29.1
As the D.E.A.T.H. cave exploded, across town, geeking out on a shit rock of Dirty, Osceola decided—like between the White Man and the Indian—there should be a truce and a bit of a pow-wow. It took him two days to organize it, because everyone involved was high.
Over those two days, Rupert, not able to contain his excitement and wanting to have everything prepared, and pristine for Leenda’s impending arrival/approval, began moving equipment into the cavern, most of it collapsible or ready to be assembled once inside.
At length, a feeble meeting of the minds took place at an International House of Butter, about three blocks from the FFG where Rupert and Jesus had met and the Royal Courtyard Econo-Regency Chalet.
Around three tables pushed together near a large window—perplexed and awkward with one another—sat Osceola, Bill, Fulva, Jesus, Joe, Merideth, Tommy Bananas, Bucket, and Steve Perry.
“Why the hell are you at the head, Osceola?” Fulva asked in her gravelly man-voice, trying to adjust her massive handmade Nepalese hippy bag under the table by her feet.
“Why the hell are we here at all?” Tommy asked, looking pale and sick, holding the area of his torso where he’d stuffed socks into the antler puncture wounds. The bleeding had never stopped completely and Tommy hadn’t felt quite right since the incident. He looked worse. The Cutlass was parked on the sidewalk, an inch and a half away on the other side of the window, which allowed him to still be within a few of feet of the car and not have a complete psychological meltdown, though the walk from the car to the table had been perilous.
“I’m at the head, Fulva, because I called the meeting,” Osceola answered. “And Steve Perry claimed the other end, so . . . . ”
Steve Perry, in an electric blue satin muscle shirt, tore the foil cover from a jelly packet and fingered the compote into his repulsive little monkey mouth.
“What the hell are you doing calling meetings?” Fulva demanded.
“I’m missing my prime time,” Merideth moaned.
Osceola clacked a saltshaker onto the table to bring everything to order, which accomplished nothing.
Fulva complained, Merideth berated Joe, Joe looked at his phone, Bill held onto MeeMaw’s Whackin’ Dick for extra security, Tommy winced as he surveyed the menu, and Bucket picked his nose, giving the mined ore to Steve Perry, who took it with pronounced enthusiasm and ate it.
The place was pretty empty with the exception of a man wearing a store-bought Halloween police officer’s costume, demanding from a waitress that his meal be free, for he was a public servant, goddamn it, an officer of the law, protect and serve, and all that.
“Everyone,” Osceola persevered. “Everyone, the reason I have called for a truce between us, and why I’ve asked you all to come here, and to come armed, is that I am under the suspicion that that Rupert guy is up to something.”
They all stopped what they were doing and looked at him. Even Steve Perry, but he still chewed. Even Fake Cop. The waitress ignored them all and sauntered into the back.
“Well, no shit, brainiac,” said Merideth.
“Yeah, badonkadonk,” Tommy said weakly. “We all pretty much know that.”
Osceola thought for a moment. He was indeed suspicious of Rupert, and he was pretty sure something specific was going on, but it was true that he didn’t know exactly what. He looked around the table and considered that perhaps this meeting was a little premature.
“I didn’t bring a weapon,” said Bucket.
“We didn’t either,” said Merideth, speaking for Joe, who wasn’t listening.
“Me neither,” said Tommy, still eyeing the menu.
“Man, we did,” Fulva rasped, grinning. “Well, Bill’s always got MeeMaws’ Whackin’ Dick. And I even made something special. I thought we were going to have, like, a turf war or something.”
“That would have been pretty cool,” Tommy replied, then coughed painfully.
“Right?” Fulva slapped the table. “Goddamn it, Osceola.”
“I gotta go,” Jesus said, abruptly pushing his chair back.
“Where?” Fulva growled.
“Got a late meeting with a potential bulk ticket sale.”
“Well.” Fulva was impressed. “Be gone, then.”
Jesus made himself gone.
Fake Cop now yelled at the waitress who stood by while two large line cooks forcibly removed him from the IHOB.
“I’m pretty hungry,” Tommy said. “I think I’m going to get the Crème-Topped Belgian Butter.”
