King Henry Short Pack One (The King Henry Tapes)

by Richard Raley

  Usually it was an hour.

  But . . .

  He needed to prepare himself.

  Like a noble knight fasting and praying before entering battle.

  Only . . . instead of fasting there would probably be homemade cookies.

  He had called his mother yesterday night to ask her if it would be okay if he had a business guest over. He had to ask so King Henry could come over and torture him. It was cruel. Worse, they ended up in a predictable conversation about how he needed to stop worrying about business all the time and think about finding a girlfriend again. At least she admits I have had a few of them! King Henry seems to think I’m a monk.

  Tyson was just having a dry spell.

  That was it.

  A two year long dry spell.

  Has it been that long?

  A dry spell he didn’t want to break with the kind of women King Henry kept trying to hook Tyson up with . . . mostly because they seemed to have some experience at hooking as it were. “She’s named Yolanda. She’s Russian . . . or Ukrainian, same thing, right? Her tits are fucking epic. She’s cool with the big black wang. I warned her about it being vagina breaking big and everything.”

  Tyson sometimes wondered if maybe King Henry was the reason he didn’t have a decent girlfriend. If he had one then she would have to be able to put up with him. Maybe I should try online dating again, he thought morosely.

  “Don’t frown, sweetie,” his mother reminded him as she flashed about the kitchen prepping the meal she still had to cook. “It makes you look mean.”

  Tyson forced a smile for her.

  She beamed back at him. “There we go, much better!”

  His mother was named Gertrude. She always insisted on being called Gerty, saying that ‘Gertrude’ was a grandmother’s name. Though she said it with a wink for Tyson when she was in his presence, just because she knew the child issue drove him to terror even more than the girlfriend issue.

  Her family was of German and Scottish stock and had migrated to the Central Valley during the Dustbowl. After graduating high school, she moved from one of the smaller farming towns surrounding Fresno to attend college in the big city back during the 80s. Though, back then the city wasn’t so much ‘big’ as still dealing with the fact it wasn’t a small town any longer.

  It was at college that she met Tyson’s father and they married just after both of them graduated with their bachelor degrees. More schooling, an accounting business, and work as a registered nurse followed, but no children. Eventually a doctor told them that none would.

  So they adopted a three-month-old baby boy that had been abandoned in the hospital by his biological mother.

  “You really don’t have to sit in here and keep me company, you know,” his mother told him. “Not that I’d ever turn down your company . . . but you’ve never been very interested in making the food so much as eating it up, have you, sweetie?”

  By the time they’d adopted, they had been thirty and now both of Tyson’s parents were almost sixty. That dreaded age when you had to accept that though perhaps you still had a lot of life left in you, most of it was spent and could not be reclaimed.

  Even with magic, Tyson thought, though some mancers seem to live next to forever by normal standards.

  His mother had retired the year before. She’d begun to experiment with letting her hair go un-dyed and now it had a frost of silver running through the brown. It looked almost like it was done on purpose by some stylist, not created by chance and a lack of melanin.

  “Frowning!” she warned him as she opened the oven to check on a homemade pie. She had always been a good cook, pies and cookies and bakery dishes being a staple of Tyson’s childhood, but had also been experimenting with more and more complicated food since she retired.

  They were having Pad Thai for the night.

  How that went with the apple pie, Tyson was unsure.

  He was almost unsure what his father would think of Pad Thai, since counter to his ancestry, James Bonnie preferred a casserole or meatloaf over just about anything else. “It’s food, son, all I want from it is energy and to not upset my stomach. I was raised simple and never wanted for more. Though I can never turn down your mother’s banana fritters.”

  Dad’s stomach has been under siege and losing ground for the last year, especially since Mom planted those spices in the garden.

  “I’m just thinking,” Tyson said. “It’s hard to smile when you’re thinking.”

  “Is it? Babies? Kittens? Puppies? Pretty girls?”

  Tyson sighed.

