“You’re drunk already,” Dorothy said. She looked uncomfortable in her wear, a bit bony and free underneath the green-colored dress. But Turnus had told her to wear it, with…aggressive persuasion. She was just glad that the dress was long enough to hide the bruises on her legs.

“I’m not drunk.” He swigged a bottle down. “But I’m getting there.”

He poured his drink down his gullet and then into another man’s martini glass, who, at the sight, screamed for security. Of course, security did not come, not in the way the man wanted. The black gloved, dove-masked security took one hard look at Turnus and realizing the face, eased their advances. They tried then persuade him, with a gentle hand, tried to rear him away. And in the spirit of gladness, he smiled at them, the guards and the man annoyed at his overfilled martini glass.

“Strange, ain't it? I’ve never seen a man so mad at getting a drink,” He said. “But if that’s your persuasion, I guess I’ll leave.”

He plucked the glass from the man’s hand and drank it too, before throwing it down to the floor below.

“Mazel Tov.” He said.

Dorothy hid her face (she had no mask) and apologized quietly.

Upon hearing her voice, the manly, hoarse voice, the man and the guards and really everyone around her looked at her, with disgust and suspicion. Disgust, of which, did not surprise or even hurt her. She’d been used to it already. And gentle, meek as she was, she apologized anyway.

“We should have brought masks. At least I’d be able to hide.” She said.

“What’s there to hide babe?” He turned to her and looked her up and down, then with a grin and a swig, brushed away the black bangs covering her eyes. “Let ‘em get an eye full. Only cowards hide from their nature and I ain’t yellow, babe.”

“I know how you feel, but the party invitation said-”

“Don’t be so eager to appease others,” He said. “That’s always been your problem.”

And she wanted to call him a hypocrite, for beating her in his too-drunk-to-remember states, but she was afraid to.

“But this is your brother’s big day-” She said.

“Step-brother. And the only blood we share is putrid and rotten,” Turnus stopped again, at an intersection between two sets of stairs, one going up and one going down. “But I don’t hate him. Not any more than I hate Jezebel or Floyd or Luanne. Or the stars or whatever hand plucked me from non-existence to this...life. I’ve had a week to come to terms with Junior and I'll have a lifetime to settle with his fate. And do you know what? I’ve found some humor in it all." He giggled. "It's funny, ain't it? A retard owning a company. Dad would have hated this.”

She did not answer. For either supporting or mocking him would have invited the backlash. Or, backhand, to be more specific. The rapt fury, the angst of a boy. Impotent rage, of which, he could only show to her (and only would show to her) and in that way made her feel special. To be the sole recipient of the beatings Turnus inflicted upon her, made her unique and uniqueness made her feel importance, which she was sad to say, made her happy in a way.

At least she convinced herself that.

“Still, a mask would have been pretty on me.” She said, falling into line. Getting closer to him, tugging his arm. Not for herself, but for his sake.

“We’re all wearing masks, honey.” He shoved her some, only enough to get her away, and drew her back in like a fickle fish line. In out, in out. “Take a look at every one of these sons of bitches. If I took a saw and ripped their skulls right open, if I probed them like a damn torturer or scientist, what would I learn? What imaginations, dark and evil, run current to current through the rivers of their souls? Oh, they’ll smile with drinks in their hands, but it’s all pretend. A superficial get up, the dress they have to wear to get through the play, the stage, the act and -” He paused. “The finale.”

His eyes looked across to the horizon of the casino floor, past the blaring noises of slot machines ringing and shining with the mascot clown ‘El Gallo’ at the tops of the square coin-spitters. Past the blurry lights of blue and yellow chandeliers. Past the large central fountain that grew out three floors high; a woman holding an urn of clear blue water dripping down to the pond.

He looked past the waters, and the scantily dressed women swimming in the make-shift pool at the feet of the statue. He looked past the people, really. Past everything, eyes glowing in his drunkenness.

“They’re all worried, and they don’t even know the half of it.” He said, smiling.

He drunk. The hot intensity of the spirit went down his throat like acid.

“They’re worried about things that don’t matter much to anyone but themselves,” He continued. “Who they’ll fuck. Who they won’t. Who they’ll network with. Who they’ll spite. Irrelevant, all of it, worthless. This societal superficiality, the mockery and the judgement is a second order fear to what they should really be afraid of.”

It was as if he wasn’t even looking anymore. His eyes were open but they were still and transposed to an imaginary far off distance.

So now it was her this time, who dragged him through the crowd. If it was up to him, he would have sat by the edge of guardrail, drinking, and judging, spitting and staring. He would have looked until his glassy eyes rolled out of his skull, she knew it.

