Kingsman: The Golden Circle

by Tim Waggoner

  This church had been a haven for a bigoted hate group whose members saw everyone who wasn’t white, straight, and their version of godly as less than human and worthy only of contempt. Nevertheless, they had been human beings—massively flawed, perhaps even in their own way evil—but they had done nothing to deserve the savage deaths he’d visited upon them. He felt an overwhelming sense of guilt, so strong it nearly drove him to his knees.

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly into the church’s quiet. “I… had no control.”

  He heard a woman speak. “He says he’s sorry!”

  The first victim of his madness, a blond woman in a pink blouse and gray skirt whose face he’d destroyed with a bullet, rose from the floor. She moved with awkward, stiff motions, as if her body was having trouble remembering how to function. Her face was a ravaged, crimson ruin with gobbets of shredded flesh clinging to blood-slick bone, but her eyes were intact, and they glared at him with pure hatred.

  “Well, sorry don’t feed the bulldog, mister!” she said. Her lips were gone, as were most of her front teeth, but she still somehow managed to speak clearly.

  Others began rising, one by one, moving with the same jerking motions as the faceless woman, until the entire congregation was on its feet and staring at him with absolute loathing.

  The faceless woman was incapable of smiling, but Harry heard the grim satisfaction in her voice when she next spoke.

  “Time to pay for your sins, you jew-nigger-fag lover!”

  The congregation surged forward, and before Harry could do anything, blood-smeared hands took hold of him and lifted him off his feet. He was carried to the front of the church, the rest of the worshipers parting to make way for the procession. Two of the larger men grabbed hold of his wrists and pushed him against the wall. Harry struggled to free himself, but the dead men were inhumanly strong, and there was nothing he could do. The faceless woman walked up to him, accompanied by the church’s minister, a man in a blue jacket, a mustard-yellow shirt, and a truly hideous tie. He held three long metal rods with sharpened ends and grinned with blood-coated teeth.

  “Let’s see how you look once you’ve been mounted, Butterfly Man,” the faceless woman said.

  She held out her right hand, and the minister gave her one of the rods. She gripped it tight, and then she rushed forward and thrust the pointed end through the palm of Harry’s left hand and into the wall behind. Harry screamed as blood gushed from the wound. The minister gave the woman a second rod, and she stabbed this one through his right palm. Harry screamed again. The men holding his wrists let go then, for they were no longer needed to hold him in place.

  The pain from his wounds was so intense that Harry felt on the verge of blacking out. His head drooped, but the minister handed the last rod to the faceless woman who stepped forward, took a handful of his hair, and lifted his head so he could see her.

  “If thine eye offend thee…” she said, and thrust the rod into his left eye.

  He screamed one final time as darkness rushed in to claim him.

  * * *

  Harry was sleeping when Eggsy stepped into his room. Probably dreaming of butterflies, Eggsy thought. He stepped quietly to the side of the cot and gently placed a Yorkie puppy next to Harry. The puppy padded over to Harry’s face and began licking his cheek. Harry woke with a start, eyes filled with fright, as if he’d been having a bad dream. But then he realized that an adorable little dog was licking his face, and he smiled in confusion and reached out to pet the Yorkie.

  “Got you a leaving present,” Eggsy said. “He’s lovely, isn’t he?”

  Harry realized that Eggsy was in the room, and he turned to look at him, confused. He sat up, picked up the puppy, and held it in his lap. Before he could ask any questions, Eggsy raised his Kingsman pistol and aimed it at the Yorkie.

  “Think I should shoot it?” he asked.

  Harry gaped at him in horror. He snatched the puppy up in his arms, and twisted his torso away from Eggsy, attempting to shield the Yorkie with his body.

  “Are you quite mad?” he demanded. “You’ll have to shoot me! No one’s sick enough to shoot a puppy!”

  “You were, Harry,” Eggsy said. “Do you remember?”

  Harry’s expression changed. His features went slack, and a faraway look came into his eye, as if he was remembering something. Eggsy had a good idea what that something was. He imagined a younger version of Harry standing in Arthur’s office, looking at Mr Pickle, gun pointed at the animal as Arthur said, “Shoot the dog.” He pictured Harry’s hand trembling, his lips pressed into a tight line as he forced himself to squeeze the trigger…

  “It was a blank!” Harry shouted. “It was a fucking blank! I would never hurt Mr Pickle! He lived to a ripe old age. He died of pancreatitis, he…” Harry broke off, confused. He looked down at the puppy he was holding, and the Yorkie licked his nose.

