by Rick Wayne
“It’s not nice. They work hard. They deserve respect.”
“Respect? Did you just say respect?”
“Yeah. I mean, they have feelings.”
“What the fuck is her name?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You heard me, dickhead. What the fuck is her name?”
“Who?”
“Whatever ’noid you’re sweet on at Kosi’s.”
“I’m not sweet on anyone at Kosi’s.”
“Is that where you went last night? Where were you?”
“I was out.”
“So, who did you see?”
“Do you mean did I pay for services?”
“Did ya cum on a whore?”
“You’re such a dick sometimes.”
“It’s a yes or no question.”
“YES.”
“What was her name?”
“Yunique. Spelled Y-u--”
“I get it. What’s her real name?”
“That is her real name.”
“She tell you that?”
“Yeah.”
“And you believe her?”
“Why wouldn’t I? She’s a nice person.”
“She’s not a person. She’s a fucking ’noid. A whore ’noid.”
“I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”
“You don’t want to hear the rest of the story?”
“Sometimes you’re mean just for the sake of being mean, and then you complain about how you don’t have any friends.”
“You fuckin’ gave her money.”
“Of course I did. I didn’t stiff the house. I know who runs those places.”
“Naw, you gave something extra, didn’t you? She gave you some sob story about how she’s down on her luck or her mom needs to see the tinker or some bullshit like that.”
“I gotta go back to work.”
“Wait. You gotta hear the rest of it.”
“You’re just going to find another way to insult me.”
“Do you want to hear the rest of it?”
“Not if you’re going to be insulting.”
“Do you want to hear the rest of it or not?”
“Just spit it out. I gotta go.”
“So, he’s at Aphra’s, and everybody’s partying and having fun.”
“I heard all that. Hurry up. How did he get it?”
“This fiiine ’noid is hanging all over him, promising him all kinds of special stuff if he takes her to one of the private booths in back.”
“That’s expensive.”
“No shit that’s expensive. What the fuck does he care? It’s his club. So he plays with her awhile, ya know, like to build the tension and shit.”
“Was she hot?”
“Holy shit, Dobie said she was killer. Long wavy hair, bleached white. Tight body and big ol’ boobies right there pokin’ his fucking eyes out.”
“Sounds hot.”
“So, they go in the back, right? And things are gettin’ all hot and this bitch is just like ripping his clothes off, like she doesn’t even tease him first or anything.”
“How’d Dobie know that?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, the booths are private. You can’t get back there unless you pay the big bucks. How’d Dobie know what was happening?”
“How the fuck should I know? Ask Dobie.”
“I don’t like Dobie.”
“What the fuck’s wrong with Dobie?”
“He hits people.”
“He’s a fighter.”
“He hits people outside the ring.”
“Only if they’re pussies.”
“Some people are sensitive.”
“Sensitive? Fuck if I know how Dobie knew. This is what he told me. You want to hear it or not?”
“Go ahead.”
“So, she’s ripping his fucking clothes off, and she grabs his rod real hard, like she knows what the fuck she’s doing. She’s not afraid of that monster. She grabs it and shoves it in her mouth. And she’s workin’ it and workin’ it and gettin’ where her throat relaxes, right, and she can take it all in.”
“Wait. Why would her throat have to relax if she’s a ’noi-I mean mechanoid?”
“Exactly. Bitch ain’t no mechanoid. Bitch don’t even work there.”
“Then who is she?”
“Just listen. So she gets his thing jammed in her throat, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And fucking bites it off.”
“What?”
“Only Dobie says it doesn’t come clean off. She’s gotta fucking gnaw on it a bit. The dude starts screaming, like shrieking at the top of his lungs. ‘Get this bitch off me! Get this bitch off me!’”
“Everybody’s running around. It’s dark in the there, right?”
“And smoky.”
“Exactly. And smoky. And everybody there’s up to no good. No one wants to turn the fucking lights on. The music keeps playing and fucking Nero LaMana . . . Nero ‘The Butcher’ LaMana is screaming and beating on this bitch’s head with those meat-paw hands of his, trying to get free as she gnaws his fucking manhood off right there in the booth.”
“Fuck . . . What happened?”
“Nero can’t get her off. She’s got a hold of it like a vise.”
“Yeah, that’s the masseter muscle.”
“What?”
“It’s the strongest muscle by weight.”
“Whatever. Point is, Nero falls over screaming his head off. ‘My dick! My dick! This bitch is biting my dick off!’ People come running in and the white-haired woman comes up, blood soaked all around her mouth, running down her neck. A hard dick is like a blood-filled balloon, right? And Nero’s a big guy.”
“Really big.”
“She pops that thing and it just gushes out all over everything. She comes up like she’s just finished him off, this kinda smile on her face, spits it back at him, hits him right in the face. And get this . . .”
“What?”
“Black. Fucking. Eyes.”
“No way.”
“Dobie says he shit a brick. Literally. He says he dropped a load in his shorts right then. A fucking white-skinned, black-eyed Fury. Only no one could see her eyes when it was dark, right?”
“Right.”
“No one wants any part of that shit. Even the heavies manning the door stop short. No one knows what the fuck to do. No one’s seen a fuckin’ Fury in forever.”
