The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 73

Prologue, Part 4

Several years prior.

The SI’s must be a green group hunting me now, because I haven’t done anything in a while that would bring attention. Being too cautious is what kept me alive and in secret for this long. Now that the wool has been removed, I’m going to need to rely on that old distrust. 

The same kind of paranoia that keeps them in business will be the same kind of paranoia that keeps me alive. It’s not until you realize that no one can be trusted that you can consider yourself safe.  Everyone has a price, no matter how close to you they are. Always watch over my shoulder, always think someone is there. That is the only way I can stay alive.

Once an SI is at my back with a gun, there’s no slipping the noose. Kids bump into me as I cross the dance floor to a spot by the speaker. I let them inflict a couple bruises, to make me look genuine. Anything that could disguise me in the end. My sixth sense says the Secret Inspectors could be coming soon, so I slip out a different back door, turning the handle with my shirt sleeve. 

I abandon my car and run. In my own vehicle, they wouldn’t even need Secret Inspectors to hunt me down. Alert the local police in some neighborhood they divined. I could get picked up and locked away for “Special Extradition.” 

No self-respecting SI, no matter how dedicated to the job will follow me on PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION.  The bus is filled with homeless people and junkies. I keep my head lowered. They are the ones most likely to sell you out for a few cigarettes, and I can’t really blame them. It’s better than starving to death. I sit in the front, close to the driver, who is the least likely to remember my face amid the sea of human tragedy he experiences every day. 

A junk-head under hypnosis can still describe faces in detail with the encouragement of a little torture. SI’s employ junkies with money, smack, day-old doughnuts, or even the promise of acceptance. The SI use anything to their advantage, and a good junkie can prove more valuable than a security cam. Unlike a camera, which can be set to rotate, the junkie will face forward and shoot as much smack as possible with no question, no care, no desire. 

That should have made me suspicious of the junk-head that had been sitting on my front steps for the last week. I knew he was there to keep tabs on my comings and goings, so I started going in and out the back door. The junky’s allotted job was to watch the front door, and they are lacking the cognitive ability for rational thought. Even though he hadn’t seen me in days, he didn’t move from that appointed spot on my doorstep.

Part 74

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 70: Prologue, Part 2

I was in no position to make waves, I just wanted to live my life and not “disappear” like too many people have done after the Superhero War. I didn’t want to say anything dangerous now, but who knows what buttons of mine could be pushed at what time. It’s the filthy breeding of danger.

I slip back through the crowd of dancing kids toward the kitchen. The bartender looks at me angry when I move past him, head bowed, jacket collar pulled high, but in typical fashion, he says nothing. If he were to point me out for being out of place, that would bring the roving microscopic Everpresent Eye down on him. He has just as much to hide. The Secret Inspectors push about, craning their necks.

The Secret Inspectors were created to keep Metro City fair. They are not police, and they are only loosely government employees. They are like superheros, but more biased. Secret Inspectors stay anonymous by trading bodies after every investigation so the same inspector never inspects twice. Secret Inspectors can dispense judgement in all situations as they see fit. They have affectionately been called “The Party Mayor’s Cudgel.”  Unless a death warrant is mitigated, the SI take notes and report back to central command.

I jump through the saloon-style doors to the kitchen. I need to get some place out of sight real fast. Ducking out of the way to hide behind an over sized shelf with an array of spices and salts that disguise the smell of rotted meat in the kitchen. From my pronounced correspondence with Mike, I know that this bar gets most of its meat from dumpsters of meat-packing plants and fast-food restaurants selling their stock when they go out of business.

A poster on the wall offers a reward for a daughter named Ashley, who went missing. Keith and Kim desperately want her return. Mike is at the grill, cooking up something that looks vaguely like the stomach of an animal.

Penalties for dissent include death, and other punishments that may seem unnecessary in the future. If you have caused any kind of discomfort to the system, the judges in Metro City are a bloated Hammurabi, and the punishment is meted out to fit the crime. I’ve seen entire families murdered or worse, publicly shunned because they spoke out against a war other civilized nations considered barbaric. I haven’t been accused of anything yet, which can be worse than the crime.  

A suspect can simply be “disappeared,” like your average run-away or prostitute or murder victim. The Secret Inspectors like to get the job done real fast. Mike looks up from the grill. His eyes are wide and bloodshot from the massive amounts of cocaine he has been doing to stay awake. He has not slept in seven years, simulating REM sleep by watching mosquitoes fly about in a bog while doing line after line of pure South American rails. The last time I saw him, he was going on three years and usually spit out gibberish, acceptable for the occasional profundity.

Go to Part 71

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 69: The Previous Night.

“I’m not going anywhere without a fight,” I whisper, pressing the muzzle of the gun to Zombie's cheek. “You might want to call this off.” Zombie’s eyes show now recognition.

“Wait in here, please,” Zombie says motioning the door again.

I holster my weapon and do as I’m told . He closes the door behind us. I look for any possibility of escape. Nothing but a desk beneath an vent-sized window. Zombie leans against the door, eyes fixed on me as I circumvent the desk and sit.

“Is this an old restroom?” I ask. “Did you convert a restroom for your office?” The pipes from sink and urinal still protrude from the wall. The phone sits to the side of his desk, receiver still nestled comfortably in the cradle. “Who’s coming for me?” I ask nonchalantly, picking up the receiver and looking it over. A dial tone reveals the set-up.

“Quiet please,” Zombie rumbles.

I shake my head. “I’m going to shoot up your bar really bad. You know that, right?”

He stares at me.

“This is going to be ugly.” I put the phone down.

Zombie stares at me.

Someone knocks on the other side of the door. Zombie’s eyebrows raise and he starts to turn, but groans and falls to the sound of a nail driven through wood. A small bullet wound is between Zombie’s shoulder blades, and a hole in the door about an inch wide. Blood spatter covers the broken door.

A figure in a black hoodie enters. It's St. Eva enters and the smoking gun is in her hand. She  licks her lips. “You’ve got a big mouth,” she says We kiss and paw at each other’s backs before I push her away.

“You stole my notebook!” I stop short and take a step backward.

It’s tucked in her leather pants under the hoodie. She tosses it on the desk.

“Nepotism says he’ll kill you if you read it.”

