by Mark Carver
Cameron exhaled with relief and smiled back. He decided it would be best to end the conversation on a high note.
“Well I’ve got to get this beast inside and clean it up.”
Mindy nodded. “Boys and their toys. I better be going too. It was nice to meet you, Cameron.”
She bounced lightly down the road towards her aunt's house. Cameron looked around, as if searching for some words that he had dropped.
Say something! Before she goes inside, say something!
“Mindy!”
She paused just as she was opening the front door.
“Yeah?”
Cameron swallowed roughly.
“I, uh, I like jogging too.”
Liar.
“If you ever want some company, maybe we could, you know, coordinate our schedules.”
His stomach tightened. Somewhere inside, his subconscious was shaking its head in disbelief.
Mindy smiled the same sunshine smile as before.
“Sure. I hit the road in the afternoon, usually around three. I like to sweat.”
Cameron swallowed again.
“Three. Okay, great. I’ll see you out here sometime.”
“Sure.” Mindy disappeared into her house.
What’s with you, man? Cameron asked himself as he began wheeling the bike towards the garage. You’re single, you’re a stud, and now you’ve got an Italian-made chick magnet. She’s just a girl. You’ve dated girls before.
He exhaled in frustration as he closed the garage door.
I know, I know. Why do I always get like this?
Conan’s baying jerked him out of his self-interrogation.
“Coming, buddy.”
CHAPTER 3
The sound of loud knocking jolted Cameron awake, demolishing his thrilling dream of scaling a Hawaiian volcano. Conan began howling in annoyance, and Cameron grumbled as he staggered out of bed.
The knocking didn’t stop, just one continual rhythm of impatience.
“I’m coming!” Cameron called out, preparing to make his displeasure perfectly clear to the delivery man or Mormon who was disrupting this otherwise tranquil morning. He rubbed his eyes and cursed as he grabbed the doorknob and yanked the door open.
“Bro! What’s going on, man?”
Cameron barely had time to react as he found himself wrapped in a hairy, sweaty hug. He concealed his grimace with a weak attempt at a smile.
“Chucky…hey buddy.”
Chucky released Cameron from his death grip and took a step back. His real name was Patric Albert Hausenhoffer III, but he had received the nickname “Chucky” in junior high because he looked like the murderous doll from the movies, minus the sinister leering expression. Chucky didn’t mind, though; he loved those films and took it as a compliment. As he grew up, he didn’t seem to age; he just became a larger version of his younger self, except now his beefy arms were covered with horror-themed tattoos, including a very excellent rendition of Chucky the doll wielding a kitchen knife on his right forearm. In fact, it was Chucky who had persuaded Cameron to get his first tattoo.
And now he was smiling like a Girl Scout on Cameron’s porch.
“What’s brings you here at this fine hour?” Cameron asked, squinting in the glare of the morning sun.
Chucky cocked one eyebrow, giving him an eerie similarity to his namesake.
“Dude, I came here to see the monster. I saw your Twitter pic and I was in love.”
Cameron blinked twice, then realized that he was referring to the motorcycle.
“Oh, the Ducati. Yeah, it’s pretty sweet.”
Chucky grinned like a dirty-minded frat boy.
“I’ll bet it’s sweet. You’re a lucky son of a gun. And I’ll wager it’s like catnip for the kitties, huh? Am I right?”
Cameron unconsciously cast a glance towards Mindy’s house. What was he going to do about his offer to go jogging with her?
His mind snapped back to the present moment.
Chucky. Big, sweaty, tattooed, lovable Chucky, smiling on his porch.
“I don’t know, man," Cameron said. "I’ve been too busy lately for any of that stuff.”
Chucky snorted with disbelief.
“Whatever man, you’re never to busy to heed the call of the wild.”
“What?”
Chucky answered by howling very loudly. Conan returned the howl, as did a few neighborhood dogs. Then Chucky resumed his wolfish leer.
“Let’s hit the town and show the honeys what the busy bee does when the work is done.”
Cameron stifled a yawn.
“Yeah, let’s do that sometime.”
