"To diverse gods
Do mortals bow;
Holy Cow, and
Wholly Chao” -Principia Discordia
“Looking through shades of green through shades of blue.” -Fish (From Emerald Lies by Marillion)
Together And One or How We Destroyed the Robot Who Nicked our Riches
Sitting on a texturally faded turquoise stool behind the counter of a Conoco in Garrison City, Miles counted the greenbacks carefully. Though he was an old, wise sensei of the gas station business, the kitsune eyed man would still lose track of his place. “20... 21... 22...” His pace stretched as far as a mile and to the point that he ignored the cheery bell that indicated an upcoming consumer in the works. “23...ah shit! Lost count.”
The security camera next to him displayed a man who was much younger than this wise fox, who wore a three piece suit and carried a briefcase. His hair, gloves, and cool sunglasses were easily identifiable with the characteristics of a yuppie. “Sir? Um.” The yuppie had rather angry eyes; yet proceeded to remain calm and uppity with his smile. He hated chinks as much as he hated old people, and this was both put together. The old fox was still counting the money, “38... 39... 40! Alright, here we go.”
Miles cheeringly put the money into the register and while doing so, discovered the potential consumer before him. “Ah! Didn’t see you there, friend. Sorry about that. The bills have a tendency to be too tender in my hands.” His slit eyes and mellow smile met the yuppie in a conflict of wit and anger. “What can I do for you today?” The consumer’s eyes became cold yet his smile was warm, “Where do you keep your soda?” The fox looked perplexed. “Soda? You do not know where it is? It is just right over there.” He pointed a bony finger over to the refreshment coolers near the snack aisles. “Very easy to find. I take it you never go to these places often?” The yuppie’s smile became smug, “I guess you could say that.”
With briefcase in hand, he went over to the soda section and the old fox’s face changed to a look of curiosity. But, like a blown leaf, it flew away into a look of concentration when he went back into checking the register. A minute passed by quietly while the yuppie struggled with an inner fight over whether or not he should get the distilled mineral water with or without flavoring. But, things were going to change.
In a rush of blue, an even younger man than the yuppie bursts through the Conoco door; the bell nearly knocked off of its place. With a blue beanie and handkerchief put tightly on his head and face, he aimed a gun with his black, gloved hands at Miles and yelled with authority, “Empty the fucking register or I’ll kill your ass!” A confused and adrenaline drenched fox said with a look of horror, “What?”
The security camera’s audio registered the sound of five shots. Three hit random merchandise but two hit Miles; one in the gut and a possible one in his heart. He lurched back into the cigarettes and quickly dropped to the floor; where he laid with his head rolled to one side and his slit-eyes closed; his tan T-shirt bearing the gift of two holes.
Paper flew from a pierced carton of cigarettes while the new potential consumer quickly smashed opened the register with a couple of swift movements with the later-to-be identified Beretta eighty one. At the discovery of only forty dollars, he kindly yelled “Shit!” and kicked the counter.
In this short and stretched interval of only fifteen seconds, the yuppie sat behind a large rack of canned soda in shock; grasping his bottle of strawberry flavored mineral water tightly and to the point of the cap blasting off in a sea of sucralose-laced h2o. His throat froze up in fear and before he could breathe, he felt a heavy tap at the side of his head. Turning to the right, the yuppie looked into the barrel of a gun and catch a glimpse of a a man possibly in his mid twenties.
He estimated his height at five eleven or six feet tall. While he memorized the man’s eye color, the criminal started laughing. At this point, the yuppie’s most hated race switched from old chinks to green-eyed niggers. But, the crook started to talk in a voice that was as smooth as it was professional:
“You think a bottle of water can save your life, rich bitch?”
“What makes you say that I’m rich?”
“Huh. Good question. Where do I start? Your clothes? That briefcase? Your cut?”
“Haircut, Richie.” He kneeled down a little with the Beretta still pointing at the yup’s face. “You want to smart off to me again? I’ll cut you down to size, Richie Rich.”
“Just try to, nigger. I’ll get the cops so quick on yo-”
The camera’s audio picked up another shot with a scream afterward. Fast and precise, the young black man put a bullet into one of the yup’s kneecaps, which in turn started bleeding profusely seconds later. He yelled at the yup:
“What did I tell you? Don’t get smart with me!” He stood up. “Look at what you’ve done. You made me shoot you.”
