by Skye, Mav
Perhaps she’d scared Sir Sun when she waved it in the air, calling him back to the river’s edge? Perhaps he’d thought she intended to use it on him?
She smiled and shook her head. Nah, he knew better than that. Only pawns where the dispensable ones. The soldiers. And the soldiers knew it, didn’t they?
She frowned, thinking of the wrought complexity of Daniel’s face as she smashed the axe into his skull. But then again, he had to know. For they all were doomed to death’s folly eventually. Only some, such as she and Sir Sun, were given the task to execute it.
Sir Sun didn’t know it, but he sensed it. It had always been in him. She had known this the second she had lay eyes on him. And she had been further convinced when he stomped on the chest of the pigeon who was skulking in the ink. Had he realized that she had been the one to break its wing and pour the ink over it? Had he any idea the lengths at which she’d gone for him? And who could forget what Sir Sun had done (or not done) for Dancing Man? She wondered if he remembered what Dancing Man had said right before he jumped off that tree limb. I win. Dancing Man had followed her exact orders down to the blue suede shoes, bless him. He had been one of Velva’s loyal followers, one of the Engaged.
Sir Sun could dish out death—it was in his blood. He simply could not see it yet. He couldn’t appreciate what her entire community had done for him, given up for him.
She sighed, “Oh, Timothy.”
But, first things first. She’d tend to her wounds, and then she’d find something truly smashing to wear—something he couldn’t miss from a mile away.
And they’d finish the next move in the game, together.
23
Glitter in her Hands
Mist rose from the water, forming great, cottony serpents. The serpents nipped the air and swallowed it, claiming more and more of the night. They devoured the canoe, not in the typical swirl and build pattern, but in one giant bite.
Once more, the moon was blocked. And in the belly of the mist serpent, thoughts scattered and then lumped together like wet hay. He couldn’t get the vision out of his mind: Velva slammed the axe into Daniel’s skull over and over as if it were a carnival game of Whack-A-Duck.
What was the world coming to? Rather, what was his world coming to? He was tired and filled with the sense that he was in a dream.
He would wake up, and he’d have fallen asleep on the couch while waiting for Velva to buzz the door for dinner.
He could have pinched himself a thousand times to wake up, but he knew that it wasn’t a dream. That this very moment was his reality. He knew it was reality, because only in reality did he feel the enormous weight of responsibility. He felt like Atlas with the world on his shoulders. Instead of being a god, he was just a man, and instead of the weight of the world, it was the men and women who had died in the last forty-eight hours—and those who might still.
Velva’s voice kept ringing in his ears. The simple phrase she’d repeated in the few days they’ve known each other—Game on.
Life was a game to her. Love was a game within the game. It was as if she had made a bet with her mother, even with her mother in the grave.
About what?
He wasn’t sure. But he knew it involved him. And one thing he was sure of, she wouldn’t stop until she won.
He wouldn’t have particularly minded this if it were a woman mud-wrestling match. He’d have no issues lying in the middle as beautiful women swarmed about. But in Velva’s game, people died.
I own the complex.
He chilled when he realized what this meant for who was left in the apartment building. He thought of all the college kids at the Halloween party. Kelisha and her daughters, and whoever else was still there.
Another noise broke the midnight air, road traffic. The old FM highway leading back to Spindler was nearby.
The canoe nudged a rock, spinning the bow of the boat inland. It was as if fate were dealing him a sign of what he should do, needed to do. He used the paddles to bring the boat to shore and leaped out.
He trailed around the trees and brush, following the noise of cars. As he did, the mist scattered away, the serpents fleeing the Pandora’s box of his mind, opening the dark up to stars once more.
He considered Velva. His Velva. She was violent.
You have a will for violence, we are the same you and me.
And according to her, so was he. Was he?
It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except getting back to the apartment complex, and getting everyone out alive.
He drew his shears from his pocket and held them up. They gleamed sharp and spotless. No one would ever suspect where they’ve been, what they’d been used for. He thought briefly of tossing them aside, but as he approached the road, headlights beaconed the pavement. The heavy roar of a semi broke into Sir Sun’s thoughts. He slid the shears back in his pocket and stuck out his thumb.
