Current Events > Swampland, a CYOA

(+) Yeah! (+)

It was lunchtime and my offices kitchenette cupboard was bare. The fridge was a graveyard for expired, swollen bottles of milk. Id even polished off the styrofoam disks that were unsuccessfully masquerading as cookies. For a few minutes I sat in my chair and swivelled left to right, ignoring the rat of hunger trying to gnaw its way out of my belly. I only had enough cash to pay next weeks rent, and that only barely. I couldnt afford lunch, but my hunger rat was no accountant. Hell, it wasnt even real.

Murmuring curses at my stomach (slightly wider and more prominent than I remembered), I propelled myself from the grubby pleather. I briefly considered slipping into my suit jacket, but figured it would clash with the coffee stain on my shirt. I muttered more obscenities at my stomach, my shirt and my general lot in life as I clumped my way out of my office and to the elevator.

I barely even interrupted my quiet monologue to grunt a greeting at Frank, the apathetic and permanently congested security guard who seemed to live in the foyer, aside from his half hourly smoke breaks. He hacked in reply. I liked Frank, he never tried to talk to me.

I stepped out into the humid fug of Summer. I also stepped into a half dried splatter of vomit some late-night had left on the sidewalk. I almost slipped, but managed to keep myself from falling A over T through the traditional windmill dance of someone mid-slip.

I yelled a few choice expletives and Frank barked out a sludgy cough in reply. After regaining my balance but not my dignity, I set my shoulders and stalked down the street to The Peloponnese Milk Bar, my local greasy spoon.

The summer heat was doing wonders for the bouquet of the street. The omnipresent acrid tang rising from every doorway rubbed shoulders with the rugged pong of smog.

This city was like your armchair after a 36 hour binge on the universally adored 80s sitcom Perfect Strangers and two bottles of rotgut. It may be comfortable, but it sure as hell wasnt healthy to stay in it that long. Sooner or later, youd wake up in a pool of your own urine, if you didnt end up glued in place my your own filth. Or if you didnt wake up at all.

I turned on my heel and entered the grease-heavy air of the milk bar.

Zafiros (Zaf to his friends) stood behind the counter, wrangling with huge wire baskets filled with potato products. He was the owner and proprietor. He could burn a salad, but by god he made the best bacon sandwiches in the world.

Afternoon Zaf, I said cheerfully. It always pays to be polite to the people who make your food.

Zafiros! He snapped. No credit. You pay or you go hungry. Always one for banter was old Zaf.

Of course, I agreed. I have some cash right here. I patted my pocket for emphasis.

The usual? He growled.

Thats right Zaf, I replied. Bacon on white bread, no butter. Definitely no lettuce. I was a man of simple tastes.

Zaphiros, he said again. This time with less ardor. Score one win for me. Five minutes, you sit. Dont bother anyone or youre out.

I sat at the only empty table. The other chipped Formica tables running along the wall were taken up by Zafs regulars, and a few walk-ins. Most were chewing the fat, both figuratively and literally.

Hey, someone said behind me. Males voice, old, Southern European. Youre that private investigator who works down the road.

I turned around. Sure enough, he was an old guy, face made out of old saddle leather. He was wearing a brown suit older than I was. He was obviously expecting a response.

A) Be snarky
B) Be polite
C) Be aggressive
D) Other

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A

@Eevee-Trainer
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A

@Kircheis @fire_bolt

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A
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A
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A

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Bump

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Before you ask anything else Im not investigating your privates, I quipped. I just dont have the equipment. I hear the University just bought a new electron microscope, though. Ask a stupid question...

Zaf bellowed like a bear with a bear with a toothache. I ducked out of pure instinct and an oily spatula spanged off the wall, tearing a hole in the vintage 1980s Chonko roll poster. It clipped my shoulder on the rebound, leaving a smear of stale cooking oil and clots of burnt batter. Old Zaf was definitely warming to me, it was usually a knife.

You, out! He roared. I bade a hasty retreat and trudged back to the office.

When I entered the foyer Frank coughed to get my attention. His grizzled features contorted as he made an attempt to use intelligible speech.

While you were out, he said and paused, marshalling his resources. Two callers, left cards.

He pulled two business cards from his desk.

Thanks, Frank. I said as I accepted the cards from his nicotine stained fingers. He looked at my expectantly and cleared his throat.

I slipped him the $5 that was originally going to fund my bacon sandwich addiction. He hawked and snorted in acknowledgement.

Considering my caseload had been somewhat light (read: non-existent) for a few weeks, I was a tad excited. I turned over the cards as I waited for the elevator. The first was stark, minimalist. The card stock was either eggshell or bone, the letters ever so slightly embossed.

PICKMANS MODEL MANAGEMENT, it declared in a refined typeface. Then, Herb Pickman, with some contact details. On the back, in precise, handwritten letters, Please call me. I have a case for you.

The second card looked like it could have come from one of those business card machines you used to see in railway stations. It simply said Stanislaw Leng, Bespoke Cosmogonies and contained the usual contact details.

I picked up the phone to try the number for Herb Pickman. The phone was dead, and I remembered that I was a few weeks late on my phone bill. Id have to call on them in person. I wondered if I should clean myself up, first. My shirt was pretty gross. A quick rummage through my office turned up two other shirts, both equally stained with coffee and bacon grease. It was times like that I wished I was a neater eater. What can I say, I like to enjoy food with all my senses.

I had a few clean shirts in my apartment, probably, but there wouldnt be enough time to go home, get changed and visit both Pickman and Leng.

