Category: Writing

“Something’s wrong,” Michel said. “My hairs are wiggling, they won’t lie flat.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jesse said. They’d just pulled up to the house in their brand-new used truck.  Jesse parked it close to his apartment at night, like half the tradespeople in Burnaby.

“They tell me things,” Michel said.  “But sometimes they whisper to themselves and sometimes they yell.”

“What do they say about Kima?” Jesse asked, amused. He wasn’t concerned about something being wrong. He was never concerned about anything when he was with Michel. It was, now that they had a working understanding, very relaxing. Afterward, he realized that relaxing around Michel was a mistake — and that it was no longer possible to pretend he didn’t need treatment for his PTSD.

“I think they like her even better than I do!” Michel said enthusiastically. “But there’s still something wrong,” he added. “There’s smoke that isn’t a house fire.”

Jesse got out of the truck and banged on the door.  It was a small, elderly, overgrown house in that strange part of Burnaby between Marine Drive and Marine Way.

There was a loud scraping noise, a thump, and then he heard heavy footsteps on the way to the door.

An intense looking man opened the door.  He saw Jesse, and the moving truck beyond him, and slammed it closed again.

Heart pounding, Jesse yelled through the door, “Where’s Melissa!?”

His chin out like Mussolini, Michel abruptly appeared beside him on the front step.

“We could call the cops,” Michel said. “But that’s never any fun. Give me a second.” Then he grabbed Jesse and threw him to one side, since whoever was on the other side of the door was about to discharge a shotgun through it. The buckshot tinkled harmlessly to the concrete, from where it had struck Michel. Jesse, deafened, didn’t notice at first that he’d been grazed. It was no worse than a bad cat scratch, but it was the first time he’d ever been shot.

Michel, enjoying himself, said, “Calice, what a welcome!” and vanished. Jesse meantime stood to one side at the bottom of the steps while Michel effected ingress by shoving his hand through the hole in the door and snapping the locks open. He then leaned on the door and as it opened said, “Nope nope nope you don’t get to reload.  Get one that takes more rounds next time! I don’t think you heard my young friend. Where’s Melissa?”

There was a squawk, but no words.

“Please don’t kill him,” Jesse called, chiding. “He can’t talk if he can’t breathe.”

He approached the door and saw Michel restraining the man from behind, one enormous hand over most of his face.

Squatting, he said, “I’m Jesse, and this is Michel.  Michel used to kill people for a living.” This, to encourage the man not to squirm too much. Michel dropped his hand so their unpleasant new acquaintance could talk.

“He’s too late,” the man rasped. “I could have used him, but the bitch is already dead.” Unseen by the man, Michel dropped his jaw about a meter, and then closed it up again.

Jesse, panic-stricken, tore through the house, upstairs and down, but apart from the torn-apart and spilled cardboard boxes, and a tiny amount of bloodsmear from what looked like a hurried shower, there was no sign of her.

“Trunk,” Michel said, and tossed Jesse the man’s keys.

He got out his Maglite® and, after apologizing to every atheist who ever lived, asked Cernunnos for strength. As if in response, a lilac bush shed some water on him.

He realized he’d tracked through her blood on the way to the door and his mouth filled with saliva.  He could smell the blood now in the damp, chilly air.  He paused and tried to control his breathing and nausea. George could probably smell it half a mile away, and Michel must have known before he even got out of the truck. There was blood, smeared and sticky, all over the bumper and trunk, and a small pool of it where it looked like someone had set down a body.

Jesse started to shake. Part of him wanted to flee, but the other part, the part that Raven said was the best part of him, opened the trunk in hope she hadn’t lost too much blood.

Melissa Rodrigues’ sightless eyes looked back. The shotgun blast that killed her had destroyed her neck and some of her chin. Likely she had died more or less instantly.

Jesse gently closed the trunk without securing the catch and called 911.  He moved away from the car and composed himself so he could be as useful as possible.

“Hi. My name’s Jesse Silver. I’m at the end of 14^th Ave southwest of Willard in the flats,” Jesse said, when the operator answered. “A woman named Melissa Rodrigues has been murdered here. I’m really sorry, I walked through the crime scene without knowing.”

“Are you safe?”

“The man we think did it is in the house, being sat on by my friend, so unless he has any friends showing up — ” And here Jesse paused.  If you’ve just murdered somebody in the middle of the night you don’t open the door unless you’re expecting someone.  He looked up the street, but saw neither movement nor light. “Yeah, I think so for the time being,” he added.

He’d put away the dishes when the phone pinged.

“I asked around. You seem to have a reputation.  The cops frickin hate you but at least one of your clients thinks you’re awesome.”

Jesse’s heart thudded.   

She’d sent a link. Sighing, he clicked it.

There was, on a social media page, an earnest four hundred word wall o’ text, crammed with ellipses and emojis, from someone called 44liy4h2oo0. She described how a dreamy guy named Jesse had saved her sister from two Sikh gangstas with guns.

“Oh, Aaliyah,” Jesse said. It always comes as such a shock when brown people don’t get along, but when Poles hate Germans nobody’s surprised.

He texted Paddy.

“A great recommendation. Too bad nothing apart from the move happened as she described.”

The phone rang. “I thought I’d call.”

“Awesome,” Jesse said.  It was stupid, and George had commented that his use of the word came closer to being a vocal tic than true communication; or that it was like birdsong, but not as charming. Michel was a jerk about other things.

“So you’re a local hero,” Paddy said.  Jesse could feel her winding up for more questions.

“George identified the need.  We charge a lot of money, so heroic is maybe not quite the right word.”

“I was thinking of filming a five minute documentary about Midnite Moving, something you could use to raise awareness that could also serve as an ad. Also, you’re very well-spoken, you should think about TED-X.”

Jesse burst out laughing.  Then he sobered and said, “I think it’s a fantastic idea.” Subtext: If it means I get to hang out with you. “My colleagues, on the other hand, will probably say no.”

“I knew you’d say that. You want to get together and bang out a script?”

“I barely finished high school and I can’t really type,” Jesse said, avoiding the question.

“Fine, I’ll sit cross-legged with my lap top and play scribe,” Paddy said.

Naked, I hope.

Aloud, he said, “We broke a lot of laws, doing this work.  If we bring attention to ourselves, I’m the one that will go to jail.”

“For what?” she asked in disbelief.

“Theft over,” Jesse said, thinking about the furniture from the British Properties move. He and George had gone through the entire Criminal Code of Canada, and it had been very disturbing to realize how fast he’d become blasé at the prospect of another charge. “Assault, robbery, forcible confinement, stealing a cop’s service weapon — sorry, I don’t know the statute — breaking and entering, being unlawfully in a dwelling place, disguise with intent, possession with trafficking — of stolen goods, not dope — theft from mail, bringing into Canada property obtained by crime, various false pretences charges, pretending to practice witchcraft —”

“Whoa, whoa! Who pretended to practice witchcraft?”

“Not me, but I’d probably get blamed for it.”

“You’re serious.  You’ve done all those things.”

“Collectively we did, and the police when they’re laying charges throw everything they can.  I only did about a third of all that, and I don’t assault anybody, mostly because I’m a very devout coward with no martial arts training.”

She made a noise of disbelief.

Jesse said, “We almost rustled cattle, but dude sold it before we got there.”

“This is incredible.”

“That I will not deny. Do you want the rest of the list?”

“What, did you memorize it?”

“I wanted to; we kept adding to the list of charges,” Jesse said apologetically. “Fraudulently obtaining transportation, falsifying employment records — there are other crimes but I can’t remember them and I think you’ve gotten the point.  George knows them all.”

“You are a bad boy,” Paddy said.

“You really wouldn’t say that if you saw my face when someone pulls a gun on me.  Fortunately my colleagues have the badassery covered.”

