The Internet President

Chapter 3 Steamed Punks

Chapter 3

Steamed Punks

Beer Beakers is the fantasy bar of a mad scientist. Laboratory equipment functions as glassware. Tubes and exaggerated plumbing adorn the walls. An emergency chemical shower in one corner emphasizes the scientific theme. Only unattended musical instruments and gear on a small stage give away the bar’s real purpose.

They call him The Blacksmith. The lanky white bartender with a leather apron looks like a blacksmith but acts like a chemist. He serves beverages in Erlenmeyer flasks, each ingredient precisely measured.

The majority of clientele don various steampunk fashions with goggles and top hats being the most common accessories. Dozens of anachronistic pirates, cowboys, pilots, and engineers enjoy themselves, among those too lazy to dress up.

Maria sports cowboy boots with spurs, a Victorian corset with an intricate system of buckles and chains, topped with a fedora augmented with clockwork pieces. Goggles hang around her neck, more a fashion statement than anything practical. Her makeup is low key except for ruby lipstick.

James wears a utility belt, vest, and slacks, all in muted earth tones. Wrenches, dual replica pistols in holsters, and a welding helmet dangle from his belt.

The Blacksmith places an Irish coffee on a stand at their table. A portable Bunsen Burner heats the drink.

James and Maria sit with body language more appropriate for a funeral than a bar. James talks to his beer glass more than anyone in particular. “I’m a billionaire…without any money.”

A downpour of bad news broadcasts on the bar TV. Unemployment. Protests at the European Central Bank. Protests at the Federal Reserve. Riots at the G20 summit. Death. Fires. It’s a money Apocalypse. How could the whole world go broke? That doesn’t make any sense.

James stares at his beer, downbeat. “I filed for unemployment. It’s all I have left. I just…” James trails off without enough energy to finish his sentence.

Bad news drones on, the perfect companion for their day so far. Head lice are now five times more popular than Congress. The Take Back America Movement is trying to take down every incumbent, Democrat or Republican. With everyone running scared, a schism in the Democratic Party created the Occupy Party, and The Tea Party split from the Republicans.

The political landscape is so toxic and splintered that “None/None of the Above” is one of the more popular election choices, and that poll was taken before a sting operation indicted five senators on corruption charges.

“We’ve got enough of our own problems.” Maria stomps over to the bar. Her spurs jingle. She climbs on top of the countertop and manually changes the TV channel. She struts back to the table and sits down.

“How did your supermodel take the news?” Maria exaggerates the ssssss in supermodel with a hissing sound and matching scowl.

James struggles to get out each word. “She dumped me.”

Maria smirks at the news.

“She knew. Someone told her,” James says.

Maria’s eyes go wide, as her smirk vanishes. She stirs her drink nervously.

James eyes the Irish coffee, as steam wisps off the inviting beverage. The drink is there to be taken. Instead, he nurses his empty glass down to the last bits of beer foam. Nothing left. His head droops. “She didn’t even bother to say goodbye. She sent another guy to pick up her stuff.”

“I told you she was a gold digger.” Maria’s words hang in the air.

James lifts his head back up, incensed. “I told you so? Today? That’s what you’re going with?”

Maria sits straight, defiant. “You go after girls for the wrong reasons, and this is what you get. At least make some new mistakes.”

“This is not how to cheer me up.”

“No, but it is how I snap you out of mopey-mopey.”

James rolls his eyes. “You could have tried good news. Tell me everything you did to Renquist.”

“I tracked his blood all the way to my car,” Maria says.

“Go, Maria! James Bond wouldn’t get very far in high heels. Imagine how much ass you could kick in sensible shoes. Details.”

Maria says, “Right after you threatened me in the hallway—”

James makes a stop sign with his hand. “I did not threaten you. When I said ‘You’re going to pay now,’ that was for Renquist. I knew you were going to attack him.”

“How?”

“Every time you wear lipstick, someone gets it in the nuts.”

Maria purses her lips self-consciously. “You knew I didn’t betray you, and you still put me through all that grief?”

James smiles and pretends to beg. In a shrill voice, he pleads with her. “Bro? Bro? Please, bro?”

Maria laughs. “I did not sound like that.”

James continues in character, “Please. Please. I’ll do anything, just be my friend.” He mimes wiping tears from his eyes.

“Don’t make me punt you.” She pretends to kick him.

His smile disappears quickly.

Maria watches the mood change with concern.

James reflects, his expression somber. “I trust in us, but not much else. Before I saw the lipstick, that moment of doubt shook me.”

She already explained her reasons for the ruse. What else can Maria say?

The television blares louder, catching their attention. On TV, a young man in shabby clothes watches in frustration as steam comes up through the hood of an old Oldsmobile. “Tired of filling out job applications? Is your boss a jerk?”

