by Ernest Hogan
The static that sounded like laughter came back, and IT'LL TAKE MORE THAT, TAN TIEN! BETTER GET YOURSELF MORE OF THOSE MODULES! HAHAHAHAHA!
It also had a nasty sense of humor.
*
"Hey, hey, hey!" said an Olvidadoid guard – a big afro named Oscardo, "What are you munyekas doing here?" Then he smiled, showing his big metallic, cobalt blue teeth.
"The big man himself called up and told us you marikonez aren't up to your assigned job," said Macha, a hulking latio female with a red butch haircut and fine, flowing muscles. She was clad in Olvidadoid colors and wore glyphs that showed her to be an enforcer team leader.
"Naw," said Oscardo. "Smokey wouldn't complain about us.
"Yeah," said Pirañha, Oscardo's petite euro assistant, who clicked her chromed, filed teeth.
Snork, Oscardo's other assistant guard just flexed his scarification-decorated biceps and growled.
Macha's assistant enforcers growled back. Pit's stubbled, tattooed, latio jowls quivered. Kitty-Kitty flashed her three-inch, surgical steel, razor-edged fingernails.
"The message said that Smokey said that there will be trouble here," said Macha, matter-of-factly, but enjoying teasing the guards – who usually weren't as smart as enforcers and were usually given easier jobs, like guarding a groupie's hotel room. "Someone is coming who wants to take Smokey's prize groupie."
"We could handle that," grumbled Oscardo.
The guards and enforcers all squared off. All someone had to do was make that first move and . . .
All their phones rang.
Immediately they each were looking at their own image of Smokey on their own wrist.
"This is stupid, kids," Smokey said, looking fiery and vengeful. "It is of the utmost importance that the woman in the room not be taken away. There will be no fighting among you. Guards and enforcers will have to work together. People will come for the woman – fight them!"
"What level of force is authorized?" asked Oscardo, his blue teeth gleaming.
"Any level you need," said Smokey.
"Even lethal?" asked Macha running a stubby finger along her mustache.
"Of course," said Smokey, who smiled, and vanished as he began to laugh.
"We're gonna have fuuuuuuuuun!" said Oscardo.
"Yeah," said Macha.
"Speaking of Fun," said Snork, bringing out some sticks. "How about something to get us in the mood for mayhem?"
Soon the guards and enforcers were feeling good, like comrades-at-arms, ready to cooperate in kicking ass.
*
Tezcatlipoca handled the guard/enforcer dispute without having to confer with Smokey. Smokey was aware of it without having to look at his wrist. He smiled, with and without Smokey's lips.
Then he went on with business.
*
Phoebe was aware that she was alone in a comfortable bed. The room was at just-right temperature. Dark. And quiet. She couldn't move or even open her eyes, but that didn't matter – she didn't want to. Not yet.
Then there was noise. Soft, muffled, klunky noise, fluttering through the walls that were light-years away . . .
*
Xochitl and the black woman went from the conapt in the predominately homosexual West Hollywood neighborhood to the Hotel Bonaventure. She put her arms around the black woman, again. They are obviously lovers. Disgusting. May God have mercy on their souls.
*
"Are you sure you haven't screwed up my friend's name?" Caldonia howled at the desk clerk in the decaying lobby of the once futuristic, now antique kitsch Hotel Bonaventure. "It's Phoebe Graziano. That P-H – "
"I assure you that no one is registered here under that name," the little afro man behind the desk said, secure and invincible behind his tortoise-shell glasses and bow-tie.
"Are you sure?" demanded Caldonia.
The little afro hummed and tapped his monitor screen.
Caldonia growled.
"Maybe she's register under other name," suggested Xochitl. "Like Smokey or Beto . . ."
The idea of Phoebe checking into a hotel with a man – especially Smokey and/or Beto visibly angered Caldonia.
"Shall I try Smokey Orbeto?" the little afro said with a terminal smile.
"It's two different people," said Caldonia, "sort of."
"Sort of two different people?" One of the little afro's eyebrows rose high above his glasses. "How interesting."
"Try Smokey Espejo," said Xochitl.
The little afro laughed.
"What's so xau-xau funny?" Caldonia asked through her dazzling white teeth.
