The War Against the Assholes

by Sam Munson

  Green couch. Whiskey carboys. The sea snakes within them floating lazily, sleepily. They began to perk up as we approached, aiming their pointed blue heads at us. “They come from the other side, right,” I said. Couldn’t think of how else to express it. “Would not surprise me,” said Alabama. “You mean he never told you,” I said. “I don’t need to know,” she said, “so I don’t.” I dipped up a glassful. Handed it to her. Served myself. “Oh man,” she said, “you forget what it’s like.” I had. My gullet warm, my stomach warm, my pain gone, my vision clear, my heart light. “I never got how anyone could be a drunk until I started drinking this,” she said. The eels writhed. In pleasure from the praise. I assumed.

  “Do you hear that,” we both said at the same time. A crackle of static. Or the moment just before a peal of thunder. Or: the world itself had taken a breath. Then the music started. I’d never heard it before. Wild and piping. Strings and flutes. Alabama drew. Aimed at the hatch. The herbarium door. She backed against the wall perpendicular to the one the ladder rungs were screwed into. I followed her. Whoever came down we’d have the drop on. Nothing could get behind us. The music continued, growing wilder and wilder. A circus, held in a nameless forest by the banks of a river, I thought, glimmering with light. Alabama adjusted her grip on the gun. A door banged open. We heard it under the strange music. She checked the hatch. Nothing. It was the door to Vincent’s herbarium. A voice entered the music. Human. “Ladies and gentlemen,” it said, “allow me to introduce without further delay a world-renowned master of the art, Hobart the Magnificent!” It sounded the way Erzmund’s voice sounded in my head, in my private mental auditorium, when I read the Calendar. Nasal and mighty. As though it issued from a mouth above which glistened an obsolete and untrustworthy mustache. The last syllable stretched and stretched. Unbearably. The fifes and fiddles sang and sawed away. A steel, wheeled table shot out of the open herbarium door. Eight feet long. A coroner’s table. The herbarium far too small, I knew, to contain anything of that length. A white sheet covered the top. Through which you could pick out the contours of a human form: tip of nose, ends of feet. “This isn’t funny,” Alabama said. I got ready. For what? Don’t know. Violence. Speed. My own art, I suppose. The coroner’s table skidded to a halt. The music reached a crescendo. The voice released the syllable it had been torturing. Silence. We approached the table. The form beneath the sheet unmoving. “We will find you, and we will kill you,” said Alabama, “whoever thinks this is a joke.” Her gun drawn. Her voice echoing.

  The form beneath the sheet jerked. Leaped to its feet. A Halloween ghost. With no eyes or mouth. I heard Alabama’s finger tighten on the trigger. The sheet seemed to whip itself into sudden life, darkening, reddening as it whirled, guided by a pair of small, well-formed human hands at the ends of thin, delicate arms. Beneath the sheet stood a boy in a tuxedo. Pristine black and white.

  It was Hob. Throat whole. Eyes merry. A barely suppressed grin distorting his face. He finished whirling the white sheet through the air. Now black. A velvet cloak with a red satin lining. Clasped closed with a golden chain bearing a symbol. Lapels gleaming. Shirtfront blazing white. He looked like a fucking magician. “Abracadabra, bitches,” he shouted, and jumped down from the table. Flubbed the landing. Ended up on one knee. “Still need to work on the dismount,” he said, “but otherwise: sterling, though I say it myself.” Alabama rushed up to him and grabbed him. “You asshole, I almost fucking,” she said. Panting in fury. Her cheeks and neck bright red. She looked terrifying. Hob lifted two placating hands. “I deserve that. To be called that.” “Hey, man,” I said. Because I could think of nothing to say. “That’s all? I return from the dead, and I get a ‘Hey, man’? I was expecting a little more shock and awe,” he said. He was grinning nakedly now. “What the fuck, Hob,” said Alabama, “what the fuck.” Still pissed. No longer crimson faced. “Did Charthouse know,” she said. “Don’t worry about him right now,” said Hob, “I come bearing gifts.” “First of all, are you actually alive,” I said. “Ghosts don’t trip over their own feet,” said Hob. He had me there.

