The Foul Mouth and the Troubled Boomworm (The King Henry Tapes)

by Raley, Richard

  “Needed to talk.”

  “It’s getting late.”

  “It’s important.”

  “And this is my home phone, not my cell phone. You shouldn’t even have this number and you especially shouldn’t be boneheaded enough to risk calling it to talk with me!”

  “Yeah, I hear ya, Little Sis . . . but I’m not trying to talk with you.”

  Silence.

  “Don’t be stupid,” JoJo finally said.

  “Afraid I have to. There’s a girl’s life at stake. Not that I really care . . . but ya know, don’t have a choice cuz it’s the right thing to do or something.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” JoJo repeated.

  “Come on, Sis.”

  “Are you fucking her or something?”

  “She’s fourteen.”

  “Are you fucking her mother or something?”

  I coughed to cover being nailed like a peg to the wall. “Her sister once upon a time.”

  JoJo sighed on the other side of the phone. “You’re getting deeper and deeper. This is how he wins.”

  “Lucky for me: I’m a geomancer, so I’m good at digging out of holes.”

  “Give me a minute to find him.”

  “At the compound?”

  “Always.”

  “Need me to rescue you too?”

  “Have an army?”

  “Just me and a pyromancer friend of mine, but she’s plenty scary.”

  “Find an army and I’ll considered giving you the go ahead.”

  I could hear JoJo walking through a house, opening and shutting doors. She had a conversation with someone that was half-loving, half-scared for her wellbeing.

  The next voice on the phone wasn’t hers. “My good brother-in-law and wonderful business partner, King Henry Price, is calling to have a little chat with me? Are I not the luckiest man alive or dead?”

  “Horatio,” I greeted him. He just had to remind me of all our connections right off the bat, couldn’t let me pretend I wasn’t playing a dangerous game with the leader of the Coyote Nation. Nope, right up front. Here’s the stakes, kid, here’s the score.

  “Josephine says you have lady troubles. Tell me how I can help; I live for your happiness.”

  This is a bad idea, but it’s the only one I’ve got. “I’m in San Francisco helping out a friend with a potential recruit for the Asylum . . . fourteen-year-old girl, she’s tested as Artificer.”

  “My, my, competition coming in seven years or more fuel for the Guild’s machines? How will the future fall?”

  “Yeah, I suppose. Only I never got that far with helping since she got kidnapped right in front of me.”

  Horatio Vega went from sitting back in his chair to becoming alert and prepared at his desk, I could hear the chair squeak with his shifting weight. “You think I am responsible?”

  “I think you’re knowledgeable about everything that happens in California.”

  “Just California? Now you do insult me.”

  “Western America.”

  “There we are. One king to another: never let them forget all the lands you rule. From the other side, always give someone their full accolades, King Henry; it can throw a pompous or vain man and never hurts you in any way.”

  “Kidnapping a mancer girl, any clues?”

  A pause, a drawer opening, and papers hitting his desk. “What did they look like?”

  “Fifteen of them, body armor, shotguns with beanbags, goggles and headsets.”

  Horatio laughed at that. It’s soothing and friendly if you don’t know who he is and what he’s very much capable of at a moment’s notice. “Fifteen men for one little girl, my that’s overkill!”

  “One of the men was a corpusmancer. Big guy, in charge I think.”

  “Big guy . . . this is every corpusmancer.”

  “Most of them. But how many of them are working the kidnapping circuit?”

  “You mancers always assume your entirety is so noble. I have dozens of you on my payroll. The vampires have hundreds I know of and more that are hidden deep in places of power. If you had the money I could name names, but no information is free.”

  “Yeah, yeah, vampires bad, mancers corrupt, I hear you and don’t disagree with you, Brother, but all I care about right now is this girl and the fact that you keep stalling me.”

  His chair leaned back again. “Leave this one alone, King Henry. Let the girl go. No one is worth diving head first into this rabbit hole.”

  Holy fuck.

  Horatio Vega was scared of something.

  Something that didn’t have to do with the Vamps, the Weres, or the Asylum.

