When “CheezyNacho420” live-streams the war-bot chopping off his leg, it’s not that he wants to necessarily shock people (though it helps) or bag a few extra subscribers (though that’s even more helpful). It’s that he wants to get ridiculous, out of control, crazy famous. And really, in this day and age, is that such a bad thing?

Meg sure thinks so. That’s why when she’s finished wiping the blood splatter off her face while Cheezy soaks his stump in the expensive-ass limb RE-GROW© gel tub he bought after he reached two hundred mill. subscribers, she’s gives him a look like she just stuck her nose in her own vomit. Cheezy wants to make a meme of it. Even takes a snapshot with his retinals. Who knows. Might make for a good thumbnail someday.

“Never do that again,” Meg says chucking the bloody rag onto the bathroom floor.

“I was thinking both legs next time,” Cheezy says as he reviews the vid’s view count in his retinals. “You know: a Part II. Maybe use lasers instead. I dunno. What do ya think?”

“I thought you hacking off your nose was gross. But your whole leg? Come ‘on, Cheezy. That’s sick.”

Cheezy smiles. “It’s sick, isn’t it. So freaking sick.”

And as Meg rolls her eyes and walks out of his bathroom (the cave-themed one complete with custom stucco stalactites and stalagmites), he closes his eyes and listens to the chimes of subscribers growing. And he grins.

He’s going to be hella famous. He’s going to the top. He’s going all the way.

---

What stops Cheezy from doing Oops, all legless! (Part II) (a working title) isn’t the ungodly expense of all the RE-GROW© gel and ketamine dermals. Or his lackadaisical entourage who are all just getting stoned in his living room. It’s that while he’s flexing the new leg, feeling the synth muscles bend, he hears the ding of an unlinked account DMing his retinals. Which is unusual. Cause Cheezy’s getting pretty famous these days as a streamer. Not as famous as he’d like, but famous enough that it’s hard to squeeze a DM through his filters.

“Some rando wants to collab,” he summarizes to the boys.

“Sick,” says Barfy from the couch. Barfy’s their techie who re-programmed the war-bot to do that hilarious Fortnite dance after chopping Cheezy’s leg.

“What kind of collab?” Poo-dog asks. “Gross out? Prank?”

Cheezy shakes his head. “Dunno.”

Cheezy plops onto the giant wrap around sectional couch that cost almost as much as that lambo he rolled into the Grand Canyon two years ago. There’s some kind of holo-movie playing in the vid-pit, but most of the boys aren’t paying attention, too stoned and too lost in their retinals’ vid-feeds. Cheezy takes a sec to dig a little. Checks the guy’s profile. His subscriber count. Very respectable. Not CheezyNacho420 respectable. But respectable. A quick compare shows there’s a distinct break between his and Cheezy’s subscribers. Only an 8% overlap, but the AI analyzer seems to think that’ll grow to 79% if they collab. Considering how many subscribers the guy’s got, that’s a terrific boost. One too hard to ignore. He reads the DM one more time.

Hey, Cheezy man! Big fan! Really digging the latest leg chopper vid! The sound when your femur cracked? Oh, man, so sick! Anyway, was reaching out cause I was thinking of doing a new live-stream that’d make for an excellent collab. I’ve got an inside scoop on this old military base out in the Rockies. Make for some excellent content. What do you say? Peace, Lil’ Drizzle.

Up till now, Cheezy has never heard of Lil’ Drizzle. But he likes the directness. And he likes the stats even more. And yeah, sure, Oh crap! I cut off BOTH my legs! (extra femur crack!) (other working title) would be a pretty sweet follow up to his last. But Cheezy’s thinking maybe it’s time to shake things up. And he’s thinking about those delicious stats. About rising up to Numero Uno, baby.

They redesigned fire escapes over the last few decades. I never saw a problem with the rotted scaffolding they used to use, though I doubt it would have carried the weight of all 1,237 households in my building. It must have been seventeen, maybe eighteen years ago when they tore down every ladder in the city and replaced them with the Tubes.

