Processed cheese, p.19
Processed Cheese, page 19
“And?”
“I think too many people at that table had their electronic devices powered up. There was obviously a surge of some kind rolling through the casino ether.”
“How much did you lose?”
He reached into his pockets and pulled them inside out.
“Oh, no,” said Ambience. “How could you?”
“We can just go back to the well and get a refill.”
“So you say.” Still in her bathrobe, she slumped down onto the grand top-grain black leather sectional that occupied a good third of the room. She stared steadily at the interesting complexity of her bare foot.
Graveyard hurried over to sit beside her. “It’s not that big a deal.” He put his arm around her. “We’re still rich, filthy rich. What’s gone is just the tip of the tip. Remember—you’ve seen the evidence yourself—the bag is bountiful. This incident is merely a minor setback, if that. We have no worries, understand? And zero financial issues. None, nada, zilch. The cash springs eternal.”
“Are you just naturally this nuts or do you have to work extra hard at it?”
“The bag abides.”
Ambience got up, went into the one of the four massive bedrooms they happened to be occupying at the moment. Graveyard dutifully followed. She was pulling suitcases out of the closet, slinging them onto the bed. She was opening bureau drawers, gathering up clothes into her arms.
“Don’t do this,” he said.
“Well, guess what? While you were having fun breaking your own bank, I was throwing quite the celebration, too. And what a party it was. Hats and horns and chips flying through the air like confetti. Till all of a sudden the cheering and the laughing just evaporated. I was hoping to get a nice cash refill. From you.”
“I’m sorry.”
She slammed a suitcase shut, fastened the locks. “I’d advise you to get busy packing, too, buster. I think I may have just enough left to get us a cab to the airport and that’s it. The bill here’s been paid, right?”
“Through the end of the week.”
“Then presumably we can get a refund on the remainder. For a handful of food and a cab to get us home.”
“I’ll make this up to you.”
“What’s the point of having money when you don’t…have…the…money?”
Graveyard decided not to respond. Whatever he said would lead only to a futile round of complaint and countercomplaint and more lies than he had the energy to juggle at the moment. The flight home was a sullen affair. They each consumed the maximum number of drinks allowed, then traded furtive sips from the sometimes security cleared, sometimes not, plastic flask of sweet, clean, grape-forward TotallyVodka that Ambience was a little too fond of and that she had stashed in her brand new Croesus&RoughStuff indigo lambskin handbag, and the alcohol combined with the razorpin Ambience had been prescribed years ago for the chronic anxiety that had followed her around since puberty like a stray feral dog rendered the two of them relatively senseless. Not that they would have talked all that much had they been stone-cold sober.
Back home, still barely speaking. After a near-silent cab ride in, they split up, Ambience to FurryFarm to retrieve Nippers, Graveyard to Plexi’s to retrieve the bag. When he hit the intercom, Graveyard could hear Plexi talking to someone else, someone else answering back. Fenugreek and mango pickle, he said to himself, Plexi has no friends. WTF? The buzzer buzzed. He went inside. He went up the stairs. He knocked on the door. He heard some scurrying around inside. “C’mon,” said Graveyard. “You know who it is. Open up.” More scurrying, more whispering. After some fumbling around at the lock, the door finally swung open and Graveyard found himself staring into the barrel of a piece he instantly recognized because he owned one himself: a Buster&Noggin 21D. The hand holding the weapon was attached to a little wired stranger with that indeterminate skin color that made many of those who preferred to regard themselves as white uneasy. There was an oil-like sheen of sweat coating his face. Standing still, he still trembled. Even his eyeballs seemed to be trembling. He looked like what Ambience liked to call a popcorn man—primed to explode at the touch of the nearest flame.
Graveyard raised his hands. “I give up,” he said.
PlexiBerryPunch came hurrying from behind, pulled the stranger’s arm away. “Now, now,” he said. “Manners, manners.” To Graveyard, “Forgive him, please. RealDeal here’s a little frosted.” To RealDeal, “Give me the bang-bang. It’s rude.”
“I’ll give you the bang-bang.” RealDeal turned and pointed the barrel toward the exact center of Plexi’s forehead.
