Some of you may or may not know that I'm a minor internet celebrity. Now, I wouldn't call what I do over at goawaybobby moonlighting, as the relationship between me and the "person" running the tumblr lacks all of the sexual charisma that Bruce and Cybil created all those many moons ago. No, my connection to that remote outpost of internet culture is mostly due to the fact that I sit fifteen feet from a person who obsessively writes down everything I say and then sits back and stews in a kind of gleeful, perverse, emotional goulash as she reaps the benefits of my mind.
No matter.
People have taken to submitting questions to the tumblr in hopes that I'll say something wacky, odd, perhaps even quirky. One such person recently wrote with a request that I write a story, albeit one with certain constraints. The request in question went a little something like this:
Please have Bobby tell a story meeting the following criteria. 1) Must contain: a) A magic sock b) A talking bird c) Three types of pastry. 2) May not contain: a) Any other magic, or talking animals b) Trains c) Sand. 3) Choose two of the following a) Takes place in a Submarine. b) Features a bank heist c) Is a Benthamite morality play. The quality of this story will in no way effect Bobby's imigration status.
So I wrote it, and submitted it to the lady in charge of goawaybobby, and she proceeded to forget it existed. Then I was like, "Fuck that noise, I already have access to internet. I'll put it on internet myself." So here it is. I put on internet. Enjoy.
Flint Rockbody hadn’t even opened his eyes when he knew that it was going to be a shit day. It was the kind of feeling in his gut that came to visit without warning, a feeling that brought suitcases and vacation slides and expected a bed plus three square meals a day. He’d had this particular houseguest visit before, right before his three wives left him, his dog got hit by a car, and his favorite tie got caught in the paper shredder.
Oh yeah, and before he was turned into a bird by a magic sock.
Flint sighed and fluttered down from his roost. He was molting again, a common enough problem if you’re the type of fella born a cockatoo or bluejay, but an altogether difficult turn of events to adjust to if you used to be a 6’1’’, red-blooded, prime piece of grade-A human.
He looked in the bird-mirror before him. Even for a man-turned-bird, he was looking rough. His feathers were all askance due to the molting business, and his beak was stained from the Pall Malls he chain-smoked daily. Smoking had been tough to continue without hands or lips, but he’d found a way. When tobacco calls, you find a way, baby. A gut defied all laws of anatomy and speciation to take up residence on his midsection, and his eyes were red-rimmed and watery. Christ, did he need a drink.
Making his way over to the liquor cabinet for some bird-whiskey, Flint found himself, in his daily fashion, sinking into the reminiscence of that fateful day. The day he was turned into a bird by a magic sock.
***
He’d been working on a case like any other. J. Pippington Smothersbee, the local beer and sausage magnate, had hired him to find out if his dame was stepping out on him. It had only taken two nights and three packs of cigs to wise up to her funny business, and even then the second night was just to hike up Smothersbee’s bill. Flint had definitive evidence that one Mrs. Delilah “Boobs” Smothersbee was in fact the plaything of J. Pippington’s partner, oldest friend, and fellow treasure-hunting enthusiast: Reginald Cotton Pumps. Pumps was seeing his pal’s lady alright; seeing every last rotten inch of her.
Flint knew what he had to do, but he didn’t particularly like it. It was his job to deliver the wire, even if it was lousy. Especially if it was lousy. But J. Pippington had a bit of a reputation as a bruiser and a boozer, only you had to change the sentence so that you got rid of “bit of a,” and put “definitely” between “Pippington” and “had.” The sentence was supposed to read “But J. Pippington definitely had a reputation as a bruiser and a boozer.”
So here it is: But J. Pippington definitely had a reputation as a bruiser and a boozer.
If Flint turned in the evidence and confirmed J’s worst fears, he’d get his payday, but Boobs and Pumps would get an altogether different kind of payday, and not the kind with chocolate and nougat. It would be more of a pain-day, on account of all the punchin’ and murderin’ that would take place. On their bodies.
Flint was in the middle of what you might call a moral quandary, and the way he handled it would have ripple effects…ripple effects that rhymed with “murned minto ma mird.”
