Chapter Text
Part 1: It’s Hip to Be Square
Thursday, August 3rd, 6:17 PM EST
Danville, KY
“Well, Ms. Williams, we’ve gotten back the results of the MRI. I know exactly what’s going on, and I’m happy to report that the mass on your neck is not cancer.”
Dr. Alexander smiled as the young woman in his office almost swooned from relief. Her father drummed on her back with joy and her mother clasped her hands together and looked skyward, mouthing a silent prayer of thanks.
“But then, what is it? Just an ingrown hair that got infected or something?” Ms. Williams asked. She was a smart young woman, on track to graduate from WKU next year with a Mass Comm degree.
“No, usually when an abscess becomes infected, there tends to be a lot of swelling, pain, and heat at the actual site of infection,” Dr. Alexander explained. “What your MRI showed was a thyroglossal duct cyst.”
“What’s that?” Mr. Williams asked immediately.
“It’s nothing fatal. The thyroglossal duct is actually part of embryonic development, it’s where your thyroid cells travel down from the tongue to the inferior neck when you’re still in your mother’s belly. It closes in the tenth week of gestation, but sometimes it won’t fully close, and some of the leftover secretions can form a pocket of fluid in one’s neck.”
“Oh,” Kesha said.
“Yes, usually they’re spotted fairly early on in childhood, but it seems that this one snuck by undetected all these years.”
“So does it need to come out?” Mrs. Williams asked.
“I’d recommend that we remove it,” Dr. Alexander nodded. “The cyst on its own is fairly harmless, as you can see, you didn’t even notice it was there until recently, but it can become infected, and that’s where problems might arise.”
“Can it become cancerous?” Kesha asked.
“ Extremely rarely. Only about 1% of thyroglossal duct cysts ever become cancerous,” Dr. Alexander.
“That’s still a percent. It’s gotta go,” Kesha concluded.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Dr. Alexander smiled. “We’ll get you scheduled for a removal operation. I can walk you through the procedure we’ll be using if you like.”
“Uhhhh I dunno, it’s nerve-wracking to hear about how your body is gonna be sliced up…”
“I understand. Since you’re an adult, I’ll have to get a consent form and proof of insurance. I’ll be right back, okay?”
Dr. Alexander got to his feet as Kesha rifled through her purse for her insurance card. Her parents spoke to her quietly, no doubt making plans to work around school as the doctor exited the examination room. He straightened his white labcoat once he made it into the hallway, the silver badge flashing under the fluorescent light.
Ephraim McDowell Regional Medical Center
Dr. Alton Alexander
Otolaryngology
Dr. Alexander was a handsome fellow of 30. Well tanned, with chocolate brown eyes and neatly trimmed black hair. He had a slanted nose and a square, Germanic jaw dusted with black five o’ clock shadow.
He finished med school when he was 26, working on his residency program here in Kentucky. He hadn’t planned to end up in The Bluegrass State, but his father encouraged him to pursue the school offering him a free ride. He was charmed by the warmth of Kentuckians (with some exceptions), as well as the verdant landscape compared to the concrete labyrinth of New York City, so he decided to lay his roots there.
He married his first wife, Kali O’Dwyer, now Alexander, in 2013, a brisk September evening in Brooklyn Botanic Park, by the Japanese Garden. Even though he was only 21, the love he felt for the Irish girl was stronger than any addiction, and she felt the same of him, if not even stronger. They were married before Alton even finished his Pre-Med bachelor’s, Kali leaving behind her family’s bodega to go and live with her husband in Lexington once he left to begin med school at The University of Kentucky College of Medicine.
He married his second wife, Clementina “Nina” Alexander-Delmaro, in 2018. This was not due to his previous marriage failing, far from it. Nina was a sweet-as-sugar woman, immigrated from Merida, Mexico in 2012. She worked as a cashier at a small local drugstore in Danville, where Alton happened to be for his residency. Alton frequented the store for snacks and the occasional restocking of basic supplies. Alton and Nina became acquaintances, then friends, then close friends. Alton brought her home to dinner, and Kali loved her. Then the platonic love turned to romantic love between the three of them. Kali and he made the joint decision to marry Nina, although not officially, as a throuple being married wasn’t legal yet, especially not in the Bible Belt. But both Alton and Kali agreed to consider Nina their wife after a particularly upsetting incident in 2018.
