by Zack Murphy
“Can I ask you a question?”
Jeremiah perked up out of his self-imposed prison of impure thoughts involving her glistening skin to cough up the amazing answer of, “Yes.” he choked up the words if they were a stale, day old danish.
“Where’s your bike?”
“My what--?”
“Your bike. Barnaby said you were a Hell’s Angel. So where’s your bike, or as you it call it; your hog?”
“Oh, I’m not a Hells’ Angel.” He said politely.
“No?”
“Gosh no. I’m an Angel. From Hell.”
*****
Loman didn’t take his gaze off the building as he purchased his breakfast, a combination of wet, grey hot dogs and a diet cola from a local street vendor. He had only turned his attention away for a split second to collect the change that was handed over to him by the greasy hands of a man whose life ambitions certainly didn’t involve taking a daily bath.
As the change clanked into his palm, Barnaby crossed out of sight of his downward glance. Loman looked up again just in time to see the back of a man entering the hotel; if he had been more on the ball he would have put the person in his sights as the man whom he had come to be determined as Ketty’s partner in crime. If he had been more on the ball, he wouldn’t be alone searching for someone who didn’t want to be found. At least not by him.
*****
“We need eleven more,” said Barnaby as he entered the cool air conditioning of the room.
“Eleven more for what?” Ketty knew that asking questions, especially of Barnaby, was something of a fool’s errand. But she did it time and time again, as if to punish herself.
“The battle.” Jeremiah sipped from his tea and shrugged in Barnaby’s knowing direction.
This unspoken dialogue did not go unnoticed by Ketty. “I know about your stupid little battle.” She paused as she considered the words. Her nose made a certain crinkle it always did when things finally dawned on her. “Battle? What Battle? You’re not expecting me to fight, because I didn’t sign up for warfare. In fact, I didn’t sign up for any of this crap.”
“Of course you have to fight,” said Barnaby, throwing a ‘duh’-inducing glance to Jeremiah. “Why would I want to hang out with you if you weren’t going to fight? I mean, you’re not that personable. What with all the hitting and slapping you do.”
“Don’t worry about it Ketty,” Jeremiah felt like he should defend her honor. “I’ve got it all taken care of.”
“Who did you get?”
“Don’t worry. They’re not going to be a bother. Really, I swear. Why would they be? I mean their prone to jolliness.”
“Oh no-- No--. No, no, no. Don’t tell me you did what I think you did. Please don’t tell me that,” Barnaby pleaded.
Jeremiah slunk back in his seat, his head tucked into his shirt in a combination of shame and protection. His defensiveness was the reason why turtles have shells and armadillo’s roll up into a ball when frightened; because they know what’s coming next.
“Who are we talking about?” Ketty’s interest suddenly peaked.
“It doesn’t matter. It’s already been done.” Barnaby stared at the shrinking Jeremiah.
“Fine. I don’t care what you people are talking about anyway. I’m taking a shower.” She huffed away muttering under her breath.
No sooner had the sound of water hitting flesh begun to echo through the room, the front door flung open and in entered the man they were expecting. He was dressed in a flowing white robe darned with what looked like a Bedazzler gone haywire.
His linens gleamed with thousands of encrusted of jewels and sequins and sitting perched on his head was a tall white crown with the initials ‘S’ and ‘N’ emblazoned in gold leaf. “Have no fear boys!” he shouted under his flowing, meticulously kept white beard, “Saint Nicholas is here!”
“And I’m guessing you’re not alone either?” Barnaby stated, looking to the hallway.
“Don’t be silly, Barnaby,” St. Nick said pausing for a rotund chuckle, “Barnaby! I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to the sound of that my friend.” He smiled and winked, then gestured toward the hall. “Come on in!”
Through the door in a parade of fanfare penetrated eight young black men, who proceeded to line the hotel room in military fashion. It was a sight that was usually reserved for Liberace’s African Adventure vacation.
