PICKLE-MAN 02

 Harry H Harrison was just a normal I.T. guy, for a large, excessive corporation that never cared for him, or the well being of others, until one morning, after buying a hot dog from an untrustworthy food cart owner, Harry was hit in the face by a radioactive pickle.

(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

02: The Memory Projector 

A Research Science Lab (20 min away from the main highway, where a car accident has stalled traffic for 3 hours and counting…)

Professor Richard removed the slim metal tube from the helmet, brushed it off, and discarded his rubber gloves. “Here it is, my friend. What do you think?”

“It’s amazing, Doc.” said Pickle-Man. To his side is the beautiful Frankie Ellison. “Amazing, isn’t it, Frankie?” nudging his elbow into her side.

Thrilled, and aggravated at the same time, she nods. It’s all she’s been able to do since they began dating one month ago. Just keep nodding, she thinks.

“Are you okay?” he asked. “You haven't said anything all day.”

She glanced…

He stared… Smiling…

She shrugs at him…

The Professor sighs, head in hand…

…

“Oh!” Pickle-Man exclaimed, holding his head in both hands. “You’re a mute! Sorry about that, Frankie.” he shakes his head, laughing it off. “Sometimes you forget things.”

“Pickle-Man,” Richard trailed off, annoyed, “Just a few moments ago, you introduced me to your beautiful new date as Frankie, the Mute. Doesn’t any of that ring any bells?” 

“We haven't been dating long. Anyway, this is really something, Doc. When you told me you had something amazing to show me, you weren’t kidding. You made your own Space Wars N-Wing replica helmet!”

“No, Pickle-Man.” Richard breathed in deeply. “This is my latest invention. I call it the Repressed Memory Projector, or RMP for short. I built it to help with post traumatic depression, and stress disorders.” 

“Wow.” he looked at Frankie. All this talk must be too complicated for her, he thought. I’ll try to say things in a way she’ll understand. “Frankie, i t ‘ s  c a l l e d  t h e  R e p - Ow, my shin!”

The Professor smirked at the girl’s fed up response, and continued, “I’ve been working for a long time in helping those with psychological stress problems. PTSD. Suicide. It’s been a life’s work, it seems.”

“Hey, chin up.” hitting the Professor’s shoulder, who tenses up from the unexpected contact. “You’ll get there some day, big guy.”

“I - I am there. I’m showing it to you NOW.” Richard got red in the face, then backed down, took a deep breath, and returned to his usual pale complexion. He ran his hand flatly through the side of his ebony hair, then wiped excess hair gel on the side of his long white coat. “I’m sorry, I almost lost my composure.”

“It’s alright!” Pickle-Man said. “Frankie will get used to it.” he curled his arm around the girl’s thin soft neck. She stretched her nose up and away to escape the fumes from his latex armpit. “So how does it work, Doc?”

The question was such a delight, that the agitation with his friend (nuisance) evaporated, replaced with a childlike joy, though the outer exterior of ‘Professor Malcolm Richard’ was such a tight mask, his excitement would never be picked up by anyone. 

He explained: “Well, Pickle-Man, once you place the helmet on, you slide down the clear visor, and hit this blue button, that turns it on. On the right, is a red button, which turns it off. But if you click the blue and red button together, it will send a digital recording of the memory in progress to my computer to be analyzed for further study in helping the client.”

Frankie’s eye’s covered her whole face. 

“Wow, did you get all that, Frankie? I hope you did, because I might need you to explain to me later tonight.”

Her face died. 

“Oh my God, Doc, are you seeing this?” referring to Frankie’s deadpan expression. “Look how freaking cute she looks when her eyes fall half way down! She scrunches her nose like a little pug!” His hug and kiss are a warm reminder of his caring to her. She blushes, looking the other way. The big dope, she thinks, and smiles.

“Pickle-Man, do you know anyone who would be willing to test my invention?”

“Do I? Of course I do. Frankie here will do it.”

