King of Somewhere Hot

Gutter clawed open the door of the van hastily, sticking out a tiny, mechanized grapnel gun. Two more white Chevrolet Blazers gained on them, crazenly swerving. "You ready?" he said to Ron, a foot out the door.

 

"No..." Ron replied. Before he could utter another word, Gutter stole him, and the two launched out, clinging onto the grappling rope. The heavy, anchor-like hook clobbered against a yellow tuk-tuk's exposed yellow frame, grabbing on. "The Consulate, please," Gutter ordered the worried driver. He dunked a few coins into the man's rattling change cup.

 

They returned back to the crowded city streets of Mexicali, dodging pedestrians, ugly beater cars, and lone peddlers, all clustered in any available crevice of the roadways. Ron swept a slow-moving vendor's cart for a broad-brimmed sombrero, and stuck it on his head. 

 

One of The Ring's henchmen leapt from their green motorcycle, kicking into a rough slide. He swung to the tuk-tuk, shirt fluttering, holding onto a loose rung beneath the seats. His hair brushed the concrete curb, flying into his face. 

 

"Some motherfucker is always going to try and ice skate uphill," Ron muttered. The writer jammed a foot in the center of the henchman's face once, then once more for good measure, sending him rolling into a flock of carts.

  

Gutter joked, "Here's a penny for your thoughts," and flipped another coin into the bruised cup, to the driver's excitement. 

 

The gunslinger spun the cylinder of his silver revolver, and slapped it shut with a few rounds. A Chevrolet Blazer, gunner at the draw, closed in, flashing its headlights. 

 

"There's a fucking big ass robot in the clouds," yelled a homeless man with a thick, burly beard, akin to God himself. 

 

Gutter peppered the SUV's windshield with a light sprinkling of bullets, gunning the henchmen down. The driver of the Chevy slumped over in his seat, blasting the horn before slamming into the side of a rusty Texaco tanker. The sweet, viscous stream of oil gushed out, lighting up into a fiery plume, blowing the whole block back into the Stone Age.

 

"Gracias," said Ron with a smile on his face.

 

The tuk-tuk driver jetted off after dropping the two in front of the U.S. Consulate, a gigantic, hulking box of gridded concrete. Gutter and Ron stepped into the towering lobby, strewn with boxes of documents and ammunition boxes. Two Marines stood at the end of the hall, both tinkering with the lobby coffee machine. It continued to drip out a sluggy, charcoal lookalike liquid.

 

"Hey, Gutter," one of them turned, "Ricardo Galvan's at the Secure Unit. Click 'Penthouse.'" He handed Gutter a dirty keycard, stained with a mark of Sharpie.

 

"Thanks, Baker."

 

They entered the Consulate elevator, enclosed by glossy panels of mahogany, emblazoned with the State Department seal. "I guess I've always been a delicate man," the writer said. "But, I didn't mean to let it get so far out of hand."

 

Gutter replied, "Well, Ron, I am but a midwife to disaster, but I'm having the time of my life!"

 

With a jerky rumble, the elevator doors shuffled open to the Penthouse deck. "Ah," Gutter said, strolling in with lengthy steps. "The opulent whale."

 

He looked up at a giant statue of a bulbous Chris Christie, suspended from the glass ceiling by iron cables. The Ring's leader, Ricardo Galvan, sat atop his desk and glanced in Gutter's direction. "Long time no see, friend."

 

"′Friend′ is an overstatement."

 

"You're still the same." Ricardo chuckled and peered out one of the Penthouse's large, thirty-foot windows. In the distance, thunder rolled from underneath the Mothership. It rolled a six. "Be careful not to choke on my charm."

 

Gutter sat himself down in a cushy armchair and pulled out a small deck of cards. Ricardo cut the deck to the Queen of Spades, but the cards were all the same. He frowned, sat down in his desk chair, and took a swig of red whisky.

 

"Pennies to dimes," Ricardo said, tears forming in his eyes. 

 

"And dimes to pennies," Gutter said.

 

He kicked the chair softly, and Ricardo gave one last grin, tumbling out the Penthouse window to the smoky streets below.  In the backwash of Fennario, the black and bloody mire, the Dire Wolf collected his dues, while the boys sang 'round the fire...

 

 Two Days Later

JAN

JAN

JAN

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 "Is this Ron?" a strange, high-pitched voice hollered over the radio. "Hello?"

 

"Sure,"  Ron replied hesitantly. 

 

"Reality's pretty hard to find when you're living in a fantasy..." 

 

The transmission cut to static, and a bright blur streaked across the sky, bouncing off the atmosphere's fleeting vestiges. 

 

"Godspeed," Ron sent back a final message.

 

"Take care," the Zetan said, "Over and out." 

 

In the buzzing Chart Room Bar, locked onto a sandy spit beside the muddy mess known as Duval Street, Ron took a seat. The band struck up, the Sun went down, and Pirate King bought another round. Rumors flew, "Mermaids are in town," down in Key West Town.

 

"Made it just in time for a margarita," Laura said, piling into the bar with Mike, as sweaty as a dandelion, swaying in the smoky winds of Beirut. Jamie trailed closely, arms linked with a blonde bimbo and a quiet, yet striking brunette. And sat Gutter somewhere in a corner lined with tropical memorabilia, chatting up a nutjob.

 

"You can't spell 'emu' without 'me' and 'you,'" Barb nestled her chin on  Ron's shoulder, and drenched him in a warm hug. 

 

Without another word from either of them, they kissed 'neath the rusty tin panel roof, coated with brilliant blues and reds, cast from the firework-dotted skies above the harbor.

 

-

 

Written by Jerry Zervas on July 4, 2026.

DO NOT USE UNLESS GIVEN PERMISSION BY ME (i.e. email me)

 

-

 

And, I'd like to thank you all for a real good time:

 

Cody, my vague editor

Bash, been there since the beginning

Gav, it was about time you read a little

Nate, I wouldn't be here without your input

Emily, thanks (the boring way)

Jace, your backpack is made of air

Jarred, for all things Egypt

WL, for the midnight thoughts

Alice, for bringing me to Dr. House

Briar, I don't know what I'd do without you

Garrett, you said something

Megan (and Ryan), for the review of the bored folk 

Jimmy Failla, for the inspiration and the single review

KCorke, for the cheerful thoughts

Thomas Lemire, for all things history and for all the world's niceties

Geoffrey Favakeh, thanks for unlocking the door to the writer's room

 

I wouldn't be here without my mom and dad (quite literally), and thank you to my Uncle Mark for his service to our country and his thoughts.  And the island nation of St. Eustatius!

 

And, I leave you all with a closing quote on this Fourth of July (and the 250th): 

 

"You can be a Republican, you can be a Democrat, just don't be a dick."