LUNACY (A Short Poem)

Lunacy

A Short Poem

By Ralphael Pacheco

A large moon shines bright

Against my wall this night

As it gleams in through the window

I reflect on all the storms that billow

In spite of all that’s come to pass

I find my person here at last

Tumultuous though my soul may be

I see you staring back at me

BESSIE'S BURGERS (A Short Story)

Bessie’s Burgers

By Ralphael Pacheco

No one would fault you for being oblivious to the existence of Bessie’s Burgers, namely because it was a local joint in the ass end of Nowhere, Pennsylvania. That being said, as a restaurant manager, one of the employees flipped me the double-bird early one week and disappeared. It seemed premeditated, if I’m to be honest, and left me in desperate need of some new hires to fill his spot.

The morning caffeine began to kick in near nine o’clock the next day. I tidied myself in the back office as I prepped for two interviews, both of which I managed to schedule before noon, by some miracle. I shuffled through the résumés, giving them both another once-over. It really wasn’t necessary, as the job was entry-level, but I had always found this part of the process fascinating. I saw the world as a container for all sorts of characters, two of whom were going to walk through the door in front of me, and only one of whom I could hire to flip burgers.

The first candidate showed up ten minutes late, and didn’t bother to open with the trite “sorry I’m late” remark. Ouch. Still, first impressions were reconciled by his fancy suit and firm handshake. He was a rather large man with a frame that sat somewhere between plump and sturdy. I wouldn’t doubt if he enjoyed quite a few of our burgers before sending in an application. “Welcome, Mr. Berg,” I began. “I’m John Dominic, the restaurant manager for this location. Go ahead and have a seat.”

“Okay, and call me Donny. All my friends do.”

I smiled and nodded. “All right. Donny. You’ve got quite the impressive résumé, but nothing pertaining to this kind of work. Why should I trust you to cook at Bessie’s Burgers?”

“It’s not on my résumé because I’ve never been paid for it, but believe me: I make good burgers. The best burgers. I made my mom a burger once. She said it was the best damn burger she’s ever had.”

“A single burger?”

“When I get this position, some of the greatest burgers will be coming out of this place. When you look at the customer satisfaction these days, when you look at people’s faces when pulling out from here, you can tell there’s maybe one or two great burgers each day.”

“Is that a fact?”

“But I’ll make sure every burger here is tremendous. I’m gonna reel it back to the golden days of Bessie’s Burgers, when the name meant something.”

“Hold on, are you implying that it’s worse off now?”

“No, no, John, that’s not what I meant. In fact, you folks have made quite a name for yourselves competing with places like Five Guys in such a small town. But there’s always room for improvement. Vast improvement. I’m here to improve your joint big league.”

“All right… I guess I’ll let that slide. So Donny, where do you see yourself in five years at this establishment?”

“Well, I hope this doesn’t frighten you, but honestly I see myself in your position. Management. My father was a manager, and his father was a manager. It’s just in my blood.”

“I respect your ambition. So hypothetically, if you were to achieve a managerial position, what would be your first course of action?”

“I think my first course of action might be to fire half our employees.”

“Um. What?”

“Now hear me out. On the way in I couldn’t help but notice a good number of folks of the Mexican persuasion under your employment. Now I love Mexicans, but they’re bad for business. If they were undocumented, then at least we could get away with paying below minimum wage under the table – the more we can pocket from our customers, the better – but otherwise there’s no use in having them around.”

I blinked. Loudly. “First of all, that’s quite racist. Secondly, that’s illegal on a number of levels. And lastly, you’d be hard pressed to find a Mexican in P-A. The employees you’re referring to are Puerto Rican.”

Donny shrugged. “Eh, same difference.”

“Oookay then.” I began to wonder if he’d ever done a job interview before in his life (or interacted with another human being, for that matter). Regardless, I was intent on seeing it through. Never once had I lost my professional temperament mid-interview, no matter how grueling. But just when it began to feel like it was running long, I shuffled the papers in front of me to see the next point of note. “So… Some superficial research reveals issues of character that may stand between you and this job.” And by superficial research I meant Googling his name for less than five minutes. “One doesn’t have to go too far back on your social media feeds to see you blackout drunk at parties. And also, it says here that you’re a registered sex offender.”

“Okay, I’ll admit, I do party a little hard sometimes, you know how it is. But the latter is completely unfounded. I’ve never offended sex in my life. It’s never happened.”

“Um, no, I’m pretty sure I’m reading your name right.”

“I never did those things.”

“Your accusers took you to court.”

“The allegations were false, and they were dropped --”

“I read that you would’ve done decades of hard time if your father’s lawyers hadn’t gotten you acquitted.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, that might’ve happened.”

“…All right then, I think that’ll be all for now, Donny.”

We shook hands again as he stood up. It was the same confident handshake as before, but it felt leagues different after the fact. “Thanks for your time, John,” he said, a devious smile across his mug.

“You’ll receive a call should we have no other choice.”

It was a great relief to have that walking trainwreck clear of my office. I breathed a loud sigh the moment the door clicked shut. If you would’ve asked me then I’d have said it was clear cut. I’d have said that whoever walks through the door next without killing anything has the job.

The other candidate showed up on the dot. Punctual. Off to a good start, it seemed. She was dressed for success just as well as the last, with a soft and graceful handshake. She had a petite frame, but a way of carrying herself that seemed to amplify her presence.

“Welcome, Mrs. Mariah. I’m John Dominic, the restaurant manager for this location.”

