It's a Big Fucking Party, and Everyone will be There

https://youtu.be/K-Ku0xjfBNY

It’s a Big Fucking Party, and Everyone Will be There

Part I

It was a good day for a celebration. It was, of course, always a good day for a celebration on Bourbon Street. Holliday kept the whole place at about seventy degrees, and hidden fans replicated a light breeze. But today was an especially good day for it. He’d just dealt a hardy blow in his game of fucking with Bacchae, after a lot of hard work to set up an entire mystery. Now he deserved a little rest. A little drink, a little party, a little time to kick back and relax.

It was Mardi Gras, after all. Or at least, by his calculations. And so he had set his underlings the task of planning and executing the biggest celebration they possibly could, so that he may simply sit back and partake. It was apparently shaping up to be a wild weekend of debauchery. Despite the general tension, many of Discord’s residents had caught word and were making a point of showing up, against Bacchae’s wishes though it may be. This meant the general level of class might decrease, but it was Mardi Gras, drunken bullshit was the special of the day. He had plenty of staff to deal with the aftermath. And he didn’t even have to pay those ones!

And so, right as the festivities were kicking off about midday, Holliday sat on the veranda of his favorite restaurant on Bourbon Street, a glass of Merlot in one hand and Zellie Lablanc’s thigh in the other.

“I’m surprised you canceled your performances this weekend,” he commented, “though I will say I am enjoying the company.”

Zellie tittered, her face looking surprisingly girlish behind her sunglasses. “It is not a big loss,” she explained. “Drunken fools do not often appreciate the fine arts. Besides, the girls are happy they getting to join in the fun.”

“Practical as always,” he grinned, squeezing her thigh playfully.

“If I just told you I wanted to enjoy the party with you, you would be thoroughly bored.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t be as fun without the chase.”

Just then, another group entered the veranda, and the two of them leaned away from each other. Zellie was a favorite of Holliday’s, it was no secret. But for the sake of both their reputations, it was wisest to appear at least somewhat available.

Still, Holliday enjoyed Zellie’s company just as much as her body, and so they discussed this and that—preparations for the upcoming opera, the plans to redecorate some of the luxury rooms at the Tombstone—while they sipped their wine and waited for their meal to arrive.

There were several waiters on staff that day, of course. But when you were Holliday, the chef delivered your food personally. He was an awkwardly-shaped man, a bit like a barrel close to bursting, yet he put himself together well. His orange beard was closely trimmed, and his hair slicked back with perhaps just a little too much wax.

“Monsieur Holliday, it is always a pleasure, sir,” he bowed slightly. Holliday liked it when he was shown the proper amount of respect he was owed. It reminded him of just how much he’d built for himself in his private little kingdom.

The chef described in detail the entirety of the full ten-course dining experience, but a good portion of it was lost on Holliday. He liked to play the worldly man of culture, but he was still much more at home with a bowl of gumbo than whatever fancy French words had just emerged from the man’s mouth. This was his favorite restaurant not because of its quality, or hoity-toity air, but rather because of the bizarre, nearly experimental techniques used to create the things the chef dubbed “food.” The fact that he could rarely understand what the menu actually was made the reveals all the more surprising.

The artificial lights of the strip were dimming just in time for the parade as their first course was brought out: a small pile of mint-flavored foam. What a delight!

“Look at this, Zellie, it’s foam for god’s sake,” he beamed after the chef had left and she chuckled at his bemusement.

The second course was even more fascinating: something the chef described as a “mousse,” but appeared to be made of meat. Holliday wasn’t quite sure, but mousse was typically a type of dessert, wasn’t it? There was also a surprise toasted nut in the middle of the pile. It was slop, only that, but when it was served at Pompier, it was apparently supposed to be treated as art.

He was even more curious about what could possibly be coming next, but by this point he got slightly distracted, as the parade was in full swing directly below them. Legions of women in bedazzled leotards with huge feather fans, men on stilts, a full marching band, and enough fake plastic-beaded necklaces to clog up the entire Mississippi. Around the procession, the onlookers were already getting rowdy, fighting over the necklaces as they were flung into the crowd.

Holliday took another sip of wine and sighed with contentment. If this wasn’t Mardi Gras then he had no damn clue what was. It made him a little nostalgic for home: his N’orleans.

With a small hiss he heard the sound of fireworks going off. A surprising development. He hadn’t expected the staff to go that far. Probably they’d kept it from him on purpose. He grinned as he waited to see what they looked like.

But as they popped, and sizzled, and exploded into the sky, the smile fell off his face. The fireworks were words, and as the letters appeared one by one, all Holliday could do was sigh and shake his head. “The Tea Party wuz here… suckers!”

The final cherry on the cake was the stussy at the end.

Next to him, Zellie gasped audibly. “They are crashing your wonderful party. How rude of them!”

Holliday shook his head again, and finished off his glass of wine, slamming the glass down on the table maybe a little harder than he intended. This was going to be a long night. “Honestly, I’m not sure why I expected any less.”

~ o ~

“Hoh, boy,” Bacchae flopped forward on his plastic horse, wiping a little sweat from his forehead. “That might be me all tapped out for the day.”

“Uh, what do you mean?” Kei raised an eyebrow, her arms crossed over her chest as she sat in the carriage behind him. “Please don’t tell me you wasted your ability to do anything useful on a goddamn light show.”

He flipped around the pole, which connected his horse to the structure of the abandoned carousel, looking irritated. “Look, we had to make a big entrance, right? And you can’t get real fucking fireworks to do that shit. It’s not my fault there were so many people around who had to think they were there.”

Kei put her face in her hands. “No, we didn’t,” she moaned. “We could cause so much more damage if Holliday doesn’t know we’re here, like I’ve been trying to tell you this whole time.”

“I think you have a fundamental misunderstanding of what this top secret mission is all about.”

“Really?” Kei scoffed. “Then enlighten me.”

Jack was the only member of the Tea Party who wasn’t on the carousel. Instead he was busy carving something—there was a non-zero possibility that it was dicks—into the metal railings that surrounded it. At Kei’s sarcastic request he glanced up for the first time in several minutes. “It’s about sending a message.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass how much we actually fuck up this stupid shindig,” Bacchae elaborated, now standing and leaning dramatically towards her with only his grip on the pole keeping him upright. “I just want that bastard to know that we’re here, and we’re fucking up his steeze, and there’s not a goddamn thing he can do about it.”