“You’re writing an episode about cave men that built great cities. “Is that what you do in your spare time?’” She circles the desk and stands behind me, blocking me with her knee when I try and swivel. It’s a rare trait to go from entirely nude to completely covered and become sexier. No one does it like Eva Lorraine.

“We fought a Scrubber at you’re house, and it was already trashed when Nepotism arrived.”

“You have no idea who eradicated my furniture with shotgun blasts and automatic gunfire?”

“I may have seen some of that occur.”

She puts her hand on my shoulder and presses her groin against my leg. “I trashed that house,” she said. “I wanted you to think I was dead.”

“We fought a Scrubber!” I say. “It was there! It looked like Jack Kerouac!”

Eva puts her black leather gloves on my shoulders. “I’ve got a job for you.”

Go to Part 70

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 68: Later That Same Evening

Nepotism is ahead of me when I hit the bottom of the stairs. A heavy metal door painted eggshell white and a meshed window on the top allows a dim view of the inner world. Mephis looks through. “I don’t see anyone,” he whispers harshly. “No guards anywhere.”

Goat and Kara join him, gazing through the window in turn. “No fucking way,” Goat whispers harshly. “They wouldn’t leave the place unattended.”

No one else is interested. The three kids take up strategic places around the room for a maximum firing arc, ready to lay on should anyone attempt entry through either vista. I start pacing. “They wouldn’t leave something this important completely unguarded.” I  pause where the little one, Nigel, has taken up position by the north wall. “What would you do?” I ask him.

His eyes widen and his jaw drops open. “Excuse me, sir?” The stone-cold soldier that has been here a minute before is gone, replaced by the quivering jelly left by suggesting he may have an opinion of his own.

I slowly repeat, “What do you think we should do, Nigel?” I glance over at the others for a reaction, and get mostly shock.

“I... I don’t know, sir,” he stammers.

“Filthy, leave him alone,” Nepotism suggests.

“You don’t know?” I ask in shock. “You don’t know. You are ready to plunge into a life-or-death situation without any kind of idea on how to get out?”

“Dr. Filth,” Mephis scolds. “We don’t have time for this.”

I’m undeterred. “You came here totally relying on someone else for your survival? What happens if you’re the only one left alive? What if there is no one else here that can tell you how to save your life?”

“Filthy!” Nepotism snaps. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

I turn on him like a rattlesnake. “Wrong?” I gasp. “What is wrong? Nothing is wrong. I’m doing what we need to do.”

“And what’s that?” Mephis demands.

Goat and Kara watch.

“We’re standing here with our thumbs up our asses. We clearly need some new blood on the case.” I turn back on Nigel. “Tell me, Nigel, what do you think we should do right now?”

He stares in shock for a few seconds before saying, “Uh... Go in there?”

“Did you say, ‘go in there?’” I ask.

He nods dumbly.

“Very good!” I boom. “Let’s go!” I push past Mephis and yank open the heavy metal door.

Go to Part 69

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 67: The Following Evening.

Cut back to the car, parking lot of the Alternatron, me in the backseat, Nepotism in the front, and Mephis never relinquishing his driver’s seat, no matter how much I beg. Mephis turns the ignition, roars the car to monstrous life and coaxes into reverse. “The operation is run out of some filthy punk commune,” Mephis says distastefully. “That has kept off any real attention so far, but the place smells terrible. They call it ‘Castle Greyskull.’” He crinkles up his nose and glances down between the seats. “They offered to let us spend the night, but I don’t think I could stomach the whole affair.”

“You’re so subtle,” Nepotism mumbles.

We take side-streets past graffiti-covered tenements. I have not been back to Metro City for years. I traveled around a little, especially when I was doing the cryptozoology work, but I never came back this way. I didn’t expect police, or even Scrubbers at the border, but I didn’t forget the Old Priest’s command. Stay out of town.

We’re in Doom City, where the Superhero Gang don’t mean shit. Half these people are rehabbing for some petty crime or villainy. Every time they get caught it’s another 6 months they can’t set foot on Hero Island.

Children jump about happily on the sidewalk in imagined games. “We need to be at the garden party by 7:30, so we have 45 minutes to suit up.” He glances at me pointedly. “We don’t have time to waste, so I don’t want dawdling.”

“Party Mayor gonna be there?” I ask.

Mephis points to a massive grey monstrosity of a building looming to our left. “This is the one we want.” The cluster of windows make it resemble the grinning skull that named the place. Banisters of the wide front porch are clenched, rotten teeth. A red Punchbug vacates it’s spot and Mephis slides in. 

“Seriously, dude,” Nepotism says. “What kind of Metro City sneezers will be at this shindig? If we get recognized, we’re done.”

“No one gives a shit about the Unnatural,” Mephis says, and gets out of the car. We follow, and he leads us through the gate up the stone steps. A liberty-coned punk rocker in once-black clothes lays semi-conscious on a torn, rent and spray-painted couch by the front door. “Whattafuk a’you wan?” he says in mimicked Cockney.

“Tyr,” Mephis says in a low voice.

The punk’s glazed eyes clear and he nods. “They’re waiting for you.”

The protest of the metal gate announces our arrival. We follow Mephis in, and pass a sitting room full of ratty furniture and a drum kit, each crammed with punk kids in faded t-shirts drinking from paper bags or sticking heroin in their veins. One ancient-looking punk rocker with patchwork leather pants, tied-back greying mohawk and an intricate tribal tattoo across his craggy face is seated in the back corner. He sees Mephis and smiles, making a delicate hand gesture that I almost miss. “Tophel,” he whispers.

Mephis says nothing, and does his best to keep his hand gestures out of our sight.

“They waiting for you in the kitchen,” the old punk says, gesturing down the hall. Harsh florescent light pours from a doorway and Jello Biafra singing for a band that is probably Lard. One of the kids slurs at Mephis under his breath. The old punk silences him with a look.

“Thank you, Brother,” Mephis whispers, bowing his head. He turns to his right and leads us to the kitchen.

Go to Part 68

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 66: Much Too Early, Late That Same Morning.

“No.” I pace about the debris. “The room is carefully staged to look ransacked, but it doesn’t hold up to scrutiny.” I hold out a broken snow-globe, water still pooled around the feet of the missing Frosty the Snowman I gave her years ago. “First off, there is no sign of a defense. No bullet-holes in the walls, no blood either. Eva wouldn’t have gone without a fight. They would have to kill her, and we’d see evidence of that.”

