Splinter Salem Part Two

by Wayne Hill

  Splinter dives over a table, does a forward roll into a kneeling position, his cannon arm extended towards the adolescent, and screams, “Endless energy!”

  Splinter fires a blue stream of electricity at the teenager. The kid is knocked from the barstool and starts convulsing on the floor.

  At this point, Splinter receives a chair-strike to the back of his head. He knows instinctively that it is Gert. She is the only person he lets knock him around. It is a gift of which she always takes full advantage.

  “What are you doing?” shouts Gert, shoving and kicking at him.

  Two more of his crew, Enslin and Frobel, emerge from behind a huge pile of overturned benches and tables, rubbing at their aching heads and chuckling. More worldly than Gert, they knew a recreated scene from Sun Battles© when they saw one.

  “Interrogating,” says Splinter, rubbing the back of his head.

  “You were fucking electrocuting him!” screams Gert.

  “We have an intruder, sent by the Association,” counters Splinter. “Possibly a spy, definitely a thief. Dangerous fucker, this one!”

  Enslin wanders over to the young man, still dazed and twitching from the attack. “I know you,” he says. “Hey! I know this kid. He’s been in the lanes a month, Splinter. He has a cool name like, The Monster, or The Mutilator. Something beginning with m, anyway. Hey, kid! What did you say your name was?”

  “I’m The Marauder!” says the lightly smoking teenager petulantly.

  “Yeah, that’s it!” smiles Enslin, walking to the bar to pour himself a beer.

  “That can’t be his real name,” says Frobel in Splinter’s ear.

  Splinter nods and blasts The Marauder with another volley of electricity. “Speak your real name or die!” shouts Splinter, dramatically, knowing full well the charge is only enough to shock someone. Make a person shit themselves, at worst.

  Gert grabs an empty bottle, from one of the few still standing tables, and smashes it over the back of Splinter’s head.

  “Gert, please stop attacking me when I’m in interrogation mode,” says Splinter calmly. “It’s highly important work.”

  “Dickhead,” says Gert.

  “Ahhhh! Fuck it!” shouts The Marauder fitfully. “It’s Patrick ... My name is Patrick Fishbalm,” says Patrick.

  Splinter shares a quick look with Frobel standing next to him. Frobel shakes his head. Splinter nods and blasts Patrick again.

  “Bollocks!” shouts Splinter. “Nobody’s called fucking fish farm!”

  “No, no, no. It’s Fishbalm, for fuck’s sake! Fish ...balm ... Fiiiiiiiishhhhhhhbaaaaaaaalllllm!" screams the kid, enduring another zapping.

  “Endless Energy!” yells Splinter. “Frobel, do the ending of Sun Battles©! Quick!... Quicker!”

  “What is he fucking talking about!” shouts Gert furiously to Frobel, the film reference completely lost on her.

  “Help ... me...” begs Fishbalm, reaching out to Frobel.

  “Oh, right! I get it,” says Enslin from the bar.

  Frobel stares back and forth between Splinter yelling ‘Endless Energy!’ and the young kid cowering on the floor, spasming and whispering, ‘Help me.’ Frobel picks up Splinter, puts him over his shoulder, and — Splinter still firing electricity in random directions — walks him out the pub.

  “Noooooooo!” yells Splinter as he is carried out.

  During his theatrical exit, some of Splinter’s electricity hits Gert and she realises it is not a strong charge at all. It was more for show than anything. This Fishbalm kid must be a fucking pansy, she thinks.

  Splinter and Frobel walk back into the barroom to a standing ovation from Enslin, who moves over to Patrick Fishbalm sipping his pint.

  “Did you like the show?” asks Splinter, his arm around a grinning Frobel.

  “It was fucking mint!” says Enslin. “I knew you were playing the ruler from Sun Battles. That was the funny part, ‘Nooooooo!’ Yeah, man. Quality.”

  “How’s The Marauder?” asks Splinter with a smile.

  “I’m fine,” says Fishbalm. “Just a bit hungover, is all. Need the hair-of-the-dog. I knew what you were doing, all along. I’m a great actor, me. One of the finest.”

  “Not surprised you’re hungover, sweetie,” says Gert, sashaying over to him and draping a perfumed arm around the teenager’s shoulder. “You were throwing them back last night. I was wondering if we had found another young Splinter Salem in our midst.”