  Eggsy lowered his gun, ecstatic. “Yes! Yes, Harry!”

  Harry turned away from the dog to look at him. His eye narrowed and he said, tentatively, “Eggsy?”

  The two men stared at each other for a moment, and then Eggsy couldn’t restrain himself any longer. He rushed forward and gave his mentor a hug.

  Harry pushed Eggsy away. “Eggsy! Valentine has to be stopped. He has a device…”

  “It’s okay. It’s been sorted.” Eggsy grinned. “We have a lot of catching up to do.”

  “So, Galahad… I suppose I should cancel your taxi.”

  They turned to see Merlin had walked into the room.

  Harry smiled. “Yes. If you don’t mind—Merlin.”

  Merlin grinned. “Welcome back.”

  * * *

  Elton John strolled down Poppyland’s main street, bored out of his fucking mind. He told himself to look on the bright side: at least Poppy hadn’t locked him up again. Since keeping you in a cage didn’t keep you out of trouble, you might as well have the run of the place, she had said. He didn’t quite understand why she’d been so upset that he’d accepted Angel’s offer to party a bit. After all, she was a drug lord, wasn’t she? Not exactly the type of person you’d think would object to some mild recreational use. And speaking of Angel, where was he? Elton hadn’t seen the man anywhere. He hoped he hadn’t gotten into too much trouble for trying to make his stay chez Poppy a bit more tolerable. Maybe Poppy would dock his pay or something.

  He honestly had no idea how Poppy had managed to abduct him. One moment he’d been sipping champagne at a benefit to raise funds to combat climate change—sponsored by Richmond fucking Valentine of all people—and the next thing he knew, he found himself waking on a bed inside a cell somewhere in Cambodia, the pet musician of the absolutely barmy Poppy Adams. He assumed she—or more likely, one of her people—had slipped a sedative of some kind in his drink. He sighed. Why couldn’t she have been a Keith Richards fan?

  So far, being free to wander around this lunatic asylum wasn’t much better than being a prisoner. He was still in a cage, only this one was a lot larger. He’d considered trying to escape, but where would he go? Without a guide and supplies, he’d get lost in the jungle and likely die there. He’d stopped in at the bowling alley, but he’d never been all that fond of the game, and he’d gone to the beauty parlor and attempted to have a conversation with the robot stylist who worked there, thinking that—as an artificial life form—she might have an interesting perspective on the human race. But she kept trying to get him to put his feet in a tank of Garra rufa fish. He might have gone for it if he hadn’t spotted bloodstains on the edges of the tank.

  He was considering returning to his cell and taking a nap, when he spotted the diner up ahead. Angel had told him something about a hamburger he’d eaten there. Elton couldn’t remember what precisely, as neither of them had been especially clear-headed at the time, but a burger sounded good. Maybe with a root beer float.

  When Elton reached the diner, he looked through the main window and saw that Poppy and Charlie were inside, talking. He didn’t want to
see Poppy right now, not after that humiliating duet she’d forced him to sing with her. And while Charlie was handsome enough to look at, he was—not to mince words—an utter prat. Elton decided to move along, but before he could step away from the window, he heard a sound behind him, a soft whirring, like a computer’s cooling fan. He spun around to see Poppy’s robot dogs Bennie and Jet—god, how he loathed those names—standing in the street, looking at him, their optical units glowing an angry red.

  Elton was scared shitless. He’d never seen the beasts in action, thank god, but Angel had told him about them and about what they would do if they caught any intruders. Poppy had said it was all right if he roamed the compound, but what if she hadn’t informed the dogs of that? Or worse, what if she’d planned it this way, tricked him into leaving his cell so these two metal monsters could tear him to shreds? It would be just like her.

  One of the dogs walked up to him. Elton tried to pull back, but there was nowhere to go, and he only succeeded in bumping into the window. The dog didn’t lunge at him right away. Instead, it pressed its face against his leg and held it there. Words scrolled across the creature’s optical scanner: SNIFFING… IDENTIFYING… ELTON JOHN. The dog’s scanner switched from red to green, as did its companion’s. Then the creature turned and the pair scampered off down the street, presumably in search of someone else to terrify.

