Dominovich's Arc

Chapter 8 of 2

Dominovich rested on the pickle pile. His followers had gathered from the ruined boat and the swamp edge, tired but alive. Then a cane tapped the wet ground. An old woman climbed the bank. She wore black stripes and a rope of pearls. Her eyes were sharp and mean. This was Gwammy, the gangster grandmother who ruled the cherry tomato marauders. She took vinegar as payment, and she took what she wanted from anyone who fell short. "Look at this filth," Gwammy said. She poked a pickle with her cane. "Your homes are mud. Your clothes are sauce. You are all too dirty to live." Dominovich's people sank down. One wept. Another hid her face. Their anger, the thing Dominovich fed each day, drained out of them and left only shame. Dominovich stood. "They are mine," he said. "You will not shame them." Gwammy laughed. She swung her cane. It cracked across shoulders and backs, one after another. His followers fell in the mud. Then she raised her voice and called her gang. The cherry tomato marauders poured over the bank, teeth flashing, stems whipping. "Eat their limbs," she said. The tomatoes swarmed. Dominovich lunged, but the pile shifted under him and he went down. The marauders did their work fast. When they scattered, his people lay broken, legs useless, arms limp. Gwammy tipped a bucket of cheese sauce over them and cackled. "Sticky and small," she said. "Just like you." Dominovich rose, shaking. He had kept their anger hot for months. Now they were sad and sticky and could not walk. He could not fight the whole gang alone. He needed her to leave. Wiener Cleaner pushed up from the mud beside him. Grease dripped off his sausage arms. "She hates one thing," he said. "She hates mustard. Can't stand the smell." He nodded at the ground. The crash had spilled mustard everywhere, yellow pools across the whole bank. Dominovich saw it. He grabbed a broken barrel stave and scooped a load of mustard. He flung it at Gwammy. It splattered her striped coat. She gagged and stumbled back. "Again," Dominovich said. Wiener Cleaner wrung his own arms and threw fistfuls of mustard from his body. His people, flat on their backs, reached into the yellow pools and hurled it too. The bank filled with the smell. Gwammy retched. Her cane slipped. "Foul," she choked. "Foul, foul." She whistled for her gang and fled up the bank, tomatoes rolling after her. In a moment she was gone. The smell hung heavy. Dominovich looked at his followers. They were free of Gwammy, but they lay in the sauce, unable to stand. His war on the gate needed marching feet. Now his people had none. He knelt in the mustard and took the nearest hand. He had driven off the grandmother. He had no idea how to lift an army that could not walk.