  Patrick beams at her, and Gert laughs at a now slightly uncomfortable Splinter. “Come on, Captain. Let’s open the bar early today,” Gert says to Splinter.

  “Fine,” Splinter says. “Fuck it. I’m going to drink every last one of you fuckers under the table, and then I’m putting the ‘Fishy’ Marauder, here, in Hendricht’s fucking spud patch! He’ll have ‘em growing out of his eyes, by the time I’m done — and he’ll be happy about it. Hell, he may even change his name to Fishy Spud-eyes and get a job with Toad making sausages from dead rats!”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” spits Patrick. “I ate loads of those sausages last night. I thought they were delicious. Rats? Fuck’s sake!”

  Frobel and Enslin had wasted no time in jumping behind the bar and helping themselves, whilst Splinter staggers from table to table, looking for some cigars. Gert sits down next to Patrick at the bar.

  “So,” he asks, “what’s your story? How did you end up in the last bar on Earth?”

  “That fucking idiot over there,” Gert says, smiling, and inclining her head towards Splinter. Right on cue, Splinter trips over a table falls onto the floor. He laughs and starts electrocuting himself with dancing blue light from his arm-cannon.

  “Is he crazy?” asks Fishbalm.

  “You don’t know the half of it, Sweetie,” chuckles Gert. “We’re all irregular, I suppose. but some of us are —”

  “— far beyond help,” finishes Enslin for her, slamming a large bottle of scotch and even larger bottle of brandy down in front of the pair.

  “Fuck it!” says Gert, gifting Fishbalm another radiant smile. “Eternal happy-hour, pals. Drink-up before you get sober. Afterall, you’ll only have yourself to blame.”

  “Hey!” says Frobel coming over to join the group. “We might be all a little different, but I need to add that Hector’s worse than all of us put together!”

  The group think about this as they watch Splinter judderingly disappear under a table, nearby, still electrocuting himself with every sign of enjoying the experience. He is haltingly singing some old song he has on his juke box — something about a Masterplan.

  “Isn’t someone going to help him?” asks Fishbalm.

  Enslin pours four shots of scotch. Everyone downs their drink, except Fishbalm. They all stare at him as he swirls the brass-coloured liquid in his glass.

  Frobel winks at Gert and nudges Patrick.

  “When Splinter gets asked about Gertrude, here,” Frobel says, grinning impishly in Gert’s direction, “he always brings up the first mission he went on. It was a mission to obtain — ‘rescue,’ he says — the painting of Ophelia that he has hanging upstairs in his crow’s nest. It was blessed by Aphrodite, he says.”

  Fishbalm, noticing that he is the only one with a full glass, necks the large measure and coughs violently into the crook of his elbow. Gertrude rubs his back.

  Frobel winks at Enslin, this time, and points to the watery-eyed teenager.

  “Gert,” says Frobel, “was commissioned by the USA to spend all of her life on planet Tate.”

  “In a themed dome,” added Enslin.

  “Yeah, the Greek gods and goddess section,” says Gertrude, flicking her long blonde hair.

  Patrick takes in her soft features. Gertrude’s skin is wrinkle free and flawless; her eyes were of dark blue — almost a navy blue — with purple flecks that danced when she smiled. He could not guess at her age, but her voice made harsh by a long period of excess, suggested that she was older than she looked. Either that or she had packed a lo
t of abuse into a short period of time. Regardless, she was a picture of perfection. The only blemish he could see were the thick red weals under her chin, stretching across her neck. They looked like rope burns from being hanged.

  “Splinter and the rest of the crew, back then, were all mistaken for actors and performers,” says Frobel.

  “Only because of Splinter’s metal arm,” said Enslin, frisking Frobel for a cigarette lighter as he spoke. “They presumed they were Greek gods and bundled them into the dome ...Or maybe robots scanned them? .... Actually, I forget how this one goes.”

  Gertrude pours herself a drink and begins to roll a cigarette. “I like it when you guys tell my story, even though neither of you were there. It was thirty years ago, and it was just me and Splinter and the old crew.” Girt glimpses sideways and notices the flashing of the electricity has stopped.

