Beckism.com

Samuel was working the drive-in at McDonald’s when Frankenstein’s monster drove up in a Hummer.

“Dude,” said Samuel. “Wicked neck bolts, man.”

“Raaaaurgh!” said Frankenstein’s monster.

“Hey, no prob,” said Samuel. “We all have days like that.” He put on his customer face, all raised eyebrows and sincerity. “May I take your order?”

“RAAAAurgh!” said Frankenstein’s monster.

“One number two with supersized fries, coming right up,” said Samuel. He punched some buttons on the greasy keyboard in front of him. “God, I wish my shift was up.”

“Raaaurgh! RAAAurgh!” said Frankenstein’s monster.

Samuel turned back to the window. “Hey man, I didn’t choose to be here. I just need some goddamn spending money. Never thought I’d end up hawking pseudo-food and doing my small part to perpetuate the evils of corporate America. But what can you do? Just gotta take what you’re dealt and make the best of it.” He eyed Frankenstein’s monster’s pallid demeanor and ragged stitching. “Course some of us get a worse deal than others, but judging by your wheels you’re doing alright.”

“RAAAAURGH!” said Frankenstein’s monster, pounding on the steering wheel.

“Dude, I am right there with you! All the hopeless consumption we engage in is just a distraction from what really matters, and here you and me are, buying straight into it. But you know, you have to eat and you have to get from place to place, so why not do it in style? Sometimes you just have to say to hell with it all, and live it up while you can. You’re destroying the environment and I’m working for the quintessential exploitative corporation, but at least in fifty years when we’ve consumed all our natural resources and our society is crumbling around us we’ll be able to look back and say, ‘Well, at least I had fun.’”

“Raaaaurgh!”

Samuel grimaced. “Yeah, sorry. I don’t get many opportunities to really talk to people on the job, though, you know? Most people don’t like to think critically about the implications of their lifestyle. They just drive up and want an automaton to hand them food.” Samuel stiffened his arms and moved them jerkily back and forth. “Would. You. Like. Fries. With. That. I mean, I guess we’re all what society has made us, but still.” He paused and glanced at Frankenstein’s monster’s neckbolts and shrugged. “You more than most.”

A coworker walked up behind Samuel. “Hey, order’s up.”

Samuel grabbed the paper bag, stuffed some ketchup packets inside, and handed it out the window to Frankenstein’s monster. “That’ll be $7.59.” He grabbed the proffered bill, pressed a few more greasy buttons, and handed the change back. “And hey, thanks for letting me unload on you, you know? It’s nice to connect with people sometimes, and damned hard to do it working here.”

“RAAAAAAURGH!” said Frankenstein’s monster, and he peeled out of the drive-through, leaving Samuel coughing in his exhaust.

“What a jackass,” growled the wolfman in the backseat of the Hummer. “He totally ignored you when you ordered me a number seven. And you asked for it like five times.”

“Raaaurgh,” said Frankenstein’s monster sadly.

“Yeah, I know it,” said the wolfman. “Kids these days are so oblivious.”

They came in over the hill shortly after dawn, slipping through the grass with a gentle susurrus that slipped about the edges of hearing. From the porch the grass looked like it was merely swaying in an energetic breeze, but as the motion swept closer glimpses of sickly pastels flashed briefly through the overgrown blades.

Tom stood on his porch, hands gripping the barrel of his shotgun, and wondered where the hell they had all come from with so little warning.

Jemima stuck her head out the door. “Tom, what the hell are you doing out there with a shotgun?” she said, and then looked beyond him at the waving grass and within it the teeth and twitching wet noses that flashed in and out of sight. “Good merciful God,” she said.

Tom turned his head and spat off the porch without taking his eyes off the hill. “Get out of here, Jemima,” he said. “I don’t know if I can hold ‘em.” His grip on the shotgun left his knuckles standing out white and bloodless against the black of the barrel.

“What are they?” said Jemima. “Tom?”

“Never told you what I was hunting all those times I went east,” said Tom. “Didn’t want to worry you.”

