The Ice Cream King
It had taken some time to get close with the Linquists. Growing up in Michigan meant you waved to the neighbors but rarely spoke. For a time, I only knew Jamie as the raspy kid down the street who could never come outside. It was not until I joined the local soccer team Mr. Linquist coached that Jamie and I finally met. We were probably twelve or thirteen. I told him he had snot on his shirt. He wondered what was wrong with my freckled skin and asked if gingers actually stole people’s souls.
“I got Shinobi on Sega,” he said, flicking the sweat-soaked, dirty blonde strips of hair from his eyes, “wanna come over and play?”
After the first marathon weekend of playing and watching everything from Mortal Kombat to Monty Python's Flying Circus, Jamie and I were officially inseparable. I would visit him at his house every day when Mr. L was at work and Mrs. L was cleaning their huge house. Jamie was obsessed with every game he could get his hands on. A closet in the Linquist den contained every conceivable board game I could imagine. Five different types of Risk, six different Trivial Pursuits, four Monopolies. Between these and the several video game consuls that Mr. L had bought on his cushy divorce lawyer’s salary, the Linquist’s house became our personal arcade. That summer, we indulged in round after round of late night Sorry-sessions, epic chess games that boggled our pubescent minds, brutal Backgammon matches and forays into the world of Tetris that forever molded our formative consciences. All of this was merely foreplay for the main event, though. Meeting the twins.
D.Q. and Wilma were siblings who lived next door to Jamie. Jamie called them a
couple of “tow-headed mouthbreathers” because that’s what Mr. L called them. D.Q. stood for Darius Quixote. Everyone said he had an IQ of 165 but I’d also seen him snort Cheeto dust for fun. He had sharp fangs for front teeth and was constantly punching things on his wrist watch calculator. Wilma read romance novels and spent a lot of time volunteering at pet shelters. She wore dish-rag pale hair in long braids down her back. A skill she had taught herself in early childhood. Her right eye was lazy and gray, while her left was blue and bloodshot. Her favorite show was “Murder, She Wrote.” The two of them rarely appeared without the other, earning them the title “the twins,” even though Wilma was two years older. Their Dad, Mr. Powell, was a widower who worked at the same law firm as Mr. L. They said their Mom had died during D.Q. 's childbirth. I didn’t get the impression that it was their favorite subject.
The twins were the ones who first told us about D&D. They had picked it up the previous summer during their downtime from Space Camp. Suddenly, Jamie and I had a brand new obsession. Our game nights became “campaign nights” and we rarely played anything else for months on end. We were truly immersed in our fantasy world. Each of the four of us portraying characters who we could never be in reality, but who all had heightened versions of the characteristics that we each felt we truly possessed as humans. It was the first game that was both life-affirming and creatively fulfilling. Jamie would make sure and call me every Wednesday night to see that I would be coming over for D&D on Friday.
“Are you gonna slay that Rust Monster this time?” he dripped into his receiver.
“I don’t know,” I said, “guess I don’t have much of a choice, huh?”
“You could try and avoid him, but you’re just going to run into the Gelatinous Cube eventually, and you know he’s just going to teleport you right back to that same spot outside the Demon Fortress, so you better just deal with him.”
“Can’t I cast an invisibility shield or something?” I begged.
“You used that up last week in the Battle of the Displacer Beasts, who, by the way, you spent the whole last campaign fleeing from!” he laughed and slurped.
“Easy to laugh when you’re the Dungeon Master,” I said.
“Easy to laugh, sure,” he said, “not so easy watching you cower away like a wuss! What are you, some kind of loser?”
“Ugh,” I said, “did your Dad just hop on?”
“That’s right,” his voice arched into his father’s familiar tone, “now grab me a longneck, ya turd!”
In addition to coaching the soccer team, Mr. L spoke regularly at PTA and neighborhood meetings and was generally well-known and respected in our community. His wife, on the other hand, was more subdued and aloof. No one ever saw much of Mrs. L. She was always understood to be folding laundry in a back room of the sprawling Linquist residence. Jamie said she used to be a successful lawyer like Mr. L, but had stopped working when Jamie was born. Sometimes she’d bring snacks into the den.
Fancy silver trays of Drake’s Cakes and Chocodiles dropped off with solemn sighs and
worried glances at the children in her home. A defeated woman with a thin frame, curly brown locks and bright, beautiful blue eyes that she seldom showed off. Sometimes, though, when Jamie needed to lie down, she’d come swooping out of the shadows and whisk him away to bed like Superwoman. He’d give this weird little squeak and no matter where she was, she’d be at his side in seconds. He said she was his guardian angel. She sorta gave us the creeps, though.
