is not bad. After fixing up my own piece it is abundantly clear to me that it was development that lacked. It is a frame—literary concept art—a guide. Condemning it as the author for being a frame is like a foreman looking at a concrete foundation and saying that it is not a good house on the grounds that it lets the draft in.
Perspective, both from the characters and the reader, is key. Consider this: What do the characters see and how do they react, what does the reader see and what might he think. What does that scene do in effect.
As I relearned when adjusting this writing, you should not bother rewriting. Instead write it again. It is faster, less tedious—goodness, is it less tedious!—and allows you to reconsider the phrasing to flow better or be differently weighted.
Here is my work. It got quite exciting to finish it in time for my self-appointed deadline as there was a lot more that needed fixing than I had thought.
A bespectacled man in a suit sat in a bar drawing noticeable attention. It wasn’t the suit, the suit was wholly unremarkable, it was that he was wearing a suit at all; the Tasteful Club was not a dress shirt-and-tie kind of place, or a place for any clothes at all.
“Why are you wearing a suit?” said the woman sitting down across the table from him. Her name was Kelly and her mixed-blond hair smelled of lavender.
“I was told to wear my birthday suit,” said the man, in a quiet and dry voice that somehow managed to sound over the electronic dance music. “This is my birthday suit. It is the suit that I wear when I celebrate my birthday, to be precise, not a suit I received on my birthday. Though I did.”
“Oh, today is your birthday? Congratulations.”
“No, it is not my birthday. But, as I said, I was told to wear it. On that matter, where are the suits of the patrons? Perhaps at the dry-cleaners, on account of all the dancing and subsequent spilling of drinks.”
“And the bodily fluids,” said Kelly with an aside wave to the many intermingling cliques.
The man nodded. “Yes. If you would not mind telling me, why is it called the Tasteful Club? Neither the food nor the furniture are tasteful.”
“What? Have you been trying to eat it?”
“Good heavens no. I would not trust the chef to know a mollusk is.”
“No, I meant . . . oh, never mind.” Kelly shook her head. The man stopped talking too, leaving only the music and muddled background chitchat and giggling.
Kelly watched the man sit perfectly still, entranced how the flashing lights of the dance floor cast shadows on his statue-like form. She came out of her lull when the man checked his watch and muttered something about a bill, though he had not ordered anything that she could see. Kelly suddenly felt rude for staring and averted her eyes. She did not watch the other sights for long before considering that it was not really more rude stare at a man looking at a table than . . . what is that, seven? Eight? Eight people making out over there.
“What’s your name?” asked Kelly, turning back, having found her inner inquires fruitless. “Mine’s Kelly.”
“Pleased to meet you, Kelly, I am Mr. Stephen Miller.”
A waiter arrived, his uniform painted on, and placed down Kelly’s drink. “Here you are, valued customer. Could I interest either of you in a complimentary wafer?” he said, enticingly indicating the small set of boxes hanging from his front. “We’ve got many kinds . . .”
Mr. Miller refused. Kelly took a lime-green wafer with purple waves and thanked the waiter. The waiter turned around, blew a kiss with one hand and smacked his rear-end with the other, and walked back to the bar.
Kelly gazed into her fizzing, orange tequila as if amazed that it began swirling when she stirred it with a straw. “What are you doing here, Steve? Looking for some Friday night fun?”
Mr. Miller ignored her.
Kelly looked up. “Eh, man in the suit, hello?”
“Hello, again.”
“Why didn’t you reply the first time?”
“I did. You asked me about my suit and I answered said question.”
“No, ugh, why are you being difficult? Don’t answer that. I asked why you’re here.”
“Pardon me, but I do believe you addressed that to a man or a woman or a child (though unlikely in our current environment) named Steve. Perhaps an animal of some kind, maybe an automated response system. They may have those here, I do not know.”
“No,” said Kelly, stretching the word with mild disdain, “I was talking to you.”
“Then you must have misheard me when I said my name is Stephen. Mr. Stephen Miller. That is, first name Stephen, last name Miller. Spelled S-T-E-P—”
“Thanks,” said Kelly sarcastically. “I get it.”
“Good. I am glad we cleared that.” Mr. Miller went back to looking at an exact spot on the table.
“I was joking, you know,” muttered Kelly, then stuck out her tongue, placed the wafer on it, and swallowed it down with her drink. It tasted like apple and marzipan.