“Actually!” Kei fumed. “There are a lot of things he can do about it. Unlike you, he’s got a whole platoon of security ready and willing to fuck up our shit so bad that it’s gonna start spewing from our mouths. And you know! What would have really! Helped with that? The ability to make them think you’re not there!”

“Just don’t get caught then, dumbass!” Bacchae laughed. “Besides, that’s Jack’s job.”

“Right. I’m on bloody distraction duty.”

“Remember: wound, maybe a little maiming as a treat. But no killing. I’m declaring: ‘fuck you, buddy,’ not: ‘I’m starting a fucking war,’ you dig?”

Jack was obviously a little put out by this. “What if just one were to go… missing?” he bargained.

“What? No!” Kei was going to wear down her teeth if she kept gritting them like that.

Bacchae instead considered it. “As long as there’s no body.”

“I won’t even leave a speck,” Jack promised.

“I can’t believe you’re letting him do this.”

Plopping down next to her, Bacchae’s arm squiggled its way around her shoulders. “Maybe you should be worrying about your job instead of Jack’s.”

“Which is? You haven’t even told me yet.”

“Well, Jack’s distracting security, I have a series of elaborate schemes to accomplish, so you can… uh…” Bacchae scratched behind his horns. “I don’t know. What do you do?”

“Besides bitch all the bloody time,” Jack chuckled.

Kei opened her mouth to retort, crossing her arms over her chest again. This action, unfortunately caused Bacchae’s gaze to drift downward.

“Oh, that’s it,” he said. “Go seduce someone inconvenient or something. Cause a scandal. Isn’t that what you evil queen types do?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Real fucking funny.”

Standing, Bacchae stretched, before vaulting over the carousel’s railing. It had made for a good staging ground for the operation, abandoned in some forgotten corner of the strip. But now it was showtime. “Alright freaks and geeks, it’s time to get your tap shoes on. Jack, sick ‘em.”

“Aye, aye, cap’n,” Jack flashed him a sharp grin before skulking off to commit at least one heinous crime.

“Welp,” Bacchae placed a rather large hat on his head. “That gives me like ten minutes to swipe a shot… or three. See you on the other side.” He sauntered off too, leaving Kei alone, still sitting in the stiff, plastic carriage designed for asses much smaller than her own.

“Seduce someone?” she scoffed to herself. “That fucking… motherfucker.”

~ o ~

Of course, in preparation for this occasion, all of Bourbon Street’s security had been given descriptions of the Tea Party members. They were told to keep a special eye out for Jack, and that if they saw him, to get him off the street as quickly as possible. They were not told why.

He was the first one they happened to spot, lucky for them, or maybe unlucky. But of course, Jack did nothing to hide.

The guards were already on high alert, so when he grabbed the nearest pretty young thing and held a knife to her throat, in one of the busiest intersections on the strip, they immediately took notice.

She trembled violently in his arms, and reeked of tequila. A part of Jack howled to just tear into her throat right now, with his teeth preferably, but he held it together. He’d get his prize when the work was done.

Still, he wanted to get out of this spot as soon as he could. “Oi, coppers!” he shouted, gathering the attention of as many as he possibly could.

They were afraid of him, though they maybe didn’t know quite why they should be yet. He could tell by how cautiously they approached. Seven of them, he counted. It was good, for a start.

Of course, some of them had been around the block once or twice, and it was only a matter of time until one of them recognized him. “Fuck, that’s Laughing Jack,” one of them muttered. Luckily, most of the crowd around them were too damn drunk and enraptured by party vibes to actually realize there was a hostage situation going down right in front of their eyes. This meant he had to wait a long time for the guards to wind their way closer to him without alerting the herd. Finally, they got close enough that one of them raised a baton.

And so he shoved the drunk woman towards them and ran the opposite direction. One of them would stay behind to make sure she was alright, but six followed close behind him. They all had guns, of course. Jack, however, was banking on the crowd to prevent them from actually shooting at him.

Down the main strip he went, tearing through the crowd, trying to make a general commotion all while running past as many guards as he could. He was target numero uno, and by this point, even the ones who had no idea who he was wanted him dead. He wondered idly if Holliday had offered a contract reduction for the one that brought him his head, with all the fervor they were chasing him with. It honestly wouldn’t be that surprising. He could probably take advantage of that.

A little more than halfway down the street—he could now see the Tombstone, and the grandstand they’d set up in front of it, glittering in the distance—Jack’s breath started hitching. And if he was feeling the exertion of bobbing and weaving through the crowd, he couldn’t imagine how the guards must be feeling. If he wasn’t careful they might start peeling off. Which meant it was time.

Even a joint with a layout as simple of Bourbon Street had abandoned corners, dark spots, the abandoned carousel was proof of that. At the very least, you needed a place for the dangerously drunk to spew their guts out that wasn’t in the middle of the crowd. And Jack was good at finding them.

This spot would do nicely. Just off the thoroughfare: large, overhanging balconies, and a quiet little square of unused pavement. As he dashed through, he grabbed some rope that was probably being used to tie up a banner or something before being forgotten in the chaos. It would do very nicely.

By this point, there were at least twenty guards chasing him. Bacchae’s instructions had been to distract, but disabling accomplished the same thing, and it was less work for him. If only he’d been allowed to kill. He understood the reasoning, but a part of him insisted that the reasoning was stupid. Still, what Bacchae said went, and it was easier to listen if the order was coming from someone else.

The first couple rounded the corner of the back street, but by the time more joined them their pace had slowed. “Where the hell did he vanish to?” one mumbled.

“Uh, uh. Don’t like this,” said a second. “I think we should get out of here.”

“Why?” a third sneered. “I’m getting my contract torn up, I don’t care who the fuck this guy is.”

“Haven’t you heard the rumors?”

“Rumors? I wandered into this freakshow two months ago. I don’t know jack squat about this Laughing Jack, and frankly, I don’t give a shit.”

“He’s a goddamn serial killer,” the first guard was sweating now. “Real gruesome stuff.”

“The daemons can just shake that shit off, but for us…”

“I heard he eats the eyeballs of his victims.” A falsehood. He mostly just joked about that one for shock value.

