The Foul Mouth and the Fanged Lady (39 page)

5PM hit and I closed up the antique part of
my shop as fast as I could, before some old lady out past her
bedtime could ruin my night asking about my teapot display. The
measly cash in the cashier drawer was almost depressing. I’m pretty
sure it’s going backwards. Still, I pocketed a couple twenties.

“Maybe that’s why it’s going backwards,
dumbass,” I mumbled to myself.

Clicking off the main lights, I walked out
the door and locked it behind me. Outside, the wind whipped about
like some retard on a bicycle, unsure where to go and not able to
figure out the brakes.

Piece of shit city
. Not for the first
time I thought about moving the shop. Ceinwyn told me I had to be a
day’s drive from the Asylum to keep the Lady happy, that didn’t
mean I couldn’t look the other way. North instead of south. East
instead of west. Where else though?

Reno? Desert shithole.

Tahoe? Too close to the Asylum shithole.

San Francisco? Too much water shithole
and
too expensive shithole.

Sacramento? Just plain as shithole as
Fresno.

Oregon? Full of tree-hugging hippies
shithole.

It’s the big problem when you start thinking
about moving . . . you might live in a shithole but that doesn’t
mean you can find another place any better. That’s probably why my
parents never moved during the housing boom when the bankers fucked
everyone, including themselves. Shithole Price is one-hundred
percent shithole . . . but it’s also one-hundred percent
Price
.

And the move would be expensive as fuck all
for me . . . especially the workshop.

Truth is . . . I’m stuck in Fresno, shithole
or not.

It’s my home.
And ain’t that some sad
turtle crap.

I walked by my electric motorcycle. Poor
thing needed cleaned. It hadn’t moved in three days, since I’d been
spending my nights in the shop perfecting new artifact designs.
Don’t worry—for those interested, you’ll be hearing about them
later. Might even be some explosions. Might even be some explosions
on purpose
. For now . . . we got us some ass-kicking fast
approaching.

Next, I went across the parking lot. My
shopping center was small privately-owned stores and a burger
joint, not exactly high volume all day long, but there’s some
traffic, mostly at the burger joint. I paused at the corner, waited
on the light to change, then walked to another shopping center. It
being Fresno, there’s one on each corner.

This shopping center’s more active. It had
four different food places, drive-thrus heavy with cars belching
wasted fumes. They might make almost nothing but hybrids and
electrics nowadays, but that doesn’t mean everyone’s given up on
the old way, expensive gas or not.
Suckers
, I thought as I
headed for a Taco Bell, but I was just jealous not everyone had a
pyromancer ex-girlfriend.

Besides the food joints there was a little
linen place on the end, so cheap they got their stuff from Pakistan
of all places, then the main attraction: a humongous grocery
store—the kind where you got to bag your own shit and you’re so
exhausted by the process, by the time you get home you just want to
leave everything but the ice cream in the car. Exhausting or not
there had to be a thousand cars around the place. People can do
without a lot of stuff, food ain’t one of them.

As example: King Henry Price in Taco Bell
buying himself the whatever mix of beans, meat, cheese, and
tortilla they had on sale for a buck-ninety-nine that month. I used
one of the twenties I stole from my own register to pay for it. Too
bad my debt with Ceinwyn wasn’t itemized. I’d have loved to receive
a call from her complaining about me buying a
grande
whatever-the-fuck instead of making artifacts.

But . . . guy’s got to eat, even legendary
fucking-King fucking-Henry fucking-Price.

I sampled the
grande
whatever-the-fuck in store, decided it was decent enough, then
ordered three more with a large coke to go. Dinner of
champions.

I walked back to my shop same way I’d
come.

Shouldn’t have been a problem. Never been
one before. Only . . . I’m walking through the grocery store cars
and I come across this
grande
off-road truck with those big
tires and mud stains on the sides covering up flames and lightning
tough-guy with small penis crap. Which, okay, ignoring their bad
taste in transportation is no big deal.

