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CLOCKWORK ANGELS
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LAUNCHING THIS SUMMER
3 WORDS
FOR
SMOOCHY
A ROMANTIC TRAGEDY . . . SORT OFWhat do a World War II soldier, a sadistic gangster, a narcissistic actor, a crazy girlfriend (ex-girlfriend, whatever), a truculent, buzz-cutted mother, and a burnout father have to do with two people desperate to find each other?
Everything.
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Excerpts From Your Favorite Books
CARDBOARD DEMONS
IN WHICH THE DEVIL BECOMES TEACHER FOR A DAY
“You have thirty seconds before I start tearing heads off.” Lucifer’s eyes flashed, the flames of Xibalba startling the angel so badly he fell out of his chair. In a blink he was on his feet and running. Twenty-eight seconds later he returned with a supervisor, a man that looked remarkably like . . . Ricardo Montalbán?
“Welcome sir, I am Director Montalbán, head of the records department.”
“Where the fuck is she?” Lucifer growled softly, the audible equivalent of a ticking time bomb. He would not be put off by Mr. Fantasy Island, or anyone else.
“There’s no need for that kind of language, sir.”
“Wrong,” Lucifer said in an even more deadly tone. “Ricky, if I don’t release the pressure and emphatically express how fucking angry I am right now, I’ll go fucking nuclear. Not nuclear, fucking nuclear. I will turn this building into a parking lot. Be assured that I am not messing around. Unless you want a whole fuck-ton of problems, you will please, pretty please with sucrose on top, acquiesce to my very reasonable request.”
Not a person in the room, angel or recently deceased, hadn’t stopped what they were doing to watch. This was shaping up to be one of those irresistible force vs. immovable object confrontations, and the odds seemed to favor the missile from Hell. There had not been this kind of excitement at the DST in—forever.
“Mr. Heylel, I empathize with your situation, but the Department of Soul Transference has very stringent protocols regarding data privacy,” Director Montalbán replied. “There is really nothing that—”
“Where is she?”
“I can’t gi—”
“Where is she?”
“There’s nothing—”
“Where the fuck is she?”
“Sir!”
“Last chance,” Lucifer said calmly, having rocketed through the stages of rage to the lethal placidity on the other side.
“What is the problem here, Ricardo?”
“Ah! Raphael,” Lucifer said. “Just the fucking guy I wanted to see.”
“Ricardo?” The archangel ignored Lucifer.
“This gentleman is demanding access to a recent arrival.” Raphael thumbed through a dossier handed to him by the director. “A Ms. Katya Creswell, I see.”
“Mrs. Katya Collins,” Lucifer said. “You people really aren’t paying attention.”
“Unfortunately, Mr. Lucifer has no authorization, or documentation, and doesn’t seem to understand the legal issues involved. Moreover, he threatened the desk clerk, and myself.”
“I wasn’t threatening,” Lucifer said, taking a cigarette from his silver case and firing up. “I was inspiring.”
“By detonating an explosive and leveling the building?”
“The phrase, turn this bitch into a parking lot, is open to interpretation,” Lucifer smiled, exhaling a blue cloud.
Montalbán sighed. “To be fair, Mr. Lucifer’s request does not seem unreasonable, albeit against protocol.”
“Finally, someone gets it. Ricky,” Lucky said, pointing the cigarette at the former television star, “I knew I liked you.”
“Your request is denied,” Raphael said, closing the file. It was Lucifer’s turn to sigh.
“Enough bullshit. Pay attention, Raphy.” Lucifer began ticking points off on his fingers, “One, I was told, by your people—your people, Raphael—that Katya would have significantly more time on earth. Five days after her wedding she was gone. Two, when I show up here politely looking for answers, I get fucked around by several layers of bureaucracy. Three . . . and now I have to deal with you. I am pissed on multiple levels.”
“Lucifer, you are a boorish rogue,” Raphael replied.
“I thought you’d say that.” Lucky glanced around the room. All eyes were on the conversation—or confrontation—between the archangel and the former archangel.
Perfect.
“What do you say to a wager?” Lucifer said loudly enough to be heard in the far corners of the room. “Not the friendly kind, because you’re a dick and we’re not friends. I’m talking about a real bet.”
“I have no interest in any of your bets,” Raphael answered. “Ever have you been the weaver of deceit.”
“If I win,” Lucky continued as if he hadn’t heard, “I get to see Katya for five minutes; a trivial amount of time that will have no impact on this department or your absurd protocols. If you win, I’ll let you shave half my head and one of my eyebrows in front of all these wonderful people. Not enough, you say? I’ll throw in a sucker punch to the face with my hands behind my back! Don’t tell us you would pass up a chance to knock out my front teeth?”
“I told you—” Raphael stopped short when he realized the delicious opportunity; the archangel was aware that everyone was watching intently. “What kind of bet?” he asked suspiciously.
Now I’ve got your ass, Lucky thought.
“How about something you’re good at, just so you can’t say I cheated you later?” Lucky said thoughtfully. “You like to draw, right?”
“I instructed my namesake Raffaello Sanzio da Urbino, accounted among the greatest artists of all t—”
“Wonderful—no one gives a shit.” There was a ripple of suppressed laughter through the gathering crowd. “What you mean to say is that you think you’re good. We’ll see. I challenge you to draw a picture; a picture of something so simple a first-grade child could do it. If the picture is satisfactory, you win the bet. If not, I get to see Katya.”
The room turned to Raphael. What would he do? Everyone in Elysium had heard him railing against Lucifer at one time or another, bragging that someday he would put him in his rightful place. And lo! Here was the opportunity to do so in a magnificently, humiliatingly, and public way. The pressure on Raphael was tangible, but he remained wary.
“What does it mean, satisfactory?” he said. “Satisfactory to whom?”
“I say we let these fine people be the judges,” Lucifer gestured expansively to the gathering crowd. “Is that acceptable?”
“You would have me draw a child’s picture and allow my employees to decide the outcome of the wager?”
“I believe they will be fair and impartial. And we already know how I feel about Ricky.” Lucifer winked at Montalbán, who suppressed a smile. The murmuring grew and heads nodded; there was grinning and even laughter in expectation of what was to come. Everyone loves a carnival, Lucky thought. Even in Heaven.
