Chester Anderson - The Butterfly Kid

“If you can avoid it, don’t get killed.

“Also, if you can avoid it, please do not kill Laszlo. I have plans for that boy.”

I couldn’t think of anything more to say, so I sat down. Everyone looked solemn. Time passed.

Just plain waiting is a drag. Waiting for a pill to take effect is worse, and waiting for a battle to begin has nothing at all to recommend it. Put them all together, it’s depressing. We sat quietly. Time passed.

Michael said, “Ten minutes.” Everybody twitched.

“Ten minutes since or ten minutes till?” I wondered.

“Till.”

“Groovy. Is anybody getting high yet? Even a little bit?”

Little Micky raised his hand. “I don’ know, man,” shrug, “but, like…”

“Groovy.”

We sat quietly. Time passed.

I was trying to think up something to say before the fireworks, something terse and memorable that would look good in a history book, but I couldn’t seem to find the words. The best I could come up with was, “54-40 or fight!” and, “Don’t give up the glub!” neither of which fit somehow, so I gave it up.

Time passed.

Little Micky was smiling ecstatically. That was encouraging. I too, was beginning to feel the first faint stirrings of euphoria. Groovy. And how about the rest of the gang?

Michael was expressing solemn dignity, which looked in his case like a banker breaking wind. Gary the ultimate Frog looked Garyish — or Froggy, if you like. Sean’s left eyebrow was raised a full inch higher than his right one — a possibly hopeful sign, if you weren’t too hard to please. The others just looked serious.

“Five minutes,” Michael chimed.

Little Micky giggled. Sometimes being short and scrawny helps.

“Micky?” said I.

He giggled again.

“You may have to do a solo set at first. No one else is off yet.”

“That’s coo, baby.” Further giggles.

“Can you do it? Seriously.”

“I said it’s cool, baby.” Additional and prolonged giggling. I crossed my fingers.

Actually, I was starting to feel decidedly better. The hopelessness of our situation was beginning to amuse me. The fact that we fourteen ill-sorted nuts were sitting here waiting to get high enough to save the world was so outrageously absurd I couldn’t help giggling a bit myself.

Little Micky politely giggled back at me.

“Two minutes,” said Michael. “Let’s go upstairs.”

The Tripsmobile had a sun deck on the roof, planted with grass and dandelions. We’d intended to put a few lawn chairs up there, too, and a table with a parasol, but we never got around to it. And now we were going to use it for a battlefield. I giggled again. Little Micky joined me.

We took our places along the fence, ten of us facing the beach, four guarding the rear and flanks. Sean was now among the gigglers, and most of the others were smiling.

“One minute,” Mike announced. “And before we begin, I have a request to make. Please try to avoid killing each other. Especially me.”

“I agree,” I said. “Don’t blow your cool.” Several people giggled.

There was nothing happening on the beach yet. It still had that deserted look. There was no trace of the lobster gang, no sign of the war approaching. Only Laszlo’s footprints on the sand suggested anything had ever happened there.

“Thirty seconds.”

I tried to project a test hallucination, but I wasn’t ready yet. I wished Little Micky’d run a test. I decided against suggesting it — he’d doubtless want an explanation, and I didn’t feel up to it.

“Twenty.”

Nothing happening yet. No more gigglers, either, but that might not signify: some heads never giggle. I, for instance, never giggle. But…

“Fifteen.”

Nothing, not even a breeze in the willows.

“Ten. Get ready.”

I hate countdowns. Always have. Michael, on the other hand, is passionately fond of countdowns. You never can tell.

“Five. Four. Three.” Nothing on the beach. “Two. One. Zero!”

Nothing continued happening. Mike’s face expressed innocence betrayed in exhaustive detail.

“Is it kosher to use negative numbers?” I inquired.

“Sloppy, that’s what they are,” said Michael. “Sloppy.” He was really burned. “How do they expect to…”

Something was happening! The willows were shaking. Something was pushing its way through the willows. Something was…

It was a lobster in a silver blanket. Maybe even Ktch. He pushed the last layer of willow wands aside with his huge claws and stared out at us for maybe half a minute, making good and sure we were still there. Then he backed away into the thicket and we started breathing again.

“I hate an unpunctual lobster,” Michael said, still peeved.

And the willows were rustling again, more vigorously, as though something larger than a lobster were forcing a way through them. They went on rustling for a painfully long time. Whatever was coming wasn’t in a hurry. The willows’ agitation mounted to frenzy. The last curtain of leaves was hurled aside as though by a gale.

Somebody moaned.

The black shadow moved slowly toward us down the beach.

LITTLE MICKY bracketed the shadow with odd-shaped, rapid-fire cannons, but the shells passed through it like nothing at all, not bothering it a bit. I got the impression that the shadow didn’t even notice the cannons and shells, that it was aware of nothing on this whole green planet but our shaggy selves. This was not an impression to treasure.

Little Micky switched to explosive shells. They revised the landscape pretty drastically, but failed to inconvenience the shadow.

The shadow, meanwhile, was projecting gross despair and future pain much more intensely than before, inconveniencing us no end.

Little Micky poised two flamethrowers above the shadow and smothered it in fire. The shadow noticed this. It absorbed the flames, and then the flamethrowers, doubled its height, and kept coming.

I was now officially up tight. This wasn’t going according to the script at all. Of course, I hadn’t expected the first assault to be the shadow, but there it was, and Little Micky didn’t seem to be able to cope with it, and it didn’t seem especially stoppable, and I didn’t like anything that was happening.

Micky dropped bombs on the shadow — good, fat, healthy bombs — and the shadow didn’t notice.

“No!” Micky yelled. He was losing his temper.

The shadow reached the water while Micky was working out his next move. The water drew away from the shadow, as though refusing to touch such a thing. Spooky. The water wouldn’t come within a foot of the shadow, nor could I blame it. So the shadow moved toward us in the center of an absence of water. If I were superstitious…

“All right, you mother!” Micky had worked something out. “Take that!”

High-pressure hoses surrounded the shadow and shot iron-hard jets of water at it. The thought was good, but it didn’t work. The twelve-inch limit still applied, and the jets were shattered and deflected upward in a spectacular fifty-foot-high fountain that soundly drenched us and accomplished nothing else.

“No!” Oh, but Micky was bugged. “You mother, you! Dig it: I’m gonna put a flippin’ A-bomb right inside of you, you dig?”

Mike and I yelled, “Stop! Don’t do that!” and similar phrases intended to stop Little Micky from setting off an A-bomb in our laps, but he ignored us. He was POed at that shadow.

There was a muffled, almost subsonic Whump! The shadow bulged out at the middle, then grew another twenty feet, changed from a black shadow to a black flame, and kept on coming.

Little Micky went berserk. He started jumping up and down and screaming unbelievable polyglot invective and abuse at the flame. He was extravagantly out of his mind.