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    Psecret Psociety Pshort Pstories, vol. 2
    Psecret Psociety Pshort Pstories, vol. 2
    Psecret Psociety Pshort Pstories, vol. 2
    Ebook294 pages3 hours

    Psecret Psociety Pshort Pstories, vol. 2

    By Mike Bozart

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    About this ebook

    [[||]] … from the [virtual] inside flap …
    All thirty-nine short stories from calendar year 2016 are gathered in this digital collection. Just like Psecret Psociety Pshort Pstories, Volume 1, these little tales run the gamut from the maniacally meta-real to the sometimes surreal to the oddly ordinary. Most fall between 1,300 and 2,500 words, with 1,700 words being the average run (perfect for the coffee/tea break or the train/bus/ferry commute).
    The two primary characters in these tales of extricated intrigue are Agents 32 and 33 of a nebulous entity (which has an interactive Facebook page) known as psecret psociety (yes, with silent p's). Agent 33 is the author (Parkaar) and Agent 32 is the author's very-much-involved wife (Monique). 
    So, if you find yourself in need of some interesting (or at least different) reading material to fill those ten-to-fifteen-minute gaps in your earthly day, this may very well be your ticket to slide … into knowhere. [sic] 
    Moreover, may the mirth lay with yew for an oddly spun pun.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMike Bozart
    Release dateMar 17, 2017
    ISBN9781540107725
    Psecret Psociety Pshort Pstories, vol. 2

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      Psecret Psociety Pshort Pstories, vol. 2 - Mike Bozart

      1. On the Gold Line (Jan. 2016)

      It was a snowy Sunday morning, the 17th of January 2016, which found Monique (Agent 32) and me (Agent 33) at the CATS (Charlotte Area Transit System) Gold Line’s eastern terminus on Hawthorne Lane at East 5th Street. It was 9:12 AM in the inner eastside neighborhood of Elizabeth. We were the only ones waiting under the plexiglass-covered shelter.

      Well, Monique, the green trolley dog should be here in less than three minutes, I announced.

      Green trolley dog! she exclaimed. That’s so funny, Parkaar. [my ailing alias] She then looked at my hands. You forgot your gloves, didn’t you, 33?

      I did, but I remembered my digital audio recorder! I’ll be ok. Thirty-six Fahrenheit [2.22º Celsius] is not that bad. And, anyway, the snow and sleet is forecasted to end by 11 AM.

      Just then we spotted old streetcar no. 91 turning onto Hawthorne from Elizabeth Avenue. It slowly closed in on the berth. Once stopped, the front and rear doors opened. We hopped up the front steps and sat in the middle of the electrically powered trolley. Ah, nice and warm in here.

      The middle-age African American male driver was talking to two older white men – the only passengers who didn’t get off – who were sitting in the front bench seats. One was on the far left; the other, far right.

      I can deal with the one or two snow events a winter down here, the trolley operator said from his front and center position. No, I don’t miss Buffalo [NY, USA] in January at all. You can have that four feet [1.3 meters] of lake-effect snow.

      Monique wondered aloud: What is lake-effect snow?

      I’ll tell you later, asawa. [wife in Filipino]

      The older of the two white guys (on the left side), who had pony-tailed gray hair, just nodded.

      The guy in front of us on the right side of the trolley then spoke up. I don’t miss those winters in Brooklyn, either. Nope.

      Snow is just a novelty down here, I interjected, launching myself into their conversation as the vintage streetcar took off in a herky-jerky manner. My dad was born and raised in Brooklyn. He doesn’t miss it, either.

      Oh, whereabouts in Brooklyn? the passenger in front of us, who also had gray hair, but shorter than the other fellow, quickly asked.

      Avenue D – East Flatbush, I said.

      Oh, yeah, I know that area well, the man in front of us said as the trolley rounded the curve onto Elizabeth Avenue.

      I looked straight ahead through the windshield. Well, Monique, there’s where we’re headed. It’s now a straight shot to uptown. The Charlotte skyline was shrouded in low, gray clouds, interspersed with snow squalls.

      The man in front of us heard my comment to Monique. He looked back at us. Are you guys going to the Panthers-Seahawks game by chance? Only by a lucky chance.

      No, we’re just going to RíRá to watch the Liverpool – Man United match, and then we’ll watch the Panthers game in another sports bar, Monique explained.

      We had Liverpool T-shirts on over our sweaters. Monique had an LFC beanie on and a Liverpool FC backpack in her lap (which had Panthers shirts inside for a changeover at 11:00 AM).  The man studied these items.

      RíRá? he asked.

      It’s an Irish bar on North Tryon near 5th Street, I said. It’s the official Liverpool FC bar in Charlotte. They show all of their games. It’s a fun crowd.

      So, you guys like both kinds of football? He smiled at us.