Due to the President at the time’s anti-immigrant rhetoric and policies, Nina was facing continual pressure from stupid people, even though she was a legal immigrant. The final straw came when a particularly jingoist neighbor attempted to call immigration on Nina for “having a smart mouth” with her over a parking space. Alton and Kali, who happened to be over for dinner and cards, refused them entry, and claimed to be house sitting while Nina was out of town. In reality, she hid in the bedroom closet while Alton showed the officers her paperwork, refusing to open the door beyond a crack. After a tense while, the officers had no choice but to leave after seeing that everything was in order.
The three of them cried together, and Alton, normally not at all vindictive, found the door of the racist woman that tried to have Nina arrested and wrote “RACIST PIG LIVES HERE” on her door in red spray paint. He was risking his residency, but he was shocked to find he didn’t care at all.
It wasn’t long after that that Nina moved in with them in their apartment on , and there she stayed.
Times were hard during the Covid-19 outbreak. The hospital was full to bursting with patients that had nowhere else to stay but in sections of the hallway cordoned off with powder blue hospital dividers. Alton worked 16 hour shifts on occasion, coming home with the outline of his protective goggles fissured into his face. Kali, who worked at a house and garden store, found herself alone at home more often than not due to work desperately cutting hours to stay open during quarantine. Nina got on just fine, keeping a fairly regular schedule at the drugstore, which was very much needed in those times. For a while, she was the glue that held their relationship together, helping Kali whenever she felt worthless or Alton whenever he felt completely and totally burnt to the wick. Alton believed that without Nina, he and Kali’s marriage may not have made it to the end of lockdown.
But, the end finally came, and life resumed a state of semi normalcy. Kali went back to work and Alton went back to focusing on his otolaryngology residency in the hospital’s ENT clinic rather than helping out in the hospital.
He glanced at his cell phone to see if either of his wives had messaged him. Things were largely quiet throughout the day, as all three of them had work to do, but around early evening was when messages started to trickle in now and then. Plans for dinner or to watch a movie or new tv series. Nina had really opened his eyes to some Mexican films he may not have even given a chance, such as the harrowing Tigers Are Not Afraid or the achingly sad Biutiful . It really was interesting how so many countries had film industries that people often overlooked just because Hollywood was so ubiquitous.
No messages came from either of his beloved, but he did receive a text from his youngest brother Boone. Ah, Boone, freest of spirits. He dropped out of The University of Colorado at Boulder when he was only 20 and took to the road on a motorbike. Alton could respect that, although he did worry a good deal about his youngest brother’s finances, especially since he recently made the move to the brutally chilly Wyoming. Alton had never been, but many analysts and locals listed its vicious winters among the reasons why the Forever West was so sparsely populated, along with lack of job opportunities. But, perhaps that was why it appealed to his wild brother, a frontier to explore on his steel horse.
Boone had sent him two messages. The first was a link to a YouTube video, the second was a short, firm message.
“you need to watch this right the hell now”
Alton frowned. That was oddly rude, even for Boone. It certainly didn’t motivate him to watch the video. He had work to finish up right now anyway.
He buttoned up the appointment with The Williams, tidied up his desk and took what he needed into his bag. He locked the door to the office, as he was the last to leave for the day, and headed down the steps to the ground floor. His supervisor had to step out a bit early, as his daughter was in a production of Night of The Iguana at the Pioneer Playhouse tonight. Alton remembered going to see their production of Yasmina Reza’s Art with Kali and Nina in 2019, before Covid paralyzed the world. He enjoyed the play, certainly, but his most distinct memory was the pungent odor of a flowering Bradford pear tree near the property.
He climbed into his Honda Civic, simple, affordable and reliable. He never understood why some in his field bought pointless luxury vehicles when they could be spending it on a better home for their families. “So sorry honey, but we have to stay in our one bedroom apartment because I wanted a Failed Italian Attempt at Technology.”
He received another text message just as he started up his car, and he glanced at his phone while still in Park.
It was Boone again. “Did you watch yet,” he asked.
Alton huffed and picked up his phone, texting back.
“I’m not even home from work yet, Boone. I’d rather be at home if you’re going to Rickroll me.”
