Gang, there's nothing like driving through LA with the promise of gold in the air and it’s late enough that highway traffic has dwindled to red and white easy gliding snakes. Where else can you drive through life’s sheer duality? Sparkling ocean vista then suddenly bloody boiling currents escaping from the murdered god of the sea, a skyscraper with glowing platonic matrix face and the rusting corpse of one, bomb craters and a coyote family in the brush, and all the meanwhile cars cars cars, gold gold gold, dames dames dames, a merry go-round on the gods’ grave. One big rave. The right tunes on the radio, something by the Maximals, Eclipse, Willows and Wisps, We 3, Morgan and the Sirens. A tree cig on your lips, help you forget, sparking glory right on the edge of your eyes’ plummet through time, each sheet on the calendar a lottery ticket, a carnival entry slip, a magic unique to this seaside city. Yeah, I was made for this place.
Metropolis of the west. It suffered more than any major city when the Union broke apart—hells, the whole world broke apart—then got stitched back together. Being at the border with Aztlan, a Meta loyalist country to boot, being the main strategic port on the entire West Coast; they’re both useful from a military point of view, but they don't bode well for the civilian population. Not in a World War.
Yeah, LA got it bad. So much that there were still scars almost 20 years later. Of course the rebuilding was wrecked again and again by uprising after uprising, even after the official Lunar treaty was signed. News flash: toppling governments, killing gods that billions had worshiped for thousands of years, weaving new laws into the fabric of reality, it’s all going to leave some people filling out the government suggestion box with hot lead and mana bombs.
Still, there are a few of civilization’s loves that even a continent-shattering, dimension-collapsing World War can't keep down: booze, broads, and the movies. So war scars and all, the city was right back to its glitzy, decadent ways.
Yeah, you could find just about any kind of pleasure in the city, just about anything for that matter, like a dream chamber, any kind of person, including a squid chelana who I had to admit already had me guessing, her face echoing in my mind—though spending 9 years locked up in a dungeon, in and out of solitary, that might have had something to do with it. I'd been out a few, but gang let me tell you, 9 years in the can stay with you long, long after they're gone.
Yeah, she was some chelana. Ah, brethren, chelana is what we street malnos, rogue types especially, call them femnas that all us go crazy for, what finer folk might call a ‘lovely lady.’ But I already mentioned that didn’t I? I blame the tree.
Driving. My Stallion’s demon core engine purring, dark dashboard with glowing gages and meters that look like mutant spider eyes, needles within them oscillating their secret language. The wheel turning in my gloved grip, momentum heavy, ghostly tickle in my hip, throngs of cars all jockeying for faster pace. The vertigo inducing merge where three altways cross midair, the straight corridor between two arcologies each 20 stories tall and 4 miles long, a lattice of dilapidated bridges that cross the strait like a game of cat’s cradle in the sky and as you’re slicing between cars in the river of taillights a bouquet of billboards greets you with bright manalit smiles like old friends.
Friends. Seeing the hour close to midnight I remembered Vinny's party and felt the drag of obligation, decided I had better things to do. But then I realized that the party might prove useful to my new... employment and so I took Exit 29 off the A8.
The three-story apartment complex looked like it was made out of styrofoam against the burnt butcher paper sky. Walking toward Vinny’s door, I passed the stairs and was greeted by a dying plant’s drunken leaves in a huge pot. Red knuckles knocked. Chatty inebriated voices, shadows dancing across lamps, Jang music, all emanated through the apartment windows n' walls, then came to life as the door was flung open.
“Eyyyy you made it!” Vinny stood at the doorway, lit warmly from behind, his hair slicked back, his stubble trimmed even for once.
“Well I heard you showered so I had to see it for myself.”
He guffawed. “Ya sack of cagg. I'd punch ya mouth but I can't reach that low.”
Our hands clasped like we were about to arm wrestle and we pulled each other in. We backed up, shrugged to unrumple our clothes.
“Ey all bullcagg aside...” I stepped into the mellow light bathing the crowd. “Congratulations.” His chest puffed against his velvet shirt, his eyes already a little bleary from meade and tree and who knew what else. “You did get the job right?”
