Seed Funding

Apr 07, 2022

The man who called himself Bones attempted to kick what he failed to realise was an automatic door. As he thrust his foot, the door retreated into the wall like a turtle’s head and his boot struck the metal frame rather than the glass belly. The mangled door was now jammed, so Bones had to shuffle sideways into the bank he intended to rob.

His entrance was poor but it could have been worse. If the door used a butt hinge as he expected, then his cowboy boot would have penetrated the glass. His right thigh would have landed on the jagged rim, like the shallow mounting of a horse, and his own weight would have severed his femoral artery. He would have died. Instead, his failure to correctly identify the door joined an ever-growing catalogue of times Bones was served by his stupidity, for he entered the foyer unharmed.

Inside, the bank appeared different to what he anticipated. Bones was accustomed to ATMs, velvet rope and vacuumed carpet but instead found plastic chairs and a tiled floor. The floor shined, and in its reflection appeared another universe - a place where drinking fountains are waterfalls, notice-boards spread subliminal messaging, and customers grip their magazines lest they fall into pits of fluorescent light.

Of course, this other universe is just a mirror of what is, so in both, Bones failed to consider the strangeness of the bank and instead yelled, “This is a stick up.”

The plan was simple: shock the customers, intimidate the teller, take the money in the tills and run. It was a cash grab, and so long as he didn’t get greedy the plan would work.

But at first, the customers were not ‘shocked’ by the intruder. There were six men in the foyer and, upon hearing the outcry, none moved except one who lowered his spectacles to get a better look. He saw the stocking over Bones’ head, decided this must be a prank - or at least should be - and returned to his magazine. He was midway through a brilliant article on the effects of mindset on longevity.

If Bones was even close to halfway intelligent, he might have suspected something was awry. Unfortunately, he wasn’t even the square-root of halfway intelligent, so he pressed on until every man was face-down on the floor and kissing their own reflection.

The man who thought this was a prank was the least impressed. “You’re an idiot,” he said. But how was Bones to know - other than the signage, the fertility pamphlets and the clientele - that he was accidentally in the process of robbing a sperm bank?

Bones approached and pointed the gun at the man’s head. He wanted to shut him up and speed things along, that’s all. He wasn’t offended or rattled by the insult, which he mistook to be more general in nature, because he already knew he was an idiot; he’s known for some time.

As a child, Bones was told that the other kids grasped things quicker than him, so he endeavoured to reflect this in his report cards. Each term, his father, who was a giant with snake tattoos and a glass eye, read the report aloud, turned to his son and said, “That’s my Moron - sharp as a sack of hammers and twice as heavy.”

Moron was a common nickname from his father. Others included idiot, fool, dullard and imbecile. There were so many, in fact, that knowing synonyms for the word idiot is Bones’ primary intellectual achievement.

But his father meant no malice with these names. His logic was that if the boy was slow - like him - then it was best for toughness to callous where the boy’s wit was lacking. Bones would need to be fierce rather than quick to compete in this world, and so in that fashion he was raised from birth: a tough, savage, brute of a young man…

“Speak again,” said Bones, kneeling over the man who no longer thought this was a prank, “and I’ll not only steal everything you’ve ever deposited in this bank, but I’ll also take your life.”

The man wet himself and a puddle of urine spread from his hips. He muttered an apology to try and save his life, and after years of ranting at friends, strangers and his wife’s colleagues, he finally understood he couldn't speak to people in person the way he did on Facebook, at least not without consequence.

Bones left the man then to soak in this revelation and turned to the teller, who was actually a receptionist because this was not a bank.

He slithered across the foyer to appear more menacing and then pressed the gun against the perspex barrier. “Put everything you’ve got in the backpack, now,” he said.

The receptionist, who looked to be in her early twenties, stood with her arms crossed as Bones began stuffing the backpack through the slot.

“No,” she said, before adding, “you cockhead.”

Bones smacked the gun on the perspex to scare the woman but she just raised her eyebrows, tilted her head and pursed her lips. It was clear she would not go down as easily as the men, so Bones decided not to waste time on a confrontation through the perspex. Instead, he jogged to the side, vaulted the barrier and tore open the till himself.

He counted eighty dollars, though he counted wrong. “Where’s the rest of the-”

“That’s all there is,” she said, cutting him off.

To intimidate the woman, Bones yanked the backpack through the slot so it shook the perspex wall, chipboard desk and cash register. He took a step forward and towered over her. “Have you got a problem with me?” he asked.

The woman edged an inch closer. “Of course I do. What kind of a question is that?”

Bones searched for a clever response but nothing came, nothing ever did, so instead he stuffed the sixty five dollars and coins in his pockets and thought about leaving.

Before he disappeared, however, he wanted to prove she hadn’t won, despite his small take and her lack of fear, so he growled like a scary dog. The receptionist either didn’t hear or didn’t care because she continued to gaze at his snakeskin boots.

The cowboy boots had cobra-head toe-caps and were a gift from his father. She was staring at the boots and smirking. “Will that be all today, sir?” she asked, still looking down.

