The Altonevers (44 page)

“
Good to see you,” says
Cider.

“
Yeah yeah, lover boy”
Harley teases him “Get in. Quick.”

“
It's crazy in there,”
Popper says. Cider flops into the blood stained backseat like a
fish jumping onto a boat. Anna hops in the back, laying on him and
for a second feeling safe like she's in a trench with him, out of
the line of fire. She starts laughing as the ivy and white gilded
age manse fades from view, with its statues of past stars of the
screen shrinking away from her last.

The engine roars as they
speed through the war torn streets of the city spectrum torn
smeared every shade between the Brights and Bleaks, careful to
avoid the heavy combat of the achromatic craters. Sliding around
corners through panchromatic puddles and pools, purposely splashing
waves onto the sidewalks and up the side of the car, that speckle
and mist Anna's face with more warm and cool hues then her eyes
will ever know. They pass the last dripping palm tree in reaching
the open highway leading to the edge of town and through a slowly
fading desert.
The two in the backseat are
turned around to watch the mind blinding sight of the single Alto
that emanates all of infinities hue's. The Alto of Vi-def, the only
place either of the two have ever felt at peace, at home together
since they’ve known each other. The sky sized crown of pristine
polychromatic effulgence radiating as an oasis stretching to the
highest heights of the atmosphere. The aura will wane from view
over days of speeding down the desert highway. Anna faces forward
toward a large looming orange sunrise that's lighting the bottoms
of lengthy lavender clouds that're round as laurels resting over
yesterday’s ultramarine day.

“
You think they'll be
alright?” Anna Asks.

“
Eh. Them, they'll be fine.
They got a whole city at war, but Daisy is a beast in a battle.
Besides Rebecca and the Ribbits are after us, not them,” Cider
says.

“
Then why'd we run?” Anna
asks. Popper slides Cider a peripheral glance and a smirk. Harley
turns to give Anna the same sort of expectant glance, then clears
her throat obviously on purpose.

“
To save you Carrots,
Anna,” He says slowly leaning in to softly steal a kiss as the days
sun falls.

“
You can call me
Carrots...Apples,” She laughs that Daisy calls him that, and he
puts his arm her shoulders.

The dying piano player crawls up and
snatches the weapon from Rebecca's hands as his last living act.
She stomps through his throat with her high heel, and laughs as the
surviving Vaudevs keep firing until they are completely out of
ammo.

“
Now what?” Rebecca laughs,
then shrugs. Blithely speaking over the moans and groans of the
dying and those weeping for the dead.

“
Rebecca! you killed
Harold!” Shouts Vivian.

“
Sorry about that,” Rebecca
shrugs.

“
You’re not,”

“
No, I'm not,”

“
Anyhow. It's so good to
finally see you after all this time. I'd love to hear all about
what you've been up to. You look absolutely famished, you’ll be
joining us breakfast I’m sure?” Vivian says as a mother giving a
daughter forgiveness.

“
Ha! what's black and white
and red all over?” Daisy asks waving and smiling from the second
level.

“
Heya Dai’s,” Rebecca
says.

“
Hiya Becca,” Daisy
replies.

“
So what's for breakfast
then?” the Raveness asks.

“
Whatever you like, my
dove. We'll have blueberry tarts, Your favorite,” the Baroness
says, “and Daisy, that other thing as soon as possible.”

Lighting a trail of smoke spilling
from an ashtray, is the raw orange of a hazy lazy aired afternoon
also casting the shadow of a cushioned leather chair onto a
typewriter and paper with a journalist’s letterhead. The room is
filled with sun yellowed newspaper clippings, thousands of them,
some old enough to be only blurs on withered paper Every headline,
every article and photo is of Vivian. From her being born in color,
to her early career as a performer, all the way through her rise
and reign as the Baroness. Every word ever printed about her. A
black and white wand in a hat sits on the floor beside a coat rack
in the corner.

