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

by Raley, Richard

  “No Three Queens . . . just girls and dancing,” Raj groaned in misery.

  A few of the guys chuckled nervously, another few gulped.

  I slipped away, followed Welf as he wormed his way back into the bedroom. He glanced at me, his smile slipping a bit. “Trying to ruin my day now that the Winter War is over?”

  “Nah. I mean . . . you’re still a pompous ass, but your plan worked during that first game, so I thought I’d be magnanimous with a handshake.” I put my hand out towards him.

  Welf stared at it like it might bite. “I’m sorry about Leo,” he admitted, “the opportunity got the better of me.”

  “We already dealt with the Leo thing. Shake my hand already so we can go back to hating each other.”

  Still didn’t go for it. “I suppose it was your plan that won it for us though.”

  “Von fucking Welf, still can’t get people to love him, that why you stiffing me?” I put my hand down. “Here’s the thing: not my plan, Val’s plan. All her. Yeah, she’s crazier and more brilliant at this shit than either of us are, especially when she stops worrying.”

  Welf finally raised his own hand and I shook it angrily before heading off to the showers.

  Fifteen minutes later, all the guys again grouped up, this time in the bedroom trying to figure out the torture device known as the tuxedo. They fit wonderfully since the Asylum has some amazing tailors, but . . . the things really need instruction booklets.

  Especially bow ties.

  Why couldn’t they just give us clip-ons? I was thinking when Welf again made an appearance, still in a white shower robe.

  “This isn’t funny, Foul Mouth!” he yelled, distraught, worried, annoyed—all the many emotions I’m used to causing in people.

  “Huh?”

  “Where. Are. My. Clothes?” Welf hissed, motioning to his robe and the lack of tuxedo on his bed.

  “Check your cupboard?” I asked innocently. “Hey, you know how these bow tie things work?”

  “I so despise you! Tomorrow it’s back on! Like never before!” he told me before storming off.

  “It was on an hour ago,” I muttered to myself, “that’s why you’re having this problem . . .”

  Pocket laughed so hard one of his suspenders popped off. Even Raj chuckled, shaking his head. I’m a bad influence.

  “I take it back,” Pocket said, “it’s still really funny.”

  “Yeah, it’s a classic. So . . . bow ties anyone?”

  [CLICK]

  Rainbow Greenbrier and her Art Club had been mostly responsible for decorating the Hall over the last week. Stepping through the Hall’s double doors, for the first time I had the realization that this wasn’t just a normal school dance, but a mancer dance as well. The Asylum, boringly normal most the time and then . . . right in the balls with the insanity.

  Miss Greenbrier’s a spectromancer and in her classroom you always have these perfect cathedral-like beams of light shining through the trio of stained-glass windows that dominate the side of the room. Even in winter. Even during thunderstorms. It was kind of freaky, but mostly just beautiful.

  The Hall wasn’t purely a work of spectro-anima but of scio-anima as well. Patches of light and patches of shadow danced over the ceiling. When I say danced I fucking mean danced too, not metaphor or shit, they danced to music already playing, swinging back and forth in rhythm, switching from a line dance to a waltz in front of my eyes.

  Hogwarts, eat your fucking hearts out.

  Not only the ceiling of the Hall had changed, there was no sign of the arcade cabinets or stereo speakers, of bowling alleys or the stacks upon stacks of board games usually thrown about haphazard. The Hall looked elegant, graffiti washed away, the wooden flooring polished and waxed.

  The last group of Ultra boys to arrive, we stood at the door and just gawked a bit. All the other guys already mingled with each other, joking, slapping backs, bragging about bets won on the Winter War. Quite a few guys made motions with their hands like explosions. Take a guess what they were talking about?

  It was more intimate than I’d guessed. For one, no Class ’07 meant twenty something bodies absent. Singles weren’t allowed unless they got a date from Bi or above. Intras weren’t allowed unless they got a date too, and there were a handful who managed to do so, but not a whole lot. I always thought that was screwed up, Intras not allowed to go—and eventually I’d do something about it—but that’s a story for a lot later.

