The police came for him in Civics class, of all places.
Billy looked up from his textbook when the intercom crackled to life. "Sister Mary Hubert, would you please send Billy McGuffin to the Headmaster's office, please?"
He looked at the nun, then back at his book with surprise, then back at the nun. She made a gesture with her hand and then tucked them under a fold of her habit.
"Mr. McGuffin, you are excused. Straight to the office, please." she said. "Eyes back on your books, the rest of you," she said sternly, but Billy could feel all eyes on him as he shoved his things into his backpack. He slouched out of the classroom like a fugitive.
The halls echoed under his footsteps, banging off the lockers. He took a shortcut behind the cafeteria, shared a quick smoke with some of the kids cutting class, and moved more quickly toward the administrative offices.
"Go right in," said the secretary, pointing the way. Billy felt his nervousness increase. There were things going on he wasn't sure he liked. He smelled Five-O, their presence like an authoritarian fog that smothered his flight response.
No matter what, no matter how many community service timesheets Officer Breckinridge signed off on, no matter how many times he came across them at city checkpoints, he would never take cops for granted.
When he turned the doorknob and entered Sir Winston's office, he wasn't particularly surpised to see three policemen there, two in blues and one in civvies, a detective probably. What surprised him was seeing Dr. Conrads in attendance, too.
"Mr. McGuffin," said Sir Winston, gesturing to the meeting table where two of them were sitting, "Please, join us."
Billy unslung his bag and sat down. He wished he could have remained standing. On his legs, he had the height-advantage to all of them.
"What's this about?" he asked. "'m I in trouble?"
"No," said Sir Winston. "Absolutely not." He gave the detective a hard meaningful look. "These men would like to talk to you, is all."
The detective pushed a thick manila folder over at Billy. "Look at that, and tell me what you think," he said.
Billy looked the detective in the eyes, not touching his folder. "Can I ask your names?"
Dr. Conrads smothered a cough that might have been a laugh, and the detective blushed, caught out being rude. "I'm Detective Plesaunce of the Paragon Police Department, 23rd precinct, and these are officers Barley and Singh."
Billy nodded and opened the folder. His hands skittered on slick photographic paper and police reports. Men, about six of them, all between the ages of sixteen and twenty-two. None of them looked like much, most of them from Talos Island, Brickstown, lowdown neighborhoods. Missing person, missing person, person of interest, missing person. Near the bottom of the stack was a picture of a body, gone gray with exposure, arms missing at the shoulder and elbow. Billy shoved it away from himself with a cry of disgust. "What the hell is this?" he demanded. "What's this got to do with me?"
"Sorry about that," said Pleasuance, pulling the snuff clip away, turning it over. "Misplaced photo." Billy stared hard at the detective, his face full of dislike.
"We're working a series of missing persons cases involving the Freakshow," he said. He reached over and pointed to a photo of six faces, fingers splaying out on two. "Rumminger and Black, these two, were found dead yesterday morning. Normally it's hard to find a body, since the Vazhilok scoop up a lot of them. But they didn't want these. Signs of recent Excelsior exposure, and something else. Cybernetic networks, with patterns of injection and cautery. Does the name "Bonespur" mean anything to you?"
"No," said Billy. He wanted to lean his head down on the table. He didn't want to be here.
"Here," said Singh, pushing a photograph over to Billy. "Here's a face to go with the name. You know the face?"
Billy looked. Billy saw. He knew the face. It was the face of the meat doctor. The angel. The connective points on his body where skin met metal itched.
"Every Meat Doctor has a signature style. And the cyberneurological overlays they use can be as distinctive as a fingerprint. Her name is Bonespur," said Plesaunce, "And we think she's the one who amputated your arms." The detective looked at Billy.
