I Hunt Killers Blood Boy

by Barry Lyga

  “Who are you?” Howie asked.

  Connie hopped off the sofa and cocked one hip, pointing at him with a gadget strapped to her wrist. "I'm Black Widow.”

  “Duh. I’ve seen the movies. But Black Widow is white. ScarJo. I have followed her boobs—um, her career with great, bouncing interest.” He bobbed his head as though following a tennis ball or a starlet’s chest. “Oh, wait. Black Widow. Black Widow. I get it now. But shouldn't it be Black Black Widow? Or African-American Widow? Far be it from me to lecture you on the finer points of political correctness--"

  "Far be it," Connie said drily.

  "--but it seems to me that African-American Widow would be more ethnically sensitive. Or maybe even Surviving Partner of Color." He snapped his fingers. "Yeah, that's it. Surviving Partner of Color."

  "Can you shut him up?" Connie asked Jazz.

  "Sure, but I'd have to kill him," Jazz said.

  Connie stared, open-mouthed at Jazz.

  "Was that not funny?" Jazz asked.

  "Not at all," Connie said, and actually shivered.

  Jazz turned to Howie. “Really? It was a joke. Honest.”

  "Keep working on it. You'll get there. But, uh, in the meantime, for no reason at all, I'm gonna go mingle."

  He sidled away from them, leaving them in their own little world of lovers and puppy dogs and sweet nothings and whatever else people who were gettin’ some had in their little worlds.

  First order of business: The kitchen. He needed something to drink and he needed it right away. He zeroed in on a dude dressed as gigantic, overflowing bag of garbage. He carried the infamous, ubiquitous Red Plastic Cup, stumbling a bit from side to side, six inches shorter than Howie, but almost as wide as he was tall. The guy plowed into Howie, elbowing him just under the ribs, and Howie whooshed.

  “Sorry, man,” the guy said, peering blearily up at Howie. “Holy crap. Are you that tall or am I that drunk?”

  “Both?” Howie suggested.

  The guy froze at that; Howie could see the wheels spinning as he mulled it over, then erupted into a wet laugh, slapping Howie on the back, since he couldn’t reach his shoulder without a ladder.

  “Where’s the booze?” Howie asked, wondering if calling it booze was cool or not. His experience with alcohol was limited to — he counted in his head — exactly none.

  “Kitchen,” the guy said, hooking a thumb in the direction of a wall. Howie figured he meant to point down the hall. “Get yourself loaded, brah.”

  “Will do, brah.” And then Howie patted the adorable drunken linebacker on his head and pushed back into the hallway crowd.

  Making his way down the hallway wasn’t easy, but there was plenty to observe on the way, so he didn’t mind. He was enormously grateful to whomever invented Halloween and decreed that women should wear the skimpiest costumes possible. The party was a press of flesh, exposed flesh in every direction. There were literal and figurative sex kittens everywhere he looked. If not for the very real sensation of blood flowing one place in particular, he might have thought he'd died and gone to heaven.

  Being a ten-thousand-foot-tall string bean who wasn’t allowed to play sports did not make for the most exhilarating of social lives, and yet nature had given him some forms of compensation. Though his freakish height could do him no good on a basketball court, his particularly elevated physique gave him the perfect vantage point from which to scope out cleavage canyons. And from that height, at that angle, it was tough for girls to tell that's what he was doing. So, score one for being a freak of nature.

  He was halfway down the hall and frustratingly stalled when he noticed a girl off to one side, listlessly thumbing her cell phone while gnawing on a straw jutting from her red plastic cup. She had two little horns poking through her tawny hair and wore what looked like a skimpy leather bra, incredibly tight shorts, and the kind of thigh-high boots that make a woman’s legs look a mile long. Just the way Howie liked them. Better yet, she was a little taller than the average girl. Howie noticed these things. He had to.

  Since he was stuck there and since she was right in front of him and since she was wearing very little, he decided to fall in love.

  “Hi, there,” he said.

  Nothing. She kept scrolling the cell.

  He cleared his throat and projected over the music. “Hi, there!”

