Try A Little Tenderness …Or Don't
The sky was a uniform dark grey as rain poured down incessantly like a highly fragmented waterfall, or perhaps football players who’d just won the big game dumping the contents of their cooler on the coach, whichever was less pleasant.
One of those days that caused the streetlamps to turn on at noon.
Although it was technically Spring, it was a cold rain, incapable of producing that pleasant smell or feeling that comes from such showers during the summer. Such rain served only to amplify the unpleasantness of this area of downtown Canterville, devoid as most of it was of any vegetation, so the water droplets splapping against the various hard surfaces merely amplified the smell of the streets and pavement. Puddles forming amidst the asphalt immediately turned iridescent due to the remnants of motor oil and other sundry pollution.
In the narrow alley north of Third Street that served as a service entrance for the several small businesses along its three-block length, the smell was simultaneously worse and better. On the plus side, the cold partly masked the stench of rotting garbage that would not be removed until the next day. On the minus side, a driving rain causes unpleasantries to leach out of dumpsters into the depression in the alley’s centre, where the whole mess eventually makes its way through the grates into the city’s overtaxed sewer system.
Every once in awhile, the monotony of grey would be broken by lightning flashes within the clouds, never deigning to make contact with the earth below, but still inevitably followed by the characteristic ‘boom’ of thunder as the movement of particles broke the sound barrier.
At the point where the alley and Loyalty Street met sat a young girl with purple skin, long purple hair with mint-green streaks tied up in pigtails that clearly had seen better days, deep purple eyes, and a perpetually sour expression. Her green shirt and short-shorts had also seen better days, covered with minor tears and holes as they were. This wear extended to her body, which was covered in dirt, scrapes, and bruises, including on her shapely muscular legs that could still be considered among the nicest things about her.
Leaning against the side of the corner restaurant “Le Connard Prétentieux”, she propped up an old holey black umbrella that kept her somewhat dry as she surveyed the nearly empty cross-street before her.
Then the wind shifted, causing the umbrella to buckle and blasting her with myriad water droplets.
“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding!” the girl groused to no one in particular as she felt her stomach burble.
Somewhere off in the distance, a dog barked, though its call was muffled and distorted by the weather.
The girl got to her feet, still holding the useless umbrella. “I guess I don’t have a choice, do I?” she asked it. “I’ve gotta get some food.”
She walked a few feet south and peered down the block at the series of small eateries along Third Street.
Well, Aria, this is it. You’ve gone as far as you can go on your own. I tried the ‘being alone’ thing and it worked out about as well as Adagio’s stupid plans. I need a goddamn meal. Beneath the halo of this streetlamp, I turn my collar to the cold and damp. Can’t fucking sing for my supper anymore. When you’re no longer bound by magic, it’s amazing how important food becomes. I’m tired of this cold; I’m tired of this running around. So, what do we have here?
‘Le Connard Prétentieux’. Sounds snooty. Even the decor outside looks snooty. They’d probably call the damn cops if I tried to dry out under their stupid awning because I’m not up to their standards. Fuck that. Fuck them. I hate you. Your food is probably shit anyway.
Would I dumpster-dive them? I still think I’m too good for that right now.
Maybe I have too much pride. I’m the one who left Adagio and Sonata at the park. I wonder how they’re doing without me. Probably awful. Dare I hope? Looks like nothing’s gonna change; everything remains the same.
No. I shouldn’t care. They’re just the worst. I’m sure both of them are having a hell of a time without me. I’m fine. Feelin’ groovy. Just fucking peachy.
What’s next? Big Beulah’s Burrito Barn. Sounds like a place Sonata would like. Weirdo. Eh, might as well go in. Seems pretty lowkey and wouldn’t notice a girl needing to dry off from this rain. What does that sign say? “Early Bird and Student Discount”. Heh, great if you actually have money to buy anything. Still, this running around sure is killing me.
May as well go inside.
Not too many people here except for a group huddled around that table in the corner.
Dude in the dashiki is looking at me like he thinks I’m gonna order. Sucks to be him. Well, I better wave him off so he can wait on some other loser. Actually he looks like pathetic. He can’t be much older than me but his hair is greying.
Someday my looks will fade, my hair will grey. If I live that long, which isn’t a given right now. But at least I don’t have a giant ass like Adagio or oversized tits like Sonata. Those will sag. Legs are much easier to keep up. Same with this nice flat stomach if I stick to my current diet of I can’t afford a goddamn thing.
