HARK! For I Am READY!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ THE GREEN FAIRY ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Kerry and Clay had come by the day before, sat out on the patio with Scott and Henry for a couple of hours, and by the time they left, Scott had felt something loosen in his chest that he hadn’t realized was tight. Kerry hadn’t been bitter about it. That was the thing. He’d understood the math, had said so plainly, had told Scott to go win the whole thing and not to worry about him. Scott was still worrying about him. That was just how Scott worked. He was sitting across from Henry now at the kitchen table, the Aggro Crag win sitting between them like a thing they hadn’t quite decided what to do with yet. They’d won. Team Snow had won, anyway. Nathan Lake had gotten the radical rock, which Scott had opinions about, but the tribe had won, and nobody on Snow had gone home, and that was the whole point. Rob Williams had stomped on Kerry’s hands, though. Scott picked up his coffee and looked at it. “You did good up there,” Henry said. “We did good.” “You pulled me up.” “You would’ve made it.” Keyes looked at him in the way that meant he wasn't gonna argue about it but also wasn’t gonna agree. He reached into his bag and produced a bottle that Scott didn’t immediately recognize. Dark green glass, an ornate label, the color of liquid inside sitting somewhere between green and gold depending on the light. “What’s that?” Scott said. “Absinthe.” Henry set it on the table. “Good absinthe. Not the garbage tourist stuff.” Scott looked at the bottle the way he looked at a new opponent’s tape. Carefully. With respect. “Celebratory,” Henry said. “Small amount. It’s not like regular liquor. A little goes a long way.” He stood up and turned toward the cabinet to find glasses. “I mean it. Just a small one.” Scott picked up the bottle. He looked at it. He looked at Keyes’ back. He thought about Nathan Lake and the radical rock. He thought about Rob Williams on top of that mountain, looking down at Kerry’s hands. He thought about Tony Gamble and Ultraviolence and the apron and the stomps and poor little Kerry in a full-body cast with a Mai Tai just out of reach. He thought about a lot of things in the space of about four seconds. He was, after all, a man who showed up. A man who showed up deserved a drink. He tipped the bottle up for what he intended to be a modest, responsible, celebratory sip. His hand slipped. The absinthe did not so much enter his mouth as arrive, broadly and all at once, a green wave that hit his entire face and the back of his throat with the authority of something that had not been invited but had decided to come in anyway. Henry turned back around. He looked at Scott. He looked at the now nearly empty bottle. He looked at Scott’s face, which was the face of a man who had just made a significant mistake and was only beginning to understand the full scope of it. “Uh oh,” Keyes said. Scott’s eyes went very wide.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ WHAT MANNER OF JOUST IS THIS? ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The absinthe started almost immediately to create some thoughts about this Medieval Times business, as it turned out. Scott had not been to Medieval Times. He wanted to be clear about that, at least to himself, because he felt it was important context. Scott was big on context, which sounds like he’s against text, but he is not. He likes text. This all makes sense in his head. He had not been to Medieval Times. He had, however, seen The Cable Guy, which he considered roughly equivalent in terms of preparatory research. Maybe better, actually, because The Cable Guy was based on real events, probably, and the Medieval Times in that movie had seemed extremely intense and also extremely accurate to how medieval times actually worked, which Scott knew a fair amount about because he had done some reading on the subject, by which he meant he had watched Braveheart twice and also part of a History Channel documentary about castles before falling asleep. The scene had been very instructive. Jim Carrey had been extremely committed, which Scott respected, and Matthew Broderick had seemed genuinely alarmed, which Scott felt was the correct response to Jim Carrey coming at you with a broadsword in a dinner theater. The crowd had been part of it too, not just watching but screaming and picking sides and getting swept up in whatever was happening in the arena, and that energy had fed back into the competitors until the whole thing had escalated into something that looked less like entertainment and more like an actual medieval incident. Which, again, was probably accurate. You also ate