The stars were wide awake by the time the two agents and the refugee got back. They didn’t mean to be gone for so long, but after dinner Pickles had suggested a short visit to the bar, and that was funny because the phrase “short visit to the bar” doesn’t exist anywhere in Pickles’ personal encyclopedia. They ended up staying until closing time and then Murderface fell asleep in the back of the El Camino. Skwisgaar, who was a little less trashed than Pickles, drove back to the motel. The good thing about getting behind the wheel drunk in the middle of the desert is that if you run off the road there’s a good chance you’ll hit nothing. Maybe a cactus if you’re the lucky kind of guy. So they took quite a few detours around the old oil rigs and lost the road twice before they finally found asphalt again.

“Why didn’tcha nagivate…nagvigave…nangvi—use th’ stars,” Pickles said after the fact as the El Camino parked crookedly between the white lines of the motel parking lot. “Coulda got us home faster.”

“I don’ts know stars,” replied Skwisgaar.

“Fuck,” the agent disregarded. “Yer from L.A. And yer Scaninadian.” As if that meant anything.

Skwisgaar was silent for a moment, staring over the wheel at something nobody else could see. “I grows up in a dark place, Pickle. No stars shine dere.”

A few moments later something touched his hand. It was another hand. He turned and saw Pickles gazing at him, drunk and bleary but all heart, in the orange glow from the street lamps, with shadows falling across his face like classic horror. His face. The face of the first person who ever actually gave a damn. “Yer gonna see stars again, Holly,” Pickles murmured. “I prosmi…prom.” Sigh. Stare. Green eyes. “I swear.”

There was one second of pause in which anything could have happened next. Anything in the world. Skwisgaar’s vision blurred wetly when he smiled, because for the first time he actually believed. He had something to believe in.

“Pickle…”

Then there came a drunken howl from the bed of the El Camino. It was Murderface, picking up where his partner had left off: “-BY THUH MOOOON AN’ THUH SHTAARZSH IN THUH SHKYYY! I SHWEAA~ARE! …dah duhhhh duh. Fer better ‘er WORSHHH-”

Pickles said, “Let’s ditch.”

“-til deashth do ush PAAAaaaaa~AARRT-”

Skwisgaar nodded. Two car doors slammed as the front-seaters abandoned ship.

“I LOVE YOU WISH EVVV-ER-EE BEEEAT OF MA HEARRT, ‘N I SHW-”

Then he abruptly, mercifully, passed out.

Pickles and Skwisgaar met under the lamplight and chuckled in pity at Murderface’s disparaging condition, tottering from their own lack of sobriety.

“Jest leave ‘im,” Pickles grinned. “He’ll come around.”

“Arounds what?”

They looked at each other for a moment and then started laughing. It echoed all through the parking lot and into the flat darkness beyond, tears running until the last echo faded.

“Okay. Oh…okay now,” Pickles gasped, wiping his eyes. “Okay. Now…it’s…hellifeyeknow o’clock-”

Skwisgaar guffawed briefly.

“-n’ we gotta…gotta long day ‘hedda us t’marra.”

“We does?”

“Leavin’. Yanno.”

“Oh. Ja…”

Pickles straightened and looked skyward. “We should prob’ly…go t’ bed now. I mean sleep now. Go to sleep.”

“I’m not sleepsy.” Skwisgaar turned to look out into the black desert and the star-filled sky. “I t’ink I…takes a walk.”

“Wh. What fer?”

“Say goodbyes.”

“…ta who?”

His eyes moved, scanning the invisible walls of his sandy prison. “Dis place…cos I nevers will—sees it agains.”

Pickles seemed to understand and nodded. “Okay, Skwiss. I…you do go that. Do whatcha gotta…yeah. I think I’m gonna. I gotta go lie down. Can’t hardly ain’t…walkin’ good no more.”

Skwisgaar turned to leave.

“Hey Hollywood.”

He paused and turned.

Pickles’ brow was creased in unusually sober concern. “Ya be caref…don’t be gone fer too long, a’ight.”

