by Susan Stec
"Maybe not, but I'm gettin' a piece of the big-mouth troll," Mom spat. "He's gonna be minus one butt cheek when I'm done with him." She looked at me. "Susan, I need your debit card number. I left mine at home - unless you want me to have them send this stuff COD."
"I told you guys we should've just made an appointment," JoAnn hissed, her eyebrows meeting in the center of her forehead.
Paul ignored everyone but Jeni. "The only chance you have is to talk to Marcus. He seems to have a reason for wanting all of you to remain undead."
"Ladies, it's time to pay the devil his due." Jeni smiled up at Paul.
"The hell you say," Mom snapped, fingers wagging at me. "Debit card, Susan."
"I think we should find someplace public where they can't attack us," I said, making the decision final.
"That's a good idea," Resi agreed.
"Not Little Joe's!" JoAnn added.
"How about the bowling alley?" Zaire asked with a big smile.
"Think they'll bring the troll?" Mom queried, her finger hovering over the send key.
~~~~
Chapter Twenty-four
~~~~
Who let the dogs out…who…who…
Dorius flipped open the phone on the table in front of him. "Cujo, you better have good news for me."
"I just picked up the women and they're willing to meet you in a bowling alley tonight, Dorius." Paul's voice wafted from the phone.
"I am not going to a bowling alley. Bring them here," Dorius growled.
Marcus smiled as he shuffled through a pile of the girl's mail he held in his hands.
"Look, we're not stupid," a woman's voice announced. "If you want to meet us, we'll be waiting at 'Meet Me On The Alley' in Sliver Pines Plaza."
"What the hell?" Warren said. "It'll be a cold day in hell before we hit a bowling alley, right?" He raised an eyebrow at Dorius.
"Ohhh, this is going to be amusing," Marcus said. "Where's your sense of humor, Warren?"
"This is getting out of hand," Camillio shouted.
"Susan, tell them to bring bowling shoes if they have them," another woman suggested.
"Jesus, JoAnn," someone else said. "You always know how to take the fun out of everything."
Marcus laughed. "Tell them we're looking forward to meeting them, Dorius."
Dorius' chest rumbled.
"Either you meet us at the bowling alley or we catch a plane out of here," the phone blared.
"Guess it's on to the bowling alley." Marcus smiled.
"I'll call you with directions when we arrive," Paul said.
"The God's be damned!" Dorius hissed and flipped the phone closed.
A pretty girl…is like a melody…
Dorius glared at the phone and flipped the lid back open. "Yesss, Dennis?"
"Christopher asked me to take him to Key West and when I refused he huffed off in a dither. I gave him about an hour to calm down and went looking for him. Buffy said a yellow cab picked him up out front. I high-tailed it off to the beach - a seagull shit on my new shirt - it's ruined, and he wasn't even there. I'm really getting tired of sand in my shoes, Dorius. When are you getting back?"
"I told you not to let him out of your sight. How long has he been gone?" A deep rumble came from Dorius' throat.
Marcus' eyes twinkled as he flipped a page of a daily planner.
"Oh, don't get your tightie-whities in a wad." Dennis' disgusted sigh came through the phone. "He'll be back with his surfboard by morning. And I deserve a break anyway. I'm sure he's out playing 'Beach Blanket Bingo' with his new friends. How much trouble can he get into in one night?"
Marcus raised an eyebrow at Dorius.
Dorius ignored it. "Call the cab company he hired and find him, pronto. I have enough here to worry about. Handle it." Dorius flipped the phone closed, and glared at Marcus. "What?"
"You know what Christopher is doing, don't you?" Marcus asked.
"Why don't you tell me," Dorius huffed.
Marcus shook his head. "You tease him about his size, repeatedly. You throw your women friends up in his face, knowing he will never have one. You won't let him work with the Rouge Hunters and you demand he be something he's not - a child. He's just throwing it back at you, Dorius. He's doing exactly what you've requested him to do. You've created this monster. He's taunting you with this surfing thing."
"I don't give a rat’s ass what he does. He's not hunting with my rogues. He's not capable of it and you know it."
"Maybe you should give him a chance to prove you right." Marcus smiled.
"I think it's time we leave for the bowling alley." Dorius pulled the planner out of Marcus' hand and tossed it on the table.
