“Okay, okay, boss. Calm your noodle!” Krumm says, tossing the remote onto the bed. “I’ll send out the boys.”
Krumm leaves the room. Dethbryte’s eyes return to the same yellowish color they were before. She turns back to face the window. The beautiful city she had admired only moments ago suddenly looks dirty. She reaches out her stubby arms and yanks on the drawstring. The blinds snap shut.
SEVENTEEN
FRIENDS IN LOW PLACES
The clouds hang like giant pink cherries in the purple night sky. Reynold is saddled up on his ostrich, admiring the beauty of the sky from the bowels of the city; it is the only place they could run to where the questions, the lights, the cameras wouldn’t follow.
The bowels are even worse than the barrio. The streets aren’t paved, the buildings are collapsing or collapsed, and the ground is half-covered in the city’s waste due to poor plumbing and the fact that no plumber would ever consider taking a job in the area. The people here are dangerous. There are no streetlamps. If someone were to run into trouble out here, the last thing they’d want to do is see it coming. That’s much worse. Seeing and smelling a place like this makes the cherry night sky that much more beautiful.
“Hey, Rey, how long you planning on hanging around here, man? The rats here are the size of bloodhounds and they’re all giving me the ol’ salacious eye.” Pete hangs in the fish net, dangling off the ostrich, wary of the darkness.
“Just until we come up with a plan to catch up with Vandenboom,” Reynold answers.
“Vandenboom, eh?” a serpenty voice calls from somewhere in the dark. A small Japanese man, draped in dirty rags and covered with filth, steps out of the darkness and into the moonlight. “You the folks on the television tonight, yes?”
The ostrich jumps back at the sight of him. Reynold reaches his hand behind his back as if reaching for a weapon, even though he is unarmed.
“Back off, old man!” yells Reynold.
“Heh heh, do your worst.”
Reynold tenses up the muscles in his arm, as if clinching his ‘weapon’ makes the threat any more believable.
“Why are you looking for Vandenboom?” the old man asks.
“Depends on who is asking.”
“I am asking.”
“But who are you?”
“Who are you?”
Reynold rolls his eye. “He’s got my brother.”
“Kidnap? It’s not like Vandenboom to kidnap.”
“No not kidn— Wait! You know Vandenboom?” Reynold steps down off the ostrich.
“Oh yes, there are not many in Tokyo who do not. Ever since the explosion . . .”
“Explosion? What explosion?”
“The old Blitzkrieg factory. Him and his Damned Dirt Devils leveled it. Since then it has been swallowed up by earth. But that was decades ago. After Dethbryte found out about the explosion—”
“Dethbryte?” Reynold interrupts.
“She is the head of Blitzkrieg Industries. One bad mamma-jamma. If she’s pissed, then everyone in the range of one hundred miles knows it. Blitzkrieg manufactures war puppets, monsters. You see, Vandenboom blew up Blitzkrieg for personal reasons. Because they manufactured him . . . him and his Damned Dirt Devils. They made hundreds of these war puppets, but something went wrong with this batch—something that made them become self-aware. They instantly rebelled against Dethbryte and Blitzkrieg resulting in a battle that lasted for many years, ending with the destruction of the Blitzkrieg building. Dethbryte soon had her revenge, though. Just a few hours after the explosion, she captured Vandenboom and his Damned Dirt Devils, stripped their lifeforce from their bodies, and sent them off to God-knows-where trapped in little television sets.”
“Well, now it makes sense why he didn’t bother with killin’ us, eh, Petey?” Reynold says.
The old man looks around to see who Reynold is talking to, slightly confused.
“So, do you have any idea where we might be able to catch Vandenboom then?” Reynold asks the old man.
“Well, if he still has bad blood with Dethbryte, I’d say he’s headed toward THE BLITZ—the new Blitzkrieg building.”
“And where is that exactly?”
“You can’t miss it. It’s the tallest building in all of Tokyo. You can see it from anywhere.”