Unfortunately, when the twins and I did show up to the Linquist home that Friday afternoon, Jamie had another game in mind to play.
“Hide and seek?” I asked, “What about the campaign?”
“I don’t have the new Monster Manual yet! My Dad is bringing it home tonight, we can play as soon as he is here...but that won’t be for a few hours. Come on, I haven’t played in years!” he begged.
“There’s a reason for that!” said D.Q.,picking at a wedgie, “It’s laaaaaame.”
“Ditto,” Wilma chimed in through pink braces, “plus...Jamie, we’ve played this before...and you always hide in the same place...the bathroom, behind the shower curtain. I try to be more creative about my hiding places.”
“Under the back deck? Behind the furnace?” taunted D.Q., “Yeah, you’ve got your two places, alright.”
Wilma charley-horsed him hard in the arm. D.Q. writhed in pain and fell to the ground mimicking a seizure. We all laughed.
“You just hide under that shelf in the kitchen pantry and line up cans in front of
you!” she spat back. “Alright, fine,” I conceded, “just make sure I can slice an Ice Giant in half later,” “You shall have your victory, good sir!” yelled Jamie, “Now, come on! I’ll be ‘it’ first!”
Three minutes later, I found myself stooped behind the very large, very clean, solid oak television cabinet that dominated the Linquist den. I squinted at the buttery beams of late afternoon sunlight that cascaded through the nearby french doors that permeated the room. I remember trying to ignore a strengthening urge to urinate while Jamie counted to one hundred upstairs in his bedroom. Mrs. L had some soapy disaster blasting from the set while she had been vacuuming earlier in the day, and had forgotten to turn the volume down when she went upstairs for her afternoon nap. I stared into auditory fluff.
“I can’t put up with this any longer,” an actress oozed, ”I know about you and Tamara. How could you do this to us, Mark Thomas?”
Upstairs, I could hear Jamie’s muffled counting echoing from behind his bedroom door. As soon as “ninety-nine” hit the ceiling, he flung the door open and was bounding down the staircase, calling out through torn lungs, “ready or not! Ollie ollie oxen free!” I bit my lip and listened to Samantha and Mark Thomas’ latest watered down marital spat.
Mark Thomas chuckled. There was the sound of a drink being poured. “And just what do you plan on doing about it, Sam? You know...I have some very...revealing video of you and a certain someone who happens to be running for office. You’re little freaky weekend in Rio last year? If anyone sees that tape you’ll both be ruined.”
”I can smell you,” Jamie said, creeping into the den with his palms exposed, as if sensing the air in the room.
I clenched my teeth to the ceiling and tapped my toes in tempered anguish on the carpeted floor.
“You bastard!” Samantha screamed,”How could you do this to me? Do you think this is some kind of game?!” She began to fake-sob uncontrollably.
“Well, if it is a game, Sam, it’s one that two of us can play at...” said Mark Thomas.
“No, M.T...I’m done playing,” said Sam, suddenly gaining a more menacing tone.
I peaked out from behind the T.V. cabinet and saw Jamie glancing behind the curtains in front of the window on the far wall. I ducked back. He hadn’t seen me. I then heard him run out of the room yelling, “I’m gonna find you, you pricks!” to the whole house.
“This is for us!” shouted Samantha.
Just as Sam fired her first shot, the Linquist’s front door opened and closed. Mr. L was home. At the time, I only knew him as my soccer coach. A bulbous, pear-shaped body with a potato head. He had metallic gray beads for pupils and a gold tooth right up front. He was always grinning. His hair was a horrible nest of unkempt, balding barbed wire. Not athletic in the slightest, he was an anomaly on the sidelines, gripping his clipboard between his khaki’d knees and clapping awkwardly at every decent play.
“Jesus, Sam!” shot Mark Thomas, “that thing is really loaded?!”
“Shut up, you two-timing prick!” she called. A second of silence followed. Then the familiar jingle for Blue Bell ice cream.
Two heavy feet stood for a moment in the Linquist’s carpeted vestibule area. The floorboards beneath them wailed like banshees. A leather briefcase plunked to the ground. A lumpy torso gurgled and hissed gaseously. “James!” beckoned his twisted up maw.
