Battle of the Network Zombies (11 page)

I stared at him. “That would have been hilarious, if it were a joke.”

“You can do better, I suppose.”

“Of course.” I dug a cigarette out of my purse and lit up. As far as I could tell the show was a solid piece of crap. The only thing to do was play up the camp.
⁴⁶
“Now get me an ashtray, fairy boy.”

“You—” Johnny was definitely riled. He slid his chair back like he’d attack.

“Shh!” I interrupted. “The ladies don’t like ’em abusive.” I thought about that for a moment. “Except for the ones that do. Oh, forget it.”

Birch mumbled a curse under his breath and a swath of ivy turned brown behind him, like he’d cut some magical fart.

“Nice,” I said, and then pointed out the cameras.

Cameron escorted in the alcoholic twins—escorted being the appropriate word, since they still looked like hookers—skirts hiked up to their poons and eyes glazed over with the sort of intoxication reserved for twenty-first birthday celebrations or amateur porn shoots.
⁴⁷
“Janice and Eunice are sirens from Lake Ontario who spend their time lounging on the misty rocks of Niagara Falls coercing receptive men
⁴⁸
into ill-fated barrel rides. God love ’em.” He slipped in between the two, wrapping his arms around their shoulders like he was about to give them some much needed advice—not that he knew any. The twins shook their hair, cooed and fluttered their vocal chords. Cameron’s face slackened and his mouth drooped like a naughty kitten cuffed by its mother.

“Simmer down girls, he’s the host, not your quarry.” Mama Montserrat tapped her pipe on the edge of the table, sprinkling the cloth with red sparks and black char and eyed the girls ominously. “What good are you to the legendary Johnny Birch, if you can’t control your venom? No good, that’s what.”

Janice and Eunice scowled, one scuffed her bare (and dirty, I might add) feet in a tangle of clover, while the other batted her pale lashes at Cameron, himself slowly coming back from wherever it is sirens send their victims.

As the girls stumbled their way to wherever Mama and the other producers—assuming there were others—designated as the green room, probably the bar, Cameron and the rest of us turned toward the door just in time to watch a billow of fog roll across the ivy and rose petals and swirl about the host’s stilt-like shoes like a hurricane in miniature. The smoky substance grayed as it formed snaking tendrils; they coiled up his body dragging the cloud behind until Cameron was cocooned in its murky roil.

He began coughing and in that moment, the smoke instantly receded to his left, becoming columnar and dense. A pair of badgers scampered in, dragging a large piece of silk behind them. They darted up the column and wrapped the smoke in a silky kimono, seconds before the haze turned to flesh, then huddled together behind one of the “trees.”

Before us stood a beautiful Japanese woman, black hair draped around her bare shoulders like a shawl. She clutched the robe closed with one hand and reached out to Cameron with the other. I glanced at Johnny. He needed a napkin for the gush of drool spilling from his gaping mouth.

“Japanese smoke ghosts, or Enenri, are rare in this part of the world and as you can see, both dangerous and beautiful.” Cameron stopped to hack up a little more lung and then continued. “Maiko hails from Osaka and easily wins the farthest travelled to compete on
American Minions
. Welcome Maiko. Aren’t you something?”

The woman eyed him suspiciously, shrugged and then turned toward us and bowed. I gave her a polite nod, which she seemed to scrutinize and make me regret even acknowledging her.

Try to do something nice.

She shuffled toward the doors, whistling for her badgers to follow, which they did after a fit of hissing and scratching each other.

When the next contestant entered, I wasn’t exactly shocked, though I couldn’t imagine what sort of supernatural creature she might be.

It was Hairy Sue, clad in a plaid shirt, tied off above the belly button, and a pair of Daisy Dukes. Cameron swung his arm around her shoulders as she kicked out a cowboy boot and rested it on its heel, swaying the toe back and forth like one of those little pageant girls.

“This here’s Hairy Sue.” Cameron took on a southern accent that faltered at every other word, making him sound like he was gargling. “She’s got her some special talents, don’t you darlin’?”

“I do, Mr. Hansen. But y’all will have to wait longer than St. Peter on a poker to see ’em.” She giggled.

