Paws Page 5

  They’re clapping their hands and cheering their horses.

  Who can blame them? Look at those nags move! It’s like they’re running for their lives. Because they are! Even long-shot Vegemite Sandwich, in last position, is giving it her all. Fifty Shades may have started out strong, but going into the first turn, he’s flapping like crazy just to keep up!

  No. Looks like the Garg was holding back! He’s gaining. Vegemite Sandwich pours it on, staying inches ahead. Coming out of the turn, it looks like she’s gonna make it, but…

  Oh!

  Too slow.

  Fifty Shades grabs her like a gummy horse, pops her in his mouth, and has her for lunch.

  Vegemite is down under.

  Like you didn’t see that coming?

  Lucky for the jockey, Vegemite’s a mouthful. The horseless sulky spills, but the little guy gets up quick, like his pants need to dance, and hightails it out of the way before Fifty Shades can swallow.

  I thought Gorgolla was more about showing his might, but I guess munching living flesh is a thing with these monsters. Maybe their mutated metabolism is unstable. Not that the desire for world conquest is a sign of stability.

  That aside, unless I’m misinterpreting the moral impetus implied by the current scenario, we’ve reached that special moment where ethics not only allows me to snuff the oversize Boulder-Boy—it practically demands it.

  Yay, ethics!

  I heave and ho the slo-mo spectators, making a path for myself as I slip the nano-catalyst into my hand. What with all the brouhaha, getting a clear shot is tough. But after a lot of bobbing and weaving, I’ve got it. One quick squeeze, and Googly the Search Engine that Could will be a big, wet puddle of love.

  Rats. It’s never that easy, y’know? There’s always some but or until or suddenly. In this case, I’m about to do the hero thing when some thick-armed hippophile comes up and grabs my arm. When I say thick-armed, I don’t mean muscular—I mean fat. We’re talking hogzilla ham hocks. I have no idea how he stuffed those suckers into that shirt, let alone the vest. And adding to the porcine aura, he’s got this short, scratchy hair on both his head and face, like a pot-bellied pig.

  Not that this is about fat-shaming. He carries it well. It works for him. But then this reject from The Island of Dr. Moreau actually grabs my hand. He gets his shower-gel smell all up in my face and asks, “What’re you doing?”

  What am I doing? I’ve done lots of things I think need explaining, but trying to save a bunch of people from a rampaging behemoth isn’t one of them. I’m so gobsmacked that instead of coming up with a clever retort, I point at the big gargoyle, like it’s not obvious, and spell it out.

  “I’m going to stop that monster and save those horses.”

  Hogzilla shakes his big-ass head. “I bet my mortgage Daddy’s Debt is going to do three laps before that thing gets to him. Let ’em finish the race!”

  Overhearing, a tall, thin, coiffed hairdo with angry glasses shakes her bony fist at me.

  “Yeah! Let ’em finish!”

  Next thing I know, I’m surrounded by a crowd that makes me look sane. I don’t know if they’re sleek pro gamblers, mad-eyed addicts, or tourists who just like shouting. Their hands are all over me, like Night of the Living Debt, or Day of the Locusts, or Afternoon of the Airheads. They’re all angry, and they’re all shouting:

  “Let ’em finish! Let ’em finish!”

  I’m hallucinating, right? Like the basketball game with Sophie?

  No.

  Don’t think so.

  If I’m the voice of reason, we’re in trouble. “Hey, I’m as much for collateral damage as the next guy, but even if you set aside the poor horses, don’t any of you care about the jockeys?”

  They stop and stare. Maybe I got through to them, awakened their better angels, slapped them sensible, verbally kicked them into catharsis. Only they’re not staring at me—they’re staring at the track. They only stopped shouting to watch another Standardbred get turned into a horse d’oeuvre. I only hope Tasty Cornballs lived up to her name.

  The losers wail their loss. The rest, Hogzilla and Angry Glasses among them, cheer their still-charging nags. You sure I’m not hallucinating?

  Your guess is as good as mine.

  Time to get my hands dirty. In other words, I start shooting. (Yeah, okay, not at anyone, but the loud bang-bangs get the idea across.) “Everybody out of the gene pool!”

  Most of them scatter like good little primates with a functioning survival instinct. Not Hogzilla. He’s still staring at the race. Sheesh. This guy’s got a major monkey on his back.

