Sour Notes

by Todd C Wilson

  “More gutters than usual,” I said slowly, pretending to write things down. “Sounds like a real problem. Is this a new thing or has it been going on for a while?”

  “I wouldn’t say it’s a problem,” a player with scrimshawed tusks from the other team said with a smirk, flexing his oversized arms. This caused the Bhenall to turn on him, baring his fangs.

  “Of course, you wouldn’t, Ikur! You and your perfect scores!”

  “It’s called skill, wet-nap. Something you west side wannabes seem to lack,” Ikur shot back, the smirk never leaving his bovine face.

  “How about you, sir? Any complaints about the roundness of things?” I asked, stepping between the two and giving Ikur my best winning smile. The Bhenall stomped away to the ball racks, examining each offering for flaws while his teammates resumed their game. I snuck a peek at my phone, comparing the grainy still from the video against the mug in front of me. They looked the same, but with all that ugly it was hard to tell. A flash of blue caught my eye and I twisted my head, looking for it. Nothing. Must have been a hallucination brought on by lack of sleep.

  “Nope, all good for me.”

  “Good, good. So, you play here most nights?”

  “Most nights, yeah. That’s why I’m so good, Crunkul!” Ikur called out to the Bhenall. Crunkul gave him a rude gesture in return and kept examining the bowling balls.

  “What about two nights ago? And last Epday?” I asked, pulling his attention back to me.

  The smirk finally left Ikur’s face and was replaced by a frown. “Who did you say you were again?”

  “Singer, Department of Nosy Questions. You were there, right? You and the rest of your team.” I showed him the picture on my phone. “What was it, some sort of group outing? See the sights, catch a show, watch some fireworks. Come for the riot, stay for the body count,” I said loud enough to be heard over the music and balls rumbling down the alleys. Other patrons had paused their games and had turned to look towards us, wondering what all the yelling was about.

  “Now just a second,” Ikur said defensively. “It wasn’t like that.”

  “Sure it wasn’t,” I said, my voice heated. I was about to say more when Crunkul interrupted.

  “See! I knew it! Not round enough!” he exclaimed, thrusting one of the bowling balls towards me.

  “Jazz! Look out!” a voice yelled in my ear, giving me just enough warning to duck Ikur’s wild swing. I didn’t give him a chance to take another, instead showing Ikur how it’s done by planting a solid blow in his breadbasket, driving the air out of the Xeno and making him stagger back a few steps.

  “Hey!” one of his teammates said, dropping the fried Jopurt leaves he was munching on and coming my way. “That was uncalled for!”

  “Pretty sure he asked for it,” I said. “What are you gonna do about it?” I got my answer as the Jopurt muncher produced a small club from somewhere and took a swing himself. I parried and clocked him a good one as he over-committed, spinning him around. Pressing my advantage, I planted the toe of my boot into his large backside, sending him crashing into his teammates. This was enough to get them going and they came off the bench with a roar, eager to teach the stupid human a few lessons in the fine art of pain.

  “Mind if I borrow this?” I said to Crunkul, taking the bowling ball from him and almost dropping it, the weight more than I was expecting. “Thanks!” I got the ball under control and slammed it into the closest attacker, knocking him sideways. I followed through by letting go as quickly as I could, the heavy ball flying away and crashing into a Kaak with purple eyelashes. “Whoops, sorry, wrong team,” I apologized. The insectoid collapsed into the jukebox, the noisy gizmo skipping a beat before starting over on a new song.

  “The Blurfs are helpin’ the human! Get ’em!” someone yelled. The rest of the patrons seemed to think this was a wonderful idea and joined in with enthusiasm. I guess Team Blurf wasn’t too well liked around here and throwing punches was more exciting than throwing spares and the occasional gutter ball.

  “Now wait a min – urf!” Crunkul tried to say, his voice cutting off as someone’s liquid refreshment hit him square in the face. Crunkul bared his fangs and leapt, intent on taking out whoever decorated his scales with snozzberry soda. I ignored him and went after Ikur, who had gotten to his feet and was looking around for someone to hit. I obliged him.

