A cockroach writhed on its back in a dark corner of the lobby. Ellis’ welcoming crew. He kept glancing at it while he looked on the mailboxes for Dallas’ name and apartment number. He wanted to help it, but it might freak out and shoot eggs at him. He found his brother’s name on the mailbox for Apt 68. It was partially scratched out.
The narrow hallways and low ceiling made Ellis feel like he was in a mine. The dim florescent lights flickered like torch fire. The gum encrusted floor and peeling paint created uneven textures like the rocky sides of a tunnel. He eyed the elevator unhappily. He wasn’t afraid of heights, but the sensation of going up filled his stomach with butterflies.
The elevator smelled like body odor. Not like a locker room, like a specific individual’s.
Opening the door to Apt 68 was like gazing through a magic portal to a furniture show room. Everything was pristine and brand new, in stark contrast to the rest of the building. There was a black leather couch with perfect, plump leather cushions that shined in the overhead light like polished boots. No water rings on the coffee table or holes in the dry wall. The purple curtains looked ironed. The huge TV had plastic cling on it. The remote was on the stand, not lost like remotes should be.
Ellis froze in the door frame as if he’d sully the apartment with his riff-raffishness. It didn’t feel like a home, it felt like a set. Did Dallas even live here. Why’d they clean it so well? What had they done here?
He noticed a tiny bit of water damage on a purple accent wall near the ceiling. It was enough proper wear and tear to put him more at ease. He carefully set his luggage just inside the doorway, relieved he didn’t have to carry it anymore. He checked it to be safe, then explored the space.
The kitchen was crazy. Ellis had never seen such clean appliances; even the displays at stores had some fingerprints on them. The fridge was empty except for a collection of exotic hot sauces. All unopened. The drawers had silverware, but no spatulas, meat thermometers, or any other essentials. There were Chinese food sauce packets, but that was cold comfort. Those were everywhere.
The bathroom was very small. The shower curtain was mildew-free and the caulk around the tub was stark white. He’d never seen a bathroom with no moisture damage. He lifted open the toilet, expecting even that to be dry.
Ellis wouldn’t go in the bedroom. Too personal. There was no bedroom door, just a thick purple curtain. There wouldn’t be a lot of privacy. He’d be getting kicked out whenever Dallas had girls over.
Ellis set himself on the couch trepidaciously, like he was stepping into cold water. He didn’t want to put wear and tear on someone’s new couch so he sat on it like it was an antique, careful not to get too comfortable.
He felt monumentally lonely. He had one close friend back home, but no way to contact her. He’d have to pay someone to borrow their cellphone to say hello. His Mom didn’t want to hear from him. The night shift gas attendants, homeless dudes, the one nice librarian, the autistic kid who lent him comics, they were all far away. He missed the old men who played chess in the WinCo parking lot, the lady on his block who tied her cockatoo to her shoulder, and other people who he’d never spoken to, but knew. He was starting from scratch. There was nothing familiar.
He couldn’t trust Dallas for support. Motherfucker didn’t even leave a note on the fridge.
That lack of communication made Ellis feel restrained in the house. He didn’t know the boundaries, so he was afraid to do anything. He got up and did what he did when his old house felt unsafe. Take a walk.
“Z, I know what you’re thinking, but there’s nothing to worry about!” Dallas came out from the bathroom. There were no toiletries, just bird medicine and other supplies. It confirmed Dallas’ suspicion that no one actually lived here. Dallas knew his birds, many of these were endangered and illegal to own. Some rich guy who lived in a nicer city with real regulations needed somewhere to keep his exotic pets.
“And!” Dallas held up a needle he found in the trash. “Whoever tends these birds parties. Hard. He ain’t coming to work on a wild night.”
“Clearly he has healthy amount of disrespect for his employers. But that is no guarantee.”
“Look I don’t know what Wild Nights are. Amy is always talking about collective consciousness and infectious energy and mass hysteria and you’re always talking about that too but in more of a Jungian supernatural way and I kinda nod at you guys politely because I’m just a freaky lil monkey man but I know ONE damn thing, and it’s when when I was on this shit, I was NOT going to work on Wild Nights. Lemme tell ya.”
