Wired for War

“I’m not fuckin’ around here, Sage.  Try and pull some shit like that again and I’ll yank a knot in your ass.” Pontiff is actually expecting this, and nods, hands extended.  Meeting with Charpes put his brain into a wild oscillation, like a spinning coin about to go flat, corner to corner with carnival chaos.  Fucked him up good, frankly speaking–is it any wonder that he lost his match?  Especially after he called his partner and all but broke up with him over…well, now it seems silly.  Ghosts from his past gave him an unfiltered view of who he was, and he took that–and the man’s lack of forgiveness–to mean that he was an eternally damned soul.  But the best thing Sage has in his toolbox isn't his thirst for violence or his legendary toughness.  It’s his flexibility.  It’s his ability to pivot.  “Look, Cliff, I can only apologize.  Meeting with Charpentier fucked me up pretty good.  Who I was fucked me up pretty good.  And I’m trying to be a better person, but–”  At that word, Cliff snaps his fingers.  “Aht aht.  See when you do that qualifyin’ shit?  That takes the wind outta that sail.  Not ‘I’m trying, but’--just ‘I’m trying.’  Let it lie, ya beautiful idiot.”  This causes Sage to smile, and Cliff joins him, the grin breaking out under his Predator Frye.  They’re back at the place they share, which has begun to see less and less of a demarcation line between the things Cliff and the things Sage Anikulapo.  There, see the wobbling tower of automotive repair guides hugging leaning minarets of Ram Dass and mushroom foraging.  The allen wrenches and dab tools are intermingled like lovers after a tryst.  The whole place smells like rotgut coffee and nag champa and weed and axel grease.  But the collection of kimonos hanging off the back of the bedroom door are all the vestments of a Bodhisattva.  Sage shakes his head.  “So, I’m forgiven?” “Yeah, you’re fuckin’ forgiven.  But pull it again an’...well, I’m probably not kicking your ass, but you’ll never darken this doorway again.  Get me?” “Why?” “Th’ fuck you mean, ‘why?’  Why am I giving you another chance?”  To this, Sage nods slowly.  Cliff reaches over and encircles the lankier of the two in the stevedore bulk of his limbs, meat and hair and bone scarred from who knows how many accidents and rumbles on the street.  They nuzzle into one another on some jigsaw, clearly mismatched but matches all the same, cast iron with a decorative enamel lid.  Idly, that fencpost thumb of Pike’s runs across Sage’s cheek over his now considerable beard.  A small motion, born of position and necessity, a soothe to the fractured and violent Bodhisattva.  He exhales and it feels like the first time he’s properly bellowed in ages.  This is perfect, both men quiet in the energy of one another.  You can practically feel the warmth coming off of them, and though no words are exchanged, one set of lips cranes towards another.  The other set of lips wants to seal this pact.  They do.  Then Sage Pontiff’s phone chimes.  Not the usual 432 Mhz flute that signals a regular message–this one has an assigned tone, one that shocks Sage away from a kiss that certainly would have led to some properly athletic making up.  This one is the roar of an alligator.  Scrambling, Sage grabs his battered smartphone and unlocks/opens/reads with the speed of someone who is used to using social media to reach adherents and find couches to crash out on.  Message read, he looks down, the computers clearly friend up their drives so he can get to the business of calculation.  Finally, he looks over to Cliff, smiling.  “New Orleans?” “New Orleans.  See you in a week?” “No, you fucking ox–come with me.  To New Orleans.  Call it a working vacation.”

_______

“Fine, I sent him the email askin’ him to come here. But why do ya want Cliff here too?” Paxton tosses his phone on the table, looking up at Shweta Kallemullah, who stares out of the window of the office of her warehouse.

“Because what we are going to ask of Sage is something so demanding that we need him to have every reason to refuse it. He must consider the things he cares about, his livelihood, the people he loves. If he is able to bring his partner to this city and hear our plan and agree to it? It shows he is dedicated enough.” Then, Shweta’s lips curl in a small grin. “Plus, Julie specifically requested it.”

“Huh?”

“I like Cliff!” rings out a voice behind Paxton. He turns around to see Julie Dunn nestled in the doorway, an embarrassed smile on her face. “He gets me.”