with your hands, no utensils, which Scott had always felt was how things should be anyway. He was less sure about the specific challenge format. Still, he felt confident that his general approach, which was to commit fully and physically and not stop until the thing was done, would translate well to whatever Medieval Times threw at him. He was an athletic marvel. He had very good feet. He was looking forward to some of those sweet ass turkey legs. He had been thinking about the turkey legs for most of the morning, actually, which, given what the morning had involved, was either a sign of remarkable focus or a symptom of something else entirely, like the plague. He was ready. What he was not ready for, and was currently in the process of not being ready for, was the absinthe, which had other plans.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ A MOST BOUNTIFUL FEAST ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The kitchen was magnificent. Scott surveyed it from the head of the table, or what he had decided was the head of the table, which was the side closest to the stove, because the person doing the cooking was obviously the most important person in the room and therefore deserved the head. This was just logic. This was called a “conclusion”, which you reached by thinking about things carefully, which Scott had been doing for some time now and was doing very well at. He was wearing an aluminum foil knight’s helmet. He did not know when he had made the aluminum foil helmet. He knew that he had made it, because it was on his head and it had not been there before, and he had not left the house, so it stood to reason. It fit surprisingly well. He had done a good job on it. He was proud of his little helmet. The helmet was part of his preparation for Medieval Times, which was coming, and which Scott intended to approach with the full seriousness it deserved. He had also, at some point, acquired a tunic. He did not question the tunic. One does not simply question a tunic, after all. It was, admittedly, actually a large dish towel. But it had been folded and tucked in a way that communicated tunic, and intention was most of what a tunic was. At the table sat his three tribemates. Henry Keyes sat to his left, drinking coffee, reading something on his phone, unbothered by anything happening in his immediate vicinity, which was the correct way to be at breakfast. Across from Keyes sat a surrealistic, colorful butt crack, which had a name tag on it that read “HI MY NAME IS ROB WILLIAMS” in neat block letters. Next to Robby-Two-Cheeks sat a pair of elongated medieval shoes, poulains, the toes absurdly long and curled slightly at the ends, with a lanyard around the left toe that bore a badge reading “HI MY NAME IS TONY GAMBLE.” The shoes were very pointy. Scott had always thought Tony Gamble seemed like the kind of man whose shoes would be very pointy. Also, the word “poulaines” sounds like it starts with “poo.” That’s funny. He felt this was all perfectly normal. “Good morrow, Henry,” Scott said, setting a plate of eggs in front of Keyes with the gravity of a man delivering something of utmost import. “Morning,” Keyes said, without looking up from his phone. Scott turned to the butt crack. “Good morrow to thee, Rob Williams,” he said, placing a plate of pancakes in front of it with a slight bow. “Thy sustenance is prepared.” The butt crack said nothing, as was its nature. Scott produced a bottle of sugar-free syrup from somewhere in the folds of his tunic and set it beside the butt cheek’s plate. He then produced from his other side a bottle of genuine Vermont maple syrup, dark amber, the good kind, the kind that cost eleven dollars at the grocery store and was worth every penny, and set it beside Keyes’ plate with the reverence of a man placing a crown on a king. Henry glanced at the two syrup bottles. He said nothing. Scott turned to the poulaines. “And for thee, Tony Gamble,” he said, addressing the left shoe specifically, for it was graying and slightly longer than the right. And, since the lanyard was there and it seemed rude to address the right shoe when the identification was clearly on the left. “Prithee accept this bounty.” He set another plate of pancakes in front of the shoes. He produced a second bottle of sugar-free syrup. He set it down. He looked at it for a moment. He produced a third bottle of sugar-free syrup and set that down too, in case they wanted more. “Now,” Scott said, returning to his position at the head of the table and donning his aluminum foil helmet with both hands, settling it onto his head with the care of a man crowning himself, “we shall break our fast as warriors, for the challenge ahead is great and our enemies are many