Chapter 5 part 2
This time, thankfully, I was able to keep the contents of my stomach down, though not without effort. Not only did I do it because the food had been made by Xen, but also because it would not be practical or sensible to allow the only nourishment I'd had all day to come up again. This was no time to disregard my health. I feel through the mirror to the ground, and lay curled in a ball, arms wrapped around my stomach, in paroxysms of agony until the convulsions finally ceased. It seemed like an eternity to me, but was probably only two minutes, give or take. My stomach gave one last lurch, trying to dislodge the food, and finally gave up. I pulled myself up, swallowed with difficulty, and wiped the sweat from my clammy forehead. I felt like I'd been giving a thrashing by a pair of hired goons with heavy sticks (I know what that feels like from a personal experience, which I would prefer not to go into right now, if it's all the same to you). Figuratively speaking, I pulled myself together. A couple of months ago, I actually had to see that happen. Bjorn, one of the trolls I work with often, came through one of the teleport mirrors wrong, or else it malfunctioned, because his arms and legs came through first, and the rest showed up afterwards. It was singularly icky, if you must know. We thought he was going to die, but Harper spit him back together, and soon he was good as new. However, we all gained an intense, irreparable mistrust of that particular mirror, and since then have avoided it like the plague.
I was at the very foot of Chernabog Prison. It was set on a giant, black rock, way out on the water, shrouded in spells of concealment and repellency to humans. To me, they looked like thick black clouds, with flashes of aura belonging to different mages who had worked to construct the spells. The castle itself looked every bit as forbidding and creepy as the mirror image had been. Undaunted, I stepped up to the iron, magically enhanced gate, lifted the knocker (which was shaped like an imp’s face) and banged twice. A slit above the knocker-way above the knocker-opened, and a pair of suspicious dark eyes peered out.
"Can I come in?" I asked.
"PASSWORD?" a voice rumbled.
Since when is there a password? I wondered. Then I realized what he (I guessed it was a he) meant. Reaching into my pocket, I withdrew the wallet Morty had given me, extracted a crisp 100-dollar bill, and held it up to the slot. A pair of meaty fingers the color of curdled milk (tipped with blood red nails) somehow reached through, plucked the bill from my claws, and then retreated inside. The slit slammed shut. I stood there for a moment, unsure how to respond. Then, creaking ominously, the prison door opened, revealing the guard to be an enormous ogre. He was dressed in a dark blue suit, slightly grimy, with a nametag that said "Flavius" on it. At his belt he carried a club, one of those enchanted kinds that would electrocute whoever it was pointed at; very useful for subduing unruly inmates. Flavius waved the bill at me, and made a slightly mocking bow.
"ENTER, AND OF YOUR OWN FREE WILL."
I stepped through the doorway, and felt a chill run through my body. That had to be the air spirit that checked for concealed weapons. I held still until it stopped. The ogre looked pleased by my cooperation. When a disembodied voice whispered, "All clear," he gestured for me to follow him. I did. We were in the opening hallway, which was lined on either side with rows upon rows of statues and suits of armor, all armed to the teeth. I conjectured that they were designed to come to life and attack, in the case of an invasion or a prison breakout. Very cliché, but usually effective. The ceiling seemed to stretch all the way into the heavens. Even with my night vision, I was barely able to make it out. It looked very blank and cheerless, just like the rest of this place. Everything was made out of either stone or metal. Cold, lifeless objects. The place had a general air of wickedness and corruption, with overlying confinement and neglect. I wanted out, and as soon as conveniently possible.
We finally made it to the front desk, where there sat an imp woman with short, curly hair pulled into an untidy bun. Imps come mostly in black, but her skin was a sickly green. At most she had to be 4 feet tall, with beady red eyes, and she wore horn-rimmed glasses perched on the end of her crooked nose. Her fingers were covered with warts, and her right hand was missing the pinky. Looked to me as if it had been bitten off some time in the past, though what did it could be any number of creatures; it had probably been something small, judging by the size of the scar, with very sharp, pointy teeth.
"What is your business?" she demanded in a high, yet businesslike tone.
"My name is Tristan Wormwood. I'm a detective. I want to visit a prisoner," I replied.
"Did you obtain and fill out the appropriate paperwork? You need the blue form, the green form, the red form, the-"
I pulled out another 100-dollar bill, and laid it on the desk. The imp looked down her nose at me, with some difficulty, since she had to look up in order to do so.
"Do you think, Mr. Wormwood, that I am susceptible to bribery?"
I added two more bills. Instantly she became more compliant.
"Which prisoner is it that you want to visit?" She gave me what I supposed was an ingratiating smile, exposing a fine set of tiny fangs; I wondered for a moment if she had been the one to bite off her finger. But I decided that was silly.
"Desmond Jessup. If it's quite convenient."
Both imp and ogre gasped. They gave each other nervous, darting glances, before looking back at me.
"Why him?" asked the receptionist in a strangled tone. I gave both her and Flavius another bill.
"He is still here, isn't he?" I probed.
"Of course he is!" The imp's indignation looked genuine. "He's just more...dangerous than the rest. He needs to be restrained first, and if you wish to speak with him privately, in his cell, it will cost you extra."
"Oh, I don't mind." Understanding why Morty had given me this wallet, and wondering how I would ever be able to pay him back, I handed her two more bills. The receptionist produced a ring of keys, and selected one. It had the number 10642 on it. She handed it over, and nodded to the ogre.
"Flavius will bring you there, and wait outside until you have finished. Have a nice day."
"Thanks."
With that, Flavius and I went to a nearby service elevator, and Flavius, with some difficulty (they weren't custom-made for fingers his size), pressed the button for the 10th floor.