Paxton grins back. “Jus’ like Sage gets me. An’ I get him.” His smile dissolves as he turns to face Shweta. “Which is why I feel bad ‘bout askin’ him t’do this. He’s gonna say yes ‘cause’a who he is. An’ that might be the worst decision he can make.”

“The average life is filled with myriad difficult decisions that will change one’s trajectory. You’ve made yours already. Let your friend make his.”

“Fine,” Paxton says again, standing up to walk past Julie, who shrinks further against the doorway. “Ya can go on a little date with Cliff while we talk t’Sage. Jus’ try not t’take him anywhere too touristy.” _______ “Christ this is a lot of people, yah?” Not that Cliff has to worry too much–while he lacks his partner’s height and spindliness of arm, he makes up for it in having a shoulderspan that would be mopre home on construction equipment than an actual human person.  This works out in a place like the French Quarter for Julie especially, as she can traipse in the bubble of space that surrounds Pike like a circle of protection–because none of these drunks or tourists know that he’s really a nice guy.

Julie smiles as they weave around, over and under various people on a blustery Saturday afternoon. “And it’s not even a really busy time of year for us,” she said, leading him by the hand towards a rare unoccupied bit of sidewalk. “People don’t come here much for Thanksgiving, although you will see some northerners escape the cold.” She pulls on her jacket, tightening it against the mild 50 degree weather. “Here, the restaurant is up ahead.”

The odd couple of the odd couple find themselves in a very dark room, blasted by jazz music. Julie gives their names and they’re led to a spot in the back room where the noise has somehow gotten louder. As they sit, Julie looks up at Cliff. “Thanks for coming down with Sage. I really enjoyed meeting you in Boston and hoped we could talk again.” “Not a thing to be thanked for, honest.”  Cliff turns his head to the left and right quickly, cracking his vertebrae with a staccato note that carries over the noise, making his companion wince ever so slightly.  “Sometimes he can get silly notions in that pretty head of his, it’s good to remind ‘im how dumb they can be.” “Notions?” “Yeah, the ole song and dance.  ‘I was a bad person, my living is violence, you’d be so much happier if I wasn’t in your life’, yakkety fuckin’ schmackety.  Gotta keep reminding him that Cliff Pike don’t scare too easy.”  He leans back, considering.  “And that I don’t really care who he was so much as I care about who he is.”

“It’s kind of funny you say that,” Julie answers, looking over the menu. “Because it’s the same with Paxton, except…well, he isn’t saying any of that out loud. I just hear it in my head.” She sighs. “I guess I do scare too easy.” “Give yourself more credit.  You’re here, that’s more than some kinda scared lil’ mouse would do.”  Looking over the menu, Cliff chews his lip before nodding.  “Wild that they don’t gouge you on brews here.”

“They figure you can spend the money you’re saving on the food, but trust me, it’s worth it.” They sit in silence as they peruse the options, and the silence threads through their ordering of food and drink before Julie revisits the conversation. “I do keep asking myself why, though.”

“Why what?”

“Why I’m still here.”

_______

“Dammit, I want some rabbit jambalaya,” Paxton mutters as he leans back in his chair in the warehouse meeting room. Shweta sits across from him, thin-lipped and silent, as he looks over at his friend and tag team partner sitting next to him. “Julie and Cliff get t’eat good and we get sandwiches.”

“Yeah, but at least we get sandwiches.  I shacked up with this commune up in Ithaca once, Ghost Cat?  Every fucking meal was turnips cause that’s all they grew up there.”

“I’d rather eat dirt,” Paxton laughs. “Which I guess is what it is anyway.”

“If we’re done discussing culinary preferences?” Shweta leans forward, pushing a folder in Sage’s direction. “Sage, thank you for coming to New Orleans. I know that a primary reason for this visit is to discuss strategy with Paxton for your match against The Anglo Luchador and Zapp Scatino. However, as we have made several breakthroughs in the case to rescue Paxton’s daughter, and you have helped in that regard, I wanted to discuss the last phase of this plan and your involvement in it.”

“Ya ain’t gotta do nothin’,” Paxton starts, but Shweta quickly intercepts.

“This is true, but let’s not start with outs. The facts are thus: we have found the location of the compound that Nora is held in. We are reasonably sure there are other innocent children there, so time is of the essence. We are launching a full-scale takedown of the compound using the resources I have at my disposal. We intend to do this soon, and we will welcome as many people as are willing to help. It will be extremely dangerous. The details are in the folder in front of you.” Shweta stands, adjusting the legs of her pants as she moves around the table. “I will leave you and Paxton to discuss this. Take all the time you need.”

