(Pickle comes flying in from one side, and smacks him in the face)
Harry: Ah!
Now - (music swelling to a thrilling jiff) Inspired by this tragic event, Harry H Harrison dons a green mask, and yellow bodysuit, becoming the Debutante Dill of Justice - The Courageous Crime Fighting Cucumber - The Street Sweeper of Crime - Pickle-Man
01: It’s Pickle-Man!
A restaurant downtown (Mid June the day after a summer rain)
“Please sir, you don’t understand.” Pickle-Man pleaded. “I’ve been online for over 6 hours, and -”
“I’m sorry Mr. Pickle-Man, but as I -”
“It’s just Pickle-Man.”
“What?” the host curled his black bushy eyebrows.
“There’s no ‘Mr.’ It’s just Pickle-Man.”
“Very well.” The Host bowed his hands flat as to simmer the situation. “Pickle-Man, as I told you before, you have to make a reservation ahead of time.”
“You never told me that.”
“I did, sir. You called 6 hours ago. I told you then that we are booked.”
“Then you should never have told me to come then.” Pickle-Man said.
“I did, sir, but you hung up the phone, loudly in my ear, and came here anyway.”
“So I can’t get in?” Pickle-Man asked.
“No.” the host was losing his cool. The growing line of hungry denizens was noticeably uncomfortable.
“I see”, the masked hero clutched his chin, and held his hip. “You don’t seem to realize what being Pickle-Man means. It’s alright, you must be new in town. You see I -”
The Host replied “I’ve lived here for 30 years, sir.”
“Oh. Well then you must be blind then. What I’m wearing is a -
“I’m not blind sir. Can you please step -”
“Ahhh,” Pickle-Man raised a finger, as if figuring out the conundrum, “You can’t read. I’ve been in the papers many times. Maybe if you watch the news with subtitles on, you can -”
“Sir!” the Host yelled, his usually combed hair now curling over his face, “Enough. I cannot, and will not let you in. Even if the President of the United States of America told me, you, Pickle-Man, are never coming into this restaurant!”
Pickle-Man scoffed, leaning over to a woman on his right, hand covering his mouth from the Host, “Well between you and me, I don’t think the President would want to come to this place. Service here sucks.”
“What if you talk to the owner?” the woman asked, hoping he would go away.
“Great idea!” Pickle-Man said as he rushed into the Host’s face. “What if I talked to the owner?”
The Host puffed his cheeks, and fixed his hair. “That would work.” he sighed. “But she is not here. Now can you please go, and leave us all alone?”
Pickle-Man obliged. Strolling down the block, as cars zoom past him furiously. He ponders his first defeat.
(Cue the music)
In the dreary night time streets, several blocks away from the restaurant, beautiful Frankie Ellison strolls through the back alleyways to reach her apartment at a faster rate. The dangers of being out at this time were not unknown to her, but it was the price she paid to cover an extra shift at the diner she’d been working at for over 3 years (and still no raise). She kept her eyes focused so as not to draw attention. Sometimes people will make trouble just by glancing at them. Her breathing leveled as she spotted the big red neon sign ahead of her that read ‘Reed’s Barber Shop’. Her apartment window just above the sign.
Footsteps walking on damp pavement. Heels trotting through puddles. A switch blade pops out.
“Well well well what have we here?” There was white crust along the brim of the mugger’s lips. “You’re a foxy broad, you know that?”
The girl says nothing. Not a single sound, not a peep, or a shriek, or an eek, or an ahk! Only the gleam of fright in her large oval shaped eyes that angled low on her full cheeks. She wanted to say something, but she couldn’t. She wanted to scream, but she couldn’t. She wanted to run, but she was frozen.
“What are you, stupid or something?” the Mugger asked with a sideways smirk. He scratched the side of his face, and dry flakes formed over his five o’clock shadow.
The girl does not answer. The blade glinted in her light green eye as he came closer. Her arms were shaking, though her perfect tanned skin only excited him, as did her blonde hair: The way the bangs hung over her small forehead, almost covering her thin eyebrows. Her lashes were thick and black, poking past her bangs. Frankie pointed to her noiseless thin lipped mouth. At first this only made him more excited, until it finally clicked.
“Oh I get it. You’re a fuckin mute, huh?”
Frankie nods nervously.
