Just For One Day

12

     A fleshy slapping sound echoed throughout Roger's workshop, accompanied by sighs and the occasional moan of pleasure. Every now and then would come a sharp whack, like something hard striking striking someone, which would almost always be followed by a sharp gasp and then the sound of giggling.

     "Oh, you really know what you're doing!" Roger said.

     The response was another whack, followed by another moan from Roger.

     He was lying on top of a table, chest down with a towel draped across his buttocks. There was a woman standing next to him, giving him the best massage of his life. A thick bundle of sticks lay on the table next to Roger, along with a bucket filled with bubbling liquid.

     Suddenly a tabletop alarm clock buzzed amidst the miscellaneous circuitry and scrap, causing Roger to lift his head up.

     "Oh man, it's that time already?" he said. "Oh well." He hopped to his feet, wrapping the fluffy white towel around his waist. He rubbed the side of his neck and sighed. "I gotta hand it to you, Mrs. Yao. You give the absolute best 'hot crayon and reed beating' massages."

     Mrs. Yao, short, Chinese, and well into her sixties, took a drag on a cigarette and grunted. She bent down to place her fistful of reeds into an attache case.

     Roger shut off the alarm and pulled a thick stack of cash from somewhere in the junk. He offered it to Mrs. Yao, who took it and disappeared it into her floral print dress.

     Roger stretched, groaned, and grabbed his back. "Yep, I'm gonna be feeling that in the morning. Same time next week?" Roger asked.

     Mrs. Yao grunted again and shuffled out the door.

     Roger stretched his arms out to the side, his spine popping with a chorus of satisfaction, and brought his hands together with a clap as he rubbed them with impish glee.

     "It's mischief o'clock," he said.

     He crossed through his workshop to the back of the room, dodging piles of random scrap metal, until he reached an office chair set next to a desk. There was a large metal box sitting on the desk, with wire leads connected to a headband. Roger sat heavily in the chair, twirled around a few times, and then picked up the headband and perched it across his temples.

     He leaned his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes. His hands grasped the armrests firmly as his breathing became slow and even.

     Minutes passed and nothing happened. A scowl passed across Roger's face. He opened his eyes.

     "What the f-" He looked over at the machine, contemplated it, and then sighed. "I forgot to turn it on. Nice job, genius."

     He reached over and flipped the machine's on switch, and it sprang to life with a busy hum.

     "Take two," he said, and settled back down in the chair. The machine worked busily while Roger breathed deeply and meditated. A clock on the wall ticked gently. Roger shifted slightly in the chair, making the leather upholstery creak. Slowly, he began to rock back and forth in the chair, picking up speed until he vibrated with manic energy, and then suddenly sat up straight and slammed his fists on the armrests.

     "C'mon! Why can't I make contact? It's not like it needs friggin' wifi or anything!" He paused and thought for a moment. "...No, that's idiotic. Get it together, Roger."

     He leaned forward over his knees, placing his fingers on the sides of his head. He began to drum with his fingers and jiggled his legs up and down. He took breaths that were unnecessarily long. "Just gotta jumpstart the ol' brain juice..." he murmured. His legs continued to jiggle as he clutched his head. "Okay, let's get some relaxation music," he said, and grabbed a remote laying on the desk. He pressed the power button and death metal began to play through the PA system, so loud that everything in the room vibrated along with the double bass pedals.

     "IMMOLATE THE LAKES OF BLOOOOOOOOOD!" growled the lead singer.

     "That's better," said Roger. Once again, he leaned back in the chair and shut his eyes, gripping the armrests firmly. After several minutes, he scratched the side of his nose. He propped one leg up on the other and wiggled his toes. He drummed softly along with the music.

     "WHY?!" he shouted, leaping up from the chair and violently removing the band from his head. "Why can't I find him? I found the girl, so what's the deal?" He leaned over his desk, teeth gritted, and jammed his finger down onto the machine's off switch. It died abruptly. "Alright, alright, keep your cool, Rodge. This isn't the first time somebody's blocked you." He straightened and began to pace with a manic energy. "Maybe I need to recalibrate the machine. Or possibly boost the power...could habituation be a factor?"

     The office door slid open with a gentle whoosh, revealing Knuckle standing on the other side. He cleared his throat nervously.

     "What?!" Roger said. The towel around his waist, loose from Roger's pacing, slipped to the floor.

     "Ah!" Knuckle said, putting one hand over his eyes.

     "I can't hear you!" Roger grabbed the remote and shut off the music. The sudden absence of noise left a tinny ringing in Knuckle's ears. "What do you want?"

     "I uh, I hope I'm not interrupting anything..." Knuckle said.

     "Get to the point," said Roger. "I'm not a happy camper right now."

     "You got some mail," Knuckle said. He held out a letter in his free hand. "It's got on eagle stamped on it."

     Roger, unashamed of being totally nude, crossed the room and snatched the envelope. There was indeed a large golden eagle crest emblazoned on the paper.

     "Ha!" Roger shouted. "Consider my good mood restored! Knuckle my friend, you've earned yourself a pizza."

     "I like pizza," said Knuckle, hand still shielding his eyes.

     "Go order yourself one." Roger began to tear at the paper. "And get me one too, while you're at it. Anchovy, with stuffed crust."

     Knuckle backed out of the room, relief at being dismissed evident even behind his hand.

     Roger slipped the letter out and unfolded it. As his eyes darted across the lettering, a grin spread across his face.

     "I knew it," he said. "I knew it! Forgive me, sweet science, I was so blind!" He scratched himself unceremoniously as he read, clutching the letter tightly. "I finally have the secret...and production starts now."