by Gina Ranalli
We ignore him, each grasping Whey beneath his arms and helping him to his feet.
“Ow!” He straightens up, but not without playing up his pain in a big way. “Ow!”
“Ro and I can’t pull you along, Whey,” Pawn tells him. “You’re gonna have to walk on your own.”
“He’s just being lazy.” Dose says. “Probably wants us to pick him up and carry him the rest of the way. Yeah, hey, Whey, why don’t you suck your thumb? That’ll probably make you feel a little better, ya fucking fuck stick.”
Pawn and I can see Whey’s lower lip trembling as he struggles not to cry. Either the stomach ache is actually pretty bad or, more likely, Dose is just hurting his feelings but he doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of letting him know that the constant taunting is getting to him.
Either way, Pawn and I pretend not to notice it and shuffle Whey along, unsure if we’re delving deeper into the soup or approaching the end of it.
27
Dose gets pretty far ahead and we often find him halted, waiting for us. Probably because it’s just no fun being up there on his own, without a single soul to rag on.
About an hour has passed since Whey stopped and sat down, and Dose, maybe 20 feet in front of us, says, “Hey, Whey, remember that time we talked about how girls get that nasty thing once a month and how we’d rather die than have to bleed profusely from our crotches?”
“Huh?” Whey says, barely looking up.
“Yeah, well, it’s happening to you. Want me to slip inside your head and give you an aneurism or something? I’ll make it as quick as I can.”
Whey, Pawn and I stop, each of us staring at Whey’s crotch region. Sure enough, a patch of red is blooming there like a liquid flower.
Whey screams and goes limp in our arms. Not being strong enough to hold his weight up, we lose our grip and he crumbles to the ground in a dead faint.
“I guess I got the good deal after all,” Dose says blandly.
“This is the last thing we need,” I tell Pawn, who nods solemnly. “You wouldn’t happen to have a pad on you, I don’t suppose?”
But, of course she doesn’t and neither do I. I crouch on the ground beside Whey and give his face a few slaps. “Wake up, buddy.”
His eyes flutter and he mumbles something inaudible. Pawn and I help him into a sitting position, while Dose stands nearby, adding the occasional quip. “Hey, man,” he says to Whey. “Congratulations. Today you’re a woman.”
Whey breaks into fresh tears. “I don’t want to be a woman.”
“No one does,” Dose says. “It’s a dirty job, but—”
“Shhh!” I say. “Can’t you see he’s already upset enough?”
“You’d be upset too, if you were born a dude and then started changing into a bitch. Unless, you were paying somebody to change you, I guess. And I don’t even know what’s up with those dudes. I mean, c’mon, everyone knows being the fucker is better than being the fuckee.”
We ignore him and help Whey to his feet. He’s still pressing his hands to his belly. “Oh, god, the cramps.”
“Yeah, they’re no picnic,” Pawn says. “But, you’ll get used to them.”
“I have the curse!” Whey wails.
Dose agrees, “You got that right.”
“We don’t have much time left,” Pawn says. “We have to get going.”
“I can’t go anywhere,” Whey says. “Just go on without me. Leave me here.”
“Stop being such a gosh-darn crybaby,” I say. “They’ll probably have aspirin and pads at the Chemical Gardens. You’ll feel better then.”
This doesn’t seem to console Whey in the slightest, and his howling is starting to make Nemesister nervous. She twitches and makes a low whinnying sound.
“Come on,” I say, taking the lead. “The quicker we get there the quicker we can all get our old bodies back.”
The three of them start to follow me, Dose muttering how he’s not totally sure he wants his old body back. “Except for my dick. I do miss having a nice solid dick. No offense, Whey.”
He starts to laugh when Whey cries harder.
28
We walk for what must be another mile—at least it feels that way—and then we notice that the ground beneath our feet has steadily become more of a dirt path. A little further along and the path becomes wide enough to be a road. Further still and the dirt turns to gravel and then cobblestones and the foggy soup we’re traveling through begins to dissipate with the aid of old-fashioned oil burning street lamps every hundred feet or so. Lamps not unlike the ones in the Underground where this entire adventure began.