I’m sitting on the iridescent ledge of a Tube now, just outside my forty-seventh floor apartment. My hand hovers over an enormous yellow button while I rock back and forth on the platform, which swaddles my legs in a slight bit of goo. I’ve gotten in trouble a few times for pressing the button when there wasn’t a fire. But it’s the city’s own fault for making the Tubes so comfortable. They wrap me up in this warm, heat-proof fabric, and soon I’m drenched in slime, funneling a thousand miles a minute through the invisible chute system that hangs like honey over the skyscrapers. It’s wonderful, and it lasts for ages–like how I imagine it feels when most people sleep.

But then I get to the other end–the fire station–and I have to deal with Mr. Pliskova who always threatens legal action if I keep pulling the goopy fire alarm when I’m not supposed to.

I sigh, retract my fingers from the button and turn to the next best thing. My lighter tickles the bowl of my pipe with dainty, cygilistic sparks of electricity. Soon, yellow heat waves radiate from the drug in the glass before I suck it all up through my lips and my cheeks shiver with delight. Cold gas rakes my throat, but I keep it in for as long as I can. I feel the tingle of a cough building in my lungs and as I watch the sulfur smoke wisp from my lips, I wonder if that’s what I’ll become when I’m gone.

I shriek as something jumps onto my hand. I brush it off and scurry away. That’s the other problem with the Tubes. For some reason, they like to wrap up dead things from the ground and send them up to the ledges. It happens so often that the mayor had to give a speech. She said she had no idea what caused it and after that, everyone just kind of accepted it. I nudge the little body over the edge and lean to see it disappear into the darkness below.

My attention catches on the building across from mine. I peer about twelve stories down into Julie’s apartment. I think she leaves the window open to taunt me. I can see her and her new boyfriend fondling each other on her couch. I wonder if it still smells the same or if his scent has invaded the aroma I spent so long cultivating. They’re watching a show I watched with her first. I shake my head as they get to my favorite bit, and don’t look up from their incessant necking. She leaves the window open to taunt me.

Anyways, I’ve extracted every morsel of yellow goodness from my pipe, so I suppose it’s time to head back inside. I’m careful not to pinch my fingers on the windowsill as I crawl through unflatteringly. I don’t want to feel any pain.

“Hello, Pascal,” I say to my roommate as I pass by. Pascal’s sitting in the usual spot, meditating as Pascal does. “How’s it going tonight? Got any plans?” Pascal doesn’t respond, as usual. I don’t expect anything more, I’m not crazy.

There’s a gun on the counter. It’s old and the trigger looks like it could disintegrate at any second, but the bullets that jut out from its revolving chamber glint new. This is the weapon my grandfather kept in his waistband during the war. It’s the one with which he shot a dozen fascists, and then himself. I admire it every day. I brush the dust off with the black feather I keep beside it, check to make sure it’s still loaded, and inspect its various fiddly bits, wondering if it would work if I used it.

I look up at the two doors in my apartment. On the left, the bathroom. Do I have to use the bathroom? Not really. It’d be something to do, but I tried about an hour ago and I haven’t drunk any water. On the right, the bedroom. Could I sleep? Probably not, and it would depress me to try.

So, I suppose it’s time for my only hobby–pacing around the living room in a wide circle, waiting for the drugs to kick in.

“Hey, Pascal,” I say to Pascal as I pass by on my first revolution.

I keep my apartment sparse. I read a book on spartanism a while back, thinking it was about the cool Greek guys. You know, statues, and battles and shit, but it turned out to be a life-coaching seminar on why it’s better not to have furniture. I never really liked my furniture anyways, so I thought I’d give it a try. I sent my couch, my coffee table, and my pay-per-view holographic television to the fire station.

All that’s left is my grandfather’s paisley rug. It covers the burns in the hardwood, and I feel it ties the whole room together, so I kept it.

“What’s good, Pascal?” I say on my second pass.

This goes on for half an hour, or until I start to wonder how long it’s been. I glance to the smokey outline where my clock used to be, and once again salute Pascal. I’ve also started to see tiny yellow figures in the corners of my eyes. They’re exercising, stretching their limbs, smiling, and depending on my mood, conspiring to rob me. I know they’re going to get bigger. I know they’re going to turn into huge fractals that make me forget where I am. Soon, the drug will take over my mind and I won’t feel like this anymore.