Skwisgaar smiled thinly. “I won’ts, Pickle. Just saying goodbyes.”

* * *

Underneath a beach of stars and above a beach of sand, locked between the strata of this cage known as Earth, Skwisgaar sat cross-legged and stared up through the towering steel girders of a pylon. He was comfortable here for the first time, now that he knew he would be escaping from it for good. Bears, lions and warriors, shapeless fantasies, held themselves fast to the roof of the world.

A new life would begin for him tomorrow. He’d leave his old one behind, take it off like a coat and let it drop onto the shards of that ugly snow-lined mirror, the thing that haunted him with images of blood, drugs, guns and guitars. All the bad would wash away—the Snow would melt and disappear. The cold lifeless winter would lose its grip on his soul and the sun would creep over the horizon, bringing with it spring and warmth and companionship. He was twenty five now. His whole life lay ahead of him. All would be clean and new, restored, ready to start over.

Skwisgaar sighed into the cool night, wondering if this would be the last time he ever saw stars like this again.

A distant sound reached his ears and he turned around to see headlights like coyote eyes approaching slowly over the desert terrain. It was Pickles in the El Camino. Skwisgaar must have lost track of time, stayed out too long. Pickles was probably worried.

…maybe he would take Skwisgaar with him wherever he went. Skwisgaar needed someone to give him more banjo lessons. He was a fast learner sure, but he liked spending time with Pickles. He decided that even if he got a new banjo, he’d still keep the one Pickles had given him. It was special. Maybe they could form a gig, the two of them, travel around on weekends, go out drinking together…

It was only now, at this very moment, that Skwisgaar realized what was happening. No. What had already happened. It startled him a little at first, but his mind was already made up by the time the shock wore off. So what. So what if he did. He wasn’t ashamed. Shame couldn’t touch him now, not when he was finally free. It had haunted him in the form of his mother, his illegitimacy, his wealth, his life, himself, but it wouldn’t haunt him now. No more.

He decided he would tell Pickles everything, right now. Tonight. Get it off his chest. He had a funny feeling that everything, even after this, everything was going to be okay. He felt it deep down in him. For the first time, everything was going to be okay.

Skwisgaar smiled a little to himself and crawled to his feet as the car slowed to a stop a few yards away. The engine cut but the headlights still glowed. Skwisgaar walked toward the car as a silhouette emerged and the door slammed.

“Hey, Pickle. Sorry I stays out here too-”

Something cold hit him in the chest. It was terror. Something wasn’t right. As if by some extrasensory power, Skwisgaar felt the presence of a predator. Death was here. It was right here with him.

The fear cleared his sluggish senses, sharpening them to razor ice in a matter of seconds. His hair rose. His heart thrummed fast in his chest. His skin perspired. And his eyes widened in horror as the father of his nightmares stepped into the beams of the headlights.

Skwisgaar seemed to register the gleam of the 9mm before he registered Toki Wartooth’s smiling, sadistic face.

“Hello. Son,” he said, words and eyes like needles.

Skwisgaar took a step back. “Ha-how dids—dis can’ts be-”

“You shoulda know I finds you. Nobody can runs from me, Skwisgaar. You of all shoulda knows that.”

The crown-and-snowflake winked at him, rife with memory. It had a legacy to fulfill. Panic flooded Skwisgaar’s heart, causing it to pound hard in his chest as if it suddenly remembered the bounty it’d had on it once upon a time. He unconsciously reached a hand to his chest and clutched his shirt in his fist, protecting. Covering. Afraid that this devil possessed the power to rip it out with a glare.

Toki had to chuckle when he saw the reaction. “Don’t worries, Skwisgaar. I let you keeps your heart this times. It not what I wants beside.” The grin faded. “I wants everythings now.”

Skwisgaar licked his lips and tried to summon some words of bravery. “If I screams den dere’ll be guys wis guns out heres and dey’ll-”

“Oh shuts up, you stupid idiot,” Toki snapped tiredly, raising the gun at his stepson. “You scream and I shoots you in de fucking head.”