At the crest of the hill, two prongs of quivering shadow thrust into the sky, silhouetted briefly against the red glow of sunrise as something raise its head to sample the air. Tom’s arms jerked in an aborted attempt to swing the shotgun up into place, but the thing dropped out of sight, disappearing back into the grass as it proceeded down the hill with its brethren. The wave of swaying grass had almost reached the circle of dirt that bordered Tom and Jemima’s home.

“Jesus God,” said Jemima.

“The son-bitches,” said Tom. “I never thought they’d swarm like this. I could have swore I cleared them out years ago.” With a practiced gesture, he broke the gun open and checked its magazine.

“Bastards can have both damn barrels,” said Tom as he slammed the action home and gave the pump a pull.

Jemima at last gave the shotgun more than a passing glance. “Christ, what’s that?” she said. “That’s not your shotgun. I thought those things were only in movies.”

“Bought it off eBay,” said Tom, taking his eyes off the grass for a moment to admire the sleek, semi-automatic, double-barreled beauty of his firearm. Its matte black surface had an infernal glow in the strange light, every oiled line of its body speaking of barely-restrained brute force. “Had to mortgage the house to get it.”

Jemima went slack-jawed. “You did not mortgage our damn house,” she said. “God, you did not.”

“I told you to run, Jemima!” said Tom, his attention snapping back to the hill. “They’re coming out!”

Beady eyes peered out of the grass, and as one a line of pink, yellow, and white fuzzy bunnies shuffled from the grass and onto the dirt. There they paused, their adorable little paws shuffling quietly in the dust as their beady eyes surveyed the porch.

Tom whipped the shotgun up to his shoulder. “Try it,” he said. “I’ll take the lot of you.”

Jemima looked confused. “But they’re bunnies,” she said. “Like at Easter.”

Some of the bunnies wiggled their button noses. Others twitched their precious little ears. Tom’s finger tightened on the trigger, the gun’s barrel moving first left, then right. The pause went on for an indefinite second, tension suspending bunnies and Tom and Jemima in a timeless state of adrenalin. Then, without any apparent signal, the bunnies surged forward, more bunnies in the grass hopping over the heads of the front ones even as they pelted for the house, the grass whipping as if in a hurricane as bunnies poured over the hill in a now visible stream, leaping and kicking their feet in a frenzied animal rush.

With a roar Tom’s shotgun went off and punched a hole in the front line of bunnies, blood misting the air as bunny bodies tumbled and spun violently backward. Jemima screamed once, loud and shrill, like an angel starting its fall from heaven and realizing how truly far it had to go. The desperate dual shunk-shunk of Tom’s pump action melded with Jemima’s scream, and then the bunnies were there, bouncing wildly, eyes black as the inside of a coffin.

And then there was silence. Pink, fluffy silence.

Melinda was already annoyed when she heard Charles’ car pull into the driveway forty-five minutes late, and when several minutes passed before the car door slammed she knew her day was about to get worse. Charles only dallied outside if he needed to work up his nerve to tell her something she wasn’t going to like.

So when Charles came cheerfully through the door, a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye, he found Melinda leaning on the doorjamb to the kitchen, arms crossed.

For just a split second she saw the panic flit through his eyes as renegade thoughts of She knows! Abort, abort! sent up a clamor before being hustled out the back door and silenced. With noticeable effort, however, he managed to salvage his smile as he set down his briefcase and moved towards her with open arms.

Melinda neatly sidestepped him. “You going to tell me why you’re an hour late?”

Charles glanced at his watch. “Come on, Lindy, more like forty-five minutes.”

“Whatever.” Melinda walked back into the kitchen and pulled the roast out of the oven where it had been slowly drying into a crisp. “So you want to tell me before, during, or after dinner?”

“Look, Melinda—”

She gave him the not amused look as she walked by with the roast.

Charles sighed and brushed his hand through his hair. “You know I’ve always wanted a pet.”

Melinda carefully set the roast on the table and took a deep breath before she turned around. It didn’t help. “You’re kidding.” Charles shrugged. “Charles, we talked about this. Damn it, Charles, you should have called me!”

