by Bill Peters
Rambocream sniffles and squirms away from Necro and Wicked College John. Something wet—a tear, snot—flings off of him.
“Do they know the history of these weapons?” he says, heaving. “Why don’t we round up all the history books in the world and burn those? Every time a few friends want to do a show, this city, with their lawyerly word-pairings, just …”
Necro sets his hand on Rambocream’s shoulder and says, “Take it easy buddy. We hear you.” Buddy?
Even worse, I actually take it easy even less, like I’ve totally Been Promoted to President of the Diarrhea Fan Club, when we enter the building, into a back room with a concrete floor and a ceiling with exposed beams. Maybe thirty folding chairs face a small stage, with studio lights to its left and right. Wicked College John lights a cigarette to look less nervous. It feels, slightly, like we’re not actually allowed in here, like when you visit a neighbor’s house when they’re on vacation.
Necro and Rambocream immediately go into military setup mode; dropping the hockey bags on the floor, gripping zippers with their fists and yanking them hard across the bags, like a samurai slashing open a stomach. Necro hangs up a large, tan curtain that extends to the floor. The lettering on the curtain reads THE WEAPONS OF MANKIND. Above the logo are fabric cuttings of two crossing knives and a large eagle head. Rambocream folds out a cafeteria table on the stage, and Necro sets three footlong lengths of tree trunk on the table, each slotted with stab marks.
Of course, there’s no girls, so Wicked College John puffs teapot fumes through his cheeks, bites his lower lip and inspects the area behind the stage: a sink; a red exit sign; a child’s Huffy USA bike.
Then, loud talking: Men enter the room and set their various camo or bright orange jackets on the chairs. Men with black jeans, t-shirts with the sleeves ripped off—one with a shirt that says SHUT UP AND RIDE; fat guys with devil goatees who wear shorts year-round. Necro handshakes his way through the crowd. He slaps the arm fat of a bald guy who has a Santa Claus gut and a beard big enough to smuggle a baby in.
“Loostro!” he says to Necro.
“Get my VHS tapes?” Necro says. When Necro does not lend tapes, period. And his new name is Loostro?
So me and Toby take Necro off to the side of the stage, where Rambocream lifts a hockey bag by two ends and slams it on the cafeteria table.
“Necro,” I say. “You use Pants with these people?”
“You were barely up the stairs when I saw my dad’s wang, Nate,” Necro says. “I said Pants, therefore I own Pants. Free licensure.”
“But you stole it—you stole it from you and me.”
He spins around at me and says, suddenly, from the muscles in his jaw. “Like you aren’t contradicting yourself at all, Nate—like you’ve never took and confiscated one of my original utterings and slutted it around. Look at Colonel Hellstache even.”
“But who are these people?” I say.
“Right. Introduce us to these fags,” Toby says.
Rambocream reaches into the hockey bag, extends his hand to Toby, and says: “Would you like a Freedom Crab to go with that handshake?”
Something black is on Rambocream’s arm, something that looks alive, and Toby immediately ninja-rolls away from Rambocream—which is hard to do in an NFL-issue Bills winter jacket—and gets back to his feet.
Rambocream smirks and drops his hands to his waist. After we have a second to actually look, what me and Toby thought was a live scorpion is actually this shiny, black, scorpion-shaped metal molding held in place by three Velcro straps. Its head curves down over Rambocream’s fist, and its front pincers and are sharpened into blades.
“Freedom Crab! Erection 2000!” Rambocream says, not Bringing the Funny at all, using the scorpion weapon to hump Necro’s forearm. But Necro actually cackles out loud!
A pair of studio lights poof on, cotton white, and one of the fat guys in shorts turns on the camcorder mounted to a tripod connected to a computer off to the right side of the stage.
Me, Toby, Lip Cheese, and Wicked College John take a seat in the back row. Necro takes off his jacket and puts his hair in a ponytail. Rambocream’s nose bumps the microphone, setting off a deer whistle of feedback. The crowd quiets, a red light on the camera goes on, and Rambocream holds some note cards in front of his face as he reads, like a principal over a loudspeaker:
“Welcome to the Weapons of Mankind Show. And we welcome, particularly, our western New York hobbyists, whose customership we depend on when the state continues to fail to legislate an adequate appreciation of history, hobbyism, and the oldest means for land protection.”
