Ten Tonne Skeleton

He had never really been a fan of tinted windows in automobiles until recently, but as David pressed the button on his door panel he had to admit that it added a certain mystique to his car. He stopped to a halt outside the construction site and the sound of Royal Blood ceased to echo out of the black 4x4 and into the night. The limousine black windows elevated as the car revved to a halt, hiding David from the small gathering of night-shift workers that were taking a break from moving pallets of building supplies with forklifts, a few of them linger but the majority of them head back to work at the sight of the boss's car. This had been his very favorite thing since his ascension to the mayor’s office; the power it gave him over them, they were like ants beneath his proverbial magnifying glass, completely at his mercy. It was cold outside for June, but he’d prepared for that tonight, so much of his time lately was spent on these late night excursions to the city’s various construction sites. It’d given him an excuse to buy the jacket though, and he hadn’t exactly been what you would call an on-site manager to this or any other development being erected around Chicago, in truth they all just had his name on them, and his money behind them. He hadn’t been kidding last week, a quick look into the state of affairs in this city and it was plain as day to see, Sanchez hadn’t won the title of mayor, he’d essentially bought it. He moved here from California to get away from her. Stupid when he thought about it really, but there was nothing left back there for him but dead leaves and the dirty ground. In truth he didn’t even know if they’d survived ‘1he wav3’ but that was the way he liked it. This way he could live in both realities simultaneously, hoping secretly that his wife and son were still alive and thriving but all the while wishing they felt death’s sweet embrace before they were forced to watch the world burn.

“So… you had something you wanted to show me boss?”

He had almost forgotten Taylor was there. Right next to him in the passenger seat was Mr. Wright, his patience having ticked over and spilled out into the silence of the static automobile. Noticing his guest’s eagerness to progress, David gives him the sort of the smile that the victim of domestic abuse shines down at their children. He hoped it would hide his pain, he didn’t want the world to see that he still cared about anything other than moving forward. For now there truly was no time to dwell in the past. With a clicking sound, both occupants unclasp their seat-belts and step out of the car onto the freshly turned earth beneath their feet. The first few times he visited this site he’d worn Italian leather shoes, today he’d opted for a pair of black Timberland boots, a wise choice which his confidant had not thought to make. With one fatal squelch, Taylor Wright’s brand new loafers had become waders, brown waders at that.

“I did, yes.”

Smiling at the state of his partner’s desecrated Armani footwear he finally replies, providing no answer as to what it was in particular he wished for his associate to view. The floodlights beamed down onto them from scaffolding above as Sanchez clicked the remote on his car keys and the doors to the Range Rover were left locked behind them. Gesturing with his hands for Taylor to follow, David carefully maneuvers across the water-logged ground and onto a pristine patch of concrete that is surrounded by semi-constructed walls. This was once a block of dilapidated apartment building famed for it’s involvement with the trafficking of heroin and some methamphetamine of questionable quality; or ‘The Rat’s Nest’ as it was hailed by its patrons and customers. Now though, in the wake of the riots, David was rebuilding it into low-income housing, or that was how it seemed on paper anyway. In reality he was building a containment facility to prevent the poor and downtrodden from mingling with the rest of society. The blueprints had been approved a few months ago now and construction of the estate was around halfway there. Wright kicks his feet against a low brick wall, trying his hardest to remove the dirt from his new shoes, an action which causes David to snigger a little, not in a way that is directed to cause unease but rather a laugh of understanding, having ruined several of his own pairs already this month. Still, he probably should have warned him to dress a little more suited to the venue.

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll buy you a new pair tomorrow. Can’t have you walking around in shit-caked Emporio if we’re going to be seen together in public.”

Accepting his loss, Taylor stops trying to separate soil from sole and smiles at the mayor. It was an emoted grin that says both thank you for the offer and fuck you for not telling me about the ground conditions in the first place.

“I might have to take you up on that, I just bought these with some of the money from last week. When you called me at this time of night I kind of expected to be going to a bar or something, not… here.”

