Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

“Hi there,” Ruby said with a dazzling smile. “Welcome to Stubb’s Coffee. What can I whip up for you today?”

“Hmph. Elizabeth Kilgore, is it?” McNabb said. “Didn’t I see you working at the QuickStop the other day?”

“Why yes.” Ruby’s smile lost a bit of its dazzle but none of its razzle. “I have several part-time jobs, Mr. McNabb, and thank you very much for asking. You’ll find that it takes all that–and more!–to support oneself, one’s family, and one’s student loans in Higbee. When one isn’t making vice-principal money, that is.”

“It’s Major McNabb; you ought to remember that from school if you remember anything at all.” McNabb slapped down five dollars. “Just a plain mud, and make it snappy.”

“Of course, sir, right away.” Ruby quickly made the change and called out the order–to no one, as it happened, since she was working the shift alone, but that was what the employee handbook demanded. “Though you’ll find that you’re not entitled to use that rank now that you’re just a civilian, I think. This isn’t a Regency romance, after all.”

“Hmph, that’s about what I’d expect from one of Kilgore’s bastards,” McNabb said. “No respect.”

The espresso machine whirred and complained as it was forced to spit out something so mundane as ‘plain mud.’ “It’s funny that someone complaining about a lack of respect would call someone ‘Kilgore’s bastard’ isn’t it?” she said.

“Match the enemy in their choice of weapons,” McNabb said. “You were disrespectful first.”

“Is that what you say to the teachers when you pressure them not to take their full leave?” Ruby said, sweetly. “Or when you make your pregnant teachers think they might be fired if they don’t come back when there’s still leave on the clock?”

McNabb stared daggers at her as the coffee apparatus continued to steam and moan.

“You see, Mr. McNabb, I make it my business to know what’s going on around town,” Ruby said. “If there’s information, it’s almost always interesting, hmm? And people gassing up or getting coffee do love to talk.”

“And what do they say about your wetback mother, huh?” McNabb said with a smirk. “About how close she’s come to getting hauled away by ICE all those times, for being a welfare queen and a stain on the good name of the Kilgores?”

The coffee finished, Ruby handed the steaming cup to McNabb with a sippy lid and a straw. “I wouldn’t know, Mr. McNabb,” she said, sweet and icy as a popsicle. “No one ever seems to bring it up. Except you, of course.”

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Simona Osborne answered the door herself. Though she hadn’t been seen outside her house in many years, she was impeccably dressed, with fashionable clothes that were only a decade or two out of date draped over her, as well as a boa made of something that looked both fancy and authentic. “Well, Sheriff Decker. Now, this is a surprise. Tell me, is it common for members of our local law enforcement to deliver baked goods to elderly women, or did you make a special exception for little old me?”

Decker roughly pushed the bag of breads and cookies into Simona’s hands. “A delivery was the only way your boy at the gate would let me through,” he groused. “Nobody respects this badge anymore.”

“Oh, they surely don’t, Sheriff, they surely don’t,” cooed Simona. She set the great bag o’crusty goodies on her floor. “After all, the badge is just metal on its own. It’s the person behind the badge that commands respect. Or not, as the case may be.”

“You’re such a nasty woman,” Decker spat. “Don’t think I haven’t heard about what goes on in this house.”

“Oh, is that why you’re here? To investigate the salacious rumors? Well, then, let me put your mind at ease, Sheriff. They’re all true. This house is in fact owned by a woman of advanced years and independent means, who enjoys both her privacy and the freedom it allows.” She flashed a smile of lightly tobacco-browned teeth, before taking a quick drag on her cigarette holder. “And I’m sure there’s pirate gold clutched in the arms of a dead husband in the witch’s coven I keep downstairs too, though I must admit that I prefer the Xbox and Netflix to murder and spellcasting these days.”

Decker made an exasperated noise. “See? That’s just the kind of thing I’m talking about. People agree with me, lots of people, when I look at this place and wonder where the money’s coming from. How many drugs are you selling, Osborne? How many humans are you trafficking?”

“Sounds like a question for my accountant,” said Simona coolly. “Why don’t you send him a nice lawful subpoena and find out?”

“Mr. Osborne was always talking like that too,” Decker said. “I remember my father, great man that he was, always saying that Osborne was acting like he had something to hide.”

