The Space Pirate Ponders “Hello, how many?” the host asked me without lifting his thin neck for our eyes to meet. His eyes were too busy jumping left to right as he read whatever article was on his host podium. “Umm, well, two,” I told the top of his balding, which reflected the chandelier lights above me. It was a beautiful beacon that would give all the great lighthouses a run for their money. “Very well,” the host replied, then finally he raised his head and his beady hazel eyes shot out at me. He had a countenance as if he held back a smirk. But aren’t we all? I sat on the bench, my fat behind decompressing the fluffy cushion flat, and just waited. I kept my eye on him as he sped from one side of the restaurant to the other. My eyes traced his every step as he made the rounds to each table. He would greet the customers with a fabricated smile, made sure they had their sufficient amount of crystal clear water, and then repeat with the next. He scurried about to the restaurant’s backroom and disappeared. He is probably the guy, but I wasn't sure. I diverted my attention to the window panel right behind me and saw my reflection glare at me with empty eyes and a dark face, still the horrible image I had always remembered. My eyes refocused and I stared off into the distance. We were thousands of miles from Earth, give or take, and the space was so vast. At first it always felt limitless, a world intangible to the senses, but after you get past the first glance of the mystery it becomes more apparent that the spectacle is less than the source of infinite wonder our ancestors believed it to possess. This was the final frontier and the ineluctable vision of my generation. I could only imagine the dreams my forefathers had had of such a place: Gods, aliens, a new age. I watched cargo ships fly by, coming in left and right at what seemed like gracious speeds. Numerous spaceships with televised advertisement screens waltzed by and projected their blue neon lights, lights that were difficult not to have noticed. No sound of course, they had to make do by creating superb sales pitches with mesmerizing visuals. The images were potent with superfluous color and made prolific arguments to the other senses as to what they were experiencing. The viewer filled in the panel gutters with whatever language the mind utilized when conversing with itself. A WOMAN IN BIKINI R U N N I N G THROUGH DESERT UNDER A PURPLE SKY. WOMAN AGAIN DODG-ING EXPLOSIONS, NOW WITH MACHINE GUNS IN BOTH HANDs KILLS FOUR ALIEN THINGS, GREEN BLOOD SPLURTS OUT WOMAN SMIRKS ZOOM OUT AND CUT TO: LITTLE GIRL WITH BLACK GOGGLES ON AND PLASTIC TOY GUN SHOOTING AT A HIGH DEFINITION T.V. SHE SMILES TURNS AND SHOOTS AT THE VIEWER BIGGER EXPLOSION! BOOM BABES 3: MISSION CLASS-IFIED GAME OF THE YEAR EDITION: ONLY 150 YUAN NOW Life in space was no different than on Earth, or at least the Earth I remember. Nothing different at all. Instead of looking at the sky, you looked at space, you substitute automobiles with ships, and redefine delicacy as cumin marinated bunny steaks. All that I saw, this image I saw outside that window, was just the fallout or debris that Earth delightfully littered to this place. A passing of the torch from one shit hole to another. You had space, ships and bunny steaks and yet the constant variable of humans made it the same old story. Just a recycled story. This restaurant was one of the many aboard the star vessel Aeneas. Rich snobs galore, there was not a doubt in my mind that these civilized people went to the depths of hell to sell their measly souls for their estate. The richies with their Cheshire cat grins sat and laughed, sat and laughed, and sat and laughed some more. I don't care. The blue stage lights illuminated the place, along with dim candle lit lamps set along at each table. An ad ship would pass by every couple of minutes or so and spew in its bright lights. The radiant ad lights mixed with the water vapor from the electric cigarettes and made these shifting illusions of brilliant nonsense. It was a most stressful visual, I was getting cross-eyed. It made my eyes feel as though I had a terrible case of glaucoma, I hadn’t been to the doctor in a while, so who knew, perhaps I did. It was difficult on my eyes, I needed a smoke. A real smoke. I lit it and I could see him from the corner of my eye, his little detective gaze locked in on my ignited cigarette tip. I could spot the lowbrow of his squint a mile away. He had been observing me this whole time I would assume. The little boy. I don't appreciate wandering eyes, much less eyes riddled with eye gunk. The little tike was just staring at me and his interest in me made me itch, he looked too amused. So in order to water down his childish hoopla, I blew a ghost-like puff of smoke at his face, and just stared at him with the coldest of expressions. He coughed, rubbed his eyes and then laughed. I held my smirk back as best as I could. Cool