Curses!

by J. A. Kazimer

  Apparently satisfied, she pointed to our ragtag group with a sausagelike finger that smelled a bit like sausage. “Who’s the lucky fellow?”

  “Lucky” wasn’t the word I’d use, but what the hell. Winslow glanced at the king, the king at Bruce, and Bruce to Prince Rotten, who was trying to hide under the table. I smiled, watching his struggle. “That’s him.” I pointed to the prince, who had taken refuge in the fetal position.

  The old stripper yanked Charming to his feet, smashing his face into her boobs. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

  “Ch ... mmm ... g,” he muttered through mounds of flesh.

  “Well, Charming, you and I are going to have some fun!” As she said those words, the jukebox kicked in. “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” sprang from the speakers.

  Bruce jumped up from his seat. “Oh, I love this song.”

  Before I knew what was happening, the tavern turned into an episode of Maledetto’s Got No Talent, complete with a drunken egomaniac eating off the floor.

  “Don’t eat that,” I said to the king, who was gnawing on a piece of questionable jerky. He spat it out and smiled. I shook my head and helped him to his feet.

  In front of us, Charming sat pinned to a stool, the stripper gyrating above him. Tiny pink tassels attached to her melon-sized nipples swirled in circles as she moved in an almost hypnotic pattern. Charming whimpered, ducking his head to avoid taking a tit in the eye. I grinned. I never saw a more pained look on a man’s face. It made my villainous day.

  Of course, my happiness quickly turned into a nightmare when the old stripper turned her attention my way. “You like what you see, sugar?” She smacked her round ass with her manly hands.

  “Sorry, I’m gay,” I said with a shrug. Sadly, she didn’t look even mildly disappointed, and worse, Charming, who must’ve overheard our conversation, appeared thrilled. He smiled and shot me a wink. I grabbed a shot of whiskey from the bar, downed it in one drink, and gagged. And not from the whiskey.

  The old stripper flashed her breasts at the king and smiled. He responded in kind, lifting his shirt to show off his flabby body and weak smile. Either he liked what he saw in the old stripper, or he’d developed some kind of twitch from the poison the queen had fed him for lunch.

  From here, the bachelor party slipped over the edge and into complete chaos as the stripper removed layer after layer of clothes to the steady beat of eighties hair bands. I stopped watching the display once her prosthetic leg came off. A couple of blind mice cheered her on, but otherwise, the rest of the tavern watched in horrified silence.

  When the show was finally over, the stripper took a bow, her breasts flopping to the floor as she collected the seventy-five cents in tips. Sixty of which was left by the king.

  The king approached the stripper and smiled. “Why don’t we go back to your place, luv?” the king asked. “Have us a good time.”

  “Okay, but I have to warn you,” the old stripper paused, “I live in a shoe. I have kids too. And I don’t know what to do... .” She trailed off as they headed toward the door. The king looked over his shoulder and winked.

  “I need another drink,” I muttered to no one in particular and headed for the bar.

  Chapter 35

  An hour and twelve shots of rye later, I wobbled from the bathroom back to my bar stool. Except for us hard-core villains, the tavern had cleared out, thanks in part to Bruce and Charming’s karaoke duet of “Endless Love.” Try as I might, I couldn’t erase the ghastly vision from my mind.

  “Another shot,” I said to the barkeep. “Make it a triple.”

  The villain to my right nodded his approval. I knew he and the other three guys at the bar were villains, mostly because all four of them had already tried to steal my wallet, but I didn’t recognize any of them. By the stench wafting off the nearest villain, I figured they were West Coast villains here on vacation.

  I crawled onto my bar stool, blinking under the dim light as the room spun in five directions, none of which provided any insight into what I was still doing at the tavern when I should be resting up for the big day. Charming and Dru’s wedding.

  Sober up, my brain ordered. I needed to be at the top of my game tomorrow, not hungover, stinking of stale beer and cigarettes.

  After all, tomorrow would be a busy day, thanks to too much alcohol and the stupid union. By my fourth shot this evening, I’d promised Winslow I’d stop the wedding. By my eighth, I’d agreed to be Charming’s best man. Hell, by my thirteenth, I might propose to the black sheep at the end of the bar. I glanced her way. She baaahed in response.

