“Do I win the girl of my dreams?”
“You already have me,” Barbetta said, kissing him on the cheek.
“No, Danny,” Dio said, ignoring Barbetta. “You get to spend eternity with me. In my dark, damp castle. I’ve got a library, a bar, a full recording studio. What do you say?”
“Just you and me, Ronnie?”
“Just you and me, champ.”
“Can I bring Barbetta along?”
“Sorry, I’m afraid heroes must walk the hero’s road alone.”
Danny turned to Barbetta. She had tears in her eyes. “I understand, Danny. It’s okay. You don’t have to explain. Go be as awesome as you are. Just remember that I love you.”
Before Danny could kiss Barbetta goodbye, Dio scooped him into his arms and walked away.
“Goodbye, Barbetta. I’ll always love you,” Danny cal ed, peering over Dio’s shoulder.
“Give it a rest, kid. The girl is dead.”
The sirens were close now. Dio strode faster across the bloody grass. Danny stared slack-jawed into the face of his hero. Dio loaded Danny into the passenger seat and hurried around to the driver’s side.
“Buckle up,” Dio said.
Danny buckled up.
The first cop cars pulled into Heavy Metal High’s parking lot as Dio started the engine, turned the stereo up real loud, and the truck floated up into the sky.
They sang Holy Diver all the way into the clouds.
Epilogue
Danny turns to Dio and says “I mean, what the hell is Holy Diver about anyway?”
They have just watched the Holy Diver music video for the 1,829th time. It used to be Danny’s favorite music video of all time. Now, it makes no fucking sense to Danny.
He feels very awkward sitting in the dungeon of this dark, damp castle, watching this music video on repeat.
He regrets becoming a hero and getting to spend eternity with the legend. Hanging out with Dio is not as cool as Danny thought it would be.
“Look Ronnie,” Danny says, “Holy Diver is awesome and all, but don’t you have anything else in this dark, damp castle? Like steampunk seahorses or ghosts that poop or… dragons?”
Dio flashes the horns. “Oh, I got dragons. But did you see this video?”
They watch Holy Diver.
Again.
And again.
And again.
THE DESTROYED ROOM
SLOTH IN THE CITY
Simon and Celia are biking home from a dinner party on a smoky orange night in August.
A sloth falls out of a tree in front of Celia’s bike. The brakes of Celia’s bike have been worn down to nothing.
Plus, she is drunk. She crashes into the sloth and flips over the handlebars. She rolls in a frenzy of limbs for several yards on the plastic grass that replaced streets and sidewalks last February.
Simon leaps off his bike. He kicks the sloth in the back.
The animal screams. Its eyes are gone. It reaches a clawed hand toward Simon, mewling for help. Simon kicks the animal in the face, not because he wants to hurt it. It will die soon anyway.
The sloth’s head splits away from its body and rolls in front of a cyclist on the green artificial speedway. The cyclist gives Simon the middle finger. Simon raises his hands in apology, then turns back to the sloth. Nose-shaped beetles are digging into its neck.
“What the fuck,” Celia says. She stands beside him now. He meant to help her up, to kiss her wounds and make her feel better, but the sick animal prevented him from going to her.
“Are you okay?” he says. He puts a hand on her lower back.
“I’m fine.” She crouches over the sloth, evading Simon’s hand. Simon can tell by her tone that she is annoyed.
“Watch out for the beetles,” he says.
“I know,” she says.
“I’m sorry you crashed into a sloth.”
“I used to like sloths. Now that they live in the city, I think they’re pretty stupid. I wish they would send them back to the jungle. It’s like we’re living in a fucking zoo.”
“I kind of like having exotic animals around,” Simon says.
“Even the air we breathe is manufactured.”
“It’s better than living underwater. The oceans are dying and we couldn’t ride bikes down there.”
“I guess it’s good that automobiles were banished to the ocean, but what does it matter if they replaced all the trees with fake plastic ones? We’re living in a false city.”
“At least we can ride bikes and not get hit by cars.”
“No, you only crash into sloths now.”
“You think you’d get used to it after six months.”
“Get used to it? Get used to it? Fuck you, Simon. I will not buy into the apathy machine. Fuck you.”
“You’re drunk. You shouldn’t have drank tonight. If our baby has fetal alcohol syndrome, I will never forgive you.”
“I thought you wanted a freak.”
“Can we go home?”
“Admit that the world is a cold dead place.”
“The world is a cold dead place.”
“You didn’t say it with feeling.”
“Because I’m so cold and dead that I feel nothing. Can we go home now?”
Celia crosses her arms across her chest. “Fine. Will you read me a bedtime story?”
“Yes. What do you want me to read to you?”
“Anything. I don’t care.”
Simon picks up his bike and stares at the decapitated sloth. The beetles move around inside its belly, making the sloth look pregnant.
“I’m sorry you crashed into a sloth.”
“You said that already.”
“What do you want me to read to you?”
“Gah, you decide.”
“Penguin Island?”
“You decide,” Celia says, as they pedal into the fractured bloom of a late summer night.
TINY ELEPHANTS UNDERFOOT
Simon and Celia lock their bikes to a light post. They stand out side the door of their apartment, their fingers clasped loosely together. They hear the footfall and trumpeting of a miniature stampede within.
“Elephants again,” Simon says.
“Impossible. I sprayed elephanticide this morning.”
“The elephants are transcending our poisons. They are elementally evolving,” Simon says in a monotone voice, but meaning it as a joke.
“This is serious, Simon,” Celia says.
“It’s just an infestation.”
“They’ll destroy everything we own.”
Simon shrugs. “I don’t like anything I own anyway.”
“I think I’ll kill them this time. I really think I’ll kill them.”
“We are beyond peaceful negotiations. We are beyond poison. We must squash the elephants beneath our shoes.
We must boil their children in hot water spiced with cloves. We must be ruthless in the face of the intruder.”
Celia unlocks the door and pushes it open. They stand side by side, staring into the darkness. Simon flips on a light.
Tiny white elephants parade in a single-file line that spirals inward and outward like a vortex of pestilential cuteness.
Simon lets go of Celia’s hand. He steps toward the parade of tiny elephants.
“Please don’t kill them,” Celia says.
“I thought you wanted them dead.”
“I was just mad. I didn’t mean it for real. They’re only elephants. They don’t know any better. Look how tiny they are.”
“If we don’t make a stand now, they’ll never leave us alone. They’ll run us out of our own fucking home.”
Celia is crying now.
“There’s got to be another solution,” she says.
“We’ve tried everything. There’s no other solution.”