James left the clothing store, feeling much better about himself. He only had $30 left, but he now wore bright-white running shoes, stylish blue jeans, and a button-down white shirt, open to reveal his newly impressive torso. He caught his reflection in the store window; a handsome fellow, worthy of being a movie star, stared back at him. His spirit soared as he contemplated his next move.
Through the din of city life, he heard a simple musical pattern. Following the sound, he found himself in front of a modern-looking church; the sound, now recognizable as a pipe organ, came from inside. Almost immediately, he heard another new sound, that of a payphone ringing. It lay about a dozen feet away, past the endless flood of pedestrians; they all seemed to ignore it. His brow furrowing, he dodged the people in the way and picked up the handset.
He was immediately assaulted by a gravely, world-weary voice. “Hey there, stranger!” it croaked. “Welcome to the Business District. Stick around if you wanna learn what our business is.”
James’ heart began to beat faster. “Apart from neutral areas like this one,”, it continued, “the city is carved up between three feuding gangs–Consolidated Inc. in gray, the Karnies in green, and the Odesa in blue.”
He looked around nervously. His studio apartment was in a distinctly urban part of town, but he hadn’t noticed any heavy gang activity. Had he just missed it?
“You wanna work for a gang?” the voice continued. “You follow their colored markers to their phones and pick up a job. But make sure you have enough respect.”
What was that, now? Work for a gang? Why in the world would he want to do that? His career might have been a grind, but he wasn’t ready to throw it all away.
Abruptly, he noticed something new appear in the upper-left corner of his vision, aside the readout of his available cash; it showed three meters. One had a letter “K” superimposed over a Ferris wheel, another had a blocky “C” over what seemed to be a glass window, and the last had an “O” surrounded by fog. The meters all had a minus sign on one end, a plus sign on the other, and a mark in the center. Without knowing any more, it seemed reasonable to assume he had no respect from any of these gangs. How could he? They didn’t even know him.
“You need wheels and a strap to get by in this city,” the raspy voice continued, “and I’m giving you both.” Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a pulsing glow behind him. He turned to notice a car parked on the side of the street, light radiating from it, the glow’s source unclear.
“You want to see the gangs in action?” the voice asked. “Follow the gray marker to the Consolidated Inc. zone and look out for the men in grey suits. Some of them drive mid-size luxury cars with their logo.”
The line abruptly went dead.
James hung up the phone and shivered. He turned to look at the car again; it still pulsated. None of the pedestrians seemed to pay it any mind. He approached it slowly, opened the driver-side door, and sat down, closing the door behind him.
Instantly, his ears were assaulted by loud music. He groped quickly for the volume control on the radio, dropping it to a reasonable level. The music wasn’t to his taste; it was too aggressive and mocking. He pressed a single button that seemed to change the station; none of them were any less trashy. He pressed the button repeatedly, watching the display change from one overly edgy title to another. Finally, the display showed “radio off”, and he sighed in relief.
James blinked a few times. He had a dim memory of an unusual title, right before the radio went silent. He punched through the selections again, reading each title carefully, finally arriving at one labeled “user MP3 player”. A moment later, the speakers swelled with a space-rock tune that reminded him of his uncle. He didn’t recognize the artist, but the song was aggressive without being grating, and soothing without being boring. A smile washed over his face as he started the car and pulled into the street.
Unexpectedly, the pedestrians panicked, running in all directions. Before he could hit his brakes, one fellow dressed in a plaid shirt and khakis ran in front of his car; his body impacted with a sickening thud. James quickly shut off the car and ran outside. There his victim lay, in a pool of his own blood, not moving.
James’ mouth hung open; he felt himself sweat. Checking his pockets, he realized he didn’t have a cell phone. “Can someone call 911?!” he screeched. But the pedestrians ignored him; a few formed a half-circle around the dying man on the ground. “Damn!” one called out. “That dude’s messed up!” He stared hotly at the speaker; how could she be so callous?
He dimly became aware of an approaching siren sound. James hung his head; his adventure in the new world was already over. He wondered what the police were like in this world, and if he could escape them by taking off the ring, or if that would just replace them with the police from his world. He braced himself as the siren sound approached.
He saw an ambulance driving down the street toward him. James breathed a sigh of relief; at least they could help the injured man. The ambulance parked, and immediately, two paramedics leaped out and headed toward the wounded.
“He ran in front of my car!” James protested. “I didn’t even see him coming!”
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The paramedics paid him no mind. “Look at me!” one commanded. “Keep breathing!” The other performed CPR; James didn’t know how that was supposed to stop the bleeding, and watched helplessly.
To his surprise, the plaid-shirted fellow stood up; there was no blood on any of his clothes. Without saying a word, he ran off, and disappeared into the crowd. As James gawked, he heard doors slam shut, and the siren resume; the paramedics were driving away.
Utterly befuddled, James looked around. As usual, the pedestrians paid no attention to him at all. Still shaking from the experience, he got in his car and drove away. This time, no one panicked.