Frankie shook her head; NO, but Pickle-Man grabbed the helmet, placed it on her big hair, and pushed the blue button. The visor over Frankie’s eyes began to glow, projecting like a movie screen onto the wall. Richard wanted to protest against this move, but his curiosity over his machine working won over this internal debate. 

Frankie Ellison’s repressed memories moved about the wall. Grain images, lost footage of her life before their very eyes. It ran past decades and seasons. 5th birthday party. Snow days - sledding, her favorite. First day of school. Crying. Missing Mother. Getting Grady for Christmas. Growing up with Grady. Father coming into the room. Grady biting him. Grady tossed out the window. Frankie, cradling his mangled corpse. Mother stabbing Father. Father shoots himself. High school. Mother hitting her on prom night. Graduating high school. Alone. And under the visor, Frankie Ellison didn’t move a single muscle in her face, didn’t succumb to the emotion, didn’t whip the tears, didn’t snort the mucus, but pinned by her own silence. Captive by her inability. Prisoner. Shut in. Fucking mess. Mess. 

She removes it, trembling. The images cut off, and the helmet powers down.

“It works, Doc.” Pickle-Man cheers.

“Yes it does.” he said, side-eye to Frankie, who’s well-being was now his current concern. “Are you alright?”

She ran.

She ran out of the room.

“Hey where are you going?” Pickle-Man called out. He was ready to follow after, but Richard’s hold on his shoulder stopped him in mid go.

“Let her go, Harry.”

His name. No one has spoken his real name since that fateful day a radioactive pickle smacked him in the face, forever changing him into the daring crime fighter, Pickle-Man. And for Professor Richard, his loyal friend for years, the only one he trusts to know his real identity, to use his real name, meant the situation was more serious than he ever imagined. Frankie had vanished from sight.  

The phone rang. Richard answered. When the voice on the other end, the Police Commissioner spoke, his already pale face was now translucent, as he felt all the blood leave his body. He hung up, and took his ghostly form to Pickle-Man, who remained frozen. Paralyzed. Sick. 

“Pickle-Man?”

No answer.

“Harry? There’s a crisis. Someone is killing innocent people on the highway up town. They need you.”

Silence.

Motionless.

Processing.

Processed.

Movement.

Pickle-Man to the rescue. 

On the main highway (Where you thought the traffic was bad before)

A man, and his daughter in their blue kia, screamed at the top of their lungs, hurled in the air, vanishing into a small twinkling star. (Their crushed bodies would be found 100 miles from the highway.) 

“Kill.” Came the electronic voice of the large black horse. “Kill.”

“Yes!” said the rider, decked out in plastic knights armor. “Kill them all, my four legged friend. Kill them all!”

The horse was black and abnormally large. Deep red eyes, and a large metal fist clasped onto its tail. With every sway of it, punched more cars (and its drivers) into the air, and into mashed pulp. A small device clipped on it’s neck blinks red to green, and the horse said: “Must. Kill. All. Humans!”

“Yes!” The rider laughed.

A powerful harmonious voice startles the obsessive killer, and his beast. “Hold it right there, you weird little maniac!” 

“Look!” a woman cried out her passenger side window. “It’s Pickle-Ma - Glahhhhrggg!” The metal fist smashed into her face, catapulting her across the vehicle, out the window where her limp remains slide down a billboard that reads: That Sucks! All New Eco Friendly Vacuum Cleaner!

“That's right citizen. You are safe now… Well the rest of you are safe now.”

“Look my large friend,” the rider whispered to his steed. “Another human wanting to turn you to glue. Just like your family. Kill him!” 

The horse shook his head, and stomped his hooves. “Must. Kill. Pickle. Man.” 

It charged. Pickle-Man stood his ground. His muscles tightened under his yellow costume.

The horse got closer - and closer - and closer - and - *BANG*

The bullet zipped through the Horse’s eye, cleanly digging through the skull, in the brain, and out the back, grazing the Rider’s shoulder. He tumbled over, and the horse fell over, where Pickle-Man swayed to one side, and kicked the dead beast with all of his strength into the side of a building. The Rider recovered, and screamed bloody murder.

