@miamihxtness || You’re My Answer
“How could you let this happen, baby? H-How could you've been so stupid?”
“It was dark, Rick! You know how the club is. I didn’t see the motherfucker coming.”
“Point is Jerry still asked you for a dance.”
“He saw me from behind! I can’t help how fine I look.”
“Well, now they’re taking you away and there’s not a damn thing I can do!”
[x][x][x]
The memory replayed in Rick’s head like a bad dream. He sighed, taking a needed pull from his flask. He stood across Miami’s---Morty’s---favorite stripper pole in Blue Velvet early in the morning. The little shit would never be able to use it again, or he couldn’t at least for the next two years.
Miami was only sixteen. His family never knew the true nature of his work. Well, they never did until two weeks ago when Jerry decided to come to the city on vacation and made a stop at Rick’s club, no less. It almost made Rick re-think letting everyone party at his place, but he wasn’t one to exclude people from getting riggity riggity wrecked. All or nothing---no in between. Still, an anti-Jerry policy would have saved him a lot of grief.
Naturally, Jerry went squealing to Beth, Summer, and Paul Fleishman (Beth’s new husband). Rick would bet all the Flurbos in the universe that Jerry neglected to tell the real version of the story---the one involving him thinking his son had been a bodacious babe from behind. Whatever he told them sent outrage through the whole family. Not that Rick gave a fuck what they thought. He just hated seeing the look of betrayal in Beth’s eyes.
“Dad, I thought you were taking care of Morty...”
Rick downed the remaining vodka in his flask. He went behind the bar and poured himself a refill. The solution that Paul thought of was sending Miami to a top-notch boarding school, where he’d be forced to become Morty Smith again due to the strict dress code. They’d cut off his hair and return it to his natural color. They’d try to send him to college after he graduated. And, if Rick tried anything, Paul threatened to take legal action.
Fortunately, Rick had been toying with a solution these past two weeks. After tireless hacking into other Ricks’ portal gun history (which he despised; all that nerd encrypted Internet shit wasn’t really an eighties thing), he finally found the answer he’d been searching for---a dimension virtually identical to his own: V-987.
He took out his portal gun, knowing what he had to do.
[x][x][x]
Rick stepped out of the swirling green portal, entering the alternate Miami, Florida, on the boardwalk. He smirked, the beach he loved in sight. His sudden appearance earned a few stares from tourists, but like he gave a fuck. He took a toothpick out of his pocket, putting it in his mouth to chew while he sauntered over to the beach. He needed to play his cards right. The other Ricks that passed through didn’t know the place like him. And, frankly, they weren’t suitable for Morty. Hopefully, the kid hadn’t been approached by them in recent times. Or ever.
His shoes hit the sand. His eyes surveyed the beach through his cotton candy-colored sunglasses. Sure enough, Rick spotted his target sprawled out on a towel. His sun-kissed skin glistened from tanning oil, and his bleach blond hair had minimal roots. Rick also noted the familiar navel piercing and manicured nails. This version of Morty looked like a carbon copy of his own before those pricks took him away.
Rick stepped over to Morty’s side, his lanky frame casting a shadow from the sun the young man soaked up. He took the toothpick out of his mouth, holding it between his fingers like a cigarette.
“Yo. Must be getting pretty---” He closed his mouth, swallowing his burp for once. He didn’t know why. Ricks didn’t need to impress Mortys. “Pretty hot from all these bitchin’ rays. Wanna go for ice cream, Morty?”
