DISCLAIMER: Fanfiction is completely fictional and meant to be awful, including the author’s note.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Sorry this chapter is late! I was hit by a bus a couple of weeks ago, but they finally let me out of the hospital. Currently writing this with a school-issued chromebook under the bridge on Steven’s Creek Boulevard. English isn’t my first language, so please be nice! 😀
I was born in a rickety outhouse in the middle of the Texan Chihuahuan Desert, to a strong independent cowgirl and her blubbering cowboy husband. Legend has it that the moment I popped outta that womb, I had a stronger sneer than Harrison Ford and more rhythm than a drunkard in Louisiana. Marrison Lord, is what they named me. But I suppose “Mary” is just fine.
When I wasn’t riding the cattle-dogs (because regular horses were too large when I was a toddler), I was a devil on my maracas—a gift from my parents— as soon as I could hold them. Smoothly hand-carved with elegant carvings of iconic American events, these maracas were, and continue to be, my pride and joy. I toted them around so often, my parents crafted a special belt for me with hooks on the hips; allowing me to swagger in true cowgirl fashion, my trusty maracas like pistols by my side.
Today, the sun glowering high above, I herded the cattle into the outer pasture with my horse, Ryan Gosling. Hand shading my eyes and tobacco juice thick on my tongue, I squinted as the last stragglers followed the herd past the second fence. I sighed. My maracas jangled as Ryan sped to a trot back to the ranch.
The usual farm chores were done, finally, and not a moment too soon. Butterknockin’ Grocery-Heaven Supermarket was due to close at 4:00 p.m. today (why so early?!) and I needed a generous vat of mayonnaise for the extended family barbecue tomorrow. Apparently, relatives from all over were to flock to our farm—supposedly for a “family reunion,” but I knew better. There was a K-pop group—from, I dunno, Vietnam, maybe?—touring around America, and our little armpit of nowhere was next on their tour list. Strange, if you ask me. There ain’t nothing here but cowboys and disease.
But it didn’t make any difference to me. If family’s comin’ to town, a biblical amount of mayonnaise is required—it’s simply the law.
Ryan Gosling trotted beyond the latch gate at the front of our ranch, his clip-clopping adopting a stiffer echo on the asphalt as we made our way down the interstate. It was a long, very sweaty ride to town, but I made it just in time: 3:47 pm. I put him in the complimentary stables and sauntered in, recoiling a little as the air-conditioned breeze smacked me across the face.
“Welcome in,” said the apathetic teenager at the counter, enraptured by his telephone. I nodded in acknowledgement and kept moving. There seemed to be more employees on-duty today, I noted, as I passed the first and second aisles to the righteously oversized mayonnaise aisle. But to my chagrin, there stood a gaggle of girls, dressed much too warmly, huddled around something on the bottom shelf. Warily, I approached.
“No, Rumi, that says it has barbecue sauce in it. I think this one is the one we need,” a high-pitched voice said. A lower timbre scoffed.
“Yeah, but I’m worried that it’s bright pink.”
“Says you!” the high voice retorted. “I’m still flabbergasted that your hair is naturally that color. You too, Rumi. How is it possible that I’m the only one with normal-colored hair?
I cleared my throat. They were huddled right in front of the XXXX-tra large mayonnaise vats. And hoo boy, Mama was hungry! They scattered, each hand flying to their face.
“Please don’t take pictures right now!” pleaded the purple-haired one—Rumi, I think. I looked between them. Yes indeed, there was one wearing an oversized grey hoodie over a turtleneck, her bright purple hair twisted into an impressive braid upon her head. Another—the one with the deep voice—had vibrant bubblegum hair, trying to shield her sharp features with her baseball cap and glasses. And the last one donned a yellow bucket hat over a pair of cute space-buns. Her hair, refreshingly, was jet-black.
“…Unless you’re stealing something, I don’t got any reason to take pictures.” I said. Cautiously, I reached past them and lugged a torso-sized mason jar of mayo into my arms. Still, they wouldn’t meet my eyes. Fine by me. All three of them were beautiful, doubtlessly, but I couldn’t help but wrinkle my nose at them. Assuming I knew who they were, pshaw. Ditzy pop-girls.
