“For me, violence and the body and sex

are an integral part of life.”

n Koji Wakamatsu, maker of over 100 films including Taiji Ga Mitduryo Suru Toki (The Embryo Hunts in Secret), Okasareta Byakui (Violated Angels), Yuke Yuke, Nidome No Shojo (Go, Go, Second Time Virgin); and Shojo Geba Geba (Geba Geba Virgin).

Creature Feature

A TALE OF THE FOURTH GIRL

2001

(FLASHBACK)

So what, exactly, was he?

If his mother was right he was born of thought. Then what were his thoughts? Were his thoughts offspring of her thoughts? Were they her grandchildren?

The act of imagining was the act of creating. So he was taught. If he was borne of imagination then wasn’t he art?

If so, then all those hours Clive spent hunched over his machines. They meant the birthing of private universes. Populated by private offspring.

But Clive filmed him. Did that mean that he was part of Clive’s imagination too?

Did that make Clive his mother? Impossible. How many mothers could he have? And Clive was younger than he was. Which meant that he was born before Clive. Which meant that Clive couldn’t be his mother.

His mother had a potent mind and a fertile womb. The result of that equation was him.

His brother had a potent mind and a dungeon full of movie toys. The result of that equation was cinema.

He had a singular mind and a drive to slaughter. The result of that equation was what?

Nobody told him that words and ideas would come to him over time. Nobody told him that his simple rock solid purpose would become slippery as snot. His mother instilled resolve. But what was resolve against thoughts like these?

The last girl. The one with the black hair. The one with the black hole inside. He’d wanted to share some of this with her. He thought she’d understand. He thought he loved her.

Together they lay in death and the hole inside of him and the hole inside of her touched. He gave her pieces of him. He took pieces of her.

It didn’t help.

It just left him with a distinctly human crisis he couldn’t name. She’d tainted him. He gave her a gift. She gave him this.

He traveled. He walked. He pondered.

He found life. He erased it.

He felt a little better.

But then he began to think again:

He was but a seed his mother’s mind etched itself upon. A seed that grew into this thing he was.

His brother’s films were but seeds his brother etched his mind upon.

He would find a seed and etch himself upon it.

Thoughts were art. What would his look like if he scribbled them down?

He chose his canvas at random.

He wanted it blank.

He wanted no depth to it.

He wanted no connection to it.

The girl was just some girl. Stupid enough to be in his path.

She was pale and creamy of color. His mind would interact well with her flesh.

She was thin and lithe and blonde and pretty in that superficially human way.

Everything was as it should be with her. Everything was in its right place. If there was one thing that set her apart, it was perhaps the sharpness of her features. Her eyes were like something feline. Her nose a touch upturned. Right nostril a little bigger than left.

He stopped analyzing. Analysis clouded purpose.

He slapped her down and out with open palm. He slung her over his shoulder and strode off over moist ground. Over the ruined dead who were her friends. He navigated his way through thick forest. He approached the run-down shack that would function as studio. One of many built by many a Mitchell over many a year over many a mile of woodland. He fired up the generator and got to work.

He knew what to do. His grandfather had taught him. His grandfather liked scars.

Grandpa Mitchell read books on Aboriginal tribes. Soaked up scarification processes. He liked to prolong the kill. There was no beauty in his slashings. There was the cut. The scab. The scar. The pure tactile thrill of the scar. Grandpa Mitchell lamented the fact that the white girls he preferred lacked the keloid to scar up like the black initiated savages in his books.

He stripped the girl down. He strapped the girl down. She kicked and wailed at him as he did so. He gagged her. He selected a scalpel. He felt stupid holding something so small.

He cut her. With gentleness. With a ridiculous amount of care. He dabbed at the blood with the girl’s own shirt. He cut again.

Upon her skin he imagined a template. A swirling tapestry of horrors.

He made sure the girl stayed alive.

He was careful.

He treated her cuts. He bandaged her. He re-opened her scars when the time felt right. He removed patches of skin. He heated up pieces of metal. He burned her. He ground ash from his fire into soot. He rubbed it into the wounds. He took sandpaper to her. He made her inhale her own dust.

He fed her. Forcefully at times. He gave her water. He refused to listen to her pleas. Her pathetic bargaining. He stuffed her full of painkillers he took from assorted victims. He ran wet towels over her fevered brow. He emptied the bucket she emptied herself in.

He went at her with an obsessiveness he’d never before felt.

On her skin: a map of his mind. Unreadable to any but he.

On her skin: a language only he understood. A brutal one-man Braille.

On her skin: pictures only he could see. Secret sigils. Clandestine carvings.

He terraformed her landscape of flesh. He cut his world into her. A weeping red and pink geography of raised ridges. Of fleshy falls. Of callused clearings.

She spent months as an angry red wound. Cocooned in scabs. She looked at parts of herself. Parts that emerged eventually from a scabbed-up state of chrysalis.

She could not recognize her own skin.

She looked in-between. Open and closed. Life and death. Hurt and healed. Atrocity and beauty. Pain and pleasure. Human and Other.

She stared at her scars. She tracked along their spiraling trails. Noted the change in their contours when she shifted positions.

Hypnotized by their geometry, she felt nothing as he continued his work.

(END FLASHBACK)

The two looks that Chin Chin liked to sport.

Look number one:

The Yamumba.

Named after a mythical baby-eating witch. The modern Yamumba was tanned to gruesomeness. A lurid near-orange. Eyes shaded vivid silver. Hair bleached blonde. Brittle and coarse. Frequently fluffed and feathered. Bright clothes. Torn denim. Flimsy navel-exposing cotton shirts. Whooping and shrieking together in Technicolor flocks.

The Yamumba look was too sharp and intimidating. Chin Chin tried it a few times. It drew out the lecherous and weird. The truly dangerous waited for something more innocent.

Look number two:

The Lolita.

Like Little Bo Peep on acid. Puffed-up dresses. All frills and polka dots and ruffles. Porcelain dolls your Grandma favored made real.

Lolitas were Fairytales gone bubblegum. Grimm’s girls let loose through the enchanted concrete forests of urban Japan.

Equally as bizarre as the Yamumba, but softer. Chin Chin found that softness was the key. The monsters couldn’t help themselves.

In a toned-down Americanized Lolita get up, Chin Chin was a magnet for freaks. They stalked the lost-looking little fairytale girl down alleys nobody went for fear of wolves who robbed and raped. They backed the whimpering Chin Chin up against walls marked as gang turf. Against chain link fences that cut into the expensive outfits.

Selina was always waiting.

The monsters followed Chin Chin right into Selina’s scarred-up arms. Right into Selina’s sashimi knife-filled fists.

Chin Chin gave Selina the knives. Blades of forged high carbon steel. Many with beautiful bluish waves and spirals etched into them.

They varied in size and in function. There were knives for bone. There were knives for muscle. There were knives for vegetables. For beef. For chicken. For fish.

Some were long, thin, elegant things. Some were short. One was an all-metal massive square chopping blade, a handle cut into it. One was shaped like a box cutter. Several were huge, hacking cleavers.

Some had handles of ivory. Many had Kanji running down the blade.

One was curiously like a small hatchet. One looked like a well-crafted prison shiv.

Two had blades easily three feet long. Polished wooden handles long enough for both hands. The longer of these blades was for slicing tuna.

Selina of course used them all to slice human.

The knives didn’t mind their intended use being perverted. They still got to cut. They came all the way from Osaka to do some cutting.

Selina wore them in scabbards and home-made holsters. She took an online course in leathercraft to make the belt they hung from. She made it well. The big ones she harnessed to her back in an X.

Sometimes Selina made the killing quick. Sometimes she drew it out. Depended on her mood. Depended on the monster.

Chin Chin Daisuke watched on as Selina crossed them all over. He felt no guilt. He knew what the men had done. A lot of research went into these outings.

Chin Chin was proud to play his part well. Here in Hollywood. Where you’re fantastic even you’re even good. Where big dreams met bigger disappointments. Where facts never got in the way of a good story.

Chin Chin, his story was real good.

Almost as good as his act.

Almost as good as Selina’s.

***

Senor Schriever was the Kraut-Mex promoter of the Friday Night Freak Fights. He scanned the sold-out crowd. Eyes bugged out-magnified by black-framed coke bottles.

The tires of his custom-made wheelchair squeaked on cervesa-soaked concrete. The bar stank: sweat, sex and more cervesa. It was a full house tonight. The freaks were set to get it on inside his cheap-ass solder-blob speckled cage.

Joey Knucklepop stood behind Schriever. He ground one wrecking ball left fist into his catcher’s mitt right hand. Did his trademark knuckle-pop. Nobody heard it.

Onstage inside the cage: Puta Patrol. They drowned out everything except pre-bar fight yells of aggression. They pounded out fucked-up flamenco on amplified speed.

Consuelo Cooch hung from the cage with one inked-up arm. Screamed like a Latin furie into her mic. All blood-curdling rolling R’s and roaring orgasm screams and distorting death rattles.

They were halfway through the anthemic Choo Gonna Die, Homey!

Schriever’s chair wheeled the man himself into his office. So fast he left a burn-out mark on the floor. A cholo with only the top three buttons of his checked shirt done up and a crucifix tattooed on his neck yelled some shit out at him in Spanish.

Joey Knucklepop took the offence his employer was too illiterate to take. He leveled the dude. He picked a tooth out from between his knucks. Sucked at the blood that bubbled out.

Knucklepop signaled at hefty black bouncers to take the guy out. Knucklepop shouted a lot to the guy. Shouted a lot to security.

The gist: Work him over some round back. Work him over then some more.

Joey shut his boss’s door.

Schriever: ‘I hate that shit. Puta Patrol. Jesus.’

Joey: ‘Kind of like it.’

Schriever: ‘Really?’

Joey: ‘Yeah. Consuelo, boss, she’s got some titties. She’s Kitten Natividad gone punk.’

Schriever let loose a chuckle. Schriever pulled a bottle of tequila out of his desk drawer. Couple of shot glasses too. He left grubby fingerprint marks on the inside. He poured out generous shots. The oil from his fingerprints left a thin slick on top of the booze.

