Little Red War Gods. Patrick PhD Marcus

to contact Tatiana, was lost on his train trip home to Ireland. He spent days trying to track her down on the internet, but found nothing. There seemed to be no record of her anywhere. He even returned to Rouen and retraced their steps, blubbering to himself as he walked.

      Sometimes, when he was really smashed, Alvin would think of how he and Tatiana had cried before the cross honoring Joan of Arc, how they’d made love, how she’d accepted him. And he would cry again, his tears a fifty-fifty solution of joy and pain.

      Archer didn’t see Alvin’s face during the split second that it went totally blank, or notice the ghostly pallor that suddenly left the ruddy-cheeked Irishman pale. “Good Christ, what did you say?”

      “I said my twins an Indian, Al.”

      Alvin got to his feet and stretched his arms to the raftered ceiling, his huge gut almost on Archer’s lap, then sat back down. “Is it the Indians of the Western World you do be meaning? For I don’t know who the Neevoowho are.” His tone was calmer, but still intense.

      “They’re a tribe from out west, Arizona.” Archer could see Alvin wasn’t understanding him. “A tribe is like you and your mates. They share common ancestry and common goals, like getting pissed.” Archer laughed even though Alvin seemed to lack appreciation for his quip.

      Alvin got to his feet again. He thrust his fat fingers into his pockets, searching around.

      “I doubt you’ll find anything in there,” snickered Archer. “At least nothing that’s worth more than a copper penny.”

      “Ohone, and me to be stony till coronation day,” said Alvin. “You’ll have to get another round, and make it the wine of the country this time, by Jesus.” He clapped his hand on Archer’s back. “Will you do that, mate?”

      Archer motioned to the bartender. “Two Jamesons. To the brim if you please, there’s a good man.” He turned to Alvin. “Sit. You’ve no reason to be upset that I can see.”

      Alvin sat back down.

      Facing his whiskey, Alvin offered a toast.

      Archer lifted his glass.

      “Here’s to a friend that will listen to what my heart has to say.”

      “Well said.” They clinked their glasses together, Alvin finishing his with one mighty tug, Archer nursing his down in gulps. They both opened their mouths and bellowed loud “Ahhhs.” They laughed uproariously until Alvin burst into drunken tears.

      “It’s bloody awful,” he hollered. “They come to murder me every night.”

      “Who, Alvin? Who?”

      “The Indians.”

      Alvin cried uncontrollably on Archer’s shoulder until Archer could safely relocate his friend’s head to the bar. Before Archer could decide just how strange a coincidence it was that he, too, had been dreaming of murderous Indians, he was rudely interrupted.

      “Rough break-up?” said a muscular college kid in a University of Miami t-shirt.

      “Fuck you,” said Archer disdainfully.

      “Shit like that gets your ass kicked,” said the kid, stepping within striking distance.

      Archer felt a swoosh of air as Alvin’s well-aimed fist passed over his shoulder square into the face of the shitty American marauder. The kid’s nose exploded like a blood-filled water balloon. His body sat down hard on the tiled floor, followed quickly by his torso and the back of his head, which was saved from shattering by a size-fifteen sneakered foot.

      Archer, still staring at the wreckage of the kid’s face, wasn’t surprised to feel a bear’s grip on his neck guiding him roughly to the exit. Alvin’s big body hurled along at Archer’s elbow at the whim of the monster bouncer who treated them with the skill of an accomplished cattle hand. Archer wasn’t as impressed with his body’s flight into the gutter, but as Alvin’s laughter echoed up the alley walls he couldn’t help but join in, his wounded ribs infusing their jolliness with intermittent whimpers and gasps.

      “That was brilliant,” said Archer, getting to his hands and knees. “I’ve never seen anyone go down so hard.”

      “Sure he had it coming to him. He deserved it,” said Alvin, shakily getting to his feet and pulling Archer after him. “Let’s find another pub. There’s a damn sight more than one in Dublin, and with the shite has been troubling me these weeks, it’s going to take a load of booze afore I’ll be able to get any sleep.”

      The Fat Crow was as good as any place to get away from the tourists; it was known for a dark brew so thick, Alvin claimed “you could stand it up from a glass and it wouldn’t crumble and you blinking and blinking.”

      Halfway into their first Fat Crow pint, Alvin took a breath so deep, he took thirty seconds to exhale. “You said your twin brother’s an Indian?”

      “Yes.” Archer could tell he was supposed to listen, only listen.

      “I’ve had the black demons.” Alvin swirled his tongue on the inside of his cheeks. “And I can’t explain why. At first, I thought it was grief over my girl, but it’s a year since I saw her and I manage that pain as well as I manage my weight. With the fair measure of a blind person.” He chuckled with Archer, pointing vigorously at his impressive stomach. “Don’t say it’s touched I am when I tell you this. You swear?” Alvin looked genuinely concerned that Archer might reject him.

      Archer nodded.

      “It’s two weeks now I’m having dreams about your Indians.”

      Archer recalled what Alvin had said at the last pub: the Indians were murdering him. The comment sent chills down his spine.

      “Sure it’s bad enough to be hatcheted to death every bleeding night in your sleep, but the depression that comes with does be even worse. I used to be happy as Larry. They’ve got me thinking I’m off my head. I can’t sleep. I can’t feel. My love for my Tatiana is changing, slipping from my fingers like it never was, and she all I ever had.”

      A short, golden-skinned beauty walked past them on her way to the bathroom, her short blue dress swishing cat-like around her legs.

      “I think…if you’re crazy, I’m crazy, too,” said Archer, still trying to piece Alvin’s disjointed story together in his mind. “I’ve been dreaming of Indians, too.” Though the nature of their conversation had the awesome ramifications of two men sharing similar nightmares, Archer found his tone cautious, a voice used to feel out its listener’s intentions.

      “What?” said Alvin, alarmed. He focused every scrap of sober attention on Archer. “I don’t twig. Tell me what you mean. How can you be dreaming of Indians and me to be dreaming of Indians? There’s no rhyme nor reason to it.”

      Archer was feeling drunk enough that it was hard to respond in the face of Alvin’s raw emotions. His brain buzzing, Archer managed to find answers for Alvin that he hadn’t wanted to find for himself. He liked how they made so much sense coming out of his mouth. “At first I wanted to blame the cowboy and Indian movies we watched on American movie night at Trinity. But the truth is, I haven’t seen him in five years, since we graduated from high school and he moved to the reservation. He got fucking married and I didn’t go. What kind of brother am I?”

      “So you’re dreaming about your brother’s wedding bells and me to be getting my head scalped.” Alvin looked fully prepared to justify the unique validity of his pain.

      “Alvin. The Indians kill me, too. Every time they strike I can’t do anything but watch their blades enter my body. I can barely sleep.” Alvin was the first person Archer had confided in. It was obvious by the imploring look on Archer’s face that he wanted Alvin to believe him, and that he felt a degree of relief just getting the truth of it out.

      Alvin grasped Archer’s shoulders. “I am sorry, friend.” Alvin looked on the verge of tears again.