But the
grande
off-road truck has
itself two skuzzy looking dudes hanging out in the truck’s bed. One
of them had a sleek black overcoat trying to look all
the
One
, but the other wore holey jeans and an even more tattered
leather coat. Tatterdemalion is Mexican, Overcoat is a white boy.
Neither look like they’re house broken. Look a lot like I‘d have
ended up without the Asylum in my life.

I wouldn’t have cared at all even then, just
one predator scoping out another predator at the watering hole and
walking by, no big deal. Only there was a third guy on the ground
and the asshole hassled at a chick trying to get to her car,
pushing on her grocery cart, getting in her way. The third guy was
another Mexican and of all the shit to wear, he had a businessman’s
suit on. Guess we’ll call him Suit. Suit, Tatter, and Overcoat . .
. had to cause problems, didn’t they?

It’s important for you to understand, I
didn’t do this as a white-knighter. It wasn’t out of a sense of no
honor or righteousness. I wasn’t trying to be the good guy
protecting the little lady. Even if the little lady had a nice ass
and some legs showing more skin than anyone sane ever did in
March.

That wasn’t it at all.

It’s simpler than that. I just can’t stand
bullies.

And those three fuckers? Bullies every
one.

Maybe you’re saying . . .
but King Henry,
didn’t you beat on people all the time back in the day and even in
the present?
Yeah, but I never start it. I might step in it. I
might never back off. Might be a big ass mountain right in the
desert, but . . . never start it. Even with Welf . . . bastard’s
mouth always set off the shot heard round the world.

Suit kept harassing the chick, blocking her
cart with his hips, sliding close to her quick enough to make her
twitch away from him as his hands reached to touch her arms,
working their ways down for a shot at ass-cheek. He started out
asking for her number all smooth-like but after Rejection Number
Three he now demanded it, obstinate in disbelief. Tatter and
Overcoat just laughed through the whole thing like typical
hanger-ons, Overcoat specifically motioning him to go for second
base.

Crap
, I thought, holding my three
grande
whatever-the-fucks and my large coke.
Why couldn’t
this shit happen when I’m wearing all my gear?

I had my static ring, turned back to a
five-second trigger the minute I got away from Annie B, but that
was it. Well . . . and the Mancy itself. I started to pool anima.
Guess a white-knight would worry about
fair
. . . if it was
fair for a mancer to fight three guys with his something
special?

Not me.

Suit, Tatter, and Overcoat weren’t exactly
office workers out of their leagues and they looked like they could
handle themselves. Means for King Henry: all options are on the
table.

Regretfully sitting my Taco Bell stuff on
the dirty ass, trash-covered ground, I walked towards Suit with a
purpose.

I didn’t bother with no pleasantries like
you’re expecting. I might got the Mancy, but that don’t make me a
superhero. There wasn’t going to be any of me asking them to unhand
the lady or ‘
stop criminal
’ fucktard sayings. I just kept
walking towards them, nodding my head when Suit got extra rough and
wrenched his fingers to lock on the lady’s shoulder. Overcoat kept
the cackling laughter up, Tatter had this little sneer twisting in
the wind.

The lady saw me. What she see? What people
usually see. Jeans, a mancer coat of deep brown fabric, a ring on
one hand initialed KHP, a pissed-off face scarred over an eyebrow
and at the cheek, plus dirty eyes ready to ruin lives.

I never made a noise as I slammed a
hammer-fist into the back of Suit’s head. He lost some balance,
hand slipping from the lady’s shoulder and grasping at the shopping
cart for support. I helped him on his way, foot tangling in his
legs to dump him face first on the asphalt.

There’s some shock and awe for you,
bitches.

“Get in your car and go,” I finally said.
The lady didn’t need any more encouragement.

Overcoat stopped laughing, Tatter stopped
sneering. They stared down at me from their place atop the
grande
truck. “Are you out of your
mind
?” Overcoat
shouted at me.

Suit started to push himself up so I kicked
him in the ribs. Not with the top of my shoe with all the cushion
neither, I went toe to rib. Maximum ouch.

Tatter and Overcoat finally got in the game,
dropping down to the ground on either side of the
grande
truck. The way they landed without the slightest bit of a stumble
sent my first alarm bell ringing. Even some freak-of-nature pro
basketball player would have paused at jumping down six-feet and
these guys went right for it.

