First of all
there is nothing, and nothing ever matters,
because your brain is nothing but sparks and dials and levers
going haywire on a loop
over and over, but what about beauty?
Shaolin vs. Wu-Tang is a story about friendship
where the two styles merge, choreography superior
fetishistic circus of movement, kung fu inferno
never translated with a meaning, iron eyepatch
villainy inherent, there is always more.
Nothing and more there is always there, behind
all time and space, depending on how you look
through one eye alone, see vapors evaporate
into joyful progress, every day a new door
made of candy, stars bursting chewable
red and blue and purple, but probably not.
That would be madness, panoramic obsessive
without paranoia, you’d be locked up
believing that, there never was tomorrow
in the first place, because all of us can feel
that we are the same, marrow and saliva
leaking out the folds, memories of pain becoming.
Shadows receding slowly, clearing your head
of detritus, nothing is ever at all
without a passion, stories die as reborn
becoming all places, characters and statements
at the same time popping a brain out your eyes.
Love is in everything, forever onward
omnipresent dreadfully looming
horrors of the dawn dusk in between and end,
search for a kernel of joy, that’s all there is
when it comes down to it.
Mason led the Treetops to the Main Concourse, an asphalt line that bisected the park and was decorated with irregularly placed streetlights. It was twenty yards wide, and at night completely barren, making of it an eerie black stone river. One could almost watch the ghosts of wandering tumbleweed, emerging from nothing only to immediately disappear, as if they were too scared to exist.
This river, when viewed from above, looped, pooled irregularly, and split away from itself only to suddenly end in various places. At certain times in its history, many groups including but not limited to those aligned with the local government, had taken the mission of finishing Norwood Park’s Main Concourse once and for all.
Colorful speeches and jeweled banners often spoke of resurrection, attaching a religious significance to mending this economic hub, but the reality of the job was too much. Moral and economic bankruptcy on all sides of the effort had made the most noble hope crumble to nothing.
This meant that the concourse, which had been proposed and designed ages ago by people no one tried to remember, was like a mural born of committee politics. It began with a goal, undoubtedly, but the issues of diverse eras had caused the public to realize that they didn’t really care about Norwood park.
It was a forbidding symbol, the Teddy at night, and it’s reputation assured that law abiding citizens stayed away. For these bystanders and potential witnesses, The Teddy’s darkness was a symbol of a world they didn’t want to visit.
Simon, vitalized from what he felt had been a victory over Mason, strode ahead of the group and spoke to everyone like a camp counselor. “Let’s find a spot and post up, see what breaks.” Simon broke into a light jog, coasting out in front of the rest. He strode out of one of the streetlights’ halos, shadowing him in the night haze while he looked back at the others, “Why’a you all so tense?”
Mason grinned, barely letting his teeth show. Max noticed this anticipatory smile and called after Simon. “I don’t think that’s real wise.”
Simon responded, “Whatever,” curt and sharp. Hopping and boosting himself up over it with his arms, he sat on top of a garbage can, hanging his feet before its mouth.
As soon as he did this, two large, muscled gangsters rushed out from under the trees and knocked Simon to the ground, causing him to land painfully on his hip. They were both wearing black tank tops, green suspenders and world war 2 era headgear.
“The summit is to take place in Norwood park, keep moving.” These were members of War Helmet, a gang renowned throughout the city for its brutal discipline. Simon tried to lash out at the Helmet who’d assaulted him, but before he could take a swing, two more grabbed him by each arm and held him still.
“That’s War Helmet,” Mason said casually, smirking and chuckling. “They’re providing some of the security.”
“Security?” Simon opened his mouth as if he didn’t understand. After just a moment of consideration he closed his mouth and relaxed his arms, seeing that in a physical contest he would be overmatched and outnumbered. “Understood.” Simon frowned and lowered his head.
As they continued down the Concourse, Mason kept the dialog going. “War Helmet comes from Port Ashland, I don’t know much about them, don’t mess with ’em though.”
“Yeah,” Simon said, defeated.
As quickly as the members of War Helmet had arrived, they disappeared into the darkness under the trees. Art was intrigued by this show of mastery, and he searched the darkness for other members of this gang, crouching under low branches and peering up through leaves toward the streetlights.
“Stop looking for us,” a voice came from nowhere, loud and deep. “The summit is to take place in Norwood park, clear the Concourse.”
