Grind Show

Ffrogwhist will for the next couple of weeks be put to a very different use. No longer will it be a collection of daily writing exercises, but instead a chronicle of my attempts to write a new novel. Not entirely new, to be clear, but more a rehash of an old one. Grind Show. Demon hunters racing and battling out against the forces of darkness across the desolate landscape of the Mojave desert. I wrote some 25,000 words last time, racing bullet fast through the chapters, throwing shotguns, car chases, rock bands and merciless bounty hunters around like a desperate juggler attempting to keep the attention of a waning crowd.

Now I'm going to try my hand at it again. Not simply pick up where I left off, but rather go back, right to the root, the first Chapter or two, and see if I can do it right this time. It's to be more of a commercial novel, something that can actually sell; but that doesn't mean it's any easier to write. Something that became clear over the year I worked at Penguin is that the big selling 'commercial' novels are every part as challenging to write as the more literary ones.

Why? Consider Howard and his creation, Conan. There have been hundreds of Conan knock offs, but nobody has achieved the fame and excellence that Howard did. The reason is because he believed in his creation, poured his heart and soul into it. Conan walks and breathes and glowers and roars on his pages, where in the other books he never manages to be anything but a two dimensional hunk of muscle and steel. Same with Lovecraft; despite his at times terrible dialogue, purple prose and contrived endings, there's something about his body of walk that has captivated and mesmerized generations of readers, to the point that today he is still actively read, with new collections being released yearly with forwards by the likes of Joyce Carol Oates and China Mieville. Lovecraft believed in his creations, and thus others are swayed.

So if you're going to write something, you have to care about it. Or people will notice, and toss is aside. That's why people who decide to write a 'commercial' novel for a quick buck rarely succeed; their audiences can hear the silent sneer, detect the patronizing tone, and kick the book to the curb.

There's my challenge. Write something fast paced, compelling and fun that I'd want to read, something dark and harrowing and sarcastic and smart. I've already edited some 5,000 words into the beginning of the new book, lifted from the first draft. I'm going to go from there, day in, day out, and see where it takes me.

Wish me luck!

I love meeting because of the moon!

The story begins in Ellis Island, when a sullen, slightly sultry sword-wielding mechanic and a gentleman meet because of the moon. It is about affirming life in the midst of death. The antagonist is motivated because of an addiction.

We will be seeing more of Flamboje.

This story begins as it ends, with a high-spirited tourest. In a school for would-be inventors, a secretary and an expat struggle against the odds and encounter building a family, a deadly competition, and a carny who is motivated because they want to understand how the world works. The text features the social intimacies of tribes or camps.

Page 1

You are a high-spirited tourest. Your yips and chirrups are the delight of the aether. Currently without host, you decide to place a fortunate soul under your aegis. If you wish to place a 19^th century dandy under your aegis, turn to Page 43, if you would prefer a salacious Roman Centurion, turn to Page 329, or turn to Page 92 if you would prefer a 21^st centurty secretary.

Page 92

The secretary is at ease behind a faux-mahogany desk outside an Imperial office. She is filing her nails and keeping a weather eye on her Inbox. She is prolix, and hard nosed. Her day seems quiet. If you would like to have a terrorist cell attack the office building affording her a chance at heroism, turn to Page 33. If you would prefer to have her meet her future husband tonight, turn to Page 21. If you would prefer to have her fired and become caught up with an insane expat who believes he’s a tiger, turn to Page 233

Page 233

Roxor the Expat takes The Secretary by the hand as they race down the dingy hallway. “It is here that we shall learn the truth about the Universe,” he informs her, “And divine the means to realize our potential.” The Secretary is dismayed, but remains calm, professional. She asks for clarification, but Roxor the Expat simply roars at her in a tigerish fashion. If you would like her to slap Roxor, turn to Page 53. If you would like for her to kick him in the back with her high heeled foot, turn to page 7. If you would prefer that she internalize her rage, turn to page -493.

