aourz-tphaeupl t1_j6fgb5b wrote
Mark sat shocked on the beanbag in the corner of his room, dusty blue bottle forgotten in one hand.
"Whoa."
Across from him, between Mark's unmade twin bed - piled with a mixture of clean and dirty clothes - and the bookshelf - stocked with more random doodads and odd finds than books - stood a bent, bare-chested, wizened old man in a blue kilt.
"Fer fucks sakes, ye ought to warn a fella before ye toss him all about!"
The old man gestured accusingly in Mark's direction, muttering about bad backs and ethereal arthritis.
"S-sorry, sir." Mark stammered, caught unawares by the presence of a literal magic being in his apartment, but also by the being's apparent crotchety-ness.
"I didn't mean to, uh, startle you, sir."
He hadn't thought there'd really be a genie in there! He tried to think of a way to make the creature feel more comfortable.
"D-do you want something to - to drink? Maybe?"
He scrambled to his feet and crouched down in front of a mini-fridge on the floor.
"Wayll, what shite have ye got, then?"
Mark inspected the sparse contents of his mini fridge: a frozen sprite can, an old stick of cheese, half a bottle of emergency bourbon, and a Dr. Pepper.
"Here." He handed the genie the Dr. Pepper.
The genie inspected it, his wildly bushy eyebrows arching up as he carefully inspected the slightly sticky plastic bottle.
"Oh peppers, eh? We don't mind a bit o spice, not tall!"
He struggled with the twist off lid, at first attempting to uncork it like a bottle of champagne, but Mark unscrewed it for him and handed it back. This genie seemed less like a magical creature and much more like Mark's Grandpa Larry.
"I don't taste any peppers."
This comment was immediately followed by another large swig off the bottle.
"Ech! It's terrible! Worse than my mother's cooking!"
He took another long swig and then it was all gone. The genie squinted at Mark with one suspicious eye for a long moment. Then he opened his mouth and let out a long extended belch that smelled like Dr. Pepper on the surface, but had undertones of flowery decay and a hint of cinnamon.
"Ah do like that. Whats yer name then, boy?" The genie tossed the empty bottle to the side.
Mark was still recovering from the stench of the burp, but the genie had turned away from him and was inspecting his room. There were drawings pinned up on the walls, some less recent and less proficient than others. A few posters of a few paintings scattered here and there. The knickknacks on the bookshelf. It was really an eclectic assortment of decoration, the only connecting factor for all of them being Mark himself. He wondered if the genie had opinions on interior design.
"Mark. My name's Mark." The genie grunted. "Wh- uh, what's your name?"
At this the genie turned and fixed him with the uneven eye squint again.
"You think I'm dumb as the fuckin bottle I've just come out of? Ye won't be getting my name so easily. At least fix a lad a roast lamb first!" This last private joke had the genie cackling to himself for a long minute.
"Well what about a nickname? What do people call you?" The longer the genie shuffled judgementally around his small room, the more curious Mark grew. Fuck the wishes. What had this ancient being seen over his lifetime? What must he know? He had to be filled with ideas and opinions and stories and knowledge, just like Grandpa Larry, but hopefully a little less sex crazed. Genie grunted again.
"If ye know me well, ye wouldn't call me at all!" Another peal of laughter. "Ahh, I do crack myself up, I do."
Then he fixed his gaze on Mark and stopped snooping around the room.
"People," this word came out sad and bitter, "just call me genie."
Mark waited expectantly. More eyebrow shenanigans from the old crotchety creature. He didn't say anything else, obviously expecting some kind of reaction from Mark that he wasn't getting.
"Isn't that kind of, like, racist?" Mark finally asked. "Like, I don't say 'Hey, Whitey' or 'Hey, Blackie' or-" Mark trailed off, not wanting to continue down this line of thought.
"Why not?"
"Um. Because that's, like, belittling someone to, like, from, like, from their personality down to just the color of their skin and like, that's like, leaves no room for individuality. It's, like, generalizing. Based on, like, pigment." Mark's cheeks blazed, embarrassed to be put on the spot of explaining racism to an ancient magical creature.
The genie's eyes softened a little in understanding. "Oh," he murmured softly, reaching out one craggy arm to pat Mark on the top of his head, "yer daft, aren't ye?"
Mark gaped. This creature thought he was mentally disabled.
"Well, ye've got the same rewles as everybody else, no matter if you're short a bit o change up there! But, I s'pose, you being a simpleton, ye could call me Bluey."
That still felt kind of racist to Mark. And he wasn't sure how to correct Bluey's interpretation of him as a-
"Simpleton?"
"Aye! You've got it. Well, de ye know what I'm here for, boy?"
"Right yeah wishes and stuff I guess, but actually -" Mark's correction was cut off.
"On the money, my halfwitted hero! Wishes. Now we all have wishes. I suspect yours might be a tad less complex than other lads -"
The genie went on a spiel about wish varieties, and Mark wondered if he would get the chance to stand up for his own mental capacity.
"So!" Bluey finally concluded, "what'll be the first?"
"Well, um, I actually had a question first?"
He was met with an expectant, impatient stare.
"How, like, how long have you been doing this?"
"Am not here to answer yer bloody questions! I'm here to do a job, and ad like to finish it so I can go back home to my little apartment in a bottle and watch the next episode of PeeWeeGenie. Those wee bastards are cruel."
"You have- wait, you have an apartment? You have TV?"
"Well what in fucks sakes de ye think I do for centuries at a time stuck in a blasted bottle? SLEEP?"
He gestured next to Mark's beanbag, to where his Playstation was hooked up to the TV.
"You're a dunce and you've a TV. Christ, the opinion of genies these days really has gone to shite. Mabel was right."
