ONE WEEK AGO

Most people might think a life at sea would be a chance to grow, to learn, to discover. For Russell, it couldn’t have been further from the truth. The open sea was nothing but an endless stretch of blue — a boring, wet desert. No moments of self-discovery, no spiritual communion with majestic whales set to an inspiring soundtrack. Just waves, sun, and Buzz’s endless commentary.

The one break in the monotony came when Buzz fished a blow-up doll out of the ocean and decided it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen. He waited until Russell was dead asleep, then propped it up beside him like some waterlogged lady-of-the-night. Waking up next to a plastic prostitute wasn’t what Russell would call a moment of discovery, or even all that funny. Buzz, on the other hand, laughed about it for days.

But when they hit the Hawaiian islands after weeks of sailing, Russell found island life had its own set of revelations. As their caffeinated crusade to sling Spazz across every beach, resort, and, occasionally, strip club got underway, Russell finally learned a few things about himself.

For one, he hated being sober for weeks at a time, especially when it meant cramming himself into the Blitz costume. Sobriety made everything sharper, louder — the blaring electronic music that pounded relentlessly at the events, the sweaty crowds grinding against each other like drunken sardines, and worst of all, Buzz shouting “HEEEERE COMES BLITZ!” into a megaphone like some deranged carnival barker. Being the one sober person in the middle of that chaos, especially as the center of attention, it was a special kind of hell for Russell.

But it wasn’t all negatives. The most important thing he learned? Just how much he loved a good t-shirt gun. Few things could hit the sweet spot like the THWOMP of a t-shirt leaving his CO2-powered hand-cannon. Even better, it was the one weapon he could aim at someone, pull the trigger, and not have to deal with any consequences. All day long, he’d pelt beach-goers and club-rats with high-speed swag, and they’d cheer for it. They’d thank him. Man, did those sweaty lunatics love their free shit. He could nail someone square in the face with a bundled t-shirt, and they’d still dive to the ground like rabid dogs, clawing for their prize. Absolute animals.

Which, ironically, made what Russell was doing at the moment seem almost civilized: shooting at actual animals.

“Last chance, bastards!” he barked, a cigarette wobbling dangerously from his lips. He stood upon the top-deck of his yacht, still decked out in full Blitz — minus the head — after another grueling day of Spazz events. His t-shirt gun was aimed towards the skies as he awaited a response. The only answer he got was a mocking chorus of squawks. Now, he didn’t speak seagull, but Russell was pretty sure it translated to “Get fucked, purple bitch!”

These rats with wings had decided that his yacht was their personal shitter. They circled above the neon-purple sail, the floating Spazz billboard that it was, bobbing and weaving in the wind like sky bandits, just waiting for the perfect moment to drop their chalky bombs. And Russell wasn’t having it.

He lined up his shot, zeroing in on the plumpest of the flying pests, and squeezed the trigger with righteous vengeance.

THWOMP!

The t-shirt sailed through the air, rubber-banded into a soft, cotton cannonball. Unsurprisingly, Russell missed — his aim was about as reliable as a drunken dart player — but it tore close enough to send the seagulls scattering before landing in the harbor with a sad little plop. A victory for no one. All Russell managed to do was scare the shit out of the feathered fucks, literally. A splattering, chalky barrage pummeled the sail as the gulls cackled and flew away.

“Shit,” Russell said, blowing out a plume of smoke like a resigned dragon.

“Who knew the fastest gun in the west would have a little tail?” The voice drifted up from the dock, cutting through the squawking chaos. Aside from the screaming t-shirt goblins at their Spazz events, it was the only human voice Russell had heard for weeks. He turned to find Buzz standing down by the yacht’s ramp, camera in hand, squinting against the setting sun. Buzz’s grin was sharp — the kind that could make you want to punch a guy or buy him a beer, depending on the day. Not that they had any beer.

Buzz raised the camera, hamming it up as he pretended to frame the shot. If he was actually filming, he’d be capturing a masterpiece: Russell on the top deck of the yacht, half-dressed as a gun-toting purple raccoon, waging a one-man war against the heavens — all of it set against the backdrop of a Hawaiian sunset in a peaceful little harbor.

“You look like you belong in some kinda sci-fi movie,” Buzz said with a laugh. “Or at least the porno parody.”

“Put that down,” Russell snapped as he struggled to remove his raccoon tail — because yeah, he’d somehow forgotten he was still wearing the damn thing. “You might accidentally erase all the actual footage. I’ve shown you fifty times where the damn record button is on that thing.”

