Playing the Field

I am tired of being underrated, I thought, tugging the laser cannon up another flight of steps. Today somebody is going to take me seriously.

I paused, hefted the wide canvas straps of the cannon's carrying bag, and continued plodding up the stairwell. This wasn't really about Zoltron, although I was certain that the news media would jump to that conclusion. No, Zoltron had merely been the proverbial last straw, the final insult in a long litany of mortal insults that probably began with some childhood incident I could no longer even remember.

I grinned, fiercely, and spat into the stairwell. I was fully aware that my behaviour was abnormal. Jilted lovers write nasty letters, they cry over coffee with friends and are consoled, they spend hours snipping their ex-loved ones out of group photographs and into little photographic bits. They don't blow holes in their ex-loved ones with a laser cannon.

I spat once again. Spitting inside a building was a novel experience. I imagined my co-workers, elegantly coiffed and manicured creatures in immaculate business attire, venturing into the stairwell and encountering a phlegmmy glob of my spittle. Or better still, being struck by one. It couldn't happen, of course— today was the day of the parade, and except for myself the building had been emptied.

This was Zoltron's fault, really. He gave me the idea last week, when he came by to pick up his rock collection. Our meeting began badly— Zoltron informed me that he had arrived in his customary way; that is, he sat in his convertible and leaned on the horn, waiting for me to come down and open the security door. Enraged, I had opened my window and began throwing his rocks— each carefully labeled, with a lovingly printed serial number and description of origin— at him, and his car. We exchanged a variety of insults, many unprintable, at full volume, as interested neighbours clustered at windows or on porches.

"Oh yeah?" Zoltron yelled, in response to a particularly inventive comment of mine on his sexual inadequacies. He picked up a large, green-flecked chunk of serpentine and hurled it up at my window, missing completely. A musical crash somewhere below and to my right marked where the rock had stuck somebody's wind chimes.

"Well, you couldn't blow me with a laser cannon!"

A few moments later Zoltron was distracted by the owner of the wind chimes, who was advancing across the lawn brandishing the sad remains of what had once been a trio of porcelain owls. A wave of sadness swept over me as I watched Zoltron confront this new threat. There was something sexy about the way his nostrils flared, and he looked so passionate as he grabbed a piece of broken owl, threw it to the ground and began jumping up and down on it. Melodrama welled up in me, and with Scarlett O'Hara reeling though my brain I cried out his name, ready to say that I loved him, I forgave him—

"Call me ERIC!" Zoltron screamed, momentarily distracted. Seconds later he crumpled to the ground, the unconcious victim of a sucker punch.

I sighed, remembering, and dabbled at my eyes with the sleeve of my jacket. Zoltron had been named after a popular children's cartoon character in the late 90's. He was very bitter about it, and after being elected to city council, officially changed his name to Eric. I could never remember to call him that, though— "Eric" just didn't seem to suit him, somehow.

The fortieth floor was, of course, deserted. I wandered past the security cameras without even attempting to hide my awkward bundle. If Steve, my survivalist brother-in-law, and his paramilitary chums had wired the cameras correctly, my movements on this floor would not be recorded. Steve had sworn me to several fearful oaths of secrecy regarding the source of the laser cannon and the video-rigging equipment, and had wanted to seal our compact by tattooing the Cross of the Secret Aryan Phallic Nation on my right wrist. I persuaded him to accept a handshake and a hundred bucks in cash, instead.

I dragged the cannon over to my chosen window. Outside, people were milling about, and traffic cops in orange jackets- merely little orange blobs from up here- were shooing people off the street. It was still early— I figured I had at least half an hour to wait before the parade floats came into view.

Assembling the cannon was easy- all I had to do was unfold the tripod and slip in the power cells. Cutting a small hole in the shatterproof glass of the window was a bit tricky— the glass cutter Steve had packed for me was different from the one I had been practicing with— but I managed within a few minutes. Focusing the telescopic sight took another few minutes. I flipped the cannon's main power switch to let it warm up, listening to its high-pitched hum with a combination of glee and awe. Once assembled, the cannon looked like a fat silver telescope. I stroked the shaft with my gloved hands, imagining I could feel the power running through it, that my hands, as they moved, were crackling with static. Death under my hands.

I tried to imagine Zoltron on his float, and came up with the ridiculous picture of Zoltron in a long pink taffetta gown and a tinfoil diadem, wearing a beauty pageant sash. He would be near the beginning— the parade wasn't in his honour, after alI. I couldn't remember who the parade was for. An astronaut, or something.

I looked through the telescopic sight, choosing faces at random from among the crowd. I targeted a middle-aged woman in a green coat. She was holding a shopping bag, checking her pockets for something. Was she thinking of mundane things, groceries and writing checks and fixing that leaky tap in the kitchen? She scratched her chin. Who would miss you, I asked her silently, if you died today? My fingers stroked the aluminum trigger, gently, and I whispered, "Pow." The woman, oblivious, fished a banana out of her shopping bag and began to munch.

My fingers itched. The thought of killing made me feel queasy in a strange, sort of exciting way, rather like the first time I thought about sex as a child. I stepped back from the cannon, heart pounding, hands shaking. Like a child, I didn't want to think about this. I wanted to go home.

Five more minutes to go. I wished the floats would hurry up and come.

Finally, finally, movement— I peered into the telescopic sight. A battered beige Westfalia van, trailing a bluish plume of ganja smoke, lurched erratically down the middle of the closed-off avenue, closely pursued by at least half a dozen traffic cops. A small banner waved from one of the windows, bearing the symbol of the Rastafarian Church of the Universe. The van made a sudden right turn, scattering pedestrians, and lurched down an alley out of sight. Orange cops followed, sirens screaming in pursuit.

I sighed in frustration.

No, wait—

This was it. Behind the fat gleaming police motorcycles of the official escort, and the few obligatory girls in spangly bathing suits, twirling batons and doing cartwheels, came the first car in the parade. Black, of course, a gleaming monster of a convertible with a long hood like the carapace of a dismembered beetle.

I scanned it through the telescopic sight. Yes, there he was— leaning back in the convertible, hair casually swept back in a manner that must have taken several hours and quite a lot of hair spray to perfect. He was waving at the crowd, moving one arm in an imitation of Queen Elizabeth. The other arm was creeping up the thigh of a chesty blonde in a lowcut dress.

"Silicon!" I spat, enraged, and quickly centered the crosshairs on Zoltron's forehead. I had practiced doing this hundreds of times, it was easy, all I had to do now was pull the trigger—

I stood and stared through the crosshairs. Zoltron was grinning and waving. I hated him, I hated all the men who casually sauntered into my life and tore it to shreds, then sauntered out again. I hated all of them for how they made me feel— useless, spent, a broken doll, a guttered candle. I hated them most of all for brushing my all my threats aside— as if I really were inconsequential, a tiny blustering cartoon character puffing hot air.

I looked for the black rage that had fed me as I hauled the laser cannon up all those steps. I should pull the trigger before he gets out of range, I thought, watching the tiny figure through the sight. I should pull the trigger now.

Zoltron looked tired. There were circles under his eyes, and as I watched him it seemed to me that his smile was forced. Godlike, I caressed the cannon's trigger, very slowly. Who are you, Zoltron? I asked the tiny, tired figure. Who will miss you when you die?

I carefully moved the crosshairs to a point directly between Zoltron's eyes, the place I used to kiss just after we had made love. My finger gently touched the trigger.

"Pow," I whispered.

Smiling, I continued to watch the black car as it slowly drove out of range.

Back to Stories