Going Shogun (4 page)

“Jesus, a guy hogties his reputational
fortitude one time and gets ostrich-sized all over the settlements,” Forklift
says.  He laughs and throws a couple of fake tummy punches at Blowtorch.  Knife
laughs with them and I’m stuck standing there getting a bunch of angry glances
from the people in line.

I forgot to mention the fact that
Forklift knows everybody and everybody knows him.  As you can imagine, this has
its upside, but mostly weighs heavier on the downside, like an unbalanced
Scales of Justice.  I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve either talked people
out of kicking his ass, or gotten mine kicked trying to help him.  He’s yet to
reimburse me for the cap on my chipped tooth. 

Forklift says, “How ‘bout it,
Torch?  Let me and my friend in for a bit, go shogun on some cool waters?”

Blowtorch pulls the rope back and
says, “Sure thing, bro.  But if you gotta take a leak, do it in the restroom.”

“True.”

“Or on that blue-haired bartender
they call Smurf.  He could use a bath.”

“Diggity bop.”

I follow him, thanking the goons and
shaking hands with them as I pass. 

Once we’re in, I immediately
understand why Forklift wanted to come here.  Out on the dance floor, there are
so many multicolored heads of hair bouncing around to this feather-light trippy
beat, it’s like some whacked out scientist crossbred an ancient bag of candy Skittles
with a handful of Mexican Jumping Beans.

This is Forklift’s army.

The
other
people, the ones
with the hip fashion sense and the desire to
see
and
be seen
, are
either sitting on the neon-purple leather couches or standing against the
mirrored walls, leaning against the white-marbled shelf as they sip their
drinks and whine about the burdens of cube life and The Routine.

For me, while this place is super
smooth in its super smoothness, it’s missing something.  The strobe lights and
fog machines do their jobs providing a sky-is-falling apocalypse feel, but what
Elite really lacks is a sense of escape.  It’s too new and too ultra-cool and
too...
now
to make you feel like you’re actually getting away from anything. 
If this is where everybody goes to get away from it all, they’re heading right
back into the norm.  Completing an open-ended circle.

I pride myself on my non-conformity,
but honestly, sometimes, I’m glad to be like everybody else, which is why I
step up to the bar and order two shots of something called a Wayback.

And after the first one, I realize
why it’s called that.  It’s so strong and tongue-numbing, I jerk my head way
back from the shot glass like it bit me.  The thing tastes vaguely like Wishful
Thinking’s Wintergreen Tomato Popsicles, and I can already feel my stomach
cringing in disbelief that I would drink something like this.

With his back to the bar, elbows
propping him up, Forklift laughs and sips his bottled beer.  He’s got such an arrogant
look I’m half tempted to ask him if he popped the top with his teeth.

I say, “You think any of these
freaks know who The Minotaur is?” then force down my second shot.  The
bartender said they’re supposed to taste different each time, and this one
isn’t so bad, reminiscent of Wishful Thinking’s Banana Mustard, but my tongue
is still shuddering from the first one, and I’m having a hard time enjoying it.

“I got the dilly on three-fourths of
these ragdolls, but I’m opaque with the captains.  Time to wear some
binoculars.  Open a few treasure chests.” 

He sets his beer down and
immediately rolls up on a kitten-faced girly with a watermelon body,
accentuating his approach with a gangsta dip to one side.  I can’t hear what
he’s saying, but I imagine he opened with this line: “Lick me or kick me.  Your
choice.” 

Every damn time, he uses that.  And
it works too.  Mostly he comes away with a thin layer of saliva instead of a
bruised shin; a girl on his arm instead of zesty testes.  He is one goofy
looking bastard, but he’s put his needle in a haystack more times in the past
month than I will in a lifetime. 

It just ain’t fair.

He tells me I can do it too, if I’d
only get myself some sand in my punching bag.  But, seriously, I’m not down
with the type of sexual intimacy that lasts the lifespan of a fruit fly or a
bottle rocket. 
Wheeee-pop
...  It does nothing for me.

