Click-clack.
Click-clack.
Mike
never tired of that sound. The sweet auditory finesse of polyurethane wheels
bumping over cracks in the sidewalk; it was a marrow-deep tattoo upon the
stretched drumskin of his life.
His
beat-up old skateboard pivoted under his feet as he leaned back and forth,
carving along the pavement on his way to nowhere in particular. He went there
almost every day; it was so much better than anywhere else.
As
he rounded an abandoned liquor store, he saw the local crew standing in a
semicircle, talking, gesticulating, and spitting as only teenage boys could.
“Hey guys, what’s up?” Mike inquired as he skated up to them.
“Hey,
greenie,” said Raj, normally the friendliest of them. Jorge, Jules, and Manny
merely glanced in his direction for a moment and then turned their attention
back to Frankie, who never ceased talking. At nineteen years of age, he was a
little old to be hanging around with them, but no one ever told him as much.
Partly because they looked up to him, partly because he was bigger; but mainly
because he told great stories.
“And
then,” Frankie went on, “I went out again to find a new spot. On Thursday after
midnight, so there wouldn’t be no pigs around. And I saw this…THING there. All
on fire, like the Ghost Rider, only a skater instead of a biker. A real
old-school skater, with a wide-ass board. And he glowed - he was all like,
bright green and shit. And he moved like he was, y’know, floating, like on a Back To The Future board or something,
‘cept I heard his wheels on the ground. And his fucking wheels were on fire,
man.”
Frankie
paused to allow a chorus of approving “cool’s” and “no shit’s” to wash over him.
“And what did he do?” Manny, the youngest of the bunch, asked excitedly.
“He
fucking SKATED, dude!” exclaimed Frankie, stomping on his board’s kicktail for
emphasis. “He carved, he rode walls, he nollied and kickflipped and did these
weird grabs that I don’t even fucking know what they were called. He was like
all the best skaters from those old Powell vids. And I swear I felt the ground
shake, like a goddamn garbage truck was going by or something. And there were
always these green fires trailing after him – like something you’d see in
chemistry class when some kid mixes the chemicals all wrong, y’know? It was
fucking awesome.”
“Did
you talk to him?! What did he say?” shrieked Manny, temporarily forgetting how
to be cool.
“He
didn’t say nothin’, man. After I watched him for, I don’t know, fifteen minutes
or somethin’, I said, ‘Hey, dude!’ And he turned to look at me, and his face
was…blank. It’s like, he had no face, ‘cept for eyes, and they were all burning
and green. And when he looked at me, I was just fucking floored, y’know?
Couldn’t say nothin’, couldn’t move. And I dunno how long it took, but then he
just vanished. There was, like, this circle of green fire – y’know, it was
kinda like that fucking fire tornado vid I showed you guys last week? – and
then, nothin’. I pulled out my phone for a pic, but there wasn’t nobody there
anymore. It was incredible.”
If
jaded old Frankie was impressed by something, the rest of them know they’d damn
well better be, too. Mike tried to think of an intelligent question to ask; and
almost had one when Jules cut in.
“Do
you think if we head to that spot, WE can see him too?”
“Dunno,”
Frankie shrugged. “Maybe. But if he’s, y’know, dead, maybe he only shows up at
certain times or to certain people. I heard some ghosts do that.”
“I
bet he’d show up to ME!” Manny declared, his tiny chest puffed out in pride.
Jorge
and Jules chuckled at that. “Don’t make bets you can’t cover, Manny,” said Raj
with a smile.
After
a little more sniping, Frankie interjected, “Look, guys, I gotta jet soon. But
let’s agree that if any of us hears anything or sees anything about that ghost,
you gotta let everyone know, so we can get to the bottom of this shit.”
After
a general consensus to that, they all dispersed and went their separate ways.
Mike was just about to head off when he heard something stirring in the late-afternoon
shadows against the wall behind him. A gaunt, unkempt figure raised itself off
the ground and tottered forward, unsteadily.
Mike
was momentarily afraid; but then he saw that it was only Drago, one of the
homeless bums who hung around the neighborhood. Most of the adults hated him
and told kids to stay away from him, but he seemed harmless enough to Mike.
Besides, he was pretty entertaining.
“He’s
not a ghooosst,” Drago rasped. “‘Ghost’ would mean he’s dead, that’d mean he
was alive, once – and he WASN’T!”
