John Henry's Mettle - Part 3

John Henry awoke on a hard, cold surface. 

Dark. He lifted his head up, finding himself otherwise no worse for wear, and surveyed his new surroundings.

He was greeted by the last face he wanted to see--Colt, cut up, puffy eyed, but otherwise still handsome. The cowboy glowered at him from his seat on the single cot. "You enjoy the snooze?"

He was like a snotty teenager. Mr. Iron glared at him and swivelled his neck around to survey the tight, concrete room. Iron bars on one side, and a grating over the window. A jail cell. Now, it made sense. That touch on his back had been the cops, using anti-magick to disable and subdue him.

John Henry sighed, annoyed beyond reason. Should never have agreed to that drink. "Yep, that makes sense." He turned back to Colt and gave him a nasty look. "This is your damn fault!" 

Colt shrugged indignantly, tucking his knees to his chest and lying back on the cot--the only one in the cell by the looks of it. The cowboy said nothing in reply, just tipped his hat over his eyes, blocking John Henry from his site.

I should beat his ass silly! John Henry eyed the cell. No dampening runes, so the police clearly didn't think of them as being too dangerous. He wondered if Sandra had intervened on their behalf. Well, nothing to do now other than enjoy the silence and await their fate...

Only, Colt wasn't going to allow him that respite either, it seemed. "Gotta admit--that was some impressive footwork there," he said from beneath his hat.

John Henry briefly considered not saying anything at all. "Thanks. You aren't so bad yourself. But you're way too cocky."

"Heard that before--don't care. That's metal magick, right? I ain't ever seen something like that."

"Fine. But a guy with muscle and power like that shouldn't be mouthing off--you could have really hurt someone, including yourself! I know you think you're the cock of the walk, being a spellbreaker and all, but take it from another one--"

Colt suddenly sat up, his cowboy hat falling to the cracked concrete floor. "You're a spellbreaker? Damn, I thought as much! That's real power you got there, brother!"

This pivot from indignation to adulation was like whiplash, and John Henry had to make an effort to refocus himself. "Boy, there something wrong with your head? First off, you're not allowed to call me 'brother', so let's get that straight. Second, I've seen squirrels with better attention spans than you."

Colt's reply was a long, rude yawn. "Docs said I got some kinda' 'disorder'. My old man's always harping on me about it."

"Hmm. How old are you, anyway, kid?"

"Just shy of thirty. You?"

"I'm good at asking questions, not answering them. Old enough, I'll tell you that."

The long haired fighter smiled. John Henry had no idea how'd he'd managed it, but somehow he suspected he'd just gotten this wild horse on his side. "You got a lot of spirit. What did you say your name was again?"

"John Henry. John Henry Iron. Nice to make your acquaintance."

Colt scrunched his face up. "Wait, John Henry like the guy from the folk tale?"

"I get that a lot, yeah..."

"Huh. Why haven't I heard about you before, spellbreaker? Would love to face you in a real ring!" He turned over. There was a boyishness enthusiasm about him. Like a puppy in the body of a battle-hardened warrior. "Well, once my wife finds out about this, it's over for sure...as if it wasn't already."

"Wife, huh? You got family?"

"Yeah. Wife and kid. My boy's name is Buck, and I tell you what, he's gonna grow up to be big and strong just like his old man! Well, that's if I get to keep seeing him..." He sighed. "I'm winning championships left and right but...I'm losing real bad at home, if that makes sense."

It did. John Henry lowered his head. "I get it. I don't really have family of my own. I'm a wandering man. Freelance laborer, part time spellbreaker, occasional inventor."

"Brain and brawn! Now that's a rare combo, J.H." Colt undid his ponytail, and toyed with a string of his long hair. "Wouldn't know what that's like, myself."

Didn't think so, John Henry thought. He hated thinking it, but removed from combat and bad decisions, Colt was almost likable. "Well, since we're being honest--let me ask you something, cowboy, how'd you doge the draft?"

Challenged, the cowboy sat up in bed, puffing out his chest. "Colt the Bolt doesn't dodge nuthin', so let's get that settled. My old man's got a farm. We had...exemptions."

John Henry raised an eyebrow. "I don't see you behind no plough, cowboy."

"I go back and help when I have to."

In other words, he'd used his daddy's privilege to stay out of the conflict, John Henry deduced. That touched a particular sore spot for J.H. but he decided it was best not to escalate tensions further.

"And how'd you avoid the draft?" Colt shot back.

"Didn't need to avoid it--no danger of being drafted in the first place." He held up his arm and pointed to it. "Not the right color for a white man's war. Could have volunteered, sure, but trust me when I say I had no interest in fighting their war either."

Colt looked kicked. His face fell. "I didn't know about stuff like that."

"I wouldn't expect you to."

