Free Strange Trades by Paul di Filippo Page A

looks so cold,” she said finally. “And a breeze is coming up. Do you mind if we move?”
    Honeyman’s heart raced. She had said “we.” The pronoun had never sounded so seductive.
    They moved off among the dancers. Trying to stay together, Honeyman dared to grip her upper arm. She didn’t complain.
    Back on the grassy area, Honeyman spotted Erlkonig.
    “Wait here just a second, please. I gotta talk to that guy.”
    “All right.…”
    Honeyman hailed the albino. “Hey, Earl!”
    Erlkonig, either alarmed by Honeyman’s attitude, or having something to hide, began inexplicably to run.
    Honeyman set off in pursuit.
    He trapped Erlkonig near the fireworks.
    “Earl, be cool. What’s the matter? I just wanna talk.”
    Panting, Erlkonig said, “I can’t discuss anything with you when you’ve been drinking. You’re too liable to get mad.”
    “Why should I get mad? What’ve you done? It’s nothing to do with spondulix, is it? Tell me!”
    “Later, moll, later.”
    Erlkonig looked about for an avenue of escape. He began to clamber among the fireworks arrayed on the ground in their tubes, upsetting the jury-rigged arrangements. Honeyman strode implacably after him.
    Erlkonig looked backward over his shoulder, tripped, and sprawled across the control panel.
    Everything went off at once.
    Honeyman felt he knew what he had missed in ’Nam.
    Rockets zipped by parallel to the ground. Fireballs burst against the sides of buildings. Great crimson and lemon-yellow starbursts broke at treetop level. Fiery chrysanthemums flowered, only to shatter the next moment against the sides of parked cars, their life spans briefer than mayflies.
    There were screams, explosions, wild feedback as the Millionaires, unfazed, improvised to the unexpected lightshow. Sirens began to sound, distant, growing nearer.
    Honeyman dove to the ground and began crawling.
    Fireworks continued to roar by overhead.
    A few feet away, he encountered Addie, who had followed him.
    “Let’s get out of here!” he shouted above the noise.
    She nodded mutely.
    They wormed their way out of the path of the seemingly inexhaustible fireworks, stood up and began to trot away. At the edge of the campus they were nearly run over by a screaming patrol car. They ran then, laughing, and didn’t stop till they fell into Honeyman’s bed.
     
    5.
    Off to War
     
    Amid the noises of hammering and sawing next door to the sandwich shop, and of Nerfball performing his hourly nasal irrigation in the employees’ restroom, Honeyman stood transfixed. In his hand he held one of the new spondulix.
    The material of the crisp bill was good linen bond. It was printed in tones of mustard-yellow. On its front was a rendering of a giant hoagie sandwich. On its obverse was a portrait of Honeyman, complete down to his Mets cap. Under the hoagie was the legend: in pumpernickel we trust.
    This bill was denominated “FIFTY SPONDULIX.” There were others—mayo-white, ketchup-red, pickle-green —in various lesser and greater denominations, lying in Honeyman’s till. And with every passing minute, more spilled out of the presses set up in the basement of the Old Vault Brewery. Each one, in Honeyman’s eyes, a little ticking time bomb bound to explode one day right in his very own hairy face.
    It was this new wrinkle in the evolution of spondulix that had caused Erlkonig to react so nervously two weeks ago to Honeyman’s attempted approach. The Black albino, exhibiting the initiative and ingenuity which had led him to his position of preeminence among the Beer Nuts, had taken it upon himself to professionalize the production of spondulix. Having come to rely on them to further his manifold schemes, Erlkonig felt he could no longer make do with scribbled napkins, which were likely to disintegrate with constant handling, or, even worse, to be mistakenly used for some ignoble purpose such as blowing one’s nose. Moreover, the napkins were bulky and hard to carry in one’s wallet.
    All