The Foul Mouth and the Cat Killing Coyotes (The King Henry Tapes) (7 page)

“Matches, the tents, insect repellants, trail mix, pots and pans . . . hopefully some toilet paper,” Pocket explained.

“I get it.”  I stopped long enough to shake my backpack.  There was a clanking noise.  “That bastard gave me all the heavy stuff, what you bet?”

“I doubt he even packed it,” Pocket decided.

“It’s Samson, he’s a control freak.”

“Why would he hate on you?  You’ve got the second best grade in his class.  If Eva wasn’t so awesome at the non-fighting stuff you’d be number one.”

“I always assume a person is trying to screw me over, helps to ready me for when the shit hits the fan.”

“Relax, dude, it’s just a camping trip.”

Only
. . . it’s the Institution of Elements, Learning Academy and
Nature Camp
. . . so not really . . .

[CLICK]

After another hour the trail ended and Samson called a halt.  We’d arrived at the campsite.

The campsite had a kickstand.

Half the class was
oohing
and
awwing
over the lake the place butted up against.  Asa Kayode, our resident hydromancer, had already dipped her completely-black hand in the water and gave a completely-white smile back to the crowd.  Good water, I guess.  You wouldn’t see me in it.

Fuck trees.

Double fuck lakes.

The lake reminded me of a month ago, the trip to the Asylum.  A lot like Silver Lake.  Only
. . . no road behind us.  Only . . . no cars making noises.  Only . . . no cabins around it.  Ass end of nowhere.  The armpit of the galaxy but no inbred Sand People in sight.  Thirty kids and Fines Samson to watch over us.

Half of the class couldn’t care less about the lake.  First thing they did when we hit the opening in the trees was to throw off their backpacks and crumble onto a trio of park benches that had been set up.  There was also a fire
-pit, lined in stone.  Maybe the Camping Club came up here all the time, I had no clue, but I took the signs of civilization as a plus.  The smell of evergreen wasn’t quite as bad either.

“See, dude, nothing to worry about,” Pocket told me.

Somehow I stripped myself out of my backpack without falling to the ground.  “Have you not been in the same class I’ve been in or something?”

“That’s
class
, we aren’t in
class
.  It’s only Samson.”

“The most badass guy at the school.”

“Don’t know about that.”

“Who else is more badass?”

“Miss Dale?”

“She’s a softie on the inside.” I hadn’t seen
Ceinwyn in the month at school; maybe lack of exposure downgraded her in my mind.

“Mordecai Root?”

“Douchebag necromancer, he’s disqualified.”

“What about Naomi’s dad?  I wouldn’t want to mess with him.”

“Mr. Gullick?  Are you kidding me?”

“What?”

“He’s a floromancer . . . floromancers can’t be badasses.  What’s he going to do?  Throw a fern at me?”

Pocket happened to be a floromancer and he
glared.  “I’m going to ignore you blasting my entire Mancy discipline.”

“I know you are
. . . there aren’t any ferns around for you to fight me with.”

“Dude, Samson’s like one-hundred.  He could drop dead at any moment.  There’s no way he’s going to screw with us too much.  Quit being paranoid and enjoy the break.  Remember the Clubs Fair?  You were paranoid about it and nothing happened.”

Nothing except the Asylum managing to trick every student to give up more free time
.  I kept the thought to myself.  “Just wait for it . . .”

The first whiff of moldy-shit came five minutes later.

“Very well,” Samson said, “Everyone get your eyes on me.  I’m not repeating this.”

The whole class did so, some innocent, some bored, some wanting to go back to the lake or benches, and one lonely King Henry waiting
for that pre-mentioned Sword of Damocles to go all guillotine on our pretty young necks.

Samson had a soft voice, even when he
raised it for us to hear.  In his prime he must have looked soft too.  You could see it in his bone structure.  Where the black hair would curl around his face, where the soft needle thin mustache would sit over his top lip.  Softness hiding the inner edge.  Now, only the edge was left, out in the sun, worn down, in need of some sharpening.  Rough wrinkled skin hung loose over boney arms and legs, with pieces of muscles stretched tight around them.  When you got old, I guess all the extra unneeded parts of you died before you did.

After ninety years, only the voice was left soft.  “The backpacks you hauled with you will have everything you require.”  Pocket dared to look smug. “Scattered between your four teammates will be the pieces of a tent, four bowls, utensils, a small spade for dirt work, and
other necessities.  Since they’re packed with this purpose in mind, this means you do not get to choose your teams . . .
I do
.”

