The Foul Mouth and the Troubled Boomworm (The King Henry Tapes)

by Raley, Richard

  “She’s fourteen, Mom.”

  “And she’s your sister, not your child, which you can raise any way you see fit and I’ll not pooh-pooh you. Provided you ever get around to grandchildren with all this globe hopping . . .”

  “I thought you were modern?”

  “I am. You just never show any forward movement with your personal life; you’ll never get to the goal if you don’t take one step here or there.”

  Ingredients being taken out of the refrigerator and cupboards and placed on a countertop.

  “Fish?” Val asked.

  “Baked salmon, bit of lemon. Grilled zucchini and cold egg noodles with a hint of salt and olive oil.”

  “Ah.”

  “We don’t all have your taste for spices so hot they burn water, dear. Cut the zucchini, please.”

  Chopping and foil crinkling.

  “Why him?” Ronnie asked again. “What will he be able to do that neither Miranda or Heinrich could? Or all your phone calls and bribes couldn’t?”

  The chopping stopped. “Every time I think something is impossible and hopeless . . . somehow—in some amazing way that no one else would have even bothered to consider—King Henry comes through. Again and again, and slowly you start to think about doing the impossible yourself and you find out you’re a stronger person than you ever imagined.”

  Shocked silence.

  “That’s why,” Val added.

  “High praise,” Ronnie hedged.

  “He’s one of my best friends.”

  “One I’ve never heard about in ten years too.”

  “It’s . . . complicated . . . between us.”

  A gasp. “Him? Is he your . . . boyfriend?”

  “No! I mean . . . not now. At school we . . . . . . complicated!”

  “I don’t know how to take this revelation . . .”

  “You just begged for steps towards grandchildren and now you’re horrified.”

  “Not horrified. When you say, ‘at school’ do you mean . . . ?”

  “We went to dances . . . tried boyfriend and girlfriend a few times, just friends too . . . it’s—“

  “Complicated, yes, you keep saying.”

  “It’s a good word.”

  “Valentine Esmeralda Ward,” Ronnie whispered, “I never expected my wonder child would have a taste for the bad boys.”

  “He’s bad on the outside, but his heart is good.”

  “And you’re going to change him into a teddy bear. I went through that phase once. Before your father, of course. The gentleman in question had a motorcycle and a pet snake.”

  “No, not that,” Val corrected, “I wouldn’t change anything about King Henry. He can be maddening and . . . foul mouthed, and womanizing, and too aggressive . . . but, here, look at this ring.”

  “It’s lovely, where did you buy it?”

  “King Henry made it.”

  “My my. A jeweler, wouldn’t say no to one of those in the family!”

  “Mom!”

  “Yes, I know, was a boyfriend. Is not now a boyfriend. Complicated.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Just be sure not to mention any of this to your father, I think it would give him a heart attack.”

  Session 26

  I suppose I should start this next bit explaining some more terms, not a very sound narrative pop, but what can a fellow do when he’s talking to a fucking tape recorder, right?

  First off with the Intro and Extro bullshit I mentioned in passing or else you won’t focus on damned nothing else . . . will you, you one-track little shits? It’s simple. If you’re at the head of the class you maybe even noticed it already. Examples: pyromancers are Extro-Elementalists and geomancers are Intro-Elementalists. Each Mancy discipline is either one or the other . . . except necromancers, who are neither, the contrarian emo assholes that they are.

  Take Valentine Ward . . . gorgeous lovely creature that she is: fireballs out of fucking nowhere.

  Take King Henry Price . . . disgusting one-minded leghumper that he is: got to have some metal or dirt to work with.

  I can’t make my own juice, she can.

  Which would lead a fifteen-year-old boy to condescendingly point out, “hey, they’re named backwards, you fucker” to his not-yet-finished-explaining Elementalism teacher.

  But there’s another side to it.

  Take King Henry Price and his favorite conjuration, good ol’ iron fists. That’s on my body. That’s the Mancy, anima, or geomancy if you will, making my body stronger and more durable to punch with a ton of earth essence behind it. Extro-Elementalists can’t do that shit.

