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Disclaimer: All characters and events in this story are fictitious, and any similarity to a real person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and unintended by the author. "The Pretender" is a protected trademark of MTM Television and NBC and the characters of that series are used herein with no mean intent or desire for remuneration. It is, instead, a tribute to innovative television, that rare and welcome phenomenon.
Jarod Discovers a Clothing Option
Lynn. M Schumann
THE SCENE:
A T-Shirt shop, Anytown, USA, where tourist-based businesses seem to pop up like mushrooms.
The post-adolescent, pre-college clerk behind the Formica desk looked up to see a man, mid-thirties perhaps, browsing through the T-Shirts with a puzzled look on his face. The kid turned the page of the magazine he was looking at, trying to ignore the fact that he had a customer.
The man, who was handsome in a non-conventional way, addressed the clerk.
"Excuse me," he said, "could you explain these T-Shirts to me?"
He held up several "Big Johnson" shirts for the short-haired, multiply-pierced youth to see.
"Hey! Aren't you that guy on T.V.? You know, the one where the lead character is mentally armed and morally dangerous? Yeah! You're some type of Zorro running from this nefarious organization in Delaware, who has sent an anorexic bitch in killer heels to stop you! Then there's some psudeo father-figure guy who doesn't know where he stands on the issue of your recapture, and he's being helped by some dude who knows all and tells what he wants about finding you with a computer. The 'Make Believer,' right?"
"The Pretender," the man corrected. "How did you know? Was it my naive questions about popular culture? My lightning quick assessment of the shop and you're character?"
"Naw, it was the haircut. So, how can I make you buy an over-priced piece of underwear, when basically I don't give a shit about the sale, since I'm on an hourly wage and not commission?"
Jarod stared at the clerk. Is this what the American work ethic was all about? Maybe he *did* have it made back at the Centre. Perhaps he should buy a few souvenirs for those he'd left behind.
"If I'm not mistaken, all of these shirts are referring to the size of this characters genitalia," he said, pointing to a geeky looking cartoon figure, surrounded by big breasted babes.
"That's right," he answered, bored.
"Stop me if I'm wrong, but if a person wore this shirt, he would be advertising the fact that he had a big schwantz."
"Right again."
"But I've done a lot of simulations about this sort of thing, and I've usually found that if someone is boasting about their size and performance, they're compensating for a *lack* of endowment."
"Hey! You really *are* a genius, aren't you?"
Jarod flashed his smug, now-I've-got-the-world-by-the-balls smile as he mentally calculated how many T-Shirts he'd need. He picked out a Big Johnson shirt for Sydney, as he was always over compensating for something. For Broots he found one that read: What part of http://www.FUCKOFF.com don't you understand?
Miss Parker presented a quandary. He found one that said: CAUTION: I can go from zero to Bitch in 8.3 seconds, or one with a yellow smiley face, blood dripping from a bullet hole, which read: Have a Nice Day. After much deliberation and calculating, he finally settled on the bitch shirt for Miss P. and the smiley face for Mr. Raines. For himself he chose a black one with white printing stating: Not Who I Appear To Be.
"Are you almost done man? I was hoping to close early. There's a wet T-Shirt contest on the beach tonight and we're supplying the T-Shirts, and I'm supplying the wet, if you know what I mean," he said, giving Jarod a jab in the ribs.
"Actually I don't, but since I'm not here to right some wrong that life has inexplicably delt you, when you seem like such an average guy, I don't 'give a shit,' as you say."
Unaffected, the clerk began to ring up Jarod's selections.
Half-way through, the register jammed.
"Damn it! Why does this always happen to me?"
Seizing the opportunity to perform a good deed, for what he assumed was the product of a dysfunctional home, Jarod came around the desk and started fiddling with the machine.
"Hey! You can't do that!" The kid protested.
"Relax," Jarod said in a soothing voice, gently pushing him aside. "I was an NCR repairman once."