She donned a friendly smile. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Dominic. And please, call me Hill.”

“Very well then, Hill. Have a seat.” I shuffled her papers into order. “Well, it’s my pleasure to say that you have the proper experience for the job. I mean, you seem to have made a career of flipping burgers. And I see here that you climbed the ranks to regional manager for Burger King.”

“Yes sir, that is correct.”

“Hot damn. That’s a whole head above my pay grade. It’s almost flattering that you’re the one coming to me for a job.”

She let out a bashful giggle. “Thank you, sir. I do try my best in any circumstance.”

“And that’s an excellent quality. But of course that begs the question: What are you even doing here? How did you lose your place in large-scale management to begin with?”

“I’m afraid the situation at BK was all a big misunderstanding. It was the culmination of personal conflicts that grew out of hand and led to my resignation. But rest assured: it was all amicable. I would be welcomed into any management position if I were to apply, but I feel it’s best for now to return to my roots, working at the ground level where I feel I can make just as big of an impact.”

“I don’t know. I reached out to your previous supervisor, and he returned an email saying that you were fired for…” I turned to my monitor and opened the email to read it right off. “’Misconduct; including blackmail and conspiracy to force the resignation of superior management.’ That doesn’t sound too amicable to me.”

“I’m afraid that’s simply untrue. As I stated, it’s the result of interpersonal tension blown out of proportion in a workplace environment.” Her eyes darted to the side for a moment. “My supervising manager and I simply didn’t get along, and he arranged for me to lose my position.”

“Well I suppose that’s believable, but I’d have to hear both sides to make an assessment. In either case, this conversation is happening on the heels of a disastrous interview that has me wondering how good of a team player you are. Can you get along with others in a close environment like a fast-food burger kitchen?”

“With respect, what you’re asking is if I can do a job that I’ve done for years. And the answer is yes.” Her eyes drifted off once again before refocusing. I followed her sightline out the window and into the parking lot, but I couldn’t tell what exactly she kept looking at. “I can and will cooperate with my coworkers in a way that ensures optimal output from all of us, but most importantly: optimal burgers.”

“That all sounds well and good, but I’m afraid I also received a follow-up email from your previous employers, warning that you enlisted a number of other regional managers in your coup, which could’ve disgraced a number of Burger King’s executives.”

“Like I said, all untrue. Those harsh notes are the vigor of vendetta. I admit, I made mistakes in my prior job, but I won’t admit to any I didn’t do.”

“I suppose it all reads the same on paper, but you have to understand this from my perspective… I’ve got to take the prospect of job security very seriously. If I’m appointing you to work for me, I don’t want to be looking over my shoulder.”

Hill looked out the window one last time, then back to lock eyes with mine. She flashed that friendly smile, which now sent a chill over my skin. “Well. That’s your call to make. Will that be all, Mr. Dominic?”

I gulped down some spit. “That’ll be all, Hill.”

We stood and embraced handshakes once more. “Thank you for the opportunity,” she said softly.

I dropped at least ten pounds of weight from my shoulders when the door slammed shut. I breathed a sigh before waltzing over to the window. There were a number of vehicles in the lot, but there was a pickup truck that would’ve been front and center from where Hill sat. A dark tarp covered the back. Something looked to be moving underneath. It was difficult to see clearly from a distance, but what looked like a skinny, shriveled hand began crawling out. A morbid curiosity compelled me to stare. Moments later, Hill approached the vehicle and shoved the hand back under the tarp before getting into the driver’s seat and taking off.

I leaned back into my chair, observing the pair of résumé’s still fresh atop my desk. The onset of a headache could be felt, and my focus began to fade. But one thought rang clear above the others: “Damn. I have to choose.”

I spent far too many working hours mulling over this dilemma in my head. My habit of pacing in circles returned in full force for most of it. Perhaps if I’d spent less time sulking I would have noticed the email on my desktop much sooner. This one came straight from the top:

From: joshuad52@bessiesburgers.com

To: johnd86@bessiesburgers.com

Subject: Assurance

Dear Mr. John Dominic,

HR has informed me of your present crisis. You have failed to hire for a position at your location that has been left unexpectedly vacant since the beginning of the week, despite having conducted interviews on two qualified candidates. Given the sudden nature of your predicament, it is implicit that the issue lies in your indecisiveness, a trait I have personally observed in your past. With that being the assumption, I would like to offer the following advisement.

As evidenced by this message, there is nothing that happens at any Bessie’s Burgers location that goes unnoticed by executive oversight. Although there may be a sense of isolation in the day-to-day of restaurant management, I can assure you that you are never alone. That despite the wide gap in our positions I still maintain your best interest in mind. I would also remind you that, no matter how dire the situation may seem, nothing in this company is beyond repair nor is it outside my reach. I would encourage you to move forward with whatever decision your conscience moves you toward, with the knowledge that regardless of whether it is right or wrong, it is yours. And even if time proves it wrong, you have a friend up here who can make things right.

No matter the outcome, whether you choose one, the other, or neither, Bessie’s Burgers will live on.

Sincerely,

Founder & CEO of Bessie’s Burgers,

Joshua Dominic

I couldn’t keep the smirk out of my face. My eyes drifted back to the résumés with renewed determination.

“Thanks, Pops.”

FIN

THE RETREAT (A Short Story)

*PREFACE: As I'm in the midst of the insanely busy production of The Edeneth Chronicle, I've been rather pressed for time. However, I was determined to get this out on Halloween (a deadline I've missed by mere minutes, unless you're west of my timezone), so the draft seen here may not be as refined as I'd like to be. If I make changes, this post will be updated to reflect them. But who knows. Maybe I'll wake up tomorrow content with the result. In the meantime, enjoy this spooky little horror story and have a happy Halloween! 