“Funny that, a doctor not wanting to spill secrets to a lawyer, hmm?” Simona smiled. “Now, was there something I can do for you, Sheriff? If you have business with Dr. Osborne, you know where to find him in the graveyard.”

“You’re hiding folks in this house,” Decker said, red in the face. “Folks that ought to be rounded up. Criminals and rapists, most likely. Vandals and the like, responsible for desecrating our statue, I shouldn’t be surprised to learn. I need to take them in, ask some questions about what’s been going on in town.”

“Oh, of course, Sheriff,” Simona said with a warm smile. “I’d be happy to show you all of the fugitives I’m allegedly harboring. All I ask in return is a small gift.”

“Hmph. A bribe, you mean?” Decker said.

“A warrant. Though your first thought going to ‘bribe’ does explain an awful lot about the state of law enforcement in this city.”

“If you don’t obey, when I come back with a warrant, you’ll wind up in the county slammer along with every last wetback you’ve got in your basement,” Decker sneered. “Every last peso they’ve given you won’t do you much good when you’re behind bars, you stupid old half-blooded bitch. You’ll wind up where you should’ve been when your father was whoring around with your mother.”

“Oh dear, such a predicament. If only I had known, I would’ve arranged to be born to parents that met the approval of Teddy Decker,” Simona said. “Remind me to say the same to all of your half-brother and half-sisters running around Higbee when Teddy Sr. used to make legal…housecalls.”

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“You there!” ‘Major’ McNabb cried. “What are you doing over there?”

Gnat looked up. “O-oh! Hello there. I’m just in the process of, ah…cataloguing the various architectural anomalies of the school, here. Ah, for comparison.” Sweat prickled up and down Gnat’s brow.

“Boy, are you trying to bluff your way out of answering a simple question with a bunch of ten-dollar words?” snapped McNabb. “If this were the army, son, I’d have you drop and give me push-ups until the only things you could gasp out were ‘yes,’ ‘no,’ and ‘sir.’ You catch my meaning?”

Gnat, looking miserable, wilted under McNab’s steely gaze. “No…sir?”

The vice-principal sighed, irritated by the response even if it had obeyed his request to the letter. “In the army, you serve up a sir sandwich when you’re in this kind of hot water,” he said. “Tell me again, real slow now, and using real small words, why you are slinking around my school, and see to it that the first and last words out of your mouth are ‘sir.’ Got it?”

“B-…uhm…Sir, but this isn’t the Army,” Gnat said. Then, hastily, again: “Sir.”

“That’s what people keep telling me when I give them orders,” McNab grunted. He held up his phone. “I’ve got the number to the HPD called up. Can you give me one good reason why I shouldn’t hit call? Like a polite explanation?”

“Ah…well…sir…you see, I…”

“Out with it!” McNabb snapped.

“I was looking to see how the school had changed,” Gnat blurted. “From before.”

The vice-principal looked at him, suspicious. “From before? Boy, you look like you’re not old enough to have graduated from here even on the five-year plan. Your parents students?”

“Yes! Ah…uh, sir, yes sir!” Gnat chirped. “That they were, sir, yes. Indeedy.”

“Uh huh. Sounds like two generations on the five year plan to me,” McNabb said. “Well, let me tell you, son: ain’t nothing changed about this building since ’94, when they added the new football field and the new band room. Your parents remember it just fine.”

“Any chance I could…see inside? Sir?”

“Boy, school is out for the summer and we do not do tours. Come back when school is in session.”

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Ms. Inez, the only full-time librarian at Higbee Public Library, was easy enough to mimic. Syd was able to do it without a second thought, squashing themselves down a few inches, expanding a few inches more, and swapping out the dull patterns of an insecure teenager with the bold patterns of someone trying to liven up a job they used to love. There was the briefest flash of what passed for Syd’s true self as the process completed, but they shrugged it off with a shudder. Being whoever they wanted to be, whenever they wanted to be…that embarrassment was a small price to pay.

The voice was a little tougher, but Syd had a great talent for mimicry there, too. Even before they’d fallen in with the Margrave, Syd had been able to do a passable imitation of most people they knew. Now, of course, it was everybody.

