Taste of Wrath

by Matt Wallace

  “Try me,” he says.

  PITCH MEETING

  “I thought you said we were going to the Royal Goblin Palace,” Lena asks, staring up at what is clearly Mister Ramon’s Artisan Unisex Hair Salon on East 76th Street.

  “I said we were goin’ to a royal goblin palace,” Bronko corrects her. “And this here is it.”

  “It makes sense if you give it a minute,” Ritter assures Lena in his typical dry way.

  “Fine,” she says. “Where’s the door, then?”

  Where the entrance should be, there’s only a constant curtain of falling water.

  Bronko grunts. “You’re in a mood today, ain’t ya?”

  “Yes, Chef, I’m in a mood. I’m in a my - best - friend - is - being - exorcised - tonight - hopefully - before - the - guy - who - put - an - evil - assassin - spirit - inside - him - comes - back - to - kill - us - all - and - we’ve - been - cut - off - by - our - only - lifeline kind of mood.”

  “Fair ’nuff,” Bronko says. “Let’s see what we can’t do about the last part.”

  The three of them walk up the ornate building’s marble steps. As they approach the waterfall, blue light suddenly irradiates the constant streams. The water parts before them from the middle as if by magic.

  “I already hate this place,” Lena mutters.

  The foyer of the salon is a clear floor covering a colorful koi pond (because of course it is, Lena thinks). Music that is equal parts techno and new age is being piped through speakers that seem to be embedded beneath them somehow. She can actually feel the grating noise on her legs. The simultaneously floral and septic smell of hair-treatment chemicals is more than cloying; it’s like a small child’s fist being rammed down her throat and up her nostrils.

  Lena decides her every sense hates this place.

  They wait over two spawning koi, taking in the afternoon operation of the salon. It’s like watching extraordinarily beautiful people being professionally groomed in a museum where grooming is the main exhibit. Even the stylists and aestheticians look like mannequins from a Rodeo Drive clothing store come to life.

  A moment later, a perfectly bronzed man whose cotton T-shirt is clinging to his chiseled abs like syrup poured into the crevasses of a waffle jogs up to them excitedly.

  “Chef Luck!” he exclaims, spreading his equally chiseled arms to embrace Bronko. “Such a pleasure to have you back!”

  Lena looks up at Bronko. “Back?”

  “A man can’t enjoy an exfoliatin’ seaweed wrap now and again?” he says as he hugs the taut stylist. “How does it, Cesar?”

  “I am fabulous,” Cesar attests. “What can we do for you today, Chef?”

  “I heard the rulin’ family is in town. We need a brief audience with the King.”

  Cesar’s plastic enthusiasm melts into something surprised and more than slightly baffled.

  Bronko darkens as he sees the stylist’s expression change.

  “Was I misinformed?” he asks.

  “No,” Cesar says quickly. “No, the power is certainly here. It’s just that—”

  “What is it, Cesar?”

  Cesar sighs, reaching out and patting Bronko’s catcher’s mitt of a hand with his much slighter palm.

  “Wait here,” he bids the trio. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  The stylist turns and trots off before Bronko can question him further.

  “Well, that was weird,” Lena says, dubious.

  “Maybe the King’s already written us off,” Ritter offers.

  Lena frowns. “Or forgotten about us.”

  Bronko waves them both off. “He ain’t like that. He remembers. This is our best play. Trust me. No one in our Rolodex can help us more than the goblin royal family.”

  “What’s a Rolodex?” Lena asks.

  Bronko sighs, shaking his head. “I am so damn old.”

  Ritter reaches up and pats his shoulder reassuringly, and Bronko nods a halfhearted thanks.

  “Looks like half the cast of that show based on the Archie comics is here getting facials and frosted tips,” Lena observes, looking around the salon.

  “I thought frosted tips were out,” Ritter asks without a trace of irony in his voice.

  Lena shrugs. “I just said a hair thing. I dunno. I’ve used the same brush since I was fourteen.”

  “That’s kinda disgustin’, Tarr,” Bronko says.

  “Yeah, well, developing a detailed beauty regimen never seemed—”

  Bronko waits for the rest, but it doesn’t come. He looks down at her impatiently.

  “Finish your thought, Tarr.”