Chucky nodded, apparently satisfied, and stood there smiling and rocking on his toes.
Cameron rubbed his eyes again. He loved the guy, but he wasn’t in the mood for guests right now. But he couldn’t be rude either.
“You, uh, want to come in? I was just going to make some breakfast.”
He hoped the reference to the time of day was clear enough for his friend.
Chucky slapped him on the shoulder. “Nah, you can eat. I just want to see the bike. Garage, right?”
He slipped past Cameron before he could say anything, pausing for a moment in the foyer to pat Conan’s head.
“Hey man,” he called over his shoulder, “you need to change that dog’s diet. His farts are nuclear.”
Cameron mumbled some sort of reply as he stepped back into the house and closed the door behind him. Chucky had disappeared, but after a few moments, the house rang with a booming “DUDE!”
Cameron stood in the doorway that linked the garage to the kitchen, watching Chucky hover around the bike like a predator deciding where the sink its fangs.
He looked up at Cameron with flashing eyes.
“This is killer! Dude, you’ll be blowing girls’ underwear off just by driving down the street!”
Cameron sighed with mock exasperation. “Everybody’s got a bike around here.”
“Yeah, but not like this one.”
Chucky circled the machine once more, then nodded like a sage.
“You are definitely the man.”
Cameron couldn’t help smile with pride.
“I’ve wanted a bike like this since my first year at SVA in New York. We had to do an advertisement for a graphic design class, and I saw a picture of a wicked sports bike when I was flipping through a magazine.”
“And it only took you twelve years to achieve your dream.”
Cameron nodded, feeling a little embarrassed, though he didn’t know why.
“I’m going to make some bacon and eggs; you want some?”
“Dude, forget breakfast. I want to see this baby on the road! We can get something to eat later, my treat.”
Cameron opened his mouth, his mind racing for any reason to refuse. But the sight of Chucky standing there, practically bouncing out of his shoes…well, why not. He reached out and snatched the keys from the hook on the wall and tossed them to his friend.
“Please be gentle.”
Chucky snapped his Doc Martens and saluted. “I’ll treat it with more care than I would my own mother.”
Cameron shook his head with worry. “Give me yours.”
Chucky fished his own keys out of his grimy jeans pocket and threw them across the garage. Cameron snatched them out of the air, noticing how greasy they felt.
“After riding something like this,” Chucky said, “mine is going to feel like a five dollar hooker.”
“Yeah, you would know,” Cameron remarked as he grabbed his helmet.
Chucky’s eyes flashed. “Yes, I would.”
Cameron smacked the switch on the wall and garage door opened, revealing Chucky’s fifteen-year-old Honda Rebel 250 standing in the driveway like a shy schoolboy. Cameron sighed silently, feeling his heart flutter as Chucky started the Ducati and revved the engine.
Just this once, Cameron assured himself. He’s your friend, after all. Just let him get it out of his system.
> “Come on, man!” Chucky shouted over the roar. “We’re burning daylight!”
Cameron waved, then retreated back into the house. Two minutes later, he emerged wearing a black T-shirt, well-worn blue jeans, and black construction boots. He slipped his helmet over his head and mounted Chucky’s Honda, and he had to admit that this wasn’t such a bad idea. It was a perfect morning for riding, and riding with a buddy made it even better.
Chucky slowly emerged from the garage, slapping the garage door switch on his way out. He revved the engine again and his smile was so wide, it looked like his cheeks were going to split.
“Dude, I just came in my pants!”
Cameron shook his head. Chucky pulled out in front of him and waited for him to back his way out of the driveway. Chucky’s helmet was just a flimsy skullcap helmet, something that Cameron repeatedly chastised him about.
“So where to?” he asked.
Cameron shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said loudly, though his voice was muffled by his helmet.
Chucky’s child-like grin darkened with mischief. “I’ve got an idea. Follow me.”
He gunned the throttle and left a black rubber strip on the asphalt as he sped down the street.
“Chucky!” Cameron cried, then clenched his teeth in frustration. He revved the Honda, grimacing at its embarrassingly low horsepower, and raced off in pursuit. As he passed Mindy’s house, he thought he saw her looking at him from the window.
