Home to Pastures and Poverty
Mostly the Latter
A tear in the fabric of space-time spewed six cyclones.
“I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.” The distaff storm sighed. Relief on her lips. Scarlet hair in pigtails. Dressed like a baby doll. A really slutty baby doll.
“Check again.” Narrow eyes peered through mangy hair. A sharp nail pointed. To a navy sign. Featuring an oversized Helianthus annuus. And the following in gold and white:
“Shit,” she spat around a wad of pink bubble-gum.
“What’s the plan?” His skin reflected the midday sun. His disposition didn’t. His voice hollow from a hidden chasm.
“We paint Middle America red.” Her bubble burst. A slick snap.
“Knew I should’ve worn my smock.” A ropey hand ran through shocks of flax.
That’s when the twisters tore through town. The citizens of Liberal (population just over 20,000) never saw ‘em coming. Except for the ones who did. Panic swept in tidal waves. It was fight or flight. And, everybody wanted wings.
Metallic hands brandished twin axes. The woodsman became a windmill. Prices were slashed. Ties were severed. Heads rolled. “This is such a hatchet job.”
The man with the mane roared. His mouth found solace. In a stroller. Teeth gnashed. A mother wept. Hysterical. “That gringo ate my baby!” And, she was the main course.
Woven skin twisted to smile. Arms stretched wide. Fingers unspooled. Bound. Wound. Strangled. His head lulled to the left. A dry socket winked at a whimpering waitress. “Don’t cross me.”
The dog charged a playground. Latched onto a four year-old’s chest. Shook until she squeaked. Or bled. Whichever came first.
Squinted eyes fixed on a swaying sedan. Stubby hands straightened pin stripes. The diminutive man rushed. Headlong into the driver’s door. The couple squealed. For more than one reason. The dwarf unhinged his jaw. Produced a dagger from his gullet. Stabbed the boy’s grey eye. A crimson geyser exploded onto the girl’s naked breasts. She turned. Reverse cowgirl. Mortified. “You freak...!” From beneath her skirt shot stiletto bullets. Miniature mallets snagged those soles. Twisted her legs into bows. “I lost my pituitary gland in ‘Nam!”
Raspberry nails twirled a red tassel. Pouted lips suckled a slender thumb. She sauntered into the middle of the street. Clicked her silver heals. Kicked up a storm. Asphalt rippled. Speeding cars collided. Heads smashed through windshields. Glass flew into fleeing backs. “Hunh. Guess I can stop traffic.”
“But, you can’t deliver a line.” Two taps to her shoulder forced a sideward glance. Her face caught his fist. She took a tumble.
“What--no posturing?” She scoffed between coughs of blood. “And, you call yourselves heroes.”
Jack Hawksmoor stood on solid ground. “We call ourselves effective.” A ridged foot found her freckles. Paved road turned to quicksand. And, the baby doll drowned.
Leather hands sifted through wreckage. Searching for a blunt instrument. And any signs of life. Only to find neither. So, a hubcap was fashioned into a Frisbee. And lodged into the lion’s nape. “Hey, cowardly cunt!” The Midnighter scanned another car. “Bob Barker just called.”
“He wants you to castrate me?” The feline fumed. A freight train on all fours.
Night’s Bringer of War fingered a dirty dagger. “No, he wants to feel up your girlfriend.”
The beast brayed. Reared on its hind legs. The hunter shifted his weight. Lunged upward. Connected. Blade met muzzle. Tore through. The man with the mane fell. A heap. A commando boot finished the job. “Sick bastard.”
The Doberman snarled. The slumped boy--eight--wet himself. Again. For the third time. In as many minutes. The mongrel spun a one-eighty. His wagging stub straightened. Revealing a second set of fangs. Quivering hands shielded innocent eyes. Chapped lips let out a last prayer. The pinscher backed into the alley. Licked both sets of lips. Then the child’s hands.
In the sky loomed a cloaked figure. His hands raised. To vogue. He spoke an incantation. Canine eyes shot wide. Paws stopped dead. The boy couldn’t feel the coarse tongue, the sharp teeth. Only softness against his skin. Eight year-old hands dropped. Still shaking. Teary eyes opened. Hesitantly. To find cotton candy.
He spotted the floating shaman. Then came the diarrhea. “Whoa! Cool...! Are you magic? Do you have a wand? My mom says magic isn’t a real job. But, David Blaine probably makes a lot. But, my mom says David Blaine isn’t a real magician. Just a loser who wasn’t hugged enough when he was little. I don’t know how she knows that. Maybe she’s psychic. Are you psychic? Are you a wizard? Do you know Elijah Wood? What about Robin Williams? Are you a genie, too?”
“Yes.” The Doctor shoved a word in. “And I wish you’d shut the Hell up.” With that, he fled. Before the boy could say another word. Or sixty.
“You know, Jeroen...” The Engineer shot past. En route to action. “You’re supposed to quip at the bad guys.”
Bloodshot eyes peered through ruby lenses. Over his shoulder. Into the alley. Where the dog tore itself a new one. “No shit.”
