overthinking

NYC Midnight Story Entry: Fishmonger

Two pages.

I spent about 10 hours staring at a computer screen to make two pages. And that’s not counting the time I tried to sleep in but my mind was already working on the assignment.

The NYCMidnight boys had given me 48 hours to write a thousand word story. But because of other plans that had already been made, I only had 24 of those.

Genre: Science Fiction. Location: Fish Farm. Object: Heroin.

Here’s what I came up with.

Fishmonger

This is how I met the Fishmonger:

I had taken the early Hover Train west. It didn’t make for the best view; at that time of day, the greenish brown clouds hung low, grabbing onto the earth as if fighting to stay. Later, the giant fans would blow them up into the hills so people could start their day. What was left the sun would burn off and it would be clear and hot. As always.

The trip was a gamble. Spending your last few credits on a train to some hickville town, based on nothing more than a tip from a guy in the joint…well, it’s not what most people would call a smart bet. But I always say it isn’t gambling if you have nothing to lose.

A train attendant walked through with a small rolling cart. “Can I get you anything, sir? Coffee? Beer? Marijuana? Something stronger?” She opened a cardboard pharma box, full of cigarettes, cigars, small bags and vials of pills, powders, and plants, labeled clearly and arranged by price. “The heroin is on special this week, an especially good deal.” She winked and I smiled, but shook my head.

The sun broke through the clouds, and I reached up to my specs and engaged the sun screen. I could see hundreds of kilometers in every direction. As we started our descent, I noticed little buildings surrounded by brown squares, pencil thin roads connecting them and leading off into the horizon, disappearing into the mist.

Walking off the train, I scanned the billboards absentmindedly. One of the attached retinal scanners must have caught my glance because it automatically started playing its message in the speakers on the stems of my specs. “RE-ELECT MARIA GONZALEZ FOR PRESIDENT IN ‘76” it shouted as trumpets blared. I shook my head as I walked past and the volume dropped out.

The nervous-looking guy with the gray beard and tinted specs had to be the guy I’d spoken to on the phone. He was waiting for me, I could tell. Not just because he was the only one in the station, or because I was the only one getting off the train, but because of the look on his face. He fidgeted a lot, glancing around, clearly uncomfortable. “Mr. Irratu?”

“Yeah,” I replied, disengaging my sun screen. He held a retinal scanner to my face and it beeped. He looked at the screen, then put it back in his pocket, satisfied, and reached out to shake my hand.

“Welcome to Missouri.”

*******

I grew up eating fish. My family had a little pond on our property, out in the middle of nowhere far away from everyone, and no one ever even told us about the ban. Looking back, it seems amazing, but somehow we never heard about all the deaths. We were just too far inland and too far off the grid. In our schoolbooks, the oceans were still blue, there was still white on the globe, and penguins weren’t extinct. Too bad those books were wrong. I always liked penguins.

But why should all fish be illegal anyway? Yeah, our oceans, lakes, and rivers were filled with oil, chemical waste, and other toxins. And because of that 90% of fish were poisonous. But not all. Not ours. With drugs legalized, the country was financially stable again, but now it was full of junkies, so it seemed stupid to say people couldn’t eat fish. And my pops had always taught me that it wasn’t breaking the law if it was a stupid law.

I gave my life to the fish business. I spent every day at the hatcheries and farms, and every night doing the books, handling our other affairs. I helped the Fishmonger build an empire across the Midwest, the Bible Belt, even up near the Great Lakes area. We had everywhere but the coasts. Because that’s where the regulators were. That’s where they were watching for you.

What we both knew but never said was: it couldn’t last forever.

*******

The Fishmonger’s name was Bob. But no one called him that. Even after 15 years with him, I still called him “sir,” just like everyone else. In private, though, he was Bob, and I was Al. I was more than just his right hand man. I was his best friend.

That’s why it was such a hard conversation we had that night.

For so long, it had seemed like we were just doing a good deed. People wanted healthy fish; we provided it and made a lot of money. Everyone was a winner. But breaking the law was still breaking the law. And if people threatened our business…well, they had to be stopped. That’s just how breaking the law works.

Bob wasn’t privy to this information. He never thought that there were rivals trying to take down his business. That there were snitches offering us up to get reduced sentences. That blackmail was something I dealt with every day. He never knew because he never wanted to know. That’s what I was there for.

His daughter’s husband was a gambler, who hadn’t come up a winner like I had. He came to me for help, but that’s not how the game works. You don’t get money for being a loser. You earn your keep. He didn’t like that answer. He was desperate, threatened me, and the business. So I did what needed to be done.

Late that night, the Fishmonger came to me, confronted me. He was red-faced; his daughter had come to him crying. What had I done. He’d finally come face to face with the truth. And he blamed me.

I reasoned with him, tried to make him see. Called him Bob. But he was emotional. Things were said that couldn’t be taken back.

I did what had to be done. As I always had.

That’s how I became the Fishmonger.

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