So much for being brave.
After what felt like a very long time, I pried myself from behind the breakfast bar and slowly edged my way back towards the bathroom.
I peeked around the frame.
And there it was. The thing from the space-rock. Sitting on my toilet, and taking what for all intents and purposes looked to be its normal, mid-afternoon dump.
What did it look like exactly, you ask? Well, that’s hard to say. I guess a little like a monkey, only nothing like a monkey at the same time. Kind of like what a monkey might look like if drawn by a blind, mentally handicapped boy—one who had drawn it badly on purpose.
It was small, about the size of a chimpanzee, with stumpy little arms and legs, and eyes all big and black like a puppy’s. Thick, brown fur covered its body in its entirety, speckled here and there with white.
Okay—it was fucking adorable.
The thing-that-was-not-a-monkey and I regarded each other in silence a moment.
I said, ‘Uh... hi?’
And that’s when shit got, for lack of a better word, “crazy”.
Faster than you could say “surprise twist”, the thing-that-was-not-a-monkey flung itself at me, its little monkey fingers attaching themselves to my head with manic dwarf-strength.
I screamed and thrashed around, swatting at my face with the spatula and knocking shit over.
For exactly how long this went on, I can’t say. Longer than I’d have liked to admit, put it that way. I’ll spare you the exact details. Just know that by the time I finally managed to pry it loose, I was covered in sweat, and not a single standing toiletry remained.
Thinking fast, I grabbed the thing-that-was-not-a-monkey and flung it at the shower curtain to my right. It sailed through and hit the tiled wall behind it with a clown-like honk! before falling into my tub, out of sight.
An eerie stillness followed.
When I could summon the courage to move again (and against every part of my body urging me otherwise), I slowly forced myself over to the bathtub and, with a quick breath to steady myself, yanked back the curtain.
Gone.
I blinked, surprised.
It had been there three seconds ago, I was sure of it. Was it possible I’d simply imagined the whole thing? Where the hell did the little bastard—
THUMP-THUMP-THUMP.
I spun around, startled.
The front door.
Ah, man, not now. Are you fucking kidding me?!
I wondered if I remained very still and quiet, whoever was knocking would think I wasn’t home and go away.
THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP.
‘Mr Pratt, this is the police. Open up. I know you’re home. I can hear you breathing,’ said a woman’s voice from behind the door.
Crap.
‘And besides, your car is here.’
Not knowing what else to do, I pulled the door shut tight, and, taking a moment to correct myself as best I could, quickly crossed the hall and pulled open the door.
It was the detective from the lake the other day, the one who’d questioned us—Espinosa, I thought her name was.
She was attractive, in a terrifying sort of way. Dark-skinned. Tall. Slim, with jet-black hair tied tightly behind her head in a neat ponytail. Grey pantsuit, with well-polished shoes. She was the very image of professionalism. The personification of all things neat and orderly.
She took one look at the disheveled state of me and frowned.
‘Am I interrupting something?’
There was a moment where I couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Like my mind had just drawn a total blank.
‘Uh... what?’
She looked over my shoulder. ‘May I come in?’
I began to tell her no, but she waltzed past me and let herself in anyway. She looked around, saw all the empty beer cans and stacks of pizza boxes. ‘Nice place you got here.’
I suspected she was being sarcastic.
‘Yeah, it’s uh... all right.’ I cast a glance around the apartment, trying to catch a glimpse of where the little monkey-bastard had got to. I couldn’t see him, though.
‘So, you’re probably wondering why I’m—’ She frowned. ‘What the hell is that?’
There was a moment where my heart completely stopped beating. I began to fear the worst.
But then, after following her gaze into the living room—more specifically, to the coffee table—I suddenly realised what it was she was looking at.
The rock-thing! You forgot to hide the rock-thing, dumbass!
‘Oh—that?’ I said, trying to sound as casual as possible—which is harder than you’d think when there’s an infant alien-monkey running amuck in your home somewhere. ‘That’s just, uh…’
She stepped over to the coffee table and looked it over. ‘You make this?’
