6. Volume Two

Four years after the disaster which had leveled F City, the land remained dead and blasted. Heat from the impact lingered, and the vegetation had been stripped away, making the climate a permanent desert. The sun, with no trees to stop it, blazed on every inch of the flat plain; waves of dust rolled over it. A tumbleweed might have sailed past, if tumbleweeds had been indigenous to Japan.

Over the years, cars traveling north and south had marked a rough road over the desert. There was nothing to stop for, nothing to see; any vehicle that passed through usually went at top speed, and a breakdown could be fatal. Now, though, coming from the north, a car appeared – first as a wink on the horizon, then its white shape slowly materialized out of a wave of burning air – at a leisurely pace, cruising down the road.

Ilpalazzo, sitting on the stoop of his trailer, watched it come. He recognized the open-roofed Cadillac – and, when it stopped, he recognized the driver. He gave a thin smile that vanished as quickly as a dust-devil.

That Man climbed out of the car, brushing dust off the sleeves of his white jacket. His mouth was set in a scowl. He glanced around, squinting against the sun, and spotted Ilpalazzo in the door of the trailer. For a moment they were still, regarding each other. That Man stood with his hands in his pockets. Ilpalazzo lifted his glass of wine, and sipped. He held it out to That Man.

"Pinot noir. Good vintage. Can I tempt you?"

"I'll pass," said That Man, through his gritted teeth. He coughed. "What the hell are you playing at?"

Ilpalazzo shrugged. "Well, I was enjoying my wine. And now I'm speaking with my superior." He paused, looking back at That Man with his inscrutable face. "You know," he said, "you're apt to catch sunstroke, standing out in the open. Why don't you come over here? This structure provides some shade."

"Ah, yes." That Man's eyes flicked distastefully over the filthy white trailer. "And do I even dare ask why I find you in such – contemptible lodgings?"

Ilpalazzo sipped. "I find them quite adequate for my needs," he said.

That Man stepped closer, slowly, scraping his feet over the dusty ground.

"I suppose you think this is pretty funny," he sneered.

"The thought never so much as crossed my mind."

"You always did have to do it your own way, didn't you?"

"I don't have the slightest idea what you mean."

That Man came to a stop, standing over Ilpalazzo.

"Look," he almost hissed. "I know – that we haven't spoken in some time, and that the last time we spoke – wasn't the most pleasant. But you have to stop being angry at me, and start being afraid of Excel. Because she's coming here to kill you. And, if you don't accept my assistance – I have no doubt that she will succeed."

Ilpalazzo looked past That Man, at the scorched ruins of buildings on the horizon.

"Excel-kun?"

"Since you're cowering out here in the badlands, I can only assume you are afraid. The girl is far more dangerous than I anticipated. Did you know she commands a Kozo Shioji mech?"

"Doctor Shioji." Again, Ilpalazzo gave the briefest smile. "It's been some time."

"You don't seem fazed by your impending death."

Ilpalazzo laughed. At first, That Man thought he must have mistaken the sound – but, squatting in the door of the run-down trailer, holding his thin-stemmed wine glass, Lord Ilpalazzo was laughing, louder and louder under the hills boomed. That Man realized why it sounded odd. It was not maniacal laughter.

When it had faded, Ilpalazzo looked back at him.

"What do you know?" he said. "You're just That Man."


At the night, the oven-hot desert cooled. By ten p.m., with the northerly wind, it had grown so nippy that Excel had donned her leather jacket again. She rode. Her bicycle chain was caked with dirt, and her skin still burned from hours riding under the sun. She was close to her goal, though, so close it was almost too exciting to contemplate, and as she pedaled she sung quietly to herself:

"Do you know what my name-is?—It's actually a se-cretI haven't-slept in three dayscy-cl-ing from To-ky-obut when I find Lord Il-pala-zzoI'm gonna kill-kill him deadand then…and then…"

She was at a loss.

She was getting closer, though; she recognized half-buried landmarks. Soon she would come on an entrance to the sewers – and to Lord Ilpalazzo's sanctum. She hoped Cosette-chan's information was reliable, though. It hadn't occurred to her at the time, but now she remembered a line from a funny American movie she had seen in high school: "You beat on this prick enough, he'll tell you he started the Chicago fire, but that don't necessarily make it so!"

But doubts were fleeting. Now, she recognized the familiar sewer grate set in the side of a hill. Nearby was a run-down trailer, lights in the windows, obviously no part of the ruined city.

Shame on you, Lord Ilpalazzo, living like an American, she thought, clicking her tongue. You can't do anything without Excel around, can you…but she shook her head; that train of thought was unsettling.

She stopped, and let the kickstand down.

