A new song came on that sounded exactly like the last song and the muscled meathead pumped a fist harder, jumping up into the air. He slammed into a table and a chair toppled, striking the back of Adder's chair.
"Chill the fuck out, Vernon!" the kid snapped.
The muscled guy, Vernon, slowed his fist pumping from a helicopter to a butter churn. "Sorry, bro. That bass drop though. Sick as fuck."
"Truth." Adder held out a fist and Vernon bumped it.
"I guess I still don't get what a meme is."
"It's just an image with words. A viral image. Think about… I dunno, what would someone your age remember?" He squinted off toward the pool. "You remember that 'Where's the beef?' thing? That funny old lady in the Wendy's ad? That's kind of like the original memes. The original intent changes its meaning as it passes from person to person, like a new viral strain. Richard Dawkins coined the term 'meme' but when he wrote it he was just talking about ideas and social practices. Like cavemen learning how to start fires. The meaning of meme changed to what it is now which is mostly just jokes. Just a picture with words."
"Magic words," Marcus said.
"Yeah, I guess you could say that. You have to admit words have a certain…"
"Power?"
"Exactly. Words are how we make sense of the world, right?"
"Sure."
Adder rapped his knuckles on the table. "If we didn't know this was called a table or that blue shit out there was called sky we'd never be able to communicate with each other. We wouldn't be able to think, at least not the way we think of thinking. It would all be just images and grunts. Sure it'd make getting laid a lot easier but we wouldn't have culture. We wouldn't have sick art or dubstep. Memes, especially loaded memes, are just weaponized versions of that. They're like charging tanks, and your cerebral cortex is the little Chinaman standing in the middle of Tiananmen Square."
Adder glanced over his shoulder to make sure the Asian kid at the other end of the cabana hadn't heard him but the music was so loud he wouldn't have heard if he'd been shouting.
"My rule of thumb is, if you have to look over your shoulder it's best not to say it."
"That's cuck-talk. If I followed that rule I'd never say anything."
Marcus thought And the world would be better off but didn't say it. Despite the kid's bizarre and often offensive diatribe Marcus was strangely intrigued by what he had to say, especially in light of what Billy Wonders had said the night before.
If the Resistance was on the front lines fighting a War of Words against the rich, Simon Adder and his Brotherhood were fighting with them not against them. But Billy Wonders seemed to think Wentworth and Morales were the enemy. How could they be the enemy if the Brotherhood of Kek wanted the same thing as the Resistance?
It was a lot to process. Too much for how little he'd had to drink. Marcus picked up a red cup and gulped down the leftover draft beer. It tasted stale but it gave him a sudden boost of energy, like chugging one of those sugary electrolyte drinks.
"We should probably head upstairs, huh? Mr. Wentworth's probably eager for us to get to work."
"I could use another drink first."
"Yeah, man! Let's slam another shot with my bros."
"Yeah all right."
"Pepe! Another round of tequilas, por favor!" As the bartender went about pouring shots, Adder stepped out into the circle of young white men. "Brothers! Join me in a toast in honor of our newest Brother of Kek, Mr. Marcus Mills!"
"Marcus Mills!" Vernon said. "That's two Ms!"
"DUBS!" others shouted. They began hooting and hollering, pumping their fists to the music.
"What does that mean? What's dubs?"
Adder smiled. "It means you're one of us."
Bros and nerds in ironic t-shirts and Ed Hardy, reeking of B.O. and cheap body spray, came around to shake Marcus's hand and pat him on the shoulder. All the attention felt odd and he wasn't sure what to make of the honorary membership. He subscribed to the old saying of not wanting to be a member of any club that would have him.
With the shots passed around, Adder raised his glass in a toast. "Here's to the real men of yore. Fuck all the haters and the Moloch-worshipping liberal cucks!"
"FUCK THE CUCKS!" the others said, and everyone drank. Adder grinned from ear to ear while the Brothers cheered and started bobbing their heads again. After a moment his smile faltered and disappeared entirely as he stared off into space.
