Category: Fiction Factor

“Hey, Brenda,” Chandler said, holding the porcelain figurine in his hand, “is this yard sale material?”

Brenda moved in for a closer look, took it from Chandler, and examined it carefully. It was a sad tramp clown holding a red umbrella.

“Honestly,” she said, “I have no idea where this even came from. It seems pretty nice, though … shiny, undamaged. Lots of people like knickknacks so, yeah, we can sell it. Put a $5 tag on it.”

The couple had spent much of the morning in purge mode. They were preparing to move to a smaller house after a decade at their current abode, and like many people had collected far more things than they could ever want or need.

While some were headed straight for the dumpster – cracked lamp globes and a vacuum cleaner that would cost more to repair than replace, for example – others still had enough value to be placed on a folding table and snatched up by pickers and browsers. They’d spend the rest of the day gathering them up and prepping for Saturday’s sale.

So far, Chandler had discovered more than 30 lightly-worn ballcaps, several old but still usable softball gloves, and five wristwatches he was willing to part with because, well, he’d given up wristwatches shortly after smartphones were invented.

Brenda had set out dishes, dresses, a few gardening supplies and a microwave. Still, there were plenty of other items that weren’t going to survive the relocation, and the pair wanted to lighten their load as much as possible.

As Chandler prepared to look in the basement for more treasures, Brenda emerged from  the hall closet.

“Looks like I found an old friend of yours,” she said with a laugh.

Among some of the items she had placed in a cardboard box was a 1970s era plush football doll, complete with a rosy-cheeked cupid face. The helmet was dingy white with a green stripe and the jersey – emblazoned with a green number one – was faded yellow, with cotton coming out of a busted seam on its left side. It was 50-plus years old and looked it.

“Oh, wow,” said Chandler, pulling the doll from the box. “Good ol’ Bruiser … I haven’t seen him in years.”

Chandler eased down to the floor and laid the doll in front of him. He couldn’t remember the last time he had even thought about it, but its reemergence brought back a flood of memories.

He decided around the age of seven that he loved football, and enjoyed sitting next to his father on Saturdays and Sundays watching college and pro games on their boxy RCA console.

“Dad,” he’d ask, “will you take me to a game someday?”

“You bet, kiddo. I promise.”

Chandler remembered the promise was made in 1974, and the promise was kept that same year. The local college team – the Goldenrod State Yellowhammers – was taking on the Carolina Poly Pioneers at Memorial Field.

More than half a century later, details of the experience remained vivid. The game was played on September 8, Goldenrod State won, 35-6, the hot dog he scarfed down was prepackaged in a foil wrapper, and his dad bought him the toy while they were getting soft drinks at halftime.

“It didn’t look like they had any pennants,” he recalled his dad saying as he handed over the doll (along with a watered-down cola), “but ol’ Bruiser here ought to do. He’ll look good on your dresser.”

For years, Bruiser served as a reminder of Chandler’s first in-person college football game, and occupied various spots in his bedroom – not unlike the “Elf on the Shelf.” It shifted from the dresser to the nightstand and – at one point – found itself on a table by the window, nudged between a red, white and blue football on its left and a plastic football helmet on its right.

But like most kids, Chandler grew out of his toy phase, and Bruiser eventually lost his honored spot in the bedroom. Ultimately, he was placed in a closet and eventually buried under other “fossils.”

Somehow, though, Chandler managed to keep the doll. Despite moving away for college, moving back home to get married, moving away again and residing in three different apartments, two different states and four different houses, Bruiser remained – out of sight and out of mind, but always close.

“Hello,” Brenda said in a sing-song voice. “Earth to Chandler, do you read?”

Chandler looked up and shook his head.

“Sorry,” he said, clutching Bruiser in his right hand. “I guess I went on a sentimental journey there for a minute. Dad got me this when he took me to my first football game. It always makes me think of him.”

Brenda smiled.

“Well,” she said. “I can stuff the cotton back in him and sew him up. Make him good as old again – vintage, even.”

Chandler pulled the doll to his chest.

“Thanks, but … as silly as it sounds, I don’t think I want to sell it.”

Brenda knelt down and gave Chandler a kiss on the forehead.

“Good grief … I wouldn’t expect you to sell it, doofus,” she said. “But if you’re gonna display Bruiser in our new house, we need to patch him up. I want him to look good on our dresser.”

