dangerous metel objects room

Mercer and The Kite

Let me tell you a little something about Mercer.

Mercer likes the beach. And on top of that, Mercer likes kites. But here's the real deal: Mercer likes to fly kites at the beach.

But Mercer is a busy man. Mercer has many obligations; he's got places to go and things to do. Mercer is a man on the move, and nothing--not even the pure exhileration of manipulating a masterfully crafted kite on the undulating gusts of seaborne winds--can stop him from being what he is: Mercer.

Mercer pays people to do that shit for him.

One day, Mercer was cruising through a quaint sea-side village, no doubt en route to some important meeting to decide the futures of certain so-and-sos and gain fantastic wealth, when he happened upon a privately owned Kite Shop. "My, that's a fine Kite Shop," Mercer remarked to himself in a gruff, self-assured tone. "I will purchase that Kite Shop and make it my own."

Mercer moved quickly into the Kite Shop and stood tall, arms akimbo, just inside the door. Brilliant streams of sunshine poured over his majestic shoulders through the gaping entryway. This was Mercer's way of letting the denizens of any given establishment know that he had arrived--as if there were any way they could not notice.

Life inside the Kite Shop came to a sudden, awe-struck halt upon Mercer's appearance. The shopkeep, who stood behind the counter, raised his head to gaze upon the new arrival and was nearly struck to his knees with the shock of Mercer's ebullient manliness. A tired man in his early forties, holding the remnants of a decimated dragonfly kite, stood frozen in perplexed admiration of Mercer's imposing presence. A child, sitting upon the floor near where the tired man stood, cheeks glistening with tears, now stared in silent bewilderment at Mercer's confident smirk. Mercer seemed to set the room ablaze with magnificence upon merely stepping inside.

"You there, shopkeep," barked Mercer, lifting a hand from his hip to engage the man behind the counter with his index finger. "I wish to obtain deed or title to these premises. Name your price!"

The shopkeep was still overcome by the sudden explosive event of Mercer's emergence; however, the tired man immediately recovered his composure and spoke up: "Begging your pardon, sir, but this here shopkeep is at present dealing with the defective merchandise I purchased from him not forty-five minutes ago. If you be so kind as to wait--"

But Mercer would have none of that. He interrupted, "You listen to me, my good gentleman. I will purchase for you and your child fifteen kites of your choosing. You there, boy, begin selecting your preferred replacements." The boy's face became alight with joy, and he scurried around the store, taking in the merits of each kite displayed upon the shelves and suspended from the ceiling.

"I don't wish for--" the tired man persisted, only to be interrupted once again by Mercer. "From you, I require silence." Mercer now redirected his gaze to the shopkeep, who had by now shaken himself out of his state. "As I said, I wish to acquire this place of purveyance. What figure do you desire?"

"I do not wish to make a sale of such nature," the shopkeep asserted. However, his tone was weak, and this was something Mercer could sense. A look of grim determination stirred across Mercer's visage. Again, he addressed the shopkeep, "I respect your fortitude. However, I am a man of business. Business is my business. And I desire your business. Now, name your price!"

The shopkeep lowered his head and took stock of his store's state. Business had been slow ever since the great shark fiasco of two summers ago, and he had been struggling to make payments for some time now. On top of that, ever since the freak kite accident that had claimed his brother's life in the autumn of the year last, the merchandise in his store had transformed in his perception from innocent toys for children into gruesome instruments of death. They seemed to leer at him, and occassionally a shiver would traverse the length of his spine as he imagined he heard demonic laughter from the dark corners of the showroom. Upon this reflection, it became evident to the shopkeep that selling the store was the only sensible action he could take.

"All right," spoke the shopkeep. "It's yours for--"

But as he looked up, Mercer was nowhere in sight. The door he had burst through only minutes before stood ajar, and a cool breeze rolled into the store, rustling through the kites, causing them to whisper unspeakable intimations into the shopkeep's ear. It was at that moment that he decided to take his own life.


Seven hours later a pink limo pulled up in front of the Kite Shop, and out tumbled Mercer, five strippers and two Mexican immigrant workers. Seeing the Kite Shop was now closed, Mercer formulated a plan: the octet, high on cocaine, alcohol and friendship, lolled their way to the beach, lit a bonfire, and gathered around it for conversation and story-telling.

Mercer paid a local homeless man three hundred dollars to fly a kite for him long into the night.

The End.

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