Paper Cuts

He was a lion.  Rough hair pinned up in tufts sticking out from his head was his mane. Fierce eyes behind yellow, square rims prowled the hall.  The way his scrawny body slinked past the doors was proof enough: Travis Graye was a beast.

The end of the hall was his target.  Though there were dozens of doors on his left and right, the one in front of him was the one that mattered.

Travis stopped a few yards from the door, squared his shoulders, shifted his feet on the floor.  His Converse gave a pleasant squeak on the linoleum.

This is it.

He charged at the door in an all out sprint.  Just before the collide he whipped his leg forward and kicked the door hard.

But not hard enough.

Travis rolled back, slinging curses and his foot in the air.  After a few moments of bravely holding back tears he started for the door again. This time the target was the handle.  To his utter annoyance it opened easily and he limped into the room.

It was a large rectangular area, a white conference room.  The enormous desk that spread out before him was flanked by wingback chairs. Classy. Sitting at the head of the table was a shriveled old man. His black eyes were lit by the fluorescent lighting.  Frightened, alarmed, confused. With a lot if effort he pushed back the chair and stood up shakily.

Travis scowled. “Okay, old bag. I’m not in the best of moods right now.”  Damn door.  “Just hand over the book and let’s get this over with. Man, my foot…!”

“I-I don’t know what you are talking about,” the old man stammered.  “If it’s money you want I can give you as much as—”

“Shove it.  I know you have it.  Give it to me or I’ll kick—” The throbbing in his foot surged all the way up to his knee.  “Just—just give it to me!”  He managed to take four steps before the old man pulled a gun from inside his suit.

He no longer looked like a meek grandpa.  The terrified look in his eyes turned sinister, the creases in his face hardened.  “Not another step.  I was fully prepared for your arrival, boy,” he snarled.  “But what made you think you could waltz into my own warehouse and steal from me?”

“Money,” Travis said simply.  If he was scared or even slightly fazed by the pistol he didn’t show it.  His glare remained steady.  Or maybe it wasn’t a glare.  Maybe it was just his face. So hard to tell….

The old man laughed.  “Money? Boy, I’m Charles Merrifield.  I practically own the east coast and you’re trying to steal from me??”

Travis frowned.  “I don’t see what the big deal is.  It’s not like you need to be any richer.”

“Ah, but this book…!”  At that point the man pulled out something else from his suit.

“Are you freaking crazy?!”  Travis gaped at Merrifield.  “You can’t keep something like that inside your pocket, you geezer!!”

In Merrifield’s hand was a tiny book that could only be ancient.  There was what seemed to be a hieroglyph on the front and the binding looked threadbare.  Travis was a little relieved to notice that the old man was wearing gloves, but still…!  Didn’t he understand that what he held was—

“Priceless,” Merrifield cried gleefully ignoring Travis’ raging eyes.  “And you can never have too much money.  I'll sell this manuscript for millions!”

Travis didn’t bother to say that the person who hired him had offered billions in return for that single book.

Thud!!

Dust and two ceiling tiles fell—one hit Travis on the head—and a girl landed in the chair next to the moody beast.

“Hello,” she said breathless and Travis slapped his face.

“Friend of yours,” asked Merrifield.

“No,” Travis answered coldly.

“Ooo, watch out he’s got a gun.”  Her serious tone belied her grin hidden underneath her mass of hair.  Travis only sighed.  Of course, Meme would show up. 

“Wow!”  Meme brushed back her hair with her arm.  Her ice blue eyes glittered as she soaked the old man in.  Her voice was filled with awe.  “Charles Merrifield in the flesh. All the lives that you’ve ruined for money…all the people you’ve stepped on for fame….  You’re totally my hero—”

“Shut up, you little freak,” Travis snapped.

“Don’t tell me to shut up, four-eyes!”

Merrifield gave an exasperated sigh and let the lead rip.  Travis hit the deck and Meme ducked for cover under the desk.  After a half dozen rounds Merrifield stopped and the room echoed with the thunder of gunfire.

Meme popped out from under the desk and spat, “What a lousy shot—OH-EM-GEE whatisthat?!”

Travis stopped kissing the floor to look at Meme.  He didn’t like her wild smile, twisted up all evil and mischievous.  It made him very uneasy.  He followed her stare and his eyes grew wide in horror.  Slowly he reached up to feel his hair.

Is that what I think it is? 

As if completely forgetting about Merrifield and the gun Meme crawled out from her shelter and stood up, the puff of singed hair lying between her feet.  Travis flailed a bit on the floor like a fish before snatching up the bit of hair and jumping to his feet.

