07 The Fruit Loop Files

Fake Cop returns in the explosive second part of the latest Fake Cop Trilogy. Newmarket is dealing with a Froot Loops epidemic. Fake Cop may be responsible. Will he fix it? Probably not. Will he take responsibility? No. Will he manage to save his own dumb-ass, loop-addicted son? Remains to be seen. The batch has been sweetened. The hooks are in. The loops are now a noose around the town. This is … the Froot Loops Files.

Transcript

SPEAKER_01 0:28

Hey everybody, how you doing? It's Brad here. Thank you for joining me. Okay, what's up for episode sixty-three of the Sick Man Talking Show? Well, today. Today we have the second installment of the latest fake cop trilogy. Last time we heard part one, Fake Cop Family Ties. When the Fake Cop finds out he has a son, a son named Johnny Kelly Jr., homeschooled on a farm using only Turner Classic movies. Strong enough to break a man's neck. Dumb enough to be, well not very smart. Not at all, we'll just put it that way. And addicted to food loops. The batch has been sweetened. The hooks are in. The loops have tightened into a noose around the entire town. Will I be able to save new markets? Will I be able to stop a problem? I started. Most importantly, will I even fucking care? Because, like, I usually kinda don't care about shit at all, really. Anyway, find out next on the Fruit Loops files. Mr. Wellsman, fucking engage man.

SPEAKER_06 1:45

Sick man talking. We got a sick man talking here.

