Weary Traveler

Jefe’s office lurked within phantoms of gloom, spotted with eyes of flickering street lights.

Mitch twisted the key and powered down the overworked engine. Every few seconds, heat from under the hood would crinkle a piece of metal, twist so that it belted out a noise like a clothes dryer approaching its death in a scrap yard.

He stared out of the front panel for a moment. Then rubbed his dust-covered face, rotated his neck and cracked its porous bones. Then scooped up the slingshot and baggie of silver pellets, tucked them both into his coat pocket along with the key, and climbed out of the truck.

His shaky legs wobbled atop jittery feet. Tense muscles filled with lactic acid like a battery burst within his body and oozed hot lithium through his bloodstream.

Dark thoughts and dead memories filled his broken mind from a time long past, buried, forgotten. An era long suppressed. Pushed down into the dark depths of his unconscious. Corrupting his every waking decision. Fighting against every action.

He balled up his shaky right hand into a weak fist and held it in front of the steel door.

“Come in, hermano,” Jefe said through the speaker.

Mitch pushed the door open and crept into the faint candlelight of Jefe’s office.

The gangster was seated at his desk behind a collection of three computer screens. A blue-white light illuminated the chiseled muscles in his enormous, block face, while his gaping eyes scanned something on the monitors.

“Siéntate,” Jefe said without looking up.

Mitch looked around the room, patted his pockets as if to pull out what Jefe was looking for.

Jefe peeked over the monitor.

“I said siéntate. It means sit your ass down,” Jefe said.

Mitch shuffled across the room, dragging his heavy legs forced to carry the burden of his body and wretched mind. The wooden floorboards croaked and groaned with each labored step until he plopped onto the squishy foam chair. He looked through the gaps between the monitors, stared deep into Jefe’s intense, black eyes like two chunks of charcoal had been pounded into his skull.

“Sorry, Jefe,” Mitch said. “Don’t speak no Spanish.”

“This is it, hermano,” Jefe said, pointing at the screen. “This will be the greatest heist ever conducted.”

“Second.”

“Qué?”

“I said second. The bonzo heist I just pulled is the greatest.”

“Cállate, cabrón. You don’t even know what I’m talking about.”

Jefe pressed a button on the side of the desk, sending each of the monitors sliding down into hidden panels beneath the surface.

The two men stared into each other’s eyes, reflected each other’s stoic faces as if peering into a funhouse mirror.

Jefe leaned forward, fingers interlocked, elbows digging into the top of his desk.

“How much you get for me?”

“All of it. Filled the truck. Five-hundred kilos of jellies, snappers, blasters, and jawbreakers.”

Jefe’s mouth twisted into a perfect-toothed grin. He reached across the desk and shook Mitch’s sweaty hand.

“That’s some good shit, hermano,” Jefe said. “You know… I didn’t put much faith behind you. Figured they would kill you right then and there.”

“Almost did.”

“Good thing my tommy gun was there to keep you safe, huh? She in the truck?”

Mitch was silent. His panicked eyes spread wide and the top right corner of his lip started to twitch like it wanted to escape off of his face. He scratched it, dropped his gaze away from Jefe’s soul-piercing eyes.

“Well, you see, Jefe, there was this cop,” Mitch said. He paused and looked at Jefe, waited for a response.

Jefe returned his statement with a blank stare. His grin slowly squeezed back into a straight-lipped scowl.

“And, uhh… this fucking cop pulled me over, you see?”

Jefe remained silent. He leaned closer to Mitch, clenched his jaw so tight that tiny muscles appeared within the muscles over his cheek bones and extra veins burst above his temples.

“He was going to arrest me and send Bertha to the scrap yard,” Mitch said.

“Who the fuck is Bertha?” Jefe asked.

Mitch chuckled and then scratched the frail hairs on his head.

“I named the truck Bertha. I was hoping that would-”

“You named my truck Bertha and you lost my fucking tommy gun?”

“I didn’t lose the gun. That damn cop stole it from me.”

“Why didn’t you shoot him in the face for invading my property?”

“It wasn’t all bad… he made a trade,” Mitch said, immediately regretting it.

