HoodieRipper - Punk Romance Stories by Chris Eng

This is part of the current window display at Legends Comics in...

Thu, 25 Apr 2013 17:47:09 -0400

This is part of the current window display at Legends Comics in Victoria, BC. Please make this display disappear by buying several copies of my book. (NB. I can’t guarantee that Legends won’t order more copies to replenish their stock if you do.)

Also, if you want to get a copy of Molotov Hearts but don’t live in Victoria, you have a few options:

ONLINE:

You can order it through my Createspace site (which pays me the most money, so I encourage you to do so). It is also available through Amazon.com, Amazon.ca, Amazon.co.uk, Amazon.fr, Amazon.de, Amazon.es, and Amazon.co.jp (and presumably others, but I’m not sure).

BOOKSTORES:

It’s distributed through Ingram, so if you want to give your Friendly Neighbourhood Bookstore your business rather than a monolithic online corporation, you have that option too! If you put in a request, they should be able to look up all the details and order in a copy for you!

(Also, residents of Vancouver and Toronto should have other alternatives soon! More info on that as it comes in.)

Thanks, everyone! DIY! ILU!

MOLOTOV HEARTS IS NOW AVAILABLE ONLINE

Thu, 18 Apr 2013 20:37:09 -0400

You read that right—you can now go online and buy your very own physical copy of Molotov Hearts! Here’s the address: https://www.createspace.com/4220437 Only $11.99 plus shipping! So great a deal! Please order one if you can, but definitely share the link if you think is awesome!

It’s not available on Amazon yet—that should be next week. I’ll let you know as soon as it happens. Also, it will be definitely available to order through brick and mortar bookstores, but that may take a little longer. I’ll try to keep you posted on that front too. Ebooks are coming as soon as I can hammer the formatting down and make it look all pretty—that’ll be within the next couple of weeks.

If you live in Victoria, BC and want a copy, it will be available at Legends Comics. They’ll have the first batch next week (probably Wednesday, April 24th or Thursday, April 25th)! I’ll be talking to other retailers in other cities to try to get it available for all y’all as well.

HOT DAMN! This is happening, folks!

I got the advance proof of Molotov Hearts today, so the answer...

Tue, 26 Mar 2013 18:19:19 -0400

I got the advance proof of Molotov Hearts today, so the answer to the question of when you’ll be able to get your own physical copy of it is: SOOOOOOOON!!!

I started writing the new HoodieRipper novel today!

Thu, 01 Nov 2012 19:16:51 -0400

I’ll be done writing it by the end of the month. It’s got a mostly new set of characters from Molotov Hearts, and this time it mashes up punk and K-pop while giving you the healthy dose of romance you expect from the Westport punk community. (I’m totally serious. Yes, K-pop. If you don’t believe me, I’m listening to this pretty much on repeat right now.) This book is also my project for National (International?) Novel Writing Month, so if you’re doing the NaNoWriMo and want to say hi, my username is ‘chriseng’. More details soon!

Hahaha, yikes.

Wed, 10 Oct 2012 17:18:16 -0400

Hahaha, yikes.

Test dialogue from the next HoodieRipper novel

Wed, 10 Oct 2012 17:06:00 -0400

Ember: “Isn't holding auditions kind of contrary to the philosophy of bands like Bikini Kill who wanted to make it so anyone could go out and form a group?”

Fen: “First off, if someone wants to go out and form a riot grrrl band, I'm not stopping them. They can do whatever they want. I'm pretty sure people who are still figuring out their instruments start bands all the time. If you like, think of this as a giant art project where we need people of different skill sets to be able to work on it effectively. Second, everyone in Bikini Kill is my mom's age. They were practicing their feminism a generation ago. The world's changed since then. I admire them and I'm grateful for their contributions, but they're not the beginning and end of punk feminism any more than the Sex Pistols and Ramones are the alpha and omega of punk as a whole.”

Thanx

Fri, 05 Oct 2012 13:32:09 -0400

On a normal week, this would be the point where I’d publish a new chapter, but there aren’t any more. Molotov Hearts is done. And that fills me with little bits of a variety of emotions. Happiness, relief, sadness and overwhelming gratitude are just some of the things I’m feeling at the moment.

The first three of those are a little on the nose to bother dissecting, but it’s worth taking a minute to address the last.

I’d like to thank everyone who read my book online, regardless of whether or not they ever messaged me about it, clicked the little red hearts on Tumblr, or ‘liked’ the posts on Facebook. The fact they read it at all means literally the world to me. I’ve always dreamed about being a novelist but there was a point not so very long ago when I didn’t think I’d ever get a book written; they all died 1/4 to 2/3 done. Cracking the code and figuring out how to finish them was an absolute game-changer in my life. I’m serious. Everything is different now. But regardless of whether I ever make a single penny off my writing from this point on, the goal has always been just to have people reading my stuff, and that’s all of you. So, from the bottom of my heart, thank you for being there and following along.

There are so many other thank-yous that will go into the finished version of the book (all the people who helped me shepherd Molotov Hearts from a random idea in my head to something that I’m proud of), and I am eternally grateful to every single one of them, but this book would be nothing without people who care about Jenn, Spit and the punks and so I wanted to express my gratitude to the readers up front.

If I could take you all out and get you drunk in public, I’d do it, but fortunately (or un-) you’re just going to have to settle for a sloppy internet gender-neutral “I love you, man.”

Up the punx,

Keep the faith,

Smash the state,

Be excellent to each other,

x0,

Chris

Molotov Hearts - Part III, Chapter 9 & Epilogue

Fri, 28 Sep 2012 12:52:40 -0400

by Chris Eng, illustration by Karlene Harvey

Click here for the previous chapter.

CHAPTER NINE

The four of them descended the stairs during ‘Independent Women’. The basement was a zoo. Word of the cover song had made the rounds in the community since their last show and had elevated the gig to nearly legendary status. The crowd tonight was evidently pleased about the repeat performance.

There were no wallflowers. People had either stayed to dance or left for the comfort of the yard. Considering how tightly it was packed down there, Spit assumed most people had chosen the basement. He’d never seen anything like it. Where there would normally have been a rigidly-defined barrier of people on the edges of the pit, watching the band and pushing people back when they careened away from the centre, there were now just people being less intense in successive waves. The nucleus of the pit was a maelstrom of arms and heads, thrashing to such a degree that from his vantage point on the stairs, Spit thought he could see steam coming off them. By the time the crowd reached the walls there were row after row of people dancing in place, alone with themselves and the music. It was fucking miraculous, he thought to himself. Becky, dancing off to the side of the band, looked beatific.

MJ had been in a good half-dozen bands before Peak Oil and he’d seen her go through the motions but tonight she was at the top of her form, playing like she had something to say, something to prove, something to share.

And Jenn? Jenn was radiant. Spit had never seen her so alive, so filled with energy.

The crowd sang along with the chorus and it was almost deafening. Spit let out a long peal of laughter at the sheer fucking fantastic nature of it all and he ran down the stairs, dodging out of the way of people as he went, hopping and sliding and wedging himself through impossible gaps to make his way to his girlfriend, his love.

He arrived as the song ended and she looked up at him, her hair slicked back with sweat, her shirt soaked through, the mic clutched tight in her hand, clad in the vest she’d worn the first day he’d laid eyes on her, and he thought he’d never seen anything quite so beautiful.

“Thank you,” Jenn said. “We’re Peak Oil. Good night!”

The crowd erupted, cheers and applause shaking the house from its foundations on up, and then Spit was in the band area and he wrapped his arms around her and she was hugging him and their lips met and it was as if all of the energy from everyone in the house was being channelled through them like a live conduit, as if the applause was for them and as they kissed someone started chanting “Peak Oil” and then the whole crowd was chanting it and Spit backed out of the band area, letting Jenn and the band have their moment. He ended up next to Becky and she put her arm around his waist and rested her head on his shoulder and he reached up and ruffled her hair and they both watched as their best friend basked in the adulation of their entire community.

***

“Well, someone should do something about her,” Becky said to Spit and Ember after the crowd grudgingly accepted there weren’t going to be any more Peak Oil songs that night and dispersed. As Skatewitch prepared for their set (which, Becky noted, was going to be short, since there was no way they could follow that up), Ember discovered Claire passed out behind the amp stack.

“Looks like the trauma was too much for her,” said Ember.

“Looks like the gin was too much for her,” said Spit, pointing at the mickey sticking out of her back pocket.

“Did any of her friends stick around?” Ember asked.

“I’ll go check,” Spit volunteered.

“You know who they are?”

“If they look anything like her, I don’t think they’ll be too hard to spot.” Spit headed for the backyard.

Becky lifted Claire’s head to make sure she was still breathing and regarded the moustache drawn in Sharpie with only a small amount of surprise. “Really, Ember? Seriously?”

Ember gaped at Becky with wounded pride. “Why do you automatically assume it was me?!”

“Because that’s what you do to everyone who passes out with their shoes on.”

Ember giggled. “Okay, it was me.”

“That was the best you could come up with?”

“I had all of three seconds. It wasn’t like I was working on it all night or anything. Besides, I said I’d get her back for fucking with my friends.”

Becky smirked. “Yeah, that moustache showed her.”

“Whatever. Jenn put her in her place thousands of times worse than I ever could.”

A minute later Spit walked up marching Claire’s two male friends ahead of him.

“They were hiding around the side of the house.” He rolled his eyes. “Anyway, here’s your friend,” he said to them. “Get her home.”

They leaned in and each wrapped one of her arms over their shoulders, dragging Claire to her feet.

“Two things,” Spit added as they were getting ready to leave. “First: never come back here. I’m sure you weren’t planning on it, but just so we’re clear. Be sure to let her know when she wakes up, too. And second: if you try to blame any of this on us with your parents or the authorities, or if, for that matter, anything comes back at us in any way whatsoever, we’ll hold you personally responsible and mobilize everyone here tonight to come to your school and stomp you into the dirt. Got that?” They nodded their heads in spastic terror. “Good. Now fuck off.”

“Ever the diplomat,” Becky said to Spit, picking up her guitar.

“I thought I went pretty easy on them. You seen Jenn?”

“I thought I saw her heading upstairs,” Ember said, tuning her bass.

“Right, thanks.”

He found Jenn in his bedroom. She had his window open with her arms folded on the windowsill, head resting on them, staring out into the night.

“Hey, you.”

She looked back and smiled. “Hey. That was pretty good, huh?”

“I’ve honestly never seen anything like it.”

“I looked for you in the crowd, but didn’t see you ‘til the end.”

“Yeeeeah. I had to deal with something.”

“Oh?” she asked.

“Your mom showed up.”

A worried look settled over Jenn. “Oh… What happened? Where is she?”

“I had some words with her. And then Chezz, Sarah and Kathleen backed me up and we asked her to leave.”

“Kathleen stood up for me?!”

“Dude, Kath was ready to beat the living shit out of her.”

“Whoa.” A tiny smile she knew was inappropriate danced around her lips but she didn’t make it go away. “And then she left?”

“Hell no! That’s when your dad showed up and shit got real.”

“WHAT?!”

“Yeah, he said that you were in good hands with us and then told her she was leaving and she might want to go quietly considering the hour’s worth of violent threats he recorded her making without her knowledge. Then she left. And then your dad shook my hand.”

“Wow.”

“He also asked you to call in the morning. He said he’d make sure he was the one answering the phone.”

“All that happened while we were playing.”

“I made it back in time to see the end of your last song.”

“Holy crap.” Her face scrunched up like she was deep in thought.

“Do you need a few minutes? That’s a lot of intensity to digest.”

“Fuck no,” she yelled, grabbing a pillow and hitting him with it. “Skatewitch are on in a few minutes and I’ve never seen them play! I’m not missing that!”

“Okay, okay! I just wanted to make sure.”

A devilish grin crossed her face as she reached out and grabbed him by the front of his pants, popping the button open. “Of course, if I was only a few minutes late, Becky might forgive me…”

“A few?”

She slid the zipper down. “No more than three or four.”

“We’ll have to be fast.”

“You’re still talking and I’m still wearing all my clothes.”

Ten seconds later she wasn’t.

EPILOGUE

Jenn perched on the wall of the bridge spanning the duck pond in Wolfe Park and tossed chunks of bread onto the water, which the birds nommed up happily. Two months had passed since Peak Oil’s second “first show” (as it came to be known) and nothing much had changed and everything had.

