E I G H T E E N

All I said was, "How's it going?"

Next thing I knew, Rick was peeling himself off the ceiling. "Don't you ever turn on the light?" he snapped.

"Sorry. I forgot."

"Again."

That was true. Still, he didn't drop anything this time so there wasn't much of an edge to his voice. We had only been together a couple of months, but already we'd developed rhythms and patterns that felt like we'd been co-habiting much longer. Rick growled. I would make apologetic noises — most of the time. When I wasn't growling back. Even so, none of it was serious growling. We were both surprised we got on as well as we did especially since neither of us expected the arrangement to work at all. Living with Rick Mallock was like living with a bigger, two-footed, vocal version of Karma. That's what I'd finally named the dog. Named the puppies Kismet and Kami. Fate and spirit names seemed appropriate.

That's where I had been, out with Karma for a run on the beach while Rick went shopping for his groceries. He was always gone a long time. He always stopped at Bast's because he liked the two women who ran the place — especially Beth, the one with the short, curly hair and the physique. He also liked to stop at Benders which was this old grocery store that had been turned into a giant-sized book, comic and magazine emporium. Rick always came back to the house loaded up with as much reading material as anything else.

"Why are you buying all the books?" I asked him. "There's plenty here."

"Plenty of tapes and CDs, too," he said. "But that doesn't stop you from bringing in more."

Had to admit he was right. Obviously, Madam Absinthe had made good on the financial back up, too, and one of the first things we did was hit the malls and like that. There were clothes to be got. Rick bought a new, white Stetson. He was made for those kind of Silverado Big West trimmings except on Rick, it didn't look like a costume. It looked real. Looked good.

He wanted me to buy one of those black satin roadie jackets with the Batman logo on the back but I wouldn't. Couldn't tell if he was making fun or me or not.

"Lighten up," he said and gave me a look.

I was on the edge of one of my "piss-off-that's-right-I-mean-you" classics. Thought better of it. Thought instead, What the hell? You only live two, three ... seven or eight times tops. Everybody in the store turned to look when I laughed out loud. But I still didn't buy that stupid jacket.

I was remembering some of that, helping Rick unload groceries, setting them on the counter so he could stash them away. There wasn't a whole lot. I pulled out a box of cereal, caught the cartoon illo. Held it up for comparison.

"Think they'd like a change?" I asked and snarled loud, using lots of teeth. "They're great!"

"Since when did bloodsuckers start chewing flakes?"

"Since when didn't they?"

"Very funny."

Rick grabbed the box out of my hands and put it away, still grouching a little but not in too bad a mood considering.

Considering that, for a change, everything's been going pretty good.

When we first moved into Summer's Garden, I had a feeling the sky was going to finally come crashing all the way in. But it didn't. Even October's Samhain passed without incident. So it got me to thinking maybe that last little jag in the woods was it. Knowing that Tasia was somehow behind it took the big mystery away. It seemed to break my bad-luck spell. I wasn't feeling the best about her but I wasn't feeling like I had been either. Which was great.

Actually, it was fucking fantastic.

"So where we going tonight, maestro?" Rick asked as we finished up. "The Grimoire?"

I shook my head. "Better take it into town."

We didn't go out every night. It wasn't necessary although there was appeal. "Town" could mean any number of places from Hampton, Newport News and Williamsburg to back across the water to Norfolk, Portsmouth and Virginia Beach although there wasn't much happening at the Beach. Like Byron had pointed out, the place went dead after Labor Day but not in a way that meant anything good for Fae or anyone else. Norfolk was better and that's where we headed.

I was still in the mood for Lady Blues and cut Ricky Lee Jones off in mid-croon as we piled out the door for the van. That was interesting. Rick had so much money now he could've bought a new van. Actually, he could have bought two or three new vans and still had cash left over. But he didn't.

"You put in new carpet," I said, climbing in.

I couldn't help but notice it. Almost everything that wasn't dashboard or seat was covered in a thick pile of deep red. It was clean inside for a change, too, since he'd had to clear everything out before putting the rug down.

"What do you think?" he asked.

"Interesting choice of color."

"There was a sale."

"I still don't understand why you don't just buy a new van. Get someone else to do all this work."

He was offended. "You want to ride around town in a gas-guzzling, jacked-up, metal-flake pain in the ass?"

"No. Not especially."

"Why don't you get rid of that old sleeping bag?"

"Huh?"

