Mr. Big Stuff Loves Victoria Swine (Book 3 of "Working Class Villain")

Working Class Villain

© Copyright 2018, Pierce Nahigyan, All Rights Reserved

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Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

* * *

Volume 3: Mr. Big Stuff Loves Victoria Swine

My opinion is that new needs need new techniques. And the modern artists have found new ways and new means of making their statements. It seems to me that the modern painter cannot express this age, the airplane, the atom bomb, the radio, in the old forms of the Renaissance or of any other past culture. Each age find its own technique.

- Jackson Pollock, 1950

It's the sort of thing we thought went out of fashion years ago. But for some people, it seems, the apocalypse just never knows when to stop.

- The Invisibles, Vol. 2, #6, Grant Morrison

* * *

#1: In Which the Mayor Readies for War

Montoya looked positively stunning. His mocha skin glowed under the lights, the sweat beads at the edge of his scalp like a crystal crown. Up went his long arm, out to the hazy air, up went the hosannahs of the crowd.

The mayor’s an appeaser, folks. It’s been how many years since we had an honest job creator in office? I can’t tell you that, but I can tell you who’s doing real well—Scatelli and his labor union. Sure enough!

The audience shrieked.

"Construction’s the only piece making any headway these days, but they’ve got their work cut out for them, don’t they? Oh yes, we’ve got more excitement in this town than we know what to do with—and I see it crumbling down. First we lose the Hub cities, now we lose a library—a historic library—we lose a school, the theatre, a distinguished corporate landmark. When’s it going to stop? They say the mayor’s got friends in high places. I don’t know...

As a city council member, I saw to it that we negotiated zoning requirements to twenty-first century levels. Because I believe in progress. Hierophant Tower is a prime example of that engineering prowess. Some of us still remember when the Big One hit and the government nearly condemned the whole city. But we didn’t leave. Even when the film industry left Burbank, we grew, and block by block we put the pieces back together, into something even richer than before. He paused for a heavy moment. "The local economy can bounce back, folks, but only if we nurture it. Entrepreneurs don’t want to come here. Business developers, job creators, innovative industries, they’re running to NorCal.

Okay, the Arcudi Mob say, then where’s all our growth coming from? You know where. Arcudi and his cronies think our paramilitary friends are some kind of draw. You know what I heard one of the councilmen say? ‘It’s Disneyland meets Detroit.’

A roar of voices whirled over the speakers like a cyclone trapped in a tunnel.

Opolis is not Detroit, said Montoya. And these outlaws, these villains, these illegals—are not heroes, are not here for our protection. They are parasites. But Old Polly ain’t dead yet!

The shouts grew into a chant. It pounded and demanded and repeated, ceaseless. Montoya let it build, and then, he interrupted it. Mayor Arcudi has appeased these forces, given them a place of refuge when they deserve to be driven out on a rail. I want city jobs back, I want strong growth politics back, and I want your mortgages to mean something again. So I’m going to do something about it! That’s why I’m campaigning to be the next mayor of Opolis, the once and future greatest city in the world!

Arcudi slammed the laptop down.

He drummed his fingers on it. Okay, so he’s the change candidate, he’s the good guy. What have we got? He searched the eyes of his PR squad. C’mon, kids, this is when I need those big brains of yours. Tell me who we’re gonna be next year. And who do we gotta be right now?

First, said Piper, the corn haired undergraduate from Penn State, we need to retaliate. He says you’re soft on masks, so you have to refute that.

Remind them why they got this far, said another. Why switch horses mid-stream, right?

Arcudi made a face. He dragged his wedding band against the grain of the table, folded himself up, sucked his teeth, and left the crew.

Your honor? said Piper.

I’m going up to the roof to think.

Tony reached out to him. I don’t think that’s a good idea.

Yeah? said Arcudi. And what do you know about good ideas?

