“It’s all ego, partner.” Dallas was laying down in the bath tub, and the man was sitting between the toilet and the wall. “You’ve imagined a perfect version of yourself that you can’t measure up to. You think everyone is watching you and everything is your fault.”
“That’s right.” The guy nodded sagely. His eyes were swollen from crying.
“But no one cares about you man. They’re all just living their lives. When you can’t recognize that, where are you? Thinking a bird is mocking you, taking chirps personally? Brother that bird is just a bird.”
“It raised its crest so condescendingly. I feel like if a bird doesn’t respect me, I don’t deserve to respect myself.”
“That is the most alcoholic shit I’ve ever heard.”
“I don’t really drink like that,” the man said. “I don’t know what came over me. I never believed in that wild night shit, but-”
“Man I saw your needle.” He opened his mouth to explain himself, but Dallas held out his hand. “You talked to me about anxiety and guilt and obsessed over a cockatoo. Its a thinking problem, not a drinking problem.” The man nodded along. “I did a shit ton of drugs too, but that’s not the point.”
“Its not?”
“No man. I feel just like you do. ‘I’m such a good guy, my intentions are so good, why don’t these birds like me?’ Like I’m the main fucking character.”
“Shit,” the guy said. “Do you ever feel like, I dunno, like you’ll never be worth anything? Like you don’t deserve a second chance?”
“Every day dude.” Dallas said. “I feel like the biggest piece of shit in the world every day. That’s the malady. Ego.” Dallas stood and rubbed his back. “Come to a meeting.”
“I think I will.”
“You think?”
“I will. I just will.” Dallas held his arms out for a hug. “Man I’m covered in rice and bird shit.”
“No worries I sleep in this suit.” Dallas hugged him and held on when he tried to pull away. “Relax. Allow yourself to be comforted.” He did. Dallas released him and patted him on the back. “It works if you work it, and you’re worth it,” he told him with a grin, then led him out of the bathroom.
The man noticed Dzerassae by the window as Dallas lead him to the front steps. “By the way, what are you guys doing here?”
“We weren’t here.” Dallas stared at him hard then shut the door.
“You do Amy style therapy?” Dzerassae asked.
“No, we fucked,” Dallas said. “I’m pansexual now. He had a beautiful soul and I rawdogged it!” He did a baseball slide back to the window. “What’d I miss?”
“Men have come to greet Zengrel,” Dzerassae said.
“Jesus these guys couldn’t wait to see some thirteen year olds! Who came?”
“I’ve noticed several-”
“-both meanings of the word.”
“Several men. Some from Real Estate, one who ‘work’ in tech ‘industry.’ A researcher from University. Two from Intelligence.” Dallas was taken aback. “I can tell my kind.”
“Are they investigating him?” She shrugged. Dallas grabbed his binoculars and they watched a man pull up on a rent-a-bike, wearing a beige Italian suit with pink and yellow stripes. Short ponytail, trim beard.
“Cesare Attolini,” Dallas said. “Ponytail aside, dude’s got style. Obviously I only wear short-shorts when I bike, so that it looks even gayer, but respect.” The guards were suspicious and hostile but he had them laughing in minutes. Even from distance his mannerisms put a begrudging smirk on Dallas’ face. One of them went inside to get Zengrel without even demanding a bribe.
It was clear from Zengrel’s demeanor that they didn’t know each other, but the stranger had him chatting enthusiastically within moments. “I like twelve year olds,” Dallas mumbled, “well I prefer ’em a little younger. You’re alright buddy, come on in!” Zengrel had a guard call an Uber for his new friend. A handshake turned into a hug, then the stranger disappeared into the car. Zengrel ordered one of the guards to walk the bike back.
“We have hundreds of files on everyone connected to Zengrel; I’ve committed all their faces to memory in case I ever see one in an alley. I have no clue who that was. Intelligence?” Dallas asked.
“If we find nothing on him, then is likely. If he is new aspiring member of cabal, then he is vulnerability. They won’t protect him, he won’t protect them—we may have found weak link.”
Ellis hung his head between his knees. She seemed so nice; he just wanted a friendly acquaintance he could greet in the hallway sometimes. But he wasn’t thinking about her, he was being a boundary crossing busy-body and a white knight and now she’d avoid him and tell everyone he’s a weirdo who gets in peoples’ business.
Yo,” Sascha said.
“Hey…” Ellis rasped miserably.
She plopped down in a chair near him. “He finally shut up! Sorry about that, I’m so embarrassed.”
“I shouldn’t have antagonized him.”
“That was all him! I’m impressed you didn’t swing on him.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t go downstairs,” Ellis moped.
“Laundry room was a great idea. I think you in earshot kept him in check. He’s all about appearances, especially around other men. Hey, what’s the matter?” She scooted to the seat next to him.
“I didn’t mean to get involved in your business,” Ellis said.
“That wasn’t my business. It had nothing to do with me, I’m just the ball. Plus they did it right in the hallway. I am incredibly not angry at you. You helped in a way that a responsible stranger or a nice neighborshould have, and you didn’t escalate it. You’re good, we’re good.”
It wasn’t fair that she was cheering him up. He needed to switch gears. “Sorry. We just met and I don’t wanna be weird.” He put his hand in his pocket, and his face flushed with embarrassment.
“You had your key the whole time didn’t you?”
