“The scars you can’t see are the hardest to heal.”

 There wasn’t a single day when Deuce wasn’t challenged by some iron-pumping jock, wannabe thug, or bully with an attitude problem. They taunted and ridiculed him, trying to elicit a response, be it verbal ­­or physical. He heard all the insults from city to city, district to district, school to school.

Lard ass. Dickwad. Retard. Asswipe. 

He walked away from these encounters even with the chest bumps and hallway shoves. He was a magnet for schoolyard tyrants and bullies. He was a six-foot-three, 230-pound, non-athletic, seventeen-year-old boy with a target on his back. Figuratively and literally.

He was the first baby at Sunrise Children’s Hospital to be born with a port-stained birthmark across his back and shoulders. The mark was shaped like a pair of wings until his meth-headed mother tried to hack them off with a steak knife. Her tweaking binge put him in the hospital for four weeks. The physical abuse was a nasty business, but the barrage of curses she inflicted on him was more destructive. 

You were a mistake—nothing but a mutant piece of shit.

It was a messed-up thing to say to a four-year-old. 

Thirteen years later, her words still resonated with Deuce. Even the name she gave him paid testament to her disgust. His mother dropped a deuce and tried to flush it, never expecting it to be a floater. The joke was on her, though, because he survived. The authorities blamed it on narcotics and sent her to rehab three times. She overdosed on Deuce’s fifth birthday, leaving him alone. 

Foster care was just another word for hell; no angels were in hell, including him. His wings left scars on his back because he murdered his mother with hate. He hated her more than life. He could lie to himself, say it wasn’t true, that he didn’t hate her, and that he never had wings, but why bother? Deep in his gut, where it counted, he believed her words. 

He was a mistake and a mutant piece of shit. 

He’d been called names at school before, plenty of them, but until this morning, never mutant. That taunt struck a gasoline-covered nerve. Even the scars on his back flared hot as lava. He snapped and beat his classmates. Several black eyes, a couple of bruised ribs, and one busted jaw later, six boys sprawled on the ground. It could have been much worse. He’d shown restraint. Even so, he stared at them, feeling nothing—when he should feel something. 

“Nothing to say?” The principal leaned forward with his elbows on his desk. He glared at Deuce with narrow eyes, judging, convicting, and hanging him on the spot.

He didn’t defend himself or explain. The rage within extinguished itself, leaving only dead space in his chest. He gave the head of school the same deadpan gaze he’d given his tormentors, which is why they were issued a three-day suspension while he was expelled. He had a history of arriving on time, doing his homework, and getting acceptable grades. The boys were bullies who tormented half the school. Six dudes against one, and he was the one who got kicked out of school. In what world was that fair? In a mutant’s world. 

Deuce hid his feelings and thoughts. When confronted, he shoved his hands into his pockets as if he couldn’t fight. That was the irony. He was a damn good fighter, thanks to several pseudo-siblings who enrolled him in the school of hard knocks. No matter how many times they pushed him down, he stood back up. They beat him until he responded, but he refused to make it a habit. Fighting was about survival, not proving he was king of the hill. 

Except for today’s volcanic response, he fought only when backed into a corner. He was stout, like a lineman on a football team, only he didn’t play football. Coaches wanted to enlist him, but the closest he came to playing any sport was a week on the boxing team. He couldn’t hide behind the gloves or pull his punches. Brute strength was a curse. He tried to save a kitten stuck in a pipe once and mistakenly suffocated the creature. 

Life threw him some shitty curve balls, but he caught them and kept going. His rules were simple. Blend into the background as well as a giant boy could stay alert, go to school, and receive decent grades. He didn’t pride himself on being smart but enjoyed researching unusual facts. His favorite topics leaned toward natural disasters, engineering blunders, and conspiracy theories. 

