The Foul Mouth and the Headless Hunny (The King Henry Tapes)

by Raley, Richard

  Re-inflating rapidly to get back on a defensive mindset, both eyes went down to the seat to check for said knockout agent.

  It’s embarrassing.

  It really is.

  She slammed the Giant Fucking Needle into my shoulder the second I was distracted.

  FUCK ME.

  [CLICK]

  It must not have been the usual dosage since I woke up only an hour later instead of naked in a pond with pigeons eating seeds out of my asshole.

  . . . As a possibility.

  Only an hour if the car’s clock was any measure.

  “I hate you so much,” I grumbled through lips so dry I was surprised they weren’t cracked to pieces, bleeding like a leper.

  Ceinwyn was unconcerned, stabbing me in the chest with a bottle of water. “You’ll want this.”

  I bit open the drip-top and squirted half the bottle down my throat before I felt human again. “I hate you so much,” I repeated, still sounding like I at least had the flu.

  “You do not, King Henry, you’re merely humiliated that I once again was able to handle you with such . . .” she paused, searching for a word.

  “Efficiency?”

  “Let’s say: style.”

  I would’ve sulked about it, but: Auntie Badass gonna go Auntie Badass on ya occasionally. At least it had just been the Giant Fucking Needle again and not her disappearing through a wall or something. Not that you ever saw her do it, she just said she did. Miranda claimed it was impossible. That she’d break into a million pieces if she tried to vaporize, but . . . if anyone could go Shadow Cat, it would be Ceinwyn Dale.

  “Where are we?” I asked instead.

  “Welcome to the road, King Henry,” was all Ceinwyn said.

  There was a GPS in the car—the Asylum not wanting its Recruiters or ESLED agents to get lost in the wild where some Were could make trouble for them—so I clicked it on and fiddled with it. Never seen a GPS before, but being a child of the new millennia, I had no trouble figuring out the touchpad. “Coming up on Reno?”

  “Sounds about right.”

  “Don’t suppose I can convince you to stop for some gambling?”

  “Our time is too precious to waste on such frivolities, King Henry,” Ceinwyn admonished, “though I do play a mean hand of gin rummy if you’re ever bored and looking for a partner.”

  “Why do I get the feeling you cheat?”

  She let out a bark of laughter. “Every card game with mancers is filled with cheaters—that’s the point of it.”

  “Everyone just ignores that everyone else at the table is pooling?”

  “It’s only polite.”

  “Anything I should know about the teachers’ favorite cheating tactics? Might like to earn a favor or two in the next three years.”

  “Don’t play with a plant at your back, Keith Gullick uses them as spies. Don’t play with a window at your back or Wilbur Fisk will do the same with his pigeons. Rainbow Grienbrier marks the cards with UV lights, so make sure you open a new pack every few rounds, even if you have to accidentally rip one of the cards to force it.”

  “And you?” I asked her.

  She only smiled mysteriously. “A woman never reveals her secrets, King Henry, especially a Dale.”

  “People always say that at the Asylum,” I mused aloud. “As crafty as a Dale. Or: as secretive as a Dale. Never really connected it to you until you just said that.”

  “My family has a reputation for plots and counterplots.”

  “Like?”

  “If we told, then we wouldn’t have the reputation,” she lightly scolded me.

  I took it as a ‘shut up and stop snooping.’ Ceinwyn could get really close-lipped when it came to her family. I figured that one day she’d tell me more than the rumors you hear. Not that I was sure I even wanted to know. Ceinwyn was Ceinwyn, why would her family change anything? That’s the kind of outlook Welf would have, or Hope. Old Mancy bullshit that counts generations.

  I watched quietly as outside the window Reno came into view, zipped by us at many miles an hour, and then we were through. Wasn’t that exciting. Some buildings. Some casinos, but nothing like you saw in Vegas ads. Would like to go to Vegas one day. Wonder if there’s a casino just for cheating mancers?

  Reno . . . was the Biggest Little Shithole on Earth.

  But it was also the first bit of civilization I’d seen in four years. There’d been that small trip for the funeral, but I don’t consider the Central Valley to be civilization. Cars. Women. Advertisements. Women. Taco Bell. Women.

