Fiction By Eli Hopkins

“I love you”, he said as his bus idled in the wan November morning, choking exhaust into the air that was already too full of breath, choked and poisonous.

“I love you,” she said, finally, her lips pursed into a design.

The courage inspired by that falsity pursued him all the way to the front, where he was wounded within a month.

As he lay recovering in a military hospital in the desert he dreamed about the day he would return to her, but she was by this time engaged to be married to man who spoke harshly and despised her opinions.

Sometimes the smooth whisper of a jazz melody will drift through my open window as I sit at my desk smoking countless Robusta cigars. When the sound of the saxophone reaches my ears I’ll lean back in my human-skin throne and chug a Zima, one absurdly muscular arm folded behind my head: fresh and invigorating, like practicing tai chi naked in a hailstorm, which I do almost constantly. Then I’ll turn on my 5000-watt amp and plug in, complementing the sensual wail of saxophone on my 14-string slap bass. I’ll glance over at Bette sleeping on the bed, her pants half on. Poor thing isn’t used to freebasing cocaine for days at a time, and she’s very, very old. I’m often reminded of the disparity between our ages when we go on walks together and I realize that I’ve left her many miles behind, I’m talking hundreds. To be fair, I walk very, very fast.

I’ve been clocked at 46 mph, and that’s just the crabwalk; you should see me on the monkey bars, baby.

I drive the other children to tears when I’m picked first for every team, and when I eat every single other person’s lunch before they get a chance. I’m only six years old, though you wouldn’t know it to look at me. I stand a good seven and a half feet tall and weigh nearly a thousand lbs., on account of my bones having fused with a meteor that hit me when I was three. Doctors say that the accident actually saved my life because my muscles were so profoundly overdeveloped that without the added stability of meteorite my bones would have been pulverized to dust had I ever been required to flex. I’m insanely violent, even for a six year old. I’ve been known to literally crush people when I don’t get my way, and since my way often seems strange and unreasonable, people tend to oppose me. If you think people resent being bossed around by a six year old you should see them when I buckle their spines between my palms and play them like accordions—like fatally hemorrhaging accordions. It’s not a pretty sight, unless of course you’re me, which you aren’t.

Aside from my sheer size there are other things about my appearance that tend to upset people, like the many rows of shark teeth I have surgically implanted in my enormous jaw (fifth birthday present from my loving and terrified parents), and the numerous cigars that I’m smoking at any given time.

After slapping the bass around for 15 straight hours or so and chugging exactly 1,250 Zima’s I’ll lie on my back and juggle the empty bottles. I’ll start with only 10 or 20, then work my way up until I have all 1,250 whistling and writhing through the air above me. Then I’ll catch them in my mouth one at a time and chomp them into dagger like shards with my shark teeth, a holocaust of glass and blood all around me, filling up my whole world. It’s the only time I’m ever happy.

Meeting Log: 5/6/7
3:00 p.m. – 3:15 p.m.
NSS-CSL IIV
Director D. F. Marshall

“The fact of the matter is just that.”
“A fact, Sir?”
“Yes, a fact. As in indisputable.”
“Is anyone trying to dispute it?”
“Well, no. Not yet anyway. As far as I know.”
“As far as we know.”
“Yes, of course. I’m not trying to cut anybody out here. We’re all in this together.”
“That’s the truth.”
“Exactly, yes.”
“Alright then.”
“Alright.”
“Let’s talk about the facts then.”
“Well, we don’t actually have the facts, Sir.”
“We don’t have them here, you mean.”
“Where are they?”
“They’re in a safe place.”
“Probably.”
“We aren’t actually sure where they are, Sir.”
“But you know they’re somewhere.”
“Yes, of course. That much we know for sure.”
“And safe?”
“Yes. Our intel indicates that they are safe.”
“What is our intel?”
“…”
“The point is, wherever they are, they are facts.”
“Indisputable?”
“Exactly.”
“Let’s go over what we know.”
“The first topping is free. We have solid evidence, Sir.”
“And the second topping?”
“The second topping is half price if you purchase a third topping at full price.”
“What if you only want two toppings?”
“Is that the case, Sir?”
“Just exactly what are we looking at here, Madsen?”
“What we’re looking at is a pizza coupon, which may or may not be expired, that we don’t actually have. Sir”
“Who remembers the coupon?”
“Johnson got a good look at it, Sir.”
“My God. Johnson has just left on assignment.”
“Is there anyway to contact him?”
“No. He’s gone totally dark. We’re on our own here boys.”
“Holy shit.”
“Listen, before we get any more worked up let’s just decide how many toppings we want. We may be able to avoid the issue of the coupon.”
“The thing is, we’re going to need more than one pizza.”
“How many of us are there?”
“This is getting fucked up, I’m losing faith in the mission.”
“Damnit Larkin! We don’t need your negative attitude ruining everything. You totally blew Cuba for me, I’m not about to let you fuck up this pie order.”
“What are you going to do about it Madsen? Blow up another village just to prove a point?”
“Alright, alright. Things are getting out of control. Before we say anything else we’re going to regret, everybody just relax.”
“Don’t tell me to relax! I’m losing it here, things are getting sideways.”
“Larkin, as your commanding officer I am ordering you to relax. Is that joint still going? Anybody?”
“Speaking of that Sir, do you think it’s a good idea to smoke marijuana in the war-room? I’ve heard it’s bad for the instruments, Sir.”
“Look, Caldwell, I appreciate your concern for the instruments, but speaking plainly, fuck the instruments. I’m starving to death and we are further away from having this pizza than we were before we even decided we wanted it.”
“Holy shit, Sir. I think you just blew my mind.”
“Mine too, Sir.”
“Maybe we should just sit down on these chairs. Whose idea was it to sit on the table in the first place?”
“It was Johnson, Sir. That’s why you sent him dark.”
“If it was Johnson’s idea, then why the hell did we go along with it?”
“No idea, Sir. I can’t remember that far back.”
“Can we check the log?”
“We could try, Sir. But honestly…”
“You’re probably right. What’s your name?”
“Bailey, Sir.”
“What’s your Christian name?”
“I only have the one name, Sir. It’s all my parents could afford.”
“Bailey’s parents worked very hard, Sir.”
“I’m sure they did. Now look, let’s just retrace our steps and figure out where it was we saw the coupon. Maybe we can get another.”
“I think it was at the Laundromat, Sir.”
“The Laundromat? We didn’t even go to the Laundromat!”
“Didn’t we, Sir? I could have sworn.”
“Goddamnit Madsen, how can I trust you in the field?”
“I’m sorry, Sir. It won’t happen again.”
“I can’t handle this right now.”
“Do you want a shoulder massage, Sir?”
“Don’t even ask me that, Madsen! Just do it, for the love of God!”
“Yes Sir.”
“I don’t even care about the coupon anymore. Let’s just order the pizza, if we all chip in we should be fine.”
“Pizzas, Sir. There are too many of us for just one pizza.”
“Pizza is still the plural of pizza. I wasn’t suggesting we order only one pizza, what do you take me for?”
“How many toppings should we get?”
“And how many pizzas?”
“Three, to both questions.”
“Is it okay if I order from the website? I don’t know if I can handle talking to them right now.”
“Sure, if you can figure it out. Remember last time?”
“I’ll just make the call. What toppings should I ask for?”
“Oh my God, Madsen. Just order the goddamn pizza. Improvise. But nothing weird, alright? And get a two-liter of Mountain Dew.”
“They only have Mello-Yello.”
“That’s fine. Better, even.”