 Farrell. It was a good name. A name someone would remember, but not necessarily remember for any particular reason. Farrell, the sixteen-year-old boy bearing that name, was much the same. Although a good-looking young man, you wouldn’t remember him for it. His light and floppy hair was too long to be preppy, but too short to be cool. His voice was pleasant enough. Steady. Neither slight nor deep with no specific accent. He was neither short nor tall. Not fat. Not slim. Farrell was very…medium. He could be the captain of the soccer team or the president of the chess club. It all depended on just how memorable he wanted to be. It’s difficult, though, to be too unmemorable when you’re standing alone in the middle of the street with blood dripping down your arm and onto your Chuck Taylor sneakers. Which is exactly what Farrell was doing. His jeans were covered in mud or something equally dark and disgusting. His face was crossed with scratches and his lower lip was purple and swollen. The blood dripping on his sneakers was from an ugly gash cut deep into his shoulder. The blood ran in channels down his arm and covered his hand, finally falling off in droplets from the tips of his fingers. If he was in pain Farrell didn’t seem to care. His gaze was fixed down the long, deserted street. Every streetlight for endless blocks was red, but there were no cars on the road. Not at this time of night. Not in this part of town. It was an industrial area in an older section of Los Angeles. Most of the buildings were run-down or abandoned. Broken-down cars and trucks filled lots behind barbed wire fences. Broken-down and forgotten people --- the homeless --- slept in doorways. This wasn’t the place for a sixteen year old to be alone in the middle of the night, but it was just the kind of place sixteen-year-old Farrell would be. There was something up the block that caught Farrell’s attention and his eyes darted to the left. It was a movement. Was it a person or a reflection from the changing stoplights? It was barely anything at all, but Farrell saw it. He took off running down the block. He ran towards the dark corners in the dark night. Towards the dark --- not away from it. At the corner of Third Street and Sack Alley stood the old and abandoned Wells Sewing Works. Its rows of tall windows, each with twenty-four small panes, were mostly broken. Those that weren’t broken were too dirty to see through. Graffiti marred the building’s brick walls and trash, blown down the street through who knows how many years, was piled around the old double front doors. Farrell came up to the entrance. He kicked aside paper cups and crumpled newspapers and tried to open the doors, only to find them locked. He slowly moved to the side of the building, scanning the street as he went, looking back over his shoulder, looking for something, looking out for something. He reached a side door. It was open and wood from around the lock was splintered and lying on the ground. It had been broken open. Broken open with apparent great force. He moved carefully, looking left to right, squinting into the darkness of the old building. Farrell tried to be quiet, but even his soft steps echoed through the building. Inside, the main room was expansive. Once upon a time it would have been filled with workers, each at a sewing machine, toiling away in the heat making something for someone else for very little money. A few sewing machines remained. They were in pieces on the floor, pieces Farrell stepped over as he moved further and further into the room. Only the light from the street lamps outside, coming in through the broken windowpanes, lit his way. Farrell tried to navigate through the shadows and remain out of sight. “You don’t need to hide,” a man said from the darkness. “I’m not hiding.” The man lit a cigarette and the glow from the match illuminated his face for a moment. It was a handsome face. A very handsome face. It matched perfectly the very posh English accent the man had. He stepped into the light. He was wearing a perfectly tailored grey suit and shiny black loafers. He was a very expensive looking man. “Great,” Farrell said. “We get to stop running. I hate running.” “If you hate running, why are you chasing me?” the man asked, flicking ashes off the end of his cigarette. “You’ve called too much attention to yourself,” Farrell replied. The man smiled. “Are you the police?” “I like to think of myself as an enforcer,” Farrell told him. “You mean a vigilante.” “In any case,” Farrell said. “I enforce the Code of Conduct and you’ve broken about fourteen codes.” There was a huge bang at the front of the warehouse and suddenly the double doors broke open, each crashing against the walls and almost coming off their hinges. Dust and dirt rose up in a cloud around the entrance. From the middle of the cloud stepped fifteen-year-old Izzy. She wore motorcycle boots and sported enough cuts and bruises to make a prize-fighter jealous. Izzy pushed her long brown hair out of her eyes and glared at the man. The man exhaled a