  She kept going, tailoring the next bit for him, “A new video game console? VR headsets? New Avengers movie? ComicCon passes? A girl dressed as Princess Leia?”

  “Have you seen Princess Leia lately, Mom?”

  “You better not be making jokes about us old ladies or I might have to hurt you, sweetie.”

  Tyson smiled again, this time slightly less forced.

  “And again he looks so friendly and handsome!” Mom exclaimed.

  His Mom. His Dad. Tyson was very adopted, you only had to look at the family photos on the fireplace mantel to figure that one out, but he had never thought of them as anything else, nor had any thought about going and finding his biological family. Even when he found out he was a mancer—while it wasn’t genetic, some families seemed to have an unknown factor in inheriting the skill—he still never developed the urge.

  What would be the point?

  How could you do better than James and Gertude Bonnie?

  “I was just thinking about my friend,” Tyson admitted. Both that this was his thought and that against all the odds, somehow King Henry Price was now firmly his friend. Tyson had other friends. Lots of them . . . he had just never met them. E-friends. Gaming friends. He still emailed a number of the students in his Ultra class, a few of the teachers, and had a large index of business contacts too.

  But real, in the flesh, friends?

  King Henry Price.

  That’s really fucking pathetic, man. Should like buy a dog or something, he heard King Henry say in his head. Like a robot dog at least. And get laid. Getting laid would help. Not with the dog though. Can support a lot of weird shit, but can’t support that one. With the robot dog? That’s an interesting ethical conundrum, ain’t it?

  “I thought it was about business?” Mom asked.

  “He’s kind of both. I know, I know, Dad wouldn’t approve of mixing the two.” Wasn’t much he could do about it now. It was inevitable. King Henry Price would meet the Bonnies. Unless his motorcycle crashes somehow . . . but how do I arrange that in under three hours? I suppose I could drive over to his house and drain the battery on it.

  But then, knowing King Henry, he would just steal a neighbor’s car.

  Like my station wagon, T-Bone? I got it cheap . . . really fucking cheap . . . five minutes of anima cheap. Want to hear this bitch drop the bass?

  “Well, what about him?”

  “I’m trying to think up a way to politely tell him not to come,” Tyson further admitted.

  His mother gave him the Eye. “Tyson, that’s not nice.”

  “I know. Still . . .”

  “Well, is he your friend or not?”

  “He is . . .”

  “And you bought into his business despite your father telling you not to mix the two all your life?”

  “I did . . .”

  “Then what’s wrong? There must be something about him for you to take the risk. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you refuse to listen to your father when it comes to business.”

  “King Henry . . . is a handful. I mean . . . if you were friends with Bill Gates, or Mark Zuckerberg, or Elon Musk, you’d want to be friends with them, you’d want to be one of the people who saw how amazing and inventive and creative they are and believe in them, but . . . maybe, just maybe . . . you should shut your mouth and not invite them to family dinner.”

  Mom came over to give him a pat on the shoulder. “We’ve fought I
RS audits for thirty years, I’m sure we’ll survive your friend, sweetie.”

  “Hopefully,” Tyson whispered under his breath.

  What if I drained the battery of every car on his block? Would that work?

  *

  “Why is he here already?!?” Tyson screeched at the sound of King Henry’s electric bike, that sharp buzz of engine and the skid of wheels as he took the corner up into the driveway. King Henry was a terrifying driver. It was the reason everyone made sure they were in charge of any vehicle they entered with him.

  They just never told him that was the reason behind it because it was a sore point that he never seemed to get to drive.

  I’m a great driver, T-Bone! Look at that, I barely even clipped that hobo over there! He got up without an ambulance, means it don’t count!

  Mom peered out the kitchen window beside Tyson. She was short, short enough and small enough that she joked with Tyson about it being a good thing she hadn’t actually had to give birth to him, or else neither of them would have made it. She came to his elbow and had to lean forward over the counter to see, where Tyson had to duck his head.

