Imaginary Karma

One Friday afternoon the skies have opened in a cacophony of static bliss and rainfall. Fernando sits in his office at around quarter after one, nursing a cup of coffee. He needs to buy more creamer, as he just used the last of it in the current cup.

As he sips, someone knocks at the door. It is not a polite, regular knock, but instead one which is staccato and brutally insistent, of a like quality as if someone with the exact opposite talents of Dave Grohl had taken up drumming and chose plate glass as the percussive medium. Fernando ignores it, hoping that it will go away.

Alas, the knocking migrates from the front door to the office windows. Fernando's body is doubtless visible to anyone peeking in under the drawn blinds and he would rather face his problems head-on over hiding from them, so he swings his chair around with a resigned sigh and heads to the door to investigate. It could perhaps be one of the cultists who pass through the area around this time of year, though Fernando doubts they have the spiritual dedication necessary to peddle their theological wares in a thunderstorm.

But, no, a tanned, middle-aged man waits there, one who has never visited the store. Fernando pops open the door and leans against the metal frame. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah, I want to rent movies,” the man says. His eyes are intent and locked on the store's interior beyond Fernando, and he takes a step towards the Dominion.

Under other circumstances, Fernando might have welcomed the wanderer inside the store's walls, as Fernando does much enjoy earning income off the leasing of his properties, but today he does not budge. Spite and ire have taken root and Fernando is having none of it. “I'm sorry, I'm not open yet.”

“The hell, you're here.”

“Yes, but the store is not yet open. It opens at two.”

“What time is it now?”

“About quarter, twenty after one.”

“So if I come back in about half an hour, you'll be open.”

“If you come back at two, I'll be open.”

The man either does not hear or chooses to disregard Fernando's clarification, but the important thing is that he backs away and Fernando is able to retreat into the dark, comforting embrace of an empty store for a while longer. He does not depart, no, but instead chooses to wait inside his vehicle, which sits out in the parking lot.

Approximately half an hour later, at 1:48, Fernando relates the earlier portions of this very tale to one of his companions via the marvels of the internet. Suddenly, someone pulls at the door. Not a gentle tug, no, but a righteous heave the likes of which have not rattled the office's movie shelves in nearly five years. But the Dominion's hymen holds fast, and the invader is denied.

This flusters the mystery guest, who says to himself (loudly enough that Fernando can make out the words through the wall), “This asshole, tells me to come back in half an hour....” Then Fernando hears a car door slam. An engine starts up and revs a few times, and the vehicle pulls out with a defiant and monstrous roar.

Moments later, Fernando hears the piercing shriek of a cop dude's siren from somewhere off to the Dominion's right, perhaps from the lands claimed by Sweaty Bill or Lint's Gas. Its scream lowers in pitch and recedes into the distance. Fernando heads to the front door to check out what is happening, but Cop Dude has vanished around the bend in the highway by the time he reaches his destination.

Fernando chooses to believe Cop Dude was upset at Fernando's untimely visitor for throwing a tantrum and making a loud nuisance of himself when he did not get his way. It is a rewarding untruth, one that leaves Fernando clinging to the hope that justice does exist in some fashion in the world.

Stop Me If You've Heard This One Before

Fernando walks into a bar.

He takes an open stool near a woman in her mid-50s and waits for the bartender to finish serving a group of young ladies seated across the bar. “You're Fonzie's brother, aren't you?” she asks.

“Indeed so, last I checked.”

“I'm sorry for your loss.”

Fernando tips the brim of an imaginary hat her way. “Thanks.” The bartender has yet to finish mixing these girls their drinks.

“Let me buy you your first drink,” the woman says. She knows Fernando's brother, and seems to know him (though by rumor and reputation, or because they'd met at some point in the nebulous past, is something Fernando does not know), but Fernando has no idea what her name is, and he doesn't particularly want to look like a buffoon by asking her what it is, not if she treats him so familiarly. He can return that favor.

Besides, Fernando is not one to turn down free booze. “I'd appreciate that, thanks.”

“What are you having?”

“Ginger vodka with a splash of lemon juice.”

The older woman raises a finger skyward and shouts. “Hey, Canada! Once you finish over there, get me another and a ginger vodka for this young man!” The bartender ducks his head briefly and this seems to satisfy the woman. “He'll get that to us.”

The bartender takes another minute to wrap up his mixology with the other ladies. “We don't have ginger ale here,” he says to Fernando. On the one hand, this is surprising, since ginger ale seems like a thing every bar should keep in stock. On the other hand, this is a bar attached to a restaurant in Zail-Kanzin, so why would they have the makings for good drinks? “Can I get you something else?” he asks.

“Southern Comfort Old Fashioned, then. Sour, please, orange slice but no cherries.”

The old lady looks at Fernando proudly. “You look like you know what you want.”

“I always have a backup plan.”

“What if you couldn't have gotten that here, then?”

“Then probably I'd have gone with a vodka tonic, or maybe a beer, if there any beers worth half a shit here.” All of the taps proudly bear the mark of Miller Lite or Budweiser or similar rice-water ilk, and Fernando can see no minifridge in which cans or bottles of less-wretched brews might lurk.

“They've got Corona.”

“If I wanted to drink piss with a lime garnish, I'd ask for a slice of lime and make my way to the restroom to serve myself.”

The old lady squints at Fernando. “You are exactly like your grandmother. She was so...so....” The lady trails off speaking as she undertakes a quest to discover the vocabulary

“Forthright? One does one's best.”