***
The buzzer at his desk called his name, but he didn’t feel like answering. Flint’s new secretary was a fine piece of tail, but a tail he was incapable of chasing. There were too many differences: she was an indoors-type, liked romance movies, and had a Catholic family. He was all of these things as well, but he was also a bird. And despite the wings, that just don’t fly with some people.
He pressed a wing down on the intercom, preparing some witty banter and almost succeeding.
“Whaddya wan?”
“Mr. Rockbody, a woman is here to see you. She’s requesting you by name.”
“Well she oughta, it’s stenciled on the door.”
“Mr. Rockbody, she says it’s urgent.”
Flint stared out the window. He hadn’t taken a case in weeks. It had been two years since he’d been turned into a bird by a magic sock, and for the most part, he’d been able to keep things copacetic. But lately… lately it had all seemed as hollow as his bones, which are like that to lighten a bird’s body and help them fly. Only this hollowness didn’t have no biological benefit. It was just a gnawing pit in his soul reminding him of the humanity he’d lost and the birdanity he’d gained.
But maybe…
This feeling in his gut, the one he woke up with. He’d woken up with some ugly bedmates before, but not onelike this. This one preceded a mystery dame walking into his office who was able to read his name off the door. Maybe this one was different.
He pressed the button.
“Send her in. And Kandy? Get me some coffee and a cheese danish. I need to sober up today.” He paused. “Also get me some bird seed, because I was turned into a bird by a magic sock once.”
***
In the history of legs, there have been some legs, and then there have been some legs. What walked into Flint’s office just then was Trouble on two of the finest stems he’s ever laid eyes on, human or bird. Working his way slowly skyward, he was treated to a body poured into a red silk dress, garnished with a face out of mankind’s dreams, lips red like a maraschino cherry. Her little number was topped off by a hat that put Flint in mind of those little umbrellas you get in fruity drinks. The whole effect was not unlike a well-constructed cocktail. It was unclear whether the hangover from this particular cocktail would be worth it, but Flint was willing to find out.
He felt like he was on a roll with the alcohol similes and metaphors, so he threw one more out there for the universe to sip on. Her voice, when it came, was smooth as the best scotch and twice as smoky.
“Mr. Rockbody, my name is Yvette Sexunfueller. I’m afraid I come to you with a…delicate matter.”
“Delicate was my uncle’s middle name.”
“I am able to pay for your services, of course.”
“Lady, I wouldn’t expect anything different from someone of your obviously upstanding station in life.”
“Mmm. And you are discreet? If this were to become public, it could be disastrous for me.”
“Discretion is my other uncle’s middle name.”
“…Is this normal, in America? To give such unusual middle names? What were there first names?”
“Jack and William.”
“I see. Very good. I suppose I should proceed with my problem. I have a sister. She was married to a very powerful man in this region. Two years ago, she disappeared, along with his business partner. I have reason to believe they eloped together to get away from her husband, a brutish, boozy man. I need to find her immediately to convey extremely important information. I need you to find her.”
“Let me guess: her name is Delilah “Boobs” Smothersbee and the man she eloped with is Reginald C. Pumps.”
Yvette went white as she gasped out “H-how did you know?”
“Because I’m the man who helped them disappear.”
***
It took Flint some fast-talking to make Yvette understand that he was her sister’s ally in all of this, that it was his silence on the matter to her husband that had allowed her and Pumps to hightail it outta there. It was this same act that had sealed his avian fate.
After getting some details about where she was staying, Flint sent her on her way with the assurance that he’d check in regular-like. After finishing his coffee and cheese Danish, which still counts as the first pastry, he left the office.
Coming up the main hatch was always a pleasant feeling. Flint had gotten the abandoned submarine for a song, but it could get cramped in there, and the lack of natural light did something to a guy. Yessir, working on a submarine was something. He liked to shake his wing at the universe for his condition, and for a creature meant to be flying majestically in the sky, working beneath the waves was about as big an “up yours” as he could muster.
Taking wing on a firm gust of air, Flint mused on the issue before him. He had gone to Boobs and Pumps before going to Smothersbee two years ago, and it had given them time to boost town before the wrath of the old man could find them. Unfortunately, he had then lost track of them on purpose so as to let their trail go cold and give them an honest shot at a new life. Yvette had reason to believe the Boobs and Pumps may have come back to the city due to a letter she had received. Apparently, the couple had something of great importance to retrieve and needed to do it sooner rather than later.
