Author: Scribe
Fandom: Original
Pairing: None
Rating: PG13
Summary: The narrator is mistakenly given someone elses photographs. Madness ensues.
Archive: Mailing lists and WWOMB
Feedback: poet77665@catlover.com
Status: Finished. Written for The Film... contest at writing.com
Sequel/Series:
Disclaimer: This is totally original and copyrighted
Websites: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles and http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver
Warnings:
Film-flam
By Scribe
Ya wanna know why I'm sitting here holding an ice bag to the lump on my head, but I'm still grinning like an idiot? Okay, I'll tell you, but... Ever heard the term 'suspension of disbelief'? Better bring a ton of it.
It all started out because I'm diabetic, and a chocoholic. Not a good combination, as anyone will tell you. I hadn't planned on stopping into the drug store. I usually get my medicine at the local Wal-mart (it's a hell of a lot cheaper), but I'd been to a late movie, and it was almost midnight. That popcorn had been extra salty and, instead of just taking it back to the concession stand and exchanging it, I decided I didn't want to miss a second of Johnny Depp wafting around as a pirate, and I just ate it. *pause* Oh, all right--I like it too salty. Hey, I'm not supposed to have sugar--I have to damage myself somehow, don't I? Anyway, the corners of my mouth and my throat felt raw from all the salt, and I knew damn good and well that I didn't have any lip balm or throat wash at home. I work on the 'what the hell do you mean plan ahead? philosophy.
Even though we're a fairly big town, there's very little open at that time of night. I had my choice of the convenience store a couple of blocks from my house, or the All-Nite Cut-Rate Pharmacy up the street from the theater. Since the convenience store exists mainly to dispense munchies, soda, beer, cigarettes, and rolling papers to the various drunks, drug addicts, and criminal types in the area, I opted for the drug store. A girl can't be too careful, and there's no point in walking into a firing range if you don't have to, right? Bruh-ther, was I off the mark. I wanted to hurry up, get my stuff, and get home to bed. After all, I had work tomorrow. I worked in the big software company that was the driving economy of our town (you probably wouldn't recognize the name--it does mostly industrial and business work... or so I thought. *cue mysterious music*).
Ever walked into a drugstore late at night? It's sort of what I imagine it must've been like for Richard Dreyfuss when he entered the mother ship in Close Encounters of the Third Time. You step from warm darkness into bright, antiseptic, chilly light. There was even a chemical-ly smell, and some sort of tinkling New Age crap music on the PA system. Muzak is a plague on humanity.
Spring for the radio connection, people! Pardon? I'll get to it, I'll get to it. You want to hear the story, you hear it as I want to tell it, understand? After all, you aren't the police. You're who? Got some ID? *pause* Okay, getting down to it...
The place was empty except for me and the guy in the lab coat behind the counter, and he watched me like he expected me to either whip out an Uzi or start cramming tubes of Preparation H and dental floss in my pockets. I located the lip balm and the throat wash, cursed at the prices, ran my tongue over the sore spot at the corner of my lips, decided that I'd buy them after all, and headed for the counter. Just before I get there, I pass a free standing display. Actually I bump into it, and make a quick grab to keep the product from spilling. I was fixated on getting out of there, and probably wouldn't have noticed it otherwise, but boy, was I glad I did! It was a heaping bin of brightly wrapped candy bars--a kind that I didn't recognize. Though I'm pretty much supposed to be out of the candy market, I like to keep abreast of new products, the better to torment myself, I suppose. I took a closer look.
New Guiltless Goodies Grande Designs! Sugarfree low carb candies with that premium chocolate taste!
Uh-huh. Right. And I've been mistaken for Catherine Zeta Jones on a regular basis. But still I'm always on the lookout for something I can eat without worrying about killing myself slowly. They had an interesting looking selection, and best of all there was an introductory price--four for a dollar. Oh, well, then... I scooped up one of each flavor, making a nice quartet, and headed for the register.
The clerk had stopped watching me in favor of watching the door. He kept watching the door as he rang me up. How rude. I don't demand fawning, but occasional eye-contact is only common courtesy, so I made conversation. "That's a good price on the candy. Is it worth eating?"
