Allison Hurd's Blog, page 22

Bad Puns Get You Banned

That’s not true, actually.  Not where I’m concerned.  You should all tell me your bad puns whenever they cross your mind.  Seriously, they are my delight.  I can’t help it.  I’ve got amazing taste.

For example, while writing a fairly intense scene today, the word “banhammer” got stuck in my head.  In internet communities, the banhammer is when a moderator comes in and kicks you out–pip, core, and all.  You do not pass go, you do not get to collect $200, you don’t get to troll anyone anymore….  It’s a Big Deal.  And now I can’t help but think of a scenario with an actual Banhammer.  In my head, it’d be about Thor.  I told this idea to my friends, and received encouragement instead of the condemnation I should have received.  They suggested a story of Odidn’t, the deity who can’t even (OH NO YOU DIDN’T!) and that nerf bats (another internet term, mostly for games) became deadly to the pantheon.

I think it’s out of my system now.  I can go back to writing about the Lady of Bones.  Oops!  Did I just say that out loud?

Bad Puns Get you Banned

That’s not true, actually.  Not where I’m concerned.  You should all tell me your bad puns whenever they cross your mind.  Seriously, they are my delight.  I can’t help it.  I’ve got amazing taste.

For example, while writing a fairly intense scene today, the word “banhammer” got stuck in my head.  In internet communities, the banhammer is when a moderator comes in and kicks you out–pip, core, and all.  You do not pass go, you do not get to collect $200, you don’t get to troll anyone anymore….  It’s a Big Deal.  And now I can’t help but think of a scenario with an actual Banhammer.  In my head, it’d be about Thor.  I told this idea to my friends, and received encouragement instead of the condemnation I should have received.  They suggested a story of Odidn’t, the deity who can’t even (OH NO YOU DIDN’T!) and that nerf bats (another internet term, mostly for games) became deadly to the pantheon.

I think it’s out of my system now.  I can go back to writing about the Lady of Bones.  Oops!  Did I just say that out loud?

Published! And Exhausted!

My book is available on virtual shelves as we speak! I’m working out the kinks in the print version, and then the physical book will also be on virtual shelves! The future is awesome.

Publishing was a process, let me tell you. I actually hit the button Wednesday in case it would take a couple days to process (it didn’t). And then I doubted every word on every page for two days. Luckily, I’ve got good people, with very convincing recordings of them saying “It’s gonna be fine, you’ll be fine!” Or I assume it’s a recording by now, because it would be a huge time saver for us all if it was.

In the future, I will announce the book about a month after I’m sure everything is done and tidy, for the extra leeway. I will also put it up for pre-order, not because I think people will be in virtual lines for my virtual book, but because it would be REALLY COMFORTING to know that the finished product will be available to people when I say it will be. I will also order proofs early and often of my book. Love me some proofs. Proof proof proof.

So, that’s it, I think! Give yourself time, read the book out loud and on paper so many times people ask if you’re trying to memorize it word for word, and find people who can manage your particular brand of panic. I actually think that’s my life philosophy, not just my publishing advice. Hmm….

COVER REVEAL

I am freaking out over here.  The cover is ready.

Look at that.  It is glorious, is it not?  This is actually a sort of bad picture because WordPress does not like the full version I have and I was too excited to show you to change the format immediately.  I’ll update when I do!  But wow.  Let’s take a moment of silence for Dave Berg’s hard work.

The book will be out FRIDAY!  And the print version should be pretty close on its heels.  I’m sorry, I can’t give an exact date for that because I am the publisher and I am subject to the whims and limitations of a company who does this service with machines I don’t own.  But it will be SOON.

That’s a Wrap

Y’all. It’s done.*  I’ve edited this thing so hard that I know what sort of things cryptographers would find, if my book was used as a cipher.  I’ve got the map plotted for if the clues left in the creases of the pages were somehow turned into a DaVinci Code style mystery.  I’ve counted every single quotation mark.  Twice.  There are 4,598. And no, I didn’t count because of the potential for clues in the 4500th quote, but because there was one that was formatted incorrectly, and one that got miss-paired, and these two bastards nearly completed a heist of my mind.

The cover is also just about done (!!!) So much so that I feel pretty safe saying that at least the Kindle version of the book will be available this month, and if the print version isn’t ready at the same time, well, it’ll be right behind.  It looks so good.  LIKE A REAL BOOK! It looks so much better than if I had tried to do it myself, and if you like it, you should tell Dave Berg so, because he’s been a real trooper.  I can sometimes be a little bit of a handful.  He is also talented, and that’s probably more relevant to your applause.  Anyways, I can’t wait to share it, but Dave says he wants to tweak things a little bit more, and as someone who just went quotation mark by quotation mark through 76,000 words, I respect that.

