Day 8: 13, 856 Words, Jackie and Chadwick Clash, and a Surprise Appearance of Our Favourite Olympic Hopeful

Things kind of flowed today! Two reasons, well maybe three. 1) Blatant plagiarism from other blogs. 2) Surrender to Week 2 and letting every word be a good word. 3) My characters are kind of taking on a life of their own. So, first, I wanted to directly answer Indigo's question, because it was a good one. Why was Berto so distraught about seeing Windigo's design?

“You’re right, you don’t understand.” Berto replied. “The butt-face pant requires daily, sometimes even twice a day alterations. The human body is not static, it is dynamic. Especially the butt. Even one one-hundredth of a millimeter of change in weight or gluteal muscle mass will result in catastrophic failure of the placement of the face-butt. As I said, it must be placed just so.” Logan still looked confused. Understandable, since he was probably used to everything fitting his butt just so. Berto continued.

“No one has heard from Windigo in weeks. Well, it feels like weeks, but it’s really been days. Trust me, I have texted repeatedly,” (zero people doubted that) “and no one has seen or heard from Windigo.” Understanding was starting to sink in for Cass and Logan. Who knew the butt-face pant would be such an important clue?

“So our brand new substitute teacher, who none of us knew before 5 minutes ago, had his face-butt pants altered by Windigo Esmort this morning?” Cass asked. Berto nodded solemnly. Although Cass had felt instinctively like she could trust the new teacher, she was no longer sure. Either the new teacher knew Windigo Esmort well enough to have them alter his pants that very morning, when none of Windigo’s beloved friends had heard from them, or Windigo Esmort was being held captive, away from their phone, or without access to VIP or other Wifi, and was being forced against their will to alter face-butt pants for strangers. To serve what purpose, Cass couldn’t imagine, but she felt chilled to the bone.

Then a surprise appearance by fan favourite, Cody Simpson:

“Is that Cheeto dust on your face?” Jackie asked, without missing a beat in his polishing, and without even casting a glance in Chadwick’s direction. The drunken bar Santa had the gall to laugh. The gall! Chadwick took three deep breaths- he was a master of regulating his own nervous system- and pasted an unhinged smile on his face. He could charm anyone with that smile.

“Hahaha LOL that’s a “common” mistake, if you’ll excuse the turn of phrase. Pardonnez mon français, as they say,” Chadwick leered. “This dust is…”

His voice faded away as Jackie turned his full attention to him. The man’s gaze was piercing, unnerving. Chadwick could see that his charm was getting him nowhere. This man was a serious customer.

“What was that you were saying?” Jackie asked, a smile twisting his lips menacingly.

Chadwick opened his mouth but shut it again when Jackie raised a single eyebrow. Chadwick slowly reached his hand into one of the many pockets of his cargo pants. Some plebes less fashionable than Chadwick considered himself to be might scoff and say that he looked like a third rate chauffeur, but Chadwick knew that the cuff was expertly rolled, and that wearing pants ‘of the people’ while still adding a touch of elegance made him appear trustworthy while still exceedingly superior to everyone else in the room. From the ample side pocket he withdrew a bag of Cody Simpson’s Own Artisanal Cheese Puffs.” He approached the bar, slowly, as though approaching a wild animal, and placed the bag gently on the bar in front of Jackie.

“Where did you get these?” Jackie asked sharply. Had the music stopped? Chadwick was sweating, and he didn’t even wear his sweat-wicking cape today. How had this fanciful excursion turned so bad so quickly?

“Uh, I…” he stammered, no longer able to recall anything at all.

“I’m simply asking because Jackie’s Place has exclusive rights to sell Cody Simpson’s Own Artisanal Puffs. All cheese is turned to dust on site by the “grate” abs of the Director of IT and VIP WiFi Coordinator, Cody Simpson.” Jackie said, smiling like a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

A door somewhere in the back of the dim resto-lounge creaked open, not unlike a sound effect Hallowe’en soundtrack cd from the 90s and none other than beloved Australian pop star, Olympic hopeful, former high school swim coach, Cody Simpson appeared at Jackie's side. His bright smile cut through the grime and grimness of Jackie’s Place like a ray of light on a sunny day.

“G’day” he said, nodding at Chadwick, whose mouth hung open, making him look both unhinged and gormless, and also at grave peril of having a fly enter his mouth. There were more than a few circling.

“It can’t be!” he shouted, losing control of his nervous system and forgetting all about the unconscious and the psychological defense of projections and transferences that emanate from the unconscious of a person, especially one with a highly dysregulated nervous system. “I fired you!” he scream whined, his tone evocative of nails on a blackboard.

“Yes, and Barnaby Secondary School’s loss was our gain,” Jackie said, patting Cody Simpson on the shoulder.

“Is he even qualified to Coordinate VIP Wifi?” Chadwick asked, trying to regain control of the situation.

“Are you?” Jackie asked, delivering the stunning rebuke with an air of boredom. He had returned to polishing glasses. “And anyway, as someone much more intelligent than you once said, ‘what can’t he do?’” Jackie chuckled, placing another tin can of Unpleasant Tang in front of the Salvation Army Santa, who had not requested it and did not appear to want it, but nonetheless accepted his fate. One did not question what was served to one at Jackie’s Place. It wouldn’t do. It wouldn’t do at all.