Chapter 10.
I stoke the fire all night. Every time I hear a growl, I stoke a little harder. Hoping the flying ash will ward away the evil that lurks in the jungle. The morning comes slowly. The first rays of light cut the earth below in two, as the river shines blue with a reflection of the sky. The foggy haze makes the trees below look like they are rising from the sky. We are soaring high in a jungle canopy parachute, and with each passing minute, we grow closer to reality. Reality rises with the sun.
Reality is George batting at imaginary flies. I have fanned the flames of the sentry all night, and feel fatigued as a result. This will not matter to my master. As I rummage through his kit, I see a folded picture, nearly torn in two from wear. On the back is writing in Spanish, and a date, written in black magic marker. A girl's handwriting. I carefully unfold the picture and look at the most hideous family photo ever. It almost gives me the dry heaves. George is in the middle. To his right, a withered old woman. Or man. Hard to tell. To his left, a troll like woman. Like you see in the old Guinness Book of Records (not the new one, that one is filled with too many zombie related feats to list). The Hairiest Woman. This woman has one thick eyebrow that swaths a thick letter 'V' across her brow. Beneath that ‘V’ is a serious grin. The look of "Hey! I gotta live with them, so don't judge...blech."
They're all serious faced in the picture. Black and brown skinned. There's a cherub propped up on one of George's massive knees, a few munchkins at his feet. I count twelve children, some look like teens. Young adults. Some hold toddlers straddling their hips, which jut out to hold the baby’s weight. The babies are grinning, but they’re serious grins. The grin George wears every time we take a break and he unpacks his gear. They are well dressed, and the house behind them, though out of focus, looks elegant.
I put the picture back. I find a small spool of fishing line and a brass hook. There are a few sinkers and a bit of cork attached to the line. I grab the fishing tackle and the tin. I stop short on my trek down to the river.
“Some sentry I make,” I mutter. There are jaguar prints opposite the fire. No more than twenty feet from where I was stoking all night. I wipe my foot over them, go down to the river, and go about making breakfast.
I cast the line out about twenty feet, and the river carries the cork slowly east. I lift my miniskirt and take a leak (in case any of you are skipping head, don't get the wrong idea...my fishing tackle is anything but feminine. The heroine section is two stories over; I'm just a poor sap who makes do). I pee right on more jaguar tracks.
The fish bite early, and I reel in an ugly pink looking thing with big bloated eyes that stare back at me in disbelief. They bulge out of the fish's head. I smack its head against a root to stop all the wiggling and carrying on I'm doing holding such a grotesque sea monster, makes me squirm. I squeeze those eyes out like Pez candy, and savor their gooey texture. Like downing a fish oil pill. I cast the line and catch a few more, five in all. Five eyes, that is, only two fish. One of the fish squirmed away after I popped out one of his eyes.
I scramble back up the hill. George is sitting up, coughing and blue. Nothing unusual about that. If he had awoken like that yesterday, forget it. Heart attack city for me. But the giveaway is the cough. Zombies don't try to hack out a lung like George is doing. His sick jaguar mating call must be the reason we're being tailed.
George shakes his head at my catch, means nothing to him. I guess it would be like me coming at you with an uncooked chicken cutlet, only pink bug eyed fish in lieu of the cutlet. And the cutlets have only deep empty eye sockets. Not very appealing for breakfast. These things don't give me the dry heaves. They might you, though, so I'll skip the gutting business, and cut right to after breakfast.
It's a good breakfast, fish guts for me, fish for George. George doesn't kick me into the fire. He slides down the embankment, makes hardly any noise, just the occasional grunt and cough. But no sliding rocks and branches, like when I went down. Real quiet like.
My bird Blackie flaps back. His wings whistle as he flutters to a stop. The little note from the boss is in Spanish.
“Today will be a good day. I can feel it in my bones,” I say to no one. The sun is shining, I had my fill of fish guts, nothing can go-
"Senor!"
My heart sinks. George calls after me again, his tone serious. There's no coughing after he calls, so he means business.