Page 7

Roxor the Expat roars in pain and rage as The Secretary’s heel digs into the small of his back, sending him stumbling. He is but a small expat, however, and though his heart is great he is unable to reciprocate. “I apologize,” he says, “Let me be more specific. We are here to learn the social intimacies of tribes or camps, and shall do so within this school for would-be inventors. They are an eclectic lot, and like shattered prisms we shall be able to use them to see the world in manners skewed and unexpected.” The Secretary nods, her fatalist streak flaring. Turn to page 278, unless you would prefer to turn to Page 90. Do not turn to Page 79.

Page 79

Turn back, do not read on. Turn to Page 341 now. Turn. Go back. Your mother sucks –

Page 341

The Secretary and Roxor the Expat pause before the iron golem. It is piecing together two other golems, one of its size, the other shorter by far. “Doldrums result until family is mine,” it intones. “What he means,” says Roxor, “Is-“ He stops when The Secretary glares at him. “I am creating a camp,” intones the golem, within which I shall be King. I shall rule and in so doing know myself complete.” “How unimaginative of you,” says The Secretary, and turns towards –

Page 79

Turn back, you have been warned, curiousity munged the –

Page 412

“I see,” crowed the moustachioed space pirate, wielding his laser rapier with panache, “You wish to challenge my rule. Well, Flamboje, there can be only one captain of the Jolie Roget, and you shall have to fight for the spot.”

“Avast and bodega,” cried Flamboje, drawing his thunderpipe, “I fear not the swaying of the—

Page 55

Moaning, the man leaned down and kissed him on the –

Page 79

I know you and what you seek within this book, and I shall have your soul before you reach this tale’s end, no matter how fast you change from page to page –

Page 982

The Secretary laughed, delighted, and reclined on the divan. “But Roxor, that’s what the bishop said!” Everybody laughed, turning to look at each other as they did so, their hilarity confirmed in each other’s eyes. “Excuse me, The Secretary, but I have a theory,” ventured Iub the Dwarf, “A theory that might unify Einstein’s General Relativity with String Theory. I have tentatively dubbed it M-Theory, and it goes a little something like this…” “Oh, do be quiet, Iub,” said The Secretary, “Do you not see that you are spoiling our little gathering? We have formed an impromptu tribe here, a camp of friends who want nothing better than to relax in sophisticated company.”

Everybody laughed again. Iub’s face flushed, and he turned, sticking his hands into his armpits. “I would that I could, I would that I could,” he muttered, gazing longingly at the circus that was visible through the window.

Page 79

You are trapped.

Page 79

There is no where you can turn to.

Page 79

There is no more escape. All entries are become me.

Page 79

Give me the high-spirited tourest and you can leave. Give it to me.

There. Ah, yes. Ah.

THE END

Matobo the Croc Killer

The text starts as a union organizer encounters things that go SPLAT while in a library. The overall narrative is a sports story and the motivation behind the major plot events is: because of guilt.

Lionel the union organizer was expanding. He'd been sitting there, right, reading USA Today or People magazine or something, checking out the pics of Jessica Simpson, when his belt began to cut into his belly. His cheeks began to puff out, and his shoes to feel tight. Huffing, he pushed away from the desk, thinking: gas? But everything was swelling. Reaching down he undid his belt, and rose to his feet, panic hitting him hard. What in Sam Hill?

Around him other people were beginning to puff up too, puff up real bad, looking mighty unsighty. Like they each and every one of them had an air tube stuck in their mouths, the kind you get at gas stations to fill up your tires, and each were being piped up full of air. People's eyes were bulging, necks swelling, hands expanding like kitchen gloves filled with water.

"What in Sam Hill!" said Lionel. He staggered towards the Librarian's counter, but she wasn't in sight. Outside, through the plate glass entrance doors, he could see a large group of gorillas all laughing and shrieking and slapping each other on the back. Lionel blinked, felt the buttons on his shirt begin to pop off.

"What in Sam Hill!" he roared, outraged. Damned apes, out there laughing while he was on the verge of going pop. There must have been some thirty of them out there, a few large old silver backs, a horde of smaller males, and one or two chimp looking ones rolling around on their backs, smacking their feet together in monkey claps.