The bartender delivers the drinks. The old lady has something clear and fizzy in her tumbler, while Fernando's Old Fashioned is tinted ruby, likely with cranberry juice or grenadine. What either of them have business doing in an Old Fashioned is beyond Fernando's understanding of the bar arts, but it doesn't taste like a Bad Idea nor a Manhattan, so he is satisfied.

“How long you staying?” the woman asks.

“This drink, maybe another. I can't stay overlate. I have to work tomorrow.”

“It's the Fourth.”

“No rest for the wicked. I closed the store today so I probably should try to make up for it tomorrow. Hell, holidays are better for my business because people need something to park the kids while they grill and drink in the backyard.”

“You have an explanation for everything, don't you?”

“Everything has an explanation.”

“See, I can't believe that. Some things just happen for no reason.”

“Everything has a reason for happening.”

“Not coincidences.”

“Sure they do.”

The woman twists in her seat and faces Fernando head-on. Her posture is one of defiance. “Okay, explain that to me.”

“There's a reason for you to have been at a place when the coincidence happened.”

“Not always. Sometimes you're just there.”

“Nobody is just anywhere for no reason.”

“What if you didn't plan it?”

“Doesn't matter. You decided on something else that put you there.”

“So the coincidence isn't your fault!” she trumpets.

Fernando shakes his head. “Sure it is. If I decide to walk down Main Street in order to meet my best friend at the movie theater, then it's partially on me when the firetruck crashes through the brick wall and turns me into road lasagna and confetti in front of a crowd of innocent bystanders. If I'd not chosen to go down Main Street at that time, then I wouldn't have been there for the truck to pulverize.” Fernando takes another sip of his drink. It is quite good. “Good news is, this only counts for my choices, and not for others.”

“Why?”

“I can't judge others' choices because I don't know what choices they'd made previously.”

“You can't believe that.”

“Sure I can. I do. That's tautological enough for most purposes.”

“Doesn't it ever get to be too much?”

“Nah, not really. I've gotten pretty good at handling existential crises over the years.”

“But why even be like that?”

“Why not?”

“You say everything's because you made a choice.”

“Yes.”

“Then you chose to believe all the stuff you just said.”

Fernando mulls it over. “Yes, I suppose I did.”

“Why stick with it, then?”

Fernando shrugs. “Because I choose to. Because most other people choose not to.” Fernando tilts back the remainder of his beverage. “Thank you again for the drink, and moreso for the conversation. I'd best return to the afterparty, such as it is.”

“Take care, sweetie. Butt your head against me some other time soon, you hear?”

Fernando grins. “That's what she said. Have a good evening.”

It is easy to take another's “why” for living and apply it to oneself. It is not easy to create one's own “why.”

Recap

Astute observers would have noticed that a dread case of schedule slip occurred this past Sunday. This is with good reason: Fernando was in no mood to upload a tale of dread, woe, or merriment, for he had been obligated over the previous days to participate in the wedding ceremony of his homeboy Iacobo. The Dominion's doors shut and, queerly enough, no one asked stupid questions of Fernando's reasons for closing up as they had the last time he took time for a mini-vacation.

The Dominion's back room had been chosen as the location for the bachelor party; debauchery could readily at-hand and the murderous Cellar Spiders, absolutely not to be confused with the benevolent above-ground Guardian Spiders, could handily dispose of any corpses which happened to be created in the course of festivities. Such things would bring Fernando no joy, as prey-juices would invigorate those troglodytic monsters, but good fortune was had: no one and nothing expired over the course of celebrating, which went on for roughly twelve hours. It was a smallish affair, as Fernando understands bachelor parties to go. Fernando and Iacobo were of course in attendance, as were Alfonso, Ronaldo, Cortez, Teodor, Bergeron, and Damien.

Catriona, by dint of possessing a vagina, had been forbidden attendance at this momentous event by her mother; rather, she was to giggle at the simultaneous bachelorette party over curiosities like penis-shaped ice or Cards Against Humanity. While this does sound as though it were a merry time, it lacked the defining feature of Fernando's shindig: impressive amounts of meat. During the party's course, eight or so pounds of animal flesh were consumed in brat and burger and hot dog form by the guests, notwithstanding the assortment of fixin's and appropriate side dishes accompanying this fare. One brat which tumbled into the coals was given over to Catriona as a burnt sacrifice, for she was ever in the guests' hearts, and the bottle of charcoal lighter fluid was emptied on that day. Ronaldo took the bratwurst eating contest prize, with eight consumed sausages. The reward in question? The right and obligation to eat the final remaining bratwurst of the initial three pounds.

One can file this one under “Phyrric victory.”

Once the sun finally set, prompting the moths and June bugs to initiate their rapacious nightlife, the action retreated indoors. Gifts were given to Iacobo, the sodding bastard, in whose name this travesty had been erected: dollar store insects (and a rat), a giant two-pound bag of peppered beef jerky, a single condom (for emergencies, one must understand), one bottle of the most delicious beer in all the world (that of the Schlenkerla), and a swanky hat which could perhaps be worn during the wedding ceremony or the off-the-hook reception, or even some other time if Iacobo felt the need.

At this juncture came the rolling of bones, though in fact little was accomplished upon the tabletop. Fernando, Iacobo, and his guests were quite fine with bullshitting for bullshit's sake over some cracked-open brews, reminiscing over adventures from days long past and portending adventures which were to come. 

Negotiator

At around 1.30 in the afternoon one Wednesday, Fernando hears the rumble of a vehicle outside the store. He peers through a corner of the blinds. A red pickup is sprawled in the parking lot directly blocking the door. A woman sits in the cab, idling away. Her location leads Fernando to surmise that she is dropping off a movie, but after two minutes of sitting there he amends his supposition and views her as a camper.