kid, he knows how to take a joke. Bravo. One of the restaurant customers made his way to the exit; he was wearing a black tuxedo, nice symmetrical bow tie and left a scent that smelled like your typical above average line of cologne. The fool was guided by a pet iguana on a leash, an iguana that was no more than a foot tall and no more than a foot long. I’ve seen guide dogs, guide cats, even guide koala bears, and in radical cases, guide children, but never, never, had I seen guide iguanas. I pulled a piece of a bread stick out of my overcoat and flung it towards the iguana’s way. The iguana slithered the bread with his tongue into his mouth and with his guide stalled, the blind man ran into the exit door. Oh those minor chuckles of the day, I lived for those kinds of moments, those minor victories. I looked out the window again because I had nothing better to view. I watched the gray Earth as it slowly spun from left to right. I began to remember things, just things. Not of my hometown where I spent most of my younger years, those were too far from me now, and to be honest I couldn't even remember those that well, if anybody had asked I usually made something up. No I wasn't thinking about childhood. I thought of the stink hole in that American suburb that one time. What was nine or ten years ago, now seemed like an eternity. Yeah, long time. I found my self lost in a thought, inching near a memory I had accessed plenty of times before. I didn’t remember the place or the people or any monuments or anything to that degree of specificity. The memory was just of a thing, a thing, a trivial thing that probably lost itself in the book of time to most people but me. I was mostly at sea or in the air, but there was the memory that flared above all. I remember riding behind a pick up truck with a bumper sticker that read “Drive safely, baby on board.” I thought what a stupid sticker. Yeah thanks for the info, because on any other occasion I would rear-end the crap out of you, but since there is a little tike on board, well, I'll drive like a civilized human being I suppose. A joke before the chase. Cops suddenly caught on to my tail, I was guessing they recognized my vehicle description: a red motorcycle or a beam of red shot out of hell to some slow eyed individuals. Locals knew me as Mephisto. No one knew who I was, my motor would echo throughout the city during the night and I was king of the underground racing circuit. I never lost once. So I wasn't going to get caught by some average coppers. I was speeding away from the secret police on my motorcycle. I was way too quick, but I was low on fuel and needed to get to my point B right away. I was speeding away, I was just losing them, people in the small street fleeing and crying. Everyone fled out of my way, people jumping and diving, mothers yanking their daughters, everyone made way, everyone but that damn dog. I was going too fast and by the time I noticed there was a tiny dog it was too late. I swore the world went silent. I did not look back. That damn dog I honestly didn't care for the dog. Its just weird how the mind works. I mean why did my mind feel it necessary to keep that information, that memory? Is it a tool for my survival? It happened so quickly and flashes of the broken dog began flaring in my head, these were just postulated images. I never looked back. But when it mattered, I was the guy people wanted on their side. It’s not arrogance or me playing my own shitty tune, it’s just one of those sincere facts. My cunning and quickness made me the best in our small universe. I had myself corroborate this moment of catharsis with what this old space rat at a pawn shop I met told me. After I confessed what my profession was, he replied I was a David Bowie song waiting to happen. I took it as a compliment. I didn’t ask him, but in my head I was like Who’s David Bowie? I didn’t have the luxury of having a long list of compliments in my life. So I just got used to settling with every little one that came by. My mind raced much more like it always did the closer we got to the gig. And of course before every great leap, one's life manifesto begins crowning through the mind's secret tongue. Of course this manifesto is always unique and always a defense of this path I had chosen to walk. I pictured the motion of life as a really bad comic book; a comic book with bad dialogue, bad coloring, and horrible art. I live in a world where in one image you're here and the next you are somewhere else, and the space between is now just nothing. The reader gets the action, but when it was over, did one even feel like it was worth the time; the split-seconds wasted turning the page, the milli-calories spent moving the eyes side to side or the memories replaced in favor of trivial moments? Perhaps they were better off reminiscing some childhood memory than expending their brain power on what was in front of them? What does one have to