“The Return of Mr. X”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-17)

It was long after dark on a Saturday night. I had been listening to the ‘Cult Radio A-Go-Go’ live stream from California, on my Roku box. Their ‘April Fool’s Day’ lineup was impressive, running the cultural gamut from ‘Popcorn’ which I remembered being performed by the group Hot Butter, to Daffy Duck singing about being pursued by Elmer Fudd. But suddenly, fear overtook my mood. I went to the refrigerator for a brew and discovered that there were none. And I was ready for a writing session with the CRAGG broadcast as my muse.

No beer. My wallet was empty. The Roulette Wheel of fate had spun me into the darkness.

Despite the late hour, I decided to take a drive to Chardon. The air felt cool and refreshing, somewhere in the mid-30’s for temperature. My F-150 lumbered along dutifully, with no traffic to hinder our trip. In a few minutes, I had reached the ATM at my bank. I fumbled with the debit card. And then, a harsh light split my overnight calm. Strange words appeared instead of the typical bank menu:

“WE ARE WATCHING YOU.”

I blinked my eyes. Watching? Watching… me?

The parking lot was deserted. I looked around frantically, wishing that I’d had more coffee before embarking on my run. I stabbed at the ATM buttons with my fingers. But the screen was frozen. The brightness seemed to burn my eyes.

I read the warning aloud. Then shouted into the dark. “Who’s watching me? The police? Governor Kasich? The FBI? Donald freaking Trump??”

A black limousine appeared without warning, from the Chardon Square. It approached my truck with an eerie silence, almost as if propelled by psychic energy instead of internal combustion. Rain drizzled over its sleek exterior. The PNC Bank logo was reflected in reverse, across its hood. I pulled forward, thinking that another customer wanted to use the money portal. But the long car swung around, in front of my vehicle. A foreboding figure stepped from the limousine. His heavy sunglasses were out of place, as was his charcoal fedora. He gestured toward my window.

“Good evening, Mr. Ice!”

I rolled the window down, once again. “Do I know you?”

He laughed out loud. “HAHAHAHAHAHAAA!!”

I sighed heavily. “Okay, if you are trying to spook me, it’s worked. Now move your car...”

He bowed with a look of dissatisfaction. “Rodney. Is that any way to treat an old friend? Tell me true, you have really forgotten about Mr. X?”

My stomach gurgled. Suddenly, he looked all to familiar.

“Let me guess, it’s ‘Men in Black’ again for Halloween?” I exclaimed. “Except you are several months early. Just testing out the look before you go big time?”

He chortled with amusement. “Rodney, many things have happened since our last visit, nearly eight years ago.” His monotone voice was unsettling. “I told you before that your work had attracted attention from those in Columbus and Washington. Your stories about black helicopters in Geauga County, conspiracies involving Mrs. Clinton, about Carrie Hamglaze and the GOP, about Jerry Springer running for governor of the ‘Buckeye State.’ You have been careless in choosing topics for your newspaper column.”

I cleared my throat. “Look, sometimes I wander a bit with my subject matter. The editor gives me free reign, most of the time. It is called ‘satire.’ Are you familiar with the concept?”

More of his laughter echoed across the empty lot. “Please, Rodney. You are insulting me. And I am sure that was not your intention…”

I nodded. “My apologies.”

“In the era of Bush and Obama, things were different,” he observed without emotion. “Their manipulations were familiar if not always fit for public scrutiny. But we now live in dangerous times. President Trump has aroused demons from the dark pit of Hades. What once might have been ignored as a crude joke now could be a whisper of ‘coup d’etat’ intentions. The branches of government are quaking.”

I shook my head. “Look, Mr. X, you’ve really lost it this time. I just wanted a $20 bill from the ATM, okay? I need beer. And I need to get home. My Black Lab is waiting...”

He coughed angrily. “RODNEY HAVE YOU HEARD ANYTHING I SAID?”

I shrugged. “Yes, yes. Yesssssssss.”

He adjusted his shades. “No games anymore. Do you hear me? No childish horseplay on your laptop. No funny newspaper columns about fried bologna and the CIA and secret conspiracies. Would you like a proxy visit from Vladimir Putin? Perhaps a poison dart in the back of your neck? Chardon might as well be a suburb of Moscow. Do you understand?”

My patience was evaporating. “Look, Mr. X, this isn’t funny anymore, okay? I don’t like the tone of your voice. Or should I say the ‘monotone’ of your voice. You sound like a computer gone amok. Even my ex-wife wouldn’t make such wild speculations about my writing. I’m a small-town scribe, that’s it. I’ve been told there is ‘no market’ for the columns I pen, but never that they might get me ‘removed’ by the KGB. Okay??”

“KGB?” he smiled. “I did not mention them by name. In my world, KGB, CIA, MI6, BND, DGSE... these terms have little meaning. Once you are truly off the grid, the parameters of human existence are shattered.”

I took a deep breath. “Dammit Mr. X. I want a $20 bill from the ATM. I want beer and maybe a bag of Buffalo Blue Cheese Combos. Get it? Brew and snacks. And me at home with my dog and my Roku box. Me at home writing my insignificant newspaper column without worrying about a federal collapse, or anarchy in the streets or about my Internet feed going out. Me being an overweight, middle-aged man fighting the angst of unemployed, Midwestern life. Me pondering the sad realization that there are thousands of planets out there around stars we’ve never seen and they are likely to contain other intrepid souls like myself, hammering out prose as a coping mechanism to deal with the ennui of the ‘cradle to grave’ experience. Okay? So move your limousine!”

He curled his lip. “You foolish man! Do not say that you weren’t warned. WE ARE WATCHING YOU! THEY… ARE WATCHING YOU!” He pointed his finger ominously.

“WATCHING! YOU!”

The black car opened like a metallic clam shell. Mr X was gone before I could think of a reply. The bank screen had returned to its natural orange hue. Rain dribbled on the truck windshield. My $20 bill waited in the slot.

I thumped the steering wheel. “Damn that guy! Damn him!”

My night was almost over. I reached Circle K in about a minute. The last case of Labatt Blue was waiting in their cooler. I made my purchase with seconds to spare before alcohol acquisition was verboten.

And I bought two bags of Combos just to be safe.

Comments about “Words on the Loose” may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P.O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

Published weekly in the Geauga Independent