and also probably at a Medieval Times right now doing their own preparation which we should not underestimate.” He picked up a strip of bacon. He looked at it. He looked at the butt crack. He looked at the poulaines. He thought about Kerry Kuroyama, which was the thing the absinthe kept bringing him back to no matter how hard he tried to stay in the kitchen, Kerry on the patio saying go win the whole thing, and Scott nodding, and then the mountain, and then the viper, and then the hands. That viper part may have been from Game of Thrones. He flung the bacon strip at the butt crack with the precise wrist snap of a man who had thought about this. “That one’s for Kerry,” he said. He picked up another strip. He flung it at the poulaines. “That one’s also for Kerry.” He picked up a third strip, considered it, and flung it at the butt crack again. “That one’s just for me,” he said. Henry reached across and took a strip of bacon from the plate without ceremony, ate it, and went back to his phone. “Hark,” Scott said, pointing at Keyes with a fourth strip of bacon, “dost thou not wish to fling thine own meat in tribute?” “I’m good,” Keyes said. Scott accepted this. Perhaps Henry Keyes was not one to fling his meat. He sat down, poured himself a generous measure of Vermont maple syrup, looked out at the table, at his friend eating eggs and his two enemies reduced by his own subconscious to their most essential qualities, at the aluminum foil helmet reflected dimly in the dark window above the sink, and thought that all things considered, this was probably the most honest breakfast he had ever eaten. He picked up his fork. “Eat up,” he said to the room. “We’ve got a kingdom to defend!” Keyes turned a page. The butt crack and the poulaines said nothing, as was their nature.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ EMMA ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The absinthe came down slowly, the way a tide goes out, leaving everything it had covered slightly damp and rearranged. Scott was sitting on the couch with a glass of water and the aluminum foil helmet still on his head, because he had forgotten it was there, when his phone rang. Emma. He looked at the screen for a second, then picked up. “Hey,” he said. “Hey.” A pause. “You sound weird.” “I’m fine.” “Scott.” “I had some absinthe.” Another pause, longer this time. “Why did you have absinthe?” “Henry had it. We were celebrating.” “How much did you have?” Scott considered this. “Some.” “Some.” “It was an accident.” He could hear Emma deciding whether to pursue this. She decided not to. That was one of the things he had always appreciated about his sister, her ability to read the room, determine that the damage was already done, and move forward without conducting a full inquiry. “I watched the Aggro Crag,” she said. “Yeah?” “You and Henry worked well together up there.” “We did.” Scott looked at the glass of water in his hand. “Kerry got eliminated.” “I know. I saw.” A beat. “How’re you doing with that?” “I’m okay with it. I understand it. Doesn’t mean I like it.” He paused. “Rob Williams stomped on his hands.” “I saw that too.” “I’m handling it.” “I know you are.” Emma’s voice had the particular quality it got when she was choosing her words carefully, not because she was uncertain but because she was being precise. “That’s actually why I called. I wanted to tell you that. That I can see you handling it.” Scott didn’t say anything. “You won, Scott. First round, your tribe won. You’re still in it. Dad would’ve been on the phone with me the second that bell rang, wanting to know every detail.” A small laugh. “He would’ve had a lot of questions about the minotaur.” Scott almost smiled. “Yeah. He would’ve.” “How are you feeling otherwise? About Medieval Times.” “Good. I’ve been preparing.” “Preparing how?” Scott looked down at his tunic. He reached up and touched his helmet. He thought about the breakfast table, about the butt crack and the poulains and the Vermont maple syrup and the bacon strips flung in tribute. “Just generally,” he said. Emma seemed to accept this. “Well. Keep going. You hear me? Whatever happens with those guys, you keep your head down, and you keep climbing. That’s what you do.” “That’s what I do,” Scott agreed. “And call me after Medieval Times.” “I will.” “And drink some water.” “I have water.” “Drink it.” “I’m drinking it.” “Good.” Another pause, softer this time. “I’m proud of you, just so you know.” “Thanks, Em,” he said. “Go win a turkey leg or somethin’.” “That’s actually the plan,” Scott said. She laughed. He laughed. They said goodbye, and he sat there for a minute after with the phone in his hand and the water in the other hand and the helmet on his head, and the house was quiet around him, and it was okay. He drank the water.