The First Adventure of the Faxable Man

THE FIRST ADVENTURE OF THE FAXABLE MAN

E.D. SHIFFMAN

The First Adventure of the Faxable Man

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2011 by E.D. Shiffman

All Rights Reserved.

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be copied or resold.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are fictional or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, business establishments, events, or locations is purely coincidental.

Cover design by Matthew Jahns

Cover © 2012 E.D. Shiffman.

For the many dull, short-sighted managers I have worked under, who let personal goals and biases stifle ingenuity and impede profit, and who drove me to find a different outlet for my creative talents on the lunch breaks and evenings I spent writing this book.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

1

SHORT, bespectacled Arnie Jensen nodded in apology as he stepped out of the elevator, clad in his costume of choice for work: a worn blue jumpsuit with his name displayed in cursive on a sew-on patch. He wiped the sweat from his brow with his right hand, his left occupied by a large metal tool case. The offices of Onyx Financial were nearly empty. Ted Freelander, president of the influential investment bank, stared accusingly from his position hovering over Veronica Baines, the busty blonde receptionist.

You’re over an hour late, Ted complained. I don’t know who you think it is you’re dealing with here, but this is totally unacceptable. We haven’t been able to send out e-mails all afternoon. Our clients are mad as hell.

Sorry, Mr. Freelander, replied Arnie between quick breaths. Traffic was stopped on the 101. Had to take frontage roads through the foothills to get here. He glanced anxiously at his watch, a plastic grey Casio. 5:30pm. Yikes. Hope you weren’t waiting up for me long.

It’s too damn late now, said Ted harshly. Veronica smirked below him. Just get it fixed and get out. I expect the office to be fully operational Monday morning or I’ll have your ass on a platter.

Yes, sir. You can count on me.

Clearly, said Ted with a scowl. He turned his attention to the receptionist. I think we deserve a little reward, Miss Baines. Let’s get out here.

Sure thing, Ted. Veronica giggled.

We’re gonna grab drinks at the Lounge, Arnie, said Ted, grabbing his jacket from the coat rack. Turn off the lights when you’re done.

Arnie watched the portly, fifty year old executive escort the twenty-three year old receptionist into the elevator, his hand alternating between the small of Veronica’s back and her rear with each step. Arnie shook off his revulsion and turned his attention to the task at hand. Possessing superior brain power and technical ability but few social skills, he was one of the thousands of office repair gurus who kept corporate America humming, fixing everything from high volume commercial copy machines to intricate communications equipment. He understood how they worked, a knowledge culled from hours of dismantling and reassembling machinery, inspecting each wire, each circuit, in his search to understand the mechanisms at the heart of the corporate world.

Tiny green lights flickered on the office’s network modem. Arnie gave the plastic box only a cursory glance before reaching behind it to unplug the electrical cord from the outlet and reinsert it. The modem’s lights display flickered off and then back on.

All this way just for that?

His gaze scoured the office for worthy challenges to his particular skill set. Computers, copiers, printers, scanners: a plethora of possibilities presented themselves to the scrawny repairman. But it was the blinking display on the panel of a fax machine that grabbed his attention. Arnie entered the copy room to inspect.

ERROR 3402, Arnie read on the display. He opened up the fax machine, peering into the apparatus as he scanned for a clue to the error message on the panel. Empty toner cartridge, he muttered. Guess I shouldn’t be surprised.

The 40th floor office grew steadily dimmer as the sun sank into the Pacific Ocean, leaving in its wake the dull murk of dusk, through which gleamed the light of a brilliant full moon and a bright red star, actually a planet, Mars, as close to Earth as it would come for the next thousand years. The blue and orange light clashed and combined into an entirely new hue, brilliant and alien, which cast itself over the otherwise unlit storage room. Forgotten, outdated machines littered iron-wrought shelves and obscured the many boxes of supplies, no labels in sight. Arnie groaned as he fumbled in the dark through the various boxes in his search, until at last his right hand latched onto the desired object. He pulled out the small box and gingerly flipped open the lid. Loose powder spilled out into the air and onto Arnie.

Damn! he exclaimed. He lifted up the box and examined it closely in the dim light of the night sky, absently dusting himself off with his other hand. ‘UltraTone: for ultimate printing power.’ That’s quite a boast.