“My dad wants to have you over for dinner this week,” she said to Spit, who was leaning over the wall next to her.

“Is your mother gonna be there?”

“No, they finally signed the divorce paperwork. She’s going to stay at my aunt’s in the guest room. She’s moving out in the next couple of days.”

“What about the house?”

“My dad’s gonna sell it and they’re gonna split the money. I guess my dad and I will move somewhere in town.” She let out a deep sigh.

“I’m sorry it turned out this way,” he said, reaching up and taking her hand in his.

“I’m not,” she responded quietly. “She wanted me to be who she wanted me to be. My dad loves me for who I am. You love me for who I am.”

“I do.”

“And I love you for that.” She leaned over and kissed him long and hard on the lips.

“Is that the only reason?”

“Well, that and your nice ass,” she giggled.

“Uh-huh.”

“And your clothes. They’re kinda baggy on me, but you’ve got a lot of cool shirts I can borrow.”

“Anything else?”

“I’ve gotten a lot of sweet music from raiding your music collection.”

“You know, I could just push you off this bridge and walk away.”

“But you wouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because you love me!”

He looked at her and knew that it was true. “I do,” Spit said.

There is only one chapter left to post in Molotov Hearts.

Fri, 21 Sep 2012 13:32:09 -0400

That makes me feel weird. I can’t put it any more concretely than that.

Molotov Hearts - Part III, Chapter 8

Fri, 21 Sep 2012 12:54:00 -0400

by Chris Eng, illustration by Karlene Harvey

Click here for the previous chapter.

“I hear your girlfriend’s in Peak Oil now.”

Spit and Chezz sat on the front porch in deck chairs, cans of Pilsner in their hands, their feet up on the railing.

“Yup, apparently.”

“I heard they’re playing tonight.”

“In just a couple of minutes, yeah.”

“Want to head inside?”

“Enh—we’re still good for time. We can go when I’m done my beer.”

“You’re a lucky bastard, you know,” Chezz said respectfully.

“I am.”

“She’s hot… and smart…”

“Dude, if you hit on my girlfriend, I’ll break your legs.”

“I can still fuck with my legs broke.”

“Not if I tear them off and beat you to death with them.”

Laughter filled the night air and they fist-bumped each other.

“Hey, man, seriously—how come I can’t get a girlfriend like that?”

“Because you’ll bang any girl in sight, and consequently Snickers is the only one who ever wants to come back for seconds.”

A car screeched around a corner somewhere in the distance.

“I like having sex with different girls.”

“And therefore nice girls want nothing to do with you. You see how this all fits together, don’t you?”

“Nope.”

“Yeeeeeeah. You should probably just let it go.”

Thin strains of music came up and out of the walls.

“Hey, are they starting?” Chezz asked.

“Sounds like it. Let’s finish up and head in.”

The screeching came again, much closer this time, and a Range Rover tore up the block and skidded to a stop in the road in front of them.

“What the–” Spit managed to get out.

As they watched, a woman exited the SUV, slammed her door shut and stomped toward them.

“Oh, shit,” Chezz said quietly.

“What?”

“Dude, that’s Jenn’s mom.”

Spit was out of his chair like a shot, hurtling down the front steps and blocking the path. Chezz got to his feet but waited to see what would happen. He didn’t have to wait long. Jenn’s mother cleared the gate and started to move past Spit when he sidestepped her, blocking her way.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“I doubt it. Where’s my daughter?”

“Who’s your daughter?”

“Jennifer McNabb. Tell me where she is. I’m taking her home.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

That was not an answer Hesther had been expecting. In fact, it stopped her dead in her tracks. “What?”

“I don’t think you’re leaving with Jenn. She’s busy right now and can’t be disturbed. But I’ll tell her you stopped by.”

“Do you know who I am?” Venom dripped off every word.

“Chezz, backup,” Spit said calmly to his friend. He looked back at her as Chezz hurried through the front door. “I don’t care who you are. She’s singing with her band right now. She’s unavailable.”

“I’m her mother, you little shit.”

“That’s nice. I’m her boyfriend.” He took a sip of Pil. The silence between them was a physical presence.

“You let me through right now or I swear to God–” White-hot rage manifested itself on her face.

Spit sipped his beer, implacable. “You’ll what? You’ll beat me the same way you beat her? Yeah, she told me all about you.”

“Are you planning on stopping me all by yourself?”

“If I have to.”

Footsteps sounded behind him on the porch. “You don’t have to.” Sarah walked up next to him, with Chezz and Kathleen following close behind.

“Fucking CHRIST. Who the hell are you people?!”

“We’re Jenn’s friends,” Sarah said simply. “This is private property. We’re asking you to leave, by the way.”

Jenn’s mother started to laugh and the laugh built to a cackle and then it seemed to roll on and on and on. “I’m sorry, did you miss the part where Jenn doesn’t have any friends?!”

“We must have,” Spit said, “because everyone who lives here is her friend. And we’ll take steps to make sure she isn’t hurt. By you. By anyone.”

The laughter stopped. “You’ll take steps?”

“We’ll do what we have to.”

“Enough of this bullshit.” Jenn’s mother took a step toward, as another car squealed around the corner, accelerated up the street and pulled up behind the Range Rover. Jenn’s dad got out and started marching toward them.

“Hesther, this is over. Get in the car.”

“Fuck off, Oliver. Not until I get Jennifer out of there.”

“Leave Jenn alone. She’s with her friends. There’s plenty of time to deal with this later.”

“What?! THESE PEOPLE?! These are her friends?! I’d sooner trust her in the company of fucking vipers! These people are trash!”

Kathleen took a drag on her smoke and exhaled. “Takes one to know one.”

Jenn’s mother rounded on her. “You know what she did to me today?! That little whore punched me! So, I’m going in there and hauling her out. And she knows the punishment she’ll be receiving from me like the back of my hand.”

“If you were my mother,” Kathleen stated evenly, “you’d be lucky to still chew solid food.”

“But you’re not my daughter. And if you want a piece of me, I’ll break you like I’ll break her.”

Kathleen took a step forward so she was even with Spit, and stared down at Jenn’s mom. She took a pull on her cigarette, dropped it on the path and ground it under her foot. “Oh, you reeeeeally don’t want to go down that road, you old drunk.”

“Hesther, isn’t it bad enough that you fought your daughter today? Now you want to fight her friends too?” Oliver put his hand on his wife’s shoulder and she whipped around, snarling.

“Don’t you fucking touch me, you spineless bastard. You want to leave her in the company of these people, fine—you go home. But I’m going in there to get her and she’s coming home with me.”

“No. She’s not.”

“Well, maybe we should get the police involved, then. Maybe I should get the police to go in there and get her out. Who do you think they’ll believe? Me or,” she waved her hand at the small group in front of her, “them?”

“What do I think?” Jenn’s dad repeated. “I think if you call the police, it’s going to come out that you picked a fight with your daughter and then, once you’d figured out where she was, went there and repeatedly threatened violence against her and the occupants of the house.”

“So?! They’ve got my daughter! I’m upset!”

“More or less upset than you were when I recorded you making the same threats against her for the better part of an hour?”

He pulled the recorder out of his pocket and showed it to her.

She made a lunge for it, but he jerked it out of her reach and put it away.

“No.” Jenn’s dad crossed his arms. “I don’t think the authorities would want Jenn in your care at the moment. I don’t either.”

“Wouldn’t want her in MY care?!” She pointed at Spit. “He’s fucking your daughter!”

Spit and Oliver regarded each other.

“Is she safe in there?” Jenn’s dad asked.

“She’s playing right now. That’s her singing.”

Oliver cocked his head slightly to hear the music better and just for a second, when the lone streetlight reflected in his eye, Spit thought he could see moisture welling up in it. Jenn’s dad looked back at Spit and nodded. “Hesther, get in the car. We’re going home.”

“WE’RE NOT LEAVING WITHOUT JENNIFER!”

Oliver McNabb’s eyes grew wide and a singular determination that Hesther had never seen before manifested itself. “Yes,” he said, his voice verging on a growl. “We are. I don’t care what these people look like; if they’re her friends and she says she’s safe with them—safer than with her own family—that’s good enough for me. I have suffered for your happiness and I have let things go for the sake of our marriage that I shouldn’t. I have let you do things to our daughter that I am ASHAMED OF. But it stops now. RIGHT NOW. You will not hurt Jennifer again. This is over.”

Sad acceptance coloured his voice. “We’re over,” he said.

Anger and confusion dominated her expression in equal amounts. “Pardon me?”

“I’ve had enough, Hesther. I’m leaving you. And Jenn’s coming with me.”

She raised her arm and tried to lash out at him, but he reached out and caught it. “No. This is finished. Get in the car.” He let go of her and it was true; it was all finished.

Hesther looked at all of them in turn, rage overtaken by sorrow and frustration, and as her gaze settled on her husband, she found none of the love or even fear she once knew. It was just pain and anger. She started to cry and once she started, she couldn’t stop. Tears rolled out of her in torrents.

His voice softened the tiniest amount, but Oliver still only had one word for her: “Go.”

She did. She walked back up the path, sobbing and crying, and let herself into the passenger side of the Range Rover.

Oliver turned to the punks. “I’m really sorry about all of that.”

Spit nodded.

“Is it true what she said?” Oliver asked him. “Are you Jenn’s boyfriend?”

“Yeah, I am.”

Oliver put his hand out and Spit shook it firmly. “Take good care of her, okay?”

“I will.”

He looked up at the rest of the group. “That goes for all of you.”

The punks nodded.

“Tell Jenn to call home in the morning,” he said to Spit. “Tell her I’ll be the one who answers the phone.”

“I will.”

Oliver smiled a small smile and walked toward the gate.

“She always says good things about you, you know,” Spit called after Jenn’s dad, who stopped without turning around. “She loves you a lot.”

Oliver nodded and made his way to the SUV. Getting inside, he started it up and drove off.

“JESUS CHRIST,” exclaimed Chezz. “WHAT THE FUCK?!”

“Wow,” said Kathleen.

“So, what do we do now?” asked Sarah.

“We go back inside,” Spit said matter-of-factly, “and give Jenn all the support her friends can offer.”

Click here for the next chapter.

A thought I had...

Sun, 16 Sep 2012 13:54:20 -0400

I should just start writing fanfic for Molotov Hearts and ship random characters together. Spithleen! Chember! Sarah! (Sarah’s OTP is with Sarah because she kind of hates everyone.)

Molotov Hearts - Part III, Chapter 7

Fri, 14 Sep 2012 12:53:00 -0400

by Chris Eng, illustration by Karlene Harvey

Click here for the previous chapter.

“Do you need us to stick around?” Steve and Rich watched Jenn and MJ go over the song structure for ‘Homestead Security’ for the third time, and while they were excited to play the show, Jenn transcribing lyrics and MJ playing the songs at half-speed in Becky’s room wasn’t gripping them. Steve continued, “’Cause A Challenger Appears are on right now and I really want to see them.”

MJ looked up. “I’m sorry guys. Yeah, of course. You know the songs anyway and Jenn already has them down better than Lauren did.”

“Cool. See you down there.” The guys took their leave and the girls continued to work.

The strains of A Challenger Appears, Westport’s newest progressive hardcore band, filtered up through the floorboards and MJ and Jenn played over them, both of them single-minded in their desire to lock the songs down solid.

“Okay,” said MJ. “You know ‘Independent Women’ and you’re pretty good with ‘Homestead Security’. Should we move on to ‘My Salute’?”

“Yeah, let’s keep going,” Jenn said, still making notes on a sheet of loose leaf. “There’s time to go back if I need a final once over.”

“Right. So, the introduction starts like this…” MJ strummed a few notes on her guitar while Jenn watched. “Then Steve comes in on drums and…”

***

Becky and Ember staked out the kitchen, passing a bottle of rye back and forth. “That one,” Ember confirmed, pointing out the window. “The chick with the purple fucking highlights.” Her voice was gravelly but somehow girly, as if Hello Kitty got a vocal cord transplant from Tom Waits. She brushed the copper sweep out of her eyes and took the bottle, swigging deeply.

“Yeah,” Becky said. “She was all up in my face with her Bring It On attitude when I visited Jenn. Apparently she’s been making Jenn’s life a living hell for years. She even punched her in the throat after school today.”