“Killer! You killed my beautiful horse!”

“Your horse killed many more.” Pickle-Man said. “Now I don’t usually do this, probably because I’m never in this position, but you can either let me take you to prison, or I can kill you right here and now.”

The Rider removed the metal device from the dead beast and ran away calling out behind him, “This isn’t over, Pickle-Man!”

Harry watched him when a worried citizen approached from the side. “Hey, why did you let him go?”

Pickle-Man didn’t answer just yet. “I - I couldn’t. I don’t know why.” But he did know why. His head was never in the fight. Killing the horse in mid attack was second nature to him, but all he could think of was Frankie. He hurt her, and he didn’t realize it until it was too late. Where did she go? Is she okay? How can I do better? Will she even let me? Where are you, Frankie Ellison?

At a park (later that night)

Sam Beanz was not taking the loss of his horse lightly. And not just the horse, but the time and money that went into altering it. His beastly steed. Strong enough to do what he wanted. Smart enough to do what wanted. 

Kill everyone. 

Everyone.

Every fucking person. Man, woman, child, cat, dog, a fucking fish! 

His thoughts rambled on, You unbelievable pieces of shit. You fucking hate me, and I hate me, and I hate you, and I hate me. You ruined everything yet again. You bought a stupid knight’s costume online for nothing. You’re nothing, and you know it. A nothing. A swarm of insects, a pile of insignificant shit. A weightless, tireless spec of degenerate filth. Jealous, selfish, self-centered, perverted. Loose stool. Vomit, chunks of yellow snot.

He’d go back to ripping off his finger nails, pulling out his hair, cutting under his eyes, strangling himself, smashing his hand with a brick. He’d do it all again and again. But he felt no pain - no physical pain. Not anymore. Even his shoulder, which had been bleeding for hours, didn't bother him. He felt nothing. Decades of abuse made sure of that. So now only his mind could hurt him, his inner thoughts, his failures…

Failures…

Pickle-Man.

His face became hot. His lower intestine inflamed, then shrank, and curled around itself, ringing out. “Pickle-Man” he said, and puked. 

Crying? He wiped his mouth, and saw a girl crying on a bench. 

“Are you alright, Miss?” he asked her.

Frankie shook her head, and blew her nose into her shirt.

Sam felt guilty for a moment, but only for a moment, when he couldn’t stop eyeing her cleavage. Her breasts were pushed together. Soft. Firm.

Her nose was dripping. He hands her a napkin he got from the McDowell’s’s a few blocks back. She wipes her nose, and dries her tears.

“Someone so beautiful shouldn’t be so sad. What’s wrong?”

Her face flushed, and she threw the napkin away in a fluster, storming off.

“Hey, hey, where are you going?”

She didn’t stop.

“Hey if you don’t wanna talk, that’s okay!”

She kept going until …

“You can’t talk, can you?”

She froze in mid step. She got angry, and annoyed, and walked away, and yet he knew? How? 

“You’re a mute, huh? That’s really something. My sister was like that since she was born. Never got out of it. Have you always been this way?”

She nods.

“Wow. So you have no idea what your voice sounds like?”

She shakes her head.

He nodded back, shrugging his bony shoulders. His smile was long on his frail face, partly hidden by the plastic helmet, but his bag heavy eyes were sorry. They both stood in silence a foot apart.

“Can I ask you something?”

She nods.

“Do you choose not to talk?”

She shakes her head.

“You can’t talk? At all? Holy shit.”

Her shoulders slunk.

“Hey it’s okay. Listen, I have something for you.”

Her eyes perk, and he hands her the metal device. “I built this to verbalize thoughts. I had it on a horse of mine, and It was like he could talk. It was so amazing. If you’d like to hear your own voice, I can let you have this. Free of charge.”