  That left five years of Ultras at the dance plus a bit extra. So . . . maybe one-hundred and sixty kids once we were all there. With the girls not in sight the Hall looked frankly empty.

  Half abandoned.

  Teachers in attendance too of course. Russell Quilt and Audrey Foster standing side by side, feet tapping to the classical music piped from somewhere. Keith Gullick and his wife Natalie, a group of older students surrounding them laughed at some story he was telling. Jethro Smith rocked his usual leather jacket instead of a full tuxedo, though he had bothered with a bow tie wrapped around his throat. Fines Samson and the Lady, both bundled up against the cold, sat together in a corner. Ceinwyn Dale . . . damn, teachers really shouldn’t be allowed to have dresses like that!

  I walked up to her, spread my hands out. “Well?”

  “Aren’t you a cute little boy?” she teased me with a wicked smile.

  “You win your bet at least?” I asked.

  “Yes, I did.” Her smile twisted. “I know a prized stallion when I see one.”

  “I’ll blush . . .”

  “Talking about your date actually.”

  “Oh . . . well . . . yeah, but I helped.”

  She gave me a pat on the head. “Go run along and have fun. The girls should be here any moment.”

  I walked back to my class, still milling about the door, all of them intimidated. “Pocket, why you guys all statues or something?”

  “Dance, dude. Why aren’t you terrified?”

  “We just won the Winter War,” I pointed out. “Fucking get in there, get some punch, and settle down. We play our cards right and every single one of us has a chance at getting laid tonight. And hopefully this time, Estefan and Debra won’t be so loud that we all hear it.”

  Estefan was too much of a lady charmer to blush, but he did look guilty. “You’re all just jealous!”

  “Yes,” his bud Ronaldo said, “Yes, we are.”

  “One-hundred percent jealous,” his other bud Miles added. “Papi Enorme.”

  Everyone laughed.

  Estefan still didn’t blush, but he stopped his statue act and gave me a fist-bump on the shoulder. “Foul Mouth’s right for once, let’s go strut for our ladies.”

  [CLICK]

  Audrey Foster disappeared and all the male students got gathered up by Quilt not long after our arrival. He had a list in his hand, just like always, and guided us into a certain order. Hep at the front, Bi at the end. Guess pairing off as your date came in, then taking position for the first dance was tradition.

  Fucking tradition, right?

  Heh.

  Miss Foster took a microphone and began calling out couples, girls first, then the guy’s name once she had come through the doors and taken his hand. Unlike us, the girls weren’t uniform, but on the other side of it, not each of them had a unique dress. Think they had like thirty or so choices, plus accessories to add a personal spice. Even the Asylum has its limits.

  Still . . . going without seeing a prettied up girl for a year and a half and now here are these gorgeous creatures all gleamed to a shine. I might of drooled a little. Don’t think I was the only one.

  The guys took to giving out a shouting cheer each time a couple grouped up and walked onto the dance floor. More pretty the date, bigger the cheer. Bit of a razz in it too, I suppose. Men, we’ll make pissing a competition.

  Heps, Hexs, Pents.

  No Quads since the Three Queens had holed themselves up in their dorms, probably sacrificing babies to the Satan or worse—maybe to Justin Bi
eber or something.

  Jessica Edwards was our first classmate to appear, since she popped up for Leo. She looked . . . like a princess, I guess. Pink gown, silver belt. Jessica is always a bit of a princess, bubbly, a girly girl, capable of both lighting up a room and making everyone feel better or, when under Hope’s sway, being a complete mean girl.

  That night she glowed.

  They all did.

  Hope in a pale blue dress with a hint of ruffle, Eva in something simple and black, Debra a champagne with flashing sequins. One after another these girls I’d seen day after day in their colors kept coming.

  Raj stepped up to take Miranda’s hand and her dress was green to match her eyes. She was still Miranda, so hardly worth the effort but . . . good going, Malik.

  Even with Pocket being Pocket, Sabine blew the guy away. Some kind of flower print thingy with wide skirts, but . . . it was the girl wearing it. Ooh, fucking la fucking la.