I stomp out the fire, tuck away my bird, gather up the kits. George is silent down below. Jumpy stops licking at her mangy paws and trots down the hill. I clamber down after her, doing my best not to spill either kit.
George is standing there, looking stupid with his giant white hat, arms crossed, boots tapping on the ground.
"You get stood up again, lover boy?" I ask.
I hand him the note, he reads it. “Send back to him the message…eight. Ocho. Si?”
I send off Blackie.
George gets back to business. He points at the ground. I play dumb.
"Jaguar tracks? Size eight tire sandals?" I joke.
He ignores me and squats down, studying the mud.
"They people we follow come to here, maybe to camp," he says. "They stop, just like us. The jaguar...he stops here. He goes up the hill to our camp. Then you come here, and wipes out the trail for the breakfast fish."
He groans as he rises, and his joints creek and pop.
"Senor, I go forward, look for tracks on this side. You go back," he says.
"Back? Back where? You mean I'm free?"
"Si. Free. Free for a mile, walk that way for twenty minutes." (Only he doesn't say twenty, he just flashes twenty by opening and closing both fists twice).
"And then?" I ask.
"Look for the tree."
"The tree in the jungle. Got it."
"Smart guy. The tree will have mucho bumps and knots. No touch the tree. His very bad. Ants."
"Ants?"
"Si, they bite. Behind the tree, canoe. Aluminum. Wrap the canoe."
"Wait. What? Wrap the canoe? Wrap it in what?"
"Wrap." He walks over and knocks on my head with his big fist.
"Wrap the canoe," he says.
"Oh...wrap," I mock his accent. "Why muss I w-r-r-rap the canoe?"
"Bees."
"There are bees in the canoe?"
"Maybe. Maybe not. Wrap the canoe. If there are bees, no stop running till you come back this way. No dives in the water. They just wait you out. Adios, Senor." He turns and walks away, looking at twigs and the ground, stopping to poke at some leaves. A giant red centipede scurries out from under some leaves and he kicks it into the river.
I'm about to ask how fast or slow I should walk, but I don't know. I don't have a watch. There are many variables to consider. For a moment, I almost ask to take his dog with me, but she's pretty useless. I straighten my turban, put on my hubcap and cape, and tighten my mini skirt. Movement through the jungle is crucial. As soon as you stop, you notice how alive the jungle is. Bugs everywhere. Moving mitigates bugs latching onto you.
I begin walking down the north bank of the river. It's a slow uphill walk. You're probably wondering why I just don't take off, being a slave and all. I should explain that, but not get into too much detail.
After things settled down with the shock and awe of zombies back in the day, and how cool it was, and how it was such a Hurricane party in the beginning, things got like they always get when you mix people and freedom too fast. Unbridled chaos. There were nudist colonies, puritan colonies, gay colonies, religious colonies (those were the rapture gangs, very dangerous crowd), the bikers, the hoarders, the free thinkers, the anarchists, the masochists, the zombie hunters, the zombie lovers, and my personal favorite, the Amazons.
The Amazons were a bunch of show girls from Vegas who got together and, you guessed it, moved down south here and set up camp. All over six feet two. All twenty something. All beautiful. All rich from bilking Sheiks and playboys. Each one sharp as a tack. Mensa material. I assume this, bec
ause none of them would give me any time of day, no matter what my approach was…
I'm back to being a parking attendant. I'm on my lunch break, 10pm (I work nights). Chili dog, extra onions. Delicious. This is back when things like canned foods and hot dogs started becoming delicacies. I get a call from Jenny (this is after they got the phones working, albeit before they went back down again...the phones lasted about as long as the Ritz crackers and peanut butter). She's a red head, six or seven feet high, I could never tell because she is always wearing ornate feather headdresses and spiked heels. Lots of sequins. She looked like a giant, feathery Christmas tree, guys just wanted to climb every limb of her. Not me, of course, Riley will always be the girl for me, where ever she is. Sigh.
"I need a ride to the airport," Jenny says. "Tonight."
"But I'm eating lunch," I tell her.
"I thought you told me you're a driver?"