“Want me to punch her back? Sounds like the bitch deserves it.”

“No need. That’s why Peak Oil’s borrowing our stuff.”

“Revenge?”

“It’s sweetest when it’s served up cold.”

“Awww, but now you’ve got me all worked up! I want in on the fun!”

“Just leave it to Jenn—it’s her fight. Besides, you don’t even know the skank.”

“She fucked with my friends. Good enough reason.”

“Tell me you’re not going to do anything, Ember.”

“Don’t make me lie.”

Becky sighed. “Then tell me you won’t do anything until Jenn has her shot.”

“That,” said Ember, passing the bottle back, “I think I can handle.”

***

Jenn’s dad was driving like a psycho, but there was nothing he could do about it—Hesther was speeding too, and if he didn’t catch up to her he’d be powerless to do anything at all. But there she was, the back of the Range Rover visible about ten cars ahead. Now he just had to move up, maintain position and follow her from a safe distance. Assuming she didn’t lose her shit and do something crazy. That was probably a big assumption. Gritting his teeth, he stepped on the gas.

***

Band sounds stopped coming up through the floorboards and Jenn and MJ looked at each other. “I think that’s our cue,” MJ said.

“I think you’re right,” agreed Jenn.

“You ready? You didn’t really have time to adjust last time. You might’ve been performing in a state of shock.”

“I’m good,” said Jenn, throwing a couple of boxing punches at the air.

Becky tromped up the stairs to find MJ taking apart her guitar setup. “Hey, thanks. You ready?”

Jenn nodded. “We’re ready.”

“Okay. We’ll go set up and you guys make your appearance in about ten minutes.” She picked up her guitar case and headed for the door.

MJ grinned. “See you in ten.”

***

The day had gone about as well as she could have asked for and the evening seemed to be going better, Claire thought to herself. The McNabb chit-chat was being kept to a minimum amongst her crew and she was thankful for that, because even though Claire had won the fight, McNabb was still tedious to talk about, especially when Claire was supposed to be enjoying herself.

Word of this punk show had passed from friend to friend to friend, but eventually it reached Claire and even though some of her testicularly-challenged crew weren’t sure about going to a show in an industrial-area warehouse and even less sure when it turned out that information was wrong and it was actually in a basement, she put them in their place and made them see that being punk wasn’t only about hanging around in the school hallways listening to Yellowcard. You had to go out and be social sometimes. Of course, she hadn’t talked to anyone other than her friends at the show so far, but she figured maybe after she went to another couple of them people would recognize her as a regular and come up to talk to her. Maybe she’d have another drink and see if the conversation came more naturally. She’d snatched a mickey of her dad’s gin as she was leaving the house and kept tossing back sips. She didn’t like it, but she thought she might get used to it.

She hadn’t really enjoyed the first band, either—they were too loud and intense—but she heard the next band was a lot of fun, and she was up for some of that, so she was getting herself psyched.

Some muffled strumming and tuning sounds came from the basement and her friend Lance, who was tall and had a bleach-blonde fauxhawk, looked over at her. “You want to go inside?” he asked.

“No,” she responded. “Give me a smoke.”

He handed one over and lit it for her.

“Can I have a sip of that gin?”

“No,” she said again, realizing she’d drunk more than half the bottle.

“Why don’t you want to go in?”

Exhaling a cloud of smoke at him, she explained, “You don’t want to seem too eager.”

***

Standing by the basement door in the main floor hallway, MJ checked her watch. “It’s been ten minutes. You ready?”

“Yeah.” Jenn shook her head. “Wait, no. No.” She upended the beer she was saving for the set, chugged it back on the spot, slammed the bottle down on the floor and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Yeah, now I am.”

“You better not be turning into another Lauren.”

“I just needed to settle my nerves. I mean, you know why I want to do this, right?”

“Yeah, and you’re lucky I think it’s a worthy cause, otherwise I’d be a little pissed you’re hijacking our first show together for it.”

“I am lucky. Thanks,” she said, grinning a grin that practically generated its own warmth.

“Just keep it classy, okay?”

She threw a wadded piece of paper at MJ as hard as she could. “I am classy!”

“Whoa! Well, let’s get going then, Miss Manners.”

MJ swung the door wide and descended into the comparative darkness, Jenn following close behind.

This gig was just as packed as the last one, maybe more so. There were people against the wall all the way up the stairs. MJ had made it to the bottom, threading her way through the press of bodies, and Jenn snaked a hand out to grab her before she got too far away. MJ shot a dirty look back over her shoulder in response, but when she saw who it was, she pressed on and the two of them made their way to the stage.

Rich and Steve were already standing around waiting; Becky and Ember were off to the side, watching. MJ motioned to the guys and they took their positions while MJ strapped the guitar on and Jenn stepped behind the mic.

Jenn was sweating now, her nervousness rising, but she was unwilling to let it impact her performance. Just the same, when she took the mic in her hand, she felt a wet slickness on her palm and quickly wiped it on her pants before grabbing the mic again.

MJ looked at Steve. “You good?”

“They’re not my drums, but I’m as good as could be.”

“All right. Rich?”

“I’m good.”

“Jenn?”

“Um, yeah. I’m ready. How about you?”

“I’m a mushroom-cloud-laying motherfucker, motherfucker! Okay, girl—introduce us. Let’s tear this place a new one!”

Jenn turned back toward the mic and the sea of faces. The crowd wasn’t regarding her harshly, but they seemed slightly confused since Skatewitch were supposed to be up next and this band was clearly not them.

“Um, hi,” Jenn said into the microphone. “We’re Peak Oil and this is our second ‘first show’. This song’s called ‘Homestead Security’.”

Rapid-fire guitar licks exploded out toward the crowd, followed almost immediately by machine-gun drum patter. The noncommittal and blasé crowd at the front suddenly launched themselves into the music, a mosh pit forming right in front of the stage. MJ and Rich and Steve were all playing their hearts out and then Jenn’s cue came up and she was singing.

“YOU WANNA LIVE IN MY HOUSE, YOU GOTTA PLAY BY MY RULES—THAT’S THE MESSAGE COMING DOWN FROM THE TOP! YOU WANT YOUR HOME TO BE SAFE, YOU BETTER DO WHAT WE SAY—JUST ANOTHER CASE OF BAD COP/BAD COP!”

Jenn grabbed the mic with both hands and sang as hard as she could. She didn’t hesitate with any of the lyrics, she knew them all by heart, like she’d always been singing them. The nervousness was gone and there was a warmth inside her and the pit was showing its approval in the form of flailing arms and sweaty torsos.

“DON’T WANNA LIVE IN YOUR HOUSE, DON’T WANNA PLAY BY YOUR RULES—THAT’S THE MESSAGE FROM US IN YOUR FACE! WE WANT OUR HOME TO BE SAFE, GOTTA PROTECT IT FROM YOU—WE’RE GONNA FORTIFY THE WHOLE FUCKIN’ PLACE!”

In the middle of the room, Jenn could see Claire pushing forward. Claire could hear the song and hear Jenn singing but she didn’t know it was her, couldn’t know it was her, and she kept pushing her way through, thinking she was more important than everybody else, moving toward the front, and the mic was in Jenn’s hand, no longer cradled by the mic stand, and Jenn was bent over double, practically screaming, but meaning every fucking word she sang.

“YOU BETTER BE READY, YOU BETTER BEWARE, ‘CUZ WE’RE ANGRY AND WE DON’T FUCKIN’ CARE! WE ARE THE PEOPLE, WE’RE GONNA SECEDE—WE DON’T CARE IF YOU BURN, WE DON’T CARE IF WE BLEED!”

Claire had made her way to the front by herself and was dancing to the music and staring at this tiny girl who was so intense and her band were so fast, so good, so on that everybody in the place was moving and then Jenn straightened up and screamed and Claire realized who it was and the colour drained from her face.

“THIS IS OUR HOUSE, THESE ARE OUR RULES! THIS IS OUR HOUSE, THESE ARE OUR RULES! THIS IS OUR HOUSE, THESE ARE OUR RULES! THIS IS OUR HOUSE, THESE ARE OUR RULES!”

Even if Claire wanted to retreat at that point, the press of bodies was too close, too tight, and her brain couldn’t process what it was seeing and then Jenn looked up, looked directly in Claire’s eyes and sang so hard, found the extra ten percent of herself that she wasn’t using and just tapped into it, going as hard as she could, as fast as she could and then she bent over and screamed one more time, and the song was over.

She rode the exultation like a wave. Every synapse in her body was alive with electricity. She wiped the sweat from her forehead and faced the band who all gave her the same open-mouthed grin she was giving them. The crowd erupted behind her with hoots and cheers and the applause of people who realize that no matter what may happen over the rest of their lives, they were present on the night a three song-set changed everything.

“Thanks,” Jenn said into the mic to her new fans. “We know you’re excited to see Skatewitch and they’ll be on in a couple of minutes, but if I could, I’d like to call up their lead singer Becky to help me sing our next song.” She made the come-hither gesture and Becky took two steps forward, stood next to Jenn and put her arm around her shoulders.

If she’d been able to, Claire would have looked more disoriented, sick, confused and nauseous, but all her body would allow her to do was gape at Becky, the girl she’d threatened in the hallway earlier, the one she’d promised an ass-kicking to, the one who currently had her arm wrapped around Jenn McNabb onstage at a punk show. Claire took a step back and walked into a 6’6” drunk punk who was hunched over because of the low ceiling. He glowered at her as she stepped on his foot. Claire put her foot back where it was and watched the stage warily, afraid to move, afraid to breathe.

“I’m not the most popular girl at my school,” Jenn admitted to no one in particular. “I don’t really like anyone and nobody likes me.”

A few supportive hoots came from the crowd.

“But earlier today, my best friend told one of the cool girls—one of the girls who, y’know, likes to give me shit for no reason—that she could go fuck herself!”

A much larger contingent of hoots ripped out of the audience. Raw panic had started to manifest on Claire’s face and her eyes flicked from side to side, sizing up possible exits.

“You know what her response to that was?” Jenn continued.

“What?!” the crowd asked.

“SHE BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF ME IN THE PARKING LOT!” Jenn tilted her head back, showing off her bruise to the crowd, who were unanimous in their boos and hisses.

“WANT TO KNOW WHAT ADDS INSULT TO INJURY?!” she added. “SHE CAME TO THE SHOW TONIGHT! SHE’S RIGHT THERE!” Jenn extended her arm its full-length and pointed directly at Claire, who had the look on her face of a fat tuna in a tank of sharks.

The entire crowd swivelled toward her and she tried to make her exit, but it was far too late, there were no paths out, only a sea of hard faces staring coldly, ruthlessly and disapprovingly at her. “So, this one’s for her. It’s called ‘My Salute’. Fuck you, Claire!”

Steve counted them off and once again the music tore her away from all the bullshit, all the stupid crap about school. None of it mattered, the only thing that was important was the song. She and Becky were both singing now, their voices mingling and complementing each other as they held the mic, both of them giving more than they knew they had.

“I RAISE MY BLOODY KNUCKLES TO CHALLENGE THOSE WHO WOULD SILENCE ME! I RAISE MY VOICE TO DROWN OUT THE ENDLESS SCREEDS OF BIGOTRY!”

Claire wasn’t even on Jenn’s mental radar anymore, the only things registering were her and Becky and the band and the music and the crowd, every single one of them feeding off the others, keeping the energy going, amping it up, everyone collectively becoming more than they were, the gig becoming more than the sum of its parts.

“I RAISE THE FLAG OF DISCORD AND FLY IT FOR OUR LIBERTY! I CELEBRATE THE STRUGGLE IN EVERY MOLOTOV HEART I SEE!”

A pair of hands came out of nowhere and shoved Claire into the pit, and suddenly she was fighting to stay upright, pitching forward and getting swept up in the circular motion, the sideways motion, the forward motion, being pitched every way but backward, feeling the elbows jar into her one after another. There was raw terror on her face and she looked up to find a wall of indifference staring back at her. There was nothing she could do, nowhere she could go and she searched for one sympathetic face that would pull her out of this, one face that would help her escape and saw only Jenn.