“All right,” he allows, as if he had been considering this as well.

“We can stage a crime scene better than this. They made a point to break everything. Why break the bed?”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” he admits, eyebrows raising proudly.

“Nothing has been taken that I take note of. They broke a flat-screen television, the DVD player, and the compact disc player, and left a hundred dollars in twenties over there on the floor,” I say, pointing to the other side of the bed.

“That’s begging for  InternetConspiracyEchoChamber.com to jump on it," Nepotism says. "I was going to take the cash because they were dumb enough to leave it.”  

“The destruction is too complete,” I tell him. “ The clothes pulled out of her dresser, drawers torn out and broken, and the dresser and the mirror smashed on top of them. What purpose does that serve?” I glance around the room and take a deep breath. “We’re splitting that money.”

“You’re good.”

“I’m just getting started.”

“Let me get a witness!”

“Look at this. They did everything to this room save for pulling the blinds off the window. Maybe two hours ago she left my house. I woke up at ten and she was still sleeping. They couldn’t do this in two hours.”

He snickers.

“Dude, shut up. Think about it. They were planning to make her disappear before she got my notebook. From the looks of how carefully this mess was assembled, I doubt they wanted her to even show up here at all. It would take one little struggle to destroy this work of art.”

“Uh huh, uh huh.”

“Dude, they were going to pick her up on her way here.”

“You know, if they were going to put something here it implicate you, and they had to get it from her. It probably means they haven’t been back here yet,” he says, looking down at his cell phone for the time.

The front door opens.

Go to Part 67

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 65: The Night Before.

Zombie, has been manager of the Spot from before I started coming here. He is shambling toward our table, glazed eyes staring lifelessly at me from within the purplish bags that hang almost to his droopy moustache. He extends both his arms, wrists limp, fingers fat noodles beneath his meaty palms. The index finger on his left hand shoots out and points at me.

“Is my Spot Slab coming out any time soon?” I ask him. “ I think the cook is shooting up again.”

Zombie looks me up and down with no acknowledgment of my words. There have always been rumors about Zombie. Some say the owner built him piece by piece from stolen body parts, a monstrous conglomeration of all the best managers in the entire world, reanimated with electricity and cocaine.

Zombie is more a force of nature than a real human being. Once he starts moving, there is no stopping him. I once saw him throw five big  guys aside to get the kid that grabbed a bartender’s ass. While they tussled, another kid broke a bar stool over Zombie’s back, and impaled Zombie with one of the broken legs. They chopped off his hand before Zombie got them all out the door and collapsed. He was dragged to the back room and a ‘waiting ambulance.’ The next day he was back, fist wrapped in a dirty cloth shoved up a pint glass. No one spoke a word of what happened the night before. “Dr. Filth?” Zombie groans.

“No,” I say. “Someone else.”

“Of course it’s Dr. Filth,” Nepotism says, disgusted. “We’re in here every night. You know him. You know this is Dr. Filth.” Nepotism looks at me. “Tell him, Filthy.”

“You have a phone call in office,” Zombie says. He points through the door to my left, leaving not much room to argue. I slide out of the booth and follow the direction of his digit, more than a little worried about who is back here waiting for me. Why do they only want me? Why not Nepotism or Mephis Tyr. I’ve got my Talon under my jacket. Nep wouldn’t have sold me out. Was it Mephis? Did one of us whisper a little too loudly?

Ugly florescent light scorches out of a doorway. “In there,” Zombie says.

“Who is it?” I demand under my breath.

“Wait in here, please,” he says in a monotone.

I draw the weapon from under my armpit, spin and hold the side up to his face. We stand there, momentarily tense, eyes locked, or at least, I’m tense. Zombie does not move. His features are cold and bloodless, dead eyes staring.

Go to Part 66

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 64: The Following Night, at the Concert.

Nepotism runs to me. I’m laying across one of the spinning discs, but it’s moving too slow to throw us. “Are you all right?” he yells to be heard over the music that continues playing.

“Fine,” I shout, rubbing my head and getting to a sitting position.  The Scrubber is gone. Did Nepotism’s spell kill it?

The song reaches crescendo and the metal grate shudders. The spinning discs lift beneath us, speeding up, so we have to fall flat to grip the smooth plastic. Aluminum catwalks stretch between them, barely more than rails.  Kara is descending into the empty center of the Sephiroth. Nepotism and I find ourselves and the entire band 10 feet off the ground, stretching to receive the Ankh. The audience loves the spectacle.

Solomon only seems to be slightly paying attention. "Paled or purple, veiled or voluptuous! Paled or purple, veiled or voluptuous.” Now that we’re up here, we’re obvious to everyone, and the entire band is gesturing and pointing to alert security. There are no stairs I see, no way for us to descend, or any attackers to reach us. "PALED!" Solomon shrieks. "PUR-PLE!"

Mephis is alone on the stage, gun still in hand, but cast in the shadow of the spectacle above him. "Put on the wings and arouse the coiled splendor within you." I slide to hold a rail, letting the disc spin beneath my hip. Nepotism stands at the center. “Come! On! To meee!" Solomon is on us, and they are fighting. Nepotism is hesitant to use his sword, though Solomon is clearly reaching for it. I lose my legs and I spiral out of control, catching myself on the catwalk

Dukett has been doing guitar poses on his disc as he slides into a solo, driving the sweaty ladies beneath him into orgiastic frenzy, grinding and undulating against boyfriends, husbands, 'friends with benefits,' and random strangers. The fighting and death at the other end of the Tree of Life has garnered Dukett's attention and he is carefully picking his way down the rail toward us. I'll have to move fast if I'm going to get past him and reach Kara.

Nepotism wrestles with Solomon. Nep couldn't kill him now without driving the crowd into a frenzy and blowing our cover. We're part of the ticket price. Solomon is well aware of the same thing, but he would never be able to break Nepotism's defenses while still concentrating on his music.  There is little more than this fight than elaborate posing and dance.

I’m in position to see Armitage form from a black splash through the grating behind Mephis, already attacking before it turns solid. Long, knobby fingers form from inky tendrils, grabbing Mephis by the shoulders. A tremendous explosion of blue energy hurls him away. Only momentarily phased, Mephis shoots Armitage twice in the head. The face reforms before it has finished exploding. Armitage raises his hands and they flow with blue fire.

