The Switch (Final Part)

Nancy McCall tried to catch her breaths as she stared at the red switch. “This is murder,” she said in a shaking voice.

“This is redemption. Leaving the world to annihilate itself is murder.”

“Why don’t you do it then?”

“Wouldn’t you like to be the vanquisher? You will forever be recorded in history for resuscitating the world.”

Nancy began to cry. Ms. Tross looked down at her binder.

“How,” Nancy coughed, “will it happen?” She let out a few hiccups.

“A myriad of ways. All under careful consideration and preparation of the international government. This moment has been a craft in the making for a decade.”

At that moment, one room away, a red switch was inverted. Seven thousand miles away from there, a Chinese man’s chest was ripped open by a tiger. The city of Stockholm disappeared into a mushroom cloud. Los Angeles suffocated in a fog of poisonous gas. A bullet was sent through the head of a man in a blue and white striped shirt, and it fell forward onto a black button on the desk.

Ms. Tross looked up to the blinking red light just as a military tank rolled over half of the population of the crowded street outside the window, grounding every human in its wake into the asphalt. Nancy screamed, and Ms. Tross jumped out of her chair. She threw the office door open and found a limp corpse hanging over the reception desk and a puddle of blood spilling off its edges.

Ms. Tross’s hand shook as she fumbled with her key in the door to the second office. She grabbed the knob and let out a gasp as she flicked her hand back away. She pushed the key in and kicked the door open. Flames erupted into the reception area. Ms. Tross fell back and crawled like a crab backwards toward the front door. She peered into the office and saw a charcoal corpse, suspenders withering at its shoulders.

“Nancy, quick!” she called as she stood and hurried them out of the front door.

The taps echoed through the hallway as if on hyper speed as the women ran. Ms. Tross licked her fingers and put out a flame at the end of her pale blond hair.

Part 1: http://emmaraeparker.blogspot.com/2014/11/the-switch.html

Part 2: http://emmaraeparker.blogspot.com/2014/11/the-switch-part-2.html

Part 3: http://emmaraeparker.blogspot.com/2014/11/the-switch-part-3.html

The Switch (Part 3)

Martin dropped into his seat as Ms. Tross sat, smoothing her suit.

“Philosophy master’s student at Northwestern,” Ms. Tross read from the binder. “Deceased parents leaving you with a considerable inheritance, no committed relationship aside from the redhead seen leaving your apartment every morning for the past two weeks.”

“Phenomenal research. Just provide your sources, and you’ve got yourself an ‘A’ plus,” Martin said as he reclined in the chair, his arms behind his head.

“Are you concerned that college degrees no longer hold any influence?”

“Unless that degree opens your mind to fresh knowledge. Ideas that could change the world.”

“Interesting choice of words.” Ms. Tross stood and pulled the curtains apart to the same scene Nancy McCall was still witnessing. Martin’s eyes widened, but he repressed all sound from his lips. “I think the world is ready for a bit of changing.”

Martin brought his hands to his lap and exhaled deeply.

“Martin,” said Ms. Tross. “Have you ever heard of the Switch?”

“The Switch that will kill off half of the world’s population in seconds? A philosophical myth.”

“It is not a myth, Martin.” Ms. Tross’s voice was soft. Her eyebrows turned up as she focused on his face. “There are simply not enough resources to sustain our population growth. We will all be killed at each other’s hands. The government has been preparing for this moment for the past decade, and everything is now ready.”

Martin head never turned from the window.

“The Switch exists, Martin. And it is right in front of you.”

Martin’s eyes fell on the small metal box on the table.

“Take a peak,” Ms. Tross said, and Martin slowly pushed the lid open. Underneath lay a red switch, one side down, the side toward him up. Martin stared at the Switch in silence.

“I must take a step out for a few minutes, if you will excuse me. Changing the world is entirely in your hands now, Martin. I will be back with you shortly.” Ms. Tross exited the room and locked the door behind her. 

*Final part coming next week.*

Part 1: http://emmaraeparker.blogspot.com/2014/11/the-switch.html

Part 2: http://emmaraeparker.blogspot.com/2014/11/the-switch-part-2.html

The Switch (Part 2)

“That was more of a formality, Ms. McCall. It is no secret that Bass & Cordovan’s revenues have declined drastically from ten years ago.”

