2022-07-18 16:26:18Breathless and grateful, Devon took out his own code and scanned both his bus pass and pandemic code. A pleasant chime signaled that the passenger had both fare money and a clean history of infectious diseases that could cause harm to society.
He lifted his bag above his head to squeeze his way down the aisle towards a pair of open seats. Exhausted, he plopped down hard on the seat and leaned his head back on the headrest. Cool air blew on his face and, though it was like breathing into an open refrigerator, Devon sighed with relief.
The Convention hadn’t even started yet and he was utterly exhausted. It should not have been such a production just to get on the bus—all over a stupid hat! The hat was becoming more trouble than it was worth. He considered taking the hat off and throwing it in his bag.
But another, more stubborn part of him insisted he keep the hat on.
And why not? There was no law saying that a man couldn’t wear a hat with a feather in the brim. There was no reason for Momma to kick him out for buying it—through the machinations of his own sister, no less. Couldn’t people just mind what was on their own goddamn heads?
Devon stewed around in these thoughts when he realized the bus hadn’t started moving.
Jaxton stuck his foot in the door. A few of the other passengers careened their heads towards the entrance. Near the entrance, the middle-aged lady stood with her hands on her hips, chastising Jaxton.
A few of the passengers grumbled.
“Oh, for the love of…if the bus wasn’t slow enough!”
“We’ll never get anywhere at this rate. Next time, I’ll just pay the fees and drive my own car.”
“This is ridiculous…”
Devon pinched the bridge of his nose. Getting onto the bus should have meant he was ‘home-free’, as the saying went. But Jaxton would not give up. He kept his foot lodged in the door. An automated voice complained to the accompaniment of a screeching alarm :
“OBSTRUCTION DETECTED. IN ORDER TO CONTINUE THE SAFE OPERATION OF THE VEHICLE, PLEASE REMOVE OBJECT FROM THE DOORWAY. OBSTRUCTION DETEC—”
Beeping, shouting, blaring, robot voices, human voices… the bus filled with a horrific crescendo of noise. In the back, a younger passenger began to cry. Devon saw a wave of heads bobbing as some of the more prepared passengers stopped up their ears with earplugs or headphones. The more unlucky passengers became irate and only added to the noise.
Roused by the commotion, the bus driver dragged his head out from his magazine. His eyes held the dull, glazed look of a person who lived in a perpetual brain fog, ground down either by the tedium of life or the relentless brain-foaming of COVID induced dementia. The driver turned to Jaxton with movements that suggested the driver’s family relation from a koala or a sloth. Indeed, there was something about his movements that did seem rather koala-like, his eyes revealing only dull marsupial thoughts It was the driver’s job to ensure the smooth operation of the bus, but the busy did all that for him, and he really, really wanted to get back to his magazine.
“Sir,” the driver said with a plodding, drunk-molasses tone, “please scan your passenger fare and show your pandemic prevention code or depart from the vehicle.” Somehow the driver gave ‘vehicle’ four syllables until it sounded more like “vee-uh-hih-kull”.
Jaxton glared at the driver for a bit and then sneered. “I’ll be happy to get off the ‘vee-uh-hih-kull’-—as soon as that guy with the feather hat gets off the bus too,” he said.The driver blinked. He turned around slowly looked towards Devon, who was now profoundly regretting his stubborn choice to keep wearing the hat.
“Sir,” began the driver, “that passenger has already paid his fare and showed his prevention code—“
Jaxton interrupted him. “—yeah, but you know what? Yeah, but—stop talking for a minute—he assaulted me and my friends just now. That’s illegal“ Though the driver tried to speak, Jaxton wouldn’t let him get even a word in. “Are you defending this criminal’s illegal actions right now? Huh? Cause that’s also illegal, you know that, right?”
The driver shrank back in his seat. Illegal? It was enough mental struggle to put on his own clothes in the morning--the thought that could ever take part in any kind of criminality was frightening. He was just doing his job—how could that be illegal?
Suddenly the middle aged woman put herself in between the driver and Jaxton, hands on her hips.
“Now just hold on a minute there, young man. Our driver just doing his job. How dare you take that kind of attitude with him—he did nothing to you, and secondly, you don’t get to say what is illegal and what’s not! Are you a lawyer?”
Jaxton’s face darkened with fury.
“How do you know I’m not?”
The middle aged woman laughed.
“You’re joking right? Are you implying you’re a lawyer? I’ve got two children older than you. You trying to impersonate a properly barred lawyer now? Cause that is illegal.”
Jaxton’s jaw went tight enough to crack a tooth. Why did he think that would work? What had started off as a joke at the expense of Feather-Hat sitting in the back was now spiraling out of control. A part of Jaxton just wanted to take the loss and move on—but another, far stronger part, insisted that he double down. No going back. No compromise. He would push through until he won, and right now ‘winning’ meant that Feather Hat had to suffer.