Fernando makes himself busy in the office, straightening things which do not need straightening. 2 PM rolls around and the truck has not moved. He sighs and unlocks the front door.

The lady in the truck's cab leans out the window at him. “Oh, now you open?”

“Yes, now I open. It's two.”

“I been waiting half an hour for you to come in.”

“I get that a lot,” Fernando says, turning and striding to his office. The lady shuts off her truck and comes into the store after him.

She browses the store for about five minutes, then comes up to the counter with six tags in hand. “It's get one free day, right?”

“Indeed so.” Fernando retrieves a pen and rental slip. “Can I get your name?”

“Azerbijan Switzerland,” she answers as she fishes through her purse for crumpled small bills.

Fernando stops writing. “You have twenty-eight dollars in late fees. How much did you want to put down on them?”

“Oh...all I have is this.” She drops nine tattered dollar bills to the countertop.

“That's not even enough to cover the rentals, setting aside the late fees.”

She frowns at the pile of tags. “How much do I need to pay off on the late fee?”

“How much do you feel you ought to pay off?”

“A dollar?”

“Let's do this: you rent two of those and put the remaining five-fifty from your nine dollars towards the late fee.”

“Well....okay.”

Fernando takes her money, retrieves her movies, and watches her depart. The movies wound up two days late, so she now has two and a half dollars more on her late fee than previously.

It never stops.

This Shit Again

Holidays portend bum-fuckery of the highest degree because everybody takes the day off, so nothing is accomplished and everyone needs to frantically scramble over the following few days to catch up on the missed work, instead of, say, having done the work ahead of time like a responsible adult. Fernando is the one who suffers, for is it not always the case that the most competent individuals in a group are dragged down to the fetid mediocrity accepted by the masses?

This happens on every holiday, but it's worst when the days in question fall on either a Friday or a Monday because then the weekend is immediately adjacent and it provides a minimum of three nonproductive days for the failures to gestate into a tentacled beast which threatens to choke the joy and life from him.

Memorial Day always occurs on a Monday.

Fernando sits at the store that Tuesday. He awaits delivery of his movies and has been at the store for a few hours now, as it is rather important that he procure his inventory so that he might arrange for profit to be made off it. Coffee at the ready, he kills time alternating between browsing Fark and playing browser-based tower defense games. He has his blinds open so he can easily catch glimpse of the delivery truck and, more importantly, so its driver can catch glimpse of him. He takes a great risk in doing this, since open blinds attract ne'er-do-wells and lookie-loos who think that because Fernando visible within the store, the store is open for business.

At around 11.30, the UPS truck pulls into the parking lot from the printing place next door. A second man is perched within it, sitting on the steps leading up to the cab. The truck slows up as it cruises past the store, then vanishes out Fernando's line of sight. The deceleration led Fernando to infer that it would be pulling up somewhere in the parking lot.

Fernando rose from his chair and walked around the counter to meet the driver. He peeks out the front door.

The truck is in the process of pulling back out onto the highway. Fernando attempts to flag it down and shouts, “Hey! HEY!” but he is paid no heed. The truck speeds away to the south.

“For FUCK'S sake!” Fernando yells, loudly enough for some old people coming out of the restaurant about two hundred feet away to look in his direction. He growls out a sigh of consternation and storms into the store to plop down before his computer and pull up contact information for his local UPS syndicate.

Again.

Fernando calls the nearby customer center which serves his area; he learned last time that the nearest physical UPS Store is unwilling to provide any meaningful service to him. Fernando allows the phone to ring seven times before he hangs up.

Perhaps he dialed a wrong number. Such things have been known to occur. Fernando tries again, double-checking each digit as he taps it out on the numerical pad.

Fernando allows the phone to ring six more times before he hangs up.

“God damn it so much,” he mutters as he pulls up the webpage to UPS proper. He dials the customer service number and is greeted with the prompt which implores him to choose one of a limited number of options, none of which will assist him. When the computer-lady finishes asking if he'd like to press nine for Spanish, he growls, “Representative.”

“We can help you with that in just a moment,” chirps the automated message. First, though, they would prefer that I elect one of the previously listed options.

Fuck that noise. “Representative.”

“One moment please. Your call is very important to us.” Fernando hears the fuzzy click as his call is rerouted. “UPS customer service, this is Australia.”

Fernando tells the man his name, his business, and why he is calling.

“I'm sorry to hear that,” says Australia. “Have you tried contacting your local customer center?”

“I did. No one answered.”

“Sir, what was the tracking code so I can check into that for you?”

Fernando rattles off the line of 25 letters and numbers. He hears faint tapping, then Australia says, “The delivery is scheduled for today.”

“Right. I am saying that the truck drove right past the front of the store.”

“Sir, perhaps it was a different truck out on a different route.”

“Possible, but unlikely, seeing as there's but the one route here and the truck had just pulled out of the printing press next door, into my parking lot, and past the store.”

“Sir, items which are scheduled for delivery on a certain day are not guaranteed for a set time. It is possible that the item is still awaiting delivery and will be out to you by the end of business hours today and was not on the truck in question.”

“I checked the shipping status online. It is marked as in transit. Why would it be marked as in transit and scheduled to be delivered if it is not, in fact, in transit and scheduled to be delivered?”

“Sir, I appreciate your concern, but the item is scheduled for delivery by the end of business hours today.”

“That doesn't answer my question.”

“Sir, could I put you on hold for just a moment?”

Fuck no. Fernando felt the suspicious tingle that if he were shunted into customer service limbo he would never escape its noxious embrace. “I would rather you didn't.”

“Let me pull up the contact information for your local center and send them a message. It will just be a moment.”

