King Henry Short Pack One (The King Henry Tapes)

by Richard Raley

  “Miss Hunting, I’m well aware of the social order in this room, more aware of it than you are, believe me,” the Lady told her, “Miss Strange will take Mr. Welf to the Infirmary once your punishment has been decided.”

  “Punishment for ME?!?” Hope complained, “He started everything!”

  “I doubt that . . . I’m also well aware of the Hunting love of gossip and snipping at other women around them. I recall your mother received more than a few detentions for bullying in her time.”

  Hope gasped at this news. “Never!”

  The Lady rolled her eyes. “The delusions of youth to have such perfect parents. A Hunting and a Daniels start a fight, like I’ve never seen this story before! Would you like to hear the story of how Miss Daniels’ mother tricked your aunt, your mother, and their friends into skinny dipping before blowing all their colors down the Field? We caught the girls streaking back to the dorms as fast as they could but not before the rest of the student body was mysteriously made aware of what was happening.”

  King Henry was pretty sure that was the first time he’d ever seen Miranda completely guilt free over some bit of mischief making. Hope had the opposite reaction, mortified into silence.

  The Lady wasn’t finished. “Or how Miss Gullick’s parents hated each other during their time at school? Or how often I caught Mr. Welf’s mother rutting away in closets? And not with her husband to be? I know all the family secrets, dears, I was here for all the family secrets. Surprising me is almost impossible. Mr. Price manages it occasionally, which is why I treat him so well. He’s also grieving over the dead, something else I’ve had practice with in my hundred years . . . so I well know the support he needs to get through it. He will, however, still be punished along with the rest of you.”

  “About that punishment?” King Henry hedged.

  “As of yet undeclared,” the Lady said. “Evelyn, how are they?”

  “Welf needs a wrap around his head for a concussion and he needs his wrist in a Tank . . . Price needs some Slush slapped on his face, the rest are minor, they’ll heal on their own,” Miss Strange diagnosed. “Maybe if they have to deal with scabs and scrapes they’ll remember them in the future.”

  The Lady nodded. “Part of the punishments, but not enough.”

  “I have an idea,” Samson said.

  “You’re the reason we’re in this mess in the first place,” the Lady snapped at him, but it had an edge of affection to it, “you doddering old fool. You fell asleep on the job!”

  “I’m retired and you keep making me teach! I’ve grown used to napping,” Samson complained, “Especially in the winter.”

  The Lady huffed. “Any ideas on your punishment, Ultra Class 2009?”

  Nothing was immediately supplied.

  “If you don’t give me a suitable one,” the Lady warned, “I’m likely to ban you from defending your Winter War championship.”

  An uproar the likes of which usually ended in rebellions, guillotines, and tea parties.

  The Lady raised a hand to silence us. “Make me your offers.”

  “Park duty for a month?” Pocket tried.

  “More than that feebleness,” the Lady declared with a sniff.

  “Cataloging the Library?” Miranda tried.

  “No servants?” from Val.

  “No servants!” Hope complained.

  “No makeup,” Naomi also came up with one, “added to everything else.”

  The Lady nudged King Henry with a shoulder. “Miss Hunting’s mouth might have started this but your fists made it erupt. What do you think?”

  Everything already mentioned wasn’t enough. Winter War was on the chopping block and suddenly King Henry felt like an ass for hurting everyone when he’d just been trying to hurt himself enough to snap past the Gap. He’d wanted to punch Welf and then have Jason smash him into the ground. Would have been worth it. Would have . . . felt. I’m not emo enough to start cutting myself but damned if I don’t like occasionally getting punched in the face to remind me I’m alive.

  But . . . there was no going back. The class had done what it had done and King Henry couldn’t take the blame for all of it. The Lady wouldn’t accept that. It meant they had to give over something that would hurt them.

  The Winter War.

  Or . . .

  There was only one other thing that King Henry could think of.

