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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Making New Made Men"  "We're going to make the last one a mystery guest," you tell the three assholes sitting before you. "Whoever picks the mystery guest gets a further choice, but I'm not gonna say who it's a choice between. Now, here's how you're gonna pick a place." You rip a piece of paper into three pieces, and pass them to the others. You also give them each a pencil. "You're gonna write down your choices in order of preference. Who you want most is number one, who you want least at number three, middle guy in the middle. You're gonna have eleven votes to split among them. So if you really want Kevin Hall—" You lean over Mendoza. "You put him at the top and give him eight votes. You give your second place choice two votes and your last place choice one vote. Or zero points, give his point to Hall, whatever. If you're evenly split, give two of them four votes and one of them three votes. Understand?" Dumbasses that they are, you have to explain the concept of weighted voting to them again before they get it. You also remind them that this project isn't voluntary. "I know where you fuckers live," you say, brandishing the brain bands. "And if you think this is scary, think about how I can fuck you up if you don't do what I say." By the time you're done, Evans looks like he's going to cry. But you also try bucking them up and encouraging them after they've separated into different corners of the room, to get used to the idea of what you're making them do, and to make their choices. "I hear Trantham plays in a band," you murmur to Mendoza, and clap his shoulders. "Fucking musician, he's gonna have chicas hanging off his cock. Or Hall, man, fuckin' hero of the gridiron." You make the latter promise to Evans too. Also: "Think about movin' to Eastman, man, put some distance 'tween you and this shithole." You suggest to Thomason that he should be a gambling man, aim for something big with the "mystery guest." After ten minutes of fraught and agonized and silent pondering they give you their ballots. "Don't look so sick, man," you tell Evans. "Your life'll still be there when you're done, this is just till the end of December, maybe a few weeks into January. That's how come we give the other guy your brain, so he knows how to be you. It's just a vacation for you man. Or a secret mission." You grin. "Don't you wanna be a spy, go undercover? Fuck, man, at the end of this maybe you won't even want to go back to bein' yourself." Evans doesn't look much comforted by this, but Thomason perks up a little. You open their ballots. They're not much of a surprise. Evans put all of his votes toward escaping your influence: eleven for Trantham. Mendoza split his six for Hall and five for Trantham. Thomason voted five for Hall, four for the mystery guest, and only two for Trantham. "You win Trantham," you tell Evans. "Keep your phone on, I'll call with the plan for how we're gonna pull off the switcheroo. Probably tomorrow after classes, in here, so don't make plans for four o'clock or anything. Mendoza, you got Hall, I know you can talk to him. Call him tonight, try to set up a meeting with him in the morning. Tell him you want to talk to him here at the portables around eight or eight-fifteen. Call me back with what he says. "Okay, you two can go, I got more business with Thomason here. And remember," you warn them as they reach the door. "Not a word about this to anyone, and don't think you can get away from me." "This is fucked up," says Thomason when they're gone. "Yeah, but you're interested, I saw it in your eyes," you reply. You sit on the desk in front of him. "Now, I told you you're gonna have a choice. Both of 'em are nice, you'll like 'em, but one of 'em's kinda weird." Thomason stiffens. "Okay, first choice is Justin Roth. You know Roth, good-lookin' fucker, smart, but hangs out with a bad crowd, hangs out with fuckers like you and me. But he gets laid, man, I hear he's got pussy coming and going. I ain't a faggot, but I look at him and I can believe it." You poke Thomason. "You, I know you know a good-lookin' dude when you see one." He flushes as you grin. "That's the dividend for you," you continue. "The point is I want him to start dealin' for me. You and Evans and Mendoza, you don't got charm, you 'specially, you're kinda scary lookin'. You look like a fuckin' skin-head." It's true: Thomason is tall and thin and white and blue-eyed, but there's a cadaverous look to his eyes, and his white-blonde hair is shaved almost to the scalp. "But Roth," you tell him. "People love Roth, they think he's cool. If he offers to sell them something, they think, 'Man, how cool is that that Justin wants to sell me something, he'll think I'm cool if I buy it.' You'd be popular, man, more popular than Trantham or Kevin Hall." You wink. And Thomason does look intrigued. "And the other one," you continue. "The other one is cool too. Great body, great face, lots of fuckers just dying to rub up against 'em. Almost as popular as Roth, even better looking. 