by Scott Colby
In hindsight, he really should’ve spotted the crazy a lot sooner.
Having already climbed to the top tier of the hill, Billy disappeared into a glittering, beeping array of the most modern machines in Donovan’s collection. Kevin drained half of his beer and followed, stepping gingerly upon the narrow wooden stairs that jutted out of the earth like crooked teeth—and which certainly weren’t up to code. He paid little attention to the first and lowest tier, a motley collection of ancient mechanical contraptions that would’ve been right at home in an episode of a reality TV show about crazy hoarders: pachinko, old school pinball tables, slot machines with mechanical reels. The next level featured machines straight out of the eighties and early nineties, dense, neon-trimmed cabinets offering a variety of entertainments still fashionable in certain circles who considered nostalgia more of a necessary accessory than an occasional indulgence.
On the third and topmost tier, after making a wrong turn and getting lost in a maze of Big Buck Hunter units of all shapes and sizes, Kevin finally found Billy feeding quarters into a shiny new Dance Dance Revolution machine, a double-wide model equipped with a huge screen and two dance pads. Nearby, Driff leaned against Street Fighter IV and sipped his sidecar, glowering at the scene over pursed lips as if attempting to locate the source of a particularly rancid fart.
“I wouldn’t have pegged you for a DDR fan, Billy,” Kevin called out.
The reaper continued pushing coins into the plastic orange slot. “Lil suggested it to me. She thought I could use the exercise.”
“She’s nice.”
“Yeah.”
“And she seems to like you.”
Billy shifted uneasily, a motion not unlike a snake shedding an old, unwanted skin. “I guess.”
“Billy doesn’t want to bang any elves because they can’t be trusted,” a squeaky voice chimed in, startling them all. “Right, Billy? Remember what you said about that she-elf in the black dress?”
The source of this interruption was a short, squat-looking thing peering at them nervously from behind the nearest Golden Tee. Kevin guessed that it was some sort of stunted troll that had probably been dropped as an infant. The word “crooked” barely began to describe the thing. Its left eye bulged out of its brow as if its skull were trying to launch it like a missile, but its right was a mere pinprick of black surrounded by a thick, bony socket. A right leg shorter than its left skewed its posture in an unfortunate direction. Kevin couldn’t help staring at the weird bony growth jutting out of the top of its skull at a funky angle. Shorter at the bottom and wider toward the top, the growth reminded Kevin of a muffin.
Remembering Nella’s warning, he quickly averted his eyes.
“Hi, Muffintop,” Billy said. “That was said to you in confidence.”
“S-s-sorry, Billy.” Muffintop’s eye bulged out even further in distress. “Still friends? Who are these people? Are they your friends too?”
“Kevin Felton and Council of Intelligence Driff,” Billy said, indicating each in turn as he positioned himself on the DDR machine’s floor pads.
That brought Muffintop trundling out from behind the machine, a yellow smile spread across his burly face. He wore a pair of bright red shorts and a black Wild Jester Crew T-shirt speckled with gray and beige stains of indeterminate origin. “Oh, wow! I’ve never met a real live Council before!”
“I’ve met a councillor,” Kevin muttered.
Driff squinted through his spectacles to examine the little creature more closely. “I wonder why.”
“Me too!” Muffintop limped right past Kevin, paying the human no attention as he zeroed in on Driff. “Want to see my scrapbook?”
“No.”
“Please?”
“No.”
“Pretty please?”
“No.”
“With sugar on top?”
“No.”
“Aww, shucks.” Muffintop visibly slouched as if Driff’s denial had knocked all the breath out of his body.
Kevin understood why Nella had warned him to avoid Muffintop, but he couldn’t help feeling bad for the little guy—nor could he resist the opportunity to mess with his elven companion. “Driff’s just messing with you, Muffintop. Scrapbooking is his favorite hobby. He and I looked at mine for a whole hour on the way over here!”
Muffintop straightened as much as he could, standing a good five inches taller. Reaching inside the elastic waistband of his shorts, he pulled out a battered leather journal stuffed to the brim with random papers and photographs and presented it proudly to Driff. The elf glared slow, painful death at Kevin and violently downed the remaining half of his sidecar.
