S-Duality: A Marauders Novella Read online

  S-Duality

  A Marauders Novella

  -o0o—

  by Lina Andersson

  FREAK CIRCLE PRESS

  S-Duality © Lina Andersson 2014

  All Rights Reserved

  Lina Andersson has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this book under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.

  Cover art & Design by Kalle Andersson

  Dedication

  For Tony, Malin, Shara, Sofia, Sara, Jan, and Henrik.

  -o0o—

  Acknowledgments

  I can’t in words describe how grateful I am for all the help and support I have received from Susan Fanetti, Jess Brooks, Shannon Flagg, and C.D. Breadner, but I’ll give it a try:

  Thank you, Ladies! You make writing even more fun, and that’s pretty damn impressive if you ask me.

  Any remaining errors and mistakes are my own.

  S-Duality: The idea of duality refers to the possibility of two different descriptions for the same thing. If two string theories are related by an S-duality, the one theory with a strong coupling constant is the same as the other with a weak coupling constant. In the theory with a weak coupling constant, the strings break and re-join easily, but in the other theory they hardly ever do that—they stay attached.

  -o0o—

  5.

  They scratch and laugh and mock me, they choke me in the scrimmage,

  And are the very image

  Of Cupid in a trouser-skirt;

  And if they are Vandals, they are cunning little Vandals,

  If hurricanes, then hurricanes that come on fairy sandals

  In full daylight and cause no hurt.

  “Marauders” - Gustaf Fröding

  A short foreword

  The main part of this book takes place in Seattle during the late eighties and early nineties, since that’s where Sisco is from. To me, it’s impossible to have a story take place then and there without mentioning the music scene, but although I sometimes refer to actual historical events (like a concert of festival, or the Green River Killer) it’s not in anyway based on real people or events, just sometimes inspired by them. But all the characters—along with their personalities and unique traits—are all a figment of my imagination.

  Most importantly: The story of Sisco and Trudy is entirely a product of my imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  / Lina Andersson

  CHAPTER ONE:

  I’m An Acquired Taste

  -o0o—

  Present day, Greenville, Arizona

  SISCO DIDN’T NEED TO hear more than the first few tunes out of the speaker to know what fucking song it was. As always, his heart stopped, and he closed his eyes but knew three heads in the crowd snapped in his direction the second they recognized the song, too. The three Bs: Brick, Bear, and Bull.

  By reflex, his hand moved up to stroke the right side of his chest and the tattoo he had there. He couldn’t help it. That’s when someone changed the song, but it was too late, and not a full minute later Brick was seated next to him.

  “Sorry, brother. Was a hang-around.”

  “S’okay,” Sisco said with a shrug. “Just wasn’t ready.”

  He wondered when the fuck he would be ready for it. When the fuck it wouldn’t tear him apart just to hear a damn song. But he knew it always would, because the song would always reminded him of Trudy, and he would never get over her.

  The sheer force of his memories of her always caught him by surprise when they hit him. He knew no one got more than one shot like that in their life. One chance to meet someone who was created just for them. It didn’t mean an ever-loving bliss of calm and understanding. Trudy wasn’t like that at all. She was a damn hurricane, and they fought like insane people at times, but she was still his perfect fit. He’d known it, and he still knew it, so he’d never get over her. Most of the time, he didn’t even want to. The stabbing pain that came unexpectedly, or those tugs to his heartstrings—he wanted them. Because the next thing he remembered was always the good things; like her smile, how she felt lying next to him, or just her laughter. It was often her laughter.

  He’d been thinking about her a lot lately, probably because Vi, one of the club kids, was pregnant. Pregnancies always made him think more about Trudy, but Vi was special. He was happy for her, but it had made a lot of the shit he’d pushed back resurface, and he’d missed Trudy more than usual lately.

  It hadn’t been a conventional relationship in any way, but it had worked for them. Sisco didn’t do conventional, and nothing with Trudy was—not even how they’d met. Or rather, how she’d picked him up.

  -o0o—

  Seattle, Washington

  SISCO DIDN’T CARE MUCH for feminism or feminists. Not that he had anything against them; it simply wasn’t something he spent a lot of time thinking about. But he’d somehow ended up in the middle of a party full of angry, man-bashing bitches, and he had no idea how the fuck that had happened.

  Or, he had a general idea. Someone at the party had called him for some pot. When he dropped it off, he’d been invited. He’d sort of dodged the women, but was secretly pretty pleased with the number of bra-less tits he’d spotted on his way through the house. He’d also seen a woman in the living room doing some spoken word thing, yelling shitty poetry about hating men taking up space in her bed. He didn’t understand spoken word stuff, at least not that kind. It just made him giggle, so he’d continued down into the basement.

  He sat down on a couch, lit a joint, and opened the beer he’d taken from the fridge.

  “So,” a girl next to him said, “what unsigned, super-cool band that I just have to hear are you in?”

  He turned and looked at her and wondered how the fuck he’d missed her when he sat down, because she was hot, and she had the most awesome sarcastic smile on her lips.

  “I’m not in a band.”

  “Really? Because the flannel, beard, and greasy long hair are usually a dead giveaway.”

