by Mark Carver
“I’ve got the ‘Day of the Dead’ skull on the opposite shoulder,” Chucky pointed out, “and I wanted something to balance it out on the other side, but I didn’t want the same kind of tattoo.”
Cameron nodded, narrowing his eyes and staring at the expanse of pale white skin. Quiet gears began turning in his mind, and flashes of creativity sparked like electricity. Ivan studied him.
“May I?” Cameron asked, snatching the pencil from the desk before Ivan could answer. He took the sketch of the flaming skull and he knelt down in front of the table. Chucky and Ivan peered over his shoulder as he drew a bit here, erased a little there, added a bit of detail…
“There,” he said, jumping to his feet and brandishing the paper for inspection. Chucky and Ivan leaned closer.
Chucky’s eyes grew wide. “Dude…”
Ivan’s eyebrows rose, though his face darkened. “That…looks pretty good, man.”
Cameron stepped back, unable to hide the artistic pride radiating from his face. “I did something like this for a dagger hilt a few years ago.”
Chucky jumped, as if he had just remembered something important. “Yeah, Ivan, did I tell you? He designed that cool sword in that movie with that guy, the one that was in the news last week…man, I’m terrible with names. Anyway, that double-bladed-twisty-sword thing came right out of Cammy boy’s head here.”
He tapped Cameron’s skull with a bit more force than he realized. Cameron smirked and stepped back out of range.
Ivan squinted at him for a moment, then a small smile forced its way to the surface. “Yeah, I remember that. Good job, man.”
Cameron grinned, feeling a lot lighter. “Thanks.”
Ivan took the drawing from Chucky and studied it carefully. “This is bitchin.’ You guys chill for a moment while I get the stencil made.”
“Sure thing,” Chucky said as Ivan stepped away. He turned towards Cameron with worshipful eyes.
“You rock, dude! I knew it was a good idea to bring you. That was pretty ballsy, too, man. I mean, you just corrected an Ivan Stockton tattoo sketch. That’s like telling God that Eve wasn’t hot enough.”
“Whatever you say. Listen, I’m going to head out. I really have to get to the finishers before the afternoon.”
Chucky wrapped him in a meaty, shirtless hug. “Take it easy, bro. I’ll swing by later and show you how it turns out.”
Cameron took a breath of fresh air as he extracted himself from Chucky’s embrace. “Just post a Twitter pic. I’ve got something to do later.”
“Ah,” Chucky said with a grin, “time to the let the tiger out of its cage, huh?”
Cameron smirked. “No, more like putting a thirteen-year-old dog in a cage. Conan needs a check-up.”
“I’m telling you dude, that dog’s got a noxious colon. Check the dog food bag: maybe it’s skunk meat that got mislabeled as ‘beef.’”
“Yeah, I’m sure that’s it. Enjoy the pain, man.”
“You know I always do.”
Cameron snaked his way through the other grimacing customers. He could feel the buzzing needles in the nerves of his teeth, and he was grateful to step out into the lobby. The girl at the front desk caught his eye for a moment, and he smiled shyly.
“Don’t be a stranger,” she said as he passed.
Cameron turned around and nodded a polite goodbye, then turned again towards the door. He jerked to a halt just as the door flew open and a man blew into the shop like a gale.
“Hey, look who’s here,” the girl at the front desk announced, her voice sounding much sweeter than when she had spoken to Cameron. “The General returns home.”
Cameron had only a fraction of a second to get a glimpse of the newcomer, but the image burned into his brain like a scorching brand.
The man’s eyes were black as night but they gleamed as if they were illuminated from within. His strong, chiseled jaw was adorned with a beard that could only be described as fantastic. He wore a studded black leather vest, black jeans, and motorcycle boots that looked like they weighed fifty pounds each. His massive arms were covered with incredibly detailed tattoos of all styles, yet they all fit seamlessly together, as if they were all part of one design. Tattoos even crept up his neck like vines clinging to an indomitable tree trunk.
But that’s not what made Cameron stop and stare with awe and wonder.