“What happened?”
“Nero’s screaming. He grabs his bloody crotch and runs for the door, anything to get away from her. Dobie says the music stopped, and everyone’s just watching as Nero fucking LaMana runs, pants down, across the dance floor of his own club and right out into the street where POW!”
“What?”
“Car smacks him dead in the road. He’s a fucking street stain. Flashing green under the neon sign of his own club.”
“No shit?”
“No shit. Nero fucking LaMana. The Butcher. The Kingpin. Dead. Just like that.”
“Was it a hit?”
“Nobody knows.”
“Well, what happened to the woma--I mean the Fury?”
“Dobie says she straightens her hair. Looks at herself in her compact. Fixes her eyebrows neat and walks out, blood still trickling down her throat, boobs hanging out.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Fuck.”
“I know. Nero fucking LaMana. Dead. One day, you’re king of the world. The next, you’re a dickless street pizza.”
“So, that’s it then.”
“What’s it?”
“Pimpernel’s got it all now.”
“Dude fucking owns this town. Half the Empire’s in debt to him already.”
“Everybody said he was finished. How the fuck did he get a Fury?”
“That’s just it, man. Nobody can say it was him. Maybe LaMana pissed off the Amazons. Maybe this bitch just had a grudge. Nobody
fuckin’ knows.”
“Dude did make a lot of enemies.”
“A lot.”
“Whoah. This is huge.”
“I know.”
“I may not be around much the next few weeks. Gonna have to work overtime.”
“Why?”
“’Cuz I owed one of LaMana’s bookies.”
“You? You bet on a fight?”
“So?”
“I just didn’t think you were a bettin’ man.”
“I’m not. Usually.”
“Yunique give you a tip or something? Heard it from one of her johns, maybe. That it? Did she tell you it was a sure thing? That what you gave her the money for?”
“Yeah, well, whatever. Now Pimpernel will take over all LaMana’s books.”
“I sure hope your account’s paid up, buddy.”
“I was in good with Pugs. He let me slide a little on the payments.”
“You better fucking pay up. Say what you want about the Butcher. I wouldn’t want to owe Erasmus Pimpernel a fucking dime.”
(FIVE) The Tears of Gods
Vernal never thought much about the end of the world. He got as close as he ever would at age nine, when a group of Kraxus-worshipers came to the apartment asking to speak to his parents about the Elder Gods. The young Vernal had made the mistake of inviting them in. He wanted them to explain why Kraxus was depicted so many different ways: as a fire-breathing lizard, as a tentacle-faced demon, as a deep-sea leviathan, and so on. Sitting on the couch in their black robes, lifting teacups to their shaved and tattooed heads, the acolytes of the World-Eater explained that He could come in many forms, all of them terrible.
It was mesmerizing for a young boy, hearing their stories of epoch-ending catastrophe whence the Destroyer would burn the filth of the world away and make room for Goyen the Infinite Clockmaker to build anew, and Vernal was ready to sign up right then. He never understood why a beast that could incinerate the world still required his parent’s permission. But the beating he got from his father for “letting those nut-jobs in the house” was crystal clear, and that episode only fossilized Vernal’s conviction that it was all a bunch of hooey.
Thus it was only with bowel-deep irony that Vernal could accept that the world was in fact going to end, and not by an Elder God. This was a cold, unfeeling death from above, as inevitable as a sunset.
Vernal looked up and down the street from under the hood of his long coat. On the corner, a legless man sat under a stone arch and dangled a begging bowl before those few pedestrians who ventured into Old Amazonus. With its cobbled streets and wrought iron, the neighborhood seemed out of place next to the shadow of downtown. The rain was moving off the island and out to sea. A hazy light hung over the black spire of City Hall, which erupted from the ground like a needle. The ragged skyline of the new city faded away from it like torn paper.
Vernal stopped to take it in. In a few days, it would all be gone. The towers. The casinos. The go-go quarter. The wharf. The Old Arcade. Parkus. Adamour. Doubler’s Cross. Everything. Wiped clean.
Vernal sneered and pushed into the old apothecary’s shop. The bell above the rickety door rang as he walked down the steps to the basement floor. The place stank of dust and dried tongues. Vernal nodded to the old man behind the counter as he removed his coat and hung it on the horn of a yarn-decorated dragon skull. He sat on a stool as the old man set crumpled wax paper in front of him.
Vernal scowled at the bloody mess inside. “What is it?”
“Bugbear intestine. Kind of like an appendix.” The old man reached from behind the counter and sprinkled a little salt on the bulbous, twisted flesh.
“Bugbear? Not wild, then.”
“Of course not. I get it from a factory farm in Theria Proper. Even that’s getting harder these days.”
“What do you do with it?”
“You eat it.”
Vernal leaned closer. It smelled like candied dirt. “What’s it for?”
“Cleans the blood. And it wakes the old crotch weasel, if you know what I mean.”
“I don’t have time for that.”
“You should make time. Gods know you’ll need it, you crazy bastard.” The old man chuckled.
Vernal looked at it again. He took a bite and scowled.
“What do you think?”