  The others didn’t think of it because to them it was something that just happened. The Asylum talked about dispensations and put the carrot on the scales but they never took it away. Me . . . I never get the carrot. He watched all his classmates eat it every year and just sat there with an empty stomach. This year would be even worse.

  “Christmas break,” he muttered. “That’s what you want.”

  Twenty-eight gasps—Welf being in La La land.

  The Lady nodded. “Christmas break. And cleaning the Park, and picking up trash from the Field, and helping out in the Library, and . . . well, I’ll let your class decide on how the tasks are divvied up.”

  “You can’t do this!” Hope shrieked. “I’m going to Maui for Christmas! Mother and Father won’t stand for it!”

  The Lady sighed. “If those are the stories I gave to you about your parents then imagine the ones I held back, Miss Hunting.”

  Hope’s mouth moved like a fish out of water, speechless.

  “I think it’s a good idea,” Pocket said. Shocking everyone, even King Henry.

  “Christmas at the Asylum isn’t that bad,” Jesus put in, nodding across the Holding Room, “Jason, me, and El Rey do it every year. Do it without punching each other too.”

  Jason grinned. “Only cuz you fools won’t tell me where you get all them pies from.”

  “Don’t give El Gigante the keys to the pantry!” Jesus teased back. “Or they’d be all gone before the day arrives.”

  Suddenly, everyone thought about Christmas at the Asylum and what it would be like.

  As always, it was Val who lit the way and made the class accept the bright side. “At least we’ll all be together. How bad could it be?”

  Pocket whispered in King Henry’s ear, “And you won’t be alone, dude.”

  What the fuck did I do to deserve friends like this?

  King Henry started crying and he couldn’t stop.

  The Lady gave a pat on his knee. “Good. Servants of the school until the break and then the break spent together at the school; a very fitting punishment that should have the other students rightly scared of repeating the same public fracas,” she decided, knocking her cane on the ground like it was a gavel.

  “Can I still go forward with mine as well?” Samson asked.

  The Lady glared at him, exasperated. “No!”

  “Won’t you at least let me tell you the idea?”

  “What is it then?”

  “I’m going to put up a boxing ring and make them go at it, just like Buster Knox used to do when we were kids. It’s just what they need!”

  The Lady not only glared, she glared at him like he was stupid.

  “Or not . . .” Samson whispered.

  “Men,” the Lady said to all the girls in the class.

  Every one of them nodded.

  Except for Miranda, who was busy sliding back towards King Henry, throwing an arm around his shaking shoulders. “Thanks for standing up for me this one time . . . just promise you won’t go soft on me, okay? I like annoying you too much.”

  “Stop being friendly and emotional,” King Henry growled through sobs, “I’m trying to stop crying.”

  “I know that . . . I just said I like annoying you, didn’t I?”

  Pocket threw another arm over King Henry’s opposite shoulder. “Let it out, dude, let it all out.”

  *

  King Henry had never hated horseshit more in his life. Not that it was ever at the top of his My Favorite Substances in the Universe list, but . . . fuck horse shit.

  Ain’t the Old West, it’s a fucking obsolete form of travel, so wh
y they even still around? Ain’t like they taste good . . . I mean, I can’t know cuz I ain’t ever grubbed down on horsemeat but given the way Americans are so far gone as to eat a deep fried Twinkie drizzled with bacon drippings, I got to believe if horsemeat tasted any good, it would be on the menu at Burger King.

  Also ain’t a very good pet, is it? Not that I’ve ever had a pet. But if I did become so inclined, I figure I’d make some kind of equation to determine which kind would be the best for me and I can’t see how horses would be higher on that list than their shit would be on the other one. Mostly because the highest determining factor would be how much the pet defecates. When something can be measured in tons then your Usefulness Plus Cuteness Divided by Shit Weight Per Day equation can’t be that good.

  Given how much shit King Henry scooped up every day it might even be in the negatives.

  And they bite.

  And they kick.

  And they know the smell of fear.

  In normal circumstances, King Henry would have shown the horses who the boss was by knocking one out with an iron fist, Mongo-style. But with the whole class still in deep shit—literally for some of them—he didn’t want to risk extending their punishment.

