Paresthesia Pt. 12

I am a patient boy. I wait. I wait. I wait. I wait. Time refuses to slip down the drain.

There are people moving, above me and below me, even to the walls on my left and right. Everybody's moving. But I have motion stilled. Just a room, four walls and a couch, beaten cushions by a thousand bodies, all the softness squeezed out until it is all wafer thin. And it feels good. My shape is somewhere in the upholstery. Somewhere. I am not aligned with it now. I am just resting my forehead on my bat and thinking about nothing at all. Deep breath in, met with a deep breath out. It flows with no beginning and no end. I chose this moment to begin my perception of it, but it did not begin with my perception. I am just here to remain.

I am the scalpel to the gossamer curtain that is a moment. I slip inside and wrap myself in the titanium impenetrable armor that only fits me. I have the mace of devious intent in my palms, its biting sting an unforgettable sensation. Pried only from my cold dead hands, and it is only a lump of dull bent aluminum. I give it the form, the true form of what it is, what it should be. I pull from the nebulous ether the forms purpose, will to exist solely in an iota of time, unleash rebellion for rebellion's sake against the world as I see fit. It will not obey. It cannot obey, for it is unmoored from something so petty as consequences. It is unmoored from the simple if then. The form becomes only then, action taken with no set up. Action willed and dominoes set down. I am the cascade of ruin with no beginning. I thump the bat against the floor hard enough to shake dust from the ceiling.

"Twenty-fucking-five to one,

Me gambling days are done,

I bet on a horse called a Bottle of Smoke,

And my horse won," shouts the ceiling.

In all fairness the new verse probably caused the disturbance. The bat is strong, but not a blood drunk army strong. Already through two whole drinking songs, and the Troubles will squeeze in another handful before we all decide it's time to really roll out. And get one more on the road.

My invitation to such festivities went unopened. That was the first time. Then they just kind of stopped. Not how I work, and t they eventually figured it out. I know Violence is off doing her own thing as well. Stretches and meditations, or more schematics and plans, I never bothered to ask. It's all a private affair, only divulged when it comes to someone rather intimate. The dust shakes again and they have entered a new verse.

A knock comes from my door, surprisingly demure. I didn't know that door could be demure. It was just always raucous rapping to get me from my silence. Sometimes it even got rowdy, depending on the job waiting for me. But no, this one is soft and calm and even a little nervous. It opens and to my surprise, it's Riot Girl. I didn't' know she could be demure either.

But she is. Enough training is behind her to give the semblance of composure, straight back, squared shoulder, stiffed upper lip. The hands give it away. They tap and poke and pull and prod at anything and everything.

"Loud," she says. I nod and the ceiling proves me right once more. It is less loud here. Slightly.

"Nervous?" I ask.

"Yeah. Yeah, kind of. Good nervous, though. It was always reaction on the other side. You'd do something and we'd be sent out. No time to be nervous. But this has just dragged on and on and on. You didn't help last night either."

"It's like boxing. Can't get off before the match. Makes you hungry."

"I think you just couldn't get it up. And that's fine. A lot of guys have that problem."

I give her a look and she is smirking at me and that means she likes me. So, whatever happens outside of this room, it doesn't matter.

"And I also stopped by to give you something," she says, "As well as insult you."

"You didn't have to do that. You could have just kept insulting me. It's what I really want."

"Well, I didn't get this. I'm just the messenger. Sunday said you'd know what it is. I got some too. I don't know what to do with them and he just laughed at me when I asked."

She pulls two small bottles I put my head in my hands. He's moved on to an actual bottling stage for this. I hate him and his stupid, brilliant need to go for the curtain and stage lights. There's a campfire burnout, trailing a lone whisp of smoke that spells out Sunday's Private Reserve. Behind it, a good shot and a half of bright red, almost glowing, definitely sparkling, tumbles and sloshes at every shake.

"That's Sunday's little trick," I sigh, "And it's kind of what has got the boys upstairs all rowdy. Well, that and stout. And whiskey. It does some really fun things. He only gives it out for special occasions."

She brightens and starts going through the dreams of what could happen if she drank it right now.

"No," I say, "That stuff will burn right through you. Save it for something special."