  She doesn’t answer him. Lena’s every facial muscle has gone completely slack.

  Ritter turns his head to regard her. Both he and Bronko stare at Lena’s gobsmacked face in confusion.

  “Holy fucking shit,” she finally blurts out.

  “What is it?” Ritter asks.

  Lena waves a hand in front of her disjointedly as she rambles, “It’s, that’s, it’s . . . it’s like, all the Chrises. It’s all the Chrises in Hollywood, all of them, from all the movies. They’re right there. Together. They’re coming towards us. Every Chris. It’s like a meme, only I want to have sex with it.”

  “Tarr, kindly recork yourself,” Bronko instructs her.

  “I’m sorry, Chef, I don’t usually star-fuck, but damn, that is a lot of handsome all together—”

  “Tarr!”

  “Yes, Chef,” she says, and then deliberately says no more.

  Four living People magazine covers walk towards the trio in perfect unison, all of them blond save one, all of them smiling as if there’s a red carpet beneath their feet, all of them clad in identical ashen-gray body-hugging cable-knit sweaters, and all of them with just the right amount of beard stubble darkening their equally granite jawlines.

  * * *

  Ritter frowns. “The Council of Chrises. I’ve heard about them. This isn’t good, boss.”

  “Nope,” Bronko quietly confirms, putting on his best poker face.

  “Chef Luck!” the muscled Australian Chris, who stands several inches taller than the others, warmly greets Bronko. “I haven’t seen you since you catered my third twenty-ninth birthday! Those Colorado chili poppers were killer!”

  “Why wasn’t I invited to that?” the dark-haired Chris, the one who plays the blond-haired leader of the all-star superhero team in those movies, asks.

  “You were making that indie with the train and the snow and the whatever,” Australian Chris reminds him.

  “Did you get a Spirit nom for that?” the Chris who used to be fat before he was cast as the leader of that other superhero team asks.

  Dark-haired Chris shrugs. “Probably. I don’t know. I do it for the love.”

  “You should tweet that,” the Chris from the rebooted spaceship movies says, too earnestly not to be sarcastic.

  “I asked to see the King,” Bronko interrupts them, trying and failing not to sound impatient. “No offense, gentlemen. It’s nice to see y’all. But is he in town, or not?”

  “The King stepped down,” Australian Chris informs him. “It was time for him to take a break for a few generations. You may’ve heard about his untimely ‘death’ in the news.”

  “Uh, yeah,” Bronko confirms, trying and failing not to sound insultingly facetious. “Just once or twice.”

  “What can we do for you?” starship-captain Chris asks pointedly, folding his cable-knit arms over his cable-knit chest.

  “What the hell is happening right now?” Lena asks anyone who might be able to rationalize anything that’s occurring around her.

  “When the Goblin King retires from the public eye,” Ritter explains, “the Council of Chrises takes interim power until a new King is confirmed.”

  “Meaning these four here are in charge for now,” Bronko adds.

  “You gentlemen know your goblin politics,” formerly fat Chris commends Ritter and Bronko.

  “Wait, that doesn’t make any sense,” Lena says
. “How can there be a council of Chrises that takes over for the Goblin King? These guys have only been movie stars for like ten years.”

  “Well, that’s what we are now,” dark-haired Chris says. “But famous Chrises are an ancient goblin tradition and a longstanding position of prestige. I’ve been, among others, sixteenth-century English playwright Christopher Marlowe. God, I miss writers being the rock stars of popular culture, you know? I didn’t do a single sit-up for like three centuries.”

  Australian Chris laughs. “Yeah, I feel you. When I was elected to the Council, I was Christopher of Bavaria, King of Sweden, Denmark, and Norway. Man, royals were it back then. I wish that had carried over into the New World. Royals eat all the carbs they want.”

  “Same here,” starship-captain Chris laments. “I was Christopher the First of Denmark and Christopher the Second of Denmark. You think people are stupid and oblivious now? Lemme tell you . . .”

  Lena nods, her head spinning more than a little. She looks to formerly fat Chris expectantly.

  “Oh, I’m new,” he says. “This is my first Chris.”

  “So, which one of you was Columbus?” Lena asks.

  All four of their faces darken, and each Chris looks away awkwardly.