Yep
. . . shit already starting to stink.

“Team Number One:  Price, Landry, Jackson, and von Welf.”

Thirty assholes collectively tightened.

“Yes,” Samson continued with some glee, “I selected the teams solely for my entertainment.”

You couldn’t have picked a team more guaranteed to fight with each other. If it had just been me with Jason and Welf I’d have been outgunned.  Just Welf with me and Pocket and Welf wouldn’t have done nothing but make snide comments.  The four of us together?  I didn’t know how we’d get through the weekend without fists flying.

“Team Number Two: Ward, Daniels, Kayode, and Hunting.”

I take it back . . . you
could
pick a team more guaranteed to fight with each other . . .

Teams kept coming out.  I
hardly paid attention to them.  Welf had sauntered over to us, Jason carrying a backpack under each arm like he’s the Hulk or something.  “Don’t start any problems, little Foul Mouth.”

“Me?  You’re the one who throws the shit, Nazi!”

“Guys, come on, just cool it for a few days,” Pocket tried to play councilor.  He didn’t exactly like Welf either but Pocket didn’t hate the guy like I did.  Of course, Pocket’s a normal looking kid who hadn’t been called a child before he could even give his name to the class.

“I said I wasn’t repeating myself,” Samson’s voice ca
rried from where he stood surrounded by school kids mouthing threats or jokes at each out.  “So put the bickering on hold for a moment.”  When he was sure he had our attention, he continued, “This weekend is considered a graded assignment.  Do have fun.”

There were groans.

“Please get your tents built before sundown.  I won’t be helping you.”

Welf a
nd I glared daggers and machineguns and probably even smart-bombs at each other.  “Three day truce, Price,” he decided.  “You listen to me, I’m in charge, and we get a good grade.  It should be the only one you’ve gotten so far, yes?”

If I’d had hackles, I would have raised them.  Almost raised a certain finger, that’s for sure.  “Fuck that.”

“Be reasonable, man,” Jason said with a shake of his head, “you could use the grade and this ain’t the place for me to be breaking your bones.”

Pocket shrugged.

“You ever camped, Welf?”  I could read his disgusted expression as my answer.  “Me neither.  What about you, Jackson?”

Jason shook his head again.

“Right . . . so Pocket is the only one who has a clue, which means we listen to
him
.”

Seemed fair.  I didn’t get to smack Welf’s face like I wanted and Welf didn’t get to play leader like he wanted.

It was Jason’s turn to shrug.  “Good with me.”

Welf gave a sigh.  “Only until he screws up.”

I figured that’s as good a concession as we’d get out of him.

Nazi asshole
. . .

Tyson Bonnie fidgeted, waiting by the counter as I closed down my register.  If you need a reminder due to early-onset-dementia, Tyson Bonnie is my most loyal customer, an Ultra like me, an electromancer or by the Ultra title, a Stormcaller.

Physically h
e’s about six-foot-four, weighed in at three-hundred pounds, and happened to have black skin.  He wore khakis and polo-shirts and had the latest iWhateverthefuck in his pocket.  He scared the racist little old ladies who frequented my shop but was about as middle-class as you get.  I guess he counted as my friend, making him part of a pretty small club.  As he was about to find out in the next few days . . . membership doesn’t have many perks.

The register
’s computer screen went silent with a mournful beep. I’d managed to make the two twenties back that I’d stolen from myself the day before.  Look at the money rolling in.  Going to pay back Ceinwyn any time now making forty bucks on antiques every day. Only take me about one-hundred years or so . . .

Holy
crap, I did that math in my head . . . I hate you anima conversion formulas, how I hate you . . .

“
Are you just pulling my chain, King Henry?” Tyson asked, fiddling with his iWhateverthefuck in his pocket . . . one hopes that’s what he’s fiddling with at least. “Or do you actually have some new stuff to show me?  If not, just tell me and I can go get my games before they’re sold out.”

“You don’t reserve,
T-Bone?” 
T-Bone
is the nickname I gave the guy.  He hated it, but since when has that stopped me?

“
Well . . . yeah . . . I do.”

“Bummer, thought we’d finally found an area where you showed some rebellion.  But
, nope . . . you’re such a good boy you even reserve your video games.”  I slammed the register shut and locked it before my own rebelliousness made me steal two more twenties.  I worked so
hard
for those twenties . . . the business owner part of me deserved them more than the larcenous part of me.  “If you did reserve then why you so worried?  What’s the point of reserving if not to lighten your anxiety in this time of oppressive fucking consumerism?”

