December 7, 2009
6:11 P. M.
Eiffel’s Shade, Portland, Oregon
“So here’s what I don’t get about you, Pierre.”
“What, you can’t call me père?”
“No. Here’s what I don’t get about you; you won’t drink, but you smoke.”
I never had a penchant for French food, although that may have simply been because of my lack of knowledge about it. I don’t drink, so who cares about French wine; I don’t like slimy textures, so even touching a frog or a snail grosses me out. Soup is made if you’re poor, you’re sick, or if you only have five minutes to spare. The only thing that comes to mind would be baguettes, but even then I don’t eat that much bread outside of paninis, an Italian creation.
Yet here we sat, the two of us wearing normal suits for once as we dined at this French Restaurant. I opted for something dark and professional while Pierre, as to be expected, went much more casual in a white and red combo that painfully reminded me of Alucard when we had last seen each other. Where was Moriarty now?
“So your complaint is… why do I smoke and not drink?”
“Yeah. If you’re on the side of heaven, the rule is that you don’t do either… right? If anything it should be reversed; you can drink but you can’t smoke.”
“Mon enfant.” Pierre replied, slapping his eye patch. “You must have had such a terrible education if you think that. Do you really think that we vampires live by the same rules as you humans? That even a Catholic, a Protestant, a Mormon, a Hindu, a Muslim or a Shiite or any other combination of vampire will live by the same so called words of wisdoms that you yourself have to live? That is like suggesting that because they came out of Judaism, all Christians must avoid eating pork.
“You must understand that once you have the infection, a FTM no longer lives by the same commandments given to the rest of man. Cannibalisme, for instance, is a grave crime amongst normal humans… but for us? We would die if we did not suck and eat our enemies, which would suggest that God is commanding us to commit suicide. Would God ever tell a man to kill himself?”
“No-”
“Then by logic alone you realize that it’s okay for a Vampire to suck a person’s blood… well, it depends on who you’re sucking, but that should be obvious as well. What are you getting?”
I was embarrassed to say it, but did so anyway. “A steak.”
The way Pierre’s eye twitched looked as if it would explode itself, becoming blind like the dead orb covered beneath his dark patch. “A bifteck? You come to one of the best French restaurant, a word you even stole from us to use in your language, and decide you’ll settle for a STEAK?”
“Well, what am I supposed to get? Ratatouille?”
“Ratatouille is a fantastic film and an even better dish! Yes, you should!”
I paused, looked at the man oddly, wondering if he realized his mistake. “Did you just say Ratatouille is a good movie?”
“It is a celebration of my homeland, a depiction of what is the cœur de la France. Romance, good food, a celebration of family, deceit and above all love… we French adore these ideals, even as you putrid Americans move away from them.”
“… It was a kid’s movie.”
I think I triggered the man, Pierre’s eye flashing bright as he slammed his fist into the table. Ever one for privacy, I had called ahead to get the back room to ourselves; no eyes to watch and stare questioningly at our strange behavior as my father proved to be the first one to get ramped up.
“A mercenary and killer for hire can appreciate the intricacies and messages taught by a Disney movie just as well as anyone else! You do not have to be a child to understand what it means to be good or innocent! All of mankind would be better if they adhere and watched the movies produced by Disney… except for Cars. That franchise is des déchets.”
“Amen to whatever the hell that means.” I replied, just as our waiter anxiously arrived to see what was the matter. We gave our drinks, neither of us getting wine as you might imagine, before we sent him on his with two orders of Ratatouille, Pierre going out of his way now to prove a point now that I had offended him so.
Once the man was away though, I pulled out a file from my briefcase and tossed it on the table, sheets escaping as I announced “So my next game is in two days. After this we’ll only get a day between every match; things are really speeding up.”
“Dit l'homme avec trois semaines à vivre.”
“I don’t even want to know. Would you care to do the honors, or shall I?”
Pierre, poking his patch, made the point before he even opened his mouth. “I’m good at shooting, but it’s a pain to read. It’s all yours.”
As it always was. At least I was reading it out loud this time.
“To Seth Sears:
“Congratulations on your second win. It may be hard to believe, but you’re already a fifth done with your final assignment. Many would be envious of such a feeling, but it may fill you with dread knowing that this is indirectly costing your life. Rest assured your work will not be forgotten.
“Your third opponent is Nicholas Sarkozy-”
“The French President?” Pierre asked, intrigued. I shook my head, continuing
“One of our distributors-”
“Dam it. To think this would be exciting.”
Annoyed, I set the paper down and asked “Are you going to interrupt me every five seconds.”
“No… continue.”
A short breath, then “-One of our distributors for the European region. Mr. Sarkozy, as to be expected from many of our clients, saw the change in management as a chance to increase his fees. While a five to ten percent shift is manageable, a hundred and fifty percent increase is flat out stealing. Unfortunately, Europe is one of our prime markets with this continued communist witch hunt and growing tensions with the Middle East, meaning that we can’t afford to simply cease using Mr. Sarkozy and his shipping routes.
“I will not pay this outrageous fee, however. You will need to act fast and ensure that he agrees to either a ten percent extra service fee or less. If he doesn’t, we’ll have a small economic nightmare to deal with besides the a few rolling heads. Do whatever you like to make him see reason.
“Sherry Sears.”
The attached picture proved he was not our man, but at least by looks alone he seemed to be a Frenchman. Showing it to Pierre, I quickly said
“So. What’s the plan?”
“As the French say, que voulez-vous dire?”
“You’re French. He’s French. How do you screw over a Frenchman?”
Pierre laughed at that, though whether it was the food that elicited such laughter or a darker, eviler instinct as his destructive mind began to work I could not tell. Thanking the waiter, the man took one bite into the Ratatouille before he smiled, grinning like a child as he dug in more and more.
When he spoke, I understood the happiness wasn’t from the meal alone. “There’s only one way you can pull something over on us French. You have to hurt him below the belt; you get dirty, and you kick him where it counts.
“You take everything away from him.”
Times of Peace: Volume 1 of the side adventures to The Mercenary's Salvation Page 59