Dear diary,
Being parched with thirst, I grope forward on my hands and knees until I reach the nearest vehicle in the parking lot of the Mega Mall. It happens to be a late-model Water Truck — the type that has a colossal cylinder filled with water attached to the back of its cab. I crawl over to the driver side because I notice that there is a welcome mat near its front tire; I lift up this mat and discover two AK-47 assault rifles hidden underneath. Taking these semi-automatic weapons and holding one in either arm, I stand up (with difficulty, as I have very little strength left, after eons of groping thru the jungle without food or drink) and aim the guns at the gargantuan water-tank. I squeeze both triggers and wave the weapons back and forth in an elegant way, causing the tank to become riddled with bullets. Water sprays immediately out of these holes, and I rejoice. Standing beneath the showering downpour, I wash off all the jungle mud from my body, while holding open my mouth and greedily gulping.
Now I toss away the firearms, since they’re out of ammo; then I hop into the cab of the water truck, after picking the lock. I hotwire the engine and drive until I find a vehicle that seems more appealing:
Espying a steamroller, I stop and remark, “I like the looks of THAT!”
After climbing out of the water truck, I turn around and toss a match, causing the vehicle that I’m abandoning to explode. I now climb into the driver seat of the steamroller and notice that the last fool who drove it left the keys in the ignition. I start it up and drive straight over the Nash Rambler station wagon that’s next to me, smashing it flat; then I continue to roll forward over countless other automobiles in the Mega Mall Parking Lot.
Up ahead, there is an outdoor kiosk selling fake ceramic pet dogs; so I flatten that, as well. Then, glimpsing a bus made entirely of wood, I leap out of the steamroller, crash thru this bus’s windshield, and land in its pilot chair. (The wood-bus’s windows consist of thin paper that’s virtually see-thru.) There is no ignition, so I just light another match and toss it thru the ripped windshield onto the hood: The wooden bus roars to life, and I steer the vehicle toward the entrance of the mall. I run over many fake people and fake pets as I go. (Although all of these beings are ceramic statues, they’re extremely lifelike.)
But then the wooden wheels on the bus go flat, because they popped and got deflated by the sharp ceramic shards and broken debris during all the mayhem. So I manually open the folding door on the bus’s passenger side; then I walk around to the front and pop the hood.
I lift my axe and swing it down like a sledgehammer onto the wooden engine, splitting the thing in half. A chipmunk scurries out of one of the exposed tubes, and I shout as he runs off: “Sorry! I didn’t know that you were in there.” Then I reach into the front pocket of my vest and toss the poor little rodent an acorn, and he catches it in his mouth and stares at me for a moment before scurrying away.
I now use a blowtorch to melt the sliding door off an ugly van, and I climb in and drive that up to the main entrance of the mall. I slow down and creep forward until the grille of the vehicle is almost touching the French glass double-doors that lead to the lobby. Then I tap the accelerator and hit the brakes immediately, so that the van lurches forward just one centimeter. This is enough to cause the front bumper to press into the glass doors and make them crack but not entirely shatter.
Now I shift the van into reverse and parallel park it between two oil-tanker trucks, each of which has warning signs all over its frame: “DANGER: Contents Highly Flammable!” — Yes, you guessed correctly: I ram both tankers hard to force my van to fit. Then I enter the Mega Mall.
“Welcome to the biggest mall in America,” sez the military cop guarding the entryway. “May I see your free-market papers?”
“Sure,” I say; then I hand this greeter my paperwork.
The guard flips thru the pages and scans over them carefully. ““OK, looks good,” he smiles. “You have a nice shopping experience, Mrs. Buttersworth.”
“You, too, sir,” I say. (The reason he didn’t call me Bryan is that my papers are forged.)
So I pace forward into the mall, enjoying the crisp, cool, air-conditioned environment. The first store that I see is a place called Ethnic Restaurant. I use my utility knife to cut a path thru the ferns and palm leaves blocking the entryway, then I walk toward the hostess and ask:
“Is this place racist?”