Their broad grins lit up the room as they showed their immaculately flossed teeth. Their freshly tanned faces glowed in the hot sun that beat down on their well toned bodies. Their ‘uniforms’ consisted of very tight fitting ribbed muscle shirts leading down to shorts that stopped somewhere on the very upper thigh, leaving nothing much to the imagination.
“Well, don’t look so pleased to see us,” Saint Nicholas said, giving Barnaby the customary European greeting of two kisses on either cheek.
“You know I love you,” Barnaby said, exchanging the greeting, “it’s just I wasn’t expecting to see you.”
“Now, who else would you call with a problem so--” he paused for dramatic effect, “crucial.” His lips swirled around the word like a candy cane. Saint Nicholas loved language and he loved the way it felt on his tongue.
Barnaby looked to Jeremiah who was smiling sheepishly amongst the eight, “Give me few minutes, I’m sure I could figure something out.”
“Make yourself at home, boys.” St. Nick waved his gloved hand to the furnishings before giving Barnaby a patented twinkle of his eye, “We’re all going to be here for a while.”
*****
“Guys, wait.” Ducat had been screaming for five minutes and was becoming hoarse. “Guys--?”
The dinosaurs were making record time as they tracked across the boiling landscape. War was finally getting used to the ride, the breeze was weaving its way through his hair and he had grown a slight smile that curved awkwardly around his lips.
He was having fun, something he hadn’t had since the last great crusades; War hadn’t been the same since automated weapon systems and the Geneva Convention took the place of hand-to-hand combat, followed by the slow and painful torture of the nearly deceased.
“Listen guys, I think I need to tell you something,” Ducat coughed out a rock of sand and saliva as he yelled cautiously to the other riders.
Conquest had come around to Famine’s voracious thirst for sing-alongs and was entrenched in a medley of Broadway show tunes. Famine had a hunger for the tunes of Porter, Sondheim and Gershwin. She had spent the past century assembling the universe’s largest anthology of song books from the Great White Way. She had been most enthused of her latest find in a small bookstore in Greenwich Village, the six volume set: The Absolute Worst of Andrew Lloyd Webber.
“You all really need to pay attention to me!” shouted Ducat, trying desperately to catch up to the pack. The dust billowed in his eyes blinding him as he chased the four.
The Death sat on his mount and took in the picturesque scenery of the lifeless desert. There was something genuinely magical about a place where nothing grew or prospered. He watched the miles and miles of empty space that took up the landscape and sucked in the satisfaction brought by the scene.
He mostly enjoyed people; they were, for a lack of a better word, amusing in their own way. But the dessert was something that spoke to his soul, seeing something so naturally devoid of humanity was, well life-affirming.
He turned his head when he caught a whisper of noise coming from behind. He saw Ducat riding wildly, arms flailing above his head and shouting too softly to be heard.
He pulled back on the makeshift reigns of the dinosaur and came to a stop. The other three, taking notice of this, followed suit and doubled back to The Death. As they waited for Ducat to catch up they exchanged furtive glances at the maniacally foolish man.
As Ducat reached the four, out of breadth and nearly out of voice, he searched hesitantly for the right words to relay his concern. “I think we’re lost?”
War quietly
and calmly stepped down from his beast and walked over Ducat. He gently picked up the man by the neck. After what seemed to Ducat, an eternity of cold stares, War began violently choking him into near unconsciousness.
Conquest and The Death quickly rushed to the aid of the dying Ducat. They struggled to pry the release of War’s vice around Ducat’s gasping neck. “What do you mean we’re lost?” War shouted, his voice ringing off the dunes. “You said you knew how to get there.”
“I’m sorry,” gasped Ducat, “I don’t recognize any of this.”
“What do you mean you don’t recognize any of this? It's sand. How can tell the difference between one grain and another?” War looked out over the vast expanse of nothingness waving an agitated arm against the dust.
“It just doesn’t feel right.” Ducat shrugged in an attempt to look cute [It didn’t work].
“I am going to show you why they call me War! I am so going Inquisition on your ass!” He lunged toward the cowering Ducat. The Death and Conquest impulsively wrestled him back to a safe distance.