SPEAKER_01 1:49

Sick man talking about the fuck is that? What did I hit something? Is that a flat? What? No. The fuck I'd better pull over and see. Cornelius, the Uber driver, was still alive. I guess I was slipping. That dexter trade with the belt never fails. I must have underestimated the girth of his neck, and probably overestimated my own strength, to be honest, being a 52-year-old gentleman. Not quite the same back when I was running and gunning back in 91, during the great North American Shoe Wars of the 1990s. Episode 42, check it out, totally badass. I opened the trunk door, and he was giving those embarrassing weak pleas and moans. Cornelius, I said, you're making this awkward man. We already said our goodbyes, uh remember? The uh the whole Dexter thing, you know, with the belt. No? Nothing. Well, anyway, you gave me one star. You should have gave me four more. As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a fake cop. 222 kilometers from Kingston to Newmarket. Not a bad drive, all things considered. There's no traffic, decent mileage, especially for a 2002 Pontiac Sunfire, AMFM radio cassette, all the bells, all the whistles. The only downside, I inherited the guy's 1.3 Uber rating. And the guy. All Cornelius had to do was reciprocate my respectful and polite demeanor and give me my five stars. The whole ride from Kingston to Newmarket, I was a perfect goddamn gentleman. I've been stuck at 1.2 stars for weeks. Fucking sucked. I just can't seem to behave myself in the backseat of an Uber. I used to have a 1.7 rating, but during my last ride, my gun accidentally went off. But Cornelius, the Uber driver, did not reciprocate the 5-star rating I gave him. The bastard gave me a 1-star, dropping me from a 1.2 to a fucking 1.1, gimme a break. That basically sealed his fate right there, to be honest. I mean, come on, he had it comin'. Uh right? Yeah, yeah, of course he did. And I apparently have a pretty broad criteria about what constitutes somebody having it coming. Yeah, but whatever. We all got it coming. And, yeah, and I had to endure his goddamn bulk and bagpipe techno music for two fucking straight hours. Full volume, no apology. Swear to god you've never heard anything like it. It's what I imagine plays when Scotland declares war in Albania, and I still gave the rat bastard five stars. All he had to do was give me a decent rating, and now he's in the trunk. Yeah, he definitely had it coming. Now, I drive his car. Not out of guilt. No. But efficiency. Gas prices are fucking brutal. And corpses don't complain about Spotify ads. Or maybe they do, I heard their hair still grows after they die for a period of time. So I don't know what the fuck happens, to be honest. Anyway, Cornelius rides along in the trunk. A silent partner, literally. You know what? I got an idea here. Oh, I love an idea. Maybe I'll start picking up Uber Fares myself. Yeah. It's poetic, really. And I love poetry. Most guys fucking hate it. Uncultured savages, not me. This actually could work. Two birds, one stone. I lost my 2023 Ford Explorer fake cop car when I had to leave it behind at a murder scene. One that I was responsible for, I guess. Well I was. New market cops are pretty lax, but I thought going back and asking for my car was pushing it just uh a little too much. So then I was forced to take fucking Ubers. Which was a total pain in the balls. Because my rating was so low, no one would pick me up but some degenerate like Cornelius, whose driver rating was as shitty as my passenger rating. It's just a real fucked-up dynamic, you know? Ever since I've been back from California, I've had a dream of becoming a personal trainer. Super tough gig to way harder than being a fake cop. I was having a hell of a time building up a decent client list. So in the meantime, I would uh appropriate Cornelius' 2002 Pontiac Sunfire. And his identity, and his body, I guess. Temporarily anyway. I will have to get rid of that fucking thing at some point. And Moonlight is an Uber driver to make ends meet. This fucking economy, man. Put some extra money in my track pants, and have reliable transportation. Two birds, one stone. The only problem was his low fucking rating. Since I had to assume his identity, I had to assume a shitty driver rating as well. And Cornelius was the lowest-rated Uber driver in Newmarket. It's the kind of irony that feels so wrong. It loops right back around to being right. A fake cop driving a stolen Uber with the driver's body in the trunk, trapped in the algorithmic underworld of low-rated passengers. It's like I've finally found my natural ecosystem. A ride sharing purgatory. Where only the worst people match with each other. And I had to fight like hell to change that. Oh god damn it, I'm a decent working man. Always have been. I take pride in doing a job well done. I mean, what the fuck is society coming to when a man can't take pride in his job? I had to get that rating up to a respectable number. At least a fucking three and a half, something still pathetic. But I would attract a slightly better class of passenger. So a charm offensive would be in order. Hearts and minds, you know. I had to take customer service to a whole new level if I was gonna get that rating where I wanted it to be. Well, I would dress like a chauffeur, the fucking hat and everything, man, and I'd come up with a greeting that I'd rehearse in front of the mirror. Good evening, my name is Cornelius, I'll be your transit professional. Complimentary fruit loops available. Please enjoy responsibly, and don't forget those five stars. Then, I'd add a welcome kit. Every passenger gets a Cornelius comfort pouch, a ziploc bag filled with goodwill, confusion, and mild concern. Inside each one, I can see it now. A pair of earplugs, used once but gently rinsed. It's kinda loud sometimes, just in case my gun goes off. A wet wipe, a folded napkin printed with, we're all just loops in traffic. One band-aid, unwrapped, but you know, clean enough, and then the centerpiece, a mini fruit loops box, sealed shut with masking tape, and the hand-drawn five-star doodle with a note attached to it, saying, One for the road, keeps a ride sweet, and don't forget to give your driver five stars. And I would have climate control nailed down as well. I'd crush up a bunch of Fruit Loops and pack them into the cabin air filter department, so whenever I would turn on the fan of the car, the scent of Fruit Loops would fill the air. I would offer hot, cold, or neutral loops. I'll read the AC and fan controls with colored stickers matching Fruit Loops colors. Passengers pick a color, and I adjust accordingly. The tricky part will be the luggage. People always want to use the trunk. You know? The uh the trunk. It's already occupied.

SPEAKER_02 10:56

Hey man, can I throw my bag in a trunk?