“I’m not supposed to have friends over,” Jamie told me once. “My Dad gets super pissed. He works a lot though, so it’s usually fine if I do. He doesn’t trust anyone. Says I’ll infect them and then he’d have a big lawsuit on his hands. By the way, here’s some snot,” he’d say, and fake into his hand, rubbing my shoulder with a laugh.
I couldn’t hear Jamie anymore. He had stopped yelling when he heard Mr. L show up. I knew he was huddled in that darkened tub, whispering curses to the drain. My kidneys began to scream. I bit my lip until I thought I would break the skin.
“JAMES!” Mr. L screamed at the entire house.
The sound of cans falling from a shelf echoed sharply out of the pantry. D.Q. grumbled and dropped his wire frames in the process of revealing himself.
“D.Q.” Mr. L said, disappointed at his discovery. “H-hi there Mr. L...Just playing a little game...Can you hand me my glasses?” “Little old for hiding, don’t ya think, tow-head? Here,” spat Mr. L. “Get lost, kid.” “Yes, sir,” said D.Q., clearing his throat, “Wilma!” “Oh, great,” said Mr. L, sighing, “her too. Of course.”
The basement door creaked open on cue and Wilma stumbled into the kitchen in beat up Keds. “Hey, Mr. L! Good to—great to—“ her worn soles squeaked nervously on the tiles. “uh, I was just checkin’ the basement for rats...so...you know, neighborhood rat patrol...” she laughed sheepishly.
“Beat it, mouthbreathers.” he said with full disdain. “Tell your Pop I’ve got my eye on him too,” he made a disgusted grunt, “...that snake.”
“O-okay, sir,” they said in unison. “Well?!” he said impatiently, “scram, ya little pricks!” The twins scampered out, the front door whisked open and back close. Silence.
My legs were now numb. “Oh, James, my little Prince!” Mr. L called mockingly, “Sorry to interrupt your little game but we have important business to discuss! It pertains to the acquisition of your precious ‘Monster Manual,’ here! Be out here in three seconds or I shred this thing. Three...two...” He flared the garbage disposal for full dramatic effect.
I heard the bathroom door whipping open and Jamie’s Chucks skidding loudly against the tiles.“Don’t, Dad!” he squealed.
“He arrives! Man of the hour!” Mr. L dipped his words in sarcasm, “Relax, pal. I won’t shred your nerd book. Just wanna talk. You know...buddy...that, uh....Mr. Gablowski? Your gym teacher? He’s my new golfin’ pal. Had a nice long talk with him about your performance in class while we were on the links today, James.” He said with a stern cadence.
“Oh...” Jamie said quietly, aiming his comments towards the tiles below.
“He says you're lookin’ at a ‘D’ this semester. Says you won’t run laps with the other kids. A ‘D’ in P.E.? How does anyone get a ‘D’ in gym class?! Do you know how embarrassing that is for me?!” Mr. L barked harshly.
Fresh off of commercial break, Mark Thomas pleaded to Samantha for his life in a thinly scripted whine.
“Sam! Please, put that thing away...we don’t need to do this...that can’t be real, is it?”
“You’d better believe it is...it belongs to my father, and he’ll be glad to know that the next bullet won’t miss. I’ve put up with you for long enough, M.T., I’m not going to let you ruin my life anymore...”
“I don’t understand you! Speak up!” yelled Mr. L from the kitchen.
“I said I don’t care about Gym! All the other kids have no problem with it but I just can’t run sprints and laps! I never want to run again!” cried Jamie.
Samantha seethed from the back of the T.V., “...recording my phone calls, blackmail, threatening to ruin a man’s career. You are the lowest slime on the face of the planet—“ I pinched my crotch in agony.
“You know what happens to kids who don’t pass Gym?” yelled Mr. L. “They end up walking dogs! You wanna walk dogs forever? Live in the basement and sleep on a futon, you little rat? You wanna eat mac n’ cheese for dinner every night? You lowlife scum. I don’t even know where you came from! Give me your hand.”
Mark Thomas let out a final plea for his life, begging, “Sam! Please! NO!” “Dad, I’m sorry,” Jamie sobbed, “I swear I’ll do better, I’ll study more!”
Three shots were fired from the Magnavox. I couldn’t take it anymore. I was out from behind the cabinet in a blur. A warm pool began to spread across me. I ran into the kitchen. Mr. L gripped Jamie by the wrist.
“Get up to your room!” he screamed at him
“I had to go! I had to go!!” I yelled, bursting into the kitchen. Mr. L quickly dropped Jamie’s hand and stared at me with shock. Jamie darted across the kitchen to safety.
