by Skye, Mav
Sir Sun whispered. “It was a giant duck.”
“A duck?” Velva, amused, was cute as a butterfly sweeping through a spring waterfall. “Like a… a quack?”
“Very quackers, he—?”
Velva laughed out loud. “You made a joke!”
“No, listen, he ran down that hallway and hit the support pole.”
“Which way? Past the old lady’s?” Velva pointed.
Sir Sun nodded. She jumped out the door and Sir Sun, still holding Mr. Fiddler’s leg, followed her.
The duck sprawled on the floor by the pole, blood leaking out of its beak.
“My gawd!” Velva rushed over and picked up its giant rubber head, rolling it back and forth between her hands. “It’s dead. Dead as a doornail.” She dropped the duck’s head. It thunked back on the carpet with an electronic quack!
“You don’t know that. He probably knocked himself clean out.”
“No, it’s dead.” She spoke with the authority of a sergeant.
“He needs a hospital, Velva,” I said.
She inspected Mr. Fiddler’s leg, then stepped closer and began to tie his boot. “No, it doesn’t.”
“The duck is a he, not an it.”
“A duck is an it, how would you know if a duck were a he or she? I heard once that you could tell by a little curled feather on their—”
Sir Sun interrupted her. “We can’t leave him here, Velva. He needs medical attention. Here, you hold Mr. Fiddler’s leg. I’m going to check his pulse.”
“Eww! No way!” She waved her arms as if trying to clear a ghastly fart, then crossed her arms in front of her polka dot dress looking like a darling pin-up model. She stepped away from Mr. Fiddler’s leg and the duck, with a disgusted face.
Sir Sun said, “You can tie a dead man’s shoelace, but you can’t hold his leg?”
“Only if it were alive. You’re alive, so you hold the leg.”
“Velva, you’re alive, too.” He pointed at her with his free hand, exasperated.
“But it’s dead!” She shrieked, pointing to the giant rubber duck in the Seahawks shirt. Blood spilled from the costume onto the hallway carpet, creating a puddle.
Sir Sun couldn’t believe they were having this conversation.
Velva sighed and shook her head. “Ducks belong in a pond.”
“What are you talking about?” Sir Sun rearranged Mr. Fiddler’s leg, tossing it over his shoulder once more like a hobo knapsack, holding onto the boot. He couldn’t figure out how to get the rubber duck head off, so he took the orange foot off and checked the kid’s pulse at his ankle.
Nada.
Velva said, “What I’m saying is: ducks like the pond dead or alive. Either way, it wins.”
Sir Sun said, “But he’s not a real duck, Velva.”
Velva sighed and rolled her eyes at him. “He’s one dead quacker fucker, that’s for sure. There’s a river out back. Let’s put him there.”
“Velva!”
“Look, do you got a better idea?” She pointed at Mr. Fiddler’s leg.
Sir Sun open then closed his mouth. “Okay, okay, let’s get him outside under a bush. Maybe he’ll make a miraculous recovery and won’t remember anything.” Sir Sun balanced Mr. Fiddler’s thigh and picked up a duck leg.
Velva shrugged and picked up the duck’s other leg. “But we’ll need to put him in the water sometime, Sir Sun. We can’t risk being identified as mur-der-ers.” She drew out the last word, her eyes twinkling.
“Velva,” he said as they both began to drag the rubber duck down the hall. They drew close to Daisy’s apartment door, closing in on the elevators, “we already are at risk.”
Velva stopped. She dropped the duck leg, and stepped toward Sir Sun wrapping her arms around his neck and Mr. Fiddler’s leg. She gave him a heady tongue-filled kiss that Sir Sun could have only dreamed of before. He almost dropped Mr. Fiddler’s thigh.
Dead ducks be damned, Velva was irresistible.
She whispered in his ear. “We could fuck on the duck if you want.” Velva giggled and bit his ear lobe.
At the word fuck, Sir Sun grew hard. But then the word duck turned him off again. “It’s a dead duc—”
She bit his earlobe again. “Shut up.”
“Ow!”
Velva moved away from him and picked up the duck leg again, ready to drag. “You said he wasn’t dead.”
“No, I said he wasn’t a duck…” As he picked up the duck leg, the trash bag fell off the rest of Mr. Fiddler’s thigh. It caught on the tied boot, waving like a flag. Worried more about the body than the leg, Sir Sun didn’t bother to fix it and they both began to drag the duck quickly down the hall. “Hurry before someone else—”
“Someone else what? I heard you!” Daisy opened her door just as they passed by. “What on earth are you doing?”
