“I appreciate that,” said Simpatico Allan Lima—Sal—to Tim Warner, who was holding open the elevator door.
“My pleasure, sir,” Tim Warner said.
Class act, thought Sal. I guess what they say about this kid is true.
Sal got to his desk and waved his hand over his computer. He was greeted sardonically, per usual, by Lightspeed, his American Indian operating system.
“How,” Lightspeed said. “Ready to take a gander at these emails, Sunshine?”
“Hit me, Chief,” Sal said. “Hit me hard.”
But first, a joke, which Sal was hardly in the mood for. Lightspeed didn’t take the hint.
“So this Indian guy returns some toilet paper to a salesclerk. The clerk says, ‘Apologies, amigo, no refunds on poopoo tissue. Them’s da rules.’ The Indian says, ‘I’ve been vulgarly misled, sir, and demand my money back. There’s a rash on my bum.’ Clerk says, ‘Misled? A rash? Explain yourself, buster.’ Indian says, ‘The brand here says Angel Soft, but it oughta be called John Wayne.’ Clerk says, ‘John Wayne? What’re you getting at, pal?’ Indian says, ‘Cuz it’s rough and tough and don’t take shit from no Indian!’”
Sal was promptly e-blasted by seventy-eight unread messages, the first of which was from Venus Luna, his boss’s secretary. Not the worst way to start his day.
Hi, Sal! The cryptocurrencies were transferred at midnight. The Gramboldians will be very happy. Thank you for all your hard work! You’re amazing.
Sal smiled and thought, It’s true, I am. He cracked his fingers and typed a response in the air, wearing a satisfied smile.
V, glad we can put a fork in this project. The Gramboldians have been a pain in my hiney for so long I’ve gotten used to the ache. Speaking of fork, how about the two of us finally try out that Greek place we’ve been talking about? The one a few stations from here. Tomorrow, noon?
Two minutes later, Sal received confirmation from Venus. Yeah, definitely not a bad way to start the day.
Feeling exceptional—perhaps it was also the organic orange juice kicking in—Sal powered through his emails till lunch.
Later, Sal’s boss, Michael Gordonnn—yes, three n’s, don’t ask why—president and CEO of the company for all intents and purposes—swung by Sal’s desk. Gordonnn noticed Sal’s head swiveling every which way, his hands and fingers swinging every which way like a mad pianist, which could only mean one thing: Sal was taking care of business.
“Powering through?” Gordonnn interrupted.
“Correctamundo,” Sal answered.
“Dammit, Sal, you’re an inspiration, a maestro, the only one around these parts, other than Venus, with a real armpit for elbow grease. Hear that? You made my spirit animal croon.” Gordonnn had a knack for strange expressions. They amused Sal in the early years, but now he was indifferent.
“I appreciate it, Boss,” Sal said.
“As far as I’m concerned, anyone who staves off the Gramboldians is Employee of Eternity in my book of platonic love letters. You make me proud to wear my sleeve on my heart.” Gordonnn took a contemplative sip of coffee, savoring that poetic low-hanging fruit.
“You flatter me, Boss,” Sal said plainly. “I’m blushing.”
Ten hours later, Sal was cooked. Lightspeed reminded him that he still had a body to nourish, and that it must be nice to go home to such a lovely warrior queen.
“You’re glitching,” Sal snapped. “That was my past life. I roll solo these days. Catch ya later, Chief.”
Sal left his office and put on his space suit. He hopped inside his mid-size Cruzer de la Crème and zipped over to Franky’s. He’d worked up an appetite.
“There’s the Homo sapiens of the hour!” Franky greeted Sal as he entered.
“Frankito,” Sal replied. “What’s cooking, you big handsome blob?”
“Number one, tons of pickles, no mayo?”
“That’s why you keep me coming back,” Sal said, shooting Franky a friendly finger. “You take extra special care of me.”
Sal dropped a fiver in the tip jar and could tell that the big purple blob known as Franky was all smiles. Let it be known, Franky hardly ever smiled.
“I appreciate your business, my boy,” Franky said.
