Page 102 of Vile Bastards
Oh, there’s nothing a regular human hates more than having their space interrupted. Want to shake someone up? Just take an extra step and watch them squirm. I first truly realized I was into Scarlett Force late freshman year when I got too close behind her in the cafeteria line. She turned around and, without skipping a beat or growing angry, said, “Dude, I need you to take at least two fucking steps back; you’re in my space.”
Just that. Assertive. Willing to cause social disruption to address reality. You’d be shocked how few people can manage such a simple task.
“My point is: I need to distract Chet. I need to distract my father.” Ash’s lips twitch into a devious, faraway smile. He isn’t looking at me. Instead, he’s staring out the windshield at the pond. “This will do the trick.”
“He’ll know right away that you’re Ash.” I state the obvious. Whatever he’s doing with this body—dumping it in his father’s lap, I presume—it’s only going to hurt him and Scarlett both.
I’m not letting him leave.
“I realized as I kissed a dying girl that, as airheaded as she was, as misguided, she’d found something worth living for and that, when you do that, you also find something worth dying for. That’s the meaning of life.” Ash glances over at me. “My father won’t know a thing. Trust me: he’s far too power hungry and self-involved to realize it.” He pauses again and turns his head to the side. “Also, I’m fairly certain that it is Chet and not Jonas who’s running the show.”
I refuse to budge from my spot, leaving the gun on the roof of the sedan.
“Explain,” I state, and he does, and I like his plan enough that I leave.
After all, I have places to go, tasks to accomplish.
An army tank doesn’t build itself, love can’t grow from nothing, and an empire doesn’t crumble without its foundation being pulled out from underneath.
Emma Jean Thompson is waiting at a previously disclosed location, pacing back and forth with her arms crossed over her chest. We’re right outside the train station in Eugene. Used to be a relatively relaxed area with a used bookstore, a vintage clothing shop, and a fancy restaurant in the now defunct station.
Now, there are soaring condos where there were once small parking lots, grass fields, or single-story businesses. It’s a concrete jungle run by different animals. Springfield—referred to derogatorily by the old folks as Springtucky—is in a classification all its own.
“Oh, God,” she murmurs when she sees me. Not an uncommon phrase, but I’m suspicious that Emma Jean is more relieved to see me than she should be. “I keep seeing the mayor’s goons around every corner.”
She might mean literally, I’m not entirely certain. Emma Jean is a wanted woman. Not only is she Anonymous, the letter writer stirring up trouble with her essays, she’s also Nessie, the newest and youngest DJ at local radio favorite KMZI 66.6. She’s got a bounty on her head, that’s for damn sure.
While I knew of Emma Jean Thompson from previous encounters, I’d never been able to find much more information on her than that. Not even Hype could dig her up for me. She’s not quite as flighty and anxious as she appears. Actually, she’s fucking goddamn ruthless. Hearing about the condo collapse, the legislation with Larron Van Gordon, it all makes so much more sense to me.
“Keep the paranoia,” I advise her, crossing my arms over the front of my hoodie. My coat billows in the wind, knocking the hood off my bone-white hair. Soon enough, it’ll snow; I can smell the frost in the air. “It’ll serve you.”
“What do you want from me now?” she asks, because she owes me. Emma pauses to wring out her hands. “You know they’re coming for the radio station, right?” She offers this information up, like it might stop me from making whatever request is coming next.
I blink at her, and she sighs.
“This is community radio, Bohnes.”
“Right.” I keep staring at her, waiting for it.
“This is a violation of our free speech rights—”
I lift up a hand to stop her in her tracks. Emma Jean is what you’d call a white knight. Her only mission and joy in life is riding around on horseback trying to right the wrongs of the world and stand up for the downtrodden. It’s cute, but it gets tiresome after a while. She’s what you might call in Dungeons and Dragons, chaotic good.
“I thought cancel culture was in?” It’s supposed to be a dark joke, but Emma Jean just stares at me with large, almost cartoonish brown eyes. “It’s a shame, about the radio station, but what do you expect me to do about it? We’re working on the mayor as we speak.”
“If Aspen Kelly really wanted to make things right the way he says he does, he would shoot Jonas and Chet and Ernest during one of their happy male get-togethers, and he’d end the whole damn thing.” She just stares at me, huffing and panting.