"We also have reason to believe she was involved in the deaths of Lawrence Black and Patrick Rumminger. We need your help, Billy. We need to track her down and stop her. Before anyone else dies"
Torquemada's Rave
Moderator: Student Council
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Dr1v35haft
- Posts: 162
- Joined: Thu Mar 29, 2007 7:15 pm
Torquemada's Rave
"Metal is Better than Meat."
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Dr1v35haft
- Posts: 162
- Joined: Thu Mar 29, 2007 7:15 pm
I was scared when I saw them milling in the sewers. They didn't see us. They didn't know we were coming. But Sister Psyche said the best way to find Clamor was through the Hardy Boyyyz, and here we were. Eight of us. There was a stone in my throat that went through me when I saw them, a pang that dropped through my innards and landed with a physical pain in my nuts. I'd rather take a blow than go through this.
But I'd take blows, I knew. I'd take plenty.
Once we got going, it wasn't so bad. I kept hanging out, near the back, letting Stasi and Sam do all the dirty work. I picked them off one by one, and I don't think they even noticed me, noticed I wasn't one of them. I looked like them. Even with the metal hands. And they looked like me.
It went on, and on, and on. I can't count how many low-tier gangs of Freakshow we sliced through, on our way up to Clamor. I saw things I didn't like. And I enjoyed it. I enjoyed fighting them, but I kept feeling that weird sense that something was missing every time I drew back my right hand for a metal-powered punch. The feeling of the blade, arm like the grim reaper, hepped up for the slicing.
One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
I didn't even know who I was after a while. We cut through them like they were paper, getting a little closer each time.
And then there was a face I recognized. He was laying there on the tile floor of the office building, the smell of old donuts, coffee, and ozone in the air. He was twitching in pain from the effects of the electical jolts I'd given him to put him down. Dayfiveed. His twitching palm arched as he saw my face, giving out a hand-signal of recognition. The universal 'Showboy sign for Stop and Desist. And I reached out and slapped the pokey-porter badge on him, the one that sends you from freedom to the Zig.
He zapped out, and I found a nice potted plant to lose my lunch in.
Questions. These guys, they keep asking me questions. You wanna stop billy you need a break billy how you holding up billy you don't have to do this billy.
"I'm fine," I say, like it's the catechism. "Let's just get this done. I'm fine."
I'm fine as long as my forward momentum can carry me. Like a shark, you stop swimming and you quit breathing.
I think the hostages were the worst, at the end. You could tell, by the looks on their faces, that they didn't want to be there. Hungry. Cold. Dirty faces hunkered down in the dim light of the sewers, in the room they'd been stuffed in. I had a memory, then. But I killed it before it could see the light of day.
When we freed them, they ran like jackrabbits.
"When we find Clamor, the rest of you can go. I gotta question her for the police." They nod. There's some sort of funny look in Sam's face, and she says nothing.
And then it's down to Clamor. She burns like cordite in the stink-choked air. I don't remember how the fight went down, all I remember is, I get the EMP on her, hold her down with my foot resting on her Excelsior pump while the rest of the room gets cleared out.
"Go," I say. And they go. All except the little winged pansy, and Sam.
The pansy gives me a weapon. It's a sweet little gun. "Just in case things go bad," he says, quiet like. And he goes.
"Get outta here, Sam," I say. "You don't wanna see this."
Clamor makes a move to get up, and I give her a dose of the juice. She writes, just like Dayfiveed, trying to give the sign. I can't afford to take my eyes off her.
"Where's Bonespur?" I shout down at her, getting a good grip on one of her metal spines. If my hands were still flesh, they'd be cut to ribbons, but the robotic hand holds true. Clamor shakes her head, whining. "I don't know!" she shrieks. I make my grip firmer, and begin to pull. It's like pulling the tine out of shishkebab. There's some blood, some flesh, some Excelsior. She won't die of it, but it hurts like a bitch.
"Where's Bonespur?" I say again. God I hate this. I grab the edge of the wound and pull. "You want me to peel you like a fucking apple? Think I can do you in one strip?" My metal hand pulls, making good on the threat, carving her skin with her own extensions.