11:23PM. Zengrel was visited by a white man with blonde hair wearing a suit and rawhide moccasins. Shaman Aditsan Spread Eagle, previously Daniel Bauer, was an self-proclaimed Native American spiritual guide. And a self-proclaimed Native American, allowing him to legally distribute peyote. He ran a racket guiding wealthy start-up owners through expensive ‘spirit journeys’ where they mostly tripped balls in the prairie and suffered heat stroke.
“I used to respect his hustle,” Dallas said, “then Amy taught me about cultural appropriation. Now I don’t even eat tacos. Also he operates a compound linked to several disappearances. Allegedly!”
11:43PM. Zengrel was visited by a tall, rotund man in an over-sized suit and an over-sized cowboy hat. He was always slit-eyed and grinning like he found the whole world trite and amusing. Mearl Marland, the CEO of Greenway Fracking, famous for aggressively lobbying for fracking in residential districts. Dallas remembered the billboards promoting, ‘freedom to pump profit out your own backyard.’ This lead to a marked increase in polluted drinking water, birth defects, and cancer rates, particularly among children and pets. Mearl inherited the company from his father, a self-proclaimed ‘friend to the Red Man,’ who used his wealth and influence to drill on Native land. Greenway was linked to the disappearances of many Native Americans. They seemed to disappear a lot.
11:55PM. A bearded, jowly man showed up wearing a button-up shirt and overalls. He made a face while he walked like he was stuck in traffic, angry he wasn’t already where he was going. He looked ready to fight and die on any hill.
“Berty Doukas,” Dallas was shocked. “I escaped his horror-show rehab. Ego is the boogieman behind every ‘ism’, so he reckons the solution is ego death. Has everyone tear each other down. Plus he’s like the ego serial killer. Only person that’s ever made me cry.” Dzerassae gestured go on. “Well, at the time my monumental drug use basically made me incontinent. He made people call me–”
“About him, Dallas.”
“Don’t wanna hear about my shits? He moved his people into a new facility once he good and broke their self esteem. Just an apartment building bought with state grants. He knocked down all the walls, saying none them earned privacy. That’s when I bounced. Spent too much time in compounds; born in one, ran one for a little while. Heard it got real culty. I got friends inside got forced to change their haircuts. Some of my friends talked about forced marriage—but they’re burnouts, I’d take it with a grain.” Dallas fidgeted with his collar. “Hits a little close to home, I guess. Manipulating a bunch of addicts, saying its for their own good. At least I’m hotter. And I haven’t had any disappearances linked to me for a couple years! I should get one of those flip books. ‘Haven’t disappeared Anyone in X days.’”
“I was in the KGB,” Dzerassae said. “I have caused much disappearance. But we are finders now.” She put an encouraging bony hand on his shoulder.
Douka seemed displeased. He nodded his head a lot, said little, and stormed off the moment Zengrel finished talking. Zengrel laughed and lit a cigarette, wearing an expression of impish glee. The detectives understood why he had so many late-night visitors. He was using blackmail, debt, or his influence to coerce them into coming out paying their respects at an inconvenient time. It was an elaborate power move on his first night in town. A New York elite dunking on the Sincoke small fries.
“Sincoke Small Fries would be a dope team name,” Dallas mused. He put a hand on his Sincoke Grump bolo tie. “As long as they don’t change my beautiful boy—mother fucker!”
Dallas leapt at the window as Sheriff Louis “The Shepard” Arpel showed up at midnight. A solidly built bald man with a tree-trunk neck and a neatly trimmed mustache. Epitome of goon bod. He wore riot gear and brought an escort. His boys weren’t in uniform, but Dallas could smell the cop on them.
Nicknamed after a German Shepard for his aggression and hyper vigilance—and for several controversies involving K9 units—Arpel was one of the few things most Americans knew about Sincoke, reaching national infamy for his harsh and uncompromising views. He and the DA broke records on capital punishment, making Sincoke second only to Texas. He instilled an ‘us versus them’ mentality in the SPD, encouraging police to be suspicious and condescending to civilians. His motto was, “if your body cam breaks; you’re allowed to break bones,” and he rewarded officers with paid suspensions for acts of brutality. He was amassing military surplus gear with taxpayer money, making Sincokers pay to have helicopters over their homes and tanks on their streets.
He packed the streets with plainclothes officers and unmarked vehicles, which was why Dzerassae called Sincoke, ‘little USSR.’ But without a universal jobs guarantee.
Zengrel’s private security were dismissed and replaced with Sincoke’s finest.
“Mother. Fucker.” Dallas said through his false teeth.
The hallway was quiet except for the hum of the florescent lights. Tension from the fight hung over the whole apartment like thick fog.
“They aren’t always that bad,” Sascha said.
“I grew up around fighting. This is the world part,” he gestured around them to the loud quiet, The feeling of certainty it would happen again, and the uncertainty if it’d be months or minutes.
“Eh.” She shrugged. “This part is just my life. I’m used to this.”
“I’m sorry that you had to get used to it.” They reached his door. “Thanks again for helping me find my keys, and for being nice to me.”
“We still investigating your weird-ass place?”
“Oh. Yeah, if you still want. I mean, it’s probably not that weird. I don’t want to–”
“Just let me in ya big nerd.”
12:11AM. A man with a crew cut, a beard, and cold eyes stepped out of a Jeep Wrangler wearing a tight shirt showing off a toned physique. Zengrel saluted him. He handed Zengrel a bubble mailer wrapped in shipping tape.
