by Mark Henry
A loud scraping sounded through the hall and all heads turned to see the plastic infection bubble roll into the main hall.
Mama, pathetically exhausted and stumbling to keep up the momentum, limped toward Johnny. The woman was on her last legs, literally. Anger and revenge fueling her motion, she fumbled at her throat for the polished sliver of bone, tearing it free and holding it awkwardly in one hand while she clawed at her chest with the other. With the last of her life, Mama Montserrat stabbed the shank high up on the bubble. She teetered a moment, the bubble squealing against the marble floor and then slumped forward. The ball moved slowly toward Johnny and me.
His bloodied lip curled into a grin at the woman’s fallen form.
What happened next couldn’t be helped.
The story needed an ending.
I owed the viewers something, didn’t I? What could I do? It’s not like I didn’t just do the same thing to my best friend.
I pushed Johnny over.
The wood nymph fell flat on his back, a yowling scream stretched out of him as Mama’s steamrolling coffin crushed his legs, then his lousy balls, his heaving chest and finally, ever so slowly, the bone dagger curved around and drove deep into Johnny Birch’s skull.
The scream silenced instantly.
Blood pooled around the body as the ball rocked back and forth on its deadly anchor.
“That,” I said, pointing at Johnny, “took too fucking long. I’d totally fast forward through it if I were watching it at home.”
CHANNEL 22
Monday
9:30–10:00 P.M.
The Weekly Eulogy
Cameron Hansen is back with a new show wrapping up all the week’s supernatural happenings in a tight half-hour package. Special guest hosts include reality show sensation Tanesha Jones.
It’s hard to know where to end the story. Do you leave it on a high note, full of hope and warm fuzzies, a happily-ever-after, if you will? Or do you tell the truth and follow the denouement straight into the toilet bowl, taking the reader on that last spin down into the sewer?
I wouldn’t expect anyone to believe I’d somehow hit the rainbow jackpot, not with my luck—that would be too big a leap of faith. So here’s the reality (or realities, since they tend to come in spades—a whole deck of them)….
It took some begging and pleading and, finally, offering to be Karkaroff’s errand girl for a month—no small sacrifice considering her requests were never quite as simple as scrounging up a coffee, and oftentimes required actual sacrifices—but I got Karkaroff to spring for a clothing budget for the American Minions promo junket.99 I managed to snag the only Elie Saab cashmere tulip dress in town—quite a coup when that town is Seattle. It should come as no surprise in the land of downy-armed vegans, a fox skirt would have a target on it, even with yummy guipure flowers adorning the fur. The PETA crowd, had they known, would’ve stroked out on the sidewalk in front of Zero, the boutique owned by former supermodel/zombie Gialla and her business partner-cum-lover, Skitchy, a sculptor with a penchant for Sears overalls and stolen prosthetic limbs as her medium of choice.
“It’s stunning, dahling,” Gialla’d said, dabbing a small sore above her eye with a dainty silk handkerchief. “It’s both contemptible and elegant.”
I spun in front of the mirror. “What do you think, Wendy?”
“I think you’re gonna be late.”
Wendy swiveled around on the leather puff in the center of the dressing room, her press pass stuck between her front teeth. She snapped it out and flicked off the leftovers from last night’s meal. “Mmm. Sexy. Is that what you’re going for?”
“Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I’m just wondering if that’s the right message to be sending out, now that you’ve snared your werewolf again.”
“He’s fully aware of the importance of my public persona.”
“Whatever you say.”
Duncan Donut was the chunky werebear host of the hottest supernatural talk show in town, Live from Les Toilettes.100 Everyone watched it to catch the latest gossip and celebrity skewering by Donut and his panel of snark stylists. I’d often thought I’d be perfect on the show, but Mink and Bibi, the host’s constant werecub companions, weren’t going anywhere until they gave up the hidden camera video of Duncan caught with his pants around the ankles of a high school football player, or at least that’s what I’ve heard. So I’d have to resign myself to a spot in the “hotseat,” which in this case was a stainless steel toilet with a see-through plastic cushion over the seat—it’s not for “us” to get the joke, apparently, because it’s never explained why the host and his lackeys giggle every time someone sits on the thing.