There it was again, another weird religious statement that didn’t mean anything. Something was definitely off with Ms. Hairy Sue…other than her big old bush, I mean. I didn’t care for her cute little accent, either. Creeped me out.

“Our last contestant is another unique Asian beauty, a manangal, but this one has only had to travel from up the street at Mr. Wally’s Pho-tastic Noodle and Nail! Welcome Angie!”

A petite Filipina strode in wearing a pair of mile-high cork wedges and a bright smile, massive waves of black hair piled atop her little frame like a troll doll…only cute.

“Now what’s your story, Angie?” Cameron took on a chummy tone with the little brunette.

“Well, let’s see. I’m a nail tech like you said, I like Chinese food, romantic comedies and…oh yeah. I can do this.” She bent her head forward and a slithering sound emanated from her body. The next thing we knew, a dripping tentacle was tapping Cameron on the shoulder.

He spun away from her and spasmed as though he’d been forced to touch a tarantula or something. The tentacle was nothing alien as it turned out, but a prehensile entrail from inside her body, more flapped around the hole in the back of her neck like a collar of sea anemone. Gross, yes, but more than that, impractical.

“So.” Cameron chuckled uncomfortably. “And on top of that, you’re also a vampire?”

“And I do a great acrylic and fills at very competitive prices. Also mighty mean beef broth.”

“Good to know!” Cameron’s knowledge of supernatural species was only slightly more advanced than mine, which is to say, I’ve got very little interest in anything that doesn’t effect me directly. Basically, I lump them all into two categories. Cute and not cute. Werewolves? Cute. Vampires? Also cute. Yetis? Obviously not. Angie was one of the rare species that didn’t fit neatly into my system. Sure she was cute in her skinny jeans and off-the-shoulder disco blouse, but the blood and bile draining down her back was a deal breaker. Nothing kills “cute” like gore. This, I know from firsthand experience.

I leaned over to Mama and whispered, “Weren’t there supposed to be nine contestants? What happened to the other two?”

The big woman took another toke and said, “Well, we had a charming chupacabra named Shirl and a weremaltese who looked like that Dee Wallace Stone in
The Howling
but the manangal got thirsty and, I’m afraid, the limo was woefully undersupplied in the blood department. Don’t worry, child. It’ll all come out in da wash.”

Cameron hopped up on the dais again. “So you’ve seen the contestants. Quite a pool, if you ask me, but let’s get the opinion of our judges.” He stabbed his hand in my direction. “Whaddya say, Amanda. Any frontrunners?”

“Um…no, dumbass. We just met them, how could I—”

He cut me off with, “You’re definitely a firecracker.” He whipped around to ask Mama the same question.

“I’m partial to a big puff a smoke now and then, in case you ain’t notice. That Maiko, child gonna be somet’in’ to watch. Mind you.”

“Well, I’m buying whatever Tanesha’s selling,” Johnny added. “That girl could bite a batwing off a buttercup.”

“Okay now,” I said. “You people are just making those phrases up to get on my nerves.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Birch sneered.

“There’s no such phrase. It doesn’t make any more since than Hairy Sue’s bullshit chattering.”

“Ahem.” Cameron must have sensed I was about to explode, as he interjected, “So. We’ve got some varied opinions and some dark horses, all of them, in fact. It’s bound to be a rollicking good time on this season of…”

The camera pulled back to the far corner. The contestants were herded back in and urged to stand in either threatening or seductive poses, provocative at the very least. Cam stood in the center of the indoor meadow, amidst the vinca and morning glory and spread his arms with the gusto of a musical theater major—only slightly less effeminate. Unfortunately the pan was wide enough to also catch Wendy spying on her intended victim, Johnny.

Cameron shouted, “
American Minions
!” at the same time someone screamed, “Cut! Some old cooze is clogging up my shot!”

Wendy rushed from the room backwards, kowtowing in Johnny’s direction. So embarrassing. Mama Montserrat hissed quietly beside me, while Birch chuckled in his self-satisfied manner.

There was really little else to report.