Unknown wars, cover-ups, top-secret machines, Area 51, alien visitations, manufactured viruses, and pandemics, nothing was beyond his scope. If one believed only a tenth of them, it was reasonable to assume the government was into some shady shit. Roswell was a great example. Something other than a weather balloon had landed in New Mexico. Did the moon landing happen? There was evidence against it. Was global warming a hoax? No, that was real. It was hot as hell in Las Vegas. As for Covid-19? Don’t get him started. 

His favorite conspiracy came from the horse’s mouth, Elvis Presley, a man he met at Arizona Charlies. Tired of the limelight but liking the area, the singer instigated his death so he could live in Las Vegas with the other impersonators. Deuce believed every word he said. One couldn’t fake that hip swagger and his, ‘Thank you, thank you very much.”

Deuce liked living in Las Vegas, where being a stranger among strangers was easy. When he needed a break from life, which he did now, he took the city bus to Fremont Street. If his current foster units knew how much time he spent downtown and on the strip, they’d flip. They thought he played football after school. It wasn’t like they participated in his life. As long as he got decent grades, they didn’t question him. They weren’t the first units to regard A’s and B’s as the sole indicator of his life. 

He lost count of how many foster homes he lived in. Ten? Twelve? Too many. These units were a joke. Cult-like in their fanatical behavior and radical beliefs, they listened to brassy radio preachers while they, themselves, popped pain pills. Deuce found the medicine bottles behind the canned goods in the pantry. He knew how to play this hand. If he stayed out late enough, they would be too faded to deal with him. Parenting was an illusion when a monthly check was involved. Welcome to foster care. 

Fremont Street was ten blocks away from the school. Forgoing the walk, Deuce climbed on board the city bus and maneuvered the tight aisle to sit in the back row. He was a huge kid wearing a hoodie over his head. No matter how crowded the bus was, no one sat beside him. Fine with him. He wasn’t in a gang or packing heat. He was antisocial. Whatever. He didn’t like being stared at. Sometimes, when he wanted to hide, he still wore a facemask. 

The Fremont Street Experience was a twenty-four-hour event. Music blared from the speakers, making the ground vibrate in places. LED-covered banners, signs, and ceilings flashed and blinked like fireflies on acid. It was sensory overload to the eyes and ears. Deuce loved it, though he stayed away from the area on weekends and nights. He didn’t despise crowds, but given a choice, he avoided them. 

He passed a boy dancing to a Michael Jackson song. It was slim pickings for the street performer, as his audience consisted of a couple pushing a stroller and a man more interested in his cell phone than the dance. A vendor was selling waxed roses, and another made freshly popped popcorn. 

Deuce’s stomach growled. He’d spent lunch in the principal’s office, but this was downtown Las Vegas. There was always a deal somewhere. The four dollars in his pocket were plenty to last the day. Lunch at Slots-A-Fun, which included an all-beef quarter-pound hotdog and a container of fried Oreos, was only three dollars. He had one habitual stop to make first. 

The El Cortez Casino was the oldest gaming club on Freemont Street. The place reeked of old-style history. No matter how much the city modernized Fremont Street and the Strip, the El Cortez Casino stayed the same. Deuce stood before a marquee announcing a two-for-one steak dinner in honor of the hotel’s 80th anniversary. He touched the sign on the wall and let out a slow breath. He couldn’t say why he was drawn to this relic of a building, only that when he touched the historical marker, it cleared his rambling thoughts. 

He brushed his fingers over the raised words. El Cortez Casino. Built-in 1941. The colossal warrior standing in front of the casino was erected a year later. The warrior held a spear that teetered up and down, welcoming patrons into the building. Sometimes, when he scrutinized the weapon, a vague sense of déjà vu washed over him. It felt stronger today. 

Deuce stared at the sign until his vision blurred. 

The warrior’s hand went up and down, rotating the spear. The only thing holding the weapon in place was a couple of loose screws and a narrow metal strip. The sidewalks below would be painted with human carnage if the sign gave out during peak hours. Uninvited, an image slipped into Deuce’s mind – people screaming, wounded bodies heaped in front of the building, blood draining into the streets. The couple with the stroller was there too, both dead. The baby and its splattered parts were too much for Deuce. His hand fell away from the building. 

