Charles Bock - Beautiful Children

The leader of the frat guys told the dwarf it was cool. Suppressing another laugh, he took the alcohol in his arms. His friends followed, heading toward the door and making no attempts whatsoever to contain their amusement. The laser chime rang and someone shouted, “Damn, dude, you know you're fucked up when you start seeing trolls.”

Back at the counter the tub of goo tried to rub the dwarf's head in consolation but the dwarf jerked from under the massive hand and knocked it away. Twin lights flared from outside, reflecting off and spreading along the wall of glass, as if someone were shining a pair of searchlights into the store. For an instant, Newell felt as alive as he ever had. Yes, he thought, and stared into the glare, watching as the late model sports car backed out of its spot, starting its turn, its metallic grille visible.

The sports car screeched and peeled out and disappeared, revealing in the far background, underneath the metal canopy, the FBImobile, dormant amid the gas pumps. Newell could see the solitary body in front of the opened car hood, Kenny looking down, going through the motions of wrapping the tail of his shirt around his hand, readying himself to duck underneath the hood.

The thought of biting into chocolate conjured sensations of the film that — those few times Newell had actually tried chocolate — had felt totally gross on his teeth, and now his prime opportunity for chocolate consumption did not seem so prime. It made more sense for him to just get out of the store, and he was on his way when, by chance, he laid eyes on the smallish box. It was a minty green and had a sophisticated script across its face. Looked a little fun, kinda.

A digital clock and lighted advertisements for cigarettes hung above the store kiosk and its full circle of angled corner surfaces and counter space. Connected to its ceiling by a series of vertical support beams, the kiosk looked like a cross between a control center and an open-air cage, its design allowing for an unencumbered view of any area in the store. Newell stopped in front of the register. The midget murmured thoughts that did not sound charitable. Newell acknowledged him and set down the single pack of candy cigarettes. Ho hum. Just your average kid buying your average piece of sweets.

The blob's face was cartoonishly oversize. His large almond eyes showed neither kindness nor malice.

“What about in your pocket?”

A wisp of hair marred the blob's lip like a bad milk stain. “Come on, li'l man,” he said.

“Dude, what are you talking about?”

“All you fuckers,” the dwarf hissed. “Think you can get away with whatever you want.”

The blob cast a stern look. “Easy there, Raoul,” he said.

Newell looked at them as if they were speaking a language he did not understand. The blob's attention returned to him. “You can pay for it,” he said, patiently, not unkindly, “or you can put it back—”

The dwarf broke in: “I say we string him by his—”

“Or we can call your folks. Or we can call juvie.” The blob waited. “Up to you, li'l man.”

On the support beam nearest to the cash register, cheap metal racks were stocked with the latest tabloids. Directly above the top rack, a fire extinguisher hung from a nail. Newell eyed the red hanging canister.

If the cops called his parents, they'd find out he'd not only been eating banned sugar products, but he'd been stealing banned sugar products.

This on top of losing his phone.

And breaking curfew.

And then if his mom and dad found out about in the car…

Newell felt around in his pocket. The gum squares were immediately identifiable — fatter than the nickels, just as solid and hard, but with a different density, the layer of sugary dust on the wrappers immediately recognizable on his fingertips.

“There you go,” the blob said. “What are those, six cents each? Definitely not worth juvie. Not for, for — how many do you got there?”

“Eight.”

“Nine,” the dwarf interjected. “That's nine.”

“Eight.”

“Count them again,” the blob said. “Just for the safe side.”

Through the glass door Newell could see the FBImobile still in the parking lot, its hood still up. From this angle it looked like the engine had swallowed Kenny's upper body.

“Hey there,” the dwarf said. “Today?”

“Give him a break, Raoul.”

“Plus sales tax,” the dwarf said.

“Stop it, Raoul. There's no sales tax in Nevada.”

“Food products are so taxed.”

“It's gum.”

“What the sweet hell do you think gum is?”

“I got six this time,” Newell said.

“Try again,” said blob. “But out loud.”

“You put gum in your mouth,” the dwarf spat. “You fucking chew on it.”

“You put tobacco in your mouth. You chew tobacco. But tobacco's not a food, is it, Raoul?”

“That's cuz you don't swallow tobacco.”

“Five,” Newell whined. “Six.”

“You don't swallow gum.”

“You never swallow your gum?” The dwarf considered this with a rub of his jaw. He gave a low whistle. “You're a better man than I am.”

When or how Newell's right hand ended up back in his pocket, he didn't know. But without the gum inside the cloth pouch, he could feel a fair amount of nickels. He was aware of Raoul making dusty sounds, like he was clearing his throat, only with a nasty satisfaction. And the blob was chuckling, too; Newell could see his man-breasts jiggling beneath his orange convenience store blouse. Newell's hand gathered around a group of nickels. Now it closed into a ball. As with a child who pantomimes the actions of a game where there is no ball to play with, his arm became a whip of motion; the air suddenly sparkled; and while the blob had enough time to determine that something was happening — enough time to register the movement of Newell's arm — he could not do more than flinch, putting his hands up, calling out hey. But by then two hard pings were sounding off the back safe; by then Newell was releasing some sort of defiant sound.

Stepping backward and to his left, he avoided the hobbit's grasp. A second helping came up from his pocket, thwack-thwack, nailing that little midget hobbit guy square on, and WHAM the hobbit lost his balance, he had to grip the counter to keep from falling. But there was a slipping and a huge CRASH and now all these glass jars and displays of baseball cards and sugar bomberinos were on the floor, spiraling in all directions.

“Fuck,” went the blob. “My eye.” Half-bent, he was covering his face with his shirt, and just as the crones at the video poker machines finally figured out that something might be happening on this earth besides a straight beating two pair, here came the dwarf, getting his balance back, cursing up a storm. “LITTLESHITCOCKSUCKER.”

Newell took the first of the steps necessary to get the hell out of there. And again he saw the red canister. Hanging right in front of him.

From underneath the raised hood Kenny's head jerked. He saw the boy, coming out of the convenience store. Something was cradled in his arms. Newell looked like a running back, he was moving at high speed, pushing through the door and into the hot air; a leap; he was off the sidewalk; on asphalt, his shorts falling down beneath his hips, the denim getting in the way…

“DUDE!”

The Big Gulp cup tilted too far and Kenny double clutched and water sloshed all over the engine and made sizzling noises.

Newell straightened and accelerated into a full sprint. “GO!” The red canister dangling from his front hand as if it were a loaf of bread.

“LET’S GO. ”