the-curse-of-my-sharona

The Curse of My Sharona

"Mah-mah-mah-my, my, aye-aye, whoa!" screamed Winslow at 3:30AM from inside the police van parked in an empty parking-lot. My bourbon-stenched partner had been busy pantomiming guitar riffs and jabbing at my shoulder with his elbow — you know — as all good field agents do. Who needs sleep in this line of work anyways? Forget phone alarms, black coffee, or smelling salts. Winslow had the tenor of a car crash.

"Please don't", I muttered meekly, burying my head into the travelon microbead pillow our generous overlords filed under travel expenses.

My eyes were half-closed, my body was half-dead, and the 15, showerless days spent in the car deadened my nose to Coors Light and sweat — but I could feel it. That knowing shiteating grin. It superimposed itself behind my eyelids.

"Mah-mah-mah-my Sharona!"

"I'm going to fucking strangle you."

"What", Winslow smirked and said, "got something against the classics, Kimbo?"

On a docket somewhere at HQ, sat a file that recommended me and Winslow be paired for a stakeout. It precluded the necessary paperwork I had sent to them. On matters of poor rapport, miscommunication, misconduct, requests to be assigned a new partner, and emails denying reassignment. In summation, our combined expendability and work history made us effective. Like disposable flesh-cameras.

After a long pause I replied.

"Two things Winslow. First. When I said you can play your mixtape on the dashboard, I didn't mean play karaoke till dawn. Second. Information was sparse on the mission detail. Meaning the eggheads back at Site-108 don't know what it is. Meaning this could be anything from a bigfoot that poops beans to a cognitohazard that manifests maggots into your brain."

"Technically that's more than two things—"

"— meaning shut it, I need to be awake, focused", I said before yawning.

"Never gonna stop, give it up, such a paranoid mind, Kimbo", Winslow went on unabated. He lifted a bottle next to my ankle up to my face. Without breaking from his singsong, he said, "sides, you don't need maggots to kill your brain cells. Your doing just fine on your own."

I shook my head and yawned. I flipped on the flashlight pen, held the handle in my mouth, reached for the glove compartment, grabbed the witness testimonies out, and began rereading. Everyone we interviewed had described the anomaly in different ways, and every way would end in dismemberment. Each pointed to or correlated with the concrete wreck of human innovation that towered infront of our van; an abandoned mall with the "B" from "lockbuster" missing.

Date Interviewee Comments

[something about them getting the wrong document. Winslow begins infected Kim Lee with the audiohazard by singing.]

[the my sharona audiohazard gets them. They die singing My My My My My…. well okay technically, they died from dehydration.]

[concludes with Foundation operatives using this as an example of why cross-verifying database designations is necessary for all forms of fieldwork and etc.]

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