by Al K. Line
"To the bloody front. I don't stand in line, it isn't the wizardly way."
"You can't just jump the queue."
"Why not?"
"Because if everyone did that it would be chaos."
"We aren't everyone else. We're us. Gangsters don't act like citizens. What if somebody saw? I've got a reputation to maintain."
"Yeah, or you just don't want to wait."
"Whatever." I winked at Vicky; she knew me only too well.
We marched to the front, acting like we were on a special guest list, VIP to the max, and stopped the other side of one of those ridiculous red ropes strung across two cheap looking three foot high brass poles.
The two bouncers who were checking people over then letting them in or telling them to bugger off, based on secret bouncer knowledge or maybe just to relieve the boredom, ushered a giggling couple in then turned to stare at us.
"What? Go stand in line."
I lifted my hat to reveal my face and the guy who'd spoken said, "Oh, sorry, didn't realize it was you." His face lit up and he asked, "How you doing, Mr. Hat?"
"Pretty good, Mike. You?"
"On the grind, same as always."
"No more bother with the thing?"
"None. Thanks for that. Mum said to pop around any time. She talks about you a lot but you haven't been by."
"You know how it is. Busy."
"Yeah, I know, but she'd appreciate it."
"Sure, maybe next week, okay? I'm in the middle of something at the moment."
"Ooh, need any help?"
"Nah, not on this one, Mike."
"Hey, what's the hold up?" asked a young kid with spiked hair, wearing a Ramones t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. "It's bloody freezing out here."
"Should have worn a bloody coat then, you stupid fuck," said Mike. He turned back to me, rolled his eyes, and said, "Kids, eh?"
"You know it."
"Coming in?" he asked.
"If you don't mind?"
"No problem. Allow me." Mike dropped the rope on one side and we moved forward. The other bouncer nodded. I knew his face, but not his name.
"Hey, that's not fair," whined the young kid again.
"Shut it," ordered Mike. "This is The Hat, you numpty."
"Who the fuck is The Hat?"
"A man who saved my mum from a bloody loan shark, and if you don't shut your mouth I'll ram your—"
"Thanks again, Mike. Say hi to your mum."
"Will do."
We stepped inside as Mike made good on his promise to the kid.
There Are Worse Places. Maybe
Neon screamed, the seemingly timeless Nine Inch Nails blasted through the speakers so loud I couldn't hear myself think, lights strobed, bodies thrashed, and I couldn't take my eyes off Vicky.
I don't know where she got it from, or how on earth she got into it, but Vicky was wearing an outfit so tight it was like a second skin. A very shiny, very revealing, very PVC skin. Her face was expertly made up with bright red lipstick, thick eyeliner, and her hair was out of its ponytail and hanging straight and oiled past her shoulders, dripping down her upper chest and tickling the top of her tiny, but surprisingly juicy looking breasts. Now I knew why she'd kept her coat buttoned right up until she'd handed it over at the cloakroom.
She wore an all-in-one cat suit, black and shining plastic that hugged every contour of her body. There was a zip from crotch to neck, but it was only done up as far as her breasts that were pushed together like two small melons in a plastic bag. Damn, I'm focusing too much on the breasts, aren't I? To be honest, it was hard not to, and the sweat already forming on her exposed skin didn't detract from the allure.
"What?" she screamed, looking at me funny.
"You look hot," I shouted.
"Thanks." Vicky smiled, clearly enjoying every minute of this. It wasn't often, make that ever, that she wore anything but her usual Stepford Mom outfit, so she was making the most of it. I swear if she'd had a tail she would have been purring.
I felt underdressed, and a little out of place with my usual attire. Hat, threadbare sweater, jacket of many pockets, combats with even more pockets as wizards need them for stuff, and scuffed boots. As I glanced around the club, aptly named Inferno, I noticed we were getting a lot of approving glances. I'd assumed it was Vicky drawing all the attention from the other similarly attired men and women, Vicky looking tame by comparison, but I realized I was getting as many approving nods as she was.