"Yeah, in a way. I drive the car to one place, and park it. Then when they want me to pick it up, I drive it back."
She's mumbling to someone on the other line, probably her boss. None of the casino owners are happy about their prized possessions flying off in the middle of the night. Since the zombie apocalypse, I grew a pair. At least to say, I realize that time is short. So I speak up.
"I'm not aiding and abetting, you know," I say.
"You're not what?"
"A&B. Helping you bounce. Quit. Take off. Fly the coop. Whatever it is the kids on the street are calling it. Count me out." I hang up the phone.
The phone rings. It's a quiet night, and the boss is looking at me from out of his little booth with all the keys. He gives me the eye. I pick up the phone and turn away from him.
It's Jenny again. "I got two jars of Planters. All yours."
"Two jars of Planters," I look around. I lower my voice, "Are you joking me?"
"I'm serious," she says.
"These better not be any of those regular peanuts, you know. The caps still have that little dimple in them?"
"Yeah," she says.
"What's the expiration date?"
She tells me the date.
"They're a year old, forget it," I say. I'm about to hang up, and then she does it. The water works. Real Mensa material.
"Alright, alright," I say. "I'll be there in twenty, Chickie." I hang up. It's a vice, I know, I know. Give someone an inch of power, they lord it over you like no tomorrow. Speaking of which, I have to try to outsmart the key keeper that is my boss.
"Why you need car?" my boss asks me with his thick Middle Eastern accent. He's barricaded himself behind the sports pages.
"I uh, I need to bring my mom some groceries," I say. If I tell him the truth, the scuttlebutt that I'm helping another feather wearing show girl skip town will fall on me like a ton of bricks. I'd be more than just out of a job.
"So? Take own car." He goes back to flipping through his newspaper.
"You know I don't have a car," I say. The remnants of the government, bless them, confiscated my car right as the zombies came about. Apparently, some weasel down at city hall still felt duty bound to enforce towing cars that are double parked.
He looks at me.
"Pathetic," he says.
He waves his magic wand at the peg board of keys. I pick 3G, a bright yellow Lambo. I figure that would impress Jenny.
I drive down the strip to the MGM where she's waiting out front. I get out, and smile. She ain't smiling. She's standing amidst a sea of suitcases. I pop the hood of the Lambo, (the trunk is in the front). I can barely fit her purse in the tiny trunk.
"Maybe, uh," I say, "we can get the rest inside behind the seats or something."
She's flustered, but she's a trooper. I play Tetris with her luggage, and miraculously, it all fits. Conveniently, there's only enough room for me and her in the driver's seat. The passenger seat is packed to the ceiling with her affairs.
I'm standing by the driver side door rubbing my hands with a grin from ear to ear.
She holds her hands out for the keys.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait a minute, miss. You can't drive this car."
"Why not?" she asks.
"Why not? Why not? There's a certain payment I have yet to see?"
"Oh, they're uh, they're in the luggage."
I'm always one step behind. "Let me guess, miss. 'But you can't take out that entire luggage to get payment now! I will miss my plane!' Is that it?"
She says, "Yeah. But I swear, I'm not going to stiff you."
"Oh, I wouldn't be too sure, miss," I say in my most lecherous voice. “You can sit on my lap.”
"On your lap?" she shakes her head no. "I'll get in, and you can pick the car up at the airport."
"Not on my watch, miss."
She looks around; there is no one to come to her aid in this battle of wits. I feel no pity for her. She's young, beautiful. Men indulge her every whim. Not on my watch. No kowtowing here. No sir. I know these women. You act lecherous, they leave you alone. You act nice, they walk all over you. You ignore them, forget it. Wait a minute. What is this one doing?
She steps up close to me.
She towers over me.
She puts me in a head lock.
"Oww! Oww! OK, OK, I'll sit on your lap. This is humiliating."
She lets go. She really wrenched my neck. I can't even look over my right shoulder.