“Our guest tonight is the lovely party-hopping naughty, Amanda Feral. She’s the star of the insanely popular Who Killed Johnny Birch right here on Supernatural Satellite and its been getting rave reviews and climbing up the ratings chart. Welcome to Live!” Duncan reached across the gap with fingers plump as breakfast sausages, which actually complimented his complexion—a jaundiced skin tone always reminds me of egg yolks for some reason. I squeezed his hand lightly to be polite, worried they’d be greasy and not at all surprised to be right.
“Glad to be here. You have a wonderful audience, for a bunch of chubby chasers,” I snarled as the audience booed, several shifting into bears of various types, though the single polar bear in the front row couldn’t have been more yellowed from the waist down if the entire audience had relieved themselves on him.
Now, before you get all huffy about it—abrasive was de rigueur on Live. To come on and be polite was both frowned upon and vehemently shunned to the harshest degree. Obviously, I didn’t have a problem with that.
Duncan chuckled, his man-boobs jiggling with the effort. About three hundred pounds, with a close-cropped white beard and eyebrows that needed a serious trim, Donut was a shoo-in to play Santa at whatever passed as a Christmas pageant at Les Toilettes, though I expect the flip of white hair he kept at just above shoulder length would prove irresistible to the golden showers crowd said to frequent the club.
“Ooh swarthy!” Duncan squealed. “I like it. Now tell me, who did kill Johnny Birch, we’re all dying to know.” He leaned forward, steepled his fingers and pressed them to his lips.
“Like I’d tell you, you fat fuck. You’ll have to wait until the season finale just like everyone else.” I leaned back on the toilet and crossed my legs. “Now, can someone get me a drink?” I thought a moment, then added. “Nothing yellow though, I’m on to your games.”
The crowd roared with laughter while a skinny carrot-topped boy in leather lederhosen ran over from the bar with a martini glass. He shook a bit as he passed it into my hand.
“The reason I ask—” Duncan paused, grinning mischievously for the camera. “We have reason to believe that the show has run into some financial difficulties.”
I spit a mouthful of vodka at the frightened waiter, who skittered off like a bug.
What the hell, I thought. I should have known I’d get lambasted publicly the minute Marithé came to me with the offer to appear on Live. She probably played a part in whatever Donut was about to spew. I flicked the olive into the crowd, threw back the rest of the martini and tossed the glass. It shattered nearby faintly under the din of the excited crowd.
“Yeah?” I asked, steeling myself. “What might those be?”
“Absolutely. In fact, we have someone here, who’ll sort the whole matter out.”
A suited man stood from the bleachers and approached the little stage, opening a briefcase on Duncan’s desk and withdrawing a handful of papers, which he forced in my direction. I didn’t move. If the fucker was going to serve me then he’d have to be ugly about it on TV.
Apparently that wasn’t a problem for him. He tossed them and they hit my chest before cascading to the floor.
“You’ve been served,” he said and shut his briefcase. His face was thin, pinched around the nose and mouth and his eyes were as beady a
s you’d expect from a guy in his line of work. He smelled like human, but I suspected demon. Most lawyers and their ilk were hellspawn somewhere in their heritage.101
I glared at him, them, the cameras, everyone. Things were just starting to look up. After Mama’s untimely death, Feral Inc. took on the show and worked with the network and advertisers to secure a good time slot and such—you have to understand that technology among supernaturals is still relatively new, and is still shunned by purists who view TV as a virus of our own food supply. It was a relatively easy process—the stations were all small and privately owned and SS12 was more than willing to take us on. Advertisers fell into place as soon as they heard what we’d been able to capture between the handheld camera and the nanny cams in each of the rooms. The major tragedy would have been the loss of the footage at the Hooch and Cooch, but, after considerable digging, Ethel was able to recover her security footage.
When I watched it, I was surprised at the clarity and even more shocked at the chemistry between Ethel and me. The scene in her office made for damn fine television and for once, the woman seemed genuinely concerned for my wellbeing. So much so, I was worried we’d be offered our own show and I’d have to spend more time with the bitch. Luckily, I hadn’t had to turn anyone down.
