episode 2
Night of the Attack (part 2)
Roland
Down the street, back at the newly opened brothel.
2 a.m.
Roland slides his fingers along the oak drink rail — they decided on more wood than marble finishes in the Cardroom, giving it more of a clubhouse feel. Down the wall on the last of the three green-felted card tables, a couple line cooks hustle money from new staff in a game of Hold ‘em. On one of the velvet Chesterfields, Mitzi and The Viking reenact the incident from earlier in the shift. “Ok, here. Let’s show ‘em that filthy fuck tangle.” Both are freshly showered, with heads wrapped in grey house towels. Mitzi climbs over The Viking’s naked figure. “So, I’m on top like this.”
“Yep.” The Viking, the new six-foot-plus adonis, says. “And your pale ass was just like this, right in my face, while Big Banker Guy brushed my hair.” He adjusts his towel, and Mitzi’s bathrobe opens. As her pink parts swing over his tired-looking pieces, she twists to position The Viking’s hands over his lap where there’s a pretend john gulping down what they paid to gobble up, bobbing their imaginary head.
Roland shakes it off. Three months ago, Mitz was just a cute bartender in their failed restaurant. The Viking? He was an escort already. They just hired him. Roland already heard the story and keeps to the bar, to a drink, not sure he’ll ever get used to all’a this.
The doors are locked, and Big Floyd’s now stuffed behind the small stick playing Bartender/DJ, clashing 90’s grunge, R&B, and whatever else they’ve scratched together for a record collection. Floyd’s still in his dark suit but done for the night as head of security. The crew notches up with more dancing, joking, and shouting ‘bout the crazy night, the cards, the band, the tricks, the mess in Room Ten O’Clock, the pink glass dildo, and the fucking French onion soup pot pies.
Dani, Roland’s right hand, the better business person, squeezes behind the bar with Floyd and lines up three shot glasses. “Last guest gone! Fuck me. Ya believe Mitz and the Viking? Like ten people in that room!” She slides the whiskey. “Good payday, but what’a mess. Might have to burn everything in there to get rid’a that stink.”
Floyd smiles. “Rich ass mother fuckers be dumpin’ more than bills tonight!”
Grossed out, Roland changes the subject. “They’re all squared up?”
“Fuck off. Ya think I’d let that easy money get away?”
“I dunno Dani.” Roland almost slumps into a barstool, but just leans again. “I think I fucked up. Maybe Iz and I should just go ‘n get’a cabin in the hills, way up in the Redwoods. Or one’a those buildings on Cheap Old Houses. We can start an art colony. Make a safe place for people to create and get away from all this capital exploitation. Just art, ya know.” They all clink and shoot. “There, we can raise our baby, garden. Have chickens and stuff. It’ll be cool. Right?”
Dani pushes a lock of umber hair behind her ear and bends her business face to a smile. “One. Roland. Can’t believe you and Iz are having a kid, and you sneaked this by her while she’s morning sick and barfing all the time. Two. Don’t be bringing all this whiney baby shit in here. We just worked our asses off for the last three months, and tonight, we made a shit-ton!”
They both twitch a smile and let that joke go.
“Ha! Now’s the time to make some dough.” Her silk top snags when she slips off her blazer (ochre/raw sienna toned shoulders, black bra strap). “Then three. Lighten up, crybaby pants. You and Iz’ll figure things out. She’ll get used to the tits and dicks. This place is gunna kill. Were just getting started.” She pours Roll a double in a crystal tumbler. He nods thanks and retreats to rest his achin' heart and tired-ass feet.
Chef Mauzy, their culinary savant, leans into the Cardroom in bright Nike kicks. He wears his weight well and looks like he’d fit into one of those Chinese silk paintings of ancient emperors. His scraggly beard and tattoos make him a mix of Attila the Hun and a cool kid from the East Village. He’s out of his chef jacket in a black V-neck tee. “Way to go, mother fuckers, great job! I’m fucking beat. Been here since nine this morning. See you tomorrow, and we’ll do it again.”
“Man, Chef, that crazy pot pie was fucking epic!” Nelson, hired bartender, now lovable bad boy for rent, shouts across the Cardroom, wearing only black combat boots and a gallery of tattoos. He leans over a cocktail table, fills his sinus with powder, and falls back into the large chesterfield. His throbbing flagpole smacks against his illustrated washboard stomach. “Still don’t know how you keep the liquid inside the pot pie? How’d you do it? You could eat the soup and the whole bowl at the same time. Just crazy.” He pinches his nose and squeaks, “And the fire?! Fucking genius, Chef!” Chef Mauzy waves and moves to go for the night.