“You’s gonna shoots me anyway.” Funny how easily he could speak the truth now. It gave Skwisgaar courage—it was the only weapon he had now, and he lashed out with it. “I is not scares of yous no more, Toki. Yous was nevers a father to me’s. I knows it’s were you who’s kill my mother-”

Smirk. “I dids her a favors-”

“-and you is so fucking jealousy of me dat you t’ink you gots to kills me.” He gritted his teeth. “You is a fucking cowers, Toki. Yous are so powersless dat alls you can do is sits up on yours throne and tell Big Nate to go and do t’ings for yous, since you is too scares and weak to do dems yourselv.”

The Norwegian’s face was a mixture of shock and rage. “H-how…dares you. You-”

Skwisgaar took a step forward. “Your kingdom will falls. It’s is falling right now. Dat’s why you’s here, because no ones else will do your dirty works for yous anymore. Dey’re all leafing you. You makes big mistake by coming heres, Toki.”

The safety clicked off. Skwisgaar remained undaunted.

“Go aheads. Shoots me. You’s only proves what a big fucking cowers you is. It won’t saves de business. De FBI knows. Dey is gonna hunts yous for de rests of your live. It’s over, Toki. You lose no matters which way de snow falls.”

Liquid fury burned in Toki’s red eyes. “Jævla Svenske,” he growled. “I still has control overs this situation.”

“Ha. No you doesn’t. Dat’s just you lying to yourselv.”

“Shut up.”

“You is finished, Toki.”

“SHUT UP!”

“And you can’ts do nothins abouts it.”

He squeezed the trigger.

Skwisgaar staggered backward with a choke and fell from the light. A plume of dust rose in his absence. A small circle of blood appeared on the right side of his chest. He gasped raggedly for breath, one lung filling with blood. The shadow of his stepfather fell across him, half-obscuring his face. He spat crimson into the dust. Then he started to laugh.

Toki took a step. “SHUT UP!” Shrill and desperate. “SHUT UP!”

Skwisgaar smiled up at him with shiny red lips, blue eyes bright and full of life. “You wills never win.”

The second shot went through his shoulder, dangerously close to his heart. He gasped, the pain tearing him apart. The world became black and white, glaring brightness and deep shadows. He curled in on himself, tendrils of hair trailing in the dirt.

“I wins this at least,” Toki muttered, only his outline visible.

“You win n-not’ings,” Skwisgaar rasped, drooling blood as he raised his head. “Cowers never win. Dey just—ng. Steals from others.” With that, he launched himself from the ground and sprang at Toki.

The gun rang out a third and final time, and Skwisgaar Skwigelf fell to the ground. He didn’t move. Blood, red as sin, pooled in his yellow-gold hair and ran across the cocaine-white skin of his cheek.

Toki was shaking as he climbed into the Caddy and turned the ignition, but once the tires found asphalt everything was fine again. Everything was good. It was finally over. He’d finished it once and for all.

The Prince was dead.

Long live the King.

* * *

The walls of the room were pale yellow, almost white, where the two federal agents sat. The color was too happy. Too bright. This was a place of death and disease. They needed to be black. Paint them black, black as that night, blacker than the emptiness Pickles felt inside him. Blacker than the place where the one he was supposed to protect had gone.

A woman in white approached. “You may go see him now,” she said.

Pickles faintly registered Murderface asking something. Whatever it was, she shook her head and apologized softly. Murderface had to take Pickles by the arm and help him stand.

They entered the room and his heart chilled like it had the very first time. He must have hesitated or looked like he was cracking up because Murderface gripped his shoulder and said, “Buck up, Patrick.”

The redhead sat down beside the bed and tried to keep his face from twisting.

There he lay in his coffin of clear plastic, dressed in white, head bound with gauze. Tubes to help him breathe. Liquid to keep him alive. Machines beeping slowly on the side. Monitoring his life. His semi-life. Or whatever you’d call the stage between life and death, wherever he was now.