Christopher Garcia. A member of JSIN, an organization that recruited the most violent and psychotic members of the Navy SEALs and Green Berets, headquartered in Fort Crow out in the prairie. They were trained to deal drugs, terrorize populations, and distribute arms to criminals and terrorist cells to destabilize places where America had interest. In essence the same things they did in SEALs, but independently of the pentagon with almost no accountability or oversight.
When they weren’t on tour they’d get bored and do what they did in Afghanistan right in Sincoke. JSIN members were linked, unofficially, to several disappearances. They also constantly killed one another over women, drugs, or for fun. Fort crow kept it covered up.
Dallas clocked another man in the Jeep. “Holy shit, that’s DONT ANSWER, GIRL.” Zengrel waved to him. He seemed disgusted by Zengrel and unmoved by his charm.
12:25AM. A lazy-looking, lanky man with wavy hair pulled up on a bicycle, wearing a button-up, jeans, and no shoes. The CEO and public face of Prairie Good, an organic grocery store chain trying to ‘change the way Sincoke eats.’ Also a quiet majority shareholder of Val-U Plus, a discount grocery store that undercut other chains out of business, leaving cheap, processed ‘food’ as the only option for Sincokers in the poorest neighborhoods. He was a prolific union-buster who was linked to the disappearances (and a half dozen mysterious deaths) of labor activists. He gave Zengrel a weak handshake and left quickly.
At 12:34AM the SPD caught a young man in an antiquated suit sneaking around, and beat the shit out of him.
“You need to let me in,” he yelled, “I need to find the Source of the Change! Things must Alter! Otherwise you will be unable to face your shadow with perfect courage, unable to contribute meaningfully and with proper manliness to your surroundings!”
“Friend of yours?” Dallas asked.
“Because he has Russian accent?”
“No, because you both talk like wizards.”
“He is amateur vigilante and looks like Bakunist.”
After his beating, he straightened his coat, actually shook his fist at the guards, then walked away if nothing happened—his attention only on what was in front of him.
Dallas whistled in appreciation. “Kid seems tough as nails, though.”
12:38AM. Zengrel was visited by the principal of a rehabilitation camp for troubled teens. A blonde man in a brown suit with a square face, thick brows, huge hands, and a wide jaw. His facility operated within a small, remote suburb. There were allegations of abuse and the school was linked to—say it with me now—several disappearances. Faculty convinced parents not to trust their children, they paid off the Sincoke Department of Child Welfare, and employed the majority of the neighborhood they operated in so no one would help runaways. He and Zengrel beamed at each other and embraced.
Dallas’ jaw was tight. “He’s homies with Doukas. Uses his methods on sad, crazy kids.”
“Americans treat adolescence like pathology,” Dzerassae said. “Sad and crazy is normal.”
12:48. A serene looking Asian man arrived wearing a blue suit. He was escorted by a young woman wearing a traditional Chinese dress and stark white face paint.
“That’s the Street Fighter guy!” Dallas grinned ear to ear. “Apparently he can throw fireballs, levitate, and cast cure wounds with yoga.”
“He is under asylum, like me. Internationally famous CCP critic. American government finds use in that. Anything to pretend they not already win Cold War.”
“He’s also a critic of homosexuality and miscegenation! I wish this country handled Televangelists the way China handled celebrity spirit healers in the ’90s.”
Practitioners of Hao Yidong moved to Sincoke from California when the LAPD began to investigate rumors of abuse and—you’ll never guess—disappearances linked to their compound. They refused to cooperate and lost their tax exempt status, so they slinked off to Sincoke where no one investigated anything. Sincoke’s minuscule Asian minority doubled overnight.
They lapped up public art grants to stage elaborate performances, billed as a celebration of Chinese history. These plays were anti-communist propaganda mixed with good old fashioned American conservatism. Unwitting audiences laughed politely as they suggested their off-brand Tai Chi could cure cancer and that evolution was fake, before being distracted by back flips. The posters were everywhere, as ubiquitous and omnipresent as Chinese food sauce packets.
Zengrel gave the girl a wide, lusty grin and snaked his arm around her to rub between her shoulder blades. She tensed up and forced herself to smile. He recoiled at her blackened teeth.
“She some kinda tribute?” Dallas said, taking dozens of photographs.
Dzerassae observed the young woman’s clear athleticism, her posture, and her defiant attitude. Hers was not a placating smile. It was a chimpanzee’s.
“That girl born wearing combat boots.”
“They’re all expired!” Sascha held out a roll of condoms. Ellis was on death’s door. “We figured out one thing about your brother!”
He got self-conscious as soon as they entered—what if the apartment wasn’t actually that weird? She followed him around quietly, making him even more anxious. She went dead silent in the kitchen, then started peeling the plastic off of everything, cackling and proclaiming that she needed to deflower the apartment. She convinced him to infiltrate the bedroom with a wild gleam in her eyes.
“He doesn’t fuck!”
“Must run in the family,” Ellis said. “Because uh, I’m not the kind of guy to like–”
“Lure a girl into your apartment?” She said.
“Except to hang,” he choked out.
Sascha wanted to hit him with an aw what a shame just to see him fluster. “Well we know everything we need to know about mystery brother. You want help unpacking?”
“Dallas hasn’t told me where to put stuff. But I should check that everything’s there.”
