Free Deadhead by A.J. Aalto

I STOOD ON THE BACK PORCH, gloved hands on hips, taking cover from the downpour under the corrugated tin overhang above the door. My backpack was annoyingly heavy, slung over my right shoulder, so I dropped it by my feet, taking care that it didn’t land on the part of the cracked cement that was darkened by rain. The storm had quieted some, the thunder gone, but the late afternoon rain drummed on the old metal canopy like it had no intention of ending the concert. I was hoping there wouldn't be an encore, and just barely managed to squelch my own urge to holler, “Freebird!”
    Batten stood like a meat monolith beside me, glowering at the shrubbery, whose leaves were dancing in the deluge.
    “Well,” I agreed. “That shit ain’t right.”
    “Ya think?” It was ironic that my very first official client was former FBI Special Agent Mark “Kill-Notch” Batten, star of many of my self-directed Marnie After Dark fantasies, and the man who doubted my entrepreneurial skills more than anyone else. He flipped the bird passionately, first at me and then at the source of his distress, a honeysuckle plant currently invading his postcard-sized yard, as if his hand gestures actually had any magic outside the bedroom or the gun range. It was a highly amusing spectacle, but I did my best not to smile; I had to bite down on my lip pretty hard to keep things serious. He saw right through it the minute my eyes watered, and pointed at the plant to emphasize his problem.
    Kill-Notch was rarely pleasant when we weren't naked, but his balls weren’t usually in this much of a twist (I'd tried that once; he'd hated it). I wondered what was really rustling his jimmies; certainly not this over-enthusiastic creeper?
    “Less face-noise, dickbreath,” I said, trying not to grin at his overreaction. “It’s Tuesday. Tuesday is my day off. Tuesday is always my day off. That hasn’t changed. Furthermore, it’s pouring rain and almost dusk. Not the best time for gardening. I don’t even know what you want me to do here.”
    His jaw rippled unhappily, doing its clench-unclench dance. “I planted that yesterday .”
    “Apparently, you shouldn’t have,” I pointed out helpfully. Said plant had declared war on the rest of the garden and had gone on a chlorophyll-fueled blitzkrieg. With twisting vine and glossy leaf, thick, brown branch and curling, exposed root, it was quickly choking out everything in its path. That was hardly unusual in honeysuckle; it liked to run happily amok. But normal plants took years to spread like this. If I stared at this one long enough, I could swear I could see it growing. It was a tad unnerving.
    “Diagnose the problem,” he ordered.
    “It loves your yard. You have stumbled upon the Platonic ideal of honeysuckle environments. Maybe you should sell cuttings. I know, you could do a beefcake marketing spread, call it 'Belt Buckle and Honeysuckle' and just pose in front of it, shirtless, in that pair of jeans that makes your ass look amazing. I bet you'd sell a lot of cuttings and calendars. I'll go get my camera.”
    He blinked at me in disbelief.
    “Maybe you have an especially green thumb?” I guessed, using my positive thinking. I thought my ex-coworker and positivity coach, Special Agent Elian de Cabrera, would be proud. “Maybe it’s vigorous?”
    “It’s a mutant.”
    I spied the empty pot in the recycling bin. “Marked down from twelve dollars to four. An on-sale mutant honeysuckle. Score.”
    “Can’t believe I have to say this,” he muttered, making hand motions that looked like he was exaggerating the size of either a fish he caught or his dick. My eyes tracked his bobbing hands, trying to figure out what they were trying to tell me. Certainly, it was a mystery. “Listen to me. Focus. Marnie.”
    “Yes, Mark?”
    “I don’t want a mutant honeysuckle.”
    “Then I hope you saved the fucking receipt.”
    “Marnie!”
    “Yo! What have I told you about chucking a tantrum?” I squinted