SPEAKER_01 10:58

No, you cannot. This is Uber. There are boundaries, sir. But they will insist. Because modern-day customers would rather argue with a killer than carry a duffel bag. So I'll do it for them. I'll open the trunk, move a few things around, and stack their suitcase carefully on top of Cornelius. It's a respectful gesture, I think. Like giving them a little extra blanket. The whole thing sounds like a can't miss opportunity. Don't tell me I have grandiose unrealistic expectations. Come on now. That is an airtight business plan right there. But I've got other things to think about right now. Like getting back to Johnny Kelly Jr., after visiting his rapacious swamp sow of a mother at the Kingston Prison for Women, the P4W. I was more sure than ever that Johnny Kelly Jr. was my boy. And I wasn't quite sure how I felt about that. It would be totally awesome to have a younger version of me that I could mold and manipulate into something resembling a copy of myself. That would be pretty fucking cool. I'm totally part of my psychological profile. But I felt something else pushing on my mind, other than my own narcissistic imaginings. I felt, uh. Well, I don't know what the fuck I felt. It was just something I wasn't used to feeling, you know? Now don't get excited, it wasn't love. I said before I'm incapable of it. My brain, uh, it can't make any of that chemical called oxytocin. That's the love chemical. It's also responsible for a bunch of other fucked up shit that I learned about while researching it. Like breastfeeding, fucking urinary glands. Just gross. So no, I can't love someone. As I told Angel Dubois back at the P4W, love ain't on my menu. Try the classifieds. But I can get uh I can get used to a person, you know? If they don't piss me off too much, if they've got grit, if they don't piss themselves during a gunfight, or when I get pulled over by the cops with 50 pounds of black market shoe polish in the backseat. People like Mendoza and Ramirez. I got uh I got used to them. God damn it, fellas. I mean you totally had it common, the both of you, but still, god damn it. And I thought that I might be able to get used to Johnny Kelly Jr. He was incredibly fucking dumb, that was obvious. But there was something about him that I uh well let's just say there's something about him I thought I could get used to, but it wasn't gonna be easy. I don't believe in love or God or family. I believe in patterns, habits, and I'm still trying to understand the idea that someone out there might be me, only dumber and bigger, talking like a 1948 movie extra, walking into a town, crawling with loopers. I'll explain that looper part later. He was the whole reason I was driving. Johnny Kelly Jr. My accidental air, my little experiment in heredity. I pictured him like clay, soft at the edges, full of mistakes, but moldable if you were patient, and had the right, uh, leverage. Visiting his mother at the P4W had cleared up a few things. She was a walking torch wrench with a vendetta, and whatever she taught him, it wasn't gonna be pretty. Still, I kept thinking about the parts of him that didn't piss me off. Thwe laughed at the wrong times. Thwey held a cigarette like it was a fucking question or something. That stuff's fixable, and his hands. The kid had hands like cinder blocks, looked like he could take a lug nut off with his bare fingers. Imagine what they could do to a man's neck. Those were the parts I might be able to teach into usefulness. I went north on Highway 404 for the 401, and eventually, Newmarket came into view, and the town's been quiet lately. Too quiet. Except for the serial thing. Blackjack Blackadar was running a massive black market fruit loops operation in Newmarket. I was helping him until the mother of my son, Angel Dubois, shot him. Episode 49, check it out. Pretty shocking moment, really was. Then, there was a power vacuum to fill. The Fruit Loops Black Market began to stabilize itself, and things were calming down. Or so it seemed. People weren't eating Fruit Loops for the taste anymore. It was no longer about starting off your day with a breakfast your family will love, a cereal packed with a delicious fruity taste, fruity aroma, and fun colors bursting with natural fruit flavors. No, there was a new sweetness in town. The kind that make your pupils bloom and your hands shake. You know I could smell it. Something laced in the loops, something bigger than sugar and nostalgia. I'd been around this block before. Beverly Hills, Back alleys, Glen Cedar Public School, and now it was back, right here in Newmarket. My hometown playground and graveyard rolled into one. Really, I shouldn't be complaining. I've been moving black market food loops myself since 1985. So it's not like I wasn't part of the problem, but still, something was up. Politicians called it an isolated issue. The cops said it was under control, but I knew better. Corruption had glazed just like the cereal. Shiny, colorful, and empty inside. Somebody new was running the show, and I was gonna find out who. Newmarket had quieted down since the Fruit Loops Wars. After Blackjack Blackadar got ventilated by Angel Dubois, everyone wanted a bite of his sugar empire. For a while, the streets looked like a kindergarten riot. Cereal dust fucking everywhere. Rainbow powder in the windshields, dealers pushing boxes out of soccer mom minivans. But eventually, things calmed. The black market found its rhythm again. Supply met demand. Kids went back to class, dads went back to golf, and the cops looked the other way. But lately, something was off. The loops tasted sweeter, hit harder. People weren't taking them with milk anymore. They were hitting them straight, handful after handful, like communion wafers for the lost and suburban kids, moms, accountants, four out of five dentists. You couldn't walk down Main Street without hearing that faint crunch. The sound of a town chewing itself to death. Each new day, a new victim would show up on the street, slatjawed, rainbow dust caked around their lips, pupils like black holes, staring into a loop-colored void. They shuffled more than they walked, dragging their feet like they were wading through hydrogenated cottonseed oil, maltadrexin, red forty, and yellow five. You could spot them from blocks away. The tremor in the hands, the twitch in the jaw, the faint smell of artificial fruit radiating off their clothes. They'd mumble to themselves, sometimes giggle, sometimes cry, always searching for their next handful. Some carried half-crushed boxes tucked under their arms like holy relics, others clawed at the gutters, hoping for spilled loops that had rolled away. A few had stopped speaking altogether, just standing at corners, crutching, staring, waiting for something that would never come. We started calling them loopers. At first it was a joke, now it's a warning. I knew the flavor well, because I've been obsessed with Fruit Loops since I was a boy. Back when I sold cafeteria contraband to fund the Great Crab Apple War of 85. Episode 32, check it out. It's pretty badass. We kicked the shit out of the Great Eights. But this, this was different. Something was in the mix. Overdoses climbing, politicians pretending not to notice. Cops too busy guarding their own stashes. I'd a bad feeling. Someone new was in town, and they were stirring the bowl. Rumors started like they always do. Late-night whispers between dealers, half-drunk cops, and guys who still think they're in the game. A new player in town. Nobody's seen him, nobody's met him, but everybody's got a story. They call him the Toucan Man. They call him the Toucan Man. Toucan Man. Some say he's a myth cooked up by the serial cartels to keep the street dealers scared. Others say he's the one mixing the new badge. The loops that don't just rot your teeth, but your soul. I'd heard it all before. The same talk back in Beverly Hills. Before I shut down Hector Haitland, the man behind the biggest fentanyl ring in California history. Episode 50, check it out. I was pretty badass in it. I killed multiple people. Haitland hid his product under Foot Loops crates to throw off the dogs. A cunning ruse until I showed up. I took the whole shipment, cleaned it up, and sold it myself. But this, this was different. The tone of the street had changed. Guys who talked about the toucan man got nervous halfway through their sentence. Like the name itself was cursed. Like he was fucking Kaiser Sose or somebody. Sometimes in the alleys I'd catch a glimpse of it, a spray-painted toucan on a brick wall, staring down from the shadows, like it knew more than anyone alive. If Hector Haydland was a businessman, the toucan man was a ghost. And ghosts don't leave fingerprints. Or maybe they do, I I don't really know. I have expressed confusion in this area before. You know, dead people, I mean their fucking hair still grows, man. The fingernails, too, I think. It's just fucking weird. Anyway, I pulled in the Fitsies and went to check on Johnny Kelly Jr. He wasn't lying dead in the middle of the street after playing in traffic, so I guess the loops and cartoons did their job. Promise. A glass of room temperature water. Endo is planted beside the booth. Like he's buffering. Daisy wipes a glass, eyes flicking up and down the room like she's reading the trouble. Johnny Kelly Jr. takes up the whole seat. He's fucking enormous. Broadway shoulders. Arms like telephone poles. And hands so big they look like they can snap a man's neck by accident. He's not a thinker, he's a porch swing. Slow, steady, and content. He's wearing a suit that's too small, and a fedora that's too big. He smiles when I walk in, all front teeth and sunshine. In front of him is a giant bowl of fruit loops. Dry. Or as we call him a new market now. Loops. He stopped mid-crunch, with saucer-wide eyes as a plume of loop dust billowed from his half-open mouth, his lips were the colour of the rainbow.