Raphael’s instinct balked at accepting the bet. Surely there was a trick; there had to be a trick. But what could it be? There was no art form the archangel had not mastered. No technique or style that he had not influenced. What could Lucifer ask him to do that was beyond his ability? For if the task was beyond his ability, it was beyond all but the Almighty, and certainly a child.
“I see you’re suspicious, Raphy, so I will go a step further. Accept the bet and I will tell you what to draw; if you still think I’m fucking with you just put the pencil down and we will find another way to resolve our issue.”
Raphael stared. What was the ruse? There had to be a ruse. “Unless, of course,” Lucifer said in that uniquely soft tone that carries to the rafters, “you just aren’t good enough.”
That was it. Raphael was prideful and did not take such slights well. Lucifer would regret this. “I accept the terms,” he said.
“Wonderful!” Lucky replied to the cheering of the assembled. “Mr. Director, would you be good enough to fetch your boss a pen?”
“You said pencil!” Raphael cried. “Or would you already prove yourself false?”
“Whoa!” Lucifer laughed. “You can draw it with your dick if you think it will make any difference.” At this the crowd laughed and cheered. “It will not matter, my friend.”
“I am not your friend.”
“And my heart breaks over the tragedy.” Lucifer picked up an empty form and turned the paper over to the blank side. “There is no reason to be nervous, Raphael. Nervous is for people who don’t know the outcome; I do. You will fail, so let it go.”
“We shall see,” the archangel answered, rage at last getting the better of him. “Snake! Liar! A thousand curses upon you!”
“No need to put a thousand on ten. This is only a little wager, after all. Choose your weapon, master!” Lucifer mugged at the crowd, a carnival barker stirring them into a frenzy of excitement. Turning to Raphael, he added quietly, “Time to get this shit over with.”
The archangel whispered something to Montalbán, who returned a few moments later with a richly engraved wooden box. Reverentially the archangel removed a most extraordinary pencil; so ornate it could have been a holy relic.
“You’re kidding,” Lucifer said.
Raphael shot him a smug look.
“Whatever,” Lucky said, turning to the crowd. “It’s not his dick,
ladies and gentlemen! Not his dick!” They roared with laughter. With an elaborately exaggerated wave of the hand Lucifer announced: “All you have to do—are you ready for it?—is draw a lowercase j with a dot on top.” Lucky bowed, curtsied, winked at Montalbán, moonwalked a little, and then pushed the paper in front of Raphael.
“What?”
“You heard me dickhole. Lowercase j, dot on top.”
Raphael stared in bemusement.
“Like a first grader, dumb fuck. Think like a child. Think normally.”
Raphy looked at his pencil, then the paper, then at Lucifer. A lowercase j?
“I knew you couldn’t do it, so point me in the right direction, ass-muncher, and I’ll be on my way.”
Raphael cursed him, and added, “I shall enjoy knocking out your teeth.” Then he drew the picture:
j
Sliding the paper back to Lucifer, Raphael put the pencil into the box and rolled up his sleeves. “Now the mighty Lucifer gets his comeuppance.”
Lucky put out his lower lip and nodded. “Ladies and gentlemen, I wish you to certify the results!” He lifted the paper so that the crowd could see. “He has in fact drawn a lowercase j!”
There was a cheer for the spectacle. It appeared Raphael had drawn a lowercase j and won the bet. Lucifer quieted them with a wave of his hand. “But wait!” he boomed, examining the paper theatrically. “Alas! This is not the agreed upon figure, a lowercase j with a dot on top! Good sir, might I borrow your pen?” An angel with a great white beard fished a pen out of a pocket protector and handed it to the Devil.
Lucifer took the pen and held it up, so that everyone in the room could see his manipulation of the picture Raphael had drawn. “Behold! A lowercase j with a dot on top!” It took but one stroke to make the picture correct:
.
j
Volcanic cheers and laughter erupted, the wave gaining momentum as those in front eagerly shared with those further away. Ricardo Montalbán actually began to applaud, and Lucifer basked theatrically in the adulation.
“No, it was nothing really. You’re too kind.” He turned back to Raphael, who had frozen in mid-roll-up.
“Raphy, you are so totally predictable,” Lucky said, sliding the paper to the archangel. “A lowercase j with a dot on top. One stroke short, as usual. Now, about Katya . . .”
“Welcome sir, I am Director Montalbán, head of the records department.”
“Where the fuck is she?” Lucifer growled softly, the audible equivalent of a ticking time bomb. He would not be put off by Mr. Fantasy Island, or anyone else.
“There’s no need for that kind of language, sir.”
“Wrong,” Lucifer said in an even more deadly tone. “Ricky, if I don’t release the pressure and emphatically express how fucking angry I am right now, I’ll go fucking nuclear. Not nuclear, fucking nuclear. I will turn this building into a parking lot. Be assured that I am not messing around. Unless you want a whole fuck-ton of problems, you will please, pretty please with sucrose on top, acquiesce to my very reasonable request.”
Not a person in the room, angel or recently deceased, hadn’t stopped what they were doing to watch. This was shaping up to be one of those irresistible force vs. immovable object confrontations, and the odds seemed to favor the missile from Hell. There had not been this kind of excitement at the DST in—forever.
“Mr. Heylel, I empathize with your situation, but the Department of Soul Transference has very stringent protocols regarding data privacy,” Director Montalbán replied. “There is really nothing that—”
“Where is she?”
“I can’t gi—”
“Where is she?”
“There’s nothing—”
“Where the fuck is she?”
“Sir!”
“Last chance,” Lucifer said calmly, having rocketed through the stages of rage to the lethal placidity on the other side.
“What is the problem here, Ricardo?”
“Ah! Raphael,” Lucifer said. “Just the fucking guy I wanted to see.”
“Ricardo?” The archangel ignored Lucifer.
“This gentleman is demanding access to a recent arrival.” Raphael thumbed through a dossier handed to him by the director. “A Ms. Katya Creswell, I see.”
“Mrs. Katya Collins,” Lucifer said. “You people really aren’t paying attention.”
“Unfortunately, Mr. Lucifer has no authorization, or documentation, and doesn’t seem to understand the legal issues involved. Moreover, he threatened the desk clerk, and myself.”
“I wasn’t threatening,” Lucifer said, taking a cigarette from his silver case and firing up. “I was inspiring.”
