Free The Foul Mouth and the Cat Killing Coyotes (The King Henry Tapes) by Richard Raley Page A

collectively tightened.
    “Yes,” Samson continued with some glee, “I selected the teams solely for my entertainment.”
    You couldn’t have picked a team more guaranteed to fight with each other. If it had just been me with Jason and Welf I’d have been outgunned.  Just Welf with me and Pocket and Welf wouldn’t have done nothing but make snide comments.  The four of us together?  I didn’t know how we’d get through the weekend without fists flying.
    “Team Number Two: Ward, Daniels, Kayode, and Hunting.”
    I take it back . . . you could pick a team more guaranteed to fight with each other . . .
    Teams kept coming out.  I hardly paid attention to them.  Welf had sauntered over to us, Jason carrying a backpack under each arm like he’s the Hulk or something.  “Don’t start any problems, little Foul Mouth.”
    “Me?  You’re the one who throws the shit, Nazi!”
    “Guys, come on, just cool it for a few days,” Pocket tried to play councilor.  He didn’t exactly like Welf either but Pocket didn’t hate the guy like I did.  Of course, Pocket’s a normal looking kid who hadn’t been called a child before he could even give his name to the class.
    “I said I wasn’t repeating myself,” Samson’s voice ca rried from where he stood surrounded by school kids mouthing threats or jokes at each out.  “So put the bickering on hold for a moment.”  When he was sure he had our attention, he continued, “This weekend is considered a graded assignment.  Do have fun.”
    There were groans.
    “Please get your tents built before sundown.  I won’t be helping you.”
    Welf a nd I glared daggers and machineguns and probably even smart-bombs at each other.  “Three day truce, Price,” he decided.  “You listen to me, I’m in charge, and we get a good grade.  It should be the only one you’ve gotten so far, yes?”
    If I’d had hackles, I would have raised them.  Almost raised a certain finger, that’s for sure.  “Fuck that.”
    “Be reasonable, man,” Jason said with a shake of his head, “you could use the grade and this ain’t the place for me to be breaking your bones.”
    Pocket shrugged.
    “You ever camped, Welf?”  I could read his disgusted expression as my answer.  “Me neither.  What about you, Jackson?”
    Jason shook his head again.
    “Right . . . so Pocket is the only one who has a clue, which means we listen to him .”
    Seemed fair.  I didn’t get to smack Welf’s face like I wanted and Welf didn’t get to play leader like he wanted.
    It was Jason’s turn to shrug.  “Good with me.”
    Welf gave a sigh.  “Only until he screws up.”
    I figured that’s as good a concession as we’d get out of him.
    Nazi asshole . . .

Session 115
    Tyson Bonnie fidgeted, waiting by the counter as I closed down my register.  If you need a reminder due to early-onset-dementia, Tyson Bonnie is my most loyal customer, an Ultra like me, an electromancer or by the Ultra title, a Stormcaller.
    Physically h e’s about six-foot-four, weighed in at three-hundred pounds, and happened to have black skin.  He wore khakis and polo-shirts and had the latest iWhateverthefuck in his pocket.  He scared the racist little old ladies who frequented my shop but was about as middle-class as you get.  I guess he counted as my friend, making him part of a pretty small club.  As he was about to find out in the next few days . . . membership doesn’t have many perks.
    The register ’s computer screen went silent with a mournful beep. I’d managed to make the two twenties back that I’d stolen from myself the day before.  Look at the money rolling in.  Going to pay back Ceinwyn any time now making forty bucks on antiques every day. Only take me about one-hundred years or so . . .
    Holy crap, I did that math in my head . . . I hate you anima conversion formulas, how I hate you . . .
    “ Are you just pulling my chain, King Henry?” Tyson asked, fiddling with his iWhateverthefuck in his