“Very well.”

Fernando hears typing as Australia composes his message, or something which resembles a message. This takes about two minutes, during which both Fernando and Australia are silent. Then Australia says, “Sir, I have sent a message to your local center and you should expect a phone call from them within an hour regarding the status of your delivery.”

“Sounds good. I look forward to hearing from them.”

“Sir, I apologize for the problems you seem to be having with this delivery.”

“It's not your fault. Thank you for your help.”

“Thank you, sir. Good-bye.”

“Bye.”

The waiting resumed. But look, now it's opening time and Fernando did not receive his promised phone call and still does not have his movies!

The saga continues.

After Hours

The blessed time has arrived where Fernando may rise from his throne and lock down the Dominion in an elaborate closing ceremony. Fernando has a bit of after-hours work to accomplish, some checks that need to be written and some bills that must be paid, in addition to his daily accounting ritual. Fernando does not enjoy doing any of this while the store is open, as he prefers to remain undistracted when doing actual work and hopes to avoid the possibility of overly curious souls asking stupid questions.

He has just flourished a signature upon a check which is to be sent to the old Keeper as payment for debts incurred when Fernando hears tapping at his front door. Since it is by now fifteen minutes past eight, Fernando's desire to earn three or so dollars is vastly overshadowed by his desire to not have to deal with the public for the rest of the evening. He ignores the tapping and seals the check within an envelope instead.

The tapping transitions to arrhythmic pounding. Fernando continues ignoring it.

Then Fernando hears pounding upon his office window. The shades are drawn. “Hey, I know you're in there! I can see you!”

Fernando shoves his chair back and trundles down one of the aisles into the back room. He has just been filled with the mighty need to consume coffee. As a tangential benefit, maybe now that Fernando cannot be seen, this unwelcome annoyance will forget he exists.

Maybe it worked the way Fernando envisioned, maybe the guy just got frustrated and left, but nobody was there when Fernando returned to the front with a fresh mug of miracle liquid.

Don't go to a restaurant when it's closed expecting to be served a steak, and don't bother Fernando when he's not on the clock.

This Is Not an Update

Fernando sat down in front of the computer one Thursday and opened the Open Office document in which he keeps Chronicles. He scrolls through, checking titles, searching for the content upon which the world's masses wait with superhuman patience. He comes across one which he thinks will work, but it turns out he'd already uploaded it and changed the title at the last minute.

Fernando reaches the end of his document. It's far, far too early to put up “Annual Abscondments IV,” even though Fernando is out nine movies already in 2013.

Fernando leans back in his chair and scratches his cheek. It seems he lacks in product. This could only mean that he's gone for a minimum of two weeks without running across any indignant customers, moronic telemarketers, outlandish mirth, or inept blackmailers.

“Christ. This never happens,” Fernando says aloud to his Dominion, which lies empty at this early hour.

That's when the string of three trucks belonging to Fernando's electric company began pulling into the store. They stop in the middle of the road before the Dominion, not even bothering to pull to the side. Men in coats bearing their master's sigil climb out and gather near the trucks in a small circle. One of them points in the vague direction in which the Dominion lies. Could there be something amiss with Fernando's power flow, something that requires three trucks with bucket lifts to repair? That would be quite the tale!

But, no, after their short palaver they return to their vehicles and pull back out onto the highway. Interesting event averted.

Fernando presses his lips together and looks to the top of his television, where a line of mini-Maoi, a red-orange octopus with a harelip, and an orange crab with a funky mouth lair. He addresses the crab, “I don't care. I'm gonna write it up.”

Fernando pauses. “And I may as well tell the story of the time whatsherface asked me about you guys. I don't think I've done that one yet.”

So he writes this, and the other one as well, and another week's content is generated. Huzzah!

Brofist

One Monday in February was a sad Monday, for it was one on which his distributor failed to process one of Fernando's orders in anything resembling a timely fashion. It was not a pissant direct-to-DVD film either, but Skyfall, the long-awaited and highly acclaimed Bond flick. Arguably, this was the biggest release of the month.

It was with a heavy heart that Fernando accepted that he would need to make a midnight run to Inuitland so he can snag some copies and have them available for his customer base. The original plan was to head up there with Alfonso after the weekly roleplaying session ended, but that changed when Cortez and Ronaldo volunteered to accompany Fernando on his late-night sojourn.

They transformed and rolled out, heading straight to Mal-Wart district, an adventure beyond measure, for it was one in which Fernando escaped the Dominion's tentacled grasp for a short while. While he was out and about, Fernando figured he'd get some other shopping out of the way. Cart in hand, the trio passed into the bowels of Mal-Wart.

It had been Suit Night, so Cortez and Ronaldo were at their dapper best, looking quite professional indeed as they trailed behind Fernando as the Keeper went on his madcap collection. Cat litter, check. Onions, check. Crackers, check. A hodgepodge of inventory settled in the shopping cart's basket. Crowning it all were four copies of Skyfall, provided to Fernando by a genial albino.

The checkout lady did not want to be there, not in the slightest. She scanned the content's of Fernando's shopping cart in disinterest, until she came upon the DVDs. “You must really like Skyfall, huh?” she asks.

“No. This is for business purposes.” Fernando said these words of response as two suited men flanked him. The woman perhaps thought Fernando to have criminal connections, for she surrendered this conversational thread and little more was said until Fernando bade her a good night after paying.

The night was still young (only about 2:30 AM) and a night of All Flesh Must Be Eaten had just been concluded. It was time to consume vast amounts of unhealthy food! The original plan was to pay a visit to Taco Bell, but that place was closed, even the drive-thru. Well, McDonald's would just have to do. Ronaldo steered his vehicle into the drive-thru and the group waited for someone to take the order.