With that thought locked in his mind, Jaxton pursed his lips and, with a great shove, forced his way onto the bus.
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Jaxton leaned with his shoulder and burst through the doors, which gave way with a cracking squeak. There was a flurry of gasps from the riders. A few of them took out their phones and recorded as Jaxton tried to storm his way down the aisle towards where Devon sat. Another alarm went up from the bus: “ATTENTION—NON-STANDARD ENTRY DETECTED. PLEASE SCAN BUS PASS AND PANDEMIC PREVENTION CODE. ATTENTION—” Some of the riders closer to the driver’s side covered their ears to stifle out the terrible grating alarm. Why did it have to be so loud? “Will someone shut that damn thing off?” “It’s an automated system, yelling isn’t going to fix anything!” “YOU’RE A FUCKING AUTOMATED SYSTEM!” “Oy…so early, all this shouting is…that’s what I get for taking the bus.” Noise upon shouting upon noise. The bus driver pawed at a few buttons at the control panel and managed to shut off the alarms and the announcements, but the passengers were now in a thoroughly soured mood. Meanwhile, middle-a
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The driver restarted the bus’s self-driving systems. With sloth-slowness, the bus dragged itself from the station, leaving Jaxton behind. As they did, Jaxton pulled himself up from the sidewalk, a glaring of pure hatred burning in his eyes. Just before the bus turned a corner, Devon saw Jaxton fish out his phone from his pocket and snap a picture. “Guess his hand was fine after all,” Devon said. Adrenaline rushed from his body, and Devon suddenly felt exhausted. His legs shook, and he had an odd craving for ice cream—nothing fancy, just a simple ice cream with some chocolate coating. Even one of the fake ones would do. Sadly, there wouldn’t be any ice cream chances for a good few hours. He made he was back to his seat, his duffel bag jammed into the footrest space. Next to him sat the middle-aged woman dabbing at her face with a wet washcloth that filled the seats with an overpowering scent of lemon sherbet. “My goodness,” began the middle-aged lady. “That is definitely going
Duke of Two Cities Chapter 9
Devon sniffed and wiped at his nose. “Sorry,” he said. “Allergies, I think.” “Mm-hmm. ‘Allergies’.” Carla pulled out a few tissues from her bag. “Very convenient that you men get allergies when you talk about your feelings.” She smiled knowingly. “Now look, whatever’s going on with you and your family ain’t gonna get solved in the span of one bus ride—ooh, and speaking of which, my stop is coming up soon. Here’s what I want you to do—add my contact info, and if you ever find yourself in trouble or you need someone to talk to, I want you to add me, understand?” Devon smiled. “Yes, Ma’am.” “Oh, don’t call me that!” Carla gave Devon a gentle slap on the arm. “I’ll be your auntie from now on—and I’m serious. You find yourself in trouble, you give me a holler, you hear me?” “I will Miss Carla… I mean Auntie.” They exchanged contact info with a scan of their QR codes. Devon looked at Carla’s profile photo—it was of her in smart-looking business attire, her arms crossed, and a great, co
Duke of Two Cities Chapter 10
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After a few moments, Devon’s phone buzzed. The front of the message read: MOMMA.He clicked open the phone. There was a message from Momma. The message was clear. He clicked shut the phone. “You gave brought shame and ‘disrespct’…” he mouthed the word, pronouncing it like ‘diss-ree-speck.’ He leaned back in his chair, squeezing his eyes shut. “My god, Neveah…someone ought to teach you how to spell.”Clearly it was Neveah’s work. Momma, the educated woman that she, never used slang or mistyped. Ever. All it took was a simple comparison of Momma’s older messages to see the difference. She may have given up on her own children’s slang, but Momma stood firm against that linguistic tide. Did Neveah not notice how her own mother wrote? Did she not care?Key in this was the “u”—that was a young person’s affectation. Devon even used it sometimes. Neveah used it constantly. But Momma? Never. Putting the two texts together only made it more obvious.MOMMA: Love you always Devon-Devilcake
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Last stop—New Hudson Convention Center.The bus crawled over to the bus station and, hissing, the bus’s tired deflated. It sounded to Devon like a dragon’s mighty fart after returning to its cave after a long day of pillaging and burning villages. Hoisting up his bag and, after giving it a brief once-over to make sure everything was zipped and secured tight, Devon debarked from the bus. As he left, the driver looked up from his magazine.“Nice hat,” the driver said with a thumbs up.“Thanks,” Devon smiled. But the driver had already returned to his magazine before he could respond.Devon left the bus. What greeted him was a scene of colorful chaos.The Convention Center looked like an enormous blue doughnut, rising
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His room had been cancelled. Just like that. No warning, no notice. At the snap of Marc’s fingers, Devon had been unceremoniously tossed out of a Convention that he literally gave up his family to attend. Devon stared at Marc for a while. Then, he laughed. He laughed quietly, then he laughed loudly, cackling, until he had no more breath in him. And still he laughed. This had been, by far, the most ridiculous weekend in Devon’s entire life. He had given up his family in a moment of anger, suffered assault and insult nearly daily, only to befriend some kind of foreign royalty who, while defending his newfound friend, had sacrificed the only housing he would have for the foreseeable future. Ridiculous! His life had become a joke, some absurd and wild story written by a mad idiot. This was a weekend that would define the rest of his life, and it all had just been so unbelievably stupid. Meanwhile, Marc looked as though he were about to leap out of the Executive Lounge window from shee
