"No, they're calling about what you had for breakfast," said Josie. "Of course they're calling about the frickity-frackity case!"
"They've been calling about it all morning!" said Chip.
Simon yawned. "So what've you been telling them?"
"The truth." Ankha, dressed in a shredded black top and tights, strolled in with a giant mug of coffee. "That the work In¢entive$ is doing is a more important story."
"That In¢entive$ deserves front page coverage!" said Josie.
"And the top story on the six o'clock news," said Chip. "Plus which, we're hitting up the reporters for donations."
Simon snapped his fingers. "Now that's what I like to hear!"
"It's our chance to cash in, Boss," said Josie. "Use the spotlight to spread the good word and fatten our endowment."
"I'm thinking we need to make a major push," said Chip. "Ride this dick deal for all it's worth."
"Let's really milk it dry," said Josie.
"Squeeze every last bit out of it," said Ankha.
"Enough with the euphemisms!" Simon laughed and headed for the kitchen. "You've already driven your point home!"
Chip groaned. "That one's hard to swallow."
"Well, how about taking a stab at this?" Josie followed Simon, holding out the phone. "I've got a TV reporter from Pittsburgh on hold. Should we set up an interview?"
"Yeah, Sime." Chip brought in his phone, too. "My guy's from Baltimore. Plus these." He flashed a sheet of paper with rows of names and phone numbers scrawled in ink. "Twenty-five reporters from all over the country, plus Canada." A phone rang in the living room. "And counting."
"So whatta you say there, Elvis?" Josie poked the phone at Simon's chest. "Are you ready to meet the press?"
Simon just stared at the list and shook his head in amazement. "That's a lot of interviews. It'll be a major time sink."
"But you can't say no," said Chip. "Think of all the good you can do!"
"Think about the principles you talked about in court," said Josie. "This is your chance to promote them, Boss."
"Yeah," said Chip. "Why stop at whipping one dick? There's a whole nation of dicks waiting for you to beat them."
Josie giggled. "Exactly, Boss. You could really give 'em a pounding."
Simon rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Can we go ten seconds without a dick joke, please?"
"Okay, okay." Chip brushed a hand over the bright green highlighted tips of his spiky black hair. "This could be a once in a lifetime opportunity to make a difference. To make a statement about something important."
"Or at the very least," said Ankha, who'd just glided into the room with her mug, "you can really get out the word about Horne Shaw being a dick before his lawyer gets the decision overturned on appeal."
"And don't forget all the free publicity for In¢entive$." Josie smacked the phone into Simon's hand and wrapped his fingers around it. "Make the calls, Boss!"
Simon knew they were right. The crusader spirit of the Lone Appraiser urged him onward. "I'll do it on one condition: I get to hand-pick my public relations team. I want you, you, and you." He pointed at Josie, Chip, and Ankha.
"Groovy!" said Chip. "Stand back and watch the ass-kicking begin!"
"Sweet!" Simon shoved the phone back into Josie's hand. "Start by taking all my calls and making my appointments."
Josie frowned. "This is different from all the rest of the time how, exactly?"
"You're working for a higher purpose now," said Simon. "Striking fear in the dicks of America."
"Who said anything about America?" said Josie.
"We have to start somewhere." Simon shrugged and headed for the back door. "Today the dicks of America, tomorrow the dicks of the world."
*****
Chapter 18
130 Million Years Ago
China
Grip had been on the trail of the killers all night, roaming the screaming forest of nocturnal creatures in pitched battle by moonlight. Traveling by darkness had felt good, the cool night air reviving after the past two days of blazing heat.
The coolness lingered as the misty light of dawn filtered through the tall pines. Still fresh, still driven after hours on the hunt, Grip trotted through a stand of tall ferns...and came nose to nose with a two-legged meat-eating dinosaur.
She was big, about three times taller than Grip...the same size he imagined the killers would be. Her thick hide was covered in feathers of varying shades of green, perfect camouflage in the brush of the forest. Her enormous eyes were as yellow as egg yolks, her teeth and talons ivory white smeared with ruby red blood.