The Retreat

By Ralphael Pacheco

Four weeks, at minimum. That was what we set out to do. Four weeks. No internet. No 4G. No distractions. Only my grandfather’s old library for research material. Ideally, this would culminate in our first feature screenplay. But of course, as they say, “not everything goes according to plan.” Which is a mantra that should really be corrected to: “almost nothing goes according to plan.”

I first pitched this little retreat to my buddy Sean over dinner. We’re no Cohen brothers, but our joint efforts had gotten us a few scripts produced. And by scripts I mean shorts and by produced I mean premiering at small-time festivals across SoCal. Living that LA dream, right? I at least had the advantage of growing up in the city. See, we attributed the success (?) of our writing partnership to the diversity of our lives. We came from such different backgrounds and experiences that we figured no gap would be left unfilled by our combined minds. I was an introvert that grew up in a city. Sean was an extrovert raised in a small town. I’m a mixed Latino. He’s as white as a snowball. I’m a comic book nerd that never leaves home. He’s an outdoors enthusiast enlisted in the Army. The list goes on ad nauseum, but somehow we hit it off. When we found each other at a seminar, we thought it was a creative combo made in heaven, but we’d be deluding ourselves if we said either of us were okay with our charted career paths. So I kindly -- and might I say, rather profoundly -- suggested we take unpaid leave of our day jobs to hammer out a feature script. My father inherited a house from his father in the hills outside Pasadena. I figured it was prime real estate for a peaceful getaway. Ol’ pops didn’t want to move there, so he hired a caretaker to maintain the property in his absence. I called my dad, who was all right with it, and called the caretaker, who more than welcomed the company. Sean left his wife with the kids, I left my cat with my sister, and soon enough we were in business.

We passed the hour-long trek jamming my 80’s synth-wave playlist in Sean’s Jeep Wrangler (I think he secretly disapproved). The sun was just on its way down as we arrived, but the impending darkness was amplified by the surrounding hilltops. The west-setting sun cast a long shadow right over the house, giving an ominous outer glow to the modern architecture. The nearby trees lent themselves nicely to the picturesque cabin-in-the mountains vibe we observed as Sean pulled into the driveway of the double decker house. He killed my music along with the engine, and suddenly we were in silence. Deep silence.

“All right, Oliver,” Sean said through his righteous beard. He’s very proud of that beard. “If we’re gonna do this, we’re doing it right. Leave your phone in the glove box.”

“Hold on, I know I’m the one that brought up the caveat, but can’t we just bring them in on airplane mode?”

He gave me a stare. “You trust your discipline that much?”

“…Fair play.”

The phones went in the glove box.

We didn’t wait long after ringing the doorbell before Francis, the caretaker, opened up. He was a tall, heavy-set fellow who greeted us with a warm smile. “Hey gentlemen. Welcome, welcome, come on in!”

We carried our bags inside and set them down by the living room coffee table, across from which was a cozy fireplace already lit for the evening. The hardwood floors were polished squeaky-clean, and the high ceiling gave the entire area a chamber-like feel. Sean took a good while to take it all in with his jaw wide open.

“Man, this place is massive,” he remarked.

“Yeah, I wasn’t kidding when I said gramps had it going,” I replied. “But beyond this house, can’t say much of it dribbled down.”

Francis locked up the front door and joined us, a giddy grin on his face. His altogether look gave the impression of a jolly Santa Claus. I couldn’t help but smile with him.

“Ah, welcome to the abode!” He looked over to me. “You must be Oliver.”

“That’s right.” We shook hands.

He looked over to Sean. “And that makes you Sean.”

“Yes, sir. How do you do?” They also exchanged a handshake.

“Why, I’m excellent, it’s a delight to have you two.”

He sustained that big warm smile all the while. “You seem awfully excited to see us,” I pointed out.

“Well, as I’d said over the phone, I don’t get much in the way of visitors.”

“Not even family?” Sean asked.

“Oliver Sr. requests that there be as little traffic through here as possible. Plus, after three divorces, I doubt they want to see much of me anyway...... SO! Who wants the grand tour, huh?”

Sean and I exchanged a look, both eager to escape that big downer we were headed for. Francis gave us the rundown: three bedrooms and a bathroom on the second floor; and a bathroom, kitchen, and dining area beyond the ground-level living room. We unpacked our belongings in our respective guest rooms, and then planned out the next month over supper, courtesy of our host. The schedule seemed crystal clear: one week of outlining, followed by three weeks of scriptwriting – one week per act. Simple. Effective. Systematic. But, of course, “not everything goes according to plan.”

Week one was rough. I found it hard to sleep in a foreign bedroom, so for the first night I tossed and I turned and I stared at the wall until morning. I got out of bed creatively unenthused. I could tell by the lack of trim on his beard that Sean woke the same way. Bickering ensued. The living room which had become our base of operations – with our papers and pens and laptops (sans Wi-Fi, mind you) scattered about – soon became a battleground. Worse yet, we were routinely interrupted by Francis when he came through each day with a broom or mop. Invasive though it seemed, we were his guests, and he was the housekeeper, so we obliged as best we could. Still, little work got done. We could hardly be said to have anything that resembled an outline by the end of the week. But time was precious, so we forced the process forward, despite our disagreement on a conclusion to the story. Sean wanted a happy ending where everyone could ride off into the sunset. I thought that was cliché, and pushed for a tragic ending where all of the principal characters died.

