by Chris Sapp
Overdose.
But why would the overdose of some porn star be breaking news?
"Oh my God!" gasped someone in the crowd, "That's Phaedra!"
Izabel's mind whirled. Phaedra? Phaedra White? No, it couldn't be. But it was.
"Damn it is her,” cried another patron.
“Shit,” said a third.
They all saw the same identifying marks that Izabel did. The rose tattoo on the dead elf's shoulder. The barb wire on her neck. Hot tears blurred Izabel's vision. She rubbed her eyes, hoping the image of Phaedra's ruined body would disappear by the time she opened them again. It didn't. Her chest felt tight as if a Giant was standing on it.
A rail thin figure in black leather pants sat down behind Phaedra's body.
"It's Phaelan!" cried someone sitting at the bar.
"Shut up!" Scolded a patron in the front row.
Phaelan Lennox was shirtless but holding a guitar. He brushed a strand of hair behind his pointed ear and looked at the camera. His eyes were red-rimmed and puffy.
"Hello universe,” he croaked. "As you can see my beloved Phaedra is gone." He stroked Phaedra’s face with a trembling hand. "I'll be joining her soon."
"What did he say?"
"Shut the fuck up!"
Izabel couldn't hear Phaelan very well either. He was practically whispering.
"But before I go," Phaelan continued, "I thought I might play you a song." His hands fell into position on his guitar and he began to play. Izabel knew the song after the first few cords. It was Tender Years, Phaelan and Phaedra's most popular duet. Synchronized harmonies were one of their signature trademarks. Hearing the song without Phaedra's sultry voice was like watching a bird with one wing trying to fly.
Izabel looked around the bar expecting to see laughter. This had to be someone's twisted idea of a joke. It couldn't be real. Phaedra couldn't be gone. She just couldn't. But no one was laughing. In fact they were crying. Even Spanky was crying. Hard. Covering his mouth with his hand, hard.
Izabel turned back to the screen to see that Phaelan was crying too. But his fingers never stopped playing. A fresh wave of tears spilled down Izabel's cheeks. She didn't bother wiping them away this time. Phaedra's overdose was real and so was the grief.
Phaelan finished playing and then reached for something off camera. When his hand came back into view it was holding a revolver. He pressed the barrel under his chin and looked dead into the camera. The room began to spin before Izabel's eyes.
“Goodbye,” Phaelan said, tears streaming down his face. A bright flash accompanied by a loud crack filled the screen. The last thought that passed through Izabel's mind as the floor rushed up at her was, No Daddy! Don't!
ROE
“DRISKELL…DRISKELL!”
The Fenixborn’s name proceeded him through the crowded pool hall like ripples proceeding chum in shark infested waters. The guttural growls emitted from the dark corners and the glowing orbs watching him through the hazy smoke were a constant reminder to never let his guard down or he might not get off planet Tres Luna alive. The name of the joint was Eclipse and the clientele was strictly werewolf. Unfortunately werewolves weren't known for their hygiene. Passing one on the street was enough to render a faery unconscious. Pack thirty of them into twelve hundred poorly ventilated square feet and it would sour even an ogre's stomach. Which was no easy feat, considering an ogre’s favorite meal was curdled milk and raw rib-eye smothered with maggots. Roe suppressed the bile rising in his gorge and continued deeper into the wolves' den. The wood floors creaked beneath his taloned feet with each step. He was the very definition of an outsider, a fact hammered home by his bright red feathers and shiny yellow beak.
A pair of Bloodhowls, recognizable by their brown fur and fiery red eyes, bared their fangs at him as he passed. The tapered rods gripped in their paws looked more like spears, than cue sticks. But his intrusion hadn’t bothered everyone, apparently. There was a Quicksilver trying to make a shot by hanging from the ceiling above his table. His green eyes were narrowed and his muscles were taut with concentration under his silver fur. He sank the 4 ball as only a werewolf or someone chewing "Zero-g” could. Even the thick cloud of smoke and the dim lighting couldn't hide the white fur and cold blue eyes of the Frostfangs. It must've been a hell of a tournament for them to endure the heat by venturing off their home planet of Arktikus. He reached the center of the room and looked around.