  What they saw was King Henry Price. Brown hair that was short and at best described as present. Eyes were just as brown, just as plain, just as forgettable. He had a thick neck and a thick jaw and could’ve played a criminal on television with ease. As always, King Henry had that expression on his face like he had just done something you would never expect and was pleased with himself about it. He practically snarled at Tyson’s childhood home like it was some enemy to be defeated.

  “So . . .” Mom said, “That’s what a comic book store genius looks like?”

  “It’s more than comics. I just can’t talk about it. Non-disclosure agreement that I’m not even supposed to acknowledge,” he uncharacteristically lied to his mom. “So try to help me out when Dad starts his attack, okay?”

  “I’ll try, sweetie; might be hard though, with your friend’s face so ready for a mug-shot.”

  “I told you he was difficult,” Tyson grumbled. “And here two hours early just to prove it.”

  “Well . . . he looks more interesting than your friends in elementary school, I’ll say that much. And middle school. And the classmates I met during your graduation. Why is it you’ve never invited any of them over?”

  Outside of the house, standing in the middle of the front lawn, King Henry had turned to peer up and down the street, like he was waiting for some threat to appear at any moment. A threat that he would likely or maybe even hopefully have to fight off. I can never tell any more if he’s paranoid or looking forward to it.

  Or both.

  “They live all over the world now, so they’re just email friends.”

  “He went to your school as well, isn’t that what you said?”

  “Four years after me. He’s a seven-year student too.”

  “You wouldn’t think so, though I don’t think those teachers ever gave an accurate reason for why some students were given the honor and others weren’t,” Tyson’s mom pointed out in a sour tone.

  Gertrude Bonnie was a smart, observant woman. They had never talked about it and she had never been able to make the final connections since your mind didn’t go to ‘magic’ because . . . that’s preposterous! But she had been very suspicious about the whole Institution of Elements teaching system. Every summer break and even during Christmas time, she would present Tyson with equivalent high school test papers and make him take them, all to test that the Institution was teaching him well, not that he was being a good student—it was a given that Gertrude Bonnie’s boy was a good student. He was also told time and again that if he wanted to transfer back to Fresno then it could be done instantly, just call on the phone. In fact, it would even be preferred since she missed her son and this boarding school schedule was 19th century nonsense outside of British Mystery Dramas!

  He had thought about telling her the truth a thousand times.

  Mom . . . you kind of adopted a wizard.

  It just sounded stupid.

  Absurd enough for King Henry to enjoy.

  Besides, all those worries were behind him now.

  He was graduated, he had his business. They barely ever thought about his weird school anymore. Unless I invite a classmate over for dinner and go into business with him, bringing up all the old questions again.

  Yes, the horrible, horrible, horrible, very stupid, not-good thing keeps getting worse.

  Tyson watched as King Henry turned towards the front door and prowled on forward like a house thief looking for an unlocked door. Look at them flowers, T-Bone, be a shame if something happened to them.

  I have to set some ground rules, Tyson decided. “I’ll go let him in.”

  “I’ll go to the office and get your father then.”

  “Mom, you don’t have—”

  “I know you’re probably worried we’ll embarrass you, but we have to be good hosts and greet our guest, sweetie. It’s the nice and proper thing to do. We don’t want him to think we’re rude, would we?”

  “I’m more worried about him embarrassing me,” Tyson murmured under his breath.

  “What was that?”

  “Love you, Mom,” Tyson defaulted upon.

  “Of course you do, sweetie.”

  *

  Tyson swung the front door open.

  King Henry grinned up at him. It wasn’t exactly an unfriendly grin, it was just slightly unnerving. “Them’s some fucking badass snapdragons you guys got! Mind if I pick a few for Val next weekend? Been meaning to get her flowers, but I think I’d have to cut my balls off if I walked into a florist shop.”

  Something inside of Tyson panicked.

