Stroking the unicorn’s side, and looking, lovingly, at the white beast that glows on its own, the girl says, “I want to ask you for a favour.”
“Is it a sexual favour?” I say.
“Yes.”
“I’m listening.”
I can smell her perfume. It’s intoxicating. Maybe that’s the whiskey. The cute girl definitely has a scent, though. She smells familiar. Familiar but exotic. It takes me a moment to place her bouquet in the vase of my brain and identify the flowers. She smells like baby oil.
Suddenly, she looks flustered. She lets her hand slip off the unicorn. She turns to me. “I’m a . . .”—her pale face flushes, taking on the pink hue of her hair—“. . . I don’t want to say the word.” She squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head a little. Her swinging hair catches the flickering fluorescence in waves: in bright peaks and dark troughs. Her cotton-candy-pink hair isn’t washed out red. It’s true pink: soft and light but deep and lush; it’s somehow almost silvery. The cute girl opens her heavenly grey eyes, and stares at me, determined. “I’ve never had . . .”—she stops herself again, and her shoulders fall, and she tilts one of her high heels over to the side, and looks down at it—“. . . okay I don’t want to say that word, either.”
“This is probably going to take a long time if you discriminate against words, which you should never do. Discriminating against words is wrong.” I take a drag off my cigarette, exhale, and tap ashes on the hallway floor. “Except for nigger.”
She sighs. “What I’m trying to say is, you’re a bad boy.”
I look at my cigarette. At first blush, it’s a white tube filled with brown tobacco. Then I stick it between my lips and watch the tip of it burn orange while I suck on it and marvel, slightly cross-eyed, at how the colour becomes a part of me, how it moves with me, my breath, my intake of air, purified by the fire, and then (admittedly) it becomes less purified by the tobacco and carcinogenic chemicals and anyway the pretty orange colour crackles, if a colour can crackle, through the brown and the white, toward me, when I suck, and believe me, I suck. I suck non-stop. I’m going to die from sucking but everybody dies from sucking and ultimately so will the world. I take a deep drag, trap the cigarette in a scissor-closing peace sign, take it out from between my lips, and exhale smoke at the fallen ceiling. I stick the cigarette back between my lips and let it dangle. I look really cool when I do that. “Kike,” I say.
“What?”
“It’s okay to discriminate against the word ‘kike.’ ”
“I suppose that’s okay. I don’t really.” She tries to compose herself. “Like I was saying, you’re a bad boy.”
“Yeah well . . . ‘Faggot, dyke’ . . . I’m a spiritual leader and a pirate. Being a bad boy kind of goes with the territory, which I control and rule with an iron fist.”
“Right,” she says. “You’re a bad boy and I’m a good girl. So I thought you could help me out.”
“Help you out how?”
“Look,” says the cute girl, exasperated. “I want you to have sex with me. I’ve never done it before.”
“Did you know that one in five Americans has genital warts?” I say, seriously.
“No,” she says, taken aback. “Wow. That’s a startling statistic.” She frowns at me. “Why? Do you have genital warts?”
I don’t answer right away. Then I say, “No, but if I did, I wouldn’t be alone.”
“Right.” Even more exasperated, the cute girl slaps her hands onto her face. She drags them down slowly, seemingly trying to pull off her skin, but only stretching it, and drawing down her lower eyelids, exposing the moist pink surrounding the important beauty of her eyes. “Listen . . .”
The blue hallway suddenly goes black. Someone screams. Animals shriek and batter the insides of lockers in answer.
“What’s that noise?” asks the cute girl, bathed in unicorn light, her head turned in the direction of the shrieking animals.
“It’s not the sound of excited cocks,” I say, defensively. I want to change the topic. “What’s your name, cute girl?”
“Baby Doll15.”
The fluorescent lights glimmer back on. Not all of them. A lot of the fluorescent lights are broken. Their sharp white pieces are mixed in the debris of broken light-grey ceiling tiles. “Well, Baby Doll15, if you’re going to get involved with me, I think you should know I have my demons.” I gesture with my thumb over my left shoulder. “That’s Mike Hawk.” I point my thumb over my right shoulder. “That’s York Hunt.” My demons seem to appear as I acknowledge them.