Grabbing Mephis around the throat, the Scrubber lifts him off the ground. Blue fire consumes Mephis’s head, burning flesh and hair. The collar of his shirt smolders. Exposed muscle and bone scorch, and features flake away like carbonized paper. Eyes turn white and evaporate. His jacket burns away from the burnt flesh of his shoulders. Armitage casts aside the corpse and sets his eyes on me.

"PALED! Puuuuurple!" Solomon moans.

Go to Part 65

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 63: Several Years Later, Early in the Afternoon, 

the Day After the Party and the Day Before the Concert.

“Do you understand the significance of making Ira a fugitive?” Nepotism asks, looking over his shoulder impatiently. “It kept him quiet. If  he was a fugitive, he couldn’t spout off about the Turkey Farm. I mean, hello, ‘Space Kids?’ That couldn’t really be made public, could it? No, so they set him up for this murder. He goes on the run, has to keep his head low. If he was killed, there would have been a lot of questions. If he was in jail, he could still talk. So they sent him running. In one fell stroke, they shut him up, and ruined any credibility he ever had.”

“And who told you this?” I ask, kicking at the remains of the bed stand.

He turns around abruptly and taps his temple. “I have sources,” he says. “I know people.”

“Most of your sources are people you meet at the Spot. Do you remember the guy who told you how to cut off a person’s head?”

“Dude, seriously, he showed me a lot of scars. He was in the war.”

“He also said he was a Freemason, a Skull &; Bones, and an O.T.O. When you were in the bathroom, he confessed to being in three groups I made up.”

“That’s just it, dude. You made them up. Who is to say he wasn’t a member?” He puts his fists on his hips and scans the room. “I wouldn’t touch anything in here.” I was pawing through broken knick-knacks on the bookshelves as he talked. “You get your fingerprints around, and you’re dead.”

I sigh. “Don’t worry, they will be able to prove I was in the room.”

“Gross, dude.” He snickers. “You’re going to prison for murder.”  

“I’m glad you find it amusing,” I say. “We don’t know she’s dead.”

“And the longer we can keep that up, the longer you’ll get letters from freaks and weirdos that still believe you’re innocent.”

“Did you write to Ira Einhorn?” I ask.

“I wrote to Uri Geller. That guy got railroaded.”

I take a step back from the details and see the full scene. “Dude, there’s no sign of a struggle.”

He stands up quickly and spreads his arms. “I think this was a bit of a struggle.”

Go to Part 64

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 62: Prologue, Part 3

In some circles, Mike was called ‘the Deacon.’ For some it’s the haggard and knowing look in his eyes, some for his preternatural attraction to young men, but the rest are for the wise bits of knowledge he will occasionally spew like vomit from his broken lips. It was that last bit that first drew me to him. Mike was one of the few members of Lapis to survive the Superhero War.

Mike first showed me a painful underground world of running and lies, that comes with thinking on my own. The Regime didn’t care if you agreed with them or not, any thought produced through your own faculties made a danger of the utmost variety. The day may come when you think up, wholly unbidden, a though they don’t agree with. 

I’ve met many people whose views are exactly the same as the Regime that are no less on the run, because they came to these conclusions on their own without reading the scripts they teach the children in schools. By that reason alone, their execution orders are given to SI’s, and they never know if they may see the next day.

I had always hoped to avoid this kind of existence.  I would much rather just live out my life peacefully with no complications. Even if I couldn’t be a superhero, Metro City was a big place. I had a gig delivering pizzas, and picked up the occasional weekend shift at Old Gil’s Bookstore. As far as I knew, I was the only member of the Superhero Gang to know Old Gil’s secret identity as Stupendous Guy, founder and leader of the organization. Stupes may have been controlled by corruption, but he was incorruptible himself. He knew I’d been railroaded, and if he couldn’t give me employment in one arena, he would do what he could in the other.

“Shut up!” I order to Mike when he sees me. “Just point to the door and start thinking about something else.” He’s a man that has spent his life hiding from his past, I don’t want to embroil him in my unfolding drama. He had dreams of a wife and rugrats and a picket fence of his own, and I my misadventure doesn’t figure into that. For his sake, I hope when the microscope falls on him, he has less to hide. You end up running form the law either way.

Mike points to a crooked screen door by the stove. As I rush past, I mouth, “I’m sorry,” and hit the thing like a trailer park father on his gay son. Maybe as psychic knowledge, maybe as just luck, I parked my car next to the kitchen door and have the engine running before I even know it’s happening. I’m sure that these Secret Inspectors are still shaking down kids with mohawks.

The places I can go at this point are few and far between. I need to disguise my scent before they can break out the blood-hounds. Downtown, I can mix odors. I know where to find a few more bands playing for disillusioned youth. Another hundred kids that want to piss off their mom and dad, or maybe hook up with the girl that came with them. The punks all stink. When I arrive, they are all dancing around to a band that sounds like William S Burroughs as music.

I sneak in through the side door claiming to be in a band, which earns free beer. I only drink a little, because I don’t want to dull my wits. I need to be sure I’ve lost the SI’s first. They have noses built from the newest Titanium Brand Olfactory Systems, or TBOS, and will be able to sniff me out in no time. My house will certainly be watched.

I rub most of the first beer on my chest and jump into the crowd. The kids are ravening for blood, and I’m drenched in sweat after a few passes in the pit. The smell is nearly indistinguishable to the SI’s following me. TBOS are known for short-circuiting in the presence of teenage hormones. Anyone that needs to go into deep-cover fast knows to hook up with a group of underage punks.

Go to Part 63

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 61: That Night, During the Concert

Nepotism steps out from under me, extending the shiny tip of his sword. Solomon continues to go around and around, right arm raised. "This is bad," Nepotism shouts. "This is bad, real bad."

"What?" I demand, grabbing his arm and pulling him back to me. "What is so bad?"

Aiden Quartermass slowly strums, palm-muting to create a slow, melancholy punk ballad riff. “To love meee-ee is better than all things!" Solomon wails, resounding voice tickling every clitoris in the building. "Burning incense in the desert beneath the night stars, call me with a pure heart."

With a lurch, the suspended thing starts to fall. It's a massive structure of wood and gemstones. "The Serpent flame therein, thou... shall... come a little to lie... in... my booooosom."