The trucker slowed, pulling off to the side and popping open the passenger door. His eyes were large and expressive, face wide and jolly endowed with a long, wiry beard. “Hop on in, buddy.”
Before getting in, Sir Sun gazed up at the stars. What do I do? Shining in their gleaming glitter across the sky, the stars remained a silent and mysterious mistress. Sir Sun hopped in and slammed the door shut.
The trucker observed Sir Sun and stroked his beard in thought, then broke the silence with a belch. He pounded his chest. His voice was a friendly, deep gravel—“’xuse me.”
“No problem.”
The trucker nodded, reached down into the cooler between the driver and passenger seats and pulled out two ice-cold Rainier Beers. “Trick or treat? Ha. Ha!”
Sir Sun accepted the beer with a thanks. He pulled the tab, and foam spilled over his hands onto his shirt and trousers. “Damn!” He wiped his hand at it.
The trucker pointed at Sir Sun’s shirt, actually Shelly’s shirt, Girls Just Wanna Have Funyuns! and slapped his knee, giggling like a maniac. His beer sloshed over the top, too. “Oh, fuck!” He grabbed a handful of napkins off the dash but burst out laughing again, pointing at Sir Sun’s shirt.
Sir Sun shrugged and smiled.
The trucker raised his beer and said, “To Halloween!”
“Halloween!” said Sir Sun. And they clinked their cans together like old chums, beer splashing onto both of them.
They both gulped and sat for a second like they’d been lifelong pals, both taking a break to breathe from life. To some, two men who didn’t know each other having a beer on Halloween’s eve in a semi on the side of the highway may seem strange. For Sir Sun, this was the first normal minute he’d had since all the razzmatazz with Velva had begun. And suddenly he felt sad, it might be the very last one, too.
If what Velva said was true—about all the evidence stacked up to prove him the murderer (and if he knew Velva—it was), then what was the alternative?
But, it didn’t really matter. What mattered was getting the remaining people out of the complex. Who knew? Maybe he and Velva could settle down and have a couple of kids. They’d have spaghetti Tuesdays and go to football games, and picnic at the park.
“HAHAHA!” said the trucker, breaking the silence.
Sir Sun glanced at him.
The bearded trucker leaned over and showed Sir Sun his iPhone. A little girl was dressed as a pink witch, she clutched a worn teddy bear and a plastic princess trick or treat pumpkin. “She’s my Lil’ Darlin. Six years old. Hope she gets the mother load of candy tonight.”
“She’s lovely,” said Sir Sun.
“Cute as a button. I miss her when I’m gone. You got any?” He put his phone on the dash and took another swig.
Sir Sun shook his head. “Nah.” He thought of what a little Velva would look like. If she’d take after him (of the earth), he imagined she’d want to dress up like a sunflower or pumpkin. If she took after Velva, of the sky and stars (tenth planet as dictated by the order of Eris) he frowned. He pictured a shining star with a blood-stained axe.
&nbs
p; Sir Sun looked up, and the trucker was staring at him, inquiry on his brow. Sir Sun stumbled over words. “Uh, didn’t catch that?”
The trucker raised an eyebrow at him. “Where to?”
“Oh, just to town. You know. Spindler.”
“Yeah, passin’ through anyway.” The bearded trucker crinkled his can and tossed it behind the seat. He turned the key and revved up the motor while glancing over at Sir Sun. “You ready?”
Startled, Sir Sun said, “What?”
“You ready for—” His eyes twinkled, his lips tipped in a smile. “You know.”
It was Sir Sun’s turn to raise an eyebrow.
The trucker grew solemn. “For what the night holds.”
Sir Sun said, “Well,” he thought of Velva. “I’m not sure she holds anything for me.” And that was the truth.
There was a sad silence between them now.
The trucker stared out his windshield, tugging at his beard. Finally, he put his hand under his beard and over his heart, and above the roar of the engine, he cleared his throat and sang. Surprisingly, his gravelly growl of a voice sounded good.
