Yellow Pickle

by Blaise Marcoux

conclusion

Mello wasn’t entirely sure where he was running. The floor seemed to be swimming below his feet, his soles not really touching ground as he pranced through his house. When he was finally tackled, he almost forgot to try and yelp, but it didn’t matter anyway because a finger was jammed into his mouth, silencing him.

Dillon recovered his breath, trying to wrestle Mello still. Oh no, the idiot had gone slack. “Mello!” hissed Dillon. “Mello, wake up! Now’s not the time to play possum!”

“Mmm a-mmm-mmm!” Oh right, the finger. Better remove that. “Oh, Dillon, there was fire, and then I saw men through the fire with big guns and then I started running.”

“Didn’t think they’d get here this quick.” Dillon shook his head. “We’ve got to get to the boat.”

“Oh!” Mello’s eyes widened. “But I’ve got to go get something!”

“Mello, we don’t have the time for this!”

“Oh! But I forgot my rubber ducky!”

Dillon yanked Mello into a wood-paneled room and started to tear off the boards from the window.

“And I forgot my special cherry-scented shampoo! And my secret recipe book! And my baseball bat! And I’m forgetting something else...”

“The baseball, maybe?” grunted Dillon, plying away the final board. He got out a bundle of cable, broke the window, and threw a line into the outside.

“Oh, no, never had one of those. Oh, and I forgot my fishy! But I think fishy is dead...”

“We’re going to have to rappel down. Good thing the boat is still there. I can see it from here.”

“Oh! I’m sure I forgot something else...” Mello muttered as he climbed down the side of his house. “There was the baseball bat and then there was the rubber ducky...” They raced across the beach, the rain pelting down on them.

“I just know I forgot something.” Mello scratched his head as the motorboat roared away. “I just know I forgot something else.”

* * *

“Charge!” cried out Ten. The Censors barged through the door, turning it into splinters. The three children in the room stayed focused on their video game and didn’t even bother to turn around.

“Don’t believe this...” growled Five.

“Hey!” shouted Seven. “Kids, could you look a little more frightened, please? Just widen your eyes or something!”

Milo held up the video game. “Absolutely. If you can pull off something more exciting than this.”

Seven gasped. “Is that... Splatterfest IV?” Five looked at Ten hopelessly.

* * *

“Just know I forgot something,” panted Mello, sprinting behind Dillon, jumping over the occasional log. They’d ditched the boat on the shore thirteen minutes ago. “Just know I forgot something.”

“Okay, break time.” Dillon halted, bowled over in exhaustion. “Don’t hear any rustling behind this. We got a good lead.” Mello trotted past Dillon, still scratching his head. “Oh, oh, oh! Know I forgot something!”

Dillon leaned against a tree trunk. “Apparently, a rubber ducky.”

Mello shook his head, looking genuinely contemplative. He looked into the clearing sky. The storm had moved on its way. “Just know I forgot... oh!”

Dillon jerked up. “What? Mello, what is it?”

“A camera! They can see us, Dillon!” He pointed at a light blinking from one of the branches. “They can see us like they could back on the island!”

Dillon relaxed. “Of course they can.”

“But that’s bad! They’ll be following us! We won’t be able to escape!”

“But we did escape!”

“Oh! But they’ll find us! And then we won’t be escaping! They’ll ask me all those questions like they did before and they’ll laugh at me and I won’t know why they’re laughing—”

“Heh. They’ll never catch us. We’ll always be one step ahead.”

“Huh?”

“Mello... the domestic life... it’s not for either of us. We were under house arrest. With no freedom, no choice. So I made a deal with the Man. Let me out, I said. You can still have your show. It just won’t be another one of your dime-a-dozen Brady Bunch remakes. Two fugitives. Running away from the law. It’s perfect television.”

Mello felt confused, as if the world was finally going faster than him, was finally outracing his thoughts. “Bu... bu... but why?”

“Think about it, Mello! We’re free! Yeah, we still have no privacy. Yeah, in a way, we’re still prisoners. But prison is a state of mind. We’re not closed in anymore. We’re not trapped like we were!”

“Bu... bu... but I liked my house! I liked my island! I liked my butterflies! I liked my... oh! Milo! Milla! Pongo!” Mello began to whirl around, knowing that if he just looked in the right place, there the triplets would be, having their dull conversations. “Oh! Oh! Where are they?”

“Mello, they were just holding you down. You can’t run from the Man with those brats wanting a bathroom break or a morning snack every five moments! Freedom, Mello! You’re finally free!”

“No!” cried out Mello in horror. “You’re a bad man, Dillon! A very, very bad man! You... you’re nothing... but a... you’re just like... the Man!”

Dillon’s face turned to stone.

“You don’t, Dillon, you don’t care about anything! I don’t even know what you’re talking about! You... I... oh! You wear black! And I don’t like black! And you talk about the Man! And if it weren’t for you, those other bad men wouldn’t have asked me all those questions! And that stinging stuff wouldn’t have gotten in my eyes!”

