“Terrific.” Fabler said it in a way that sucked all meaning out of the word terrific. “When do we all meet?”

  “We’re waiting for the rest of the gang. Noonish. Does this place serve breakfast?”

  “There’s a vending machine.” Grim glanced at his spouse. “Presley ate all the Cheetos.”

  “They’re dangerously cheesy,” Presley said.

  “So you guys want to hang out until the others show up?”

  “No,” Fabler said.

  “Nope,” Grim said.

  “Not one second more,” Presley said.

  “Okay. I guess I’ll check in and watch some pay-per-view. Is that new superhero movie out yet? The one where they took heroes from eight other movies and brought them all together?”

  “I hate it when movies do that,” Grim said.

  “They should just focus on one of the characters,” Presley said.

  “And they always have that one goofy guy whose only purpose is comic relief,” Grim added. “It takes me out of the story.”

  I glanced at Fabler, hoping for an alternative viewpoint.

  “I don’t watch movies,” Fabler said. “I do push-ups.”

  “I didn’t know those two things were mutually exclusive.”

  He shrugged. I tried to interest the trio in a casual conversation about alginate dental impressions, but no one was biting.

  Yowza! I’m funny!

  After they slammed the door on me, I checked into the motel, getting a room that was slightly smaller than my coffin will someday be, and then I checked out that new superhero movie on my laptop because the motel was from the dark ages and didn’t have pay-per-view.

  I gave up watching after twenty minutes because; too many characters to keep track of. Then I played Zombie Sugar Jackers 5: Bombie Booger Quackers, where I am currently the #3 ranked player in the world, which is a goal anyone can achieve if they put in 1700 hours of gaming and spend over eighteen thousand dollars on in-app purchases.

  Compulsion loop dopamine hit for the win!

  While thoughtlessly wasting money that probably could have made a difference in some needy person’s life, I kept one eye on the parking lot through the window and saw Phineas Troutt arrive.

  Phin was Jack’s husband, ten years younger, wiry and stubbly like a 1960s GI Joe, except he probably had genitalia between his legs and not just a plastic bump. He wore his standard Phin outfit; jeans and a white tee. We’d been close friends forever. I left my room to greet him, my arms open for an embrace.

  “Phin! Great to see you, brother!”

  “Don’t hug me—ah hell you’re hugging me.”

  I clapped his back. “Good to see you too, Little Mister Crabbypants.”

  “You smell like sweaty feet and bad decisions.”

  “As the guy bankrolling this operation, I’m catching a lot of hostility.”

  “Maybe that’s a hint to shower.”

  “Is that an offer?”

  Phin broke the hug. “Does anyone ever say yes when you hit on them?”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  “So never?”

  “Okay, you wouldn’t be surprised. Want to watch that new superhero movie that has twenty-nine main characters?”

  “That’s too many. I’m going to check in with Jack. What’s the plan?”

  “We’re meeting in the pool when everyone else arrives. Swimsuits optional.” I waggled my eyebrows.

  “Has anyone laughed at that joke?”

  “Can’t hit a homerun without swinging at everything.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t be batting.”

  “Hostility. Rampant hostility.”

  “It’s a tough crowd.”

  Phin went to his wife’s room, and I went back to my room. Time vaporized, sucked up by casual gaming addiction and Talon’s second hip-hop album, Fly.

  Talon is the author’s son. You should check him out. Go ahead, do it now. The book will still be here when you get back.

  Eventually Tom and his crew arrived, in two rental SUVs.

  I watched them exit. Tom, Roy, and Joan. Some weaselly guy that I assumed was Beethoven, who wore a romper and kinda reminded me of Willie Aames from Charles in Charge. Some tall guy who was obviously Lincoln. And a stunning Hollywood power couple that looked like they spent every waking moment in the gym, pumping each other.

  Tom, Roy, Joan, Lincoln, and Beethoven all had carry-on bags.

  Catherine’s younger partner also took two carry-ons from their vehicle, but I spied at least ten suitcases stacked in back. Enough luggage to tour Europe for a year.

  Interesting. If I was still a private eye, I might consider that some sort of clue.

