City Under the Moon Read Online Free PDF Page B

“weenie-meanie white and greenie” deck had proven unstoppable. He hadn’t lost a game, let alone a match (except one to mana screw), when the stupid judge misunderstood the stack rules of his Tarmogoyf .
    And it was a staple card! Everyone knew it!
    The other players laughed at him. Bitter bitches got to feel like big king shits because he got cheated out of a win.
    Lon’s therapist said that he put other people down in order to feel better about himself. And that, pseudo-philisopho-theoretically, was what kept him from having friends.
    The way Lon saw it, he just hadn’t met anyone worthy of being his friend.
    Well… maybe there was one. But first he’d have to get up the courage to meet her in person.
    Lon walked home in misery, kicking every rock he could find along the two-mile dirt road from the comic shop. His hands were buried in the pockets of his ever-present black overcoat, which was more a statement than a practical shelter from the wind. He may have been freezing, but it was too late to call his mom without incurring the wrath of his stepfucker, Frank.
    He was a puffy eighteen, maybe the last kid at school who couldn’t even grow peach fuzz. Not that it wouldn’t look ridiculous on his always-blushing fatboy cheeks, especially if it matched his flaming-red Chia Pet ‘fro.
    Honestly, he couldn’t blame the people who found him distasteful. Hell—Given the choice, even he wouldn’t want to be his friend. But what can you do about that? Body swapping only happened in bad eighties movies and secret government laboratories.
    Life was so much easier on the computer. In his forums, video games, and chat rooms, he was respected for his expertise, his authority, and his mentoring skills. That world seemed less arbitrary. And also, he didn’t have to struggle to look people in the eye.
    He turned onto the long, lonely road to Frank’s farm, and that familiar dread crept into his throat. Even if he didn’t get to Las Vegas for the Magic Pro Tour, he was going to find a way out of his stepfather’s house, and he was going to do it on his own terms. Most of the kids at school were still in emotional diapers, but Lon felt certain he had the clarity to live on his own. He just needed the money.
    He snuck through the back door into the kitchen. It was a good bet that Frank was already passed out, but he didn’t want to risk an encounter. He’d memorized all of the kitchen floor’s creaks. It only took three well-placed steps to reach his sanctuary in the—
    “How’d it go, Lon? You win your card game?”
    Fuck .
    Frank’s disingenuous sing-song tone meant that Lon’s mother was nearby—and even still it carried an undercurrent of threat. Fucker never failed to turn into a monster as soon as Mom strayed far enough.
    “No,” Lon muttered as he hurried into the basement. That was where he lived, literally and figuratively. His beloved cave, ten feet by six, containing everything he had in this world.
    A black light threw its glow on his vintage velvet posters: Siouxsie and the Banshees, The Cure, Nick Cave. His unfurled futon bed filled the narrow gap between the wall and the card table he used for a desk.
    The computer was his Fortress of Solitude, and its layout was supremely specific. His side-by-side widescreen monitors cycled a montage of artwork inspired by the writings of H.P. Lovecraft. An open notepad next to his trackball contained a list of the in-game materials he’d been collecting to level up his World of WarCraft character’s crafting skills once the new expansion arrived. Against the far wall, two iron bookshelves were overstuffed with his vast library of occult reference material—all except for the eye-level shelves, which boldly displayed the room’s pièce de résistance: his collection of miniature pewter statues (all hand-painted by the arch-mage himself).
    Lon hadn’t taken the time to fold up his futon, so there was no room to pull his chair from the computer table. Instead,