Everyday Action Guy

Chapter One

Bob sat on the couch. He grabbed a remote and switched on the television. It was time for his favorite morning show.

But on every station, the same thing appeared: a special news report, with the same plastic surgery-enhanced reporter saying the exact same thing, “This may be the end of civilization as we know it. If you believe in a god or higher power, now is the time to pray. Pray for us all—”

Bob shut off the television. He yawned, stretching out, lying in his boxers on the fluffy couch. His feet dangled over the armrest, toes poking a tall stack of molded pizza boxes.

Bob wasn’t a religious man. He wasn’t civilized, either. All he wanted out of life was a beer, a woman, and his baseball bat autographed by his favorite player.

Rubbing his hairy gut, he started to fall asleep. Minutes later, the doorbell rang. He wanted to ignore it, but rang again and again.

Bob was dead tired, having been awake all night. His eyes burned. His was vision blurry. Rubbing his reddened eyes, he rose and strode over the dirty laundry scattered across the living room. Wiping the dried drool from his jaw, he went to the front door.

Looking through the peephole, he saw a sweet little girl in a skirt and dress shirt, holding a box of cookies. She was probably selling it, the money going to one charity organization or another. The children always came to his house when they had food to sell. He was used to it.

Crouching, Bob grabbed the pink shirt he remembered throwing at the door days ago. He put it on, ignoring the barbecue sauce stains on the front. Then he opened the door.

The girl smiled, asking, “Would you like to buy some cookies, mister? It’s for a good cause.”

“I’ve never turned down good food before,” Bob said. “I’m not starting now. Just let me go get my wallet.”

Bob headed to his bedroom and fished for the wallet. Finding it, he hurried back to the door. He gave her more than enough money.

“Yay!“ She hopped up and down, excited. “My first sale. Thanks, mister! How can I ever repay you?”

Scratching his butt, Bob shrugged. “You could give me my cookies. That’s good place to start.”

“Oh, right, sorry,” she said in a rush. “Here, I’ll even open them for you.”

“You really don’t have to,” Bob said.

She must not have heard him, because she opened the box’s lid. Then she reached inside.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Bob cried. He reached for the box, but she pulled away.

The girl pulled out an oatmeal cookie and held it out to him. “I wanted to give you your first cookie.”

“Okay . . . ” Bob said. He held out his hand. She gave him the cookie. Bob thought, this is one weird kid. Unsure of what to say, Bob said, “Gee, thanks. I guess.”

She cheerfully replied, “No problem, mister.” Then she reached into the box again. Giggling, she said, “Here comes another one.”

This was getting weird. Bob decided to play along one last time, before he would snatch the box and dash into the house. He watched her dig though the box, as if hunting for the perfect treasure. He extended his hand again, waiting patiently.

Then her hand finally emerged. And in it, was something unexpected: a revolver handgun.

“Oh, hell no, I don’t wanna die!” Bob turned and ran into the house, letting out a high-pitched feminine shriek.

Bob tripped on a pair of unclean underwear, stumbled, and fell forward onto the couch.

The girl pulled the trigger repeatedly. The revolver roared, its muzzle flashing. It fired a flurry of shells that whizzed over Bob’s head, piercing the couch.

Bob grabbed the stained underwear and threw it at her, then he sprinted toward the kitchen. She ducked, but the underwear caught her in the face.

“Eww, gross!” she cried, swatting it away.

In the bright kitchen, Bob maneuvered around the table in the heart of the room, looking for a weapon. He searched his drawers, but only found a group of razor sharp knives. No good. Checking the cabinets, Bob found something he could really use: a can of corn. If he had to sacrifice something, vegetables were his first choice.

Swiping the can, Bob rushed and flicked off the kitchen light. The curtains were already shut tight. The room grew dim. He heard the girl’s light footsteps drawing ever closer. He quickly dove under the wooden table and tipped it, using it as a shield.

“Don’t you want your cookies, mister?” the girl called out, sounding as innocent as ever. “They’re right here waiting for you.”

“Go away,” he whined.

“Sorry, mister,” she sing-songed. “I can’t leave without giving you what you deserve.”

