Shank

by Robert J. Krog

  “She has to be pink all over unless you want to say, ‘it’s maaagggiiic,” right?” He waved his free hand in a vague gesture to coincide with the word ‘maaagggiiic.’

  The elevator doors slid open. The person outside was in an ape costume, dressed as King Kong, with a biplane attached to a rod coming out of one shoulder of the costume.

  “But magic works by some system, doesn’t it?” Roger suggested. “If the magic channels the essence of another thing and adds that to the girl, it doesn’t need to change all of her. She isn’t the flamingo girl. She’s the girl with the flamingo wings.”

  The ape stepped in, pounded its chest, and punched a different floor number from the others already punched. The anime youths laughed and started petting the ape.

  “But they’re part of her body, right?” the Silver Slurper persisted. “If they’re part of her body, they’re fed by what she eats, right? You see what I’m saying. You can’t do it the way you want to and be physiologically correct, right?”

  The doors slid shut, and the elevator slid into action again, gliding up one more floor.

  “No. You see, the magic has its own logic. It’s—”

  “But biology has logic. You can’t ignore biology.”

  “Biology and magic may interact differently than you think—”

  “Ha, you can’t just wave your hands and say it’s magic, negating the biology.”

  “I didn’t say negate, I said interact differently.”

  “Mmaaaggiiiiiiccc.” The Silver Slurper laughed.

  The doors opened, and one anime youth stepped off, waving a giggling goodbye to the other. The elevator slid up two floors this time.

  “Oh, come on now,” Roger said. “The biology of the wings, which are a magical addition, could be a little different from the biology of the human body they’re grafted to. They might be sustained by the same food but react differently to it. It might be that they’re magically sustained and don’t need food at all. They’re magic wings.”

  The Silver Slurper laughed. “Mmaaaagggiiiiicc. You can’t just say that and expect everyone to buy it. It has to conform to the rules.”

  “Look, all I’m saying is, if the wings were grafted on surgically, it would be as you say, but they aren’t. They’re magical wings. They didn’t grow. They’re on her body but aren’t exactly of her body.”

  “Well, if they aren’t her body, aren’t sustained by what she eats, they’d die.”

  “They’re magically sustained.”

  “Oh, yeah. How does that work?”

  “I haven’t been worried about that part.”

  “Mmmmmaaaaaaaaagggggggiiiiiiiiiccc.” The Silver Slurper laughed, making that vague, wavy gesture again, then he took a long, loud drink from his cup. The anime youth and King Kong both turned and looked at him. Elektra, behind him, rolled her eyes.

  As the ding sounded, and the doors slid open, a male voice growled out of the King Kong costume. “Why does magic have to be explained, as long as it functions consistently on its own? Part of the fun of magic is that it’s mysterious.”

  The other anime youth gave King Kong a parting pat and slipped out. A man and woman in business suits stepped in, eyes slightly wide.

  “Mysterious and stupid,” the Silver Slurper said. “What are its rules? How does it work? Where does it come from?”

  The doors slid shut and the elevator did its thing.

  “The story is told from the perspective of the girl with the flamingo wings,” Roger said. “She doesn’t know anything about it, and I only need to know slightly more. I promise I’ll keep the magic working consistently. There’ll be no convenient saves by magic. I’m not a lazy writer.”

  “Mmmmmaaaaaaaaaaagggggggggiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiccc,” the Silver Slurper said, waving his hand again.

  “Bill, we’re going up, not down,” said the woman in the business suit.

  “Drat,” her partner said. “I wasn’t paying attention. I was too dazzled by ‘magic’ boy, here.”

  “He’s that way to everyone,” King Kong stated, still affecting the growl.

  The man and woman backed up involuntarily.

  “Look here,” Kong continued, addressing the Silver Slurper. “Why don’t you leave Mr. Charn alone? Go write your own book, you jerk. Then you can argue with the self-appointed critics who assault you in elevators and see what it’s like.”