Alton’s brows rose when he saw that Boone was immediately replying. That almost never happened. Boone tended to text while stopped on the road for a bathroom break or a quick bite to eat, and it could have been hours before he actually replied again.
“alton im not joking. you need to watch NOW im freaking the fuck out!!!”
Alton blinked. What in the world was this all about..?
He turned his radio to Bluetooth audio and waited a few seconds for his phone to connect before he clicked the link Boone sent him. He waited a further few seconds before he skipped the ad and let the video play as he put his car in drive, pulling out onto W Martin Luther King Boulevard. He could at least listen to the video on the way home.
“For twenty two years, a mansion has stood, supposedly uninhabited, on this unassuming road in Dallas, North Carolina…” a female narrator began.
Alton kept his eyes on the road, but he felt his pulse quicken in his throat. Dallas… Where his mother lost his mind and took her own life. His father picked him and his brothers up from school in a mad panic, telling them all that their mother had “gone mad” and that they needed to leave right then and now for their safety. He didn’t tell them any details, because, as he explained, they would be “too upsetting,” but whatever happened must have been truly harrowing, as it was the only time he had ever seen his iceman of a father shed tears. To this day, his father remained tight-lipped on the details, claiming that it hurt too much to think about.
Alton did his own research on the subject years later when he and his brothers were living in New York City. Pregnancy psychosis was very much real, and he gave himself nightmares thinking about what his mother might have done to his unborn little brother, and to poor Ragatha, an aunt to him, gone without so much as a proper goodbye. That woman helped raise him…
“For within this house lives a man who was born into isolation. A man who has only known the company of three for twenty-two years…-”
Alton glanced down at his phone and he felt an injection of adrenaline all throughout his body.
It was the house… That same house from two decades ago! It had fallen into disrepair over time, but-
Alton jolted and stomped on the brakes, nearly rear ending a Mazda CX-5 stopped at the 4 way intersection with South Second Street. His tires screamed, but there was no collision, thank god. Alton filled and emptied his lungs several times, feeling a cold, slimy film of sweat begin to drool down his back, dampening into a dark ring on his pink dress shirt.
He turned onto South Second Street and drove the rest of the way home without listening to more of the video. The video played , but he didn’t hear another word the narrator said. He focused on the landmarks instead… The Kentucky School for the Deaf, founded 1823, along with the Historical Marker explaining the life and achievements of the school’s founder, John A. Jacobs. Alton respected a man who worked to help those in need, even in times that weren’t at all progressive. He looked at the grass along the side of the road. It made sense this state earned its nickname from its grass. While it wasn’t outright royal blue like something from Dr. Seuss, it was dark and rich, so verdurous that it almost appeared to be color-shifting blue. Alton once bent over and seized a handful upon first arriving in Kentucky, and was gob-smacked by how something so lush could grow basically anywhere without needing to be maintained. Perhaps that was how Walt Whitman felt…
He felt calmer upon pulling into his apartment complex, putting his car in park and taking his cell phone off of its magnetic mount. He squinted a bit at the image on screen. A tall, gangly man in a black rain slicker sat on a squashy pink couch. His hood was drawn up, and he was carefully lit by a few lights so his face was completely shrouded in darkness. He looked like a Ringwraith…
Alton was about to comment (to himself, he supposed) on how he thought he recognized that couch from his youth, when the man in the hood began to speak.
“My name is… My name is Jax. I was born Oct. 17th, 2000. I am twenty-two years of age. I am 2.1 meters tall, 95 kilograms. As many of you watching may know, I was in a virulent video-”
“Viral video,” the female narrator’s voice corrected from off screen.
“A viral video, where I rescued a senior citizen named Clara Pomona from being struck by an oncoming vehicle.”
The scene cut to a YouTuber that Kali enjoyed watching, Charlie, or moistcr1tikal, speaking to the viewer.
“...if there had actually been a collision here, Clara would have died. But, she didn’t get hit, because the tall guy grabbed her-”
The film cut to a different video, what looked like livestream footage. A woman doddering out into the road is nearly hit by a Dodge Ram, only to be swiftly yanked back onto the sidewalk by a figure wearing the same black raincoat as the man being interviewed. In the process, his hood falls off, revealing a bizarre piece of headwear that looked to be purple rabbit ears.
