Chapter #17The Claw by: Seuzz   "Joe! This is bullshit!" you yell at him.
Joe slaps you hard, bringing tears to your eyes. You raise your head to glare at him, and feel murder well up in your heart.
There is murder in his eyes too. "Who's paying for this, you little shit," he snarls. "You or me?" He jabs a dirty fingernail into your face, and his moustache bristles. "You want this thing, you take it on my terms, or you don't get it." He raises his eyes to address the man behind you. "We'll take the rose."
You keep your eyes on him, and your stare is hot. So is his. His lip peels back, and he raises his hand for another back-hand smack to your face. But he hesitates over the blow just a little too long, and with a sulfurous oath wheels and stalks from the tattoo parlor. He's left you trembling.
You feel a light poke in your shoulder. "Come on, kid, over this way," the tattoo parlor owner says.
You hop to your feet and trail after. You are supposedly fourteen-years-old, but your body looks twelve, especially given the long, loose shorts and wifebeater; you've a cap pulled low over hair that droops over your eyes and ears and down your neck. You sag onto the bench the owner points you toward.
He doesn't say anything as he fits out needles and does the other prep work. Even after he's touching your shoulder he doesn't say anything for a bit. Until: "You're lucky. If I'd talked to my dad that way--"
"He's not my dad," you growl back. "He's the just the fucker who's--" You clench your jaw and swallow and hunch up a little more.
"Oh, I see. Well, I'll make this one real nice for you."
"I don't want a fucking rose. I don't want a--" You look away.
He pulls the needle back. "If you don't want this, you really shouldn't--"
No, I don't want a fucking rose. I'll look like a faggot. Fuck, what'll Jason and Seth and Steve and Gordon say when they-- You flinch at the thought. But I'm not gonna let fucking Joe get away with-- I can't-- I can't not-- You clench your eyes shut and tense hard, then shake your head jerkily back and forth. "No, just do it."
"You sure?"
"Yeah!"
He still hesitates for several long seconds before continuing.
And you continue stewing in the mind of--
There is no such person as Bobby Frank Sharpe, just as there is no such person as Rosalie Sharpe or Joseph Duke. Bobby isn't even stitched together from mental imago; you're only imitating details of imago you've picked up and discarded but remembered over the years. There is even less substance to Joseph Duke, who at least showed up in physical form with you at the parlor, and there is no substance at all to the trailer trash he's fucking; she only has a notional existence. But for the next hour (or however long it takes) you will be Bobby, outside and in. There will be no false note for anyone to detect, for you will be playing him even in those places no one can see into.
That is your commitment to authenticity, and you'd insisted on the same from your partner on the case, even though it had made Joe bridle to dirty his usually immaculate cuticles. He'd gotten his revenge by slapping you around in the truck on the way over, which was fine. You'd used it.
The parlor owner resumes work. "Almost done," he says after a bit. "You okay?" You nod. "You know," he says quietly. "If you'd like something else, something different, come back and see me. Don't tell your stepdad or whatever he is. I'll give you something else. No charge."
You shift your head a little, as though piqued but suspicious. Which is exactly what you feel. Is this the break? "If you're interested," the man continues as he finishes up, "come in around eight. That's closing time."
* * * * *
Joe insists on camping out nearby, but you go in alone. The owner smiles to see you and gestures you in. You spend fifteen minutes studying samples before picking a serpent, though you make a point of lingering over the design for a voluptuous, half-naked chick. The man sits you down and says he has to clean up a little first. He offers you an open Coke, which you accept.
Yes, this feels like the break. Bobby is the tenth disguise you've used to visit this shop, and this is the first hint you've gotten that you might breach the fa'ade of whatever is going on here. You quickly bury--so the owner won't see it--the thought that though you've come in before as men and as women, Bobby is your first disguise that is underage.
You knock back the Coke and close your eyes to think. You don't open them when the electronic bell on the door chimes, which is lucky when you hear the words: "He's out, Max."
