by J A Stone
I think it may be a Ghost but truthfully, I do not know what it is. It comes and goes during the fades and equi-fades, looks like a cat and perches on my shoulder though I cannot feel it there. The creature is without mass, weightless, my hand passes through it. When I walk the streets, everyone can see it, they smile and point at the pretty woman and the beautiful black cat balancing on her shoulders like it lives for it.
And it speaks to me in the shadows of the fades; it tells me to do things, how to do things, things I have never done. First, it showed me how to get money, lots of it. I had to kill two men the very first time, but it taught me ways to fight I never dreamed of.
I call it my Problem.
When I tried desperately to explain it to my superiors, I was remanded for psychiatric evaluation. Soon after, I was expelled from service and sent home. I tried to tell my family and friends—I was forcefully committed to an asylum, screaming in chains.
It showed me how to escape—I came straight back home and killed them all, every last one of them for locking me away. Like I said, I have a bad Problem.
I saw the tall one first, in the city of Moor at the club I sometimes work at. That long, straight, white hair was unbelievable. She had a Longsword on her back and two long daggers on her hips, she was thin and pretty, not drop dead gorgeous like me though, but that crazy hair…
Of course, my thoughts followed every wide-eyed, pathetic loser there: Is she here to pick up a whore? Is she here to look at naked women? Then money—I saw the bag of emeralds she dipped in to pay for the huge tankard she ordered, facing the bar, away from the girls on stage.
She talked to Nicky, the bartender; he slipped her something, looked like red ruby shooters. She slugged her pint, slammed it down and left with enough jewels on her body to buy the club. I wanted to follow, but I did not have my Problem, it was the deep night, so I let her go unharmed.
The next fade, I was not alone as I strolled the streets of Moor, carrying a weightless Problem on my shoulder. The little one, pretty-girl—she bumped into me at the East Market Square.
She was beautiful, like an Angel, I was speechless. She spoke to it and then me.
“Oooh, you are so cute! Did you train him to ride like that?” she raised a finger to touch but it scampered effortlessly to my other side. “What’s his name?” the cute pixie’s big brown eyes gleamed, glassy and full of wonder.
“My Problem.” I replied.
“I don’t want a problem.”
“That’s his name silly,” I laughed stupid—awkward. I could see in the elf-girl’s eyes, a glint of wisdom? experience? It was the look of an old Knight, having traveled the world and fought in many wars—killed a great many people, slaughtering them, ripping their heads off and eating the…
“Are you okay Miss? Can I assist you?” the girl spoke now like that very Knight, teeming with concerned chivalry and solemn solicitude, I blushed.
“Sorry, I’m tired, need to get home,” I tried to cover up my daydreaming.
Then it whispered in my ear that she was holding several bags of gems beneath her cloak. Something changed, maybe in my eyes or my look, but the girl suddenly gave me a suspicious glare, as if she knew my very thoughts.
“You have a restful day Ma’am,” the beautiful girl said and turned. I saw a leather pouch and what looked like a flash of steel beneath the suede cape as she left me there with my Problem. It whispered in my ear to follow her.
I did, and it told me exactly when to stop, run, hide and observe. My Problem can see around corners, it perceives the world differently, almost as though it can watch from above. I followed her to a Pub, the Golden Goblet, nice place since they redid the interior and replaced the glass. I know Barnaby the Owner and his pencil dick, business—you understand. I have tried for years to get Danton; the Head of Security for the Goblet to look at me, now there is a good-looking man. He is a killer too, just like me. Someone told me he was once a cop.
I did a job for Demetrius Holon, a regular at the Goblet—took out a woman for him. Bitch was going to tell his wife about his visits to the club. I did that one alone, without my Problem, literally. I barely pulled the job off—almost got caught.
Outside the front doors, it was telling me it changed its mind, to not go in there, said I might not come out. But the girl is so small, I knew I could take her. I ignored it and it growled in frustration as I walked through the front doors, smiling at the Bouncer, Dago. It began whispering the logistics of the room, pointing out friendlies and uglies, telling me where to sit for a good, hidden view of the pretty little woman with all those jewels.
