Bryce has published fiction in Nocturnal Ooze, and both fiction and artwork at Chaos Theory: Tales Askew.
Tweeteef!
by Bryce Albertson
Edelmeyer
paced the dusty floor of the abandoned warehouse, his mouth
stuffed with Treeties Snack Cake. “Foh
Bwad… I can caw ooo Bwad, wight?”
Bradley swallowed, partly out of nervousness, partly in a
subconscious effort to help the elephantine federal agent
in his overzealous consumption of the sickly-sweet
confection. He fidgeted with the handcuffs securing his
right wrist to the rolling office chair that ensured any
escape he attempted would be a conspicuous
one.
“Uh,
sure,” Bradley said. “Brad is fine.”
“Fanks,” Edelmeyer said, then swallowed hard enough that
Bradley could hear it. He smiled a creamy, frosting-white
smile and almost immediately began eyeing the last Treetie
in the devastated 36-piece Value Pack. The corners of his
lips quivered as he peeled his gaze away and wrestled his
focus back to Bradley.
“Easy there, Phil.” Warnock placed a hand that was thick
and knotted like an exposed tree root on Edelmeyer’s
shoulder. He squinted and crow’s feet appeared as he
removed his glasses and used one of the stems as a pointer.
“See how addictive Nivianol #9 is? Edelmeyer here was one
of our top men: former Special Forces, benches
three-fifteen. He played iron man football for Georgia
State and set conference records for both yards rushing and
sacks, all in his freshman year.
Now look
at him.”
Bradley
did. He doubted the man in front of him could make it into
the endzone without having a coronary, much less set any
records. The grandeur of his twenty-inch biceps was far
surpassed by the enormity of his sixty-two-inch waist.
Bradley could almost see the golden mystic dreams of sugary
goodness dancing in Edelmeyer’s head
as the man stared, unblinking, at the last Treetie.
Edelmeyer began to hyperventilate, sweat pouring off of
him. “S-s-s- Sammy? C-can I…”
Warnock cut his eyes at Edelmeyer as he placed his glasses
on a decaying modular office desk. “One every two hours. No
more.”
Bradley watched as Edelmeyer’s trembling hand continued to
reach. “But… I just gotta have a Treetie! I just gotta-
YEAAAAOW!”
Edelmeyer reeled, clutched his hand to his waist, and
proceeded to do the “owie dance.” His massive bulk stomped
about the room as a stream of half-obscenities flowed from
his mouth like rhymes for the name of a certain garden tool
flow from Snoop Dogg’s, only without Snoop’s
peaceful,
half-baked glow. Much more violence. Far less rhythm, style
and coordination.
“Goh daa… Mutha fuu… Stupid piece of … GLLEAAAHH!”
And with that, Edelmeyer went spread eagle, did a
half-twist and collapsed face-first onto the cold cement
floor of the warehouse.
“Poor bastard.” Warnock returned the stun gun to his right
breast pocket. “Like I was saying, Phil was one of our best
men until eight months ago. One of our best, not one of our
brightest. When we made our move on Flav-O-Snacks, he
just
had to
prove how tough he was by scarfing down a Nivianol
#9-infused
Treetie. Now they’re all he eats. I try to limit his intake
while he’s on the job, but I ain’t his mama. I can’t
control what he does off the clock.”
Warnock paused and glanced at the blubbering pile of
Edelmeyer and shook his head. “Neither can he. The 4th
District Court of Appeals’ reversal of Nivianol #9’s status
as a legal ‘flavor-enhancing’ food additive ain’t gonna
help him. Know why they didn’t overturn the ruling the
first time?”
“No. No, I don’t. No.” Bradley forced his fingers to relax
before they became a permanent part of the armrest. “I
mean, no sir.”
“Lighten up, kid. Stress kills.” Warnock offered a smoke,
which Bradley refused. “What happened was like this… Case
comes around… Porter Dobbs, defense attorney for
Flav-O-Snacks International Incorporated, presents two
boxes of
Chocolate Humdingers into evidence, one laced with Nivianol
#9, one without. Dobbs eats one of each right in front of
the justices. No effect, except that he made more ‘yummy
noises’ during his consumption of the loaded one… Prick…
Anyway, case drags on, hour after hour… still no effect,
but meanwhile, those two boxes of Humdingers are staring
the justices down. Then, just before they break for the
night… once he
knows they’re
all good and hungry, he asks the justices to try one of
each and see for themselves. Enough of ‘em did to be a
majority. I’m surprised Nivianol #9 ain’t in the school
lunches.”
Bradley blinked then wiped the sweat out of his eye. “How
come the defense attorney wasn’t affected?”
“Allergic to it. For some reason, some folks’ bodies store
Nivianol #9 for about a week, then they get a helluva rash.
Scratch ‘til they bleed.” Warnock coughed and then hitched
a thumb at Edelmeyer. “But at least they don’t end up like
‘Grow a Set and Gut it Out Mr. Willpower’ over there. Their
bodies are naturally immune to the addictive effects.”
