by Ubukata, Tow
“Medium the Fingernail is how I’m commonly known in this line of work. It’s a nickname. Like the aliases university students use when they’re looking for playmates online.”
“I need confirmation of the results before I tender your remuneration,” Boiled said. His hands were resting casually on the attaché cases.
Medium dropped his banter and undid his tie before unbuttoning his dress shirt.
Rare, now standing diagonally behind Boiled, gave an affected yelp and then mock-shyly covered his face with his hands.
Despite his squirming he was looking through his fingers, getting a good peek at Medium’s rippling torso.
Boiled watched the scene play out, expressionless as ever. He looked at the pendants that adorned Medium’s chest. Medium took these off and placed them on the table. Carefully, one by one, so that they didn’t rest atop one another.
“Still alive,” Medium said. “The metal cylinders used as the basis were for exchanging bodily fluids, and the metabolism is still there—they still regenerate. You can use them as decorations straight away. Even the nails grow properly and the skin flakes off as it should.”
“From how many people?”
“Five right thumbs—Uncle Toms, I call them. If you take their prints you should find they fit exactly. Five brain surgeons—three male, two female. Just like you ordered, right?” Medium laughed amiably. Like a black marketeer boasting how scrupulously fair he was in his business dealings.
“Doctors’ fingers are pretty rare and valuable, as far as they go. So I’ve taken the liberty of keeping one for myself. See—the pinky from this left hand. From one of the two female doctors’ hands. Absolutely beautiful.”
“Just the fingers?” asked Boiled disinterestedly. Medium laughed and shook his head.
Just then the man who had been operating the crane entered the container.
“Hey, Medi, I’ve finished loading the crates. The other guys hit our container and damaged it again, so I’ve sent the idiots a demand for compensation while I was at it.”
He was suddenly at the side of the sofa. He was both bigger and taller than Boiled.
“Thanks for your hard work, Mincemeat. This is Mr. Boiled,” said Medium.
“Yeah, we just met. How was my driving, not bad, eh?”
“Mincemeat, Rare, you two show Mr. Boiled your shares of the loot too,” continued Medium.
“Ooh, even mine?” asked Rare.
“So, uh, you’re interested in our collections, are you?”
Boiled stared at them quietly and said, “Just for confirmation.”
“You mean from those doctors, don’t you? Wait a sec, I’ll fetch them for you right away.” Rare slipped by Mincemeat and hopped away.
Mincemeat stood still and unzipped his fatigues. “Kayleigh and Linda. Girls should be kept close to your heart, don’t you think? And on my right breast, Daniel. Last, these guys on my left arm are Rick and Steve. These two seemed to be good buddies, so I planted them together. See, they’re looking at each other.”
It was as he said. The two eyes embedded in his left arm started blinking, as if they were staring at each other.
“I thought that doctors’ eyes might have been cold and unfeeling, but as it turns out they’re quite romantic. In particular this Linda—she seems to have taken quite a shine to this guy in my stomach, Rock, a big-shot lawyer.”
“Ah, little Minty, that’s just because of how your muscles developed after the transplants,” said Medium.
“Don’t be a spoilsport, Medi. Here, everyone, let me introduce you all to Mr. Boiled.” Mincemeat flexed his muscles, squeezing tightly. The eyes, which had been winking away all over his body, opened their lids as one and turned to look at Boiled simultaneously.
Boiled stared back grimly. The eyes were neatly lined up in pairs, complete with lids, eyelashes, and tear ducts. A number of the eyes were red and swollen, as if they were crying for someone to release them.
“Sorry for keeping you all waiting—Gosh, little Minty! What a naughty boy you are!” Rare had bounded back into the room and was blushing bright red. “Here you go, here’s mine! Five people’s worth.” Rare showed Boiled some pieces of skin and hair pressed between plates of glass, folded up neatly and soaked in liquid.
