[Brackets] by David Sloan Page B

half-hearted worry, on a Hawaiian shirt and some wrinkled khakis. But trumping all of these complaints was the knowledge that a good leader always supported his people, and a good leader always kept his word. It was about trust. He’d already said he would go, so he had to go. But he never said he wouldn’t leave as soon as possible.
    Both sides of the suburban street were lined with cars by the time Perry arrived. He took his time finding a parking spot, and then he took his time sitting in a silent car, mentally preparing to go in. Even from a full block away, he could hear the music. The neighbors could, too—he saw one man on his porch talking on the phone and gesturing down the street. A good leader always keeps his word, he repeated to himself like a mantra. Finally he sighed heavily and counted:
    3…2…1…
    Time to go in.
    The basement entrance to the party was around the back of the house, the way marked by a paper sign with an arrow that was utterly unnecessary , given the throbbing music and shifting slivers of strobe lights that spilled into the yard. The screen door opened to a staircase that descended into the thick of the fray. Perry took a deep breath of air that consisted of a dizzying blend of smoke, alcohol, and something vaguely like the smell of a public pool, and he descended. Just ten minutes , he decided.
    Pausing at the bottom of the stairs, Perry found himself looking into a kitchen area, the counters covered with bottles and chip bags. A tall woman dressed in black was leaning against the counter, looking like she’d had too good a time already. She waved at Perry unsteadily and tossed him a bottle of beer, then gestured him on to the living room with a sick but evocative grin.
    The living room was crammed with people lined shoulder-to- shoulder along three of the walls. It was hot, and the floor was pulsating with such loud music that screams and gestures were the only viable forms of communication. Everyone’s attention was focused on a free-standing bath tub along the fourth wall that was filled with water and topped with bobbing pink and yellow marshmallow chicks floating on rafts made of plastic bowls. In the middle of the room, Lazaro was showing a girl how to operate a cannon made of PVC pipe and a compressed air cylinder. She closed her eyes, pulled the trigger, and squealed as the cannon popped. Perry squinted at a fantastic burst of light, then squinted again at the bath-tub which now had a new chocolate smear on it. A chick was floating sideways in the water in a mess of sugary carnage, and the girl was kissing Lazaro passionately.
    This was too much for Perry, and he wanted to run back up and away from noise and lights and people and chaos. But he felt transfixed by the scene, as though he w ere pinned to his spot in the doorway and everything was taking place in slow-motion. He stood for a few minutes against his own will before ditching his unopened bottle on the floor and moving out of the room. When he reached the top of the stairs, he was relieved to see Killergremlin about to go down.
    “You don’t want to go in there,” said Perry.
    “It’s bad?”
    “Oh, yeah, it’s bad.”
    Killergremlin grinned and ran downstairs to see for himself. In a few minutes he was back, holding two beers and looking shocked.
    “That is bad,” he said.
    “Told you.”
    In one corner of the back patio was a table and a few tattered lawn chairs. They sat down together, listening to the sporadic sounds of merry insanity over beats. The street lamps illuminated the night with a benign yellow glow.
    “So, what are we going to do about this Mascaab thing?” asked Killergremlin.
    “I have no idea,” said Perry, turning toward him. “It definitely isn’t legal, but having constant recruits, new weapons, constant funds? That’s all stuff we could use. I don’t know.”
    “How many other tribes do you think will join?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Scarmada?”
    Perry nodded as he drank.