After they wrangled Wendy outside, Cameron went on to describe the various trials and tribulations the contestants would endure and the frequent “cuts” that sounded both threatening and, frankly, sub-par in the reality show world. I wasn’t feeling great about the future of the show, when so little work had been put into the premise. It’s like the producers had never seen
Shrunken Heads
or the even more famous
Ichi Ni San
, which despite some mishaps in the first series—I’m sure no one meant to eat the host—is undeniably the most cutthroat challenge-oriented reality show out there.

At least in my opinion.

I fully expected some Hollywood style afterparty to mingle with the contestants in some congenial and closely monitored way—replete with flattering lighting and security guards for us celebrity types. So you can imagine my surprise when the crew rudely darkened the room and skulked outside to their trailers to begin drinking beer around metal fire barrels and jerking off into sweat socks, or whatever it is they did on their free time.

Wendy was busy being inconspicuous and attempting to tail Johnny from room to room as he chatted away on his cell phone. So I was left with no recourse but to swipe a bottle of 151 from behind the bar and let Wendy know I’d be drinking my way to a pink blush in our room—alcohol being the next best thing to a functioning circulatory system.

Opposite the bed was a door to a small balcony with a cell of black wrought iron for a railing. I slumped into a cushy deck chair, tossed the cap and went to it, the warmth flooding through me like only the Bacardis know how—thank you, above average alcohol content. In a few minutes, I heard Wendy slam the door behind her and flop onto the bed, sighing discontentedly.

“You okay, honey?”

“Fine,” she huffed, clearly grumpy, but my bottle wasn’t going to drink itself so I opted for selfish and continued guzzling.

A few moments later—I’d moved on to contemplating the ever-expansive nature of the universe, also picking out which stars were actually plane lights
⁴⁹
—I heard a commotion below me in the garden, followed by voices.

One of them, I’m pretty sure it was Johnny, was denying something vehemently and in hushed tones (always an indicator something’s eavesdrop-worthy).

“I gave you nothing. Whatever it is you think you have, you got from somewhere else. I’m clean.”

“It came from you, Johnny!” Another man’s voice, this one thick with what could have been a South African accent, itself a hodgepodge of so many nationalities, it was impossible to keep track of. “Where you got it is the question.”

Is that how guys argue, I wondered? One super-vague question after the next? Poor things, it’s like their communications skills never quite developed past playground shoulder punches. If only Scott were so simple. But then again, if he were, would I have connected with him the way I did?

I scrambled off the chair and onto my knees, mindful of my hip, and crawled to the edge of the balcony, hoping to get a look at Johnny’s accuser—of what, I had no clue—but all I could see was the wood nymph. The other man was beneath my line of sight, somewhere below

“Well, here’s your answer.” Johnny raised his fist and lunged for the guy, landing an audible blow and grunting like the caveman he was. They scrambled through the overgrown bushes, rolling out beneath me into the arcade outside the bar. I could hear things breaking, glass shattering—ashtrays probably, and with that thought a fresh cigarette found its magical way into my mouth, no small feat lying there on my side, either—before the mysterious stranger broke away and stumbled through the darkened garden, tumbling over the rose bushes and yelping in the process.

Birch didn’t give chase, so I imagined him battered and bruised below, hugging his legs to his chest and rocking to ease the physical and emotional trauma of the beating, a single tear trailing down his cheek.

It made me smile.
⁵⁰

Monday
7:30–8:
P.M
.
Thanks for the Dismemberments

A scream tore through the calm veil of night, or rather, interrupted my reading. I’d been lounging in a silky chemise by Natori—I do love her shit—perusing my pristine copy of
Evil under the Sun
, my leg slung over the arm of my chair airing out the lady bits—like one does. Wendy had been terribly busy practicing her bored sighs and irritating me, so when the shriek filled the room, we perked up quicker than a couple of dry drunks at a wine tasting.
⁵¹

I tore the door open and skidded into the hall on pink dressing mules. Wendy blasted out of the gap behind me and collided with my sore hip, like I’d hesitate to beat her dead ass. A fresh ache spread through my torso.

“Watch it!”

“What?” Wendy shrugged innocently, but quickly gave way to a needling smirk that spread across her lips like a venereal disease. “It’s not my fault you’re into bestiality.”