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Devon sat crosslegged on the floor, squishing his hunter’s hat for comfort. He stared at a spot of carpet, trying to drown out the sounds of the frightening-looking man screaming at Ali. Devon could piece together that the goons all worked for him—some of them were half in costume, others dressed like regular folk. A few wore golden watches. Were they thugs? If so, they weren’t like any gang members that Devon had ever seen, and New Hudson was unfortunately filled with those. These men looked too clean-cut. They didn’t have the casual swagger of the gangs he knew, and other than a little bit of rough-handling on the way to the top-floor lounge, they hadn’t been beaten. Furthermore, gang attacks usually don’t take this long, and by this point they had been sitting in the lounge for twenty minutes. Meanwhile, Ali had begun to shout at the man who kidnapped him. That was the strangest part of all of this--when Ali shouted, the man who kidnapped them listened. And so did his goons. At
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Zayin’s head throbbed. He wished, more than he’d ever wished for anything in his life, that he could wake up back home, in Al-Zhabaiye. He missed his coffee, he missed his 17th story view of the desert, he missed the smell of the cedar paneling of his building’s elevator. All these little things he missed, many of which he had not appreciated before. His head ached until the pain seeped down into his shoulders. So tense were all his muscles that even the slightest movement ached. And it was well to be tense, because his ward, the PRINCE OF AL-ZHABAIYE HIMSELF, chose to behave like a childish idiot. Now Zayin and his security team occupied the hotel’s Executive Lounge, where they had extradited the Prince from a possible attempt on his life. The Prince sat on the couch with his head in his hands, refusing to look at or speak to anyone. One of his security team had thoughtfully prepared a plate of dried fruit and cheese. The plate sat in front of the Prince, untouched. Good. Maybe the
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Far away from the chaos of New Hudson, in the Golden City of Al-Zhabai, King Ibrahim al-Zhabai stood on his private balcony, thinking of a joke. Once, the land that his Kingdom sat upon was a flat cropping of rock surrounded by a lake of sand. No trees, no oil or minerals, or any of the other resources that make a city worth building existed there. A hundred years before King Ibrahim’s time, this useless plot of land was gifted to his great-grandfather, Usman al-Zhabai, Founder of the Kingdom, as the world’s most expensive prank. It was a little known truth. Very few people beyond the deepest circle of the royal family knew this story. Not even foreign websites could publish it, for the instant they did al-Zhabai’s Ministry of Communications used every means at their disposal to take it down. Family lore said that when Founder Usman, talented and overlooked, was finally gifted the land he had worked for all his life. When the empty plot of land was finally revealed, his “benefac
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It began with a push. Once again, Ali was surrounded by an angry crowd, with someone screaming at him in a language that was not his mother tongue. In Al-Zhabai, nobody would dare speak to him in such a way—even the cousins who looked upon him with contempt would never stoop to such behavior. In the moment, Ali felt the most curious sensation—that his soul was leaving his body, watching it from above. Perhaps the shock of the push had killed him, he thought. Curiously, in this dissociated state, he didn’t seem to have any feelings at all, though his body was nearly convulsing in terror. Time seemed to lose its smooth passing. Suddenly everything became terribly slow, as if the convention and everything in it was moving through thick honey. Down from above his own body, Ali gazed as Tamyra, whose face had become a terrible mask of vindictive rage. She lunged at Ali— to snatch Devon’s gift, he thought. But Tamyra’s dexterity had vanished before the heat of her own anger, and whom m
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“Of course it would be you,” Tamyra snarled. “Who else would be so entitled? All I needed to finish my was going to finish my Warriors of the Endless Road collection was that Dashu. And you took it.”Tamyra’s face had flushed past crimson and was on its way to purpose. Her princess wand was quavering in her hand. At the slightest provocation, Devon feared she might actually use it. He held up his hands as though the wand were about to shoot lightning from its glittery points. “Look,” Devon began, “I’m sorry about your collection, but like—how are any of us supposed to know that? We can’t read minds or anything.”“You took it,” Tamyra intoned. Devon’s logic had no place amidst her anger. And there was much to be angry about—between the incident at the entrance, the horrible mess in the Fantasy writer’s panel, and now this. Just over the past two days, Ali and Devon had been a thorn in her slippers. and she had just about enough. “And it’s not enough that you have the nerve to troll in
