We start with thirteen pieces in the middle. Mason tosses a coin and I call it.
“Heads.”
It’s tails.
“You lose,” he says. “You have to move seven pieces around the board to win. I only have to move six.”
Naturally. I was losing before I walked in the room.
“One more thing. After each move we say . . .” He pronounces a Hellion word. It literally means “power to you,” but is really a sarcastic version of “good luck.” Something you say when you want to see someone face--plant.
Head games within head games.
Mason makes the first move. He closes his eyes and picks up a few Go stones.
Three black and two white.
“Three times two,” he says. “I move six.”
There’s a three--inch--tall metal Empire State Building with the game pieces. He moves it six spaces along a piece of a Candy Land board. Then he growls, “Power to you.”
It’s my turn. I reach for the Go stones. He shakes his head.
“The rules change, remember? Try spinning the wheel.”
I spin a flat plastic wheel from another game. It’s numbered one to twelve. I get a seven.
Mason says, “Good. The number of your players and it’s a prime. Move two of your pieces, splitting the seven. Four and three. Five and two. Six and one. You get the idea.”
I move two pieces.
“What’s the magic word?” he says.
I stare at him for a minute. Then remember. I bark a Hellion “power to you.” He grins and throws a set of poker dice. He gets a full house and moves the Scottie dog from a Monopoly set in the opposite direction of the Empire State.
How do I describe the next few hours? It’s not a game. It’s some kind of stoner Dadaist performance art. The rules shift and turn back on themselves, sometimes in the middle of a move. Mason spins a dreidel. Rolls one of the dice. Or two. Or all of them at once. He moves three of his pieces, all in different directions across the board, always careful to follow the move with “power to you” because sometimes if you forget, you have to start over and I might blow my brains out if this goes on much longer.
I make the same moves as Mason, or as close I can imitate him. I pick cards. I toss stones and dice. I move my pieces forward, or backward when Mason says I lost a round. After an hour I get bored and knock one of his pieces off the board like we’re playing marbles.
He applauds.
“Bravo! That’s the first original thing you’ve done since we started. It’s good to see you getting into the spirit of the game. I was getting worried.”
We play a -couple of more rounds. Dice. Stones. Sometimes rock--paper--scissors.
The game goes on for another two hours. I know that somewhere Wells and the Shonin are watching us. I’d love to know what they’re thinking right now. Especially the Shonin. Does he have any more of a clue about the game than I do?
Mason says, “Feel free to keep imitating my moves if it makes you feel better. With the rules changing, the move that hurts me might bring you luck.”
He deserves a “fuck you,” but I give him a “power to you” instead and he gives it right back to me.
The things we do to stay alive for another year. Another day. Another hour. The deals we make with the universe and ourselves. You start to feel dirty. I made plenty of deals Downtown. Found tricks to kill my way out of most of them. Why not? What’s a deal with a Hellion worth? It’s like a joke the Irish used to tell.
“What do you call a dead Englishman?”
“What?”
“A good start.”
Where has all the killing and all the deals left me? Worse off than ever. I stopped Mason’s Hellion war with Heaven, but looking back, maybe I should have let them go ahead with their attack. Let Ruach and his angels slaughter the legions from their golden fortress. The Hellions would have satisfied their suicide fetish and maybe that would have been enough to stop this apocalyptic freak show before it got rolling.
But I also stopped the war for my own selfish reasons. I wanted to get hold of Mason and kill him myself. Then I abandoned Hell to come home when I could have stayed and maybe stopped Merihim and Deumos and their Angra games before they came to Earth. When I left, I made a deal with myself. I didn’t want to die Downtown. I’d go to Earth and see Candy. Restart my life, then go back to rescue all the lost souls from the big bad Angra cult. Only I never did it. The moment I set foot in L.A. I knew I’d never go back. And it gave Merihim and Deumos all the time they needed to invent Saint Nick and bring dead--as--a--doornail Mason back to life. That means I’m the one responsible for Mason coming home so he could goad me into replaying our Russian roulette game by his rules.
