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Authors: Poppy Z. Brite
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mechanical sound of the Roadblocker ejecting the spent shell and chambering the next, the one with his name on it. The parchment yellow nicotine stains on Roy's teeth. The blue-gray loops of the dead woman's exposed intestines.
Sometimes in the dreams it all goes down the same way it did the first time and Roy takes two in the head before he can get off another shot. But sometimes it goes
other ways-Frank's revolver jams, or he's one second too slow, or his aim is just a few inches too far to the left or the right-and old Roy gets his second chance after all. The blast never hurts, or at least Frank never remembers the pain when he's finally awake and dripping cold sweat in the safety of his bed. There's only the impact, the mangling, bone-crushing force that takes his breath away, drives him backward and over the flimsy railing.
Sometimes he falls for a long, long time, like Alice dropping down the rabbit hole to Wonderland. And sometimes he only seems to fall for an instant before he jerks awake. But so far he's never hit bottom.
Frank Gray finally changes the channel on the cruddy thirteen-inch Zenith he got from St. Vincent de Paul's and finishes the bottle of bourbon to an episode of The Untouchables he's seen at least a dozen times before. Through the sleepy alcoholic fog cushioning his brain the scratchy black-and-white violence is comforting, the screech of tires and ricochet of machine gun bullets as reassuring as a lullaby.
He has to piss but thinks he can hold out a little longer, at least until the next commercial break, before he stumbles off to find the bathroom.
The pressure from his bladder reminds him of the kid from the bar, Huck Finn sucking dick for twenty dollars, makes him remember the surprise on the boy's face when he punched him. Like they all think it's gonna be so goddamn easy, having your cake and eating it too, taking advantage of someone and then robbing them in the bargain. He wishes he'd hauled the kid in for soliciting. Let him scream about faggot cops all he wanted, no one would have ever believed him anyway. At least it's nice to tell himself that, and when he's this drunk he can almost believe it, can almost pretend no one whispers behind his back or snickers or suspects him of being anything but one of the boys.
Frank closes his eyes as the credits roll, thinks maybe he can put off pissing long enough for a nap. Outside the rain falls from a black sky, and the sound of it follows him down to a deep and mercifully dreamless sleep.
three
An hour until midnight, and Jared and
Lucrece sit together on the floor of the bedroom. Lucrece has carried away the broken pictures and poured herself a glass of scotch. The crow watches them from the bed. Sometimes it squawks loudly, as if it's preparing to announce something urgent; each time they turn and watch the bird, waiting for something more, until it's clear it has nothing else to say for now.
Occasionally Jared begins crying again, deep, racking sobs that seem as if they will tear him apart, and Lucrece holds him until they pass and he is silent.
"I don't understand what I'm supposed to do," he says. Lucrece looks at the big black bird, guarded reproach in her eyes as if maybe she thinks it hasn't done its job and she'll have to fill in the blanks it has left.
"What has the crow told you?" she asks Jared.
He just stares at the bird on the bed, watching its vigilant eyes. In a little while he answers her, speaking slowly, as if he's uncertain of the words or the way they fit together.
"Because there are scales and Benny's death left them unbalanced." He stops, remembering a statue of Justice outside the courthouse where he was sentenced to die, the ageless bronze woman blindfolded and holding her sword and balanced scales. The memory of her and the sick irony there makes him laugh.
Jared sneers at the bird. "No," he says. "It's more than that. If all that was required to bring back the dead was a little injustice, the fucking
Sometimes in the dreams it all goes down the same way it did the first time and Roy takes two in the head before he can get off another shot. But sometimes it goes
other ways-Frank's revolver jams, or he's one second too slow, or his aim is just a few inches too far to the left or the right-and old Roy gets his second chance after all. The blast never hurts, or at least Frank never remembers the pain when he's finally awake and dripping cold sweat in the safety of his bed. There's only the impact, the mangling, bone-crushing force that takes his breath away, drives him backward and over the flimsy railing.
Sometimes he falls for a long, long time, like Alice dropping down the rabbit hole to Wonderland. And sometimes he only seems to fall for an instant before he jerks awake. But so far he's never hit bottom.
Frank Gray finally changes the channel on the cruddy thirteen-inch Zenith he got from St. Vincent de Paul's and finishes the bottle of bourbon to an episode of The Untouchables he's seen at least a dozen times before. Through the sleepy alcoholic fog cushioning his brain the scratchy black-and-white violence is comforting, the screech of tires and ricochet of machine gun bullets as reassuring as a lullaby.
He has to piss but thinks he can hold out a little longer, at least until the next commercial break, before he stumbles off to find the bathroom.
The pressure from his bladder reminds him of the kid from the bar, Huck Finn sucking dick for twenty dollars, makes him remember the surprise on the boy's face when he punched him. Like they all think it's gonna be so goddamn easy, having your cake and eating it too, taking advantage of someone and then robbing them in the bargain. He wishes he'd hauled the kid in for soliciting. Let him scream about faggot cops all he wanted, no one would have ever believed him anyway. At least it's nice to tell himself that, and when he's this drunk he can almost believe it, can almost pretend no one whispers behind his back or snickers or suspects him of being anything but one of the boys.
Frank closes his eyes as the credits roll, thinks maybe he can put off pissing long enough for a nap. Outside the rain falls from a black sky, and the sound of it follows him down to a deep and mercifully dreamless sleep.
three
An hour until midnight, and Jared and
Lucrece sit together on the floor of the bedroom. Lucrece has carried away the broken pictures and poured herself a glass of scotch. The crow watches them from the bed. Sometimes it squawks loudly, as if it's preparing to announce something urgent; each time they turn and watch the bird, waiting for something more, until it's clear it has nothing else to say for now.
Occasionally Jared begins crying again, deep, racking sobs that seem as if they will tear him apart, and Lucrece holds him until they pass and he is silent.
"I don't understand what I'm supposed to do," he says. Lucrece looks at the big black bird, guarded reproach in her eyes as if maybe she thinks it hasn't done its job and she'll have to fill in the blanks it has left.
"What has the crow told you?" she asks Jared.
He just stares at the bird on the bed, watching its vigilant eyes. In a little while he answers her, speaking slowly, as if he's uncertain of the words or the way they fit together.
"Because there are scales and Benny's death left them unbalanced." He stops, remembering a statue of Justice outside the courthouse where he was sentenced to die, the ageless bronze woman blindfolded and holding her sword and balanced scales. The memory of her and the sick irony there makes him laugh.
Jared sneers at the bird. "No," he says. "It's more than that. If all that was required to bring back the dead was a little injustice, the fucking
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