Trojan Man

“Shut up, Megan Fox!” I grumble from under the covers.

            “Who?” She sits bolt upright.

            Megan Fox barks again.

            I pretend to fall back asleep.

            “Who were you talking to just now?” She’s onto me.

            I poke my head out from beneath the sheets. It’s too early for dumb girl drama.

            “Megan Fox,” I repeat. “She’s a super-hot actress. That’s also the name of my dog.”

            She laughs. At least, I think she’s laughing. She could be cackling or shrieking too. Maybe that’s what she thinks laughter sounds like. Someone should set her straight.

            She falls back onto the bed and sprawls out, like she’s about to make snow angels with my sheets. I scoot all the way to the edge of my side, hoping maybe she’ll get the message.

            She doesn’t.

            I sigh. Since she doesn’t appear to be leaving any time soon, I figure I should probably get some work done.

            “How was it?”

            She closes her eyes and tilts her head back. “Amazing.”

            I wrinkle my nose. No one likes an exaggerator, and, truthfully, that wasn’t my best work. “Yeah, I’m going to need you to be more honest than that.”

            She rolls over on her side to face me. I take this chance to reclaim some of my territory on the bed. “I am being honest.”

            I dedicate my every ounce of strength into not rolling my eyes. “Praise doesn’t help me. I know I’m good. I need criticisms.”

            She blinks a few times and then frowns. “Your rhythm was a little off, I guess?”

            Super. I love it when people answer my questions with other questions and not answers. “Can you expand on that?”

            “I don’t really feel like—”

            I close my eyes and hold my hand up to make her stop talking. “Too fast? Too slow? Give me something here.”

            She sits there with her mouth open a while before saying anything. I think she might start leaking drool onto my bed. I really hope she doesn’t. That’s the exact reason I don’t let Megan Fox sleep with me, and I wouldn’t want one bitch getting jealous of the other.

            “Too fast,” she finally comes up with.

            I nod. “That’s a typical comment—”

            “Typical?”

            I grit my teeth. I hate being interrupted. “So that was the bare skin with the lubricated—”

            “Are you taking notes?” she demands.

            “Trying to,” I hint.

            “You can’t take notes about it!”

            I set my pen and tablet on my lap and look up. “Well, no, not if you keep interrupting me.”

            Instantly, she’s out of the bed. “I’m leaving.”

            She starts buzzing about the room, picking up her belongings, and I feel the sudden urge to play some ‘90s montage music.

            She moves surprisingly fast for someone with such short legs—she’s only about five feet, and she’s got the narrowest hips I’ve ever seen. That’s actually why I chose her. I didn’t think anything could fit between them.

            I continue jotting notes to avoid further conversation—fair complexion, thin, freckles, red hair…Irish? I look at her again. She’s putting her left shoe on her right foot.

            Megan Fox starts barking again. It sounds like she’s right outside the front door, which means there’s probably somebody standing there for her to bark at. I think it’s Stephan. I look around the room. My client still hasn’t left, but I can’t keep Stephan waiting.

            I leave her in the bedroom and stumble to the door, pulling some clothes on along the way.

            “Hey Stephan,” I say, opening the door.

            “Does it bite?” he asks, motioning toward Megan Fox, who is snarling at him, teeth bared.

            “Nah, she just makes a lot of noise.”

             I reach over and scratch her behind the ears. She loosens up a bit and wags her tail. Stephan stealthily slips past me into the house.

            He has the usual large brown box, which means two really good things: I still have a job, and they’ve finally listened to me about my mailing concerns.

            Fred, my mailman, is a giant pain in the ass. He likes to sort my mail. Bills go on top. Then letters. Followed by magazines and catalogues. Ads are always on the bottom. I think he just does it to leaf through my mail, which is a little bit illegal—right? But packages are the worst. They require him to come all the way up to my front door and knock. And then demand my signature. Every single package.

            Once he’s got me trapped on the front porch, he takes the opportunity to say where the package came from loud enough so that all the neighbors can hear.

            Believe it or not, Fred, I can read shipping labels. I know where these boxes are coming from.

            I tried not answering the door, but instead of leaving the packages on the doorstep, he kept them until I finally gave in and signed. Those packages were necessary for me to continue my work, so I did what I had to do. I got a German Shepherd: the mailman’s worst enemy.

