Chapter 3
Iggy
T hankfully, Under the Volcano Tiki Bar is just decent enough to have individual bathrooms. I have a deep personal conviction that doesn’t allow me to patronize establishments with restroom stalls. They’re an atrocity, a heinous crime perpetrated against personal privacy.
But, as it happens, I forgot to check when I got here. Luckily, it worked out fine. I’m not in breach of my moral code as I lock the door, dampen a wad of paper towels, and wipe off the mix of bodily fluids caked along my inner thighs.
A quick refresh of my makeup, a finger-comb through my hair, and there. Good enough. I only need to make it past my B Rex falls after him. They’re on their feet. One of them shouts and a fireball hits the statue square in the chest. Bricks crumble from the base.
“Oh no,” I whisper when the smell of gas hits me.
“Get down!” I scream, but it’s too late. The explosion knocks me flat on the ground. My awareness flickers in and out.
Flashing lights. Sirens.
My ears are ringing louder than the voices overhead.
Where are Rex and Vale?
I ’m dead sober.
The three of us are in a jail cell and in a shit ton of trouble.
Vale’s got a black eye and a gash along his jaw. He’s still a little sloshed, but Rex is completely wasted. With a pang of guilt, I remember the numerous shots I passed to him instead of drinking myself.
“Did you know there are goats in Australia that can fly?” Rex asks. He’s sprawled out on one of the benches, eyes closed, hair singed, shirt burned to a crisp. I thought he’d passed out, but I guess he’s still awake.
“Nope, din-know that,” Vale replies. He’s standing upright but his one good eye is struggling to stay open.
“I might buy Birdie one. Maybe that’ll make her smile at me again. She’s got the prettiest smile,” Rex says dreamily. He’s been going on about a ‘birdie’ all night. At first, I’d been picturing a parakeet and politely ignoring my friend’s cringey obsession with his pet bird. But nope. Rex is drowning in a sea of longing and frustration over a woman. Poor bastard. If we hadn’t lost touch, I could have told him casual is the way to go. There’s nothing as tortuous or horrifying as sticking around long enough to discover all the ways you don’t live up to someone else’s expectations. But right now, his love life is the least of our worries.
We’re being held for the night, possibly longer. They won’t say. Charges are pending. I’ve got my interview on Monday. It’s for a job that’s too good for me, but that just makes me want it more. What if they don’t let me out in time? What if this ruins my only shot at really, truly making it in this industry?
None of my qualifications were real. I’ve worked for the same mom-and-pop shop for nine years, and most days I’m printing flyers and stapling them to community boards and phone poles around town. I’m not a real marketer. But I think I could be.
“Some goats can fly,” Rex continues in his dreamy tone. “So pigs flying, that’s not so hard to imagine.”
“S’pose not,” Vale agrees, his chin nodding against his chest.
“My volcano joke was way funnier,” Rex says, and a second later, he’s snoring.
“We’re in so much fucking trouble,” I groan under my breath. I’m already overwhelmed by how bleak things are looking, and that’s before we get a visit from the bailiff a few hours later.
The door bursts open with a metallic clang and in she comes, a severe-looking demoness with the arcane markings of a devotee carved into her horns. “You have three options,” she informs us, producing three pairs of handcuffs with fire-stop gloves. “And you must decide as a group: trial by judge, trial by jury, or plead your case before the daemon tribunal. Which will it be?”