“Were
you listening to that whole conversation?” He was so stealthy that Mike hadn’t
even noticed that he was there. Maybe it was a learned skill that homeless
people had.
Drago
raised one bony hand over his head, as if to blot out the sun, and then swung
it down with a flourish. “The Green Roller was NEVER alive! He’s BEYOND life
and death, good and evil, heaven and hell and the DMV!”
Mike
didn’t quite see the point Drago was trying to make. Assuming there was one.
“So what was he then?”
“A
SPIRIT!”
“That’s
the same thing-”
“NO!
A spirit of a PLACE, not a PERSON! The Green Roller is the SPIRIT of THIS
CITY!”
Huh,
Mike thought. “Huh,” he said aloud. “Well, thanks for the info, Drago, but I
gotta go home now. Bye!” He dropped his board to the ground and pushed off.
“I
ain’t FINISHED, boy!” Drago yelled after him, waving his thin arms in the air.
“A SPIRIT sprinting of the CITY, citified! It becomes an OBSESSION, folk
thinking there’s SOMETHING THERE! But there ISN’T! I once knew…”
He
was still ranting as Mike rolled out of earshot.
__ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __
*
* * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * *
*
That
night, Mike retired to his room after a relatively subdued dinner with his mother
and father. He didn’t mention anything to them about what Frankie or Drago had
said; he knew that they’d only order him to stop hanging around those bums, or
losers, or whatever choice denigration they reserved for people unlike them. He
was struggling through yet another homework math problem when he heard raised
voices from his parents. As usual. It seemed to him that they spent more time
screaming at each other than on…well, anything.
He
tried to zone them out.
It
didn’t work. They only got louder. Meanwhile the numbers in front of him stared
at him, tauntingly. Ten digits in infinite combinations, with infinite wrong
answers and only one, mysterious, right one. For each one of an infinite number
of problems.
Parents…
Why couldn’t they just shut up if all they were going to do was yell? A riddle
for the ages…just like his damned homework.
After
a few moments of indecision, he dropped his pencil, put on his skate shoes,
grabbed his board, and was out the door.
The
embracing air of a warm summer evening caressed his face and tousled his air as
he weaved along, the wood of his deck creaking under him and lulling him into a
sort of trance. It was about the best feeling he could get, just skating around
like that. Some days, it was the ONLY good feeling he could get.
Perhaps
unconsciously, he directed himself away from the housing tract where his
parents lived, towards an industrial area that was always deserted at night.
Well, almost always – sometimes college kids had underground, illegal rave
parties there, or so he’d heard. He had always wanted to see one.
As
streetlamps and lighted windows faded behind him, Mike found himself in an
expanding sea of dark gray and black. The moon was three-quarters full, but it
was still pretty dark out; and he knew from experience that it was a bad idea
to skate when you couldn’t even see the cracks in the pavement. He was about to
turn around and head back towards civilization when, to his left, he saw a
strange greenish light. It definitely wasn’t moonlight, and it didn’t look like
any streetlight or car headlight he’d ever seen before. It appeared to be
emanating from an empty lot amidst a cluster of abandoned warehouses. Maybe it
was the college kids? He turned the nose of his board towards it and pushed,
hoping he might at least be able to score some ecstasy or something there with
the twenty-four dollars in his pocket.
As
he approached, Mike noticed that the light didn’t shine steadily; it was
pulsing in and out, almost as though it was keeping a beat. But he didn’t hear
a note of music. Finally, he turned a corner and got a good view of the lot,
only to see – an empty lot. The greenish light still seemed to be emanating
from there, but it was everywhere and nowhere at once, like being inside of a
hologram.
Mike
heard a few stray wrappers blowing along the pavement, and turned to see them
spinning in a circle. Dust in a devil. The glow seemed very slightly stronger
there, and he cautiously rolled over to get a closer look. He stepped off of
his board, bent over–
And
was promptly knocked to the ground by a blast, of air and light and sound all
at once. An emerald bomb going off in his face. Even with his eyes closed, all
he could see was the most neon green imaginable; a green that made a
well-watered July lawn look like pale ochre dust. After a few moments, it
dimmed some, and he cautiously opened his eyes halfway.
There,
standing before him, was a green apparition. Vaguely human in shape, but with
odd angles, strange proportions, and flames licking up, down, and all over it.