“Who—Harry? What the hell’s he doing here?” Mr. L asked frantically, eyes darting to Jamie.
“He—he’s...he was playing too, I forgot,” said Jamie, clutching a red wrist.
Mr. L gazed in disbelief at me squirming like a stuck pig in his kitchen. I awkwardly covered my wet pants in mortified misery.“H—Harry,” Mr. L’s tone relaxed and lowered in volume and he began to stammer, “...get to the bathroom. I’ll meet you in a few minutes. James, go get him a pair of your pants.” His wide-eyed stare dropped to the tan kitchen tiles. He patted his chest and produced a soft pack of Camel Filters from his front shirt pocket. I ran for the bathroom. I sat on the toilet and stared at my wet pants for five minutes before there was a knock at the door.
“Yeah?” I said. “Heya, Harry-“ came Mr. L’s newly restrained, hushed tone, “Got a sec?” I opened the door. Mr. L stuck his head in and offered a folded pair of brown
corduroy pants. “Here ya go, kid. Meet me out in the kitchen when you’re done. I got something
for ya,” he said. My heart skipped a beat but I took the pants and nodded. After I changed, I
walked meekly down the short hallway back into the kitchen, my soiled pants and underwear in hand. Mr. L leaned against the stove and smoked a cigarette calmly.
“Where’s Jamie?” I asked.
“Had to go lay down,” he said, noticing me with a rifled brow, “too much excitement.” The grin I would see in a lot of my future nightmares then danced across his face. Under a thick, yellowish-green overhead light, his lips curled up towards the left ear, exposing a hideously charming gold tooth and the black and grays that surrounded it on either side.
“Hey...,” he chuckled lightly, dropping his cigarette in the sink behind him, “open up that freezer.”
I swallowed my spit and looked across the kitchen to the refrigerator. It was dark brown and covered in magnets advertising local businesses and family portraits. Dave’s Seafood Diner on 36th, “Free Catfish for Kids Every Wednesday!” A picture of a couple in front of the Eiffel Tower. One of Jamie’s drawings from first grade. A Tyrannosaurus Rex with a flaming head and a speech bubble exclaiming, “My head is aflame!”
“I actually don’t need anything right now...” I said, “I’d better get home and wash these—“
“Just go open the stupid freezer, Har,” he shook his head and crossed his arms.
I took a quick breath and then crossed the kitchen to the freezer. Mr. L’s metallic beads never strayed from me. He was locked in, and there was nowhere to go. I reached the freezer door and opened it.
A thick, pearly plume hit my cheeks and I was greeted with a familiar and frosty scent. A large tub of chocolate Blue Bell ice cream stared down at me. Pale fog danced around its contours, and the warm air gave way to fresh condensation. There was a tap on my shoulder. I turned as Mr. L offered me a small dessert bowl and spoon. I took it with only slight hesitation. It was filled to the brim with the stuff. Emitting nearly translucent tails of white under the warm kitchen air.
“Now, Har,” Mr. L said, partaking in his own bowl of the dessert, “You’re always welcome here. If ya don’t know that, you should. Jamie just thinks the world of ya, and
I’ve got no reason to think you’d be a pest or anything, right, Har?” I let the chocolate ointment melt in my mouth like a mind control lozenge. “No,
sir.” “Har—,” he said, dropping his bowl and spoon into the sink. “We gotta get one
thing clear. I’m not going to make things difficult for you. You don’t have to worry about anyone hurting you, your Mother, your dog, nothin...because we’re just a couple of guys who like to eat ice cream. Right?”
“My...what?” I asked with arched eyebrows, pausing and letting the spoon rest in my mouth.
“Harry,” whispered Mr. L, leaning in closer and glancing at the doorway. His potato head blocked the light now, and his silhouette looked depleted and bare. Like something that should have been kept private, maybe. Kept hidden in a trunk somewhere for years and brought out for special occasions. Under the kitchen lights he looked both desperate and dangerous. Ghastly yet bewitching. “...they’d never see me comin’”
The freezer suddenly lurched to life with a bitter buzz. Mr. L’s ink-blot stare persisted, though. Unwavering, violent and frozen. His side-faced grin taunting with an impenetrable disdain.
“Yeah...sure, Mr. L,” I said, wiping the chocolate from my lips with my shirtsleeve.
He quickly clutched me by the shoulders. “I’m serious here, kid. My house. My rules.”
