“I’m sure we’re going to be great friends.”
The fat kid found Mr. World in the Rainbow Room—a walled section of the path, its window glass covered in clear plastic sheets of green and red and yellow film. He was walking impatiently from window to window, staring out, in turn, at a golden world, a red world, a green world. His hair was reddish-orange and close-cropped to his skull. He wore a Burberry raincoat.
The fat kid coughed. Mr. World looked up.
“Excuse me? Mister World?”
“Yes? Is everything on schedule?”
The fat kid’s mouth was dry. He licked his lips, and said, “I’ve set up everything. I don’t have confirmation on the choppers.”
“The helicopters will be here when we need them.”
“Good,” said the fat kid. “Good.” He stood there, not saying anything, not going away. There was a bruise on his forehead.
After a while Mr. World said, “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
A pause. The boy swallowed and nodded. “Something else,” he said. “Yes.”
“Would you feel more comfortable discussing it in private?”
The boy nodded again.
Mr. World walked with the kid back to his operations center: a damp cave containing a diorama of drunken pixies making moonshine with a still. A sign outside warned tourists away during renovations. The two men sat down on plastic chairs.
“How can I help you?” asked Mr. World.
“Yes. Okay. Right, two things, Okay. One. What are we waiting for? And two. Two is harder. Look. We have the guns. Right. We have the firepower. They have fucking swords and knives and fucking hammers and stone axes. And like, tire irons. We have fucking smart bombs.”
“Which we will not be using,” pointed out the other man.
“I know that. You said that already. I know that. And that’s doable. But. Look, ever since I did the job on that bitch in L.A. I’ve been…” He stopped, made a face, seemed unwilling to go on.
“You’ve been troubled?”
“Yes. Good word. Troubled. Yes. Like a home for troubled teens. Funny. Yes.”
“And what exactly is troubling you?”
“Well, we fight, we win.”
“And that is a source of trouble? I find it a matter of triumph and delight, myself.”
“But. They’ll die out anyway. They are passenger pigeons and thylacines. Yes? Who cares? This way, it’s going to be a bloodbath. If we just wait them out, we get the whole thing.”
“Ah.” Mr. World nodded.
He was following. That was good. The fat kid said, “Look, I’m not the only one who feels this way. I’ve checked with the crew at Radio Modern, and they’re all for settling this peacefully; and the Intangibles are pretty much in favor of letting market forces take care of it. I’m being. You know. The voice of reason here.”
“You are indeed. Unfortunately, there is information you do not have.” The smile that followed was twisted and scarred.
The boy blinked. He said, “Mister World? What happened to your lips?”
World sighed. “The truth of the matter,” he said, “is that somebody sewed them together. A long time ago.”
“Whoa,” said the fat kid. “Serious omertà shit.”
“Yes. You want to know what we’re waiting for? Why we didn’t strike last night?”
The fat kid nodded. He was sweating, but it was a cold sweat.
“We didn’t strike yet, because I’m waiting for a stick.”
“A stick?”
“That’s right. A stick. And do you know what I’m going to do with the stick?”
A head shake. “Okay. I’ll bite. What?”
“I could tell you,” said Mr. World, soberly. “But then I’d have to kill you.” He winked, and the tension in the room evaporated.
The fat kid began to giggle, a low, snuffling laugh in the back of his throat and in his nose. “Okay,” he said. “Hee. Hee. Okay. Hee. Got it. Message received on Planet Technical. Loud and clear. Ixnay on the estionsquay.”
Mr. World shook his head. He rested a hand on the fat kid’s shoulder. “Hey,” he said. “You really want to know?”
“Sure.”
“Well,” said Mr. World, “seeing that we’re friends, here’s the answer: I’m going to take the stick, and I’m going to throw it over the armies as they come together. As I throw it, it will become a spear. And then, as the spear arcs over the battle, I’m going to shout, ‘I dedicate this battle to Odin.’”
“Huh?” said the fat kid. “Why?”
“Power,” said Mr. World. He scratched his chin. “And food. A combination of the two. You see, the outcome of the battle is unimportant. What matters is the chaos, and the slaughter.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Let me show you. It’ll be just like this,” said Mr. World.