“If he shows, we bribe. There is other problem,” Dzerassae gestured her chin towards several cameras facing the bird cages, pointed at hanging toys or food trays.
“Pet cameras,” Dallas said. “1920’s noir motherfuckers never had to worry about this stuff. They usually notify people when the animals move or make noise.” The birds were freaking out and Dallas was constantly trying to touch them.
“Then you must control yourself and stay away from cages,” Dzerassae said.
“Eh, he could live in another time zone for all we know,” Dallas lovingly watched an African Gray maul his finger. “Otherwise, sorry but see you in jail. Not as bad as the Soviet ones at least. Just kidding, they’re torture chambers over here. Ow, fuck. Cutie found the cuticle.”
Dzerassae ignored him and the birds. She was the one who found Zengrel’s new address. It was renovated recently, three apartments converted into one large mansion. It came to her attention when the good liberal neighbors called ICE on the contractors. Renovations aren’t common in Sincoke, and they began right after Zengrel’s trafficking and statutory rape trial in Los Angeles—which got inexplicably little media coverage. He got a minor solicitation charge. She sent Lester to case it. Dallas spoke to some old acquaintances—other mostly reformed thugs and gangsters that did private security work. A couple of them had passed up opportunities to work there, being a little too reformed to work for rich people who demand ‘extreme discretion.’ They tracked some packages and stole the moving company’s records. The apartment was owned by a NYC real estate company, operated by people close to Zengrel.
It didn’t take a data interpreter or a criminal psychologist to put it together. He was hiding in Sincoke while the limited press from his court case blew over. But he wasn’t covering his tracks very well. Many rich people were very private. Most large conglomerates and finance firms didn’t have a public face. She wondered what gave Zengrel all his confidence. Dallas assumed it was money. America believed he was a narcissist. Lester figured he was just stupid. Dzerassae had a feeling there was more to it.
She had to periodically rest her old eyes. Dallas was starting to fade too. He spent most of the day stalking cheating spouses to keep the Agency afloat. Americans call people friends far too easily, but Dallas was certainly a comrade. She wasn’t sure if he was more interested in helping people or punishing himself. She could tell his mind was dwelling in darkness.
“Do not listen. You are good man, Dallas Avia,” Dzerassae said. “Awhile back you called your contacts ‘other mostly reformed gangsters.’ You are fully reformed. You are on the other side.”
“Heh. I just broke into someone’s house, and I’m stalking a guy I don’t like,” there was some amusement in his voice. “For sure I’m on the other side. But I haven’t changed.” Dzerassae nodded in solemn understanding. She, too, still lurked in shadows.
“I mean I even brought a lackey with me! That’s crimelord shit.”
“I am NOT lackey!” She frowned deeply and pointed a withering old finger at him.
“Hey don’t curse me with your witch finger!”
“I curse you!” She wiggled it. She was dead serious.
“No! The power of Christ repels you!” Dallas flipped open his wallet and held out a picture of Mao Zedong. “Oh shit—“ he gestured out the window, “there’s guys!”
Ellis was at peace in the hallways because there was nothing he could do to make them worse. He was looking for one of the kinds of vending machines he knew how to rob.
He heard a couple fighting and got excited about shaming them with a disapproving look, but they were inside an apartment. 69, directly across the hallway. He listened for a moment in case things got violent. In his experience no one took the ‘yelly’ household seriously, and he worried no one else would take it seriously if the woman screamed for help.
“Social, cosmic, individual unity! She is disordered on every level. We need to get her into a Game. Maybe even the wilderness facility!”
“Those nit-picking hawks are gonna tear her apart at that awful fucking humiliation ritual,” The woman seemed to hiss at a thousand decibels. Her voice was shrill and throaty. It came from the darkest part of her heart.