  “Listen though. We won. It’s over. Or it’s as good as over. We won.” The next thing he said. This half-sick, half-ultrahealthy lambency filled his face as he said it. “What do you mean we won,” I said. Hob gestured with two fingers. The steel table shot back into the herbar­ium. Wheels shrilling. The door slammed closed. He made another pass and the green couch shot out from its accustomed place against the wall and curved through the air, hovering two inches above the cement floor. Gliding to a precise stop. Its velour skin just touching our calves. “Holy shit, Hob,” I said. “Eloquent as always,” he said. “Have a seat.” I sat. Alabama sat. Hob crooked a finger and a stool trotted over, its legs thumping irregularly. “Did you guys like hook up while I was gone,” he said, “you have that postcoital glow about you.” “Shut your mouth,” said Alabama. “Doesn’t matter, anyway,” said Hob. “You can do whatever you want now. We won. We are victorious. I mean there’s still going to be some shooting but it’s over. They’re finished. We’re going to rip everything open. They’re done.” He wasn’t shouting. He wasn’t gesticulating. His lapels gleamed in the amber light. The eels in the carboys were circling furiously. “Hob, who are you talking about,” said Alabama. “Whom do you think,” he said.

  He pushed back his sleeves. Showed two empty hands. Clasped them together. Whipped them apart. A deck of cards lay on his right palm. Perfectly squared. He fanned it. We saw the full panoply. “This deck, sir and madam, despite its appearance, requires the presence of yet one more royal to be complete. Sir, I believe she is in your possession?” I checked my pocket. The queen of spades was still there. Napkin-sheathed. “Lift it above your head and show the room, please,” he said, “and then replace it in the napkin, in your pocket.” I knew what he was going to do. Another sleight I’d failed to master. He snapped the deck shut. Passed his hand over it. Fanned it open again. Fifty-two queens of spades. Their gazes blank and bloody-minded. I didn’t even bother checking my pocket. It would be empty. THE CROWS COME HOME. That’s the name Erzmund gave the sleight. I didn’t understand until then why.

  “The thing is,” said Hob, “I’m sorry about it. About all the lying. But if he’d known it wouldn’t have worked. He’s too smart. Too sensitive. Was, anyway. You had to go in there blind.” Alabama was covering her eyes and rocking lightly on the couch. “Are you kidding me,” she said, “are you kidding me, Hob.” Hob shifted on his stool. That weird glow still in his face. It made his cheeks look drawn and his eyes look shadowed. He looked, in fact, extremely tired. “You need to think rationally about this,” said Hob. “Rationally,” said Alabama. “I understand you’re upset,” said Hob. “Upset,” said Alabama. “I was upset when I thought you were dead. I was upset after. Fuck, Hob, what the fuck is the matter with you.” He fingered his golden chain. I saw what shape its clasp was in, now: the open eye. “Where’s Vincent,” I said. “He tried to give me a stroke. I saw him on the street.” “Overdoing it,” Hob muttered, “I told him none of you were to be touched.”

  To be touched: that sounded hollow. “It’s done now, though. So you guys don’t have to worry,” said Hob. “I’ll make it clear to Vincent that you’re off-limits. And your families. I mean I can’t promise anything about your second cousins.” Off-limits. You don’t have to worry. People only use those words when they’re planning to knife you. I wondered if we could take him. The way he’d moved that couch suggested no. “Was Mr. Stone off-limits, too,” said Alabama. Hob massaged his jawbone. The gesture of a man several decades older. “Look,” said Hob, “you can’t get everything you want. Terms of the deal. She goes AWOL when you guys show up. Stone gets the hook. He’d been living on grace anyway. Statistically I mean. So you can’t even say it’s unfair.” She. I knew who he meant. Alabama did, too. “With her. A deal. With the Pale Scourge.” “That’s just offensive, Alabama. Their propaganda,” said Hob. “And what do you mean don
e,” I said. “That’s the beauty part. Potash is done. He’s gone. Don’t you guys get it? You should be happy,” said Hob, “I did this for you. I mean I did it for me but for you too. For all of us.” He looked deathly sick. He looked radiantly healthy. He looked like a king and he looked like a beggar. I can’t explain it. That inner light. His drawn face. “And what if we hadn’t made it back,” said Alabama. “Everybody makes it back,” said Hob. “You’re saying that based on what,” I said. “The evidence suggests that you should not doubt my expertise, Michael.” He had me there. “Where’s Charthouse, Hob,” Alabama said. Again.