Another tall white woman sashayed by the cabana and the guys lowered their sunglasses to check her out, and flicked their hands. Only Adder seemed not to be paying attention to the "mamacita," instead giving Marcus a strange look of admiration or curiosity or both.
"I should get outta here," Marcus said. "Morales probably needs me to deliver the next package."
"Hold up, I'll come with you. Just let me grab my phone."
Ten minutes later the two of them were in the elevator, Adder uncharacteristically quiet on the way up. Rather than feel awkward Marcus was glad for the break. When the doors opened on the second floor he stepped out into the hall. Adder didn't follow.
"You coming?"
"I've gotta check on some work upstairs. Come up when you're ready."
"All right, I'll meet you up there."
"Room 301."
Marcus nodded, watching the kid until the doors closed, feeling like Adder might be leading him into a trap. But the kid only wanted what was inside the briefcase. Marcus promised himself he'd be in and out in two minutes.
Back in the room he knelt in front of the safe and for a panicky moment he thought he'd forgotten the password. It came back to him when he raised his fingers to the buttons, from muscle memory or drunk recall, and he removed the briefcase.
The contents didn't rattle or roll this morning, just lay heavily on the bottom like a rock. Marcus remembered how he'd thought it was alive the other day and shook his head at his own superstition as he brought it to the door.
He took the stars to the third floor, not wanting to be alone facing multiple versions of his own reflection after what he'd seen in the mirror in Billy Wonders's dressing room. Room 301 was the last room at the end of the hall. 302 had several breakfast trays left out, most of the food devoured. Marcus's stomach rumbled, and he scarfed up some leftover buttered toast crusts before knocking on Adder's door.
"Who is it?"
"It's Marcus, open the damn door."
The chain lock rattled and the maglock beeped before Adder opened the door. Adder stood his shirt wide open, fanning himself with his hat. '80s synth played in the background, the lyrics in a foreign language—possibly Spanish.
"It's hot as fuck in this hotel, bro. Oh right, you're probably used to it."
"It's not that hot in the Bay Area."
"I mean because—" Adder shook his head and put the hat back on, taking a moment to smooth the brim. "Never mind." He stepped aside, opening the door wide to reveal a blonde woman in a plush white bathrobe on the bed, thumbing through channels on the wide screen TV on the wall. "This is my wife, Shadilay."
The woman batted her fake eyelashes and twiddled fingers at Marcus. "He looks fun."
"He is fun, Shay." Adder rolled his eyes at Marcus. "Women, huh?"
Marcus was wise enough not to agree. "Good to meet you, Mrs. Adder."
Adder's wife raised a leg and her robe fell open, revealing a creamy inner thigh. "Pleased to meet you, Mister Mills."
"You brought the package?"
He turned from Shadily back to her husband. The kid appeared to be looking at Marcus's crotch.
"Huh? Oh." Marcus jiggled the briefcase. Its contents remained silent and secure. "Yeah. This is it."
Adder held out a hand. "Can I—?"
"Yeah, of course."
Adder closed the door and brought the briefcase to the dresser. He spun the wheels, opened the locks, and opened the briefcase. His expression remained flat.
Behind him, Shadilay rose on her knees to peek over his shoulder. "Wha
t is it, honey?"
Adder scowled but didn't turn. "This is business, Shay!"
The woman rolled her eyes and flopped back against the stacked pillows. "Sor-ree."
Adder made to close the briefcase and stopped. "Do you… want to see it?" he asked Marcus.
Curiosity gnawed at Marcus, but he shook his head. "That's not my business."
The kid shrugged. "Suit yourself." He closed the briefcase and put it in the safe. "Let's have a drink to toast this transaction, huh? We've got Alizé passionfruit."
"I don't like cognac."
Both Adder and his wife pouted.
"But I'll toast to that."
"Yeeeeah!" Adder said, and poured three glasses from the peach-colored bottle. He handed one to Marcus. Shadilay scooched across the mattress on her knees and he gave her a glass before raising his. "To a mutually beneficial relationship."