Bones waited a rage-filled lifetime for her eyes. “No,” he said, “Take me to the safe.”

There was, of course, no safe. The receptionist tried to convey this inconvenient truth to persuade the man to leave, but he was so irate he wouldn’t let her speak. Instead, he kept repeating, “Take me to where these men leave their most precious cargo,” and insisted she do it quickly, or else.

With no other options, the receptionist would have to prove there was no safe, so she led Bones to the rear labs, and made sure to walk with her arms crossed. That way the Stanley knife hidden in her sleeve since the thief entered would go undetected.

Her name was Samantha, and as they walked the corridor, past the rooms filled with masturbating men, she couldn’t help but think this was her destiny: to die or kill mid-shift at a part-time job she hated.

She was only twenty-one years old, but being born at such a curious time meant she’d already been over-exposed, through the internet and social media, to the deficiencies of those around her: war, disease, celebrity and selfishness reign. People are grotesque, and every minute they burrow deeper below the surface of her expectations and now the ground shakes all the time. She greets people with suspicion, ire and outright hostility, and instead of her cynicism being corrected, a ghoul comes to her workplace and points a gun. It was proof, right when she needed a miracle.

Arriving at the rear lab, Samantha charged the door with her shoulder, and once inside faced the assailant, a prime example of disappointment. “Here we are,” she said.

The hum of industrial fridges filled the room and large chambers held the seed of life. Bones knocked a steel cylinder with his pistol and asked, “What’s this?”

“It’s semen,” she said. “Would you like me to fill your backpack?”

Bones didn’t want to believe her, but he saw the vials stacked in the fridges and began to understand. His cheeks flushed under the stockings and to save face he tried to think of a comeback. His search for that magical response, however, was always going to be interrupted - either by eternity and the end of time or by the arrival of the police.

This time, it was the police.

Five officers entered the foyer sideways as Bones scanned the lab for an exit. He had to settle for a storeroom at the back and motioned for Samantha to lead him in. She refused and thought about grabbing the knife, but Bones pointed the gun at her and together they fled the lab.

Inside the storeroom, Bones manoeuvred cardboard boxes and tore at the shelving in search of an emergency exit or big enough vent. He found nothing. He was now trapped during an attempted robbery with a hostage - an armed and pissed off hostage.

The shadows of the police officers crept under the door. They asked Bones what he wanted and told him not to be stupid.

“What are you going to do?” asked Samantha. Her eyes zeroed in on his neck as she quietly clicked the blade out.

Bones smacked himself with the pistol. “I don’t know,” he said.

He was looking down and not paying attention. Samatha got ready to strike, but then Bones cackled and shook his head. Before she could ask what was so funny, he lifted the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger. Samantha braced for the shot.

Nothing happened.

“It’s not loaded,” he said. “I’m shooting blanks.”

Bones laughed again and tossed Samantha the pistol. She caught it and watched him unzip the leather jacket. He wriggled each arm out, tossed the jacket on the tiles, and then with both hands, peeled off the pair of stockings. Now he stood before her in a white t-shirt.

Samantha had worked at the sperm bank part-time for two years but never noticed the dust caressing the shelves. She’d been in that storeroom hundreds of times and never observed the calendar stuck on February 2017. There were a dozen little details she noticed then to avoid staring at the man.

Bones collapsed on a chair and ran his hands through his scruffy mullet. He was younger than she imagined, maybe her own age, and without the leather jacket he looked lean, almost skinny. He had sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw and near-black eyes. There was fear in those eyes. Together they listened to his pounding fate and she realised he was the most handsome man she had ever seen.

“What’s your name?” she asked, staring at the floor.

“My name is,” he paused, and let out a sigh. “My mum calls me Eugene.”

“You don’t look like a Eugene.”

“What do I look like?”

She twisted the gun in her hands. “An idiot.”

Bones laughed. “I prefer the term ‘ignoramus’ or ‘lummox’ or ‘mompara’.”

Their eyes met. He cradled his arms against his crestfallen figure and Samantha didn’t look away. The young man held his stare too until he forgot the police outside, the money in his pocket, and the lifetime of memories irrelevant, sad and tired.

“What’s your name, anyway?” he asked.

“Samantha.”

“Well, Samantha. I guess I’ll be going away for a while.”

“I suppose so.”

“Maybe…” began Eugene, in his snake-skin boots.

“What?”

“Could I call, when I’m away?”

“Maybe,” she said, before adding, “and maybe I could visit.”

Samantha was surprised then to see a look of contentment take over his face. Eugene knew he was done yet not a drop of anger crept in. Instead, his shoulders slackened, and he leaned into the wall and let the pounding on the door entertain itself.

He’d be the first to admit he should be smarter. He’d be the first to admit he should be less short-sighted. He should also be less arrogant, lazy and selfish. There’s a hundred things he should be, but Samantha, in both the storeroom and the mirrored universe below, gazed at what he was, at what nearly everyone is: a beautiful failure.