“The infection in his lungs is clearing,” someone said. “He still needs the curtain for now. We’re giving him antibiotics…” Jumble jarble words words words. “…help if he would come out of the coma but…” More words. Same as last time. Broken record. Cold and emotionless. Didn’t they know who he was? What he meant to- “…due to the possibility of brain swelling if he comes around…” Shut up. For the love of God. Just shut up. “…very slim chance of-”

“Can ya jest shut th’ hell up n’ go away,” Pickles snapped, clenching his fists. “Go on. Get out. Leave us alone.”

The words were driven away. Now he could think. Now he could see. Sort of. It had been difficult to see these past few weeks. Everything had been blurred.

Murderface stood by the door and screwed his face into a hard expression to keep himself from breaking. He felt it too, but he was better at repressing it. He watched his partner in the chair, hands reaching out with nothing to touch, nothing that he could touch. It was unimaginably cruel and unbearable to watch.

“Wake up, Holly,” he heard faintly, the same mantra he’d heard every time. “I can’t stand seein’ ya like this. Yer not s’posed ta…be…I’m, I’ll never fergive myself for lettin’ ya go out alone. Don’t let ‘im win, Holly. Please come back t’ me.”

The next day Skwisgaar was pronounced clinically brain dead. He was suffering like this, the doctors said. He would never recover. They suggested pulling the plug and letting him die naturally. Hopes dead and heart wounded, Pickles signed the consent form.

He could at last touch Skwisgaar now, freed from the plastic curtain. He held his hand as the life support equipment went quiet and tried to keep himself together. Tried like hell. It still didn’t stop him from letting out a sob when he saw the chest stop rising and felt the faint pulse go still. The doctor pronounced him and then left the room.

Pickles massaged those talented fingers, the fastest in the world, now cold and lifeless. “Goddammit, Hollywood. Ya were s’posed ta live. We…”

It didn’t matter anymore. Skwisgaar was gone. The case was in shambles. Wartooth, if he had any sense, was three countries away by now. All to shit, everything. Just when the struggle seemed over, fate dealt its cruel hand.

But Pickles didn’t care about that anymore. The case that had occupied him for the past three years, that had consumed his every waking moment, suddenly didn’t mean shit when someone he loved more than any-fucking-thing had just died right in front of him. Nothing meant anything anymore. Nothing ever would. Life was grey and colorless to Pickles now, for the light that had shined through the prism of his monochrome existence and created rainbows had flickered out. That star, that shining beautiful diamond in this whole shitty stinking world, was gone now. Skwisgaar, who had cheated death and survived so many times, now dead because of…

Pickles heaved a trembling sigh and reached out to stroke the Swede’s forehead. “I’m serry,” he whispered, staring at the peaceful face. “I’m serry I couldn’t protect ya enough, Skwisgaar. Gad knows I tried ta.” Deep breath. “Yer troubles’re over now, at least. No more hidin’. Yer free now. No one can hurt ya anymore. I hope yer happy…wherever y’are.” He wiped his face with his sleeve and stood. “I never got ta tell ya how much I love ya.”

Fresh tears dripped from his cheeks as he leaned over and pressed a kiss to those soft, warmthless lips. He drew back slowly and gave the cold white hand a gentle squeeze. “Ya been gone two minutes,” he choked, “an’ I miss ya already.”

He sat down in the chair and wept soundlessly, head bowed, shoulders shaking, eyes hidden. Murderface strode over and placed a crushing hand on Pickles’ shoulder, holding in his own feelings of grief.

“It’sh okay, Patrick,” he murmured. But they both knew it wasn’t, nor would it ever be again.

Pickles was so overwrought that he didn’t register the sensation of movement in his hand for a few seconds. He raised his head as he suddenly became aware, and opened his hand to reveal those white fingers slowly curling.

“Musht be…rigor mortish,” Murderface muttered, though his eyes were wide.

“Can’t be,” Pickles breathed. “Too soon.”

“Maybe…uh. Posht-coma convul-”

“Waitwaitquiet!”

