly make Chu– er, Charlie, very happy.
“I SAID, you will GIVE HER the CHECK, you will ENSURE the kids KNOW, beyond ANY REASONABLE DOUBT, that you are a PIECE of SHIT fucking SCUMLOR-”
“OkAY, okay, I’ll do it. Just like I do every other month, fuc–” A bloodless cough, a cough less so, and a wheeze. “Fuck…”
“Great! Have a shit Christmas, I hope your house burns down while you’re wide awake and trapped inside of it. Bye!”
And with that, Chuck is off. Present two out of three, donezo! Next up: his best friend in the whole wide world, Sigmund Durham.
Whilst flying over the leg of ocean between New Jersey and New Manhattan, Chuck notices ice crystals beginning to form on the exterior of his suit. One by one, snowflakes continuously pile up and encase our “hero” in a coating of ice, giving him the appearance of a flying yeti. As he reenters the airspace above New Manhattan, a few adolescents walking the streets down below notice him and start pointing their fingers. What’s worse, they all whip out their uPhones and start trying to take them some pictures. Chuck doesn’t like when other humans try to take them some pictures of him, unfortunately for the youths, so he does the only sensible thing he can think of the fix this problem: targets the SIM cards inside each of their phones and launches missiles.
The rockets leave Chuck’s suit through his fingertips and tear through the air like… well, like missiles tearing through the air. Chuck engages a speed boost so he doesn’t have to witness the aftermath when the bombs strike, but boy do they strike. Fortunately for the youths, Chuck isn’t a total dick and the missiles were filled with a payload of apricot jelly that both shorted out the uPhones and left the consumers feeling all sticky.
A few moments after enacting his somewhat domestic terrorism, Chuck touches down in front of his main base of operations, the tall tower of Cape Enterprises, Uncorporated. He trots around back and removes a brick’s worth of hemibots from the building, revealing a keypad. He enters the code that Sigmund set up, 78006398643322-147382690953257646898658900, the dash included, and replaces the brick.
Upon entering the code correctly and without hesitation between button presses (it takes a few tries), a wireless signal is sent to a small fishing vessel out in the middle of the bay betwixt the city and the USA. The captain of this vessel, Joseph McGuillicutty, takes a dead fish out of his ice bucket and tosses it overboard into the water, attracting a shark. This isn’t a real shark but a mechanical one, in fact, modeled after the shark from the classic horror movie Jawz, directed and produced by the legendary rapper Largemaestro Flash. This technological shark, upon consuming the biological fish, sends another signal that triggers a secret open-air elevator on the roof of the Cape tower to reveal itself. By the time the elevator opens up, Chuck is already standing on the platform, still coated in a shell of snow that shows absolutely no signs of melting. The ride down takes a minute, Chuck growing increasingly impatient and fidgety with each second that passes.
When the platform finally touches down, Chuck is faced with a simple wooden door. Instead of grabbing the knob, because dude’s never been the knob-grabbing type, Chuck reaches for the middle hinge on the opposite side of the door and opens it up like that. You see, Sigmund isn’t the most, how you say, secure man living in the city; he doesn’t even trust his shadow because, “…it follows me around a little too well,” (Sigmund Durham, 2013). It doesn’t matter though, Sig’s probably the smartest human in all of Existence, as far as Chuck knows, at least, and if intelligence can’t justify sickness, I don’t know what can!
Speaking of which, Chuck walks in and greets his Sigmund with a friendly hello that comes out as a primitive grunt because of the snowsuit stuck to the outside of his power armor suit on the outside of the endoframe outside of his business suit that’s draped over his birthday suit.
“AAAHHHHH!” Sigmund screams in horror without getting up from his chair. “WHAT IN THE FUCK? ARE YOU A YETI?! THE YOU ESS GOVERNMENT RESURGENCE FORCE SENT YOU, DIDN’T THEY?! YOU CAN’T KILL ME!! I KNEW YOU WERE COMING, FOOL, TASTE MY FUCKING HEAT RAY!”
With that, Sigmund presses a button on the calculator pad that’s hardwired into his chair and a futuristic weapon drops from a slot in the ceiling, landing right in his hands. Chuck sighs really, really loudly as Sigmund trains his blaster on his apparent foe.
“Any last words, you ugly abomination-of-nature-slash-miracle-of-science??”
Chuck attempts to enunciate some eloquent final phrases, but his mouth noises are morphed into grunts yet again.
