Annie of the Undead (15 page)

After that, I let him have it. I moved to where
I felt most at home –inside, and I stayed there. I started bringing
him down, piece by piece. He became Tim and Diva and my mother, and
every other fucker I wanted dead, like every opponent I had faced
before him. His arms fell, and then he was mine.

The manager let me hit him like that half a
dozen times before he blew the whistle. I almost didn’t stop.
Almost.

Given the opportunity, my opponent rested on the
ropes, catching his breath and watching the room swirl. He was
bleeding nicely. When he had gotten his senses back enough to
realize we had stopped, he gasped, “What…what are you stopping
for?”

“This fight’s over,” said the manager, putting a
restraining arm across his chest.

When he was certain he had obtained obedience
from the dizzy fighter, the manager turned to me. There was a
pronounced smile deepening the wrinkles around his eyes.

“Where’d you fight before, kid?”

“Up north,” I said and took out my mouth
guard.

“You a pro?”

“Not now.”

The old trainer nodded, shifting his cigarette
from one side of his mouth to the other innocently, but he was
guilty as sin. He might as well have beat that kid up himself.

“Annie,” he said, “welcome to our gym.”

He took hold of one of the other guy’s hands and
one of mine. He jerked my arm into the air and announced, “The dog
stays.”

Then he turned to the dog’s owner and said, “You
keep that little shit tied up like a mummy at all times, you
hear?”

“Oh, yes, Sir!” she replied. Then she said to my
opponent, “I told you you would get a spanking. That’s what happens
when you accost an innocent…”

I spit a mouthful of blood into the bucket, ran
my tongue over my teeth.

Yeah. That was fucking awesome.

The assembled crowd began to break up. The pair
of girls on the other side of the ring –the only other girls in the
place, moved off with stunned expressions on their faces.

“I can’t believe it,” said the girl with the
dog, “You fought for my honor. You’re like Lancelot. You’re like a
knight, only with knockers.”

“Would you get that goddamned mongrel away from
me?”

“But I thought you liked dogs?”

“Hate ‘em. I just know how it’ll eat at that kid
now every time you bring that thing in here.”

“Oh, you’re a sadist.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little harsh?”

“Of course not. Wanting to harm people for your
own pleasure –enjoying the memory of someone you have ‘trashed’
–that is known as sadism.”

“I’m going to enjoy harming that drain clog that
passes for a dog if you don’t get it away from me.”

“Oh, yes, sorry.”

She stepped away from me about a yard, then
leaned forward as though speaking from across some kind of
chasm.

“My name is Yoki Hayashi. I am pleased to meet
you.”

She extended a hand across the chasm. I eyed her
dog. It had a mean little face, like the Predator in miniature.
What the hell are you…

“And you’re Annie.”

Just then, she turned to look at Chad, who was
being helped toward the showers by a couple of his guys.

She called out, “Clean yourself up a bit, and
I’ll give you a nice boffing, you poor thing! I’ll fix you right
up. This doesn’t have to come between us!”

The kid, dripping sweat and blood, barely looked
at her.

“Poor chap, hasn’t even got it in him to accept
a nice sympathy fuck.”

“You just offered to sleep with that guy?”

“Well, yes, of course.”

Of course? I shook my head in confusion, got up,
and started collecting my gear.

“What’s a kid like you doing in a place like
this anyway?”

“Well, I’m studying ballet at the university,
but I thought I ought to learn to protect myself. Do you know about
the Louisiana Werewolf? He attacks young women out alone after
dark, and I work on the streets at night…No, no. Not like
that.”

She waved away my look.

“I’ll have you know I’m no kid. I’m
thirty-two.”

“You look twelve.”

“But I boff like a porn star! –So,” she said
with enthusiasm, “where did you learn to fight like that?”

“Bad places.”

“Well, you were bloody brilliant, sadist or not.
Tell me, do you ever play drums?”

“What? No.”

I headed for the shower. The mad Brit followed,
dog in arm.

“Oh, that’s too bad. You see, I am in this band,
the Gay Hippies, and our drummer is a wretched bore…”

I dropped my gear on a bench, stripped, and
stepped into the shower.

