Sky Joust- The Purple Onion vs The Pestilence

by Will Madden

  The Purple Onion moved his saucer around. “Well, then let me thank all of you for this agreeable evening. Considering what just transpired out on the road, we might have spent this time differently.”

  “If I may, Mr. Onion, I disagree,” said Brum.

  “Storm,” said the Purple Onion. “The Violet Storm.”

  “Of course,” said Brum. “It’s true if this were just another street fight, I’d run a sword through your neck right here. But since you invoked the sacred rite of the tourney, using the correct verbiage and all—thanks for looking that up, by the way, it really means a lot—we entered our martial contest under a flag of truce.”

  “Shucks, Lord Brum,” said the Onion, rutabaga-mask wriggling on his face as he spoke, “that sure is chivalrous of you.”

  Brum rubbed the back of his head, slightly embarrassed. “Well, chivalry is kind of what we do over at the Church of the Knight Errant. Our whole big thing.”

  “Nonetheless, breaking bread with you in this setting . . .” The Onion tore a brioche in half and put it down again. “This seems above and beyond.”

  “We have so few values,” said Abhoc, smiling. “If we didn’t at least adhere to our own tournament rules, we’d have nothing at all.”

  “We’d eat own flesh,” said Heckley plainly.

  “I would literally try to rape myself to death,” said Abhoc.

  For a long moment, the five others watched Abhoc try to feed tea cakes into his mouth around the high metal collar on his jaw.

  “Mr. Onion, may I ask where did you get that skewer?” said Heckley. “I’ve seen a lot of jousting equipment in my day, and I can tell yours is optimally weighted and balanced. Without a doubt, Lord Brum would still have killed you, but you have a really nice skewer. Where did you get it?”

  The Purple Onion dabbed his mask with the corner of a napkin. “Why thank you! My mechanic designed it for me. When he heard the Horsefolk were attacking, he said that I should have a lance, and he went down to the forge and made one for me.”

  “That’s a skewer by the way,” said Heckley. “Just like swords for fencing, jousting weapons are categorized by size and weight. Yours is a skewer. Lord Brum’s here, that’d be, what’d you call . . .”

  Heckley searched for the word.

  “Ass-rammer!” A heavy fist smashed the table and made the china tinkle.

  “An ass-rammer. Correct, Sir Abhoc.” Heckley leaned on the table, his elbow in a saucer. “Anyways, what quick work for your mechanic. When did we announce our plans? Yesterday afternoon?”

  The Onion glanced away to the right. “Not so quick. That is why I was late, he was dallying with the grip.”

  “Superb craftsmanship, though. I could see how effortless it was to wield and aim. Not only that: the design really coordinates with the rest of your accouterment. You made a good visual impression out there. Lordly, but totally mod. Your man is quite an asset.”

  “Well, I pay him,” the Onion said, crossing his arms uncomfortably.

  Bubo tsked.

  “Yes, but when someone goes above and beyond like that,” said Heckley, “you need to take time to thank him. Say it and really mean it, don’t just clear him a bonus.”

  “But also clear him a bonus,” said Abhoc.

  The four faces of the Pestilence leaned forward expectantly to hear how someone was getting a raise.

  Arnold rolled his eyes at the Onion. Poors, am I right?

  “Still,” said the Onion awkwardly, “I find ourselves at an impasse. You gentlemen have been so hospitable, but I am sworn to protect Dodoville. Unfortunately, I cannot permit you to continue to lay waste to the city. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to disappear back into the Kolkheks and never return?”

  “Not a chance,” said Brum, his mustaches shaking solemnly. “But I can offer you this. Our next target is Club Towers, down on the Siding. Why don’t we meet there and resume our conflict in an honorable fashion?”

  “I would very much like that,” said the Onion, “but I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. My automobile has been badly compromised in this encounter. I’m not sure I could get there in time to be of service to any survivors.”

  Brum waved a hand. “We’ll have to make some field repairs as well. My engine took some damage from that anti-horse ballista. A very fine shot, Arnold, by the way!”

  “Thank you, Horace,” said Arnold, “that’s very kind of you.”

