It may be he shall take my hand,
and lead me into his dark land.
And close my eyes and quench my breath, 
I have a rendezvous with Death.
And I to my pledged word am true, 
I shall not fail that rendezvous.

"I Have a Rendezvous with Death" ~ Alan Seeger. 1888–1916

💀💀💀

Instead of taking her bait to starting battling with the Irish Antichrist, I try to think her threat through. Fortunately, the smartest person in the mix starts talking before me and Irish can really start the war we'vebeen waiting for.    

"Darren, your grandmothers absolutely right." May frowns deeply down at her hands. "That's really been the underlying threat all along ...at least with my father, anyways. The 'what will people say about us' factor."

"Do you actually care what anyone says, May?" I counter evenly.

"Nope," May smirks. "But the Grimm Father certainly does ...a lot. So if he cares, then he can force me to care, by forcing the school to care. And if that doesn't work he can always send me away to Blind Boarding School. That is unless someone can force the school not to care? In which case, he would probably prefer to remain completely ignorant of everything."

"Smart girl." Irish nods smiling. "And no offense May Belle? But I think you and I both know that the one thing your father loathes more than the idea of you growing up? Is the embarrassment and stigma that the rumor mill in this town can generate, when they don't like something or someone."

"Ma'am, may I ask you a question bluntly and get your honest answer?" May nods thinking thru her next moves.

"Yes, you may May Belle. And contrary to what my idiot grandson says it's just Irish." The Irish Antichrist skins back a rictus grin.

"What if I take full responsibility for the kiss and everything that followed? Can this become just a blind girl gone wild thing? Then Darren's involvement be overlooked?" May proposes a plan I already hate.

"That is never gonna happen, May." I instantly negate the proffer. "No way in hell am I gonna stand by and let you stand alone against that piece of ...sheet." I use my new word for Irish's benefit.

"Darren, I already know how brave you are, but I asked your grandmother a question?" May intones contritely. "So I'd like to hear her answer, please."

I am shaking my head slowly at Irish, so as not to let May know what I am doing. I will never allow this girl take a hit for me, under any circumstances.

"As it happens I happen to like the boys answer much better." Irish smiles, slightly like a psychopath. "Dean's don't run from fights May Belle ...we run at them."

So now I am seriously confused. Because it sounded a lot like Irish just said something very reasonable to me? Even El Diablo is scratching his horns, and thinking this is right. So why does it feel wrong, when Irish says it?

"Now we have less than twenty minutes and counting before the die is cast on this. I suggest you start talking fast. How did this all happen, May Belle?"

"Okay, then," May sighs and begins retelling the tale by rote "So Darren came into homeroom almost late, as usual. Well except for the smell that came with him. Because apparently, he wasn't able to shower before school this morning because of a broken water heater. And then..."

In less than two minutes flat May has just wrapped up a far more intriguing tell-all, then my short synopsis of: kiss, detention, fight, bail, bike, bitch!

"...and so Darren walked me out of school, and we came here. And well ...I think you know the rest from there?" May nods contritely completing her rendition of the morning. Irish takes all of three heartbeats to absorb May's more detailed version of the events of the morning.

"All that sound accurate to you, boy?" Irish flares her angry green eyes into mine and locks them in looking for an argument.

"Yeah, save the part where Or'sir smacked his hands together to get May's attention. No offense to May, but that move was straight up to intimidate." I snort in disdain. "To get her obedience, not her attention." 

"As it happens, I tend to agree with that as well." Irish nods nonce. 

While May has been talking I have come to a fateful decision. That in the end, it won't matter what we say, because it will be our word against Or'sir, and we will lose. Then May might lose everything, and that I cannot abide. I promise myself that when I finally shed this mortal coil and head home, that I will slay that evil little thing on the way out of this town. Even if it's the last thing I ever do.  

"But it won't matter what we say, it's all he said, she said, so we lose. Because people like you always believe the teachers and the authorities ...because that's what you do." I eye her caustically calling to mind all the fun of the summer of plunging.

"You said it yourself, small town, small rules, small people? We clearly count less than the rest of you do, and everyone knows that." I remind her of my misspent week at the Plunge. "Just ask Aces good buddy Buzzy ...he'll tell you all about how the true truth doesn't mean whit."

"We can still fight, boyo." Irish is clearly irritated to have her folksy ways thrown into her face.

"Yeah, your way? Please." I snort in retort. "Maybe you don't get this yet, so let me lay it out for you. We fight and when we lose, May loses. Not me, not you, not ol' Aces ...only Maybe."

"So while I am more than willing to go down swinging for her any day of the week. I am not about to let May go down swinging for me." I shake her off the stupid. "So let's all just agree that it's just easier if I take the hit and the heat. And we'll just be on our way. End of story."

"Besides the only way to beat people like Or'sir is on the outside. Catch 'em where they are weak ...and far away from May. Beat them down until they..." make some Loving Memories and all die out, just like the skinheads back home.

"Until what now, boy?" Irish eyes narrow into judgmental slits.

