9781393665649_

Drop em, now! came a voice, even as we spun in its direction and raised our weaponsand quickly realized there was nothing to shoot at. Nothing visible, at any rate. What there was, however, were tiny red dotson our foreheads, over our hearts.

You see them. Good, said the voice, just as cool as iced teathe perfect accompaniment to the clatter of shifting firearms. And now youre going to bend down slowly and lay all your weapons at your feet. All right? Nooo one has to get hurt. Just do as I say and then we can have a nice conversation. About who you are, for example. And where youre from. And what youre doing being dropped off by a helicopter in the middle of disputed territory. Our territory. Okay?

Okay, I said, and nodded at the othersand at Lazaro twice; wed been in this situation before and he always wanted to play chicken.

Slowly everyone did itthe red dots never wavering, the rain starting to rattle against the gate.

Is that a weed wacker? said the voice, and was followed by laughter. Damn.

I heard the tapping of what turned out to be an axe head against concrete before I realized hed stepped into a shaft of gray light. Dont let their laughter get to youpeople used to laugh at us too.

We watched, paralyzed, as the bearded silhouette seemed to yawn and stretch. What can I say? All this rainit makes me sleepy. Ill tell you, I could really go for a Flat White about now. Two ristretto espresso shots, some whole milk steamed to perfection, a little ephemeral latte art right in the center. Sounds good, doesnt it? He cocked his head in the near perfect silence. No? What you want then, a bronson? At this hour? A good, earthy black IPA, perhaps? I could go for that. Something with a nice malty backbonegood for the old ticker. He laughed, seeming to think about it. I know. Too conventional, right? He shook his head. Momma always said: she said, Atticus, all your taste is in your mouth.

There was a thin chuckle and a few clanks of the axe. Kind of mean, dont you think? Anyway. Thats what she said.

He began walking toward usslowly, deliberatelydragging the handle, dragging its blade along the pavement.

Look, I said. We didnt come here looking for any

Any what? He stopped about four feet in front of me, close enough at last for us to have a good look at him, and what we saw seemed utterly incongruous with what Roman had told usexcept, of course, for the multitude of tattoos (mostly triangles), and even more so the washboarded scar, which ran from somewhere on his scalp and through an eye (over which one lens of his dark, plastic-framed glasses had been painted black) clear to his left shoulder. That much, at least, fit. What didnt fit was the slicked-back pompadour and long, full, meticulously-trimmed beardJesus, there was even product in itnor, for that matter, the flannel lumberjack shirt and skinny jeans, not to mention the Converse sneakers. What didnt fit, as the similarly attired men holding laser-guided rifles emerged from behind overgrown automobiles and support columns, was that the feared and formidable Skidders were, when exposed to the light of day (and not to put too fine a point on it), hipsters.

Well doesnt this just take the cake, said Lazaro, and spit.

(*_*)9781393665649_

"Drop em, now!" came a voice, even as we spun in its direction and raised our weaponsand quickly realized there was nothing to shoot at. Nothing visible, at any rate. What there was, however, were tiny red dotson our foreheads, over our hearts.

"You see them. Good," said the voice, just as cool as iced teathe perfect accompaniment to the clatter of shifting firearms. "And now youre going to bend down slowly and lay all your weapons at your feet. All right? Nooo one has to get hurt. Just do as I say and then we can have a nice conversation. About who you are, for example. And where youre from. And what youre doing being dropped off by a helicopter in the middle of disputed territory. Our territory. Okay?"

"Okay," I said, and nodded at the othersand at Lazaro twice; wed been in this situation before and he always wanted to play chicken.

Slowly everyone did itthe red dots never wavering, the rain starting to rattle against the gate.

"Is that a weed wacker?" said the voice, and was followed by laughter. "Damn."

I heard the tapping of what turned out to be an axe head against concrete before I realized hed stepped into a shaft of gray light. "Dont let their laughter get to youpeople used to laugh at us too."

We watched, paralyzed, as the bearded silhouette seemed to yawn and stretch. "What can I say? All this rainit makes me sleepy. Ill tell you, I could really go for a Flat White about now. Two ristretto espresso shots, some whole milk steamed to perfection, a little ephemeral latte art right in the center. Sounds good, doesnt it?" He cocked his head in the near perfect silence. "No? What you want then, a bronson? At this hour? A good, earthy black IPA, perhaps? I could go for that. Something with a nice malty backbonegood for the old ticker." He laughed, seeming to think about it. "I know. Too conventional, right?" He shook his head. "Momma always said: she said, Atticus, all your taste is in your mouth."

There was a thin chuckle and a few clanks of the axe. "Kind of mean, dont you think? Anyway. Thats what she said."

He began walking toward usslowly, deliberatelydragging the handle, dragging its blade along the pavement.

"Look," I said. "We didnt come here looking for any "

"Any what?" He stopped about four feet in front of me, close enough at last for us to have a good look at him, and what we saw seemed utterly incongruous with what Roman had told usexcept, of course, for the multitude of tattoos (mostly triangles), and even more so the washboarded scar, which ran from somewhere on his scalp and through an eye (over which one lens of his dark, plastic-framed glasses had been painted black) clear to his left shoulder. That much, at least, fit. What didnt fit was the slicked-back pompadour and long, full, meticulously-trimmed beardJesus, there was even product in itnor, for that matter, the flannel lumberjack shirt and skinny jeans, not to mention the Converse sneakers. What didnt fit, as the similarly attired men holding laser-guided rifles emerged from behind overgrown automobiles and support columns, was that the feared and formidable Skidders were, when exposed to the light of day (and not to put too fine a point on it), hipsters.

"Well doesnt this just take the cake," said Lazaro, and spit.

...

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Wayne Kyle Spitzer