Ch. 22: Mr. Sunglasses

“There. How is that?” Amy asked him.

Kirby studied the scar on the left side of his chest in the bathroom mirror. “Is that what a wolf bite actually looks like?”

“You just saw me look it up on the internet, dude,” she said with what he recognized as a combination of mock and genuine exasperation. “How the fuck should I know what a wolf bite looks like? Didn’t get many wolf attacks in the ER during my emergency medicine rotation.”

“Well, as a doctor, your guess is probably better than mine. I just don’t want it to look like something it isn’t. I can live with the scar—and without the nipple—if it looks like what it’s supposed to be. I like you Amy, and I’m glad you’re my friend. But this incident makes me less than happy with you.”

The seriousness with which he said this last seemed to chasten her. “Yeah. Okay, I get it.” She sighed. “I didn’t mean anything by it, dude.”

“Yeah. I know.”

This morning the scar he had seen in the mirror had been an almost cartoonish representation of a wolf’s head, a product of Amy’s sorcery and her penchant for practical jokes. The new version, an oblong mass of scar tissue with what looked like teeth marks along the upper and lower edges, could have been the scar left by the bite of a large dog or wolf.

“So, that’s done.” She mimed dusting off her hands. “Grab your tux and let’s go.”

“And what is the goddamned hurry?” he asked as he pulled on his shirt. “You were supposed to come by this afternoon, you and Mutt. It’s only 11:15.”

“Miss Adelaide called me half an hour ago. She said to get up and get over to her place ASAP. We’re supposed to ‘be observant’ and ‘take precautions’.”

“’Take precautions,’ eh? Shall I get my revolver, Holmes?” Kirby asked in a passable British accent as he moved down the hall.

She raised her voice, so he could hear her from the bedroom. “If you’ve got heat, you’re welcome to pack it, Watson. When she talks like that, it usually means some serious shit is going down.”

“And what, exactly, does ‘serious shit’ mean in this context?” he asked, taking the tuxedo from the bedroom closet.

“Your guess is as good as—” she started, before reconsidering. “No, my guess would probably be a lot better than yours, but I have no fucking clue what’s going on.”

He reappeared, bearing a hanging garment bag. “Well, I don’t have a gun, but I do have a tuxedo. Let’s make like a tree, pal.” He opened the front door and they stepped into the heat. “Please, tell me,” he said, locking the door, “that this party is indoors and air-conditioned.”

“You know better than that.” She wagged her index finger in time to the shaking of her head. “This is the Fourth of July in Oklahoma. You know what that means.”

“Barbecue?”

“When I lived at Miss Adelaide’s the barbecue guys would get there before dawn on the Fourth to set up their equipment on the back lawn and it always woke me up. I’m a light sleeper.” She produced a remote and thumbed it. The rear gate of her BMW SUV opened as they approached the sidewalk. “Just hang that up in the back next to my dress. Do. Not. Wrinkle. My. Dress.”

“Got it.” He did as he was told. “Wait, dammit. Hang on.”

“What?”

“I forgot the damned shoes.” He opened the front gate and headed back to the house. “I’ll be right back.”

He found the shoe box on the shelf of the closet. “I got ‘em,” he announced as stepped back onto the front porch. “I hate shoes like thi—"

He stopped. Where was she? A relatively tiny sound drew his attention and he saw the palm of her small hand slap the windshield from the other side of the vehicle. Over the SUV’s roof, he saw what looked like the top of a man’s head. Amy’s hand seemed to jerk spasmodically as it slapped the windshield again, louder.

“Hey!” He dropped the shoes and began to charge down the front walk. “What the—? AMY!” He veered off the path as he picked up speed. Leaping the low picket fence rather than bother with the gate, he landed awkwardly on the sidewalk, but managed to keep his feet. He saw Amy, pinned to the driver’s side door by a man whose right hand was clenched around her slender throat. Blood flowed from her smashed nose and covered the lower half of her face. “Let her go, fuckwad!” He stepped off the curb and rounded the front corner of the SUV.