I planned to wipe them from my mind entirely and proceed home with my overgrown newborn of mayonnaise when I stopped. There, at the end of the aisle, slouched the apathetic teenager.
“Can I help you…?”
“Sure you can,” he grinned maliciously, looking up at us through lidded eyes. “I’ve been waiting for some collateral. Soul collateral, that is.”
My brow furrowed and I moved to speak, when suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder. Rumi—her hood now removed—looked at me solemnly. “Stay low and don’t move,” she whispered to me. And before I could do anything, I fell flat on my tush and watched with astonishment as the three girls hurled themselves at the teenager, in her hands these weird turquoise glowing thingamajigs. Some really funky rap was suddenly playing and they were laying down some really sick beat in a language I didn’t quite understand—Vietnamese, maybe—as their magical turquoise weapons whirled about.
“Yeah, yeah, we’re gonna beat you up,” rasped the pink-haired one as she wielded a sharply pointed staff. The other store employees, their faces a strange demon-like contortion, seemed to appear out of nowhere in droves, forming a tighter and tighter circle around the three girls. They were good fighters, incredible fighters, it was undeniable. And they had truly elegant moves, with their sword, scythe, and weird throwing-knife things. But then: the one with space buns cried in pain as a well-aimed cantaloupe hurled by a red-faced demon employee made contact. Thump. She crumpled to the ground, unconscious.
“Zoe!” The pink-haired girl’s concentration broke for just a split second, but that was enough. Another pair of demon-faced employees grabbed her by the shoulders, and she cried out in pain as a stale packet of tortillas smacked her, over and over again.
“Mira! Crap, these American demons aren’t anything like the ones we have in Korea, guys!” cried Rumi. It was undeniable: she was cornered, her sword flailing as she struggled to keep the devils at bay. I watched in horror as the apathetic demon-teenager approached me, a sick smile plastered on his lips.
“You know, there was this silly little boy band called One Direction. They thought they could stop us, once. Thought their songs were enough to protect America from the demonic power of our lord. But their success was only temporary. Once this earth is rid of these Korean demon-hunters, our lord will accomplish what Gwi-Ma could not!” he monologued at me. I didn’t understand a word, let me tell you. The Mr. Apathetic Teenager drew closer and leveled a clawed finger at my face.
“And this soul—this pretty little cowgirl soul—will be the first sacrifice of many to feed…” he licked his lips.
“Big Papa.”
Big Papa?! I reached out and smacked him, more out of instinct than anything.
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, but it is nap time for you, buckaroo.”
His face contorted as he smiled at me wickedly. My face curled in response. He would be eating that smile yet. My hands, suddenly free from conscious thought, flew to the maracas at my sides and freed them with a flourish. Like it was the most natural thing in the world, I whirled my now-glowing all-American maracas in a wide circle above my head. I flung one of them sharply at the teenager. To my shock, he burst into a pile of tumbleweeds as soon as my magical maracas made contact. They were now connected at either end, the bulbous heads elongated and elegant.
Nunchucks. Perfect.
The strange magical girls looked at me with the same bewildered expression as the demons holding them hostage. With a yell, I fell upon those devils, maraca-nunchucks whirling wildly. Several bursts of tumbleweed later, the entire staff of the Butterknockin’ Grocery store lay in dry heaps on the ground. The one with space buns—Zoe—rushed to the pink-haired, sharp eyed girl—Mira—and helped her up. Rumi took a tentative step towards me, on her lips a wondrous smile.
“You’re one of us, aren’t you?”
I looked at the magical maraca-nunchucks in my hand.
“I suppose I am. But I’m not Vietnamese.”
Zoe chirped up. “Korean.”
“Fine, Korean,” I threw my hands in the air. “Still don’t know what any of this is.”
“We’re demon-hunters. HUNTRI/X.” said Mira. “You don’t know HUNTR/X?
“How are you pronouncing that with the slash?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Rumi waved her hand dismissively. She put a hand on my shoulder. “There’s a demon in this country too. Big Papa, he’s called. And we’re trying to put him away for good, but we don’t seem to be quite equipped.”
“What am I supposed to do?” I asked.
Rumi smirked. “Are you free tomorrow night?”
