Buchanaki \bo͞o-kə-nä-kē\ n sing or pl: 1 a surname denounced by mythical beings 2 slang: lineage impedimenta described in ancient tracts as sympathy hires at the Keepers of Oaths, whence the chairman owed a sister from when Dan was still around
…
Uticaria, Idaho
“Fat mouth, stupid haircut, sings to Alanis, answers to Jake. Got it.” That little bully booger-eater doesn’t stand a chance. He’ll never see it coming from a professional like me.
I put the phone in my pocket and crank the window open, welcoming the breeze through my sweet Brady perm. The curls I call my girls have been yearning to get sassy. “Don’t worry, ladies–you’re about to get your chance.”
Having Ky call in a contract is a feeling bittersweet; and the fact that she’s been burned not only crushes my feels, it sews wings on a rage that I’ll giddily fly.
The bunnies on my feet growing anxious for their walk, I step out of the office and find our favorite bush. “And stretch, and yawn, and pinch, and whiz, and pinch, and whiz, and pinch, and whiz…” My safety routine confirms I’m awake.
Squawking up above are my fervid feathered friends, staring from their trusses as I’m streaming out my fly. Early birds, they say, pose the highest risk for worms, and I trouble at the thought that they’ve got breakfast on their mind.
I zip myself up and walk back to the office, sic the bunnies on the tires with a few soggy kicks. Sitting there sickly, slumped over wedges; freshly filled when I find them on Fridays, they start every Monday by singing “Swing Low.” Along with the landlord, they’ll have to wait till payday. My evening entertainment’s not the type to refund quarters.
Like so many others who’ve found ways to work from home, the cargo van’s been doubling as my tantric startup dojo. Known to mix the arts as a martial opportunist, Danny Buchanaki DBA’s as Sensei Mobile.
It’s the best I can do given what I have to work with–you use what you got when you’re stranded in time.
It was a temporal rift I opened accidentally with my Tinker Toys that swallowed me up and spit me out in the not-so-distant future. Like a woody at the blackboard, sirens-on in spandex, I learned with a curve both embarrassing and painful. My intellectual, emotional and spiritual capacities, six years old and a product of the eighties, arrived in the future with a body mid-age. Physically limited in ways I’m still unable to comprehend, I blew my cover day one flailing wedgied from a tree. Ky found me there, being ridiculed by others. She watched as my powers drained against taunts, and then called her mom to assist with the bleeding. The only ones that cared, they helped me track down Agent Rogers; who reminded my being that anything’s possible–and that special comes in ways not always easy to define.
And ever since that day, cursed with secretive powers, I’ve vowed to right the wrongs of the 1st-7th Grades.
I free the tires from their stops and push HQ down towards the river. A jump through the back after reaching a trot and I bow with respect before I take the pilot’s seat: Had the Romans not the foresight to invent Old Mother Gravity, clutches would be useless, and I’d be nowhere fast.
I pop the peddle, lock the gear and give the horses room to run. The tires smoke and squeal as the bridge pulls into rearview. To the landlord and his husband, they say, “Danny’s got a job.”
From their tent, loud and clear, they’re waving back, “You’re number one!”
That old honest couple act as vanguards to my cover. They secure with a deposit my hubcaps and antenna, and keep the rent fixed to increase at monthly minimals. They’re also rather handy with disguising secret lairs; shopping carts on their sides blend me in with all my neighbors.
A few minutes fighting traffic and I’m pulling up to Jake’s.
Oil trailing from the driveway tells me Mommy’s not around.
I case the joint from the cover of my corner-office window, using binoculars and a flashlight that could land an F-18. With a clipboard in the daytime, the neighbors don’t ask questions. They just turn their blind eyes and stumble on their merry way.
Five minutes tops should be all the time I need. Every bully the same, the treatment’s mostly standard. In the back he’ll have a bunker hidden somewhere in a tree; that’s where he’ll be keeping his most prized possessions–ingredients I’ll use for my award-winning payback, short-order cooked as Buchanaki Surprise.
One last look from my desk with industrial ‘nocs and I see nature signal danger using silent, subtle cautions: Flocks of birds overhead fly flat arcs throughout the sky, avoiding toxic airspace from which one cannot recover. Balding bushes, once lush, meant to quiet down the house, scream out wayward from barred windows, flagging cars with frantic waves. On the roof, shingles shiver, keeping time to something’s heartbeat; while out the chimney, piled high, is exotic steamy dung–a healthy, thoughtful mix that reeks of reindeer, elf and fat man. The tracks, fresh in June, suggest a special trip was made.
Not wanting to waste another creepy minute, I leave the dojo running and make my way in stealth.
Peeking through front windows, I sense the structure empty.
Around the side and over the fence–
Around the side and over the fence–
Around the side, a gate to the fence–opens up easy, posing no issue.
I tuck-and-roll to the tree from the edge of the house and work rotundly up the ladder leading to the covert’s entry.
The top rung rewards with a panoramic view and an eagle-eye gander of surroundings and traffic. Neighborhood veins funnel office-hours movement, and where they meet to make an artery, it looks like Jakey’s playing. Say what you want about the five o’clock rush, but it’s never one to blacklist when you’re hurting for a babysitter.
The traffic will act as my unsuspecting lookout; I’ll know there may be trouble if the tires stop their screeching.