  Elton let out a ragged gasp of relief. That was too fucking close!

  He nearly had a heart attack when Poppy’s voice issued from a speaker hidden somewhere on the diner’s exterior.

  “Sit!”

  The dogs obeyed her command.

  “Curiosity killed the cat, Elton! And you really don’t wanna be a cat with my dogs around. So skedaddle.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Elton said.

  “I know you are, sweetheart. Hurry up.”

  “Fucking bitch,” Elton muttered beneath his breath and started walking.

  * * *

  Eggsy, Harry, Merlin, and Jack sat at a booth in Shitkickers. Harry still wore the gray tracksuit the Statesman agents had given him, but his bearing had changed completely. He sat straight and projected a combination of relaxed calm and keen alertness. His eyepatch had gotten him some looks when they’d first entered, but people soon ignored it. They’d ordered drinks—whiskey for Jack, scotch for Merlin, and a draft beer for Eggsy. Harry had opted for a glass of water. He’d only just gotten his senses back, and he wasn’t ready to take leave of them again just yet. When Eggsy tasted his beer, he found it weak as Harry’s water. He wished they stocked bitter here.

  “Any questions, Agent Galahad?” Jack asked. The American agent had just finished filling Harry in on everything that had happened since Valentine had shot him. Jack was decked out in his usual black outfit and cowboy hat, but tonight he’d added a new accessory to his look: a leather handle he wore attached to his belt. It resembled the handle of a whip but with nothing attached to it. Eggsy had asked Jack about it, and the American agent had smiled and said simply, This old thing? I never leave home without it.

  At first, Eggsy thought Jack had been speaking to him when he’d said Agent Galahad. But of course he’d been addressing Harry. Looks like I’ll need to get myself a new code name, Eggsy thought. Maybe Lancelot, to honor Roxy.

  Harry took a small sip of his water before answering. “Well, I’m still a bit foggy, but… I do want to thank you for agreeing to hold this debrief off-property. I really needed to get out.” He smiled. “I’ve been stuck in your HQ a long time.”

  Jack acknowledged Harry’s gratitude with a nod.

  Eggsy was beyond thrilled to have Harry—the old Harry—back again. It was as if, after the deaths of Roxy, Brandon, and the others, the Grim Reaper decided he’d gone a step too far and had sent Harry back by way of apology. He only wished they could’ve found a more… genial location to hold their celebration of Harry’s return. This place was more than a bit on the rough side. The men wore John Deere caps, flannel shirts, grimy jeans, and heavy work boots. The women wore tight low-cut shirts, tighter jeans, and far too much makeup. The concrete floor was covered with stains whose chemical composition Eggsy preferred to remain ignorant of, and the phlegm-yellow paint on the walls was coming off in scale-like flakes. Numerous holes and gashes in the plaster spoke of the many fights that had broken out in here over the years, and the tables were covered with poorly spelled and mostly obscene graffiti cut into the surfaces by generations of knives. The people were loud, and there was an undercurrent of hostility in their voices, an anger simmering just beneath the surface that threatened to erupt at any moment. It all made for an atmosphere of roiling tension, and Eggsy felt constantly on guard, unable to relax and simply enjoy having his friend back. All in all, it seemed like exactly the sort of place where Jack belonged, and Eggsy wasn’t surprised the American agent had brought them here.

  Eggsy told himself to forget about where they were and focus on the reason they were here. He smiled at Harry. “If we’re done with the debrief, we’ve got some welcome-back gifts for you.” He’d brought them with him in a large shopping bag that he’d placed on the floor next to his seat. He reached into the bag now, drew out a Kingsman watch and umbrella, and handed them to Harry, who accepted them with a grateful smile. He lay the umbrella across his lap and put the watch on his left wrist.

  Eggsy then brought out a small box and slid it across the table to Harry.

  “And these,” Eggsy said. “Merlin made them just for you.”

  Harry opened the box to find a pair of AR glasses with a black left lens. He looked at them a moment, before lowering his face, slipping off his eyepatch, and donning the glasses. He then raised his head and tucked the eyepatch away in his trouser pocket.