  Twenty minutes later we were all gathered in the humid indoor pool area, sitting on plastic chairs, assembled around a kidney-shaped pool that belched more chlorine gas than WWI. Included in our merry band was a dodo bird named Stosh, whom I became instantly enamored with, having a soft spot for unusual pets. In the course of my life I’d owned several exotic animals, and they usually wound up saving my life in some convoluted fashion.

  I expected no less from Stosh.

  After some catching up chit-chat, people gathered into their little cliques. The loudest had to be Bert’s reunion with Tom, Joan, Roy, and Abe. They did so much hugging and touching and grinning it reminded me of a rave with free molly. Except they weren’t all chugging water.

  “Remember this one? Slug bug red!” Roy declared, raising his fist to Bert.

  Stosh hopped between them, lowering his head and screeching at Roy. “DOOOOO!”

  Roy backed up, spreading his hands. “Easy, bird. It’s just an old joke between friends.”

  “Stosh doesn’t like people hitting each other.” Bert patted Stosh’s head.

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Hey, Stosh. Remember me?” Tom crouched down to Stosh-level. “We FaceTimed.”

  Stosh gave Roy the stink eye for another second, then let Tom nuzzle him.

  “I love this dodo,” Abe declared, throwing his arm around Bert. “I also love his bird.”

  After the unwashed masses settled in, we all waited around for someone to take charge. I expected Jack to assume the leadership role because that was her thing, or Tom to step up because he already knew everyone present. When neither rose to the occasion, the call to action fell on yours truly.

  Harry McGlade. The one and only. Accept no imitations or substitutes. Sometimes, I played a comedy relief sidekick. But today, I took the part of Big Cheese In Charge.

  After performing a manly shrill finger whistle to command their undivided attention, I began my oration in the classic tradition; with a joke.

  “My name is Harry McGlade. Years ago, I had a big problem with premature ejaculation. But these days, I don’t. These days, when it happens, it doesn’t bother me at all.”

  Dead silence, except for Abraham Lincoln. He laughed like Santa Claus on a cocaine bender.

  My kind of people. The rest of them needed to lighten the fuck up. This group was so somber, it was like they were all in the middle of some unending pandemic.

  Hopefully, by the time you read this, that joke won’t make sense.

  “I know some of you. Some of you, I don’t. That guy, that’s obviously Lincoln. Welcome, Mr. President.”

  “I just got here,” Abe proclaimed. “But I’m guessing you came early!” He belly-laughed again.

  “Good one. You’re quick.”

  “So are you!”

  Hmm. It was kind of irritating when someone kept jumping in with jokes.

  “We need to do a massive round of introductions.” I glanced at each of the fifteen people situated around the toxic pool. “If you think you already know all the players, feel free to skip this part. I don’t like infodumps either, but sometimes a person needs a gentle reminder to help bring clarity and avoid confusion. Why don’t we start with the clones?”

  “Me! I’m a clone! I’m Abe Lincoln!” Abe waved both hands over his head, grinning like an idiot.

  “How about we hear from some people that aren’t Lincoln?” I suggested. “Tom, can you run through all the clones and their current whereabouts?”

  Tom stood up. “As far as I know, there are twenty-one clones. Number 1 is—”

  “AAAAAAAAAAAAAA-BRAHAM LINCOLN!” Abe jumped up like he just won the Super Bowl. “Woo-hoo! Lincoln in da house! Lincoln in da house! Run and hide your spouse, cuz Lincoln in da house! Somebody say whoop whoop!”

  Nobody said whoop whoop.

  Phin was right. Tough crowd.

  I soldiered on. “How about Number 2, Tom?”

  “Number 2 is the shit!” Abe yelled. “Get it? Number 2?”

  Jesus. No wonder somebody shot him.

  I decided I had to be the adult. “Abe, this will take forever to get through if you keep interrupting.”

  “Sorry. Just happy to be here. With my people. My peeps. My clonies. In the clone zone. Where my clones at? Whoop whoop!”

  The silence was uncomfortable.

  Abe crossed his arms and pouted. “Fine, I’ll shut up. Conformity wins again.”