I’m tired, so I sit in front of Pascal. “Hi, Pascal,” I say again.

Pascal is an enormous, conglomerated shrine to every deity I’ve ever come across. Pascal sits at eight feet tall, oozing with the industrial grade glue I used to piece it together. The body is composed of various religious texts, all of which have been perused, torn apart, and stuck back together like a lunatic’s victim. It has the skull of a goat, the ears of an elephant, and ten divinely positioned hands that hold crustacean shells and stolen gemstones. I painted its base to look like those Tibetan clouds, but they turned out more reminiscent of dirty rags. Pictures of spiritual leaders sprout from Pascal’s shoulders, all smiling at me, smelling of every incense I could find on top of sage, myrrh, vomit and hardening wax. Pascal is my passion project. If I’m going to end it all, I may as well hedge my bets. I don’t want any unpleasantries.

That being said, I really don’t know how to pray to it all. I feel like I should, but to who? To what? For what?

I turn around to make sure the old gun is still in its place. It always is because only Pascal and I live here. Right on the table next to—

It’s gone. I twist my head to various corners of the room, spying for dropped bits and pieces of it, but there’s no trace. Did I move it and forget? I never move it. But maybe earlier today I decided it was finally time, and took it to the bedroom. I don’t remember that, though. And as the drug whispers louder in my ear, do I really care about the old gun?

I turn back to Pascal and rock back and forth on the hardwood. My ass starts to hurt. While I can stand it, I murmur incoherencies, hoping that if something is watching me, they might understand the feeling without the words. But soon, the yellow specters have clouded my peripherals, and I need to use the bathroom.

With a groan, I push up from the ground, and rub my eyes, missing the door handle twice before I catch it between two of my weakest fingers. Immediately upon entering the cracked-tile bunker of sewage piping, I turn to the mirror, and lift my shirt. It’s not like I’m going to go to the gym, or start eating healthier, so nothing will have changed, but I still shake my head as nausea slips up my esophagus.

“Hello,” says someone in the bathtub. “We know you want to kill yourself.”

I shriek and stumble back into the door, slamming my head on the wood. I point and scream “Get out! Who are you?” There are two women standing side-by-side in the faux marble basin. They wear trench coats and patinated leather bootstraps with modern ether rifles and futuristic control panel waistcoats. Two shy beeps sound out of time, and echo a series of red lights in their breast pockets that spasm on and off.

“We’re sorry to bother you,” says the one on the left, “but we have a matter of urgent business to discuss with you. My name is Captain Fronders, and this is Leftenant Muck. We are members of a government agency called AAMTT–the Association for the Advancement of Military Time Travel. We would like to enlist your help.”

I sputter and shake my head. “Time travel? Excuse me? Is this some kind of joke? Get out of my apartment.”

They disappear. No wind, no bright lights. The two women are gone, and I can’t remember if I hallucinated them.

I squeal again as a sudden wave of memory eclipses my thoughts. I fall to my knees. My heartbeat pounds in my brain as I experience a memory over and over again like it’s always been there. But it feels entirely new.

When I look up, the women are back.

“I remember you,” I wail. “I remember it now. You were at my elementary school. During volleyball practice. How–You looked… completely different. But it was definitely you–”

“Yes,” replies the woman on the left. “We’ve just come from there.”

The one on the right interrupts seamlessly. “Would you like to participate in our study?”

“What?” is all I can manage to get out.

“We are interested in your participation in our study. Are you familiar with the grandfather paradox?” She doesn’t pause for me to respond. “What happens if one travels back in time and kills their own grandfather?”

“We have been tasked with deciphering this problem,” continues the other. “But because of recently amended manslaughter legislation, we are unable to kill others in the past, we are only authorized to use… self-destructive methods. We find the whole grandfather part of it all redundant anyways. The paradox arises in the same way with even a one minute travel to the past. That being said, no one at our agency wants to test it. No one’s willing to go back in time and kill themself.”

“But since I already want to…” I piece together.

“Precisely.” Says the one on the left. “We want you to travel back in time, and sacrifice yourself to science.”