She holds glitter in her hands
Sprinkles ‘em across the sky
She knows how to make me feel
Only she gives me wings to fly…
What do the stars hold for you, boy?
What does she hold for you?
He paused here, both men drowned in their thoughts about love and women. Then the bearded trucker started up again.
She’d never kick my horse
She’d never beat my dog
Sir Sun thought of Velva pounding the old woman with a hairy thigh, whacking Daniel with the axe…
She’d never chip the paint
on my brand new
His voice rose high at this point, a sweet falsetto.
Softail Fat Boy Hooooooggg!
Oh, what do the stars hold for you, boy?
What does she hold for you?
Sir Sun glanced at him, and nodded, starting to feel a bit like a bobblehead. He had a Charlie Brown bobble head down at the shop. Bobbling was just a thing in life you had to do, sort of like beating old ladies with hairy white legs. Except, not really.
The trucker nodded back. “You ride?”
“Me? Uh, no.”
“Hmm...” The bearded trucker frowned. “Well, ya oughta. That song, by the way, is Rhinehart. Played on that Outlaw Country station before it shut down.”
“Never heard it.”
The trucker sighed and mumbled, “Too bad. Just too bad.”
He hummed the song’s tune as he pulled the rig on the road. They traveled into the dark tunnel of All Hallow’s Eve at fifty-five miles per hour—toward Velva, toward his home of twenty years, the spider web of death.
“What do the stars hold for you, boy? What does she hold for you?” And as the trucker sang on in his deep, gravelly voice, Sir Sun’s shoulders relaxed against the seat, his head sunk into the headrest. Eyes closed, he dreamed of Velva as a little girl.
She wore a sparkly purple dress. A golden crown with jewels sat on top of her dark braids. Glitter dripped from her fingers as she leaped from star to gleaming star. She kept glancing behind her as if something was chasing her—a haunted shadow growing in her dear, little eyes.
As she leaped, glitter turned to blood, and she began to weep. She leaped faster and faster, crying out, but Sir Sun couldn’t make out what.
He faded out, as if being drug away, and she stopped and turned, reaching out to him. “Help me, Sir Sun. Don’t let it eat me!”
As he faded further, black claws reached for Velva. She shook and trembled. “Sir Sun! Don’t let it eat me!” The claws wrapped around her little figure, squeezing until her tears poured blood. Crimson gushed over her tiny lips, dripped out her little ears. The crown of jewels tumbled from her head. Bone white teeth opened against the night, swallowing the stars, and little Velva.
And suddenly, Sir Sun was ripped away through time and space—nothing left but a violent force between them.
“Bud. Yo, bud.” Sir Sun awoke with a heavy hand on his shoulder, shaking him.
Sir Sun opened his eyes to the trucker’s jolly face. He smiled. “Gotcha into town.”
“Oh, yeah, thanks.” Out Sir Sun's window, Spindler’s Roost sat tall and gloomy on Main Street. How did the trucker know to drop him at this exact spot?
“Want one to go?” He grabbed a cold beer from the cooler between the seats.
Sir Sun took it. “Yes, I believe I will. Thank you.”
The trucker stuck out a big hand. “Anytime, Bud.”
Sir Sun grabbed his hand, and they shook. In another life, in another place, he imagined they’d be friends. Good friends. He looked in the trucker’s eyes and saw a good man with a normal life. A normal yearning to be right with the world, to be with the woman he loved, and raise their children together. Their kids would grow up to be doctors, scientists or teachers, pioneering into the future for the good of mankind.
Sir Sun wished for that in his soul. And if he could go back in time, and change things, it wouldn’t just be in his soul. Perhaps it would have been his life.
Somehow, he knew this was it—his last chance to have a decent moment with a decent person. He relished it, down to the very last beer drop.
With a sigh and grunt from both men, he opened the door and slid down to the sidewalk. He waved as the rig rolled down Main Street, leaving Sir Sun standing in front of Spindler’s Roost, his ultimate tomb. From within the tomb, a deep bass throb boomed the Ramones’ Poison Heart.
Sir Sun faced the apartments, holding his unopened Rainier beer. Wind nipped his hair.