A puff of who knew what exploded out of the scrapbook as Muffintop opened it to a random page in the middle. “This is me and Sammi Too Swag at the very first Jester Jam. He invited me backstage and we threw shurikens at a life-size cutout of Warren G. Harding…”
Snickering and warmed by the triumphant sensation of a job well done, Kevin returned his attention to Billy. The reaper was already twenty seconds or so into his first song, some perky J-pop number that substituted various train noises for vocals as a group of cartoon teenagers wearing bathrobes and rabbit ears danced on the screen around the flow of arrows directing the player where to put his feet. It wasn’t going very well: red X marks denoting missed steps littered the display, and the leading zeros in Billy’s score refused to be banished regardless of how much the reaper flailed about. At the eye of that rhythmless hurricane of awkward hyperactivity, however, stood one of the happiest people Kevin had ever seen. A genuine smile stretched from one of Billy’s ears to the other, his pupils dilated in ecstasy. Kevin stood back and watched, glad that his dour friend had found a release from his seemingly interminable depression.
An odd smell wafted into Kevin’s nose then, a mix of peat moss tinged with sharp cologne. Someone tapped him on the shoulder. “Mr. Felton?”
Turning, Kevin found himself face-to-face with a technicolor caricature of the old businessmen with whom he’d once worked. Leaning heavily on an ebony cane topped with a glittering crystal, the man smiled up at him with perfect white teeth. He wore a purple suit of the sort usually reserved for Prince performances.
“Who’s asking?”
“Donovan Pym,” the man replied, extending his skeletal right hand. “Owner and operator of this fine establishment.”
Donovan’s handshake was heartier than Kevin expected. “‘Fine establishment’ doesn’t quite cut it, sir. This place is amazing.”
“You’re kind to say so, Mr. Felton. I was wondering if you have a few moments for a private conversation.”
Kevin knew a setup when he saw one. With Billy distracted by a video game and Driff waylaid by Muffintop—the conversation had shifted to a detailed description of a foosball game with Sammi 2 Swag in August of 2005—Kevin was easy pickings. The smart thing to do would’ve been to get the attention of his two friends, but pissing off an individual with the power to create and maintain the impressive space around them would probably be a great way to get hurt. Besides which, Kevin couldn’t help being curious as to why such a person was so interested in a normal, boring human like himself.
“Lead the way.”
— CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE —
Donovan Pym escorted Kevin up and over the top of the gaming hill, using a narrow dirt path hidden between an American Idol pinball machine and an NFL Blitz cabinet. Kevin didn’t bother glancing back over his shoulder as they crested the rise; he knew Billy and Driff were lost in their own worlds and had completely lost track of him. He wasn’t sure how to feel about that.
“Did I do something wrong?”
“I don’t know,” Donovan said playfully. “Did you?”
“Maybe I could’ve been nicer to the thorn bush at the front door.”
“Don’t worry about Sparky. She’s got thick skin.”
“Seemed like a tough old broad.”
“Ha! Careful. The one thing she’s sensitive about is h
er age.” Donovan angled them diagonally down the hill, toward a spindly apple tree growing all alone about twenty feet from the surrounding woods. Thick red fruit hung from its taut limbs like bombs about to drop on an unsuspecting city.
Kevin took a quick drink of his beer. “I’m sure you didn’t go through all the trouble of dispatching the great and powerful Muffintop to distract my elven babysitter just so we can discuss the vagaries of magic bush psychology.”
“Positive about that?”
“Kind of.”
“Mmmm.”
“Am I right?”
“What do you think?”
“I think I’m right.”
“Mmmm.”
Frustrated, Kevin took another swig from his glass of free swill. Donovan seemed set on not answering any questions about his intentions until he was good and ready, and there wasn’t much Kevin could do about it beyond wait him out. For what felt like the millionth time, he wondered why all of these magic assholes insisted on being so fucking difficult.
He decided to approach matters from a different angle. “You’re not human, are you?”