“I’m sorry, Lindy, but I couldn’t pass this offer up!” said Charles. “He was on sale, and he’s so cute. Look, I know that you’re going to love—”

“What did you buy?” interrupted Melinda. “Hmm? What kind of pet are we talking about here?”

“Look, I know you’re going to love him if you just get to know him,” said Charles desperately, ineffectually trying to stand in her way as she walked toward the door.

“What kind of pet?”

Charles grabbed her sleeve. “Look, Melinda, just let me explain.”

She shrugged him off and reached for the doorknob. God, tell me he didn’t buy—

“A ninja,” said Melinda. “Damn it, Charles!”

The ninja was standing next to the car, wrapped all in black fabric and looking nonchalant. He was big for his kind, and stood a little taller than Melinda’s waist. Although he wasn’t quite as well-equipped as some she’d seen, Melinda thought she spotted the handle of a small katana protruding above his shoulder.

She felt Charles behind her, although he didn’t quite dare touching her. “Come on in, little guy!” he called over her shoulder, and the ninja glided inside with typical ninja grace and disdain.

“A full-grown ninja,” said Melinda, and she slammed the door as hard as she could.

“Look, Lindy—” began Charles, but she spun to face him.

“You know my mother is allergic to ninjas, Charles! How could you do this? Just go out and buy one without even talking to me about it?”

“Melinda—”

“And how are we supposed to feed him, huh? You think I just have a chunk of tofu lying around in the pantry? That stuff is expensive!”

“Lind—”

“And the neighbors! You know they have pirates! You want me to be trapped in here with a bored ninja all day? Or let him go get torn up the moment he sets foot in the neighbor’s yard? You know how curious ninjas are! You tell them no and they’ll go exploring just to be perverse!”

“Oh, come on!” said Charles, finally raising his voice. “Scrappy can totally take them. He’s big for a ninja. And besides, the Hinckle’s crew is really well trained. I’ve heard some of them even know how to speak.”

“Speaking pirates,” said Melinda with disdain. “It doesn’t change the fact that they’re stinking, noisy, drunken—”

“Well, that’s why I got a ninja,” Charles cut in. “You know I’ve always wanted one, Lindy, ever since I was a kid. Well he was on sale, no one else wanted him, and they said he’d been house-trained and everything. I’ll take care of him, I’ll feed him, I’ll clean up after him. You probably won’t even notice that he’s here.”

Melinda’s mouth was a tight line as she glared at Charles, but she finally nodded. “If I find so much as a single shuriken stuck in the couch, though—”

“I promise,” said Charles. “You won’t even notice him.” They both glanced around for the ninja, and found him hanging with his back to the ceiling and no visible means of support in the far corner of the room. During their argument he must have silently scaled the wall to escape potential cross-fire.

Charles walked over to the ninja. “Come on down, Scrappy,” he called. “There’s a good ninja.” Scrappy remained on the ceiling for a second or two and then lithely dropped the floor. “See?” said Charles, leading Scrappy over to Melinda. “Isn’t he cute?”

Melinda gave the ninja a closer look. A pair of bloodshot eyes stared back from within the black cloth swaddling his face. “Scrappy, huh? What kind of name is that for a ninja?”

Charles scowled, and scratched the ninjas shoulder. “It’s a damn good name.”

Although he didn’t move, the ninja began to make a quiet thrumming sound.

“See, he likes you!” said Charles.

“I read somewhere that means he’s imagining violent dismemberment.” Melinda leaned down and stared the ninja in the eye. “You violently dismember anything, and I’ll throw you in the river. With a brick tied to your neck.” The ninja stared expressionlessly back.

Charles glanced over his shoulder at the table. “Pot roast is getting cold.”

Melinda let out a sound of disgust, turned away from the ninja, and they sat down to eat.

Like a shadow, like a wraith, Scrappy slipped away to explore the rest of his new domain. What did he care if his owners had marital problems? He was a ninja. Deadly. Silent.

Besides, he desperately needed to find the litter box.