  Startled, she almost dropped the phone. She looked up…and up…and up, her chin pointing out adorably and sexily, just asking to be nibbled by, say, a really tall hemophiliac.

  “Wow,” she said.

  “I agree. Wow is pretty much the right word.” He grinned at her, gazing down into her eyes, which sparkled green, then skipping the eyes because who cares about eyes? Down further, past that nibble-able chin and a throat that was begging to be licked was the Promised Land. Howie figured he could be happy for the rest of his life -- no matter how long or short that ended up being -- if he could shrink down and set up camp between her breasts. He would just live there all day long and roam those hills and he would be content.

  "You're really tall," she said, still craning her neck to look into his eyes.

  "Thank you for noticing. Most people don't."

  "Do you play basketball?"

  "I've been known to dribble a ball on occasion," he said with as much modesty as he could muster.

  "Are you any good?"

  "No one has ever scored on me, that's for sure."

  "Wow."

  “Again, we concur. Indeed. Wow."

  "Where do you go to school?"

  "Over in the Nod."

  Her eyes widened. "Lobo's Nod? Where that serial killer guy lives?"

  "Yep."

  "Wow."

  “And once more, you've managed to get right to the heart of the matter."

  With a deep breath that caused her breasts to undulate like only breasts can undulate, she said, "Did you know him?"

  Howie flicked a glance over his shoulder. From this angle, he could barely make out Jazz and Connie, standing just inside the living room. Jazz, channeling his inner statue, stood cross-armed as Connie chatted animatedly with a guy dressed as Captain America.

  See that guy over there, the guy dressed like no one at all, the guy you'd never look at twice? That's my best friend and he's also Billy Dent's kid, so, yeah, you could say I know Billy.

  He had a sudden blast of memory, almost overwhelming: The last time he'd seen Billy as a free man. He'd gone over to Jazz's house to collaborate on a homework project. And by collaborate, he meant crack jokes while Jazz did most of the work. Billy had answered the door, his eyes lighting up when he saw Howie.

  C'mon in, Howie, Billy had chortled. You eaten dinner yet? I figure all stretched out like that, your belly probably don't know your mouth's eaten for an hour or so. Want some barbecue? Just grilled up some for me'n'Jasper and there's plenty left over. Got rolls on the kitchen counter.

  And, yeah, Howie had been hungry, and he'd eaten Billy's barbecue which was, to this day, the best he'd ever eaten. And a week later, Jazz hadn't come to school one day and in the middle of third period cellphones had started buzzing with the news that Billy Dent was under arrest.

  It was a total memory. A full-body memory. The fill of the barbecue. Billy's strong hand on Howie's side, guiding him into the house, to the kitchen, gentle, always remembering Howie's hemophilia. The buzz of the cell in his pocket.

  "I saw him around," Howie said, shaking himself back into the present, the girl's eyes still searching him. "Spoke to him a few times."

  "Wow." She shivered. "Could you tell? Could you tell there was something wrong with him?"

  The truth? The truth was no way in hell. Billy Dent's human disguise was the best Halloween costume of all time. He wore it year-round and no one ever figured out who and what lurked beneath the mask until it was way too late.

  "Totally," Howie said. "I could tell. There was always just something off about him, you know?"

  She nodded as though she, too, had brushed
up against the lunacy that walked like a man.

  "So," he said, pressing his advantage, "what are you dressed as? Or not dressed as, as the case may be."

  "I'm a sexy kid."

  "That you are, but what are you dressed as?"

  She laughed and shoved him, hard, in his ribs. Contact. According to all the men’s dating advice web sites, that was a buy sign. Joy.

  "A kid. Like, a baby goat." She gestured down her body, an invitation Howie was glad to accept. Indeed, her skimpy bra was fringed with fur, as were her tiny, tight shorts, and the tops of her thigh-high boots. Those same boots had been modified with blunt hooves and there were those horns in her hair.

  "I get it now," he said. "You're the sexiest sexy kid I've ever seen. Well done. I applaud you.” He slapped his ginormous hands together. No little golf clap, either — he gave her a full-on ovation.

  She giggled and smacked his arm playfully. More contact. Nice.

  "Are you, like, a zombie or something?" she asked.