Curling around the man’s piercing eyes were intricate, tribal-inspired tattoos that trailed down over his cheekbones. They gave him a frightening, yet incredibly mysterious appearance.
The man called the General strode into the shop like a king in his castle. His presence was undeniable, and everyone in the shop turned and looked up at him. Cries of “Hey, the General’s back!” and “Hey, looking good, man!” floated towards him like roses from an adoring audience.
Cameron was too awestruck to realize that he was holding the door open and letting the air conditioning escape. The General looked like some kind of mythical hero from an epic fantasy tale. There were plenty of tough guys skulking around California flexing their tattooed muscles, but this guy…
It’s like he’s from another realm.
Cameron blinked, realizing that he was gawking like a star-struck teenager. He pulled the door open wider and made the little bell tinkle. The General looked up from his crowd of admirers and glanced over his shoulder. His eyes smoldered from within their tattooed caverns, and Cameron felt a shiver trickle down his spine. He inhaled a quick breath and stepped out of the shop, squinting for a moment in the sunshine.
His eyes came to rest on the behemoth in the parking lot.
Whoa…
It was the baddest Harley chopper he had ever seen, and in California, that’s saying a lot. A gleaming giant of chrome, black high-gloss paint, and flames so life-like, they looked like they were shimmering. It was beautiful and savage at the same time, and it seemed to be more than twice the size of his own motorcycle.
For a moment, he imagined the General blazing down the highway, a soul-withering nightmare of doom.
He blinked again, feeling very embarrassed.
Dude, what are you, thirteen? He’s just a guy with cool tats and a wicked ride. It’s all cosmetic. You could be just like him if you wanted.
Cameron looked at his own motorcycle parked a few yards away.
His own motorcycle, which just yesterday had seemed like heaven on wheels, and which had almost made Chucky come in his pants.
He looked back at the chopper, thinking how invincible he would feel astride that monster.
Forget it, man. Just forget it.
He exhaled slowly and walked over to his bike. When he started it, he felt a reassuring thrill of adrenaline.
He peeled out of the parking lot, feeling the breeze whipping against his chest. Yeah…this was the way to do it. Lumbering down the road on a metal mastodon was for He-Man wannabes with small…
The General’s face flashed through his mind.
Wannabe, huh?
CHAPTER 4
The gilded hilt looked amazing, and Cameron zipped home from the finishers with the hilt stowed in a backpack that he borrowed from one of the workers. It was covered in punk rock patches, just like his had been in high school.
Tonight was his bi-monthly poker game with a few buddies from SVA that had migrated to California, one after the other. They had all realized that they were really California souls from the beginning, and the cold New England grayness just didn’t suit them. Cameron had been one of the first, landing an apprenticeship at a prominent custom cutlery shop after his sword and battleaxe homework designs had caught the attention of one of his teachers, who was happy to give him a good word with a friend out West. Cameron had leaped at the chance and found himself with the title of head designer after less than two years. When his name started becoming a brand itself, he realized that he could make more money as an independent, and he struck out on his own and didn't looked back.
As his college buddies had filtered out to
the land of beaches and sun, he began to realize just how lucky he was, and he was determined not to squander any opportunities. At the same time, he told himself that he wasn’t going to become a cold-hearted workaholic who would let his friendships wither as he chased fame and fortune.
He soon realized that this was pretty much all he needed. He didn’t date much; he was too absorbed in his work and the world of fantasy. He had a few semi-serious relationships in the past, but something just never felt right with him. He had never really known what to do with a woman. Not like that…he just wasn’t sure how to keep the fires of mutual interest burning.
He liked heavy metal, he liked motorcycles, and he really liked weapons…and that was it. And Conan, of course. He had never really felt any longing to become a husband and father. He didn’t have anything against raising a happy family in a quaint suburb somewhere, but he was already doing that, minus the happy family. His work and Conan were all the family he needed. He wasn’t sure if a wife and kids would make him more or less happy, but he wasn’t really willing to take the risk to find out.
