- Polite Fictions

For a transient moment, Slick believed he must be dead. The thought of embracing his eternal release snaked its way from his brain, warm and oddly welcoming. Please to join us? May we add another hatch mark on the body count tally? Slick thought, striking a flame that set fire anew to his neurons. The space was dark, but Slick still shuttered his eyes and allowed the thought of dying to drift down the length of his spine and course warmly through the fibers of his tired muscles before landing in his gut. Once there, he felt it spread out and latch on, like a lover clinging to hope no longer found in abandoned promises. Could he embrace it? Did he want to hold close the idea this all could end in death? What had Charlie gotten him into? Had he really just jammed a blade into another man's throat?

Maybe, the jury's still out, I have no idea, and fuck, yes, you did.

The walls surrounding him in this new destination seemed too close, and the ceiling too stunted. The only thing that seemed to be missing was a tiny sateen pillow to rest his weary head - hard earned, he'd hope they'd say - upon, maybe a little extra room at the bottom to stretch out his legs. Could he even still feel his legs? Slick crab walked his fingers down the length of his left thigh and was relieved to find his sense of touch intact. Sadly, the funk now emanating from the hollow of his shoulder wound, an unfortunate marriage of what he imagined infection and sin would be like, assured him his sense of smell also remained unsullied. A sigh escaped from between his dry lips and Slick allowed himself another moment to consider his query. It was a tight race, but the pros seemed capable of overtaking the cons if things got any uglier, and Slick had already taken in a fair dose of ugly today. When you've felt the loss of everything you held close to your heart, when your body looks like the muse of an eccentric artist who throws globbed orbs of clotted earth and burnt umber onto a virgin canvas and forsakes brushes because they like to dig in with their stained fingers, well, you've probably earned the right to call your finished masterpiece "Death Warmed Over," Slick thought.

He opened his eyes and waited as they slowly conformed to the changing set of rules darkness operates under, then languidly swept them over the confines of his new accommodations. The walls were indeed close, but not as confining as he'd originally assumed. Not exactly a bronze casket, he thought, but no one's going to accuse me of putting on the Ritz, either. He chuckled quietly and let his chin fall against his chest as he lowered his aching head. A hidden room. Perfect! "They're not just for spooky old mansions anymore!" he muttered, disappointed he had no second to play off. If he broke back through to the other side, he'd try that one on Euri. He imagined the hulking man erupting like a volcano in laughter. Assuming, of course, the beast even knew how. Assuming even more so that he was still alive in the great divide.

Slick could hear noises on the other side of the wall. A liturgy of numbers backed by the quiet song of glassware connecting with table tops wafted through the air like steam. The wall separating Slick from his cohorts and enemies (and he wasn't sure just how those numbers stacked up yet) was as thin as the layers in the buttermilk biscuits Charlie prided herself in achieving. Laughing Whore? Is that what she'd said? Wasn't that the name of the band they listened to over beers at that bar filled with faceless clones in Cincinnati? The night Charlie was the only one on the dance floor, her body swaying, arms skyward, like some angelic marionette? No, stupid, Slick thought, that was the Ethereal Vapors. Maybe it was the Rejected Injections? Whatever it was, they were horrible, but the variety of pink-hued drinks Charlie had enjoyed over the course of the evening helped her make things up to Slick for suggesting they stop in Cincinnati in the first place, and the memory of that was all it took to make Slick smile for the first time in hours.

"Tell me about the Laughing Whore," Charlie repeated, slower this time to give the bound man in front of her the benefit of the doubt. Roman ran his dry tongue across his cracked lips, a job that provided results about as hopeless as this day's events were looking to be, and hoped he'd stall the girl's question at least one more time. The third time she had to inquire, Charlie's patience had waned just enough to provoke her to punch Roman in the eye. The contact felt good, and she relished the welt that immediately began to rise on his pale face. It reminded her of the dough she nurtured for the cake donuts she loved to make in the quiet hours of the morning, uncovering mounds of yeasty dough that had grown like alien pods and punching them down. "I'm done talking. You've heard my question. The floor is now yours," Charlie said, punctuating her command by kicking Roman's uncomfortable throne over and then delighting in the crunch his bound hands made when the weight of his body and the chair landed on them.

"How do you even know about the Laughing Whore, Charlene?" Claudette whispered. The sound of her mother's hushed inquiry probably wasn't a good sign, but the sight of her coupling the quiet question by wiping the blood from the knife Slick had dipped in Aloysius' neck across her shawl and then waving it in her direction was definitely more so. Charlie sighed and waited for the next move.