“Or what?” Simon trotted slowly into the middle of the black, solid path. Stretching his arms to his sides, he straightened his right leg out in front of him, then hopped to his left. “Come on, War Helmet, scare me, I wanna see your force.”
After around 15 seconds watching the willows, Mason tapped Simon on the shoulder and spoke softly into his ear. “Unless you’re gonna go in there and look for them, I think we should go.”
With his mouth held open and his pupils flicking back and forth, Simon nodded and began to walk forward. The rest of the Treetops followed, continuing an unnerved caravan.
The Treetops came to and passed what was affectionately referred to as the Big Fountain. The Big Fountain had once upon a time been one of the city’s central meeting places, hosting all manner of political rallies and musical performances, but it had been decades since water had flowed through it. Now it was simply a grouping of mold-covered gargoyles looking fearsome and portending doom.
On the edge of the Big Fountain sat a fairly nondescript group of street hoods, displaying no obvious colors and all facing in different directions. They didn’t seem like a gang at all, as all of them were distracted by their own pursuits. The tallest one, with his hair cut down to a light fuzz that covered his skull, quietly bounced a racquetball to himself on the edge of the fountain.
As the Treetops passed by, this apparent figurehead noticed Mason’s approach, and turned on his heel. “Mason,” he spoke, “Who’re these?”
The Treetops stood together in a tight group, as if they only just now realized the danger of their situation.
A Skinny man in an undershirt waved, remaining silent. His face was gaunt and his bones stuck out, making it appear as though he’d not eaten for years. The streetlights circling the fountain made the divots and crevices in his face create shadows in his face. The shadows made him appear ghostlike, but not the ghost of a person, more like the ghost of rumbles past.
“That was Jeremy, he runs The Numbers, they’re all right.” From the fountain, The Treetops and The Heaters continued through a tight group of willow trees. The trees were packed together such that they created a decaying canopy, moonlight shining through its gaps at different angles.
Max became uneasy. “Who’re The Numbers?” Max asked nervously, as though the answer would harm him.
“They’re from the outskirts, I think, by the train yards, I think.”
Waiting until the Numbers were out of earshot, Simon eventually proffered his analysis. “The Numbers is a stupid name.”
“So is the Treetops,” said Art, casting his potentially offensive statement casually; just throwing it out there. “And so is the Forty-Niners, and so is the Heaters. Gang names are stupid.” Art looked into Simon’s eyes, challenging him. Simon and Art conflicted often, sometimes even coming to blows, but Simon was too scared after his encounter with War Helmet to tire himself out in this way, so he said nothing.
As soon as he invoked the name of the Heaters, which had already been the center of a contentious moment, Art looked Simon in the eye, seemingly daring him to make a move. Simon silently kept moving, trying not to look at Art.
“The numbers is a stupid name,” Simon spoke, his voice tinged with anticipation. “The Heaters is a stupider name though, it must be said.”
In an instant Simon was on his back, Mason standing over him with a cocked-back fist. “Why’re you fuckin with me?”
Simon twisted and pushed up with his hands, backing Mason up and claimed his own patch of grass. “Cause we don’t need you. I don’t even know why you’re here, get the fuck out.”
“He’s here cause we wanted a guide,” Roly said, backing Simon and Mason away from one another. “We weren’t gonna come up here with no plan. Mason knows the park better than we do.”
“Oh wow he probably knows they got trees and stuff.” Simon spoke staring into Mason’s eyes as they circled each other, Big D standing between them. “Fuck that, like we can’t figure it out.”
As he stretched his arms out, Big D sounded like a toddler begging his parents not to hurt each other. “Two is better than one right? Isn’t that a good enough reason?”
Simon responded quickly, “No, I don’t trust Mason, he’s got a plan and I don’t like it.”
Purposefully and deliberately, Max strode out between them. “Cool it, Simon. Fact is, we weren’t gonna come without a guide and you know it.”
“But why couldn’t we come without a guide? We got an invitation same as them, we’re not stupid.”
Max lowered his head and beckoned Simon with his hand to lower his the same way so they could speak more softly and privately with one another. “I wasn’t comin’ without a guide, that’s what it comes to. You wanna blame someone for nothing? Fine blame me, but cool it, you’re not helping us, look around.”