“So what’s all this?” I pointed at the papers around me.
“Feral Inc. is being sued by both the estates of Samuel Harcourt and the recently deceased Mama Montserrat and Johnny Birch.”
“Awesome.” I looked him dead in the eye. “Bring it.”
“Ooh. The kitten’s got some fight left in her,” Duncan said. The process server plodded off and the host continued. “Now Amanda, we’ve heard that prior to the show’s success you’d hit the skids a bit. Can you tell us about your struggles with poverty?”
If you think I’m the type to buckle under at a moment like this, then three books have taught you nothing. I had no intention of being victimized on network television, or anywhere else.
“Well, Duncan, if by Skids you mean the fantastic line of jewelry my friend Wendy just launched then yes, it’s true, I’m all over the Skids. In fact!” I shook my bracelet, a dazzling crimson number, resembling three stitched slashes across my right wrist. “As for poverty, I wouldn’t say I struggle with the poor, I merely eat them.” I shrugged, smiling broadly.
“Aren’t you concerned about these lawsuits?” he asked, befuddled. Clearly this wasn’t turning out to be the hatchet job he’d planned.
“Not in the slightest,” I yawned, gesturing at the papers. “These things have a way of working themselves out.”
“Well, then.” Duncan Donut sneered. Bibi and Mink mimicked his expression.
“Well, then,” I agreed.
“Well, then, let’s take a caller.” Duncan reached down with his fat finger and stabbed one of the six flashing buttons on his phone. “You’re Live at Les Toilettes!”
“Is this Duncan Donut?” The voice was too measured. Too familiar.
“Yes, it is. Do you have a question for our fantabulous guest, Ms. Amanda Feral?”
“I sure do. Amanda, this is your mother. I’ve got your room ready and waiting for you. Do you have any idea what your timeline is for moving in, because I’ve got your Aunt Rachel coming in for a few days and I don’t want to have to move you out to the couch when you could just hold off until I’ve had my nice visit. Though, come to think of it, she’s almost blind so she probably won’t be able to tell you’re dead, except she has quite the nose and…” she paused. “We both know there are days when you’re not so—”
I groaned and reached across Duncan, picked up the receiver and slammed it back down ending the call.
I met up with Wendy after the show to grab a snack before coffee with the guys. It was odd to think that Gil was part of a functional couple after all these months of sad sacking, but sure enough, Vance (or whatever he was calling himself) was still around and seemed to be genuinely enamored of our guy.
Wendy held out what looked like a piece of heart—never my favorite organ, too chewy if you ask me. “Oh my God, Amanda. You’ve got to try this, it’s awesome.”
“That’s okay.” I waved her off and went back to my dinner of crude construction worker who wouldn’t leave well enough alone.102 I wasn’t really in the mood to talk about the lawsuit either and luckily for her, Wendy could take a hint. About some things.
“No seriously. Taste it.”
“I don’t want any. Really.” I pulled away from her jutting hand.
“Come on.” Wendy’s face scrunched up. “It’s not like I shit on it.”
After dinner we stood in front of the spot where Wendy parked the car. I could have sworn I saw it piggybacking on a tow truck.
“Um,” was her only response.
We hailed a cab at the corner of Western and 3rd and that’s when things got ugly, and by ugly I mean crazy bendi-dot Indian-ghost ugly. I noticed something was wrong before Wendy even pulled the door closed behind us.
First off, Pie-hole and Lumpy were back and staring me down like I’d shit on their firstborn. If they weren’t bad enough, Raj, fresh from the dead, grimaced from the front seat, eyes fidgeting toward the driver. I winced. Somehow—and these days I don’t even bother to ask—Baljeet had managed to drag her dead ass out of that garbage truck and track down the cab.
Yep.
You guessed it. Ghost. But how she managed to drive a car was beyond me. The stuff the spectral can do these days. Progress, I guess.
“Oh, don’t you sure look fresh and lively, Ms. Amanda Feral,” Baljeet said, sneering. “Not a hair out of place and don’t look any deader than when I last saw you. Son of a bitching murderous, is what you are, I ought to drive us all right over a cliff.”