The film cut back to the hooded man on the couch in the dark.
“As you can see in the video, my hood is blown back to reveal ears that are more befitting of a lagomorph than a human. And despite rumors to the contrary… that is not a costume.”
A jump cut showed this “Jax” removing his hood, untucking the same set of long purple ears from his collar. They stuck straight up, each a little over a foot long. His face was also covered in purple fur, with yellow eyes like a wolf or a dog, a pushed in nose, and a protruding underbite with two small, tusk-like teeth poking out of his lower lip. He looked at the camera and began to speak, lost his words, then spoke again, his whispered growl of a voice trembling and cracking.
“I… I was born … like this…” he managed.
Alton jolted at a gentle tapping on the window. Nina jumped as well on the other side of the glass.
“Sorry I scared you, love. You look like you’ve seen a ghost, is everything alright..?” she asked as Alton rolled down the window.
She was a beautiful, willowy thing. Taller than him and Kali by about a head, with shoulder length ombré hair and an angular, carefully sculpted face, like that of a Renaissance statue.
Some faint tapping and scraping came from the bottom of the car door, and Nina huffed.
“ Aye , Blue, me estas agotando… ”
She bent down and scooped up Kali’s French bulldog, a blue brindle given the creative name Blue. Kali didn’t name him that, that was the name the shelter gave him, but it stuck. His brown eyes looked at Alton with vague interest, jowly mouth in a permanent inquisitive frown.
“Y-Yes, everything’s alright, honey… I was just sent a rather alarming video by Boone…” Alton replied. He leaned out the window and kissed her, Blue tilting his head up and offering a few snorting sniffs. Alton smirked a bit. Blue was a ridiculous creature, but he loved him regardless.
“Alarming? He didn’t send you a bad picture, did he?” Nina asked with an arched brow.
“No, Boone may have a crass sense of humor, but he’s not tasteless. I’ll explain more in a second.”
Alton moved to turn his car off, glancing again at his phone. He cried out. His hand missed the keys in the ignition and struck the steering column. A chipper voice came from his speakers.
“Hello! My name is Ragatha. I’m an arcane-powered artificial construct, but I prefer the term ‘doll.’ I was created in 1992, and I’ve been Jax’s caretaker for 22 years!”
Alton gaped. She was… alive? Sure enough, right there on his phone was Ragatha, seated on the same couch as this “Jax” was just a moment ago. She was even in the exact same tuxedo, albeit significantly more well worn, with that purple bowtie that Boone was always trying to grab as an infant. Her appearance was identical to how she looked the last time he ever saw her, out the school bus window; waving goodbye from the curb. The only difference was that she wore a patch over her right eye. And she could speak?!
Her voice was beautiful…
“Oh, Toni, what’s wrong..?!” Nina gasped. Only Nina could call him Toni. Alton found his full name, Altonicus, was a bit difficult to remember, so tended to shorten it.
He hadn’t even noticed his blurred vision and the damp heat on his cheeks. He touched his face and found tears blotting his fingers.
“I… I don’t…” Alton whimpered. His voice was so frail. He hated how it sounded. His father would be ashamed.
Nina set Blue down and opened the car door, throwing her arms around her husband, who clung to her like a child would their parent.
“Oh mi amor , don’t cry… Tell us both what happened…”
Nina looked up to see Kali in the doorway. Her blazing orange hair was cut short in a bob and a bit damp from a shower. She wore a black t-shirt showing the five boroughs of New York City, in the style of a subway route, and some nylon red gym shorts she used for sleepwear. The freckles beneath her eyes vanished as her face reddened and she hurried over to the car, barefoot.
“What’s the matter…?” Kali asked, mortified.
“He said Boone sent him a video and he just got like this…” Nina replied, still cradling the doctor. Blue had hopped up onto his hind legs, resting his front paws on the open car door and looking at his masters curiously.
Kali joined in the hug, wrapping her arms around her husband. Alton in turn used an arm to hold her closer. He was never a dramatic crier, his tears fell silently.
“Tell us what happened, honey…” Kali pleaded. .
Alton pulled away, looking into the worried faces of his wives after wiping his eyes with a Kleenex he kept in a pack in his glove compartment.