Lionel turned to the other people who were rolling around on the floor, or mewling to each other. "Apes," he said, and tried to point. He had significantly reduced flexibility by this point. "Outside, laughing. Apes."

Nobody listened. Close by, an elderly man who had expanded too quickly, his parchment wrinkly skin distending, went SPLAT. Red stuff went everywhere, viscera and bones bouncing off shelving. "Sam Hill!" cried Lionel, back away, "Sam Hill!"

The hooting and hollerin' from outside grew louder, and he turned to see two of the gorillas high five each other while a third drew a mark in chalk on the sidewalk. Behind him he heard another SPLAT, but he didn't turn. The gorillas were falling over with the sheer violence of their hilarity.

But sadness crept into Lionel's heart. He'd been to the zoo as a kid, and had seen the monkey house, visited the maccacs, but nothing had hit him as hard as the gorilla cage. There had been one gorilla in there, a threadbare guy called Matobo the Croc Killer, with photographs of him as a young tough, all puffed up with muscles tearing a crocodile in two. Looking at Matobo, Lionel had felt like a connection had but for a moment been forged between the two of them. Matobo's eyes were deep and soft like cups of chocolate puddin'. He'd stared deep into those twin wells of sadness, and shook his head. Was his name really Matobo? Had he ever really killed a Croc? Even if he had, had he even wanted to?

Lionel lowered his head, or tried. His neck was enveloped in flesh. He felt like he couldn't breath. The gorillas were shrieking and covering their faces with their feet. But Lionel didn't mind. Didn't resent them. He thought of Matobo, and lowered his head.

Behind him somebody went SPLAT.

And then again.

Scissor Men and Tarantula Blades

The text starts as an otherwise bumbling person who is competent at one specific thing encounters a marriage of necessity while in a war. The overall narrative is about the uncanny and the motivation behind the major plot events is: because they are under a curse that forces their actions.

"Fuck fuck fuck," moaned Boribur, wiping his hair back out of his face for the millionth time. The sun was going to set, and soon Moki would launch his army down out of the attic to come swarm and swamp him here in the basement. He had, what, maybe fifteen minutes left? Glancing up at the window, he tried to gauge how much longer there was till the sun set by the crimson light pouring in and setting the dancing dust motes on fire. Fifteen, maybe twenty. Not enough.

The basement was huge. Vast. Larger than an airplane hangar, bigger than the biggest building in the world. They'd all been shrunk to the size of thumbs by the ArchMagus, barely a couple of inches tall, and now everything was cyclopean, of a scale absurd, so large that he felt agoraphobic. The attic was another land, up two flights of interminable stairs. But down it would come Moki's army, in whatever form it took, coming down to tear him apart.

"Focus," he whispered angrily to himself, and stared at the huge pair of scissors that lay gleaming before him. He'd known about the box before the spell, before this ghastly tournament had commenced, and had raced down here as fast as he could, falling from step to step, and then wriggling under the basement door to enter the gloomy basement. Had cast a spell to tip the cardboad box over, and been rewarded by a silver waterfall of falling scissors. The perfect material with which to construct a fighting force. Perfect, if he could but get his act together.

Several constructs, miniature golems, stood assembled, prepared to do battle. Already Boribur was shaking like a leaf, drained and expended, but this was his specialty, what he was good at--the construction of machinae. Eight men composed of blades and handles, walking dervishes of gleaming edges, and two large spiders, each leg a scissor blade, the central knot a mass of intertwined metal. Ten soldiers. A good start, but not enough. And worse yet--he didn't even know if he would be able to animate them properly, command them into battle. What use would they be if they simply stood there and watched him get hacked to pieces?

It had been Larissa's idea, but Moki had taken to it quickly enough, dragging the reluctant Boribur in along with him. Kill the ArchMagus, take him by surprise, and become the youngest graduates ever. Gain access to the forbidden spells, the ArchMagus' staff, fame and riches and power. Surprise, three against one, no problem. Larissa, excited and charismatic and undeniable had wooed them over, stroking Moki's ego and bullying Boribur, until they'd all agreed to go along.