By week two, sleep deprivation became a pattern. It might’ve been the stress, but Francis’ interruptions seemed to grow more frequent. Strangely, we saw little of him outside of that. It was almost as if he did nothing but mop the floors, vacuum the rugs, sweep the dust, and wash the windows, day in, day out. What stuck out even more was the afternoon Sean and I got into a big argument over our protagonist’s motivation, which ended in him kicking the coffee table. The glasses resting on it shook enough for Sean’s beer to spill out onto the rug, right before Francis’ eyes. He claimed an expletive as soon as he realized what he’d done. “Sorry, sir, I’ll clean that up.”

“No!” Francis shouted. “I’ll take care of it!”

“No really, you don’t have to,” Sean insisted, already heading to the kitchen for a paper towel.

“NO. THIS IS MY HOUSE!” Francis snapped, and proceeded to spray and scrub vigorously. Sean and I side-glanced at one another, unable to stop him, and unwilling to correct that it’s not technically his house.

The lights were out and I was on my way to the sack that evening when I stopped outside the master bedroom… It sounded like Francis was talking to someone inside. The door was slightly ajar. Out of curiosity I peeked inside. It was dark, but moonlight shined in from the window. I could see only a shadow of a man rolling around on the bed, whispering coarsely to himself. What little I could make out was completely nonsensical – “No I don’t wanna not why am thisisallthereis seventysevenknots whyami” and the like – but it bothered me enough to lock the door to my room that night. Granted, this did little to alleviate my poor sleeping habits. I’d gotten better since arrival, but still what little I could gather was forced to be enough.

Sean was already up at ‘em, surveying our notes and scripts in the living room by the time I crept out past my door the next morning. I was startled awake by a series of sharp banging sounds from outside. I proceeded with caution.

“Sean?” I called as I descended the stairs.

“Yeah?”

“What’s that noise?”

“Francis is out back chopping wood for the fireplace. He’s been at it all morning.” I breathed a sigh of relief, somehow less afraid by the sheer fact that it was less unknown. “How’d you sleep?” Sean asked, without lifting his eyes from the page in front of him.

“Hard to tell… You?”

“I’ve been up all night.”

“Doesn’t that bother you?”

He shrugged. “Meh. I slept less in the Army.”

I nodded. There was an air of unspoken reconciliation that I couldn’t quite explain. “So. Where are we at on this screenplay?”

We sat together and worked in solidarity for the rest of the day. Pride was set aside, and critical story solutions were found. Needless to say, it was the most productive day of our time there. However, that periodic chopping sound continued throughout. We grew increasingly aware of Francis’ absence in the afternoon upon stopping for a lunch break. It was Sean who decided to go out and fetch him, which I approved since he was better with people.

I observed their exchange from the kitchen window, which gave a view to the backyard. It was my first time seeing it that day and I was uncertain how long it’d been in the condition I found it in. The grass could hardly be seen under the sea of wood blocks covering the ground. One might’ve thought Francis spent a year cutting the entire surrounding woods into lumber. I watched Sean get waved back inside, where he reported that Francis had no interest in joining us.

We went on eating and drinking as we cranked out pages of text until the sun went down. For once, we’d gone hours without interruption. It was a full day of inspiration, or the muse, as some might call it. We hit our stride and had no intent of slowing down. That was, until the front door creaked open... I raised my head, looking over Sean’s shoulder to see what was up. The lamp we had shining inside made it difficult to see what was out. All I could discern was a tall, dark figure standing in the doorway, completely silhouetted by the flood-lamp shining onto the driveway behind him. His contour was one large, black mesh, but another shape took form as his arm adjusted – a lumber axe hanging low to the ground.

“What are you doing here?” The voice was unmistakably that of Francis, but different somehow, like it was pitched low into a primal growl.

“I’m sorry?” I said, confused.

“This is my house…”

Now Sean, as taken aback as I was, turned around to give his undivided attention. “Are you all right there, Francis?” he asked, a steady composure in his voice. “You were out there all day.”

Francis entered with slow, steady steps, dragging the axe along the hardwood floor. Sean and I jumped immediately to our feet. We’d be idiots to miss the intent here.

“What are you doing here?” he repeated.

“Whoa, whoa, Francis, it’s us!” I sputtered. “Oliver and Sean, we’re your guests, remember?”

He kept walking. We started backing up.

“You don’t belong here…”

My heart was beating out of my chest, and my body began to tremble. “We cleared this with you. We’ve been here three --”

The axe swung through the air, knocking out the lamp that’d lit our table. This was a good distance away from us, but the suddenness forced a jump (and a very emasculating screech) out of me. It became apparent that this lamp was the main source of light in the house, because the impact was followed instantly by darkness.

That’s when all hell broke loose.

I couldn’t tell if what followed was loud, or if my own screams were just really loud to myself, but in either case there was a lot of confusion. I could hear the axe tearing through something behind me after picking a direction and running. My run was stuttered by walls, and furniture, and other obstacles until I stumbled into the kitchen.

My eyes began to adjust. I could see just enough to reach for, close, and lock the kitchen door. I surveyed my surroundings. I had no idea where Sean had gone in the chaos. I wanted to call out to him, but didn’t want to broadcast my location.

The doorknob shuddered, followed by the axe crashing through. To my surprise, the wooden door gave about as easily as scissors through paper. I turned tail and dashed for the back. The axe could be heard repeatedly striking the door behind me, but I didn’t dare stop to look.