  “Thank you, Eggsy, Merlin.” He nodded to each in turn and then smiled happily. “How do I look?”

  Before either of them could answer, a man sitting at the table next to them—a very large, very drunk man—spoke.

  “Like a faggot looking for an eye-fucking,” he growled. “Why don’t you get out of our bar before I take out your other one?” His head was shaved, and he had a brown mustache and goatee with hints of gray in the latter. He wore jeans and a black T-shirt that had an image of a coiled rattlesnake on the chest above the words DON’T TREAD ON ME, MOTHERFUCKER!

  Three other men sat at the table with him, all of a type: beards, tats, with mean eyes and meaner mouths. They laughed at their friend’s words, but Rattlesnake didn’t join in. Instead he kept his hate-filled gaze fixed on Harry.

  Jack scowled, and when he spoke, his voice was tight with anger. “That how you welcome a visitor from out of town, Moonshine? I suggest you apologize. Right now.”

  “Yeah,” Eggsy said, turning to face the man. “Don’t fuck with the Brits. Ever hear about what happened to all them rednecks at that church down the road?”

  Rattlesnake glared at him. “Aw, suck my southern dick, bitch!”

  The man’s friends weren’t laughing any longer. Now the four rednecks were glaring at the four of them, and Eggsy knew it was only a matter of seconds before a fight broke out.

  “I don’t think that will be necessary,” Harry said.

  He picked up his umbrella and stood, winking at Eggsy before turning to face the table of rednecks.

  “I think discretion is the better part of valor,” he said evenly. “Good day, gentlemen.”

  The men guffawed, and Rattlesnake said, “Yeah, you git, boy!”

  Harry walked to the door and began locking it. The rest of the bar had gone quiet and everyone was watching.

  “Manners maketh man,” Harry said slowly. “Do you know what that means?” The men said nothing, and Harry turned and gave them a small smile. “Then let me teach you a lesson.”

  Jack started to rise from the table, but Eggsy put a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

  “It’s okay,” he said, settling back to enjoy the show. “Just watch.”

  Jack looked doubtful, but he sat
. Merlin looked concerned as well, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t look at the rednecks, either. Instead, he watched Harry, eyes narrowed, observing him intensely.

  Harry flipped his umbrella into the air, caught it by the end, and swept the handle toward Eggsy’s beer mug. He caught hold of it, and in a single smooth motion, hurled it at Rattlesnake. Eggsy expected the mug to strike the loudmouthed bastard on the forehead, but instead it sailed past him, missing him by almost a foot. The mug kept going until Jack caught it.

  The four rednecks stared at the mug in Jack’s hand, as if they weren’t sure what had just happened.

  Harry stood there, confused, his eye darting back and forth as if he were looking at something that wasn’t there. Butterflies? Eggsy wondered.

  “Are we going to stand around all day?” Harry said, his eye still tracking the invisible somethings. “Or are we going to—”

  The rednecks bellowed in rage, flew out of their seats, and attacked Harry. They started swinging punches, and while Harry managed to block some of the blows with his umbrella, more than a few got past his defenses. At one point, Harry opened his umbrella and held it out before him, but before he could activate any of its weapons, one of the rednecks punched him through the umbrella’s fabric. Within seconds, Harry was down on the floor, dazed.

  “Well, pick him up,” Jack said.

  Eggsy and Merlin quickly rose from the booth to tend to their friend, and Jack stood and walked over to the rednecks. Eggsy and Merlin helped Harry back to the booth while Jack regarded the four men who’d attacked Harry.

  “That’s not what I call a Kentucky welcome,” Jack said, eyes narrowed and voice tight. “‘Manners maketh man.’ Let me translate that for you.”

  Jack pulled the leather handle from his belt and thumbed a switch on the side. A length of rope emerged from the handle, the tip coiling around and tying itself into a lasso. He swung the rope, caught hold of a chair, and flung it into one of the rednecks. The chair broke apart with a crack of splintering wood, and the man went down. Jack retracted the lasso into the handle, and then extended it toward a second man. The rope encircled him, and Jack spun him toward the bar. The man’s head collided with the bar with a sickening thump, and he collapsed to the floor.