“Get up,” the cop said.
And then the gun was back in his hand. Pointedly pointed at Hilario’s head.
“Sir–”
“Shut. The. Fuck. Up,” the cop said.
Hilario struggled to his knees. Found enough leverage to get himself upright. Hated the grunts that issued from him in the process.
Maybe he should eat less and work out some more.
Ha, ha, ha. You’re funny clown. No.
The cop kept the gun pressed up against the side of Hilario’s head. Grabbed his arm.
“Criminy, that’s all you in there, isn’t it?” the cop said, “Not just a fat suit.”
He considered telling the cop it was a glandular problem. But that would be a fib of epic proportions. The only gland problem he had was the pain in his sorrow and guilt gland could only be eased by junk food.
“I’m deeply layered,” Hilario said.
The cop gave him a funny look. Halfway between pity and rage.
“My car’s over there,” the cop said, “Get–”
“Larry can’t leave my van,” Hilario said, “He’s stuck. How about I follow–”
Pity dropped from the cop’s expression. Leaving only a fine, smoldering rage. He pushed Hilario toward the van.
“Get in the back,” the cop said, “I’ll drive.”
The copy yanked open the driver’s side door. Took a look at the enormous seat on a swivel. The oddly placed steering wheel. The weird gas and brake pedals.
He shoved the gun hard against Hilario’s fluffy purple wig.
“You drive. Anything funny, clown…you die,” he said.
The cop started to climb in. Paused when he saw the ghostly apparition of Larry hunched over on the passenger seat, staring at the floor. Mumbled numbers issued from Larry’s insubstantial lips.
“I’m losing my mind,” the cop said. Then climbed into the back.
He waved the gun at Hilario.
Hilario needed no translation or encouragement. He pulled himself into the van. (Ted had welded special handles to the frame for that express purpose.)
And for the second time that night, he peeled away from the smoldering wreck of the Stung Sparrow with yet another passenger.
He desperately hoped the night wouldn’t get any more interesting.
But, his luck never ran that way.
10
In the time of the dragons, Hilario had been a lowly eyeball plucker. One of his first jobs. It paid next to nothing and the benefits were terrible. Technically he was a contractor, not an employee, and he only got paid for matching sets of eyeballs. Which really sucked when he got sent out to a battlefield full of slain and dying cyclops. As his supervisor explained, it didn’t matter that the cyclops’ eyeball was the size of a dragon testicle (which would have had the equivalent circumference of a tractor tire in today’s world), the dark masters wanted pairs. It was a matter of quality, not volume.
Hilario, thinking he was being clever, tried passing off two cyclops eyeballs of similar colors as a pair.
That got him bucked down to the demon sewage treatment plant. Which wasn’t so bad. At least he got all the free demon piss he could drink. Though it was always cold by the time it got to the plant.
It was just the way his luck ran.
And he’d probably get sent back there if the gun pressed against his head went off. He winced each time the van bounced and rattled over a pothole. The back alleys of old downtown were full of them. He wasn’t sure why the cop had insisted on going this way.
The cop squatted behind him, his hand clamped to the oversized driver’s seat.
The cop’s musky scent stank of cheap cologne and fear sweat. It mixed with the smell of gun oil from the weapon currently pressed against Hilario’s noggin. The cop took care of his gun. Which somewhat damped Hilario’s hope that the thing would jam if the trigger were to be pulled.
He couldn’t summon the concentration to work any spells against the metal. No mental spit wads to stick up the barrel.
That and the gun was murmuring sweet murder in his ear.
Yeah, gonna splatter them clown brains all over the inside of this van, the gun said, I’m gonna send my load right into you. Gonna give you some sweet release, mother fucker.
“Shut up,” the cop said.
“I didn’t speak, sir,” Hilario said.
“I was talking to the gun, not you,” the cop said, “Thing is creeping me out.”
Why don’t you stick my barrel in your mouth and suck it, pussy man, the gun said, We shoulda offed this perp already. What kind of cop are you?
“Shut. Up,” the cop said.
I’m gonna request a transfer, the gun said, Get me a partner who’s a real man.
The cop jerked the gun away from Hilario’s head. Threw it on the van’s floor. Then jumped up and down on it.
Hilario didn’t know whether to be amused or terrified.
The cop spun around, a savage, frothing look on his face.
Terrified it was then.
“What did you do to me?” the cop said.
Hilario glanced at the side view mirror. Again. Stupid. The black angel wasn’t going to show up there.
But they had put some distance between them and the wreck of the Stung Sparrow. He pulled the van to a stop in the narrow brick canyon. Dented trash cans, overflowing with garbage, sat in the weak beams of the van’s headlights.
A rat jumped up on one of the cans. Gave him the middle finger before diving into the heaped trash inside.
He adjusted his bulbous red clown nose. Brushed back fluffy purple fake hair from his grease painted face. What did he have to do to get some respect in this world?
“Hilario’s a good-a guy-a”, Larry said, “he’s a gonna help-a me. I think.”
The cop stared at the ghostly apparition of Larry Sparrow sitting in the passenger seat. The cop’s jaw worked back