A) Go home, get changed and then visit Pickmans Model Management
B) Go home, get changed and then visit Leng of the bespoke cosmogonies
C) Visit both, in my nasty ass shirt.
D) Other

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C
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Kircheis posted...

C

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A
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A

also bump

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Bump for the tiebreaker

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Keeping it up

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Last bump, need a tiebreaker, people

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I'll switch to A I suppose

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Bump

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OffTempo posted...

Bump

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Thanks for the bump!

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I decided to clean myself up a tad and swing by Pickmans Models. The name was familiar, but I couldnt place it. That card was fancy, though and smelled like a big pay day. I dropped my wallet on my desk as I looked for my keys. I finally found them hiding beneath a fistful of mint wrappers and paper serviettes from Zafs. My heart sank as I recalled the bacon sandwich I never had chance to eat.

I locked up my office. Didnt want anyone stealing my coffee cups while I was out, after all. Down in the lobby Frank was busy launching an archaeological expedition of his left nostril with a tarry, gnarled nail and he didnt even notice as I passed.

I strode down the street and down the block to the entrance to Saint Fiacres station. The underground station was appointed in dirty cream and dark green tiles, tarnished brass and chipped wood. A relic of a bygone age. I knew the feeling. It was empty, aside from a gaggle transit cops loitering with intent near the ticket gates and a homeless looking guy playing a kids recorder. He was absolutely nailing a rendition of Ode to Joy.

With a sinking feeling, I realised I didnt have enough money on my rail pass for the journey, and my wallet was back at the office.

A) Appeal to their better natures
B) Run, run like the wind
C) Stage a diversion
D) Other

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C
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C
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C

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C

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As much as I enjoyed a good bacon sandwich I didnt want to be in one, so trying to run past them was out of the option. So was appealing to their better natures. From experience, I knew they didnt have one.

I decided to be devious. Crafty and suchlike. I put on a concerned citizen face. Worried, slightly pedantic. I approached them.

Excuse me, I said, trying to put that I pay your taxes tone into my voice that would make sure they didnt mark me as prey.

They stopped their conversation on last nights sports game or whatever and looked at me, their heads swivelling in unison. In their slate grey uniforms, it was like being targeted by a small flock of belligerent pigeons.

Did you know there is someone doing graffitis at entrance? A slight touch of outrage in my tone, an unspoken implication they werent doing their job properly. They harrumphed and grizzled among themselves and stalked off like hounds on a scent.

Consequence: transit cops now view you with suspicion.

As soon as they were out of eyeshot, I vaulted the turnstiles with a self satisfied ayup! and scampered down the stairs to the platform. As luck would have it, a train was just pulling in and I breezed on board. I found the least sticky seat and sat. The train resumed its journey with a jolt. The doors at the end of the carriage opened and a homeless man entered the carriage. I assumed he was homeless, with a large unkempt beard and clothes that had seen better decades, but it could have been a new hipster thing for all I knew. Anyway, he shuffled up to me in that flat-footed gait one adopts when walking through a moving carriage.

Could you spare a few dollars, sir? He asked. I knew for a fact I only had a handful of change left, that would have paid for the bacon sandwich that never was.

A) Give him all my change
B) Give him some of my change
C) Refuse politely
D) Refuse obnoxiously
E) Other

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D

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A

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B
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B)
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B

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Bump

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B

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Apologies for the lack of update, will get on that in the morning

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Not really, I said, in a bout of honesty. The homeless guys face fell like Id told him that the Easter Bunny just died of myxomatosis. No, wait, here. I riffled through my pockets and came up with $2:35 in assorted coinage.

Thank you, sir! The homeless mans face lit up like Id told him the Easter Bunny had risen from the dead and was rapid firing chocolate eggs out his keister. He secreted the coins into a pocket of his jacket.

Dont mention it chief, I replied. I know what its like. I really did.

The homeless guy nodded in thanks and tapped his fingers to his brow in an informal salute. Then he shuffled a few seats away and sat down. As we both looked around in boredom as the train charged along the tracks, our gazes would occasionally meet and each time he gave me an amiable smile.

The screeching of the trains metal wheels changed in pitch as we approached the next station. The platform slid into view and I could see a plague of grey-shirted transits were waiting on the station. Their heads were moving side to side like fairground clown heads as they checked each carriage.

The homeless guy noticed them, and noticed my reaction to them. This is my stop! He announced ostentatiously.

He shuffled to the doors. By that time I was made, the transits had spotted me and were half-heartedly jogging toward where the carriage door would open. The train ground to a halt and the doors hissed open. They were waiting. These werent just pigeons, they were pigeons from Hell.

Apparently oblivious to the swarm of transits, the homeless guy stepped out of the carriage right into their midst.

Aaargh! He suddenly screamed, falling to the tiles of the platform. My leg! Then, when that didnt elicit the appropriate amount of concern. My heart! That did it. Torn between bringing an evil fare evaded to justice and avoiding the consequences of failing to render assistance, they milled about him, apparently trying to remember what to do in that kind of situation.

The carriage doors closed and the train rattled into motion. I relaxed and hoped I didnt have a small circular hole in the seat of my pants. I murmured thanks to our overly litigious society and wondered what to do next.

A) Stay on the train all the way home
B) Change trains, I might end up being late to the model agency after I get changed but its better than being arrested
C) Get off, catch a cab and figure out the finances when needed
D) Other

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B
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B
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B

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