"Not until the wolf calls to tell us they've arrived, brother dear," Marcus quipped. "It seems like the ladies are calling all the shots."
~~~~
Christopher stood outside a bungalow door in Key West holding Buster's leash, sizing up a tall scruffy young man in a pair of holey jeans.
"We don't want any, kid," the scruffy guy said. "Go find your mother, cuz whatever you're sellin', I ain't buyin'."
"You Dean 'the Cuda' Swellter?" Christopher asked.
"Who's askin'?"
"Never mind who's askin'. Are you Dean or what, fuck-wad?"
Buster growled.
"Whoa, man. You're just way too damn little to be givin' me shit, dude. That dog bite?"
A short, stocky boy dressed in a brightly colored pair of jams sauntered up to the door and leaned on the threshold, surveying Christopher through lazy eyes.
"Shit, it's just a kid. Whaddya want, fella?" Jams boy asked, scratching his crotch with one hand, holding a joint with the other.
"I'm not a kid. I'm older than both of you two dipwads and I'm looking for Dean. Which one of you assholes would that be?"
The two boys started giggling. The one in the jams slid down the door to the lime-green, shag carpet. Laughing hard, the dead joint stuck in a roach clip in his hand, he said, "He's so fucking cute. Look at those dreads, man. You think he's really small or is it the weed, cuz he sounds older than he looks. Do I look that small? This stuff is good shit." He started looking himself over, twisting around on the carpet. He lost interest and sucked hard on the joint, feeling around his pocket-less shorts.
The other kid in the jeans looked at his chest, running his hand over his stomach. "Wow, dude, I'm like wasting away here. Look, you can see my freakin' ribs, man. No shit. Let's go take another hit. I'm trippin', man. We got some fuckin'-trip, shroom-weed or something! Too fuckin' cool!"
"No shit. If we hit it again you think we'll disappear, dude?" The guy in the jams asked as he wiggled his toes, watching them in awe as if they were not part of his body.
"You guys do much jail time?" Christopher asked.
Both kids sucked in a breath and stared at him. Jams boy plucked the joint off the roach clip and stuffed it in his mouth, swallowing hard. The guy in the jeans went back to searching his chest for body fat.
"You the fucking heat? No fucking way, man," Jams boy mumbled as he tried to choke down the rest of the joint.
Buster stood up, teeth bared, growling.
"Whoa, is that like, one of those cop dogs? Shit!" the kid in the jeans asked, no longer tripping on his lack of body fat. He started backing up.
"Buster! Sit!"
Buster sat.
"He's not a police dog and I'm not a cop. Who's Dean?"
Both kids pointed at each other.
Twenty minutes later: "Hey dude, how about a hit off that bong, man?" Christopher sat on the floor of the bungalow, pillows surrounding him on a dirty shag carpet. Buster snored beside him.
"How'd you say you found me?" Dean stared at Christopher. His stringy blond hair hung around his bare chest, his lanky body sprawled over a futon, bare feet stretched out in front of him.
"I told you man, I Googled you. You're a legend, Dean. You made it all the way to Cuba on your Dewey Weber, man. That's way too cool, dude." Christopher turned t
o look at the surfboard leaning against the wall by the door.
"We got too much water in this fucker," Dave said, tipping a large bong over a plastic cup half filled with soda. "It's hard to get continuous suck-age, dude."
"Yeah, but my fucking father found me before I hit the beach. Friggin' hated, man," Dean said through a smoky haze.
"You got there, Dean. You made it all the way to Cuba, man." David leaned against the futon at Dean's feet. He took a big hit off the two-foot party bong in front of him, then passed it to Dean, sucking in his breath. "Sooo fucking cool."
Dean took a hit, bubbles floating around under the stem as the tube filled with smoke. He moved his finger off the carb, sucked in more air and passed it to Christopher.
Christopher shoved three pillows under his ass, leaned the bong at face level and stuffed his whole mouth and nose in the mouthpiece. He flicked his Bic to the bowl, covered the rush hole on the side of the chamber with his big toe and sucked in a nice big hit. He held his breath, smiling at Dean.
"Shit man, this stuff is choice. You look three feet tall. How old are you, dude?" Dean asked.