“Who is this guy?” said Graveyard.
“I’m this,” RealDeal said. He waved the weapon around in front of Graveyard’s startled face. “That’s who I am.”
“Don’t do that,” said Graveyard. “It’s not nice, and even nice people have been known to get badly hurt doing that.”
“Dial it down,” said Plexi. “You can suck my dick later if you want.”
“I don’t like this guy,” said RealDeal.
“He likes you. You like RealDeal, don’t you, Graveyard?”
“Sure,” said Graveyard. Then, getting his first good glimpse into the interior of the apartment, “Palm hearts and profiteroles, what the fuck is going on in here?” The floor was covered in money, scads of money, paper bills scattered carelessly about like autumn leaves, in some places ankle deep.
“We encountered a situation,” Plexi said.
“It’s our money,” said RealDeal, still gesturing with the gun. He obviously loved the weapon, loved brandishing the weapon, loved watching himself brandishing the weapon, loved watching the effects of the brandishing on other people.
“Could you please?” said Graveyard. He pointed at the gun.
Plexi leaned over, whispered in Graveyard’s ear. “It’s not loaded.”
“Sure,” said Graveyard.
“It’s our fucking money now,” said RealDeal. “Every shitass dollar. Possession, motherfucker. Nine-tenths of the law.”
“Who is this guy?”
Plexi took RealDeal by the elbow, steered him gently back toward command central, a once plush, now broken-down recliner set squarely before a ginormous Wondertron screen. “Here, sit here,” he said as if guiding a game piece into position. “In the captain’s chair.” On the cluttered table between chair and TV was arranged an impressive assortment of game consoles and electronic devices surrounded by at least a dozen remotes, some of which presumably worked. “Play some FleshBlade. I need a private moment with my friend here.”
“Five minutes,” said RealDeal. “Then I’m coming for my money.”
“Yes, yes,” said Plexi.
“His money?” said Graveyard. “What’s with all this my money shit?”
“Let’s talk.” Plexi led him down the cash-strewn hallway to the cash-strewn bedroom, where Graveyard’s bag, thoroughly vandalized, was sitting upright in the center of a daisy-print bath mat Plexi used, for whatever Plexi reasons, as a throw rug. The lock, though still intact, was covered in ugly scratches and dents, but the canvas bag itself had been cut, slashed, and torn, crisp federal notes protruding from the openings like stuffing from a burst mattress.
“Party time, huh?” said Graveyard. “Have a lot of fun tossing around all this confetti?”
“We realmed out, man. There were creepy noises outside. Lots of ’em. Right at the door, too. Scratchy fingernail let-me-in kind of noises.”
“Yeah, so what’s so unusual about that in this building?”
“We could hear ’em, Graveyard. Zombies. A whole horde of ’em, clawing at the door. We were scared. We needed to defend ourselves.”
“What were you going to do, throw money at them?”
“We were after the guns. That’s what was supposed to be in there, not all this, this…” He gestured helplessly at the mess at their feet.
“So disappointing,” said Graveyard. “I trusted you to keep my goods in, well, better condition than I find them.”
“It’s all there. Really. We haven’t dared go outside, and what could we spend it on in here?”
Graveyard fished the key out of his pocket, opened the lock. “Got any of that duct tape?”
Of course Plexi had duct tape, since most of his ratty furniture seemed to have been repaired with ample layers of it. Graveyard, muttering all the while, patched the slashes on the bag as best he could. Then he got down on his knees and began gathering up handfuls of cash and stuffing them back into the bag. “You could help,” said Graveyard. So Plexi did.
“Your ‘friend’ there’s put together rather loosely, don’t you think?” said Graveyard. “He gives me the yips. Where’d you meet this clown, anyway?”
“Don’t get your doily in a crumple. He’s as harmless as a baby in a crib. Followed me home one day. Oddly, can’t remember when. Or where, for that matter. Actually, I think what he really wants is to commit suicide and just needs someone to witness the ceremony. You know, notarize the deed.”
“Yeah? Well, looks like he might want to take some of his audience with him, too.”
