It was a balmy winter afternoon when I approached the literary office of Full Stop, wishing to pitch an article to the editor in charge concerning my lengthy study of the Algonquin moose and their mating habits. The offices were drafty, cluttered, and gloomy — it appeared that the half bucket of coal set out beside the stove was nary enough to heat even a square foot of the wretched place. I was told to wait in an anteroom by a nondescript, clearly annoyed secretary who muttered something regarding where to sit the easel I had carefully packed along, upon which I planned to display the charts and diagrams that accompanied this rather scientific article I was pitching.
You see, I am what is known as a sciento-journalist. My study of the great Algonquin moose began in sub-saharan Africa and spread along the coastal plain and has included most of the major (as well as some minor) continents over the years. Covering countless miles and spending thousands of dollars was incidental to the immeasurably valuable data I was gathering. Of course all of my findings were reported scientifically as well as journalistically.
So after waiting for what seemed like hours, a rather angry-appearing young man parted a moth-eaten and moldy curtain hanging across the exit of the anteroom and sneered at my easel and blueprints of the Great Upper Eastern Moose Fjord and Basin Area known colloquially as Moose Basin. It was as if minuscule cogs and gears were clicking and whirring inside of his head, words forming only to teeter irresponsibly at the precipice of the jagged range of his teeth.
“I daresay that you are trying to sell me something. What this time, soft goods, soap, other toiletries? I have three doctorates you know.”
I stared in astonishment at his hand, as there it sat on the edge of his pants pocket, never extended in a contemporary greeting.
“Sir my name is [name redacted], and I have been in touch with your magazine with regards to the publication of my article on the Climactic Nuances Affecting the Mating Habits and or Rituals of the Rare Algonquin Moose and Offspring. You see after several exchanges over the telephone —”
“Enough! I knew your were here to sell me something after all. I don’t need articles, we aren’t in the article business.”
“. . . Wha . . . What business are you in, you see I was under the impression —”
“That is none of your business! Now if you excuse me I have an important luncheon to attend I must be going.”
Quickly, like a bedbug, was I removed from the Full Stop offices, ushered forcefully by a large security guard out a side door which emptied into a disgusting alley. The alley was very narrow and it was almost impossible to extricate myself from the easel which had somehow become jammed, pinning me between a tepid dumpster and the scaly bricks of the Full Stop warehouse. Strange noises filtered around me, an odorous breeze clung to my matted hair and I felt my heart rise into my throat. As if from out of nowhere, I heard a strange voice.
“They didn’t go for it, eh?”
Was I hallucinating auditorily? Had I not just heard a dumpster addressing me?
“You deaf or something kid? Yeah, you there, with the easel. What the hell were you doing in there, don’t you know not to fuck with those dirty rat bastards? They’ll steal your ideas, suck you dry as an old lemon and then send you a bill. A real clearing house that publisher Full Stop is.”
Clearly I had lost it. I used one of the moose pictures to shield myself from a sudden rain of fish heads inexplicably falling from above, offal from some upstairs bistro. I leaned reluctantly over the dumpster peering into a murky stew of trash and excrement. Perched in the far corner on a pile of banana peels was a goose.
“Quit staring and jack me off, all you dumb kids ain’t good even for a fuck and yet you expect to be some kind of wizened Mr. Rogers of literature. I am a goose get over it.”
“But what are you doing down there in that dumpster? Shouldn’t you be in a pond or something?”
“What’s it to ya kid, honk honk. I was a litigator if you really care to know. Symmetrical drafting of laws was my gambit.”
“But how did you end up out here?”
“Well like it is any of your business, Full Stop drained the pond I lived in . . . Something about fracking, I think. Either way they fucked me out of everything I ever had, including my wife.”
“What happened to her?”
“They ate her.”
“That is terrible. I am so sorry.”
“Ah who cares, anyway I basically gave up on life the minute they wouldn’t publish my statutes. I even drafted a law that denied health care for swans.”
“I did a study on moose and their mating habits and rituals, did you know that the Algonquin Moose rears up on his hind legs and then —”
“Yeah, whatever kid. I don’t actually care what you are saying but you seem like an OK guy so I will let you in on something.”
“You know who will publish my study!?”
“Even better, kid. I know how you and me can make a lot of moolah, I’m talking hondos here kid. Now pay attention.”
It was then the goose took a small slate board and a piece of chalk from under his wing and began drawing what appeared to be a football play. His breathing was accelerated and audible above the disgusting din of the alley.
“This is the air duct which opens out into the elevator shaft . . . you grapple to this I-beam . . . this bolt here is your pivot point . . . now be aware of the alarm system . . . count the clicks in your head. You’ll want to stay low here to avoid the laser security alarms . . . be careful here they keep pitbulls. Cut this chain link fence here and here. Go down this hatch, you’ll find the diamonds if you take a left (watch out for the pepper spray!) then take those stairs three flights down, four up . . . now watch out here there are spike strips set out . . .”