It was standing on a skateboard which looked almost normal in comparison to its
rider, but it, too, was covered in bright green flames. Mike could smell the
stench of burning asphalt where its wheels touched the ground.
The
apparition turned to look at him. Its eyes, too, were green; but a green so
bright that it was almost yellow. Mike’s jaw hung open, his throat too dry to
speak. He managed to emit a gasp – and then the apparition pushed off. Just one
push, and it roared through the empty lot as a meteorite burns through
atmosphere. Mike saw the apparition lift off of the ground, as if it had
ollied; and then it vanished, with another green flash.
He
sat on the pavement, staring dumbly, for quite some time. Boy, would he have a
story to tell tomorrow.
__ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __
*
* * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * *
*
“Get real, Mike,” Jules sneered.
Mike
folded his arms against his chest and scowled. As well as he could, anyway. He
hadn’t had that much practice.
“You’re
just saying you saw it because you heard Frankie say he saw it!” Jorge piped
in.
“Then
why’d you believe Frankie when he said he saw what he said…” Manny trailed off,
uncertain of his grammar.
“Frankie’s
seen it all; he’s got no reason to lie about stuff like that!” Raj declared.
“I
got no reason to lie about it either,” Mike mumbled. He wished he hadn’t
bothered telling them.
“Yo,
guys!” Frankie yelled, from across the street. He rolled across to them,
dodging a couple of cars on the way. “I scored some weed from these college
guys, and…” He trailed off, apparently noticing a preoccupation. “What’s up?”
“Mike
says he saw the Green Skater,” Jules said, with an exaggerated eye-roll.
“He
did?!” Frankie looked at Mike with renewed curiosity, and Mike felt his heart
race a little.
“Well
he SAYS he did,” Jorge pointed out. “Mike says a lot of things.”
“Well,
I believe him,” Frankie stated categorically.
“Me
too!” Manny said, tugging on Mike’s sleeve. “I ALWAYS did!”
Seeing
a new consensus, Jules stayed silent for a moment, perhaps trying to think of a
new plan of attack. “OK, so maybe Mike saw the Green Skater, after Frankie
did,” he said in a dubious tone. “Then why’s this fucking ghost keep showing up
to us – is he trying to haunt us or something?”
“Some
ghosts hang around places they died, or where they hung around a long time when
they were alive,” Mike said uncertainly. “I think.”
“Like
Lincoln’s ghost at the White House,” Raj murmured.
Everyone
was silent for a few moments, pondering the imponderables of death, ghosts, and
why ghosts hang around after death.
“Hey,”
Manny said, “Maybe he WANTS something from us!”
Everyone
looked at him incredulously.
“Us?”
“Something?”
“Like
what?!”
“Well…,”
Manny hesitated, the question apparently having not crossed his mind. “He’s the
ghost of an old-school skater, right? What did old-school skaters like?”
They
all mulled that question over.
“Gatorade!”
Jorge piped up.
“Punk
mixtapes,” Jules added.
“Porn
of girls with feathered hair!” Raj declared.
“Alright,
alright, chill, yo,” Frankie said, waving his hands in a vaguely authoritative
manner. “Here’s what we gotta do. Everyone search your basements, attics, storage
sheds, whatever. See what’cha can find, and if ya find anything – y’know,
LIKELY – grab it and bring it here, tomorrow night, ‘bout 11:30. We’ll start a
fire or something and try to summon him at midnight.”
“But
isn’t that kinda…Satanic?” Jules asked. His parents were very strictly against
anything remotely devilish. Yet they let him skate.
“Yeah!
So what?!” Frankie said. Jules abruptly clammed up. “Any other problems?”
“I’m
not supposed to leave the house after nine,” Manny said, timidly.
“For
fuck’s sake, Manny, SNEAK OUT! Your parents don’t nail your window closed, do
they?”
“Well…not
anymore!” Manny responded, apparently happy about that development.
After
a little more back and forth, everyone went their separate ways, vowing to make
the fabled Green Skater their servant tomorrow night. Mike thought it a superb
plan, and was thrilled – this was easily the most exciting thing he’d been
involved in all year.
__ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __
*
* * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * *
*
The
next night, a little after eleven, Mike grabbed his board and headed out. He
was so giddy with anticipation he nearly forgot to bring the yellowed old Def
Leppard poster he found among his parents’ abandoned boxes of junk in the
attic. Were old-school skaters into that kind of thing? Guess they’d find out.
When
he arrived at the lot, Jules, Raj, and Jorge were already there. They had set
up a camping lantern for light, and were fiddling with the biggest boombox Mike
had ever seen. “Where the hell did you guys get that thing?” he asked.
“Pawn
shop,” Jules responded, without looking up.
“Only
cost fifteen bucks!” Raj said, triumphantly.
Frankie
appeared, with Manny trying to keep up behind. “Alright, guys, let’s get this
goin’!” he yelled enthusiastically. “I found an NES game and an old Playboy!”
“And
my cousin who visited my house last month likes old music and he gave me THIS!”
Manny declared, producing a cassette tape which bore a piece of masking tape
scrawled with faded letters reading, “PUNK HC 84-89.”
Frankie
held the mixtape up, almost reverently, then slipped it into the cassette tray,
closed it, and pressed play. The boombox’s long-dormant speakers roared to life
with tinny drums, sloppily played guitars, and a vocalist who screeched like a
raccoon in heat. To Mike’s ears, it sounded like any other 80s punk rock: Bad. Did
people really listen to that stuff because they wanted to, or just because it
was cool? No matter.
As
the music blared, Mike unrolled his Def Leppard poster and deposited it next to
a few bottles of oddly-hued Gatorade, a 720⁰ NES cartridge, a pair of ugly Hawaiian shorts, and the
August 1979 issue of Playboy. They
all stared silently at the odd collection of items they’d brought, uncertain of
what to do next.
“Sooo…what
should we do now?” Raj asked.
“Don’t
people stand in a circle at a séance?” Manny queried.
“If
we’re summoning a skater ghost, we have to stand ON OUR BOARDS!” Jules
declared, rolling his eyes at the obviousness of it all.
“Maybe
we should stand on the kicktails, like we’re about to drop in to a halfpipe?”
Mike offered.
“No,
wait – I’ve got a better idea,” Frankie declared. “Let’s skate in a circle,
around the boombox and all that other shit. Try not to bump into each other or
fall or nothin’.”
No
one disagreed. In short order, all six of them were turning counterclockwise
circles around the blaring boombox and the old-school trinkets in near-perfect
synchronization.
Mike
noticed the different pushing styles of each of them – Frankie, assured; Raj,
steady; Jorge, impatient; Jules, angry; and Manny, unsure – then shook his head
and turned his attention back to the circle. He thought he saw a few green
sparks, crackling as they danced along the pavement. Then a few more.
Then
far too many for comfort, searing the air and slicing through the darkness.
There
was a swirl of emerald flame, spinning as if circling an infernal drain. Flames
coalesced into a figure that appeared vaguely human, but off. Just enough to be
unsettling. Its movements were smoothed, flowing, as if it had no joints to
worry about. As they rolled, its head turned with them - a full 360 degrees.
All the while, its green flames flowed over and around it like angry bees
disturbed from their hive.
The
six skaters jerkily stopped turning their circle. Jorge bumped into Raj;
neither seemed to notice. All stood stock-still. After a moment of stunned
silence, everyone started blabbering at once.
“Holy
shit!” said Jules.
“Dios mio!” said Jorge.
“Dude!”
said Raj.
“Fuck
yeah!” said Frankie.
“HA!”
said Mike.
Everyone
except Manny. He stood overawed, staring at the apparition with shining eyes,
as though determined to drink in as much of it as possible.
The
green figure continued turning its head – or what looked like its head –
around, as if assessing the situation. Then it stopped, standing unmoving, save
for the flames licking over its body.
Everyone
was silent again for a few moments. Then – “Now what?” said Manny.
It
occurred to Mike that they hadn’t really thought that far ahead. “We should
talk to…it…,” he said, uncertainly.
“Frankie,
you saw it first! Say something!” Jules prodded.
Frankie
wasn’t about to back down from that challenge. He squared his shoulders, and
inquired, “So…you’re a ghost, right?”
The
Green Skater didn’t respond. Or even display any indication that it had heard
him.
“Are
you dead?” Frankie asked. “Were you, like, one of us, once?”
Again,
no response. Just the subdued roar of flame-on-flame.