“I should meet them.”

“You think so now.  You’d regret it later.”

There was a long pause.

“Are you protecting them or me?”

“Ha. I’m in no position to protect anyone.  It’s friendly advice.”

“Can you set up a meeting?”

Jesse’s heart sank. “I’ll ask them, but I don’t think you’ll get much traction.  Michel will start lying the instant you meet him, and George’s ability to not answer questions is almost godlike.”

“You really don’t want me to meet them.”

“I’d love you to meet them.” Michel’s googly admiration and hijinks would be something to see.  “If they don’t see any good coming from the meeting, you won’t get the chance.”

“Give me their contact info, I’ll deal with it.”

See, this is the point where being poly is very, very useful.  If I was super lonely and desperate to make an impression, I’d say sure even though I know it’s a bad idea. But I can say no.  I can say no and mean it. I can say no!

He softened it, a little. “I’m sorry, but no.”

“I’ll turn you in to the cops,” she said.

You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.

“I’ve been truthful, with the intention of building a relationship, and your response is to make threats. Now that I know what kind of person you are, buh-bye. Lose my number.” He hung up. She called and texted non-stop, and he blocked her. It was probably time to get another burner phone. She filled the voicemail on the business phone, which put the nail in the coffin.  If her self-regard was so high she thought nothing of preventing other women from getting access to Midnite Moving Co., she was the type of asshole Jesse did not need in his life.

Jesse emailed his poly partners separately, saying that he was feeling gross and could use some company in the next couple of days, and went downtown to get as drunk as he could without injuring himself. At one point he remembered walking out of the Cobalt toward False Creek and heaving his phone into the water. He somehow got home safe before dawn, which was good. He was so upset he’d left the house without his sungear. 

George had given the cell phone with the business number to Jesse. At 10 a.m., it rang and Jesse let it go to voicemail, since he’d been in bed for two hours after a job the night before. Strangely, that hadn’t been a move at all, but giving guerrilla filmmakers some assistance with a fly-by-night shoot. 

He was exhausted and elated, after a conversation in front of a 7-11 in East Van with a certain Paddy Norland. She was a challenging individual with a very clear voice and direct gaze. Within ten seconds she was the most attractive woman he’d ever been this close to. She resembled one of the actors on the television show Orange is the New Black, he couldn’t remember her name¹, and immediately he promised himself that he would never acknowledge the similarity, ever, even if she brought it up.

There was a problem with the lights, and they were taking a short break while the tech wrangled with it.

“You aren’t going to ask me for my phone number?”

“We’re colleagues,” Jesse said austerely. “Not really appropriate.” It was stretching it, but he was secretly thrilled and preferred to stay calm until he had a clearer idea of her intentions. ‘You’d be perfect for my girlfriend!’ was only one conversational tripwire. There were others.

“Colleagues — yuppers,” Paddy said. “I’ve never seen you before! Can I give you my phone number?”

“I won’t take your number, not until you hear the pre-existing conditions speech.”

“You have a pre-existing condition? What, like being gay?”

Jesse realized that he’d gone Sixer; he felt the pressure of her questions in ways that seemed foreign to him.  George don’t fail me now. “Affectional and sexual orientation can change, but I’m convinced I’m straight.”

“Like, straight no pegging? — or straight no homo?”

“I’m happy to take Dan Savage’s advice to straight boys on the subject,” Jesse said, keeping his face calm as a middle path between a Cernunnos-style over the shoulder ravishing and a childish giggle. What subject, exactly, they were talking about now seemed clear. It took all of his childhood training to keep his face relaxed and open.

She absorbed his comment with an expression of thoughtful agreement. Taking a breath, she continued to throw down questions. “What do you do when muscle worshippers hit on you in clubs?”

“I say, ‘Thanks man, I play for the other team’. If they offer me money, I recommend a guy I ran into once who’s a specialist.” He reached for his wallet and extracted a card. It was a sex trade worker’s business card, all right, and rather scuffed. She looked at it, and her eyebrows popped up in surprise, and then down as she made a scowly little smile.

“You must have some clue how fucking gorgeous you are, though, eh?” She handed the card back, touching his fingers unnecessarily. 

“I wasn’t 10 years ago.  Keep telling me how gorgeous I am,” Jesse said, putting the card away and bringing his palms toward his face like a celebrity accepting plaudits, —”it don’t get boring.”

“About your pre-existing condition….”

“No, not herpes. I have solar urticaria; I’m allergic to the sun.”

“And you live in Vancouver,” she said with amusement.

“If the sun hits me, my eyes swell up and then my throat closes and I die.” He brought up his forefinger, closed and crossed out his eyes, and stuck his tongue out sideways.

“Holy shit. Do you have any other allergies?”

“Aspens, latex and bullshit.” That line of patter came out easily, after helping train all those med students.

“Your honesty is suspicious, ya know? I don’t really see a problem though.  I’m nocturnal myself – I got turned around in film school and never really came back.”

Jesse slowly allowed his happiness at this remark to command every muscle in his face. They looked at each other, smiling. A man emerged from the 7-11 and, while paused to light a smoke, said, “Get a room!” to them. 

“You paying?” Jesse said, without thinking.  The man blew a raspberry and walked away.

“Charm City North,” Paddy said.

No fun city.

Jesse smirked, and then Jesse became solemn, because another trap lay ahead.

“Dealbreaker number two: I’m poly.  Getting involved with someone new means renegotiating previously existing relationships.”

There was a short but not hostile pause.

“Plural.”

“Roger that.”

“How do you find time?” This with envy, irritation, admiration.

“You seem like an accomplished and focussed person. I don’t have to explain it to you. “

“I’m punctual, too! – and please do explain it to me,” she said, grinning her face off. “I gotta know if you’re really polyamorous, or you’re just a dog with mad time management skills and a Plenty of Fish profile.” She was cough-laughing as she said this.

“I don’t think I feel safe talking about my partners to you,” Jesse said, after a long pause. He knew Lark would have broken into a slow clap, hearing that. “How’s this. You give me your number, I’ll text you where and when the next poly meet is. I’ll go to the meet and you can make up your mind about whether I’m poly or ‘just a dog with a calendar’.” Jesse’s tone was soft and his face unthreatening.

 “I just completely fucked over any chance of getting with you.”

Jesse was about to say something that was a Jane Austen scale masterpiece of sense and tact, and then the tech came back with his thumbs up. Their eyes met, Jesse’s expression saying, ‘Well?’ and Paddy’s saying, ‘Big oops’. Paddy sucked on her teeth and returned to their business.

Load out ran late, and he had to put his mask on, which he hated, because it stank no matter how and how often he washed it, and the sweat from his face would wick into the fabric.

Paddy reappeared in front of him, marvelling at the mask.

“I’m glad you think it looks cool.” Jesse sounded muffled.

“Here’s my number,” she said. “First beer’s on me,” and the fiery trails her ass left in his imagination as she departed kept him company on the ride home.

He was almost happy the phone had woken him up. 

He texted Paddy.

“I didn’t grow up with a cell phone and I prefer IRL so expect me to be terse, slow to respond and unclingy. Really, really, want the opportunity for anything from a balloon ride to a movie. Tell me when to show up and what gear I should bring.”

Then, because he wasn’t an idiot, he turned the business phone off, and his own phone too, so he wouldn’t be lying there with his heart pounding and the possibility of four hours’ uninterrupted sleep migrating south with the mountain jays as he listened for that fucking ping to tell him that he’d won a free plastic coating for his car, since it probably wouldn’t be her anyway.

Having acted, he could sleep.

His happiness on seeing that it was almost suppertime when he woke up — the longest stretch of sleep he’d had since he’d been possessed by a god — was snuffed when he checked for messages. There was a text on the business line from someone wanting to interview him for a local weekly.