“By detonating an explosive and leveling the building?”
“The phrase, turn this bitch into a parking lot, is open to interpretation,” Lucifer smiled, exhaling a blue cloud.
Montalbán sighed. “To be fair, Mr. Lucifer’s request does not seem unreasonable, albeit against protocol.”
“Finally, someone gets it. Ricky,” Lucky said, pointing the cigarette at the former television star, “I knew I liked you.”
“Your request is denied,” Raphael said, closing the file. It was Lucifer’s turn to sigh.
“Enough bullshit. Pay attention, Raphy.” Lucifer began ticking points off on his fingers, “One, I was told, by your people—your people, Raphael—that Katya would have significantly more time on earth. Five days after her wedding she was gone. Two, when I show up here politely looking for answers, I get fucked around by several layers of bureaucracy. Three . . . and now I have to deal with you. I am pissed on multiple levels.”
“Lucifer, you are a boorish rogue,” Raphael replied.
“I thought you’d say that.” Lucky glanced around the room. All eyes were on the conversation—or confrontation—between the archangel and the former archangel.
Perfect.
“What do you say to a wager?” Lucifer said loudly enough to be heard in the far corners of the room. “Not the friendly kind, because you’re a dick and we’re not friends. I’m talking about a real bet.”
“I have no interest in any of your bets,” Raphael answered. “Ever have you been the weaver of deceit.”
“If I win,” Lucky continued as if he hadn’t heard, “I get to see Katya for five minutes; a trivial amount of time that will have no impact on this department or your absurd protocols. If you win, I’ll let you shave half my head and one of my eyebrows in front of all these wonderful people. Not enough, you say? I’ll throw in a sucker punch to the face with my hands behind my back! Don’t tell us you would pass up a chance to knock out my front teeth?”
“I told you—” Raphael stopped short when he realized the delicious opportunity; the archangel was aware that everyone was watching intently. “What kind of bet?” he asked suspiciously.
Now I’ve got your ass, Lucky thought.
“How about something you’re good at, just so you can’t say I cheated you later?” Lucky said thoughtfully. “You like to draw, right?”
“I instructed my namesake Raffaello Sanzio da Urbino, accounted among the greatest artists of all t—”
“Wonderful—no one gives a shit.” There was a ripple of suppressed laughter through the gathering crowd. “What you mean to say is that you think you’re good. We’ll see. I challenge you to draw a picture; a picture of something so simple a first-grade child could do it. If the picture is satisfactory, you win the bet. If not, I get to see Katya.”
The room turned to Raphael. What would he do? Everyone in Elysium had heard him railing against Lucifer at one time or another, bragging that someday he would put him in his rightful place. And lo! Here was the opportunity to do so in a magnificently, humiliatingly, and public way. The pressure on Raphael was tangible, but he remained wary.
“What does it mean, satisfactory?” he said. “Satisfactory to whom?”
“I say we let these fine people be the judges,” Lucifer gestured expansively to the gathering crowd. “Is that acceptable?”
“You would have me draw a child’s picture and allow my employees to decide the outcome of the wager?”
“I believe they will be fair and impartial. And we already know how I feel about Ricky.” Lucifer winked at Montalbán, who suppressed a smile. The murmuring grew and heads nodded; there was grinning and even laughter in expectation of what was to come. Everyone loves a carnival, Lucky thought. Even in Heaven.
Raphael’s instinct balked at accepting the bet. Surely there was a trick; there had to be a trick. But what could it be? There was no art form the archangel had not mastered. No technique or style that he had not influenced. What could Lucifer ask him to do that was beyond his ability? For if the task was beyond his ability, it was beyond all but the Almighty, and certainly a child.
“I see you’re suspicious, Raphy, so I will go a step further. Accept the bet and I will tell you what to draw; if you still think I’m fucking with you just put the pencil down and we will find another way to resolve our issue.”
Raphael stared. What was the ruse? There had to be a ruse. “Unless, of course,” Lucifer said in that uniquely soft tone that carries to the rafters, “you just aren’t good enough.”
That was it. Raphael was prideful and did not take such slights well. Lucifer would regret this. “I accept the terms,” he said.
“Wonderful!” Lucky replied to the cheering of the assembled. “Mr. Director, would you be good enough to fetch your boss a pen?”
“You said pencil!” Raphael cried. “Or would you already prove yourself false?”
“Whoa!” Lucifer laughed. “You can draw it with your dick if you think it will make any difference.” At this the crowd laughed and cheered. “It will not matter, my friend.”
“I am not your friend.”
“And my heart breaks over the tragedy.” Lucifer picked up an empty form and turned the paper over to the blank side. “There is no reason to be nervous, Raphael. Nervous is for people who don’t know the outcome; I do. You will fail, so let it go.”
“We shall see,” the archangel answered, rage at last getting the better of him. “Snake! Liar! A thousand curses upon you!”
“No need to put a thousand on ten. This is only a little wager, after all. Choose your weapon, master!” Lucifer mugged at the crowd, a carnival barker stirring them into a frenzy of excitement. Turning to Raphael, he added quietly, “Time to get this shit over with.”
The archangel whispered something to Montalbán, who returned a few moments later with a richly engraved wooden box. Reverentially the archangel removed a most extraordinary pencil; so ornate it could have been a holy relic.
“You’re kidding,” Lucifer said.
Raphael shot him a smug look.
“Whatever,” Lucky said, turning to the crowd. “It’s not his dick,
ladies and gentlemen! Not his dick!” They roared with laughter. With an elaborately exaggerated wave of the hand Lucifer announced: “All you have to do—are you ready for it?—is draw a lowercase j with a dot on top.” Lucky bowed, curtsied, winked at Montalbán, moonwalked a little, and then pushed the paper in front of Raphael.
“What?”
“You heard me dickhole. Lowercase j, dot on top.”
Raphael stared in bemusement.
“Like a first grader, dumb fuck. Think like a child. Think normally.”
Raphy looked at his pencil, then the paper, then at Lucifer. A lowercase j?
“I knew you couldn’t do it, so point me in the right direction, ass-muncher, and I’ll be on my way.”
