Showing posts with label Brandon Whited. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Brandon Whited. Show all posts
The Bounty Hunter
By Brandon Whited
“Bounty hunters? We don’t need that scum!”
I imagine the manager of my local Target recounting this memorable line, shouting it to a group of his teenaged minions.
The source of his irritation is little old me. I am one of the bounty hunters to which he refers. And, dare I say, I am one of the more ruthless of my area.
I know the proper time to hunt. I have prowled these toy shelves for years, impressing upon other shoppers the eagerness of a child, the creepiness of a pedophile.
My intentions, however they may appear, are innocent. Many would say they are even sad. I never understood why.
Tuesday is a good day to hunt in Target. I learned this after much failure. Tuesday is New Shipment Day, so states every Tuesday on my calendar, a smiley face emphasizing it.
My first New Shipment Day was coincidental. I was a new hunter then. I was pawing peg upon peg of Target’s generally adequate action figure bounty. I saw the same faces; dull faces. These faces had been hanging there for months. The packages were dented, dusty. The card corners were dog-eared. Unworthy catches, these were.
I craved fresh bounty.
Frustrated, I went to leave. I passed a Toys associate hustling a large box. I stopped in my tracks, noticing the logo on the box’s side.
I hovered as the acne-plagued young man reached again and again into the box. Eighty percent of the box’s contents were pure, fresh bounty.
These fresh faces, which gladdened my heart so, wasted not a second on those pegs. They practically passed from the associate’s hands straight into mine.
“I guess you’re a collector, huh?”
He had noted my enthrallment. It was then he imparted his knowledge:
“We usually get a new shipment in on Tuesday.”
I went home, and educated myself. I signed up for official newsletters; found out official release dates for new potential bounty.
And there I’ll be, every Tuesday following those release dates, in the action figure aisle at Target. I’ll be there before the box-cutter slices the packing tape.
And I will have fresh bounty. Some I will sell. Some I will simply covet, placing it in protective plastic to hang on my wall, like carbonite. A few I will buy duplicates of, so as to experience both pleasures.
Regardless of my intentions with them, I will bring home fresh bounties. That’s what I do. I am a bounty hunter.
- - -
Brandon Whited is a young author from Southwest Virginia. When he isn't busy reinforcing his underground fallout shelter, he enjoys telling himself stories in his mind.
By Brandon Whited
“Bounty hunters? We don’t need that scum!”
I imagine the manager of my local Target recounting this memorable line, shouting it to a group of his teenaged minions.
The source of his irritation is little old me. I am one of the bounty hunters to which he refers. And, dare I say, I am one of the more ruthless of my area.
I know the proper time to hunt. I have prowled these toy shelves for years, impressing upon other shoppers the eagerness of a child, the creepiness of a pedophile.
My intentions, however they may appear, are innocent. Many would say they are even sad. I never understood why.
Tuesday is a good day to hunt in Target. I learned this after much failure. Tuesday is New Shipment Day, so states every Tuesday on my calendar, a smiley face emphasizing it.
My first New Shipment Day was coincidental. I was a new hunter then. I was pawing peg upon peg of Target’s generally adequate action figure bounty. I saw the same faces; dull faces. These faces had been hanging there for months. The packages were dented, dusty. The card corners were dog-eared. Unworthy catches, these were.
I craved fresh bounty.
Frustrated, I went to leave. I passed a Toys associate hustling a large box. I stopped in my tracks, noticing the logo on the box’s side.
I hovered as the acne-plagued young man reached again and again into the box. Eighty percent of the box’s contents were pure, fresh bounty.
These fresh faces, which gladdened my heart so, wasted not a second on those pegs. They practically passed from the associate’s hands straight into mine.
“I guess you’re a collector, huh?”
He had noted my enthrallment. It was then he imparted his knowledge:
“We usually get a new shipment in on Tuesday.”
I went home, and educated myself. I signed up for official newsletters; found out official release dates for new potential bounty.
And there I’ll be, every Tuesday following those release dates, in the action figure aisle at Target. I’ll be there before the box-cutter slices the packing tape.
And I will have fresh bounty. Some I will sell. Some I will simply covet, placing it in protective plastic to hang on my wall, like carbonite. A few I will buy duplicates of, so as to experience both pleasures.
Regardless of my intentions with them, I will bring home fresh bounties. That’s what I do. I am a bounty hunter.
- - -
Brandon Whited is a young author from Southwest Virginia. When he isn't busy reinforcing his underground fallout shelter, he enjoys telling himself stories in his mind.
BLCK MGCK
By Brandon Whited
I’ll set the scene up for you. Me, in a 2005 slate-gray Chevy Cobalt. Them, in a recent-model black Dodge Charger.
The black Dodge Charger is a car that seems to have many identical siblings, at least in my area. So when I see a car of that make passing me, I’m not initially startled. Not until I see the tags.
BLCK MGCK.
Black Magick. That’s how I know it’s Them.
Exactly who They are or their intentions I have never found out, yet over the past two years our paths have crossed an innumerable amount of times. At first, there was nothing out of the ordinary about these (I thought) “chance” encounters on the road. I’d pass Black Magick, or just “Black”, as I came to call them with a small touch of affection, on the two-laner that ran through the small rural town where I live.
Hey, they must live near me somewhere. That was my initial thought. But over the next few months – this would have been the summer of ’05 – these “random” passings became more and more frequent and happened further and further from home.
A trip to Tinseltown in Bristol for a movie, and who do I pass? Black.