Buzz lowered the camera but the evergreen grin didn’t budge. “How many shirts you launched into the drink so far?”

Russell shot a quick look into the harbor, where at least a dozen rubber-banded t-shirts bobbed around like purple, poisoned apples. He snorted, unapologetic, and dropped into one of the yacht’s absurdly overpriced beach chairs. “You told me to keep an eye on the boat, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, well,” Buzz said, hiking up the ramp with the grace of a man who spent years pretending he was still in his prime. He flopped into the chair next to Russell, chuckling as he sank deeper into the cushions. “If even the birds are fighting for a taste, I’d say we’re killing it in the marketing department.” The chuckle turned into a groan, low and tired, as the day’s hustle caught up with him.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Russell could see it — behind the grins and bravado, Buzz was running on fumes too. While Russell sweated it out as Blitz, dancing his ass off and slinging Spazz swag at anyone in range, Buzz was right there in his wake to seal the deal. He was the one keeping the whole circus spinning, shooting footage, schmoozing the right people, and plastering Spazz’s obnoxious logo on everything Russell launched. Into the crowd, into their brains — Buzz made sure Spazz was something they wouldn’t forget. They were both grinding.

But where Russell’s idea of decompression involved firing shirts at birds, Buzz had recently developed a different remedy. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an already-opened packet of Spazz. Purple powder spilled onto the deck as he stuck two fingers inside, coating them in neon energy dust, then slid them along his gums. He worked the powder with his tongue, giving his head a sharp little shake as it started to hit, his whole body twitching with manufactured energy. He finished it with a quick, high-pitched whistle, as if to say: Good as new.

The first time Russell saw this behavior — which could only be described as “fiend shit” — he’d thought about saying something. But he didn’t. In their weeks of sailing together, there were still plenty of things left unsaid between them, particularly about Russell’s misinformed role in this whole promo tour. And to have one serious conversation would inevitably open the door to the other — the one he really didn’t want to have.

Besides, fiend shit or not, Buzz was the captain of this little operation, and so far, he’d been holding it together. He’d gotten them to Hawaii, hadn’t he? That had to count for something. A few more months, they’d wrap this thing up, hopefully before that fiend shit got the best of him.

“How’d it go with the guy?” Russell asked, trying not to show he cared all that much.

“The resort guy? Over the moon,” Buzz said with a new energy behind his words. “Said our show today brought in more patrons than he’s seen all season. And man, let me tell you, he’s a big fan of Blitz. Big fan of you.”

Russell kept his face blank, but inside, he was fist-bumping. He’d crushed it today, and he knew it. Hell, half of Hawaii probably knew it. He thought back to the crowd roaring for Blitz, their electric energy fueling him as he worked the chaos, pouring Spazz into any open mouth he could find. Even sober, that was Russell at his best, right in his element.

Then his eyes landed on the raccoon tail lying next to him, and the memory shifted — to the drunken meathead who’d grabbed it, yanking and laughing as Russell flailed around, helpless, until he hit the sand in a moment of unplanned slapstick comedy. The humiliation hit hard, like a gut punch, snapping him out of the glow. For all the joy Russell could bring, it only took one asshole to remind him that, to them, he was just a walking joke.

This was why he wanted out. Why he needed a change. Why he deserved more.

Maybe Buzz was high, or maybe Russell’s face gave too much away, because the old salesman didn’t miss a beat. He wasn’t about to let Russell sink too low.

“Get this — the guy wants Spazz to sponsor a wet t-shirt contest at his resort,” Buzz said, grinning like he’d already signed the deal. “Maybe I’ll tell him you got a head start — filled up the harbor with our finest, just waiting for the ladies to dive in and grab ’em.” He slapped Russell’s furry knee, laughing at his own joke.

Russell took another drag of his dying cigarette, a hard feat through those giant furry claws of his.

Buzz finally gave in to the silence, the kind that had become all too common over the weeks at sea. Most of the voyage had been like that — long stretches of quiet where neither of them seemed to know what to say, even if Buzz kept trying to talk over it. Russell wasn’t good with disappointment, let alone talking about it. With the Blitz head on, he came alive, giving Buzz the high-intensity show he needed. But the moment it came off, so did the spark. He was back to being the same old Russell.

“Russ,” Buzz started, his voice softer than usual. “Listen to me, buddy. I know this whole adventure hasn’t been exactly what you thought it’d be. Now, I don’t think I sold you a crock of crap — your mind got ahead of itself a little — but I’ll admit, I could’ve been clearer about just what you’d be doing out here.”

Buzz turned, meeting Russell’s eyes. Jesus, his pupils were massive.

