Finally, after a couple of hard-fought months, Marquette threw in the towel and flew off to Spain, where he bought a condo. Didn’t even take his wife along. She divorced him not long after, and I believe their entanglements were dissolved quietly, with a generous check from Marquette as a final, tasteless ‘fuck you’.
But Manny, you might say, the man was a criminal and he got away with an outrageous injustice!
Sure he did. And it sucked.
But, you know, he was never going to confess. For him and those like him, the ends always justify the means — always — and until a significant number of the world’s people wake up and do something about it en masse, the rich and the powerful are going to keep getting the ends they want and never believe that how they got them was wrong.
I’m starting to think it might be better to start punishing the people who aid and abet them, who don’t stand up to them, who stand by and do nothing for no better reason, no nobler morale, than personal. Fucking. Expedience.
People like me.
But before we get to me, let me tell you about Tennyson. Tennyson got better, or as good as he was going to get. He’d never jog again, but he was a strong guy with a lot to live for — like defending himself against the horrible accusations of people like me, Joel, and a number of other campaign workers he hadn’t treated all that well. But he did get some sympathy for his injuries. He sure as hell didn’t deserve to have that happen to him, or so the public decreed. Forget about the pain and suffering he inflicted on the likes of trannies and other minorities, the man took a bullet. Of course, the public gave him a pass.
And I wasn’t going to tell anyone that it was Tennyson who arranged the kidnappings of Dylan, Konzbruck, and me. As far as I’m concerned, walking with a limp and everlasting pain made up for my own trauma. I just felt bad that he wouldn’t be punished any further for the other collateral damage of his Realpolitik. How I hate that word.
But in the end, I didn’t have to lift anther finger. The rumors did all the heavy lifting for me and lady justice. Tennyson would be out of politics for a long, long time. He wouldn’t go down for murder, true, but he’d go the way a disgraced televangelist goes after a sex scandal — quietly, quietly … into a new life as the leader of a megachurch with a TV show and a private jet. Men like Marquette and Tennyson, they’re not the same as us, at least not under the law. I was glad to have seen them suffer for what they did, but I was also certain to be both surprised and not-surprised-at-all when they reemerged from their wilderness penance as successful businessmen of high public standing.
Seriously, if they’d gone to jail for this, wouldn’t it feel like the fatuous ending of a bad thriller, or a B movie? That would be wishful thinking. In the real world, the powerful are powerful for good reason. They have coaxed or tricked or simply scared the rest of us into believing the world can’t go on without them, and neither can we.
So much for the assholes, but how about the good guys?
Thorn would end up okay. He had a lot of questions to answer, but the three of us had agreed that the whole truth and nothing but the truth was neither going to bring back our dead nor result in justice for the rich and powerful fuckers responsible for their deaths. But after a lengthy debriefing and a lot of strategic truth-bending, he was welcomed back into the BCA. His testimony was sealed. His partner, the one Joel had shot, was back on duty, and the two got back to serving justice.
Joel’s crew of ex-soldiers turned out to be okay, too. Dogged and Soulfather were hauled in, and they, too, told a modified version of the truth: they found out that the porn pit contained civilians held against their will, whereupon they did their civic duty and rushed to their rescue. The GSW healed up, and they were quietly let go, back to their daily lives — and nightly cruises — just without Joel.
Soon thereafter I heard that Nice had disappeared from her job at the Capitol. Almost as though she’d never truly worked there at all. As though Nice wasn’t even her real name. As though she might have manufactured it from her hacker’s lair hidden in the Twin Cities. But I wasn’t worried about her. The woman could get money — and pretty much everything else — anytime she needed it. There would always be another Fergus to grant her every wish. And I’m also sure that if I should ever need her services again, she’ll know — call it instinct — and an untraceable email will show up in my inbox, smiling face emoji and all.
