“Mr. X, Resurrected”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-18)

Welcome to the ATM.

It was late night, in Chardon. I had just arrived at my financial institution, to withdraw a small amount of cash, when news broke on CBS Sports Radio that former Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice was being considered to coach the Cleveland Browns. As I fumbled for the volume knob on my truck radio, a warning appeared on the bank screen. I had to blink several times, before the image made literal contact with my brain.

“WE ARE WATCHING YOU.”

I punched buttons in sequence, with no result. The ATM was jammed. After a brief bluster of descriptive curses, I shifted my F-150 into drive and pulled out of the teller lane. Turning right, I aimed for the exit onto South Street. But then, a black limousine blocked my escape. More curses filled the air. My face went red. I watched the passenger window roll down after a dramatic pause. From inside, a dark figure beckoned for my attention.

“Rodney,” the rude visitor intoned. “How have you been?” His voice was like sandpaper in my ears.

I slapped the steering wheel in frustration. “Look, I need some cash. Something caused the machine to freeze. So I’ll get cash back at Giant Eagle. If you get out of my way...”

The figure began to laugh. “Something caused it… I caused it!”

My patience had evaporated. “You?”

The visitor pushed back his sunglasses, adjusted his black Fedora, and gestured through the window. “Don’t you recognize me, friend?”

My stomach twisted into a knot. “Damn it! Mr. X?”

He chortled with glee. “Yessssssssssss...” His breath reeked of expensive cigars.

“What is it with the ATM?” I wondered out loud. “This seems to be your favorite spot.”

“An easy place to catch you alone,” he observed. “Secrecy is important for a covert agent. But I have chosen to reveal myself once again to you. Get out your reporter’s notebook.”

My head bowed with fatigue. “I have been retired from the newspaper for a few years. Since 2014. Anyway, we use our cellphones now, easier to take notes in real time...”

“Blast that!” he growled. “No phones! Nothing that can be traced or copied! Do you hear me?”

I snorted with amusement. “Okay. Pen and paper. So what am I supposed to write?”

“For years I have kept you in the loop, Rodney,” he reflected. “Your status as a true patriot made you valuable to us on the inside. We have turned to you in the hope that our message would be shared with other critical thinkers, throughout the republic...”

“What??” I choked.

“Admit your role,” he said. “Your glorious role as a spokesman for those without a voice.”

“Friend of those who have no friends,” I smirked. “Enemy of those who make him an enemy.”

“What was that?” Mr. X blurted out with puzzlement.

“The opening of ‘Boston Blackie’ with Kent Taylor,” I mused. “A television show from the early 1950’s.” 

“Imbecile!” he swore. “I have only a few precious moments to educate you! Would you rather loaf in ignorance?”

“No loafing,” I replied. “Go on with your speech.”

“Rodney, we have reached an ominous time in the history of our nation,” he explained. “I was fearful with the ‘Tube Farm’ of antennas, constructed in Ashtabula County, to call UFO invaders to this planet. And more afraid when Hillary Clinton conspired to breed limbless birds and run Budweiser out of business, so that there would be no more wings and beer on game days, with football. Perhaps most distressed when your employment with the Geauga Maple Leaf ended due to a clandestine government intervention...”

I laughed out loud. “Look, Mr. X, I retired by mutual agreement. After 16 years, they were ready to move in a different direction. That was a fair decision, I believe.”

“You are so brave,” he smiled, through yellowed teeth. “If only the enemies of America were half as admirable...”

I thumped the steering wheel, again. “So, is there a point to your story?”

“Rodney, we have reached a critical moment in the history of our republic,” he declared. “We have a petulant man-child in the White House and a cadre of career bureaucrats bent on usurping power. The situation is chaotic. Literally, no one is at the helm of our ship of state. We have fighting in the streets, verbal combat on social media, rampant drug abuse, moral decay, and now, a true sign of the apocalypse that looms over the horizon.”

“A sign?” I pondered.

“Indeed,” he said. “A crack of thunder from the cosmos. A sign of the paradigm shift that will change this nation for all eternity!”

I was befuddled. My truck had idled so long that wisps of hot exhaust came through the open window. My face grew redder than before.

“What sign portends this seismic shift?” I asked in a dubious tone.

“The Cleveland Browns have begun to win football games!” he exclaimed with fear. “CLEVELAND! WINNING! GAMES!”

I was speechless. My hands gripped the steering wheel until each finger throbbed with arthritic fire.

“Beware!” he cautioned. “Beware what lies ahead! We are about to enter a black hole of unknown time and space. I want to place this vision in your mind: Cleveland going to a Super Bowl. CLEVELAND! Shock gripping the nation. Marathon segments on ESPN. Then, tanks in the streets as ‘Big Brother’ and the UFO invaders join ranks when no one is paying attention… and a gray-skinned alien taking the oath of office, in Washington, D. C. with no one left to preserve our republic.”

The black limousine retreated at last.

“Beware!” Mr. X shouted into the night. Tires squealed and then, he was gone. His voice trailed away in the mist and darkness.

“BEWARE!!!”

The ATM screen had cleared, at last. I swung around to re-enter the lane, and retrieved 20 dollars in cash. Now, it was time to buy some beer. And wings.

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