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The Hawaiian breeze is heavy and humid, a thick velvet curtain that carries the sharp tang of Pacific salt and the cloying, buttery sweetness of crushed plumeria. It’s February 2004, and the air on the wrap-around porch feels like a living thing, pressing against the skin. Anthony Kiedis is not a man who sits still well, even on his honeymoon. He is perched on the edge of a weathered wicker chair, his long hair damp from a morning surf, his fingers moving with a frantic, rhythmic precision. Between his thumb and forefinger, he holds a standard silver paperclip. He’s twisting it, bending the wire back on itself, forcing the metal into a tight, perfect spiral. It’s a nervous tic, a way to ground himself in the wake of the "I do's" that still feel like a beautiful, ringing vibration in his chest.
The late afternoon sun, dipping low toward the horizon like a bruised peach, catches the edge of the metal. For a fraction of a second, a singular, blinding glint of silver bounces off the porch railing. It’s a beacon. A signal. Thirty yards away, near the edge of the lush, overhanging treeline where the hibiscus grows wild, Thunk stands frozen. He is a mountain of a man, his frame still carrying the prehistoric density of his lineage, clad in an oversized Hawaiian shirt that seems to struggle to contain his shoulders. He has been "tracking" a local feral pig—or perhaps just a particularly interesting cloud—but the flash of light changes everything.
"Ooh!" Thunk’s voice is a low, gravelly rumble that vibrates in the floorboards. His eyes, wide and dilated with a primal, singular focus, lock onto the tiny silver spiral in Anthony’s hand. His grip tightens around a handmade bow—a sturdy, curved piece of koa wood he’d spent all morning "improving." To Thunk, logic is a secondary character in the story of his life. The primary character is The Shiny Thing. "Shiny!" he bellows, a joyful, terrifying sound.
The arrow releases with a sharp, resonant twang that cuts through the hum of the cicadas.
Anthony barely has time to register the shift in the air. He doesn't see the arrow; he sees the blur of brown and gray, a smudge against the vibrant green of the jungle. Then, the world collapses into a singular point of heat. A white-hot, jagged lance of pain explodes through his left shoulder, right where the deltoid meets the collarbone. The force of the impact sends him staggering backward. His heels catch on the uneven wooden deck, and he hits the floorboards with a dull thud. The paperclips—his little collection of metal anchors—scatter across the porch like metallic rain, pinging and dancing against the wood.
"Son of a—!" Anthony’s voice hitches, a strangled gasp of pure shock.
He stares at the shaft of wood protruding from his body, his brain struggling to bridge the gap between sitting on a porch and being hunted. Inside the house, the twang and subsequent crash act like a starter pistol. Flea—Michael Balzary to the government, but a force of nature to everyone else—is mid-sip. He’s lounging on a ratty, salt-faded couch that has seen better decades, listening to his mother, Eep, describe her latest "inspection" on the slopes of Mauna Kea.
Eep is a vision of weathered strength. Her hair, once a fiery copper, is now a swirling storm of silver and rust, tied back in a braid so thick it looks like a ship’s cable. Her shoulders are broad, her hands calloused and scarred, the hands of a woman who views the earth as something to be wrestled with rather than walked upon. She is currently miming the way a rogue goat had tried to headbutt her off a ridge, her eyes wide and fierce.
The second Anthony’s cry hits the air, the teacup in Flea’s hand doesn't just drop—it shatters. It’s as if his internal molecular structure simply shifts from "civilized son" to "apex predator." One moment, he's a man in a tailored black wedding suit, vest unbuttoned, enjoying a quiet afternoon; the next, he is a blur of dark fabric and murderous intent. He doesn't use the door. He vaults over the mahogany coffee table, his bare feet hitting the floor with the precision of a gymnast, and launches himself through the open French doors. He moves like a panther, silent and low to the ground.
Thunk is still standing in the yard, his hands beginning to flutter as the realization of what he’s done starts to trickle through his thick skull. The grin falters, replaced by the panicked look of a dog that realizes the "ball" he chased was actually a beehive. Flea materializes in front of him. There is no travel time; there is only the here and the there. Before Thunk can even blink, Flea has closed the thirty-yard gap. A small, wicked-looking folding knife—one Flea always keeps clipped to his belt for emergencies—is pressed firmly against the soft skin of Thunk’s throat. Flea’s eyes are not the eyes of a bassist or a friend; they are black, cold, and vibrating with a terrifying, protective frequency.