“What’s up?” say Mike and York in unison, with their mouths full, lifting their Hot Pockets as if to say, “Cheers.” In their non-Hot-Pocket-holding hands, they’ve got Red Bulls.
“Only two?” says Baby Doll15. “I’m impressed.”
“Actually they’re more like elected representatives of all my other demons.”
“I see.” That’s what she says, but I don’t know if it’s true.
It gets awkward. I feel like she wants to tell me about her demons, or her angels, but instead, the two of us just stand there, looking at each other. Every once in a while, I steal a glance at the unicorn. It’s a pretty awesome unicorn.
“Is that your unicorn?” I finally ask.
“It’s not mine. It just follows me around.”
“Have you ever tried to kill it?” I say. “Ride it, I mean.”
“No.”
I take a swig of my whiskey. It tastes like love and acceptance. “Okay, yeah, I think I can help you. I mean, I regularly bring girls to heights of sexual frustration they’ve never even contemplated, let alone experienced, and as soon as I’m done, I abruptly end the encounter and make them feel like their presence is no longer wanted. I think that’s what you’re looking for.” I wipe my lips with the back of my hand. Then I suck on my cigarette and inhale it so deep that when I breathe out, no smoke appears. It tastes like the future.
“Okay,” she says, uncomfortable, “so can I come over after school and we can get it over with or what?”
“Not that I’m complaining or anything, but why are you in such a hurry to do this?”
She looks up and sighs. “I’m sick of it, you know? I’m sick of having it. I’m sick of being it. I’m sick of thinking about it, wondering about it, and worrying about it. I’m sick of wanting it, quite a bit sometimes, but being afraid of it, and I’m sick of wanting it to be perfect and knowing it never will be. I just want to get rid of it so I can get on with my life.”
“All right. Fair enough. Why me?”
“Because I know you won’t care. I’ll just be another one to you. A number you can add to your list. I don’t want any complications.”
“Do it,” says one of my demons, Mike Hawk, with his mouth full of Hot Pocket, taking a drink of Red Bull.
“Oh for sure,” agrees York Hunt, chewing and smiling.
Their encouragement is worrisome. Acknowledging your demons and paying close attention to them is a good idea because demons actually make the most trustworthy advisors, inasmuch as whatever they suggest is a really bad idea. You can always count on them; you can completely rely on them. You can’t listen to the angels because angels are constantly trying to pass off really unpleasant tests, tasks, and trials as something you should eagerly accept just because God wants you to. Screw that. Wander around in the desert? Get crucified? Not me, God. You do it.
“So do you want to get together after school or what?” Baby Doll15 asks, getting impatient.
“Not right after school. I’ve got to strategize after school. You know. Arrange some preparations, prepare some arrangements. I’m getting set to remove The Principal from office. Maybe tonight.”
“Text me?”
“Argh.”
She turns and walks away. I take a good long look at her ass as she goes. It’s nice and tight. That’s the way I like my girls’ asses: nice and tight. The unicorn clicks into silent step behind her, obscuring my view of that ass.
Stupid unicorn.
CHAPTER TWO:
enter sweetie honey; Not literally; okay, literally, But Not like That
After Baby Doll15 and her unicorn disappear into the stroboscopic crowd of students, I decide I’d better get ready for class. I move my pirate hat—the Pope’s pirate hat: the tall gold-and-white one—back and forth on my head, adjusting it. My raven bounces on my shoulder a few times, trying to decide if it should take flight, but it doesn’t. I take one last drag off my smoke, flick it away, and turn to my locker. I pull out two nine-millimetre handguns, make sure they’re loaded and there’s one in the chamber so I’m ready for that troubled kid to, invariably, show up and start shooting up the school. After I make sure the safeties are on, I stick the guns into the mirror-image holsters I have strapped to my lower back. Along with the holsters, underneath my ceremonial robe, I’m also wearing my pirate outfit: a pair of brown breeches and a loose-fitting white linen shirt.