Their air shrieked. Metal scraped against metal. Titanium blades ripped through lead seams. The vault’s door plummeted. The woodsman stepped inside. He took a deep breath. Through his nose. And wished he could still smell. Axes were holstered. He flipped a finger. Its tip popped open. A steady stream of flame flickered. He gestured toward the stack of crisp bills. That’s when he felt the gattling gun against his smooth skull. “Ah-ah.” His finger waved. Chiding. “I wouldn’t.”
“Because it’s your head.”
“Because I’m hot-wired to an explosive that’ll turn this town from podunk to pancake.” He stepped away. Pivoted. Tapped his chest. The plate sprung open. “C4.”
The Maker dropped her arms. And admired the work. “You sunk my battleship.”
“It’s fun getting into trouble.” Silver shoulders shrugged. A smirk dented his sleek facade. The flame grew.
Angie Spica’s left hand climbed the Kelvin Scale. To white hot. “Go for it...” Searing palm met snide nose. His head tore clean off. A melted mess. Her right disengaged the detonator. Rendered it moot. At warp speed. “Connect four.”
“Pretty sneaky, sis.” Wires sputtered their last spark. The metal husk collapsed on the dead head. She kicked the corpse to the curb.
“You heartless bastards!” Anger took shape. Luckily, it was miniscule. The infantile terrible chucked a tomahawk at the blur that was the Engineer. Then reached into his throat for another.
“No, that would be your friend. Or what’s left of him.” Swift hovered over his balding head.
“Heartless? I’ve got two.” The Midnighter leaned against a crooked lamppost. Slapped a crowbar in his hand. “And they’re thumping like rabid jackrabbits on the brink of extinction.”
Bare feet twisted into talons. That latched onto the pygmy’s skull. And lifted him into the air. “Piñata, anyone?”
“There’s a surprise inside.” Cold steel broke little legs.
“For a limited time only.” Shen did the splits. The ball of rage severed down the center. His internal armory rained. A hail of bullets.
A leather trench doubled as a bindle. “It’s like a Charlton Heston Christmas.”
White boots set down on hallowed ground. Blond hair billowed in a brisk breeze. Amber waves. The man stood. Stoic. A statue among gravestones.
“Whoa, Fabio.” Pleated skin knotted to smile. “What’s with the sour disposition, sunshine?”
“Let them go.” Blue eyes drew narrow. Cold.
“Why’re you harshin’ my buzz, buttercup?” Padded shoulders shook. Bodies dangled. At the end of his rope. Toupees plummeted. Pockets emptied. Key chain missiles. Kamikaze coins. Patriots without parachutes.
A halo of heat surrounded Apollo’s head. He shot a glance skyward. And left a rainbow of slag and cinder. “Let them go.”
Flexible fingers slackened. Loose nooses. Outstretched arms swayed. Strung out. “Make you a deal, Goldie Lookin’ Chaste: I’ll drop these cats, if you take the stick out of your ass.”
“I like the stick.” The Sun King set his sights. On an crop. Overgrown. Out of control.
The woven face was a Roman candle. “Jesus, man, you really are blond.” He blew smoke. “I’m made out of hemp.”
“Light him up,” commanded the voice of God. The God of Cities. Straddling a cross.
A nod affirmed the order. Flame poured. A hot shower. Apollo dashed. To catch the captured. Flailing. Falling. Fast. All four found the ground. Safely.
“Engineer, give the man some air.” Hawksmoor held an old lady’s hand. To cross the street. After retrieving her wig. And dentures.
The Maker landed behind the walking wick. Hands became fans. She gave it a whirl. The plume of smoke dispersed. A haze settled across the city. To the burgeoning delight of all.
The Doctor breathed deep. And sighed. Nostalgic. “Just like Burning Man.”
The elderly woman pressed against Jack. Hard. Grinning mischievously. Groped his ass. With both hands. And planted a kiss. Deep and wet. Tongue met tonsils.
The God gagged. Disgust wracked his bones. Reflex forced the issue. Push turned to shove. The old lady slammed into a brick wall. A muffled crack. The sound of hips breaking. Or a spine. Not that Jack cared.
The city dweller spat a thick wad. Saliva extinguished the remaining embers.
“DOOR.”
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Part One
The Roof of Sears Tower
Higher than Courtney Love at a Kate Moss Slumber Party
Three-fingered gloves held Faberge flesh. Thick tears streaked a waxy coat. “Why, God...? Why!?” He was about to crack. “Why did I have to be the last one there!?” Oversized glasses hit the ledge. Eyes shut. Fists clenched. Breath drew in. And, then, he stepped off. Intending to make a splash.
Halfway to Impact: The egg met a driving force. That plowed right through. Thin skin split. White gloves snagged shell. Still shocked. While the guts spilled.
The Target Below: A slate gray spatula lined the street. Yellow and white had a moment’s rest. Only to be flipped off. Into the troposphere.
Apollo eyed the ovum juice. A wave of heat sizzled the meat. “Sunny side up.”