I sighed.
There wasn’t anywhere this could go but wrong. I tried to ignore the din of voices. Pie-hole and Lumpy complaining about an eternity listening to Baljeet bitch and complain about “this or that or the other thing.”
I pointed at Raj. “How was I supposed to know he had a bad heart? I’m not a fucking doctor.”
“Did you think to ask before you went screeching at him in your terrifying ‘I’ll eat anything that walks’ American-entitled-zombie way?” Baljeet punctuated her attack by curling her fingers into claws and glowering like she imagined I had.
“I apologize, Raj.” I nodded in his direction. He shrugged.
“A bit late for that! Now, he’s bound to this cab forever and by Krishna will never give our parents the grandsons they so desperately deserve. Can you apologize for that?”
Wendy leaned forward and looked Baljeet in the eye. “Well, I didn’t do shit to Raj or you and I’d like to get to the Starbucks on Cap Hill. Or is this not a real cab anymore?”
Baljeet scoffed and put the cab into gear, pulling away from the curb, tires squealing. We both dropped back into the seats with enough force to wind me, sending a curl of viral breath into the cab. I didn’t bother to suck it back in, considering my traveling companions.
“Hey, Baljeet?” I asked hesitantly as the ghost somehow maneuvered the cab down toward the waterfront. I watched her gauzy hands play across the vinyl of the steering wheel. It turned under some supernatural pressure beneath her phantom grasp.
“What do you want? I won’t answer just any of your stupid questions, devil.”
I leaned forward. “I was just wondering where you were going.”
Baljeet chuckled and even her laugh was accented. It rose and lilted with a humid timbre, not tropical exactly—it lacked the sweet and sticky undertones. Baljeet’s laugh masked the intentions of a killer, scimitar raised high and ready to slash.
Raj squirmed in the co-pilot’s seat. Eyes darting nervously to his left, fearful of his sister even in death.
We scraped bottom as we careened through the first intersection, the car bouncing on stressed shocks and launching out into the air at the next hill. Seattle streets follow a suicidal slope toward Puget Sound. It feels a bi
t like San Francisco, without any of the associated romance.
It was even more clearly unromantic in a dirty cab, surrounded by the dead and facing down another car crash. I was beginning to think walking was a palatable option, but who am I kidding, I just needed to get a fucking car.
At the speed we were travelling it took me a moment to realize where we were headed. I elbowed Wendy. “The Harbor Steps.”
She grimaced and frantically fumbled with the seatbelts. I followed suit, pressing half into Pie-hole, who grinned as though I’d touched his ghost package. Maybe I had. I pulled the belt around and tried to find the buckle, squeezing my fingers into the crevasse between the cushions and coming up empty.
When I glanced up, we were crossing 1st Ave. I braced myself against the seatback and closed my eyes as we jumped the curb and launched out into the space above the steps. My insides shifted in that weightless moment and I felt like I would spew, but in the next second the cab collided with something hard enough to send me tumbling over the seats and out the front window.
I must have passed out.
Sort of a welcome event.
Sort of.
“Amanda.” Hands on my shoulders, rocking me. “Amanda.”
I peeked out of the corner of my eye and saw Ricardo’s concerned face hovering over mine. “Wow. Is that your prosthetic digging into my hip?”
He might have flushed but instead just smirked. “No.” He stretched out the word, like he wasn’t aware Marithé had let the cat out of the bag. Or the boner, as the case may be. I decided to let it go.
“Can you sit up?”
I pushed myself up on my elbows and stared at the wreckage of the cab. Twisted metal and shattered glass marred poor Ricardo’s minimal atmosphere. A big hole in the wall overlooked the well-dressed human patrons of the nearby churrascaria, while tanks of anesthesia spun uncontrollably, filling the room with a scraping metallic noise and sputtering clouds of the Ether’s life juice. Baljeet planted herself atop the heap, her arms folded and a scowl severe enough to create instant wrinkles carved into her face. Raj and the boys wandered nearby. A single arm snaked out of a dark gap, waving frantically.