Monday, July 23, 2012
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
TANSTAV part 15
Chapter Five
The plot thickens (of course)
The plot thickens (of course)
By now you readers must be tearing your hair out (or fur, or feathers, or horns, or antennae, depending on what you are), wondering who it is I suspected, why he has mismatched feet, what he’s doing in Galveston, and why I have such a deep personal vendetta against him. Well, I’m tempted not to tell, just to preserve the suspense for a while longer. But I really hate it when writers do stuff like that: they don’t get straight to the point about what they want to say, but have to go off on a tangent and blab on and on about something completely off topic, and you want them to shut up and get on with the plot, but they keep jabbering away about some random thing, until finally you yell at them to-
GET ON WITH IT!!!!
The tracks on the Skald’s lawn belonged to a demon that goes by the name Desmond Jessup. He is possibly the only being in this world who I know for certain that I hate (there are some others I’m not sure about yet). He has been a thorn in my side. Actually, that’s a gross understatement. When I first arrived in Styxburg, about 2 years ago, he was running an underground crime ring. Thefts, murders, illegal experiments with magic, terrorizing humans, drugs- Jessup had his disgusting fingers in all those pies, without qualm or conscience. No one could catch him, or prove his guilt. He was like Moriarty, or the Cigarette-Smoking Man, or Professor Ratigan. Except, of course, that he had never reckoned on dealing with me. And I mean that in all modesty. One by one, I was able to scoop his associates and sidekicks out of the sea of crime, and lock them up so deeply that no amount of attorneys or alibis could get them out. But Jessup always slipped away at the last moment, teasing me, tormenting me. And then he made his fatal mistake. He kidnapped Xen, and warned me to back off, or else.
She had just turned 18, and had come to Styxburg to find me. Knowing he’d taken her, and thinking of what he might do, fired up my determination, instead of making me back down, as he’d intended. The very day she became his prisoner, I ran him to earth, and soon that bleep-of-a-bleep was behind bars for the rest of his life, in Chernabog Prison, the place reserved for only the most evil, diabolical monster criminals. He escaped the death sentence he so richly deserved on a technicality, to my disappointment. I am aware of how uncharitable that line of thinking is. Whoop-dee-doo. Xen, thankfully, was unharmed; but for 2 months afterwards, I hired a bodyguard to protect her, before she made me dismiss him. I was that freaked out by her being in that kind of danger. Also, for a long time, she became more emotionally fragile; she hated for me to leave her alone very often, suffered a few panic attacks, etc. She’s recovered now, thankfully. It scared me to see her like that; she’s always been the level-headed one in our relationship.
To give you an idea of what kind of people reside in Chernabog: Jack the Ripper’s there. Believe it or not, he’s a mage, who killed those girls in order to make boons with demons. In exchange for their blood, the demons granted Jack extended life. He also used the corpses to practice blood magic, a practice that is highly illegal nowadays. Lovely, isn’t it? There’s also Tenyah, the Soul Stealer of Edinburgh, Lord Pegrae, the crooked baron, Kat Fowvee, the famous assassin- all one big, happy, murderous family. Jessup fits right in.
I stepped into the police station, and headed for the station where the teleportation mirrors were kept. I needed one, and fast, even though it made me sick at heart to think about it. I had almost made it down the corridor to their room, when a voice called, “Tristan?”
To my relief, it was Morty, gliding my way. To my irritation, Fleming was with him. I haven’t described him yet, have I? Sorry. He’s a short, ferret-faced little fellow, like you’d imagine Inspector Lestrade from Sherlock Holmes (the original stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, not the BBC version-though that’s pretty awesome too). Neatly groomed, anywhere between 30 and 40, dirty blond hair, bulgy blue eyes, clean-shaven. He was wearing a dark blue suit, with the coat sleeves wearing through, and a few ink stains on the right cuff. Upon sighting me, his bulgy eyes narrowed. I kept my own expression comparatively neutral.
“What are you doing here?” asked Morty. “Don’t you have a girl to watch?”
“Yeah, but I also have a case to work on. Xen’s looking after her for me while I’m out. I need a mirror. I have somewhere to go, where I can’t get by flying. At least, not anytime soon.”
“Where?” asked Fleming suspiciously.
“Somewhere,” I repeated. It was none of his business. Besides, I hate giving away my plans before I have to.
The Reaper looked thoughtful. Then he said, “You need to at least tell me where you’re going, so I can make sure it’s not completely against regulations.”
I glanced over at Fleming. Morty, taking the hint, gestured for him to go away. The little mage looked disappointed, but moved on back down the hallway. Once I was sure he was out of earshot, I whispered (just in case), “I’m going to Chernabog.”
Morty’s moonlit eyes widened. It was the only evidence of his surprise. Of course, that’s because all the rest of him is shrouded in his cloak, so all anyone can see of him is his eyes.
“What do you want there?”
“It’s for my case. I told you.”
But Morty is pretty smart. He’s not lieutenant for nothing, after all.
“Does this have something to do with Jessup?”
“It might.”
“Tristan, why do you want to go and see that scoundrel?”
“I found his tracks, fresh.” To respect Senator Skald’s privacy, I was no more specific than that.
“Where? Are you sure?!”
“I’m sworn to secrecy on where, and I know they’re his. No one else has tracks like that.”
“We’d have heard if he escaped, right?” Morty scrolled through the songs on his iPod, which he did whenever he was trying to think.
“Probably. But I’m gonna go check.”
“Well, if you insist on going…” The Reaper reached into his cloak, and pulled out a black wallet, bulging at the seams. He handed it to me, and I peeked inside. It was full of money.
“What-”
“Trust me, you’ll need it. It’ll save you a lot of red tape.”
Then Morty gave me a pass into the transportation room. It was enchanted so that as soon as I had used it to get into the room, it would return to its master, as extra protection against theft.
“Thanks. I owe you for this.”
With that, I strolled down the hall to the room of mirrors, and slipped inside. Once there, I chose one of the farthest, best quality mirrors, one framed in gold, with little blue gems in the corners.
“Chernabog Prison.”