“
That’s it exactly . . . I don’t trust the cashier to hold them for me if they sell out,” T-Bone said, still fidgeting like he had thoughts about bailing on me for whatever new fix Japan had pumped out.  He was so nervous he even forgot to complain about me calling him
T-Bone
instead of
Tyson
.

“That’s good, never trust the cashier.  Bastard steals from me all the time.”

“Aren’t
you
the cashier?”

“Would you trust me with your money?”

A worried frown came over his face.  He lifted his thumb-callused hand to scratch under his eye in a nervous tic, actually staring at me for once and seeing how shady I could be perceived as to people not aware of my exalted job title.  “But . . . don’t I trust you with my percentages on the lightning rings?”

“
Static
defense rings, SDRs, no
lighting
, no
fantasy
CGI crap . . . and yes, you do.”

The frown continued.  “Have you sold any?”
he asked cautiously, curious but trying to be polite.  Stupid ass parents, making your kid polite is the worst thing you can ever do for them.  Polite is just a step away from gullible.  Make your kids suspicious . . . then you’re actually preparing them for this world.

“Two of them last
month actually. I owe you like five-thousand dollars; remind me next week to write a check.  Tonight we’re busy with important stuff . . .”

“
Five-thousand dollars
!”

“Twenty-five percent of what I made.
” I started rummaging under my counter for two new toys I’d been experimenting on. T-Bone was going to love them.  I was particularly proud of my inventiveness in taking what I already knew and expanding it to another school of the Mancy.  “That’s the deal, ain’t it?”

“But
. . . wait . . . you sell them for ten-thousand
each
?”  The frown had gone away and his expression went with the goggle eyes.

If I hadn’t owed Ceinwyn so much money I probably would have been impressed by it too.  Fourteen-year-old-me back before the Asylum would have thought it enough money to retire on.  I don’t think I even
knew they made dollar bills higher than twenties back then.

Poor little fool.

All of us out of the Asylum have a strange relationship with money.  Unless you’re a rich fucker like Welf, I guess.  Or Miranda.  But for most . . . going without money for seven years?  Not having to think about taxes or housing or car insurance until your twenties?  We’re worse about it than even college seniors getting ready for the cog-force.

“These items, even my little experiments,
are rare and expensive, T-Bone.  That’s why the Guild of Cocksuckers has such a monopoly.”  I really needed to clean up my counter bottom.  There were old anima conversion formulas crumbled up in wads of paper, plus pieces of glass and metal I’d played anima games on all over the place under there.

I’m
lucky a corporeal anima conjuration hadn’t popped up from the excess . . . that’s all I needed, one of those little freaks under my counter, annoying me all day with hints of prophecy and divination. 
Next time one of them calls me Dirt King I’m going to kill the thing . . . somehow.
  “Ten-thousand per SDR is at a discount since I knew the guys and they’re with ESLED.  Normal mancer I don’t know a thing about?  Twenty-thousand, maybe more . . . lots more if it’s a snobbish asshole like Welf.”

“We’re going to be rich
. . .” T-Bone whispered to himself, dreams of having every video game ever made flying through his head.

“No we ain’t
. You?  You might have some extra cash coming your way.  But me? I’m pretty sure I’ll still be broke as a dog without a bone to gnaw or a bitch to fuck,” I decided, finally finding my boxes and pulling them up.

“Why are you in such a bad mood today?”
T-Bone grumbled, put out by the fine display of cursing, “Days you show me new toys are usually the days you’re at least pretending to smile but today you look like you’re thinking about going on a killing spree like all the other crazy three-named white boys out there.”

“You know you sound incredibly uncomfortable when you say ‘
white boy
’, right?”

“Pointing out race isn’t my thing usually,” said the black giant raised by an Asian guy and a white lady.

“Then don’t go there next time.  Just say I look like I want to bash in faces and be done with it.”

T-Bone
nodded, watching me instead of the boxes with the toys.  “Why?”

“
Why
, what?”

“
Why
are you pissed off more than usual, King Henry?”

I cracked my knuckles by pushing against my countertop.  All eight in rapid succession like air filled gunshots.  Pop.  Pop.
  Pop.  “Saw my sister yesterday.”

“
I didn’t know you had any siblings.”

“Two of them actually.”

“You talk about your father and Mrs. Dale told me what happened with your mother . . . but you never mention sisters.”

“You got sisters or brothers?”

