ONE MONTH EARLIER
A fly landed in Russell’s frothy mug of beer. He watched it crawl across the clouds of suds, unaware of the amber peril below. Drowning in beer, Russell thought. Not a bad way to go. He knew he should be disgusted by the winged invader skittering around his drink, but he really wasn’t. After all, Russell was dressed like a pirate. And better yet, Buccaneer Bill’s Bar and Grill, his current employer and watering hole, leaned so hard into their swashbuckling theme that they referred to every beer on tap as “Grog.” A bug in the suds seemed pretty damn authentic.
This type of pragmatism was easier to swallow than admitting the place was a bonafide shit-hole.
Buzz Holiday softly swatted Russell’s hand, breaking his trance.
“Buddy, you listening?”
Russell looked up from his mug. There was Buzz, squeezed into the booth across from him, eyes dripping with expectation. In the months since he’d started meeting up with Buzz, Russell had come to enjoy Buzz’s boundless enthusiasm, no matter what the day threw at him. But today, Russell wasn’t feeling it. He was hungover, and life, with all its bullshit, felt like it was landing punches harder than usual.
“Yeah, man,” Russell began, dipping his finger into the beer to offer the fly a lifeline. “It sounds like things are really lining up. Ol’ Buzz, back on the rise.”
Buzz grinned, his teeth unnervingly white. “I’m telling you, this new job I got lined up? Exactly what I need. The thing they’re doing? Ain’t nobody ever tried something like this before. When I get behind the wheel of this thing? Oh baby, I’m just gonna turn on, you know? Life-changing stuff. Life-changing.”
“Is this the same thing as before, or something new?”
“Oh no, that last thing, the hair-growth gig? That was a wash. Knew it from the start. This?” He leaned in, tapping the table with his index finger like it held the secrets of the universe. “This is big. Real big.”
Russell studied Buzz. Something was different. His cheeks were clenched, and his eyes had the kind of glow you’d see on someone who’d been “saved” at a revival. Or on a cult member who’d reached true ascension. Russell didn’t know much about cults, but he knew a user when he saw one. The dilated pupils gave Buzz away.
Damn, Russell thought. Buzz is off the wagon.
If that was the case, it wouldn’t be long before Buzz was driving a rental car through the front window of a liquor store. Shame. Russell had actually come to enjoy their time together.
The fly had taken Russell’s finger as a lifeline and was now drying off on his knuckle. Buzz snapped his fingers, pulling Russell’s focus back.
“Russell. What’s going on, man?”
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“Buzz, what do you want me to say? I’m happy for you. But look around, man.”
Russell swept his arms wide, taking in the scene. The pirate-themed restaurant was a testament to neglect — faux-wood walls stained with decades of grease and grime, like they’d been polished with fryer oil. A couple nearby picked at melted ice cream in a soggy cardboard treasure chest, eating like prisoners on their last meal. On a stage done up to look like the deck of a ship, greasy teenage "shipmates" (read: employees) dressed as pirates fumbled with their instruments, tuning up for the next big production number.
“You call me down here on my lunch break to tell me about some big shot opportunity? That’s messed up, man. Don’t get me wrong, you’ve always been good to me. Tried to hook me up a couple times, too. But I’m not here to blow sunshine up your ass and tell you this is your shot. I’m still trying to find my own, man.”
“No, you’re not getting it—”
Before Buzz could finish, a teenage pirate walked up, the dead-eyed, grinning mascot head of Buccaneer Bill tucked under one arm. He plunked it on the table with all the reverence of a sack of potatoes, then turned his glazed, disinterested stare to Buzz before locking eyes with Russell.
“We’re about to start the show,” the kid said flatly. “Birthday boy’s waiting.”
Russell glared at the head sitting in front of him, its painted grin mocking him. Buccaneer Bill, his nemesis in felt and foam. He sighed and turned to the kid.
“Yeah, well, I’m on break for another…” He checked his phone. “Eight minutes.”
The kid nodded at the beer in Russell’s hand. “Pretty sure you’re not allowed to be drinking on your break.”
Russell didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure you’re not allowed to hit on the hot mom of that fat kid, but that didn’t stop you, did it?”
“That’s his sister. I go to high school with her, you old bitch. I’m calling the manager.”
“Here we go again! Always calling Kurt! How about you be a man?”
Buzz held up a hand, defusing the situation as only Buzz could. “Whoa, whoa. Easy, kid. Russell and I go way back. Best performer I’ve ever seen. But he’s gotta have the one drink. It’s his thing — like a ritual, you know? Brings out the magic.”
The teenager barely blinked, studying Buzz with all the enthusiasm of a bored cashier. “Pretty sure my mom’s got a blender with your face on it.”
Buzz lit up with a grin, hitting his signature two-thumbs-up pose like it was second nature. “That’s right, baby.”
The teenager rolled his eyes. “Yeah, whatever. Just get ready, man. You’re doing the Treasure Trove Stomp in ten.”
Russell groaned, shaking his head. “Goddamn Treasure Trove Stomp. The whole thing’s just jumping up and down. That tubby kid’s been slamming birthday cake all day — he’s gonna blow chunks all over the place!”
As the teenager walked away, Buzz leaned forward, dropping his voice a notch. “Buddy, you’re better than this place.”
Russell let out a dry laugh. “Don’t you think I know that?” He threw up his hands, motioning to the grease-stained walls, the ball pit that smelled like feet and lost dreams, the stupid pirate head still grinning on the table. “Look at this shit. I’m in yo-ho-hell. But I got bills, man.”
Buzz reached over, picked up the head of Buccaneer Bill, and placed it gently on the floor like he was putting a child to bed. Clearing the space between them, he locked eyes with Russell. “I don’t think you’re hearing me,” he said, voice steady and low.
Buzz reached into his chest pocket and flicked a packet onto the table. The way it landed, it made a sound like powder shifting inside. Russell’s first instinct was to slap his hands over it like he was defusing a bomb. The last thing he needed was Buzz pulling out something illegal, right here in the middle of pirate hell.
“Jesus, man,” Russell hissed through clenched teeth. “You trying to get me fired?”
Buzz just laughed, leaning back in the booth, hands spread wide like he didn’t have a care in the world. “Relax, buddy. Just look.”
Russell peeled his fingers away from the packet and squinted at it. The thing was bright purple, obnoxiously so. It looked like a fast-food sauce packet, but longer. In jagged yellow lightning-bolt lettering, it read: “Spazz Energy Powder.”
Buzz tapped the packet with a proud grin. “This, my friend, is the future. The end-all be-all of energy supplements. The next big thing, no question about it. They just need someone like me — someone with flair — to make sure the world knows about it. And let me tell you, what we’ve got planned? Oh, they’re never gonna forget Spazz Energy, baby.”
Russell frowned. He’d heard this song before. Buzz had a new “next big thing” every time they talked. He’d met with entrepreneurs for hair-growth pills, vibrating massage wands, even something he called the “Ass-O-Matic 3000.” And every time, Buzz was all in. Again, the enthusiasm was endearing, but just not today.
“Great,” Russell said flatly, staring at the purple packet in front of him. Spazz Energy. What a joke.
“Great? That’s it? That’s all you got to say?” Buzz’s grin faded, replaced by a look of genuine disbelief. “You’re staring at a game-changer, and all you’ve got for me is great?”
Russell nodded toward the stage. “Look, you heard the pizza-faced kid. I got a show to do.”
Buzz slapped the table, making the packet jump. “Do you really not get it? I’m offering you a job, dummy.”