Guess the grizzled wizard look was something they thought was cool. Then it hit me, and my smug grin was wiped away, replaced with a growl and a frown. They thought I'd dressed up, that I'd taken time to make myself look like this to come out clubbing. They thought I was wearing a costume and they approved because I looked, well, I guess I looked like an old wizard who was pissed off with the world. I hadn't dressed up, put any thought into it. This was just me. The Hat.
Mood darker than Vicky's eyeliner, I took her hand and waded through the steaming mess of bodies, trying not to poke people with Wand who was being rather insistent about being released from his pocket prison.
We had a silent conversation that went something like this.
"Let me out."
"No."
"Why not? You're such a spoilsport."
"Why do you need to be out? You can see everything from in there. You're a magic wand."
"It's not the same," he whined. "I want to experience it all properly. It's not fair. You get to rub up against all this flesh, feel women's bouncy bits pressed against your back. Feel men's crotches pressed hard against your thigh and—"
"That's enough!" I warned. "Um, I didn't know you swung that way."
"I don't swing any way. I'm a stick. But if I could, and I would if I could, then I'm not choosy. The human body is so interesting, and don't forget, I'm a manifestation of you, an extension of the person who made me, brought me to life. I am you, you are me."
"Am not."
"Are too."
"Shut up."
It went on for a while longer, but you get the idea. Yeah, bloody annoying. And so for the rest of the evening I was very conscious of the blokes pressing up against me, and couldn't help wondering about... Anyway, that's for another time. Maybe. I also cursed Wand repeatedly for putting funny thoughts in my head. I didn't like men, did I? No, definitely not. Was I having a mid-life crisis? Doubtful, as who knew when I'd reach middle age? Could be hundreds of years yet, or I might die tomorrow.
I swear Wand smirked from inside my pocket.
"Ha, gotcha."
"Idiot."
"You are."
"Shut up."
With the inanimate wood in my pocket put firmly in its place, I got on with the business of why we'd come. With Vicky in tow, we eventually made it across the crowded dance floor and to the bar. It was rammed, and I hated it. I never liked crowded places, despised being jostled and barged, as I wanted to blast anyone who touched me without permission.
People from eighteen to eighty knocked my elbow, shouldered me in the back, spilled drinks on my boots, and generally acted like they deserved some Hat punishment, but I held back as I didn't want to cause a scene.
Men chatted to Vicky but she dismissed them. I scowled at anyone who tried to talk to me as I wasn't in the mood and couldn't hear a bloody thing anyway. Maybe I was showing my age, maybe it was just that places like this were crap and everyone else was pretending to enjoy themselves, although it didn't look like it.
Everyone had made an effort, dressed up in their most outlandish, freaky clothes. There was a strong overriding theme of PVC though, much of it little more than a few scraps wrapped around flesh to hide the most important bits. Piercings were de rigor, as was wild, colorful hair, and jewelery was very much in evidence. At least they'd made the effort.
Finally, I made it to the bar.
"Coffee, and a martini," I said to the barman who looked like he should have been delivering newspapers, not working somewhere where I was sure y
ou still had to be eighteen.
The dude just stared at me, nonplussed.
"I don't expect anything fancy. You put instant in a mug, and for a martini you—"
"I know what they are. Spirits or beer," he said, pointing to the shelves and fridges full of bottles. They didn't even have draught.
"Two beers. No, make that one beer, one vodka with lemonade."
I got served, punched the barman in the face for trying to rob me blind, that or pay him an exorbitant amount of cash for two crap drinks, I forget which actually happened, then turned and squeezed my way between sweaty flesh with the drinks held above my head and found Vicky slapping some dude across the top of his bald bonce.
I angled my head over to the left where the rest of the room was separated from the dance floor and there were intimate booths with tables and comfortable looking bench seats covered with plum plastic.
We pushed through the throng and checked for space. There was none.
Vicky went to lean against a pillar but I shook my head. I led her over to a booth and put my drinks down on the table. The two young guys looked up and were about to protest that the table was taken, but I guess my demeanor gave them pause.