  Women . . . in dresses and jeans, big and small, tall and short, garnished with gold and silver and shitty plastic jewelry that’s the driving force behind the US trade debt with China . . . thanks, ladies!

  I’m not bad talking all the girls at the Asylum. They’re some top quality ladies, far beyond a little street rat like me should have a shot at. Val, Hope, Naomi, Quinn, Jessica, all of them beautiful in their own way. There’s even variety, Asa with that long, dark-skinned frame worthy of an African supermodel, Yvette with that curvy Cuban booty.

  But it gets old, kiddies.

  Same sixteen girls for four years, twenty-four hours a day. I knew everything about them too. Wasn’t a bit of discovery to it. Even outside of the class I still ran into the same girls all the time, be it Sabine or Vicky Welf or the crazy ass Three Queens—hold on to your pee holes!

  Other than the new school year, there wasn’t a single new girl to see and when the school year started, those new girls were Singles. I just turned eighteen and didn’t want to deal with no fourteen-year-old girl who thinks Justin Bieber is the best gift Canada has ever given the United States.

  Seriously Canada, fuck you!

  We only invaded you twice, get over it already and keep your pop stars to yourself. That shit’s like herpes: if it’s showing, you keep it your pants.

  But back to Reno.

  Women, kiddies.

  Women walking on the streets, women driving by in cars . . .

  I drooled on the passenger window a little bit.

  I’d just broken up with Val a couple weeks ago . . . time for some belated rebound sex.

  Cross country road trip . . . what better goal than to find a chick at every stop?

  Long as Ceinwyn didn’t cockblock me.

  I turned to study Auntie Badass.

  She winked at me like she could read my mind.

  Mentimancers . . . thank the Mancy that the Asylum regulates ‘em.

  I’m not usually one for regulation of any kind, but you can’t have memory readers running around unchecked. People’d be dying. Like me if Ceinwyn sensed my plan of cross country debauchery. “So, uh, where we heading on this trip?”

  “I told you, we’re heading to Denver.”

  “Just Denver?”

  “And a collection of other stops where we’ll check in on next few coming Ultra classes and make sure they aren’t getting cold feet.”

  “Only Ultras?”

  “Intras have already been formalized for 2013, the four hundred number of maximum students reached,” Ceinwyn said, her voice especially cutting.

  I thought about this. Just fucked up. “So if we find an Intra who’s fourteen, then they’re just shit out of luck?”

  “Yes,” was all Ceinwyn said.

  Man, I knew the Asylum only had so much room, but . . . it was like deciding to just not fix your cats and letting them breed, like them crazy cat hoarders all high on the pheromones. Gonna have a big problem eventually and it’s gonna smell like cat piss.

  “What if we find an Ultra?”

  “Very unlikely . . . but, as your own situation highlights, they’re allowed to join the list,” Ceinwyn informed.

  I thought about that some too. Ultra Guilt they call it. Beyond the Powers. Beyond the rules as far as some Intras I knew were concerned. I was fine with being a badass Artificer. I’d come to terms with it. I’d come to terms with the responsibility it brought and the fact I would be staying at
the Asylum for the extra three years. There’d be one-on-one learning with Plutarch, as well as teaching duties. Not on the Mancy, just regular subjects like History or Math and only for Intra classes, not Ultras. Ultras got all the good teachers. Intras just got graduate students who would rather be someplace else.

  Hell, I’m even gonna be a student-advisor during Hep . . . worst idea in the history of the planet. King Henry Price in charge of a whole class of kids, sunrise to sunset. Poor fuckers are gonna learn some new words.

  Student-advisor . . . we’d had Patrick Hanks the Super Dweeb, Matty Rivera the Be Elsewhere Guy, Lisa Daniels who was Miranda’s cousin—Miranda has a million cousins, all of them girls, all of them aeromancers—and then Lando Monahan in Quad . . . who had taken Val to the Winter Ball in Tri.

  Awkward!

  The day Boomworm kicked Lando’s ass when he got territorial about who she could spend time with was one of the best days of my life. Poor fucker couldn’t pick anything up for a week until the burns healed, even with Slush.