I exited out into the backyard, where piles of lumber now covered every inch of ground. I made an attempt to climb over them, but inevitably lost footing over one of the thousands of logs and fell onto my hands, splintering them against a rough piece of wood in the process. Looking back, I could see the looming figure of Francis giving chase. He walked out onto the wooden blocks, keeping balance like it was nothing. I made a desperate attempt at rising to my feet, but it seemed I’d sprained an ankle in the fall. In front of me, I could see Francis’ shadow raising the axe overhead for a finishing blow. But before my life could flash before my eyes, Sean came and stuck a kitchen knife into the behemoth’s back. Francis cried out, striking Sean away and redirecting his attention to this new prey. With his back to me, I could see the knife handle protruding from Francis’ right shoulder. It struck me as inhuman how easily he shrugged it off as he began his slow, menacing stride forward. His overwhelming size and physical strength was suddenly worth worrying about.

Sean, cornered, retreated back into the house. “Get to the jeep!” he yelled as he disappeared through the doorway. “I keep a Smith & Wesson in the back!”

And suddenly there was hope.

I climbed up onto my weakened feet and stumbled over the field of chopped wood towards the driveway, refusing to look back no matter how awful the noise. After moving beyond the lumber floor I fell onto the asphalt, which was a comfort by comparison. My sprained ankle was giving out, but the adrenaline pushed me forward. I could hardly be bothered to notice the shower of sweat running down my clothes amidst the terror of the moment. There was a choir of anonymous screams resonating from inside the house. But there was hope in the form of a jeep at the end of that driveway, and to my sight it was only getting closer and closer, one painful step at a time.

However, when finally I reached the back of the jeep, I found only an open trunk and an empty duffel bag. By the time I looked up from it, I could see on the other side of the vehicle’s windows: Francis dragging a decapitated corpse in one hand, and a Smith & Wesson revolver in the other. The thought that Sean had forgotten to lock up the jeep hadn’t occurred to me. And even if he did, I didn’t have the keys on hand. In short: there wasn’t a way to cut the situation in which I wasn’t screwed.

In that moment the fear lapsed, and I could only laugh. To an outside observer, I must’ve looked the psychotic one in this scenario. Guess I got the ending I wanted after all.

END

OPERATION WOLF TRAPPER (A Short Story)

Written by Ralphael Pacheco

Caleb didn’t wake until the landing gear hit the tarmac. It took a moment for his mind to reconcile with the fact that he was onboard a Boeing 747, due in part to the splitting headache competing for his attention. He smashed his eyelids together, wishing the flight attendant hadn’t offered him anything the night before. It was all her fault. Some complete stranger was paid to send his twenty-nine days of sobriety plummeting down the drain. Not that it was going anywhere. Oh well. He rubbed his eyes, resolving to gun for that one month medal as soon as he returned stateside.

The aircraft slowed to a stop. The pilot said something or other over the intercom. It was hard to distinguish through the migraine. He was fortunate to find the seat next to him empty. Waking to the gaze of judgement surely would’ve made things no better.

It was another few minutes before he was given the opportunity to zombie-walk out into the terminal. He found a bathroom in a discount McDonald’s and used it to wash the agony off his face. The mirror said he looked like death. A little more water, a comb of the hair, a wink and a smile and he was back to the usual Caleb. Or California, he should say. He checked the inside of his wrist as he returned to the terminal. The analog watch read quarter to twelve. The smart phone in his pocket, courtesy of the agency, was already adjusted for local time and read quarter to five. He fixed his watch accordingly, taking special care not to activate any of its more particular functions. He recalled Tinker in her lab, advising him against using it in public without the safety pushed in.

“Yeah, all right, just tell me what it does.” Caleb turned the watch over in his hands like a child with a toy.

“The button on the corner of the ten activates a localized EMP in a twenty meter radius,” Tinker continued. “Should knockout all power sources for at least a quarter of an hour unless someone hits a breaker.”

“Mmhm.”

“The button closest to the two starts a five-second fuse on a self-destruct. Factoring in fragmentation, it should have the effective range of an Em-Sixty-Seven.”

“Mm…”

“The button by the eight powers a carbon dioxide laser cutter. It’s not quite industrial grade, but it should burn through wires, chain link fences, or even thin sheet metal if you’re patient enough. It eats up a lot of power, though. So don’t expect to go around using it for long periods at a time. Any questions, Cal?”

“Uh, yeah. How do you fit all these gizmos into a little wrist watch?”

As expected, Caleb’s contact was waiting outside the terminal, clad in a thick winter coat, scrolling through his phone atop a silver Bentley. He dismounted the car as Caleb approached, welcoming his new passenger inside.

“Welcome to London,” the contact said, with a degree of politeness afforded only by an English accent. “What do I call you by?”

“California. You?”

“Archer. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

There was something curious about Archer’s speech. It became more apparent as the headache subsided and Cal’s focus restored. He chose not to pursue it at first, but the brief drive to the hotel had enough dead air to ask. “You’re not local, are you?”

“What makes you say that, mate?”

“Don’t throw me for a loop, I know a Londoner when I hear one. You’re… farther North.”

Archer smirked. “Good ears. I’m from Birmingham originally, but the SAS knocked most of the Brummie outta me.”

Cal smiled for this small victory of wit.