  Bronko leans down and whispers in her ear, “Columbus was more’n a bit of a dick, even by goblin standards. He’s considered a blight on the Chris name, if you will.”

  Lena rolls her eyes.

  “Listen, we needed the King’s help,” Bronko tells them. “My people did his family a solid once. Those same people are facin’ hard times, and more, and I was hopin’ the King would want to repay that small service by helping us out.”

  “Well, the way I heard it,” starship-captain Chris says haughtily, “and granted, I was on location in Europe at the time, your catering company turned every human at the King’s son’s wedding into ravenous lizard monsters that nearly killed every goblin there.”

  “I suppose it depends a whole lot on your proximity and perspective,” Bronko offers diplomatically.

  “Can you at least put us in touch with the King?” Lena asks, her blood beginning to rise.

  “Former King,” Starship Chris corrects her. “And no, he’s incommunicado. Any formal requests you have need to go through the Council.”

  Lena has to stop grinding her teeth to ask, “Then can you help us?”

  None of the Chrises answers her. They all seem suddenly preoccupied with scouring the fronts of their sweaters for errant lint.

  “You know what’s happening out there, don’t you?” Ritter says, and it’s not really a question. “Who reached out to you? The new Allensworth . . . or the old Allensworth?”

  “Our official policy is to keep all diplomatic channels open,” Australian Chris states vaguely.

  “Look, guys,” Bronko all but pleads, “I know who I am, all right? I’m a has-been cable TV chef who wasn’t never pretty enough to be mistaken for no goblin. And we’re just a bunch of cooks and workaday magicians. But we’ve served all y’all for years. My people, they’re good people. They’re caught in the crosshairs of something big here, and it ain’t their fault. Whatever . . . ‘civil unrest’ may be comin’, and whatever side y’all take, I just don’t want my people to be collateral damage. I’m not askin’ you to bleed. Just the word gettin’ out that we’re under your protection might make all the difference for us with what’s to come.”

  The Chrises confer silently with one another, and despite being pissed at all of them now, Lena can’t help being more than a little hypnotized by the stares they’re exchanging. Each pair of those eyes is just so damn inviting.

  “We can’t be involved, Chef,” Australian Chris decrees. “I’m sorry for your predicament. Truly, I am. However, we four are entrusted with the welfare of our people, and with the state of the world around us in such flux right now, above and beneath the surface, it behooves us to remain neutral until we get a proper lay of the land. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Yeah,” Bronko says tightly. “I get it.”

  “I don’t,” Lena says without reservation.

  Ritter fills in the blank without emotion. “They don’t want to do anything to piss off Allensworth in case he wins.”

  “Yeah, well,” starship-captain Chris says hurriedly. “Is there anything else we can do for you, Chef?”

  “Can’t think of a thing,” Bronko answers in a mockingly pleasant tone.

  “We wish you luck,” Australian Chris offers. “I hope to see those Colorado chili poppers at an event again someday.”

  With that, three of the Chrises turn and exit the way they came.

  Formerly fat Chris, the youngest and newest among them, lingers a moment.

  “Sorry,” he says sheepishly before joining the rest of the Council.

  Lena watches them go, less impressed by celebrity than she’s ever been in her life. Her stomach feels as though it’s collapsing.

  “I just wish I could Facebook this,” she says bitterly.

  UNDER THE HAZING MOON

  Moon spends almost fifteen minutes attempting to scrub, scrape, and finally chisel the plate clean before declaring it unsalvageable and discarding it. The cheap plastic dish clatters loudly against a dozen others just like it when Moon drops it into the trash can. He’s managed to restore perhaps half his dinnerware, and each piece he’s lost to the fossilized remnants of Chinese takeout food is just another reason for him to eventually purchase grown-up plates and bowls, and possibly even glasses that are actually made of glass.

  The rest of Moon’s Jamaica walk-up has been almost completely transformed. There isn’t a single scrap of clothing on what Moon was surprised to be reminded are hardwood floors. The surfaces of all the furniture are largely exposed; the usual array of empty food containers and wrappers, and excessive amounts of head-shop gear, have all been swept away and carried out in bulging garbage bags. Moon has even gone so far as to dust and vacuum.

