^ Illustration by Kendall Moore for “Cash Only,” Westwind 2022.

---

Night Movers (Chapters 1-3)

CHAPTER I

The InterVenus Bar

We sat in a cushioned booth under an open skylight made from a chimney chute, pumping our veins full of kresh, the drippy narcotics Spark Crews liked to use to free our minds when life felt like a skin tight mesh line. We watched the Women’s Sword League fight live on TV. Steel clashed in a sandy arena with beautifully colored obstacles. Sword fighting fillies played capture the flag, sweating like popsicles; jumping, rolling, stabbing breastplates, they immobilized each other for a power-play; so they could run and score in a luminous stadium washed in precious light rays, broadcasted live on the towering screens in front of us; while the whole bar cheered, spilling suds and food crumbs on wiry beards, knowing good luck snapped faster than a toothpick.

I.V. cables ran from a rippling mannequin’s pipestick, down, down, down into our sang port, sleek outlets for the needle to stab into, instead of our skin, serving juicy Kedaphine from a pack of kresh holding creamy white chemicals that flooded torrentially down the plastic tubes and caused our tickers to slow nice and cool, like you wanted to be when gambling, the Hollywood Sabers in this case vs the Dragoons of Culver City.

We took the Sabers to win straight up, underdogs, watching them intently, their bodies shimmering magically on screen, our babadookies bubbling something mean, volcanic in a tempest, taking leisure time at the only drip-drip saloon in our part of the city, that is, our Power Diversity Zone, that sold illegal packs of premium druggos like Kedaphine and Afro-D-Zac Plus, which made your extremities all tingly with goosebumps, and full of lust. 

Between the four of us, there was Moose—tall and built—Big Rat, the killer, Me (Wilt), and Jack, the fearless leader, hanging in our usual spot on the second floor lounge by the massive TV pillar, center bar, visible to everyone around, stretching from the ceiling to the ground. An ancient Corinthian column like you’d see at a university, but this one had a hundred TVs hanging from its alabaster surface, so covered with moving pictures you could barely see the stonework beneath its electronic fixtures. A relic of ancient times that held coliseums soaked in blood and mausoleums caked in mud. A great pillar that now flickered with jumping fillies, their bodies and brixies clashing, competing, entertaining the bleary eyed scroties melting on couches and chairs, transfixed, watching rectangular screens hanging from the bar’s priapic centerpiece; a red velvet staircase spiraled to the second-floor lounge, reserved for us, the high-rollers, and friends of Lady Porous, who stopped in for the best kresh in town, high above the riff-raff commoners betting on who wins the next round.

The Hyenas wore a real Silverscreen uniform back then, pristine, and proud. Tan overalls with black polka dots, like our spirit animal mascot, and sturdy wool ponchos over the top with our logo printed on the back: Horrorshow the Hyena: the cackling canine strapped to an electric chair, cartoonishly laughing with her hair sticking straight up, teeth bared. Jack’s poncho was tan to match his overalls. Moose liked black. And Big Rat wore skurvy red smut. I kept mine gray with yellow lightning bolts shooting from Horrorshow’s gut. For icing on the cake, our names were stitched over poncho breast and denim pocket in neat cursive lettering that made you feel imperial, like old King Tut, ethereal.  

I liked having the skylight overhead in the dingy hut so you could zonk out between games and enjoy a nice picturesque view of the city in all its twinkling glory. Dirty, smelly old cities like Los Angeles were best enjoyed at night when you couldn’t see the doo-doo stains, the cracked earth, scorched without rain, and the ugly little details that should otherwise be forgotten, and erased. 

“How do you feel, huh?” Jack’s voice cut the fog. 

“Parched,” i said, fluent in our Spark Crew’s invented dialogue.  

“Yeah, let’s get some Zazz before the next click-clash, Jack,” said Big Rat. 

“Kill that, i’m tryna get the Afro-D-Zac Plus,” said Moose, who wanted to have a tryst with the waitress. “That’ll feel just right.”

Big Rat shook his buzz-cut babadookie, left to right. 

“What? You don’t think a handsome, rich scrotie like me can snipe?” said Moose.

“Sure you’re able alright,” said Big Rat, stroking his pistol. “But she’s looking for a skosh more juice in the cable tonight.” 