SPEAKER_00 23:00

Hey hey, Pops! You made it back. Yeah, jeez, I was stopped to think Kingston swallowed you whole. Fuck, imagine that.

SPEAKER_01 23:08

Nope. Kingston spit me right out. He laughs. A full happy sound that doesn't match this place or the world he's in.

SPEAKER_00 23:17

Uh, you see mom? Yeah, how's she doing? Yeah, she sure is shore at you, eh, paps?

SPEAKER_01 23:23

The name wants to spit out of my mouth like poison. I can see her face in my head. Angel Dubois, and every part of me wants to say the worst thing I've ever thought. My tongue finds the insult and lines it up like a bullet. The woman who hit a son from me and gave him a name that wasn't hers to give. I could say a hundred things right now. I start to answer. Stop. Try again. That fucking bit. Uh uh. Uh she's uh she's fine, Johnny Kelly Jr. She uh She looks uh healthy, you know, for a fucking lunatic. Oh yeah, I mean uh she's uh she's doing her time, boy.

SPEAKER_00 24:13

Jeez, Pops, no foolin'? Oh that's swell. Yeah, I knew she'd be okay. She's a tough old brat. Yeah, she said you were a real pistol. Yeah, I guess she was right. Yeah, that's my paps.

SPEAKER_01 24:24

He grins, crumbs on his lip, pure as sunshine in human form. And I feel that strange static again. The one that's supposed to be love. I can't find it. But I like the idea of him being here. My son, my accident, my echo. You've uh you've been alright here.