“Y-you bastard! Yo-you did this.”
“Oh no, it isn’t my fault, Richie. You made the stimuli which triggered my reaction. It’s all your fault. Don’t blame your absence of street smarts on me.”
“N-N-Nigger! Y-Y-You STUPID NIGGER!!”
With the gun still pointed straight, the crook said, “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Keep saying it. Keep trying. But, it ain’t gonna work on me. Degradation is opinion, Richie. Some of us don’t care what we are called, like me. I know everyone is the same.”
“M-my name is n-not Rich, nigger. It’-”
“What? What is it? Mr. I-sacrifice-children-for-my-own-gold-standards?”
“Oh, so I was close.” He kneeled down again. “Well, Robert, whatever your name is, you need to be taught a lesson.”
He aimed the Beretta at Robert’s unshot kneecap and Robert started to breathe fast. “ See, Rob, you need to learn how to love others. Just because you’re rich doesn’t mean you’re more powerful and holier than us little folk.” A flurry of panic swirled in Robert’s eyes. His perspiration flowed on the outside and his arm pits were already drenched in sweat. The young crook stood up in his heavy silver coat
“A man is a cup of compassion. His caffeine is frugal. His creamer bestows humility.”
Another scream came out of Robert’s mouth as his last kneecap is pierced and his ears go temporarily deaf from the sonic boom the shot. He closes his eyes and imagines not being there. He imagines being back in the office as President and not as a victim of cruel and unusual punishment being distributed by a nigger. But, when he opens them and his hearing comes back, that nigger is kneeled down again; the gun pointing at his head.
“Can you live without your legs, Robert? Can you live without your financial background? Your expensive car? Your arms? Your ways of living?”
Robert doesn’t say anything, and only stares at the crook; his blonde hair ruined from sweat.
“I guess you can’t. I guess you‘ll never learn without facing the consequences, Robert? Or, should I say God?”
“Wh-what do you mean God?”
“I guess you’re head is thicker than I thought.” He stands back up again. “ I can only explain it in the words of Butsugen and what he said to his disciples:
"Each of you has a pair of ears,
but what have you ever heard with them? Each of you has a mouth,
but what have you ever said with it? Each of you has eyes, but
what have you ever seen with them? No, no!
You have never heard,
never spoken, never seen, never smelled.
"But in such a case where do all these colors, shapes, sounds,
smells, come from?"
If you can’t live without your belongings, how can you really see what’s around you, Robert?
Think on it.”
The final shot came out of the Beretta. Eight shots in all were fired and the clip became empty. The crook threw the gun off to the side and while it landed near the snacks aisles, he walked back to the counter. For a moment, on the camera, it looked like he was about to leave, but he turned around and smiled.
Right there, sitting on the turquoise stool was the old fox; Miles. He smiled back with his slit-eyes gleaming and his shirt still penetrated with holes, “You were faster this time, Wik.”
“Well, thanks master.”
“How many this time today?”
“As usual. I can always count on you doing it right.”
“One must be efficient and fast when killing the living gods of the world.”
Wik took off his blue mask and beanie to reveal a young yet sharp looking man. His hair looked pointy like a hedgehog and his face strong like a bull.
“Miles Plower, or Prower by the asian foreigners. My master‘s name is ever changing”
“They’ll never learn to say it right.”
“I think they know it doesn’t matter. Changed the tape?”
“There was no tape to begin with. If they question why there was no tape, they’ll assume I forgot. Everyone believes in the senile old fart.”
“Alright.” Wik turned back to where Robert’s body lain. “One day, I hope he reincarnates into something that doesn’t suffer from an ego. This is getting old.”
“It always is old, look at me! I’m over fifty and still doing it!”
“Yeah, but you bring on the deception, not the kill.”
“You could say that I killed him through you.”
Wik chuckled at that absurd sense of control, realizing that Robert did the same thing. “Well, I better move on then. Cops will be here soon.”
“Alright, have a nice day!”
The door gave its jingle while Wik walked slowly to the suburbs.
Master Miles took out his own Berretta and, while wearing a black glove, he aimed it at his forehead and said, “Well, at least I served one potential customer today.” In the next moment, there was a ninth shot, followed by a slump, and then all stood still. Everything calm and at rest.