I leaned forward, lip curled as I stared each one hard in the eye until they averted their gaze. Then I placed some cash on the table, got up close and said, "Drinks are on me," and pointed a thumb towards the bar.
They gave each other a glance, then got up and left without any fuss. Taking the cash, obviously.
"Arthur, that was mean."
"Tough, my feet are killing me. And anyway, they didn't mind."
Vicky sipped her drink then pulled a face. She asked, "What now?"
"Now, we wait. Maybe plot?"
"Ooh, I love plotting."
"I know you do."
Why Do I Bother?
While we sat and stared at the people, I wondered again why I'd agreed to come. After telling Vicky about the mysterious woman with pink hair, she threw a wobbly. Not because this witch had tricked us and stressed her out, or because she'd impersonated Ivan and George, caused us no end of trouble, but because I'd told her to bugger off.
We were mid argument when Ivan made an appearance at Vicky's, both of us having forgotten all about his evening visit. The girls were as excited as always to see their uncle, and after he promised to come and play with them in five minutes, we quickly explained to him what had happened.
"I can't say I'm amused by such actions. She had no right to impersonate me, and I feel uneasy with her knowing so much about my business, about all of us."
"She's young, wants excitement," said Vicky, for some reason having decided it was her place to defend this woman.
"She could have just asked if we'd take the job, whatever it is."
"And you would have said no," said Vicky.
"Probably," I grumbled.
"Did you really say those things to her?" asked Ivan. "That you would never work for the vampires again, for me?"
"Yeah, you got a problem with that? I already told you."
"But I was tricked, Arthur, same as you. Mikalus used me, used us all."
"Tough. We're quits. You lot are trouble and I want nothing to do with any of you."
"As you wish." Ivan looked genuinely disappointed, but I wouldn't change my mind. All my dealings with the neck munchers ended in trouble of the worst kind. Last time it had meant bombs being dropped on my old house, almost being eaten by the original vampire, and getting on the very wrong side of Cerberus. Lesson learned.
"So we meet her tonight and find out what this is all about," said Vicky, a faraway look in her eyes.
"Oh no you don't," I warned. "We are not chasing after some alternative witch who likes being dramatic and is obviously nothing but trouble."
"But we have to," whined Vicky. "It's Inferno. Apparently it's a great club and I haven't been for a night out in a long time. Years."
"So get a date. Get Steve to take you. I hate clubs, you know that. Ugh, full of sweaty bodies and everyone stinking of booze. It's gross. And it's loud."
"You are such an old man."
"Am not."
"I can babysit," said Ivan, looking excited at the prospect.
I glared at him. "What's your game? Since when do you babysit?"
"Just trying to help."
"That's settled then," said Vicky. "You owe me, Arthur, after all this. It's your fault, and I was very scared." Vicky's eyes began to well with tears. I was sure she was playing me, but tears are my downfall, always have been.
"Fine," I muttered. "But if anyone spills a drink on me I won't be held responsible for my actions."
"Yes!" Vicky punched the air and did her terrible mom dance.
"If you do that when we're out, I'm leaving," I warned.
Vicky poked her tongue out and I glared at Ivan.
He just smiled and shrugged, the bastard.
I sighed as I came back to the present and tried not get too angry with myself for agreeing to this nonsense. I didn't go chasing down potential clients, I gave them the runaround then usually said no anyway. Things were pretty good at the moment, why ruin it? Sasha was safe and back visiting regularly after the incident in the summer, George was spending a lot of time with her, but was also being extra nice to me. Vicky was semi-stable, thanks to Steve and the fading memories of her marriage to the Slug, which now seemed like another life.
I was getting over all the crap I'd gone through, much of it because of the vampires, and I'd finally forgiven myself for the terrible things I'd done. The only bad stuff was the threat of Cerberus. Since Carmichael had shown his true colors, I'd expected them to go all out on me, but so far it hadn't happened. Maybe it wouldn't. Whatever, things were going well, and I was, dare I say it, content with life. Sure, I wouldn't mind someone to share my bed, even some of my life with, but I'd learned a hard lesson with Candy and was in no hurry to dive into anything just yet.
