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The Sparrows Keep Coming Back

Sometimes when I wake up before Vixy, I like to just lie there in our bed and watch dust motes floating through the beams of golden light above us, cavorting and dancing about to the slightest hints of air. There's a coolness in our apartment, old and stuffy with expired incense and fumes of cheap alcohol, an atmosphere of hedonistic peace. I can feel her breathing, slow and steady in her dreams beside me, and I resisted putting my arms around her for fear that she would wake up and want to get to work. She was always busy, especially during the summer months when temperatures and passions in the city run high.

I lay there for what must have been an hour or so, just breathing in the cool morning serenity. I couldn't tell the time because Vixy always slept on the side with the clock on the nightstand. She was a stickler for keeping precise time, even before she became a mayoral candidate. She hated the job, claiming that the worst thing you could possibly do in the new world was listen to complaints and issues that you had no bearing with and give commands to people below you. “There's still a classism at the end of the world," she was fond of saying after a few hits of bourbon, punctuating it with a shake of her head. I knew she despised the position, but compared to those running against her I felt she was the only one who could make it a remarkable thing, and I know she'd get this city up and running at optimal capacity in no time.

I listened to the sparrows outside, nature's orchestra welcoming the sun. Suddenly I thought of how fun it would be to have Vixy wake up to have breakfast in bed, to have everything in our morning repertoire already done. With as much sneaky subtlety I could invoke, I slipped out of bed, stepping down the hallway and into the bathroom on tip-toes.

Vixy had owned the apartment for several years before I came into the picture some months ago, and even then the bathroom was one big ugly imperfection. I gave up trying to tidy it after the second week, deciding that the best course of action was to let it rot, and maybe Vixy would finally choose to move to someplace better. The floor and walls were done in white tile, chipped in places and blemished in others, and when you turned on the lights, which were yellow, the whole room looked like one big piss-stain. The mirror was cracked, perfect lightning scar down the middle, and the pipes for the bathtub were spotted with rust. The tile was bare near the bathtub, exposing dark moist wood from which grew thin pale mushrooms. Mushrooms.

I looked at myself in the mirror, trying to see what Vixy saw in me. I only saw a rabbit, a little overweight and a little short, black and white fur patterned like messy random splotches of paint. My blonde hair had once been a short pixie cut, now becoming what a pixie cut turned into after a couple weeks without management. The two gold rings in my lower lip glinted in the light, bringing out my cappuccino eyes. My breasts I tried to live with, tried to keep them in their place, but even with a bra they had a tendency to do their own thing. The only thing for which I had any pride was my ass. I looked at it in the mirror, like a pair of big dark peaches, partially covered by a pair of red cotton panties with a skull on the rear. I never used to wear underwear as often as I did now, only Vixy had a thing about panties. That was her deal.

That and a little mayhem.

I brushed my hair back into place, brushed my teeth, didn't bother with a shower. I crept into the kitchen and started making breakfast for the both of us. All I could manage was eggs and toast, a couple sandwiches with bread that might or might not have passed expiration. I poured some milk into a pair of glasses, put everything on a tray, and carried it to the bedroom.

When I got there, I was forlorn to see Vixy awake and standing at the window. She was naked of course, and I could see all of her tattoos, the winding and twisting fairy garden and glittering spirits curling around her pale skin, flecked by freckles that covered her body like ground red pepper. A flag of green, white, and orange dominated the nape of her neck, nearly hidden by her unkempt fiery red hair, highlighted by strips of neon green. I could hear her fingernails digging into the wood of the windowpane, her bold Irish brogue just barely reaching my ears.

“In visions of the dark night I have dreamed of joy departed. But a waking dream of life and light hath left me broken-hearted…"

Vixy Noxic was as much a scholar as she was a rebel, another thing I admired about her. I coughed and she turned around, her eyes the color of damp grass, of rain-slicked pastures and secret forests. For a bare moment, I had caught the glint of hatred that would crop up in her face from time to time, glaring sustained explosion, but it vanished when she saw me. I wondered what she was looking at.

“Deezy," she said with an embarrassed grin, “You know you shouldn't have done that."

“No, I shouldn't have, but I did anyway. Now eat, you scrawny bitch."

She laughed at that, bird-twittering laughter that echoed along the walls of the bedroom. If I had been anybody else, I thought, she would have manually removed as many teeth as she could see. I set the tray on the bed and sat down, patting the open space beside me. Rolling her eyes, she walked over and sat down with me and together we ate the crappy breakfast I made.

Truth be told, I really don't mind being “Vixy's girl." She was good to me, and I tried to make up for her constant dotage by relieving the stresses that accrue with her job and allowing her to relish in some of her wild ways. It was just her unpredictability that took some getting used to. For example, on our first date she took me to a bar over in the lower part of Sector 23, a seedy little cowpat called “Red's." Things were going fine until she took a drink of her bottle of whiskey. She spat it out in a fine spray over what passed as a dance floor and stood up in a rage, staring hard at the label. “Blended Canadian!?" she shouted, “The only whiskey's Irish whiskey! Come on!" and in a fit she grabbed me by the hand and dragged me out of the bar. I recall spending most of that night in a confused and bemused daze.

Then, there was the time there was an oil slick down on Diogenes Street, running down for several blocks. Most of the vehicles running through had made it out of there without incident, but Vixy and I drove a big army jeep, black and sky blue. The second the wheels touched the black slick our vehicle fishtailed, moving on a course directed by the oil, which promptly led down most of the street and into the wall of an abandoned Dairy Queen. The damage to the jeep was severe; we had to discard it. Within the hour, Vixy retaliated by getting a job at the oil refinery. I didn't ask her about the three grenades missing from our cache. All I know is that the oil fields went up in flames that day, and Vixy was laughing nonstop for as long as they burned.

After she had finished eating, Vixy immediately jumped off the bed and headed to the closet. She put on some black spandex shorts, a yellow-brown leather loincloth over that, long socks (one leg was green, the other skin-colored and partially rolled down), tall black hiking boots, a ripped olive green children's A-Team t-shirt, a big brown Penelope Keith hat, and a pair of gardening gloves; her usual daywear. I watched her slip on some mirrored sunglasses, not bothering to check herself in the mirror. She never gave a shit about what other people thought of her appearance, and that was yet another thing I loved about her.

She headed off to the guest room, the big place where we store all of our weapons. Sector 23 wasn't a very dangerous city, but people had a tendency to put the needs and wants of the self ahead of others, and they liked to take the shortest route to attain cash. Some predators hunt in packs. Vixy had both the nose for finding military-grade firearms and explosives and the luck to be near them; she often called herself a “cordite bloodhound." All of the goods we find we keep safe on hand, either for practical use or for trading.

When she came back, she was tucking a small black fife into the elastic of her loincloth, a big, snub-nosed Smith & Wesson Model 500 bouncing against her hip in its holster, her “fife and drum" combo. I rolled onto my back, giving her a pleased look and something to think about while she was away.

“Don't you have to go to work, too?" she asked with perfect nonchalance.

“Not for another hour. How come you have to leave so early?"

“Oh, you know politics. It takes an hour to complain and another hour to complain about the complaining. I won't be long."

“You'll always belong here."

I knew it was stupid when I heard it in my ears; if I wasn't totally certain that Vixy had become used to my lame wordplay games I wouldn't have said it. She smiled, coming over and leaning down over me, peppering my face with butterfly kisses. Her lips tickled my fur and I giggled into her hat. She knew I could be tough, but she also knew that she was the only one who could melt that toughness into something silly and gooey. After she completed her salvo, she looked down at me, her hands pressing into the mattress on either side of my face.

