George R.R. Martin - [Wild Cards 18] Read Online Free PDF Page B

teammates. Chateau Marmont. Very John Belushi-died-here Hollywood chic. All the contestants were present, and there’s twenty-eight of us, so grab your scorecards, kids. It’s gonna be a bumpy ride.
    I sat next to the Candle, whose ace powers appear to involve looking like his hair’s on fire, across from the fattest woman I’ve met in recent memory—the Amazing Bubbles. I’m told that she stores kinetic energy as fat, and was apparently dragged behind a Cadillac before coming to the party, because, oh, my, God. The only one bigger than her was a Southern Baptist preacher in a bariatric wheelchair who calls himself Holy Roller and weighs in at six-hundred-some pounds. Neither of them turn out to be on my team, so I’m just hoping some of the challenges we’re facing involve getting into an elevator.
    (On a personal note: Yes, Grandpa, Jetman made it on, and your cap lock key’s stuck again. Ask Gramma to fix it for you.)
    After serving us dinner and recording all our conversations and interviewing each of us separately, we got assigned to teams. It wasn’t quite the Sorting Hat, but it had some of that feel. Big ramp-up by Peregrine toeach announcement, clapping, cheering, smiles—everyone has a drink, and then the next one up. By the end we were all pretty tipsy, so I imagine we made total assholes of ourselves, pouting and preening for the cameras. Frankly, I was too drunk to remember the details. I’ll just have to catch it when it broadcasts, same as the rest of you.
    I’ve been assigned to Hearts because God forbid the media ever do anything with the wild card virus that isn’t a pun. There are three other teams: Diamonds, Clubs, and Spades. We all hugged and learned and grew and pledged to work together as a team until it stops being convenient.
    Then we all piled into a limo and rode to our new secret lair. I shit you not. Secret lair.
    It’s an old mansion all tricked out to make Big Brother cream himself. Cameras everywhere but the bathrooms (and no bets that there aren’t a couple undocumented features there, too) and a little confessional where we get to gossip and backbite to our dearest, closest confidant: everyone in the freaking world.
    Let me introduce the contestants, Johnny. Team Hearts is:
    Drummer Boy—aka Michael Vogali. Yes,
that
Drummer Boy. Percussionist for Joker Plague, seven-foot ohmigod, six arms, more tattoos than a biker’s convention. He spent the whole dinner signing autographs and chatting up an ace who everyone called Pop Tart, but not to her face. Since I don’t listen to Joker Plague and I’m not a thirteen-year-old fangirl, I was unaware that he has six built-in tympanic regions on his chest. Yes, he is his own drum set.
    Wild Fox—aka Andrew Yamauchi. Nice enough fella. Apparently can do something with illusions that’s all very thematically appropriate if you know a lot moreabout Japanese mythology than I do. He’ll be easy to identify when you watch the show. He’s the one with the great big poofy fox tail. Seriously. He has a tail.
    Curveball—aka Kate Brandt. Nice-looking girl next door. Anything she throws, she can not only control in flight but detonate on impact. She was showing off a little at the dinner and wound up exploding a water pitcher with a grain of rice. She may have been just an ee-tinsey bit drunk. In all fairness, though, she’s pretty cute when she’s drunk.
    Earth Witch—aka Ana Cortez. Another of our carefully ethnically diverse team with, sex-appealwise, a lovely personality and great sense of humor, I’m sure. She can dig holes in the ground with her mind. Yes, I’m not making this up. One of our superheroes is a ditch digger of Mexican extraction. I’m not sure how this got by the Hollywood liberal politically correct establishment, but I think it’s funny as hell. No disrespect intended; some of my best friends are vicious racial stereotypes.
    Hardhat—aka Todd “T.T.” Taszycki. Lest we be accused of not having some good old