“None of them really take my fancy, to tell you the truth. The hectic lives they lived meant they didn’t have much time to look after their hair, I suppose,” continued Rare.
Boiled ignored him and turned to Medium. “And are there any of their parts that you discarded?”
“When they catch a whale on the continent they use up all the parts. I mean all—skin, bones, nothing goes to waste. The only part they discard is the nothingness left after the whale is gone, so to speak.”
“And what do you use the parts for?” asked Boiled.
“The flesh is used for transplants, scientific research, as decoration—or as a delicacy,” said Medium.
Rare giggled. “We sell them to people who really get off on the idea of eating human flesh.”
Medium pointed at Rare as if to silence him. Pointing with a finger that could have come from anybody. “We get a good price for the bones, for marrow transplants, or to medical students. And the internal organs have long since been reserved. Even parts like appendixes,” said Medium.
“And the parts that you’ve taken for personal use?” asked Boiled.
“We’d agreed that these were to be part of our payment…”
“That’s fine, I just need confirmation.”
“Well, it’s all safe, everything’s okay. They’ve all vanished. Not a single drop of blood left. Transplant technology advanced in leaps and bounds as a result of the war. There aren’t going to be any leftovers. Three cheers all round,” said Medium.
“And the data the doctors were working on?”
“We’ll show you to our analysis department straightaway. Follow me, sir,” Medium beckoned.
Boiled stood up and followed Medium deeper into the container, an attaché case in either hand.
“Ooh, that back—manly, but in a very different way than yours. And what smooth skin for a man!” Rare whispered to Mincemeat as they followed behind.
It was a giant container with a series of joints where it could be dismantled. Medium unlocked the electric lock on a door that divided two of these joints and headed in.
“Please do come in. This is the information HQ for our company. One of our members is a specialist in data management. In the war he was a distinguished Comms soldier—hey, Flesh! We have a guest!”
Inside were various computing and communication devices strewn all over the place. They walked through the gaps, tracing a route to a place surrounded by even more equipment, when some flabby mass wobbled round at them.
“Hey,” said a sweet voice. His eyes were black and wet.
He had no hair and gave the impression of a young boy’s head protruding from a mass of flesh.
“I’ve been watching you since you entered the port. Using the harbor cameras. Now that’s probably the man we’ve been waiting for, I thought to myself. He’s that sort of person, I thought,” the mass of flesh croaked. He sounded like a precocious schoolboy.
“Indeed, Flesh. This is the iron man himself, Mr. Boiled. Be sure to treat our valued client with all the respect he deserves,” said Medium.
“Welcome, sir. I’m Flesh the Pike. In charge of information ops.” He pointed at himself with his right hand as he spoke. His hand was like a pale baby’s hand that had been grotesquely overinflated. Boiled watched Flesh—and his hand—in silence.
Flesh was wearing something that at first glance looked like a gown, but on closer inspection turned out to be more like a giant sheet that covered his fleshy mass. There was an incredible amount of fat there—the word obese wasn’t enough to describe it accurately.
The sheet was swollen into a bizarre shape. From the outside it was impossible to tell even whether he was sitting on a chair or was just sprawled out o
n the floor. He could have been standing.
Boiled put his attaché cases down and took a step toward Flesh. He stood in a position so that he could see a number of monitors all at once, then spoke.
“Show me the data. The neurotreatment reports that the five doctors were collaborating on.”
“Just a moment.” Flesh’s whole body started trembling under the gown. As he stared at the screen his fat hands plugged something into the port that was embedded in the back of his neck at the top of his spinal column, his fingers moving with surprising agility. It didn’t seem to be the sort of device that plugged into his brain tissue directly—rather it was a simple output device from his brain.
“It’ll be a little while. We’re covering our tracks as we go, you see, falsifying the University Hospital’s data at the other end as we download them for ourselves. Wanna have some fun while we wait?” asked Flesh.
Boiled didn’t say yes and he didn’t say no.