Behind the upholstered couch, scribbled on a big chalkboard in white, was a zoomy list of concoctions to drip upon, and not just Kedaphine and Afro-D-Zac Plus, but a nice drowsy number called Zazzbodryl, which Big Rat liked best ‘cause it vegged you out real smooth as buttercream so you could barely lift a painted finger; but oh boy, you wanna know who the real winner was? 

XY Prime. 

That kresh was pure Ozone, let me tell you, and real Silverscreen fine, pumping you full of zesty hormones that made you feel immortal, all-powerful, with no second-guessing or turbulent ego, and that, my friends, is what we had on this particular evening at the InterVenus Bar, where the story begins in earnest. 

Jack ordered XY prime from Lady Porous, the bar’s owner,  the has-been brixy player. She sent the kresh over on a silver platter with Moose’s favorite waitress. Her soft feet pitter-pattered. Setting the tray down, she hooked us into the statue’s bladder, making sure the kresh flowed steady in our sang, smiling always, arching her back, bare legs straight, with lips that almost kissed the rippling mannequin’s pipestick, aware of every second we watched her, especially Moose, who tipped the dame. “I like her,” he said. His deep voice rang, watching her hips sway.

Jack checked his watch. “She likes your paper-headed presidentes,” he said, then checked the game. A clutch of nasty, scaly Lizards laughed in a booth across the room, whispering our names, pushing their greasy babadookies together, and saying sweet nothings to each other, like B.S. statements about being kings of the city, and how their Spark Crew was better than ours, blah blah, plotting our doom, blah blah, and lying to themselves that it’d happen soon. 

Sip, sip, sip on their boojie glass gobbles, pink and blond hair with tattooed faces—Black, White, and Brown Lizards—wastes of spaces, crowding the bar with their hideous laughter, and that impotent gecko of theirs, Spits, with his twiggy green arms folded, looking glum, stitched over leather jackets, their fashion being outdated, and dumb. Looney, their plum-faced leader, leaned over the booth to hiss something with feces breath. “Good evening, Jacko,” he winked in jest, mad because his enemy was so close, and yet so relaxed. “Looks like you backed the wrong team,” he pointed to the screen. 

The Dragoons were winning four to three.

“You know i hate taking your money.” 

“Lotta game left, Lizard,” said Jack. 

Four minutes to be exact. 

“You’re gonna owe me a lot of greenbacks, Jack.” 

“Not yet, Looney.” 

The TV boomed. Mariposa Lily, front guard of the Hollywood Sabers, stabbed a Culver City filly nice and prickly, taking the flag. Jack leaned back, watching the screen.

Mariposa spun to face her enemy; a flash of creamy tan skin with brown hair, silver-streaked, hung from her mesh-lined helmet. Bright eyes bare. Oh she was beautiful, my friends, floating over the court it seemed, making it look easy, that was the beauty of Mariposa Lily; she played like poetry, scoring. Red lights flashing as the scoreboard shifted, four to four, and the stadium shook with commotion as Mariposa got back in formation. Dust swirled around her, dancing in motion. Jack took a sip of ice water potion, crossing his work boots on the table. He put the Lizards in his rear view. Water was the most expensive thing on the menu. 

We watched the Sabers sprinting in unison towards the Culver City flag, waving defiantly behind a stable of Dragoon meatbags, their brixies held steady, and high. They snarled without mercy that night.

Whoever won the fight, won the game; naturally, Mariposa fought furiously, pushing the Dragoons back, advancing her team, hacking, slashing, stabbing, billowing steam. Looney’s Lizards were red-faced mad, yelling at the screen, and foaming at the mouth; they couldn’t believe Culver City was blowing such a lead. 

Mariposa punched a Dragoon, drawing thick skurvy, and immobilized her with a stab to the abdomen. She snatched the blue flag quickly. Jumping over sandpits, swinging on ropes, twice she dodged rocks thrown by adamant Culver City fans, who cursed and scoffed before security hauled them off the stands; and suddenly, a Dragoon broke free, chasing Mariposa Lily. The Sabers’ right guard, Ashley Jones, yelled, “behind you!” and the crowd screamed. A Dragoon reached for the flag. Inches. Inches away. Mariposa lept and everyone held their breath, mesmerized by her floating form flying past the breach and into the red zone. 

Errrr! went the buzzer. “Victory!” shouted the Sabers and spectators.  