He took a break from all this thinking to shit on a car as he flew over it.
What could be so important that they would risk life and limb to come back? Smothersbee’s beer and sausage empire had it’s cold fingers in every aspect of city life. The cops, city hall, the library system… elementary schools. Everything in this town had beer and sausage money flowing through its corrupt, clotted arteries.
Flint decided to go to his favorite restaurant and see if a snitch he knew had any gems to share. The place was a pie restaurant and he was going to eat some goddamn pie.
***
“Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy, didn’t anyone tell you that eggs got cholesterol, they’ll give you a heart attack?”
“You really care about me, Rockbody, or are you just pissed that these scrambled beauties might be your kids?”
There weren’t too many fellas who were able to get off a crack about Flint’s condition without a serious pecking, but Jimmy St. Saint was one of them. He and Rockbody went back ten years. Flint was a real cop back then, also a human, investigating one of his first murders. Jimmy had been implicated, but Flint managed to dig up evidence exonerating him, and they’d been something close to grudging acquaintances ever since.
“Waitress, a slice of your best blueberry, please.”
The slice arrived hot and with a dollop of whipped cream making itself cozy on top. Flint dug in.
“Jimmy, you hear anything about Boobs Smothersbee and Reggie Pumps coming back into town?”
Jimmy exhaled slowly through his mouth, leaning back in his seat and running his hands through his hair. After a minute he leaned back in. “Rockbody, listen man. This one’s big. Normally I’d help you out, but this is something I really can’t get mixed up in.”
“What’s the matter, Jimmy, you look like you just seen FDR himself rise from the grave.”
“Rockbody, I’m tellin’ ya. Stop asking. You of all people should know…”
“Whaddya mean, me of all people? What the hell are you talkin’ about, Jimmy?”
Jimmy pinched his lips. A few tense seconds passes before he leaned in even closer, whispering now.
“Word on the street is J. Pippington Smothersbee has that sock of yours.”
If it was possible for a bird to blanch, Flint did. Under his rich, luxurious foliage, the blood drained away from his skin faster than a Kentucky stallion lookin’ to make time with the prize mare.
“You tellin’ me he’s got the sock?” he asked quietly.
“Not only does he have it, he’s got it locked up in First National Bank’s most secure vault. After your little…tussle, it was thought lost forever in the inky depths of the river, but he’s spent the last two years secretly dredging, looking for it, and word is he found it two weeks ago. If Boobs and Pumps came back to town, dollars to donuts they came back for that.”
He was right. It was a totem of untold power and energy, a sock of the most powerful eldritch magicks. After the Wizard’s Congress of 1815 banned magick in these United States, there had been no sign of anything remotely fantastical within our borders until two years ago, when Smothersbee and Pumps found the sock while treasure hunting in a sunken pirate ship off the Barbary Coast. They had brought it back, but Pumps recognized its awful power and, in addition to the fact that he was screwing his buddy’s wife on the side, decided to try and steal it and get the hell out of dodge before Smothersbee, mad with rage and sock-power, could use it for evil.
Which is where Flint came in. His investigation into Boobs’ extramarital hobbies had landed him smack in the middle of a war he couldn’t even comprehend. By warning Pumps, he had saved the man’s life and earned the ire of Smothersbee. When J. Pippington found out what had happened, he unleashed the full force of the sock on Rockbody. Had he only received a small amount of the sock-force, he may have been only minorly affected. But Instead of becoming a man with bird-like features, or ever a big bird like an ostrich or emu, Flint had become a regular old bird, nothing special about him or anything. Truly it was his darkest hour.
“Flint? Flint, you hearin’ me, man?”
Flint came back from his dark place.
“Yeah, I hear you Jimmy.”
“Walk away from this one, pal. Ain’t gonna bring you nothing’ but misery.”
Flint dropped a twenty as thanks for the info and fluttered over to the door. He opened it to leave, but paused and turned back.
