Morning snuck up among thickets of man-planted trees and natural fog. I came alive, awake and fairly glistened by dawn’s new dew. Refreshed in Texas. Who could have predicted it?
A cursory study of my surroundings told me everything I needed to know. I was alone in the lioness’s lair. The light of day revealed a small building that was both inside and out of the great cage. An access door, attached at ground level, led toward the inner structure where (I assumed) Malaika Mlinzi could enter several smaller cells. There, her keepers would likely feed her, bathe her, or otherwise give her care. But the door was currently shut and there was no human activity to be seen. It was still early.
I scanned every centimeter of that place before, at last, I landed upon my most egregious error. In my stupid stupor, I’d carelessly (purposefully?) left the cage door open. The spry, old girl was loose. I enjoyed a brief moment of catharsis, picturing what her well-earned freedom might look like. But those hopeful images were quickly shredded by dread. How far could a feral animal like her make it in the real world? From what little I’d pieced together from TV shows and magazine ads, one should never “mess with Texas.” By every degree, America at large assumed that the majority of law-abiding Texans carried handguns and weren’t afraid to use them. Should one trigger-happy cowboy cross paths with a specimen such as Malaika Mlinzi …
It took a significant amount of self-restraint to shake from my head the sickening (imagined) sounds of gunfire, the rancid smells of coiling sulfur (unspent), (false) sightings of the lioness’s blood staining the ground, the dirt, the leaves, the endless screams.
She couldn’t have been gone long, I judged. The memory of her fur bristling my face came back to me. Was it but a gentle dream easing my mind before I woke?
I stood atop the monumental slab, harboring every intention of sprinting out to find her when, as if she’d somehow sensed my concern, Malaika Mlinzi returned. She waltzed right through the open door, bearing a gift. The great and able hunter opened her jaw and dropped a very fat, very dead pigeon at my feet. With her nose, she nudged the bird closer, then retreated on her haunches to savor my reaction.
I crouched down to meet her at eye level — to let her know I appreciated the thoughtful gesture. Slowly, I unsheathed Peter Pratchett’s concealed blade from my boot. She feared not its sharp, shining threat, for she knew that edge was not meant for her. Our mutual stare did not falter, not even when I chopped the pigeon’s head clean off. I tossed its blood-soaked body back to Malaika Mlinzi, and the big cat swallowed her breakfast whole.
“Malaika,” I said, confident to be on a first-name basis with her. “Those things are rampant with disease, you know?” I pocketed the decapitated head so as not to appear rude. “I’ve no appetite right now.” And then I told the very first lie of my life (to the best of my recollection). “But I will savor this later.”
Satisfied, she stretched herself on her rock and patiently awaited the crowds that would inevitably be arriving soon.
I kissed the lioness’s head and riffed softly in her ear. “You are the tender beast who bridges time and space. You are my kingdom come. Incarnate.” My words, comprising some implausible muse’s wishes, weakened Malaika to the point of drowsiness. Lazy, old girl.
On my way out, I secured the latch and the lock. I checked it twice, then a third and even a fourth time to make doubly doubly sure.
With my mind no longer tethered by the previous hours’ surprising kinship, I set my sights on the nuanced art of disguise. Upon entering a section marked “Employees Only,” I came to discover a workman’s toolshed at the back end of a muddy lot, near a petting zoo.
A zoo inside a zoo, I thought. The marvels of modern man never cease. Could there also be animals inside animals? The answer to that riddle, of course, was yes. But only if the animal was with child.
Inside the shed, I located the few items I would need to pass myself off as your average, clock-punching Joe. I snatched a pair of overalls that were hanging from a hook and stepped in. I doubted the tag that read “one size fits all” but soon discovered the farming jumpsuit matched my body to perfection. Still, purely for argument’s sake, I didn’t see how it could possibly also cover someone as big as my dear departed Shumbuto.
I loaded up a wheelbarrow with shovel, rake, and pitchfork and then headed into the shit-covered grounds. Goat pellets and cow pies were everywhere, lightly covered in places by random strands of loose hay. A deep, smelly bucket lying in the dirt seemed appropriate for the task; I scooped poop into it, up to the brim. Next, I brought the animal excrement to a large hole behind the rear fence. A wooden sign claimed the spot as a “compost deposit area.” I chucked the dung into the pit and went back to get more. By the fourth trip, other overall-wearing men and women were filing in. For the most part, they minded their own business, though one woman came over to me with a questioning gaze.
