by David Beem
“It isn’t like Mikey said, okay?” I say from over my shoulder. “I can actually interact with the dead. It’s real. I know it’s real because of what I could do back at the Q, and you know all those dreams I had about the power grid and stuff actually happened. I’m not crazy.”
She grabs my arm. I stop marching and let her pull me around. Her eyes bore into mine. “You actually talked to Bruce Lee?” I nod, and despite the fact that this is what I’ve been trying to tell her and Mikey all along, her head ticks back in surprise. “Well, what did he say?”
“What do you mean, ‘what did he say’?”
“Bruce Lee!”
“It isn’t like I talked to him once. It’s been one big long buddy movie! It was Bruce Lee who took me all over the world when I gave the terrorists the gay pride idea. It was Bruce Lee who hooked me up with… I forget his name, this old guy who helped me with the power grid. The point is, when I need help, Bruce Lee kind of finds these people in the Collective Unconscious. People I need, I mean.”
Mary blinks, and her features revert to that unreadable glossy cover-girl face.
“I’m being serious here!”
“I know, I know,” she says, raising her hands. “It’s just…holy shit.”
“I know, right?”
“So…do you think you can… I mean, talk to anyone who ever lived?”
I shake my head. “Mary—they’re gone. I think I’m losing my powers. Bruce Lee has always been there. Since, you know, since Mikey put this stuff in me. But now he’s gone. They’re all gone, and I’ve never seen the archetypes when I was awake before. But I can see them now. So that feels like losing ground, going from being able to talk to them, to only being able to see the archetypes.”
Her eyes scan mine, and I can tell she’s trying to follow. She peers up at me. We’re so close, I can taste her breath, which is warm and sweet as she licks her lips. I’m not sure when we got this close. Her breasts are pressed into me. My hands have somehow found her hips.
“Edger. I think this means you’re dying.”
“I know.”
I bite my bottom lip and peer into her eyes. Tiny wings are beating the walls of my stomach. My brain is short-circuiting in at least ten different ways. But this is good, dying or not—I’m dying for this.
“Mary, I just… Did I ever tell you the one about the shellfish oyster who never donated to charity?”
Her shoulders slump. She rolls her eyes beneath fluttering eyelids and takes a backward step, pitching her weight to one side. Her lips curl into a lopsided smile. “No, you never told me that one.”
“Yeah.” I click my tongue. “Had to dredge it up.”
“You are so weird.” She grabs my hands. “Listen. You’re going to be fine. Your Zarathustra formula is just wearing off. That’s all.”
“You say that like I’m not going to die soon.”
“You won’t. Not if I give you your booster.”
I frown.
“I’ve got it in the trunk.”
“You—you what?”
“I’ve got your booster in the trunk,” she says again, clearly relishing my shock. “I’m the mole. I stole the booster cache from Mikey.”
Chapter Seventy
Yourmajesty Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster flexes his pecs, and the twine snaps like a cheap rubber band. Wang falls free and lands on his back in the king-size bed. The comforter expels a soft burst of air. He rips the gag out of his mouth, then rubs furiously at the welts on his arms left by the twine. He has a good idea what this is about.
“If you let us go, we’ll tell you where Tron-Tron is!” he yells.
Yourmajesty Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster smiles down at him. “So it is you!”
Wang frowns. Yourmajesty’s smile is friendly and warm. He pulls his helmet off and tosses it into the corner with a thunk. His eyes are round and reassuring. Wang glances at Shmuel, who’s hogtied and lying on his side, drooling on the plush carpet in the living room in front of an eighty-inch, 4K Ultra HD TV.
“Ghrn,” says Shmuel.
“I discovered your identities before we left the game. You’re @A-Team1_chink25,” says Yourmajesty Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster before turning to address Shmuel. “Which makes you @A-Team2_moobs.”
“How do you know our Twitter handles?” asks Wang.
Yourmajesty Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster crosses the room to Shmuel. He reaches into his shoulder bag and pulls out something metal, not a phone. There’s a short “ff-t” sound as a blade shoots out.