Even at a distance, she could hear faint strains of music coming from the trailer: guitar chords, and an ambiguous, faint voice, singing. Of course. She smiled in spite of herself. Practicing his silly guitar. And he thought I didn't know about that.

As she crept closer, stopping from time to time to wait for any movement from the trailer, she could make out the words:

"Money can't buy back…your youth when you're old…or a friend when you're lonely…or a love that's grown cold…"

She stopped for a moment, listening. Was that really Ilpalazzo's voice? It sounded –sad. She had never heard anything but playful contempt from him; except for happiness, pride and affection which she knew, if she was honest with herself, she had imagined.

"The wealthiest person…is a pauper at times…compared with to the man…with a satisfied mind."

She dropped to her knees, and began to crawl. She couldn't make out anything inside the lit windows.

"When life has ended, and my time has run out…my friends and my loved ones…I'll leave them, no doubt. But there's one thing for certain, when it comes my time…I'll leave this old world…with a satisfied mind."

She made the door and crouched down next to it. She wasn't sure how she would defeat him; but he was distracted, unsuspecting. He didn't stand a chance. She almost felt guilty – but she remembered, and clenched her heart.

"How many times have you heard someone say…"

Her hand was on the door; she shoved. A sudden panicked thought, though, at the last second: Wa-ait, Lord Ilpalazzo can't play the guitar that goo—

The delicate acoustic playing stopped. As the door flew open, two amplifiers blasted Excel with the force of a long, screaming electric riff. The force blew through the door and sent her sprawling.

She landed on her back a yard away from the trailer. She could hear nothing except for the continuing ear-splitting roar, although the riff had stopped, and she looked up at the stars; white, brilliant, like reflection of her pain. She held her head. Then the noise began to fade. Instead, she heard footsteps.

Key, his electric guitar braced over his shoulder like a sword, walked down the cinderblock steps and began to cross the ground the toward Excel. He moved with a swagger, stripped bare to the waist. He smirked, but not entirely in malice. In his other hand, he held a bottle of home-brewed absinthe, which he pulled on.

"Ah!—Gorgeous! That's the stuff."

He stood over Excel, an amazed look from the rush of absinthe in his eyes.

"So, music soothes the savage beast," he muttered.

Excel coughed. "H-hey, you weirdo!" she managed. "That really hurt! What's the big idea!"

He began to pace around her, the guitar swinging over his shoulder. He ran a hand through his hair. "'Tis anguish grander than delight; tis Resurrection Pain…'"

She tried to get up; he put his foot on her chest.

"Emily Dickinson."

Her eyes, regaining focus, settled on him.

"…You."

"Didn't I tell you we'd meet again, mi corazon?"

"Hey—" she coughed again. "Hey, what's your deal? How come you work for ACROSS, if you're like a Rock God or something?"

He laughed. "Destruction. Conquest. All the vilest, darkest elements of the human heart, erupting in all their apocalyptic grandeur! What better food for Art?"

"Where's Ilpalazzo?"

"'Tis transport wild as thrills the Graves, where Cerements let go…'"

"Where's Ilpalazzo?"

He looked at her with something approaching pity. "Don't concern yourself with that. Pretty soon, he'll be the furthest thing from your mind."

"What's that—"

He brought his guitar down on her forehead. There was a crack; a string snapped; she lay still.

Key took another swig of absinthe, emptying the bottle. He looked at it, peered into the neck with one eye, then flung it contemptuously at the desert. It smashed on a distant rock.

He walked back to the trailer with the same easy strides, and set the guitar down leaning against the wall. He reached into his pocket and found his cellphone.

After a brief ring, he heard the cold voice: "Yes, Key?"

"My gracious lord, thy will be done."

"Then…?"

"Yes. Did you ever doubt me?"

"I…I see."

Was it regret he heard in Ilpalazzo's voice?—Key prided himself in his powers of analysis, but it seemed too unlikely. When Ilpalazzo spoke again, he sounded as before:

"Then you've disposed of her?"

"No." He glanced over at Excel's prone body. "'The maiden is not dead, but sleepeth.' I could perform the coup-de-grace with a rock."

"Then proceed according to your instructions."

"Sir."

Ilpalazzo disconnected.

Key blinked. Although gloating had never been Lord Ilpalazzo's greatest weakness as a villain, Key was still surprised that he had not said one word in celebration.

Somewhere nearby, a wild dog barked desperately.


Excel had been having a wonderful dream. She was sitting on a golden throne, wearing a sarong, while Key and that weird boy from the restaurant fanned her with palm fronds. Lord Ilpalazzo kneeled before her, kissing her feet, as he humbly begged her forgiveness, pledged his eternal love. A summer breeze teased her bronzed skin. Idly, she wondered what Hatchan was up to.