Raphael cursed him, and added, “I shall enjoy knocking out your teeth.” Then he drew the picture:
j
Sliding the paper back to Lucifer, Raphael put the pencil into the box and rolled up his sleeves. “Now the mighty Lucifer gets his comeuppance.”
Lucky put out his lower lip and nodded. “Ladies and gentlemen, I wish you to certify the results!” He lifted the paper so that the crowd could see. “He has in fact drawn a lowercase j!”
There was a cheer for the spectacle. It appeared Raphael had drawn a lowercase j and won the bet. Lucifer quieted them with a wave of his hand. “But wait!” he boomed, examining the paper theatrically. “Alas! This is not the agreed upon figure, a lowercase j with a dot on top! Good sir, might I borrow your pen?” An angel with a great white beard fished a pen out of a pocket protector and handed it to the Devil.
Lucifer took the pen and held it up, so that everyone in the room could see his manipulation of the picture Raphael had drawn. “Behold! A lowercase j with a dot on top!” It took but one stroke to make the picture correct:
.
j
Volcanic cheers and laughter erupted, the wave gaining momentum as those in front eagerly shared with those further away. Ricardo Montalbán actually began to applaud, and Lucifer basked theatrically in the adulation.
“No, it was nothing really. You’re too kind.” He turned back to Raphael, who had frozen in mid-roll-up.
“Raphy, you are so totally predictable,” Lucky said, sliding the paper to the archangel. “A lowercase j with a dot on top. One stroke short, as usual. Now, about Katya . . .”
CLOCKWORK ANGELS
IN WHICH THE DEVIL BECOMES TEACHER FOR A DAY
Lucifer slipped the phone in his pocket and was straightening his jacket when the kid rammed into him. He saw the gang of teenagers walking shoulder to shoulder like they owned the damn street, of course. One of the punk-asses went right for him, wanting to play sidewalk chicken; Lucky wasn’t going to play that game with a bunch of arrogant teenagers. On impact the kid recoiled, his invented rage replaced by the sudden onset of debilitating fear. He later said it was like being dropped in a tub of ice water filled with crocodiles.
“What the fuck, motherfucker,” a taller kid barked. Hat sideways, tattoos up and down some very pale forearms, and a Mr. T. starter set around his neck announced this idiot was the leader.
“Indeed,” Lucky replied with a dangerous smile. Adolescents grated on his nerves. They knew everything, learned nothing, and the males had to prove themselves constantly. This dude was abnormally large, and had an even more sizable chip on his shoulder.
“Ah, shit,” the kid carried on, loud enough to be heard from Central Park. “Yo, this motherfucker don’t know who he fuckin’ with.”
“Really?” Lucky grinned. “Who am I fucking with?”
“Yo, this foo’ playin’ wit his life, yo.” The kid gesticulated like a carnival barker on crack, with several grabs of his junk for good measure.
“Why do you keep grabbing your nuts?” Lucky asked. “Have you lost them before?”
“Yo, you best get to stepping’ before Satan 13 Posse fucks you up.”
“Satan 13 Posse, eh? You’re the dipshits spray-painting my name everywhere. By the way, one of you has a future in the arts. So, you all belong to me, then?”
“My foot feelin’ like it belong up yo ass, bitch.”
“Careful,” Lucky waved an admonishing finger. “This bitch bites.”
“Yo, fuck you. You gonna be bitin’ that concrete when we curb stomp yo ass, motherfucker.” He was inches from Lucky’s face, as Lucifer continued to grin like a Cheshire cat.
“You might want to ask your boy over there if that’s a good idea.” The young man who had touched the Devil was lying in the gutter, curled tightly into the fetal position.
“Yo bitch, after I knock you out and cut you, we gonna hold down what’s left so Smack can take a shit on you.”
“Really?” Lucky laughed, thoroughly enjoying himself. “Smack’s going to shit on me? Ha! I can always take a bath, but you have to keep that face the rest of your life.”
The kid needed a moment to work this out. Lucky waited patiently, hoping he would start with some ‘Yo Momma’ cuts, having accumulated a pretty fair store of his own. Instead the kid blew the comeback, stumbling over the words. Lucky exploded in laughter. If you really want to piss a guy off, laugh at him when he’s angry. This dude was fit to cut Lucifer’s head off, and pulled a five-inch switchblade to start the process.
His homies, with the exception of Smack, formed a circle to dispense the ass kicking. Not one seemed to notice the sudden rise in temperature, or that all the rain puddles had evaporated in the last few seconds.
“Are you sure?” Lucky leered, nodding at the blade. It was a purely rhetorical question, as these boys had passed the point of no return. This was going to be a painful lesson. For them, anyway.
Most guys can brawl, but very few actually know how to fight. When these lads waded in, they made the amateurish mistake of throwing nothing but bombs, trying to knock Lucky’s head off his shoulders with one punch. It didn’t work, even though Lucifer didn’t fight back. He really didn’t seem to be moving out of the way either; it’s just that wherever someone threw a punch, he wasn’t. As often as not they hit each other, until eventually their cardio gave way, and they were panting with hands on knees. Lucky, now twirling the switchblade between his fingers, was mildly impressed. It had taken more than sixty-seconds for the group to punch themselves out, and a few still had energy to rub a chin or moan while holding a body part that had been clocked by one of their boys.
Lucky again boomed with laughter. This time the sound careened wildly through their minds to find that place, deep down and long forgotten, where mortal fear lived. It echoed, and it hurt. All fell to their knees.
“Listen,” Lucifer said, “I usually don’t get in the way of idiots trying to be bad ass, but today I’m feeling sensitive. You really, really, don’t want to see me again. None of you have done anything, yet, to make that unavoidable. So I’ll give you some good advice and hope you’re smart enough to take it. Stop acting like a bunch of hyper-testosteroned fucktards and pull up your god damned pants. Nobody thinks you’re cool. There are beings walking this earth with far less compassion than I, and if you keep messing around, you’ll meet one.”
A tremor in the earth sent a thrill of panic through the group. The largest kid in the gang, a monster called Super-Diesel, tried to make a run for it. He froze awkwardly before his third step.
“None of that,” Lucky said. “Be a man and stand with your friends, as ridiculous as they are.” The giant’s eyes swiveled in slow comprehension—the rest of him was as ridged as porcelain.
“Super-D, whas’ wrong, yo?” the leader said, as yet unaware his saggy pants were now soggy.