“I’m…” Sir Sun dropped the duck leg. He pointed at Velva. “She’s…”
“Is that a costume?” Daisy stepped out her door and leaned down to inspect rubber duck’s head. “There’s blood. Is he all right? What are you two kids…” When she eyed Sir Sun, she stopped, dead silent. When she eyed Velva, her eyes grew even wider. “It’s you! It’s you! Oh my!”
The dead duck began to moan, very undead duck like.
“Timothy…” Velva looked at Sir Sun expectantly and eyed Mr. Fiddler’s leg.
“What?” asked Sir Sun incredulously. Both hands wrapped around Mr. Fiddler’s leg. The pale, hairy thigh stuck straight up in the air.
Daisy pointed at the thigh, her eyes wide. “IS that a leg?” Daisy waved her arms in the air. “That’s it! I’m calling the police. This has gone too far—murdering innocent ducks!” Daisy harrumphed, squealed, and made for her door.
Velva commanded, “Timothy! Bean her with it!”
Not knowing what else to do, but trusting in Velva, Sir Sun jumped over the rubber duck. Holding the leather boot of Mr. Fiddler’s foot, he swung the fleshy thigh like a bat.
It leveled with Daisy’s face. She fell backward into her apartment, landing flat on the floor, screaming all the while. “Oh! Oh, good lord!”
Sir Sun beaned her with it again and again.
“Police!” Daisy shrieked. “Oh, lordy!”
The fleshy thigh thwapped her face over and over, smacking against her hair rollers, cheeks, neck and shoulders, all the while making a disgustingly distinct sound that a Batman comic would fail to describe.
Daisy umphed and oomphed with each horrible thwack. “Police…” she murmured.
Sir Sun realized what he was doing, what he was about to do, and couldn’t do it anymore. He wasn’t a murderer. And he certainly wasn’t going to bean an old lady to death with the Super’s leg.
Velva suddenly appeared at his side. She snatched Mr. Fiddler’s leg from his hands. “Watch and learn, baby.” Splatterpunk rearranged the leg, so that she held the fleshy part of Mr. Fiddler’s thigh, clutching close to the kneecap. She then pounded Daisy’s face in with the tied boot, right above Daisy’s ear.
Blood burst from the old woman’s eardrum, splattering Velva and her polka dot dress. Velva hit again. Once. Twice. Three strikes and Daisy was out of the ol’ ball game. Blood spurted out of every crevice of Daisy’s face as if a red paint can were being hammered in.
Velva paused, chest heaving in exhilaration. Sir Sun grabbed Velva and stilled her. He made a motion for her to wait, and he dropped down to check Daisy’s pulse.
When he touched her damp, crimson neck, Daisy didn’t whimper, nor move. Neither did she have a pulse.
Daisy would rise no more.
Velva said, “Now we got a dead Daisy to toss with the duck.”
Sir Sun stroked Daisy’s cheek tenderly. He wasn’t overly fond of the old woman, she had poisoned him, but she didn’t deserve this. Sir Sun was speechless. What had he done? What had they done together?
“Help me drag her into her apartment.”
“But—” Sir Sun pointed at the rubber duck and leg.
“Them, too.”
As they worked together to drag the bodies into the apartment, Sir Sun thought of something his Uncle Jeff had told him. It was early winter, and they’d been pruning roses in his Uncle’s garden when they’d spotted two neighbor dogs, generally friendly mutts, running half rabid down the alley after a stray cat.
He and his Uncle had sprinted after the beasts with shovels. When they had finally caught up, the dogs had badgered the cat against a construction fence, biting and nipping at the helpless feline. The cat dripped with blood and doggy drool. Using the shovels, they wedged between the dogs, batting the shovels at them, and finally managed to break up the hunt. The dogs ran home whimpering, but the cat had lain unmoving. When his Uncle picked up the cat, they discovered its neck had been snapped.
His Uncle had told him, You can have one good ol’ mutt and run a cat past him, and he’ll keep his jaws shut because he knows better. But you get two mutts together, no matter how friendly and well mannered, they’ll pack together and hunt. They’ll kill. Natural instinct takes over any learning they get from us human beings.