  There was one bright spot in the day to come. Asia. In less than twelve hours I would walk her down the aisle. I planned to take her into my arms, check her for weapons, and lock her in the nearest tower until death did one of us part.

  Probably mine.

  “You’re Stiltskin?” asked the villain on my right.

  I nodded. “Call me RJ.” Here it comes, I thought. Villain #1 would either buy me a drink or punch me in the nose. The price of infamy.

  “Told you, Smee,” he said to the villain on my left. “You owe me a beer.” Villain #1 then turned to me. “I’m Captain Cross-Stitch. This is my first mate, Starkley, and that’s Smee.” He motioned to the other two villains. Smee wore an eye patch over his left eye, Starkley over his right. Other than that I couldn’t tell them apart.

  Cross-Stitch, on the other hand, was a different story. With his shaggy hair, tattooed arms, and the long knitting needle where his left hand once was, he stood out in any crowd. The parrot on his shoulder and his peg leg didn’t help him blend in either. The poor guy fit the villainous image for a pirate to a T. Odd since Maledetto was landlocked.

  I nodded to the knitting needle and the intricate cross-stitch attached to it. “Pretty.”

  Cross-Stitch shrugged. “Knitting calms me.”

  Fair enough. Drinking helped calm me, but each to his villainous own.

  “RJ.” Cross-Stitch eyed me up and down. “What’s a New Never City villain like you doing in Maledetto? Slumming it?”

  It was my turn to shrug. I wasn’t about to share my current union troubles. If these villains sensed any weakness, I’d find myself swabbing more than their decks. “Vacation,” I said. “You know how it is. Sometimes you just gotta get away from the city. Clear your head.”

  “Not me.” Smee frowned. “I’d give my left eye to be a New Never City villain.”

  I tilted my head to the side. From what I could see Smee’s left eye was already missing, but I wasn’t about to get in the age-old New Never City villain versus West Coast villain argument. The evil was always greener on the other side.

  I snatched up my shot glass and slammed the fire-infused liquor. “Another round,” I called to the bartender, waving my hand to my new friends. “And whatever they’re having.” Miss Muffet always said, “It’s cheaper to buy a villain a drink than to pay for x-rays and a new set of teeth. So, RJ, buy me that damn drink and stop whining, the bleeding stopped.”

  Starkley rubbed his chin. “Stiltskin. Any relation to Natasha?”

  Shit. Here it comes. I raised my left hand to protect my face and lowered my right to protect my family jewels. Natasha was both well known and loved in our villainous circles. On the day we married, many a villain swore vengeance against me. The sex was well worth it, though, even if our marriage wasn’t.

  I waited for Starkley to make his move. When nothing happened I lowered my left hand. “Natasha was my ex-wife.” I tried to picture her pale face, blood-red lips, and black heart but her image faded, replaced with Asia’s smile and quick laugh.

  “Awww ... shit, man,” Cross-Stitch said, draping his knitting needle arm across my shoulder. The point jabbed me in the back. I winced, but didn’t comment. He continued, “Natasha was one fine villain.”

  The other two villains as well as the bartender nodded in agreement. That she was. Even after our divorce I never doubted her villainous skills. At one time, she lived
and breathed villainy, and the union. Miss Muffet called Natasha the best villain in the city; of course, she always ended that statement with, “until she married you.”

  The union had introduced us. I was on assignment in Greenwitch Village, stealing Girl Scout cookies from Brownies (Thin Mints only; for obvious reasons the union hated Thanks-A-Lots), when Natasha arrived to cover my shift.

  Instead of taking a much-needed break, we spent the next eight hours talking and having sex in the bathroom of a Villains-R-Us. The talking took up about ten minutes. The only reason our marriage lasted as long as it had.

  I slammed another shot as the bartender poured yet another round. Memories of Natasha and the whiskey left a sour taste in my mouth. Cross-Stitch raised his shot glass, the other villains followed suit. When my glass remained unmolested on the bar, Cross-Stitch gave me a nudge in the ribs with his knitting needle.

  “Ow!” I rubbed at the wound. Blood stained my shirt a muddy red. Cross-Stitch nodded to my shot glass, and I sighed. “Fine,” I said, lifting the glass with a wince.