Simon stood up straight, looked around and saw they were surrounded at all sides by the Heaters, many of them clutching weapons. He looked left to right, seeing the whole situation. “Okay, whatever.”
Mason stood silent watching Simon’s face, seeing from his expression that his apology had been insincere. “It’s okay, whatever. Want us to take you to Norwood now?”
Max felt sickened by Mason’s superior attitude, but he just said “yeah,” and they all moved on.
At bottom is a gulf between, each and every
soul bent apart, twisted pygmy, reading eyelids
inner night vision, grasping hopeless horror
overlong listing in slumber, bored building blocks
bastardize violence, besmirch baritone drawls
deeply resonant, like a tuning
fork in the throat, bleeding us empty, helpless
plaintiff stemming with chopsticks, humanity falls away
in modern times, naught to be done.
OR, the holy 2-letter bite size
spit bubble, opening trapdoor politics with a hammer
sickle and sinister thought, rising tides horizon
settling a score as old as time, versus confusion
fakery, swat the flies, kill the beasts, trample the protestors
on the capitol steps, as do what thou wilt
is the only law, if you can afford it, that is
factual forces farm, blood fertilizing the soil
with souls of sinners, we will dance, hopefully.
In 2014, the surprising hit John Wick created a diverting comic-book riff on the revenge drama, seeming like a one-off set piece that hit all the buttons action fans look for. However, with John Wick: Chapter 2, the writer/director team of Derek Kolstad and Chad Stahelski have taken what I consider to be a significant step forward in the evolution of American action filmmaking. Ditching the sentiment almost completely, they dove into the lunatic alternate reality they created, and came away with one of the most consistently enthralling and artistically expressive action movies I’ve ever seen. It left me gasping, and as I pant for more I’m forced to admit that though this movie’s influences are many, from the riveting gun-fu of Hard Boiled to the intense close-quarter combat of Ong-Bak, in sheer audacious bravado this film stands alone (except for maybe Hard Boiled).
I say audacious because according to the entertainment section of businessinsider.com, the kill count of this blood-drenched magnum power shot stands at a staggering 128, meaning that the average stands at just over one kill every minute of the movie’s 122 minute runtime. This mass of fatalities, however, is not stretched out over the entire movie, but is rather concentrated in two or three central shootouts (depending on how you determine when one shoot out ends and another begins), which see the inimitable Keanu Reeves transform into the mechanized killbot it seems he was always meant to be. Because of his strangely vacuous performance style, which made him perfect for Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure and the object of derisive laughter in Dangerous Liaisons, makes him this movie’s perfect protagonist.
I refer to Reeves’ character, the eponymous John Wick as a protagonist, not a hero, because John Wick: Chapter 2 has no real heroes. In the first John Wick, the eponymous character’s thirst for revenge was ignited by the death of his beagle puppy named Daisy, a symbol of the love he’d had for his recently deceased wife. In this second volume of the Wick saga, the movie’s central villain simply destroys his house, without even harming the new dog he never bothers to name. It is notable that whereas Daisy, the puppy from the original film, was a cuddly little bundle of love, Wick’s new dog is a very obedient pit bull. This is a signifier that in the first movie, Wick lost his soul, and though he at first remains reluctant to return to death-dealing, he ends up taking to it like a master executioner, killing without thought.
This singularity of purpose and lack of true motivation are two of the things that I believe make this movie a significant advancement in American action cinema. Too often, even in justifiably regarded tentpoles of the genre like Die Hard or Lethal Weapon, the action has to pause for the insertion of sentiment or (god forbid) romance, giving viewers like me a chance to go to the bathroom. John Wick: Chapter 2 eschews any sentimental subplots, replacing them instead with an extraordinary visual panache. Shootouts in an art exhibit containing a hall of mirrors and a topiary gallery that changes color depending on which side its viewed from are entrancing; so much so that they forego the need of an emotional undercurrent. The movie’s director Chad Stahelski began in movies as a stuntman, most notably doubling for Reeves in The Matrix, and with this viscera-speckled opus, he shows that the closer one draws to violent action, the more such warfare becomes part of his identity.
Swelling like good songs, Strummer gone acoustic
spanish optimism, calming a steady breeze
curling inwards, patter past the pit
in your gut still clouds bang horizon
darkness towers forever
over us, all of us, struggle sharply instinctual
suicide, when it’s hard red eyes
frozen by the beat, clear blue
shattered with a ball peen
strike at the center mass, nothing of a cushion
underneath, shards will rain
over everyone on both sides
opposite the split, the river will run
red as the sclera screeching
from the blood shot, unplug in emergency
if at all like this, they’ve won already.