“No — thanks!” Jesse said. He was going to erase the message, but who knew, perhaps George would see things differently, so he kept it. And nothing from Paddy.

¹ Natasha Lyonne, if anybody cares.

Jesse went back to work. The client, once she believed Michel had control of the situation and the ex couldn’t call for backup, worked like a woman possessed, getting as much of her stuff out as possible. Once again, it wasn’t the furniture or books, it was the photographs, the kitchen gear and the mementos. She didn’t even take much of her clothing, since it was all in a style that suited hubby.  “I don’t give a shit about this house,” she said at one point.  “He can keep it for all I care.”

After about half an hour, she started hiding in the house again.  The cop was out of the car, and Michel was saying, “You can go back in when she’s out.” The cop looked cold, wet, not quite scared and very, very white under the ghostly streetlight.

As Jesse came up to find out why the hell Mr. Piggy was out of the car, Michel called, “Why do women marry? It’s not like it’s a game they can win.”

“What?”

“Never been more glad to be who I am,” Michel said in disgust.

“I’ll find her,” the cop said abruptly. “She’ll never testify against me.”

“I just showed you pictures of your last day, doing all kinds of horrible shit, and you’re worried about a court case with her? Shouldn’t you be worried about your job?”

“That’s all inadmissible evidence,” the cop said contemptuously.

“Once I figure out how to get it on the internet, who cares?” Michel said. “You’ll help me with that, right?” he added, turning to Jesse.

“Sure,” Jesse said. Speaking with care, he said, “Sir, I don’t know what you’re thinking right now, but if you assault or harass our client, we’re going to respond.”

Michel added, “My cousin got the Chief of the VPD on speed dial, so don’t be an idiot.”

“Seriously, we should drive him someplace remote and tie him to a tree and leave him there,” Jesse said.

“When I’m done with you you’ll be wearing dentures and shitting in a bag in a wheelchair,” the cop said.

“George won’t let me,” Michel said, ignoring the threat. He wiped away imaginary tears with the backs of his hands.

“Give me back my phone.”

Michel, not even trying to hide what he was doing, snaked his arm across the ground, picked up the sodden phone from where he’d thrown it, smashed it to bits on the roof of the car, and carefully handed what remained to the cop.

“Your phone, as requested,” Michel said. “I gotta find something that will motivate you,”

“Pull his teeth out,” Jesse said, angered by the threat. “It’s non-fatal and it’s what he promised me, so he must think it’s an appropriate punishment for people who piss him off.”

“Oooh, summary justice,” Michel said. He shoved his right hand into the cop’s mouth and emerged with a molar, bleeding with bits of flesh attached.

“Auuugh!” the cop yelled.  He tried to run away and sadly, tripped. Blood poured from his mouth.

“Not ’til I’ve pulled out all of your teeth,” Michel said. “After that we’ll have to get creative.”

“I think maybe we should not be so angry and, you know, vengeful.” Jesse said. The cop’s distress was truly heartbreaking. Deserved, but heartbreaking.

“You suggested it.”

“Honestly, I didn’t think —“

“I’m not angry,” Michel pointed out.  “He hasn’t seen me angry.”

Jesse wished he hadn’t been so spontaneous in his suggestion.

“Just let me go. You guys are crazy.” He spat.

“I don’t beat my wife,” Michel said pointed out, “And if I was dumb enough to get one I’d treat her like she wanted.”

“Crazy? I don’t think any of us meet the legal standard, even you, you fucking asshole,” Jesse said. “Tie him back into the car and we can push him off a bridge when we’re done.”

“No, no, don’t do it!”

Michel took the hint. “I think it’s a great idea. The coroner’s gonna have his hands full with this one.”

Michel gagged and bound the cop, returned him to the car, and they finished loading.

Jesse and the client went to the truck. Michel ungagged the cop, and as the cop realized that Jesse, who had not actually harmed him, and his wife, who didn’t spare a backward glance, were leaving, and that he was now alone, injured and unarmed in the company of the biggest fucking crazy goon he’d ever met, he finally panicked. Michel could feel the fright wash over him and grinned to himself.

“I need medical attention,” the cop bleated.

“What?” Michel said, handing back the car keys. “Drive.  Dead men don’t need medical attention.”

“You can’t kill me.  You won’t get away with it.”

“Got away with it every other time, didn’t I? Not that you knew that, but now you do. Turn left.”

“Where are we going?”

“The bridge.”

After a very tense and silent drive, they were on the Port Mann Bridge. Michel told him to pull over.

“It’s strictly against the rules, but there’s hardly any traffic this time of night. Look at me.”

Reluctantly, he turned his head.

“Mike Peller, you got two choices. Leave your wife the fuck alone or get pictures of you banging a streetwalker in your car on the internet. Fuck up again after that warning, and I’ll bring you here and shove you off this bridge myself.”

All Michel got was a nod. He got out of the car. “I’m keeping the tooth,” he said. “And the gun. I like souvenirs.” He moved out of anyone’s sightline, and vanished. The car took off east across the bridge, fishtailing and skipping across lanes.

Mike Peller took early retirement and moved to Thailand, which was probably sorry news for someone. Candace Peller, who immediately reverted to her maiden name, was not one of those people.

“How can you say that and call yourself his friend?”

“He calls me friend.  From this angle it looks different.”

“What do you think his hair is?” Michel said.

“Whatever it is,” Jesse said, now forcing himself to acknowledge that he did think about it, “It’s tied to the fact he doesn’t eat. Do you know how many calories you burn through in a day?”

“I get by on about twelve hundred.”

“You learned about calories and checked.”

“They were invented before I was spawned; it wasn’t hard. It’s very strange to have watched the progress of science since before the turn of the previous century. Every time it speeds up there are these weird hiccups and waves of humans thinking the human race can be made more perfect.”

“You don’t sound hopeful.”

“I think you can get the average person to be better behaved, with a carefully selected bag of bribes and punishments, but mostly you gotta stop fucking with your own family structures to prop up capitalism. Nothing’s gonna be perfect ’til you manage that as a species.”

“No argument here. Nifty,” Jesse said with heavy sarcasm. “The client has finally shown up.”

The client was indeed visible, but there was a man holding a gun to her back as they got out of the car.

Jesse wasn’t going near the ex, who was an active service police officer well-known to be armed. “This looks like a job for Michel the Magnificent.”

“Aw,” Michel said, jumping down into the rain with a spectacular bounce, unnoticed by the couple making their unhappy way to the house. He loped up to the cop and said, “You holster that gun.”

“I’m a police officer and you’re interfering with an investigation,” the man said.  His voice was clipped and his hair even more so. He paid no attention to the rain.

“Do as he says,” the client said. She managed to sound toneless and scared at the same time.

“Naw,” Michel said. “I really don’t think so.” He stuck his finger in the barrel of the gun, and then, no matter how hard the cop tried to pull the gun away, retained a tight seal on the muzzle. The cop struggled and yelled a bizarre series of threats, but did not fire, since while he was demonstrably unpleasant, he was not, technically, stupid.  The client meantime made a run for the door like a sensible person. Michel made a jerking motion and the gun, butt pointed upward, swivelled around on his finger like a kid’s toy.

“You, beat it!” Michel said to the cop. “Let me know when you want me to come down to the cop shop to give this back to you.” He waved the gun around negligently. “S’okay, the safety’s on.”

“You’re in a lot of very serious trouble,” the cop said.

“You’re the one that’s never going to get another promotion after your bosses find out that you beat your wife, you lost your service weapon — what? No, you can’t have it —“ as the cop lunged at him again — “you screw night girls in your service vehicle, and you rob drug addicts for whatever they have, to plant on whoever you don’t like.  You may have to become a security guard or go work on your cousin’s fishing boat.” Michel had been tasked with following him around for a day and he hadn’t found much to amuse him.