She was a killer, much like the six dinosaurs Grip was tracking. In fact, she was nose to nose with Grip because she'd been leaning down, dining on the remains of a plant-eater the six dinos had killed. Grip could smell their scents clearly on the shredded carcass at her feet.
For a moment, the meat-eater froze and stared at Grip, emerald feathers bristling, yellow eyes burning with awareness. Fresh meat was only inches away...fresher meat than the day-old carcass.
But Grip let her know she would pay a price if she tried to feast on him. Even as she stared, Grip peeled back his lips, baring his sharp teeth, and growled. He would not go easily.
Not while there was revenge to be had.
The meat-eater considered him for a long time, then finally raised her head, breaking the standoff. Grip padded forward, still snarling, red-tipped ears pasted against the back of his neck.
On his way past, Grip kept his eyes locked on the towering meat-eater, waiting for her to make a threatening move...but she didn't. She wouldn't step away from the food on the ground, but she didn't seem inclined to attack Grip, either.
In fact, Grip even smelled fear on her. She was so much bigger, yet she was afraid of him.
And Grip loved knowing it. It made him feel more ready to take on the six killers and hurt them for what they'd done to his family.
He tested his confidence with a sudden jump and a bark at the meat-eater. Heart racing, fire shooting through his blood, he pretended he was about to launch a fierce attack.
The meat-eater instantly backed off. Grip jumped and barked again, and the meat-eater stumbled back another step, hissing. Then, Grip made his boldest move yet.
Lunging forward, he plunged his teeth into the haunch of the carcass, sinking them deep. The meat-eater squawked and flapped her green-feathered forelimbs but didn't attack.
Grip tore off a mouthful of meat and gulped it down, then went in for another bite. He kept his eyes on the meat-eater the whole time, sensing she wouldn't wait much longer to strike back. Her strong, bitter scent told the story: hunger and anger were about to overpower fear. He read it as clearly in her scent as if she'd already done what he knew she was about to do.
Sure enough, before Grip could snatch a third mouthful, the meat-eater leaped at him, screeching and swinging her gleaming claws. Grip's low-to-the-ground build served him well; he ducked the meat-eater's talons and scuttled between her legs, then scrambled off into the forest.
The meat-eater might have caught him, but she didn't follow. The sure thing of the dead meal on the ground trumped the less certain meal of Grip, who might still manage to elude her even if she chased him.
Grip kept running full-tilt, though, and not only because he wanted to be sure he was safe. He ran as fast as he could for the pure joy of it, the first real joy he'd felt since the loss of his family.
His heart pounded like thunderbolts crashing in his chest. Air rushed in and out of his lungs in great, tingling drafts. The muscles of his stubby legs burned as if they were on fire. His sleek fur flattened in the wind.
He'd faced death and escaped it, stealing a meal along the way. Grip didn't think in terms of signs and omens, but he did feel how good this one was. He savored the victory.
It made him feel brave and strong and unstoppable. It pumped him full of flashing light and crackling power.
It made him hungry for what lay ahead--the six killer dinosaurs
and bloody revenge. He tasted their trail with every wild breath he drew, and it fired him forward like a spark racing along a lit fuse.
Nothing would stop him from getting what he wanted. Even if it took forever and every last beat of his heart, he would sink his teeth into it and never let go.
It was what he did best. It was what he was born to do.
*****
Chapter 19
130 Million Years Later
The Radio Call-In Show
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
The "dick suit" court case had ended a week ago, and Simon was feeling better than ever. Good things kept coming his way, like more donations for In¢entive$, more dates with Ishi, more coverage in the media...and now a guest spot on a Pittsburgh radio call-in show.
Simon sat in the dimly lit booth at the radio station, feeling groggy. He and Ishi had left Melville at four in the morning to drive the two hours to Pittsburgh in time for the six a.m. show.