Maria raises her voice and talks over the TV. “Why do they have to make commercials louder? It irritates me.”

An overly energetic narrator continues. “Come find the perfect job at SlamDunkJobs.com.”

Maria shuts up abruptly. She and James stare at each other. Their jaws drop at the same time. They turn back and watch the ad intently.

The young man sits at a computer, while the narrator explains. “We assess your skills to find the perfect job. Bid on the ones you want. If you win, the job is yours. Slam dunk! Then let us know if you want to keep the job.”

The job seeker is wearing a suit. “I got a big raise! Thanks, Slam Dunk Jobs.” He fist pumps and drives off in a yellow Lamborghini.

James almost falls out of his chair, as they both get to their feet. They high five and jump around. The excitement lasts for a minute before they calm down.

He slumps back into his seat. “Our new brand launches, and the first I hear about it is a TV commercial featuring my car? Aiya! I should be there.”

Maria says, “Slam Dunk Jobs launched. That’s good news, whether we’re running the company, or not.”

James shakes his head. “They didn’t mention anything about training. I bet Renquist cut that part, just to save money. Better jobs were the whole point of Slam Dunk Jobs.”

Maria looks deep into his eyes. “Renquist might be untrustworthy, ruthless, and evil, but he’s a good businessman. When we get the company back, it will probably be worth even more.”

James waves her off. “His money was supposed to power my vision, but he used it against me. The only way to fight power is more power. I need a power-up.”

“James, this is not a video game. Life doesn’t have power-ups. In case you forgot, we came here to have a good time. At least try.”

James stares at the bar TV.

Maria gives James a dirty look. “Sulk if you want. You’re too much work tonight.” Maria reads emails on her phone.

They ignore each other, lost in separate worlds.

An old movie washes over James, punctuated by the occasional set of commercials. He finally comes back to life during a political ad. “I found my power-up,” James says.

Maria looks up from her phone, puzzled. “I’ve seen that look. Here comes the crazy.”

James is ecstatic. “I’ve decided I’m going to be president.”

Maria slaps the table and cracks up. “You don’t decide to become president. That’s not how it works.”

James ignores Maria’s derision.

She sips her drink, but it goes down the wrong pipe. Maria grasps her throat as she chokes. Cough. Laugh. Cough and laugh.

James looks concerned. “Are you alright?”

Maria takes a deep breath and tries not to chuckle. A few snorts escape. “You’re serious.”

“People want something different, why not the truth?”

Maria raises her hands in frustration. “You’re too honest. You can’t even bluff. You want to stroll into the most dishonest place on Earth? How’s that supposed to work? Even the backstabbers have backstabbers.”

“I can do a better job.”

“You’re a stress case, and you can’t even stand up to your mother. In what world can you handle being president?”

James nudges closer to Maria. “The one where you’re beside me as VP.”

Maria puts her hands on her hips. “Maybe I should be president, and you should be VP.”

“I call dibs.” He grins.

“Did I forget to mention immature?”

James says, “The last time I had this look, I made us a billion dollars.”

Maria snorts. “I’d be more impressed if we still had the money.”

“I concede all of your points, but I can do this. I’m what this country needs.”

She points her finger at him. “The whole world is going to hell, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

James says, “If you want to be my VP, help me with reasons I can, instead of reasons I can’t.”

“I’m not your VP.” She waves him off. “I’m not getting on the crazy train here. Stop wasting time on this ridiculous idea and figure out how to get the company back.”

The waiter sees her waving and puts an ornate clockwork box on the table. James tosses a credit card in the box. The waiter takes it away.

James leans in towards Maria, trying puppy dog eyes. “Come on. I need you. What would it take to convince you?”

“OK. OK. Prove to me you can bluff. Impress me in a big way. Then I’ll think about it.”

“Impress you how?”

“I’ll know it when I see it.”

The waiter returns with the box. “How was everything?”

“Happy hour wasn’t that happy.” James signs the receipt and takes his card.

Maria holds out a Visa. “James, this was supposed to be my treat.”

“I’m sorry, it’s too late. The card has already gone through.” The waiter takes the box away.

Maria glares at James, but he stares at his credit card. He looks left, then right, to see if anyone is nearby.

James whispers to Maria. “They didn’t cancel the corporate card. Time for revenge spending.”

He strides across the bar to the band setup. Maria follows at a leisurely pace, her spurs jingle with each step. She draws lecherous glances as she strolls across the bar.

He turns on the amp and speeds to the microphone. He taps the mic to make sure it’s on. “I’m James Wong. Tonight, in this bar, I decided to run for president.”

The crowd reacts with laughter, claps, and jeers. The Blacksmith fiddles with his leather apron, shrugs, and returns to work. Twenty partiers converge in front of the barely raised stage.