"Y'know, you're the best judge of what substances can do. Half a beer and you need to be carried to bed."

"And you like carrying me to bed. So, it all works out. Save it. Seriously. Worst case, you don't need it and then we go upstate to Picciotto and mess around with that. I already know what it does to me."

"Tell me."

"No. Surprises and if I don't need it, then you will get a fun surprise later. Speaking of, I have some more of those for you."

"Do I have to wait for them too? I don't like waiting for surprises. I want them now so I can be happy about being surprised."

"These can come now."

The box in question and the first part of my showering of gifts is at my feet. It is also a simple cardboard box lined with tissue paper and tied with a simple bow. I did not spring for wrapping. I should have, in retrospect. Some of the other things I have don't quite fit that mold, but still. Gifts without that paper don't quite work right. No idea why.

She holds a pitch-black leather jacket, similar cut and style as mine but with every inch covered in studs and spikes. Metal, shiny and chrome, sharp and sturdy, dotted and pierced. She flips it over and sees the broken heart of steel on the back, with the simple word 'RIOT' done in steaking white paint.

"I don't know if it's the style you want to take Riot Girl," I say to Hannah, "But I asked Alessandra her thoughts and this is kind of what we agreed on. You don't have to wear it. I honestly think the denim looks fine, but since we're kind of a partner thing now, I thought- "

I don't get a chance to say anything else as I am tackled down into the broken furniture. We finally manage to break something, but I think it was already like that when we got here.

"It's hideous and I love it," she says in between kisses on my neck.

"I'm not sure that's what hideous means," I say in between stroking her hair and placing my lips to her scalp. She's wedged the jacket between us and that also means there are several bits of metal jabbed into my soft hedgehog belly.

She says nothing. She is just kissing me and apparently one night of abstinence is too much for the both of us. Every hour, on the hour, put it in the schedule and we'll make it work.

"It's perfect. Oh my god, I love it. It's terrible."

"I'm getting really mixed messages honestly. The kissing kind of makes me feel like it's good, but I'm still not sure."

"No good guy would ever wear this. Cause it's just mean. The spikes are mean. It needs chains and more belts, but that's fine. How do I look?"

She pulls away and slips it on and it is heavy. She fights the weight. Gravity is not enough to pull her down. Each bit of metal adds more momentum to the softest motion, clacking softly together. A turn and I am staring at the back of something disastrous. Her hair just goes past the collar, letting me glimpse her neck. I don't know any more words for her. She is there and she is a catastrophe personified.

"I like the look you're giving me," she purrs, "It's like how you get at the batting cages."

"I'm sorry. I don't want to hit you."

"Not like that. Do you really not notice how you get? It's amazing. It's just the world collapsing to this one tiny pinprick. You get so serious and your eyebrows kind of scrunch together. You get that way at the cages. And you get that way when you're in a fight. And when we're, you know, doing it."

"It does make me want to do all that."

"Well, now you can wear my jacket. And just my jacket. And surprise me after a long day."

"Little problem with that. And now, we move to surprise number 2."

She is intrigued. She is ravenous as I start to take down my pants. Just a bit though. Just a bit to show the red silk and lace hugging my hips, outlining my length, highlighting my ass. And it's my turn to be the focus of such a needing focus. It is something. The spotlight burns into me and I gladly turn to cinders.

"So, that's what else I got at that store. It even came with garters and stockings," I say, "Which, I have to admit, I am not wearing. It felt too weird with the boots and the pants. Not quite what you're going to get tonight. But a fun taste."

"Turn around and bend over a bit. Stand on your toes too," she says. The roof shakes and I don't think it's solely the boys upstairs.

I do as she says, feeling her eyes rove me in awe. The little noises she holds back, deep in her chest, deep in her should, primal and raw and savage. She echoes in the noise from above. The raucous call cannot contend with the basest desire. I feel her step closer and thrust back a bit more. I do like her eyes on me. I like them a lot, turning her bothered and hot with a bit of lace and silk. Can't wait to see what the full number does.

I yelp and jump away as sharp pain races through the tender skin.

"Did you just bite me," I squeak. She bit me. That smile means she bit me.