“It's the final election, the last debate for the year. If I win, we're gonna have a real big, arse-busting jamboree. If I lose, we'll just have to celebrate anyway. You dig?"

“I dig," I said.

She smiled at me, bit her lip in that cute manner that she pretended didn't exist. Some strands of her red and green hair brushed against my eyelashes and I blinked.

“I don't deserve you, Deezy."

“Yeah, you do."

She kissed me then, long and lasting on the lips; I could taste nicotine and caffeine memories on her breath, perfume marked Bourbon number five. With that she left, quick strut out of the bedroom, dull door-slam announcing her departure.

I lay there in the bed, fuck all to do except daydream for half an hour. If we were going to have a party tonight, I should hit the store and grab a couple cases of happiness after work. I'm pretty good with spaghetti and sandwiches but not much else. I'll figure something out.

Eventually, I got my ass off the mattress and walked to the dresser. I put on some new panties (sapphire blue, my favorite color) and strained a bra over my chesticles. I preferred maintenance and engineering jobs, so I decided to put on some high-waist peg tops and a simple blouse, both faded blue. Sometimes the available jobs didn't demand gloves but sometimes they did, so I always brought my own pair, thick beige rubber. I tied my hair back with a sky blue headband and tucked the legs of my pants into a pair of vintage 1960's Chelsea boots. Finished, I looked in the mirror and pouted; I looked pretty damn good. With some haste I set up a bag lunch with what looked appealing in the fridge and headed out the door.

Sector 23 has a pretty curious job application system. Show up at the office, pick which job you want from the list of availables, the man or lady behind the counter puts in a call, and bam, job for the day. Some people dislike the non-specialized work procedure, but I think it's great. It bolsters a healthy sense of competition and creates a solid community of Jacks- and Janes-of-all-trades.

When I got to the office building it was nearly nine 'o' clock and only a few of the jobs on the chalkboard were already crossed out. There were a few new picks but I opted for service mechanic, something I'm used to. I headed to the place up on Ramone Street, very familiar with the location; I was on first-names there with everyone. Work was brisk and easy, if a little fast-paced. Of all the pieces that people pick up after they blow each other to bits, machines and vehicles are among the first ones. The shift ended at six in the afternoon, the sun still high on its downhill descent as I stepped out, giant's golden disco ball creating long shadows from the towering city structures.

Sector 23 wasn't a primary target when all the sides started in with the nukes, but cultural and religious conflicts eventually sparked a bullet-ridden chaos that made people hope for a ten-megaton cherry bomb to land on their heads. The city became an asylum, with guns ringing and people screaming which, in time, stopped, replaced by the cawing of happy crows and sparrows.

That was eighty years ago, well before my time. When people destroy each other, they lapse into their ancestor's universe, a primal, natural world to which they've become unaccustomed, so they do whatever it takes to retain a sense of culture and civilization, and a city, from a largely untouched place like Sector 23 to a still smoldering hole-in-the-ground like Detroit, become more than a bunch of buildings. They become a symbol that people flock to, evidence that civilization is lasting, can stand something as impermanent as the madness of nuclear war. Sector 23 grew into something better than what it was, a thriving organism with a booming economy and population. Like thousands of others, my parents were born here, and they made sure I had love and pride for where I was born.

After work I walked down Walther Avenue into DeCarlo Street, where the majority of the shops were. This was a bustling part of the city right next to the park, with groupings of low, easily-accessed buildings and street vendors barking for their wares. Ignoring these, I walked into a two-story structure marked by a big red neon sign, claiming it to be “Widow's." Widow's was a popular general store in the city, one of those places where if you couldn't find something anywhere else, chances were it was on the shelves at Widow's.

It was run by a pair of Wiccan vixens. They were very nice, if rather shrewd and untrusting, particularly to people wearing leather jackets and a ton of jewelry. Honey, the younger one with long flaxen hair and golden fur, greeted me as I came in, flashing a dazzling smile.

“Afternoon, dear!" she said, joysplosion. Her hair had been tied back like mine, only her band was white. A black shirt two sizes too big proclaimed her interest in Asenath Laveau, a local singer and musician.

“Afternoon," I said, smiling back at her. It annoyed me that she called me “dear" even though she was a few years younger than me, but I've learned to not aggravate the co-owner of one of the most vital economic veins of the city. Abigail, the older of the two, had an uncanny knack for understanding the web of goods and services of the city and how everything affected everything; shop-keeping wasn't the only pie in which she had a clever finger.

After some quick banter with the young fox, I grabbed a plastic bin and started going through the aisles, picking up what I thought Vixy might like. The damndest thing about that girl was that her tastes shifted every twelve hours. One night you'd be having Italian and everything's peachy, and the next night she'd tell you she hates Italian and she'd rather have seafood. You set up leftovers the next night and guess what? She doesn't want that, she'd rather have soup. The fun part was trying to deduce her wants for the next night and seeing her face when you've got it right.

I grabbed a few things just for tonight; my check won't come in until Thursday. I stood in the line, glancing at my watch from time to time when I heard some voices behind me. That's always how it is, you find yourself waiting in line and you can't help but pay more than enough attention to the conversations around you.

“So what happened after that?"

“What do you think happened? She started running for mayor, didn't she? Can't destroy the city from the outside, she has to wreck it from the center."

“Heh, yeah."

I'd heard this before. I cringed, scowled, cracked my knuckles, and tried to ignore them.

“But just 'cause her granny was all hopped up on power don't mean she's in the same road."

“Are you kidding? You see that look in her eyes, the clothes she wears? You know she's the one that started this non-specialized work crap? She's pure batshit looney tunes, and that runs in the family. Wouldn't surprise me one bit if she had that book under her pillow or something. The hell d'you think she's going to do once she's part of the administration, set up a fleet of soup kitchens? Huh, she'll be setting up churches in her name next! And that little cunt that follows her around isn't any better."

Blood shot into my cheeks. That was a new line.

“Little lapdog on a leash, what's she playing at? Just 'cause she lives with that bitch apparently means she's got titles."

“She's got a pretty big mouth on her, too."

“Yeah, I got a good idea how to—."

“You really wanna finish that sentence?"

I had finally turned around, letting my eyes go wide and turning up my lips in a sneer. The two guys, a tall red fox and a human, both prime illustrations of the dictionary entry for “douchebag," looked at me in surprise, their eyes like flying saucers.

“You really think you know what she's about, do you? You really think you two assholes have got anything up on her, do you? I hate you self-righteous, superficial, stupid bastards and everything you represent! You are nothing compared to us!"

Maybe if I was taller, my outburst would have had more of an impression. With my size I probably looked comical, little black-and-white fireball. Their shock disappeared, giving way to incredulous, lecherous grins. The human nudged his buddy.

“See what I mean?"

“Yeah, she does have a mouth on her. And like I was saying—."

“Yeah!?"

“I was saying I got a good idea to show that pretty little mouth of yours a real adventure!"

“You just try it and I'll be tap-dancing on yer fuckin' grave!"

BANG!

Cannonfire in the shop, pressurized thunderclap. All eyes turned to see a bright red vixen in a long ocean-flavored dress standing by the third and fourth aisles, cradling a basket of ribbon-tied flowers in one arm and a smoking shotgun in the other. There was a scattered collection of smoldering craters in the ceiling above her. I didn't care to notice that at first because those deep brown eyes of hers were staring right at me. Whereas my eyes were like coffee laced with milk, hers were more like the deep dirt and soil, ancient and cool.

