AN INCREDIBLY COOL DAY

Phil Cooldude sat in his fully automatic, all-inclusive, turbocharged hydrogen cell powered Ford Bastard Coupe, chilling out after a hard afternoon cruising the highways for junk to add to his autonomic sculpture project.

He lit himself a Marlboro Light and continued to gaze, through his Armani sunglasses, at the groovy chicks and gorgeous guys as they passed by. Life sure was cool, here in coolsville.

Then, for a moment, everything shimmered. The hard drugs he had ingested earlier that day began to wear off, and he suddenly saw himself as he really was: an ugly jerk in a beat-up old car leering at passers-by.

This called for urgent action. Phil dived for the stash box in the glove compartment and cut himself three fat lines of Hubrizine, which he snorted up using a decrepit old McDonald's milkshake straw.

His surroundings shimmered again as the infamous arrogance-inducing drug took effect. The blistered paintwork and worn, fag-burnt out seats of the car became leather upholstery and shiny, red paint, the many dents resolved themselves into a sleek, groovy exterior.

His clothes became standard-issue, but groovily unconventional cool-dude sportswear, the parking ticket on the windscreen a window sticker which read SUBSCRIBE TO COOL DUDE MONTHLY, MAGAZINE FOR THE REALLY COOL, and the pile of cigarette ends in the ashtray became a fresh packet of Marlboro.

Phil glanced in the mirror. His unshaven, bum-fluff infested jaw became clean-cut and tough-looking, his disarrayed hair freshly cropped and gelled, and the cheap prescription glasses he wore with one arm Sellotaped on had gone, the Armanis were back.

That was better! Now, back to reality....

The car phone rang. Phil picked it up, and announced: "Phil Cooldude speaking"

"Ahh, Mr. Cooldude, of Cooldude's Cool Things, I presume?"

"Yep that's me. Waddya want?"

"I need a cool thing in my office, urgently. Would you come round and inspect the place, then make your recommendation?"

"No problem. What's your name?"

"Dave Inadequate, of Inadequate Things, inc. We figured some cool things would be necessary, to provide a contrast for the crap we push out to the unsuspecting public. You know our company location?"

"Yea, it's in Crudsville, isn't it?" he bullshitted, an electronic A-Z in hand. On the Bum's Rush Road. Listen, I can be there in about, say, half an hour?"

"Really?"

"No problem." Phil hung up and beamed. That mobile phone had been a good investment. It brought him about three times as much business as the pager, providing him an excellent opportunity to flog off the junk he collected, disguised as 'cool things'.

He put the car into gear and pulled out into the heavy afternoon traffic, then engaged the self-driving circuit, plugged in his electronic A-Z and rummaged about for his battery powered shaver. Soon he had shaved, poured battery water over his head and run a comb through his hair. He then climbed onto the back seat and into the freshish suit he always kept in a case under the passenger seat, along with some underarm deodorant, which he applied copiously in the stinking October heat, not that he'd need it as long as the Hubrizine held out.

After all this, he looked about him. Strange, he thought, I've never been in this part of town. Good thing too, he said to himself, what a fucking dump. I think I'd rather kill myself than live here.

It was a shithole. Bricked and boarded-up houses and decrepit shopfronts lined the rickety, neglected pot-hole infested roads. People shuffled along the pavement, not looking up, going about their business. Whatever the hell that was.

Finally the self-drive circuit clicked into Parking Mode and the car coasted to a halt as it found a space.

Phil got out of the car and coughed, the air was even more polluted and smelly than usual, if that was possible. I hope this is an easy, quick sale, so I can just do my business and fuck off, he thought, putting his sample case on the roof and locking the door. He picked it up and walked off, in the direction indicated by his A-Z.

He entered the run-down, beaten up office of INADEQUATE THINGS, INC. A buzzer sounded as he walked in. Clearly inadequate, he thought, it wouldn't attract the attention of a housefly, let alone any sales manager.

However, presently, a dusty, cobwebbed person appeared from a crummy office at the back wearing a V-neck sweater, acrylic trousers, shirt, and a thickly knotted tie.

The figure extended a hand and coughed violently. "Dave Inadequate" he said, hacking and wheezing.

Phil took his outstretched hand with disdain. "Phil Cooldude, supplier of cool things to the gentry."