"You've got plenty of dirt up there and plenty of cash. That old bag of yours has been near-burned, run through the mud and the blood. And by now I think Karma has taken a dump on it. Why don't you get a new one and fill it fresh?"

"I can refill the old one if I need to."

"What for? It looks bad. It smells bad."

"It's okay for now. I just keep it for emergencies." I knew I sounded as lame as I probably looked. "I'll get rid of it sometime. You know, the van looks great. You did a really terrific job."

Rick made a noise that wasn't totally insulting and backed out of the driveway. I shut up.

We cruised out in the big, black beast-mobile to the interstate, heading east. It might have been more comfortable to stay on my side of the water but it was best to make the rounds. Not get locked into any one place or pattern. If you think I was being extra-careful, you'd be right.

But the riding was different this time. As a matter of fact, the van felt different the second I got inside and if we hadn't spent those first few minutes sniping at each other, I might have said so right off. However, before we hit the tunnel, I detected genuine improvement. I didn't feel sick crossing over water. After a while, I peered over at Rick and noticed that he was wearing a very smug look on his face just one side of smartass so I knew for sure he'd done something. Change — even good changes — always leaves me feeling nervous until I know what's up. So next thing I asked was, "What did you do?"

"Got tired of driving around with you looking like you were going to throw up all the time."

"But what —"

"Abby sent over a lot of that dirt. So I spread a layer down under the carpet. It makes a difference?"

"Yeah. It's great. It's perfect."

"Just part of the service, maestro," Rick said. "I'll send you a bill in the morning."

He was just talking. We both knew that he was not going to be sending me a bill in the morning or any other time. I was nodding, feeling amazed and surprised — but in a good way — when it occurred to yours truly that this was a Nice Thing.

It was not as if anyone had never done anything nice for me before, but those times had been very few and light years between. First thing I'd discovered living with him was that Rick Mallock was one of the most independent and self-reliant people I'd ever met. He didn't want or need anything from anyone. Especially me. The money was payment for a job and, even though it was Beeg Bucks, it was still only justifiable compensation. Fixing the van up so it would be easier to for me to ride in, that wasn't any kind of priority. We never even talked about it. Rick saw on his own what riding was like for me. He noticed ... and thought up a way to take care of it. Did it himself. Without saying anything.

I wanted to say "thanks" but I hadn't had much experience using that word except to be sarcastic. When I finally did get it out, I hoped it sounded right.

Must have been okay because Rick only nodded and said, "You're welcome."

We drove on.

We started out at the Marquis Club but that was pretty limp so we headed on over to the Diamond Mind which was jigging better than somewhat though it was still early enough to be sluggish. The music was definitely better. Golden Earring's Twilight Zone was shaking the walls when we came in, a very hot tune. It torched the speakers, made it hard to touch ground. All around the room, the ignition was sparked up in dozens of eyes, motivating lots of pronounced body language. Maybe it wasn't as intense as back when they came out with Radar Love but it was very good. Anyway, I was twitching to get out and move.

Rick and I stood at the bar and looked out over the room. A bartender set us up — Beam straight-up, water on the side. I wouldn't be touching mine. Rick raised the first glass of the evening in a little salute.

"Breakfast of champions," he said.

I made the tiger face again. Growled. Then moved out on the floor.

Good-luck was with me. Ran into someone at the Diamond Mind that I'd been with before, a borderline Brood. She was excited and happy to see me again. I was glad to see her, too, so we went back to her place. That was the usual drill, me leaving with the choice of the evening and Rick following in the van. After, I would take off and Rick and I would cruise back to Summer's Garden before sunrise. I spotted him waiting for me when I left, sitting in the van, soaring through the pages of another book by the glow of one of those little battery-powered lights. A real watchdog. Right. He was very involved so I was careful to make enough noise so he could hear me coming.

Rick folded a corner of the page, marking his place. Looked up.

"That's got to be you kicking through the trashcans or a damn big cat." His voice came out clear and sharp.

"It's me," I said. "I left the flares back at the house."

Climbed into the van. Rick stashed his book and started the engine. "That was fast," he said.

"Some people have to get up and go to work the next day."

"As opposed to getting up and working the next night?"

"You call this work?"

"I'm not complaining."

I felt a frown settle over my face. "You ought to bring Karma with you," I said.

"Why?"

"She doesn't read."

Rick gave me a look which was different from before so I said, "I'm not complaining either. I just worry."

"Is something up?"