“It’s therapy!” The man yelled, “better than the self-delusion echo chamber you get with a shrink. No better than her online–”
“She needs to move some of this product with me,” the woman said, “needs some fire under her ass, learn how to make it as a woman in this world. These are the most productive years of–”
“You and the fucking product! You blew your savings, lost your job and most of your friends over–”
She started yelling indistinctly. No words, just hoarse, furious, demonic shouting.
A third voice repeated the word ‘mom’ increasingly loudly. Suddenly something big and heavy thunked into the door. Ellis saw it shake from impact. Whatever it was shattered on the floor.
Ellis braced himself to kick the door open but the woman didn’t scream, she sighed.
“I loved that thing,” she said coolly. Resigned.
“Its—these—internet—people. He’s—confused.” Silence punctuated each word. “Discipline! Responsibility! Without tradition, without roles, things—have lost—all—meaning. He’s a degenerate—who watches—cartoons. He’s given up on the world—accepted a passive role. That’s what this postmodern Neo-Marxist gender ideology reflects—a broken and confused inner psyche. Dad’s organization is full of low status males and drunks,” a huffy sound of disapproval from the first voice, “but that kind of tough love might help. Don’t you understand?”
The woman sighed. “I haven’t understood a fucking word you’ve said in three years.” The young man cursed and Ellis heard him punch a couch. “Are you going to let him act like that?” The woman said. The first man offered up an explanation so pathetic and impossible to respect that Ellis blocked it out entirely. The younger man launched into another weird speech. His family sounded sick of listening to him, and Ellis was too. He walked away.
It was comforting and confusing to know the apartment was a real place with real people. He walked past several doors that meant dozens of people living separate lives under the same roof. It was a unique loneliness.
He saw a room at the end of the hall with white tiles. A facility. Ellis loved those. Laundry rooms, kitchens, locker rooms. It was easy to pretend you had a reason to be there, so no one asked you to leave. Sometimes they had the old vending machines without cameras and alarm systems. He got closer and saw washing machines. That meant loose change.
He heard the distinct rumbling of a dryer. He walked in and saw
a cute girl. Dancing.
She looked his age, late teens or early twenties. She had olive skin and orange hair gathered into a thick mess. She was wearing a green tank top, dark sweatpants with prints of video game mascots, flip flops, and big bulky headphones. She swayed her hips and swung her arms with her eyes closed. Ellis was captivated by her long sloping nose. It started at a gentle bump between her eyes, perfect for resting glasses on. He he heard Mediterranean people were self-conscious of their noses. He couldn’t imagine why. Hers was elegant.
Ellis felt deep secondhand embarrassment. It was such an intimate, joyful moment and he profaned it profaned it walking in on it. She noticed him just as he was about to back away slowly. She gave a sheepish smile, then sat in the only plastic chair that wasn’t covered in gum or bent at the legs.
Ellis would look like a creeper if he left right away, so he acted like he meant to be there. In a laundry room, with no laundry. He went down the row staring at each dryer. He was obviously more embarrassed than she was, so she decided to rescue him.
“Looking for a good one?”
Did he need one? Ellis pretended to wipe his nose on his shirt collar, covertly sniffing it. “Wait—are some washing machines better than others?”
“I dunno man, I just come in here to dance.” Ellis gave an understanding nod, which perplexed and intrigued her. “You new here?”
“Moved in tonight.”
“Oh, very new! Cool. From what part of the city?”
Her eyes were big and bright brown, with dark circles her iris. He felt them taking him in. He stared at the ground, occasionally chancing glances at them. “Uh. Okonkwa,” Ellis said. “Its like, outside the city.”
“No fuckin’ way. You moved here? Like, from the world? I’ve never met anyone who’s been outside the city. Did you trek through the prairie?”
“This cab driver who wanted to die drove me.”
“Tell me of the outside world, traveler,” she said in an old hag voice.
“Its a complete nightmare. It’s mostly highways and stores, and everywhere you go someone hassles you until you spend money.”
“And they wonder why kids don’t play outside any more. Why’d ya’ll move to the Sinkhole? Running from something?”