The man, who wore a green tracksuit and mirrored sunglasses, turned his head only slightly in Kirby’s direction and, with a flick of his left hand, threw something. Kirby instinctively slapped it—a shimmering loop of...something—away with the back of his gloved right hand. The man’s head tilted slightly, as if in puzzlement, before Kirby slammed into him hard, driving him off his feet and slamming him to the ground. Despite the force of these impacts, the man rolled away easily and sprang to his feet. Kirby saw his own stocky, bearded reflection in the man’s sunglasses.

Having landed better than the other man, Kirby was on his feet at about the same time. Mr. Sunglasses was several inches taller. Six feet tall, maybe. He was lean, but Kirby had felt a lot of muscle when they collided. This guy looked more ready for a fight than Kirby had ever felt in his life. Kirby heard Amy coughing, gagging for breath behind him and saw red. Blinded with rage, he charged the man again. “Motherfucker!”

Mr. Sunglasses feigned dodging to his right and Kirby swerved to match his opponent’s motion. The man’s hands made a throwing motion and several shimmering, silvery-gray loops—lassoes of dirty glitter—wrapped around his chest, waist, right hand, and left arm, binding him to the side of the SUV. Kirby tried to pull away—and could not. He grunted and tried to force his left arm free. It moved forward a few inches, then thudded back, pinned. He opened his left fist and felt his individual fingers pulled back, as if by magnets, trapped against the SUV’s quarter panel. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Amy, half-curled on her side. She was still gasping and coughing.

Mr. Sunglasses stepped in front of him. “Who’s the motherfucker now, motherfucker?” His accent was pure California surfer-dude.

“Gnarly accent, Spicoli,” growled Kirby. “You too busy beating up on itty-bitty women to catch some tasty waves?”

“Yeah. That’s really funny.” Mr. Sunglasses slammed the heel of his palm into Kirby’s forehead like a hammer. The side of the SUV was the anvil and Kirby’s head rang like a bell.

“And who are you calling ‘Spicoli’, you one-glove wearing motherfucker?” Mr. Sunglasses tapped the palm of Kirby’s gloved right hand with his finger, next to the magical band that bound it to the vehicle.

“You got a thing for Michael Jackson?” Tap.

“You gonna make with some killer dance moves?” Tap.

“You gonna moonwa----Aaaaaaagh!” He screamed as Kirby’s gloved right hand, unaffected by the magical binding, closed around the tapping finger like a vise and dislocated it with a snapping noise.

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Wrenching his right arm forward, Kirby levered the man’s finger back, which forced a higher-pitched scream from the man. Rapidly rotating his wrist in the other direction, he pulled again. There was another snap, another scream. He brought his fist across his chest, pulling the man’s finger as he did so, and the man followed, emitting a shriek of pain. When the man was close enough, Kirby slammed his forehead into the man’s face and felt the cheekbone crunch. Mr. Sunglasses fell back, but not far. Kirby, still holding the broken finger, used it to pull him in again. The second head butt caught the man on the side of the jaw. Releasing the finger, he backhanded the man in the side of the head with a big right fist and all the force he could muster. The man sprawled backwards onto the street. His sunglasses were still in place.

Struggling, Kirby tried to pull himself free. He grabbed at his left wrist, trying to pull it away from the SUV. As he did so, the fingers of his right hand encountered something. Taking his eyes off Mr. Sunglasses, he looked at what his fingers had found and saw the shape of the dirty-silver bindings that held him. Hooking a finger under the one at his wrist, he pulled experimentally. It stretched like a rubber band. He pulled harder and it popped, like a thread being ripped from a seam.

Mr. Sunglasses struggled to get to his hands and knees only yards away.

Kirby grabbed at the silvery band across his chest. His left hand, he discovered, could not feel or touch the magical stuff. Grasping the band with his right hand, he used his left hand to push his right forearm as he stretched the binding up and ducked out of it.

