Singing in the Rain

Tales from the Underside: a snapshot of the Age of Monsters world.

Some people were born lucky, others lucky to be born. The Wax Man was firmly of the opinion that he made his own luck, no matter who got in his way.

He was always that–The Wax Man–even before he called himself Gaspar. When first he had opened his eyes, it was dark, and the sky overhead was arush with darting, wispy clouds that fled from the aftermath of rain.

He was fully dressed when he came into consciousness, slumped against a wooden fence in the middle of nowhere with nothing but a few judgemental chickens clucking in the distance. He was fragile in some places, soft in others, but brittle in most. He also had no idea where–or who–he was.

But roused by some industrious spirit only beginning to wink itself awake within him, he rose to his feet and began to walk. Guided by nothing but intuition and murky sentience, he came upon a city. It twinkled in the darkness, electric and bright. He did not know its name and hadn’t the capability to ask, but was taken by the sight all the same.

The bulbs of light, he soon came to learn, were hot, and singed the tips of his fingers when he tried to take them in his hand. The rays of the sun were similarly disastrous, and his existence became a nocturnal one. Though he did not sleep, he bided his time, sticking to cool, dark places. Closets. Cupboards. Underground.

For weeks, he was barely more than aware, his personality ill-formed, but while he waited, he worked his jaw, loosening his plastic smile day by day until he could open it enough to form words. Then, he absorbed himself into the nightlife, developing an oil-slick charisma like that of a charlatan peddling snake-oil with pride.

The first year he truly remembered was 1931. The city was Tijuana, Mexico, and Gaspar’s haunt of choice was the brightest, most alluring building of them all: the Agua Caliente Casino. As it happened, ‘Hot Water’ was exactly where he found himself, caught between the sweating crowds and his incessant urge to press his luck.

At first, he told himself he was content as a fly on the wall, watching the American tourists flounce and flit in all their finery. But Gaspar liked to play with fire. With dulled senses and a half-molded constitution, it seemed the only time he felt alive was when he was dancing on the edge of a knife.

The humans at the Auga Caliente ate and drank, gambled and kissed. They lived vibrant, vivacious lives, and Gaspar half-hated them for it. What of him was not taken by hatred was consumed with envy. He wanted it for himself, to have his fill of all of it and more. And when the movie star graced the halls of Gaspar’s favorite casino with her slender frame and doe-ish eyes, he wanted her too.

He wiggled and wormed his way into the high-roller room that night, but even as he conned his way into a seat at the table, it was nowhere near her. She met his yellow gaze only once, and shuddered at the sight of his crooked smile.

The hollowness that had nagged at Gaspar those long, silent days all but consumed him then. For so long, he had been a voyer into the lives of those carefree humans. He had coveted their wealth, status, and ease of access. Now, even as he had secured for himself a place among them, he would never be accepted. He would never be one of them. So then and there, he decided they should pay for the crime of his existence.

He took her pearl necklace when he left the table, pretending to trip and landing all but on top of her. With a quick slip of the wrist, it was in his grasp. And when he sold it for nearly one hundred thousand pesos, it was all he could do to imagine the look on her pretty face to realize it was gone.

The money went straight back to the casino. At least, for a while. Night after night, more of his chips were cleared out, and more of his resources dwindled. It was around then that Gaspar realized the only way to win was to rig the game in his favor. In a little less than a year, he became an excellent cheater, almost as skilled as he was a thief.

From then on, the table was his to command. The chips were his for the taking. His life was threaded suits, polished shoes and golden rings with rocks the size of chestnuts. He was on top of the world.

The Wax Man would hardly have noticed the stars falling from the sky, seeing as they were all but choked out from the light pollution of the city. And if they were missing, he hardly would have cared, so long as he had a card or two up his sleeve. In fact, the entire Alta Caellum might have come and gone without Gaspar having been any wiser about it, except the same year the sky went dark, gambling was outlawed in Mexico.

It was then that he decided to follow his fascination to the source, heading for Hollywoodland itself. And when he emerged in the stucco-plaster city, it was as if he had entered another world entirely, one made of asbestos, fiberglass, and monsters. The Underside was alive and well in Los Angeles. It surged with the kind of lawlessness that could only come from crawling out from under a thumb at last. The old guard had fallen, and the Age of Monsters had begun.

Gambling rings could be found up and down Sunset strip, if one knew where to look for them. Quick with a quip and stealthy enough to blend in with the humans, Gaspar quickly became one of the city’s top informants, dealing in rumors, contraband, and eventually, magic.

Magic was always a hot commodity, but without anyone to punish them for taking it, the monsters were grabbing at the arcane like greedy children at a candy shop. Gaspar graduated from stealing necklaces and bracelets to pilfering enchanted goblets and laundry that folded itself.