* * *

He had to fight the high winds to open the door, and after he got it open, it slammed behind him. He crunched over the gravel to the flat spotlight near the radio tower. Flipped it a couple times. Shut it off. Cranked it back up. Shut it off. Cranked it back on.

Over the edge of City Hall, he saw Doug Hopkins and his rabble dotting the sidewalks in their earth-toned rainbow of tents. The heavy thud and the splash of gravel startled him nearly off the roof. The Man slammed the spotlight lever down.

Don’t jump, Mr. Mayor, buzzed the synthesizer. The election isn’t till May.

Not till May! echoed Arcudi. Can you believe this garbage? How am I gonna fight this bozo for six months? I’ve got a city to run.

Up to a point, said The Man. He folded his arms. The thick neoprene squeaked.

That a joke? I can’t tell if you’re joking with that thing. Turn off the voice, can’t ya?

No.

Arcudi sighed. Is that a new suit?

Mr. Mayor, is there a crisis?

What? No. No... Arcudi shivered and bunched his sports coat between his fists. It’s been a pretty bad year. Montoya’s talking up the anti-hero rhetoric and people want to see change. If he gets in, it’s gonna be tough for guys like you. You know?

The Man remained as solid and unwavering as a statue.

So I don’t need to tell you that, said Arcudi. Sheesh. But I need something, you need something. The massive California state flag rolled and flapped in the blue sparkle of the commercial gleaming. The flagpole rang.

Where’s Hurricane? said Arcudi.

I don’t know.

No curse Arcudi could think of would make any headway in that area. Can you tell me what you’re doing out there? he snapped. Can you tell me what’s going on? Can you tell me you’ve got a clue? The guy’s a walking storm front––what the fuck is he doing, just staying in and paying his rent on time? What? The people need hope. Or they need results.

Hurricane will stay buried until he wants something, said The Man. And what he wants, usually, is attention.

That’s what all of you want.

Very astute, Mr. Mayor.

Well it’s the only thing better than power, isn’t it? He rubbed the back of his neck, stiff from the cold. The judiciary is going nuts trying to get Hierophant to play ball—his people have got our people so tangled up in legal mumbo jumbo it’s going to be years before we know if he can even make another suit. Mondo’s in Innsmouth but that’s not good enough—

Mr. Mayor, I do not play politics.

Yeah! I got it! But I’m trying to talk to the only guy in this town who’s got his head screwed on straight. You just do your goddamned job. Jesus, I don’t know... He blew the air out of his nostrils and it joined the prevailing wind. He looked over the roof at Hopkins’ tents. The worst they had to deal with in the old days was flying chairs. In Bell Gardens—when there was a Bell Gardens—Mayor Macias, she gets pissed and tosses a chair at a councilman. Duran. After it’s all said and done, Duran got elected mayor and Macias was out. You know what Duran said when the press got to him? ‘You know how women are.’ Can you believe that? He let out a miserable laugh and turned to The Man, but he was gone.

Arcudi trudged back to the access door. Chairs? he muttered. Chairs I can handle. He pulled at the door but the wind forced it shut. He pulled again, struggling with both hands. Doors I can handle, he huffed. It opened wide enough for him to squeeze through and he tromped down the cold concrete back to his office. Its slam echoed after him.

He told Piper he’d send her back to the East Coast if she didn’t figure out why the super PACs were dragging their asses and turned to Tony. When’s Hopkins’ permit up?

Ten days, said Tony.

Bitte’s still behind Montoya. Go work with Piper on bringing Scatelli back to the fold. Remind him that Montoya’s only friends are private contractors. Tony bounded away. And the machine ground on.

#2: In Which Freddy Is Uncooperative

They dragged Freddy into a bare room and left him there. He clunked his cuffs down on the table and stared out of the swollen bruises of his good eye. He sucked at his bleeding gums while he waited, and clanked his cast on the floor. After an hour the door opened and two officers walked in.

Freddy, said Captain Moore.

Freddy squinted at him. I know you.

That’s why I’m here, he said. This is Detective Bumstead. He indicated the tall, meaty looking man on the other side of the table. The man’s hand was heavily bandaged.