Three minutes of silence later, no order-taking was forthcoming, and someone else had pulled up behind Ronaldo. Cortez suggested telephoning the place to inform them that someone awaited service in the drive thru, but Ronaldo pshaw'd the notion. “Let's pull around and see if anybody's even in there,” he said.

So they did. As the car passed the window at which the money, under most circumstances, changed hands, the three passengers saw a skeevy man with a scraggly mustache at work inside. When he noticed the car, he ducked out of sight as if ashamed or worried for his life.

“Fuck this. Let's go to Hardee's,” Fernando said from his place in the back seat.

“I'm poor, and Hardee's is expensive,” Cortez objected.

“I don't care. You're carting my ass around. I'll buy the food.”

“A monster Thickburger does sound good....” Ronaldo dreamily whispered. So it was decided. To the nearby Hardee's! The lady in the other car at the McDonald's went her separate way. Farewell, Anonymous Drive-Thru Woman!

At Hardee's, rather than heading directly to the drive-thru, Ronaldo pulled into the parking lot behind it. The three climbed out of the car and stood before the gently glowing menu.

“I'm thinking of trying that jalapeno chicken sammich,” Fernando says.

“I dunno. Monster thickburger is a thing,” Cortez answers.

“Right, but two of those for one of those.”

“You don't know how big they are.”

“No, but it won't be the size of a McChicken or something. This is Hardee's, not a place which doesn't want to take your money.”

“It's a fair point,” Ronaldo admits.

“You guys do what you want. I'm for a thickburger,” Cortez says.

They reenter the vehicle, pull out of the adjacent parking lot, and realign the car in the drive-thru. A man cheerily cleaned one of the large windows in the dining area while a Beatles song blared over the builder's exterior speakers.

“Hi, welcome to Hardee's! What can I get you?” a cheery female voice asks out the drive-thru speaker.

Ronaldo leans over to the speaker. “I'd like four jala--”

“No, I changed my mind. Make it six,” Cortez says. “And some bacon ranch fries.”

“Sorry, six jalapeno chicken sandwiches--”

“Six you said?” the woman asks.

“Yeah, six. And an order of bacon ranch fries.”

The nice lady repeats what Ronaldo had told her to verify the order. Everything seems in order, and the final cost comes to about twenty-eight dollars. “Thank you for choosing Hardee's!” the woman says at the exchange's close.

“Thank you for not being McDonalds,” Ronaldo answers.

The food takes some while to prepare, but it's fine. The three sit in the car and share laughs and merry tales of how the evening had progressed to this point. The frightened man at McDonalds was compared to someone Ronaldo knows from work, a man he described as “a pedophile who talks as if he has a pine cone up his butthole.” When the food arrives, Ronaldo pulls aside and parks in the Hardee's parking lot once more so that the food might be enjoyed without worrying about crashing the car or traffic regulations.

And such sammiches they were. Oh, their splendor. Heaped with delightful hot pepper goodness and slathered in a mouthwatering chipotle sauce, hot and fresh and as satisfying as, in Fernando's own words, “Like a woman's hand in a llamaskin glove.”

Because it was 3 AM, these words were seen as the most hilarious thing on earth. Cortez conjured cans of Vanilla Coke from some nether dimension and a right and proper feast was had.

'Twas a good good night. But, at its end, Fernando returned to the Dominion, copies of Skyfall and bag of cat litter in hand: the ultimate hero's return.

Try the Other Place

The phone rings one morning at around eleven. It is an hour before opening, but Fernando picks up anyhow. “Hello, Dominion of Movies.”

There is a woman on the other end. She sounds old. “Do you know where I can buy Christmas movies?” she asks without any preamble.

Answering that question blunt- and honest-like would get Fernando into a heap of social trouble, so he works to ensure he's giving the woman an answer which she'd find palatable. To do this, he fishes for more information. “Any particular ones that you have in mind?”

“Just Christmas movies.”

How specific. Maybe it's time for the honest answer after all. “Well, aside from retail stores--”

“No, I've tried there. Other places.”

May as well try to make a buck. “I could order some in, if you wanted to give me specific titles--”

“I want to look around on my own.”

May as well be as helpful as possible. “In that case, the best place would be online, Amazon or eBay or sites like that.”

“I don't trust 'em.”

Oh okay. “Perhaps Goodwill, then?”

“I've tried there. They don't have anything.”

“Then I'm afraid I don't know where else, no.”

This statement does not meet with a warm reception. “How can you not know about any other places or have any? You're in the business, aren't you?”

Fernando had awoken late that morning and hadn't yet consumed the necessary ration of coffee to fortify his willpower and avoid transforming into an snippy dick in the face of a crabby woman. “Sorry, I can't yet cast fabricate. I'm not quite ninth level. If I find anything I'll be sure to let you know, though.”

Either the woman comprehended Fernando's deep foray into nerdery or she didn't care. “Okay. Call me then.” She hangs up.

Fernando replaces the phone in its cradle, then starts resolving his deplorable coffee situation.

Phone Tag, I'm It

The phone rings one Monday morning at around ten-thirty. Fernando checks out the caller ID, but it's not his distributor nor the government, but rather “Wireless Caller.” As this is well before opening, Fernando does not answer. The secondary reason is he is just about to head out the door to walk the half-mile or so to his credit union in order to make a deposit in his business account so his payments to various organizations are assured to go through and the Dominion is not denied minor, unimportant things like running water or electricity. As he steps out, the phone is on its sixth or seventh ring.