  Brum smashed a wall with his fist, sending splinters of onyx everywhere. “Address me in the familiar, will you?! I’ll empty your impudent throat right here at the table!”

  “Lord Brum, I meant no dis—”

  Brum smiled. “Just kidding, Horace is fine. In any case, Mr. Onion—”

  “Storm.”

  “We usually like to put on a show before we start the slaughter anyway—that’s just our modus of operation—so that should give you ample time . . .”

  “Very generous of you, my good sirs,” said the Onion, rising from the table. “But I should probably get a head start, seeing my car is wedged inside the ancient grotto this lovely house is built upon.”

  “It’s a very sacred site for the indigenous population,” said Arnold with an air of pride, “I receive very irate correspondence about it on a regular basis. You should come tour it sometime. What’s left of it.”

  The Onion bowed slightly. “If I were not an anonymous vigilante, I would certainly take you up on your offer.”

  “Come in costume!”

  “Oh, I couldn’t. By the way, do you happen to have a winch motor I could hook my tow cables up to? It’s really lodged in there good.”

  “My Manners! Absolutely.” Arnold stood. “Sirs. My lord. Excuse me.”

  The Pestilence watched the two men leave the room. Abhoc stirred very loudly while the others sipped their tea. Moments passed in silence.

  At last, Heckley spoke.

  “What do you think, Lord Brum, should we kill him now?”

  Brum and Bubo exchanged a look. Abhoc munched on whatever Trader Joe’s bullshit Anne had laid out.

  “We swore an oath,” said Brum.

  Abhoc spoke with his mouth full. “But do we really want that guy at our dance party? He’s such a square!”

  Bubo shrugged. “We could just ask the bouncer to not let him in.”

  Three pairs of eyes stared down the smaller knight.

  “He’s a stand-up guy,” Bubo assured them. “The Purple Onion won’t get past without his say-so!”

  Abhoc made a rude gesture with one hand while cramming food in his face with the other.

  “I’ll decide when we finish our samosas,” said Brum quietly.

  On the wall, a little wooden bird emerged from its trap door. It cried cuckoo six times before the clock fractured into a dozen pieces.

  “Thank you, Sir Abhoc,” said the Knight Commander.

  Heckley stared forlornly at his empty cup.

  “I’ll be mother,” said Bubo, pouring everyone a refill from the teapot.

  Arnold and Anne Fleck stood on the front lawn, watching the hedges burn themselves out. A strong wind off the mountain had spread the flame, and hardly a shrub in Prismton remained but the cinders.

  “Twenty years,” said Anne. “The twenty best years of my life given to you and this imbecile paradise. All I asked in return was the chance to kill one Horselord. One fucking anachronistic cocksucker on a zebra!”

  “I know, Anne.”

  She smelled of burnt hair. He smelled of burnt rubber. Dislodging the Onion’s car had taken effort.

  “Not five fucking minutes,” said Anne. “I get here just in time to watch you crash some fucking dick-mobile through my living room window! Holy shit, I think. There’s my house. Getting fucked to death by a literal house-fucking dick car!”

  Arnold rubbed his temples. “Yes, Anne, I saw.”

  “It does like ten goddamn donuts through the furniture before it comes to a stop. And now those fucking horsefuckers are sitting in
my breakfast nook—”

  “It’s a vesper nook.”

  “There’s no such fucking thing as a vesper nook! They’re eating tea and hors d'oeuvres, for fuck’s sake. Which I had to serve myself because somebody lanced the maid’s forehead to a fucking tree!”

  “Maybe it was suicide, Anne, did you think of that? God knows it’s no more than I’ve dreamt of! I don’t even . . .”

  Arnold sighed. He didn’t have the energy for this.

  “Why did you invite them in?” he asked instead. “They came here to kill us and destroy our house!”

  “Destroying our house was your idea, Arnie! They just came to kill each other!”

  “Well, they didn’t come for tea!”

  “Ugh!” Ann tore at her hair in rage. “People talk. All these miserable back-terrace cunts do is talk. They can’t wait for a chance to spread it everywhere what a shitty host I am.”

