A few years back, I was commissioned to write a story for the 'We're Alive' podcast.
Long story short, it didn't pan out.
But I spent a very long time writing it for it to languish in my computer. I spent that time not only writing it for the 'We're Alive' folks, but mostly for my readers.
So what I've decided to do is publish my initial story here, via my blog, as a work of FAN FICTION, a completely unofficial piece about a character from the series. This is completely unofficial and unauthorized, but I think my work and time spent on this project deserve to see the light of day.
I would like to encourage everyone who might enjoy this fan fiction to check out the officials 'We're Alive' website HERE. It is a fantastic and well-developed world created by a group of professional writers and expert voice actors.
In the meantime, here's the completlely unofficial, unauthorized 'We're Alive' fan fiction, originally entitled (WORKING TITLE: BURT)
BY
BOWIE V. IBARRA
From an idea from the creators of the
Copyright 2011 PRODUCERS OF “WE’RE ALIVE” PODCAST, BOWIE V. IBARRA
7B. THE SPRINGTIME
OF LOVE
THREE MONTHS LATER
It was a
long day at work, but productive. When
customers weren’t in the store, and after Burt had made sure all his daily
duties were completed, he worked on his business plan. The possibilities of running his own gun shop
made him happy, and he knew he could pull off financing and running the new
store.
Burt was
taking a few minutes to wipe down the glass display cases as the clock
tick-tocked to the 8 o’clock hour when the front door of the store ding-donged
with digital dullness.
Burt looked
up and was surprised to see who it was.
“Shirley,”
he said, smiling. His heart skipped a
beat. “Come in to rub your big victory
in my face?”
Though she
was clearly crestfallen, she had enough in her for one of her signature sexy
comebacks. “I’d rather rub something
else on your face, ‘Satchmo’.”
In spite of
the comeback, Burt could tell she was sad.
He put his cleaning implements down and walked to Shirley. He offered a hand, but she took him in an
embrace instead.
“Just hold
me for a minute, you big lug,” she whispered.
It was a
peculiar gesture, but much welcomed. He
felt her soft, feminine body against his.
It was quite a jolt, as he hadn’t held a woman like this in years.
“What’s
going on here, Shirley?” he asked.
“I need a
drink. Need to talk,” she sighed. “I want to have a drink and talk to you.”
Something
big happened. He didn’t want to ask any
questions, at least right now. But Burt
was more than happy to oblige her request.
“Let me
lock up. I know a little dive just a few
blocks from here.”
She nodded
her head. She smiled.
He smiled.
Shirley
wasn’t playing around we she said she needed a drink.
Burt and
Shirley had not been in the bar more than ten minutes and Shirley had already
taken two well tequila shots (the well tequila was called Julio Lentes), and
was now working on a well whiskey-based Manhattan (the well whiskey was L’Amour).
“I was on
the other side of town near Pomona when I got the news,” she said, taking a
long swig. “They said he was putting a
perp in the back of a squad car when the perp’s girlfriend, this crazy bitch
who had been shouting… talking shit to him the whole time, pulled a gun and
shot him in the head. Bitch knew he was
wearing a vest.”
Shirley
took yet another drink, almost finishing the cocktail she hadn’t had for more
than ten minutes. Burt took a swig with
her from his drink. He wasn’t nursing his
Jim Beam on the rocks (easy rocks), but wasn’t drinking as fast as Shirley.
“They
wouldn’t let me see him at the morgue.
It was a closed casket funeral.”
She was fighting back tears. Burt
held up two fingers to the bartender with one hand while pointing at the two
empty shot glasses of tequila with the other.
“I have to
admit…” Then she paused. Burt could sense the advent of an emotional
purge about to begin. He prepped
himself, because he knew he was right.
“I have to
admit,” she said again, trying again to say the words without crying to no
avail. She closed her eyes tight, and
her face began to grimace with repressed sadness. Tears began to fall from her eyes, squeezed
out and rolling down her cheeks. Eye
shadow laced the tears in black, as if a dark tumor on her soul had been
squashed like an orange. Her body was
cleansing itself of its negative power through her tears, the blood of the
monkey on her back that had died when Greg had died. She was Atlas unburdened. The transition was painful, but liberating.
All of it,
everything she was holding back, was finally going to come out.
“I have to…
admit that I’m glad the bastard is dead,” she finally said, laughing through
her tears. “I’m so glad he’s dead,” she
chuckled again. It was a true, real
release. Pure joy. Burt could feel it. “Oh, my God, I’m glad he’s dead.”
She lifted
the remains of her Manhattan and chugged the rest.
“Atta
girl,” chuckled Burt as the bartender brought over two more shots of the cheap
tequila, dressed just as before with salt and a lime.
“You don’t
know how good it was to say that,” said Shirley, wiping away the tears. “Shit.
My mascara’s running.”
“Don’t
worry about it,” said Burt, handing her a cocktail napkin.
Shirley
began to wipe the black streaks off her cheeks, the purged abscess of her
soul. She said, “My two kids hated
him. They stopped coming to the house
when I started dating him.”
“Kids?”
asked Burt.
“Two
girls. They’re all grown now and
married. One’s in Sacramento. The other is in Fremont. It meant so much when they would come
visit. Now,” she chuckled, “I guess
they’ll start coming back.” She began to
chuckle, then whimper again. She leaned
in to Burt for an embrace. He was more
than happy to take her into his arms. He
could smell cigarette smoke in her hair.
Burt gently
stroked her back, patting it every so often.
Her hands gently stroked his back with appreciative affection before
gripping him tighter. Then, they both
released their embrace.