"I wouldn't know," he said shortly.
If I'd left it at that, this never would have happened, but I don't like being treated like the Invisible Woman. "They've got a good variety. I mean, most health foods stick to the lowest common denominator, so milk chocolate is to be expected, and so is the crisped rice. But I think the dark chocolate with cherry flavor is a nice innovation."
Jesus! You'd have thought I'd just said I was about to bust him because the alcohol content in the throat wash was over the legal limit. He zeroed in on me, like I was suddenly the most fascinating, or most important person in the world. Then he gave me an up and down look that didn't do all that much good for my ego. It was a sort of what the hell? He said, very slowly, "Yes, it's an unusual combination. What is the name of the candy bar?"
What? It was right in front of him. "Guilt Free Goodies, four for a dollar."
He shook his head impatiently. "No, the flavor--what is the name of the flavor?"
"Well," I glanced down at it. "They call it Chocolate Bing, for Bing cherries, I guess." His expression sort of fell, and he kind of looked disappointed and worried at the same time. I don't know why I did it, but I said, "I think they should have called it Black Forrest, you know, like for the cake?" That look was back, and I suddenly wanted to get the hell out of there. I looked at the total on the register and said, "Look, I'm low on cash, darn popcorn prices. I can write a check, huh?"
"Certainly, certainly." I did. As I picked up my bag, he studied the check, eyebrows rising. "Miss Feazell?"
"Yes," I said wearily, reaching back into my purse for my driver's license. It's surprising how many people doubt that's my real name. "I have my ID..."
"Oh, that's not necessary. It's just that I have something here for you. Wait just a moment." He ducked back into a little cubicle, and returned carrying a large white envelope. "Here you go. I thought I recognized the name." He offered it.
It was one of those envelopes used to return photographs and negatives after processing. "Oh, that isn't mine."
"Yes, it is."
"No, it couldn't be. I hardly ever come in here."
"It's been sitting in the back for a long time. You must have forgotten it." He was still holding out the envelope. The weird thing was that his eyes were making jerking motions toward the security camera.
"I hardly think so. I don't do much photography, and it's usually those Polaroids, where..."
"Take the goddamn envelope and get out of here!" he hissed.
Normally I'd have torn him a new one for that tone of voice and that choice of words, but quite frankly, he was freaking me out. I decided to keep him as calm as possible and get the hell out of there. "Sure." I took the envelope gingerly. "How much do I owe...?"
"It's paid for. Go!" I went. In fact, I burned rubber, peeling out of that parking lot. I fully intended to contact the management in the next couple of days and have a word with them about their graveyard help. I got home and was ready to go in, maybe knock back a quick belt to soothe my nerves, and I noticed the envelope on my seat beside me. What the hell. I snagged it and took it in, too, figuring maybe there'd be some clue as to who it actually belonged to. I was just about ready to contact them and suggest that they consider a nice, juicy civil suit for having their privates stuff forced on a total stranger.
Inside I carefully managed to keep my cat, Puddin', from escaping as I shut the door. While she fussed at me, I examined the envelope, and my puzzlement grew. Yes, that was my name, sure enough. I can pretty much guaranty you aren't going to run into any other Fannie Feazell's--at least not in Texas. And there was my address--or rather my old address. I'd moved three months before, and wasn't about to have new checks printed up till I ran out of the old ones. For a split second I wondered if maybe I had dropped off a roll of film sometime earlier in the year and forgotten about it... till my thumb smudged my name. That sucker was so fresh it was still damp, and whoever had labeled it had been nervous enough to use a magic marker on slick paper. He had to have written this when he went back to the cubicle to pick it up. This... was weird. I hadn't been going to, but the curiosity bug had bitten me. Hey, I think I'm part feline, after all. Anyway, I opened the enve lope. *shrug* Hey, it had my name on it.