“Is that a building?” Pawn says, eyes squinting.
It is. A stone two-story by looks of it. And it’s not alone.
The closer we get, the more apparent it becomes that we have entered a city of some sort, though not a modern one by any means. By the looks of it, we’ve stepped through some time warp and into 17th century London. I say as much and Dose says, “Hey, cool. The birthplace of punk.”
“About three hundred years too soon,” Pawn says.
“Hey!” Dose stops, his voice urgent enough to make the rest of us halt in our tracks as well. “If this really is the 17th century and we’re here, maybe we invent punk!”
I sigh and continue on.
“I’m serious. If we’re time travelers, when we get back to the future we’ll be so rich we won’t even need to be at that gig in San Fran, or any other gig for that matter.”
Dose is able to harbor this fantasy for another 30 seconds, and then his hopes are dashed by the sound of tires on cobblestone and a yellow-cab—not a horse-drawn buggy—zips by and splashes mud on my shoes.
“Damn,” Dose says, disappointed.
There are also a few pedestrians moving to and fro, all of them looking very much like members of the new millennium.
I target a young guy smoking and leaning against a building. I approach him slowly, certain that his eyes will bug out of his head and he’ll take off running the instant he sees a black and white woman coming towards him.
“Hey there,” I call cautiously, offering a smile.
The young guy doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even bat an eye, in fact. “Yeah?”
“Guess we’re not back in Kansas yet,” Dose says.
“Any idea where we might find the Metal Priestess?” I ask the guy.
He exhales smoke through his nostrils. “Who?”
“The Metal Priestess,” I repeat, but judging by the look on his face, it is this question that alarms him, and not who is asking it.
“Who?” he says again.
Pawn steps forward. “She’s supposed to be in the Chemical Gardens. Do you know where that is?”
The guy gives Pawn the standard up and down gaze before settling on her face. “The Chemical what?” Then his face changes, a flash of recognition. “Oh, you mean…yeah, yeah, yeah. Down at the Broomstick.”
We stare at him with blank expressions.
“The Broomstick,” he repeats louder, as if we’re hard of hearing. “Over on Beacon. It’s a pub.” He points with his cigarette. “Six blocks that way.”
I nod uncertainly. “The Broomstick.”
He nods back, looking past me now. The conversation is over.
29
The four of us travel the six blocks in apprehensive silence.
Why would the Metal Priestess be at a pub? To wet her whistle? The whole thing seems odd, but then again, every part of this night’s (has it only been one night?) journey has been odd.
When we reach the pub—marked not with a sign but an actual old-time broomstick hung over the entryway—we can hear a steady bass thud coming from within and Pawn points to a flyer Scotch-taped to the large oak door. In thick chunky letters the flyer shouts: DECOY! ONE NIGHT ONLY! PLUS SPECIAL SECRET GUEST!
Pawn and I exchange a glance, while behind us Whey stifles a moan.
“Fuck this shit,” Dose says and vanishes through the doorjamb.
&n
bsp; Nemesister shifts uneasily against my back, as if she senses trouble. I hear her sniffing back there, searching the air for a whiff of danger.
“No time like the present,” Pawn says, reaching for the huge wrought-iron doorknob.
“Wait,” I say quickly, grabbing her wrist before she makes contact with the knob. “What if this is a trap of some kind? What if this whole thing was set up by Wanda, just so she can get her hands on Nemesister?”
“That would be a lot of trouble to go through,” Pawn says skeptically.
I just look her, eyebrows raised.
After a moment, she asks, “You want me to go in alone and check it out?”
There’s an instant when I almost say yes, but then I remember Dose is already inside and for some reason this makes me feel guilty. “No,” I say at last. “We’re a band. All of us.”