“Fuck you.”

“Come at me!” Michel said with joy.

Well that didn’t last long, Jesse thought from the truck. Butthead was on his ass on the dirty wet sidewalk, and Michel had tied him up with the zip ties the cop had (no surprise) brought with him.

“Say a word,” Michel said, “And I’ll shove my hand down your throat until you choke. I won’t even mind if you try to bite me.”

The cop started to yell.

“And you’re the fuckers George wants to make party plans with,” Michel said in disgust. He picked up some goo out of the gutter and shoved it in the man’s face. It took the cop about two minutes to stop coughing and choking, and when he had spat the last of it out he said, hatred bulging out of his eyes and every straining muscle, “There’s no place on earth you can hide.”

“Fuck, you’re dead boring,” Michel said in disgust, and choked him with a tentacle, as promised. He opened the car door, shoved the cop in, removed everything from his pockets and threw it all many metres away, and then tied him to something inside the car.

The move proceeded as planned. Every half hour Michel made sure his new friend hadn’t died or had a stroke or run away. Once when he opened the door the poor bastard started screaming in incoherent rage, trying to make himself heard above the rain and wind.

“Shut up, or I’ll cut your throat and dump you in deep water. You’re not wearing track shoes so they won’t even find your feet.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“You’re right, my boss would be pissed if I killed a cop without his permission, just like the old days,” Michel said. “My boss says by the time the department’s done with you, you won’t be a cop, so it’ll be be plain old manslaughter if they can’t prove I planned it.” Michel ducked his head and seemed to be taking a good look at him. With cold contempt, Michel said, “Mebbe you can kill yourself when I let you go and everybody who doesn’t know you can feel sad about it.”

Then he forced his enormous form into the back of the vehicle and the cop disappeared.

Jesse ran up to the car and banged on it.  Michel was sitting in the back, and the cop could not be seen.

“Where is he!?” yelled Jesse.

“I ate him,” Michel said, pretending to pick his teeth.

“You’re hiding him.”

“I’m running playback, shaddap I’m busy. He’s fine, getting a little educated.”

 

“I think this company needs a new name,” Jesse said. 

“It ain’t midnight, and we ain’t moving,” Michel said, agreeably. They’d been sitting for an hour.  The cab was starting to fog up.

“I hate waiting around and then jamming through the last bit of the night. My stomach hates it too.”

Michel was not a fan of the human tendency to personalize stomachs and cocks and ears and machines and animals. “Me and my stomach are all one person, as far as I can tell,” Michel said. Then, as if this triggered something, he said, “George says you’re a smart human, what do you think his hair is?”

Jesse watched the road, praying for a light, wishing he was driving so he could tell Michel to shut up and quit distracting him without getting a slap for his comment. “You zero-hearted son of a sea-slug.” He did expect a slap, but it didn’t come. George’s promised lecture about manners must have worked.

“Why insult me? Are you trying to confuse me? I can be more sober than George, sometimes.” Michel folded his arms and looked saintly. The pleasant face atop the bulging, muscular form was funny, but not enough to laugh at.  Michel had better facial expressions than George. At certain fixed distances, George looked a trifle weird. Once he’d bobbled like a video game glitching, and then said he’d done it deliberately. Michel was seamless in his presentation. He could look like anything at any time, including nothing at all. He said Kima was even better at disappearing, but that watermorphs usually were.

As for Michel’s assumption of saintliness, Jesse was repulsed.  He was still mad at Michel for deliberately farting in the truck, a completely silent onslaught, wave after wave of terrifying fumes.  Jesse had rolled down the window, despite the rain, gasping; the inrush of damp air was welcome. It had been so bad at one point he thought his colour vision was changing, possibly due to some kind of deadly alien gas in his corneas. The stinging was so intense he thought maybe he should flee, and screw the move. But it wasn’t deadly.  It was just Michel, fucking with him. He could contain the gas and let it out at a different time, but had decided to share about a month’s worth at once.

Remembering this with irritation, Jesse said, “I thought I was telling you to back off politely.  Next time, maybe I’ll say I don’t enjoy being put on the spot. I think George likes me so much he’s made a kind of pet out of me.  I’m probably not as smart as he says. I can’t speculate.”

“Your thoughts on the subject would be entertaining, at least.”

“I don’t want to speculate,” Jesse amended.

“Now you are starting to sound like a politician. Next you’ll be calling for the police to be allowed to do their jobs, which always seems to involve use of force on disadvantaged populations. And hey, it’s only pandering if I haven’t seen it, with what I got for eyes. I lived in Montréal for years, you know.” He always gave it the French pronunciation, never the English, making it into a smooth sexy word filled with promise. He also liked repeating things, another of his human-like tics.

Sensing Jesse meant it when he said he didn’t want to speculate, he said, “I’m gonna come back to you on the hair. I wanna complain about something else instead. It’s one of the great things about being friends with humans.  If you complain to another – it’s Sixer, right, that’s what the focus group finally settled on?” (Here the contempt in his voice was rich and vast.) “Anyway, if you complain, you’re advertising lack of breeding fitness. I used to put it a different way, much more colourful, but George really didn’t like it.  He’s trying to get me ready for television appearances, and he wants me singing one song, all the time, and only that one song, which is bullshit. I’m with you, I should be able to say what I want.” Michel had seemed charmed by Jesse’s lecture about free speech. What he really thought was often obscured by nonsense and frequent changes of subject.

Jesse saw what was coming, and said, “No, no, no. If I say there’s some shit you don’t talk about, you don’t.”

“When you tell me there’s shit I can’t say, you make the whole world a place of stinky darkness,” Michel said.  “Everything’s always one hundred percent with you people.”

“I warned you about ‘you people’; it’s a red fucking flag,” Jesse said, turning his head to look at Michel.  Michel obliged by turning his bottom half into the Disney Genie, including weird little stripes that made it look like he was reproducing the image based on something a badly aligned VHS might spit out.

Michel said, whining, “Can I at least complain about something? I really want to, so I’m going to. George’s love affair with the police creeps me the fuck out.”

Jesse frowned at him. “Why don’t you stop before you get sued? The last time he messed with the popo he thieved some zip ties,” he said, addressing the question. “That might be foreplay in some places, but I don’t think so.”

“That was the last time you saw him play with the cops, ‘cause that’s what he wants you to think. In secret he’s kissing them and hugging them and telling them they are very pretty.”

Jesse considered this. How to phrase the question without asking the question?

“I’m sure your time in Montréal left you with no respect for the cops.”

“Shotgun Bob was okay. You know, the people with guns shift around; it’s all the same kind of person, but sometimes they get paid by the Queen and sometimes they don’t.”

“I wish I knew some cops personally, I’m sure they’d be thrilled to hear about your take on their oath. May I also point out there’s a difference between a soldier and a sociopath?”

“Oaths are bullshit. You either understand what your duties are and what they mean, or you don’t, and fondling a book with one hand while saying solemn things in public doesn’t mean a fuckin’ word you say is true.”

“Leaving aside that public ceremonies about how you mean to live by certain rules is a hefty chunk of what humans do, which makes that comment speciesist, and you a speciesist clownbag so full of shit it should squeeze out your non-existent eyes, I really don’t care what George is up to,” Jesse said, wanting to bail from the conversation.

“You don’t think he’s planning something bad, getting all cozy with the police?” Michel asked, not at all disturbed by his verbal shellacking.

“I am not George’s human enabler.  I’m not responsible for him at all.  His actions don’t reflect on me any more than yours do.”

The only way I can confirm this story is by asking Michel. Or Kima. George is manipulating my natural curiosity.

