Corrupts Absolutely?

by Peter Clines

  Marek slowly led Leon into the house. A pair of narrow-eyed security guards watched them enter without a word. There would be more inside with more guns than a Hollywood action flick. Leon recognized the next hallway they came to, and his stomach fluttered. The banquet hall Jimmy called the Throne Room was at the end of it. They reached the two doors covered in ornate carvings of swooping dragons. A pair of goons stood on either side. They nodded to Marek and opened the doors. Neither acknowledged Leon. It was like they couldn’t see him, the cripple hardly worth their attention.

  Jimmy Delvita sat on the jewel-encrusted, golden chair he bought from an antiques dealer in Norway. Moonlight fell on him from a great glass oval built into the largest wall. He was going for the regal look. “A seat fit for a Viking warlord,” Jimmy once boasted to Leon.

  Marek shoved Leon roughly into the room, and the memory fractured like a shattered mirror.

  “Look what I found, boss.”

  Jimmy stared at Leon dispassionately. His head was hairless, a huge boulder, his face heavily boned and without the capacity for compassion. It looked small on the heaving mass of muscle that was Jimmy’s body.

  Leon didn’t return the stare. He took in the Throne Room, assessing threats and opportunities. Blood thundered between his ears, and it was an effort for Leon to think clearly, but he somehow managed it. Jimmy sat maybe 80 feet away at the far end of the hall. Behind him were four glass cases of weaponry, a collection reflecting many a period and culture that Jimmy built up over the years. The sharp edges of bayonets and katanas and scimitars twinkled invitingly at Leon from beyond the glass. The room hadn’t changed much in three years. Beside the cabinets was the door leading down to the soundproofed basements where the real fun took place. That copper Price might still be down there for all Leon knew. His eyes drifted to the painting of the Somme Offensive opposite the glass oval. It was of particular interest to Leon because of what was hidden behind it. He counted six bodyguards in the Throne Room. Maybe he would shoot them with their guns still holstered, through their chests, through their hearts—before they even knew he was a threat.

  That left Jimmy.

  The brute was exactly as Leon remembered him. Oversized, ugly, brutish. He wore army boots, khaki camouflage pants, and nothing else.

  Jimmy stood, all 6’8” of him. Leon’s eyes fell on the great scar on Jimmy’s stomach, the Mouth of Truth itself. Jimmy laughed, a great, booming bellow. The scar wobbled, laughing too. It was grotesque, terrifying even, for Leon, who had seen the trick on many occasions. The scar stretched from the base of Jimmy’s belly to the nape of his neck. Jimmy earned it when an exploding landmine killed four of his unit.

  A normal man would’ve died, Jimmy told Leon one time. But not me. It completed me.

  Leon’s courage faltered. He shouldn’t be here, couldn’t hope to beat Jimmy. It was the scar, the grinning mouth Jimmy wore as a badge of honor. The fangs and the forked tongue were tattoos, as were the black lips and the dark, demonic eye sockets on each of his pectorals. Jimmy even had two eyes made of porcelain stitched into his chest. Over the years, he learned to use his body, to flex his muscles to form expressions. The Mouth of Truth could laugh. It could frown. It could roar.

  My true face was how Jimmy often described it.

  Leon steeled himself, wondered if the Mouth of Truth could weep.

  Jimmy suddenly stopped laughing, and both faces fell still.

  “Lightfingers, you return.”

  Leon met Jimmy’s glare. He needed his mind clear, calm.

  “It’s like I never left,” Leon breathed.

  Jimmy tensed his abdominals, and the Mouth of Truth sneered.

  “But you did. And now you’re back. A thief in my house.”

  “Where is she?”

  The vein in what little of Jimmy’s neck was on view bulged furiously.

  “Marek!”

  The Pole, quick as a snake, slipped the pistol from his jacket and cracked it hard against the back of Leon’s head. Leon cried out and collapsed to one knee, blood spilling from his mouth where he bit deep into his tongue. He eyeballed Jimmy and then glanced up at Marek. The gun was limp by his side. It was all he could do not to use his will to fire it through the Pole’s knee.

  Jimmy grinned and pushed out his stomach so the Mouth of Truth grinned too.

  “Pick him up.”