Looney’s jaw hit the floor. He snarled in his booth, which made Moose and Big Rat laugh til they were sore, heckling the Lizards like, “well, would you look at the score! How much money was that?”

“Two thousand greenbacks.” 

“Quite right my good sir, Big Rat. Indeed.” Moose lifted his glass to the Lizards. “To your health and future gambling,” he said.

Looney slouched in his booth, defeated, thinking of ways to pay his debt, as Jack signaled for the check. The waitress brought it over, bending as she placed it on the table. “Thank you, gentlemen,” she grinned, especially to Moose, who smiled back and winked all Cool Hand Luke, dropping his business card in her apron. The way she blushed, it could’ve been a gold brick from a wealthy patron. 

The Lizards looked like they needed a Motrin, but Big Rat kept making faces, pouring salt in the wound.  

Jack said, “oh,” to the waitress, before she left, “would you drop the check over there, please, with the goons? Looney said he’d pick it up for us. He’s a friend of ours.” 

“You’re sure?” she said. 

“He’s good for it.” 

“Of course.” 

“And would you give him this too? It’s a love letter.” 

“It’s in the air tonight,” she said, looking at Moose. Then she straightened her back and walked over, relaying Jack’s message to the Lizards, who agreed to pay our debt, unfolding Jack’s napkin to see exactly how much he owed. Looney turned and bared his teeth, canines glistening gold; two razor-sharp points ripped meat from a chicken bone. He paid the bill with a villainous frown and got his checkbook out, scribbling some things down, numbers to be paid, the fifteen hundred that remained, signed it, and sent it back with the waitress babe.

“He looks happy as the grave,” said Jack. He rose from the couch, and we did the same. 

“What’s your name?” said Moose to the waitress. “Before we go.”

“Keira,” she said.

“I’m Moose.” 

And she smiled, “I know.” 

We moved through the second-floor lounge, past servers cleaning phallic receptacles, nice and slow, making sure they got every nook and cranny, watching us go; to Lady Porous, polishing I.V. cables. Jack put three hundred greenbacks on the bartop. “For the fillies,” he said, and Lady Porous split her wrinkly old lips into one of her famous toothless grins you never wanted to see again but couldn’t look away from, her big, dilated eyes winking, “Any time, gentlemen.” 

We followed Jack downstairs, behind his shoulders, to the first floor where the common toads were (hopping around the place), bellies big as boulders, grabbing females by the waist, before a slap painted their face. Pistolas in holsters, under ponchos, we moved through the dead grass savannah of fatsos squawking like geese; hitch-hiking on a midnight breeze. We stepped, paw-over-paw, out the saloon doors, and into the street, colored red from a neon sign hanging above the curbside that said: “Welcome, Bienvenidos, to the InterVenus Bar.”  

---

CHAPTER II 

Lizards in the Night

It’s never still in the city, not even at night. There’s always something moving, screaming, screeching, coughing; tar bubbling, car honking, gas belching over roadside skeezo camps burning trash into a snowfall of ash; it’s consistent at least, and they say that’s the key to happiness, consistency. 

A line of townies snaked from the InterVenus Bar onto the street where the four of us emerged, none of us thinking about Looney and the Lizards anymore, just new ways to avoid being poor.

On dark street nights we made our money without gripe, strolling down Hollywood, past Western, towards Garfield Place; to our ride, Horrorshow, squished in a 2-Hour parking space. But shortly after the drip-drip saloon, Big Rat made a case for a snack, so we jumped a 7-11 on the way back, marooned on a cement shore.

We cut the power box outside the store. Red wire. Green wire. Didn’t matter. Cut them both for good measure, just to make sure. Then we pushed through the door. The squirrely-eyed Clerk jumped like a Pop-Tart behind the countertop, nearly five feet off the floor, shaking in plastic spectacles thick as Coke bottles, breathing, “who’s there?” 

Big Rat answered by shooting his gun in the air. Cowering, the Clerk no longer questioned who caused the power outage, just our sanity, laughing in the dark, taking whatever we want, like candy, chips, and milk, but it’s not enough for Big Rat. He wants the Clerk’s life, slobbering behind iron sights. A hammer clicks back, held tight; and the Clerk cries, his heart pounding. I can hear it. Even with the XY Prime jumping down my spine. Easy and fun. Which must be how Superman feels, taking bullets from a gun. I bet the Clerk wished he was Lois or had an escape lane, as Big Rat cornered him, master of the mind game. Though it’s hardly sporting at this range. One shot. That’s all it takes.