Aloud, he said, “I notice you’re not keen on promises, so I don’t know how to put this.”

“You’re going to have to put it some way, if it’s about Michel,” George said.

Jesse thought it should be pretty obvious, but said it aloud anyway. “I want some assurance you, your hair or Michel won’t wake up some day, decide I’m an asshole, and kill me.”

George resumed his human appearance. Jesse’s relief was thorough enough to make him sag.

“I know looking at me’s a strain,” George said.  “You handled it very well, as well as my hair mauling you, and there’s no reason for me not to look human, now you know the truth. No! I’m not changing the subject.” He had, in his set of expressions, a close-eyed smile with a wolfish glint. “Michel won’t hurt you. I won’t hurt you. You’re the fifth human being I’ve ever talked my hair into accepting, and I didn’t have to try too hard. It even told me when it decided to like you.”

“I wish I knew whether you were even telling the truth,” Jesse said.

“You guessed I was saying something rude when I lit up. If you can read me that well, and you’re kindly disposed, how can you be anything but my friend? Why wouldn’t I speak the truth to a friend?”

Thanks, chuckles, but I really don’t think I can read you that well. My guesses are getting luckier.

George continued, “I’ll tell you when it happened. My hair started its one-sided interspecies bromance with you the night you closed the tailgate and started the truck, during the British Properties move. One of the hairs was keeping an eye on you while I was indoors.”

“On your orders?” And how long can those little suckers get?

“I was quite preoccupied at the time; it kinda snuck out while I wasn’t looking. Caregiving behaviour is not common among my species. I thought it was cute, and it worked out well for me,” George said.

“Oh my god,” Jesse said. “You just never can tell what your hair is thinking! I know I have the same problem.” He grabbed a chunk of hair, pulled it down over his nose, and blew it away.

Jesse was growing it out again, mostly because it pissed Raven off. The only other people whose opinions mattered were too discreet to comment on his appearance, except to make practical or complimentary remarks.

He also hated wigs, and wanted it long for a decent Scythian warrior ensemble, which Raven had promised a fabricator hookup for.

“To recap,” George said.

“Does this mean you’re leaving soon?” Jesse asked hopefully.

“Tired of me, are you?”

“Exhausted. I used to be a tube made out of pain, but now I’m just one of — how many people is it exactly? — who know about this.” He took a quick breath and said, “I don’t expect an answer. I’m also happy you quit lying to me about one thing, and sad because all of a sudden what seemed like the truth appears to branch into whole new kinds of lying.”

“Could you call it ‘prudently concealing the truth for strategic purposes’ and ‘prevaricating’ instead? I don’t have the energy to lie to you. It’s far, far easier not to. I have to lie, and I do lie, but if I have an option not to, I don’t.”

Jesse felt a memory percolate to the surface.

“You told the client you could smell blood.”

George sighed, and made what Jesse secretly called his ‘Kermit face’. “I did, didn’t I. Wish I could have stopped myself.  I can smell it a long way off, if I’m expecting it.”

He suddenly stopped looking perplexed and seemed angry. “Just so we’re clear, I’m only going to say this to you once, and I’m not going to talk about it again, and I don’t want you to talk about it.”

“What painful revelations await our poor misguided young hero?” Jesse said, in a creditable imitation of Sideshow Bob. He was still happy he wasn’t looking at George the monster any more.

“Shut up, shut up! This is awkward and unpleasant for me, so give it a fucking rest,” George had sworn twice in one day, a new record. Grimly, he said, “I love the smell of human blood.  Although I don’t need to eat, every month to six months I get a tremendous craving and I ingest some.”

“Oh, hell no,” Jesse said.

“I’m not going to ask you for a tablespoon of blood just because I feel like a snack,” George said, frowning.

“That’s no way to make me feel better. I know you could yoink a tubeful faster than I can move,” Jesse said.

“But I won’t.  It’s all perfectly safe, legal and consensual, and it’ll never be connected to you,” George said. “I know how you feel about not giving consent, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you who I am a lot earlier.”

“When’s the day.”

“Don’t ask.”

“When’s the day.”

“Not for years.”

“Seriously?” Jesse asked, disbelief overriding his good sense.

George lost it.

“As far as I can tell, your brain is functioning normally, and yet you say the most ill-advised, inutile things. I’m trying to bring a city to its knees, and then stand it up again, facing a different direction.  Nothing like this has ever been tried in human history, and I’m doing it on my own. You can mock me all you like, but my only meaningful goal in all this is that there be not a single casualty, not one, in the first seven days after the announcement.  If I can prevent a mass panic and evacuation event, keep major services including emergency and hospitals running, and not have Vancouver implode into a world-class dumpster fire of riotous hooliganism, then phase one of me coming out as an alien, including the rapid rollout of Michel and Kima, will be at an end.”

George stuck a finger, which Jesse knew was no finger, in his face.

“You have no idea the amount of coordination and planning will go into this. I could stroll down Granville tomorrow and announce my presence, but what would happen to the two police officers closest to me? Would they be killed in the crush? What would happen to the EMTs? How many people would be killed in accidents and road rage incidents as they flee town? What will happen at the airport, the train stations, the bus stations? What happens when the army’s called in and tanks roll up and down the Burrard Street bridge? What happens when the local phone system crashes and the internet slows down and the transportation authorities panic and cancel all the buses and shut down the Skytrain and you can’t get through to 911 to get your sister to the hospital and the entire city is gridlocked and the looting starts?”

Jesse shrugged. It all sounded a little over the top.

“Yeah, shrug all you want. The only way this works is if I keep the city safe; world leaders will see that I’m being responsible, and a city that’s already used to the world showing up and then leaving three weeks later will at least survive intact.”

“I don’t think it will be that bad.”

George was silent.

“It’s a good thing you’re not on the planning committee, then,” George said tightly. “I’ll leave you to your cup of tea. Call you in a couple of days,” he said, and left.

Jesse made himself herbal tea and went back to bed.

“I’m sorry, I can’t imagine what you mean,” George said blandly.

“I’ve just spent a day with my guts on the puke’n’poop seesaw. It’s pretty obvious it was Michel’s fault. Unless he confesses, I’ll never know for sure. What the fuck makes you think I’d want to work with Michel?” Jesse said, his patient tone fraying toward the end.

“Nothing. But Michel, who will probably admit it if you ask, is going to view it as you failing a test. You were tested to see if you’re really as tolerant a stand-up guy as you seem to think you are, and I’m being tested on my management skills for joint Sixer-human projects.”

All of the bitterness Jesse felt for having been used formed itself into a conversational spearpoint. “What am I bid?” he said.

“Fuck you,” George said, with completely unexpected heat. His hair rippled.

“What?”

“I said, a most hearty and convinced ‘Fuck you!’” George said, “And I’ve got plenty of reasons to say it.”

“Oh, really? You admitted you’ve put my life in danger every time I’ve been with you. Somehow that does not give me the right to some little consideration, maybe compensation.”

“For the physical work you do, you are compensated. For the secrets I hope you keep, you will be compensated. For you telling me that we can solve our trust issues with money, I think ‘Fuck you’ covers it.  You’ve never been motivated by money.  Money merely represents autonomy, the freedom to choose what you do next, the freedom to live your life within your health constraints as pleasantly as you can.”

Jesse, breathing a little hard, said, “Please feel free to tell me what you have to offer beside money.”

George started to jiggle all over. Under different circumstances, Jesse might have laughed. As if sensing this, George stopped, and then extended a tentacle and rested it, like cold, somehow fizzy, plastic, on his hand.

“Friendship,” he said.

Jesse didn’t flinch.

“Let me touch your hair,” he said.

George’s hair slowly gathered itself and then slowly extended itself so that it rippled above Jesse’s hand. Jesse reached out and touched it.