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ DISPATCH FROM MAUI ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The following is an excerpt from a medical progress report filed by Dr. Nathaniel Okafor, DVM, Maui Animal Wellness Center, regarding patient KOALAYAMA, KERRY, male, age 4, koala (Phascolarctos cinereus): Patient continues to demonstrate measurable improvement across all injury sites. Soft tissue contusions have resolved. Fracture sites show excellent calcification. Range of motion in all four limbs has returned to within normal parameters, with no residual limitation observed during examination. It is the opinion of this practitioner that the patient is, for all clinical purposes, fully recovered and capable of resuming normal activity. It is also the opinion of this practitioner that the patient is aware of this. Patient has nonetheless declined to vacate the resort’s poolside recovery suite, citing, through means this practitioner cannot fully explain, a preference for continued eucalyptus-based hydrotherapy. The hydrotherapy in question appears to consist primarily of eucalyptus-infused Mai Tais, which are not a recognized therapeutic modality and which the resort’s poolside bar has been providing at what this practitioner can only describe as an irresponsible volume. Patient was observed this morning reclining on a sun lounger, apparently directing a resort staff member to reposition the Cheetos to within reach of his left forepaw, which has shown no clinical limitation whatsoever since Tuesday. Patient’s prognosis remains excellent. Patient’s checkout date remains unclear. This practitioner has submitted a formal request to the resort management regarding the continued provision of eucalyptus Mai Tais to a fully recovered marsupial. This practitioner does not expect a response. Dr. N. Okafor, DVM Maui Animal Wellness Center

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ A MESSAGE DELIVERED IN PLASTIC ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rob Williams was in the kitchen when Scott came in. Williams was standing at the counter with a coffee, looking at his phone, not doing anything in particular. He glanced up when Scott walked in, took in the aluminum foil helmet and the tunic, and made the decision, visibly and without apparent difficulty, not to say anything about either of them. This was probably wise. The house had established certain unspoken agreements about what constituted normal behavior, and the aluminum foil helmet had been present long enough now that it had crossed into the background. Scott crossed to the refrigerator, opened it, and looked inside with the focused consideration of a man who had come in here for a specific reason and was now remembering what it was. He closed the refrigerator slowly. He turned around. Williams was still at the counter, coffee in hand, watching him with the patient expression of a man who had decided to wait and see how this developed. They looked at each other for a moment. Scott reached into the pocket of his tunic. He produced a roll of cellophane. He held it up at approximately chest height, angled in Williams' general direction. Not threateningly, exactly. Not the way you’d hold up a weapon. More the way you’d hold up a piece of evidence at a very small and informal tribunal, the way a man holds something up and lets the thing say what he isn’t gonna say out loud. The cellophane caught the kitchen light. It gleamed, faintly, in the way that cellophane gleams when it wants to make a point. Williams looked at the cellophane. He looked at Scott. He looked at the cellophane again, longer this time, as though he were reading it and finding it a less than compelling argument. He shook his head once, slowly, with the expression of a man who had seen a great many things in his career and was adding this to the list in a separate column from the things he had expected to see. Scott held the cellophane steady for another few seconds, giving Williams the full opportunity to absorb the message, because Scott believed in being thorough. Then he gave a single small nod, the kind that meant the communication was complete and had been received, and tucked the cellophane back into the pocket of his tunic. He opened the refrigerator again. He took out a carton of apple juice, because he was thirsty and apple juice was good and there was nothing wrong with apple juice, and walked back out of the kitchen without further comment. Williams watched him go. He looked down at his coffee for a moment. He took a sip. Then he picked up his phone, chose "CRACK DEALER" in his contact list, and waited for someone to pick up.