Her eyes lit up. She nods. Sam clips it to her neck. “Okay. Give it a try.”

The red dot blinks green. Her throat flexes and -

It was a cold robotic sound. Echos of wire and silver contraptions combined. Chips and electric currents pinging back and forth with each other, granting Frankie Ellison voice. “Hello.”  At first it felt unnatural. A new muscle had been activated. Vibrational tones that massaged her throat fly up and out past her lips. Emotionless. Toneless. But a voice. Her voice now. The voice of Frankie Ellison.

“Oh. My. God. Thank. You. What. Is. Your. Name?”

“I’m Sam.” he smiled. His heart throbbed. Something else throbbed.

“This. Is. The. Greatest. Gift. Any. One. Has. Given. Me.” 

Sam’s thoughts: This is it. Finally, a girl who actually loves me. Someone who actually cares for me. You did it, Sam. You finally made someone love you. And she has great tits too! Oh man I can’t wait to see what her ass looks like. We’re gonna have such nasty sex. She’s such a slut, and I love it. Just you, and me, giving you my big dick. Oh man, I hope she thinks it's big. I’m not big though. I won’t be able to please her. A girl like this deserves to be fucked until she screams, or bleeds. Fucking bitch. Fuck you, Sam. You fucking stupid fuck. Stop looking at her tits, and fucking respect her, you dim witted fuck face - 

“Why. Are. You. Wearing. That. Costume?”

“Oh, it’s just a thing I do. Makes me feel more like me.” Sam said.

Frankie chuckled robotically. He liked that.

“Ask. Me. Things. I. Want. To. Talk. More.”

“Oh okay, uhh do you have a boyfriend?”

“I. Did. But. He. Is. A. Jerk. Who. Doesn’t. Care. About. My. Condition.”

Perfect, Sam thought. “There aren’t many people who are willing to show compassion for people that are different.”

“Are. You. Different. Sam?”

“Yeah. I’ve been different my whole life. I mean, sure I had great parents, and a loving sister that I looked after. But I never felt like anyone actually cared. Everyone feels so fake. I thought as I got older, it would be better. But I feel more alone now than ever.”

“Oh. You. Are. Not. Alone. Anymore. Sam.” Frankie smiled.

“Thank you.” holding her hand. The clamminess almost repulsed her, but she caught herself immediately, and let him hold tighter (even if it did hurt a little). “What is your name?”

“Frankie.”

“Frankie? That’s such a lovely name. My uncle’s name was Frank.”

“Oh. That. Is. Funny. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha.” Her eyes dropped to the sidewalk. The warmth she was feeling was gone now. She was as cold as her new voice.

“What’s wrong?” Sam asked.

“Oh. It’s. Just. That. Maybe. I. Should. Try. To. Talk. To. My. Boyfriend. Try. To. Work. Things. Out.”

“What?” He tightened his grip on her, turning her hand red. He won’t let go, until finally she pulls away. His dirty uncut fingernails cut her.

“Ouch.”

“I’m sorry, Frankie, I just feel very strongly about you.”

“We. Just. Met.”

“But I gave you my invention, Frankie. I don’t just do that for anyone.”

“What. Is. Happening?”

“Okay.” he steps back. “I’m sorry. I can be a little overprotective to those I care about. Your boyfriend just sounds like an asshole.”

“No. Don’t. Be. Sorry. Sam. I. Am. Going. Through. Alot.”

Then a different voice. Strong, and caring, calling out from behind her. “Frankie?” His voice was warm, something she had loved since the moment they met. The voice of the man who saved her life. The voice of the man who kisses her kindly. Of the man who forgets her condition constantly. Who introduces her as the mute girl. Who cared little for her feelings, and showed off her repressed memories like a movie for him and his friend to see for their own enjoyment. That man. 

“Oh. It’s. You.”

“You can talk?”

“I. Can. Now. You’re. A. Real. Jerk. You. Know. That?”