"Come in to my office, Phil, and have a coffee, and I'll give you a rough outline of our needs here at I.T. Inc." They stumbled through the impacted junk to a back office that was piled up with shite. A plastic kettle rested dangerously on a shelf above a shagged-out office computer with the back off, the bare circuitry the only undusty thing in the room, including Mr. Inadequate himself.

Subsequently they sipped their coffees and talked business.

"So, tell me about your setup here."

"Well, we supply various non-specific items to homes and businesses in the End City area at low cost. For example, if someone needs a washing-machine, but can't afford it or doesn't want to go for the monthly repayments, we can supply a crappy old twin-tub for the same cost as the deposit on a new one. We do the same with other household items, computers, cars, etcetera, etetera."

"I see. You mean you sell old consumer goods that aren't too good at a fraction of the cost of a new one, for people who want to fill their homes with consumer junk without paying ridiculously inflated high-street prices. Sounds good. So why do you need me?"

"Well, our sales room needs a little... panache. Something to convince the customer that we are a quality company, selling quality goods to a quality public. So I decided to call you in, to supply a few nice-looking nick-knacks to spruce the place up a bit."

"Right. Well, here's my sample case. It contains a few samples of Cool Things." He opened his briefcase. As he did so, a thin mist of liquid Hubrizine sprayed out into Dave Inadequate's face. The fast-acting drug, once breathed in, caused the affected party and anyone near him to feel great about himself and see only the best in everything. So the crappy, broken bits and bobs in the case became groovy, expensive bits and bobs. An expensive pocket computer. A Webcam. One of those poncy BT videophones. All that sorta shit.

"These are my basic product line, costing you a reasonable 10 E's each. You have them lying around the place, and the customer"- he said this pejoratively, meaning 'the mark', 'the sucker' -"the customer will think, subconsciously:

'Hmm, his stuff looks a bit rough, but it must work, because he's making enough money to buy things like this.' And it'll reflect in your sales, Dave, so much that if you don't double them in the next month, I'll give you your money back."

"I see" said Inadequate, not seeing. "But, how can you afford to push these things out at such rock-bottom prices yourself?"

Phil laughed. "Hahahaha. Well, you see Dave, these aren't real Cool Things at all. They're actually cheap fake-style imitation Cool Things, as the customer won't be using them, just looking at them, and being impressed by them, I buy up busted and broken items of Coolery that no longer work. The profit comes from my work, which is in selling them to you, Dave, and performing certain, ah, other work, on your premises such as installing certain fragrances, noted for their psychological effect on the customer."

"Hmm. Well, how about a taster?"

"Well, I can install the fragrances and rent you a package of Cool artefacts for a month, for a very reasonable one-off fee of E100.

*

Phil finished fastening the industrial sized canister of Hubrizine to the wall. Disguised as a fire extinguisher, it would go unnoticed, even if a fire broke out. He then taped the camouflage hosing to the wall and set up the spray-doser. It was all set, on entry, the customer would feel really good about him or herself and even better about all the shiny new consumer goods piled around the place.

He or she would want to buy everything they could, especially at such low prices. And when they got home with their purchases, they would experience a tingle of delight at owning- actually owning- such amazing things, at least until the drug wore off. And by then the money would be in Dave Inadequate's hands, and Dave would say:

"Wow! My sales have gone up by 2,000%! It must be those nick knacks I bought off that amazingly cool dude, that Phil whatshisname."

And when the canister finally wore off, he'd come back. He picked up the 'phone and dialled Dave's mobile number. "Dave? It's all set. Come back in and check it out, Dave. I've decked this place out like a fuckin' palace."

*

Detective Frank Asshole of the End City and Area Police Force stared at his monitor. He'd ordered video and audio surveillance on a crummy run-down shop called Inadequate Things out in the Crudsville area of town, based on the entirely reasonable suspicion that they were pushing out stolen goods, and his minions had paged him in his office, asked him to come down here and showed him a video of a known drug user first trying to sell what was obviously a pile of electronic junk to the owner of the shop, Dave Inadequate, then setting up a cannister of something in the entrance to the shop. He unpaused the video.

"-I've decked this place out like a fuckin' palace." Shit. Hit rewind.

"Dave? It's all set. Come back in and check it out, Dave. I've decked this place out like a fuckin' palace."

Presently Dave Inadequate came back in, through the customer entrance. The spray activated, and he coughed.