"Independence Port!" she shrieks. "South Warehouse 217! That's her lab!"
"If you're lying, I'm gonna do this again." I smack her face. I hate myself, but it feels real pleasant to hit her. Sexy, kinda. I slap the hokey-pokey on her, and she's gone--to prison, to the hospital, who can say.
I turn around and see Sam and Gabriel Templar looking at me. I'm smiling so hard it hurts to stop. The looks on their faces. I turn my head and throw up. There's nothing left there, so it's all bile and tar. I spit a few times, trying to get the taste out of my mouth. My nose is running, I wipe it on my sleeve, and I see that, in my left hand, I've still got the spike I tore out of Clamor's body, caked with blood and slime.
I can't look at them. I bang it against the wall until my shoulder hurts. And then I'm on the ground, leaning against that wall, crying like a little girl.
They keep talking to me. I can't hear a thing. All I can think about is that I've hurt people again, and this time I'm likely to remember. I've hurt people who look like me, unleashed that bloodlust, and it's supposed to be for the greater good. I'm supposed to be a hero.
The police have my life hostage as sure as the Freakshow had those men. I call Sister Psyche, and I call Detective Plesaunce, telling them where to find Bonespur. But I'm out of it now. I don't want anything else tonight.
"I want a drink," I say, voice all low and tired. I don't think I've opened my mouth very much tonight, but I feel like I've been shouting and shouting and shouting. "Just let me have one drink."
But I'd take blows, I knew. I'd take plenty.
Once we got going, it wasn't so bad. I kept hanging out, near the back, letting Stasi and Sam do all the dirty work. I picked them off one by one, and I don't think they even noticed me, noticed I wasn't one of them. I looked like them. Even with the metal hands. And they looked like me.
It went on, and on, and on. I can't count how many low-tier gangs of Freakshow we sliced through, on our way up to Clamor. I saw things I didn't like. And I enjoyed it. I enjoyed fighting them, but I kept feeling that weird sense that something was missing every time I drew back my right hand for a metal-powered punch. The feeling of the blade, arm like the grim reaper, hepped up for the slicing.
One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
I didn't even know who I was after a while. We cut through them like they were paper, getting a little closer each time.
And then there was a face I recognized. He was laying there on the tile floor of the office building, the smell of old donuts, coffee, and ozone in the air. He was twitching in pain from the effects of the electical jolts I'd given him to put him down. Dayfiveed. His twitching palm arched as he saw my face, giving out a hand-signal of recognition. The universal 'Showboy sign for Stop and Desist. And I reached out and slapped the pokey-porter badge on him, the one that sends you from freedom to the Zig.
He zapped out, and I found a nice potted plant to lose my lunch in.
Questions. These guys, they keep asking me questions. You wanna stop billy you need a break billy how you holding up billy you don't have to do this billy.
"I'm fine," I say, like it's the catechism. "Let's just get this done. I'm fine."
I'm fine as long as my forward momentum can carry me. Like a shark, you stop swimming and you quit breathing.
I think the hostages were the worst, at the end. You could tell, by the looks on their faces, that they didn't want to be there. Hungry. Cold. Dirty faces hunkered down in the dim light of the sewers, in the room they'd been stuffed in. I had a memory, then. But I killed it before it could see the light of day.
When we freed them, they ran like jackrabbits.
"When we find Clamor, the rest of you can go. I gotta question her for the police." They nod. There's some sort of funny look in Sam's face, and she says nothing.
And then it's down to Clamor. She burns like cordite in the stink-choked air. I don't remember how the fight went down, all I remember is, I get the EMP on her, hold her down with my foot resting on her Excelsior pump while the rest of the room gets cleared out.
"Go," I say. And they go. All except the little winged pansy, and Sam.
The pansy gives me a weapon. It's a sweet little gun. "Just in case things go bad," he says, quiet like. And he goes.