  "More like 'or something,' like," he said, mimicking her tone. "Zombies are so over, you know? Dead both literally and figuratively."

  She gazed up at him for a long moment. “Then what are you?”

  "I'm Blood Boy," Howie announced, planting his fists on his hips and striking a super-hero pose. "My power is to bleed on you."

  She tittered. "Okay, now I get it."

  "That makes one of us," he said. "Can I get you a drink?"

  She looked down at the drink in her hand. "I already have one."

  "I could get you another one," he pointed out.

  With a sly grin, she shook her head. "How do I know you wouldn't put something in it?"

  Howie snorted at the very idea. "Please. Roofies are for amateurs. For men who have not mastered the art of seduction. I'm all about the consensual action. Emphasis on sensual."

  She licked her lips and Howie knew -- based on what he'd read on the Internet -- that he had her.

  "Well, maybe one drink."

  "Excellent. And just so you know," he said gravely, gesturing down toward his groin, "everything is in proportion."

  "Gross."

  "Maybe so," he conceded. "Not all women can handle it."

  Maybe he'd gone too far...but maybe not. She showed no signs of leaving, and she was touching her hair, which he was pretty sure was another buy sign.

  "Is that true?"

  "Which part?"

  "All of it."

  "Of course. Would I lie to you?"

  "There's no point lying. I'm not sleeping with you or anything. We just met."

  Howie feigned outrage and shock. "Well, I never! I'll have you know that I don't plan on sleeping with you either. No matter how much you beg."

  She laughed once more. He was on a roll.

  "Let me go get you a drink. What are you having?"

  She tucked the straw between her lips and looked up at him with very wide eyes that made his shorts less baggy. "Surprise me."

  Howie wasted no time. He redoubled his efforts to get to the kitchen, now pushing people out of his way, getting jostled in return. Someone stepped on his foot — tough to miss landing on those giants — and slurringly apologized. Brushing the guy off, Howie hustled to the drinks. He had to get back to Sexy Kid before she changed her mind or got snatched up by some less deserving mope; he didn’t have time for apologies.

  The kitchen opened from the hallway, its bright overheads assailing his eyes after the dim lighting in the hallway. He took a moment to get his bearings. A sexy nurse and a sexy stormtrooper and a sexy zombie were gathered in a corner. The word foursome popped into Howie’s head for a moment — especially when the sexy zombie gave him a quick up-and-down with her eyes — but he reminded himself that he was in love with the Sexy Kid. For now, at least.

  The kitchen was a shambles, its granite counters covered with the dust of a thousand chips and pretzels, its floor sticky in a way Howie didn’t want to understand. A butcher block island stood in the middle of the room, its top a series overlapping moisture rings that peeked out between bottles of alcohol and a fallen-over stack of infamous red plastic cups.

  There was a cooler of beers on the floor, too, but he ignored them. Beer seemed plebeian and unsophisticated to him. Plus, Sexy Kid had been drinking something clear-ish through her straw. He didn’t want to insult her and betray his lack of imagination by bringing back a bottle of what his dad called “piss-water.”

  He stood at the island-cum-bar, thinking. He knew nothing at all about alcohol. But he knew there was such a thing as mixed drinks and that meant you had to, well, mix drinks, right?

  He flipped two cups right-side-up and poured some gin into each. There were helpful grooves around the circumference of the cups, so he used them to keep things even, dumping in vodka and then some orange juice and then some cranberry juice and then some Sprite and then a different kind of vodka because why not? There must be a reason for different kinds of vodka, right?

  There were no spoons or utensils, so he stirred the drinks with his absurdly long index finger. Licked it off.

  His tongue went momentarily numb, then cold, then hot. He figured that couldn’t be a bad sign.

  Back out in the hallway, Sexy Kid was once again flicking through her cell. Howie held the drinks up near the ceiling and grunted and cursed his way through the crowd. Something hard banged his knee — some idiot dressed as a samurai had an actual sword.

  “Hi. Remember me?” He held out one of the drinks to her.

  “Blood Boy.” Her nose wrinkled when she smiled. It distracted Howie from her cleavage for a good two to three picoseconds. He decided that if he couldn’t set up camp down in there that he would settle for diving between them, face-down. “Welcome back.”