After that, a trip to Knoxville for a concert. They passed right by the venue while I was waiting in line. I should have waved.
Gatlinburg. They were there!
I went to Nashville for a friend’s wedding in the summer of ’06, and who should I see? Why, ole Black of course!
Cleveland, Ohio! Beyond any sense or reason, They were there!
Black, never with a speck of dirt to be seen.
Black, those tinted windows so unfairly keeping me from Their identity.
Black, with her name tag proclaiming proudly that she is not just another Dodge Charger but that she is in fact eight-horse-powered Magic, baby!
Why do we always seem to consider cars to be female? Something else to chew on, there.
All this time, I’d never really given thought to what Their intentions might be. Really, until Cleveland I thought it all coincidence.
After returning from that trip, I started to ask around amongst my friends and family as to whether any of them knew the car or who owned it. None did. I was not surprised.
A more paranoid mind would have begun ranting “They’re out to get me!” long before I began having thoughts and delusions as to what Black’s driver might want from me. I like to think of myself as a well-grounded individual, not prone to belief in the supernatural…or in magic (ha!), but by early 2007 Black had dodged all logical reasoning and charged into my mind at a speed that far exceeded the limits of normal.
I saw Black everywhere.
I dreamed of Black at night…and sometimes during the day.
I started craving Black. I pictured who the driver was in my mind. One of the infamous Men in Black UFO believers speak of, perhaps. Then I went for the less obvious. A sexy young woman…attracted to me? Yes. Wanting to meet me? Yes, much better.
She’s smitten with me.
We should meet.
And now a new obsession – Meeting Black. But how to accomplish this?
On the next passing, I waved frantically with one hand. Black zoomed right on by me. This incident recurred five more times before I decided to take more drastic measures.
And now here I am, in my car on Route 19, and there’s Black, heading toward me in the opposite lane.
I swerve…over into her lane.
A collision. Screeching tires, shattering glass. My radiator bursts, and smoke plumes up in my line of vision. I can see through it, but barely.
The driver’s side door of Black is opening.
I hold my breath.
Someone is stepping out.
- - -
My name is Brandon Whited. I am a young writer from Southwest Virginia. I have previously been published three times in a local annual publication, the Clinch Mountain Review. I thank your for your consideration.
By Brandon Whited
I’ll set the scene up for you. Me, in a 2005 slate-gray Chevy Cobalt. Them, in a recent-model black Dodge Charger.
The black Dodge Charger is a car that seems to have many identical siblings, at least in my area. So when I see a car of that make passing me, I’m not initially startled. Not until I see the tags.
BLCK MGCK.
Black Magick. That’s how I know it’s Them.
Exactly who They are or their intentions I have never found out, yet over the past two years our paths have crossed an innumerable amount of times. At first, there was nothing out of the ordinary about these (I thought) “chance” encounters on the road. I’d pass Black Magick, or just “Black”, as I came to call them with a small touch of affection, on the two-laner that ran through the small rural town where I live.
Hey, they must live near me somewhere. That was my initial thought. But over the next few months – this would have been the summer of ’05 – these “random” passings became more and more frequent and happened further and further from home.
A trip to Tinseltown in Bristol for a movie, and who do I pass? Black.
After that, a trip to Knoxville for a concert. They passed right by the venue while I was waiting in line. I should have waved.
Gatlinburg. They were there!
I went to Nashville for a friend’s wedding in the summer of ’06, and who should I see? Why, ole Black of course!
Cleveland, Ohio! Beyond any sense or reason, They were there!
Black, never with a speck of dirt to be seen.
Black, those tinted windows so unfairly keeping me from Their identity.
Black, with her name tag proclaiming proudly that she is not just another Dodge Charger but that she is in fact eight-horse-powered Magic, baby!
Why do we always seem to consider cars to be female? Something else to chew on, there.
All this time, I’d never really given thought to what Their intentions might be. Really, until Cleveland I thought it all coincidence.
After returning from that trip, I started to ask around amongst my friends and family as to whether any of them knew the car or who owned it. None did. I was not surprised.
A more paranoid mind would have begun ranting “They’re out to get me!” long before I began having thoughts and delusions as to what Black’s driver might want from me. I like to think of myself as a well-grounded individual, not prone to belief in the supernatural…or in magic (ha!), but by early 2007 Black had dodged all logical reasoning and charged into my mind at a speed that far exceeded the limits of normal.
I saw Black everywhere.
I dreamed of Black at night…and sometimes during the day.
I started craving Black. I pictured who the driver was in my mind. One of the infamous Men in Black UFO believers speak of, perhaps. Then I went for the less obvious. A sexy young woman…attracted to me? Yes. Wanting to meet me? Yes, much better.
She’s smitten with me.
We should meet.
And now a new obsession – Meeting Black. But how to accomplish this?
On the next passing, I waved frantically with one hand. Black zoomed right on by me. This incident recurred five more times before I decided to take more drastic measures.
And now here I am, in my car on Route 19, and there’s Black, heading toward me in the opposite lane.
I swerve…over into her lane.
A collision. Screeching tires, shattering glass. My radiator bursts, and smoke plumes up in my line of vision. I can see through it, but barely.
The driver’s side door of Black is opening.
I hold my breath.
Someone is stepping out.
- - -
My name is Brandon Whited. I am a young writer from Southwest Virginia. I have previously been published three times in a local annual publication, the Clinch Mountain Review. I thank your for your consideration.