"Get outta here, Sam," I say. "You don't wanna see this."
Clamor makes a move to get up, and I give her a dose of the juice. She writes, just like Dayfiveed, trying to give the sign. I can't afford to take my eyes off her.
"Where's Bonespur?" I shout down at her, getting a good grip on one of her metal spines. If my hands were still flesh, they'd be cut to ribbons, but the robotic hand holds true. Clamor shakes her head, whining. "I don't know!" she shrieks. I make my grip firmer, and begin to pull. It's like pulling the tine out of shishkebab. There's some blood, some flesh, some Excelsior. She won't die of it, but it hurts like a bitch.
"Where's Bonespur?" I say again. God I hate this. I grab the edge of the wound and pull. "You want me to peel you like a fucking apple? Think I can do you in one strip?" My metal hand pulls, making good on the threat, carving her skin with her own extensions.
"Independence Port!" she shrieks. "South Warehouse 217! That's her lab!"
"If you're lying, I'm gonna do this again." I smack her face. I hate myself, but it feels real pleasant to hit her. Sexy, kinda. I slap the hokey-pokey on her, and she's gone--to prison, to the hospital, who can say.
I turn around and see Sam and Gabriel Templar looking at me. I'm smiling so hard it hurts to stop. The looks on their faces. I turn my head and throw up. There's nothing left there, so it's all bile and tar. I spit a few times, trying to get the taste out of my mouth. My nose is running, I wipe it on my sleeve, and I see that, in my left hand, I've still got the spike I tore out of Clamor's body, caked with blood and slime.
I can't look at them. I bang it against the wall until my shoulder hurts. And then I'm on the ground, leaning against that wall, crying like a little girl.
They keep talking to me. I can't hear a thing. All I can think about is that I've hurt people again, and this time I'm likely to remember. I've hurt people who look like me, unleashed that bloodlust, and it's supposed to be for the greater good. I'm supposed to be a hero.
The police have my life hostage as sure as the Freakshow had those men. I call Sister Psyche, and I call Detective Plesaunce, telling them where to find Bonespur. But I'm out of it now. I don't want anything else tonight.
"I want a drink," I say, voice all low and tired. I don't think I've opened my mouth very much tonight, but I feel like I've been shouting and shouting and shouting. "Just let me have one drink."
"Metal is Better than Meat."
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Dr1v35haft
- Posts: 162
- Joined: Thu Mar 29, 2007 7:15 pm
Re: Torquemada's Rave
Dr. Conrads smiled, steepling his fingers in a gesture of superiority as Detective Pleasaunce attempted to stare him down.
"I can't help you," Dr. Conrads said, trying to suppress his happiness at winning this fight, feeling it mixed, only slightly, with the awareness of how unworthy, and uncharitable, those feelings were. He picked up a pencil from his caddy, wood sharpened to a dagger point, gripping it, letting the smell of shavings filter into his nose, flicking pages of his appointment calendar with the eraser.
The topic of discussion was, as usual for the week, Billy McGuffin. Pleasaunce had been coming to see him at irregular intervals for a few months now, and while the detective's pleas grew ever more intense, tinged with the threat of legal action, the response remained the same.
"I just want to be able to interview the guy," said Pleasaunce, eternal refrain, world without end.
"He's not a 'guy,' he is a boy. He is not a criminal; he has served his parole and his juvenile record has been expunged. He is not a public menace, he has been enrolled at this school for over ten months, maintaining a C+ average and regularly answering the call for public service-- a service which is, I remind you, unrenumerated and thankless. He's kept his nose clean, his veins clean, he's come in for regular counseling, and, it may interest you, Detective," Conrads pointed the pencil's sharp end at the man's badge, giving vent to his dislike, "It may interest you to know that he's a decorated hero of the Rikti invasion and been honored by the Rotary Club, the Lion's Club, and the local Chamber of Commerce."