“So you can’t talk, then! Hah! Hah, hahah! Mwahahahahah! Eat microscopic radiation waves, monster!”
Sigmund pulls the trigger and massive waves of repeating red-tinted convection lines erupt from the barrel of the gun, showering Chuck in more heat than a yeti could theoretically handle. Once the snowy ice melts away, Sigmund’s surprised to find Chuck standing in place of a dead yeti, his power armor cast aglow in a scarlet shine.
“OH, Chuck! I uh, I… well, you see, I actually knew that was you, I was just messing with you. Heheh, uh, heheh, um. So, what’s going on, buddy?”
“First of all,” Chuck begins, his multitude of suits folding into themselves and melting into his tie, “you, sir, are fuckin’ deranged, homiedude. Second of all, it’s Christmas! I’m here to give you your present!”
Rather than jum– well, doing Sigmund’s version of jumping for joy, Sigmund just stares at Chuck with a very uncomfortable look on his face. Our veritable Santa is confused by this; normally, other humans only look at him like that before he tells them he has a gift for them. Following Sig’s gaze, Chuck looks down to learn that all of his suits folded away into his tie, especially the business one. Yes, Chuck just told his sexually undeveloped friend that he’s here to give him a gift while wearing nothing but a skin-tight leopard-print banana hammock that’s probably two sizes too small for the package it contains. Probably, but not definitely. Sigmund begins to tremble and, as a single tear spills over the crag of his eyelid, his mind begins to wander into some of the darkest, most unexplored recesses that remain in his brain.
Chuck, needing to break this silence for more reasons than can be put into mere words, says, “Look man, I don’t even remember putting this thing on. Let’s just forget.”
“Did you just say deal one, as if you accidentally put a number one instead of an exclamation point at the end of that sentence?”
“Uhhh… yeah, I guess I did. You’re still naked though, so… I’m kind of… you know… emotionally traumatized.”
“Fair point!” Chuck exclaims as he openpalms his hairless chest where his tie would hang if it was tied ‘round his neck with enough force to snap a dryrotted dead twig. For some reason, a new business suit ejects from a secret pocket in the back of the speedo and wraps itself around Chuck, clothing him once more. A few minutes later, once the awkward has properly vented out of the room’s airspace, the conversation continues.
“So, your present! It’s a little different than last year’s, I really hope you like it, dawg.”
“Oh c’mon Chuck, you know how gratefu–”
“SHUTUP so anyway, this year, in addition to giving you all of the many dollars, resources, facilities, and anything else you need to continue your work down here, I also got yyooouuu…”
“You got meeee…?”
Chuck presses a button on the sleeve of his suit that’s disguised as a cufflink and a silver platter drops from the ceiling and lands in his hands. He removes the lid to reveal a plate of tiny little cubes of cake coated in a thick, almost but not quite crunchy shell of white chocolate.
“I got you a platter of red velvet petits fores thingies encased in white chocolate from that little That Mom And Pop Shop bakery that I love so much!” with a smile.
Sigmund’s jaw drops as he grabs the platter and actually sprints down the nearest hallway, a large metal door closing behind him. This is followed by the sounds of no less than forty-three more doors slamming shut.
“I really need to get that man an above-ground house.”
The clock strikes eleven fifty-five by the time Chuck returns to his office. He slowly walks through what he thinks of as his compound, shoes clicking a’strike on the carpeted floor as he maneuvers his way towards the bar opposite his work desk. He hops over the bar top and lands on his ass, missing the chair like a frayed string misses the eye of a needle and creating a perfect physical metaphor for how this Christmas has gone. Once his self is all nice and gathered up, Chuck fishes around for a jar filled with a strange, emetic solution of green liquid and organic material. The liquid is gin, since you’re curious, and the organic material is a year’s worth of decarboxylated Cannabis stems, with a few activated nugs thrown into the mix for good measure. Chuck assembled this creation about two weeks ago and shook the living shit out of the jar twice a day since then; it’s high time to enjoy.
Strainer in hand, Chuck pours the liquid into a second empty jar and grins as all the Cannabits that get caught up in the mesh. Before long the ritual is complete, and Chuck can deliver to himself his Christmas present: a whole jar of psychoactive alcohol. Bottoms up, mo’fucker!
One or three or forty-two sips later, Chuck hears a knock on the gates. He isn’t sure if he actually heard it or if the drink whispered the noise into his ear, so he ignores it and seals his jar.