“Hells yeah I did. You're looking at USP Southwest Driver 71709.” He turned his conya, head that is, to face the TV as its black and white screen switched from commercials to this program, RevoXX. It was a talent audition type show that also featured celebrity interviews, musical performances, a smattering of comedy and always a segment that took live calls from around the country. “Hey Rhiner, stay on the lookout all right? Dial as soon as the calls start.” A humie mal with blond hair covering his ears and square glasses nodded from the couch, raised the phone handset like a fish he’d freshly caught.
Me, amused: “You're still trying to get on the air huh?”
“One of these days I'll get lucky. Come on, you want a drink?”
“It'd be rude not to.” Vinny walked me past the yellowing window blinds (one was missing) over to his kitchen bar, where an assortment of cans and bottles were perfuming the air with spiced alcohol. I grabbed a peach meade bottle, gazed around at the crowd. There must have been 20 or 30 people, and in that small living room with the stained shag carpet, the only illumination the flickering grayscale of the TV and the standing lamp’s tepid wash, both coming at us from aside, it felt like we were all packed into a rectangular cave with a torch and a car’s low headlamp for lights.
“What about you?” Vinny grabbed a fresh drink for himself, stepped closer. “Did you... get the job?”
“What?” For a moment the question didn't register as I was taking in the crowd and thought I saw the Orc I was looking for.
Vinny leaned in conspiratorially. “Did you meet her... Lady Pearl? The masseuse?”
“Oh. Yeah. Yeah I did.”
“Massivo.” He nodded in impressed wonder. “Is it true she can like, see things, ghosts or whatever? Read minds? Fly through shadows n’ cagg.”
“I don't know about all that. She is... impressive let's say. Practically a MagiSci engineer, but she could melt you with a peck on the cheek, total chelana.”
“Ugh. You gotta connect me with her, mal.” He ran his hand through his hair out of habit—hair that was usually shaggy—straightened his shirt, a sharp-collared velvet number. “You know maybe there’s an open spot in her outfit. At least I could just, you know, be an associate for starts. I'm gonna be up close to a loooot of sweet swag with this new job.”
“Well she... maybe we can talk about that down the road.” I took a tangy sip of my meade, its glass bottle moistly cold in my hand. “So... USP huh? Are you gonna miss slinging meat?”
“I know you're being a bard ass but I think I am.”
“No bard assery from me. Believe it or not sometimes I miss it too. Something about spending all your time on the road, by yourself, thinking. Free food.”
“Yeah. But you left after only what, six months?”
“I had my reasons.”
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“Meatzza Mundi.” He grabbed a cap hanging on a coat hook with the Meatzza Mundi logo sewn on, sighed nostalgically, shrugged. “You missed out not working inside. It's the people that make it slammin’, you know? They’re always happy to see you. Whole parties walking in. Drunken tippers, hell, got lucky a couple times too. And you meet some good folk workin’ with ya. Except you, you’re the bloody worst one.”
“I don’t claim otherwise.”
“Yeah. Speaking of fellow meat slingers, I met this real cool cat.” He studied the crowd. “Hey Kazton!” A dark-skinned humie speaking to a couple other partiers turned at the call. “Hey come here!”
This humie sauntered over to us, shiny sinewy arms swinging out from a vacation sort of shirt. He was taller than Vinny, was built like a sprinter. Had that broad nose and lips of that humie race and his hair was puffed into these sort of fluffy tendrils. This softer touch along with the flowery shirt contrasted well with his athletic physique.
“Kazton this is Teek. My buddy. Used to work at Mundi.”
“Ohhh de hobgoblin.” He had an accent, his voice a soft, chalky lilt to it. “I heard a lot a tings about you.”
“Only bad things I hope.”
“No brudah only good, only good.”
“Say where is your accent from?”
“I'm from de islands. Nassaroo.”
“You know you might be the first person from Nassaroo I've ever met.”
“It's a fine place. De beaches are fantastic.”
“So I hear... from travel magazines.”
“Kazton’s no tourist,” Vinny jumped in. “He’s hardboiled. Couple of hoods tried to jack him over 80 silver and a couple of meatzzas, you believe it?”
