World Revolver Read online

  World Revolver

  Gina Ranalli

  World Revolver copyright © 2016 by Gina Ranalli All rights reserved.

  Published by Bloo Skize

  Seattle, Washington

  Book cover art: R.A. Sather. All rights reserved.

  World Revolver

  Bloo Skize

  ASIN: B01BRHYPTQ

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, including mechanical, electric, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher or author.

  Also by Gina Ranalli

  Dark Surge

  Unearthed

  Rumors of My Death

  Chemical Gardens

  Mother Puncher

  Wall of Kiss

  Suicide Girls in the Afterlife

  Sky Tongues

  Peppermint Twist

  House of Fallen Trees

  Praise the Dead

  Ghost Chant

  Mothman Emerged

  Machine Smile

  World Revolver

  Don’t eat animals.

  Recycle.

  Drive an eco-friendly car. Or better yet, don’t drive at all. Walk. Or bike.

  Leave only footprints.

  These were, quite literally, the signs of the time, once upon a time.

  Not so long ago either.

  We could remember those signs, that time, if we really wanted to. But we don’t. Of course we don’t. If we think about it too much we’ll realize, consciously, right up in our faces, how avoidable all this was. All the disasters. The starvations. The complete and utter ruin of our oceans, our planet and everything on it, including ourselves.

  We weren’t ignorant. We were selfish. We knew the score. Knew we were leaving the world unsustainable for our children. We didn’t care. We covered our ears and hummed as loudly as we could. We thought the momentary pleasure of our taste buds was far more important. The only thing that mattered.

  We said

  -Don’t preach to us. Get off your high horse. Tell it to someone who cares.

  Some of us cared, but the problems were so big, so insurmountable that, what could we do? Get our share, that’s what. Get as fat as we could, as fast as we could. Become hoarders of everything and in more quantity than we could ever need.

  You get yours, I’ll get mine and god help anyone who tries to take it from us, regardless of whether they need it more than we do or not.

  And then we finally got what was coming to us: a whole lot of nothing. The planet just gave up the ghost. She’s not gone yet, but her bags are packed and she’s waving goodbye from the taxicab.

  We are now on our own, wandering the corpse of our mother, and the strangest part is we still haven’t really learned our lesson.

  CHAPTER ONE—The Junkie (1)

  We call the needle a rocket because it shoots you into space. If it’s sucking out your life juice, then it’s called a drain but that doesn’t happen much. Not to me. I can’t even remember the last time someone took my blood.

  I wouldn’t even call it a rocket if it was up to me. I’d call it a fang. A snake fang that pours its sweet venom into your veins and makes you go away for a while. Leave the shithole planet behind. Bliss out, far out.

  Going away is my favorite thing to do. The only thing that matters in my shitty little life. Everything else can go fuck itself with a broken beer bottle for all I care. There’s not a whole lot else to live for anyway. Not anymore.

  I want the fang—the bitch’s tooth—in my arm and I tell Harvey as much from my place on the mattress in the corner of the room. The mattress is on the floor—fuck box springs, who needs ’em—under the one window and next to a cranky old radiator. Outside, it’s gray early afternoon and I live in this room alone. There’s a refrigerator, a sink and a stove. This place was old before my mother was born. There’s also a bathroom, painted infection pink, but no shower. Just a toilet and a tub. I have to brush my teeth in the main room.

  Harvey’s name isn’t really Harvey but it amuses me to call him that because his last name is Dent and, being a dealer, he’s naturally pretty sketchy and his face, though not completely mangled on one side, is pretty pock-marked all over. He wears suits a lot. Not nice ones, but suits just the same. Not sure why he bothers, really, but I give him credit for trying. I don’t even own a suit. I used to, when I was a kid—I got it for my dad’s funeral—but now all I have are t-shirts and sweats. One pair of jeans that still fit. Everything else is too big for me now. Not that I give a shit. I don’t really go out that much these days anyway.

  -Harvey, you gonna give me the shit or not?

  -This is not your daddy’s juice, bro.

  Harvey likes to call me bro. he waves the syringe in the air, trying to tempt me with it like he’s a seductive woman looking all come hither. But he knows he doesn’t have to tempt me. I already want it.

  He’s leaning against the wall by the door, his striped tie loose around his neck and his brown shoes scuffed, giving away his real status in life.

  -Harvey, man—

  -Why the fuck do you keep calling me that? I told you a million fucking times it’s not funny.

  -Okay. Sorry.

  -You think you’re being original with that shit? Like I haven’t heard it my whole fucking life?

  -I said sorry, man.

  Harvey stares at me like I’m a maggot on his French toast.

  -This shit is different. And it’s gonna cost you. We’re not playing anymore, Jeffy.

  -Yeah, you told me. How much?

  -Two bens, baby.

  -What the fuck?

  Harvey shrugs, like he just works in the store, he doesn’t own it. I guess that might be true but it’s still weird to think about.

  I dig out my wallet, find the money.

  -This better be worth it.

  -It is. But you gotta be careful. This is gonna fuck up your mind beyond belief. It could be the best high of your life or it could be the worst. Like that retard Gump said, you never know what you’re gonna get.