Now it’s time to go back to my second manuscript which is roughly 1/3 written in the rough but it feels sort of like the end of a season of something on Netflix. I know there’s a lot more to do and enjoy but…how can we just stop this one story? Can a book truly end? Is this what empty nesters feel?

 

COMING SOON! A cover real and the release date!!

 

*Let’s remember that “done” is relative.  I’ll probably read it through one more time, and re-add a comma I took out two edits ago.  And then you’ll probably still be reading it one day and find something that I have now looked at literally a hundred times and never saw, because humans are strange creatures, and I am human. Of course I am. Who said otherwise?

How to Make Your Illustrator Cry (And why you shouldn’t)

In my head, art is magic.  You concentrate really hard at a computer or canvas or piece of wood and then it miraculously becomes a finished product.  It turns out that real life isn’t quite like that.  My friend  and cover designer David Berg has had to explain physics to me about eight times since November.  He’s patiently responded to nearing one hundred of my emails, which all essentially ask him if physics still work the way he keeps telling me, and if he’s positive there’s no way we can work around that.  Amazing, he may be.  Capable of changing the primal forces of nature because it would be convenient for me, he is sadly not.

So, here are a few tips I would like to pass on to you, should you feel that your specific request is perhaps not challenging enough for your designer, and you really want to put them through their paces:

Go ahead and mix up a lot of genres that don’t normally go together, and are hard to describe visually.
Make sure they know you have almost no money to pay them.
Have an awesome idea in your head and demand that someone at least look at all of the internet to see if someone has already made that exact idea and is selling it, with the hopes of buying it and simply attaching a title to it.
Melt down when you fail (predictably) at Step 3.
Ask them at least four more times if they’re sure that pixels, lines and geometry still work according to mathematical rules.
Make sure your title has words of varying lengths so that they never line up right.
Speak to them only in sentences like “The letters shouldn’t be sitting down for this book! This book demands letters ready to sprint!”  and “I’d like the blue to be more wappow! You know?”
Confirm that physics and geometry exist one last time.
Fall madly in love with ridiculous fonts that no one should ever use (except in emails!  You can’t take that away from me!)

And you will have made a very sad illustrator.  I don’t recommend this very much, however. Because while it may effectively weed out the weak, if you do these things to your designer friend, then they will send you joke versions of your cover that will make YOU hysterical, and of course you’ll run the risk of them deciding your project should take a timeout until everyone stops already with the teeth gnashing and the hair pulling.*

Let this be a lesson for us all.

*Ahem, let’s just note that David actually stayed cool throughout this entire thing.  He’s great to work with.  All hair pulling, teeth gnashing and existential crises were entirely mine.  Thanks, Dave!

A Guide To Gift Guides

Chanukah has just passed, and Christmas is around the corner.  Which means my social media is simply chock-full of gift guides and recipes for foods that are so bad for you that I’m proposing we start putting “exercises required to burn this back off” on the recipe as a heads up.  If I want these snowflake-caramel-gingersnap-cheesecake-truffles, but am not willing to do two back-to-back P90X’s for it, maybe I don’t want it enough.  (But oh Lord, I really do want them.)

For example, I will be making these Triple-Ginger Cream Sandwiches.  I will be getting on my elliptical now, and I might just never stop running.

But the gift buying thing really gets me. “Great Gifts for Men,” all seem to be full of things for whiskey, beer, and beards.  Sometimes sports.  And this makes me sad, because I would like things for whiskey drinking, but I’ve been a woman all this time, and I’m pretty fond of that gender association, so I guess I need… *clicks on Great Gifts for Women*… a Midnight Dream scented candle and some more jewelry I’ll never wear.

In the future, we should try making more pastime based lists.  “Gifts for Whiskey Drinkers,” “Gifts for Beards,” “Gifts for People Who Light Candles Regularly” etc.

Can beards be considered a hobby?

Here’s Summer’s List for Santa.  I’m not sure what the name of her gift guide would be.  Murderous Couch Potato?  Traveling Assassin?  Oh, please, internet, please let there be a Traveling Assassin Gift Guide.

Bulletproof vest
Basket of oranges
A travel mug that actually keeps drinks warm
Under Armour shirts and pants
Gift certificate to Outback Steakhouse
Travel guitar
Netflix subscription
Automotive  Care classes
Massage
Fancy bubble bath

Whatever sort of list you might belong on, I hope Santa’s good to you!