“Come on, show me where you wanted to go.” She said. “Show me why you brought me here.”

“Are you sure?” He bumped into the strangers but did not drop his drink once. “I don’t think you’ll have fun where I want to go.”

“You have to tell me first.”

“Take me to sweet mama.” In mockery, he mimicked Junior. “Take me to mama, please. Mama.”

She felt a drop in her stomach.

Laughing now, biting his tongue now, with each of his deep guffaws he repeated: mama, mama, please.

“Oh, god.” She said.

His fervor grew as he walked. His eyes rolled back and forth in his skull, looking for their targets.

“Where’s mama!” He shouted, spitting out tequila from his pursed lips, they looked like fireworks as they shined in the light and fell upon people. The guests reared away from Turnus.

It wasn’t hard to get her attention after that. They spotted each other across the fields of the masked men.

“Oh, mommy dearest!” He laughed. “Won’t you speak to me?”

He freed himself from Dorothy’s grip and skipped in between the gaps of people, with swift (but still drunken) movement. He checked his breath and slicked his hair and made sure to take the grit out of his teeth. With one hand, he tightened his vest. With the other, checked the supply of his tequila. He had a few swigs left in it. Dorothy looked at him from behind, planting her palm on her face and shielding herself from the gaped stares of the masked men and women.

Four guards (not casino guards, Salome hired her own men) walked in between her and him. But he saw her in the gaps of the men, with her plague doctor’s mask pointing through a gap in between them.

She snapped. The men looked back and split. She had an emerald ring around her hand, and she walked up quick-like, almost gouging Turnus’s eye as she came face to face with him.

“Don’t come around looking for trouble when you aren’t fit to have, boy,” She said. “I’ve got neither time nor patience. Patience! Especially patience.”

“The Lord knows a lot, don’t He?” He asked. “Makes me wonder what you’ll say when you meet Him. I’m sure it’ll be a strange greeting, on account of that mischief of demons you’ve maligned yourself with.”

“I bear the burden. It is a curse. You should know that, you refused it,” She said. “Now we - Junior -, will have to tolerate it. And I’m sure the Lord will be appreciative of our - his - sacrifice.”

“Oh, I do not doubt you, ma'am. I am sure you’re blowing trumpets and singing choirs and weeping your hoo-rahs for the big G Himself.” He said. “And it’s mighty kind of you to sacrifice yourself for that, curse.”

“A heathen like you has no place to judge how I worship.”

“On the contrary, it’s only the heathen that deserves say on what is proper practice and what is not,” He laughed.

She sighed. A drink in her hand, tipped over, almost spilling. She fixed it to her lips and sipped along.

“Step aside and let me find your brother,” she said.

“Which one?”

“The good one. Floyd.”

“Oh? Oh, Floyd? He’s foolin’ around. You know, having fun.”

“How would you know that?” She paused.

“My instincts tell me so, it's not hard to tell if you'd just look real hard for a second. He's a passionate person, real lover boy, that one,” He leaned in. “Though, honestly? Sometimes I wonder if his tastes are a little…too exotic. And that's coming from me.”

“What in the god damn do you know of my son?” She asked. “Do you think I won’t kick you out? I will not entertain a clown. Go bother the birds with your shit.”

“Oh mother, don’t act a fool.” He said. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, don’t ya? It’s why you chose Junior over Floyd for this little game of royal hot-potato, ain’t it?”

“I chose nothing. Your father (God rest his soul), made his decision long ago.”

“Really? You don’t know about Floyd? Well, shi-et.” He said. Dorothy pulled on his arm. “I thought it’d be hard to miss, him and your poor little girl, off alone together.”

“Shut the fuck up, Turnus.” Her words were blazing, speedy, like pressurized steam long since waiting to release.

The guards made a movement forward. She snapped again.

"I will not hesitate to remove you." She said.

“Was there ever any other idea in your mind? Because I get the impression that I’m talking to someone who's already made up her mind.” He said. “You got that look about you, the look of a damn repo-man. You’ve been waiting to get rid of me, and in a few moments, with poor Junior at the helm, you’ll get what you want. Isn’t that right?”

“You ain’t so clever, Turnus. Because I’ve never seen no clever man dig his grave as deep as you. To disgrace yourself so brazenly when the gun is pointed at your head. You're begging me to pull the trigger, you really are.” She tapped the base of her glass against the counter-top of a roulette wheel. “Don’t hazard the risk. Keep your mouth shut and let things go smoothly, and I might let you, go smoothly.”

"You really want me gone, don’t ya?” He asked. “Out of resentment or fear? Or Both? Or maybe you’re just covering bases. That’s fine, I respect that. It makes sense, really. You’d need to be a stiff bitch to live with father for as long as you did.”