'Specially in the boobage area." You mime fondling some hefty funbags. "Andrea Varnsworth." Thomason rears back as though slapped. "Now, don't think I'm gonna think you're queer or anything if you go for Andrea," you tell him. "The way I see it, the way I think about it, what straight motherfucker wouldn't want to be Andrea? You ever fantasize about playing with those tits, fingering that pussy?" You slap him in the chest. "You could do that, every night and five times on Sundays, if you were her. Layin' in her bed, runnin' your fingers up and down her body." You moan with erotic anguish. "And in the daytime, too. Pulling on that swimsuit, sliding through the water, having it rub all up and down your body, then washing it off in the showers, squeezing it off your boobs and ass and legs. In the girls' shower, too, with the other girl swimmers." You massage his shoulder. "Gets you hot and bothered just thinkin' about it, right?" He swallows. "Yeah, mystery choice is the right one, there ain't a wrong choice to be made here. I'll leave you to think about it for a few minutes." You retreat to the back of the room. And you wait for only about two or three minutes before you decide: He wants Andrea, but he's too shy to say so. He half-turns as you come up beside him. "You decided yet?" you ask. His shoulders jerk. "I think you should take Andrea. It'd be a hell of a lot of fucking fun, more fun that your sad little friends are gonna have." Thomason looks up at you. His eyes are wet. And they seem filled with gratitude. * * * * * But you still have to capture these targets, and you call Evans after Thomason has left, to give him Trantham's contact info, which you'd looked up. "Tell him you want to meet him at Westside, in the student parking lot, at four tomorrow afternoon," you tell him. "Tell him you need to talk to him about Gardinhire. He'll know what you're talking about." But you do wonder as you put the cell away: Evans is easily the dumbest of the bunch; can he possibly handle Eastman the way you know it needs handling? Well, it's something to worry about later. After talking to him you race back to the elementary school. You pause as you look the basement over from the top of the stairs. You can't put your finger on it, but you've a feeling that someone has been inside; things aren't quite the way you remember leaving them. Maybe it's just paranoia. But instead of working here, as you'd intended to do, tending the fire, you return home. First, though, you stop at an office supply store, and make a phone call. * * * * * You have to wait forty minutes behind a shopping center a few blocks from downtown before Dwayne Macauly shows up. You don't say anything to him, though, for you're sitting about fifty yards away, watching from your Jeep, as he pulls up next to a dumpster. He gets out of his car, goes behind it, and reappears with a brand-new metal briefcase. He gets back in his car. Your phone buzzes with a text: "What's this?" You reply: "Gear, not 4U. Need out of house. 5 days max." A long pause. Then: "OK". He drives off. It's a risk giving the grimoire to Macauly, even locked in that metal briefcase, but you think you can trust him. Even if he busted it open, he'd just find an old book that he'd regard as probably nothing but a valuable artifact. He might demand some money from you, but that's all. In your text to him, you promised him a hundred bucks just to hold it: money you'd put in an envelope taped to the side. You don't drive off immediately after he does; paranoia has too great a hold on you. You spend five minutes pretending to text, then go inside the comic book shop you're parked in front of. The owner is a Korean-American, a fact known to you though not to Gary Chen, and you affect surprise and pleasure at making his acquaintance. Eric Kim is the dopiest guy you've ever met, and you don't have to talk to him long to sense that Chen's psyche is forming the same opinion, but you keep it friendly, and even buy a handful of titles that he recommends to you. Next: "Sacking a Ballplayer" |
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