 

Feeding Frenzy: Chapter Five-ish

Book cover is well underway!  I don’t have an exact date yet, but we should be on schedule to release in January, 2016.  So close!

Chapter 5

It takes a while for Gregor to be able to get up close to me, what with the sudden run on people who want beer and to tell me in varying degrees of appropriateness that they enjoyed the show.  I make the most of this time, wallowing in my shame.  I try to get to a point of personal acceptance.  I just performed a synchronized dance to a pop song in a crowded bar, in front of a badass of legendary fame.  What did I do to piss the Fates off so badly?  Why can’t we ever just have fun?  How is it that every time my sister and I are just being us, someone from work shows up?  Clem and his untimely roadside meeting, Gregor in our bar…if there wasn’t already an agreement among the others banishers that Lia and I are hacks, there will be now.  Fan-fucking-tastic.

“I didn’t realize how important dancing was for monster fighting,” he shouts in my ear when he can get close enough.  I grimace painfully, unable to muster a better welcome for him.

“Oh…yeah.  Lia and I are experimenting with it.”

He actually guffaws.  Add “guffawing” to the list of things you don’t really know how to define ‘til you see it.  Over the crowd, I see Steve waving.  He gives Lia and me a thumbs up and puts his hand on his wrist, signaling break time.

“C’mon, Gregor.  Wanna chat outside?”

“You betcha.”

I smile weakly and weave through the patrons to the front door.  Outside, we trail away from the crowd of smokers and various drunk people, until we have some modicum of privacy without looking too suspicious.

“So,” I begin.  “What brings you down to Roanoke?”

“Have a job I’m trackin’ through the area.  Got your email.  Thought I’d stop by.”  He cracks a lopsided grin.  “Feelin’ pretty good about that decision, too.”

“Well, always glad to make a fool of myself for other people’s entertainment,” I say sarcastically.

“This part of the gig?”

“Well…partly.  Our target’s been known to hunt in these waters.”

“But you coulda just hung around the bar if that was your plan.”

“I guess.  The other part is we needed some cash.”

“Easier ways to earn a buck,” he observes.

“Not that presented themselves to us faster’n this one.”

He quirks an eyebrow.  “You’re not enjoying the five finger discount?”

I clear my throat a little.  “No, Gregor, no.  Lia and I are sort of doing this all above board.  I know.  This is much more glamorous.  Make sure you credit us when you make the switch.”

“Can you see me fittin’ my gut in that little get-up?”  He laughs again.  “Naw, ‘fraid prostitution ain’t my callin’.”

“Whoa, no one’s prostituting anything.”

“It’s mighty convenient, bein’ able to practice both arts at once,” he continues as if he hadn’t heard what I said, or the warning I had tried to convey with it.

“Listen, dude, tips are for serving food and putting up with the public for hours on end.  That’s the entirety of the services I offer.”

“Of course.  Sure your daddy’s right proud of you girls.”

I cluck my tongue impatiently.  Part of me wants to get in his face for talking shit like that, but Gregor’s a scary mofo.  In person, you can really see how’s he’s cultivated such a reputation.  His face is more scar than skin, and he’s freakin’ enormous.  Seriously.  If he laid off the beer, he could probably give The Rock a run for his money.  “Getting in his face” would in fact require that I get a step stool.

“Gregor, I’m workin’, man.  Why are you here?  Got intel?”

“Might know a thing or two,” he hedges, sizing me up.  Like I said, I don’t have a poker face.  I can lie all right, but trying to get my expressions to convey emotions I’m not feeling is a totally different skill set, and I’m missing it.  I can tell you the pen is blue when it’s black, and believe it.  Ask me to look sad when I’m happy though, and it’s game over.  If ever I was fool enough to try to play cards with a professional, they’d probably know my hand, social security number, guilty-secret celebrity crush and my bank password before I’d finished counting the chips to deal in.  That being the case, he can likely tell that my initial reaction was to clock him as easily as I can see that he hasn’t seen a dentist maybe ever.

“If you’re lookin’ for a pay out, this machine’s closed.  Tell me or not.”  I try to swallow the angry words that threaten to spill out.  Humility is a virtue, after all, and I could certainly use a few more virtues as a general rule.  “But I’d take it kindly if you had anything that could help us find the kids.”

“I know it’s seven people missin’.  I know that whatever it is, it ain’t your garden variety spirit.  And I know if you keep backin’ it into a corner, it’s gonna get messy.”

I look at the large man warily.  “What are you saying?  Do you know what it is?  How do you know about the boys?”