Reynold eyes the skyline and quickly spots it. “Well, I’m truly grateful, sir. And I don’t mean to be rude, but we’ve really got to get a move on if we’re gonna catch up to ’em.”
The old man bows and holds out his palm. Reynold is a bit confused by this. Finally, the old man clears his throat and rotates his thumb against the underside of his fingers.
“Oh, I guess you’re lookin’ for some sort of payment, eh? Well, I’m fresh out of cash at the moment . . .” Reynold says, reaching into the fishing net, “but I can pay you in meat.”
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Reynold!” Pete yells. Reynold digs until he finds a moderately-sized slab of Pete that isn’t too dried out. “Hey, fuck you, man! Your brother wouldn’t have treated me this way!”
“Whose idea do you think it was to chop you up in the first place, eh?” Reynold yells back at him. Pete gets quiet. “Divey, that’s who! I didn’t want anything to do with it, but I didn’t really have a choice, now did I?”
Pete remains quiet.
“Now, mention my brother one more facking time, Pete! I dare you!”
The old man is frightened by the sight of Reynold yelling at a fishing net full of meat. He takes the slab, bows graciously, and then runs like hell down the street, away from them.
“You know, Pete, I’m beginning to think that I’m the only one who can hear you speak.”
“Well, if you’re wondering whether I’m real or not, then know that hell yes I am!” Pete yells. “Furthermore, we can’t go running off to catch Purple just yet. We have to get armed first.”
“Right. Good thinking. But how are we supposed to do that?”
“I know some guys. I used to deliver out here years ago, just before I met up with you and Div. They’re not far from here, actually, just a few streets down. It won’t take us no time at all.”
“Well, it’s about facking time Lady Luck gave us a little peek at her goodies, ain’t it, Petey Boy?!”
“Yeah,” Pete sighs. “Something like that.”
EIGHTEEN
BEFORE THE STORM
Krebb pushes the pedal to the metal. The speedometer reads 98 as he runs down a locked chain-link fence blocking the entrance to a concrete parking structure. The others follow closely behind him, tires screeching at every turn. They soon reach the top, open to the cherry night sky, but none of them take the time to notice the beauty of it.
T-Dakk lowers the lift from his door and wheels his way to the back of the van. He lifts a panel, located just above the left brake light, and types in a code on the keypad. The side panels of the van release and lift up above the van like a DeLorean, revealing an arsenal of weapons inside.
Vandenboom removes Qoser’s arm from the quiver wrapped around his back and places it inside the van. He replaces it with a crossbow and arrows. Vega arms himself with two katanas and Krebb fingers his KREBBOOM. Gluum doesn’t even bother to hop off her bike; her weapons are her nebula fingers. T-Dakk grabs his laptop case and a bottle of water—breaking and entering always makes him a little thirsty.
“Are we ready, then?” T-Dakk asks.
The Devils nod and walk back to their vehicles. The cacophony of all five engines roaring sounds like some wild devilish storm pounding its wicked drum over the city.
“Straight in, boss?” Krebb yells over the thunder.
Vandenboom nods. “Straight in.”
Krebb smiles and gives a two-fingered salute. The Devils stomp on their gas pedals, launching them off the parking structure, into the air, and crashing into the plate glass windows of THE BLITZ.
NINETEEN
A FRIEND INDEED
Reynold bangs his fist three times on the
swollen wooden door. The wood is so damp little beads of moisture seep out and dribble down the face of the door.
“You sure any one is even ’ere, Pete? The place looks facking condemned,” Reynold asks.
“It actually looks better than I remembered.”
The slow and heavy clop of army-issued steel-toed boots echoes out through the doorway. The door opens. A brutish man with squinty eyes, a large nose, and a severe case of acne stands in the doorway before them. Reynold furrows his brow, as if he is solving some difficult mathematical equation inside his head. The man just stands there staring, not saying a word.
Reynold clears his throat. “I’m a friend . . . of Pete’s,” he says with a stiff jaw.