      Yes, we most certainly do, Monique said. We root for the Reds and the Panthers.

      The Reds? Cincinnati? He seemed honestly confused.

      No, the Reds are the nickname for Liverpool’s soccer team, I told him. Though, I loved the Big Red Machine in the ‘70s. 

      And, LFC stands for Liverpool Football Club, Monique said as she pointed to the front of her red beanie.

      I see. You learn something new every day. Soccer is really growing in popularity in this country.

      Are you going to the Panthers game? Monique asked as the streetcar clanged to a stop at Charlottetowne Avenue.

      Me? Ha! I wish. I’m just hoping to link up with a guy so that I can watch it at his house.

      I see, Monique said.

      We’d love to be in Bank of America Stadium at one o’clock, I said. "But, those ticket prices are way too rich for our blood. We is [sic] just plebs."

      Yeah, no doubt. Playoffs are for the well-heeled patricians.

      Or, the lucky, Monique tacked on. Winners of tickets.

      The conversation ceased as the trolley went by CPCC (Central Piedmont Community College) and crossed Kings Drive. I watched the overhead bare wires as we passed under I-277 and noticed the yellow warning signs. High voltage. 600 volts of direct current, I think. That sure would warm up one’s chilly body.

      The streetcar then stopped at McDowell Street for a red light. I looked to the left, spying the Mecklenburg County Courthouse. There’s that focking [sic] edifice that’s been the bane of my recent existence. I could have more time with my son, much more time, if it wasn’t for their crooked system. That worthless, immoral lawyer is probably giving that corrupt judge kickbacks. Ah, my son will chose to live with me very soon. He hates the witch’s new live-in boyfriend. Just a matter of time. Just be patient.

      Suddenly my raging reverie was broken by the trolley stopping at Davidson Street. The man in front of us looked back at us again. He sneezed and wiped his nose with an old white handkerchief.

      Sorry about that, he said. I’m having a hard time shaking this cold.

      Same with me, Monique said.

      What’s your name? I asked.

      John, he said as he looked at his small cell phone and shook his head. Not looking good for the game.

      Is your buddy ducking your calls? I asked.

      Not sure. Maybe he’s hungover and not awake yet. I gave up the drink three months ago. I had to. I was headed for the grave.

      Hey, more power to you, I said with genuine encouragement.

      I don’t miss it that much. I just sip iced tea now. The next morning is a lot easier.

      I hear ya, man, I added.

      The streetcar crossed Brevard Street and came to a stop at its uptown terminus, which was between the CTC (Charlotte Transit Center) and Time Warner Cable Arena (where the NBA Hornets play). The stop was at a median in the middle of the street. We all rose to get off the trolley.

      It’s been nice talking with you, John, I said.

      Likewise, he said.

      Where will you watch the game if you can’t link up with your pal? I asked.

      Yeah, which sports bar is your backup plan, John? Monique quickly asked before John could answer.

      Uh, no money for any sports bar, John said and then sighed. I’m homeless, he quietly announced as he wiped his nose again. I just hope that they will show the game at the shelter.

      Neither Monique nor I said anything as we all got off the streetcar. Just silence chopped up by footsteps.

      John and his buddy headed for the CTC and we walked towards the arena, en route to RíRá.

      John didn’t look homeless, Monique said to me as we crossed the light-rail tracks at 5th Street.

      No, he didn’t, I replied as we headed towards College Street as the snow picked up in intensity.

      I guess you just never know.

      No, you really don’t, Monique.

      I wonder what his story is, 33. I just know that he has the recorder on.

      Well, soon part of his story will be made public, 32.

      What do you mean, 33?

      His snowy Sunday morning ride on the Gold Line. I’ll write it up later at the office.

      And, what are the chances of John ever seeing that short story, Parkaar?

      Oh, maybe one in a million, Agent 32.

      We should have got his full name and contact info.

      I don’t know, Monique. I think most homeless people don’t want to be bothered. I think they prefer to lie low in anonymity.

      But, what about that guy with the smooth radio voice. He became famous. He struck gold!

      Yeah, I know.

      Then we heard a shout from a car window as we walked under the public library overhang to stay out of the snow: Fuck Liverpool! Ah, a United fan.

      2. A Novella Idea (Feb. 2016)

      It was a cold, overcast, foreboding February day with an occasional fluttering snowflake at the midtown Charlotte (NC, USA) office when I got a text from an unsaved New York City phone number.

      Any ideas for my next screenplay?

      I was smartly dumbfounded and paused to consider the source. Who in this wacky world could this be? Wait ... ideas ... screenplay. That must be Al Niño [Agent A~O] Yeah, it’s got to be him. He must have a new number.

      I texted him back.

      Screenplay ideas? Why yes, Al, as a matter of fact I do have a few novel notions clanking around in the old cranatorium. [sic]

      He texted back just one minute later.