“I need drugs!” Whey cries desperately. “If I don’t get drugs, you may as well just kill me!”
“Nonsense,” I tell him. “Cramps never killed anyone.”
Pawn opens the door to the Broomstick and the three of us cross the threshold into a dim smoky atmosphere.
It’s a pub alright. A bar pretty much like any other hole-in-the-wall. A place like so many of the places we’ve played a hundred times before, with a dozen or so tables and a stage the size of a postage stamp. A jukebox thuds away in one corner.
Whey collapses into the nearest empty chair, while Pawn and I head for the bartender who is chatting it up with one of the few patrons in the place.
“We’re looking for the Metal Priestess,” I tell him when he finally glances over at us.
Scratching the side of his nose, he speaks with an Irish accent. “Good for you. You want a drink?”
Behind me, Nemesister stiffens. “No,” I say shortly. “We want the Metal Priestess. Is she in here?”
The bartender, a greasy looking guy with a crescent scar on his cheek, raises his chin at me. “She ain’t here.”
“We were told she was.”
“Well, you were misinformed.”
I study his eyes and can clearly see the lie there. “Just tell us where she is, okay? It’s important.”
“I don’t care if you have a message from her dying mum. Nobody sees the Priestess.”
“Oh, for crying out loud! Is there a secret password or what? At least tell us so we can start guessing because we’re not leaving until we see her.”
“We’ve traveled a long way,” Pawn says. “I’m sure you can understand our situation.”
I have no idea when she became so polite and have to admit this new tactic might actually work but then there are loud popping sounds outside. The bartender, startled, yells, “What the bloody hell was that?” and runs for the door.
We, along with the silent patron who had been seated at the bar, all follow the barkeep out to the sidewalk to see what the commotion is about. It occurs to me that maybe going outside could turn out to be a very unwise decision since the popping does sound quite a bit like gunfire, but once we’re out there, we immediately see the culprit making all the noise: Wanda.
She’s high up on the platform of a billboard, lighting and tossing firecrackers at the Broomstick. Behind her, the billboard, once advertising Skyy Vodka, is now graffitied with jet-black spray-paint. The seven foot tall letters scream “Give it up, Ro! You bloody cum-clot!”
“What the holy hell is that?” The bartender asks, sidestepping a thrown firecracker. “Does that bitch have wings?”
“She’s defacing public property!” The guy from the bar marvels aloud. “That is seriously bitching!” He begins to laugh uproariously.
“Give me that fucking guitar, Ro!” Wanda screeches, sounding like a dying angel on fire. “You fucking bitch! It belongs to ME!!!!”
The bartender looks away from the crazy demon-woman on the billboard and looks at me instead. He peers over my shoulder, obviously noting the squirming guitar on my back. “Friend of yours, is she?”
I wince. “I never saw her before in my entire life.”
The guy says nothing, just turns around and goes back into the Broomstick with a look of befuddlement on his face. I pause to flip Wanda the bird, but instead give her a friendly wave. “Darn it!” I curse my traitor hand. “Pawn, flip her off for me!”
Pawn rolls her eyes and follows the bartender back inside.
Furious, I shout up at Wanda, intending to curl her eyebrows with my scorching insults. “Leave me alone, you fat doody-head!”
Wanda’s only response is to hiss and wing another firecracker at me, narrowly missing my head.
With a huff, I turn and rip open the Broomstick door, leaving the patron alone with her, his cheeks flushed pink from laughing so hard.
30
Back inside, I see that Whey has taken a seat at the bar and is gulping down a few aspirins with a glass of water. Pawn sits beside him, chin in her hand, looking completely bored.
When I reach them, I look around. “Where’s Dose?”
They both grunt that they don’t know.
“Do you think he found the Metal Priestess? Maybe he’s with her right now?”
“It’s possible,” Pawn says and yawns.
“Are you guys giving up?” I ask suddenly. “Now? When we’re so close? You realize she’s probably just in a back room, don’t you? Only a couple walls are separating us right now!”