There was something about the way he held an inflection on the last word in that sentence which suggested that this location had Taylor wright on edge. David noticed this, pausing just before he reaches for the door handle of a small, portable office trailer that was stationed directly in the middle of the building site.

“Is something wrong with this place? You’ve seemed a little anxious since I mentioned where we were going.”

“No, nothing’s wrong with this place. It’s just… you hear things on the streets about this place.”

“Pray tell, what do they say about it now?”

“It’s silly really but a lot of the locals have taken to calling it ‘the Boneyard’ for some reason. I guess the name just had me wondering why you were taking me to an alleged mass-grave in the middle of the night.”

David laughs a little, much to his partner’s confusion. The people of Chicago made him feel like less of a cynic if nothing else. Both men step through the door of the spacious portacabin and take a seat at the opposite end of an oak desk. Unlike his customarily luxurious furnishings at home and in the main office at City Hall this place was decorated in a scarce and sparing manner. A few filing cabinets, a comfy chair behind the desk from where he managed this building operation and a whirring ceiling fan which spins into life overhead after Sanchez pulls at a hanging string. The office looked liked it had only been used a handful of times, even still that was a handful more than David would have liked to visit this place. He was used to the finer things in life and could not in good faith prosper or make logical business decisions in these conditions. Wright, more adjusted to the middle class than his boss motions at a glass vessel on the table between them. Without hesitation Sanchez nods his head, allowing Taylor to fill two disposable plastic cups from the water cooler with a deep red wine. Crushing the plastic container in between his fingertips, the mayor looks thoughtful as he feels the first sip of Chateau Mariaduex tempt his taste buds into life. It had always been her tipple, and now it was his. Well in between measures of scotch but in truth he had accepted that the aromas reminded him of Samantha, and now he was a wine-o on top of everything; just what he needed, another vice.

“Nothing’s ever good enough for these bums. Sometimes I wonder Why I even bother getting out of bed in the morning.”

“So it’s not true then? .... About all the missing contractors and lumber suppliers, because you’ve got to admit it looks a little bit suspect when seven of the last eight developers to visit this site never made it home that night.”

“That’s, Um… Speculation?”

He didn’t believe David. There was something about his boss that set his teeth on edge and still, he couldn’t put his finger on exactly what that was. In any event, he didn’t trust the mayor; much less take him at his word. There had to be three million places you could hide a human body on this building site alone. Sure, people were fickle. They would always believe what they wanted to believe but the general consensus was that his boss; this pillar of society, was shadier than a shadow and twice as dark.

“So, are you pumped for Lazarus? From what I hear it’s the first time you’ve had a legitimate match in almost a year.”

“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Sanchez takes another sip from the plastic cup of wine, feeling the flimsy material crumple and compress in his grip as he does so. He had taken a shine to Mr Wright almost immediately. There was something about him, maybe it was simply his diligent attitude or maybe, just maybe it was because he could see a lot of his younger self in this man. Either way, he found himself talking to Taylor with a lot less distaste than most people.

“Hit me.”

And then he said that.

“Don’t tempt me.”

A social pitfall. He hated how often Sanchez seemed to twist his words and take them out of context. Applying literal meaning to things said in another sense. It wasn’t big and clever like David thought. It was petty, and annoying. It was also part of the deal though, sadly and he wasn’t about to throw away this cherry gig on principle. Who needed principle when you have money like this. He could buy his self-respect back at a later date when it was on promotion, save a few bucks. ‘Take it on the chin’ he thought.

“Okay… Enlighten me.”

“As you’re well aware, Sunday is Lazarus and marks my in-ring debut. I’ve asked for you to be booked in the curtain jerker again, I think the plan is to have you open the show against Julian Mercury, whoever that is.”

He was doing it again, the smug cunt. Imparting public information like it was inside knowledge and he was doing him a favor.

“I’m sure you’re getting used to it by now. He enters, you enter, you beat him, you leave.”

That was pretty much the jist of it. For some reason the mayor wanted to keep him down, have him plow through the lower card like some sort of talent genocide. Not that he was complaining, shit. David was paying him more to beat on punk kids for five minutes than he could make in three main events. Wright adjusts his seating position and tries to glorify his role.