She was not alone, with her sat the tall warrior and her incredible hair. How in the Seven Hells could that bitch swing a weapon with all of that hair? It was half in her face as she drank and talked with a smile, constantly pulling the white strands behind one ear, only for them to fall again to the table with every laugh or movement.
They were having fun—good for them, really, AWESOME for them. I spit on the table and my Problem warned me to behave, to not attract attention. I was in great danger it said, something was about to happen.
Just then, Demetrius Holon passed my table with a nod and a smile, dirt bag, like I have room to speak. He moved past the two girls and on to his stool at the bar. I watched in fascination as the pixie-girl rose behind him and followed, jumping on to the stool right next to him.
No one could see, no one noticed, but my Problem showed me the outline of a gun beneath the girl’s cape, sticking in Holon’s fat ribs. They talked for a quick moment and the girl hopped down to the wooden floor, returning to her booth.
Holon was sweating, hand shaking, spilling as much booze on his chin as down his fat, disgusting throat, slamming the shot glass on the counter and tapping his fingers nervously as the Keep poured more. Whatever she said to him really shook him up.
Both women slid out of the booth and came my way. My Problem was screaming at me to be calm, to not move, to not look at them!
They passed my small table, both of them deliberately meeting my eyes with piercing, hateful glares that went straight for my empty heart and I knew right then I was marked. Then they left the Goblet, Danton, the Security-Chief following them outside.
My Problem was frantic! It told me to leave out the back, behind the bar, faster! Through the kitchen, do not stop, the delivery door and now RUN! Into the back alley and down the block—I did not look back, I knew my Problem just saved my life. I ran all the way home to gather my things.
They were cops! There for me!
My Problem never lied, it told me they would not stop and that I had minutes to evacuate—they were already coming.
I carry several weapons when I work my fade-job—stealing gems and precious jewels from the wealthy men and women I murder. My Cutlass, several throwing knives, a long Dirk for each tall boot and my favorite, Granpa’s pearl-handled Chesterborne Repeater. The long barreled pistol holds a ten-shot cartridge, gold bullets only, killed my whole fucking family with it, so it means a lot to me, it’s my baby—you understand.
I tightened my belt, sheathed my weapons and holstered the pistol.
I walked into my small den and pulled back the cloth covering to the sofa I never sit on. It’s hollow and filled with rocks from the floor to where the cushions should be, beautiful rocks from years of collecting, topaz, rubies, emeralds, sapphires, some gold, (I make my own bullets and pack my own clips), and of course, lots of diamonds.
My Problem was becoming agitated again, it spoke in hurried tones, shouting in my ear that I cannot take it all with me, but I felt the sadness in its tone, it loved the gems as much as I—it’s what we do together to feel good.
I scooped a large pouch full of the sparkling mix, enough to buy a mansion and live on a southern beach forever. There are plenty of wealthy people on the beaches.
I left the treasure uncovered, reflecting its glow on the ceiling of my little hovel and I ran as quickly as I could outside and on to the streets.
I needed a horse, a fast one and as I formed the thought, it whispered to me exactly where to find one.
Wait for it—two more seconds, motionless in the tree my arm thrust the Cutlass out to the side taking the lone rider’s head clean—just like my Problem said I would. I waited until the Black Racer mare returned to investigate her fallen Master and leaped on her back.
She reared and screamed a blood-curdling wail like a woman being stabbed. I snatched the reins close to the teeth, thrusting them down, forcing the startled beast’s nose inward and down. Without hesitation, I gave her my heels and shouted, yanking her head in the direction of the road out of town. She bolted, full of energy and raw fear, which was good because I knew I would run her until she died or I could not stand the heat on my legs any longer, whichever came…I heard more hooves.