“I heard he killed a hundred people before Bacchae put him on a leash.” A hundred? In Discord? How efficient did people think he was?

“I heard he keeps a pet alligator in the labyrinth below Discord and feeds it with the blood of his victims.” That one… well, okay that one was only half wrong.

“Oh yeah? Well I heard that he flays anyone who flaps their gums with all these nasty rumors about him.”

That got a few nervous chuckles before they turned and realized just who had said that. The guards closest to him freaked, but Jack was already gone. Desperately, they glanced around, alerting their fellows. Yet they were looking in the entirely wrong place. There was a loud crack from the wooden balcony above their heads, and then a scream as a body dropped right next to them.

It bobbed a little, caught by the rope that held it by the foot. A second of examination revealed that the unfortunate bastard was merely unconscious, not dead. But who knew if he would stick to that.

“You know,” came a low growl that they couldn’t for the life of them determine the origin of, “I’m really not a fan of chin-waggers, They like to do stupid things like prattling to the papers.”

Another muffled cry was followed by a slam as another guard disappeared through a darkened doorway.

“Luckily for me, I’ve already been told that I can do whatever I want to you wannabe coppers.”

They caught a brief glimpse of musty coat as he dangled off the upper railing and bashed two of their heads together with enough force to cause at least a moderate concussion.

“So I’m pretty sure you should be trying a little harder to catch me.”

One more guard slipped on a rope that had been left in a loop, and now Jack had already pulled him onto the balcony and was holding a knife to his throat. He whimpered.

“Or else I’m certainly going to catch you.”

He sliced. For a second, the other guards stood frozen in horror as Jack’s newest victim gagged, staggered, and finally collapsed onto the wooden floor. His blood started dripping through the gaps in the slats, right onto their heads.

The rest of them bolted. Jack grinned.

The game was on.

Part II

Holliday had had a special box constructed for himself at the top of the grandstand. It was here, overlooking the courtyard in front of the Tombstone, that the parade would end and several other events would be hosted throughout the weekend. The headliners were supposed to have been Doesn’t Matter, but after the debacle with their manager Pierson, that unfortunately had to change. An errant thought had occurred to Holliday that he was personable enough to headline the damn thing himself, but he pushed that away. That was stupid, what would he even do?

It was quite a nice courtyard, if he did say so himself, and he did. Well-trimmed hedges, a lovely little plaza in the middle. On the far side was a bronze statue of a gunslinger drawing his revolver, you know, to fit in with the theme of the casino. Most would tell you that its face rather resembled Holliday, but he would never admit to it.

Yes, it was all very well and good. It really showed off his power and affluence. If only there weren’t rats running around in it. Already he’d gotten reports of a one “Laughing Jack” terrorizing his security staff, and he was quite sure they’d be experiencing an alcohol shortage before long. That is, if Bacchae had anything to say about it.

But really, he was disappointed more than anything. Was this the best that Bacchae, Lord of Discord, God of Madness, even, could really do? Besides a brief foray to figure out just what the hell had happened to him, Holliday had stayed away from Discord when he’d first become a daemon. He’d been small and weak then, and was convinced that if Bacchae realized he was still alive, he’d crush him like an ant, and probably try to snort the bitter remains. But he’d heard stories.

People whispered Bacchae’s name in reverence. They’d still worshiped him like a rock star back then as they did now, yet at the same time, he could tell that anyone who’d ever actually met the man was deathly afraid of him. Holliday himself was no exception. One could never tell if what they were about to say would make him pat them on the back or shoot them in the face.

By the time Holliday had barely begun his assent, to reach a place where he could even hope to challenge him, he was already gone. Simply vanished, and no one could tell him where to. And Holliday had tried.

So he’d spent all those years preparing, acquiring every possible advantage, every asset and insurance he could muster. And when someday Bacchae did come back—he was certain he would—Holliday would be more than ready for him.

And yet so far his preparations seemed to have been made in error. For Bacchae was—if you’ll pardon the phrase—a goddamn pushover. All it seems he did was get shitfaced and get his dick wet, only sometimes in that order. If anything, Kei was the one he had to worry about. A beautiful woman like that with brains in her head to boot was a deadly combination. Bacchae had no idea just what it was he had in her.

Unless he did. Unless he was smart enough to know that keeping Kei around would allow him to pursue his whoring and boozing in peace. Before, Holliday would have believed that without a second thought. Now, he was nearly convinced that Bacchae was simply the luckiest idiot to ever live.

And if that was the case, then kicking him into the dirt where he belonged was going to be easy. Easy was not fun. In fact, it was frankly the most boring thing in the world. He’d expected a challenge, been craving it, really, from the one person left in this cosmos who may have been able to give him one.

Holliday took a sip of his whiskey—on the rocks, of course, he wasn’t an animal—and sighed. Deep down, he was still hoping that Bacchae would do something big tonight, something that had the potential to make him reassess things. As it stood though, he wasn’t hopeful.

If this little invasion hadn’t occurred, Zellie would be next to him right now in the box. He knew that he shouldn’t play favorites. If he was too publicly fond of her that very well could have put a target on her back. But still, it was good optics to have a woman on his arm, and secretly, deep down, he wanted to show her off a little.

Holliday wasn’t particularly fond of using her like this, but in the end she’d been the one who’d volunteered to be his eyes. So far, he was sure that he was the only person who knew her secrets. That would probably change tonight, but like he said, there was one person that he needed to neutralize as fast as possible. One person that was capable of causing any actual damage.

And that person wasn’t Bacchae.

~ o ~

If Bacchae was honest, there was really only one reason he’d wanted to crash this shindig. It was because he was upset that someone was having a party and he hadn’t been invited. Sworn enemies or not, withholding an invitation to Mardi Gras of all things was just plain rude.

Of course, if he’d just wanted to join in on the fun, he could have made the drunken crowd think he was someone else and enjoy the raucous frivolities. He’d probably remember what he really looked like eventually. But Bacchae’s ego wouldn’t allow for that. Oh no. He felt the burning desire to express his rage in the most obnoxious way he knew how.

In hindsight, the fireworks probably had been a bad idea. He really was mostly out of juice now. At the very least, he could make his hair a different color, though it had to be a boring, ordinary brown to slip under the revelers radars enough to perceive it as such. Without the fireworks he could’ve done any color under the goddamn sun and had them swearing it was all natural. Alas, being low on batteries meant a boring brown and a large hat for the horns. It probably wouldn’t last very long either.