They sat across from each other on the floor going through his CDs and cassettes. Sascha had been exposed to an eclectic range of music from the weird side of YouTube, but nothing like Ellis’ confounding mix of ’30s Trinidadian calypso, bubblegum pop, and soundtracks to movies neither of them had seen. They found common interests, and the chip fell off his shoulder when he talked about music. He became sincere and articulate, and even made eye contact a couple times. Sascha was deeply charmed, she was a sucker for special interests. She let him go off about song construction and what he liked about each album, not listening very intently, just basking in the enthusiasm. They stayed on the floor until their ankles hurt. Ellis shot up and apologized for keeping her so late.
“Ti’s the afternoon for me. I woke up at three.” She wondered if her online friends were worried about her; but it was nice to be around someone in the flesh. She moved to the couch and stretched to see if he would ogle her. He looked away very intentionally. “You play guitar?”
“A little,” Ellis said. It was a bass ukulele but he felt bad correcting people. He started to open the case, struggling with the zipper. It was held together with tape and staples.
“Looks like that case died a long time ago.”
“Well, I like it,” Ellis lied.
“Do you want me to fix it?” Ellis froze. He didn’t know how to process such generosity. “I love fixing old things. Your bro doesn’t have a sewing kit, ugh men and all that, but I can bring mine next time. Unless that’ll make it less punk.”
Ellis was happy to hear next time. A bunch of lined paper covered in elaborate chicken scratch spilled out of the case. He quickly gathered them up and set them face down.
“Ooo what’s that?” Ellis tried to deflect but she slid back to the floor and flipped through them.
His jaw tightened. “Sometimes I get ideas for songs, but I don’t know how to write music. I had a cassette recorder for a minute, but it broke and the quality wasn’t good anyway, so I–”
“Did you make up your own music notation?”
“Look, who cares? I know how to read it.”
“Why are you getting huffy?” She narrowed her eyes and he lowered his head. He assumed she was making fun of him. “Hey, if you wanna record stuff I can bring my computer over sometime.”
“I don’t want to make you uh, waste your batteries.”
“Aw, are you embarrassed? All your songs about cute redheads or something? Afraid I’ll be… instantly seduced?” She made a little swooning gesture.
“I’m not embarrassed. They’re good songs, I did all the right things. But I wrote most of them for piano. I used to play one at the music store but they got a new manager who’d kick me out. There was a cool girl who worked there that would let me play, so I’d loiter around the strip mall until she showed up. Then they called the cops on me and I think she stopped working there.”
“You must have been awful if they tried to arrest you,” Sascha said. He insisted he did everything right. “Is music really about that? Isn’t it more about like, creativity or sincerity?”
“Depends on what you’re doing. If you’re tryna be real personal and spill your soul, get weird and ugly.” He shrugged. “But if you’re trying to evoke a specific feeling, set a scene, make people dance, or just get stuck in peoples’ heads, there are methods that consistently work if you do them well. Sometimes music is art, sometimes its just a trade like bricklaying; you’re just putting things in the right spots.” She asked what he did. “I come up with an idea, then I keep making small changes until its just right.”
12:58 AM. Zengrel ordered the guards inside. He looked anxious.
1:00 AM. An unmarked van pulled up and Zengrel put on his mask of casual confidence.
Dzerassae narrowed her eyes at agent White, then widened them at an old wiry man who stepped out of the back seat. He was bald and his skin was covered in big dark blemishes. He looked the spitting opposite of still, straight-backed agent White as he scrambled around with his head on a swivel, possessed of nervous energy.
Zengrel extended a handshake. White refused it. Zengrel smiled and gestured to something hidden in a hedge. The old man barked at him impatiently. Zengrel then produced a flash drive from his pocket. White snatched it out of his hands and got back in the car.
The old man ordered the SPD officers to get something out of the trunk. It looked like a powder blue coffin decorated with white frills. The detectives tried to photograph the text on it, but couldn’t get their cameras to focus before the guards whisked it inside like pall bearers. The old man made a licentious face and a crude gesture. Zengrel nodded, clearly humoring him.
“Does your spook still ask questions about me?” Dallas asked.
“He thinks you are extremist, over-idealistic vigilante.”
“If guys like him did his job, the world wouldn’t need guys like me.”
“I have seen naive idealism and ruthless pragmatism in equal measure,” Dzerassae said. “Both lead to destruction. White’s pragmatism make him collaborate with devil like Zengrel.” She helped Dallas see the camera hidden behind the hedge Zengrel gestured at.
“Zengrel’s an asset. Huh. That’s how he gets away with shit. This case just got way more dangerous. Whoops all CIA! You know the old scarecrow?”
“I have known of him since Cold War,” Dzerassae said. She noticed Agent White staring in their direction. Did he see them, or were his instincts telling him it was a perfect place for someone to hide?
Zengrel lit a cigarette and sat on his front steps after they left. Before he finished it, a smug looking young man with beady eyes and a yellow vest approached him and shoved a microphone in his face. He was accompanied a skinny bearded man with a camera. Zengrel patiently tried to dismiss them. When that didn’t work, he got a cold look on his face and had the SPD smash their equipment.
1:32AM. A hummer pulled up. The front hood was painted like a skull and a flag trailed behind it. The flag looked like a massive sheet of parchment with the entirety of the second amendment written in cursive text. There doors were painted like the American flag with crosses instead of stars—the symbol of the Prairie Patriots, an anti-government, white nationalist, Christian identity militia. They showed up at protests and strikes to escalate them into violent confrontations. They went to universities and libraries to harass and intimidate anyone ‘pushing’ inclusive practices. Several members were running for office. AIDS had photographed them cooperating with the SPD but no normal news sites would run them.
