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“Do you two want to get this briefing started or do you just want to spend a while staring at my son?”
“I just want him to know that we’re actively listening to him. Because we are, and you appreciate that, don’t you, Charlie?” Havoc says in a sing-songy voice. “You like being listened to and interacted with, don’t you?”
My eyes may bug out a little. I tighten my hold on Charlie and feel a sudden, papa-bear urge to get him the fuck away from these two.
Mayhem nods, clears his throat, and his voice gets musical. “If you’re curious why we’re singing, Hunter, it’s because speech-language pathologists recommend you communicate directly with your baby. Intonation’s important, along with simple vocabulary, grammar, and a slower rate of speech.”
“But also, you want to pay attention to what interests them. Pick up on it, share interests with them, encourage them,” Havoc continues, still singing. “It’s important for their mental development.”
That last sentence comes out like an advertising jingle and gives me the urge to buy car insurance.
“Will you two stop singing to my baby about his developing brain?” I say. “Maybe focus on developing your own?”
They both shake their heads.
“He’s a part of this meeting and we want him to feel included,” Mayhem sings. “And since this plan is important, for us, for the club, and for your chances of joining it, we want everyone to feel engaged and respected.”
“Fine. Get to the point, please.”
“The point of this meeting is murder,” Havoc intones musically. “A lot of murder, explosions, and vengeance on some crooked motherfuckers.”
“Don’t sing ‘crooked motherfucker’ to my kid,” I say. “He’s five months old. He doesn’t need that language until he’s at least a year.”
“Didn’t mean to upset him,” Mayhem sings. If what he’s doing could be called singing. His voice sounds like someone stepped on a bullfrog with spiked combat boots. “We’ll do our best to conduct this meeting in an age-appropriate fashion.”
“We called you here because we finally determined our target and we need to brief you on the mission.” Havoc’s voice is better, but his pitch is way off. It’s like listening to a pleasant set of nails being run down a chalkboard.
“Please stop,” I say.
“Not until we’ve told you two about our target,” Mayhem sing-says. “There’s a group on the outskirts of our territory that has always been a problem. They’re a — how do I say this in an age-appropriate way — a bunch of really naughty boys.”
“And these naughty boys have been ripe for a bunch of spankings for a really long time. Hard spankings that’ll put them down for naps forever,” Havoc continues.
I clear my throat. The two of them are enjoying this too much in a way that’s making me seriously uncomfortable.
“Please stop singing about spanking naughty boys.”
“No, our mission is to get together our big toys and spank and punish these naughty boys right on their naughty bottoms until they’ve learned their lesson for being so cranky and mischievous. We’re going to put them on permanent time-outs for being so poorly behaved.”
“It’s going to take us a few days to get our best and funnest toys together, but once we do, we’ll contact you and expect you to be ready to join us in teaching these nasty boys a lesson that they’ll never forget.” I put my hands over Charlie’s ears, because I’m worried about his emotional and mental well-being with everything happening in front of me.
As soon as I do, he starts to cry.
“Sounds like your son really wants to hear about teaching these nasty boys a lesson. He’s a natural, Hunter,” Mayhem sing-says. “A natural disciplinarian, aren’t you? Going to teach all those naughty people lessons they won’t ever forget? Why, I’ll bet he wants to go educate a bunch of motherf—” he stops, thinks, then sings, “mother’s boys right now.”
“I’ll remove my hands from his ears if you promise to stop singing about creepy stuff. If not for him, for me, please.”
Havoc looks me in the eye and sings. “We’re just trying to make him feel included. Babies are more perceptive than people give them credit for. Don’t you want him to be a part of this?”
“I’m questioning a lot of things right now, his inclusion included. I think it might have been a better idea to just have left him in my truck,” I say, in a tone that I hope tells them that, even though I’m damn new at this parenting thing, I know enough not to leave a baby alone in a truck.
Both Havoc and Mayhem let out wordless exclamations.
“Hey, hey, hey, you do not do that, don’t even joke about that. There are things that you absolutely do not leave alone in cars, like babies, pets, and volatile explosives. Thermally stable stuff, like TATB — or triaminotrinitrobenzene if you’re nasty — is fine to tote around in cars and even leave it in a vehicle in the hot sun with the windows up. I do it all the time,” Havoc says.
“Havoc, Mayhem, I was kidding about leaving my son alone in the truck. Now, I’ll remove my hands from his ears, and maybe I’ll even let you have some playtime with him — I did just get him a couple new toy monster trucks and even a bulldozer — just the other day, but you need to do two things for me: stop singing, and get to the point.”
They both nod too quickly for my comfort. For one, I don’t want to let them spend any more time with Charlie or share his toys, because I have the feeling that the two of them will both bogart the cooler toys and leave Charlie with the lame toys, like the police car or the mail truck, neither of which I feel is a good influence for him, and two, that they’d so readily agree to anything makes me question whether it’s a good idea. Yes, I need their help to get in with the MC and begin building a safe life for Charlie here, but if they’re so eager, I have to wonder, at what cost is that life going to come?