She gets in, I sit on her lap. We drive to the airport. We hit traffic. Then my chili dog lunch starts kicking in. We're talking maybe two cubic feet of breathable airspace. Up till now, it's been a fragrant blend of fruity body wash masking the tangy scent of six foot six Amazonian beauty. Pure bliss. However, the chili dog had an announcement to make.
"We need to pull over," I say. I start fumbling for the switch to lower the window. The center console is buried under luggage jammed in tight to the ceiling. I manage to turn the headlights off, and turn on Barry Manilow. He’s singing, “I’m ready to take a chance again…”
Jenny starts wiggling all around, tells me to knock it off. She shoves me, she tweaks my neck. My lunch says hello.
It's very awkward. She flings up the door and tosses me out into the traffic. She slams the door shut. Chirps the tires. Goes ten feet. Screeches the brakes.
"Let me back in there!" I say. It's futile. But so is her escape. Every ten feet, stop and go traffic. Right up to the airport.
I have to hoof it pretty quick once she starts zipping around in the airport proper. There, traffic lightens up quite a bit. Unfortunately for her, a lime yellow Lambo, and her tall, leggy frame are easy to spot out from a country mile.
She's unpacking her luggage, totally ignores me.
"Hey, miss...(pant). We had...(pant)...a deal here."
She's crying. But I can't tell if they're real tears, or just an adverse reaction to my bodily gases.
This big black fellah steps up to her. Gives her a hug. He consoles her. I stand my ground.
"We had a deal, miss. Two jars of Planters, one ride to the airport," I wave my arms around. "I kept my end of the bargain."
The black guy is running his hands up and down her. They're both ignoring me. Then he looks past her and starts eye balling the car.
"Dayum, baby girl, when you said a ride, you really meant a ride! Dis mine?"
Wait. What? Before I can get out anything, she's walking him around the car, like it's a rental.
"Power steering, heated seats. Don't mind the smell. Just hang a Pine Tree from the mirror. Twelve hundred horse power-"
"Wait a minute. This ain't your car, Jenny!" I go to grab the keys, but she holds them over her head. The black guy lifts me up and puts me down as he checks out the rims. I try to grab hold of something, anything, a door handle...no door handles. Not even a fin, the car is just sleek aerodynamic Italian engineering. Bright yellow.
I try squeezing a fart out, like a skunk protecting its personal space. Nothing. The bright lights of the loading zone mock me, as I squint at them two hugging and kissing by th
e luggage.
She goes inside after too many goodbyes. The black guy, big and bouncing, comes dancing over to where I'm standing.
"Scuse me, mah man," he says as he opens the Lambo door with the key remote.
"Scuse me nothing, sucker!" I try to get in the car before he does but he holds out an arm. Maybe it’s a leg. Whatever it is, it’s immobile. I, on the other hand, am not. All I remember is him picking me up, cocking back his fist, and saying, "Yum yum!"
I wake up in my boss’s little glass office at the end of the parking lot. Apparently, airport security was kind enough to get me a cab ride over. My vinyl jacket with 'Treasure Island Parking Valet' is enough for a mailing address.
My boss stares at me, "Yum yum? What does it mean?"
"I wish I knew. But that's what happened. I say we go over to MGM and raise Cain." I forget that my boss is Middle Eastern, and Cain has some sort of significance to his religious beliefs, because he just stares at me with great distaste.
He goes outside. I go to follow him, my head is aching, I can't turn my neck. My jaw feels unhinged. I'm all gassy from the hot dog still. In short, not a good night. He motions for me to wait inside.
He picks up the phone, starts speaking Arab to somebody. They're yelling at him. He yells back. I hear the other line click, and he starts slamming the phone over and over in the cradle. Then he comes back in. I can't tell if my gas has fazed him because he has this perpetual sneer. Always sneering.
"Come on," he says.
He walks me over to his beat up Saab. We get in. We drive through old Vegas to this rinky-dink casino. A neon sign is flickering pink: Ace of Spades. Beneath, a marquee which reads: The Death Card. This does not bode well with me.