“Hello!” Syd said, going up an octave throughout the word. “I’m Ms. Inez, the librarian. My voice is my passport.” They giggled at the in-joke, then nodded, satisfied.

The library seemed deserted, with only the thrum of the AC and buzzing of fluorescent lights. “Some things never change, Higbee to Higbee,” Syd muttered. “This place never has any budget.”

They clasped their hands. “Oh, won’t some brave man, woman, or none-of-the-above come and deliver me from this place?” Syd cried, in Inez’s voice. “Or fund the library to a level adequate to provide the necessary services, whichever comes first?”

There was no answer. Just like at the city council meetings when they asked for more funding, Syd wagered. Before trying to figure out the ley lines to put the library out of its misery, Syd looked around the YA section for some quick getaway disguises in case their cover was blown. Everything either had an abstract cover on it or was a photo from the 80s or earlier–another snort of budgetary disgust from Syd. They eventually settled on filching an 80s book featuring a young man in a white tee and jeans–a standard enough look–and a lady from a rather sexist etiquette book from the 70s. The bellbottoms were out of fashion but people might not notice, or think it simply retro.

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“So the sign says going out of business, everything must go. Does that include the rack of video games?”

“Dunno.” The cashier, Shelly, was even more disaffected than usual. A member of the working dead, she was desperately trying to get a job elsewhere in town— which meant that, as far as Dex’s Grocery was concerned, she had completely checked out. Maybe the library would appreciate that attitude, if they were hiring. “If you wanna know, go buy one, you’ll find out when it rings up.”

“Good point,” Heath said. “What about the cash register? It’s everything. Can I buy it?” He paused a moment. “How would I even buy it? Would you have to write a receipt, or could you check me out on that other register? And then how do you sell the last register?”

Shelly sighed. “The fixtures aren’t gonna be sold ‘til the last day of business.” Then, giving Heath a sideways glare: “What would a kid like you need a cash register for, anyway?”

“Probably lots of fun stuff in there.” Heath shrugged. “And I think a POS system could really help grow my small business.”

Shelly snorted, thinking of how every other opening of the cash drawer needed to be coaxed along with a little percussive maintenance. “It’s a POS all right,” she said. “Look, kid, go bug one of the stockers, will you? Come back if you’re gonna buy something.”

At the back of the store, near the rack of Nintendo Wii shovelware, Heath found a familiar veiled shadow.

“Here too?” he said, shocked.

“Here too. The Margrave was surprised at the boy’s question. What had he thought would happen, next?”

Heath bit his lip. “This store is closing in a week,” he said. “There’s no reason to destroy it when it’s destroying itself just fine, right?”

The woman seemed to glower darkly from her shadows. “The Margrave reminded the boy that there is no justice in an act of self-destruction. This mildewy mart cannot expect to use its own bedsheet noose to cheat the hangman.”

“Look, I was fine with the statue,” said Heath. “That other stuff. It needed to go, it was bad. But not everything needs justice, right? Justice for what? There’s some stuff that isn’t so bad.”

“The Margrave spoke slowly, and with a tone of ice so that the boy might know her intentions. There is nothing worth saving in this wretched town, in this or any world.

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“Hey, good to see you, Jim.” the man smiled. “I haven’t seen you since the gallbladder, how’s it going?”

Syd grinned back as wide as possible. They’d imitated the Movies R Us clerk, sure, but that didn’t include the guy’s name, or his medical history, or anything. At least Syd knew the guy’s name was Jim, at least.

“Uh, hi, doc,” Syd said, taking a desperate guess that the silver-haired man with an expensive-looking watch was a doctor. It was either that or a Chinese medicine guy, with all the talk of gallbladders. “Oh, it’s…it’s fine. Yeah. All healed.”

The doctor set down his DVD, and looked at Syd over the tops of his glasses. “It’s fine, huh? Grew back on you, did it?” he said, a grim and serious expression on his face.

“Well, uh…” Syd tensed up, getting ready to bolt and then chuck the movie rental guy’s form at the first opportunity. “I mean, it sometimes feels that way, but…”

The doctor’s face suddenly lightened, and he grinned. “Relax, Jim,” he said. “I’m just messing with you. Who’d have the gall to grow one of those back after we yanked it out of them already, huh?”