Suddenly he noticed the pistol on the passenger seat. It appeared to be a semiautomatic, and had a clip loaded. His eyes widened as he grabbed it and stuffed its barrel into his pocket. To his amazement, it seemed to disappear completely, leaving no bulge in his pants. He reached for it, and it appeared in his hand instantly. A car behind him honked; he had inadvertently stopped in the middle of the street. He put the pistol back in his pocket and continued to drive.
He could dimly see three arrows in his vision–a gray one, a slate-black one, and a yellow one. It dawned on him that he had been instructed to follow the gray one. After making a few turns and finding himself on a wide boulevard, he drove in the direction of the arrow, stopping abruptly and making a U-turn as he realized it was now pointing in the other direction. After finding the correct side street, he continued his journey into a stately-looking campus of faceless glass and steel edifices. As predicted, gray-suited men filled the sidewalks.
The payphone, standing by the door to a skyscraper, rang endlessly. He parked his car and picked up the handset. A dignified, somewhat nasal voice immediately began speaking.
“The gray markers will always point to the nearest Consolidated Inc. phones where jobs may be found for those with sufficient respect,” he heard. “Tell your friends! Consolidated Inc. is interested in offering contract work to anyone prepared to keep the Karnie population to a minimum.”
Before he could react to this murderous offer, the gravely voice from before suddenly returned. “The next stop is Laugh Riot, the amusement park that’s home to the guys in the clown wigs, white undershirts and overalls. Their rust-bucket pickup trucks stand out like a sore thumb.” The line immediately went dead.
James got back in his car and followed the yellow arrow. From several blocks away, he could see the amusement park, its tall rollercoasters looming over the nearby buildings. He parked in front of the ringing payphone, strolled over to it, and picked up the handset.
“Yahoo!” a slurred voice trilled, causing James to jump back. “The yellow markers always point to the nearest Karnie phones where jobs may be found…just so long as you have the respect.”
James’ heart skipped a beat. Had he waltzed into the middle of a gang war?
“Yee-haw!” the voice continued. “We Karnies respect people that waste Odesa killjoys.”
The gravely voice returned. “Now let’s visit Odesa territory. These thugs dress in dark-olive shirts and black pants…and they have absolutely no sense of humor. So tread lightly.”
Shrugging flippantly, he followed the black arrow as he drove. Before long, he found himself in a dilapidated area, filled with dismal concrete apartment buildings and rusted chain-link fences. He exited his vehicle and approached the payphone–a rusted, pitted steel-gray box with a rotary dial. He picked up the drab-olive handset.
“Dasvidaniya,” a thickly accented voice said. “The black markers always point to the nearest Odesa phone where jobs are made available for anyone with enough respect.” James was unfazed this time–he was getting used to this.
“If you want Odesa respect,” the voice continued, “you had better start killing capitalist imperialist Consolidated Inc. swine.”
The raspy voice cut in. “Now you see where the battle lines are drawn. Follow the pink marker back to me–I got a little somethin’-somethin’ for ya…”
The line went dead. James hung up, entered his vehicle, and drove back to the church’s payphone. Just a few minutes ago, he had been terrified of the prospect of getting involved in a 3-way gang war. Now, it seemed perfectly natural. Parking his car and leaping out, he picked up the handset as soon as he could.
“I don’t know much,” the gravely voice began, “but I taught you all I know. Here’s my Uzi machine gun, plus a collectible token for your trouble.” He heard a crackling sound through the earpiece, and then a dial tone.
James hung up the phone. He found the machine gun in his right hand, and some sort of paperweight in his left hand. He held the collectible token up; inside a black outline was a white surface, with the word “Turf” engraved on it in black letters. He touched it to his pants pocket and it disappeared inside, not even leaving a lump.
He looked around; the pedestrians ignored him like they always did. He glanced uneasily at the machine gun in his hand, then back at them; they paid him no mind. Shrugging, he moved to put the firearm in his pocket; it disappeared, leaving no bulge. He hesitated for a moment, then got back in his car and drove toward where he started. It was time to go home; he’d had enough of this world for one day.
As he slowly inched through the traffic, his mind raced with questions. By all appearances, this world was much like a video game. But why did it seem to exist parallel to the real world? Some sort of divine force had to be responsible, but to what end? And why was he chosen to explore it? Although he had gained some understanding of it today, that only seemed to bring up more mysteries.
He approached the door to his studio apartment and, on a whim, decided to enter it while still in the other world. He smiled as he saw the now-familiar white void, and stepped into it fearlessly, finding himself in his apartment. Only then did he take off the ring.
His knees buckled; the weakness hit him like a ton of bricks, nearly knocking him over. He shivered, suddenly cold. The pangs in his stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten in quite a long time. Dragging himself over to the fridge, he found some leftover takeout from yesterday evening. Swallowing a few bites of it first, he put the rest into a bowl and microwaved it. The small mouthfuls of food let him stop shaking; by the time his meal was warm, the pain had been replaced by a dull ache.
He took his food to the coffee table and sat down on the couch. James was grateful for the soft cushions; they seemed to hug him. He caught a glance at his belly; it was back to the familiar pudgy, ovoid shape. Feeling the top of his head, he realized the horseshoe-shaped hair has returned. Sighing, he dug into his food with an unusual vigor.