  I sure hoped so. Abe needed to learn there was a time and a place for shenanigans and tomfoolery. And I needed to learn some comparable twenty-first century words, because shenanigans and tomfoolery were outdated slang and no longer in current usage. I’m a hep cat, not a fuddy-duddy who dishes out gobbledygook and horsefeathers like some kind of lollygagging phonus bolonus dew dropper. I ain’t hornswoggling you. That’s the hotsy-totsy cat’s pajamas. You can bet your sweet patootie, jobbies and flappers, that Harry McGlade is the bee’s knees.

  Now back to the exposition, currently in progress.

  “Number 2 is deceased,” Tom continued, unphased by my thoughts. “Number 3 is Joan of Arc. We’re married. Joan, can you stand up?”

  Joan did not stand up. She waved, while giving Tom a look that would wither crops.

  He must have done something stupid. Not to be gender biased, but it’s usually the one who identifies as a guy that does most of the screwing up. I booked the entire hotel for our merry little band of rescuers, and Joan and Tom had taken separate rooms. Not a good sign.

  “Number 4 is deceased. I’m Number 5, Thomas Jefferson. Number 6 is Albert Einstein. Can you stand up, Bert?”

  Bert stood, and the dude did look a lot like Einstein. But if I grew a similar mustache I’d look like Einstein too. Probably.

  “Wait!” Catherine stood and pointed. “Your friend Bert… he’s a clone of Albert Einstein?!”

  “I thought I’d mentioned that,” Joan said. She didn’t seem sincere.

  Catherine squeed and paraded over to Bert, her arms open wide. “I had no idea! What a joy it is to meet you, Bert!”

  Bert seemed to dislike her hug. “We met earlier.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t know you were somebody then! Albert Einstein! Possibly the most famous person here! No offense, Abe.”

  Abe shrugged. “None taken. I’ve Googled him. He’s more popular.”

  Catherine gave Bert a kiss on the cheek, then wiggled back to her seat.

  “Moving right along,” Tom said. “Numbers 7 through 11, all deceased.”

  I thought about asking who they were, but this was already taking long enough.

  “Number 12 is Sojourner Truth.”

  “She’s one of the women we’re trying to rescue,” Bert volunteered. “The other is Number 14, Sacagawea.”

  “They were looking for the remaining clones, and they were captured by a hostile military unit,” Tom explained. “We’ll get into details after the introductions. Number 13 is Ludwig Van Beethoven. Van, can you stand up?”

  Van stood. “I brought a bottle of liquor to share with everyone, but I didn’t expect so many people. So I can only share with a few of you.”

  Van sat back down. Awkward.

  “Number 15 is Nikola Tesla. He hasn’t been found yet.”

  “He’s the one Weejy, SoJo, and I were looking for,” Bert explained.

  “Number 16 is Catherine the Great.”

  Catherine stood without prompting. She smiled with a full understanding of how good looking she was, and then did that thing some models and celebrities do; striking a few practiced poses for the cameras, with chin tilts and shoulder drops and big smiles.

  “It’s so good to meet all of you. Thank you all for helping. We’re going to do great things. I can feel it.”

  Typical Hollywood phony. I knew it when I saw it, because I was one.

  “Dooooooo-dooooooo!” Stosh yelled.

  Apparently I wasn’t the only one who knew it. The dodo bird ran up to Catherine and Leo, moving pretty damn fast, and then stared at them, his head lowered and appearing ready to charge.

  “Can you take your… pet… somewhere else, Bert dear?”

  “Stosh isn’t really my pet. It’s more like an equal partnership.”

  “I’m going to rip off your partner’s beak if he doesn’t leave,” Leo warned.

  “Don’t try it. Stosh will likely bite your hands off. He can snap a frozen steak in half. Lemme talk to him.”

  Bert stood and walked over to the bird, crouching next to it and whispering something.

  “Doooooooo-oooooooo,” Stosh warbled, acting like he understood. Then the bird dashed to the door—opened it by the knob—and walked out and slammed it shut behind him, so hard it sounded like something broke.

  That is one awesome bird.

  “That is one irritating bird,” Catherine said, sitting back down.

  Bird drama over, Tom got back to doing his Tom thing.