“You new here?” she asked.
“That’s right.” My phony demeanor completed my foolproof disguise. “Thought I’d get an early start on doo-doo detail, just to, you know, make a good impression.”
“Well, I can certainly appreciate that! I’m Darla.” She removed a glove and extended her hand.
“Hi Darla, I’m Pacho,” I said, unnecessarily masking my real name. “Guess I need a pair of work gloves too.”
“You’ll have to see Johnny about that. He runs pretty much everything here. He didn’t tell you about the gloves in orientation? Huh. That’s peculiar.”
“Oh, that’s right,” I said, covering a forgivable misstep; though another might give me away. “I forgot. I guess I’d forget my head if it weren’t stitched on.” Was that funny? Darla gave my pedestrian quip a half-drawn smile.
“Well, as I’m sure he told you, Johnny makes you sign out the gloves every dang day. The tools and the overalls you can just take. No one gets what his deal is with the gloves. And don’t question him on it, either. He has this weird hang-up about them. If you press him, he gets all serious and then makes your life hell. Gloves are like, his thing. I dunno.”
“Thanks for the tip,” I said. Eager to change the subject, I took my friendly man-of-the-poo act to greater heights. “Say, Darla. You wouldn’t happen to know what time the grub shack opens, would ya? I was so ready to start my first day that I plumb forgot to eat breakfast.”
The prospect of breakfast reminded me of the sorrowful pigeon head. Without a second thought (or first for that matter), I’d transferred it to the front pocket of my overalls when I slid them on. It was ridiculous. I should have tossed it then and there. But I just wasn’t ready to disregard the gift from my magnificent new friend.
“Well, sure thing, Pacho,” Darla said. How would she react if she knew what I was carrying? “The zoo opens at nine sharp, but the food court doesn’t start serving till ten. To the public, that is. They should be there now, setting up. Just mention you’re the new guy in custodial, and they’ll whip you up an egg and cheese bagel or something simple. You want me to go with you? Introduce you to folks? Things are pretty lax around here, if you hadn’t noticed.”
Oh yeah, I’d noticed, all right.
“You don’t have to go to any trouble. I’ll find my way. Thanks. I’ll be back in two shakes of a …” What was the fucking phrase? “ … llama’s cock.”
Darla burst out laughing.
“Oh man! That’s a pisser!” she proclaimed. “You’re gonna fit in just fine with all us wackadoodle dunderheads!”
“OK then!” I said, trying, and failing, to match her level of enthusiasm. I put down my shit shovel and left the zoo within the zoo.
Along the path, I passed half a dozen peacocks strutting their stuff freely, appearing as if they had no particular place to go. They hadn’t the slightest clue how fortunate they’d been to have survived the brief lioness hunt.
A flock of pigeons took to the skies. They were one brother shy of a family.
A red fox nodded knowingly my way when I sauntered by his coop. I acknowledged him with an understated wave. He went back to his very important business of licking his coat clean.
Just beyond the bald eagle’s enclosure, the walkway came to a roundabout. A long, strong brick wall grounded the foundation for a granite monolith that jutted up from its center. At its peak, a conspicuous clock’s face mocked all who gazed upon it. Two large, black hands pointed at what would easily be perceived as 9:15 upon any other timepiece; but here, every five-minute increment read “nigh.” It seemed such a peculiar thing to be displayed in a zoo. But then again, with this being my first visit to such an institution, perhaps it was commonplace. Notwithstanding, the time was nigh.
To the other side of the world’s most threatening clock lay my destination. A dozen scattered and umbrellaed picnic tables stood as the final sentries between me and my destiny. As food service employees moved to and fro, opening carts, firing up grills, sweeping the front walks, or, as was the case of three women, just milling about, I wasted zerotime in my approach.
“Hi there,” I said, sticking to my genial, exuberant, Pacho demeanor. Could one of these women be Calliope? Two of them looked like they could be the right age, lazing about in front of a closed hot dog emporium. “What are today’s specials?”
They regarded me as if I’d just asked where a fella could get a pigeon pot pie. Yes, the godforsaken thing was starting to peck my thoughts. Inside my overalls, the dead head shifted, and its dagger-like beak jabbed me in the side.