“He lives for an audience.”
“Fine. Just don’t expect me to be a member.”
“You understand, of course, he regards at least half of your money as his.”
“Whose is the other half?”
“That would be mine, of course. On the principle of finders keepers and all that.”
“I don’t believe that’s settled law.”
“Well, in his mind it is.”
Plexi handed over a hefty bunch of bills he’d gathered up off the floor. “Where’d you get all these fucking bones, anyway? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“Ambience’s uncle. He died. Some weird dude known to the family as Uncle Parsnips. Apparently he was quite loaded, and Ambience, I guess, was his favorite niece.”
“Must have been an extra-special favorite.”
“Oh, this?” Graveyard displayed a wad of wrinkled cash. “This is just a fraction of the pot. Everybody got something.”
“Why didn’t you tell me what was in the bag?”
“It’s a lot of temptation.”
“I don’t care about money.”
“That’s why I brought the stuff to you. Figured even if you got curious—and I didn’t think you would—and opened the bag, the stash would be safe, not scattered around the apartment like highway litter.”
“Told you. We realmed out. The walking dead. You know. Real hairy.”
“Okay, enough. I just want to pack up and go, but I did promise myself, before the gouda hit the fan, that I’d drop some sort of a party favor on you for your trouble, spread the wealth kind of thing. So here.” He simply passed over the impressive double handfuls of loose currency he happened at the moment to be holding. “Don’t know how much is there, but that’s easily six months, a year, you don’t have to work.”
“How about not working for six years? How about that, huh?” It was RealDeal. He was standing in the doorway, the imposing Buster&Noggin still firmly affixed to his hand.
“Beat FleshBlade already?” said Plexi.
“Fuck FleshBlade. What’re you two ugly asshats whispering about in here?”
“Nothing much,” said Plexi. “We were just conspiring how to best sneak this duffel out the door without your seeing it.”
“You know I could just kill the two of you right now and take the whole shitpile for myself.”
“No, you won’t,” said Plexi. “That’s not you. You know that. Besides, we were actually just talking about your cut.”
“Who said anything about a cut? I want it all.”
“Well,” said Graveyard, “that’s going to be a bit of a problem.”
“Yeah?” said RealDeal. “Funny: I don’t see it that way. You close up the bag, you pick up the bag, you pass the bag over to me. No problem.”
“RealDeal is kinda broke,” said Plexi. “He’s got pressing financial issues.”
“Who doesn’t?” said Graveyard. “My mother needs an operation, too. Tell you what I’ll do, though. Five thousand in mad money. No strings. Spend it how you please. It’s a gift. For your service.”
“I want it all.”
“Really?” said Graveyard. “It’s not even my money. It’s my wife’s. Her inheritance. Was her uncle, not mine, who died.”
“I’ll leave you fifty bucks to buy flowers. Gimme the bag.”
“Could I talk to you for a minute?” said Plexi.
“What for?”
“Just come. Just for a minute. Please.” He put his arm around RealDeal’s shoulders and walked him back into the gaming room.
Methodically, Graveyard picked up the remaining bills, shoved them into the bag as best he could, and stood there patiently waiting. He could hear the furious hissing of their voices back and forth at almost comical length, then a clear and distinct “Fuck that!” from RealDeal. An indistinguishable response from Plexi. Then the sounds of energetic struggle. Retrieving the scattered money in the hallway as he went, Graveyard entered the room to find the two “buddies” tangled all up in each other, thrashing about on the floor like some ridiculous hybrid creature in the midst of either giving birth or dying or both. They were shouting. They were cursing. They were trying with limited success to bite each other’s ears, cheeks, fingers, whatever exposed body part was readily available. Then RealDeal began to beat Plexi on the side of the head with the butt of his gun to no discernible effect. Graveyard watched for a while. He was curious as to who would win. The struggle seemed to have settled into an exhausted draw. “Okay,” said Graveyard finally. “You gentlemen can stop now. I have a plan.”
“Get this fucking fucker the fuck off me!” Plexi said, punctuating the request with an ineffectual attempt at kneeing RealDeal rather seriously in the groin.