SPEAKER_00 24:45

Yeah, sure, dang. Daisy's a peach. Yeah, she let me watch Bug's Bunny. Yeah, hand of a bowl of fruit loops. No foolin', Pops. This is the best bar I've ever been to. Yeah, there's no girls around here. What the fuck? Any girls around here?

SPEAKER_01 24:58

I sit down across from him, push a cold slice towards my plate. The world feels slightly wrong. Like I've just walked into somebody else's dream. I look at him, this big smiling fool, and I can't decide if he's my punishment or my peace. If such a thing exists.

SPEAKER_00 25:17

Yeah, mom told me you're a fake cop. Yeah, she said you drive around flashing a badge, making people noivous for no reason. Jeez, Pops, that's swell. Yeah, you must look real official.

SPEAKER_01 25:28

I watch him, stone faced. He's smiling so wide it might break something in his face. Uh yeah. Real official. He nods, satisfied, like I just confirmed Santa exists.

SPEAKER_00 25:42

Yeah, she said you weren't a real bad guy, though. Just uh, you know, just mixed up. She said you do awful things. But only to folks who deserve it. Yeah, is that uh is that true, perhaps?

SPEAKER_01 25:54

He pauses, eyes narrowing, like he's remembering a scene from a movie he half understood. I take my time. The trick isn't lying. It's not letting the truth show through the cracks. I look at him and say, Yeah, well it depends who's telling the story. Johnny laughs. Big and Disney.

SPEAKER_00 26:15

Yeah, that's just what she'd say, Pops. You two talk the same, you know that? Oh, twisty.

SPEAKER_01 26:20

He leans back, grinning like we're pals in a diner, instead of blood in a slow-motion car wreck. Then his eyes dart to the bar. A bowl of fruit loops is sitting there. Daisy's replacement for peanuts.

SPEAKER_00 26:34

Yeah, hey, Daisy.

SPEAKER_01 26:35

Do you mind if I uh without waiting for an answer, he grabs the bowl and brings it back like treasure. The sound of loops rattling in his big hands fills the space. He digs in dry, handful after handful.

SPEAKER_00 26:50

Ah, jeez, these things. Yeah, I can't stop eating them, Pops. Yeah, they're just so happy. Back in the farm, all I got was porridge. But now, oh boy. Now I eat what I want, Pops. I'm 20. And what I want's fruit loops. No foolin'.

SPEAKER_01 27:12

He laughs again, loop dust around his lips, fingertips stained pink and blue. I see there's something off in the color, too bright, too chemical. While he talks, I just watch. The rhythm of his chewing, the small tremor in his hand, the way his pupils chase the lights. My drive back from Kingston runs through my head again. The strange taste, the headaches, the stories floating around town, and it is a town, not a city. It's close though, right in the cusp, you know? The operation I built. The operation going wrong. I was making good money though. I look back at Johnny. You uh you like those, eh, champ? Like? Yeah, well, uh, be careful, boy. They're not good for your teeth. As I reached unconsciously for the bowl myself. Johnny beams. He leans forward, all trust and slobbering devotion. For the first time since I left a Kingston Prison for Women. The P4W. I'm here, and he's here. And there's a thin, dangerous thread between Angel and me that I want to snap. But I don't. Not tonight. Johnny folds his huge hands on the table and grins like everything in the world makes sense. Yeah, I uh uh I missed you, Pops. The words are simple. They land heavy. I nod. A little too late. Like I had to check the manual first. Yeah, uh me too, uh uh, sport? Yeah, I uh missed you too, champ. You know, it's not like I was on a vacation. In the fucking few hours I was gone, but uh, you know, in a general sense kinda way. Generally kinda missed you. My hand thrusting forward, another big bowl of loops. He grins wider, and I can feel something in my chest trying to move. Something I didn't know was there. I shut it down quick. I can't have organs freelancing like that. The moment hangs, then my phone pings. Fuck, it's Uber. First passenger of the night. For a second, I forget I'm an Uber driver now. It's like hearing from an old friend I didn't know I had. And then I see the screen light up, and I will be damned. Someone actually wants a ride from me. I glance at my rating. 1.4 stars. Cornelius's go still working customer service. I guess tonight's my chance to fix that. Prove I'm a decent, hardworking citizen, a man of the people, a man with a trunk, full of motivation, and I can ensure my boy, Johnny Kelly Jr., sitting there still smiling like the world's a safe place, understands the importance of a job well done, the value of a satisfied customer, cause there's no way this kid's already got a fucking job. I stand up. Come on, champ, let's take a drive. I'll even roll down the windows for you. You can stick your head out. The night air is good for uh for feelings. He doesn't catch the pause, he never does.

