Pais Lee

Prairie Fires and Faerie Pyres, Part 9

Buddy gagged on the tabasco. Stanley passed him a glass of water.

“It’s funny how well you know American Gothic,” I said.

He tried to laugh. Instead, he coughed. “Yeah.”

“She’s a shrew, and looks psychotic.”

“She has super powers,” Buddy said.

“That’s crazy,” I said. “Too ugly and too severe.”

“You can see it in her eyes.”

“No you can’t.”

“It’s just in disguise.”

“Drink this.” I passed him a Burning House.

“What’s this?” He coughed again. “Is it safe?”

“Super powers.”

“Stanley?”

“You’ll like it,” Stanley said. Buddy was one of the few people I knew who drank Sloe Gin.

“Her outfit is leather,” Buddy continued. “Maybe occasionally blue jeans.”

“Or blue leather?”

“That would be awful,” Buddy said. “She also has a secret identity.” Buddy was toying with the new shot.

“Are you working on comics again?” I asked.

“I’m thinking about it,” Buddy said. “All comic book characters have secret identities.”

“Merkin. And Merlin. Beards, wands, crops. And mortification. What are you thinking?”

“You need a shot,” he said. “Here.” Buddy passed me a Burning House.

I raised my glass, “One shot in life.” We click the shots. “I hope it’s not to the head.”

“That’s good,” Buddy said putting down the empty glass.

“Yeah.” It was good. Anything would be good after the Prairie Fire, like regular beer after stout.

“I’d name her Pais Lee. Give me your note pad.”

“No.”

“Come on,” he insisted.

“No.”

“Let me draw.”

“OK,” I relented and handed him my note pad.

“So Pais is her name,” he said. “Her secret identity is that she’s my sister.”

Buddy started the sketch with the shrew’s stretched face and long neck. This start was backwards. Usually, he’d start with eyes or nose, some delicate feature.

“Pais? Would she buy me beer?”

“She doesn’t buy beer.”

“No. Of course not,” I said. Then I call out to Stanley, “Beer.”

“She makes it,” Buddy explained with a smile.

“Pais and Buddy Lee?”

“My Sister of Mercy.” He then started to draw a traditional habit as if she had put on a cloak.

“Mercy? What’s with all this Catholic stuff?”

“She has powers.” He sketched a vague symbol on Pais’s cloak. No face yet. He worked on her identity first.

“If she’s you’re sister, you can’t sleep with her.”

“No. But you can. You have my permission.”

“Permission?” I said. “She looks like a nun.”

Stanley passed us two wheat beers. Buddy’s had a lemon.

“Go for it,” Buddy said.

“I’m stuck with Fuck Face,” I said, drinking my beer. “Is he a comic book character? Your sister scares me.”

He drew sun glasses on her. “Wayfarers,” he explained. Then he added some hippy flourishes on the headband, and a knowing grin. It was a start.

“Get rid of the Pitchfork Dude,” he said.

“How?”

“Get another one.”

“And get rid of Pais?” I didn’t see how the two characters from American Gothic could be separated.

… continued

——

Prairie Fires and Faerie Pyres

Part 9: Pais Lee

Part 8: Burning House

Part 7: Merkin’s Face

Part 6: Merkin’s Beard

Part 5: Conversation Of Biblical Proportion
Part 4: Hockey Fight
Part 3: Your Blog’s Not A Waste Of Time
Part 2: Put Your Head Somewhere Else
Part 1: Showier Prose