A man wearing a bulletproof vest emerged from the driver’s side. He had a rifle slung over his shoulder, seven handguns belted around his waist, and enough pockets of ammunition to make a Rob Leifield character blush. Dallas whistled in appreciation. Zengrel couldn’t mask his distaste.
“What’s good liberal Zengrel doing associating with these clowns?”
“Aiding in CIA infiltration, maybe.” Dzerassae said.
“The CIA isn’t trying to infiltrate the PP. They’re after good Communists like us.”
“You not good Communist, you are Maoist,” Dzerassae spat. Dallas grinned at her. “Melting spoons and killing sparrow instead of seizing means of production.”
“CIA is probably arming the PP so they can harass minorities and unions and distract this country’s half-assed progressive movement. Could be using Zengrel to control or influence leadership.”
Zengrel made a show of coyly shutting off the secret hedge camera. His mouth widened to a malevolent smirk, then he and the Militia leader discussed something in hushed tones.
“Or some fucked up new thing.” Dallas sighed. “New secret union from hell.”
“Its about a mouse my Mom killed,” Ellis was embarrassed.
“That’s sad and kind of sweet. What was his name?”
“He didn’t have one,” Ellis said. “He was a mouse. I think it’s arrogant for us to give animals names. They don’t care. They don’t even know.”
“Yeah. I had a hamster named Starfish when I was a kid. I was obsessed with her and I felt really stupid for being sad when she died. I think I felt ashamed for thinking my hamster mattered. She wasn’t important just because I cared about her. Arrogance, I guess.”
“Then I went and wrote a whole song about a mouse.” Ellis shrugged. “So I get it. Maybe we only care about animals when we project onto them. On the other hand, there are millions of hamsters and mice but probably one day there won’t be any, so maybe they all count. And none of them are Starfish. I’m sure there were unique things about her.”
“She squeaked real loud whenever she saw me, she had one crooked whisker, and she used to fall asleep in her food bowl like she loved her snackums so much she had to snuggle them. What was unique about your mouse?”
“Nothing. He saw peanut butter and got excited, then a clamp crushed his leg. The peanut butter was just out of reach. He kept sniffing it, because what else was he supposed to do. He wasn’t thinking about life or death—there was peanut butter. Now I gotta think about him. And anyone who hears the song. I want everyone to have to think about that mouse.”
“Can I hear it?”
Ellis felt his chest tighten. It wasn’t Just Right yet. But he picked up his bass ukulele.
His soft, practiced voice was jarring. It struck her as funny to hear such soulful, pretty sounds come out of that perpetually frowning mouth—like Kurt Cobain singing Sarah McLachlan with a completely straight face. She had to stifle a laugh. She’d never forgive herself if she snickered at him.
After the initial surprise, she got lost in his performance. The wistful song mourned the mouse’s difficult life and honored its quiet dignity. It was written from the rodent’s perspective, describing loneliness, stealing crumbs, and surviving winters. He acknowledged his lot in life without feeling sorry for himself. He didn’t have a name, but he knew who he was. The third verse described being trapped. His only wish was for one final bite of peanut butter. He struggled valiantly, then acknowledged the reality of nature and accepted that he couldn’t even have that. It ended with the mouse, who knew no one, just as no one knew him, wishing himself goodbye.
Ellis went somewhere else while he sang. He closed his eyes and swayed gently, performing like he was alone. It seemed meditative. Or maybe he was anxiously disassociating. He finished, came out of his trance and said, “Fuck I’m sorry. I should have just done the first verse.”
“What?” Sascha became very animated. “No holy shit it was great. Like did that just happen? We need to get you to an open mic yesterday.”
Ellis got visibly anxious. “I can’t, it’s not finished yet.”
“Seemed like three verses and a chorus to me.” Ellis launched into explaining everything wrong with it. He seemed stressed thinking about it, so Sascha gracefully switched gears. “Well I’m grateful I got to hear the alpha version. It fucking broke my heart.”
“Thank you for humoring me.” He couldn’t tear his mind away from the upsetting thought of performing an unfinished song, so he changed the subject. “What happened to Starfish?”
“My brother stuck her in the microwave. He said a boy shouldn’t have a girl hamster. Little did he know!”
1:56AM. Dallas got a Bali Myna—a beautiful, endangered white bird with dark blue skin around its eyes—to sit on his shoulder.
2:00AM. A white and gold limousine pulled up and let out a middle aged man in a white suit, wearing a watch worth more than the combined salary of everyone at AIDS. His self-satisfied grin matched Zengrel’s. He was accompanied by a tall, prim young man with piercing eyes who walked with an elegance and gravity that commanded Dallas and Dzerassae’s attention, even as Zengrel and the older man performed an elaborate handshake full of suggestive gestures.
“Johnathon The-Blessing-Of-The-Lord-Makes-A-Person-Rich Wilson, better known as Johnny Gospel,” Dallas said. “Millionaire who runs a megachurch and has a finance podcast called The Prosperity Doctrine. Spiritual and financial guru all in one—talk about saying the quiet part out loud. At least your fundamentalists have Gothic architecture and sick iconography. We get acoustic guitars and linoleum floors. You’re lucky if you see a fucking candle.”
“Those gaudy buildings are soaked in Pagan blood. They should be torn down and replaced with concrete apartments.”
“At least evil in Europe is tasteful. We get this shit,” Dallas gestured at Zengrel’s bland home, Gospel’s gaudy car. “The kid is the special boy from the news. Gospel’s congregation thinks he can speak to the dead and cure their diabetes. Amy says that much praise—like literally they pray to him—basically constitutes abuse. I guess I have to feel sorry for him, I’m sure John’s milking it.”