I stared up into his gray pupils, searching for some fleeting vestige of humanity. I only saw the loose skin beneath his lids twitch nervously. The tar on his breath like skewers puncturing my cheeks.
“It’s no problem, sir. I got it.” I said, taking another bite.
“‘Atta boy,” he said and walked out of the kitchen. “Harry gets all the ice cream!” he told the house. “Long live the king!”
I didn’t hear from the twins or Jamie all weekend. I called both of their respective houses multiple times, but no one ever answered.
“We had a church retreat thing,” said D.Q., “total drag.” I didn’t see Jamie until we all met up at lunch time a school on Monday. We sat
down to eat at our usual table and I asked Jamie if he was ok. For a moment he looked mystified, then, realizing what I meant, he said, “Oh, yeah. Don’t sweat it.” I told him about his Dad and the ice cream. He laughed dryly. “Yeah, guess you’re his new favorite,” he said with an oddly familiar side-faced smirk.
“Jamie,” I said, “he...uh...he scares me. A lot. He looked like he was going to hurt you. I keep seein’ his stupid gold tooth...”
“Your Dad has those creepy dog jowls," said Wilma, pushing invisible skin up beneath her chin, “like...cottage cheese face.”
“Oooh yeah,” said D.Q., “he reminds me of a scary Captain Kangaroo on a bender or something. Like a few weeks after he got cancelled, maybe.” “Guys,” I said, “...come on. Jamie needs us to be there for him right now.” “Harry, relax! I’m fine,” Jamie laughed. The twins snickered. “I don’t know, man,” I said, “he looked pretty mad. It looked like he was going to burn your hand—”“Let’s just talk about the campaign, guys,” Jamie said uncomfortably. He produced the fresh Monster Manual from his backpack, “There are much bigger monsters out there to slay than Marrion Linquist.”
I wasn’t buying, though. There had to be more to it. Why didn’t Jamie want us to help him? Why didn’t the twins care more? They grew up next-door to them for years. They had to know more about this. They saw Mr. L when he came home too and were clearly just as terrified as I was. And where was Mrs. L all this time? Through all the yelling? Did that monster keep her locked up like he did Jamie? And what about me? ‘King of the Ice Cream,’ he said...was I being lured by this man into some sort of trap? Jamie had said I was his ‘new favorite.’ Favorite what? Plaything? His gold tooth kept mocking from the back of my mind. I tried to think of anything to get it out—girls, comic books, even algebra. I just kept seeing it dripping there next to gray molars and crimson gums. I decided the only way to cleanse my brain of the image was to ask myself what The Shadow would do. And the answer was, of course, to know.
That Wednesday evening I waited for my call from Jamie so that we could plan the weekly campaign. It never came. I gave it until about nine and tried to call him. No answer. I waited for twenty-nine rings just in case. I called the twins’ house too. Same story. I felt a sudden twitch in my left cheek. Something I couldn’t control. Some nervous tick I’d picked up in all this paranoid confusion. I paced in my bedroom, trying not to ask myself questions like “Where is everyone?,” “Are they hurt?,” “Do I call the cops?” My rational mind told me that, of course, they were all together and safe and happy. That psychotic man who was holding his own son’s hand to an open flame not even a week ago has nothing to do with anything. Even if he did, it’s not your business. The cops wouldn’t even believe you anyway. Who believes an eighth grader about anything?
I looked in my bedroom mirror. My dark red curls framed a brow furrowed with a grief-stricken awareness. Then there was that twitch in my cheek again. Two or three times a minute. I could not escape the feeling that something was going on beyond my control. I heard Jamie laughing in my head. “You’re such a wuss, sometimes, dude.” I rushed to my desk, opened the top drawer and produced my old pocket knife from Boy Scout camp. I went to the hallway closet downstairs. In the back was my father’s jacket from high school. He hadn’t been around to wear it since I was eight. Moved to Boston for a new wife and a new life. It was black leather, one size too big. It smelled like old fire. I slid it on and felt twenty times tougher. I ran out of the house and hopped on my bike.
I rode down the thick bricks of my street, turning left on McPherson at the end of the block. A cool autumn breeze whispered menace to my unprotected ears. It warned me that I was doing something off-script. It wasn’t supposed to work this way. Another block and I made a left on Sprendell. Maybe it’s too late, I thought. Maybe they’ve already been Texas Chainsaw Massacre’d. Halfway down Barrett St. and I was there. Part of me expected everything to be burning, bodies strewn everywhere, heads on stakes. I arrived at two dark houses. No one appeared to be inside either of them.