I follow my boss inside, no AC. No patrons, just rows and rows of quiet slots. An ornery card game is going on in the furthest corner. What I hate most about the old Vegas casinos is the low, low ceilings. My boss sits me down next to an unused black jack table, and walks over to the card game. A hairy guy with a lot of gold jewelry gets up and they exchange greetings. They sit down at the game, and my boss reaches for something hidden in his sock.
They play cards for hours. I'm a bit scared. Right now I'm thinking there are all kinds of leads we’re missing trying to get back that car that was stolen from the lot. Granted, I’m the one who had last possession of it. But then again, I don't know. Does my boss's boss have good insurance? Is insurance even valid anymore? It's a topsy-turvy world. Or maybe I'm just eyeballing the wheel of fortune too much.
The night drags on. My boss is up. He's down. He's chain smoking. Next, he's wearing mirrored shades. Around day break, he comes over stiff legged, scratching at his stubble covered chin. He's got hairy eyebrows, much like the old Mexican has, only deep inset eyes that make him look like he's mad. Like he's mad at his cat. Like I’m his cat, and I only occasionally use the litter box.
He sits down, and lights up a smoke.
"You smoke?" he asks me.
"No, never could really afford the habit. You know, I'm saving up to get my car out of the clink. Then I got the whole pigeon business me and Spike were talking about before...you know..."
"Yeah, that was a big, big shame. Spike Grindstone," he says. He looks around the room. He comes in close to me. I can feel his breath on me. In the Arab world, this is as big as that Cain guy. Like I'm supposed to feel his words or something. All I feel is lamb kabob breath. It's amazing, you know. Lamb, steak, all that stuff, a dime a dozen. But a hot dog costs a fortune. Real topsy-turvy times.
He comes in close, "You, uh. You save for car?"
"Yeah, why?" I ask.
"How much?"
"How much for what?" I don't like where this is heading. "Hey man, about the Lambo. What can I say? Things happen."
He looks over at the table, a few of the guys are wetting their whistles at the bar, a few are sitting like zombies. They may even be zombies, who's to say?
"Things happen, well, let me tell you Mister Fancy Pants. Unless you have enough in the bank to pay for the car, you are out of luck.” He takes a long drag of his cigarette, “The boss told me to sell you."
"Sell me? How the hell can you sell someone?"
"You don't get out much, do you?" he asks.
"Well, huh? What with the car being taken, and the whole curfew. And the zombies. How's a guy to do anything but get up and go to work every day? Besides, I got a lot on my mind."
"Tell me about it,” he pauses. “It matters not. The boss told me. I sell you. I get the cost of the Lambo. You're free."
"Wait a minute, chief. You sold me, yet I'm free? I don't quite get what you're saying here. All I know is that Jenny still owes me two jars of peanuts. And if we act fast maybe we can find the car. You know, bright yellow?"
"And how will you repay the boss for the stolen car if we cannot find it?"
"Doesn't he have, like insurance?"
"Insurance! You don't get out much. It is not my problem. I got a good deal for you. Your life is worth exactly one Lamborghini." He drags deep on his smoke, and buries the butt in the ashtray in front of me. He blows exhaust out the side of his mouth. Despite selling me off, he's a real courteous guy.
I look at him, "You can't just sell people, you dummy. I'll pay back for the car. I'll..."
"What? What will you do? The boss wants the money today. Today. You owe him one Lamborghini. I told you never to do favors for tramps. They will always get you in trouble."
"Yeah, but I could work it off."
"How?"
"At the lot, you know?"
He starts laughing at me. "And maybe in a thousand years you will pay it off. You plan on getting bitten in the suburbs today?"
(Rumor has it, that the zombies have taken over just about every gated community around Vegas. Around the whole country, actually. Ironic, ain't it? All those yuppies flocking to the safety of their gated communities, only to be overrun by marauders, biker gangs, and soccer moms who lived just outside the gates. But it's a rumor. Just like the Canadians taking over. Hogwash.)
I try to look over my right shoulder. Who am I kidding? With my neck all whip-lashed like this, even if the boss did want me back on the lot today, I couldn't back up any cars! Backing up cars is like...half of what I do all day.
"So, what? We have slaves now?" I ask.