  Nice to know I’m not the only guy who don’t understand that chick’s bi-polar attitude.

  But enough of Boomworm. She’s in the past, right? Fucked up twice, don’t get a third try in real life.

  What I wasn’t over with in regards to being an Ultra was all the special little perks we got. Wasn’t fair. I ain’t a guy believes life is fair, but . . . I’m a guy that believes life could be fair. I’m an Artificer who’s good at breaking things . . . but part of me wants to fix things too . . . wants to right the wrongs. I’m sure one day that urge will get me into just as much trouble as my curiosity.

  I tried again to get past the Great Wall of Ceinwyn. “So . . . besides Denver? Like what? Chicago? New York? Miami? Nothing against Denver, but not exactly a tourist hotspot and I’d like to get some summer breaking in.”

  The Great Wall of Ceinwyn was unforgiving. I could just see her pulling out the string and placing it next to my hand, torturing me with how near it was, but never letting me grab it either. “I think I’ll let it be a surprise.”

  “So cruel . . .”

  “I assure you, I’m only doing it because I so look forward to the expression of joy on your face every time you hear our next destination.”

  “And you like screwing with me just to see which way I’ll eventually jump.”

  “That too,” she agreed.

  Without warning, Ceinwyn snapped the car off of the highway and towards a gas station. She pulled up to a gas pump and killed the engine. A credit card and five twenties appeared, all pushed into my hands. “I have phone calls I need to make. Fill up the car, buy drinks and snacks for the drive, and don’t get in enough trouble to be thrown in jail or I’ll leave you behind to escape on your own.”

  “Would you like me to wash the windshield too, Miss Dale?” I asked in a tone of voice that spoke about her shit and what it smelled like.

  “That would be nice,” Ceinwyn said, either oblivious or ignoring me. “We have a fifteen hour drive ahead of us, King Henry, can’t be too careful.”

  Fifteen hours in a car with The Great Wall of Ceinwyn . . . strings and papercuts and just enough in the way of tidbits to keep me from getting too hungry.

  I agreed to this torture?

  Could’ve been on that sled right now, Price . . . or in the Infirmary spending time with Miss Strange after the sled rammed you into a tree.

  “If it’s a fifteen hour drive, why didn’t we take a plane then?”

  “This will be more fun, don’t you think?”

  I should have packed more books.

  .

  .

  .

  Did I really just think that?

  [CLICK]

  Confession time.

  I’d never actually filled up a car with gas before.

  Dad always did it himself and Mom was a full service kind of lady. She liked to get the cute mechanics at this one place to run around the car doing absolutely everything to please her. I never actually caught Mom cheating on Dad or ever saw anything that went too serious, but she sure did love to flirt with strange men when a ‘Good Day’ was upon her. Flirting with strange men and embarrassing the shit out of me by asking me about girls.

  So I didn’t have a single clue about what to do at a gas pump. Another huge hole in my Asylum education. Could crack a steel plate in half at fifty yards, but can’t pump gas into a car without thinking about it. Good thing my bike is electric, all I have to do is plug that puppy in at night and she’s zooming off the next day silent as a ninja.

  How hard can it be?

  Pop open the gas cap, put in the nozzle, pull the trigger.

  Watch your paycheck flow away, a gallon of putrid, ancient, liquidized dinosaur at a time.

  Simple.

  Paying for the gas was the most interesting part, since I got to check out the credit card. Institution of Elements Platinum Card, huh. Didn’t have Ceinwyn’s name on it. It was a company card. Wonder how much damage I could do with it before she caught me?

  This was a bad thought.

  Wonder how many papercuts I’d get and on what body parts I’d get them on after she caught me?

  I finished with the gas and slid the credit card in my pocket thinking about missed opportunities. Card probably needed a pin code for the in store stuff anyway. Stealing credit cards had never really been my thing. Stealing cash from people either. I’ve done it a few times, but only if I was desperate or if the person with the cash had really pissed me off. Not that I needed much to be really pissed off before the Asylum.

  Nah, all my larceny came from stealing from stores. Bigger the store chain, less guilt I felt. Loved robbing from Wal-Mart. Felt like a freedom fighter when I was doing it. I smirked over the memories as I put the nozzle back in place on the catch.

