LOVE MACHINE

  Marcus scrolled down the colorful web page displayed on his computer screen until he found what he was looking for. He clicked on the icon with a smile as his hard drive began cycling through the information that his modem collected. He nodded in admiration. There was a newspaper on his desk that he picked up while he waited, flipping through the comic section and listening to the low whirring of his computer.

  "Heh heh," he shook his head while he chuckled, "oh Marmaduke, what mischief will you get yourself into next?"

  The small, blue triangle in the top corner of his monitor stopped cycling and Marcus looked over the images that had appeared before scowling.

  "Damn it! Uncle Sleazy, you've failed me again." His eyes were hurting him, they had been all day; he rubbed them with harsh irritation before tapping the back button on the AOL menu bar. "Why? Why can't anyone draw or write the shit that I like?"

  Marcus's head shot up as he strained his ears to catch an echo of what he thought he had heard. Silence filled his room, the only sound was the hushed purr of his computer's cooling fan. He hunched back down over his keyboard; his fingers still as he struggled to think of another website to try. His body shook as the strange noise rang out again.

  It was a banging.

  It was a knocking.

  Somebody was at his front door.

  He looked up. The clock that hung on the wall above him read 2:18 A.M. He sat there, unsure of what to do. The arrow on his screen hovered over the 'home' symbol on his menu bar and he pressed the button once. He stood up after dimming his monitor and stared down his hallway.

  "Who the hell would be coming over at this hour?" He glanced at his closet, thinking about the baseball bat that was huddled under some dirty laundry. "I don't know, could be some weirdo." The floor was warm and he tip-toed his way through the maze of furniture as whoever it was knocked again. "They certainly seem to be on about something." The peephole was small, but it had the answer he was looking for. He peered through it at the scenery outside and frowned.

  The only thing he could see in the dim light beyond was a flat and coarse plain, light tan in color. There was a faint red marking on it, but it was too far up to get a good view. He jumped back as the knocking returned. The doorknob taunted him as he stood there; after another moment, he unchained the door and opened it.

  The first thing Marcus saw was the enormous crate that dominated his porch. The red markings turned out to be large arrows and warnings to keep 'this end up.' It was taller than he was, about five feet wide, and four feet deep. Large planks of fresh pine reinforced the whole of it and it had a number of shipping labels in plastic sleeves taped to it's sides. He heard a loud popping and looked up to the person who had been rapping at his chamber door.

  She was tall and had long blonde hair that fell about her broad shoulders from underneath a red baseball cap. Her eyes were a crystal blue that was lighter in shade than the bright pink that feathered her moist lips. The button-up shirt she wore was pin-striped in red and white strips and was complimented by a red bowtie that was starting to come loose from around her neck. Her bright red pants were dusty and had a black streak over one thigh.

  It was a cool night in the windy city, but her face and arms were covered in a light sweat. She blew another bubble with her orange gum and took a clipboard from off the top of the crate, flipping through the pages and looking up at him from time to time. She stopped and squinted at him with a penetrating gaze that made feel him small and inferior.

  "Are you a Mr. Wallace?"

  Marcus felt the color drain from his face, he pursed his lips with an inaudible answer as he fidgeted and looked off into the distance nervously.

  "Sir?"

  "Uh, well ... maybe," he shook his head and tried to smile, "where did you hear that name?"

  "It's on my invoice sir, I'm to deliver this package to a Mr. Marcellus Wallace at this address. Are you him?"

  He shrugged and looked down. She was wearing strapped, red sandals over thin and delicate feet with had a golden toe ring on her left foot; the shadows were draped over it, but he could swear that he could see it shining.

  The blonde snapped her gum again.

  "I'm not here to judge sir. I just want to get this crate off my hands so I can go home."

  "That's my screen name."

  She raised an eyebrow and he just shrugged

  "Yes, I'm Mr. Wallace."

  "Thank god sir." She flipped the clipboard over in her hands and pushed it toward him, "sign here please."

  Marcus took the pen she offered and studied the form in front of him. He chuckled when he read the title at the top of the page.

  "'Red Convertible Delivery Service'?"

  "It's not my company sir."

  "Fair enough." The rest of the page was blank, save for a line on the bottom that said 'sign here' beneath it and 'Mr. Marcellus Wallace' to the left of it. "Um..."

  "An 'x' will be sufficient sir."

  The pen clicked with a press of his thumb and he marked the line with a hefty 'x.' He handed it back and looked the crate up and down.

  "What is it anyway?"

  "I'm not privy to that information sir."

  "Do you know who sent it?"

  "I'm not privy to that information either sir; though I was told that there would be an explanation enclosed."

  "How do I know it's not a bomb or something?"

  "Do you know of anyone who hates you enough to send you an explosive device sir?"

  "Well," Marcus grimaced, "no."

  "Than just accept the package graciously sir." The blonde maneuvered herself behind it and the whole thing suddenly lurched forward as she rolled it back on a large dollie. She effortlessly rolled it over the threshold and dumped it unceremoniously in his entryway.

  "Hey, watch the floor."

  She turned to look at him again and he felt her stare weigh down on his chest once more. She snapped her gum.

  "Enjoy your package sir."

  "Uh, thank you."

  She took her clipboard and tucked the pen away in one of her shirt pockets, the ball-point tip pointing outward as it tried to slide down the firm curve of her right breast, before stepping back outside to leave.

  Marcus raised a questioning hand.

  "Hey, do you always deliver packages this late at night?"

  "It's to help ensure client privacy sir. Besides," she smiled, "we knew you'd be up at this time."

  He watched her walk away as he closed the door.

  "That's reassuring," he paused and opened the door again. "Who's 'we'!?!"

  But she was gone.

  Marcus clicked the lock shut and looked at the giant crate.

  His giant crate.

  He reached out and touched it with a steady finger before pulling it back to scratch his face. The clock chimed 2:30.

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  Somewhere in the bushes outside a van window, a cricket chirped. The man behind the wheel scratched the small scar on his cheek and began to roll it up to block out the sound. The passenger side door opened and he looked at his returning companion.

  Despite the cool night air, she had a thin layer of sweat over her face and arms. She flashed him a sarcastic smile and he frowned at the color of her outfit.

  "I hate the color red."

  "Then you should have given me a purple convertible; I know you love purple."

  He shrugged.

  "I guess it's too late for that now."

  She closed the door and took off her cap, running a hand through her long blonde hair. She looked back up with a slight scowl.

  "I can't believe you made me lug that thing all the way up to his door by myself."

  "I couldn't let him see me."

  "He's never met you in person before. Besides, this is a story anyway; what would have been the difference?"

  He flipped a lock of his long brown hair away from his face and turned the key in the ignition before turning to her and smiling.

  "Yeah, there is that."

  She wanted to stay angry, but couldn't keep from laughing at his mirthful face.

  He revved the motor a few times and looked back up to her.

  "I just can't believe we drove all the way to Chicago to drop it off."

  "So what do you want to do now?" She pointed at the dashboard clock, "it's only half past midnight. I'm sure there's some place still open right now."

  "Actually, that's still on California time. It's really 2:30 around here."

  "Damn," she paused then looked up hopefully, "Sears Tower?"

  "Cool." He slid the stick shift into drive and pulled out into the street.

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