The creaking footsteps cross the old
wooden floor under a dingy carpet of the narrow hall outside of the
room. A tall shadowy figure appears behind the frosted window of a
half glass door. The clacking sound of a large hand gripping the
door knob breaks the stagnant silence. The door squeaks opens to a
wide shouldered, red vested man with a big yellow bow tie. His
intense cartoonishly large blue eyes sit behind big clear rimmed
glasses that cover his eyebrows and cheekbones. He closes the door
and hangs his trench coat, and hat showing his brown hair parted in
the middle. Taking his seat facing the sunlight lighting the trail
of tobacco smoke instead of the cushioned chair of the room with
his name written on the door.

“
That's my seat,” the guy
says with little bit of helium in his voice.

“
You look so young. I
figured you older,” Daisy says pointing a nickel plated revolver at
the man’s chest.

“
So this is it then?” he
asks.

“
What are you typing?”
Daisy asks.

“
Dreams.”

“
Not letters to say, the
Ribbits or the rival studios?”

“
Not at the moment,” he
says, his voice breaking as he speaks.

“
A smoke? you look
nervous,” she says throwing a lighter to him and nodding to a pack
of smokes on the table next to a decanter of clear
fluid.

“
Sure.”

Daisy doesn’t move, she’s still as a
viper as he reaches across the desk cluttered with photos of
Vivian. The two sit uneasily staring at each other in silence. He
knows this will be his last few minutes alive. When the heat of the
cigarette reaches his fingers, it will be the death of him. Just
when the cherry is almost burning him.

“
A drink before you go?”
she smirks when asking. The man taking any delay to the moment of
his death, tries speaking but the words don’t leave his throat, so
he nods yes.

“
There's your glass. Vodka
huh, like she drinks I see.”

“
Thank you.”

“
Love can be treacherous,”
She says, her gun muzzle keeping a beat on the man's heart. He
wearily reaches for the empty glass, and holds it up, waiting for
her to pour him a drink from the clear decanter. She starts pouring
his glass, then he shoots her a look of shock.

“
That smell,” he
yells.

“
Acid,” the deadly starlet
snickers splashing it to his right hand, instantly searing his
flesh and muscle. Writhing in agony, he screams at the top of his
lungs, runs around and falls, rolls and flailing violently around
the room in a painful frenzy. He’s ripping down the photos and news
clippings chronicling the life of the Baroness as he squeals and
swings his arms. The acid eats quickly through his skin, seeping
it's way to his bones, covering his hand in a glove of frothing
white steaming foam of sizzling flesh.

“
Hahahaheeehahaaaa,” His
laugh sounding like both agony and elation, he screams laughter
until he's out of breath. Daisy is in his chair laughing, though
never takes the nickel plated revolver off his chest.

“
Alright, alright,” she
says. He can't speak between hyperventilating breaths and the
whimpers of a wounded animal. She gets up from the chair and lifts
the decanter from the desk. Slowly walking to the man sitting on
the carpet with his back to the wall of words and pictures of
Vivian. His face is next an article of her cutting the ribbon to
her first studio. He's twitching in pain and afraid, staring at the
starlet towering over him. The acid is sizzling his nerves, washing
all sensation from anything below his wrist.

“
Now the other one,” she
says, giddily grinning.

“
N..o.oo...ple..e.ase..”

“
This is an order, I'd have
just killed you. She doesn't have the heart to. Now put out your
left hand,” Daisy demands. The man reluctantly reaches out with his
good hand and his palm down.

“
Further. You don't want
your leg to get burned too do you?” Daisy says insistently. He
extends his hand further and looks away. Gritting his teeth and
squinting his eyes closed in anticipation of the skin searing acid
in her hands.

“
This is mercy,” Daisy says
before pouring the decanter onto his hand. He again flails like a
fish out of water, kicking and screaming in agony, jumping around
the room like a terrified hare tearing the newspaper clippings and
pictures from the wall filling the air of the room like a snow
globe.
Daisy sits back in the cushioned
chair and starts stroking the keys of the typewriter. Punching up a
good review for her last film, with the expression of a kid in a
candy store. Oblivious to the magician turned private eye's
horrific screams and lunatic laughter. Unable to open the door, he
breaks holes in the glass and walls, thrashing around the room like
a bull in a China shop.

