“A sliver of a silver real. It has a picture of Charles III on one side.”
“I’m a businessman,” the clown said. “What’s the going rate for one of them slivers?”
We were all distracted by shouting in the hallway and the sound of someone running in our direction. We turned to the doorway, and Hatchet burst into the room, sword drawn.
“Halt, rude and lowly beasts!” Hatchet yelled. “Hand over the coin before I cleave every one of you in twain and dance on your entrails.”
Josh pulled out his cutlass and pointed it at Hatchet. “Stand down or feel the bite of my blade.”
Hatchet was dressed in green tights, yellow Nike running shoes, and a white peasant shirt with a brown jerkin. Josh was wearing black Jack Sparrow–style boot covers over Converse sneakers, red-and-black-striped pants, a puffy white shirt, and a black tunic. It was like a fashion parade of crazies.
Hatchet squinted at Josh. “What art thou?”
Josh looked over at Diesel.
“Go for it,” Diesel said.
“I be a Buccaneer American,” Josh said. “What art thou?”
“Hatchet is his liege lord and master’s faithful minion.” Hatchet waggled his sword at Josh. “Do you dare to match swords with me, peasant?”
“Aye, sirrah, and I’ll rip you from belly to chin,” Josh said, waggling his sword back at Hatchet.
Hatchet swung the bigger, heavier broadsword. Josh’s cutlass was short but curved to an angry point. What the cutlass lacked in length I thought it must make up for in maneuverability.
“Methinks thou knows not about swordplay,” Hatchet said to Josh.
“Thou thinks as a fool,” Josh said. “Me took a course in fencing at North Shore Community College.”
Hatchet lowered his sword a bit. “How didst thou do?”
“Sadly, this good and worthy buccaneer suffered the flu during final exam and dost got an incomplete.”
“Seems unjust,” Hatchet said.
“Aye. Much of the world is unjust.”
“This is going nowhere,” Diesel said. “Maybe you two should take it outside so we can get on with business.”
“I will smite thee down first,” Hatchet said, turning toward Diesel.
“Back off,” Diesel said, “or I’ll turn you into a toad.”
“Can you do that?” I asked Diesel.
Diesel smiled. “I’d need permission.”
Hatchet lunged at Diesel, and Josh whacked Hatchet on the back of his head with the flat of the cutlass. Hatchet stumbled, went down to one knee, and farted.
“I believe I doth break wind,” Hatchet said. “Sincere apologies.”
We all took a step back from Hatchet and fanned the air. Spencer bumped into me, and I felt a vibration.
“The clown is vibrating,” I said to Diesel.
Diesel grabbed Spencer and shoved his hand into one of the big pockets in the baggy checkered clown pants.
“Hey, if I’m gonna get groped at least let the girl do it,” the clown said.