His first stop was, of course, a bar. There were plenty of those on Bourbon Street, and most of them had big shutters on the front that opened them directly onto the street. This enabled even more revelers to enter and stumble forth as they pleased. Ahh, felt like home.

Of course, he had to try an enormous cocktail in a novelty glass, come on, man. And it was rum, the ultimate party booze, only second to Everclear. The bartender blinked once at him, as if there was something he wanted to comment on but didn’t. Most people who interacted with him for more than a minute would probably do that. But the trickery should hold.

It took Bacchae probably the whole of five minutes to down the cocktail. He spent that time admiring the scene before him. Street musicians were lined up and down the way, all just far enough away that their notes wouldn’t overlap. Bacchae couldn’t help noticing there was a much stronger emphasis on brass than you would find on Discord. Magicians were harassing passersby, trying to rope them into some obscure card trick or feat of daring. Of course, Bacchae knew how most of them were accomplished, but he felt no need to spill them to the world. He only did that to assholes.

His plan was to commence his shenaniganry after he’d finished his drink, but the thing about drinking was that as soon as you had one, another sounded excellent. So he stopped at another bar and got a double shot of rye whiskey. And then he stopped again and got bourbon this time. It only seemed appropriate.

And then, finally, he pulled himself away and proceeded with the mischief-making.

Again, he had somewhat hampered himself with his little display earlier, but that was fine. He’d just have to get a little creative. And he loved a challenge.

It was shortly after that that many of the revelers noticed an awful lot of things going wrong at this Mardi Gras. Little things mostly. And to top it off, most of the security guards seemed awfully distracted about something, which didn’t help.

First of all, a lot of alcohol seemed to be going missing. Bars were somehow running out of the stuff, and much faster than they should have. Then there were the magicians. They were complaining about some unauthorized illusionist poaching on their assigned spaces, explaining their tricks to the audience and then producing another that even they couldn’t figure out. Seems Bacchae had found some assholes among the crowd. Also the restrooms became crowded very quickly. Something appeared to be wrong with the food at one or two particular restaurants, which was causing a lot of long traffic to all the public powder rooms.

The go-karts malfunctioned, graffiti was popping up in several very inconvenient places, and more than one carriage had the horses spooked by something in the crowd. All in all, it was becoming somewhat of a mess for the staff trying to keep it running, but Holliday just kept smiling and telling them that this was exactly what he’d expected.

Meanwhile, the perpetrator was having the time of his life. Well, at least for the first hour or so. The act of simple trickery was innate to his core, and it was his special way of joining in on the revelry. Yet as he kept going, the lights of the strip started feeling brighter, the crowds louder. Maybe he shouldn’t have had that tenth—eleventh? No, tenth drink. His stomach was almost starting to get a little queasy.

At first, he tried to ignore his fatigue, but the longer he did, the more pronounced it became. Pretty soon he was squinting as he stumbled through the crowd.

Worst of all, he didn’t even feel like drinking anymore.

Really? After only ten drinks? God, that was pathetic. He’d been trying his best to build back up his tolerance, but it didn’t seem to be doing anything. He’d never felt this before, like he’d drunk so much that he was a boat floating in a choppy ocean, at least not before all of this.

A few minutes. All he needed was a few minutes’ rest, and then he’d be totally fine and up for another round. He had to be, right?

Bacchae was glad that no one important was around to see him like this as he slipped into an alley and out of sight.

~ o ~

Kei had no idea what she was supposed to be doing. Jack was terrorizing most of the guards and Bacchae was doing... whatever the hell it was he did, so where did that leave her? Her job was planning the party, not crashing it.

Also the notion that she could just “seduce” someone inconvenient was laughable. She didn’t know who anyone on Bourbon Street was, let alone the dynamics and drama at play. A honeypot scheme like that might take months of infiltration and schmoozing. The only person of value she might have a shot with was Holliday himself, but that would cause the wrong kind of drama.

She had to admit that she’d thought about it once or twice, when she was especially pissed at Bacchae. But now was not the time for that. She’d chosen a side and for once in her life she was going to stick with it. As dysfunctional as it was.

Unfortunately for Kei, her face had clearly been shown around to security, and Jack hadn’t been able to grab all of them. So here she was, ducking into an alley and praying that the two undercover guards who had been following her for the last few blocks would just go away.

As she heard footsteps, she snuck around yet another corner. The main street may have been broad and bright as hell, but the little back streets nearly reminded her of Discord. It seemed that a lot of these side alleys were full of places currently in disuse, whether for Mardi Gras specifically or more long term she couldn’t say.

Kei really wanted to get out of the open, if only for a few minutes; they were less likely to check for her inside. Luckily, it was at that very second that she happened to see an old wooden door slightly open, just ahead of her. Probably it led to a storeroom or something similar, which would be a perfect spot to camp out until her pursuers got bored.

So carefully, she slipped inside, and after debating with herself for a second, closed the door behind her.

The first thing she was greeted with was a somewhat stiff, velvet curtain. But once she pushed that aside she realized that her assumptions had been incorrect. This was not just a storeroom. It was—for Bourbon Street, at least—a rather modest lounge.

She had been right about one thing though. It certainly wasn’t supposed to be in use at the moment. Though there were many round tables scattered around the seating area, all of the chairs were placed on top of them. The bar had been emptied out and several crates were piled on its counter. The stage was empty, save for a piano, which, though slightly out of tune, was currently in use.

For a second, she almost didn’t recognize the man tickling those ivories. His expression was so... well, absent. Eyes closed, his face was entirely relaxed, entirely still. Even when he opened them to check his finger placement, he maintained that concentrated look that one often has when only playing for one’s self.

Kei’s heart skipped a singular beat as, just for a moment, she thought he might be someone else. But no, there was no mistaking the coat resting on the bench beside him, the horns wrapping around his head. That was—somehow—Bacchae.

He didn’t see her in the shadows by the door. He still didn’t see her as slowly, like she was trying not to disturb an anxious cat, Kei crept closer. The melancholy tune echoed around the empty space, masking her approach. And so she stood down there, just a few feet away from the stage. She had never seen how he looked when he didn’t think anyone was watching.