At that, everyone opened their menus and perused the selections. Osceola, defeated, sat back down in his chair and reluctantly opened his own menu.
About five minutes passed in relative silence, with only the sound of Steve Perry whimpering, demanding more from Bucket, and Bucket trying to explain that the well had run dry.
Fake Cop was now outside, fumbling incoherent around the parking lot, his fake cop shirt hanging open and his belly spilling out. No one noticed.
At that moment, a tousled-looking, filthy, yet mostly unscathed Efunibi walked in with a wide, determined stride. He went straight up to the table, pushed Osceola out of his chair and stood on it.
“What the fuck, man—?” Osceola started, but Efunibi bent down, put his face close to Osceola’s, and glared.
“Efunibi know what Osceola do,” he said in a manner both mysterious and threatening.
Osceola looked confused, then anxious, and he made room for himself on the edge of Bill’s seat, who didn’t notice.
As Efunibi was about to address the motley gathering, the waitress walked up.
“Everybody ready?”
“Yeah,” Fulva croaked, “I think so.”
Efunibi stood on the chair, looking at the waitress while she took everyone’s order.
“Okay, I got the Crème-Topped Belgian Butter, a Tuscan Butter Scramble—that comes in a bowl—two Stuffed Butters with Bananas—”
“Oh, I didn’t see that,” Tommy interrupted, flinching from one or both of his infected antler holes. “Can I change mine to that?”
“Oh course, sweetie,” the waitress said smiling and made the note.
At the window, Fake Cop now had his pants down and was rubbing his naked ass back and forth across the window, cheeks dragging and spreading, dragging and closing. No one noticed.
“—Red Velvet Butter, a French Butter Swirl with a side of Chipped Butter, and a Butter Sampler. Anything else?”
Everyone shook their heads.
“The monkey?”
“Oh, he’ll have a stick of butter,” Fulva said.
“Kids’ size?”
“That’d be best.”
Then, the waitress turned up to Efunibi standing silently on the chair.
“You want anything?”
“No. Efunibi fine.”
“Alright then.” She went back to put in their orders.
Everyone almost slipped into some amicable, casual conversation, when Efunibi was finally able to address them.
“Florida Men—um, People. Florida People,” he began, and everyone turned to him. Fake Cop’s ass slid and gaped at them, still unnoticed.
“Efunibi come to warn. Big black man with short spic friend, they build meth fortress below.”
“What the fuck is he talking about?” Tommy whispered to Fulva. She smiled and shrugged, brushing the side of Tommy’s foot with hers.
“Dude, that is racist,” Osceola said. “I mean, I don’t even like them, but that’s some racist shit.”
“Wait, Rupie ain’t Black, he’s,” Bucket said, “what’s it . . . moolahtoh.”
Everyone around the table said “mulatto,” exploring the sound of the word with the shapes of their mouths.
“Wait, what’s that?” asked Joe, looking up from his phone.
“Half and half,” Bucket answered.
“Half what and half what?”
“I think black and white.”
“The term is ‘biracial,’ you bigoted assholes,” Osceola corrected. “Biracial, like Efunibi here.”
Efunibi glared down at Osceola.
“Efunibi no half-breed.”
“Like hell you ain’t.”
Fake Cop slammed hard against the window, as two real cops pulled his hands behind him, and he yelled something about protecting and serving his dick. Still, no one noticed.
“What’s going on?” Fulva demanded, pulling Efunibi’s agitated attention away from Osceola and back to the subject at hand.
“Rupert and Jesus build super lab!” Efunibi got out, exasperated.
Silence.
Bill slurped his buttery coffee.
“Really?” Fulva asked, genuinely surprised. “I thought he was a secret society member and was coming to, like, fuck with me.”
“Yeah?” Tommy appeared to be impressed. “Reptilian. I thought he was a Reptilian.” He nodded his approval of her theory.
Bill leaned over and glared at Tommy.
“I figured he was a malevolent thought-form from my own mind, finally coming to kill me, at last, and end my torment here on this earth,” said Bucket. Everyone nodded.
“I thought he was going to come with me on the work program,” Joe said.