“Excuse me, what did you say? Speak louder, please, I cannot hear you over the ‘Elected Officials.’ ”
Kelly choked on her drink. "What?"
“The ‘Elected Officials.’ ”
“What elected officials?”
“The ‘Elected Officials’ that is playing right now.”
Kelly frowned deeply, trying to think what she was missing. Mr. Miller stuck out and then half-contracted the index and middle fingers on his left hand when he said “Elected Officials.” An out-of-place, remote man in a suit spouting cryptic phrases. Sounded like a spy movie. It was hard for Kelly to figure out esoteric comments with the dance music pounding into her skull . . .
“Aw fuck—you mean the music?”
“Yes. Was it not clear? Was I excessively ‘hip’ and ‘with it?’ Is my ‘hella slang’ too current and ‘fresh’ to connect with the ‘dawgs’ and the ‘homegirls’ on an interpersonal level, ‘yo?’ ”
“Oh my god, stop it with the air-quotes. Stop. Just stop, you’re embarrassing me.”
“My apologies. I did not mean to make you feel alienated by outpacing you with modern youth vernacular.”
Kelly opened her mouth to argue, then thought better of it. Instead she looked back to her drink. She sneezed, began fidgeting awkwardly. After several moments she said, “So Steve . . . Stephen, what business do you have here? Just wondering, you know. Why you’re just sitting there . . . not doing anything . . . .”
“Good question. But first, if you do not mind, for the purpose of telling you in greater detail, I would like you to tell me what it is you do for work.”
“I’m a stripper,” said Kelly simply with a sweeping gesture down her sides.
Mr. Miller paused, and nodded. “As good a job as any, I suppose.”
“I’m joking. I study medicine at Ivy and I work part-time in my mother’s bookstore. Obvs.”
“Oh, good for you. That sounds nice, if a bit boring.”
Kelly frowned. He was calling her boring?
Mr. Miller did not seem to notice. “At your mother’s bookstore, I would guess, you keep an inventory of stock and who has rented which books. I would make a similar prediction about your school. You see, this administrative work applies to all institutions and organizations, even a level up and another level up and so on. I am an assessor. I evaluate property as freelance work for taxation, for business and personal use, and for insurance purposes. The insurance I offer is tied to a construction company, they get commission they might not have gotten otherwise, so it is profitable for them and allows us to offer cheaper rates or a free repair upon taking a deal lasting a certain amount of years. In this capacity I called the owner of this establishment a month ago, to notify him that I would come to inspect the building and his company as it had not been assessed since its construction thirty years ago and the local government suddenly got highly interested. So, from the administration of this venue, a certain Mr. Stallone responded—”
“Hold on, who?” Kelly, no longer inattentive, frowned again, this time trying recall who Stallone was. The name sounded familiar. She remembered the man behind it. “Ah shit,” she gasped. “You’re messing with Brutal Stallone. He is no good.”
“He did inform me of such, yes. He also advised me that, if I would ever come, I should, quote, ‘prepare my ass’.”
"Why are you here?" hissed Kelly, glancing around as if expecting shadowy figures to detach from the ceiling and stalk toward her.
“It should be obvious: because I prepared my ass. Let me tell you, it was not easy. I went to multiple pet stores a month ago and they did not sell asses there. Too big, apparently. So I drove out of the city and around the countryside for the entirety of that Sunday. I met a farmer called McDreary who sold me a top-quality ass for three thousand dollars. I named the ass Midas. On the following Monday, I called in all the sick days and vacation days I had accumulated over the years and spent this last month training, grooming, and otherwise preparing my ass Midas.”
"What?" said Kelly. She was slightly more confused than anxious.
“Yes, I do have to admit I do not know either why Mr. Stallone wanted a well-prepared ass for the assessment, but I never fail to impress the persons related to the assessed property.”
“And you just did it? You just bought and trained an ass? Without knowing why just to impress some guys?”
“Of course. I am a professional and no stranger to animal handling. In fact, I have a veritable zoo in the park of my apartment complex. A bit of a local attraction, if I do say so myself. The local children have taken to calling me the Sultan, on account of the sultana raisin pastries I bake and hand out there, I imagine.”
“Why?”
“For fund-raising and charity plus a whole lot of good fun.”
“N-no, I meant a zoo? How often do you buy animals because someone told—eheh, ‘told’ you to? How many did you get?”
