Harry Reynolds and Bob Fielding sat on the shared porch of their retirement
duplex. Despite the oppressive Florida heat and sweltering humidity, both
wore long-sleeved shirts and heavy corduroy pants, trying to get a good
sweat going. They hunched over a battered checker board, planning their
next move.
"Damned Dolphins," Bob spat.
"You have a problem with dolphins?" Harry asked. "What did they ever do to
you? You don't even go near the water."
"I ain't talking about no fish."
"Dolphins are mammals. They're not fish."
Bob ignored the comment and moved a black checker. He left one finger on
the piece as he surveyed the board, looking for an error in the move.
Apparently satisfied, he withdrew his finger. Harry made two jumps,
removing Bob's pieces from the board.
"Damned Dolphins losing the Superbowl this year. It's all that
quarterback's fault, that guy, what's his name, Johnson, Johnny…"
"Johnstone."
"Johnikins, whatever. His fault. We would've won it if it except for
him."
"If you want to know what I think…"
"Guy's a bum," Bob continued, not concerned with what his friend thought.
"Ain't got no grace. Throws like he's got arthritis."
Bob raised and shook one gnarled hand for emphasis. He laughed, but the
laughter died as Harry continued to gobble up his checkers.
"And if you ask me," Bob said unasked, "it's high time we dropped some more
bombs in the Mid East."
"So, it's the Middle East again," Harry mumbled. Bob ignored him.
"Damned Iranians. Should have shut them down way back when they caused
that thing, that Desert Storm. You know – when they invaded Kuwait."
"I think that was Iraq."
"Fine – when they invaded Iraq. It's all the same over there. Why do they
even have different countries? I say we pave over the entire place, turn it
into a parking lot, and call it New Texaco."
Even Bob's dwindling supply of checkers wasn't enough to keep him from
braying at his own cleverness. Harry thought to point out that Israel was
part of the Middle East, and they might not agree with Bob's "It's all the
same over there" axiom.
"If you want to know what I think…"
"You know," Bob interrupted, "I heard the damned Congress is talking about
more social security cuts. I done paid into that stuff all my life, and now
when I'm old and it's time to give it back, they don't want to let go.
They're probably making a killing, taking folks's money, sticking it in
banks, drawing interest, then only giving a little bit back."
"If you want to know what I think…"
That time, it wasn't Bob that interrupted Harry. It was a bright flash,
literally a bolt from the blue. It struck Bob in the center of his chest
turning it into a charred crater. He died with a look of stupid surprise on
his face.
Harry then realized the bolt actually came from the sidewalk. He turned in
his chair and saw the Florida Retirement Officer, resplendent in his
knee-high motorcycle boots and polished helmet. He held an e-pad in one
hand, an oversized blaster in the other.
"I pay my taxes," Harry babbled. "I bag groceries at Publix twice a week.
I gave to the Humane Society last month."
"I know," the FRO said, holding up the e-pad. "It's in my reports. You're
still a useful member of society. Although," he added with a malignant
grin, "it's getting close. I'll see you later."
Harry didn't like the ominous way the FRO said that last bit. The FRO
hopped on his Electra Glide, gunned the silent electric motor and sailed
noiselessly to his next stop. Fortunately for Harry, it was over the next
hill and he didn't have to watch.
Harry thought the Mandated Retirement Act of 2012 was unfair. Harry
thought it cruel to force people to be useful all their lives. Harry
thought he deserved to relax in his old age. Harry thought the body
collectors should come with the FRO's instead of making their rounds at the
end of the day. That's what Harry thought.
Harry jumped a checker, bringing his piece to the far edge of the board.
Harry said "king me" to the corpse his former friend. Harry began to cry.
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