Mr. Sunglasses lurched to his feet as Kirby fought with the silvery bands, thick as garden hoses, that circled his waist. “Whatever it is you’re doing to my bindings, I can feel it—and I don’t like it.”

Kirby grunted.

Mr. Sunglasses straightened, his back still to Kirby. “Still not free? You’re running out of time.”

Mr. Sunglasses’ untroubled demeanor, his endurance of the tremendous pain Kirby had inflicted upon him, and casual attitude towards the violence of their confrontation began to freak Kirby out. As he fought harder against the magic that held him, he also fought a rising panic. There was little give to these larger bindings, and they were so close together that even if he could stretch one, he would not be able to duck out of it because the other would hold him in place.

Suddenly, the bindings grew stronger. They stiffened, becoming immovable. “There, you feel it now, don’t you?” Mr. Sunglasses turned to face him. “I added a bit of power to keep you from doing whatever you’ve been doing to break your bonds. What, exactly, have you been doing, anyway? Those were good combat bindings, hard to break. What’s your technique? Your deflection looked almost Ziggurati.”

“Fuck you,” Kirby said with equal parts defiance and resignation. He tugged at the bindings again without success.

“Ah, so you’d like to fuck me?” Mr. Sunglasses asked with amusement. “I change my guess. You’re not Ziggurati. You’re one of those faggot Brethren.” As he spoke, he reached into the pocket of his tracksuit and withdrew a tube of lip balm. Kirby squinted and could see swirling energies when the man uncapped it. Mr. Sunglasses drew a line across his forehead and down his nose, then traced around his lips, using the eldritch lip balm like war paint. A second, strangely distorted face flickered into being over his features. The second face was bestial to the point of being demonic, with hugely protruding brow ridges, a nose like a vulture’s beak, and a huge mouth filled with enormous blunt teeth. Both faces wore mirrored sunglasses.

The man held up his hand, the index finger at an odd angle. “This hurt,” he said. As Kirby watched, the transformation that had altered the man’s face began to move down his neck, which grew noticeably thicker, more muscled, and down his arms and chest. The man’s slim form rippled and began to fill out with muscle beneath the tracksuit. When the ripple of transformation reached his hand, the injured finger straightened with a crackling sound as it grew broader and stronger with the others. “That’s better,” the new Mr. Sunglasses said, and it was disconcerting to Kirby, hearing the same voice come out of this very different Mr. Sunglasses.

Desperate, Kirby did the only thing he could think of. He shouted at the top of his lungs. “Help! Police! Help! Somebody call the police! Help!” He stopped when he heard Mr. Sunglasses laugh.

“Well,” sneered the new Mr. Sunglasses, “that was different. I take it back. You’re not one of the Suspended Brethren, either, even if did say you wanted to fuck me. Even those faggots aren’t dumb enough to think anyone could see or hear. They’d know that would have been taken care of. So, what are you, my little chickadee?”

“Look, son,” said Kirby, who gripped the bindings tightly in his fist, but had stopped trying in vain to pull free. “I may not be your dad, but I am the guy who fucks your mother. Be a good boy or it’s straight to bed and no supper for you.”

Mr. Sunglasses’ mouth opened slightly. He stared at Kirby for a moment, then a moment more. Finally, he raised his large hands and began quietly clapping. “Bravo on your bravado. I’ve heard a lot of people’s last words and those were damn good. Damn good! You probably shouldn’t say anything else until I kill you, though. It’d just be a letdown.”

Amy chose that moment to cough weakly. Both men looked down at the small woman where she lay on the concrete almost within reach to Kirby’s right.

“Mmmmm! My goodness, but she’s a fine little piece!” Mr. Sunglasses licked his lips theatrically. “They said I was supposed to mess up the old dyke I came here for—y’know, rip off her arms or something, or maybe pluck out her eyes—before I, y’know, killed her. It was supposed to piss your people off extra bad. But that’s probably not gonna happen now. This little sweetie looks like a lot more fun, anyway. What do you think? If I, y’know, violate her before I stomp her skull flat on the concrete, will that piss off the Guild?”