“…We do a lot of charity shows because the
public isn’t quite ready for our avant-garde sound. We’re a
theatrical show, really. It’s the look, you know, the presence. And
we all have presence. Jeanne is simply ace on her base, and Dru
plays bongos as a pleasant weed-head should…”

I lathered up, scrubbed, avoiding the tender
areas that were beginning to swell. The little black monster
thrashed in its master’s grip, trying to kill the droplets of water
that splashed in its viscidity.

“…and I’m the frontwoman, of course –just the
correct balance of goth and punk and beatnik –except our drummer.
Trevor, ugh, he’s ghastly. He’s decent in bed –got a little wanker
but a delightful tongue piercing, but he doesn’t know anything
about music. You know, he actually thought that Sid Vicious was a
pro wrestler? Can you believe it? The Vicious an overfed American
meathead –the Vicious! We’re not exactly the Sex Pistols, but we
deserve a drummer who can at least keep time. In the name of the
Queen, is it so much to ask?”

I started the rinse cycle, the little chatterbox
still running.

“If only we could get Los Tacos Guapos’ drummer.
He’s delicious. Or better yet Demonseed’s. Yum yum. Do you know
they’re the best band in town? If only we could convince them to
let us open for them. You know, you would greatly increase our
credibility with those blokes. They’re rather rough. Oh! They have
a concert coming up on Friday. You should come. I could introduce
you around, tell everyone how you saved Jesus and myself from
certain and disgraceful dismissal…”

“There is no way in hell,” I said as I toweled
off.

“I knew you would say that, but hear me
out…”

“Isn’t getting my face busted enough for
you?”

“Oh, dear friend, this isn’t for me. It’s for
you. You’re practically screaming out for human companionship. What
you need is for someone to gather you into her arms, give you a
warm cup of tea, and tell you just how needed you are. And you are
needed. The Gay Hippies need you.”

“So you’re gay, huh?” I frowned, “And now you’ve
seen me naked, so I’ll have to kill you.”

That stopped her, for just a moment. Then she
started to laugh.

“Oh, this is part of your tough act. Where are
you from now, New York, Los Angeles?”

“Worse.”

“Well, I cannot imagine a single place in this
world that could be worse than the south side of London after a
football game. You’ve never seen so many blokes, all running about
trying to knock each other to bits over a bloody score. But
hooliganism is mostly a pursuit for the lads. We ladies ought to
have a smidgen more decorum than that…”

I stepped into my underwear and pulled on my
pants, noting the looseness with which they fit. I was dehydrated.
I turned on the shower again and took a nice long drink.

“Hells bells, Annie, were you raised in a
barn?”

I turned.

“Yes, uh huh. And my mother was a pig. And she
had a litter of stinky little pigs. That’s what I am, a pig, an
angry American tusker, with no manners and no interest in you or
any of your crazy little ideas, you crazy little limey dwarf. So
why don’t you take that thing that you cleaned out of a drain
somewhere and get it and your ballet ass out of my sight before I
put it back in a drain and give you a good old dirty American
swirly?”

She shut up. I put my shirt on, thinking finally
the mad Brit would go back somewhere she belonged and leave me
alone, but I was wrong.

“You have a dreadful sense of humor,” she
summarized. “But I will not hold that against you. I live at
Minster Club near the Tulane campus. It’s easy to remember because
I’m from-“

I threw the bar of soap at her, causing the
monster to explode in her arms. Then I picked up a razor…

“I’ll look forward to seeing you,” she said as
she ran. “Good day! Cheerio!”

I was exhausted, bruised, and swollen when I
pulled up to our parking space on Royal Street. The Old Man was
sweeping his broom down to nothing, as usual. He could be found
doing that at any or every time of the day or night. He didn’t look
up as the McLaren growled into place beside him.

“Hey, Old Man,” I said, not expecting a response
and not getting one.

He kept on with his endless labor, the weird urn
cradled in the crook of his arm.

Somebody oughtta get that old guy a new
broom
, I thought.