Kim, another pretty waiter now turning tricks, slaps Nelson’s crooked mast against his leg. “How do you have a hard-on? You fucked all night. Put ‘The Club’ away, already!”
“Easy, darlin’. I’m chafed. Worn through. This thing might break ‘n pop off like a cork” —sniff. “Took much Viagra to keep up.” Sniff. “It’ll die down soon. I hope.”
“Hold up, Chef, take’a ‘to-go.’ Look at all these I rolled.” Kim licks the rolling paper and runs to Chef Mauzy in an oversized Sac State sweatshirt, no pants. “Just a lil’ tobacco in there to keep ya sharp and get you home safe.”
She stuffs a smoke behind Chef’s ear and reaches to give him a kiss on the cheek. Her shirt lifts, showing the naked double-U shape of her bare behind. “After tonight, we all have’ta calm down a bit. Didja see Mitzi, Chef? She stuck a big ass glass dick in some dude’s ass and he shit all over Room Ten O’Clock. Everywhere! Like, what’d that guy eat?”
“Or what didn’t he eat? Like a goddamn soft serve machine. Shootin’ chocolate everywhere.”—Nelson chops another line—“but the smell. Damn, I know that wasn’t your food, Chef.”
“Yes, Chef’s food only makes great shit.” Bare-bottomed Kim returns to the cocktail table of a dozen crafted joints in a rocks glass, an antique hand mirror of lines of powder, and a rolled hundred-dollar bill.
Finally, Roland is off his feet and can disappear into one of the big leather Cardroom chairs. Isabell still hasn’t gotten back. You’ve reached out enough, Roll. Give her space. Don’t call. Don’t text.
Floyd shouts over the volume of his headphones, flipping a record. “Shit, Roll, I was spacin’ hard. Nine lives, nine dimensions, crisscrossing. You think its like degrees, like the further one dimension is from another the more different they are? Like the dimension next to ours maybe, maybe they got people that are like dinosaurs or something. Maybe that’s where dinosaurs came from!? Maybe that’s where they went?”
“Shit, Floyd, I’m having a hard enough time with this one dimension. Can’t be worryin’ about eight others.” Roland smiles and raises his glass to the crew.
Floyd looks to the next record he’s going to play and says to himself, “Cats sleepin’ all the time. Working hard in nine spots at once.”
Not wanting to stand again, Roland stretches his drink up to address the room. “Wasn’t easy. Phew! What a night! What. A. Week! What a fucking mess. Thanks, everyone.” He tries to sound excited and sincere, but it slurs out tired and a little drunk. They cheer. They’re all slurring, tired, and a little drunk.
Mitzi gives Roland a warm terry-cloth hug; escaped wet hair drips on his neck. “Roland. You look so sad. She’ll come ‘round. Izzie loves you. Just give her some time. Make sure you celebrate, Rolly. You made something pretty special here.” She tickles his ear with gin-soaked lips. “You did it!”
In chilled whiskey blues and post-shift euphoria, Roland closes his eyes, slides into the overstuffed chair, and runs his tongue over his new gold tooth. The Fugees’ “Killing Me Softly” and booze rock him to a happy-ish alcohol trance.
The record player’s needle pops gentle static on the paper label as the crew gathers for an after-after party at Nelson’s place. “Coprophilia!” Zeke shouts, looking up from his phone. “I knew it was’a thing.”
“Crap-o-felling-ya? Fucking gross, dude. Let's get outta here. Night, Roll. Sure you don’t wanna come?”
Roland waves ‘em off. Snout to tail, he’s half drunk, half asleep. “Sorry guys, I’m exhausted. I still gotta close up shop.”
“Night, boss.” Big Floyd walks across the lobby to the restaurant, through the bookshelf door.
As the staff spills out the loading dock, she runs back inside, now fully dressed, shouting back to the departing staff, “Oh shit, I gotta pee ‘n forgot my phone. I’ll catch a ride with Biggs. See ya guys there.”
Her voice trails into Room Ten O’Clock while the intoxicated crew spills into the parking lot. The still spinning and forgotten record player needle pops. From next door, in the fully legal restaurant, through the secret bookcase doorway, Roland hears the bar’s shopkeeper bell ring. A door slams. A Clock Room toilet flushes.
—————-
They move through the bordello with heavy boots, scanning corners, entrances, and exits with automatic rifles professionally tucked up to their heads. For a second, before Roland notices they are hounds, he thinks maybe they’re cops.
The one in front is human (thin, good cheekbones, and scars from acne and cuts). Out of his crooked nose, a chunk’s missing. The armed beasts behind him are a little taller and a lot more terrifying. They have the heads of dirty dark wolves: long white fangs, broken ears, scars, pus-filled wounds, tongues out, and matted hair with the large, powerful bodies of men.