On second thought, he opens it right back up; the doors are made of glass, you can see right through them. Besides, who the hell has access to his building while also feeling the need to knock before entering his office?
When the knock repeats twenty-one times in rapid succession, Chuck decides the noise is definitely real. Drunker than a scallywag, higher than a crow’s nest, and more twisted than the braids in a pirate’s pubic hair, Chuck slowly hobbles and trips over himself all the way to the door. He rips it open to reveal ‘twas indeed his Karen The Secretary who came a’knocking.
“Heyyyy, merry Christmas bossman! I’m sor–”
“Whell,” Chuck slurs as he turns around to wander back into the depths of his cave, “luhk who th’fuck decide to show up…”
Karen smiles, very unaware of how intoxicated Chuck is. “Yeah, I’m sorry Chuck, I was out all Christmas shopping all day!”
These words prove cold enough to freeze Chuck in his tracks. He spins around and startles Karen with a very angry and queasy look on his face, like somebody had just told him his pet cat died. Karen realizes what’s going on and her expression shrinks into a frightened pout.
“You were… lemme… you were Chriszmaz… shoppin’. Tha’s, jus’, fuggin’… tha’s so greayT, Karen, tha’s jus’ fuggin’ greay! You know, you, you know whah…” hiccup, “yoou know whaht woul be… whah woul be fuggin’ greeat? Fuggin’, fan-fuggin’-taszticle?”
“Um,” timidly, “what would have been–”
Something snaps within Chuck, returning to him the ability to enunciate words. “IF YOU FUCKING DID YOUR FUCKING JOB AND TOOK ME ALONG WITH YOU, CUNT! I HAD TO GO AND DELIVER ALL MY SHIT ALONE, AND I DIDN’T EVEN GET TO GO CHRISTMAS SHOPPING! YOU’RE AN IMPOLITE FUCKING ASSHOLE KAREN, FUCK YOU!!”
Karen stares straight ahead, mouth agape.
“If you ever, EVER, fucking pull that shit again, so fucking help me you cunt I will skIN YOU FUCKING ALIVE AND FEED YOU TO FUCKING RATS! FUCK! YOOUUUUU!!!”
When Chuck’s finished venting his drunken rage all over the best employee and closest friend who doesn’t live in a basement he has, he begins to breathe heavily, shooting Karen the dirtiest, most accusatory of looks from the revolvers in his eyes. Karen, being the alpha she is, says nothing, opting to turn and calmly walk out of the office. The door closes behind her.
When she’s gone, Chuck begins to cry.
Then he starts laughing.
Then he does both at the same time.
“Merry…” as he spins around to face the wall-windows. What a gorgeous view he has tonight; his office may only be on the forty-second floor of his tower, but the citywide light show of consumers celebrating the most consumerific holiday of the year is absolutely breathtaking.
“…fucking…” as he swigs another quarter of his jar, capping the remaining puddle of liquid for later. Chuck then unseals and drains his Cannagin, letting the open jar drop to the floor as he charges, full speed, into the wall-window.
Chuck rams the wall-window fedora-first, the SuperSturdy™ brand glass pane refusing to shatter. Instead it knocks him out cold, Chuck’s body hitting the floor with a smaller thud as the empty jar rolls underneath the couch.
Chuck’s Favorite Color
When Chuck finally wakes up the next morning, he’s harboring the worst headache the Universe has ever decided to bestow upon him. The building feels like it’s shaking as he tries to get up.
‘Fuck’s sake, what happened last night?’ grumbled in thought.
He slowly inches his way towards his desk so he can start rolling the first of the twenty-five Christmas joints he needs to smoke today. When he stands, though, Chuck notices a tiny lil’ box sitting on top of his keyboard. It’s wrapped in newspaper and bound with a shiny green bow; there’s a tag too, but Chuck tears that off the box along with the wrapping. Held within is a new tie, custom tailored to be easily augmented with whatever wacko supertech Sigmund has installed in his current tie. What’s more, the tie is purple, Chuck’s favorite color.
Chuck’s never told anybody his favorite color before.
Frantically, Chuck throws himself down and begins squabbling amongst the shreddings of paper until he finally finds the tag. On it is printed ten words, two of them done so in a plenty extra font and the remaining eight scribbled in a very familiar handwriting. They say:
Love: The Best Secretary In The World, Karen