Fall, winter, spring: Catkin runs rampant with his spiritual cousins, feral pets left behind when vacation’s over and they’re not kittens anymore. They’re always hungry. So is he, but squirrels and garbage spills don’t yield what he needs.
Things finally pick up toward the end of May. Catkin walks the resort in human form, then, rangy at first but growing sleeker by the hour. His eyes are strange. His grin is cruel and young.
June is coming. Soon he’ll feast on wine coolers and boredom, skinny joints and skinned knuckles; taut boys, and tan girls in white tennis dresses, eager to apoplex Dad.
CHUNG CHUNG!
“Hey, guys, g’morning,” says a sleepy Consuela. “Listen, that sound effect is really loud–”
“There have been some important murders in here,” says Fontana. Green is running caution tape back and forth across the shower.
“It’s just I have a friend coming to stay, and it would be really nice to have both bathrooms.”
“Where were you on the night of last night?” frowns Fontana, notebook out.
“Upstairs,” says Consuela weakly. “Like every night this month.”
“We’ll have to investigate.”
“We’re detectives,” Green chimes in.
“There has to be a better way to get my SAG card,” says Consuela.
“I liked it!” says Alex, as they push out the back exit.
“Everyone liked it, nobody’s saying they didn’t like it,” says Tyler.
“IT WAS A 112-MINUTE STROBE-LIT CINEMATIC ORGASM,” Daniel announces to the parking lot. Behind them, someone whoops.
“Are you getting orgasms confused with epilepsy?” says Phillip.
“Are you not?”
“It was really, really a lot of fun,” says Tyler. “Particularly considering that nothing was at stake and the girls didn’t get enough screen time.”
“I just can’t believe they gave Toe’s part to Michael Cera,” says Dylan.
“I’m not Michael Cera!” says Toe. “I’m Michael Cera?”
ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED! PURPLE HEART! chirps Leggatt’s headset, audible only in the open-mouthed silence as they stand around his writhing body in chagrin.
“I’m not sure this is the best way to get a full unlock,” says Cormac, clutching his rifle.
“Everybody does achievement parties!” says Leigh, bravefaced if a little gray. “How do you think those 27th guys stay on top of the leaderboards? If we didn’t help each other out it would take, like, years to get a MoH!”
“I’m starting to wish I’d spawned in Kunar,” says Cormac.
“Ggghhhhhh,” says Leggatt, one hand fumbling around for his eye.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
“Everything that’s happened was my fault,” says Sara.
“No,” says Zach, “it’s mine,” and feels a dizzying tilt to the world with that admission. He leans over to steady himself on the bedfoot, which is why Hidebound’s bullet burns his ear in passing on its way to spiderweb the window. The zweep of his silencer is somehow inappropriate.
Zach, for once, doesn’t scream.
Sara spins with the nearest available weapon, a fruit bowl, which shatters on Hidebound’s head. He shakes off blood and throws her at Zach, who sort of catches her. They fall.
Hidebound resists mightily the urge to monologue.
Wester de Card dug a tunnel and discovered a city beneath the city, evidence that the present was not the past. The Inspectors disapproved. They corrected his behavior by inducing severe claustrophobia. It took a week.
Wester left the facility, found an accomplice, and began to disseminate historical literature. The Inspectors corrected his accomplice to death while Wester watched. It took a month.
Wester began to set fire to officially sanctioned archives. They corrected all the bones of his hands. It took an hour.
Wester de Card is going to correct them, this time. And it’s going to be just perfect.
Foyle scrambled over the Fairyworld fence to gain a few yards on his pursuers; it should have been empty, but instead a man in an elf costume is demanding to know whether he wants asylum.
“Uh,” says Foyle.
He glances over his shoulder, panting. The cops are arguing with a pair of burly druids. The gates remain closed.
“The theme park is technically a consulate,” says the elf. “Are you requesting our government’s protection?”
“What–okay,” says Foyle. “Yes?”
The elf smiles; his teeth are pointed. Foyle’s wondering if those ears are fake, and exactly what kind of asylum he’s accepted.
Excelsior Maximum is anonymous, his helmet a blank mask split by streamlines, crouched over his Henderson Custom like a ski-jumper or some brazen rocketeer. Squealing police cars smash to a stop at the base of the Chrysler building.
Excelsior Maximum escapes.
“Damn him! Damn you all!” swears Chief Kilkenny, stomping his hat as the black rider dwindles.
“Why do we always chase him?” grunts the rookie, self-extricating. “What did the man do?”
“It’s 1978,” snaps Bogard. “We outlawed motorcycles fifty years ago!”
But can one outlaw the impossible? wonders the rookie, following black tread straight up the building’s façade.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010