Music Girl

“Two weeks… two fucking weeks, they’re so goddamn impossible…”

Sam was pacing her room furiously while Aravic was sprawled over her bed, staring at the Metallica poster over his head. It was good to have Sam back to being Sam, even if she was ranting about politics.

“Would you quit pacing Sam? It’s not that big of a deal, it’s just the Presidential Election.”

She stopped and glared at him. “Aravic, they should have decided eleven days ago, elections were on the eleventh!” Her eyes darted over to her computer, which was on and pulled up to a news site that would supposedly post when the election had been finalized.

“So?”

“So? This is the closet Presidential race in the world. There have never been so many recounts called for in the history of America. Do you know how old America is?”

“Since seventeen-seventy-six,” he answered.

“Wow, you actually know something! Congratulations, you’re not a complete dumbass.”

Her insult didn’t phase him. He was getting too used to them. “Glad you’ve figured that out. But come on, we both know why they’re taking so long.”

Sam gritted her teeth in defeat. “Yeah. The votes were really close, and the goddamned Democrats won’t accept defeat.”

“We hope,” Aravic added. Sam just nodded. “One side is going to give in soon, I bet. They can’t keep the people waiting forever.”

-

“Aravic, I’d like to talk to you.”

Oh shit was the first thought that flashed through Aravic’s mind when he heard Mr. Thyroid’s voice. Aravic stopped and turned into the kitchen, where Mr. Thyroid was fixing himself some coffee.

“Yes sir?”

“Do you know to shoot?”

“Uh… um, no?” Aravic said cautiously. What in the world kind of question was that? And what answer did Mr. Thyroid expect?

“Would you like to learn?”

“Why?” Aravic asked, hoping that wouldn’t come off as rude. But Mr. Thyroid offered him a wry smile shaped like Sam’s, and it didn’t touch his cold, grey eyes, just like Sam’s. Except on Sam, it was sexy. On Mr. Thyroid, it was almost scary.

“My business partner and I are meeting at the indoor shooting range on Wadsworth for a casual products discussion, and I was planning on taking you and Tomas along.”

Oh good, he wasn’t going to make Aravic shoot Sam or something. “Oh, well, that sounds fun. When?”

“Tomorrow after church. My company is hosting Royal Barns’ congregation while his church—our church—is being rebuilt.”

“Alright, sure,” Aravic shrugged, not daring to deny Mr. Thyroid. He had learned that by watching Sam.

-

They had to leave an hour early for church despite it only being downtown a couple of miles away. The roads were iced over black, and the snow that had started last night was still falling. They passed the construction site where the Holy Creator was being rebuilt. All the trucks, workers, and piles of steel beams had turned the street into a one-way. They continued on, maybe another block or so, to the tallest building on the block, maybe the tallest in downtown. To anyone who was far away, the proud, bold red letters read STECo, but from the street where Aravic now stood, the black and gold cursive sign declared, “Sweet—Thyroid Engineering Company.” And under the sign Aravic went, following Sam through the rotating doors.

According to another large sign, the building they were in was the company’s headquarters. They lobby was constructed out of black and gold marble and hardwood floors. It was similar to the Thyroid’s house, just… grander. There were tall, imposing columns, scattered couches, several secretary desks, a bar, three large golden elevators on the back wall, and a lot of people. Almost a crowd, in fact. But Mr. Thyroid parted the crowd like fire cutting through snow. Everyone he passed bowed their heads with a little, “Good morning, Mr. Thyroid,” like he was royalty. And with every greeting, his smirk grew a little smugger.

“His Most Holy Creator Church will convene in the twelfth floor ballroom in fifteen minutes,” rang a sweet, female voice over the babble of the crowd. Everyone started migrating towards the elevators. Aravic somehow got separated from Sam, and in a slight panic, he whipped out his phone and started texting.

“Where are you?”

“Head for the middle elevator.”

“OK. Is there really a ballroom in the building?”

“About a half-dozen. And then there’s about fifty conference rooms.”

“…really?”

“Yeup.”

Aravic walked right into the middle elevator and squeezed in next to Sam, shoving his phone in his pocket. She watched the glowing blue numbers rise with the elevator, not glancing at him or anyone else. Aravic set his hand on her elbow, but she swatted it away. He sighed. ‘It’s just back and forth all the time, isn’t it?’