“I… I don’t know what’s happening anymore…”
Part 2: The Speak It Mountains
3:17 PM PDT
Sunriver, OR
Osvaldo Alexander awoke, the corner of his mouth tinged a bit with drool. He wiped it on the back of his hand, found his glasses on the nightstand and slipped them onto his nose to check the digital clock. Ah, good, he didn’t oversleep this time. Last Sunday, his early afternoon nap carried him right into the evening. He wasn’t surprised, he had stayed up too late working on the arrangement of that Morricone piece, but he was glad he had some time left in the day to work on his own composition with a clear head before it was back to working on arrangements.
He looked over at his husband, Dawson, who slept, silent as ever, next to him. He could see a stray strand of his red, neatly trimmed beard waggling a bit from his steady breathing. It made Osvaldo smile. Even asleep, he was a taciturn fellow.
Osvaldo went to the Juilliard School in New York, his grades being a bit lower than the administration may have liked, but he was writing his own musical compositions in high school, one of which, titled “Primum Peccatum,” was even performed by the chorus at his school, and that caught the administration’s attention. He earned his Master of Arts in Music Production there, and got an in with a company that published sheet music for schools. This company, known as Across Time, specialized in adapting modern day pop songs into choral arrangements, and that was what Osvaldo did for the three years since he graduated. He arranged songs by typical bland pop artists like AJR or Imagine Dragons, a few songs adapted from popular musicals, and some mashups of songs from x or y decade. Apart from his original works, the mashups were always his favorite, as it let him flex his vast musical knowledge.
Since his work was remote, he could essentially move wherever he wished to, and decided to make the trek from the east coast to the west coast, ending up in Sunriver, Oregon. He decided on Oregon for its LGBTQ+ friendliness as well as its downright arcadian landscapes. New York City was a cultural metropolis, assuredly, but Osvaldo hated the clutter and the noise and how unkind people could be there. He was bullied a good deal in school for being a pushover and in the closet, and he never really forgave New York as a whole for making his teen years even harder than they already were. Oregon was the best choice, about as far away from all the grime and crowds and insults shouted callously from passing cars.
He and his husband met not long after he purchased his condo on Enterprise Drive here in Sunriver. Dawson Jager was a six foot four 275 lb wall of a man that said little and didn’t smile much, but when he did… Oh goodness, when he did, a chorus of angels sang. His intimidating appearance belied the temperament of a St. Bernard. Endlessly loving, warm and fluffy. He was a handyman and woodworker, but his true passion was baking, hoping to save up enough to start his own shop in Bend.
The two of them met at a bar, and bonded over both of them losing their mothers. Osvaldo’s mother died in a murder-suicide, pregnancy psychosis related, where she killed their live-in maid and then herself while pregnant. Dawson’s mother, Dyani, died when Dawson was only six, going into anaphylactic shock while recovering from a cholecystectomy. She had a previously unknown allergy to morphine, and Dawson never properly said goodbye to her, not unlike how Osvaldo never got to say goodbye to his mother or to Ragatha.
They talked about it, and cried about it, and agreed to meet up for drinks the next weekend. And a year and a half later, they were married.
Osvaldo got himself dressed in some fresh clothes. A white long-sleeved dress shirt and a blue sweater vest and a pair of khaki pants. He checked himself in the bathroom mirror.
He was the tallest of his siblings at about 6 feet even. His dad always said he was “skinny as a rail,” but Dawson’s cooking had started to give him a bit more of a gut. He kept in alright shape, but he needed to add a mile or so to his constitutionals to lose some of this pudge. Dawson said his belly was cute and nothing to be ashamed of.
Other than that, Osvaldo was alright with his appearance. He had gone prematurely gray and simply rolled with the punches. George Clooney went gray early, and he was voted sexiest man alive. Not like that award meant anything, really, but clearly it didn’t make him any more or less attractive in the eyes of the zeitgeist. Osvaldo brushed his hair neat and yawned, rubbing the sand from his eyes and flicking it into the toilet. He crept from the bedroom, passing the stairs on the left and the laundry nook on the right, and slid into his office. He would have liked to stay in bed with his husband, but an opportunity to work on his own projects like this was too irresistible to pass up.