  Athir and Isabel. Jason and Quinn.

  Until I was getting slightly nervous . . .

  Then . . .

  Val.

  A simple red dress cut off at the knee but . . .

  What fire, Val?

  That fire right there, King Henry.

  She grinned at me. “Hi.”

  “Hey, you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Little bit of oxygen, little bit of electrolytes.” She took my hand. “Are you okay?”

  “Trying to breathe.”

  She cheeks twitched. “Charmer.”

  I lead her to the dance floor and we took our position. One hand found the small of her back as I slid in next to her. She glanced down, surprised. “Do you know how to dance?” she asked. “Or are you just being a lecher like always?”

  I winked. “Thanks for not wearing heels.”

  “Thanks for not letting go of my hand,” she returned.

  Music started. Slow, a simple step. I lead her through it.

  Her jaw dropped.

  Behind me, Raj stepped on Miranda’s foot.

  To my left, Pocket tripped at a turn.

  Val’s jaw dropped more. “King Henry . . . how do you know how to dance?”

  I smirked. “You lot always forget—I have older sisters. Who do you think they practiced with?”

  “Can you braid hair too?” she teased me.

  “Yes,” I admitted. The music changed to a faster tempo. “I can also do this.”

  I spun her into a dip and then planted a kiss on her lips.

  I thought her expression couldn’t get more surprised, I’d been wrong.

  She laughed in joy when I spun her again.

  Boomworm.

  Not a fear in the world.

  Foul Mouth

  Not one word needed to be said.

  [CLICK]

  If the night had just ended there, it still would have been perfect, but after more and more dancing, with Val smiling larger and larger, more surprised that I knew each step, we finally took a break. I headed to get punch, she headed to check on Miranda or go to the bathroom or . . . I don’t really remember.

  I waited in the punch line for what felt like forever. Where’s Valentine? Have to stay with Val, need to find Val. A pair of hands touched my shoulders and lips whispered into my ear, “Janitor room near the science classrooms, know it?”

  I nodded, heartbeat going insane.

  “Ten minutes,” Val whispered and then disappeared. “Don’t dolly.”

  I’d have run if the tux would have let me.

  Science rooms, science rooms . . .

  There you are, lovely science rooms!

  Janitor room, janitor room . . .

  The door was open.

  I slipped inside.

  Locked the door behind me.

  Please don’t be a play by Welf.

  It wasn’t Welf . . .

  I flicked the light on and there was Val.

  And nothing but Val.

  Her dress was folded over a vacuum.

  There was a blanket spread over the floor.

  Holy fuckballs!

  I’d never expected this is a million years. I thought I could read people and well . . . Val had seemed the sort that would be nervous about sex. Not standing there bold as can be, looking like she just needed me to touch her to finish her off.

  But . . .

  Eyes don’t deceive and all that. Plus, Prince Henry is pretty sure about it too.

  “Do you like this body?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  Voice wasn’t working then.

  “Then why do you still have your clothes on?”

  Too bad I didn’t have a metal suit like Iron Man or I’d have set a world record for getting undressed with the biggest accidental anima discharge in history. Still was pretty close.

  She clicked off the light, leaving nothing but winter moonlight to see by.

  Holy fuckballs.

  And that, kiddies, is how it all began between the Foul Mouth and the Boomworm. Sex in a janitor closet. If it had only ended there. If she’d only kept uno-polar . . . if . . . if . . . if . . .

  That’s high school for you.

  Nothing but ‘ifs’.

  Still the best day of my life though.

  Wonder if another will ever top it?

  I doubt it . . . though, anything is possible.

  I mean . . . I suppose I could always fuck a hot vampire chick or something.

  Session 131

  The most important day of my life.

  Meteyos.

  The Curator.

  More important than my wedding day.

  More important than the birth of any of my children.

  The end of the beginning.

  The first day of the long path to saving the world and damning it.

  The long path to wars and death and destruction.

  The long path of cuts and bruises and torment.

  The end of the beginning: the moment just before that door opened.

  The beginning of the long path to Armageddon, Ragnarok, the Big Crunch, choose your own fucking Apocalypse: the moment the door opened.

