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A DAY IN THE LIFE

Clarence Fischer



��It was the year two thousand and twenty five when all hell broke loose.
��There weren’t any truly dazzling technological advances worth mentioning--except maybe the CondoToaster. It could toast any kind of bread or pastry, be it a bagel, a bun, a loaf, a muffin. It would even slice it for you if you wanted. But the most ingenious feature was, beyond doubt, the Condiment Applicator. Want butter on that toast? Done. Cream cheese and jelly on your bagel? You got it.
��But getting back to my pointÉ All hell broke loose that year. Lives were drastically altered. The government was overthrown. There was marshal law. The weak were weeded out. Death tolls rose while stress levels diminished (for some, anyway).
��Here’s a for instance:
��Just the other day I was waiting for my turn at the automatic teller of my local Citibank (the only bank-chain still in operation, as it were). I was next in line. I sat impatiently in my car, a nice Nissan I had just leased (no, they’re not the only car manufacturer left--there’s Daewoo) waiting for the bugger in front of me to hurry the hell up and get on with it. So, I’m sitting there, this lady’s taking her sweet timeÉand then I see it: she’s trying to make a deposit.
��A deposit.
��Now, everybody knows you don’t make a freakin’ deposit. in the godalmighty drive thru. You want to make a deposit? Well then take it inside. Don’t hold up the rest of the world because you’re too lazy to get out of your damn car!
��So, what do I do about this travesty? I’ll tell you what I do. I calmly lower my driver side glass with a verbal command. With my right hand I reach across my body and grip my gun. I then proceed to blow the ignoramus’ hand off.
��To my surprise, the young woman in the Nissan minivan behind me cheers for all get go. She pumps her arm up and down while she hangs out her window and yells, “I bet she won’t pull that one again!”
��I nod in agreement as I replay the scene in my head. The woman had reached out to insert her deposit envelope and I nailed her dead on the wrist with one shot. I’m telling you, felt like some great weight was lifted off my shoulders. Free therapy.
��The idiot now throws her car (it’s a cheap Daewoo) in drive and hits the gas way too hard. She drives up on to the curb and her little toy car gets hung up there. I can see through her back window that she’s flailing around like a headless chicken. Oh, well.
��I pull up to the automatic teller and plug it. A wad of the crazy lady’s cash is dispensed. Well, no need to access my account! I think.
��I lean out my window and place half the cash on the keypad for the nice young lady behind me. I point to it, smile, and give her the thumbs up. She acknowledges with an enthusiastic wave.
��Before driving off, I figure I’ll give the douche-bag another shot--this time with the car. I put her in drive and floor the son of a bitch. My grill bashes into the rear of the cheapo Daewoo (good thing I have the crash bars, but I’m still going to need repairs; body shops make a killing these days, as you can imagine) compacting the already nonexistent trunk and sending some of the back window flying up front. I see through the space where the window was that the lady’s stopped flailing.
��Good for her!
��I crest the tiny right-hander, hang a sharp left, and exit the bank property. I’m thinking I’m going to have to see my auto body engineer sometime tomorrow morning. He’s been--
��That’s when the cops pull up. Cop, really. There’s just the one. These days one is plenty.
��He gets out of his cruiser and he’s covered in that black plastic armor they all wear. It’s intimidating to say the least. He strolls up to me all nonchalant and says, “What’s doin’ kid?”
��“Nothing,” I say.
��“Tell me what happened,” he says, and he makes a halfhearted effort to point towards the bank.
��“Oh. That.”
��I start with a spiel about how I was in such a hurry to get on with nothing, and the cop just nods imperceptively. I try to look him in the eye as I speak, but all I see is my misshapen reflection in the blacked-out visor of his dark helmet.
��As I go on about the whole incident he steps toward his car and leans in the open door like he’s not listening, but I know he is. He comes back out with a steaming cup o’ joe and just holds it without drinking.
��I’m blabbering on and on and he’s still nodding and while I’m talking I’m wondering how he’s going to drink that coffee through that enormous helmet.
��He doesn’t. He just keeps holding on to it and nodding.
��“Then I rammed her for good measure,” I say, and he flips up the visor of his lid. Finally, I see his eyes. They’re cold and unemotional, I think, and coming from me that says a lot.
��“Sounds routine to me,” he says flatly, lifting the cup to the opening in the helmet.
��Cripes! He’s gonna burn his face off! . I shout in my head, but as he brings the cup close to his face the space in front of his mouth parts, letting him sip naturally. I relax and let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
��“I’ll just need your pedigree information,” he tells me. “Then you’re on your way.”
��I start giving him my name and he tells me to wait, stupid, so he can get his pad out. That’s when my truck starts idling rough. Really uncharacteristic, mind you. So, he’s switching his drink--his hot. drink--to his other hand and blam! . my car backfires. The cop is startled just enough so that he jumps the slightest bit. I watch as the brown liquid swashes around in the cup, reaching for the lip and then falling back down.
�� A single drop of sweat runs down my brow and into my eye. It stings terribly, but I don’t dare move to wipe it away.
��“HE SHOT ME!” yells that bitch from the bank, as she staggers around the corner of the building. She’s shaking her handless arm in front of her like she’s a prosecutor and it’s the only evidence in a major murder trial (of which there are no more, coincidentally).
��That did it. The cop jerks to his left and his coffee leaps out of the little cup and into the air. It comes down on his left hand and he lets out one part yell, two parts angry growl, as he draws his gun.
��He blasts one from the hip, stopping the raving lunatic woman in her tracks. Then he pivots to me, extends his arm and jams his gun into my gut. “You asshole,” he says.
��Two rounds later, my story ends.








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