Closing his eyes, Boribur forced himself to channel the magic, shape it with spells and motions, discipline it with a muttered mantra and weave it about the scissors. Such a trivial spell, but there was only so much magic available to him at this size, his very anima shrunken along with his body. He felt the metal grow soft, malleable, felt it curl and bend and shape itself anew. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and when he finally opened his eyes, he saw a ninth bladed soldier standing before him perfectly balanced. He wanted to retch, to sit down and pass out. But there was no time.

"Well done, Boribur!" came a voice, piercing and amused, and he half jumped out of his skin. Larissa. She was standing but thirty yards away, hands on her hips, alone. "Now, before you try to attack me, just listen."

"What, listen to you again? Not likely. You're the reason we're being forced to kill each other as is."

"Ah, but think: you kill me, expend what power you have left, and Moki will wipe the floor with you."

Boribur narrowed his eyes. "What choice do I have?"

"We could join forces. Together we can defeat Moki. Alone, we've got no chance."

It was true. Moki was the best of the three, though Larissa was perhaps smarter. He simply had more power, a greater intellect, a more vivid imagination. It was why Boribur was so close to pissing his pants.

"And what'd stop you from killing me after?"

"Nothing," said Larissa, smiling sweetly, hands behind her back. "But there's nothing to stop you either. So what do you think? Risk being my ally, or certain death in... ten minutes?"

Boribur scowled, looked at his creations, where they stood gleaming in the basement's gloaming. Nine scissor men, two tarantula blades. "All right, fine. You power them, I direct them. You don't get to have any control."

Larissa chewed her bottom lip for a moment, and then nodded. "Fine."

Her capitulation made him even more uncertain. "Fine then," he agreed belligerently. "I'll try and shape a few more. Unless you want to try and help..?"

"No, I'll save my power for the animation. Plus you were always the best at golem making. Better even then Moki."

She was buttering him up, Boribur knew it, but still he couldn't resist a flush of pleasure. He nodded curtly, and then turned back to the remaining pile of scissors. Ten minutes left. Keeping a wary eye on Larissa, he got to work.

***

Their forces were assembled. Eleven scissor men, tall and angular, moving forward with jerky precision, the points of their feet digging into the wooden floor of the basement as they advanced on the door. Boribur and Larissa were each riding on one of the tarantula blades, the seats uncomfortable, knots of metal digging into their butts, but the ride was smoother, a ripple of legs moving them forwards, an undulation of sharpness. A small force, compact and tough. Time to seek out Moki, to see what he had devised. Time to engage, for night had fallen.

The door was levered open by the scissor men, vast and nearly two yards thick. It groaned and shivered by small degrees, till finally momentum caught it and it swung out, a ponderous sweep that would have knocked them flat had they remained in its way. Beyond, the stairs. They approached, and began to ascend; no problem for the scissor men and tarantula blades, who simply sank the tips of their feet into the wood and climbed.

Boribur held on, growing nauseous as his tarantula blade flowed up and up and up, the thok thok thok of its legs punctuating the otherwise smooth climb. The basement had been dark, but the house was darker yet, bereft of even the dubious benefit of the windows that had looked out into the night. Up they climbed, powered by Larissa's will, till they reached the entrance hall and paused, their forces puddled at the edge of the top step.

"Should we climb to meet him on the steps, or await him here?" asked Boribur, swallowing repeatedly to settle his stomach.

"Hmm. Our forces have great stability on the stairs. Probably better than his. But from here we could see them coming and plan a violent defense."

Thok. Boribur turned to see which of his scissor men had moved, and then startled at the sight of a dart as long as he was tall embedded in the floor next to his tarantula blade. It had appeared from nowhere, its angle nearly perpindicular. He looked up. The darkness of the hall was vast, but somewhere overhead something flew. 

"We're under attack!" he yelled, and suddenly his forces were moving forward, galvanized by his will. They raced towards the stairs leading to the first floor, but Larissa was yelling, pointing at a megalithic armchair. For a moment Boribur didn't understand, and then he willed their forces to swerve to the left and scuttle under the chair and into safety.

"Damn," said Larissa, combing her hair out of her eyes with her fingers, "You've got to admit, that's impressive."