“I AIM MY RIFLE, THEN I SHOOT! THAT’S A WARNING SHOT—THIS IS MY SALUTE! THIS IS MY SALUTE! YOU CAN STEAL MY VOICE BUT I WON’T BE MUTE! MY FURY SPEAKS FOR ME—THIS IS MY SALUTE! THIS IS MY SALUTE!”

A hand was held out to her, offering her an exit and Claire took it. Jenn pulled Claire forward, out of the pit and yanked her off to the side and Claire collapsed in a heap next to an amp stack, shivering, the sweat and tears making black rivers of her mascara and then Claire didn’t matter to anyone anymore, everyone forgot about her, everyone at the gig. It was just Steve, Rich, MJ, Becky and Jenn giving everything they had to everyone in the audience and everyone in the audience giving all of their love right back. Jenn scanned the crowd, making a sudden realization… everyone but Spit.

Click here for the next chapter.

Guess what? My book has a cover. (Art by Rudy Faber.)

Tue, 11 Sep 2012 13:06:45 -0400

Guess what? My book has a cover.

(Art by Rudy Faber.)

Molotov Hearts - Part III, Chapter 6

Fri, 07 Sep 2012 13:18:00 -0400

by Chris Eng, illustration by Karlene Harvey

Click here for the previous chapter.

“I swear, when I get my hands on that little bitch…” Hesther McNabb trailed off temporarily, for which her husband was grateful. He’d had to put up with her calling him all day, asking if he knew where Jenn was, asking if he was going to come help look for her (to which the answer was an unswerving ‘no’) and then, when he couldn’t put it off any longer, he’d come home.

The last hour had been a nightmare. He wasn’t sure how many imaginary indignities being done to their daughter he could handle listening to, but he was hitting the limit, especially when they were coming in a uninterrupted, foul-mouthed stream from his wife. He’d seen Hesther threaten Jennifer before. He’d seen Hesther strike her (and the occasions on which that had happened still haunted him). But this was something new.

At the core of his being, Oliver McNabb believed in turning the other cheek. He believed in redemption, and had stuck by his wife through thick and thin (and good behaviour and bad) because he not only pledged to spend the rest of his life with her, he believed his wife’s bad qualities were fixable. He’d stayed with her because he thought her mood swings would mellow with time. He’d overlooked her outbursts for the good of their family. He couldn’t believe how naïve all of that sounded now.

After the first ten minutes of ranting had elapsed with no end in sight, he’d fingered the REC button on the digital tape recorder in his pocket. Oliver was an attorney who made it his business to be prepared, and at that moment he was relieved his job required him to make extensive notes. After another 50 minutes of screaming, though, he wondered if the battery would run down before she did.

Still, it wasn’t as if he just sat back and watched an intimate performance of Mommy, Dearest play out in front of him. He tried to talk Hesther down, tried to downgrade the shrieking to a dull roar, but nothing worked. She had totally lost it. His wife wanted their daughter’s blood.

“You’re awfully calm about this,” she snapped, turning on him for what seemed like the twentieth time. “You don’t want to see your daughter home and safe?”

“I’m sure she’s safer wherever she is than here right now.” He slapped an invisible hand over his mouth. He wasn’t trying to add fuel to the fire, but he wasn’t a therapist, either—he was an attorney, and while he could take a good deal of fire from other attorneys in court with their logic-based attacks, he was less well-equipped to handle insanity-based attacks at home. And she had started to push him across his own line.

She studied him, the shouting cutting off for a second, and he felt like a fat sow being examined by a cobra. “You know where she is.” She was speaking quietly now and that was so much more disturbing. “You talked to her, didn’t you?”

“Don’t be stupid,” he said, summoning all the nonchalance he was able. “I’m as much in the dark as you are.”

“No, you’re not,” she continued to study him, her head tilting slightly from side-to-side. And then with lightning speed, her hand shot out—not toward him, but toward the coffee table, where he’d put his keys… and his cell phone. She snatched the phone off the table and retreated back to the doorway, fingering the keypad with zealous intensity.

He took a step toward her, realizing he was already much too late. “Hesther, give me my phone back.”

She put the phone up to her ear, the expression on her face triumphant and terrifying as she redialed the last incoming number. Short of tackling her, there was nothing he could do. He’d lost his advantage. There were seconds of silence and then she said, “Hello, may I speak to Jennifer, please. Jennifer. No, I’m quite sure she’s there, if you could have a look.”

A snarl escaped her lips and she threw the phone against the wall where it shattered. “Little fucker hung up on me.”

She turned her attention back to him. “That was the punk house, wasn’t it? She’s back at that fucking punk house.”

“Hesther, I already told you I have no idea. Now, come on—let’s try to work this through.”

“No idea? Well, who called you from that number then? One of your clients? With that godawful music playing in the background? That sounds likely. Dirtbags are always paying for top lawyers.”

She stormed out of the room and he blurted, “Where are you going?!”

“Where do you think I’m going, Oliver? To get my daughter.”

“Hesther, come back here! I’m warning you!”

A brief laugh escaped her as she headed off. From down the hallway he could hear her voice echoing back at him. “Yes, warn me. See how well that works.” A door slammed.

Crossing the room, he collected the pieces of his cell phone, now useless, and deposited them on the table.

An engine started outside. She was taking the Range Rover. He grabbed his keys up off the coffee table and headed for the driveway. It wasn’t the first time he’d been thankful he owned multiple vehicles, but this time certainly was the most acute.

He got in his wife’s Celica and jammed it into reverse, hoping he could catch up to her… because he had no idea where the punk house was.

Click here for the next chapter.

Sorry 'bout the Wifi

Fri, 31 Aug 2012 21:33:33 -0400

Sorry this week’s chapter is late. I’m at PAX and the wifi sucks. Something about tens of thousands of nerds trying to use it at once or something. x0

Molotov Hearts - Part III, Chapter 5

Fri, 31 Aug 2012 21:31:00 -0400

by Chris Eng, illustration by Karlene Harvey

Click here for the previous chapter.

“So, what I don’t get is whether things are going to go back to exactly the same way they were before.” Becky passed a can of cider over to Jenn, who cracked it open, took a deep sip, then lay back on Becky’s bed.

Becky had gotten home about ten minutes ago, found Jenn on the couch and promptly abducted her. She banged on Spit’s door to let him know she was stealing Jenn (to which a hurt “HEY!” carried through the wood), and then went to her room to catch up with Jenn and get changed. She picked through her closet on her hands and knees, beer in hand, grabbing random articles from the floor where they’d fallen (or possibly never been put away) and tossing the dirty ones behind her. Becky held up a yellow t-shirt with a chicken on it, smelled it, made a face and launched it onto the growing pile.

“Like, are you gonna have to keep sneaking out to hang out with us? To hang out with Spit?”

“I dunno. I hope not.”

“That’s a lot of uncertainty.”

“If it were up to my mother, I’d never leave the house again. But now… I’m pretty sure my dad knows that’s not enforceable. I talked to him before you got home. I think he’s going to cover for me… or at least try to keep things calm so they can be smoothed over.”

“Calm why? What happened?” She held up a red shirt with the Halliburton logo that had been trimmed into a tank top. Jenn peered at Becky and realized Becky had no idea what went on that afternoon other than her and Spit getting back together.

There was a rapping on the bedroom door. “Can I have my girlfriend, please? I haven’t seen her in a month and I’m not done making out with her.”

“Share the wealth, deadbeat,” Becky yelled. “And don’t come in!” Becky pulled off the shirt she was wearing and quickly replaced it with the Halliburton one. “Okay, come in if you have to,” she said and began rooting through her closet again.

Spit entered wearing a matching set of flannel pajamas with tigers on them.

“Aw, look at you,” Becky proclaimed. “All ready for nap-time!”

“Look at you,” he countered, “uh… on the floor… foraging for nuts for the winter.”

Becky raised an eyebrow. “Is that really the best you’ve got?”

Spit thought for a second. “Look at you… er, snuffling for truffles?”

“Are all your insults food-related?”

“He’s hungry,” Jenn said. “He’s a growing boy. And judging from his jammies I’d say his ninth birthday is coming up.”

“HARSH,” Spit yelled.

“Maybe. Too late to do anything about it, you took me back,” Jenn said, nursing her beer in an extremely self-satisfied manner.

“Bitches, every one of you,” Spit declared. “I’m going back to my room. If you want to make out, you know where I am.”

“I’m not making out with you, Spit,” Becky called after him.

“I hate you, Becky,” he said, shutting the door.

“Cute pajamas,” Becky commented.

“Totally cute,” Jenn agreed.

Sticking her butt up in the air again, Becky went back to the task of rooting through her closet. The pile in the middle of the room was becoming quite large.

“What are you looking for?” Jenn asked.

“Jeans,” Becky snapped. “I’m wearing my stupid polyester work pants!” She grabbed onto some denim and let out a triumphant yell which promptly morphed into a growl of frustration. “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” She turned to Jenn. “Do you want these back or what?”

In her hand were Jenn’s jackets—the mack jacket and jean vest she’d left at the party and forgotten to come back for.

“Ha! Sure!”

Becky threw them at her and got back to business as Jenn slipped the vest on.

“Hey, when’s the show start?” Jenn asked.

“It says 7:00 on the flyer, but that’s not gonna happen. 7:30 maybe.”

“I think people are showing up. I can hear them in the back yard.”

“Well, it’s almost 7:00 now. I’d probably be joining them if I could find my jeans…”

Something caught Jenn’s eye. “Becky, I don’t want this to sound like a stupid question, but what’s that under your table?”

Becky craned backward and peered through slitted eyes. “That,” she said with burning humiliation, “would be the pile of pants I put aside so I wouldn’t have to look for them in all my other crap.”

She got up, kicked the clothes out with her foot and glared balefully at a pair of black jeans that had dislodged itself. She picked them up, smelled them, scowled and changed into them while Jenn looked out the window at the growing crowd.

“OH, YOU’VE GOT TO BE FUCKING SHITTING ME,” Jenn exclaimed.

“What?! What?!” Becky’s left foot was half stuck in her pant leg, but she crossed the room in a series of speedy and precise hops.

Jenn pointed out into the throng, nauseated. “You might recognize the one in the red shirt as the skank you verbally smacked down earlier. She’s also the bitch who punched me in the throat this afternoon.”

Claire stood against the back fence socializing with two of the other Smoking Pit Punks. She looked unblemished and unfazed, though she’d apparently gone home to slip into something more or less identical to what she was wearing earlier.

“Excuse me, what?”

“She jumped me after school. We got in a fight. I lost.” Jenn tilted her head back so Becky could see the mottled red spot in the middle of her neck.

“That bitch did that to you?” There was fire in Becky’s eyes and, for the first time, Jenn found her genuinely frightening.

“Uh, yeah.”

“Say the word. You want me to fuck her up right now, just say so. I’ll cripple her.”

Jenn shook her head. A small smile danced across her lips. “No. Thanks, Becky, but I have something else in mind.”

Becky studied her carefully. “Jenn, are you scheming?”

“Yes. Yes, I am. But I need MJ.” She pointed out the window at the corner of the backyard where MJ was enjoying a pre-show beer with Kathleen. “I can’t get her, because Claire will see me and I don’t want that. Not yet.”

“CLAIRE?!” Becky howled with distaste. “Her name is CLAIRE?! I would have kicked her ass in the hall if I’d known that!”

Jenn regarded her patiently.

“Sorry, continue.”

“Dammit, you can’t get her either ‘cause she knows you too.” She jumped up off the bed, running for the door.

“Where are you going?!”

“To use my feminine wiles.” Running across the hall, Jenn threw open the door to Spit’s room, startling him as he picked through a stack of CDs.

“I really have an important favour to ask and you hafta do it now so can you take off those pajamas even though they’re really cute and get dressed and go out into the backyard and find MJ and get her to come up like right now ‘cause it’s really important and I’ll be your best friend forever.”

“You’re already my girlfriend.”

“I’ll put ouuuuuuut,” she trilled.

“You already did that.”

She sighed. “Will you please go get MJ? It’s for a good cause.”

He crossed the room, stepping behind the door to change. “And what cause is that?”

“Dealing with the bitch that punched me today. She’s in the backyard.”

Spit paused with his shirt partway on. “Seriously?”

“Deadly. Get dressed.”

“You want me to go hit a girl?” he asked, slipping his head through the neckhole. “’Cause I will if I have to.”

