by Scott Colby
Exasperated, Kevin nodded and turned toward the grill. Were these fairy creatures always so difficult, or did they only become hopelessly ridiculous when dealing with humans? He couldn’t imagine living in an entire city of magic yahoos, each one warped and demented in his or her own unique way. Perhaps that was why Mr. Gregson lived alone in a house in Harksburg and why Nella made her home in a lagoon in the middle of nowhere. Peace and quiet would be hard things to come by in a place full of magic bullshit. Alternatively, maybe Mr. Gregson found it preferable to be the lone whack job surrounded by sanity than to be just another nutcase awash in a sea of lunatics. There’s something to be said for standing out, after all, even if you’re hiding it a little bit.
After briefly holding his hand above the grill to make sure it was warm enough (and hoping to hell Mr. Gregson wouldn’t telekinetically slam his palm into the hot surface), Kevin retrieved a carton of eggs from the refrigerator under the counter. Keeping one eye on Mr. Gregson for any sign of chicanery, he cracked two eggs onto the hot griddle. A sharp sizzle punctured the silence as the two dollops of protein and cholesterol heated. Kevin took a step back to survey his handiwork, satisfied that maybe, just maybe, Mr. Gregson had played enough torture-the-neighbor for one day and was content to eat his breakfast in peace.
Then, launched one by one like Fourth of July fireworks, each of the eight eggs remaining in the open carton on the counter behind Kevin rocketed up into the air and splattered against the ceiling. Mr. Gregson grunted as a long thread of egg drooled back down toward the counter like a massive stream of snot, that one simple sound somehow conveying a greater feeling of joy and accomplishment than a shout or a whoop or a touchdown dance possibly could have.
Frowning, Kevin returned to the grill, spatula in hand. He had to put an end to this before Fran found the front room trashed worse than the back. He was powerless to physically stop the pixie, but maybe standing up for himself would be enough to make Mr. Gregson think twice about fucking with him further. A plan formed in his mind as he watched the eggs cooking on the grill. It wouldn’t be enough to run Mr. Gregson off—he fully expected the pixie to thwart it with his magic powers—but at the very least it would send a clear message that Kevin Felton was not going to take it like a big pussy—or like Doorknob.
Kylie, he knew, wouldn’t have approved of his idea. She would’ve chided him for being immature, for acting his shoe size rather than his age, but her only solution to a problem had always been to bat her pretty little eyelashes at it and see what would happen.
Let’s see you catch this, you son of a bitch.
Moving as quickly as his day’s worth of experience working a grill allowed, Kevin scooped both eggs off the grill onto his spatula, whirled, and flung the still-sizzling mass at Mr. Gregson. His shot was a little off the mark—the trajectory of the eggs looked as if it would take them just over his target’s right shoulder. At the last minute, however, the white and yellow glop swerved to the right like a left-hander’s slider and slapped into the side of Mr. Gregson’s face.
Kevin froze, stunned. Why had the pixie pulled the hot eggs into himself like that?
“Felton!”
Fran Kesky’s angry bellow from the entrance to the back room was all the answer Kevin needed. Cursing under his breath, Kevin untied his apron and lifted it off over his head.
“I welcomed you back to Harksburg,” Fran snarled. “I smiled and laughed when you and your asshole friends started a brawl that wrecked my bar. Then, when your mother came to apologize on your behalf and ask that I give you a job, I shook her hand and made you a part of my business. And you repay me by throwing food at a customer? You ungrateful little shit!”
Mr. Gregson pointed upward. Fran’s gaze followed his finger and finally lingered on the mass of raw eggs dripping from the ceiling. Kesky’s face turned a shade of purple usually reserved for children’s cartoon characters.
“You’re fucking fired!”
Kevin hurdled the counter, smoothly dodging the puddle of coagulating egg, and headed for the exit.
“You’re fucking fired!” Fran repeated as Kevin opened the front door. “And you are hereby banned from the Harksburg Bar and Grill for the rest of your miserable fucking life! You are not welcome here, you little prick! You hear me? If I catch you so much as looking at my place they’ll be pulling pieces of you out of the swamp for the next ten years!”
