Goodness

Goodness – Franklin Marsh

The rain fell, hard and cold, but also seemed to burn. He walked through the mean streets of Chiba City, the white silk jacket and trousers clinging to his limbs, the black pom-poms drooping. He turned into a dark, stinking, tiny alley, and the flashing neon stung his retinas. Mr. P’s. Two satyrs on the door. Paul and Paul. Dinner jackets and furry legs.

“Hey Charlie,” sneered the bigger Paul, “Where ya bin? He’s waitin’’.”

“I’m here,” said the sad-faced clown, squeezing past them, into the darkness. He nodded at the hag behind the ticket counter and entered the main room.

A weary, glazed faery was going through the motions of a strip-tease on the postage-stamp stage, a herd of jeering trolls heckling with venom before her.

As he made his way towards another Paul-guarded door at the back, he risked a glance at the bar. Behind it stood a defeated looking billy-goat. The animal saw him and raised its eyebrows. It was too dark to see if there was a spark of hope in its eyes.

Charlie detoured across to the bar.

“She’s comin’,” he whispered, “but she’s changed.”

The goat placed a half-full tumbler of amber fluid on the bar.

“The good stuff,” he whispered back.

As Charlie picked up the glass, a tuxedo’d arm reached around and took the glass from him.

“Boss won’t want you likkered, Clown,” rasped the Paul adding “Shame on you, Pop.”

Charlie shrugged and led the satyr towards the back door. The Goat knocked back the Scotch and raised the glass to the Clown’s back.

The Paul nodded down the black corridor.

“You know the way.”

Charlie had never felt so alone as the door closed. He walked down the corridor to the next door and raised his fist to knock. The door opened. He walked in.

It was semi-dark in the room. A table lamp threw a pool of light onto the green baize-topped desk.

The Clown could make out the shape behind the light. There were two others further back. Charlie swallowed. It must be the corrupt vice cop, and the guy with the elongated jaw and the teeth. The one they called ‘Croc.’

“Siddown, Charlie.”

The Clown walked forward , sat on the simple wooden chair in front of the desk and clasped his white-gloved hands.

The figure behind the lamp leaned forward, and his face entered the pool of light. It was a deliberate act. Charlie couldn’t breathe for a minute.

The hideously rouged cheeks. The flat, huge teeth, like yellow gravestones. The mad, staring, soulless eyes seemingly painted on to the face. Worst of all, the gigantic hooked nose, and the upward-curving chin, almost meeting.

“What’s the news, Charlie?”

Here goes, thought the Clown.

“She’s coming back, Mr Punchinello. Here. To Chiba City. To this club. To see you.”

******************************************

The Bullet Train pulled up, dead on the white painted lines on the platform. She alighted, looking around in disappointed awe. What a dismal, dreary, dead dump! Was she doing the right thing?

Leaving the station, she pulled up the collar of her white trench coat against the rain. What would this do to her hair? She took temporary shelter under the awning of a burger van. She looked at the kid flipping the meat and did a double take.

“Gustav?”

He squinted, looked shocked, then smiled.

“Shit, Lor’.”

“Language!”

“What? What the fu…”

She removed a small plastic container of liquid soap and squirted some into the boys mouth.

”Argfgrgggrgrggh” he gargled through a mouthful of bubbles.

“No profanity, Gustav. We’re turning over a new leaf.”

He looked at her in surprise as she rattled a tin marked Swear Box under his nose. Against his better nature he took a ten yen piece from his black and white checked trousers and dropped it into the receptacle.

Was it really her? Clad in white? That white hair? If it wasn’t for the two thin black streaks, one either side of her head, the cheeky smile, and the positively devilish wink, he wouldn’t have believed it.

“Thank you, Gustav. Now shut up your gastrodome and follow me. We’re going clubbing.”

“Christ, Lor’.”

She turned looking shocked, and produced a tin marked Sacred Heart Church.

“No blasphemy.”

“You gotta be sh…kiddin’ me.”

“ I kid you not. We’re going to clean up this city.”

‘******

The Clown stood up. Punchinello produced a large, heavy, smooth wooden stick from behind his desk.

“I didn’t give you permission to leave, Chas.”

“I gotta go, Mr. P. The wife and kids?”

“Get outta here,” growled the shadowy figure, tossing a thousand yen note onto the baize.

The Clown ignored it and headed for the door. Once outside the room, he slumped briefly against the wall, trying to control his shaking limbs, then decided to head for the back door, hoping no Pauls would be on guard. As he reached the exit, another door opened.

“Charlie,” a muffled voice mumbled, “Take me with you.”

The Clown turned. He could just make out her face in the darkness. The puffed, bloodied lips, the black eye, tears falling from the other.

The Clown looked around desperately.

“Come on, then,” he whispered, knowing he was burning boats.

She emerged, clutching the baby to her chest.

The Clown saw bruises on the tiny, slumbering face.

“Christ, Jude. Not him too?”

She nodded sadly.

The Clown was about to close the door when he heard a pitiful whimpering. Looking down he saw the black and white dog, holding up a bloodied paw, and trying to wag its broken tail.

The Clown choked back a curse.

“Come on, Toby,” he said, through gritted teeth.

The exit door opened, and the Clown peeked out into the rain. No guard. They slipped out and headed towards a rickshaw tricycle parked at the kerb.

Jude and the baby climbed into the back, the Clown lifting the little dog onto the seat.

As he began to pedal away, he saw the sky brightening over by the railway station.

***************************************

Gustav watched the rain recede ahead of them as he and the woman walked through the streets.

They entered the alley, and approached the satyrs.

“Hi, honey,” leched the bigger one. “Ditch the kid and we’ll have a good time. Work for you in here too, if you want.”

Both half-goats guffawed.