‘Titties she has, Joey. If I had legs that worked, I’d make her my own private jumping castle. Talent. Talent, she doesn’t have. Sings like my mother screamed when Papa kicked her down the stairs. Anyway, titties, they don’t last. Natividad, she had a mastectomy. Double maybe. I heard she rebuilt herself through the wonders of modern technology, but no way she’s the same.’

Joey interlaced fingers. Joey popped his knuckles. Joey thought about what a fucking poser his boss was. Mex-ing it up for juice on the street.

Schriever’s mother was his German-born daddy’s Mexican maid. He knew no Spanish. He knew only a feigned accent and a shitload of Mexican gangbangers. His father kicked his mother down the stairs for giving birth to a cripple.

Joey knew more Spanish than Schriever. He had Irish folks. He had a sixth grade schooling. He had a fucked right eye. One backyard prizefight too many. One bottle-whack detached retina too many.

Schriever belted back a shot. Noted Joey’s sigh. Belted back Joey’s shot out of spite. ‘I heard that. You got a problem?’

Joey stared out the office window. Tonight was packed, no doubt. The Friday Night Freak Fights were a hit.

‘Nope.’

Schriever refilled both glasses. Slid one over to Joey. ‘Here, dipshit. Wet your fucking whistle.’

Joey took the glass. Joey sucked back the shot.

Selina swaggered past the window.

Joey saw her. Joey put some extra swallow in his gulp. Joey watched her.

Selina went up to the bar. Took a Corona from bartender Juan. Juan served her with the fleeting eye-contact of the nervous.

Selina: supple/rippling/toned/FIT. Scars encircling her skin in deep intricate swirling patterns.

Selina: big buggy sunglasses over her cat-shaped eyes. Dreadlocks tied away from her face back into a ponytail of long blonde matted hair.

Selina: Bra-less under a tight black tanktop. Firm little tits. Nipples set to hello-mode. Denim hugged two firm legs and a peach-shaped ass. Beat up brown cowboy boots. Steelcapped.

Selina parted the fucking crowd. Selina oozed sexy violence and a honey-musk smell. Joey wanted to spend his life eating her clam. His face buried. His nose wet with her sticky stink.

She drained her beer. Pushed the empty neck-first into the chest of a dumbstruck onlooker. He took the bottle. He was weirded right out by the sheer messed-up glory of her.

A jacked-up white dude in a sweat-stained wife beater said words of encouragement to her. Words she ignored. She disappeared into the modified storeroom that functioned as the champ’s locker.

Pull back to the office:

Joey’s heart began to beat its regular rhythm once again. ‘Selina’s here.’

Schriever grunted.

Joey knew Senor didn’t like her. He played dumb.

‘What’s up, boss?’

‘There’s something…off about her. I don’t like her. I don’t trust her. There’s a whole bunch of stuff going on in that scarred-up bitch’s brain and none of it is rose-colored towards yours truly.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘It’s a feeling I get. You know how I am about feelings. Gut feelings. My gut’s fucking psychic. Plus. She asked about Mister Man.’

‘Mister Man? No shit?’

‘Mister Man. No shit. She asked. About him.’

‘Asked what?’

‘Does it matter? Any questions about Mister Man. Shit, the mere word mister and my gut’s off. Surprised squiggly Spidey-sense lines don’t come out of it.’

‘I always wanted to see a Spider-Man story where his Spidey-sense goes right out of control and he’s like a paranoid wreck.’

Schriever waited a beat.

‘How many times you been punched in the head? Listen to me: You called him right? You told him not to come in?’

‘Yeah. Course. You told me to. I did. You didn’t tell me Selina was asking about him though.’

‘I see how you get around her.’

Joey flushed. Popped his knuckles extra loud.

‘You always liked the tough chicks, huh?’

Joey tried to divert away from his boner for Selina. ‘She’s tough. No doubt bout that.’

‘Tonight’s the night. Tonight, Joey, is the night.’

‘You sound pretty sure.’

‘You ever heard of sturmschnapps?’

‘I never left LA. You know that.’

‘It’s not a place. It’s a fighting… technique.’

‘Like Jui Jitsu?’

‘No, not like fucking Jui Jitsu. Jui Jitsu is for pussies. Sturmschnapps is a technique formerly used by Austrian soldiers.’ Schriever poured out more shots. ‘Soldiers used to take steroids and Schnapps. Together. Just before going into battle. Sent them into a fucking bezerker rage. Probably as they charged into lethal barrages of gunfire. I don’t know.’

‘What’s that got to do with Selina?’

‘Tonight, she fights an Austrian. He’s a practitioner of this lost old school art of Euro-warfare. He’s got biceps the size of a small foreign car. He does so many roids that for three years he’s been having trouble getting a chubby. Three. Years. Imagine. Shit, I can’t move my legs and my weasel still pops up to spit at the ladies. This Austrian. He binges on the juice and the booze and he purges by way of ferociously intense, barely-controlled bursts of uber fucking violence. He’s got an attitude like a cattle-prodded sexually-frustrated Yeti. Our hacked-up honey’s done.’

Schriever wiped finger-oil off of his double-glazed specs with a tissue. ‘Just got to think about what we do with her then.’

***

Selina popped her neck and taped up her fists. She rubbed oil into her skin until it was slick and slippery. The fluro light overhead caught the scars on her arms. The definition of her muscles.

Selina's business was not the Friday Night Freak Fights. Selina’s business was monster hunting. She’d been led to the fights via a tip from a guy in a porn shop not anywhere near on the up and up. She found tapes of things that nobody truly human would watch and enjoy.

Selina went scary. Selina got a name from the counter guy: Mister Man. She let counter guy figure his shop was safe in exchange. She burned it down the next night. With counter guy tied up inside.

Selina ran Mister Man by Chin Chin. Chin Chin ran it by his lover. Detective Mikey Lumber. Mikey worked Vice. Selina got a copy of a file. Selina got Mikey’s blessing to make Mister Man an ugly red stain.

Selina liked cops.

Mikey had also given her some nice pink highlighted lines. Known associates in pink. Known haunts in pink. Lots of dead ends but a stand-out:

Senor Schriever’s House of Hits.

Sounded like a happening.

Selina ran Schriever by Chin Chin. Chin Chin was plugged in. Chin Chin closed up his sushi shop, grabbed some tuna and told her:

The House of Hits was a bar full of bootleg booze and ear-splitting noise. Run by Senor Schriever, a wealthy cripple playing up his half Mex heritage by cozying up to gangbangers.

Friday nights was the Friday Night Freak Fight. Unlicensed full-contact Vale Tudo on booze and pills. Anyone could fight. Anyone.

One catch: you had to be a freak.

Schriever had a touch of the promoter in him. Wanted colour and weirdness and grotesque competitors. Performance enhancing drugs were not just recommended but mandatory.

Chin Chin said he went there once, for a laugh. He dressed up real hot. Yamumba meets American hoochie. He got hit on a lot. He had lots of drinks paid for and had a good time.

Chin Chin saw a multi-jointed rake of a man shoot on a monster with coral horns grafted to his skull. Multi-joint man wrapped himself around the monster like an alabaster python. Choked the monster out in seconds.

Also on the card that night: Mister Man.

Mister Man was hung like a mongoloid farmboy. He fought naked. Rumor was he once used his sixteen ballbearing-beaded inches to beat a man into submission. Chin Chin couldn’t personally verify this, but like the story enough to share.

So Selina went along. Hot on the trail of a child pornographer with metal balls in his cock. It shouldn’t have been so hard.

But Mister never showed. He’d disappeared. Mikey had no leads. Chin Chin struck out with his sources. Selina figured Mister would show. He was a glory hound with a grotesque boner for kids and fights.

Selina went to House of Hits. She drew looks of all kinds of heat. As always. Schriever’s bodyguard took an interest in her. Schriever took an interest. They offered her a fight. She’d been training for years. Ever since she got carved up.

She took the fight. She figured she could use the money and the practice. Keep her in shape for Mister. Mister was the last one. Take him out and she’d be ready. Ready for her rematch with John Jerome Mitchell.

Maybe Mister would show and she could just finish him off in the ring. Avoid laborious set-ups and stalkings. Chin Chin was too old for Mister anyhow. Their usual trickery wasn’t going to work with him.

One fight turned into three. Three to five. Tonight made number six. There was still no Mister.

Selina began to think she’d made a big mistake. She got eager. She ran his name by Schriever. Not too casual-like either. Fuck it, she was a hunter not a gumshoe.

Maybe he’d heard. Maybe Schriever tipped the monster off. Maybe the word on her was out. Maybe he’d skipped off to Tijuana where prey was easy and cheap.

Whatever. Selina made her mind up. Tonight, after the fight, she was going to have a little talk with Senor Schriever. She knew the cripple didn’t like her. She knew the cripple didn’t trust her.

Didn’t matter.

Schriever was bad news on wheels. She was sure he was holding out on her. She was sure he knew where Mister was. She read it in the way he blew her off.

In the end though it didn’t matter if he knew or not. It was clear the cripple and truncheon-cock were in bed together. She’d wheel Schriever on down to the devil. Guilt by association was cause enough.

Knucklepop was a hiccup. He sniffed after her ass like a sad St. Bernard. But he was loyal to Schriever. Selina was sure she couldn’t buy the lug off with mere promise of a hummer.

But Joey was a thought for later.

Rosa the ring girl knocked on her door. Rosa walked in all hip-swinging mamacita moxie. Rosa liked Selina. She liked watching a chick destroy all the monsters they put up against her. Selina liked Rosa. She once watched on as Rosa beat an amorous white boy down with an empty pale ale bottle.

‘Selina, baby, I got the word. It’s time.’

Selina smiled up at her. ‘Thanks Rosa.’

‘This one. He’s a beeeeeeeeeeeeg one. He’s big all over, except for downstairs. He’s hung like a toothpick. But he’s like an ape. He’s like a body-waxed ape. And, believe me, you need a couple of quotes for that job, honey. My seeester-in-law, the bitch has an aesthetic salon in Beverly Hills. She waxes rich bitches snatches all day. I should call her, you know, tell her I got her a job she can retire on, man. I went down there one day you know, I had, like regrowth, you know. I was like ‘hey, give me one on the house, you know, we’re familia. Hector, my man, he don’t like no hairy snatch, you know.’