“Beat a cop half to death.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
Ellis’ sour expression and curt responses made her nervous. She got that a lot; pretty much every time she went out in public. It’s why she didn’t. She watched the way he slumped and how the silence made him fidget, and realized he was just a grungy, feral, awkward dude. His face was probably stuck like an apprehensive animal. He didn’t disapprove of her, he was just uncomfortable. Well, she was very good at fixing that. Plus she liked ’em bashful.
“I hate the police. I used to work my uncle’s falafel truck. I can be charming when I have to, so I was a neighborhood favorite. They called me ‘Little Falafel Girl.’ Got some serious tips. The police were constantly harassing me, searching for drugs and hassling me about permits. Do I look like I know anything about zoning laws? I was there to fry chickpeas. One of them called me a ‘Fucking Arab’ and said a bunch of shit about Sharia Law and hijabs. Dude, I’m Irish and Persian. Like get your racism right. So I had to stop working there.”
“Jesus Christ,” Ellis was appalled. She was happy to see him engaged. “I didn’t know that my guy was a cop, but maybe I’ll beat the next one fully to death.”
“Please tell me more.”
“Well they have guns and they call like fifty of their friends if you reach for your pocket,” Ellis held his chin. “So I’d have to get the drop on him. I think I could knock him out with like a brick? Or if I used a roll of quarters like brass knuckles. But then I might lose some quarters.”
“Fascinating, but I meant about how you’re on the run from the law. Was he in plain clothes or?”
“He was my Mom’s boyfriend,” Ellis said. “Got violent and uh, so did I. I’m not like a violent person, I just, you know.”
“World’s a nightmare,” Sascha shrugged. “I get it. S’why I carry bear spray. Mace don’t cut it.”
Talking about violence sucked. Ellis wanted to keep talking but he didn’t know any subjects. Sascha was happy to talk to someone in person for a change. She asked what floor he was on.
“Room 68.”
“Oh my God, neighbors! I’m in 69. Nice nice, eh?” She made a suggestive face, Ellis made a sympathetic one. He must have heard her family going at it. “My name is Sascha, by the way.”
“Ellis Avia.”
She got up and asked if he hugged.
Ellis was fatally touch-starved. “I’ve never been asked.”
“Boundaries are important.” She put her arms around him. Realized he did need to do laundry. “Welcome to Sincoke, city of quantity over quality. Its like TV. A billion channels, nothing to do.”
Ellis understood she was hiding from the yelling. The dance didn’t feel private or intimate anymore, it felt lonely. He didn’t want her going back home. He invited her to hang out.
“I think that’d be fun!” She said. “I have online classes most days but I’d love to show you around a little.”
“You free tonight? I was unpacking and my apartment is weird.” She was a bit put off being invited to his apartment. He noticed. “No pressure. Its just really weird. Like, spiritually empty.”
“Haha ‘spiritually empty’? Well, no one lived there,” she said.
“…You’ve never seen anyone there? It’s my brother’s place. Allegedly. He sent some prick to bring me here. You haven’t seen him?”
“Wait, I saw a guy there months ago. Maybe a year? Time feels irrelevant. He was really hot.” She paused for a moment and went for it. “Kinda looked like you.”
“I have no idea what he looks like.” Ellis said.
Did it go over his head, or had she been deflected? “Wait,” she said, “you don’t know what your brother looks like?”
“I haven’t seen him in ten years. Suddenly he invites me to stay with him, and the apartment is like spotless. Everything is new. It’s all very mysterious.”
“Maybe he cleaned it for you. Or maybe… its his porn studio.” Ellis looked perplexed. “Dude you know. All those ‘amateur’ guy-with-camera porn sites. They’re always in very clean, mostly empty apartments.”
“Why would he let me stay there then?”
“Fluffer,” she said. He nodded knowingly, clearly had no idea what she meant. She rolled her eyes at herself for worrying. There was not an ounce of guile in this boy. “I’ll help you investigate your brother’s creepy porn studio. Plus if you’re a secret murderer my family might hear me scream over their own yelling.” He looked mortified. She set a laundry alarm on her phone, and turned her location on just in case.