Still, Flesh continued, looking up at Boiled with a drowsy expression. “I don’t mind this man touching them. This man knows about our little hobbies, right, Medi?”
“Mr. Iron Man didn’t seem to find anything too objectionable when I showed him mine—or when Rare or Mincemeat did,” said Medium.
“That’s what I thought, most probably.” Flesh grinned. He fiddled around for a while loosening his gown with his chunky fingers. The gown fell to the floor, slowly, nonchalantly.
“Go on then, just a little. I don’t mind if you feel up my collection.” Flesh’s voice cracked as he made his mound of flesh wobble. A mountain of white meat swayed as one. Boiled could now see that they were women’s breasts. Hundreds of them.
Pairs of breasts protruded from his whole body—particularly his chest and stomach—clustered together like bunches of grapes.
Flesh wasn’t wearing any clothes under the gown. But he couldn’t really be described as naked, as there was no way of telling where his skin ended and where the stolen flesh began. His feet could just about be seen protruding, dangling, from under the mass, and it seemed that he was resting on some sort of easy chair. Breasts ran down both sides of his thighs and calves.
“Not interested. Just give me the data,” Boiled said. Flesh gave a creased smile and put his gown back on, nodding knowingly, glancing fleetingly at Medium.
“I like people who are honest about their tastes. To each his own, that’s what I always say,” said Flesh.
“We’re talking about Mr. Iron Man here, Fleshie. He’s not interested in your Oedipal complex. He likes his fetishes a little more hard-boiled, like me,” said Medium.
“So it seems.” The plug in Flesh’s back started flickering and making a chattering sound.
Flesh scanned the surrounding monitors with a quick flash of his eyes. As with breasts, he had hundreds of monitors, and they too were quivering, this time with lists of seemingly random numbers.
“Okay. All done.” Flesh reached out to one of the monitors. A machine that was evidently designated for writing data started whirring, and a disc popped out into Flesh’s portly fingers.
“Here you go. This is now the only copy of this data in the entire world.”
Boiled took the disc, lifted it up as if to look closer, and squeezed. Until the disc was no more than crumbs of plastic and magnetism.
The data—once the contents of Shell’s memory—was now oblivion.
“And the rest is silence,” said Medium. Boiled glanced at him.
Then, for the first time since entering the harbor, Boiled nodded.
04
“You must be growing weary of carrying those heavy bags around with you, sir. Won’t you let us lighten your load?” Medium asked Boiled as they left the room, as if he were sharing a particularly witty joke.
“I was told that there were five members of this company. I’d like to hand it directly to your boss. Judging by the size of the exterior of the container, there should still be other rooms here. Where are they?” asked Boiled.
“Ah, our boss is not at home just this—”
“There’s someone else inside this container right now. In the Comms Room just now I saw a record of the changes in mass aboard the container. There is someone I haven’t met moving around inside.”
“Well…it’s not that we’re trying to hide the boss exactly. It’s just that he’s in the middle of sorting through his collection, you see…” But Medium had accepted the inevitable and was leading Boiled toward another wall.
“You’ve got telecommunications equipment embedded in your heads, haven’t you?” Boiled asked, and Medium turned around, startled. “And those eyes seem mechanized too. You’re constantly circulating information between yourselves, are you?”
“Well, that’s how we do business,” Medium explained, and pressed the intercom buzzer on the wall.
–Have him enter.
The reply came immediately. There was suppressed laughter. A voice that evidently knew all about the exchange that had just passed between Boiled and Medium.
A section of the wall slid across, revealing the entrance to another room.
In the middle of the room was a man reclining on a leather chair, facing away from them. The chair turned.
“You’re a proper pedigree hunting hound to have seen through our gang’s little secret, Mr. Boiled,” the man said, flashing his white teeth that contrasted beautifully with his dark skin. He was of the same race as Shell, but he had an almost inhuman air about him. He straightened up with a snap. His hair was short and he had a tattoo on his temple. He stared at Boiled with piercing eyes that belied the usually soft features particular to his race.