“Aw, that’s so sweet! But totally not necessary. Just get MJ.”

“Okay.” He trotted out the door and Jenn wandered back across the hall where Becky was standing away from the window with the lights off, staring out into the backyard and surveying the scene.

“That’s really creepy, you know,” Jenn said.

“I don’t want them to see me.”

“I don’t think they would.”

“I don’t want to risk it.”

“Well, can we turn the lights on, anyway? I don’t want to be sitting in the dark when MJ shows up.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Jenn flicked the lightswitch and sat on the chair. “So, when does Skatewitch come on?”

“I dunno. We’re on after A Challenger Appears. 8:30 maybe?”

“Mind if Peak Oil uses your instruments for a few songs before you start?”

A look of understanding passed over Becky’s face and she regarded Jenn with awe. “Oh, sweet Jesus. Really? Of course you can use our instruments! This is going to be magnificent.”

“I think it will be.” She continued to nurse her beer.

A minute or so later, MJ tromped up the stairs and rapped on the open door.

“You wanted to see me?” she asked Jenn.

“Yeah, I was talking to Becky and she said you guys lost your vocalist.”

“We did. It sucks.”

“And she said you wanted to talk to me about it.”

“I do. You rule. Well, you did for one song, anyway. Think you could keep it up for an entire show?”

“I’m pretty sure.”

“Do you even want to be in Peak Oil?”

“Fuck yes, I do.”

MJ beamed and stuck her hand out. Jenn shook it with abandon.

“Congratulations—you just joined the most talked about and least heard punk band in the Greater Westport Basin.”

“Awesome! And now that’s out of the way, I have a potential favour to ask.”

MJ gave her a inquisitive look. “Okay.”

“Are the other guys in the band here?”

“Rich and Steve? Yeah, they’re downstairs. Why?”

“You want to do a three song set tonight?”

Click here for the next chapter.

Molotov Hearts - Part III, Chapter 4

Fri, 24 Aug 2012 14:18:00 -0400

by Chris Eng, illustration by Karlene Harvey

Click here for the previous chapter.

Jenn and Spit lay on their backs, tightly wedged together on Spit’s twin mattress. The sheets had twisted around sideways and the blankets lay in a pile halfway across the room. Perspiration coated their naked bodies and the cool air raised goosebumps over both of them. Jenn rolled toward him and let her hand play across his chest and belly.

“You gonna do some of that thinking now?” he asked.

A Cheshire Cat smile appeared on her face. “I’m thinking about jumping you again.”

“Oh? I think I need a couple more minutes before that happens.”

“I think you just bought yourself two.”

They both burst into laughter and she wrapped an arm around him, holding him close.

“No, really, Jenn, what do you have to think about?”

“I have to figure out what I’m gonna do.”

“In the short or long term?”

“Both.”

“Okay, let’s start with the big picture. What are your long term plans?”

“I don’t know.”

“How about school?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what it’s going to be like when I go back. I got in a fight with one of the popular girls. I don’t know what that’s gonna do to me socially. And then I punched my mother in front of everyone. I mean, how are people gonna react to that?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know how people in high school react to most things. I didn’t graduate.”

She leaned up on her elbow. “You didn’t?”

“Nope. Dropped out after Grade Ten. School and I didn’t get along. There was a popular kid-slash-bully with me too, except I didn’t fight him, I just left. Figured it was easier on everyone, considering I got shitty grades on top of that.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I probably could have done better if I’d tried, but why try? To blend in? Fuck that.”

“Ugh. I understand that maybe too well.”

“Okay, so let’s put school aside for a minute. What else do you have to think about?”

“My home life.”

“Right. What are your options?”

“I don’t really have any. I have to keep living there.”

“You’ve got options not related to moving out. You’ve got options about how things will be.”

“Tense?”

“Probably for a while. But I mean on a personal level—how do you want to be?”

“I’m not going back to the way I was.”

“Okay. So, how do you think that’s gonna go over with your parents?”

“My mother will be up for a fight, but I don’t know how much of one until I see her.”

“How ‘bout your dad?”

“He’ll care that my mother and I are fighting, but I don’t think he cares what I wear.”

“Better get him on your side, then.”

“Good point.” She vaulted over him to where her clothes were scattered across the floor and started pulling them on.

“What are you doing?” Spit asked, still sprawled out.

“Going to get my dad on my side.”

“I thought you were going to jump me.”

“I thought you needed to recuperate.”

“Touché. Gonna be long?”

“Nope. Start saving your energy.” Letting herself out into the hallway, Jenn made a beeline for the living room phone.

***

“Oliver McNabb speaking.” There was background road noise on the other end. He was obviously driving.

“Dad, it’s me.”

“Jennifer? Where are you?”

“I’m… safe, Dad. Don’t worry about that. I called to tell you what’s going on. You talked to Mother, right?”

“Every ten minutes for the last three and a half hours. I couldn’t leave work, otherwise I would have gone home. She’s hysterical, you know.”

“I kind of figured.”

“Okay, well, I’ve heard her version of what happened. What’s yours?”

“I got into a fight after school. With one of the girls.”

“Over what?”

“She insulted me, one of my friends insulted her back, and she attacked me afterschool.”

“Okay. Then what happened?”

“I lost.”

“Are you all right, Jennifer?”

“I’m fine, but that’s when Mother came screaming at me from across the parking lot. She told me all of this was due to the punks.”

“Oh.”

She paused for a moment before continuing. “And I told her I learned how to insult people and fight at home.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah. Then she tried to hit me. I blocked her and tried to get away, but she grabbed my arm, so…”

“So?”

“So… I punched her.”

There was silence on the other end of the line.

“She let go and I left. I’m okay now, but I don’t want to go home.”

“I’m heading there as we speak. Your mother’s really upset, Jenn, but you’re right—I don’t think it would be a good idea for you to come home now. You’re safe? You don’t need anything?”

“I’m fine, Dad. Thanks.”

“Can I reach you at this number?”

Jenn glanced at the clock on the VCR—6:42—then considered the likelihood of anyone hearing the phone once the gig started. “Maybe for the next little while. Probably not too long.”

“Are you at the punk house, Jennifer?”

“Um.”

“It’s all right. I’m not going to tell her where you are. If you’re with friends, that’s good enough for me.”

She found herself pulling into a ball on the couch, cradling the phone. “Thanks, daddy.”

“Okay, sweetie. Take care. If you don’t hear from me, call me soon.”

“I will. I love you.”

“I love you too. Bye.”

“Bye.” Jenn hung up the phone, but stayed in a ball for a few minutes more.

Click here for the next chapter.

Molotov Hearts - Part III, Chapter 3

Fri, 17 Aug 2012 13:06:00 -0400

by Chris Eng, illustration by Karlene Harvey

Click here for the previous chapter.

“Hey.”

Spit looked up from his book, at a loss for words. “Oh. Uh. Hi.”

“Can I sit?”

“Um, sure.” He looked uncertain, but not unwelcoming, and Jenn pulled up a piece of sidewalk next to him outside Pete’s.

“So, I’ve had some time to think.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. Y’know, about what you said to me. You made some good points. You’re right about me separating my two lives.”

“Okay.”

“And after what happened today I’m finally in a place where I can fix that.”

“What happened today?”

“I got into a fight with Claire.”

“You did?”

“Uh-huh. Then my mother yelled at me and I punched her in the face.”

“Ooh.” Spit grimaced. “I don’t think I mentioned anything about punching your mom.”

“No. I improvised that on my own.”

“How do you think that’s gonna work out?”

“I’m in a world of shit. I also don’t care. I honestly don’t care. Because after my head cleared I realized the only reason I’ve ever done what she wanted was out of fear, and I’m not afraid of her anymore.”

“She doesn’t know you’re here, right?”

Jenn gave him a look like he’d blown every question on Celebrity Jeopardy. “Of course she doesn’t know where I am. I just punched her in the face. I’m not asking her permission to go downtown.”

“Sorry. I mean… I dunno. I guess I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on.”

“With what? With us?”

“Well, yeah. We broke up.”

She flinched, defensive. “I can go if you want.”

Spit let out a frustrated groan. “No, that’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean, then? Because just in case you forgot, we didn’t break up—you broke up with me.”

“I remember.” Spit winced, obviously eager to get the conversation back to a happier place, but not sure how to go about it. “Look, I’m glad you made some progress… even though it seems to have cost you.”

“Nothing I wasn’t willing to pay. Everything I’m sorry about happened a month ago. I’m sorry about the way I left. You may have dumped me, but I dumped the scene and everyone important to me.”

“Yeah, Becky was really hurt. I think she missed you as much as I did.”

Remorse clouded Jenn’s face.

“Anyway, it’s nice to see you,” Spit continued, “but I guess I’m still trying to work out what it is you want.”

“What do I want?” She started to get up, then flipped around to face him and deposited herself squarely on his lap. “The same thing I’ve always wanted.” She leaned forward and locked her lips to his, savouring what she’d been missing for an entire month. His lips were warm and soft, like she’d remembered, and they had the faintest taste of the mints he kept in his pockets. She grabbed him by the front of his shirt and pulled him to her. His hand wrapped around her neck and a tiny noise escaped her throat and his other arm looped around her back and he pulled forward slightly, far enough for her to wrap an arm around him, and then her legs slipped down and she tucked them around his waist, feeling the pressure as their bodies ground together. Her breath was coming in shallow gasps and his breath was hot in her mouth and—

“JESUS FUCKING CHRIST.” They broke the kiss and looked over at Becky, mortified and half-shielding her eyes with her hand. “I feel like I accidentally walked into a dancehall video. Shit is nasty.”

Jenn looked as sheepish as she could with her legs wrapped around Spit’s waist and Spit’s hand clutching a fistful of her hair. “Um, hi, Becky.”

“Um, hi, Jenn,” Becky responded, imitating her. “So, are you two done dry-humping?”

Jenn looked at Spit and back at Becky, before climbing off Spit’s lap. “Uh, yes?”

“Good. Y’know, I’ve gotta say I’m surprised to see you here. What with that whole ‘fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me’ speech and all.”

“About that. I’m… I’m sorry, Becky.”

“Yeah, well. Maybe I was a little harsh.”

“I’m sorry about all of it. I’m sorry I left without saying goodbye.”

“Can’t say it didn’t sting.”

Jenn got up and wrapped her arms around her friend tightly. “I’m sorry.”

Becky hugged Jenn back and ruffled her hair. “It’s okay. Just don’t do it again.” She held her at arm’s length and looked her over. “Nice duds by the way.”

Back in the clearing, Jenn had changed into the clothes she’d shoved into her bag. Along with her black Chucks, she’d grabbed a pair of jeans and her Submission Hold t-shirt. The jeans weren’t her favourite pair, but they fit snugly and had a rip across the knee she was fond of. The shirt had gotten left at Lark Street years ago and was now so old and worn that the cloth had thinned and softened into one of the most comfortable things Jenn had ever put on. She found it on one of the bookshelves in the dining room and hastily claimed it when no one fessed up to owning it.

“Thanks for bringing them. I missed them.”

“They suit you. Fashion talk aside, are you two back together?” She gestured at Jenn and Spit with her index and little fingers.

“I think yes?”

“You think?”

“Well, we hadn’t gotten far enough to discuss specifics.”

“You hadn’t gotten far enough? You were having sex with your clothes on!”

“Er, not far enough with the talking.”

Becky looked at Spit. “Are you two back together?”

“Uh, yes.”

“Excellent.” She looked at Jenn. “Does that mean you’re coming to the show tonight?”

“What show?”

“Skatewitch are playing the basement with Let’s Do Some Crimes and A Challenger Appears.”

“Um, yes?”

“Cool. I’ll expect you. Anyway, I’ve gotta go. See you back at the ranch.” She blew a kiss to Jenn as she left.

Jenn sat back down next to Spit. “I guess I’m coming to the show,” she said, taking his hand in hers. It was warm—almost hot—like it always was and she realized how much she’d missed that simple thing.

“I guess you are.”

“You got a problem with that?”

“Not even a bit.”

“Good. Can we go back to your house, then? I need to do some thinking and I don’t want to do it in front of Pete’s.”

“You need to do some thinking?” His eyes peered at her sceptically from behind his shag.