            She’s big.

            She’s ferocious.

            She drools.

            It’s a deadly combination.

            So why did Fred continue to pester me with useless, embarrassing small talk? Because he’s got balls of steel. And that makes me think I bought a giant, barking dog for nothing.

            On the bright side, my months of complaining finally paid off when Stephan agreed to deliver the packages to me himself.

            “So, what’d you bring me?” I ask him as I close the door.

            He sits down on the couch and opens the box to reveal 125 brand new boxes of condoms. I plop down next to him and pick one up to read the label, just as my client is making her way to the living room. She looks at Stephan. She looks at me. Then, she looks at the huge pile of condom boxes between us.

            “Disgusting,” she says and strides out of the house.

            We are silent for a moment.

            “She reminds me of Wilma Flintstone,” Stephan says after a while.

            “She reminds me of an idiot.”

            He nods slightly in agreement. Then he turns his attention back to the box in my hand. “These are the Ultra Thins,” he explains. “They’re forty percent thinner.”

            I frown, looking at the packaging more closely. “Didn’t I test these already? I thought they hit the market last September.”

            He looks away and shifts his weight from one side to the other. “There was a problem.”

            My head snaps up. “What kind of problem?”

            “We may be facing a lawsuit.”

            “A lawsuit? For what?”

            “Discrimination.”

            I give him a blank look.

            “We’ve had eight extremely similar complaints filed about breaking condoms, five of which resulted in an unwanted pregnancy. It’s starting to look like we don’t account for all types of females in our sample group.”

            I rack my brain, trying to think of what kind of girl I haven’t slept with yet. Nothing comes to mind.

            “The obese.”

            “Fat chicks?”

            “The obese,” Stephan repeats. “All claims filed have been from couples with an obese female. We’re being accused of discrimination on the premise that the Ultra Thins are ineffective exclusively on the obese.”

            “But I did include one in that sample group!” I retrieve my notebook from the bedroom. “Look, it’s right here, on July twenty-eighth. Hannah Norris, 213 pounds.”

            He reads over my notes. “You weighed her?”

            “I’m good at guessing.”

            He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Regardless, one sample isn’t going to be enough evidence in court. We’ve got about three months to get prepared, so you have until then to do as much research as you can.”

            “What if it’s not the girls?”

            He waves his hand. “I’ve got men of all shapes and sizes helping us out on this one. Consequently, we have to compensate them too, so your pay’s going to be a little bit lower than usual.”

            I cringe. “How much?”

            He avoids my eye. “I’ll get back to you with that.”

*          *          *

            “Can I buy you a drink?” I ask, while signaling the bartender to bring me a martini.

            She gives me the once-over and scoffs. “You don’t think I’m onto you?”

            That’s an unusual reaction. I evaluate my appearance in my head. Business casual (complete with ironed button-down shirt and slacks), fresh haircut (but not too fresh—about a week old, to escape that “too-neat” look), and that new cologne I just bought (Lacoste). The usual.

            Maybe that’s not what heavy girls are into. I rethink my strategy.

            “Can I buy you something to eat?”

            She narrows her eyes and sits down slowly, just as the bartender arrives with the drink. “Alright.”

            I hand it to her, unsure of how to begin the conversation. “So what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”

            She raises her eyebrows. “This is a nice place.”

            Like I said…

            I quickly push that thought out of my head and instead say, “I’ve never seen you around here before.”

            “So you come here often?”

            I shrug. “I know some of the regulars around here.”

            “Oh, I bet you know the regulars really well,” she says into her drink.

            Bitch.

            “Do you want to order?” I abandon all traces of friendliness and focus on getting her the hell away from me. I don’t usually have to make conversations with my clients, unless I count the occasional “Do you like that?”

            “What’s your name?” she asks.

            Cool. That’s a great answer.

            “What’s yours?” I counter. I don’t like to give information unless I get it in return.

            “I asked you first.”

            Touché. “Lucas.”

            “Nicole.”

            “Well, Nicole, would you like to order?”

            “Why do you keep pushing the food?” She turns to face me.

            More not-answers.

            “Hello?” she demands.

            She’s looking me right in the eyes, waiting for an answer. I fidget slightly in my seat and look away from her impatient gaze.

            “Because I thought you might like to eat?” Oh, shit. Now I’m answering with questions.

