Christopher Moore - Bite Me

The Emperor and the men shared a submarine sandwich on a bench by Pier Nine in the bright noonday sun as they watched a dark knife of a yacht glide into dock. She was just short of the length of a football field, all black, with stainless-steel trim-what the Emperor imagined a star-ship might look like if it were driven by sails. The sails on her three stainless-steel masts were mechanically furled into black carbon fiber shrouds, and the curved windows of her cockpit and cabin were blacked out. There were no crewmen on the deck.

In all his years on and around the sea, the Emperor had never seen anything like it.

Bummer flattened his ears and growled.

“Easy, little one, it’s only a sailing ship, and a beautiful one at that,” said the Emperor, although he thought it quite strange that there was no crew on deck to secure the mooring lines. A ship of that size, and more important, of that expense, would usually have half a dozen or more tying her up, but once parallel with the dock, attitude jets along the sides opened in the hull and gently pushed her into the dock. Jets on the far side pushed back so she stopped within six inches and hovered there, the jets firing just as needed to keep her from drifting. Three hundred feet of steel and carbon fiber, probably over twelve hundred tons, parked as easily and somewhat more smoothly than a Mini Cooper at a strip mall.

Bummer ran to the edge of the breakwater and let loose with machine-gun volley of yapping, which translated, “Bad boat, bad boat, bad boat, bad boat.”

A barking fit from his bug-eyed companion was nothing out of the ordinary, and normally the Emperor would have let it pass with a calming word, but there was still half a submarine sandwich to be eaten, and something had to be very much amiss for Bummer to leave the scene of a sandwich.

Now Lazarus sniffed the chill wind coming off the Bay and whimpered, and tossed his head, then looked back at the Emperor, which translated from dog to, “Smells undead, boss.”

The Emperor didn’t understand what his companions were saying to him, but he suspected. He just wasn’t ready to hear it. It had only been a few hours since the two police inspectors had dropped him off at the St. Francis Yacht Club, where the members allowed him and the men the use of the outer showers, and one of the members had purchased this lovely sandwich and presented it to them in thanks for their service to the City. Only an hour since he’d actually managed to straighten his neck out, after spending the better part of a night upside-down in a barrel. And only now, after a walk along the waterfront and a good meal, was the pain in his knees and shoulders starting to subside. He wasn’t ready to go back into battle.

“I am a selfish old man,” he said to the men. “A coward, worried for my own comfort, when my people are threatened. I am afraid.” But even as he said it, he was rising on his creaky knees, pushing himself up on the walking stick he’d retrieved only this morning from the Yacht Club, where he’d left it for safekeeping. The handle was carved out of ivory into the shape of a polar bear, and it fit the Emperor’s hand like it had been made for him, although it had been a gift from a nice young man named Asher, who owned the secondhand store in North Beach, but that’s another story. He wished there had been a blade in it, like the cane young Asher carried. Alas, he would have to face the black ship with only a stick, a sandwich, and his intrepid furry companions.

He puffed himself blowfish style and headed up the dock, Bummer and Lazarus following along behind him, ears lowered, trailing a two-part growling harmony. A few people had gathered along the fence at the breakwater, and were pointing to the great ship. It wasn’t so unusual that one might bring his day to a full halt, but if you were in the middle of a run or a brisk walk and needed a reason for a pause, the black ship would certainly fire the imagination long enough for you to catch your breath.

Once at the ship, the Emperor was unsure of what to do. There was really no reason beyond Bummer’s behavior to justify boarding her. And this ship was not of his city, therefore he could not claim dominion over it. He could hear the attitude jets firing just under the water, sporadically, to keep the ship in place. It was only a step, albeit a long step, and he’d be standing on the deck at her prow. Perhaps, having made the leap, a further course of action would occur to him. He backed up on the dock to take a run at it, or as much of a run as his advanced age and boiler-tank bulk would allow him, but as he announced “two” on his count-down to launch, a tanned face surrounded by a tangle of blond dreadlocks popped up over the rail of the cockpit and a young man called, “Irie, mi crusty uncle, bringing us the jammin’ grinds, yeah? I and I tanks ye colossal, but please to be waiting on the dock.”

And the Emperor stopped. Bummer and Lazarus even stopped growling and sat and turned their heads in the manner of a doggie listening for a “food” word amid a recitation of The Iliad.

The young man vaulted over the black cowling of the cockpit and landed on the lower deck, his bare feet barely making a thump. He was lean and muscular, tanned a café au lait color, with a tattoo of a humpback whale on his right pectoral muscle. He wore board shorts, despite the chill Bay air, a gold ring in his nose, and a series of them chasing down the rim of each ear. His dreadlocks fanned out around his head and shoulders as if they might be sun serpents looking for a way to escape.

He leapt the gap to the dock, dazzled a blindingly white grin, and snatched the remains of the sandwich out of the Emperor’s hand. “Ah, Jah’s love on ye, Uncle, bringing de rippin’ grinds to I’n’I after so long at sea.”

Bummer barked and growled. The Rasta-blond had their sandwich.

“Ah, me doggie, dreadies,” said the Rasta. “Jah’s blessings on ye.” He knelt and scratched Bummer behind the ears.

The stranger smelled of coconut oil, weed, and the undead, and Bummer was going to bite him as soon as he was finished having his ears scratched.

“I’n’I be Pelekekona Keohokalole. Call him Kona, for short. Pirate Captain and lion of the briny science, don’t cha know?”

“I am the Emperor of San Francisco, protector of Alcatraz, Sausalito, and Treasure Island,” said the Emperor, who couldn’t bring himself to be impolite to the smiling stranger, despite the black ship. “Welcome to my city.”

“Ah, many tanks, Bruddah. Much respek on you, yeah? But you can’t be going on that Raven ship, no. She kill you, brah. Automatic-kine kill. Dead, dead, too. Not walkin’ around dead like them below.”

“It goes without saying,” said the Emperor.

The rats had been up and moving for about an hour when Foo heard the key in the front door. He put the soldering iron he was using in the wire holder and was turning toward the door when she was on him. He felt his vertebrae crack as her legs wrapped around him and he went over backward. Something caught the back of his head and something wet and coppery was shoved into his mouth: tongue.

Panic vibrated through him and he felt he might suffocate, but then the smell: a mix of sandalwood perfume, clove cigarettes, and caffè latte. Amid the panic, he’d sprung a first-rate erection, which he thrust against his attacker in defense.

She pushed away and twisted up a handful of his shirt-front as he gasped for breath.

“Rawr!” she rawred.

“I missed you,” said Foo.

“Your suffering has only begun,” Abby said. She wore a red tartan miniskirt over a black leotard with a low swooping neckline, a spiked dog collar, and her lime-green Converse Chuck Taylors, which she sometimes referred to as her “forbidden love Chucks” for no reason that he could ever figure out.