"But I respect it." Colt said, standing up tall. John Henry almost fell over, trying to stable himself for another fight. "Yeah, I do! See, I love fighting...but killing? Not so much. I'm a lover, not a fighter. And you know something, Mr. Iron? You're too damn good for war. Seriously. You'd probably win it single-handedly, anyway, with that mean hook of yours!"

John Henry blinked. Oh Goddess, he's taken too many hits to the head, hasn't he?

"Well, thank you for the kind words, cowboy."

Colt walked over to the jail cell bars and gave them a once-over. "Your magick could probably bend these bars too, I reckon."

"It...could, yeah? What you getting at?"

Colt threw him a mischievous grin. "Or we could get the attention of the guard. Then, when he puts his hand on the bars I could run some voltage through 'em, and fry his ass up like an egg! Then, we steal his keys. Hit the pubs. Hit up some ladies. Get in another scrap--"

"And then what, cowboy? Suddenly, we're two fugitives with the whole of Louisiana law on our tails. And maybe you hadn't noticed, Tex, but I STAND OUT!"

Colt pouted. John Henry almost felt guilty having raised his voice. Almost. His eyes followed movement. Colt's shadow wavered in the light coming through the bars. Something was suddenly off here, and it wasn't just the storm magi's attitude. 

Just as John Henry went to open his mouth, Colt's shadow split in two. A dark shape emerged from the pool of solid black in the deviation, becoming three dimensional. Colt jumped back against the bars. "What in tarnation!"

An evil, hollow laugh filled the jail cell. The gelatinous darkness took form, the outline of a tall man in an even taller top hat. Two eyes burned red from the figure's sunken face.

"Good evening, cher," the dark voice said. "Quite a situation difficile you find yourselves in, non? Pity that, after making such short work of those two-penny oafs who think they know how to make shadows dance."

Colt, white as a sheet, looking like a frightened mouse, turned to John Henry. "...What the hell is this guy?"

The shadow figured giggled evily, circling Colt--through the bars, shifting from two dimensions to three and back again. "Ah, where are my manners? I am called 'The Rougarou'--the Viceroy of Voodoo, the King of the Undead, the dark spellbreaker who will end your--" the shadow stopped, finally noticing John Henry. His accent abruptly dropped. "Wait a gosh darn minute--John Henry? Is that you?"

John Henry rolled his eyes. It was official--he was now shared a cell with two of the most frustrating men in all of New Orleans. "Hey there, Clancy. How's the missis?"

Suddenly, the living shadow seemed a lot less intimidating. "Damn it, John! You gotta go and blow up my spot like this!"

Colt and John Henry stood side by side, their arms folded, as they interrogated the shadow magi--or rather, his projection. "What's this got to do with us?" John asked.

The shadow form quivered in the twilit glow through the grated window of the jailcell. He resumed his vaguely sinister persona. "An offer, mes amis. It is not everyday we get a spellbreaking champion and the metal ronin of the southern circuit together in the same place. One imagines fate may have brought you two-"

"Get to the point, Clancy," John Henry said, lowering his stare.

"It's Rougarou! And...very well. I propose a tag-team match. You two, versus my zombie assassins, Bruce and Romero. We shall bill it as a 'winner eats losers brains' match, with a $1,000 prize on the line. What say you, bonhommes?"

John Henry and Colt looked askance at each other. "A moment," John Henry said, taking Colt into a huddle. "This guy is nuts! He raises the dead and makes them fight as spellbreakers!"

Colt blinked. "Is that...legal?"

"It's New Orleans, fool; everything's legal." John Henry shook his head. "I'm thinking we use it as bail money."

Colt snapped his fingers. "Even better. I could use it to pay back Sandra for all the damages to her bar."

He making moves on Sandra? John Henry reared back. "Right...not a bad call, cowboy."

"But I don't want to eat no brains, John."

"We won't be eating brains, cowboy. That's what happens to us, if they win."

"I don't want to get my brains ate neither!"

Won't be much to eat if it's yours, John Henry thought. Besides, this idea was plain stupid. John looked over at the living shadow, now sitting cross-legged on the cot, filing its nails--or making a motion just like it. Clancy wasn't a voodoo doctor. He was a failed dentist from Ohio. But he was sneaky, and gifted in magick.

Mr. Iron considered his options. This long-haired, muscled idiot had been nothing but trouble since the moment John had laid eyes on him, and now he was proposing putting their literal brains on the line for a paltry $1,000. Then again, Sandra wasn't likely to talk to him ever again for all the hell he raised. Least he could do was set things right, replace a few tables, chairs, glassware, and move on to greener pastures once the debt was paid.

John Henry scratched his chin, in deep contemplation. This was a weird day, and he didn't do 'weird' well. It was one of the reasons he kept mostly to himself---other people were difficult to manage. Relationships even more so. For John, life was about doing the job and moving on. Win a fight, be gracious, stay humble, and keep low. This Colt character was anything but humble--and though the fight at the bar had gone well (in that they hadn't died) John Henry wasn't so sure he'd make a good partner in a proper spellbreaking brawl.