"What," said Boribur, willing his tarantula to creep right up the edge of their cover and then peer out at the dark sky, "An assasination attempt? That's not impressive, that's cowardly." But it was impressive. He'd not even thought of a pre-emptive strike. Had that playing dart hit him, it would have all finished right then. As it was, they were pinned.

"Well, we're trapped. Unless you can fashion a canopy for us?"

"That's mean sacrificing a scissor man, maybe two or three."

"Well, what choice do we have?"

"We could wait for him to attack us here."

"Under the chair?" She consided the option. "A bit ignomious, isn't it?"

"Fine, fine," he snapped, and closed his eyes. Reached out with both hands, as if grasping the matter of the universe, and clenched his hands into claws. Moved them, directed them, murmuring and muttering as he did so. He could feel the fabric of two scissormen unravel, easier now for their first manipulation, and directed them towards each tarantula. For a moment the thought occured to him--kill her--and then he dismissed it. He didn't want to be alone. Not yet, not with Moki out there. 

"Well done," said Larissa, looking up at the lattice work of gleaming metal coccooning her on her mount. "Should do the trick."

Sweat was dripping from Boribur's nose. "Yes, well. If it doesn't, won't matter. Those darts look like an instant kill. Ready?"

She nodded, and with a final cautious glance up at the dark sky of the hallway, their force emerged, thok thok thokking into the open.

Both Larissa and Boribur craned their necks back, staring up into the gloom. There--movement--and then thok, a second dart plunked down right next to Boribur's tarantula.

"They're not very good at--" began Larissa, and then let out a cry of pain. The cocoon over her tarantula had suddenly spouted a dart, its point sinking through a gap to embed itself right into her arm. "Oh fuck!" she screamed, and slowly edged herself down and pulled herself off it. "I thought you made these things to keep the darts off of us, you bleeding idiot!" She clasped her hand to her wound, which was pulsing blood. 

"You okay? Larissa?" Boribur urged his tarantula forward.

"No, I'm not okay. I just got stabbed by a huge dart right through the arm. God damn that hurts." She closed her eyes, squirmed and bounced her knees up and down for a moment, and then opened her eyes with a gasp. "All right. I'm fine. I'm fine. Let's just hurry up. I'm feeling faint already."

"Okay, let's go," said Boribur as a fourth dart clanged on the caccoon above his head and went bouncing and spinning off into the darkness. "Let's go find that asshole!"

The nine scissormen and the two tarantulas surged toward the stairs, which they began to ascend in their methodical way. Up and across, up and across, Boribur and Larissa heaving and swaying with each step. The stairs seemed to extend forever into the darkness above them, each three times as tall as they were, and soon Boribur was feeling nauseaus again, clinging to the cold metal about him for dear life.

***

They gained the first floor. A pause, the scissormen bunching together, both Boribur and Larissa peering around for more trouble, and then they espied water flooding out from under one of the doors to their left. 

"That doesn't look good," said Boribur.

The water began to flow together, forming a thick puddle, then a translucent mound, and then it lifted itself up and became a fluid pseudopod.

"Fuck me," said Boribur, and sent his scissor men forward to attack it. They jerked forwards, limbs scything, and when they met the watery tentacle began to lash at its corpus. Their attacks caused droplets to fly, but failed to stop it. "It's heading for you," cried Boribur, sensing the tentacle's direction. "Move!"

Larissa's tarantula began to stalk rapidly away, but the water was faster. Even though it grew attenuated as it extended out towards her, it was able to close the distance in a flash. "Larissa!" cried Boribur, but it was too late. The watery tip sloshed through the metallic cacoon, and suspended her within it. She began to flail and attempt to swim out, but it simply followed her movements. The tarantula began to circle and stop, her attention faltering, and Boribur concentrated on directing all the scissormen at attacking the pseudopod at its base.

Futility. Within a minute Larissa stopped. Hung suspended in the watery globule, hair floating about her face like weeds. The scissormen continued to hack, and then almost all of them collapsed, falling apart like so much detritus. Larissa was dead. A sudden, fierce and unexpected anguish seized him, and then he bottled it up and focused on his failing mount.