“FUCK!”
Frankie exclaimed in exasperation. “You guys try something!”
Raj
knelt, carefully, towards the pavement, and picked up a bottle of purple
Gatorade. He regarded it uncertainly, then tossed it towards the Green Skater.
“Raj,
no!” Jules yelled. “He could kill us -”
The
Green Skater reached out with its flaming fingers, and caught the Gatorade
deftly. They all smelled burning plastic as the figure looked down at the
bottle, unscrewed the cap, and poured it into its…mouth? There was a loud hiss
of steam as the liquid disappeared into the flames. The Skater then casually
tossed the bottle onto the ground. It rolled towards Mike, blackened and
half-melted.
“That
taste good?” Raj enquired.
“Why
are you HERE?” Mike interjected. The others looked at him disapprovingly, but
the Skater seemed to notice. It looked in Mike’s direction, raised its arm –
and pointed. At an empty lot across the street. There was a swirl of flames,
and it was gone.
For
a couple of minutes, everyone just stood and stared silently at the spot where
it had stood. Their trinkets were blackened and burned. Mike’s contribution –
the Def Leppard poster - was now singed so badly it simply read “D pard.”
“Maybe
we shouldn’t have asked it anything?” offered Manny.
__ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __
*
* * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * *
*
They
attempted another séance a few days later; then another, the week after that.
Both were anticlimactic, with the Green Skater making no appearance. Jules and
Raj didn’t even show up for the second one. Frankie said that they might as
well stop after that; the Green Skater was obviously going to show only on its
own schedule.
So,
for Mike, it was back to the usual routines of school, barely tolerating his
parents, and skating. Only the last brought him any joy. He imagined it was the
same for the other guys, too. He didn’t see much of them, outside of skating;
Manny was still in junior high, Jules, Raj, and Jorge were in different classes
at school (and Mike suspected that Jules didn’t really like him, anyway), and
Frankie… Well, he didn’t really know much about Frankie. Everyone just kinda
assumed that he’d keep showing up to skate and shoot the shit, even though he
was out of school and probably ought to be working a dead-end job somewhere.
Come to think of it, Mike didn’t even know where he lived.
He
found out one night near the end of August, when the unrelenting heat finally
eased up a little and skating in an open lot no longer felt like rolling wheels
of melting cheese across a broiling skillet. After a couple hours of wandering,
Mike found himself near where the Green Skater had revealed itself to them. And
there, sitting listlessly on the curb with his board under his feet and
knuckles on the ground, was Frankie.
Frankie’s
left eye was badly blackened, and a cut along his cheekbone slowly seeped
blood. He looked at Mike dully as the latter skated up, unsure of what to say
or do. There was always the old standby: “Hey Frankie, what’s up, dude?”
“Yo,”
Frankie said, staring fixedly at the blackness beyond the perimeter of the
streetlights.
Mike
tentatively sat down next to him, opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again,
and managed to get a single syllable out. “Y-”
“My
fucking stepdad – I mean, step-prick
– hit me in the face because he thought I raided his porn stash.
“And
my mom took his side, just like that old bitch always does. And he had his ring
on when he did it – you see this?” he asked, pointing to the cut on his cheek.
Mike nodded. “I don’t mind a black eye, but I can’t stand no one cuttin’ me. I
oughta creep in their bedroom while they’re asleep and give ‘em both a
razorblade nose job.”
Mike
was stunned. Frankie still lived with his mother? He’d imagined him living in a
ninth-floor apartment with a revolving cast of hot college girls. Or something.
“Fucking
adults,” Frankie said, spitting to accentuate. “They always act like they know
what they’re doing, but they’re so full of shit, man.”
Mike
said nothing. He agreed, of course, but the weight of being a powerless
nonentity in a world built by idiots at the request of maniacs bore heavily on
him. Also, he was unaccountably tired.
Frankie
glanced at his younger confidant, then sighed his world-weary teenage sigh and
stood. “Well, hey, Mike, thanks for comin’ out and sittin’ with me. You didn’t
really help or anything, but it’s nice to have someone listen to you without
dropping bullshit advice or lecturing you on what a fuck-up you are.”
After
a cursory fist-bump, Frankie rolled his board on the pavement and skated away,
quickly fading in the darkness. Mike stared after him, wondering what it was
like to be mighty and brought low. He had never known; he was born low, and
would remain so as far as he could tell.