He snorts derisively.  “I can follow a trail colder’n a witch’s teat—even through social media.  I ain’t that old.  I couldn’t rightly say what it is, exactly.  But I do know I been doin’ this a long time, and it smells like a bigger storm than you predict.  I’m sayin’ this now outta concern, but maybe you girls should leave this one to someone who can lift a little heavier.”

That really gets to me.  Sorry folks, we’re closed.  No more fucks to give.

“Hey, how ‘bout you let us decide what exactly our fightin’ class is, huh?  This isn’t our first match, Gregor.  We’re not fuckin’ amateurs.”

“I wasn’t sayin’ you were.  You did good work with those ghuls, I hear.  I’m not tryin’ to take that from you.  Just sayin’ this isn’t a pack of ghuls, is all.”

“Do you know what it is, or not?”  I ask, gritting my teeth in a last ditch attempt to check my temper.

He clenches his jaw and purses his lips.  “No.”  He finally grinds out.

“Well then, I appreciate the warning.  We’ll be extra careful when we find these sons of bitches and send ‘em howling back to whatever weirding will claim ‘em.  Thanks for comin’ out.”

He looks ominously at me, and even as I walk away I prepare to have to deflect a swing, either physically or verbally.  Most people don’t talk to Gregor like that.  I definitely should not talk to Gregor like that.  But more importantly, he shouldn’t talk to me like that.

“Well then, take care now, Summer.  An’ watch out for that pretty little sister of yours.”

He hops back into the cab of his truck and splits before I can think what to say to that.  Was he trying to be civil?  Or is he threatening us?  It’s hard to tell with stoic types like him.  Either way, when I grow up, I’m gonna be big enough to beat it out of him.

Mad, I walk back in, looking for Lia.  I would like to rant for a second, and she should hear what he said in case she can glean anything else from it.  I look at her keg.  Someone else is on it.  I scan the bar area: no Lia.  My earring is vaguely warm.  I check the kitchen, the alleyway behind it, and the bathrooms.  The increasingly familiar feeling that maybe this is really it, I’ve finally lost her rises uncomfortably as I approach hysteria.

“You seen Lia?”  I ask Maggie and a few of the other girls.  Nada.  I am in full on panic mode, with five minutes left of my break.

“Hey, Steve?  Where’s Lia?”  I ask in desperation.

“She went on break a few minutes ago.  Think she headed towards the front door.”

My eyes scan the darkened recesses closest to the door.  There.  I see her.  Relief washes over me for a second, until the earring starts rapidly heating up.  It feels like the breath is being kicked from me and I begin power-walking to her as if drawn by a magnet when I see who else is with her.

His hair is blonde today, and long, tied back in a messy braid.  But the body is unforgettable.  The fucking monster is chatting up my sister.

Photo Credit: Progresschrome 2008

I’ll just leave you here on this cliff.  Look back for a release date, and thanks so much for reading along!

Feeding Frenzy: Chapter Four

Aaahhh!!  December is trucking right along!  So much to do!  Did you know that traditionally Christmas falls in this month?  What’s that?  You say that this is something you knew about, and prepared for?  Well, aren’t you on  top of it!  This is the first year I haven’t had to contend with a school schedule and work and the holidays all at the same time.  So it surprised me.  You’re probably already done shopping and decorating.  You know what you need now?  A break.  Maybe a break in which you read a small chapter of a book?  Yes?  Good!  Here’s Chapter Four!

 

Chapter 4

I run into the motel room, and grab my laptop.

“What’s going—”

“Shh!  Hang on, just a sec,” I cut my sister off.  I re-watch the tape of the first alleged abduction.

“Look at his feet again.”  My sister looks at me like I’ve well and truly lost my mind.  “You looking?”

“Yes, Summer.  As before, I see that he is walking strangely.”

“I can’t freakin’ believe it….He’s a little pigeon-footed, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, I guess.  And?”

“So was the hottie with the bad shoes.”

“And this is…related you think?”

“Yes, because on top of walking with her feet pointing in, she was doing this maneuver.”  I grab a pair of Lia’s shoes.  While we can share clothing, her feet are a full size larger than mine.  I get up and try to walk.  I demonstrate the awkward gait that I can still picture the frisky girl from the party employing.

Lia watches my demonstration and then goes back through the footage.  “Holy shit.  And that’s what he’s doing, too.  That’s what looks so  ‘off’.  He’s stuffing his shoes.”  I nod my agreement.

“But how does that make sense?  All the abductions so far have been by men.”