But lest this roundup sound too neat, let me add that sometimes, endings are all tangled up with new beginnings. Take for instance the way this campaign implosion and my transitioning overlapped. Like I said, I learned some patience and humility from this mess, so once the police interviews and press reports came to an end, I made another appointment with Dr. Stravinsky, ready to listen more and demand less. I still had a long road ahead of me, which I would need a lot of help with, and some of that road included prison.
Oh yeah, prison. Let me tell you.
As suspected, once the cops were allowed into the condo, Joel and I got some rough treatment — yelled at, put to the ground, knees on our backs, cuffs too tight — probably deserved. But when everyone calmed the fuck down, we were treated with a great deal of respect.
It was a short stay behind bars that time, as we were bailed out by campaign lawyers within a few hours. Even if Marquette’s bid to be governor was effectively derailed, Joel and I were still technically part of the campaign, and the Senator knew better than to cut us loose completely or vent the full force of his rage on us, since all we had to do was place an anonymous call to the press and drop a few hints where to look in Marquette’s history to make things even worse for him.
After all, one good turn deserves another.
Realpolitik.
Neither Joel nor I were prepared to exchange the full truth of Andrew Marquette’s fuck-ups for the possibility of taking the fall for Dylan and Konzbruck — whose bodies mysteriously disappeared, along with the van, although I’m sure they would show up again if one of us said the wrong thing — or for any of the awful things we’d done, people we’d killed or seriously injured, the cop Joel forced to free me at gunpoint, the laws we’d broken, or the general mayhem we’d caused.
No, we both wanted to stay free and get on with our lives. As for our conscience, we hadn’t hurt anyone who hadn’t tried to hurt us first.
Thus, we let the lawyers make some deals and plead us down to nominal sentences for a hodge-podge of bureaucratic-sounding charges. Thank God there was never any proof that I killed those men in the RV, so the only jail time I saw was six-months in a minimum-security prison, a woman’s prison, and I could continue my visits with Dr. Stravinsky. I was surprised, really, since I wasn’t going to be on hormone treatments for a year, on condition that things continued to go well. Whatever, in the end, thanks to all sorts of technical lawyer-talk, I would only end up serving half the sentence anyway.
Joel got it worse. I mean, there was no way to shoot a man in the hip in front of eight witnesses, all of them some sort of cop, and get away with a slap on the wrist. On top of all the other charges, Joel had no choice but to plead “no contest” to fucking up Tennyson.
The sentence: six years. Hard time.
Sure. He’ll probably get out in two. I’ll let you know. But as I tell you this story, the lawyers are still trying to whittle away at my required punishment. Either way, though, I’ll be alright. In fact, I’m pretty comfortable here. It’s what I deserve. And it’s going to help me become a better woman.
I hope.
As for Joel …
Of course, I’m going to worry about Joel. But in the end, I think he’ll be able to handle himself. Always has been.
We were standing around outside one of the courtrooms, waiting for his next hearing to start, when we got a chance to talk. It was the last time before Joel started his sentence. I had a few more weeks before my time began.
“You okay?”
He nodded, hands in the pockets of his suit. He looked weird in a suit. Bearded, top-
button undone under a badly-knotted tie, shoulders straining at the seams. People passed us on all sides, coming and going, while we stood in the middle, feeling alone in the fleeting company of strangers. I wore a skirt-suit, still feeling a bit of the sideshow attraction as I began my year of living as a woman without the pills to help me along.
Doctor’s orders.
I looked him in the eye. “I’ll come see you every week.”
Joel grinned. “If Robin comes, too, the other guys might begin to wonder.”
“You think Robin will stick by you? For the whole time?”
“I don’t know. She hasn’t said she won’t. We’ll see.”
“I hope you know I’m sorry about all this. It’s my fault. I should be the one –”
“Oh, shut up. Quit the martyr act. It suits you less than that suit. I did what I had to do. We both did. And we were right to do it.”
“But going to jail?”
He shrugged. “I tried to kill a politician. I’ll be a hero.”
“Be careful.”
He took a deep breath. “Okay.”