“I don’t underestimate these guys. I mean sure, they’re not exactly the cream of the crop but…”

“I’ll stop you there. We both know what this is. Don’t feed me shit and call it Duck L’orange.”

He could justify it to himself later.

“I need you to find out what you can about this Andre Jenson, I’ve had to give my private investigator an out-of-town assignment so it’s time to earn that apple and cinnamon oatmeal.”

Creepy. He loved that shit. Was he having him watched? No, lucky guess. Or maybe he’d mentioned it in passing. Either way, he didn’t plan to switch back to that plain, store-brand tripe any day soon. Still, this didn’t really feel like it was in his job description.

“Isn’t this something you are supposed to do yourself?”

David looked almost offended by the suggestion. How dare he expect so much of him, he was the fucking mayor of Chicago. Did Bill de Blasio have this much insubordination? Biting his lip, he looked at Taylor Wright with a menacing glare, lighting a cigarette as he does so. Deep breaths in, deep breaths out. Just like they did in group. He just added the inhalation of his Marlboro Reds to keep him from kicking people in the face mid-sentence. Those days were behind him if he wanted to keep holding office. Well, at least while big brother was watching.

“... As I was saying. I need you to find out what you can about this little gimp and have it on my desk by tomorrow morning. Like I said, the PI’s out of town so it’s down to you.”

He couldn’t mention that the private investigator was in California for the fifteenth consecutive week looking for them. Maybe one day, but for now Wright needed know only what he needed know, and David wasn’t about to start sharing his feelings with the help.

“Can’t you just hire another PI? I mean it’s not like you’re strapped for cash. I watched you pay ten dollars to a toll-booth attendant on the way here, that’s a day’s wages to that guy, I think he actually ejaculated when you told him to keep the change.”

Ew. Why was he talking about this dudes money shot? More to the point, why was he still not understanding the division of labor.

“Look, I’m going to make this crystal clear Taylor. If you work for me, you work for me. You don’t ask all these questions, you just get me answers.”

“What about my own match though? Shouldn’t I be researching Julian?”

“The guy has a planet for a surname. Need I say more?”

That didn’t seem like something Julian had any control over. Unless he picked it as a stage name… On second thought he probably did. Point made Mr. Mayor, as you were.

“... Go on.”

“To? That’s it. Find out what you can about the guy, and get back to me with whatever you find.”

Blunt as ever boss, he thought to himself.

“Okay, what exactly am I looking for?”

“Skeletons Taylor. Skeletons in the closet.”

He had seen Andre Jenson around the locker room before and while he guessed that his closet was indeed full to capacity, he didn’t expect there was going to be much room left for bones with all the fancy dress costumes.

“He’s a LARPer, what more do you need?”

They way Wright said it seemed to suggest that this was something he should know about. The smartest man alive, bamboozled by a guy who asks to be struck in order to instigate conversation.

“... I’m sorry, he’s a what now?”

“A LARPer. A person who plays live-action roleplay games.”

“I’m still not following you.”

“He’s one of those lonely, middle aged men you see dressed up as a knight riding two guys dressed up as a horse at the park on Sundays.”

Oh dear lord. What was the world coming to.

“... and you’re sure of this? It’s starting to sound like a very distinctive brand of pornography.”

“Yeah, pretty sure. I’ve seen him prancing around the halls, talking a made-up language. I all the signs are there. He’s a LARPer.”

“... and this is actually a thing now?”

Wright looked at his boss with expectant eyes for a few moments but the penny never dropped. He was being serious. It must be nice to be so rich that you don’t even know what’s happening in the real world he thought.

“Yeah, it’s not for everybody but it’s got quite a cult following.”

With that sentence, David was done humanity. That was it; the straw that broke the camel’s back. He was done with them all. Next rocket to the moon he thought. I’m booking a one-way ticket.

“I don’t even know why I’m surprised.”

“Neither do I, but yeah. That’s a pretty big target, not sure if it qualifies as a skeleton but shit, can’t you just make fun of him for that?”

