Torpedo Juice полностью

“Me, too. Night Tours require munchies.” Serge borrowed a cell phone and punched in a number. “Hello? No Name? Eight large pepperoni supremes. Make it an even ten….”

“…Oblivion awaits. I unleash the curse of the black tabernacle….

“No, that’ll be delivery,” said Serge. “You know the clearing off the north side near the ferry landing? That’s right, the devil-worship place. Thanks.”

The teen began saying The Lord’s Prayer backward. “…Evil from us deliver and temptation into not us lead. Trespass against forgive… Wait, that’s not it. The ‘trespasses’ always mess me up….”

“Hey, Vlad the Imp,” said Serge. “Until oblivion gets here, we’ll just start our meeting over there if that’s all right.”

They gathered round Serge’s feet at the edge of the clearing. He began his trademark pacing.

“The Keys are an enchanted land removed from the continent, evolving independently like the Galapagos, a necklace of lush little neighborhoods across the Overseas Highway where the bad parts of town have boats up on blocks. Churches, dogcatchers, school buses, oncoming bikers low-fiving on drawbridges, art-guild galleries specializing in watercolors and handbags made from coconuts, streets like Cutthroat Lane and Mad Bob Road, a fire chief actually named Bum Farto, a mayor arrested for shaking down jet-ski rentals, tourists eating mangoes out of motel swimming pools, wild roosters, feral cats, Duval merchants charging credit cards of Dutch visitors five hundred dollars for a T-shirt, federal roadblocks sparking the Conch Republic revolution. ‘Remember the Aloe!’ Then, greed. Unaffordable resorts crowding out the funk that brought ’em here in the first place. A bearded, turtle-necked Papa Hemingway reduced to a logo for Sloppy Joe’s franchises like some kind of literary Chef Boyardee. The real Key West vanishing, moving toward a convergence point with the Key West pavilion at Sea World: tourists forsaking the genuine article to stumble through piped-in Jamaican music, plastic trees and misting wands, thinking they’re part of the wild Key West lifestyle. ‘Y’all better stand back. I’m pretty crazy. Who knows what I’ll do next? Guess I’ll buy me another Creamsicle.’ I tried to warn them. ‘Run!’ I yelled. ‘Run before they strap the rat cage on your face!’ But nobody wanted to talk to me except security….”

The audience heard a rustling in the brush. Serge stopped his speech. The head teen arose by the campfire. “Almighty Lucifer has heeded our unworthy calls….”

The rustling grew louder. Something large approached through the mangroves.

“The sword is raised! Beg for the mercy you won’t receive!…”

Everyone tensed and huddled together, eyes shifting nervously. The sound came closer and closer until it was right at the edge of the clearing. Whatever it was would emerge any second.

“Bow your heads for sweet death! Behold! It is Satan!…”

A deliveryman in a paper cap popped into the clearing. “Ten supremes?”

Serge waved. “Over here, Satan.”

The gang began chowing.

“Is that pizza?” asked one of the vampires.

“Yeah,” said Serge, holding up a slice. “Want some?”

“Sure!”

“Approach not the unbelievers!” yelled the leader.

“But it’s pizza.”

The two groups merged, stomachs filled, then digestion. Everyone gathered quietly around Serge by the campfire. His face glowing red as he poked embers with a stick. A number of attentive squirrels, owls and deer arrived and listened along the edge of the woods.

“…The Keys are like Florida squared, but not for long. It’s a creeping rot, inoperable gangrene moving up a limb, starting at Mile Zero and crawling east along U.S. One. Key West was the final haven of the true individual, a subtropical Greenwich Village. But it got too popular. In came shortsighted developers, cutting off their own air supply, raising prices so high that service employees can’t afford to live there any longer….”

A vampire raised his hand. “Is this a concurrency flaw in the growth-management plan or simply a multi-dwelling density issue?”

“It’s both, but it’s more. Who’s heard of Donald Greely?”

Some hands went up. “Isn’t he supposed to move down here?” asked a teen.

“Just did,” said Serge. “But here’s the worst part. He’s planning a major development. Not supposed to, under the deal with the bankruptcy court. So he’s fronting for some cats. It’s along the protected southern shore of Key West.”

“But if it’s protected…”

“Bribes,” said Serge. “Bribes and secrecy. That’s the part I hate the most. I’m not a hard case. Developers have to make a living, too. Just do it in the open. But, no, it’s all cigar smoke and brown envelopes slipped inside coat pockets. Secrecy, secrecy, secrecy!…”