  The days since the Brawl had been good for King Henry. He felt a lot better. He didn’t cry during his showers anymore. He talked more and read less. How long is a boy supposed to mourn for his mom? King Henry wasn’t through mourning but he didn’t feel as broken as before. As lost and confused as he’d been. As angry over existence being as crappy as he always knew it was.

  He still had flashes of that Gap in Mom’s chest, but he had learned to banish it. He still found himself pooling anima accidentally, but it happened less often and he caught himself quicker. Strangely enough, having the majority of the class pissed at him seemed to help. Starting the Brawl hadn’t just gotten King Henry over his anger; it had also gotten Ultra Class ‘09 through feeling sorry for him.

  No Pity Looks to be found.

  One stay in the Holding Room and he wasn’t poor little King Henry with the dead mommy.

  He was the Foul Mouth who had everyone doing chores and stuck at the Asylum for Christmas.

  He could handle that.

  It was easy to handle that.

  It was the normal state of affairs.

  Pocket and Jesus egging him on to make some play, while Raj tried to put a stop to the whole thing. Val smiling at his jokes, Miranda rolling her eyes. Welf and Hope and the Old School Mancy kids loathing his very presence, except for Jason who’d give a nod and walk off. You punch someone that much and they’re still standing, gotta respect them.

  It was normal . . .

  Just normal . . .

  King Henry shoveled some more horse shit. Stables and the Library. Everyone else in the class was allowed to pick and choose what assignments they would take for punishment, but not King Henry. It was decided he would have to do the two things he hated most in the world. Books and nature. Only reason I didn’t get some Park duty was because the floromancers took up all the spots.

  At least Pocket stepped up yet again to join him in his banishment.

  Pocket speared a bit of shitty hay with a pitchfork and tossed it into the wheelbarrow, smile on his face, happy as can be.

  “I hate you for liking this, you’re a fucking floromancer, animals are your enemies,” King Henry reminded him, “you’re a traitor Pocket, a dirty horse-loving traitor.”

  Pocket took every curse with the same smile. “Circle of life, dude. No manure, no plants.”

  “Life: It’s Nothing but Shit.”

  More manure, proving his point. Pocket eventually asked, “You know eight times out of ten that floromancers end up falling in love and marrying a faunamancer?”

  “Why ain’t I ever seen one on your arm then?”

  Pocket frowned. “Yeah . . . guess I’m one of the ones on the outside looking in.”

  “Not like your pickings are that good. Jessica hates you for hanging out with me and Robin ain’t breaking up with Rick any time soon . . . who’s a faunamancer and not a floromancer . . . I’m starting to think your statistic is full of shit.”

  “Just like this room?”

  “Not as much as a minute ago,” King Henry whispered, happy to see they were down to one corner. “You could always let Jesus stick his man-meat in you, I guess.”

  “What?”

  “Mexican Jesus our friend, not fish-stick Jesus . . . though I’m sure you can find a priest or two who would be happy to transubstantiate the Son of God’s penis for you, if you so desired.”

  “Wow, that is some serious blasphemy.”

  “Yeah, I’m kind of proud of it.”

  The last of the shit went in the wheelbarrow.

  “I’d offer letting you move it but being as it outweighs you . . .” Pocket kidded before hoisting the wheelbarrow’s axis up and pushing it out of the stall.

  “Still with the short jokes three years in,” King Henry complained, trailing behind with a shovel, on the lookout for any strays that might try to escape them on the ride over to the manure pile.

  “Could make a joke about how much you been defending Miranda lately if you want.”

  “You’re more likely to end up with Jesus than I am to end up with Miranda. First time I see her naked I’ll die choking on the throw up. All them freckles, man. Besides, Raj would never forgive me.”

  “Raj is with Naomi.”

  “Until Mimi’s tired of training him.”

  Pocket laughed, probably over dodging the same bullet a year back. “If all the protecting isn’t about going to the Ball with Miranda, then why?”