—-
I shifted uncomfortably in my sequined America-themed cowgirl getup. We were in the biggest venue in this side of the Mississpi: a re-purposed warehouse strung with enough Christmas lights to short-circuit a nuclear facility, packed with every boot-wearing, cattle-herding country music fanatic there is. Though I thought I looked ridiculous, I considered myself lucky to have escaped the other girls’ fate. They looked even more out-of-sorts than me, looking distastefully down at their very patriotic jeans and chaps.
“Don’t sweat it,” I told Zoe, who looked especially miffed. “Once we get out on that stage, the Honeymoon won’t stand a chance.”
“Honmoon,” she corrected me. “We’re turning the Honmoon golden.”
“Potato, tomato,” I brushed it off, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. “We can do it.”
She smiled at me for a split second: but then her gaze flicked to someone behind me. She quickly moved out of reach and bounded towards Mira, who was standing there, silent.
“Mira! Are you sooooo excited?!” she jumped up and down like a child before the stone-faced girl. I looked between them, once, twice. Noted how Mira looked like she wanted to rip my head off.
Oh.
I raised my eyebrows and opened my hands in a surrendering gesture. I wasn’t about to get in the middle of whatever this is.
“She’s all yours,” I mouthed. It might have been just my imagination, but I could have sworn I saw Mira’s eyes relax and mouth quirk up just the tiniest bit. I tossed a smile in their direction as Rumi bounded up to us, microphones in hand.
“You ready to do this, guys?” she bounced from foot to foot anxiously. “Still need a vocal warmup? These country songs are still really unfamiliar.”
“Just follow my lead,” I told them as the MC announced our set, and the thunderous crowd erupted in cheers. We stepped out onto the stage, hands shielded over our eyes. The crowd was even bigger than I had expected; but it was a challenge I was ready to undertake. Exchanging a confident nod with the girls, I slung my guitar strap behind my back and brandished my pick. If demons weren’t gonna rip everyone’s face off, this country guitar solo will.
The audience was entranced the moment Carrie Underwood’s Before He Cheats twanged into the humid summer air. The poor HUNTR/X girls stumbled over the lyrics quite a bit, but made up for it with their enthusiasm. The crowd was thunderous, hundreds of thumping cowboy boots shuffling around as line dancing emerged, keeping time with the occasional thump of callused hands clapping.
And I dug my key into the side of his pretty little souped-up four wheel drive, carved my name into his leather seats…
The crowd lost their mind singing along. To both my left and right, the girls broke rank to shout encouragement.
“Yes, Mary!”
“This is such a strange kind of music but I like your twang!”
And so I continued performing, sweat dripping down my forehead and long braids tossing from side to side. Just as I finished the second verse, I saw it: the first glimmer of gold in the night. Like a blanket, shimmering over the ecstatic crowd.
The Honeymoon.
I exchanged incredulous glances with the girls and we redoubled our efforts, line-dancing with more vigor than ever before. We swayed to the beat, and then the beat dropped, and we exploded into our moves. We were doing the whip, the nae-nae. We were bouncing all over the place, hitting the quan, too. And when I looked up, everyone was laughing and cheering for us, saying things like, “Ey! Woah!”
But it was too good to last. Suddenly, the music stopped and the venue flickered into darkness.
“Guys?! What’s happening?” Zoe’s voice rose in a panic.
“Nobody move!” commanded Mira.
And then: an ominous red light from the darkness behind us. Five stocky figures, their shadows tall and muscular, approached closer and closer. With the clang of a spotlight, their faces came into the light.
Cowboys.
No. Cowmen.
The biggest one in the front tipped his hat at us mockingly. All four of us could see it. The glimmering veins on his hairy arms, the tell-tale smoothness of his uncallused hands. This was no cowman. This was a demon cowman.
The shockwave from their first chord knocked us all off our feet, and we sprawled into the audience below.
“Baby lock ‘em doors and turn the lights down low,” the middle one crooned into the microphone. His voice was as creamy and buttery as Grandma’s buttery and creamy Cream and Butter pie. I clapped my hands over my ears instinctively, but the others weren’t so lucky. I watched in horror as Mira, Zoe, and Rumi alike stood, slack-jawed, their eyes glazed over. All at once, as if connected to marionette strings, they started to line dance once again, one with the crowd. But it was no regular line dance, no. It was the Evil Line Dance.
