Nobody Reads This Page – ‘Mr. X Returns’

c. 2023 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-23)

 

 

Disclaimer: Some or all of what follows here may be fictionalized. Do not let that spoil your reading enjoyment, however...

 

While visiting Chardon for beer and pizza, over the weekend, I decided to stop at my local bank ATM to retrieve a small amount of cash. The habit of traveling around with no paper money on hand was something I had become accustomed to, as a matter of convenience. Yet I still remembered my father’s admonition to always have a $20.00 bill at the ready, if a neighbor might be in need. So, I pulled up to the electronic terminal with a sense of purpose.

 

After punching buttons in succession, a bill ejected on cue. I took it gratefully, and reached for the shifter in my SUV, to drive away. But before I could move out of the restricted lane, a warning flashed on the screen.

 

“YOU ARE BEING WATCHED! AWARENESS IS A TOOL TO PRESERVE YOUR OWN SAFETY!”

 

My eyes snapped fully open upon reading this ominous message. I twisted my neck at a painful angle, to make sure nothing had been misconstrued in the process of viewing this notice.

 

“What the heck?”

 

Feeling anxious, I pressed my right foot on the accelerator. My vehicle surged forward with a growl of internal combustion. But before I could get fully out of the access space, a black limousine blocked my path. It appeared with surprising rapidity, almost as if the beastly carriage had materialized out of virgin air.

 

A tall, suited fellow with dark glasses emerged from the rear passenger door. He stood in the parking lot between his mechanical mule and mine, and bowed with a graceful tilt of his head.

 

“Rodney? It has been a long time since our paths intersected. I regret that we must speak, once again.”

 

My skin felt clammy. He was oddly familiar, yet not someone I could identify immediately.

 

“Speak again? What... we’ve met before?”

 

The strange individual was tall and pale. He took off a pair of leather gloves, and lit a cigarette while standing in front of my car.

 

“You’ve started writing again. Is that correct? For a different newspaper though, not the Maple Leaf this time. Something called the Geauga Independent?”

 

I huffed a bit, with curiosity. Though nervous energy still had me trembling.

 

“I’m confused, sorry. Is that headline news? Yes, I recently posted a few things online. Who noticed? Those stories didn’t get many hits when I checked...”

 

The interloper removed his black Fedora.

 

“You once called me Mr. X. Is that memory still tucked away in your brain?”

 

I chilled at the icy tone of his voice.

 

“Okay, I remember now. We did meet a couple of times, before. But that moniker would get me in trouble with a copyright infringement now, I think. Elon Musk stole your name for his rebrand of the Twitter platform...”

 

The spooky sir wasn’t amused. He stubbed out the smoke on one heel of his wingtip shoes.

 

“Comedy isn’t your gift, Rodney. Still, you do have a loyal readership here in northeastern Ohio. Sixteen years writing your erstwhile column got noticed for its persistence, if nothing else. I tip my hat to you! That is why I have come here today. Not everyone feels that your exit from retirement was a wise decision. Did you consider the risk associated with tilting at windmills, in our modern age?”

 

I took a deep breath and gripped the steering wheel for support.

 

“Risk? I don’t get your premise, sorry! Honestly, I didn’t reckon on too many people noticing that I had jumped back in the saddle...”

 

He frowned and clenched his teeth. My indifference seemed to harden his resolve.

 

“THIS IS NO JOKE, MY FRIEND! YOU LIKE TO TEASE THE PUBLIC WITH TALES OF INTRIGUE AND SILLY TIDBITS OF WORDPLAY! BUT WE ARE IN DIFFERENT TIMES NOW! MISINFORMATION AND INTERFERENCE RULE THE DAY! RUSSIA AND CHINA HAVE ASSETS ALL AROUND AMERICA! IRAN AND NORTH KOREA THREATEN OUR ALLIES! SPIES PROBE OUR SOCIAL NETWORKS! THOUGHT CONTROL PROCEEDS THROUGH THE DISSEMINATION OF PROPAGANDA! NONE OF THIS HAPPENS WITHOUT THE DIRECTION OF SINISTER FORCES! ARE YOU FOOLISH ENOUGH TO BE OBLIVIOUS? OR DO YOU SIMPLY NOT CARE?”

 

I had grown thirsty while listening. His rant made me wish for a cold brew.

 

“I should be taking notes. This kind of spiel would be perfect for a printed feature...”

 

Mr. X grinned like a hungry badger. He raised his right fist overhead.

 

“IDIOT! I CAME HERE TO WARN YOU ABOUT WHAT AWAITS! DOES THAT MEAN NOTHING? THIS IS ALL PART OF A VAST CONSPIRACY. THE DEEP STATE, IF YOU WILL! YOU’VE WRITTEN MUCH ABOUT DONALD TRUMP AND HIS SUPPORTERS. WHAT IF HE COMES TO POWER AGAIN? DON’T YOU FEAR RETRIBUTION FROM HIM, OR HIS SYCHOPHANTS?”

 

My stomach began to ache. I slumped a bit in the driver’s seat.

 

“It’s all satire, man! Don’t you get that vibe? I’ve been cranking out prose products for years that poke the bear, so to speak. It started as a kid, I used to draw cartoons about my fourth-grade teacher. Her name was Mary Jane Palmer. Even in the early 1970’s, that old schoolmarm had already lived to a considerable age. She singled me out as a target because I was bright and talked too loudly in class. I had no armor to protect myself, or weapons to fight back. So, I turned to art. Eventually, I had a whole notebook full of drawings about her snotty supervision of our group. Friends loved my work. I had to hide the folder, though. Getting caught might have gotten me expelled...”

 

The shadowy figure could not stand any more.

 

“FOURTH GRADE? YOU WANT ME TO LISTEN TO YOUR STORIES ABOUT BEING IN ELEMENTARY SCHOOL? FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, THIS IS TOO MUCH! I’M TRYING TO SAVE YOU FROM RUIN! LISTEN TO ME! LISTEN, ALREADY!”

 

I had run out of breath. His threatening mood made me afraid.

 

“Okay, I will quit talking. Say your piece. I’ll sit here and listen...”

 

Mr. X softened his stance. He gestured politely while making a summation.

 

“I could be rubbed out for coming here, some would view my conduct as treason against the state. I hope you appreciate that, on some level. But regardless of your perceptions, let me offer this advice. Go back underground, Rodney. Stop whatever you are trying to do with your e-paper. It’s a fight you won’t win. A fight you can’t win, quite honestly. Because the system perpetuates itself. In a sense, I am part of that system. Yet I have affinity for innocent actors such as yourself. You still have faith in goodness and justice. Those are antiquated notions when we send weapons of mass destruction around the globe, more easily than we dispense food or medical resources. Do you understand? I am guilty. My bosses are guilty. Our regime is guilty. I do this today, to atone for that guilt. Crawl back under your rock. Shut up, before the weight of sin crushes you like an insect! Be quiet, and be safe! Or, end up on a hit list with Marianne Williamson, and Vivek Ramaswamy!”

 

Before I could react, he had returned to the seclusion of his long limousine. As I sat watching, the motorcar pulled away, leaving a furious plume of exhaust in its wake. I waited for a minute or two, before stuffing the $20 bill into my tri-fold wallet. Then, reached a second time for the gear selector.

 

By now, my pizza was cold and my beer was warm. I only hoped that after getting home to watch sports on my television, it wouldn’t matter too much.