Chapter Four

Red had purchased a new alarm clock the day before. Come 6:30 in the morning, he wished he’d purchased a rooster. Or a nice, gentle alarm clock. Anything but this alarm clock. This alarm clock had apparently been undernourished or mistreated as a child, because it was screaming and whining and buzzing like a dying spider monkey. Red hated it. He raised his head groggily, muttered something incomprehensible even to himself, and stretched out his arm in an attempt to silence the demonic contraption perched on his night stand. The manufacturer of the alarm clock—Satan, Red was sure—had, of course, hidden the tiny "off" button on the machine’s underside, effectively protecting it from Red’s probing hand. The alarm clock chuckled.

Then it screamed, and Red recoiled, as a fire ax dropped from thin air and shattered the mechanical creature. It whined as it died.

"Where in God’s holy name did you find that… thing?" asked N. He was panting heavily and standing over Red’s bed, axe in hand.

Red rubbed his eyes. "For God’s sake N… you couldn’t just wait for me to turn it off?"

"You should thank me, Red. Who knows what damage that thing could have caused if we’d let it work any longer. Now get up… let’s eat our first meal."

Breakfast. N’s breakfast. Red stumbled out of bed and crawled into the kitchen. He managed to sit down at the counter and peel apart his eyes long enough to see what was going on. N was dressed in a suit. There were two pans on the stove, and two eggs were sizzling in each pan. N reached into the refrigerator, which was too bright for Red to look directly into, and withdrew two cold, bloody steaks. Steak and eggs. Red hadn’t thought N was capable of making anything trickier than popcorn.

He was right. N dropped the two steaks into the toaster.

Red let his head drop to the counter. Five minutes later two warm, bloody steaks and four near-edible eggs were distributed evenly between two plates. It had been six days since Red had won his mystery prize. If his calculations were correct, he should be receiving it sometime this afternoon. This excited Red, and he was therefore able to ignore N’s utter lack of culinary skills and enjoy his eggs.

"What do you want to drink?" asked N. Red didn’t answer. N poured him a glass of Coke.

Red poked his steak with a fork. He thought he saw it wiggle. N was dressed in a suit. "N, what’s with the suit?"

"What? Is my tie crooked?"

"No man… I mean why are you wearing a suit? I didn’t even know you owned a suit. Is there a special occasion?"

"Oh. Well I thought that’d be obvious. It’s my conception day."

"Your conception day?"

N glared at Red, a little perturbed at having had to repeat himself. "Yes. Today is precisely nine months before my birthday."

"Right." Red changed the subject. "So what’s up in the neighborhood?" One good thing about having N around was that he knew every piece of news in existence. He could even recite the discrepancies between reports from CNN and NBC. Most of it was from TV, of course, but N had also subscribed to the New York Times, the Washington Times, the Washington Post, the Miami Herald, the Boston Globe, the Monitor, several publications of the Church of Latter Day Saints, the monthly Druidic Saga, the biannual Hedgehog Conservation Society Report, and a weekly newsletter produced by the International Alliance of Rubberneck Assassins. Oh, and the Victoria’s Secret catalog.

"Not much," replied N. "A minor chief in the network of Kenyan Kaj’katu tribes challenged the Grand Consul after—"

"N, N… I don’t think Kenya qualifies as part of our neighborhood."

"Our neighborhood is boring. Nothing happened. They’re doing repairs on Fenway Park… oh, and somebody hijacked a postal car yesterday—"

Red squeezed his glass of Coke.

"—killing the postal worker in the process."

Red squeezed harder. "Did they catch him?"

"Nope," said N. "He escaped. They did manage to find the license plate of the mail car, which the culprit had apparently replaced before fleeing the scene. The police won’t find him."

Red fingers were turning white. "Why not?"

"Who questions postal workers? They’re innocent, underpaid, hard-working individuals that deliver us mail. I mean, they’re practically saints. Nobody suspects the mailman. Besides, all their vehicles are exactly the same. The only witness to the murder was the victim. The criminal is absolutely unidentifiable. Hell, it could have been the Dalai Lama for all we know…"

The glass shattered in Red’s hand, and he began to shake.

"…which brings me to another point. In the future, the post office will rule this country. The majority of the population will stop using email for important communication when they discover that the government scans their messages..."

Red was breathing deeply. There were five hundred and twelve thoughts running through his head.

"…At that point, ordinary mail, and perhaps telegrams, will again become the status quo. Eventually, postal workers will realize the power they possess—the access they have to every personal record, every otherwise secret message, every life of every citizen in this country…"

N’s words floated over Red. Why now?

"…The postal workers will form a sort of coalition, and use the database they possess to manipulate financial transactions, the transmission of certain records, even elections. All of this will be done covertly, of course. Shortly afterward, the coalition will have, in effect, installed a puppet government—"

"Enough. Don’t you understand what’s happened?" Red voice shook.

"Yes. I just explained it to you--"

"No. No, no, no. I’m not talking about your post-office-brings-the-apocalypse nonsense. Do you know why that postal worker was murdered?"