He seemed more nervous than she was. They heard another crash from Apt 69. “Hey, even if you’re a secret murderer, it can’t be worse than my place!”
9:32PM. Dzerassae photographed six men as they showed up at Zengrel’s house. Thick necks, pot bellies, big arms, and fascistic tattoos. “Classic goon bods,” Dallas did a chef’s kiss. “If it were lighter out they’d be wearing sunglasses.”
They were wearing dress pants, white gloves, and double breasted black jackets. “What are they, bellhops?” Dallas said. “They look like they should be wearing anti-woke brand t-shirts. Second Amendment Cereal or something.” “I fucking hate private security. It’s all guys who want to ‘protect and serve’ but they’re too out of shape and racist to be cops. And that’s saying something.”
Their shirts weren’t tucked in and their buttons were undone. Dzerassae had affection for anyone who disrespected their employer. “Where is class solidarity?” She asked Dallas. “Private security make paltry minimum wage that make breadlines look like generosity. It is hard economy.”
“ACAB, Dzerassae. Even fake ones.”
9:46 PM. A large van pulled in. “I thought all his shit was already here,” Dallas said. “What’d he forget a couple 14-year-olds?” Dzerassae ignored him but readied her camera. That was a very real possibility.
The van had a logo for ‘Innovative Livestock Solutions.’ The security performed their theater. hassling the black drivers, giving each other hand signals, and constantly gesturing to their guns. Eventually the deliverymen unloaded large coils and huge commercial refrigerators. The goons kept haranguing them about where to go. No doubt giving confusing, conflicting instructions.
“What kind of fucked up fetish is this for?” Dallas said. “Guess he needs a lot of Dino Nuggets and Lunchables for his harem.”
They took pictures of the equipment; they’d have to do research to deduce its purpose. Watching the movers work was monotonous. Detective work was incredibly boring, even when investigating an elite sex cult. Their vigilance waned, their minds wandered. Dallas imagined anemic figures sprawled on the floor inside. Powerless, poor wretches stuck in Zengrel’s orbit. Dzerassae saw signs of doom. She interpreted patterns in the positions of the guards, and in the rhythm of the birds beating their wings. Junk data. Not everything was an omen. There was a fine line between listening to the universe and magical thinking.
Something about Zengrel’s apartment inspired dread. The deliverymen moved quickly like they didn’t want to be there. The guards watched them like hawks but wouldn’t follow them inside.
One of the guards put his hands on a deliveryman, starting a loud altercation. “Wild night,” Dallas shrugged. “Hope the dude doesn’t get shot. Be a useful photo, though.”
10:16PM. A limousine.
“Oh fuck oh fuck,” Dallas said. “Wee-oo wee-oo. Pedo’s here.”
Sascha acted amused by the yelling echoing through the halls. Ellis had enough tact not to say anything. He stood in front of his door and fumbled through his pockets.
“We can keep the door open if you want,” he said.
“And listen to them? We should soundproof it and blast music or something.”
The laundry room was a safe place; she didn’t like being right outside their door. She fidgeted anxiously while Ellis pulled cheap ear buds out of his pocket. Sascha’s Mom screamed about entrepreneurial spirit. Batteries, a rubber band, a bunch of loose change. Sascha’s Dad threatened to relapse. Half-eaten bag of Swedish Fish, taquito wrappers, a reusable straw, a student bus pass. Cyrus repeated some gibberish he’d heard online. Chinese food sauce packets, a library card from Okonkwa, Cyrus cursed at the top of his lungs, a bunch of fliers for open mics, Cyrus punched their couch—
The parents grew increasingly bewildered by their son. Being misunderstood hurt his ego and made him angrier. She was familiar with the cycle; she had to grow up with him.
“Shit,” Ellis mumbled to himself. He seemed nice and she was very lonely, but he was a stranger who walked in on her in the laundry room. Without laundry.
“FUCK!” Cyrus screamed.
“Fuck…” Ellis breathed as he thrust his hand back into his pocket.
She heard Cyrus throw something at the wall. What if he was in her room, destroying her figures and electronics? What if he found the titty figures?!