As this also happens to be Labor Day, you can guess how well that plan worked out for our intrepid hero. He doesn't really pay attention to most holidays, since what's a holiday to a Keeper of a Dominion? Generally a day on which he makes more money. But he is not perturbed, since it is a rather nice day and a little bit of exercise never hurt anybody (unless they are one of those terminally obese people who need the lifter-machines to get into their magic wheelchairs, I suppose).

Fernando takes his time coming back to the store, swinging by the post office to throw a couple of bills into the exterior mailbox. He sees three or four of his customers drive by along the highway as he ambles down the sidewalk. They wave and he waves back.

When he gets back to the store about twenty minutes later, the phone is ringing. Again or still, Fernando has no clue, but the caller ID still reads Wireless Caller. Fernando settles into his chair and fires up Dungeons of Dredmor as the phone jangles on in the background. After the eighteenth ring (of which Fernando was aware) it finally ceases.

“Persistent bugger, aren't you?” Fernando remarks to himself and the Guardian Spiders in his office's hidden places.

Opening time eventually comes around and Fernando does that. In true Saladolsa fashion, the weather had transitioned from “pretty dang nice” to “overcast rainstorm” in the intervening hours, and Fernando made amazing amounts of money because people could not enjoy their day off outdoors. Oh, if only it had not been rent-one-get-one-free.

Around 5 PM, as Fernando is in the middle of helping a customer, the phone rings again. This is not the first call Fernando had received since opening, as people wanted to find out what he still had in stock and to place reservations on the things which would otherwise be snapped up.

“Excuse me for one second,” Fernando tells the nice lady, one of Fernando's regulars. He scoops the phone up. “Hello, Dominion of Movies.”

“Finally!” Fernando does not recognize this male voice at all.

Fernando blinks. “Er. How can I help you?”

“I've been trying to call you all day and you finally pick up now?”

“Um...I guess so. What can I do for you?”

“I need you to tell me if you have some movies.”

“Sure thing.”

Awkward silence blooms. Fernando assumed that the implicit invitation to begin rattling off titles was apparent, but this was not the case. Both Fernando and the strange man begin speaking at the same time after a short while.

“Hey! Are you there?”

“What were you looking for?”

More silence. The nice customer lady places money on the countertop and mouths, “Thanks, see you later,” before taking her movies and departing.

“Hello?” Fernando says at last.

There's no answer. There's no “call disconnected” deep-deep-deep so he tries again.

“Hello?”

Still nothing. Fernando waits for ten or fifteen more seconds before hanging up.

The guy never called back, nor did anyone indignant end up stopping by to firebomb the store.

Godmonger

Fernando sits in the office at his computer one morning, sipping at coffee and catching up on his daily news. As he raises a cup of liquid bliss to his mouth, the glass of his door suffers a great pounding.

“What in the hell?” Fernando says aloud. He swings out of the office and sees a young, well-groomed, stereotypically Teutonic male standing there with a satchel over his shoulder and books in his hands.

Ah, right on time.

Fernando heads to the door and pops it open, then stands so as to bar Our Little Aryan from entering, for the lad took a step forward as though Fernando's appearance meant he was welcome inside the Dominion. “Yes?”

“Good morning, sir. I'm with a fellowship trying to raise money for a scholarship at a Christian high school. We thought we would try something a little bit different this year.” He extends a book titled Cooking and Faith in Fernando's direction. “Tell me, sir, what...kind of foods do you enjoy?”

The young man's hesitation is brought about because he finally noticed Fernando fixing his gimlet gaze on his visitor's vapid blue eyes. The whole time he was speaking he looked at a point above and to the right of Fernando's head. Fernando checked afterwards if perhaps a guardian spider had taken up residence there, but the potential arachnid perhaps proved savvy enough to maybe avoid having to deal with the chance of experiencing a disgusting combination of proselytizing and panhandling. But, no, the boy was just unwilling or unable to look Fernando in the face when he spoke.

“I'm sorry, I recently gave up eating. I'm afraid your offerings do not interest me.”

This does not faze the cultist. “Well, sir, I have a wide selection of other types of literature--”

“I can't read.”

The minion who claimed to speak on God's behalf did not give up. “Well, if I could interest you in a pamphlet or prayer book--”

“Ce jahor tal, kachadimich!” Fernando looks down at his body as if in shock. “Ih ce cemeler celim theaad nal? Kez mochim ye! Celim mochad, chnaim mochad, cen cemad!” Fernando backs away, cringing and wringing his hands. It is not often that Fernando finds himself possessed and speaking in tongues.These things worry him.

The door clicks shut. Normally when people engage in hammy theatrics similar to those Fernando just did, onlookers have some sort of reaction. They may laugh at the absurdity of it all, they make shake their heads and wonder how the poor soul is outside his padded room, they may do something else entirely, but they do something. This guy just stood there, watching, until Fernando had rounded the bend leading to the office.

Abrahamic faiths argue that humans are the only creatures to possess souls and all the trappings to come along with that dubious honor, but the automatons slaving away not in the name of God, but in the name of some pseudoreligious hack who claims to speak for God, go a long way towards debunking this claim.

Amateur Delivery Hour

Fernando comes down to the store early one day because he is expecting his weekly allotment of movies to arrive. By being at the store, he can ensure they come into his possession and he can set them up and subsequently rent them out all with minimal fuss. Usually the UPS guy comes through between 11 AM and 1 PM, but since Fernando has been at the Dominion since 10 AM things seem like they could not go wrong.

Pssssssssshhhhhahahahahahahahahahahaha!