It's a symbol... a cross... or no... a multicolored ankh... and a nude figure is bound across, arms extended along the branches, the head tied to be raised in the open eye at the top of the cross. The figure is a girl.

Kara.

"Shit!" I cry.

"For one kiss will thou then be willing to give all," Solomon cries.

Nepotism looks up and sees what I see. "Oh no," he whispers, words lost in the thunder of the crowd who now can see what is being revealed.

"Who... so... gives one part-i-cle of dust shall lose all in that hour."

Aiden Quartermass has spotted us. He's looking around for some kind of help, any of the SpectraCom thugs, but none are coming. Not yet at least. For now it's us and the band, and Kara hanging 30 feet above.

"Ye shall gather goods and store of women and spices," Solomon croons, still spinning on the center Sephiroth, oblivious to us about to invade his stage. "Ye shall wear rich jewels! Ye shall exceed the nations of the Earth in splendor and pride... but... always... in the love of me!"

Kara must be drugged, she isn't even struggling against her bonds. Large red circles have been placed over both hands and feet, and another about her waist, large enough to cover her entire pelvic region. Behind her erect head is a fourth red circle, extending up into the loop of the ankh.

"So shall ye come to my joy!" he sings, entirely motionless, but for his lips. "Lay now before me in single robe with rich headdress. I! LOVE! YOU! I yearn toooo yoooou!"

I’m up and running to help Kara, but a hand is on my shoulder, pulling me back. I spin, expecting Nepotism, and find myself staring into the chest of an enormous man with long arms and a long face. The scowl is none other than H.P. Lovecraft, the Scrubber called Armitage. The Scrubber lifts me off the ground

I should not be surprised that Nepotism Baldwin knows magick. He knows everything else. What’s more, I know if I’d simply paid attention, I’d probably know magick myself. I always thought it was horseshit. Apparently I was wrong. Nepotism chokes an unheard word whose force freezes the arm of the Scrubber as it moves to attack him. Without missing a step, the Scrubber pummels Nepotism with the other fist, discharging crackling blue energy from his long, knobby fingers.

Mephis Tyr comes from within Solomon’s temple, blasting at Armitage with his pistol. Nepotism tries to attack with the broadsword, but can’t connect. Armitage absorbs the bullets without a flinch, but turns to catch Mephis’s charge. A shoulder check sends Mephis on his back. Armitage tries to attack, but Nepotism shouts again. With the thunder of drums, I can’t hear what he says, but it’s clearly a spell with power over the Scrubbers. Armitage’s upper torso and head are frozen solid by the sound and shatter when Mephis knocks the body down. The pieces of Armitage look black and oily in the lights, reflecting the colors of the spinning spotlights. They melt quickly into the grating.

Go to Part 62

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 51: 

The Previous Evening.

Nep will have none of it. He waves his hands to stop Mephis’s dance, repeating all of his words three times in quick succession, so “All right, all right, all right,” comes out, “Alrighalrighalrigh,” and “Come on, come on, come on,” is transformed into a hands-down, no-bullshit “C’mahnc’mahnc’mahn.” Mephis focuses on Beurocraticus, who continues, “What do you mean, ‘prepared for?’”

Mephis grins awkwardly, like this is the first time he’s ever made such a facial gesture. “A new age! A new religion!” He looks around suspiciously. The Spot is filled to every corner with all manner of secret agent and hipster scum hoping for a tidbit. We are being largely ignored, or at least overpowered by Faith No More on the juke box, Mephis whispers, “SpectraCom Holdings Incorporated purchased a sacred artifact discovered recently in a Temple in south Iraq.” He narrows his eyes and adds, “Supposedly the location was on the Copper Scroll of Qumran.”

Nepotism nods. “There’s been an Essene community in Iraq for thousands of years.” He looks over at me, nodding his head. “It was in the book I lent you, the one about the Templars and the Assassins. You know which one I’m talking about.” He’s not asking a question.

“No,” I answer.

“The one that broke down the social structure of the two orders and showed their similarities. There’s an Essene community out there. They maintained contact with the Hashshashashin until recent times. Remember that? From Southern Iraq.”

“I didn’t read it.”

“Well,” Mephis says sharply. “The priests opened fire when a patrol entered the town.”

“Could they possibly have been protecting their land from heretical invaders?” I ask.

Nepotism sips his beer.

“The natives were most assuredly Christian,” Mephis says.

Nepotism agrees. “A good portion of Iraq is Christian,” he says. “They don’t tell you that part when they talk about dead civilians. The streets of Jerusalem ran ankle-deep in blood during the first Crusade." He wags a finger in the air. "Half the people they killed were the Christians and Jews the Crusaders came to rescue! Some people think the Essenes at Qumran evolved into the first Christians. It was in that book.”

“I didn’t read the goddamn book!” I shout, turning a few heads.

“Anyway,” Mephis says, irritation in his voice.“It’s going to be revealed during a private event tomorrow night in Metro City.” He grins. “You’ll be there interviewing a famous trilobite collector.”

I finish my beer. “We can’t go to Metro City.” Nep holds out his hands to calm me, but I’m incensed. “We’re not allowed in Metro City!”

“Do police wait at every border to turn you back?” Mephis asks. “There will be food, dancing, and music.”

“We can’t do this,” I repeat. “It’s not possible.”

Mephis falters in faked frustration. “Mr. Solomon specified he would like to be interviewed by you.”

Go to Part 52

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 9

The Previous Night.

Behind Eva is a face, a familiar face. I can’t put a name in that matches those eyes and nose and mouth, but I recognize that set. He’s tall, slim, good-looking with short blonde hair and one of the finest suits I’ve ever seen. He recognizes me as well, or at least briefly seems to agree that we might have spoken in some loud bar or club, meeting beneath the watchful gaze of some band in some stage in some city. I weave my way through the crowd to him, leading with my left hand, keeping my beer bottle raised high in my right, reaching between the people and row my way through.

Past her.

On the downstroke of my pull, she brings her hand up, our fingers meet in the middle.  Each digit touches its counterpart in ordered turn, just the tip, only a fraction of a second before pulling away and letting the next fingers meet.

The wild guitar player steps forward and beats an unearthly solo out of his axe. His body is wracked by the music, head thrown back, eyes lolled, mouth a gaping hole. With a great cheer, every hand in the room goes up, affording me the cover to face the band and do the same, letting the knuckles of my left hand slide delicately up the middle of Eva’s back.