But they haven’t a knowing smirk
painted left to right like a comet trail
in the dawn light over the plain, booming a shattering
pulse throughout all reality, it seemed at the time
or must have had I been there, overconfidence
shaky fencepost complicit swaying
this and that, hesitance may be
a symbol of the soul or time ravaging
footprints in the sand, showing the way
enlightenment presents to us
going in circles, seeing blank horizon
everywhere forever on, footpads placing
pleasantly in the sand, it is warm
sustaining hilarious resonant contemplation.
The Treetops all stayed silent as the train pulled into the Grayson Street station, where they had planned to disembark. As the train slowed to a stop, the metallic click of its trucks colliding with the track sounded like gunshots to some, and they all had flashes of the bloody dawn this evening could bring. Would the morning sun fall on a field peppered with bodies, or discarded weapons? Would the summit be symbolized by a fully felt handshake, or a knife in the stomach? Nothing makes you dread things going wrong more than considering what could be if things went right.
Big D was chuffed, or full of a bubbly, exorbitant cheer. His head bobbed and his grin widened. He stretched his lips as tight as he could, imagining his cheeks caught by fishhooks. This was a habit of his, and he performed it whether or not he was undergoing any emotional strain, but this time he felt as though his blood were on fire.
The Treetops, D felt, mostly regarded him as a bit of a patsy. He was without a doubt invaluable in a fight, and not one to be shook by the introduction of police sirens, but he was unlikely to be included in any planning or debate. Though he was not really as dumb as many of his cohorts considered him, he thought it was valuable to play the doofus, for comic relief and overall group togetherness. On this day however, though Simon had opened the door for a session of “Big D is stupider than. . .”, no one seemed to be in the mood. A pallid silence lay like a body over The Treetops.
Max would just as well have stayed on the train, he didn’t want to attend the speech; he didn’t want to see such a beautiful dream melt. It was spelled out in his mind’s eye, the headline splattered in blood on the asphalt: “NORWOOD PARK MASSACRE, FULL STORY ON PAGE 13.” It would be the lead story, he imagined, for at least one day.
He grinned, as he could predict what Simon might say if he shared with him his vision of a nightmare headline: “No way we’d make it above the fold, a Norwood Park massacre would be on page 2 of the metro section, no doubt.” Simon would grin while Max’s face drooped, knowing the truth of these words, and that nothing would matter anyway.
They all would be forgotten, Art knew, in the grand scheme of things. Though legends and memorials did exist in the gangster world, the world they occupied, he didn’t take them seriously. Everything was legend in the gangster world; vague, confusing, preposterous legend. Did the founders of Hi Rize, which held a tenuous truce with War Helmet, the Gents, and the Rosies over the entire Southern half of the city, really all spend their entire childhoods on the 68th floor of the Spencer-Hasting’s homes Southwestern Campus? No, of course not, but that’s what everyone said.
Art was the Treetops’ official historian, but it was mostly because he had the best imagination, and he could describe the most interesting ways for things to have happened. Little Bit, the firebrand of a dwarf who’d recently become one of The Treetops biggest earners, had been killed accidentally by a civilian minivan three weeks previous, but thanks to Art, the Treetops rank and file believed the pigs had murdered him on purpose.
Only Art, Max and Simon knew the truth about Little Bit, as well as a host of other truths they held in the strictest confidence, and this served best to make them all wary. They knew that underneath the sectarian posturing and greedy logistics of what it was to be a gangster, every heart beat the same, and all were prone to stupid wanton wrath. So far, Max had been the only one to give his concerns public voice, but he was far from the only Treetop concerned.
Simon was scared just like Max, but he told himself he wasn’t. Smiling wide, he hopped the turnstile on his way to the exit stairs, turning his body sideways and rolling over the top of it. On the other side, he landed on his heels facing Art. “Do you feel the air? It’s electric.”
“Shut up,” Art pushed past Simon, rolling his eyes.
“Let’s put our war faces on,” Max bellowed as bellicose as he could, acting the leader again. He jogged a few yards ahead of the others, turning in his last steps to look the Treetops in the eyes. “This isn’t a fucking joke. We gotta realize, um, this is dangerous. This isn’t a thing we’re just gonna walk away from, um, unchanged, I mean, this is gonna change everything.”