Abigail glared calmly at everyone, holding her stare long enough for everyone's emotions to drain away. Then, lowering her shotgun and turned to me, speaking with the cool, silky voice of a mother. “Diesel, right? Right…are you here to complain or to purchase?"

I told her I was here to purchase. She looked at the items in my shopping bin.

“Right, find everything okay?"

I said yes.

“That's good. Have a nice day."

Abigail gave a modest smile and sauntered down the aisles, setting the shotgun in the basket with the flowers. Roses, I think they were. I kept in line, adding to the silence in the shop. When it came to be my turn at the counter I gave Honey a look, leaning my elbow on the ceramic edge.

“I thought you witches had a law or something," I said, casting a glance at the older vixen. “You know, 'harm none?'"

Honey just smiled and flicked her hair. “Oh, Abigail's more of an eclectic. That'll be twenty-eight dollars, dear."

“Jesus, for what?" I muttered, already taking out my wallet, knowing there was no haggling with this broad. She bagged my stuff, we bantered briefly, then I headed back out into the street, shadows lengthening.

Twenty-eight goddamn dollars for a single meal. I would have done better just taking Vixy out tonight.

I got home sometime before seven o' clock. I thought of changing into some lingerie, classy burlesque black, but I remembered she hated complicated material, so I just put on some black denim short-shorts, studded wristbands, camo tank top. I threw on some biker boots for the hell of it, just to hear the sound of heavy boots on the scuffed linoleum before Vixy got back. Within the hour I made dinner, shrimp fettuccini, sprinkled to my satisfaction with pepper, red and black. Cheap-ass wine that was probably poured out of a box and into a tall bottle just to up the price. I set up the table right next to the window—I know Vixy hated windows, but she'd just have to relax or she wasn't getting anything to eat—and lit a couple candles.

In the days before I met Vixy, my evenings consisted of me putting on whatever I had, spiking up my hair, and just waiting for some shit to happen. There were clubs, concerts, hangouts, loitering spots, do-nothing places where people went to do a few things, get high and fuck and start a few fires. I used to piss around a little lezzy club that pretended to care about politics called Lilac Fire and the alleyways beyond, trying to lose all my money and most of my life on sex and pot. Nobody would hire me because of how I dressed or how I acted, my parents had started in on me ever since I had moved out and found an apartment in the lower part of Sector 23, only to lose it some weeks later because I couldn't keep up with the payments. I was too proud to take out a loan, so I just lived by the street, getting my funds from passing pockets and, less commonly, from people who couldn't defend themselves from a paunchy little rabbit. I remember coming into a good haul one day and squandering it on cheap girls and cheaper peyote. I woke up from my daze what must have been a week later, my face buried in a set of pale and freckly thighs. I looked up, my vision very much out of focus, seeing only a pale human face surrounded by a halo of fiery red.

I forced my eyes to focus and I saw Vixy Noxic for the first time, looking down at me with wide emerald eyes. She puffed a cloud of unfiltered smoke into my face and sniffed. “Who said you could stop?" she said, heavy Irish lilt with an English sneer. “Nobody's stopping this train now!" There was a drone of noise, collective cheer, and with my head still cradled between her legs I looked around, seeing all around me a gathering of men and women in leathers and chains, collars and cuffs, D-rings and nipple rings, snap-ons and strap-ons, tattoos and heavy shoes. The room was covered in fancy upholstery and decorated with soft fabrics and gaudy, classical nude portraits; an expensive whorehouse. The spidery Irish girl seemed to be in the center of the room, nucleus of hedonistic chaos. As the group around us laughed and gamboled, she gave a long and high laugh, rapid-fire hee-hees bleeding off into ha-has; it was maniacal, but it was beautiful, and she cut it off by taking a pull of her beer bottle.

I must have been the only one sober—relatively sober—at that party. Taking a chance during the festivities, I asked the girl what her name was, asked for her number, expecting an incredulous laugh or the words “fuck no." I certainly didn't expect her to give me a wet kiss, a paper towel with her address scrawled on it with a horrendous penmanship. Eventually, the festivities concluded and I followed the redhead out of the building, holding her up in her intoxicated haze. I remember she held onto my ass like it was a life preserver; I let her walk herself to a taxi, saw her flash me a smile from the window, saw her press her lips up against the glass, and she disappeared down the street, off into the night. A couple days later I managed to scrounge up enough courage to call on her, expecting a much different woman in her sobriety. I smelled awful, my leather jacket infused with pot, beer, sweat, and vomit, and I couldn't stop thinking about all the stupid shit I'd undoubtedly end up saying to her or doing in front of her. She opened her apartment door, recognizing me, and I couldn't help but blush when I remembered those wide emeralds staring down at me while my face was pressing into her slit. To my further shock, she invited me in. After that, I was Vixy's girl.

I heard the door slam shut, moody wood-on-wood bash. There was a heavy sigh, solid boots walking slowly, and I knew things hadn't gone well for her.

She walked into the kitchen, the face of exhaustion; her sunglasses were broken into a monocle, her favorite fife cracked down the middle, her fishnets ripped, gunflash burns marking her gloves, a fresh gash on her cheek, her Penelope Keith hat bent at an unbecoming angle, and a lock of her brilliant hair curved around her eye and into her mouth. She spat it out as she looked at me.

“How was politics?" I asked.

“'M fuckin' knackered," she muttered, just audible past her lips. She took off her gloves and slapped them on the table, doing the same with her hat. I hummed a consoling response as I watched her. She just had an air about her, something invisible but invincible. She looked like she just walked through an assembly line of tanks on the conveyor, but there was still a power there, and I couldn't help but smile at her. She walked to the fridge, her limbs akimbo, and threw open the door.

“What have we…feck."

“No, no, no," I said as I put my hands on her shoulders, directing her toward the table I had set up. “I already made dinner for us. You just sit down and eat, babe."

“Feck?"

I shut the fridge door and led her to the table. I sat her down, putting pressure on her shoulders, and went to my seat. The candles between us were already dripping, vanilla blood congealing on their long bodies. She looked at her plate with a raised eyebrow, analyzing its look and scents. I watched her face, satisfied as it quietly passed inspection. I knew it did because she didn't have anything about which to complain. She grabbed her fork and gestured to the window at her left.

“Window," she said.

I took my own fork and pointed at her plate. “Food."

She smiled, shook her head, and started eating. I gave her a head start in order to gauge her reaction. She was pleased, and I was pleased. For a good while it was quiet, the room filled only with the sounds of our eating. I tapped her boots with my boots, and we smiled at each other.

“This is really, really good, Deez."

“Thanks. How were things at the office?"

She just shrugged, tired and sad rise and fall of her shoulders. “You know I never wanted the job, Deezy. I don't want to tell a bunch of people what to do, I don't want to represent a whole fuckin' city, I don't want to listen to issues and enact rules and policies and shite. I don't care that a few dozen people think that I'm neither needed nor wanted, it's just when you actually hear it out loud that it hits kind of hard."

“They said that?"

Vixy nodded and looked out the window, biting her lip in that impossibly adorable way.

“Just double digits," I said, trying to sound sympathetic. I really wanted her to get it, in spite of her conceptions of the job.

“Aye, double digits," she repeated, twirling her fork into the pasta and spearing a pink shrimp. She still looked so sad.

I suddenly thought about her moods, the way they twisted around like a snakeball. I wondered for how long this sadness would last, how deep she would fall before she would rise up again. She was very rarely depressed, at least when we first met, but lately I've caught her staring out of windows, looking over the city with slumped shoulders, reciting bitter poetry like she did this morning. What if I was the reason for her fugue? I don't see the reasoning behind that, but it's a possibility. Some people simply aren't used to a lasting relationship, and some certainly didn't care for the notion.