I walked my bike up the drive and dropped it in the Linquist’s front yard. I noticed the back light was on in the den. I slowly crept down the driveway towards the back of the house. When I reached the den window, I looked inside.
Mr. L faced the television, his back to me. He appeared to be watching a PBS Boating Auction. I reached into my pocket and put my hand on my blade. I walked around the back of the house to the french doors that opened up into the den. Before he had a chance to notice, I had dashed the doors open and had my knife pointed right at the back of his head.
“H-hands up!” I yelled at the room.
He remained motionless, his right leg resting on his left knee. A cigarette in his mouth, smoke coating his eyes and nose. A glass of scotch in his right hand, a remote control in his left.
“That the King?” he called back to me, his demeanor cool and unthreatened. “I got a knife,” I warned him.
“Good on you, kid,” he said, changing the channel to C-SPAN. “Where’s Jamie—,“I said, slowly walking around the couch, knife outstretched. Mr. L kept his eyes on the television screen and ignored the question. He took a deep drink from an icy tumbler.
“You got a girlfriend yet, Har?” he asked, calmly glancing in my direction.
“Where is he?” I demanded again. He snorted and quickly rose to his feet. I stumbled back a few steps, keeping my knife drawn and trained on him. His grin greeted me with a sly insistence, “You probably kissed one or two by now, I’d imagine.” My cheek ticked. He laughed to himself, stood, dropped the remote on the couch, calmly walked around me into the kitchen. I looked around the room quickly for clues. Nothing looked out of place. No obvious signs of struggle. I looked around for the portable phone, but it was nowhere in sight. I slowly walked into the kitchen, where Mr. L was preparing another drink.
“One thing,” he offered his index finger to me as he poured from his brilliantly bright bottle of expensive looking scotch, “you gotta learn, Har. Before you get older... And I know your Pops was a rat so he’ll never get to tell ya...Women know exactly... what they want. Men, on the other hand...” he laughed and placed the bottle back on the counter, lifting his glass to me,“A man...is more empty-headed than a goldfish. Sullen creatures just bottom-feeding until there’s nothing left.”
My knife slowly dropped to my side. I looked up at him swaying there. Palms digging into the dark counter top, the slimy grin beginning to fade under twitching lips.
My cheek ticked again.
“They’re probably halfway to the Cinci already—,“ he whispered, suddenly flinging his glass across the room, colliding with a vase sitting on the breakfast table and sending shards flying everywhere.
He swayed and grunted on the tiles, out of breath, saliva dripping down his reddened face. Then, suddenly, he took notice of me again. His grin returned, the gold tooth re-emerged, my heart sped up.
“Yeah,” he laughed lightly, padding his shirt pockets for his Camels,“I got ‘em. I know I do. No denying that. My Daddy had ‘em too,” he shook his head, lighting his cigarette. “Used to take me to the garage,” he said, exhaling blue smoke over the granite counter top,“made me lean up against an old radiator while he dripped hot molasses down my back. Hurt so horrible. I used to think, ‘all this because I saw some skin mags in the attic?’” he chuckled. “That means the old bastard just had a chip to pass on, that’s all. Guess that’s what I got. And you know what, King?” he said, dropping a stack of ash onto the granite, “James might not have ‘em, but you...” he pointed with his cherry, “you got some big ones, my friend.” He laughed and flicked his cigarette into the sink.
He turned away, walked to the back door and opened it. “Oh,” he said, pointing to the table. “He left you one too. See ya down there, your heinous!” he laughed into the night air and shut the back door.
Among the shards of glass and clay, there was another note on the table. It was addressed to “Harry” in all D&D font. It read:
Hey man. So it all goes away today, I guess. No more campaigns. No more Ice Giant Battles or Gelatinous Inquisitor Cubes to mess you up. I wasn’t expecting it to happen this way or even to happen in the near future, but I knew it would sooner or later. My Mom’s a good lady. She didn’t wanna take us away...it’s just...him. After this last time, she knew it had to end. She says we’ll meet up again in another life. Best friends always do. I’m not allowed to say where we’re going, but it’s for the best. The twins say they're sorry too, but we’re all going to find a way to stay in touch. Maybe we can even campaign again someday. Hope you learned to keep fighting, buddy, and don’t let that darkness win. It’s in all of us, but we can control it.
—J
I folded the note, put it in my pocket and wiped my ticking cheeks.