The two agents were silent, listening. A small hiss. Like air being squeezed through vocal cor-

“Ah…aah…”

Nobody moved a muscle. Except Murderface, who moved his mouth to say, “Oh my fuckin’ GAWD.”

Pickles sprang from his chair so fast that he flipped it over with a bang. “He’s alive! HE’S ALIVE! Quick! Get the defibrill-”

Murderface grabbed his frantic partner by the arms and hauled him back as he prepared to perform CPR on Skwisgaar.

“Don’t touch him yet! Let ‘im come around!”

“But I gotta-”

“He doeshn’t need you fer thish, ashole! Jusht let ‘im come back on hish own.”

“No! He could slip back at any-”

“I’m gonna punsch you in the fuckin’ ballsh, Picklesh, I shwear to-”

The lips moved. “Pih…Pickle…” Bruised eyelids fluttered open. Murderface felt Pickles go limp and decided to let go.

On the bed, the living dead: Skwisgaar weakly raised an arm. “Pickle, I can’ts sees you.”

“I’m right here,” he replied, grasping his hand.

The blue eyes wandered groggily for a moment before they settled on the agent’s face. “Oh.” A faint smile. “Dere yous are, Pickle.”

“Yeah. Here I am.” He swallowed dryly. “Ya came back?”

“I hads to. You…wokes me up from a nice sleeps.”

It was almost funny. In a panicked, hysterical way. Pickles bit his lower lip and tried to contain himself. “D’ya…know what’s goin’ on?”

“Ah…no.”

“Huh. Shtupid azsh ever. It’sh good to have ya back, Shkwishgaar.”

“Shut up, Murderface,” his partner snapped.

“Aw fuck you.”

“Skwiss.” Pickles redirected his attention to the more important. “Toki, he. He got ta Seven Ores somehow n’ he…yanno, found ya. Shot ya three times. Got ya in th’ head, put ya flat out. Skull splinters’n everything. Ya shouldn’t even be alive right now.”

“…hu.”

“They got th’ bullet out okay though. Heh. Ya gotta bald spot where they took it outta ya.”

Skwisgaar made a pained face. “Unhh. Doze. Fucker. Dumb dildos.”

Pickles smiled, and then it all decided to come out. Tears, confessions, everything. He pressed Skwisgaar’s lean hand in both of his and said, “I shoulda told ya sooner but I never…couldn’t seem ta find th’ right time ‘r place but…an’ the fact that ya coulda left this world without knowin’ how much I love ya, Skwisgaar, it. I. It made me wanna lay down an’ die right beside ya.” He gripped the hand and held it to his lips as hot tears rolled down his cheeks.

The Swede’s blue eyes grew large and soft. “Pickle. You loves me…back?”

Pickles looked up, put his entire person on pause while the thoughts kerchunked through his mental gears. Then there was a crash as the entire engine dropped out. No further thought was required—he leaned over Skwisgaar and kissed him. Kissed him like he should have done a long time ago. And Skwisgaar, he slid an arm around Pickles’ shoulders and held onto him like he never wanted to let go.

“Oh goddammit, cut that schit out,” Murderface grunted, nauseated. “You guysh’re makin’ me shick.”

“Mf. Den turn arounds.”

“Yeah, turn around.”

But Murderface didn’t turn around, partly because he didn’t want to leave his ass exposed and vulnerable with two gayfers in the room and partly because it was kind of sick and interesting to watch. But it suddenly got a whole lot more interesting when Skwisgaar broke his lips from Pickles’ and said lowly, “Let’s us go get him.”

Pickles looked perplexed. “Huh?”

“I know wheres he is.”

“Who?”

“My steps-father. I know to wheres he is runned.”

Pickles and Murderface exchanged shocked looks.

Skwisgaar said, “I has no longer fears of him. I want to go do dis-” He sat up, face creased with pain.

“Wait wait, hold on a sec there, Skwiss, I mean, Jesus Christ, ya jest came back from th’ dead n’ now ya-”

“And now I wants to go and puts de fears of death into Toki. And I know ex-kactly how I shoulds do its.”