I was expecting to see someone on the beach in Cancun, some kid's birthday party, Christmas presents being opened, maybe even some wedding cake getting pushed into someone's face. What I wasn't expecting was... papers. No, they were photographs all right. What I mean is they were photographs of papers. Not newspapers, but... papers--with print on them, but it was so tiny I couldn't make out what it was. I tried, with a magnifying glass. I supposed it was possible, but not with the equipment I had. I put the pictures back into the envelope and shoved it into my purse, fed the cat, and went to bed.
All this was night before last, right? I got up yesterday morning, fed the cat, had breakfast (notice my priorities), and went to work. I tend counter at a coffee bar set up in the lobby of that software company I told you about. I'm taking courses when I can, hoping to move up the food chain in the company to actual programming some day, but it's slow going. See, I have these nasty little things called 'expenses', and money and spare time are scarce.
Things were weird at work. There was a lot of upheaval, strange people running around all over the place, looking suspicious. They smelled like security, but I know all our boys, bless their donut eating hearts. All the employees that came in were tense and jittery, muttering to each other. They'd shut up when the saw me listening, but you can collect a fair amount of info in a couple of minutes. There'd been some sort of break-in the night before. It looked like industrial espionage, but... But I don't know. Everyone seemed just a little too upset for that. I mean, it couldn't mean everyone's jobs, could it? I was glad that for once I didn't seem to be in the line of fire when the shit hit the fan. Ha!
Just before my shift ended I got a phone call from my next door neighbor. It seemed that my house had been broken into, and my belongings ransacked. I yelped, "Puddin'?" My first thought was for my cat. I have a vast experience with watching horror and thriller movies, and the first rule of most of them is that the pet dies. I calmed a little when I was informed that he was alive, but terrorized, currently shaking like a leaf on the top shelf of my bedroom closet. Considering that there hadn't been a square quarter inch of space on that shelf, I knew I wasn't going to like what I found when I got home.
I didn't. I've seen less destruction left by tornadoes. The only good thing was that they hadn't broken the door getting in, but since that meant that they must've been able to get around the lock, I wasn't going to be feeling safe there for awhile. Inside... *sigh* Sofa cushions ripped open, drawers upended, contents of ever closet on the floor. Every single package of anything in my kitchen had been opened and emptied. But you know the weirdest thing? All they took was my hard drive. Not my computer, my hard drive. The case was opened, and the guts removed. Puzzled the hell out of all of us--me, and the police. I knew, I knew that this had something to do with those damn photographs sitting in my purse, so...
I didn't tell them. Why? The local cops have a tendency not to believe me. I once reported that the teenage son of a prominent citizen was sneaking and peeking in my window, and was rather tolerantly asked if I was sure it wasn't wishful thinking--even when the kid showed up with a purple blotched face after I nailed him through the screen with a Supersoaker loaded with Ritt Dye. I respect a most law enforcement officers, but the ones who answered this call? No.
I couldn't face the prospect of starting to clean the house up, so I managed to coax Puddin' down out of the closet, and adjourned for the night to a nearby motel. It was a seedy place, but they allowed pets, for an added fee. I wasn't about to leave my baby alone in the house after he was so traumatized. It took a can of tuna and the cheese from a Lunchable to get him to stop shaking.
Once I got him settled, I went into the bathroom to get ready for bed. I'd just gotten into my pajamas (Oh, all right--my big ass Bill the Cat nightshirt) when I heard Puddin' start squalling. I opened the door to find some big guy wearing a ski mask in the middle of my room. Even if he wasn't a man where there was no business for a man to be, the mask was a dead give away--like I said, this is Texas. The room was a mess. All I can say is that if he was that quiet when he tossed my house, no wonder the neighbors didn't hear anything.
I glared at him and said, "You scared the crap out of my cat, you son of a bitch!"
He just blinked for a second. I'm pretty sure that whatever he'd expected me to say, that wasn't it. "You took your purse in the bathroom with you, didn't you?"
"Well, duh. I'm not stupid enough to leave it out of my sight here, especially after..."
"Hand it over?"
"Why don't you go get a room and fuck yourself?"
"Lady, all I want is your purse. Hand it over."