“Turnus.” Dorothy said, loud, though it sounded like a squeaking rodent in the bedlam of the party-crowd.

Salome was quiet, her lips pursed.

"What? I can’t call her what she is? What's the wrong in that?" He looked back to Salome. "Right, stiff bitch?"

The guards were twitchy. And Dorothy knew it was not herself that stopped them, let alone Turnus who was circling in place, drowsy-faced. She did not wonder long what stopped Salome from killing Turnus here and there, for she had met them, those agents or detectives or some such another. It had to be them, she speculated. And knowing this, she immediately pulled on Turnus. Knowing that the liability that was his ego and his mouth would get them killed, knowing what Salome was and is, she begged.

“Let’s get out, babe,”

Salome stared at her, pitied her even, as the unintentional casualty that she was. The small prey caught in the bear trap, pressed against Turnus, both bleeding to death from the jaws.

“Listen to her, Turnus. Your buffoonery has limitations, don’t think yourself impenetrable because you’re Thomas’s son.” She said. “I must honor the will of the father, even if that means sacrificing you for another son. So if you persist with this Floyd talk, or the jabs at Junior or show any pretense to disobeying the rule of tradition that will be said today, I will have you…gone. Gone.”

And Turnus smiled. At her, at Salome.

“You make things too fun, Salome, you do.” He approached her, swishing what little remained of tequila in his bottle. “By god do I have a problem with you and the excretions from your filth you call, Children. By god do I have a problem! Why - Why -”

“Turnus!” Dorothy grabbed him by the hips.

“You’re all fucking sick!” He threw the drink at her, which rolled off her mask and onto the floor. The room settled to quick inertia, not even sound waves dared bounce. Nor light, shine. A blue hue hovered over them, and Salome looked at her mask and at the droplets falling to the floor.

“Well, shit.” Turnus laughed. “The witch didn’t melt. Fuck me, right?”

The guards approached him. His eyes were half closed, but he managed to find a corner of the table to smash his bottle with. He pointed the jagged ends at the guards.

It took them no less than five seconds to disarm him and then, to seize him in a choke hold.

“Just don’t rough my face up, please,” He squeezed the words out, as the massive muscles of a python-gripped man clenched him.

She did not hesitate to throw him out. He did not hesitate to laugh. He made no resistance. It was as if he had expected it, for he was rather reserved in his retaliation. He made no aim to punch or kick or bite or to grab or lunge or plead or shout. He just laughed, his voice warped and distorted and coughing; pausing and slowing and speeding, like a looping scale of unmitigated dread. He laughed and laughed, at everyone and everything.

He passed by Dorothy’s face and paused, only briefly, to try and kiss her. She made no move to lean in, only watched.

He laughed, even at that.

“This family will get its comings. And it will be biblical. You’ll go like the dinosaur cunt you are. Old bitch! Up in the flames of armageddon, choking on the smog of destruction." He screamed. A guard punched him against the head and made him dizzy. His voice recovered though, quickly, with proper drunk grit and tolerance. “A retard and his collar-holder! What a riot! Well, a little birdy tells me he won’t survive one lick, Salome. And He tells me that it won’t be long till you get yours too, Salome.” He turned his head, to snap, almost. “Let me get you in on a secret, mother dearest.” The spit of his salivating mouth dripped down to his purple blazer. “There are two kinds people who don’t live long. Kind men and old fucks.”

They struck him again, in the stomach. The air released from his mouth, but he regained it back in one strained gulp.

“Why shit,” He shouted. “As I see it, both of you got one foot in the same grave.” He spat blood. “And that makes it a full ditch, don’t it? Aha.”

It was as if Moses himself parted the crowd, for they all stepped back for the madman restrained.

Salome took off her hat, the white in her hair showed. She brushed the plumed hat of any remaining tequila and said, in a low, muted voice.

“He’s made me waste time. I was supposed to meet Junior twenty minutes ago. I was supposed to get Floyd, ten ago.” She looked at Dorothy, a look that paralyzed. “You’ve made me waste time for your tom-foolery. And I will not forgive you for that.”

The veins in her eyes made them glow. The heaviness of the stare made her look down. Down at her knees, where her bruises were and where they would be again, tomorrow. Supposing Turnus survived.

And she knew that suffering would wait them all, every single of one of them. Because they were all beaten dogs, to a master now missing. And all a beaten dog knows is suffering, and all they knew, was suffering.

She rubbed her thighs, unnoticing of the swelling tears in her eyes.

She rubbed her thighs, and the lights went out.