“Don’t touch the ends. They’re sharp as hell,” George said.

It felt smoother than anything Jesse had ever felt. Slowly, it roughened until it felt like burlap, and then like the surface of a brick. He pushed a finger into it; it pushed back.

“Is it computational?” Jesse said. He tried to imagine any brain or computer being able to run something so sophisticated, and then curiosity ran on ahead. “And how long does it get?”

A section of the hair gently but snugly wrapped around Jesse’s body. Four more sections wrapped around his arms and legs. It lifted him into the air, until he was staring straight down at George.  The springs in the sofa underneath George made protesting noises.

“I’m really sorry it’s fondling you like this,” George said.

“Why? This’ll be an awesome story for my memoirs,” Jesse said, trying to maintain the steady demeanour George seemed to like him for.  The hair re-oriented him so that he was coasting around the room. It was painless and almost pleasant, and he knew for a fact that freaking out or thrashing was a really bad idea.

“My hair is not a bad sort, but it’s —“ and here George paused.

“‘Of diminished moral capacity’ should cover it,” Jesse said, from a corner of the ceiling.  His voice sounded weird to himself.

“‘Inconsistently understood and applied moral capacity and extremely variable responses to perceived threats’ is more like it. I’m ecstatic you’re taking this so well. I’ve asked it to set you down gently, and it’s thinking about it.”

The hair, responding to George’s request, set Jesse back in his chair, and returned to home position.

“Remarkable,” George said. “My hair has freely promised never to injure you.”

“You can talk to your hair.”

“To a certain inconsistent and limited extent, yes. You have no idea what a relief it is.  When I completely let go and let the hair do whatever it wants, I have no clue what will happen next.  Sometimes it makes art. Sometimes it goes completely limp. Sometimes it stabs me repeatedly, and since it’s the only thing that can stab me it’s really not nice to have it on my head all the time. Sometimes it supersonically kills every flying insect within ten metres.”

“Hair that breaks the sound barrier — no gel on earth can restrain it,” Jesse said, theatrically. More seriously, he added, “Did your hair say why it likes me?”

“Because I do,” George said simply. “Now, do you really want to talk about money, or would you rather talk about perks?”

“Do I have to work with Michel?”

There was a long pause.

“I’m afraid of what Michel will get up to if you don’t. He likes the work, because it solidifies his defiance of Sixer norms, and makes him a hero to most humans who learn of it. Never underestimate Michel’s desire to be viewed as a devil may care hero.”

“That makes me wonder how you want to be seen.”

“As a protector of humanity,” George said.

“Oh, shit,” Jesse said, and fear sharpened his voice. “Sounds like we’ve got incoming alien troop ships.”

“Not that I’m aware,” George said, tartly. “I was thinking along the lines of big hunks of rock flying at Earth from the sunward side.”

“Rocks.”

“Space rocks. Planet smashing ones, which we haven’t seen yet. The Chelyabinsk event is pressing on my mind.”

“So, no spaceships materializing over Washington.”

“I have reason to believe that if my species ever had spaceships, they have cloaking technology and you would not see them on radar or with the naked eye. And if they haven’t shown up in eight millennia, which is how long we’ve been here, I’m betting they aren’t coming now.”

Jesse sat with this information for a while.

“Promise me you’re not lying.”

“I’m not.  Ask any Sixer about it.  They’ll all have opinions about the facts, but the facts will be more or less consistent. You know, Jesse, I’ll think more of you if you don’t ask me to promise that aliens aren’t coming. For all I know, a different species altogether wants to steal your junk food and toy with your women while threatening planetary extinction.”

You’re such a comfort, George.

Jesse found the hair the creepiest thing about George, so he stopped looking at it. Inspected more closely, George was splashed with freckles, which were not so much coloured as variably reflective. George, noticing (with what?) that he was looking at the freckles, lit them up.  George, puckishly, was lighting up the preliminary flash to request sexual access, which Jesse had no way of knowing.

Jesse was flippant. “You’re going to have to kiss me first,” he responded. George’s hair turned into a pompadour, pointed directly at Jesse’s face.

“Wow!” Jesse said. “Is your hair a watchdog? What did I say to get its attention?”

“You read the light flash correctly.  My hair takes exception to humans doing that.”

“So your hair’s a security guard?”

“I have not actually figured out what my hair is for, why it behaves the way it does, and how I can control it. If it thinks I’m under threat it can be — skittish?”

The hair soundlessly relaxed into its usual fountain shape.

“What can it do?”

“It could kill someone.”

“You’ve been working with me for —“ and Jesse’s outrage was mixed with a weird kind of acceptance.

George was soothing.  Jesse didn’t like it when George was soothing. “And if you don’t want to work with me in future, so be it.”

Jesse screwed up his face and nodded slowly. “Right.  So you’re going to fire me and work with Michel, but when you need your reference I’m supposed to cough it up like a good stooge.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” George said. “Why would you think I’d fire you? To have a human friend, who can provide cover for me while I perfect my tedious and safety-oriented plans? That would be the best possible outcome of this conversation.”

“You want me to keep working with you,” Jesse said.

“Well, no,” George said reluctantly. He didn’t know what to say and let Jesse work it out.

“You want me to work with Michel!?” Jesse squeaked. Full realization came. “And you told him first — and he fucking poisoned me! Thinking it would drive me off.”

“Thinking it was the lioness cuffing her cub at the commencement of a lesson,” George said. “We’re apex predators, and we’re not fantastically social. It was a warning that we’re showing a pleasant and constructive side, and we’d be remiss if we didn’t tell you that others of our kind will be infuriated and possibly quite anti-social when they get wind of our plans.”

Jesse felt a cold blossom of fear in his vitals. “Somebody as strong as you and Michel could decide to take it out on me?”

“We’re not supposed to kill humans.  It’s a long-standing tradition.”

“I suppose you don’t kill each other.”

“Oh yes, sometimes.  By the numbers we’re more violent than humans, but if you examine what’s really happening, it appears that one of the more unpleasant members of my species is selectively killing males to improve his breeding odds.”

“Yuck,” said Jesse. “So he’s a serial killer.”

“I think so. I can’t prove it. I won’t visit him to find out.”

“You know where he lives?”

“Everyone does.”

“I don’t suppose your people have cops.” Jesse wasn’t hopeful.

George shook his head, for lack of a better term. It was what his hair grew out of, so, close enough. “Nor judges, nor governments, nor laws that don’t take the form of custom and precept, nor lawyers, nor social workers, nor court appointed anger management counsellors, nor —“

“Getting the picture, thanks,” Jesse said. “You folks are full-on anarchists.”

“Solitary people who’ve lived without authority for a long time evolve beyond theoretical anarchism,” George said. “Each of us is a sovereign territory, with our own chosen customs and languages. We have vastly different agendas, and with our different body types, we often don’t live close to each other.”

“So the short version of your social organization is: if things fuck up, you just go somewhere else and who cares, ‘cause you’re solitary.”

“We still have to have enough social organization to schedule breeding opportunities,” George said.

“Sounds about right, although I don’t want to breed,” Jesse said blankly.

“You and Michel share an outcome. You won’t breed, and he can’t,” George said.

“Neither can you, he commented on it,” Jesse said, wanting with sudden desperation to push George away from his usual lofty calm.

“He did,” George said. After a pause, he twisted himself in his seat and his arms stopped looking like wavy mannequin arms and started looking more like tentacles. It was rather unnerving and Jesse said, quiet and fast, “Holy shit.”  George’s round belly and doughy legs stayed the same, which was both comforting and weird.  “I find it interesting that he thinks you would care about it.”