  She took the proffered cup and dipped her straw in it. Sucked. “What the hell?” She coughed, her eyes watering. “You’re trying to get me wasted.”

  “No! No!” He held out his own cup. “They’re both the same. Honest.”

  She sipped from his cup and coughed again, though this time with the brevity of someone who had steeled herself. “Jesus. What is this?”

  “A little concoction of my own. I call it ‘Howie’s Reward.’”

  “What’s the reward?”

  For once in his life, Howie let his lips speak without his tongue — he smiled at her.

  *****

  HOWIE LED THE WAY as they backtracked along the hall to the foyer, then made their way up the stairs. Someone slurred, “Hey! No one allowed up there!” to which Howie replied, “Great, thanks! We won’t go!” and kept heading up.

  “Really! Bobby’ll be pissed!” the other guys shouted. “Check it!” He gestured to a sign hung on the railing, which read “NO ONE UPSTAIRS!!!”

  “Thanks for the info,” Howie called. “Really appreciate it!”

  Sexy Kid squeezed his hand tightly, almost urgently. He waved another thanks to the slurring, annoyed guy and guided her further up the stairs. Together, they found a door that opened into a princess-pink asylum of frill, lace, and accents of purple.

  “It’s like the bedroom of my dreams,” Howie intoned with deathly seriousness.

  Sexy Kid giggled and dragged him inside, shutting the door behind them. The lights were off, a little illumination from outdoor floodlights casting shadows over her. Her eyes seemed larger in this light, her breasts more fulsome, if that was even possible. She went up on tiptoe and Howie stooped and their noses banged into each other.

  “This isn’t gonna work,” she muttered, and before Howie could alarmingly and desperately beg to disagree, she shoved at him, guiding him to sit on the floor, his back against a truly adorable four-poster bed bedecked with princesses and cartoon animals.

  “Better,” she said, standing over him, then dropping to her knees. Their faces were even and she leaned in close. Howie had stopped breathing.

  “Remember,” she said, scrutinizing him, studying his face, his eyes, “I’m not sleeping with you.”

>   Howie bobbed his head in enthusiastic understanding. “I’m not tired anyway.”

  “God, you’re adorable.” She smashed her lips to his and they were off. Her tongue was a marvel of whatever it was tongues were made of. Howie groaned into her as they kissed. She leaned into him further, pressing against him, resting in a straddle across his lap that was the closest thing he’d had to a religious experience in his life.

  She spent what seemed like three hours sucking on his neck, just above the clavicle, and for that space of time, it felt as though every nerve and blood vessel in his body routed through that spot.

  He ran his hands up her bare side, from the top of the shorts to the bottom of the bra. The fake goat fur tickled his fingertips.

  “No,” she said as he tugged at the clasp.

  “Please.” Howie didn’t want to beg, but he would. He knew that he would die if he came this close to the Promised Land and never got to glimpse the mountains. “I’m just concerned. A recent Scientific American report indicated that breasts enclosed in leather and fur for extended periods of time need vigorous massaging to prevent—”

  She interrupted him, which was good, since he had no idea where he was headed. Tossing her hair back, she grinned at him saucily and sat up, reaching back. “Well, in that case…”

  “I love that you just needed an excuse.”

  Her shoulders flexed and the bra dropped and Howie’s widened and he moved his hands and suddenly the door banged open and the light came on, burning the glorious sight before him into his brain in the split second it took for Sexy Kid to shriek and tug the bra back over her God-given delights.

  “Ocupado, amigo!” Howie yelled, shielding his dark-adjusted eyes from the light. “Find your own tween purgatory!”

  “Hey, asshole!” a voice called, and then a foot kicked him squarely above the ankle. Sexy Kid rolled to one side, sliding off of him, holding her bra up with one hand while trying to re-clasp it with the other.

  Standing before them was a largish guy with spiky brown hair, gelled to manga-esque proportions, wearing a karate gi that could only be described as vigorously formfitting. Howie figured that, if called upon to do so in a court of law, he could confidently attest that the kid was circumcised.