  That reminds me: I always wondered why a monkey on your back is a metaphor for addiction. Those little guys are as adorable as puppies. Don’t you wish we still had organ grinders, publicly cranking their boxes while their well-dressed simian pets collect coins?

  I know I do.

  Hogzilla—bulging eyes locked on the track, tickets clenched in meaty paws—is not budging. I could go around, but like a mountain, he’s there, so I climb over him. Reaching his peak, I give him a kick.

  That gets him moving. “Keep running!” I tell him. “It works!”

  I jump the rail and plant myself center track. Once Daddy’s Debt passes by, there’ll be nothing but dusty air between me and Gurgles the Garbanzo. He’s coming, wings outstretched, arms reaching down.

  “When they see how powerful I am, the Earthlings will be easy to enslave!”

  Clearly a Living Gargoyle in his prime. Not so much on the clear thinking. “Look, Geegle, putting aside the fact you’ve got a piece of horse stuck in your teeth, are you sure you’re dug in on the slavery thing? Economically, a free market with a thriving middle class would provide many more eager, educated consumers.”

  Ah, he’s not listening. He’s too busy watching his previously gawking crowd hoof it toward the parking lot.

  He veers toward them. “Humans! Behold my might!” He sounds a little sad.

  Mindful of the irony, I hoot and cheer. “Run, you crazy bastards, run!”

  And the race is on! After a quick stop to place some bets, I rush over to watch. Look at ’em move! It’s like they’re running for their lives! Even Hogzilla is giving it his all. And there goes Angry Glasses, taking down anyone in her way, leaving others in the path of certain destruction just to buy herself a few more precious seconds of life, sweet life.

  Hogzilla tries to edge ahead, but Angry Glasses trips him and runs right over him! Recognizing that she may be that special someone, Fifty Shades gets closer. But, man oh man, she pours it on. It’s Angry Glasses, inches ahead. Angry Glasses, almost at the door of her SUV. Angry Glasses, pressing the key fob and unlocking the doors! It looks like she’s gonna make it, but…

  Oh!

  Fifty Shades almost had her, but she dives and slides under the SUV! What a move! And it’s not over yet. He grabs the whole dang car and lifts. Angry Glasses tries to crawl away, but there’s no place left to go!

  Mrrr. Can’t really let this happen, can I? No, really. Can I? Pretty please?

  No.

  You can’t.

  Oh, fine. You know you’re both starting to sound like Preston?

  I make for a streetlight near the fracas and then hand-overhand my way to the top. From there, it’s a dazzling leap onto Gumby the Lady Gaga. I land on his broad back, latch on to the rocky nape of his neck, and plunge my katana into his thick, turgid flesh.

  “Feel my might, Gargles?”

  Wounded, at least for the moment, he roars. As he twists, I ride him like a mechanical bull—a really big, gray mechanical bull. Say, I’m pretty good at this! What the hell. I toss one hand up and shout, “Yee-hah!”

  Never underestimate the beast you’re riding. When I yell, he lurches forward and I go rolling like water off a gargoyle. I hit a Prius that still has the sales sticker in the window. Lucky for me, those hybrids are pretty soft. The car crunches, absorbing most of the impact.

  The Living Goebbels is pissed. So pis
sed, his priorities are shifting. Now he’s less into showing his might and more into killing me. He rushes toward me, but I’ve got the nano-spray out, and I’m sure as hell close enough to hit the target. Finger on the button, I’m about to end this race for good. But (there’s always a but…) Gurgles doesn’t like what he sees. Sensing the danger, he stretches his wings to the max and gives them a great big flap.

  Whoosh!

  Not being aerodynamically correct, I go flying backwards off the car and down to the ground. Not being aerodynamically correct, either, but much lighter, the nano-catalyst goes flying like a piece of paper caught in a tornado. And where, oh where, does the deadly aerosol of annihilation go flying, pray tell?

  Remember that reservoir I told you about? The one providing fresh, clean water for millions? The one I swore would have absolutely nothing to do with that chapter, like the horses and the raceway?

  Yeah, it’s headed that way.

  Turns out Chekhov was right, even if he is dead.