“Care how?” Jesse said.  It had always been a possibility that he’d be discussing an alien’s sex life when he got up this morning, especially after he’d admitted to himself that George was either an alien or a really persuasive hallucination. “I don’t care about it enough to think it’s my business, that’s for sure. I don’t know why you’re convinced that having offspring is a big deal, because it isn’t, except to the offspring.  If the offspring’s never born, the problems associated with being alive never happen.”

“Your comments are all very pleasantly nihilistic, but that is not our deal. Kima and I are on a schedule, and this is supposed to happen so we can get on with our lives, and it hasn’t happened yet, and we’re stuck.”

“Stuck? Do you love her?”

“More passionately than human language can encrypt,” George said. Jesse was tempted to laugh, but George seemed dead serious.

Jesse splayed his hands. “You sure are good at changing the subject. I had you in a corner there for a second, and you sprang loose like a dirty great kangaroo.”

“Where’d you find him?” Jesse asked slowly.

“I didn’t, he came recommended, and I can’t otherwise speak about him because of some elaborate promises I made.”

“You weren’t really born on Earth, were you,” Jesse said.

George grinned. “Oh yes, I was. That part I’m quite sure of.”

Jesse got up to boil water for tea.

“Are you angry with me?” George said.

“Would you care if I was?” Jesse asked softly.

“I respect you. I like you. I can tell you’re angry, but I can’t tell what is making you feel thwarted, or lower on the hierarchy, which is what usually makes humans mad. So I’m asking because I’m curious, and it will affect what I say next.”

Jesse, unlike most people, tried to think before he spoke.  George, unlike most people, gave him the space to think.

“No,” Jesse said. “I’m angry because I feel ignorant. I want to know more than you can tell me.”

“I’ve made a lot of promises. Some of them you’d approve of, and some of them would likely —“ and here he paused.

“Piss me off,” Jesse supplied.

“No doubt,” George said, his tone broadening into derision. “I’ll tell you what I can, when I can.”

“What role do I play in your plans?” Jesse said, lingering over each syllable.

“What, you think I’m going to tell the cabbie to pull over so I can eat you? This isn’t a Supernatural episode; I have real world problems.”

“It is a Supernatural episode.  You don’t eat.”

“I’m physiologically different from other … Sixers.”

Jesse took a deep breath and said, “Show me what you really look like, because I know you don’t look like —“ and he waved his hand, fingers splayed.

“You really did figure it out faster than anybody I ever met,” George said. “And you kept your mouth shut.  Smart and discreet don’t always go together. You can laugh if you want to, but you’re my coworker reference.”

“What?”

“I need to have a coworker, so I can prove I can behave appropriately, provide customer service, put other people’s needs ahead of my own, be useful, show compassion, entrepreneurial drive and all those behaviours which placate various people. Also, I was told to do it by one of the people I made a promise to.”

“I don’t know, George, it sounds like you’ve made a lot of promises.  Why not just take what you want?”

George laughed.  He said something, probably in Greek, that sounded like a song and a moan. Jesse raised his eyebrows.

“Because I can’t.  I can’t take what I want, even if I thought I was justified in so doing! I need human help to get what I want, and I can’t do it in secret, because as limp and meretricious as contemporary journalism is in most places, I cannot keep it secret. All I can do is make the day it’s no longer a secret one of my choosing.”

“You think I’ll keep your secret?”

“Yes. Let me ask you a question.  When did you guess?”

“Weeks ago,” Jesse said. “I wanted more evidence.”

“Wise, and able to put off immediate gratification. Unusual. As for our secrets, for you know of three of us now, I know you will keep them, unless we do something violent or truly barbaric. Have you told Raven?”

“No,” Jesse said heavily. “She thinks I have mental health issues already, and she’s right. She’d march up to you and demand proof, and I don’t think I wanted to see what you might do to keep her quiet. You announcing ‘We’re here!’ could start a nuclear war.”

“I won’t mock you. I know that’s true,” George said.

“As for barbaric, don’t you think infecting me with something is barbaric? Or was that Michel putting you on the spot and I was just the way he could do that?”

“He’s testing both of us. I am very sorry he chose to be such an ass about it.”

They looked at each other for a while.

“It would be best,” George said, “If you didn’t expect Michel to apologize.”

“I’m used to that,” Jesse said.

There was another long pause.

George pulled at his nose, or pretended to.  “I’m not human.”

“Are you hideously ugly?”

“Not to my mates,” George said, and stopped whatever internal processes allowed him to generate his appearance.

The white man in Edwardian garb disappeared, and a blob, roughly the shape of a human, sat in his place.

“Hoo boy,” said Jesse.

George was naked. There appeared to be nothing that could be called eyes, nose or face; no external genitalia, no nails, fingers or toes. His skin was mottled; some patches were grey, some beige, trending to pink, and some cream, trending to white. The patches moved, slowly and steadily, as if his surface was a sped up map of tectonic plates moving above and below each other.

The only thing that seemed human was his hair. It, too, was moving, and it did not rest on his skin, but stuck up and out like one of those optical fibre fountains you see in Chinese restaurants sometimes. It was dense, and dark, and it was hard to see what colour it really was.

Jesse woke up around ten, his eyes full of gravel and his mouth stuck shut with something akin to bat guano. He felt like an island of life assaulted by a sea of death, in this case the heaving, slimy bag that currently restrained his guts.

He just barely made it to the toilet, and was very putridly sick from both ends for what seemed an improbable span of time. He was just about to call 911 before he passed out, when the door rattled and Raven came in. “Hello this house,” she called.

“In here,” Jesse said, his voice cracking.

She saw him, slumped against the toilet, and said, instantly, “When’s the last time you drank anything?”

“Beer last night,” he admitted. His throat was on fire; he hardly had the strength to push air past his voice box.

“I wonder if I caught this from the dog shit,” Jesse mumbled.

“What were you doing with dog shit?” Raven asked, disgusted, but also unsure she’d heard him properly.

“What indeed?” he asked an uncaring universe, and flipped ends while Raven stepped away from the bathroom to ‘give you your privacy and get some liquids happening’.

Jesse wasn’t much of a cook. His downtrodden refusal to learn to cook, no matter what his mother said or did, was one of the ways he stayed autonomous, and Raven had gotten tired of hauling what she considered staples to his house the odd time she’d cook for him. He had organic chicken broth, thanks to one of her shopping trips. She even acknowledged once that it was pleasant he had a Choices market so close. She nuked up a mug for him and asked him if he was okay with drinking it ‘in there’, where hideous gurglings still ruled, and she could hear the shudder in his voice as he said, “No, thanks.”

The cramping pain subsided enough to permit him to hose himself off. With the last of his strength, assisted with no nonsense by Raven, he crawled back into bed.  Raven had put down garbage bags to prevent him from destroying his mattress, and remade the bed, so he could sit up.  The broth was welcome, though he knew it wouldn’t hang around long, and he dozed for about half an hour before he woke up and puked into his kitchen garbage can, which Raven had repurposed into a lined emesis basin.

“How’d you know to come over?” Jesse said weakly.

“Some guy you work with called and said you’d been in terrible shape the night before and he was worried about you. I called and you didn’t answer.”

“I didn’t even hear it ring,” Jesse said. He had accidentally recorded the audio of his interpretive dance, although he would not know that until the next time he looked at his phone.

“So I called him back and asked where you were and he said he was sure you were here, because you’d texted him when you got home.”

Michel, you fucking asshole.

A thought occurred. “Did he say who he was?”

“No.”

“Did he have a French Canadian accent?”

“What? No, I don’t think so, just sounded like your average west coast working dude.”

I’ve heard him mimic George, so I’m sure he could manage without the identifying accent for a phone call.  Why he picked up that outrrrrageous accent has not been adequately explained. Of course, I say things with cartoon voices all the time, but not day in, day out…

Raven stayed with him until she was sure he could keep himself hydrated, and with a wave from the doorway, beetled off to make her afternoon shift at the shelter.

