Walter glanced at me fearfully as though afraid I was going to tell the world about his identity crimes. Frowning, he said, "I think something bad is going to happen."
As I nodded at him, the house announcer began again. "Get in your last orders now. The show is about to start!" A moment later, the voice sped up. "Fine china, plumbing, and fireworks graciously provided by Oh!Teen. Slut cakes and taproot beverages and suppositories by Frix Corporation. Also, please take a moment to check your listening and viewing helmet—provided by Volvo-Sony ltd. We'll let you know when you need to put it on."
A waiter, with a RiverGroup logo scarred on his bare chest, stepped beside Father.
"More shrimp loops, love chips, and those salamander hotties," Father said. "Oh, and a dozen bottles of the Frix Carrot-Chablis for the table." Leaning toward me he said, "Watch this." To the table, he hollered, "Ültra is the greatest of all time!"
Like lemmings, they all cheered back. Jun stood, beat his chest, and bellowed, "Deadly Ültra calamity in my brain pan!"
Right, I thought, as I grabbed one of the programs and began to flip through the shiny, unreadable ads, photos, and promises until I found a schedule. It read: 1. Hiro Bruce Rivers on Business. 2. Super-secret guests introduce new music from Alüminüm Anüs and Dark Cästle of Poünd. 3. Exciting super-upgrade announcements. 4. RiverGroup new product demonstration.
"When is the wedding?" I asked.
"Shush!" shout-whispered Father, as he leaned toward me. "It's a damn surprise!"
"Everyone knows!"
"Yes, but if we pretend it's a surprise, they can think they're smarter than us." He laughed and said, "That's the trick! People love to think they're smarter than you. And it worked," he smiled. "They're all here. Two days ago, they were threatening to give up on us, but the lousy, dumb bastards are here!"
Tan-colored foundation covered his skin. It had looked good from far away, but up close, it accentuated all the lines around his eyes and mouth, like a million, tiny, dry tributaries. Across his forehead were three deep valleys. The top two arched smoothly from side to side. The third dipped toward the bridge of his nose and came close to two vertical lines that rose asymmetrically between his brows. What occurred to me was that he looked more like a grandfather than a dad.
"But when is it?" I asked again.
"Can't wait to get into her salmon-skin panties?" As he laughed, I could see how the alcohol was slowing his motor skills and making his eyelids heavy.
"The greatest Ültra band is Töxic Tësticle Färm!" proclaimed green-faced Jun as he held up his arms as if in victory.
"No!" scoffed Father, whipping his sleeves at him. "Alüminüm Anüs is the greatest. They're big lard! They kill those tiny Tësticles in every way!"
"Tësticle's Kiss the Axe Meät," declared Jun, throwing up his hands again, "is the greatest God damned, total, super, fucking classic of all time—forever—no argument!"
"God, no!" cried Father. "It's butt garbage! Right, my spaceship?" He looked to his girl, but she just shrugged. "My dick can fart better than that song!"
While they swore and argued about bands, costumes, and lyrics, I watched Father. The problem was, after drinking carrot all afternoon, and now with his old rage buddies, he was happy—happier than I had seen him in a long time. I didn't like it. He had no idea what I was going through or felt, or why I was going to destroy the both of us.
"Can you feel it?" he asked them, gesturing around the PartyHaus. "A fearful anticipation is building like a pandemic! And we're in for real, clean-your-colon Ültra."
"We never miss Anüs," said one of the lettt brothers.
"Not one single performance," agreed the other.
"I missed them only once," said Father. "And I was unconscious!" He laughed, and then added what he thought was the final punch, "Same result, though!"
As if to derail his evening, I told him, "I saw Mother."
Turning, he asked, "What are you talking about?"
"I saw her. I talked to her!"
"You better not!" he said, leaning in so we wouldn't be heard. "I forbid it! I let that whore see you after the shooting, but I don't want you talking to her or hearing any of her super-bullshit lies."