“I’m sorry, Frankie.” Pickle-Man said. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Who is that with you? How are you talking? Why do you sound like a robot from a 1950’s science fiction film? Danger Will Robinson, Danger!”

“You!” Sam shouted. “You’re her boyfriend?”

“I am. And you…” his voice trailed off. “You’re the killer with the talking horse!”

“Wait. What?”

“You killed my horse!” he stomps his feet, while little plastic pads fall off. “You stopped me from killing everyone!”

“Wait. What. Is. Happening?”

“Frankie!” Pickle-Man said, “Get away from him, he’s a mad man.”

“He. Helped. Me. Jerk. I. Can. Talk. Now. Because. Of. him. What. Did. I Get. With. You? You. Forced. Me. To. Relive. Memories. That. Make. Me. Depressed.”

“I know.” Pickle-Man frowned. “I’m sorry. I really am. I don’t think much at the moment, Frankie.”

“No. You. Don’t.”

“And that is no excuse.”

“No. It’s. Not.”

“I’m trying to work with your condition, and sometimes I don’t know what to do. I know how to save people all the time, but I truthfully don’t know how to help you sometimes. I want to, Frankie, I really do. And it pains me that I can’t help you as simply as when we met. As simply as I do everyone else. I can’t just shoot your condition, and fix everything. Fix you. But I want you to know something. Just because you can’t talk, well now you can, but before, I never looked at you as broken. But hearing you with this new robot voice? I’m sorry, Frankie, but you sound broken now.”

“Don’t listen to him, Frankie.” Sam yelled. “If you go back to him, over that dumbass little speech, then you’re a piece of shit for falling for his crap.”

“Hey!” Pickle-Man cried. “Don’t talk to my girlfriend like that.”

Frankie put her hand up between the two. “Shut. Up. Both. Of. You. I. Am. Not. Shit. Sam. How. Dare. You.”

“How dare I?” Sam genuinely asked. “I gave you a gift so you could fucking talk, you selfish little bitch. You’re playing fucking games with me.”

“What. Are. You. Talking. About. We. Just. Met.”

Pickle-Man said, “You need to simmer down buddy. Stop while you're ahead.”

“Oh fuck you!” Sam said. “And fuck you too, Frankie, you mute slut.”

Pickle-Man cracks his knuckles. “I’m giving you one more shot to stop, and leave.”

“Pickle. Man. Let’s. Just. Get. Out. Of. Here. Please.”

“You want to come back with me?” Pickle-Man asked, forgetting Sam all together.

“Pickle. Man. I. Admit. I. Haven't. Made. It. Easy. To. Help. Me. Or. Understand. Me. I. Refused. To. Understand. Sign. Language. I. Made. It. Hard. For. You. To. Communicate. With. Me. I. Am. Sorry. Can. You. Forgive. Me.?”

“I was never mad at you, Frankie. I will learn everything I can to help understand you. I really care about you, Frankie. Can we work this out?”

The robotic voice agreed, and Frankie came running into Pickle-Man’s arms, where he swung her in circles, as they grew closer, embracing lips in an explosion of floating red and pink hearts.

“What the fuck is this?” Sam threw down his helmet. “This is such bullshit. Sure, you two deserve each other, you know that? A fucking horse killing asshole, and a stupid mute slut. Fuck you!”

“Hey. Sam. You. Can. Have. Your. Stupid. Invention. Back.” Frankie unclips the device, and tosses it at Sam’s feet, who glares hatefully back at her.

“And Sam?” Pickle-Man said. “You can have this, too.”

*BANG*

The bullet shreds through Sam’s eye, in the brain, and out the head. 

Limp…

Pickle-Man holsters his gun. “Are you okay, Frankie? You are? Good. I don’t know how I would have lived with myself if anything happened to you. That guy was a serious nut.”

Pickle-Man and Frankie vanish into the night, leaving Sam to rot.

A hand grabs the Verbalizer. Professor Richard clutches it firmly under his long black coat, and sneers at the body.

“You really disappointed me, Sam.” 

THE
END