The Economy of Uncommon Sensibilities

         “Put it down Chris, it’s time for bed.”
         “I bet you can’t do this dad …” Trey then watched as his son’s hands twisted and turned, his fingers flying over the game controller at a seemingly impossible speed. The character known as Vince immediately responded by unleashing a myriad of blinding martial art moves, using at least four weapons only a sadistic game designer could come up with upon the circling horde around him. Four seconds, twenty mutilated monsters, one grinning ten year-old.
         “Alright Mr. Chan, you’ve saved the world again. Bed. Now.”
         “Coooool! That Range Wraith’s head is still moving!” Thwack. “Not anymore.” Chris laughed and pointed at the TV screen as the creature’s head split from its temple to its chin, its severed brain spewing out on to the virtual gravel road with two greasy plops.
         “Chris, don’t play with dead things, not even digital ones. Your mom is going to kill me for getting you this…” Trey shook his head and wondered how a game such as “Vince’s Meltdown” could even be marketed to kids. Fourteen and over my ass. Every eight year-old on the block was waiting for the sequel.
         “And remember, they were…”
         “… out of Pokémon & The Great Escape. I know dad. Mom can’t even stand to watch Sarge chase his tail without getting sick.” Chris turned off the game and then quickly began to skip a victory dance over to his bed.
         “That’s my boy.” Trey muttered with a laugh.
         Chris dove into his bed and pulled his NASCAR sheets up tight to his chin, his eyelids beginning their fight to remain open. Trey knelt down and gently kissed his son’s forehead while his right hand playfully twirled his son’s golden-brown locks.
         “Good-night son, Luv ya.”
         “Aw dad, that’s nasty… Please don’t start singing that stupid…”
         “And the cat’s in the cradle with the silver spoon…” Trey’s voice clumsily bellowed out as Chris threw his hands to his ears.
         “Nooooo Dad! Stop it!” Chris giggled. “Why is there a cat in a cradle anyway?” With that, Trey burst out laughing causing Sarge’s ears to perk up in the corner of the room.
         “I have no idea, why is there a silver spoon in there?” Trey continued to giggle at his son’s curiosity.
         “It’s your song dad, you tell me.” Chris answered, a look of serious concern adorning his face.
         “Maybe someday. Night.”
         “Night.” Chris smiled as his eyelids slowly surrendered to the calling of a dream.
         Trey opened the bedroom door and turned the light off. “Sarge, you’re in charge, keep him safe.” The old German shepherd’s ears perked up, but only slightly. In the reigning darkness he appeared to be sicker than he had yesterday. Trey decided he’d have to take the old shepherd to the vet tomorrow and see if it was just old age. With a final nod to Sarge, he pulled the door closed and began to make his way to his bedroom, continuing to hum the melody that had always caused his son so much dismay.
         By the end of the next day he would be wondering if someday would ever come.

***

         “Hi Barbara, it’s a wonderful day, isn’t it? How are Trey and Chris doing?”
The frail blonde stood frozen at the door, her smile merely a painted veil to the growing sickness rising from her gut. The tall man at the door had asked about her husband and her son as if he had known the Travers family for years. His dark complexion and European demeanor were somewhat out of place in the north Phoenix neighborhood, but it was his smile that was all commanding, a knowing tweak at the corner of his sharp thin lips that barely belied his nonchalant appearance.
         “Who… “Her voice appeared strained, thin and raspy, and her mind was spinning with horror stories that she’d wished she’d never heard. With Trey at the vet she had no idea what to do.
         “Oh, I apologize for my lack of an introduction, Mrs. Travers. I am Frederick. Frederick Maestronio. I am here to deliver your… eh product, shall we say. I believe you called a Mr. Antonio earlier this afternoon regarding the specifics?”
         Oh shit.
         “I… Uh sure. I just… I mean nobody ever comes here, I usually go to… You’re not a cop are you? Oh Christ, you better not be a fucking cop…” Still confused a new anxiety was building at the thought of being arrested in her own home, in front of her son. What would Trey do if he found out? With Trey still looking for work things were really tight, but she just needed a small fix, not much but… God what if Trey drove up now?
         “I assure you Barb, may I call you Barb? I am no policeman.  I only represent Mr. Antonio’s, shall we say, best interests this afternoon as he will not be available to meet with you. Shall we proceed?”
         Out of the corner of her eye a blue sedan turned on to their street, it might have been Trey coming home.
         “You’re…really not a cop?” Her eyes were agitated, clearly divided between the car, the stranger at the door and somewhere back inside of the modest house.  This was not how things were done dammit, and she knew it.
         The cobalt blue Taurus drove past their house, country music blaring from its windows. Trey loved classic rock.
         “I can assure you that I am in no way related to the policemen of your country. And what a wonderful country it is that you have Barb, there are simply no words to express my admiration for the US. But I do have an idea regarding this arrangement, isn’t this the land of ideas? Yes, I do believe it is. My idea you see is composed of the elements of procurement. Do you know what that is, Barb? Do you understand the concept of supply and demand?” This imposing man who had recently stood patiently on her doorstep suddenly took one step inside of the foyer, causing Barbara to stumble backwards.
         This was definitely not how things were done.


         Trey sat on the floor of his living room staring in shock at the back of the picture he’d found on the front door when he got home. It was a hauntingly simple note written in delicate cursive:
         For services to be rendered
         Five words that under any other circumstance would seem meaningless… if not for the picture itself. His left eye twitched, as he slowly turned over the picture once again.
         They were naked, hanging upside down in some kind of truck; he could make that much out in the confusion.
         They, of course, being his wife and son.
         At least he thought it was them, the picture was so damn out of focus that he was almost willing to believe it wasn’t them, except…
         The tattoo.
         When they were still in college, Barb had been debating about getting a tattoo one year, finally deciding upon a small, winking playboy bunny that she’d had done one weekend when he’d been out of town.