  I stood in the middle of the cell room, filled back up with plenty of anima sooner than I expected, focused, ready. Val and Christmas and the three extra kids would get away. Boomworm would see to that. I trusted her.

  But left behind . . . the Foul Mouth would give this Curator asshole a piece of his mind. A piece of his fist too. All was right with the universe.

  I was angry. I hated. I felt.

  All thanks to Val and these kids.

  They always want me to open up.

  Watch what you wish for, motherfuckers.

  I was going to open up alright.

  Open up a can of whoop ass.

  Open up a chasm.

  The door creaked on its hinges and Conan the Kidnapper stepped through first. I only knew it was him from the size. The mask and headset and most of the black tactical gear were gone. Still huge, almost as big as Jason but not quite. Tattoos on his arms and even on his neck. Warm tan skin without blemish. Thick black hair cut short. Wide face and nose.

  I glanced at the tattoo again. Fucker was Polynesian. Samoan? New Zealander? Hawaiian? No idea. Don’t know my islanders that well. But . . . Conan the Samoan. Like the ring of it. Fake wrestling name right out of the box for the guy.

  Conan the Samoan had his sidearm in his hand, covering me with his little god-maker tube. “Here!”

  I snarled at him, but didn’t move otherwise.

  Good. I don’t have to search for him. I can deal with both of them at the same time.

  Twenty-three years old now but still the cocky little shit.

  Next, finally, after all the whispers and fearful looks, came the Curator in the flesh.

  Mostly in the flesh.

  Also in the metal gauntlet and metal boot.

  The Curator dressed like a scientist—lab coat, suit, tie, the single shoe he had on was expensive dressed leather. But other than that . . . his left hand was steel
, overlarge like it came from a suit of armor, the same with his left foot, a steel boot peeking out from a pant leg. He had a bandoleer from one shoulder across his chest, leather links connecting circular looking-pods of yellow metal, each about the size of a softball cut in half. Around his neck was a chain-linked necklace three inches thick, dotted with topaz and jet. Over the second shoulder hung a leather satchel, closed for now but I had a feeling it was filled with toys.

  Motherfucker.

  Of course he’s an Artificer.

  That’s why he’s taking people. He’s . . .

  I felt bile rise in my throat at how disgusting the idea was.

  He’s imprisoning mancers and using them as living anima batteries.

  Physically, I wish I could tell you more. But . . . the minute you walk into the room with him everything vanishes from your memory but those eyes. Was he tall? Yeah, taller than me. Spindly too. Was he handsome? No woman would touch him unless he brainwashed her first, I’d guess. Not from him being ugly, just . . . from him being so intense in his madness. Hard face, I remember that. Older than me, I can say, in his early forties.

  Hair? Not a clue. Short . . . but, color? Can’t tell you.

  The eyes.

  The eyes of a genius.

  The eyes of a madman.

  The eyes of a cult leader.

  All three.

  Looking at those intense blue eyes I knew immediately why Meteyos called him the Broken One. I’ve talked about many kinds of geomancer. Me, I’m the earthquake. There’s stone, hard, beautiful, but likely to break. Metal, unbending, useful, hardworking. Mud, likely to cling all over you and never go away. Sand . . . untrustworthy fuckers screw your footing at any moment, more at home in the wind that with the earth.

  But the Curator . . .

  The Curator was diamond.

  But someone along the way had cracked him into shards.

  The Broken One, the broken diamond, razor sharp, cut you, bleed you, just waiting to ruin your day. Someone perfect turned hateful and broken. Someone that draws people to him and then betrays them.

  Evil.

  So fucking evil.

  Annie B . . . Horatio Vega . . . monsters that they are there’s a bunch of grey in them and in their actions.

  But this fucker? His outlook? His plans?

  The Curator took me in, seemed to make some sort of decision about me, and then smiled. I know they haven’t made androids yet—cuz I’d be humping one right now—but that’s what the smile reminded me of. Something mechanical trying to pretend happiness. “Leave us,” the Curator told Conan, “this is between brothers.”