The Gray House

Sleepy, in the background, quickly steers toward the exit, trying his best to appear invisible. Tongue hanging out from the effort. Echidna climbs up on the table. The rest are pulling her down. And all of this is accompanied by the unceasing squeal bordering on ultrasound. Crazy. Enough to make me feel like an honest-to-goodness rat. One that’s about to have its spine crushed by the sharp heels. And then smeared across the floor. Why? No reason. And the worst part is that before it ends, it’s going to hurt. A lot.

The table slams into my stomach and drives me backward in the direction of the wall. I’m boxed into the corner. By pushing my back against the wall I manage to stop the advance, but at the same moment my hair is grabbed so viciously that it has a hard time staying attached. Now it’s my turn to squeal.

“Are you mental?”

That was Corpse. What an inopportune moment to be joining the discussion. I’m shielded by the table, and he’s not. He’s immediately shown the error of his ways. I save my scalp at the expense of a handful of hair, while Corpse ineffectually fights back against the kicking feet and the piercing talons until he ends up on the floor.

I jump out of my pen and run to him. In any other circumstances I wouldn’t have, because Corpse is not someone who requires outside assistance. His other nick is Scorpio, as his see-through complexion is matched by his overall fuzzy harmlessness, but I’m not sure about anything anymore. And it appears that the girls will more likely kill him than not. There’s already a sizable crowd in the Coffeepot, and someone gets to them before me. Which is good, because Echidna sinking her nails into my face hampers my progress.

After that it’s no longer clear who’s slugging who and for what. A writhing knot of bodies, wheelchairs and tables being overturned, the squeals climbing higher yet, and at the most dramatic moment, Sheriff and Black Ralph come bursting in.

That is to be expected. What’s unexpected is that their arrival fails to stop the melee. Probably because the maidens don’t give a hoot, to put it mildly, about our counselors. They are afraid somewhat of their own hags, but they’ve learned that our geezers, one, never would lay a finger on them and, two, have no way of raising a stink later. So the ballet exercises continue. Not for too long, though, because the girl-tamers are not far behind.

I haven’t been taking an active part in the proceedings for a couple of minutes now. I’m busy sitting under the counter trying to ascertain the source of that unpleasant crunching sound I heard when someone stomped on my hand. Also of the ringing in my ears and the double vision.

“Hey, Red. You all right?”

I’m being jostled gently. It’s Ginger. I look at her until the two very pink faces float closer and combine into one, and then tell her that yes, I am all right, but not really.

The Coffeepot is strewn with bodies and debris. The bodies seem to be alive, or at least stirring, and the world around me is unusually bright and pretty. Takes me some time to figure out that it’s because I’m not looking at it through green lenses. It’s useless to even think about finding them now.

Microbe whines pitifully in the middle of the room, clutching his jaw. Horse is attempting to get him to stand up. He succeeds after two more tries, and the two black-jacketed figures lead out the third ceremoniously. The brotherhood of Logs. Such a moving spectacle.

“They are all bastards! Animals!”

Reptile Godmother is wheeling out the chair with Bedouinne, who is drowning in tears and tightly clutching something flail-like in her puny hands. Where does Bedouinne figure in this at all, I wonder. What could possibly be her problem?

“What happened?” Ginger persists. “Are you going to tell me or what?”

“I wish someone would tell me. If such a sage could be found, I’d personally present him with my favorite table fan.”

I get up, checking my brace for cracks with the hand that’s still functional. But it’s not there. At all. I only now remember that I stopped wearing it two weeks ago. Which means that all this time I was hopping around with my spine left completely unprotected. The thought makes me deeply sick.

“Hey, you!” Ginger says, alarmed. “You’re not going to faint on me, are you?”

“No. It’s just my heart sinking. Visibly.”

Tabaqui the Jackal is busy arranging the variegated hair samples around himself, like a wizened old shaman who’s just received a fresh consignment of scalps. Humming softly. Spooky stuff.

My hand is swollen and hurts like nobody’s business. I try to wiggle the fingers and immediately regret it. Also, someone was sick at some point in all that ruckus. On me, it seems.

“Come on. I’ll help you wash up.”

Ginger takes me by the clean sleeve and makes for the door.