“Please,” came the Clerk, sweating and shaking, looking down the barrel. “You can have the change.” Another second and Rat would’ve had his brains. Jack knew it too. He put a hand on Rat’s gun and lowered it down. Even in the dark, you could see him frown. 

Thump, thump, thump: the Clerk ran out the door, running before his feet hit the floor, adrenaline legs carrying him faster than he’d ever run before; true fight or flight is a real Silverscreen feeling, and the Clerk felt it alright, sprinting for the gaping jaws of starlight ready to swallow him whole.

Moose giggled. “I thought you had him for sure, Biggie Rat, trapped him like a mole.” Big Rat and Jack stood face to face, steaming. Jack slowly let go of the pistol. He towered over Big Rat like a flagpole. “Me too,” said Big Rat, remembering his subordinate role, as he walked to the slurpee machine to crank out a frozen cherry red brainfreeze from a nozzle dripping spittle.

Pushing his plastic straw down the middle, Big Rat had a suckle. “Yumm,” he said, smacking his lips. “There’s nothing like that first sip.” 

“Are we done yet?” said Jack, addressing the cackle.

I said, “i’m good.” 

Moose smiled, his pockets full of loot, and Big Rat burped. “Yeah, let’s shake a boot.” 

“Good news,” said Jack. “Let’s move.” 

I followed them out, tossing an empty bottle of moo-milk on the floor, anticipating tonight’s cash, and enjoying the rush i got from leaving a nice place trashed. Horrorshow sat by a thicket of sidewalk weeds, bulky, but zoomy fast, being a former ambulance we scooped from a repoed lease. We painted her white, with a red cross on the side so she looked like a real medical beast, ready to serve our nefarious deeds.

Jack and Big Rat were thick as thieves again as we started down Franklin, excited to sling electricity under stooping palm trees. We laughed at two skeezos shadowboxing over Cheetos. One fist connected with a nose ring, shattering cartilage, spilling skurvy on concrete, and we cheered for the Champion skeezo like he just won a three-peat. He held his ninety-nine cent spoils of victory. Then Big Rat chucked his slushie at the loser bleeding on the street, dousing him in sugary chemicals so he looked extra lousy. 

We sobered into reality pretty quickly after that. Classic Big Rat, taking things too far. I just wanted to pass the time between jobs, distracting myself from the jeebies i sometimes got driving down a dark street path like Gramercy, Wilton, or Taft. Jack had the wheel, me shotgun, with Moose and Big Rat in the back, rolling to our next job in a glimmering moonlit smog. Tires splattered oil slick trash, dodging potholes, and sometimes not, bouncing under red lights, and rolling through stop signs. We weren’t worried about the FedPo stopping us. Plebes don’t bother masterminds, and besides, we’re just the paramedics, hidden from the subjective eye, incognito. We also had more guns in Horrorshow than Fort Knox, but those were for the competition, not the cops.

RAD-ley’s Auto Body Shop was our first stop, a big Green Grass Society business Mr. Honcho gave us through a video call. We never met the dude, or really knew him at all, but we robbed the places he wanted us to, and he paid us good loot too, so there was really no reason to actually meet the dude. He wore thick glasses with a mustache and a slicked-back hairdo. That’s all we saw of him on Zoom.

On the edge of West Hollywood, the whole block radiated light, splashing the pavement in shimmering neon dew. Across the street, a Power Diversity neighborhood marveled at RAD-ley’s Ferraris and Lambos, while they struggled to power Fords; folks we might sell to, who put their pride down, holding tiny hands in worn-out nightgowns. They needed our juice to power their rides so they could get to the interview on time and maybe earn some respite from their everyday strife. I didn’t feel bad stealing to help those guys. No questions asked. I’d take a piece of Green Grass Society pie any day and stick it on the good people’s plate. 

We cut the headlights and backed in front of RAD-ley’s gate. “Let’s make this quick,” i heard Jack say. 

Climbing out, RAD-ley’s sign blazed above us, a monster truck with a gaping mouth spitting green lights on the ground.