"Until they break and don't come back for more." I eye her hard so that she gets the message. "And don't bother trying to tell me that violence doesn't solve anything? Because it sure as sheet backed Or'sir off from laying a hand on May today ...now didn't it?"

"What fool told you something so stupid as violence doesn't solve anything? Of course, violence solves things ...that's why we have wars." Irish snaps back fast on the attack. "But like wars, if violence is not handled correctly, things will only escalate and make much bigger problems."

"Which is why you pick winning fights boy, not let them pick you." She finishes this piece of war wisdom with a serene smile that bespeaks of screams. 

What's even crazier, is that everything she just said makes so much sense to me? But I still can't help myself from being contrary to her out of habit.

"You know who told me that?" I throw her a nice slicing smile. "The fool you married told me that."

"Oh, good Lord." Irish rolls her eyes up to the heavens to make sure she is still being watched over by the Angel of Death. 

"Well, Aces has the right to his own opinion? So I'm sure he was thinking of some greater good type scenario, when he clearly misspoke. But not about family ...family is different." She nods contritely, as if she just politely negated Aces whole life philosophy with her fortune cookie wisdom.

So war is wrong? Unless of course, you're related ...then win at all costs? Okay, that admittedly makes some sense. Even if it is the wyrd wisdom or the Ancient and Unholy Irish Antichrist.

"Mrs. Dean, Ma'am? I'm sorry to interrupt?" May politely interrupts our hatefest. "But what if the entire morning's events were recorded? And I could be played back at will? Would that be helpful to clarify what was said?"

"Excuse me?" Both Irish and I blurt in shocked confusion.

"Well, I have one of these things, that records everything." May smiles sweetly holding up a small device that my mind is having trouble recognizing. 

It takes a second for her words and the thing in her hand to fully register on me. Because it's one of her Mayfly micro recorders, save this one that looks a lot like a flash drive.

"What is that?" Irish glares at the small boxy think in May's hand.

"It's the memory stick to a voice-activated micro recorder? You see, I don't really do braille, because the books are just too big and bulky to lug around." May pouts slightly. "So this is what I take all my class notes on. And if the instructions my sister read to me are to be believed? This device pretty much captures everything said in a twenty-foot radius."

"You did what now?" We both reply by rote. And I am really starting to not like that Irish and I have the same speech patterns under stress.

"Daddy got me this one because it's voice-activated? So that way I don't have to turn it on and off all the time. I just flip the switch on in the morning when I get to school ...and then usually just forget about it. Then when I get home at night, my sister helps me upload all my core classes onto the computer. Where she deletes out all the unnecessary background noise." May lies nonchalantly holding out our ace in the hole. "That way I only have to memorize the important information I need to know at night, and on the weekends."

So with that said, the mystery of how May spends her weekends is suddenly solved. Helping April spy on the rest of the school. While collecting vast amounts of intel for Someone's Sisters to claw to the top of the triangle. In preparation for her future coup d'etat against the rest of the fake blonde fearleaders.

"And you have everything that was said from this morning? All on that wee little tape thing there in your hand?" Irish blinks back at the future.

"Yes, Ma'am." May smiles sweetly. "Well, not on tape exactly? It's all actually on a computer chip thingy inside? But yes, the school allows me to record my classes. So I record all my classes ...even homeroom." 

"Even homeroom, so she says." The Irish Antichrist mugs meanly.  

"So I guess this means that it won't actually have to be just our word against his? But Or'sir's own words against himself?" May muses thoughtfully.

"Use his own words against him?" Irish repeats the tried and true tactic, as her eyes narrow into mean calculating slits of wrath. Yeah, hell hath no wrath like the Antichrist. Especially when she knows she is right, about being right about whatever  ...and whit.

"Oh, and of course, whatever Darren might have said ...that might be misconstrued?" May sighs sadly. "I don't know if you are aware of this, but Darren can be ...a tad aggressive? When he thinks that someone is trying to wound me."

"You don't say?" Irish drones dryly. 

Irish closes her eyes and then nods once likes she does at dinner, when she is thanking the invisible old guy in the sky before making some grave decision.

"You two get in the jeep...now." Irish glowers malevolently and starts moving towards her garage. "We going back up that hill to pick a fight and wage war."

"Irish..." I start, even though I know it's already too late to derail this accident. Because Irish's eyes now have that mission from God steely thing she gets when she knows she is Right ...even when I know she dead wrong.

"Don't make the mistake of thinking I was asking, boy. Becuse I wasn't." She starts spinning her combination lock on her garage and yanks it off with a snap. "The clock is ticking on this thing. So do us both a favor is shut that smart yap of yours, boy. Just make sure that May Belle is securely strapped into the jump seat in the back."

Irish raises the garage door to reveal an ancient green army jeep with seriously big truck tires, like from the Old War days. This Kelly green monstrosity just looks all kinds mean and nasty, like it's perfect apocalyptic warhorse for an Irish Antichrist.

"Darren, please." May squeeze my hand and beams super smiles up at me. "I want to ride and die ...with you and Irish."

"Oh, awesome sauce." I sigh an accept my fated rendezvous with Death.

So we are all unfortunately about to learn the hard way why Irish doesn't drive. And I am about to learn an important lesson in misjudging people ...also the hard way.