  “We won. Why don’t you guys understand that. We’re going to rip everything wide open. Everything. You don’t even know. Look.” He flicked his hands. A tumorous iron bracelet appeared in each. Riven clean through its circumference. “Look at these.” He tossed a bracelet into my lap. As soon as I picked it up a rolling, vertiginous, slimelike sense of illness overcame me. The metal burning cold. “You see? That? That’s over. How can you tell me it’s not worth it. It’s all going to change. Just wait. Wait and see. I promise. You won’t even believe what we’re going to do.” “It’s over for Mr. Stone, too, Hob,” said Alabama. She’d gone stiff. I could feel her muscles quivering in rage. Or anticipation. “Don’t you do anything stupid, please,” he said. I remembered how Hob had looked before we went up to the party. Weak. Afraid. Forlorn. I remembered his interrupted flight. The thud his frail body made on the gym floor. How he’d tracked me to the park without my noticing, the day he’d given me the book. Alabama’s shoulders were shaking. I thought it was tears. It was not. Just a spasm she was fighting against. “There’s no need for hysterics,” said Hob, “seriously. This is a good thing.”

  She moved faster than I’d ever seen her move. Her gun out. Six inches from Hob’s forehead. “A good thing,” she said. “Alabama,” said Hob, “I understand why you’re mad.” “Where’s Charthouse,” said Alabama. “It’s useless to do that,” said Hob. “Where’s Charthouse,” said Alabama. She cocked the hammer. An amputated sound. “You don’t,” said Hob. She tightened her finger around the black trigger. The noise of the shot deafened me. My skull ringing. My eardrums ringing. No vast night, here, into which the sound could be released. Just the concrete ceiling. Stink of cordite filling my nose and throat.

  I looked. Expecting to see Hob with a hole in his head. A wound in his arm. Nothing. He was untouched. Smiling. Unruffled. He had his hand up. Palm out. Fingers spread. The bullet had halted itself in its flight. Alabama’s face stony. A ponderous, precise blink of her pinkish eyelids. The echo died. Slowly. My ears hummed and rang. A high neutral tone. Silvery. Alabama stayed poised to shoot. The bullet quivered in the air. Hovering and rotating. End over end. It would have hit him, had it not been stopped, dead in the middle of his forehead. “Where’s Charthouse,” said Alabama. “Alabama,” said Hob. “Where is Charthouse,” said Alabama. “We can keep playing games all night if you want,” said Hob, “even though it’s not fair to you guys.” This was true. It’s hard to admit when you’re outgunned. “Wide open,” said Hob, “and you guys can be a part of it. You made it happen. It’s yours. Do you understand that.” “I understand it fine,” said Alabama. She was staring into Hob’s face. Looking for a fact. One undeniable truth. Her eyes narrowed. Her lips lightly parted. “Where’s Charthouse,” she said, “where is he. Just tell me. Even if.” Almost a whisper. The bullet glowed: molten orange. It flowed upward in thin, bright threading streams, blossoming outward, darkening. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. Hob was barely exerting himself. When you’re in the presence of genius, you have to be impressed. A metal flower. An iris. “Hob,” said Alabama, “where is he.”

  He eyed the flower. “It takes a lot of work to accomplish anything,” he said, “you both know that. And part of that work is compromise. Stone was nonnegotiable.” “What,” said Alabama. Her voice flattened. Quiet. “And really John is the only part I feel bad about. I mean that. So don’t be sentimental,” said Hob, “because it was unavoidable. Once my brother got on board. He was propping him up. Stone too. But fuck him, actually. He was old. Vincent was like those guys that used to give Kennedy his painkillers. Sworn to secrecy.” Hob proffered the bloom. “They make me think of you,” he said, “irises. They’re lovely, the way you are.” The metal iris gleamed. The eels circled in their carboys. I smelled ozone and sulfur. As though we were already in an antechamber of hell. Blame my education for that image. If you go to a Catholic school, you’ll leave with a picture of hell in your head. Inculcating it is their specialty.