Unprompted,
a strange voice in his head hissed, “Pain
is worse for the strong.”
…The
hell?
__ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __
*
* * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * *
*
The
next day after school, Mike heard an unusually high concentration of sirens out
to the east. Had someone shot up a convenience store again? He resolved to find
out later; it at least would be more interesting than English homework.
That
night over dinner, his parents screamed at each other yet again. Apparently his
mother had mistakenly bought a bottle of pinot grigio instead of pinot noir.
“How
in the HELL could you mix those up?” his father yelled, his forehead throbbing
with over-clogged veins. “Pinot noir is RED! This…is…WHITE!” he declared,
holding up a glass he had already half-emptied despite its unacceptable
whiteness.
“I
couldn’t tell what color it was through the damn BOTTLE!” his mother fired
back, hoisting the dark green bottle as proof positive. “Anyway, it’s wine,
isn’t it?! Are you telling me you’re some kind of goddamned CONNOISEUR now!?!”
After
a few minutes, Mike dropped his fork and left the table. His parents paid him
no mind, their argument now having turned to who was to blame for the late
cable bill. After burying a fist in the cheap plaster wall around his closet, he
grabbed his board and stormed out the door, dropping wheels onto concrete as
though he could seek salvation in their revolutions.
He
headed east, towards where he had heard the cacophony of sirens earlier. The
early evening air flowed around him his as he pushed, the pavement feeling
particularly smooth. Soon enough, he spotted a cluster of police cruisers, a
couple of fire trucks, and an ambulance – but not at a convenience store. In
the middle of a parking lot. Right where the Green Skater had pointed.
Aside
from the cops, firemen, and paramedics, a small crowd of locals had gathered. Manny,
Raj, Jorge, and Jules were all there, too, standing huddled next to the bright
yellow “CAUTION” tape. Mike felt a pit in his stomach. He picked up his board
and walked over to them, seeing the obvious distress on their faces. “Uh…guys…”
he began, and stopped.
Manny
looked in his direction, his big brown eyes reddened. “Oh, Mike…” he trailed
off and started sobbing.
“Frankie’s
dead.” Jorge said in a toneless voice. “He was out skating, and some asshole
rednecks in a brown pickup truck ran him over.”
Mike
looked at them for a moment, then at the shapeless black-bagged lump the
paramedics were loading onto a gurney. He couldn’t quite fathom any of it. “Did
they get caught?” he asked, in a surprisingly conversational tone.
“Not
yet,” Raj said, staring down at the pavement.
“Probably
get off anyway,” Jules muttered, glaring at the police cruisers parked nearby.
“No one cares if some punk skater gets killed.”
Mike
didn’t want to hear the truth in that, but he did. He noticed something else on
the pavement: Frankie’s weathered, stickered-up board, laying upside down and
broken in half. At that sight, something broke in him.
“Something’s
gotta be done,” he whispered, in a voice not quite his.
The
others stared at him. The expression on his young face could freeze hot blood.
“Mike, are you -” Jorge began.
He
dropped his board to the concrete, and, with a single push, left it all behind
him.
“Mike!” Manny yelled
after him. “MIKE!”
But he was gone.
__ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __
*
* * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * *
*
The
next day, Mike left his parents’ house before breakfast and skipped school. All
day long, he skated all over town, picking up fast food and drinks with what
little money he had. Long after dark, he just kept pushing. Where was he going?
Did it matter? He felt an irresistible impulse to keep moving, no matter what;
he couldn’t let inertia drag him down. Couldn’t be a shapeless black-bagged
lump.
Sometime
around midnight, he found himself back at the lot. The lot where the Green
Skater had appeared at their séance, right across from where Frankie died.
There was nothing left of either of them; they even took Frankie’s broken
board. As evidence for a conviction that would never happen, probably.
As
Mike stared into the darkness, a not-unfamiliar chemical scent reached his
nostrils. He glanced over his left shoulder; a few discarded papers and plastic
bags were dancing in the air around a diffuse green glow.
He
knew what was coming, this time. Sparks flew, there was a flash and a roar –
and there stood the Green Skater again. But this time Mike stood his ground.
“What
are YOU doing back here?” he said, angrily. The yellowish pupilless eyes
regarded him without answer.