  CHAPTER 6

  GORT the Gitchee-Gumee wants to crush me ever so badly, but big airborne monsters don’t turn easy, so I’ve got a few seconds before I have to deal with him. I flip to my feet, because sometimes simply standing isn’t enough, and put some distance between us by bouncing car-to-car all parkour-like.

  Making my way across the parking lot toward the gleaming waters of the reservoir, I spot the nano-catalyst, glinting as it tumbles. I track it down, down, down, until a patch of junk pines blocks the view.

  It’s either landed in the trees, which I guess would be okay, or it’s on the reservoir access road on the other side, which wouldn’t be too bad, or it’s in the reservoir, which could be really bad. If you’re fond of people.

  I’m an optimist, so I head for the pine patch first. It’s so dark, I can’t see the can for the trees. I’m on my knees like I’m looking for a contact lens when Googolplex fixes the lighting issue by flying through the trees, uprooting a swath of tree trunks. Between the dangling roots and brown dirt, a treasure trove of shiny things shakes loose.

  “Gorgolla will decimate you!”

  No time for semantic corrections now. I start sorting. Beer can. Beer can. Soda can. Gum wrapper. Aerosol nano-catalyst. Beer can. Beer can. Beer bottle. Classy. Shroud of Turin? What’s that doing here? Beer can. Beer bottle label. Wait! Hold it! What was the fifth thing I said?

  Gorgolla’s shadow over me, I snatch the gleaming metal cylinder, spin onto my back, aim up at His Rockiness, press, and…

  …nearly cut my finger off on the bent pop-top.

  Damn. Beer can.

  “Feel my might!”

  Where the hell…? I turn to look. Oh, there it is! Got it. But you know what they say about turning the other cheek? Not always a good idea. As I twist back to take my shot, my other cheek meets a big, gray fist.

  Powerful blows come and go in my line of work, but this is a good one! Long before the pain registers, I’m up out of the dirt and into the air. I see pulsing lights, the kind you get when you close your eyes and stare at your eyelids. Mine tend to be cherry red. Gorgolla says something about conquering our puny race as soon as he has another gnosh, but his voice is muffled and distant, consumed by rushing air.

  My vision clears in time to see the lovely neighborhood of brick houses I’ll be dropping on shortly. Nice digs. A couple have in-ground pools. Not the one I land in, though. That one has an attached greenhouse.

  Crunk!

  Used to have a greenhouse, anyway. The broken glass and ceramic pots barely sting, but the pain from that punch catches up with me.

  Oh boy, that hurts.

  Pain isn’t the only thing catching up with me. Gorgy-Boy takes a shortcut through the house. And when I say through the house…all that’s left is a smoking pile of brick, mortar, splintered wood-frame, and select crackling electronics. Good thing no one was home.

  I’m ready for him. While he’s busy shaking house dust from his eyes, I’m eating the distance between us with my blades out. I shove both my bad boys so deep into his rocky gut that my hands and arms almost go in with them.

  For my effort, I get a startled “Yearghh!”

  I want to hit him again, harder, but first I have to get the swords back out. While I’m up on him, bracing my feet against his abdomen and pulling at the hilts, he tries to swat me again. I see it coming far ahead of time, so I cleverly position myself so that his titanic blow (Thud!) sends me shooting right back where I came from: the patch of fallen trees where the nano-catalyst landed (Whoosh!).

  No, really. I wanted that to happen.

  Sure you did.

  If you say so.

  Smart-asses. Sure, the landing was rough, but if I didn’t plan it, how’d I wind up on my feet all the way over here, halfway to the nano-catalyst with the Living Git all the way back there wondering where I’ve gotten to? Tell me that, why don’t you?

  Sometimes I wish I could pull you both out of my head so I could slap you.

  Trust me, there’s plenty of self-abuse going on in here.

  And harness racing!

  I go for the can. Gorgolla, already healed, decides against flying and makes like the Hulk, jumping on over in one huge leap. Pretty good aim, too. One foot lands to my left, the other to my right. I don’t want to tell you what I see when I look up.

  Okay, I will. It’s rocks. All rocks.

  His flapping wings cause another rumble and rush, and again the freaking can goes sailing toward the reservoir! With no trees left to stop it, it flies up and over the water.

  Some days you just can’t keep the drinking water safe no matter how hard you try.