  Just fireballs from nowhere.

  . . . Hey, I didn’t say the trade-off between the two was fair, did I?

  So now that we’re finished with that shit, back to the Winter War. I realized that while I explained what the whole thing is—tourney, experiment, me running from lightning bolts—I didn’t focus on the matches themselves, so here’s my penance.

  One match. Three games per match. Two out of three wins you the match. A coin-flip at the very beginning allows the team that wins to either choose attack or defense. Everyone chooses defense because even shitty teams can hold out the vast majority of the time. Other than the Ultra Singles, of course, which never happens. Well, except for one time when yours truly was their student-advisor but I suppose that’s a story for another time. Still, look at how big my Winter War cock is! It’s peeking out my pant leg! Gonna fuckin’ bite you!

  Ehm . . .

  The Mound itself is divided into four zones, based upon west, east, and all those shitty directions. Sometimes the Asylum gets tricky and makes the zones unique, sometimes they’re all the same, sometimes one is harder than the other three, etc. The Mound is also split into four levels. Until it is broken by the attacking team, the defensive team can’t place itself above level two . . . kind of like offside in hockey or soccer. In each level, there is a button placed at random, but not hidden. It’s red, it glows, if you see it then you know it.

  If one of the attacking teammates hits a button on say, level two, then the game is paused at that time. Everyone eliminated gets up, walks off the Mound and the game starts over for whoever is left, with the attacking team beginning at level two this time. Some strategies involve conquering each level one at a time. Others ignore them and go for the fifth button at the very top of the Mound which wins the attacking team the game.

  Welf’s plan was a straight-up only hit button five plan. I actually agree with him on it being the best idea. Sure, get ground and you keep it, but this ain’t a football field. The Mound becomes smaller the higher you get. Means the defense has less to defend. Resets by the time you get to level three are hell, resets on level four are worse than hell.

  So like being stuck living in Fresno.

  [CLICK]

  My classmates appeared surprisingly happy to see me. Most of them at least. The majority of them even.

  Pocket gave me a fist bump. “Still alive, dude?”

  “I tried to die, they just couldn’t manage.”

  “You keep trying and it will happen eventually.”

  Valentine apologized straight off. “I shouldn’t have left you.”

  “Blame Welf, it was his plan.” I know I did.

  “Still . . .” she said, clicking her teeth like she had a habit to when she stressed, “not very awesome of me.”

  “You can’t be awesome all the time.”

  She shrugged, playful. “You’d be surprised how easy it is on me . . .”

  “Being so awesome, and following the plan, you did miss me knocking Leo’s ass out though.”

  “Yes, aren’t you just so very tough, yes you are,” a mocking voice interrupted us, Miranda squeezing into the forming circle. “How big of a penalty did you get? Are you even playing this game or are you just distracting us like usual?”

  “Love you too, Firecrotch.”

  Valentine rolled her eyes. “Please don’t start, you two.”

/>   “How big?” Miranda repeated, arms crossed over a chest I do admit to being a fan of, if not the rest of her. Where her usual aeromancer white colors made every inch of her look bright and blend into the surroundings, the current black necro colors did slim her figure for once, though at a cost to her red hair, which seemed much darker.

  “Game-ban,” I told her, crossing my own arms to mock a bit. “End of the world!”

  “That’s it?”

  “I think maybe the Lady bet on us.”

  Val and Pocket both laughed, but Miranda pouted. Can’t say she really ever rooted for me, even if it hurt her own chances. Miranda and Welf didn’t get along, and came from different angles, but they both shared that trait.

  Which reminded me . . . “So are we pulling the same plan?”

  Pocket tapped his chin. “What plan is that?”

  Val expounded quizzically, “The spread out and have King Henry get beat up plan?”

  I could have told them the truth, told them that’s exactly what had been going on. Could have bitched about it to the whole class too. But it just would have muddied the waters. Is King Henry making this up to make Welf look bad or did Welf really do it? Or they’d quibble with it, maybe Leo was lying! Me . . . I had no doubts.