I think I could have the anti-wheeee-pop
with Fireball, which is why I’ve been holding out a while.  I’ve got this mad
crush on her that makes my bottom wiggle whenever she walks into a room, but I’ve
yet to grace the subject in conversation.  Maybe when she Ascends, I can take
her out for something expensive, like McDonald’s.  Or maybe I can sit her down
in Wishful Thinking with a plate of Peanut Brittle Shiitake Mushroom Sandwiches
and let her know how I feel.

Forklift pollinates around the room
while I daydream about magic carpet rides with a cute chef, ordering two more
Waybacks in the process. 

He’s a hummingbird looking for a
lead, testing out each source with a twitch and a flit then he darts on to the
next dead flower.

I watch him.  No good.  No good.  No
good. 

And then...Bingo.  Not a positive
hit on an info tip, but rather an R11-1
chica
that Rescinded her R3
status.  On purpose.  She hated the haughtiness of it all.  Her parents lived
in high rises in the summer and beach houses in the winter, drove foreign
sports cars while they dined on caviar and arrogance.

She’s the only girl that doesn’t
throw me into lockdown mode.

After she took a culture-shock
kamikaze
ride into my level, back when I was 11-1, we worked at Wishful Thinking
together for about six months.  There’s some history between us, but not enough
to call Mom about.  I liked her back then, like her now, but she couldn’t
understand my need to Ascend, so I moved up, and she moved on. 

I’ve seen her out a couple of times
over the past year.  We’ll say our hellos and pleasantries and she acts like
she wants to tell me something, because she does this thing where she takes a
quick breath and pauses with her mouth half open.  But then she replaces the
words in her throat with the fruity concoction she flirted out of the bartender
and I go on being disgusted with whatever Forklift is doing with some other
member of his harem.

I see Forklift stop and talk to
Bingo out on the dance floor.  She looks genuinely happy to see him, and I’m
surprised. 

She must be drunk.

I think they’ve met at parties a few
times in the past, but it’s not like they’re on friendship level.  I figure I
should go pay my respects, or rescue her from his teeth. 

A heavy buzz allows me to wobble
over with a dumb grin and maybe a shot glass worth of bravado.  If I were
smooth like Forklift, I might look like I’m sauntering.  Since I’m not, I look
like a zombie walking on overcooked-spaghetti legs.

They’re deep in conversation,
shouting into ears and doing that whole the-music-is-too-loud sign language
that everybody does in a dance club, which is why they don’t notice me at
first.

Bingo is hotter than I remember. 
She’s got on a black, Frank ‘n’ Stein t-shirt (they’re some crappy retro-reggae
band), black pants with more pockets and zippers than God would need, an ankle
bracelet, and a crop circle tattoo on the top of her left foot.  Bright purple
flip flops and bright purple toenails that match the bright purple highlights
in her short, jet-black hair. 

She smells like cotton candy.

Maybe it’s the alcohol, but for a
second, I want her to melt in my mouth.

Then I remember that to her, I’m
part of the Aristocratic Army.  I’m an Untouchable.  I’m stuck in Ascension
Prison.  I’m an Odor-Free Fecal Matter Biped.  All because I believe that
riding the social escalator upward is for the best.

If Bingo could rescind her status
further than 11-1 without doing it illegally, she probably would.  She thinks
the only way we can truly better ourselves is by climbing down the natural
ladder and getting back to where we started.  If it were up to her, humanity
would be grunting at a campfire and poking mastodons with spears.  “Descend
into Heaven, Ascend into Hell,” she says.

Forklift looks up, sees me and
shouts.  “Brick, you ain’t gonna believe this shit.”

I raise my eyebrows to perpetuate my
disbelief.  The music takes a coffee break and dull patron chatter meanders in.

Bingo lifts her chin at me.  “Hey,
Chris,” she says, smiling.

I go, “Hey,” back then ask Forklift
what it was that I wouldn’t believe.

“Guess who’s heard of The Minotaur.”

“Whoa.  Bingo?”

“Yep.  Hotness here’s got the high
up.”

“Not exactly,” she interrupts, “I’ve
heard of him before.”

“Who is he?”