  “No, no,” Roger said. “I don’t wish him ill. I’m glad he’s interested in my work.”

  “He isn’t, though,” Elektra said softly but clearly. “He’s interested in being smarter than everyone. He’s interested in puffing himself up at others’ expense.”

  “Why are you all getting mad when I make a valid, scientific point?” the Slurper asked.

  “Is it valid?” Kong asked.

  “It’s science,” the Silver Slurper declared calmly, sententiously.

  “It’s a narrative told from the point of view of someone who doesn’t know how it works. It’s consistent. We don’t have to know.” Kong was losing the affected growl and taking on a stern, irritated tone.

  “That’s rather my point, yes,” Roger admitted.

  The elevator stopped again. The man and woman in business suits quickly exited.

  “Vagueness and lack of explanation are the refuge of lazy writers, in my opinion.”

  “Every year,” Kong said, human eyes looking out from the gorilla mask at Roger.

  “It’s okay,” Roger said, “I’m glad people are interested enough to want to discuss my work with me.”

  “Tolerance is the virtue of the truly wise,” the Silver Slurper said.

  Kong was having none of it. “He’s just being polite to you. You’re not discussing with him, you’re just trying to prove you’re smarter than people more successful than you to boost your own ego, you aphoristic buffoon.”

  The Silver Slurper merely raised an eyebrow and replied, “‘Insults are the refuge of the intellectually inferior.’ Jean-Jacques Rousseau.”

  “See what I mean?” Kong asked the others. “There are three people and one bipedal, painted cliché on this lift.”

  “I won’t hold that against him,” Kilkenny said to Roger, “but pookas are people, too.

  The elevator stopped again, and Kong and the Silver Slurper both removed themselves, still arguing. Gratefully, Roger watched the doors close.

  “He’s right, John is like that every year,” Elektra said.

  “Is that the Silver Slurper’s real name?” Roger asked, smiling at her.

  “Yep, John Silvestri. He works as an independent fact checker, believe it or not.”

  “There’s an interesting job. I’ve always wondered what he does for a living.”

  “I thought he lived in his mother’s basement. I was wrong.” She laughed. “I’m sorry he goes after you like that. I saw him do it at one of your panels last year.”

  “True, this wasn’t my first run-in with him.”

  The elevator stopped again. It was his floor.

  As he stepped out, she stepped forward and put a hand on the door to hold it. “Are you turning in for the night, Mr. Charn? I’m just going up to grab a coat and go out to eat. There’s a group of us going to Central Barbecue. You’re welcome to join us.”

  He turned and considered.

  “Go for it, Rog,” Kilkenny said, back in the form of a horse and clopping down the hall. “I’m going to wander off for a bit anyway.”

  “I haven’t eaten,” he admitted. “I wasn’t hungry until you mentioned food, but now I am.”

  She smiled, and it was a light-up-the room smile. “Come with us, Mr. Charn. There’ll be good food and good company.”

  He was tired, and he was fibbing about being hungry, but he smiled back at her and nodded.

  “I’m two floors above. I’ll grab my coat and meet you in the lobby.”

  “If we don’t end up on the same elevator on the way down,” he said.

  She beamed at him and let the doors close. />
  Chapter 4

  Barbecue and the Unexpected

  They did meet on the elevator on the way down. As the doors slid open, her welcoming smile made him glad he hadn’t said no. A moment before, he’d almost been regretting his choice.

  “I’m Emma,” she said, extending her hand. She was wearing a long coat and had changed from the costume boots to sneakers. He’d thrown on a jacket.

  “Emma, call me Methodius,” he said, shaking. Don’t give her Roger, he had to remind himself.

  “Okay, Methodius,” she said.

  They rode in silence for a moment.

  “Comic book fan, then?” he asked.

  “A little bit. I wear the Elektra from time to time, but it’s something I liked more when I was younger.”