"This is a joke, right?" the little afro said, then looked around. "Is this one of those hidden-camera mondomentary things?"
Caldonia grabbed his bow-tie and gave it a half twist. His eyes just about popped out of his tortoise-shell glasses.
"It is not," Caldonia said, regaining her composure. "Now," she turned the bow-tie so he could breathe and maybe talk if he had to, "what's so xau-xau funny?"
"Well," he said, then took a deep breath. "Everyone knows that Smokey Espejo is the biggest star of this Dead Daze – the way he killed that gangster, gives me chills thinking about it! And, anybody who know's anything, and I swear isn't completely stupid," his eyes darted back and forth between Caldonia and Xochitl, "would know that right now he's doing some recording in a secret studio in El Monte – of all the god-forsaken places! And, he's so important that even if he did have some business here at the Bonaventure, he simply wouldn't authorize people like me to let him be disturbed by people like you."
Caldonia tightened her grip on the bow-tie and pulled the little man half-way across the desk.
After a "harumph," he touched his dainty thumb to the black, tech-looking ring on his right pinkie.
Caldonia wondered why he suddenly smiled.
"Ah, er," Xochitl said, tugging at Caldonia's sleeve as four large goons in full riot gear – including long, buzzing people prods – marched toward them.
Caldonia moved like a mama tiger, let go of the little clerk's bow-tie, letting him fall face-first into his monitor.
With a tug on Caldonia's arm, Xochitl started running for the door.
The goons got closer, lowering their prods to mid-abdominal level.
Soon Caldonia was bounding for the door, dragging Xochitl and nearly pulling her arm out of its socket.
The door swooshed open before either of them stepped on the sensor pad. A family of wealthy Tibetan tourists – father, mother, teenaged daughter, two under-foot sons, and a pet farm-cloned snow leopard were returning from a Dead Daze shopping spree, clad in souvenir hats and T-shirts, laden with packages. Caldonia and Xochitl were moving too fast to stop.
Xochitl tried to stop, but Caldonia took her arm and went full steam ahead. Soon the two of them, the tourist family and their booty, and the fortunately defanged and declawed snow leopard were flopping around the hotel's main entrance like a bucket of live fish dumped onto a hot skillet.
The goons were distracted by the leopard, prodding it with audible zaps. The teenaged girl and her brothers were soon pounding their armor with tiny fists.
"Stop! Stop! He nice! Friendly like kitten! Stop, you barbarian!" screamed the teenaged girl.
In less than a minute, Caldonia and Xochitl were out on Figueroa, well out of the goons licensed-to-maim jurisdiction.
*
"There's got to be a way to locate Phoebe," said Caldonia as she dragged Xochitl down Figueroa, through a cluster of tourists from Illinois dressed as Huichol peyote pilgrims.
"Why no just call her again?" asked Xochitl.
"Call her?" Caldonia didn't have any idea what the Mexican nerd bitch was talking about, and considered giving her a good, solid elbow in the ribs.
"Yes," said Xochitl, pulling out of elbow distance, pointing to her wrist, miming talking into it.
Caldonia stopped dead, causing the traffic to pile up around her – some Illinois Huichols and a few Japanese tengu complete with beaks, wings and bla
ck hats, didn't mind the spontaneous body contact; others, including an aloof Jamaican duppy, resented it. "Of course! Call her! Maybe she'll answer this time! My brain is such a mess. You think so simple – so direct." She patted Xochitl on the head. "You Third World types see things so clearly."
Xochitl looked confused.
"But we can't do it here." Caldonia looked over the crowd, and shook her head.
"So why doncha get outta our way, then," an overweight man dressed as a buxom, bearded mer-octopus said.
Caldonia shot her fist into his fat belly. Soon a full-blown street-brawl had broken out. She grabbed Xochitl by the shoulder and ran.
*
Ah yes! Are we getting all this? The bald black bitch hitting the fat dragster and the ruckus developing . . . Good stuff, I tell you. Salable. Perhaps as part of a public service spot for next year's Dead Daze. You know, "This is the sort of thing not to do for a safe, sane, and sumato Dead Daze." Yeah, get as much of the fight as possible – especially any punching, kicking or biting. Damn! Some National Guard got in there. It'll all be over in no time. Hey! This could work, too. "Your National Guard giving its all to protect us from ourselves," or some such bullshit. Anyway, keep it rolling. Getting it all. I'll figure out some way to make it pay. And if it doesn't , there's always the Goma Mondomentary Festival.