Dallas imagined John tending his flock, telling them what was good for them and taking everything he could. He rubbed the bird’s neck with a finger. It leaned into his hand.
Special boy produced a miniature bible from his pocket and recited it at Zengrel. He spoke quietly but Dallas and Dzerassae could hear his voice clearly. He seemed angelic; their thoughts turned to Christ striking down the merchants’ tables at the temple. Zengrel and Gospel listened with bemused detachment—but listen they did. The Bali Myna began to peck at itself and draw blood from its talon. Gospel ushered him back into the car, with an apologetic shrug at Zengrel.
The hair on Dallas’ neck was standing up. “True believer, that kid.”
“Very useful for his handler,” Dzerassae spat.
“And maybe for us—a righteous guy on the inside who can’t keep his mouth shut? I’ve gotten tips about Gospel, I’ve wanted to investigate him for-e-vah. Special kid might be an In. Amy’ll be thrilled. She can fix him!”
Zengrel sat on his patio. No guests arrived for some time. Dallas fantasized about taking one quick shot. But then they’d never find the girls. But then Zengrel couldn’t hurt anyone anymore. But then his allies would cover their tracks. But it would feel so good.
Dzerassae intuited patterns. The hedges all grew in the direction away from Zengrel’s house, and the wind blew litter towards it. Trash comes, life flees. Zengrel seemed antsy. Even when he was being harassed by reporters and his CIA handlers, he moved with a lumbering swagger, as if not a single muscle in his body were tense. Now his shoulders were pinched and his leg bobbed restlessly. He kept checking his phone. Who was coming? Dzerassae’s chest began to swell with the anticipation. She started seeing malevolent patterns everywhere. She was drawn to the bathroom and discovered that the drunken man had opened the window to smoke. She closed it, and was able to filter data again.
Dallas’ mind started running through every open case. He resented having to do their paid work of stalking insecure rich mens’ cheating wives. Good on ’em for getting some real dick. He could solve anything fix everything save everyone if he had more time. Shoot Zengrel in the head. Al Capone style right in the open. It was like a nagging cigarette craving. But he couldn’t let his people down. They needed him. His fingers stopped dancing around the butt of his
gun
then started again when a young girl rode up to Zengrel on a city bike. She had shoulder-length hair dyed black, ripped jeans, and a black t-shirt with a graphic of a face bisected vertically. One side was a skull, the other a Cheshire grin. She was wearing a lot of eyeliner and dark red lipstick. Trying to look like a woman.
Zengrel smiled and pulled her into a tight embrace that lingered too long. He buried his face in her hair. His hands traveled from her elbow up her arm. His fingers traced the curvature of her shoulder blades before resting his palm between them, spreading then closing his fingers. He held the hug until she pulled away, like he was testing her boundaries.
He stared directly at her face while they spoke, drinking in the sight of her, the hungry black voids of his pupils filling up with whatever he was taking. She looked at the house and the hedges, nervously avoiding eye contact. She glanced back and he circled her, to be between her and the bike, then he put his arm around her shoulders and guided her to the door. He never looked away from her face and he never blinked.
Ellis thought of little Sascha crying while her small pet scratched desperately at the glass of the microwave, trying to get to her while it’s insides heated up.
“Cyrus didn’t know what he was doing. He was like, eleven, and I think it traumatized him too.”
Helplessness, children, small animals, Starfish not understanding what was happening to her, people innocently harming things,
the way it felt to realize you’d done something awful,
lonely homeless unacknowledged
desperate the indignity of your body which feels
and tastes
and holds and haves
becoming mush
Tara alone and abandoned
hurting people without knowing or understanding
what—
“I have a little shrine in my room. Mom bought me a star-shaped box—probably the most thoughtful thing she’s ever done. I keep her favorite toy and some sawdust from her tank in it.” Sascha noticed Ellis was quiet, and assumed he was tired of hearing about her dead hamster. “Anyway,” she held up a sheet of music notation. “What’s this one?”
Ellis snapped out of his head and turned red. “Can’t talk about that one.”
“Is it really horny?”
“Yes,” Ellis lied because that was less embarrassing.
“Then what’s this one?”
“A cover of Maxine Nightingales’ Right Back Where we Started From.”Ellis sung the chorus, hitting the night notes proficiently. “It’s a disco pop song.”
“Did you do like a… heavy metal version?”
“No. Straight cover. I have to adjust the pitch a little because I have a deeper voice than her.”
“Why that song?”
“It rules.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“No. What’s your thing?”
“My thing?”
“Yeah like, what do you do?”
Sascha froze. It was an intimidating question from someone with an actual hobby. She stopped making videos. She couldn’t just say video games. She shouldn’t tell him about camming. Come on girl, you do stuff. She’d done web design for her friends. She had tried making games. “I’m in school for software engineering.” His face was imperceptible. “Coding, computer programs. It’s boring.”
“Are you rich?”
“What? Aha, no. Nooo. My Mom got sucked into an MLM and Madhi donates half his money to his super-AA thing. It’s online community college courses. I already know how to do it all; just need my piece of paper. Like there are any coding jobs here anyway. I keep thinking, maybe I’ll move! But like, first off to where? Silicone Valley? Ew. And also I wouldn’t be the first to try.”