“Yes, well, prisons are full to bursting, so criminals no longer have a need for attorneys.”

“I am well aware of our current legal system.”

“You seem to be aware of everything else,” Nancy’s voice began to rise.

Ms. Tross cocked her head almost too slightly to notice. “There are just too many of us these days.”

“You’ve got that right.” Nancy leaned back.

The red bulb above the door began to flash. “I am going to leave you for the next few minutes to consider this visual.” Ms. Tross stood from her seat and pushed the curtains open.

Nancy let out a gasp at the sight of the street below. Not five inches of the street was left unpopulated by people. Several groups were engaged in full out brawls. A few broken down cars were scattered and appeared to have been remodeled into homes with linens in the windows and makeshift toilets by the wheels. Everyone was bloody and dirty. Guns went off. Whenever one person fell down dead, three more appeared to take his or her place in the battle.

“Hence, the reason we had you take our underground entrance.” Ms. Tross peered at the scene as if viewing a portrait at the Guggenheim.

“Close it! They’ll see us!” Nancy yelled, pushing her wheeled seat away from the window with her heels.

“This is bulletproof, one-way glass,” Ms. Tross said. “You are safe here.” She exited the office with the second binder and locked the door behind her.

Ms. Tross found a young man in suspender with tossed dirty blond hair now seated in the reception area. He sat reclined with his arms wide around the chairs next to him and chatted with the receptionist.

“Martin Greggor?” Ms. Tross asked.

“Yep,” the man replied without straightening.

“Back here, if you please.” She led him to the identical but reversed second office and locked the door behind them.

*Part 3 coming next week.*

Find Part 1 at: http://emmaraeparker.blogspot.com/2014/11/the-switch.html

The Switch

The taps of her high-heeled shoes echoed behind her through the metal hall. Her blond hair danced on her gray suited shoulders. As her pale face blended into its blond hairline, her gray eyes contrasted deeply as its only dark feature. She squeezed the two binders she held into her side as she pushed open the thick metal door.

            “Good morning, Ms. Tross,” a young man said from the front desk. He wore a blue and white striped collared shirt. “How many are we expecting today?”

            “We decided two is most efficient. Gives them time for personal reflection.”

“Anyone promising?”

            “They’re always promising,” Ms. Tross said. Her mouth remained in a line flatter than a calm sea.

The office was a sealed box with metal floors and walls. The reception area was decorated in abstract art pieces and mahogany furnishings. Ms. Tross continued behind the man’s desk and entered the first office.

Ms. Tross pulled the black curtains together on the far wall and dropped the two folders on the end of the long white table. She glanced up at the small metal box at the other end before turning back to her binders.

Ms. Tross was halfway through the second binder when the red bulb above the door began blinking, and she stepped out of the office. A woman sat in the waiting area with crossed legs and arms, her back stiff in her chair. She wore a black high-waist pencil skit with a white collared blouse. Her black hair was twisted into a bun behind her head.

“Nancy McCall?” Ms. Tross said. The woman sat up even straighter. “This way, if you please.”

Nancy pulled her small, black purse into her chest and followed Ms. Tross into the office.

“Criminal defense attorney for 19 years with Bass & Cordovan,” Ms. Tross said as they seated themselves. “Very impressive.”

“Thank you.”

“Divorced, ostracized son, no close family.” Ms. Tross read from her binder and looked up.

“Excuse me?” Nancy asked, her voice slightly softer.

“Just some fact checking while we get acquainted, here, Ms. McCall. Or do you prefer your maiden name of Henderson?”

“McCall is fine.”

“Tough times in business?” Ms. Tross continued.

“When every human in the world is a criminal, it’s not hard to find clients.”


*Part 2 coming next week.*

Master of Pong (Second Half)

He must have given me this look on purpose.

He turned slightly to the side so he was no longer facing me. The man behind him mimicked his movements. The smaller man was wearing a huge trench coat that went all the way down to his ankles. His right sleeve was hanging limply, and his right arm was being concealed by the inside of the jacket. Suddenly I noticed the gleam off of a silver barrel pushed right into Chung’s back. He was not walking with superiority. He was arching his back away from the gun pointed into him!