  Holy fuckballs.

  “You know me,” I told him as explanation for why I couldn’t let it go.

  “It is going to get you killed one day, this need for violence and your inability to surrender.”

  “Probably.”

  “Josephine will never forgive me if you die due to my aid.”

  “So give me enough help so I don’t die.”

  “Two things: your kidnappers, I have heard of them. Professional contracts for this kind of thing or as security or for killing, whatever you need. Scum, but good scum who stay loyal as long as you pay them.”

  “Sounds like a fit from what I saw up close.”

  “But . . . they are not local scum, so I cannot directly put you into contact with them.”

  “So nothing from you.”

  “I did not say that. Not being local scum is good. They are outsiders. They will have needed to procure a location to stage their crime from, as well as all their equipment.”

  “And you just happen to know who would have helped them with that?”

  “Two possibilities: The Pitbull Nation out of Oakland or the Otter Nation along the coast.”

  “Pitbulls and fucking Otters? Are you serious with this shit? Why can’t you people just find some fucking wolves and stop being so freaky with your Totems?”

  “The Pitbulls are new, only a few years old, Otters . . . ancient but taken over by wealthy Caucasian men. I will set up a meeting between them and you. I will tell them that I am both backing you and will be pleased with any information they can provide. One of them will know about your kidnappers.”

  “You’re being really helpful, Horatio,” I said like it was a bad thing.

  He laughed again. The hair on the back of my neck rose up. “We are family, King Henry, we do each other favors.”

  “Yeah, sure mine will be coming soon enough.”

  “SDRs perhaps? No anima trigger on them?”

  “I’ll think about it. Can you get me the meeting in an hour or so?”

  “Tonight at the least, but my second comment: please let this go.”

  “You know who the kidnappers are working for?”

  “Only . . . rumors . . . for a number of years now. Let it go.”

  “Tell me.”

  A sigh from Vega and a bit of mumbling in Spanish, but finally, “They call him the Curator; whisper about how if you get in his way you will be crushed. He operates up north, Washington and the Canadian border area. I thought it was just a new name at first. I’ve seen many new names disappear quickly over my years . . . but this one . . .

  “It is growing stronger.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yes. There is worse . . . the Vampires have abandoned both Seattle and then Vancouver in the last year. This Curator has beaten and forced two embassies into retreat. He slew both dukes and the barons and baronesses who investigated as well.”

  Holy fucking Fuckballs of Doom.

  “And what’s the Curator curate?”

  “He curates you. He . . . collects mancers. He reaps the loose chaff your Recruiters miss. What he does with them . . . if you cannot save this girl then at least make sure you manage to kill her.”

  Session 28

  It was my first experience at a picnic.

  As long as you didn’t skip to this tape first off—and why would you, you inconsiderate fu
cktard? Ceinwyn’s making me tell a story here . . . the least you can do is start at the fucking beginning—you’d probably guess that Shithole Price wasn’t big on the picnics.

  Best I can say we managed was backyard barbecues when I was a little thing, littler than usual even. Five, six, or the like. Back before ‘Bad Days’, the just fiery stage. Central Valley doesn’t have a whole lot to recommend but there’s a month of spring and a month of autumn that ain’t a total mess weather wise. April and October usually.

  Two out of twelve . . . that shit won’t even get you a gig in the minor leagues.

  Backyard barbecues. I remember the parents inviting over neighbors and even people from the Warehouse. Big thick burgers loaded with melted cheddar cheese and your choice of ketchup or mayo, onions or tomatoes. No lettuce, lettuce is worthless; people only put lettuce on their burgers out of some notion of easing the guilt at eating something that used-to-be-cow-goes-moo-moo-moo.

  Hot dogs with grill lines, buns too. Fries, onion rings brought out from inside the house. I remember the smell, of burning lighter oil on charcoal, the sound of JoJo and Susan laughing and giggling with the neighbor girls.