  “She was the only one who got up to see how I was the night after the funeral.”

  “Oh.”

  “And Hope was being a bullying bitch.”

  “And that’s the King Henry I’m used to. Who else you going to the Ball with then? Hope you don’t expect to get another shot at Boomworm, she’s already agreed to go with someone,” Pocket informed King Henry in a voice you use when telling a man he only has twelve hours to live.

  “Fucking who?” King Henry growled.

  “Lando Monahan.”

  “What?!? He’s a fucking Hex!”

  “And Boomworm is Boomworm.”

  “I’ll fucking kick his ass!”

  “Probably not a good idea,” Pocket reminded him of sanity.

  They put more manure on the manure pile.

  “Who you going with?” King Henry eventually asked.

  “Vicky Welf.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “She asked me and she’s so nice . . .”

  “Fuck . . . I was thinking about asking her just to piss off Welf Primus Assholus.”

  “Probably not a good idea,” Pocket again reminded him of his sanity. “You’ll find someone else.”

  “Oh yeah,” King Henry agreed. “Always Intras . . . or . . . you think I could guilt trip an older girl into going with me?”

  “You want to use your dead mother to get a date?” Pocket deadpanned.

  “Yes! Why didn’t I think of this sooner . . . it’s fucking brilliant!”

  “Nice to see you really are feeling better, dude.”

  THE END

  Meet the Bonnies

  The second Tyson Bonnie novelette, “Meet the Bonnies” came out of a desire to write and expand on a shortly described sequence in “The Foul Mouth and the Mancy Martial Artist.” Also because FM5 was taking so long to write, the author threw some red meat to the fans/sharks to guarantee his survival. The reaction to the novelette by fans and questions about a certain van prompted to author to expound on the story’s events even further in FM5, making the whole thing very snake eating its own tail…which is oddly fitting.

  Sometimes it's the little mistakes in life that come back to haunt you, not the big ones.

  Not hacking into the Los Angeles Vampire Embassy, seeing things that no living human should see while learning secrets no living human shoul
d know.

  Not throwing a lightning bolt across the room at a vampire, but failing to kill her, and paying the obvious price people pay for failing to kill a vampire.

  Not telling the woman you’ve been spying for that you refuse to do it any longer. That it's immoral and unfair and that she can . . . stuff it!

  No . . . none of those.

  The little mistake.

  Tyson Bonnie's problem revolved around doing the right thing.

  Around manners.

  Manners that had been carefully taught to him by his normal, boring, loving, mundane mother and father. How to sit. How to eat with a fork. How to open car doors for women . . . even if they say they don’t need you to, because deep down they like it anyway. How to open normal doors for old people, even if they take a minute shuffling through them. How to dress. How to iron his shirts and pants. How to say 'please' and 'thank you.' Smile, always smile. Manners that were central to the upper middle-class lifestyle Tyson had grown up experiencing; a lifestyle at odds with how he was born and what his physical characteristics stereotyped him as not having.

  Manners.

  Kindness.

  Doing the right thing.

  Propriety even.

  All very important to him.

  So important to him that on agreeing to become a business partner with King Henry Price, supplying capital and winning a percentage of an artifact shop in the process . . . Tyson had invited King Henry to dinner because . . . that’s what you’re supposed to do when you close a deal.

  Dinner with Tyson's family.

  He didn’t have a wife or children so . . . he invited King Henry to his parents’ house.

  It just . . . slipped out.

  It was almost a joke. “I suppose since we’re partners now I should have you over to meet my family. Mom will be delighted I’m finally seeing someone.”

  Okay . . . so it was a bad joke.

  Why did it have to slip out!?!?!

  King Henry's reaction was almost demonic in nature. The way his teeth showed. The way his head shifted. The acknowledgement of the mistake. The acknowledgment of the door that Tyson’s manners had opened up, for King Henry to walk right on through. Like old vampire mythology about needing to invite them inside your home, not the true-to-life blood parasite that can go wherever and into whomever it wants.