With an annoying grace, my thoughts turned to those idiots I'd met at Widow's. I wondered how many people thought like them, filled with crazy, stupid impressions, trying to explain away Vixy's…Vixy's what? Eccentricity, I wanted to think, but it was deeper than that; it was an eccentricity befitting an old fashioned mad genius, with white coat and black rubber gloves, thick spectacles behind which burst into bright existence theories and ideas that set scientific progress ahead of morality and ethics. That was Vixy, pale mad genius and I her lowly assistant, happily treading in her shadow.

I thought about what other people thought of her, actually trying to see the logic behind it.

“What's up with you?" she asked.

“Hmm? What?"

“I can't tell if you're eating your food or listening to it. What's the matter?"

“Well, people talk," I said simply.

“Aye, that they do."

“About your grandmother finding a book that wasn't really a book, something called the Electronomicon. They talk about how she started this whole end of the world jazz because she wanted what the world couldn't give her, but the ones who made the book could, so she did what they had told her to do, something that made all this shit happen. They say that…well, because you're related to her that you might, you know…"

Vixy was quiet for a while, just scratched at her plate with her fork. “You're right," she said after a time, “People do talk."

“I know it's all bullshit, Vixy, but…"

“But?"

“I don't know."

“What is this? Are you trying to out-blarney me? You know better, Deezy…"

I smiled at her and shrugged. I loved her, would have killed for her, but I couldn't bring myself to speak my mind. It was those eyes of hers; they were beautiful, but in the same way a snake's eyes are beautiful. You could be staring at those eyes until doomsday came around without knowing what really lay behind them. I stuffed my mouth with a mass of pasta, refusing to allow that topic to come around again.

Much of the rest of that meal was passed in silence. We talked about work, the people we met and worked with, what could make them better people, what we were going to have for tomorrow.

It was when I talked about how well the city was doing that Vixy visibly became bored, jaded even. She sat back in her seat, half-scowl on her face, agreeing with me as I spoke. I told her about the people, what was being planned for new construction, new additions; the city was growing.

Suddenly, her eyes widened. She sat up in her chair, her head tilted slightly to the side as though listening to the night outside. I stopped eating to watch her.

Some things are infectious; influenza and laughter, for instance. With Vixy, adrenaline was communicable. When she stiffened in her chair, I saw a light flare in the deep dark forests and long pastures of her eyes, a plan forming and reforming into a potential mad adventure. I recognized that light, seeing it from time to time some hours before she walks out the door and the ten o' clock news reports about curious accidents that happened during the day. I knew the significance of that dangerous little light, already hearing something exploding off in the distance, and I felt a charge of adrenaline thunder behind my eyes and through my limbs.

“Just a minute," she said, getting up out of her chair and heading quickly into the kitchen, leaving me in a state of perplexed anticipation. She grabbed the phone and punched in a number, held it up to her ear and waited. I twirled my fork into the fettuccini, taking a pensive bite as I watched this puzzlement unfold.

“Hello, Senator Presley? This is Molly Malone, Mayor Berquist's secretary? Yes, fine, thank you."

I gave Vixy a look that she couldn't see, her back was turned to me. Her Irish brogue had disappeared, a very passable American accent taking its place. What the hell was she doing?

“Mr. Presley, Mayor Berquist has plans for this city, some very far-reaching plans that would benefit everyone involved. Unfortunately, these plans require far more than the people currently involved in them. Yes…of course. You see, Mr. Presley, he has interests here in Sector 23, interests which he would be willing to share to special investors. I'm allowed to make an offer of two hundred million. Yes? Oh, that wouldn't be an issue; Mayor Berquist is willing to pay whatever amount possible. Yes, that would be fine. He would very much like to meet you on Thunder Road. Yes, that large open space at the foot of a cliff. Oh, that would be perfect! Yes, tomorrow morning at ten. Oh, is that right? How about eleven? That would be fine, Mr. Presley, thank you. Not at all, not at all. Mr. Berquist sends his regards to you and your family, and from me I would like to say good night. Yes, you too, Mr. Presley! Goodbye!"

Beep.

I stared long and hard at her, trying to comprehend what I had heard, trying harder to comprehend what she was planning. Vixy started humming a fast-pitched tune as she took a little red pocket notebook out of a slot in one of her boots, flipping through the pages until stopping, smiling, and put in the phone number.

She did this perhaps seven times, each with a slightly different accent and a decidedly Celtic alias. At the end, she clicked off the phone, set it on its stand, and gave a curious little jog-in-place dance, emitting a childish giggle.

“Is there something I'm missing?" I asked.

“Yes, but that can't be helped. As for what I just did, everything is going to be just fine, darling."

Vixy came over and took a big gulp from the wine bottle, gripping it by the neck. Slamming it down on the table, she gave me a curious look. “You finished?"

“Yeah?"

She grabbed my hand and pulled me out of my chair, twirling me around as I went limp in surprise. She stopped me mid-spin, her right hand in mine and the other on my lower back, looking hard and deep into my eyes, predator stare.

“What do you say, sweets? Wanna dally in the valley?"

Holy shit, that was a mood swing. My smile was enough of an answer for Vixy; she walked me through the kitchen, down the hall, and into the bedroom. I don't know what the hell just happened, but she was in a mood, and so was I. Her arms tightened around me; instinctively I turned in her embrace, my breasts grazing her, and I threw my arms around her back. We stared at each other for a moment, a single naked moment when we could see everything that was in each other's eyes, and she leaned in to kiss me.

I bite my lips when I'm nervous, which is why they're often inflamed. It's a habit that I've had for years, and Vixy seems to think that my lips are like that natural. She pressed her lips to mine, her tongue a serpentine invader. She put a hand on the side of my face, and I moaned into her mouth, letting her know she wasn't going too fast. Besides, she knows that I like it fast. Her tongue ran over my lips, I gripped at her shirt, making sure she felt my nails. She growled and I tasted wine.

We pulled apart, both of us feeling that red electricity in the air between us. I stepped backward to the bed, sitting on the edge and setting my arms down to my sides. Vixy looked like she was about to jump on top of me; she grinned, her eyes intense as she closed the short distance with a pair of long strides.

A hallucination; I brought up my boot-encased leg, letting her walk into it with a surprised whuff! She looked up and gave me a hurt look, not of pain but of being denied what she wanted. I rubbed the sole of my boot against her stomach until she caught the idea; she knelt down on her knees, keeping her eyes fixed on mine as a smile cracked her face. She undid one of the buckles, pressing her lips to the front of my footwear. She went down the line, undoing the six buckles and delivering a kiss to the black rubber each time, sending a charge of tension down to my crotch. “You wanna make out with my shoes or with me?" I asked her.

She looked up at me, a snarling, rapacious grin on her face as she ripped the boot off of my leg, sending it crashing into the dresser behind her, rubber bass drum. She slipped off my sock and rubbed at my bare toes, setting it down with a false gentility. I could feel the energy in her body like a coiled spring, like a bullet just begging to be fired, the same energy that filled my own limbs. She lifted my other leg, undoing the buckles and daintily kissing the front, hastily discarding it like its twin. She slipped my sock off, and the moment my foot touched the floor there was a cherry-red blur in my face, horror-movie speed, and I felt Vixy's weight on top of me, pressing me into the mattress.

“Wait, what about your boots!?"

“Ugh, leave my boots to myself, woman!"