“Yeah,” she replied indignantly, “I need to do some thinking.” She put her lips up to his ear. “Also,” she whispered, “I need to fuck your brains out right fucking now.”

Click here for the next chapter.

A Girl and Her Cat: A King City Story

Mon, 13 Aug 2012 21:04:09 -0400

by Chris Eng

[A brief note before we dive into this. It’s been a long time since I wrote any fanfic. Like, decades. But I just finished the jumbo-sized collection of Brandon Graham’s King City and it pretty much demanded it of me. King City is a crazy story about a crazy place and the people that live in it trying to get by. There’s a love story in there and a war story and a Lovecraftian conspiracy story and a lot of awfully hilarious puns. Ultimately, I enjoyed my visit to King City so much I didn’t want to leave it right away, so I wrote this. Enjoy (and if you do enjoy this and you haven’t already read King City I hope you’ll consider giving it a shot).]

How many enemies can a nine-year-old girl have?

You think it’s a trick question, but there’s actually an answer: 256. I know, because I spent two days counting them last week. During the time I was counting, I stopped three attempted assassinations (poisoned corn puffs, stiletto chain gun, and toaster in the bath tub), five attempted character assassinations, and 15 attempted credit card frauds… one of which eventually made it through and I had to cancel my Diver’s Club card. Six major criminal networks including the Multiple Warhats and the Riders of Lohan called to claim responsibility for the attacks. There was some overlap, and I got the feeling a couple of them were lazy and wanted to make it seem like they’d attacked me when they hadn’t, but even still, that’s a fair amount of underworld firepower aimed at taking me out or driving my credit rating into the ground.

But I mean, it’s not like I set out to make that many enemies on purpose. And if you want to get technical, most of them couldn’t even really be considered to be my enemies. Most of them just hate me because of my cat, Agrajag. Agrajag is a Scottish Fold who helps me do things, get places, acquire things that people don’t want me to acquire. He’s a cat with an attitude problem, and he’s learned to direct that attitude into pissing people off. People I’m already stealing stuff from. It’s kind of an insult to injury situation. Like, in case it’s not bad enough I’m taking your Lemurian ruby skull, Agrajag’s going to spray your record collection on his way out. That’s probably why King Chung, the leader of the Warhats, declared kanly on me: there’s only so many test pressings of Bitches Brew out there. The blood feud isn’t that big a deal, though. Retaliatory attacks from his henchmen roll off me like soda off a duck’s back (which is to say “mostly, but it’s a fairly unpleasant experience nonetheless”).

The one enemy that does bug me, though, is Big White Lie. Word of the contract he put on my head (and Agrajag’s) made its way to me a few months back through the net of crippled urchins and brainseer toddlers I keep on my payroll to scour the literal and psychic landscapes for any activity that might disrupt my me-time.

Because they always attack during my me-time, when I’m sitting there with a triple-scoop bowl of strawberry Sriracha ice cream trying to watch A Million of Quests on the vidcube. And it’s always when QuestForce has just about completed their expedition that the skinjas come through my window or I get a call from HasturCard telling me someone’s trying to charge something to my account on one of the Offworld Colonies. They always time it perfectly to get under my skin. The extra-irritating part is that it works.

But that style of base irritation isn’t Big White Lie’s game. He keeps his cool. He knows it messes with my head way more if I don’t know when he’s coming, because he’s the snake daddy of the underworld, the main mojo man, the Fuhrer of felonry. So he just leaks word that we have a problem and it gets back to me from a one-armed pickpocket and a floating baby with two mouths who both report in just as QuestForce is distracting the guardian of the Seventh Sanctified PuzzleCube. Dammit.

Big White Lie is trying to bait me and make me come to him because I don’t know if he’ll attack with his HAARPsichord or his Buma-box or if he’ll just unleash a horde of tyrannosauruses on the city. It probably wouldn’t be any of those. Big White Lie seldom attacks the same way twice. Entire pawn shops have sprung up and operate solely on the business of buying his second hand weapons.

So I fall for his trap, partly because I can’t bear to spend another day waiting, but mostly because I live with the hope that one day I’ll be able to finish my ice cream and a single episode of my favourite show without having to beat up a raiding party of lizardmen. I pack my green and blue QuestForce knapsack full of supplies and hop on my rocket-powered bicycle with its white-walled monster truck training wheels.

Agrajag sits in the front basket and stares down everyone who looks our way. People look away quickly from the air of menace surrounding him. It envelopes him like a righteous electric green cloud and stems from the martial arts that he knows. Agrajag is on his fifth life and spent the previous four perfecting his knowledge of Jeet Kun Meow and Kittenjutsu. He even carries around a little cane so he can work on his Bartitsu now and then. Agrajag may be many things, but he prides himself on being a gentlemen.

My bike vaults over the hill on Necropolis Boulevard and I use my Sasquatch Gang stopwatch to see if I beat my personal best time of 5.12 seconds of air.

4.78. Well, that’s still pretty good.

I’m down at King City’s harbor within five minutes. I look at the water. Big White Lie is out there… somewhere amongst the eyes.

See, when you first check out the harbor, all you see are the junks that cluster up next to the shore. But then you give it a second glance and you start to figure out why all the boats are so close: Harbor Eye Land. A few hundred meters from shore you’ll find yourself surrounded by giant eyes at least 50 feet across. Just the tops of them, all of them staring up into the sky. No one really knows exactly what they’re attached to, but everyone knows it’s no good. Tentacles reach up every once in a while and pull a ship down to Davy Jones’ locker. The junk owners just accept it as the price of business. Whenever it happens to one of their friends, they just asterisk themselves and think, “Well, at least I’m not crab fishing.”

In one of the eyes out there is the entrance to Big White Lie’s secret base.

I park my bike next to a stunted wharf made out of green logs and Agrajag gracefully leaps up onto my shoulder. We tromp down to the junks together and I find a boatsman half passed out with his legs dangling in the brackish water.

“Wake up,” I say to him. “You have a job.”

“No job,” he says, his eyes closed and his head tilted back as if he’s sunbathing except it’s completely overcast. “No work today.”

“Yes, work today. I need to go out to one of the eyes.”

His eyes open slowly and he looks at me and barks a laugh. “Little girl wants to go to eye. No. No, thank you. Little girl can’t replace boat if ghost kraken eats it. Little girl can’t pay enough.”

I pull out my FireBears wallet and extract a platinum Latverian Express card. “Little girl can pay for lots of things,” I say.

His eyes widen and he snatches it from my hand. He pulls out a pocket card reader and swipes it. A green light flickers on top of it and he hands the card back. He nods. “Okay, we go.”

He stands and steps down onto a junk that looks like it’s been built on top of a racing scull that has half a dozen outboard motors attached to the back of it. I follow and he starts to pull the ripcords one after another. The boat strains at the rope keeping it attached to the wharf and when the last motor is started the boatsman tugs gingerly at a knot and the rope falls away. We leap forward out of the water and the next five seconds are the boatsman trying to ensure we don’t plow into any of the other ships in the harbour. We grind fiberglass on fiberglass for one tense moment and get sworn at in some prehistoric Mesoamerican tongue then we’re free.

Well, we’re free of the boats, anyway, but we’re bearing down on several dozen eyes.

“Which one?” he asks.

“Which one?” I ask Agrajag.

Agrajag jumps onto my laps and pulls himself into the lotus position. The green tendrils of menace surrounding him become calm, little threads reaching out and making exploratory motions. One after another, the threads all start to drift to the left, pointing toward a slightly larger eye a few hundred feet away. Agrajag looks up at me and I pet him and he slips out of the lotus position and curls up in my lap, purring. I point it out to the boatsman.

We get about halfway there when the first tentacle bursts out of the water.

“GHOST KRAKEN,” the pilot yells, veering wildly to the side.

“Just keep us on course,” I tell him sternly. “It’s not a ghost. Ghosts can’t bleed.”

I lay my pack at my feet and Agrajag hops beside it as I unzip its front and survey the contents. Inside, I have:

two issues of Chubby Chester, my favourite comic
a juice box full of Guava Guarana Gusher
my GameGirl (with Pocket Monster Omega cartridge)
a VCDVD of the best of A Million of Quests
a KariKelli utility belt
a change of clothes (just in case)
Agrajag’s syringe pack

I take the syringe pack and open it, extracting one of them. I flick the side of it and depress the plunger slightly to get the air out. Agrajag looks back at me expectantly.

“Cheetah style,” I say to him. “No, no. Snow leopard.”

Agrajag arches his back to make it easier for me and I slip the syringe into the fold of skin at the back of his neck and push down the plunger all the way. The cloud of menace becomes almost blindingly bright and Agrajag crouches and then launches himself impossibly skyward. He seems to land on the tip of the tentacle (or if not, it’s close—it’s hard to tell from down here) and then there’s a commotion. The tentacle starts to thrash around and then bits and pieces of something start to rain down around the boat. Calamari. A literal ton of it.

I can tell Agrajag is getting closer to us because the glow is getting brighter and as he approaches it becomes obvious he’s whittling the tentacle down from the top. Another tentacle bursts from the water next to him and another, each one trying to swat the tiny assailant, neither one having any effect.

When he’s taken the first tentacle down to more than half its original length, he leaps onto the next one and does the same again. The boatsman desperately tries to avoid getting hit or swamped by any of the tentacles. I take out my juice box, poke the bendy-straw through the foil-covered hole and watch the show.

The water is thick with vaguely luminescent squid chunks now and the motors make a terrible grinding sound as we chop though them. The eye is looming up ahead and Agrajag is working on the third tentacle. With one last violent thrash, all three of them withdraw into the water and Agrajag jumps wide and arcs gracefully back into the boat before walking over to me and rubbing up against my legs. The turbulence from the departing tentacles is tipping us at a 45 degree angle, first in one direction, then another and the boatsman is screaming something about all of us dying. Eventually the boat stops rocking and I stare at him until he shuts up and pilots us the rest of the way in silence.

We pull up next to the eye and I strap the utility belt on, pulling out the grappling hook and rope and tossing it until lands about thirty feet up and catches on the gelatinous surface. There’s a groan and rumble from somewhere below the surface of the water.

I look back at the boatsman. “Don’t bother sticking around,” I say. “If we make it out, we’ll find our own way back. If we don’t, we’re not coming back. And by the way, I’d charge my card with haste—it expires when I do.” Agrajag rubs up against the boatsman’s legs. “He’s telling you not to overcharge us,” I add, and the boatsman makes an approximation of a sickly smile.

I tug on the rope to make sure it’s secure and start climbing up the side of the eye. Agrajag jumps up and keeps pace with me as I ascend. Behind us, the boatsman takes off with all speed. I hear an eruption from the water. It sounds like a single tentacle. I wonder how good a pilot he is. Hm.

The eye is just squishy enough to be extra grody. With every step I’m not sure whether I’m going to fall down or throw up. I try not to step on the red veins that speckle the surface of the orb. I’m not worried about them tripping an alarm system or anything, because Big White Lie almost certainly knows we’re here; they’re just gross.

I pull myself along with the rope to where it’s stuck in the white slimy surface and pull it free, winding it up again. From here on, the slope is slight enough that I should be able to make it without help. I stumble a couple of times on the slimy surface, but within minutes we’ve made it to the top and are looking down at the iris. The pupil is shut almost all the way. It’s doubtful even Agrajag could fit through it at his most sneaky. Damn. That’s where we get in.

He meows at me. I rub his head.

“I know. But I’ve got a plan.”

I pull out another syringe and inject the back of Agrajag’s neck.

“Jaguar style,” I whisper. He strikes a meditative pose, supported solely on one of his hind legs and the tendrils of menace flicker from green to black. Within seconds, they’re shooting out from all around him and I’m fumbling with my utility belt, trying to locate my NiteSite Goggles. By the time I find them and get them on, the surrounding area is cloaked in a inky, impenetrable blackness. I flick the button on the side of my goggles and everything lights up indigo. I look down at the eye and watch the pupil dilate in the darkness.

“You have four more lives than I do,” I tell Agrajag. “You go first.”

He meows and leaps down into the darkness. I unwrap the grappling hook and wedge it into a crack in the iris, letting the rope dangle below. I grab hold of it and start lowering myself down.