“Oh, I get some a few times per year. People, sometimes, are very specific about the color and size of the animal, so I get one that fits the request. I have amassed nineteen, counting Midas, the first request involving a non-bird. I have ten cocks (which they also don’t sell in pet stores, might I add), three pairs of tits, and a couple boobies—birds are always requested in pairs, I have noticed. Must be those period dramas with the birds on the protagonist’s shoulders. Back in my day there was only one bird per man, and only one man.”
“Oh. Oh, so that’s people meant. Your, ah, ‘zoo’, when they said you were talking about, ah . . .”
“Cocks, tits, and boobies? (But not my ass. That is a surprise for now.) Yes, they are quite the point of interest. I do not know the correlation between nightclub-goers and animal lovers, but it seems there is a quite sizable overlap. Unsurprisingly, in light of these facts, my huge, prize-winning—of a large set of colorful country fair ribbons, all very nice—pure white cock was of particular interest to these people. Partly because the big ones are generally black-tailed. They were enamored with my white cock’s pluck—pun not intended—in his fighting of a hawk that tried to snatch one of his fellow animal friends. I explained how he is too plucky, however, and hard to handle. He just does not back down, ‘play hard’ the kids call it, a lesson a young lady learned quite directly. She limped for a while afterward, poor thing.” Mr. Miller took a handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed his eyes. “Utterly tragic.”
“That’s . . . a lot to take in at once. I mean, I did not expect someone in your line of work to have a petting zoo or whatever.”
Mr. Miller replaced his handkerchief. “In my line of work? Ah, of course. Sorry, I went off the topic. I must be terribly boring you. Back to my job as an assessor. I have with me here in my briefcase a clipboard. On this clipboard, let me get it to show you—”
“No, no,” said Kelly hastily. “There is no need for that. That’s very uninterest— I mean . . . what you were talking about was very interesting. Tell me more about your prize-winning cock.”
“You want to hear more? I must say it warms my heart to see young people care so much about animals and the environment. It is inspiring, uplifting, even. Say, there would not happen to be a women’s agriculture club at your university, would there? Most of the people who spoke to me were young women, you see.”
“Ha, ah, no. No, there is no club.”
“I am sure you could find a few like-minded people at your university to start an agriculture club, if you are so inclined. But to move on to the actual matter of your interest: Yes, I, too, am fond of my white cock. He is the first animal I ever owned, you see. I never had a dog growing up. (But, I think you will agree, ‘a boy and his dog’ is overdone, while ‘a man and his cock’ is not. Ahem. See what I did there? I swapped the words around. That trick always gets a laugh from the youngsters and the elderly alike.) Until I had him, I never knew what people were going on about with animal companions. And it was all by accident. A funny memory. I bought a box of eggs and forgot them in my garage in the warm summer. One of them hatched a little, white chick. I called it Little Stephen, because it squinted a lot.” Mr. Miller tapped his round wire-framed glasses.
“Huh,” said Kelly. “Huh.”
“Those are the exciting bits. I could tell you about his formative years, his entry onto competition, his winning streak, his subsequent near-crippling gummiworm addiction, his recovery, and so forth, but that would not work well if you could not see him in action first.” Mr. Miller reached into his suit jacket, took out a small, beige card, and proffered it to Kelly. “Here, this is my business card. Call me or come visit if you would like to learn more about Little Stephen or any of the other animals. You could even bring your friends.”
“Yeah,” said Kelly slowly, taking the card. “Thanks I guess, dude.” She didn’t have anywhere to put to, so she subtly slipped it under her glass to use as a coaster.
Kelly frowned once more. The music’s bass had some strange three-step delay and was out of tune. She had been explicitly told there was going to be good music by the friend who recommended the Tasteful Club—the same friend who ditched out on her. Kelly frowned a little deeper. She resolved to be more skeptical of club recommendations in the future.
It took Kelly another moment to separate the music from the leaden footfalls behind her, and when she did it was too late. Bill “Brutal” Stallone stepped past her with two of his gangsters in studded black leather; they had all the elegance of a troop of drunk gorillas. Kelly froze in place. Without looking she could tell that the revelry had halted like a car into a brick wall.
Brutal Stallone slammed his hands on the table and addressed Mr. Miller in a thick accent. “Motherfucker, did you not hear me when I told you not to come? Or do you have a death wish? Because I can grant that for you.”