"Little bit," she sighs, "Little bit. Should have done a lot more of that."

She takes a deep breath to calm herself. She's a little too worked up now, and that's doesn't lend itself to calm, rational thought. Not that this is really the time or place for any of that sort of thing, but we should at least have the pretense to be.

"I think you might have a better ass than Alessandra," she says with careful deliberation.

"And I think you're crazy," I say, "Not that I don't have a mighty fine ass, but that's just perfection."

"Sure, your dick's huge, but your ass is so-so. Whatever."

"Never said huge, just big. Come on. Alessandra's, really? I need something to be humble about."

"Like, yours needs the packaging. Needs the lace and maybe some heels, but with that, it's amazing. Can't wait to see the whole thing put together."

"There is one more bit, but you need to close your eyes for it."

She does. She does and it kills her to take the eyes from me. I did not want her to watch me put everything else away. That would be devastating, the deepest depression imaginable, for her. So, I kill her, just a little. And she'll like what I'm about to do to her, anyway.

From my pocket, I pull a small tube of lipstick from my many, many pockets and do my best to paint her lips. Black, black as night and the deepest sleep, as spent charcoal and the bottom of the sea, dreams and nightmares slip through this black, so incredibly black, it doesn't even have a fancy name. No midnight serenade, or starless abyss. It just says black on the tube, so final is this black.

"Did you just do what I think you did?" she says, working the pigment in.

"Probably. Despite my best efforts, I can't read your mind. Nor would I want to. Seems like there are some weird things in there that I don't want to know."

She pulls out a little pocket mirror and opens her eyes. I did not tell her to do either of those things, but it's fine. Not really the game at this point.

A sharp breath, enough to cut glass, as she looks at herself. I have second thoughts. Shouldn't have done that. Should have given her the tube and let her do it herself. Should have gone with a different color, maybe, but I don't know what it would have been. Not green, that's Serpentor's thing. Orange and any warm colors are kind of out. Anything else just didn't seem quite right. So black it is. She wears it well. Very well. I have several ideas for those pitch-black lips. And I think she does as well.

I am right. She does have several ideas for the lips. Mostly about kissing me and making it seem like every part of me should be painted and stained with her. It should be. But later. Later. She is making a very good case for all of it happening now, but I have to be the responsible one and beat her off with a stick. I need to breathe.

"Thank you," she says in a voice so small it slips between the falling motes of dust.

"Anything for you," I say, "And if you don't like it, don't worry. Riot Girl is yours. All yours. If this isn't what you want her to be, then we go shopping later. But I figured, since this was your first big deal with this side, you deserved something to mark the occasion."

"And mark you. Oh, I am going to paint you, my man. My. Man."

"Ok. I'm a little scared. Should I be?"

"Yes. Yes, you should be. Terrified. Horrified. Awestruckified."

The singing above stops and that does get the nerves back up. The silence is deafening, louder than the rowdiness could ever be. Time to go. I know. She knows it. All the playful fear in the world can't soothe that sudden realization that we are about to do something stupid.

I stand and offer my hand. She takes it and squeezes it tight, once, twice, three times. I squeeze back, once, twice, three, four times. I am the man who slips into gray and takes the will of the world into no consideration at all. I have a personified earthquake decked in the industrial strength of primal industry. Across my back is a simple instrument of blunt pain, perfected centuries ago in the mace and now only masqueraded as a tool in a pastoral game. All in all, I'm just a goddamn sex machine with a .750 batting average.

---

Alizarin sat behind the wheel, knuckles tense and eyes focused. Even the scent of new fake leather didn't really calm her. It never did. It needed time to fade, to let the oil and the metal seep in its place. But the only thing it had was a little dangling pine tree barely overtaking the old man smell. It would work. It had to work. The little lights she put under the hood had to work. Taita walked her through it.

The same thing in her mask, that might be a bit more temperamental. It's the same thing in the car, but she was a person. No, wrong, demon, she was a demon. The mask made her a demon. Taita said that the mask was something dark and powerful channeling lurking powers through her. He got it at a costume shop a decade or so ago then just shaped it and repainted it. She helped make it red. She liked red. The car wasn't red. It should be.