Jack stayed with Horrorshow, pretending to inspect the tires, but really playing look-a-round. I followed Moose and Big Rat behind the shop with wire cutters. We came to a low fence that protected the power box and cut its lock. Then we got the Wattameter-5 out, this zoomy device shaped like a brick that could hook right into RAD-ley’s power supply unit. 

The Wattameter-5 had two wires: one for pulling and one for pushing. That’s how we siphoned electricity into football-sized containers. Stealing. Made easy. Moose watched the Wattameter’s gauge go from red (empty) to green (full). He gave a big thumbs up when they were ready to pull. Then Big Rat disconnected the cables and pushed each battery to me, scraping the cement with a hiss. Three, four, five, nine batteries went like this. I carried them to Horrorshow without a hitch. Then, like a bad jinx, my boot snagged a Wattameter wire, ripping the whole thing out, sending sparks of fire over the power box. And WHOOSH! Darkness. All in a blur. The air felt heavy, with a nasty burr, and a gust of wind from the Pacific shook the road, freezing Martians in space; their jetpacks slowly turning, tumbling in a Ferris Wheel motion, watching fireworks exploding: bursting watercolors without sound. Then Pop, Pop, Pop: all around; and RAD-ley’s security guard (no idea he had one) came out firing a pistol the size of a man’s arm, like he was Butch Cassidy and Sundance running out the barn. 

Someone screamed, first high, then low. I thought of Jack and went running with Moose and Big Rat to find the security guard shaking behind Horrorshow, looking down at a young father crying over his daughter on the ground, cradled in a skurvy pool. The security guard blubbered like a fool, crying he “didn’t mean to.” Jack appeared behind him and pistol-whipped his noggin, dropping the big tree like another victim of logging; then the father looked up, and the daughter was barely breathing, cough rasping, struggling over the FedPo sirens blaring. The dad looked frightened, speechless, and Jack gave him all the cash he had for the medical expenses. 

Big Rat nudged Jack, said everything was loaded, time to go, and led him, unblinking, to the back of Horrorshow. Jack caught his breath. “They were our first customers,” he said, shaking his babadookie to and fro. 

We bee-lined for the main road while the FedPo flew by, fooled again by Horrorshow’s disguise. Looking at the juice now, dancing happily in the back of our ride, you’d never know what it cost to obtain, the plastic canisters looked so clean, the nine we had anyway. Helicopters circled like ravenous vultures, over and over again, and i thought: “what a zoomy system we live in.” 

Coasting down the avenue after RAD-ley’s rodeo, Jack’s favorite song popped on the radio: an old Reggae R&B track. Vintage-Spunk, he called it. By Eddy Grant. Electric Avenue. Oh man it smacked, my friends, real Silverscreen funk, but after RAD-ley’s, Jack wasn’t in the mood, and he turned the volume way down, just to brood. So we didn’t take it higher. Not tonight. No karaoke fire. Everything went off the wire. I think it started when Big Rat almost ghosted the Clerk, making us all fear the Reaper.   

I knew we needed a zoomy stress-reliever before we caught a fever. I thought of how everything can be traced back, like a comet trail of events connecting happenings like staples do paper. One thing can’t happen if the other thing doesn’t, like money without labor; or, you don’t meet the filly if you don’t hit the party, you don’t hit the party if you don’t lose your job, you don’t lose your job if you don’t show up late, but you don’t meet the filly without staying up late, and so on, and so on it made my babadookie dizzy.

Moonlight soaked our cement pond. If we didn’t go to the Clerk’s store, Big Rat wouldn’t have threatened his life, and he wouldn’t have run out the back door, long before any metro could take him home, leaving him stranded in the night, wandering around the old Cinerama Dome; and he wouldn’t have stumbled on a dark drippy alleyway full of puddles and nasty old Lizards looking to score some easy greenback bundles because Jack gouged them gambling.

That’s where we saw the Clerk cowering, lips quivering, back pressed against the alley wall. “Don’t,” he mumbled, his frightened peepers darting between Looney and his Lizard creepers. They approached him, hissing, sharp teeth whistling, squeezing bats and crowbars, like Asterix the Gaul, itching to beatdown some pompous Roman general. 

The earth rumbled. The Clerk tripped and fumbled. Jack pumped the brakes when he saw Looney hunting in our territory, swarming the Clerk, as the Clerk whimpered helplessly, skinny as a toothbrush. Big Rat’s anger came in a rush. “What’re Lizards doing here?” he asked us. 