The gangsters cracked their knuckles. Mr. Miller looked up from his spot on the table his eyes had returned to and said, “My name is Mr. Stephen Miller, Mr. Stallone, and I did hear you. ‘Prepare your ass’, correct? Well, here I am, and my ass is prepared.”
“Oh really, Mr. Motherfucker?” Brutal Stallone leaned in closer, a psychotic jitter at the corner of his mouth. “You really think so?”
Mr. Miller nodded and laced his fingers together. “Yes. In fact, I know so. Do you want to see it? I think you will be amazed.”
Brutal Stallone laughed, a mirthless barking of jagged shudders. “Oh, oh, amazed, huh, tough guy? You think you’re hard?”
“No, I do not think I am ‘hard,’ Mr. Stallone, but my huge, prize-winning pure white cock is and that might be more to your liking, based on what I have seen here today.”
The music died with the crashing of appliances and a yelp from the DJ, followed by a thud and muted cursing.
“Say that again,” growled Brutal Stallone, his budding sneer transformed into a grimace. “Fucking say that again.”
“Oh, I am sorry,” said Mr. Miller, and then raised his voice. “My huge, prize-winning pure white cock might be more to your liking, based on what I have seen here today, Mr. Stallone. I have brought it with me tonight, you will be ecstatic to hear.”
Brutal Stallone shook with barely contained rage. He pushed himself upright off the table. He turned, shoved Kelly out of her chair onto the floor, and sat down, a hand wrapped tightly around a fist. The gangsters stepped behind Mr. Miller and each put a hand on his shoulders. Over the course of several tense seconds Brutal Stallone collected his thoughts, then said cold as death, “You know what has to be done now, don’t you?”
The patrons, the usual fare interrupted anyway, gathered around in anticipation of the fight. It was rare that Brutal Stallone himself up beat up a smart ass.
Kelly on one elbow looked between the two men in horror. Mr. Miller nodded. Brutal Stallone opened his mouth to speak, but Mr. Miller whistled, a simple tune almost like that of birdsong.
The gang boss chuckled nastily, like a chainsaw starting up. “What’s that? Your mommy’s lullaby?”
Mr. Miller did not respond, but an echoing drone from near the exit did, followed by another, heavier drone and a scream. Then from amid the hushed crowd came a rhythmic tapping, growing louder and louder . . .
Brutal Stallone threw up a hand, as if grasping the air for answers. “What the fuck is this?”
Emerging with a swagger from the gawking crowd, which parted as cleanly as Mr. Miller’s hair, trotted a muscular ass with teeth like marble gravestones and immaculate golden-brown fur—the mighty Midas. On Midas’ back stood Little Stephen, its great red cockscomb raked the sky and shocked the crowd; it resembled an eagle more than a chicken. It beheld the people with a stern set of onyx-in-amber eyes, poised contemptuously as if they were indeed the eyes an eagle looking down on its prey. Its snow-white feathers flowed to scales of a steely, impenetrable gray. Its feet were wicked claws and its beak a cruel grin.
“I told you,” said Mr. Miller, pausing to face Brutal Stallone again, “that you would be amazed by my prepared ass and prize-winning cock.”
The gang boss did not move. His face was a mask of pure bewilderment. His gangsters pinched themselves to see if they were dreaming. The crowd could not believe their eyes, and some wished they wore their pants so they could film the sight and assure anyone they told later that it was real and not the result of indiscreet drug use. Kelly was morbidly transfixed, knowing that an ass and a cock would not stop a couple killers seasoned with high-power steroids. Then maybe Brutal Stallone would turn his wrath against anyone who talked to Mr. Miller. Anyone . . . like her. Kelly felt nauseous with fear.
“What . . . the fuck . . . is this?” breathed Brutal Stallone. “Danny, take care of the animals.”
Danny, his resolve returning under the encouraging cries from the patrons, walked over the animals. Clearly a showman, Danny circled around first with an exaggerated gait, throwing his shoulders forward and keeping his feet pointed toward Midas, timing his movements with the alternation of the colored lights. Shadows of Danny were cast in every direction, and his face flashed in and out of darkness; in the darkness, only his teeth and eyes were visible. Dark, yellow, dark, white, dark, blue, dark, violet, dark, red. He gestured with great flourishes to accompany his taunts: “Who you lookin’ at? Who you lookin’ at? Can’t be me, ’cause I’m way outta your league. What, you lookin’ at me, then I’ll keep my eyes on you. You want some? Oh I’ll give you some, and then I’ll have me for dinner chick’n with a side of ass!”