"I'm older than you, rag-ass. I'm just a little person. You got a problem with that?" Christopher let out a long puff of smoke, handing the bong back to David, who started giggling.
"You're a fucking midget? No shit? A fucking midget? Rad, dude," David said, choking on a toke.
"I'm not a midget you asshole. I'm a little person. Get it right, fucker." As Christopher watched Dean take a hit, his eyes turned black, glittering, and his incisors fell from his gums and immediately retracted.
"Wow, this is really good weed. I swear I just saw your teeth grow, dude. It's cool. No sweat, man. We're cool, right Dave?" Dean blew out a puff and handed the bong to Christopher again.
"Yeah, man, we're really cool. Can I get another hit, dude?" Dave asked Christopher.
"I'm thinking about trying the trip myself. I'm here to find out how you did it. So how 'bout you start explainin' it to me." Christopher got up, leaned over and stuck his face in the bong again.
"Sure man, no sweat. I got charts and everything. I can get them for you. It's cool."
"Yeah, it is. So get me the fucking charts because I'm getting hungry, dude." Christopher smiled.
~~~~
Dorius paced the living room, his cell phone in his hands. "And you're sure Christopher was in the bungalow?"
"Yes, and Buster's scent is all over the place. I can also smell two mortals. They haven't been gone long," Peter, one of Dorius' Rogue Hunters, replied.
"What's the little shit doing in Key West? Any indication?"
"Looks like a party pad. The smell of cannabis permeates the air. I'd say a major high was had by all and then they decided to go out surfing."
"We'll be heading out to pick up the women soon. Find Christopher, and I expect to be informed of any changes. Did you dispatch the Rogue Hunters?"
"Yes, they're on the way to the bowling alley."
"Did you tell them not to come inside?" Dorius paced in front of the couch.
"They've been instructed to stand down and call you when they arrive."
"Good work. Now find Christopher."
"Can do boss."
Marcus, Warren and Camillio walked in the front door as Dorius ended the call.
"The car's packed and ready. Did they find Christopher?" Marcus asked, his left eyebrow reaching for his hairline as he studied the phone in Dorius' hand.
"They found where he went, but he was gone when they got there. It seems he had a pot party and then hit the beach. Peter's going to retrieve him."
"You gotta love him. He's everything you wanted him to be." Marcus laughed, strutted over to the couch, picked up the cooler of blood and headed back out to the waiting limousine, chuckling.
Dorius' chest vibrated with anger.
~~~~
The convertible, a 1979 Volkswagen Beetle, white on white and in mint condition, pulled up to the sand dunes with the top down, radio blaring and Dean 'the Cuda' Swellter's Dewey Weber sticking out four feet over the backseat. Buster sat on one side of it, tongue hanging from his mouth, panting, and Dave, mouth open, snoring, slept on the other side.
"This is where you started, man?" Christopher kneeled in the passenger seat, watching the ocean waves hammer the sand at the edge of the beach in front of him.
"Yep, right there by that old shack." Dean pointed fifty yards down the shoreline to an old abandoned structure threatening to collapse with the next gust of wind. "The currents will take you were you want to go, dude. Come on, I'll get you all rigged up." Dean opened the door, walked around to the front of the Volkswagen and pulled open the trunk. He retrieved an inflatable raft, a cooler and three bulging trash bags.
Leaning over the raft, he pulled a plug. With a whoosh, it filled with air. He loaded the gear in, grabbed the rope attached to the bow and headed for the water, dragging it behind him.
Christopher jumped over the passenger door, Buster following, and pulled the surfboard from the back seat. Dave didn't budge. The two small, circular wounds on his neck were almost healed.
"Buster, you and I are going on a little adventure. Can you speak Spanish?"
"Woof."
"Me neither."
~~~~
Chapter Twenty-five
~~~~
My mouth fell open as I took in the organized chaos in the bowling alley.
"Well, we certainly picked the right public place," Mom announced with a grin.
Long lines of humans, ranging in ages from twenty to eighty, were getting shoes, filling out forms, setting up alleys and shouting threats at each other as they made ready for the night's events. The crack of pins falling as teams warmed up filled in the background, and loud yells of encouragement followed.
A DJ was setting up a long table with electronics against the far wall. In several areas, tables were set up with employees assisting teams in preparation for the big game. Banners strung across the lanes on the walls and over the counters screamed phrases of thanks to the many supporters and sponsors who evidently made this night possible.