"Roe Driskell, bounty hunter,” he said, holding the badge around his neck, up for all to see.
"Fuck you, Fenixbaby!" Cursed some cowardly cur hiding amongst the crowd. Fenixbaby? How original, thought Roe. It was only the most common insult hurled at people addicted to the healing cigarettes known as Fenix Tails. Like other Fenixborns, Roe's immune system was so proficient that not only was he born healthy, he would die healthy. He didn’t catch diseases. He’d never had the flu, or a cold. Hell, he’d never even had a runny nose.
"I'm looking for a Shadowpaw named Primo Escobar,” Roe told them. "This is your one and only chance to turn yourself in." Sometimes he got lucky and just hearing their own name caused his quarry to identify themselves by bolting for the door. No such luck. None of the sixteen Shadowpaws so much as flinched. Their identical black fur and yellow eyes made it nearly impossible to tell one from the other. Identifying Escobar was going to be like finding the proverbial needle in a haystack. But defining such odds was the name of the game and Roe Driskell was the best bounty hunter in the galaxy. He scanned the sixteen possibilities and tried to match it with what he knew about his stray. Escobar was twenty-six years old so too young to be graying. That eliminated three of the possibilities. The wolf didn't wear glasses or have any tattoos or piercings. That cut Roe's options down to eight. Five of the eight were gathered around a table in front of him and the other three were behind him at a different table. Escobar had to be one of those eight.
"I know you're here Escobar," he said, "and I know you've been exiled." The word exile left a palpable tension in the air and caused the werewolves to stir restlessly. Escobar had challenged Kado, the alpha male of the Shadowpaws, and lost. Being exiled from a tribe wasn't like being kicked out of a country club. Escobar lost everything the tribe provided; a job, a place to live, and most importantly access to an authorized morphagen dealer. According to the morphagen database, Escobar's dose was eleven hours and twenty-eight minutes overdo. Which meant that his EDT, or Estimated Detox Time, would begin in less than an hour. Detox meant game over. There was no going back.
Morphagens were hustled almost as much as credits and since Escobar could no longer acquire his fix through proper channels, Roe figured the wolf would try his luck with a cue stick. Roe let his eyes casually wander from one Shadowpaw to the next. It was common practice to place the game's stakes on the table where both parties could see them.
And there they were.
Six black and yellow striped pills, nearly a week's worth of drugs, trapped under a shot glass on the corner of the table. He saw all of this in the reflection of the mirror. He didn't turn around, for fear of tipping them off. His possibilities were now down to just three because the group of five weren’t playing for keeps. But which one was Escobar? There was no way to tell. He'd have to engage all three at once and hope for the best. Still using the mirror as his line of sight, Roe reached into his trench coat, past his revolver that was loaded with six silver bullets, and grabbed the spray can. He slowly raised his back foot and then he stopped.
When the Shadowpaw closest to his left leg shifted, Roe saw that a chunk of the wolf's ear was missing. He saw something else too. Claw marks. Fresh ones.
Suppressing a smile, Roe drew his spray can and pointed it at the five Shadowpaws across from him. They stiffened and bared their fangs but he had no intention of using it on them. This part was just for show. He kicked backwards as hard as he could with his left leg. He felt his talons sink into the wolf’s skin and the probable Escobar hunched over in pain. Roe spun around and thum
bed the spray can to life. A fine mist peppered the wolf's snout. He yelped and dropped to the wood floor. The smell of burnt hair and boiled flesh assaulted Roe's beak.
"Ah...fucker! You...maced me...with fucking silver."
"Serves you right for skipping obedience school," said Roe "Now touch the pad or the next dose will be twice as strong."
The Shadowpaw swiped his paw across the data pad Roe held out to him. A chime issued from the pad, announcing a positive match with one Primo Escobar. Roe smiled and holstered his silver mace.
"Primo Escobar, you're under arrest for violating the law put forth by the Morphagen Order.” Roe drew a snare pole and with a click of a button the pole extended from two feet to six. He looped it around the Shadowpaw's neck and marched towards the exit. Escobar could walk out or be dragged out, he didn't care. Apparently neither did anyone else because no one tried to stop them.