I’ve gotten about twenty feet in before the light in the goggles gets substantially brighter and I realize what’s happening. See, the blackness is expelled from Agrajag like a cloud, but he’s always at the centre of it and if he drops more than fifty feet, the blackness goes with him. I smack the button on the goggles and for a split second I can see normally again. Looking up, I can make out the dull grey sky of King City visible through the pupil. The ebon fog has followed Agrajag (wherever he is) and that means that the pupil will readjust itself to the light.

Sure enough, the pupil scissors closed as I watch and snips my rope in two. As I plummet, I yell out, “AAAAAAAGRAJAAAAAAAAAAG!” and a furry torpedo rams itself into my back and slams me into the side of the shaft. We hang there together and I realize I can see.

There are strips of lights running down the walls of what looks to be a giant, metal-lined cylinder. Behind me, Agrajag has stretched himself out into a large-scale parody of a flying squirrel and I’m sitting on him like a beanbag chair. The claws on all four of his legs are planted firmly into the metal. I crane backward, and he licks my face and makes a gurgling purr.

“I’m happy to see you too,” I say, “but we should figure out a way down from before your injection wears off. Do you know how far it goes?”

Glorp. Squeerk.

“Well, that’s not too bad. Can we glide?”

Meorp.

Agrajag lets go of the wall and I hold onto his front legs as he drifts down in a tight spiral. We hit bottom about sixty feet later and I pull myself to my feet as Agrajag shrinks back to normal size.

We’re standing in a circular chamber about a hundred feet across and thirty feet high. It’s lit with red emergency lights and is completely empty aside from a few dozen Little Black Lies, the Big White Lie’s shock troops. They are all wrapped in black, floor-length robes and wear masks that look like black bird skulls. They shuffle forward simultaneously.

I don’t know whether Agrajag’s got it in him to handle this fight without another injection. He should be able to, but he’s been through a lot in the past ten minutes. If he doesn’t, though, I don’t have time to fix him up. He’s on his own for now.

I pull three gas pellets out of my utility belt, hold my breath and throw them. I think they’re sleeping gas and not nerve gas, but I don’t have time to double-check. I guess we’ll find out.

The pellets crack as they hit the floor and a noxious brown gas seeps out. Nope. Nerve gas. Crap. I scramble for the pocket rebreather on my belt and slam it into my mouth just as I run out of breath. Little Black Lies are dropping like flies around me and I look over to see how Agrajag’s doing.

My kitty’s turned himself into a thirty foot long cat-headed python and is choking the life out of eight LBLs. He’s holding his breath too. He’s talented like that.

An air supply filtration system kicks in around us and the gas is sucked into a dozen wall ducts, but not before two-thirds of the LBLs are lying dead on the floor. The rest are just staring in horror. At least, that’s what I imagine they’re doing as they clutch their throats and choke behind their bird skull masks.

A door slides open in the wall and I pull two retractable My Little Ninja brand tonfa from my belt. They click out to their full length as Big White Lie steps into the room.

What, the boss fight already? Man, I was just getting warmed up.

Big White Lie’s about ten feet tall and wearing his trademark cloak of dire polar bear skins. He killed the bears themselves. Then he killed the needlehawks to get their needles so he could sew it together. He stitched it together with catgut made from cats’ guts. He killed them too. Agrajag growls.

On his head, Big White Lie wears a mask made from the face of a snow naga. He killed that too. He’s got kind of a reputation as a messed-up badass.

He cracks his knuckles through his grey gloves and surveys the carnage.

“You killed them?” he asks me. “You KILLED THEM?!”

I spit the rebreather onto the floor next to me. “I only meant to knock them out, but they were trying to kill me. You’re not going to make me feel guilty about ganking them.”

Big White Lie points at one of the corpses. “That was Diamond Dave! He had three kids at home to feed. He and his wife just celebrated their tenth wedding anniversary!”

I stare at the body, still covered in its robes and mask. “How can you tell? They all look the same.”

“RACIST!” Big White Lie yells, rushing at me, hands out.

This is Big White Lie’s signature move. He kills you with his bare hands. Well, with his gloved hands, anyway. He doesn’t need weapons. He kills you and then incorporates some part of you into his outfit. Gross. I don’t want to think what part of me he’ll use after I’m gone. Maybe he’ll just wear my knapsack. That would be cute.

We collide like two molten planets at the birth of a solar system. Neither of us stops but we’re both thrown back from the force of the impact. I hit the wall thirty feet behind me and careen off it. One of my tonfa is broken. Big White Lie inspects his arm guards, and he tears one free and throws it aside. Score one point for everyone. I drop the broken tonfa as Big White Lie and I begin to circle each other.

I can’t see Agrajag. He’s probably hidden himself using a mystical cat sutra. If he did that’s going to be the end of his powers until I can get him another injection. Oh well, stay safe, little buddy. I can handle Big Stupid Joke. (Yeah, I know that’s not a great insult, but I’m kind of busy fighting right now.)

“Why are you doing this?!” he shouts as he lashes out with his right hand and misses taking my head off by about an inch.

“Why am I doing this?! You started it! You put the contract out on me!” I duck down, punch him in the gut with the butt of the tonfa and scamper through his legs.

“I only said I put a contract out on you to make you think I did, so you’d leave me alone!”

By the time he’d straightens up, I’m on the other side of the room. I don’t know what I can use against him to even the odds. I could try for another gas pellet, but I don’t know if he’s outfitted the naga face with a gas mask. He probably has and I besides, I only had the one rebreather. I could use my Girly-Girl brand Sparkl-a-Rang explosive boomerangs (I hate them so much and would stop using them in a heartbeat if they didn’t blow up so good), but they generally work better at a larger distance. At close range, I’d almost definitely get hit by the blowback. I could roll my comics up really tight, I guess, but that’s about the same as a tonfa. Naw, I’ll stick stick with what I’ve got and hope for the best. Anyway, I’ve got fructose and guarana pumping through my veins; there’s no way he’s going to be able to compete with that.

I strike a crouched position, the tonfa extended behind me.

“You thought that was a good plan?!” I yell. “To antagonize the Cat Master?!”

“I didn’t want to have to deal with cat piss all over my stuff,” he shouts, rushing at me. He’s predictable, if nothing else. “You have a reputation, you know!”

I do have a reputation, I guess. I’ve stolen stuff from pretty much every gang, crime boss and politician in King City except Big White Lie, and I’d only held off this long with him because of his reputation. And, yeah, Agrajag has kind of a reputation for spraying things before he leaves.

Agrajag drops from his hiding spot on the ceiling onto Big White Lie’s head and latches onto the mask. Big White Lie screams and pirouettes around the room, scrambling at the regular-sized cat. Just because Agrajag is out of juju doesn’t mean he’s forgotten exactly how to get under your skin.

While Big White Lie is trying to remove Agrajag from his face, I run up and smack the tonfa across his ankle and he drops face-down like a load of bricks. Agrajag wanders off, self-satisfied, and I’m on Big White Lie’s back, sliding the tonfa across his neck and choking him with it in half a second.

“So, you don’t want me dead?” I ask him.

“No!” he gurgles. “Well… I mean… kind of now… yeah… grrrrrggggghhhhhh…”

“You just don’t want me to steal your stuff.”

“Hgggggggrrrrgh…. no…”

The gears in my head whir. “And nobody else in King City is ballsy enough to break into your base, are they?”

“Gggggggggghhhhh… no…”

“You’re basically left here alone.”

“Ghghghrrrrrrrrrrrr… yeah…”

“You know I could kill you right now, right?”

“Uuuurrrrrrrrrrrrrggggrr… uhhhh-huhhhh…”

“Cool. I’m going to let you go and then we’re going to have a truce. ‘Kay? … OKAY?” I look down at him. He’s passed out. I stand up and he slumps to the floor. “Close enough,” I say.

Big White Lie doesn’t fully come to for a good fifteen minutes and by that time he’s securely tied to an office chair I found in a service cupboard.

“What are you doing?” he asks, looking around.

“I am trying,” I explain patiently from the velvet couch I’m sitting on in his viewing chamber, “to watch A Million of Quests without having the ending spoiled.” The VCDVD is playing on the wall-sized monitor facing us and Agrajag is sitting in my lap. I found a pint of ice cream in his kitchen; it wasn’t strawberry Sriracha, but it would do. “So, here’s your options: you can either sit there quietly and watch the show with me and we can see how QuestForce retrieves the Golden Falcon from the Xymec temple in the Andes or I can inject Agrajag with some catjuice and we can find out how many layers you’ve got going on underneath that mask. It’s probably only your face, but Agrajag likes to be thorough. Do we understand each other?”

Silence. “Yes.”

“You’re going to be quiet?”

“… yes.”

“Good.”

“One thing.”

I sigh and finger a syringe. “What?”

“Can I have some ice cream?”

“Will it fit through the mouth hole in your mask?”

“Yes.”

“Then, yes.”

“Cool.”

And that’s how I discovered the Xymec temple transformed into a stone warrior whose only weakness was a reverse-polarized laser fired directly into its crystal heart. Ka-boom.

Molotov Hearts - Part III, Chapter 2

Fri, 10 Aug 2012 13:40:00 -0400

by Chris Eng, illustration by Karlene Harvey

Click here for the previous chapter.

Claire loomed over Jenn’s desk. “Nice fuckin’ friend, McNabb.”

Their math teacher had written the day’s lesson plan up on the board, waited a few minutes to make sure that everyone was working and then wandered off. That was his usual routine. No one expected him back for at least half an hour. The general suspicion amongst the students was that he was using a vaporizer to smoke up in one of the portables, but no one could prove anything and no one wanted to. If anyone called attention to him, he’d either get fired and they’d get a more vigilant teacher or he’d stop doing whatever he was doing and the effect would be the same. Let him get high if he wanted; more time to slack off. More time for Claire to have one-on-one conversations with Jenn in front of the whole class.

“I think she might have ruined my whole day,” Claire continued, leaning in.

This was the confrontation Jenn had been dreading. She spent the rest of her lunch break darkly anticipating it and when Jenn saw the way Claire glared at her as she walked into class, she knew she was right. Jenn had to defuse the situation and try to get it back to normal or things were going to get a whole lot worse.

“Look, Claire, I’m sorry about all that. She didn’t know what she was talking about. And I made sure she’ll never come back to the school. It’ll never happen again.”

“I don’t care.”

“What?”

“I don’t care. I meant what I said—if I ever see her again, I’ll fuck her up. But I don’t give a shit whether it happens again or not. It happened once and that’s once too many. She’s your friend and this is your fault. So,” Claire reached forward and flicked a loose piece of hair out of Jenn’s face, “you’re dead.”

“It doesn’t have to be like this. Isn’t there anything I can do to make it up to you?”

“Seriously? What could you, with your librarian clothes and your librarian life, possibly come up with that would make my life better? I don’t want anything you’ve got. You need to face facts, McNabb: you aren’t cool, your friends aren’t cool and your friends won’t make you cool. And speaking of friends, did you see the way you just rolled over on yours right now, trying to save your own ass? Super loyal. What a sweetie.”

“But…”

“Okay, let me put it another way, since you’re obviously not getting it. Your friend may have started this, but she’s not the reason we’re having this talk. I don’t like you and I don’t want to. You’re gutless. So, you and me are going to fight and I’m going to win. I’ll try to make it fast, but, y’know, no promises. See you soon.”

Claire punched Jenn hard in the shoulder and went back to her seat. Jenn rubbed her arm and winced. She was going to have a gigantic bruise, but as she looked around the room at the sea of faces silently watching her, she realized that was the least of her problems.

***

Thankfully, the rest of Jenn’s day was as stress-free as it could possibly be. Claire and the other students ignored her during the rest of Math class, and that was followed by English where she was studying The Chrysalids, a book Jenn had read four years earlier. Jenn was glad for the light workload because she was wound so tight she couldn’t concentrate on a word anyone said. She would have just skipped the rest of the day if it wasn’t for her mother. Jenn figured she had an okay chance of making it out of school without having to fight Claire, but if she skipped, she knew her mother would hear about it and her home life would turn into a warzone.

Jenn would have liked to have spent the afternoon scrunching up anxiety balls and tossing them into the pit, but the pit was way too full. All she could do was tune everything out, manage the stress she had going, get through the day without accumulating any more of it, and get rid of it later with a rebar workout.

When the three o’clock bell rang, Jenn raced to her locker. She grabbed her coat, dumped her books, and was about to make a beeline for her mother’s car when she saw the bag of clothes at the bottom.

