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By Root 1527 0

’s kids look like and where they end up. The others’ as well. I wish I could go back to see my mom every once in a while—but I don’t want to add to her dementia, and I think my visit didn’t help. (slides rocket back onto base) I do go to Janie’s grave still.

J.R.:

Really?

Butch:

Yup.

J.R.:

(I give him some space to speak. He doesn’t.) Were you surprised you ended up here? With the Brothers, I mean.

Butch:

Let’s get some distance between us and flyboy, shall we? (As we walk back toward the duffel, he strings the wires across the short grass.) Was I surprised? Yes and no. I was surprised at a lot of shit in my life before I ever met the Brothers. The fact that I ended up a vampire? Fighting the undead? In a way, how’s that any more shocking than the fact that I managed to live through all the self-destructive crap I did to myself before I met any of them.

J.R.:

I can understand that. (Pauses.) What about—

Butch:

By the oh-god-how-do-I-ask-this-question in your voice, I’m assuming you mean the Omega and his little implant surgery?

J.R.:

Well, yes.

Butch:

(repositioning Miami Ink hat) This is going to come out wrong . . . but in some ways, to me, it’s like I have cancer they can’t operate on. I can still feel what he put in me. I know exactly where it is in my body, and it’s wrong, it’s bad. (Puts hand on stomach.) I want it out, but I know if it’s removed, assuming that’s even possible, I can’t do what I do. So . . . I deal.

J.R.:

Has the aftermath gotten any easier? After you inhale a—

Butch:

(shaking head) No.

J.R.:

So . . . aside from that . . . (shifting the subject, because clearly he’s uncomfortable) what’s been the thing that’s surprised you most since coming into their lives?

Butch: (kneeling down next to ignition box) You ask such serious damn questions, woman. (Looks up at me and smiles.) Thought this was going to be more fun.

J.R.:

I’m sorry, I don’t mean to make you—

Butch:

It’s okay. How about we shoot off a rocket or two and then get back to the inquisition stuff. I’ll let you push the butttttttttton. . . .

I’m pretty sure at this point he’s waggling his eyebrows at me, but I can’t see under the brim of the Miami Ink hat. I smile anyway because . . . well, some things you can’t help but do.

Butch:

Come on, you know you wanna.

J.R.:

(kneeling down) What do I do?

Butch:

The way this works is this. . . . (Holds up blue box.) Inside here are four double-A batteries. I turn the ignition key and this light (points to glowing yellow spot) tells us we’re ready. We pull out the key (pulls it out), and when you hit this (points to red button), the wires take the charge to the rocket’s igniter, and we’re talking a whole lot of zoom-zoom-zoom. Which is why we have over sixteen feet of cord between us and it. You ready? Okay. Let’s count this shit down. Three . . .

J.R.:

(when he doesn’t go further) What? Is there something wrong?

Butch:

You’re supposed to say two.

J.R.:

Oh, sorry! Two.

Butch:

No, we have to start over. Three . . .

J.R.:

Two . . .

Butch:

One . . . Fire in the hole!

I press the butttttttttton, and a moment later there’s a spark and a flash and a whizzing fizzle that’s like a hundred Alka-Seltzers in a glass. The rocket shoots up to the autumn sky, an arcing trail of light and smoke streaming behind the glowing point at its tip. The angle is perfect, taking it precisely toward the center of the mansion. Its descent is just as smooth, and about three hundred feet from the ground the parachute unfurls. We watch the rocket as it slowly eases down, wagging from side to side like a lazy dog’s tail. In the lights from the library I see that it lands in a rose bed.

Butch:

(quietly) V.

J.R.:

I’m sorry?

Butch:

You ask what’s surprised me most, and it’s him. (Takes another rocket out of the duffel. This one is much larger and has the Lagavulin label repro’d on the side.) Now, this bad boy’s got some extra payload in him. He’ll go almost twice as high as the first,