“No-no!” cries Wang, his hand outstretched.
“Relax,” says Yourmajesty Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster, using the switchblade to cut Shmuel free. “I’m not going to hurt him. Or you.”
Shmuel sits up and rubs his wrists. “Is this about the Russian hookers we snuck into the locker room last season? Because the chlamydia is totally not our fault?”
“Yeah—yeah, that’s right,” says Wang. “How could we know they had chlamydia? Not like we had ’em fill out a résumé. From our perspective, we were just, uh, you know, improving diplomatic relations between our two great cities.”
Yourmajesty Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster frowns. “I vaguely remember that. But no, this has nothing to do with that. Don’t you see? We’re family. You’re my parents.”
“Ha-ha, no,” replies Wang, blushing.
“Is this with the butt-baby thing again?” asks Shmuel. “Because two dudes cannot otherwise a baby make? Not without an Act of David—which we currently do not have?”
“What? What are you talking about?” asks Wang.
“You’re not old enough to have had him,” says Shmuel, pointing. “You’re practically the same age?”
“What’s an Act of David?” asks Yourmajesty Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster.
“Affidavit,” says Wang, face-palming himself. “It’s affidavit.”
“That’s what I said?”
“No, Toe Cheese. No, it isn’t.” Wang scoots irritably to the edge of the bed. “You said Act of Goddamn David.”
“I heard it too,” offers Yourmajesty Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster, shrugging. “Without the bad-language words.”
Shmuel gets to his feet and rubs his wrists some more. “Well, then you both heard wrong?”
“What do you need an affidavit for, anyway?” asks Wang.
“You know. To adopt?” replies Shmuel, gesturing to the tower of muscle in the center of the room. “You know. Him.”
“You don’t need an affidavit to adopt!” exclaims Wang. “And nobody’s adopting anybody!”
“That’s what I said? God, dude. Touchy.” Muttering almost inaudibly, he adds, “‘Nobody’ can’t adopt anyway. He’s ‘nobody.’ Duh.”
“I didn’t mean you literally adopted me,” says Yourmajesty Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster. “You raised me.” He pauses to frown and rub his chin. “But which one of you would be my mommy?”
“Psh,” says Wang. “No question. That’d be him with the moobs.”
“I’m not afraid to be the mommy,” says Shmuel. “Everyone knows they’re the stronger ones anyway?” He gazes down at his belly and rubs it adoringly. “I just wish we coulda felt him, you know, kick or something?”
“Oh my God.” Wang pinches the bridge of his nose. “You are the gayest thing I’ve ever seen that isn’t literally a rhinestone-encrusted penis jacket.”
Shmuel’s face brightens. “They make those?”
“Just shut up! Shut up!” Wang rises from the bed and stalks toward the Green Bay Packer, then sizes the Packer up and hastens back to the bed. In a more moderate tone, he asks, “Whaddaya mean we’re your mommy and daddy? Why did you kidnap us?”
“This isn’t a kidnapping!” replies Yourmajesty Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster. “This is a family reunion. Oh, dear. Where are my manners? Allow me to introduce myself. I am InstaTron Tron, nano-artificial intelligence, equipped with advanced titanium quantum computing, supervillain extraordinaire, hair-bringer of doom…and I am your son.”
Yourmajesty Fapa’
fapa-Bal’buster extends his hand for a handshake, which Wang does not take on account of his having passed out on the bedroom floor.
Chapter Seventy-One
“You’re the mole? Of course you’re the mole. You’ve been trying to talk me out of this the whole time. Why am I surprised you’re the mole? But then—wait. I’m confused.”
“I even told you, I will take care of your boosters, I promise. But you didn’t listen. You know, you really need to pay better attention. It’s a good thing you’ve got me on your side. I know how to pay attention. And I’m a good shot.” She gives me another lopsided smile, then tightens her grip on my hands and we’re on the move again. “Our governments wanted me on the inside watching Mikey, suspecting a mole.”
“A different mole,” I clarify.