All my breath escaped me again for the second time in the past five minutes. My stomach churned, and I tried to keep down the chicken marsala I ate for lunch in the food court. The small Chinese man saw me staring at my hero and headed right toward me, pushing Chung before him. I backed up several steps and almost ran into Maurice’s cage when they approached me.

“I thought you would be older,” the small man said with a thick accent, his expression harder than asphalt.

“Uh.” I had nothing.

“Here,” he handed me a black briefcase with gold clasps and a combination panel. “You make sure it gets there one hour or Chung Feng Nguyen,” he said my idol’s name extraordinary fast, “will see end of days of pong.”

I looked to Chung and his eyes widened. That never happened. I had to do something. The master of expertise’s life was in danger.

I saw a small movement and something fall from the cage in front of the man. His small eyes missed it as they were set in full glare at me.

“Got it,” I said and walked around him with the briefcase, nodding him forward. They both took a step away. The small man’s foot slipped forward on a yellow peal. He lost his balance, and I swung my dustpan at him faster than a paddle toward a ping pong ball with spin.

The man fell on his back with debris and trash snowing down around him. The look of rage in his eyes was sent straight from the depths of hell. I could not miss it though I wasn’t entirely sure whether his eyes were even open.

“You will pay for this, you scum.” He flopped his arms around in search of his gun, his anger evident that he would kill me the moment he secured his weapon.

He saw the gun out of the corner of his eye. His head toward it and looked into the barrel pointed right at his skull. It was held by a furry, orange arm.

Master of Pong (Short Story)

I swept the last bit of peanut shells, a chip bag, a piece of banana peel, and some leaves into my dustpan. My area was now clear, and I leaned against the bars behind me to admire my work. I felt a poking in my side again. “Cut it out, Maurice,” I said to the small orangutan. He was much too small for his age, but stronger and more mischievous than those several years his senior. He was the most flaming ginger in the zoo as well, aside from me. We had a bond, so I requested his area for trash duty every single transfer even though it was always the grimiest.

I was in training to become an In-House Custodian Associate, a huge step up and raise from a Zoo Grounds Trash Boy. I would be in charge of cleaning up the feces and trash inside my assigned animal’s cage rather than outside of it. That would be the dream. But I would have to wait another eight to twelve months for that promotion.

Maurice noticed my boredom and started pulling off leaves from his perch and tossing them through the bars to give me something to do. We were a team, him and I. I headed around the other side of the cage to keep up with the monkey’s mischief when my heart faltered, and I stopped stone-faced. I tried to catch my breath as I took in the vision before me.

There was no mistaking this man with his paper-edge thin eyes that could scald any surface on which they rested. His hair was black and buzzed short and somehow still able to be parted deep on the right side. His stride was precise and quick, as if he possessed too much skill and control to make any unnecessary movements. This man was a god. Chung Feng Nguyen was the best ping pong player that has ever lived. He was the Wayne Gretzky of ping pong. The Michael Jordan, if you will! This man knew he was an idol too, the finest human specimen to ever walk these ungrateful grounds. He wore designer slacks and a luxury leather jacket. He walked with his back arched, his chin raised, each step with power. His face held a sneer.

I needed to get closer to him, maybe make eye contact, sniff his jacket. Could I bring myself to asking for an autograph? This was all too surreal.

I was the reigning Westminster Valley High School ping pong class champ three years ago for the entire four years I attended. I was worshiped in the ping pong club. “Oh no, comrades,” I would say when their praise would become too great, “don’t look up to me. He’s the true master.” I would point to the wall sized mural of Chung in the club room. “We must all strive to be like Him.”

This, right now, was a once in a lifetime opportunity. I had to meet the man who had influenced me to become the man I was today. Maurice jabbered at me in annoyance as he realized that I had been ignoring his cleanup game for the past several minutes, but I headed toward the glory a few yards ahead of me.

The crowds started to part as I got closer and I noticed there was another much smaller Chinese man with the same angry glare right behind his left shoulder. He must have come to the zoo with a brother or friend! I got more excited and picked up my pace. Chung finally met my eyes, and I would have shed a tear of happiness if he hadn’t betrayed a look of alarm in his eyes. It would have been very easy for Chung to have hidden any emotion in his eyes because they were mostly concealed. He must have given me this look on purpose...

*Stay tuned next week for the second half!