  “Hey there buddy, got a few questions for ya,” I said, trying out a punch in the jaw and almost breaking my hand in the process. It was like hitting a block of concrete. Must be tusks all the way down in Ikur Land.

  Ikur roared in rage and headbutted me, trying to gore me with his impressive dental equipment. I managed to grab a tusk with each hand and tried to keep my footing as Ikur forced me backwards, slamming me hard into a table. I felt something give, and I hoped whatever it was, it wasn’t important. Like maybe my spleen, or my liver, both of which I was rather attached to. I wrenched Ikur’s head to the side, using one leg to sweep his out from under him, taking both of us to the ground. I rolled away, coming face to face with a blue blob holding a trio of plastiwood pins and waving them around like she meant business.

  “I told you to stay home!” I yelled, taking one of the pins away from Bob and whacking a Brud coming on strong. I threw the pin at Ikur who was upright again, nailing him right between the eyes. I held my hand out for it to come back like they do in the holos and all it did was drop to the floor. So much for looking cool. A Xeno with webbed feet stepped on its curved surface, going down with a loud squawk. Good enough.

  “I got bored!” Bob yelled back, flowing around an attacking Dhaara and tripping him. She clonked him with a pin and got a fist in the face for her trouble. The look of confusion on the Xeno’s face as his fist passed clean through Bob’s outer membrane and became stuck in her inner gel was priceless. I pulled the surprised owner out of Bob’s body by the scruff of his neck and kicked him, my boot connecting with a satisfying crunching sound.

  “Still bored?” I yelled, sliding a chair towards a group of Sichads rushing us and tangling them up nicely.

  “Nope! This is fun!”

  “Fun, she says. I’m bored, she says. One of these days you’re gonna get yourself – urp!” I gurgled as strong hands circled my throat from behind and cut off my airflow.

  “I’m gonna tear your frillin’ head off,” Ikur’s musky breath growled in my ear, one of his tusks scraping my cheek. I scrabbled at his hands, trying to get my fingers under his but unable to find any purchase. Maybe I should start bowling if it gave you that kind of grip strength. I kicked backwards, trying to connect with something important but all I was getting was black and blue spots in front of my eyes. “Wha?” Ikur said just before the hands vanished from where they had been crushing my windpipe. I dropped, gasping for air. My knee cracked painfully against a bowling ball, adding to my aches and pains. I grabbed at it, hauling myself upright and turning around with my new-found toy to see Ikur dancing like a madman. Bob was wrapped tight around Ikur’s head, covering his face and doing the same to him that he had been trying to do to me.

  I was afraid Ikur would actually pull the blue blob apart in his choking panic, so I yelled, “Let him go Bob, I’ve got it from here!” I swung the bowling ball with both hands as Bob slipped away. “Hey Ikur, special delivery!” The ball smashed into Ikur’s face, splintering one of his tusks. The big ox dropped like a rock and I almost did the same, inertia pulling me around. I let go and the ball rolled off, wobbling to one side.

  “Hey, whadd’ya know - Crunkul was right. It is out of round!” I said in amazement. “Maybe I should tell someone about that.”

  The someone to tell was coming through the door, local police finally showing up to see what all the fuss was about. The Squotnix by the front door helped them out by pointing them in my direction and they started over, brandishing a nice assortment of crowd suppressors. I had no desire to stick around and get clubbed or shocked or both, so I grabbed Ikur and started dragging him towar
ds a door marked employees only.

  “Gimme a hand here, will ya?” I groused at Bob, who was not helping. She flowed under Ikur’s backside and lifted him a little, rolling herself around as I pulled. I had to kick a few brawling patrons out of the way, but soon enough we were out of sight behind the general mass of bodies, both upright and not.

  The door closed behind us with a click, and I helped it stay closed by jamming a mop bucket under the handle. “Over there looks good,” I said, pointing to a narrow corridor. Ikur was starting to come around, so I clonked him again to keep him quiet.

  Pushing and pulling, we got the big ox into the maintenance tunnel that ran behind a row of machinery, the automated equipment whirling around happily oblivious to our presence. A continual line of pins marched past at high speed, necks gripped in mechanical hands, waiting their turn to be placed into perfect alignment and be ritually slaughtered by bowling balls. The balls themselves circled around on a conveyor belt, cycling in and out of the return delivery system, washed, waxed, and ready to be hurled down the firing lane.

