Green jags on the black screen of night. The cloud is gone but the snow’s thicker than ever, prickly zeroes collecting on downed limbs and downed wires. Three bearded ladies arrive in Club Forres’s amphitheater, two with their arms linked, one dragging her train which snags on a root or a cable. She tugs. She tugs harder, and sequins take off into the snow, primmer zeroes, no less likely to cut a bitch. The first giggles, the second clucks impatience. The third sighs, shakes out her curls.
The first asks, sister, where have you been?
Pulling pork, she says.
The second pinches her, hush, little piggy. For real. Where?
She looks around and finds the stage suitably deserted, suitably howling, suitably black and green with rank yellow smoke still trickling through. She reports: the goths have been dumpster diving over at Duck’s palace. They’ve got chestnuts, agave nectar, goji berries, fair trade chocolate tree-to-bar harvested by hands no younger than twenty-five but no older than sixty-two. Half a bottle of local crème cassis, a case of burnt ends, cream. So much cream, coconut, cashew, macadamia—
Almond? Interrupts the second.
She continues: you know what almond farms do to the water supply. Lots of water, though, the boxed sort. All infused with butterfly tea and hibiscus, of course.
And you didn’t bring us any? The first slumps, pushes her belly forward, my biological clock is ticking! Time for this cat mom to get knocked up with a food baby.
The second says, c’mon, We’ll take it all, we’ll starve them out. I’ll walk you back, I’ll boost you up over the wall, I’ll let you climb me with those rough and ready hooves. I’ll pop my cork and over you’ll go.
Too kind, sweet pea, says the third.
No need. The first lady’s grin rings green in the cascade, Cheshire style, look what I have.
They want to know.
She unzips a neon pink fanny pack in whose front pocket she’s stitched two old world wired Dolby speakers that play, depending on her mood, a ballad, a dirge, or a series of solfeggio tuning fork tones. Ladies two and three lean closer, and she tugs her pouch away, wags a finger. Then, with a flourish, pulls out a velvet box. Voila, she goes. The interior of the box is lined in vegan vellum and a thin layer of cooling cells. It holds a human thumb. The thumb has been shrink-wrapped to preserve its print. The architect’s, she hisses.
A high hat topples with a crash, tinnier than thunder, crankier than bells.
Cheese it, says the second, I hear that rat with no tail and his pet sieve, drumming their way home from the show.
Mayks, hisses the first, as she slams the box shut and tucks it back in her bag.
And that cutie Q, trills the third.
Mayks and Q have their headlamps switched on, for what little good it does them, and Mayks stops short when the thin beams catch the glitter of the first Lady’s cat eye. He’s got an arm out crossing Q’s gut. What’s up, ladies? He asks.
Weird timing for a show, Q gestures to a searchlight that no longer searches, a spotlight that no longer spots. Q’s jaw, the envy of even goths and bots, blooms purple, exaggerating the hollow of their cheek, contrasting their baby soft brow.
All our shows are weird, QT, but there’s no magic here, tonight. Not that kind of magic, says the third, tugging on her beard.
Magic Mayks, giggles the first.
Magic and might might’ve gotten him promoted, but it’s something else altogether that’s going to make him king of the realm, boss of the boots, top dog, top duck, argues the second.
Mayks goes stony, flips open his phone, flips it closed, flips it open. Q points the beam of their headlamp full in Mayks’ face, abrasions on his cheek, a split lip, a countenance like a god, or so Q might not be caught dead saying aloud. That’s good news, isn’t it? Duck’ll have Mick’s hide now. He set every one of these fires, and without you, we’d still be putting them out, chasing data, none the wiser. Mick’s out, Mayk’s in. Righthand man.
Mayks looks greenest of all in the streams of light coming down from above.
Mini-Mayks is right, says the second.
You leave them be, says the third. If Mayks is a right hand, Q’s the left, and there ain’t no shame in that.
True. Q won’t get rich quick, but they’ll buy a lot more happiness, concedes the second. Not king themselves, but rub those hands together and we’ll see a whole litter of baby kings.
Q turns more red in the face than green.
Don’t forget us little ladies, says the first.
Mayks finds his voice and coughs out, I’ve been running sectors and vectors since Mama died, and that’s plenty. Not getting ahead of myself. Mayks flips closed his phone, flips it open, closed. Something buzzes in the pocket of Q’s recycled vegan leather moto.
Duck’s calling his silly gooses home, says the first. If you don’t get that promotion tonight, I’ll kiss you. If you do, you kiss me.
Don’t say we didn’t warn you, says the second.
Weird out, says the third, and all three disappear behind heavy velvet curtains.
Trippy end to a trippy day, says Q.
Your children will be kings, scoffs Mayks.
Q hides a second blush. You’ll be king. Their voice catches on the k. The two of them face the empty audience while Q’s pocket buzzes and Mayks flips his phone, open, closed, open, closed.
A gust of static swells up behind them, an alarm, but not that alarm. A screeching, like an owl with a warning. Rilly. Pupils dilated so that they reflect gobs of great green light. Angelix slashes in behind, freezes, buffers, slides under Rilly’s arm. Remember the poking, Rill asks, remember the bouquets? Remember the bannings and poking the banned and the ban lifting? Remember—
Angelix puts three long fingers over Rilly’s mouth. Chartreuse nails tapping matte black lip stain. Duck says you’re the new Micky, Mayks.
What happened to Mick, Mayks asks. I mean, after we…after he…
Angelix shrugs. Rilly grinds, lets out a series of rough breaths, laughing. Angelix slaps his lips firmly, but not roughly.
Q puts their hand in their pocket where the beeper keeps buzzing. We’ll be there in a minute. Now scoot.
Rilly and Angelix exchange a sneer, slink back the way they came.
Mayks flips his phone open, closed. Big shoes to fill, he mumbles.
Not so big, Q laughs and cuffs Mayks on the shoulder. Big hair to fill?
Mayks melts a little. Such big hair, he agrees, runs his hand over his neat shaved head. Both of them remember the blood running from Mick’s hairline, mixing in to his carefully tended home perm. Mick with his hairspray—sugar, water, wheat flour when he could get it. Mick licking his teeth whenever Daisy Fleabane walked down the glass staircase. Mick embezzling data, setting fires, washing his hands, showing up as if to fight alongside Mal and Cate and all the other kids. Mick tricking the goths.
We’d better go, says Q. If you ever want to be king, can’t keep Duck waiting.
I got this far letting Duck wait, Mayks points out, and Q has to nod. Mayks pulls a face and strokes a pretend beard, your children will be kings! He laughs, says quieter, our children could be kings. Would we wish it on them?
In the green, Q pinkens, and they set off for Duck’s.