Quiet. Long. Awkward. I noticed that Robin hadn’t accompanied him to any of the hearings. His dad had, though, and they seemed to be on reasonably good terms. In my corner, Marcia and Mom took turns in the gallery. Dad was there most every day. Never a word of judgment from either. If any of our Republican overlords had bothered to set foot in the courtroom in all this time, who knows, they might have finally learnt the true meaning of ‘family values’.
Ha! As if.
Joel misread my smile. “What are you so happy about? Looking forward to a new job when you get out?”
“Fuck. No. I can’t think that far ahead. You?”
He turned his head away, looked down the hall. “Already got a couple people asking if I would do more security. Private security, you know?”
“Hm.” I frowned. “Seriously? After all this?”
“What can I say? I’m pretty good at being a badass.”
“Private security. Is that like being a private eye, you think? Would you ever do something like that?”
Big smile. Biggest I’d ever seen on him. “Like you and me? Snooping around?”
“Might be fun.”
“Private eyes aren’t real. Not anymore.”
“I think they’re still around. I was really just kidding, but … I dunno. Think about it.”
“Trannie & Badass, Private Eyes?”
“Better watch who you call a trannie.”
“Oh, I’m watching. You need to shave.”
“I’m always going to need to shave. As for you … best be careful not to drop the soap.”
Joel grinned. “If you promise to talk to your doc about me popping up in all those sexual fantasies of yours.”
“Fuck off.”
“You too.”
I offered him my hand, but he pulled me in for a hug. I didn’t want to let go. When we did part, he went back into the courtroom without a glance back.
I smiled and turned to leave. I had a lunch date.
It had been a long time coming. A chance to sit down with my mom and dad, the two of them getting along again although they’d both decided to finally get the divorce. My sister, Marcia came along as well. It was just a little Vietnamese bistro near the courthouse. Great pho.
I was a little late, and weaved through the tables to where they were waiting. I hadn’t actually officially told them what I had decided about my life going forward, as far as my gender was concerned, but I’m sure they’d figured it out from my choice of clothing and make-up and shoes and …
I sat down. I’d already been sentenced, so we had a few weeks ahead of us to reconnect as a family before Dad would drive me down to prison in South Dakota.
I took a deep breath. “Mom, Dad, Marcia, I have an announcement for you.”
They shared a few glances, warmth in their eyes. They even joined hands on the table, looking proud of me.
“I got fired.”
It took a moment to sink in, but when it did, Dad started laughing first. Then Marcia. Mom was bewildered, “What? Didn’t we already know that?”
Soon they were all laughing so hard they were crying. The owner rushed over and tried to shush us. We all calmed down. I sipped some water, shook my head, and said, “Oh yeah, and I’m also a woman.”
Applause from the table. Weird stares from the other diners.
I took a little bow. A well-deserved one, if I do say so myself.
“So,” Mom asked. “What do you want us to call you?”
I smiled, looked at them each in turn. There was no judgment in their eyes, only love. Unconditional love. This was my ‘community’. I took a deep breath and gave the love back. “Call me Manny, please. I’ll always be your Manny.”
THE END
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The Castle Danger / Sub Zero stories would not have evolved to the state they have without help from three very special people. And in honor of our editor’s love of video games, I’d like to thank them each … as if they were role-playing characters.
Allan Guthrie, the wise Dungeonmaster, who put this crew together for its journey through the lives of Manny and Joel. He believed in this story from the first time I told him about it. Cheers!
Mirka Uhrmacher, the conceptual warrior in shining armor, who helped tame this wild, fire-breathing beast of a story into a grand, dignified (but not too much) epic.
Len Wanner, our dark wizard of words, who cast some sort of spell that helped us find and clarify Manny’s voice, which was everything for this story. On top of that, he went and translated the whole thing into a completely different language, too. Some kind of alchemist.
As for me, I always play the same role in these games — the shadowy thief who makes up lies for your pleasure and leaches off the talent of my compatriots.
Kudos to you all!
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Castle Danger--The Mental States Page 27