“
Keep it down will ya. I'm
trying to think over here!” Daisy yells. Thinking now they can’t
forget me after the film ends. Though they will, no one has any
idea what film or actress the review is about. Never mind that her
picture is already on most of the billboards in town and they still
can’t recollect her as anything other than as a brutal lieutenant
of the hoard of Vaudevs.

Chingching,
ching....chingchingchingching, click
click...ching...chingching...ching...click...click click click
click click...the typewriter chings away.

Two birds

Popper’s at the wheel, Harley’s riding
shotgun with her foot hanging over the side mirror. Cider, behind
Popper, is leaning on his hand looking away from the sun. Anna is
laying her cheek on the top of door, giving her a view of the
blacktop passing under the convertibles spinning tires, and
Harley's laces flap in the wind in front her. The four watch the
stars pass from east to west each night while sailing down a
highway with the sun and moon on either side. Cruising along in the
cream convertible on nothing but open road for days through the
same big blues above and empty yellow green prairies of big sky
country all around them. At night seeing nothing past the
headlights but the waxing moon standing before star splashes
country sky. They get cramped limbs sitting in the same bloody
leather seats as over time the days lengthen and the nights
shorten.

Even though out of range of any radio
towers, the duo insist on listening to the static, which is
disorienting to the senses and sense of time passing. Making Anna
feel like she's isolated, stuck in a static moment while
continually moving. She Remembers the last few days in snippets of
still frames in her mind, though she can hardly tell the difference
between them and what she's looking at now. She feels she steadily
in a state of perpetuating déjà vu, simultaneously seeing and
recollecting what's presently in front of her path. Watching the
atlas of stars at night and the sun and moon pass from east to west
through each day’s revolution. The waxing crescent of the lunar
sphere is the only notable difference, and the only tether for her
hang on to her notion causal continuity.

This morning the moon is full,
brimming, bathing in the rays of the not yet risen sun. It's
reflection is glowing starkly, throwing neon blue light coating the
left of their four faces.

“
Where are we going?” Anna
asks.

“
Good question,” Harley
answers.

“
We’re headin' to the dance
Anna” Popper says.

“
Is it that time already?”
Cider asks.

“
Afraid it is,” Harley
says.

“
It's a day away ain't it?”
Cider asks watching the way the scene of the sky is playing
out.

“
Yeah but we wanna get to a
hop before the dance. And the closest place is almost a day away,”
Harley says.

“
Hop?” Anna
asks.

“
Lindy hop,” Cider
says.

“
Isn't that a
dance?”

“
Oh that's right we haven't
told you?” popper asks.

“
Have we?” asks
popper.

“
No,” she says.

“
She doesn’t know?” Popper
asks playfully “For us, our dance is a different one. Haven’t we
told you how we've met before?” he says, nodding his head to the
one he calls his sparrow.

“
No. You haven't,” Cider
says tossing Anna a humored look of his moonlit face, and striking
an orange glow to light a smoke. The duo exchange a glance, and
Harley instinctively touches the radio dial, but it’s still nothing
but static sailing the airwaves.

“
Our story,” Harley says
nodding to the man she calls her sparrow.

“
I was a rough kid,” Popper
says, “rough around the edges I guess. Nothing like now,” he looks
at his manicured nails. “Blue collar you know. I got into some
stuff real early. My first taste of the sour was at thirteen, and
skin popping a week after that. A complete junkie by the time I hit
fourteen. Wearing the same clothes for years, unclean inside and
out. My life was a life in ruins. I horribly bit my nails,
emblematic of my appetite of escapism consuming me. My face was
always filthy from only bathing in fast food bathrooms, and begging
for food when they would close.