Then he played a sour note, and the spell was broken. “Fuck,” he mumbled, and ran a hand through his hair. “Guess I’m a little rusty.”

“Is that the only song you know, or do you take requests?” Kei asked, closing the last few feet and leaning on the stage.

There was a split second of genuine surprise as he spotted her. But then immediately he tilted his head and a lopsided grin sprouted from the corners of his mouth. All masks again. Maybe she should have let him go a little longer. “I only take requests from paying customers.”

“Paying who? You?” she scoffed. “I don’t see a tip jar.”

“Oh there’s a tip alright, but I only put it in the jar when I’m particularly lonely.”

Electing to not deign the crude joke with a response, Kei changed the subject. “I didn’t know you played.”

He grabbed the bottle of rum he had rested on the floor next to him and took a big swig. “Don’t look so surprised. I can have skills when I try.”

“It wasn’t that. Well, okay, it was, but I just figured you’d have picked the guitar.”

“Guitar?” He almost sounded offended.

“Everyone knows chicks dig guitars. You know ‘here’s Wonderwall’ and all that.”

He shook his head and waggled a finger at her. “Sure, if you wanna pick up any old floozy. Every man knows that classy bitches dig piano.”

“You? Into ‘classy bitches’? Since when? And gimme that,” Kei swiped the bottle from him and took a swig as well.

“Listen. When you’re a guy who can have any old broad he wants—”

Kei snorted.

“—You learn to love the chase. But when you’re chasing, you always have to have an ace in the hole.”

“And piano is yours?”

“Well, it’s workin’, ain’t it?” he winked at her.

She shook her head. “Is it the rum making you charming or have you been holding out on me?”

“It’s the piano! That’s what I’ve been trying to fuckin’ tell ya.”

“You know,” she frowned, “for someone who was so concerned about crashing this party, you’re sure content to sit in here flirting behind your little piano.”

“Have you been outside? Trust me, I’ve been have a great fucking time out there. And what’ve you done so far, hmm?”

“Well, I haven’t seduced anyone yet, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Sure you have.”

“You don’t count.”

“Better get hoofing, then. Time’s ticking. Jack can’t keep the fuzz distracted forever. Not if we want them all in one piece before sun-up.”

“I don’t know why I play these stupid games with you.” She huffed and simply turned, leaving without a second glance. And by god did he love watching her go. That is, until he realized something just a few moments too late.

“Wait a fucking… bitch took my fucking booze.”

Part III

Kei stumbled down a quiet side street, mostly empty bottle of rum still in hand. Even as dizzy as she was, as blurry as everything around her was, she still managed to scowl down at the bricks. They were fit perfectly together, forming swimming patterns before her eyes. Too clean, too pretty. Where were the gaps in the mortar, the uneven grade in places where the ground had hardened and pushed the bricks up?

The very street below her two left feet felt cold, artificial. Discord didn’t feel like that. As much as she despised her position as scheming vizier cum babysitter, she knew that ultimately, she didn’t regret the side she’d picked. It was easy to forget that sometimes. Even if her boss was a batshit fucking prick.

Go seduce someone? Really? After everything she’d done for Discord, for him, that was what he thought of her, huh? Or maybe he was being condescending on purpose.

She raised the bottle to her lips again. She wasn’t shitfaced quite yet. This bottle was empty, and when Kei had one drink, she always thought that another five sounded great; she’d have to find another.

But first, she needed to steady herself a bit. So she leaned against a stucco wall, and watched the lamp-lights spin for a while. It was times like this she wished she smoked. Wouldn’t it just feel great to have a cigarette in hand right now?

Not that she would ever actually dare. Booze and weed were habit-forming, sure, but nicotine would slap you raw and make you its bitch. And Kei would be no one’s bitch. She was the bitch, thank you very much.

In fact, she much preferred being on the other side of bitch-making. And you know what? She’d prove it right now. Bacchae wanted her to seduce someone, she’d goddamn do it. Because heading right down the street towards her was the perfect mark.

He was a young man, still had that thinness in the face that young people who don’t regularly get enough sleep do. He was also a bit more put together than she’d like; his hair was slicked back into a dark ponytail. But the few strands that had fallen out from the wild night of debauchery were charming. And the waistcoat fit him well.

This little fucker wouldn’t know what hit him, not after she’d done her thing.

“Scuse me,” she called to him as he passed, “would you mind terribly if I stole a cigarette from you?”

Again, just to be clear with herself, she didn’t smoke. But she’d found that it was by far the easiest way to strike up a conversation with a stranger.

He stopped in front of her, examined her for a moment. Oh yeah, she’s definitely shit-faced. You can totally take advantage of this situation. Go for it, she dared him.

“Well, sure,” he grinned, definitely not sober himself, “anything for a pretty lady in distress.”

It was cute the way he fumbled around for a second before he located the pack. Not a brand she recognized, but that wasn’t necessarily unusual. Who knew where this guy actually came from? He pulled out one for her and a second for himself, then leaned against the wall next to her.

He held his cigarette very delicately, she noticed, as he grabbed a lighter with the other hand. It was a nice lighter too, metal of some description. Graciously, he lit her cigarette, which she put to her lips but did not inhale.

“Crazy party out there,” Kei commented, trying to distract him from the fact that no smoke was passing her lips as she mimed the motions.

“Sure is,” he chuckled. “A little chaotic, though. I almost got run over by a carriage a few minutes ago. I don’t think the driver was even sober!”

“Can’t say I’m any better, really,” she said, swaying a little. This time it was on purpose, as she swayed right into him. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she cooed, running her hand down his chest as she righted herself. Not her most subtle work, but drunk as he was, he might need a more obvious hint.

Seemed like he took it. “Where are you staying?” he asked, “I can walk you back if you want to lay down for a minute.”

“Oh, I haven’t checked in anywhere yet. My friend was supposed to, but I lost her in the crowd a while back.”

“Well, you could always come back to my room,” his voice was soft, but when she glanced up at him to bat her eyelashes, his expression didn’t match. “But that’s funny. It should be working by now.”

“What?” she blinked, not sure if she’d heard him correctly.

“The cigarette, it should have knocked you out by now, but oh well, plan B.”

The man whistled. Kei tried to back away before anyone responded to it, but stumbled a bit. For real this time. Had she been fucking played? Son of a bitch! A few guards were emerging from around all of the nearby corners. But before they took her, she had to know. “Who the hell are you?”