“Oh, Super-D can’t move at all,” Lucky said. “It’s pretty uncomfortable, don’t you think?” The leader tried to move his legs and found that he couldn’t.
It was a dirty business, exercising power over the weak minded. Ten thousand hours of YouTube and shooting zombies on the Xbox made these clowns particularly susceptible. Unfortunately, there was a downside of such mind control. Disgustingly lurid thoughts spilled from their minds like a leaky urn. Or urinal, in the case of the chief. Lucifer tried to ward off the telepathy without success, to his revulsion. No one should be exposed to what goes on in a teenage boy’s mind.
“Diesel?” Lucky snapped. “Super-D! Son, stop doing that.” Lucky leaned close to the leader of the gang. “He’s blaming his dad again, Frank,” he said conspiratorially. A look of confusion clouded the leader’s face at the use of his proper name. “See, when Super-D was a kid, his father wrapped him in a blanket so tightly he couldn’t move. It was a joke. Big-D was never in any real danger, but the mind does play tricks. Diesel! You need to forgive your dad for that. He was only trying to bond. If you don’t learn to let go of things, you are going to end up maladjusted.”
Super-Diesel’s eyes were practically spinning out of his head.
“Yo, fuck you,” Frank said in one last act of defiance.
Lucifer sighed. “Everyone has to learn the hard way. Okay Frank, let’s get this over with. I have things to do. This crew calls you Slasher, though I can’t understand why. You’ve never slashed anything except an old lady’s tires; a shitty thing to do, really. It all came apart when you stopped taking your meds. ODD is going to get you into a lot of trouble someday.” Lucifer suddenly became black as obsidian. “And my watch says someday . . . is today.”
Frank spazzed like he had caught a finger in a light socket. Then he felt the terror, and knew with utter certainty he could not escape it.
“Satan 13 Posse, you say?” A voice of sledgehammers thundered in his head. “Do not pretend to know Satan. Pray you never know him; he is terrible.”
Time slowed, and Frank the Slasher found himself alone in the dark. Shadows flowed around him like the tide, a single moment elongating to an endless wave that swallowed the universe. The stygian night pierced him, all he was and all he ever would be. Alone and naked he was laid bare, wretched and helpless.
Night roiled as two eyes appeared above him, burning like coals, pulling him toward the abyss. Something in the velvet shadows purred, an avatar of torment. The horror was held at bay by a veil of gossamer so delicate the slightest breath promised a flood of unmitigated pain. Darkness whispered to the fear, the torment searching for him, searching for a way in. Suddenly there echoed a voice of salvation. A lifeline it seemed amid the sea of terror, offering a way out.
“Do you understand?” it whispered, as the creeping horror inched closer. Every molecule in Frank’s body answered in the affirmative, though the ability to articulate this new understanding was as alien to Frank as common sense had been.
Suddenly there was light. The sound of the city flooded back, and Frank found himself splayed on the pavement. From somewhere inside his head, Frank heard a voice, less cosmic and more human, and it said, “Hit the bricks motherfucker, before they hit you.”
Frank staggered to his feet, shaking his head violently as if to ward off the vestiges of a nightmare. His crew, each in various stages of recovery, did likewise. They scattered like disoriented toddlers. Lucky stared after them, shaking his head.
“Well,” he sighed, lighting a cigarette, “that was fun.”
“What the fuck, motherfucker,” a taller kid barked. Hat sideways, tattoos up and down some very pale forearms, and a Mr. T. starter set around his neck announced this idiot was the leader.
“Indeed,” Lucky replied with a dangerous smile. Adolescents grated on his nerves. They knew everything, learned nothing, and the males had to prove themselves constantly. This dude was abnormally large, and had an even more sizable chip on his shoulder.
“Ah, shit,” the kid carried on, loud enough to be heard from Central Park. “Yo, this motherfucker don’t know who he fuckin’ with.”
“Really?” Lucky grinned. “Who am I fucking with?”
“Yo, this foo’ playin’ wit his life, yo.” The kid gesticulated like a carnival barker on crack, with several grabs of his junk for good measure.
“Why do you keep grabbing your nuts?” Lucky asked. “Have you lost them before?”
“Yo, you best get to stepping’ before Satan 13 Posse fucks you up.”
“Satan 13 Posse, eh? You’re the dipshits spray-painting my name everywhere. By the way, one of you has a future in the arts. So, you all belong to me, then?”
“My foot feelin’ like it belong up yo ass, bitch.”
“Careful,” Lucky waved an admonishing finger. “This bitch bites.”
“Yo, fuck you. You gonna be bitin’ that concrete when we curb stomp yo ass, motherfucker.” He was inches from Lucky’s face, as Lucifer continued to grin like a Cheshire cat.
“You might want to ask your boy over there if that’s a good idea.” The young man who had touched the Devil was lying in the gutter, curled tightly into the fetal position.
“Yo bitch, after I knock you out and cut you, we gonna hold down what’s left so Smack can take a shit on you.”
“Really?” Lucky laughed, thoroughly enjoying himself. “Smack’s going to shit on me? Ha! I can always take a bath, but you have to keep that face the rest of your life.”
The kid needed a moment to work this out. Lucky waited patiently, hoping he would start with some ‘Yo Momma’ cuts, having accumulated a pretty fair store of his own. Instead the kid blew the comeback, stumbling over the words. Lucky exploded in laughter. If you really want to piss a guy off, laugh at him when he’s angry. This dude was fit to cut Lucifer’s head off, and pulled a five-inch switchblade to start the process.
His homies, with the exception of Smack, formed a circle to dispense the ass kicking. Not one seemed to notice the sudden rise in temperature, or that all the rain puddles had evaporated in the last few seconds.
“Are you sure?” Lucky leered, nodding at the blade. It was a purely rhetorical question, as these boys had passed the point of no return. This was going to be a painful lesson. For them, anyway.
Most guys can brawl, but very few actually know how to fight. When these lads waded in, they made the amateurish mistake of throwing nothing but bombs, trying to knock Lucky’s head off his shoulders with one punch. It didn’t work, even though Lucifer didn’t fight back. He really didn’t seem to be moving out of the way either; it’s just that wherever someone threw a punch, he wasn’t. As often as not they hit each other, until eventually their cardio gave way, and they were panting with hands on knees. Lucky, now twirling the switchblade between his fingers, was mildly impressed. It had taken more than sixty-seconds for the group to punch themselves out, and a few still had energy to rub a chin or moan while holding a body part that had been clocked by one of their boys.