“Everything’s
gone wrong since you first showed up to…,” Mike trailed off, staring at the
pavement. Why was it so hard to say his
dead friend’s name? “I wish you’d just left us alone and go haunted someone
who deserves it.”
He
glanced up, to see the apparition still staring at him. It seemed to cock its
head, ever so slightly.
Mike
had had enough. “Well?!” he yelled, his voice echoing off of graffitied walls
and through empty streets. “If you have something to tell me, then TELL ME!”
The
Green Skater opened its mouth, with scorching flames where its lips ought to
be. Mike thought he heard a single syllable in a strange, ancient, alien voice…
And,
just then, a car sped up the street, into the lot, and right over the Green
Skater. Emerald fire was doused, flattened, and scattered into an expanding
cloud of greenish smoke. It parted before Mike, revealing a late-model Corvette
inhabited by four specimens of prime, well-tanned Eurotrash.
“Hey,
bro!” one of them shouted, “Where is nearest mall?”
Mike
stood speechless, his jaw flapping in the wind, what was left of his worldview
suddenly upended and tossed unceremoniously into the gutter.
The
Europeans scoffed at his silence. “Yeah, well fuck you, little Yankee man,” the
driver announced. The Vette sped off, leaving naught behind but a whiff of
sulfur and – the board?
There
it was, lying in the road, upside down but apparently none the worse for wear.
Its luminescent wheels turned slowly, writhing as if they longed to be back on
the pavement.
Mike
approached the tempting apparition slowly, unsteadily. The board sat inert, flames
still oozing and cascading along its surface, the pavement crackling under its
ethereal load. Mike crept closer. He thought he heard something unearthly, but
he couldn’t tell if it was a distant echo or a voice in his head.
“Someone…” he thought it said, then
trailed off. It came back stronger.
“Someone must ride.”
Mike
felt as if his body was no longer his. He half-marched, half-stumbled forward,
until he was so close to the green board that he could feel the heat radiating
off of it. The hairs on his legs shriveled and curled back from the flames. He
kicked the board back onto its wheels, sending a shower of sparks cascading
across the lot.
Mike
placed one foot on the board, and his perception exploded in a flash. He saw
all; past, present, and future. He knew all; the eternal mysteries of life and
death were solved in a moment of disdainful insight. No more wrong answers.
More
importantly, he knew what was to be done – and that he was the one to do it.
He
placed his other foot on the board, and straightened up. The flames took him,
as he took them. Mike was no more; only the Green Skater remained.
He
would take the city from those who trashed it, disdained it, feared it; and
return it to those who rode it, used it, reveled in it.
But,
first things first.
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*
Laurice
sat at her kitchen table eating lukewarm beans and rice. The news of her
delinquent, good-for-nothing son’s death yesterday hadn’t greatly disturbed
her. She had been about to kick the little bastard out, anyway. What kind of
nineteen-year-old still lived with his mother, without school, or a job, or
anything? And he had upset Jonathan so badly that he had refused to even touch
her that night! Now Jonathan was watching porn in the den, and there she was,
alone, sulking over food. Pity them both.
She
heard an anguished scream from the den. Maybe he was finally aroused! She rose from the table and went to look,
taking care to loosen her robe and reveal a little cleavage. “Tonight…,” she told herself.
She
opened the door to the den, only to see a curious tableau: Blood and singe
marks everywhere, a rapidly fading green light, and what was left of Jonathan,
still smoking, curled up like a plucked and decapitated chicken on the floor.
After
staring for a few moments, Laurice closed the door and returned to the kitchen.
“He had it comin’,” she said, to no one in particular. She went back to her
rice and beans, already musing about who her next beau would be. That new
family next door had a pretty good-lookin’ daddy…
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*
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*
The
three good ol’ boys sat on the bench seat of Pierre’s brown pickup truck,
drinking beer, munching on pork rinds, and discussing the week’s events.
“I
still cain’t be-lieve you ran over that kid,” Steve said.
“And
got away with it – that’s the best part!” Duke declared, burping for emphasis.
“He
deserved it; he wouldn’t get da fuck outta mah way when I honked at him!”
Pierre declared, with the serene immorality of the invincible. “Stupid
skater-boarder. Ain’t no one was around to see our plate numbers anyway – why
not knock one a them off, and do everyone a favor?” He laughed at this, and the
others joined in. Though not without some hesitation at the “our.”