“Tastes like ass,” he mumbled.
“Don’t be a pussy.”
Vernal swallowed. “I thought old men were supposed to be respectable.” A few gritty bits stuck to his teeth and he spit them onto the paper.
“Profanity is a lot like wisdom.”
“How so?”
“It brings clarity in times of darkness.” The old man produced a vial from his pocket and set it on the counter. “What do you think?”
“I think you’re full of shit.”
“I mean the bottle, moron.”
Vernal picked it up and turned it in the light. It was filled with a viscous yellow liquid. He sniffed. Citrus.
“Extremely concentrated, per your specifications.”
“And I can cut it with water?”
The apothecary nodded. “Well, I wouldn’t put it on my skin like that. Liable to burn it off.”
Vernal nodded and set the Jackal’s key on the counter.
“Sonuvabitch.” The old man lost his smile. “You went and did it. You better hide that somewhere safe.”
“I thought you wo--”
“I’m not touching it.” He pointed. “Nothing good is going to come to the man who holds that key.”
“I was just going to say, I thought you’d want to see it before I stashed it away.”
The old man stared for a moment. He lifted the key and turned it over in his hands. “Do you have any idea how old this is?”
“No.”
“You don’t care, either.” The old man set it down. “This is the key to great power.”
Vernal put the vial and key in his coat. “I don’t want great power. I want the Genix. Pimpernel wants great power. It’s an even trade.”
“Erasmus Pimpernel can’t be trusted.”
The bell over the door rang again just before a hooded youth trundled down the stairs. He browsed the shelves of glass jars along the far wall. Each was filled with a different kind of putrescence. Lycanthropy viruses.
Vernal kept his voice down and one eye on the door. “I don’t trust anybody.”
“Are you certain he even has the Genix?”
Vernal squinted. “You said--”
“I said he probably has the Genix. Kane McMasters found it.”
“The guy on TV?”
“The same.”
The youth turned to the old man. “You have gryphon tears?”
The old man nodded and turned to remove a crystal vial from under the counter. He went on. “And everyone in the reliquaries business knows Kane really works for Pimpernel.”
The hooded youth fidgeted and rubbed his arms.
Neverod user, Vernal thought. Gryphon tears soothed the burns.
“But, no one knows what’s in Erasmus Pimpernel’s private collection but Erasmus Pimpernel.” The old man looked at the youth. “How many drops?”
“Six. No, five. Five.”
“Five?”
The youth nodded and rubbed his nose again. He was shaking.
The old man turned to Vernal as he filled a small syringe. “Once he knows you have the key--”
“He already knows I have the key.”
“Here you go.” The old man wrapped the syringe in wax paper and stuffed it in a bag. “That’ll be twenty.”
The youth dropped the money and took the bag.
“How can you be sure?” the old man asked.
Vernal watched the youth leave. “Because the Jackals would sell me out for a bag of fingernails.” He stood.
“True.” The old man paused. “That means the Murderlings are after you and you’ll be dead by nightfall.”
“How much am I worth?”
“
How would I know?” The old peddler shrugged. “You aren’t worried?”
“Eh. If I don’t get the Genix, I’m dead anyway.”
The old man waved him off. “Oh, don’t start with that ‘end of the world’ bullshit again. People have been preaching about the end of the world since long before you were born. Since before I was born, and that’s a helluva long time. ‘Kraxus is coming’ my ass.”
Vernal shrugged and put on his coat. “I didn’t say anything about Kraxus.”
The old man coughed and cleared mucus from his throat. “I get enough of it at temple.”
Vernal nodded to the little shrine to Xueyin the Keeper, the last of the holy trinity, at the back of the shop. Her swooping gown poured down her body in folds like a waterfall. “If you don’t believe it, then why have that?” He waved his hand over her elaborate headdress.
“That’s different.”
“Whatever,” Vernal gurgled in his grated voice. “Keep your superstitions, old man.”
“Wait.” The old man lifted a finger. “I have something for you.”
“I have to go.”
“Just wait.” The old man put the gryphon tears away. “This stuff keeps me in business. Retail chains won’t touch it.” He walked around the counter and opened a cabinet.
Vernal eyed the door. “What’s so bad about gryphon tears?”
“Eh, it’s how they collect them.” The old man inserted a long pair of tongs into a sand-filled terrarium.
“One at a time?”
“No. Ass. They put the animals in these machines with a big screw and pinch them. Supposedly it’s very painful.”
“So?”
“So, some people think it’s cruel. Here.” The old man pulled out a long, insectlike worm. It squirmed in the tongs. “Hold out your hand.”
Vernal raised an eyebrow.
“The Black Hand uses these. Never know, might keep you alive.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a stirge larva. The acolytes of the assassin cult let these burrow into their wrists. Through the palm.”
Vernal looked up. “What?”
The old man nodded and pinched the tongs. A thin, serrated stinger emerged from the creature’s hind end as it wriggled. “When you cock your wrist back, it compresses the animal and ejects the stinger. Useful as a concealed weapon. Sharp, and poisoned.”
“That’s clever.” Vernal smirked and held out his hand.
The old man paused. “You’re really not afraid of anything, are you?”