“That’s your head!” one guy shouted. “We’re gonna bust you up!”
At the top of the stairs, I darted to the right, the way we had come in. I was past several rooms when I realized Fang wasn’t with me. I skidded to a halt and spotted him at the other end of the hallway.
I motioned to Fang, but just as he started toward me, the two crackhead squatters lurched into the hall between us.
One of them slapped the bat against his open palm with chilling smacking sounds. The other held a broken bottle.
“So,” one growled. “You think you can pop our crib?”
Pop their crib? Come again?
They stopped for a moment, then their smiles grew wider. Grosser.
“It’s a chick, man!” one exclaimed.
The bottle-holding slug pulled a wicked-looking knife out of his belt. He held it up so it caught the moonlight.
Fang? You go ahead and make your move. Any time now, I thought tensely. Where are you, Fang?
“We don’t care whose chick you are,” one said. “For the next hour, you’re gonna be our chick.” The guys were totally scuzzy, grinning horribly, showing holes where teeth should be.
“Excuse me?” I said acidly. “Can we say sexist?”
They didn’t have time.
“Boys, God doesn’t like you,” Fang intoned behind them.
Whaaaaat? I thought, dumbfounded.
“Wha!” they said, whirling.
At that moment, Fang snapped out his huge wings and shone the penlight under his chin so it raked his cheekbones and eyes. My mouth dropped open: He looked like the angel of death.
His dark wings filled the hallway almost to the ceiling, and he moved them up and down. “God doesn’t like bad people,” he said, using a really weird, deep voice.
“What the hell,” one of the squatters muttered shallowly, his mouth slack, his eyes bugging out of his head. “I’m trippin’.”
“I see it too,” whispered the other one. “We’re both trippin’.”
I whipped my own wings open—impressive as all get-out. Fun, anyway.
“This was a test,” I said, using my best spooky voice. “And guess what? You both failed.”
The bums stopped dead, looks of horror and amazement on their faces.
Then Fang growled, “Rowr!” He stepped forward, sweeping his wings up and down: the avenging demon. I almost cracked up.
“Rowr!” I said myself, shaking my wings out.
“Ahhh!” the guys yelled, backpedaling fast. Unfortunately, they were standing at the top of the staircase. They fell awkwardly, trying to grab each other, and rolled down two flights like lumpy bags of potatoes, shrieking the whole way.
Fang and I slapped each other a quick high five—and we were out of there, jack.
And then my Voice was in my head. So glad you’re having fun, Maximum. While the world burns.
29
I’ll say this for the world, and civilization: The whole hot-shower thing totally worked for me.