Hilario gritted his teeth. Must. Not. Do. Bad. Things.
He pushed his way down the walkway. Roses slung insults and jeers at him. They reached out leafy limbs. Snagged his puffy orange and white suit. Bit down to his skin.
He clamped down on the cries that tried to escape his lips. It would only egg them on. Rose blood lust was truly ugly. Had someone transplanted these horrible things from one of the bad places?
As soon as the thought entered his head, he knew it was true. He bit back a cry of dismay and anger.
The unseen world was intruding more and more into the normal world of the city.
“Hurry it up, tubby,” Detective Marco said, “I haven’t got all night.”
“I am proceeding with as much haste as I can muster,” Hilario said, “As you can see, the rose bushes have an affinity for my flesh.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Marco said, “Maybe you should go on a diet.”
“Diet is a four letter word. Not to be uttered in polite company.”
“Polite isn’t my fucking thing. Case you didn’t figure it out.”
“I have.”
After what seemed an agonizing eternity–which was still a shorter time than he had spent scrubbing the razor sharp obsidian floor of the Red Goblin’s orgy room–he got past the thorns and stepped up to Mrs. Larry’s front door.
The door was a lovely slab of blonde oak in the craftsman style. The hinges and hardware were shiny brass. Together they glowed warmly in the weak light from the single fixture over the door.
The pizza business must have done well by Mr. and Mrs. Larry.
Marco pushed the doorbell. It didn’t seem to make any sound. The detective pushed it again. And again.
Hilario shifted from foot to foot. His knees ached. Practically begged him to unlock a little sliver of power and lighten the load they were enduring. He sent them a silent apology. But kept his reserves bottled.
He heard the doctors of the normal world were doing wonders with knee replacement surgery these days.
Marco gave up pushing the doorbell. Started banging on the door with his fist.
Hilario glanced left and right at the darkened windows.
“Perhaps Mrs. Larry is out,” he said.
Marco turned a narrowed eye on him. “It’s fricking eleven o’clock at night. She’s at home.”
Hilario raised a painted eyebrow. Detective Marco turned his face away. Pulled out his gun. Flipped it around and banged the butt on the door.
Mother fucker! the gun said, What the fuck, man! This is abuse!
Marco banged it harder on the door.
Lights came on inside.
Marco jammed the gun back in his holster. The gun muttered something about grievances and internal affairs.
Hilario cleared his throat. “Detective Marco,” he said, “You said Larry was your friend. How well did you know Mrs. Larry?”
“Shut up, clown,” Marco said.
Oh dear.
He glanced back at the van. Larry was slumped far enough down that all he could see was a faint blue glow.
Bolts slid back behind the door. Several of them. Locks clicked. Finally the knob turned and the door swung open.
13
Hilario had known Larry Sparrow for many years.
Well, they had talked.
Superficial things, really. Which was how Hilario preferred it. Larry was good at going on about the intricacies of wood fired brick ovens versus coal fired. What type of tomatoes made the best sauce. Where the best mozzarella came from.
They met after Hilario had been hired for a private children’s party at the Stung Sparrow. The wealthy parents had rented the entire restaurant for the evening. No expense had been spared. Balloons festooned the walls, the ceilings, the tables. Multicolored streamers were draped everywhere.
The children themselves were sullen and dead eyed. Little princes and princesses of privilege, consigned to the humiliation of parental doting.
The brats hated Larry’s pizza. They screamed at him for plain cheese and pepperoni. Not artisan cheese and meats. Not his delicate and subtle and delicious vegetarian delight pie.
Hilario watched from the back room. He was still a little new at the clown gig. And about a hundred pounds lighter.
His heart quailed at the brat’s horrid behavior. He was supposed to go out and entertain that? Did those little poopy-heads have any light energy in them?
If he didn’t know better, he would have sworn they were sent from the bad places to torment him.
And Larry…
Larry took it all in good humor. He sent one of his crew out for grocery store mozzarella and pepperoni. And jars of tinny marinara sauce, since hand crushed roma tomatoes delicately flavored with fresh herbs and spices didn’t appeal to bratty palates.
While Hilario cowered in the back room, trying to find some courage (he, who had faced eight-legged demon spawn in the twelfth level of the Barrodock Empire), Larry entertained the children with his pizza making acrobatics. Laughing and making jokes.
Hilario took inspiration from him and decided to try to do some atonement while entertaining the children.
He barreled out of the back room and gave the sullen kids a show they would never forget.
Well, they probably forgot his show. But they didn’t lose the suggestions he decided to implant in the their privilege soaked little minds.
Using his powers, he skimmed off the feeble light energy they gave off. He sent it back to them, using it to plant ideas deep in their minds. Ideas such as: Be nice. Be kind to others. Be happy. Take care of family. Love one another.
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
Over the next few years, he learned the lesson about good deeds. And how they never go unpunished. And the one about how the road to Heck is paved with good intentions.
Every once in a while he’d see