Now they listened to one call after another, all moderated by gruff and edgy host Buzz Copacetic. So far, the tone of the calls had been consistent; everyone had roughly the same thing to say to him.
"Thank you for standing up for the little guy, Simon." The current call the same as all the rest had been: big-time positive. Simon could practically hear the smile in the man's voice sifting out of the speaker on the wall. "You're a hero as far as I'm concerned."
Simon blushed and combed his fingers through his short, black hair. "Thanks for your kind words." He leaned closer to the microphone hanging over the console in front of him. "But my attorney, Quinn Keegan, is the real hero. And Judge Bartlebaugh, who ruled in our favor."
Across the console sat Buzz Copacetic, host of the call-in show--a wiry guy in his late forties or fifties with shaggy gray hair, blacked-out aviator sunglasses, and a nose like a scraggly ginger root. He wore a white V-neck t-shirt under a black corduroy sport coat powdered with cigarette ashes. "But you're the one who stepped forward." Buzz's voice was deep and gravelly, as if he'd smoked a zillion cigarettes and gargled steel wool on top of that. Though he wasn't smoking at the moment, the booth smelled like cigarette smoke, and there were filled ashtrays on every available surface. "You deserve credit here, Simon."
Simon shook his head. "I'm not looking for credit, Buzz. I just want people to treat each other with respect."
"No offense, Simon ol' buddy," said Buzz, "but what makes you think that's ever gonna happen?"
"Maybe we start with more dick identification," said Simon.
Buzz burst into raspy laughter. "You mean I'm gonna have to I.D. my junk? I love it!"
As Buzz kept howling, Simon smiled and locked eyes with Ishi, who sat in a corner of the booth behind Buzz. Her wispy black bangs fluttered as she giggled at Buzz's joke.
Simon's heart beat faster just from looking at her. If sitting in on the call-in show counted as a date, this was their fifth...and things just kept getting better between them.
"So how will we I.D. our dicks, Simon?" Buzz could barely stifle his laughter long enough to get the words out. "Some kind of tagging process, like with bald eagles?"
"That's not what I'm talking about, of course," said Simon. "What I mean is that if we identify more people who are public nuisances, we might inspire them to change their attitudes. To treat others with respect."
"How do you figure?" said Buzz.
"Okay," said Simon. "Let's say you're a known dick."
Buzz's prominent Adam's apple bobbed up and down when he chuckled. "Hypothetically speaking, of course."
"People will avoid you, right?" said Simon. "They won't want to be around you."
"Because I'm a dick?" said Buzz. "Here I thought it was a body odor issue."
"They won't want to do business with you," said Simon. "They won't want to hire you. Who wants to deal with a dick, right?"
"I was going to say a urologist," said Buzz, "but we won't go there, man."
"Do you see what I'm saying?" Simon talked with his hands, gesturing with his fingers spread wide apart. "Social pressure comes into play. Next thing you know, we have an effective dick deterrent."
"We already have one of those," said Buzz. "I call her my ex-wife."
Simon laughed and let his hands fall to the console. "You get the general idea."
Just then, a red light on top of the control panel between them winked, and Buzz hit a button. "Whatcha got for me, caller?"
This time, the voice from the speaker was a woman's. "Earth is a planet of dicks," she said.
Buzz laughed. "Wasn't that a B-movie in the 1950s? Planet of the Dicks?"
"Seriously," said the woman. "I'm talking ninety-nine percent dicks. Think about it."
"So what you're saying," said Buzz, "is they've got us surrounded. When they break through the cabin walls and bite us, we'll all become dicks."
"What I'm saying is this." The woman cleared her throat. "Maybe it would make more sense to label those of us who aren't dicks. Since there are so few of us, it would be much cheaper and less time-consuming than labeling all those who are dicks, wouldn't it?"
"Labeling the dickless?" said Buzz. "Then how do we decide who's dickish and who's undicklike?"
"Some kind of government agency?" said the woman.
"A Bureau of Dicks?" said Buzz. "An Office of Dick Management?" He laughed and pressed a button, cutting off the call. "Food for thought, eh, Simon?"