He hoped his mind was playing tricks on him.
At the entrance of the neighborhood, he caught up with Chucky and pulled up alongside him.
“Dude, seriously,” he shouted through his helmet, “don’t get us busted. I like my low insurance rates.”
Chucky nodded absently, tilting his head and listening to the music of the engine. “Sure man, no problem. I tell you what, though - this thing can move.”
“Yeah, I know. Listen, I’ve got some stuff I need to do later, and I haven’t even eaten yet, so…”
“Don’t worry about it,” Chucky answered with a wave of his hand. “I know this place a few miles up the road. It’s a subdivision they’re building on this mountain and the road has some great twists and turns. The construction company went bankrupt so there’s nobody up there now.”
Cameron nodded. “Okay, let’s do it.”
Chucky revved the engine in response and tore out of the neighborhood like a demon. A few irate morning commuters honked their horns in annoyance, and Cameron rushed after him.
After about ten minutes, Chucky turned left onto a freshly-paved road marked by a large white sign that said “Lakeshire Terraces – Coming Soon!” Cameron followed him into the development, which was exactly as Chucky had described it: an abandoned subdivision construction project. About three hundred lots had been marked out, and work had begun on about fifty of them, but it was clear that nobody had been around for at least a couple of weeks. The road, however, was pristine, and it sloped and rose and curved like a smooth black river.
Chucky was clearly enjoying himself as he roared around the bends, his stringy hair whipping behind his head. Cameron had trouble keeping up, but despite the fact that his heart was in his throat every time Chucky took a sharp curve, he was having a great time. And despite Chucky’s recklessness, he was an excellent driver and never came close to losing control.
The pair made two circuits of the development, and then Chucky lurched to a halt near the entrance.
“Dude!” he exclaimed, kicking down the stand and cutting the motor. “You are my hero, man. This is without question the finest machine I have ever had the pleasure to ride.”
Cameron pulled off his helmet and mussed his hair. “Thanks, man.”
He knew he should have said, “You can borrow it anytime,” but he just couldn’t bring himself to say it.
Chucky didn’t care; he was still riding a wave of adrenaline. “All right, I know you want your baby back.”
Cameron breathed a grateful sigh of relief as they switched bikes. He glanced down at the seat, momentarily afraid that Chucky actually had come in his pants like he had said.
“Well, I’m a man of my word,” Chucky declared as he started his motorcycle back up again, “and I am not one to let a bro go hungry.”
Without another word, he raced out of the subdivision. Cameron quickly put on his helmet and started his bike and gave chase.
An hour later, they exited The Doo-Wop Diner with bellies full of pancakes, bacon, eggs, and orange juice. Cameron looked over at his friend, who still seemed to be feeling the effects of the morning ride.
“Thanks for the food,” he said, fishing his keys out of his pocket.
“Sure thing,” Chucky answered, though he seemed distracted.
Cameron was about to ask him what’s up, but Chucky turned and looked at him with imploring eyes.
Uh-oh, Cameron groaned.
“Hey man, can you spare a few more minutes? I know you’re super busy and all, but I really need your help with something.”
Cameron let his shoulders slump, but his face didn’t betray his reluctance.
“What do you need?”
Chucky brightened instantly. “Look, there’s this cat that’s been doing my work for the past couple years, but he’s only in town for like a week at a time. I’ve got an appointment with him at 10:30, but I need your help choosing a design.”
Cameron’s eyebrows rose. “My help?”
“Yeah. I want to get a wicked skull design here, on my shoulder above my armpit.” He attempted to reach behind him and point out the spot, but he only succeeded in looking like a freak show ballerina. He gave up after a moment and faced Cameron.
“This guy’s made two designs for me and I can’t decide which one I like more. You know skulls better than anyone I know, and I would really appreciate it if you came to the shop and helped me choose.”
Cameron shifted from one foot to the other. “Man, Chucky, I…I’ve got to pick up a blade from the finisher today…”
“Dude, twenty minutes max. I promise.”