Smirking, the man swiped his hand across his face, and on the other side of the gesture, his features had entirely changed. Big, blue eyes, thin jaw, pointed chin. It was not the face of a man at all.

“Bonjour,” she said. “I am Mademoiselle Zellie la Blanc, and I will take you to Monsieur Holliday.”

~ o ~

They were supposed to meet back up at the carousel before the big opening event. Bacchae was, of course, fashionably late, and he stumbled up to the rusty queue rails just as the brass band was beginning to pick up.

He had been mentally preparing himself for a lecture from Kei. Bacchae could practically hear her now: it was unacceptable to be late when that meant he could be captured or worse, we’re in enemy territory, blah blah blah, I’m a temptuous little wench with a great rack, etc, etc. He even closed his eyes to receive and was ready to deliver his scathing one-liner comeback.

“What the fuck are you doing, mate?” Jack asked, and Bacchae realized he probably looked ridiculous with his eyes closed and his arms outstretched.

Jack was leaning against a rather sad-looking unicorn, and Kei was… not there? “Where’s the other one?” Bacchae blinked.

Shrugging, even Jack looked a bit perturbed, which truly was something while his coat sleeves were stained up to the elbows in red. “Dunno,” he said, “she hasn’t shown up yet.”

Uh, uh. Bacchae did not like this. Not one bit. Kei was perpetually on time. She was one of those: “if you’re not five minutes early, you’re late” types. He’d told her to take a chill pill—those had been pretty popular around town recently—and smoke more weed, but it never seemed to take. For some reason, she was insistent that he should actually be places when he said he was going to. Which was ridiculous. How was he supposed to keep ‘em guessing if they could follow his movements like that? ‘They’ meaning every single person he’d ever met, of course.

Bacchae sighed heavily. “Something happened to her, didn’t it?”

“If it was anyone else, I’d say give ‘er fifteen. That cunt? If she was coming, she’d already be here complaining we was late.”

“Aw, shit.” Bacchae leaned back on the queue rail, so far he almost tumbled over it. He was too drunk for this crap right now.

“So what’s the plan, brother?” Jack asked after a minute of letting him stew. Objectively speaking, it would be far better to simply make her find her own way out. She was more than capable of it, and she had an emergency eject button that neither of the boys possessed. But he knew that the chances of Bacchae making the smart move at even the best of times was slim.

“That son of a cocker spaniel has her,” he muttered to himself. “I know he does.”

There was also the fact that his pride would never allow it.

“Then why don’t we go poke around, eh? Everyone’s gathered at the grandstand anyway. We don’t find her, we come back, maybe she shows up.”

Bacchae agreed with little discussion. For once. Jack found this odd. Just in general he seemed a little off his game tonight, but Jack couldn’t put his finger on what it was. Did he seem a little… tired? Nah, it couldn’t be. Bacchae got tired just like everyone else, of course, but he was usually much better at hiding it.

They wound their way through a few side streets, then jimmied up an old fire escape, so they could get a good view of the strip. Sure enough, most of the revelers were gathered at the courtyard directly in front of the Tombstone, watching enraptured at a brass band belting out the swing classics. Above it all, watching from his private box, Holliday sat in his stupid fucking velvet suit, that little trollop actress on his arm. Though they were a bit in shadow, if they squinted, they could make out what might have been a third person in the box with them.

This person looked a whole lot less enthused to be there, judging by the way their arms were crossed over their chest. Jack shook his head, and Bacchae swore up a storm under his breath.

“So, guess the jig’s up then, eh?” Jack grimaced. “We getting the hell outta dodge?”

“No, we have to go fucking get her.”

“Isn’t that what the cock-swallower wants?”

Bacchae looked like he was going to punch something, thought better of it, then almost went for it a second time.

“Yes, but if we don’t get her then she’ll find her own way out, and lemme tell you, I doubt she’s gonna be happy about it. We finally pulled that stick an inch out of her ass. She’ll weld it in there with molten iron if we leave her.”

“What a positively fucking wretched analogy,” Even Jack crinkled his nose.

“Yeah, not my best work,” Bacchae sighed. “But if it’s a scene he wants, a scene that prick’ll damn well get.”

Jack pulled out a cigarette, passing the rest of the pack to Bacchae before he even asked. “So, what’s the plan then?”

“Well, that’s the damn problem, ain’t it?” He took a large drag, the smoke hanging for only a moment. “We’ll look like idiots just waltzing in there and begging for her back. That’s just what the bastard goddamn wants.”

“Kinda makes you wish you hadn’t bothered with the fireworks, eh?”

“Oh come on, not you too…”

“Would’ve given us more options,” Jack simply shrugged. Bacchae narrowed his eyes, getting an inkling of a hunch that Jack agreed with Kei more than he’d ever admit.

Bacchae squished the remainder of the cigarette under his shoe, frustrated. “Fucking hell. I wanted to save it for later, but I guess he’s fucking forced my hand.”

“What are you talking about, mate?” Jack blinked, suddenly feeling lost.

“My trump card!” he threw his hands up. “I was saving it for a really important turnaround. Fuuuuck.”

Since when had that happened? “You’ve got some dirt on him?”

But Bacchae was clearly already machinating. He glanced around, looking for something. And then he found it, his gaze locked on that stupid-looking cowboy statue on the front lawn. “Yeah, something like that, anyway…”

~ o ~

Kei was so shocked she’d been outplayed—and still pretty wasted—that she kinda just let Zellie and the guards take her back to Holliday’s private box. She was left reeling all the way. Zellie la Blanc was, by all intel she’d ever received, an ordinary mortal actress. So how had she disguised herself as a man so thoroughly? Kei had run her fingers down her chest, after all.

The answer was made plenty apparent on the way. Since they were focused on Kei, the guards weren’t really paying attention to her, and Kei watched out of the corner of her eyes as Zellie wiped her hands subtly across her various assets. In the time it took them to reach the grandstand, she had fully morphed under her waistcoat from a strapping young man into a buxom woman.

And then it clicked. Zellie was known for her male roles. In fact, common praise she often received was that it was very difficult from the theater seats to tell that she was actually a woman at all. Most assumed that it was accomplished with makeup, costuming, and incredible posture control. But if Zellie was a magus, then none of that would be necessary at all.