Bradley glanced back and forth from Warnock’s deep-set eyes
to the gelatinous mountain of Edelmeyer. “Is… uh… is he?”
“M’Okay,” Edelmeyer moaned, his lips still half-pressed to
the floor.
“Kid,” Warnock said, “I added an hour to his life with that
jolt. Did you know that each Treeties Snack Cake contains
about six hundred calories?”
“Jeez,” Bradley said. “No, I didn’t.”
“Edelmeyer goes through at least one Value Pack a day,”
Warnock said. “You do the math.”
Bradley did. “That’s over twenty thousand
calories.”
“See the problem? We need you. The millions of Americans
just like Edelmeyer need you.”
Bradley’s
apprehension turned into confusion,
then
back into apprehension. “What do you mean, need me?”
Warnock looked away and scratched the back of his neck.
“Oh, I guess we forgot to mention… We got a job for you,
kid.”
“A job?” Bradley glanced down at the handcuffs. “I’m
guessing you guys didn’t find my résumé online.”
“No. You can thank CNN for this opportunity,” Warnock
said,
then
smirked. “Just to let you know, the job pays a little under
forty grand a year, but it comes with free health and
dental, a two-hundred percent employer match on 401(k)
contributions and, should you decline, your family buries
an empty box.”
“Who the hell
are you
people?” Bradley’s eyes grew wide. “FBI? CIA?”
“No, son.”
Warnock leaned in. “We’re FDA.”
“The Food and Drug Administration?”
“That’s us.”
“Why do you need me?”
Warnock crossed his arms. “Because of a nice, juicy Ultra
Burger.”
“So? I took a bite out of an Ultra Burger and went into
anaphylactic shock.” Bradley tried to cross his arms. The
handcuffs rattled. His arm jerked to a stop. He flopped it
indignantly back on the armrest. “Big deal.”
“Big deal?” Warnock stomped and then smiled. “It was a
helluva big deal! You were all over the news! You didn’t
just take a bite out of an Ultra Burger. You took a bite
out of the
first Nivianol
#9-infused Ultra
Burger. The
only Ultra
Burger! Son, you shut down the whole franchise before they
even got up and running. You realize how much work you
saved me? How many people you spared from a fatty fate?”
“I don’t like where you’re going with this,” Bradley said
and began jerking at the handcuffs. “Come on. You said
there are other people who are allergic to Nivianol #9!”
“True,” Warnock said, “but their symptoms take a week or
more to show up. No way to tell what they ate that gave
them the rash. You, however, swell up like a big purple
jellyfish, and you do it almost instantly.”
“But it ‘almost instantly’ killed
me!”
“Look,”
Warnock said, “we’ve tried lab tests, both on food products
and some of the raw stuff that we nabbed. Every test we run
tells us it’s red dye #5. Only problem is, it’s clear. The
lab ain’t any help. That leaves you.”
Across the room, Edelmeyer had finally struggled his way to
one knee. He reached out to Bradley. “Help us, Obi-Wan
Kenobi. You’re our only hope!”
Warnock glowered at Edelmeyer, then
rolled his eyes and
turned back to Bradley. “Come on, kid, be a hero!”
“No! I don’t like this! I won’t do it!” Brad thrashed
about, yanking at the handcuffs. “I won’t! I won’t! I
won’t!”
Warnock drew swiftly and placed the cold, blue-steel barrel
of his .44 magnum revolver to Bradley’s temple. “Did I
mention we offer in-house child care services?”
Bradley froze. Though he knew next to nothing about guns,
he was fairly certain that the kind of gun Warnock held was
called a “Howitzer,” and he was absolutely positive he was
on the wrong end of it. His voice cracked as
he
said, “But I don’t have any kids.”
Warnock cocked his head to one side as he cocked the gun.
“Does that really matter?”
“Guess not. Guess not. No. Not important.”
Bradley smiled nervously, eyeing Warnock’s quivering
trigger finger. “I-I’d be an idiot to pass up a cushy
government job!”
“That’s the spirit.” Warnock uncocked the
hammer. “Welcome aboard.”
“Thanks.”
“And don’t worry,” Warnock said. “Edelmeyer’s fully trained
in CPR.”
Bradley looked back to Edelmeyer, who was now off the floor
and sucking down the last Treetie, wrapper and all.
Edelmeyer gave him the thumbs up.
Brad struggled to maintain his smile. “Uh… that’s
reassuring?”
“One more thing,” Warnock said as he holstered his weapon.
“What’s that?”
“We gotta make sure your reaction wasn’t a fluke.” Warnock
produced a Treetie from his left breast pocket.
Edelmeyer, looking like a St. Bernard struggling to swallow
a fist-sized lump of peanut butter, spotted the Treetie and
looked at Bradley with wide eyes. “Awe ooo gone eat vat?”
Bradley knew the answer, and he didn’t like it one bit.
Copyright 2007 by Bryce Albertson