  Hob would not shut up, after that. After our silence. As though we had admitted defeat. He told us everything. How Messaline had come to him, shortly before he’d given me his copy of the Calendar. In a dream, he said. One so real you could not distinguish it from waking life. She wore a black gown. She had her raven with her. She told him about the mappa. About Quinn. Everything after that, said Hob, had gone as planned. A rarity. “And what would have happened if it hadn’t,” said Alabama. Hob shrugged. “I have only faith in you. Come on. You know that. Even if I do think big.” He grinned. His teeth as blazing white as his shirt. He spoke with perfect equanimity. Explaining that Potash deserved what he’d gotten. That Quinn deserved worse. Charthouse and Stone, he said, were moving too slowly. Their whole moral understanding of the situation was outdated. They couldn’t be expected to cope under current conditions. The constant vigilance and attrition. The crows. There was no need for it. They exacerbated the need for it. Modern life, he said, had moved past them. With Potash gone, he explained, life would change even more. In ways we could not yet imagine. We’d see. It would take time. Not much. Not anything unendurable. He seemed drunk. I felt drunk. Either from the whiskey or his slippery speaking. Or the late hour. Or all of it. The iris rotating in his hands. The two black arrows of his lapels. I asked where she was now. “You know where she is,” said Hob. “So you’re her boss,” said Alabama. He didn’t speak. He smiled.

  Alabama shoved her gun back into her waistband and stood up. Hob never lost his odd, small grin. “Guys, this is like outside the bound­aries,” he said, “okay? Just wait. Just be patient. You’ll see.” Alabama sighed. Weary blood. Weary flesh. My eyelids dropping. I don’t make speeches. “I’m leaving,” I said. “What,” said Hob. “You heard me,” I said, “and you can kill me if you want. Or have her kill me or whatever. It won’t make you right.” It was bizarre: he could have murdered us. With a wave of his hand. With a thought. Instead he sat there, smiling and spinning the stalk. I kept expecting a blow. Or pain. Or simple darkness. Hob’s face still unhealthily radiant. He would not look me in the eye. He twiddled the metal flower instead. “I would never do anything to hurt you guys,” he said. His voice cracked as he said the word hurt.

  I knew he meant what he said. Insane as it sounded. He looked too exhausted to lie. He looked too much like a young king to lie. We stood there. It was really awkward. The awkwardness made me forget, for one heartbeat. All of my muscles were twitching. Singing. Begging me to go after him. I hated it. I hated being beaten by this schoolmate. So weak and frail. He’d outplayed us, though. When you’ve lost, you’ve lost. No amount of fury will change that. “Good-bye,” said Alabama. “Later, skater,” said Hob. “I’m not coming back to school,” he said to me, “so don’t worry about like running into me in the halls. I have a lot on my plate right now.” His voice deepened. He hoped we’d ask. Everyone wants to give up their secrets. In the end, you do. And I wanted to know. Part of me did, at least. The sick, sad, thought-loving part of me really wanted to know what he and Messaline had planned. What happened after we left Mountjoy. That’s another sucker’s proposition. Wanting to know. For knowing’s sake. Look what it had gotten us so far. I offered my hand for a shake. That’s what you do at the end of a game. Even when you lose. As Hob reached for it, I said, “Hey man, what’s the capital of New Zealand.” “What,” he said.

  Or started to say. I
didn’t let him finish. Smashed my forehead into his face. It’s easier when your target is shorter than you. You can aim down. When they’re the same height it’s a harder problem. You have to be more precise. Hob got to the whistle that precedes a W. We’re polite in America. We try to answer questions when asked. I hit him dead-on. I didn’t even have to drop into slow time. It was a bullshit maneuver. It was borderline criminal. I didn’t care. He clucked. He whimpered. His thin nose spread. Blood gushed from it. Staining his white shirt collar. His lips. His teeth. He staggered backward. One step. Two. He fell to the ground. When your gun fails you, you have to rely on good old human confusion. That and your stony skull. If you pull a gun, your opponent is expecting a bullet. He can stop a bullet. He can’t stop shit if he’s thinking about New Zealand. Stuff like that, by the way, asking for a country’s capital or telling a fascinating story is called misdirection. Erzmund is a major proponent of it. You get your target thinking about unrelated and trivial matters. That’s when you make your play.