Before I could chastise, she looped her wrist around my elbow and pulled me behind her toward the ruckus at the far end of the hall. A clutch of yammering girls posed before the tangle of vines and branches concealing the darkened wing, home to Birch and Mama Montserrat’s quarters. We reached them at the same time as Tanesha Jones, Drag Wulf, who shuffled from her room in a darling pink terry robe, fluffy slippers and her massive weave held back from her face by a sleeping mask pushed up into a makeshift hair band.

“Adorable,” I remarked, and gave her the old up and down.

“You too, bitch. I’d kill for this little thing your wearin’.” She flipped her mane over her shoulder and reached a single airbrushed claw to flip up the hem of my kimono. “Of course, on me it’d be hiked up to my waist and show off my candy.” She winked lasciviously. “I’d still work that shit.”

“Don’t I know it? I’ve seen you work.”

Wendy stepped up and stood on her tiptoes trying to get a look through the deadlock and into the hall. “So what’s going on back there?”

The rest of the contestants, and a couple of camera guys trying but not succeeding in blending into the background, turned around and stared dimly.

“No one’s even looked, have they?” I asked, foot beginning to tap out my irritation.

They all shook their heads.

“Well, then which one of you screamed?” I looked from the twins, their matching raccoon eyes smeared with mascara and eyeliner, to Angie, who rubbed her neck, sneered and rubbed her neck, like a threat—the last thing I wanted to deal with was the manangal’s entrail tentacles painting everything they touched with gore
⁵²
—to Absinthe, who true to her name was drinking something green from an etched juice glass (was it too much to hope that it was a household cleanser?). Nothing. Not a spark of knowledge on their sleepy, drunken faces. Maiko and Hairy Sue were nowhere to be seen.

“Jesus. Get out of the way.” I pushed past, Wendy and Tanesha in my wake. The contestants parted like sides of beef on hooks, bumping into each other and stumbling. Fucking retards. How we’d possibly find a better candidate than Ms. Jones, I had no idea. Nor did I plan on looking very hard. Johnny was already smitten with the trannie’s “impressive thighs” anyway. That he didn’t know the carpet
really
didn’t match the drapes was his problem and his alone.

A couple of shakes loosened the vines enough to make an opening, revealing a hall coated with the same greenery. Leaves rustled and the whole place stank of rich earth and old carpet. The walls swelled and receded like the heaving of a sore throat, the vines lacing the walls, a thick green sputum.

The hall grew darker the deeper we stalked. Shadows stretched into inky black pools that flooded across the barely visible Orientals and washed up the walls in waves. There was no telling what lurked beneath the cords of vine and leafy clumps. Rats were my first thought. If I listened intently enough I could hear their maniacal scrabbling—though I’d be forcing it. The ceiling was dark as midnight, no telling what might hang there—besides the cameras, of course, their red eyes blinking on lifelessly. To the left a door opened a crack, tugging against the web of ivy and tendrils drilling into the wood. I heard a garbled stream of curses, before the door gave a few inches more.

A slice of Mama Montserrat’s face crept into view.

“What’s going on? Who screamed?” Her voice shook.

“It wasn’t you?” I pulled at the vines, enlisting the help of Wendy and Tanesha, until we’d freed the woman and created a pile of living debris, the broken vines snaked off and wove into the net covering the floor.

“Fuck no, wadn’t me, child. Why’d I scream like a mad banshee?” Her head swiveled toward the far end of the hall, eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Johnny?”

I followed her gaze. “Johnny,” I agreed. Though, frankly, I was more than a little surprised that he’d dragged his ass back upstairs after the beating he took—though the one in my head could have been far more brutal than the reality. If he’d indeed even taken a beating. In my mind it was heinous violence. The guy probably socked him in the shoulder.

Wendy’s hand curled around my upper arm as we progressed, tightening with each step until I’d had to reach up and swat at it. Tanesha urged me forward from the other side, nodding and pointing in the direction of Johnny’s suite with her chin. Mama trailed behind us, kicking at the tangles beneath us.