The Apex hotel was less than half an hour’s drive from London City Airport. That put them a solid hour ahead of nightfall, and another two hours ahead of the meet. Plenty of time to prep. They were booked for different rooms, but gathered into the same one to discuss preliminary planning. Cal closed the blinds, ran the faucets, and flipped the television to the local news. “Should be enough white noise to nullify any possible bugs,” Cal explained. “I trust you’ve read the briefing?”

“Your original contact got held up in Burma,” Archer clarified. The removal of his coat unearthed the solid arms of a soldier. “I was brought up to speed yesterday, but you’d best run it by me again.”

Cal went on to explain the situation regarding the mole in Atlas Intelligence, along with their forthcoming negotiations with an information broker willing to sell his identity. Archer’s role was to provide support, if need be, while California secures the transaction.

As soon as a mutual understanding of a plan was reached, they went their separate ways. Archer returned to his room on the floor above, readying the duffle bag he’d left there ahead of time. Below, Caleb sifted through his baggage, unpacking the three-piece suit Tinker prepared for him.

“I know this op’s supposed to be low-key,” Caleb told her before leaving the labs. “But on the off-chance something slips, what are my options for weapons and armor?”

“What? Is the watch not good enough for you?” Tinker responded.

“Give me a break, what’ve we got?”

Tinker guided him to a set of dress clothes—dark jacket, dark slacks, grey vest, and a blue dress shirt—freshly pressed and laid out on a table. “This is a standard three-piece suit in your personal color preference. This should allow you to blend in, seeing as the meet’s going down in a rather classy restaurant.”

“Great,” Caleb groaned. “But can it stop bullets?”

Tinker shot him a playfully aggravated look. “I appreciate your condescension, Agent California, but as a matter of fact it can. Between the fabrics of the vest are a few layers of graphene fibers, which hold a tensile strength of one-hundred and thirty gigapascals.”

“I take it that’s a lot?”

She refrained from rolling her eyes. “All you need to know is it’s significantly lighter, stronger, and more flexible than Kevlar. Capeesh?”

“If this ‘graphene’ is so great, couldn’t the whole suit be laced with the stuff?”

“I’m afraid that option’s above your paygrade. Besides, this incentivizes you to keep things quiet.”

“Fair enough. What about firearms?”

Tinker moved him along. A small, open, matte black case rested on the next table. “You obviously won’t be bringing this through the airport, but it’ll be shipped ahead of you and planted at the target location by your contact.” She moved her finger over the main item in the case: a handgun. “This here’s a Colt Em-Nineteen-Eleven. With it you’ll find in this package one attachable suppressor, one laser sight, and one seven-round magazine of forty-five ACP.”

Cal picked the gun out of the case, getting a feel for the weight in his hands and testing the iron sights with his eyes. “No gimmicks with this one?”

Tinker shrugged. “It’s exactly what it looks like.”

At the Apex hotel, it took Caleb only a few moments to don the three-piece suit. He plunged into a corner chair and checked his wrist watch. Still nearly two hours to spare. He switched the television back on and flipped between the local news and a TV show to ease the monotony. But all these distractions couldn’t keep him from noticing the minibar glowing in the corner of his eye.

Caleb knew he didn’t need it.

In the distance the BBC yammered on about North Korea’s nuclear potential. He tried to refocus on the TV. The high refresh rate proved bothersome to look at, especially when he could be staring down the serene insides of a minibar, stocked like a gallery with the finest liquor the hotel could afford. Just a peek wouldn’t hurt anyone, he decided. Caleb waltzed over to the room’s kitchen, crouching down by the minibar to see two small rows of elegant bottles backlit by an LED lamp. The glow off the stark walls made it appear like a chamber of heaven. He was so consumed with the imagery that he failed to notice the keyhole before reaching to open it. A sigh of relief escaped his lungs. For a moment he was glad it was outside his control. Knowing he’d have to go out of his way to get a hotel staff to unlock it, he returned to his comfortable corner chair.

The offerings of the TV soon grew stale. Caleb connected his phone to the hotel’s Wi-Fi and browsed the internet for a good few minutes before a knock landed on his door. He wasn’t expecting any visitors. Protocol insisted he dig his weapon out of its holster, but the handgun Tinker had prepared was packaged as a dead drop a few blocks away. He approached the door reluctantly.

“Who’s there?” He asked from a fair distance.

“Room service.”

#

“Atlas Control, this is Archer, how copy?” Archer murmured as he exited his room. He was back in full winter attire, this time with a scarf, a beanie, and a duffle bag thrown over his shoulder.

“Read you loud and clear, Agent Archer,” a distorted voice answered through his earpiece. “What’s the status of Agent California? It’s twenty-hundred hours and he hasn’t done his comms check.”

Archer shuddered. It was possible his partner was just running late, but he feared for the worst. “I’ll check. If he’s compromised how should I proceed?”

On the floor below, Caleb scrambled to fish his earpiece out of his suitcase. He dropped the wire at least twice before priming it for communication. “This is Califuuurrnia, howya copy, Control?”

“California?” Archer’s voice came in over the airwaves. “Where you been? I was just on my way to your room.”

“I, uh got uh, held up, y’know? Look s’all good. Leh’s get goin’.”

“You don’t sound all right, lad.”

“I said I’m fine! Get to yer position, I’m leavin’ my room now.”

Archer heeded his words and took the stairs down to street level. The restaurant in question was a fancy Turkish place called Haz, located almost a kilometer north of their hotel. The tight streets made it a faster walk than drive, so Archer avoided taking a cab.