"Hack. Bloody asthma." He looked around at the pile-of-shit shop and smiled. "I like it! Why, it's like a completely different shop. Well done, Phil, it looks like you've earned that 100 E's. And I reckon I'll be back before the month's out, too." he burbled, clearly off his face.

Frank stopped the tape and turned to his junior.

"That thing's obviously loaded with reality-altering drugs. I want an undercover geek to go in there and get a sample, but no busts yet." He chuckled. "We might kill two birds with one stone here, hell, if we can get up this guy's supply line maybe more. So tell the geek to be careful. O.K.?"

"Yes, sir" said the minion, and strode off to disburse orders.

* *

As DC Graham Gradgrind headed off to perform the chore of sampling the wickedly large quantities of serious drugs that were being pumped into the hapless customers and management of Inadequate things, Inc, Sue Blisterpack was walking the other way. It was a sunny day and she was feeling especially arrogant and abrasive that day, so much so that she inevitably collided with Gradgrind as they tried futilely to enter the shop at the same time.

Caught for just that fraction of a minute more than was healthy in the narrow doorway, both of them received an enormous overdose of nearly pure Hubrizine as they struggled to get through, the hapless policeman getting the lions share and finally collapsing unconscious in the inner doorway.

Ms. Blisterpack then sauntered in, on such a stupendous ego trip by now that she immediately collided with a huge pile of rusting, mouldy junk, knocking herself out into the bargain.

On seeing the shop suddenly filling up with prone forms Phil and Dave both ran around the stricken sales area at high speed, waving their arms around like chickens, an act which failed to cause anything to happen except some dizziness and exhaustion, so they stopped and appraised the situation rationally.

"I'll get his arms, you take his legs", said Dave, adding "Don't worry about her, she's just an employee" before taking the prostrate pig by the shoulders and heaving.

Obediently, Phil ran around to his legs, grabbed them and lifted.

In their hurry to move the dead-to-the-world pseudo would-be customer nobody noticed when his hardcore as fuck miniaturised police issue sidearm fell out of its holster and hit the deck. Instead they took him into the backroom and got some coffee laced with amphetamine on the go, hoping that the guy wouldn't have to be admitted to the hospital where they'd find out how severally drugged up he was, and bust them both to hell and back.

Fortunately the control room of Police Central was deserted at that moment, due to understaffing the officers assigned to the case were working on about 20 other serious crimes at the same time and therefore missed the action.

While they waited for DC Gradgrind to come to they passed the time by going off to tend to Sue Blisterpack, who it turned out had completely vanished (unknown to them, so had the lost police-issue laser blaster explosive slug pellet don't fuck with me pistol). Shrugging, the two dodgy businessmen headed back into the back room where they found their "customer" drinking the amphetamine laced filter coffee and scratching his head.

"Hello, dear friend." grovelled Dave. "You sort-of- tripped... and fell when you were entering our esteemed shop. Are you all right" he fawned gratuitously.

"Uhhh.... where... who...."

"Is there anything we can do? Perhaps we could.... SELL YOU SOMETHING!?!?!? Like for example, this wonderful, all inclusive, ultra mahogany laminated simulated fur cushion? Or a nice stereo? Or a TV or something?"

Phil Cooldude wasn't going to be left out of the chance to sell rubbish to the near-comatose:

"How would you like a nice Cool Thing to go with that sir? Competitive rates."

"Damn you Phil, this is my shop, and my junk." muttered Dave, "We'll give you a 50% discount, that's our 'painful injuries compensation' special discount for special suckers, I mean, customers", he babbled, all the time hoping he wouldn't get sued, "and you get a FREE furry toy with it, AND the CHANCE to go on a no-expenses paid trip to Ashby De-La Zouch, or if you'd prefer, a week-end-it-all in Clevedon".

"Hell, that's nothing, what he's offering", said Phil, rising to the challenge, "I can get you a genuine fake fragment of discarded circuit board that was used on the Titan landings, be the envy of your friends and enemies alike!"

"If you'll just sign here, on this little disclaimer sir..."

As suddenly as a very sudden thing, the reality of the situation dawned on the cop's mind just as the two fat lines of cheap speed in his coffee also dawned on him. The only conclusion possible for his heavily stimulated, low intelligence type mentality: Violence.

