“The police of the city,” Valia answered.
“Sure. They’ll set all the rules they have to follow and their practices. Work quite closely together.”
“Do you know—” MTB started to say and he was pointing at me, but I interrupted him.
“Eh. Eh. It was nice of you to drop by. We’ll definitely consider you,” I said.
“Thank you for your time!” He replied, and showed himself out. “Have a fantastic day!”
“He’s probably the most qualified one,” I said, when he had left.
CHAPTER 17
Scree! Scree! Scree!
Even over the music the scraping could be heard. I walked into the club dragging my “portable” chair. It was about a thousand pounds. I attached the chains from my arms and scooted along.
MTB was with me and he peered around the club like he was checking for trouble—which he probably was.
“Relax,” I said, “we’re on our night off.”
“Do we get nights off?” he asked.
I pushed my chair by a table and realized I had completely destroyed the club’s cheap panel flooring.
“Whoops.”
A server came over, looking concerned, which was an appropriate reaction when the Supreme and Deputy Kommilaire step into your place of business.
“Is there something wrong, Hank?”
“Yeah, we need drinks.”
“I’ll have a Voke chilled,” MTB said.
“Give me ten of those,” I said.
The server hurried away.
“What do you think of the new guy?” MTB asked me.
“I like her. She’s smart. A little bit headstrong. Feisty.”
“Is she going to replace me?”
“What? No. She’s new. Doesn’t know the city. She’s not even a full Kommilaire yet.”
“She isn’t? What’s the next step?”
“I don’t know. We agree. Appoint her. Give her a badge.”
“We’ve never done that before. I just assumed everyone was a full Kommilaire. Is she a half-Kommilaire or something?”
“I guess we should have talked about this. I don’t know. We’ll figure it out tomorrow.”
There weren’t a lot of people in the club, but those that were here avoided us. It was obvious we were killing their buzzes. But so what? We deserved a break.
“I think Valia can bring a lot to the table,” I said.
“How? She’s tiny. Not great with a gun. Bad in a fight. Talks too much.”
“We’re not the Navy, MTB. We got to stop pretending we are. The Navy is gone. We need a softer handle on things.”
“You think the Totki will respond to soft, Boss?”
“Remember a few weeks ago we saw that woman in her kitchen.”
“No.”
“Her husband had just been stabbed.”
“Lot of those.”
“On 80-and-Three Street. End of the day,” I prodded.
“Oh. What about her?”
“So I was the first one in the kitchen, checking to see if it was safe, and what does she do?”
“Nothing.”
“No, she saw me come in and I’m standing there all,” and I motioned up and down my bloated body, “and what does this lady do seeing me?”
“Screams.”
“Then you go in. What does she do?”
“Screams.”
“What if Valia had gone in? Little Valia. Red hair and freckles.”
“That’s discrimination.”
“Not if it’s good. We can’t push this city around anymore. It worked for a while but it’s wised up to how strong it really is. We can’t be a bunch of male chauvinists like we own the place,” I said.
“We’re sitting in a strip club, Boss.”
I looked around at all the working men and women dancing.
“Exactly. I’m old. Too old to change. I have a panic attack if someone offers me a brand of beer I’ve never tried. But I can get this city ready for when I’m dead and gone.”
Our drinks came and I slammed mine. The alcohol would do little to me—it wasn’t Delovoa’s super toxins. But I liked the ritual.
“You think we’ll survive the election?” MTB asked.
“This is a good city,” I said, and MTB gave me a skeptical look. “We only see the worst of it. But this city is full of normal people who eat breakfast and do their nails pretty and buy black socks. Not everything is a murder-robbery. Bah, no more work talk.”
A dancer approached MTB. I saw her glance briefly at me from the corner of her eye, but otherwise she completely avoided me. It wasn’t just that I was hideous. It wasn’t just that I was the Supreme Kommilaire. It wasn’t just that people didn’t like stripping for folk legends. It was also that everyone knew how clumsy and heavy I was and she wasn’t going to jeopardize her career by getting her hip shattered dancing for me.
Here were women whose job it was to pretend they were attracted to men and they still weren’t attracted to me. I didn’t blame them or feel sorry for myself. It made sense and I understood it.
You can only feel sorry for yourself if you don’t understand the problem or if you understand and don’t do anything about it—and in the second case, you’re just whining.
“Fifty thumbs if you give him a good dance,” I told the woman.
MTB seemed like he wanted to arrest her. Arrest everyone here. But he put up with it.
“So should I be looking to recruit more Valias?” he asked.
“If they’re qualified, sure. You got to admit, we’re an ugly bunch of people. It doesn’t hurt having someone pretty around, even if she can’t punch someone to death.”
I stared off wistfully into the club.
“Besides, Valia reminds me of someone I used to know a long time ago. Before she locked herself in her tower.”
CHAPTER 18
“This is going to end badly,” I said.
A few weeks later Hobardi and his multi-colored, many-robed disciples were setting up tables and stalls in a western part of Belvaille. It was a horrendously poor area, rivalling Deadsouth for poverty.