The building across from Haz belonged to a media and web design company. They closed after dark, but Atlas had equipped Archer with a skeleton keycard—an all access pass to every room in the office. He set up shop on the second floor, assembling his personal Arctic Warfare rifle from the pieces in his duffel bag. With the bipod planted on the carpet, he tested the scope out of the floor-to-ceiling windows. From his perch, Archer could see partway into the restaurant--enough to notice the man in a white suit jacket checking his phone. White male, mid-thirties, blond hair, slim build, he was a spitting image of the description they’d been given. And better yet: he was seated by a window as agreed upon. This was definitely their guy.

Caleb stumbled around the block, setting his sights on the restaurant and making a shaky stride toward it. Archer spotted his partner, shaking his head as he observed the display from above. “Control, I don’t think this’ll end well. Agent California’s rather smashed.”

“I said I got this!”

“Proceed as planned, Agent Archer.”

Archer breathed a sigh, focusing down the sights. Cal entered the front doors of the restaurant, looking right at home in his dapper attire.

“Aight, point me, Archer.”

“The target’s sitting alone on a table hugging the window, third on your left.”

Cal spotted him immediately. Even if he wasn’t the sole occupant of that row, he’d be difficult to miss with that white suit jacket reflecting the golden chandelier lights. Cal took the seat opposite. He cleared his throat. “You must be Dimitri.”

The broker scanned Caleb with his eyes. “And you would be?” A rather boyish Russian accent escaped his lips.

“Call meh California.” He coughed, clearing his throat again. “I’ll be negotiating the trade.”

“And you bring money?”

Caleb stared into emptiness for a moment. Then smirked. He recalled the fat manila envelope lying in a secret compartment of his suitcase. It never left the hotel room. He locked eyes with Dimitri, maintaining his personable smile. An actual purchase was to be a last resort in case his charms failed. It seemed the latter was all he had left. “Listen, red, I’m the middleman between you and a very powerful force. You have something we want, and one way or another we’re going to get it.”

“Easy, Cal, we need him receptive,” the disembodied English voice whispered into his ear. Even from Archer’s vantage point, Dimitri’s body language didn’t read well. The sharp-dressed broker shifted in his seat, returning the eye-lock with a glare.

“Perhaps you should reconsider priorities, California.” What at first sounded like timid boyishness now sounded like snarky boyishness. “You seem to forget that I have what you want. I have power here. I can do far worse than deny information. I can make it disappear.” His eyes drifted aside for a moment. Though Cal’s intoxication made him more inclined to follow his instincts, he refrained from breaking eye contact to see where that drift led. “Or how about I make you go home in body bag until your people send better offer?”

But it didn’t matter. Cal knew what Dimitri was looking at when the hard steel brushed against his back through a layer of fabric. He didn’t need to turn around to know that a tall, probably well-built enforcer-type was standing behind him. “Is that a nine-mil in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”

“Get up. We’re goin’ outside.” The big one sounded English. Cockney, particularly. Definitely muscle hired local.

Cal stood up, albeit in a wobbly fashion, as requested. He composed himself, the newfound adrenaline shaking the drunken veil away as he straightened his suit. “You’re making a big mistake.”

Dimitri smiled. “We see how you feel after--”

With the sound of broken glass, the tall enforcer’s brain matter exited his left temple. Archer bolted another seven-six-two NATO round into the chamber, while the patrons in Haz scattered in fits of screams. As much as Cal would’ve enjoyed seeing Dimitri’s look of shock, his focus was on scanning the surroundings. It became clear that every patron in the restaurant who wasn’t running and screaming was drawing a firearm and setting their sights on him. Cal flipped the table and clawed at the upper-left button on his watch. In a gated area behind the restaurant’s kitchen, a circuit breaker sparked and combusted before dying out entirely. The building went dark, along with the whole corner it resided on.

With the turn of a knob on his rifle’s scope, Archer activated its night vision capabilities. This came soon enough to see Dimitri stumbling out the restaurant’s front doors before disappearing into an alleyway.

Meanwhile, Cal was hunkered down behind a flipped table. He could hear the henchmen making a clueless stroll across the floor. None of them dared waste bullets on a target they couldn’t see. “Archer, where’s my firearm?” Cal whispered.

“Dumpster. Alley behind Haz. Dimitri looked to be heading that way. You can get the piece and cut him off if you leg it.”

Cal saw a gunman walk right past him. It seemed it was much too dark for him to be seen at that level. This could change if their eyes were given time to adjust, so he didn’t waste time crawling towards the back. As soon as he found a clear path to the kitchen doors, he stood upright and made a break for it. He got in without a hitch. That was, until a hiding chef caught sight of him and let out an involuntary screech. Cal tried to “shush” her, but it didn’t do much good when the bullets started flying through the wall. He was floored by a round to the side, but he didn’t feel wounded—Tinker wasn’t kidding about the strength of the vest.

Again Cal found himself crawling on his stomach to the back door. There was a brief ceasefire that he used to climb up onto his feet and storm out.

He exited to a pitch-black alley, closing the door behind him. He hoped the gunners were blind firing and didn’t actually see him leave, but it was hard to be certain. He fished around in a nearby dumpster for anything that felt like a gun case. After wiping his hands across a few greasy trash bags, he eventually pulled one out and set it on the ground. Without the alley lamps it was impossible to see the contents of the box. There was little choice but to assemble the weapon by touch, a task easier said than done, and easier done sober than otherwise. With that being the case, his time wasn’t record-breaking but the gun got pieced together nonetheless, just as he’d seen it in Tinker’s lab.