“Fight! Fight! Fight!” chanted the crowd over and over again. Danny strutted closer, flexing, and grunting emphatically so the people in the back to hear. Little Stephen hopped on Midas’ head. It beat its great wings, crowing louder as Danny neared.
He waved his hands. “Ooh, ooh, you can flap, how scary. I’m shakin’ in my boots, you dumb bird. Better stop squawkin’ so I can slug you in peace, ’cause you don’t want me angry when I slug you. I might kill you extra hard.”
Mr. Miller jumped in his seat—or tried—but he was held down by the other gangster. “No, do not do that! Do not go near Little Stephen! Step away, or you will regret it!”
Brutal Stallone shrugged off his fugue. He was back in business—the killing business, and the stocks were about to go up. “No, I’ll think you’ll regret it, motherfucker. Maybe you will see it my way once Danny is done beating your cock.”
The last syllable left his lips just as Danny aimed a punch at Little Stephen, right his fist would emerge from the dark to be lit up red. With a screech, Little Stephen jumped straight up over the fist, landed on Danny’s forearm, then bolted at the gangster, battering him with its wings. It slipped around Danny’s other, grasping hand and scurried to his back.
Midas sidestepped, lowered itself, creeping toward Mr. Miller’s table. It appeared as solid mass, barely worth registering while a fight raged in chaotic light.
“Hey!” shouted Danny, clothes rustling and creaking as he tried to reach backward. “Get off! Get off, damn it!”—Little Stephen went under his armpits and to his chest—“Tricksy fuck! Hey, Barry, give me a hand here—”
Little Stephen clawed up to Danny’s collarbone. He screamed and the scent of iron washed over the crowd. With a ripping sound like some vulgar band-aid being removed, Little Stephen tore Danny’s throat out. Little Stephen climbed onto his head while the man clutched his throat. It pecked his eyes out, rooting around as if it was digging through mud looking for worms. But mud did not bleed. The mob winced and gasped, but a large number whooped and laughed. One yelled, “Fuck you, Danny! Get wrecked!”
Midas roared forward from its low position and grabbed Barry by the jacket before he could refocus his vision from Danny to just beside him. Barry chose the worst time to let go of Mr. Miller, and without his grip he was flung to the ground. Midas was already rearing up before Barry landed. His head splattered like a rotten tomato on the face of an unfunny comedian; the crowd only got more expressive. It spun around and grabbed Mr. Miller by the collar, choking off his profuse apologies, and started to drag him off.
Brutal Stallone yanked a knife from his belt and leaped halfway across the table. “Die!” he cried and brought down the raised knife, sinking into a crouch, momentum building. Little Stephen dived from Danny’s head just as he collapsed, a white blur when it blindsided Brutal Stallone, setting itself off again a moment later. The blade was pushed aside so far it only scraped the arm of Mr. Miller’s glasses. Brutal Stallone flew into the chair instead, which splintered in a flurry of flailing limbs.
Brutal Stallone was back to his feet in time to block another dive by Little Stephen. “Guards!” he called, driven back by the assault. “Guards! Kill this goddamn chicken!” He swung his blade and missed entirely. Brutal Stallone seemingly was unprepared to knife-fight a cock.
Kelly stood up, wavered momentarily, made a split decision. She came up behind Brutal Stallone and kicked him in the groin with her heel. This created an opening for Little Stephen to swoop in and bury its beak in the man’s wrist. It tore out a chunk of tendon. The knife dropped to the ground but Brutal Stallone was not helpless. He thumped the cock with such force it was sent flapping wildly into the crowd, trailing feathers. The mob cheered, and began clapping their hands and stomping their feet. A few grabbed themselves feathers.
Midas dropped the struggling Mr. Miller and galloped over to avenge its comrade, coincidentally allowing Kelly to avoid retribution. Brutal Stallone threw a punch at the ass’ muzzle when it got close, as it had 100% success rate so far. Midas opened its mouth and caught the fist, crushed it, and tore a few fingers off. Brutal Stallone howled and stumbled backward into the table. He rolled in agony on its edge at first, then out of the way of Midas’ follow-up hoof-blow. The table shattered. The crowd screamed in such volume it was unclear what emotions were dominant.