“Yeah I knew it.” the Mugger smiled wetly. “Well what do you know? I’m robbing someone who can’t scream for help!” he laughs. “Oh man, what are the fucking odds?”
The short, curvy framed girl backed up against the wall. He slides his fingers briskly around her skirt.
“Woah watch yourself sweetheart. Those are some hard bricks behind you. Wouldn’t want you busting that pretty little head of yours now, would we? Come to think of it, you can’t scream, can you? No. Maybe we can get to know each other. Right here. Oh, are you nervous? Yeah? Don’t be. I can tell you’re shy. Well I have some good news baby, no one comes down these alleyways except dumb tramps like you. So we have our own little private area to do whatever we like, and have as much fun as we like.” Unzips pants.
“Hold it right there, pal!” The voice seemed to have popped out of thin air. The Mugger was caught off guard, but he made it seem like he was always prepared. But prepared for what? The cops? Gangs? No. A man in a costume?
“What the - what the hell are you?”
“You don’t know? The green mask? The yellow suit? I have a pickle design on my chest.”
“No you don’t.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s on your head, not on your chest.”
“Oh.”
“So you must be -”
“I’m Pickle-Man!”
“Cool.” the Mugger said, still pinning the girl against the wall. “Beat it man. I’m in the middle of something here.”
“I see. Trying to take advantage of a mute girl in my city. She’s probably blind, deaf, and dumb too!”
Frankie tilts her head, squints, and shakes her head in offense.
“No? Okay, is that a no to being blind? Yeah? No to being deaf too? Okay, are you nodding to only deaf, or dumb?”
“Shut up!” the Mugger yelled, now turning his full attention to the costumed man. “She’s just mute, man! Why are you so fucking annoying?”
“Me?” Pickle-Man said. “You sound like my mother. I don’t know, Ma, maybe it’s because you beat me over the head with a loaf of bread when I was 4 months old!”
“That’s it!’ the Mugger shouts, drawing the blade in Pickle-Man’s direction. “I’m gonna cut you up real fucking bad.”
“Hmm I don’t think so.” He reaches behind his belt. “Not when I have this.”
(Cue music…)
“Is that a -
“Say it, criminal!”
“A pickle jar?”
“That’s right.” Pickle-Man said. “It’s a pickle jar.”
The Mugger and Frankie share in a moment of concern. “You’re gonna fight me with a pickle jar?” he asks, laughing.
“Now you really sound like my mother.”
“Enough!” The Mugger scratches the side of his face, this time drawing blood. “This is so freaking stupid. You’re dead meat, Pickle-guy.”
“It’s Pickle-MAN.”
The Mugger dashes for the costumed cucumber in a mad crazed fever. Pickle-man flexes his biceps, and with one mighty lunge, shatters the jar against the Mugger’s face. Steam hisses in the air as the Mugger belts out a vicious sound. “AHHHHHHGGGGGG MY FACE!”
“You didn’t know I carry acid in my pickle jars, huh?” Pickle-Man said, smiling with his fists to his hips. His dominance over his enemy.
The man drops to his knees as acid continues to boil and melt his face off.
“Alright.” Pickle-Man stated. “Let’s put an end to this.” Pulls out gun. Cocks. Shoots. Brains splatter. Body - thuds.
Pickle-Man sighs, and turns to the girl. “Are you alright, Miss? You’re nodding, and smiling. That’s good. I hope this event was not too traumatizing for you. No? Good! I’m glad to hear it. Well you best be on your way home, miss uhh -”
She digs through her purse, and grabs what she was looking for, and hands her name tag to him.
“I see, Miss Frankie Ellison. That’s a lovely name. My father’s name was Frank.”
He looked into her large eyes, noticing her beauty. He smiles. She smiles back, awkwardly. Silence. Then Pickle-Man says “Hey I have an idea. Frankie, would you have dinner with me?”
The restaurant downtown (10 min later)
“What do you mean we can’t come in?” Pickle-Man asked. “I’m with the owner right here.”
The Host let out a loud sigh, and fixed his hair. “Sir, that girl is not the owner of this restaurant. The owner is African American.”
“And your point is?” Pickle-Man asked, surprising both Frankie, and the Host with his words.
“Sir. This girl is clearly a white woman.”
“Look.” Pickle-Man said, not playing around anymore with ignorance. “I don’t see why you have to bring race into this. I demand to speak to the owner!”
THE
END.
Thank you so much for enjoying and for the excitement!
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