He held up his hand like he was taking an oath in court.
Cameron held his breath for a moment, then exhaled loudly.
“All right, I’ll check it out. But I’m serious though, I can’t stick around.”
“You take a look, you give me your thoughts, and that’s it.”
Cameron nodded and hopped on his motorcycle. “Let’s get going.”
****
Cameron had never been to Cloak and Dagger Tattoo, though he had driven past it a few times. It was sandwiched between a Chinese take-out place and an adult video store. From its outward appearance, it seemed like a thousand other tattoo shops around the country, with heavily tinted windows, a glaring neon sign that said “Tattoos and Piercings” and an impressive assortment of band logo stickers adorning the windows and door.
“Don’t judge a book by its cover,” Chucky admonished as he and Cameron parked their bikes. Cameron frowned with surprise at Chucky’s psychic powers.
“Why’d you stop going to Luck o’ the Irish?” he asked.
Luck o’ the Irish Tattoos was Cameron’s preferred ink den; in fact, all of his work was done by an obese Iranian woman curiously named Monique. Cameron had found himself dragged along to one of Chucky’s appointments there and walked out with a tattoo of his own. With all of the scary news stories about sketchy tattoo parlors and scratchers slinging ink without certification, Cameron figured that Luck o’ the Irish was good enough for all of his future tattoo needs.
“I told you, man,” Chucky said as he yanked open the door, causing a small copper bell to tinkle cheerfully, “this cat’s been doing all my new work, and he’s awesome. Nothing against Luck o’ the Irish, but this guy’s in a class by himself.”
Cameron nodded, curious to meet the source of Chucky’s excitement.
The smell of cigarette smoke, incense, and a dash of weed slithered into their nostrils as they stepped into the shop. Cameron too
k a quick look around as they stepped into the lobby.
The decor was typical tattoo-shop aesthetic: tribal masks, large posters of Japanese body-suit tattoos, shelves lined with skulls that could have been real or fake, numerous band stickers and fliers for local music events, and a bright white poster displaying California’s regulations governing the world of tattoos.
The air was also buzzing with the electric hum of tattoo needles penetrating skin. Just a few millimeters deep and more than ten times per second. There were six tattoo stations in the shop, and three were hosting customers. In the far left corner, a short muscular man with spiked blonde hair and full tattoo sleeves glanced up from his workbench.
“Chucky,” he called, turning his attention back to whatever he was working on. “Come on back.”
“That’s him,” Chucky whispered.
“Yeah, I guess that,” Cameron answered with a smirk.
They walked past the front desk where a young woman with multicolored hair smiled at them, and they made their way towards the rear of the shop.
The stocky tattoo artist put down his pencil and stood up, slapping his hands together like a woodworker cleaning away the sawdust.
“Ivan,” Chucky said, “this is my buddy Cameron. He’s the one I told you about.”
Ivan shook Cameron’s hand.
“Chucky tells me you’re a swordsmith.”
Cameron smiled, caught a bit off-guard. “It’s not really as interesting as it sounds.”
Ivan shrugged. “I didn’t say it sounded interesting.”
Cameron stared at him.
“Anyway,” Chucky broke in, “I wanted Cameron to help me pick out the design. Why don’t you show him what you drew up?”
Ivan eyed Cameron for a moment, then turned to his workbench and began shifting around some papers. Cameron got the idea that this guy didn’t like being evaluated, especially by someone who wasn’t a tattoo artist.
“Here you go,” Ivan said, shoving two papers into Chucky’s hands. “Personally, I think the one with the flames would look best.”
His tone made it clear that he expected his advice to be heeded.
Chucky turned towards Cameron and showed him the drawings. “What do you think?”
Cameron glanced at the two designs. They were both well-drawn, with one being a roaring demon skull with horns and blazing fire, and the other one being a human skull with a sinister fang-filled grin.
“Where’s it going to go?” Cameron asked.
Chucky promptly stripped off his sweaty T-shirt, unleashing a torrent of body odor. Cameron suppressed a cough and studied Chucky’s back.
