“Go to hell,” Chuy said.
“Been there.” Eddie Marlowe, the wire-thin, jittery rock and roll guitarist, shot his bloodshot eyes left and right around the rubble that had once been a parking lot. The S on the wall above Eddie had collapsed with the brick under it, but it had left behind EARS, and Chuy found the combination of that work and Eddie’s darting glances creepy. He felt like he was being spied on. I think Eddie’s a prophet. Maybe you ought to show some respect. No he ain’t, you stupid maricón. And I wouldn’t care if he was. Still, he was always looking at unseen things, Eddie. “Done that.”
“The Mare isn’t tired.” That came from Jane, who sometimes was Qayna, the stone cold killer with knives strapped to her body and a cowboy hat. She’s not a Latina. I didn’t say she was. Shut your pie hole, idiot. I mean, shut my pie hole. And don’t say anything about her boobs. You ain’t fooling anyone. Apparently Jane was really old. She had crazy tattoos, seemed to crawl all over her like bugs.
The Mare was Jane’s horse, a big black snorting monster with fangs. When Jane let the horse free to graze, it came back with bloody teeth. Occasionally, it coughed up hairballs. Just like a cat, only what came up was bits of fur and bone. Now it just stood glaring at the end of the reins in Jane’s hand, reeking of rotting meat. Chuy could feel Mike trying not to look at the Mare, or trying to drag Chuy’s hand up to grab the crosses and medals that hung on his chest. Chuy forced the hand down to his side, fixed his eyes on the big animal and spat his contempt on the shattered asphalt on which he stood. Living with Mike in the same body was like wearing the same clothes as someone—wherever you went, you went together, and you were constantly wrestling over control. Fortunately, Mike was a pussy.
“I’m tired of the Mare,” Twitch said. She looked out of place among the ragged band of weirdos; she looked like a teenaged girl in skinny jeans and a t-shirt spangled with the photos of some boy band that disintegrated along with everything else in the Fall. Dirty and scraped up, but Twitch could have been just another suburban kid. She’s no kid, check out her… she’s a fairy. Be nice to her. Chuy ignored Mike. “We can’t all ride the Mare, anyway, we’re tired.”
“And there’s gas in the truck.” Eddie jerked his head at the vehicle.
“Do you hear something?” Twitch cocked her head to one side.
“There’s probably cans of refried beans in the truck, too. ’Cause it’s a taco truck. So hell no. Even if I could, which I can’t.”