Kevin left without a word, resigned to the long walk home and what was sure to be a really fun conversation with his mother. He knew when he was beaten. Besides, he had more important things to worry about—like how the hell he was going to find Billy a new girlfriend without being able to take him to the only bar in town.
— CHAPTER SEVENTEEN —
The lonely road back to Harksburg would’ve felt like Purgatory to anyone unaware that civilization was just a few miles away. Although Kevin Felton knew that road well, he still felt adrift, a traveler stuck between worlds with no hope of latching onto anything solid. When life takes a turn for the patently absurd, what’s to be done about it? To Kevin, brooding over a long walk and then discussing it all with an attractive blue girl sounded like the best and only possible option, even if it could potentially lead to his soul getting violently ripped out through his nostrils.
He was going to have to tell Driff about Mr. Gregson. With Ren out of town and possibly swamped with trouble of his own, only one person in Harksburg could help Kevin with his pixie problem. The elf had stood up for Kevin against Sweatpants Bob, hopefully he’d be willing to do the same to Kevin’s psychotic neighbor, then dust Fran Kesky into forgetting that he’d banned Kevin from the Burg. Admitting his problems to Driff was going to be about as much fun as trying to teach Doorknob how to spell, but it didn’t seem avoidable.
Very few cars passed Kevin as he walked, all of them heading out of town. He watched the dirty old sedans and exhaust-belching station wagons rumble past, wondering if he should cross the street and stick his thumb out. If he hit the road, traveling light and incognito, would any of these magical fuckwads actually be able to track him down? Could he escape by sticking to the slums and the shadows, by tossing his cell phone and his wallet out the window and starting a new life? He could let his hair grow out and maybe work on a beard. He’d be unrecognizable in a disguise of dirt and grime. Kicking a rock angrily into the woods, he dropped the idea. Life on the streets was no life for Kevin Felton. He yearned to be a success, to be a part of something, to enjoy the fruits of his labor. Just surviving would never be enough.
The low, predatory roar of an engine coming his way snapped him out of his reverie. Mr. Gregson’s van rumbled past Kevin like a beast on the hunt, came to a squealing stop on the shoulder not ten feet ahead, and killed its engine. Kevin froze, his fight or flight instincts duking it out and coming to a draw in his head. Attempting to flee through the woods would be just as stupid as picking up a rock and charging the vehicle. If Mr. Gregson wanted to fuck with Kevin Felton that badly, he’d find a way to do it.
The van’s back doors swung open with a harsh screech of poorly lubricated metal on metal. Inside, Mr. Gregson stared out at Kevin, chewing on the end of his lit cigar. The van’s interior was trimmed in darkly stained wood. Cabinets lined either side.
“Get in.”
“Why should I?”
“Because we’ve got shit to discuss,” Mr. Gregson said matter-offactly. “If I wanted to hurt you, I would’ve hurled you into one of those trees without even bothering to stop. Besides which, even if I did kill you, it wouldn’t exactly be permanent, now would it?”
That set off alarm bells in Kevin’s head. How did Mr. Gregson know about Billy’s dereliction of duty? “True,” he replied, “but that just means you could kill me over and over and over again. If you wanted to.”
“If I wanted to, we wouldn’t be having this useless conversation.”
“Where are we going?”
“I’m giving you a ride home.”
“I’d rath
er walk. I need some time to figure out how I’m going to explain to my mother that I lost the job she arranged for me. Thanks for that, by the way.”
“You’re welcome.” A drawer in one of the cabinets beside Mr. Gregson jerked open and a manila envelope floated out to land in the big man’s lap. “I imagine your first Tallisker paycheck will keep Abelia off your ass.”
So that was it. Driff wasn’t the only one keeping an eye on things in Harksburg. Tallisker had also recruited one of the locals. Kevin wondered if Driff knew Mr. Gregson was watching them. He doubted it.
Kevin took a deep breath and climbed into the back of the van. He still didn’t trust Mr. Gregson—his interactions with the disguised pixie the last few days hadn’t exactly been amicable or logical—but he needed answers. Kevin took a seat on the plywood floor beside Mr. Gregson and the doors slammed shut behind him. The vehicle suddenly roared to life and veered back onto the road to continue on its way toward the center of Harksburg.
