Spatial Reasoning

"Gutter..." said El Saguaro, leaning against a heavily graffitied wall. "Where's the writer?"

 

A flurry of yellow taxicabs, resale value ruined by thousands of scraped stickers, raced through the slog of Mexicali at the sight of a broken green signal. A pair of stained blue sneakers swayed in the breeze above the bustling junction, a mark of the cartel's bounds. On the other side laid The Ring's territory, a slump of earthquake-ridden high rises.

 

"You know better than messing with The Ring," Gutter replied, sipping on a light margarita. He was clothed in a short cut Hawaiian shirt to match his short, stout, and muscular body. "They'll get to Ron before the CIA realizes."

 

"If we team up," Saguaro flipped out a bulky envelope, "Everyone will get a punch at the Devil."

 

That thing can eat!

 

 

"That thing can eat!!" -Chef Gruel

Stella Blue

Gutter mumbled, "Sidebar," pulling aside Harold and the others. "You didn't tell us he was programmed to speak Portuguese."

 

"Well, I didn't know the specifics, exactly," Harold replied. His gaze shifted, flickering from the group to the troubled Columbus in the corner.

 

"In your face, Harold," Gutter said, turning to face Columbus.

 

From the aforementioned corner, the pioneer yelled, "O que você está fazendo?" He appeared to become increasingly irritated, even wielding a small saber at that point.

 

"Blackpoleon Blackaparte," Gutter eyed the guide, clarifying, "Harold, I need you to outflank the enemy fire."

 

Cannonball Run

"What a long, strange trip it's been," Ron muttered.

 

He looked up at Elmina Castle, the colony's limestone fortress, sat atop an ancient rock at the mouth of the harbor, surrounded by a towering battlement. Afront to them was the castle's main entrance, a large double plank door, seemingly made for giants. It was heavily fortified: iron wrought strap hinges, bars, and ring-shaped handles, were joined together by a sharp grate, rusted from the salty air.

 

A cast iron cannon, wheels half sunken in a puddle of sand, was rocked further into it by the loading of a bronze cannonball, to which Harold smiled. He then lit the thick fuse with the stroke of a dirty match, and off to the races it went. The spark hissed as it went, snaking from the stem, and into the black barrel. As it winded around, Harold attempted to steer the cannon toward the castle, barely able to tame the raging beast.

 

Changes in Latitude

"What coconut tree did we fall out of?" Gutter asked sarcastically. "Certainly not Kamala's."

 

Ron, along with Mike, Laura, and Gutter, stood atop a rounded, grassy bluff on the outskirts of the small settlement of Elmina. It was founded a decade before by the Portuguese to cement the lucrative and up-and-coming gold and ivory trade as their own.

 

There was a certain buzz in the colony: The Santa Maria, owned and captained by Christopher Columbus himself, was docked in the shallow harbor. His flagship, white sails completely unfurled, towered above all the other dinghies, schooners, and caravels anchored along the Benya River.

 

Faster Than the Speed of Love

"How's Kirby doing?" Joe asked, holding up his phone. "The little guy."

 

On his screen was an image of Stewie sleeping, taken through his bedroom window. The shot was partially obscured by the baby's mobile, made up of guns since it was bought in Detroit.

 

"Joe," Peter said slowly. "His name is Stewie."

 

"Huh," Joe muttered in response, "He looks like a Kirby, and I'm never wrong."

 

Ron asked, "Is your baby pregnant again?"