“Taking our customers,” said Moose. 

“Panochas,” said Big Rat. 

“Everyone calm down,” said Jack, parking Horrorshow. “Let’s find out.” 

It was the sortof pick-me-up we needed, a real Silverscreen bout, and we grabbed our weapons to dismount. 

Big Rat started laughing as we approached, giddy with anticipation. Jack rattled his nightclub. I felt its vibration and braced for contact. The Lizards laughed, performing their salacious act. Looney stood behind the Clerk now, the Clerk’s pants pulled down. Looney spanked his rump. With every Thwack! came the Clerk’s grunt, and Looney made a moaning sound.

Jack addressed the Lizard crowd. “I take no preference in love, Looney, but what’s wrong with the busted geckos of your territory? Are you so strapped for cash you need to shakedown our gutter rats?”

Looney stopped his sicko-sexual pounding and turned around. “Stay out of this, Jacko! You’re out-numbered, or can’t you count, you rancid, rabid hound?” 

Six green faces, heavy with eyeshadow, snarled in acne and braces, armed with blunt weapons, and crude maces.

“I count six scrawny catamites!” Jack yelled. “I’d say it’s an even fight, how about you, Hyenas?”

“Piece of cake.” 

“I’m good for two,” said Moose.

“Panochas,” said Big Rat. 

Looney stepped off the Clerk’s trousers and moved in front of his Spark Crew. “Are you sure you want this bloodshed, Jacko?” he said. “It’d be on your hands, not mine.” 

Jack tightened his grip and said, “I’m all yours, concubine.”

Looney released the Clerk, who ran: scrambling down the alley, desperate to be home in the Valley, safe in bed, clean air fresh on his tongue. For a moment, Jack’s eyes met his, like an exchanged thank you that was never said. Then Looney pulled his gun and shot the Clerk’s babadookie off, covering Jack’s face red. The Clerk fell into Horrorshow and splattered pulpy gore all over her. He landed in a slump. The Lizards laughed and jumped, hissing, “Red Rover, Red Rover, send Jacko on over.”  

Jack’s face turned sour. He told Looney, “you’re a goner,” and stepped closer. Looney squeezed his hangers and spat, “punish me, your honor.” Then, to his crooks, he said, “get the jackals,” and up went our dukes.

Jack swung his nightstick and caught a gold tooth, then smacked Looney’s knuckles, dislodging the pistol from his painted fingers. Looney came back with a right cross, splitting Jack’s lip, then we had a real Silverscreen battle on our mitts, pure Ozone, like gladiators in a pit. Moose was a tank. He wrestled two Lizards by the neck and drove his knee into another’s nose, while Big Rat kicked a fatso in the urine hose, and i beat someone who looked like a garden gnome.

Jack and Looney circled each other in the center ring. I couldn’t tell you who was winning. A Lizard yonkie got me good in the kidney, and i had to retreat back to Moose and Big Rat, two Lizards cold at their feet, but still alive, coughing, and trying to stand up, before Moose pushed them down again. 

Their comrades approached with spikey bats so we drew our pistols instead, kindof bored with the click-clash by now, pushing them against the wall, while Jack hit Looney—pow, pow, pow—thumping his babadookie on the ground, taking flesh by the pound. He only stopped when sirens echoed down the alley, shaking puddles of skurvy.

“FedPo,” said Big Rat.

“Not again.” Moose rolled his eyes. 

Looney crumpled beneath Jack.

“Kill him,” said Big Rat, vicariously living through Jack’s splendid fists and brushing a pistol against his lips. He offered the gun to Jack, who shook his babadookie and stood up. 

“Let them go,” he said. 

“Why?” said Big Rat. “They’ll be back in a day.”

“No. We’re not starting a war today.” 

Big Rat lowered his gun in dismay. The Lizards peeled off and hobbled away. 

“Come on,” said Jack. “It’s almost dawn. The FedPo won’t be long.” 

We ran to Horrorshow while the sirens got closer. Jack jumped in the driver seat and honked the horn. Moose took shotgun, wanting to be going, going, gone. The Clerk’s body consumed my vision, a pile of skin by Horrorshow’s engine. 