  Marek grabbed Leon roughly by his right arm, the good one, and yanked him to his feet. The back of Leon’s head screamed where the blow landed.

  “Bring the bitch,” Jimmy demanded. He flexed a pectoral to arch an eyebrow. “It might be time for her to bleed on my nice, clean floor.”

  Marek sniggered and pushed the gun into the side of Leon’s head.

  A tentacle snaked from inside Leon’s skull. It reached out and entwined itself around the trigger of Marek’s pistol. The gun wouldn’t fire until Leon needed it to. Another found the handle of the Pole’s machete.

  “You fucked me, Lightfingers. Took £30 grand. Maybe I fuck you tonight, eh? Or her?” Jimmy shook his head. “You know me. You know the truth…”

  Leon sent more tentacles snaking out. They were strong, thick like the branches of a mighty oak. They swirled across the Throne Room and encircled each of the men in the room. One reared above Jimmy, poised like a snake about to strike. Leon shook with the effort of controlling so many, and beads of sweat trickled down his spine. He must keep his focus. Everything depended on it.

  Jimmy continued. “…and the only truth in life…is death. You should have kept running.”

  A tear crept from Leon’s left eye, and Jimmy grunted in satisfaction, mistaking exertion for fear.

  Weasel Kep entered the room, dragging Willa behind him. Leon recognized the flowery dress she purchased for their anniversary the previous year. It was torn up to the crotch, dirty, bloodied. A purple swelling adorned her face beneath her right eye, and deep cuts and scratches covered her arms and legs. Kepner also carried a red fuel can, open for effect. Petrol splashed from it as he walked.

  Leon lost control. Every inch of his will caved at once, and the tentacles smashed into nothing like waves crashing against a rock. He was doomed.

  Willa saw him. Disbelief bled into her expression.

  Jimmy smiled at Leon then looked to Willa. His second mouth quivered hungrily. Willa stared only at Leon.

  “Did you do this?”

  Leon nodded numbly; anger, fear, and hate caused his head to spin.

  “Dale is dead. I killed him as he slept,” he managed.

  Willa let out a wail, and Jimmy scrunched both his face and stomach into tandem frowns.

  “Who the fuck is Dale?”

  “You killed Dale…and…and now us. We’re dead,” Willa sobbed

  “You maybe. Not me.”

  “What are you talking about?” Jimmy snapped.

  Leon’s anger took over. It hardened, locked into a cold focus. He smirked in a way Marek would have been proud of as a dozen snaking tentacles ripped from his chest.

  “I made the call, Jimmy. I tipped you off.”

  Jimmy looked astonished then furious.

  “Why the FUCK would you do that?”

  Marek shifted beside Leon. If the Pole made a move, Leon would bury the machete deep in his belly.

  “Because I wanted the two of you here together.”

  Jimmy gawped, still uncomprehending.

  “Dale was Willa’s latest lover. I guess not all men are broken like me. She told me about him, the night she ended things…”

  Willa couldn’t raise her head.

  “So I killed him. Like any man would.” Leon turned to Marek. “Even half a man like me.”

  “You think this is a game? You think I give a shit about your limp-dick life?” Jimmy roared.

  Leon shrugged. “I left you for her Jimmy. I left for our baby. I stole the money for my family.”

  Willa’s tears became hysterical.

&nbs
p; “Only… Willa told me something else the night she ended it, Jimmy. The baby was never mine. He was yours.”

  His words slapped Jimmy into silence. The vein in Jimmy’s neck pulsed. He suddenly pushed Willa hard onto the floor, and she screamed as her head cracked against the wooden floorboards. Jimmy snorted like a bull about to stampede.

  “It’s okay; Willa never kept the baby.” Leon smiled coldly.

  Willa clutched her head, disoriented, tried to crawl. Jimmy snarled.

  “So I fucked the cripple’s whore a few times? Who gives a shit? Marek!”

  The Pole froze, gasping in surprise as the machete slid from his holster to hover in the air. Jimmy watched in utter disbelief as Leon drove the blade into Marek. The Pole’s mouth fell open in shock and he stared vacantly at the handle protruding from his gut. He clutched at it suddenly, and blood welled between his fingers. Leon twisted the blade, and Marek screamed, stumbling to his knees.