“Because, I don’t think that’s true.  And I think I just let it get another kid.  Dammit!  Let me see the laptop again a sec?”  Lia hands me my computer and I go to Katie’s Facebook page, scrolling through until I find the guy I’d initially thought might be the bad guy.  His name is Shane.  Shane Collins.  On his page, I see a few conversations with what appear to be his fraternity brothers.

“Yo, u seen Mike?”  Someone named “El Duche La Roche” wrote.

“Nah, think he went home again lol.”  Shane replied.  I keep scrolling.

A week earlier.

“Anyone sees Cody, tell him I got his phone.  Again.”  Reads another post by “El Duche,” with several brothers tagged.

“God dammit!”  I curse.

“What?  What is it?”  Lia moves to peer over my shoulder, trying to find something obviously wrong on the page I’m reading.

“It was right there!  It was totally that girl!  I was going off incomplete information.  Lia.  It’s not just girls gone wild.  I’ll bet Cody and Mike and now Shane are also MIA.”

“How can we have missed it that badly?”

“It’s really not that bizarre, I guess,” I say after I stop bashing my forehead with my palm.  “A girl goes missing after a night with a guy, front page news.  Face plastered all over Facebook land, hoping someone’s seen her.  A boy goes missing after a night with a girl.  Sounds like these guys sort of fall off the face of the planet on the regular.  No one raises the alarm, or at least not as big an alarm.”

“That’s fucked up.”

“Yeah, well, welcome to America.  But don’t you see?  It’s perfect for a monster on the prowl.  Strong willed guy who’s not gonna be missed?  Cody’s been gone almost three weeks—I don’t see him on the news yet.”

I punch the bed.  “Dammit!”  I yell again.  “I could have had the thing.  Stupid Ben and his stupid cigarettes!  Stupid Summer!”

“Whoa, whoa, easy.  You didn’t invent sexism or missing person protocols,” my sister says soothingly.  “And you totally just Sherlocked the hell out of this case.  Now we know whatever it is, it’s not just one guy taking girls, and that the foot thing is more than a quirk.”

“Gee, thanks.  That will make me feel so much better when I’m picturing Shane dying a slow death because I didn’t think of this four hours ago.”

“Listen, rain cloud.  If he’s gonna die slow, then we’ve got time to plan an attack.  I’m going to go sluice off so I don’t want to crawl out of my skin, and then we can strategize.  Try to relax.  We’ll find it, okay?”

I nod and rub my forehead.  So much for a day that started off so well.  I’m exhausted and sticky and the delightful smoke of cigarettes has turned into a disgusting ashtray aura.  I want to sleep but I know that I won’t be able to with at least seven people out there in the monsters’ den.

Ophelia comes back out in a few minutes.

“So, what are your thoughts, and how can I help now?”  She asks from her side of the room.

“Aside from kicking myself, I’m not really sure what to do right now.  I think we should find this “El Duche” guy but he probably won’t be super communicative at three o’clock.”

“Sounds reasonable.  Hey.  Summer.”  I look over at her.  “It’s not your fault.  And we’re gonna find the monsters doing it.  Okay?”

I nod at her, my thoughts elsewhere.

“Hey.  We’ll take care of it.  You can’t lose it on me now.”

That makes me smile briefly.  There have been a few near misses in that department.  “I haven’t yet, have I?”  I reply wryly.

“Miraculously, no.  Let’s keep it that way.  So…can anything else happen right now?”

“No.  No, don’t think so.”

“Okay, then…” she turns on the television and turns out her light.  “Then I’m gonna get my strength for tomorrow.  You should do the same.”

I act like I’m going to follow her advice, changing into pajamas, brushing my teeth.  But when my sister’s eyes close and her breathing shifts into the rhythm of sleep, I continue researching.  I read through months and months of all the public profiles on Facebook of the fraternity and sorority members.  I Google more about the various monsters I can think of that might fit the bill.  And, when I get really desperate, I try to find ways to beat insomnia that maybe I haven’t tried before.  As suspected, all that’s left now is medicine or sleep studies.  Unhelpful, internet.

“Summer.  Hey.  Summer.  It’s just a dream, wake up.”

I bolt upright and brandish the knife I keep under my pillow at the air in front of me, finding my sister at the edge of my bed, hand on my foot.  So.  I guess I fell asleep at some point.  I groan.

“What time is it?”  I ask, leaning back against the headboard.

“About seven thirty.”

I groan again.  I distinctly remember hearing birds chirping while I was still up, which means I got somewhere in the neighborhood of two hours of sleep.  “Then why’d you wake me up?”