*
Xochitl and the black woman left the Bonaventure running. They had an apparent altercation with armed hotel guards. Then they went and immediately started some violence on the streets. Could these Satanic sodomites be trying to incite more rioting as part of the blasphemous Dead Daze celebrations? May God have mercy on their souls.
*
"The recording crew for the video is here, Smokey," said Sharkey, as she enjoyed some personal eye-contact with the man himself.
"What?" said Lobo. "What are they doing here so soon? Nobody called them . . ."
"I called," said Smokey grinning and pointing to his fresh implant. A purple bruise still glowed around it.
"But we just got finished writing the song," Lobo went on. We haven't even had time to rehearse it!"
Smokey's eyes rolled back as if he were an internal chronometer. "It's 10:33 P.M. Getting late. The second night of Dead Daze is on. Dawn will be here before we know it. I want this video all over the mediasphere by sunrise. Then we can perform it in concert at sunset."
"There's no way!" Lobo's eyes were bloodshot and dark circles swelled around them. His hands trembled. The caffeine patches weren't enough anymore.
"Hey," said Tommy, sucking down some Fun. "I say let's get the job done. Sleep is for losers."
"I need sleep," said Lobo, sitting down on a pile of cushions, letting all his muscles go slack and his eyes cross. His head dropped, then snapped back up. He fumbled through his pockets.
"Damn," he said, "I'm all out of caffeine patches."
"Even if you had enough to cover your entire body, it wouldn't be enough," said Smokey, standing over Lobo, kicking a few cushions at him. "We have a lot of work to do – no time for frivolities like sleep."
"I think the man needs a little Fun," said Tommy, who then mimed the action of flicking on and sucking off a Fun stick, right down to the licking the ash of his lips, in slow motion, kind of obscene.
"Uh," said Kenny. "Yeah," with a lame, no-muscle-or-pitch-control giggle.
Ella sprawled next to Lobo, put her arms around his quaking shoulders and wrapped a leg around his lap. She kissed his neck, which showed the marks of many caffeine patches.
"Come on, Lobo," she said. "You're always talking about being real professionals, cutting out all the playing around and getting down to work. Well, now we have some really big, serious sumato work to do – and what are you doing? Closing your big, browns, falling asleep."
Tommy and Kenny shook their heads, clucked their tongues.
Ella pulled a Fun stick out of a pocket and slowly waved it in front of Lobo's tired face.
"Look what I have here, Lobito," she sang.
His eyes quivered, then locked onto the stick, followed it, back, and forth.
"It's something that will wake you up, and make you want to do the work that we all have to do." She sounded like a mother consoling her baby. "Come on, Lobito. It's Fun." She giggled at the pun.
So did the others.
"Hey!" Tommy walked over, reached for the stick. "If he isn't going for it – give it to me!"
Smokey blocked him. "No, this is for Lobo."
"Well, Lobito," Ella cooed, holding the stick within kissing distance of Lobo's twitching lips. "What's it going to be? You want to work – or sleep?"
Lobo's jaw went slack. His brow knit, and he made a noise like a clogged sink draining. Then he grabbed the stick, and sucked it down like an old pro.
Smokey smiled.
The others – including the guards and recording crew – applauded.
*
Phoebe was lost in the texture of the hotel room's acoustic ceiling. All those itty-bitty hills and valleys, so rugged and jagged, like the surface of an alien planet she was orbiting. She imagined that her orbit would eventually decay, and she would fall from the bed to the planet, trailing the tangled sheets behind her.
"Earth to Phoebe . . ." she mumbled. "Earth to Phoebe . . . do you read?"
She thought it was a funny thing to say, even if there was no one there to hear it; and if anybody heard it, they probably wouldn't understand the way she was mumbling.
I'm so funny, she thought. No wonder people like me so much!
Then her wrist tickled. Was someone there with her? She wondered who it was and if they thought the Earth-to-Phoebe line was funny. And who was it? Smokey? Caldonia? Beto? Some new and exciting stranger?