            She glares at me. Does she hate that characteristic too? Maybe she’s not that bad. “Is that a fat joke?”

            Bitch squared.

            “It’s an observation. Most people like food, wouldn’t you agree?”

            She is momentarily pacified.

            “I think you need some hard liquor,” I tell her.

            “Do I look like an idiot to you?”

            “No, you look like someone who needs some hard liquor. You’re so sensitive. You need to lighten up.”

            “You look like someone who gets girls drunk and then takes them home, fucks them, and feels pleased with yourself afterwards because they had a drunken orgasm.”

            Wow. Bitch times infinity.

            I look around the room, seeing if there are any other possible targets for me to pursue. Negative. From my seat at the bar, I can see into the dining section of the restaurant. It’s pretty much empty, except for a few couples who are gazing into each other’s eyes in the shitty lighting. Holding back my condescending scoffs, I inconspicuously turn my attention back to the more familiar bar.

            There are a few women chatting on the other side of the room. Girls always have to sit on the couches, which means I have to walk all the way over there to even start interviewing. I much prefer the seats near the alcohol. Here, the brightest lights in the entire building shine upon the circular bar, glinting off the tower of vibrant glass bottles, making me feel like the only one worth paying attention to. Besides, I look better in bright light, and the ladies don’t trust a man they can’t see.

            The girls on the couches look (and sound) totally wasted. I try to tell myself that I don’t want to deal with unnecessary giggling, nasty girl throw up, and vapid childhood secrets, but it’s so hard when they all have such awesome bodies. There’s a Latina-looking one nestled in the corner, looking at me with inebriated, but fiery eyes. How long has it been since I was last with a Latina? Her waist is about half of Nicole’s. Why are all the girls who come here so skinny? I miss skinny girls. This one is a lot more difficult than I assumed. I thought fat people were supposed to be jolly. Judging by her appearance, it’s going to take a lot of alcohol to get her to even consider coming to bed. Maybe I should just abandon ship. I look at my watch discreetly. Shit. There’s no way I’m going to find anyone else this late. I look back up at Nicole, who is still scolding me.

            “—and if you had to deal with all the assholes I deal with, you’d be sensitive too, so shut your damn mouth!”

            She ends her tirade, breathing heavily. I slide my credit card across the counter to the bartender, sensing that our date is just about over.

            “I hate food,” she says.

            She had me fooled.

            “I’m around food all day. And where do I come to escape? A restaurant.”

            “You could go clubbing?” I suggest.

            She glares at me.

            “The park?”

            Her eyes are reduced to slits.

            “Excuse me, sir?” The bartender interrupts me right as I’m about to suggest the gym.

            “What’s up?” I ask him, glad to take my focus away from Nicole’s laser scowls. I felt like my face was about to melt—like she had heat vision or something. I wish I had heat vision.

            “Your card’s been declined.”

            “I don’t suppose you’d mind picking this one up?” I ask Nicole while looking at my hands in my lap.

            When she doesn’t say anything, I muster the courage to steal a peek at her expression.

            Daggers.

*          *          *

            The mail slot in my front door opens. I see Fred slide the envelopes inside, and then I see his beady little eyes peering through the slot. I parked my car around the corner just so that he would think I wasn’t home. Apparently that wasn’t enough.

            I hold my breath from my position underneath the dining room table, and wait for the slot to squeak closed and for the footsteps to recede. The other day Fred caught me while I was playing fetch with Megan Fox outside. He announced to the whole block that he hadn’t seen that usual brown box from Trojan Man lately. I threw the tennis ball at him on accident.

            I hear him start the mail truck, but I wait a few minutes, just to make sure he doesn’t come back. Then I scamper out from under the table and make a lunge for the top of the pile.

            My bank statement is on top, where Fred always puts it. I tear open the envelope, and my eyes scan the paper for my balance and let out an inward groan. It seems as though “cutbacks” meant using my wages to pay off my company credit card. I barely have enough money in my account to pay my mortgage.

            I know what this means. No more electricity. No more running water. No more grocery shopping. Just like last time. My job relies on a house—namely a bedroom. As long as I keep the mortgage paid, there’s still hope.

            I pick up the phone and dial Stephan. I figure it might be smart to talk to him before my electricity is cut off.

            “Hello?”