Perplexed by his dark thoughts and dizzy with a sense of foreboding, he let his backpack slip to the ground by his feet. He didn’t need the textbooks inside of it anymore, and the straps on the backpack were making his scars hurt. It was rare for them to act up twice in one day. He was about to walk away when a voice addressed him. 

“Hey, kiddo, I knew you’d come!” An old man waved at him from the opposite side of the street and hobbled closer. A black pinstriped suit hung on the man’s lean body like a baggy sheet. He wore a black fedora hat, but his gray goatee and the cigar in his mouth made him a dead ringer for Morgan Freeman. “I was waiting for you to show up.”

Curious, Deuce took a step closer. “Are you talking to me?” 

“I’m not talking to myself.” Chewing on the edge of the cigar, the old man inclined his head at the warrior and its teetering spear. “I’ve been telling the muckety-mucks in the casino about that sign for years, but they don’t listen.” He popped the cigar back into his mouth and let out a puff. Smoke billowed around his dark face. “Assholes. The whole lot of them.” 

Deuce got a whiff of vanilla with undertones of rotting leaves. It smelled familiar. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, old man.” 

“The name is Gusion, but you can call me Gus, and I’m talking about the sign. You’re right. It’s going to collapse any moment.” Gus shrugged. “Though it doesn’t make much of a difference now that you’re here. Time’s run out.”

Deuce’s shoulders itched and burned. He was also dealing with one of the city’s more eccentric characters, but he was willing to indulge him. “Time is only cruel to the elderly.”

“It certainly is.” Gus squinted one dark eye at him. “But that’s the trouble with youth. You all think you have plenty of time, but time is made of liquid. When you least expect it, it slips through your fingers only to freeze like ice.” 

Deuce had no clue what that meant. He examined Gus more thoroughly. Hand-sewn patches covered the elbows of the old man’s jacket, and the edges of his sleeves were frayed. Cracks marred his faded white and black saddle shoes, and they were coming apart at the seams. He was most likely homeless. Cops did their best to purge the touristy areas of beggars and panhandlers, but it wasn’t possible to evict them all. 

Certain he was only hours away from being homeless himself, Deuce shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out two dollars. He was hungry, but there was always the dollar menu at McDonalds. He held the money out. “Take it. It ought to get you a fifth of Jack or something.”

The money went ignored. “I don’t drink.” A small smile played at the corner of Gus’ mouth. “It’s a generous offer, considering it’s half of what you own.” 

“How do you know how much I own?” Deuce asked. 

“I know a few things about you, like, you should be in school right now.”

“One might say I was uninvited.”

“I’m not surprised. Despite all that ‘no child left behind’ jargon and state testing, the truth is, the man doesn’t want educated kids. He’s doing everything he can to stop them from learning.” The cigar bobbed in Gus’ mouth, drawing Deuce’s gaze. “A dim-witted generation is easier to manipulate than an intelligent one, but you’re no dimwit. Are you, Deuce?” 

The hair rose on Deuce’s arms. “How do you know my name?”

“Why, it says it right there. Deuce.” Gus kicked the edge of Deuce’s backpack. “Don’t worry about the pain in your shoulders. It’s going to disappear soon.”

Birds could fly into Deuce’s gaping mouth. He snapped it shut. His back burned worse than ever, but how could the old man know? He wanted to walk away from the encounter, but he couldn’t take a single step. He couldn’t do anything but stare at Gus’ weathered dark face. 

“I bet you don’t know this,” Gus said, changing the subject. “They’ve changed the décor of this casino six times throughout the years, updated and remodeled it, everything except for the original neon sign and that ridiculous undulating warrior.” He grew silent, waiting for Deuce to meet his gaze. “I’ve been coming to Fremont Street since they paved the first road in 1905, every day. Do you know why?”

“No idea.” The math didn’t work. If the old man visited Fremont Street as early as 1905, it meant he was over one hundred years old. Gus looked old but not ancient. Deuce swallowed dryly. He asked, though he sensed he wouldn’t like Gus’ answer. “Why?” 

