ST3.4 | "At Sixes and Sevens"

PROMPT: Fuck it. It’s Hector Acosta’s birthday month, and to get him off our backs, send us noir stories featuring either pro-wrestling, or pop-punk. All of the other usual Rock and a Hard Place rules still apply. Editor’s Note—no Gundams. It’s a bridge too far, Hector . . .

AT SIXES AND SEVENS

by Brittany Hague

Scottie was determined. He would not spiral, he wouldn’t. Yes, he’d found seven grey hairs that morning, but he had also booked his first appearance in years with KIIS FM. And his crystals, which he consulted every morning before digging into his Fruit Loops, were vibrating at a new frequency, confirming that his life was about to change.

But seven grey hairs are not zero. Luckily, he had a cut and dye appointment with Chauncy who was finally back from his natural magik retreat. Scottie stuck his tongue out in the hallway mirror, made the spinning “cuckoo” motion with his middle fingers at each side of his head (his signature move,) and hurried to the salon. He was freaking bursting with optimism.

Chauncy’s place on Sunset smelled of the tropics and was gleaming white save for the huge, colorful graffiti mural that covered the salon’s back wall, a mural that really meshed with Scottie’s whole vibe.

“Miss Cassie will not be covering the cost of this appointment.”

The bronzed, elven hairdresser delivered the devastating news as placidly as an ice sculpture. It was hard to tell if Chauncy was heartless to Scottie’s predicament or if it was his new cheek and brow work.

Scottie stared into the mischievous eyes of the anamorphic spray paint can in the corner of the mural, but neither answers nor comfort were to be found there either.

“I don’t get it, Chauncy. I need my faux hawk, like, today. I have an appearance.”

Chauncy raised his long-fingered hands and pranced a few paces back, “Don’t kill the messenger, honey. She didn’t call and tell you? She certainly left plenty of messages with me.”

“I don’t know! I’ve been off the grid, meditating and channeling energies, so I can work on a new song for the event. It’s later today. I can’t show up like this.”

Scottie had been the “wild one” of the minor pop-punk band, At Sixes and Sevens, and his signature look was a bright green faux hawk and a double venom tongue piercing. He still had the titanium barbells, but his hair had gone mousy and flat.

It was Scottie who wrote the lyrics to the band’s only hit sixteen years ago; a single that had gone gold just this last year--Hey, dad, you’re nothing but a suburban sheep. You spend and complain, and you whine, and you bleat. Your rules and your laws make me mad. You’re nothing but a suburban sheep, dear dad.

He looked in the mirror. Jowly, pasty, old. Oh man, I’m the “Suburban Sheep” now, he thought. He felt like crying.

Miss Cassie was the widow of At Sixes and Sevens’ former manager, Richie Barbary. Of the whole band, she had chosen Scottie. Not handsome lead singer Marc, not the guitarist Chris who stood at six foot five, and definitely not the chubby drummer Pete, whose Christmas cards arrived in Scottie’s mailbox every year. The wholesome images of Pete and his family on their farm in Vermont, well . . . there was no point denying it. They brought Scottie to tears.

Holidays were a lonely time for him. What did he even have? A one-bedroom rented condo, his monthly massages and manicures, his rare Pez dispenser collection. All paid for by Miss Cassie who only called him a few times a month anymore and when she did, it was just for him to fill an empty seat at Raspoutine or Nobu.

Scottie had keys to her penthouse and everybody—the doormen, the maintenance guys, the pool boys—they all knew him. But not one of them smiled and greeted him as usual that afternoon.

Gerry, who ran the mail room, was the only one to approach. He put his hand on Scottie’s shoulder.

“Hey Scottie, you sure you’re supposed to be here?”

“Yeah, man I’m exactly where the universe wants me.”

“Miss Cassie has a guest,” Gerry said, “why don’t you head home, and you can text her, come another day.”

“I don’t mind guests,” Scottie said, brushing off the hand and letting the elevator door close on Gerry.

But something about Gerry’s furrowed brow gave him pause. He checked his phone. Miss Cassie had indeed left several messages over the past few days, but when he began to play the most recent one “Oh Jesus, sweet cheeks, you can’t avoid me forever. I want-” He stopped the recording. She sounded drunk and guilty. No thank you.

He turned his attention to his reflection in the elevator mirror. Unable to afford anything more than a trim with the cash he had on hand, Scottie had resorted to turning his hair green with Halloween spray he found at Ralph’s.  It looked . . . well, it wasn’t exactly what he was going for, but as he slapped the skin under his chin and sucked in his cheeks, he could almost see his old self, if he squinted. She can’t dump me, he told himself. She’s practically a senior citizen at this point. The elevator ding announced his arrival.

The penthouse was dark, which was strange, because the north and west walls were windowed. She must have shut and drawn the blinds. Hung over, he assumed. He bent to take off his combat boots, not in the mood for her lecture about the rugs, when he stumbled over something. He fell to one knee and heard a crack. It was Richie’s prized Teen Choice Award surfboard. She had moved all her husband’s gold and silver records and awards to the condo when he died, as though they were her own achievements. He tried to survey the damage in the dim light. No doubt, she was going to chew his ass for this one, even though it was her fault for leaving it out.

He picked up the board and found that one of the fins was slick, wet.

Gross.

Then he saw it.

Not it. Him.

Fort Noxxx, splayed out on the floor, probably drunk.

Scottie should have known. Before Richie Barbary had died a few years ago, he had signed Noxxx, a young hip hop artist who knew how to market himself on social media. He was a skinny white kid from the South with a slow Georgia drawl and a teardrop tattoo under one eye. He had recently dyed his buzzed hair green.