“What could a fucking cop trade for my antique tommy gun?”

Mitch gulped loud enough to send a small echo ricocheting through the room. He reached his right hand into his coat pocket, fumbled around for the slingshot and baggie of pellets, pulled them out, and dropped them at the center of the desk with a weak plunk. His hand snapped back from Jefe to protect it from being chopped off.

Jefe stared at the objects for a long moment and then leered at Mitch from beneath furrowed brows.

“Cabrón, you have to be fucking with me.”

Mitch was silent, hands clasped in his lap.

“You traded my gun for a slingshot?”

“I got the baggie of pellets, too,” Mitch said, pointing at the baggie.

“Ay! Puta madre!” Jefe screamed, flicking his wrist.

“Jefe, he was going to arrest me and take the gun anyway. At least I brought you the fucking bonzos.”

“That gun was worth more than two trucks of bonzos. Estúpido!” Jefe yelled, launching to his feet fast enough to topple his throne. He stormed back and forth on the other side of the desk, shaking his head. “No bueno, hermano. No bueno!”

“Why the fuck did you give it to me, then?” Mitch asked. “Should have let me take the crossbow.”

Jefe reached behind his back and pulled out his golden plasma pistol that was tucked into his waistband. He stopped pacing, pulled the hammer back, charging the energy, then dug the muzzle into the center of Mitch’s forehead.

“I should kill you right now.”

“Alright, fucking do it,” Mitch said, crossed eyes staring down the barrel.

His mind tried to melt through the steel, seeking out the bullet hidden in the darkness at the other end. The one that would end his life once and for all. Knock his dead consciousness off into another realm of existence, far away from the death and misery that had consumed his reality since the day of his birth.

“Pero,” Jefe said, “who would I get to pull the greatest heist in the history of Rosenfell?”

“Second greatest,” Mitch muttered.

Jefe roared a thunderous laugh from deep within his stomach.

“You got some huevos on you, hermano. I respect that,” Jefe said. He lifted the back of his shirt, tucked the revolver back into its hiding place, and pressed the button on the edge of the desk. “Mira, aquí.”

Mitch crept upwards onto his shaky legs.

“Vamos!” Jefe boomed, snapping his fingers on his right hand like the crack of a whip.

Mitch stepped next to the hulking block of chiseled muscle and leaned over the desk, eyes gazing into the blue light of the center monitor.

“You know what this is?” Jefe asked.

Mitch pressed his hand against the desk, leaned closer, studied the image of some kind of architectural blueprint for an enormous facility.

“Never seen it.”

“You’ve never seen it because it’s underground,” Jefe said. “Beneath the city with those disgusting Crawler pendejos.”

“This is in the catacombs?”

“Catacombs, caves, tombs, compound, tunnels, whatever you want to call it. It’s right beneath our feet.”

“What’s this building?”

“This facility here is the CorpoMax base. Where they design and build weaponry and tech, and cook up all of those fucking bonzos you just boosted.”

“You expect me to sneak into there so they can kill me and eat me on site?” Mitch asked.

“No, vato, I’m telling you that you’re going down there to repay your debt for losing my tommy gun. Or else I will kill you on site,” Jefe said, reaching into his waistband behind his back. He held his hand there without pulling out the gun.

“Take it easy, Jefe,” Mitch said, raising his hands. “All I’m saying is that… why don’t you snatch the guns when they are floating around Rosenfell like everyone else?”

“Because the Crawlers keep the best weapons and the most advanced tech for themselves. Stuff that can do some real damage to their operations. They give us the scraps to fight over.”

“What kinda weapons we talking?”

“I hear that they got devices that can control the climate. Invisible Helo’s that can transform into ground cars. Portals that open into other dimensions. Radiation guns that jumble your DNA. Headsets that allow you to predict the future. Engineered bioweapons that can wipe out their entire sick civilization. And más!”

“What you gonna do with a bioweapon?”

“I don’t need no stinking bioweapon.”

“What’chu want, then?”

Jefe was silent, leaned closer to Mitch so that his black eyes beamed through the bum’s soul. He smiled a fat-toothed smile.