            “Hey, man, it’s Lucas. How are you?”

            “What do you want, Lucas?”

            Damn, he saw right through me.

            “Yeah, so, I hate to bother you, but I’m really feeling those cuts to my pay.”

            Stephan sighs. “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do.”

            It was worth a try. I fall backwards onto my couch with a heavy thud. “How goes the lawsuit?”

            “I’m up to my eyeballs in legal documents, and I don’t see any way around this except to get the research in.”

            I flinch. I hadn’t had much luck with my research. Fat girls aren’t easy in the least. I still had yet to bring one home, and this is the first time in a while that I have to sleep alone. I don’t like it. I’ve been letting Megan Fox in the bed, just so that there’s something living and breathing lying next to me throughout the night. It seems shorter with someone there to keep me company.

            “Have the other guys reported anything?” I ask.

            “Not yet,” Stephan says. “But what about you? You have more experience than they do. Have you gathered a large sample group yet?”

            I bite my lip. He sounds really desperate. “See, here’s the thing,” I begin. “It’s really hard to get it up when I don’t have food in my system.”

            “I can’t pay you any more than I already am,” Stephan says. “You’re already getting more than the other guys.”

            “But what am I supposed to do about food? This job takes a lot of energy.”

            “Use your good looks?”

            “That’s not the same as money, Stephan,” I snap.

            “It was a joke.”

            “Yeah, well, you suck at jokes,” I grumble.

            “Look, I’ve got to go. Just do what you do with girls, but for food instead of sex, okay?”

            He hangs up.

            I stare at the phone. Stephan must really be stressed out. He never makes jokes.

            I put the phone back where it belongs and think about what I’m going to do for dinner. It must be so easy to be a girl. All you have to do is look pretty, go out, and then wait for someone to buy you food. Totally unfair. I look good. I work out five days a week to look this good. I wear stiff button-down shirts to look this good. I dye my hair a rich auburn to look this good. Girls are suckers for guys with dark hair and blue eyes. Most girls are, anyway. About eighty-two percent my clients said they were.

            Nobody buys me dinner.

            “I really wish I was a girl,” I say to myself. Did I really just say that out loud?

            “I really wish I had heat vision,” I amend a bit louder, just in case anybody was listening.

            My stomach growls something fierce in response. It wakes Megan Fox up.

            I’m jealous of her too. I haven’t bought dog food for her in weeks since I discovered her rooting through other people’s trash. She seems to be doing just fine, although sometimes she gets some wicked gas. That’s worth the saved money, though.

            My stomach protests again. It’s time to weigh my options. I could either pay for my food with my good looks and sweet words, or I could dig through my neighbors’ trash. As if they don’t already think I’m a freak.

            I grab my keys and head out to the nearest Panda Express.

*          *          *

            “Can I take your order?”

            “Are you on the menu?”

            She’s not amused. “Would you like to sample our Beijing Beef?”

            “It’s like you’re speaking the language of love right now. Say more Chinese words.”

            “Order already!”

            “Hurry up!”

            “I’m hungry.”

            She glances at the accumulating line behind me, and then focuses back on me. “Your order, sir?”

            “An order of orange chicken and a side of you,” I say.

            “I’m a lesbian,” she replies.

            “I’m a circus clown.”

            “What?”

            “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought it was my turn to tell a lie.”

            “She’s not interested!”

            “Get out of the way!”

            “I’m hungry.”

            “Look, sir, can you please just place your order? We’ve got people waiting behind you.”

            “That’s nothing compared to how long I’ve waited for you.”

            She looks thoroughly disturbed. “What do you want?” she hisses. “Free food? Is that what you want?”

            “If that counts as a date,” I say and wink at her.

            She scowls at me. “Here’s some chow mien that’s been sitting under the heat lamp for over two hours,” she says. “It’s yours. Just leave and don’t come back.”

            I snatch the food before she can change her mind. “Thanks for the date, Tiffany,” I call over my shoulder as I head towards the door.

            Something wide and soft blocks my escape. I take a step back. It’s Nicole. Her nametag says, “Store Manager.”

            She has her hands on her hips, and she’s looking a bit like my mother used to when I would bring home my report cards. Except Nicole is younger. And her dirty looks are ten times worse.

            “Excuse me,” I say politely, hoping she doesn’t recognize me.