It happens impossibly fast: between flicks of fluorescent lights. One millisecond he isn’t there; the next he is. Some guy I’ve never seen before is working on the combination lock on the locker right next to mine: the one the zombie chick kept walking into. He’s wearing spotless white sneakers, casual-fit blue jeans, and a tight dark red t-shirt, revealing his trim but muscular chest, shoulders, and arms.
“You a cop?” I ask, squinting at him coldly.
“Ninja,” he says.
I eye him suspiciously. “Maybe that’s your cover.”
“My cover is that I’m a regular kid.”
“But you’re really a ninja.”
“Exactly.” He pops the combination lock.
“Okay, that’s pretty cool,” I admit, nodding. “I’m a pirate.”
“Nice.”
The (well-known) rivalry between ninjas and pirates is (mostly) friendly. Normally I’m not really an exclamation mark kind of guy, but I’m pretty enthusiastic about being a pirate! I get all my music, movies, and software for free! (No, not like a communist. Well, okay, kind of like a communist, but in an awesome way.) Without doubt, we pirates are the coolest! We fly the skull and crossbones! It’s unquestionably the wickedest flag of all time! (Did you know “ninja” is the plural of “ninja”?) [That’s scary. I’ve got to admit it. (They don’t use the “s” because it’d slow them down and make it harder for them to hide when guards are nearby.)] (But I don’t abide by the no “s” rule. I think it discriminates against blind people. It’s like with deer. If you’re with a blind person and you say, “Hey, look at the deer!” the blind person doesn’t know how many deer you’re talking about. There could be one deer, or there could be a lot of deer. There might not be any deer at all and you could be messing with the blind person. I’m just saying. When I’m talking about more than one ninja, I say “ninjas,” because of blind people.) Ninjas don’t have a flag! If they did, it’d have to be a completely invisible flag because of their insatiable secrecy-lust, but they don’t, because they’re not awesome enough, but I have to admit I can’t conclusively say ninjas don’t have a flag because if they do have an invisible flag, obviously, I wouldn’t know it, even if it was slapping me in the face. I mean, I’d know something invisible and fabriclike was slapping me in the face, but I wouldn’t know it was an invisible ninja flag. (I could probably deduce it was.) I also have to acknowledge that an invisible flag, no matter what image, motto, or lack thereof should be sewn into it, or left off of it, would be very impressive. It might even rival the skull and crossbones. She’d certainly be an ominous non-warning to all who never see her! Not that all flags are chicks. Whatever. We pirates have ships! Ninjas don’t. Unless they have ships nobody can see.
Okay, okay. Even though I’m a pirate and proud of it, I’ve got to give the edge to ninjas in a head to head matchup. But that’s mostly on the grounds of intimidation. There are other things to consider. Quality of life, for example. Furthermore, I’m not just a pirate. I’m the Self-Appointed One. No one can make you the “Self-Appointed One.” This is America. You’ve got to do things yourself. Unless you’ve got Mexicans.
I crouch down, pick up my half-empty bottle of whiskey, and take a swig. Pirates are supposed to drink rum, but I don’t. That’s how bad-ass I am. I look at what’s left in the bottle. It’s half-empty. I drank what’s missing. Cause and effect. I’ve got to live with the consequences of my actions [even if my actions are beyond my control because of genetic predispositions, my formative years, and the situations into which I’ve been forced without my consent, including (but not limited to) the world, everything in it, on it, around it, and myself. Furthermore (unfortunately), I’ve also got to live with the (horrific) consequences of everyone else’s (idiotic) actions, even if their (stupid) actions are beyond their control too.] That’s why I drink heavily. Maybe I’m half-empty, as well. Whatever.
Suddenly a girl floats past me and the ninja, down the hallway. I don’t mean she passes in a way that makes her look light on her feet. I mean she literally floats by us. She’s about a yard off the slippery, rubble-strewn floor. Her arms are stretched out to the sides. Her feet are bare. Her legs are straight and held together tightly. It looks like she’s being carried, but no one is carrying her. Wildly, panicked, the girl jerks her head from side to side, searching for the cause of her predicament.
Some say Scare City High is haunted by the wasted potential of all those who are trained to become zombies. Others agree.