He had a good thing going, back in those days. Crime in the city soared throughout the 50’s and 60’s, and he was at least partially responsible. But for every slimy night-walker that crept through the shadows, there was some goody-goody fighting back. Then the cihuateteo (see-wah-te-tay-oh) came to town.

Her name was Mamá Valentina, and she had designs to start herself a different kind of monster clan. Of course, clans weren’t new to the city, but most operated less like families, and more like gangs. She sought to change that.

There was no official clan council. No tribunal or circle of clan heads who decided what to do or when to do it, but little by little, things began to shift. Gaspar could hardly stand it.

If you weren’t in, you were certainly out, and The Wax Man didn’t like taking orders from anyone. Even so, he went from the glue that held the kingpins of the city together to a little fish in a big pond that hardly paid him a passing glance. It was like being back in the Agua Caliente all over again, but this time, it wasn’t a movie star that tormented him, but a self-righteous hummingbird with a prideful streak a mile wide.

Two decades into the twenty-first century, Gaspar was all but floundering. As his empire dissolved from beneath him, he grew increasingly desperate. The teams he managed to scrape together were less and less effective, and the monsters he conned into helping him were barely more imaginative than his left sock.

He knew things had to change when Deseo de Muerte came to town. Power was the most important thing there was, and if you didn’t have it, the next best thing was proximity. As the clans shied away from the newcomer, Gaspar saw his arrival for what it was: an opportunity. But in order to make it work, he needed a different team. He had to find someone as desperate as he was. Someone clever and reliable who couldn’t say no.

It was raining the first night he met the boy. The soft pitter-patter thudded against the umbrella Gaspar always carried–just in case. He was making a routine trip to Ernie’s Artifacts, but it wasn’t the ogre he found behind the counter. Instead, it was a child with an expression too wary for his young age.

“Well, I’ll be,” Gaspar muttered, looking the child up and down.

“Can I help you?” He sat up a little straighter, as watchful as he was direct.

“Are you human?” The Wax Man tilted his head to get a better look.

“...No,” the boy said, pausing just long enough for Gaspar to guess that he was lying.

“Sure you aren’t,” he chuckled, leaning one arm over the counter. “What’s a kid like you doing in a place like this?” The boy didn’t respond, and Gaspar’s smile spread a little wider, showing his gray teeth. “You got a name?”

Before anyone could say another word, the groaning for the floorboards above them suggested Ernie was on his way. When the ogre appeared at the landing of the stairs, Gaspar gave him the slickest of grins, but Ernie only glowered in return.

“Gaspar,” he muttered, descending each protesting step before shooing the boy out from behind the counter to take his place. “What do you want?”

“Oh, I just came by to check on your inventory,” The Wax Man shrugged. “But by-the-by, who’s your new hire?”

He had to crane his neck to catch a glimpse of the boy, who had all but vanished behind the ogre.

“Jorden,” Ernie grunted, sliding the enormous painting behind him out of place to reveal the stash hidden behind it.

Gaspar couldn’t help but notice that Jorden shuddered when the painting was moved, as if he had caught some kind of current undetectable to the rest of them.

“And what kind of ‘monster’ is he?” Gaspar raised an eyebrow.

“A shapeshifter,” the ogre spoke for him. “As far as inventory, I just got these new gloves and–”

“What kind of shapeshifter?” Gaspar interrupted him, and Ernie crossed his arms over his chest, grumbling as he turned back to Jorden.

“Some kind of snake thing. What did you say it was again, kid?”

“A nagual,” Jorden said, though his voice was small.

“I should have guessed,” Gaspar smiled wider than ever. “We share a mythos, you and me!”

“Awesome,” he said, though he didn’t sound excited in the least.

Gaspar had never seen a nagual this young, but if the boy was what he claimed, he’d be fast and strong, and small enough to fit into crevices Gaspar couldn’t attempt in his wildest dreams.

“About that inventory–” Ernie said, and Gaspar forced himself to tear his attention away from the plot forming in his mind.

“Of course,” in the span of a heartbeat, he was all calm confidence again.

And when Gaspar left the shop that night, he couldn’t help but hum as he walked, going a little jig up and down 5th street. As the rain subsided in favor of a harmless drizzle, he lowered his umbrella, showing his smiling face to all the world.

Once again, it was all coming up aces. Gaspar didn’t need just anyone, he needed an apprentice. He needed Jorden Casillas.

---

Looking for more Tales from the Underside? Here’s a few more stories you might like!

The Day the World Rang: how Jorden began to develop his powers.

Only Up to Us to Endure: how Mamá Valentina became a cihuateteo (full disclosure, this one is very sad).

Never a Dull Day in Los Angeles: What Doctor Hastings was getting up to in the 1960s.