Bentley Little: The Association

"What do you want?" Barry said shortly. "Why did you invite me here?"

Calhoun sat down again, steepled his fingers. "We seem to have reached a stalemate. As far as the bylaws are concerned, you are a squatter.

You no longer hold any rights to your house or property, yet you continue to reside there and seemingly have no intention of moving out."

"What's your point?"

"You said at the annual meeting that you wanted a real election. I

take that to mean that you would like to have yourself or someone handpicked by you elected to the board."

"Yeah?"

"I think it's time to invoke Article Ninety." The wall behind the table was suddenly illuminated by a spotlight hidden in the ceiling, and Barry saw that there was writing on the stone. Elaborate calligraphic script, with red letters nearly a foot high, covered the space from floor to ceiling. He could read the words "Article Ninety"--there was no title, no section number, no paragraph designation--but that was it. The rest appeared to be gibberish.

"It is the one article that you will not find in your printed version of the C, C, and Rs ," the president said.

"Why is that?" Barry asked.

Calhoun leaned forward over the table, and there was an intensity in his expression that caused Barry to back up a step. "Because it cannot be captured or caught or frozen in time. It cannot be diminished by being limited to a single meaning. It is forever changing, adaptable to any circumstance that arises, and it is at the very heart of our homeowners' association. It is what grants us our authority and power, what allows you and everyone else to enjoy the perfection that is life in Bonita Vista."

Barry stood there, not knowing what to say or how to respond. He could not recall hearing the door behind him close, and he casually turned his head to the side, pretending as though he was surveying the room but actually checking to see if the doorway was clear and he could haul ass out of here.

No such luck. The metal door was securely shut.

He faced forward again, filled with a growing dread and feeling of claustrophobia. The chamber smelled to him of sweat and blood and bodily fluids. He had to suppress the very real urge to vomit.

"It is the responsibility of the minister of information to address Article Ninety," Calhoun said. He nodded toward the old man seated directly to his right. "Fenton?"

The other man shooed away the woman working on his lap and stood. If possible, he looked even more peculiar than the president, his too-perfect and off-center nose appearing to have been placed on his face in order to imitate an element of normalcy that simply was not there.

"Article Ninety," he intoned. "We ask thee for thy words of wisdom."

"Thy wisdom is infinite," the other board members chanted.

"Provide us with the knowledge to deal with this as with all matters."

"Thy rules and regulations are as blessings to us all."

Fenton closed his eyes, turned and bowed to the wall. "Article Ninety, Barry Welch wishes to mount a challenge to appear on the ballot for the Bonita Vista Homeowners' Association board of directors. How is he to be accommodated and how are we to determine his eligibility?"

Abruptly, the gibberish disappeared. The words on the wall were still in that elaborate archaic calligraphy, but they were suddenly readable, understandable. The resulting declaration was not couched in the pseudo legalese that made up the rest of the C, C, and Rs but in a stilted quasi religious formality that sounded no less odd. Fenton straightened from his bow and read the words aloud: "Whosoever desires to place his name upon the ballot must first engage in battle with a current member of the board of directors. This must of necessity be a fight to the finish, the death of one ensuring the position of the other on the sacred ballot. Have mercy on the soul of this combatant for he knows not what he does."

The six old men turned to look at him. Barry was already shaking his head. "I don't know what's going on here, but I want no part of it."

"It's too late for that," Calhoun told him.

"I'm not fighting anybody." But at the same time, he was thinking that this was why he had come, this was the confrontation he had been seeking. He had not expected anything so simplistic or crudely literal, but he now had the opportunity he'd been seeking to combat the board. He thought of Barney the cat, thought of Ray, thought of Kenny Tolkin, thought of Dylan and Chuck and Danna, thought of Maureen and their baby, and he allowed the anger to seep in, allowed the rage to build, Calhoun grinned, and as before his smile seemed far too wide. "Barry Welch," he thundered. "I hereby challenge you to battle! In front of all and sundry neighbors! Hand-to hand combat to the death!"

A cheer went up from the other members of the board and from the volunteer women underneath the table. Behind them, the wall grew dark as the spotlight cut out, the room once again receiving only the dim illumination of sooty candles.

Yes, Barry thought. I could fight any of these assholes. I could kill all of these sons of bitches.

Calhoun's grin was positively feral. "Do you accept the challenge?"

"I accept!"

"Excellent," the president said. "Excellent." He sat down, his smile disappearing instantly. A cold stoniness hardened his features as he nodded imperiously at Ralph. "Now get this piece of shit prepared for battle."

Barry was led through a narrow doorway to the side of the taxidermy display case and then down a long corridor with rusted metal walls that looked and smelled like the inside of a disused sewer pipe. At the end was a filthy, low-ceilinged room filled with volunteers who grabbed him and stripped off his clothes. They made no sound, and that was the eerie thing. They simply yanked open his shirt, pulled at the sleeves, took off his shoes, unbuckled his belt, tugged down his pants, passing him from one to the other, the only noise in the claustrophobic chamber his own startled grunts and protestations.

He was left with only his underwear, smudged with mud and grease by dirty hands. The volunteers backed off, fanning around the edges of the room, looking at the floor, at the walls, at the ceiling, at each other, at anything except him. They seemed ashamed of what they'd done to him-of what they'd had to do to him--and he had the curious sensation that they were behind him on this, that they were on his side, that they would like to see him win.

Win what?

He didn't know. Was this supposed to be a fistfight? "Hand-to-hand combat" was a broad enough term to encompass a variety of fighting styles, and he had no idea what the rules of the bout would be. Just judging on appearances Calhoun was big and flabby and old. He should be able to kick the president's ass with no problem. But he thought of the odd, pale skin covering that strange musculature, and the aura of power that surrounded all of the board members, and he was not at all sure he would be able to beat the old man in any kind of fight.

He was not even sure Calhoun was human.

He didn't want to think about that.

Barry looked over at Ralph, who was standing impassively next to a square hole in the wall the size of a large television, a black opening that looked like the entrance to a crawlspace.

"Am I supposed to go through there?" he asked.

"When you are ready."

"Where does it go?"

He received no answer.

Barry looked around the room at the shuffling volunteers, then back at that ominous opening in the wall. He was nervous, sweating, filled with a dark dread. He'd been suppressing or avoiding the central truth of the coming fight, but now it was all he could think about. Someone was going to die. Whether it was himself or Jasper Calhoun, one of them would be dead within the next hour, killed by the other.