I know you, said Freddy.

Bumstead’s mouth twitched. Freddy had no idea who Bumstead was, but he looked like the kind that hoped he wouldn’t get caught.

Hey, said Freddy, how’s it going with trying to put Red Rhino away?

I was hoping you could help me shed some light on that.

Freddy grinned his bloody grin. That is too bad. I’m recovering from a pretty lousy vacation inside my head, but if you’d like to leave a message, please hang up and try again.

Freddy, you’ve been on sedatives for the last few days. Don’t make me put you back in the hole.

Dexter, you couldn’t find me a deep enough hole if you tried.

Are you going to behave or not?

Or not, said Freddy.

Moore dumped a folder on the table. Attempted robbery, he said. Then three years extra for your prior felony charge, absconding with a blimp. One year extra for escaping, but we can stretch that, given your record. Under California Penal Code Section 1192.7(c) and 1192.8(a), you’ve got some major felonies racked up. Mayhem—

I never–– said Freddy.

Exploding a destructive device or any explosive with the intent to injure. Gendo Kim had his car torched not long after he met you, didn’t he?

Freddy shrugged. That doesn’t sound like something I’d do.

Arson, said Moore. Criminal threats, in violation of Penal Code Section 422.

I don’t know nothin’ about that.

You want to hear the tape of us bringing you in?

I try to live in the moment.

You are sinking faster than lead shit, said Bumstead. Shut your fucking mouth.

Freddy blew a fat-lipped raspberry and Bumstead swiped at him with his bandaged paw. Moore expertly sidestepped him and pulled him aside. Go get one of the precinct’s boys, he said. Bumstead barked back–– Get some air, said Moore, and go get someone else. And leave the door open. Bumstead left a trail of angry heat behind him.

What’s his problem? said Freddy.

You bit his finger off, said Moore.

Well I guess he should have kept his fingers to his fucking self.

Moore stared at him impassively. That’s assaulting an officer. You assaulted several officers. I’d go into how many officers, and how many officers are not allowed to go near you, but the OPD has had problems with excessive force in the past and it’s never any good explaining to Channel 5 which perps deserve it. We also found phencyclidine in your apartment.

What’s that? said Freddy.

PCP.

Oh, said Freddy. Was there a lot of it?

It’s enough to compound your already complex rap sheet. Is it yours?

Is there PCP in my piss?

Yeah, said Moore.

I guess that was part of the ride. Can I have some water?

When the other officer came in Moore sent him back out for water. You had an unlicensed handgun with you. We also found a device in your apartment, something upscale. That’s really why I’m here. Do you know what I’m talking about?

Oh sure, sure, said Freddy. You found the WMDs, right?

My problem, said Moore, is that you turning up suddenly with this device is very coincidental. I want to know what’s going on.

The officer returned with a paper cup. He handed it to Freddy, who drained it and asked for more.

Just bring the pitcher, said Moore. The officer exited again.

I want to know what’s going on too, said Freddy. This is not my beautiful house. This is not my beautiful car.

I am really trying to give you a shake here, Freddy. You know how much trouble you’re in. Tell me your side of the story. I want you to help me.

You can help me shake my dick when I have to piss, said Freddy. How about that?

If that’s really how you want it to be, said Moore. You want a lawyer? Do you have someone to call?

No, said Freddy.

We can give you a list—

No, said Freddy.

The officer returned with the pitcher.

Moore lifted himself from the table. I’m going to let you think about it, he said.

When he and the officer reached the door, Freddy knocked the pitcher over. The water rolled, bright under the glare of the fluorescents, and gushed over the edge in a thin cataract. The pitcher bounced, and bounced, and clattered to the floor.

You tell Bumstead to get back in here, said Freddy. I’m still hungry.

The officer shut the door on him.

#3: In Which Freddy Continues to Be Uncooperative

It was a few days later that they brought Freddy back into the room. Freddy smiled pleasantly at Bumstead on his way to the interrogation and waved both hands.