Marcus raised his glass and brought it to his lips, waiting for the other two to sip theirs before joining them. "Sweet."
"Speaking of sweet," Adder said, crossing to the door, "I think my wife is sweet on you."
Marcus watched as the woman opened her robe, exposing perky tits with puffy nipples and the dark stubble where her legs met. "Is that right?"
Shadilay nodded slowly, her big blue doe eyes remaining on the crotch of his chinos. Already he was stiffening against the fabric.
"I'd better go—"
Marcus turned to find Adder blocking the door, the bottle of Alizé in one hand, stroking himself through his shorts with the other.
He remembered the pics on Adder's phone. The black men and the blonde woman. It was Shadilay with all those other men. Adder was having them cuckold him.
"Come on, bro. Stay. Have some fun."
"I don't do threesomes."
"It's not like that, Marcus. I just like to watch."
Adder reached out for Marcus's bicep again. Marcus withdrew his arm and punched the kid in the face.
Blood poured from Adder's nose and he stifled it with a hand. "You broke by fuckink doze!"
Shadilay screamed.
Marcus shouldered past Adder and made a run for the door. No way was he going to stay for hotel security to find him in this position. Adder would probably trump up some story that he caught Marcus trying to rape his wife and got assaulted for his troubles.
"It's not a gay thing!" Adder shouted after him as Marcus bolted toward the stairs. "I just like to watch!"
Marcus didn't turn at the stairs, kept running through the door and down the two small flights. Get back to the room. Call downstairs to checkout. Text Morales. He'd delivered the package. Cuckolding Adder wasn't part of the deal, however hot his wife happened to be.
On the second floor he allowed himself to take a few calming breaths. The door unlocked as he hurried to his room. He jerked the handle and pulled it open.
A figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the windows. With no time to react Marcus merely held up his hands as a fist holding a long cylindrical object came down on his head, sending him reeling into the dark.
6 – THE GREAT GOD MOLOCH
MARCUS AWOKE GROGGIER than he had that morning. Rubbing the swollen bump on his head, he felt tacky blood and winced. He tried to stretch his sore muscles but the space he'd found himself in was too cramped for movement. It smelled like pizza and gasoline. The floor beneath him rocked and jittered. Big band trumpets blared and an engine droned.
He was in the trunk of a car.
"Fuck. Fuck."
The cell phone wasn't in his pocket. Marcus felt around the floor in the dark. He found a pizza crust. A rough material like an emergency blanket. A bunched-up plastic bag. Then he felt something cold and metallic. Cylindrical. Could have been the same thing the man in his room had used to knock him out cold.
A tire iron.
He slipped his fingers around it and hugged it to his chest.
What now? Wait for the driver to stop the car, and surprise him with the tire iron? Or try to pry open the trunk?
The trumpets blared. It was difficult to make out what the song was with only the trumpets and old-time calypso beat from the subwoofer in the trunk. But with all the noise he figured he could beat the tire iron against the trunk door without the driver hearing, unless someone happened to be in the backseat.
The car stopped. In the relative silence he heard a trio of female voices sing, "Rum and cocaaaa cola." Sneering, Marcus gripped the tire iron in both hands and waited to hear the driver door slam. Waited for the driver to come around and open the trunk door.
The engine sputtered and the car resumed its forward momentum.
Marcus breathed a sigh of relief and rammed the tire iron upward, shouting with each clang. "I fucking!" Clang! "Hate!" Clang! "This song!" CLANG!
The trunk sprang open.
Expecting to see bright city lights he startled at the millions of stars lighting the dusky sky. Pizza and gasoline gave way to the sweet smell of rain. Marcus rose up on his knees and peered over the lip of the trunk.
"Fuck."
Nothing but miles and miles of desert all around. The female trio sang into the emptiness. The car was moving far too fast for him to jump without risking severe injury.
For a moment he considered screaming his rage toward the heavens but stopped when he realized these were not his stars.
Not that they were alien, just in a far different location than he was used to. He remembered thinking the same thing his first night in San Francisco, after leaving Katrina and Felecia and the terrible memory of the crash three-thousand miles behind to start a new life.