Come half past 1, Fernando grows increasingly perturbed by his dearth of inventory, so he double-checks the shipment tracker. He heads to the distributor's website to get his incredibly long tracking code and copy-pastes that into the UPS website. The page that pops up after Fernando clicks “SUBMIT” proves equally enlightening and infuriating.

Apparently a shipment attempt was made at 1.12 PM local time. Because “the receiver's location was closed,” the delivery could not go as scheduled and another attempt will be made the following day.

This sounds rather legitimate, except for the teensy detail that Fernando was at the damn store the whole time. Either UPS came into a great deal of disposable income and invested in some damn fine cloaking technology for their vehicles or Fernando is dealing with monumental levels of ineptitude.

So he makes a phone call to the local UPS store. -Ring ring ring-

“UPS Store, how can I help you?”

“Yeah, this is Fernando Stevens calling from the Dominion of Movies in Saladolsa. I was expecting a shipment to arrive today and when I checked the tracking info it seems that a delivery attempt was made.”

“Well, sir, we're just the shipment center, so I actually can't help you with that. Let me get you a number you can call where you can receive assistance. Are you ready?”

Fernando tells her that he is and she rattles off a 1-800 number for him to call. Fernando thanks her for her help and then proceeds to dial it.

“Welcome to the UPS automated customer service. Para español oprima uno.”

Sigh.

Fernando is presented with four choices which he may say. None of them are what he wants, namely a real person on the line. He holds his peace and the robot-lady repeats herself after pretending to be sorry that she could not hear him.

Fernando keeps waiting. Robot-Lady goes through her spiel two more times with increasingly exasperated words appended to her rote recitations. First it is, “Sorry,” then, “Please speak louder,” then she began presenting Fernando with numerical alternatives for the options, which were no doubt enacted through pressure from the mime lobby.

After about three minutes of Robot-Lady talking to herself, she finally says, “If you would like to speak with a live representative, please press 0.” Fernando does.

A different robot-lady now says, “Please hold. A customer representative will be with you shortly.” Fernando is then shunted to Inoffensive Muzak Land, where atonal saxophones hork a repetitive sequence of notes. Second Robot-Lady interrupts every thirty seconds with, “Please hold. A customer service representative will be with you shortly,” and this is Inoffensive Muzak's cue to loop the reel.

Fernando sits down and begins typing up this Chronicle as he waits.

Fernando just got a live customer service representative on the line now.

“UPS customer service, how may I help you?” says a woman with a faint Hispanic accent.

“Hi, my name is Fernando Stevens and I'm calling from the Dominion of Movies in Saladolsa. I was expecting a parcel to arrive and I just checked the tracking information. A delivery attempt was made here at 1.12 my time but I've been here since the morning and I didn't see any of your trucks pass by.”

“Could you get me the tracking number, please?” she asks.

Fernando takes a deep breath and reads off the 25-digit monstrosity. After a pause, the woman on the other end says, “Yes, that seems to have been the case. It seems that this is the second delivery attempt, is this correct?”

“If that's what it says. I was not around yesterday when the delivery was made so I actually can't vouch for it, though.”

“And you received a notice slip informing you that the delivery attempt was made today?”

“Actually, no. I didn't even see the truck pass by.”

“I understand, sir. Could you give me your last name, sir?”

“Stevens. S-T-E-V-E-N-S. But the package is probably addressed to the Dominion of Movies.”

Fernando faintly hears keys click-clacking. “Yes, I see. Your phone number?”

Fernando provides it. More faint typing. “Okay, sir, we will contact the driver and inform him that you are expecting the delivery. Are your business hours clearly posted on the door?”

“They are, but I'm usually here well in advance of when I open when I expect a delivery.”

“Very good, sir. Allow me to place you on hold while I process this information.”

“Okay, thank you.” Fernando is returned to the Land of Inoffensive Muzak where he waits for about three minutes until he is disconnected from the call, presumably by the customer service representative.

Fernando types up to this point in the Chronicle and polishes up the stuff he wrote before. Then he waits. The customers who enter the store expecting a bounty of new media to consume are left disappointed, and for that Fernando apologizes.

His movies arrive the following day at about 10:30 AM.

Derp

It's a Friday, frigid and hateful. Fernando sits in his office and is speaking on the Book of Faces with one of his compatriots, Oso Hija. The conversation is mundane and soon the topic turns to work because that is apparently what adults talk about.

“Today is a super-duper slow day for me,” types Fernando. “I have not made a single cent!”

“That's because you need more exciting advertising!”

“Like what?”

Oso Hija links Fernando to a page full of neon signs which can be purchased. There is an abundance of ones that read “Live Nudes” and “PORN!” Oso Hija can be quite the comedienne at times.

“Are you suggesting that I attain live nudes?”

“You can get the PORN! sign, and just start carrying porn movies. Think of all the business you'd generate!”

Fernando is about to respond to her with a comment about how he likes maintaining the sanctity of his back room when a vehicle pulls up, then backs up in front of the window. The driver looks at Fernando in confusion, and Fernando has no idea what is going on. The man shrugs and points over to Fernando's front door, so Fernando gets up to check it out. Maybe an animal was turned into road pizza or something.

But, no. Fernando was just a derper and forgot to flip his freaking sign to OPEN. He remedies this and has a sudden, mad influx of custom to the store.

When he finally has a spare moment to attend the conversation on the computer, Oso Hija tells him, “That's okay. Nobody's perfect!” Then, after a pause, “You should write a blog about this!”

“That would make me look bad.”

“Exactly!”

Okay, Oso Hija. You win.

Closing Time

It's 7.57 PM on a rainy evening. Fernando has just finished his counting out for the evening and is about to shut down the computer when the phone rings. Against Fernando's better judgment, he picks up.