  Would Welf tell the other team our plan and make a side deal with Leo to kick my ass?

  Yeah, he would.

  Welf’s a crafty bastard. Necromancer-in-training, learning from Root and all the rest. So crafty he would’ve even convinced himself that he was doing everything to help out the class. Sure, tell Leo what we’re doing, let him know he can smash in some Foul Mouth face. But then . . . Welf knows me as well as I know him. Knows I’d take my own chunk out of Leo’s ass. Might even have guessed that I’d eat a penalty just to hurt Leo too. Gave Welf a chance to win the game, came within feet of the final button.

  Welf loves being the hero.

  Welf always seems to come up just an inch short of pulling it off.

  Guy might be cursed.

  Curse might be named King Henry Price.

  Yeah, not listening to the team captain on this next one, making my own plan. “We won game two easy?”

  “Leo’s out thanks to you,” Miranda said.

  “Um, you’re welcome?

  “It confused the ‘08ers,” Val continued, “Only Sabine put up a fight.”

  “That girl is scary tough,” Pocket agreed.

  “And scary hot,” I pointed out my usual focus.

  “If that mattered then Pocket wouldn’t be stuck at zero kills,” Val teased.

  Pocket blushed. “I don’t know whether that was an insult or a compliment.”

  “Why can’t it be both?”

  “Stop with the burns, Boomworm.”

  “Because I’m a pyromancer?”

  “Too lame?”

  “Keep up the snappy comebacks, I think, instead of starting your own string.”

  “I’ll get good at this eventually.”

  “Not like it’s been a year and a half without any signs of improvement.”

  “I’ve improved!”

  “Still need to control your ‘dudes’. Breaks up your jokes too much.”

  “Matter of opinion, dude.”

  Laughter from the both of them.

  “King Henry’s thinking . . .” Miranda mumbled. She hadn’t taken her eyes off me since I’d shown up. Like she expected one of the Four Horsemen to release out of my asshole or something. Hopefully War or Death . . . cuz Pestilence coming out your asshole just doesn’t sound pleasant at all. “ . . . I think we should be scared.”

  All three of them leaned in together, watching a scruffed up, ash-marked face that wore the same frown it had since I’d zoned away from the conversation.

  “What?” I asked.

  Pocket answered for them. “You rotten bastard, you have a devious plan, don’t you?”

  “Let’s say . . . I’m coming up with one.”

  [CLICK]

  As far as Welf was concerned, we would use the same plan as last time. We got a speech. Not an epic one. “Three feet!” He held his hands up to show us the distance, before repeating, “Three feet! Between victory and defeat. That’s all we need to win this. Three feet from my hand to the button.”

  The class stood around, bunched up in their favorite groups in the cordoned off section where teams spent the downtime between games. Some listened, some ignored. Some looked like shit, others had clean black colors. Me . . . I looked like shit, ash and dust all over me. I also ignored.

  Of course.

  Never listen to necromancers. Will get you poked in a spare hole every time. And if you don’t have a spare hole, then they’ll make another one for you.

  Root’s constructs had put up a score list for the match on the big screens. That earned my attention over Welf’s theatrics. Three feet! Not exactly the battle cry to bring down kingdoms or lead a revolution.

  Sabine was at the top of the list with eleven kills. Val came next with eight. A mix and match of ’08 and ’09 then, much lower. I had three. Miranda had two. Pocket had zero. I pointed at his name. “Zero?”

  “Leave me alone,” he mumbled, clearly annoyed.

  “We can’t be friends anymore.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Zero . . . dandelion clubs not working?”

  “Still one more game to go.”

  “Yeah. I really want to see if you can go into negatives too. Looks like you’ve got a shot.”

  “I’m not the only floromancer.”

  “Right . . . five of you and one kill between, you’s just a machine of snapdragon destruction.”

  “I’d punch you, dude, but I’d pull a muscle reaching down so far to hit your face.”

  “Excuse me!”

  I turned in time to see Welf’s glare and a few more backing him up. Mostly his favorites. Though the athletic kids who viewed Winter War as just another sport to shine in didn’t look too happy either.