Sometimes I miss being a real Siren, gliding through the ocean and coming back to our rock to feed off of dumbass ponies or gryphons or whoever too stupid to stay away. It’s been, what?, a little over ten years since that bearded grey asshole sent us into this stupid mirror. Maybe. There’s a weird jag in my memory between when we got sent in and when we woke up in this world. It’s the worst.
Why the hell didn’t Adagio actually pay our bills when we actually had money? If she had, I wouldn’t be in this mess. I hope she chokes on it.
Let’s see, they’ve got burritos, quesadillas, taco bowls, and other stuff on tortillas. Bunch of different sauces on the line it looks like. I guess I’m most like the taco bowl: just a mishmash of shit with a spicy saucy topping. Does it really matter what’s inside? Will anyone even care? Will anyone remember?
Stab it with a fork, chew it up, swallow, shit it out tomorrow. Not really too different from how I feel. Nothing really matters; anyone can see. Nothing really matters to me.
Yeah, this seems like the type of place Sonata should work …if she’s even capable of holding down a job. That might be giving her too much credit. Girl was totally useless without me and/or Adagio guiding her, and even then she was a waste of space.
I don’t miss her. I don’t. All she ever did was piss me off with her chirpy loudness. Talking without speaking. The worst excuse for a sister. My life is so much better without her around. Freedom. I’m free now. I wish the food was free. If it was, Sonata would probably squee so loud it’d make my ears bleed.
…Speaking of loud, who’s that fat orange fuck in the corner?
Aria turned to her left and noticed a large man with bright orange skin and blond hair that seemed to defy all laws of physics and rationality (it didn’t look quite real) sitting at a corner table next to a goosy little tan-skinned man who was clearly a journalist, if the tag sticking out of his fedora reading “PRESS” was any indication.
The large man wore a suit that clearly cost a large sum of money, but it was noticeably too small for him. Also, his red power tie was too thin and long. He made grand gestures with his hands as he spoke in a voice that seemed abnormally high-pitched for his size, with an accent reminiscent of claws on a chalkboard.
Aria finally approached the young greying man in the dashiki behind the counter. He looked at her with more than a hint of weariness in his light blue eyes.
“Welcome to Beulah’s. I’m Dashiki. What can I get for you?” he asked with no enthusiasm.
“Nothing right now,” Aria replied, almost guilty. “Just… tell me. Who is that guy?”
Dashiki stared at Aria curiously. “That’s Orangeglow. The richest man in Canterville. Or at least he says so. He’s running for Governor of Aristeque.”
“Air-iss-tee-kweh,” Aria said slowly. “So that’s how you say it. Never heard of him.”
That caused Dashiki to blink in utter confusion. “Do you not read the news? He built the tallest building in the city. He tried to buy the Canterville Campeiros.”
“Sounds kind of familiar. That is…?”
“One of our city’s two pro-baseball teams!” replied Dashiki, exasperated.
Aria frowned. “Well, fucking sorry I had a life and didn’t care to read anything about sports or news over the last ten years.”
Dashiki sighed. “No. It’s fine. Just… he’s also known for two nasty public divorces and going bankrupt four times. Even so, the boss lady thinks he walks on water. That’s why she let him do an interview here.”
“Hang on,” Aria said, her face contorted in confusion, scratching her chin. “If he went bankrupt, why is he still ‘rich’? Even in my and my sisters’ old profession, that’s not how it works.”
“He moved money around from bank to bank to stiff all his contractors and then sued his creditors until they gave up,” Dashiki explained as simply as he could.
“I want to admire such crapulence, but… for some reason I can’t,” Aria said.
Dashiki nodded. “Everyone either loves him or hates him. I’m no fan.”
“Uh-huh…” Aria said as she moved forward to listen in on the other conversation.
Orangeglow by this time was in the middle of a grand gab with the reporter, who in addition to his recording device was also jotting down notes on a small spiral-bound pad. Nearby sat Big Beulah herself, unmistakable in her size and curly black hair.
“So I said, ‘If you need Viagra, you’re probably with the wrong girl’!” he concluded with a laugh. “I mean, I don’t need it. My hands,” he held them out for everyone to see, “My fingers are long and beautiful as (it has been well documented) other parts of my body. I guarantee you there’s no problem. I guarantee it. I have five kids after all.”
The reporter nodded, “Including your eldest daughter, Geltsheen.”
“She does have a very nice figure,” Orangeglow replied, nodding sagely. “If she weren’t my daughter, perhaps I’d be dating her.”