  He shook his head with a laugh and offered her his joint as he took a closer look. She had straight, light brown hair with bangs, and a lot of eyeliner. She wore jeans, a gray t-shirt, and Martens of course—but no bra. The lack of bra revealed the cockiest fucking nipples he’d ever seen. They were standing at attention, just daring him to pinch them.

  “No. Used to be a roadie until about six months ago.”

  “Any band I’ve heard of?”

  “Probably not. They don’t exist anymore and mostly did squats in Europe.”

  “Squats?” she asked and handed back his joint.

  “Yeah. People take over some shitty old house, build a stage, and invite bands to play.”

  “You get paid for that?”

  “Sort of. Usually get a cut of the door fee, but sometimes it’s just gas and beer. It doesn’t pay well.”

  “Bet you had a lot of fun,” she said with an even bigger smile that revealed a slight gap between her front teeth. Not big, just a small, really cute one.

  “We did.”

  He handed her the joint again, and once again she accepted it.

  They’d had a lot of fun and a lot of shitty times as well. Like when he’d ended up decking his best friend, Pete, just outside a small German village in the middle of the night, since he was high as a fucking kite and kept trying to climb up on the roof of their shitty van—while Sisco was driving it. It was funny when he thought about it now, but at the time he would’ve shot Pete if he’d had a gun. Thirty hours without sleep while driving shitty roads, getting lost in a country where no one spoke English, all with Pete behind him who just wouldn’t shut the fuck up—it wasn’t fun while you
were in the middle of it. But they’d had a lot of fun, too. Definitely.

  “So what do you do now?” she asked after another drag on his joint. She’d inhaled deeply, and when her chest expanded, his eyes got stuck on her nipples for a few seconds too long.

  “Uhm,” he said and tore his eyes from her tits. She winked at him, very aware of where his focus had been. “Not much.”

  She stood up, took his beer, and emptied it. Just downed the almost full beer. Then she put it down on the table and held out a hand.

  “Wanna get the fuck out of here?”

  “You don’t even know my name,” he laughed.

  “What’s your name?”

  “You can call me Sisco.”

  “As in Cisco the Kid?”

  “No, as in a small commune on Corsica. It’s Sisco with an s.”

  “Fuck!” She stared at him. “I bet there’s a really good story behind that.”

  “Not really. I was arrested in Sisco after peeing on the Chapel of San Michele.” He took a deep breath. “You really wanna leave with me?”

  She looked at him and laughed. “Do I wanna leave this boring party with a guy who was arrested after peeing on a chapel? Hell yeah!” She took his hand. “Come on.”

  “Girl,” he said as he stood up, “has anyone told you you’re butt-fucking crazy?”

  “Admit it, you think that’s the most exciting part about following me out of here.”

  “Since I think it pretty much ensures me getting laid—absolutely.”

  As she lead him out of the house, he was still shell-shocked, and it didn’t hit him until they were at the end of the block that he’d left his bike outside the house. He grabbed her hand more firmly and halted her dragging him along.

  “Hey! I got a bike.”

  She turned around. “As in a Harley?”

  “Yeah…”

  “Wow! Sisco, you might be the first guy in years that gets to know my name on the first date.”

  “Date?”

  “Sounds better than ‘first fuck.’”

  Sisco was trying to determine if this girl would get him laid or stabbed, because she was obviously a complete nut job, but she was the most interesting bitch he’d come across in months, maybe years, and he figured it was worth the risk.

  “You don’t tell guys your name?”

  “I hate my name.”

  They were at his bike, and he handed her his helmet. “Where to?”

  “Wherever you live, Sisco with an s.”

  He shook his head in a laugh. Miss Cocky Nipples was definitely the craziest chick he’d met in a long while, and he was glad he’d found her before she followed a serial killer to his house and ended up chopped up and dumped in the Green River, because it seemed likely that’s how she’d end her days.

  It wasn’t her first time on a bike, that much was obvious, and when they stopped outside the house he shared with Pete and another guy, she jumped off and handed him the helmet.

  “Just to make sure,” he said as they walked towards the house, “how old are you?”

  He didn’t want to find out later that she wasn’t legal. That would totally suck. She didn’t look sixteen, but she didn’t look all that much older, either.

  “Nineteen,” she said and took his hand. “You?”

  “Twenty-one.”

  “Twenty-one and such an impressive beard!”

  “Yeah.” He unlocked the door and opened it. He still had a hard time wrapping his head around this actually happening, but there was nothing in the house she could steal—his stash and money were locked away. The only thing she might get was the couple of hundred in his pocket, but he suspected she might be worth it. “Wanna tell me your name?”

  “Not yet.” She pulled off her t-shirt, and her nipples were even better than he’d expected. “Where’s your room?”

  He lifted her up, and she latched her legs around him. “I think I’m in love,” he mumbled and gave her a kiss.

  With one hand holding her ass, her sucking on his tongue, and his other hand slowly stroking her side up towards her cocky nipples, he carried her up the stairs to his room.

