Chain Gang All Stars
: Part 3: Chapter 43

He waited in a van and he thought about the legend they had become. The time they’d spent. “Singer, you ready?” the driver said. Singer, you ready. Singer been ready. Singer not ready at all. Wasn’t all that always true. He heard that man but he wasn’t done remembering and so he sat and thought of where’d they come through to get there.

—

On that first night Scorpion Singer did a peculiar thing. He pulled the far-off body of one Nazi back toward the body of the second Nazi so that the two could rest together forever. He offered them some mangled dignity they would surely not have afforded him had they been given the chance. Soon the producers would retrieve the bodies, so there was no need to bury.

The sun was learning the sky once more when Singer turned toward the man who had massacred most of Sing-Attica-Sing. He was asleep in Bells and Razor’s tent, a symbol of their strength. Hendrix stepped in tentatively, Spinifer Black, the long, sharp obsidian death that he’d made famous, in his hands. The blade saw the room before he did. He pointed the sharp end down by Craft’s neck, near the Adam’s apple.

“You can’t sleep here,” Singer said. He kicked at the man’s shoulder and pulled the blade back to keep Craft from impaling himself as he shot up. The three eyes of the HMCs cast a glow on the scene, each helping the other better take in what was unfolding. Singer kept his voice calm and low. “You can sleep over there across the way or outside, but not here. It’s only a few hours left till we have to March, but this ain’t yours to sleep in.”

Craft blinked what small sleep was in him away. “Yes, sir,” he said. Then he pulled his body up and made his way out into the young dawn. He found a tent that belonged to an Eraser and disappeared inside. Hendrix stood a few minutes more in the big tent space, thought of Bells and Razor, of Eighty. They’d been a good family of bad people, as Eighty liked to put it. He missed them so soon and he missed them hard.

“Lord, why?” he said, and went outside to the smaller tent just a few steps off.

—

Later that morning, Hendrix Singer walked back out into the young sun and the dew-splashed grass and looked to the sky. The blue/white made his mouth water, as if his body were craving a bite of cumulus. Soon, though, the drones appeared with their boxes of meals. He looked across to the long-dead fire in the center of the Camp. Craft was there, sitting up, his legs sprawled out. A wide smile flashed on his face when he saw Singer, then disappeared. Hendrix stepped back into his tent to retrieve Spinifer Black and watched as Craft straightened. Singer walked toward him and sat on the opposite end of the central ashes.

“Do you know where you are?” he asked.

Craft’s face was bare, clean-shaven. The light changed his eyes from gray to blue. His pale skin seemed depleted and dull, as if it had been a long time since he’d offered himself to the sun. He wore the blades he’d killed Bells and Razor and the Erasers with on his hands.

“Yes, sir,” Craft said.

“You do, huh? You know what this is? Where is this?” Singer asked.

“This is hell,” Craft said. And at this Singer, despite himself, smiled. And Craft smiled too, though his eyes were dead, and soon the smile was as well.

“I know you said it before, but who are you? Who do you think you are?”

“I’m a son-of-a-bitch rapist motherfucker.”

Singer stared at the man, and when it was clear to Craft that he was not satisfied, the other man spoke again.

“I’m Simon J. Craft.”

“Simon J. Craft. What the J got behind it?” Singer asked. He blocked his eyes from the sun and saw the fleet of foodstuffs floating still farther down. When Craft didn’t answer the question Singer tried again: “What the J stand for?” He looked back at the man and saw that his gaze was scattered, searching. His pupils darted back and forth; he got up, then quietly sat back down. Singer shifted his feet just so and tightened his grip on his spear. “Don’t worry about it. It can be Jungle, or whatever you like.” An ease washed over Craft’s face. An ease that was broken by a harsh smile that disappeared as quickly as it came. “Jungle good name for a wild man anyways,” Singer said, and then the first of the drones dropped a box behind Craft. In a snap of movement Craft had turned his back to Singer and was stabbing down into the box.

“Ey, wild boy,” Singer said. “Stop that.” And Craft stopped moving. Hendrix watched and considered what was what. There were beads of orange juice on Craft’s exposed chest and a glaze of grits on the blades over the back of his hands.

“Look at me, jungle boy,” Singer said. “My name is Hendrix Singer, and in this level of hell, I’ll be your overseer. You understand that?”

“Yes, sir,” Craft said. He glanced at the black spear, then back to Singer. But he seemed always to bring his eyes back to the spear.

More boxes dropped around them.