Then she woke, to a sour smell and a light kick in the ribs.

"'Arise, fair sun,'" said a mocking voice, "'and kill the envious moon.'"

She opened her eyes. Her head felt like a pot of honey. She groaned, expecting to find herself lying in bed next to an attractive stranger; then memory filtered back.

She saw Key's boots in front of her eyes, sideways. No. She was sideways; she was lying on her side, her hands and feet bound with rope.

"You ever listen to K-BILLY'S Super Sounds of the Seventies?" said Key. "It's one of my personal—oh, sorry. Wrong parody."

"Key!" called a hoarse, unattractive voice. "I'm done! Get me out of this hole!"

She raised her head, trying to see more of her surroundings. Key turned, and they both looked behind him, where the voice came out of a square hole in the tile floor.

"Ah," said Key. "Pardon me."

He walked to the edge of the hole, and let down a rope which had been coiled nearby. A moment later, an ugly, squat little creature clambered up the rope. It was a pale color and wore a diaper, and might have been cute if not for the grotesque features of its oversized head. Dusting itself off, it glanced over at Excel.

"Heh. Look at her eyes; this bitch is furious!"

Key sidled back to her, the puchuu following. They looked smilingly down at her. She was silent, biting her lip.

"I guess that's what you humans call the silent treatment," sneered the puchuu. "Lemme guess. You just let em think you don't like it."

Key laughed. "A paragon of wit, as always, my portly little friend." To Excel he said: "This puchuu has been generous enough to volunteer his services to Ilpalazzo. You'll be experiencing them firsthand, pretty soon."

The puchuu cackled. "That's right! That hole was pretty deep before, but good luck getting outta there now!"

"Hole…?"

"Lord Ilpalazzo's instructions were quite specific, I'm afraid," said Key. "He didn't want there to be any doubt."

"Couldn't you just – shoot me or something?" said Excel, still groggy; then stopped herself, not wanting to give them ideas.

"Perhaps." Key shrugged. "But you'll agree, this method has a certain measure of poetry in it. And Lord Ilpalazzo, almost as much as myself, has always appreciated poetry."

"Well goody for him."

"Any last words?" said Key. "Don't hold back. I could probably craft them into an excellent ballad. Something worthy of Morrison."

"Go to hell."

"Tsk, tsk." He shook his head. "How maudlin."

He reached for her. She sunk her teeth into his hand, and he gave a very feminine yelp. "Ow!—Jesus." He pulled back, glaring. "Fine; if that's how you want it." He held up a slim, black-handled flashlight. "You're going into the ground tonight, one way or the other. I meant to let you have this. But if you're going throw a big snit, I'll just have to keep my little friend here – then you'll be blind, down there. Like Orpheus in the underworld."

"A flashlight? What good would that be if I'm gonna starve to death in a great big pit?"

Key huffed. "Some people just don't appreciate the value of symbolism." He leaned down and took hold of her more roughly, careful to keep his hands clear of her teeth, and hauled her up. "Puchuu!" he called.

"Yeah, boss?"

"The rope."

The puchuu waddled past them. Excel looked around, and realized suddenly where they were: the familiar room; the throne; the sewage pipes. She felt a pang of untimely heartache. The puchuu headed for a rope, suspended, of course, from the ceiling, next to Lord Ilpalazzo's empty throne. Looking back the other way, she saw that a tile had slid into place over the hole the puchuu had climbed out of.

"Just like old times, eh?" said Key, with uncharacteristic lightness, grinning.

She grinned uneasily back. "Just like old times."

"If that's any consolation."

"Hey. Any chance you could, uh – let me go? Maybe?"

Key smiled. She couldn't be sure, but she thought there was more sympathy than cruelty in the gesture. "'There's no chance at all,'" he said. "'We are all trapped by a singular fate.'"

He set her down over the collapsing panel. The puchuu stood by the rope.

"'Nobody ever finds the one,'" Key recited. "'The city dumps fill. The junkyards fill. The madhouses fill. The hospitals fill. The graveyards fill. Nothing else fills.'" He paused. "Charles Bukowski."

He snapped his fingers. The puchuu leapt up, wrapping its arms around the rope, and pulled…again, again. The story of her life.

"Sayonara," whispered Key, blowing a kiss.


Excel's Preview: "I'm fa-a-a-a-a-(please join us next time for)-a-a-a-a-a-(our first and only flashback)-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-(sequence, starring me, our esteemed director)-a-a-a-a-(and his famous hair!)-a-a-l-l-l-l-l-(as Death Rides a bicycle continues with)-l-l-l-l-i-i-i-i-n-n-n-n-("The Indifferent Tutelage of Nabeshin!")-n-n-n-g!"