The illness poured through his body for twenty-four hours, and then trickled away to nothing but appalling gas. To his wonderment, the gas was completely odourless, but on consideration, and with a teensy ball of opium to calm his guts and soothe his nerves, that made perfect sense. Then he lost his train of thought. He prayed to his appendix, night and day, to recolonize his spent and flaccid tubes, which now accepted toast with a small amount of butter.

Thanks to Raven, he’d been able to sleep. Looking fierce, she had said, “I only brought one, I carry it for emergencies, only. You owe me twenty bucks or like in kind.”

“Jesus. Don’t you know I’m glad you didn’t bring me fentanyl? And I have no idea where to score opium, you’re better connected than me. You think I’ll get addicted?”

“Shush you. Bye.” The door banged and her key rattled and scraped.

He got a call from George cheerily asking if he was up for a move, and he said, voice still hoarse from puking, “No, thanks to Michel.”

A pause. “What do you think he did?”

“Infected me with giardia, or maybe it was radioactive tap dancing e. coli, but definitely something pathogenic that did unspeakable things to my colon,” Jesse said. “Perhaps if you mention dogshit to him his memory will work.”

“He is a prankster,” George said. “I take it you are too debilitated to work.”

Jesse was too tired to raise his voice, but the ire was unmistakeable. “I lost four pounds in one day and didn’t get more than groggy little naps the whole time, what do you think? But I suppose I should thank him for calling my sister, I might have gotten really messed up.”

The conversation ground to a halt.

George said, without particular emphasis, as was his custom when he was angry or alarmed, “Michel spoke with your sister.”

“Yeah, but he didn’t identify himself, according to Raven. And he wasn’t using an accent, so for all I know you called her.”

“No,” said George. “I haven’t contacted your sister. I don’t want to have this conversation over the phone. May I come over?”

“Why not?” Jesse said. “Whatever I’ve got, you can’t get.”

George arrived by cab about an hour later. It was midday, so Jesse was trapped in the house anyway.

Without preamble, George said, “I’ve spoken with Michel.”

“I’m sure him poisoning me came up.”

“I’m sure it did too, and I was a party to the conversation,” George said mildly. “You’re right to be annoyed. Michel is testing me in front of a mixed group of humans and my kind.”

“Your kind, which doesn’t have a name,” Jesse said. “I’ve taken to calling you ‘the great unknowable rubber and glue people’ since you haven’t gotten around to picking a name for yourselves.”

“We don’t have a legally enforceable or trade-markable name in English, as things are,” George said.  “My lawyer advises me that if we call ourselves Squids, there’ll be more race-hatred, faster, whereas Sixer calls out some of our architectural differences and doesn’t have as many negative connotations.”

“I don’t know which is worse,” Jesse said.

“What’s worse?” George said.

“I don’t know which is worse,” Jesse repeated, “that you have a lawyer, or that you’re an alien.”

“Oh, that,” George said. “You’re okay with it, right? When you’re hiding money in many places, you really need a competent and quite improper lawyer.”

They continued their walk to the Night Bus stop.

Michel pulled out a dark red plastic swizzle stick, with a stork embossed on it.

“A treasure of global significance,” Jesse said, glancing at it.

“We’re not much into stuff,” Michel said. “But I like this. It’s a souvenir. My capodecina took me to a nice club for whacking some guy.”

“From mobster to dog euthanizer,” Jesse said. “What a career you’ve had.”

“You can’t hurt my feelings,” Michel said.  “Kima’s here in town at the same time as me.”

“Have you stopped killing people?”

“I’m even a vegetarian now,” Michel said.

“What?”

“I used to kill and eat animals. I never was as fond of cats as … never mind.  Anyway, I don’t anymore,” Michel said. “And George says that while I was living in Montréal I had ‘diminished moral capacity’.”

“Montreal has that effect on some people,” Jesse said. “Mike Wilmot once said it was ‘like Disneyland for alcoholics’.”

“I didn’t understand why it was wrong to kill bad people,” Michel said, as if the matter still confused him, but he’d changed his behaviour to avoid trouble.

“Now you pistol-whip them,” Jesse said.

“You prefer I turn him off with a lecture? Guys like that don’t learn until they meet a bigger bully.”

“But you’re still glorifying bullying behaviour.”

“If your heart has no muscle in it, how can it beat?” Michel said, rhetorically.

Jesse took a breath, expelled it, and then said in a tight voice, “I don’t want to live in a world where masculinity and bullying are so close to being synonymous. I don’t think you’ve got a heart at all.” He added, “And if you do, I bet I couldn’t tell the difference between it and a rancid hunk of gristle.”

Michel sounded prim now. “If I got no heart, it’s cause I never had one. I started life with a different set of assumptions than you, and I can’t rely on a heart to tell me how to behave any more than you can.  I prefer George’s way of explaining things. I’m caught between two worlds. I love the human world of guns and cell phones and airplanes and loud noises and rockets. My love makes me an outcast.”

“You and Kima and George.”

“Ah, now you’re starting to see.  We’re all freaky like that.”

“You and George are sharing her,” Jesse said, and immediately wished he hadn’t.

Michel took his time responding, and spoke with care. “Kima is the one with the final say. You say you’re polyamorous. Why would you say that we ‘share’ her, like a pizza, rather than have an understanding with her and each other, like we’re all people?”

After a decent pause, Jesse said, “I truly and seriously fucked up, dude.”

Michel’s reaction to this continued to be calm. “Kima’s not like other people. She does her own thing, and she and George have a project.”

“The twenty million dollar plan.”

Michel was quiet again. 

More time passed than he would ever admit to before Jesse turned and realized that Michel was either gone or transparent.

He wasn’t that drunk.  He got home okay.

Before he went to sleep he thought, I can’t drink when I’m around them.  I get too desperate. I’m too obvious. I want to know everything. It’s the awkward stage. I know enough to be trouble, and not enough to understand what the hell is going on.

During his childhood, Jesse had eaten lies with his porridge, and splashed through lies in his bath. He expected lies, except from Raven, and his hyper-vigilance fought with his naïvety at every turn, so one minute he’d believe anything — and the next, he’d be back in his right mind, and filled with enervating cynicism.  Then Raven would kick his ass, with “Cynicism is the game you’re forced to play when you admitted capitalism won. Ya gotta get up and let the hope back in!”

Worse than the cynicism, which was a mood, coming and going like weather, were the times when he thought he might be lying to himself. He thought that his childhood was a cramped and poisoned container he could not escape. Everyone thought he had escaped. That was the biggest lie of all. He told himself it was okay to cry.

Fuck that noise.

He started his breathing exercises and worked backward through his day.

He sat straight up like a marionette, eyes staring.

What the hell happened to the gun?

He lay back down, breathed deeply, sighed deeply, and tried to calm himself again.  It didn’t matter.  Michel had it, or he didn’t, and even if he did have it, it had no bullets.

He was drifting asleep, in a sweet state of safety, knowing his mother was hundreds of kilometres away, and she didn’t have his phone number or address. He was thinking about how he sometimes missed the chickens, and the cats, and then one of the riddles from The Hobbit came into his mind, and like a clockwork toy, he was sitting bolt upright.

Michel was exactly the kind of person who would be carrying around ammo.  Perhaps even ammo for that bad boy Glock 17 that disappeared after the shooting.

He lay back down.  “So he’s got a gun,” he said to his ceiling. “And maybe ammo. Do I sound worried? I’m not worried.”

There were plenty of other things to be worried about. Or perhaps ‘concern’ was a better word.

How do they know where the cameras are?

What is the true relationship between the three I know about?

Who’s Hermes, and will I ever meet him?

Are there more of them living in Vancouver I don’t know about?