‘Yes. Yes, I did.’
‘What are you—some sort of artist, or something?’ She ran a finger over the hole in the rock-thing’s side—which, now that I looked at it, reminded me an awful lot of an exit-wound. ‘What’s it supposed to be, anyway?’
‘It’s an abstract piece. I like to leave my work open to interpretation.’
She shrugged, like she didn’t really care anyway. She wiped her finger on the arm of my couch and turned back to me.
There was something different about her face, now. Before, there had been an air of indifference about her. The air of a woman just doing her job. No longer. Now she was all business, her face carefully neutral, expressionless.
I suddenly felt very afraid.
‘I’m going to be honest with you, Mr Pratt,’ she said, in a tone that made me instantly believe her.
‘Okay.’
‘I looked into you. Your past. Seems wherever you go, people always seem to either wind up missing, or dead. That’s odd, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Uh-huh.’ I snuck another glance around the living room. I still couldn’t see the monkey-thing. It didn’t make sense; the apartment really wasn’t all that big. Where the hell could it have got to?
If I was a baby alien-monkey from outer space, where would I hide?
‘And yet, every time there’s an incident—you walk,’ Espinosa continued. ‘Every time. You’re like an enigma. A puzzle. I really don’t like puzzles.’
‘Puzzles are very hard,’ I agreed.
The bedroom? The broom closest? Do we even have a broom closet?
Before I knew what she was doing, she crossed the living room and placed herself in front of me. I noticed suddenly how close we were. I wondered if we were about to make out. Was it illegal to refuse a kiss from an officer of the law? Wasn’t that an abuse of power, or something?
She thrust a finger in front of my nose. ‘I’m on to you, Mr Pratt. The others might not see what you are, but I do.’
‘Yeah.’
‘I’m going to be watching you. Wherever you go, whatever you do, I’ll be there. Watching. Waiting. Right up until the day you finally slip up and I arrest your ass—capiche?’
I came back to myself. ‘I’m sorry—what were you saying?’
She strode past me and crossed the hall in the direction of the front door.
In the doorway, she turned back.
‘Be seeing you, Mr Pratt.’
And with that, she spun on her heels and left.
I stood there a moment, not moving. I was very confused. I had the peculiar feeling I had just made things worse for myself, but wasn’t entirely sure how that could be.
A moment later, I was running.
‘Okay, you little bastard,’ I said, various items of cutlery poking out from inside each closed first. ‘Prepare to—!’
I stepped into the bathroom and froze.
The bathroom window was open.
I let my hands fall to my sides.
Houston. We have a serious fucking problem.
***
‘A monkey,’ said Frankie.
It was later that morning. I was sitting on the couch, a blanket
wrapped tightly around my shoulders, a cup of lukewarm coffee resting in my lap. I was a nervous wreck. I felt traumatised. I realised this must have been how those Chilean miners felt that time when the mine they were working in collapsed down on top of them, only worse, because at least those guys got a movie deal out of it. It was like I was suffocating to death. Even if Hollywood was going to make a movie about me, it couldn’t be worth this.
Because it was bullshit. First the Jellies. Then that “other” thing, of which we don’t speak. Then the albino dudes—now this? It was like some kind of sick cosmic-joke, with me as the punch-line. I mean most people go their entire lives without bumping into even the one type of extra-terrestrial fuck-bag. Four in the space of a year?
It was all so unfair.
‘Like an actual monkey? Like with a tail, and shit?’ Frankie went on. He shook his head and sighed. ‘This is bad, Dan. This is really bad.’
I dragged my gaze over towards the window. It had ceased snowing by this point—though, if the news was anything to go by (and it almost never is), the respite would not last for long. Supposedly, there was some real bad weather on the way. A “white-out”, I think was the term used.
‘We need to get out there and find this thing,’ said Frankie.
I almost spat coffee in his face. ‘Excuse you?’