"It's a new fad. You get a face tattoo, you do what you're told. There's no beating. It's not like that. We have them overseas. It's a very comfortable life style, actually. It’s quite a tolerable existence. You will enjoy it, I promise."
I swallow hard. "I will?"
"Sure you will. Listen, it's just like now, only instead of you working, getting paid, and then paying bills. You work, you eat, and you have a roof over your head. The money is the middle man. The money is removed, no more bills. Good life, Charlie Wonka?"
"Huh? Oh, you mean Willie Wonka. Well, I suppose. What about retirement?"
"Like you have a 401k now, Mr. Wonka? You’re a real Mister Fancy Pants," he laughs.
I'm not laughing.
"Look," he says. "Who knows what will happen in twenty years. Who knows what will happen tomorrow? As for today, you owe our boss one car. A very, very expensive car.” He spins around in his chair, looks over at the bar. “And I tell you, my friend, your debt is paid. Just go with that man at the bar."
"He's my slave owner?"
"Him? No. He works for your new owner. Just think of him as your boss. Your owner, not the man at the bar. That man at the bar will take you down the street for your tattoo. Doesn't that sound exciting? You can be like your hero, Iron Spike Grindstone."
"But my hero is a zombie now. Huh. Imagine if I took the Bugatti?"
He gets in close again, his hot stinky breath singeing my eyebrows and my wispy hair hanging down on my forehead. "You're alive today. You just remember that. You are a slave, and you are alive."
He offers me a hearty handshake. Like a dummy, I shake his hand. Then he kisses me on both cheeks and slaps my
back.
So that is that. I follow the guy at the bar, Nicoli. Russian. Arrogant, but nice enough.
"We go to get you a tattoo today, Mr. Fancy Pants?"
"Why don't you call me by my name," I tell him my name.
He laughs and says, "That's funny, but Mo says your name is Mr. Fancy Pants. It's a good name. It fits you."
He takes me down the street. It’s desolate, real surreal. Curfews, barricades. Poor Vegas. 7 am. Only in Vegas will a tattoo parlor be open at 7am.
A pretty girl with a nose ring and various tattoos on her neck and arms helps me out. She even got a tattoo of a rose on her eyeball. Could be pink eye. She gives me a bunch of books to look at. I hear a whiny needle getting turned on and off in this back room. It's almost like a dentist's office. But instead of abstract oil paintings, they have abstract pictures of different tattoos, or images that can be made tattoos.
Nicoli whispers something to her, and she says, "Oh. Yeah, that's catching on." She looks at me, "You know, we have just the thing for you."
She pulls out a book with a bunch of tribal tattoos. I scoff.
"Tell me Nicoli, can I get anything tattooed on my face? I uh, that means I'm...what's the phrase you were saying before?"
"Owned. But yeah. No tear drops, though, yeah?" he asks Nose Ring.
She nods, "Also, no names either. Muddies the water on ownership if your boss's name is 'Sam' and you get 'Betty' on your forehead.”
"Well, what would you get?" I ask her.
She looks at the ceiling and thinks. "Me? I'm partial to rainbows."
"Rainbows?" I ask.
"Like there's hope at the other end. Or maybe double rainbows. Or unicorns," she says. Actually, she pontificates it, but that sounds rather pretentious to say "She pontificates."
"What do unicorns signify?" I ask.
"Oh nothing, I just like unicorns. I like tramp stamps too."
"On my head?"
"No, not on you. Silly. In your situation…like if you're a mechanic, I'd go with a wrench. Or, if you're smart, maybe a light bulb. You know…make a statement."
“From what Mo told me, no light bulbs,” Nicoli says.
I leaf through the book, and endure the awkward flirtations going on between her and Nicoli. I say it's only awkward because I have nothing invested in their dealings, and I'm really considering bolting out the door. I'm sure the flirting is being danced divinely. I'm sure the music played on the deck of the sinking Titanic was played divinely too.
So I try to make a run for it. I go to open the door, but it has one of those electronic locks on top. I wrench my neck looking over at the two of them flirting, and ask if I can be let outside. Nicoli is absent minded for a minute, but then he comes to.
