Chapter 3: Sam and the Firefly
By Allen Frost
The crash startled the fragile man into trembling spider-like motion, up off the daybed and across the creaking floor to the door. He hadn’t been sleeping, at least he didn’t think so, but maybe his mind had been playing tricks on him. He pushed the door open into the small room that served as kitchen and everything else in the apartment.
Not surprisingly, Sam had broken their new wooden radio. Crushed splinters of it, gray tin foil and mechanics, heaped smoking on the scarred floor. Out of it croaked a last crazy word or two more. It was still plugged in by a thick black wire. Then the heap crackled a spark, died.
“Sam,” he rasped, “Maybe you shouldn’t listen to the radio for a while…”
For a moment his gigantic roommate really became the super-villain of those B movies he starred in. That was the face Sam made when his submarine ran aground, whenever the Empire suffered a temporary loss.
“Relax Sam…That’s my advice to you, as your doctor.”
Sam’s big hand went into the radio rubble. Giving a huff, he caught the Firefly between his thumb and forefinger. He held it up to his gaze like a jeweler and a diamond.
A tiny voice appealed from it, “This is a possession of the United States of America. Any resultant felony and, or, breaking of applicable laws is punishable by law.”
Sam made it dust when he shut his fingers together.
“I feel the same way about the news,” the doctor said. He shook his head at the mess. “What a nightmare.”
Sam growled, “Why can’t they just play the music?”
“You know, I told you. That’s not the way they do things in this country, Sam. On radio you have to have commercials and news. I told you, just turn it off when that happens. The music always comes on afterwards.”
The words hissed out of Sam like pistons of a steam engine, “The Empire will not be defeated.”
“I know…I know…” the doctor held up his hands placating, then he noticed the wrist watch on his right arm. He raised it to see. A button started music out of a little warbling speaker. It hummed like a cricket on his arm.
“Cornelius Barter,” Sam nodded. The effect was immediate and soporific. Sam dropped back dreamily into a straw-backed Van Gogh chair.
The crash startled the fragile man into trembling spider-like motion, up off the daybed and across the creaking floor to the door. He hadn’t been sleeping, at least he didn’t think so, but maybe his mind had been playing tricks on him. He pushed the door open into the small room that served as kitchen and everything else in the apartment.
Not surprisingly, Sam had broken their new wooden radio. Crushed splinters of it, gray tin foil and mechanics, heaped smoking on the scarred floor. Out of it croaked a last crazy word or two more. It was still plugged in by a thick black wire. Then the heap crackled a spark, died.
“Sam,” he rasped, “Maybe you shouldn’t listen to the radio for a while…”
For a moment his gigantic roommate really became the super-villain of those B movies he starred in. That was the face Sam made when his submarine ran aground, whenever the Empire suffered a temporary loss.
“Relax Sam…That’s my advice to you, as your doctor.”
Sam’s big hand went into the radio rubble. Giving a huff, he caught the Firefly between his thumb and forefinger. He held it up to his gaze like a jeweler and a diamond.
A tiny voice appealed from it, “This is a possession of the United States of America. Any resultant felony and, or, breaking of applicable laws is punishable by law.”
Sam made it dust when he shut his fingers together.
“I feel the same way about the news,” the doctor said. He shook his head at the mess. “What a nightmare.”
Sam growled, “Why can’t they just play the music?”
“You know, I told you. That’s not the way they do things in this country, Sam. On radio you have to have commercials and news. I told you, just turn it off when that happens. The music always comes on afterwards.”
The words hissed out of Sam like pistons of a steam engine, “The Empire will not be defeated.”
“I know…I know…” the doctor held up his hands placating, then he noticed the wrist watch on his right arm. He raised it to see. A button started music out of a little warbling speaker. It hummed like a cricket on his arm.
“Cornelius Barter,” Sam nodded. The effect was immediate and soporific. Sam dropped back dreamily into a straw-backed Van Gogh chair.
posted by Miguel at 1:31 PM
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