  Deep down, I know what it used to be like. I know it was normal once. But on the surface, it’s like those things happened to someone else. Maybe the sisters remember more, they were older, but for me . . . shit if I can pierce the fog all the way. Probably a defensive mechanism. Brain wiping out all that stuff, making it hard for me to go back, make me live in the moment, keep an eye out, protect myself and survive.

  Picnic . . . can’t call my life a picnic . . .

  It was the same group that had won the first match for Class ’09. Our own private victory party. Private in the midst of hundreds of cheering students at least. No idea who got the picnic blankets or where they got them from . . . probably Miranda. Miranda’s always good at planning things out. Good as long as those plans keep on working too. Plan breaks and she starts breaking . . . what I tell you about the brain? Same with plans.

  Me, Pocket, Miranda, Raj, and Val. Sitting on blankets stretched over the grass of the Field. Drinking sodas, eating cafeteria-made sandwiches, munching on chips and crackers. Carefree, laughing, teasing, joking. Could have been a Hallmark commercial if you discounted the commie uniforms.

  Winter War, Day Two.

  In most sporting events, day two is the hangover day. Even if you’re responsible and you didn’t get smashed, you’re still a little tired of the whole thing. Like the Olympics, badass fireworks and crazy ass Chinese guy running sideways on the wall . . . then you’ve got yourself some dressage horses and manly girls swimming. Excuse me if I don’t get excited for Shoulders McGee and her webbed feet.

  Ain’t like that for Winter War. First day is Ultras, which yeah, higher competition level and all, but day two is the beginning for the Intras, and there’s a shit-ton more of them. Of course you’re going to root harder for your classmates. Of course us Ultras just tried to stay out of the way. It’s crazy, trust me. Way they mix and match the Intras teams you even have classmates going against each other, even have their friends getting into pushing and maybe even punching matches.

  Even my pugnacious self knew to back the fuck off and chill. Got especially lucky to be doing the chilling with my friend and some girls . . . plus Raj. Could say he was a fifth wheel but I kind of think that was Pocket’s spot. Raj was interested in Miranda. I was interested in Val. Pocket just hid out. As for Miranda and Val, they seemed oblivious to the sidelong stares and the pure frustration of a pair of teenage guys trying to think up ways to ask girls out without it blowing up in their faces.

  Speaking of blowing, that’s how the first match of the day went. A two and out sweep for Intra Team One against Intra Team Eight. Intra Team One went by the Erikson Eagles after the Erikson twins, a pair of Quad geomancers who where wider than they were taller . . . and they were plenty tall. They’re from Minnesota—I never bothered to ask if their mother fucked a moose, but given their size and smell, plus that they seem to go through a rutting season every autumn, odds are she did.

  Nothing like moose cock on a cold Minnesotan night.

  The Erikson Eagles had seventeen players in the First Tier of Elementalism and the rest were all Second Tier. If they made it through the Intra tournament then they’d be our next match. Can’t say I was looking forward to it. Maybe I’d finally get iron fisted. Why’d that prospect make me excited?

  Second match was more competitive. Intra Team Seven, the Mann Witches—in honor their team captain Daniela Mann, an unfortunately named but pretty sciomancer Tri—lost the coin-flip but managed to win on the attack anyway. Only in their defense for game two they tried to kneel on the one-yard-line as it were and shit all over the bed. Only losers think kneeling on the one-yard-line is a good plan, ever. Never kneel on the one-yard-line, kiddies. Go for the score.

  Balls . . . have brass ones. Ovaries . . . have brass ones. Pick your gonad and brass the bitch up.

  After that the Mann Witches fell apart in game three, just like every fucking time I’ve tried to eat one . . . They didn’t manage a single kill, completely dominated. Flawless victory and all that shit.

  “So any idea which girl you’re asking to the Winter Ball, Raj?” Val asked during the intermission, teasing the poor guy into a nervous sweat.

  “I’m . . . not really sure . . . it’s so sudden . . . I . . . haven’t . . . thought about it much . . .” Raj stuttered, looking anywhere but at Miranda.