“Paul, you should be ashamed of yourself,” she said.

The satyr looked puzzled.

“Who…?”

To Gustav’s surprise, she seized the Paul by the lapels of his DJ and hurled him over her shoulder. He hit the opposite wall horns first, and collapsed into a heap of rotting garbage.

The other Paul looked on amazed, and took a roundhouse left, right on the goatee. He sank back against his wall and slid into temporary oblivion.

“Well,” said Gustav, “Cussin’ and blasphemin’ are no-nos, but violence is OK?”

“In the furtherance of good,” she replied with a charming smile, entering the club.

They ignored the ticket hag and moved into the stage area. Gustav gasped in horror at a frightened girl, attempting to remove her clothes before the baying trolls.

The woman gestured vaguely in their direction. The girl’s clothes flew back on to her in a comical reverse speeded-up fashion. The audience’s seats collapsed, and they writhed in a shocked heap. The Paul on the back door walked towards the melee, not quite sure what had happened, and soon fists and hooves were flying.

The woman walked up to the bar.

“Hi, GB. How’s about a root beer?”

The Goat seemed to drop years, and stood erect.

“Lor’?”

“Just a root beer,” she cut in sharply.

“Well, shit, I…”

The Swear Box appeared on the bar. The stunned Goat picked up a hoovefull of Euros, Dollars and buttons from his tip saucer and dropped them in. He poured a root beer, and grabbed a bottle of Jack from the shelf behind him.

“Just the root beer,” said the woman, covering her glass with a hand.

“This is for me,” said the Goat, and took a hefty slug straight from the bottle.

Two more collecting tins appeared on the bar. Alcoholics Anonymous and Hygiene First.
The Goat groaned.

Gustav laughed.

“She’s back, but she’s different.”

“You’re telling me,” said the Goat.

“Can I get one of them root…”

The woman banged her empty glass on the bar.

“Come, Gustav.”

The boy shrugged at the Goat and followed the woman towards the door. The Paul had subdued all of the unruly trolls, bar one. Exhausted they clung together in a bizarre dance, each trying to raise the strength to land a knockout blow on the other.

The woman strode into the black corridor and pushed open the first door, switching on the light as she entered. She crossed the room and released the window blind. Sunlight flooded into the room, causing the three occupants to scream and shield their eyes.

Gustav and the Goat, standing in the doorway, were reminded of insects scurrying for cover when a rock was lifted.

“Gentlemen,” said the woman. “Chiba Sanitation. We’re cleaning up the city, and thought this a good place to start.”

Punchinello grabbed his stick. She seized the other end, and hauled him across the desk. Gustav grabbed a spatula from his stained apron and sprinted across the room, bringing the utensil down on the wrist of the cop. The .38 S&W dropped to the floor.

As the woman slammed Punchinello into the wall, the Goat smashed an I (heart) Being Bad Mug from the desk, retrieved an elastic band, and snapped it over Croc’s jaws. He then jammed a couple of pencils into the creature’s eyes.

Gustav and the Goat turned to the woman, both wincing as she brought down the stick on the prostrate Punch. One crack! for his nose. Another for his chin.

She tossed the stick into a far corner of the room, and dusted her hands.

“Let’s go, boys.”

The Goat sprinted off towards the stage area, and returned with the two strippers.

“Fausta,” said Gustav, and hugged the frightened young girl.

“Val,” said the Goat, hugging the dazed Faery. Her wings perked up, and she absent-mindedly rubbed his furry groin.

The woman removed her trench-coat and draped it over the faery’s shoulders. Gustav walked to a cupboard-cum-wardrobe at the back of the room. He removed a large coat, in which he enfolded Fausta, who smiled gratefully, and a long string of sausages, which he stowed in his apron pocket.

“I’ll rustle us up something later,” he muttered.

They trooped into the corridor, and made for the exit. The woman opened a door beside the way out and looked in. She closed the door, and walked out of the club.

They followed her through now brightening streets, the rain retreating before her advance, eventually turning into a narrow by-way after what seemed like hours.

A tricycle rickshaw was nestling beside the kerb in front of a large but non-descript semi-detached house. The Clown was seated in the back of it, flicking through Neil’s Wild Flower Guide.

“Charlie,” said the woman, with relief.

He looked up, and smiled sheepishly. The Goat snorted.

“Lor’.”

She pressed a finger to his unnaturally red clown lips.

“Hush now.”

They both thought of what could have been for a few moments, then hugged.

The woman walked towards the house, past the sign that read Battered Women Refuge, and entered.

The Goat and Val slipped behind a hedge. Soon moans of ecstasy floated from behind the foliage.

Gustav reached into his coat, which still adorned Fausta, and produced two large slices of Mississippi Mud Pie. They ate hungrily, eyeing each other, kissing and sharing the symbolic repast.

The woman walked slowly from the house. She joined the others at the gate, both pairs having satisfied their needs.

“The bastards,” she said quietly.

“Swear box!” piped up Gustav. “I want my money back!”

“I’ve donated it to the Refuge,” she replied.

“Oh.”

A sombre mood descended. The rain began again. The woman ran a hand through her hair. The five boggled as the white hair turned black, the black streak white.

“What…?”

She ran her other hand through the other side of her hair with the same result.

“Who you looking at?”

Gustav and the Goat looked at one another with a smile.

“Fuck. I need a drink. Where’s the nearest bar? Let’s get shitfaced.”

The two couples cheered and whooped. Even the Clown managed a sad smile.

She began to stride off down the street, towards a dive called Dickie & Dino’s.

She looked back over her shoulder.

“What are you waitin’ for? An engraved fuckin’ invitation?”

“Welcome back, Lorelei,” said the Clown. He began to pedal the rickshaw toward his home.