“To be able to identify the leader of a pack immediately—that’s an important quality in a hunting hound. Looks like the Bandersnatch Company has found itself a worthy partner.” As he spoke, he swung his left hand from the floor to the wall. He wore a single black glove on this hand. There was a golden chain on the back of his hand that jingled as he moved.
It was the sort of glove that could be used in bondage. It covered the pinky and ring finger, but the remaining fingers were exposed. These seemed to be the important fingers. He flicked them rapidly.
In response to this movement a table rose up from the floor, a sofa appeared, and a cocktail bar folded open from the wall. The hitherto empty room was now the very picture of a prosperous merchant’s drawing room.
“Do sit.”
Boiled did so. The two men now sat opposite each other. Medium headed toward the bar to assemble some glasses.
“I’m Welldone. My friends call me Well. A nickname, of course. Everyone here likes his nickname. One of the tricks for getting ahead in the underworld. By creating your own alias you make it easier to meet other like-minded people.”
Welldone brought his hands together, the one with the glove and the one without, and grinned.
“The alias that I chose for myself is Welldone the Pussyhand.”
“There’s one set of parts that I’ve not seen yet. What does your gang do with them?” Boiled asked under his breath.
Still grinning, Welldone snapped his fingers. “Two dry martinis, Medi. Plenty of kick.”
Then he showed Boiled the palm of his gloved hand. “I collect them all for myself. Male and female. But I sometimes sell them. I don’t often transplant my collection onto myself. Reason being that I’m only looking for the one, and it’s only the rare and exquisite pearl that interests me.”
There was a silver zipper on the palm of his glove, and he unzipped it slowly.
Boiled watched with his unflinching poker face.
Behind the zipper, splitting his palm from top to bottom, was a vulva, lips ever-so-slightly apart. It was pink, and no pubic hair seemed to have been transplanted along with it.
Welldone took a finger from his right hand and slid it down the slippery crease, opening it up. Like another zipper.
A clitoris emerged from the top.
He tickled the red slit some more and it star
ted giving off a shiny liquid.
“I’ve even got a proper vagina grafted into a crack in my flesh, so to speak. The urethra is, sadly, just for decoration. The owner—now, that’s a secret, but suffice it to say that everything about her was like a rare jewel. I traveled around the world for her, to obtain her, and the technology needed to transplant her. And now I have her in my hands. Or should that be in my hand?” He grinned.
The sort of grin a ferocious beast might grin, one that concealed a razor-sharp bite.
“My pretty little pussy cat, so tight and so sensitive.”
Welldone zipped his glove up again and received a cocktail from Medium, beckoning to Boiled to do the same. Boiled too took a glass in his hand, and looked back at Welldone.
“We don’t shake hands in our line of work. Nevertheless, we can raise a glass and drink to the demise of our mutual enemies,” Welldone said, and clinked glasses with Boiled before downing his drink in one gulp and placing his glass on the table. “Let’s take this opportunity to seal a deal—we’ll make your future contracts a priority from now on.”
Boiled finished his drink in silence. He then placed one of the attaché cases on the table. “Your reward.”
Medium collected it stealthily and took a step back from the table. He checked its contents and glanced at Welldone’s back. Welldone nodded without turning. Welldone went on to explain that all five of the company members, not just he and Medium, were linked by communication devices planted in their heads. “We’re each other’s eyes, ears, and weapons. That’s what gives us our strength.”
Boiled placed the other case on the table and opened it himself. “An advance payment and to cover your costs for your next target.”
Welldone leaned forward to sniff the case like a dog. “How many people?”
“One—although there are two PIs as Trustees, and the civilian police force will do their bit to interfere,” said Boiled.
“So why are you offering us so little?”
“Because you’ll find the target to your taste. Dispose of the target’s body as you like.”