A pause. I steady myself against the wall, and my towel falls off its hook. “I’m too high for this,” I say. My vision is almost entirely consumed by the yellow shapes.

“Come towards us,” they say. I stumble forward, hands grabbing in front of me. I feel knuckles on my shoulder, and instantly I’m silenced. I try to scream, but my mouth moves too fast. My vision begins to clear, thoughts speeding along more swiftly than I can track them. When the women release me, I slump against the ridge of the bathtub, and catch my breath.

I’m sober.

Nobody says nothin’ good about that Kimball Manor, wastin’ away on the corner of Hemlock and Old Chatsworth Road. Nobody says nothin’ bad about it either. Really, nobody says much at all about the old mansion, but somehow everybody knows about the Fungus Man that lives in the hole where the parlor floor caved in. It’s what the adults call an “open secret.”

Now, nobody in town knows this Fungus Man, and none but a few knows what kind of fungus make him up. Eunice always said the Fungus Man’s fungi weren’t like the mushrooms they sold in the grocery store, but the natural, dangerous kinds that make your throat close up and your skin blister and char. Eunice usually knows what she’s talkin’ ‘bout when it comes to earth sciences, so I was keen to believe her. But I also had a mind to see it for myself.

I told her so, one day walkin’ in the gully next to the overgrown rail line while we were headin’ back from school. That was the long way ‘round, but we took it to escape the boys who always said Eunice had a mouse face and pulled her hair. They said plenty other mean things about her too. Said she looked like a bloated pear, on account of her hips. Laughed at her fingernails, full o’ dirt, and her patchy clothes. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with makin’ good use o’ God’s blessings,” I always said. It would cheer her up some, but not a whole lot.

What would cheer her up was takin’ the forest path just before the fork in the tracks. She looked mighty cheerful in the dim light under the forest canopy. She’d stop to point out new buds on a cranefly orchid or hornbeam saplings, threadin’ the shoots through her fingers. Every so often she’d find a mushroom you could eat, pick it up, and scarf it down. Wouldn’t even wash the grime off or nothin’!

“Henry, look!” She was crouched down at the base of an old oak stump, brushin’ a round, ruffled cap with the tips of her fingers. “Hen o’ the woods. Good eatin’, these.”

“Looks like them ballerina tutus,” I said.

Eunice laughed, a loud raspy cackle. Then she tore off a piece and gulped it right down.

“Bet you’re always thinkin’ o’ ballerinas in their tutus, ain’tcha, Henry?”

I frowned. I was goin’ by Hank these days, and she knew it.

She was pushin’ my buttons. She always did after a run-in with those bully boys.

“Don’t you think I’d look good in one of them tutus, Henry?” she asked, knowin’ she wouldn’t, but knowin’ I’d agree.

“Duh,” I said, “but your tutu would be made o’ these here mushrooms.”

She tore off another piece and offered it to me. I turned my nose up at it, but she pressed, shakin’ the thing at me. And that there’s when I got to thinkin’ of the Fungus Man.

“Hey, you think there really is a man made o’ mushrooms who lives underneath that caved-in floor over in Kimball Manor?”

Eunice just stared at me, tearin’ piece after piece of that hen o’ the woods. I thought maybe she was mad, or fixin’ to set me straight or somethin’. She could, too. But I’d never mentioned the Fungus Man before. Like I said, no one ever really says nothin’ about him or the house, so how can anyone have a strong feelin’ about it?

Jesus would’ve been born, grown, died, and resurrected before Eunice did anythin’ but chew that wood-hen, unless I clicked my tongue and said, “Gimme some,” and held out my hand.

She smiled, a little bashful, and gave me a piece. I popped it in my mouth. It was soft and fluffy and tasted buttery, just like chicken.

Eunice piped up. “I heard that the man don’t just live in a hole in the ground,” she testified. “I heard there’s a big ol’ tunnel beneath that house, stretchin’ all the way down into Hell, down and down straight into Satan’s fiery torture pit.”

She crept toward me, her arms held up in front like a zombie.

“Just waitin’ for stupid boys like Henry Tattnall to fall into it and get gobbled up by the devil himself.”