  “The town’s on fire for Christ’s sake!” Spittle flew from his lips in frustration.

  “I know that. They know that. But do you think they care? They don’t give a fuck. Any chance they get. Any fucking chance!”

  “No one’s going to be talking about your spread tonight. Believe me.”

  “Honey mustard! Instead of peanut sauce, I put out honey mustard because the pantry had a giant dick in it and they’re sorta both the same fucking color!”

  Arnold took a deep calming breath. “Forget about it,” he said. “Everything is dick-colored these days, honey.”

  Anne screamed. “Honey mustard! Like it’s nineteen ninety-fucking-three.”

  The thought of it overwhelmed her and she fell to her knees. Arnold held his wife as she sobbed herself out.

  Together they watched the Bratmobile limp away with its smashed chassis. Later, the Pestilence came out and got back on their horses. Everyone thanked the Flecks profusely for their hospitality, and Anne smiled and spoke cheerfully as if it were just another day.

  When the last turbo thruster had disappeared over the hill, Anne pulled off her shapeless red dress and threw it atop the smoldering hedge fire. She marched back into the house in her slip, without a word to Arnold as she passed.

  Arnold sat on the grass and buried his head in his hands. The Prism had been shattered. His home was ruined. His marriage was in shambles. All the dirt from his past was about to come to light. And his daughter . . . Would Morgana ever speak to him again?

  Worst of all, the horses had escaped. If only he’d killed one goddamn steed . . .

  The acrid scent of pipe tobacco filled his nostrils. His neighbor, Hals Crick, was standing over him.

  When he looked up, a glass of cognac was placed in his hand. Crick took a seat on the grass beside him.

  “Is the fire department dead too, or . . .”

  Hals nodded. “Heads impaled on pikes in the plaza. Above the dog spa, all in a row.”

  Arnold sniffed his snifter. At least this was the good stuff. “How does it look?” he asked. “The impalement.”

  “Oh, impeccable. Say what you will, but Horsefolk really do good work.”

  How many times had the two men watched dark smoke curl from this very spot? In fact, their friendship was built on watching the infamous Dodoville arson fires in the mid-1990s. But never before had the conflagration been so close to home. Or anywhere near it really.

  “So you built an anti-horse ballista in your garage,” Hals said at last.

  Arnold said nothing, stinking of stale sweat. At this point, acknowledgment seemed as ridiculous as denial.

  “My neighbor and friend of twenty years,” said Hals quietly, “there are things you have not told this community about yourself.”

  One hand. If only he had drenched one hand in stallion’s blood, he would have left a gory print over Hals’ face and walked off. But he stood there defeated, humiliated. A man who had gambled everything for far too little and lost.

  “I’ve checked the municipal records,” said Hals. “I know you are not who you say you are.”

  Arnold watched the crows flock over the town plaza. The corpses of servants had been piled there, he’d heard.

  “No,” he said.

  “Who created this identity for you? Whose not quite perfect inspiration is Arnold Fleck?”

  Arnold had retired from the gang life decades ago, but it still raised his hackles to think of ratting out someone who had done him a favor. To be honest, he didn’t know if the counterfeiter was alive or dead. He’d never even met the man. Still, he would gain nothing by betraying him now.

  “It’s been so many years,” he said. “I no longer remember the name.”

  “Think harder, Fleck. Or should I say, Vincent La Ropa?”

  Arnold was silent.

  “Was it by any chance Melvar Ferrato?”

  “I don’t know that name.”

  “Oh you don’t?” cried Hals. “Interesting. Everyone in Dodoville who has ever wanted to leave their old life behind knows that name. Except you.”

  Arnold said nothing.

  “Let me show you something, Fleck.”

  Hals unbuttoned his shirt. Below the left nipple was a prison tattoo of a ferret. He held the shirt open just long enough for Arnold to identify the creature before buttoning back up.

  “We’re all criminals in Prismton. All former gang workers who rose as others fell. Surely you’ve noticed that none of the ways to make a fortune in Dodoville are legal. Or did you really believe we were the exceptions, the ones with clean hands? You’ve always been one of us, Fleck. It’s only yourself you’ve been hiding from.”