“Really?” I looked behind to see both of the girls at full gallop and booming in fast. I drew the Chesterborne and held it low out of sight, slowing the mare enough for them to catch up. I yelled over the clacking of the hooves on stone as the three of us raced down the street.
“WHAT DO YOU WANT?”
“I’M GONNA NEED TO SEE YOUR REGISTRATION!” the small, pretty one shouted back.
What? She knew I just stole this damn thing. I shook my head no and spurned the mare faster, leaping ahead. I then turned my face to them with a smile and pulled the trigger on Granpa’s Chesterborne, firing through the back of my coat. I missed and struck the elf girl’s brown pony right in the face with a gold hollow-point slug the size of my thumb.
They tumbled over and over each other, flashes of dead horse and caped human on the brutal cobbled street.
White-hair broke the chase to help her friend.
I faced forward and left them behind in Moor. No one could survive a fall like that on a broken stone surface with a thousand pounds of pony on top of them—no one. My Problem whispered in my ear that I’d done well, very well indeed. It told me to double back in to town and kill the white-haired one—take ALL of the gems—my thoughts exactly.
I reined in the Black Racer, brought her about roughly, and there in middle of the road stood a tall man wearing long black robes with a wide hood covering his face. I did not see him three seconds ago.
“MOVE!” I yelled to no effect, so I dodged around him, jabbing my boots hard into the mare’s waistline, catapulting me back to Moor at full speed.
One block away, I cantered the mare when I saw the pile of broken pony on the road. No sign of either girl. White Hair must have taken the elf to a hospital, nearest one…
I didn’t really feel it, just a tug on my chest, and then I fell backwards, still in the saddle. I heard the crack though, the distinctive two-syllable ‘ka-cow!’ report of a high-powered rifle.
I gazed helplessly at the yellow Aleuthian sky until the bounce of the mare’s hips caused my limp body to slide to the street, drag from the stirrup for a second and drop face up—didn’t feel that either.
I was studying the pinkish clouds feeling strangely calm, when White Hair approached slowly on my left holding a long rifle, and the ponytailed elf-girl limped to my feet. The pixie was half-alive—looked half-dead to me.
My Problem was gone! I jerked my eyes side to side looking for it. When I heard a ‘click’, I gazed down.
“MY PROBLEM!” I screamed at the beautiful girl. She was leveling a strange looking gun with a flared barrel. She limped forward and extended it to just under my chin. She spoke to me.
“Now it’s my Dad’s problem—do you know who I am?”
“No, should I?”
“Not really. Tell me Barbara Hamilton, do you like diamonds?”
“More than life itself baby more than…”
“Good, here’s a fistful,” BOOM!
*
IMMEASURABLE
It is not to be fathomed
This immeasurable, anxious determination
People go to their deaths not realizing
The truth
And our death-bed seems so natural a haven
For the realization
Time is non-descript for the Gods, or God, or no god
Nothing defines definition immeasurable, destination
Inestimable
We suffer our illusions, our delusions:
This great foray of matter and time and space
Nothing is tangible
Although…
The sky folds temperament, lovely, soft
Wind cries for love if you care
It is all everywhere, this
Prescience of beauty, illusory grace love
Below and above, the rose, the cloud, the dove
And we sleep in our blind death-bed havens…oblivious
The Man with Nothing Left to Lose
WARFELL HELD FEY’S feet as she belted out her sit-ups, grunting towards the end—one hundred. She thrust her tiny body back to the wooden floor of the treehouse and breathed heavily, staring at the rafters, noticing hidden weapons. She giggled and pointed to a knife stuck into a beam.
“Thanks for taking me in while I train Danica; Silvercrest is such a beautiful city. I can see why you live here.”
“No problem boss, that was a crazy tumble with Bob…”
“Twenty six,” British confirmed. Warfell just smiled and shook her head.
“How do you like the new pony?” Danica raised her eyebrows in expectation. She really believed that if her partner would allow herself to fall in love with a pony and name it something different, it might actually survive a mission.