"And now!" boomed the house voice, as the curtains parted to reveal the enormous gold, silver, chrome, ice, and black-satin decorated stage. With its three sets of curved, light-blue stairs, angular crystalline walls, and strange, intricate dark blue foliation, it resembled the collision between a glacier and a lingerie factory. On the fifteen-story-tall screen in the back spun a thousand RiverGroup logos. "It's time to say hello to a man so visionary, he has his toilet paper laid out for next week . . . a man with so much brains, he has to keep most of them in his colon . . . a leader so strong, even his underwear stands at attention!"
As the crowd laughed and clapped, I told Father, "They're not lies!"
"I don't want to hear it!" He pointed one of his thick fingers in my face. "Shut up about that bitch freak of your God damned mother!" Grabbing one of the carrot bottles, he downed a thick gulp.
"She told me everything." My words were swallowed up in the announcer's.
"Join me in welcoming President, ceo, coo, cio, cpo, Chief Programmer, and all-around Super Code Bastard, let's tear down the PartyHaus for the biggest, loudest, and the lardest rager of all time . . . Ültra lover, silence hater, the screaming, howling master of the pelvic thrust, party critter numero uno, Hiro . . . Bruce . . . Rivers!"
After glaring at me once more, Father jogged to the stage and tripped up the five steps. Once he'd regained his balance, he cried, "Children of pain! Let's rage on the stage! Let's crack our spine and drink wine! Let's grind our ass and make some gas." The audience's enthusiasm dimmed as if disappointed with what were the oldest and lamest Ültra shouts. Undaunted, he pumped his fists in the air and sent the floppy bags of his shirtsleeves in motion. "Be my Ültra baby of anguish!"
That got them going again.
"Come on up!" he said to his girl. "Before we begin, I'd like to introduce my newest cunt spaceship, Jenni Haska-Martin-Biochem, who used to work as a monkey trainer for Frix Corporation." As she came to his side, he walloped her plastic-covered ass. "She's great, but with this great crowd tonight, you never know, maybe I'll meet someone new!" Jenni puffed out her cheeks and made an angry face. Many laughed as if she were funny or cute.
"All joking aside," continued Father, "this has been a great year for us at RiverGroup. Yeah, we had a few days in fucktown, and hey, there are always critics." He curled a lip in my direction. "We're back, and let's fuck the critics. We don't make our SymmetryMax products for critics! RiverGroup makes our stuff for love. And our love is stronger than ever!"
I wanted to scream at him, but told myself to be patient.
"Believe me," he continued, "we've got some secret and stunning surprises later, so stick around for the whole incredible show." On the huge screen behind him appeared a series of complicated neon pie charts that zoomed in and out, broke apart, and reassembled themselves like a mad geometric ballet. As he spoke, his girl, maybe thinking this was her moment, began licking her lips and caressing her chest. As people hooted and yelled, Father would smile and wink as if he thought it was for him. "Today," he said, "RiverGroup SymmetryMax Super-Secret-Pass 45.882 is used by forty-two percent of the market. Our SecretSuite is the standard with fifty point three percent. And our new SecretDuper Embedded CodeBitch Asymmetry-Regulator is the measure for critical applications with a whopping twenty-two percent!"
The screen was filled with numbers and graphics all flying around like gnats. I took the vial from my jacket and gazed at the flesh inside. My poor Nora. I couldn't believe what he had done to her.
"Yeah!" said Father, who had noticed Jenni now stroking her crotch. He started doing his pelvis thrusts at her. "It's about love, Ültra children! It's about love and love is all about forgiveness. We're still strong. We're still there for you! We love you!"
Clutching the vial, I shouted, "We
hate you!" and felt like I'd been possessed, like the Ültra color of the suit was contaminating or infecting me. For a moment, I wondered if I should tear it off before I lost my mind.