“Because I’ve been waiting for today and for you.” 

“Is that so?” Deuce kept his expression blank. Fire ants tore into his flesh, peeling the edges of his scars off. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning. 

“I’m sorry you’re in pain,” Gus said. “My scars burn too. There’s always a price to pay when angels walk the Earth.”

Deuce took a backward step. Gus was a total whack job, beyond certifiable, but he knew things he shouldn’t. Even though Gus was half Deuce’s size and a small breeze could blow him over, he frightened the shit out of him, and he didn’t fear anything or anyone. 

“Don’t tell yourself lies, kid.” Gus pulled the cigar out of his mouth and let out a deep rumble. “You are full of fear, and fear eats the soul. Danger is real. Fear is a choice. Face it, embrace it, and erase it. Remember it when the world is shaking, and you’re sitting beside bars.” 

“Who are you?” Deuce whispered. 

“I’m many things. The bringer of truth, past, present, and future, but we’re not here to talk about me. Listen well. Do you see the showgirl by the entrance, the one passing out cards?” 

Dressed like a Mayan goddess, with only a thin piece of silk slung across her hips and a slip of yellow fabric covering her breasts, the showgirl oozed sex appeal. Gus jabbed Deuce’s shoulder with his cigar hard enough to leave a dark smudge on his hoodie. 

“Her name’s Sue and the poor dear lost her grandmother to cancer last month. She’s a sweet girl, so stop looking at her tits. Look at the headdress she’s wearing.”

A hot flush crept up Deuce’s cheeks, and his gaze lifted. Once he saw the headdress, it was hard to ignore. The gaudy piece was adorned with an array of dusty jewels and embossed with tarnished gold accents. Tattered feathers sprouted in all directions from the front of the band. “Are you talking about the dead parrot’s ass on her head?” 

“The headdress is all but ruined, but it’s the real deal,” Gus said. “After today, when you spot it again, it’ll be fresh, and you’ll recognize it. Remember this: there’s a plan at work. Nothing is accidental. If you look, you’ll find clues and meaning everywhere. Change begins with you. You’re the seed, Deuce.” 

“The seed of what? Frankenstein? Is this a Covid thing?” Deuce was more certain than ever he’d seen Gus’ face before. He could have passed the old man while exploring Freemont Street. “It sounds like you’re trying to sell me something.” 

Gus nodded. “I am. The lives of all mankind.” 

Deuce couldn’t help snorting. “Let me get this straight. You’re telling me that a ratty headdress has something to do with saving the lives of all mankind?” He crossed his arms, too perturbed to focus on his burning back. “Are you crazy?” 

Gus held his gaze. “I might be, but that’s neither here nor there. With all that’s coming, remember my words. Everyone plays a part, including you. The headdress Sue is wearing plays a part, too. It was found in a pyramid long before you were born. The Mayans believe feathers hold the souls of the gods who wear them. Here’s the thing to remember about self-proclaiming gods. They only observe other gods when looking in a mirror. You’re that mirror.”

“That’s a big load of horseshit.” Deuce crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t believe a word you’re saying.” 

Gus glanced over his shoulder and turned to Deuce again. For the first time, he looked troubled. “Well, you better start believing in something because the world is going to be rockin’ and rollin’, and I’m not talking about Elvis’ hips. For now, our chat is over. Take a time-out, Deuce. Find someplace to hide.”

“Hide? Hide from—” Before he could finish his question, Gus vanished before his eyes. Gone. See you, wouldn’t wanna be you. 

Stunned, Deuce inspected both sides of the street. Gus was nowhere to be seen. The horrendous pain in his back had taken a hike, too. Deuce walked to the end of the block and back, looking for the old man, hidden cameras, a film crew, something that made sense. He’d seen some hard-to-believe magic tricks at close range, but nothing paralleled Gus’ act. 

People didn’t disappear. 

Not in real life.