But while Deadsouth was junkies and drunkards, this area was where the feral kids lived. Though they weren’t all technically kids.
It was a hardscrabble existence out here in the best of times—and there were no best of times.
It was filthy. No one came here except feral kids. They lived off our trash, so you can imagine that their trash, which they left everywhere, was pretty damn trashy. You couldn’t even see the street.
But the Sublime Order of Transcendence cleared out a space for their little festival. They all looked so happy and purposeful as they prepared.
The Order had finally rescinded the Brotherhood Commandment. Since Hobardi stole some of my Kommilaire he probably figured he better not push his luck. As repayment, I agreed to lend my Stair Boys as security for this event. The Order had their own special forces on the roofs of nearby buildings. The ones up there did not look as transcendent as their counterparts on the ground.
Hobardi and his Order served food, offered counselling, provided some small medical services, and gave a bit of entertainment to keep the ferals occupied.
Of course the real reason for all this was public relations.
Hobardi was still angling for the Governor’s role and everyone on the station was concerned about the feral kid problem. Even the residents of Deadsouth, when they came out of their drunken stupors, cursed the wretched children.
Hobardi had about thirty members of his Order with him. His mutant wasn’t here. Maybe he was finally taking a shower. A half-dozen Order security guards and my twenty Kommilaire were providing protection.
There were some reporters present. Hobardi wouldn’t have bothered otherwise. He had obviously invited them. Rendrae was not here. That either meant he felt it was too dangerous, thought it wasn’t news, or thought it was staged news. In any case, lack of Rendrae or one of his employees was very telling.
&nb
sp; A female reporter came up to me. She held her clipboard to her chest like it would shield her from everything.
“Is it safe here?” she asked me.
“Does it look safe?”
Several dull hours passed until some feral children finally eased out into the open of the festival. Probably every instinct they had told them to avoid this area, which was clean, surrounded by Kommilaire, and had weirdos in bright robes.
Hell, I’d avoid it if I could.
Some while later a confident Hobardi approached me, marveling at his own handiwork.
“You didn’t think we could do it, did you, Hank?”
“No, I didn’t.”
I had to give the Order credit. The feral kids were eating and at least pretending to listen to the various lectures and speeches. The puppet show was by far the most popular attraction, however.
“That’s your problem, Hank, you lack a basic understanding of people. They’re simple creatures. Just meet their needs and they will be placated. If they don’t have needs, create some.”
“And what are your needs, Hobardi?”
Before he could answer, we heard a shrill screaming and a swarm of feral kids descended. There must have been hundreds of them!
They galloped over and under and through each other like rivulets in a stream—a dirty brown, stinking stream that was currently shrieking at the top of its lungs.
The tables were overturned. The displays ripped apart. Soon, we couldn’t even see the festival as it was overcome by the mass of feral kids.
The Order manning the booths got a few steps before they too were swamped.
Hobardi turned to me and grabbed hold of my jacket. Not in a pleading manner, but as if he were commanding me.
“Do something!”
“No.”
“Look at them!” He screamed.
“You look at them. You came here. You brought your people into this mess.”
“You’re the Kommilaire.”
“And you’re the Sublime Order of Transcendence. Go bless them or something.”
Hobardi looked up to his soldiers on the roofs and he started to raise his arm. I stopped him.
“Why did you even bother putting out food if you were just going to gun down some feral kids? You’re running for office, right? Shooting them isn’t going to make you popular.”
“Why are you all even here? You said you would protect us.” he yelled.
“I said I would protect you. And so far it’s working, isn’t it?”
Hobardi watched in horror as the feral kids tore through his festival.
The ferals were awful coordinated, in my opinion. The first, tentative ones who had participated reservedly were more what I expected.
Not this.
They were communicating with each other in their half-Colmarian street tongue.
“That one,” I said, turning to my Kommilaire. “Capture him and bring him here.”
“Capture?” Valia asked, frightened. “There’s a lot of them, Boss.”
MTB smacked her.
“They’re ferals. The problem won’t be fighting them, it will be chasing them. Come on!”
The Kommilaire took off at a dash and it was like throwing a bucket of sobriety at the denizens of Deadsouth: they scattered in a panic.
“Why didn’t you do that to start with?” Hobardi asked.
I didn’t answer. But the reason was probably because I wanted him to know what power we truly possessed, versus the power he only thought he had. And I was also still mad about him poaching some of my men.
It was twenty minutes later but my Kommilaire came back with a handcuffed and exhausted feral kid.
“Put him in a car,” I said.
Hobardi was off checking on his injured Order members.
“What do we do with the kid, Boss?” MTB asked.
“Starve him for a day then Valia comes at him all nice and motherly, and gives him some food. This,” I said, pointing to the ruined festival, “wasn’t feral kid behavior.”
“She’s not very motherly,” MTB stated.
“I think I should be the cool older sister,” Valia volunteered.