These are not my stars.
They must have covered hundreds of miles while he'd been unconscious. They could be anywhere by now. Utah… Arizona… New Mexico…
They might have even crossed the border.
"Might as well get cozy."
Marcus sank back into the trunk, pulling the door closed.
Time drew out as the car rumbled and the terrible music continued. Maybe five minutes later, maybe ten, maybe an eternity, the car came to a stop. His first thought was to run, but indecision kept him in place. Better to get the jump on his captor when the trunk sprang open if they'd reached their final destination than risk running at a stop sign and getting shot like a dog in the street.
He had no idea whether or not his captor was armed. Or if there was more than one of them.
A door opened and slammed. "Mairzy Doats" blared over the speakers as Marcus drew his knees to his chest and gripped the tire iron tightly, ready to fight.
Footsteps crunched in hard-packed earth. Keys jingled.
At the sound of the keys entering the lock Marcus kicked out at the door. It sprang open and his red-uniformed captor staggered back. The keys jingled to the ground. Marcus leaped over the lip of the trunk, his joints aching. Ten years ago he'd have had no trouble vaulting out of the trunk. Age, years of alcoholism and very little nutrition had made him soft, his bones fragile, his joints weak.
The Gringo's Pizza delivery driver fumbled for the gun holstered on his hip. The uniform was baggy and formless, and the brim of his cap still concealed his face.
"You again!" Marcus swung the tire iron and the driver jumped back out of its path. The hat came off and long black hair spilled over the driver's shoulders. She raised her head, narrowing her dark eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses as she drew the gun from its holster.
Marcus recognized her right away—but it left him with more questions than answers.
"I guess you're okay with early checkout then, huh, Fabrizio?"
"It's Layla." The gun clattered in her nervous grip. "Now drop the wrench and put your fucking hands up."
Marcus did as he was told. "It's a tire iron."
"Whatever." She jerked the gun toward his left. "Get walking."
He looked over his shoulder. Across a wide dusty parking lot in the middle of the desert, the lights of a Gringo's Pizza franchise brightened the evening sky. Its stereotype Mexican
bandito mascot, complete with dos pistolas and a sombrero, blinked on and off above its name.
"I'm not hungry," Marcus said.
She jabbed the gun at him. "Move."
Marcus moved, listening to the woman's footsteps close behind.
Up ahead the windows were lighted but it looked like nobody was home, and with no utility poles in sight Marcus wondered where the power came from. As they got closer to the restaurant he realized it seemed to be unfinished or stripped for auction. No seats, tables or booths. No menu or games. No kitchen. The place seemed to be just a shell, as empty as the desert. And yet several vehicles had been left along the side and back, from minivans to motorcycles. Where were all the people?
"What's this all about, anyway?"
"Shut up."
"That’s what I like about your generation—"
"I said shut up!"
"All right, lady. Cool your jets."
"Do I look like a fucking lady to you? And keep your hands up."
Marcus raised his hands, no idea what he'd gotten himself into. At least he was fairly certain he hadn't been brought out to the middle of the desert for pizza and games, but he didn't find that comforting.
When they reached the door Marcus stopped and turned.
"Open it."
"I wasn't sure whether you'd be offended if I held the door for you."
Layla sneered. "You first. I can get the door myself."
Marcus opened the door and entered. Layla grabbed the door as it swung closed and stepped in behind him. The wide empty room was far warmer than the cool desert evening. Overhead lights, pipes and air ducts still hung from the ceiling but otherwise the entire restaurant had been stripped, leaving holes for bolts and bright outlines where furniture and games once stood.
"Damn, I was hoping to play some Pac-Man."
"Not tonight. Keep moving."
"Where to now, kemosabe?
"There's a door ten steps ahead of you."
Marcus looked. Ten steps ahead was more nothing. There wasn't even a wall. He turned back to the woman with the gun. "Is this like an improv scene? I'm supposed to mime opening a door?"
HARBINGER Deliver Us to Evil Page 7