James yanks his biggest wrench from his utility belt and thrusts it up. “Do you like steampunk?”

The audience cheers.

“Who wants a steampunk president?”

Excitement grows, as people filter from their seats to join the commotion.

“To make democracy work, we need participants, not spectators.”

A portly aviator waves at James. “Buy me a beer, and I’ll vote for you.”

James points his wrench at the crowd in a widening arc. “I’m going to start a conga line, so that everyone can participate in the celebration of my candidacy. Dance with me, and I’ll buy everyone a beer.”

Free beer earns a standing ovation, which would be more impressive if more of the audience were still sitting.

Electronic music plays on the speaker system. James chants with the music, “James Wong, steampunk president. That’s right.” He raises his arms repeatedly in encouragement. The chant spreads across the room.

“James Wong, steampunk president. That’s right,” the audience shouts.

At critical mass, James gets the courage to leave his microphone. He steps off the stage. A flash of doubt. Will anyone join him?

James waves his wrench overhead with the beats of the music. He kicks out on the fourth beat. Two kicks later, the portly aviator is the first to join. The conga line extends every second as others join the fun.

He looks back and sees Maria standing with her arms crossed. He leads the dance in a circle around the bar, back to Maria. “Don’t be a spectator.” He snakes the line around her so he can talk longer.

“I told you. I’m not getting on the crazy train,” Maria says.

Over half the bar patrons join the dance. The chant dies down, replaced by a murmur of happy party goers. The train of people is too long for everyone to see the wrench, so kicks are out of sync.

Another revolution brings James back to Maria again. He tilts his head and gives her puppy dog eyes.

“OK. OK. I’m in front. I don’t want anyone getting handsy.” She cuts ahead of him to be first in line.

James puts one hand on her back. “Are you impressed now?”

Maria reaches back and grabs his wrench. She leads, waving his wrench, and kicking in time.

James stumbles, misses a beat, and shakes his head. He grabs the second biggest wrench from his utility belt. He attempts to take charge on a different beat. The kicks are haphazard in the line as dancers pick from the dueling metronomes.

Maria looks back with a smirk.

James fumes. He puts his wrench back and roots around in his utility belt pockets. He pulls out his rave whistle. It’s an echo of a vintage club scene when suspenders and mushroom hats were fashionable.

“Rock, paper, scissors. Whistle beats wrench.” He double whistles for each kick. The whistle makes a much better metronome, so the entire crowd syncs with it.

Maria laughs and glances back. She syncs her wrench to his beats too. The dance is better than ever.

After another lap, the front door opens. Eight Latino men with matching “Los Muchos” tattoos enter. They wear jeans and white wife beaters, except for their shirtless leader, Jaguar. Tattoos of Mayan glyphs cover him, with his fists inked to look like jaguar mouths. Gangbangers. The conga line near the door momentarily collapses like an accordion, before resuming its flow.

The skinniest gangbanger, Flaco, approaches the conga line and pushes to insert himself between James and Maria.

James blocks him, but Flaco pries his hand off Maria. Flaco puts both hands on Maria’s back.

Maria kicks left.

Flaco’s eyes glance down, admiring the view.

Her hips sway side to side with the music. Maria kicks right.

Flaco’s hands drift down to her ass.

Maria kicks back. Her spurs catch Flaco hard in the groin.

He slumps to the ground with a shriek, clutching his privates.

She doesn’t miss a beat with her wrench.

James leaps over Flaco to rejoin Maria. “See what I mean? Lipstick.”

Maria snickers, but doesn’t turn around.

Behind them, people step over Flaco, one by one, like a trail of army ants.

When the song finishes, the conga line disperses. The thirsty herd converges at the bar. The Blacksmith marches towards James.

James holds up the corporate card.

The crowd cheers as The Blacksmith takes the card.

“I’m going to check on my roadkill,” Maria says.

James backpedals towards his table. “I’ll grab my drink and meet you over there.”

An albino waiter approaches Jaguar. “Sorry sir, no shirt, no service. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Jaguar lunges towards the waiter. “Vanilla, I suggest you bounce.”

The waiter retreats behind the bar.

Flaco points at Maria. His other hand still clutches his privates. He struggles to speak. “That’s the bitch.”

Maria strolls towards the gangbangers, enjoying each clank of her spurs. She stops ten feet short of them and eyes Flaco. “My ass is a hands-free zone.”

Jaguar struts towards Maria and motions his posse to follow. “If you’d hit him any harder we’d be calling him Flaca.” Jaguar laughs at his own joke.

The crowd gives a wide berth to the area, content to watch. The circle of spectators expands as if this were an impromptu sporting arena.

James notices trouble brewing and hurries to Maria.