“First lesson is about how to eat and not slaughter your breakfast, which out here on the Circuit comes every morning ’round this time.” Hendrix waited for a laugh that would not come. He imagined the ghosts of his friends, who he hoped understood why he was helping this man. He hoped that on their side they were somewhere beyond hate. That they’d know Singer hated the man in front of him but also knew that the man was his charge. Hendrix didn’t understand himself. He just knew that despite his strength, this man seemed helpless.

“You understand that, jungle man?”

Craft said nothing.

“Don’t worry. You will.”

—

They were expected to lose their first fight.

“There will be two men on that far side,” Hendrix explained as they waited for the gate to the arena to open. “Follow me, then when you’re unlocked, you attack. Here, it’s okay to kill. Here, you must. There will be two of them. It’s us two against them.” The roaring sound of the crowds usually made Singer’s stomach bubble, but the project of coaching this man into survival somehow calmed him. Craft smiled, then didn’t, then smiled, then didn’t, and it was clear that even he was nervous. Even the jungle man held fear.

“You listen to me,” Singer said. “Anybody out there that isn’t me, once you see them, you kill them. You understand? Me, you never attack. Them, you kill.”

“I understand.”

“Okay, you’ll do fine.”

—

When asked for last words by the host of the BattleGround, Singer said, “I hope you’re proud of what you’ve made of this man beside me.” Then he sang, “It’s a long John—” before his mic cut away to Craft.

“Do you know they’re calling you Jungle Craft, sir?” the blond man in the sky asked.

“My name is Simon J. Craft,” Craft said.

“So I’ve heard,” the announcer said with a laugh that was shared by thousands. Then they released them from their locks.

Singer and Craft moved in tandem, as if they were communicating telepathically. They ran toward the huge men, the Boulder Brothers, swinging their chains on the other side of the arena. As soon as they got close, a chain shot out at Singer, which he deflected with his spear, stomping down on the chain so that the Boulder Brother couldn’t pull it back. He grunted and tried to retrieve his weapon as the other Boulder Brother shot a chain at Craft. Craft tumbled forward, the chain missing him completely, and then he swiped through the first Boulder Brother’s arm, almost severing it from his side entirely. The brother screamed until his neck was taken. He thudded down. The other managed to pull his chain from beneath Singer’s foot and swing it above his head, an attempt at keeping his opponents away. Craft watched and waited, crouched low for an opening. The Boulder kept his eyes on him and Singer closed the gap between them, ducking under the chain and stabbing up into the crescent below the man’s chin.

The crowd screamed and the Legend of One-Arm Hendrix Singer and Jungle Craft was born.

—

On a long March, many months into the pairing, Hendrix Singer, it seemed, was tired of singing. People across the country knew their names. They’d been to many different arenas together.

“You know how I got this asymmetrical life?” Singer asked as they stepped across hard baked earth. It was a hot day. Singer had made sure that Craft was prepared for each March. Before the arena matches he managed his Blood Points for him, helping him with guards and weapon maintenance and food. The routine had settled around them, and though he was still prone to a fit of sudden weeping or laughter, Craft was mostly silent and mostly did what he was supposed to. But at Singer’s question, Craft looked at his Chain-mate and said nothing.

“Jungle, I’m asking you if you wanna know how I lost my arm. You wanna know?”

“You lost an arm?” Craft said.

And Hendrix laughed for the next two miles.

—

That same night they sat sweating together in the heat of wherever they were. Hendrix swung at mosquitoes as Craft dismantled a turkey burger in hard chews.

“What kind of crazy are you?” Hendrix asked. “I known a few that seen the Influencer b—”

Craft dropped his burger and began to beg. “Please, I’m sorry. I am sorry.”

Hendrix looked at Craft, who wept. He watched him for a long few moments.

“All right, all right, Jungle. You keep it up, you won’t have to worry much about that, okay?”

“Yes, sir,” Craft said, and he picked his burger off the dusty earth and continued eating it.

“Okay, dammit, ask me a question now. I got a voice, so dammit, go on.”

“How’d you lose your arm?” Craft said through a mouthful.

Singer threw his head back and laughed anew at the emerging moon, at the Anchor above him, at his life, at this country, this world that had made the two of them what they were.

—

This is how he came to be known as “Unkillable.”

They’d been Marching for not even an hour when Hendrix Singer heard the chatter of voices. Out on the Circuit, unfamiliar human voices meant death was only a few moments away. He’d been through two Melees, but he’d mostly stood to the side, as on both occasions Bells had hacked through a man right at the start, ending them immediately.