"I didn't hit anything vital, Mike!" Thunk squeaks, his voice ascending to a pitch that shouldn't be possible for a man of his girth. He throws his hands up, the bow clattering to the grass. "It's fine! It's okay! See? Look at him! He’s walking! He’s a walker!"
On the porch, Anthony is indeed struggling to his feet, though "walking" is a generous term for the pained, lurching stagger he's performing. He’s clutching his shoulder, blood beginning to bloom through the white linen of his shirt like an aggressive hibiscus flower. He looks down at the arrow, then up at the yard.
"Define vital, Thunk," Anthony growls, his teeth gritted so hard his jaw muscles are popping. "Because from where I'm standing, my ability to play the guitar or, you know, breathe, feels pretty damn vital."
Flea doesn't lower the knife. His breathing is shallow, controlled. "You shot my husband," he whispers, and the quietness of the tone is far scarier than a scream. "On our wedding week. In the shoulder."
Behind them, the screen door creaks. Sandy steps out. She is a compact powerhouse, a woman who looks as if she were carved from a single piece of oak. She’s wearing a tattered gym tank top and board shorts, her knuckles scarred from years of coaching MMA. In her hand is a machete she’d been sharpening, the blade gleaming with a mirror finish. She takes in the scene—the blood, the arrow, the knife at her brother’s throat—and lets out a long, weary sigh. It’s the sigh of a woman who has spent forty years cleaning up after a tornado.
Without a word, she reaches down, grabs a heavy-duty first-aid kit sitting by the door, and tosses it. It skids across the deck and thumps against Flea’s heels. "Fix the singer," Sandy says, her voice blunt and devoid of fluff.
She doesn't look at Thunk, but her presence alone seems to keep him from bolting into the woods. She shifts her gaze to the trees, her eyes narrowing as she scans the perimeter, always the sentry. The house seems to exhale as Eep bursts outside. She doesn't walk; she erupts. She’s already rolling up her sleeves, her powerful forearms flexing.
"Who’s dying?" she bellows, her voice carrying all the way down to the beach. She spots Anthony and marches toward him, her face a mask of aggressive care. "You! Stick-man! Sit down before you leak on the rug. I’ve seen worse bites from a teething macaw."
Guy follows her out, much more slowly. He is the quiet after the storm, his silvering hair tied back in a neat tail, deep laugh lines etched around eyes that have seen the dawn of time. He’s carrying a glass of water and squinting at the arrow protruding from Anthony’s shoulder.
"Huh," Guy says softly, tilting his head. "That’s a new one. Usually, it's the legs. He likes to see them hop."
Flea finally retracts the knife, though he keeps his hand on Thunk’s collar, physically steering the giant man toward the porch steps like a disobedient toddler. Thunk is whimpering now, a high-pitched, pathetic sound that contrasts hilariously with his size.
"Explain," Flea commands, his voice dropping an octave. "Uncle. Now."
Thunk looks at Anthony, then at the scattered, shimmering paperclips on the deck, and finally at the fierce, silver-haired sister-in-law currently probing the wound with terrifyingly strong fingers. "I... I thought he was a robot," Thunk blubbers, his shoulders shaking. "The light! It came off his hand! It was a laser! I thought the machines were finally rising up, Mike! I was protecting the family! I was being the hero!"
Anthony looks at the handmade arrow, then at his husband's uncle, and then at Flea. He feels the sting of the antiseptic Eep is currently pouring directly into the wound without warning. He feels the throb of his heart in his shoulder. But then he looks at Flea—at the way Flea is still vibrating with a primal, ancient need to keep him safe—and he feels a strange, twisted sense of belonging.
"Welcome to the family, Tone," Flea mutters, finally letting go of Thunk’s shirt to reach out and take Anthony’s hand.
Anthony winces as Eep grips his arm to stabilize him. "Thanks, Mike. Next time, let's just register for a toaster."
Eep grunts, her calloused thumb brushing against Anthony's collarbone. "Pain is just the earth's way of telling you you're still standing on it. Stop whining. Guy, get the pliers. The good ones."
Guy nods, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips as he looks at the newly-married couple. "Welcome to married life," he says quietly. "It’s mostly just trying to survive each other’s relatives."
Sandy stands at the edge of the porch, the machete resting against her shoulder, watching the sun disappear. She doesn't say a word, but she shifts her weight, closing the gap between Thunk and the edge of the stairs, a silent wall of muscle ensuring that, for tonight at least, no one else gets hunted.