‘She do it for you?’

‘Hell, no. Get this: she don’t give no freebies. Sets a bad example, she says. You know what I say? I say bull-shit. That’s what I say. She tol me to quit messing with Hector, like he’s a bad guy or something.’

‘That’s tough.’

‘Yeah. I was like, I got a conjugal next week, bitch. You expect me to wax my own pussy?’

‘I do mine.’

‘Yeah. But you like the pain, Selina, I know you, girl. Just look at you. All sliced up an shit.’

‘Not that bad once you get the hang of it.’

‘Not that bad? I’d rather go toe-to-toe with ape-man out there than do that shit again. Fuck it. I’ll just shave it.’

‘It’s time, right Rosa?’

Rosa glanced down at her watch. ‘Shit, yes. It’s time. You watch yourself with King Kong Baldy out there, right?’

‘You know me, girl. Float like a butterfly, sting like a queen bee.’

***

The cage door swung shut with a clunk.

Selina looked about. Blood on the planks beneath her feet from a previous fight.

Selina swept someone’s tooth away with her right foot.

Introductions were made.

Petey, the announcer, was way gone. Vodka was Petey’s mistress. Petey loved her so. Pressed his lips to hers in ever increasing make-out sessions.

Petey slurred Selina’s name. Schhhhelinna…

Petey got the Austrian’s out ok: Jurgen Reichl.

Selina sussed her foe:

Massive. So huge and cut he was shredded. A swelling roadmap of veins thicker than her pinky covered his mass. Eyes pretty blue and bloodshot red. The left one twitched. He grunted to himself and was already stepping forward. He had the shakes. He was goooooooooooonnnnne.

Selina thought: not good.

Selina ducked a pre-fight swing. Smelled butterscotch booze on his breath.

Selina thought: guess we’re off and running.

The bell went ding and confirmed it.

Jurgen exploded. A massive fleshy swinging blur.

Selina evaded. Evaded some more.

Jurgen hit the cage so hard it groaned with his mass.

Jurgen pulled himself off it. Came straight at her.

Selina ducked two wildly swinging arms. Slid round his torso. Slipped in an ineffectual kidney punch. Slapped his left ear hard as she could. Shook the sting from her hand. Launched a kick to his thigh. A smack echoed round the room.

At the bar, Consuelo’s mouth made an O at the sound. She gave Selina the thumbs up.

Jurgen didn’t feel the first kick. Or the second. Or the third.

Jurgen barely noticed his nose breaking. The blood dripping down onto his massive chest.

The crowd did notice. They popped huge for the getting of color.

Selina thought: fuck this.

Selina took a run at Jurgen. Launched herself up. Wrapped her hands around the back of his head. Strained to pull him forward. Brought her right knee up. Ground it full force into his already broken nose.

Selina backed off. Surveyed the scene.

Jurgen’s nose spread out over his face. He looked like a blurred photocopy of himself.

He came at her again. Clipped her ear with a roundhouse.

Selina grabbed her ear and backed the fuck up. She fought the throbbing. She sucked back air. She evaded once more. Scanned the crowd.

Senor Schriever and Johnny Knucklepop off to the side. Schriever looked grim. He wanted this girl gone.

Selina fired more kicks at Jurgen’s legs. They were knotting up nice. Welts big and reddish-purple like just-birthed babies heads.

She figured she could beat on this juiced-up moron all night. Take him down one strike at a time. Get him off his feet. Take out an ankle. A knee. Would take a while, he wasn’t feeling much, but it would happen.

Then again…

Maybe it’d be better for her if she lost. Trim the fat off Schriever’s beef with her before she hit him up for info. She’d humble herself for him.

She ducked a right, ducked a left, ducked a lumbering swing of a kick. Decided:

Lead with the face.

She weaved around some more. Threw in some jabs. A kick to the testicles. He grunted but kept coming.

She looked over at Schriever. He shifted uncomfortably in his sweet custom cripple ride.

She beamed The Dive right at him in question form.

Schriever beamed back an answer. It was emphatically in the positive. An exclamation point in his eyes.

Selina picked her spot. A huge arcing hook came her way. Telegraphed so bad hookers walking the street would have seen it coming.

She stood her ground, rolled with it as much as she could. Still, going down was no act. Greasing the wheels of information never hurt so bad.

Things went psychedelic for a second. Then black.

***

A thick bratwurst finger traced the scars on her face.

Selina opened her eyes.

The finger drew back.

Knucklepop’s mug filled her vision.

‘Always knew you were a sweetheart, Joey. You carry yourself like a hard-on, but I always knew you were nougat-mushy.’

Knucklepop popped a blush.

‘Don’t tell nobody. Could cause me some calamity.’

Selina tried to sit up. Her brain felt like two bits of cheap steak rubbing together. She lay back.

‘Jurgen. He cleaned your clock but good.’

‘How come I don’t feel like I keep perfect time?’

‘How come you went down? You had that muscle-bound maroon by the marbles.’

‘What can I say, Joey? The overpowering aroma of butterscotch hit me harder than he did.’

Selina tried sitting again. Was successful this time. Where was she? She scanned around. Office. Schriever’s office. Schriever’s couch.

‘He’ll be back soon, if that’s what you’re wondering. He wants a word. He wants to know your agenda. Got to say, I’m more than a little curious about that myself. You shouldn’t be asking about Mister Man. You shouldn’t want anything to do with Mister Man. He’s one bad hombre…’

‘ ‘Hombre?’ ‘

‘Mother. Dude. Cat. Guy. Man. I don’t care. Choose your own fucking word for him then. Just whatever it is you want him for – drop it.’

‘Why, Joey, you’ve taken yourself to a new level of sweetness. I do believe you’re concerned for my well-being.’

Knucklepop popped his knucks. ‘Yeah, well, wouldn’t want your pretty face to get all messed up.’

Selina laughed. The two steaks in her head started humping.

Knucklepop handed her some pills.

Selina took them. Stared at them in her open palm.

‘Jesus. Relax. Just ibuprofen. You don’t want them? What are you? Scientololigist? Straight Edge? Take the fucking pills.’

Selina looked up at Joey. ‘Not straight. Just wondering what I’m going to wash them down with.’

Joey said oh. Joey fumbled around for a glass. Found one. Filled it with water from Schriever’s cooler. ‘You’re too straight for this place, Selina.’

Schriever opened the door. Schriever’s chair wheeled him in. Schriever sucked back more tequila and went for it:

‘Not to sound ungrateful, because I truly am happy to, at last, by virtue of your defeat, be rid of your scratched up self BUT what the hell were you playing out there and what the hell have you been doing here all these months and why the hell were you asking about Mister Man? I tried to ignore it. I really did. I tried to let it just flow the fuck over me like a soft little breeze. But your little questions burrowed themselves into my busy brain and have sucked up all my other thoughts like weird intangible leeches and now it’s all I can really think about. And I have so many MANY other things that I should be thinking about instead. It’s making me a touch irrational, truth be told, which means that maybe I’ll start to act irrationally, which means that maybe you’ll soon be napping with sheets of dirt just so I won’t have to worry about this and you any more.’

Selina smiled. ‘You trying to be scary?’

‘Are you? You come in here all butch and hacked-up, like some cunt from some demented Roughie flick and my wheels are supposed to start quivering? What the fuck?’

‘You want to know? Okay. Fine. Here it is: I want Mister Man. I want him lying on the floor in front of me seeping lifeblood. I came here for him and I don’t care that you know it. I don’t care anymore. Mister Man is a monster. You know it. Johnny certainly knows it. And I know it. I’ve been hanging out here because I thought he’d be back. I’ve been hanging out here because I like to fight and most of the dudes I fought, if they didn’t need killing too, then they certainly needed a thorough beating, which is what I provided. I put a lot of fucked-up people on the shelf during my time here.’

Johnny stepped forward. ‘Selina, now just a –‘

Selina, still sitting, shot out a fist. She punched Knucklepop in the throat. He fell to the floor. Paws around his throat. Breathing in hacks and gasps.

Schriever’s wheels whirred in reverse. He backed up from the oncoming Selina.

‘Whoh. Whoh. Whoh.’

Selina glanced out the office window. The bar was black. Lights out. Everyone gone.

Selina kicked Schriever’s chair. It rocked. She kicked it again. It tipped. Schriever hit the floor. Clawed his way out of the chair. His wheels spinning uselessly in the air. He clawed his way along the floor. He prayed to Jesus for instant healing so he could haul ass.

Jesus turned his back.

Selina perused Schriever’s desk. Selected a stapler. Spun it in her hand. It was a big mother. She opened it up. Fired staples at Schriever. She made pow-pow gun sounds as the staples shot out.

Schriever’s specs came loose. Selina stood on them. The glass was so thick they didn’t break. Selina was impressed. She jumped on them. That did the job.

Knucklepop got shakily to his feet. Coughing all the way.

Selina turned. Selina swung a stapler-loaded left hand. Knucklepop went down once more.

Selina stood on the small of Schriever's back. Selina stooped. Selina punched staples into Schriever’s ass.

She tsked to herself, wishing for a staplegun. Nevermind. She’d make it work.

She flipped Schriever over. Schriever shrieked.

‘Mister.’

‘I can’t.’

Selina punched staples into Schriever’s forehead.

‘Mister.’

‘Fuck yourself.’

Selina smiled. Selina slapped Schriever stunned. Selina unhooked his belt. Wiggled down his pants.

Schriever was a boxer man. Selina slid them down. Selina grabbed hold of Schriever’s balls. Held the stapler to them.

Schriever said, ‘Wait. Wait.’

Selina waited.

Selina waited some more.

‘Mister Man is squeezing my balls tighter than you are right now. If I give him up, I’m done.’

Selina stapled scrotum.

Schriever squealed. Schriever squeezed loose tears.

‘You best not worry about that, Schriever. You best worry about how I’m going to turn you into a body modification icon. I lost tonight, Schriever. I lost tonight for you. I know you had big money on butterscotch boy. I know certain associates of yours did too. Come on. Repay the favour. I’ll keep your name out of it. Why are you protecting him? He going to beat you with his studded snake?’