"No. Not that I know of. But animals are more tuned into — things. Especially that animal. Besides, she'd be company for you."

"I told you I don't like animals. Don't want 'em around."

I could've debated that. Didn't. I'd seen the package of beef bones he'd brought in with his groceries and quick-stashed in the back of the fridge. Arguing was pointless unless I wanted to rile him up which I didn't.

"What are you grinning about?" Rick snapped.

"Nothing."

I peered out the window, took in the area. "Hey, we're out by La Mirage," I said. "Let's stop by."

"Let's not."

"Why?"

"I hate that place."

"We don't have to stay."

"I hate that place."

Doo-wah, doo-wah.

"I don't get it," I said. "You hang out with vampires, wyrwolves, ghouls and the rest of us creatures of the night but ask you to step inside a gay bar —"

"You know I love hanging out with the unwashed as much as anybody," Rick drawled, frosty. "But an after hours gay bar is not my idea of a fun environment."

"You're still mad because of Martha."

"Martin," Rick corrected, suddenly surly. "Who would have thought such a sweet old grandma like that would turn out to be ... what he turned out to be?"

"You got to stop hitting on these younger women, Mallock. Find someone closer to your own age."

"Younger women? I was not hitting on her. Him. I was just talking. That's all."

"Rick."

"What?"

"Lighten up."

He glanced over at me. Rolled his cigar from side of his mouth to the other, deliberating."You've been waiting a long time to flash that back at me."

"I have."

"Don't let it go to your head," he warned.

Even sparring back and forth like that, the quiet, when it settled down between us, was comfortable now. Easy. Still new enough for me to notice.

The first time we'd visited La Mirage, Rick spent most of his time talking to a very pleasant older woman, a genuine old sweetheart who looked like a cross between Mayberry's Aunt Bea and that newspaper matriarch from the old Lou Grant show. He was just trying to get the lay of the land that night. He really thought she was somebody's grandmother, that she'd been dragged along for the very odd evening out. The truth did not exactly set him free when he found out she was a Quality Control Inspector specializing in aeronautical design who had begun her career as a test flight officer and electronic warfare specialist and was better known professionally as Lieutenant Commander Martin Peyton — not Martha Whitebread.

We pulled up outside La Mirage, parking on the street way past the fringe of the lot. Looked like the place was packed although we didn't see many people hanging about outside. You never do. There were a few folks scattered here and there walking in and walking out but not dawdling. Like other nocturnals I could name, these people glittered best after dark. I don't mean they were all refugees from Fashions Anonymous or anything like that. Remember when you were a kid playing games like tag and hide-and-seek and you slipped past the hunters and made it home free, got back to the safe place when the rest were chasing you down? La Mirage was a safe place.

Or it was supposed to be.

Saw a familiar figure walking out the front door and waved.

"Don't wave at him," Rick groaned.

But Martha saw us, waved back and walked over. It was cold but she hugged her coat around her with more than the midnight chill.

"Hello, honey," she said. "Evening, cowboy."

"Evening," Rick said, bland.

"What's going down?" I asked. "It looks mobbed. Betsy holding another show?"

"The Franki Babe trial ended today," Martha told us. "What there was of it. It's like a big decompression chamber in there — except very depressing. Too intense for this old lady."

"Who's Franki Babe?" I asked.

"Franki Babe was Matthew Ronald Ritter and she used to work the corner down on Church Street with the rest of the she-male tribe," Martha said. "Late last spring, she was selected by two charmers in an electric blue and pink pickup truck. Very flashy. They drove away and, eventually, the gentlemen asked Franki how much she charged for the customary oral gratification and she quoted them a price of thirty dollars each. Then one of them stuck a very large .38 in Franki's face and said 'this one's a freebie.'"

"What happened?" Rick asked.

"The truck was still moving but Franki jumped out. Mutt and Jeff turned around, drove back and ran her down. The cops found Franki's body — she wasn't quite dead yet — and headed over to the corner to find out what they could. While they were talking to the girls, who should drive back, cruising for love, but Mutt and Jeff in electric blue and pink. The other ladies were quick to point out the distinctive vehicle Franki had left in and the police pulled them over. Mr. Mutt was quick to confess how they'd left a 'bitched up bastard' back on the pavement. The paper quoted his theological assertions at length, 'God wants all queers dead.'" Martha tried to keep her voice smooth and up but was having a hard time of it. "Mr. Jeff was more than willing to testify against his companion to save his own skin, you understand. He sang quite a tune to the police, to the press, to anyone who would stand still long enough to listen although he might have saved himself the trouble."