  Frobel fills The Marauder’s glass with scotch, again, and winks at him. “I know loads about this story, though,” he says. “I’ve heard it so many times. In the dome the visitors are treated to a performance — well, more like a strip tease — of Aphrodite emerging from the sea in a seashell. Remember that ancient picture by ... Botti...celli? ...Was it The Birth of Venus? That sort of thing, anyway. Less musical theatre than burlesque show, mind.”

  “I’m guessing that was you, then?” Fishbalm says with a smile at Gert. “Aphrodite?”

  She flicks her hair over to one side, and lights her cigarette, blowing smoke into Patrick’s face. It stings his eyes. The smell was not just smoke, it was more sulphurous.

  “Once upon a time, I was the star attraction,” Gertrude says, briefly wondering where Splinter had vanished to. “I was the talk of many a spiral galaxy — I was Venus.”

  “I can see that!” says Patrick, starting to blush under her scrutiny. “I mean, I can see how you would be considered ... um, are ...an attractive person. So, how did Splinter end up ... uh ... What happened next?”

  Gertrude stares at Fishbalm for a while, heavy-lidded. I like him, Gert thinks. He’s cute, in an odd kind of way.

  “Now, what’s with all this booze getting eaten without me!” Splinter appears to the side of Gert, with a waft of smoke, and a smell not unlike charred bacon. There are blisters on his forehead and cheeks. He leans over Gert, reaching for the bottle of brandy.

  “Ewwww! Ya dirty bastard! Ya stink!” she spits.

  Splinter’s dreadlocks had flopped into Gert’s face as he reached for the bottle and, seeing as he had just finished traversing the barroom floor on his back, he had collected a heady aroma of vomit, beer, spirits, blood and shit.

  “What’s up with you now?” Splinter asks Gert. “Stop being so animated. This is no performance, Gerty. Just have yerself a quiet drink with fish-face.”

  “Dickhead!” says Gert. “To think I left a world of adoration and praise just to follow a stinky old guy to a bar on a goddamn prison planet.”

  “Well, you rolled the dice, Gert,” says Splinter drinking straight from the brandy bottle. “You roll ‘em, and sometimes dem derr dice land on someone’s balls!”

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean? You’re always talking utter bollocks!” Gert says, violently puffing on her cigarette.

  “It’s not for me to work out what I’m saying and explain myself,” says Splinter. “These are just vibrations rattling around in your ear. It’s for you to decipher them, Dirty Gerty! I can’t do everything, can I? I can’t speak the words and listen to them, can I? It’s not my responsibility, really. You should be in charge of your own ears. Everyone should. I’m merely delivering to you a package of vibrations and it’s your job to unwrap this gift and treasure it. And sometimes that gift is dice ... dice that you’ve rolled on someone’s balls!”

  Enslin, Frobel and Fishbalm all roar with laughter. Gert does not want to laugh, but Fishbalm’s laugh is infectious, and she relents, releasing an earthy, coughing laugh.

  “Look fish face —” starts Splinter, clearly on a roll.

  “Fishbalm!” interjects the teenager.

  “— Whatever!” continues Splinter, not missing a beat. “The story is this. I explained to everyone in the domes that they were more prisoners than employees. I explained they needed to get out and fast. Maybe take some of that fungus that Jonesy grows out back and come and follow me.”

  Splinter shoots a suggestive look towards Gert. She sighs in exasperation, rolls her eyes, and hands him the cigarette she had just rolled for herself. She narrows her eyes at Splinter, who is oblivious, and starts rolling another cigarette.

  “Weren’t there other characters, though?” asks Enslin.

  “Yeah, it’s a themed planet, knobhead!” says Frobel. “All the greatest characters from Earth’s ancient history were there.”

  “Well,” says Splinter swaying and swigging from the brandy bottle, “we visited a whole series of domes. We rescued loads of other characters like Thor, Frig, Hannibal ... and even a couple of elephants. One poor bastard had been convinced, by a credit deal from the dome owners, to take an arrow or two fired into his arm or leg. Every day they would shoot him, then heal him with the White Shite and then, the next day, he took more arrows. That was the Saint Sebastian exhibit, I think.”

  “What the hell!” says Fishbalm. “Thor? That is so cool!”

  “Thor on magic mushrooms is cooler,” says Splinter, holding his bottle towards Patrick, inviting a toast.

  Fishbalm clinks his glass against Splinter’s bottle. “Where did the ‘shrooms come from?”