‘Come on, Dan! There’s a newly born space-monkey out there—one that likes to attack men’s faces, if I recall. We can’t just leave it to do... whatever it is newborn space-monkeys do. I mean, shit, who knows what kinds of nefarious things it might be getting up to right at this very moment?’
‘I don’t care. I’m done, Frankie. Count me out.’
‘But we stole it, Dan. We stole it, and we took it home. Like it or not, this thing is our responsibility.’
‘Okay, first of all, you stole it. And secondly—’
Before I could finish, there was another knock at the door.
Frankie and I shared a glance.
I frowned.
Seriously? Again? Isn’t this sort of thing classed as police harassment?
Feeling very much like a man skipping along the tightrope that was his own sanity, I pushed myself up and dragged my feet across the apartment towards the door.
Okay, Detective. You want to play hardball? Fine. Let’s—
Now, to describe exactly what happened next, it’s probably best I take you through it frame by frame. So here goes.
I opened the door.
Immediately, I became aware of two things. First, that it was not the detective knocking at my door, as I had just automatically assumed. Instead I was greeted by what I can safely say—without a hint of exaggeration, mind you—was the biggest man I had ever seen. Eight feet tall, maybe more. Long, black coat, stretching down to his knees. Another of those stupid, retro businessman-hats on his head.
No eyebrows.
The second thing I noticed was just how slow the human body is in reacting to threats. Because—seriously—I didn’t move. Sure, it might have been shock. Or maybe something worse, like some new type of full-body, incurable paralysis, like the type Christopher Reeve was always going on about—I don’t know; I’m not a doctor.
All I know is, the giant albino and I stared at each other in silence for a very long time.
Then he was pushing me back into the apartment, his giant body pausing momentarily to duck below the frame before stepping through and following me inside.
I made a sound like a cat giving birth and fell backwards into the hallway.
There was the rustle of shoes on carpet from behind me as Frankie quickly pounced into action.
Not hesitating for a moment, he barrel-rolled over the couch’s back—whether as a diversionary tactic, or some kind of new, strange, tactical manoeuvre, I’m not sure—before landing with a heavy thud on the couch’s other side. Then, before I could register what it was he was doing, he popped his head up from behind the couch, and, shouting a barrage of curse words, threw his boot at Albino Man.
There was a muted thump as the boot ricocheted off of Albino Man’s chest.
It hit the floor with a thud.
We all stared at it.
Frankie nodded. ‘Oh, don’t worry—there’s plenty more where that came from!’
He reached for the other boot.
‘Uh, Frankie,’ I said. ‘I don’t think that’s—’
He barrel-rolled over the couch again.
‘Would you please stop doing that!’
But he wasn’t listening. He was fully committed, now.
As I watched helpless from the floor, he launched himself over furniture item after furniture item, his body pirouetting through the air like a salmon fighting its way upstream. Again, I’m not sure what he was hoping to achieve by all this. But it was very graceful.
He made to hurdle the TV, slipped, caught his head on the side of the coffee table, and went immediately still on the carpet.
The sound of snoring filled the living room.
I sighed.
I was on my own.
Using the opportunity Frankie’s theatrics had provided, I jumped to my feet and immediately sprinted for my bedroom. In hindsight, it was probably the least tactful place I could have chosen. But there was a blanket there, and if I could just get under it—maybe be very quiet, too—perhaps the guy would just go away.
I got about four paces.
Before I could realise what was happening, Albino Man grabbed me by the back of the head and launched me screaming across the apartment. I collided with the breakfast bar, momentum tumbling me over it, and then I was lying on my back in the kitchen, the wind knocked out of me and gasping for breath as I contemplated the secret, hidden world that was the dustball-riddled space beneath my refrigerator.
Hey, look—my G.I Joe! So that’s where that went...
I hitched in a breath as hands found my collar, first pulling me to my feet, then off them. I became airborne. It’s a strange sensation, being weightless.