  “I never read it, myself.”

  “I was really too young for it when I read it, but my mother didn’t know some comics weren’t for children.”

  “I guess we all get some education we aren’t ready for from time to time,” he observed.

  She laughed, too. They didn’t stop on other floors on the way down and didn’t talk again until the doors slid open on the lobby. As they walked across it toward the large revolving doors, Emma asked, “Is that your real name, Methodius?”

  He smiled. “It’s a real name.”

  “But is it yours, sir?”

  “It’s my real pen name. Will that do?”

  “Sure. It’ll do. I like it anyway.”

  “There was a Saint Methodius.”

  “Really? I’m religious, but not into saints. Too Catholic.”

  He shrugged. “Look at it as history instead. Saints Cyril and Methodius invented the Cyrillic alphabet for the Slavs. That’s the alphabet of Russia and some other countries in Eastern Europe.”

  “Interesting,” she admitted. “Do you read it?”

  “No,” he said with a laugh. “I studied Spanish in high school and college.”

  He stood aside and let her go through the large revolving doors first, then pushed along behind her. She waited outside for him to exit a moment after.

  “So why the Russian pen name?” she asked.

  “It sounded good.”

  “And Charn?”

  “It also sounded good.”

  “Is it Russian, too?”

  “No. It’s from a C. S. Lewis Narnia book, The Magician’s Nephew.”

  “I read that once. I don’t recall a character named Charn.”

  “It wasn’t a character. Want to ride together?” he offered. “I’ll drive, if you like.”

  “I invited you, and I know my way around, out-of-towner. I’ll drive if you don’t mind.”

  They were standing awkwardly outside the door, not moving toward a vehicle.

  “That’s fine, I’ll trust you.”

  She led the way, and he walked a step behind to her right.

  “Not a character. A place?” she guessed. “I read it 10 or 15 years ago. I remember Polly and Doug, and a horse that could fly, the White Witch and Aslan, and a crazy magician in London with colored rings that moved them to other worlds.”

  “You remember pretty well,” he said. “It’s Digory, not Doug, and Charn is the dead world Jadis, later the White Witch, came from.”

  “That’s a depressing last name,” she observed.

  “I suppose it is, but it fits, because it’s a dead end. Even if I marry and have children, they won’t have that name. It’ll start and end with me. It sounds good, though.”

  “The name will live a long time, Methodius,” she said. “It’ll live on in your books.”

  “There is that.”

  They arrived at a small foreign car, a little silvery thing that looked to him like every other Honda or Toyota of that size.

  “I may have some junk in the passenger seat,” she apologized. “I was in rush to get here after work this afternoon. Let me make room for you.”

  “No worries.” He stood back a moment while she opened the door and pitched items he couldn’t see well into the back seat.

  “Don’t work too hard at it, Emma,” he said after a moment. “I’ll adjust quite well, and I don’t judge people on the state of their vehicles. I know how busy life gets. I’d have had to move things around for you if you’d ridden with me, too.”

  “That’s a relief. I feel like a slob. I’d say it isn’t usually like this, but it is.”

  He laughed. “No worries.”

  “Okay, I think it’s safe. Hop in, Mr. Charn.”

  She held the door for him, and he took the seat. “Very comfortable,” he declared as he reached over and opened her door from the inside. She scooted around quickly and got in.

  “Here we go. The others should be there, saving us a couple of seats at a table.”

  “I haven’t had Memphis Barbecue in a while. It sounds good,” he said, but that wasn’t exactly true. He hadn’t had it as Methodius in quite some time, but as Roger, he’d had it last week. Methodius was supposed to live in the St. Louis area; Roger lived in East Memphis.

  “Good.”

  They rode in silence, and she tried to think of something to say. His comment about being unmarried had caught her attention, and she was too focused on it. Leave it alone, Emma. Leave it alone. He’s just here for the con, not to acquire a fat girlfriend. But he was charming, smiled easily, and she’d loved his books since she was 12. How much older is he than me? He’s gotta be some eight or ten years my senior, probably more. Did I read somewhere that his first book was published when he was quite young?