Whey’s head thumps into the bar and he looks at me sideways. “Or, maybe we still have to travel through a magic portal to Jupiter, battle an army of gigantic pink gorillas who throw flaming strap-ons at us before finally catching us, roasting us alive on an open spit and feeding us to their pet pythons.”
I frown. “You’re such a pessimist.”
The bartender is busily stabbing at his gums with a toothpick and examining whatever little morsel of white pulp he manages to dig out.
“Who is Decoy?” I ask suddenly. “I never heard of them.”
“No?” He studies his toothpick closely. “They’re from Pennsylvania, I guess.”
“Oh.” To make conversation, I say, “Our band is called Green is the Enemy.”
“Good for you.”
I nod, trying to think of things to say to this guy to keep him engaged. “Yeah, we’re pretty good. Supposed to be opening for Peroxide tomorrow night.”
The bartender doesn’t say anything, just continues to dig around in his teeth.
“You’ve heard of Peroxide, right?”
“Nope.”
“No? Really? They’re pretty big.”
More silence from him.
“We’re looking for some gardens,” I say. Did I tell him that already? I can’t be sure of anything anymore…
“Chemical Gardens?” he asks.
“Yes!” I have a hard time keeping the excitement out of my voice. “Are they around here somewhere?”
“Nope. Never heard of them.”
I’m about to protest since he’s obviously lying but then there’s an old woman standing beside me. Where she came from, I don’t know, but she’s waving an empty bottle in my face.
“Can I help you?” I ask, irritated.
“This belongs to you,” she croaks.
I eye the bottle and see that there’s nothing special about it. It’s clear, about 24 oz. “Um, no. It doesn’t.”
“No?” She shakes it with a gnarled hand. “That’s odd. He said he did. Guess I’ll just sniff him myself.” She starts to walk away and that’s when Pawn reaches out and grabs her by the elbow.
“Did you say ‘him’?” she asks. She doesn’t give the woman time to answer, but looks at me and says, “Dose.”
I look at the bottle. “In there?”
“Is he yours or ain’t he?” the old woman demands.
“He’s ours,” Pawn says, taking the bottle. “Where did you find him?”
“Some place he had no business being.” The woman walks away and disappears through a door near the jukebox.
“You’re lucky she gav
e him back,” the bartender says, still picking his teeth. “She’s been known to flush folks every now and then.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about and at this point, not enough curiosity to ask, but Pawn wants to know who the woman is.
“Owner,” the barkeep says.
“Of this place? The Broomstick?”
“What else?”
Pawn peers at him suspiciously and points at the door the woman went through. “Where does that door lead?”
The guy seems to have to think about this for longer than should be necessary. “Yeah,” he says after about twenty seconds.
Pawn blinks at him, then turns to me, her voice lowered. “There’s something strange about this place.”
“Besides the fact that they put Dose in a bottle?”
“Well, that’s weird too, but I’m mostly talking about that old lady.”
I take a moment to consider, and then say, “She did seem pretty old.”
“I bet she’s the Metal Priestess.”
The bartender, clearly eavesdropping this whole time, barks out a laugh and we both glare at him.
“Or not,” Pawn says, turning back to me. “But she’s definitely not what she appears to be and neither is this place.”
“She works in the makeup department,” the bartender says suddenly. We look at him again and he continues. “She was just seeing if she could pass as an old woman. Guess she did.”
Pawn and I try to puzzle out this new information, while Whey snores on the bar, missing the whole scene. Dose is still inside his new glass home. Presumably anyway. Who knows what he’s doing in there, besides swearing.
Finally, I ask the bartender, “Why does a bar need a makeup department anyway?”
He scratches an eyebrow with his toothpick before shoving it back in his mouth. “Mostly for the bands that come through.” We give him blank stares, so he continues. “They have to look their best, you know.”
I’m starting to feel dizzy again, so I lean against the bar with both elbows and bury my face in my hands.