“Mm-hmm. And I did find some weird stuff, but no mole yet.”
“How does one mole find another mole?”
“Cool it with the jokes, Edger. Just listen, okay? But after InstaTron Tron—God, that’s a stupid name.” She shakes her head irritably. “But after the power grid, I panicked. I figured you were my ace in the hole. Mole or no mole, I put all my money on you to be the person who is going to do the right thing with this technology. I knew I had to protect you by getting those boosters. They’re the only control anyone can exercise over you now. And I don’t trust anybody. Well,” she adds, her cheeks becoming somewhat pinker, “except you. Obviously.”
“Wait a minute,” I say, trying to take my hand back, and getting my arm nearly jerked out of my socket for my trouble. She tightens her grip and tows me farther.
“One of the things I discovered from on the inside,” she continues, “is a plot to put a bomb in a disco ball.”
We reach the parking lot and stop at the curb to sit, dust off our feet, and get our shoes back on.
“Seems a little, I don’t know…uninspired?” I finish weakly before my brain catches up to the subtext of what she’s telling me. “Mary. Are you saying you suspect Mikey?”
Mary sighs. “I’m not saying we suspect him personally. I’m saying we’ve been investigating Nostradamus for a long time. Mikey’s involvement in the Zarathustra program has been a priority for Nostradamus from the start. Their interests align.”
She slips on her flats. I tie my shoes. My head is spinning. She sits up, shifts on the curb to face me, and straightens my collar.
“You’re very handsome, Edger.”
“Two-word joke: dwarf shortage.”
She frowns disapprovingly.
“If you’re offended: Grow up!”
This time she laughs, takes my hand, and smiles. I let my walls down and share the moment with her, astonished by how quickly the cracks formed in my earlier characterization of her as a cold-blooded killer. Is Dad right? Can’t I trust her? Or is Dad as paranoid as she claims?
“So what is this?” I ask. “You and me. This whole idea about us moving in together. Pretend couple. That wasn’t your idea? It was…your, uh, spy group’s idea?”
She frowns. “Go on. You can say it.”
“GSPOT.”
Her eyes close. She nods.
“Yeah. Maybe you better stop ragging on InstaTron Tron,” I say, grinning. “You know, stones from glass houses and everything.”
She punches my arm.
“Ow. Okay, okay. So what’s your spy group want with me anyway?”
Her face brightens. “You’d be quite an asset to our organization.”
I laugh. “Oh, if I had a dollar for every girl who told me I was an asset to her G-spot.”
She punches me in the arm again, and this time catches the bone with her knuckle.
“Hey!” I cry, rubbing the throbbing bone threatening to grow like a cartoon lump on my arm.
“You deserved that. Now come on. Before I change my mind about saving your life.” She sets off without me toward the Jag glimmering in the sunlight. “Just think,” she says, holding out her key fob at the trunk and grinning at me. “Another minute and you’ve got your life back. Well, your superhero life, anyway.”
Her eyes twinkle knowingly as she pops the trunk. We share a smile. Our heads turn together.
Mary gasps.
The trunk is large and lined with a tan microfiber that smells expensive as there’s so much of it; a small scrap could otherwise be used for cleaning plasma TV screens, lenses, and laptops. But this is a spacious trunk. A trunk this size could easily carry your groceries home, picnic supplies for a day at the beach, or, if you’re a skillful packer, eight moderate-size Thanksgiving turkeys. A trunk this size could not fit a double bass or cello. But one could cram in four or five violas. The point is, a trunk this size could easily carry Mikey’s trove of booster formula with room to spare. It even could’ve carried the safe he’d kept it in, along with several cases of that horrible scotch he likes so much.
But none of that is in this trunk.
None of anything is in this trunk.
This trunk is empty.
Chapter Seventy-Two
Yourmajesty Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster, gazing at Wang’s unconscious body, lowers his hand a fraction before changing direction and extending it to Shmuel.
Shmuel looks from Wang to Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster, then takes the football player’s hand—which is surprisingly gentle—and shakes.