One of Tres Luna’s three moons was always full and therefore the nights were always fairly light. Roe’s cruiser was parked in an alley behind the pool hall. With the click of his remote the back panel opened from the top and became a ramp. Still holding the snare pole, he guided Escobar into the cargo hold and chained the wolf to the hull. Then Roe headed for the cockpit, passing the galley and his sleeping quarters on the way. Once he was seated, he drew a Fenix Tail and lit the end of it. Exhaling the smoke through his nostrils, Roe fired up the ship's thrusters. Seconds later, he lifted the ship straight out of the alley, kicking up a cloud of swirling dust and trash. Every window in the alley rattled. Once he was clear of the rooftops, Roe pulled back on the yoke and accelerated towards the atmosphere.
EVERYONE IN THE galaxy was born addicted to whatever form of morphagens their parents used. Ninety percent of the population were addicts. The other ten percent were slaves, which meant that they had detoxed. As a veteran bounty hunter, Roe knew that loss was the most devastating component in the detox process. Even though all detoxees ended up looking virtually the same, each race experienced it in their own unique way. The first thing faeries lost was their wings. For ogres it was their tusks. Giants their size. Centaurs became paralyzed from the waist down. So did Merfolk. But Werewolves simply molted. By the time they reached their destination, the cargo hold of his ship was covered with clumps of Escobar's hair. There was half a dozen bald patches in the wolf's coat and all four of his paws were hairless. The exposed skin was raw and pink.
"Where are we?" Escobar asked, as he descended the ramp.
"Centropolis,” Roe answered.
"Four-legger country."
Roe ignored Escobar's snide comment and dragged him across the platform and into the elevator. They rode in silence all the way to the top of Slade Tower. Two centaurs, wearing matching trench coats and toting matching shotguns, stood outside Magnus Slade’s office. Roe cursed silently when he saw them. Not because there were guards present, there was always guards present. But these two didn't belong to Magnus Slade, they belonged to Vi, his second-in-command. Which meant that she was calling the shots and they were in for a long wait.
"What's the name?" asked the elder of the two guards.
"Escobar, Primo,” answered Roe.
The guard typed the information into his data pad.
Escobar shuddered and the hair covering his tail fell off in one big clump.
"Cutting it a little close huh, Driskell? This one's nearly detoxed,” said the younger guard. His face was oily and smothered with juicy pimples. Roe wanted to smash it until there was nothing left but a bloody pus puddle. But the punk was right. If Escobar detoxed fully before Roe could turn him in then the bounty became null and void. It wasn’t hard to track a stray that was trapped inside a cocoon of their own flesh.
"Have a seat over there,” said the older guard, pointing to a row of stalls along the south wall. Roe nodded and guided Escobar over to a vacant stall lined with hay. The wolf began to shiver violently and Roe knew that it wasn't the cold air spewing out of the vents or the fear of Vi’s sentence that was causing it. Escobar's bones were trembling from the sudden on-set of rapid cell de-construction. Another half-hour and he'd be past the point of no return.
"Lay down. It'll ease some of the pain."
After two or three minutes of defiance, Escobar took his suggestion.
"I don't wanna sell him!" protested a young mare occupying the stall to Roe's right.
"We ain't got no choice, Meg,” said the stallion sharing the stall with her. Their hooves were bare and so were they. Jackets, shirts, blouses, or clothes of any kind signified wealth. The man's chest was hairy too, which meant they lived in poverty. Even middle-class males shaved their chest. The woman's hair was in a lopsided ponytail that was ratty and knotted.
"But what if this is the only one we ever have?" Meg asked.
"Do you know how many morphagens a newborn will fetch?"
“No…and I don’t care.”
“Well, you should,” he scolded “Cuz, it’s a whole year's worth."
It was more like eight months but Roe didn't have the heart to tell them. They'd find out soon enough from Vi.
"Is that all?" asked Meg.
“Is that all? Do you realize how much shit we could buy if we didn't have to pay for a year's worth of drugs?"
The couple's bargaining chip was asleep in the corner of the stall. It was a colt and less than a week old. Hospitals provided new parents with a week's worth of morphagens but if the couple was thinking about selling their only child then obviously they couldn't afford the second week.