  Bob slid a few paces back. “This looks really dangerous,” she said worryingly, her black eye spots moving back and forth. “I’m going to stay over here if you don’t mind.”

  “Fine with me,” I said. “Just give me some playtime with my new friend here.” I scooped up some cable abandoned by a careless maintenance man at some point in the past and wound them around Ikur’s hands and arms, pinning them behind his back and keeping them off my neck. That job done, I swatted Ikur across the face a few times, encouraging him to wake up and focus.

  Ikur’s eyes wobbled around and finally settled on mine. “Hey there buddy,” I said brightly. “Feel like answering some questions now that it’s just the two of us?”

  “Go space yourself, human,” he mumbled. “You broke my frillin’ tusk.”

  “I hear they can do wonderful things with prosthetics these days,” I said. “At least you still have both your legs. But that can be remedied pretty fast.” I grabbed Ikur by his remaining tusk and jerked him towards the machinery flashing back and forth next to us. “See, a friend of mine –I don’t use that term lightly– got wrecked pretty good in that little stunt you pulled the other night. A lot of other people, too. Some fatally.” I pushed Ikur closer to the equipment, pins whizzing past, close enough to feel the breeze. “So, if you don’t want to find out what it’s like to become ground meat, I’d start answering my questions.”

  “Space you,” Ikur spat. “You don’t have the kainphuls.”

  I kicked Ikur’s legs out from under him, forcing him to his knees. Wrapping my left arm around his throat I pulled him tight into my chest, placing my right hand on the back of his head. Leaning in close I hissed into his ear, “you sure about that?”

  Pushing hard, I forced him to tilt forwards into the pins flying by at hypersonic speeds. Ikur’s remaining tusk made contact for a moment, the tip disintegrating in a shrieking cloud of plastiwood and compressed Xeno hair. I jerked him back, my hand stinging from the transferred vibration. It felt like I had whacked a steel beam with a metal bar, so I could only imagine what it must have felt like to Ikur.

  “Umellbelw!” Ikur screamed, struggling to get out of my grip and failing. “You’re frillin’ crazy!”

  “Not as crazy as I’m gonna get, if you don’t start answering my questions. You’re smart but not that smart, Ikur. I looked you up. A few run-ins with the law, minor possession, aggressive loitering with intent to linger. Random drunk-and-disorderly here and there. Grand theft skateboard was a surprise. Public urination, not so much. Have to admit, didn’t have you pegged as a bowler, but I guess we all have our kinks. While I know you had something to do with the riot, I’m also sure you weren’t the one ultimately calling the shots. So, do yourself a favor and start…” I shoved Ikur forward, then just as his tusk contacted the racing pins, I pulled him back. “Answering.” I did it again. “My.” Another push. “Frillin’.” And another one, smaller this time because Ikur was running out of tusk. “Questions!”

  “Okay!” Ikur screamed, spittle showering my arm. I pulled him back and spun him around to face me. The big ox looked more than a little worse for wear. One tusk was a shattered mess, the other halfway ground down and slightly smoldering.

  “Start talking,” I snapped. “You’ve still got plenty of tusk left, and I haven’t even started on your bowling hand yet,” I threatened.

  Ikur twitched, keeping his bound hands as far away from me as possible. “Okay, we were only there to pass out samples of product. Fresh kick on the street. Goes by the name Wicked Yellow.”

  “I’ve heard of it. Some new designer drug, supposed to work cross-species.”

  “Yeah,” Ikur nodded. “Everyone gets something different. Avens get happy trips, Hephahs get mellow, Raanus get hyper. Dunno what humans get.”

  “I’ll let you know. So, who was your supplier?” I asked.

  “I dunno,” Ikur said. He moved backwards at the look on my face and jerked forwards as the machinery made brief contact with his bound hands. “Honest to space,” he pleaded, “I dunno. We just got a package and a note saying we should be part of the demonstration and hand out samples. Payment in advance, 500 credits. Three packages, three nights, easy money. Note said if we did a good enough job, we’d get a regular gig distributing. Get in on the ground floor, maybe franchise out.”