Lucky again boomed with laughter. This time the sound careened wildly through their minds to find that place, deep down and long forgotten, where mortal fear lived. It echoed, and it hurt. All fell to their knees.
“Listen,” Lucifer said, “I usually don’t get in the way of idiots trying to be bad ass, but today I’m feeling sensitive. You really, really, don’t want to see me again. None of you have done anything, yet, to make that unavoidable. So I’ll give you some good advice and hope you’re smart enough to take it. Stop acting like a bunch of hyper-testosteroned fucktards and pull up your god damned pants. Nobody thinks you’re cool. There are beings walking this earth with far less compassion than I, and if you keep messing around, you’ll meet one.”
A tremor in the earth sent a thrill of panic through the group. The largest kid in the gang, a monster called Super-Diesel, tried to make a run for it. He froze awkwardly before his third step.
“None of that,” Lucky said. “Be a man and stand with your friends, as ridiculous as they are.” The giant’s eyes swiveled in slow comprehension—the rest of him was as ridged as porcelain.
“Super-D, whas’ wrong, yo?” the leader said, as yet unaware his saggy pants were now soggy.
“Oh, Super-D can’t move at all,” Lucky said. “It’s pretty uncomfortable, don’t you think?” The leader tried to move his legs and found that he couldn’t.
It was a dirty business, exercising power over the weak minded. Ten thousand hours of YouTube and shooting zombies on the Xbox made these clowns particularly susceptible. Unfortunately, there was a downside of such mind control. Disgustingly lurid thoughts spilled from their minds like a leaky urn. Or urinal, in the case of the chief. Lucifer tried to ward off the telepathy without success, to his revulsion. No one should be exposed to what goes on in a teenage boy’s mind.
“Diesel?” Lucky snapped. “Super-D! Son, stop doing that.” Lucky leaned close to the leader of the gang. “He’s blaming his dad again, Frank,” he said conspiratorially. A look of confusion clouded the leader’s face at the use of his proper name. “See, when Super-D was a kid, his father wrapped him in a blanket so tightly he couldn’t move. It was a joke. Big-D was never in any real danger, but the mind does play tricks. Diesel! You need to forgive your dad for that. He was only trying to bond. If you don’t learn to let go of things, you are going to end up maladjusted.”
Super-Diesel’s eyes were practically spinning out of his head.
“Yo, fuck you,” Frank said in one last act of defiance.
Lucifer sighed. “Everyone has to learn the hard way. Okay Frank, let’s get this over with. I have things to do. This crew calls you Slasher, though I can’t understand why. You’ve never slashed anything except an old lady’s tires; a shitty thing to do, really. It all came apart when you stopped taking your meds. ODD is going to get you into a lot of trouble someday.” Lucifer suddenly became black as obsidian. “And my watch says someday . . . is today.”
Frank spazzed like he had caught a finger in a light socket. Then he felt the terror, and knew with utter certainty he could not escape it.
“Satan 13 Posse, you say?” A voice of sledgehammers thundered in his head. “Do not pretend to know Satan. Pray you never know him; he is terrible.”
Time slowed, and Frank the Slasher found himself alone in the dark. Shadows flowed around him like the tide, a single moment elongating to an endless wave that swallowed the universe. The stygian night pierced him, all he was and all he ever would be. Alone and naked he was laid bare, wretched and helpless.
Night roiled as two eyes appeared above him, burning like coals, pulling him toward the abyss. Something in the velvet shadows purred, an avatar of torment. The horror was held at bay by a veil of gossamer so delicate the slightest breath promised a flood of unmitigated pain. Darkness whispered to the fear, the torment searching for him, searching for a way in. Suddenly there echoed a voice of salvation. A lifeline it seemed amid the sea of terror, offering a way out.
“Do you understand?” it whispered, as the creeping horror inched closer. Every molecule in Frank’s body answered in the affirmative, though the ability to articulate this new understanding was as alien to Frank as common sense had been.
Suddenly there was light. The sound of the city flooded back, and Frank found himself splayed on the pavement. From somewhere inside his head, Frank heard a voice, less cosmic and more human, and it said, “Hit the bricks motherfucker, before they hit you.”
Frank staggered to his feet, shaking his head violently as if to ward off the vestiges of a nightmare. His crew, each in various stages of recovery, did likewise. They scattered like disoriented toddlers. Lucky stared after them, shaking his head.
“Well,” he sighed, lighting a cigarette, “that was fun.”
3 WORDS FOR SMOOCHY
TANNER ELEMENTARY SCHOOL, 1980
“My name is Bridget,” she said brightly, extending a hand. “We moved here from Minneapolis, me and my mom. Today is my first day.”
Kai took the hand gingerly, not sure if she was out to make a fool of him. Everyone else did, so why should the new girl be any different?
“Why do you let Shannon pick on you?”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Doesn’t anyone do something about it? What about your friends?”
“I don’t have any.” Kai didn’t want to explain that to avoid targeting by association, even the nice kids avoided him.
“Sorry, but you don’t look like a victim,” she said flatly. “Profile! That’s the word. You don’t fit the profile of a bullied kid.”
This was true. A tall boy, though very thin, Kai often looked kind and sad at the same time. His wavy hair never seemed to keep the same shape and was often long enough to hang into his eyes. Good looks and intelligence might, in another school, have made him one of the popular kids. However, bullying behavior has little to do with these things. Kids are hazed because they are different, and Kai was certainly different. A timid and awkward nature, combined with pants that were usually too short and collars that were usually too long, made him an obvious mark.
“I’m Kai,” he said cautiously.
“It’s nice to meet you Kai,” she said in a cheery voice. “I never thought I would meet my first friend hanging from a hook on a toilet door, but c’este la vie.”
If the French impressed Kai, he might be forgiven for not showing it. The word was used so casually it belied distinction, but to a man dying of thirst nothing grabs the attention like the mention of water.
Friend.