Schriever sweated. Schriever pondered. Schriever gave it up.

‘Fuck. Fuck. Mister Man has me on tape in something of a compromising position…’

‘Oh, Jesus, Schriever…I knew you were a low-life…’

‘You don’t understand. You don’t know what it’s like.’

‘Fuck, I think I’m going to puke. You’re a warped piece of work. You have no idea how many times I hear this shit on a regular basis, you really don’t. Don’t justify your monstrosity to me.’

‘He got me the girl, okay? He set it all up. He set cameras up in this fleabag motel. He filmed the whole thing.’

‘He’s blackmailing you.’

Schriever scoffed. ‘You’re one sharp cookie.’

Selina kneeled on Schriever’s arms, pinning him down. Selina stapled Schriever’s bottom lip.

Over Schriever’s screams she said: ‘Sarcasm. Lose it. You’re to be the galaxy’s most humble motherfucker right now, okay?’

Schriever’s teeth were pink with blood. He cut to the chase with a mouth tasting like metal. ‘I bankroll him. I buy him protection. I buy him favors. I buy him juice on the street. Shit, I buy him digital fucking gizmos and editing software. I buy costumes for the kids.’

Sour things rose in Selina’s stomach.

‘I have to, Selina. I have to.’

‘Give him to me.’

‘I can’t.’

‘What?’

‘If I give him to you, the footage of me goes on the net. He has taken…precautions.’

‘I don’t give a fuck about that. I don’t give a fuck about you.’

Selina slid something sharp and fine out of her boot. ‘I never told you how I got to be the way I am, did I?’

Selina pressed the blade to Schriever’s cheek.

‘The body can do some amazing things in order to cope with pain. When all this was being done to me, the pain got so bad, I actually left my own body. It’s true, I really did. I fucking astral projected, man. I went through the skin of this reality. I wandered through a weird netherworld limbo. I saw the subcutaneous matter of the universe. It’s amazing. It will take some time, but I can show you. You deserve to see it.’

Selina hiked up Schriever’s shirt. Exposed a wobbling alabaster belly.

With a flick of a blade, Schriever’s pain plane lifted off.

***

Selina’s hand was deft. The letters were carved in perfect Copperplate33bc font.

The wounds in Schriever’s stomach read:

PEDOPH

That’s as far as Selina got before Schriever gave Mister Man up.

Selina left Schriever and Knucklepop hog-tied with gaffer tape. If it was bogus intel, she’d come back, finish Schriever off. If it wasn’t bogus intel, she’d come back, finish Schriever off.

Schriever didn’t know that last part.

***

Turned out Mister Man didn’t just groove on fistfights and kids. There was something else that tripped his yes-o-meter. Something simultaneously bizarre and mundane:

Mister Man also got his kicks at the Laundromat.

Schriever gave her addresses of three possibles. Mister Man liked to rotate.

Selina picked one. She did a walk-by. A hoodie on. Incredibly, there he was. Poring over last month’s celeb gossip. Grooving on who was fucking whom now and so forth. His distended tighty-whiteys rocking away on gentle cycle. From the looks, he was a man who appreciated a fine fabric softener. He packed enough to bathe in.

Selina was set to slice right then and there.

Problem: Mister Man was not alone. He swapped mags with a middle-aged woman. She had a whole mess of stuff droning away in a dryer.

Selina hung back at a neighboring shop. She tried to blend in with the dark.

‘What are you doing?’

Selina turned. A man: dark hair, light eyes. Dressed in a hoodie of his own. Black cargo pants. Bulging pockets. Black boots. Selina though he looked like the world’s most handsome spree killer.

Selina showed some scars. Selina showed some scary cat-eye. ‘What’s it to you?’

‘You walked past the Laundromat twice. Ten bucks says he made you.’

‘He hasn’t made anything but a pile of the best-folded shirts I ever saw. Who are you?’

‘I’m the guy that’s going to wait until that nice lady finishes her laundry before taking that piece of shit out. Go home. Don’t fuck this up for me.’

‘Fuck this up for you?’

‘Look, Mister Man, he’s slippery as love juice. He disappears so fast and so often I’m beginning to think he teleports. You stick to what you do best. You and your tranny friend. Beat it. I’ll get him. I’ll do him. It’s all taken care of.’

Selina lost it. Tranny Friend? Selina shoved the pretty boy.

Pretty boy smiled. ‘I’m not one of your spastic cage chumps.’

Selina nervously eyed the Laundromat. Fixed her peepers back on pretty boy. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

Pretty boy sighed. His green eyes were wide and soft and girly. ‘My name’s Batton Thumb. We share the same vocation.’

The woman left the Laundromat. She hefted a huge laundry basket. She stooped to scoop up a pair of sidewalk-soiled socks.

Batton was off.

Selina grabbed him by the scruff of his hoodie. ‘We take him together. Talk about this later.’

‘This ain’t Marvel Team-Up, honey. What is your deal?’

Selina stared him down.

Batton gave her a scan. His stomach flip-flopped with her intensity. She was a human power-surge.

‘Fuck it. But you follow.’

‘That I can live with.’

Batton crept forward. Selina in tow. She noticed a cattle prod sticking out the back of his pants.

Batton peeked in the Laundromat window.

He shit.

‘He’s gone. Fuck. He’s gone.’

Selina got game. She charged past Batton. Went in the front door. Batton saw she had a three-foot sashimi knife out. Elegant kanji ran smoothly down the blade.

Batton’s dick twitched.

Batton collected his marbles. Came in behind her.

Mister Man’s machine rattled away. He’d left his clothes. The fabric softener was AWOL.

Batton ran past rows of machines. Checked behind dryer stacks. A cannon of a handgun out. A trigger-finger far beyond itchy. He muttered obscenities. He kicked the back door of the place wide open. Behind it: an office. No windows. No way out.

Selina saw the security camera. She sliced the cable. She scanned ceiling. Saw it: a hatch.

Batton saw Selina jump on a machine. He saw her knock the hatch open. He saw her wriggle through it to the space between ceiling and roof. He followed.

There was nothing up there but old washer parts and a dodgy patch job on a roof that had been smashed clean through.

Selina sniffed fabric softener. What the fuck was with this guy?

Selina tsked. Went through the hole out onto the roof. Batton followed. Pissed at the turn of events. She twirled 360. Behind her. On the neighboring roof: Mister Man. Glock in one hand. Softener in the other.

Batton screamed WAIT.

Selina vibed indifferent to the warning. She sprinted forward. She leapt the gap between buildings. The Glock went boom a couple times. Something punched her twice in mid-air. She hit the flat concrete surface of the roof hard and flat.

Mister Man was off.

Selina heard more booming. Batton charged forward shooting. Batton made the leap incident free and with more than some grace.

Batton saw Selina lying in the slick red wetness of herself. Shot twice: one in the right shoulder, one in the bicep. Selina clawed herself to her feet. Unholy noises coming from her. Primal incantations of determination.

She went: ‘Get him.’

Batton was gone. He leapt from roof to roof like something fluid and light. Selina saw him leap off a roof to the street below. She followed. Teetered on the edge of a building. Contemplated the jump. Jumped it. Made it. Just.

Sirens in the distance.

Batton came back.

‘He made you.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Batton hung his head. Scrunched shut his eyes. Sirens got louder.

‘Come on. We’ve got to go.’

***

Batton bandaged Selina up. Blood bloomed through his efforts uncaringly.

Selina said she was fine. Selina wanted back in the hunt. Mister Man was on the lam.

Batton said he’d get him another time. His voice was clipped and monotone.

Batton stuck to the speed limit. His 71 Ford Torino desired otherwise. It was a sexy souped-up asphalt starship from a near by-gone gas-guzzling age. It was black and shimmering and high-maintenance.

If it was a woman, it would be Erica Gavin: all dangerous curves, cold-bitch smiles, hardboiled-pastiche dialogue and sizzling sexual aggression.

Batton parked a block from where he needed to be. He stripped off his hoodie. Slung it round Selina. He helped her out of the car. They walked a weird winding route.

Selina had no idea where they were. She worried Batton was planning on whacking her in some back alley. She waxed paranoid. ‘Where are we? Where are you taking me?’

Batton shushed Selina. Said, ‘Take it easy. We’re here. We’re going to get you patched up proper.’

Selina looked up. The neon sign had letters on the fritz. It read:

Selina thought: what a shithole.

Selina said: ‘This place is a shithole. What are you going to do? Dump me in the care of a gaggle of hookers with hearts of gold and medical degrees? They going to dope me up with their stash and pull the bullets out with their eyebrow tweezers?’

Batton hauled her round the back. ‘Shut the fuck up, will you? Christ. Trust me.’

‘Trust you? You got me shot.’

Batton’s feet hit the breaks. ‘Me? I fucking told you to go home. I fucking told you Mister was slippery.’

‘Okay. Unfair. I admit it.’

Batton’s feet moved. ‘Come on.’

The alley stunk like garbage. Some cats fucked loudly somewhere. A homeless guy slumped against a large metal door at the rear of the hotel.

Batton looked down at the homeless guy.

‘Jerry.’

‘Batton.’

‘Who’s your friend? Funny looking broad.’

‘Selina. Jerry. Jerry. Selina. Let us in for Christ’s sake. She’s been shot.’

Jerry hawked up phlegm and chewed on it. Jerry got to his feet. Jerry was big. Selina could tell the whole ‘homeless’ gig was phony. Jerry looked at her wound. Poked it.

Selina grimaced.

Batton got pissed. ‘Jerry. Fuck. Let us in.’

‘Doc’s kinda busy tonight, buddy.’

‘The money’s in the car.’

‘In the car, huh?’

‘Jerry.’

‘Reckon this will be about twelve grand. Maybe more.’

‘It’s in the car.’

‘Shouldn’t leave valuables in the car, Batton. This ain’t a good neighborhood.’

‘Jerry.’

Jerry stood aside. ‘Okay. Batton. Cause it’s you.’

Jerry rapped on the door. Said some shit into a tiny mic on his collar. The door swung wide.