"He's our only link to Bonespur," said Pleasaunce. "He's the only surviving member of the Freakshow she's ever worked on. If we could get you to agree to hypnosis, perhaps counselling under the guidance of ... I don't know, sodium pentathol, special drugs, get him to tell the truth about what happened there--"
Conrads interrupted him by snapping the pencil in half. "You see him as Dr1v35shaft, a member of the Freakshow, a bad apple. You have no moral compunction about using him, using him up. The problem with you, Detective, is you see him as worthless, not worth reclaiming into society. I see something very different.
"I see Billy McGuffin. I see him as a boy, a boy caught between the hammer of the PPD and the anvil of the Freakshow, bent out of shape. But now he has the chance to grow up into a man, a real man, and a good one. And I think he sees it too. He's just now beginning to see it. Detective, isn't it for the sake of good, decent people that you try to stop the Freakshow and the Vazhilok in the first place? Billy isn't your enemy here. He's one of the victims."
"I can get a warrant for his therapy sessions, you know. Or I can contact DCFS and have him removed from his home and placed in state care."
Conrads let out a heavy sigh. "You're like a dog with a bone, you and Billy McGuffin. See reason. Leave him be." Conrads tossed the broken pencil into the wastebasket and stood up, offering his hand for the detective to shake. "Forgive me for saying this, Detective, but you are the one who made the first threat--St. Joseph's School has a long and very successful history of dealing with ill-intentioned busybodies, whether or not they wear a badge. You know your way out."
"I can't help you," Dr. Conrads said, trying to suppress his happiness at winning this fight, feeling it mixed, only slightly, with the awareness of how unworthy, and uncharitable, those feelings were. He picked up a pencil from his caddy, wood sharpened to a dagger point, gripping it, letting the smell of shavings filter into his nose, flicking pages of his appointment calendar with the eraser.
The topic of discussion was, as usual for the week, Billy McGuffin. Pleasaunce had been coming to see him at irregular intervals for a few months now, and while the detective's pleas grew ever more intense, tinged with the threat of legal action, the response remained the same.
"I just want to be able to interview the guy," said Pleasaunce, eternal refrain, world without end.
"He's not a 'guy,' he is a boy. He is not a criminal; he has served his parole and his juvenile record has been expunged. He is not a public menace, he has been enrolled at this school for over ten months, maintaining a C+ average and regularly answering the call for public service-- a service which is, I remind you, unrenumerated and thankless. He's kept his nose clean, his veins clean, he's come in for regular counseling, and, it may interest you, Detective," Conrads pointed the pencil's sharp end at the man's badge, giving vent to his dislike, "It may interest you to know that he's a decorated hero of the Rikti invasion and been honored by the Rotary Club, the Lion's Club, and the local Chamber of Commerce."
"He's our only link to Bonespur," said Pleasaunce. "He's the only surviving member of the Freakshow she's ever worked on. If we could get you to agree to hypnosis, perhaps counselling under the guidance of ... I don't know, sodium pentathol, special drugs, get him to tell the truth about what happened there--"
Conrads interrupted him by snapping the pencil in half. "You see him as Dr1v35shaft, a member of the Freakshow, a bad apple. You have no moral compunction about using him, using him up. The problem with you, Detective, is you see him as worthless, not worth reclaiming into society. I see something very different.
"I see Billy McGuffin. I see him as a boy, a boy caught between the hammer of the PPD and the anvil of the Freakshow, bent out of shape. But now he has the chance to grow up into a man, a real man, and a good one. And I think he sees it too. He's just now beginning to see it. Detective, isn't it for the sake of good, decent people that you try to stop the Freakshow and the Vazhilok in the first place? Billy isn't your enemy here. He's one of the victims."
"I can get a warrant for his therapy sessions, you know. Or I can contact DCFS and have him removed from his home and placed in state care."