            “Follow me,” she says and turns toward the back of the restaurant.

            I consider running—I doubt she could catch me—but Tiffany looks as if she’s about to vault the counter and hunt me down if I do. So I follow Nicole instead.

            “Sit,” she says when we reach her office.

            I obey. I can’t see my face, but I imagine it looks something like Megan Fox’s after that one time I caught her peeing in the house. She looked so guilty that I felt bad for yelling at her. Maybe Nicole will take pity on me too.

            “Is this how you make your living?” she sneers.

            I abandon my puppy dog face, since pity is clearly out of the question.

            “Do you just roam around, finding unsuspecting girls to flirt with and get free food from?”

            I want to deny it, but that pretty much sums up my plan. “Just this once,” I say.

            “Really? And that’s why I had to spot you that night at the bar?”

            “I was going to pay, but my credit card was declined!” I sound so lame right now.

            “You’re ridiculous!” She picks up a fortune cookie from the bowl on her desk and chucks it at me.

            “Ouch!” I say.

            “Man up!” she says. “Aren’t assholes immune to pain?” She throws another one at me.

            “My feelings aren’t,” I mutter, attempting to dodge it.

            “You don’t have feelings!” She starts firing at will. I hastily slide out of my chair and hide behind it.

            “Stop it, you crazy bitch! What’s your problem?”

            “You think everyone is in love with you?”

            Really? Even when she’s angry she can’t answer questions correctly?

            “You think every girl wants to sleep with you?”

            “Not you, obviously,” I say over the hail of fortune cookies. “That’s why I stopped hitting on you after the first five minutes.”

            “You think it’s funny to play with people’s emotions?” She ceasefires for a second. “Let’s all hit on the fat chick! Let’s see if we can trick her into thinking we like her!”

            I peek out from one side of the chair. She pelts me with a cookie. I duck back into hiding.

            “Did you ever think that you might have an issue if you bombard the people who hit on you with fortune cookies?”

            “I have an issue with assholes!”

            I take the white napkin from my take-out bag, spear it on a chopstick, and wave it above the chair where she can see it. “If I explain myself, will you stop attacking me with words and fortune cookies?”

            She doesn’t say anything.

            “Please?”

            “Alright,” she accedes.

            I slowly rise from a fetal position on the ground and stand with my hands up. I’m not quite sure about the procedures for this. I turn to face her. Her hands are cookie-free, so I drop my arms to my sides.

            “Well?” she demands.

            “I work for a condom company.”

            She throws a cookie at me.

            “I’m serious! They hire me to test out their different types of condoms on a wide variety of girls and write up full and detailed reports before the products hit the market.”

            She lets out a snort. Which evolves into a giggle. Which evolves into laughter. I feel my cheeks burning red.

            “What’s so funny?”

            “You’re pathetic!” She gasps for air. “A condom company? That’s disgusting!”

            My ears start to get hot. She’s a manager at Panda Express, and she’s calling me pathetic?

            There are tears trickling out of her eyes now. My fists clench. Impulsively, I grab a fortune cookie and prepare to launch it at her. But I refrain, knowing she’d whoop my ass if I begin another battle. Instead, I pulverize the cookie in my hand, crushing it into tiny crumbs. This helps ease some of the fury. I see the fortune poking out. Your most desired wish will come true.

            Greedily, I stuff the debris in my mouth and swallow. How long do these things take to work? I focus what I hope is an intense glare upon the hysterical Nicole.

            One minute.

            Two minutes.

            Six, seven, eight minutes.

            Still no heat vision.

*          *          *

            A jolt of pounding on my walls wakes me up.

            No, wait. That’s somebody at the door.

            I check the time, and roll out of bed to answer it. It’s much too early for Fred, and if I don’t shut Megan Fox up now, I may have another lawsuit on my hands.

            A very round silhouette is planted before my front door. I freeze. Is it Nicole? Did she follow me home after I snuck out of her office? What if she’s back with a fortune cookie cannon?

            Then I remember, she thinks I’m a total loser because I’m an esteemed condom-tester. No, I was the original condom tester. And even with those new hires, no one can do the job like me. I look back at the bedroom, and then with a smug burst of confidence, I whisk the door open.

            It’s a lady with a baby.

            I feel the wall of confidence begin to crumble, starting from my throat and toppling all the way down to my perfectly round ass.