Their
joint laughter was abruptly silenced by an audible *THUMP* from the bed of his
truck. This lot was supposed to be deserted! “What the fuck – someone climbin’
in?!” Steve drawled, fumbling for the revolver in his patent-leather holster.
Pierre
flung open the door and grabbed a double-barreled shotgun from the gun rack
behind the truck’s seat. “If they touched mah truck,” he began – and stopped as
he saw that someone was indeed touching the truck. Someone very green, and very
much in flames. Someone who flung what looked like a burning skateboard at his
legs, which were instantly burned to the bone.
As
he fell, his finger inadvertently jammed against the trigger of his shotgun,
splattering Duke’s brains all over the cab with both barrels. Steve, having
finally found his revolver, raised it towards the specter. It raised its
infernal hand in response. In a nanosecond, tendrils of green fire lashed out
of its fingers and towards the weapon, snaking their way past the metal to find
the powder within. All six bullets exploded at once, destroying the gun and
most of Steve’s lower arm.
As
the two crippled men wailed, and their dead friend congealed on the glass and
leather, the Green Skater turned, and retreated across the lot. Pierre, dimly
aware of this through his agonized haze, felt a sudden tinge of hope for
another day.
Though
only momentarily. With a stomp that left a crater in the concrete, the Green
Skater launched toward them, the nose of its broad board blasting through the
air like a blunt-tipped rocket. The Skater slammed down on the board’s kicktail,
rising higher, higher; a verdant comet seemingly bidding a last farewell to
Earth.
Pierre
and Steve watched transfixed, their pain momentarily forgotten in the beauty of
it all.
Then
the Skater fell. Onto Pierre’s truck. Ethereal justice and gasoline and unspent
ammunition and low-grade liquor all conflagrated together, in a bright green
fireball.
A
few minutes later, all that was left of Pierre’s prized pickup - a rusted
chrome bumper, now singed jet-black - clattered to the ground. But no one was
there to hear it.
__ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __
*
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*
Manny
yelped as he was thrown to the ground.
The
overweight, mustached security guard looked smugly down at him, assured of his
authoritative power. “You think you can ignore all the ‘NO SKATEBOARDING’ signs
around MY mall, you little shit?! HUH?!?” He tossed the brat’s skateboard onto
the ground beside him.
Though
badly shaken, Manny was still defiant. “This mall is practically deserted!” he
retorted – and quite rightly, as it was scheduled to be torn down in a few
months. “I can’t hurt anyone by skating here!”
The
guard’s nostrils flared with rage. Did this kid dare just insult his mall? “Oh, but you can get hurt here, punk,” he said,
pulling out his extensible baton and fondling it suggestively. “And you will.”
As
he was weighing whether to break an arm or leg first, he saw something approaching
out of the corner of his eye. He whirled, baton at the ready - only to see one
of those dirty, unwashed bums who hung around the place despite his persistent
daily efforts to chase them off. “What do YOU want?!” he sneered.
“The
children know,” Drago said, still approaching, his eyes cast to the sky. “They
KNOW what comes next, and after, and BEFORE! And it’s time for YOU to learn!”
He glared at the guard, who took an involuntary step backward at the insanity
in this walking cadaver’s eyes.
But
he couldn’t let this loser bum intimidate him. “Alright, you want some,
asshole?!” he shouted. “I’ll mace you down before I fuck you up!” He reached
for his can of pepper spray –
And
suddenly felt an explosive pain through the fat on his left shoulder. He froze,
turned slightly…and saw one green finger, wreathed in flames, poked into his
flesh. It rose, then fell again. Tap, tap, tap. Burn, pain, wince. He stood frozen,
unable to speak, to think, to move.
Unnoticed
by security, Drago extended a hand to the fallen Manny. “Come on, boy,” he said
in a paternal manner. “This ain’t no place for us mortals no more.” He pulled
Manny up, Manny picked up his board, and they walked off together. Behind them,
they heard a roar of flames and an agonized scream, abruptly cut short. The
night was silent again, save for distant traffic and chirping cicadas.
Manny
glanced back at the dissipating cloud of green, but Drago gently turned him
back to the path before them. No matter. He knew what he saw; Mike had been
right all along! Just wait ‘til he told his baby sister about this!
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