“Without me,” Dillon coolly began, “you wouldn’t have those children you’re currently missing. Or do you think any woman would reasonably fall for you... unless they were forced to? I made your life, Mello! I made you into what you are today! And I can remake you as I see fit! Without me, you’re nothing, you understand? Nothing!”

“No!” Mello did the only thing he knew how to do. He ran. He ran through the brush, ran between the trees, just as he had run through the deserts of Arizona, just as he had run through the streets of New York City every morning. Before Dillon.

Oh, but Dillon was far behind him now, Dillon didn’t matter. Bad men were blowing up his house now. Bad men had taken his children. Oh Milo! Pongo! Milla! They were gone! “No!” he yelled, pounding his fists on a pile of humus.

* * *

Dillon sat down on the debris-covered forest floor. When the man in the nice business suit emerged from the bushes, Dillon wasn’t even surprised. Dillon tipped his imaginary hat to the man. “Top of the evening to you, Director.”

The Director smiled grimly back. He twisted his cane around in the dirt. “Is the star on his way?”

“Oh, I should hope so. I’m fairly sure I managed to run him off.”

“It’ll be a sure hit. A desperate fugitive... looking for his family. It’ll be perfect for the Friday night slot.”

“Awfully edgy. Considering you kept me from even cursing over the past fifteen years, I mean.”

“Yes, well, we haven’t had a war for the past fifteen years. The public has been living an idyllic existence vicariously through the TV. But the populace is getting restless. They always do. And as always, an anti-commercialism movement is rising. You understand how necessary it is for the United States to get on this rebel-rebel bandwagon, don’t you? And not only get on it, but control it.”

Dillon shook his head. “You sick—” and would’ve finished if a searing pain hadn’t torn through his brain. Ah, the scars were still there. Better think of something else. “The cameras are off, aren’t they?”

“Can’t very well break character on-air now, can we?”

“Well, for the record, I really do think those kids are going to be messed up for the rest of their lives. You never told me that he had kids. They’re going to miss their father, you know.”

“No they won’t. Let’s face it, Hammond. Mango was a classic comical character. They always elicit sympathy but never emotional attachments. He was the comic relief in their lives, nothing more. Such a shame about his ‘wife’. Such a strange pairing; I truly think she felt some love for him amidst all that pity.”

The Director chuckled at Dillon. “You never really seemed to be one to care about the consequences of your actions. Perhaps you’re having regrets over what your submission has done. Your shame is completely unnecessary. But very enjoyable to see, let me tell you.”

Dillon was expressionless. “Well, I am your slave, Herr Director.”

“Don’t call me that.” The Director strolled to his employee’s side. “Oh, Dillon. We are all public servants... which is just another way of saying we’re public slaves. We give the public what they want, we have to. Without that, we have insurrection and anarchy and nobody wants that. Not even the people who claim they want that rubbish actually do. You’re just as good an example of that as any.”

“Huh. Slaves to the public. Whatever the public wants.” Dillon chuckled. “Funny you said that. I was talking about that with the Screenwriters Guild the other day.”

The Director’s face blanched. “You talked to the Guild?”

“Of course. During ‘contract negotiations.’ They liked your idea, but they agreed with me, it needed more pizzazz.”

“Pizzazz.”

“But of course, Herr Director. After all, your idea only had two real main characters: you, naturally, and poor Mello. But what if the Evil Bad Guy had an assistant?”

“I do,” the Director said. “It’s you.”

“Mmm. Right. Now let’s suppose the Evil Bad Guy assistant, let’s call him Igor, let’s say that Igor starts feeling sympathy for poor Mello. Starts helping the poor guy out occasionally.”

“That’s all part of my pitch!” protested the Director.

“So far it is. But me and the Guild, we both agreed there’s no dramatic tension between Igor and the Director with the current plot. No, Igor needs to do something heroic. Something bold, something dashing, something distinctly not yellow-bellied. Like, I don’t know, slit the Director’s throat when the Director least suspects it. And you know, the Guild really liked that idea. Really, really, really liked that idea.”

Horror overwhelmed the Director’s face.

Dillon grinned. “Smile, Herr Director. The cameras are back on.”

* * *

No! Mello raised his head from the ground. He would find them! He didn’t know how to. But that had never stopped him from making chimichangas! He’d ask questions! He’d find out where the bad men were! And then he’d get Milo, Milla, and Pongo back! And then they’d find another island and they would live on it and they would eat pancakes and oh! A butterfly!

No! He couldn’t watch the butterfly! He had to find his children!

But the butterfly was so pretty...

Maybe the butterfly knew where his children were!

Mello’s eyes flashed with intensity. He bolted after the bug with purpose, with determination, with a goal. He was going to find his children. He was going to find Pongo, Milla, and Milo.

to Challenge 397...