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Split Decision by David Perlmutter

Split Decision

by David Perlmutter
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Page 5

IV.

Having vanquished Jefferson Ball with her tongue (or so it seemed, anyway), Hamilton Pomeranian ascended the stairs of their apartment building—she lived only one floor above her friend, which had obvious advantages and disadvantages. She knew she had to get inside right away, before the muggers came out (although her military training served as a safeguard against this) and into bed before Jefferson also came home and demanded an audience with her, which usually happened if they had had a fight earlier in the day. Hamilton’s plan for the rest of the evening, as she thought while fiddling her keys in the door, was simply to change out of her usual street attire and into more feminine sleepwear before hitting the sack. That was her plan. It was not executed.

Instead, when she opened her door, Hamilton was immediately surrounded by a group of diminutive, leathery-skinned, lizard-like beings dressed in body covering black suits. Hamilton recognized them immediately. They were aliens! And ones skilled in martial arts, as well, by the look of their costumes. Yet they had reckoned without the fact that she, too, had martial arts training. Which she now proceeded to demonstrate.

“I don’t know how you morons got in here,” Hamilton said, “but you’re going out the same way you came in!”

So saying, the diminutive but powerful ex-soldier launched herself directly at the alien ninjas. She bellowed and sputtered the same pseudo-Asian gibberish still associated with martial arts in this future time as it was erroneously done in the past by the humans. This was because the only way most beings learned martial arts now was not from direct instruction in specialized schools, but through distorted and badly dubbed perversions in the form of very old “chop socky” movies from a now non-existent country called Hong Kong. Hamilton, whose interest in the form predated even her army training, was now a third degree black belt in every separate form of the arts available to her (for she, unlike others, had taken the time to not only tell them apart but to understand each of their strengths and weaknesses), and she proceeded to demonstrate her expertise by kicking and chopping each of her attackers into a corner, where they lay, motionless.

Though victorious, Hamilton was concerned, for she knew that her attackers would not stay comatose forever. Knowing Jefferson Ball’s cell phone number by heart (though, more often, Jefferson was the one calling her), Hamilton called her friend for assistance, hoping she was available and praying she was sober enough to help her fight.

“Pick up, Jefferson!” Hamilton pleaded as she waited for the dial tone to conclude her summons. After what seemed to be an interminably long period, Jefferson responded at the other end.

“Y’ello?” said that worthy, who, to Hamilton’s relief, was not nearly as stewed as usual.

“Jefferson!” Hamilton said tersely. “I need your help!”

“Who is this?”

“‘Who is this?’ It’s HAMILTON!”

“Hamilton who?”

“HAMILTON POMERANIAN! You know, your best friend! The one you spend most of your time with—and with whom you rack up big bills I have to pay off ‘cause you never have money of your own!”

“Oh, yes. I seem to remember somebody by that name… I believe she said my being dead would be an improvement over how I’m living my life now…”

“All right!” Hamilton blustered, reading Jefferson’s tone exactly. “I’M SORRY! Now, get down here from whatever dive you happen to be in and HELP ME! I got these alien ninjas in here. I don’t know how they got in. I knocked ‘em out, but they’re not down…”

Jefferson caustically responded with loud, disbelieving laughter.

“Don’t be silly, Hamilton!” she said between her disbelieving laughs. “ALIEN NINJAS? I never saw anything in my life like that, and you know how far I’ve travelled!”

“Jefferson, I’M SERIOUS!”

“You’re seriously drunk, is what you are! Trust me—I’ve been there enough times to know!”

“How can you say that? After all we’ve been through together? All the times we saved each other’s asses? All the times I lent you money—AND YOU NEVER PAID IT BACK!”

“Oh, ho! Just for that, you’re on your own!”

“God damn it, Jefferson! You can’t just—URK!”

The abrupt change is tone was the result of Hamilton’s revived assailants ganging up on her, throwing her into a gunny sack, tying it up, and existing the room. The line, of course, went dead.

“Hamilton!” Jefferson snapped, shouting into the phone out of genuine concern for her friend’s fate. “HAMILTON!” The genuine concern rose into genuine fear as she shut her cell phone. “HAMILTON!!!!” Rising from her booth at a local bar, she came to a definite conclusion.

“That settles it!” she shouted, seething with rage, about the hum of a group of patrons unaware of or uninterested in her words. “Nobody kidnaps Jefferson Ball’s best friend without bringing upon them Jefferson Ball’s WRATH! You hear me? NOBODY!!! Hang on, Hammy—I’M COMING!”

She rushed out of the tavern, slamming the door so hard that all of the glass in it shattered and broke—as did all the glasses, steins, mugs, crystal, china and everything else fragile in the place.


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About the Author

David Perlmutter

David Perlmutter is a freelance writer from Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada.

Story Discussion

Stories by David Perlmutter

Split Decision by David Perlmutter

Split Decision

He was a male dog like Sam himself, but there the similarities between them ended. The stranger’s fur was white, as opposed to Sam’s light gray, and he was both taller and more powerfully built than the Hudson High cheerleader. This meant that Sam would likely lose if he chose to fight him—though Sam was not much of a fighting guy, anyway. But what was most odd to Sam was the stranger’s dress—a cape, speedo and boots, all red, with a white “R” insignia prominently displayed on all of them. At first, Sam wondered if his reputation had preceded him, and that this was a member of his “tribe” (as Jody had called them) who was after the particular brand of “loving” only he could conceivably supply. But that idea quickly passed—Sam knew full well that his “kind” didn’t advertize themselves that flamboyantly in public. Only beings who mocked them publicly, in the subtle racist fashion of the times, did that. So Sam decidedly to deal with this fellow purely based on what he clearly was: an invader of his personal sanctity.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “And how did you get into my house? I have a deadbolt!”

“I expected that from the likes of you,” answered the stranger curtly. Then, in mocking stereotypical “gay” tones, he added: “Even though you’ve likely seen some royalty in your time, huh? Just not me, sugar—not ‘til now!”

“And you are?” Sam prompted angrily.

“Remus The Twenty-Third,” came the reply, as the stranger switched back to his normal, commanding heterosexual tone of voice. “I’m the King—KING, mind you—of a little plot of land way out there in the farthest regions of space. Some place that you could only dream of visiting!”

Sam, calling on his speed in place of his limited strength, tried to rush past Remus and escape him, but Remus caught him mid—sprint, and, with a powerful thrust, threw him backwards into a conveniently placed chair, from which the seemingly invincible monarch continued to pontificate down towards the secret agent/cheerleader, whom he clearly regarded as a very inferior being.

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