The pounding on the front door was relentless, but Dr. Jasmine Davis was in no rush to open it. She was quite used to the routine by now, and knew the two military men would wait for her to let them in, regardless of how long she took.

She rose from the burnt orange Chesterfield sofa, cracked her neck, and slowly made her way to the door, unlatching the chain lock and greeting the stone-faced visitors.

“Hello, fellas,” she said. “I was wondering when you’d pay me an unfriendly visit.”

The youngish men bore the branding of the Empire of Freedom on their brown uniforms, and they were part of the patrol that worked Sector HA-One, a southeastern geographical area of the continent.

“We’re here to enforce compliance,” said the tallest of the two, whose name tag read “Reed.”

“Of course,” she said. “Time to make sure everyone is doing their part to support the Empire. Nothing screams ‘Freedom!’ like forced patriotism … am I right?”

She stepped away from the entrance and allowed Reed and the other soldier, Markum, to enter her sparsely decorated living room.

“It says here that you are Davis, Jasmine, age 38, black female, doctorate degree, university instructor with a specialization in world history, ID number 4151947,” Markum read from a small red notebook. “Is that correct?”

“Everything is correct except for the ID,” she said. “That’s what the Empire tagged me with, and I don’t recognize it because I’m a person, not a number. So, you can go ahead and mark me as non-compliant there. I’m not gonna wear the bracelet. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever.”

Markum made a check with a small pencil.

“According to our notes, in the past six months you have been in violation of the Empire Flag Display Act three times, did not participate in the Empire Freedom Appreciation Day Assembly last year, and there have been reports that during some of your classes you have taught prohibited subject matter as defined in the Empire Freedom Bill of Facts. How do you answer these charges?

Dr. Davis eased back over to her couch and sat down.

“Hmmm … how do I answer these charges? I answer them as I always answer them. I don’t own an Empire flag. If I did, I wouldn’t fly it. I don’t participate in the Empire Freedom Appreciation Day Assembly because if I have to participate in the Empire Freedom Appreciation Day Assembly, I’m not free. And as for banned subject matter, not everyone is afraid of knowledge. Fortunately, there are people who want to learn what the Empire won’t teach, whether you or anyone else in the Empire likes it or not.”

Dr. Davis got up, walked over to a table near the front door, and picked up stacks of paper.

“See these? These are all citations you people have written me for various ‘offenses,’” she explained. “I can either pay the penalty, or go to one of your luxurious Reform Camps. Or – and this is the option I’ve chosen – I can do none of the above.”

Dr. Davis dropped the citations back on the table.

“Dr. Davis,” Reed said. “There were two members of our patrol who came here a couple of weeks ago and never reported back to base. Would you know anything about that, by any chance?”

“You guys are always coming here,” she said. “What you do after you leave is none of my concern. Why don’t you try calling them.”

A hallway off of the living room was bare except for a small blackboard attached to the wall. Dr. Davis walked to it and grabbed a piece of chalk.

“I need to remind myself about the lesson plan for tomorrow,” she said. “Excuse me.”

In large capital letters, she wrote “RED TAILS.”

Markum grinned, and after taking the chalk from Dr. Davis, he wrote, “SPIT FIRE.”

In another time – and another country – those phrases were associated with the Tuskegee Airman, African-American military pilots who fought in World War II.

Today, they are passwords used by those attempting to thwart World War III.

She went back to the living room, lifted up the green area rug, and revealed a hatch. Once opened, concrete steps led to a massive underground facility.

Dr. Davis walked down first, followed by Markum and then Reed, who closed the trapdoor behind him.

The two “missing” patrol members from the last visit was there, along with several other soldiers and civilians. Some were manning computers at an elaborate control center, others were loading supplies onto electric carts, and still more were working feverishly to extend a tunnel system, which was already several miles long.

“Glad to see we have two more for the fight,” Dr. Davis said, shaking the hands of her two newest recruits.

“Welcome Mr. Fitzgerald … please take a seat.”

The office of Marvin Gladwater was small but opulent. High end, antique artwork from the 21^st century adorned the pastel yellow walls and the jet black table and chairs – anchoring the center of the room – were so shiny they practically glowed. Durwood Fitzgerald eased into the seat opposite Gladwater.

“So, Mr. Fitzgerald, how did you hear about Afterlife Adventures?”