I barely have May buckled into the back jump seat when Irish fires up the big V8 engine and tears out of her garage backwards. I don't have time to do anything besides say, "What the holy hell crazy lady!?!!" Then hang on to the roll bar for dear life, as the Banshee screams backwards down the narrow driveway like a bat out of Hell.

When Irish hits the end of the drive she pulls the emergency brake, while cranking the wide steering wheel. Which sends the jeep skidding across our lawn, barely missing the dying Elm tree. Then sliding sideways to a halt rocking halt in the middle of the front lawn.

Without skipping a beat, she guns the engine twice, slams shifts the gears into first like a hammer. Where she proceeds to tear her own grass up on the way off the lawn. The oversized knobby tires chewing two twin crescent scars across the grass in her terrible wake, as she drops off the curb and down onto the street with a heavy jolt. I don't even have a moment to mourn the grass that I've worked so hard mowing over the months of my exile, as she screams down the street like a banshee driving us straight into Hell.

Truth is that Irish doesn't do much of the driving. But not because she's afraid of driving, or that she can't? Oh no, it's because she drives this frigging tank like a blazing maniac. And I don't mean that she drives like a maniac in the offensively stereotypical "women can't drive" sense of the expression. O'no'no'noooo ...I mean she drives like a blaaaazing  insane banshee. 

So it turns out that ol' Irish learned how to drive a stick shift in the Army Ambulance Corps, way back when she was a death dealer. Jeeps, ambulances, heavy trucks, tanks ...all under combat conditions? Like with bullets and bombs and whit going off trying to kill her precious little lucky jeep. Turns out that the Ol Irish Anarchist was a very, very good combat driver. So good in fact that she forgot how to drive in any other way ...except under combat conditions. But especially so when she is pissed off and looking for a fight. So like they say, if war is hell ...then ol' Irish is hell on wheels.

Before that fateful day, I had never actually witnessed double clutching and slam shifting on the fly. Not until Irish showed me how blazing Nascar she really was. Because to say that the drive back up the hill to Hell was the shortest and yet somehow the longest three blocks I have ever gone ...is an understatement of epic flocking proportions.

Yeah, time dilatation is a very funny thing when you are having a heart attack for three blocks straight. All the while riding in an open jeep with a little blind girl, laughing all the way. While I freely admit that Irish was truly impressive in her aggressive street skills. The drive to Hell was an experience I pray to never have to live through again, so long as I am still breathing. I kid you not, the heart-stopping terror only ended when she finally slid to a stop in front of the Tower of Doom on burnt rubber. With the tail end of the Banshee jeep butt ass backwards and ready to unload the wounded. Only the wounded in this cases was already in the back passenger's seat, trying to get his heart started again.

As I am left heaving out my heart, with May is sitting grinning with her arms wrapped so tightly around me. So as to prevent her from being launched out of the back of the Banshee, to start her next life as a skid mark. I have one of those rare insightful moments of clarity that only pure terror can bring on. I realize that the wild reckless streak in my bad blood may just be genetic after all? But maybe not from my mother's side of the family, with its addiction to insanity issues.

"So here we are." Irish glances in the mirror to check her hair and fearsome visage. Then tucks a pale stray strand of her skull behind her ear, as casually as if she's about to go to church five minutes early. Then looks over her war paint, then proceeds to dab on a little extra crimson lipstick, for that added touch of bloodlust she was missing. After which as casually as can be she side slides out of the driver seat and onto the pavement. Where she turns her hate on me with a sharp and irritated look. As to why I am still sitting there blinking and not helping May out the doorless war death mobile.

"Well? Don't just sit there like a bump on a log, boy. The clock is ticking and time is a wasting." Irish starts shaping out battle orders. "So while I am picking my battles, don't move or speak to anyone, until I tell you to. Is that understood, or do I have to say it twice?"

"Ah...huh?" My heart finally starts again with a hammer. "Right let's fight."

I get May unhooked from the death ex machina and safely down onto terra firma once more. Where I try to steady her on her feet, from the death-defying ride of the Irish Antichrist to Hell. But of course, May is already well ahead of me on the road to recovery. Got to give this girl credit, she knows how to get up and shake herself off after a fall to hell. 

"Oh, and May Belle do be a dear and keep that tape thingy going, please," Irish instructs her newest acolyte of insanity. "Just in case someone decides to say something else stupid." 

"Yes, Ma'am." May smiles contritely.

"Good girl." Irish spins on her heels like a witch and starts marching up the long steps towards the Tower of Doom. 

I swear to the sea, that even the Tower looks less like it is looming now, and a lot more like it's cringing. Like it is desperately trying to lean as far away from the mean little Green Queen marching up at it. The all-seeing Eye of Doom is desperately looking around for some helpful orcs to come and save its lidless ass, from the evil Green Queen, that's come home to Mordor looking for a fight.

For it too, knows one of the secret truths from the bad old days. Never mess with the Irish Antichrist's family. Because that is her job ...one she takes most grievously grave. I'll say it again, hell hath no wrath like the Irish Antichrist on the warpath.