"Why?" Rick asked.

"Apparently Franki didn't have a photo set, that's what came out at the trail. No pictures of Franki in drag, only photos of Matthew Ronald Ritter looking very uncomfortable for his high school graduation memorial. Mr. Jeff couldn't testify that Matthew was the same person who jumped out of the truck that night. Mutt and Jeff insist they did not pick up a man. They're not that way, you understand."

"I've never known a drag queen who didn't have a portfolio, even if it's only a couple of polaroids. Not a working queen," I said.

"It is unusual," Martha admitted.

"So what's the bottom line?" Rick asked.

"The judge dismissed the case."

"Shit. That doesn't make any sense."

"Absolutely. It does not. But there it is." Martha's sigh sounded more like a groan. Age settled over her like a wretched, threadbare coat leaving her exposed and vulnerable to all the rotten elements. She pulled her own wrap even closer around her.

"My God, if they'd been caught killing a dog like that, they'd have done time. At least paid a fine. Something but...." She shook her head. "It was just too much in there for me tonight. People trying to pretend it didn't happen. Others bellowing about what they're going to do to change things. It doesn't change. I keep hoping, I keep.... I'm getting too old for this. Sorry, boys. I didn't mean to spoil your evening."

"Did they mean to pick up a man?" Rick asked, still confused.

"She-male pros don't work the same corners as women," I said. "Every group has their own area. If these guys were locals —"

Martha nodded. Yes, they were.

"Then they knew where they were going and what they were after. Everybody gets caught out from time to time," I said. "If Franki jumped out of a moving truck then she was scared of something more than giving out a couple of freebies."

We didn't go on to speculate that the folks in charge, the folks in the uniforms and the black judge's robes couldn't guess that either. Nobody had the heart for it. We stood around quiet and listened to the winter wind whistle over the buildings and stark, gray tree limbs. Every now and then, La Mirage's door would open as people went in and out and the sound was drowned out by a splash of light and music. Then the door closed and all that was left was that cold, lonesome wail.

"Let us walk you to your car," Rick said after a while.

Martha smiled a little."Thanks," she said. "I'm freezing my nuts off out here."

Rick didn't quite know how to respond to that. Martha took his arm and laughed.

"Don't get your hopes up, cowboy," she said. "You're not really my type. A lady's got to have her standards, you know."

"Aw, shucks," Rick said, smooth, and made me feel glad I was with him.

But my good mood had been seriously nuked. Rick and Martha weren't tripping along any brighter — and I had this feeling, like an electric-charged chill that was raising the hair on the back of my neck. Still, it was better walking with them than standing alone. Less empty.

Behind us, from the back end of the narrow, old asphalt road, we heard a mechanized roar that grew louder as it rushed towards us, much too fast for the narrow, vehicle-choked street. We pivoted around to face a pair of blazing headlights from a pickup truck and another row of lights across the roof bearing down on us like some crazed freight car on the warpath. This one wasn't blue and pink, it was shiny-black and dripping with chrome polished-up to a mirror finish. We dived out of the way. It just missed us but a guy walking up ahead wasn't fast enough. He was just a kid, you couldn't miss that under all the light. He froze there on the side of the street, gawking at the truck. I heard yelling — Rick shouting, "Move! Move!" but the kid just stood there.

"Heads up, faggots!"

A voice shouted out. Two voices, actually, whooping it up. Laughing. A fist attached to an arm reached out of the passenger's side window, grabbed the kid up in a jacket-collar choke-hold. Dragged him some yards. Slung him out among the rusty tin of trashcans and boxes and garbage. He landed hard. Didn't move after. Then, having made its deposit, the truck whipped around and came to a stop facing us, motor rumbling and revving. The driver smacked out a series of blats from the horn. Funny thing, they didn't sound drunk or anything like that. Just mean.

"Did you see that candy ass dance?" Sound carries in the night, even over a V-8. "You see him? Wham-bam-thank-you-mam!"

"Baby faggot fall down and go boom!" the driver sneered.

Everyone outside rooted and stared. Others began to spill out from the bar. A group ran over to the kid in the trash cans. He still wasn't moving.

"What the hell?" Rick said.

"They read the newspapers." Martha was as grim as stone. "They're celebrating. Assholes have been cruising by all night."

I didn't say anything.