The only response Kirby’s throat produce was an inarticulate grunt of rage.

“Yeah,” chucked the assassin. “If it pisses them off as much as it does you, I might get a bonus. Personally, I think she’s gonna enjoy this.” He looked at Kirby and caught his eyes, then deliberately turned his own eyes downward, pulling Kirby’s gaze with them. Outlined against the leg of the green tracksuit was...was something. The proportions of it were obscene. He moved a large-knuckled hand to his groin and rubbed it.

Kirby thought he could see it pulse.

He leered down again at Amy. “Don’t worry, little darlin’, I’ll be gentle.”

Kirby growled and lunged with his left hand for Mr. Sunglasses, squeezing the bindings that held him with his right. His hand was batted away with contempt by the bestial rapist-assassin. He snarled. Furious, his every fiber strained to the breaking point—

And his right fist closed, thumb wrapping around clenched fingers. The bindings which had resisted like steel cables had given way as he squeezed, pinched off like al dente linguini between his thumb and forefinger.

As the bindings broke, Mr. Sunglasses turned sharply and looked at Kirby, only to see a gloved right fist as it struck him full in the face. He staggered backwards as Kirby followed up the punch with a two-handed shove. “Hey,” exclaimed an obviously surprised Mr. Sunglasses. “I actually felt that. It didn’t hurt. When I’m in this aspect, I usually don’t feel things like punches. Good job! You might actually live up to those last words.”

Kirby lunged, still raging, and delivered another hard, two-handed shove to his opponent’s chest, pushing him farther away from Amy. “Get the fuck away from her!” he rasped.

“Aww, man,” Mr. Sunglasses said with mock sympathy. “You blew it. You lost the chance to have those awesome ‘guy who fucks your mother’ last words. And since we’re shoving.” Faster than Kirby could react, the assassin gave him a hard, one-handed shove to the chest that slammed him into the SUV several yards behind him.

Pain shot throughout Kirby’s body. His breath burst from his lungs. The back of his head hit the windshield and stars appeared in his vision. Dazed, he felt himself sliding down the hood. Somehow, he managed to land on his feet, steadying himself with a hand on the bumper. He tried to straighten up and everything hurt. Everything. The standing. The breathing. The trying to keep his balance. The not losing consciousness. All of it hurt. Dizzily, he stumbled a bit, then turned to face the son of a bitch. “Mum huh..guy who fuhss yur muh…,” he mumble-whispered. “Muhr fuhr.”

“Nah, the magic’s gone, asshole,” said Mr. Sunglasses. “You don’t get a second chance with last words.” Lunging suddenly forward, he delivered a two-handed, open-palm blow that lifted Kirby backwards onto the sidewalk, where he crashed into the picket fence and tumbled over it backwards, into his front yard.

As he lay face-down on the grass, Kirby wheezed, tried to make his lungs work. Every attempt to inhale set off a wracking, spasmodic cough. Each cough triggered a multitude of agonizing pains in his ribs.

“Well, shit! I shoved you a little too hard. I’m not coming in there. That place is magicked up the wazoo.”

Kirby coughed several more times and tried to raise his head.

“Don’t try to get up, Mr. Fucks-your-mother. You’ve got a punctured lung. That’s why you’re coughing up blood. You just lie there and watch while I enjoy your sweet little friend. If you could just hold off on drowning on your own blood for a while, I really think you’ll enjoy the show. It’ll be a good one. Scout’s honor!” He held up the three-fingered Boy Scout salute.

Lifting his head, Kirby weakly returned the salute with a one-fingered gesture of his own. He tried to push himself to his knees, but the pain overwhelmed him. Blackness filled his vision. He collapsed again. agony jolted the blackness away when he hit the ground. His gasps became a series of wet coughs. Wiping the wetness from his mouth, he saw the bright blood on his hand and knew the killer had not lied. The pain. The difficulty breathing. He might die. His lungs were filling with blood.