Shweta’s hand slips, leaving the door to slam a little louder than she anticipated. As Sage looks at the folder, Paxton drums his fingers on the table. “It’s a lot, I know.” Paxton says. “An’ I’m gonna say it again, ‘cause she ain’t in here t’tell me not to. Ya ain’t gotta do nothin’.”  Pontiff chews his lip in thought, his fingers grazing the cover.  He begins to open it, then lets it fall closed again, exhaling and pulling his ever-present sacrament from behind his ear.  Firing to joint up, he does an Olympic French inhale before exporting a cloud of sticky smoke to the atmosphere above them both.  “You know I’m not even going to read that before I make my decision, right?”  “Sage–” “Chronological impossibility, Pax.  You, your people, everyone keeps asking me if I’m sure.  If I know the scope of what I’m getting myself into.  If I understand and grasp the danger of it all.  When the honest truth is, I don’t care about the scope.  I don’t care about the danger.  I care that you’re my friend, and I don’t count many of those these days, and that you need help.  I can’t read this shit before I make my decision cause I made my mind up well before this was placed in front of me.  And I’m doubting there’s much in that folder that could make me change my mind.”

Paxton stares at his friend, this enigmatic man who came into his life so suddenly that the youth of their friendship is overshadowed by its depth. He sighs, then tries another avenue. “Ya know how bein’ round ya makes me really aware a’my flaws an’ shortcomin’s?” He doesn’t wait for Sage to answer. “Ya help me figure myself out. An’ what I know ‘bout me is also what I know ‘bout ya. People can call it impulsive, or that we don’t think, but ya jus’ nailed it. We don’t care. An’ that’s fine in most cases. Hell, it’s fine in our line’a work. What’s the worst that’s gonna happen if we rush in without thinkin’ against TAL and Zapp? We get our heads kicked in, close our eyes for three seconds, an’ hear some annoyin’ music as the other guys high five.”

Paxton reaches over and opens the folder, pulling out a photograph of Julian Bathory. “This shit has higher stakes. This ain’t jus’ losin’ a match. This is losin’ our fuckin’ lives. This man runs things a certain way, an’ anybody who tries to stop him and fails is dead. An’ ya know how many people have stopped him?” Paxton holds his hand up in a circle. “I hafta do this shit. Not even hafta. I am gonna do this shit. It’s in my fuckin’ blood, because my blood is behind the walls of that compound. But ya have a chance man. Ya have a chance t’survive an’ not let my bullshit put ya in a place ya can’t get out of. This ain’t a snap decision. It’s one ya gotta think ‘bout.” _______ “I mean, it’s because he’s inherently good, right?  Least that’s what I’ve told myself.  I know he’s not traditional, but nothing about us is.  I guess you gotta answer this: why do you still have the question in your skull?”  Cliff takes a healthy belt of his Turbodog, sucking suds off his mustache out of habit.

“Well, I told you about my dad during that dinner in Boston. I finally told Paxton he was still alive. And – I don’t want to get too deep into it.” Julie hiccups, though the way she feverishly wipes at her eyes suggests that may have been a cover. “But dad came down to…to I don’t know, confront me, or whatever, and Paxton protected me. I should’ve been grateful. I am grateful. But I’m also…scared. Scared of how far he had to go to do it. Scared of how much he reminded me of dad. Scared of…” She trailed off.

“Go on.”

“Scared of still loving him despite all of that.”  Cliff nods at this, his eyes darkening as he looks down–just the overheads throwing shade off of his prominent brow, but the vibe of his body language is one that suggests intimacy.  He leans forward, his gruff bark lowering to a V-Twin rumble.  “That’s the part I really haven’t gotten to figuring out.  Can’t pin down the ‘thing’, y’know?  I’ve personally watched the man I love nearly hospitalize like…a lot of people.  And sometimes that’s me and him in the streets, and that’s war, and war don’t count.  Maybe that’s the answer, I dunno.  Maybe it’s just that we secretly like having someone who loves us enough to commit a capital offense, even though I feel like a real piece a’ shit for even floating that.”  He absently picks at his fries.  “‘War doesn’t count’?”  Cliff nods, his eyes meeting hers.  “War can’t count.  Not if we wanna be in their lives.  Because men like ours are always gonna have a war to fight.  If it’s not in the ring, it’s in the streets.  If it’s not in the streets, it’s with themselves.  They’re wired for war, near as I can tell.  Doesn’t make them bad, doesn’t make them evil.  But it’s a fact of their existence–not like if you got a sweet guy but he’s a boozer, or you’re in love with someone and they’re a fuckin’ deadbeat.  Those are behaviors that can change.  Them needing a war is like…”  He looks about, searching for the right words.  Finally, he smiles slightly.  “...it’s a scientific fact.  Like water bein’ wet, y’know?”