Simon nodded. "Keeping in mind the judge's ruling is up for appeal."
Buzz frowned and leaned toward him. "How do you think that'll go, Simon?"
"Who knows?" Simon shrugged. "Maybe we'll get lucky again."
"What about you, Ishiko?" Buzz turned and looked at Ishi in the corner. "Win or lose on appeal?"
"Of course we're going to win." Ishi nodded forcefully. "We've got right on our side."
"You heard it here first, folks," said Buzz. "Dick identification is here to stay! The dick will stick."
*****
Chapter 20
Two Weeks Later
New York City, New York
It was a sign.
Literally, it was a sign--big red letters painted on a white placard nailed to a stake. It was carried by a girl on the sidewalk outside the TV studio, visible through the giant plate glass windows behind the set.
SUE YOUR DICK! That was what it said.
Simon grinned. There he was in New York City, getting ready to walk onto the set of the top-rated national network morning show, US AM, and he was already news on the street.
SUE YOUR DICK! wasn't the only sign out there, either. DOWN WITH DICKS! That was scrawled on one of them. D.I.L.L. - DICK IDENTIFICATION & LEGISLATION LEAGUE, read another.
"Two minutes!" The floor director, a short, middle-aged African-American woman in a black t-shirt and jeans, paced the studio, clipboard in hand, headphones over her ears.
Simon smiled at Ishi, then gazed across the room at the show's superstar hosts, Corbett Lithe and Nan Galleon. Corbett, with his blond hair, ultra-high cheekbones, and piercing blue eyes, perched on a stool in his sleek designer suit beside Nan, who also had high cheekbones, blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, and star quality. They looked brighter and bolder to Simon than they did on TV, though they also seemed smaller somehow. Seeing them sitting so close, talking and laughing like they did every day on TV, felt unreal to Simon.
But it was real, all right. It was the culmination of everything that had happened to Simon over the past two weeks.
He was in high demand these days and making the most of it. He'd been interviewed by every major newspaper, magazine, and TV news outfit in the country and invited to an endless stream of parties and special events. So many phone calls had come in that Josie, Chip, and Ankha had been forced to set aside their In¢entive$ duties and work exclusively as his full-time public relations team.
The invitation to New York City was the capper. You couldn't get much bigger than US A.M....and to top it off, Simon had a huge meeting set for the next day, a mee
ting with a serious high-stakes V.I.P. player.
Simply put, it was a great time to be Simon Bellerophon.
The floor director led him and Ishi to stools on the set beside Corbett and Nan. The anchors introduced themselves and shook hands with Simon and Ishi as they took their seats.
Then, holding Ishi's hand, Simon looked around, taking in the scene. Everything seemed to twinkle in the heavenly radiance of the studio lights above them. In front of them, camera lenses gleamed under dark hoods behind rows of scrolling text, projected in midair. The smell of coffee, leather, and roses drifted through the set.
The floor director stood between the two cameras directly in front of Simon, listening to signals on a single-earpiece headset. She held up both hands, palms out, and counted down by folding down fingers one at a time: 10...9...8...7...
Corbett Lithe smiled like an angel, all blond hair and cheekbones. He glanced at a sheaf of papers in his hand, then looked up as the countdown continued.
...6...5...4...3...2...1
When Corbett spoke, his voice sounded more like music than words. Simon felt as if he were in a dream.
*****
Later, Simon and Ishi played back a DVD recording of the interview in their luxurious Manhattan hotel room as they made love. Both the DVD and the room were courtesy of the US A.M. show.
It was the perfect soundtrack. There they were on the screen, chatting with Corbett and Nan, even as their images twined and twisted in the mirror beside the TV, reflected from the bed in a slow storm of rhythmic motion.
"How does it feel to start a movement?" said Corbett's recorded voice.
"There's a movement?" TV Simon shrugged and smiled.
Non-TV Simon caressed Ishi's breasts through her thin silk negligee, then bent to circle them with his tongue.
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