Lock'eD-UP tribuTarts

Once the jostling for a decent spot at the vending machines ended, we reassembled at a place better suited for munching snacks. It was closer in proximity to the Arcade Machines, including a huge pentagonal table twice the size of the one we had previously been sitting around. A cluster of 5 leather-glazed, bowl-seat chairs studded with silver stars* {)bi{)-crossed by red thin threads, arranged a ring around it.

I targeted Sigmund as we drifted through the wilderness in search of some Promised land. Time was an inchworm. He still seemed agitated.

He dredged a, “What’s up?” from between perforated, dark sideburns, but seemed aloof.

“So Saul got involved with this because he wants to oversee the safety of his homemade launcher?” It didn’t escape, but I felt a laugh rising in my airways.

That caught him a little off guard -- maybe because I had paid attention to the information so closely. He shook his head like he was flushing fears out of his ears. “Close. He’s never got to use the thing, and he’s always wanted to see it in action of course.”

Ah yes, an engineer ready to view the results of their toil. “Well c’mon bro, it’s gotta be more impressive than a happy meal toy,” I jested. “Such a rare instance to find a fitting occasion with something of that caliber.”

“That’s the thing,” he drilled, ire edging back in. “THIS isn’t even a fitting occasion. Even the Wastelayers know what a Bad bluff looks like. We aren’t gonna use it to cut down any of those buccaneers or there’ll be a professional investigation and some kind of Gang retribution.”

“Well what else is gonna take down Ol’ Sasquatch if it bumps into us,” I volleyed.

Sig rolled his eyes. He was a rather pacifistic person, albeit not a guy who would stand around praying from the sidelines when others were threatened. “His dad was a shoot ’em up enthusiast as well,” He laughed but it faded quickly. They only shared the same mother. “But I’m not a Waggire. Sometimes Falco is a dork like that.” (this was Saul’s nickname because of his resemblance to the Rockstar musician).

“I’m sorry you have family wrapped up in this.”

“As do the Prowleys,” he pointed out. “Let me deal with it. It’s my problem now ain’t it.” I saw his free fist clench and grind. He had a right to be upset and here he was, putting that aside, or at least trying to. In any scenario, if he lost Saul, himself, or both, somebody was going to be cursed to live through another’s death, as his sweetheart Kelly would be waiting back in town. For him, the only win would have to be total, and he knew it.

“Hell no. Let you go through that headspace alone?” I assured him, “Your tribulations are mine. I’ll run to your aid any day—so long as I’m not dead.”

“Okay then,” he accepted, as we set down our grub. “If you happen to make it and I don’t, give Kelly this.”

He reached into his back pocket and shoved an aquamarine-spotted locket at me.

“Take it,” he said. It also was thinly trimmed by some kind of beer-colored mineral. *Xenothyme*, I think he’d mentioned before.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I argued. “Must you insist on dying?”

He slapped it into the meat of my palm and closed my fingers around it. “Just take it, I don’t feel lucky today. And I don’t want it looted off my body.”

I fumbled with the necklace. Inside was a black and white photo of them at the beach. They both had dark hair and features, so if it hadn’t been for the beachy surroundings you might not realize it wasn’t in color. It probably just served to disguise how dark their separation would be -- (you know, Young Love and its instability). I exhaled. Been nearly a year since I had called someone my significant other. And I wasn’t sure I was ready to commit again anytime soon.

And then I realized my fist had balled up around it and snapped shut, 'till it felt as if branded into my palm. Maybe Estrangements are just one of those things that never goes away. (yet at the time, I was too young to know anything of how Lanes of xeno-Time could shift in one’s favor).

“One less thing I have to worry about,” Siggy added.

It was like he was giving up, like he was composing a Will of testament, but absconded the legalities drafting part and cut right to the process where his possessions actually changed hands.

With more oomph than necessary, I sat down in one of the swiveling cushions. The seat was too short and my hamstrings felt a little compressed, but for some reason it felt good to be discomforted. I roamed over my water-shedding pants. “Unfortunately, I don’t think I have a place to carry this,” I informed him.

“Hm, here’s an idea,” he meditated from behind a mouthful of a Drumboat cinnamon roll, “It’s a necklace; Wear it.”

That disturbed me as improper, but I obeyed and hoisted the gold neck chain above my head, gathering my hair in a fist to make sure nothing tugged, and slipped it on beneath my bundle of locks.

I posed as if I was about to have my picture taken. “How does it look?”

“Like A Pop star,” he said without looking up, gobbling pure sugar. “And by that I mean a Pop-Tart-Box poser.”

That was an inside joke amidst a topic our Psychology Teacher had discussed. One of many between us. “I knew you’d whip out one of those classics sooner or later.”

“Don’t make me bust out another move!” he contested, referencing to a time which we’d had to assist the janitor in cleaning up a mess.

Tucking the jewelry down into my shirt, I dredged up & extended the rest of the line: “Cause I oughta be able to rest my bottom easy here in this chair without polishing off a bunch of trash I didn't chuck!” then dug my teeth into the plastic packaging of a Deuce Moose Cookie. It would have been great to have wholesome calories, but as usual, something was better than nothing.

The din of wrappers being opened began to intensify as the others took up seats nearby us. We chose to rest our vocal chords, and if my company was anything like me, every single taste was relished, if not divided into categories so as to isolate the premier flavor. Your mouth can take most anything off your mind.

I leaned in for another hearty bite of gooey cream—and mostly clipped bone against bone. Great. I chucked the empty package with disgust toward the middle of the table where it joined a rising mountain. It was gone so fast my tongue was screaming robbery. It seemed like I had only taken two bites. Was it really that tiny? Oh reimburse me, Time! Are ye holding idleness against me?

“Hurry up and fetch some firepower already,” the Tyrant demanded, chopping through my wonderment like it was warm butter.

Gutterson peeked at me inconspicuously. “You ready there, sport?”

I shrugged as if to indicate, *Ready as I’ll ever be*, and stood up.