Julie looks down at the table, which within moments is filled with a creamy chicken dish. She pokes at it with her fork, then sets the fork down and looks up at Cliff. “So I guess I have to decide if the love is strong enough to survive the war within him.” “And all I can hear is Sage in my head.” He scoffs, chuckling.  “‘Once the power of love overcomes the love of power, then the world can know peace.’  Ain’t that some patchouli-ass bullshit?  And what annoys me the most is…he’s right.  Love is the only thing that can end war.”

_______

About an hour later, Paxton leans against the outside of the warehouse, coughing and wheezing as Sage watches on. When Paxton can finally breathe, he shoots a withering look at his tag team partner. “Can’t believe ya talked me into smokin’ this shit again.”

“You’re the one who wanted me to think about something I’d already decided on.  This is how I think.  And before you ask: the answer is the same, dude.”  Paxton offers his friend the joint, which Sage takes and immediately sucks down by at least a quarter-inch, the type of inhale that would waylay most men–but he’s no amateur.  His words come out choked as he holds the smoke in his body.  “Cause you’re doing this.  And if I walked away and the worst happened?  Shit, the spiral I’ll slide down will make my last fall off the wagon look like a child’s birthday party.  There’s not a drug I wont take or a face I won’t smash.  At that point, Cliff might as well treat it like I died.  So…you’re gonna have someone have your back.  Get used to it.”

Paxton smiles at his buddy and walks a few steps away, looking down the street. In the distance he can see The Mud Pits, the place where he learned to fight, to love violence. “Well, I'm glad to have ya. It’s scary though. Not jus’ ‘cause a’what might happen if it goes wrong. But also what happens if it goes right.”

The Bayou Butcher turns around and puts a hand on Sage’s shoulder. “You’re my best bud in this business. An’ I can’t wait t’throw down on the tag team champs with ya by my side. But I been thinkin’ a lot ‘bout everythin’. An’ if I get my daughter back? If this all ends with Nora in my arms again? I dunno if I can keep doin’ this.” “So don’t.”  “Jus’ like that?” “Just like that, bro.  Walk away.  And if you can stay away, all the better.  I know there’s something in me that hasn't found the thing that can make me stay away yet.  Maybe she’ll be yours.”  The Bodhisattva shrugs, smiling at his pal.  “But either way, she’s gonna love you.”

“She won’t be the only one.” Paxton feels a hand on his back and turns to see Julie grinning up at him. Cliff emerges from behind her and walks over to Sage, grabbing his hand.

“C’mon, Ben and/or Jerry.  We got some unfinished business.”  Sage’s eyebrows raise at this–he’s well aware of what that business may be.  As Cliff throws his arm around his man’s waist, Brutalism encircling Moorish architecture, he looks over to Paxton, breaking into a grin.  “That’s my cue, bro.  You know how it is.”  He chuckles.  “Or you will soon enough.  Sukhi Deegayuko Bhava.”

“Y’all jus’ gonna leave like–” Paxton starts, then is stopped as Julie pulls him down into a long kiss. When it finally ends, Paxton pulls back and looks down on her, smiling. “What was that for?”

“For a lot of things. For being patient with me. For protecting me. For…for Nora. For the way you took her to every treatment. For the way you supported her through her worst days. For the way you’re fighting to get her back now.” Julie grabs Paxton’s hands and steps back, looking up at him with unencumbered purpose. “I have been in my own head for too long. Worrying about too many things. But at the end of the day, I love you. And if we’re really about to go to war for Nora…well, you’re going to need a little love on your side.”

She folds into him, closing her eyes as he wraps her up in a large embrace. She had fought his touch for months and now can’t fathom why. In this moment, it feels like peace.