I laughed as her lips flew across my neck, tickling my black-and-white fur. Her hands were already seeking real estate on my chest, groping and pinching me through my top as she brought up her leg, her knee softly grazing my thighs and setting off sparks in my pussy.

I grabbed at her tiny shirt, needing to feel the smoothness of her skin. With a snarl, Vixy sat up and ripped off her shirt, exposing her small breasts, pale and red-flecked and stained with dirt, and she landed back on top of me, filling my world with cherry red fire. She scrabbled at my shirt; I inclined my back a little bit and lifted my arms, and my camo top shot over my head and flew across the room. I felt her face impact my chest, felt her laughter ripple across my flesh, and I couldn't help but giggle at her antics.

I decided right then that Vixy Noxic was insane, and I didn't care.

Under the mat of fire and lime that covered my chest I could feel her tongue caressing me, seeking out my nipples like a homing missile. She found them, and I had to arch back my neck from the electricity that shot through me at her touch. I held her close as she stroked, kissed, sucked, bit, taking what she wanted and giving me a little bit more. Her hands shifted to my sides, running through my fur down to my ass. She gave me a squeeze, sharp and vicious, and I gave a humiliating squeal, a high-pitched yip that she took as a sign to go further, dig deeper, press that pedal harder until the needle hit blood-red.

She ground her crotch against my leg, and I could feel her heat, feel how much she wanted and loved me. I felt myself being turned into a gelatinous mess beneath her as she took me, rubbing herself into my being by increments. She squeezed my ass and I let out another groan, husky and gruff, daring her to do more.

I felt my chest getting wet, the wetness spreading as her face slowly tracked upward to my neck. She flicked her tongue through the fur there just long enough to make me want more before traveling back down, heading to my other breast, assaulting the firm pink nipple that stood there like a flag of conquest. I continued to grind my pussy against her knee, feeling the dampness in my panties spreading bit by bit. Her skin was hot and moist under my fingers, sweat beginning to coat her back.

Suddenly the fire just stopped; Vixy sat up, her mouth slick with saliva. She turned around and threw her legs over the bed with a growl, rapidly struggling to take off her boots. I laughed and shook my head, twisting around to look at the digital clock on the nightstand. I thought of her mad idea, and wondered if she wanted to get up early tomorrow. I scrabbled over the mattress to grab the clock. Over my shoulder I asked Vixy if she wanted the alarm set for tomorrow, but the bed sheet fell out from under me; the sheet was raised in a high dune over the mattress, providing the illusion that there was more bed than there was, and my arm fell through the air down to the floor, bringing the rest of my upper body down with it as the rest of me stayed on the bed. “Whoa—damn it!"

I was just about to get myself back up when I felt a pair of hands slap hard onto my bum, setting off a charge of voltage in my loins. Her fingers tried to cover my butt, just barely; another slap on my ass cheek, more surprising than anything. I craned my head around to try and see what she was doing. She bit her lip as her eyes went wide. With a grand, animalistic grin she buried her face into my shorts, framing my posterior with her hands.

The heat that I felt on my pussy as Vixy let out a breath was incredible, pure energy flowing from her into me at my most sensitive location. I felt her groan into me as she rubbed her face up and down the valley of my butt. “Fuck, you smell amazing," she said, just barely audible in my ears.

The heat vanished, and I heard her say more clearly “Don't move," and I made sure not to move. I felt her hands pull my rear a little bit back, her hands curling under my stomach to fumble at my button and zipper. There was a pop and a metallic whisper, and I felt my shorts being pulled away, my bottom exposed to the air. She pulled off my shorts and threw them onto the floor, right in front of my face.

“Look at that," she mumbled to herself—as if you've never seen it before, I thought to myself—and I felt her hands start playing with my rear, testing its springiness and jiggliness. Never mind the buttocks. She kissed me, butterflying from one cheek to the other while rubbing her face against my panties. She did this for a while, for as long as she wanted; I could feel her nose tapping the fur on the bottom of my tail, her face seeming everywhere all at once as my rear began to get hot and bothered. Finally there was a brief reprieve; she ran a finger from my tail down through my narrow canyon, slight pressure at my anus and my swollen slit. She pulled my panties to the side, my crotch reacting to the exposure to the cool air. Vixy breathed softly on my lips, my muscles twitching at the merest non-physical contact.

“Am I really doing this to you?" she asked, a wonder so quiet that I thought she was talking to herself. I felt her breath, heard a whispery sound that I took to be sniffing. I went scarlet, more scarlet than I had been.

She teased me with a finger, subtle single guerilla exploring my entrance. The finger slid in, access permitted, and I hummed a response into the cold floor. Vixy went a little deeper, adding another finger as her free hand, I had no doubt, was playing with her own crotch. She was wearing those black spandex shorts; the idea of the heat that was welling inside of her sent a shiver of pleasure down, well, up my spine and between my thighs. The sensations flowing through my body made my fingers curl; I needed to grab onto something just to ground myself.

“Nose dive!"

“Wha—Augh!" I cried out as I felt Vixy assault my nether regions, her tongue lapping at my lips, soaking me further in her saliva. She was more turned on than I had thought. If this is the effect I have on her, I need to stop complaining about petty personal shit. I felt her plunge inside of me, master in full control, shark-frenzy; that first touch sent a rush down through me, and she just continued, knowing full well how to operate me.

She alternated her rapid-fire strokes with a couple slow licks, lapping at me and brushing my clit with her thumb. Her nose tapped against my butthole, subtle pressure adding exponentially to the sensations. I wished I was on my back so I could run my fingers through that fucking beautiful red-and-green mop of hers, but this was just as good.

“Ugh, oh, fuck!" I tried to spread my legs as best as I could, but Vixy did what I couldn't, pulling them apart with energetic lust. I rested my face into the crook of my elbow, a streamer of spittle spilling out as Vixy pushed me further and further toward that wet celestial throne. Her tongue started to dance from my pussy to my ass, pulling my backward into her mouth as though she could swallow me and everything that I am. I wouldn't put it passed her.

“Deeper!" I begged, pleaded, praying to my ginger goddess. “Faster, godammit! Oh, fuck!" She did that and more, attacking my whole lower body and making everything slick with my own juices. I felt her growl into my pussy as she pushed her tongue deeper, taking the fluids that coated my fleshy inner walls and replaced them with her spittle. She kept slathering her thumb against my bubblegum jewel, tapping it, pushing me higher as I shut my eyes, lust-blind.

There was a burn building up inside of me, a raw fire grating against the fleshy prison walls of my belly. I started to cry as my senses hit overload, Vixy's mouth and hands sending electricity to course through my body. For I don't know how long, I had ceased to be Diesel Gardner and had become something else, something that was simultaneously viciously physical and etheric, a thing of sexual energy in its rawest, undiluted form, pulsing and shaking as it sought another plane of existence. Vixy tapped at my clit, bumped my back door, gripped my ass cheeks in a death vice, and I felt myself rising, tears shunted out from closed blinders as the fire erupted into a conflagration that nobody would allow to stop. I let out a scream, breathy fuck-howl that scratched at my throat, love razors. I came long and heavy onto Vixy, felt her shake her head against me, pressing herself into me as though I were a waterfall she wanted to enjoy. All the energy that had built up was leaving rapidly, pressure break as I grunted and grated and pulsated in her hands. Through streaming tears I saw the cold linoleum floor, blemished white, slowly fading to black.

When I woke up, I was on my back in our bed with Vixy snoring softly beside me. It was dark and hot, the air suffused with our love-stink, and I wondered for how long I was out. I turned on my side—I noticed that Vixy didn't have the farsightedness to think that I might like to wake up and not have my pussy and ass still slick with her remonstrations—and looked at the girl I loved, bit back a laugh when I noticed that she decided my underwear was an excellent substitute for headwear. I leaned over, kissed her on the neck, and lay my head on her shoulder.

