enjoyed the security of an enclosed lair — a fortress in which to sleep, to protect the various things he treasured — somehow security exchanged itself for imprisonment as the years went on. But the creature was only ready to die if the death was worthy. 'Or I'll pick your bones clean.'
The elder beast shifted its weight, not used to such movement any longer. Its wings, cramped for so long, unfurled with the slow creak of an arthritic spasm. Once proud and mighty, its long neck reared up and revealed several piles of the skulls of innocents. Too many skulls were entirely too small. As the creature stirred, King's footfalls crunched underneath him. A bolt of flame spewed from its vile mouth. King scrambled out of the way of the initial blast; the heat of it scorched his backside. Steeling himself against his fear, King withdrew his Caliburn though he felt awfully small before the immensity of the dragon.
The dragon's head blurred past him. King leapt to the side, the creature's neck bashed him in mid-air, sending him into the wall. The wind knocked out of him, King closed his eyes to focus past the jarring ache in his bones and move before the dragon could take aim for its next strike. The dark passage was more deep dungeon than cavern. King wedged into the passage of stalagmites and ran. The beast coiled for another blow, its slitted eyes tired, and snapped its jaw shut, gnashing its sword-like teeth. The great horned head turned then smashed the columns in its swipe.
The oozy smell of a rotting hole assaulted King. The scales of the creature had been ground to sores. If the dragon hoped to feign even the shadow of its former glory, its body betrayed it. Talons that once ground stone to dust barely held it upright. The Caliburn warmed in King's hands, ready for use. King took aim at its thick hide and fired into what he guessed to be the heart of the creature. The bullets glowed, tracing a path straight inside. The dragon howled, the tenor of its screech changing from one of pained surprise to melancholy relief.
'Like the knights of old. It has been so long. So very… very…' The dragon began to hum, a melodic sigh, serenading itself. Perhaps the last of its kind, the dirge continued for nearly half an hour — heard like the rumbling of a fierce storm for hundreds of miles around — a great song wasted on deaf ears that didn't understand what they had lost. King stood watch until the last note echoed in the chamber and the beast collapsed into the waiting pool.
Plink. Plink. Plink.
With its passing, the chamber resolved itself into the penthouse proper. Suspended on a web of smoke on the far side of the room was Night. His emaciated form held aloft on tendrils of mist. Reed-thin arms raised in objection. Open sores oozed, bloodshot eyes of turgid flesh, he stank of putrefaction. His ashy skin parched with a filigree of veiny cracks and pockmarked by abscesses.
'It is finished.' Night's eyebrows whitened. Wrinkles etched his face.
'Was it worth it?' King asked.
'I took what I had to. In this world, you only have yourself to depend on. You can't wait around for folks to give you what you want.' A side of Night's face drooped, a palsy of withdrawal, his face appeared to melt. Perhaps the dragon's death severed some connection, the echo of an empowering presence. The vile odor of spoiled offal scourged King's eyes and nose and brought to mind images of maggot infested beef. Fungus crept along Night's skin, a slow parasitic digestion no longer kept in check, devoured the way rust consumes steel.
'Dress it up any way you want. You were a bully and a punk who fed on your own.'
'We all live in service to something. Turn on the television and see all those commercials promising what should be ours. Taught to want and get from the time we learned to flip the remote.' Night coughed. His wizened arm lifted in protest, but then lowered. Reflective eyes focused on King. 'I started at the bottom of a crew, worked my way up, eventually set up my own stand and franchises. I am the American Dream. You can turn your back on me and forget I exist, but I'll feed in the shadows. I'll always get mine.'
The battered body gasped for breath, the coils of smoke slackening their grip on him. King finally answered him. 'At what cost?'
'My coach once talked about how he couldn't retire from coaching. About how it was all he knew what to do and couldn't leave it behind. Athletes. Coaches. Us. Anyone who is about the game. Once we're done, we die. Or we die and we're done.'
With a last gasp, Night's emaciated husk, fully desiccated, toppled from its fading perch and smashed into bits when he hit the ground.
'Yeah,' King said. 'It's finished for now.'
EPILOGUE
Despite the cold evening, the neighborhood was jumping. Police lights bathed the rows of condos, red light reflecting from all the windows. The police loaded some fool into the back of their squad car. Not just some fool, he was a frequent flyer of foolishness. The family was obviously new to the neighborhood and hadn't quite divined that this neighborhood wasn't quite the same and didn't play by the exact kind of ghetto nonsense that they were used to. The whole mess started a week earlier when the matriarch of the family, all of twenty-five, needed new plates for her car. Indiana license plates were more inexpensive thanks to the tax on the poor that the state called Hoosier Lotto, but they still cost more than the nothing she wanted to pay. So she removed the plates from Big Momma's car, taking the time to crawl into the car and help herself to any spare items, which amounted to spare change, a few CDs, a Bible, and a child car seat. She then proceeded to place the license plate in the back window of her own car. The main flaw in her plan was that her car was two parking spaces down from Big Momma. Big Momma, who also knew the price of a license plate, immediately recognized her plates and raised a ruckus. The lady denied it, of course, but King had Wayne back the Outreach Inc. van up to block the lady from simply taking off. They all stood guard until the police came to settle things.
'Let this be a warning to all the drunk uncles trying to pop, lock it, and drop it at the next family reunion,' Merle said.
'Big Momma scraps like she has cerebral palsy,' Wayne laughed to himself then winced as the movement tugged at the stitches in his shoulder. 'I'm scared of her.'
'I'm done with women.' Merle plopped on the sidewalk. 'I'm not saying I'm ready to suck a dick or anything, I just don't want to be in a relationship.'
'You know what that heifer had the nerve to ask me?' Big Momma asked, more rhetorical than anything else, on the verge of a full-on rant.
'What?' Lady G played straight-woman.
'Would I take care of her kids while she was gone.'
'No, she didn't,' she said with mock shock.
'I hate her monkey ass.'
'I ain't mad at you.' Lady G high-fived her then collapsed in a squeal of laughter.
'No. I mean hate.' Big Momma played to her audience. 'Oh, Lord, I want to paint her picture on my windshield so it looks like I'm running her over all the time.'
'That's some hate,' King interrupted. His T-shirt had the portrait of Malcolm X painted within the shape of the letter X.
'I'll see you, girl.' Big Momma stood up, preparing to head inside. Some unspoken message passed between her and Lady G, but King was not a member of the estrogen club, and thus couldn't divine its meaning.
'You looking good.' Lady G planted her comb in the half of his hair that remained unbraided. King plopped between her open legs. He brought his idletoo-long hands up on both of her calves, running them up and down. She tensed, a panicked freeze, then relaxed, radiant and poised.
'I'll be back.' Merle admired the gathering, but couldn't tarry. Lott and Rhianna would soon join them and the circle would be complete. He still had one last errand to attend to before then.
Dred nervously chewed on his tongue, the movement compounding his throat's swollen veins, thick as serpentine coils, and threatened to stop his breath. The power rippled through the knots of dead muscle. The pain might have killed another man, but his body had been trained by years of abuse. The drugs. The women. The violence. The hate. His blood was the venom of the streets, concentrated succor, and he savored its pulse coursing through him despite its burn. His chair rattled as he convulsed in it, his fingernails digging into the vinyl arm rests. His scream the sound of a soul raped, then cleaved from its body.