“What do you think?”
“You’re not.”
“Mmmmm.”
“So, what are you, then?”
“I’m the king of this forest.”
Of course you are. “I get that you own this joint, but what species are you?”
“I do not, as you put it, ‘own this joint.’ It owns me. Every forest must have a king.”
Remembering that he was dealing with an individual with the resources to block out light pollution and maintain a secret bar out in the middle of nowhere, Kevin bit back a sarcastic retort. “Driff said you have a large family.”
Donovan nodded. “Brothers, of a sort. All kings of their own forests.”
“Do they all have such kickass bars?”
“Certainly not. Donovan’s is one of a kind.”
As they approached the lone apple tree, Kevin began to catch a weird vibe. The tree itself seemed devoid of substance, as if it were a hologram of sorts deployed in the middle of the woods. Its edges were simultaneously too soft and too ragged, its shape not quite round enough. As he watched, a ripe apple plummeted to the ground without making a sound or displacing the grass upon impact—it took over its new location like an unwelcome relative who slipped in through the back door and claimed the best seat on the couch when no one was looking.
With a tap on his elbow, Donovan guided Kevin around the tree in a tight counterclockwise loop. The scenery shifted suddenly; the surrounding forest closed in around them, the grass became thicker and shorter, and the temperature dropped several degrees. Disoriented by the abrupt change, Kevin stumbled forward and caught himself on the edge of a red picnic table.
“Careful, Mr. Felton,” a familiar British accent cooed. “You know what they say about that first step.”
Straightening, Kevin fixed a wary eye on Mr. Pemberton. The reaper keeper sat on the opposite side of the table behind a thick old book and a steaming cup of tea. Kevin had known all along that he was walking into a setup of some sort, but never in a million years would he have expected Mr. Pemberton would be involved. The man’s appearance was even more surprising than suddenly teleporting elsewhere in Donovan’s forest.
“We’re still in Illinois, right?” he asked nervously. The clearing around them was barely big enough to contain Mr. Pemberton’s picnic table. Dense rows of pines and firs hemmed them in as tightly as any solid walls could have. The strange apple tree behind him seemed to be the only way in or out. He glanced up at the sky but didn’t recognize any of the constellations.
“In a manner of speaking,” Donovan replied.
“Uh-huh. And you’re sure I didn’t do something wrong?”
“I don’t know. Did you?”
Frustrated, Kevin redirected his question to Mr. Pemberton. “Did I?”
The old man closed his book ominously. “To tell you the truth, I’ve been wondering about that.”
Before Kevin could reply, Donovan snatched his right hand in a death grip. “The King of the Forest knows the souls of all creatures,” he whispered.
The hair on Kevin’s arm stood on end as something that felt like static electricity flowed into him from Donovan’s hand. “Let go!” he protested.
The strange old man held tight, his attention elsewhere. The wind picked up around them, flowing into and out of the tight clearing in a whirling vortex. Branches lashed back and forth against the neighboring trees, building in a drumming crescendo as Donovan hummed along. Beside them, Mr. Pemberton frowned as his teacup exploded and splattered its contents all over the table and the reaper keeper’s perfectly pressed suit.
Kevin flinched as he felt something ethereal worm its way into his brain, moving deftly from neuron to neuron as it searched for its target. An array of smells—imaginary, perhaps, triggered by the intrusion into his head—assaulted his nostrils: peat moss, cedar chips, pollen, blood. The searching tentacle wrapped itself around something Kevin intuitively knew he’d done a shitty job trying to hide, and then it yanked. White light exploded behind his eyes and every muscle in his body screamed as Donovan pulled the information out of his mind.
When the pain faded and he could once again make sense of his surroundings, Kevin found himself lying atop the picnic table. To his left, Mr. Pemberton watched with interest. To his right, Donovan greeted him with a sigh and a shake of his head.
“Poofy,” he mumbled, defeated. Reaching into his back pocket, Donovan withdrew his wallet, took out a hundred-dollar bill, and passed it across Kevin’s chest to Mr. Pemberton.
