The Sandman Slim Series Books 1-4. Richard Kadrey
like it might shock him. He makes a fist and closes his eyes. A moment later, he opens his hand and laughs at what he sees.
“Well?”
“I asked if buying it would be a good deal. It presented me with a lovely view of Abaddon’s bottomless pit, lit in such way as to look like a large, not terribly clean sphincter. Along with that is a message on one side of the coin telling me that I’m an impotent, flatulent, fat, old fuck, and on the other side, telling me that it’s a good investment only if I like having hot coals shoved down my throat by Hellion cocks.”
“What do you think?”
“I think it’s brilliant. I must have it. What do you want for it? Money? I know you like money. I’ll give you a lot for this. Enough for this lifetime and for your children’s children.”
“No. This is too big for money. I want something special for the Veritas. Something cool. Something apocalyptic.”
Mr. Muninn smiles at me like he might end up celebrating New Year’s after all.
HAVING LEARNED MY lesson with the Jag, I go through the room to Max Overdrive. Upstairs, I toss the bedroom like a nervous B&E guy, shoving broken furniture and video players against the walls. It’s nice to be strong at moments like this. I shove the bed frame and all the furniture into one corner of the room without breaking a sweat. Eventually, when I’ve tossed enough junk into enough piles, I’ve found all my guns. Then the bullets and shells. Then the bottle of Spiritus Dei. I guess the stuff really is as magical as Vidocq said. The bottle is sitting upright and is perfectly clean. Everything else in the room is covered in plaster dust and lying on its side.
The pistols are already loaded with bullets dipped in Spiritus. I go downstairs and find a paint-caked hacksaw in the little storage room behind the porn section. I take it upstairs and start sawing down the Benelli shotgun. Sawing down a simple double-barrel model is easy. You can cut the barrel down all the way to the front of the shell. Turn your long-range shotgun into a short-range blunderbuss. I don’t want to go that far with the Benelli. I just saw off most of the stock, down to the curved part of the grip, so that it fits into my hand like an oversize pistol. I find a ball of heavy twine from under the bootleg table and tie a tight knot around the grip, then tie off a loop so that the gun can hang off my shoulder under my coat. Simple, crude, and deadly. What Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Parker called a Whip-It gun because you could whip it out from under your coat before anyone knew what was going on.
I’m moving, staying in motion, doing things that feel like they make sense, but how do you accessorize for the end of the world? When you’re not sure what to bring, I figure you should bring everything. Four handguns, a shotgun, a Hellion knife, and the na’at feel like a good look for me.
I dip each shotgun shell into a little Spiritus and chamber it. Eight rounds in all. Then I sprinkle Spiritus on the shotgun itself. Why be stingy? I sprinkle Spiritus on all the guns, keeping my thumb over the top of the bottle to control the flow. I’m Martha Stewart spritzing my orchids. While I’m on a roll, I toss Spiritus onto the body armor and my coat, and wipe the rest on my hands.
Wild Bill might have been the greatest shootist of his time, but he had a habit that’s come back to bite me in the ass. Wild Bill didn’t believe in holsters. He carried his Navy Colts tucked in a red sash he wore around his waist, a fashion back then. I didn’t grow up using holsters, either. It’s easy to tuck one big gun down the back of your jeans, but it’s not so good for four.
Time for a sacrifice. I slit both side pockets on my coat a few inches, long enough so that the Colt .45 and the LeMat can rest inside, but far enough out that I can quick draw them. When I get the cuts the right length, I reinforce the interior and sides of the pockets with duct tape.
This is one of the reasons I’ll never own a car. I’m hard on things. Everything ends up broken, ripped apart, modified, stuck together, or shot to shit. I’d be naked as Adam and cold as a polar bear if it weren’t for duct tape.
If anyone ever asks you what a desperate man looks like, you can tell them that he looks like this: He’s down on his hands and knees, digging through the ruins of his exploded bedroom, looking for a cigarette. If he looks hard enough, he might find a real treasure, like a bent, but only half-smoked butt. I hold it up like the Holy Grail, blow off as much of the dust as I can, and fire it up with Mason’s lighter. Like my grandmother used to say, “I am blessed and highly favored.”
I get out my cell and dial Kinski’s number. Candy answers.
“Are you always the designated phone answerer over there?”
“Stark? Doc doesn’t like phones. He thinks they’re too disembodied.”
“I’d love to be disembodied. All my problems solved at once.”
“Ghosts don’t smoke or get to drink Jack Daniel’s.”
“Forget it, then. I’ll live forever.”
“That’s a better plan than what you had the last time we talked.”
“That’s why I called. I wanted to ask about some of that. I know you’re taking the cure and trying to stay clean and all, but we’re still a lot the same, too. Still monsters under the skin.”
“Why do you want to talk about that?”
“I was wondering if maybe you’d like to go do something with me tonight. Some friends and me, we’re going to crash a New Year’s Eve party and kill a whole bunch of people.”
“Why, Stark. Are you flirting with me? You bad boy.”
“We’re going to stop a mass sacrifice, so there’s going to be a lot of bad guys. I figure that having as many experienced killers as possible will help even out the odds. But it sounded like Doc Kinski’s clipped your wings. You haven’t tasted a human in a long time, have you?”
“Doc makes me this amazing cocktail. My iced frappuccino people substitute, I call it. I haven’t fed on anyone in two years, three months, and eight days.”
“If you’ve ever had the itch, here’s your chance. And this time when you’re killing, you’ll be on the side of the angels. Literally.”
“You sure know how to turn a girl’s head.” She doesn’t say anything for a minute.
“Candy?”
“I’ll have to talk to Doc first. I can’t lie to him.”
“I understand. It’s up to you. My friends and me, we’re going to be at Club Avila a little after ten. You know where that is?”
“Everyone knows where Avila is.”
“This party is going to be special. Assuming the world doesn’t end, no one is ever going to forget it.”
“I’ll try to be there.”
“One more thing.”
“Yes?”
“Thanks for treating me like, you know, a person through all this shit. I know that isn’t always easy.”
“You do have a habit of pissing on other people’s welcome mats. But, when a gentleman gives you a booty call to a massacre, it’s easy to forgive him. Ciao.”
I finish my cigarette and start getting ready. I strap on the body armor, which feels tough enough, but closes with Velcro strips. I know this is state-of-the-art gear, but I’d feel more confident if it wasn’t held together with the same stuff they use to fasten kids’ sneakers.
I’m going to feel really bad if this all falls apart tonight. I don’t want the last thing I say to Vidocq and Allegra to be “Get out.”
I tuck the Navy Colt and the Browning into the back of my jeans.
Two more dead like Alice. Two more who don’t deserve it.
The looped cord on the Benelli Whip-It gun goes over my shoulder and the coat goes on over that.
Will