"We're taking out the trash tonight, girls," the driver yelled out again. "Who's next?"

Somebody yelled from the sidelines, "You rat bastard son of a bitch" but the next thing I knew, I was standing out in the middle of the road, cold-mad and still.

I said, "Come on."

Low voice, sure. But they heard me.

Everything and everyone else around us went away. I knew they were there, Rick and Martha ... could even sense others pouring outside — watching, wondering, scared, getting pissed, too. But for me and them in the truck, that was all the world.

<Come on....>

I sent out and felt that charge through their heads, zagging across those smoothed, frontal lobes. Felt their sudden confusion and surprise flap around me like a wasp in heat. Like a wasp, they were too arrogant and too bloody single-minded to be afraid.

<... come On!>

"Suffer and die, cocksucker!" the driver snarled/yelled out and floored it.

That truck must have looked fast-moving to everyone else — and it was. It just didn't seem fast to me. Like a slow motion cartoon, I watched it get bigger and bigger, heading straight at me. The lights were blinding at first but my eyes had time to adjust and I could see the two riding up in the cab. Driver's knuckles were white on the wheel. His buddy's eyes were popped wide, spooked that things had gone so far so fast but excited, too. No one had any doubts as to this outcome. No one.

They never have the guts to come out alone. There's always got to be two or more and some kind of weapon. Some kind of symbol to hide behind, too, be it swastikas, burning crosses, bibles or t-shirts. This one sported one of the standard bumper stickers — Castrate A Faggot Before He Rapes Your Son.

It wasn't my imagination. There was heat from those headlamps as they raced up. Gas and oil from that finely-tuned engine smudged the air like a grease spot spoiling the clean, night breeze. Someone screamed. Loud and shrill.

I stepped aside only a beat before impact, caught the truck by the rim of the wheel cavity. Lifted quick. Shoved. Watched that sucker spin out and flip on its side, its top, then the other side and finally upright again where it proceeded to stall out.

I wasn't finished.

Walked over to the front of the truck, stepped up on the bumper and crouched onto the hood. They weren't too damaged in there but very shook up and dazed. I made two fists, smashed through the windshield. That kind of glass splits funny, first into sheets, then breaks down into thousands of rough, little jewels. It's sort of pretty but it can still cut you up some. Grabbed the first one up by his jacket and pulled him straight through. Spotted another pile of garbage set out for the night. Aimed and let go.

Grabbed the other one, the driver. Locked onto him. Held on. Looked at him. Made him look back at me. Thought stuff at him but not for long. Didn't want any of his maggoty brain stink washing back on me.

Next thing I know, Rick was standing somewhere close and he was saying, "Tony ... let him go now. Just let him go. It's over. It's done."

So I finished pulling him out and dropped him over the side. Glanced over at Mallock and said, "Look out," because I didn't want any of that getting on him either. Don't get me wrong. That asshole wasn't dead or even dying just very messed up and had experienced one of those natural but embarrassing accidents that comes about when plans go wrong sometimes.

Men and women were moving again, surging up around us when I slid down off the hood. There was all kinds of feeling flashing around — concern, fear, confusion and something else.

Martha grabbed me before my feet touched the ground and started yelling. "You idiot! If they hadn't swerved and rolled like that, you'd be a pancake! You'd be dead!"

Explanations were not recommended so I didn't say anything. Guess she thought I was fucked up in the head a bit. And I was — sort of.

"Nutcase! Idiot!" She kept yelling but now she was hugging me, too. "It was wonderful!"

Rick spied the bar's security guard scrambling towards us. "We have to get out of here," he said.

"He's right, honey," Martha agreed. "Make tracks."

She was still hugging me, though, so it was hard to do that. But she was smiling, too, looking young again. I had to kiss her.

The crowd opened — and closed — around us as we pushed our way through. Glanced back and noticed Security had slowed down a pace, spared us a nod and looked away.

"How's the hands?" Rick asked.

"Still attached."

"I don't know about you, maestro."

"What is it now?"

"You're so repressed, so restrained," he said. "You ought to learn to let go more. Open up and let folks know how you really feel."

There we were, jogging along, and I started making hyena noises again, laughing. Seemed like I was doing a lot of that lately. It had never been my usual headset and it felt weird, like something was breaking up inside. My hands were a bloody mess and hurt like hell but it didn't seem to matter.

"Did you see that guy's face?" I said. "He looked like he thought I was going to swallow him whole."

"I thought you were, too."