My reflection changed into a tall, forbidding-looking castle. It looked even blacker than it was, if possible, due to the blinding sun behind it. I slipped on my dark glasses, and, after a moment of nervous hesitation, stepped through.
GET ON WITH IT!!!!
The tracks on the Skald’s lawn belonged to a demon that goes by the name Desmond Jessup. He is possibly the only being in this world who I know for certain that I hate (there are some others I’m not sure about yet). He has been a thorn in my side. Actually, that’s a gross understatement. When I first arrived in Styxburg, about 2 years ago, he was running an underground crime ring. Thefts, murders, illegal experiments with magic, terrorizing humans, drugs- Jessup had his disgusting fingers in all those pies, without qualm or conscience. No one could catch him, or prove his guilt. He was like Moriarty, or the Cigarette-Smoking Man, or Professor Ratigan. Except, of course, that he had never reckoned on dealing with me. And I mean that in all modesty. One by one, I was able to scoop his associates and sidekicks out of the sea of crime, and lock them up so deeply that no amount of attorneys or alibis could get them out. But Jessup always slipped away at the last moment, teasing me, tormenting me. And then he made his fatal mistake. He kidnapped Xen, and warned me to back off, or else.
She had just turned 18, and had come to Styxburg to find me. Knowing he’d taken her, and thinking of what he might do, fired up my determination, instead of making me back down, as he’d intended. The very day she became his prisoner, I ran him to earth, and soon that bleep-of-a-bleep was behind bars for the rest of his life, in Chernabog Prison, the place reserved for only the most evil, diabolical monster criminals. He escaped the death sentence he so richly deserved on a technicality, to my disappointment. I am aware of how uncharitable that line of thinking is. Whoop-dee-doo. Xen, thankfully, was unharmed; but for 2 months afterwards, I hired a bodyguard to protect her, before she made me dismiss him. I was that freaked out by her being in that kind of danger. Also, for a long time, she became more emotionally fragile; she hated for me to leave her alone very often, suffered a few panic attacks, etc. She’s recovered now, thankfully. It scared me to see her like that; she’s always been the level-headed one in our relationship.
To give you an idea of what kind of people reside in Chernabog: Jack the Ripper’s there. Believe it or not, he’s a mage, who killed those girls in order to make boons with demons. In exchange for their blood, the demons granted Jack extended life. He also used the corpses to practice blood magic, a practice that is highly illegal nowadays. Lovely, isn’t it? There’s also Tenyah, the Soul Stealer of Edinburgh, Lord Pegrae, the crooked baron, Kat Fowvee, the famous assassin- all one big, happy, murderous family. Jessup fits right in.
I stepped into the police station, and headed for the station where the teleportation mirrors were kept. I needed one, and fast, even though it made me sick at heart to think about it. I had almost made it down the corridor to their room, when a voice called, “Tristan?”
To my relief, it was Morty, gliding my way. To my irritation, Fleming was with him. I haven’t described him yet, have I? Sorry. He’s a short, ferret-faced little fellow, like you’d imagine Inspector Lestrade from Sherlock Holmes (the original stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, not the BBC version-though that’s pretty awesome too). Neatly groomed, anywhere between 30 and 40, dirty blond hair, bulgy blue eyes, clean-shaven. He was wearing a dark blue suit, with the coat sleeves wearing through, and a few ink stains on the right cuff. Upon sighting me, his bulgy eyes narrowed. I kept my own expression comparatively neutral.
“What are you doing here?” asked Morty. “Don’t you have a girl to watch?”
“Yeah, but I also have a case to work on. Xen’s looking after her for me while I’m out. I need a mirror. I have somewhere to go, where I can’t get by flying. At least, not anytime soon.”
“Where?” asked Fleming suspiciously.
“Somewhere,” I repeated. It was none of his business. Besides, I hate giving away my plans before I have to.
The Reaper looked thoughtful. Then he said, “You need to at least tell me where you’re going, so I can make sure it’s not completely against regulations.”
I glanced over at Fleming. Morty, taking the hint, gestured for him to go away. The little mage looked disappointed, but moved on back down the hallway. Once I was sure he was out of earshot, I whispered (just in case), “I’m going to Chernabog.”
Morty’s moonlit eyes widened. It was the only evidence of his surprise. Of course, that’s because all the rest of him is shrouded in his cloak, so all anyone can see of him is his eyes.
“What do you want there?”
“It’s for my case. I told you.”
But Morty is pretty smart. He’s not lieutenant for nothing, after all.
“Does this have something to do with Jessup?”
“It might.”
“Tristan, why do you want to go and see that scoundrel?”
“I found his tracks, fresh.” To respect Senator Skald’s privacy, I was no more specific than that.
“Where? Are you sure?!”
“I’m sworn to secrecy on where, and I know they’re his. No one else has tracks like that.”
“We’d have heard if he escaped, right?” Morty scrolled through the songs on his iPod, which he did whenever he was trying to think.
“Probably. But I’m gonna go check.”
“Well, if you insist on going…” The Reaper reached into his cloak, and pulled out a black wallet, bulging at the seams. He handed it to me, and I peeked inside. It was full of money.
“What-”
“Trust me, you’ll need it. It’ll save you a lot of red tape.”
Then Morty gave me a pass into the transportation room. It was enchanted so that as soon as I had used it to get into the room, it would return to its master, as extra protection against theft.
“Thanks. I owe you for this.”
With that, I strolled down the hall to the room of mirrors, and slipped inside. Once there, I chose one of the farthest, best quality mirrors, one framed in gold, with little blue gems in the corners.
“Chernabog Prison.”
My reflection changed into a tall, forbidding-looking castle. It looked even blacker than it was, if possible, due to the blinding sun behind it. I slipped on my dark glasses, and, after a moment of nervous hesitation, stepped through.
