A Dead-End Job

by Justin Alcala

A torrent of Mount Doom level magma erupted inside me. This nut bag had been following me. I could feel my face get red as my mental playlist blared the Godzilla theme song.

  “Oh hell, no,” I hollered, getting into Freddy’s face. I was at least a half foot taller, which made my stare down that much more excessive. “Freddy, have you been following me?”

  Freddy opened his meaty jowls to speak. He hesitated for a moment before balling his fist. I looked down and noticed a familiar looking Hello Kitty key dangling on a wrist coil around his cuff. Just as he did, the screech of brakes signaled the quick stop of tires from along the street. I heard the rumbling of a heavy engine. I spun around to see the cab of Adam Frankenstein’s truck blocking the main road. It choked out black fumes. The block shaped head of Adam sat behind the driver seat, the scar from my bullet still mauve along his forehead. In the passenger seat was orange flannel Charles Bronson, his wounds still covered in duct tape.

  Charles Bronson pushed open his door and leapt out into the street.

  I turned to warn Freddy, but he had already run to the backdoor of the hobby store at peculiar speed for a fat man. Unexpectedly, he grabbed Luna and jolted her up into a fireman’s carry. Luna’s eyes bulged. I dug for Thing One, but before I could draw out the gun, Freddy pushed the door open with his free shoulder and entered. As if kicked by a mule, Freddy came hurling back out into the alley, dropping Luna as he fell onto his butt. Freddy’s sunglasses shattered against the hard alley ground. For the first time I could see Freddy’s eyes. They glared red over his clenched jaw.

  Stepping out from the emergency exit were The Violet Hour’s host and hostess duo. The dark-haired hostess wore a cobalt leather jacket over an ivory dress and thigh high boots. The blond Ken Doll dressed in a striped V-neck t-shirt with skinny jeans and deck shoes. Both were armed with iron gauntlets etched in Norse or Celtic runs daubed with glue and salt. They held the salted steel gloves up in a boxer’s guard. It was strange to see such normal looking people appear so out of place. I released my pistol and instead wrapped my arm around Luna’s waist, scooping her up. As I withdrew from Freddy, a hand grasped my shoulder. I clenched my open hand’s fist, readying to strike, as orange flannel Charles Bronson shook me. Before I could take the first swing, Charles Bronson shoved me out of the way, moving toward Freddy.

  “Shaw,” the thick accent of Adam Frankenstein cried from over his booming engine. “Get in ze ’truck.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing but as I turned back to look at Freddy, he was on his feet and wrestling Charles Bronson. Surprisingly, Freddy was able to wiggle free from Charles Bronson’s grip and used one fat arm to lift the orange flannel warrior by his neck. Ken Doll secured the hobby store door while the dark-haired hostess circled Freddy from the rear.

  Meanwhile, as Freddy clamped Charles Bronson’s neck, the fat man looked out into the sky and shrieked a horrible melody that was a symphony of dying cat, tea kettle, and a lion’s roar.

  The sound ripped through my eardrums as if I were standing next to the stage side speaker of a Slayer concert. I couldn’t think straight. I cupped my ears to plunge out all sound. When the racket finally stopped, my watery eyes and ringing ears made me feel as if I were spinning in circles. On cue, strange vapors of milky white fog spewed from my eyes, ears, and mouth, instantly refocusing my senses. I could see that Ken Doll and the hostess were having a harder time recuperating. They were writhing at Freddy’s feet with bleeding eardrums.

  A static crackled in the air as a gust of wind pushed alley garbage and muddy water. The faint murmur of singing children and soft-soled shoes echoed between the buildings. Shadows flickered above us. I searched the skyline and made out a hundred pairs of eyes arched on top of Gamer’s Pair-of-Dice. It was the hag children donned in their old-fashioned Little Orphan Annie outfits. Their alabaster eyes fixated on us as they opened up their maws to reveal yellow, crooked teeth. Some of the hag children salivated while others curled their talons.