Arnie returned the cartridge to its box and dropped it into his tool case. A second cartridge proved sturdier. He returned to the malfunctioning fax machine and replaced the empty toner cartridge.

Another crisis solved with techno-wizardry, he announced with a chuckle. After closing the frame of the fax machine securely, Arnie reached into his toolbox and removed a work order sheet. He rushed to fill in the form and then flipped it over into the fax machine’s paper feed, punched in the fax number to his home office into the key pad, and pressed the send button.

MISFEED, RELOAD DOCUMENT & PRESS START, exclaimed the display on the front cover of the fax machine.

Cheap crap, retorted Arnie, extracting and reloading the work order, guiding the paper into the loading port with his right hand. The machine rumbled to life, and as the paper was carried down into the depths, Arnie’s hand was carried in with it. He gasped as a flash of pure heat coursed up his arm and through his body. Panicked, he jerked his hand out, pulling the work order with it. With a shake of his head to throw off the accumulated stupor of a long work day, Arnie again placed the work order into the feed and pushed the send button, again used his hand to stabilize the paper. Again he felt a strange warmth spread across his hand. He watched the hand slide into gap without resistance, then his wrist, his arm.

Shit! Arnie cried, scrambling back from the man-eating fax machine. He stared at his arm hesitantly. A quick inspection revealed that it remained intact and functional. OK. Calm down. It’s not real.

He picked up his tool case and bolted from the office, choosing to race down the endless flights of stairs rather than wait for the elevator. His heart throbbed forcefully, his stomach churned.

Gasping for breath and sweating profusely, Arnie exited the stairwell on the ground floor lobby. A security desk was positioned next to the elevator and facing the front entrance of the Onyx Tower. Entrances to boutique shops dotted the sides of the lobby space. As Arnie sped toward the exit he drew the attention of Ted and Veronica, who were chatting over drinks at the Onyx Lounge, a bar which catered to the clientele of suits and shoppers.

Are we up and running again? Ted called.

Uh, yeah, everything’s back online, shouted Arnie without slowing.

Weird guy, noted Ted, returning his attention to Veronica.

Arnie felt relieved at the sight of his faded blue 1989 Ford Econoline, in desperate need of a wash and a wax, parked curbside in the commercial zone of the imposing skyscraper. Magnetic panels attached at the rear of the van on each side, just above the back tires, announced in bold text: ARNIE JENSEN, PROFESSIONAL OFFICE REPAIR.

Am I going nuts? he asked as he pulled the van out into traffic. No. No, I’m just tired. The image of his arm entering the machine marinated in his brain.

BEEEEEeep, blared the horn of an oncoming UPS delivery truck.

Shit! screamed Arnie, swerving to narrowly avoid a collision with the chocolate brown delivery van. He confirmed in his rearview mirror that he had run through a red light. Arnie pulled his van to the curb and parked.

Calm down, man. Get home, get some food, get some rest.

After a minute of sitting in silence his breathing normalized and with a regained sense of composure Arnie put his van back into gear and re-entered traffic, resolving to put the experience out of his mind once and for all. He discounted it as an aberration, a fatigue-caused end of the day fantasy.

A blur of sidewalks and storefronts formed a tunnel directing Arnie out of downtown Santa Bonita. The Pacific Ocean drew steadily closer. Arnie turned the van onto the northbound US 101. The freeway was a thoroughfare through the town, from the offices and storefronts of downtown to the houses and schools uptown.

Santa Bonita was a town transitioning into a city, quaint in size and aesthetic, couched between a coastal hillside and pristine beach. The natural beauty of the landscape ensured a steady tourism business, while the close proximity to Los Angeles ensured an influx of the wealthy and highly motivated. The families of longtime residents were caught in the midst of these two economic forces. Most sold their homes for a hefty profit to live in modest luxury elsewhere. Others assimilated to the new lifestyle, applying to the many corporate cubes sprouting up downtown almost overnight. Real estate mogul Morris Paulsen bought up the old Wilcox Building, originally constructed in the 1970s to house a research and development firm that had long ago faded from memory. Under Paulsen’s supervision the offices were renovated, reopened, and leased to new businesses. Though the structure’s stocky shape, beige color, and yellow tinted windows reflected the age of its inception, the restored Wilcox Building was a harbinger of the many skyscrapers to come. Now Santa Bonita was overrun by investment bankers, stock brokers, and lawyers. The financial district continued its rapid growth, offices sprouting up in residential areas before consuming them and replacing them with ever more commercial and retail space. The wealthy moved up into the hills, where they built mansions overlooking the ocean. The rest moved north into pseudo-suburbia, where Santa Bonita was still more town than city, though slowly being cultivated by Santa Bonita industry and regulation.