Selina sighed. Batton said, ‘Don’t sweat it. He just likes being a dick.’

In front of them: a poorly lit staircase. They descended. Their footsteps echoed.

They hit the basement and burst through its two swinging doors.

Selina scanned about. Pink walls peeling paint. Fluro lighting so bright it hurt her eyes. Cheap plastic seats along either side of the wall. A folding card table in the middle. Magazines covering it.

Seated: a young dude with some severed fingers in a tub of ice.

A middle-aged man with a clear stab-wound to the guts.

Another young guy. His arm hanging funny.

A huge black woman in a poorly fitting nurses uniform sat behind a desk at the opposite end of the room. She had more ripples than the Pacific. Her nametag read:

GILDA

Gilda chewed bubblegum. Gilda popped a purple bubble. Gilda read The Weekly World News. Gilda had a sawn-off in her lap.

Gilda looked at Batton. Gave Selina the up/down once over.

Gilda said, ‘Take a number.’

Gilda went back to The Weekly World News.

Batton sat Selina down. He went over to a deli-style ticket machine. He ripped out a number:

Batton checked the electronic display above Gilda’s head:

Great.

He slumped down next to Selina. ‘Must be a fucking crime spree tonight. 37. Jesus.’

Selina turned to him. ‘Where are we?’

Batton smiled. ‘At the hospital. Where else? Doc Gallier, he’s the best money those who don’t exactly work within the law can buy. Don’t fret. I come here all the time. Well, when I’m hurt. What do you do when you get hurt? You got somewhere to go?’

‘Never been hurt. Before.’

Batton shook his head. ‘How long you been half-assing it?’

Selina smiled. ‘Long enough.’

Batton looked at her. Really looked at her. He saw past the scars that masked her, that obfuscated the truth that was her. There were hints of Lynn Lowry in her eyes, the bone structure of her face.

Selina sensed the scrutiny. ‘You hungry?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You like sushi?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Cool. After I’m patched up, I’ll take you to a place. We’ll eat raw fish. Drink some Asahi. Have a few laughs. You can meet my…tranny.’

Over Gilda’s head the number clicked over:

The dude with the hacked off fingers stood. Gilda gave him a wink and ushered him through the surgery door behind her.

Batton looked over at gut-wound guy. Wondered if they could trade numbers. Batton convinced himself: Guy’s got a flesh wound. A nick. A scrape.

Nah. Busted Arm was the way to go.

Gilda read his mind. Tapped the sawn-off on her desk. Swung her head in a silent uh-uh.

Gilda said, ‘Patience makes perfect.’

Batton said, ‘Think you’ll find that’s “practice” ‘

Gilda lit a thin cigar. Said, ‘Not round here it ain’t.’

Was going to be a long night.

***

Batton, Selina and Chin Chin. Hanging and eating sushi.

Chin Chin closed up the shop he cheerily called FISH! He sat down with his guests.

Bubbly J-Pop wafted happily out of wall-mounted speakers. Every song featured the words Love, Peace, Yeah. That was pretty much all Batton could get. It was beginning to give him a headache.

Selina was on a vicodin cruuuuuuuise. Her right arm and shoulder were mummified. Strapped in a tight sling. She watched the sushi. All the colors of the rainbow. Rotating around the expanse of the restaurant on a belt.

Selina tore herself away from some octopus’s magnetic mauve. She did the introductions: ‘Batton Thumb, this is Katsumasa Inoue, owner, proprietor FISH! You can also can him Chin Chin Daisuke if you want.’

Katsumasa and Batton shook and exchanged pleasantries. Batton gave him the once over: good looking in that fine, feminine Japanese way. Eyebrows shave-sculpted into perfect arches. A Ziggy Stardust-era feathered mullet only a shade or two down from Bowie’s reddish-orange.

Batton: ‘Chin Chin Daisuke? Interesting name.’

Chin Chin: ‘Basically it means ‘I love cock.’

Batton: ‘Oh. Well, can’t argue with the earnestness.’

Chin Chin: ‘Back when I lived in Japan, many years ago, some kids wrote it on my bicycle seat. How did they know? I still wonder over this today. I took the name when I hit certain bars in Rappongi. I didn’t need another name, but why have one when you can have two? It’s like my secret identity.’

Chin Chin beamed out a bad-toothed grin.

Chin Chin put a bottle of Sho Chu on the table. He added three small ceramic cups.

Batton had tried Sho Chu before. He thought it tasted like gasoline.

Batton had been to Japan years earlier on a Bruce Wayne-style quest for martial arts knowledge.

He found the booze to be flowing. He found the getting of pussy a pushover. He found dojos and the some of the knowledge he sought.

The closest he came to any gay culture was a mistaken purchase from a porno mag vending machine in Osaka. Inside, fat balding and bespectacled J-dudes blew each other’s pixilated penises. Surely a waste of anybody’s four hundred yen.

Add the mag to the popularity of rape-porn and he found Japan was like some early Cronenberg flick gone Asian:

Bideoduromu

He wondered if Dave had ever gone. Dave’s mind would be BLOWN. A dozen flicks would spring from the trip.

He pounded back some Sho Chu. He wondered if he could run his Torino on it.

He wondered what was wrong with him. He remembered he took vicodin too. It stilled the buzz random acts of vigilantism birthed.

Katsumasa said a hearty KAMPAI and more drinks were drunk.

Katsumasa said, ‘Thank you very much for taking care of Selina.’

Selina stared into her empty cup. Spaced.

‘It’s no problem.’

‘I’ve heard of your work, Batton’

‘That so?’

‘It is. I have law enforcement…connections.’

‘That a fact?’

‘It is. A boyfriend. He’s very handsome. Like a young Tom Selleck.’

Batton laughed. Excused himself. ‘How do you know Tom Selleck?’

‘Is that strange? I watch lots of cable. It’s good for my knowledge of idioms.’

‘Ahh.’

‘Yes. Mystery solved. Anyway, my boyfriend, he follows your work very closely.’

Batton watched the sushi train choo-choo around the joint.

‘Help yourself.’

Batton nodded. Took some salmon. Slapped a huge light green lump of wasabi beside it. Smothered the salmon with it.

Katsumasa watched the handsome man eat his sushi.

Batton scrunched up his nose as the wasabi hit it.

‘Too much?’

‘Nah. I dig the burn. Your boyfriend. The cop. Follows me closely?’

‘Oh, it’s nothing to worry about. He just likes your work. He’s a fan. He helps us out.’ Katsumasa refilled the glasses. ‘By the way, I never told Selina about you. She’s too competitive.’

Selina was asleep. She slumped against the side of the booth.

Batton thought she looked like a whole other person. She looked peaceful and vulnerable. The intensity that bled out of her earlier gone.

Batton said, ‘Maybe I should get her home.’

Katsumasa said, ‘Actually, she is home.’

‘She lives here?’

Katsumasa nodded. Pointed to the ceiling. ‘I let her stay upstairs.’

‘Okay. Well, it’s been quite a day and I could use a bit of shuteye myself. Thanks for dinner.’

‘You’re welcome here anytime. You should come and visit her. I have a feeling she’ll be off her feet for a while. She thinks she’s like some untouchable action hero. She tries to be all ruthless and badass. But that’s not her. That’s the scars.

Batton pondered. He didn’t push it.

‘I don’t want to tell you guys to not do what you’re doing –‘

‘But you’re going to?’

‘But I’m going to. She could’ve been killed tonight.’

‘So could have you.’

‘True. But Selina. She just kinda blunders around recklessly. She lacks –‘

‘Discipline?’

‘I was gonna say ‘preparation’, but that too, I guess.’

‘You like her, don’t you?’

‘She’s quite a picture.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Nevermind. I’m gonna go, okay? I’ll be back to see her tomorrow. You’ll tell her?’

‘I will.’

‘Oyasumi Nasai, Chin Chin.’

Katsumasa looked surprised. Smiled at the Nihongo spoken.

‘Goodnight yourself, Batton.’

***

Batton. Back at his place. He cleaned and oiled some guns. He got bored. He read bits of a Ballard book. He chilled out to The Gypsy Kings. He fell asleep. He dreamed of Selina. He dreamed of touching her. They made love. It was surprisingly tender. He read the secrets of the universe in the complex geometrical scriptures of her scars.

He forgot them when he woke.

Her face was all he could think of.

***

They all got together the very next day. They made life-changing decisions. They sized each other up. They sussed things like motive and will and compatibility.

They swapped vague origin stories in bite-sized comic book captions:

WHERE THE NEON BURNS BRIGHTEST, CROSS-DRESSING

SUSHI CHEF SUPREME KATSUMASA INOUE VAMPS IT UP

AS CHIN CHIN DAISUKE. THE SIREN SONG OF HIS

HIP-SHAKING WAYS TURNED UP TO THE MAX, CHIN CHIN

LEADS SMITTEN PSYCHOS TO THEIR TIMELY ENDS IN

BARREN BARRIO BACK ALLEYS!

SCARIFED SENSATION SELINA BURDETT STALKS THE

SUNBURNT STREETS OF TINSELTOWN. THIS SASHIMI KNIFE-

PACKING VIXEN OF VIOLENCE SWEARS HER SCARS SWELL

WITH SECRETS. THIS CHISLED CHANGLEING CHILD COUNTS

DOWN THE DAYS UNTIL SHE IS READY TO FACE THE

MONSTER WHO GAVE THEM TO HER IN A COMBAT DESTINED

TO BE MORTAL!

WHEN HIS YOUNGER SISTER WAS FOUND HACKED UP AND

RESTING IN HER FOURTH GRADE TEACHER’S FRIDGE,

BATTON THUMB TOOK THINGS MORE THAN A LITTLE

PERSONALLY AND MORE THAN A LITTLE TOO FAR! TOO FAR

TO COME BACK, IT SEEMS, AS BATTON STILL FIGHTS FREAKS

IN ALL FORMS, REMOVING THEM FROM THIS MORTAL COIL

BEFORE THEY REMOVE OTHERS FIRST!

Chin Chin ducked out shopping on Hollywood Boulevard. He returned with matching T-shirts. Black. Cotton. Silk-screened with the poster from his fave film.