“We don’t have specials,” sputtered the most likely suspect of the three. She was gruff and tough and the spitting image of what I imagined Calliope to be. I resisted my baser instinct to murder her where she casually leaned.
“You new here?” she asked.
I went through the whole ruse again.
“Pacho, eh?” the probable Calliope continued. “Funny, you don’t look Mexican.”
“Jesus, Susan,” the younger of the three said and then turned to address me. “I’m Frankie. Don’t mind her. She’s awful. And racist.”
“How can it be racist if he’s not Mexican?” the former Calliope-candidate-turned-Susan asked. “You aren’t, right? A beaner, I mean? We got plenty of ’em on the job round here is all I’m saying. And you don’t look like ’em, not from what I seen. That’s all I’m saying.”
“So what if he was Mexican?” the remaining possible Calliope offered.
“I might be. I don’t know.” I embraced this untruth, just to end the madness. “My parents gave me up when I was very young. So your guess is as good as mine, I suppose.”
“Don’t Pacho mean pussy in Spanish?”
“Jesus, Susan!” blurted Frankie, this time in a mortified tone.
“No,” said the last holdout for Calliope. “I think it means free.”
“I like to think you’re right about that,” I said, searching the lines of her face for any long-lasting familial familiarity. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Bettina. But everyone calls me Betty.”
Strike three.
“Well, now we’re all acquainted like birds and fucken bees,” Susan said. “So welcome to the animal house, Pacho. Hope you like shovelin’ shit. Smells like you already got a taste of it.” She glanced at her watch.
“We gotta get going. Nice to meet you, Pacho,” smiling Betty said.
“The time is nigh!” Frankie cooed, and the other girls moaned.
“Hey, what’s up with that clock, anyway?”
“Nobody knows,” Betty said. “And Frankie’s the only one of us who still laughs at it. See you later, Pacho.”
“Actually.” I held them up. “I’m wondering if you might be able to help me find someone.” This stopped the ladies in their tracks.
“Go on,” Susan prompted.
Having dug myself in, I chose to backtrack slightly. Lying with a cause.
“I heard an older woman named Calliope was working here. Any of you know her?”
“Why?” Susan demanded. “The bitch owe you money?”
She knows her! I thought.
“No, no, no, nothing like that. It’s just … I know who she is. You know?”
They knew. They all knew.
“My own, own m-mother,” I stumbled and stuttered and, having nearly lost the thread, had to backtrack again. “My adopted mother, I mean. She was kind of a nut for the Texas Terrors. She used to write Calliope Fox letters, back when she was in prison. Lots of letters.”
The bullshit was flowing freely and landing with ease. These women may have known Calliope in the present, certainly knew of her nefarious dealings in the past, but had nothing when it came to the intimate details of her release. Of course, neither did this pretend Pacho I was portraying. Nor I.
“My adopted mother died before Calliope got out. I lost track of her … Calliope, I mean.” The lies were coming so easy now. I was a natural. “She was released and that was all I knew. Until today. I met this nice woman over in the petting zoo. She told me you’ve got a famous felon over here in the food court. ‘Calliope Fox,’ she says. Can you even believe it? What are the chances? So anyway, I just wanted to come see if she was around so I might introduce myself. I guess she’s reformed, right?”
“Let me stop you right there, Pacho,” Susan said. “First of all, that crazy bitch don’t work here anymore. Sorry. You’re shit out of luck. If that’s how you want to look at it. Personally, I think you lucked out. Her last day in the food court was just … two … days … ago.”
Did Susan really draw that last part out? I believe she did. Or maybe my brain was just terribly slow to process the information. She continued.
“We don’t have any fucking idea where she went. Tuesday, she came to work, same as always. Her and Johnny were making sickening googly eyes at each other, same as always. And she was spouting her fucking lies and telling her fucking stories. Same as always.”
“What kind of stories?” I asked.
“You don’t want to know, man. With her, it was impossible to tell what was truth and what was fiction. It was all scary shit, though.”
“When she first started working here, she wasn’t so bad,” Betty said.
“Then she started workin’,” Susan continued. “Workin’ us, if you catch my meaning.”
I didn’t.
“Bitch just had a way about her,” explained Susan. “It wasn’t even what she said or what she did or how she acted or moved her body. It was everything. I can’t explain it.”