  He might have also had a heart attack.

  And an anxiety attack.

  Maybe a stroke or two.

  Tyson stepped through the door and then slammed it shut behind him. “What do you say we go to a sports bar instead? It’s all on me! All day. All the booze. All the buffalo wings and pepper fries. All. On. Me.”

  King Henry just shook his head sadly. “Can’t do that to your folks. I mean, I only smelled it for a few seconds before you barred the entry way against the Mongol hordes, but was that some apple pie I smelled? I love me some apple pie! Your mom a cook, man? Learn all that spicy Asian shit for your dad? She cook you fried chicken and collard greens? Watermelon popsicles? Whip you up some purple drank mix? ”

  Tyson considered punching King Henry.

  King Henry’s grin announced the fact that King Henry was very aware of this fact and was pleased with it.

  “Listen, man . . . if you want, then sure, we can go to a sports bar.”

  “Really?!?” Hope rose inside of Tyson.

  “Sure . . . after I meet your parents. Don’t want to be rude, do we?”

  Hope died.

  Shot in the face.

  Stabbed twenty times.

  Stomped by an elephant.

  Thrown over a cliff.

  ON FIRE.

  “These are my parents, King Henry,” Tyson pleaded with him. “You have to behave a little bit. You can’t mention the Institution or the Mancy or any—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I get it. Not my place, right? I mean, got enough secrets I’m keeping myself nowadays, don’t need yours to put on my shoulders too. It’s okay if I curse though, right?”

  “Um . . . no?”

  “Val let me curse the first time I met her parents.”

  “I think there’s something really wrong with her, King Henry.”

  “Or something just too right. I’ll keep it to ‘fuck’ and ‘shit’ mostly, okay? ‘Bitch’ probably offends your mom and I’d probably have to explain the intricacies of ‘fucktard’ to them, so we’ll just skip its glory and leave it on the shelf.”

  Tyson heard his mom call his name from inside of the house.

  “King Henry,” he said, “Please . . .”

  “There a reason you got a pretty obvious stakeout van parked down the street
by the way?” King Henry asked, pointing with a thumb at a black van two houses down.

  “It says they’re a plumber.”

  The front door opened.

  Tyson’s parents filled the doorway.

  King Henry darted around Tyson to shake hands while Tyson was busy studying the plumbing van.

  Electrocuted and left to sizzle in a thunderstorm, Tyson thought about that fragile thing called hope.

  *

  James Bonnie was himself adopted.

  Unlike Tyson, he vaguely remembered his mother, who had died when he was two. For him it wasn’t abandonment, but a lack of any family whatsoever that saw him taken in by a very charitable Christian family and raised as one of their own. Jin became James and while the memory of a young, sickly, dark-eyed woman remained, he was raised on church, guns, NASCAR, and apple pies.

  He aced his way through high school, went to college, and became a prosperous family accountant.

  He married a white woman.

  He adopted a black baby.

  He was post-racial before it was cool.

  And it is the only time he has ever been accused of being cool in his entire life, Tyson thought as he stepped back inside the house, trailing forlornly behind the ball of manic destruction that was King Henry Price.

  King Henry had an arm around each of Tyson’s parents, guiding them through the house and asking both of them questions about decorations and pictures. He kept turning around and giving Tyson a bit of his grin behind their backs.

  I’m in your base, killing your dudes!

  “Teapots!” King Henry shouted. “Did Tyson ever tell you that my store used to be an antique store? I had dozens of those things all over the place. Old ladies used to come in and buy them up. Was about the only time I ever got a sale.”

  James Bonnie frowned. He was shorter than even King Henry, much slighter as well, had graying black hair and a pair of glasses that, like the rest of him, had never been cool. “I thought my son was investing in your comic book store?”

  He said comic book about the same way most parents said what do you mean you got her pregnant? Or: what do you mean you stole a car? Or the way other Asian parents said: what do you mean you only got an A minus?