      Cranatorium. Ha. You crack me up with your neologisms, Michael. [He insists on calling me Michael for annoyance reasons.] Let me guess, Michael, you’re writing a novel about an insane asylum.

      I returned textual fire two minutes later.

      Close, but no green cigar, Al. No, it’s a novella involving sex robots.

      Five minutes went by. No reply from Al. Maybe he thinks that I’ve totally lost it and doesn’t want anything to do with me anymore. He’s living the good life now, jet-setting between New York and L.A. If I were him, would I want to get entangled in my nonsense? Probably not.

      Then, twelve minutes later, he replied.

      Sex robots? Well, I must admit, M. van Tryke, [my nickname and art-name] you completely lost me there. But, please do expound on the interface.

      I paused to ponder his text. On the interface? Does he want graphic details about the robots’ genitalia?

      Al, it’s set in the year 2080. All of the sex robots are just like humans. They’re very advanced. Anatomically identical. No plastic holes or lead pipes.

      Three minutes later, Al’s reply popped up on my small smartphone’s screen.

      Lead pipes? Michael, we’re already way beyond metal Frankendongs. [sic] Have you been in a sex shop lately?

      I looked out my left window as a lone, tiny ice crystal swirled around in the air, and then disappeared when it contacted the asphalt parking lot. I composed a reply to Al.

      Yes, Monique [Agent 32] and I were in one last November. You know, for research reasons. Well, let’s just say that the latex-hybrid creations 64 years from now are much truer to human actuality.

      Al’s rejoinder was immediate.

      Can I call you now, sex-robot-man?

      Wait ten minutes, Al.

      Why, still cleaning up?

      Very funny, Al. Hardy-har-har-har. No, the boss will be gone then.

      Al then called sixteen minutes later.

      So, sex robots, Michael, Al said teasingly. Does Monique allow you to have one? Do you guys have threesomes with it – or her?

      Always the comedian. Always a zinger. No letup. And, no, we don’t own a sex robot, Al.

      Well, how does a novella revolving around sex robots get into your head, my dear friend named Michael? This Michael stuff is already getting really old. But, I’m not going to let him know that it is grating on me.

      Al, I got the idea while watching a news report on CNN last October. Malaysia was banning sex robot conventions.

      They actually have sex robot conventions?

      Apparently so.

      Do prospective buyers get to try them out for free?

      I have no idea, Al. I’ve never been to one.

      Oh, you can tell me, Michael. I won’t tell anyone.

      "No, I haven’t been to one yet. Is that adverb good enough for you, Al?"

      Carry on.

      After seeing the news report, I did some research online. Some of these higher-end sex robots are already up to the manikin level in appearance. I image that in six decades, with such rapid technological advances and tactile improvements, they will be hard to tell from humans. It will be a very strange world. Maybe very isolated.

      "I see where this is going. I sniffed your angle out, Michael. We will find out if most men are content with just an artificial female. Is that it? Is that the thrust of it?" He laughed.

      "No, Al, that’s an angle for your book. Remember that one you promised to write, All You Need to Know about Women: A Guide for the Single Guy. And, how far have you gotten on it, if I might ask?"

      It’s been tabled for the time being, but I must say this gives me some ideas.

      I’m sure it does.

      Well, tell me more, Michael. Will the novella be told from the perspective of a sex robot?

      That’s a great idea, Al. Very sci-fi there. However, I was thinking of telling the story from a couple’s perspective.

      Oh, so in 2080 it won’t be unusual for every adult to have a sex robot?

      Well, I don’t know about that.

      Well, what do you know about your sex-robot saga?

      Well, it starts off with a very ordinary human couple, male and female, heterosexual relationship, both in their late 20s.

      Ok, when do the robots come out of the closet?

      Come out of the closet? You’re not missing any hanging curveballs. You must be on your fifth cup.

      No, I don’t drink coffee anymore, Michael.

      "Fifth bowl of weedies [sic] by chance, Al?"

      Fourth. Back and forth. Reciprocating motion.

      Ok, Al, do you think you’re coherent enough to hear the rest of the synopsis?

      Fire away, Michael. Aim high, shoot low. Yes?

      Well, our average American couple splits up for one common reason or other. I haven’t figured out the exact issue just yet.

      Ok ...

      The guy then decides to experiment with a sex robot. He likes it. A lot. So much so, in fact, that he decides not to date anymore.

      Woah. I already see the hate mail clogging your inbox. Here come the zero-star ratings.

      Yeah, maybe so, Al. Maybe so. But, in my tale the young lady gets word through mutual friends about what her ex is doing. And, you guessed it, perhaps: She decides to experiment with a male sex robot. She likes it, too. Though, she still wants a real male in her life. Maybe for a future baby.