Arnie was a third generation resident, and while his parents had long ago abandoned the town to its new masters, he had remained, moving north to a more affordable neighborhood with his friend Chester. Northern Santa Bonita stood in stark contrast to its southern counterpart. While the downtown area appeared pristine and planned, the residential north exhibited an organic progression of houses, apartments, and small businesses. It was the last remnant of the old town.

Arnie pulled his van into the Sunny Vistas apartment complex, a two-tiered L-shaped structure with a wraparound parking lot, feeling relief. Hastily parking, he noted that his roommate Chester’s red Camaro was resting next to his van.

Must be home early, he thought as slammed the van door and mounted the stairway to his second floor abode. Passing by the apartment mail boxes, he grabbed the bulging stack from his mail slot and proceeded upstairs onto the second floor balcony and arrived at his apartment.

Chester Sullivan, Arnie’s tall, handsome roommate, was waiting eagerly just inside. His chiseled features and razor sharp physique were a stark contrast to Arnie’s soft and puny frame. But whereas Arnie’s unimpressive body disguised a remarkable mind, Chester’s beauty masked a less than average intelligence. Though he could claim a measure of social stature due to the prominence of his family in business and politics, Chester A. Sullivan III had by an unfortunate twist of fate inherited none of the mental aptitude possessed by either of his namesakes. While Arnie had secluded himself in the library, Chester had been captain of the high school football team; his career had peaked shortly before high school graduation. The two friends had served as counterparts for each other throughout their lives, Chester protecting Arnie physically and including him in the fringe of his social circle, Arnie supplying the brain power and tutoring for Chester, helping him to graduate from high school and complete a low level associate program at the local junior college. Eventually the stress of the academic rigor had forced him to seek opportunities in the blue collar arena.

Arnie proceeded through the doorway into his living room, bare walls the off-white of faded paint, the room minimally decorated with a worn couch, a recliner, a coffee table littered with dirty cups and bowls, and a side table occupied with a cordless telephone and a small lamp. The carpet was a rusty brown color, its thick fabric hiding untold quantities of stains and dirt. The centerpiece of the room was a boxy 30-inch off brand television, images dancing behind the glass screen. Arnie flopped down in the chair, dropping the mail onto the side table. He stared vacantly at the TV, which depicted Judge Judy undertaking her nightly process of ridiculing a pair of television litigants. Chester sat on the couch, which rested next to the counter that divided the living room from a modest kitchen.

I lost a Mercedes again in the lot today, said Chester. Owner was pissed. Complained to the boss. Mr. Nelson fired me on the spot.

Arnie, barely listening to Chester’s lament, stood up and entered the kitchen. He pulled a boxed frozen dinner out of the freezer and tossed its contents into the microwave. While his meal heated, he grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and took a generous swig, staring out the kitchen window into the night sky. The beeping of the microwave’s timer seemed to at least partially recall him from his reverie. Arnie took the tray out and returned to his seat, where he proceeded to shovel food into his mouth and stare at the TV screen. Judge Judy was in the midst of verbally filleting one of the parties before her. The defendant had been accused of throwing his former lover’s furniture off of his third floor apartment balcony upon finding out about her secret affair. Chester watched his roommate with open confusion.

Hey, what’s eating you? he asked Arnie.

What? Oh, just going crazy, Arnie replied, dazed. Thought I lost my arm today. He stared quizzically at the limb in question. Also, I thought I was wearing my watch earlier. Huh. I need a shower. And a good night’s sleep.

Oh, said Chester uncertainly. OK.

Arnie patted Chester’s shoulder apologetically and proceeded down the hallway, his half-eaten meal forgotten. He passed Chester’s bedroom and their shared bathroom before entering his own dark lair. The sight of his partially-made bed covered by an assemblage of clothes, a belt, and a recent issue of Popular Mechanics magazine provided comfort as he removed his shoes. Arnie’s room was a collage of clothing, bedroom furniture, and workshop equipment, a bedroom and a laboratory placed in a mixing bowl and attacked with an egg beater, resulting in a fusing of the two environs. As he loosened the laces to the left shoe, Arnie’s gaze passed over his home office corner, where he kept his business records and received repair requests after hours. The soft green blinking light of his fax machine display caught his attention.