Kelly ran next to Mr. Miller crawling in a daze on his hands and knees and pulled on his arm. “Come on, Stephen! We need to go!”
She helped him to his feet. He then shook dizzily the stars out of his eyes. He saw the two dead gangsters. “Holy Mary . . . are they OK?”
“No, of course they’re not!” Kelly had come to the Tasteful Club by taxi and she was not about to wait for another one. She hoped that Mr. Miller arrived by car.
He scowled. “Ah, it was too hopeful a thought. Oh Little Stephen, Midas . . . I swear they have never done this before. The crowd and the stroboscopes must have scared them.” He shook his head. “My God, my God, what a tragedy.”
“I don’t care!” said Kelly, tugging on his arm more urgently. “Let’s go! Now! Don’t argue!”
Gangsters burst in through the staff-only doors on the other side of the dance floor, brandishing pistols and submachine guns, mostly held sideways. They stood perplexed at the unusual fighting and the maimed state of their boss. A scarred man in a red tuxedo smacked a gangster across the head and told them all to open fire. The gangsters hesitated, some muttering about hitting the boss, a brainier one said shooting the customers was bad for business.
“What are you waiting for? I said FIRE!” rasped the man in red. “Fuck you, shoot anything and anyone strange-looking or I’ll shoot you! FIRE FUCKING FIRE!”
Shoot or die. Simple, just the way gangsters liked it. Some regulars in the crowd alleged that the man, Bloody Stavros, had a way with words; some waiters said he had a way with a gun, and then fled the scene before he got indiscriminately eloquent. They left easily as not many were trying to leave. Not yet.
The gangsters opened fire.
Brutal Stallone was too clouded by pain to react to the expanding situation until a stray bullet shattered his right shoulder. Midas brayed and retreated along the trail of snow-white feathers, using him as an obstacle in the line of fire. The first person in the crowd was shot, and enthusiasm started to wane.
“Stavros . . . !” gurgled Brutal Stallone, his usual cool finally gone. He turned to face his henchmen and held up his mangled hands. “Stop . . . ! Stop firing . . . !”
Bloody Stavros inhaled sharply through his teeth. “Ooo, sorry, pal, my mistake. I shot you by accident—now, my underlings, shoot the fuck on purpose! I’M THE NEW BOSS! Keep firing!” shouted Bloody Stavros, himself offhandedly shooting a gangster who had stopped shooting. “A big fucking bonus for the man who wastes Billy!”
The gunfire sharply focused from its arbitrary wide range to a human-shaped kill zone. Brutal Stallone did not even have time for a final curse before he was needled by a dozen leaden seamstresses. The swarm did not halt; each gangster hoped that getting the most bullets in meant he got the money. When Brutal Stallone was nothing but a vague outline in memory they still fired. They did not receive the order to stop. What’s more, they feared Bloody Stavros, his face painted now with his titular bloody grin, figuratively and literally from the blood of the gangster he shot. He took in the carnage of the first volley that struck the crowd directly, breathed in deeply with eyes closed, and began laughing.
The audience that had eagerly watched the gladiator match quickly dispersed upon real threat of injury. Kelly dragged Mr. Miller along despite his protests. Kelly forced them through the outer edge of the panicked mass. Once they were through the doorway into inner reception, they hide behind a statue, counter to Kelly’s wishes; Mr. Miller had fastened his arms around a marble protrusion.
“I will not go,” he said, his serious tone disturbed. “I must apologize. Two men are dead and the blood is on my hands. Figuratively, you understand,” he added automatically.
“No!” whispered Kelly. “You’ll get yourself killed!”
“It does not matter what happens to me. All that matters is atoning for what I have done. Now release your hold on me so that I may return.”
Kelly gritted her teeth, trying to devise a way to halt Mr. Miller’s suicidal charge—or saunter, whatever it was he had in mind. She spent the next minute resisting Mr. Miller’s soft attempts to remove her arms, gunfire opera only dimming in moments when a gangster presumably had to reload. Many people fled past. Some limping. But most were covered in blood. The laughter grew louder and harsher and more erratic, like the cough of a man on his deathbed unduly pleased with his lot. She had no arguments. No logical arguments, anyway.