“The diamonds?! Wait wait this doesn’t seem very legal, I thought you were a law maker.”
“No, no, I’m a politician, now are you in or what? We could net a sizable lump sum after selling these diamonds, I know people in the sawblade business that need diamonds and yeah they don’t care how they are obtained. It is simply no questions asked.”
“Look, I’m, I dunno . . . it seems so risky.”
“Listen kid it is no pressure really. Honestly I would have asked anyone to be my partner in this. It sure beats flicking your dick in Center City all night for spare change. I would leap at an opportunity like this.”
“Why haven’t you just done it then? It would be all profit for you.”
“Yeah I would love that but I don’t have any fucking hands,” said the goose, lighting a cigar.
“Cough, well okay I guess I am in. What’s your name anyway?”
“Slade. Just call me Slade”
So Slade and I crawled deeper into the seedy underbelly of Society Hill. I had left the easel behind in the dumpster and now carried the bitter goose in a fashion similar to a small folio. But this was no folio — this was my only shot at proving Full Stop Magazine wrong (or at least generally mistaken).
* * *
Hesse Mintgomry looked over the brim of his glasses across a cluttered desk riffled with papers and ephemera. The silence was heavy in the office, save for the interruption of the intricate clicking of the drinking bird desk toy plunging and then re-plunging into a glass of hyper-distilled water.
“This is awful. Who wrote this shit? You think that I am going to publish a story about a Goose giving hand jobs for money?”
“Err . . . Receiving sir . . .”
“What?”
“Sorry . . . it’s just . . . the goose recieved the — oh nevermind. So it isn’t any good?”
“Do you understand the mission statement of our magazine at all? Do you know the demographic we reach? This is probably the worst story I have read since Twilight Comes to the Cumberlands.”
“Well with all due respect sir it isn’t a story..”
“What other than pure steaming crap is it then?”
“Well . . . well, Mr. Mintgomry, it is an autobiographical piece.”
“You’re telling me that you played paddleball with a goose dick in an alley and then stole some diamonds?!”
“Honest to God truth, sir.”
Right then the meeting was interrupted by a ringing phone.
“Hello, Mintgomry speaking. Yes he’s here right now, says it’s about a goose . . . hm . . . I see. Uh huh . . . Right. No not a thing. Okay, I’ll let you know. Right. Yeah, okay, bye.”
Mintgomry set the receiver down heavily in its cradle. His fingertips lingered briefly along the rotary dial. His beady eyes grew even beadier. He cracked the knuckles of each hand methodically, then, licking his lips he said:
“What if I told you that you will be making the cover of this month’s issue?”
“Why that’s! That’s great, sir! Boy oh boy, wait until ma hears about this!”
“Now not so fast. With some simple editing we can have the galleys proofed and then I will just have my secretary run this right downstairs to the press.”
“What did you have in mind?”
Duck Dynasty Titanic:
The Tale of the Illustrious Heart of the Ocean Diamond and the Amphibian Friends that Found It
Jack and Fabrizio had laid down their final hand. “Well Fabrizio, looks like you won’t be seeing your mother anymore, because we have the winning hand of poker right here in wing, which means we win, among other assorted things, these tickets to board the great ship RMS Titanic!”
“But Jack we are only ducks, how will we ever convince the stewards to let us aboard?”
“It’s fine my friend, these tickets are third class!”
So Fabrizio and Jack boarded the great ocean liner. A figure paced the deck with a jug of iced tea and a cup of the same, swigging like a drunken sailor.
“Hey Jack.”
“How did you know my name?”
“What? Y’all mallards I reckon, aren’t ya hey? Y’all boys like flitter?”
“What’s that?”
“Well come over here behind this smoke stack Jack, hey — tell you boys what, y’all ever heard of the Heart of the Ocean?”
(Neither of them had.) The old man reached into his pocket and pulled out an illustrious diamond necklace.
“Hey, y’all boys can have this here if you just answer one question Jack.”
Awestruck, the ducks agreed.
“My one question is: has Obamacare already restructured the established health insurance paradigm in such a way that makes it more difficult for certain ineligible, yet otherwise healthy, people to be approved, hinging on a supposed or supremely vague definition of ineligibility? Does the nationwide plan being implemented for such a unequally dispersed rollout effectively deny some groups while serving others?”
“I think that’s two questions.”
“Alright! Hey Jack, here’s your diamond!”
The old man gave the ducks the illustrious Heart of the Ocean.
“Now hey Jack, never let go, that thang is pricey!”
With that, the tea-guzzling old man turned and walked away with a swiftness that betrayed his age. That night, the RMS Titanic struck an iceberg. The operator on board, swamped with the day’s messages relayed from on ship to New York City, disregarded the all-points bulletin put out explaining that two ducks had stolen the invaluable Heart of the Ocean diamond. It read:
“Wanted two ducks who stole Heart of Ocean diamond. Stop.”