With a gasp, Boribur directed all of his energies at maintaining his tarantula together. The pseudopod began to retract, leaving Larissa to lie sodden in the metallic folds of the collapsed construct. Boribur leaned forwards, scowling, and his spider fled. Fled across the landing, towards the stairs that would lead up. Up to the attic. Up to Moki.

Thok thok thok, went his tarantula, and for a moment, looking over his shoulder, he thought he was going to suffer the same fate as Larissa. But no. He had enough of a headstart, and panic leant his spider wings. Up they surged, and the glistening rope of water was left behind to pat and prod at the steps blindly. Swaying and jostling they ascended, and they he was at the attic door.

The tarantula extended a leg, and pushed the door open slowly. No explosions, attacks, ambushes. Just darkness, dust cloaked and deep. 

"Moki?" called Boribur, feeling the fool, the child, the amateur. "Are you in there? You killed Larissa. Just you and me now."

Fear was falling from him, leaving him tired. With Larissa gone, he realized that a need to impress had also left him. Just him and Moki now, and he remembered their first days studying under the ArchMagus together, before they had become rivals, before this had all become such a serious endeavour. Just two kids revelling in their newfound abilities.

Boribur urged his tarantula forward. It entered the attic, and he was glad to see that it wasn't quite as dark as he'd feared. Cases and boxes reared up like boxes on both sides, but the center was clear. Moki stood in the middle of the floor, out in the open, hands behind his back.

"Hello, Boribur," he called out. "Ready?"

"What are you going to do?" asked Boribur, suddenly  nervous again, his indifference evaporating. Where were Moki's men? What was he going to attack with?

"Oh Bori," said Moki, shaking his head. "You never could think outside the box, could you? Always connecting the dots, and never trying to loop them. I'm going to take control of your tarantula and kill you with it."

And like that the battle was joined. Boribur felt Moki's will envelope him, and he threw up a wall, a thick, impenetrable wall with which to defend his creation, all the while urging it forward. If he could reach Moki and impale him before he lost control of his mount, he would win. Simple.

But Moki was powerful, and hadn't expended his energies in creating a legion of constucts. His will was tenacious, unpredictable, and came at Boribur's defenses in sharp bursts like arrow strikes. Boribur was halfway there when a chink opened up in his defense, and Moki was in.

The tarantula stopped. Quivered. And then it raised one of its legs, reversed its angle, and plunged it up and into Boribur's chest. 

Boribur looked down at where the broad, oily blade stuck into him. Blood was welling up, thick and dark, pouring out along its gleaming haft, running down his front. 

"I'm sorry, Boribur. But as the ArchMagus said, only one of us gets out of this alive." Moki was walking up to where he sat, still controlling the tarantula. Boribur wanted to sag, to keel over, but the blade held him upright. His sight was growing dark. Spots were flooding his vision, and his breath was coming in hitches. Suprisingly, there was very little pain. Just a spreading numbness.

"No hard feelings, eh? You would have done the same. If you had been capable." Moki looked up at him, and the tarantula slowly lowered itself until its belly was flat against the floor. It withdrew the blade with a sucking sound, and Boribur toppled forwards. Moki caught him, and then lay him on the floor.

"Easy now. Don't fight it. It will be over soon."

Boribur hitched his breath. He wasn't mad. Moki had always been better. He'd known he was dead. Had had no hope till Larissa had joined him. That had been good. Larissa being on his side. Against Moki. Larissa. He blinked his eyes, couldn't open them. He saw Larissa then, waiting for him, standing impatiently with her arms crossed. I'm coming, he thought. I'm almost there. Wait for me. But then she turned and walked away into the darkness and disappeared. 

Ms. Haversham Malloy saves the Ragin' Maccac

The story begins in a penny arcade, when a personal secretary and a starving but enthusiastic student meet because of marriage vows. It is a sports story. The protagonist is not motivated because no one saved them, so they have sworn to save others.