They locked him to the ground below the table and then Moore began: The duration of your time on the outside suggests that you were under protection. If you can help us with the guys up top, and who that might be, we can give you a reduced sentence. Right now you’re looking at twenty-five to life.

Do you think they’d kick it up to fifty? said Freddy. My 401K ain’t doing so hot.

Where did the scrambler come from, Freddy? You didn’t build it. The last legitimate job you held was in an ice cream shop.

Not technically true, said Freddy. But I find the lack of state oversight on my personal affairs comforting in these prying times.

Where did it come from? Did you buy it?

I commissioned it.

What?

And— continued Freddy, I’m the one who’s been dumping bodies in the Pollyanna.

What are you talking about?

Bodies? Drugs? Hazardous waste? Oh yeah. Me. Big time. Big Stuff, you might say.

Your time’s almost up in jail, Freddy. Your arraignment’s coming and then it’ll be the penitentiary. This is the last time I’ll offer you a deal.

Freddy sucked his teeth. But I’m such a nice guy. Would you like to call in a character witness? I know a very friendly pimp. I know a dead man’s bastard. How many is it gonna take to set me free? His eyes searched Moore’s pinched face. Do I need to get the whole city to testify to my fine moral standing before you believe that I run this town? Because, let me tell ya, that is gonna take one hell of a permission-based email campaign. Freddy sat back in his chair and smiled ruefully. Frankly, Captain, I don’t think we have that kind of time. I guess... Gee, I guess I’m going to prison.

His eyes flicked to Moore’s hands. You got a wife, Captain?

Lock him up, said Moore. He passed the officer without looking back.

Freddy shouted after him. Don’t be mad, Dex! It happens to the best of us!

* * *

Freddy returned to the Max in early November. Except for the new wall encircling the yard and the extra tower and beefed up patrol at the perimeter, the prison was unchanged.

He settled back into the routine almost immediately (though the three meals a day took some getting used to).

Romeo found him in the first week. They met in the yard on the bleachers and Freddy explained what had went down after the former’s arrest. He explained the arrangement of graphene for cash, and showed the boy his missing toe. Romeo had heard most of this already, but he was pleased to hear Freddy was doing well. Romeo was serving concurrent sentences for assault and battery and would be up for parole in three years with good behavior. It was time served for the syndicate, and as the Black Emperor’s liaison in the Max. Freddy’s graphene had proven itself, and could he arrange for more while inside?

I don’t know, said Freddy. I need to find out about my guy.

Romeo would look into it.

By the second week he’d managed to get hold of Fat Cat, who had been taken in with Crazy Tray the week prior for a suspected driveby. Tray had been holding and was up for possession charges but would probably make bail. Before the two of them left lockup, Freddy got word to them that he wanted to see a banger from the two-three-twos named Keynes. Before Thanksgiving, he had his first visitor.

What did they get you for? asked the boy. They were surrounded by the murmurings of the crowded islands of visitors and convicts.

Freddy ran his palm over his freshly scrubbed head. There was a lot of screaming and carrying on in my apartment. Somebody finally called the cops.

I heard you bit some dude’s face off.

Did the Stone Fish talk to you?

Yeah, said Contel. You think Barracuda will let me rep?

You want in or what?

Contel nodded, but he played it cool among the cops.

You have my blessing, said Freddy. But don’t go full monster, you get me? You’ve still got a few years until you could end up here, so keep those big eyes open and stay smart. First order of business, I want you to find Larson’s Auto. Check it out with Fat Cat. If he won’t go that close to Tokyo, get Buck on 63rd and make sure he knows who sent you. You got a cellphone or something to write down the addresses?

They took it when I came in.

Alright, try to remember this. He told him the addresses, taking the cold look of determination on the boy’s face to mean he would not fail this first task. Tell the boys at Larson what’s up, tell them to put a freeze on my account. If you can, tell them you’re supposed to get a stipend of four hundred per month.