Big Rat stood with me, watching the skurvy pool around the Clerk’s final conclusion. The Clerk’s face was clean and pale like an apparition; his glasses shattered on the ground. I thought maybe Big Rat would loot the body but he didn’t, he just stood there motionless, imagining a world where he killed the Clerk instead of Looney. 

“I should’ve killed him,” he said. “It should’ve been me.” 

“What do you want, a second date?” called Jack. “Let’s go!”

Big Rat hung his nose and opened Horrorshow’s back hatch, settling down inside. I knelt by the Clerk’s side, his vacant eyes staring at the sky. I slid the watch off his wrist. I don’t know why. I wanted the Clerk to die for something other than randomness, I guess.

---

CHAPTER III 

Splish-Splash, Bubble Bath

As Horrorshow drifted down the street, her headlights bounced off the vacant buildings, dead tired, like us, who barely said a peep, fighting sleep til the Hyena machine was clean. I pictured the Clerk’s body in a heap of flesh, unrecognizable against the smiling ID card in his wallet mesh. Holding his watch, i waited for Big Rat to nod off in the backseat before stealing a glimpse at the brown leather timepiece. Red splotches smeared the glass, hiding tiny hands ticking underneath. I dragged a thumb over the surface, cleaning skurvy, and checked the time: 4:45. An hour before sunrise. We were way behind. 

Tonight was a bust.

I tucked the watch in my denim pocket and set my eyes out the window, looking at nothing in particular, just some dark apartments in the gloom, empty shops, and the abandoned cinemas on Santa Monica, where artists used to cruise. Two miles from the Clerk’s body, i saw a shabby paint-chipped cosmetic salon with a dusty billboard; its slogan: “Beauty IS Found.” Eyelashes covered the billboard, blue and black and gray. I recognized them from TV. Clear as day. They were her globos, the famous sword fighter, Mariposa Lily. She was modeling smokey eyeshadow for Maybelline. 

Jack pulled into a nearby car wash with a self-service and turned the engine off; a quiet lull followed us like a guilty silence. Blue lights flickered, very dim, above the ambulance, and we caught our breath under the billboard’s lower brim. Moose clipped his fingernails in the frontseat. They fell in a coffee tin. Jack looked at him, then at Big Rat snoozin’, and finally at me. “Wake him,” he said. 

I kicked Big Rat’s shoe. “I’m up. I’m up,” he said. “I’m awake. Everything’s gravy, Spark Crew.” 

“Okay, listen,” said Jack. “We’re gonna clean Horrorshow and we’re gonna do it quickly. I wanna see Big Rat’s ugly mug in the reflection when we’re done. Tomorrow’s Honcho’s party, so we’re gonna get blitzed and forget this caca ever happened. Got it?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Light bulbs dangled from a plastic thread. Three helicopters flashed overhead. Their straight razor wings vibrated my skull. I jumped out of Horrorshow and landed in the stall. Gray walls held a kiosk meter where we bought five minutes of soap and water. Leaving our ponchos behind, we got to sanitizing and sterilizing the exterior. 

I bet God, the Superior, that somebody found the Clerk’s body already. A little lake formed on the ground as Jack used the soap hose, and we followed him around like bees to a rose, scrubbing Sapien gristle with sponge and bristle. “Come on,” said Moose. “Put your back into it.” He started to whistle. “Scrubba dub dub, four kids in a tub. Scrubba dub dub, more bubbles and blood.” Big Rat harmonized with the chorus. Moose conducted with a sponge. I got caught in the crossfire, playing lyricist, and throwing suds for emphasis, singing, “splish, splash, i was taking a bath, stinking like some dirty Lizard trash.” 

Jack took the water gun off the rack and sprayed us down, joining the fun. “Hissing and spitting, we sent their babadookies spinning, turning bones to ash.” We scampered for shelter behind Horrorshow, waiting for Jack to come chasing, then ran to the other side, prairie dogging our babadookies out—one, two, three—thinking Jack comes right, but he flanked left, which we didn’t expect, and he dropped water down our necks. Moose threw his hands way up over his chest. “I give up. I give up, your highness! Don’t shoot your friend!” 

“Coward,” cried Big Rat, then he got soaked through.