Monday, July 16, 2012
TANSTAV part 14
Chapter 4 part 4
I know, I sound completely callous and heartless towards the welfare of my fellow monsters. But at that moment, I didn't care. My mood was blacker than an imp, covered in Ghul blood, drinking octopus ink, inside a whale's gullet, at the bottom of the ocean, during the new moon. I burst into Higgins's house (the front door was always left unlocked, in order to admit patients), shaking and stomping, dripping water on the hallway carpet. His secretary, a heron man dressed in a custom-made suit, ran from his desk towards me, squawking in protest. For your information, he was of that species of monster that looks essentially like a human with some animal body parts. Very popular in Native American and Egyptian mythology. This particular one had a long, pointed beak, even longer skinny legs that looked like sticks, wings with hands on the ends, bright blue, feathery hair, and round yellow eyes.
"You are ruining the floor!" he squealed indignantly. "We just had the carpets cleaned yesterday! How dare you come here in this state!"
"Stuff it, stilts," I growled, "I'm here to see your boss."
"Not in that condition, you're not," the heron man said primly. "You must be dried off first. Furthermore, I'm not sure you have an appointment with Doctor Higgins."
I reached out, grabbed the secretary by his scrawny neck, lifted him off the ground, and moved him out of my way. Then I dropped him and moved on down the hall, going for the stairs. Higgins’s office was up there, and I meant to see him, come hell or high water.
"You can't do that!!" the heron man cried, grabbing my arm. "The doctor has given strict orders against anyone coming in without an appointment!"
"I am here to schedule an appointment with him!"
"You certainly do need one, but-"
"Not for ME, you dodo!" Wrenching my arm free, I prepared to take off. A sudden scream of fury rent the air, and I felt the secretary slam into my legs, knocking me to the floor, despite his scrawniness.
"I-AM-A-HERON!" Stilts shrieked. "NOT-A-DODO!!!"
Well, technically, he was only part heron. But I understood his meaning. Things were getting contentious, when a reedy voice cried, "What is all this racket about, Ivocnavi? I'm trying to work!" Standing at the top of the stairs, clad in his typical pale beige suit, was Doctor Archibald Higgins, in all his psychiatric glory.
Every time I see Higgins, my skin crawls. To humans, and even to most monsters, he looks very normal: tallish, thin, early to mid-'40s, receding gray hair that gives him a big forehead, a narrow, intelligent face. But I hate his eyes. As I've mentioned, I'm not impressed by flaming red orbs, and stuff like that. But his eyes are a completely different story. Cold, gray, calculating, like you'd imagine the eyes of Professor Moriarty. And how unfeelingly analytical they are! Sometimes he just stares at people without blinking, studying every movement, every sentence, and you just know he's also x-raying their thoughts-ugh!
I slowly disentangled myself, stood up, and shook water from my hair, eliciting another squeal from Mr. Ivocnavi. I ignored him.
"Hey, Doc. I'd like to set up an appointment with you."
Unadulterated delight spread in a reptilian grin across his pale face.
"You require an appointment, Mr. Wormwood? But of course! I would simply love-"
"For a friend of mine," I interrupted. Why was it, I wondered, that everyone assumed I needed psychiatric help?!
Higgins was disappointed, but also intrigued. I felt him starting to probe my thoughts (which is very hard to describe; to understand it, you'd have to experience it yourself), and began reciting the periodic table of the elements mentally. The doctor can only read thoughts on the surface of your subconscious, because he doesn't have enough power to push any further. Too lazy to practice, I guess. I didn't want him digging around in my brain just now, so it was easy to shut him out. He looked annoyed; the probing stopped, and he descended the stairs.
Once he reached us, I told him- in a nutshell- about Calla, and his delight returned.
"Wonderful!" he cried, with all the happiness of a scientist who has just discovered a new type of plant that can cure cancer. "And in only three weeks?"
"Yup. Healed up enough that she can go to the police."
"Oh, I just love a challenge!" Higgins rubbed his hands together gleefully, making a repellent shush-shush sound. "When do you want her first appointment?"
"I was thinking Wednesday."
"Ivocnavi, when am I free Wednesday?"
The heron man scrambled to the front desk, shedding a few feathers, and flipped through the appointment book.
"Either from 7 to 9 a.m, or 2 to 4 p.m."
"I'd prefer afternoon," I said.
"Splendid!" Higgins practically chirped the word. "Fill this out, please."
He waved a hand, and the book and a ballpoint pen flew from the desk, and landed in my hands. I read the page it was open to, making sure I wouldn't be selling away my soul or anything like that. It was just a formality for setting up the appointment, without enchantments, concealments, or alternate dimensions. I filled it out to the best of my ability (since I didn't know Calla's birthday, names of her parents, or the exact nature of her mental ailment; for that last one I just wrote "trauma"), signed, and handed both of them over to Higgins.
"Thanks. I'll be going now." I turned back down the hallway, passing the front desk (where the heron man glared at me), and unwittingly let slip a thought about where I was going at the moment when Higgins probed again.
"Galveston?" His interested query made me pause. "Why are you going to Galveston, Wormwood?"
After a moment, I replied, "That's my business. I'm not one of your patients, Doc." Then, humming loudly the song "I Am the Very Model of a Modern Major General" in my head, I exited the house into the rain.
I know, I sound completely callous and heartless towards the welfare of my fellow monsters. But at that moment, I didn't care. My mood was blacker than an imp, covered in Ghul blood, drinking octopus ink, inside a whale's gullet, at the bottom of the ocean, during the new moon. I burst into Higgins's house (the front door was always left unlocked, in order to admit patients), shaking and stomping, dripping water on the hallway carpet. His secretary, a heron man dressed in a custom-made suit, ran from his desk towards me, squawking in protest. For your information, he was of that species of monster that looks essentially like a human with some animal body parts. Very popular in Native American and Egyptian mythology. This particular one had a long, pointed beak, even longer skinny legs that looked like sticks, wings with hands on the ends, bright blue, feathery hair, and round yellow eyes.