A souped up shiny Ford slammed on its brakes behind him and pulled onto the sidewalk.
Sir Sun turned.
A sign on top blinked purple with orange letters stating: Blimpee’s Pizza— Bring on the Blimpee Pimpee.
The dark shaded window rolled down (fuzzy dice hung from the rearview mirror) and the driver’s face covered with black shades the size of softballs peeked out. He flipped the shades up. “Fifteen boxes of Blimpee Pimpee special? That’ll be one hundred and fifty dollars, plus tax.” He flipped the shades down.
Sir Sun said, “I didn’t order—”
He was interrupted by the burst of the entrance door swinging open, and the thunder of feet hitting pavement. A horde of monsters rushed out of Spindler’s Roost like spiders breaking free of their nest.
“Pizza Dude!” yelled one with blue spiked hair.
“Pizza! Pizza! Pizza!” yelled a clan of drunken vampiresses in sparkly dresses, fake fangs half hanging out their red drawn mouths, their arms about each other’s shoulders.
One in the middle tripped, and they all took the fall.
Monsters swarmed Sir Sun, grabbing pizza boxes.
Sir Sun moved through the flock, toward the building, as if he were swimming slow motion underwater. When he reached the fallen (but now standing and adjusting their torn panty hose) clan of vampiresses, one shrieked something at Sir Sun and, as if responding to her cry, the girls hooked arms and enfolded Sir Sun into their vampire flock.
One that had especially black and especially long hair with purple mascara and a nametag that said, Ms. Twilight, pet his head. “Oh, Edward…” She dragged a long black nail down the chest of his red t-shirt—Girls Just Wanna Have Funyuns! She giggled. “You’re so weird.” She licked his ear, as the other Vampiresses argued over dinner. “Pizza. Oh my God, I hope they got cheese. I hate pepperoni. Do you know what they put in that? So gross. Plus, pepperoni makes you fat. I’m a size zero now, but last year I was a four. I swear it was from pepperoni pizza.”
This was it, Sir Sun knew, this was the beginning of the end.
As Ms. Twilight flicked her tongue in and out of his ear, and the girls compared waist sizes, Sir Sun flipped the top of his beer and took a long hard gulp.
“Share!” said the purple vampiress to his right. She grabbed the can out of his han
ds and sipped. Another hand reached out and grabbed and sipped, too. Finally, the can was back in his hands, a tinkle left.
Ms. Twilight grabbed his ass and ground her hips into his thigh, her teeth tilted at extreme opposite angles, she whispered, “I’d do you, but I can’t, because, you know, I wouldn’t want you to have my curse.” She pointed at her fangs, then grabbed the empty beer can out of Sir Sun’s hands and tilted her head back to catch the last drop.
Sir Sun nodded (bobble, bobble) and simply put his hands in his pockets.
A bunch of other ghouls, singing to the Ramones, hooked arms and yelled from the top of their diaphragms:
“I just wanna bump.
Into the pizza dude.
Cuz everyone has BLIMPEE PIMPEE
in their heeeeeaaaarrrttttsss!”
A giant figure shoved through the vampiress crowd—there were several bat like shrieks of disapproval—and tromped down to the souped up car. Sir Sun recognized Julius Caesar from earlier in the day. Caesar opened his wallet and threw money at the shaded driver. A couple ghouls grabbed the last few pizza boxes and made a run for the entrance door. “Hell, someone put in the code.”
“I got it!” yelled Julius Caesar, annoyed. He turned, and for one second, his mighty eyes and Sir Sun’s met. There was something there, an electric animosity zapped between them, and then Caesar was led away by a curvy gremlin.
The world squealed about the glories of pizza—Blimpee Pimpee pizza to be exact—and headed back inside.
Sir Sun let Ms. Twilight and her sparkling clan lead him into the entrance of Spindler’s Roost. The last line of the bearded trucker’s song stuck in his mind. What do the stars hold for you, boy? What does she hold for you?
24
Dead Disco
Sir Sun sipped on whatever the vampiresses had slipped into his plastic cup. Ms. Twilight reassured him that whatever was in it would not turn him into an immortal as she was.