  “You got a copy of this note?”

  Ikur shook his head. “Naw, I tossed it.”

  Disappointing, but not unexpected. “So, what about fifty-one?”

  “Fifty what?”

  “Fifty-one. Something the crowd was chanting before all space broke loose,” I said.

  Ikur shrugged. “No idea. We left as soon as we got rid of all the freebies. No need for us to stick around.” He smirked. “Plus I had better places to be, if you catch my drift,” he said, flexing his bound arms and thrusting his pelvic region forward suggestively.

  “Yeah, I do,” I said, turning around and frowning. I rubbed my hand on my chin, looking at Bob. “What do you think?” I asked her.

  “It sounds to me like Ikur and his teammates were simple delivery boys, able to take the fall if caught. Someone knew ahead of time about the demonstrations, otherwise they wouldn’t have had the drugs prepped and ready,” Bob said from where she had piled herself. I grunted but waved for her to continue. A thick tentacle rose out of the mass and eye spots floated to the front, a mouth forming underneath. “Obviously, we need to find the supplier and the author of the note, whoever that is.” I grunted again. So far what she was saying was matching what I was thinking, which I took as a good sign. “I don’t think Ikur and the others were the only – Jazz! look out!” Bob yelled at me for the second time tonight.

  I whirled in time to see Ikur tossing the cables I had bound his arms with to the ground, sides frayed away from brief contact with the machinery. He rushed me, murder in his eye. I pivoted and kicked, lashing out with my foot and catching him square in the chest, knocking him backwards. For a moment Ikur teetered on the edge of the equipment platform, hands outstretched as if I could offer him salvation, and then he was gone. Alarms bells and klaxons shrieked as machinery slammed to a halt, safety protocols triggered by the sudden introduction of large amounts of bovine flesh.

  “Cold vacuum and space,” I muttered. I grabbed Bob before she could look, pulling her towards the emergency exit. “Time to go.”

  Chapter 8

  W

  e were back at my apartment-slash-office, and Bob wouldn’t shut up.

  “Did you see how I hit that Crekted? Pow! And the Dhingus when I tripped him into a Lancrok? Those Sichads looked really funny all tangled up together like that. Ikur sure didn’t like it when I wrapped myself around his breathy-hole thing and you hit him with a ball. Hey, what’s that?” she rattled away as I got a stool out and lifted a hard-shell lockbox down from its hidey place on top of the refrigerator.

  I set the box down onto the tabl
e, undoing the combination and flipping open the lid. Spinning it around, I pointed at Roosevelt nestled inside. “Pick it up.” I ordered.

  Bob flowed over to the table and formed a fist, trying to grab onto the weapon and failing. She tried twice more before giving up and whining, “I can’t! It’s too heavy!”

  I took Roosevelt out of his resting place and worked the slide, the well-oiled mechanism ratcheting smoothly. I checked the chamber and the magazine slot and then pulled the trigger, dry firing the gun. The hammer dropped onto the empty chamber with a satisfying click, the sound loud in the small room. I laid the oversized hand cannon on the table and set a fully loaded magazine down next to it.

  “Pick it up,” I said again. “Magazine goes here, safety is here. You only have twelve shots plus one in the chamber and then you need to reload, so carry extras magazines. Bullets are expensive so be sure to aim carefully.”

  I watched dispassionately as Bob tried and failed again, doing little more than shoving Roosevelt around on the table. “I can’t!”

  I snatched Roosevelt up and slammed the magazine into his belly, automatic safety engaging with an assuring snick. “Sure you can. I just did. Go ahead. Take it,” I said, offering the gun to her, butt first. She wrapped a protrusion around the grip, and I let go. Roosevelt sank through her body in slow motion and onto the floor. Bob flowed around the gun, while her body turned angry shades of blue as she kept doing little more than spin Roosevelt in place. I forced my hand into her blobby flesh, ignoring how weird it felt and took the gun away before she could trip the safety and hurt someone by accident.

  “Why are you doing this?” Bob demanded. “Why show me something I can’t use? What’s wrong with a normal plasma pistol?” she said, a pseudopod forming the shape of the plastic toy Xenos prefer.