"You are ruining the floor!" he squealed indignantly. "We just had the carpets cleaned yesterday! How dare you come here in this state!"
"Stuff it, stilts," I growled, "I'm here to see your boss."
"Not in that condition, you're not," the heron man said primly. "You must be dried off first. Furthermore, I'm not sure you have an appointment with Doctor Higgins."
I reached out, grabbed the secretary by his scrawny neck, lifted him off the ground, and moved him out of my way. Then I dropped him and moved on down the hall, going for the stairs. Higgins’s office was up there, and I meant to see him, come hell or high water.
"You can't do that!!" the heron man cried, grabbing my arm. "The doctor has given strict orders against anyone coming in without an appointment!"
"I am here to schedule an appointment with him!"
"You certainly do need one, but-"
"Not for ME, you dodo!" Wrenching my arm free, I prepared to take off. A sudden scream of fury rent the air, and I felt the secretary slam into my legs, knocking me to the floor, despite his scrawniness.
"I-AM-A-HERON!" Stilts shrieked. "NOT-A-DODO!!!"
Well, technically, he was only part heron. But I understood his meaning. Things were getting contentious, when a reedy voice cried, "What is all this racket about, Ivocnavi? I'm trying to work!" Standing at the top of the stairs, clad in his typical pale beige suit, was Doctor Archibald Higgins, in all his psychiatric glory.
Every time I see Higgins, my skin crawls. To humans, and even to most monsters, he looks very normal: tallish, thin, early to mid-'40s, receding gray hair that gives him a big forehead, a narrow, intelligent face. But I hate his eyes. As I've mentioned, I'm not impressed by flaming red orbs, and stuff like that. But his eyes are a completely different story. Cold, gray, calculating, like you'd imagine the eyes of Professor Moriarty. And how unfeelingly analytical they are! Sometimes he just stares at people without blinking, studying every movement, every sentence, and you just know he's also x-raying their thoughts-ugh!
I slowly disentangled myself, stood up, and shook water from my hair, eliciting another squeal from Mr. Ivocnavi. I ignored him.
"Hey, Doc. I'd like to set up an appointment with you."
Unadulterated delight spread in a reptilian grin across his pale face.
"You require an appointment, Mr. Wormwood? But of course! I would simply love-"
"For a friend of mine," I interrupted. Why was it, I wondered, that everyone assumed I needed psychiatric help?!
Higgins was disappointed, but also intrigued. I felt him starting to probe my thoughts (which is very hard to describe; to understand it, you'd have to experience it yourself), and began reciting the periodic table of the elements mentally. The doctor can only read thoughts on the surface of your subconscious, because he doesn't have enough power to push any further. Too lazy to practice, I guess. I didn't want him digging around in my brain just now, so it was easy to shut him out. He looked annoyed; the probing stopped, and he descended the stairs.
Once he reached us, I told him- in a nutshell- about Calla, and his delight returned.
"Wonderful!" he cried, with all the happiness of a scientist who has just discovered a new type of plant that can cure cancer. "And in only three weeks?"
"Yup. Healed up enough that she can go to the police."
"Oh, I just love a challenge!" Higgins rubbed his hands together gleefully, making a repellent shush-shush sound. "When do you want her first appointment?"
"I was thinking Wednesday."
"Ivocnavi, when am I free Wednesday?"
The heron man scrambled to the front desk, shedding a few feathers, and flipped through the appointment book.
"Either from 7 to 9 a.m, or 2 to 4 p.m."
"I'd prefer afternoon," I said.
"Splendid!" Higgins practically chirped the word. "Fill this out, please."
He waved a hand, and the book and a ballpoint pen flew from the desk, and landed in my hands. I read the page it was open to, making sure I wouldn't be selling away my soul or anything like that. It was just a formality for setting up the appointment, without enchantments, concealments, or alternate dimensions. I filled it out to the best of my ability (since I didn't know Calla's birthday, names of her parents, or the exact nature of her mental ailment; for that last one I just wrote "trauma"), signed, and handed both of them over to Higgins.
"Thanks. I'll be going now." I turned back down the hallway, passing the front desk (where the heron man glared at me), and unwittingly let slip a thought about where I was going at the moment when Higgins probed again.
"Galveston?" His interested query made me pause. "Why are you going to Galveston, Wormwood?"
After a moment, I replied, "That's my business. I'm not one of your patients, Doc." Then, humming loudly the song "I Am the Very Model of a Modern Major General" in my head, I exited the house into the rain.
Monday, July 9, 2012
TANSTAV part 13
Chapter 4 part 3
After I brought him my (soon-to-be) friend Larry, Doctor Higgins had told me to come back if I ever needed his help again, because he “finds my psyche an interesting study.” I'm not sure rather to be flattered or insulted, since I personally find Higgins to be a little creepy. But just for argument's sake, I try to be flattered.
The thing is, Archibald Higgins is a very hard person to like. His mother was a mage, but his father was a (extraordinarily oblivious) human. Higgins's abilities are comparatively mundane, just being able to move things without touching them, minor intuition, and limited mind-reading, the latter of which helps him in his job as a shrink. Not that any of that has to do with my disliking of the man. It's just that I can't stand how he views everyone other than himself as a lab specimen, something to be studied. When he's around people, he scrawls down everything you say, and he watches every move you make, and you just know he's trying to listen in to your thoughts, and identify your personality, upbringing, level of sanity, and I don't know what-all. But, if he could help Calla, I was willing to endure a bit of his staring and brain-picking for three weeks or so. After all, he's been a big help to Larry.