Dressed head to toe in black, with flak jackets and helmets, they look like modern U.S. soldiers but with wolf heads and no flag patches. Chewed-on broken tails poke out from the back of their uniforms. Geared up with assault rifles, sidearms, and pockets on top of pockets expertly packed with whatever endless death instruments to kill everything twice and burn this place to the ground.
Through the open door to the loading dock, Roland hears the staff in the back parking lot, oblivious to the walk-in Dog Head Four Top. They close car doors, start engines, make jokes, and drive off to Nelson’s party. The human guy has his helmet under his arm and his face covering pushed around his neck. “I am looking for Roland.” He projects from across the lobby with an accent hard to pin.
Roland is frozen, still in the Cardroom, leaning to lift the record player’s needle scraping against the red paper circle. The leader’s words linger awkwardly in the hall, like a lonely drunk after last call who doesn’t wanna leave. His men spread out and work the circular perimeter, popping open Clock Room doors, ensuring they’re empty, then lunging to the next. The human guy stops under the chandelier, scans the interior, and locks on Roland’s large blue eyes.
“Roland Desmund?” the intruder asks,.“Is that you? The owner of this establishment?”
Roland’s glassy, exhausted eyes, blink slow, and his scaly mouth hangs open. For fucks’ sure I do not want to chew what I’m seeing. I won’t be able to spit this out. After the last three months! And all’a this fucking back breaking work! building all’a this? Making sure the place is staffed, and packed with fat-pocketed paying customers. I finally get to start payin’ off this stinky debt? What the fuck even is this?
The man waits for a response.
Before the hounds move to the staff out back, Roland stops the rhythm-crackle-pop of the record player with a shaking hand, crosses the large Persian rug, then slinks into the lobby, toward the men. “I am Roland. How can I help?” With his best host attitude, he stays calm and says to himself, Act like it’s absolutely normal that armed dog-head-soldiers show up at four in the morning right after we’re all doing drugs and drunk as fuck.
The leader smiles, “Ah, yes. I have heard of the famous reptile man. What a pleasure!” He sizes up Roland’s hands, neck, and head, then cranes around to see his tail. “Most Chimeras are locked up or put down, no?” He gives a nod that’s hard to read. “My men are an exceptional exclusion.” He looks around the lobby. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” The human guy’s eyes go up to the dome of the rotunda. “Yes, rare indeed.”
The leader ignores another crash from the bar. Roland’s pathetic worry washes away, and his broken heart skips when bloody and barely conscious Big Floyd is dragged in. A fourth guard dog easily holds the head of security’s substantial weight by the back of his jacket. Drops of crimson pitter-patter and cluster under Floyd’s wilting head. The leader pats his stomach. “I am looking for something to eat and drink for my men. We have had a long trip, and your establishment comes highly recommended.”
The fourth soldier tosses Floyd to one of the waiting couches like a sack of soiled linens. Big Floyd spills more ruby coins on the polished marble. The cold blood of fear trembles Roland’s lips and runs a flutter of scales from his neck down his tail. His stomach clenches. He wants to hide. Curl into a safe shape. Run! His eyes dart to the dressing room as a brown pit-bull-headed soldier squeezes through the doorway, blocking his exit.
Roland’s tail whips, he sniffs, shakes his head, wipes his eyes, and takes a breath. In his most sober and metered speech, Roland addresses the intruders as he would a guest who might be complaining about a cold dish or too long’a wait for a table. “Sorry, we are closed, but I might be able to get something out of the kitchen for you?”
The man in front pauses and looks around. “Will. You. Look at these walls?” The human leader studies the construction of the brothel and ceiling. “Did you soundproof this place? Wow! What a great idea. No one can hear anything from the street? I’ll bet we could release forty rounds in here, and nobody would hear a thing.” He motions to one of his men. The soldier chambers his rifle with a snap and positions to fire at the ceiling. Roland goes to cover his ears and head, then he sees her standing, framed in the doorway of Room Ten O’Clock, quivering lips, crying.
The leader's head gears grind as he oozes a cola-sweet baritone. “Oh, I am just having a joke. I would not destroy such a luxurious place. Look at this sparkling, beautiful chandelier. Come now, little lady, don’t cry… But if you do cry…” He loosens a sideways smile. “No one will hear you, and no one will call the police. Because…what would the police do with this place, right?” He smirks. “Maybe the lady can get us something to eat?”
“I can grab it. She’s just leaving. It’s been a long night.” Roland walks farther across the lobby, stepping between her and the leader.
“Ha!” the leader scoffs. “She is not going anywhere, Mr. Roland.”
