TWO
BOOM CLICK CLICK
Divey Crunk wriggles his fingers through a spaghetti mess of wires, examining each of them closely before tossing them back into the chaos. His goggles are dark and fogged from the perspiration pouring down his forehead. He wipes the backhand of his glove along his hairline and again digs into the knot-ball of wires.
“ Damnit, Divey, this is taking too long! I’m out, man! I’m facking out!” says a tall man with a thick Cockney accent.
“ Shut your goddamn mouth, Reynold, and watch the door! I’m telling you, it won’t take but a minute to solder. I just have to find the right facking wire first. If I have to . . .” His words trail off into indecipherable mumbles.
Reynold walks to the back door of the van, peeks out the window, and anxiously bobs up and down, as if holding back a river of piss.
“ Do you mind? You’re breaking my facking concentration!”
“ I can’t help it. This sneaking around business always gets me heart a thumping.” Reynold tries to calm his nerves. He holds his breath. Unconsciously, he begins to swing his hips, doing his piss dance again. Divey slams his toolbox against the metal floor of the van and clutches his skull with both hands. The vein in the middle of his forehead is throbbing in anger.
“ You know, I think I’m going to get a bit of fresh air. Yeah, that’s what I need. It’s getting a tad bit stuffy in ’ere.” Divey doesn’t move. “Yeah . . . so, ah, well . . . I guess I’ll just beat on the side of the van if I see him coming, yeah?” Divey grumbles. Reynold nods and hops out of the van.
The concrete is wet and glistening like a blanket of diamonds underneath the ginger glow of the streetlamp. The van sits in an otherwise empty parking lot, outside a minor league baseball stadium. The air is clean, fresh, as it always is after a good rain. He takes a deep breath and wipes his finger along the edge of the side glass window. The yellow paint of the van is beginning to chip away, revealing the original egg shell white underneath. The words, ‘BRACKFAS BURRITOS ¥99’ are written in giant red lettering across the side panels and doors.
A flitter of light reflecting off a small metal object lying on the ground catches the corner of his eye. He walks over to it and picks it up. It is a small round coin with Japanese lettering on either side.
“ Ha, fancy that . . . a 500 yen piece! I guess it’s me lucky day.” Reynold bites the coin and buries it in his front pocket.
“ Whatchu got there?” a man’s voice asks from the darkness—deep and gravelly. Pete . Reynold’s nerves jump.
“ Ah, heya there, Pete . . . I just found me a bloody 500 yen piece, just lying ’ere on the pavement. Imagine that, huh?” There is a nervous quiver in his voice. He slowly backs toward the van. Pete steps out of the shadows, revealing three hundred and forty-nine pounds of pure American meat tightly tucked into a pair of black sweatpants and a red Members Only jacket—no shirt.
“ Heh, yeah, imagine that . . .” Pete lights up a fag. “Go get your brother, we’ll have one last smoke together.” Reynold nods his head and jumps in the back of the van.
“ Christ, Divey, put that shit away! Pete’s outside!”
“ Just in time, too . . .” Divey tosses a screwdriver in his toolbox. He turns around quickly and aims an orange plastic gun directly at a remote sensor installed in Reynold’s right eye socket. The gun he is holding is a 1984 model Nintendo Zapper.
“ Have you lost your facking mind?!” Reynold says, cupping his hands over the sensor.
“ Relax, the gun is rigged to go off on the third pull of the trigger. All we have to do is get Pete to go last.”
“ And you’re sure you fixed the generator too, right?”
“ Of course I fixed the generator, what kind of dumb-arse bloke do you take me for?” Divey
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