  “He already told you, fishy-face,” interjects Enslin from behind the bar, pulling himself another ale. “Jonesy. He grows them some place.”

  “It was the same with the crucifixion, though,” says Splinter, his face screwed up in recollection. “I asked the chap playing Jesus if he wanted liberating from this hell, but he had been doing it a long, long time. Seemed really institutionalised. He just said, ‘This is where I belong. I’m with my people, man.’ Tool! Fucker actually thought he was the second coming, or some shit. The fucking audacity! Psychotic break, maybe? Fuck him, fucking Jesus guy!”

  “How about Gert? What did she say?” asks Fishbalm.

  Gert remains quiet, she just smokes and eyes Splinter, smiling a secret smile.

  “Gertrude leapt at the chance of adventure. Isn’t that right, smiler?” grins Splinter, Gert’s cigarette clamped between his blackened teeth.

  “Dickhead,” says Gert, flicking her long hair over the other side and turning her attention to young Fishbalm. “I had planned to escape the year previous. I had a relationship break down badly. Hercules. He was just too into his work.”

  Splinter stands behind Gert and mimes a blow job. Fishbalm muffles a laugh making Gert shoot him an offended glare.

  “Splinter’s making blow job faces, Gert,” explains Frobel.

  “No, he’s not!” Enslin says, mugging hard.

  “Which one to believe?” laughs Fishbalm.

  “Was he making blow job faces, or not, Marauder?” asks Gert.

  “I was just rolling those dice, baby!” says Splinter.

  Gert flings her drink backwards and Splinter catches a face full of brandy. This stings his electrocution blisters, causing him to grimace. “Fair play,” says Splinter, dripping brandy.

  Gert composes herself, again, and gives the others a significant glance, as if to say: ‘Interrupt me one more time and you lose your balls!’

  “I felt that if Trevor — that was Hercules’s real name, by the way — had a choice,” Gert starts. She paused. She could almost feel Splinter’s smirk forming behind her. Raising her voice, she continues: “A choice between spending time with me or constantly running off to his precious fans. It was me, or a memory-plate-bearing fan, paying big credits for an evening with Hercules.” She stares into Fishbalm’s eyes — not for anything as crude as sympathy, but for an acknowledgement of her feelings.

  Behind her, Splinter is miming increasingly more elaborate blow jobs. This raises guffaws f
rom Enslin and Frobel, but Fishbalm is lost in Gert’s eyes.

  Fishbalm pours her another scotch. “He’s a fool, if he’s chosen fame over love. He’s missed the whole point of life.”

  “Oh, thank you, Marauder. Aren’t you sweet?” Gert says coquettishly, batting her long eyelashes. She drains the contents of her glass — never taking her mesmeric eyes from his — before continuing her story.

  “I knew what he was doing. I had similar credit offers early in my career. Jealousy is a lousy thing. As is gravity and time,” she sighs. A shadow seems to pass over Gert as she stares into her glass and catches a misshapen reflection of herself. For a moment she feels as if the distorted reflection shows her inner self: darkly twisted and scary.

  The silence lengthens uncomfortably as the others watch her playing with her half-empty tumbler. They all feel that Gert is inspecting some deeply seated pain, like someone investigating a tooth cavity with their tongue. They all want her to continue her story, to stop thinking about her pain. They want to jerk her from her misery, cheer her up, but her melancholic apathy covers them like a shroud, and they are frozen.

  “Hey, you!” roars Splinter. “And then Splinter showed up!” Splinter raises his shiny mechanical arm in the air and emits a colourful light display of sparkling energy, in violets and greens and reds, with bursts of orange. The lights covered them all, bursting the maudlin black bubble. They all laughed, watching the light show slowly fade.

  “Yeah, Dickhead, here, showed up!” says Gert, shaking her head at the recollection and smiling fondly at him. “With his Ophelia painting under one arm, and his cannon lighting up the place, the room changed immediately. The dome illusions turned off and all of us could finally see where we were spending our lives.”

  “Grey bubbles,” says Splinter, taking a massive pull on his bottle of brandy.

  “That’s what we saw,” Gert says. “Splinter took out all the effects. Hovering angels in magnetic fields were gone, as were vistas of green fields and clear blue skies. He took away everything that wasn’t real. He made it all go away. Passed me a gun. Asked me if I wanted to go to the pub.”