Her hands fluttered and groped for whomever. She could feel sheets, pillows, but no person.
She thought of ghosts, demons, and evil, and went into a panic. The sheets went flying as she thrashed around. Eventually she opened her eyes.
It was dark. There was some light that wasn't bright enough to be daylight leaking from a curtain that wasn't quite drawn all the way.
She could barely see, but soon was sure there wasn't anybody else in the room. Too bad. She could have used a warm body for some early morning cuddle-therapy to get her nervous system ready to face another day.
Was it early morning? The light spilling in was weak – not at all like the dazzling photochemical-enriched daylight of El Lay. This was cool light, electric and subtle – it didn't hurt when she looked directly at it. Anyway, she had that early-in-the-morning feeling.
Whatever it was tickled her wrist again.
She flailed around, slamming her wrist into a handy, nearby pillow so hard that the impact of her phone hurt her wrist.
Her phone.
That's what it was.
The impact jolted it into answer mode. The screen glowed – a face melted into focus on it. It was Caldonia.
"Cal-DOAN-YAAAAAAA!" screamed Phoebe with another weak chuckle.
"Phoebe-babe?" Caldonia looked worried. "Are you all right?"
"Oh, I'm okay. Not quite sumato, but then I just had a good, long bout of Fun sleep."
"Is there something wrong?" Caldonia had this funny look on her face, like she was afraid that something was xau-xau. "The picture is screwy. I can hardly see you."
Phoebe shrieked and put her hand over the phone. "I just woke up! I must look awful!"
"I don't think that – believe me, Phoebe-babe, I really am glad to see you. It's just that I didn't know where you were and I thought something had happened to you."
Phoebe ran her fingers through her hair and looked back at her phone. "Oh, I'm okay . . ."
Caldonia frowned. "Phoebe-babe, what happened to you?"
Phoebe turned away from her phone, poked a finger into a pillow. "Well, you know, I went off with this guy . . ."
"You mean Smokey." Caldonia's tone grew cold.
"Well . . . yeah. You remember. It was so sumato and exciting. He kille
d that gangster and the crowd picked him up. . . and then he wanted me! It was an honor."
"Yeah." Caldonia was starting to sneer. "You're a self-centered bitch."
Phoebe looked directly into the phone, made her big, blue eyes even bigger and her delicately sculptured brows into a well-practiced inverted V. "Please, Caldonia, don't be mad at me!"
Caldonia's full lips relaxed into something that resembled a smile – not quite, but almost. "Ah, don't go doing that to me. You know I can't resist that act of yours."
Phoebe's upper lip trembled and she made a sound like a tiny wounded mammal. "How could all my emotions be an act? I can't help the way I feel! It comes from my soul!"
Caldonia tried hard not to smirk. "Honest, Phoebe-babe. I was worried about you."
"You were?" Phoebe was warming up. Her entire face melted into a master smile. Her eyes said, I could have sex with you for saying that.
"You don't know what's been going on since you went off with that murderer – all of El Lay has gone crazy like they want to make him king, or something." Caldonia softened in response to Phoebe's expression. If only they were in the same room. If only they could touch.
"Really?" Phoebe lit up. "Then I could be queen!"
That made Caldonia frown again. "So where are you?"
Phoebe looked around. "Oh . . . I'm in a room somewhere . . . a hotel, I think . . ."
"Yeah." Caldonia was losing her grip on her patience. "It's the Bonaventure. We need to know the room number."
"I'll go look." Phoebe stumbled through the semi-darkness to the door giving Caldonia a dizzying, upside-down view of her path – then Phoebe stopped, and brought the phone back to her face.
"We?" she demanded. "What do you mean we? Who's with you?"
"Nobody," said Caldonia, "Just a friend of Beto's who's helping me."
"I don't know," said Phoebe. "Beto has some pretty strange, xau-xau friends."
"Never mind that," Caldonia snapped. "I needed her to find you!"
"Her!" Phoebe pushed her face into the phone until Caldonia was getting an extreme closeup of the buckled skin between those blue eyes. "I'm away for a little while and you find yourself another woman!"
Caldonia rolled her eyes, and pointed her phone at the confused Xochitl. "Look at her. Would I have anything to do with a xau-xauette like this?"