SPEAKER_00 30:28

Ah, jeez, pops! No foolin'?

SPEAKER_01 30:30

No fooling, Johnny. Now shut the fuck up. Get up and wipe that fucking cereal off your face. Because it's time for a night ride. Outside, the 2002 Pontiac Sunfire waits under a street light, looking like it hasn't slept in a week. Paint like old skin, a dent in every memory. The kind of car that apologizes every time it starts. The trunk is 206 pounds heavier than usual, but uh, business is business. Am I right? Johnny Kelly Jr. circles it like a treasure chest. He breathes fog against the glass. He runs a hand along the hood. Reverend.

SPEAKER_00 31:30

Whoa, Pops! This thing's a beauty. What is it? Uh a Corvette? One of them Lamborghini things? One of them fucking Ferraris?

SPEAKER_01 31:38

The boy's got the gift of belief. I let him have it. I look at the door hanging off a one hinge, the rust chewing through the hood, the faint smell of expired man coming from the trunk. Ah, close enough. He beams, and I let him. It's easier than explaining depreciation. Inside, the seats sigh when we sit. The fan kicks on, coughing up that sweet Fruit Loops perfume from the vents. Johnny takes a deep inhale, eyes half closed, like he's smelling heaven. Then I remember my first customer of the night. And apparently, he's just down the block. For a second there, I'm actually surprised. Well, I forgot I was even an Uber driver. Then the joy hits. Somebody out there has voluntarily chosen to ride with a one-star man in a death trap. Hope is real. Alright, Brad, this is it, buddy. Tonight, we rebuild the brand. I tap accept ride, and the screen glows like salvation. The 2002 Pontiac Sunfire rolls through Newmarket with a vengeance and a 1.4 rating. Cornelius' ghost was still in the trunk, but it was his reputation that really stank. Only the desperate, the banned, and the barely tolerated would ride with me now. The human landfill of Uber. The guys already waiting on the curb when we pull up, hoodie halfway up, jeans tucked into unlaced boots, an unlit cigarette glued to his lip. He better not like that fucking thing up in here. I've got a strict no-sming policy. And I enforce it. He's got that twitchy energy of someone who's been told to stay within 500 meters of something and isn't. When he gets in, the air shifts. There's a faint buzz coming from his ankle, a little red light blinking under the cup of his pants. A GPS fashion statement. He smells like Food Loops and probation. Rating 1.5 stars. And he's worth every decimal. We pull away from the curb, the street opens up, black and endless. Normally, this is where I breathe. Where I think, but tonight, I've got company. I grip the wheel tighter. Let the tires do their work. The night's supposed to clean me out, strip everything down to motion and thought. But the noise. It just keeps fucking coming, man. I mean, it just won't fucking stop. I mean, god damn it, shut up. This is a night ride.

SPEAKER_00 34:13

Yeah, hey, Pops, you think Uber drivers ever get badges?

SPEAKER_01 34:17

Yeah, you know, like uh honorary ones. Only the special ones, Johnny Kelly Jr., I replied, quietly wishing he would shut the fuck up. The passenger in the back slouches, scanning the car, looking for something to insult. His eyes land on my Elvis Bobblehead. Good evening, I say. As the passenger stares at my Elvis Bobblehead, Cornelius speaking. I'll be your transit professional this evening. Complimentary Fruit Loops available.

SPEAKER_02 34:44

Hey, yo man, what the fuck is that? You one of those guys who collects junk from gas stations?

SPEAKER_01 34:52

That is Elvis Presley, motherfucker. Put some goddamn fucking respect on his name, you little twinkle-toed rat bastard communist. Unless you want to ride with Cornelius. My hands slid inside of my chauffeur jacket, slipping over my gun. The car goes still. Even Johnny knows not to speak. God damn it, I hate when people fuck with my night rides. Then I remember the customer, my five stars, my obsession with becoming the best Uber driver in New Market.

SPEAKER_02 35:22

Hey man, what the fuck? Who's Cornelius, man? Hang on, aren't you fucking Cornelius? Oh yeah, Pops, who's Cornelius?