Ellis threw a wad of receipts on the ground in frustration.
“I’m actually gonna watch my laundry,” Sascha mumbled, stepping away.
He exhaled loudly. “I think I locked myself out.”
“Property manager’s number is downstairs.” Poor guy. He never answered.
“I uh, don’t have a phone.”
Cyrus punched the door and she jumped. “Convenience store might have one,” she spat.
Ellis finally clocked the vibe shift. Her whole body was turned in the direction of the laundry room. He froze, confused and bug-eyed. “Did I-” don’t question her, “sorry I-” nothing to do with you—just let her go. “Alright, I’ll go downstairs. Uh, see ya maybe.”
“Sorry, good luck with the door!” She started scurrying away when the door crashed open and Cyrus spilled out. His skin was lighter than Sascha’s but he had the same nose and eyes. The sides of his head were shaved, and the top was long and slicked back with so much gel it looked plastic. He was wearing a stark white polo. He had an enamel pin of a smug-looking toad on his lapel.
He slammed the door shut. “Normies! NPCs!” He roared. Then he noticed Sascha and Ellis. “What are you doing. Who is this beta?”
Zengrel handed his driver a fat tip. He was tall and broad like a linebacker, with a big face, wide jaw, and long gray hair. He wore a salmon polo and faded jeans. His deep smile lines were noticeable even from a distance. The employees’ mood shifted when he arrived. His big smile, self-satisfied as it was, proved infectious. He never blinked. He put his arm around the guards and movers and slapped them on the back, treating the hired help like old college buddies.
“Life of the party, this guy,” Dallas said bitterly. “Real peoples’ champion.”
“Stops people from asking too many questions,” Dzerassae said. “ I hate American performative niceness. Smile when you happy. Scowl all other times.”
“I can take or leave most of my culture,” Dallas said, “but I think its nice to smile at people and shake hands.”
Dzerassae gestured out the window. “See what niceness hides.”
They heard footsteps outside the aviary, followed by dangling keys.
Dallas got up to handle whoever was at the door. AIDS developed a system called the Sus Scale, where each member’s trustworthiness was ranked based on looks and vibes, to determine who should speak to police and civilians. America was voted least suspicious, though she argued her blackness was a disadvantage with some people. Next was Dallas. He could be charming, but he smiled like a freak and had no filter. Dzerassae was last because of her old-world mannerisms and Russian accent. Lester was banned from speaking to the public.
Dallas saw a stocky man through the peephole. Mid 30s, ratty windbreaker and cargo pants. He was holding a plastic bag and struggling to inset a key into the lock. Dallas noticed he was swaying
Dallas opened the door and said, “Howdy?”
The guy looked surprised, then awkward and unsure of himself, as if Dallas caught him doing something wrong. Dallas waited for him to talk first, hoping for a clue about who he should pretend to be. The man tried to look past him and Dallas moved to block Dzerassae from view. A bird squawked, and the man leered.
“I’m here to… to feed the fucking birds,” he stammered, visibly drunk.
“Oh man they didn’t tell you? I was gonna be here tonight, so I volunteered. They were supposed to give you the night off.” This seemed to frustrate him, like he was used to abrupt schedule changes. “Ugh. Hate it when they fucking do that,” Dallas said. The man nodded. He tried to hide the plastic bag.
A draft came in. The birds started squawking, and the man’s face reddened with rage. “Fucking birds disrespecting me!”
“Whoa there partner,” Dallas tried to put a hand on his shoulder, but the man shoved his way inside, pulling fistfuls of rice out the bag.
“FEATHERED FUCKS!!!” He tossed rice and it scattered everywhere.
Dallas dove between the rice and birdcages. “The birds are innocent!”
“He is attracting attention from across street,” Dzerassae said.
Dallas spun around the man and covered his mouth, kicked him in the back of the knees to drop him, then pulled him into the bathroom.
Cyrus straightened his shoulders, lifted his chest, and raised his chin. It made Ellis think of a goose hissing and flapping its wings. Geese can’t take a hit. Cyrus turned away from Ellis as if he was sufficiently cowed. Normally that’s when Ellis would take a swing, but Sascha was right there.