  Jimmy’s bodyguards looked on in astonishment. Leon turned on them. He cried out as his tentacles went to furious work, but his shouts were lost in the explosion of gunshots. The men fell, one after another. Blood and bone and smoke drifted to the floor like spitting rain. Leon shot Weasel Kep twice through his groin as the rapist made for the basement. He then gripped every door handle with a strength ten men couldn’t possess. They wouldn’t be disturbed.

  Jimmy was a statue, both mouths gaping.

  “Leon...are you…are you doing this?” Willa’s hair fell in straggles, framing the bruises on her face.

  Leon’s resolve faltered. The pistols clattered to the floor as he lost control.

  Jimmy moved suddenly. He made a dart for the nearest gun.

  Leon panicked, lashed out. The spectral arm exploded from him like a missile. Jimmy stooped, reached out a massive hand. But Leon was quicker. He flipped the pistol upright and shot Jimmy through the Mouth of Truth. The point-blank impact tore Jimmy from his feet, gore exploding from his back. Jimmy hit the floor hard and lay groaning in a pool of spreading blood; somehow, he pushed himself to a sitting position to stare murderously at Leon. Blood wept from him.

  Leon limped toward Willa. “I wanted you dead, Willa—wanted Dale dead—and Jimmy too… I’m tired of being weak.”

  Willa sobbed, looked away.

  “Gonna kill you…” Jimmy muttered, coughing up a mouthful of black blood.

  Leon ripped the painting of the Somme from the wall with a flash of his mind to reveal the safe. The locking mechanism began to whir and click as if by itself.

  “Nobody ever asked how someone who could barely walk could open so many locks. Houses, safes, bank vaults. You just sat back and took the money. Maybe you should have paid a little more attention? I’m taking everything from you, Jimmy.”

  “Fucking kill you…freak.”

  The safe door swung open with a satisfying click. Leon turned his attention to the can of petrol Weasel Kep had brought in. He lifted it in the air, and Willa screamed. She scrambled away from Jimmy and kept going.

  Leon hoisted the can above Jimmy. The brute tried to stand but couldn’t. More blood spilled from the hole blasted through his second mouth. Leon remembered the good luck charm he took from Dale’s house. He smiled and took the solid silver cigarette lighter from his pocket.

  Willa reached the ornate doors and hammered her fists against them when she realized she couldn’t get out.

  Leon ignored her. He approached Jimmy with the lighter. His blood thundered, but he was in no danger of losing control. There was excitement mixed in with his hate. It was intoxicating. Jimmy grunted and swiped a weak paw at Leon but missed. Leon regarded the mess on Jimmy’s torso and gave a lopsided grin.

  “I need a new good luck charm,” he said, wrenching a porcelain eye from Jimmy’s chest. The brute yelped in surprise. Leon let it hover beside the petrol can.

  “Kill you,” Jimmy breathed just as Leon tipped the petrol over him.

  He flicked open Dale’s lighter and brought a sniggering flame to life. Willa’s cries became hysterical as Jimmy sputtered.

  “Fuck you, Jimmy.”

  Leon tossed the lighter, and for the first time, Jimmy screamed.

  The porcelain eye dropped neatly into Leon’s good hand. He held it up for a closer look, turned it, and then patted it safely into his jacket pocket. Fire blazed in his peripheral vision. Leon ignored the screams of agony.

  Instead, he looked to Willa.

  #

  Leon didn’t need a bag. The contents of the safe floated behind him as he hobbled across the Throne Room, past the dying flames and the smell of charred flesh. His head ached, and the pain drifted into his shaking limbs. Still, he wasn’t done yet.

  One last push, he told himself, contemplating how much of the city Jimmy’s money would buy him.

  Willa sat beside the doors with her knees drawn up and her arms wrapped around her legs. She was half-crazed. He clicked the fingers on his right hand to divert her stare from the floating piles of money. She blinked, saw him.

  “I love you,” he told her. “But I hate you more. I’m tired of hiding. You tell them, Willa. When they come asking, you tell them everything. Tell them what Lightfingers did here.”

  Willa didn’t answer. She stared past Leon into space, shuddering with the force of her tears.

