“Day-One Shit (Part One)”
I love the sound of pneumatic whispers in the morning. Almost as much as the terror that’s felt with the rush.
As dozens of groundbirds consort on the tarmac, I reflect from the bush on twenty years passed: Who knows how many warriors and warriettes I’ve loosed on the world? How many buckets I’ve filled with blood, sweat and tears? How many hours I’ve spent maintaining my prime physical condition? How I’d ever even solve these riddles by abusing the power of math?
Never mind hypotheticals, it’s time to focus on reality. And for whichever recruits will make my new bunch, the reality this morning is realer than most.
…Because yesterday was their last living life like civilians: Because today they are mud, tomorrow they’re clay, and with any luck at all, as a fortunate few finish this phase, they’ll forego fame and fortune to forge a new future, fomented by freedom’s infatuate flames.
Boinkston, they’ll say, when asked how they did it: Who harvested their talents? Who numbed them from pain?
Of course, the reply. You’ve got his double helix all over you–the kind of brilliance only measured using ultraviolet rays.
“Boinkstain, you’re up! This your bunch!”
“Roger that, LT!”
“And Boinkstain…”
“Yes, LT?”
“How many times have we told you? Stay the hell out of that bush.”
…
Ground Zero: Day 1
Their eyes, as wide as the wheels on the bus, watch it stop on my dime and heed thy command. Their pupils, contracting, blind them in the sun–this too is by design: “Unload them facing east.”
The driver, the same for the last forty years, lines them up at the door and waits for my signal.
It’s a tradition that’s been around long before me. And if history repeats itself, one of these punks will see it continue long past the point I’m relieved of the grave.
Opposite these rookies, waiting for the door, my chakras–juiced and ready for the Desert Plains Arbitrator. It’s the first kata in a series I expect them to have learned, and, for any of those who’ve slacked on their homework, I’m their rude awakening: ” ‘Tis the season little fairies.”
These last few decades the game has evolved: It’s become much more offensive to use offensive stereotypes. For instance, Desert Plains Arbitrator was once Comanche War Mission, but, with newer recruits come newer concerns, and me, being a maverick, I had the change planned way before Human Resources ever scheduled me those classes.
Ahead of the curve, that’s what they’ve always said: “Good old Boinkston Curvehead, Pudendum’s only legend.” And if I’ve learned one thing as a legend in all of my years, it’s that everything can change while nothing’s made different. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time I set an example.
I drop for 15 and count them out loud:
“ONE! TWO! THReee!” It’s never been personal, it’s always been business. And personally, the business is rife. “FOur! Six. Seeeeven.” Rife for entanglements. And grudges. And personal feelings. “EiiiiGHt. Niiiiine. EleVen!” With no shortage of conflict. Or insults. Or grudges hurting feelings. “ThiRTeeeeeen. FoUr-FOur-FoURrrRrRrr–FiFteen!”
Back on my feet, unfazed and getting lit, I double-dutch a dab with an invisible rope–sweetly layering confusion, the Master of Trades.
…I’ve got these butt-sniffers right where I want them.
Disarming the ropes in Travolta full-stop, I kickflip an entrechats and smooth-land into moonwalk, come-with-me fingers screaming “WELCOME TO HELL.”
When ten yards separate me from the bus, I belly-bump the asphalt with interlocked fingers–the kind that pose no threat while supporting my chin. With my legs causally angled at ninety behind me, I begin to butter-flutter my targets into a false sense of security.
The driver, blowing me a kiss through a perfect set of smoke rings, repeatedly winks from both eyes, signalling the pain. “Bring it,” they say, as red my heart’s fury. “Love your country and your mission,” signals her Visine. A coughing fit of flem means the doors will open soon. Waving her hand for clearance…good, she’s okay.
As she grabs the lever the doors swing open, and I spot a happy-face emoji about to lose its charm.
Well, hello, Victim Number One. You must be Vivienne. It looks like you could use a lesson in maintaining your cover.
Before her second non-issue is on the way to the ground, my feet pound the pavement in a blood-curdling scream: “Vivi-Yi-YI-YI-YI-YI!”
Even full-speed in an Arbitration war cry, I’m completely aware of all my surroundings:
The gingersnap behind her, breaking protocol with his juice-box: With no sense of control, he won’t even make the week .
The cyborg in the back–attempting to leverage the emergency exit with his leg brace and crutch kit–he knows damn well that he can’t outrun me, I’m more of a machine than he’ll ever be.
Vivienne’s first of many tears, fighting its way to get back in the duct, in hopes that I’ll stop with her heart and her brains and leave her good eye in one piece.
And past these punks, I get a look at their handlers: Whoever loaded this bus mustn’t like them very much, because if they wanted them to survive, they would’ve sent ’em in prepared.
I stop on the mark and rip off her name tag. “BOOM! You’re dead. It’s that easy, Vivienne. Now line up against the bus and rethink your bad decision!”
As the rest come off the steps to line up at attention, I prepare to treat them individually to Heart Of The Enemy–just like the sensei that came before me, and his before him, all the way down that line for centuries passed–none will be allowed to join Vivienne in line without seeing all the love they’ve ever known pump through my hands.
Ripped right out their chest with a dragon-claw Bruce, one chomp is removed from each babbling heart–by having sacrimoniously eaten their souls, I’ll have ensured their welcome to the Plain of Tribulations. Of course, once they complete their training, all their souls will grow back. So long as they pass without getting cocky, and assuming that we’re not crunched for time…not that I’m saying lessons have been learned, but we may not have the funding this year for a whole ‘nother cermony.
Nonetheless, I’ll put them back on these buses with their heads held high–high enough to inform their derelict handlers that I’ve dutifully discarded all their miserable shame.
Now standing in front of their filthy little line up, it’s time to address the talent.
Collectively, these recruits are as diverse as my skill set, thus they’ll be welcomed traditionality by each of their cultures. Ensuring they’re aware that I know where they’ve come from lets each of them know that, one day, they can gain my respect. Even the half-breeds, which to me is important…because even without the training I’m a sensitive guy.