This was where I wanted to be, forever into eternity. I faded away, back into the glittering black veils of Dreamland.

---

“Rise and shine, baby girl!

I muttered into the pillow, telling the voice to go away.

“Come on, pull your socks up, sweetie. We've got people to do and shit to blow up!"

“Five more minutes, ma."

“Nope!"

The world shakes, and I'm flying out of bed and onto the cold floor. Jolted into wakefulness, I stare up at Vixy gripping the side of the mattress in her hands. She's looking down at me, maniac's grin plastered on her face, her eyes wide and irises pinched, drunk on adrenaline again. But there's something different about her…

“What did you do to your hair?" I asked her.

“Same thing I did to yours! Now come on, the sun waits for no one!"

She steps over, combat-boot prowl, and hoists me up to my feet. In the sunlight I can see a little better, but I still have to rub my eyes a little. Her hair is still flamethrower red and laced with green, but now there's thin streaks of black, arsenic rivers, making me think of poisonous flowers growing in the dark depths of distant jungles.

She propped me up and carried me to the bathroom, not yet fully awake. She turned on that awful piss-yellow light and I had to cover my eyes with my hands. “Come on, come on, come on," Vixy kept repeating, her urgency making me nervous, like we were missing a party.

I pulled my hands away from my eyes and saw that my blond hair had been cut, bangs up to eye-level and barely any back, an inch maybe, and there were streaks of black, too. Coal mixed with the gold.

“What the hell!?"

“Nah, Richard Hell had a longer cut, and he used to slick it back. This is much better for ya! Nothing more perilous than having long hair getting in your eyes."

“Says the bitch with hair down to her crack!"

“Hurry up and get ready, or you'll miss all the fun!"

Vixy stalked out of the little bathroom, her lips still upturned in a mad grin. I just stood there in the buff, staring at my reflected hair. I ran my fingers up to it, through it, wondering what was happening.

“What!?" was all I could say.

In the end, I decided to stop fussing and just give in to Vixy's madness. Being in a relationship means you have to share everything…even disorders, if it comes to that. I washed my face and brushed my teeth, heading back into the bedroom to put something on. “Wear whatever looks good!" was all Vixy would say, as she rushed into the guest room.

I didn't bother perusing my inventory, I'm not that kind of person. I just threw on a new pair of panties, some charcoal camouflage pants that belonged to Vixy (an honest mistake. They were a couple feet longer than what I'm used to; after tucking them into some heeled boots they resembled a pair of jodhpurs), a black Asenath Laveau t-shirt (the sleeves were ripped slightly at the seams so as to cover the upper arm and leave the shoulders bare), brown suede jacket (stupid in this weather), leather gloves with full fingers, and a necklace I found on the dresser, a little green turquoise teardrop.

Vixy ran into the bedroom, her arms loaded with military hardware. “All the arms we need!" she said with a snicker. I saw that she had on some tight-fitting black drainpipes, army boots, a long white shirt with a skull on the front designed in a celtic flair, covered over by a studded camo vest. A black bandana was cradled around her neck, displaying in pieces a fanged, skeletal face. Her hair was tied at several points with some spiky leather bands.

She looked at me as she set the weapons on the bed, gave me a curiously bad look. “Mmm, that'll do, I suppose," she said. “Come on, love, grab what you want and get out. The boat's leaving in five minutes!"

“What? A boat?"

“Figure of speech!" she cried, already stuffing metal things into pockets or clipping them on. I grabbed a little machete, more like a long knife, Sly Stallone's toothpick, and strapped the sheath onto my belt. I took a hatchet, a little chipped, and sawed-off shotgun just because it's a staple. I stuffed the cargo pockets of my pants with shells and I waited for Vixy.

“Is that all you're bringing?" she asked me with a raised eyebrow, stuffing a grenade into her trousers.

“Should I be bringing more?"

“Eh, not really."

At her behest I ran out the door, locked it with my key, and followed her down the stairs and into the street. I looked up at the sky and saw that the sun was almost out of the horizon. I was about to ask Vixy how long she's been awake when I saw that she was already strutting to our truck.

After the jeep and subsequent oil field incident, we had found a nice behemoth of a truck, with a hefty barricade remover, side lamp, dense polycarbonate windshield, and a sizeable rear box. Vixy had magically come up with a set of strips on the side, electrically live panels that deter any would-be attackers. When we saw it in the dealership yard, Vixy took out a pocketknife and carved a big heart on the driver's-side door before purchase. We had a hell of a time trying to prove we had the money for it while fighting the company's goons who kept wanting to toss us out.

A week ago, Vixy had come into some old Megadeth albums. Now on the passenger's side there're big spray-paint words in filthy white: “Peace sells/ but who's buying?"

We hopped into our big, black, beautiful bastard and settled into the plush seats, enjoying the height that came with the truck. Vixy gunned the engine, waited for the music to start up, and ripped out of the curb. Dave Mustaine tore out of the radio as we tore across the pavement, undoubtedly giving much of the city a good start to their day. I heard sparrows twittering in their trees, shutting right the fuck up as we roared beyond them.

The body of the city sped past us, urban flash as we headed on our mission to…what was our mission?

“Kill the king," Vixy sang, “The king is dead, long live the king. I…am…the king!"

“Vixy…"

“Kill the king!"

“Vixy."

“I…am…the king!"

“Vixy!"

The song finished at that moment, my scream bouncing off the doors. She turned down the volume with a wince, cradling her ear. “Ow…bloody hell, girl."

I shook my head, ignoring her momentary aggravation. “Vix, what're we doing driving through the city at eight in the morning?"

“Ah-ha! We're off on an adventure to secure the safety and well-being of the nation!"

“We're going to blow something up for no reason?"

“Correction; we're going to blow several things up with a single very good reason. Strap in, Deezy!"

Before giving me a chance to grab my seatbelt, she turned the corner at whiplash speed, sending me into her shoulder. Vixy laughed, high-pitched crazy noise that felt just right for the moment.

We kept going down the street, the concrete, pavement, and towering buildings diminishing in quality and scale until we reached open land, with rolling hills and sparse but healthy trees, the one paved road a long black snake winding through them in a direct line. We traveled in this manner for perhaps a goodly hour and a half, when Vixy, queen of abruptness, jerked the wheel and pulled us off the highway and onto the rocky, red sand. Even with my seatbelt secured I still tumbled around in my seat, unintentional headbanger. It looked like we were heading into a savanna, with bushes and shrubbery dotting a largely dry and sandy terrain. There wasn't a cloud in the sky; I would have said it was picturesque were I not jumbling around like a single sardine in a can. Vixy seemed to control gravity, judging by the way she hardly moved in her seat.

We passed a low wall of brownish-green shrubs and suddenly the ground just stopped, no more road. Vixy slammed on the break, turned the wheel so that we stopped with my side facing the openness. Without saying a word, she hopped out of the truck and I right after her. We walked softly to the edge, looking down the high wall of a cliff. Below the land opened out to a wide oval of sandy desert, stretching on for perhaps two miles at its longest point. “Yep," Vixy said, nodding her head and biting her lip as if in answer to an unasked question.

“What're we doing here, Vix?" I asked, a bit too petulantly. She turned to me and smiled.

“Making history just a little bit more colorful, love. Oh, get down, get down!"