"What's gonna happen to him?" asked Meg.
"It will detox and then it will be sold into slavery."
"Sanders, Ryan!" called the older guard.
"Oh, God I can't do this."
"Quit moanin' and c'mon on,” said the stallion as he gathered the sleeping colt into his arms. The mare followed reluctantly.
“Fucking Four-leggers,” Escobar scoffed. Werewolves and Merfolk were the only two species that didn’t trade their young for morphagens. Roe ignored the comment. He knew the wolf was just trying to get a reaction out of him. He lit a Fenix Tail, took a long drag, and exhaled through his beak.
OF THE NINETEEN morphagens available to the galaxy, Slade Enterprises produced seven of them; the Centaur, the Blacktail, the Bloodhowl, the Faery, the Elf, the Shadowpaw, and Fenix Tails. Which made Slade Enterprises a multi-million credit industry and as Roe dragged Escobar into Magnus’ office at top of Slade Tower, it was clear the credits hadn’t gone to waste. Roe had been inside the office hundreds of times but it never failed to impress him. The floors were shiny marble under high-arched ceilings. Relief sculptures adorned the walls. The office had a covered balcony with a view that was “hooves-down” the best on the entire planet.
Vi stood in front a large mahogany wrap-around desk, which had the Slade Enterprise logo carved into it. Unlike her employer, she was addicted to the vampyr morphagen. Her skin was pale and ice cold. She had blonde hair that cascaded down to her left shoulder but the right side of her head had been buzzed with a 1 inch clipper. Her eyes were a dark emerald. She loved knives and currently had five on her person. One strapped to each hip, one tucked into each boot, and one nestled against the small of her back.
Roe forced Escobar to his knees and withdrew his snare pole. The wolf was bald from snout to tail. His wounds from his fight with Kado all the more evident. Roe, thought he looked like a large diseased rat. Vi eyed Roe as she always did whenever the two of them crossed paths. The first time it happened Roe though she was admiring him. But he quickly realized that she was sizing him up as if they were two combatants locked in a cage. Roe honestly didn’t care how he measured up. She was a sadistic bitch that got higher off power than she did on morphagens. Once she’d had her fill, she strolled a deliberately slow circle around the wolf. An intimidation trick she learned from watching Magnus.
“Vi, ma’am,” Primo's plea was halted by Vi’s raised hand.
"It is your disrespect that has you kneeli
ng before me, Shadowpaw. Do you think it wise to continue this path by speaking first?" Vi asked.
Escobar lowered his head in shame.
“Open a window girls,” she commanded, "the stench offends my nostrils." Four faeries, each about six inches tall with sparkling wings, fluttered to the balcony and pushed the doors open.
Vi folded her arms across the swell of her bosom and stared down at Escobar. "Where'd you find him, Driskell?" Vi asked.
"A pool hall on Tres Luna, ma’am,” Roe said.
"Hustling for morphagens?" Vi smiled.
"Yes, ma’am,” Roe said.
Vi’s smile turned into a laugh. "Live off the grid. Hustle your way through life. Was that your big plan, Shadowpaw?" she mocked, nudging Escobar with her boot.
“Yes,” the wolf answered, through a snout that now resembled a pig and his eyes no longer glowed yellow. They had turned hazel with black pinpoint pupils. His ears remained pointed but they were much too big for his new head size.
"What other choice...did I have?" asked Escobar.
"Well, you could have come to us,” Vi scolded. “We could have arranged for you to become a Bloodhowl. We could’ve traded you to Lord Valdez. So you could join his Quicksilvers or even Lady Zane's Frostfangs.”
"You could do that?"
The hope Roe saw in the poor bastard's eyes made him sick to his stomach. "Sure,” Vi said. “But not anymore. Now you're only option is enslavement. I mean look at you. You're halfway there, already."
"Wait…ma’am. I'll run...I'll run the Crucible,” stammered Escobar. The Crucible was a televised sporting event where condemned citizens battled to the death inside a maze of treacherous obstacles. Winning, meant your freedom. A lot of people had come close but no one had ever won. If an addict asked to run the Crucible, the Drug lord was supposed to grant their request instead of condemning them to a lifetime of slavery.