"No, you can go out after you get inked up," he says.
I sink back down in the chair, leaf through the books. Then it dawns on me.
"Petey!"
Nose Ring looks at me, "Huh?"
"Petey...like on the Little Rascals. You know. The dog. Give me a ring around my right eye."
"A what?"
It's a topsy-turvy world. Marking up people to be slaves, nobody has a problem with. The Little Rascals, you have to stop and explain. So I explain. Naturally, they have no pictures of anything Little Rascal related. They do have a picture of Alfalfa, but that would be pretty stupid walking around, serving iced tea from a tray, answering ringing bells with a picture of a messy haired dork on a bald guy's face.
I get the tattoo, it’s a bit painful, but I like it. A limo picks us up, drives us outside of Vegas. I meet my new boss, an Arab guy. I can't pronounce his name if my life depended on it, but he's a prince of a guy. No really, a prince. So it suffices that I address him as, "My Lord."
"Yes, My Lord."
"No, My Lord."
"Right away, My Lord."
Life is pretty good as a slave up in Vegas. Mo was right. Free food (though not plentiful), free board, (get to sleep on a board...but with a used feather bed as a mattress), and most of all, job security. Man, I mess up bad. And I do. Repeatedly. All the Prince ever does is yell at me. Then he gets to feeling guilty, and he asks my forgiveness.
That’s another perk. All the people in this guy's life either fear him, loath him, or want something out of him. Me? All I have to do is run around and make iced tea and listen to him whine. Eventually the power goes out, I start making hot tea. Doesn't matter, I’m his number one confidant. Mark my words, you meet a rich bastard, you be nice to his help. His help is that guy's eyes and ears.
We're sitting out by the pool. Naked girls running all around, I'm fanning the Prince with a big plastic palm frond. He says to me, "Fancy Pants. You know, I'd really like to get word out to my uncle that I've had my fill of Vegas."
"Well, why don't you, My Lord?" I ask.
He sighs, "I sent out my last runner two days ago. It will be weeks before I hear an answer."
That's when I had my epiphany.
"My Lord, remember when I told you about my pigeons?"
"When are you not talking about pigeons?"
"Oh, I know, but the thing of it is, if you let me get out to a park, maybe I can catch one. You know, train it to carry messages for you."
"We've been over this. What if someone intercepts the message?"
"I know, but what if we did like they used to do in olden times, you know, with the internet. Instead of meaningful messages, we just flood the skies with a bunch of useless messages?"
"Huh?"
"Oh sure, My Lord. We send out twenty, thirty birds, each one just giving stupid status updates. Like what everyone used to do on Facebook and Twitter. But your uncle, knowing you as he does, he weeds through the baloney. He would know if you were to really mean 'Send a chopper on Tuesday', for example. I could write up the messages. Easy peasy."
And that is it. I get permission to leave the compound. Each morning, after breakfast, I run through the masses of zombies, run around the park avoiding them. It’s a lot of fun. Drop some breadcrumbs. I do this for a week. Eventually, the birds know it is feeding time when they see me out for my morning jog. In two weeks, they are feeding out of my hand. In three, I’m taking them with me back to the compound.
By the time his runner comes back with news that his uncle wanted to know what was so important to interrupt his evening bath, I have a bird that I know...if delivered by foot to his uncle, that it will fly back in under a day with an answer. It’s a brown bird with a white head. He looks like he is wearing a bomber's jacket, so I called him B1 Bomber. Real affectionate bird.
We write a message, the Prince and me. Like two giddy school girls.
"Hello, world!"
We send the runner off, with strict instructions to care for the bird, but not let it out until he reaches the uncle’s palace.
Two weeks later, the bird flies back with a cryptic message from his uncle, "Bird…great idea. Runner…obsolete."
That runner never forgave me. He came back with wings tattooed on his forehead. He had to shack up with the bike delivery boys. His running business is kaput, banished to delivering parcels. I really hate parcels.
So now you know how I got to be a slave. Back to the story at hand…