Vixy crouched down, lying flat on her stomach over the still-cool sand, and I followed her example, wondering what was going on. I was lost in the dark, but I put my trust in Vixy, confident that even though I didn't know what was what I'm certain that she did.

I hope she did.

I watched as several vehicles hove onto the scene, the wheels from expensive limousines, heavy with concealed armor, and their entourage kicked up a cloud of dust, low in the heavy air. I watched as they headed toward us; I slinked back a little bit, forcing my ears to lay flat against my head. There were three vehicles belonging to some VIPs, a total of seven coming in, but in time there quickly appeared several others, all converging to one point thirty some feet beyond the cliff and sixty down.

“My god, it's a foggy mess out there, isn't it?"

I looked at Vixy, saw that she was looking through a pair of dark binoculars. She was staring at a point at the ground right in front of her. Shaking my head, I took the binoculars and tilted them up very slightly until I heard her say “Ah! There we are…Ha ha! Look at those manky gits! You silly, sorry losers."

“Who are they?" I asked.

“The highest tier of the upper crust, m'dear. Movers and shakers, whiny yellers and fat old fellers. People talk about the nation being a real big number, millions or billions. This is the nation, Deezy." Vixy gesticulated to the group with her binoculars, adding a contemptible sneer.

“What're they doing here?"

“I invited them, 'member?"

“Uh-huh, but what're we going to do now that they're here?"

Vixy looked at me, directly into my eyes. “We're going to kill them, Diesel."

Something cold washed over me, ice-slap on my spine. Vixy held my stare for a little bit longer before she backed away from the ledge and stood up, walking to the truck. I ran after her, peppering her with questions that she just waved away.

“Stuffy old gobshites, the lot of 'em. You don't know what's going on in the world, Deez. You only know what's happening in your city, your own peaceful little snowglobe where the worst thing that could happen is getting in a row with some pissy little shopkeep, or you miss your payment on your tiny little flat. There's bigger fish in bigger waters, Deez."

I ran in front of her, blocking her from reaching the truck. “What are you talking about, Vix? Just tell me what's going on."

Vixy gave me a dark glare at that, at my display of ignorance, proving her correct. She crossed her arms, the studs on her vest glinting angrily in the light of the rising sun.

“You wanna know what's going on, love? I'll tell you what's going on. Military conscription, pollution, territoriality, slavery, political competitiveness, subservience, scapegoating, eugenics, graft, conformism, assassination, deception, hatred…that is what's going on! The so-called inalienable rights were alienated when the first bomb dropped eighty years ago. The birds find themselves still birds, and the jackals remain the jackals. Fat, pretentious, laughing jackals…"

In a rage, Vixy stepped past me and leapt into the box. I put my hands on the side as I watched her fumbling through a heavy backpack, loaded with firearms, listening to her speech slowly unravel into a snarl.

“You can knock on the door until your hands are bloody ragged stumps, but it's only the master of the house who can let you in. They want to wash us all away, every scrap of individuality, but this bit of wretched refuse is not going to stand for their shite any longer! I've let them get on with their nonsense, allowed them to continue, but I'm not going to sit by and watch their twisted fuckin' fantasies unfold! All these captains are going to drown in their ships, come Hell and high water! Grab a gun, Deezy. We welcome the rats!"

Vixy stood up, a strange-looking submachine gun in her hand, looking like somebody mashed three Uzis together. She jumped out of the box, speaking in a high voice, something in Gaelic that I couldn't understand. I watched her back step to the ledge, and I looked to the truck.

The keys were still in the ignition. I could just drive away, get out of this madness, get back home. But Vixy…

I grabbed a rifle, solid black M-16 with a scope, and followed my everything to the cliff-face.

“Rock and roll," Vixy said.

“Maximum rock and roll," I said, wondering if she got the reference. She did, smiling.

We crouched by the ledge, making sure we weren't leaning too far. We lifted our guns, aimed…

“Oh, piss!" Vixy spat. I looked at her, wondering what was wrong. She pointed into the distance, and I saw a group of vehicles, more vehicles heavily-laden with armor, more personnel and advisors and leaders. Apparently Vixy's web of deceit had spun itself into something bigger. “Back off, back off!" she said, and we did.

“That's way too goddamn much!" she hissed through clenched teeth, her plan foiled by chance. She tossed her gun on the ground. “We need something bigger than this."

I lifted my M-16, showed her the scope.

“Oh, that's perfect!" she said

“Really?"

“Yep, a solid plan B. What else you got?"

“I…I don't know, Vixy! I don't do this kind of shit, I don't know what we should do!"

“Alright, alright," the redhead muttered, holding up her hand. “Whist!" she hissed at me.

I looked at Vixy, then back to the cliff ledge. I wondered how long it would take for the group out there to figure out what happened, and who they would place their blaming reticles on.

“How big do we need to get?" I asked.

Something lit up in Vixy's eyes, her anger seeping away into nowhere. She grinned, child's delight filling her face. “As big as we can get," she muttered. I watched her head back to the truck, wondering what she was up to.

She came back, her hands encased in curious metal gauntlets. They weren't medieval, but they were reticulated and displayed a number of curious lights. In the center of each palm was what looked like an electric eye.

“Stand back, love," she said.

“Vix, what're you—."

“Now!" she growled at me, and I stepped back to the truck, letting her walk to the ledge. I watched her, fear and anger and sadness jockeying for position. She cricked her neck to one side and then the other, rolling it on her shoulders, her death-flower hair shifting in the light. She flexed her fingers, twitching them like a gunslinger. She turned to the side, raised her hand with the finger splayed upward, palm extended outw—.

Bzzzzzch!

I ducked in fear, thinking she had fired a weapon from her hand. But she hadn't; lines of bluish-white light were cutting back and forth through the air, single beam zipping back and forth and slowly up like a scanner. What…

The light was making something. As the beam twitched, I saw something begin to take shape, something big and metal and completely real. But how could it be real? It was just light…

The light vanished, exposing a hulking, obtuse sort of thing, a big box right next to a big barrel. Vixy tilted her head to admire it, her grin widening into a smile, her smile increasing with her burgeoning madness. She raised both her palms—.

_ Bzzzzzch!_

More beams of light appeared, a dozen, and within moments a row of the bulky machines stood right next to the first. Vixy turned around and did it again, making artillery from light…from her hands. There quickly came to be a dozen of the big machines, barrels pointed to the mass of black vehicles and their treasured personnel.

“Vixy?" I called to her, but she didn't hear me. She must not have, because she turned to the open ledge. She raised her hand and there was a brief explosion of light, electric-metallic sound cutting through the air, and she caught the megaphone as it fell. She cleared her throat, and then spoke.

“Attention! Attention, all you sons o' whores! My name is Vixy Noxic, and this is my ball! Now bend over and take your medicine!"

Vixy pulled a little pen from her pocket, a little heavy thing that didn't really look like a pen. She pressed down on the little red button, and within an instant the air erupted with sound, high-caliber PUM! of the artillery guns firing all at once, and continuing to fire of their own volition. I slapped my hands over my ears and crouched down against the truck, scared out of my head. I watched Vixy just standing there, her hands outraised, lost in one of her complexes. Her shoulders rose and fell, her head lolled, and in time I heard over the heavy bass of cannonfire a childish laugh, a mad playtime laugh, bird-twitter bleeding away into something more raucous, something that scared the hell out of me more than her weird mechanical-magic gauntlets. I just sat there, crying like a little kid because I didn't know what to do.

I watched as Vixy's body became loose, jelly arms, as the tremors of her laughter coursed through her, racking her whole body with spasms of scary hilarity. She doubled over, screaming her joy to the sky, her eyes wide, teeth ready to devour the heavens.