“Jungle,” Singer said. “Stop moving a second.” Craft stopped. “I want you to go in your pack and wrap that bolt leather around your arms.” The Anchor began to move more quickly in front of them. Craft obeyed. “Tie your hair back some so it’s not in your eyes.” Singer held Spinifer with his armpit, then used his mouth to pull a sweatband from his own wrist and gave it to Craft. “Move quick, keep up with this thing. Don’t let it drag you.” They shuffled forward, readying themselves. When he was satisfied that Craft was set, Singer spoke again, but quietly; the Largesse State Pen Chain was already looking at them. Their Chain was a healthy eight members deep.

The two Anchors of the Chains met in the sky.

Melee initiating in thirty seconds.

“J, I want you to fight as hard as you’ve ever fought today. Everybody that isn’t me is about to try to kill you. You understand that?”

“I do,” Craft said.

“Well then, let’s see if this is our last day in hell.”

“It is not,” Craft said.

Yolker StashCash, who was the high rank in the LSP Chain, held a claymore in one hand and a shield that bore a rising sun and dollar signs in the other.

“How you wanna do this, bruh?” StashCash said. He was bald at the head and muscled through his body. The rest of his Chain looked strong as well.

Melee in ten, nine, eight—

“I’ll take a one-on-one with whoever y’all choose,” Singer said.

“Nah, we pass on that fair one shit,” StashCash said. “Let us take the wild man.”

Melee initiated.

“We can stop talking if it ain’t about nothing,” Singer yelled across the way.

Melee initiated.

“Let us take the wild man, we fuck with you, Singer, my people fuck with you,” StashCash said. And Hendrix looked over the eight men and women. They weren’t well armored, but they had bats and claymores, lances and hammers and knives.

“We pass,” Hendrix said. Then he looked at Craft and whispered, “Get them, Jungle Man.” And Craft took off running, with Hendrix right behind him.

The rules of Melee required only one life be lost to end it. When it was all over Simon Craft had a flesh wound on his right abdomen and Hendrix Singer had sprained something, so he had to limp the rest of the way to Camp. He was also bleeding from a shallow cut on the shoulder connected to his gone arm. But the two men walked away from the battlefield having left not a single member of the Largesse State Pen Chain alive.

—

Not a single new Link had joined Sing-Attica-Sing since Craft had. Months passed. It felt as though they were destined to journey the world alone. Singer had no idea that it was because of an ongoing legal action brought against the Sing-Attica-Sing CAPE program division, which asserted that Simon Jeremiah Craft’s mental state through his time on the Chain called into question the institution’s claim that he’d been of sound mind when he’d signed on to be a part of the program. The case was waiting to be heard, and until it was resolved, no new Links could be added to the Chain. So the legend of two remained theirs.

—

They sat at the fire after a day’s March. For over a year it had been One-Arm Scorpion Singer Hendrix Young and the Unkillable Simon Jungle Craft. As they sat across from each other, so far from where they had once met, or maybe not that far at all—the Circuit was a path to nowhere and sometimes it was a loop—Singer told Craft to come sit in front of him.

“Take one of your Wolverines off for me, okay? Sit down right here.” And Craft did. He sat on stony earth. The March had taken them to some stretch of land close enough to the water that they heard the night tide, though they could not see any waves. “Give that to me,” Hendrix said, and he held the long double blade in his fingers. Craft’s skin had grown tan through their travels, but the thick bands on his hands from where he wore his weapons were as pale as they’d been that bloody day he’d appeared.

Hendrix stared at the weapon and then laid the blade on his thigh so he could put his hand through the grip and wear it as Craft did. Craft sat between his legs, looking into the fire, and Singer sat up on a stump.

“You ready?” Hendrix asked.

“Yes, sir,” Craft said, and Hendrix pulled the wild hair on Craft’s neck so that his head bent gently and his neck pressed forward. Hendrix brought the blade to Craft’s neck and carefully began to shave the spiraling, crazy hair. As he did it he sang a tune.

—

“I got big money on you two,” the driver said. They slowed, their wrists still blue. Man talking to himself feel godly among the silenced. “I’ll be rooting for you,” driver says. He want us to know that we looking pretty dead from where he sitting, but he hoping we shock the world. One Arm and the Unkillable. We shocked before, no reason we can’t do it again.

“A lot of folks rooting for y’all, remember that.”

The van slows and already I’ve forgotten because what I remember heavy and I ain’t got the space.

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