Godzilla, Mothra, Rodan, Varan. All slugging it out and doing the mash on some city. The title:

Kaiju Soshingeki.

Released in the States as:

Destroy All Monsters!

Chin Chin’s lifelong motto.

This gang now had colors.

***

Selina healed up. Batton kept busy. He got into bioacceleration technology clothing from Australia.

Brand name: Skins. Seemed appropriate.

Power increasing. Oxygen flow increasing. Lactic acid eliminating. Clothes the modern monster hunter could ill afford to be without.

Selina and Batton made the investment. They sheathed themselves in the stuff. They looked like postmodern ninjas.

Chin Chin said it look casual gimp. He bought new designer shit instead. He sexed it up in the stuff.

Batton went to work with Selina. He turned her into a true cardio freak. He turned her into a lethal chokehold machine. He elevated her fighting to demi-god levels.

All the while they had feelers out:

MISTER MAN, WHERE ARE YOU?

Senor Schriever was still in business. Rosa had the beans. She was willing to spill them all over the place. The cleaner found Schriever and Knucklepop. The two trussed up and bleeding. Nothing hit the net. No Schriever/little girl action. Not yet. Word was Schriever oozed smug.

Selina and Batton decided to let things slide. Let the cripple be for now. Rosa promised to stay in touch. She liked Batton. She said he was as doe-eyed as a Jap cartoon character.

Batton did the odd drop-in to House of Hits. He drank some beer. He had eyes peeled for a no-showing Mister Man. He watched some freak fights. Jurgen still top dog. Bulldozing his way through juiced-up jobbers. The fix was in like sin, baby.

Schriever wasn’t chancing anything any more.

Rosa caught him checking plastic surgeons on the net. Skin graft Schriever.

Selina figured she’d wait. Once the ass flap grafted to his tummy healed up, she’d do it again. This time she’d finish the word. In foot-long letters. In a chunky font like stencil maybe.

Ass-graft over THAT, motherfucker.

Batton loitered around LA Laundromats. Mister Man didn’t get that good of a look at him. Batton grew out a beard and cut his hair short anyhow. The bioaccelerating second skin under his street clothes waited to bioaccelerate some hardcore ultra-fucking-violence.

Batton washed so many loads the elastic went in his Calvins. His jeans faded to an ugly bluish-white. Batton wore them down Mexico way.

Batton bought a handgun from some street punk. Batton had to shoot the punk with it. The punk tried to pull some shit. That’ll learn him. You don’t fuck with dudes buying illegal firearms. Chances are they’re more badass than you.

Batton was too badass even for Tijuana. He went on the hunt. He ran into a multiple-rapist gringo on the lam. He did the world a favor. He found a flophouse full of fugitives. He bought more guns and went back. He did the world a bunch more favors.

Still no Mister Man.

Batton tapped out. Batton went back to LA. He missed Selina. He wanted to kiss her scar-ridged lips. He wanted to run his tongue over her skin. He wanted to lose himself in the complex network of its signals.

So he did.

***

They smoked some methaqualone-laced marijuana.

A smog-enhanced, fake tan-orange sunset. Palm tree silhouettes. Free lap dance cards littering the street. TVs up too loud cover the sirens.

This was their backdrop. They noticed none of it.

They immersed themselves in the foreground that was them. The pheromone-secreting la la lands of their flesh. Fondle-flushed and slick with spit and sweat.

Selina went passive. She let Batton explore all he wanted.

Batton read her with his eyes and his mouth. With his hands and his cock. He took in the alien alphabet scrawled on her. He couldn’t translate it but its beauty inflamed him onward.

He finished just before she did, but Selina slept first.

The world came back to Batton before his lights went out. He cared for it even less after being where he’d been.

He smoked some more vitamin Q fertilised grass. He watched things happen outside his window for a while. Saddened by it all, he found sleep in Selina’s arms.

***

Batton woke with Selina stroking his head.

He said: ‘I’ve never seen anything quite like you before.’

She smiled. The scars on her face wiggled and wormed like live things. ‘People find me terrifying.’

‘I don’t.’

‘It’s okay. I like being terrifying. I’m comfortable in this skin. You know, my birthday’s actually Halloween. It’s true. I was coming out feet first. I caused my mother so much pain, she never forgave me for it. They gave her a caesarean, but just the idea of the knife and the cutting and pulling me out through the open flaps of her belly...she flipped out. They had to drug the shit out of her. She didn’t want them to cut her. She went hysterical. She’d rather the pain. She’d rather I died. My father, he told the doctors to go ahead and cut her. It was the last time he ever crossed her.’

Batton traced a spiraling scar down her arm and up her shoulder. He traced it like it was a map route into her mind.

‘ The doctor…he didn’t do such a hot job. He left a huge bad scar right up her belly. Any time my father disagreed with her, she’d lift up her shirt and show him how horrible it was. She picked at it. Scratched at it. She went crazy over it. She claimed that since she never really gave birth to me, that I wasn’t hers. My Dad, man, he was just browbeat into despondent submission. He’d cuddle me at night. He’d tell me, that mommy loved me, that mommy was sick, all that shit. He was a guilt-riddled weakling. He was depressed and on more pills than she was. Every Halloween, when my father was at work, she’d pull me aside, dress me up in this frilly fucking strawberry shortcake frock and she’d make me read from this book. Good Things For Halloween; Recitations, Monologues, Dialogues, Plays, Exercises and Drills For All Ages. Written by a woman named Beatrice Marie Casey. You ever heard of it?’

Batton shook his head.

‘Didn’t think so. Published in 1929. Features blackface skits and all. Charming stuff. So anyway. I did this monologue for her. It was about this girl and how she could be super-good according to her dad and how she could be super-bad according to her mom:

“Then my dad calls me his fairy,

Angel, pet and other things;

And I ‘most know that I’m growing

Little bits o’ tiny wings!

But sometimes I am the baddest!

Worst than you have ever seen!

Then my mother says the fairies

Left me here on Halloween.

And she shakes her head and tells me

That I am a changeling child.

That the fairies took her daughter

And left this one cross and wild.”

It goes on and on like that. Pretty kooky stuff. She let me believe that this was like the family tree. I was performing this thing every year. I couldn’t even fit in the dress any more. I’d tell her that I didn’t want to do it. I’d be in tears. She’d raise up her shirt and make me touch her scar and I’d be terrified and I’d do it and I’d recite this awful thing. Crazy. There can be no doubt though: look at me. I am the cross and wild changeling child. I’m like one huge barely healed wound.’

‘You think of yourself like that? Like you’re a wound?’

‘I know that’s what I inspire in most others. I inspire that recoil people get when someone’s ripped open and the insides threaten to come out through the cut. That squeamishness people feel when they look at surgical videos. That macabre visceral gut punch rubberneckers get at crash scenes. I’m Hermann Nitcsch video art 3D projected.’

Batton smiled, he thought she was more Yang Shao Bin…

‘It’s okay. I like it. I own it. I’m a statement. Some get turned on by it. Johnny Knucklepop. He saw me as one great pussy I think. Unending cunt lips for him to moisten and open up. And then there’s you…’

‘You think that’s how I see you?’

‘I don’t know how you see me. Why don’t you tell me?’

‘You’re the world’s most complex oracle. I’m the world’s most baffled medium. You’re a ceaseless, rippling lifeline of infinite meaning. You’re a shapeless philosophy written in a language nobody knows. Sometimes, when I look at you, at what was done to you, I think I see things.’

‘What, like the future?’

‘Maybe.’ Batton had a think. Groping for words and concepts. ‘Selina, your body is like a chapter in a book that you strain so hard to understand your head swims. It’s like trying to describe the atmosphere of a half-remembered dream.’

Selina laughed. ‘That sounds romantic.’

‘Old-school romantic, yeah. I guess that’s it. You’re an expression of old-school Romanticism.’ Batton smiled again. Stroked her face. ‘Byron’s wet fever dreams lurk in your scars…’

‘So you’re saying John Jerome Mitchell is a poet?’

‘No, he’s a monster. But from what you told me and what I can see for myself, you are his sonnet. For whatever that’s worth.’

Selina looked herself over. Marveled anew at her skin. It did that sometimes. Caught even her by surprise.

‘I want to carve my own sonnet into him.’

‘You up for that?’

‘Someday soon. Yeah.’

Batton touched the large bullet pock scars on her arm. Crude and irregular, they stood out against the delicate swirling apocalyptic art nouveau of Jerome’s work. ‘You wanna get back to it? Get out and bust some sickos’ heads? Your arm’s come good. Told you Doc Gallier was the man.’

‘Yeah, let’s do it.’

‘That’s good news. Chin Chin’s tired of me leaving him at home.’

***

They say bad things come in threes:

Selina got shot in the arm. That was the first.

Next Chin Chin broke a nail on a sick fuck’s face. Wasn’t that bad, really, but he was pissed. Batton made him regret it. Batton made him regret many things.

Third thing was more severe.

***

Wind blew through Chin Chin’s way of a new kind of freak fight.

Billy Toome was a barrio dog and cockfight promoter. Billy was a piece of work. Lived out of the back of a beat-up old pick up. Usually parked it out front various Mexican whorehouses. Used various kennels and veterinarians as safehouse lock-ups for his pets.

PoultryPride IV failed to meet costs. Billy knew he needed a revamp. He thought about firing the Gloria Estefan lookalike. She fronted a tribute band called Sounds like Miami Sound Machine.

They were on a one way trip to Nowheresville.

‘Gloria’ had been given the gig of singing the US anthem at the fights. She did a job so good, most people thought she really was Gloria.

Punter 1: ‘Dude, that’s not her.’

Punter 2: ‘I’m telling you homes, that bitch is Gloria Fucking Estefan. Dr Beat is in this fucking house, yo.’

Punter 1: ‘She got fat man…’

Punter 2: ‘So? Bitches get fat, dude. Look at your Mom…’

Punter 1: ‘Fuck you. I don’t think that’s her.’

Punter 2: ‘Why not? Fuck else is she doing these days?’

Punter 1: ‘Sucking Tommy Mottola’s cock.’

