Tycoonery pt. 2

15

Without stopping Wilson stomped across the field, through the terminal, shaking his his head amazement three times as he did so at the flotsam and jetsam of commuters that had been beckoned here u to the anti-vastness of the Boise airfield. He stepped out through the large glass exit doors to the auto-moblo stands. A tall woman known in most parts of the Solar System as a filthy drink of water stepped in front of him.
“Got your fuck ride, right here shorty”, she burped, an authentic hand rolled combustible smoking between her lips. Behind her was parked a gold van with the side passenger door open revealing what looked like wall to wall to wall to ceiling bearskin rug.
He stared at her. Up. And down. Twice.
“Sweet marmalade,” he said, “Where am I? I mean, ga-loom lady, my what ride?” She
“You heard me. What’re you some kinda necrophiliac creeptomaniac? Get in the van, Stan, I’ll ride you into town all the way raw.”
Wilson looked at me. Looked at the woman. Looked at the sky.
“FIRE!!!” He screamed, “Fire! Fire. Help! Help! The travelport’s on fire!” Everyone around us froze. The woman jumped back. The few security personnel lounging nearby leapt to alert attention. Before the woman could say a word, Wilson grabbed my hand and pulled me off.
He ushered me into a waiting stretch limoblo. And jumped in after me.
He sighed and smiled and relaxed himself back into he neo-leatherette seat. I looked at him.
“I brought my own car,” I said.
“This’ll do,” he said.
“I have it in short term parking. I don’t think they have a daily max so—”
He made a fart sound and pulled out an electric pipe from his coat. He switched it on and took a violent draught from it and then spoke through the massive cloud of nicotine, “I have no patience with the modern neurotic girl who jazzes from morning to night, smokes like a chimney, and uses language which would make a concussed Drill Sargent blush! That said I’m a gams man through and through and with stilts like hers I can find myself foregoing much and forgetting even more. Call me shallow and cast the first stone while you’re at it. Now about this transwhatchulator—“
“Transmeticulator.”
“What?” He let out another cumulonimbus of nicotine.
“The Tranmeticulator. The device. That’s what it’s called,” I said waving the next great cloud of candy scented vapour out of my orbit.
“Uh huh. Fine. And it’s function, what you said on the communicator, that’s accurate?” He looked at me with what can only be described as diamond-bitted deep drilling intensity. I felt desperately urged to check my fly again.
But instead I answered, “Entirely. And more so. You’ll see the full capabilities of the device at the demonstration but the basic facts are absolutely true—”
I took a deep breath. Both for dramatic effect and to shade my nervous excitement, “It orders things.”
“Orders?” The drill bits didn’t cease. They bored on.
“Yes. But not as in requests like at a luncheonette or what have you but as in organizes.”
“Spreadsheets and butlers have been doing that for generations,” he said.
“Yes, but—well, not like this, I mean, to put it bluntly, it will do so—I mean does so, on a universal level.”
“Listen, I’m just a guy. With metric tonnes of money and all the related la-la-la-la-la’s, sure, but still just a guy who puts his pants on every morning one leg at a time so—”
“The transmeticulator is a device that takes any and all chaotic systems and orders them. Into manageable entities.”
“Uh huh. At what scale?” He asked.
“As I said before and over the communicator—universal.”
“As in—” he arched his eyebrows.
I nodded. And stared back into those eyes that had bored so deep inside me. What I spoke was true, it wasn’t malarkey or hogwash or snake oil or all-weather undercoat. It was true. And the truth was all I had.
That.
And the device.
Wilson looked away, out the window as the  ramshackle metropolis of Boise gurgled on by like some kind of polluted creek.
“Chaos,” he whispered, “chaos—” he looked at me, “chaos controlled is power infinitudinal.”
He reached into his coat and pulled out an electric cigar. He offered it to me.
“If your dingus really works,” he said. And stared back out the window. He didn’t have to complete his thought.
Because I knew what I was.
I thought the same thing everyday since turning on the device.
I put the cigar in mouth and turned it on.

Tycoonery pt. 1

Wilson stepped out of the autogyro and down the steps and onto the landing field.I had never realized just how pear shaped he had sounded over the telephone until his full-on Anjou form bumped itself across the turf towards me. Even though I was one of a crowd about two dozen people waiting to meet those disembarking he bobbled right on up to me. 

Was I that obvious?

He didn’t offer his hand. Just stood there. I, as I had feared, was at a loss.

“Boise,” he declared, gazing around him. “Boise, Idaho. What will they think of next?” He strode on without beckoning and I shuttled quickly to keep up. As I did, I took a quick glance down at my crotch. No, my fly wasn’t down. 

Wilson continued to look around himself in amazement. His bright, animated eyes cataloging everything around him from the grey sky to the brown grass to the urine soaked bum to the pornographic litter that floated in the blue breeze.

“I could spend a month here just stockpiling the smells,” he said.

“Oh, we’ve got some stinks here, yuh huh,” I said. And checked my fly again. It was down. Clancy stopped and spun to face me. His stare was pure. And right into my eyes. Like lasers from the future.

“Your letter,” he said, “was compelling. If a little verbose. But I look forward to jamming the jack with you on this and pumping out out some of that sweet, sweet monetary nectar.” 

“Thank you,” I managed. 

“No worries. Your fly is down.”

Without pausing he reached down and zipped it up. He spun back and strode on.

I stood there. Frozen. My mind agape.

“C’mon, buckarino, those jams ain’t gonna jack themselves.”

I stumbled after him. Perhaps just like the little Chinese woman had said, things were gonna be alright.