Leaning around Mr. Gregson, Kevin tried to get a look at the front seats. The driver’s side was empty. The steering wheel made slight adjustments seemingly of its own accord.
“Neat trick,” Kevin said.
Mr. Gregson grunted. “First things first, Felton: we never had this conversation. Breathe a word of this to that fucking elf and I will personally cut off your testicles, bronze them, and wear them as a pair of clogs.”
Kevin blinked, confused as to how that last part would be physically possible. Then he remembered that there was a tiny pixie hiding somewhere inside that massive, angry man. He nodded uncertainly.
“Good,” Mr. Gregson growled. “What do you know about Tallisker?”
Shifting uncomfortably, Kevin fanned a puff of cigar smoke out of his face. “A lot more than I knew a few days ago. They’re hidden behind a wall of smaller subsidiaries—one of which laid me off—and they’re somehow involved with you magic…ah…people.”
Mr. Gregson scowled, an expression not unlike those found on the angry cartoon bulldog mascots of several American universities. “Well, aren’t you politically correct? Tallisker’s the worst of the worst, Felton. They live fat off the rest of us who prop up their various companies and holdings. Your new elven friend’s buddies in Evitankari ain’t much better.”
Kevin’s jaw dropped. He hadn’t been picked up by a Tallisker watchdog; he’d attracted the attention of the local conspiracy freak. He wasn’t sure if that was better or worse.
“I’ve been watching your stupid ass since that pointy-eared sumbitch first came around asking about you,” Mr. Gregson continued.
“If you wanted to know what was going on, you could’ve asked when I came to visit you a few nights ago.”
“You annoy the piss outta me, boy. Y’always have.”
“Sorry.”
“Know why I came to see you today?”
Kevin had no clue. “Because you hate me?”
“See, it’s that kind of dumb shit that makes you so annoying. I came to see you today because Tallisker’s getting itchy. When Tallisker gets itchy, they start stickin’ their noses in places they don’t belong. That ain’t something I need.”
“Ok. But…how do you know Tallisker’s not happy?”
The manila envelope in Mr. Gregson’s lap sprung forward to collide with Kevin’s face. Blinking, Kevin took firm hold of it with both hands and eyed it warily. There wasn’t much in it, a few pieces of paper, maybe, or some sort of small book or magazine.
“I’ve been reading your mail.”
“That’s a federal offense, you know.”
“Shut up and open it.”
Kevin lifted the envelope’s flap and emptied its contents onto the floor by his feet. Two things fell out: a fancy envelope monogrammed with the Tallisker sunburst logo and a paycheck, both addressed to Kevin Felton.
“Holy shit,” Kevin said as the dollar value on the check sank in. “Driff wasn’t kidding when he said I would be well compensated.”
“Ten grand’s pocket change to these assholes,” Mr. Gregson snapped. “The real interesting part is that invitation.”
Kevin picked up the fancy envelope and withdrew the card inside. The thick stock felt ominously cold to the touch.
“Your presence is requested this Wednesday night at the Roberts residence for a meet and greet with senior Tallisker staff,” he read aloud. “Cocktail hour begins at 8 pm. Your RSVP has already been accepted.”
The Roberts residence. According to Driff, Ren and his family had made an emergency trip up to Minnesota. Were they coming back for this dinner party, or were these senior Tallisker staffers just borrowing their home for the evening? Kevin really wanted to reconnect with Ren, but if there was more trouble coming Harksburg’s way, he also hoped his best friend wouldn’t have to be a part of it.
“Senior Tallisker staff,” Mr. Gregson spat. “The worst of the worst. They don’t climb off their big golden thrones for just anyone, Felton. They’ve got plenty of lackeys for dealin’ with the riffraff. Those fuckers have something important to say, and they want to say it to you. In person.”
A chill ran down Kevin’s spine, but he tried to put up a tough front. “So? Maybe they want to commend me for a job well done.”
“‘Maybe they want to commend me for a job well done,’” Mr. Gregson repeated in a mocking voice eerily similar to Kevin’s own. He quickly shifted back to his usual gravelly baritone. “You are as fucking stupid as you are annoying. They hired you and the elf to do a job. You haven’t been able to do it. What do you think comes next?”