MESSAGES, pulsed the light, urging him to print off the communiqués stored within. He shuffled over to the fax machine, laces dragging loosely on the carpet, and pressed the print button. The fax machine commenced spitting out documents with a familiar electronic grunt sound that recalled the end of the digestion process. Various job requests began depositing into the paper receptacle.

Jammed copier over at Computer World, feeder failure at Copies R Us, blah, blah, blah, Arnie murmured as he flipped through the messages. He stooped to retrieve pages tumbling over the overflowing receptacle tray. Pages continued to print and float to the ground. Arnie saw the Onyx test page slide onto the carpet. He reached to grab it when he felt a small tap on his shoulder and heard something solid fall onto the floor with a light thunk. The fax machine completed its purge and returned to idling mode. Assuming that something had toppled off of his desk, he turned on the lamp and froze as he stared down at the small pile of paper. Intermingled with the faxed pages was Arnie’s wrist watch. The grey rubber band and plastic face were unmistakable.

Chester! shouted Arnie. Come here! Quick!

Just a minute, Chester called back. I gotta see how she rules.

Chess, now!

Alright, alright, moaned Chester. His hulking form ambled into Arnie’s room. What’s up?

I think I faxed my watch! Arnie exclaimed, his eyes wide with wonder.

Come on, man, said Chester. Stop kidding around.

I’m serious, Chess, said Arnie.

I can’t believe I’m missing ‘Judge Judy’ for this. Chester sighed.

This is way more important than some stupid show! exclaimed Arnie. My watch traveled through the phone lines!

A real miracle, said Chester sarcastically.

Not a miracle at all, replied Arnie. Just the unexplained.

Whatever. I’m going back to the TV.

Fine, muttered Arnie. Your loss.

He planted his feet firmly in front of the fax machine and dialed the number of the Onyx Financial fax machine. He slid his watch into the paper feed as the machine’s wheels began to whir. The watch hit the slot of the paper feed and halted. Arnie pushed his hand against the slot, willing the watch to enter the fax machine. He felt a warm tingle move through his fingers and up through his hand, which suddenly felt light as air. Watch and hand slid effortlessly into the paper feed slot and disappeared inside the fax machine. Arnie resisted the machine’s pull and jerked his hand back out. He stood in amazement in front of the empty paper feed tray, his mind running at supersonic speed. He dashed out of his room, excitedly calling to his roommate.

Chester! Chess, I did it! he shouted as he arrived in the living room. He tripped on his own foot and dropped heavily to the floor. This managed to pull Chester’s attention away from the television show.

Whoa! You OK, man?

Fine, fine, said Arnie, climbing to his knees. Listen: I did it again! I sent the watch right through the fax machine! Some molecular biophotochemical process. The telecommuncative breakdown of inanimate objects for transmission over phone lines. Water into wine! Lead into gold!

Arnie paced around the living room, manic with excitement.

How do you know it worked? asked Chester.

The question stopped Arnie in his tracks.

What do you mean? I saw the whole thing.

How do you know it didn’t just fall inside the fax machine?

Chester knew that Arnie was brilliant. He had been on the receiving end of a lifetime of crazy ideas spawned from his roommate’s extraordinary mind. Though Chester in most cases could only peripherally understand the concept Arnie had concocted, he suspected that one day his friend would either be on the cover of the top scientific journal for building a game-changing electronic device or committed to a sanitarium for poor mental health.

Along with the usual pizza box and beer bottle clutter two mid-twenties males could accumulate, their apartment was periodically strewn about with wires, electronic gadgets, and metal boxes when an idea came to Arnie worth investigating. Several times in the course of a year the repairman would spend days, sometimes weeks drawing schematics and designs for another electronic contraption which he thought the world sorely needed. This would be followed by a trial and error assembly project of the test model of the contraption.

Chester enjoyed hearing about all the timesaving features of the new products Arnie would construct, but noted that the functions and features verbally described always surpassed the resulting test models, which usually resembled a small scale model of Sputnik with extra wires and paraphernalia dangling about them.

Maybe you should open it up and check inside for the watch, Chester added.