Walter stared at me. Across the table, though, green-faced Jun pointed and said, "That's right!" With what looked like venom in his eyes, he added, "Sweet hate!" It was odd that Father's biggest client and one of his oldest friends had just agreed. Or maybe he was drunk on carrot and had no idea what he was saying.
Sirens began whirring. Blinking orange lights surrounded the stage. Hospitality girls ran toward Father and Jenni with helmets.
"You know what this means!" said Father, apparently done with his boring business charts and his ridiculous dance. "Time to rage!"
The announcer said, "Attention! Attention! Please don your safety helmets and make sure they are securely over your ears and eyes." The voice sped up again. "By attending the RiverGroup product show, you wave all rights expressed or implied, includin—without limitation—the right to sue for optic nerve, ear drum, spinal cord, or any sensory damage, and you will not hold RiverGroup, its affiliates, or subsidiaries responsible. Safety helmets provided are not endorsed or guaranteed by RiverGroup, and should they fail, are not the liability of RiverGroup. In the event that a situation arises concerning injury, our hospitality girls will assist you, but they are not medically trained personnel and cannot and will not be held accountable for further injury or negligence." The voice returned to its normal speed. "To introduce our first song, please welcome the gigantic and super-celebrated epic star of Blood Bile and Cum2, Erik Heimlick!"
As Father and his girl took their seats, he turned away as if he were going to ignore me the rest of the show.
From stage right, Erik came rushing out covered in nothing but his own glistening sweat. "I will shatter your nuts!" he said, as that was the dreadful catchphrase that had made him famous. "Wow!" he continued, peering all around, "This is . . . I don't know . . . I mean . . . there aren't words to describe it . . . gosh . . . it's just so beyond words!"
"I saw Tanoshi No Wah," I told Father.
"Shut up! Shut up!" he roared, then glanced about as if afraid what everyone would think. In a shout-whisper he added, "Don't mention that shit. It's all fucking lies. All of it! God damned lies! Now shut your mouth, or I'll beat you right here."
"Go ahead!" I dared him. In that instant, I didn't care. I wanted him to blow us up with a stupid punch.
"Don't ruin this for me!" he said, through clenched teeth. "I've got this whole thing working lardly—don't fuck it up! Shit-face bastard licker, can't you just shut up?"
"Excuse me!" chimed a hospitality girl covered with melted lemon ice cream, "What volume would you like, sir?" She held out my helmet and smiled.
All around the others were putting on their safety helmets. The ones right in front were given clear plastic to cover themselves. I told her, "As low as possible."
She flicked rocker switches on the back of the helmet, handed it to me, and then moved on to Walter. Meanwhile, Father had slipped on his helmet, turned away again, and folded his arms over his chest.
As I slipped on mine, I felt my hands vibrating. But I was ready. I was just action now—a tiger, ready to make my leap.
On stage, Erik was back on script. "I've got something I know you're gonna love—Alüminüm Anüs. The Ültra band of all time!" The crowd roared. He made an angry face, and then, as if taunting the audience, and like he did in his horrible channel movies, shouted, "You stupid bum cums! You plastic cunts! You spoiled brain cakes! I don't think you're ready!" The crowd howled. "Are you? Are you really ready?" The seventy-three thousand shouted back yes. "No!" he waved a dismissive hand. "No, you're not ready for Ültra!" They answered again, louder. "I mean real Ültra! Not that fake crap, but real, genuine, certified Ültra. Alüminüm Anüs Ültra!" Now they were in a frenzy. Erik's carbonate plastic smile flashed brilliant white. "Okay then! Maybe you are ready! Maybe you're ready for a new song from their unreleased epic, Pulverized Entrails."
As if he had disappeared without a trace, Erik was gone. The spotlight that had illuminated him ebbed away until the PartyHaus was pitch-black. For several moments, everything was still. Then the crowd began shouting.
– Give it to us!
– Bloody our ears!
– Make me pee red!
– Hiro, you lousy bastard, flatten me!
Father stood, pumped a fist in the air and said, "I'm gonna try!" as if happy for any attention other than mine.