Cal scanned the alley for any sign of Dimitri. Around the corner he found the information broker kneeling down, mumbling Russian swears as he tried to turn his phone back on. It wasn’t until the cold suppressor pressed against his cheek that he knew Cal was there. Dimitri raised his hands. “My men in restaurant will find us soon.”

“And you’ll make an excellent meat shield when they do.” Cal released the safety on his handgun. “Or you can save us both a world of hurt and get this over with quickly. Where is it?” It took only a moment, but Dimitri swallowed his pride and produced a flash drive from his pocket. “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

It felt like only a few seconds later that the gunmen flooded the alley, but even by that time Agent California was long gone. They could’ve pursued, but the sirens signaled them to get lost.

Archer observed the train wreck from above, again pondering why a wild card like California was given such a delicate assignment. Or better yet: why Control delegated much confidence in his abilities. But as Archer disassembled his rifle and packed up his duffel bag, he couldn’t help but notice that in the end: the job got done. It became even more apparent over the next week when Atlas rid itself of not one, but two moles that Dimitri’s intel shed light on. It was a strange order of events that he still couldn’t rectify in his head. After all, from the way things went down it would seem their success was only a matter of blind luck.

The only rationale he could muster was a phrase often echoed by his former instructor: “It takes a wolf to catch a wolf.” Perhaps, Archer thought, this was of some merit. Perhaps it wasn’t. Perhaps California would one day face the consequences of being himself. But until that day came, he was in a gambler’s limbo with no intention of playing the odds.

THE END

Who Am I? (Vlog Script)

The following is the script I'd written for this vlog/video-essay on my personal channel.

Hey wassup everyone, this is MetalGamer here – oh wait, I can’t say that anymore…

[HARD CUT]

Hey wassup everyone, this is Ralphael. And do you guys remember that melodramatic “Final Channel Update” I uploaded a while back? It’s hard to believe that was more than two years ago at this point. Also, that sucker went on to have a significantly higher viewer to subscriber ratio than any of my regular videos at the time, which is quite ironic in hindsight. Perhaps I should consider quitting YouTube more often.

But anyway, that’s beside the point. The point is I’m back! … Well, to a certain extent. To another extent I’ve been back for a long time. Those of you who subscribed to my new channel (Pacheco Projects & Productions or P^3 for short) have probably already noticed that we’ve been uploading quality weekly content there for months now. I say “we” because the channel is a co-venture between my sibling and I, and we hope to open it to more collaborators in the future. But for now, every week we’re putting out all sorts of creative and production-based videos. And I must say: with the greater emphasis on creative content, I’ve found the work I’m doing over on that channel far more fulfilling than almost everything I’ve done on this channel. So with that being said, if you want to see the passion projects my sibling and I are churning out every single week, then a highly recommend subscribing to that channel if you haven’t already.

So anyway, now that I’ve done the sales pitch, let me try and contribute to the topic at hand, and that is: Who. Am. I?

That seems like a very simple question but the truth is I’ve found myself at a bit of a crossroad in my life’s journey. Like I said in that final update video, the main reason I quit YouTube was to focus on my academics, but for reasons I won’t get into that ended up falling through and I am no longer in college. Which was strange for someone like me whose whole life had been academics up until that point. Throughout my secondary education, I dedicated myself to being the best student I could possibly be and for me: higher education was the endgame. So to have that swept out from under me was a jarring possibility at the time. But, I had faith. And I’m certainly not the type to stop learning just because I’m not in school. So I’ve still been trying to expand my horizons and teach myself all sorts of skills since I dropped out.

And that brings me to where I’m at now: the crossroads I spoke of earlier. I’ve been having a bit of an identity crisis, in a way. My mind spends lots of time fluctuating around the existential quandary of who I am and who I’m meant to be. Am I a writer? Am I a filmmaker? Am I both? [insert porque no los dos?] And this is all coming on the heels of wanting to be a game developer, while simultaneously BEING something of an online entertainer on our Twitch livestreams.

So those are the facts, but the question still remains: Who am I? Well, I’m an artist to be sure, but is that too broad? I think not. In fact, if you ask me: why should the term “artist” be a limiting factor? That seems antithetical don’t you think? To quote the late philosopher Bruce Lee [insert Bruce Lee pic]: “There are no limits. There are only plateaus, and you must not stay there, you must go beyond them.” We live in an age where information is more accessible than ever, and thus skills and crafts are more learnable than they’ve ever been. In celebration of that, we shouldn’t limit ourselves to the options the road gives us. Instead, we should carve our own path across the landscape and have faith that our lives will be guided to finding their fulfillment. To quote one of my recently deceased personal heroes [insert Monty Oum pic]: Just “keep moving forward.” So yeah, I’ll continue aspiring to be a writer, since I’m fascinated by storytelling and I’ve identified as one for as long as I’ve known how to write. And yeah, I’ll continue honing my craft as a filmmaker. And I’ll keep doing both of these with the infinite sphere of online digital media as my platform. Because creativity is my calling, but being limited to a medium, is simply not.

We have in each of us the powerful opportunity to crush that limitation, and that’s what I’ve conceded to do. So who am I? I’m Ralphael Pacheco. And I’m all of the above. You can find me around the interwebs, links in the description if you’re interested. God bless.

LINKS

My primary channel P^3: https://www.youtube.com/user/MGMachinima/

My Twitch channel P^2: http://www.twitch.tv/p_squared

My Twitter: https://twitter.com/TheRaphPatch