  -That doesn’t sound worth it to me.

  -What? You want references? I can get you references. Trust me, Jeffy. If you get a good one, it’s worth double the price. You’ll see. It’s a fucking steal.

  I lick my lips. I’ve heard about the shit. Satellite, it’s called. Supposed to send you to another plane of existence. Another dimension. Fucking crazy talk, you ask me, but what the hell. I’ll try anything once and if it’s as good as I’ve heard, it’ll be unlike anything else. Sounds better than just nodding out, as good as that can be.

  -You gotta be careful. It’s like a dream, Jeffy. You die in the dream, you ain’t waking up back here. You get what I’m saying?

  -Bullshit.

  I have to laugh but Harvey walks over and swaps me, money for needle. He isn’t smiling.

  -You think I’m kidding? I’m not fucking kidding. You go, you’re stuck there till this shit wears off. Then you’re back here, all comfy in your fucking palace.

  He looks around the room and snorts sarcastically.

  -Okay. You’re not fucking kidding. Got it.

  -I’ll be back tomorrow. You’ll either be dead or you’ll want more.

  -Isn’t that how it always is?

  -Yeah, but usually you can afford it. This is gonna add up, bro. Fast.

  I make a gun out of my finger and thumb and shoot him with it.

  -Gotcha.

  Harvey leaves and I’m alone with the rocket and my thoughts. The radiator hisses for a while. I wonder if I’m gon
na have to resort to sucking cock if I like this shit. Wouldn’t be the first time. I’ve done it before and it doesn’t mean I’m queer. It means I’m skilled. A man does what he has to do to get by in life. That’s what my dad told me and I believe him. You might not like it, but tough shit. Nobody likes their job. My dad told me that too.

  But first things first. Not gonna worry about cash until I know this shit is worth it. Forgive me for not just taking Harvey’s word for it. Or anyone else’s. I like to find this shit out for myself. Besides, my mom is usually good for a few bens now and then. Fuck, she usually pays my rent and then some. Otherwise, things have a way of working out. Never underestimate the power of shit jobs under the table. Hell, my landlord will give me shit to do around the building if I ask him. Knock a few bills off the bill, you know?

  I get up off the mattress. There’s some shit I like to do every time before I get high. Call it experience.

  First things first.

  Gotta piss. Shit if you can, but if you can’t, fuck it. Next, grab a bottle of water, put it within arm’s reach because when you come back, you’re gonna be dehydrated like a motherfucker. I like to take my driver’s license out of my wallet and put it nearby, make it really obvious. You never know who might find you and if you don’t came back, you want them to know who you are, no mistakes. Unless you don’t. I shouldn’t assume. But that’s what I do.

  Piss.

  Check.

  Water.

  Check.

  ID.

  Check.

  And I don’t have to tell you about the tourniquet. That one even my grandmother would know, if she wasn’t already dead like the rest of everybody I was ever related to. Except mom, that is.

  With Satellite, there’s no cooking. No mess. No fuss. Or whatever that expression is. Just let that fang bite you and you’re on the way, which is pretty sweet. Not a lot a person could fuck up. Not even me, the biggest royal fuck-up you’d ever not wanna meet.

  Back to the mattress, all the arrangements made. I’m ready for my ride.

  It’s 2 PM, Wednesday afternoon, September 25, 2036.

  Let’s go.

  CHAPTER TWO—The Rock Star

  What can I say, I’m a spoiled motherfucker.

  The bitch going down on me is doing it for free and I can’t argue with that. Hell, I think she would have paid me for the honor. Sometimes I’m tempted to ask the women just that, but you know, I have to be a gentleman. To some degree anyway.

  Stretched out on my California King, my bedroom decorated in royal purple, blood red and jet fucking black, I let her do her thing and watch the shadows on the silver ceiling, half wondering what’s going on downstairs. Candles burn throughout the room and I like the effect. Chicks seem to dig it too. Or, it’s just me they dig. Who I am, what I have, who I might introduce them to. All that shit. They dig the stuff a lot though. All the stupid shit I have hanging around. The guitars, the Grammy, the clothes and jewelry, the gold records. Not to mention the crap that only money can buy, like the tiny fucking shirt Cobain wore in the “Smells Like Teen Spirit” video, one of Hunter S. Thompson’s typewriters, a painting done by the old dharma bum himself, Kerouac. Another one by John Wayne Gacy that hangs in the kitchen—one of his many clowns. Collectable crap like that. You have to be rich to be able to afford things that belonged to your heroes, especially when they’re everybody else’s heroes too.

  The girl—I think she said her name was Violet, but she said it weird, like it’s probably not her real name—takes care of business and then crawls up my body, trying to kiss me on the mouth.

  -Nope, I don’t do cum, sweetheart. There’s new toothbrushes in the bathroom. Go use one.

  She gives me an insulted look but says nothing, taking her sweet bare ass out of my bed and away.

  Poof. I wave at her ass like a magician, a fancy finger motion, making her go bye-bye.