A naked man walked to the middle of the stage. Another, dressed in black, stepped beside him. The man in black was holding something, a stick maybe. In the darkness, I couldn't tell.
The first man's face slowly came into focus on the giant screen behind them, where before Father's pie charts had flown like giant insects. He was handsome with a proud nose, dark green eyes, and full lips. What struck me was how vacant, neutral, and nothing was his expression. It was the gaze of those perverted sculptures in the dungeon.
The two men just stood there, so I leaned toward Father again, and said, "I know what you did."
With his right hand, he tried to shush me away like a housefly.
On stage, the man in black spun around and wielded a ball-peen hammer at the head of the naked man. We saw the blow in close-up on the screen and with the impact of metal against skin, came the recognizable blast of the colossal Ültra drum. The beat was hard and powerful, like a solid smack in the face.
I held still for an instant, as if any additional force would set off the nitrocellulose. Then I moved into the chair for Elle, and scooted it behind Walter, hoping his body might shield me.
When another hammer blow hit the naked man, I could see how the force rocked his head and neck and sent him wobbling. A line of blood ran from the top of his scalp. Another blow brought another enormous thud of drum and a thick spill of blood flowed across his eyes, which made him blink, as it must have stung. Gradually the hammer's rate increased and with each hit came the same solid thud. Blood streamed over his eyes, nose, and mouth. I felt terrible for him.
Finally, a blow cracked his skull open and when it did, the head exploded and sent out a detonation of sound so loud, it made the floor bend and twist. It swatted the drinks from the table and blew the shrimp loops into the air like confetti. Had I not been behind Walter, I'm sure I would have gone up in flames.
In an instant, the stage was filled with more than a dozen drummers attacking the black and chrome munitions drums that sat before each like rocket launchers. The sound was a continuous roar, like a hurricane, a train, and a never-ending series of exploding bombs. Father and the lettt brothers grabbed our table to keep it from buzzing away. My chair began to rotate counterclockwise and Walter's started going in the opposite direction.
In the crowd behind us, people were standing, screaming, and waving their arms. Some were ripping off their clothes. Others began fighting—throwing punches and slamming their elbows into each other's ribs. Amid the chaos, the only words I could make out were love, disgust, vomit, and agony.
Hospitality girls, now in safety helmets, rescued Walter and me and locked our chairs to the floor. They cleaned the broken glass and wiped up the fallen snacks.
Beneath Father's silvery visor, I saw him mouthing along to the words as he pounded his fists on the table and thrust his hips. Jenni, beside him, held her arms in the air, where the percussive thuds shook them like twigs in a cyclone.
After a chorus of what sounded like torture in your bowels, the song crescendoed. As squealing feedback shattered lights and cracked several of the glacierlike structures on stage, I slipped off the chair and hid below the table. Around us, I saw several people grab at their ears as if in pain. Farther back, a man's helmet cracked open and his exposed head lasted just two seconds before it imploded into a bloody mass and his limp body crumpled to the floor.
The song finished with a series of yellow and green explosions that sent one of the drummer's arms—still clutch
ing his percussion hammer—spinning into the seats.
Then it was over. The shaking and vibrating stopped. The smoke cleared. The crowd roared. Erik Heimlick dashed back on stage. Blood dripped from his mouth, eyes, and ears. "The beautiful dead Ültra child of your nightmares has thus spoken!" he screamed.
The crowd began chanting something that sounded like hard horn—lard corn.
Father tore off his helmet, ran up the stairs, and threw his arms around one of the singers. "Fuck," he said, tearfully, "I needed that!"
Nineteen
Walter took off his helmet and glanced at me with a fearful frown. "Too loud," he said.
His nose was smashed and bleeding. "Walter," I said, shocked that I would have to tell him, "your nose is broken."
Looking down cross-eyed, he grasped the bone and wiggled it back and forth.
"Don't do that!" I said, revolted.
Grey Page 21