She called him friend. Out of nowhere, this person appeared carrying no preconceptions or prejudice. Maybe the girl didn’t see the danger when she looked at him; maybe she didn’t care. Long buried emotions bubbled up suddenly, emotions he struggled to understand. Joy was among these, and gratitude for anyone that didn’t simply point and laugh.
“Let me help you down,” she said, cupping her hands under his feet.
“Wait, n-no.” Kai said anxiously.
Bridget stepped back. “You don’t want to get down?”
“No!” Kai said briskly. “You’ll get into t-trouble.”
“Why do you talk like that?”
“Like what?”
“Where you can’t get the words out. Stutter. That’s it.”
Kai squirmed as he heard the other shoe dropping. He wondered when a deal breaker would turn up. “I stutter when I’m nervous.”
“Were you born like that?”
“No.”
“So what happened? Did you fall off a swing or something?”
“No. M-My mother. She died . . . and . . .”
“That’s so sad,” Bridget said, not letting him finish. It is a curious thing how children comprehend emotions so quickly when long explanations would only get in the way. Bridget seemed to understand without another word.
“I’m getting you down,” she said, putting her hands back under his feet. “I’ll just boost you and—”
Suddenly the bathroom door flew open with a crash. The boom echoed in the children’s ears, causing a dramatic surge in Kai’s blood pressure and a dramatic rise in Bridget’s temper. In the doorway was Shannon, surrounded by three of his very large, very scary minions. The crew could have passed for junior high, one even showing signs of facial hair. The entire fourth grade seemed to be crowding in behind them, lining up to gawk at the expected train wreck.
Shannon lived for these moments. He was a small kid, with strait brown hair and a crooked smile. Whatever charisma he possessed was based in shock value: loud, obnoxious, and over the line. He kept his edge by commanding attention; the most effective means of doing so was now hanging from a hook.
“Just where I left you,” he sneered. “Look fellas, he’s smart enough to do what he’s told.”
The boys laughed at the joke, but were unsure about the strange girl in the boy’s bathroom. Shannon was not, and saw an opportunity to drive the knife deeper.
“Who’s the skirt?” he laughed. “Get a new mommy, Cassidy? Was mommy going to get you down?” Shannon had a knack for hitting the places that hurt most. “What a pussy.” He mugged for the gathering crowd.
“Take it back!” Bridget shouted, hands clenched and face contorting with rage. Stunned silence descended like a curtain.
“So you trained mommy to speak, did you?” Shannon said, recovering. “Hey guys, I think there’s another hook in the little girl’s room.”
The boys laughed weakly but did not move. Something was happening that approached a deeply ingrained line they knew should not be crossed: boys should not pick on girls. Bridget did not hesitate to step forward.
“You will apologize and get him down,” she said with icy certainty, danger radiating from her eyes like blue fire. “Do it before something bad happens to you.”
Shannon was momentarily speechless. Like most bullies he was aggressive on the surface but insecure underneath. Hurting people built up a kind of prosthetic self-confidence, but when challenged a moment of crisis can occur. For Shannon, that moment passed swiftly.
“Be careful,” he said, mustering his menace. “I was only joking before.”
“You be careful,” Bridget replied stepping closer, “or I’ll beat your ass in front of all your friends.” She put a finger in his chest. “I won’t tell you again.”
Her language was hard, and though Kai was literally hovering above it all in a state of abject terror, he was greatly impressed. He had never seen anything like it, and it appeared Shannon hadn’t either. His face betrayed indecision. Unflinchingly confronted by a strange girl in a boys' toilet, and surrounded by a crowd of his peers, he was at a loss; and so fell back to what had always worked.
“So you’re a brave little bitch, huh?”
That was indeed the wrong thing to say.
A fraction of a second after the words left his mouth Bridget’s right fist collided with it. The crowd gasped as Shannon stumbled backward, using both hands to cover a bleeding lip. When Shannon pulled his hands back to see how badly he was bleeding, a second blow crashed into his nose. Bridget recoiled and moved laterally, angling for a clean shot to the jaw. The onlookers roared when Shannon backpedaled awkwardly and fell. Bridget waded in, right fist cocked, looking for an opening to put it through.
“All right! All right!” cried Shannon, holding his arms over his face.
“Say it! Say you’re sorry!” Bridget shouted, but Shannon was already scrambling between people’s legs, eager to put distance between himself and the heavy fists.
“What about the rest of you?” she snarled at Shannon’s entourage and the gawping onlookers, who dispersed as if someone had cracked a canister of teargas. Bridget turned and walked briskly to Kai, a look of simmering fury burning on her pretty face. She seized Kai’s dangling feet and practically catapulted him from the hook. Cracking his head on the stall he toppled and landed on the flat of his back where he squirmed breathlessly; the awkward landing temporarily paralyzing his lungs.
“Sorry! I’m sorry!” She knelt beside him and clumsily attempted to help him sit up. Kai wheezed pitifully, the best reply he could give while gagging.
“I didn’t mean to do that.” Bridget gripped his arm to hold him steady, which was like being caught in a twelve-pound vice.
“It’s . . . okay . . . please,” he croaked, desperately wrenching his arm loose.
Bridget must have realized she wasn’t helping, and so sat down with him, crossing her legs and waiting patiently for him to recover. It took a few minutes, but Kai gradually began to breathe again. Bridget stared at him with those eyes. An odd sensation crept over Kai; it almost seemed as if she liked him. Any difficulty in breathing at this point had nothing to do with the fall. There was something between them that couldn’t be articulated, an emotional connection that in the arc of time shapes a friendship that lasts.
“Thank you,” Kai said sincerely. He couldn’t think of anything else to say, and realized there wasn’t anything more that needed to be said.
Kai took the hand gingerly, not sure if she was out to make a fool of him. Everyone else did, so why should the new girl be any different?
“Why do you let Shannon pick on you?”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Doesn’t anyone do something about it? What about your friends?”
“I don’t have any.” Kai didn’t want to explain that to avoid targeting by association, even the nice kids avoided him.
“Sorry, but you don’t look like a victim,” she said flatly. “Profile! That’s the word. You don’t fit the profile of a bullied kid.”
This was true. A tall boy, though very thin, Kai often looked kind and sad at the same time. His wavy hair never seemed to keep the same shape and was often long enough to hang into his eyes. Good looks and intelligence might, in another school, have made him one of the popular kids. However, bullying behavior has little to do with these things. Kids are hazed because they are different, and Kai was certainly different. A timid and awkward nature, combined with pants that were usually too short and collars that were usually too long, made him an obvious mark.