A charred smell filtered down the hall, the remnants of a barbecue or a chimney fire—perhaps the crew pulled together an impromptu cookout after tonight’s soiree. Smoke and rotten meat tossed into a blender for the ultimate in odd perfumery. Next up from Chanel: Creosote #5, charbroil the fantasy. The image of Carole Bouquet lying seductively across a smoldering grill popped into my head, but only for a moment, long enough to solidify the idea that we were about to find a body and not a tasty burger.

Johnny’s door wasn’t covered with ivy the way Mama’s had been. In fact, it was marvelously free of the creeping plants. The doorknob even glinted in the low light, daring me forward. I felt something slither across the top of my foot and stiffened. Wendy grabbed me from behind, attempting to lift herself out of the bramble.

“Jesus, Wendy. Get off!”

Tanesha prodded my arm, forcing my palm around the doorknob, a brass monkey paw. It didn’t budge.

“Well?” Tanesha asked. “Are you gonna go in there or what?”

“It’s locked.” I twisted the knob again, and was met with the same curt denial. “We’re going to have to bust in.”

“Like kick it down?” Tanesha stepped back into some martial arts pose so twisted her robe began to open at the waist, revealing a blue satin demi-bra and a slick pair of bulging satin panties, ill-prepared for both the drag queen’s penis and his oddly hairless scrotum, which hung out the seam and clung to his inner thigh like sap running down a tree trunk.

Wendy’s eyes bugged at the spectacle, her mouth gaped.

“Yeah…no.” I stepped in between them. “And you might want to just tighten up the belt on that, before you get an admirer you don’t want.” I tilted my head in Wendy’s direction. “Like you didn’t know.”

“Oh.” Tanesha inhaled sharply and wrapped herself tightly and stepped away from Wendy. “Sorry, hon. Thought I was done for the night so I took the tape off.”

I quickly put my fingers up to the drag queen’s lips. “I don’t even want to hear anymore.”

Tanesha shrugged, smiled at me and continued to edge away from Wendy, who continued to stare at the drag queen. She wore an expression halfway between a grin and a question.

I tore the vines away from a nearby bureau, and opened the top drawer, candles, a few boxes of matches and a candle bell—its handle too thick to fit in the slim break—clattered inside. Nothing useful.

“I’ve got a credit card in my purse,” Tanesha offered.

“Does that even work?” Wendy asked.

“It works on TV, so…”

I nodded and Tanesha stumbled back down the hall, leaving Wendy and me staring at Mama Montserrat. Her saucer eyes darted back and forth between us, as sweat beaded on her brow in such an obvious fashion, I couldn’t help but elbow Wendy and point it out.

“Mama looks nervous,” I said.

“Of course, I’m nervous.” Her eyes edged back to the door. “Who knows what we’ll find inside? What if he’s been hurt? Or worse, what if he’s dead?”

I shrugged. I wouldn’t be weeping, that’s for sure.

Mama’s eyes narrowed in scrutiny, her palms moving naturally to a spot just above her hips. “If he’s dead, we don’t have a show.”

And if we don’t have a show, I thought. I’m screwed. “Oh.” Scratch that earlier comment, I’d be bawlin’ like a fucking baby.

“He’s not dead.” Wendy pressed herself against the door, clawing at the frame dramatically. “He can’t be.”

“Jesus, Wendy. Dignity isn’t just a designer fragrance.”

Tanesha plodded up behind me and pressed a Visa into my palm. I shoved the drama that is Wendy out of the way and went to work on the lock. It was old, so I figured it wouldn’t be any problem triggering the mechanism. Lucky for me, I had experience busting into places I shouldn’t. Thanks to Ethel’s insufferable need to hide her sweets.

I maneuvered the card into place, got the perfect angle on it and the moment it connected with the latch, lost my grip and watched as it slipped away into the dark gap.

“Dammit!” I spun around, daring the others to say a word. “I’m gonna need another one.”

Tanesha’s claws descended into her open purse. Her long, thin claws. Snatching at her wrist, I pulled her hand close to the door

“Just loosen up your fingers. Lemme work with ’em.”

“All right. But you better not mess up my manicure. It took three hours to have Usher airbrushed in various states of undress. See.”

She fanned out her nails, they lifted and fell in a gentle cascade and sure enough, from pinkie to pinkie, Usher went from full dress to nude and—clearly—aroused.