"Hello, Dominion of Movies."

"Yeah, are you guys still open?"

"I'm actually just about to close up."

"Well, can you stay open for a little while longer so we can come down and get some movies?"

"How much is a little while?"

"We should be in by 8.30 or so."

"I'm sorry, I have things to do at home. I open tomorrow at 2 if you guys would care to stop by then."

"We wanted to rent tonight. Would it be so hard for you to stick around?"

"Well, closing time is at 8. I'm not waiting around for half an hour to make an extra three bucks. Sorry. Have a nice evening."

Fernando then goes home and makes delicious spaghetti.

Jackassitude

One Saturday the phone starts to ring about an hour before opening as Fernando is sorting his returns. Normally Fernando ignores phone calls, especially those that read CELLULAR NUMBER, that long before he's officially “on the clock,” as it were, but on this day he feels subconsciously extraordinary and picks up.

“Hello, Dominion of Movies.”

“Yeah, I was wondering if you had Jackass 3 in.”

“Um...I don't have any copies in at the moment, but if you wanted to give me your name and number I can give you a call as soon as I get one in.”

“Uh. Ok. It's Sammy Salami, and 101-0110.” Fernando jots this information down in his Notebook of Infinite Might and Justice and reiterates to the young man that he will contact him once someone returns one of Fernando's copies of that godawful movie.

They exchange good-byes and Fernando resumes his lonely vigil in the empty store, keeping entertained by reading Fark and consuming coffee.

A little more than one hour later, at around quarter after twelve, about fifteen minutes after opening....

-Ring ring ring-

“Hello, Dominion of Movies?”

“Yeah, have you gotten back Jackass 3 yet?” It is the same man as earlier.

“Er...no, no I haven't.”

“Well, do you know when you'll have them back by?”

“Not really. I've only been open for about fifteen minutes and have only gotten back maybe a quarter of the movies that were rented yesterday. All my copies are due back today, though, so odds are pretty decent that I'll have one in at some point in the nearish future.”

“Oh, ok. You're still giving me a call when you get them in?”

“Absolutely.” And the young man hangs up, and Fernando resumes his wait.

DUN DUN DUNNN

Business Does Not Work That Way

Saturday morning in early June. Fernando is completing his opening ceremony and has just finished vacuuming. He is busy straightening the rugs when a truck pulls up. Despite it being fifteen minutes before opening with the sign clearly set to "CLOSED," the forty-something man and woman in the vehicle nevertheless saunter up to the door and give it a mighty yank, then start gesturing in fervor when the door fails to open.

Fernando is feeling kindhearted and decides to open a bit early, so the couple enters the store as Fernando finishes the cleaning at the front of the store. Not one minute later, the woman asks, “Have you put out the movies you got back yet?”

“No, actually, I haven't. I was about to do that once I finished up out here,” Fernando responds.

“Oh. Well, can you tell me what you have back there?”

Hell. One of those people. “I will sort my returns and put out the tags as quickly and accurately as possible, yes.”

The couple then proceeds to stand directly at the counter, not even bothering to browse the rest of the store, until Fernando finishes sorting his returns, which takes all of about five minutes. He gathers the tags and the duo then requests that he dump them on the counter for their perusal. They eventually pick out movies that have corresponding copies still out on the floor from the day before.

Fernando begins to fill out the slip and the gentleman asks, “How much more would it cost to rent these things until Monday?”

“It would be a $1.50 per movie.”

“Ok, let's do that.”

So Fernando writes the slip and informs the man when he is finished that the total comes to $15. Apparently, this struck a nerve. “You said they would be $1.50 each!”

“No, they would be an extra $1.50 each. $3.50 for the first night. $5 total.”

“You didn't say that.”

“I assumed I shouldn't have to. That would be disastrous business sense, for me to rent movies out for two nights at less than half the cost of a single-night rental. If I actually were to do such a thing, I would have no choice but to fire myself.”

Master Chronomancer He Is Not

It is Fernando's third day of ownership, and he is sorting out the rental returns when he spies through the blinds a teenager who approaches the Land of Movies at about 1 PM. The youth gives the door a mighty yank but it, being locked as Fernando is not yet open for business, does not budge. The teenager leaves in consternation. Fernando shrugs in mild amusement and resumes his sorting.

Fifteen minutes later, the teenager returns and gives the door a few more solid yanks but is again thwarted by the immovable combination of metal and glass. Fernando is now more confused than amused at the young man's behavior. Fernando has, in the meanwhile, finished sorting the returns and was perusing his most favorite news aggregate site and the flamewars that exist thereon.

Again, fifteen minutes later, the teenager comes around and puts all his strength into trying to pry the door open, to the point that cases were jittering upon the shelves. “Well, that’s enough of this,” thought Fernando, who comes out of the office and approaches the door, where the adolescent has a most pissed-off look on his face.

“Can I help you?” Fernando asks, opening the door and moving quickly to block the hooligan when he tries entering.

“Yeah, I thought you guys are supposed to be open at 2.”

“Um…we are supposed to be open at 2. But that’s half an hour from now.”

“No, it’s not.” The youth whips out his cellular telephone and shows Fernando the time given thereon: 2:33. Confident in his faultless logic, the teenager constantly squeezes into Fernando’s personal space, making him most discomfited, but is firmly denied entry.

“Where are you from again?” The gentleman sputters a response, incredulous that Fernando would ask a question with such an apparently obvious answer.

“Yep, this is certainly not the Eastern Time Zone. We're in Central Time, and it’s only 1:33 here. Come back in 27 minutes.”