“Ah! Yeah. Well, not me. On account of not having a gallbladder anymore, y’know, nowhere to put the gall.” Syd picked up the DVD and looked at it. “Ice Pirates?” they said. “That is…that’s a deep cut, doc.”

“I know, I know,” the doctor laughed. “It’s cheesy, but it’s fun as hell and it’s not on Netflix. I saw this when I was in college, you know, in the theater. It sucked then, too, but it’s always more about who you’re with at the time, you know?”

“Who were you with?” Syd had no earthly idea how to run the video rental system, so they quickly smashed a few random keys and handed the disc case back.

“My wife. Well, at the time, she was just my live in girlfriend and baby mama. But still. Good times, y’know?”

“Y-yeah,” Syd said. They had a sudden flash of a memory, of sitting in a theater showing From Justin to Kelly, wrapped arm in arm with… “Good times.”

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“This place always creeps me out.”

Jayda was wearing her balaclava, as she always did when out and about as the MacBook Bandit. Leaning to one side, she looked idly about. “You’d think there’d be more people farting around this place, you know? It’s a small town, everybody knows someone who’s been here. Hell, I bet half the old ladies on East Downs already have a place reserved. But it’s always empty except for the days Eddie mows the yard. And of course me and Heath. Why do you think that is, Georgina?”

Georgina didn’t answer, but that wasn’t really her fault–after all, according to the headstone Jayda was leaned up against, she had died a “beloved daughter” about five years ago. It was a big family plot, with the other names already pre-carved (somewhat ghoulishly, in Jayda’s opinion) but the tenants not yet moved in.

“I tell ya, Georgie, it’s always kinda a thing. People are all over this place on Memorial Day, there band comes, they shoot fake bullets…and then everyone goes about like they don’t know anybody that’s come down with a bad case of death. Like they plan to live forever.”

She spied the groundskeeper, Eddie, glowering at her from near his lawnmower shack a fair ways away, down a gentle slope before the graveyard terminated at Tapps Dr. Jayda waved happily; Eddie had seen her loads of times and had never been able to summon the energy to do anything more than scowl in lawnmowerish.

“Hey!” Heath had appeared as scheduled, but coming from behind the stone, he shocked Jayda enough for her to leap about a foot into the air.

“Don’t sneak up on people in graveyards,” she said. “Unless you’re an undertaker on a slow business day.”

“Have you got what I asked for?” Heath said. He held out an envelope. “It’s all there, count it.”

“Oh, I trust you.” Jayda took the bills and shoved them in a pocket. “After all, I know where you live.” She tossed a small package at Heath’s feet. “All the console modding supplies you could ever want, courtesy of an illegal Radio Shack.”

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“Hmph,” Charlie grunted. The bronze figure, impassive, said nothing; he continued leaning on his tiny Greek column with a sheaf of bronze papers in an outstretched hand, as if he’d just been interrupted by a bronze dip halfway through the morning mail.

“Gaius Cassius Longinus Maddox: soldier, Senator, Southron.” The Margrave read from the impressively green plaque. “Served his state as an able soldier during the War of Northern Aggression and as an able statesman during the Restoration.”

“Always thought he looked kinda like Col. Sanders,” Charlie said, looking at the carefully manicured green goatee and ‘stache that the statue sported.

“The Margrave smiled at the reference, and then, turning to Charlie, asked what else this statue made her feel.” Inscrutable behind her veil, her words came out almost sounding as if they’d been condensed from the very air. “She knew that Charlie was not always confident in her words, but bid her try anyway.”

Charlie squinted at the statue. “Awfully nice things on there,” she said. “Not what you’d think for a traitor.”

“The Margrave continued, gently: what about the words they use, the words they chose? What did the statue-makers think?”

“They were on his side. They thought old GCL here was a good guy. A hero. Even though his mustache is telling a different story.”

The Margrave moved closer. “And, the Margrave wondered aloud, did that make Charlie feel like doing anything?”

Charlie looked at the statue again. “Well,” she said. “I’d like to throw it up in the air. Then, I’d jump up there and do the 1000 Fists of Shattered Jewels attack. I don’t know if you’ve seen that movie, but it would knock the statue really far. Then I’d find the crater and pound it in. Do you think the statue is hollow?”