Arnie stared at Chester, a portrait of frustration.

OK, fine. I’ll prove it. He picked up the cordless phone and dialed the switchboard of the Onyx Tower, entering the extension for the security desk.

Security, rasped the gravely voice of Fred Mapes, the night watchman. Fred’s friendly and simple demeanor endeared him to Arnie. Fred rode a lobby chair through the late hours of the night, making occasional rounds through the building to verify the absence of intruder and disaster.

Hey, Fred. This is Arnie, said Arnie, staring sternly at Chester.

Oh. Hi, Arnie, replied Fred. What can I do for you tonight?

I need a favor, said Arnie. I think I left my wristwatch in the Onyx Financial office by the fax machine when I was there in the afternoon. I just want to make sure it’s still there. It was, uh, it was my father’s watch. I’d feel terrible if I lost it. Can you check for it and call me back?

Sure thing, Arnie, said Fred.

Thanks, Fred. I’ll stay by the phone.

Fred hung up the phone at the security desk and popped a half-eaten jelly donut in his mouth. He stood up from his chair, dressed neatly in a blue-gray uniform adorned with a collage of security emblems and a bright silver badge. On his belt he wore a key ring so large it tugged on his chunky frame. Fred leaned in the opposite direction to compensate for the weight of this jingling sign of authority as he trudged to the elevator.

Standing at the front door of the Onyx Financial office, his hand swooped down to the key ring with the practiced motion of a gun fighter from the Old West. Without so much as a glance from Fred, his fingers danced nimbly over dozens of keys to rest on the shiny gold Onyx Financial key. He flicked his black Maglite across the office, looking for the fax machine.

Gotcha, muttered Fred as his spotlight glinted on the plastic face of Arnie’s watch. He strode to the rear of the office and pocketed the time keeping device.

When he arrived back at his security post the phone was ringing loudly and continuously.

Security, answered Fred calmly.

Did you find it? gasped Arnie on the other end of the line.

Yeah, sure, I got it, confirmed Fred. Your dad had a Casio, huh? Not much of a watch.

Yeah, I’m just sentimental I guess, replied Arnie. Hey, could you hold onto it for me at the security desk?

Sure, Arnie. Will do.

Thanks, Fred.

Arnie returned the phone to its charging dock. He grinned maniacally at Chester.

There! he exclaimed. Fred confirmed it. The watch is back at Onyx. It worked! It really worked!

Chester stared in confusion at his roommate. Arnie resumed pacing across the room, his mind working to assimilate the confirmation of this translocation of a physical object by fax machine and telephone line.

Is it just these two machines? Is it just the watch? Could it have something to do with Mars being so bright in the sky tonight? Cosmic radiation? Or maybe the toner I spilled on my arm? There are so many variables!

I have no idea what you’re talking about right now, Arnie, Chester interjected. But it sounds like it’s a good thing? Maybe?

It’s a huge discovery, Chess, replied Arnie. We could change the world tonight.

The world, huh? said Chester, scratching his chin. OK, I’m in.

If I can send a watch, why not a book? Or cash, jewelry, valuables? Postal delivery rendered obsolete! Arnie rambled. Suddenly he turned and gripped Chester’s arm tightly. And my hand entered the machine!

Yeah, that’s crazy, man, said Chester, nodding slowly, making his best effort to appear serious rather than confused.

Imagine, buddy, said Arnie, eyes wide with wonder. Human translocation. Fax yourself to Mom for Thanksgiving. Or Disneyland for the weekend. Or even a direct trip to the Oval Office. You could catch Bill and Monica in the act! Arnie’s rational mind caught up with his imagination, establishing boundaries and reaffirming the necessity of careful experimentation. Gotta keep this under wraps until we find the full potential, though.

OK, that all sounds great. So what do we do now? asked Chester.

Right. We need the next step, said Arnie, closing his eyes to better focus his mind. Next step is to test living matter. We need to fax a life form. He opened his eyes and searched the room for a suitable test subject. None was evident in the sparse apartment.

What about a bug? suggested Chester. We could get a ladybug or a moth.

No, that won’t work, said Arnie. It would be impossible to find in that huge office, and besides, how would we know that it wasn’t some random bug that was already there? No we need something bigger. And unique. Hmm. What about a goldfish?

Too messy, replied Chester, and it’d be dead on arrival.