“This” Cyrus gestured to Ellis, “is what I want to talk about, Sascha. Look what postmodern media—and hormone therapy—have done to your mind.” Ellis looked perplexed. “See? He doesn’t even know what’s going on.”
“No one does, Cyrus. No one ever knows what you’re talking about,” Sascha said.
“Yes—you do. You’re not connected to your evolutionary intuition. Let me explain; this beta hasn’t consciously realized it—but instinctively—he knows—we’ve established our status in relation to each other.”
Ellis looked at Sascha pleadingly, like a dog that wanted to chase a squirrel.
“What are you doing?” She asked Cyrus, deadpan.
“Forget this petty squabble,” he gestured at the apartment. “You’re not in a place where you can understand. But-”
“What are you doing talking to me? This isn’t how it works,” she said, sternly and sadly. “None of you talk to me. You yell, and I guess now whisper and plot, about me.”
Cyrus stepped towards her. Ellis stepped towards him. “That’s because you don’t listen Sascha.”
“Not with a straight face,” she said.
Cyrus twitched. “’People mock things they aren’t ready to accept,’” he quoted someone.
“You don’t need to tell me that!”
Ellis looked at their parents. A refrigerator-bodied Mediterranean man with a mustache whose posture made him look smaller. A petite middle aged white woman with weird Pilates muscles and over-sunned skin. They seemed mesmerized by their daughter’s voice, as if they’d never heard it.
“Mahdi-” Cyrus began.
“That’s Dad to you!” Their father yelled petulantly.
“You lost that status!” Cyrus shot back.
“That’s more like it.” Sascha said bitterly. “I’ll just stand here.”
“I want you to come to my meetings,” Mahdi pleaded.
“I think it will teach you some Responsibility,” Cyrus said, choking up at the word.
“There’s only one way to learn anything,” Sascha’s Mom said, “Rise and grind!”
Wow all that sounds great, guys. Tell you what, why don’t you all fucking kill each other, and whoever survives can tell me how to live my life! Sascha didn’t say. She turned and looked at Ellis, simultaneously sorry he was seeing this and annoyed he was still there. Ellis just glared at Cyrus.
“Hey,” Cyrus said, mustering as much authority as he could, “you and I already settled things.”
“Have we?” Ellis had venom in his voice. He didn’t want to meddle in Sascha’s business. So he had to make Cyrus hit him first.
“You’re trying to save face—that’s normal—but all you can do is talk.” He wasn’t wrong. If he shut Cyrus up his way, he’d be the bad guy and everyone would avoid him. The yoke of acceptable behavior was on his shoulders, always benefiting the biggest asshole. Didn’t anyone know what ‘fighting words’ were? “It’s the same for all of you—you’re all frozen, quiet—your genes recognize my dominant position.” He looked at Sascha. “And I’m finally using it to set you—on the right path.”
“You’re just making everyone feel weird,” Ellis said.
“Do you even eat raw liver?” Cyrus said. Don’t say I eat your Mom, Ellis thought. She’s right there. “You obviously eat processed foods. Sascha—if you were a real woman—your evolutionary psychology—wouldn’t permit you around a man like this.”
“I was helping him find his keys,” She turned to Ellis. “Go call the property manager.”
“See? In the presence of a real man your status plummets,” Cyrus said.
“Just go downstairs, dude,” Sascha was exasperated.
“Run along now,” Cyrus said.
“Nah,” Ellis said.
Sascha narrowed her eyes at him. “Excuse me?”
“This dude’s violent, I’m staying within earshot. I’ll finish my laundry,” Ellis stared Cyrus right in the eyes. You know where to find me.
“Excuse me—who the fuck are you?” Cyrus spat.
Ellis leaned forward and glared at him through his wild hair. “I’m your new neighbor,” he gestured to the door behind them. “Be seeing you around.” I’ll be here now. I will hear everything. You have to think about me. I’m the Mom’s Boyfriend now.