A month?

What, no ‘thank you?’

What am I gonna do with four hundred bucks?

Your record’s still pretty good. Set up a bank account.

Contel made a face. Man—

Do it. Don’t tell Larson what you’re going to do with it, but do it. Tell the bank it’s for college. They usually stick those accounts with the fewest fees.

Why don’t I just keep the money?

Where? In your sock drawer? You think there’s a cranny in your room your moms doesn’t know about?

Contel had to concede that was true.

You are still a legitimate human being, my friend, and that is appealing to legitimate businesses. Someday we might even pay your mom back for all the crap we put her through.

We?

You, your dad, and me.

Don’t talk about him like he’s still alive.

Keynes is sittin’ right here with me. Now get outta here before I start weeping.

* * *

He tried not to sleep more than he had to. He tried to dream of nothing, and sometimes it almost seemed like he could. When he woke, he had to squeeze the old narrow cot, to feel the stones with his hand, and forget that he’d ever been unconscious for so long.

Once in a while, he dreamed he was Rick again. But Victoria was never home.

#4: In Which Freddy Is Violently Assaulted

The days bled into anxious regularity, the tinny growl of cages being unlatched and rolled back and halting followed by the yowls of the guards checking bunks. Taken against the chasm of the catwalks they sounded like bumblebees headbutting a skin drum. The levels were long in his block, and stacked one on top of the other to the bright, barred skylights above. The morning rounds were carried out in shifts; levels were searched two at a time. When the handful of guards gave the go ahead, the convicts shuffled off like a hulking centipede, swishing orange segments curling around the bends and down the stairs of the bridges and meshed staircases, the white rays of sunlight striping their shoulders and backs when they passed, rendering them in the comical black and white jumpsuits of old, like bald Elvises resplendent.

The nasal drone of the bell concluded the procession, and the door to Cafeteria A slammed shut. The guards moved up to the next two platforms. The cages belched forth the next orange contingent, and the guards armed their cattle prods. When they finished, the convicts would be rotated in Cafeteria A behind the first segment. The next two levels would be led into Cafeteria B. The next two into Cafeteria C. The state mandate required that the whole process take no longer than an hour and twenty seven minutes. By the time the guards made it up to the top level, it was usually just before lunch.

It was an unspoken agreement between the guards and the lifers at the top that certain items that would be otherwise contraband were turned to with blind eyes. Breakfast was the most important meal of the day, after all.

Freddy, reading the abridged works of Shakespeare (a quarter of the pages had been ripped out and most of the sonnets removed), was looking forward to his brunch in Cafeteria G. And while his new cellmate worried him, the Big Gulp cup he’d brought in with him last night didn’t strike anyone as out of the ordinary.

Freddy’s other two cellmates were civil enough. One was a silent lieutenant to Mu’tafikah who had led the first riot after his death. He walked only with canes now. The other was a banger from Moreno Valley who didn’t say much.

The new cellmate was a very big man, very dark, who smiled at Freddy enough for Freddy to name him King Leer (but not aloud). His actual name, he said, was Creep. At the moment, he was pissing in the corner.

Freddy turned from the shambles of a mutilated comedy to ask Creep what he was doing.

You’ll see, he promised.

From his seat on the floor Freddy looked up at the banger. Moreno Valley, how much is your friendship worth? The man just stared at him.

Freddy studied Pasha’s compromised legs. Far below, the guards had found a new reason to turn their tazers on a loud cur. His bellow echoed up the concrete valley, its ghostly reverberation eliciting no sympathetic cry from the upper levels, not even a guffaw.

Freddy tapped his cast on the stone floor. The air up here was like the peak of a mountain, bright and cool, and it suddenly seemed quite thin. He stood up and leaned against the upper bunk, his elbow over Moreno Valley, Pasha sitting across from him in the other cot.

I heard you in the yard, said Creep. Hangin’ with Romo. Did he call you Mr. Big Stuff?

