Upstairs, at the end of the first row of files, sheets of paper so brittle from age and molded. The typewriter cut through on all the “o’s”, dirt, smears and smudges. But read some of the words there. Someone took vengeance with that typing machine. Someone kicked him when he was down.
 
But who’s going to find it? The whole building, these old files in paper boxes, the dry air. It will all turn into black dust with only nails and paperclips remaining. All that anger washed away by the rain after the fire, or sticking to the bottom of your boots.
 
Dig through the ashes and you might find a half-burned sheet way down in the black muck. Half a paragraph of vitriol and bitterness. It will still get you. Beyond his grave and even after a ruinous fire this guy will still get you. His words will hook into your pasty flesh like barbwire and rip it up a little. And when you try to run it will rip more. Just as you twist to free yourself it will dig deeper into your bloody ankle and pull you down, dragging you across the ash back into your own hate. Once that’s started you’re not the same. And the only way to free yourself is to start cutting…

In the soft light, under some trees in the amusement park Janie and Bill stood sweating in their wool suits. Her face was powder and fine creases and some chemicals to prop it up and hold it together. Her eyes were glazed over. But she started dancing to the piped-in music, started moving her hips, her cold expression unchanging. Bill stood there and looked out towards the tourists. Do you think he’ll show up this time? he asked.

Oh, he’ll show, Janie said. That’s the problem. She stopped moving and went at her phone, texting away. Bill stared at the side of her head like he was going to tell her something but his mouth didn’t open -it only twitched a little. He was a good ten years younger than her and coincidentally had just gotten his hair cut that morning.

When Peter finally arrived they were numbed both by the heat and the waiting and moved in slow-motion. He was on his way to the escalator: giant crown, robe flowing, looking like the perfect cartoon king. It’s Peter, Janie growled to Bill and they both shuffled in place. Meanwhile the king Peter was getting further away. Bill… Fucking–. And she pinched his arm hard, jolting him out of his stupor. Ow! I am! He now walked briskly toward the king, swinging his arms, with Janie following too closely. Peter!

The big king face turned, solemn expression, grey beard. The crown could not have been bigger and more bulbous on his head. Bill kept coming, now invading the king’s personal space. The king put hands on both of Bill’s shoulders to keep him back. Janie leaned in. What is this? Peter said.

He must have been prepared for them though. In 65 seconds he had slipped back into the crowd going down the escalator and Janie and Bill were stumbling around in circles. You fucked it up, Bill, Janie said. You moron. Bill paced around, glancing now and then at the king’s crown bobbing away from them through the throngs.

Shut up Janie! SHUT UP! Bill’s face had become an almost fluorescent, sweaty pink. He grabbed her shirt and leaned into her face. SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP! Security moved in, and a crowd formed. Some people even walked the wrong way up the escalator to get back into the commotion.

When the guards got up to Bill they had to pry his fingers from around Janie’s neck. On the pavilion below, Peter, the king, stopped and stared up, his benevolent kingly expression replaced with a grimace. His brow furrowed.

Janie leaned, gasping, over the railing, her shirt torn, her neck red and bruised. Their eyes met for a second before Peter took off running, robes flowing, pushing people out of the way. His crown fell off as he went around a corner and a little kid instantly picked it up. But the kid’s angry dad made him drop it.

Above, security guards and medics pushed in at Janie, all talking at once. She ignored the chatter, pointing down to the lower pavilion. She finally spoke, her voice quavering, Get… me… that… crown.

There was a thud.  There was another thud. You’ve got to stop this Max. There’s— AAAEECHHHH!!!! And the room was quiet. Paul the terrier, soaked from the rain, padded back under the bench. A lake of blood widened until it reached the rug, there it simply soaked in and darkened the pattern. Trusty spun his arms around, wind-milling half on the rug and half off. The arrows stuck out of his back at random angles and twitched as he moved his arms.
 
The first arrow came out very smoothly, he hardly felt a thing. He threw it aside and it clattered on the slate tiles. The second arrow felt like a mean pinch but then it landed over by the first. The third arrow was an experience.  There were five different levels of pain: purple, red, blue, then fucking white pain. And then after the last was out it felt like a piece of it must still be stuck in there because it smarted.
 
Trusty pushed himself against the wall and, still dripping, got to his feet. He tapped a couple of steps across and then collapsed half on the table. There were birds in the house, he didn’t know how they got in there, one red, one yellow, and they flew madly around his head like in a cartoon. He tried swatting at them but in the process almost fell off the table. This was when the doorbell rang. His head jerked up at the sound and he stared beyond the doorway into the darkness of the front hall. Paul the dog growled low from under the bench. As Trusty pushed himself up and took seasick steps toward the doorway the growling increased in volume.
 
His shoe slipped from under him and he went crashing down, now in the semi-darkness. He slid around a little- everything had turned wet and slimy. But propping himself in the narrow hallway, one hand on each wall, he managed to rise and lurch at the door with its glowing peephole. He hit against it and looked though with his one good eye. There was a girl out there: braids, some kind of puffy candy-colored dress, short, and with a plastic purse. Big eyes. Big, inflated lips that said, Trusty MacLaine? Are you there, Mr. Trusty?
 
Trusty thought of some words to say, just like he always did before speaking, but this time he simply slumped to the floor. He did manage a few knocks on the wood with his bloody knuckles. TRUSTY!! TRUSTY!! The girl started crying and pulled hard at the doorknob. I don’t think he’s there, another voice said. Then Trusty heard her whisper like her face was pressed up to the opening at the bottom of the door. Trusty, she breathed. There are a lot of us now. You started something.
 
He smiled for a second. Then he choked and blood spilled out to her side. Ew. Jesus. Yup. You’re right. Trusty’s not making it. She got quickly to her feet and brushed off her dress. She took three steps down toward the elevators. Then turned back and rapped the door lightly. Bye, Trust, she whispered. Then spun around, hurrying down the hall to join the others.