  I looked down at Luna. Her eyes were still rolling in the back of her head. It was executive decision time. I mustered my strength and carried Luna toward Adam’s truck. Adam Frankenstein was still in the driver’s seat. Beryl ooze dripped from his earlobes. I scurried around the massive grill of the truck and then made like Spiderman, using one arm to climb up into the passenger seat while dangling Luna under my remaining bicep. Adam groaned as I shut the door. He shook his head hard and then started shifting gears. I looked over his wide chest to see Ken Doll and the hostess stumbling toward us as hag children climbed down the walls like roaches. Looking out the window, I could see Freddy was now pummeling Charles Bronson, spurting maggots from every one of the orange flanneled defender’s orifices. Charles Bronson continued to wave his arms, futilely but fervently trying to fight back.

  I’ll never watch Death Wish one through five the same again.

  The tractor truck kicked forward as Adam pressed hard on the gas pedal. Ken Doll and the hostess gritted teeth while giving one last spurt of speed. Ten or more hag children skipped and giggled in pursuit. One at a time, Ken Doll and the hostess leapt onto the driver’s side of the moving truck, landing on the cab’s driver side step. They gripped the handle while Adam picked up speed. The hostess crawled in through the open window.

  “Stop, you fool,” roared Adam as he nudged the hostess onto Luna and me. The bang of metal rang from the semitrailer behind us. Tiny footsteps clanked on top. Ken Doll dangled from the door while he looked atop the truck toward the clamor. His lip quivered and his eyes went round. He hurried into the window and over Adam.

  “Shut the windows,” Ken Doll bellowed as he rolled along Adam’s python arms on to the hostess. I could feel their pressure shove me into the passenger door as Adam straightened out the truck. I looked through the magnified side mirrors and saw five of the hag children smiling at me as they surfed on the trailer top. They began clawing onto the side of the truck, closing in on the cab.

  “Shake and bake, Adam,” I shouted. “They’re on the sides.”

  Adam didn’t hesitate. He used a Giordano’s delivery truck parked on the corner of an upcoming intersection to smash and scrape the hag children off. That’s what you get for illegally parking along a corner. I watched the grinning hag children turn to geriatric pâté. The truck swayed for a moment before Adam could gain control. All five of us stared at the street in front of us without saying a word. Once we put at least five miles between us and Gamer’s Pair-of-Dice, Adam pulled off to an abandoned supermarket’s lot and stopped the truck. I hurried out with Luna, putting space between Adam, Ken Doll, and hostess. I could see a smear of gore along the truck’s trailer. Ken Doll and the hostess followed me outside but froze once I dug my hand through my zipper into my breast. Adam’s heavy footsteps could be heard along the other side of the truck. He made his way around the front and paused when he saw the standoff.

  “Seriously,” Adam sighed.

  “Start talking, freak show,” I demanded.

  “I am not a talker, Shaw,” Adam groaned. “Nor are you a listener. So instead, I’ll show you.” Adam stomped to the rear of the trailer, seemingly uncaring of my James Bond action pose. Ken Doll and the hostess followed, keeping an eye on me. I looked to Luna. Her eyes fluttered open.

  “Well, hell.” I carried a waking Luna and followed the group. We gathered at the back as Adam pulled the boat-tail’s safety bar. With a single thrust of his arm, Adam opened the trailer fairing’s steel door. It was dark inside, but I could hear shuffling. The mechanical sounds of turning wheels emanated as a short shadowy figure rolled forward. The stranger reached the lip of the truck, allowing the sun to paint him. I took a step back once I recognized the person perched on an apple-red electronic scooter. It was Jumbo, and he was staring at me like I was the stranger.

  17

  There’s a certain look that inspires the saying “ridden hard and put away wet.” It’s a grocery list of features that involves frayed hair, tattered clothes, and a threadbare
complexion. It’s pit stains, an unkempt beard, and food splotches. It’s cracked glasses, untied shoes, and coffee-stained teeth. Jumbo, who I hadn’t seen in a few days, was a poster boy for the hard and wet campaign.

  It was concerning to think that Jumbo could get this low so fast. The timeline between when I’d seen him last, all perky and clean, and now, drained and shabby, didn’t add up. Even the guy’s wheels downgraded. Jumbo sported some state-of-the-art moon rover wheelchair complete with custom foot rigging, monster truck wheels, and multi-button joystick. Now he drove one of those scooters that senior citizens ride or die on through the grocery store. What did the Addams Family do to him?

  “Jumbo,” I asked slowly, “have they hurt you?”

  “What are you talking about?” Jumbo struggled to straighten the wheels of his aisle blocker.

  “Jumbo,” I enunciated louder, “blink twice if they’ve touched your privates.”