Science had made monumental advancements since World Cyber War II, and by the year 2345, a company called Afterlife Adventures, Inc., discovered that a bridge between death and “post-mortal life” did, in fact, exist. Every human life had a “Malleable Vestige,” or MV, after death, but only Afterlife Adventures, Inc., was able to contain it – and offer a vessel allowing it to exist in the world of the living.

“Well,” Fitzgerald began, “I was watching a Continental Omegaball League game on my holographic display cube and saw your commercial. It said you have several different options and I was just curious what those options are. I guess it just got me thinking about what my next move should be. You know … after I’m gone. So, you can actually put my MV into something that’s still alive, is that right?”

“Correct,” Gladwater said. “It’s a shared experience since you’ll be joining  a sentient being. You’ve seen those historical presentations featuring what were known as automobiles, haven’t you? Basically, the sentient being is the driver, but you’re along for the ride. We have different tiers, from some that are comparatively inexpensive to others that are – if I’m being honest – extremely pricey. But as you can imagine, jumping from one plane of existence to another and then back again is hardly cheap. Here are a few options for you to consider, based on how many Rhodium Chips you’ve kept in reserve.”

Gladwater snapped his finger and a 3D projection system appeared before Fitzgerald, allowing the potential client to get a brief synopsis of some of the more popular options. Among them were Afterlife Adventure Basic, Afterlife Adventure Plan B, Afterlife Adventure Silver, Afterlife Adventure Platinum, and Afterlife Adventure Ultimate.

“Wow, that Ultimate plan looks awesome,” Fitzerald said, pointing, “aren’t those famous people? I think I recognize one of those guys  … isn’t that Doofus McGoofington from the ‘Snort-Laugh Until You Break Wind Comedy Hour?’”

“Indeed. This is our most prestigious option. Some of the top divertissement performers on the planet are part of the Afterlife Adventure. Imagine sharing the consciousness of a retro rap artist like Phil A.O. Soul. Just last year a client joined him right as he was starting his ‘Damn, That’s A Big-Ass Cookie’ tour. What an experience that must’ve been! And another client’s MV was paired with award-winning thespian Ptolemy Heatherington. They got to be part of the popular horror series, ‘Don’t Be Afraid Of That Thing In The Mirror That You Think Could Be a Ghost But You Can’t Say For Sure Because You Just Woke Up And Have Been Sick.’ Of course, that costs 300 Rhodium Chips.”

Fitgerald audibly gasped.

“Good grief,” he said. “That’s way, way too rich for my blood. And, frankly Mr. Gladwell, I’m pretty sure most of these popular ones are out of my price range. But this basic plan … it’s just two Rhodium Chips, which seems like a heckuva deal. I’m a little confused, though. I just see a bunch of squirrels running around in a field. Would that mean you’d place my MV in, like, a park ranger or something.”

Gladwater smiled.

“Actually, we’d place you in a squirrel, Mr. Fitzgerald. Admittedly it’s not the sexiest option, but many people choose this and chances are if you decided to MV as a squirrel, you’re quite likely to meet someone you once knew. We have a testimonial from two MVs who dated during their Learning Pod work as teenagers, lost track of each other, died, and then became reacquainted as squirrels. They likely would’ve married had they not been squirrels who, of course, do not marry. They basically just do squirrel stuff.”

Fitzgerald pursed his lips.

“Hmmm,” he said. “The squirrel option doesn’t sound bad, but how long do they live in the wild – five, 10 years, tops? I’m almost inclined to just let my MV go wherever it goes naturally – the great beyond, or wherever. Then it won’t cost me anything.”

Fitgerald got up and extended his hand.

“Oh, well … thank you for your time, Mr. Gladwater,” he said. “I think for now I’ll pass. I might reconsider it later, though. I’ve always been fond of squirrels.”

“Before you go,” Gladwater said, “we do have a new, experimental option we’ve been workshopping. It’s called the Afterlife Adventure Politics Plan. We place your MV into a person who has held office in the Global Government Alliance for 25 or more years. It’s 10 Rhodium Chips.”

Fitzgerald shook his head.

“Well, like I said, I don’t even want to spend the two Rhodium Chips for the Basic Plan. I’m definitely not gonna spend 10.”

“Oh, no, Mr. Fitzgerald,” Gladwater said. “We put 10 Rhodium Chips in your reserve. Basically, an MV is just a soul, and souls are barely discernable among the bulk of these career politicians. You’d be doing most of the driving yourself.”