Simon could tell that Max wanted silence, and he obliged at least for the moment. His pure human instinct was to push back and show Max that authority in any form was a stupid dream, but it was easy to see Max floundering, and Simon wasn’t cruel or vindictive. What mattered most to Simon was freedom, and he believed that whatever the cost, all people should be free all the time. He realized however that open rebellion would not help at the moment, so he let Max say his piece.
Max’s voice was sober. “I see them say in movies to keep your head on a swivel, and I think that describes it well. Just be aware. Don’t get snuck up on.”
After a pause, Simon interjected again, sputtering with laughter. “Everybody heard Max, stay frosty and don’t get captured.”
Max laughed, looking at the ground, “Fuck you Simon.”
“If you are captured the agency will disavow—“
Max grabbed a fistful of Simon’s hair and pulled down. “Shut up,” Max hissed into Simon’s ear, in no mood for nonsense.
Simon relented, lowering his head and raising his hand in the air as a sign of conciliation. “Sorry man, just keeping’ everyone’s spirits up.”
“Whatever man,” Max responded, humorless and dry. “Just fucking watch yourself, right?” With his mouth open and his hands apart, slowly shaking his head, Simon returned the offense Max had given him.
“Ladies, please,” Art interjected from behind Max and Simon, “Pull out your tampons, man, we’re all friends.” Roly and Big D started guffawing and slapping their thighs, saying “oh shit” under their breath while laughing.
Standing near the turnstiles of the Grayson Street station, The Treetops stared into each other’s faces and forced laughter as best they could. They were all scared, but they couldn’t let it show, especially to themselves.
Chuckling and glad-handing, the Treetops struck out on to the sidewalk, claiming the staircase leading up into the station as their own. Max, Art and Simon sat on the bottom stair, watching Big D and Roly jut out to look for Mason, whom they’d known since they were little, and who was meant to be the Treetops’ guide.
Mason was head of a mid-sized city gang, the Heaters, and he’d proposed squiring the Treetops to the summit. At first, this had made Max and Simon nervous, they didn’t trust Mason. “Why do we need a guide?” Simon had asked aggressively, furrowing his brow.
“We don’t need a guide,” Roly submitted aggressively. “But me and D grew up with Mason, we know him, he gives us an in, we won’t have to prove ourselves.”
“Maybe I wanna prove myself,” said Simon, staring out the window at a fixed point.
They both looked at Max, indicating that he would break the tie. Opening his mouth, keeping silent, Max considered the problem, what should they do?
Before Max could come up with an answer, Art, who normally stayed silent as decisions were being made, proffered his analysis. “We don’t need to prove ourselves. If someone steps to us we’ll smash ’em and take what’s theirs.”
The Treetops waited for Mason at the bottom of the Grayson Street station stairs. Simon clicked his tongue and whistled, trying to seem bored. He raised up and started to wander, looping around, swinging his legs and sighing. His eyes drifted upwards into the starless night. “”So-oo-ooo,” he inhaled sharply before smoothly resuming his speech, “Which of us isn’t gonna make it?”
Art and Max glared in response, being sure not to make a sound and remaining as still as possible.
Just as it had countless times previously, this tactic fell short, and Simon continued. “I won’t make it, the funny one never survives.”
Max quivered silently with anger, and probably would have said something, but Art beat him to it. ”You’re not the funny one,” Art was annoyed, he sneered and spat on the sidewalk. “You’re the annoying one, the crowd cheers when you catch it in the face.”
Simon was energized that he’d drawn a mocking spirit from Art, “Five bucks says you die first.”
A loud, strong, steady voice cut the air. “If you’re right it’s worth way more than five bucks,” Mason clucked and came out of the alley just as the Treetops walked by. Mason had twenty or thirty mute soldiers trailing behind him as he emerged from an alley. “If he dies first you can take his shoes.”
“No one’s gonna die,” Max spoke quick and angry. “I’m sick of this shit, no one’s gonna die.” Max’s skin, or the fluid under his skin, boiled and gas was released as steam seeping from his ears.
Mason, feeling the strength of having a large, silent servant class en masse behind him, cackled as he spoke. “His shoes are worth at least five bucks.”