“Why’d she leave? She get fired?”
“Haven’t figured that out yet,” Susan said. “Johnny’s been pretty tight-lipped about the whole thing. We’re pretty sure he was fucking her. Dumb bastard. All I can say is good riddance to bad rubbish! That woman is poison. She should’ve stayed locked up forever. Then maybe poor Vanessa wouldn’t have hung herself.”
“What?”
“That’s right. Vanessa Lannigan. She worked here for like ten fucking years or some shit. Everybody liked her. She pretty much ran the food court. Then one day, Johnny introduces this Calliope character. He says she’s part of some work-release program and he has to tell us that cuz it’s the law or some shit. That ex-con comes in here and is sweet as candy to everyone for a long time, just like Betty said. But then, Vanessa, she starts missing shifts here and there. It’s not like her at all. And she’s coming to work late, and we start to notice her eye is twitching. Next thing you know, she’s gone. Poof. Vanishing Vanessa. She turned up a week later in some fucking field in Nebraska, swinging from an oak tree. Naked as the day she was born.”
Bettina shook her head. It was obvious that this was one of the worst things that had ever happened to her. And it hadn’t even happened to her.
“You think Calliope had something to do with it?”
“We know she did,” Frankie said. “She picked Vanessa out early and started whispering in her ear. No one ever knew what the two of them saw in each other, and we mostly kept away. I, for one, was afraid of her. Calliope, I mean. Not Vanessa. She was so sweet — I’m sorry.” She turned and rushed into the hot dog hut. Betty followed her in.
“Way to make friends, Pacho,” Susan said. “Anyway, the bitch is gone, like I said. Two fucking days ago. Count your lucky stars you didn’t have to meet her.”
Ten minutes later, I found myself sitting on the bench outside Malaika Mlinzi’s lair. And once again, she was MIA. Her cage door was wide open.
I retraced my steps. I’d never been surer of a thing than this: I secured her enclosure. The heavy iron bar went down and my hand, steady and sure, fastened the steadfast lock to itself, around the latch. The cage had been sealed shut. The beautiful beast was secure when I left. This I know to be true.
But the truth in front of me told a different story. And now the lioness was loose again. This time, I welcomed her freedom — wherever it may take her.
“Godspeed,” I whispered to the morning air.
The bench moaned as a woman in a cheap, loose-fitting security guard’s uniform sat by my side. I didn’t bother to meet her face, but I noted her steady hand when she passed a shiny, silver flask my way.
“You look worse than I feel,” she said. “Go ahead, have yourself a nip.”
I want to be crystal clear about this. Alcohol was never my problem. Some say it is a gateway drug, but for me, my gateway drug was drugs. Booze never stained me. All said, I hadn’t had a drink since Charlie cleaned me out. It would be rude to the gods if I didn’t accept their gift of ambrosia at this most appropriate of times.
The liquor bit hard, but my gullet had the last laugh and forced it down. The warmness filled me almost immediately, and my head, though caught off guard, approved.
“Go ahead, have another,” she said. Who was I to argue? Mouth met drink again, and I began to relax. “It’s 125 proof, if you can believe that. A tank that big is illegal here in the states. But I know a guy.”
I handed the flask back to her.
“You take it on the chin, you do. A cohort of my own ilk. But you know, I wouldn’t be worth my salt if I didn’t ask myself: Why would a tough sort like you be sharing a stranger’s elixir in a family-friendly place such as this? And before the park opens, no less? Hmm?”
The more she spoke, the more the sounds she made tasted like melting iron. It could have been the whiskey affecting me, but I was certain my senses weren’t working as well as they should. My ears had shut down, and it was my mouth that was taking over the task of hearing her voice — a voice that spat like rattlesnake venom and filled in the cracks between my teeth. There, it settled into the flesh of my gums and resonated, becoming a part of me.
“Opening the gates,” a man’s voice sounded from a walkie-talkie at her waist. “I got a hot one up front. Red van. Been blowing his horn for the better part of the last hour.”
“Send ’em in,” came the answer from some other disembodied voice over the squawk box. “Tell him he’s on our list and if he causes any trouble we’ll eighty-six him faster than —”
My drinking buddy turned a small knob and cut the conversation short.