Larry is an interesting study. He's a werewolf, with depression, and who came from the past. That sounds kind of complicated, so let me go back a bit. At the beginning of the 1900s, he was in his early 30s, and had gone to join his father in his ancestral home in a small corner of Wales. I don't know whether the werewolf who bit him there one night was human at the time, or had only morphed halfway, or what, but whatever it was, he obviously didn't do it right. Larry couldn't morph all the way. Instead, during the full moon he turned into this weird, biped, hairy creature, not completely wolf or human. And with absolutely zero self-control. He terrorized his village, without meaning to, for about 4 months, since nobody could figure out what the heck was going on. I mean, they found tracks and stuff, but nobody could find the wolf. Then they realized it only showed up during the full moon, put two and two together (at least, as much as they were capable, since they didn't know the full story), and decided to go out during the next full moon and kill the monster. Larry was asked to be part of the hunting party. By now, he was a nervous wreck; he'd figured out what he was, and felt absolutely horrible about the innocent people he had hurt and/or killed. He had come to think of himself as a monster. Well, yes, he is; but he saw that as a bad thing. Anyway, he'd decided that the only way his soul could be saved would be for the hunters to kill him, so he intentionally separated from the others, transformed when the moon rose, and came after them, as he’d known he would. His own father had raised his gun (filled with silver bullets; it’s incredible what kind of crazy additions to myths you humans think up) and was about to shoot- when the wolf man suddenly vanished, mid-leap.
Meanwhile, on the same night, only 70 years in the future, some teenage mages were fooling around in the town cemetery, doing conjuring spells, since it was the full moon (Supposedly it's the best time for magic, when a mages powers will be at their height; personally I think I’ll believe it when I see it). And, it figured that by accident they would summon Larry. He appeared, sprawled across the coffin they'd been chanting around, snarling and growling. Terrified, the teens ran away; thankfully he was too dazed to chase after them. The next morning, having changed back into a human, he managed to get out of the cemetery and wander into the main part of town, begging anybody who came within his line of vision to kill him, and thus end the curse. That, in fact, is how we met. I was out on an investigation with Morty (this was before he became lieutenant), and Ishida gave us a call, asking us to take a break and bring in some lunatic who was causing a disturbance near the corner of Karloff and Hitchcock. So, we went and picked him up.
The moment I saw Larry, I knew he was in shock. His pupils were extremely dilated, and he staggered down the road, staring with unfocused eyes at the passing monsters. He had this awful, pained expression on his face. When he saw us, he said in a ragged voice, "Hello. Will you kill me?" He didn't even notice that we weren't exactly human, he was so far gone. Needless to say, after bringing him to the station, we searched the yellow pages for the first available psychiatrist, who happened to be Doc Higgins. And now, after almost a year of therapy, a weekly meeting with Lycanthropes Anonymous, and a special spell that helped him turn into a complete wolf every full moon, Larry seems to have adjusted to his new life. It has done him a world of good to know that he's not the only one of his kind, and that he can go through life as a werewolf without killing, or even maiming, anybody. He has a job, and a home, and even the possibility of a family in the future. He still has that tortured, agonized facial expression every once in a while, but I think that's become second nature for Larry.
Higgins lives in the middle of Elm Street, in an ancient house called The Nightmare. I don't know who came up with the idea of giving old houses names, but it's a weird one. Higgins uses The Nightmare as his office; his patients go there for appointments, so that he never has to go out, unless they schedule it as a house call. It's funny, but his house is the only one on his block that actually looks like the sort of place a monster would inhabit, and he's the only one in his neighborhood who doesn’t look at all like a monster. Everyone else has these normal-looking, modern houses, and he has this big, fancy, kind of dilapidated mansion. I wonder if he does it just to be eccentric.
It was pouring rain, and that makes for very bad flying weather, so I had to walk. I strolled down the street, lost in thought, hands in pockets. Unfortunately, my mind was so focused on the case, and its detestable suspect, that I was not paying strict attention to where I was going. Suddenly, I was hit from the front by something both small and fragile. I stepped back in surprise, and beheld a young woman, dressed in jeans, a jacket, and a T-shirt with the initials H.N.M. on it, holding a collecting tin in hand. I could see, just by observing her, that she was a hybrid Light Fae, that one of her parents had been disinherited (probably following their marriage), that she worked for a monster welfare program, and that she spent some of her time gardening. How did I know, you may ask? The first part, about her being a hybrid fae, came from her eyes. The right one was a luminous green, but the left was silver. When two different species of fae marry and have children, the children have bicolored eyes, based off what their parents are (I guess it’s because the two differing genetic materials split them, or something). Hers had been a Floran and a T'sa, respectively. And, since the T'sai are by nature mostly snobs, and discourage their offspring from associating with other species, let alone marrying them, her T'sa parent had most definitely been disowned. Also, she was generating a bit of sunlight to keep herself warm, a skill basically only possessed by Flori. The initials on her shirt stood for Help Needy Monsters, an organization that had come into being recently in Styxburg, and gives help to the tired, poor, homeless masses yearning to have a place in the monster world. H.N.M. also defends interbreeding between species, protesting against segregation and bigotry that show up every once in a while. As for the gardening, her hands were kind of tough and callused on the palms and insides of the fingers, especially on her right hand, meaning she had spent time doing manual labor. Since Flori are talented in working with plants, that could only mean work gardening.
"Sorry," I muttered, trying to push past. To my surprise and annoyance, she stepped back into my way, brandished the collecting tin, and asked, "Are you aware that every day, hundreds of monsters starve in the streets, and thousands more are shunned because they are not pure-blooded monsters, or because they are not humans?"
"Well, yes, actually, I am. Now, if you'll excuse me..." I tried to squirm past, but she was persistent.
"Your contribution could help to feed just one of the homeless for a month, or help us to pass a law against discrimination on account of species! Only twenty dollars could-"
"Sorry," I interrupted through gritted teeth, "but I can't help you right now." With that, I bent my knees, and jumped right over her. I landed gracefully on my feet, and began to walk away. Don't get me wrong, I'm for justice and everyone having a home as much as the next monster. But I hadn't got any money on me, and I hate donating to charities. They annoy me, especially the overly zealous ones. The girl, obviously not believing I had nothing to offer her, stormed after me, demanding, "Have you no pity? While you sit in your comfortable home, eating 3 square meals a day and using hot running water, tens of thousands of poor, lost souls roam the streets crying out for the most basic necessities! They-"
That did it. My dander was already up on account of the case, and all the stress I'd been experiencing today. This girl made it worse. I snapped.