“
Héroe
started a game with
las
personas equivocades
, didn’t he?” Tatter asked me, popping his
knuckles. “White
chico
couldn’t let no man get a
número
, had to butt his
culo
in.”

“Now he’s going to get himself fucked up!”
Overcoat agreed, sounding a lot like some of the hanger-ons I
attracted in high school back when I fought every week. “Fucked up
by King Vega’s Coyotes!”

There went Alarm Bell Number Two.

Funny thing is . . . in fights, you don’t
have time for alarm bells.

Each came at me from one side, their boy
Suit crumbled behind me. Overcoat was tall and skinny, his clothes
flapping as he reached out like he was going to try for some WWE
bodyslam. Tatter was my size and he came in warily, arms up to
guard his face like he knew how to throw down.

I don’t mean to be racist, but I figured
Tatter for a tougher guy on him being Mexican. I myself being a
white guy and having known lots of white guys over the years, I
knew the percentages of Overcoat being tough instead of just
thinking he’s tough.

Which is why I focused on him. Always take
out the weakest first. Trust me. End them out the equation; get rid
of them before they can screw your algebra up by throwing some
weird ass fraction at you. 23/67ths . . . are you fucking kidding
me?

I had a minute of anima built up and I let
it rip into my hand just as I threw a jab towards his face. I
didn’t even bother to put anything on the punch. All arm. But the
geo-anima did the work for me and suddenly Overcoat ain’t straight
but instead is on the ground with Suit, five feet from where he’d
been standing. The bones in my left hand cracked as the anima
dissipated, iron turning to normal old calcium.

Fuck me with a vampire’s blood tentacle, I’d
missed the feeling.

Months without it was just too long.

Made me cranky.

I stared another pool.

Tatter came in leery, caught me with a kick
against my shin that turned me sideways. It was a measly little leg
kick but it totally shifted my balance. It’s not good to lose your
balance when you got a guy like Suit near your legs. Anyone
surprised that he threw himself forward attempting to knock me to
the ground?

I wasn’t.

I went with the fall; always remember to go
with the fall. Instead of ending up on my back I rolled my way to
my knees. Tatter threw at me again, a wild haymaker that went too
quick over my head.

I backed up as Suit got to his feet looking
all rumbled, businessman after having himself some booze, some
buffalo wings, and some stripper pussy. Overcoat stayed down,
moving in twitches, probably with a jaw that felt broken.
Thank
you, iron fist
. Tatter grabbed Suit’s shoulder to steady him,
his other hand cocked up to punch.

“You
sabes
who you messing with?”
Tatter asked. “You
muerto
, crazy
puta
, you just don’t
know it yet.”

“The girl didn’t want what your friend
offered,” I explained. “She just didn’t speak your asshole
language, see? So I translated for her. In case you still need some
more translation . . . a hammer-fist says, ‘
get your hand off my
shoulder.
’ Want to know what a right cross says?”

Suit puffed himself up. He glanced to his
sides, down at Overcoat, then around us. We’d drawn a small crowd
of shoppers. Couple went for their cell-phones, not to call the
cops, but recording us with cameras. YouTube popularity wins over
civic duty.

“Girl’s gone, no reason to talk tough now,”
Suit said, seeming to realize a camera could turn into a call for
the cops really quick. “Run along, little man, we’ll let you live
this time.”

My hands came back up in front of my face.
“More Translation:
I’m a little pussy who didn’t like the first
bit of my medicine and don’t want to get punched no more
.”

Suit’s face went red. He slapped Tatter on
the shoulder. “Next time the little Princess can watch her own
ass.”

“Don’t talk like that,
sobrino
,”
Tatter warned him. “Vega make you
pagar
if he
entera
about it.”

My pool hit one minute again, plenty for
another personal conjuration, no need to sit around watching them
talk. Camera phone guy was about to get a hell of a show. After
you’ve taken out the weak one, always go for the strongest. Odds
are it will break the rest of the group.

I rushed Tatter, trusting Suit to remember
my first punch and keep off me thanks to instinct. Sure enough, he
flinched back in surprise, which gave me just enough time to slide
into his tougher friend.