“I’m Kai,” he said cautiously.
“It’s nice to meet you Kai,” she said in a cheery voice. “I never thought I would meet my first friend hanging from a hook on a toilet door, but c’este la vie.”
If the French impressed Kai, he might be forgiven for not showing it. The word was used so casually it belied distinction, but to a man dying of thirst nothing grabs the attention like the mention of water.
Friend.
She called him friend. Out of nowhere, this person appeared carrying no preconceptions or prejudice. Maybe the girl didn’t see the danger when she looked at him; maybe she didn’t care. Long buried emotions bubbled up suddenly, emotions he struggled to understand. Joy was among these, and gratitude for anyone that didn’t simply point and laugh.
“Let me help you down,” she said, cupping her hands under his feet.
“Wait, n-no.” Kai said anxiously.
Bridget stepped back. “You don’t want to get down?”
“No!” Kai said briskly. “You’ll get into t-trouble.”
“Why do you talk like that?”
“Like what?”
“Where you can’t get the words out. Stutter. That’s it.”
Kai squirmed as he heard the other shoe dropping. He wondered when a deal breaker would turn up. “I stutter when I’m nervous.”
“Were you born like that?”
“No.”
“So what happened? Did you fall off a swing or something?”
“No. M-My mother. She died . . . and . . .”
“That’s so sad,” Bridget said, not letting him finish. It is a curious thing how children comprehend emotions so quickly when long explanations would only get in the way. Bridget seemed to understand without another word.
“I’m getting you down,” she said, putting her hands back under his feet. “I’ll just boost you and—”
Suddenly the bathroom door flew open with a crash. The boom echoed in the children’s ears, causing a dramatic surge in Kai’s blood pressure and a dramatic rise in Bridget’s temper. In the doorway was Shannon, surrounded by three of his very large, very scary minions. The crew could have passed for junior high, one even showing signs of facial hair. The entire fourth grade seemed to be crowding in behind them, lining up to gawk at the expected train wreck.
Shannon lived for these moments. He was a small kid, with strait brown hair and a crooked smile. Whatever charisma he possessed was based in shock value: loud, obnoxious, and over the line. He kept his edge by commanding attention; the most effective means of doing so was now hanging from a hook.
“Just where I left you,” he sneered. “Look fellas, he’s smart enough to do what he’s told.”
The boys laughed at the joke, but were unsure about the strange girl in the boy’s bathroom. Shannon was not, and saw an opportunity to drive the knife deeper.
“Who’s the skirt?” he laughed. “Get a new mommy, Cassidy? Was mommy going to get you down?” Shannon had a knack for hitting the places that hurt most. “What a pussy.” He mugged for the gathering crowd.
“Take it back!” Bridget shouted, hands clenched and face contorting with rage. Stunned silence descended like a curtain.
“So you trained mommy to speak, did you?” Shannon said, recovering. “Hey guys, I think there’s another hook in the little girl’s room.”
The boys laughed weakly but did not move. Something was happening that approached a deeply ingrained line they knew should not be crossed: boys should not pick on girls. Bridget did not hesitate to step forward.
“You will apologize and get him down,” she said with icy certainty, danger radiating from her eyes like blue fire. “Do it before something bad happens to you.”
Shannon was momentarily speechless. Like most bullies he was aggressive on the surface but insecure underneath. Hurting people built up a kind of prosthetic self-confidence, but when challenged a moment of crisis can occur. For Shannon, that moment passed swiftly.
“Be careful,” he said, mustering his menace. “I was only joking before.”
“You be careful,” Bridget replied stepping closer, “or I’ll beat your ass in front of all your friends.” She put a finger in his chest. “I won’t tell you again.”
Her language was hard, and though Kai was literally hovering above it all in a state of abject terror, he was greatly impressed. He had never seen anything like it, and it appeared Shannon hadn’t either. His face betrayed indecision. Unflinchingly confronted by a strange girl in a boys' toilet, and surrounded by a crowd of his peers, he was at a loss; and so fell back to what had always worked.
“So you’re a brave little bitch, huh?”
That was indeed the wrong thing to say.
A fraction of a second after the words left his mouth Bridget’s right fist collided with it. The crowd gasped as Shannon stumbled backward, using both hands to cover a bleeding lip. When Shannon pulled his hands back to see how badly he was bleeding, a second blow crashed into his nose. Bridget recoiled and moved laterally, angling for a clean shot to the jaw. The onlookers roared when Shannon backpedaled awkwardly and fell. Bridget waded in, right fist cocked, looking for an opening to put it through.
“All right! All right!” cried Shannon, holding his arms over his face.
“Say it! Say you’re sorry!” Bridget shouted, but Shannon was already scrambling between people’s legs, eager to put distance between himself and the heavy fists.
“What about the rest of you?” she snarled at Shannon’s entourage and the gawping onlookers, who dispersed as if someone had cracked a canister of teargas. Bridget turned and walked briskly to Kai, a look of simmering fury burning on her pretty face. She seized Kai’s dangling feet and practically catapulted him from the hook. Cracking his head on the stall he toppled and landed on the flat of his back where he squirmed breathlessly; the awkward landing temporarily paralyzing his lungs.
“Sorry! I’m sorry!” She knelt beside him and clumsily attempted to help him sit up. Kai wheezed pitifully, the best reply he could give while gagging.
“I didn’t mean to do that.” Bridget gripped his arm to hold him steady, which was like being caught in a twelve-pound vice.
“It’s . . . okay . . . please,” he croaked, desperately wrenching his arm loose.
Bridget must have realized she wasn’t helping, and so sat down with him, crossing her legs and waiting patiently for him to recover. It took a few minutes, but Kai gradually began to breathe again. Bridget stared at him with those eyes. An odd sensation crept over Kai; it almost seemed as if she liked him. Any difficulty in breathing at this point had nothing to do with the fall. There was something between them that couldn’t be articulated, an emotional connection that in the arc of time shapes a friendship that lasts.
“Thank you,” Kai said sincerely. He couldn’t think of anything else to say, and realized there wasn’t anything more that needed to be said.