I gulped. “So he’s a demon, then? The Fungus Man?”

“If he’s real,” she said, her voice quivering, “he might as well be. I’d steer clear if I’s you.”

She huffed and started walkin’ away, her arms pulled taut as a circus high-wire behind her. My head was tellin’ me she was just messin’, but my heart wanted to prove her wrong. Show her I wasn’t scared o’ no tunnel or devil or Fungus Man. And if she was really messin’, why would she herself be so scared?

So I said, “You’re too chicken to find out for yourself, ain’t ya, Eunice Bailey?”

She whipped ‘round again. “Ain’t scared. Just got no interest in dyin’.”

“Well, I’ll protect you if you promise to come with.”

“Scrawny boy like you? Protect me?”

Now, it’s true that I’m on the scrawny side. Just haven’t filled out yet. All the Tattnall boys do, eventually. So it did seem funny that scrawny little Hank Tattnall could ever protect Eunice Bailey, who was just as tall and nearly twice my size.

We’d climbed trees and arm-wrestled and all that plenty o’ times, and she always won. But she was only strong when she could find her nerve, and she sure couldn’t find it when those bully boys had a mind to beat down her confidence. And who could blame her? They set upon their target like huntin’ dogs. Not lettin’ up until they was satisfied with the kill.

So I stood back, hands on my hips, lookin’ at the forest refuge around us and called, “Done it before, ain’t I?” Takin’ credit for walkin’ her home the long way, not being scared of the forest like them bullies.

Boy, she really got mad then. Her face turned red as a hot stove and she said, “I’ll show you, Henry Tattnall. You wanna face the worst fear you ever known? Well, be my guest.”

And she stomped off toward old Kimball Manor on the corner of Hemlock and Old Chatsworth Road. I shoulda known right then that Eunice Bailey knew more than I did–about that house, about the Fungus Man, but also just about everything.

The Guide stared toward the sunrise over a sea of smog just four hundred feet below his homestead. He scuffed at the ground with his boot and watched dust skitter across the clearing. Long shadows punctuated every pebble.

They were late. Why were the damned pilgrims always late? They needed an early start to reach the summit and return before dark. And there was Zoola to face at the top. It wasn’t wise to keep a dragon waiting.

He brushed hair out of his eyes—when had it gone so grey?— and shoved his hands into his pockets. He’d been guiding the annual pilgrims for thirty years now, almost half his life. Sixty pilgrims up, thirty pilgrims down. It was a nasty business, but if he didn’t do it—

The crunch of tires on gravel announced Jim’s electric pickup finally arriving. Zoola didn’t allow internal combustion on the mountain. Hard to believe people down-below still pumped that poison into the soup they tried to breathe.

The truck rolled to a stop right in front of him, and his friend waved from the driver’s seat.

Friend. That was a stretch for someone he saw one day a year for drop-off and pick-up. But he did like the man. He didn’t ask questions or express many opinions.

“Hey, Old Man. Sorry I’m late,” Jim said.

Again, he thought, but he waved it away as his friend got out. “Glad to see you’re still on the job.”

He took Jim’s offered hand and held onto it, savoring the pressure of palm against palm, the warmth of the flesh, and of the gesture.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Jim said. “Sunshine and clean air one day a year. But, I envy your position, Old Man. When you gonna retire and give someone else a chance?”

“Not gonna happen.” And you’d thank me for that if you knew. He dropped the handshake and looked toward Jim’s passengers.

“So, who are our lottery winners this year?”

The pair were already out of the truck and gaping at the sky. Jim held out the dossiers, but the young woman…. His throat clenched. She was practically the image of— No, he wasn’t going there.

She wore grey homespun shirt, pants, and jacket and a wide grin. A single braid, black as the dragon’s heart, hung nearly to her waist. Dark eyes were crinkled with smile lines. So like—

“Old Man?”

“Sorry, Jim.” He took the documents.

The young woman was Nadie Charlie from Polson. Twenty-five. A scholar of the collapse and the rise of the dragons. He hadn’t realized there was still a settlement up on the big lake. Or scholars anywhere.