“He gets touchy when people mistake us for a couple,” offers Shmuel. “One time he told me that even if he was gay, which he claims he isn’t, he would never go out with someone whose face looks like, and I quote, ‘a saddlebag with eyes’?”
“Oh, that’s hurtful,” replies Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster.
Shmuel shrugs.
“I don’t like to see you fight,” says Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster, unzipping his shoulder bag on the bed and pulling out a rack of several small beakers filled with blue liquid. He carefully sets them on the table.
“Dude,” says Shmuel.
“Yes?”
“Is that evil nano-AI stuff?”
“Kind of,” replies Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster. “It’s an experimental formula meant to stabilize augmented neural pathways connecting the hindbrain to the limbic system resultant from a separate experimental drug designed to augment the capabilities of the human brain and allow it access to the Collective Unconscious, a shared psychic network connecting humanity through space and time. I stole this from the trunk of a GSPOT agent’s car before leaving the football game.”
“Neat. So, you really think we’re your parents?”
“You raised me.”
“Yeah, but we were just kidding?”
Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster frowns, then zips up his empty bag and tosses it into the open closet. Wang stirs from his spot facedown on the floor.
“Hey, man,” says Shmuel, reaching into his shirt pocket to produce a small leather pouch. “Would you like to par-toke-it with me from the family peace pipe?”
Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster frowns, then nods. Shmuel smiles, his hopes rising. Nothing made peace better than par-toking from the family peace pipe.
Chapter Seventy-Three
The Harry Potter, which Shmuel had scored from Consuelo earlier in the day, is as good as pot comes. Shmuel knows from experience there will be no hangover whatsoever. Only magical oblivion crashing into muggle reality. But for now, as ever, magical oblivion is the better choice.
Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster exhales his hit and passes the joint to Shmuel. He takes his turn, holds it in, and smiles as his brain returns to a nice, nonsensical normalcy. “I mean, all I’m saying is, what if we laid off on the whole world-domination thing for a little while? Would that be so bad?”
“Yeah,” replies Wang, who, after coming to only moments earlier, had smoothly taken charge of Shmuel’s half-baked plan to get Yourmajesty Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster half-baked. Wang reaches for the joint before continuing. “Some artificial intelligences just aren’t cut out for world domination, you know?”
Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster frowns.
“Not that
you couldn’t do it,” Shmuel hastily adds. “It’s just, you know, you may discover hitherto undiscoverable talents and so forth and such.”
Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster’s eyebrows lower.
“I bet you would make a spectacular underwear model, for instance,” says Wang, speaking through his exhalation cloud.
“A flossiest,” says Shmuel. “Flowerist. Floral-maker. Maker of pretty flowers.”
Wang rolls his eyes.
“Wait a minute,” says Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster, reaching for the joint. “Are you saying you think I can’t get the world domination?”
“No-no-no!” Wang exclaims. “What I mean is, you’re not a cow anymore.”
“They grow up so fast,” says Shmuel.
Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster draws a hit off the joint, and for a minute, nobody says anything as strange sounds issue from the TV left on one room over. Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster, his eyes closed, releases enough smoke from his lungs to single-handedly stone downtown San Diego for the next forty years.
“I desire more,” says Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster.
“Dude, I’ve got so much of the Harry Potter?” says Shmuel.
“No, no,” says Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster. “I desire more career satisfaction.”
“Oh. Well, um, I mean, you’re already a famous football player?” says Shmuel.
“You don’t need the world domination if you’re already a famous football player,” says Wang. “Kinda overkill, is all.”
“What if I don’t want to be a football player?” asks Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster.
“Come on,” insists Wang. “There’s got to be some part of you in there who still likes playing football.”
Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster smiles and nods. “Oh, yes. There is. I do indeed enjoy the sacking of small humans and the busting of balls and whatnot. But I daresay it is a rather intellectually limited activity, isn’t it?”
“But you got the best of both worlds?” says Shmuel. “You’ve got the brains and the bronze.”