I sink back into the cheering, waving crowd and start pushing back to my newfound best friend. Where did I meet him? What was the pretext? What was the outcome? I don’t even know, and it doesn’t matter either, greeting him is the single most important thing in the world to me, and then, maybe, I can risk a trip back past her again.

He smiles broadly when I reach him. We must have parted on good terms. This is important to him.“Dr. Filth,” he says, shaking my hand, skin mixing with hers, knocking her sacred particles off my fingers. I already feel lost without them. “I haven’t seen you in a while, how are you doing?”

“I’ve been hiding out and all,”

He raises his eyebrows and nods in concession. “Oh really,” he says, not stopping his spastic shake that reaches out past his hand, his upper arms and all the way to his neck, so a good third of his body is involved. The motion is awkward and over-practiced, like he’s never shaken hands with a live partner. “Considering a return to superheroing?”

“That’s never been confirmed,” I say, nodding as I take a swig off my beer bottle. Mine is no massive operation with coordinated body parts. Mine is a quick bob of the head, down, up, done. “Did you know that human beings are the only animals that bare their teeth to signify friendship?”

“Oh really?” he says, trying to keep his eyebrows from furling up in confusion, but I catch the barest flutter of discontent. “I didn’t know that.”

“All other animals do it when they are about to attack,” I say.

He knows I’m testing him now, trying to find his buttons, see what he’s about. His brain is racing, tracing over facts and tidbits, trying to find that coded answer sheet. “Is that something from your show?” He studies me, trying to detect the tiniest motions of my body, nerves triggering the trembling of skin, looking for some clue of how I’m responding.

“Do you watch ‘The Unnatural?’” I ask with a sway and a grin.

Dickweed grins stupidly. “Dude, I love it!” He’s had maybe one, maybe twelve too many beers. “I can’t wait to see where you go next!” he slurs sloppily, slapping the front of my shoulder, but only to lean in and catch his balance on me, drooling down the front of my jacket.  I push him back and he says, “Man, that last one was great, with that drunk hillbilly stomping around the woods.”

Go to Part 10

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 8

Early The Same Afternoon.

I almost fire when a clutch of dead leaves falls. The responsible squirrel darts down the branch and into cover before I can take aim.“We’re not alone out here.”

“How wide is this crick.”

“About five feet. We can jump it if we have to.”

“No, dude,” Nepotism says, shaking his head, looking down at his pants.

“Why not?”

“You could lose a shoe in that mud.” He is adamant.

“You’re worried about your shoes?”

Nepotism throws up his hands. “I thought we were going to breakfast!” A sniper could pick him out from the next county. “We’d sit where that cute waitress is working, the one who’s been giving me the eye. I wanted to look good.” He stomps around the clearing. I grit my teeth and reach for him, but he’s gone, right into the path of whatever rock or sling or arrow or bullet that might be heading his way. “I didn’t think we’d be running through the woods getting shot at.”

The ground rises up ahead of us and gently slopes down out of sight.  I pump a round into the chamber. “You got a full clip?”

“Always,” Nepotism says. “Let’s draw some fire.” He cackles like a mad demon and fires a round into the woven basket of a canopy.

A million fluttering feathers rubbing each other is almost deafening. Beneath it is the sound of men throwing off the cover of leaves, confused, dashing about madly, like the first day of hunting season, everyone desperate to reach the carcass first, shooting anything in their path to at least shoot something.

“You motherfucker,” I grumble and dash for the knoll, not daring to count the lasers tracing along the ground surrounding me. I pre-emptive fire at dashing shapes between trees, waiting for my lower legs or abdomen to explode.

It takes a moment to realize no one is shooting but us. All the while, Nepotism is laughing, blasting his hand cannon left and right, blowing apart trees and dirt. He reaches the knoll and does a military roll over the crest into the stream bed. A moment later, he cackles and fires again.

Go to Part 9

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 7

Late The Next Morning.

“You got him,” Nepotism says as he stands up.

“We got him before,” I snap. I lower the pistol and aim at the chair, pumping a round into the shotgun.

Kerouac jumps up at the sound, firing the same moment as Nepotism. It’s a miracle he misses us with a stream from his Kalashnikov. A bullet whistles between my legs and smashes the wall. Nepotism fires twice and Kerouac crumbles.

I’m still crouched with the shotgun held at my waist. “Thank god,” I sigh and relax.

“Wait!” Nepotism barks, eyes still fixed on the broken recliner.

“What’s up?”

He point to the wall above the chair. “This is a Ex-caliber .45 Deluxe® Bird of Prey©, the most powerful handgun produced by Alternatron Firearms, if not the most powerful handgun in the entire world.” Nepotism pats his gun lovingly. “A slug from this baby would have made short work of his ribs, internal organs, and yes, even his spinal column. When I shot him, I was worried the bullet would go clear through the wall behind him and hit my car.” Nepotism points to the wall. “As you can see, there is no blood, and no hole.”

“What kind of body armor could withstand that cannon?” I ask.

“Probably Alternatron’s Teflon-Plus® Rhino-Hyde© Protection/Floatation Device. It’s standard issue to all SpectraCom employees, even the executives.

I hold the shotgun out and blast into the chair tearing a ragged hole all the way through to the back. Kerouac jumps out unscathed and fires two shots before taking refuge behind the remains of a bookshelf. Nepotism blows massive craters in the wall where Kerouac had been. “Aim ahead of him!” I bellow, “not where he was three seconds ago!”

“I’m shooting at a moving target. I’d like to see you do better.” He points to the destroyed chair. “At least I hit him. He would have been gone if it wasn’t for that armor.”

“I’m shooting blind!”

“All right, Mr. Guy-with-the-shotgun. I mean, you don’t even have to aim! I have to know which room he’s in!”

I sigh and lean out from cover. “I want to know what you did to Eva Lorraine!” I show him I’m serious by firing my Desert Talon three times.

“Happiness consists in realizing it is all a great strange dream!” the Kerouac shouts.

I look over at Nepotism. “He’s got to be alone.”

“If he had any backup, they would be here by now.”

I pump a round into the shotgun. “One of these days, I’m going to stop taking your advice.”

Nepotism aims casually at the bookshelf and blasts it three times, then once more to be sure. Then to me, he says, “Oh, come on, your life would be so boring if it wasn’t for me.”