Conrads let out a heavy sigh. "You're like a dog with a bone, you and Billy McGuffin. See reason. Leave him be." Conrads tossed the broken pencil into the wastebasket and stood up, offering his hand for the detective to shake. "Forgive me for saying this, Detective, but you are the one who made the first threat--St. Joseph's School has a long and very successful history of dealing with ill-intentioned busybodies, whether or not they wear a badge. You know your way out."
"Metal is Better than Meat."
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Dr1v35haft
- Posts: 162
- Joined: Thu Mar 29, 2007 7:15 pm
Re: Torquemada's Rave
"Three more dead," said Pleasaunce. "Three."
"I don't wanna see that shit," said Billy, jutting his chin out at the everpresent manilla folder. He was sure it held horrors inside.
The detective had cornered him as he was filing his police report about an attempted arson in Steel Canyon. He'd been avoiding everything to do with Steel Canyon and Pleasaunce's home turf for months now. But when he was on the tram, and the call went out, he'd gone. Anything for a distraction. Everyone treating him like he was made of glass and might shatter in their grip. He still stank of smoke. They hadn't been able to save the building or even collar any but two of the perps.
"Same M.O.," said Pleasaunce, flopping the folder up and down. The slick edge of photographic paper peeped out of the open edge, threatening to spill out. "Appendages cut out, victims dosed on Excelsior and all bearing the same cybernetic overlay injection pattern. Bonespur's signature."
"I helped you out with that months ago. You're the one who missed the collar. Not me. I did my part. Now I don't owe you jack."
"I know you still have contacts among the Freakshow, Billy--"
"Get bent."
"You can change your hair and wear a nice suit but it doesn't change the fact that you're a Freak and you'll always be a Freak. And I have photographic evidence of you swilling beer with them in Perez Park." Pleasaunce teased out a set of grainy pictures. Scowling with impatience, Billy looked. It was him, though. Sure enough. It was the anti-prom party Mimi and the Tarts had thrown what seemed like a lifetime ago. There he was. Filling a cup from the keg for a fellow Freak. A few Skulls stood in the background.
"Check the datestamp, Billy. You were still on probation then, right? No drinking or fraternization with the Freakshow permitted. This kind of evidence could get your case reopened. I could get you summoned as a witness to every kangaroo court sending up a Freaks member."
"Fuck you, pig," Billy said dully, emotion bled out of his voice.
"By the way, I'd like to offer you my condolences on the loss of your father."
In one motion, Billy sent the chair moving forward and his arm shot out, like a cannonball, over the desk, his fist slamming with a wet sloppy sound into Pleasaunce's chin.
Billy froze.
Pleasaunce touched his face gingerly, then spat out a glop of blood and one tooth onto the desk. He looked at the mess, looked at Billy, and smiled. He smiled.
"You assaulted a police officer. This is my lucky day." He stood up, reached for the rings of the cuffs on his belt. "Put your hands behind your back."
Billy stood up. Everything was hinky, wobbly around the edges. His joints felt loose, head floaty. The cuffs came slapping down around his wrists. He was in a holding cell ten minutes later.
And he'd thought of running. Who wouldn't? But run where? To his home in Talos? That wasn't home any more. To his father? Dad was dead.
Maybe they'd send him back to the Zig. That would be coming full circle. Maybe that's what was meant to happen. But as his head cleared, he realized that that wasn't the next step. Tomorrow, maybe the next day, Pleasaunce would be back. He'd be back to make Billy a better offer.
"Oh, Christ," he moaned to the piss-stinking sodium darkness. "Christ. Christ. Christ."
"I don't wanna see that shit," said Billy, jutting his chin out at the everpresent manilla folder. He was sure it held horrors inside.
The detective had cornered him as he was filing his police report about an attempted arson in Steel Canyon. He'd been avoiding everything to do with Steel Canyon and Pleasaunce's home turf for months now. But when he was on the tram, and the call went out, he'd gone. Anything for a distraction. Everyone treating him like he was made of glass and might shatter in their grip. He still stank of smoke. They hadn't been able to save the building or even collar any but two of the perps.