Bob got on all fours and crawled forward on the green-tiled floor. He used his thick skull to drive the table to the kitchen’s entryway, barricading it. Then he rolled left, behind the wall.

The revolver let out a loud series of bangs. Bullets pinged as they ripped through the wooden table. Wood splintered and scattered across the room. When she stopped, there was silence, aside from the refrigerator’s hum and rapid beating of his heart.

“Are you okay, mister?” the girl asked. “You’re not bleeding, are you?”

“No,” Bob said weakly.

“Aww,” she said. “That’s too bad.”

Standing, his back against the wall, Bob peeked into the living room. He saw her standing beside the pizza boxes, gazing down, grabbing bullets from the cookie box and reloading her revolver.

Clutching the can tight, he took aim. Then the girl glanced up, spotting him. She pointed the gun at him. Bob flung the can at her, then twisted back behind the wall and ducked. The gun crackled as it blasted off a chunk of the wall, sending crumbled drywall raining down on Bob.

Then he heard a solid clunk, soon followed by a heavy thud. Bob crawled behind the table, then glanced over it. The can of corn was on the carpet, rolling to a stop. The revolver was on the floor, near the fallen cookie box. The girl was unconscious on the floor, beside the pizza boxes, with a deep bruise growing ever visible on her forehead.

Giddy, Bob jumped to his feet, pumping his fist. “Woo-hoo!” Then he sang, “Who is the man, who knocks you out with food in cans—Bob! You damn, right.” Dancing, he continued, “He’s a bad mutha—shut your mouth! What, I’m only talking about Bob!”

Soon, the excitement of surviving wore off enough for him to think straight. Bob realized he needed to get rid of the girl before she woke up.

Stepping over the table, Bob moved to her. Picking her up, cradling her in his arms, he marched to the door and heaved her through the doorway. She landed on the walkway beneath the radiant sunlight, her skull banging against the concrete.

That’s gonna leave a dent, Bob thought. Whistling innocently, he shut his door and locked it. Then he sat on the couch, turning the television on again. He found the same reporter lady talking on every channel. She was in the middle of a street flanked by towering buildings, on location in the city’s downtown area.

The reporter gripped her microphone tight, saying, “After last night’s unexplainable eclipse, nearly everyone—seemingly everywhere—has grown extremely aggressive and violent. In short, the world has gone mad. ” A group of grungy teenagers skateboarded past her. She continued, “Some believe aliens are the cause.” The skateboarders rolled up behind her. They hopped off their boards. She appeared to ignore them. “Others believe the eclipse marked the beginning of the apocalypse. Still others believe—”

A skateboarder, tall and lanky, gripped his skateboard and sideswiped her in the head with it. The reported staggered to her right, clutching her head, losing her balance. She screamed for help, trying to flee, but another teen yanked her by the hair.

The camera’s sight sunk to ground level and tilted sideways. The cameraman must have dropped it. Its lens was still trained on the reporter, who swung her microphone wildly, forcing the teens to back away.

“It’s insane out here!” she shouted. “The streets are not safe. Stay indoors, everyone. I repeat: stay indoors!”

The frail-looking cameraman rushed to her side. The skateboarders surrounded them. The reporter removed her spiked high-heel shoes, holding them like weapons. The cameraman clenched his fists. The skateboarders closed in, their boards held high.

Then the lanky skateboarder stepped in front of the camera, his tennis shoes enlarged on the Bob’s screen. The teen picked up the camera, focusing it on his hairless face.

Smirking, the boy said, “After we snatch up this reporter chick, we’re taking her to the downtown mall for some fun. If anybody has the balls to save her, then bring it. We need some asses to kick anyway.” He spat at the camera. A glob of saliva stuck, then dripped down. “Now be gone.”

The television’s picture grew fuzzy. The images and sounds of the scene vanished. Bob changed the channel, but it was the same each time. He figured the kid destroyed the camera.

Shutting off the television, Bob muttered, “And I thought the news was boring.”

XXX

The world was screwed. Bob had no idea what to do about it. So he slept on it.