“I’m off the clock now,” she said. “But let me tell you something, friend. In my wildest fantasies, I never would’ve dreamed up a more fascinating first night on the job. I still can’t believe I talked that dumb prick Johnny into promoting me. What with my lack of education, extensive criminal record, and … well, Johnny’s failure to judge a person’s character is beside the point.
“I’ve been watching you, you see? All night long. I saw you hop the back wall and duck camera forty-four. Guess what, jackass? Forty-four is a decoy! Camera forty-five is hidden in the bushes and it captures everything! Right over there. Yeah. That’s right. We got eyes all over this motherfucker. I watched you, you tricky monkey, and I saw what you did. Look. There.”
She pointed upward, to a cluster of trees just right of the lioness’s den. Sure enough, there was a tiny lens seeing all from the crook of a branch.
“Sneaky peaky lemon squeaky, right? I don’t like to brag, but that one was my suggestion and holy shit did it pay off! And on my first night as watchman! Watchperson. Whatever. We’re still working out the particulars.”
I’d heard enough. I made a move to stand.
“Hey,” she said, and I felt a poking that was not a decapitated bird’s beak in my side. “Not so fast there, bucko. You see this here? This is no decoy, boy. Speaking of number forty-four, this here is a .44 Magnum. You feel it? A dirty cop once called this the most powerful handgun in the world. Well maybe it ain’t just that anymore, but I can tell you from experience that it will carve a hole in your gut so big that your blown-apart body will become a greater tourist attraction than the Grand Canyon, you dig?”
I nodded, despite my doubts anyone would pay to see that sort of thing.
My head was woozy from the drink. Two gulps were all I’d indulged, but it was enough to sour my game. Even though I was not myself, I did still have the clarity to see the situation for what it was. My exhaustion and pitifully low tolerance commingled with my utter disappointment at falling flat in the estranged mother department. It was the ideal recipe for an incapacitated hero, and I saw no salvation forthcoming to make a win of the day. Or the life.
“Now,” she droned on in her self-important manner. “You may be asking yourself, ‘If she was watching me all night, then why didn’t she intervene? Isn’t that her job?’ Well yeah, technically the night watchman — FUCK! — night guard. Yeah that could work. Technically, a person in my position is tasked with catching prowlers, criminals, thieves, vandals, and scumbags. Well, I got a secret for ya, boy-o.” She leaned closer and whispered in my ear. “Ain’t no one worse’n me.”
I yawned. It was a move that was both necessary and purposeful, intended to piss her off. I figured that, in my wretched condition, the only way to escape this gun-wielding, power-hungry psycho was to agitate her enough to throw her off her game. That might at least even the score.
“Save it,” she said, unimpressed by my sardonic gesture. “You aren’t tired. Men like you don’t get tired. Men like you go on. And on and on and on. I’ve seen it. I’ve seen better men than you go on forever.” She considered her last statement a beat too long, then switched gears out of the moment.
“So look, I did you a favor, right? I watched you, but I didn’t act. You know I could get fired for that, right? I mean, it’s like, my one job. But hey, I don’t know you and you don’t know me, right? What I want to know is, how’d you tame the lioness? Are you some sort of, whaddya call it, animal hypnotist? I saw one on a program once. I didn’t understand the point of it then and I sure as tits don’t get it now.”
My attention remained on Malaika Mlinzi’s empty cage. The night guard was so abysmal at her new job, so oblivious, that she hadn’t even noticed the door was open.
“What is with you and that lion? Were you two lovers in a former life or something? Hey, here’s an interesting tidbit to scratch your noodle: Did you know that the lady lion is, more often than not, the prime hunter of the pack? It’s a fact, motherfucker. The lazy male sits around with the kids while the female goes out and brings home the bacon. You believe that shit? No, you don’t seem to be the kind who believes much, do you? What is your endgame here, boy?”
I turned toward her, pushing the barrel of the gun further into my stomach.
“I’m no one’s boy,” I spoke softly. “I’m just your average animal enthusiast.”
“Well ain’t you just the biggest disappointment I ever seen?”
“That hand cannon of yours wasn’t issued to you by the zoo.”
“You think I could legally get a gun? Johnny wouldn’t even give me pepper spray.”
“Go ahead and take your best shot. See where it lands you.”
“I ain’t afraid of jail if that’s what you’re barking about. Jail’s afraid of me.”
“You want to kill me? Go ahead and take your best shot. You can’t kill me. Nothing kills me.”
