The King of the Drunks

A heavily bandaged jem stares fearfully out at Tracer and Friday from a partially opened door, "Oh, it's you two." She leaves the door ajar while heading back into her house. Tracer and Friday follow.

Friday quietly asks, "What happened to your face jemmie?"

"Looks like she found a bargain rate on ebay for a plastic surgeon to me," cracks Tracer, "You planning on taking a trip jem?"

"Fuck you Tracer!" jem mutters, "Look I don't know what hit me, it was dark, fast and whatever it was struck in total silence. It was all over me, never making a sound and all I could keep screaming was, 'NOT the thigh, dear sweet Lord, NOT THE THIGH!"

"Well it looks like you stuck your head into a bag of cats, why not the thigh?" wonders Tracer.

"It does look an awful lot like cat scratches jem," consoles Friday, "I hope you don't get 'the fever' and turn into Ted Nugent, that would be awful!"

"Yes Friday, Ted was such a pretty little thing before he caught the fever," says jem, tears welling in her eyes, "Now so horribly disfigured. What an awful thing to have happen."

"Why not the thigh?" insists Tracer.

"Tracer she's been through a lot the poor dear!" interrupts Friday.

Tracer brushes past Friday, stopping inches from jem, "Why not the thigh?"

Jem softly replies, "Because of the tattoo. I can't have any damage before it's applied."

"Let's see it."

"Oh, I haven't done it yet, but I posted a picture of it in my blog."

Tracer scoffs, "Oh yeah, I saw that - that isn't the real tat, let's see the real deal."

Jem quietly hands Friday a photograph.

"OH MY GAWD JEM! That has to be the prettiest thing I've ever seen! I sooooo want a tattoo like that of my own!!!!" Friday hands the photo to Tracer.

Both girls avert their eyes and continue talking when Tracer brings out a battery powered black light which sets off his trench coat like the Fourth of July. He peers closely at the photograph, turning it this way and that.

Finally he moves between Friday and jem in his usual loutish way and says, "Hey Friday, what is this winged creature? Some sort of pixie?" while holding the black light over the photograph.

Friday goes pale and stutters out, "Uh ... Oh ... I ... I think so."

Keeping Friday's reaction shielded from jem, Tracer hands the photograph back, "Beautiful tattoo jem! Did you pick it out?"

"Well Princess had a lot of input, I wanted her to."

"Thanks, we'll probably be back with more questions. Oh! I nearly forgot. Where were you when BillyBear was shot?"

"I was at the parade."

"Anywhere in particular?"

"I was up in the book depository warehouse, it was the only place where I could get a good clean ... view."

"Anyone with you?"

"Nope, you two have to go, I have to change my bandages."

Tracer and Friday stand out in front of the house. They can faintly hear Cock Radio coming from jem's speakers and MsTara saying, "In other news the CareBear nation was deeply offended at the loss of, and I quote, 'the greatest Care Bear of all time!' Unconfirmed reports state that a million Care Bears are marching on Paradise swearing vengeance on an uncaring populace."

Friday says, "I'm sure there's a reason Tracer, there has to be!"

Tracer says nothing, just heads down the street. Friday follows along. They walk along the dusty main road of Paradise and enter the first bar they see.

Tracer buys a bottle of bourbon and asks for two shot glasses. He heads to a dark corner table and sits down. Friday sits to his right. He slops in some bourbon into both glasses and shoves one at Friday. He slams his shot back, lights a cig and mutters, "Not even eight hours into it and I already hate this fucking case."

Friday turns her shot glass around in slow circles between her hands and replies, "We can always drop the case Tracer."

"Are you kidding me Friday? We're broke and with the bear dead we're not gonna be seeing any of that settlement." Tracer glances at Friday's full glass before tossing back another shot, and then another.

Friday hates it when Tracer gets this way, "Slow down Tracer."

"Fuck off."

Friday tries a different tack, "Did you see how the pixie was pointing her middle finger at the name 'BillyBear' do you think it means anything?"

"Yeah, Paul is dead."

"What?"

"It means about as much as those dudes playing Beatles albums backwards and pouring over album covers. All it means is that someone really doesn't like BillyBear."

"Yeah, but who and why?"

Tracer stubs out his cigarette and lights another, following it with two more shots, "Well jem is looking pretty damned sweet for this, I've got Princess Grace's written confession along with this Princess Grace doppleganger walking around saying it was someone with gigantic boobs. And you know what that means right?"

Tracer pours bourbon all over the table trying to hit the shot glass, maybe he should have had that second breakfast burrito and skipping lunch isn't helping any either. Friday doesn't try to help, still staring into her untouched shot glass like it was some crystal ball, "Yeah, it means Gretchen and some other Mistresses."

"Yep, they loooovvveee me! I use to be pretty good at this ..." Tracer drunkenly laughs. He tosses another couple of shots back and lights a cig before noticing he has one in his hand, fuck it he thinks and takes a drag off of both of them, "I sincerely hate this case!" He barely notices as two dudes enter and head to the bar.

"I tell ya, I was the best! Do you remember that one case?" bellows Tracer trying to think.

"Which one, there were like five or six."

"The one with the panties!!!"

"They all had panties you idiot!"

Not even coming close to thinking, just reacting Tracer draws his forty-five and shoots Friday in the knee. Suddenly he's staring at two large caliber six-shooters, hardly hearing Friday's shrieks, trying to focus on the guns. The room is turning in slow, soft circles and he's waving his forty-five at something. Staring blearily at the two guns he says, ""You want some?" before his head hits the table.

The King of the Drunks begins to dream ... light ... dark ... light ... he's staring into a field, but the perspective seems wrong, low to the ground. A girl, maybe five or six years old is running towards him, her ringlets bouncing. Her smile is brighter than sunshine, she knows him ... dark ...