N thought for a moment. "Hmmm… I’m guessing it was an educated individual slightly more zealous than myself who’s attempting to stop the post office before it’s too late."

"That’s ridiculous. N, my mystery prize was supposed to arrive today. Do you think that’s a coincidence? That mail car was hi-jacked for what it contained—my prize."

N was silent for a moment, and then broke out in laughter. "Red, sometimes you come up with the most far-fetched theories."

Red stopped squeezing the shards that formerly comprised a glass. His breathing slowed as calmed himself.

"Besides," said N, "we don’t even know whether that mail car had your prize in it. I mean, this is Miami. There’s more than one. Where are you going?"

Red had slipped on his jacket, and was cramming the remainder of his quasi-eggs down his throat. "To the pose office." He swallowed the eggs. "I need to find out which postal worker was killed, and what he was carrying. I need to know."

N just shrugged and went on eating as Red tore out of the house.

The post office was thirty-one thousand, six-hundred and ninety one feet away. A man of average speed and substantial endurance could have run this distance in fifty minutes, give or take. An Olympic long distance runner could have covered it in a little over half an hour. A law-abiding citizen could have motored it in thirteen minutes. A sprinting cheetah could have done it in ten. Red did it in six.

The nearest post office happened to be the second oldest in Miami. Thus it was beautiful. Red liked that about things; they got more beautiful with age. It was even that way with animals. People weren’t that way. People weren’t naïve enough.

Generally, ivy climbs. The ivy on the post office, however, was almost as ancient as the building itself. It had jacketed every red brick wall. It could climb no higher. Red admired it. To him, the ivy had conquered; it was perched victoriously on its red-brick throne, from which it oversaw the efforts of less fortunate mankind. To others, the ivy had nothing left to live for. Its existence had been rendered purposeless by its own achievement. Ivy was some trippy shit.

Fifty-one seconds later, Red was inside. There were long lines, of course, and the employees seemed to be decomposing. Red hypothesized that a few of the criteria for federal employment were ghastly complexions, motionless eyes, monotone voices, and a disheveled appearance, purposely exacerbated by some of the ugliest uniforms in existence.

There were also people checking their post office boxes. These people were either representing some business, or had purchased the P.O. box in secret because they didn’t want all their porn sent to their house.

It was only when quite a few people began to stare at him that Red realized he was wearing only boxers and a jacket. He waited in line for eleven minutes.

The clerk looked at him.

"Hi, how are you?" No response. "I was supposed to receive a package yesterday."

She continued to look at him.

"Well… I was wondering if you might have any information on its whereabouts."

"What’s your name?" Her lips barely moved.

"Red McGill."

Very slowly, she shifted her eyes from Red to her computer, typed something, and looked back at Red. "I’m sorry. Your package was stolen yesterday."

Red’s stomach knotted. "In the hijack?"

"Yes."

"Well, I mean, that was an important package… isn’t there anything you can do? What am I supposed to do? I mean, I need it."

"Sue us."

Red looked blank.

"Next."

"Wait, wait, wait… can you tell me anything about the package? What it was, how big it was, anything?"

"No." She paused. "Next."

The rat-car’s supercharged engine screamed as the vehicle peeled out of the post office’s parking lot. A few seconds later the car was roaring down the road at sixty miles per hour and still accelerating. Five thousand, six thousand, then seven thousand RPMs plus a gear shift, and the car was sailing at one-hundred and thirty miles per hour. It was a Ford Escort. It vibrated violently.

------

Sergeant Frederick E. Pybas was attempting to catch a nap in his patrol car when what he judged to be a large, mechanical rodent sped by at one-hundred and thirty miles per hour. His radar said one-forty. He could write more tickets that way. It wasn’t often that Sergeant Pybas saw large mechanical rodents.

Then again, he’d dropped three grams of acid six and a half minutes ago, and he was still on a serious trip. He’d apprehended the acid from some speeding college student named Joe who practically urinated in his pants when Pybas had asked to search his glove compartment. But everything turned out all right; Pybas seized the narcotics and charged Joe forty dollars cash as a "narcotics disposal fee"—and another forty as "memory maintenance cost." Everyone went home happy. He’d done it for years. That’s how he’d afforded to put 24-inch chrome rims on his patrol car. He liked shiny things.

Pybas laid back in his car seat and glanced at the seven inch, yellow-and-purple female elephant that was dancing on the car’s roof. Every once in a while it spat tobacco.

"Well, you’re a cop!" said the elephant, whose name was Ellie. "Go get him!"

Pybas had never chased a mechanical rodent before. He put on his siren, ran a comb through his long, shiny black hair, blinked at himself in the mirror, and pushed the gas petal down hard.

----

Neither Red nor Sergeant Pybas saw the third car. The third car, a black ’98 Chevy Suburban with heavily tinted windows, rolled nonchalantly into the center of the major intersection located about a hundred yards in front of Red before stopping entirely.