“Ex-Board Agent.”

“No way.”

“Very much way.”

“That should make things
interesting.”

“Definitely,” Forklift says.  A beat
rockets out of the speakers like an Old Faithful eruption and he begins to bob
his head.  At first, watching him reminds me of a bowling ball rolling slowly
down some steps.  Then, a tidal wave of music Big Bangs into the room, filling
every empty space, bouncing off walls and bodies, creating a cacophony of
ecstasy.  Forklift flails out onto the dance floor.  Every movable joint in his
body is in rhythm with the beat as the strobe light flickers, turning him into
a warp speed slide show.

It looks so cool I almost shiver.

I step in closer to Bingo and lean
over to yell in her ear.  I can smell my alcohol breath Ponging back at me and
I hope that she can’t catch a whiff.  Her earlobe wants me to nibble on it, but
I wink and say, “Maybe later.”

“What?” she yells around the music.

I blink and look again.  No talking
earlobe.  Normal on all fronts.  5x5.

Damn
, I think
.  What was in those
drinks?

I wobble a little bit then focus
like a magnifying glass on an anthill.  It takes all I have to get the words
out.  “Where can we find this Minotaur guy?”

She smiles and shrugs.  I think she
didn’t hear me, so I ask again.  This time, she yells back, “I don’t know,” and
it makes my eardrum tickle.  “Oh wait, you see Mr. Androgyny over there,
leaning up against the wall?”

“Mister who?”  I wobble around and
see that she’s pointing at what looks to be an R11-3 blob wrapped in a red parachute. 
Or a Killer Tomato in drag.  She/he’s not easily hiding the fact that he/she’s
a man, but it’s trying awfully hard.  A black wig, or maybe an alien’s pubic
patch, is wrapped around a bulbous head that’s ripe and plump.  Robin breast
eye shadow.  Over-inflated cheeks with two rouge spots that look like Wishful
Thinking’s Strawberry Coated Chicken Chips.  A cavernous smile with blistering
white stalactite and stalagmite teeth; they seem to be the only thing that’s
pure within this walking Picasso.  Mr. Androgyny, using a limp wrist, smacks a
suitor playfully with one hand and readjusts a beach ball breast with the
other.

“That guy...girl?” I say, sounding
drunker than I intend.

“Forklift knows everybody, right?”

“Yep.”

“In the world of connections, Forklift
is Jesus, and that’s God,” she says, pointing again. 

“Aren’t the Father, Son, and Holy
Ghost all the same?  Technically?”

“Shush.  You know what I mean.”

“I should just walk up and ask?”

“Why not?”

I hesitate and let my chin hang out
with my chest.  The song has ended, and I watch Forklift walk off toward the
bathroom, cell phone up to the side of his head.  He’s on that thing so often
he’s joked about making it an earring.

“What’s the matter?  Scared he’ll
hit on you?”

“It’s not that, it’s...man, I don’t
know if I should even be talking about it.”

“Talking about what?”

I’m out of my gourd hammered, but a few
remaining brain cells that aren’t fuzzy are telling me to shut the hell up.  Do
I listen?

Guess.

Because her eyes are focused on
mine, I say, “Did Forklift tell you why we’re looking for The Minotaur?”

She shakes her head.

Because her eyes are the color of Wishful
Thinking’s Blueberry Mayonnaise Crepes, I ask, “And he didn’t tell you what
happened tonight?”

“No?” she says, twisting it into a question.

Because her eyes have more effect on
me than a thousand Waybacks, I tell her everything.

***

Forklift and I are standing in a
dark corner while Bingo gets another beverage.  He’s scolding me and it’s an
abnormal sight.  I’ve never seen him on this side of righteous before.  He’s so
riled up, he can’t even form a complete sentence.

“Brick...what were...why did...what...are
you...”  He pauses for a moment, rubs a hand across his face.  Then, a ratta-tat-tat
blast of curse words.  “Damnshitdamn, all right?  Damnshitdamn.”  He flings a
hand in front of me like he’s shooing flies away from Wishful Thinking’s Lemon
Meringue Potato Salad.