A few quick adjustments and the cash register sprang back to life, as Jarod resumed his place on the other side of the counter.
"Hey thanks man! I owe you!"
"Actually, I believe I owe you. Don't forget to add the proper amount of sales tax."
"You're fucking unbelievable! Let me ask you a question: Is that Parker woman as cold as she seems?
"I haven't had the chance to try out my Biggest of Johnson's if that's what you mean."
"Well I've got a *gun* she can put in her *holster*," he replied, grabbing the front of his jeans. "That'll be $92.50," he said, "but I could take one off for helping me with the register."
Jarod gave him a thankful smile as he used his notebook computer and Centre access codes to hack into the store's ATM.
"That's a very generous offer, but that would be defrauding the 'system' and I can't condone that."
"Right," the clerk said, as he watched Jarod extract five twenties from the machine and pay for his items.
"That's a really cool talent. How about teaching it to me?"
Jarod gave him a pained look. "I'm sorry, but I'm a vastly superior human being and even the most rudimentary concepts would be light years over your head."
"It didn't look so hard," the clerk said, joining him at the console of the bank machine. "All you did was push a few buttons. . . ." His tattooed fingers danced over the keypads, and before Jarod could respond, the automatic teller was spewing out twenties like it was a Pez dispenser.
"O.K., so maybe it wasn't 'light years' over your head," Jarod conceded. "Don't you have to be some where to get all hot and bothered?"
"Oh shit! You're right!" He grabbed a bag from behind the counter and tossed Jarod a set of keys. "Lock up for me, O.K.?"
Jarod tried to protest, but the Pride of America's Youth was already half-way down the block. He took a red notebook out of his jacket and opened it to a newspaper clipping who's head line glared: T-SHIRT MAGNATE NEARLY DESTITUTE AFTER MYSTERIOUS THEFTS.
He couldn't have been placed for his next pretend any better if he had planned it. Entering a room labeled "Employees Only," he took a polo shirt which matched the kid's and slid it over his well-muscled upper body. Walking to the front of the store, he smiled broadly at two women who had entered the shop.
"Hi! Welcome to T-Shirt World! Can I show you my 'Big Johnsons?'"
The End
Lynn. M Schumann
THE SCENE:
A T-Shirt shop, Anytown, USA, where tourist-based businesses seem to pop up like mushrooms.
The post-adolescent, pre-college clerk behind the Formica desk looked up to see a man, mid-thirties perhaps, browsing through the T-Shirts with a puzzled look on his face. The kid turned the page of the magazine he was looking at, trying to ignore the fact that he had a customer.
The man, who was handsome in a non-conventional way, addressed the clerk.
"Excuse me," he said, "could you explain these T-Shirts to me?"
He held up several "Big Johnson" shirts for the short-haired, multiply-pierced youth to see.
"Hey! Aren't you that guy on T.V.? You know, the one where the lead character is mentally armed and morally dangerous? Yeah! You're some type of Zorro running from this nefarious organization in Delaware, who has sent an anorexic bitch in killer heels to stop you! Then there's some psudeo father-figure guy who doesn't know where he stands on the issue of your recapture, and he's being helped by some dude who knows all and tells what he wants about finding you with a computer. The 'Make Believer,' right?"
"The Pretender," the man corrected. "How did you know? Was it my naive questions about popular culture? My lightning quick assessment of the shop and you're character?"
"Naw, it was the haircut. So, how can I make you buy an over-priced piece of underwear, when basically I don't give a shit about the sale, since I'm on an hourly wage and not commission?"
Jarod stared at the clerk. Is this what the American work ethic was all about? Maybe he *did* have it made back at the Centre. Perhaps he should buy a few souvenirs for those he'd left behind.
"If I'm not mistaken, all of these shirts are referring to the size of this characters genitalia," he said, pointing to a geeky looking cartoon figure, surrounded by big breasted babes.
"That's right," he answered, bored.