  “Number 17, Number 18, Number 19, and Number 20, we haven’t run into and don’t know their whereabouts. They are Sigmund Freud, Torquemada, Charles Darwin, and Mary Tudor, also known as Bloody Mary.”

  Bloody Mary? Why did that sound familiar to me?

  “That leaves Number 21, who I just found out about.”

  Catherine stood again. “He’s one that I did. My bodyguard, Leo. Eight years ago he was a fitness model, and he’d gotten in a car accident and was declared brain-dead. I was his second cousin, his only remaining family. I managed to find an experimental serum, and worked with a scientist to mix it with the DNA of a long-dead historical figure. DNA procured the same way our DNA was procured. As a result, his DNA changed into—”

  “Excuse me.” A guy I didn’t know raised his hand. “You’re saying it it it changed his genes?”

  “That’s Dr. Frank Belgium,” Tom said. “He’s an old friend, and a molecular biologist.”

  “Yes, it did,” Catherine answered. “It completely rearranged his genome. New face. An even more muscular body. Even his blood type changed.”

  “Is this the case you consulted on?” Bert asked.

  “I I I think it is. Who was the scientist you worked with, Catherine? Is it a guy named Biv—”

  “I think I’ve been pretty good at staying quiet for the last two minutes,” Abe interrupted. “But I just want to hear who this good-looking, muscular man is.”

  “Agreed,” I agreed. “This is starting to drag. And not in a fun female-impersonator kind of way.”

  “His donor…” Catherine paused for dramatic effect, “is King Leonidas of Sparta.”

  Leonidas? Like Gerard Butler in the movie 300?

  Cool. Or maybe not cool, if he turns out to be one of the bad guys. You never know with these ensemble casts.

  Leo stood up, and his pecs danced under his tight shirt, threatening to break the seams. This guy looked like he could crack walnuts using nothing but his ass cheeks. Which is something I’d pay big money to see. And eat.

  Leo continued to stand there, apparently waiting for people to fawn all over him. No one did. He sat back down.

  Tom continued the interminable intros. “The man sitting on my right is Roy. Former cop like me, we used to be partners. To his right is Jack Daniels. She was our boss in the Chicago Police Department. The man next to her is Phin, they’re married. Next to Frank is Sara, they’re married. And finally we have some professional mercenary help. The one in the middle is Grim, Presley is the woman on his right, they’re married, Fabler on his left, they’re brothers-in-law. They’ll be running the op.”

  “So let’s have Bert tell us all he knows about what happened to Weejy and SoJo, and then we’ll figure out a plan to save them,” I commanded like a proper commander.

  Then I pulled out my phone and went back to Zombie Sugar Jackers. Because, ultimately, a person’s primary goal is to entertain themselves. Even at the expense of alienating others.

  And for the time being, that’s it for me and my entirely warranted first-person point-of-view narration.

  I’ll pop in one more time at the end to count who is still alive after the bloodbath.

  Until then, we can proceed with our regularly scheduled programming…

  WEEJY

  Area 57 – New Mexico

  They slept in an actual room, not the cell they’d previously occupied. It resembled a military barracks, with grey bunk beds and matching footlockers for clothing and personal items. The only decorations were a schoolhouse-style analog clock, and a Playboy calendar from 2016, nailed to one of the concrete walls.

  Sleeping quarters for the security force.

  Weejy tried to get a sense of their numbers, counting doors and counting heads, and she guessed that Ziggy’s private army contained between twenty-four and forty armed guards. They worked in shifts of at least ten men, and seemed to be well-trained and professional.

  After Charles brought Weejy and SoJo to their room, they’d been left alone by everyone. No Ziggy. No questions. Just instructions from Charles to have a good night’s sleep.

  But their door had still been locked from the outside.

  Assuming there were microphones, just like there had been in the car, Weejy and SoJo didn’t talk. But they found an old ballpoint pen in one of the lockers, and scribbled notes to one another while they bullshitted audibly.

  “So this is much nicer than before,” Weejy said while writing, We need to warn the others.

  “I’m just hoping we get paid.” SoJo scribbled, OK. How?

  “If there’s as much money as Charles says, there should be enough for everyone.”

  He wants the other clones. We can ask to call them.