Max was famous for his anger, but like a clown, it was often used as a stupid parlor trick. He erupted in blustery profanities from nowhere on a regular basis. Many of his eruptions were saved on VHS tapes and tucked away behind rotting drywall, only occasionally to be unearthed by Max when he was drunk and at an informal viewing party. All of the Treetops had attended these viewing parties, where people would cheer and throw things.
Many of the other gang’s leaders, particularly Mason, often looked at the Treetops as a joke, though they could fight, everyone knew. There was no organized authority that stood watch over these fights, fights just happened, and seeped into the topsoil. Many upstart gangs big and small had stuck their toes in Evergreen, and been penalized.
If you deal in Evergreen, a Treetop’s gonna spot ya and flip a dove, which was only their way of calling Simon, Max or Art. At that point, whichever leader of the Treetops would make a call and get the rest of SAC in after them, which is what they called throwing bricks and rocks at any interlopers. These colorful sayings and turns-of-phrase had become street speak in the Treetop’s section of Evergreen Estates, and were exemplary of the Treetops’ attitude.
They fought a lot, ran some light protection schemes, small-to-mid level larceny. They stayed away from drugs, even beating up gang members for selling anything without permission in a neighborhood they occupied. They’d once attempted to eliminate the drug dealers completely, but now they simply taxed and regulated the drug trade in the areas they control. Drugs were like a tidal wave, they rotted neighborhoods from the inside out, and there was no fighting against them. The Treetops ran Evergreen with a stiff tax on any dealers they came across, which was the Treetops’ chief source of income.
As soon as Mason made himself known by stepping into the streetlight, Big D emerged from the darkness and gripped his forearms. Big D and Mason touched foreheads before falling into riotous laughter, slapping each other on the shoulder and swearing. They hugged and cackled, speaking of that one time last year when Mason had run into that one girl they remembered from back in the day, the one with the huge titties, and she was wearing like a business outfit or some shit, and she acted like she didn’t even see him, but who cares cause she was a bitch anyway. When they’d been in the same grade school back in Evergreen, they’d been very close, running in the same crew and always having each other’s back.
“Mason! This is the guy I told you about, he runs the Heaters.” Big D held his arm out towards Mason, giving him a formal introduction.
Big D jogged up and clasped Mason’s hand, holding it to his breast and gripping it tightly. “Mason, these are the Treetops.” He then introduced every member in attendance, indicating them by holding his hand out towards each in turn. “Max, Art, and Simon.”
The Treetops’ leadership remained seated, each holding out their hands for Mason to shake, which he did. After Mason shook their hands, Max, Art and Simon each stood up, putting themselves at his eye level and nodding slightly.
The most notable thing about Mason was his hat; a huge, ostentatious neon orange top hat, speckled with a green felt boa wrapped around its brim. Behind him were four lieutenants of the Heaters, wearing plainly colored stetsons, each of which had with him two soldiers wearing bowlers. Simon blurted an observation: “You guys should be the Hatters.”
Roly yanked on Simon’s hand and lowered his voice to rasp out a whisper. “Shut up, they know, they don’t like to talk about it.”
Simon cackled, knowing full well of the bear he was poking. ”I know, I’m just sayin, they’re all wearing hats, and hatters is pretty close to,–”
Roly pushed Simon’s shoulders, “they know, they know, shut up.”
Art and Max could both see the writing on the wall, and they each tried to grab Simon before he could do it, but they were too late. Simon laughed loudly, coughing as he spoke his observation. “Oh shit! The name of your gang is a typo!”
It took both Roly and Big D to hold Mason back. “Our name is not a typo! It was a typo, but it’s ours now.”
Simon could see the situation was more serious than he’d considered and tried to backtrack. “Okay, it’s your name now, begging your pardon, I meant no offense, sorry.”
Mason sighed and threw his right hand out in front of him, indicating that he let the insult roll off his back.
Simon, never one to leave well enough alone, continued. “Level with me, though, the name’s a typo, right?”
Mason flared once again, but this time Roly was right next to him and whispered something to him, calming him instantly. Mason finally admitted it, “Yes, the Heaters were supposed to be the Hatters.”
Art guffawed and slapped Mason’s right shoulder with his left hand, causing Mason to sneer.
After a few silent, calming breaths, Mason called out, “Right, let’s go!” The Heaters and the Treetops began to make their way across the Teddy.