Inevitably, body-morphing like this was her specialty. That must be why Holliday kept her so close. Kei was supposed to be knocked out before Zellie had revealed herself, keeping her ability a secret. She probably still could have refrained but maybe she was the gloating type.

Seemed she had some control over her clothing as well, because by the time the two women were ushered into the box, her suit still looked tailored to fit, despite her being several inches shorter and possessing an actually pretty impressive bust.

“Zellie, my darling!” Holliday embraced her, kissing both her cheeks as she entered.

She smiled primly. “I come bearing gifts.”

“So I can see. I do feel so terrible about taking you away from the festivities.”

“Nonsense. I was happy to do it.”

Holliday then turned to Kei, and if she didn’t know any better, she would say that he almost looked apologetic. “I wish we were reunited under better circumstances,” he admitted. “But I’m sure you can see why I had to escort you here.”

Sighing, Kei shrugged. “Bait for Bacchae, I presume.”

“Pardon?” Holliday genuinely looked taken aback. “God, no. Frankly, I’m not too worried about anything that buffoon could accomplish. But left to your own devices, I’m not sure the event could survive!”

Kei was flattered, and so decided not to admit that she’d really been wandering around for the past few hours not really knowing what she was doing. If she’d had warning to scope out the event, any kind of recon at all, but that was besides the point. “Taking out the biggest threat, makes perfectly logical sense to me.”

“Please sit down, make yourself comfortable,” he gestured to the room behind him, which was covered in plush carpets and velvet settees. There was even a fully-stocked bar in the corner. The front was mostly open onto the grandstand, where Kei could hear the band tootling away. But she hesitated.

“You are technically my prisoner, yes,” he acquiesced, sighing, “but I consider you a political one, if anything. Please feel free to retire in comfort until your lord and I come to appropriate terms for your release.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You don’t seem to think that’s going to take very long.”

“I expect he’ll be by any minute now.”

Kei scoffed, plopping down on a settee. “I wouldn’t get my hopes up if I were you. Bacchae won’t grovel, and I frankly doubt I’m honestly worth it to him.”

“You’d better be,” Zellie frowned. “You are getting in the way of our date.”

“The woman’s just being modest, Zellie,” Holliday laughed, but Kei suspected she might be seeing some doubt creeping into his features. “Now, drinks for either of you? The main events are about to start.”

“Who was up first again, mon chere?” Zellie asked, wrapping her arm around his.

“If memory serves, it was Mr. Saturn Gale.”

“The magician, non?”

“Yes, of course, the one that’s always shooting himself with guns or some such.”

“That makes him sound more like a masochist than a magician,” Kei scoffed.

Yet as they all kept saying that word, Kei felt an odd sense of certainty crawl into all of their features. If there was one act that a certain someone would be likely to interrupt, it was definitely…

“I know you were all expecting a magician next, but he’s a bit tied up… side down at the moment. With a knife to his throat. Wait, Jack is he like… liking that? Fucking weirdo. Anyway,” the microphone squealed a bit, but none of the three even needed to look to know what had happened, “there’s been a slight change of plans.”

Holliday would never say it, but the look he shot Kei said everything it needed to. He had most definitely called it.

“Well, color me mildly surprised,” Kei couldn’t help the slight smile spreading across her lips.

There was a microphone connected to the ceiling at the front of the box. “I was not made aware that there would be any schedule changes,” Holliday almost sounded exasperated as he grabbed it and held it to his face.

“It didn’t need to be this way,” the very familiar voice echoed upward. “You coulda just let me have my fun, or hell, even just sent me a goddamn invite. I’m hurt. But now you’ve made it personal.”

“To what are you referring, exactly?”

“Eh yo, Kei! You up there?”

A second too late, Zellie made to grab her, but Kei had already snatched the mic straight out of Holliday’s hand. “Yeah, no thanks to you.”

“Listen, I’ll make it up to you later.”

“Cowgirl?”

“Ugh, fine.”

Satisfied, she handed the mic back to Holliday. Whatever happened next was no longer her concern.

That didn’t mean she didn’t want to watch, though.

“So, you’ve really decided to drag all my guests into this little squabble of ours?”

Even though he was small down on that stage, a thousand miles away from Holliday, he didn’t look it. He felt big, nearly at eye level, as his presence filled the entire stage. “I want them to watch me kick your ass.”

Kei expected him to smile, come alive at the challenge, but instead, Holliday just sounded a little bored. “Alright, then. Let’s talk terms. I’ve got your, uh… companion, up here with me, and you’ve got… hmm, well, looks an awful lot like nothing to me.”

“Bzzt. Zero points. Try again, Mr. Holliday,” Bacchae grinned unpleasantly. “You don’t know what I’ve got.”

“What could you possibly give me that would be worth Miss Kei’s life?”

Bacchae tried—and failed—to keep a few stray giggles from slipping out. “Jeez, you’re really bad at this whole pop quiz thing. You’re right, I can’t give you anything. But you’re definitely gonna want to stop me.”

“So we’re attempting threats now, are we?” Holliday sighed.

“You see,” Bacchae paced across the concrete, “the last time we played one of these little games of ours, you beat me pretty bad. I guessed the thief wrong, and that led us right into that stupid fucking trap of yours. But something kept bugging me about this whole safe-theft thing. Why bother with the contracts? The money got the point across well enough.

“And so I wondered: what was even in them? Cuz we recovered all the money, right, but most of those contracts are still AWOL. So I asked Rudy about it. He couldn’t say no, considering how I prevented the rest of the merchant’s guild from roasting his ass on a goddamn spit. And you know what he told me?”

Kei glanced over at Holliday, and she found herself a little surprised. She did not see the anger or boredom she expected. Instead, he mostly looked politely confused, but there was something… in his eyes: a glimmer. It almost looked hopeful.

“I mean, I don’t know why I’m asking, of fucking course you do. That’s why you wanted them.”

“Are you implying that I know something about those contracts?”

“Considering your name is all over them, I’m more like outright accusing. You disguised the whole thing as a game to fuck with me pretty damn well, but it was all a ploy to get rid of an… unfortunate truth that you didn’t want me to find out about.”

Approaching Holliday quietly, Zellie whispered: “Do you want me to take care of him?”

But he just waved her off. “Not yet. I want to see where he’s going with all this. And just what is this ‘truth’?” he called down that last part.