“You were
not happy, were you?” said Burt.
“At first,
yes. But that shit stopped quick.” She paused.
“He abused me, Burt. Physically. Sex.. sexually. He was a total jerk.”
“I’m
sorry,” said Burt, handing her the tequila shot and taking his.
“You know,”
she mused, “I’m glad it was closed casket.
Because if it was open, I would have spit in that fucker’s face.”
She hoisted
the glass.
“What are
you toasting to?” asked Burt.
“A toast to
new friends, and to the devil. May he
cook that sonovabitch and fuck him in the ass for all eternity.”
Burt
smiled, raising the glass. “Atta girl,”
he whispered.
The glasses
clinked as if casting the curse they placed on Greg’s dead soul. They licked the salt off the rim, took the
shot, and squeezed the lime in their mouth to complete the social hex.
“Another
Manhattan, another Jim on the rocks, easy rocks, and two more shots,” said
Burt.
“Oh, my
God. Whose idea was this?” chuckled
Shirley.
“This idea
was yours, young lady,” said Burt, also running out of breath. “All yours.”
“It wasn’t
my idea,” she said, smiling.
“Don’t
throw this misadventure on me, kitten.
No, no, no,” he replied.
They were
only a few yards from the large, white, and iconic ‘Hollywood’ sign, having
climbed up the hill for the past few minutes.
“Are we
going to get in trouble?” asked Burt.
“Maybe,”
said Shirley, taking a seat on a patch of ground. Burt joined her.
“The last
thing I ever thought I’d be doing after work on a Tuesday night is sitting
under the Hollywoood sign, drunk, carrying a .45 Colt.”
“My
.45 Colt,” said Shirley. “And me, the
same, with a bottle of Jim.”
“My
bottle of Jim,” said Burt. They
chuckled, looking over the sprawling L.A. county. The lights of the city burned with energy
like a Pentium processor chip in a super computer, sizzling with life.
The L.A.
night buzzed below them as they sat on the quiet hillside. The sweet wind of the California night gently
cooled them down.
“What is it
about life that makes it such a roller coaster?” asked Shirley, taking out a
pack of Marlboro Lights. She removed a
cigarette for herself. She offered Burt
one. He waved her off.
“Who
knows?” he said. “God, maybe.” Burt spun the cap off the bottle of Jim Beam
and took a swig. He passed it to
Shirley, who took a swig herself.
“You know,
if it wasn’t such a roller coaster, who’d want to live it?”
“Some
people don’t make it,” she replied.
There was an awkward silence as they both reflected on Greg.
“The end of
the world comes quick for some, huh?” said Shirley, breaking the silence.
Burt tried
to change the subject. “What is the end
of the world?” he asked. “Sure,
individual death. But what about the
world? The end times? What is it?”
“Plague,”
thought Shirley. “War. Anything.
I see the world ending by some kind of plague.” She gazed off into the distance, as if
hypnotized by the thought and the sparkling LA night. “Everyone just dying. The world leaders finally coming together,
but its too late. Everyone just dies.”
Burt took a
moment, then blurted out, “Did I ever tell you I wanted to have a gun shop of
my own?”
“Are you
serious?” said Shirley.
“Absolutely
dead serious. Just like the place I’m
working at now, but named ‘The Armory’.”
“That’s
such a dumb name.”
“What?”
asked Burt. “The Armory is not a dumb
name.”
“You need
to call it something cool. Something gun
lovers will enjoy saying or telling their friends about.”
“Okay, Miss
Business Smarty-Pants. What should the
name be?”
“Locked and
Loaded,” she replied with confindence.
“Locked and
Loaded?” whispered Burt. “Locked and
Loaded.”
“Locked and
Loaded,” said Shirley, nodding.
“You know
what?” said Burt. “I like it. Locked and Loaded it is.”
“See, I
told you there were better names.”
Burt looked
at her quizzically. “How did you come up
with that name?”
“Because I’ve
always wanted a gun shop of my own, too,” she said. “That’s the name I would call it if I had
one.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
The two
shared a smile, then looked back out across the sizzling city lightscape.
Silence. All that danced between them was the gentle
breeze of the night.
“You know,”
said Shirley, breaking the silence yet again.
“You didn’t have to throw the competition.”
Burt
blushed. “I didn’t throw the … are you
saying I took a fall?”
“You didn’t
have to take a fall for me.”
Burt explained. “I made a shot. A good shot.”
“One you
knew I could beat,” she said. “You
didn’t have to take the fall.”
Burt turned
and looked Shirley in the eye. “I didn’t
have to fall for you, either. But I
did.”
Shirley
blushed. A moment shocked them with
heat. Part alcohol. Part fire that had been burning in their
hearts since that first day they met at the gun shop.
Breaking
the tension and the gaze, Shirley looked over at a cactus in the distance. “One shot.
That cactus flower. Winner take
all.”
Shirley
pulled out her pistol. She took aim.
She fired.
She missed.
Burt
smiled. He pulled out his piece. He took aim.
He fired.
The flower
was summarily removed.
Turning to
Shirley, Burt said, “You didn’t have to take the fall.”
“I didn’t
have to fall for you, either,” she said, leaning into Burt. “But I did.”
And with
that, Burt leaned in. He might not have
had the company of a woman for many years.
But he was man enough to know when a woman wanted knowledge of him. And he was man enough to satisfy the request.
Their lips
met for the first time under the lascivious gaze of the white hot letters of
Hollywood.
FOLLOW THE CHAPTERS HERE!
Check out the 'We're Alive' podcast HERE...
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For the full scoop on the story, join the official ZBFbooks.com Facebook group HERE.
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