“Well that’s better! You’ve got some spunk in you, after all! Boy your mama must be proud.”
“Shoot me if you have to, you crazy bitch. I’m sure I got it coming.”
“Maybe I will.”
“Do it and be done, then. I’m going to stand up and walk away now.”
My actions met my words and my legs found some strength. The world spun mysteriously.
“You don’t look so hot.”
She pocketed her gun and rose to meet me. I think we were both a little surprised to discover that we were the same height. In her eyes, I saw the reflection of my own. As I was mindlessly searching for stars in her pupils, her right palm came up out of nowhere and slapped me hard across the face. My body would have gone all the way to the dirt had it not been for her left hook — it came immediately up to meet my other cheekbone. The funny thing about it was that the palm hurt just as much as the fist.
“Easy there, tiger,” she said while I wobbled like a punch-drunk baboon.
I found my footing and realized three truths: (1) The night guard had spiked the whiskey; 125 proof be damned, no whiskey on earth could fly me that high, (2) I was experiencing the world in slow motion, thanks to truth one, and (3) I did not understand the special breed of fuckery that was going down. Was it a scuffle? A death match? Either way, Pratch’s blade would solve the tricky riddle. Together, we would escalate the scrap or meet our foe in proper war. I reached down.
“Yoo-hoo,” she whistled. “Looking for this?”
In her hand she brandished the blade of Peter Pratchett, whose friends call him Pratch. She looked left. She looked right. But as fate would have it, she never looked back.
“What’s it gonna be?” she asked, advancing. “And don’t think I won’t kill you. I’ve already started the job, as I’m sure you can feel. Finishing you off will be child’s play.”
She was smart — for a geriatric asshole — she’d studied her enemy well. Her vulpine features never strayed from mine.
Despite the drug cocktail coursing through my veins, I was not about to shuffle off this mortal coil without a proper bloodbath.
“The time is nigh …”
“… nigh time!”
The night guard advanced just as dual flashes of unparalleled beauty raced to my rescue. Appearing at equidistant, opposite sides of my adversary, my authentic soldiers converged on the battleground. One was dark, one golden. Each entirely unaware of the other. Both held but one concern: to save me.
A determined breeze lifted loose leaves and scattered them about the path. It blew south to northeast, from Terence to Malaika. The old girl’s nostrils flared and she pivoted on a dime, turning absolutely rabid for the boy. Just as Kuwajii before him, Terence had the blood of Shakasantie flowing through him. It was as much an impossible thing as it was real. Terence proved himself to be my brother, my son. His scent unhinged some vital section of the lioness’s brain. There was no other rational explanation for Malaika’s madness. Terence was Kuwajii.
The unemployed actor blazed toward us with tremendous speed, but of course, Malaika was faster. Her legs unleashed the strength and muscle of a hundred generations. Terence, wide-eyed, saw her coming for him, but it was too late. Malaika was driven by white-hot bloodlust. Nothing could settle the beast’s raw desire to kill. I’d seen this calamity play out before. And before. And before. And before.
The big cat leapt, and the night guard dropped to the ground. I shook the poison from my head and got my lazy bones moving. But I would never make it in time. Malaika was airborne.
Terence’s face was owned by his lack of a future. He wore his fear like a death mask. Between beast and man, the anguished wind submitted to the intimate notes of my lamenting Banshee.
“MALAIKA!” I nearly popped a lung. “HEEL!”
The lioness crash-landed, crushing Terence under her weight. Foaming at the mouth, wild in the eyes, lost in her brain, she consciously willed herself against the primal urge to rip his throat out. God love her, she obeyed me. She heeded my word and exorcised the madness.
The beast within the beast lay at bay. My Banshee receded into sky. The loving lioness I knew the night before was returned. She nuzzled her new friend’s face, and Terence’s ultimate terror began to cool.
The night guard stood and raised her gun. She pointed it at the two harmless souls who’d just found each other’s embrace.
“KUWAJII! NOOOOOO!”
Malaika spread her entire body over the boy, essentially covering every inch of his ghostlike features. Her purely selfless act was likely unnecessary, as the night guard was apparently aiming at what she perceived to be a very dangerous, very feral animal. Not Terence.