  -o0o—

  Sisco’d always liked music, especially the music from the late sixties and early seventies—albums he’d found in his dead grandpa’s long forgotten album collection. He’d wanted to go to a concert, but a lot of touring bands skipped Seattle and the Washington area back then.

  He and Pete had decided to go to a festival called Bumbershoot because a band called U-Men was playing. The festival was a family thing, but they figured it was better than nothing, and Pete had seen U-Men earlier. He’d talked about the female bass player and how cool she was. Like some punk rock Marilyn Monroe with huge boobs, and had explained in detail to Sisco how she’d knocked guys in the head with the neck of the bass if they got too close.

  At first, Sisco was kind of disappointed that the punk-Marilyn wasn’t there, she’d apparently quit the band, but he still thought it was really fucking good. Then it happened, during what was to be the band’s last song, and he’d never fucking forget it.

  The singer came running from behind one of the amps holding a damn torch, which Sisco thought was kind of cool, but it got even better. In front of the stage was a water-filled moat, and he dipped his burning torch into it. They must’ve prepped it somehow because the entire pond exploded, and a fucking wall of fire went up in front of the stage. It looked like the entire stage caught fire.

  He and Pete just stared, and then started to jump around to the music while laughing, and they weren’t the only ones. It was like he for the first time really felt like they weren’t living in a dead town. Shit could fucking happen in Seattle, too. Cool shit.

  A lot of musicians he’d met over the coming years had been to that gig. If he had to pinpoint when the entire music thing took off in Seattle, he’d say it was then. Others said it was a Black Flag gig the year before, and they probably had a point, too. That’s when they learned that heavy didn’t necessarily have to mean fast.

  He’d gotten involved in the music scene after that. Never as a musician, he’d quickly realized he was much too talentless, but still involved. Mainly because of Pete. He was an amazing talent, and he always wanted Sisco around for gigs or just rehearsals.

  Since the mid-eighties, there had been one huge scene of musicians in Seattle working together, creating their own world, influencing and supporting each other. It had been great, and since he soon had a lot of friends who were musicians, Sisco pitched in where he could. Usually as something like a roadie. He turned out to have a talent for fixing things, whether it was repairing an old shit amplifier or getting some joints for the guys. His size and looks also made him handy in case some promoter tried to rip them off.

  The hair bands and the commercial music scene didn’t mean shit to him. He didn’t get it. It was all fake macho with a ridiculous, decadent, overblown attitude. To him, it felt like jocks pretending to be rock stars with silly fucking songs about wanting girls to be their desert—probably so they could use their make up. It was all about surface, about looking the right way.

  The Seattle bands weren’t about that. It wasn’t as technically perfect as the thrash or speed metal bands—some of which he actually liked—but it was more punk rock leaning towards the British heavy metal of the late seventies and early eighties. The bands in Seattle were about simplicity and rawness—like an open fucking wound. It was honesty, and it was heavy in its own way.

  No one thought it would ever turn into something real, something that would be noticed by anyone but their friends. It was just a bunch of guys playing for themselves, and it didn’t matter what they did, since they wouldn’t become commercial success or sell anything anyway. So they just did what they felt like. Even the records they released were just for themselves and their friends. If they managed to sell a thousand copies it was considered fucking awesome.

  When Pete said they were going to try out squats in Europe, Sisco tagge
d along. He didn’t have anything else to do, and it sounded like a good way to get away from Seattle for a while.

  They took anything they could find, and squats were a pretty big thing, especially in Germany, but it was quite possible to tour through most of Europe. He had no idea how the venues got away with it, but none of the gigs had been raided by cops, and some of the places, like in Berlin, had been right smack in the middle of the city.

  They’d been there for almost two years. Not touring the entire time. Sometimes they stayed in a city for a few months and helped at the local squat venue. In some ways, it was a long road trip through Europe.

  After two years of eating punk stew—pasta with tomato sauce and some vegetables if you were lucky—Sisco concluded he’d rather eat lukewarm poo, and that he missed the US. The rest of them felt the same way, so they went home.

  They found Seattle pretty much as they’d left it. Sisco was soon a part of it all again, and he spent most nights at one venue or another, helping bands set up. That was another part of a scene where everybody worked together. It wasn’t gigs as much as just a party among friends at a venue with one of the groups on stage. Pretty much any day of the week, he could find at least one gig to go to, listen to some guys he knew playing some really nice stuff, and then have a beer with them and any other friends who were there once the gig was over. He soon got a reputation of being able to supply good pot and started selling it on a bigger scale. Which was how he’d ended up at the feminist party.

  -o0o—

  Miss Cocky Nipples had turned out to be one of the best fucks he’d had in a long time. She was fun, wasn’t scared of laughing while they fucked, and she wasn’t shy at all. Sometimes it felt like a girl was spending her time trying to look good rather than enjoy the fuck, but she wasn’t anything like that. She’d made demands, and he much preferred a girl who told him what she wanted, rather than one who later told him he didn’t understand shit. He wasn’t a fucking mind reader. He needed to be told what a chick liked, because even if playing with the clit was a pretty safe bet, they didn’t all like the same things.

  She was lying next to him on her stomach, resting her head on his chest. He lit a joint, and she turned her head to look at him.