ANOTHER ENVELOPE
He basked in the pre-dawn gloam, comforted by the sensual buzz of his electric typewriter. Their coupling had birthed the empire of madness. He loved her—the typewriter—and she loved him. They were high-school sweethearts when he was fifteen, glimmering virginal promise. Through bust and flush—five sets of strikes, a new motor, just last week a replaced drum—he'd stuck with his lover. Now in their dotage, they embarked on this last great journey.
"I've got your coffee." Bernard snuck up, no small task considering his Titanic frame, and put a mug near his left elbow. "Sumatra today—just like you asked."
Steam curled as if the cup were en flambé. He lifted the mug, felt the circuit connecting him to Kavi and the Irregulars completed as he took a ginger sip. The measure only glanced his tongue before dribbling down his chin. Steam puffed from his open mouth as he aired the bitterness from his palette.
"Second thought, Bernard," he spit the remainder back into the mug. "Let's stick with instant." The cup disappeared before he finished the command.
"Of course. And Se—er—Mr. Admiral, sir?" Bernard's rubbery voice bounced through the room. "My last check?”
"Your own fault." He barked. "Your hair-trigger escalated bail costs. You shot a damn kid. I've done all I can without raising suspicion, but our slush fund is on its last pennies. Don’t worry; one more week and your salary will be restored."
"Of course, sir."
Bernard's departure left The Admiral alone again with his whirring companion. His life partner. His wife. He traced her supine curves with a finger, goosebumps shivering down his back. Heart thumping, he punched out the last few lines of his latest masterwork and pulled the sheet from the typewriter.
"Sheila," he read aloud, enchanted by the music of his own words. "I need not remind you how dangerous it would be for you to meet alone with any one of us. Should you require an interview under pretense of 'journalism,' please do so in the office of the Bakersville Independent so as to strip completely any sheen of subterfuge.
"I will repeat, Sheila: I am not to be crossed. Your next 'scoop' is in the mail and should reach your able pen shortly. Until then, it is in your best interests to maintain a low profile. Stay home. Enjoy your video games, and, shall we say—your other worldly pursuits?—in the comforts of your basement apartment.
"Failure to comply, as I've spoken personally, will be met with serious repercussions."
He bundled the sheet with a packet of photocopied pages and slid them into a manila envelope as Bernard trundled back in.
"Instant." Bernard placed this new mug at his left elbow.
"It's not polite to read over one's shoulder, Bernard."
"No. I didn't see anything, sir."
"The less you know, the better. It's for your own..."
The Admiral’s gaze narrowed out the open window. In a flash of movement beguiling his snowy hair, he swiveled in his seat and retrieved the .22 rifle beside his desk. Quick as a flash, he turned and squeezed off a shot. The boom sent Bernard shirking back to the doorway, shoulders pinched and hands over ears. Outside the open window, an unlucky gray squirrel fell from the birdfeeder in a cloud of blood and smoke.
"Goddamn squirrels. Eat your own fucking food."
The rodent lay on its back, legs twitching, blood melting the frost around its body. Satisfied, the Admiral puffed his chest and righted the lay of his military coat, tugging slightly at his epaulets. He swooped the mug from his desk. Coffee hit his muscles like morphine. Feeling renewed (good coffee can overcome even the cessation of one's electrical utilities) he collected the envelope, and thrust it to the waiting, trembling oaf.
"Here you go, Bernard." He handed the materials over. "Sheila has forced some slight changes and we're on a tight schedule. Deliver this personally. Take the Civic and be discreet. Check on the detective girl while you're out, as well. Do you think you can manage?"
Bernard nodded.
"Leave your coat at home. You mustn't be seen."
Bernard took the envelope and hugged it to his chest like a sacred tome. With a nod and a small bow, the giant backed from the room. Seeing Bernard's mass of muscle slide backwards, the man was reminded of delivery vans, shrieking beeps to warn the surrounding autocarriages of their blind, stupid lumbering.
He stared at the closed door of his study until the garage door’s velociraptor shriek heralded Bernard's exit. Again alone with his lover, he leaned in, breathing in the intoxicating sting of her printer ribbons. The breath puffing from his chest, he titled his head and ran the tip of his tongue over the contours of his lover's gray bosom. "A few more days, Underwood my love," he buzzed and shivered to taste the cold iron of her strikes, "and then we'll be together alone forever."
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