“So why are they bothering with a dinner party? Why not just send out some big tough troll or something to break a few of my fingers?”
“Because that would be too easy. These sumbitches prefer to do things with style. They are evil incarnate, and they like to play with their prey a bit before they slice its throat.”
Kevin wasn’t buying it. By no means was he looking forward to Wednesday night’s gathering, but he also couldn’t see anyone—or anything—going to all that trouble just to send him a message. Besides, why would Tallisker bother cutting a check for someone they weren’t happy with? If their leadership was truly as evil as their reputation, breaking a few labor laws wouldn’t even make them blink.
All of which probably meant there was something even worse going on. Suggesting that to Mr. Gregson seemed like a bad idea.
“All right,” Kevin said. “I’ll be careful. But I’m still not clear about exactly what you want from me.”
Mr. Gregson took a long pull on his cigar and shot twin streams of bluish smoke out of his nostrils. “Get rid of them. Do your fucking job so they’ll leave this town alone. Stop fucking around with Sweatpants Bob and the moron twins and slinging hash for Fran Kesky. Focus on the reaper and get it done.”
Kevin thought for a moment, parsing Mr. Gregson’s words. There was something else, something his neighbor wasn’t telling him. Something personal. Whatever it was, it had made him more desperate than angry. Kevin could barely detect it in the man’s voice.
“That’s going to be kind of difficult now that I’m no longer allowed in the only bar in town,” Kevin said.
“There’s nothing in that shithole for Billy and you fucking know it.” One of the cabinet drawers beside Mr. Gregson slid open with a thunk. A matchbook wafted up out of it and landed atop Kevin’s head. “That’s where he met Nella.”
Kevin pulled the little black matchbook out of his hair and examined its face. “‘Donovan’s,’” he read. The address beneath the neon pink logo put the place just over the town line in Woodville. “Never heard of it.”
“You don’t say.”
After waiting a moment for Mr. Gregson to elaborate, Kevin pressed the issue. “Why haven’t I heard of it?”
Mr. Gregson smiled for the first time, an expression somehow even more disconcerting than his various glares and scowls. “Because they don’t really cater to your kind. They prefer mine.”
— CHAPTER EIGHTEE
N —
Sneaking into the house via the Pussy Hatch would only delay the inevitable, Kevin decided. It would be better to face his mother, show her the Tallisker paycheck, and get this whole ordeal over with. Judging from the old ten-speed bicycle locked to the porch railing, Abelia had company. She’d be less likely to cause a scene in front of a guest, he hoped, which meant he might be able to get his full explanation out before his mother had the chance to launch into an angry tirade.
But the sight of that bicycle also gave Kevin pause. He didn’t recognize it, and he couldn’t imagine his mother befriending whatever dirty hippie probably rode it, even in her newly altered state of mind. The thought of finding some grimy dude in Chuck Taylors and an ironic T-shirt bending his mother over the dining room table made him want to gouge his eyes out on the bike’s rusted handlebars.
“Oh, just go in there, you big pussy,” Mr. Gregson shouted from the porch next door. Kevin couldn’t see his neighbor behind the privacy screen, but a thick tuft of cigar smoke proved he was there. “I promise you’ll like what you find.”
“You know whose bicycle that is?”
Mr. Gregson answered with a grunt but didn’t elaborate. Kevin cursed under his breath and trudged up the front steps. His neighbor had made him more nervous instead of less, but he couldn’t bear the thought of showing that crazy son of a bitch any further signs of weakness—even though he was now pretty sure the owner of the bicycle was yet another magical nut job come to torture him with some new and hitherto unimagined form of ridiculous stupidity.
Abelia and her guest sat at the dining room table, conversing softly over steaming cups of tea. His mother’s eyebrows jumped up into her scalp as he strolled casually into the room.
“What are you doing home so early?”
Kevin heard her as if from a distance, her voice too faint to attract his full attention from the surprise seated at the head of the table. Nella—magically cloaked in her human form and wearing a conservative yellow dress with puffy shoulders—smiled up at Kevin and blushed.