  For a long moment, Arnold remained silent. Nothing Hals said had come as a surprise, but for some reason, he’d never put it all together.

  “Everything’s gone now,” Arnold lamented. “The ancient community beyond the reach of gang violence. It’s finally reached this place. We’ve been razed to the ground.”

  “Nonsense,” said Hals Crick. “What we lost today was only possessions. The things we bought with money. The community remains. We’re, what do you call . . .”

  “A family?”

  “No, not Casa Nostra. More like a syndicate. And it exists for one purpose: to guarantee that just as down there it is impossible to succeed, up here it is impossible to fail. Do you think you are the first of us to do something brain-dead stupid? You destroyed your ancient house. Fine. As a community, we’ll build you a new ancient house. Together we’ll get it done.”

  “But I can’t ask—”

  “Nonsense. You’d do the same for us. You’d have no choice, actually, it’s in the town charter. Otherwise, your whole family would be tortured to death.” Hals smiled. “Trust me, Fleck, everything will be all right.”

  This really was a comfort to hear.

  “Hals, I think they killed your son.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, he was wearing a Red Guard uniform. Like for Chairman Mao? To be ironic, you know. And—”

  “Ah.” Hals sighed and nodded. “The wife and I bought him at a flea market in Rio. Midge would never give birth to her own children. A baby would shatter those brittle hips into a thousand pieces.”

  Arnold waited for his neighbor’s face to give something away.

  “His grave will make a lovely lawn ornament,” said Hals. “I’ll say it’s the tomb of my ancestor.”

  “But. Everyone knew Corey.”

  “And now everyone will say he was my great-great-grandfather. That’s the kind of people we are. I’m sorry you’ve never appreciated the strength of the community that has embraced you. But we will be here for you, through times fair and foul.”

  Arnold returned Hals’ smile and offered his hand.

  “So long as you never touch me,” Hals said. He stared at the hand like a dead possum until it went away.

  “Right.” Both men grinned.

  “Listen, Fleck, here’s what you’re going to do. First, you are going to go back inside and tell any surviving servants they are fired—but feel free to re
apply for their position once the new house is completed. Then you are going to take a fistful of whatever’s in your medicine cabinet and get a good night’s sleep. When you wake up, a construction crew will already be at work building you a new home no better than anyone else’s.”

  “Thanks, Crick, I appreciate it.”

  “Then you’ll find your wife, probably curled up in a half inch of water flooding the basement. You’ll get some blankets and assure Anne everyone’s talking about how well she represented our community to the Purple Onion and those men from the Church of the Knight Errant. You will find a way to be convincing.”

  Arnold nodded. “Okay, I’ll do that.”

  “Good.”

  Hals took a puff from his pipe and blew several perfect smoke rings. He watched them dissipate as the first stars appeared in the night sky.

  “Seriously, though,” he said. “Honey mustard?”

  “I know. What a bitch.”

  “How can I be of service, Master Victor?”

  The skiapod appeared as a hologram on the comm display of the Purple Onion’s motorcycle as it jetted down the International Kolkhek Highway at 250 kph, en route to break the power of the Horsefolk once and for all.

  “Mori, that Pestilence just scolded me,” the Onion said in his digital voice.

  “Well, they have worked very hard to be a plague upon this city. You’re giving them a bad day. You can’t expect politeness in return.”

  Victor switched off his voice filter.

  “But they were polite, that’s what irritates me. They said . . .” He paused.

  The hologram bowed slightly at the waist. “Tell me anything, sir.”

  “They said I don’t respect you enough, Mori. For the work you do. They don’t think I’d be worth a damn without you.”

  Silence.

  “And what is your feeling about that?”

  “Well, I’m peerless in hand-to-hand fighting, I speak eleven languages and have top-tier computer programming skills. I’ve implemented the most comprehensive surveillance system any city has ever seen. But . . .”

  “What is it, sir?”

  “I’m not good at science.”

  Mori’s digital outline shrunk in pain. “Oh, don’t say that, Master Victor!”