“I can’t believe this,” he whispered staring at the black furry thing in his palm.  Meme had to tippy-toe to get a decent look.  Glancing up at Travis she assessed the damage.  Instead of the usual four ponytails there was now a sort of lopsided trio. She couldn’t take it.  Her cheeks puffed out and her thin body quivered all over.  Color flooded her cheeks and her eyes watered.  Her laughter punched Travis in his dejected face.

“OH MY GOD YOU LOOK SO FREAKING FUNNY!”

Tears rolled down her cheeks and she was still roaring when Travis lifted her up and tossed her across the desk.  She hit one of the puffed out chairs and it fell backwards taking her with it.  Her chicken legs kicked at the air and giggles bubbled up to the ceiling.

Travis turned back to Charles Merrifield.  “You’ve made a very big mistake, old man,” he snarled at Merrifield.  “A VERY BIG MUH-STEAK!!”  Travis made a dash for Merrifield.  His swollen foot, offended by the running, pulsed with pain, but he ignored it.  Merrifield, clearly startled, shot at him a few more times and he ignored that too.  Like a play in a football game, he dove over the edge of the table and tackled the old man.  The book went flying from his wrinkled hand.

“Way to spearhead the elderly,” Meme cheered hanging over the leather seat of the chair.

“The book,” cried Travis watching it soar across the giant table.

“Oh, I got it!”  She jumped up on the table and ran towards the little book with her arms outstretched.

“Not with your hands, you idiot,” Travis barked with desperation.

So, Meme caught the book with her face.  For what seemed like the billionth time that day she fell back.  The book, re-bounding from her forehead bounced innocently on her stomach.

“I swear to God,” Travis yelled at her unmoving body, “If there’s so much as a bent page…!

As if just feeling Travis' blow, old Merrifield let out a wheezing gasp.  He sounded like a plastic bag struggling against wind. He clutched at Travis' back, scraped at it, but the youngster easily shrugged him off.  He slipped limply to the floor and Travis used his good foot to kick the gun away.  Travis thought that the man looked just as aged and withered as the book.  He was probably broken like the binding, but Travis wasn’t at all sorry for that.

With a sniff he turned and hobbled over to the middle of the table.  A numb feeling was starting to spread through the sole of his foot.  Meme still hadn’t moved.

What a drama queen.

Without a word he took off his sweater and carefully folded the book in the layers of cotton.  That done he put the bundle under his arm and made for the door.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

He glowered at Meme over his shoulder.  She had flipped over onto her belly and was staring him down.  Not that her scowl had any of Travis’ intensity.  Feeling more than a little frustrated with her he grunted, “…the geezer’s wallet?”

It looked like she was about to say something nasty, but his snide remark quickly sunk in.  She kicked up her legs behind her and let them chop the air.  “I don’t think so, I mean, do rich people like him even carry wallets?”

“Why wouldn’t they?”

“Huh.  That’s weird to think about.”

Is it? Because you’re probably about as rich as that guy.

“Well, I wouldn’t take it.  You already have the book.”

“True,” Travis said.  “Let’s get out of here.”  But he didn’t bother to wait for Meme to scramble off the table.

*    *    *

“Have you heard the news,” Meme asked.

“Haven’t gotten the paper yet,” Travis mumbled.

“Save a tree, turn on the TV!”

“You know I don’t have a TV.  Just spit it out.  I’m at work.”

“Like you do anything.  Are there even people there today?”

Her words knifed Travis in the chest.  It was a good thing that Meme had called.  If she had been in the store with him Travis would have chunked a book at her.

“Fine.  Our man, Charles Merrifield, was just sentenced to forty plus in prison.”

“The man’s like seventy something years old.  He’ll probably die before he gets the chance to get out.”  After a few seconds of quick thinking Travis added, “So, how did you expose the geezer?”

Meme said proudly, “Well, you know its soooo easy to expose big shots like that what with all the extortion, fraud, and blackmail. Just leaving a breadcrumb trail for the fuzz was all it took.”

Travis gave a disinterested grunt.  He could have cared less about the old man’s fate.  His money was safely stowed away in a dozen bank accounts that Meme had promised were untraceable.  Despite her crazy antics, Meme was never reckless—or wrong—in the digital world.  If she said she covered up all trails and loose ends then there was nothing to worry about.

A flash of red in the window caught Travis’ eye.  “Got to go.  Customer.”

“Don’t lie—”

Travis snapped the cell phone shut. 

There was a chime of an unseen bell as a young woman in a scarlet jacket walked in.  In a tone devoid of interest he said, “Welcome to Paper Cuts, finest bookstore this side of the country.”

This is the story of Travis Graye, hardcore book collector.