change in management. Like, joy or something. That fried mozzarella burger is going to destroy Winters. It’s the next logical step. Plus, I’ve been working on projects of my own, you know?”
Gulping, head dizzy, he sits back down. “I need something to eat. I need aspirin. Or cyanide.”
“Do me a huge favor, Deshler. Come with me to the club tonight. Don’t drink, just hang out sober. I want to try an experiment.”
“I think it’d be best if I stayed away for a while.”
“Oh, mister responsibility, now? Just do it, come for me. Sober.”
“I’ll try. What time is it?”
“Like, three.”
“Shit, I’m late.”
Our tightly manicured anchor seduces the business-end of a camera.
“Welcome to Cosmonaut Watch . Big day for these heroes, so let’s just get down to the action, shall we?
“After safely splashing down near the Black Sea, the five stranded cosmonauts were welcomed home. A tickertape parade stretching the length of Moscow was held yesterday. In a ceremony that night, Russian Premiere Michael Medvedev gave the space travelers the nation’s highest honor, the Order of St. Andrew.
“The cosmonauts’ ordeal, which played out right here on national television and internet broadcasts, became the number-one program in America during Sweeps Week.
“According to Winters Olde-Tyme Hamburgers, the final contestant to guide the suit home, and winner of the contest, will be announced as soon as he or she is located. The company is having more difficulty than previously anticipated tracking down this hero.
“We sincerely apologize for the delay.
“A Winters representative assured me that even though they are rescheduling the broadcast, it will be quite worth the wait. This is an exclusive here, the winner will be revealed in a prime-time special reuniting the wayward spacemen and the lucky hero whose love of hamburgers saved the Russians. A once-in-a-lifetime television event. If you miss this you might as well turn in your citizenship. You may not love freedom as much as you think. Please tune in, folks.
“And next, a preview of tonight’s can’t miss edition of Nightbeat .”
“So they’re hitting below the belt?” Tony says. The hot water in his mug swallows a green teabag and turns morbid colors.
“I guess, I mean.” Hamler fishes through a leather shoulder bag for a cigarette. “If what Malinta Redding says is for real, they’re only doing research on heart attacks. Big deal.” There’s a casualness in his voice, a softening of once-jagged edges.
The coffee shop Tony chose is silent during this weekday lull. It’s dark for the afternoon and full of hanging plants. The barista reads a book, jawing some gum.
“Tell me the truth here.” Tony sips from the cup and puckers his face. “Are they in production on this heart disease piece? Do they have families of dead guys spilling their guts? Doctors, scientists, whoever else producers get for this shit?”
“Can’t say.”
“Did you ask her?”
He thinks about Martin’s five o’clock shadow sandpapering his lips. “No, Tony. She was shitty drunk. Like, five scotches.”
“That’s the perfect time.”
Martin’s hands were strong, felt dangerous. “Yeah right, I was lucky that slipped. I’d like to see you do your job as tanked as we were.” That strength and danger transferred to Hamler like an anti-anxiety mainline. His lips were ready to fall off. They’d been so lonely until Martin.
But now it’s that beating, kicking, uppercutting muscle in his chest that threatens to skip town.
“Look.” The calm coffee date snaps and falls to Henry’s feet. The bare anger of a man trying to do his job stares back at the young spy. “I’ve done my duties bouncing off the walls on angel dust because that’s what the situation called for,” Tony says through grinding teeth. “I do not miss Bonzo the Burger Clown.”
“Jesus. You did that? You killed him?”
“Not important. My point is, I did my job. And I
Gulping, head dizzy, he sits back down. “I need something to eat. I need aspirin. Or cyanide.”
“Do me a huge favor, Deshler. Come with me to the club tonight. Don’t drink, just hang out sober. I want to try an experiment.”
“I think it’d be best if I stayed away for a while.”
“Oh, mister responsibility, now? Just do it, come for me. Sober.”
“I’ll try. What time is it?”
“Like, three.”
“Shit, I’m late.”
Our tightly manicured anchor seduces the business-end of a camera.
“Welcome to Cosmonaut Watch . Big day for these heroes, so let’s just get down to the action, shall we?
“After safely splashing down near the Black Sea, the five stranded cosmonauts were welcomed home. A tickertape parade stretching the length of Moscow was held yesterday. In a ceremony that night, Russian Premiere Michael Medvedev gave the space travelers the nation’s highest honor, the Order of St. Andrew.
“The cosmonauts’ ordeal, which played out right here on national television and internet broadcasts, became the number-one program in America during Sweeps Week.
“According to Winters Olde-Tyme Hamburgers, the final contestant to guide the suit home, and winner of the contest, will be announced as soon as he or she is located. The company is having more difficulty than previously anticipated tracking down this hero.
“We sincerely apologize for the delay.
“A Winters representative assured me that even though they are rescheduling the broadcast, it will be quite worth the wait. This is an exclusive here, the winner will be revealed in a prime-time special reuniting the wayward spacemen and the lucky hero whose love of hamburgers saved the Russians. A once-in-a-lifetime television event. If you miss this you might as well turn in your citizenship. You may not love freedom as much as you think. Please tune in, folks.
“And next, a preview of tonight’s can’t miss edition of Nightbeat .”
“So they’re hitting below the belt?” Tony says. The hot water in his mug swallows a green teabag and turns morbid colors.
“I guess, I mean.” Hamler fishes through a leather shoulder bag for a cigarette. “If what Malinta Redding says is for real, they’re only doing research on heart attacks. Big deal.” There’s a casualness in his voice, a softening of once-jagged edges.
The coffee shop Tony chose is silent during this weekday lull. It’s dark for the afternoon and full of hanging plants. The barista reads a book, jawing some gum.
“Tell me the truth here.” Tony sips from the cup and puckers his face. “Are they in production on this heart disease piece? Do they have families of dead guys spilling their guts? Doctors, scientists, whoever else producers get for this shit?”
“Can’t say.”
“Did you ask her?”
He thinks about Martin’s five o’clock shadow sandpapering his lips. “No, Tony. She was shitty drunk. Like, five scotches.”
“That’s the perfect time.”
Martin’s hands were strong, felt dangerous. “Yeah right, I was lucky that slipped. I’d like to see you do your job as tanked as we were.” That strength and danger transferred to Hamler like an anti-anxiety mainline. His lips were ready to fall off. They’d been so lonely until Martin.
But now it’s that beating, kicking, uppercutting muscle in his chest that threatens to skip town.
“Look.” The calm coffee date snaps and falls to Henry’s feet. The bare anger of a man trying to do his job stares back at the young spy. “I’ve done my duties bouncing off the walls on angel dust because that’s what the situation called for,” Tony says through grinding teeth. “I do not miss Bonzo the Burger Clown.”
“Jesus. You did that? You killed him?”
“Not important. My point is, I did my job. And I
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