“Nice work. I promise to take care of all of Usher’s parts.”

Tanesha closed her eyes and relented.

She followed directions well, and in a few moments, I managed to work one of her nails into position, scraping the back end of the latch and shimmying it into its space in the door. A quick push and the door opened into a motionless suite.

“Nice work,” the werewolf said.

“It’s a handy little skill I picked up in childhood.”

“Sweet.” A knowing smile played on Wendy’s lips. “Amanda was the model for those Precious Moments knickknacks.”

From the second the door opened, there was no question the burning smell emanated from within Birch’s darkened quarters. Smoke still curled in dissipating clouds in the corners of the room like dream snakes or migraine worms.

I was hesitant to cross that particular threshold, probably even more so than if I’d known Birch were alive and in there doing God knows what.
⁵³
But I crept in anyway, watching my feet, lest I trip over a dead wood nymph.

The room glowed a dim green from a glass banker’s lamp in the corner. The bulk of its light blossomed outward in a column, spotlighting a pile of steaming ash on the floor. The other side of the room flickered from the light of a silent television, a woman busy pleasuring two men at the same time; let’s just say she’d welcomed them through both doors. I grimaced as my mind conjured images of six-pack rings. I suppose I should have been impressed that it wasn’t some freaky Swedish scat show. I wouldn’t have put it past Johnny to be into some extreme kink.

Mama spoke from the doorway, “It’s in Johnny’s talent rider.”

“What? Porn?”

“He says he’s like an athlete. When he’s not actually competin’ he still has to train that thing out.”

My eyes spotted a stack of tissue boxes on the dresser. “Gross. Don’t touch any used tissues, ladies, this area is a biohazard.”

As I stepped past a comfortable sitting area, I noticed the pile of ashes had a specific shape. Very specific.

A human shape.

“Johnny,” I whispered. The sound was more of a squeak than anything resembling a real word. Then, “That had to hurt.”

As much as I didn’t like the guy, I certainly didn’t wish that kind of fate on him or anyone for that matter—except maybe Ethel, but she’s an evil of another sort entirely. Johnny had his faults but no more than any other sleazy horndog.

Wendy stepped in behind me and gasped. “Shit. Is that Johnny?”

“I think so.”

“Well, there goes that idea.” She shook her head, her interest already waning along with a prospective sugar daddy. “What the hell did that?”

“Did what?” Cameron barged past Tanesha with a cameraman in tow. “What’s going on?”

He looked at the pile of Johnny-shaped ashes, glanced briefly at the porn still flickering on the TV and put it together. “Ah, shit.”

“Before being so rudely interrupted by little man’s disease, Wendy was asking what did that.” I pointed at the remains. “The answer is, of course, how the fuck should I know.” I glanced around the room looking for an answer, though I didn’t expect one to be forthcoming.

On the desk, beside a tall bottle of scotch wrapped in gros-grain ribbon and beneath a gallery of stuffed animals lay two shipping envelopes, identical to the one Johnny showed me at the Hooch and Cooch. I turned the top one over. The same handwriting littered the paper, though this one was addressed to the Minions mansion. Sure enough, the one below that was the very same I’d seen before. Underneath them, glossy and black as an oil slick, another of the insect-like creatures lay paralyzed in a scream, this one a bit longer in the leg, its wings open, heavily veined and sheer as long dead leaves.

“Johnny showed me this exact thing the first time we met.” I turned to Wendy and Mama shoving the carcass in their direction. They winced at the sight of the disfigured insect crucifixion. I pulled the second one from its envelope. “See?”

“Girl, I don’t know what the hell I’m lookin’ at, but I sure as shit see it.” Tanesha flopped down on the bed, picked up one of the porno cases from the nightstand and pinched her face in judgment, as you do—regardless of whether you’re actually offended—when people are watching.

“Said it was a death threat. From what or who, I don’t know. Though the yeti at the club seemed to have it in for him.” I thought about it for a moment. I wasn’t actually sure the monster was after Johnny. Sometimes a rampage is just a rampage. I mean, don’t we all want to go on a good rampage from time to time?