His office was cluttered yet tidy. Stacks of folders littered his desk, in various piles. One for projects on hiatus, one for current work projects and one for personal projects. Finished projects went into the file cabinet. His laptop sat, closed and in sleep mode, in the center of the paper towers.
In front of the window looking out onto Enterprise Road was his keyboard. Not a grand piano, as cool as that would be to own, but a reasonable simulacrum of one. A Glarry GDP-105 keyboard, with 88 keys and three pedals. Beautiful machine, and it had a port to plug in headphones so he could freely plink away without bothering Dawson or the neighbors.
He leafed through his stack of personal projects, settling on one that was nearing completion, titled “Kalispell,” inspired by a trip to Dawson’s hometown of the same name in Montana. A gorgeous place girded by mountains and kept refreshed by alpine streams. Osvaldo met Dawson’s father there, Lawrence, a man somehow even larger than his son but with a similarly gentle heart.
The memory made Osvaldo look outside at his own surroundings. Scrubby grass and young pine trees surrounded the clean and lonely Enterprise Road, which led to the resort area further north. Sunriver Resort was a gorgeous, hidden gem sort of vacation spot, so the town made most of its money from tourism. Osvaldo had only been to the resort for one weekend since he’d been living here. It had been a little slice of paradise, with hikes that overlooked a river of gold, a swimming pool and a California king bed just for him and his husband… but paradise also happened to cost $500 a night.
It was winding down from peak season right now, so all the summer people were heading back to Bend or to the airport so their kids would make it home in time for school. It would be a bit quieter until winter rolled around and all the skiers came to hit the slopes. Osvaldo didn’t mind busy season or quiet season, both were still and silent compared to the cacophony that was New York City.
He set his sheet music onto the keyboard stand and put on his headphones. He cracked his knuckles and his arms, and sat down on his collapsible piano stool. He had hit a bit of a wall with this piece last time. He wanted to pay tribute to his favorite musical artist of all time, Damon Albarn, by homaging “Aspen Forest,” a song Albarn made on his iPad while touring in New Mexico. The issue was, every time Osvaldo tried that, he just wound up playing the song and not his own notes. He began to chew on his thumbnail to help him think of what to try next when he felt his phone vibrate over on his desk.
“Oh…” Osvaldo groaned. He removed his headphones and huffed, climbing off his stool and snatching his phone off his desk. Probably just a canned email about a sale on antivirus or something…
It was Boone. His younger brother didn’t message very often since he was on the road with his biker friends.
“oz you need to watch this,” the message said, followed by a YouTube link.
Osvaldo frowned and messaged back.
“Why? Can it wait, I’m about to do some composing.”
Boone’s immediate reply actually made Osvaldo jump.
“NO”
Osvaldo was about to text an irritated reply back, but Boone got there first.
“its about mom, when she went crazy. Just watch it please”
This made him pause. What was that supposed to mean? His older brother already explained what happened ages ago because his father was still distraught about it. He didn’t need a reminder. But Boone was normally just as uninterested in their mother… or “the crazy harpy that killed our nanny and baby brother” as he so charitably called her.
So why would he…?
Osvaldo sat at his desk and tapped the link. He read the title aloud.
“‘The Abandoned Aristocrat..?’”
Dawson blinked awake at the feeling of a full bladder. He grumbled and sat up, noticing that he was alone in bed. He felt the opposite side’s sheets. They were cool, so it must have been a while ago Ozzy got up. He checked the clock. 4:02. About two hours for a nap, not too bad.
He wandered into the bathroom to do his business, washing up and splashing a bit of water on his face. He ran a hand through his hair and itched his beard. A bit dry… He’d have to comb it with some oil after he got dressed.
He walked back into the bedroom, stretching. His sleeveless sleep shirt hiked up a bit to show his round but firm belly. He dropped his arms to his sides with a slap before he heard a loud thump come from the office.
“Ozzy..?” Dawson asked.
No answer. Dawson crossed over to the office and opened the door without a second thought.
Papers lay strewn about the normally bare carpet, an open and empty folder laying amongst them, presumably having once contained the papers before it was hurled at the wall.
Osvaldo himself was at his desk, head buried in his arms and glasses pinched between two fingers.
“Ozzy..!”
Dawson moved in the blink of an eye to his husband, resting his rough and large hand on his back.