  “Sup?” I asked, giving my usual I-don’t-care shrug.

  “I know you want to win, Price, so how about you listen to the plan?”

  “Same as last time, right?”

  “Well . . . yes.”

  “Except no Leo to gang up on me and kick my balls around, on account of the broken jaw I gave him. You remember when I broke your jaw, Welf? Think this time was worse, did it with my feet.”

  He flinched a little, but played off my larger point and ignored the warning, “Exactly. No Leo. They’re confused. Yes, we lost Bird, but Leo’s stronger, smarter, more powerful. We’ve gained an advantage.”

  Curt Chambers spoke up for his boy. “That’s nice, but Sabine threw Bird down the whole Mound, whipped you, and would have broken through last game if Eva hadn’t snuck up on her from behind, how do you plan on dealing with her this time without ten of us getting our asses kicked? And who draws the short straw of being placed across from her at the start of the game?”

  “Me,” I answered. “I volunteer.”

  Welf’s mouth stopped half opened. “You want to go up against Sabine?”

  “We aren’t all cowards. Some of us fight our own battles.”

  Welf didn’t argue but he did spare me a glance out the corner of those cold ass tombstone-colored eyes. When Welf and Foul Mouth agree . . . that’s when Miranda looked for the Four Horsemen to show up. Just not out my asshole. No idea where from.

  “You heard him,” Welf said, keeping on with the pump-them-up speech, “Foul Mouth volunteers to take Bird’s place! The rest of you have the same positions. Remember: three feet!”

  [CLICK]

  I gathered up my team: Val, Pocket, Miranda and then Raj Malik. At that point in our schooling Raj was a guy I’d occasionally have a conversation with and what the hell, at least he didn’t hate me. Cryomancer, he was Indian-American—dot, not feather for the confused out there—and always wore a turban to match his colors. Today it was straight up black the same as the rest of us. It made him look darker than usu
al, brown instead of warm gold. Raj is usually smiling and always nice. He didn’t give a single bit of complaint when I pulled him over to help us out. Probably because he’s got a huge thing for Miranda . . .

  No one’s perfect.

  “My plan is thus: we go Water and we take out Sabine.”

  Raj’s jaw dropped, Pocket looked like I’d iron fisted him in the gut, Val tapped her teeth like she was thinking, and Miranda rolled her eyes. “He’s gone crazy,” Miranda also added, “Anima finally got to him.”

  “Everyone is scared of her—” I began.

  “With reason . . .” Pocket mumbled under his breath.

  I ignored him, continuing, “—not one of us wants to go the water route, because she’ll be waiting. Even Asa can’t take her on. She’s their version of Isabel. Came into the Mancy earlier than most of us, figured it out so she looks like a genius or something—without Isabel’s added crazy. It’s assumed everyone knows this so they’ll put Sabine in Water, and we’ll stay away from her. ’08 is happy to make that deal. It means we’re only using three-fourths of the field.”

  “Which is why Heinrich’s stretch-them-out plan didn’t work,” Raj pointed out. “Even he fears Sabine enough to only give her one sacrifice —first Samuel and now you. We didn’t stretch them enough.”

  “Right,” I agreed, though I hadn’t thought of that at all. Never be ashamed to claim brilliance when another person is happy to hand it on over. “But what if we disagree? What if we say: we can take Sabine on her home turf. Then . . . if we win, there’s nothing behind her.”

  Miranda huffed a little. “But we can’t beat Sabine.”

  “Why not?”

  Val shifted her head back and forth, another tic she had when weighing options. “She’s really good. Like Hep good, maybe even teacher good.”

  “And what are we? Suck ass Singles still? We have three of our High Five, our best cryomancer, and bait.”

  Pocket just sighed.

  “Maybe we can get him to take off his coat and flash some muscles,” Val piled on.

  Pocket sighed again, this time with his cheeks bright red.

  “You two are getting worse day by day,” Miranda muttered, though only after a spare glance at Pocket’s tall frame and wide shoulders.