I jab an angry finger at Nepotism. “You’ll get us all killed one of these days.” A shadow moves behind the bookshelf and I fire, sending a spray of press-board floating through the air.

“I think you are being a little extreme,” he says with a hint of offense in his voice.

Go to Part 8

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 6

Two Nights Prior.

Eva surges before me, so close we almost touch. I could take her in my arms, make her mine with the smallest motion, but she spins her back to me when the audience cheers. I wait only a moment before I bring the bottle to my lips, tracing a line up her back with my little finger.

She is gone as fast as she arrives, I barely see her move. A hand grabs my arm above my wrist, and Nepotism Baldwin’s beady eyes are shooting holes in my face.

“We shouldn’t stay here much longer,” he shouts loud enough to be heard, gaze jumping from corner to corner. “We won’t find another den of scum and villainy this far north of Westchester.” He shouts in my ear, “It’s not safe.”

“Dude, most of these people are from Westchester,” I say, directing my attention to the sweaty bodies on the living-room-turned-dance-floor we are standing in the middle of. “We just got here, I’m not ready to leave yet.”

Nepotism growls, “You’re going to get yourself in a lot of trouble if we stay here.”

“I still have a full bottle,” I snap.

“Don’t forget what the Old Priest said about talking with people from Metro City.”

“Don’t say his name!” I bark.

The smoke and incense swirls a halo to Nepotism’s face. He crosses his arms and glares up at me. “That’s what you’re taking chances with here. You think I can’t see you dancing?”

“I can take care of myself,” I grumble, barely audible over the music. It’s hard to breath in the smoke and sweat. There has to be some comfortable spots that aren’t next to Nepotism.

Superheroing was a profession that appealed to men, like whaling and iron work. Any woman wanting to break the ranks needed to be twice as tough, twice as mean, and twice as just. Becoming a supervillain was even harder with so many women competing to join. Ultimate Girl was the first major female superhero. When I left the Superhero Gang, she was 94 years old, Ultimate Girl went on weekly patrols and only recently started using a walker.

St. Eva was the type of hero that could become the next Ultimate Girl. She was strong, fast, and never hesitated to take the most dangerous adventures. Her backstory said she met the Devil, and he blessed her with a luck that never ran out. She ducked dogs, dodged bullets, and leapt from rooftops at the exact place she’d land in a canopy, tent, or dumpster of recyclable paper. Together, we were unstoppable. That was mostly her.

The music erupts from incendiary sparks into a fervent wail of thundering drum. I’m pulled and pushed, thrust and drawn, and my own sweat mingles with that of the dancers around me, maybe fifty people all shuffling and swaying. I crane my neck for one little glimpse of her.

As light as a feather, but with the force of a train, she tugs one of my dreadlocks from behind. I want to spin around, take her in my arms, kiss those slick, familiar lips, but I can’t let it be seen.  Her movements are so subtle that her brief caress could not have been noticed by any of the multitude. She is a dancing ghost, eyes closed, body jiggling with the drum beat.

Go to Part 7

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 5

Not Long After, Running Through The Woods.

“I don’t have an accent!” I whisper. The ground is muddy and my feet sink in the leaf litter with each step.

Nepotism continues undeterred. “That, and your vernacular. I mean, ‘crick?’”

“It’s smaller than a creek.”

“No, no, no.”

“Yes, yes, yes," I say. "A ‘crick’ is smaller than a ‘creek.’ It has to do with the depth.” Still no sign of assailants hidden in the trees. Nepotism is carrying an Ex-caliber .45 Deluxe Bird of Prey, the most powerful handgun produced by Alternatron Firearms, if not the most powerful handgun in the entire world. I’m carrying the shotgun, but am ready to back it up with my Nik-Plate Alternatron Desert Talon 6: Special Edition Seventeen Chamber .9mm. We left Kerouac blown apart in the living room, but there is no telling if any angry writers may be searching for us out here. “If you can go fishing in it, but you can’t make a swimmin’ hole, it’s a ‘crick.’” I point past the embankment where we are briskly walking. “Nothing here but sucker fish, if anything. Maybe we’ll get a minnow.”

“Sometimes I don’t even want to know you.”

“If there is swimmin’ hole capability, but most of it was less than knee deep, it’s a creek, and not a stream, which is like a river, but not big enough for boats. Don’t get me started on about ponds, lakes, and seas.”

“So a ‘creek’ wouldn’t sustain a shark?” Nepotism asks, breathing heavy against our quickened pace.

“Heaven’s no!” I cry.

“What about Matawan Creek? You remember, where that shark bit three people?”

“That was 1915. Bodies of water were measured differently before World War Two. The Nazis came along and changed everything. If you look on a newer map, it’s called Matawan River. That was changed in 1956 to fight Communism.”

The trees are starting to get a little more dense, and at this point, evergreens are dimming the light. I’m working harder to find anyone who may be in an ambush position. “I think they are going to try and hit us when we get to the crick.”

“Stop saying that.”

Go to Part 6

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The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 4

Late the next morning.

 “I can’t tell if that was two or three,” Nepotism whispers.

“Shut up!” I hiss, inching toward the door. “Start shooting!” I pump a round into my shotgun and dive into the hall. One guy, black hair, red and black plaid jacket examining a smashed bookshelf. Spitting image of Jack Kerouac. His head snaps around in shock. An AK-47 is slung over his shoulder and I unload when he grabs it. The force knocks him into the wall.

Nepotism runs past me, gun before him like the sword of a crusader and blasting the intruder in the throat. Nepotism looks back over his shoulder. “This is the kind of girl you involve yourself with. Why? Why do you do this to me?”

I saw Nepotism hit solidly, but Kerouac is back up, throat intact. “My fault, my failure,” the intruder says, lowering himself into a defensive crouch by the chair. “Is not in the passions I have, but in my lack of control of them.” This, of course, is advance warning that they will be shooting to kill on sight.

“Fuck! Nep! Get down!” I cry, pulling the Desert Talon out of my armpit, jumping to the corner of the hallway for cover. I spray the living room with fire, filling the torn and rent couch with blasted holes, tearing apart the ruin of the entertainment center, sending flakes of press-board showering over the intruder, who dives behind a wrecked table.

“Great things are not accomplished by those who yield to trends and fads and popular opinion!” he shouts. The sound of the AK in here is deafening, and plaster explodes around me. “Maybe that's what life is...a wink of the eye and winking stars.”