Rambocream’s lips quiver. He reads from the second note card in his hand:
“We would like to thank Bambert Tolby, our distributor, who is prevented from being with us tonight due to his health. We continue to skirt the mainstream to strive toward a sovereign life, despite a contempt for free speech, and a tip from a certain disingenuous nonprofit community organization to our programming director and police that has misled the area about our views on race and weapons on the grounds that we are not proper representatives of the greater Rochester area.” He flips to the next note card. “Penal Code 26501 states that one is perfectly legal to own the items in our inventory, as long as they are not cane swords, switchblades, or brass knuckles …”
Rambocream looks up from his note card and back down at it, like maybe some are missing or out of order.
“To that end, our first item: the Heavy Metal 24th Anniversary Sword,” he says. “Upon its invention in 1975, heavy metal has captured the science fiction and fantasy communities. Sword artist Tag Rangel and fantasy artist Loro Miv have teamed up to pay tribute to a cultural icon. This sword features solid metal handle parts cast with intricate details, a 39 ¾ inch undulating stainless steel blade, and a solid wood wall plaque, so that now, you can truly remember: metal forever.”
“And all the crabs you can get,” I whisper to Toby.
“Seriously, there’s no alcohol here?” Wicked College John whispers.
“These guys can’t swing weapons,” Toby says. “These guys can’t fight.” He waves his hand over his nose. “And it smells like the National Auto Mechanics Convention in here.”
But then, Necro pulls the Heavy Metal 24th Anniversary Sword from its plastic sheath. There are cursivey-type designs along the blade. He bites down on his lip, one incisor visible. With an angry wetness in his eyes, he raises the weapon behind his head, muscles so tensed his forearms and hands shake and the sword shivers light, and he drives it, straight down, into the tree trunk. One corner of his mouth is screwed into a frown. He looks like he’s just killed someone. He folds his arms to hide that he’s gasping for air, and I realize I’ve been holding my breath this entire time.
“Call now,” Necro says.
“This is weird. This is stupid,” Toby whispers to me. “This is like, you have a friend, and you find out he holds an After-Hours Taint Seminar.”
“What’s this guys? Who has a seminar?” Lip Cheese whispers.
Rambocream flips to the next note card. “Next, we have a great historical item, a great traditional item to be cherished, um, by the whole family.”
Necro sets a velvet case on the table, softly, like the case is a helicopter he’s landing. The swastika on the front blazes in the lighting. He turns two tiny golden knobs on the left and right sides of the case, and two latches on the front snap upward. He dips his knees slightly, and, in this loving way, curls his fingers under the top half of the case, and hoists it open. Five knives are inside. The gleam slices through my retinas.
“Introducing the German Dress Dagger set,” Rambocream says. “Includes German Air Force Dagger, Hitler Youth Knife, German SS Leader Dagger, German Dress Dagger. Constructed to replicate the actual weaponry, this set is a steal for $49.99 …”
No calls come in. After the hour is over, outside, some Weapons of Mankind spectators stand around a pickup, rolling cigarettes on the hood. Lip Cheese yawns. Toby br
eathes into his palms and places them over his ears. And Necro and Rambocream are taking forever loading up the weapons, holding mock sword fights, maneuvering like fencers.
“Necro, you know, we’re not exactly in the Heated Driveway District,” I say, and wave my arm toward a group of kids a block down who are in parkas, standing in front of a 7-Eleven, where one window has a spider web of cracked glass with a bullet-sized hole in the center.
Necro slings his arms around me and Wicked College John.
“Well if you two ladies have to take and get your eyes bleached at the spa, we can leave here quicker if you take and carry the two weapons bags left inside,” Necro says, studying his calculator watch for a few seconds. “Get the bag with the Double-Fantasy Slayers, Nate. They’re great for a fight. Provided you Shee the Fight.”