As he pulled into the driveway, he spotted Mindy stepping out of her house for a jog. He had to admit that she looked better every time he saw her.
She looked his way and smiled as she jogged over.
“Hey neighbor,” she said with sunshine in her voice as she jogged in place.
“Hey,” Cameron said as he pulled off his helmet.
Mindy jerked her head towards the street. “I’m heading out for a run…you want to join me?”
Cameron wished he still had his helmet on so he could scan her body without her noticing.
“Um, well, I, uh…”
Her smile was beautiful. Cameron narrowed his eyes.
“Sure. Let me just grab the mail and put my bike away. Give me three minutes.”
Mindy nodded, making her ponytail bounce like a rabbit. “I’ll get your mail for you.”
She bounded over to the mailbox and extracted a bundle of letters and a magazine, which she handed to Cameron. He took the mail without looking at it.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
He looked at her for a moment, strangely transfixed by her infectious energy as she hopped from one foot to the next, though she didn’t sweat or breathe heavily at all. Then his eyes fell away, and he gripped the motorcycle’s handle bars to push it into the garage. As the garage door rumbled shut, he watched her white running shoes still hopping in the driveway.
He stepped into the kitchen and tossed the mail onto the counter with a slap. He had to admit that he was excited, kind of like when a new blade design suddenly flashes into his head and he can’t wait to sketch it out…
Come on, man, grow up. You’re just going for a jog in the middle of the afternoon. It’s not a date or anything.
Cameron frowned. I know, I know. But still, she’s nice, and she’s hot…who knows?
Something inside him snorted with contempt. Dude, seriously? Miss Southern Belle? Come on man, don’t flip out just because she has a nice -
Hey, that’s enough, Cameron scolded. This conversation’s over.
As he knelt down to give Conan a pat on the head, something in the stack of mail caught his eye.
A name.
He brushed aside the bills and junk mail and snatched up the magazine. The title, BladeSmith, glowed in bright, fire-hued letters at the top. Below it was a grim-faced man with long hair and muscular arms folded across his bare chest. His forearms were wrapped in black studded leather, and he looked like a blacksmith from a Viking movie.
Cameron knew exactly who he was.
His fingers gripped the page as his eyes read and re-read the name on the cover.
Shane Calhoun.
Cameron wrenched open the magazine and found the cover story.
Six whole pages…
In the middle of the article was a centerfold poster. Cameron popped it out without a thought to what damage the staples might do to the paper and unfolded the poster.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
Shane Calhoun was bare-chested like the magazine cover, his tawny skin flecked with sweat as he raised a massive hammer over his head, preparing to smash it down upon a glowing blade he held against an anvil. His eyes flashed with fire and the veins in his neck and arms bulged out. His dark hair flew wildly, contrasting sharply with the mountain of flames that roared behind him. The words “Shane Calhoun: Master of Metal” were branded across the image in white-hot letters. The left side of the page faded to darkness and several of Shane’s signature weapon designs were displayed along with their ridiculous names.
Cameron’s eyes were riveted to the man’s scowling face.
Shane Calhoun.
He crumpled the poster and flung it to the ground, almost hitting Conan. The dog looked up at him with a curious expression.
Cameron’s knuckles were white as he gripped the countertop. He stared into space, feeling the flames of anger spreading across his soul.
Shane Calhoun… that lying son of a -
“Hey Cameron! The road’s a-waitin!’”
Cameron stepped out onto the porch. His face was as dark as a storm cloud. Mindy’s smile vanished.
“I…I can’t go with you today,” he said with a sullen voice. “I’m sorry.”
Mindy opened her mouth to ask what the problem was, but his expression let her know that he wasn’t interested in explaining himself. She just nodded and smiled again, though it was much weaker than before.
“Okay, no big deal. I’ll catch you next time.”
“Sure.” Cameron turned and headed back inside.
Mindy watched him leave, then turned with a shrug and sprinted down the street.