“That’s ‘cause you’re a fucking idiot,” his mother spat and slapped him upside the back of his head. “I thought he was Oswald. For sure. He faked his death after the JFK thing. Been living down here ever since. I seen him.”
Everyone was fascinated with each others’ theories and presumed them all entirely valid, even Bucket’s.
“Are you sure?” Fulva asked Efunibi, who sighed.
“Yes. Efunibi positive.”
“How do you know?” Osceola asked.
“Efunibi blow up cave. Help build lab.”
“Why are you turning on them?” Osceola hated Efunibi.
“The Holy Nagai Nagayoshi told Efunibi, him say, ‘Fuck those Kemo Sabes.’”
“Right.”
“Well, let’s get that bastard!” Fulva shouted, jumping up and grabbing her bag as the waitress arrived with a butter-heavy tray. Fulva eased back into her seat.
“Well, we’ll eat first and then we’ll . . . ” Tommy said.
“Yeah,” Fulva replied.
* * *
“I told you, pendejo,” Jesus said to Rupert as he dropped down from the Pioneer Cemetery access. “I told you.”
“What?” Rupert asked, buffing a beaker on a lab table.
He couldn’t believe how much he and Jesus had accomplished in two days. It was pretty much set. There was even a nice little spot for the Plant with No Name, potted and happily sitting under a grow lamp of its very own. All he needed to do now was stock the chemical components and, well, build an army of Methmakers. But this was enough, at least, to impress Leenda, and she’d forgive him for whatever stupid thing he’d said.
“Those idiots,” Jesus replied.
“Well, shit, Jesus, that could be anybody. Which ones?”
“All of them.”
“Hmm,” Rupert considered that. “All of them . . . together?”
“Yeah, Osceola called a truce.”
“Osceola? Fulva let him?”
“It was weird. Everything is chaos. She was flirting with Tommy Bananas.”
“Ew,” Rupert said.
“And worse,” Jesus explained. “Efunibi is alive. I watched him walk into the IHOB after I’d walked out. It’s best to assume they now know all about you, me, and this place. They’re stupid, but if they’re all working together, they might be able to wrangle a few functioning brain cells to launch an attack.”
“An attack? You think so?”
“You want to chance it?”
“I suppose not.” Rupert put down the beaker. “What do you propose?’
“I don’t know yet. They’re at the IHOB right now getting loaded up on butter. That should slow them down, but I don’t know how long it’ll last. They’re all usually at some level of gakkification on Crystal, so it might zip through their systems.”
Not very long ago, this would have been a conversation Rupert would have walked away from based on the volume of stupidity alone. But now, it was completely plausible—downright important.
“That’s not the IHOB near the Royal Courtyard Econo-Regency Chalet, is it?” Rupert asked.
“As a matter of fact, yeah,” Jesus confirmed.
“Shit. Okay, well. Hmm. You know, butter or no butter, Crystal or no Crystal, I don’t think they’re organized enough to get something together tonight.”
Jesus considered this.
“It did take Osceola a little over 48 hours to get them to meet at the IHOB.”
“See? I think maybe we have a little time to figure out a plan. And I’m counting on getting back to my room and catching some sleep. There are a few little things I want to do here tomorrow before Leenda arrives.”
“Leenda, Leenda, Leenda,” Jesus said. “Man, all you ever talk about is this Leenda. I didn’t know you had a thing for Latinas, bróder.”
“What? I don’t.” Rupert thought about it. “Well, I don’t think so. I might if given the oppor—”
“Never mind,” Jesus said, exasperated. “What makes you think she’s gonna be cool? You must have said something pretty foul.”
Rupert thought about it.
“Because she’s a good person.”
“You know this.”
“Yeah, I think I do.”
Jesus fished his wallet out of his shorts pocket, pulled out a condom, and threw it at Rupert.
“Wedding present,” he said and laughed.
“Har har,” Rupert said and threw it back. “You keep a condom in your wallet . . . ?”
“You’d rather I didn’t?”
Rupert nodded that he had him there.
“Alright, güey,” Jesus said. “You done here?”
“Yeah.”
With that, Rupert and Jesus made their way up and through the Pioneer Cemetery access, to the car, and drove back to the Royal Courtyard Econo-Regency Chalet.
Sock it to me...