“They do make autograph books, you know,” Muzi grumbles, checking over his other shoulder. They really shouldn’t be up here. It’s bad enough Elkin nearly got them escorted out of the concert. A little mind munching got them free, but now Muzi has a boss headache from the shrill siren calls of this chick performing the opening act.
“That’s just what I need, to drop four hundred rand on a stupid concert program and for what? Something a million other people have? No thanks! I wanted something personal. Something I could look at and enjoy every day. Something close to my heart.” Elkin steps back from the panel, unzips his jacket, and pulls out his bright orange bong carefully wrapped in layers of tissue paper. “She doesn’t understand, Penelope,” he coos. “She just doesn’t understand.”
“Um, we’re kind of under a time crunch here,” Muzi says. He leans over the rail of the scaffolding, looking down at the mass of people, all screaming and yelling and writhing their bodies to whatever constitutes rhythm in their own minds.
“Ja, ja . . .” Elkin says, stuffing his bong back into his jacket, then closing the door on the panel. “I’m done here. We’ll see how she likes her new marquee when her royal trampiness graces the stage.”
“So did you settle on ‘Bitch’?”
“Naw, too obvious. I came up with something way better.”
“Did you?”
“You’ll have to wait and see yourself,” Elkin says, grinning. “It’s going to be hectic!”
“Seriously?” He can only imagine. “Let’s get back to our seats.”
“I’m not going back down there. I’m not sitting in seats she gave us.”
“You want to leave?” Muzi asks, brow arched so high he nearly strains a muscle. Elkin’s been in love with Riya’s music since as long as he can remember, knows all her songs backward and forward, and could tell you exactly what he’d been doing the day he’d first heard each one of them.
“Hell no, I’m not leaving! Just because she’s a rotten stank-whore bitch doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy her music. It hits right here,” Elkin says, patting his chest. “Right in my soul.” He takes a seat on the scaffolding, lets his legs dangle below, and pulls a vial out of one of his jacket pockets. “Hey, you in, bru?”
Muzi shakes his head . . . and then takes a seat next to Elkin. “You’re really screwed up, you know that?”
“And what does that say about you, since you’re my best friend?” Elkin dips a bit of godsend out for the both of them. He grins, then snorts, then lets his eyes roll back in his head. Muzi does the same, and in a matter of moments, his claws are hanging over the lower railing, clacking to the beat of this Felicity Lyons chick’s song. Now that he’s actually listening, she’s not bad. A little over the top for Muzi’s taste, but he’s not all that into Riya, either, and it’s all too easy for his mind to wander.
Papa Fuzz’s memories press up hard against Muzi’s skull. He wants them gone—the torment on the face of that elephant makes his blood burn like acid through his veins. He remembers the weight of the gun in his hands, so deceptively heavy. He remembers the commanding voice of that man, bidding his grandfather to kill. The man who practically raised him, the man he’d loved with all his heart, the man he wanted more than anything to be proud of him . . .
That man was nothing more than a cold-blooded poacher.
So what does that make Muzi? A quarter of a poacher? How many had Papa Fuzz killed before he’d realized he was taking lives, not of animals, but of families? Robbing Africa of one of its greatest assets. Had he even realized, or had he continued until there were none left to kill? No wonder Papa Fuzz had run off to South Africa to escape his demons and rewrite his history. He’d met Mama Belle, the daughter of Irish immigrants, in Johannesburg, and she’d gotten swept up in the fabulous stories about his life, full of colorful characters and a rich heritage. His stories were wonderful, Muzi had to admit. When Muzi was a child, he’d beg Papa Fuzz to tell him of his incredible adventures for his bedtime stories. Incredible. He should have known better.
The image of the flag painted on the chopper from his vision snaps clear in focus. Muzi turns for his alphie, then remembers he’d checked it at the door. It’s odd not having his alphie underfoot, but who needs Internet access when he’s got a friend with a frickin’ encyclopedia floating around in his head?
“Hey, Elkin,” Muzi says. “What flag looks like this?” He traces his index finger along the space in between them. “Green, yellow, red, and black stripes with a chicken-looking thing and a star?”
“One of Zimbabwe’s old flags,” Elkin says without a second thought, then he turns his attention back to the crowd below. “My cousin Rife must be here.”
“Yeah?” Muzi says, then looks down also, spotting a few dozen dancing animals in the audience: a couple dolphins, a few crabs like him, and eagles all over. More transform before his eyes, and in the span of ten minutes, there are hundreds, all screaming in euphoria, shedding their clothes, making out with strangers. Muzi smiles.
Maybe this is what he is. Not Zimbabwean or Irish or Xhosa or South African. He’s just a crab. Muzi the Crab, who happens to be able to control people’s minds.
After Felicity Lyons’s set ends, the entire arena goes pitch-black. Screams become shrill and Muzi feels the anticipation running through the crowd. Pyrotechnics flare onstage, white, blue, and pink fireworks filling the dome ceiling with smoke. Elkin claps his fins together, opens his snout, and clicks and whistles in excitement.
“Epic, I tell you,” he says.
The dark figures of backup dancers cross the stage, lights flash on, dazing Muzi with their sudden and blinding brightness. The beat drops, and Riya Natrajan struts down a spiral staircase, a full-blown peacock, the most beautiful Muzi’s ever seen.
“You know what that means, right?” Elkin says with a snarl. “She’s using, too, and has the audacity to look down at me! She so deserves what she’s getting tonight.”
The smoke parts and the lights of the marquee slowly become legible. The audience starts laughing, causing Riya Natrajan to miss a step, but she keeps singing, oblivious to the message behind her.
Diarrhea! The sign boasts in a thousand brilliant white bulbs. The crowd is a riot of laughter now.
“Get it? Diar-riya! She’s got the squirts.” Elkin nudges Muzi’s carapace.
“You have superhuman intellect, and this is what you do with it? Bad poop jokes?”
“Fully, bru! Tell me it didn’t make you laugh. Just a little?”
“Very little. Maybe a chuckle. What’s less than a chuckle?”
“A chortle, then a guffaw.”
“A guffaw, then,” Muzi says, admitting only to himself that this whole situation is bordering on ridiculously silly, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Are you kidding me?” Elkin slaps Muzi on the shoulder with his flipper. “It deserves at least a chortle and a half.” His attention snaps like a dry twig as the guitar solo climaxes and Riya takes center stage for the chorus. Elkin shouts the words—he may hate her guts right now, but he still clearly loves the music—pumping his flipper in the air to the beat.
Goodnight, seersucker!
It’s midnight, guess I’ll see ya sucker.
Could’ve made your move a thousand times,
but you’d rather be alone,