Charlie Huston - The Shotgun Rule

Numbers arrange themselves for him and he writes them down.

Hector starts with his first finger again.

– Fine, no Culture and no Duran and Paul can’t be a gay fire elemental. The five gayest bands are Devo, Depeche Mode, Flock of Seagulls.

Paul hits his own forehead.

– Hugely gay. The Flock. How’d I miss those cocksuckers?

– Wham.

– Massively gay. Again, how’d I miss that?

– And Phil Collins.

George slaps the Monster Manual shut.

– Not a band.

Hector stands up.

– You know, I don’t even care. He’s so fucking gay and his music sucks so fucking hard he has to be on the fucking list.

Paul takes the Monster Manual and flips it back open, looking for the fire elemental again.

– I’m still so stunned by Fuck a Seagull and Wham, I don’t think he even needs Phil. You can D.Q. Phil and that is still the gayest list ever.

He nudges Andy with his toe.

– What say?

Andy writes a number for armor class and looks up.

– Mondo gay. Hector clearly knows his gay. His gayometer is in fine working shape. His recognition of gayness is noteworthy and admirable. All hail Hector, King of Gay.

By gayometer Paul and George have already fallen out laughing. They’re helpless long before King of Gay.

Hector holds his hands above his head.

– So be it, King of Gay. Still better than being Mellow Lad, like John Denver over here.

Andy laughs and writes something on a paper and holds it out.

– Here’s your character, Hector, King of Gay. He has a plus five to find gay.

One arm held out straight, Hector spins in place.

– Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Slowing, stopping, swinging back in the other direction, bringing his arm down toward Andy.

– Beepbeepbeep. Beeeeeeeeep!

Pointing right at him now.

– Cool, it works. Guys, I just found some gay.

It’s another half hour or so before they get started, spread around the room, Diary of a Madman in the tape player, the last of the bottle of Jack that Jeff bought for them making the rounds.

Andy doesn’t remember how they ended up playing the game with him. Somehow, one of the days they’d started by fucking with him about it had ended with them playing. George had probably had something to do with it. Leading Paul and Hector from messing with him into letting him show them something new. And now they play just about every week. Getting stoned while Andy takes them through a new dungeon or a haunted forest or whatever. Playing until they get bored and just start saying I hit it with my battle ax every time they run across something that breathes.

– I hit it with my battle ax.

– I use my flame sword.

– I find its gay.

Andy starts dropping the geodesic dice back in the little leather bag he keeps them in.

– When do we meet Jeff?

His head stuck out the window so he can smoke, George holds up a couple fingers.

– Two. He’ll drive us over to check out the house.

Paul crowds next to him at the window and takes the smoke from his hand.

– We should just hit it tonight.

– Let’s take a look first. Could be a dog or it could have an alarm or some shit. You know how to do anything with an alarm? Cuz I sure as shit don’t.

– But if it’s cool, we should rob it tonight.

– The guy wants to pay us to do this shit, man. Let’s be cool.

Hector squeezes next to them and takes the smoke.

– Yeah, let’s do it when he says. Two bills for that shit we had. I want more of that.

George gets his cigarette back, takes the last drag and flicks the butt, the cherry trailing over the neighbor’s fence.

– That’s the point, man. If he can do this, tell us what houses have good shit, and he’ll buy it from us? I don’t want to fuck it up. Jeff says the guy says it’ll be empty tomorrow night. We’ll just take a look tonight. Make sure it’s not too sketchy.

Behind them, Andy’s eyes scan the dungeon he designed earlier in the day, mentally crossing off the rooms the guys have already traversed, the hazards survived, the riches plundered. More monsters and fewer traps next time. The guys like fighting more than they like figuring things out.

Hector hears the screams from the side of the house.

He wraps the chain around his hand and punches the plate glass door. It shatters, shards raking his forearm. He reaches down and flips the lock and pulls his arm out. He yanks on the handle and the door jams against the length of 1×2 he’s forgotten about.

He throws rabbit punches at the glass, widening the hole.

The screams stop.

Someone is coming into the livingroom.

– Yo, Hector.

He stops punching the glass, stands there staring at Timo.

– Hector, I ever tell you what a piece of ass your little sister is?

Hector hits the glass again, spattering it with his own blood.

Timo is laughing.

– Keep coming, I want to talk to you about her. You pop her cherry yet? Or your old man beat you to it? Hope not, I’m looking forward to that shit. So far all she gives up is tit, but I’ll be in her pussy in a week.

Hector kicks the glass, the hole is almost big enough to get through now.

Timo points at something.

– Hey, yo, what’s that?

Hector sees the reflection in a hanging shard of glass just before Ramon limps up behind him and cracks him in the back of his head with his crutch.

The pickup starts.

Jeff rolls out of the trailer park and pulls up at the QuickStop gas pumps. The gas is eight cents cheaper in the middle of town, away from the freeway entrance, but the guys here know him and won’t give him shit when he leaves the engine running while the gas pumps. Let it die and it may never start again. He puts five bucks in the tank and heads out, a tallboy in a brown bag between his thighs.

A little breeze blows through the open windows and cools off the cab. Fucking Security Eye and their polyester uniforms. Couldn’t they at least throw down for something made with a blend, something that might breathe a little? He uses his left hand to undo the buttons all the way down his front, exposing his sweat stained T.

He swigs the beer.

Should be at home. Sitting on the porch, finishing the rebuild on that carburetor. Should be getting the Harley back together so he can ride and not have to worry about the pickup starting, not have to worry about if he’s gonna have to take the bus. Instead, gotta pick up the kids.

Damn it, Geezer. Fat slob doesn’t have enough guys around he can get to rob his houses for him, has to get these kids involved?

Oh well, not like he can really do anything about it. Gonna tell Geezer how to do his business? Gonna tell the kids to knock this shit off and tuck in their shirts and go to class? Geezer’s gonna do what he wants. The kids are gonna do what they want. Everybody’s gonna do what they want, just like they always do. Everybody’s gonna do this shit, no reason why he shouldn’t help out here and there and make a few bucks himself.

But shit, gotta be tonight? Really want to get the Harley on its feet.

He pulls the pickup to the curb, finishes the last of the beer and drops the bag and the can out the window and lights a smoke.

Little fuckers best not be late.

– Hey, littering makes the Indian cry. Don’t you watch TV? Ain’t you seen the Indian cry when people litter?

The pickup lurches as Andy and Hector climb into the bed.

George strolls up, bends over and picks up the beer can.

– Crying Indians, man, that’s no joke.

He holds out the can.