Ellis was mystified. He launched into a series of questions, including: you speak computer language? (I can code in Javascript and HTML). So you can make programs, like Word and YouTube? (Uh well one of those is a website, but I can do those too). Is it green and Japanese like the Martix? (A hundred percent yeah). He had a million misconceptions about hackers, and some romantic ideas about the dark web which she shut down (it’s basically just child porn, dude). She ended up explaining some basic concepts to him; it blew him away. She eventually admitted she didn’t think it was boring.
“I think its beautiful,” she said. “Binary is a perfect language. No vagueness or room for interpretation. 1:1 communication.”
“That’s so cool. I wish I could make music like that, songs with one, explicit interpretation. What kind of programs do you make?”
“I’ve built websites for some online friends. Ooo and I’ve worked with people on indie games. They’re up on itch with like, ten downloads.” She shrugged.
“Do you like video games?”
She held her hair back so he could see her RareWare earrings. “I used to have a YouTube channel where I reviewed retro games. I really like analyzing them.”
“Have you played—hold on.” Ellis dug into his boxes and pulled out his dusty NES and Megaman 2.
“Uh, yes! Cuh-lassic. Are you a retro gamer?”
“This is the only video game I’ve ever played.” She was disappointed, then perplexed. “I used to play with Dallas. I think he stole it. Its my only memory with him. I figured when I got here we could, well, I dunno. I really expected him to be here.”
“…He put you in a weird spot, didn’t he?” Sascha said.
“I put him in a weird spot. He doesn’t really know me and he’s gotta put me up.”
“Well, his loss. We’ll just have to play Megaman without him. I have an adapter at my place. It’ll look kinda weird on the flat-screen—maybe I’ll just lug over a CRT?”
“Aren’t you avoiding your brother?”
“Awful night for brothers, ain’t it?” She said. “Be right back.”
Every
Second
Stre
eee
e
tched
as Dallas and Dzerassae waited, knowing Zengrel was alone with a child. They knew what room; a light turned on on the second floor. The red curtains were open but they couldn’t see inside from their angle. Neither of them said a word.
Dallas resisted a calm instinct to raid the house. No sense of vengeance or hatred. Just what you do. Dzerassae ruminated about societies where neighbors are strangers. In the old country, or even in her Kruchevka in Peter, a mob would have stormed Zengrel’s home driven by the same instinct Dallas was suppressing. She missed living in places where people kept each other. They fed off each other’s energy. At any minute they might stand up, without a word, and break into Zengrel’s house. Then the girl reemerged.
Dallas scrutinized her through his binoculars. Dzerassae noticed she was fine. Creeped out, but not traumatized or injured. She was in a hurry to leave, but not fleeing for her life.
Zengrel was wearing a salmon robe. He went in for another hug. She hugged him around the waist, ducked under his arms before he could pull her into another long bear hug, then got on her bike. She was good at deflecting advances. Dzerassae knew she’d been doing it all night.
Zengrel said something and she stopped to ponder it. He planted a seed in her mind. He smirked. Just had to let it grow.
She took off on the bike.
“I’m on her,” Dallas said.
“I’ll get car.”
Zengrel’s face twisted in frustration as he watched her go. “How impolite of me,” he grinned again. “I should have had my staff bring her bike in.” He stood unmoving and unblinking. “Could have gotten stolen.” His smirked widened. “…Could get stolen.”
Dallas jogged after her, taking cover behind houses. He hopped fences and trudged through backyards, tripping over garden gnomes and showing up on Ring cameras, but he didn’t care. Young girls weren’t safe on Wild Nights. Dzerassae caught up to him in the AIDSmobile, the agency’s latest clunker. The beat up ’92 Nissan Maxima looked conspicuous among the Telsas and Cadillacs.
They followed her at a discreet distance. Another car started following her, so they ran it off the road, then Dallas got out and slashed their tires with one of Dzerassae’s knives. He sauntered away while three pockmarked little men threatened him, knowing no one who stalked young girls would fight a grown man. He remembered their license plate. He memorized their faces.
Someone tried to sell her drugs. He was being pushy, so Dzerassae hit his parked car; giving her a chance to bike away. Dallas got out to take his drugs, but he started fantasizing about taking them. He apologized for his Grandma’s driving and they took off, their front bumper now hanging loose.
She seemed lost when they caught up to her. Dallas considered giving her directions; Dzerassae was sure she’d find her way.
She arrived home in the early morning and tried to sneak inside, but a tall young man with long dark hair was waiting at the door.
“Oh good, Dude looks like the platonic ideal of a protective older brother. Archetypal as shit. Chef’s kiss.” Dallas sighed in relief. “Fucking try harder next time, man.”
“Hmm. She is wily one,” Dzerassae said. Her brother was a tired guardian. She sensed his innate leadership. The gravitas of the Medicine Man or Chieftain. Knightly Honor. The Mandate of Heaven. But he was stretched thin, not yet in his full power. “The girl slip through Zengrel’s fingertips. Her family will have difficult time if they try to hold her in.”
“She’s fucking wily alright. We literally saw her dip away when Zengrel tried to ‘hold her in’,” Dallas smiled. “I’d like this kid if she wasn’t being so dumb.”
“Young girls are known to stray from paths.”
The girl and her brother yelled at each other, then she stormed inside. He took a deep breath then stormed after her. She was safe. She never noticed the shadows guarding her.
The sun was rising. The Avia Investigative Detective Services took on missing person cases pro bono. They kept tabs on Sincoke’s villains. They fought on wherever Sincoke failed; committed—heart and soul—to helping those who fell through the cracks.