One more corner and she would be there. The Droog next to her kept quiet. The two in back did the same. Not even an introduction, just a courteous nod and a tight handshake. One did tap her shoulder and point to an alleyway, where another one gave that same nod. They all wore black, faceless, intangible black, but just normal enough to go into a crowd. Flowing from shadow to person, hidden and seen as the occasion arises. Alizarin didn't like them. Gave her a bad vibe, made her feel incompetent. It would be fine. They were here to help. Stagehands, Violence's words, just stagehands to help set things up. Someone honked at her and she gave them the finger. She got a finger back and the Droogs responded in kind, all in unison. Maybe they weren't so bad.

She circled the block and waited. She had two more circuits in her before she had to pull away and take a detour. Too much suspicion too many cameras, but that was good. She was supposed to get the ants in the Hall a bit riled up. And she didn't know what she was doing.

She put up the front and took the wheel and crossed the wires, but she just didn't know. Taita said one thing. Mama said one thing. Evan and Hannah kind of mixed her all up and made her want to do stupid things. She wanted to do stupid things and now she was in a luxury sedan that needed to be lowered to not even an inch off the ground. Later, she could do that later. She could doubt herself later, when she didn't have the whole world riding on her shoulder.

"Now," said the Droog in back tapping at her shoulder.

And she did it now. She turned one more corner and pulled down the ramp. She held her breath and crossed her fingers and do all the things that she could think of to get the invisible waves to meet and shake hands until it all clicked together.

With a loud shrieking rattle, the shutter rolls open.

Cool, she had to play it cool. One, because the people in her car were playing it cool. Two, the cameras would see someone lose it and people didn't lose it when a door opened, unless they didn't' expect the door to open. She just pumped her fist a bit and drove on into the garage.

Calm, she was calm. The Droogs were calm as they started cruising like a shark for an open spot. And there was so much blood in the water. A reverse trike in hypnotic swirls, an old school roadster on blocks, a low-slung slithering sports car, also on blocks. All terrible. Well, not the last two. But the real thing, the real prize laid dormant in the corner, not on blocks.

The squad car, three axles and armor plating. Based on the shape of a police car, loosely, with the same row of lights on the top, but raised, enlarged, embiggened. That made her drum her fingers on the wheel. Beautiful, dark gray finish, slits for windows, heavy tires, and something simply magical under the hood. Such a naughty thing, teasing her like that. It should be punished, sweetly, softly, brought to the edges of some maddening ecstasy. Focus, she needed to focus and not think about taking things apart too much.

"They're starting in five," said another Droog. She couldn't even tell if it was a man or a woman. The scarf around their mouth muffled everything, hid everything, made her guess. Focus. She needed focus and an open spot to park and start working.

She gave up. It didn't matter. A turn and a stomp and it was just out of the way. If anything, that only meant something else would be blocked down the road. Good plan. She had a good plan. It would work. The Droogs approved with their silence and said nothing.

"Get me the- oh," she said.

She did want her tool bag but that was already in her hand. A Droog put that there. And they were already shifting over to her driver's seat, keeping the engine warm, keeping the mirrors all aligned and set. The others were already taking their lookout points and she was just standing around like a dumbass.

So, she got to work instead. Pliers, screw drivers, little bits of metal that slipped in her hand so perfectly. But none of that really mattered if the second little trick of hers didn't slip through the works. She stood at the driver's door and held her breath again.

And it clicked open. She sighed and did a little hop. The Droogs didn't see it. They pretended not to, at least. It felt right, though. It felt good. All the little bits of metal and light and electricity flew by her, and they now turned to her will. It all did the things she wanted to do. It even dropped a bit on its chassis and let out a small step for her. Such a courteous thing. She liked the squad car more and more.

Bucket chair and fun screens that lit up and heavy steering wheels. It smelled old, worn in, burned through so many of those little pine trees and lemons and little pucks that were sure to eat all the odors. It even swiveled, taking her to the window, to the wall, to the wheel.

Focus, she had to focus and do her work, the glorious work of popped panels and sparking wires. And there were so many of them. Some went to the consoles, the screens, the little readouts for speed and pitch and even yaw. Her fingers shook. Her arm shook. Her entire body shook in eager anticipation.