“You were having another nightmare.  Looked pretty bad.  You were freakin’ me out, even.”  She looks at me as if she’s trying to diagnose me.  “Do you remember it?”

“Why, did I say something?”

“Nope.  As usual, you just sort of thrashed around and looked like you were screaming but no sound came out.”

I smile wanly.  “No, Lia.  Sorry I woke you up.  You know I never remember.”

The nightmares started shortly after I realized that Lia’s memories were being stolen by one of the fae.  She was little, maybe nine, so I was around twelve.  My current theory is that they are either a curse put on me by the fae that tormented Lia, or that they’re the manifestations of my subconscious turning to mush when it tries to process my life experiences.  Whatever they are, I try not to dwell on them.  Most of the time I honestly don’t remember when I wake up, but the ones I do are always about Lia.  I’ve decided that she doesn’t need to know that.

“’Kay, well, I’m up now.  I’ll go get us coffee,” my sister offers, getting up and throwing on a hoodie.

I start picking up the room a little and going over what clean things I have to wear.  I don’t want to shower until I know she’s back.  I know.  I’m a total mom.  Deal with it.

We’ve got bar work tonight, and case work today.  What time to do normal people our age wake up after a party?  Ten?  Noon?  Noon sounds safe, which means we’ve got four hours until we can do much.  I check my email to see if any of our contacts have gotten back to me in the…three hours since I sent out the requests.  Unsurprisingly, my inbox is still empty.  Most of them either aren’t up yet, because their circadian rhythms work, or they are still working and haven’t gone to bed yet.

“Think I wanna go for a run,” I say to Lia when she gets back.

“After that night?  Okay…have fun.”

“You should too,” I cajole in a sing-song to her.  “You’re gonna regret it if you don’t get moving.”

“Sleep burns calories, I’ll just do that some more.”

In the end, we find something on YouTube after our coffee and do a halfhearted workout for about thirty minutes.  Still better than nothing, I try to tell myself as I head to the shower.

We kill time for a couple hours—going to the laundromat, restocking on protein bars.  It’s big news when we learn that our favorite brand has a new flavor.

It’s ten o’clock and we’re back in our room, flipping channels.

“Think I’m just going to take a small nap,” Lia says, eyes already closed.

“Yeah, getting up this early was dumb.  And stupid,” I mutter, laying down myself.

“Yeah.  This world is poo, with the waking up on weekends and the monsters.”

I sink into blissful oblivion, only to wake up precisely twenty minutes later.  Fuck my life.  I can’t help but agree with Ophelia.  This world is poo.

I spend the next hour quietly resting, hoping at least to recuperate enough energy to get me through a shift at Finnegan’s.  I let my mind wander but it obsessively keeps circling back to feet.

Pigeon-footed.  High boots.  Seductive.  A race of monster that has both males and females and preys on both males and females.  I can feel it staring me in the face and I still can’t see it.

I let Lia sleep as long as possible.  At noon, we drive over to Alpha Psi Mu’s house on Greek Row, the fraternity that “El Duche” belongs to.

Lia rings the doorbell, and a bleary eyed guy answers the door.

“Yeah?”  He says by way of greeting.  Ugh.  The girls at Chi Kappa Kappa have way better manners.

“Umm, we’re looking for a Mr. La Roche?”  I query.  The guy looks over his shoulder.

“Dan!”  He yells violently.  We both jump a little at the sudden torrent of noise.

“What?”  Comes an equally loud bellow from inside the dingy house.

“Two chicks here to see you!”  Nice.  Real nice.  About a minute later, thuds on the stairs indicate the arrival of Dan “El Duche” La Roche.  I try to hide a smile when I see he’s stopped to do his hair and throw on what was probably yesterday’s outfit, judging by the smell of fabric freshener that wafts after him.

“Sorry about that,” he apologizes, smiling at us.  “Jordan can be an ass, and he’s hungover as hell.”  This is obviously the moment we’re supposed to laugh, so I do.  Cooperative witnesses are much less work.  Lia’s laugh sounds more like she just got punched in the stomach.  Laughing at things that aren’t funny is one of the niceties that I haven’t been able to re-teach her since she lost her memories.

“No problem.  We actually had a few questions for you?  See, Shane is my cousin…I’m Summer Collins,” I say, extending my hand.  “We were at a party with him last night, he hooked up with some girl and we haven’t been able to get a hold of him since.”

Dan listens to me closely, his eyes going dark as we mention the girl.

“Sorry, ladies,” he eventually says.  “Shane’s sort of a…free spirit.  Kinda shitty of him to ditch his cousin like that but…”

“Well, do you know where he might be?”