"No way! You got to have standards, right?"

The blond was standing on the other side of Rick's van leaning up against the door, the picture of casual elegance, and I almost crashed into him before I slid to a stop. Momentum kept tilting me forward and I scrambled for balance.

"Who the hell are you?" I burst out, surprised.

"You don't remember me, do you?"

The Brit's voice was familiar. It was always, painfully familiar. But nothing else clicked so I just scowled at him and waited.

"Every time I see you your hands are bleeding," he said.

I clued in at last. The final concert — backstage groupies and their dates. "You liked my spiffy ring," I said, dry.

"You do remember. How flattering."

Rick came around from his side of the van and stood there watching with his arms folded over his chest. "Who's this," he asked.

"I don't know," I said.

"I was just coming in when I noticed the commotion. Thought it best to keep out of the way," he told us. "You're quite a Goliath, aren't you?"

"Would have said he was more a David tonight," Rick said.

"Well, that's my name so that would be impossible. Wouldn't it?" He laughed a little.

"Your name is David?" I asked.

"Absolutely." The blond grinned as if it were the biggest joke he'd heard all day. "I already know who you are."

"We've got to go," I said.

"So quickly? Just like our last meeting. You Americans are always in such a rush."

David opened the door of the van for me and I brushed close past him when I stepped inside. He closed it after me and leaned on the door for a moment, smiling up.

"Ta for now," he said. "Think indecently of me from time to time, won't you?"

Almost snapped back, "In my nightmares," but I didn't. Somehow that would have hit too close to true.

I was glad when Rick pulled us out of there so I didn't have to answer. What I had really wanted to do was jerk the door out of his hand and slam it shut. Wished I'd given him an elbow in the ribs climbing in. None of that was the right or appropriate way to feel but I felt it strong. Told myself, That's just Tasia still punching your buttons — not him, although except for the hair color and the accent and the moonlight skin, there wasn't anything about him that was like her.

I didn't like his voice. It was an old voice and didn't sound right coming out of that face. It was a funny uncle voice, the kind that's always feeling you up the wrong way whether it's telling fairy tales or making comments about weather. I reminded myself that freaks come in all ages, sizes and types but still couldn't get him out of my head. There was another odd bit. I was a long while feeling that special awareness you get when someone's staring daggers in your back. Finally had to stick my head out the window and look behind us.

"Is he gone?" Rick asked.

"Yeah."

"What a creepazoid. Where'd you meet that one?"

"He came backstage at my last show with Byron. He had a girl with him then."

"Takes all kinds."

"Yeah," I said, starting to think of something else.

"What's the matter?" Rick asked.

"Thirty dollars ... can you believe it? That was her top price. She would have negotiated down from there."

"I suppose so."

"Things still get cheaper as you head south."

"You know a lot about that stuff, don't you? About who stands on what street corner and who mixes with who."

"No."

Right. I deliberately lied to him. Sue me. It beats rape and murder but not by much.

"Hey, look at that, will you?"

Rick was pointing up at the black velvet sky. The moon was a thin, silver crescent laying on its side. It looked like one of those smiley-face grins — or a gigantic cat that had sucked in and swallowed all the stars and was feeling very pleased with itself.

"That's what they call a devil's moon, isn't it?" Rick asked, excited.

"I think so."

"He's grinning at us!"

That appeared to be true.

"I thought there was supposed to be a new moon tonight," I said.

"That ain't green cheese floating out there!" he crowed. "Take that, Old Nick!" Rick flipped a bird at the monster grin.

"Are you drunk or what, Mallock? You want me to drive?"

"Hell, no. I am feeling mighty fine. That was quite a show. I always enjoy watching assholes eat pavement."

"I didn't think you liked gays."

"I've got nothing against them, that's for sure. Don't plan on dating any. I don't like bigots. Especially those kind of bigots."

"Is there any other kind?"

Rick paused to consider a moment. Shook his head. "Not really. None that I've met."

We must've looked like a couple of loons sitting in the van, grinning the way we were. The moon grinned back, bigger than life, beaming down at us. Or maybe laughing — and we were soaring straight at it, right for the creature's maw! It was wild. Crazed. Rick stomped the gas, trying for warp speed I guess, and then I was laughing. Again!

I yelled, "Go for it!"

Then the moon went and did a funny thing. The crescent's curve dipped down into a deep 'V' of a smirk, leering at us. Then it disappeared.

And a voice drifted back from the black and said, <... all right....>

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