lung full of cigarette smoke into the air and let out a sigh. “There’s just no getting rid of you.” “You’re all the same,” Izzy said as she stepped up next to Farrell. “You guys always look like male models. It’s totally pathetic. Same designer clothes. Same perfect hair. Same stupid accent. What’s wrong with a little bit of originality?” The man dropped his cigarette and snuffed it out beneath his fancy loafers. He looked at Farrell and Izzy and the left side of his perfect face began to twitch. His left eye began to blink. The corner of his mouth rose into a half grin then fell into a frown. Then his arms began to shake as if an electrical current had begun to flow through his body. He began to convulse, jerking uncontrollably. Farrell and Izzy looked at each other with worry in their eyes. It probably occurred to them that this would have been a good time to run away, but neither moved. They stood their ground and watched as the man’s skin began to peel away and mounds of greenish, bumpy fat started to pop through his suit, like he was a giant kernel of corn popping in a microwave. Arms, six of them, sprouted out from various parts of his body. His beautiful, perfectly shaven, and carefully exfoliated face split apart and an oversized, droopy, puke green head emerged with a mouth stretching from ear to ear --- or things that vaguely resembled ears. The man had transformed into a massive, horrible, green Thing. He was reminiscent of Jabba the Hut --- only not as attractive. “If you looked like me, you’d rather be a male model, too,” the man, this Thing, said. He no longer had a proper English accent. He had a guttural, deep, and deeply unattractive voice. Izzy was about to make a comment, something probably insulting, when two of the Thing’s many arms sprang out in a flash and grabbed Farrell and Izzy. It had one of them in each hand. The Thing dragged them towards him, towards It, even as they struggled hopelessly to break free. “How about a kiss?” It asked Izzy as it smiled to reveal several layers of shark-like teeth. Izzy turned her head away in disgust. “Now you’re breaking all sorts of Codes,” Farrell said as he pulled against the arm that was wrapped around him. “No screen. Unprovoked violence. Sexual harassment.” “I won’t have to listen to you any more after I eat you,” the Thing said. “Eating me is a major violation,” Farrell told the Thing, as if he had any authority left at all. “Grounds for instant removal from this planet.” “Then I’ll eat her,” the Thing said, turning its attention to Izzy. “I swear I’ll give you indigestion for the rest of your life!” Izzy spat out. The Thing, the former man, bared his pointy teeth. It began pulling Izzy closer. Her boots slid across the floor, her feet shuffling, as she desperately struggled against the Thing’s gooey grip. Farrell grabbed onto Izzy’s shirt, trying to hold her back, but she was pulled from his grasp. The Thing’s mouth was growing larger as Izzy was growing nearer to it. It was opening, stretching into an exaggerated, massive, toothy hole quite big enough to swallow Izzy in one or, perhaps, two bites. “Drop my sister!” someone said. It wasn’t Farrell. They all turned to see a younger boy standing at the entrance to the building. The bloody and battle-scarred Rom, thirteen years old but short for his age and more Poindexter than Indiana Jones, stood his ground, wielding a large super-soaker water gun like an Uzi. “You’ll be dessert,” the Thing said as it dragged Izzy the last few inches towards its mouth. “Look away, Izzy,” Rom said to her. “This thing’s about to get uglier.” Rom pulled the trigger on his super-soaker, but instead of water coming out, a beam of light shot from the gun. It zigzagged across the room like a lightening bolt and hit the Thing in its big gut. The Thing exploded. Green goo splattered all across the room, sticking to the walls and covering Farrell and Izzy in a slimy layer of Thing flavored jello-ness. Farrell slipped as he got up off the floor and wiped what was left of the Thing off his arms. “You’re late,” Farrell told Rom disapprovingly. “My legs are shorter than yours,” Rom replied as he helped Izzy up. She tried to wring the Thing out of her hair, but it was no use. “I believe a ‘thank you’ is in order,” Rom continued. “You’re right,” Farrell said. “Thanks, Rom. Thanks for almost letting us die.” Rom hauled his modified super-soaker up on his shoulder. “Next time I’m going to let one eat you.” Farrell surveyed the scene as if he’d seen it all before. Just another day at the office. Been there. Done that. “Let’s take a sample back with us,” he told the others as he walked out. “Maybe we can find out who he was. Or who she was. Or…whatever.” Izzy looked around at what was left of the Thing. She stepped through puddles of the Thing looking for a sizable chunk of the Thing. She finally found the lower part of one of the Thing’s many arms. “This is so gross,” she said as she picked up the sticky, dripping specimen. “I hate this job!” |
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