“Well, ya see, up until recently there was this little slimeball temporarily in charge of Discord. And he had all these grand ideas about ‘remaking the city’ or whatever bullshit. So to that end, he demolished a lot of shit, but that crap’s gotta go somewhere. Sure, he could have just dumped it in the Other, but for this guy, why would he just get rid of it when he could make it work for him, ya know? That toxic businessman mentality. So all that stuff, all that steel and glass and bricks; he sold it. But you knew that part already.”

“I may have had one or two dealings with this daemon,” Holliday admitted. “Malachi, his name was?”

Bacchae laughed out loud. “Not just a few. By my expert estimation, I’d wager half this goddamn ship is made of Discordian steel.”

“While this has been a fascinating history lesson, what does it have to do with any of this?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” and here Bacchae got quiet. “Cuz you see, I made Discord. I didn’t bind people to contracts to build it for me. I made it. With my own two goddamn hands. And as its creator, I have the right to unmake it at any time.”

It suddenly hit Kei like a sack of bricks just what he was getting at. Her gaze once more shot over to Holliday, and it appeared as though he had come to the same conclusion. Though he was doing his best to retain his cool, one of his eyes was twitching. “Un… make?” he asked, probably a little softer than he meant it.

“Yeah. What I’m trying to say is that I can crush this stupid little ship like a goddamn tin can.” Bacchae chuckled, and before anyone could stop him, he raised his hand into the air, and squeezed it into a fist. Behind him, the metal statue that graced the courtyard, the one of the cowboy that could have resembled Holliday, crumpled up with a horrible series of shrieks and groans. Only a second later, it had become a strictly avant garde piece, more resembling a series of awkward angles than a man.

The crowd gasped. There was a moment of silence. And then they all started yelling at once. Even if Holliday had divined a way Bacchae could have done it, some trickery he could have applied, he would never have been able to speak loud enough for them to hear it. And if it was true, if he really could destroy all of Bourbon Street if he so chose… Well, Holliday didn’t have much choice at all.

“So.” Even with the microphone, it was a little hard to hear Bacchae. “Basically, what I’m saying is: hand over the bitch or I rip this entire ship apart screw by screw.”

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Holliday had an excellent poker face. But that’s all it was. Kei could see sweat forming on his brow. “There’s one problem with that, my good sir. Who’s to say that you don’t take your woman back and then destroy it all anyway?”

“Look, I may be an asshole, but I’m not evil. I’ve known about this for weeks. If I really wanted you smooshed I would have done it by now. But I will, if you force my hand. Is one little whore worth it to you?”

“I still don’t trust you as far as I can throw you.”

“Ugh, what the hell do you want me to do, then?”

“Swear you won’t. On the thing you most care for, since God clearly doesn’t mean that much to you.”

“Alright, fine. I swear on every smokin’ chick’s tits that if you let Kei go I won’t crush your shitty ship under my fucking boot.”

Holliday stared at him for a long time. Of course it was a very real possibility that Bacchae had no such power, that he’d somehow rigged the statue to do that, or at least greatly exaggerated his ability. But the fact of the matter was that he was right about the contracts. And it was equally likely that he was being entirely serious. Holliday could not take that chance, at least not at this very moment, not with all these people here.

“Do we have a deal?” Bacchae asked.

Still, Holliday hesitated.

“What? Can’t bear to accept it? To admit that ol’ Bacchae’s on the scoreboard today?”

“Fine,” Holliday spat. “Take your woman and go.”

Bacchae bowed deeply. “With pleasure.” And without missing a beat, he swaggered towards the concrete bleachers directly in front of him, and the crowd got the fuck out of his way. At which point he started climbing upwards right to the box.

“You know,” Holliday intoned quietly to Kei. “If you would prefer to stay here, just say the word. I’ll figure something out.”

Kei almost laughed. While, yes, there was a hint of genuine concern to his tone, all this was was one final, desperate ploy. One last ditch effort to snatch the win from Bacchae’s grubby mitts. Because along with that concern was just the tiniest note of desperation.

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

By this point, Bacchae had made it most of the way to them.

“I’ve long since made my bed. It’s time to fucking lie in it.”

For once, Bacchae’s expression was uncomplicated. His shit-eating grin was as bright as the sun as he reached the top step just below the box. He held up his hand—the left one, she noted with bemusement.

Laughing to herself, she found she was smiling right back at him as she reached down…

And took it.

~ o ~

“So… piano, huh?”

“Are you still on about that?” Bacchae and Kei were tangled together in Bacchae’s bed-sheets, the gentle ticking of the clock tower having long since faded into the background. Kei’s head was resting on his chest, and Bacchae thumbed her nipple absently.

She glanced up at him. “I was just… surprised, is all. It’s something that I didn’t think you had the, I guess, discipline for.”

“That’s hurtful,” he sighed dramatically. “Do you think that all I do is party and sleep around?”

“Yes.”

“Touche.”

“How… long have you played?” There was a note of hesitancy in her tone, as she curled a lock of his white hair around her finger; a reminder of a question, frequently unasked.

“I dunno. Maybe like… a few decades before I left.”

“So you just, what, decided to learn one day?” She scoffed, finding that a little hard to believe.

He pouted a little, reading her mind. “Well, if you must know: I was at a fancy shindig for… some kind of event, and I happened to notice the dude playing piano in the corner. Ladies kept complimenting him and leaving him tips and I thought ‘what the fuck? I can do that!’”

“And you did?”

“Locked myself up in the clock tower for two weeks; microdosed enough LSD to kill a horse. But when I came out again, I could have beat the shit out of that guy at the party. You know, at piano playing, the conventional way is a given.”

Kei laughed, long and hard. It surprised Bacchae a little. “That really got your goat, huh?”

“Bad pun,” she immediately frowned. “It’s just… I never would have imagined you dedicating yourself to something like that. So… is it just the one song, or…”

“I know more than one song!” he insisted. “I’m very fond of ‘In the Hall of the Mountain King.’”

“An unexpected choice.”

“You always gotta keep ‘em guessing, see?”

That was definitely something she was learning about Bacchae. Just when she thought she had him pinned, he would always do something that surprised her. A being, it seemed, of pure contradiction.

She’d get to the bottom of him. Only to advance her takeover of Discord, of course.

Nothing more.