“Okay,” said the reporter. “Now I want to ask you about your infrastructure plan.”
Orangeglow leaned away from the reporter slightly. “Do you mind if I sit back a little? Because your breath is very bad.”
At that, the reporter shrank in his seat a little. “Sorry. I… uh…”
“I’ve always been covered by a press that’s mostly financial press,” Orangeglow continued. “I’ve met some great people that deal with me in the press. I’ve also met some people that were very dishonourable frankly,” he said with a bit of a harsh edge to his voice.
“I see,” said the reporter. “Well, I’m certainly not trying to get on your bad side; I’m just asking about your plan, if any, to fix the outdated roads and bridges throughout this domain.”
Orangeglow puffed out his lower lip slightly before speaking. “We will build gleaming new roads, bridges, highways, railways, and waterways all across our great land. And we will do it with Aristequen hearts, and Aristequen hands, and Aristequen grit.”
“That, uh, sounds great,” the reporter agreed. “But do you have any details?”
“Well, real estate is always good as far as I’m concerned,” said Orangeglow. “My father was a successful real estate developer. And he was a tough man but a good man. My father would always praise me. He always thought I was the smartest person. First and foremost, I’m a real estate person, and that’s what I love the most. I’m the number-one developer in Canterville. I own buildings. I’m a builder. Nobody can build like I can build. Nobody.”
“Okay, so how does that…?”
“Permitting is a nightmare,” Orangeglow continued. “I want to cut red tape. This whole area is a dump. It needs redevelopment. Buy up all these buildings, raze ‘em, and put up one of my big beautiful skyscrapers. I’d bring in so many jobs we’d have negative unemployment, I guarantee it. We’ll win so much you’ll be tired of winning.”
Suddenly, Big Beulah herself chimed in. “Mister Orangeglow, did you just say you want to redevelop Third Street? What about all of us who own businesses here?”
Orangeglow turned to her with his cold, beady blue eyes but did not immediately dismiss her. “I suppose I could give a little discount to anyone I bought out who wants to rent space in my building. Still, it’d be a real honor for your shop to have an address in ‘Orange Tower West’, right? But anyway, for roads and stuff, well, we have to give local people more control over how to use money. By the way, where’s my burrito? I didn’t get a taco bowl because the best taco bowls are made in Orange Tower! I love Mekshika Village! I have a golf resort there. Very exclusive.”
Beulah stood up and headed back to the kitchen.
“Uh-oh,” Dashiki said as he saw her coming. Aria took this as her cue to move farther away and closer to the gaggle. The reporter began to ask another question as Beulah led Dashiki into the kitchen and voices were raised.
“One of the more… unusual… parts of your platform concerns migration. Now, normally when a candidate mentions migration, they’re talking about people coming from the hinterland towns like Mekshika or Tayino, into Canterville or Chrystalia, and settling in the low-end districts like our own Whitherton, the ‘wrong side of the tracks’, as it were.”
“You know the funny thing,” mused Orangeglow, “I don’t get along with rich people. I get along with the middle class and the poor people better than I get along with rich people. That’s why I built the first Orange Tower on the Whitherton side of the city. And everyone loves it. Beautiful building.”
“It is a nice building, but you were talking about migration.” the reporter redirected.
Orangeglow harrumphed at being interrupted, but nodded at the end. “I’ve got it on good authority that there are illegal aliens in our domain.”
The reporter widened his eyes, clearly taken aback. “How is that even possible? We’re surrounded on three sides by impassable mountains and the sea on the west. We have literally never had any contact with anyone from another country.”
“Wrong,” said Orangeglow simply. “A few days ago, a brave patriot and I took my private helicopter to the mountains…”
“Did you go over the mountains?” the reporter asked.
“No!” Orangeglow snapped, his bushy eyebrows tilting inward. “Part of being a winner is knowing when enough is enough. Sometimes you have to give up the fight and walk away, and move onto something more productive. And there are illegals in this world. They’re not sending the best. They’re sending people that have lots of problems and they’re bringing those problems. They’re bringing drugs, they’re bringing crime. They’re rapists and some, I assume, are good people.”
The reporter blinked. “You assume?”
“Aristeque has enough problems without allowing people to come in, who in many cases, or in some cases, are looking to do tremendous destruction. If people can just pour into the country illegally, you don’t have a country,” Orangeglow insisted.
“So,” the reporter asked, “How do you plan to deal with the problem?”
“Extreme vetting,” answered Orangeglow. “Putting a citizenship question on the next census.”