Sir Sun thought of that now. He and Velva apart were relatively harmless creatures, but together, just in the last few hours, look at what they had done, and the lives that had been lost.
You’re a pack now. You hunt and kill together. The bone orchid’s tiny voice poked around the corner of Sir Sun’s dark and lost mind. The tiny voice said, Relief! It said, Let go! It said—
“Shut the fuck up!” He pounded the outside of his skull.
Velva closed Daisy’s apartment door as she dragged Mr. Fiddler’s thigh inside. “Lower your voice, please.” She didn’t look offended; it was as if she knew Sir Sun’s inner battle. “Phew! I wonder if Daisy has any beer.” She wandered off from the living room to the kitchen.
Sir Sun dropped the rubber duck’s legs. “You said Daisy!”
“What?”
“You knew her. And she recognized you. If you don’t live here how do you know her? Daisy never left her apartment.”
“Darling,” Velva soothed. “I hardly think this is the time to turn against me. I’m on your side. I’m here to help you clean up this mess. Your mess.”
“My mess? Listen, Miss. I don’t know who you think you are—”
Velva swirled around and looked Sir Sun dead in the eye. “You do realize, Sir Sun, I’m protecting you. From you. You are a very dangerous person.”
Sir Sun opened his mouth to reply, but uncertainty replaced the anger. Perhaps she was right? He closed his mouth, not knowing what to say.
Velva turned back to the kitchen snatching a small box off the counter. “And believe me, you may not know who I am. But I do. So no worries there, Darling.” She held up a box of Red Rose Tea. “Tea sucks.” She tossed it behind her back, the tea bags scattering across the linoleum. She washed her hands at the sink. “I’m going to get a Coke at the pop machine. Want one?” She eyeballed three canisters on the counter labeled SUGAR, FLOUR, and TEA. She picked up the smallest one labeled TEA and drew out a handful of quarters and danced like a maniac. “Jackpot! Let’s go buy bubble gum balls at the mall!”
Sir Sun looked at her incredulously and pointed at the dead… things.
“I wasn’t serious.” Velva walked through the living room holding a handful of quarters. She stopped at Daisy. She stood over the housecoat-clad body, putting one slender foot on either side of Daisy’s waist. Velva squatted down as if to sit on Daisy’s chest. She put a quarter over each of Daisy’s opened eyes, then one on her tongue. “Rest in peace, old girl.”
Sir Sun watched this ceremony in disgust, but also another emotion hit him—awe. Velva was sincere in her display of respect.
She patted Daisy’s dead cheek and stood. “Be back in a few. I’ll get you a root beer.” Velva flashed him a gorgeous smile, opened the door and left. Then, she opened the apartment door again and peeked inside. “Mix up ammonia and water and come clean up this mess. If someone asks, you spilled paint down the hall. It’s for—you know—Halloween.” She winked and closed the door.
Sir Sun washed his hands in the sink, turning the hot water faucet on as high as it would go. As the water steamed, burning his hands, he looked behind him at the death surrounding the living room: a duck, an old lady, and Mr. Fiddler’s thigh.
Something hissed from the table by the window.
Sir Sun turned off the faucet, took a towel off the stove and walked into the living room wiping his hands.
The hissing came from the window Daisy had fed the raccoon from, the window with the horrible spider plant. You like it…
Sir Sun dropped the towel and froze. The plant waved its spidery leaves, then put them down on the sill and lifted up its pot. You like killing, don’t you?
“No, no, this isn’t real.” Sir Sun ran back to the kitchen, looked under Daisy’s kitchen sink and grabbed a gallon of ammonia.
The spider plant cried from the living room, Remember Miss O’Hara? You didn’t just like killing her. You reveled in it.
Sir Sun entered the living room and tore the lid off the ammonia. “Shut up or I’ll soak your leaves in this!” He held up the bottle, ammonia spilling over the side and onto the carpet.
The plant raised its pointed leaves like daggers and hissed, inching closer to the edge of the table.
It struck Sir Sun that in order to pour ammonia on the plant he’d have to draw close to it. Closer, anyway. He wasn’t about to do that. So he wrapped both hands around the bottle, held it over his head, and threw it. The bottle rolled through the air like a bowling pin, slow and surreal, striking home. The ceramic pot shattered, and the plant fell onto the carpet, along with all its dirt. The bottle flipped off the table landing near the green leaves. The spider plant pulled its roots from the dirt, leaped onto the plastic bottle with its spidery legs, and as a man running atop a spinning barrel, raced along the carpet towards Sir Sun. Killer! Killer!