  Val being an equal opportunity teaser, she changed her target to me. “What about you? Or just going it alone until you find easy prey separated from the pack?”

  “Probably poach an Intra,” I agreed, “Veronica Lee maybe.” Veronica Lee was considered the most beautiful Intra girl in the school at that time. A Quad. If you’re poaching, then poach the legendary White Hart.

  “You’re a mercenary, King Henry.”

  “Only way she can go, right?”

  “But wouldn’t you rather spend the night with a girl who wants to be there?” Miranda asked.

  I squinted at her for a bit, the reflection off her pale ginger skin almost blinding. “You want to go with me?”

  She glared back. “I’d rather die than spend a night with you.”

  “I was just talking dancing . . .”

  “Stop being gross!”

  “See, that’s exactly the same reaction most girls at this place have towards me.”

  Val pointed out the obvious, “You could try to be nice to them . . . just occasionally . . . don’t want to ask for too much.”

  “How’s it not nice to give a girl a spot to an event she’d otherwise miss? I’m providing a sacrificial service here. I’m the King of Nice.”

  Raj calmed down from his momentary panic attack that Miranda might actually agree to go with me. “Not very nice to leverage a date.”

  “Well, I’m not going with anyone,” Miranda decided out of nowhere, crushing Raj’s heart in her freckled fist.

  “I speak for the whole of Class ‘09’s male half when I thank you for your sacrifice on our behalf,” I said.

  She huffed like usual. “I’m sure you’re heartbroken.”

  “This doesn’t have to do with the whole girl-school-don’t-get-boys thing, does it?”

  She froze mid-huff. “Why do I tell you things about me?”

  “I don’t know . . . I mean you even told me your bra size, that is seriously too much information.”

  Fiery redhead indignation greeted me. “I’ve never told you that!”

  “34D, right?”

  A gasp . . . then, “You just guessed!”

  “I mean . . . I’ve unhooked a bra or two in my day, but I’m not that good.”

  “I never told you that!”

  “Then how do I know?” I asked, confused myself.

  Val rolled her eyes at us and poked Pocket, who was in a kind of walking terror. “What about you, decide on a date yet?”

  “Look at them . . .
look at them! I’m like one of those sick wildebeest in the educational videos Slaton plays for us!” he panicked.

  “I’ll take that as a no . . .”

  “Sitting here, completely ignored and looking into the oblivion of going alone,” Raj said,” I can’t help but wonder why you’re so worked up over multiple women being interested in dating you. This seems like an opportunity.”

  “Pocket’s problem,” I explained, “is that he likes being liked. He only gets to go with one of them and the rest will dislike him.”

  Raj nodded. “He wants a situation where he can say ‘yes’ without saying ‘no’ to all the leftovers.”

  “But . . . how?” Pocket asked.

  The five of us thought about this for a bit. Miranda started putting away the food wrappings, Val and Raj helped. Pocket stared off into the crowds, shaking his head at sudden partings in the sea, of girls in our class peaking at our picnic blanket, sizing up their wildebeest.

  “Same plan as yesterday,” I decided.

  “Please no . . . you didn’t see the first time,” Pocket said.

  “What didn’t he see?” Val asked, “Hope yelling at you?”

  “She yelled at him?”

  “Eventually.”

  “And I missed this?”

  “When you were with Heinrich in the hallway, Pocket asked Hope out.”

  “Right . . . that was our plan.”

  “That was a plan?” Val deadpanned.

  “She turned him down, right? No one else hounded him for the rest of the night. My logic held and the plan succeeded.”

  “Eventually.”

  “Yelling women ain’t anything to worry about. It’s when they’re silent that they’re planning something diabolical.”

  “I’ll remember that and make sure to be very talkative when I’m planning your eventual demise,” Val teased.

  “You keep saying eventually.”

  “There was stunned silence.”

  “From Hope?”

  “The whole class.”

  “But only stunned silence . . . not insulted silence.”

  Val shrugged at me. “Is there a difference?”

  “Stunned silence is normal, insulted silence is what happens when I usually open my mouth.”