Osvaldo looked up from his desk, and the expression of livid betrayal on his crumpled, red face almost made Dawson recoil.
“He… He lied…” Osvaldo whispered.
“Who, Ozzy, who lied to you? Talk to me, hun…” Dawson knelt down to his level.
Osvaldo flung himself into Dawson’s arms, stifling two choked sobs before speaking again.
“I don’t know… if it’s- if it’s even…”
On his desk, his phone played the end credits for a film Dawson didn’t recognize.
Part 3: Nazi Punks Fuck Off
4:00 PM MDT
Casper, Wyoming
Boone Alexander threw the whiskey and the glass at the back of the guy’s bald head. It hit the back of his neck and splashed, and before the guy could even blink the whiskey out of his eyes, Boone drove his fist into the guy’s mouth. A tooth flew across the bar and vanished forever and the guy was sent toppling into the stools, feebly grabbing at one for support and only succeeding in taking it down with him.
“Who’s a bitch now , Adolf, huh?!” Boone shouted, only to be smacked about the face himself with a blackjack one of the guy’s buddies had hidden up his jacket sleeve. He only saw white and grey and translucent smears as he fell onto the dirty bar floor, vision snapping back to him as he felt the thud of approaching Doc Martens with red laces.
He looked up to find one of the guy’s cronies reaching for his nine millimeter, only for him to bugle with pain instead as the prongs of a stun gun jabbed his neck and snapped with electricity. A pretty blonde in a denim jacket, the very same woman who the guy had insulted, snuck up behind the guy’s friend and stung him with a taser. The guy’s friend, also bald, keeled over and clipped a table with his ribs on the way down, hitting the floor with a resistance-free thud.
“Let’s go, Boone,” she said, helping him to his feet.
“Let’s not,” said the guy’s other friend.
He was shaved bald, and more heavyset than the guy or his first friend. His leather jacket had some sewn in patches, a flag with three vertical stripes, one teal, one white and one green, a patch depicting two crossed grenades and an equal sign slashed over in red. He had an “A K” tattoo on his neck and a shirt that read “Burn the Coal, Pay the Toll.” He leered at Boone from over at the bar, a revolver leveled at him. The first guy was climbing back to his feet, fumbling for a weapon of his own in his jacket.
“It’s been a long time since I killed a race traitor,” the heavyset guy said. “This’ll be fun.”
The sound of a shotgun being racked from behind the counter made everyone freeze. The heavyset guy’s expression became one of mild concern as a sawed-off barrel was placed against the back of his buzzed skull.
“I’ve been waitin’ a long time for this,” the bartender, a short fellow in a cowboy hat with odd facial hair, said. “Listen up. You and your white trash friends are done in here. For good. I been mighty patient with you, but you're scarin’ away payin’ customers, and I’ll be cold and dead in the ground if you’re gonna kill someone in my establishment.”
“You might not have long to wait,” the heavyset guy sneered, only to have the muzzle of the gun wedged further into his head, tilting it forward a bit.
“One more word outta your ugly mouth and I’m repaintin’ the wall with what little brains you got,” the bartender said. He had that slow and patient Wyoming drawl. “Now you and your girlfriends walk right outta this bar and don’t come back. It’s on sight from now on, Fritz.”
The heavyset guy and the first guy exchanged looks, as if pondering if it would be worth it. Any way you sliced it, one of their own died. The second guy clambered back to his feet and realized the situation.
Boone had a hand on his own gun, a Glock 17. One twitch from these bozos and he was gonna aerate their chests. His face hurt, he could feel the bruise swelling with blood on his cheek.
“He ain’t worth ten of you, Omar,” the first guy said to the heavyset guy. “Let’s save it for a cause that really matters.”
The first guy tapped one of the patches on his own jacket that Boone couldn’t see and didn’t care to see.
The three men exited the bar, staring a hole through Boone and Dell. The sound of an engine starting up and tires grinding away on gravel made the bartender finally lower his weapon.
“Thank you, sir. Can we get some ice for his face?” Dell asked, breathing a huge sigh of relief.
“If you pay for the whiskey you wasted and the glass you broke, and you also get the hell out of here and never come back,” the bartender said, getting a brush and dustpan from behind the counter.
“You heard what he said to my girlfriend…” Boone growled, but Dell put a hand on his shoulder.