“You, mí amigo, Mitch,” Jefe said, “are going into CorpoMax to steal their Chrono-Suit.”

Mitch stared at Jefe with expressionless eyes while his mind tried to analyze what he just said.

“You want me to sneak into the catacombs with those demons to steal a fucking suit?”

“Not just a suit, hermano. The Chrono-Suit warps space. It allows whoever wears it to control time itself.”

Mitch was silent. Neurons fired off in his brain as it prodded the depths of his mind for an answer to Jefe’s ridiculous statement.

“Controls time? That ain’t possible.”

“How would you know?”

“Cause it ain’t.”

“Hermano, you’re a fucking bum. Addicted to booze and bonzos. Lurking around the devil’s front porch. Can you tell me one thing about the nature of time that says it’s not possible to control it?”

“Can you?” Mitch asked, pointing a slender finger at Jefe’s enormous chest.

“Time is what I say it is, puto. And I say that the Crawlers got a Chrono-Suit inside of this building,” Jefe said, turning towards the center monitor.

“I bring you this time suit and my debt for the tommy gun is paid?” Mitch asked.

“Sí, hermano. Your debt is paid. Unless you fuck up again.”

“What do I have to do?”

“Tomorrow, you, Sebastian, and Felix-”

“Who the hell are Sebastian and Felix?”

“My security.”

“Those two trolls?”

“Each of you will wear a CorpoMax janitor uniform and hitch a ride on one of the buses that goes underground. Next bus leave tomorrow, en la mañana.”

“When does the bus come back here?”

“The bus doesn’t come back.”

“What happens to the janitors?”

“Nobody knows. Pero, they don’t return. You will have to trek back.”

“You got any weapons for me?” Mitch asked.

“The Crawlers scan for guns. And even if they didn’t scan, you ain’t getting another.”

“Psh, what a fucking gyp,” Mitch muttered.

“I’m sure you can sneak that slingshot and baggie of pellets in.”

“What’s that going to do against creeps with time suits?”

“Better than nothing, cabrón,” Jefe said, smacking Mitch on the shoulder so hard that his knees twisted sideways. “Now, you can leave. It’s time for my hot oil massage. Vamos! Be back here mańana, early morning.”

Jefe placed his rough hands on Mitch’s shoulder, guided him towards the exit.

“Hold on,” Mitch said, squeezing out from beneath Jefe’s strong grip. He scurried over to the desk and scooped up the slingshot and baggie of pellets, tucked them into his coat pocket and marched past Jefe.

“Muy bueno, hermano. Hasta mańana,” Jefe said, shoving Mitch out the front door, slamming it so hard that it sent a shockwave rippling against his back.

The bum placed his hands on his hips, tilted his head back, and stared into the polluted neon cloud of color swirling overhead. It was like a rainbow of sand had been dropped from space, descended from the gray clouds, coating the faces of nomads and bums with a spectrum of light.

Mitch’s nostrils wriggled, sniffed the pungent air. His keen sense of smell searched the various aromas wafting through the streets of Rosenfell, settled on Big Bertha sitting in front of Jefe’s office.

His crazed eyes lit up in a flash of addicted fervor. He licked his cracked lips, wriggled his fingers like he cast a spell.

“No,” he grunted through a clenched jaw. “No!”

His heart pounded against the inside of his chest, elevated until it pounded in his throat and exploded in his brain.

“Fuck it.”

He spun his head left, right, then turned around and peered at Jefe’s building. It was pitch dark, trapped within shadows. Its steel door flush against the wall.

Mitch tiptoed up to the back of the truck, snagged one of the bags near the tailgate, hefted it up and over.

The weight of the bag gripped in his right hand forced him to swing his stiff right leg in a wide arch. Blue veins and feeble muscles in his forearm bulged beneath his coat. But the only things that his mind’s eye could see, were the infinite realms of consciousness his soul would traverse with every jawbreaker popped; every snapper snorted; every jelly chewed; every blaster smoked.

Mitch hummed a sweet tune as his skinny body marched back to his tent. The elixir of his life grasped tight in palm. Preparing his mind to propel through continuums of time. In and out of eternity.