Disaster ensued, leaving a wash of passengers awash, floating close to lifeless miles above the ocean floor. Of course Jack and Fabrizio were making due, enjoying the night with its many colored stars.
“Jack do you ever look at the stars and think: I could maybe visit them one day”
“Fabrizio, no, there isn’t technology capable of visiting the stars yet, or satellites for that matter. Besides there are way too many chemtrails, and even if you were to get above those then you would have to deal with shape-shifting lizard people. It would just not be worth the hassle.”
“You’re right. Say Jack, what will you do when we get to New York?”
“Why I believe my dear Fabrizio that I will start a pond . . . and if that fails, well, I’ll just start a magazine company and call it Full Stop.”
“What kind of magazines, Jack?”
“Why dirty magazines, Fabrizio, the dirtiest ones I can write. That’s my lifelong dream”
And so Fabrizio and Jack floated onward to New York City. Jack would indeed start Full Stop Magazine, but it would end up taking on a slightly different form. His long dreamt dream took on the real life form of a religious tract. With his half of the proceeds of the sale of the Heart of the Ocean Fabrizio invented a product for eliminating undesirable odours on fabric.
“What do you think?”
“Why Mr. Mintgomry, its brilliant!”
“I know. So you will take full credit won’t you?”
“Yes, yes of course, just put Twain on the cover sheet.”
And so it was settled. The article was drafted, proofed, and sent downstairs to the printers. Promised that payment would be received upon publication, Twain eagerly awaited the day that his cover story would hit the magazine stands, all framed in 8.5 X 11 glossiness. That day would be the start of a new epoch for him. In fact he had big plans, most of which involved getting all of his electronics out of hock.
* * *
At the beginning of that next month, Twain was the first cheery customer at his local magazine stand.”I can’t wait!” he thought. All the new issues of magazines for the month had been arranged in a dazzling display of true aesthetic skill, seeming to have required the full attention of countless newsboys. There among the rest he could just make out the top of the words that comprised the title of the big timey publication of which he had been promised the coveted cover story slot: Garden & Gun Magazine. With much anticipation and glee Twain’s eyes alighted upon the big block letters only he knew pertained to his breakthrough article. They read:
“A CONFESSION: HOW I STOLE THE HOPE DIAMOND by MARCOS TWAIN“
Twain saw red, then purple. He could not believed he had been so screwed by an editor. “A magazine editor at that!” he muttered through clenched, then grating teeth. By God this was war. He quickly decided the logical plan would be to kill Mintgomry. He armored himself heavily, with multiple weapons, decked himself out in full camo and combat boots, strapped the flamethrower tank on his back, and, turning it on full flame, headed for the main offices of the magazine.
When the smoke cleared and he had blasted past the foyer, what little remained of the sign that said “Sorry we’re closed; please call again” went completely unnoticed. The irate writer headed straight up the stairs and barged into the editor’s office where the shadowy figure of Mintgomry leaned heavily over a bank statement while his secretary looked on. Through pangs of ecstasy one could hear a visibly agitated Mintgomry exclaiming “I said not to clean upstairs you stupid Janitor!” but the words were lost in the fray as Mintgomry quickly realized that the man before him wasn’t a janitor, and was wearing full riot gear. The flame thrower was gently hissing and casting a terrible glow across the assailant’s face.
“I don’t know what this is about but I have a lot of power and influence in this city. You don’t want to do this.”
“You know what this is about.”
“You really don’t want to do this . . . Marcos? Is it you? I can redact, we can reprint!”
But Marcos was in a far off place at that moment. Visions of glory coursed through the steel trap of his mind. Waterfalls of potential problems fell short on the rocks of his temples. The iridium glare he gave caused the secretary to run for cover. It was clear that he wouldn’t back down.
Mintgomry was scribbling his signature onto a stack of blank checks, thrusting them quickly across his desk, basically throwing them at his attacker.
“See, plenty of money, plenty! You want money and fame right? I tell you the next issue will be big! Huge! I see you in the footlights, on Broadway, women will throw themselves at you . . . ganders too! You’ll never have to write again, the only thing you’ll use that hand for is swiping your American Express, I swear it! Just put the flamethrower down!”
Briefly a look of reason flashed across Marcos’ face, briefly the flamethrower was lowered to his side. It seemed as if he was pondering taking the money. But then once again the look of vengeance flooded his visage. He recalled the bright red letters that made him out to be a diamond thief. To save his honorable name he was prepared to do whatever it took.
“You aren’t getting out of this that easy, Mintgomry” he said. And as he raised the flamethrower he stated rather matter-of-factly:
“You can’t stop a Twain!”
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