Right, said Arnie, nodding. Right. What are our options?

Not much, said Chester.

How about Scooter? offered Arnie, eying Chester carefully.

Wonder dog? No way, Arnie. What if something went wrong? Erika would never forgive me.

Erika was Chester’s off-and-on girlfriend, and considering his newly achieved state of unemployment, the switch was likely to soon flip back to Off. Scooter was Erika’s pet basset hound.

Don’t worry, said Arnie confidently. We’ll just borrow him for a bit. We have to recreate what happened to me today. So we dust him with some toner powder, put him under the starlight, and see how the fax machine reacts to him.

I don’t know, Arnie. This sounds pretty risky. Erika will never go for it.

Which is why we’ll tell her that we’re just taking Scooter out for a late night walk.

What if it doesn’t work? asked Chester meekly, resigned to the fact that he was no match for Arnie in the field of debate.

If it doesn’t, Scooter gets a walk and we’re only out for a few minutes of our time. If it goes well, we make history! Arnie trusted that his friend’s loyal nature would ensure his cooperation.

I don’t know about this, man, said Chester.

Arnie stared at his friend with a manic energy, a crazy smile on his face. Chester sighed resignedly.

In an apartment three doors away along the second floor walkway of Sunny Vistas, Erika McConica was putting the finishing touches on a new layer of nail polish to a pair of exquisitely shaped, alabaster-hued hands. Tall and slender, with fiery red hair, she was the quintessential British Isles lass. After a knock at her front door, her emerald green eyes were greeted by the sight of Chester and Arnie standing expectantly before her. Chester was a welcome sight to see. Erika had been hooked on her boyfriend at first glance—he had struck her as a gladiator, wrestling with furniture and toiling in the sun as he had unloaded a truck full of house wares while he and Arnie had moved into their apartment. When she caught him one morning ogling her Mazda Miata, she had jumped at the opening, inviting Chester to drive her to the beach in the sprightly sports car. She felt an immediate bond with him, charmed by his overflowing passion for life, cars, and adventure. Dating Chester had continued in spurts, guided largely by Chester’s insolvent life and easily-distracted mind. But his kindness, his loyalty, and his determination to win back her affections after each break helped to offset his mental shortcomings, and his stunning physique certainly did not hurt his cause. Arnie, on the other hand…

What’s up? she asked, wary of the presence of Arnie and suspicious of what they had up their sleeves at this late hour.

We just want to take Scooter for a walk before we turn in, replied Chester, responding to a jab in his back from Arnie.

OK. I guess that’s fine, she agreed after some hesitation.

Erika would sometimes impose on the duo to make a final relief run for Scooter before she turned in for the night or when she had to be out of town on business. But they rarely volunteered for these late night strolls. Erika was suspicious of their motives, but turned and called to her companion: Scooter, here boy!

From the darkness of her unlit bedroom the thud-thud-thud of a wagging tail, signaling that her canine roommate had heard the call.

Come on, boy! she continued, Let’s go.

Out into the room padded a low set, droopy-eared basset hound.

Wonder dog! cried Chester to his four-legged friend. In his uncomplicated world, dogs held a high place of stature. He could relate to their unbundled emotions and loyalty, traits he exhibited as well.

Chester snapped the leash to Scooter’s collar while roughhousing with his canine friend. The basset hound fled out of the doorway, Chester and Arnie following behind. This was his chance to mark some territory, romp in the park across from the apartment building, or perhaps smell the posterior of some saucy poodle or Chihuahua that they came across during this late night stroll.

Watch out for other dogs, called Erika from the second story balcony as the two men ran down the stairs trailing behind the panting hound. You know how inquisitive he can get.

Not to worry, replied Arnie as they disappeared into the night. We’ll have him back in half an hour or so.

Circling around the building as if on the way to the park, the pair, dog in hand, quickly traversed the stairs back to their second story abode and hurriedly rushed into the apartment. Scooter began to wander around the apartment sniffing for food scraps which he knew to be in regular supply throughout the living room and kitchen.

So what are you going to do? Jam him in head first or by the tail? asked Chester, still not fully believing the extent to which he was involved in the fantastical experiment. He moved to lead Scooter into Arnie’s office.