  Ceinwyn was making her phone calls, true to what she said. She stood over to the side of the store, talking away with invisible people. Couldn’t hear what she said, but I imagined it was orders to her other Recruiters. Do this. Do that. Helping them finesse, finance, and force new students to come to the Asylum in a month’s time.

  Four-hundred of them every year and they could appear in any state, any city, even any country. The Recruiters watched over South America, the Pacific Islands, and Africa for new students too. That’s how I ended up with Ronaldo, Isabel, Asa, and Malaya in my class. Eva too, but she was a bit different; coming from Israel, she was more on the Foreign Exchange path than the Saved-From-Early-Death-In-A-Third-World-Country path.

  I don’t respect much in life, but I do respect Ceinwyn Dale. She’s doing an important job. She’s saving lives. Guess I look up to her . . . if I look up to anyone. Some of my teachers had won me over too. Fines Samson. Keith Gullick. But Samson was old, Ceinwyn was in her prime. Gullick’s a great dad and a great teacher, but he wasn’t trying to fix any problems outside of troubled students. That has its place, but teaching didn’t excite me.

  Ceinwyn Dale . . . my role model?

  More proof about how fucked up you are, Price.

  Shaking my head over how my life had ended up, I went into the ShopsMart.

  [CLICK]

  ShopsMart.

  We had some history together.

  Been stealing from ShopsMart since I was eleven, about the same time I realized I could dodge my Sunday belting by just not going home on Sunday. Meant I needed three meals. Meant I stole, lied, or cheated myself some meals. ShopsMart was always an easy target.

  At most you had two guys working, one on the cash register and the other stocking the store. Neither of them for anything beyond minimum wage. Surprisingly, Corporate Overlords, if the cogs ain’t getting paid, the cogs don’t give a shit about your merchandise disappearing.

  I scoped the Reno ShopsMart casually. Beer at the back, aisles of snacks and motor oils and condoms in between, magazines on your right with Penthouse, Playboy, and MILF Muffs, Special Teacher Edition For Naughty Students hidden behind a strategically placed wooden board, cigare
ttes and chews behind the counter. Lottery machine, slushie machine, even that machine with them rolling nasty ass hot dogs on it.

  The nostalgia almost knocked me off my feet.

  Pretty sure America the Beautiful starting playing over the radio.

  Hundred bucks for fifteen hours of driving. Ceinwyn would want energy drinks. A slushie too, the brighter its color the better. Some kind of bag filled with aerated chips and some sweet candies . . . Skittles maybe? Starbursts?

  I picked up one of them hand-baskets and went to work filling it with the most unhealthy combination of food in the existence of the human species. All the stuff I’d already mentioned plus a six pack of Dr. Pepper bottles, a huge bag of peppered beef jerky, some Double Stuf Oreos, cuz who don’t love Double Stuf Oreos? Funyuns, peppered kettle baked potato chips.

  Hungry yet, kiddies?

  Ceinwyn’s pretty crafty. Giving me a hundred dollars worth of Asylum prohibited snacks and treats was a sure way to get me to behave over the next leg of our trip. Sure, I’d left behind the best cafeteria food on the planet, but some of this stuff I hadn’t eaten in four years.

  I indulged myself and went back for a second hand-basket to fill up.

  When I plopped the pair down on the counter, the guy in the ShopsMart apron raised his eyebrows. “Shooting for diabetes?”

  “Fifteen hours on the road.”

  The cashier winced, starting in on the first basket. “Up through Utah?”

  “I guess.”

  “Hope you like rocks.”

  “Ain’t my favorite, more of a metal guy,” I said without thinking.

  “Mean like music?”

  Huh, I thought. Here was a normal guy. Straight up simple human, not a bit of anima in his pores. I looked at him for the first time, enjoying the oddity of not checking his colors to know what discipline he was, or glancing for the Ultra’s emblem on his chest. “Yeah, music . . . old stuff mostly.”

  “Hear you, my man, all they make is computerized shit nowadays. All that synthesizer crap? I can’t stand it.”

  Do they? I thought.

  I nodded along as he moved to the second basket. Still looked like I’d have a little money left over.