“Let’s look at this rationally,” said Famine, who was still sitting on top of Princess Lollipop. She wasn’t much for unnecessarily brutal violence; slow and painful with a twinge of craving an éclair was more her bon mot.
“I’ve been rational long enough.” War growled.
“You haven’t been rational since we broke up.” Famine had a way of bringing everything back to the fact that thirty three thousand years ago she and War had a one week tryst.
“We’re supposed to be ushering in a new time of darkness and death in like, a day. And we don’t know where the hell we are.” He turned his attention back to Ducat, who was sitting on the grained earth in a fetal position.
Ducat watched the breeze make ripples in the sand when something caught his eye. Suddenly hiss face lit up, “I know where we are! Come on guys, we’re back on track.” He mounted back on his stallion and starting to gallop off down the slopes.
“I think we’re going the same way we were going before,” Conquest said, climbing back on her ride.
“As long as we’re going somewhere,” said The Death.
“No. As long as we’re going the right somewhere,” said War, tugging at his codpiece “I’m getting chaffed.”
*****
There was a knock on the fogged window of the Ferrari. Slowly the window whirred down to reveal Patrolman Penny Hunter. The toll last night had taken on Actor Jonathan Frakes face and body was reflected in her darkly tinted sunglasses. With great intent she removed her glasses to reveal the worn perceptiveness of a woman who had walked too many beats and seen too many nights in a hardhearted city. She flashed a light into his bloodshot eyes, a method that would have been more effective if it hadn’t been eighty degrees and sunny.
She leaned down, coming face to face with the haggard individual that was taking up valuable space on her streets. “Sleeping in your car, sir?”
“Well,” Actor Jonathan Frakes stumbled for the right words. He was still shaking off the effects of leather upright seating as a bed. “I can explain officer.”
“Okay, try me.”
“I’m an actor.” He was sure this would set off a cornucopia of bells and whistles in her well seasoned.
“Everyone here is,” she said as she took a long look at the deteriorating brilliance in his eyes as he realized she didn’t recognize her. She could see that he was hurt and, not being a bad person, tried to ease his vanity. “Oh yes, I remember you. You were great in that thing I saw you in.”
His face lit up with her discovery. “Well, it’s been a rough night. If I had my face on, it wouldn’t have taken you so long to identify me.”
“Oh yes, that’s it,” she supplied half-heartedly, “Now I know exactly who you are. License and registration please.”
He reached into the glove compartment and handed the documents to her. Her eyes ping ponged from the picture on his license to the one in the car. “When was picture taken?”
“About three months ago.”
“Wow.” She whistled a drawn out note and shook her head in disbelief. “You look thirty years older now.”
“I was wearing make-up,” he was barely audible as his embarrassment had a hard grip on his tongue.
“Okay; well, Mr.Tilebreaks.”
“Frakes,” he corrected, “It’s Frakes.”
“Sorry. Why are you sleeping in your car Mr. Frakes? There are plenty of fine hotels in our fair city you could have checked into. What with you being a huge famous actor and all. I’m sure you wouldn’t have any trouble finding a place Mr. Timebomb.”
“Frakes.”
She examined the license again, “Frakes, yes.”
“I’m waiting for someone.”
“How long have you been waiting here Mr. Teenybeans?” It had been a long week, and Mr. Teenybeans wasn’t helping.
“Frakes,” he felt himself shrink a little each time she spoke, “About ten hours.”
“I don’t think whoever you’re waiting for is coming. Though I admire your moxie, I would have given up after two hours at the most.”
“Well, I don’t know exactly whom I’m waiting for. You see I haven’t met them yet. But I have this book,” He pulled out The Last Days vol. XII: or what to do when it finally does happen from the passenger seat and held it up. “This tells me a lot, but it’s a little sketchy on the finer points.”
Officer Hunter pinched the bridge of her nose. It was much too early to deal with people like this. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to let you off with a warning. But you’re going to have to move your car.”
“Thank you, officer.” Actor Jonathan Frakes took back his identification and rolled up the window. He started the car and slowly began to drive away when a man came darting in front of his car.