  “Well,” Jumbo drooped his shoulders and sighed, “I see why they chose him.”

  “Come again?” I asked. Jumbo straightened out his back.

  “Hey man, tell me something.” Jumbo combed a clumpy braid from his eye. “How do you know my name?”

  I paused and pursed my lips. “Uh, this is awkward. Are you ashamed to know me? Because if so, I throw shade at you, sir.”

  “That’s the thing, dude,” Jumbo replied. “You don’t know me.”

  “Jumbo, you’re making me look bad in front of the kid,” I said while helping Luna get to her feet. Luna rubbed her eyes. “Come on, don’t you remember the party at the Grim Reaper’s place? You hired me to be Death’s intern while he was out? I killed Zombie Pete for you? Any of this ringing a bell?”

  “Oh,” Jumbo said with a blank stare. “It’s not ringing a bell, man, but it all makes sense.”

  “Hey, Ugly.” I shook my head at Adam. “It’s against the Geneva Convention’s regulations to beat your prisoners.”

  “I’m not a prisoner,” Jumbo spat out. “And you never met me. You’ve been duped, Mr. Shaw.”

  “Thank God.” I held my hands over my head. “Please show me where the hidden cameras are because you got me good. I mean, Death’s intern? Come on. Also, Jumbo, you know my real name. Come on man, we’re tight.”

  “No, Mr. Shaw.” Jumbo plucked a dented can of open Coke from the handlebar cup holder. He took a sip, pushed his scooter as close to the edge of the tractor trailer as possible, then returned his attention to me. “I don’t.”

  “It’s Buck,” I said as if it was obvious. “Alright, this is getting lame. Jumbo, can we skip the regular questions and get straight to Final Jeopardy?”

  “Yes, please.” Adam rubbed his economy sized fingers over the scratches on the corner of the truck trailer.

  “Buck,” Jumbo called out with sincerity. “I’m about to let you in on a few truths. You can choose to believe them or not, but they’re true nonetheless.” Jumbo shut his eyes, breathed, and opened them again. “Buck, you are bait for a war involving life, death, and everything in between. There’s a civil war going on that I’m sure you are aware of. About a year or so ago, a band of concerned supernatural creatures within the Chicago community took power from a tyrant warlock dictator who wanted to rule people like slaves. The victors divided power into a fair system that included a witch democracy, undead union, yada-yada. However, the remnants of the warlock’s forces reorganized and came up with a Hail Mary plan to steal Death’s domain from him, even though the Boss man was never involved in any of the rebellion, giving them the ultimate wild card for retaking Chicago.”

  “I’m with you so far.” I leaned my elbow on Luna’s head. I’d heard bits and pieces of this story already, but it was important to fact check. Luna looked up at my arm pressed on her head and growled.

  “Good,” Jumbo complimented. “The warlock’s old forces, led by his former business director—”

  “Oh, yeah.” I snapped my finger. “Idaho-Face.” Jumbo smiled. “Yes, Rosita.”

  “Ha,” I snorted. “I call her Ms. Boise.”

  “Stay with me, man.” Jumbo put his hands together in prayer. “Anyhow, Rosita, fueled with vengeance, petitioned for the warlock’s brother, Dub, a powerful doppelgänger that’s also the bastard son of the Grim Reaper, to join her in her diabolical plan to steal Death’s scythe.” I put my hand over the satchel hiding Old Lilith. “Together, they tried to murder Death’s trusted computer programmer and replace the handsome devil with Dub, who is fantastic at impersonating people. They abused Death’s domain to kill off important figures in the supernatural community while persuading Death to go on a vacation. Here’s where you come in, Buck.”

  “You can’t just take an all-powerful weapon from a divine being. There’re protective measures and complications beyond belief. Death had to willingly give it to someone that has zero intentions of abusing its power for personal gain. So,” Jumbo crooned as if mid-thought, “Rosita and Dub must have talked Death into hiring someone that was just as clueless to their intentions as Death. They found you, and once they convinced Death you were capable of killing Unmentionables while he was away, they assigned you to kill their Undead Union enemy, John Dillinger, while planning to recruit you for their cause.”

  “Whoa.” I rubbed my chin. “So, I’m like a double agent of epic proportions. James Bond with magical nuclear codes.”

  “No,” Jumbo objected. “More like Double-O-Twelve-and-a-Half. They needed someone desperate and clueless. You fit the bill.”