“What is he doing here?” Nepotism whispers.

Creeping to the corner, I shout. “What are you doing here?”

“I don't know, I don't care, and it doesn't make any difference,” sarcastically says Kerouac. I voice my discontent with two shots to the table, unfortunately missing my target. He shoots twice and the slugs slam into the wall across from us, sending out a little puff of plaster.

“Ask him how many guys there are,” Nepotism whispers.

“You ask him,” I snap. “Why don’t you announce your presence here?” I fire three times at the table, knocking it over, revealing my target has moved. “I’m here with Bureaucraticus!” I scan the room with my weapon-hand, ready to shoot at any sound.

“Not cool, dude,” Nepotism says and yells past me. “How many people are outside?” He waits. “Are you here with anyone else?”

“He’s not going to tell you that,” I say disapprovingly. “Why don’t you ask who sent him, and why they are doing this!”

“Dude,” he says and points past me.

“What?” I ask, and follow his finger to see Kerouac jump from the destroyed couch to a smashed recliner. “Fuck!” I cry and shoot twice at the chair.

Go to Part 5

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The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 3

Two Nights Prior, When This Whole Debacle Started.

I imagine she is here to kill me. Her frame is liquid, curling and winding past me to the smokey moan of the wild and sultry Arabian guitar, arms high above her head, sliding over each other like snakes, fingers clapping the sign of the lotus between thumb and middle finger, as if she’s wearing castanets. Her eyes are gently closed in some kind of unearthly somnambulance, a divine-inspired dream.

This room is so hot and cramped that I can barely move, let alone dance freely. She moves effortlessly as water in the suffocating sea of people. I don’t know if I can get my beer bottle to my lips, let alone sway my hips, but it’s only as much effort as Moses parting the Red Sea for her, a supreme force of will, the kind that lasts through the ages.

When she went rogue, she dropped her superhero name and adopted a new costume. She’s still got the purple hair and the blue lipstick, but I haven’t seen if she’s still got blood-red eyes. I always assumed those were contacts.

Her old costume was a long white scarf that twirled about her body as she fought, relying on her luck to keep her decent. She was competing for attention on the Superhero Gang against such muscle-bound brutes that she opted for no costume at all to get any attention at all. Not once did fans and paparazzi ever catch a photo that needed to be blurred for TV.  She is now wrapped in black leather from neck to toe. The costume was much more befitting a villain.

I can’t remember how long it’s been since I’ve seen her. Not since I left Metro City. She’s the same, every inch. If anything, she looks better with age. I can feel her as she goes by. There’s no contact, but we might as well have mingled our auras on the hairline between reality and fantasy. My body instinctively tenses to follow, but I steel myself against the urge. The movement of my eyes is almost imperceptible, but still I take in every detail of her dance, the way her body seems to ripple with the music. Perhaps she is quiet water beneath the wind, feet shimmering back and forth with the music.

I focus on the dark Arabian as his fingers step lightly up and down the frets of his electric guitar. The red and white lamps in the corners light up his rough, stubbly features. He has an ecstatic, open-mouthed smile that glows on its own.

Her eyes snap open and fix on me as if she had been studying me beneath the blanket of her lashes. There is no shock, no surprise. She knew I would be here, she was waiting for me to arrive. I don’t have to move a molecule to lock eyes, but I can’t hold out more than a moment before I shatter under the force of her gaze. If anyone in this room saw me speak one word to Eva Lorraine, we’d both be as good as dead.

Go to Part 4

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The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 2: 

The Next Night, Before the Concert

Nepotism shoulder-checked me through a grey metal door and we find ourselves in a hallway lined with unused nacho trucks and snack wagons. The fire door slams closed shutting off all sounds of combat.

“We’ve got to go back,” I say. “That Scrubber is going to kill them!”

“We’ve got a mission,” Nepotism says. “We stick to it.”

“What’s a fucking Scrubber doing here?”

Nepotism puts a hand on my shoulder. “Mephis will lead it away. Those kids have enough firepower to keep it busy. We came here to do a job.” He kneels down and lays out the wooden case on the floor.

“The caduceus must be part of the show,” I say. “Why else would Solomon be here to present it? So many high ball whack job mystics upstairs, like it’s a fucking Magic card convention.” Unlocking the clasps, Nepotism opens the case, revealing red velvet lining within, wrapped around a broadsword with a polished blade and gold hilt. “What are we supposed to do with that?” I ask.

Nepotism lifts the blade and kicks the case aside. “There’s a careful script to the whole thing. The sacrifice needs to happen at midnight, and he can’t do it without this sword.” He holds out the blade for me to inspect. The steel is blue-white in the fluorescence. “I don’t have time to explain, keep moving.”

We get to the door. Beyond is a cold, grey, fluorescent-lit hallway. Roadies march about carrying armloads of equipment and tools. Back here, where the real magic happens, a bared sword probably isn't too far out of the ordinary. It's someone else's job to keep out the crazies.

The dressing rooms are garages, hastily swept and hosed and converted for filthy, uncontrollable rockers who can be trusted with nothing but folding chairs, beer coolers, craft service tables, and a liberal application of air fresheners. Along one wall is a clothing rack filled to capacity with with long black robes. Black robes never bode well for anyone.

No tuxes and gowns back here, it’s leather, faded black denim, and patches only. About twenty people, most barely older than teenagers.  I don’t see anyone notable, no bands, friends, or any member of Sado Massochrist, and certainly not Joshua Solomon.

The kids here don’t seem to recognize either of us, and they don’t seem to care about Nepotism’s naked sword.  “What’s up?” I ask, waving. The kids go back to drinking as much beer and shoving as many carrots and ranch dressing in their mouths as they can before the band comes back to give them the boot.

I budge into the line at the deli tray, choosing a place between a super-skinny goth chick with black hair streaked fire-engine red and tits like a sparrow, and some fat kid in a faded Iron Maiden T-shirt and camo shorts. He probably writes a zine.

Nepotism shoves in beside me and grabs a handful of cauliflower. “They never have broccoli at these things, I fucking hate that.” He shakes his head and tosses the cauliflower into his throat without chewing. “That’s so you don’t get florets in your teeth while you are networking.”

“You’re a fount of knowledge.”

Go to Part 3

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