Sir Sun screamed like a little girl. He fled past the living room table. The plant leaped from the barrel onto the duck’s body. Sir Sun nearly tripped on Mr. Fiddler’s leg near the kitchen, but caught his stance and kept moving.
Killer! hissed the plant.
He leaped to the apartment door, flung it open, and flew out.
As Sir Sun panted out in the hall, catching his breath, he saw the blood puddles on the carpet. He was going to need to clean that up, but the hell if he was going back into the apartment with that hissing thing. He’d use his own scrub brush and ammonia.
14
Risks of a Cheeseburger
Sir Sun scrubbed the carpet just outside Daisy’s door. The globby parts came up easy enough, but the gold inside the patterned blue paisley of the carpet was obviously stained. Fortunately for him, since the carpet was dark, it looked more like spilled coffee than dead duck blood.
He popped the scrub brush back into the bloody bucket of water, rinsed his gloves, then snapped them off and hung them over the side of the bucket. He stood, pressing his hands to his aching back, just as a herd of college students burst through the main door and swung down the hall. The first young man to spot him wore a horrid burnt skin mask with melted ears and blackened teeth. He pointed a finger as long as the grim reaper’s scythe at Sir Sun and shrieked, “Dudes! I know this guy. He’ll totally be cool with tonight.”
Sir Sun picked up the bucket and hid it behind his back as Freddy Krueger leaped down the hallway ahead of his pals. He wrapped an arm around Sir Sun’s shoulders, his other hand held a twenty-four pack of Rainier beer.
Sir Sun had never seen the kid before, not even in his repair shop.
Freddy Krueger said, “You’re on the third floor, right? Ah Lam totally digs you, man.”
Sir Sun frowned at Ah Lam’s name. “Yes, yes, lovely girl.” He bent slightly at the knees and dropped the water bucket behind him. It landed flat on the floor with a swoosh! He felt the bloody water splash on his pant leg. So much for clean clothes.
A short strawber
ry blonde smacked a big wad of bubblegum. She wrapped a slender arm around Freddy Krueger’s waist. “I didn’t know Ah Lam dug old guys.” She wore a short black skirt and a neon green bikini top with a red apron over the front that said I am your Strawberry Shortcake. She smiled up at Sir Sun. “I don’t blame her though. You’re cute for an old guy.”
“Don’t make me puke!” Freddy lifted his mask. “Bro, we’re all gonna be at Sid’s apartment tonight. I heard the Super is outta town or somethin’. You’re not gonna tell him are you?”
They may have been adult college students, but they still needed permission from a parental figure like a grade-schooler. This made Sir Sun go a little soft inside. They really were just kids in an adult body. Had he really been that age once? Asking himself the question made his thoughts darken. In his early twenties, he wasn’t bouncing around at parties, he sat alone in his apartment, studying botany, trying to drown out the image of Miss O’Hara’s dead eyes.
Strawberry Shortcake said, “What’s wrong with you, mister? Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.” Freddy Krueger burst out laughing.
“I smell a snitch.” Caesar stood off from the crowd. A vein throbbed in his forehead and his eyes were hostile. Caesar had the build of a football player, the cape of a Roman emperor, and a trident that would make Poseidon cry. Caesar leaned in to the dark haired Gremlin girl hanging off his trident and growled like a Rottweiler.
Sir Sun wasn’t sure, but it sounded like a threat.
Gremlin girl giggled and rolled her blue eyes. “Oh, you!” She stroked Caesar’s bare chest. “This guy here’s not going to tell anyone.” She turned her attention to Sir Sun, a playful tease lighting up her eyes. “I’ve heard Ah Lam talk about you, too. What’s your name, hon?”
It had been so long since Sir Sun had interacted with a younger crowd. They were like Ah Lam times one hundred. He felt overwhelmed, especially with a bloody bucket behind his back.
“Dick!” Strawberry Shortcake’s voice was small and squeaky and cute. She patted Sir Sun on the stomach, her fingers crawling down to his thighs, then back to his arm. “All old guys are named Dick.” The group grew silent, and she looked around from face to face and finally settled on Gremlin. Strawberry Shortcake said, “What? My grandpa’s name is Dick.”