The poor girl wears a long white silk dress that’s pressed tight against her front, like it’s being blown back by a strong wind, revealing every bump, line, and curve of her thin body. The diaphanous fabric flows in rapidly undulating waves behind her. Her long blonde hair flows behind her too, blown by the same wind I can’t feel. In the flashing blue-white light, the floating girl is a little eerie. She’s being followed by a bunch of kids holding up their cell phones, recording her. The kids are open-mouthed but silent.
“I’ve got my ninja outfit in my backpack,” says the ninja, ignoring the floating girl and the crowd passing behind him. He turns to me, leaving the open combination lock dangling from his locker. “I’m not wearing it right now because I just transferred to this school, and I really want to fit in. Thankfully, I have my male-model-rugged-good-looks and my easy-going charm, not to mention my mastery-ofvarious-fighting-styles and weapons, to help.”
“All of that will come in handy,” I agree. “Here, and, you know”—I gesture with the whiskey bottle in a way that very precisely indicates I’m talking about the future—“when you enter the workforce.”
A little ways down the hall, the floating girl gets pinned with her arms outspread, halfway up a wall. Nothing happens for a moment. Then she gets pulled away from the wall by the same invisible force holding her aloft. She gets slammed back into the wall. She screams in pain and terror. The kids documenting everything on their cell phones gasp. The floating girl gets pulled away again and slammed back again. She shakes her head from side to side impossibly fast, screaming at the top of her lungs. The witnesses call for more witnesses.
“People are reluctant to befriend ninjas,” says the ninja, sadly, to me, “especially when they’re dressed up like ninjas. It’s a tragedy. Ninjas need love, you know? Well, we don’t need it. We could live alone in a cave if we had to. Or by ourselves on a mountain, if we wanted to. Ninjas don’t need anything. Other than our wits. One free finger. That sort of thing. We simply don’t, due to our training and our ways, require the sort of stuff regular people do. But that doesn’t mean we don’t want it. I guess what I’m trying to say is, aside from our ability to move stealthily, or, when necessary, remain completely still, and, ultimately, our gift—because it’s a gift, really, that’s what my father says, and I agree—our gift for, remorselessly killing lots and lots of people in a variety of different ways—which would be too long to list here—we’re just like regular people. Regular people who aren’t merely pretending to be regular people, I mean.”
I guzzle from the b
ottle. I set it on the floor. “I hear you.” I reach into my locker, pull out a pump-action sawedoff shotgun, and pump it once. An unused shell flies out. I forgot I’d pumped it already. I retrieve the shell and reload it. I’ve got the sawed-off shotgun, in addition to the ninemillimetres, so I’m ready for when a group of troubled kids shows up and starts shooting up the school. Sawed-off shotguns are good for crowds of people, and when I say, “good,” I mean, “bad.” The shotgun has a strap. I sling it over my shoulder.
The ninja turns away from me, opens his locker, and hangs the lock on the inside of the door. The inside of the door is plastered with pictures of shirtless dudes. They’re really hunky-looking shirtless dudes.
Down the hall, more kids are gathering, watching the girl being tortured by the unknown. Invisible hands ruffle her white silk gown. They touch her everywhere. They do things to her. Various, you know, things. Use your imagination. I notice a couple of guys exchange smiles, keeping their cell phones on the action. The girl’s head and her long blonde hair hang slackly. She’s unconscious or she’s surrendered.
Drawn to the meat—the confusion and fear—muzzled and bound zombie teenagers join the crowd of spectators. They don’t look at the tortured girl. With their glazed white eyes, in their mottled grey faces, they stare down the hall at me.
The ninja scopes out the swords and throwing stars neatly arranged inside his locker. “You expecting trouble?” he asks me bravely and, I’ve got to say, handsomely, tipping his head in the direction of the shotgun I just slung over my shoulder.
“Always.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Big.”
“You’re a dude and I like that,” says the ninja. I squint at him.
“You’re a dude who lives by a code and I like that,” says the ninja. “That’s what I meant to say.”
“Okay.” I look back at the inside of the ninja’s locker door, plastered with pictures of shirtless dudes. Like I said before, they’re really hunky-looking shirtless dudes. I don’t think I mentioned this earlier: their chests are very shiny.
Ninja Versus Pirate Featuring Zombies Page 3