  Luckily, there’s a fenced walkway stretching diagonally across the water. I know, I know, but really! It’s totally there, I swear. Check it out on Google Earth. The can hits it, bounces, and rolls.

  Never turn your back on a Living Gargoyle. With a hearty, “Feel my might!” Gorgolla picks me up and makes for the sky. In seconds we’re alone at last, the stars above, the twinkling lights of Yonkers below. I look down, trying to see what the can’s up to, but my date keeps going up, up, up. The air gets colder. I think he’s planning to fly to the moon.

  He can’t do that, can he?

  Why not? Cartman’s friends once built a ladder up to Heaven.

  Gotta get to the can quick. And yes, I know what that sounds like. I let loose a flurry of punches—a flurry, I tell you! Gargoyle pieces fly. I keep at it, pummeling his granite skin with such a steady beat I suspect it’d be fun to dance to.

  Wincing, Gargolla draws me up so we’re face-to-face. “I will annihilate you!”

  I flash an okay sign. “There you go! Annihilate works! Not so hard to pick the right word when you try, is it? But uh…how exactly are you gonna annihilate me? Squish me? Won’t work. Punch me? You tried that already.”

  His brow furrows. It even makes a noise because of the rocks. He’s not sure.

  I get smug. “Eat me?”

  Uh-oh. The Merc with a Mouth does not know when to shut up. Gorgolla’s eyes go wide, and he sucks my arm into his mouth like it’s a piece of ziti.

  “Hey! I was kidding!”

  I yank it out, but not fast enough. Stony teeth clamp on my wrist. The arm comes free, but I really don’t like the flesh-and-bone-tearing sound it makes when it does. Next thing I know, I’m staring at a bloody stump.

  “You bit off my hand! What is wrong with you? Spit it out! Spit it out, now!” No rolled newspapers around, but I glare at him to show him I mean business.

  He just swallows and smacks his lips.

  “You ate it? You ate my hand? You are going to be so sorry you did that!”

  Can’t use two katana, but I can still use one. Faster than Jiminy Cricket can wish on a star, I cut into the stone where his right wing meets his back.

  “Eat this!”

  The ensuing “Aghhh!” is satisfying. I particularly enjoy the part where he arches in agony and lets go of me. One-handing the hilt, I let my weight pul
l the blade until the whole wing detaches. As I hook onto his shoulder with my bent legs, I watch the wing drop down, down, down, twisting like a helicopter seed from a maple tree, only gray and vaster.

  Reeling, Gorgolla grabs at the cut. “Foolish Earthman! We’ll both plummet!”

  He makes a good point, but I’d prefer a less sexist term, like Earthling or Earther. I do indeed notice, though, that we’re moving faster toward the ol’ home planet.

  “I admit I wasn’t really thinking things through, but dude, you ate my freaking hand!”

  The stars spin in celestial indifference. Less indifferent, but also spinning, the giant gargoyle tries to yank me off his back. I make myself like that itchy spot you can’t reach. I need my one hand to keep hold, so I can’t punch him, but I can kick. I sheathe my katana, then wrap my fingers tight around his pointy ear and let loose with my combat-trained tootsies:

  Kick-kick-kick!

  Not really hurting him, but it bugs him. Bugs him so much, he cries out: “Stop it! Stop it!”

  Kick-kick-kick!

  He tries to return the favor, but Gringold the Grinch can’t get his feet up high enough. I try to stay on top so I’ll land on him; he tries to stay on top so he’ll land on me. And there we are, accelerating toward that terminal-velocity thing discussed earlier (there will be a test!), locked in an exciting, madcap dance. But like Tommy Smothers (or John Lennon, or Allen Saunders) said: Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.

  His missing wing grows back. It’s sort of like time-lapsed flower petals opening to the morning sun, or super-slo-mo footage of a corn kernel popping in a microwave. Once it’s whole, he spreads both wings wide, slowing our momentum with a dizzying loop-de-loop.

  I hold on with my three whole appendages, but it’s not the same anymore. I’m totally self-conscious again. My hand won’t be back for hours. Why does he get to regenerate faster than me? Why? Why?

  Oh, honey.

  There will always be those lesser and greater than yourself.

  No! I’m special, too! I am! Sophie! Look at me! Look at me! I’ll get a dog, I swear!