“But it’s just like I said that day, back when I first showed you this boat,” Buzz continued, his voice picking up momentum. “If this works out, nobody’s gonna forget the two guys who pulled it off. And so far, man? We are pulling this the fuck off. Hawaii loves us. Corporate loves us. They’re eating up every clip we send back.”

Russell crushed his cigarette between his claws. Looked like the conversation he didn’t want to have was happening, whether he liked it or not. “I know. I’m not trying to sound ungrateful. For the first time in forever, my phone isn’t blowing up with negative balance alerts from my bank. Probably because we’re in the middle of the ocean half the time, but still. You gave me a shot, and I appreciate it. I just… Buzz, at the end of the day, I’m still a clown. And I’m tired of being a fuckin’ clown.”

Even without the energy powder coursing through his veins, Buzz was ready for that one. “Alright, so what is it you want to do, buddy? In life, I mean.”

Russell sat with the question, letting it hang in the air. It was simple, sure, but the weight of it? Not so much.

“Well, what you do, man. Sell things, build brands, connect with people, all without looking like an idiot!”

Buzz couldn’t help but laugh. “You must not remember the last ten fuckin’ years of my life, Russ.”

“You know what I mean,” Russell said. “Not the Buzz who was betting on cockfights or driving his car through an all-you-can-eat buffet. I’m talking about the Buzz who got every person in America to buy a stupid mop because it came with a dozen useless attachments.”

“The Gunk Buddy had fourteen attachments,” Buzz cut in, his voice snapping with energy.

“And you’re the guy who made us believe we needed all fourteen of those goddamn attachments to clean our houses. And we loved you for it. You weren’t the clown; you were our friend on TV.”

Buzz nodded, his grin softening. “Look, the way you see yourself, that’s you. I can’t change how you see yourself. But what I see, when I see you dominating a crowd, or leading a chant, working a room like you own it? I see someone who has a God-given gift of inspiring people. Buddy, you’re like an X-Man at this. It ain’t something to just toss aside because a few assholes yank your tail.”

Buzz waved his hands, clearing the air. “But if you want more for yourself — if you want to use those skills for something different, something bigger — I get it. Just stick with me. Get through this, and I promise you, Russ. I promise. I’ll get you to the top. I’ll get you selling the stuff, not just slinging it.”

Russell exhaled slowly, flicking his cigarette into a Spazz-branded cup. It hit with a soft sizzle. Of course he was sticking with Buzz. What else was he gonna do? Jump ship? Go back to a life of debt and disappointment? This was the only shot he had in the barrel. But above all that, out of all the weird relationships Russell had formed through his line of work, Buzz was the only one he’d truly considered a friend.

“I’m with you. All the way.”

Some might’ve called it a tender moment, others a reality check. Either way, it didn’t last. The sound of clinking glass and rubber wheels on wooden planks cut it short. Both men turned to see a young guy rolling a dolly down the dock, a stack of big cardboard boxes wobbling precariously on top. Buzz clapped his hands together, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning.

“Right on time!” he said, already heading to meet the guy. “I got you something. Come help me with it.”

The boxes were heavy, rattling with the unmistakable sound of glass. Russell had a pretty good idea what was inside, but when he cracked one open, he still took a step back, eyebrows climbing to his hairline.

“Woah,” he said.

Inside was an alchemist’s dream for alcoholics — dozens of bottles in every color imaginable, catching the light like jewels in a chest. Russell opened another box, then another. More of the same, a haul that could stock a bar for months.

“Buzz, this is so much fucking booze!”

“Well, we’ve got a long stretch of open sea ahead,” Buzz said, tossing a thumb over his shoulder. “Plenty more videos to make — don’t forget that — but there’s gonna be downtime too. And I know how you like to spend your downtime. You earned this, buddy. Thanks for showing up.”

Russell pulled out a bottle, turning it over in his hands like he’d just uncovered buried treasure. He glanced at the open boxes. There had to be at least fifty bottles. “The resort guy just gave you all this for free?”

Buzz let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Hell no! I’m trading it pound for pound in Spazz powder. The guy says it’s got potential as a party drug. Can you believe that? Spazz, a goddamn party drug! Bet the suits never saw that one coming.”

Russell’s eyes flicked to Buzz’s pupils, massive and unblinking, and he hesitated, holding the bottle between them. “And you’re sure you’re gonna be okay around all this?”

Buzz snorted and threw up his signature two-thumbs-up, the move that had sold America.

“I’ll be A-OK, buddy!” he said, grinning so wide it almost looked real.