“Only child . . . that I know of.  I guess my biological parents could have had others.  I try not to think about the what-ifs.  Plus, if they turned mancer I assume they would have showed up at the Asylum by now.”

I shook my head, thinking of my own what-ifs and the did-happens I’d gotten with Susan and JoJo. 
“Lucky fucker.”

He shrugged my way, moving a considerable amount of body to do it
.  “Gets boring not having family to argue with.  End up getting addicted to video games.”

“And porn.”

“Uh . . .”

“Maybe even
Japanese porn . . .”

“Uh
. . .”

“Why don’t you have a girlfriend
anyway?”

That earned a glare
.  “Why don’t you?”

“I’m busy saving the world here.  You though
. . . you should be rolling in the rebellious college-girl pussy looking for huge dicks.”

For once
T-Bone got mad.  “You rat-bastard, stop trying to turn this on me and tell me why you’re so pissed.  And quit talking about the size of my dick . . . that’s racist assumption.  I could have a very small dick for all you know.”

“Never seen a guy admit to a small dick before
. . .”

“I’m not saying I do!”

“Sounds like you kind of are . . .”

“Your sister, King Henry!”

“My sister . . .” I started, but stopped . . . trying to think where I could start with JoJo’s tale of woe.  At least with Susan there are good memories.  I know there must have been some with JoJo too, but all I could bring up out of the recesses was the fighting and name calling.

“
The reason can’t be so bad as holding it in,” T-Bone decided, like it was his place to know my head, “The teachers always said holding it in is dangerous for mancers—especially Ultras.”

I sig
hed.  Therapy lesson from the only other Ultra in Fresno, just what I needed.
Better than Ceinwyn showing up, I guess . . .
I figured I should just throw the whole shit-bucket out on the lawn: “My sister, who I haven’t seen since I was thirteen, is married to Horatio Vega.”

T-Bone
stayed silent for awhile as the words settled in the air.  They settled with pure stank.  “Tit-balls,” he finally said, “that
is
bad enough to hold in . . .”

My dirt eyes perked up.  “You know the name?”

“I’m an Ultra in California,
of course
I know him.  The guy came by my house the first week I got back in town from the Institution and had a meeting with me about not causing trouble.”  T-Bone started frowning again.  “Wait . . . he didn’t for you?”

“Never heard of him before yesterday.”

“He’s the King of the Coyotes.”

“Knew
they
were around abouts, but never ran into them.”

T-Bone
wondered aloud, “Why would he meet with me but not with you?  I don’t mean to inflate your ego, King Henry, but you’re the big leagues, I’m just a desk jockey playing with computers.”

I
gave him an
are-you-retarded?
look. “Ceinwyn Dale.”

Those two words explained all,
T-Bone just nodded along.

“Think she knew my sister married
him for all this time?  Think she kept it a secret from me even though I’ve wondered about where JoJo’s been for years?” I asked, gravel grinding in my throat to hold back some of my rage.

“Uh
. . .”

“That’s a
yes
, ain’t it?”

“Uh
. . .”

I slammed a hammer-fist down on my counter, making the lighter of the two boxes hop.
It was a small miracle an accidental anima discharge didn’t break some antiques. “That controlling . . . that game-playing . . .
that fucking bitch
!  Will she never stop
interesting
my damned life?”

“Maybe you should call her and let her explain
. . .” T-Bone tried.

“Fuck her.”

“She probably did it to protect you . . .” T-Bone tried again.

“Fuck
her in the armpit.”

“Listen,”
T-Bone tried a third time to reason with me, “she probably figured that if you found out about your sister being married to a Were, that you’d go to war with them over her; to get her back and protect her.”

My expression went
full on disgust.  “Over
JoJo
?  I wouldn’t do
anything
for that brat.  She made her call when she ran out on me!  You wonder how come I don’t have a girlfriend? 
This is why!
  All the women in my life drive me nuts!  Making deals with a Were Nation behind my back!  Not telling me my sister is married to Horatio Vega!  Putting a fucking gun to my head!  Not asking for help when I could have kicked Suit’s ass for her!  Damn her!”

“Uh
. . . which one?  I’m confused.”

“Bot
h of them,” I fumed.  “This is so screwed up I’m expecting Annie B to walk through that door any minute!  Or Valentine . . . that’s all I need right now . . . crazy, the whole lot of them . . . coolest girl in the world one minute then the other type of cool the next . . .”

“Who’s Annie B?”

“I didn’t tell you about that?”

“Nope
. . .”