Graveyard tried to pull them apart. No go. So he leaned down and, employing the famous Venusian nerve pinch favored by Mr. FlavorAdditive, his ninety-pound-weakling high school chemistry teacher, who used it to instantly reduce insubordinate jocks to compliant heaps of cringing flesh, seized between thumb and forefinger that narrow muscle running along the top of RealDeal’s right shoulder and squeezed. He squeezed hard. “Ow!” said RealDeal. He quickly rolled off of Plexi and as far away from the “death” grip as he could get. He rubbed his shoulder. “That fucking hurts!”
“It’s meant to,” said Graveyard. “What’s the trouble here?” He started picking up the stray cash from the floor of the room.
“I believe you’re familiar with the issues,” said Plexi.
“Fine,” said Graveyard. “So what sum would it take, exactly, for everyone to leave here, if not altogether euphoric, then at least well satisfied?”
“The very subject of our spirited discussion,” said Plexi. “We have been unable to agree on a happy figure.”
“How about fifty grand?” said Graveyard. “Seems fair and generous.”
“The very number we were approaching,” said Plexi. “Excellent choice.”
“How’s about I just cap the two of you,” said RealDeal, “and take all of it?” The gun was somehow back in his hand. He waved it in their general direction.
“You know that’s not loaded, right?” said Plexi.
RealDeal looked at the gun. He pointed it at Plexi. He pulled the trigger. Once. Twice. Click. Click. He looked at the gun. “Jokes,” he said. “You like jokes. How’s this for a joke? I’m sure there’s at least one motherfucking bullet lying somewhere around this shithole. You find it, you put it in the gun, and we all play a fun game of Russian roulette. Last fucker left takes home everything. How’s about that?”
“Sounds stupid to me,” said Plexi.
“Ditto,” said Graveyard.
“What happens we go around once, click, click, click, we’re all still standing? What then? Divide it into thirds?”
“Whaddya think happens, shithead? We go again.”
“And if still nothing?”
“Don’t agitate me, Plexi. I’m getting agitated. Fucking agitated!”
“What does the survivor do about the bodies?” said Graveyard.
“Whaddya mean, what does he do? He grabs the fucking money and leaves the stiffs lying on the fucking floor.”
“In my apartment? For me to clean up?”
“Well,” said Graveyard, “you, of course, may not be among the sentient anymore.”
“See?” said Plexi. “Proves what I was saying. Too many complications for this freaking scenario.”
“What do you mean, complications?” said RealDeal. “There’s no complications. It’s clean. It’s quick. It’s sweet. No more dickhead arguments. No more shitass percentages. No more crunchy feelings. You put a round in the chamber. You put the gun to your head.” He put the gun to his head. “You pull the trigger.” He pulled the trigger.
It wasn’t like in the movies. If there was a sudden special-effects explosion of body fluid and brain matter erupting from the far side of his skull, Graveyard didn’t see it. All his attention was focused on the perfectly round entrance wound above RealDeal’s right ear, from which streamed an astonishing torrent of real blood, real bright, real red, like colored water from a hose as the man’s body, in a trippy kind of hypnotic super slow motion, slumped frame by agonizing frame onto the hard, immutable floor.
Graveyard and Plexi stared at each other. Wow, they mouthed together in silent unison.
“He’s bleeding all over the rug!” said Plexi at last and hurried out of the room.
As Graveyard watched, oddly unable to move, mind stripped bare, the strings in his limbs all gone, the crimson fountain dwindled down to a small bubbling crater in the now toylike skull. The eyes were still open. Graveyard couldn’t look at those. He didn’t see any point in checking for a pulse, either, but he did and discovered he didn’t need to do much of anything at all. Beets and balut, he finally managed to say to himself, this is gonna leave a mark.
Plexi returned, carrying an armful of towels and a bucket. “I paid five hundred bucks for that damn rug. Got a deal from a guy down on Razzleberry Street. Claimed it was on the last shipment out of Thingamadad right before the city fell. Notice all the fancy design work? Supposed to ward off evil spirits and other collateral crap.”
