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Authors: Jeremy Robert Johnson
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was sure was being said.
I was no longer just Martin S. Peppermill. I was also Trevor Bainbridge, auto body and paint professional. A new batch of I.D., three accounts at separate banks, cash deposits daily, structured slightly below Fed reporting requirements.
I was also Maria Scharf, at only one bank, very far away. Lipstick, a wig, a lovely chartreuse scarf. I couldn’t bring myself to do much mirror time that day—every glance made me feel like my mother was in the room with me, and that simply couldn’t be—so I’m sure it played tranny. Bank anti-discrimination laws and a serious depository balance boost before quarter end made my appearance a non-issue to the branch. They took my money. I’d sat in the car for ten minutes before attempting the deposit, sweating, whispering the words, “Secret squirrel, secret squirrel.”
Delta MedWorks: those motherfuckers. Melted dead jerks. Welted head burns. The enemy. The key. All day. All night. They were a scourge, a bank-backed monster, and I would prove it. I pulled a cliff-jump and requisitioned wire archives for a ten year stretch. I knew the request would find its way into an email to management, and had an explanation pre-fabricated. I’d claim a friend at the Fed had tipped me off to a retrospective review of dual signature docs and approval levels. I would make certain our files were clean, especially for our biggest client. Protect the bank. Protect our customer. Wink.
My Crooked D was despondent, barely functional. I researched Peyronie’s disease, the scarring of the carpora cavernosa. I set up a multi-screen jack-off overture, all of my favorite scenes on loop. Nothing. Sitting in the desert in a car with no gas, pumping the accelerator. Tripled my Hex dose and forced the issue. Pain as I came, molten lead in my urethra. One testicle nearly sucked back up into my body, to escape the atrocity.
Mom called. I let it go to voice mail.
“It’s broken, Deckard. It’s just broken.”
His shell took on a golden aura, shimmering through my tears. He hissed. I realized I was still naked and wearing Maria Scharf’s lipstick. I dressed and cleaned my face, never looking at the mirror.
“I’m sorry. How about some extra worms tonight?” I fed him. Set him on the floor for a walkabout and cleaned his enclosure.
“I love you. Deck.”
I thought the sound of thoughtless, whooping grief was coming from a neighbor’s apartment, but the wailing disappeared when I stopped to catch my breath.
The Delta wire files arrived. I shuttled them from my office to the trunk of my car via briefcase. It took forty-two laps. I sent a mass email thanking my fellow employees for tolerating my unorthodox run/walk training. Marathon coming up. When I shut down my laptop for the day I saw a reflection in the black screen. That was me, wasn’t it? How long had my nose been bleeding?
“Sir, I’m afraid we’ll need a valid I.D. to accompany your initial deposit.”
“Come again?”
“Well, sir, the I.D. provided isn’t matching your new account documentation.”
Shit. I was slipping. Who opened the New Era Credit Union account? Martin? Trevor? Maria? Was I supposed to be wearing a dress? No. No. Think fast. I knew the girl working new accounts was a trainee. I’d made sure. I had to act before she called over the Operations Supervisor.
“Sir, if you could…”
“Oh, dear, I’m so sorry.” Big grin. Sell it with everything you’ve got, damn it. Does MK-Oil have credit union accounts? Am I Trevor? I’m probably Trevor. Take the gamble. “I must have given you my brother Martin’s I.D. This is so embarrassing. We had poker night last week and, you know, boys being boys, we ended up at a strip club and my brother got tipsy and lost his I.D. there. Then he has the audacity to ask me to get it back for him the next day. I must have grabbed it by mistake.”
Her suspicious squint opened
I was no longer just Martin S. Peppermill. I was also Trevor Bainbridge, auto body and paint professional. A new batch of I.D., three accounts at separate banks, cash deposits daily, structured slightly below Fed reporting requirements.
I was also Maria Scharf, at only one bank, very far away. Lipstick, a wig, a lovely chartreuse scarf. I couldn’t bring myself to do much mirror time that day—every glance made me feel like my mother was in the room with me, and that simply couldn’t be—so I’m sure it played tranny. Bank anti-discrimination laws and a serious depository balance boost before quarter end made my appearance a non-issue to the branch. They took my money. I’d sat in the car for ten minutes before attempting the deposit, sweating, whispering the words, “Secret squirrel, secret squirrel.”
Delta MedWorks: those motherfuckers. Melted dead jerks. Welted head burns. The enemy. The key. All day. All night. They were a scourge, a bank-backed monster, and I would prove it. I pulled a cliff-jump and requisitioned wire archives for a ten year stretch. I knew the request would find its way into an email to management, and had an explanation pre-fabricated. I’d claim a friend at the Fed had tipped me off to a retrospective review of dual signature docs and approval levels. I would make certain our files were clean, especially for our biggest client. Protect the bank. Protect our customer. Wink.
My Crooked D was despondent, barely functional. I researched Peyronie’s disease, the scarring of the carpora cavernosa. I set up a multi-screen jack-off overture, all of my favorite scenes on loop. Nothing. Sitting in the desert in a car with no gas, pumping the accelerator. Tripled my Hex dose and forced the issue. Pain as I came, molten lead in my urethra. One testicle nearly sucked back up into my body, to escape the atrocity.
Mom called. I let it go to voice mail.
“It’s broken, Deckard. It’s just broken.”
His shell took on a golden aura, shimmering through my tears. He hissed. I realized I was still naked and wearing Maria Scharf’s lipstick. I dressed and cleaned my face, never looking at the mirror.
“I’m sorry. How about some extra worms tonight?” I fed him. Set him on the floor for a walkabout and cleaned his enclosure.
“I love you. Deck.”
I thought the sound of thoughtless, whooping grief was coming from a neighbor’s apartment, but the wailing disappeared when I stopped to catch my breath.
The Delta wire files arrived. I shuttled them from my office to the trunk of my car via briefcase. It took forty-two laps. I sent a mass email thanking my fellow employees for tolerating my unorthodox run/walk training. Marathon coming up. When I shut down my laptop for the day I saw a reflection in the black screen. That was me, wasn’t it? How long had my nose been bleeding?
“Sir, I’m afraid we’ll need a valid I.D. to accompany your initial deposit.”
“Come again?”
“Well, sir, the I.D. provided isn’t matching your new account documentation.”
Shit. I was slipping. Who opened the New Era Credit Union account? Martin? Trevor? Maria? Was I supposed to be wearing a dress? No. No. Think fast. I knew the girl working new accounts was a trainee. I’d made sure. I had to act before she called over the Operations Supervisor.
“Sir, if you could…”
“Oh, dear, I’m so sorry.” Big grin. Sell it with everything you’ve got, damn it. Does MK-Oil have credit union accounts? Am I Trevor? I’m probably Trevor. Take the gamble. “I must have given you my brother Martin’s I.D. This is so embarrassing. We had poker night last week and, you know, boys being boys, we ended up at a strip club and my brother got tipsy and lost his I.D. there. Then he has the audacity to ask me to get it back for him the next day. I must have grabbed it by mistake.”
Her suspicious squint opened
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