I struggled back to the stairs, dragging my guitar behind me. The security guards, big and bulky, blocked my way as soon as I found passage, but their swipes only caught my guitar. I twisted free of the straps and scrambled up the stage, clumsily freeing my maracas from their hip-holsters. I rattled them threateningly at each of the security guards. They burst into nonexistence immediately, full demonic bodies now reeds in a heap on the ground. I struggled up the stage, fighting to keep my eyes focused, to ignore the siren’s call of the big burly cowman’s silky smooth bass.
As I dragged myself across the stage, I saw the Honeymoon cracking: the golden bits giving way to the evilest color possible: maroon. And that’s when I knew: these men, these silky-smooth voiced cowboys—
They were Maroon Five.
And there was only one way to defeat them. I struggled to my feet, maraca-nuncucks gripped tight in my hand. But they noticed me, and encircled me before I could even struggle to my knees.
“Just give up, little lady,” one crooned. “This Honeymoon’s turning maroon and Big Papa’s coming to town. There’s nothing you or your little Vietnamese friends can do about it.”
I looked up, teeth gritted. “They’re Korean!”
“Potato, tomato.”
But then suddenly: a whinny. A crash in the distance.
“What in the chicken-fried tarnation was that?” the lankiest one wondered aloud. But they weren’t wondering anymore when a brown blur tackled one of them. The demon burst into tumbleweeds almost instantaneously. And there, with hoof buried deep in the ex-demon’s chest, stood a beautiful, majestic stallion.
“Ryan Gosling!” I cried. Gosling’s nostrils flared as the other constituents of Maroon Five charged, guitars hefted above their heads. But Gosling was too powerful. With one kick, he swept them all to the ground. I ran towards him, grabbing fistfuls of mane gratefully.
“Thank you so much, boy.”
There was a turquoise aura building around him, now, as my maraca-nunchucks began to glow as well.
“Do what must be done, Marrison Lord. Save the Honeymoon. Do me proud.” Ryan Gosling said in a surprisingly deep baritone. I nodded tearfully and raised my maraca-nuchucks high as Ryan Gosling’s aura fused with my magical weapons.
“You think a magic horse is gonna save the Honeymoon? You’re even stupider than I thought, darling.” the leader snarled, wiping a rivulet of blood from his nose. Maroon Five was recovering quickly, but not quickly enough.
Ryan Gosling’s sacrifice would not be in vain.
I felt power coursing through my veins as I lifted my maraca-nunchucks high above my head. They burst into a starburst of bursting, starry light, burning my bright blue orbs with the sheer brightness. And when the brightness subsided, there, in my hands, was a beautiful, long-necked gun.
(A water gun, that is. Not a real gun, haha.)
I leveled the gun at Maroon Five.
“Now, just wait a minute.” The leader pleaded. “Aren’t those things illegal?”
I smirked. “Not in America, they aren’t.”
With a patriotic yell, I burst into song and pulled the trigger.
“Ohhhh, say can you see? By the dawn’s early light!”
The demons didn’t stand a chance as my turquoise (water) bullets tore through them, aided by the guiding hand of America, Manifest Destiny; Lady Justice herself. I was a devil on the battlefield, dodging and weaving through the fruitless attempts of Maroon Five to stop me. This was my land of the free. This was our home of the brave. And I’d be damned if I didn’t defend it with all my might.
O’er the land of the free.
And the home of the…..
I sucked in a deep breath, pulling into my lungs every patriotic wish and love I ever felt.
Brave!!!!!!
The last Maroon Five member burst into tumbleweeds as the world gasped a breath of fresh air. The spell was over. Mira, Zoe, and Rumi in the crowd blinked at me once, twice. And then, along with every other attendant in that venue, put their hands together for a thunderous applause. I struggled to my feet and tossed my cowboy hat into the crowd, tired but ecstatic.
Because all across the crowd, like a shimmering watery sheet, the Honeymoon glowed with renewed vigor—-
A starry array of red, white, and blue.