“You think I need help finding misery, Jimmy? I’m a bird. Cats try to eat me every day. People look at me like I’m a flying rodent. Misery’s been my wife since that sock blasted me. But I want a divorce. If that sock turned me into this, then it can turn me back. You said it was in First National’s main vault?”
Jimmy nodded imperceptibly.
“Then this just became a bank heist, bitch.”
***
Flint was practically blind to the world. The competing emotions of rage towards Smothersbee and hope that he could be human again waged a war in his mind that would’ve made World War II look like a minor fracas. He made his way back to the submarine on instinct alone, thanks in part to the fact that birds have special iron shavings in their head that let them navigate using the Earth’s magnetic fields.
He climbed down the main hatch, walked past Kandy, and heard some muffled claptrap about how there were people waiting for him in his office. He didn’t have time for a new case, and practically knocked his own door down ready to kick the bums out when he was met by the faces of Boobs Smothersbee and Reginald Pumps.
***
The three of them sat in the alley outside the bank. It had been fairly simple to get everyone on the same side. Pumps and Boobs just wanted to make sure that the sock was no longer in Smothersbee’s thrall, and Flint just wanted to be Flint Rockbody, average Joe. The partnership was of mutual benefit to all parties, and so they went to the bank for the purpose of knocking it over.
“What’s the plan?” asked Boobs.
“I’m going to fly in through that window and use my beak to rip up the place’s electronics,” Flint said.
“And then?” asked Pumps.
“Then you two run into the vault and get the sock. Piece of cake”
“Okay,” said Pumps.
***
Flint took wing through the window and used his beak to rip up the place’s electronics. Then Boobs and Pumps ran into the vault. Flint followed suit like a bat out of hell, which wasn’t hard because both of those things fly. The three of them were burning rubber until they got to the sock.
There it lay, seemingly impotent on the bank vault’s most ornate pedestal. All three knew better. Aimed in the right direction and with enough concentration, that sock could rob an entire city of their humanity, turning them all to birds.
“Do we just take it?” asked Boobs.
“I should say not!” boomed a voice from behind them. The trio spun around so fast Pecos Bill would have been jealous. That meddlesome houseguest living in Flint’s gut suddenly went off like a five alarm fire. This bad day had just gone from worse to gruesome, with a side of rotten.
J. Pippington Smothersbee stood before them with a goon platoon that would have made Al Capone tremble. They were all there, the city’s worst and brightest: “Jingles” Macaroni, Big Todd Smackeroo, Tiny Bill the Tiny Man, Average-sized Ned, Plopper, Questo the Quest Pro, and the Melon. Smothersbee had gone all out. It was Christmas for him and he wasn’t leaving any presents unwrapped.
“Did you think I would be so foolish as to leave the sock this vulnerable?” Smothersbee taunted. “An artifact of this much power, left over from the Fifth Age? Of course not! And I couldn’t leave anything to chance! My dearest Boobs, did you miss your sister?”
Yvette Sexunfueller walked into the vault, all hips and attitude. The hips were nice. The attitude, not so much.
“Yvette! How could you?” cried Boobs.
“Money!”
“Damn you, Yvette!”
Flint took advantage of the feminine hysterics to make a play for the sock. He grabbed it in his beak and began shaking. He thought that’s how you activated it.
“What are you doing!?” Screamed Smothersbee. “Do you have any idea what you could do?”
“Yeah,” mumbled Flint around the sock. “Be human.”
With a final shake of his tiny head, Flint unleashed a wave of energy through the room. He dropped to his bird-knees and waited for the transformation. Finally, his long, waking nightmare was over. He was going to be a man again.
The light subsided. Flint looked around the room. Everyone was gone, or so it seemed. After the stars faded from his vision, he noticed a dozen small birds. They all seemed dazed, unable to move or speak. Flint remembered that feeling. It had happened to him too when he became a bird.
He held out a wing. He hadn’t changed back. He was still just a bird. Of all the lousy turns of events, this was probably the lousiest he could imagine.
He hung his head and whispered, “I thought it would turn me back.”
A soft voice answered him from nearby. He couldn’t locate it for a moment, until he looked down and saw that it was coming from the sock. He leaned closer.
“No birds into humans. Just humans into birds.”
Flint stared at it.
“FUCK”
THE END
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