“Meh,” British shrugged. ‘Meh’ was her new catchall term for so-so, maybe, or not really. Actually, Bob 28 was a beautiful Roan, an indescribable ever-changing mix of shiny red-orange, bronze, auburn, and rust. Barely mature, the pony would grow to become a very large mare. Warfell gave extra for her, which was fine because after the incredible payday of mission number fifteen, she was running out of charities to give to. Silvercrest was a small beach town, already showing the growth and prosperity fueled by Danica Warfell’s influx of wealth and funding.
“You know Warfell you should buy your own castle. You already own the whole town,” British was cooling down from the workout, moving to Danica’s small galley. “Do I have to eat this shit…ugh,” she added, grimacing at the liquefied vegetables grown twenty feet below.
“I love this place, so do you, and yes! That juice is why you have healed so rapidly,” Danica smiled.
“My skin is turning green from it,” British swallowed dry and then reluctantly kicked the glass back, chugging the stuff out of sight.”
“There’s my good little cold blooded killer.”
On Danica’s small porch at the doorway to the custom treehouse, two hammocks teetered back and forth holding tired sleeping warriors. It was late in the very long day. The evening equi-fade was approaching—less than four hours.
They heard the horses coming from a distance. Below, Rarity whinnied and left his small stable, moving anxiously to the end of Warfell’s zip-line, waiting for his Master to come down. Bob 28 joined the Appaloosa—clueless but curious.
“I was sleeping so well,” Fey lifted her head and then rose. Warfell was already at the railing, looking down.
“Boss, you gotta see this,” she related, eyes on her front lawn twenty feet down.
“Danica Warfell?” the voice questioned from below.
“Maybe,” Warfell replied. “What are you guys doing in Silvercrest?” It was a twenty-man armed, royal escort with two Tiborian Knights, no doubt. One of the Knights in shining armor dismounted and took a knee as his comrades complied, all but the other Knight. British joined her friend at the rail. She smiled and spoke to the men below.
“We are but poor exhausted lesbians, recovering from a very aggressive session of s...”
“WHOA THERE!” Warfell exclaimed, cutting her off.
“SIT UPS—WHAT?” Fey shot back.
“No Ma’am!”
“What?”
“GODS!”
Danica closed her eyes for a hot second and re-addressed the company below.
“Please excuse my partner, come on up, I got room for maybe two of you,” Warfell motioned and then scurried to her galley, searching for something to serve them.
Warfell and Fey sat across from the two Tiborian Knights, awkwardly attempting to stomach the liquid grass from the small wooden cups. The Knight who refused to take a knee was first to speak.
“My King has asked me to find you both and the Aequitas Caelum. He believes we need your help.”
“But you do not Sir, man? Dude?” said British with a curious eye.
“No Ma’am, I do not and my name is Master Knight to both of you,” he set the empty cup down. “Add some honey and it will go down better.”
Danica raised her eyebrows—pretty good idea. The other, kinder Knight spoke.
“My name is Thaddeus, before you sits the Master Knight of Tibor. When his rank is achieved, the birth name is no longer used, it is consumed by the power and duty of his station as the Good King Atria’s finest—Tibor’s strongest. He is a kind and noble man. His warmth and strength extends to all those near him. Captain Warfell, Lady Fey, we have a serial killer in Tibor. He’s taken six women, all but one, prostitutes, all with dark black hair, all left for display—the crime scenes are horrific.”
British leaned forward and spoke with a concerned voice. “My Father has not marked a target in Tibor, yet. You must know that it is a big world; someone is always killing prostitutes Good Knight. We hunt down only the very worst.”
“He, it, has murdered Gwyneth, the Princess of Tibor, King Atria’s youngest child—the Jewel of the Towers,” the Master Knight recited emotionlessly.
“We believe it may have been by accident. The Princess was known to enter the city alone, incognito, we are not sure exactly why,” Thaddeus added. “Will you come and at least review the evidence? Perhaps you may have insights we cannot see? We have brought a fortune in precious gems if you will take the case.