"All you want is those stupid photographs, and I think that if you're willing to be such an asshole to get them, you probably shouldn't have them. I'm turning them over to someone tomorrow. Maybe the FBI. I haven't decided yet."
You can't see much of a person's face through a ski mask, but I could see enough to tell that his expression got ugly. "I didn't want to hurt you." I sure didn't like the past tense. He spotted my purse sitting on the counter behind me, and pulled something that looked like a little leather bag out of his pocket. Like I said, I've watched a lot of mysteries, and I recognized a sap when I saw one, and it occurred to me that it was entirely possible to be beaten to death with one of those.
In fact, I think that's what he was trying to do. The dumb ass actually said, "Don't scream," as he came toward me with that thing raised. I, of course, did my finest Irish banshee impression. I was starting to back up, but that heavy thing was starting to whistle toward me, aimed square at the middle of my face. That's when Puddin' decided he'd feel safer closer to Mama, and he made a dash for the bathroom which took him right between the hoodlum's legs, God bless his little kittie heart. The jerk stumbled, and I jerked back, and instead of smashing most of the bones in my face I got a glancing blow on the thick part of my skull. Made my head ring like the chimes of Big Ben, but between the hair and the bone thickness, all I got was a spectacular lump--no fracture, not even a concussion.
He fell against the door frame. When he came up, he was looking down the barrel of what I like to call my 5 Shot Insurance Policy. God bless the Texas legislature for passing the Concealed Carry Law. He turned to run, and I put one in his leg. I'm given to understand I may be in a little trouble for that, but at least they caught the S.O.B. Left the prettiest trail you ever saw. Then he passed out and ran his car into a telephone pole about five blocks from the motel. I get the feeling he's in worse trouble than I am.
Anyway, that was last night, and they've been keeping me here at the hospital ever since. I've talked to more police than you can shake a stick at, which seems sort of funny to me. I would have thought that the one statement would have been enough. They threatened to handcuff me to the bed when I wouldn't hand over the photographs, but luckily some dude in a dark suit with FBI credentials showed up before that happened. I'll admit that surprised me a little at first, but I was just happy to get rid of them. He was real nice, assured me that Puddin' had been caught and taken to stay with my neighbors till I can get him, and that a pint of Blue Bell French Vanilla seemed to have calmed him down.
What do I think happened? I think that there was maybe a little research going on at that software company that not a lot of people know about, and someone snuck in and got pictures of it. Then they were going to hand them off to someone else through that drugstore. I figure that the guy with the pictures didn't know exactly who was coming for them, just a general time, and some sort of word or phrase for recognition. I showed up at about the right time, and said something that was close to the right thing, and he handed them over. I bet he's in a world of shit right now. Eh, you're smiling at that.
They found out the mistake pretty quick, but my old address was on the check I left, so they couldn't find me right away. When they did, they tossed my house looking for the photos. When they didn't find them, the figured I had them, and went after me at the motel. And, if I may say so, sadly underestimated the poor little woman. You're smiling again. You have a nice smile. I thought that was all I was going to have to deal with, unless I was needed to testify at some sort of trial later, and then you showed up, wanting to hear my story in my own words. Now that I've told you, could you tell me what the hell all that fuss was over? *listen* You could--but you'd have to kill me. Uh-huh. You know, usually, I'd consider that a joke. With you, I don't know.
So, that's it. Anything else? Why, thank you. I think I acquitted myself rather well, too. Have I ever considered another career? Oh, hell yeah. But I have a hard time getting the money for the extra schooling. You say that training could be provided free of charge? Benefits? Retirement--if I make it that far? Travel? And you think I'd make a good 'operative'? Excuse me, but could I see that ID badge again? Oh, that's not who you're really with. Somehow I suspected that. Who are you with?
*long pause* You know, I didn't think you people actually existed. That's a hell of an idea for misdirection y'all set up. What's that quote? The greatest trick the devil ever achieved was convincing people that he didn't exist? Yeah, this sounds interesting. You'd be in charge of my training? Can I keep my cat? Cool. Funny. You don't look a thing like Tom Cruise.
The End?