* * *

They didn’t bother telling the hospital about the Lazarus Kiss or even that they were leaving with a presumed corpse. They’d find that out soon enough. Skwisgaar walked—walked as if he hadn’t been shot and comatose for three weeks—from Montevista Hospital in a set of stolen scrubs with vengeance glinting in his eyes and a happy smile on his face. He was immortal now, fearless and invincible.

The tires of the El Camino squealed as they left the parking lot and headed down U.S. 93. Murderface drove, though the term should be used loosely because even suicidal maniacs used the brake pedal once in a while.

Pickles wanted to call in the big guns, but Skwisgaar gently talked him out of it.

“No. Dis is personals. I must do dis by myselves.”

“But…Skwiss. Yanno, we’re talkin’ about th’ guy who tried ta-”

“Pickle, I needs dis. Please.”

Who could say no to those eyes? Pickles didn’t understand yet, but he nodded all the same and left his cell phone untouched.

Two whole days on the road. It didn’t take much to cross the border—being federal agents had its merits—and Skwisgaar told them which route to take. He knew it well; his mother had dragged him here on “vacation” often enough. Nothing but one long nosebleed and orgasm after another. He’d always hated it here. Still, it would be nice to see “the family” again.

They came to a long, expensive driveway in a high-profile desert-oasis town. Skwisgaar took the wheel and crept the half-mile to the security gate, said hi to Rico and was allowed to pass. The mansion was Mediterranean in style with tropical landscaping only the Valenzuelas could afford in this part of Mexico. Skwisgaar cut the engine in the front drive and turned to give the two agents a somber stare.

“Put on a vest at least,” Pickles pleaded. “Please.”

“He is already knowings dat bullets is useless, Pickle. I wills be okay.”

Pickles knew it was pointless to argue. It was out of his hands. All he could do now was hope. He leaned forward and Skwisgaar felt the tickle of Pickles’ bristly goatee against his face, then soft lips. It was the same kiss that had brought him back to life when he thought he had nothing left to live for. He had something now, and he let Pickles know it, returning the gesture with every ounce of love and gratitude he could muster.

Murderface grumbled and gnawed on his half-spent cigar. “Alright, ladiesh. Let’s get thish over with now,” he muttered.

* * *

Toki was on the phone with Ofdensen in the study, cheerfully discussing plans for his solo album.

“-and don’t lets anyones else tells you otherwise. Oh, and I wants that new track on there too, Poison Apple.”

“Ah yes, the…one about a desert homicide.”

“Yeah, that one.”

“Mr. Wartooth, I would ah, advise you against doing that with your stepson’s…accident still fresh in-”

“Ha! Who gives a craps about that olds news anymore? Not me. Boo hoo, so sad. I think I gonna cry-”

“But Mr. Wartooth, I’m afraid you don’t-”

“Look, as soon as this all blow overs I be right backs in L.A. to finish things up with de albums that is gonna has that fucking songs on it or-”

“Toki, there isn’t going to be an album.”

“…what?”

“A letter on my desk this morning. Sender unknown. It said that-”

There was a knock at the door. Toki put his hand over the receiver and snapped, “What is it!”

From behind the door, Big Nate rumbled, “Someone to see you, boss.”

“Tells them to go away! I’m very-”

The door swung open. Toki turned and froze, his face a picture of horror.

“…you are no longer the fastest guitarist alive, Mr. Wartooth.”

The phone thumped onto the rug and was silent.

Skwisgaar, upright and bandaged but very much alive, stood in the doorway with Nathan towering in silence just behind him. Toki stumbled back as if he were seeing a ghost. In a way, he was. Skwisgaar smiled menacingly. “Hello. Daddy.”

Toki backed up against the desk, eyes wide. “No. No it can’t be you. I fucking shoots you.”

“You misseds.”