So here I was, sitting in a bloody nightclub, feeling about three hundred and fifty, and the worst thing of all, I was almost enjoying myself. After all, Vicky was dressed in tight PVC, the music was good, and I was actually out in the evening doing something that didn't involve getting smashed in the face. Yet.
I was also intrigued by Mrs. Pink. What was her game? Who was she? And what did she want?
"Scoot over," said she of the epic hair as she nudged against me with her ample hip and I slid across the bench. She shuffled into place, sat down, and smiled at us both.
"Hey."
"Hi, I'm Vicky."
"You know who I am," I grumbled.
"I'm Stan."
Vicky and I both stared at her for the longest time, our minds whirling. Was she in drag? Was she a transsexual? Had she had an operation? Had I misheard? Did she just have a crap name for a girl?
"Haha, just screwing with you guys. You can call me—"
"Let me guess. Mrs. Pink?" I said with a sinking feeling.
"How'd you guess?" she asked brightly, beaming at us. "So nice to meet you, Vicky. And you again, Arthur. Hopefully you guys will be up for this. It's going to be so awesome."
It was then I knew this was definitely a bad idea. Awesome? What was this, a Famous Five adventure?
"We should go," I said, as I tried to stand but was trapped by the table and "Mrs. Pink." I mean, who the hell goes by a stupid name like that? Bit obvious, don't you think? Nowhere near as cool as "The Hat."
"Arthur, don't be so rude," warned Vicky, poking me in the stomach and making me cough.
"Look, I get it," said Mrs. Pink. "I screwed up big time. I thought you guys would be impressed with what I did, and you'd let me help sort out the money and then you'd do this job for me. Guess I blew it. Well, I'm here to put things right and offer you the best job you've ever had."
"No."
"You haven't even heard what it is yet."
"I've heard enough. I told you, you don't mess with me or mine like that. What's wrong with you? You stressed Vicky
out, I could have whacked Ivan thinking he'd done this on purpose, and then you impersonate George. How'd you know where I live or that I'd be there? Are you watching me?"
"Aha, secrets of the trade."
"Let's go," I told Vicky.
"Wait, please. You have to help, I don't know what else to do."
And then the worst thing possible happened. Mrs. Pink began to cry. Vicky sneered like it was all my fault, and I, reacting on instinct, patted Mrs. Pink's head and said, "There, there."
I was stuck, literally and figuratively.
Dirty Streets
We couldn't talk in the club, so it was with great relief that Vicky got Mrs. Pink to her feet, hugged her, then followed me outside. Once well away from the stench of bodies and the crowds of overly excited people, Mrs. Pink got herself together and apologized.
"Sorry for that. I had all this cool stuff in my head, thinking you'd jump at the chance to work with me, and I blew it. I'm sorry."
"That's okay," said Vicky, putting her arm back around her.
"No, it isn't. What is this crap?" I sped up, walked fast down the deserted streets of the city, kicking at takeaway cartons and wondering when so many of the stores had either closed or installed shutters over the windows. This used to be a nice area, one of the more stable ones in an ever-shifting city, but now it was a mess just like so many others. Houses were showing signs of needing repair, there was graffiti everywhere, trash littered the streets, and everything looked weary.
It was happening more and more. As new apartment blocks rose up, as more out-of-town department stores were built and independent traders couldn't compete, the city was being split in half. The haves and the have-nots. Local communities became decimated when nearby stores closed and homes were repossessed. Nobody was to blame, and yet everybody was. Everyone wanted the best price and the best deal, so they abandoned the local places and headed in droves to the superstores. Then they complained that the butcher was closing down, there was no post office, the doctor's surgery never had enough staff, and the area they'd grown up in was getting dangerous.
Everything was interlinked, everything affected everything else, and as jobs became scarce whilst property prices in already affluent areas soared, so whole streets were abandoned. It made no sense. Why would the city allow more high rises to be built when there were thousands of empty houses? The price we pay for a shiny city. Leave the unsavory areas to rot away, along with the people.