"You ever tag before, cowoy?"

Colt made a disgusted face. "You mean...share the spotlight?"

"Ok, that answers my question." John Henry nodded to the shadow, presently reclining in their bed. "Clar--I mean, Rougarou--"

"The Rougarou."

"We're gonna p--"

"We'll do it!" Colt said, throwing his arm out and pushing himself in front of John Henry. He was all storm and fury now. "You listen to me, shadow punk. Nobody--and I mean nobody--comes in here and threatens Colt the Bolt or his pals!"

John Henry scratched his head. Pal?

"So, bring on them zombie boys! I'll send them back to their graves real quick. Me, and this six-foot-seven, tall drink of water right here." He patted John Henry on the shoulder. "Look at him! He's all muscle and handsome as hell. Of course we'll make a badass tag team. We'll be the best this town has ever seen!" He put his hands out, as if he was visualizing a marquee. "Call us...the 'Kings of New Orleans'! Yeah, that's jazzy!"

The shadow clapped its hands together. "Great! It's settled." It slithered off the bed, reforming itself in the center of the room. "Such a show it will be, watching two handsome, muscular fighters get devoured in front of a live crowd! Hahahaha!" With that, the shadow faded into the aether on a peel of sinister laughter.

John Henry just rolled his eyes at the ostentatious display. Clarence was a two-bit necromancer who wouldn't know 'real' evil if the concept itself solidified and hit him upside the head. But that wasn't the issue here. The issue was Colt. John Henry leaned in, almost touching noses with the smug, scruffy brawler. 

"Did you just get us into more trouble, boy?"

"The best kind of trouble!" Colt said, over-enthusiastic as always. He pat John Henry on the shoulders. "We got this in the bag, friend! My lightning. Your metal magick. Besides, our opponents are literally dead, right?" He paused. The thought hadn't occurred to Colt that 'zombie' might just be a metaphor, or a gimmick. "R-r-right?"

Before John Henry could give Colt the proper tongue lashing he deserved, he heard the sound of clinking keys and oncoming footsteps. He jabbed his thumb towards the far wall. "Get back. Now. Chances are, he's not going to have any interest in what I have to say, so your words mean gospel. Tell him we didn't start the fight but were--"

"Just trying to defend Miss Sandra's honor," Colt said, absolutely serious. He nodded. "I know how these 'good ol' boys' work. I got your back."

And funnily enough, John Henry actually believed it. This Colt character was full of surprise, it seemed. 

The two men lined up side by side as the guard--a clean shaven, rather short fellow--knocked on the prison bars. He looked like any young guy you'd see at church service. John Henry thought he smelled like a 'rookie'. This was almost insulting...

The young man frowned. "Wait a gosh darn minute...didn't I hear another guy with you?" he asked. He had a sing-song voice. John Henry knew he or Colt could snap his neck in two. Something was amiss here...

The two men looked at each other. "Uh...no?"

"Hm," the cop shrugged. "Coulda swore I heard somethin'." With that, he took out his key ring and unlocked the door, even going so far as to open it cordially for them both. "Well, you two are free to go."

John Henry blinked, and subtly placed his hand on Colt's knee, telling him wordlessly not to move. "What?" It was a rare occasion when the law let him off this easily.

"Courtesy of Mr. DeLapour," the office nodded.

"I...I'm not familliar-"

"Yes, Mr. DeLapour." Colt slapped his hand against his forehead, as if he'd suddenly remembered. "Of course!"

He didn't remember; he was lying. Neither John Henry not the cop believed for a second that Colt knew the identity of this man in question. The officer explained. "City councilman DeLapour, that is. And, as it turns out, a notoriously bad driver. Seems you saved his and his fiancées lives yesterday during an unfortunate accident. He pulled some strings and...well...I just sorta do what I'm told around here. So, you're free to go. No bail, no nothin'" 

John Henry remembered back to what seemed a day ago, but was really just a few hours, when he'd rescued that couple from the overturned car. It was the incident that had kicked off this damn series of events that had landed him in jail. 

The officer continued. "That, plus we got testimony from the bar that you didn't start the fight, so much as ended it. We'd been after those Shadow Boys for awhile now, and we needed an excuse to pen them up. Far as we're concerned, you scratched our backs, now we're scratching yours." He lowered his head, looking at John Henry in particular. "I'd...just keep a low profile if I were you though."

"We'll take it!" Colt said, graciously. "Come on, let's mosey."

The cowboy was right. Best to say thanks and get out of here before these goons changed their mind. He gave the cop a gentle and polite nod, but didn't lower his guard until he and Colt were out of the station.

Unfortunately, John Henry knew that their predicament was far from over. He was saddled with this cowboy now, and they were about to have a mean fight on their hands...

Next Chapter!