Jaguar shifts his attention to James and makes an anxious laugh. “You know martial arts?” Jaguar sizes him up. “You don’t look like a Kung Fu.”

James forces a smile and asks Jaguar. “So, what brings you here? A love of chemistry?”

“Why the f**k would I care about chemistry?” Jaguar lunges the last few feet until he is face to face with James. His men stay two strides back.

James backs off, hands raised. “Sorry. I just meant, look around. It’s a themed bar. There’s even a safety shower in the corner for chemical burns.”

Jaguar swings his head around, mocking surprise. “I just noticed.” He glares at James. “You don’t think I have two eyes in my head?”

James grabs Maria’s arm to pull her into retreat with him.

Maria yanks her arm back. She’s not backing down. “Why didn’t you ask if I knew martial arts?”

Jaguar shifts focus to Maria. “What’s your name, chica?”

She stares at Jaguar and clanks her spurs together. “My name’s not Benjamin.”

Jaguar turns back toward his friends. He shakes his head with a confused expression. “What?”

James takes advantage of the distraction and books it to the edge of the encircling crowd. He flags down the portly aviator and a few other bar patrons. “I need your help.”

“I’m not fighting those guys,” the portly aviator says.

James pulls the welding helmet from his utility belt and puts it on with the faceplate open. “No fighting. Just follow my lead.”

The portly aviator does a salute. “Goggles at the ready, Mr. President.”

A pirate with a clockwork parrot glued to his shoulder adjusts his eyepiece. “Goggles at the ready.”

James swipes a Bunsen Burner and a beaker of clear liquid from a nearby table. He runs towards Maria.

Both the aviator and pirate grab the same supplies and follow.

“That b***h is crazy,” Jaguar says to his amigos. He swivels and returns to Maria. “You must be loca to mess with Los Muchos.”

“Suck my d**k, assholes.” Maria readies for a fight, hands open.

Hearing those words from a woman confuses the gangbangers. They hesitate but surround Maria anyway.

James attempts to flank them with his two new friends. James thrusts out his beaker. “Stand back. I’ve got a beaker of dihydrogen monoxide.”

The pirate holds out his beaker.

Jaguar and his posse back away, so they can keep an eye on James and Maria from the same direction.

James says, “With second-degree burns, your tattoos would be cooked right off your burnt flesh. This chemical is used to distribute pesticides. It’s also fatal when inhaled.”

Jaguar notices his friends are getting skittish. He assesses the threat James poses. Undecided.

“If you get third-degree burns, it won’t hurt…because burns scorch off your nerves. Are you ready for a taste of dihydrogen monoxide, punk?” James makes a menacing step forward. “It’s found inside nuclear power plants and cancer patients. Dihydrogen monoxide was used in torture in Iraq.”

Like an afterthought, the aviator also holds out his liquid.

Jaguar smiles. “Bullshit. If it were as dangerous as you say, you’d protect yourself.”

“You want to mess with science?” James puts down the faceplate on his welding helmet. The aviator and pirate put on their goggles in sync a second later.

Jaguar looks around at the bar. “Oh s**t! That’s what all the goggles are for.”

James motions with the portable Bunsen Burner at the clear liquid. “What kind of burns do you want? Are you ready for the third degree?”

The gangbangers panic and jet for the door. The sea of spectators parts to allow the gang to evacuate.

Jaguar throws Flaco over his shoulder as they hurry out the exit.

The crowd cheers. The aviator and pirate high five.

Maria slow claps for James. “Dihydrogen monoxide. Two hydrogens, one oxygen. H2O. You were bluffing with a glass of water?”

James says, “If they’d remembered high school chemistry, they would’ve kicked my ass. See? I can bluff without lying.”

“You bluffed to scare off some punks, using steam, in a steampunk bar. Wow! OK. OK. Vice President sounds good. I’ll finally get a vacation. Just don’t call me your sidekick.” Maria tilts her left leg up. “Or I’ll introduce you to my side kick.”

James takes a sip of his clear liquid and spews some out. A small fireball erupts over the Bunsen Burner for a second, then dissipates. “This is vodka. I almost served myself a Molotov cocktail.”

Maria snickers and turns the flame off on the Bunsen Burner.

“What?” James says. “How was I supposed to know it wasn’t water?”

Maria grabs an ice cube from an abandoned drink and plops it in his beaker. The ice cube drops to the bottom. “If it were water, the ice would float. You’re not the only one who got A’s in school.”

James moves quickly to change the conversation. “Are you excited? I’m going to be president.”

Maria rolls her eyes. “Yep. Making great life decisions in a bar, how could we lose?”

“If we can get the Take Back America Movement to back us, I’m sure we’ll win. We have work to do.” James downs the vodka.