“Yes,” sez the hostess; “we only honor U.S. America here; and we steal everything from, and then ridicule, every culture that is not a dues-payer to the U.S. American Race.”
“Good to hear,” I say. “So, then... Do you sell bear meat?”
The hostess smiles and declares: “Are you asking: Will I serve you edible flesh in an unclothed state? Or: Will I offer you my body for a price? Either way, the answer is yes. And the cost shall be nada, because I like you.” She winks and smiles brighter. While she begins to disrobe, I say:
“No, I meant: Do you sell tacos filled with raw bear meat? B - E - A - R.” Then I add: “Not B - A - R - E, meaning stark naked servingwomen: no, I’m rather interested in eating the innards of a fierce grizzly animal.”
“Oh!” the hostess’s eyes are wide, “NOW I understand. Yes, we do sell bear-meat tacos, hard-shell exclusively. And I will gladly serve them to you in the nude.”
“Great,” I say. “I think I’ll order a couple. So... do I just seat myself?”
While continuing to disrobe, the hostess holds out her arm: “Here, lock elbows with me while I lead you to the comfiest leather booth, dimly lit, at the back.”
So we share a meal and make slow love while the other diners watch. Then I leave and proceed to the next mall-shop.
“Bye, Bryan!” the hostess waves.
“Goodbye; that was fun!” I return her wave and her smile.
The outlet directly across the hall from the eatery is a wristwatch shop whose sign reads: Time to Buy. I enter and approach the checkout counter.
“Can I help you?” sez the cashier.
“Yes,” I say, “I notice that you have thousands of wristwatches displayed on the walls, all around your little shop here. I was just wondering: How much would it cost to purchase them all?”
“You want to buy ALL the time that’s left in the whole wide world?” the cashier is awestruck.
“No, not in the world,” I say; “just whatever watches that you have displayed in your shop right now. If there are more in a back room, boxed up in storage, you can keep those to restock your empty walls after I leave. I’m just wondering how much it would cost to clean you out of all this merchandise that is currently visible here.” And I sweep my arm in a full circle, indicating that I want everything in sight.
“Um… lemme see…” the cashier retrieves a calculator from her blouse pocket and starts to press a few buttons...
“Forget the calc,” I say, gently taking a hold of her free hand. “Why waste energy clicking your fingers over that device when you could just start ringing up the watches on the actual register here?” I move her hand physically over and set it down upon the keyboard of the cash register, which makes a little “cha-ching” noise upon contact, and the cash drawer slides open. (The calculator now drops from the cashier’s other hand, as she’s losing the power to resist my attractive suggestions.)
“OK,” she sez. “But what if, after I finish entering all the prices, you decide that the total is too high?”
“Then you’ll just cancel the sale,” I laugh. “However, don’t worry about that: I promise I’ll gladly pay whatever you decide is a fair price. Are you the shop’s owner, by the way?”
The cashier looks up after clicking some keys on the pad, “Um, no — the owner only comes in once a year, just to tell us employees how bad we’re doing.”
“This place isn’t making much money?” I ask.
“No, that’s not it — the profits are sky-high, actually,” explains the cashier, while continuing to look around the shop and note the watches while clicking additional keys on the register; “he means that we employees are doing a bad job working.”
“Ah,” I say. “And do you agree with this assessment?”
“No,” the cashier snaps, obviously strongly opinionated on this issue; “I say we’re doing a gr-r-reat job. WE are the reason this shop is such a surefire moneymaker.”
I tap my chin and think for a moment before saying this next remark:
“Why do you take such awful treatment? Your boss sounds like a jerk. How come you employees don’t cryogenically freeze your shop’s owner, next time he shows up? — say, at the upcoming annual visit. You should be able to accomplish this: after all, you all work at a time shop.”
The cashier cocks her head. “But if we freeze the owner, the cops will shoot us in the face.”