  “To Natasha,” Cross-Stitch said. “May she keep the devil on his toes.”

  The other villains shouted, “Hear hear.”

  I closed my eyes and swallowed the whiskey without comment. Being married to Natasha had convinced me of one thing: The devil was one unfortunate bastard. I smiled at the thought and returned to drowning every brain cell in my head.

  “RJ, you a union man?” Cross-Stitch asked a few minutes later.

  My bloodshot eyes swung to his face. “I used to be.” Which was true. Until last week, I would’ve died for the union, and had on occasion. But not anymore. Now I was my own man. Impotent, sure, but my own man. I laughed. Who was I kidding? Lost in my thoughts, I missed Cross-Stitch’s next words. “Sorry,” I said. “What were you saying?”

  “I asked if Natasha had a chance to talk to you before she ... umm ...” Cross-Stitch winced.

  “Went ahhhhh and fell to the ground dead?” I tilted my head. “Is that what you’re talking about?”

  Redness stained Cross-Stitch’s cheeks, whether from embarrassment or anger I wasn’t sure. “Did she say anything to you?” he repeated, his tone urgent.

  “Like what?” I asked. Warning bells clanged inside my pickled brain. Why was Cross-Stitch suddenly so interested in Natasha’s final moments? Did he know who killed Cinderella? Was he about to reveal her murderer? Excitement swirled with alcohol in my stomach, turning me from just a drunk to an energized one.

  “Like ... that she was starting her own union.” Cross-Stitch cast a furtive glance around the bar. “One with a 401(v) for all villains, not just the senior staff.”

  “And dental,” Starkley said, flashing a mouthful of rotting gums and chipped teeth. “Don’t forget the dental.”

  Smee added with a tap to his eye patch, “Vision too.”

  “Vision and dental too,” Cross-Stitch added with an eye roll.

  I blinked a few times. “What’s this got to do with me?” Last thing I needed was to get involved with union politics. Over the years, a handful of villains tried to break the union without luck. Some, like Jimmy Hoffa-Cricket, were never seen again.

  “We want you to take Natasha’s place,” Cross-Stitch said.

  “Place?” What the hell were these guys taking about? I had my own apartment, why would I want Natasha’s?

  Cross-Stitch jabbed his needle my way. “We want you to be the next union boss.”

  Me? A union boss? I could barely tie my own shoes. I laughed, but quickly sobered when Cross-Stitch didn’t join in. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  He nodded, as did the other two villains. The barkeep looked unsure, and the black sheep looked better and better. I shook my head. “Another round for my friends,” I said, hoping that if I got them drunk enough they’d forget this ridiculousness. I couldn’t be the face of the new union, not with two black eyes, a lump on the bridge of my nose, and seven or so random bruises framing my visage.

  “We need you,” Cross-Stitch said. “All of villainy needs you.”

  “And I need another drink,” I said, draining my fourteenth shot. “Barkeep?”

  Chapter 36

  The bartender cut me and my fellow brethren off after our eighteenth drink. “I’ll call you a ride,” he said, placing a cup of coffee in front of me. I shrugged, nearly falling off the bar stool. Maybe I did have one too many. I grinned at the black sheep with her tongue in my ear. “Hold that thought,” I said and rose from the stool. “I’ve gotta take a leak.”

  “Baaahhhh,” she said in response.

  I was shitfaced, literally, as I’d just slipped on a wet paper towel in the bathroom and landed face-first in a suspicious trail of brown sludge on the floor. Stomach rolling, I rubbed away the smelly substance from my cheek and shakily got to my feet. I turned on the bathroom faucet, waiting for the water to heat enough to boil my skin. After all, how would I explain a sudden case of E. coli of the cheek, let alone explain a bout of mad sheep disease?

  My eyes glanced into the mirror and I shivered. “Mirror, mirror on the wall ... ,” I began.

  “What the fuck do you want?” the mirror asked. I stumbled backward, smashing my head against the stall door. “Well?” the mirror asked again. “I haven’t got all night.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “Wrong fairytale.”

  I staggered for the door, bouncing off the bathroom walls like a pinball. It took me a few minutes to find the exit, but once I did, I ran at full drunken stumble for the bar.