“So?” the man says, smacking his lips. “I don’t know no Pete.” His voice pierces through the night air like a harpoon.
“He said he used to make deliveries for you.”
The man begins to shut the door in his face, but stops. “Pete? You mean Fat Pete?”
Reynold’s eye lights up. “Yes, exactly! Fat Pete! He said that you would be able to help us.”
“Help ‘us’? You and your bird?”
Reynold shakes his head, “No, me and Pete.” He holds up the fish net containing his friend. He smiles.
“What the f—” The man grabs Reynold by his collar and yanks him into the house. “So, what is this? Some sort of shakedown or something? Some kind of fucking threat?” The man still has hold of his collar and yells at him so closely that if one of the boils on his face were to pop, Reynold would catch most of the buckshot.
Reynold tries several times to open his eye, but fear won’t allow him to look the man in the face. “I have no facking idea what you’re talking about! We just need some firepower, that’s all. We came here to ask for your help.”
The man loosens his grasp on his collar. “You say that’s Fat Pete in your bag there, eh?” Reynold nods his head. “How the fuck did he end up like that?”
Reynold furrows his brow and chews on his bottom lip, struggling to come up with an answer that doesn’t make him seem completely psychotic. “Um . . . shit happens?” he says, as if it were a question rather than an answer.
The man bursts into laughter. “Shit happens, eh?! Okay, okay . . .” Reynold laughs along, nervously. The man wipes a tear from his eye, spins, and quickly delivers a roundhouse kick to Reynold’s face. Reynold loses his balance and topples backwards into a recliner, which then flips over onto the floor.
“What the hell, man!” Reynold yells. “What the fack are you doing?”
“I’ll tell you what I’m doing . . .” the man says, popping the top off an orange plastic medicine container. “I’m just getting started. That’s what I’m doing.” He puts the bottle up to his lips and throws his head back. He chews a mouthful of tiny pink pills and tosses the container aside. The powder turns to paste in his mouth, sticking to the enamel of his teeth, before he finally swallows it down. Reynold scrambles to his feet, but is soon pinned against the floor by the boil-faced man.
The man fastens Reynold to the recliner with a roll of duct tape, stands, and then begins to stagger around. The meds are rapidly taking hold.
“Y-you f-fucking . . . j-just w-wait h-here,” the man barely manages to say before leaving the room in a drunken stupor.
“Pete! Hey, Pete—what the fack is going on, man?” Reynold yells. “I thought this bloke was a friend of yours?”
“Friend? Now what ever gave you that impression?” Pete says from across the room. “Brenner? Naw, man—he’s definitely no friend. I said I used to make deliveries for him. Which I did—well, once, anyway. The bastich nearly stabbed out my eye with a goddamn ink pen!”
Reynold’s eye opens as wide as a ping pong ball. “Then why the fack did we even come here in the first place?! Are you insane?!”
Pete sighs. “Fuck man, are you really that daft? I fucking set you up! I mean, think about it. Why in the hell would I help you find your fucking brother?! The two of you murdered and hacked up my ass just to keep your shitty business going! I wish I was able to have had this done sooner, but do you know how hard it is for someone in my condition to set someone up? REALLY FUCKING HARD!” Pete laughs. “Shits like you and Divey always get what’s coming to you. It’s just the way of the world.”
Reynold tries his best to position his head in a way where he can see Pete. “This ain’t the end, Pete!” he yells. “Whenever I get out of ’ere, and I will get out of ’ere, I’m going to facking slow roast your ass out under the hot desert sun! Fack brackfas burritos! Divey and I will be selling facking brackfas jerky!”
“Breakfast jerky? There is no such thing as breakfast jerky!”
“And that’s precisely why it’s such a brilliant facking idea! We’ll make millions of yen . . . a day!”
“You’ll make nothing.”
“Millions.”
“No, you’ll make nothing, Rey, and I’ll tell you why—any goddamn minute now Brenner is gonna come in through that doorway and cut so many assholes in you that you’re not gonna know which way to sit!”