He twitched, reached for his holster and slammed the two geeks up against the wall at the same time: "Alright, you're under arrest. I am an officer of the End City and Environs Police Department, and I am detaining you for as long as is reasonably possible using the maximum force, for assaulting a police officer, being a couple of cunts, resisting arrest, drugging the public, drugging yourself, being human and alive, being happy, and merely existing in the same universe as me" he ranted, groping and shuffling around inside his jacket for his SMALL BUT REALLY UNPLEASANT GUN.

"Goddamn it, where's that motherfucking-"

Just as suddenly as the very sudden thing that just happened, a cool, detached, sneering and generally unpleasant voice wafted out of the shadows, and out stepped Sue Blisterpack, high on every damn dangerous chemical known to humanity and very, very, very armed.

"Looking for this?" she sneered, the dim light glinting off the gun in the unpleasant way that light glints off guns when they are pointed at you. "Hande hoch! Heh, heh. You too, Dave. And you, smoothie. That's right. Don't none of you motherfuckers move a fucking inch or I'll blast the lot of you into tiny, tiny smithereens!"

"Right then Dave, what about that overtime pay? Where is it? I want it- NOW!"

"I-I-I...I'll just go get the till..."

"And as for you, you smooth BASTARD! I'm going to murder you as violently as possible, just for that haircut!!"

"Who... who are you?" pleaded Phil, desperately playing for time.

"I'm - you're - worst - nightmare !!!!" came the reply, accompanied by a painful prodding with the gun..

I don't have to take this shit, thought DC Gradgrind. My god, imagine if I could get my gun back, I'd be a hero! Think of all the things I could charge these three fucksticks with... I'd get a medal most likely, and a promotion. Just think, me, Inspector Graham Gradgrind... and all that's standing between me and fame, power, and more power is some strung out coked-up junky bint... fuck it!'

Sue was now ranting at Gradgrind incoherently, calling him a "motherfucking pig" and prodding him with his gun. It was now or never. With the lightning reactions of the totally insane, he whirled round and made a grab for it. But as she was drugged up to the eyeballs on speed, Hubrizine, cocaine, PCP and some Ginseng tea she had drunk by accident believing it to contain yet more drugs an unseemly brawl developed, a grappling grapply embrace around the stupidly overpowered but quite small handgun.

Dave looked at Phil. Phil looked at Dave. They made a run for it.

*

In the rear view mirror of Phil's car, 10 minutes later, they caught sight of the blinding flash as the miniturised nuke inside the really insane piece of police weaponry exploded, a booby trap intended to stop unauthorised use.

"Heh, heh, heh....!" muttered Dave, grinning to himself.

"What the hell? Youre business has been vapourised, are you totally insane-?"

"I'm insured up the ass, you moron! I can retire! and all the evidence of my many crimes - and yours too, I might add- has gone up in smoke, along with the witnesses! Hee, hee, hee, ha ha!"

Phil couldn't help but grin. The old fucker must be senile, didn't he know there'd be an investigation? You didn't just walk away from having your premises nuked and get away with it, well, not these days. And when he was up in court, Dave Inadequate would need a whole load of drugs to keep him and the expensive lawyer he no doubt intended to hire going. And the only person with any drugs around would be -him!!!

Controlling the car with one hand, he reached in the glove box for the inhaler full of his special Hubrizine/amphetamine combination and gave himself a massive celebratory hit.

Unfortunately, driving cars while you are very high on drugs and a pocket nuke has exploded behind you is bad for your health, as Phil discovered to his cost when he ploughed into a sewage tanker that had stopped to admire the view of the disaster; not only were they both horribly maimed but also stank to hell and back.

Later, after a lot of surgery, they were tried and convicted of terminal non-coolness, causing death through stupidity, running totally illegal businesses, being caught, and smelling bad in the presence of the Decent Folk. They were subsequently sentenced to 2,000 years each shovelling the shit as it came out of Tony Blair's arsehole.

What was even worse was that somehow Sue Blisterpack had, incredibly, survived and her brain indicted them utterly from a support vat where it was being kept alive. Under the Victim Retribution Scheme, she then got to beat them severally whenever she wanted to, using a newly developed robot body that the authorities wheeled out especially for the occasion. This turned out to be most of the time, as no-one had yet worked out how to wire up the pleasure centres of the human brain to the robot body the only pleasure left to Sue was to punish the two scumbags who were responsible for her condition.

It had been an incredibly uncool day.

THE END.

© badnewswade 2002