----

When he heard the siren, Red glanced into his rear view mirror. There was a patrol car, which was no surprise… but there was something odd about it. Actually, there were several odd things about it. First of all, it was swerving treacherously. Secondly, Red could practically see his own reflection in the unusually large wheels. And thirdly, the driver seemed to be talking to his roof. Red considered a getaway. He decided against it and began to apply the brake. And then…

"Fuck." That was what Red said when he took his eyes off the rear view mirror and returned them to the road. He slammed on the brake. The Ford Escort-turned-rodent swiveled violently and spun three times on two wheels. By some miracle it didn’t flip, and instead screeched to an abrupt halt about two feet parallel to the enormous black SUV that had emerged from nowhere.

Red’s head hit the driver’s side window hard, and almost instantly one of the worst headaches in the history of headaches kicked in. Red held his head and pushed his door open. He stumbled out. His car’s passenger side faced the driver’s side of the black Suburban.

The police car fared notably better; it spun only once before its brakes halted it ten feet from Red’s rodent. Red watched the patrol car’s door open. Out came a tall, slightly overweight police officer dressed in a white suit, wearing unfashionably large aviation glasses, and with his hair in a pompadour. He was carrying a chrome shotgun with ‘the King’ etched into the length of its barrel. This man looked exactly like Elvis.

----

It was 7:51 a.m. Four doors had opened simultaneously.

Door number one: the driver’s side of the rodent. Out came a noticeably dizzied twenty-something year old, clutching his head and groaning, wearing boxer shorts and a jacket. His black hair was disheveled and his goatee untrimmed. It looked as though he’d slept through boot camp.

Door number two: the driver’s side of the black Suburban. Out came a blonde twenty-something year old man, frowning and gripping a black assault rifle in both hands, who quickly took aim at the rodent-pilot.

Door number three: the trunk of the black Suburban. Out came two more blonde youths astonishingly similar to the first, who lifted from the trunk an electric wheelchair, in which sat an entirely bald and equally unhappy-looking forty-something year old man.

And door number four: the driver’s side of the patrol car, from which emerged Sergeant Pybas, who thought the entire scenario was solemnly fucked up.

Ellie shared his opinion. Ellie spat tobacco in Pybas’ face. Frederick E. Pybas composed himself, swatted the invisible tobacco from his forehead, and stepped out of the car. He assessed the situation: one angry-looking Aryan with an illegal rifle, two Aryans carrying Dr. Strangelove, some hung-over punk stupid enough to rocket past a cop, and a very small and very psychedelic floating elephant. And there were muffins everywhere.

"You!" he called to the rifle-wielding youth. "Put your firearm down now. And wipe that muffin off your shoulder."

"KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL HIM!" Ellie was screaming. Pybas ignored her.

"I not drop weapon. You die if I want." The blonde spoke calmly and in a heavy guttural accent. German? Pybas wasn’t sure.

"Did you just threaten an officer? I’ll ram the muffin so far up your ass that you’ll be spitting blueberries if you don’t put your gun down RIGHT FUCKING NOW." With that, he raised his shotgun.

"KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL HIM!" Ellie was becoming aggravating.

The hostile Arian took his aim off the rat-driver and took aim at Pybas. "Move again and you die. I warn."

The people stopped in their cars to all sides had stopped honking. Officer Elvis didn’t move, but he did keep talking. "You’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent—"

----

"Ummm, excuse me?" Red had his hands in the air. He should have felt safe with a police officer a few feet away from him. But he didn’t. Because there were no muffins. Anywhere.

"…anything you say can and will—"

"No more talking. Talk and you die."

"—be used against you in the court of—"

"I said quiet. I shoot if you say more words." The rifleman’s voice was louder, but still steady and cold.

Suddenly the police officer looked off into space. "SHUT UP, ELLIE. I’M NOT GOING TO KILL HIM."

Wonderful, thought Red. There’s voices in his head.

The black-clad blonde shook his rifle and widened his eyes. Officer Elvis cocked and rose his shotgun, holding it in one hand. This didn’t look promising. And Red was in the center of it.

At this point the bald mad-scientist looking figure rolled up in his wheel chair and positioned himself neatly between his bloodthirsty rifle boy and the trigger-happy police officer. He raised his hand calmly and spoke. "That’s enough. Dietrich, put down your weapon." Dietrich did as he was told. "And officer, you can put yours down as—"

"And who the f—"

"Dr. Elvin Gerchstein."

And then there was silence. The silence lasted eight and a half seconds. Then Officer Elvis lowered his shotgun, spat on the ground angrily, and walked away. He walked away, and then he drove away.

The cripple shifted his gaze to Red. His eyes were blue, but not a pleasant blue; they were a cold, empty blue. "Red McGill?"

"Ummm… yeah."

"It is imperative that you give to us the book of Jasher. For the good of our race." His voice was serpentine and his accent guttural, but not as thick as Dietrich’s.

"Jasher? Our race? What are you, the Klan?" Red looked blankly into the equally blank blue eyes that stared back at him. "I’m not sure what you’re talking about."

The bald man chuckled. "The KKK still ride around on horses, carrying lanterns and wearing ridiculous costumes. No, we are not the Klan. We are something much greater." Red thought they might be Nazis. But did those exist any more? "Are we going to play ignorant? Very well. Get in the car."