David smiled at him for a moment. In many ways he was still so innocent, in others he just came across as mildly retarded.

“Yes Taylor, we can make fun of him for that. It’s the mother of all things to find in the closet; a motherfucking, ten tonne skeleton.”





Hospitals. He hated hospitals. Why couldn’t he be spending his mornings in bed like he used to? Just her, him and a bottle of New Amsterdam, rolling around like animals. God, it was depressing him as he stood there in the hall adjusting his tie. It was new. Part of a full set actually, purchased after seeing the words ‘thousand dollar suit’ in an article about him recently and deciding that he could probably afford better. Indeed he could, eight-thousand dollars better. Prada was never cheap but he figured with all the money he was throwing at strangers these days he could afford to buy himself something nice. Wright stood next to him, anxiously awaiting instruction in his own suit and, as promised; brand new shoes.

“Two minutes until the press arrives boss.”

The words seem to jerk David back into real life. A few minutes longer, just a few more he thought. Pleading to himself as the smell of bleach and death flooded back up his nostrils and shook him hard enough to snap out of it.

“I guess we better go in there then.”

The words came out with a hell of a lot more optimism than he had meant. The politician was battling the cynic in his brain, cage match to the death. I am David’s throbbing cerebellum.

“After you.”

Taylor held the door to room three-hundred and five wide open and the smell intensified. He was beginning to feel sick, it reminded him of his own trips to the infirmary. Too many accidental overdoses in his past. David sucked it up though and walked through the void and into the abyss. There was no going back now, he feared he already had contracted SARS from the air alone and the kid wasn’t even sick. Little Timothy O’Shea lay in a hospital bed in the center of the room, it was a private room paid for by the mayor himself. Charity to you, Timmy boy. David approaches the bedside with caution, like a squirrel trying to seize an acorn from the human hand. They only had a few minutes before the press arrived and the kid was still making a mess of his lines.

“Okay… we’ve been at this for over an hour. Once more kid, this time put some real pain in your voice.”

The child sits up in his hospital bed, clearly in less pain than the tabloids had suggested.

“Okay.”

“So Timmy, how did you get hurt?”

“I fell off my bike”

“Taylor, go shoot this little shit’s bitch mother out of a cannon please.”

Was he being serious? It didn’t seem like he was but he’d been wrong about this in the past, it was very difficult to tell with David. Just in case, Mr. Wright begins to make an internal itemized checklist of the things which would be required to shoot Mrs. O'shea out of the aforementioned cannon. Woman - check, Cannon - not so much? Where could you buy a cannon in this day and age. Ironically enough, he figured Andre Jenson probably knew the answer to that.

“No, wait… A man dressed like a viking kicked me off my bike.”

“… Better. Why would he do such a thing?”

The kid was shaking, he didn’t know.

“I don’t know.”

Now David was shaking too and there was a vein bulging out of each of his temples. It was probably his own fault he thought. He could just as easily have paid a child actor to play this role, but he wanted a believable victim and so after a few days of scouting out the admission paperwork, he found little Timmy. Even the name was perfect. An eleven year old, white kid from white parents in a white neighborhood. This was his chance to put a stop to all that LARPing nonsense, death by the PTA.

“Okay I’m going to make this really simple. Either you can say what I told you to, make a few hundred bucks and get a few days off school or you can spend the next thirteen years visiting your parents in prison. It’s really that easy kid, now tell me why he did it.”

With a sniffle Timothy wells up and stammers through a sentence.

“I don’t know, he just told me he needed my bike for his quest and ran off shouting about the Fantastical Island of Kem.”

“Perfect.”

Right on cue the paparazzi crash through the doorway like a swarm of flies towards a freshly coiled turd. David’s way of holding himself changes almost immediately in front of them, as if somebody had flipped a switch. The look of anger fades and is replaced by an entirely fake concern for the young boy he had been bullying into carrying out his will only a few moments before. The flash of cameras catch several photos of the mayor at Timmy’s bedside, posing with children’s books in a nonchalant manner to make it appear as though this was simply how he spent his mornings on the average day, reading to the sick kids of Chicago. The soccer moms loved that shit, and as long as he kept spoon feeding them this brand of bullshit, he had their support.

