Physicists can tell you that the removal of centripetal force upon an orbiting body (like say, a Manolo Blahnik stuffed into a hastily torn stocking) will cause that body to fly forward along a straight path with a force equal to the previously applied centripetal force. They cannot however, explain why a hurled stiletto always strikes its target heel first between the eyes, although a surprising number of them have verified this phenomenon via painful personal observation.
It just so happens that Frank’s pursuers were all physicists, and Django was dealing out Nobel Prize opportunities. As the four stalwarts ran towards the car, Django whirled his makeshift weapon, and then launched the stiletto stocking backward over his shoulder without missing a stride. The Blahnik struck the lead pursuer, dropping him like a rock while the rest of the followers stumbled comically over him like Keystone Kops (PhysiKists?).
“Keep running, ya leadfoot!” yelled Rosie, “And shut your piehole!”
Frank realized he was making some sort of a squeaky half-wheeze, half-moan. It didn’t seem like he could stop it and still keep pace with the group, so he just kept running and tried to ignore Rosie’s constant berating.
By the time he reached the car, Django had already gotten the motor started and Chavvy was fishing around in the glove compartment. Frank staggered the last few feet and collapsed into the backseat next to Rosie, who relaxed now that the danger seemed to have temporarily passed.
“You did good, Frank. Now kindly get your head out of my lap.”
Without looking up, Chavvy said “She’s a beaut, eh? 1987 LeSabre; fitting for a sailing man like myself. Ahh, there she is.”
Chavvy pulled out a filthy (literally) magazine, and attempted to crack it open by banging it against the dashboard. The pages were caked and stuck together in a way Frank found both disgusting and dishearteningly familiar.
“Take that left and head towards the Northside, Django—we’re gonna catch a show!”
Chavvy finally succeeded in opening the magazine, and tossed it over the seat to Frank. The page was so faded and dirty that Frank had to wait for his eyes to adjust. Slowly, shapes began to appear. He realized he was looking at a picture. A picture of a dark square with some wires sticking out of it. A group of four people now appeared, standing on top of the square and attacking it with spears and various arcane weaponry.
After a few moments, Frank realized the square was in fact, a stage. The spear was a mic stand, and the people with arcane weaponry musicians. The writing on the page remained illegible, but Frank was fixated on the picture. There was something about the blurred but obviously female visage of singer…
“She’s sassy, ain’t she? I love Miss Petra,” said Django from the front seat.
“Did you say… Petra?”
Django said something in response, but Frank didn’t hear it. The mention of Petra had rocked him to the core. Suddenly the photograph seemed to be emitting a glow so bright he couldn’t look at it, but too hypnotizing to turn away. The glow consumed his entire field of vision, washed out all his other senses, sucked the breath out of his body. The glow was everywhere, broken only by a tiny, silhouetted female figure swaying deep within its heart. He was only dimly aware something body had let go.
“Frank, that’s gross!” said Rosie. “How can we take you to meet Petra with a stain on your pants?”
“P-p-p?”
“Yes, Petra!” cackled Chavvy “She’s only the lead singer of Sippy Cup, my favorite indie-pop band!”
Frank’s mind whirled. Petra— a singer? And what the hell was indiepop? He’d always thought Petra favored Ukrainian folk music like himself. How many times had he played her his treasured Ludmilla records? He’d even taken up the balalaika to try to impress her.
Petra with her fair skin and wicked smile. Petra with her peasant hips and manly calves. Petra squeezing the bayan he’d bought her, frowning with concentration. Petra, who stole his heart and then disappeared without a trace. It seemed so long ago.
“Put on some Sippy Cup, that’ll cheer the boy up!”
“No! No don’t… I don’t know if I can take it.”
“Sometimes you’re a damn fool Chavvy Chavskoiova! Can’t you see this boy’s heart is broke?” said Rosie.
“What’s he know about Sippy Cup?”
“Not Sippy Cup, nit! Petra! There’s a lot here you don’t know, Chavvy. I don’t know all of it myself, but we’d better piece it together, and fast. So start talking.”
“You haven’t convinced me the boy is the one we seek, Rosie. He hasn’t passed the guild tests and until he’s a Randomvillain…”
Django interrupted, “We’re here.”
Django stopped the car and opened the door, allowing Frank to step out. He looked around and saw that Django had pulled the car neatly into a space at the furthest corner of a vacant parking lot. Frank opened his mouth to ask why Django hadn’t just pulled up in front of their destination, then decided too that ruminating over this mystery would be a dang sight less painful than having to contemplate the stiletto-heel-between-the-eyes puzzle.
The group began walking towards the crumbling brick building on the opposite end of the lot. Had Frank been more familiar with nightclubs, he would have immediately recognized this for what it was. Instead he saw what appeared to be an old warehouse for beer and cigarettes. Frank wasn’t aware that beer and cigarettes required warehousing, but that’s what it had to be since that’s what it smelled like. A marquee above the door read “Door Club.” Beneath that, “Sippy Cup with Special Guest.”
It seemed like the kind of place where no good things could happen. A place of dark foreboding, where hapless men disappeared into nicotine-laden, blue-gray fog never to appear again. He found himself wanting to hold Rosie’s hand, and struggled with the impulse. The likelihood that Petra would be inside didn’t help.
Frank realized he was doing that moan-wheeze thing again.
[
