Walter Greatshell - Apocalypticon

Unable to bear it, Freddie cracked, whimpering, "Oh no, no, no! Please, not again!"

The boys had been through this before, far up north at Thule, and were still traumatized from the experience. This same heinous charade. They remembered all too well the shame of being tarted up in wigs and makeup, fodder for elderly Moguls seeking a female substitute. Even though there had been no choice-it had been either give in or die horribly as a guinea pig for the Mogul Research Division-they bitterly regretted having allowed themselves to be so abused… and would gladly die before they'd ever let it happen again.

Falling to his knees, crying, Freddy begged, "Oh God no… nooo… they can't do this to us! They can't make us do it-"

"Shut up, bitch," said the gawky dancer, jarred out of his mellowness by Freddy's outburst. "Joo so stupid! Nobody's making nobody do nothing-this ain't no fucking Scared Straight. Who are these punks, anyway?" Still dancing, he turned to Marcus Washington, demanding, "Voodooman, why you do me like this in the middle of my rumba? Joo know how I hate to be disturb."

Marcus said, "Sorry, Chiquita-I just need two seconds with El Dopa, you don't mind. It's kinda important."

El Dopa-the Grinch-overheard and nodded from his perch, dismissing the dancer and beckoning the boys with a flaccid wave.

"Shit, go ahead," Chiquita said. "Why not? Just because it's a fucking lost art." He flounced offstage and sat down in a huff. To the boys, he said, "Joo have to shut up and listen when he speaks, okay? He's the boss around here, so give him some damn respeck. He's also a fucking recording star, entiendes?"

"Oh shit, man," hissed Kyle. "That's really El Dopa!"

"Who's El Dopa?" asked Sal, unnerved.

"Are you kidding me? You never heard of El Dopa? He did all those pirate tracks from prison-dude had some mad beats. He was heavy into Eastern religion. He did that chanting thing: 'Como Se Lama'!"

Chiquita nodded. "He's a bad motherfucker, so don't mess with him."

"Thass right," El Dopa slurred. "Ain't nobody better fuck with me. I got karma on my side, baby-I have mastered Mahasamadhi and passed beyond birth and death. Everybody said my career was gonna blow up as soon as I got out of the joint, but Agent X beat me to it: Was the damn world that blew up. But it's cool-I finally got me a headlining gig, hey! Yo, Marcus! Rise and come forth."

"What up, El?" said Voodooman. "How you doing, brother?"

"It's all good, man. I see you starting your own Boys' Club. Who these cats?"

"They from that big mother sub off downtown. We picked 'em up goin' into Miska's tunnel, along with a real interesting Harpy, regular damn Kewpie doll, tame as a kitten. They claim her blood has some kinda magical effect on other Harpies, chills 'em right out. They also mentioned the name Langhorne."

El Dopa's eyelids drooped to mere slits. "Well, ain't that nice. Friends in need. Chiquita! Put out some milk and cookies for our young guests, would you? These boys look hungry." He clapped his hands.

The dancer scoffed, "Fuck you, I ain't putting out shit."

"How nice to know that in this vast, deserted wasteland, it's still possible to run across folks with mutual interests," El Dopa said lazily, waving at them to dig in to his pharmaceutical tray: candy-colored pills and capsules of every type. "Small world!"

The man's hooded eyes bored directly into Sal's, and the boy felt the skin prickle at the nape of his neck. There was an absence behind those eyes, a vacuum as harshly unforgiving as a black hole in deep space. Perhaps El Dopa had been a whole person once, but now he was damaged, shut down inside from having witnessed one too many unthinkables. Sal knew plenty of people like that, ghosts living in a ghost world, and one thing he knew was you didn't want them calling the shots.

"There's just one thing I don't understand," the wizened man said. "The timing. See, things have gone a little funny with our sponsor. We've had a slight… communications breakdown. I assume your people on that submarine must have a direct line to Valhalla, all that high-tech gear you got out there. Right? Can you also jam radio signals? Suddenly here you come along, and what's the first thing you do? Start poaching on our turf."

Sal jumped in, "No!-I mean, I don't think so, sir. The Navy officers don't really tell us anything, but I know the boat maintains radio silence almost all the time, so-"

El Dopa wasn't even listening. "I hope they don't think we're going to renegotiate our contract," he said. "Is that why you're here? Give us a little wake-up call? Introduce some healthy competition, a little competitive bidding? Are they unhappy with what we've been sending them? Think somebody else could do the job better? I'd like to see them try. Or maybe you're with a rival agency? Come into our territory and try to muscle us just because you think you so bad with that big-ass submarine? Is that it?"

"No, sir. At least, I don't think so."

"Boy don't think so. Well, there must be SOME explanation!" El Dopa flung his beer bottle at the floor, then subsided and pondered them for a moment. Shaking his head, he sighed, "I guess there's nothing for it but to call up Uncle Spam."

Eavesdropping, Chiquita said, "Why you gotta do that? I had enough of that creepy spider. He don't say shit no more."

"Now, baby, he is still our esteemed company agent-the only one we have. Don't worry, I'm not sending you." He clapped his hands. "So let it be written, so let it be done." Abruptly dismissing the visitors, he took up the mike and started singing again: "Cortez was a gangsta, a measure of thanks ta, conquistador killa in the biblical mold… bust a cap in the Az-tecs, dust the map what he did nex', and played Montezuma for a room of pure gold…"

The dancer's leering mask was fixed on them, something out of a nightmare. "The audience is over," Chiquita said. "Get out before somebody carry you out."

"Oops," said Voodooman. Hustling the boys away, he said, "I guess he'll call for you in the morning. For now, you guys just enjoy the party. That's what it's for. If anybody mess with you, tell 'em you're under the special protection of the Skins."

The boys nodded agreeably, but as soon as Voodooman was out of sight, they felt scores of predatory eyes on them. Kyle, feeling particularly ogled, said, "Let's beat it the hell out of here, please," and they began to move back toward the exit, huddling close together. The faster they moved, the more unwanted attention snowballed around them:

"Hey, baby, how you doin'?" "You stepped on my foot, bitch." "Shit, you fine, girl." "Oooh, honey, come on over here, show me that ass." "Lookee here, bitch, lookee here…"

"Hey now, what's your hurry?" It was another one of the heinous dancers-one of the more convincing ones. He planted himself in their path, his buttery-soft voice cutting through the gauntlet of cruder remarks. The boys were forced to stop in their tracks.

Taking out a cigarette and accepting a light from the crowd, the dancer took a puff through his mask's leering bloody mouth, and said, "You boys won't let a few hardened criminals chase you away, I hope. As you can see, they're harmless. We have a strict hands-off policy."

Fending off a rough grope from the mob, Sal said, "We're-hey!-under the protection of the Skins-"

A brutal voice drooled in his ear, "I don't care who you under, bitch! You under me now, punk."

"Shut up, Carl," the dancer said, his muffled voice suddenly dropping an octave, "unless you want me to use your boiled skull for an ashtray." The other man retreated under a gale of jeering laughter. Resuming his composure, the dancer purred, "How do you boys feel about flaming Zombies?"

"Excuse me?"

"The house drink." Not waiting for their reply, he said, "Get these lads some drinks." A dozen men ran for the liquor. The other convicts immediately lost interest and drifted away.