“Stephen,” said Kelly, forcing herself to sound steady, “it’s fine. Shh, no, listen, listen. I’m a medical student, remember?” She talked slowly to gather the courage to tell her bold lies. “Those guys—they’re not dead. They injuries were superficial, just flesh wounds—a little blood, no big deal.” She attempted a dismissive wave. “I’m practically a doctor, I know what I’m talking about. Don’t you trust me? I’m Ivy educated, remember? Honest Kelly, that’s me.”
Mr. Miller blinked, breathing heavily. After a few moments he nodded, visibly calmed by Kelly’s words. “Of course I trust your professional judgment, Kelly—”
“Yes,” she said, quickly now, with a tone as if chasing her own shadow. “Don’t doubt. I’m a doctor.”
“—If a doctor tells me I do not understand her field of work—"
“I do tell you.”
“—and I must be mistaken then that must be true by virtue of my ignorance of medicine—"
“You are—you are, it is—it is.”
“—Yes, I yield to your authority in medicine, Kelly.” Mr. Miller nodded again and unhooked himself from the statue.
Kelly simultaneously was amazed by his easy acceptance and beset by guilt for her deception. Not that Kelly stopped to reflect on her life; the maniacal laughter still rang out, looming over the soundscape like the Black Death over medieval Europe. She took her arms off Mr. Miller at a glacial pace still, suspicious that he was only pretending to be persuaded, scanning his face. When she was satisfied she let go entirely and made to turn.
“Wait here,” said Kelly. “The club is . . . closing, and the bouncers are used to minor scrapes so don’t bother anyone by saying sorry to them. It’d be really inconvenient for them.”
“OK, I understand. It is like ink drops on forms. But why do I need to wait here if they are closing?”
“I need to get my clothes and stuff from the checkroom, so be a good gentleman and wait.”
“They have on-site dry-cleaners? How very smart,” said Mr. Miller, and cupped his chin. “Ingenious. Right, sorry. I will wait here, so you can go check out.”
Kelly hurriedly went into the abandoned checkroom. She rather not flee out into the streets naked—it was pretty cold out—nor leave behind her mobile device which had important things on it, things she did not want to lose to murderers. Kelly checked the register book for her belongings, found the appropriate pigeonhole, took the bin, placing it on the ground. She threw on her skinny jeans, T-shirt, mid-shin fur boots, and leather jacket; she left her bag, purse, and other articles like her watch and necklace in the bin and picked it up. She paused, considering the gangsters might search the checkroom, discover the only missing bin, check the register, and then figure out who she was. She replaced the bin with another and disorganized a few others. She left even faster than she came.
Kelly returned at the same time to Mr. Miller as a blood-stained cock with ruffled feathers and a sour look in its beady eyes and a similarly blood-stained ass holding a briefcase in its mouth by the handle. She interrupted the scolding the two animals Mr. Miller was trying to give them. “I’m ready, Stephen, and I have two questions,” she said breathlessly. “One, do you have a car? Two, give me a ride in your car. Quick, let’s go.”
“I do have a car, and of course.” He back turned to the animals. “You will hear of that later, misters. Now, follow me, we are going.” Mr. Miller jogged at behest of Kelly. Going into the lobby he snapped his fingers. “Oh, I forgot to introduce you. Midas, Little Stephen, this is Kelly. Kelly, this is Little Stephen, I have told you about him. And this is Midas. He got that name—”
“Yes, yes,” muttered Kelly, pushing him along, “I know why he got his name.” Golden-brown, Midas. Go figure.
“Really?” said Mr. Miller, taken aback. “How do you know that he was in the middle of the asses for sale and that I truncated middle ass into Midas? Are you McDreary’s niece?”
They stepped outside and their breath froze before them in the night air. The gunshots had stopped, as had the laughter. That undoubtedly meant the gangsters were on their way for in search of new targets for their guns. Kelly squinted into the gloom and replied distractedly, “I’ve always been a very bright girl. Which one of these is your car?”
“Clearly!” said Mr. Miller, and waved to a perfectly ordinary gray four-seater car. “This is my car. I call it the Assessor Motor! I got that name from my nephew. He is six years old. Good kid. Do you like children, Kelly? Do you have any younger siblings?”