Someone had possession of a reverberating microphone and was directing teams in a number of ear-blaring commands followed by piercing protests from eight foot speakers mounted in all four corners of the room.
As we stood just inside the door, a middle aged woman approached us. She wore a bright purple T-shirt with 'Meet Me On The Alley' embroidered over her right breast. Under it she wore a circular plastic pin with 'Sally' printed under 'Operations Manager'. Her muddy brown hair stuck out in all angles, putting Phyllis Diller to shame.
She wore a pair of jeans hugging a waist-less stomach, stretching tightly down her lumpy body, embracing small ankles. Her feet covered in red, white and blue bowling shoes, had size nine printed on each side.
A clipboard hanging from her elastic waistband slapped against her hip as she approached. A big smile spread clear across the bottom half of her face, showing way too many silver fillings through bright purple lips.
"CAN THE OWNER OF A 1979, BABY BLUE, BUICK SKYLARK PLEASE ATTEND TO YOUR VEHICLE? YOU LEFT YOUR LIGHTS ON."
Sally's eyes scrunched, her shoulders went up, and she shot the bald man behind the desk a dirty look. She turned back to us with a painful smile. "You can register at one of the tables and pick up your shirts as soon as they're stenciled. What's the name of your team?" Sally held a pencil poised, awaiting our answer.
Mom jumped in front of me. "The Immortals."
"Good name. Hope you can live up to it." Sally handed Mom a sheet of paper off her clipboard and in a voice that could only have been attributed to large amounts of nicotine consumption, began to go over the rules with us. "I'll need the names of each of your team members. All competitors are required to wear a team shirt, which we provide as part of the hundred-dollar entry fee. I assume you're the manager?"
Mom nodded as we all watched. I figured she deserved the title and since none of the others p
rotested, I curbed my tongue.
"I NEED SOMEONE FROM 'THE BALL BUSTERS', 'CALL-US-FORN-ICATORS', 'IVEY'S LEAGUE', 'THE TASMANIAN DEVILS', AND 'SEXY SADISTS SINGLES', FRONT AND CENTER IMMEDIATELY. YOUR SHIRTS ARE READY."
Sally flinched as she continued through clenched teeth. "You need at least four players, no more than eight. Four players from each team will match-up head-to-head in each game. If your team wins a game, you get one point."
The DJ, a short round man in his sixties, in competition with the bald man, yelled, "ALL RIGHT ALL YOU BOWLERS AND HIGH ROLLERS, IT'S TIME TO SUIT UP AND PUT OUT! I'M TOMMY-BOY SPREADING THE JOY. COME MAKE YOUR REQUESTS BECAUSE I ONLY SPIN THE BEST!" And with that, he cranked up the music. The first selection was the Macarena at an ear splitting volume.
Sally pulled out a bottle of extra strength ibuprofen, dumped three in her hand and popped them in her mouth, crunching as she went on, "In the event of a tie, each team will receive half a point. Substitute players may only replace active players between games. The team with the most total pins for the game will receive three additional points. If tied, each team gets one and a half points."
"I HAVE A PHONE CALL FOR PHONDA PETERS; PHONDA PETERS CAN YOU PLEASE COME TO THE FRONT DESK - THE BUICK'S LIGHTS ARE STILL ON, PEOPLE! SOMEONE GET OUT THERE BEFORE THE BATTERY GOES DEAD." The man at the microphone overrode the sound system as he spoke, cutting the music off in mid-phrase. The cracking sound of pins hitting the alleys rang out in abrupt shattering waves of calamity before the music started again.
Sally cracked her neck from side to side, her teeth clamped together as the music blasted from the speakers. "At the end of the tournament we will total points and the winning team will be awarded the prize. In the event of a tie, the teams will have a play-off until one team is victorious. Any questions?" Sally's head bobbed as her eyes fell on each of us.
"'LITTLE LULU'S WHO-WHO'S', 'BREAKIN' WINDY'S BLOW HARDS', 'SANDIES CANDIES', 'GATOR BAITERS', 'THE TERMINATORS', AND 'ACEE'S DEE-CEE'S: YOUR SHIRTS ARE WAITING FOR YOU AT THE FRONT DESK."