There must have been something in the cola, and you relax limply and let strong arms lift and carry you into another room and lay you on a padded bench. You hear some light bustling, and then the sharp touch of a needle at the top of your forehead. You make no motion.
Its wielder draws it in a slow line across your brow, then lifts and draws another line across your face, a few inches below the other line. He continues without taking a break, and it takes a very long time, for these lines trace not only your face and neck but your torso and arms and crotch and legs and feet--after they've taken your clothes off. You hear the other man going in and out. Near the end he takes a hissing breath. "That's real nice. You know where to find me."
"Join you in a bit," Max says.
When at last he's done he lays the needle aside. There's a few more light noises, and then you hear footsteps. That chime rings again.
You sit up and look around alertly. Your cheek twitches when you see you're not alone.
Bobby Sharpe is laying on a bench next to you.
It's an exact replica of the body you're wearing. That's enough of a surprise. What's worse is when he turns his head and looks at you with dull eyes. Your heart thumps. A golem.
You lean in on him. "Can you hear me?" you whisper. He doesn't react. "What's your name?" No movement. "Can you talk?" There is no understanding on his face, and, seemingly bored, he turns his head again to stare dully at the ceiling.
You scoop on your clothes and peer past a doorway into a room in the very back of the parlor. It's an office of some kind, but it's empty. There's a cabinet turned in a funny angle in the corner, and you peer around it. It's a secret door. The space beyond is very dim.
You look around, gauging your position. Fuck, so that's why you couldn't find anything earlier. The secret is in the boarded-up space next to the parlor. Fucking obvious in retrospect.
There's a light far off inside, and you creep toward it, your cloak at the ready. It's a door into another room. You peer in. Every nerve in your body freezes.
The other man is facing away from you. He's standing, and he's naked, and his buttocks quiver as he pumps rhythmically. You don't look around him, and you don't have to, for the sight of the smooth, naked legs he's squeezed between tells you what kind of thing you'd see.
But the real horror is on the walls: six boys, all naked, feet dangling and arms hanging limply, as though they've been mounted on hooks. They look Bobby's age.
And they all turn their heads to look at you. They have the same dead look in their eyes. But these have shadows of pain there.
You fight down the need to swallow, and pad lightly up behind the man, and touch his back with a fingertip. He folds up and falls to the floor. The boy he had pinned over the table is motionless for a moment, then looks back at you. His gaze is also dead.
You wait for Max to return, and knock him out too.
* * * * *
"They're not real, Will," Joe says. He holds your face between his hands and stares deeply and gravely into your face. "They're not even like Vasili and Martin. They hardly even have reflexes."
Your eyes are hard with anger and horror. "But look at them. They can feel! And what those--" You choke, for there are no words, no non-magical words, that can describe Max and his friend. "What they were doing to them! They could feel it!"
"Animals can feel things too, Will," Joe says. "But these aren't even like dogs or dolphins. It's only basic reflexes. At most they're like lizards inside. Will!" His grip tightens, but you can see the sympathy in his eyes. "Will, you can't save them, like you saved Vasili and Martin. There's nothing to save."
His voice cracks. You'd like to think he feels the pity and horror for the golems that you feel. But you know he's only feeling empathy for your heaving and buckling emotions. "So what do we do with them," you say in a tight voice.
Now he does look grave. "You're right, they can still feel. You have to put them out of their misery. We can't even put them in a home or shelter. The real boys are still out there."
"Joe!" you whisper. "Not that!"
"You have to, Will. You have Nash's gloves?" You shake your head. "Then I'll run home and get them."
It takes him only a few minutes, overlapping himself in time. With intense loathing you pull on the gloves and unlock the next sigil. Bobby looks up at you from the bench. There isn't even curiosity in his eyes as you lay your hand on his face. You close your eyes, and rip the false imago away. When you open them again, there is only a wooden dummy on the bench.
To wake from this reverie: "The Boy from Before Everything, Part 2"  | Members who added to this interactive story also contributed to these: |
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