Kelly looked over her shoulder. Through the glass walls she saw Bloody Stavros enter the lobby. He walked slowly, menacingly. He probably would run, were his shoes not slick with blood. From Kelly’s perspective, he was just one step ahead on the pool of blood spreading out from the dance floor. Where ever he stepped, slaughter followed. The infamous Red Right Hand, no longer the right-hand man now that the Hand choked off the head, but that made him all the more dangerous. He’d be looking to even out the score, be looking for the guy who tarnished the reputation of his newly acquired criminal organization by making his coup seem more cowardly and opportunistic than it might have looked. It flew through Kelly’s mind that perhaps she should have not gone with Mr. Miller. It was too late now.
“In!” she hissed. “Open the doors and let’s get in!” Kelly resolved to never again take anyone’s recommendation on clubs.
“Oh, of course. You must be freezing. Where do you want me to drive you?” Mr. Miller unlocked the driver-side door.
Kelly hopped in and scooted over to the other seat. “I’ll tell you on the road, for now just get in! Quickly, Stephen!”
Mr. Miller decided that all the haste served some purpose and so, as deftly as he could, let the animals in the back seats, got in himself, closed the door, and started the ignition. He rubbed his hands together. “You are right, Kelly, it is cold. Midas, would you close your door, please? No hurry, put on your seatbelt first. You too, Kelly, Little Stephen. Safety first.”
Kelly frowned. How was a cock going to put on a seatbelt? She put hers on and made a low profile, just in case they came under fire. Midas first maneuvered his seatbelt into place, then pulled the door closed with his teeth on the bite mark-covered handle. Mr Miller nodded to himself, and backed out of the parking space. He turned the car to the south entrance, leaving Kelly’s side to face the Tasteful Club’s doors. She swore Bloody Stavros was glaring at them—at her. She shrunk into her seat further.
The gangsters did nothing to prevent Mr. Miller from driving onto the street. They drove through the bright downtown awhile before Mr. Miller spoke. “Kelly, now that we are on the road—you did not specify which road, so I guessed—can you tell me where you want to go?”
Kelly couldn’t shake the idea that they were being followed, and that going home meant gangsters finding it. Somewhat ashamed with her choice, she lied, “My house is being renovated. Can I stay at your house?”
“What about your family? Would they not be concerned? Family is important, you know.”
Kelly saw no reason to stop lying; her shame and guilt about lying did not stack or compound. “They’re dead.”
“Oh, you are all alone? That is terrible, you poor thing. Because you are asking me, I take it is the same with your friends?”
“Uh . . . .” Kelly could not formulate a reason why an extroverted college student with an active social life would have no friends. “It’s like . . . you know . . .”
“Say no more!” Mr. Miller blinked away the tears in his eyes. “I am sorry for bringing up a painful subject. You do not need to talk if you do not want to.”
They stayed silent from then on. The bright city lights flashed across and into the car. Little Stephen cawed quietly to itself. Kelly looked and saw that it was wearing a tiny seatbelt on a homemade booster seat. Kelly shook her head, turned back, and sat up straight. She wondered if she was being paranoid, that maybe all her effort to elude the gangsters was wasted. She then thought of the innumerable, gruesome murders she had heard of secondhand. She bit her nails. Kelly peeked through her bangs at Mr. Miller, who was humming, almost in tune with Little Stephen. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to lay low over the weekend.
Kelly remained deep in thought, absentmindedly noting that they were driving down into a parking complex.
Mr. Miller abruptly stopped humming and gasped slightly. “Oh no. I just realized, if I had been there sooner, then they would have been insured for the damage that occurred tonight. No. Now they have to pay for the repairs out of pocket. Unacceptable.”
Kelly stared, having lost her course of thought, a morbid road she was glad to be off. She gave a subdued giggle. “Aren’t working hours over? Are you a workaholic or something?”
“Negative, I am quite relaxed, but I cannot rest easy while people have need of me.”
" ‘I cannot rest easy while people have need of me’? Yup, definitely a workaholic, and a wannabe superhero at that."
“No, I am just a civil servant serving as best I can.” Mr. Miller adjusted his glasses, changing his view, and from the new tone of his voice, Kelly thought, figuratively. “It is to be hoped that I can obtain permission to do a retrospective assessment another time and undone this misfortune. I have never thoroughly failed before and I do not intend to alter that particular record.”
Author
Topic: ___/The Writer's Apprenticeship\___ (Read 198233 times)