“Told you,” the old Brit replied sadly as he pocketed the cash.
Groaning, Kevin closed his eyes and banged the back of his head against the picnic table in frustration. That was it, then: the person closest to Billy had gotten hold of Kevin’s secret. The difference between Mr. Pemberton discovering the true identity of the man with whom the reaper’s fiancée had run off and Billy himself learning it was so miniscule as to be nonexistent. As of that moment, Kevin Felton was effectively dead.
And as a dead man, he really had nothing left to lose. “Did you two assholes really place a bet on me?” he snarled. Rolling onto his side, Kevin glared down at Donovan. “And what the fuck gives you the right to go digging around in my fucking head without asking?”
The King of the Forest was not intimidated. “You’re a guest on my land, Mr. Felton. As such, you are subject to my rules.”
“Fuck your land and fuck your rules, you crazy old fuck!”
“You don’t mean that.”
Kevin’s face turned purple. “The hell I don’t!”
“Mmmmmm.”
Before Kevin could launch into another tirade, Mr. Pemberton placed a calming hand on his shoulder. The gentleness of the gesture shocked him into silence.
“I apologize for both the deception and the intrusion, Mr. Felton,” the reaper keeper said. “I’ve had my suspicions, and I had to know for sure. Forgive me, but I didn’t think you’d speak truthfully if I simply asked.”
“Damn right,” Kevin snapped.
Mr. Pemberton sighed. “I understand why you’re concerned about Billy finding out that you’re ‘the other man,’ but you’re incorrect if you assume I’m going to run off to my master with that information like a child tattling on a sibling.”
Kevin snorted and looked at his feet. “Right. Like that isn’t your job.”
“I’m responsible for the reaper’s well-being, yes, but I’m not sure that task is best served by ruining his relationship with his new best friend.”
“So why bother yanking the truth out of my head? Why not let things play out as they may?” The answer came to Kevin before Mr. Pemberton could reply. “You want something from me, don’t you? And now you’ve got the leverage you need to get it.”
“Of course. I’m human, am I not?”
“I always thought so.” Kevin shook his head. “What do you w
ant?”
Mr. Pemberton smiled. “As previously stated, I want what’s best for Billy—and a little something for myself.”
“Fine. Name it. Can’t be worse than getting my soul sucked out through my nose.”
“Oh, that’ll depend on a variety of different factors. First things first, however: how do you really feel about my ward?”
“Best reaper ever!” Kevin said sarcastically. Still, he had to admit that Billy had grown on him a bit. “He can be a frustrating twit, but he’s all right once you get to know him. He might actually turn out to be kind of fun if I can get him to open up a bit more.”
Mr. Pemberton’s eyes shifted to Donovan. “True,” the King of the Forest said.
“Wait a minute,” Kevin protested. “If this guy’s a lie detector, why the fuck did he have to burrow into my brain like some kind of parasite from a bad B movie?”
Donovan cocked his head and smiled innocently. “How else did you expect me to set a baseline and calibrate myself to your particular thought processes?”
“I don’t know. Ask me a few questions you already know the answer to, maybe?”
“Mmmmm.”
“Did you seek out Nella upon your return or did she come to you?” the reaper keeper asked.
Telling the truth was obviously Kevin’s best and only option. “She came to me. Before all this started, I thought she was some sort of recurring dream.”
“Stupid, but true,” Donovan said.
Mr. Pemberton paused, scrunching his face as if his next question were built of the most disdainful words he’d ever uttered. “Why the lies? Why did you befriend Billy? Why do you continue to string him along?”
Kevin shook his head. “I don’t really want to have my soul stolen by my girlfriend’s jilted ex. If you’ve got a better way for me to avoid that, I’m all ears.”
“True.”
“I wish I had a better idea to give you,” Mr. Pemberton said. “I’ve tried talking Billy out of his crusade against the man called Poofy, but my words have fallen on deaf ears. I knew there had to be more to your involvement, Mr. Felton, but I never really suspected you of anything malicious. This meeting was designed merely to silence my own nagging insecurities, of which we all have many.”