            Her eyes are wide, with dark circles underneath, and her hair is dry and frizzy. It looks so brittle that even the smallest gust of wind might cause it to shatter. The infant is nestled in her soft and fleshy arms, and she doesn’t seem to have lost her baby weight yet.

            “Lucas?”

            Fuck, this lady knows me.

            “It’s Hannah.” She doesn’t give me a chance to respond. “Hannah Norris? We hooked up a while ago.” She looks down at the baby, then back at me with a weak smile.

            July twenty-eighth. Hannah Norris, 213 pounds.

            I stare at the baby, wanting to scream and cry at the same time.

            Look Hannah, I want to say, that’s not my baby.

            What do you mean it’s not your baby? He looks just like you.

            No, bitch. That baby is obviously black. How dare you try to pass it off as mine?

            Her tired eyes would scrutinize the infant. He’s definitely white. You’re definitely white, so…

            I would panic. Oh, so now you want to play the race card?

            A burning sensation from my eyes jerks me back into the present. Even in my imagination, I suck at arguing. Fuck, my eyes really hurt—I’ve definitely been staring too long.

            Or maybe that’s the flames building behind my eye sockets, getting ready to erupt in a wild conflagration to engulf and incinerate all my problems from the face of the earth.

            “Lucas? What’s going on?”

            The fragments of that wall of confidence are about to tumble out of my perfectly round ass in a mad rush of—as doctors might refer to it—diarrhea. My jaw is clenched so tight that I can feel my teeth cracking. My eyes have officially stretched as wide as they can.

            The inside of my head sounds like an angry tea kettle as I see her emerge from the bedroom, sheets wrapped around her soft folds like a makeshift toga. Cleofatra, I think, with sudden inspiration. Then I see a fragment of an Ultra Thin Label stuck to her foot and that diarrhea is converted to barf, which conveniently gets caught in my throat. All I can do is watch as she discovers the mother and child hunkered in my doorframe. Then, my glorious success story of a client turns to me.

            “Who’s this?” she demands.

            I swallow the barf. “Hannah Norris, 213 pounds.”

*          *          *

            “Lucas? You okay?”

            “Of course I’m okay,” I say into the phone. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

            “We’ve had quite some bad luck with the other testers. It seems as though they had the same—problem—that you had.” Stephan coughs. My baby-daddy status makes him uncomfortable.

            I cradle the phone between my ear and shoulder so that I can use both hands to rummage about in my nightstand. “What was the deal with those condoms?”

            “It turns out the Ultra Thins were too thin. Small amounts of semen could leak out. Did you know the obese are actually more fertile?”

            “You don’t say,” I mutter, finally grabbing hold of my sharpie.

            “Yeah, well the prospect of fatherhood didn’t suit some of those other testers too well. Most of them asked to be transferred to different locations, far away from here. One of them is in our advertising department now; he came up with a slogan yesterday.” Stephan sounds like a teacher who doesn’t know the right way to tell a parent that her child pees in the potted plants.

            “Let’s hear it,” I say, ripping the sheet from my bed.

            “‘Making sure the only mistake you might have is the one lying next to you in the morning.’”

            “Harsh.” I plop down, crisscross applesauce in the middle of my floor, and attempt to write on the sheet. It has those fuzzy balls on it from overuse, so my handwriting looks like a second-grader’s. That might be an improvement.

            “It’s completely mental!” Stephan says. “They’ve all been acting like that. I might have to fire them, which will be difficult, since they’re new fathers.”

            I say nothing, focusing on the more immediate task in front of me.

            “I’m hoping I don’t have to do the same to you,” Stephan adds.

            “I’m not crazy, if that’s why you called,” I say.

            I hear him exhale. “It’ll be just like old times, with you as our senior, and only, tester.”

            I switch the phone to speaker phone and begin to unbutton my shirt.

            “Of course wages won’t be quite the same, since we lost the lawsuit,” he continues.

            I tie the sheet around my neck and leap atop my mattress.

            “Is fatherhood treating you well?” Stephan asks.

            With my cape flowing behind me, I stand naked on the bed, feet solidly planted in a heroic pose. Placing my hands on my hips, I glare at the phone, incinerating it to bits with my heat vision.

            “I’m not crazy, if that’s why you called,” I say to the pile of molten plastic.