  “I liked the old Jumbo better.” I crossed my arms.

  “No, no, no,” Jumbo argued in a cool tone. “This is good, man. See, Rosita and Dub thought they’d disposed of me, but unbeknownst to them, one of the Undead Union’s big dogs rescued me.” I read between the lines.

  “You mean Dillinger?” I asked.

  “Duh.” Jumbo shrugged. “Don’t you see, dude, if we can use my knowledge of Death’s domain and your position as the keeper of Death’s scythe, we have Rosita and Dub right where we want them. We can finally put down their rebellion.”

  “Hold on.” I held my hand out. “You’ve been a mildly interesting storyteller when you weren’t insulting me, but there’re a lot of assumptions being made here. For starters, who says I’m going to help you?”

  Adam clenched his fist. The Ken Doll and hostess exchanged gape-mouthed stares.

  Jumbo scratched at his head.

  “Why wouldn’t you, man?” Jumbo lifted his pop can and slurped it empty.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I said dryly. “Let’s start with the fact that there’re a lot of holes in your story.”

  “Like what?” Jumbo crushed his can back into the cup holder.

  “First,” I tried to rebut. “How do I know that anything you’re saying is true? For all I know, you’re the bullshitters trying to get me off of Dillinger’s back or something. Why shouldn’t I trust the rebels instead?”

  “Alright, man,” Jumbo bounced back. “How about the fact that your fat role-playing friend was Dub in nerd clothing, and that he used the chubby Lestat guy to spy on you? Which also means that he likely killed your friend in the process.”

  “Okay.” I cracked my knuckles. “Well, sad to hear Freddy might be dead, but he was not my friend. Freddy had no friends.”

  “Likely why he was chosen,” Ken Doll stepped in. “Dub does his research. It’s a lot easier to impersonate someone with minimal daily maintenance.”

  “Oh.” I cocked my head back. “Look at you being all smart.” Ken Doll smiled. “From now on, please shut your mouth when you’re talking to me. I can only concentrate on one piss wizard at a time.” Ken Doll frowned.

  “Also, man,” Jumbo piggybacked. “How about the part where Rosita set up your murder?

  She anonymously tipped off Dillinger in hopes he’d kill you. That way you were dead and furious with John. It’s a win-win for the guys that want John dead and a resurrected fool to trick into stealing the scythe.”

  Rosita had dance
d around a lot of facts in my apartment. She’d lied to me and tried to kill me on several occasions. Hell, even The Mad Knight had confirmed her shaky motives. Stealing the rifle while setting me up to kill John sounded like an evil genius’s plot. Meanwhile, Dillinger’s boys here had moved heaven and Earth just to connect with me to explain.

  “Fair point,” I conceded. “But there’s still like ten thousand other loopholes that I need answers to.”

  “Probably, dude.” Jumbo licked his braces. “And I’m willing to answer them. However, let’s just frame this for you. Think about all that’s happened the last few days. Harvest every fact you’ve received from our perspective, Rosita’s side, and everything in between. When you put it all together, it points to Rosita and Dub’s rebellion being really scary for all of us.”

  “Yes, it doesn’t look good for them, that’s for sure.”

  “Where there’s smoke there’s fire,” the hostess kicked in.

  “Not you, too.” I shook my head at her. She held her Sears catalog smile. “What about The Mad Knight? Where does that guy fit in with all of this?”

  “Who?” Jumbo buzzed.

  “The elf dude in heels.” I sucked my cheeks in to give my best David Bowie face. “You know, light bulb necklace, cat eyes, and Cheshire Cat smile.” The group looked to me with an array of raised brows, twisted mouths, and wrinkled noses. “Dub’s brother. Hello.”

  “Oh.” Jumbo cleared his throat, “Dothur? That guy hasn’t been seen in ages. He shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “The guy shared a cigarette with me at my apartment,” I shouted. “He confessed his crazy plan to thwart God and shit on my damn recliner.” Jumbo looked to Adam, who was picking at flakes of loose paint from the truck. Adam shrugged.

  “Not sure what to tell you, Buck.” Jumbo smacked his lips. “Rosita has a lot of scary allies. Whether Dub’s brother is involved or not, it doesn’t change the circumstances. It’s them versus us. They want to use you to steal Death’s dominion and we don’t.”