It would make me laugh if it wasn’t all so pathetic. I’ve wasted this whole year. I even started thinking I was some kind of good guy. A one--man Seven Samurai out to save the innocent rice farmers from the marauding bandits. I should have stayed in Hell and done my job. My father, Doc Kinski, laid it out for me one night, simple and clear. I’m a natural--born killer and nothing more. If I’d have killed everyone in Hell that needed killing, this Angra horror show wouldn’t be happening. I won’t make that mistake again. Mason coughs up the information we need or he dies and I follow him Downtown. Babysit him at the entrance to Tartarus and personally make sure he never gets out until the end of time. Maybe I’ll see if Candy wants a summer home on the River Styx. The weather isn’t any worse than L.A. these days. Maybe she and Cindil can work at Wild Bill’s bar. I’ve heard worse retirement plans.
But first there’s the game. I walked away from Mason before, but not again.
“Earth to Jimbo. You in there somewhere?” says Mason.
Beautiful. I got lost in my head and he saw. Not a good start to my dramatic comeback.
“Is it my turn?”
“There’s just the two of us.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
“It’s an easy round. Draw a card. Move that many spaces. Eleven for a face card. Twelve for an ace.”
I draw a five. I move a white checker across five countries on a Risk board. I don’t know if the move is legit, but Mason doesn’t say anything.
“Don’t forget,” he says.
I growl, “Power to you.”
“Good boy,” he says, eyeing his next move.
He spins the number wheel and moves a Go stone.
“Now that we’ve been playing for a while, are you figuring out the game?”
“I’ve got it down. I’m going to write a goddamn book about it.”
“I’m not sure I entirely believe you.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I just won.”
I look over the board. He’s moved each of his six pieces into one of the six circles on the tips of the star.
“But you didn’t touch all the spaces on the board.”
He gives an exaggerated sigh.
“You didn’t really think I’d play something that tedious, did you? I told you I might lie as part of the game. I’m just sad you weren’t paying more attention.”
“I’ll fucking kill you.”
“Too late, Sandman Slim.”
He slams his right hand down on the metal Empire State Building. It goes all the way through. Blood splatters the board, pooling under his palm.
He shouts, “Power to you!”
The building jolts in one direction and back the other way, like the aftershock following a big quake. I hear shouts from outside. Something massive scrapes and crashes with a twisting metallic sound.
I look at Mason.
“What have you done?”
He drags his hand off the Empire State. Bone and torn muscle peek out of the hole between his knuckles.
“You locked me away in the Abyss and took away everything I ever had or ever wanted. I’m just returning the favor.”
Please no. Tell me I’m not that stupid. I wait for what I’m afraid is coming next.
There’s an explosion at the far end of the cell. Steel shards and concrete from the wall pepper the room and my arms as I cover my face. I look and the Qomrama Om Ya is hanging over the table. It spins, glowing like a ruby with a black sun captured inside. The black nonlight shoots out of the faceted sides in sharp rays, like the spokes of a wheel. I get up and move away from the table.
“What’s happening?”
“The ritual is almost complete. I told you the Qomrama isn’t that complicated to use. Break down the process into parts. You catching me and bringing me to it was one part. The game was the other. There’s only one part left.”
He said it right to my face. The 8 Ball is transdimensional. Your desires for it must also be transdimensional. These nonsense games were what a transdimensional summoning ritual looks like to three--dimensional assholes. “Power to you.” That wasn’t a dig at me. We were mainlining speed into the Angra for the whole game. Mason needed me because I control the Qomrama. He used me because I’m an idiot.
I shout, “Stop it. Or I’ll make you stop.”
“I told you I’d rather die than go back to Tartarus. You let these -people and their rules muddle your head. You could have killed me when you found me, but you didn’t. More fool you.”
Gunshots crack against the cell door. More shots as the guards return fire. Then it stops. The door opens. Wells comes in.
“Wells. He started the ritual. We have to stop it.”
“You can’t stop it,” says Mason. “I’m the only one who knows how. That’s why I’m the end of the ritual.”
Mason closes his eyes.