      Woah, woah. Let me stop you right there, Michael. You’re making a big false assumption. Women – 99.99% of them – would never be completely satisfied with just a sex robot, no matter how good the orgasms were, or whether they wanted a baby or not. There’s just no drama with a robot. There has to be ongoing human turmoil behind the sensations. Huh?

      Al, are you saying that women require drama? Can I quote you on that?

      Sure. Go ahead. My girlfriend knows it.

      You know that I record everything for future short stories, right?

      I suspected as much, Michael.

      What about you – are you recording me now, Al?

      Uh, you’ll know later. Huh?

      What? Who knows where this conversation will end up? Probably in one of his screenplays.

      "Well, Michael, what is the climax of your sexbot [sic] tale?" Sexbot? Wow, I’ll have to use that word in the novella. Of course, I won’t give Al credit. Internal chuckle.

      Amazing one, the climax of the story occurs when all four of them – the couple and the two sexbots – get together one evening. I will just leave it at that.

      You will just leave it at that? I thought we were friends, Michael. Now, please, do tell.

      We are friends, Al. But, let’s be honest now; we would scoop each other in an instant. You’re a crafty enterprising fellow.

      Listen, Michael, I’m not going to screenplay what you just told me and sell it. Well, not this year. He chuckled.

      See, I have already told you too much. If you run with my idea, I’ll sue you. Of course it will be nothing personal.

      Oh, go fuck your bot, Michael! 

      3. Powerballed (Feb. 2016)

      The alarm clock went off at 6:00 AM sharp on a cold Valentine’s Day in east Charlotte. Monique (Agent 32, my jet-black-haired wife) rolled to her left and turned it off.

      We don’t have to get up this early, I told her. As long as we’re out the door by 8:25, we should be ok to make kickoff. Yeah, 8:25 is early enough to allow for a stopover at QuikTrip for coffee. I know she’ll want that.

      It takes longer for me to get ready. Have you not noticed that yet, Parkaar? [my ailing alias] Girls can’t just jump out of bed and be out the door in five minutes.

      She quickly marched her pinay (a lady from the Philippines) body to the shower, giving me a flirtatious wink.

      I then examined the EPL (English Premier League) table on the tablet computer. Wow, [Manchester] United is still on 41 points. They must have lost to Sunderland yesterday. Maybe Liverpool can make a late charge. Leicester [City] is in uncharted territory; their wheels could come off. Probably Arsenal or [Manchester] City ends up winning it, I would gladly bet. Though, Tottenham [Hotspur] is right there, lying in wait.

      Monique was back in the bedroom twenty-six minutes later. She dried her hair and did her makeup in the near-full-length mirror. I guess I should get up before I get a headache.

      We were out the back door at 8:23 AM. And at 8:33, we were in the QuikTrip convenience store on Eastway Drive.

      The friendly raven-haired Latina cashier remembered us.

      Is that all, guys? Just two small coffees and these tiny chocolate doughnuts?

      Yeah, that’ll do it this time, I replied.

      No lottery ticket today? she asked. Hmmm ... The drawing was last night. We haven’t checked our ticket yet. Who has the ticket? Me or Monique?

      No, we’re all good for now, Monique stated.

      We paid up and began to leave the counter.

      Have a great day, guys! She sure has an upbeat attitude on a frigid Sunday morning. Maybe her boyfriend is taking her out to dinner later. Valentine’s chocolates and something extra. Internal chuckle.

      We got back in the gray Kia Rio hatchback and headed for Monroe Road. As we passed over the Independence Expressway (US 74), I remembered the Powerball ticket. Maybe she has it.

      Monique, do you have the Powerball ticket?

      Yes, it’s in my purse, she replied.

      Excellent. Oh, can you also check the numbers on your smartphone?

      Sure, Parkaar. [my ailing alias] Ah, she knows that the DAR [digital audio recorder] is rolling.

      Thanks, Agent 32. He’s recording. I knew it.

      Monique got the Powerball website up on her screen and viewed the winning numbers from last night. She sighed when she compared them with yesterday’s ticket.

      We didn’t win; we didn’t match a single one, 33. Wonder when 33 was last drawn. [December 5, 2015]

      That’s ok, 32. Another couple of bucks for the public schools. Chipping in for a good cause. Doing our part.

      She kept looking at her cell phone. Darn! My numbers were the winning series for the drawing last Wednesday night. Even the Powerball number of five was correct.

      What?! You are kidding me! Surely she must be mistaken.

      As we came to a stop at Monroe Road, Monique passed her Samsung phone to me. On her just-cleaned screen, my sleep-encrusted eyes shockingly saw:

      FEB10_16: (2) (3) (40) (50) (62) (5) | Power Play: 2x

      It was the supreme horror that I always feared: Our numbers win on a day that we fail to buy a ticket. Well, that’s it: I’m cursed. I’m going nowhere. The gods hate me. I’ll be haunted by this

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