Right then, Beulah returned carrying a burrito wrapped in foil on a plate. She set it on the table next to Orangeglow, who did not acknowledge it.
“Are you not concerned that citizens who can’t afford IDs may be affected?”
“Look. I’ve become very successful over the years. I think I own among the greatest properties in the world. I built a great company, one of the… some of the most iconic assets in the world, $10 billion of net worth, more than $10 billion of net worth, and frankly, I had a great time doing it.” babbled Orangeglow with utmost authority.
“Okay,” the reporter replied, a hint of desperation in his voice. “Now I just need to ask you about your comments about women over the years…”
Orangeglow bristled at that for a second, his left eye briefly twitching, before regaining his composure. “I respect them; I have great respect for women. In fact, one of the reasons The Boss-Man was such a successful show for so many years, the audience of women was fantastic. People love me. And you know what, I have been very successful. Everybody loves me. You know who really loves me? Twilight Velvet, the lady writer. I’ve never read her books but she’s made a lot of money doing it. I met her daughter. Not much to look at, but maybe if she ditched those ugly glasses I could see myself dating her in five years. Anyway, let me tell you: if you get good ratings, they’ll cover you even if you have nothing to say.”
“So you’re not concerned about your standing among female voters at all?”
“Ted…” Orangeglow said.
“My name’s not Ted,” the reporter said quietly. Aria, by this point standing just a few feet behind them, buried her face in her palm.
“Ted, I could stand in the middle of Connemara Square and shoot somebody, and I wouldn’t lose any voters, Okay?” continued Orangeglow triumphantly.
The reporter whose name was not Tom nodded slowly, quickly jotting down a note on his pad. But, Orangeglow wasn’t finished.
“You know, it really doesn’t matter what you write as long as I’ve got a young and beautiful piece of ass. But she’s got to be young and beautiful, you know?” he said. “Like a few months ago I saw these three girls walking in front of my tower. One of them had the greatest ass I’ve ever seen, like, ever. Flat as a pancake, though. And that curly hair… well, they have hair product and surgery. Second girl, she just…” Orangeglow held his hands out in front of his chest in the universal symbol for ‘large breasts’. “She was probably dumb, but that’s fine. I love the poorly educated. The third, though, this purple girl. Face of a dog. Ugly pigtails. She wasn’t even on the same golf course as the other two. And she was frowning, like she had blood coming out of her whatever. Believe me, this girl looked like a total loser.”
“I see,” replied not-Ted. Aria clenched her fist.
Orangeglow turned to him, shifting his broad shoulders to make it clear the interview was almost over. “Everything in life is luck. My whole life is about winning. I don’t lose often. I almost never lose. I’ve always won, and I’m going to continue to win. And that’s the way it is. I don’t like losers. And to all the morons and idiots in the fake news who write me off, let me say: Anyone who thinks my story is anywhere near over is sadly mistaken.”
Out of seemingly nowhere, but really from just behind them, Aria appeared, glaring daggers at both Orangeglow and the reporter. She said nothing, merely narrowed her eyes as she reached for the plate with Orangeglow’s burrito on it.
Orangeglow stood up to face her, saying nothing, his expression clearly giving away the gears turning in his head trying to recall her.
All the while maintaining eye contact, Aria silently picked up the burrito, slowly unwrapped its foil, and took the largest bite out of it she possibly could, deliberately chewing it for over a minute before loudly swallowing.
In the meantime, Orangeglow’s face grew ever redder, his expression shifting from confusion to incredulity to unhinged rage. He snarled as he raised his right fist and reared back to deliver the face-punch of a lifetime.
Aria made a scoffing sound through her nose and rolled her eyes at him.
Before he could follow up on his attack however, Orangeglow’s face suddenly sported a look of total shock. The colour drained out of his face as his nose began to bleed profusely. His mouth opened slightly, allowing a small amount of drool to escape, and his eyes glazed over as he began to list to his right side. Aria moved one step backwards. He twisted slightly before landing on the concrete floor, on top of his outstretched arm, with a thud and accompanying crack of bone.
He did not move.
While everyone else around her and the reporter, who was still pinned to his seat in surprise, immediately began panicking and running around like beheaded chickens, Aria finished eating the burrito, crumpled up the foil into as close to a sphere as she could get, and tossed the wrapping at the prone body of Orangeglow. It bounced off his hair, which remained oddly unruffled though shifted from its logical position.
The reporter’s and Aria’s eyes met. After she swallowed her last bit of free food, she had but one thing to say to the small man.
“What?”