Fuck him! Because, even though I’m third place in Holy Grail Points, there are five Uncomebackable Insults you don’t need to know about me: Did You Shee the Fight?, Sausage Academy, Mommy?, Friend to All Animals, and especially not Taped-On Dildo. If we get into Taped-On Dildo this early, I’m through. But the Weapons of Mankind people are laughing now, when I’ve explained a million times that I said “see” that way because I was riding my bike home through the woods from Necro’s house after we watched The Exorcist, and a noise startled me and I steered accidentally over a bump and bit my tongue—that scene where the girl spider-walks down the stairs is rough. You tell me that’s not signed-by-the-Grim-Reaper shit-pants inducing.
“We need to drink off this place,” Wicked College John says, flailing an arm to gesture over the entire street, scarf flinging out from under his coat collar. “I’ve been through so much this semester. I couldn’t even get out of bed for the Lingerie Party this December, couldn’t even dream.”
I yawn. Toby looks at me. “I don’t know. It’s cold,” I say.
Wicked College John grunts like he does after the Yankees lose.
“What,” I say.
“No, I’m not mad, it just pisses me off,” Wicked College John says. “I come back, and everyone’s too tired to do even Jaeger Cowpunch—”
But then, I see Necro tap his calculator watch and nod to one of the fatter Weapons of Mankinders wearing jean shorts. At which point, suddenly, all the remaining Weapons of Mankinders—everyone except Necro and Rambocream—get into their cars and drive off, at once, engines echoing from blocks away.
“Two more bags, guys, and then we take and lock it down,” Necro says.
He pats me and Wicked College John on the back, shoving us, kind of harder than maybe you’d expect, actually, toward the building entrance. He skips, backward, away from us, and jogs slightly up the block.
He says, raising his voice a little: “Take and give oneself over a little; everyone has to come down from the mountain, you know, the going-over …”
Then I don’t hear the noise so much as the noise—a sharp tearing that’s too loud for my ears to take in all the loudness—liquefies every bone I own. Because suddenly I’m on the ground, smelling the warm tires of a Buick, and I feel a hot, big, all-flattening breath over me. Sand-sized things—glass particles—cut my fingers when I run my hands through my hair. Swords with rubies shaped like wolf heads on their handles embed into trees, quivering metal waterfalls landing in front yards, backs of pickups.
Because, the Rochester Public Broadcasting building has exploded, and when a wooden beam spits out of the storefront and hits Wicked College John’s face, his cheek ripples upward toward his eye. His head turns around almost all the way and then snaps back, shaking gel loose from his hair. His one dress shoe flies off, and when he falls to the pavement, he lands on his left forearm underneath his back. His head bounces once.
“Oh! God!” Necro yells, in that way Necro never says Oh God. Rambocream is I don’t even know where. Lip Cheese runs toward the 7-Eleven to find a phone. Toby breaks into a sprint, chasing a white circular coin-sized object rolling toward a fire hydrant.
Meanwhile, I stand there. I lick the nylon sleeve of my Bills jacket to wipe the salty ashes off my tongue. The brick frame of the public access building is still there, but the front door is on the sidewalk. Something smells like burnt penny.
A softened chunk of the ceiling collapses and a refrigerator falls from the building’s second floor, orange sparks sneezing everywhere. In the road, Wicked College John’s shoe says BACCO BUCCI on its sole. One of his contact lenses glows bright orange on the pavement, curling in the heat. Little things crackle. Wicked College John stares at the sky. His eyes move around. Way off and above, the sky is light purple in a way that always made me look forward to going to bed, and a single red broadcast tower light blinks at a slow-drip pace.
Because, I come out here and try to talk to Necro about a Plan. And, now? Necro knee-slides on the pavement to perform CPR on Wicked College John? Like he’s trying to be Tadahito Murakami: Ninja Surgeon and save the world?
“Necro,” I tell him, setting my hand on his shoulder. “Let’s not get overdramatic …”
But he turns around, the slash of teeth—complete Roasted Face of Satan. “He’s practically dead, man! What’s the matter with you?” His eyebrows are like brush fires, and I wonder if he’s mad at me.
Bits of papers spin around me. I hear, inside my head: You are a bad person. You are wrong all the time. Because, still, with me, it’s the Moth-in-Sink feeling. As in: Come on Ref! Feel the Right Thing already!
That, and, also, about a dead body’s length away from Necro, I notice a piece of paper slowly uncrumpling on the pavement. It’s a drawing—his, definitely—of a shirtless, bearded, loinclothed man with rabbi curls and metallic biceps, emerging from the fiery rubble of maybe a British mansion, carrying what appears to be a younger man’s body.