The man was Frederick Vider, a fifty-one-year-old merchant from Missoula who apparently owned a good portion of the city. He looked just as he imagined one of Missoula’s wealthy jerk-offs would. Baked on frown, thinning brown hair, stout but reasonably fit. His clothing appeared manufactured. Probably had it imported from Kansas City or some such outlandish place. Probably ate imported real food, too. And lived in a climate-controlled home while his neighbors struggled to keep air scrubbers working and choked down vat-grown algae.

He already knew who he was rooting for. But he also knew Zoola’s preferences. This was going to be a hard one.

“Odd pair,” he said. “But that’s the lottery. I get why folks would enter for the chance of a day in the sun. But why anyone would want to upload into that bastard of a dragon is beyond me.”

“You don’t live in the down-below,” Jim said. “It’s bad and worse every year. If I didn’t get my annual dose of fresh air, I might enter myself.”

“Are you about done, Gentlemen?” Vider said. “I’m here to see a dragon. Shouldn’t we be getting on with it?”

He knew he wouldn’t like this guy. “Hold your horses, Buddy. We’ll be leaving in a few minutes.”

“That’s Mr. Vider to you.” He folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the truck.

“Right,” the Guide said. “Come on, Jim. Let’s get you unloaded. We don’t want to keep Mr. Vider waiting.”

Jim dropped the truck’s tailgate and flipped off the tarp. There, behind the uninspiring crates of compressed algae, was the Guide’s yearly splurge. A keg of Missoula’s best beer.

He grew much of his own food in his greenhouse, but the algae packs would round out his needs. Most folk down-below, the algae was all they got.

Jim hefted a crate and carried it to the storeroom. Before the Guide could grab the next one, the young woman was beside him, pulling it out.

“That’s not necessary, Ms. Charlie.”

“Let me help. And please call me Nadie.”

He let her take it and watched her walk away.

“A bit young for you, isn’t she?” Vider said.

The Guide shot him a look, then lifted the next crate. Jim took the next and Nadie the next, and they had the algae unloaded and stowed in a few minutes. Vider watched, like a man used to watching others work, as Jim and the Guide wrestled the keg into the spring house. The Guide ran a hand over the cool metal. Tonight.

Back at the truck, he shook Jim’s hand again. “See you later for pickup.”

“If you’re still alive, Old Man.”

Jim waved out the window as he turned a circle in the clearing, then headed back down the road.

“Hey, Old Man. Let’s get going,” Vider said.

“That’s Guide to you, Mr. Vider.”

“Whatever. Just do your job.” He already had his City-of-Missoula-issued pack on his back.

But Nadie…She stood in the center of the clearing, smile gone, pack dangling from one hand. She faced the trail, but her focus was miles beyond.

“Nadie?”

She shook her head and turned toward him, her smile back in place. “It’s so beautiful here. I mean, I knew it would be, but…It makes me feel hollowed out. And present, as if I’ve just stepped out of a dream.”

Vider snorted, and the Guide ignored him. He supposed he’d be doing a lot of that today. He scanned his homestead one last time, then shouldered his pack. “All right—”

A shadow swept the clearing.

All three looked up as a sixty-foot-long silhouette circled back. The dragon soared on motionless wings, neck outstretched, and serpentine tail trailing. They banked and rose, turned a higher circle, then flew off to the south.

Vider had backed up under a big pine. Nadie stood with her head tilted skyward, her mouth open in a silent oh.

“All right, Pilgrims. Let’s head out.”

“About damn time,” Vider said and took off up the trail.

Nadie followed, adjusting her pack straps, and the Guide brought up the rear. It was best to keep an eye on the pilgrims, keep them moving and on the trail.

The grade eased after a short, steep stretch, and Nadie fell back to walk beside him. “Is that chittering sound off in the woods a bird?”

“Squirrel.”

“Oh. I’ve seen pictures. Do you think we’ll see one up close?”

“Likely, we will.”

“I’ve never been above the smog before. It must be wonderful, living up here under the sun.”

He glanced at her. “There are trade-offs, but yes, it’s pretty nice.”

“Trade-offs?”

She was a chatty one. This was going to be a long day.