show for it? There was no steadiness, no consistency. I mean sure I would get some money from this job but what will it amount to? Those snobs, the snobs that surrounded me at that precise moment, as much as I hated them, I envied them. I wanted luxury. I wanted a damn guide iguana for shits and giggles. I’m getting older and I want to just…settle down before the gray starts kicking in. I want ignorance. Don’t I deserve that too? It was these emotions that were left in my tank, and explained exactly why I always needed to defend my art form. My “friend” finally walked through the door. He was big and tall with a red haired goatee. I, at least, looked presentable in my attire, he, on the other hand, he looked like a bum. He wore this dirty rag-like jacket with black pants. His boots were scrappy and his torn soles flapped like an insurance salesman as he walked. This was the look of a bum, a homicidal bum. He couldn't be any more obvious. I looked at Mr. Observant next to me and told him, “Go to the bathroom stall and stay in there.” He nodded his head. I replied with just a smirk, showing off more teeth this time. I really liked that kid. I really did. He stuck around for the show. The jazz band began to play some lullaby-like song accompanied with some Chinese speaking singer, it was a soothing song indeed. It was such a shame it had to be interrupted. I nodded, subtly, at my “friend.” He walked past the host stand He walked past all the tables and jumped unto the band stage, everyone began looking at him at this point. Idiot. He placed his red sunglasses on. Then finally: “EVERYONE PUT YOUR HANDS UP!” He roared, as if summoning the spirits of his barbaric tribal ancestors, and pulled out a huge rifle from his jacket. The restaurant host, the same guy who greeted me when I first walked in, nodded at me and he went to the backroom. He was the inside guy. The commotion of him herding the backroom cooks and personnel could reach my ears from here. The plan was for him to make sure the back room was held under control and to unlock the master safe. After that he had to secure the restaurant’s air lock bay to ensure our getaway ship would arrive on cue. “EVERYONE PUT YOUR WALLETS AND, AND EXPENSIVE THINGS IN THE BAG! WALLETS! JEWLERY! EVERYTHING!” My “friend” held open a bag, and kept his rifle on the faces of the people. They were terrified. Sounds of dishes crashing became audible from the kitchen. There was the scuffle music of people being pushed up against walls and pleading mercy in foreign languages. My “friend” started throwing people on the floor, bashing men with the butt of his rifle, blood squirted all over the table cloths. The jazz band stopped playing, I wished they hadn't. There was a man sitting at one of the tables with a face empty of emotion. And through all this, I was surprised my “friend” just let me hang back and be a spectator. He was probably too jacked on adrenaline shots for him to even coordinate, hell, to even realize there was a world so still. The kid next to me, meanwhile, pissed his damn pants. He could have pissed a river in a stall or laughed it up tossing logs in the bathroom, but now it is too late. I still liked the kid though, he only had one little tear cascading down his cheek. He didn’t cry or whine. Maybe he was just mesmerized and moved to tears by our little overture. My “friend” continued his one man show. It was an impressive sight; he threw a man my size clear across the room with one arm. Not only was he on adrenaline shots, but he probably had a nice dosage of Berserker packs before he walked on in. All I had were cold bread sticks in my pocket. I told him plenty of times not to use those before cause the idiot might go into cardiac arrest which may result in a slight case of death. Berserker injections plus adrenaline shots are lethal. I remembered seeing a kid break through a brick wall, probably just showing off, only to fall to the floor with yellow foam gushing out of his mouth minutes later. This concerned me not because of the idea that I cared about this “friend” of mine, but the mere fact that I didn’t want to give mouth to mouth to the bum in the middle of a run, especially with yellow foam flooding out his yap. My eyes then shot right to the stage, it was almost as if I saw it before it had happened. A security officer peeked out and no one had noticed him but my keen eyes. He held his gun out and aimed it at my “friend.” He had a black patch covering one eye, just like the pirates of old. Nice touch, I’ll give him a point for theatrics. I sprung up, flapped open my coat, and pulled out my two hand guns from the holsters at my side. I was way too quick. I pulled the trigger with my barrels aimed at the chubby security guard’s head. I was just a sincere fiction illuminated by smokes and mirrors. Maybe the whole being me thing would end in another life. In another life…when I’m a damn dog.
Copyright © 2011 J Tay Ramos |