They arrived on the twelfth floor and followed the crowd down the hallway and through a large set of double doors. The huge ballroom had been turned into a make-shift church, with hundreds of rows of chairs all facing a pedestal decorated in purple cloth. Sam split off and sat in the back row of the women’s section, while Aravic was once again dragged to the front of the men’s section with Mr. Thyroid and Tomas.

It seemed to be hours before Royal Barns entered the ballroom and the chatter stopped. The Royal merely stood behind the pedestal with his head bowed and his hands gripping the edges lightly. Aravic frowned. Where was the ritual, in incense, the dancing women?

Finally, the Royal spoke. “My Children, we meet here this week under grave circumstances. Our beloved church was burned to the ground, and we are working as hard as possible to rebuild our beacon of hope. I’m sure I speak for everyone when I say we are truly thankful and in debt to Brother Nathan Thyroid, who has set aside this room for us until The Holy Creator had been re-opened, and who is generous enough to donate money to help alleviate construction costs. But he can not, and should not, do it alone. That is why I urge each and every one of you to please donate after the ceremony, because it is not more than ever that we need to band together, and show evil that we are not afraid.”

-

“Alright son, let’s get you a weapon.”

Aravic followed Mr. Thyroid around the parked Presidential to the trunk, where Mr. Thyroid had stored his various firearms. Tomas and the man who was introduced to Aravic as Quincy Sweet, Mr. Thyroid’s business partner, joined them to collect their guns. “Winchester for you, Quincy,” Mr. Thyroid said, handing the portly man his rifle and setting his own aside. “We’ll let you boys have the twins.” Tomas took his Colt .45 greedily, Aravic, gingerly. The heavy metal felt foreign in his hands.

“Let’s get shootin’!” commented Mr. Sweet cheerfully, and the group set off across the parking lot.

The inside was an off-white and very plain. There were a few doors on the back wall, and there was a plump man behind a tall, imposing counter. The man looked up and smiled when he saw Mr. Thyroid. “Mr. Thyroid, Mr. Sweet! How good to see you again!” The man had a very greasy voice, and Aravic felt a bit uneasy around him. “Would you like your usual room?”

“Yes Rodger, that would be best. Quincy and I have some business to discuss,” Mr. Thyroid said. Rodger nodded, taking a set of keys and leading the group to the last door on the right, unlocking it. Mr. Thyroid pulled out his credit card from his pocket and asked, “How much for two hours?”

“Normally, two hundred. But for you, Mr. Thyroid, I can make an exception. One twenty it is,” Rodger replied, receiving the card greedily. He charged in and then he left the group to themselves inside the room.

The room was rather sophisticated. A thick glass wall separated the lounge from the very long shooting range. In the lounge were couches, a fully stocked bar, and a large flat screen TV. “Shall we get cracking then?” Mr. Sweet asked excitedly. His plump fingers gripped the rifle with anticipation.

“Yes, let’s. But first, I want to show Aravic how to shoot,” said Mr. Thyroid, clapping Aravic on his shoulder like he was his own son. He then steered Aravic into the shooting range.

Mr. Thyroid gave Aravic a run-down on all the basics of how to shoot a gun. “But mostly, it’ll take practice to get to be a good shot,” he summed up, handing Aravic a pair of earplugs. “We’ll start you out at thirty yards.”

Aravic put in the earplugs and jumped when a shot fired. Tomas was already shooting at his own target, (which was at least one hundred yards away) a determined look etched into his face. Shaking slightly, Aravic pointed his weapon at his own much closer target. He fired off six rounds, hitting the target only half the time.

At the end of their session, Aravic and Tomas compared. Aravic admitted he was a very lousy shot, but Tomas had landed all of his bullets in the target’s chest. “Nathan, your boy has quite a talent here!” Mr. Sweet exclaimed, looking over Tomas’s tarnished target with wonder.

“Yes, he—” But Mr. Thyroid stopped and turned his face back to the TV where Mr. Sweet had been watching the news.

“…I repeat, we are now receiving word from Washington.”

Mr. Thyroid sprung forward, grabbed the remote, and turned up the volume, completely forgetting he could have just told the TV to do so.

The one thing Aravic would never forget about this moment was not necessarily its significance, but rather, the expression on Mr. Thyroid’s face. It was one of fear. Aravic had never seen him look so weak, pale, and shattered.

“The very final vote is in, and everything has been quadruple checked. Ladies and gentlemen, the fiftieth President of the United States of America is… Republican Ryan Mull.”