“Then give the cops a cut of the proceeds,” I say. “That’s what the owner does to get them on his side, against all of you. Policefolk are just trying to feed their families; therefore you yourselves can become their new darlings, by simply offering them a greater salary. — Tell me the total now.”
“The price of your order, which consists of all the wristwatches currently displayed, comes to eighty-nine hundred thousand dollars,” the cashier presses a key on the register that makes a bell ring, and then she curtsies.
“I don’t do dollars,” I say. “Can you convert that amount to real money? — I only carry caesars in my coin purse.”
“Oh, sure,” the cashier hits a combination of buttons on the keypad, and the machine’s display now changes to a new total: “That will be two caesars, even.”
“One… TWO,” I say slamming down the glistening coins on the counter.
Now I snap my fingers, to rouse the cashier from the trance that she has entered after setting eyes on these objects (for caesars look gorgeous).
“Sorry,” she sez, breathing a little quicker; “I’ve never seen one of these in actual life.
“Can you put all the wristwatches in a bag?” I ask.
“Um… sure — if I can find one that’s big enough. I might need to use two bags,” she sez.
“That’s fine,” I say.
So I leave the shop hefting a pair of huge bags, both brimming with wristwatches. I head directly to the water fountain, at the center of the ground floor of the mall. I note that its water is fairly deep. “That’s good,” I say aloud to myself; and the family of five standing nearby turns and faces me with questioning looks, as if I addressed them; so I explain: “I was just remarking on the depth of the fountain water — I’m glad to see that it’s not too shallow, and that there are a lot of pennies resting on the bottom.”
“Yes,” replies the man who seems to be the father of the family, “people toss coins into the fountain for good luck.”
“Is that why they do that?” I say. “Huh. I always wondered.”
Then I set one of the bags of watches on the floor, and I open the other one up and dump all the wristwatches into the fountain. They buzz and zap and crackle, because their battery power is being converted into lightning-jags by the liquid. Then I dump in the second bag of watches, and they make all sorts of terrifying electric hazard-noises as well. I step back a few paces and smile and nod, observing that the fountain is now glowing greenish-blue and glimmering with mini thunderbolts all around.
The three children that were standing with the family of five who’s father spoke to me a moment ago all gasp and point and say: “Mom! Dad! Look!”
I walk away while a crowd begins gathering around the fountain to ooh and ah.
§
The next shop I enter is the shoe store.
“Why is your place called ‘Foot Fuck’?” I ask the salesperson, whose uniform resembles a referee.
“It’s not. The sign is supposed to say ‘Foot Fantasmagoria’ but one of the neon letters is burnt out.”
I squint my eyes. “Are you sure that you didn’t just name your shop this way so that, when I faithfully record it as a memory, it shall cause the North American Censors to slap my novel with an ‘R’-rating (meaning ‘Restricted to Youthful Audiences Exclusively: Therefore No Adults Over the Age of Reason Shall Be Permitted to Read this Storybook’)?”
The shoe store’s salesperson who is dressed as a referee now toots his whistle; and then a scary buzzer sounds, apparently indicating that a winning point has been scored.
“You have discovered our secret plan,” admits the Sales Ref. “You may now select any three pairs of sneakers to take home as your prize for correctly guessing the sphinx’s riddle.”
“Seriously?” I say. “That is welcome news: hurrah!” — So I choose two hefty steel-toed moon-boots that have soccer cleats for tread; four kid-sized tap-dance shoes; and a pair of ruby slippers.
“Do you want these gift-wrapped?” asks the referee.
“Yes, please,” I bow.
So the ref wraps up each shoebox in festive paper that has a vaguely Hawaiian theme.
I pull out a wad of 100-dollar bills from my vest pocket: “What do I owe ya?”
The ref looks stumped. “These shoes are free, cuz you won the prize.”
“Oh, that’s right; I forgot,” I say, blushing. “Thanks so much!” Then I grab the stack of wrapped boxes and leave the store.
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