“Timex! A bomb! It was a Timex!” I hear Toby yell, heaving air as he runs back to us. “They used a Timex!” He holds out his palm, in which there is this bent, aluminum face of a Timex watch. He leans over, hands on knees, and spits out a yo-yo string of saliva.
Echoes sproing off the bricks of houses and into the sky. Windows of the buildings around us flicker on to bright yellow. And here Necro is, here we are, miles long from a Plan, two or three snowflakes melting on my arm, and Necro’s thumb is on Wicked College John’s wrist, yelling: “All right, man, you’re gonna be fine, man, gonna be fine, you gotta do me a favor, man, you gotta keep your eyes open and you gotta think something for me, man, Playboy, man, give yourself a nice comfy hard-on, man, gonna have to nut up and think about something, Led Zeppelin, man; Led Zeppelin, Led Zeppelin, eyes open, man, Led Zeppelin, you and me we own this—right, man? right, man? right, man? right, man? right, man? right, man? Right, man?”
THE SAD ARCHIVES
One, one, one, one, one, one, I go, whispering. One, one, one, one!, like I’m pissed off, like I’m ready to punch myself in the face. I flip my bedroom pillow to the cooler side. I count sheep until the sheep melt into potatoes, and the potatoes stretch into pills, and the pills elongate into hospital stretchers.
Because when the paramedics strapped down Wicked College John, one paramedic folded up the wheels of the gurney while the other slid it into the ambulance. When I’d always thought maybe the wheels folded on their own, or always imagined how what if they separated from the gurney and coasted away, in a slow, infinite straight line that ignored gravity, the way a space shuttle peels from its tanks. And I figure out that I might be falling asleep, that tiredness has won only for now, and I’m finally no longer thinking about the zombie-mint smell of the hospital waiting area, or whether or not it’s weird that Necro really wanted to sleep in his own bed and drove us back to our cars instead of waiting there longer.
But once the actual shape of my room appears through my closed eyelids—the sliding closet door with the WEASE bumper sticker on it, or, on my dresser, the Don Mattingly puppet I made from a milk carton in third grade—my brain thinks: Sleep has arrived! Then I realize I’m thinking this, and the stadium lights in my bra
in whoosh back on, and I jolt awake again, counting.
So when I sit up and get my night eyes, I decide to forget counting and focus, really hard, as a Sleep Portal, on this little glass particle, way off in my mind.
Hold on. It’s turning into something.
I look at the light squeezing through the bottom of my bedroom door. As in, I can’t remember if we always leave the hallway light on the whole night, or did Mom recently start leaving it on to make it look like we’re awake when we’re really asleep.
Like when I was way younger. Sometimes, I’d wake up around midnight. I could hear the dog-whistle-quiet noise from the living room’s TV, and Real Dad through the air vent, watching Mr. Show, laughing angrily, like he was showing Mom he really got the jokes.
Or how, once, way even before that, when I decided to sneak out of my room, I could see Mom, at the kitchen table, staring at a four-pack of cigars she’d just bought—a hobby she’d taken on to one-up Real Dad’s going to Bug Jar shows. But she threw up every time she smoked them.
And Real Dad would pass out in the bathroom, some Popcorn Wylie album sounding like tinsel through his Discman headphones, a large bottle of Cantillon half-full next to the sink, some issue of Preacher face-down in his eczema foot bath. “Woman thou hast betrayed me!” he slurred into my shirt once, when I shouldered him to the living room couch. But I’d kind of agreed with him, because why else would you take a foot bath and read Preacher if you weren’t right?
After we helped Real Dad move into his new place in Penfield, Mom took me out for a drive. “Did you really like your father?” she said.
“I don’t know,” I sort of snapped at her. “I mean, didn’t you?”
Her room is next to mine. I can’t tell if I can hear anything in there.
There are times when I can sit in my desk chair at night, with maybe only the chalky fluorescent desk light on, and everything I’ve ever thought about before suddenly harmonizes into one chord. And when I stare long enough, the Fred Flintstone piggy bank on my dresser, suddenly, will look like a totem pole mask worn by whoever is going to come to me in my sleep and slit my throat.