So was that Miss Cassie’s kink? Hadn’t she been the one to encourage Scottie’s own lime locks?

The last time he’d seen Miss Cassie, a couple weeks ago, she had left Scottie alone with her dog walker at a corner booth in Mother Wolf while she went to the little girl’s room. Scottie had been so enthralled with the conversation, apparently most dogs are reincarnated saints, a fact he did not know, that he did not question her when she returned over an hour later nor did he pay too much attention to the fact that once again, Fort Noxxx had shown up where they were eating. The attention the rising star garnered from waitstaff made Scottie jealous, but he was too trusting, he guessed, to suspect anything was going on with Miss Cassie.

Scottie kicked Fort Noxxx in the side, gently, to wake him up. Noxxx didn’t move, but a sudden ray of light illuminated his head and the wound that, Scottie now realized, was gushing blood onto Miss Cassie’s expensive rug.

The light came from the now-open bedroom door, in the middle of which stood Miss Cassie. She froze. “It wasn’t me. I mean, he deserved it . . . what are you doing here, Scottie?”

“Is he freaking dead?”

She was disheveled, in pink sweatpants, high heels, and a tank top. Her eyes looked small. He realized all this time, he’d never seen her without her fake lashes, not even when they made love. Her hair was in a ponytail and thin. It was like looking at a stranger, a murdering stranger, and he dropped the surfboard and stumbled back toward the front door.

“Stop! You, you’re jealous. You barged in here; you struck him with the board. I’m sorry sweet cheeks but that’s what happened. You did this.”

“What? I didn’t do anything! Have you gone cray?”

“Who’s going to believe you? The dumped boyfriend shows up . . .”

“So, you are dumping me. Is this some kind of joke? Did they bring Punk’d back?”

“I’m going to scream, Scottie.” But as she inhaled, Fort Noxxx gurgled, spit, and sat up. The shock made them both scream. “No! You need to be dead,” Miss Cassie took one of her stilettos and ran at Fort Noxxx.

Scottie sprang into action. He reached Noxxx first and dragged him to the nearest bathroom, slamming the door behind him on the advancing and angry Miss Cassie.

Through the locked door, she whined. “You gotta help me, Scottie. I don’t know what I was saying before. Of course I’m not dumping you. We’ve had a good thing for a long time. It’s that boy, he’s got me all mixed up. He’s dangerous. He’s the one that wanted me to cut you off. You need to finish this, sweet cheeks. Then we’ll be together. It was an accident and a woman like me is not made for prison. Can you hear me?”

Scottie took his good luck hoodie, the one he’d worn on the Warped Tour, from his waist and wrapped it around the wound on Fort Noxxx’s skull.

Fort Noxxx, cradled in Scottie’s arms, looked up at him. “Y’all from another planet? Come to take me to be with grandmama?”

“What?” Scottie looked in the mirror. The spray paint was sweating down his face, turning his forehead green. It was pathetic, he realized, and wouldn’t have fooled anyone. He was washed up, a man-child dependent on Miss Cassie but he wasn’t sure he was ready to be anything more than that.

How did one kill a man? Scottie had always been a spacy, soulful person, the kind of son that disappoints a dad like his; ex-military, mean, stoic. He glanced around the bathroom. Beating with a plunger? Poison by Le Mer moisturizer? He decided drowning would be easiest. Fort Noxxx could simply bleed out in the water.

Miss Cassie would be grateful, so grateful she would let him move into the penthouse, making their arrangement permanent and real. They could even get married, have children via surrogate. A girl and two boys would be nice. He’d send his own Christmas card, a farm in Vermont, a reindeer sweater, the carefree confident smile of a man whose root chakra was healed, whose abundance had been manifested.

Or maybe he’d call 911. He’d miss his appearance at the fun run that day but would be hailed as a hero for saving Fort Noxxx. Requests for interviews would follow. Not only from KIIS FM, but other local radio stations and television too, maybe even Good Morning America, for which he could sport a new, distinguished silver fox faux hawk.

Indebted to Scottie for saving his life, Fort Noxxx would release a remix of his song, “Bathtub” (featuring Dove Cameron) that could sample “Suburban Sheep.” Scottie would even get to play bass and sing on it. What if it turned out to be a hit? What if it was featured in some sort of viral bubble bath commercial or a new Netflix comedy? That could pay enough for a down payment on an apartment. Sure, it might not be west facing and as large as the one Miss Cassie provides, but he could find one with built-in shelves for his crystals and collections, and most importantly, it would be his.

Scottie wasn’t a nobody. His choices mattered.

As he held Noxxx closer, the seconds ticked down to deciding his fate. His arms felt sticky and slick and when he looked down, he was dumbfounded. Real blood was darker than it was in the movies. And a body wasn’t the same thing as a person. The soul of Fort Noxxx, whose blank eyes were staring blindly up at Scottie, had become one with the universal energy, and Scottie was left holding its shell. He rocked it back and forth, still weighing his options, as if he had any, as a siren’s mournful wail drifted closer.

Brittany Hague (on Instagram @unluckyyarn) works as a graphic artist and short story writer in Seattle, WA where she lives with her husband, two children, and familiars. Her short stories have appeared in the Night of the Geminids and Monster (Hidden Fortress Press) anthologies, Last Girls Club, Willows Wept Review, and Bog Fancy and have been featured on the Kaidankai and Short Story Today podcasts. She is a graduate of film and video at The Rhode Island School of Design. Learn more about her work at https://www.brittanyhague.com/.