“Boone, he’s right. Let’s pay and go like he asked.”
Boone’s expression softened. He hated being told what to do by anybody. His family, his teachers, whatever asshole head chef he washed dishes under or dumb-as-dirt pit boss he ground logs into mulch for. But somehow, Dell could tame him with a single look and not make him feel stupid or impulsive…
Boone nodded. “Alright.”
“You know I’ve been called worse, right..?” Dell asked as she held the ice to Boone’s cheek. It was in a ziploc bag and wrapped in a washcloth.
“I know. Back in Denver, right?” Boone replied, hissing a bit at the chill on his painful bruise.
Dell nodded. She used to strip in Denver before Boone came along and took her on his journey to wherever-the-hell. It just made sense for a knockout blonde like her, especially one that struggled with hypersexuality like her. Her stupid endless thirst had gotten her kicked out of high school, so a job where she had to act permanently aroused and into a bunch of strangers was cake. Her foster parents didn’t give a shit.
Then along came this dumbass. He had dropped out of UC Boulder and taken daddy’s money to buy a Harley, planning on seeing the world until he ran out of money. He had fallen hopelessly in love with Dell the moment he saw her, and while she was a little skeptical at first, who wouldn’t be, he was completely and utterly devoted to her. They weren’t married, but they might as well have been. He hugged her and kissed her and reminded her she was beautiful and loved every goddamn day, and she felt so good with him in every way possible… She was more than happy to go along with him.
He was an unkempt ball of scruff in a black leather jacket. Jet black hair that stuck up in wild curls and a thin beard covering his rounded chin. His handsome face was now marred by an ugly purple-brown bruise, but it would heal. She kissed him on the chapped lips.
“Yeah. Back in Denver. You’re gonna get killed one day,” Dell scolded.
“I’m Death Proof, baby…” Boone smirked.
“My ass,” Dell shot back. “You’re not. You’re not , and I’m not gonna lose you, okay..?”
Dell pulled him into a hug, and Boone hugged her back. She smelled so nice…
“You’re not gonna get yourself shot and leave me out here in Bumblefuck, Nowhere,” Dell said into his neck.
Boone looked past her cascading blonde hair at the range of mountains in the distance. They had driven through those mountains, past Hogadon Basin and the ski resort up there. They couldn’t afford to stay, of course, and it would’ve been pointless since it was summer, but the cheap hotel they spent the night entangled together in was more than enough. She pulled back and he looked her in the face. Those peridot green eyes were wide and wet, peeking out from behind blonde curtains.
“I won’t leave you… I’m sorry. I love you, Delly Bean…” he said, and he kissed her. She melted into it and wrapped her arms around his neck.
They kissed for a while. Boone needed to be careful, as prolonged kissing was a good way to stoke the fire in her belly into an inferno. He pulled away reluctantly.
“Wherever we end up, I’ll be with you. It just hurts to see people say such disgusting things about you…” he admitted.
“Men suck, especially when they’re drunk. You’re the exception that proves the rule…” Dell said. She leaned forward with a sultry little grin. Seems the fire was roaring already and would need to be quelled in their motel room. Boone grinned right back. Worse things could happen.
His phone went off in his jacket pocket as the two of them climbed to their feet in the parking lot. He checked it as they walked back to his bike, which the thugs from the bar had thankfully not messed with. They must not have known it was his.
He stopped walking.
“Boone Pie…~ Come on, we got time to- Boone?”
Dell quit sauntering forward when she saw her boyfriend frozen in the middle of the parking lot.
“Uh…” Boone said.
He received a message from an unknown number. It was a link to a YouTube video with a short sentence following it.
“It’s been a long time, Boone, but you deserve to know what really happened 20 years ago. From G.”
Boone clicked on the video.
“Hey, Boone, you’re weirding me out. Come on, let’s go.” Dell chuckled uneasily after a minute or so of silence.
Boone held up a hand.
“Uh, you’re not a crossing guard, asshole, tell me what’s going… Boone?”
Boone looked up from his phone, eyes red and glazed. Tears dripped from his lashes.
“Boone..!” Dell ran over and grabbed his shoulders. She had never seen him cry before..! He hugged her back, but his tone was dire.
“I need to message a few people… Right. The fuck now. ”