Looks like a problem with Reliable Narrator #3.
Be done ASAP.
Looks like a problem with Reliable Narrator #3.
Be done ASAP.
Yesterday I caught Mir outside the hobby store downtown. He held a plastic bag full of modeling supplies.
“You’re the girl with the magazine,” he said when I approached him. He shifted to his right side, probably trying to hide the scar.
“Mary,” I said. He apologized for not remembering my name, rubbing the back of his head with his free hand and grinning. I quickly determined his destination (home) and asked if he would mind company.
“Sure,” he said with a hint of hesitation. “I mean, I don’t mind.” I asked him what he planned on putting together, and he started telling me about an airplane (I didn’t write down what type). We walked a block before he thought to ask why I wanted to walk with him.
Mary Pazerotti here, editor and sole producer of weekly zine The Reliable Narrator. I’ve read through what that monkey has been able to scratch together and call a blog after hearing from a reliable source about his recent online activities. You would think that in the year following his little war, Clymer would have learned how to properly punctuate or at least figure out dialogue tags.
Listen up. Clymer is taking backseat while I give my own experience in this debacle over Apuro High’s gang scene. He wasn’t the only one there, and he was too concentrated on organizing his silly coup d’état on the gangs to take real notes. I have a long list of misrepresentations Clymer has attempted to pass off as truth, but I’ll leave it to him to finish his tale before I start on that road.
Your password was too easy to figure out! Enjoy your vacation because I’m about to speak the real truth.
And I still want to punch Eyal because he’s too damned smug to know all of this. Thinks he can take on the world one fight at a time. And I’m the naïve one. Right. Get back to me when you land yourself in jail, kid, when you realize the world doesn’t like troublemakers upsetting the balance, the system. Let them fight in the streets, let the drugs kill them. Let it happen because it’s what’s always happened.
Funny how the little things set you off.
Eyal claps a hand on my shoulder. You alright, kid? Look spaced.
The cold snaps me into the reality again. All the world’s sound thunders, and it’s deafening. Feels like something’s leaving my body. Look at my hands. They’re red-hot, but they’re quickly turning white, and that worries me. Tell Eyal, I think I’ve found some kind of Zen anger management technique.
Cold as hell outside. Clear sky. Might not be as cold with overcast, but it could start snowing any time. Feels good to get into Eyal’s car. It’s toasty warm. Smells worse than before. Reeks of weed. He’s wearing a nice looking white shirt with loose cuffs and an undone collar. No hat today. Has his hair slicked back. Not sure if it’s because he just washed it or if it’s gel. I expect him to give me a hard time about my clothes, but instead he has a concerned look. Tells me I look like shit. Face turning green. I don’t want to get sick, he says.
Bad waffles, I tell him.
He laughs. Says, Alright, where to? Give him directions to my place.
We pull into my driveway fifteen minutes later, and already I’m feeling better, but my conscious is getting worse. I already know what happened to the Fort. Ishii’s guys came back the next night with force. Maybe they expected to find the Krew there, maybe they just wanted to settle the score with the Punk Chix. Send everyone a message. Either way, they’re the ones who burned that place down. Ishii is still around and he’s pissed. His ego is hurt, that I know, and if arson on the neutral parties is what he’s going to open with, then I’ve got trouble ahead. At least this takes care of my false flag attack. Mitch will be all about a war now.
Swank pad, Eyal says after I lift the garage door.
Take a good look at him to see if he’s being sarcastic. Nod. Yeah, I say. It is swank.
My room is colder than a shadow on the moon. It’s a realm without light, in which heat has forgotten to be warm. I’m careful about closing the garage door without making a sound, but it’s hard because as soon as I take my hands out of my jacket, they start shaking, and then the rest of my body shivers until my teeth chatter like a cartoon character left in a meat locker. Kick off my shoes and climb under my sheets. Curl into a ball. Hug my knees. Open my mouth wide and breathe out to keep my inner warmth to spread under the blankets. Let it incubate me.
Don’t have my best night of sleep. Get me some weird dreams. Nothing I remember, but when I wake up, I can only think about getting a piece of paper so I can write them down because I know I’ll forget them by morning. Too cold to get out of my incubator, so I let those fleeting thoughts of dreams slip into nothingness.
Slide down the empty landscaping to join the others in the driveway. Greg looks better. He’s got his jacket on with its fur hood over his head. Makes him look like an Eskimo. Grins, at least.
Ready to kick it? I ask.
Greg shifts his head to look behind me. That Ivan up there? Ivan’s silhouette is barely visible against a background of trees. What did he want?
I hold up my hands. Tried to recruit him into our little party here.
Tim asks me how it went.
Shake my head. Not a chance. Yo, Eyal, lead the way to your ride.
Eyal grins. And here I was thinking you’d never give me the chance.
His car is a blue hatchback that barely runs. Smells of weed and its exhaust sounds like a cough. Tim has to take the front seat because he’s too tall to get into the back.
Got my eyes closed. Slowly, I open them, get out of my please-dear-god-don’t-kill-me stance. See Ivan standing there, dumbfounded. Let’s loose a deep, Uhhhh, how is it you are saying? Do not hang me? Is it right English?
Nigga is trying to give me a high-five? Now I get it. Cautiously, like Indiana Jones trying to figure out the right weight for the idol, I give Ivan a high-five, anything to appease him. Startles me when he grabs my hand in his and yells out in… anger? Happiness? Hard to tell: Ah ha! I am hitting you up for good work in kicking shit out of tiny Ishii man. It is good work you do. I am thinking you are girly man, but now you show how real fighting beats tiny men and their fast punchings. It is great day for us two real men.
Tim puts his hands on my shoulders, probably about to faint just like I am. Feel dizzy. Tim steadies me but pulls his hands away to avoid Ivan’s hands smashing me on either shoulder. Ivan, man. You scared the shit out of me. Thought you were going to beat me into a full body cast.
He pulls away from me. Why are you thinking this?
After the weirdness with the Wise Men, I head downstairs. Eyal follows as he will continue to do, relentlessly. When we get to the antechamber with the red light, Eyal puts his hand on the door to the party, keeping me from opening it, then says, Tell me about Ishii.
Dude looks demonic in the red light. Another time, I say. Maybe in the car ride.
He scratches his eyebrow with his free hand and makes a tsk tsk tsk sound with his tongue. That won’t due. Consider it a toll for leaving this room. I want to know how you did it. How you beat Itachi Ishii.
Seems like the question of the epoch. How’d a dude like me beat a dude like him? I tell Eyal I don’t know how it happened. He hit me, I hit him, and then he fell down and stopped moving. Not much else to say.
What style do you use?