Jack lowered his weapon. “Now let’s inspect your work, gentlemen, my dear Spark Crew, and maybe the hose will be forgiving on you.” He surveyed the damage with exaggerated carefulness, checking for any remnants of bone fragments. None of us noticed the squad car creeping behind us on the pavement til we heard the siren buzz. A kevlar cop popped out: some tough young filly with a gun, swinging a billy. “Nice night for a bubble-bath,” she said, which was kindof silly. Moving around Horrorshow, she caressed her stick over the paint, keeping her voice low. “I got a noise complaint,” she said. “Whose vehicle is this?” 

“Mine,” said Jack. “It’s an ambulance. We’re paramedics, miss.” 

She studied us: overalls, young faces, easy smiles. “You don’t look like the paramedics,” she said. “And this doesn’t look like an ambulance at all.” She pointed to the cartoon laughing on the driver’s side. 

Jack approached her like a landmine or a hand grenade. Another helicopter flew by, its spotlight bouncing off the nearby window pane. “We’re just blowing off some steam,” said Jack. “We’re a privately owned and operated medical team.” He handed her some ID. Our butts moved side to side, trying to soak up any remaining gore the FedPo might find.

“By who?” she said. 

“Clint Honcho.” 

She raised an eyebrow. “You don’t mind if i look around, do you?” Rhetorical. 

Jack nodded. 

The radio on her chest barked something clerical. 

Her eyes scanned Horrorshow. “10-4,” she responded. “Over.” Her footsteps fell heavy, moving to the front, then to the driver’s side, where we stood smiling, hiding the Clerk’s interior goods. 

Under my hood, i’m like: what if she sees? What if the stains don’t fade? What if she sees? Kill her? She’s a cop. Don’t worry, she’ll get a parade. But killing cops is bad, lotta heat. Hard to get away. 

Kill her. But she’s so young. What choice do we have? Kill her. Dump her in the back, ride fast, then stick her body in the trash. Maybe the tar pits on La Brea. Bubbly-guck will suck her up like all the wooly mammoths before her. No sweat. Kill her. 

“Excuse me,” she said. “Can i finish my inspection? You’ve done such a good job so far.” 

Kill her. Kill her. Kill her. 

“Of course,” we say.

Stepping out of the way, we held our breath, and turned to face the music. Wearing false bravados, we buried our guilt deep within the hollows of our babadookies like crooks do in crime movies. 

The FedPo turned, adjusting her belt authoritatively. “Clean as a whistle,” she said. “Fine work you’ve done here, gentlemen.” 

I glanced behind me to see that everything looked normal about the vehicle.

“Thank you, officer.” 

“Glad you boys are safe. There’s been some violence in the area.” 

“Violence? What violence?” 

“Street fighting. Two miles east. Hear about it?”  

“No. We’re coming from West Hollywood. We serve the Green Grass Society.” 

“I see,” she said, passing Big Rat leaning on the gas pump. He turned to inspect her rump, which was really fine for a FedPo grump, and she turned to inspect his chest, which had a splatter of red on it, like skurvy lumps. 

“What’s this?” she said, trying to provoke a confession. 

Big Rat lowered his chin, as we followed her finger’s direction.

Kill her. Kill her. Kill her was the only solution.

I unlatched the safety on my pistol and prayed for absolution. 

Big Rat smiled with brazen collusion and held his tongue out, colored crimson. “You caught me, officer,” he said. “I’m a sucker for slushies, cherry red flavor.”

The cop inspected his tongue with fervor. Her cheeks blushed. Then she stiffened and puffed, “you shouldn’t drink that stuff, you know; it’s all chemicals; you’ll rot your brain.” 

“We’re all dyin’ anyway,” said Big Rat.

“Uh-huh,” she said. “Be safe.” 

“We’ll keep an eye out,” said Jack, watching her leave. 

We climbed into Horrorshow after and settled down. Relief. I was ready to go home and sleep. Billboard Mariposa watched above the street, a perfect eyebrow raised above the city; thin rays of sunlight broke behind her. I thought of pillows and blankets. I thought of Maybelline.

SPARK NOTES: 

• We frequented a bar in oldtown Hollywood for I.V. drugs.
• On TV, sword-fighting fillies competed, and we got buzzed.
• We were the best Spark Crew in the city; the Hyenas. We stole electricity from the Green Grass Society and sold it to the low-income majority. 
• That was our business.
• But before we got any baubles for our fingers, Looney’s Lizards started a territory fight, and the innocent Clerk died. 
• We had to wash his babadookie off our ride.

End of SPARK NOTES.