“Mayor Sanchez. Mayor Sanchez… Mr. Mayor!”

His voice drilled through the mayor’s brain like a tequila hangover with a hint of poppers. I am David’s fading patience. He looked at the reporter and smiled through gritted teeth, giving his best ‘concerned citizen’ impression. Admittedly though it was still a look that required practice and often it left him being viewed as passive to the plight of others. Not today though, he was on top form.

“Kevin Jackson, Chicago Today. A Few questions if you don’t mind Mr. Mayor.

Fuck you Kevin. Fuck you and your stupid fucking face he thought as he swallowed the bile and waited patiently for said questions. In another lifetime he might have taken great pleasure in throwing this reporter from the third floor window and into the car park below, but alas, appearances.

“Of course, what can I help you with today Kevin?”

He was David’s inside-man at the press, a young reporter that Sanchez recruited seemingly out of the womb. Something was a bit off about him. He seemed to perspire under pressure more than was industry standard for a man in such a prolific role. His voice often broke up during interviews too, and while it did provide the mayor with some amusement, it was definitely something they’d need to address in future if lining his pockets was going to be a weekly thing.

“What do you plan to do about the menace of LARPing in this town?”

“Well Kevin, effective as of nine o’clock this morning I have issued a city-wide ban on LARPing and all other LARP related activities. Any shopkeeper found to be selling the equipment to these degenerates has been or will be served with a cease and desist order as well as having the contraband armors and fabrics confiscated for destruction by fire. The tragedy that has befallen little Timmy here will not happen again in this city, not under my watch.”

The lies seemed to just flow out of his mouth like a leaking tap dripping water.

“What of the influences though, it’s our understanding that this Sunday you will be stepping back into the wrestling ring against one of these so-called LARPers in a man named Andre Jenson.”

It was starting to seem a bit staged. Even Taylor was peering from behind parted fingers on the sidelines, trying not to laugh at how badly everybody was performing. Everybody except David who was still holding his part as the vigilant mayor perfectly.

“Andre Jenson is the man responsible for this travesty in my eyes Kevin. Did you know that since his debut in the UCI three weeks ago LARPing related injuries have increased in Chicago by three-hundred percent? The statistics speak for themselves and I will not stand idly by and watch as this menace poisons our children and destroys our peaceful public parks. At Lazarus, I will make an example out of this man and any other LARPer who might be thinking of attending in some ill thought show of support.”

He could see Taylor trying not to laugh at the events which were unfolding and quickly tried to address the more ‘serious and immediate’ dangers.

“Anybody found to be harboring LARPers, storing their gear or arranging any kind of gathering where the dress-code is not that of middle-earth will be detained for questioning and reprogramming until such a time as they are deemed fit to become a contributing member of society. I have hired additional manpower for the police to enforce these new laws and have also granted them the use of lethal force in the presence of any resistance.”

David leans over the bed now and places his hand on little Timmy’s shoulder in a comforting manner. Taylor recognized the forced human intimacy from the day before when he had been consoling him after watching his daughter under the care of her new foster family. That dick, was anything he did genuine? The politics seemed to come natural to Sanchez, too natural Wright thought to himself.

“Has there been any arrests made in the case of Timothy O’Shea?”

Besides from the boy’s parents? Nope, not one David thought.

“At this time we are still taking witness statements and combing through CCTV footage but rest assured that we will find out who committed these heinous crimes against nature, and the perpetrator will be brought to swift and immediate justice. We’ll see how much fun he has pretending to be an Orc in Chicago State Penitentiary. ”

Mr Wright tapped his watch in the background. Thank baby, zombie Jesus. It was eleven o’clock at last.

“If you’ll excuse me gentlemen, I have an appointment across town at noon and I regret that I must bid you, adieu.”

Grabbing the last of the limelight, David ruffles Timmy’s hair and motions for the gathering clusterfuck of paparazzi to disperse.