‘WHERE IS THE NAOGGRATH?!’ screamed Albino Man in his odd, quavering voice, even though I could already hear him perfectly fine.
‘The... what?’
‘DO NOT PLAY GAMES. I KNOW YOU HAVE IT. TELL ME.’
I frowned. Things were becoming more mysterious. I had no idea what a “Naoggrath” was. And even if I did, I certainly wouldn’t have told this asshole.
I began to tell him this, when—
Fingers clenched around my throat. It suddenly became very hard to breathe.
‘TELL ME!’
I tried to say something—anything, but I couldn’t. All I could manage when I tried was a kind of strangled cry.
‘Aggg!’
A darkness was creeping in around my vision now. It occurred to me I was probably about to pass out. Oddly, the realisation was not nearly as alarming as you’d have thought it would be. I felt my consciousness slipping, my limbs relaxing, as my body quickly gave way to unconsciousness—and, presumably, death.
But then, just as I was sure this was it, that it was all over—
There was a loud noise and a cry and all of a sudden I wasn’t passing out anymore.
I hit the kitchen’s tiled floor, rolled over—
Dustballs!
—before ending up on my back, gasping and choking, clawing at my throat and neck with my hands like a fat kid clawing at the world’s very last Twinky.
I glanced up—
I gasped.
Albino Man had shrunk—only that wasn’t quite right. What I mean is that there was less of him.
It was then I became aware of the thing lying on the kitchen’s tiled flooring beside me, still wrapped in the coat sleeve it had first entered the apartment wearing.
I blinked.
Oh, look at that. His arm came off. How about that.
‘WHO’S THE BITCH NOW?!’ cried a familiar voice from somewhere above me.
I looked up again, spotting Frankie now standing at the entrance to the kitchen, looking what
could only be described as irrationally angry. In his hands was a large steel-something, long as a javelin, only thicker, with something like a—
I groaned.
It was a battle-axe.
He pointed it at Albino Man, who I noted was now busy inspecting the stump of what had until very recently been his right arm.
‘OH, I’M SORRY—DID THAT HURT? HERE—LET ME GIVE YOU A HAND!’ He tried to heft the battle-axe again, managed it, but then completely missed his target, smashing the steely instrument of death right into my kitchen cabinet instead.
‘Frankie, don’t—’
But he wasn’t listening.
‘YEAH—YOU LIKE THIS BATTLE-AXE, DON’T YOU?’ he shouted. ‘I KEEP IT UNDER MY BED. YOU KNOW—SO IT’S ALWAYS CLOSE TO HAND!’
The toaster exploded.
‘Frankie!’
I turned my attention to Albino Man. I saw his expression still hadn’t changed—something I thought was especially weird, given he was now missing a part of himself. And shit, if there was ever a time to show emotion, spontaneously losing your arm by battle-axe was definitely that time.
Frankie continued to wrestle the battle-axe.
When he was finished, he lowered it to the floor, panting. ‘Okay. Time out. In all seriousness, I think I might actually have concussion.’
He helped me to my feet.
We regarded Albino Man.
‘What the hell do we do now?’ I said. My voice came out croaky. It was hard to talk—probably because of all the strangling. That dick.
‘Just you leave that to me,’ said Frankie, patting the battle-axe.
I should have said no, of course. No way me leaving Frankie alone with this guy was going to turn out well—not for any of us. But then, I really was very tired. And I had almost just died.
So I left it up to Frankie.
And of course, it was a mistake.
***
Fifteen minutes later and we were sitting in my living room again, Frankie and I on one side, the one-armed giant albino man on the other.
Lacking any rope, we’d been forced to improvise when it came to the task of securing our new, one-armed friend. We tried sellotape—nope. Handcuffs—which actually started off promising, until we remembered the guy only had one hand, and so that was a no-go. Eventually it was decided that wrapping Albino Dude in a bedsheet was the best way with which to restrain the guy. You can probably imagine how that looked, so I won’t go into it. Worked surprisingly well, though.
Dan and Frankie and the End of Everything Page 7