Punter 2: ‘That’s Mariah, fool. And they got divorced…’

Punter 1: ‘How come you know so much about this shit? Thought you didn’t watch MTV. “Makes a man stupid,” you said.’

Punter 2: ‘…’

Punter 1: ‘well?’

Punter 2: ‘That’s our fucking anthem she’s singing. Show Gloria some goddamn respect and shut the fuck up.’

Turns out ‘Gloria’s’ name was Francesca. And it wasn’t Mottola’s cock she sucked. It was Billy’s.

Billy couldn’t let that mouth walk off back to Miami. Nor that ass. Francesca had an ass made his heart do the fucking conga beat.

Billy dreamed up something new. Something sick but potentially highly lucrative.

Billy knew Schriever. They drew the same sort of crowds.

Billy needed bank. He pitched his idea to the Kraut-Mex:

Kids. Bad kids. Unstable kids. Seriously strung out and demented kids. The younger the better. Give them a knife. Give them an opponent. Give them a winner’s purse full of smack, crack, whatever got their groove on.

Schriever loved it. He toyed with the idea of sending Jurgen along to sign some pre-show autographs. Then decided his backing on this little venture ought to be on the QT.

Schriever laid out some cash. Things got underway. Things looked bad when one kid was too scared and jonesing too bad to fight.

Didn’t last long as a result.

Still, Billy kept himself in prostitute pudenda. After laying kind of low, Schriever decided it was time to stick his head back up. Knucklepop got over Selina by banging some broad with big branded breasts.

The Bad Boys had gone cocky.

Francesca was easy to find. Too easy. Chin Chin’s cop Mikey Lumber coughed up three known addresses. Chin Chin delivered them to Batton with a wink.

Batton smacked his lips in frustration. He liked playing detective. He liked being off the grid. He didn’t like liasing with Mikey. He didn’t like po po. Selina and Chin Chin outvoted him.

Selina and Chin Chin told him Mikey was nice. Guy looked like Tom Selleck. How could he not be?

Batton thought: Fucking teams.

They found Francesca at the first address. They found Billy with her.

Franny: on her knees in the kitchen. Franny: blowing Billy while he fried some eggs and whistled Skynard.

Batton and Selina were pissed and tired and came straight in through the back door.

Batton charged forth. Bullish as all get out.

Billy extricated his cock from Franny’s mouth. Stumbled going for a shotgun resting against the pantry and blew a hole in the floor.

Batton tripped over the hole. Batton twisted wrong.

Batton blew his knee out. Batton bellowed FUCK.

He went down.

Selina came on hard. Selina ducked a second shot. Selina rolled.

Franny was screaming. Billy was running.

Selina slashed out with long fucking boning knife with a sweet ivory grip. Selina sliced through Billy’s right Achilles.

Billy hit the deck wailing. Blood spurting from his messed-up ankle.

Batton got to his feet. Tested his knee. Verdict:

Not good.

Franny jumped on Batton’s back. Batton buckled. His bad knee was BAD. He flipped Franny forward. He punched her in the nose. Franny screamed: sighting her own blood.

Batton busted out a nerve pinch. Franny fell faint.

Selina: ‘You okay?’

Batton: ‘Yeah.’

Selina: ‘Your knee?’

Batton: ‘Not now. Let’s finish humanitarian of the year over there.’

Billy crawled onward. He sobbed like a little girl.

Selina heard sirens. Sirens. The bane of her justice-dealing existence.

Selina selected a blade. Drove it through the back of Billy’s neck straight through his throat and into the kitchen laminate beneath. Billy made some spurting and some gurgling. Billy leaked a lot of red. Billy went quiet.

When the news broke nobody wept at Billy’s passing. Franny didn’t even like him that much.

‘He tasted bitter something awful,’ was her eulogy.

Cops hit her up to ID Billy’s killers.

Franny: ‘How the fuck should I know? They had fuckin masks and skin-tight fetish shit on. Fuckin bondage X-Men suits. I know – it was Hugh Jackman and fuckin Halle Berry. Go get Hugh. I’ll give him a fuckin hummer so hot he’ll confess right away, officer. Fuck, he’ll confess to offing OJ’s bitch, time I’m done.’

Cop: ‘You kiss your mother with that mouth?’

Franny: ‘Hell, no. But I suck my daddy’s dick.’

Cop: ‘You can go. I even hear the chorus of Rhythm’s Gonna Get You and I’m dragging your ass in again.’

Franny: ‘That’s cool. My main number’s Anything For You, baby.

Cop: ‘Try it. There’s six cops with unholstered weapons waiting outside for just one single note.’

Franny scoffed. Franny took a look.

It was true.

One of them even pulled back the hammer.

***

Schriever put his head back down again. Schriever packed his bags for a looooong holiday.

Rosa tipped off the team.

Schriever got inscribed again. Selina went with a font called Trajan. Nice font. Bold but elegant and clarity. Easy to read. Selina took her time. She had a lot of things to write.

Selina put Knucklepop in the hospital. He’d be using Schriever’s chair when he got out.

Schriever didn’t need it any more.

***

Selina chewed her nails. The news was shitty.

Dr Gallier was a dashing dude. No doubt. His black hair all spiked up. His face unshaven. Nice English accent. During her bullet-removal Gallier said his dream was a General Hospital gig.

Every LA fucker’s an actor slash something.

‘Well, yeah, Mr. Thumb. Your diagnosis was right on the money. Your ACL is torn.’

Batton looked down at his knee. It hurt like a bitch.

‘Bad news: you need surgery.’

‘Fuck.’

‘Yeah. But you knew this already, so don’t act surprised. Normally, nine months or so, you’ll be pretty much good as new.’

‘Nine?’

‘Pretty much, yeah.’

Selina chewed her nails. ‘What’s the good news?’

‘I' can get you back in four.’

Batton went wide-eyed.

‘Four?’

‘Four.’

Batton played with the swelling. ‘How?’

‘There’s some really cool stuff been happening with synthetic ligaments. I pop one in, four weeks, you’re off. You tear it again, I replace it. You’ll be like The Bionic Man…only…synthetic. The Polyester Man. You should trademark that. Get yourself a leisure suit.’

Selina glanced out the glass circle in the door.

Gilda was out there. Chewing and reading crap magazines.

‘How often will these things blow out?’

‘I don’t know. How many roofs you going to jump off of? How many faces you going to ram into it? How long is a piece of string? It’s safe and I can tell you that it works. I put one in a heister three months back. He blew his organic one out leaping over the bank counter after the teller got a bit lippy. Bit of a dickhead, really, but lucky as buggery. He limped his way out with a hundred grand. I also did some work on his face. This guy fucks up so much, he’ll look like Michael Jackson before he’s done. Some con will melt his face off with a burning roll of loo paper at the tail end of a stretch someday, mark my words. Anyway, this guy, he’s doing great. Knocked over a 7/11 two days ago. Escaped on foot.’ Doc Gallier wiggled his fingers. ‘Such is my skill.’

Selina peered past Gilda. Scanned the waiting room beyond her. Three patients waiting.

Two were there while they waited earlier:

Some guy with a gash in his head. A triangular flap of flesh hung open. A woman with a lip split so bad it ran up to her nose. She was clearly moaning in pain.

The third. The newbie: a big guy with his head in his hands. He rubbed his face. He looked up and over at split face chick. He said some shit to her. Selina guessed he told her to shut up.

Batton: ‘Don’t know that I’d call that loser a heister, Doc. Proper heisters might take some offence at that. Shit, I’m more of a heister than this guy and the only thing I ever stole was a Superman comic when I was twelve.’

Selina turned away from the door.

Holy shit.

Selina did a double take. Selina spun back to the door.

Selina said, ‘I don’t believe it.’

Batton said, ‘You okay?’

Selina said, ‘Mister Man. Fucking Mister Man is here.’

Batton got up. Forgot about his bad knee. Winced when he put his weight on it.

Gallier said, ‘Batton. For Christ’s sake, get the weight off the knee…’

Batton hobbled over to the door. Selina stepped aside and let him look.

Batton looked:

Big as life. Bad as sin.

The monster himself.

Mister Man.

***

Batton: ‘Holy fuck. I don’t believe it.’ He turned. Grabbed a baffled Doc Gallier. Steered him to the door.

Gallier: ‘Batton, what the hell are you doing?’

Selina: ‘We got him. We got him.’

Gallier: ‘Got who? Will you please tell me –‘

Batton: ‘Doc. That big white dude out there. How do you know him?’

Gallier: ‘Know him? I don’t know him. I’ve never seen him before.’

Batton: ‘Well, we’ve been after that fucker for months. He’s the guy shot Selina.’

Gallier got nervous. ‘What are you thinking? You’re not taking him down in here.’

Batton and Selina exchanged a look.

Gallier: ‘You’re not. No. No. NO. You know the rules in here: no grudges. No weapons. You go out there all kick-arse and I’m ruined. Ruined.’

Selina: ‘Doc, we appreciate your predicament, but this guy kidnaps kids and makes porno with them. We’ve lost him once and he disappeared into ether of sicko subculture protection. Batton even shot up half of Mexico looking for him.’

Gallier glanced at Batton. Batton shrugged his shoulders.

Batton: ‘Look, you know us, man, we’ve got no beef with what you do. You sew up all the mobsters and petty crims you want. But THAT guy, that guy he needs to be crossed over.’

Gallier: ‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’

Selina: ‘Doc, if you don’t even know him, what’s he doing here? ‘

Gallier: ‘You know how this works. He’s been referred by someone I trust.’

Selina: ‘Who?’

Gallier: ‘I don’t know. Jesus. I haven’t read his file yet.’

Batton: ‘Better start screening patients more careful, Doc.’

Gallier shot Batton a scalpel-sharp glare. Held it. Said:

‘Tell me about it.’

Selina: ‘We can’t let him slip away. We can’t.’

Batton: ‘Okay. We wait. Doc, you just carry on here, okay? Me and Selina, we’ll go hide in that supply closet. See to those other guys. When Mister Man comes in here, we’ll take him out nice and quiet, nobody will ever know, ok? Then you slap one of those synthetic thingies into my knee, sew it up and we’ll be on our way.’