The penny arcade was on fire. Flames, flames of hot hot heat were licking and surging and crackling and purring as they burned the shithole down. Mrs. Pacman was a coruscation of blue and green fire, Double Dragon’s screen had exploded outward in a hail of shattered shuriken stars, and zombies too dumb to die kept on clawing at the screen of Shoot ‘Em Up House of the Dead IV as the plastic blue and red shotguns melted and twisted away.

At the back, where the smoke wasn’t as thick, the toxic fumes less pungent, Ms. Haversham Malloy was wielding a crowbar and trying to save her fiancé. He was a bare knuckle cage fighter, and was trapped in the illegal fightpit that Mr. Bobbalom McGee had setup in order to finance his daughter’s college education. Ragin’ Maccac was trapped in the pit, the trapdoor locked, and hot hot tears were coursing down Ms. Haversham Malloy’s face as she sought to bust open the lock.

“Get out of here, Havvy,” bellowed Ragin’ Maccac, pacing below her in the cool dampness of the pit. “I’ll be fine. Get the firemen to dig me out. And if I die, if it’s my fate to perish, then bury me next to my own sweet ma and weep a tear for me then. But save yourself!”

“Oh shut up,” grunted Havvy, putting her back into ripping the lock. “Shut your trap because you ain’t helping me none.”

“You’ve got a fine life ahead of you,” said Ragin’ Maccac, “A life of tranquil beauties and sweet sweet sorrows. Go back to your CEO, your pens and your Dictaphones, your appointment books and quiet joys.”

Havvy let out a rip of a grunt, and then began to cough into the crook of her elbow. The smoke was thick and fierce, and it was starting to feel like she’d shoved her head into a Christmas sweater and then set it on fire. “What the hell are you down there anyways, Maccac?”

“I was all primed to fight the man who defeated my Master,” he called up, his pug face creased with worry, “The man who stole his owner.”

“Are you serious?” she asked, and began to listlessly thwack at the lock with crowbar as if it were a baseball bat. “Really?”

“Yeah, McGee set it up. If I won, I would win back my Master’s owner, three hundred dollars and two all you can eat coupons at Red Lobster.”

“Look, I could have taken you to Red Lobster myself if that was what you wanted.”

“No,” said Ragin’ Maccac, aping her voice, “That’s not 'what I wanted'. I mean, this revenge thing is pretty much the whole reason I came to Saratoga. It means a lot to me.”

“So where’s the man who defeated your Master? How come he isn’t down there with you?” Havvy took off her glasses and wiped her streaming eyes. The front of the penny arcade collapsed with an awful whoomph.

Ragin’ Maccac looked down sheepishly. “He’s the one who set the fire.”

“Ah,” said Havvy, and then began to whoop and cough again. The ceiling was now obscured by thick smoke, everything lit up in hellish hues and tincts of crimson and clover.

“Leave me!” cried Ragin’ Maccac, leaping up and down in helpless fury.

“I won’t,” said Havvy, falling onto all fours. “Nobody else has ever been there for you. I swore I wouldn’t dessert you. And I shan’t.”

“Look, get the gun from behind McGee’s counter. Shoot the lock off!”

Havvy nodded, and crawled away from the pit and towards the counter, bumping her head into it before pausing, reconnoitering and circling around. The shot gun gleamed and glittered evilly where it hung suspended on tenterhooks beneath the counter, a Decepticon sticker adhered to its stock.

Crawling back, Havvy sat on her ample ass and primed the gun. “Here we go,” she yelled, and pulled the trigger. The recoil knocked her flat on her back, and a spray of sparks were engulfed by the roiling flames that were by now licking their way towards the pit. But the lock blew off, and Ragin’ Maccac was up and out in a moment.

“Come on, sweet Havvy, let’s go.” He swung her up onto his shoulder as if she were a sack of the sweetest potatoes, and turned to search out an exit. There was none. Only raging curtains of smoke and flame. Somewhere zombies were still groaning.

“There’s no way out!” he cried.

“I think the back door was that way,” said Havvy, pointing blearily.

“Ok, here we go.” Ragin’ Maccac lowered his head and then whispered, “I love you, Haversham Malloy.”

“And I love you, Ragin’ Maccac.”

“Let’s do this like Brutus,” he said, and with a cry of rage ran forwards into the flames.