****
Cameron didn’t hear the crushing chords of Megadeth’s latest opus. His tongue didn’t taste the beer that he poured into his mouth every few seconds. All he saw were the words on the glossy magazine pages.
“…Innovator in the world of weaponry… Pays reverence to his predecessors while blazing his own fiery trail… Boasts a celebrity client list longer than the Spear of Algendorn… Guest of honor at DragonCon in Atlanta…”
Cameron gulped another mouthful of tasteless beer. His eyes fell upon a short paragraph near the end of the article.
“And when Shane isn’t pounding steel into submission or scaling boulders in his custom Jeep rock crawler, he likes to kick back and shred some killer riffs with his heavy metal band Mother Mothra, named after the famous flying monster that gave Godzilla quite a thrashing. ‘Everything in my life is extreme,’ Shane says as he takes in the view from his home in San Bernardino. ‘If it’s not full-on full throttle, I don't want anything to do with it.’”
Cameron threw the magazine onto the table in disgust. He brought the beer bottle to his lips, but it was empty. He started to throw it too but he stopped himself and set it down on the table beside the sofa. His eyes glowered like coals as he stared into space, clenching and unclenching his fists. Conan watched him with lethargic sympathy, giving his leg a nuzzle just to remind him that the world wasn’t over.
Cameron glanced down at the dog and inhaled deeply.
“I swear, buddy, if that guy was here now, I’d…"
His clenched teeth cut off the rest of the sentence, and he felt the mercury rising in his brain.
“That guy owes me everything!” he shouted to Conan. “I gave him a seat at the table, and what does he do? He grabs all his chips and runs for the door. And now look at him.”
Conan’s eyes lazily drifted towards the cover that Cameron held in front of his nose.
“He gets the BladeSmith cover story, he gets to become the next Kit Rae, and it’s all because he stole my – "
The cell phone on the table buzzed with an irritating pop song. Cameron grabbed it and looked at the number. He closed his eyes and cursed silently.
“Hey Tyler,” he said as he answered the call. “Yeah, yeah man, sorry, I just… Today
was pretty hectic for me and I came home and crashed… Sorry man, I totally forgot about the game... Nah, you guys go ahead, I think I’m going to sit this one out… No, yeah I’m fine, just got caught up in some stuff… Yeah I know… All right man, tell the guys it’s my bad… I’ll bring a case of the good stuff next week as an apology… Okay, good luck… Later.”
He slumped back against the sofa and rubbed his eyes. Crap.
He looked down at the magazine. Shane Calhoun smirked up at him victoriously. Cameron threw the magazine in the trash and walked over to the window. He could hear the music now, and it started to soothe him a little. He could feel himself slamming a hammer down on a glowing steel blade with the rhythm of the song.
That’s what he needed to do to get Shane Calhoun out of his head.
We’ll see who pounds steel into submission.
His exit from the living room was arrested by the cell phone buzzing again. He frowned and looked at the number.
Toby?
“Hello?” he said.
“Hey bro, how’s it going?”
Something wasn't right. Toby didn’t sound like his usual slick-talking self.
“Uh, not much,” Cameron answered warily. “Just chilling at home. What’s up?”
There was a pause for a moment. Cameron thought he could hear Toby scratching his head.
“Listen, Cam, I…I’ve got something important to tell you, and you’re probably not going to like it.”
Cameron didn’t know why, but he glanced down at the magazine in the trash can.
“What’s up?” he repeated.
“It’s about your old pal Shane Calhoun.”
Cameron winced. “Okay.”
“He, uh…did you see the latest issue of BladeSmith?”
Cameron paused. “Uh, no, why?”
“Well…the feature story is about Shane, and the studio…listen, I hate this guy as much as you do, and I know it should be you up there with your name in lights, but the fact is…well, that it’s his name in lights, and the studio suits were really impressed with it all. He’s been very visible lately, showing up at all the conventions, doing guest appearances on the roundtable discussions after that fantasy show that everyone’s into these days…”
“Toby, just give it to me straight.”
Toby sighed. “They’re giving the Ravenblade project to Shane.”