“Everything about this town is hollow.”

“Then I’d crumple it into a ball and drop-kick it into the sun,” Charlie finished with a satisfied nod.

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Lewy was sitting on one of the headstones, his legs crossed and dangling merrily. “Looking for someone you know?” he said. “Why is it always that looking in on you and yours is such a grave responsibility?”

Charlie had been poking around, reading the stones with a guarded expression on her face, occasionally stopping for a moment of respectful silence. “Why isn’t it for you?” she said.

Rocketing across the distance between them, Lewy rested his chin atop the headstone, grinning. “Maybe because me and mine are right here with me,” he said. “All holed up in the Fox Mansion, a little dysfunctional family straight out of a soap opera. Except our bubbles are interdimensional and we’re cleaning worlds of filth instead of just circling the drain.”

Charlie looked down at the stone. Adrian Abbott, Beloved Husband and Father, 1939-1999. “I knew his kids,” she said. “He died real suddenly when they were still in school. Was kinda hoping he lived in this Higbee.”

“Makes perfect sense, seeing as folks are always going around and carving stones for people who’re still alive,” said Lewy.

“Does making fun of me make you feel like family?” said Charlie, glowering.

“Poking fun at mean-spirited times is the very heart of family,” Lewy replied. “What sort of family did you grow up in?”

“We’re trying to make Higbee better,” Charlie said. “I talked to the Margrave about it. I’m allowed to be sad if I want to be.”

“To be sad about someone you knew in another universe, another dimension, that might have nothing more in common with this bag of bones than a birthdate and a general physical appearance?” Lewy shook his head. “We’re here to destroy this place, Chuck. Kick the door in and watch the whole rotten structure collapse. Sad is just gonna make you hesitate when it comes time, if the little Abbott kids can’t run fast enough.”

“Don’t you ever wonder?” said Charlie. “You came from Higbee too. Things might’ve been…different.”

“I learned long ago that if things were gonna be different, I had to do it myself.” Lewy tapped the stone. “But I tell you what, when we make this place perfection, maybe we’ll bring back Mr. Abbott as a sentimental gesture.”

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Rita nodded at the figure of their father, sitting out of earshot on a bench and quietly feeding the birds. “Dad’s not doing too well,” she said, “but he still owns the business. Body’s going to pieces but his mind is still sharp. And he won’t let us sell.”

Gnat folded his arms. “S-surely, even given the cost of raw materials, there’s a considerable profit to be made there, to say nothing of the cachet the bakery holds with the community.”

“It’s not as big a profit as you’d think,” Jim Jr. scoffed. “And you really have to knead and bake and scrape it out of every little piece of dough. It’s hard work, and we’ve been doing it since we were kids. We want out.”

“What about people like m-..ah, people that love the place? Warm baked goods, especially sweets, are statistically much more likely to form lasting memories. Think of all the kids that grew up on Orville’s.”

“What about all the kids that grew up in Orville’s, huh?” Jim Jr. snapped.

“There’s $100,000 in baking equipment alone in that shop, easy,” said Rita. “Old stuff, good stuff, stuff that they don’t make anymore. The stand mixer itself is worth $10,000; Stone Ground Bakery upstate is willing to pay cash and even haul it away for us.”

Gnat looked at the distant, hunched form of Jim Sr. “And your dad?” he said. “What about him?”

“Listen, kid,” said Jim Jr., irked at the gall of someone walking up and interrupting his stroll to cast aspersions on his motives. “Dad cares more about his dumb breads than he does about us. Always has, always will. So, as soon as he can’t hold us back anymore, we’re going to return the favor.”

“Well then,” said Gnat. “I think I may have just saved you the trouble, then, Orvilles.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a cookie, lavishly if crudely decorated to resemble a copyrighted cartoon character. Biting into it, Gnat’s eyes fluttered with joy for a moment before he continued, chewing heavily. “I just unraveled the fabric of your bakery and everything in it. This cookie is all that’s left of your inheritance.”

He threw it at their feet, startling Rita and Jim Jr. enough that neither could respond.

“Go on and see what you can sell that for,” Gnat said. “You’ve earned it.”

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