SPEAKER_01 35:29

Uh I, uh I mean seatbelt, please. And please help yourself to some complimentary fruit loops. I reached back and handed him my Cornelius comfort pouch, grinning like I was the Joker. He took it, shrugged, and buckled in. Elvis wobbled, as if he's given me a nod to the restraint I'm showing with this asshole. I bend my lips back into something resembling a smile, and just think of those bright, shiny five stars, and the glamour and glory of being the best Uber driver in New Market. The road rolls under me. The world shrinks to headlights and ghosts, and there they are. The old crew floating somewhere behind my eyes. Mendoza, Mendoza Jr., Mendoza Jr. Jr. Spadino, College Boy, and of course, Ramirez. God damn it, fellas. The car gets quieter when I think their names. Like it's listening. How many more? Maybe the kid next to me. Nah, nothing's gonna happen to him. He's got me looking out for him now. Maybe me. Maybe I've got it comin'. I definitely don't have it coming, probably never will. Maybe it's the stranger in the back seat. We'll see if he runs his mouth about Elvis again. I keep driving. Johnny's tapping the dashboard, smiling at the lights like they're fireworks.

SPEAKER_00 36:56

Yeah, you're doing great, Pops.

SPEAKER_01 36:58

The words land soft, almost human. I let them sit there. We drive. The song of the road beneath us, trying to remind me what silence feels like. And for a minute, I start to think, maybe this could all mean something. Maybe there's a business here. Beyond my side gig as an Uber driver, you know, like a family business. Something I can build with my son. When I got back from California, I was obsessed with becoming a personal trainer. I thought I could rebuild my life one dumbbell at a time. But it is super fucking hard to build up a decent client list. Let me tell you that. And this economy, are you fucking kidding me? I glance at Johnny. He's big, strong, believes in me for reasons I can't explain. Gotta be my tractor beam charisma. And maybe now I could pull it off. I'll come up with the workout programs, tailored to each individual client's fitness needs. And because he's so fucking big and strong, Johnny Kelly Jr. can physically train the clients. Father and son, results guaranteed or your money back. Actually, there's no fucking way I'm giving any money back. That's obvious. But that's what I'll say. The fan hums, the cereal scent thickens, Johnny smiles, the passenger checks his ankle light. I was taking him to the porn shop right next to Persicini's gym. The guy's got a 1.5 rating. I didn't think I was taking him to the library. But my mind kept going back to Ramirez. When I was gonna tell him that Mendoza was his biological daddy, when we were sitting outside the abandoned warehouse, down by the docks, when the sniper hit him in the skull with a 50-caliber bullet, the size of a hot dog. God damn it, Ramirez. Why? The road had no answer. Some questions have no answer. The trick is to keep driving. Pretend the road only goes forward. Pretend the past doesn't have a back seat. The ghosts ride quietly. I keep my eyes on the stars, and I drive. After dropping my passenger off at the porn shop next to Persicini's gym, I decided to head back to Fixies. I pulled into my private spot, put the 2002 Pontiac Sunfire in park, and looked over to Johnny Kelly Jr. He was fast asleep. The last passenger left behind a trail of loose loops. I crushed them up and put them in the air filter department. I'm environmentally conscious, goddammit, I recycle. I went around to the passenger seat and looked at that big, half-witted stable boy. My son. Sprawled out in the front like a kid an hour past his bedtime. Totally passed out. Look at him. He's all tuckered out. Said a long day. I nudged him. Then I pushed him. Then I fucking shook him. Then I yelled at him to wake the fuck up. But this simple beast was still passed out with that stupid grin on his face. He always had that stupid fucking grin on his face. So that just could have been a baseline expression. But something told me the loops had something to do with his deep slumber. I'd seen other fathers lift their sleeping sons out of cars before. My own daddy did it to me. Scoop him up, let him wrap his limbs around you like a little monkey. But of course I didn't do that, he was too fucking big. And it would have been too fucking weird anyway. So I just hauled off and slapped him. Hard as I could, he's a big fucker. I'd left my smelling salts at home, and I've got the smelling salts to wake up people I use chloroform on. Chloroform, I know, pretty old school. Still works though. And so did the slap. Johnny Kelly Jr.'s eyes popped open like ping pong balls, immediately asking for more loops. I said Daisy had some waiting for him inside Fitzy's. I opened the door and hauled him inside by the collar like he was a grocery bag. He was awake but in a bit of a stupor, shuffling like a sleepwalker that still belonged to a dream, smiling at everybody like he was running for office. I still didn't know if this was his natural state, or if the loops were sinking their teeth in further. I think I knew the answer because his eyes and nose were hunting for that sweet invisible dust, asking for more food loops, like it was the only language he knew. Daisy was behind the bar, smoking a cigarette. She was making herself a drink that wasn't on the menu. Daisy looks at us and smiles. Not the fake kind, but the uh the careful kind. The kind you give someone you don't fully understand yet. She took a slow drag from her cigarette, then stubbed it out halfway through. She asked if we had a good time. Said she was starting to think we got lost. Almost did, I said. The boy wanted to stop for cereal. I got a small laugh out of her.