Gallier hung his head.

Selina: ‘How are we going to do this? We’ve got no weapons.’

Batton: ‘There’s Gilda’s gun.’

Gallier: ‘No, no. She doesn’t part with that thing. And I’m not having gunfire in here. Gilda’s gun, it’s a deterrent. ’

Batton: ‘Screw it. We’ll think of something.’

Batton: ‘Okay, Doc?’

‘Okay.’

Doc Gallier stuck his head out the door. Smiled nervously at Gilda.

Gilda swiveled around in her chair. Popped a big ass gum bubble.

Gallier: ‘I’m ready for the next patient, please, Gilda.’

Gilda: ‘What happened to them others?’

Gallier: ‘They went out the back.’

Gilda: ‘Back? There ain’t no—‘

Gallier: NEXT!

The guy with the flap in his head looked up. Looked down at his ticket. Looked at his number, now glowing out in red above Gilda’s head.

‘Bout fuckin time.’

Gilda ushered him through, scowling. Gilda clipped him on the back of the head. His skinflap flopped forward. Gilda said, ‘Mind your language, bitch.’

‘Or what?’

‘Or I finger-fuck that pussy you got in your forehead. Get in there. Doc’s waitin.’

***

Batton and Selina hung out in Gallier’s small supply closet. They felt vaguely voyeuristic peering out through the wooden slats. Batton stroked Selina’s face. Selina pulled him towards her. They kissed. Selina got a bit keen. Batton stumbled into some cardboard boxes.

From the surgery: ‘What was that?’

‘Uh. Mice. Yeah. It’s cool. My equipment’s been sterilized. This is some cut you’ve got.’

Batton and Selina stifled laughs. Batton checked out the boxes. He lifted the flaps of the top box up gently. Stuck in his hand. Felt around. Pulled something out. Smiled broadly at Selina.

Syringes.

A box full of syringes.

The waiting game began anew.

***

Doc Gallier asked Mister Man what the problem was.

Mister Man asked if Gallier read his file or not. If so, he shouldn’t be asking. If not, he was sloppy.

Gallier said that he had. Gallier said he was sorry, but he didn’t know what pearling was.

Mister Man stood. Took down his pants and showed him.

Gallier smacked his lips. ‘That’s quite a lot of work you’ve had done on your…ah…penis.’

‘They aren’t supposed to be all bunched up like that. They’ve moved around.’

‘So I see. I believe that’s what we’d call “subdermal shifting.” Your beads have migrated to the area of loosest skin. Causing that, ah, bulging there…’

‘I want them out.’

‘I’ll have to cut them out. You know that, right?’

‘I don’t give a good goddamn. My cock was a work of art. Now it looks like one of those Agent Orange babies. Take them out.’

Selina shot out of the closet.

Gallier yelped. Gallier dove over his surgical table.

Selina grabbed at Mister Man. She took him down with a Batton Special: a three-punch combo. One to the throat. Two to the balls. Pow pow pow.

Batton filled the syringes he was holding with air. They made sucking noises as the plungers drew back.

Mister Man: Big man. Big veins. Batton chose a couple pulsing on either side of his neck. Batton stuck the needles in. Deep. He shot Mister Man up with big ass bubbles of oxygen.

Mister Man shit with panic. He bugged OUT.

Batton whistled music from Fantastic Voyage.

Batton said: ‘Through the Human Body…Into the Brain.’

Mister Man thrashed so hard he snapped the right needle off. The left still stuck in his neck. Syringe and all. He rose up. Caught Selina with a jab to the eye. He put some oomph behind it. Selina went down stunned.

She shook it off. Got back up.

She didn’t need to.

Mister Man started wheeling about. He crashed into the wall. He went down thrashing and twitching. Riding the seizures all the way to Embolysm City.

Selina said, ‘That was fast.’

Batton kicked Mister Man a few times. Mister Man was still. ‘Yup.’

Gallier was cowering in the corner. He got up when Mister Man was still.

Batton jumped on the operating table. ‘Steady those hands, Doc. We’ve got work to do.’

Gallier sat down behind his desk. He pulled a bottle of single malt out of a drawer. He took a swig and grimaced.

Batton: ‘Feel the burn and let’s go, baby.’

Gallier looked up at Batton. Gallier sighed.

Selina stood over Mister Man. She spat on his body.

***

The smell of drill burning through bone filled the room. Selina covered her nose.

Batton was going to do it hardcore: no anaesthetic.

Then he thought FUCK THAT.

He already got the girl. He already got the bad guy. He didn’t need to go hog-wild in macho-land.

He took the cruise. Out and at peace, he slept while his knee was put back together with the drill, a piece of polyester, scalpels and screws.

Watching the operation, Selina felt just a little closer to him. She stared at the inside of his knee. She got a twinge of jealousy. She felt like a neglected partner in an otherwise grooving threesome.

She took to Gallier’s booze for comfort.

***

Chin Chin had a party. A glamorous drunken affair. FISH! Was packed out with people Selina and Batton didn’t even know. They huddled in a corner booth with some hot sake.

Gorgeously alien creatures came over. They said Happy Birthday to Batton. They pecked his cheeks with glossy lips. They left their sticky smear.

Batton said thanks. Batton tried hard not to look confused.

Chin Chin came over.

Batton said, ‘Hey, what’s the deal. My birthday’s August.’

Chin Chin said, ‘Most don’t care, but some always seek the why of a party. Since I can’t tell them the real why, your fake birthday will suffice. Try to look most grateful when the cake comes out.’

Chin Chin was loaded. He sipped at a self-made vodka lemonade. Light on the soft drink. Heavy on the hard. He crunched a block of ice. He looked smoking in his little outfit. He slid in next to Selina. He crossed his legs high on his lap. Balls tucked under so they wouldn’t bulge on out through his skirt. He put his slender arm around Selina. He said, ‘Why don’t you mingle?’

Selina said, ‘I don’t…I can’t…I’m not really comfortable. You know me, Chin Chin. I’m not exactly the social butterfly type.’

Chin Chin crunched an ice cube. ‘Ah. I see. You’re uncomfortable around people you can’t kill. That’s it, isn’t it?’

Batton laughed. Rolled a joint roughly the size of a cheap cigar. Lit it.

Selina said, ‘Hey, I hang around you two, don’t I?’

‘Yes. And I’m glad that you do.’

Batton said, ‘Thank you Chin Chin.’

‘For what?’

‘For all that you do. For bankrolling us. For having the balls to come out with us. When we decided to do this, as a team or whatever, I only agreed because I was smitten with Selina and because I was stoned. I had no idea it could possibly be this good.’

Chin Chin said, ‘You get sentimental when you are stoned, Batton. It’s nice.’

Batton adjusted his leg. It was bandaged and braced at the knee. It was propped up on the bench seat opposite, where Selina sat.

She rubbed his knee. She said, ‘Don’t bogart the joint.’

Batton shared.

Chin Chin raised his glass. He drank. He left a lipstick mark on the rim of the glass.

‘My father, as you know, made his fortune with a chain of family restaurants that he franchised out all over Japan. He and my mother had two boys. I am the elder. I was always aimless and flighty and confused and unhappy in Japan. I lived out in a little town outside Nara and worked my father’s mushroom farm and went to English school and used his growing wealth for occasional travel. My brother, Takuya, was strange and withdrawn. He rarely left the house. He hated the outside. Takuya spent his free time sucking his teeth and poring through our father’s quite extensive videotape collection. My father was a man of odd tastes. Tastes my brother shared. Where as I got into monster movies, Takuya developed an affection for the work of a filmmaker called Koji Wakamatsu.’

Chin Chin halted to drink again. He rubbed absent-mindedly at the lipstick smear.

Hearty party noise and Saccharine J-pop. A surreal soundtrack to Chin Chin’s seriousness.

‘Wakamatsu made films with explosive titles like Go, Go Second Time Virgin, The Embryo Hunts in Secret and Violated Angels. Who wouldn’t want to see such films? My brother would go on to write a thesis on Wakamatsu called Politics, Art and Exploitation or something. Anyway, as children he watched his movies. I did as well. Full of naked rope-bound women, torture, mutilation, hard sexual violence. I wondered what it must be like for those actors to be a part of these nightmares. They got to go to places so extreme, but in such safety. The safety of a film set. I wanted to do that. I wanted to be a part of something like that. When my father died, I sold the business with my brother’s blessing and I came here a wealthy man with strange tastes and a need to explore. I came to Los Angeles, where I thought my dreams and the dreams of others could mingle and hover above us like the smog. Things started to happen. I’d get followed. Stalked. Attacked. I went to the police so many times it got so they didn’t believe me. That’s how I met Mikey. Our paths crossed one day. Anyhow, that’s also how I met Selina. She saved me one night. We talked. We became friends. We realized what we could do together.’

Chin Chin patted Selina’s hand. ‘My Violated Angel and I.’

Ayumi Hamasaki sung happily about love or something while the three friends plotted the destruction of the next monster.

Two weeks later, they had a visitor. A tall handsome black man. Big smile. Sharp grey suit.

His name was Clayton Loft. He bore a cheap business card. He shook hands earnestly and firmly. He spoke with integrity.

He was the harbinger of the coolest woman Selina ever met.

Her name was Maggie Janson.

It was time, Jerome.

It was TIME.

***

(FLASHBACK)

When he was finished, he wanted the world to witness his work. Art was nothing if it was locked up. That much he knew.

From the scrub, he watched. His child stumbled out of the open door. She raised her hand, shielding sensitive eyes from the sun.

She made a noise, bewildered. She looked around timidly for signs of threat. Finding none, his skinny sculpture of flesh lurched forward and away.

For the first time he could remember, he smiled.

He felt new things. He felt boldness and defiance. He felt strangely proud.

He had no idea what he would inspire in his creation.

Until it returned once more with friends.

(END FLASHBACK)

FINAL GIRLS: An Abandoned Novel

Sunday, September 22, 2013

5. CREATURE FEATURE: A TALE OF THE FOURTH GIRL (2001)

“For me, violence and the body and sex

are an integral part of life.”

Creature Feature

A TALE OF THE FOURTH GIRL

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