They also had bills to pay.
“Drop me off at the office,” Dallas said through a yawn. “We got some poor cuck coming in at 8:30. I’m gonna nap in the waiting room for a couple hours. You can come in at noon today, if you want. I know you old folks don’t sleep that much.”
“I have not slept through night since middle age.”
“You were alive in the middle ages?”
Dzerassae let out one of her rare cackles. “I am too haunted by past to sleep.”
“Comrade Dzerassae,” Dallas rested his hand on her arm, “you’re alright, old lady.”
The NES wasn’t working. Ellis was devastated, it was his oldest friend. “Was it in the box I dropped on that asshole’s foot?” He muttered.
Sascha didn’t question that. Windy night. “Does your brother have one of those twisty things they use to close up bread?” Ellis produced one from his pocket. “Dude, why?”
“You can use them as zippers or key rings. Also since they break easily, you can use them to tie box cutters or a bag of rocks to your belt loop if you think someone might try and jump you. Faster than taking it out your pocket.”
“They… sure are versatile.” Sascha deftly opened up the console, practically making Ellis’ heart stop. She finagled with it until it ran on the widescreen. “Wallah! It is risen!”
“Whoa. How’d you do that?”
“Magic.” She winked. “Don’t shake it too much.” The display was stretched out. She refused to accept that and messed with the settings for several more minutes.
They sat cross-legged on the couch and switched on death. Sascha worked on Ellis’ guitar case while he played. It was good she brought her sewing kit; he almost never died. It may be the only game he ever played, but apparently he played the shit out of it. On her turns she blew his mind with secrets and Easter eggs; benefit of having the internet.
Ellis talked about the game’s soundtrack. Sascha talked about game design and working within hardware limitations. Occasionally their knees touched, but by 3AM they stopped jerking away when it happened.
Ellis abruptly paused the game. “I can trust you with that binder.”
She grinned like a cat. “The horny binder.”
“Its… a concept album about Megaman. Keep it mum,” He said in a hushed tone. “I don’t want to get a copyright whatever.”
“Its three in the morning, but I need you to sing the whole thing for me. I’ll stay up all night. I’ll never sleep again. I need to hear your musical fanfic.” Sascha looked at the tiny blue man on screen, fighting another blue man with a fan for a face. She needed to hear what this absolute weirdo she found thought Megaman was about.
An admiring look came to his eyes. She knew she was in for something good. “So Megaman’s life is simple. He knows his maker and what his purpose is. Binary computer language, like you taught me. That’s why his design is so simple, he’s innocent. The first song is about his choice to protect humanity; sacrificing a perfect life without uncertainty to protect a group he can never belong to. He’s superior to us after all—he’s Megaman—and that isolates him. He fights his Own, the Robot Masters. How do you think he learned to value free will?”
“I don’t know!” Sascha was wide-eyed and smiling with her mouth open. “Please take m—I mean tell me. This is nuts. I mean that in a good way. Don’t get self-conscious.”
“Well… that’s what the third song is about. The second one is about Protoman, a really complicated figure. First man. Abraham. He’s trying to rule humans, but in a protective way, like a strict father. Dr Wiley is like the Old Testament God. He’s a doctor, masters over life and death.”
“Ok, hold up,” Sascha cut in. “You’re not anti-vaccine are you?”
“No, I think they’re good. I don’t know if Mom got me any.”
“Well, never too late. Please go on.”
“I know how this next part sounds, but I am also pro-doctors. In theory anyway. I’ve only seen them on TV. You know how they cut people open and give them medicine with nasty side-effects, but ultimately its good for them?”
“Just checking that we’re still talking about Megaman 2. Somehow.”
“Yeah. That’s how Protoman sees subjugation. Shitty but ultimately good for people. But I think Megaman admires free will because he wasn’t born with it. He experiences it for the first time when he disobeys his protocols, which is an act of will and also kind of a miracle. So the two brothers want to save people, but they come at it from different angles. Their conflict is very tragic. The best part is it conveys this entirely through music queues.”
Sascha imagined all the time he spent playing Megaman alone, role-playing this in his head. The game let his imagination run wild, and that validated a medium she was passionate about. She made a solemn vow to never to tell him about the canon. She needed to protect his beautiful mind from the wikis and Archie comics. She thought about showing him Megaman X to see if he’d have a stroke.
“What is it about to you?” He asked.
“Oh, platforming with really tight controls, hard but fair difficulty, power ups that let you modulate difficulty to a degree. Nuances like how it pauses when you die so you can process what happened, or the split second you get to scan the room during stage transitions so you don’t fucked by unreactible bullshit.” Ellis looked at her like she was soulless. “That stuff is important, dude. They didn’t have CGI cutscenes in 1988. The gameplay conveyed the story. Megaman took on overwhelming, insurmountable odds right? He suffered setbacks, but got stronger with each victory. That’s expressed through the game itself! It’s a story that happens directly to you.”
“Holy shit. Its like music, conveying things without words. To set a mood, put visions in peoples’ minds, to,” he struggled to articulate something.
“To tell a story,” Sascha said.
The wind raged outside. So did the city. Sincoke hard-boiled over as suppressed emotions were stirred by the air. That night there were 51 reported car thefts, 33 robberies, 42 break-ins, 71 assaults, 114 cases of domestic abuse, and 24 murders. 66 People went missing. Those were just the official numbers.
These two new friends enjoyed a calm, relaxing night.