"Stop me if I'm wrong, but if a person wore this shirt, he would be advertising the fact that he had a big schwantz."
"Right again."
"But I've done a lot of simulations about this sort of thing, and I've usually found that if someone is boasting about their size and performance, they're compensating for a *lack* of endowment."
"Hey! You really *are* a genius, aren't you?"
Jarod flashed his smug, now-I've-got-the-world-by-the-balls smile as he mentally calculated how many T-Shirts he'd need. He picked out a Big Johnson shirt for Sydney, as he was always over compensating for something. For Broots he found one that read: What part of http://www.FUCKOFF.com don't you understand?
Miss Parker presented a quandary. He found one that said: CAUTION: I can go from zero to Bitch in 8.3 seconds, or one with a yellow smiley face, blood dripping from a bullet hole, which read: Have a Nice Day. After much deliberation and calculating, he finally settled on the bitch shirt for Miss P. and the smiley face for Mr. Raines. For himself he chose a black one with white printing stating: Not Who I Appear To Be.
"Are you almost done man? I was hoping to close early. There's a wet T-Shirt contest on the beach tonight and we're supplying the T-Shirts, and I'm supplying the wet, if you know what I mean," he said, giving Jarod a jab in the ribs.
"Actually I don't, but since I'm not here to right some wrong that life has inexplicably delt you, when you seem like such an average guy, I don't 'give a shit,' as you say."
Unaffected, the clerk began to ring up Jarod's selections.
Half-way through, the register jammed.
"Damn it! Why does this always happen to me?"
Seizing the opportunity to perform a good deed, for what he assumed was the product of a dysfunctional home, Jarod came around the desk and started fiddling with the machine.
"Hey! You can't do that!" The kid protested.
"Relax," Jarod said in a soothing voice, gently pushing him aside. "I was an NCR repairman once."
A few quick adjustments and the cash register sprang back to life, as Jarod resumed his place on the other side of the counter.
"Hey thanks man! I owe you!"
"Actually, I believe I owe you. Don't forget to add the proper amount of sales tax."
"You're fucking unbelievable! Let me ask you a question: Is that Parker woman as cold as she seems?
"I haven't had the chance to try out my Biggest of Johnson's if that's what you mean."
"Well I've got a *gun* she can put in her *holster*," he replied, grabbing the front of his jeans. "That'll be $92.50," he said, "but I could take one off for helping me with the register."
Jarod gave him a thankful smile as he used his notebook computer and Centre access codes to hack into the store's ATM.
"That's a very generous offer, but that would be defrauding the 'system' and I can't condone that."
"Right," the clerk said, as he watched Jarod extract five twenties from the machine and pay for his items.
"That's a really cool talent. How about teaching it to me?"
Jarod gave him a pained look. "I'm sorry, but I'm a vastly superior human being and even the most rudimentary concepts would be light years over your head."
"It didn't look so hard," the clerk said, joining him at the console of the bank machine. "All you did was push a few buttons. . . ." His tattooed fingers danced over the keypads, and before Jarod could respond, the automatic teller was spewing out twenties like it was a Pez dispenser.
"O.K., so maybe it wasn't 'light years' over your head," Jarod conceded. "Don't you have to be some where to get all hot and bothered?"
"Oh shit! You're right!" He grabbed a bag from behind the counter and tossed Jarod a set of keys. "Lock up for me, O.K.?"
Jarod tried to protest, but the Pride of America's Youth was already half-way down the block. He took a red notebook out of his jacket and opened it to a newspaper clipping who's head line glared: T-SHIRT MAGNATE NEARLY DESTITUTE AFTER MYSTERIOUS THEFTS.
He couldn't have been placed for his next pretend any better if he had planned it. Entering a room labeled "Employees Only," he took a polo shirt which matched the kid's and slid it over his well-muscled upper body. Walking to the front of the store, he smiled broadly at two women who had entered the shop.
"Hi! Welcome to T-Shirt World! Can I show you my 'Big Johnsons?'"