“No no,” Sal countered. “Correction: I appreciate your business.”
Sal cruised home to the music of Gang Starr, his favorite hip-hop duo of all time. Hearing Guru’s crafty New York-centric rhymes over jazz-infused beats, spun by none other than DJ Premier, reminded Sal of Earth, his planet, the place where he’d never been to but where people like him came from. Sal experienced the pangs of nostalgia. In this moment, hip-hop felt oddly, coldly, out of place in space.
At home, Sal devoured his delicious sandwich in silence. He enjoyed hearing the sounds of feasting. Of crunches and munches, gulps. The melody of eating was the business of being alive, and in the blackness of space, you often lost sight of that.
Sal’s phone buzzed. Annoyed, he waved his hand over the device. He was acknowledged, per usual, by the ever-faithful Lightspeed.
“How, Sunshine,” Lightspeed said. “Urgent message, Playa Hater. You might wanna check this out.”
“Who from?” Sal grumbled.
“Who else?” Lightspeed answered.
But first, a joke, to which Sal refused, to which Lightspeed insisted, to which Sal acquiesced.
“Knock knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Indian.”
“Indian who?”
“Indian we’re all minorities in space. Get it? In the end we’re all—eh, screw it. Your message, Your Majesty.”
Sally, I don’t know what the hell happened, but the damned Gramboldians rejected our payment. Talk to me! What in rapture’s trashcan is going on?
Sal sighed; he’d had a bad feeling about this, but ignored it. He knew never to ignore his instincts.
Sal cracked his fingers and typed a response—it looked like he was tickling the air.
“Go easy, Sunshine,” Lightspeed said. “Don’t lose your cool, Sheriff,” he added. “Scalp all their repugnant asses and send me the pics,” he whispered with glee.
I’ll handle this. By tomorrow, the issue will have been resolved.
Sal swallowed the last of his now-cold sandwich, washed it down with organic orange juice. The juice tasted a skosh acidicy.
Sal walked to his closet, knelt, then removed a square piece from the wooden floor. He closed his eyes, recited an old prayer his grandmother used to say before bed.
In Sal’s hand was a small piece of jet-black metal, unmistakably an ERX-007—nicknamed the Anti-Newton in the black market because it was the only weapon in the known universe capable of destroying matter.
How and why Sal possessed the gun is a story for another day.
Before leaving his apartment, Sal went to his kitchen and opened a drawer. He wasn’t about to forget his trusty pizza cutter.
Sal had no qualms preparing Gramboldian pizza. In fact, he’d tried it before, and it was the closest thing in taste and texture to pepperoni pizza.
Sal’s palate was an equal-opportunity employer.
Yeah, Sal thought, if they don’t play nice, then at least I’ll know what’s for supper the rest of the week.
A thought entered Sal’s mental periphery, one that inherently prefigures decisive action. Sal summoned Lightspeed.
“How may I be of service, O Herculean Exterminator?”
“Instead of ‘Indian we’re all minorities in space,’ how about, ‘Indian we’re all John Wayne in space?’” Sal suggested.
“Nope, doesn’t work, doesn’t make any—oh. Never mind. I get it.”
Sal smirked and so did Lightspeed. Let it be known, it was technologically implausible for Lightspeed to smirk.
• • •
A whole month went by without Sal stopping by Franky’s, so, it was no surprise to see the owner ecstatic when his favorite patron walked in. The Prodigal Son himself.
“There’s the human of the hour!” Franky greeted. “It’s about time you showed your stinking meat suit around here!”
“Frankito,” Sal greeted. “Sorry I’ve been away. Work’s been killer.”
“Don’t apologize, my boy,” Franky the purple blob said. “I’m happy to see you alive and well. My, you’ve gained some weight, man! What’s that about? Please tell me you haven’t found a finer eatery than mine, you scoundrel?”
Sal patted his paunch and laughed. His clothes had certainly fit tighter. A good decleansing was in order.
“Too much home-baked pizza,” Sal admitted. “I swear to the Milky Way if I see one more slice, even smell it, I’ll puke my guts out straight across the galaxy.”