  She glanced over, returned his smile, and evaluated his face for the umpteenth time. Thirty-something?

  They arrived at the restaurant a few minutes later, walked in, and found the group. It was comprised of three gamer friends of Emma’s, another writer and his wife, a local publisher, and an actress who’d played a supporting role in a superhero film the year before. After introductions were made, they looked over their menus, and ordered quickly.

  Roger joined the conversation easily, and Emma found herself fading quickly into the background. Angling to get back in, she took advantage of a lull in the publisher’s almost never-ending monologue of amusing anecdotes to say, “Methodius, I’ve noticed in your books that your characters are usually part of happy, church-going, whole families—a married parents and their children.”

  Roger turned to her with a surprised look but kept the smile. “I guess you’re mostly right. I have a few orphans and such, though.”

  “Do you think stories should reflect the real world or some ideal?” asked one of the gamers, Roger didn’t recall his name.

  “I think stories should entertain and edify, if possible,” he said.

  Before he could go on, the gamer said, “I think stories that present a bullshit perfect world are just that, bullshit.”

  Roger kept the smile as he replied, “I guess it could be just that. My own work is meant to entertain people. If I have generally happy, whole families in them, it’s because I like happy, whole families and think other people do, too. Depression isn’t very entertaining, and then, too—”

  The actress cut him off. “It isn’t, is it? But heroes should go through trouble if they’re to be heroes.”

  “Exactly,” the gamer said, “and most families aren’t happy, so why always pick happy families as representative of reality?”

  Roger answered quickly before anyone else could cut in, “Well, do stories have to represent reality, or might they contrast it to give us something better to shoot for? I agree that heroes have to go through dangerous trials to be heroes. Anyway, as I was saying, depression isn’t very entertaining, and I want to show my readers, most of whom are younger, that life can and should be good. That families ought to stay together.”

  “You’ll alienate readers if you only show people like that. What about the readers from broken homes?” the gamer asked.

  Emma cringed. She’d obviously not meant to start this kind of discussion.

  “
Well, I don’t,” Roger said. “I don’t always show whole families, just mostly.”

  “Most marriages end in divorce, so that’s not generally true.”

  “But it is,” Roger insisted. “Divorcees remarry and divorce again, a lot. When the same people keep marrying and divorcing, you can’t read it the same way. Most people don’t divorce. Most people stay married if they get married. A significant number don’t actually get married at all these days, which is a different issue.”

  “Now that’s interesting,” the actress said. “I didn’t know that.”

  “So you’re dissing people who don’t get married but have children,” Charles asserted.

  “No, I’m saying that throws off the statistics, as well. I prefer that people get married, then have children, but why argue so much or talk about that aspect of my books? I don’t think that’s why they’re so popular. I think the situations of the young protagonists and the magic are what attract readers.”

  “Go ahead and brag about that to hide your bigotry,” Charles said.

  “Why does he have to be a bigot for being a little old-fashioned?” the actress asked.

  Emma sat back. The publisher, whose story about raccoons in attics had been interrupted, never to be resumed, looked across the table at her and shook his head with a grin.

  “I should have known better,” Emma said. “I didn’t mean to be so loud. I really like his books, and my nieces and nephews love them.”

  The publisher shrugged. “The food will be arriving any moment.”

  As Charles continued to argue, Kilkenny wandered into the restaurant and sauntered over in the form of a horse. He observed for a moment, then clopped over to Charles and knocked his drink in his lap.

  “What the hell?” Charles shouted, standing up.

  “You knocked your drink over,” one of his friends said.

  “I did not.”

  “There was no one else there,” the other writer observed.

  “Go to the restroom and get some towels. It’s only water,” the actress suggested.