"Who's Mabel?"
"Would you quit your eavesdropping and get on with it? Make a wish! It doesn't take all day to screw a sheep!"
aourz-tphaeupl t1_j6fgc47 wrote
But Bluey's attention was no longer on Mark, but seemed to have been taken by the Playstation.
"That's a Playstation."
Mark went to turn it on and picked up the controller. Bluey gasped softly as Mark maneuvered over the icons of games he'd played recently.
"Have you ever seen video games before?"
"Of course, ye empty-headed fart. I invented modern video games. Some arse wished for this years ago, but blimey. Ye've really taken me idea and run with it." Bluey reached out as if to touch the screen, and was met with hard plastic. He jumped a bit.
"Whats that one then?"
He was pointing to the call of duty icon. "It's about war." "War for fun? Yer kind are so perverse." "Well I mostly play it for the zombies." "ZOMBIES for fun? You people are ALL daft! Those things are a blight on the world. But funny, in the right circumstance."
Mark struggled to think of an example of when conjuring a real life zombie would be funny. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.
"Um, in this one you're a cat. In this one you're a goat. This one you can race cars."
He showed Bluey all his games then handed him a second controller. While they were speaking, Bluey had slowly and creakily directed his crotchety arse into the other blue beanbag to watch.
"Want to play?"
So they played racing games for a few hours. Bluey cackled with glee every time he raced ahead. He cursed and spat when he accidentally crashed his car. He oohd and ahhd and ridiculed some of the ways Mark had upgraded his vehicles. Bluey was weird, but Mark didn't have very many friends, and certainly hadn't played video games with anyone since before he'd moved out of his parents' house, years earlier.
"All right, well, I'll definitely be gettin one o these machines for me bottle." Bluey decided with a nod of his head and the unevenly approving squint of one bushybrowed eye towards the console, after hours had passed.
"It sure passes the time." Mark added, thinking of all the days and nights he'd buried himself in the games to escape the dread of his own life.
Bluey stretched and opened his mouth in a wide, straggle-toothed yawn. "Well thank you, my thick friend, for a touch of respite. But now, I do believe it's time to get down to business."
Bluey's angry conglomeration of vaguely European accent appeared to have evened out after hours of senseless racing. Now he seemed almost sad.
"Yer wishes, lad? And don't think ye'll be getting any special treatment for being feebleminded, or for the vidya games!" He cackled at himself again.
It would be pointless to correct him now. Mark sat silently for a moment, pondering. He'd made a long series of poor life choices which had led him to the rut he was in now. This evening with Bluey had been the longest time he'd been sober in months. He didn't actually trust his own decision making abilities. Not to mention the fact he had no idea what he wanted, besides not to live in gray emptiness of depression for the rest of his meager life. Rain began to beat on the window, rhythmically tapping out the seconds of silence stretching between them.
"What would you suggest, Bluey? What would you wish for?" Mark finally asked.
"A functional fucking brain for one!" He guffawed at his own joke, then, wiping tears from his eyes, took a serious tone. "No, yer the kindest dimwit I've ever met, to tell the truth. Praps people would be better off if they were all as dimwitted as you." He shook his head sadly. "Truth is, lad, nothing is free. A wish'll cost ye just as much as working for something will, the price just comes in a different form."
Bluey glanced towards the window.
"Most people just ask for what they want, the greedy bastards. Money, sex appeal. A lost love."
Bluey looked down at the plastic controller in his left hand and fiddled with the switches. Obviously there was something on his mind.
Softly, Mark prodded him.
"But you, Bluey? What do you wish for?"
He shrugged, and then he looked up at Mark, his eyes screwed up like he was trying not to cry.
"I can't wish for what I want. It's against the rules. Besides. I know what it would cost. I'm - it's - not worth that price."
Mark's heart broke for Bluey in that moment. What chain of events had led to Bluey being stuck in a bottle, a slave on demand for the rest of his life? What had he lost? What had he sacrificed?
The two sat in silence for a moment, Bluey sniffling in his beanbag chair and Mark reliving his own loss, his own choices.
Finally, Mark decided he'd had enough moping.
"All right, Bluey. I'm not a magical creature. I've got limits. But here's an offer. You've kept me company today, and for that I'm eternally grateful. So you get three wishes. Within reason, of course. I'll do everything I can to make them come true. And I'm a human. So, you know, it'll just cost money. Not your... soul. Or.. whatever." Mark lost momentum on the last remark, not really wanting to think about the prices Bluey had referred to.
Bluey was quiet.
"How bout another Dr. Pepper?"
Mark grinned and nodded.
"That I can do. You've got two more wishes."
Bluey laughed snottily and wiped his nose, a little sparkle returning to his eyes. He adjusted himself in the beanbag, thinking now.
"It's been a kick in the balls since I've had a nice homecooked meal."
The expression made Mark twitch, but he understood it to mean an agonizingly long moment.
"Well, I'm not much of a chef, but I can make that happen. And your last wish?"
"Ye know, I'd have killed in that bottle for some bhang."
"Bang? What?"
"Ye know. Chamba? Ganja?"
"Oh WEED? You want to smoke some weed?"
Bluey grinned and nodded energetically.
Mark couldn't help himself - he devolved into a fit of giggles that brought tears to his eyes. This ancient magical creature was asking him for pot. Maybe humans and genies weren't so different after all.
Bluey was laughing too.
"Aye, if that's what yer calling that good green herb these days!"
The two laughed together and then Mark stood confidently, feeling more full of purpose than he had in months. He pulled a shirt out of his closet and tossed it to the bare-chested Bluey.
"All right, Bluey. Get dressed. We're getting some groceries."
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