“I urge anybody with any knowledge on these LARPers to contact the police and pass on your information to our anonymous tip-line. Remember, there is no such thing as too little information in this situation and whatever knowledge you can share with us could help prevent another ordeal like little Timmy’s. Next time it could be your kids! Take back our parks Chicago, no more LARPing!”

This was by far the most ridiculous press conference he had ever been a part of. Yet, it was the vanilla, daytime television fuckery that had won him so much support in the first place. If it isn’t broke, he thought to himself, don’t fix it. Taylor lead him out of the hospital room and back into the hall where they walked a few dozen feet before stopping in front of an elevator.

“... Was that as horrific as it felt?”

He wanted to say it was worse than he could possibly imagine; extra-mature, cave-aged cheddar cheese shit, spread on cheese infused ciabatta with a side of, you guessed it - cheese.

“It was a bit rough around the edges but it hit the points.”

The elevator opened up in front of them and closed behind them, carrying both men downwards to the ground floor.

“I have enough people on the books to nod their head and agree with me. I’m asking for your personal opinion.”

David wouldn’t have to ask twice.

“If I cringed any harder I thought they were going to treat me for a seizure.”

Honestly, that was a relief to hear.

“I thought it was just me. You can’t get the staff these days at all.”

The reporter could be fired, exiled to the Fantastical fucking Island of Kem he thought, but the kid would be a bit more difficult to punish. This was one of those rare moments he let his brain drift to Kayden. He would be seven if he was alive, and probably still a better liar than that little reprobate. For the first time since ‘1he wav3’ he was able to admit that he’d rather his son was dead under a pile of rubble somewhere than LARPing in any way, shape or form. The elevator doors opened once more and then they walked down another hall, passing the main reception before exiting the building through the revolving doors. Sanchez immediately reached into his pocket and withdrew a cigarette. He barely got it to his lips before Taylor coughed his dis-approval and pointed towards a red ‘no smoking in hospital grounds’ sign.

“Really? In the hospital? What even are you?”

He lit it anyway. Rolling his eyes at the disclaimer as he did.

“Hungry... Let’s go get some breakfast.”

He would’ve complained a little more but the thought of bacon and pancakes was weighing heavy on his mind. Maybe some of those warm biscuits and gravy. No microwaved oatmeal today. Today he was eating at Cracker Barrel, bitches.




“John, are you even listening?”

He wasn’t listening, shit. He wasn’t even pretending to listen. John Gable had been glued to his phone since he got here. All the way through rehearsals, right through makeup and even here now as the presenter prepared to introduce them.

“... And we’re live people!”

The director’s voice boomed from somewhere out of focus and suddenly it wasn’t so easy to get lost in your own thoughts. John looked around the room, taking stock of what was happening and trying to remember why he agreed to do this in the first place. These shows had become a very mundane experience to him.To David on the other hand they were still exciting, a chance to tell bold-faced lies to millions of people at once and still come out smelling like roses. The set was pretty basic: coffee table, couch, projector screen and a desk for the host. John wondered how many different presenters he’d met over the years for a few seconds before his phone buzzed again. Boom! Headshot, Gable down.

“Good evening, our top story tonight: LARPing bans have began to sweep Illinois after an advertising campaign from the mayor of Chicago has hit televisions across the state. I’m joined in the studio by the star of the infomercial; John Gable, and of course the mayor of Chicago himself; David Sanchez.”

It must have been a slow news day thought David. Jackpot. The camera pans over he and John individually as he announces their names, Sanchez smiles and waves as the presenter introduces him, but Gable barely notices, infact were it not for the applause stimulating his senses he would probably have entered the matrix by now.

“Pleasure to be here.”

David greets the host with as much feigned kindness as he can muster up. It looks awkward and terrifying. It didn’t feel any better either thought David. King Leukemia barely looks up long enough to quickly mutter something in the general direction of the camera.

“Hi.”

It was all he was getting, and on some level the host must have known that much because he wastes little time in moving on.

“We’re going to be talking to David and J… Probably just David in the studio in a few moments but first; if you haven’t seen the infomercial yet, you’re in for a treat. Here it is in it’s entirety: The LARP-AID 2016 Awareness video!”