Writing The San Francisco Snowstorm (PG-L)

[Wondershot]

Though you might find yourself wondering just what an absolutely ridiculous theoretical weather pattern may have to do with our story. I ask that you suspend your disbelief and hear me out. Irregular things happen all the time. In fact, irregular things happen with such alarming frequency that it would only be irregular if these things didn?t happen. Unfortunately, people, more often than not, exhibit negative reactions to irregularity, claiming them to be the end of civilization, the work of an angry god, or an attack on their beliefs. However, I digress, as nothing quite so catastrophic will be happening here. Instead, we embark on a journey just strange enough to capture the attention of a few interested in learning how it ends. Unfortunately, this isn?t so much about how it ends as how it develops, and I hope that those of you who do read this tale enjoy the little details or brief moments of witty dialogue, and as these moments occur, that you laugh in spite of yourselves, as lord knows we could all use something to laugh about these days. However, I must now ask that you picture a hotel room, one fairly devoid of detail, at least it is until our protagonist wakes up, as he does so, his eyes sweep the ceiling, lit by a gaudy-looking chandelier that briefly hypnotizes him with its crystalline surface. He blinks once and lifts his upper body into a sitting position. Soon the details become more clear. Oak desk complete with lamp and green blotter, small hot tub in the corner behind said desk, a bed, the bed he happens to be lying in, with red comforter and white sheets, 100% cotton, or so the tag he remembers reading yesterday claims. He rises to his feet and catches a glimpse of his somewhat frightening frame in the full-length mirror to the left of his bed. Tall, pale, hairy arms and legs, blond hair scattered about, Grateful Dead T-shirt he swore to himself he would throw out or sell on E-Bay a year ago, the shirt fails to hide a slight gut, white boxer shorts. He regards his traveling companion lying in the bed next to him, still sound asleep, black hair remaining in the same pristine condition that it was in the previous evening. Against his better judgment, he decides to go to the window to open it. He throws the white drapes wide, he is blinded by a furious white glare... Is it snowing outside? He crashes back to earth when his cell phone begins ringing. He marches back to it slowly as ever, waiting until the fifth annoying digital ringtone ceases before answering, squinting at the caller ID as he does. ?This is Montecarlo.? ?Morning, Snowball, how have you been?? Montecarlo, or so he claims his name is, recognizes the rough voice and glances at the clock radio between the two beds in stereotypical fashion, a useless act considering that he cannot read it without his glasses. For some reason, people have to associate their moods with the time of day, especially when they have just woken up. Montecarlo, however, has no time to crack this philosophical quagmire, as his long-distance caller is expecting an answer. ?Just fine, but it is early in San Francisco, you know.? ?Well, Snowball, you had better get your act together, as I have a job for you.? Montecarlo, or perhaps Snowball, rises to his feet and begins pacing the room as he likes to do when he needs to formulate a plan. Again, he can?t quite decide on the reasoning behind this, as he is still extremely tired and there?s no way he?s going to think of something before his morning espresso. His sentiment is one shared by most of America, apparently. ?Um, okay, what is it this time? Insider trading? Embezzlement?? He stops pacing. ?It?s not a...?? ?No, no, no, it?s nothing that you have to worry about.? Despite his instructor?s insistence to the contrary, Montecarlo does worry about it. He waits patiently for the proverbial other shoe to drop. ?I need you to go to Oakland and pick up a guy I?m looking for.? Montecarlo winces. This simple request epitomizes everything he dislikes about his current occupation. First and foremost, though he has been known to work as a defense lawyer for members of this organization, he has consistently demanded that he never have to deal with them outside the courtroom or in person. Second, he also swore that though he maintains fairly good relations with the local boss, that he would never do him any personal favors of a questionable nature. Third, this job involves going to Oakland. ?Okay, look, I have a number of principles on this issue...? ?Which you have already made clear several times. Look...? ?No, no no, you look, I didn?t go to law school and offer to defend you and those characters in your group just so that I could find myself on vacation having to explain to you why my going to Oakland to pick up some guy you know is a bad idea.? ?It?s just a simple thing. He?s been playing fast and loose with his cash lately and I just wanted to make sure he?s doing all right so that he can pay me back when the time comes.? Montecarlo looks at the other bed in the room. Though all this, his companion has not been roused from his sleep, or perhaps one should say coma, through this whole incident. Montecarlo often wonders why this one sleeps so little, yet when he does he is out like a lightbulb. He?ll never understand younger people. ?I?m not doing it. You run this group, you should get some of your Oakland thugs to do it.? ?They scare the hell out of him, I think you should meet him just to see how he?s doing. You?d really like each other, I swear. Joshua, I?m only doing this so that you can get an opportunity to meet some of the nicer people I work with.? Joshua, as we can finally call him, glances out the window towards the furious San Francisco sunlight. The gears grind in his head almost audibly. ?You want me to do this, then I expect you to pay my full legal fee.? The voice on the end of the line sours like milk in the sun. ?All right, maybe I will send my boys from Oakland down there instead, and maybe get them to do something about that smart mouth of yours, too.? Both parties remain silent for some time. Joshua glances at his traveling companion worriedly. His defeated voice replies: ?Fine, I?ll do it for a quarter the legal fee.? The voice on the other end sweetens again. ?That?s very good, Snowball, for a smart aleck. I think you?ll really like this guy.? ?Yeah, fine, just don?t tell me I have to threaten him with a beating or anything.? ?Oh, don?t worry, that?s the other one?s job.? The voice laughs heartily as Joshua ?Snowball? Montecarlo hangs up. He glances at his traveling companion, who rises from his slumber on cue. ?Hey, what?s going on?? Joshua, pondering the question himself, goes over towards the bathroom and calls over his shoulder in response. ?Get washed, dressed and packed. We?re going to Oakland.? The dark-haired figure rises from his bed. ?Oakland? Sweet! I?ve always wanted to go there!? Joshua frowns at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Persistent case of acne notwithstanding, the behavior of his companion is what usually drives him to such expressions in the morning. ?Well, you won?t have a chance to see much. We?re on a job, stupid as that sounds.? The young man rises from his bed, clad only in a pair of red briefs, and proceeds to put on a pair of pine green jeans, previously draped nonchalantly over a bedside chair. ?A job? We going to have to pull a hit on someone?? Joshua, mouth full of toothpaste, splutters his response, sending flecks of foam all over his reflection. ?Ver- -unny, we -ust -oing to phee some -uy.? ?Well, I?ll be sure to pack my 38 to make sure.? Joshua rolls his eyes and, after spitting out his mouthwash, marches back into the room to confront his partner, now clad in a black T-shirt with descending green Matrix text. ?Luis-David, just cut the comedy and wash up. I?ll pack our stuff.? Luis-David sullenly begins his walk towards the bathroom, but is grabbed by the arm as he goes by. ?What time did you go to bed last night?? Luis-David replies...too quickly. ?One.? A long pause, complete with glare from Joshua?s eyes. ?Four.? Joshua releases him. ?You?ve got to get to bed earlier than that.? Luis-David marches into the bathroom and turns on the water, muttering sullenly. ?Fine, Snowball.? Joshua shouts in reply over the sound of the running water. ?I heard that! Don?t call me that!? Luis-David, in between brush strokes, shouts back. ?-hy? -hey all call you -hat!? ?Just don?t, okay? It?s really upsetting.? Luis-David spits the froth into the sink. ?Fine, dad.?