“Really? They didn't hurt you did they?”
“Hurt him?” Vinny chuckled. “If anything he went easy on them. Had them running for their lives.”
“Is that right?”
Kazton shrugged well defined shoulders. “Beaches ain't de only ting we got in Nassaroo.”
“So I hear... from the news.”
We all shared Meatzza Mundi camaraderie over our drinks. For a moment there was a strange glimmer in this Kazton fellow’s eyes but I was distracted by the Orc who was sitting on the far side of the room, obscured by the crowd. “Say Vin, that's Diamond isn't it?”
“That's right.”
“You weren't kidding. You really are connected with the Gold Jaws.”
“I don't plan on being a USP driver forever.”
“That's right brudah.” A puffy tendril of hair fell onto Kazton’s forecon’ as he agreed. “De immigrant mentality is not just for de immigrants.” My two aquaintances clinked drinks.
“Excuse me, fellas.”
I made my way through the crowd but then felt a steep awkwardness as a femna in skintight polyurethane pants and strapless top that revealed her toned back straddled Diamond as he was splayed out on an old leather recliner. At 7 feet tall he could already barely fit—his square-toe boots like dangling anvils—and this fem was leaning over him, making the chair jitter and squeak with their weight and her slithering limbs. Her bright nailed hands ran through his mussed hair, her long ponytail and huge earrings swinging as they made out.
I glanced around thinking the hells do I do now? I sat down on a narrow spot on the couch a few feet from them. A blonde femna eyed me as our hips rubbed and I inched away so that I was practically sitting on the couch arm. I was staying alert for a pause in the making out but they just kept going at it, Diamond’s huge ringed hands rubbing all up her thighs and ass and everything. She looked orc herself, or at least mixed since she had that smaller humie-like frame and a very soft green to her skin, a light olive you could say, though Diamond himself was not true green either but closer to a slate moss.
I cleared my throat.
“Diamond,” I said, not too loud and real friendly, almost like I was cheering him on. No response. Ehhh. “Dustin.” This time I called him by his real name. “Dustin.” Their faces broke free for a moment. “Dustin, I gotta tell ya, it looks like you're having the best time out of anyone here.”
“Yeah,” he grunted matter of fact.
“I got a quick question for you. Business related.”
“I'm kinda busy here.”
The femna riding him just looked at me with a hidden derision, purple lids heavy, the hint of tusks rising from her lips. They went back to necking.
“Right. I... Well I’ll write a letter next time...” I got up and turned away, muttered. “Or better yet get you two a flogging room.” I maneuvered around a talking pair of fems as I walked over to the trash can and threw my bottle in. As I turned I spotted another Orc, or Orcess I suppose. She was standing against the wall with her chiseled arms crossed. She was a mix of tribal and modern: hair tied back in this sort of exotic bun, loose pants tucked into these metal greaves clasped over ironball shoes, a sleeveless logo t-shirt and a leather vest you might have seen on a warrior type 200 years ago, tattoos all over. She looked standoffish herself, but at least she wasn't trying to film a porno in the middle of the party. I shimmied between a few partiers and this countertop where Vinny kept his vinyl record collection until I stood next to this Orcess who was smaller than Diamond but still loomed over me, had more muscle in one arm than I did in a leg.
“Say, you staying dry tonight? I'm not a big drinker myself.”
“It's not that. These drinks are weak. I've had six and feel nothing.”
“Uh well... that kind of constitution... it's the blessing of VrrGorr on the Orraku golgoh ruppra.”
“You know Orcish?”
“Not fluently. No. Not really. All I can say is ‘where’s the cagger,’ ‘how much’ and ‘eyyyyy Orc ladiiiies’.”
“You jape...” Her eyes narrowed and for a second my nerves bristled on guard—didn't want to choke on my imploding teeth. “On a night of revelry japing is good. Auspicious.”
“The world needs its bards.”
“You're a bard?”
“An aspiring one you might say.” I shrugged. “I’d guess you appreciate the bardic arts. Your tattoos.”
“My trade.”
“You must be good at it. Most I see are some flaming skull with bugging eyes, a ‘live life for today’ type a saying, a femna’s name. Yours are ancient looking though. Primal.”