In the wink of a Mascaran mosquito’s eye, I drew my only remaining weapon from inside my overalls. I held it in my hand no longer than a quadraspec of a millisecond before letting it loose in its final flight.
The gun fired. The .44 caliber bullet’s line was true. It would have decimated Malaika Mlinzi’s heart had it not first met the hard shell of early-onset avian rigor mortis. The pigeon head burst into a modest sprinkling of unimpressive blood and itty-bitty birdbrains. The bullet ricocheted and wedged itself harmlessly into a nearby tree.
I was there now, standing over them, ready to hurl myself before a fresh hail of bullets to save them both. But it would not come to that.
The night guard swayed, unsteady. The revolver fell from her hand. The rogue pigeon’s beak jutted from a red puss hole that used to be her left eye. Whatever vision remained she used to focus on the stench of her past misdeeds.
“Stool pigeons! Spotters and rats!” she cried, then sniffed some rotten stench on the plain between our world and the next.
“What is that awful smell?” she said, stumbling. “Pee-yew.”
Still clinging to Peter Pratchett’s blade, the night guard made no effort to protect herself from it as she fell forward in quite an unceremonious fashion. The hunter’s knife sliced through her in all the right places.
We all make our choices, don’t we? And some are blessed to fashion their own deaths. I surmise that this one — this failed monster of a woman — had worn out her life long ago. She most likely would not have succumbed to her beak-in-eye wound had she not defied all logic and essentially offed herself. Indeed, the night guard met her gruesome end, I would argue, most willingly.
People from all sides were running toward us. I feared only for Malaika. If she were caught out of her cage, what cruel fate would befall her? Carefully, Terence slid out from beneath her; the great beast allowed it. I helped him to his feet and gave the boy an unrestrained hug.
“Where’s Charlie?” I asked.
Just then, a smoky red van with brown-and-white-streaked highlights came barreling toward us. The rushing mob parted as it tore through.
“How’s my timing, boys?” Charlie called from his open window. He screeched to a stop, allowing Terence to jack open the side door and hop in. The security guards, police, fire marshals, ATF agents, FBI, CIA, and zookeepers’ union were nearly on us. Some were drawing their weapons. Yet I hesitated.
“You go,” I said. “I have to protect Malaika.”
“You left me twice … no, wait.” He counted in his head, working out a number that conveniently did not address the times he abandoned me. “Three times, you dick! Bring the kitty if you have to. As long as she’s had her shots.”
Not bothering to disguise my satisfaction, I allowed Terence to help me up and into the van.
“Malaika, come!” I said. The lioness obeyed and jumped. Once her tail was clear of the door, Terence slammed it shut.
Having fully regained my composure, sobriety, and self, I went to sit at Charlie’s side. Immediately, I felt the van’s full power rumbling in my core.
“Marcus,” Terence said as Charlie barreled us toward the rear exit. Harmless bullets made insecure dents in the back doors. “Who was that crazy bitch?”
“No one,” I answered truthfully. “She was no one.”
We zoomed off zoo property and struck the smooth, open road.
“I take it you found what you were looking for,” Charlie said. And somewhere deep inside me, I confessed my sins and made peace with all my beasts and demons.
From the back of the van, Terence hummed a melody that was both upbeat and melancholic at once. The lioness poked her head forward, into the cab. Keeping one hand steady on the dash, I reached down with my free paw and roughly ruffled her smooth head. She purred along to Terence’s song, heedless of the jerks and jolts the road proffered.
The righteous hymn moved Charlie to bark his own off-key baritone contribution. Their shaky, unconfident notes soon snapped to a surefire chorus.
The lyrics reminded me of Shakasantie Village during rainy season. On the wettest of days, I would frolic in puddles and mud pools with the other naked children, dancing dangerously close to the raging Zambezi. The smell of salvation, as yet unclaimed and embryonic, would waft my way through the raindrops.
The distant memory faded and changed, as memories often do, and I was pulled back to our renegade present. The sun would take her final bow much later in the day, making infinite space for the swirling, untamed cosmos to begin its own strange, nightly dance. But for now, she shone with dominant wonder, lighting and blinding our clear path to freedom.
We four misfits, traders to a realistic world, reveled in our mad odyssey toward unborn stars. I rolled down the window and sopped up free blasts of air. When that heart-pounding chorus came around a third time, I roared along with my friends.
It was a glorious, malformed harmony.