When Bob woke up, he had a brilliant plan: call the police and let them handle it. Put his tax dollars to work, and all that. Still drowsy, wrapped up in a thick blanket, he rolled over and grabbed his cellphone from the nightstand.

Then he made the call.

A hoarse-sounding man answered. “Phil’s Pizzeria. We have a special deal going on till midnight! You get twelve slices, six toppings, and three cheesy breadsticks for only—”

Wrong number. Bob hung up. This time, he paid attention as he dialed.

A policewoman answered. “Fifth district police department.”

He got it right that time.

“Hey there,” Bob said. Then he hesitated, not sure how to express himself. “Umm . . . I think the world might be ending or something. Are you guys gonna do anything about that?”

The woman paused a moment, then replied, “Please hold.”

“Sure,” Bob said.

Pleasant-sounding music played through the phone. It was relaxing. Bob patiently waited.

A few minutes passed, then a few more. Nothing changed.

Then a policeman answered, saying, “Can I help you?”

Bob said, “I’m just wondering about this end of the world thing I saw on the news. People going crazy and all that. A little girl tried to shoot me earlier, so I’m kind of thinking it might be true. Are you all gonna, like, stop this apocalypse?”

Bob heard no reply.

Then he heard someone in the background scream, “They’re gonna kill us all! Get outta here, now!” That, followed by the gunfire and cries of anguish, then a thunderous explosion.

“Anybody there?” Bob asked.

His voice strained, the policeman said, “Please hold a freaking minute, all right?”

Then the relaxing music played again. For a half-hour. Bob stood, pacing around the room, then he finally hung up.

“Well, I’m screwed.” Bob went to his closet, opening the long wooden chest on the floor. Inside, rested his prized aluminum baseball bat. Picking it up, he said, “If I’m gonna strike out, I might as well go down swinging.”

Bob formed a plan. Since the reporter seemed to know so much about everything, he decided to go rescue her. Pretty simple, in his opinion.

Bob changed into some decent clothes and outdoor wear. Grabbing everything he needed, including the girl’s gun and bullets, he went outside. He noticed the little girl was gone. Getting into the aged and rusted navy blue car in the driveway, Bob was ready to go. Then his cellphone rang.

Pulling it from his coat pocket, he answered it. “Who’s this?”

A woman responded, “It’s your mother. How are you, honey?”

Sighing, Bob leaned back heavily against his tattered seat cushion. “I’m a little busy here.”

“Are you heading out?” she asked.

“Yes, mother.” Bob’s voice was lifeless.

“Could you stop at the grocery store for me?” she asked.

“Yes, mother,” he said.

His mother listed everything she wanted him to buy.

To that, Bob replied, “Yes, mother.”

She said, “I’ll talk to you later, okay, sweetie?”

“Yes, mother.” He hung up the phone.

Bob keyed the car’s ignition. It’s engine let out an unsteady whine once, then repeatedly, then shut down. He was ready to ride under daylight, but that old car wasn’t going anywhere. As usual.

So he had to walk.

Climbing out of the car, Bob grabbed his weapons and walked down the driveway to the sidewalk. Ready to cross the street, he stopped and watched in shock as a helicopter hovered high above the porch of the lavender home across the road. A woman in business attire leaned out the helicopter, pointing a rocket launcher down at the house.

The woman fired a rocket, sending it diving like a submarine toward the slanted rooftop.

She shouted, “You’re fired Jenkins!” as the rocket crashed through the roof and detonated, booming and spraying blazing debris all over the front lawn.

Flames flared skyward and smoke streamed with it, as the house caught fire. Then the second floor window opened. A man in jogging clothes, presumably Jenkins, leaned out the window with a sniper rifle.

“You can’t fire me!” He screamed, his eyes bulging. Locking onto her, he fired, the bullet ripping through the woman’s stomach. She slumped forward, dangling over the side of the helicopter, then plummeted through the swirling wind and fell headlong past his window. He roared in her face, “I quit!”

Then she slammed into his front porch, bursting through and smashing into the ground. The helicopter soared away, its blades whirring. Jenkins slammed his window shut.

Bob was stunned.

The world had really gone crazy.