“Shit, Pete, the guy barely made it out of the room. I don’t see him coming back any time soon. As soon as I figure a way out of this chair, I’ll be on my merry facking way.”
There is a shuffling in the hallway. “Don’t be so cool, boy, here he comes now!” Pete says, laughing.
Brenner throws his body against the door frame, barely able to support his own body weight. He is dragging behind him three weapons—a SEGA Light Phaser, a Nintendo Game Handler, and a voice-activated Nintendo LaserScope. The cords are twisted and knotted together in his fist.
He vomits violently. Once he is finished, he spits and mutters, “You ready, dead boy?” He spits again and fumbles through the cords, finding a plug-in for one of the weapons and plugging it into the port in his neck. He slowly reaches down, trying not to lose his balance, to pick up the LaserScope. He fits the LaserScope on his head, over his ears. It wears like a pair of futuristic headphones. Once he balances himself, his hands stretching out on either side, he moves the microphone to his mouth and yells, “Fire!”
Nothing happens.
“Fire, goddamnit!” Brenner yells. Wrong cord. He unplugs the controller from his neck port and tries another. Once it is in place, he yells again, “Fire!”
Still nothing.
“Shit!” Brenner leans over and squeezes the Game Handler in his fist. The room violently tilts to the right—the furniture, Brenner, Reynold, and Pete all tumble with it.
The Game Handler is more commonly used for flying aircrafts more stealthily. The simple motion of bending the wrist makes it much easier for the pilot to maneuver the plane through rough air conditions, but it can also be used to slant the terrain.
As Brenner struggles to his feet, he accidentally flicks his wrist and again the room tilts—this time to the left. Reynold and the recliner he is taped to slam hard against the brick wall, causing the back of the chair to break off. Reynold is now loose enough to wriggle through the tape.
Before any further damage is done, Brenner rips the cord out from his neck and the room becomes level again. He falls to the floor, maddeningly fingering through the knots, looking for the right cable. Once he finds it, he slaps it into his neck port and yells, “Fire!”
The scope, located over his right eye, fires, but doesn’t hit Reynold. It doesn’t even come close. He pulls himself to his feet yelling, “Fire! Fire! Fire!”
The LaserScope fires each time, blowing holes in the wooden floor and the walls. Debris rains down over the room.
Reynold finally wriggles free from the chair and runs like hell for the front door. Brenner’s shots are getting closer. Reynold grabs the poker from the fireplace and flings it at Brenner’s head.
It connects.
The LaserScope is pushed back a few inches from the poker throw, now aiming at the ceiling directly above Brenner. Brenner’s nose begins to gush blood.
“Fire!” he commands.
The LaserScope obeys. The ceiling caves in from the blast, crushing Brenner to death. Reynold collapses onto the floor, trying to catch his breath.
“Okay, so . . . now we’re even,” Pete says, breaking the silence. Reynold’s eye opens wide and he hops to his feet.
“Now we’re even? Now we’re even?!”
“I can see that you’re upset . . .”
Reynold grabs the fish net between his fingers and slams it up against the wall. “SHUT . . . THE . . . FACK . . . UP!” he yells, beating Pete’s meat with every word.
Pete is finally quiet. Reynold drops to his knees and takes a few deep breaths before finally pulling himself to his feet. He walks over to Brenner’s buried body and grabs the Light Phaser lying on the floor. He untangles the cord, wraps it around his arm, and plugs it into his neck port. He grabs Pete on the way out the door.
Outside the door he is greeted by three men in bright red and black uniforms. Their skin is inside out, with blood seeping out through a circuit of blue vessels. Their uniforms stick to their bodies as if they forgot to dry off after they showered. There is a black car in the street with a flashing red light on top. The doors read ‘Blitzkrieg Bowsers’.
All three men speak in unison, “Is this your ostrich, sir?”
The Brothers Crunk Page 5