Whirling around, I snarled at her, "Look, lady! I've got my own problems right now; I don't need anyone else's! And furthermore, you have no right to judge me! Now LEAVE ME ALONE!!"
The girl stepped back in shock, looking as though I had slapped her. Without another word, I stormed on my way.
After I brought him my (soon-to-be) friend Larry, Doctor Higgins had told me to come back if I ever needed his help again, because he “finds my psyche an interesting study.” I'm not sure rather to be flattered or insulted, since I personally find Higgins to be a little creepy. But just for argument's sake, I try to be flattered.
The thing is, Archibald Higgins is a very hard person to like. His mother was a mage, but his father was a (extraordinarily oblivious) human. Higgins's abilities are comparatively mundane, just being able to move things without touching them, minor intuition, and limited mind-reading, the latter of which helps him in his job as a shrink. Not that any of that has to do with my disliking of the man. It's just that I can't stand how he views everyone other than himself as a lab specimen, something to be studied. When he's around people, he scrawls down everything you say, and he watches every move you make, and you just know he's trying to listen in to your thoughts, and identify your personality, upbringing, level of sanity, and I don't know what-all. But, if he could help Calla, I was willing to endure a bit of his staring and brain-picking for three weeks or so. After all, he's been a big help to Larry.
Larry is an interesting study. He's a werewolf, with depression, and who came from the past. That sounds kind of complicated, so let me go back a bit. At the beginning of the 1900s, he was in his early 30s, and had gone to join his father in his ancestral home in a small corner of Wales. I don't know whether the werewolf who bit him there one night was human at the time, or had only morphed halfway, or what, but whatever it was, he obviously didn't do it right. Larry couldn't morph all the way. Instead, during the full moon he turned into this weird, biped, hairy creature, not completely wolf or human. And with absolutely zero self-control. He terrorized his village, without meaning to, for about 4 months, since nobody could figure out what the heck was going on. I mean, they found tracks and stuff, but nobody could find the wolf. Then they realized it only showed up during the full moon, put two and two together (at least, as much as they were capable, since they didn't know the full story), and decided to go out during the next full moon and kill the monster. Larry was asked to be part of the hunting party. By now, he was a nervous wreck; he'd figured out what he was, and felt absolutely horrible about the innocent people he had hurt and/or killed. He had come to think of himself as a monster. Well, yes, he is; but he saw that as a bad thing. Anyway, he'd decided that the only way his soul could be saved would be for the hunters to kill him, so he intentionally separated from the others, transformed when the moon rose, and came after them, as he’d known he would. His own father had raised his gun (filled with silver bullets; it’s incredible what kind of crazy additions to myths you humans think up) and was about to shoot- when the wolf man suddenly vanished, mid-leap.
Meanwhile, on the same night, only 70 years in the future, some teenage mages were fooling around in the town cemetery, doing conjuring spells, since it was the full moon (Supposedly it's the best time for magic, when a mages powers will be at their height; personally I think I’ll believe it when I see it). And, it figured that by accident they would summon Larry. He appeared, sprawled across the coffin they'd been chanting around, snarling and growling. Terrified, the teens ran away; thankfully he was too dazed to chase after them. The next morning, having changed back into a human, he managed to get out of the cemetery and wander into the main part of town, begging anybody who came within his line of vision to kill him, and thus end the curse. That, in fact, is how we met. I was out on an investigation with Morty (this was before he became lieutenant), and Ishida gave us a call, asking us to take a break and bring in some lunatic who was causing a disturbance near the corner of Karloff and Hitchcock. So, we went and picked him up.
The moment I saw Larry, I knew he was in shock. His pupils were extremely dilated, and he staggered down the road, staring with unfocused eyes at the passing monsters. He had this awful, pained expression on his face. When he saw us, he said in a ragged voice, "Hello. Will you kill me?" He didn't even notice that we weren't exactly human, he was so far gone. Needless to say, after bringing him to the station, we searched the yellow pages for the first available psychiatrist, who happened to be Doc Higgins. And now, after almost a year of therapy, a weekly meeting with Lycanthropes Anonymous, and a special spell that helped him turn into a complete wolf every full moon, Larry seems to have adjusted to his new life. It has done him a world of good to know that he's not the only one of his kind, and that he can go through life as a werewolf without killing, or even maiming, anybody. He has a job, and a home, and even the possibility of a family in the future. He still has that tortured, agonized facial expression every once in a while, but I think that's become second nature for Larry.
Higgins lives in the middle of Elm Street, in an ancient house called The Nightmare. I don't know who came up with the idea of giving old houses names, but it's a weird one. Higgins uses The Nightmare as his office; his patients go there for appointments, so that he never has to go out, unless they schedule it as a house call. It's funny, but his house is the only one on his block that actually looks like the sort of place a monster would inhabit, and he's the only one in his neighborhood who doesn’t look at all like a monster. Everyone else has these normal-looking, modern houses, and he has this big, fancy, kind of dilapidated mansion. I wonder if he does it just to be eccentric.