She had no idea what to do with them. If she left the knapsack here, she’d be reminded of Lark Street every day between every class. If she took it home, her mother would throw it out. If she threw it out, she’d be abandoning that entire chapter of her life.

Then it came to her. She reached down and opened the bag. The contents of her drawer in Spit’s room had been crammed unceremoniously into the knapsack. Her Chucks were sitting on top, almost like an afterthought. She removed the sneakers and pulled out two other random items: a t-shirt and a pair of jeans. She slid her knapsack off her shoulders, crammed the shoes, pants and shirt into it, closed it up and put it back on.

Bringing the bag home as-is was a no-go, because her mother would see it right away, but Jenn could smuggle the clothes in a few pieces at a time and hide them in the multiple dark crannies around the workshop. She had a decent chance of getting away with it, too, because things had been normalizing in her house over the past month (relatively speaking) and her mother was no longer constantly searching her bag afterschool. That’s not to say it couldn’t still happen, but Jenn was willing to roll the dice.

She slammed her locker, slid the padlock on and made a dash for the parking lot.

Jenn never saw the shove coming as she breezed through the fire doors. But suddenly there was a hard blow to her upper arm and she was flying sideways, her arms splayed out in front of her as she hit the ground. She was winded and still didn’t know what was happening until she heard Claire’s voice.

“Told you we were gonna fight. Now get up and try to make this a challenge.”

Dazed, Jenn pulled herself to her feet, her hands achy and numb. She glanced down and saw the sidewalk had drawn deep gouges in them, the deepest already speckling red with blood.

Jenn had never been in a fight before. Not a real one. Not anything beyond a shove or two. But a crowd was already gathering and she knew this wouldn’t be over quickly.

She slid the knapsack off and unzipped her coat, setting both of them on the ground. She was shit-scared, but there was nothing she could do to get herself out of this. She couldn’t run, couldn’t break through the crowd and even if she could, where would she go? Into the parking lot to get her mother to save her? Yeah, that’d be a foolproof way to make sure no one at school ever bothered her again. Plus, it was impossible to imagine her mother saving her from anything. No, she was in this alone and all she could hope for was make it out with as much dignity as possible.

Jenn put her fists up in front of her like she thought you were supposed to and crouched slightly, imagining she was in a martial arts movie (and hoping she didn’t look like she had cramps). Claire moved in, hands loose, and punched Jenn solidly, a huge crack issuing as her fist connected with Jenn’s cheek.

Jenn spun back down to the pavement, suddenly aware of how slow time was moving. It wasn’t like the way time stopped when she and Spit were together. This was different. It felt like the fight was going to take hours. She wasn’t just going to have her ass kicked, she was going to spend an eternity watching it happen. She hit the ground hands-first again and the concrete took off another layer of skin.

“Is that all you got, you fuckin’ pussy?!” Claire yelled, booting Jenn in the ribs. Her side erupted in fire and her breaths came in hot, ragged gasps. She was positive she looked a mess. She wasn’t sure why that bothered her, but it did.

Claire’s foot connected with Jenn’s ass as Jenn staggered to her feet, and she stumbled forward.

“Can you pretend you’re not totally useless and fight back?” Claire asked and a few laughs rippled through the crowd.

Jenn turned to face Claire, who was still looking good. Her hair was buoyed by hairspray and her pants and shirt were undusty (as opposed to Jenn, who looked like she’d been rolling in it, which she supposed she had).

Claire nodded at Jenn, apparently reaching some internal decision. “I’m gonna break your teeth,” she said.

Jenn steadied herself as Claire came at her again, this time sidestepping the blow right before it collided with her face.

There was only one way Jenn was getting out of this fight intact. She had to drag it out until someone broke it up. If she tried to fight her way to victory, she was dead. If she let Claire get close enough to lay down hand-to-hand beats, she was dead. She needed to keep her distance, keep circling and throw the odd punch now and again to make it look good.

Jenn threw what she thought was a hard and fast right, but Claire stepped gracefully out of the way and punched Jenn so hard she saw stars.

“All right,” Claire said, bored. “Enough of this faggotry.”

She reached out, grabbed Jenn’s shirt, and yanked her forward, pulling her off balance. Unable to right herself in time, Jenn saw herself pitching toward Claire’s fist. The bitch wasn’t even punching her, she was just holding her arm out and letting Jenn fall on it.

Claire’s fist connected full force with Jenn’s throat.

Jenn landed on her knees, her hands scrabbling at her neck, unable to breathe. Was she going to suffocate? Her breaths were tiny and she wasn’t getting enough air. She thought she might pass out. Before she had time to do that, though, her hair was grabbed and her head yanked back and exposed. She was staring at Claire’s fist, which was cocked and ready to jackhammer into her face.

“Broken teeth,” reminded Claire and suddenly one of Claire’s cronies was waving her off wide-eyed and saying, “No, don’t.” Claire let go of Jenn’s head and walked into the school without another word.

Jenn’s gasps were like hot ash and all she could do was kneel in the dust, hold her throat and look over at what made Claire leave.

Her mother.

She was advancing across the parking lot, lividity twisting her expression. The crowd cleared a path for her and Jenn had just enough time to reach for her stuff before hearing a resounding, “JENNIFER!”

The students were mesmerized. They knew they were seeing something that wasn’t supposed to happen, but they weren’t sure what. Jenn held her throat with her left hand and turned toward the advancing juggernaut. The crowd held its collective breath as Jenn’s mother loomed over her and a new spectacle unfolded.

“WHAT WAS GOING ON WITH THAT GIRL?!”

“A fight,” Jenn croaked. She was still hoping to make it off the school grounds with as much of her dignity as possible, as per her original plans, but her rage was rising again. She’d stayed remarkably clear-headed during the fight and the pit in the centre of her had remained firmly at the back of her mind, but her mother’s yelling was bringing it back into sharp relief. Jenn had an awful feeling where things were heading. “I’ll explain everything in the car. Can we go, please?”

“Why don’t we stick around so you can explain it to the principal!”

“I don’t want that any more than Claire does. I’d just like to go. Please.”

Jenn moved around her mother, not waiting for a reply and made her way to the Celica, letting herself in the passenger side. Her mother watched her go, looked at the crowd, scanned for Claire (who was long gone) and headed back to the car. She got in, put the keys in the ignition, and sat unmoving.

“We’re not going anywhere until I get an explanation.”

“Well,” Jenn said, her limbs visibly shaking from the barely restrained tension. “I was leaving school to meet you and she jumped me. I think you caught most of the rest.”

“She just picked a fight with you for no reason.”

“Basically.”

“I told you we’re not going anywhere.”

Jenn noticed a good number of teens still standing around, watching her and her mother hash this out and she felt queasy. “You know what? Okay. Here’s the full version. One of my friends came by earlier to give me a bag of stuff I’d left at the house. While she was here, Claire, the girl I was fighting with, insulted me. My friend insulted her back and then Claire jumped me over it.”

A smile curled up at the corners of her mother’s mouth. “You see,” she said, righteousness coming off of her in waves. “I told you those punks were nothing but trouble.”

Anxiety wrapped itself around Jenn like iron bands and she knew she needed to get home as fast as possible before someone said or did something they couldn’t take back. “Look, can we talk about this at home?”

“No, I’m not done. I’d like to hear more about the bad habits those punks instilled in you. Insults, fighting—what else are they responsible for?”

Grab, crumple, toss. The ball bounced off the top of the pile, which had now crested the top of the pit, and landed at her feet.

“Oh, please,” Jenn snapped. “Like the punks are the ones who taught me how to insult people, get into fights and hate myself. I learned all of that at home!” She’d gotten in enough verbal sparring matches with her mother to know what was coming before her mother did. Jenn’s arm shot up, blocking the blow and she wished any of the defensive moves she’d tried against Claire had come off that easily. “That’s what I’m talking about. Learn from the best,” she said, grabbing her things and exiting the car.

“GET BACK HERE!”

“Or what?” Jenn answered through the open car door. “You’ll try to hit me again?”

The bands had tightened to the point where Jenn couldn’t breathe, and shreds of anxiety and frustration fluttered around her like a thick black snow. She was trying to keep the pieces off of her, trying to stop them from burying her and as she walked across the parking lot she grabbed armfuls of it and forced them into the pit, packing it down with all her might.

There were sounds behind her now, sounds she knew were coming. A slamming door, running footsteps on the gravel, heavy angry breaths. And then there was a claw on her upper arm, digging into her flesh, and Jenn leaned back into the grab, pulled her mother to the side, and threw a solid left cross into her face.

From deep below Jenn’s heart there was a rumble like two stones the size of the universe grinding against each other and every negative emotion she’d ever tried to forget or ignore erupted up and out of the pit in a thick black flood of hate.

“You don’t fucking get it, do you?” she yelled at her mother. “All the sacrifices I’ve made, I made for you! Not because I thought they’d make me a better person, but because I was afraid of you and afraid of what it would do to dad if you and I fought! I dress like this for you! I live my life like this for you! I even gave up the company of the only people who loved and cared about me FOR YOU! I tossed away everything important to me so I wouldn’t rock the boat and upset a cruel, bitter, drunk bitch whose all-consuming control over her family was the only fucking thing she cared about! And now you’ve lost control over me. God help dad.”

They faced each other, neither making a move. Jenn could see the other kids had formed a line against the cars and were watching the proceedings. She couldn’t blame them. The wallflower got the crap kicked out of her in a fistfight and then proceeded to do the same thing to her mother. This was some legendary, epic shit, and Jenn didn’t want any part of it.

“I’ll be home later,” Jenn stated and walked toward the drainage ditch which marked the edge of the school’s property. She realized this was a golden opportunity for her mother to try and jump her, and the worst part was Jenn couldn’t decide whether she wanted that or not.

But her mother didn’t follow her and Jenn didn’t hear her walking away, so she assumed her mother just watched her leave. Jenn scrambled down the side of the ditch, leapt across the tiny creek in the bottom and ran up the far bank, pushing bushes and brambles out of the way to get at a hole in the chain link fence. She ducked through and followed a barely marked path around hedges and underbrush until she got to a clearing. Some partyers had left a few milk crates in a semi-circle along with a pile of empties. Sitting down on one of the milk crates, Jenn set her things next to her and rested her face in her hands prepared for whatever emotions needed to be let out.

No tears came.

She was surprised about that. Jenn lifted her head up and took a deep breath. She was definitely tense, but she didn’t need to cry. She was beyond crying.

Next, she took a look into the pit. The black ooze was still there, but it was subsiding, shrinking back into the depths. The bands around her chest had loosened and she felt like she’d be able to behave normally for a while… whatever normal was.

The anger Jenn felt toward her mother was still there, but it was muted, and some of it had been replaced by pity. The fear her mother instilled in her was gone, but she could still see the outline of the space it had occupied, a lurking reminder of what she’d lived with her entire life. She no longer felt the need to please her mother or to be the daughter her mother wanted her to be. Similarly, she no longer felt compelled to try to be the girl she thought the punks wanted her to be. Jenn was free to figure out exactly who she wanted to be on her own terms. She could wear what she wanted, go where she wanted, be friends with who she wanted and date who she wanted without fear of the consequences. There would be consequences, there was no doubt about that, but since she was no longer afraid of her mother, they didn’t matter nearly as much. Jenn was in a position where she was entirely in control of her own future. She felt lost, dizzy, and elated.

She still wanted to give Claire a savage beating, but some of the anger Jenn had for her had dissipated when she realized Claire was right. Not about everything, but definitely about Jenn not sticking up for Becky. Jenn had betrayed her without a single protest and sold her out the first chance she got. Even worse than that, she’d walked out of her best friend’s life a month ago without so much as a goodbye. Maybe Becky was a little bitchy today, but considering the way Jenn had treated her (and everyone at Lark Street), she had every right to be. Apologies and amends would have to be made.

Jenn got up, bent her legs and flexed her arms. She was sore, but that was nothing time wouldn’t fix. Certainly nothing worth seeking medical attention over. Good. Because if she wasn’t going to cry and didn’t need to go to the hospital, she needed to find a bus, ‘cause there were things she needed to do.

Before anything else happened, though, she needed to change. Jenn dug the clothes out of her bag and smiled.

Click here for the next chapter.