  Once she’s disappeared, I sit up and light a smoke, one of the few vices besides the chicks I’m still allowed. No more drugs, no more booze. Thanks Mr. Manager, ya fucking prick. Said my career would be down the shitter if I kept up my so-called hard living, whatever the fuck that means. A few too many busts, a few too many punches at the fucking paparazzi and way too many moving violations. Two stints in rehab, which the media ate like cum-covered ice cream, the fuckers. Nothing like a rock star going down in flames to start a feeding frenzy amongst the vultures.

  I smoke and listen to the water running in the bathroom and hope no one downstairs is fucking anything up. The usual hangers-on tagged along after the show earlier tonight, a few guys from the band and the female stragglers who follow us like they’re puppies and we have pockets full of bacon. A couple of the tech guys too. I don’t know them too well, so I should probably head down there and make sure they aren’t touching shit they shouldn’t touch or whatever. Wouldn’t be the first time I had strangers in my house who ripped me off. Usually they steal stupid shit, like clothes or other personal items, so they can sell them on auction sites.

  The chick emerges from the bathroom wearing nothing but a sexy smile and I have to admit, she’s a step up from the usuals. Doesn’t look as strung out or desperate or, thank Christ, young.

  She starts to crawl back into bed with me and I need to nip that shit in the bud.

  -Hold up. We’re going back downstairs now.

  -What? No cuddling?

  I laugh and stab the cigarette out in an ashtray of James Dean’s face.

  -Not tonight, sweetheart.

  -Later?

  -I have shit to do. Gotta get back to my guests.

  -I’m one of your guests.

  -And you got the best treatment of all, cupcake.

  -Oh, so it’s like that?

  I ignore her, get out of bed and put my jeans on.

  -I suck your dick and get nothing in return? You can’t even finger me?

  She has a point, I guess, but I’m already feeling pretty tired.

  -Rain check on that, okay, sweetheart?

  -You don’t even remember my name, do you? That’s why you keep calling me sweetheart and cupcake, right?

  Pulling a black silk shirt out the of the closet, I keep my back to her, hoping this doesn’t turn into a fucking scene. I’m in no mood for a fucking scene.

  I put the shirt on but don’t bother buttoning it and face her.

  -Don’t be like that, Violet.

  Her face, which was getting that long, grim look that older, angry women wear constantly, softened and she smiled again.

  -I think you might really like me.

  -That right?

  I grab my smokes from the nightstand and head out of the room, not waiting for an answer. I hope I don’t have to frisk the bitch before she leaves. Wouldn’t be the first time for that one either. Love and war though, right?

  Downstairs, Joey, my bass player, is wrestling with my only true friend in the world, Marvin, my boxer. Boxer like the dog, not the shitheads who pound each other stupid in a ring like fucking Neanderthals.

  Marvin leaps up at the sight of me and races over, his stump of a tail wagging. I crouch and let him slobber my face with pup kisses.

  Joey stands up and tries to act cool, with his black eyeliner and black polished fingernails. Goth went out in the ’20s but joey doesn’t let that stop him. I can’t say too much about it though, given my own fondness for what they used to call grunge. You wouldn’t know it to look at me but nothing sends me over the moon like those old tunes, full of angst and sweat.

  -Where’s everybody?

  He gestures towards the sliding glass doors leading out to the patio.

  -Pool.

  -Not you though?

  -Man, you know I can’t swim. Plus, they’re all…

  -They’re all what?

  -Naked and shit.

  -So?

  -That’s not fucking sanitary, man.

  He shakes his mop head at me and clucks his tongue like somebody’s damn grandma.

  My man Marvin w
ould just keep licking all night if I let him, so I give him a little push and straighten up, doing my best not to show my amusement at Joey being a fucking weirdo.

  -I’m hungry.

  I rub my belly when it growls and wander away into the kitchen to forage for food. I still have my head in the fridge when Violet’s voice gets my attention. I seriously hope she’s not planning on staying the night. I hate to seem like a douche bag, but shit.

  -You gonna make me a meal in exchange for the b.j.?

  I close the fridge and look at her. She’s dressed now, if you can call it that. Skimpy outfit that leaves nothing to the imagination. I liked it when I first saw her but now it just makes me tired. More tired.

  -I can’t cook. Sorry.

  -You want me to make you something?

  Stifling a sigh, I scratch at my ear and look at the floor.

  -It’s late.

  -You kicking me out?

  I look up at her and don’t say anything, hoping she’ll take a hint. Well, a bigger hint.

  -I read in a magazine you like breakfast food. I can make you an omelet if you want. Or pancakes.

  The desperation wafting off her is practically visible, like a heat shimmer.

  -I forgot to take a piss.

  I leave the kitchen then, heading into the bathroom just off it, and when I’m done, I stand at the sink washing my hands, checking myself out in the mirror.

  What I see, for the first time, probably, is a ridiculous man. I still have the same long crazy hair I had when I was in high school. Still too skinny. I look like a fucking junkie with sallow skin and sunken eyes who—

  -The fuck?

  There’s a scar by my right eye, right at the outside corner, about an inch and a half long, faded, like it’s many years old, but plenty visible.

  It wasn’t there before. Ever.

  Leaning in close to the mirror, I touch the scar, can feel the slightly raised ragged line of it with the tip of my finger.