Part 13
The Previous Night.
“We found the Snow Sasquatch,” I answer dryly. “We just didn’t get that part on tape.”
“I was so happy when you stopped writing books,” he says. I didn’t write those books. Someone else wrote those books about Dr. Filth. It’s never been confirmed we were all the same person. “Books are all about writers! Writers writing about writing is boring!” He gives me a goofy smile and pumps his fist once. I figure I should do the same if I want to be polite. He claps me on the back. “You about ready for a drink?” he asks, holding out his empty beer to show me what he’s talking about.
I scowl.
“Your show gets to the heart of the story. You hear a rumor, you go right in there to find out what’s happening!” Dickweed is blaring. “I want a story with guns, and maybe a sword fight. Writers need to learn something from you! Get out there and fight the fight!” This guy puts his long, sleazy fingers on my shoulder and smiles an awful smile. “Dude, I’ve got to ask you. Why do you always wear sunglasses.”
I look at him over the rim of my blue lenses. “Diving accident. I shattered my retinas when I hit the water and can’t see shades of blue without these prescription lenses. That's how I acquired my superpowers.” He stares at me a second, mouth hanging open, his sodden brain trying to dredge out some apology, but it’s a lost cause. I’ve gotten his goat, I can get out of this conversation.
Victory is not without a price. Any one of these opportunistic little shits could see how close this nameless doofus came to besting me. I have to get out in the open, where I can see my attackers coming at me. In here, I’m exposed. If the wrong person suspects I’m the same Dr. Filth that caused so many adored superheros to be slain, some rotten bastard could put a stiletto in my abdomen and I’d be left to endure the pain as I kept going.
The sharks have gotten the smell of blood. I dare-say the band would stop playing to take pot-shots at me if things got out-of-hand. I’d be reduced to a skeleton in seconds. If I clear the door, no one will give chase in the streets.
I spin, ready to fight the hand locking on my forearm. I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have at my back than Nepotism Baldwin. “Ready to go?” he asks. Some people consider him the most dangerous man alive. Others think he’s immortal. All I know is that Nepotism has never let me down. I nod weakly.
Nepotism drags me through the crowd to a flailing wall of arms and legs jammed in the front door. He extends his hand and the bodies twist and retract enough for us to crawl through. The flesh tunnel spits us onto the packed snow covering the yard. I’m wet and winded.
Regaining my bearings, I turn to Nepotism, whose furious little eyes are bouncing across the yard to each walking corpse dumb enough to drink from the kegs. You never know how much cyanide has been pumped in at the instructions of some Interpol or Franz Ferdinand song. I stick with bottled beers.
I hand my empty beer bottle to a girl walking past. She’s a little upset, but doesn’t reject my gift. “The crowd is lame, we should head out.”
“These people are Sneezers. You don’t want to stick around, dance a little?” I know he saw me with Eva, but I’m not ready to admit. “It could up your social standing.”
A little beer slaps at my resentment. “This place is full of Trekkies. If we stay any longer, a D&D game is going to break out.”
“You probably brought a character.”
“I keep one in my wallet,” I say. “You know that.”
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