SPEAKER_00 41:58

Yeah, jeez, Daisy, you got some more?

SPEAKER_01 42:00

Johnny pricked up. Suddenly his eyes looked like an owl catching a mouse in mid-flight. Daisy nodded toward the back. He nodded so fast, it made his hair move. Ah, shucks, Daisy. You sure are swell. Hey, kinda hot too. Holy shit. I led him to my booth in the corner. It's the one where the light doesn't quite reach, where things feel like they can pause for a minute before going wrong again. Daisy watched us go, her face kind but cautious, like she wasn't sure if we were walking towards something sweet or something dangerous. She disappeared in the back for a minute. I could hear the rattle of a metal scoop, the sound of something pouring into a bowl, like kittle. Johnny's eyes followed every noise like a dog tracking its dinner. When she came back, she was carrying a big, white bowl piled high with fruit loops. Under the lights, the colors looked almost radiaactive, too bright for the hour, too cheerful for the room. She set it down in front of him like she was serving something sacred. We exchanged a glance. Hers said, Are you sure about this? Mine said, Nah, but go ahead anyway. It's alright, I told her. Let him have it. She nodded once, slowly, then went back to her station, watching us in the mirror behind the bar. Johnny dug in right away, both hands, no spoon, grinning like it was the happiest he'd ever been. The sound of his chewing filled the silence. Sweet and stupid and strangely peaceful. I leaned back, watching him, trying to convince myself this was the right call. Against my better judgment, I figured it was safer this way. I had no fucking idea at all what he'd be like when he came down. What if he fucking freaked out and uses those cinder blocks he calls hands to express himself? I might as well keep him like this bright, buzzing, harmless, until it's time to put him to sleep. He was halfway through the bowl when I asked him if he liked the Uber run. His eyes lit up.

SPEAKER_00 44:05

Yeah, jeez, Pops. I fucking loved it. Yeah, the windows? The air? The people? Yeah, all those fucking weirdos out there. Yeah, Jesus.

SPEAKER_01 44:13

He meant it too. The kid loved hanging his head out the window. Like a golden retriever on vacation. Every stop was an adventure. Every fair was a new friend. And the car. The 2002 Pontiac Sunfire. Well, he thought it was some kind of fucking exotic sports car. He said it drove like a dream. I said that's because the trunk is nicely weighted down. It's good for the winter weather, you know? I was gonna have to do something about that at some point, but not tonight. Tonight, I was with my boy. He went back to eating, crunching away. He said his favorite part was the smell of the car. Yeah, just like food loops, paps. He said, like that was the highest compliment a man could get. I told him I'd been thinking about starting a business. Something clean. On the books, you know? Like a uh a personal training outfit. I'd line up the clients, design the programs, handle the admin, you know, the hard parts. He'd take care of the physical stuff, the training, the encouragement, the lifting. Big and strong as he is, he's basically a walk-in advertisement. And I was thinking about bringing him in as an Uber partner as well. He stopped chewing for a second and looked at me, eyes wide.

SPEAKER_00 45:28

Ah, jeez, Pops, you mean uh, you know, like uh together?

SPEAKER_01 45:33

Yeah, I said. Together, why not? We could call it something real catchy. Get a ride, get in shape, fitness and transport, a full-service lifestyle brand. He grinned so wide, it looked like there were fish hooks pulling at the corners of his mouth. We'd make it a family operation. He started nodding, that same sugar-glaze smile spreading across his face. And for a second, I almost believed it. Then he said something I did believe, but had absolutely no fucking idea what to do with.

SPEAKER_00 46:08

I uh yeah, I love you.

SPEAKER_01 46:11

I uh I uh shit, fuck. I uh I guess I'm uh I guess I'm used to you too, son.

SPEAKER_03 48:54

Where are you driving to clear your mind Rebuking the street signs? Time will you find them sometimes?

SPEAKER_04 49:34

Uh holding the love Though your foods and windows are both one day off your own.