I went up to the room to hit the sack. The fight
had wiped me out, and I needed to get those Zs if I intended to be
alert enough to guard Miguel during the day. I know he had said the
scrying would take a while, but I wasn’t entirely comfortable with
that prediction.

I collapsed into bed like I’d been tossed there,
no concern for where I fell and no particular side up. I was a
weary warrior, a bear turning in for a long winter’s nap. I
yawned…

Suddenly, I was pinned to the bed by hands of
iron. I let out a yell and tried to fight back, but there was no
even turning to glimpse my attacker in the darkened room, such was
his –or its, immense strength. The position I had been trapped in
was acutely painful, not only twisting arm and spine into the
extremity of their range of motion, but smashing my bashed face
into the pillow. And believe me, pillows aren’t
that
soft.

Then, there was an arm brought to my face, and a
voice spoke to me, one word.

“Drink.”

It was a hard, merciless voice. I was too
panicked and pissed to respond with anything other than a string of
curse words.

Then the voice said again“Drink, Annie, or you
will die.”

Oh, shit.

I obeyed, biting hard on the arm, digging my
teeth in and not letting go. I sucked blood, but not to the extent
that my attacker demanded. I sucked a mouthful and spit it out in
rage.

“Miguel, you jerk! Let me go! What the hell is
this?”

Instantly, the hands were gone. I flipped over
and sprang into a crouch, eying the dark figure before me with
venom.

“This,” he said in a voice so casual and
ordinary you’d think he was there to bring me coffee, “was
practice. If it had been real, you would be dead.”

“What? You lay in ambush for me, wait until I
get all cozy in bed and then tackle me like Royce Gracie on
steroids? Do you know what I’ve been through tonight?”

“Yes. You brought yourself into as close a
physical approximation of the state of near death you will
experience prior to the change as can be managed without damaging
you overtly. You will be poised on the very precipice of death’s
chasm, and you will have to drink. You must be certain that you can
do this.”

I glared at him.

“I don’t think surprising me is the best
training method. I’m going to see you coming when it comes to that,
aren’t I?”

“Yes. On that night you will see it. I will not
deliberately take you off guard, but believe me, death takes
everyone off guard, when it finally comes stealing.”

“How many more times are you going to do that to
me?”

“As many as are necessary.”

Great, I had to watch out for pussies
and
vampires. Was this his evil method of keeping me frosty?

“I’m hungry,” I said, my nap killed. “I need
fried chicken.”

Miguel obliged me. We went down to the café on
the corner, where fried chicken and grits could be ordered right
alongside sea scallops or escargot. New Orleans is that kind of
town. We got in the door just minutes before they locked it.

I should have been sticking to my fighter’s
diet, like I was trying to stay in my weight class, but Miguel’s
little training session had me wanting the fried stuff, and I would
settle for no less.

Miguel sat with me while I wolfed crispy,
greasy, meaty goodness and succumbed to the state of bliss only
fried southern bird can induce. I forgave him after I’d eaten two
breasts, a wing, and a thigh on his dime.

After, we went down to the Riverwalk to while
away the remainder of the night. There was nobody else out there
for once, which was nice.

We were about to enjoy that rare moment alone
with the smell and the sound of the water, when Miguel’s cell phone
rang.

We looked at each other. There were only two
people who had that number, and one of them was me.

Miguel answered it.

“Andy,” Miguel said.

I listened nervously.

“You know better than that. I need your
assistance…It is of the utmost importance.”

What was that noise on the other end? Was
that…steel drums?

“This only you can do…No…No, not that…”

There was a long pause. I could just faintly
hear this Andy’s voice –not enough to distinguish words, but enough
to catch his tone when it rose with emotion. He was not thrilled by
this contact from his old friend.

“No,” said Miguel, “No, I remember. No, you may
keep them…”

There was a long spell of chatter on the other
end. Miguel waited with what seemed like galactic patience.

“No, you may keep those too. You were always
better with them…No, I am not trying to butter you up.”

More chatter over the music of steel drums and
occasional rise and fall of the voices of many happy people.

“It is more serious than that….No…”