Freddy chucked the book onto his mattress.

Creep shuffled forward. His face was like an obsidian bust, his shoulders and back one smooth hump under his jumpsuit. I don’t think you’re Mr. Big Stuff, he said. I think you’re the blimp guy. Drink this. He shoved his Big Gulp cup into Freddy’s chest. The cloudy liquid was dark, almost red.

Freddy stared into it. This is your piss, isn’t it?

That’s my piss!

Freddy avoided the man’s gaze, which he felt as hot and thick on him as the befouled cup.

You remember Big Pink? said Creep. He fucked you up the ass. He said it was the tightest shit, and I want me a piece of that. You remember Big Pink?

Mm.

He dead now. Either drink that shit or bend over, you bitch made trick.

I’m not your trick.

The big man leered. You gonna be my punk, blimp boy. Big Pink said he loved that shit. Why don’t you drink up or get down?

Freddy cleared his throat. He met the blank eyes of Moreno Valley. You gonna stall me out? he asked.

The young man wet his lips. Sorry, Fred.

Fuck.

The cup splashed against Creep’s neck and face. His wet knuckles were his rejoinder, and they ripped down Freddy’s chest. Creep tripped over Moreno Valley’s feet, and Freddy’s cast hooked on Pasha’s cane, and when they hit the floor, Freddy pounded his fist into Creep’s ear. Creep rolled like a sack of beef and dragged Freddy down. Freddy screamed to the cell bars.

When he’d kicked and crawled and crawled to the bars, Creep grabbed him by the cast. The hard plaster grinding on the floor, Creep reeled him back, and grabbed his head by the scalp.

The cell bars broke open Freddy’s left eyebrow. The ground fogged over, and he lost the fine details of the pebbles and cracks under his mouth. Blood spilled down his nose. Hot, it washed down his cheek, and he tasted it, but he couldn’t see it. Creep drove his fist into Freddy’s ribs. The broken ones broke worse. Thick fingers tore the back of his jumpsuit down to his bare ass. Freddy grabbed for the bars again. His broken nose forced him to breathe through his mouth and the copper and salt tang of his blood misted the back of his throat and caught up his breath. He hacked violently. He heard Creep spit on his hand. He spanked Freddy’s ass.

When he felt his body tear, he expected to vomit, but he never completely did. He cried, but that was because he couldn’t stop thinking of Victoria and a four-cylinder Kia the police would soon auction away.

He grunted into the pool of blood and spit that spread from the crack in his head. Creep’s hands crushed his shoulders to the ground and he was left only his legs to move or flail. It didn’t help. Sight swam back to his eye again and submerged. Creep finished off between the crack of his ass and pulled out with a laugh.

You still awake, Mr. Big Stuff? He slapped Freddy’s thigh. C’mon, honey, you ready for where I’m gonna wipe?

Creep cupped Freddy’s cheek in his thick fingers and bent his face to his turgid penis. He let another laugh roll down his bulging belly; it flopped against Freddy’s face and the hot, sweat-moistened skin pressed tight against his mouth and nose. The hot pubic hair scratched his face and the testicles dragged on his stubble. Rank from the cum and shit, the dick rammed against Freddy’s uvula, and Freddy chopped his broken teeth down like a guillotine.

He jerked his neck away and tore the penis from the skin by its last strings of muscle and flesh. Blood showered his mouth. Creep screamed.

Creep screamed when Freddy headbutted his testicles. Creep screamed when Freddy pounded them with his fists. Creep screamed when Freddy dragged himself into Creep’s lap and slammed his elbow down into the chunk of torn genitalia he had left. Creep screamed when Freddy did it again.

Freddy wiped the blood off his lips and spat. And then he threw up on the fat man, completely this time.

Call the guard, Freddy rasped to Moreno Valley. He spat again. Moreno Valley had curled himself into the corner of the bunk, wedged into as tight a ball as his limbs allowed. Call! Freddy retched.

