Kill the Dead (Sandman Slim 2)

I push open the door on the other side of the clock and am stepping through when he says, “I think I liked you better when you just killed things.”

“So did I,” I say, and pull the door shut.

THIS IS SOMETHING I haven’t felt for a while. This is pain. Real pain. Fire ants gnawing their way out of the stitches over my bullet wounds. Some use their pincers, but the twitchy speed freaks are going at it with chain saws and jackhammers. I remember this feeling from my early human-punching-bag days Downtown and later ones in the arena. I don’t like remembering it and I sure as shit don’t like feeling it. This is how regular people feel, not me. I’m home and my body is developing a mind of its own. It thinks it gets a vote in how things work around here. It wants my scars to heal and it’s taking away my most basic weapon—my armor. My body is staging a revolution and it no longer recognizes me as its great and glorious dictator. Pain is how it’s burning me in effigy.

It’s not just the bullet wound, but also the road rash from bailing out of the limo. I didn’t even notice it last night when I was busy leaking all over the stolen Jeep and hotel. My pants are shredded and Lucifer’s shirt is stiff with dried blood. I may need to rethink my priorities. Maybe put off the not-killing-everyone thing while I work on shielding hexes. Getting hit without my armor just isn’t fun anymore.

As sweet as it feels, I can’t lie here forever curled up in a big ball of fuck-the-world.

If I was really smart, I’d go online, take an aptitude test, and change careers completely. Work around soft things and away from bullets. A marshmallow factory or a plush-toys sweatshop. Maybe dress like a clown and learn to make balloon animals for kids’ parties. I know some beasts the kiddies have never dreamed of.

“You’re awake,” says Kasabian.

“If you say so, Alfredo Garcia.”

“What happened to your pretty Sunday school clothes?”

“I jumped out of a car.”

“Of course you did.”

I get out of bed slowly, stagger into the bathroom to piss and brush my teeth. I wash my face in cold water, but it doesn’t help. I’m as zombied out as last night’s golems. I hope someone has the courtesy to burn my chewed-up headless corpse when I die. The thought of ending up a billionaire’s Muppet makes me want to shoot every Sub Rosa I can find, starting in East L.A., heading west, and not stopping until I hit the ocean. I’d need a pickup truck to carry that many bullets. I wonder if Kasabian can drive shift?

Still on autopilot, I flop back down on the bed. It hurts, but I don’t have to move again for a long time. Glad I told Lucifer I was taking the day off.

When I was a kid I plucked magic out of the air. Didn’t even think about it. It was just there, like breathing. I was naked last night without my gun. I can’t live without my weapons and I’ll never give them up, but I can’t rely on guns to get me out of every scrape. I need to make friends with my inner brat, get back to when magic was as easy as getting bit by the neighbor’s dog. Ever since I got back, I’ve been in arena mode. I picked up the habit of weapons there and I have to get out of it here.>Memories are bullets. Some whiz by and only spook you. Others tear you open and leave you in pieces. Someday the right one will catch you in between the eyes and you’ll never see it coming. There’ll just be a flash of a face or a smell or her touch. Then bang, you’re gone. The only rational thing to do is kill memory. Get it before it gets you. One more drink should do it. It hasn’t worked before, but what the hell, maybe I’ll get lucky this time. I finish the Aqua Regia.

“I don’t want you to worry, James. I’m going to make sure you’re taken care of. I know with the way your mind works, that must sound sinister, but you’re just going to have to live with it.”

“You’re only worried ’cause I owe you money.”

He ignores this and points to my stomach.

“You’re still leaking. You need to keep pressure on the wound.”

“I’m not made of rubber. I’ve got the front, but I can’t reach the hole in back.”

He gets up and comes around the table.

“Turn around so I can see your back.”

I slide around and feel him press one of the throw pillows against the wound.

“I’m bloody and drunk and a strange man is holding a pillow over me. It’s like summer camp all over again.”

“You did a good job tonight. You saw the attack coming before I did. I hope you know how embarrassing that is for me.”

“It’ll be our little secret.”

“A century ago, I wouldn’t have missed it.”

“A century ago, they’d have been coming by steamboat and horse-drawn buggies. Helen Keller wouldn’t have missed it.”

Someone steps through the clock with a leather satchel in his hand. It’s an old man in a wrinkled shirt and a severe case of bed hair.

Lucifer barks at the old man.

“You took your time, you old fool.”