He leaned on the horn and gave a man a furtive glare. Actor Jonathan Frakes started off toward a garage where he could leave the car. He was going to have to do the rest of his reconnaissance outside; which was going to do some kind of hell to his pores.
*****
Loman had been spit upon and now almost run over by Actor Jonathan Frakes. If the actor did one more thing to him today he sure wasn’t going to plunk down fifty dollars for his autograph the next time the sci-fi convention came to town.
As he was about to go on his way across the street he was abruptly stopped by Officer Penny Hunter. She sauntered over to him, flipping her ticket book to an empty page. “I’m going to have to give you a ticket for jaywalking sir.”
“Why don’t you give a ticket to the maniac who tried to run me over?” he wailed.
“I would,” she said as she scribbled, “but he’s having a bad morning.”
*****
Dana Plough waddled up the steps to her house as she fiddled in her purse for her keys. She searched down among the stray lipsticks and cell phone covers when Satan greeted her on the steps with a grin.
He took her purse in one hand and her arm in the other and led in her into the house. There was a quiet she hadn’t heard for days permeating throughout the house. It was empty of 80’s music and its large, rabid fans.
Satan had let the Insurance Agents out into the backyard to play and the house whistled with serenity. Dana Plough made her way into the kitchen and opened a bottle of vodka she had stashed behind an old box of bran cereal and took a swig.
She wiped her mouth with her sleeve and offered the bottle to her betrothed. Satan gave a polite shake of his head and smiled. She examined his face for a moment and said, “What are you so happy about?”
“I’m content. I never thought I’d say that,” he threw an arm around her shoulder. “I’m content.”
“That’s because your feet aren’t the size of zucchinis, and you’re not carrying around a bowling ball with the temperament of Cujo. If you men had to be pregnant the world would be a better place. You’d finally know what real pain is and realize that women are by far the strongest of the species.
‘You want to be content, try being me for a minute. Content is two minutes without excruciating pain running through your body. That’s contentment.”
Satan took his arm off her shoulder and threw his arms around her neck, giving her a loving hug. He kissed her on the forehead and stroked her hair. “Maybe the next species that rule this world will be more apt to give men the joy of pregnancy.”
*****
Juliet arrived at the diner to find Henry slumped over in a bowl of oatmeal. She grabbed a tuft of hair from the back of his head and pulled him from the bowl. “Were you just going to let him drown in his breakfast?” she barked at the waitress who gave her a shrug and went back to flirting with the cook.
She grabbed a napkin and wiped the dripping wet oats from off his face. She shook her head in pity as she looked at the mess of a man she had only days earlier railed against for being so strong of will. “What on earth have you done to yourself?”
Henry looked up at her with a mix of pain and exhaustion. His eyes were opaque and dim. “I’ve had a very hard day today,” his words drifted off through the air, his head limp as she held him in her arms.
He had reverted back to a simpler time, when he hadn’t needed to be Henry Angler, prodigal son of senator, assistant of assistant to Dana Plough, breaker inner and stealer of weapons grade classified viruses. He was who he always wanted to be in the back of his mind; Henry Angler: common man covered in gruel.
“Come on, we’re going to get you out of here.” Juliet picked him up out of his seat and threw his arm over his shoulder.
“Where are we going?”
“I’m taking you to get cleaned up. We’re going to a better place.”
“Oh good, I didn’t like the oatmeal here anyway,” he said as he shuffled out the door under Juliet’s weight. “It was too lumpy.”
*****
The nausea was becoming almost unbearable. The butterflies that had danced the waltz through the first two trimesters had given way to a rhinoceros dancing the Hora.
Dana Plough pined for the time when there had merely been a junior high school dance in her gut; where pre-teens danced joined by three feet of air, their fingertips resting uncomfortably on their partner’s shoulders as they shuffled nervously to the sounds of heavy breathing. This was more like a mosh pit full of raging hormonal angst, fighting for supremacy in a mud pit of flying fists and elbows.