21

a novel by tim barrus 

NEW ORLEANS

GENTILLY ROAD MOTEL

We had become Invisible.

The guns we were buying — this time, too — were dubious at best. Cervantes was late. Being punctual was odd. For homo sapiens sapiens. It meant something ominous. A punctual pattern. There is no such thing as luck. To win the sum of your cards to 21 than the dealer plays cat-like old marble eyes disguised as veneer and secrets. We are invisible in that way a curvature does not accurately measure distance as gravity and dark matter cannot compete for acceleration and compression of the blue sun which ate the red sun. The blue sun had a twin on the other side of the universe which is a place owned and operated by Scum Bags. Scum was always late. Huge red flag.

Scum bags was an albino we had located on our hit list.

It was a very long list. As long as a tourists’ tongue.

Cervantes was that kid. That kid. Who has sold guns to us many times. He was resilient. The deals were about as valid as a Vegas vivisection. This time, we will smother them.

Them is the name of one guy who lives in Encino. Them.

Who is them. Do I appear to be the Shell Answer Man to you.

The Shell Answer Man is a slut. Sluts of the universe unite. No, this is public health. What the fuck was public health and why are we invisible.

“We are invisible because no one wants to see us. It’s a hex.”

Depends on the hex.

Buk was the bartender that night. I had seen him in other bars.

What.

“I HAD SEEN HIM IN OTHER BARS.”

My next book’s subtitle. I will call it 21.

They actually card him.

Or you can call it blackjack. We can count the cards because we are invisible. Invisible albinos. Romeo. Mitya. And Hecuba.

Okay then. The light vanished and casts out songs called Bluez Stars and Swamp Magnolias hotter than a gator’s piss.