“When I ask for your opinion it will sound like this: ‘hey new guy, what is your opinion?’ But I didn’t say that. Better make it two days.”
“Boss, you really want us to starve that child for two days?” Valia questioned.
I snickered.
“Tell you what, why don’t you give him a knife, we can all turn our backs, and we’ll see how childlike he is. But I’ll bet you five boogleberries you’ll be missing your nose and ears before you get a chance to tell him about all the great opportunities he has in life.”
http://www.belvaille.com/hlh3/feralkids.gif
CHAPTER 19
As I stood outside of the ritzy building watching valets parking cars, I really didn’t feel like being here.
Not just for the event, which I was sure would be teeth-achingly dull, but because I felt another heart attack coming and I didn’t want to die surrounded by the pompous privileged.
“Supreme Kommilaire, so glad you could come!” A bejeweled woman cooed to me.
I was being presented with an award. I didn’t know for what and I didn’t know from whom.
They paraded me around at gala parties like this between three and six times a year. I was invited to more, but I attended as few as possible.
They were all the same, a lot of unbelievably wealthy people showing off to each other. While they did that, I begged for money.
The Kommilaire were not funded by the city government since there wasn’t much of a city government. We relied on these wealthy patrons for all our expenses. I also shook down crime bosses for money, offering them some protection or reduced sentences or something.
The crime bosses were a lot easier to deal with. You gave this, you got that. Here, no one said anything so bluntly. They were buying prestige and recognition.
Believe it or not, these people looked up to me.
“Hank, may I call you ‘Hank,’ you are from one of the first families, right?” a man wearing a three-foot-tall hat asked me.
His wife, wearing an inverted, cone-shaped dress tsked him.
“Don’t be stupid, Uor, he is the first family. Please forgive his ignorance. It runs on his father’s side,” she said.
These people, for whatever silly reason, placed huge importance on how long ago you came to Belvaille or how far back you could trace your lineage. That was of course moronic, since all those original settlers were criminals—or at least all the ones who stayed and had offspring.
So yeah, I was not only one of the first members of Belvaille still alive, but I was the Supreme Kommilaire, who had a lot of folk tales said about him across the galaxy.
Getting me to attend your party was a big deal in some social circles.
As I stood there in my red Kommilaire’s uniform, my tiny cap on my huge skull, I couldn’t wait for this to be over.
“Quite a turnout,” Jorn-dole said.
It was the handsome man I had met at the Athletic Gentleman’s club.
“Sure is.”
“Is this your kind of event now? It seems a bit…dull for you.”
I looked around to see if anyone would overhear.
“It makes dull look like a heart attack,” I said from experience. “But I have to do it now and then.”
“Could you imagine your life ever coming to this—excuse me if I’m being too familiar.”
“It’s fine. No, I never would have guessed all this. But even if I had guessed it, I’d still have to do it.”
“That’s a point.”
I saw a discreet queue forming at the periphery of our conversation.
“Sorry, I’ve got paying customers.”
“Of course. Hope you’re feeling better.”
He walked off and I sucked in some air and tried to relax. If it was obvious from looking at me that I didn’t feel well then that couldn’t be good.
“Supreme Kommilaire, I heard there was a disturbance in the western part of the city a few days ago, something with the feral kids,” an elderly man said.
“Those poor, poor children. They need a good home is all,” his elderly wife added.
“They’re not all children. But the Kommilaire Ministry of Information has all the details if you wish to inquire,” I said, referencing the make-believe department.
“Oh, thank you. We all believe you’re doing a wonderful job!”
After some time I was given a statuette from the League of Something Blah of Greater Blah Blah.
The statue was fine crystal with dainty little points and etchings and in my concern not to crush it, I immediately dropped it and it shattered.
No one blamed me of course. But recriminations blew through the crowd like a bitchy little wildfire.
The guests blamed the host who blamed the sculptor who blamed another member for providing substandard materials. It was pointed out the previous award I had been given was made out of iron so as to avoid this same problem.
It was just another chance for them to piss on each other. These people were so catty.
I helped myself to some fancy appetizers.
Part of the entertainment value I provided these people was to show off my eating habits. They got a perverse sense of wonder or shock watching me consume a hundred pounds of extraordinarily expensive food which I couldn’t taste.
Half the party was literally standing on the opposite side of the refreshments table gawking at me as I shoveled food.
Whatever. I’d gotten enough funding for the Kommilaire, and some extra, so we could hopefully hire more people.
As I was eating, the host and hostess approached.
“We wanted to thank you again for coming to our home, Hank, and hope you enjoyed yourself,” the host said.
I smiled and kept eating.
“We were wondering what you thought of the election,” the hostess added.
I grumbled but said nothing.
“We’re thinking of voting Garm’s ticket,” the host stated calmly.
I stopped.
“What?” I asked. About two pounds of food falling from my mouth.
“Yes. Her ticket. What is your opinion?” the hostess asked.
Hard Luck Hank: Prince of Suck Page 10