"Same M.O.," said Pleasaunce, flopping the folder up and down. The slick edge of photographic paper peeped out of the open edge, threatening to spill out. "Appendages cut out, victims dosed on Excelsior and all bearing the same cybernetic overlay injection pattern. Bonespur's signature."
"I helped you out with that months ago. You're the one who missed the collar. Not me. I did my part. Now I don't owe you jack."
"I know you still have contacts among the Freakshow, Billy--"
"Get bent."
"You can change your hair and wear a nice suit but it doesn't change the fact that you're a Freak and you'll always be a Freak. And I have photographic evidence of you swilling beer with them in Perez Park." Pleasaunce teased out a set of grainy pictures. Scowling with impatience, Billy looked. It was him, though. Sure enough. It was the anti-prom party Mimi and the Tarts had thrown what seemed like a lifetime ago. There he was. Filling a cup from the keg for a fellow Freak. A few Skulls stood in the background.
"Check the datestamp, Billy. You were still on probation then, right? No drinking or fraternization with the Freakshow permitted. This kind of evidence could get your case reopened. I could get you summoned as a witness to every kangaroo court sending up a Freaks member."
"Fuck you, pig," Billy said dully, emotion bled out of his voice.
"By the way, I'd like to offer you my condolences on the loss of your father."
In one motion, Billy sent the chair moving forward and his arm shot out, like a cannonball, over the desk, his fist slamming with a wet sloppy sound into Pleasaunce's chin.
Billy froze.
Pleasaunce touched his face gingerly, then spat out a glop of blood and one tooth onto the desk. He looked at the mess, looked at Billy, and smiled. He smiled.
"You assaulted a police officer. This is my lucky day." He stood up, reached for the rings of the cuffs on his belt. "Put your hands behind your back."
Billy stood up. Everything was hinky, wobbly around the edges. His joints felt loose, head floaty. The cuffs came slapping down around his wrists. He was in a holding cell ten minutes later.
And he'd thought of running. Who wouldn't? But run where? To his home in Talos? That wasn't home any more. To his father? Dad was dead.
Maybe they'd send him back to the Zig. That would be coming full circle. Maybe that's what was meant to happen. But as his head cleared, he realized that that wasn't the next step. Tomorrow, maybe the next day, Pleasaunce would be back. He'd be back to make Billy a better offer.
"Oh, Christ," he moaned to the piss-stinking sodium darkness. "Christ. Christ. Christ."
"Metal is Better than Meat."
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Dr1v35haft
- Posts: 162
- Joined: Thu Mar 29, 2007 7:15 pm
Re: Torquemada's Rave
It's a perfect engine of death. A single cutting blade, steel skeleton with titanium shell, for quickness, copper electroplating in a scrimshaw over the joints. I pull it off the clamps and break it down, fit it back together in ten minutes time. The curving edge of the blade is so sharp it could slice through wood like it were paper. Thin wood, anyway.
It's not for me, though. I bring it over to Buzzs4w, sitting in a folding chair and drinking my dad's beer like the king of the castle. He stands up and two of his men help him buckle it in place. This is his wise hand arm, intact. The other arm ends below the elbow in a fistful of sharp spikes. We help him into this thing, adjusting the padding against the inset points, ratcheting back the straps that will hold it to his shoulder. A whirling wheel of death. We all give him a wide berth as he swings the blade back and forth, humming through the air as it moves. The balance is perfect. He's strong, very strong, but he needs the offset stooping arch to get beneath the weight of his blade to swing it. He nods, jerks his fist-which-is-not-a-fist forward at me. "The spinners," he says. "You show me."
I show him. On the downswing of his arm, or when it rests in prone position, pulling him downward, he can release a round of one heavy spring-loaded sawblade per thirty seconds, using a series of pressures from the tendons of his forearms. I stand back and he lets one out, which goes singing out into the dusty air of McGuffin's garage and beds itself an inch deep into one of the roof beams.