All systems ready, I’m going in. “BREACH!”
A punch through the floor finds the doorman’s southern cavity; the velveteen watch rabbit never knew what bit him.
My hand, deep in radish, hops around to find the trap, then puppeteers the latch and helps me slide the floor door open.
Climbing in, immediately, my stomach starts to churn. Several stations made of milk crates form a smorgasbord of sickness, carving out a forecast for one freak of nature’s future.
The monstrosities before me burn as burdens through my eyes: Stuffed loveables from Disney have been sewn end-to-end; forced to live their little lives as a makeshift mammal centipede, their big bubbly eyes riddle wide with ugly horrors. Bowls full of wings and legs are sprinkled with bodies of spiders and flies; a shaker for pepper, filled with antennas; mixed with the salt, a bunch of bad eggs. And–bobbleheads–in formaldehyde–lips and eyeballs sewn with stitches–still nodding in the affirmative–unwittingly consenting to torture.
I sense somehow it’s about to get worse–like someone is staring right over my shoulder.
Turning towards the shadow occupying Project Corner, it’s the face of Tucker Carlson, proudly scowling down in macramé. Wearing a Best Friend medallion, halved and hanging from his puka shells, he’s empowering the bent of a Chimerican monster.
Shaking my head solemnly, something grabs my eye.
Next to the shrine, by the hairbrush gone unused, on top of the jars of alarming fluorescence, slightly covered by a bib sporting stains of flavored glue–the kind of sacred text that needs a warning on the cover: “Ooday Otnay Openpay!”
Under threat of death, I open up the diary: Two hundred pages of chaotic revisions, and I flip through them all to find the one he’s approved.
‘Of Winter Essence’
Boogers are like snowFlakes
no tWo taste alike
runNy little no-bakes
my favorite food for lifE
I catch theM with my mouth open
collect tHem on my sleeves
and keep them in the freeZe year-long
like summeR store-bought beef
Boogers are liKe snowflakes
frosting for my toEs
polkA dots of better nots
that roll right oUt my nose!
It’s always a shame to see such talent wasted, but there’s no time to dwell when my lookout’s gone silent. Horns and obscenities absent from traffic, I recognize my cue to evacuate the premises.
But first–I search his shelves to find the glue boasting rustic scintillations, and start reattaching bugly bodies back to, mostly, their own parts. Then, I shuffle across the carpet that’s at the foot of good old Tucker, and building up a current, spark the miracle of life. “CLEAR!” The critter pile erupts as I finger sweet salvation, and little flying Frankensteins go searching for their exit.
Next on my list is the business with jars. I fight through the swarm to reach their spooky glowing essence, and pick one up to see its contents have been labeled. The short list of dates and corresponding ethnic meals tells me each jar holds a designer mix for huffing. He’s playing the game of an after-school special, and I’m the referee that’s gonna call a switcheroo.
I free his farts from the jars and refill them with my brand, knowing next year he’ll be moving on to vapes.
All that’s left to do is figure something for the centipede. “Thumper. Bambi. Woody. Buzz. Dumbo. Tinker. Aladdin. Goofy. I hope you understand–” Without proper medical training, the best I can do is impress upon on the authorities the sensitive nature of the situation before me.
Working the features on my phone, I snap a few shots, and tell them not to worry. “Help is on the way.”
…
Elsewhere
Somewhere along the coastline of the Amashdemagin Sea lies a cavernous subway, off-limits to mortals. The subway connects to mysterious lands, vibrant with art and mediocre technology. Appointed from those lands are various keepers, bureaucratically required to do their keeping in Aymashdmibaals.
And so it’s in Aymashdmibaals where we find the Keepers of Oaths, in the Temple of Amashdembaad, holding an emergency session.
The Keepers, in conference, are viewing a slide show, composed of three slides, chalky and grainy, cycling on repeat, one frustrating blur.
The resolution, slowly, starting to improve, anguishes the ancients one mechanical click at a time.
Click.
Danny Buchanaki, rolling down a window, the curls he calls his girls tufting mirrored in the breeze.
Click.
Tires on a dojo, smoking and screeching, abandoning some residence, its occupant concerned.
Click.
A bar graph, two columns, both climbing high in numbers. “#What’sThatSmell?” is barely beating “#SenseiMobile.”
Commotion and clamor begin to fill the room and are quickly interrupted by a piercing accusation. “Which of you has awoken the last remaining Buchanaki?!” The Chairman, infuriated, has initiated the process of demanding accountability.
“It was Ky, sir.” A golden placard in front of the voice offers the name of Phyllis Trenchanchian. “He calls her Lady Ky. She found him when he drifted and patched up all his owwies.”
The chamber erupts. “It couldn’t be worse if she’d given him cookies!” “The Buchanaki’s ambitions must be contained!” “We cannot afford it to develop its prowess!”
“Quiet!” Punctuated by the Chairman with a fist full of table.
His finger, a freighter, breaks wake towards Trenchanian, “I’m holding you responsible, Phyllis. So unless you want to be the subject of Committee, I suggest you get on the horn and requisition a fax!”
“But sir, your sister–”
“Not to worry, keeper. She’s currently campaigning on behalf of the Pinchanotti–who just so happened to owe a favor from when Dan was still around…”
