The Bottomless Kingdom

NEON MIDNIGHT MANIA

(Radio Static.)

“In the beginning, God created man. A bipedal fledgling and accidental stepping stone she formed while trying to recreate herself in all her splendor and perfection. With no immediate use for man, God let the little minions roam amongst the animals and plants and trees of Earth while she continued to toil. Some centuries later, man’s Earth was war-torn. Whole portions of the bountiful planet were destroyed and rendered baron craters. Man, it seemed, had quite the temper. One that despite her most clever inventions, God couldn’t seem to remedy. A deluge and several threats of damnation later, God had lost all hope. Her divine patience worn thin. But, just when the thought of giving up and burning the whole goddamn place to ash seemed the only solution, her fiery hand was stilled by the twinkling of a star. An idea came suddenly to her. A way of giving man the opportunity to understand the preciousness of life and his responsibility to it. She bestowed man with the human form of herself… and the gift of procreation. That’s right–she gave him a penis. And boy did he put it to use. It was god’s hope that through the act of conception man would realize his greater connection to universal order and embody a more tolerant, virtuous nature toward his environment. Hell, at least use his new toy as some sort of¬–de-pressurizer. Another outlet for his raging blood to flow instead of fueling the seek, destroy, conquer, repeat protocol of his brain. Big mistake. Not only did man use his heavenly antenna as nothing more than a personal divining rod, he declared himself supreme, the more fit and level headed of the species and then … He proceeded to strip woman of all her rights.” The female speaker is struck silent by her own words as she ponders the audacity. “As if he just climbed out from the gaping vagina of the woman who birthed him into this world, with his chin high, clicking his tiny little karabiners together, thinking, ‘Ahh, another successful conquest.’ I mean, can you fu¬–"

Aurora, a detective in her late thirties, turns the dial on the radio of her squad car as a call comes in.

“All units be advised. The suspect” (static). The radio hisses and wavers between disrupted speech and advertisement jingles.

“C’mon!” She pouts, smacking the radio and giving it a few jarring shakes.

“You know Aurora, I think if you shake it a couple more times–a genie will pop out and grant you three wishes,” Says Aurora’s faithful companion, in an eloquent yet slightly digitalized vocal with a smirk. Sputnik. A robotic canine who has a rusted drill-bit in place of his left ear.

“Yeah?" Aurora remarks, snidely. Well let’s see, I’d use one to get this stupid thing to work properly!” She shouts directly into the speaker of the radio. “I’d use the second wish, to make you a mute, that way I’d never have to listen to your counterproductive quips ever again. Ooh, and I’d use the third one to wish you far, far away. To another planet or something. No. Another star system. Like Andromeda.”

Sputnik stares at Aurora for a moment with dull eyes. In blinking silence. “You’re a horrible wish-caster. A bit redundant too, don’t you think?”

“I was once told that redundancy is the mark of a thorough mind.”

“And to think, you’ve ignored wisdom of a more practical nature before. Your brain is like a small pouch, Aurora, with holes poked in the bottom. Not large ones, but holes just wide enough to lose everything with any sliver of value and retain only the most useless of information.”

“And your brain is like an itty bitty receptacle attached to a series of circuits, one run-in with a nudged cup of water and, zzzzzz! You’ll fry like an egg on a skillet. Oh wait–that’s actually true!”

“That’s it, Aurora! You always have to get personal,” Sputnik throws his nose about and huffs. “Everytime we–

“Not large ones, but just wide enough,” Aurora mocks, in an infantile voice. “Who says that? You’re too precise to be funny. Why can’t you just be a normal hound who follows commands like ‘sit’ or ‘roll over and play dead.’”

Take it back!”

“No, you take it back!”

“Take…it…back!”

“No.” Aurora moves eye to eye with Sputnik. “You take it back. I’m not taking it back.”

“Yes!”

“No!”

Paws, hands, and tempers fly as the two continue to go at it, shouting over one-another until a body slams down on the hood of the squad car. The hooded assailant hits the ground and wobbles off at full speed.

A glance of acknowledgement is shared between Aurora and Sputnik. Aurora throws on the sirens and yanks the steering wheel. The hooded man splashes through the wet pavement of a graffiti tattered alleyway, chased by two swerving headlights. Trashcans, cardboard boxes, and wooden crates are all flung by the runner to blockade the path behind him.

“Can you get a read on him?” Aurora asks Sputnik, dodging the spilled gunk and debris.

“It’s difficult to ascertain, but, his heart rate is elevated. And his body temperature is through the roof.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m not sure. It seems to be a metaphor of sorts. Meaning, unreasonably high or extremely excitable. It’s quite interesting the way humans recycle terminology.”

Aurora’s eyes switch fast between Sputnik and the windshield. “If my foot wasn’t firmly planted on the gas pedal–I’d kick you through the roof.”

“Hmmm, that doesn’t quite capture it Aurora. You see, the literal nature of the way you used–

“Oh, shut up!”

The strobing sirens light up the walls as the squad car chomps its way down the alley, two-wheeling around corners. The hooded assailant is agile and the limited space and sharp turns play to his advantage.

“His vital signs are all abnormal. Increasingly so.” Sputnik’s digital eyes flicker as they scan the perp. “Either he’s suffering from some sort of ailment or..."

“He’s scared shitless.”

“Ah! You did it!”

At a dead end, the suspect leaps up and hangs on a broken metal stairwell attached to a building off to the right.

Aurora skids to a stop as he contorts his way up the stair-ladder.

“He’s getting away,” Sputnik drones.

“No he’s not.” Aurora snatches the gear shaft in reverse and stomps on the gas.

“You’re going to lose him!”

She reverses back up the alleyway, weaving through the debris field. “Quick, words that have multiple meanings. Go!”

“Ooh-ooh! Fair, dear, duck, crane, fall, file, fawn, frank, current, grand."

Seeing a break in the alleyway up ahead, Aurora gives it more gas.

“Address, watch, remote, hood, gage, gig, gear."

At the opening, Aurora mashes the brake pedal and throws the steering wheel hard left. With a bruising thud, the front end of the squad car levels the suspect as he emerges from around the corner. His sneakers take flight as he’s whipped across the hood of the squad car.

“Murder.”

Aurora smiles with satisfaction as she opens the passenger-side door for Sputnik before swinging open her own. She checks the chamber of the six-shooter on the inside-breast of her jacket as she approaches the downed suspect. It’s a cold night. A cloud disperses from Aurora’s lips with every breath.

Sputnik trots behind. His metal paws clinking against the pavement. “I thought you hated word games.”

“I do. But since you wouldn’t shut your trap, I figured I’d throw you a bone. Ah! I did it again!” Dry enthusiasm oozes from Aurora’s pores.

Sputnik glowers with contempt. . .