No, not yet, replied Arnie. He was determined to keep this venture scientific, his mind methodically plotting the steps required before doggy lift off. This was to be the sequence which could potentially send Scooter into fax world orbit, the land to which no man or beast had ever traveled. We’re going to need fax toner. And then we need to expose him to the moonlight. OK, inside my tool case there’s a small box with a broken toner cartridge inside.

The cartridge was quickly retrieved and soon disassembled to reveal a residual amount of the powdery gray product which would be one of the potentially key ingredients needed to send the dog into a chemically or cosmically induced telecommunicative orbit.

Now hold him still, ordered Arnie.

Raising the toner tray over Scooter, Arnie lightly dusted the confused basset hound with the remains of the cartridge and then put the empty case down. Scooter tried to shake the toner off of his fur but Chester held him tightly to prevent it.

Alright, bring him over here so we can get the light of the night sky on him through the front window.

Chester picked up his four legged friend and thrust him up in front of the living room window. The light of the night sky shown around the dog with the same orange and white luster that earlier had lit Arnie in the storage room of the Onyx financial offices. Scooter blinked back at the liftoff team, his tan and white coat now lightly dusted with a covering of dark gray toner. A glow emanated around the dog. His droopy-eared silhouette had become an electrically charged beacon, shining brightly in the window before the pair.

Let’s get him over to the machine, said Arnie excitedly. The two gingerly carried the pup back to Arnie’s office and held him before the fax machine feeder opening.

Wait a sec! exclaimed Chester.

He shoved the dog into Arnie’s arms and sped out of the room down the hall, and into the closet. Several moments later, after sounds of banging and objects falling, he emerged with a World War II-era aviator’s cap.

Here, this will give him some protection for his flight, he explained as he firmly attached the head gear around the dogs face, pulling the long ears so typical to the breed through the cap’s ear holes. The soot-covered dog looked back at the pair with soulful eyes, unaware of the historic flight in which he was about to partake.

OK, we’re set, said Arnie. Lucky Lindy, move over!

Holding the dog before the fax machine opening, Arnie said a silent prayer and pressed the send button.

The fax machine emitted its usual grunting sound as it began the paper feed process. The two roommates stood transfixed as the thirty pound pooch disappeared before their eyes into the interior of the fax machine, slowly dragged in by an invisible, powerful force. Scooter tried meekly to paw his way out but his efforts were in vain.

Scooter, come back! exclaimed Chester. He grabbed desperately at the dog’s tail as the posterior end of the pooch disappeared into the machine.

Knock it off! shouted Arnie, slapping his friend’s hand away from the fax machine. Do you want to cause a misfeed? If we get Scooter caught in fax world limbo I don’t know how we’ll ever get him back.

The last of Scooter’s tail entered the apparatus and after a moment of additional humming there was silence. The two friends stared at the crevice that had just absorbed the basset hound. Chester stood frozen in disbelief, afraid that something terrible had happened to his girlfriend’s dog. Had he stranded Erika’s pet in some kind of electro-sonic hell? The two jumped to attention as the fax transmission report page automatically emerged from the machine. Arnie reached over to retrieve it. Fax transmission complete. One page sent, he recited. There were no words on the printed transcript page. The page was blank. Apparently the fax machine’s technology was not capable of rendering the transmission of Scooter.

It worked. We have lift off, said Arnie breathlessly.

Lift off, my ass! retorted Chester. Where’s Scooter? He walked around the fax machine as if to see if the dog would reappear on the other side of the machine.

He’s not in there, dummy, answered Arnie.

Then where is he, Arnie? Where is Scooter? demanded Chester.

Onyx Tower, replied Arnie. Shall we go get him? he asked, raising his hand to jingle his keys.

2

FRED Mapes dozed peacefully in his chair, deeply ensconced in a dream. He had just scored the winning touchdown for the San Francisco Forty-Niners. The crowd roared in approval as he performed his victory dance, pointing an approving finger at Jerry Rice who had thrown the touchdown pass to him on a reverse option play. The crowd roared louder and louder, beginning to bang on the stadium seats, threatening to collapse the stadium itself with their approval of Fred’s spectacular one armed, mid-air, behind the back catch. Spectators were shouting his name. Suddenly one voice in the crowd grew louder, drowning out the sound of everything else, until it shook the very fabric of his dream world.

Fred! Hey, Fred! It’s me, Arnie!

Rocking forward in his chair and opening his eyes ever so