XXIII Gram

It was his day off. Gram was spending it so far lying in bed. The record he played at home had changed from Neutral Milk Hotel to the Microphones. He stuck to second age lofi because the scratches and distortions didn’t detract from the experience. The rhythm spoke to his beleaguered soul, and most importantly, modern music, that is, music approved by the ministry of propaganda, was all shallow bubbly trash. There were still some back-alley vinyl presses making copies of copies of old relics for a few pennies apiece. He was friends with a few of them. It wasn’t like all the old music was banned. A lot was still allowed, even played over the radio. Positive and sanitized stuff, in school, they had been taught that before the collapse, the world had been a chaotic mess fueled and blinded by optimism. The Microphones certainly didn’t sound optimistic. The record stuck replaying the same bit of haunted guitar over and over. He would fix it, but getting up at that specific moment felt like too much energy.

It had been more than a week since he’d gotten Marco’s message, yet still nothing from Jim. No calls from the hunter. Perhaps he had mistaken the whole thing. It could be that the person who he was dealing with was rich beyond measure but young, with no intent to kill, pressured by some uncle into popping his cherry. The promise Marco had made might be enough for him to give up the hunt. Gram hoped it was something along these lines, but nothing had materialized. There was nothing more frustrating than waiting for a negative to prove itself. He had called Marco twice in the last two weeks.  Marco was alive, drunk, heartbroken but alive. Ira left him a week after the hunter had. Had she reported Marco? Too many questions, all of which with no path towards a solution. His every day was an exhausted half rest.

With effort he managed to pop a cigarette from his shirt pocket into his mouth. Eyes fixed on the ceiling, he blindly groped around his nightstand for his lighter, cutting his hand on a sharp bit of disassembled mechanism. It didn’t feel deep, so he ignored it. Cuts like that tired themselves out. His hand finally contacted the cold bit of smooth metal. Grabbing it, he lit the cigarette. His eyes followed the smoke as it lazily rose in a helix. Was it worth it? Was it worth it, you stupid asshole? You’re nothing, stop acting like you matter, you stupid piece of shit, you’re going to die. You know that, right? That feeling again, he felt paralyzed, suffocated by his own blood. Was it worth it, you dumb bastard? The guitar was still repeating. Gram clenched the lighter tightly and threw it in the general direction of the player. It landed with a thud. The needle finally jumped out of its loop. 

Gram sat up with a jolt. “It was,” he said out loud to himself. He had successfully saved his friend, and he wasn’t dead, not yet.

There was a knock at the door. Gram froze, relaxing as soon as he remembered his dad was at work by now.

“Hun, you wanna get up? Luna’s on the phone.”

“Sure, ma, give me a sec.” Luna, what could she want?

She wanted to meet at a coffee shop in the midlands, close to her club. This summon seemed serious.

He ordered a proper macchiato (emphasizing to the bearded barista that he wanted basically just a shot of espresso with a little foam) and waited impatiently. She came in, wearing a dress he hadn’t seen before, dark green with lace in the form of black flowers covering it. He had forgotten how beautiful Luna could be in the daylight. Before saying a word, she gave him a slap across the face, hard. This was not in the list of scenarios he had prepared for.

Gram rubbed his cheek. “Look, if this is about me not seeing your show, it’s hard for me to get out here, and the drinks are expensive, and many safety reasons besides.”

“Gram, shut up.”

Gram did, looking at her mute and befuddled.

“How could you? Give up your ID? You were as good as dead!”

“Look, look, I can explain.”

She slammed her hand on the table. “Explain? Explain what?”

“Look.” Gram said, pulling off his right glove revealing a hand with orderly rows of crisscrossed scars, white with rough pink serrations at the edges. Luna sat down across from him. “When I was jus’ a kid, one of those fuckin’ noblemen did this to me—hell one o’ them noblemen prolly did me to my mum—but there was this guy, Slate. He saved us. He knew what would happen to him but did it anyway, for her and me. Since that day… since that day, Luna, I knew this shit wasn’t all there was to life. There was more, much more. We, even us, can do more than just survivin’, stuck in the toil, and I always promised myself if I ever could, I would. Marco is a good bloke. Gave me more than my fair share of good turns. Aside, how did you know I used my ID?”

Her tone had softened but she maintained an unusual sternness. “For your information, I learned it from Marco’s hunter.”

Gram sat in stunned silence. Marco’s hunter contacted her again? For King’s sake, what did I do? I just made things worse. But that just didn’t make sense. Marco wouldn’t make that kind of deal. It would be incongruent with the hunter’s behavior, and Luna wasn’t exactly a pushover.

“He just asked me to give you this envelope. I already read it.” Her expression hovered somewhere between angered and hurt. 

Gram rubbed his cheek and began to open the envelope.

Dear Gram (Mr. Green/Brown),

I know you wanted me to contact you as Mr. Green through the Alchemist bartender, but I simply felt that lacked the personal touch which I strive for. You are a fascinating fellow. As I was browsing your file, I could not help but feel my interest piqued. Instead of using Ms. Delphine in the future, I propose a dead drop under the large rock near your domicile. I will have it monitored by an agent of mine for your response. I accept the broad terms of your hunt, but I seek consent in all matters and would like to hear your precise proposed terms.

Sincerely,

The Hawk

P.S It must have been hard getting around without your ID. Enclosed is a new ID I had made for you. I left out the picture as I think it is best I do not yet know your face. From experience, I am sure you can fill that little detail in. I took the liberty of choosing a last name for you. I hope you do not find it disagreeable.

He held up the ID. Gram Green. That cheeky bastard. He was Mr. Green for real now, and silver class on top of that. But it had to be the very fucking Hawk himself, the boogeyman, the Grim Reaper.

“So, you met Marco’s Hunter then?” Gram said.

“Apparently.”

“What kind of man is he?”

“Cold, but seemed honorable.” “For a noble, maybe.” How hard is it to act honorable when you own half the fucking city?