Jostled along by a trio of gigantic, smelly, tentacle-armed beings, Justin, Teresa, Erin, and Cass were led past all of this to the head table, where only two chairs were currently occupied. At the end, in a ridiculously ostentatious, throne-like chair, festooned with feathers and glitter and balloons, sat a smallish man, beaming like a bridegroom, dressed in the complete costume of a Medieval king. Very pale, with long blond hair all matted and clumped together, this individual was flanked to his right by none other than Mr. Howard Lampert. Looking pissed-off and not all that well, sort of pale and listless, the Old Man looked up as the others approached and shook his head.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he said quietly. “If this don’t beat all, I don’t know what fuckin’ does. I mean, holy shit Doc, am I wrong, or is this about the craziest fuckin’ thing ya ever saw or what?”
Justin tried to rush forward to Lampert’s side but one of the big deformed guys grabbed him and forced him into a chair, two spots down from the head on the other side of the table, and jammed a ridiculous pointed party hat onto his head. Desperately, Justin leaned over the table.
“Are you alright, sir?” he asked, watching the Old Man critically. “I was told you were not so well.”
“Just a cold,” said Lampert brusquely. “Bit of a cough.”
“Yes, well,” Justin said, but then the strange man at the head of the table cut him off. Standing up, the man in the king outfit grinned at each of them, nodding and bowing, before raising a pink plastic cup.
“I bid you all welcome,” he called, in a dreamy, lilting way. “And thank you for coming to my Birthday Party! Yeah!”
At this, the ensemble of malformed party guests hooted and clapped and made disgusting, sloppy noises of approval. King Suit waved them to silence.
“This year,” he said, “we are lucky to have so many new friends! But sadly, the Emperor Johnson, Lord of the Underground, King of the Mutants, Brother to Jesus Christ and the Savior of the World, has not had the pleasure of making each one’s company! So, why don’t all of you be nice new buddies and stand up and tell us your names?”
Justin looked around the table, but the others, sitting there in their wildly incongruous little party hats and garish leis, all looked too stunned to speak. Finally Justin cleared his throat and, feeling the stares of dozens of eyes, both normal and deformed, stood up.
“Uh, my name is Dr. Justin Kaes,” he said, trying to summon a smile. “I’m an epidemiologist from New Atlanta.”
“Isn’t that interesting?” gushed the man, Johnson. “You meet so many interesting people these days, don’t you think? I do! Now what about you ladies?” he asked, addressing Teresa, Erin, and Cass. Justin was shoved back down into his seat.
Erin Swails hesitated and then stood up and gave her name.
“Erin,” said King Suit contemplatively. “That’s another name for Ireland, did you know that?”
Swails nodded indulgently. “Yes, I did know that,” she said deliberately. “My, uh, mother was Irish.”
“Fascinating!” said King Suit. He seemed to zone out for a moment, staring glassily at nothing, before recovering and looking down at Teresa. “And what about this charming lady? Are you Irish, too? What’s your name?”
Teresa looked helplessly at Justin, but he could only shrug. Finally she half-stood from her place, mumbled her name, and sat back down.
“Teresa, is it?” said their host. “Why, that’s a very pretty name. Do people ever call you Terry?”
Teresa glared at the man. “No,” she said. “Not nobody.”
“Nobody but me!” said King Suit, grinning. “Because I think Terry is even better than Teresa. And since it’s my birthday, I get to decide.” Teresa glowered but remained silent. King Suit went on. “And this other lady I already know, so that takes care of the introductions. Best of all, though, we have a very special new friend! Everyone, let me introduce you to Mr. Howard Johnson… my grandpa!”
The throng of weirdos clapped and hooted and slobbered as Lampert gave a half-hearted wave. Initially confused, Justin then tipped to the ruse and nodded and smiled slightly; the clever old bastard! He’d managed to convince this maniac that he was his grandfather! Howard Johnson indeed! But what would come of it?
As King Suit rose and started passing out miscellaneous bottles of soda, liquor, and other beverages, Justin looked down and saw that, among the party favors and confetti on the table were scattered packages of pre-Fall food. His stomach rumbling, suddenly oblivious, he grabbed a pack of chocolate frosted Krillo Kakes, tore it open, and devoured the sweet, only slightly stale food. Following his example, the others snatched up their own chips and cookies and crackers; who knew when they’d get another chance to eat? And food from Before was not to be passed up, even under the strangest of circumstances.
Finally King Suit (Justin categorically refused to even think of him as Emperor anything), having doled out the libations, resumed his place at the head of the table. From over in the corner, the scratchy, ancient record player cranked up another ghastly children’s favorite, Teddy Bear’s Picnic, and the deformed party guests all noisily and messily drank their drinks. King Suit himself opened a dusty old liter bottle of vodka with a flourish, and then tipped it up and downed almost a third of it in one long guzzle. Justin stared in horror; a drunken madman? That couldn’t be good.
With a belch, King Suit slammed the bottle down on the table and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his regal robe. Up close, Justin could see that the costume was stained and flecked with food crumbs and other, less identifiable, bits of matter.
This and the alcohol use aside, though, it was starting to look like this Johnson person might not be as bad as he’d feared. Eccentric, perhaps, maybe very, very eccentric, but not apparently violent or dangerous. Maybe this would work out after all. He was considering talking to the man, mainly to satisfy at least some of his curiosity about these people and their astounding deformities, when King Suit, having downed another inch of vodka from the bottle, stood up again and waved everyone quiet.
“And now, my friends and relations,” he said cheerily. “It’s time for me to open one of my presents! Hooray!”
Again the congregation of the deformed applauded and made nasty sounds of encouragement. Justin was thinking that this didn’t sound so bad, unwrapping a gift of some kind, when Johnson, leaving his ridiculous throne, suddenly whipped out a large and very sharp-looking kitchen carving knife. With a look in his eyes that made Justin’s hair stand on end, he gazed at the blade for a long moment and then, skipping, flounced away toward the center of the chamber.
Justin looked at Lampert. “What’s he doing?” he hissed. “What’s he going to do with that knife?”
“How the fuck should I know?” hissed back the Old Man. “Cut somethin’, most likely.”
Confused, with a terrible dread churning in his guts, Justin turned back to see that Johnson was now standing before one of the pole-shackled prisoners, a middle-aged woman in camo pants and a green T shirt. Moving slowly, almost sinuously, he waved the wicked knife before his own face as the poor, wide-eyed woman thrashed and grunted against her restraints and the deformed throng clapped and gurgled like mad.