He runs his hands uncomfortably through his hair.  “I…don’t know where any of them go.  Never been invited myself,” he says with another attempt at a reckless grin.

“Any of who?”  Lia pipes up.

“Well…we’ve had a couple guys go missing.  It’s pretty normal for them…Cody will sometimes disappear without his phone, and we’ll get a collect call from him a week later asking for a ride from the airport.  And Mike throws like…tantrums and goes home for a while, then comes skulking back like nothing happened.”

“But…you don’t seem to think that’s the case this time?”  I ask, kicking myself again for not having the sense to stick to High Boots McFrenchalot.

He shrugs and tries to look like he’s not worried.  “I dunno.  It’s just stretching on a little long.  Even Cody’s parents have called, asking if we’ve seen him, and they’re like…real hippies.  No cell phones.  No cable.  Spend more time in a tent than their house.”

“That’s really unsettling,” I tell him.  “You can understand why I’m concerned for my cousin, then.  Is there…is there some place local that he and that girl might go, if they didn’t want anyone to know?”

He snorts.  “You kidding?  We’ve got abandoned buildings out the ass.  Hell, half the mall is empty.  There are hotels and motels and trailer parks, and it’s not like it’s that hard to get from here to somewhere else….”  He shrugs again.  “Sorry.  I wish I could help, honestly.  But I don’t know where they might be, if something is even up.”

Bummer.  I was hoping for more.  “Well, can I give you my number, in case you hear from him or think of anything?”

“Yeah, sure.”

We exchange numbers and I thank him for his time.

In the car, I can feel Lia glancing at me nervously.

“What is it?”  I lead in.

“You’re just taking this really hard, and I’m worried about you.”

I snort.  “About me?  There are seven people who range somewhere between dead, undead, and dying out there.”

“And we’ll find them.”

I nod absently.  “It doesn’t feel Celtic.  I think I’m going to officially remove them from the list.”

“No?  Don’t think they’re going under the hill?”

I shake my head.  “No…the MO is wrong.  If it was the Fair Folk it’d be like…people lured off from the group, or somehow ‘lost’ on their way home.  Making out with a dude and taking him away is a little more vulgar than they tend to be.  I’m also going to say not Hindu.  I’m not seeing a connection between justice or godliness or self-actualization of any kind.  I could be wrong, I guess, but if the Asura were around, they’d have friends, far as I can tell.”

“So, Mesopotamian, Nordic, Greek?”  I nod slowly, trying to figure out how it adds up.

“I’m going to say not Nordic,” my sister muses.

“Why’s that?”

“Similar to what you were saying about the Hindu pantheon.  What’s the joke?  What’s the lesson?  Where’s the giant?”

“Fair enough.  Which means it’s either a smaller pantheon, or Mesopotamian or Greek.”

“The smart money being on one of the big players,” she reiterates as she thinks out loud.

I nod again and park the car in front of the motel.

“So,” I turn to my sister once we’re back in our room.  “Which do you want to get: the goat, or the incense and silk sheets?”

“A sentence not oft spoke.  Since you’re offering, guess I’ll go for the things that don’t pee on other things.”

“A smart choice, and only fair, since you got the raven last time.”

“So much scat,” she whispers, her face tightened with pain at the memory.

I look over the pile of cash we took home from Finnegan’s two nights ago.  It is very small, and it’s not because the bills are large.

“Welp.  I don’t think this will buy us sheets, let alone a goat,” I comment.

“Do you think the Greek pantheon would accept mutton as a sacrifice?”

“Only if it was nice and lean,” I joke.

“Knew you were gonna say that.”

“But in all sincerity, I wouldn’t bet my life on it.”

“Say it, I know you want to.”

“Iocaine powder!”  I assert in a bad British accent.  If you don’t know why that’s hilarious, I am adding you to my List of Things To Inspect In My Down Time, because you might be nonhuman.

“Is that out of your system now?”

“For the moment, yes.  And onto the grim game plan.  We still don’t know what it is.  We don’t have any money for the banishing ritual it will need when we do know what it is.  So, I think we have to let the victims linger another day in limbo and work like hell for a good take tonight so we can end this ASAP.”

“You can really see why other people in the biz take to thievery.  It’d be like playing Sims with the infinite money mod—just…way more enjoyable, with less waiting,” Ophelia grumbles.

“Yes, but I’m not ready to enter in the necessary cheat code for that particular mod into our actual life, though.”

“I am weak…”

“No, no.  Don’t go there, sister-face.  Come on.  Have some self-respect.  Put on your onesie.”