Time stood still as stepfather and stepson stared each other down, then everything suddenly snapped into motion: Skwisgaar lowered his shoulders and charged, slamming Toki in the chest with his shoulder. Toki hit the floor with the Swede on top of him, pummeling him with both fists. But Toki was stronger, and where speed had allowed him to be taken by surprise, strength now was the determining factor. He planted his knee into Skwisgaar’s stomach and caught him in the head with a hard right. Pain shot through Skwisgaar’s whole body when the fist impacted with his still-tender GSW. He landed on his back, blind with agony, and Toki crawled to his feet.

“Gun!” he called to Big Nate, and caught the weapon with one hand. When Skwisgaar opened his eyes he found himself staring down the barrel of a gun that had already taken him down once before.

Toki smiled triumphantly. “Ha ha! Déjà voodoo. Funny how that is. I really hates for your brain to be ruinings this nice rug, but…I hates you more.”

Skwisgaar muttered under his breath, “Fuck.”

Cold metal touched his forehead as the muzzle pressed into his skin.

“I won’t miss this times,” Toki whispered eerily. “Good night, sweet prince.”

Skwisgaar closed his eyes. He could feel the thoughts inside his head. Wondered what they’d feel like flying behind him in chunks. There was a click. One second…two…three…

He opened his eyes. Toki was looking down at him, surprised. He squeezed the trigger again. Click. Again. Click.

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.

A deep, throaty laugh faded into existence from behind them both. Big Nate was rolling eight hollow points from hand to giant hand.

Toki’s mouth fell open. “You…you…”

“I quit,” Nathan growled. One by one the bullets dropped to the floor and rolled away.

Skwisgaar was chuckling under his breath as he climbed to his feet. A small rivulet of blood had stained his bandages and was running down the side of his face but otherwise he looked quite well. Certainly better than Toki, who decided to try the gun one last time; he lashed out, intending to stun Skwisgaar with a pistol-whip to the face, but Skwisgaar sensed it coming. Though he wasn’t as strong as his stepfather, he was—and would always be—faster than him.

He ducked. The firearm missed him by inches. He reached up and grabbed Toki’s forearm, still in motion, and pushed hard. Then he grabbed Toki’s left wrist and jerked it in that same left-to-right movement, effectively using Toki’s own momentum against him. This took only one and a half seconds. A full body slam later and Toki was face first on the floor, Skwisgaar on top of him and twisting his right arm behind his back. Fingers loosened and dropped the gun. Skwisgaar wrenched upward, forcing the Norwegian to scream in pain.

“Likes dat, ah? It’s is somethings I learns froms de FBIs.”

Toki snarled and Skwisgaar twisted harder. There was a scream. What a lovely sound.

“Okay, lets me gets one thing straights here,” he spoke lowly in Toki’s ear. “Don’ts fuck wis me, Toki Wartooth, or I fuck yous up real good. You don’ts evens want to know what wills happen if I let Nat’an have yous.”

There was an answering growl of approval, and Skwisgaar smiled. “Now, I is going to tell yous how it’s going to be from nows on…”

three years later

The stage was still empty but the crowd was humming like a hive, a mass thousands strong roiling with anticipation, cheering and chanting for one thing only.

Backstage. It was semi-dark in the dressing room, mostly quiet. Two dim figures were moving rhythmically on the futon, motions languid and fluid. Golden hair draped long over bare white skin, glowing ethereally in the low light. A back arched sensually like living art, blond tendrils falling away to reveal the tattoo of a crown-and-snowflake below the nape of the neck.

“Ahh…” sighed Skwisgaar, sinking onto the hips again. “Pickle…”

The redheaded ex-agent pushed against Skwisgaar’s weight, making him moan beautifully. “Yeahhh,” he encouraged softly. “Keep doin’ that, baby.”

The Swede kept on, rolling his hips up and down while Pickles grasped him, sliding his hand up and down the warm, solid flesh.

“Yer perfect…hhaaa yeah, so fuckin’ perfect…”

Skwisgaar held his eyes half open, bottom lip caught between his teeth as he continued to ride Pickles.