“The glyphs and tapestries of VrrGorr. They have power in them. Mm. I live here only two moons and I realize these city Orcs do not know the ancient ways.”
“You're new in town then.”
“Aye. Come from the Arrowflat mountains.”
“Arrowflat.”
“In the north. Far.”
“That’s—What brought you down here?”
“My brother.” She nodded toward Diamond.
“Dustin’s your brother?”
“Dustin. Hlegh. A weak humie name.”
“You prefer calling him Diamond?” She sniffed, her nostrils looking like fat caterpillars, seemed unbothered with my question. “Well I’m Teek. You?”
“Mhegnyr.”
“Good to meet you. Listen I know you might be new in town but do you know where I might find uh... how do I put this...” I hesitated, realizing that she might not be privy to all the Gold Jaw... activities. In case she wasn't I’d be exposing her brother’s rogue life. I didn't need some 400 pound Orc holding beef.
Just then Diamond got up from the recliner—this was my chance. But then he scooped his femna up on his shoulder, her legs bent uneven, a black pump nearly slipping off her thin foot but dangling by a single purple nailed toe, she squealed a laugh, and then he sauntered into the back hallway, stooping a little to get them both through a door and closing it behind them.
“...Where you might find what?” Mhegnyr’s chapped lip slowly glided along her tusk.
“Um... a good place for Orc food. You know, authentic.”
“Hrmm well... I don't know too many cookeries here... What is best is to hunt your own bison. That or wild dog. If you go with the dog you have to stuff it into a Panapyx...”
Mhegnyr went on about certain methods of cooking meat and picking wild mushrooms when Vinny opened the door to a familiar face.
“Berry...” I said reflexively and was immediately embarrassed. Berry was a nickname that I had often called her but her real name was Beryl. I'd said it in a whisper but even so I felt a splinter of paranoia that she might have heard it. All ears are keen to catch their own names. She was mixed blood. Human and Fae. She was small, had thick perky curves that together with her knit sweater and flared skirt had a kind of pastoral femnavi quality. Had chocolate hair that a streak of ochre leaves grew out of, tawny skin, wide glasses. A shyness that even on first meeting exuded a repressed playfulness.
A lusty nostalgia swam all through me from my ankles to the roots of my hairs.
Then came the lump of coal down the throat: she had stepped into Vinny's place with a malno who now took hold of her hand. He looked mixed himself, mostly human but with perhaps Minotaur thrown in. He dwarfed her. And me. His dark hair was waxed into short rivulettes that hung on his conya, almost covering his eyes, eyes which were set wide apart on his wide frame; they were small, long-lashed and a little slanted. Had a broad upturned nose with a ring in it. Skinny black denim legs.
Beryl spotted me, sure enough. Our eyes were repellent magnets squeezed into a tiny box. She turned and the warm light of a lamp caught on the ridged horn that parted her hair as it grew from the side of her conya, a horn which I once thought the height of prettiness but which I now found ridiculous—where the flog was the other one? Both the horn and her strand of leaf hair were signs of fae blood. In recent years it had become fashionable rebellion not to hide metablood ancestry, especially among the urban young, and if Beryl was anything it was socially conscious.
“So which do you prefer?” Mhegnyr’s raspy voice prodded me.
“Oh uh the, the bison for sure.”
“Aye but grilled or blackened?”
“Uh right, black, blackened I guess.”
“Aye. That's good.”
We fell into a silence. My hands didn't know where to place themselves. I stole glances to the white door in the unlit hallway wondering how long it might be before Diamond was finished then back over to Beryl chatting with her bull friend and Vinny.
Flog this.
“I'll see you, Mheg.”
“Mhegnyr,” she corrected but by then I was already making for the door.
Bristling nerves, eye trajectory calculations.
Probability of a mid-air collision: too high.
Our paths veering toward intercepting.
Hemmed in by swaying reveler walls, muscle and fat pushing on fabrics.
Abort.
Feet searching an alternate path.
Hesitation. Think it through.
The escape cannot be obviously purposeful.
Freeze warring with jitteriness.
Collision imminent.
Inexorable.