"It's sweet," says Buzzs4w. "You do good work. You do more like this, we pay you good. Maybe jump you in our gang." He laughs a little, and his crew laughs with them. I twist my face up. Maybe it's a smile. It really doesn't matter. You have to be careful not to laugh in front of these guys. If you're in, you're in, if you're out, you're out, and God help you if you don't know the damn difference.
"I got men who could use some good knifework done," Buzzs4w says. "Freelance. You wilin?" Their warpaint, their lacquered hair, the bright clothes, it glitters, like, in the dimness. Glows like the promise of things worthwhile. A worm of nostalgia turns in my gut. I swallow.
"Is the money good?" I ask. "That's all I need to know. Fifty for a sharpen. One-fifty for a breakdown and fitting. Custom orders, custom invoice. You send your men to me. I'll take good care of them."
He gives me a sharp nod, and one of his crew tosses over a folded wad of bills. I catch it in midair and count it, like a bitch. It's all there. A cool two hundred, for the work I've done on his sword. A tip of an extra fifty bucks. There are stains on some of the bills, stains of old blood. I tuck it in my breast pocket and nod at him.
"Be expecting us," says Buzzs4w. He doesn't unstrap, just gets in the back of the van the running crew came in. They rev up and speed out as soon as I've got the bay door open wide enough.
This is what it's come to. I'm working for the Freakshow.
It's not for me, though. I bring it over to Buzzs4w, sitting in a folding chair and drinking my dad's beer like the king of the castle. He stands up and two of his men help him buckle it in place. This is his wise hand arm, intact. The other arm ends below the elbow in a fistful of sharp spikes. We help him into this thing, adjusting the padding against the inset points, ratcheting back the straps that will hold it to his shoulder. A whirling wheel of death. We all give him a wide berth as he swings the blade back and forth, humming through the air as it moves. The balance is perfect. He's strong, very strong, but he needs the offset stooping arch to get beneath the weight of his blade to swing it. He nods, jerks his fist-which-is-not-a-fist forward at me. "The spinners," he says. "You show me."
I show him. On the downswing of his arm, or when it rests in prone position, pulling him downward, he can release a round of one heavy spring-loaded sawblade per thirty seconds, using a series of pressures from the tendons of his forearms. I stand back and he lets one out, which goes singing out into the dusty air of McGuffin's garage and beds itself an inch deep into one of the roof beams.
"It's sweet," says Buzzs4w. "You do good work. You do more like this, we pay you good. Maybe jump you in our gang." He laughs a little, and his crew laughs with them. I twist my face up. Maybe it's a smile. It really doesn't matter. You have to be careful not to laugh in front of these guys. If you're in, you're in, if you're out, you're out, and God help you if you don't know the damn difference.
"I got men who could use some good knifework done," Buzzs4w says. "Freelance. You wilin?" Their warpaint, their lacquered hair, the bright clothes, it glitters, like, in the dimness. Glows like the promise of things worthwhile. A worm of nostalgia turns in my gut. I swallow.
"Is the money good?" I ask. "That's all I need to know. Fifty for a sharpen. One-fifty for a breakdown and fitting. Custom orders, custom invoice. You send your men to me. I'll take good care of them."
He gives me a sharp nod, and one of his crew tosses over a folded wad of bills. I catch it in midair and count it, like a bitch. It's all there. A cool two hundred, for the work I've done on his sword. A tip of an extra fifty bucks. There are stains on some of the bills, stains of old blood. I tuck it in my breast pocket and nod at him.
"Be expecting us," says Buzzs4w. He doesn't unstrap, just gets in the back of the van the running crew came in. They rev up and speed out as soon as I've got the bay door open wide enough.
This is what it's come to. I'm working for the Freakshow.
"Metal is Better than Meat."