They called together, Pasha and Moreno Valley. It took some time for the guards to make it to their cell. A violent series of coughs racked his chest, and then Freddy spat the thick wad into Creep’s neck. He patted the man’s bovine shoulder.

Don’t die, said Freddy. He snorted, wiping the blood from his nose and upper lip. He dipped his finger into the wet split above his left eye. Don’t die, he repeated. The guards’ boots pounded up the endless stairs. Freddy spat again. He dragged himself against Pasha’s cot and watched Creep shiver, sightless eyes transfixed by the ceiling. Freddy checked the ceiling once to make sure there was nothing up there, then he petted Creep, automatically, compulsively. Don’t die, he said. Don’t you know this is the best of all possible worlds?

There were no keys to rattle on the bars; everything was automated in the Max. But the guard couldn’t get his barcode to scan properly; he swiped the reader desperately. The blood in the cell was leaking through the door. Another guard stepped forward to open it when the lock let out a frazzled buzz.

BIO-SIGNATURE NOT AUTHORIZED. PLEASE STATE YOUR NAME AND EMPLOYEE CODE.

The guard did, but it was lost inside the commotion and shouting below.

PLEASE RE-STATE NAME AND EMPLOYEE CODE.

The guard shouted it into the door.

PLEASE WAIT FOR ASSISTANCE.

Freddy spat, and looked out at the guards, half of them fogged over and syrupy red. Another guard dashed off to override the cell.

Pasha stepped on a chunk of slippery flesh and hit the wall.

#5: In Which Freddy Sings a Song

Freddy awoke in the infirmary. Parts of him had been bandaged, skin had been sewn together, and a prison-beautiful doctor said, You have Hepatitis B.

Yeah? said Freddy. Pain spiderwebbed over his face when he blinked. When he coughed, his ribs rolled like a shelf of duct-taped china. His asshole, had it a voice, would have asked for ice water. Some blood still crusted at the corners of his mouth, which a nurse daubed away with a towel she then threw into a bowl of other soiled dressings.

The infection could be acute or chronic, and if it’s acute it will be self-limiting and probably clear in a few weeks or months. We’ll treat you with lamivudine and interferon, a weekly injection to modulate your immune system. In the meantime you can expect the following symptoms— She read off a clipboard: Loss of appetite, nausea, vomiting, aches, fever. She met his wandering eye. You’ll feel pretty lousy.

Freddy asked if it was possible he’d had the virus all his life.

We’re looking into that, she said. She wrote on her clipboard. Best case scenario, if your health stays up, you’ll start making antibodies and it’ll get better—it usually does. But you’re now a potential host for Hep D, which also poses a greater risk to your liver.

Oh? said Freddy.

The doctor clicked her pen. Chronic infection of Hepatitis can cause cirrhosis or liver cancer. You can expect some inflammation.

So no booze, said Freddy.

I don’t recommend it, she said. Especially not anything you’d ferment in here. HBV goes through cycles of replication. If you experience acute infection it can reactivate when your immune system’s compromised. A fulminant infection will require further treatment.

Uh-huh, said Freddy.

You need to take care of yourself.

Hey, thanks. You too, doc.

How’s your eye?

It was covered in gauze, so at the moment he couldn’t say. Their initial examination found swelling but they wouldn’t be sure if he’d suffered retinal damage until they could do a thorough electroretinography.

What about the other guy?

The doctor folded her hands over her clipboard. That’s not my place to say.

No? said Freddy. Sounds like he left some traces behind, so I’m practically family now. You can tell me. The infirmary, excepting its beeps and occasional call tones, was a quiet place. The red-faced patient across from Freddy had thick pads of gauze taped to his neck that disappeared under his neckline and continued to his elbow. His moaning was not loud enough to disturb the peace.

Eli Aaron, who attacked you, is in stable condition in another wing.

Freddy had the urge to spit again, but he didn’t want to do it in front of the woman. Okay, he said. "How’s that work? You know, when he has to––you