Just then there were a few warning bangs on the door and the familiar gargle of Murderface’s voice: “I KNOW WHAT’CHER DOIN’ IN THERE YOU FLAMING FAGGOTSH! WE’RE ON IN TEN MINUTESH SHO HURRY UP!”

It was hard not to laugh at that. Skwisgaar did, grinning and hissing quietly as Pickles mirrored him. It didn’t take Murderface—now retired from the FBI and quite satisfied with being a full time bastard—long to figure out about the Pre-Concert Good-Luck-Fuck tradition that Pickles and Skwisgaar shared. There was more to it than just that of course, but they at least had the dignity of sparing the details from everybody else, fans and bandmates alike.

“Mm, comes in me, Pickle,” Skwisgaar muttered huskily, resuming his sensual motions. “Comes hard ins sides of me.”

Pickles felt his eyes fall half shut as those hushed and fiery words ignited his desire to fever pitch. A few moments later he granted Skwisgaar’s wish, thrusting hard and letting loose inside of him to a symphony of the Swede’s own moans and sighs.

“I love yous,” Skwisgaar whispered, leaning down to brush his nose and lips against that red goatee. “Patrick.”

Pickles smiled vaguely at the name that was now all but dead to two people in the world, and ran his hands over Skwisgaar’s scalp. His fingers sifted through golden strands of hair and his palm brushed gently against the small lump of scar tissue on the side of his head. It always reminded Pickles of what he had almost lost, once upon a time.

His smile faded and an expression of seriousness and melancholy happiness followed in its wake. “I love ya too. Hollywood.”

They shared a kiss, one that never seemed to lose its powers to resurrect life and soul, and then Murderface practically smashed down the door with his fist.

“WE’RE GONNA BE LATE, LOOZSHERSH! MOVE YER ASSHESH!”

Pickles smirked. “Better not be late fer yer big debut, babe.”

Five minutes later they appeared onstage amidst a sea of screaming humanity. Lights flashed, flickered, showered them like glittering stardust from falling comets. Skwisgaar raised his arm and the screaming increased by 50 decibels. He ducked his head a moment, slipping the solid black, steel-tipped, skull-studded banjo of heavy metal doom onto his shoulders. He slid the thumb and finger picks onto his right hand digits and shot a glance at the rest of the band: Nathan was poised at the mic, his naturally guttural, terror-evoking voice making him an apt singer, ready to astound and destroy; Murderface smiled superiorly at the attention he and his bass were receiving, already famous for his notorious Pick Dick technique; Pickles waved at the crowd behind a set of drums, reveling in the glory; and directly beside Skwisgaar, humbled in the shadow of his former stepson, Toki Wartooth was ready to provide rhythm backup on his Flying V as per the arrangement agreed by the U.S. Supreme Court and the National Institute for the Criminally Insane in the case of The People v. Toki Warooth. A pair of 24/7 ankle cuffs had long ago broken his will to run, and even if he somehow managed to break the computer-chip activated lock, two sharp-shooting federal attendants were always nearby to pacify him with 5cc’s of heavy duty animal tranqs. It sure beat being in prison at least.

Toki had settled into his new lifestyle quite well, having undergone some major changes; his power lost and his kingdom fallen, he had now regressed to a “safety age” of childlike naiveté and selective ignorance where he felt least likely he would be harmed. This was his knee-jerk reaction for self-preservation, and he had a lot to fight for. The constant reminder of being Second Best and the ridicule he received from others was the punishment he would endure for the rest of his life. Cruel and unusual it might be, but it was better than wasting talents of even the homicidal second-fastest-guitarist-alive to a syringe of sodium thiopental.

Skwisgaar spoke loudly over the roar, “You readys, Daddy-Os?”

Toki looked up and nodded wordlessly.

Skwisgaar glanced one last time at Pickles and then faced the teeming, clamoring sea of fans. The camera flashes shone like thousands of stars before him—stars more brilliant than those in the sky, for these had greater meaning—and he had a funny feeling that everything, even after tonight and all the tonights stretched out in front of him, everything was going to be okay.

Everything was going to be okay.