  “Dudes,” I said. “You’re not gonna believe this!”

  No response.

  “Cross-Stitch?”

  Still nothing.

  “Hey.” I shook Cross-Stitch’s shoulder. “Wake up. You won’t believe what just ...” Cross-Stitch’s head lolled to one side, blood leaking from his blue lips. “Ummm ... Cross-Stitch? Are you dead?”

  I didn’t expect an answer from him or the other two villains, each with ten inches of arrow sticking out of their chests. Pink feathers littered the bar floor.

  Fuck. Natasha’s killer was back, out there waiting in the dark. “Call the sheriff,” I yelled to the bartender. He ran out from the office, fuzzy black patches of sheep wool coating his bare chest.

  “What happened?” he screamed. “Did you shoot them?” His eyes widened and he ran to the pay phone behind the bar. “Stay back,” he warned me, the phone at ready.

  “I didn’t do this.” I shook my head and took a step toward him. “It wasn’t me.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I swear it.” I stumbled closer. “Someone else killed them. The same person who killed Natasha.”

  “But you killed Natasha. The New Never News said so.” He nodded to the newspaper lying on the bar top. Sure enough, the front page read, HUSBAND KILLS FORMER WIFE. CAN YOU GUESS HIS NAME?

  “Come on,” I said. “Do you believe everything you read?”

  “Of course.”

  Fair enough. I stepped forward, intent on grabbing the phone in the bartender’s hand and calling the damn cops myself. Two feet away, my foot slid in a puddle of what I hoped was only blood. I flipped in the air, landing on my head. The blow and too much booze knocked me out for a few seconds. Little pink birds swirled around my head, and my vision faded to black.

  When I came to, the bartender still stood behind the bar, the phone clutched in his hand. He was dead, though, a pink-tipped arrow through his throat. A pink-tipped arrow meant for me. My clumsiness had saved my life. And not for the first time. Dumb luck, sure, but luck nonetheless.

  I staggered slowly to my feet and limped to the phone. “Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?” the operator asked through the static of the phone.

  I lifted the receiver. “No emergency. Not anymore.” My eyes searched the shadows of the bar for a killer only to settle on Asia’s pale face in the window.

  She raised her hand and waved.

  Chapter 37

  “Come on,” Asia said, p
ulling me from the bar and into the dark night. One lone star shone down on us, making Asia glimmer like a diamond freshly mined by a dwarf. She paused in our escape long enough to brush a lock of my hair from my face. “We have to get you out of here before the sheriff arrives.”

  “Why?” I rubbed my aching head.

  Asia shook her head. “So you don’t get arrested for murder, stupid!”

  “Sweet talk’s not going to work.” I grabbed her hand. Her skin felt cold against mine. “Why’d you do it? Those villains had nothing to do with us. Why kill them?”

  “What?!” She shook her head. “Are you insane?”

  “Not that I know of, but maybe you are. That would explain a few things.”

  “Thanks a lot.” She smacked me in the arm. “But I didn’t kill anyone. Mary called me to pick you up, so I did.”

  “Mary?”

  “The bartender. Mary. Short for Marion.” Asia paused at my blank expression. “As in Marion had a little lamb?”

  From what I could tell, Marion also had a little sheep on the side. But who was I to judge?

  “When I arrived I saw you through the window and waved.” She leaned closer. “How drunk are you?”

  “Not drunk enough to hallucinate four dead guys.” Yet drunk enough to believe Asia. Sure, she wanted me dead, and on occasion, had attempted to kill me, but why kill the other villains? Her aim wasn’t that bad. “You did see them too, right?”

  She nodded, her face pale in the moonlight. “Were they killed because they knew something about Cindi’s death?”

  Huh, I hadn’t thought of that. It made sense, I supposed, or as much sense as anything else about this case did. Natasha knew Cindi’s killer, and the villains knew Natasha.

  A siren bellowed in the distance. Asia’s face grew even paler. “Please hurry.” She grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the street. “We have to get out of here.”

  “Okay, okay.” I let her drag me to the king’s bright blue moped, which sat parked at the curb, the engine still warm. I raised my eyebrow. She shrugged. “The cops haven’t found my car yet. They’re waiting for it to turn up in some villainous pork-chop-shop.”