I could hear the explosions in the distance, already seeing ember-stricken smoke rising into the sky. I doubt anybody down there is going to make it out of there alive. I took my hands away from my ears, cringing at each cloudburst, unable to block out Vixy's insane, broken laughter.

Suddenly she stopped laughing. I watched her jerk her head to her left, toward one of the machines. She sputtered a series of curses in broken English and Gaelic, her heavy boots stomping the dirt. I got up and stepped closer, seeing a rocket stuck in its barrel. All of the other machines were still firing, but Vixy was fixed on this one, a broken cog in her deadly precise machine.

“Shitebag!" Vixy screamed at the sky. “Arse! Feck!"

I watched, stupefied into further stupefaction as Vixy leapt onto the machine, straddling the barrel between her legs. Foam was flying from her mouth as she tried to physically pry the shell from its prison, gripping it with her hands. She spat and cursed something unintelligible, something I was sure was not from any known language. She grabbed a knife out of her boot sheath and tried to stick it in the space between shell and barrel, but there was no space big enough for a blade.

“F'ah sh'ryll G'n'gah tch! Bo-m'ncle ka! Ch-ch-ch rrrrlllll…"

Vixy didn't notice, couldn't have noticed, but I did. I saw the cracks form in the ground, spreading out from the big cannon on which she sat. The ground was giving way. I watched, I shouted her name, begged her to get off of the weapon, but she didn't hear me.

With a rumbling gurgle of rock and soil, the ground fell out from under the cannon. I heard an animalistic howl, more angry than scared, and Vixy disappeared.

“No!"

I ran to the cliff edge, but the cracks had already spread further and further. The devices were all heavy, each probably over two tons, and they were all swallowed, the mountain casting off a metal itch on its back.

I ran to the truck, reciting the only word that was working in my head. “No, no, no," over and over again, useless mantra. I turned the key, hit the gas pedal, swore when the truck didn't move and I forgot to put the stick into drive. I drove, haphazard maniac lost in fear and sorrow driving over anything. I headed around the mountains, circling the bowl of barren sand looking for an entrance. I eventually found one, after clearing some brush and running over a fallen tree that caught in the wheels and ground against the chassis with an ugly grating sound.

I drove at comet speed through the sand, passing smoking wreckage, charred corpses of vehicles. I was right; nobody would have made it out alive.

Except for one person, the only one who mattered. I begged whatever spirits existed, gave them my life for a chance to see Vixy again, knowing it was useless. That was a sixty-foot drop, she was sitting on a heavy bit of machinery, and the whole head of the cliff fell after her. No way.

I wiped my eyes and looked through the windshield, seeing something red and green and black.

“No fucking way…"

I hit the brakes, refusing to believe what I was seeing, contradicting my previous prayers. I stopped, slowly—very slowly—opening the door, stepping out onto the sand, already hot from the sun.

“Hey, babe," Vixy said. She was walking toward me, cricking her neck with an audible pop. At that moment, something from the wreckage caught fire and exploded.

She was untouched, walking on her legs, nothing wrong with her. The gash on her face was from yesterday, partially healed. My mouth dropped open, a response trying and failing to come out.

“I think I overdid that a bit, huh?" She said, surveying the cars and the mountain. I looked past her at the rocks; there was no trace that there ever had been any artillery machines, no twisted metal peeking out of the rock like bone breaching skin. She looked at me, the animal passions in her eyes gone, and she was Vixy Noxic again. She looked sad, and she bit her lip in that adorable manner. I could not speak.

“Diesel, I have to tell you something." She stepped toward me, punctuating her words with her hands. I took a step back; I don't know why, couldn't tell you, but I stepped back. Vixy stopped where she was, about nine feet in front of me. She put her hands on her hips—her magic gauntlets were gone, I noticed—and stared at the ground for a while, thinking. Her lower lip disappeared into her mouth and I knew she was thinking very hard.

After a time, Vixy spoke, and I listened to her.

“It was never my grandma what did all this, Diesel. I wanted so much, so fucking much, and They gave it to me. They gave it the moment I opened that book They made. That goddamned book…I don't know what I gave up, but I feel like I don't have something anymore, like I lost it, eighty years ago summat. When I'm with you, love, I feel like I've got that something again."

Vixy smiled at me. I waited for her to continue, a hitch catching her breath.

“They told me that if I wanted to keep this life of mine, that I have to keep this world in a state of perpetual chaos. Chaos, love, you understand? If I don't, then They will come around from wherever it is They're from—from across the big black pond, I guess—and, and They'll do things to this planet a trillion times worse than what I'm doing. Don't you get it, Deez? I have to do this. I don't want—well, I do want this—but…I don't know what I'm saying. Everything falls apart around me. Everything except you."

I looked at her, watching the tears begin streaming down her eyes.

“Come with me, Diesel. You're the only thing that resembles order to me, something I can hold onto when I start to get a little…funny. We can be together forever, doing everything and anything we want! We can live any fucking fantasy we can think up, and outlive it, if need be! This whole world is my playpen, Deez! Let it be ours. Please…"

I looked at her, saw the tears running down her red-flecked cheeks. The wind was picking up, and it took almost every bit of energy I had left in me. I refused to believe everything I was hearing, sure that what I was seeing was a hallucination, that Vixy was surely buried and broken in smoldering rubble and maybe all of this was just a dream. A silly stupid pot-dream and I'm somewhere in a familiar scum-strewn alley with warm and odorous shadows wrapping around me like arms. I dropped onto my knees, picking myself up. Vixy had taken a step toward me, but I held up my hand, stopping her. She looked at my hand like it was the worst thing in the world.

“Please, Diesel…"

“No."

It slipped out of my mouth, denial, defiance, defense. I shook my head; I needed to get the hell out of here, out of this mad dream that felt so real. I hopped back into the truck and drove away, leaving a cloud of dust and sand. It was only when I had found the highway that I realized I was still saying “no, no, no," my useless mantra giving me false hope.

I went back into my apartment, Vixy's apartment. Dead Vixy. No more fun, no more anything. No future.

I think Black Ice Boys got it right with their song No Culture: no love/ no culture/ no hope/ no future. Too fucking right.

I went to the liquor cabinet and grabbed as much as my arms could carry. I went into our (my) bedroom and pulled the curtains, letting darkness wash over me. I fell onto the bed and began a long, slow slide into inebriate's purgatory.

---

That was fifteen years ago.

The sparrows keep coming back to Sector 23, their trilling songs bitter-sweet in the air, but Vixy never does. Sometimes I hallucinate—I'll hear her boots tromping hard on the linoleum, soldier of the hard left movement, smell a mixture of unfiltered cigarette smoke and Irish whiskey in the air. I'll be making coffee and I'll hear an Irish pub song sliding silky like into my ears. At night I feel her hands caressing me, feel familiar teeth nipping at me, a mouth breathing damp heat that doesn't exist. I'll grab and struggle at my crotch, but it isn't real; only memories and their echoes.

I've wasted so much by saying no. I've wasted so much.

I've heard stories that some crazy shit is happening out west, destruction of property, falling governments, people reveling in the joys and fears that total chaos brings, law enforcement and military trying and failing to suppress the oppressed masses. That sounds like Vixy's calling card, if ever she had one. I have my bags packed, extra drum of gasoline in the box and every dark corner of the truck packed with guns and ammo. There's a heart scratched on the door, “D.G. + V.N." within its thin border.

I'm coming back to you, Vixy.

They can chain me, beat me, cut me, kick me, whip me, strip me, burn me, eat me, but I'll still be coming back to you.