Friday, October 4, 2024

Deadly Drafts - CH 43

FUNNY GIRL


Harris ran through Rainbow Lanes' parking lot, unsure of any specific direction other than "away."

"Go! Go! He's going to suplex us to death! This is worse than Death Fist!"

Arthur ran alongside him, neon cheeks and fluttering hair. "Why are we always fighting people with nicknames! Oi, Kavi, your house isn't too far, is it? We can lead him to the cops staking it out."

No one answered.

"Kavi?"

Arthur slowed to a jog. Harris stopped. They turned. Bernard emerged from the bowling alley, a lifeless form slung over his shoulder. Like loading mulch bags, he lumbered through the yellow light of the parking lot and dropped Kavi into to the trunk of a small Honda Civic.


"Shit on a shingle!" Harris cried. "I thought we were all together! How'd he get Kavi?"

"Second verse same as the first!" Arthur turned and sprinted back toward the bowling alley. "We hit him at the same time and grab Kavi!"

Harris jogged after, his jaw pre-aching from Bernard's expected punches. This exact lunatic plan had worked so damn well against the Death Fist. Harris' ribs still throbbed. He sped forward and grasped Arthur's shoulder.

"Wait, let's—"

Gary the barkeep and a towering hulk of Barbara Streisand (complete in heels and Funny Girl flapper dress) burst from the bar. Steam curled from their skin. Used to rowdy patrons, the two rushed Barnard and hooked his arms behind him before the oaf could close the car's trunk. Grunting and thrashing, Gary and Streisand drug Bernard back from the car. Gary locked eyes with Arthur

"Get her and—puahh!" Bernard's elbow smashed the air from Gary's shout. He crumpled to the asphalt, leaving Streisand one-on-one against the Immolator.

Arthur dove into the Honda's trunk as Streisand threw the first punch: a deft, compact jab into Bernard's ribcage. The giant howled. Bernard tucked his arms close to his chest to block another, but Babs followed with a lightning hook. The punches made loud slapping sounds, applause for a job well done. Kavi curled, eyes fluttering, arms dangling over the trunk lip. Arthur scooped her as best he could and heaved. Kavi's surprising heft—you try lifting dead weight sometime and see how easy it is—and Arthur's near-useless left wrist (twisted when Bernard attacked) necessitated an extra hand.

"Shit, Harris!" Arthur cursed to see Harris sitting shotgun in Bernard’s car. "Quit dicking around and help me!"

Harris opened his mouth to object, but Bernard's roar cut him short. What The Immolator lacked in technique, he made up for in pure, oafish strength. The giant ducked under Streisand's punches and swung wild. Their bout inched closer and closer to the Honda.

"Run boys!" shouted Streisand’s smoky voice. "I can't hold him much longer!"

One on her ankles and the other at her shoulders, Arthur and Harris heaved Kavi from the trunk. They waddled to the nearest edge of the parking lot, desperate for cover of darkness. Kavi twisted in their arms.

"Fuck," she moaned. "Remind me not to attack professional wrestlers in the future."

A loud carrack! sounded behind them. The Irregulars turned to see Streisand crumple over the Civic's bumper. They could practically see the little birdies circling her head. Bernard stalked from the alley, arms grapple-ready and head on a swivel. Warpaint and blood streaked his face. The loose strap of his singlet fluttered at his biceps. A tear in the stomach of his costume showed pasty whiteness. Streisand writhed on the blacktop, rubbing a bloody mess of nose.

"Quiet!" Harris ducked in the darkness just past the far corner of the bowling alley. He pulled at Kavi and Arthur. "I don't think he sees us."

Kavi murmured a string of curses. Arthur moaned. Hearts in their throats, they watched as Bernard jumped into the driver's seat of his Civic. Navy blue with a rusted door and a missing taillight, Kavi said to herself. Navy blue with a rusted door and a missing taillight. The image etched into her memory. Navy with a rusted door and a missing taillight. The car rattled to life and squealed from the lot. The Irregulars held their breath until the car's rumble echoed to silence.

Kavi was first to stand. "We're back where we started! Empty handed!" The ground beneath her feet swayed. Steady, she told herself. Focus on what you can control. Breathe. 1-2-3. 1-2-3. She collapsed back to the ground.

"We really are shit at this," Arthur rubbed Kavi's shoulders. "How can we be so shit at this?"

"We?" Harris laughed. "Don't lump me in with you two sad sacks."

Arthur turned to Harris. "I don't see what's so funny right now."

Harris wiped a tear from his eye, plunged a hand into the breast pocket of his prison shirt. "This is what's so funny." He pulled an elongated white envelope.

Kavi stopped shaking. "What is that?"

"This," Harris held the envelope aloft, "I hope, is the first thing we've done right since being arrested." He pulled a flimsy page from the envelope. It fluttered and crinkled in the night breeze. "It's Bernard's vehicle registration. I swiped it from his glove box."

Kavi and Arthur craned to get a vantage.

"Open it," Kavi said, her voice a whisper.

Harris unfolded the page. All three Irregulars held their breaths, scanning words in the low light. Kavi, Harris and Arthur gasped in unison to see the name printed beside, 'Owner.'
 
 

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