  He hasn’t neglected himself, either. Moon took all of the clothes he collected from their various lonely piles and spent the afternoon at the coin laundry around the corner. It may in fact be the first time the Gears of War shirt he’s wearing has been clean since he bought it. It took Moon far less time with a plastic comb to tame his perpetual bedhead into something largely resembling a third-grader on their first day of school.

  He’s preparing to break the seal on a new bottle of lemon Pledge when he hears someone knocking. Moon snaps the vinyl gloves from each of his small hands and exits the kitchen, jogging across the uncluttered floor of his living room to answer the front door.

  Ritter, Marcus, and Cindy are waiting at the top of the long cement steps leading to Moon’s front door. Marcus is shouldering what looks like a heavily weighted messenger’s bag.

  “Oh,” Moon says, clearly caught off guard. “Shit.”

  Marcus looks at the others. “He must mean you two. I’m a delight to find at your front door, even for strangers.”

  “Inspection time, Moon,” Ritter says seriously.

  Moon’s eyebrows shoot up. “What? For real?”

  “Of course not, boy,” Cindy barks at him. “You ain’t in the Army. Now step aside like a civilized somebody so we can come in.”

  Moon shuffles back away from the door and the trio enter.

  “Well, I’ll be cot-damned,” Cindy marvels, taking in the space.

  Not only is the apartment nearly spotless, Moon’s shrine to video gaming is gone. In fact, he doesn’t even seem to own a television anymore. Several poorly assembled IKEA bookcases have replaced the battalion of consoles and speakers and assorted electronic paraphernalia. The bookcases are sparsely populated with graphic novels of Japanese origin, most of them with uncracked spines that look brand-new.

  “The kids appreciated the gift,” Ritter informs Moon when he notices the change.

  “I figured it was the best way to get rid of the stuff.”

  “Where’s the fucked-up cherub?” Cindy asks.
<
br />   “Cupid? He, uh, bailed,” Moon explains distractedly, busy fluffing and rearranging the pillows on his duct-taped yet immaculately vacuumed and brushed futon. “I guess he felt the heat comin’ down, didn’t want any.”

  “Where did he go?” Ritter asks.

  Moon shrugs. “Who knows? He’s an interdimensional demon assassin. I’m sure he’s got other couches he can crash on. I gave him what was left of our weed stash and wished him luck.”

  “Sorry you lost your roommate,” Cindy says.

  Moon shrugs. “It was probably time. All we did was what - do - you - call - it . . . enable each other.”

  Cindy whistles. “That’s some high-concept shit for you, Moon. And look at you. You look like Eminem at a bail hearing. You’re evolving right before our dang eyes.”

  Moon shifts uncomfortably. “Yeah. I didn’t expect you guys . . . and girl,” he adds quickly, “to come here.”

  “Bronko said we had to see this for ourselves.”

  “And Ryland told us you’ve been an apt pupil lately,” Ritter adds.

  “Is that what he said?” Marcus asks. “I can’t understand shit through that guy’s brogue. The booze slurring doesn’t help either.”

  “I’m not doing any of it to kiss ass with you guys,” Moon is quick to point out.

  “Is that a fact?” Cindy asks, plopping onto the futon and spreading out languidly. “Damn, check me actually being able to sit down in this place, and without sticking to anything.”

  Moon ignores the shade. “Yeah, it was something Bronko said.”

  Ritter is inspired to grin, just a little. “He has that habit, doesn’t he?”

  Moon nods. “Yeah, well, what he said made sense to me. I needed to hear it, I guess.”

  “Well, that shit worked, whatever it was,” Cindy remarks.

  Moon smiles. However, it’s an expression of sorrow.

  It’s as if he’s already accepted the answer is no when he asks, “You think you can ever forgive me, Cin?”

  She cocks her head. “I ain’t heard you apologize yet.”

  “I’m sorry I lied to y’all. I’m sorry for all the times I made shit harder than it needed to be, and didn’t take stuff seriously, and all the times I . . . I just didn’t try. I guess I just thought . . . I got used to people using me for whatever this thing is I was born with, y’know? My old man and every bar owner down south who ever put me up and fed me free beer for the action I brought into their place. You’re not like that. You’re not like them, but I didn’t . . . like, let myself know that, or whatever.”