The Engineer reassembled. And headed for safe passage. “Let’s scramble.
The Statue of Liberty’s Torch
An Arm’s Length from Chaos
NUUHHNGH
Jack’s brow furrowed. “Did you hear that?”
Shen’s cocked. “Hear...what?”
Hawksmoor stepped to the edge. Peered down. “Sounded like screaming.”
Swift gripped his shoulders. “Everything sounds like screaming from up here.”
The Gaudy Den of a Beverly Hills Manse
The Kind of Place One Could Find, Say, a Notorious Pop Star
A young man pranced into the room. Spry and ageless. Wearing green tights. And an elf cap. A gold feather tucked in the flap. He plopped down. Indian style. And tilted his hat forward. For dramatic effect. “Okay, boys, who’s ready for never-ending excitement and perilous danger?”
The cadre of kids clamored. Eager hands filled the air. Thirteen shouts of “me” followed.
One mouth stayed silent.
“Seems we have a dissenter.” The Boy Time Forgot forced a sigh. Theatrically. “And, we know what that means.”
“Lap time!” the crowd cried.
“Come here, Michael.” Green tights were tapped. Lightly. “Come sit on my lap and tell me what’s wrong.”
The youth obliged. Reluctantly. “I miss my parents.”
The ageless boy nodded too hard. Feigning understanding. “What you’re showing, Mikey, are your inhibitions. You’re reluctant to join us on our journey because you’re scared. We’re all scared, Michael. Always, But, facing your fears is part of becoming a man, part of growing up strong and virile. Don’t you want to be strong, Mikey? Don’t you want to be brave?”
A whisper escaped. “Yes.”
“Then, you have to let go of your inhibitions. You have to stand on your own.” The elder boy placed a hand on the younger’s thigh. And squeezed. “You know what inhibitions make you, don’t you?”
Michael closed his eyes. Tight. “A pussy.”
“A pussy,” the Boy Time Forgot repeated. “And we don’t like pussies in this club, do we, boys?”
“No way!” The choir jumped to their feet.
“So, Mikey, what do you say?” The ageless spoke softly. Into the child’s left ear. “Join us.”
“I..I dunno.” Michael rubbed his hands. Nervous. “I want to go home.”
Surprise smacked youthful features. “Michael. Darling. Please. Please tell me you’re joking. Home? Home?! What’s at home?”
“My family.”
“No.” The Boy Time Forgot shoved Michael to the floor. “No. At your home, there are chores. Dishes to wash. Beds to be made. And homework. And girls.”
“But...I like girls.” Meekness strangled his vocal chords.
“Mikey, Mikey...” The elder cradled the younger’s head. “You don’t like girls. You just think you do because that’s what your parents told you. They force-fed you a lie, Michael, because all parents are liars. They don’t want you to have fun. They don’t want you to live life to the fullest. They want to hold you down and tear the spirit right out of you as soon as possible.” A tender hand petted the youth’s hair. Placating. “Trust me, Michael. I almost didn’t make it out alive.”
“I’m sorry.” The voice was back at full strength.
“Oh, don’t be.” The Boy Time Forgot mussed Michael’s hair. “All you need to do is let go of your family, your inhibitions. Then, you’ll never have to be sorry again.”
“How?” The child sat up. Attentive.
“I’m glad you asked!” The ageless boy leapt to his feet. Shimmied across the carpet. And smacked a red button on the wall. A buzz blared through the halls.
The Boy plugged his ears. With his thumbs. And waved at his followers. Who mimicked his movements.
Not a Minute Later: Two waiters appeared in the doorway. Each carrying a tray of cups. Filled with a bright red liquid.
The forever-young man plucked a cup. “As I was saying, the key to letting go is firmly in my grasp. One gulp of this sweet drink, and you’ll be free. Of your duties. Of your responsibilities.”
“Of your inhibitions.” Michael beamed.
“Of your inhibitions.” The Boy tapped his plastic cup. “You see, this liquid is special because it’s mixed with pixie dust. One gulp, and--” Dramatic pause. “--you’ll be able to fly!” The cup tilted. The drink poured down his throat.
The red-haired waiter followed suit. “You’ll be high, anyway. I don’t know where you get your pixies, but that’s angel dust.”
“And, that makes you a dead fucking duck.” The brunet waiter had something up his sleeve. Something called a shuriken. That found a new home. In the jugular of The Boy Time Forgot. The ceiling got a fresh coat. Of bright red.
The Doctor chugged another glass. While the Midnighter handled crowd control.
“Time to go home.”
The Carrier
Making Shit Up As It Goes Along
Techno-organic appendages fluttered across countless screens. Shiva doing the hula. On speed.
“Angie.” The tantric flow halted. The binary gaze found the feed. And a familiar face. The God of Cities grimaced. As ten tiny men wrapped a wire around his neck. He tugged the twine. And brushed the twenty centimeter stranglers off his shirt. “What the hell is going on?”
“The Bleed, Jack.” Digital eyes churned through six hundred thousand networks. A second. “It’s...hemorrhaging.”
To Be Continued...
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