A few hours and energy drinks later, we’re as ready as we’ll ever be for our first official night as beer tub girls.  We head over to Finnegan’s and help the rest of the staff set up for the Saturday crowd.

Everything starts off pretty standard.  In order to be a successful beer tub girl, one must stand behind a huge keg and pour beer with maximum cleavage exposed at all times.  This is apparently critical to the sale and consumption of alcohol.  Lia and I are positioned directly across from each other, which is nice—it means I get to keep an eye on her without having to work too hard.  I am able to perform the enormous task given to me and still adequately worry about the thing we’re chasing.  I even start to get into the job a little.  The energy is good in tonight’s crowd and it feels nice to be part of someone’s normal day.  I’m cracking lame jokes and smiling at lamer come-ons by patrons frequenting my tub, no insinuation intended.

After a couple of hours warming to our new jobs, we’re feeling pretty good.  I can tell Lia’s doing well, enjoying a little attention from the safety of her pedestal.  It’s sort of intoxicating, being one of these people who have no idea what could go bump in the night.  It’s loud, people are happy and ridiculous, and my sister is safe.  I let myself relax a little.

Then, one of our favorite songs comes on.

I catch Lia grooving a little bit.  When she eventually meets my eye, I start dancing too, a little more purposefully, if mockingly.

She issues me a nonverbal challenge and amps it up.  Her keg gets a little more popular as people notice her dances moves and begin cheering her on.

Appropriate escalation is a crucial part of all fights.  Dance offs are no exception.  She finishes her piece and waves me back in.  I stand, one foot on the stool, one foot on the keg and really start putting on a show, popping and locking, getting low.  I almost forget for a second that people are watching us—really, this is just a private war between my sister and me.  But then I look into the sea of faces staring at me with a mix of awe and judgment and start laughing.  I tag Lia back in.

While I’ve learned most of my dance moves from television and parties, she was actually a dancer as a kid.  She can’t remember going to competition or the hours she spent perfecting routines, and that causes me a twinge of regret.  But she still has the muscle memory, and I’ve made sure to re-expose her to all of the dance forms she knew.  So, she gets up on the keg and starts tap dancing like a modern, female, Fred Astaire—so I guess like Ginger Rogers.  The crowd goes wild.  I admit defeat, raising my hands in submission.  She shoots me a victorious grin, arms above her head.  Her cheering public bursts again into raucous applause.  I’m about to step down and get back to being scenery but she makes the universal expression to ask me what I’m doing.  Only then do I realize what she’s intending.

“No…no, that’s okay!”  I try to communicate with her.  She stomps a foot on the keg.  The bridge of the song starts up and people are looking at us expectantly.  She looks so happy and reckless, like the wash of faces I see staring back.  My good sense wavers.  Damn you, Lia.  Then I laugh again and stand fully on the keg, warming up the crowd a little.

“Well then come on!”  I motion to her.

Feeling a little ridiculous, I begin our syncopated routine, performed to date only in motel rooms and cornfields.  After a rhythmic sequence of shakes, rolls, and claps we both step onto our kegs.  Getting our footing is a little weird—motel beds give, but they are not rounded.  She begins pirouetting on hers, while I go into a bridge followed by kicks and headstands.  As the song ends, she is standing one foot on the keg, one foot straight up beside her head, and I pull up into a grueling one-armed handstand on my good side.  We stick it, the bar roaring as the song ends.  We get both feet back onto our barrels, and bow, laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of our public exhibition.

Which is when I first notice Gregor, live and in person, standing in the throng of people with a stupid grin on his mangled face.

 

A Little Cheer

We’re all influenced by the worlds around us.  I have yet to meet anyone who has created entirely in a vacuum, though that might be interesting, too.  I have a feeling, given the prevalence of the story, that they might end up re-re-re-re-re-making “Dances With Wolves” and I’d be thrilled with that, because I’ve liked that story every time someone tells it.

Anyways, my world has been influenced by a lot of the fantasy and sci-fi genres.  I grew up on my Dad’s seventies science fiction, and the sword-and-sorcery stamp on the fantasy world.  I’ve grown with it through the the various iterations we’ve seen over the past several decades, and I love all of those works dearly.  But when there’s bad news all day every day like it seems we’ve had the past couple weeks, I go back to the stories from my childhood.  They are the chicken soup to my cold-ridden heart.

I just found this interview with Carrie Fisher about the upcoming Star Wars movie, and it really cheered me up.   She’s such an unstoppable source of good humor.  I hope you like it!  P.S. Who’s excited to see the new Star Wars movie?