  Leon regarded the fire and the broken bodies. The safe door remained open.

  Money is one thing, he thought, but reputation has a higher value in some circles.

  He sent tentacles through the ornate doors and felt the men waiting in the corridor. He found their automatic weapons, entangled himself around the firing mechanisms. Behind him, discarded guns bobbed beside the floating cash. They pointed wickedly ahead.

  Maybe they’ll stop calling me cripple.

  A thought, and the handle depressed. The doors swung open into darkness.

  Fixed

  Trisha J. Wooldridge

  “Victoria, would you mind getting another pot of coffee? It’s going to be a late night.”

  The woman gritted teeth behind her smile as she left the table of men. She would break into the notes later so she could stay updated on the new specs for the joint bearings. It was her personal mission to stay on top of this project despite Broderick’s insistence upon treating her like an overpaid secretary.

  She wasn’t a day into this contract before realizing she was hired because she, alone, fulfilled three equal opportunity quotas: woman, Hispanic, and disabled.

  Victoria flexed the fingers of the prosthetic hand that she’d been the lead engineer on. That project had lost funding almost two years ago, bankrupting the small company she’d worked for. She had at least ensured that she got the one working prototype. It had not been an entirely legal process, but it had worked.

  The burnished steel coffee pot beeped. With a sigh, she carried the tray with her prosthetic hand into the board room. No one noticed how effortlessly she maneuvered the heavy tray with just one hand, placing it on the table without a drop spilled.

  She fixed her attention on the presentation and frowned. “Wait, you think just a silicone coating will be enough for that projected usage?” She pointed to the list of stats on the corner. “Are you crazy?”

  “The manufacturer specs—” Alan Garrison, Chief Mechanical Engineer, started to scoff.

  “The manufacturer’s specs are bullshit.” She glared. “Read the fine print.” Turning her gaze to Broderick, who appeared amused enough to lift his eyes to hers temporarily, she continued, “That coating assumes no weight bearing usage of the joint and only single-directional usage. Per the blueprints, this joint needs to lift or move up to a hundred pounds with full rotational capabilities. That coating will be worn down, and you’ll have metal on metal in less than a year functioning at full capacity.”

  “And you know this from…tests you’ve run?” Garrison asked, waving a dismissive hand.

  “Hijo de Diós,” she muttered. “Ye
s, nearly seven years of testing and then almost two years of direct usage.” Unbuttoning her right shirt cuff, she folded and shoved it nearly to her shoulder. Had no one read her work? The flesh around her prosthetic was a shade lighter than the rest of her body, but only that suggested it was not the limb she was born with. She rarely wore less than three-quarter sleeves, keeping the line of difference hidden. The men in the room glanced between each other and her in confusion except for Broderick, who stared steadily, perhaps the longest time on record without looking to her tits or ass.

  Slipping her fingers under the flesh “glove,” she unhooked the neural attachment that allowed almost perfect sensory simulation then proceeded to fold the glove until her elbow and half her forearm’s mechanics were exposed. She managed to subdue most of a smirk upon the gasps then the murmurs of admiration.

  Except Mason Broderick. Broderick gave a half nod and pulled a thick file folder from under his clipboard, proceeding to pass around packets of paper.

  “You were the lead engineer on that project, weren’t you, Ms. Chattham?”

  “I was.” Something in his tone chilled her, and she regretted her moment of indignant pride. She knew the smart thing to do was keep quiet about her arm no matter how thorough she’d been in doctoring the history and records so it “belonged” to her.

  Leaving her arm exposed—it seemed the right thing to do—she reattached the sensory cable. It took a moment for the faux skin to get used to feeling folded upon itself, but it didn’t hurt. She picked up the packet and leafed through it.

  Or rather flipped through the first two pages before dropping it.

  “Where did you get this, Mr. Broderick?” She tried to keep both the accusatory and panicked tone from her voice.

  He gave her the slightest smile and flash of perfect white teeth below his sculpted moustache. “When the Medical Endeavors team lost their grant, I offered them an under-the-table buyout in return for all their information. It’s how they could give all the laid off employees generous severance packets.”

  “Interesting,” was all Victoria said. Scratch the “only hired for EEO purposes” theory; Broderick was a more manipulative bastard than she thought.