Mr. Clarinet

The drumming was now fast and loud, an arrhythmic attack, devoid of form and order, coming from everywhere, the noise falling on the middle of the temple like a hail of bullets and flaming arrows. The drums were now serrated wheels tearing into Max's head.

He pressed his hands over his ears to kill the sound. Just then, the mud man ran at him and spat a stream of purple fluid straight at his face. Max ducked in time, missing most of the projectile, but he still caught a few stray drops on his knuckles. They burned like lava.

The mud man grabbed hold of his arm and tried to pull him forward. Max bent back and snapped three of the fingers gripping him and then he kicked the mud man hard in the chest. The mud man flew back, smashed on the ground, and slid a little way until he came to a stop. But he was up on his feet almost instantly, charging at Max again, red eyes ablaze with insane rage.

Max threw a combination of jabs and hooks at his assailant's head, stopping his run and forcing him back. Then he hit him with two huge, fast uppercuts that connected in the same spot—right under the mud man's chin—one after the other, a split second apart, lifting him off the ground and scrambling his senses. The guy was as good as done. Instead of landing more punches to his head, Max simply pushed him over, letting him fall, knocked-out cold.

He looked for Chantale. She wasn't by the column. She wasn't by the pond. He headed toward the crowd. They'd linked arms and weren't letting him through.

Max backed off. The drums were killing his head, a million pummeling jackhammers running relay around his brain.

He turned around and went back toward the sculpture. She couldn't be far. All around him, men and women were down on the ground, naked, fucking, multiple positions. The air reeked of sex and sweat.

He headed for the pond.

Then he saw Chantale standing near the water. A mud man had ripped off her shirt and was tearing off her bra. She was offering no resistance, watching the man's titanic struggle with her underwear with a glazed look and a dumb, detached smile.

Max sprinted over and pushed the mud man headfirst into the pond.

He grabbed Chantale's hand, but she pulled out of his grasp, slapped his face, and started ranting at him in Kreyol. He stood there, at a loss. Then she gripped his head and crushed her lips against his, snaking her tongue into his mouth, running it up and down his tongue, licking it, tasting it. And then she grabbed his crotch, drew him toward her, and started dry-humping him.

The pain left Max's skull and the drum migrated back to his loins. He felt himself slipping again, surrendering, wanting nothing more than to fuck Chantale in the dirt.

He was watching her pulling down her jeans when a mud man smashed into him. They went down together, Max taking the brunt of the fall and their combined weight on his shoulder. The mud man tried to punch him, but it was a wild, bullshit strike and he missed completely. Max kneed him hard in the solar plexus, so hard he caught the blast of stinking air the blow forced out of the mud man full in the face.

The mud man withered away, puking bile on the ground. Max took hold of his neck and what he could hold of his skinny buttock, picked him up like light luggage, and tossed him toward the pool.

Chantale was still where he'd left her, only with another man—normal, but naked and glinting with sweat—standing in front of her, jerking off, getting himself hard, ready to rush her.

Max snatched Chantale by the arm and fast-walked her away, heading for the exit. At first, she snarled and kicked and tried to get away, but then, as they got closer to the crowd and farther from the ceremony, she stopped fighting, grew limp and then heavy, her legs dragging. Max asked her if she was OK. She didn't reply. She tried to look at him through rolling eyes.

He hoisted her over his shoulder. He pulled out his gun and thumbed off the safety. The crowd didn't budge.

Then, right in front of him, stood Dreadlocks. People were moving out of his way, opening up space.

Max didn't slow down.

Dreadlocks came out of the crowd and headed toward them, carrying his blue-rose box before him in his hands.

Max raised his gun and sighted Dreadlocks's head.

"Stop!"

Dreadlocks didn't pay any heed. He pushed the box into Max's chest and rushed past him. Max took the box in his free hand.

He glanced back.

Dreadlocks was gone, but five mud men were running toward them, brandishing machetes and knives.

With Chantale on his back, Max pushed, nudged, kicked, and stamped the rest of his way out of the temple.

* * *

Chantale slept most of the way back, dressed in Max's shirt, her snores accurate facsimiles of busy-barnyard noises.

He drove with the window cranked open and the radio playing an all-night Haitian talk show. He couldn't understand a word they were saying, but it was better than the wall-to-wall Bon Jovi all the other stations were blasting.