William Vollmann - The Royal Family

Tell me about it, said Tyler.

And you know what? When I cross this burning earth — hey, asshole, are you listening to me? I said: When I cross this burning earth…

You’re drunk, Dan. Don’t call me an asshole.

You’re the one who’s going to cross the earth. Your Mark is shining tonight.

I’m not going anywhere, Tyler muttered.

You’re going to get you an education, boy. Remember what the Queen said?

The Wonderbar was louder and noisier now that Loreena had gotten fired. In the corner beside Tyler, a drunk resembled a Brady’s Boy snoozing at headquarters, chin on hand, in an armchair by the wall of recycling cartons.

So what if I’m drunk? Are your ears getting envious, Henry? Don’t interrupt me. I needed to tell you how irritatingly commonplace it’s now become to hear such stupidi-ties as: Speaking as a woman, I find this piece of pornography offensive.

You don’t like women much, do you, Dan?

You know I like twats! And that sister-in-law of yours, I—

Go to hell, Dan.

I never felt that women understood me. When I was in my twenties I used to… I…

What would the Queen have done? Tyler asked himself. And then he knew. He put his hand on Smooth’s shoulder. He said: I’m listening.

He’d already kept Smooth company for two hours in the Mother Lode, whose tinsel purple and green resembled seaweed. Even though it was Friday, the disco ball had remained still. They’d sat among the easy transvestites and the hard transvestites drinking their beers, made-up men’s made-up faces expressionless beneath the powder as their bloody-red lips made O’s and they crossed their big thighs in their shimmery miniskirts. There was one genetic female in the place, an uneasy soul who seemed to be realizing only gradually that she was the sole representative of her gender. Meanwhile, Smooth’s utterances grew charged with enthusiastic and increasingly incoherent bitterness. Tyler was torn between boredom and pity.

They’re funding the attack, said Smooth, shaking off his hand. I’m sure Brady’s in on it. So it’s very very duplicitous what they’re doing. Do you even care? Justin cares. Our Queen would have cared, but she’s in the same place as your sister-in-law.

Tyler bit his lip.

Your fucking sister-in-law. That dead rotten fucking sister-in-law bitch. That cunt. That whore. That she. What does she have to speak as a woman for?

Yeah, yeah, yeah, said Tyler, scratching his face.

She’s saying: If you disagree with me, you’re disagreeing with half the human race. And I’d wager that she knows half the human race no better than I do. It’s a cowardly and dishonest attempt at intimidation, is what it is. And I find it very sad that such words pit one group against another when right now we all need to help each other because we’re all under attack, and if you don’t agree, you can just go eat your dead sister-in-law’s twat…

Are you okay, Dan?

What the fuck do you mean, am I okay? I’m under investigation and this jerk asks me if I — if I…

Let me drive you home, Dan.

Aren’t we being schoolboyish? And you expect me to go on feeding you with my divine wisdom — my, I’d never have thought it! And those FBI turds… There’s nothing that’s okay the way it is.

All right, Dan. Here we go. Door’s wide open.

And the Queen—

Lean on me for a minute there.

And you and your envious ears—

Lean back so I can put your seat belt on, Dan.

The Queen, Henry.

Yeah, the Queen.

Do you read the Scriptures?

You must have asked me that a hundred times.

I think she made it easier to make changes, to like experiment, try and be somebody better. And now I… Although I can’t believe it, either. I’m on your side, Henry, but she’s truly gone. I love you, Henry. I want myrrh and aloes to wrap up inside her shroud. I want to lay her in a new tomb and wait for her to rise. I want to believe in fucking miracles. Isn’t that rich? As if that asshole up in the clouds would ever give anybody with the mark of Cain a break!

You’re wrong there, Dan. He put the mark of Cain on us to save us, and you know it. He said: If anyone slays Cain, vengeance shall fall upon him sevenfold.

I don’t give a shit. I need miracles, Smooth wept.

I know, said Tyler, seeing with his soul’s eye the Queen’s soul leaping tall and slender and stiff into a smoky yellow sky.

And I know what that brother of yours would say. He’d say, Let’s keep the Queen out of this. But that won’t do any good, Henry, because you’re going to have to live without Irene and without the Queen for the rest of your whole goddamned life. You’re going to have to live with yourself, Henry, you poor sad bastard. I feel so sorry for you, I just pity your stinking guts…

All right, Dan. Here we go. Now, when we get to your house, I’m going to need your key so I can let you in. Do you know where your housekeys are?

They’re in Irene’s twat, Henry. They’re jammed up your victim’s cunt. She died because she hated you. You wouldn’t leave her alone and she was so desperate to get away from you that she—

Tyler switched on the radio.

On August ninth, which was Irene’s birthday, two black girls approached the counter giggling and whispering, and the righthand one, who was very pretty and dark and full-breasted, said to the man: Excuse me, but are you helping anybody?

Nope, the man said. The sign beside him said: ALL SALES FINAL.

Where the long glass counter started was at the partition that said LOAN DEPT., behind which, attended by a dozen safes, a nighthawk of an old woman sat watching the world with jaundiced eyes.

Beneath that stretch of counter, harmonicas large and small slept on blue felt, some of them cheap, made in China, and a few grand Hohners as silver as the barrel of a Colt Python, cold mirror-silver chased with floral swirls as folkishly stylish as the designs on the immense silver belt buckles sometimes seen in Mexico.

Can you play them harmonicas? asked the girl shyly.

The man folded his arms. — Nope, he said.

How come this little one’s only twenty dollars and this big one’s a hundred and seventy-three dollars?

Well, the man replied, that’s like asking the difference between a Cadillac Fleetwood and a Cadillac Whatchamacallit.

Oh, said the girl.

She looked at the harmonicas for a while, then said: Why’s this big one a hundred and seventy-three dollars and this little one’s two hundred dollars?

I can’t rightly say, the man answered.

The wall behind the counter was hung with banjos and guitars, some black-lacquered. After those, just behind the man, rifles and shotguns leaned barrel up in a long row like prison bars. Within the region of glass case which touched the man’s belly were the pistols and revolvers, beautiful, black, silver and grim.

Can I hold one of those? pleaded the girl laughingly.

Nope, said the man.

I have I.D.

Let’s see it, then.

I’m nineteen.

Then you’re not old enough.

Please?

Nope.

I’m not going to buy it, I promise. I just want to look.

If you can’t buy it, what’s the use of looking? the man said, pleased with his own logic.

I just want to know what it feels like to hold a gun, the girl whispered with lowered eyes.

Her friend screeched mirthfully: Don’t you let her, mister!

Nope, said the man calmly.

The two girls fled. When they were safely outside the store, the pleader turned around and outstretched her tongue.

Can I see that Browning there? said Dan Smooth. What is it, a Buck Mark?