It was pouring rain, and that makes for very bad flying weather, so I had to walk. I strolled down the street, lost in thought, hands in pockets. Unfortunately, my mind was so focused on the case, and its detestable suspect, that I was not paying strict attention to where I was going. Suddenly, I was hit from the front by something both small and fragile. I stepped back in surprise, and beheld a young woman, dressed in jeans, a jacket, and a T-shirt with the initials H.N.M. on it, holding a collecting tin in hand. I could see, just by observing her, that she was a hybrid Light Fae, that one of her parents had been disinherited (probably following their marriage), that she worked for a monster welfare program, and that she spent some of her time gardening. How did I know, you may ask? The first part, about her being a hybrid fae, came from her eyes. The right one was a luminous green, but the left was silver. When two different species of fae marry and have children, the children have bicolored eyes, based off what their parents are (I guess it’s because the two differing genetic materials split them, or something). Hers had been a Floran and a T'sa, respectively. And, since the T'sai are by nature mostly snobs, and discourage their offspring from associating with other species, let alone marrying them, her T'sa parent had most definitely been disowned. Also, she was generating a bit of sunlight to keep herself warm, a skill basically only possessed by Flori. The initials on her shirt stood for Help Needy Monsters, an organization that had come into being recently in Styxburg, and gives help to the tired, poor, homeless masses yearning to have a place in the monster world. H.N.M. also defends interbreeding between species, protesting against segregation and bigotry that show up every once in a while. As for the gardening, her hands were kind of tough and callused on the palms and insides of the fingers, especially on her right hand, meaning she had spent time doing manual labor. Since Flori are talented in working with plants, that could only mean work gardening.
"Sorry," I muttered, trying to push past. To my surprise and annoyance, she stepped back into my way, brandished the collecting tin, and asked, "Are you aware that every day, hundreds of monsters starve in the streets, and thousands more are shunned because they are not pure-blooded monsters, or because they are not humans?"
"Well, yes, actually, I am. Now, if you'll excuse me..." I tried to squirm past, but she was persistent.
"Your contribution could help to feed just one of the homeless for a month, or help us to pass a law against discrimination on account of species! Only twenty dollars could-"
"Sorry," I interrupted through gritted teeth, "but I can't help you right now." With that, I bent my knees, and jumped right over her. I landed gracefully on my feet, and began to walk away. Don't get me wrong, I'm for justice and everyone having a home as much as the next monster. But I hadn't got any money on me, and I hate donating to charities. They annoy me, especially the overly zealous ones. The girl, obviously not believing I had nothing to offer her, stormed after me, demanding, "Have you no pity? While you sit in your comfortable home, eating 3 square meals a day and using hot running water, tens of thousands of poor, lost souls roam the streets crying out for the most basic necessities! They-"
That did it. My dander was already up on account of the case, and all the stress I'd been experiencing today. This girl made it worse. I snapped.
Whirling around, I snarled at her, "Look, lady! I've got my own problems right now; I don't need anyone else's! And furthermore, you have no right to judge me! Now LEAVE ME ALONE!!"
The girl stepped back in shock, looking as though I had slapped her. Without another word, I stormed on my way.
Monday, July 2, 2012
TANSTAV part 12
Chapter Four part 2
"Who are you?" the troll lady inquired in Jotun.
"Tristan Wormwood, detective; your brother sent me here to look for your husband." I just barely avoided another vicious jab for my eyes by the flamingo I was holding.
Mrs. Skald's enormous hand flew to her mouth. Then she snapped at the pernicious, plastic birds, "Go back to your places! This is a guest!" I released them, and they reluctantly did as they were told, giving me a few parting hisses. Then, in what seemed to me to be a very hurried manner, she brought me inside, closing and bolting the front door behind her.
"What's the rush?" I asked.
"Nobody outside you and our family knows Gunnar is missing. We would prefer to keep it that way. He hates being in the papers."
I gave the hallway a cursory glance. The house was as large on the inside as on the outside. It was also unnaturally tidy, looking as if it had been swept, mopped, and dusted almost every day since it had first been inhabited. It reminded me of another place, one I would prefer to forget. I shoved the memory away, and ordered myself to concentrate. I looked at the gold-framed pictures on the walls, the fancy glass chandelier on the ceiling, and other such obvious displays of wealth.
"Does your desire for anonymity have anything to do with the fact that your husband is a senator, Mrs. Skald?"
The woman looked surprised.
"How on earth did you know that?"
Managing to keep my eyes from rolling, I said, "His picture is on the wall; I recognize him from the newspapers."
Her eyes strayed to the photograph I meant, and then she rumbled with soft (for a troll) laughter.
"Oh, yes. I should have realized."
I was being expected to find a missing politician. It was all I could do not to express my disgust. Don't get me wrong, I know that not all politicians are bloodsucking, greedy, unscrupulous rats. At least, I’ve heard they aren't. But, as I have mentioned, I have bad experience concerning politicians. I was not overly enthusiastic about having to retrieve one, especially since he was probably just off with another woman, or something. Though why he would leave so early in the morning, and leaving behind one of his slippers, was beyond me, unless it was just an oversight.
Mrs. Skald and I sat down in a pair of fancy armchairs in the living room. The fabric was red velvet, with golden threads woven in so as to create a pretty, swirling pattern over the furniture.
"When was the last time you saw your husband?" I asked as I made myself comfortable.
"Early this morning. We got up at the usual time, and as I fixed breakfast, he went outside to get the paper. I saw him going down the path through that window-" she indicated which one- "-and I remember turning my head to glance at the clock. I was worried that he would miss his appointment with his secretary. When I turned around again- Gunnar was gone."
She choked down a sob, and quickly dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. I got up, and went into the kitchen.
"Where exactly were you standing?" I asked.
"By the stove-right there, I think," she sniffled. I stood where she had indicated. I scanned the area- there was a frying pan still on the stove, with pieces of bacon and eggs on it, burned to ashes. I presumed they had been forgotten due to the sudden disappearance of Senator Skald. That confirmed that she was probably being truthful. I looked up, towards the window she had mentioned. I could see the cement path-and the stupid flamingos-very clearly. I returned to the living room.
"Did-does Senator Skald have any enemies?" I asked, reseating myself.
"He does have some political rivals, but-"
"Anyone who'd want to harm him?"
"Well, you could examine his list."
"What list?"
"He made one of all the people he didn't like, or who didn't like him. It was his enemies list. He kept it in his study; I'll go get it."
Hmm, an enemies list. I rather liked the sound of that. I don’t have that many enemies, but there are a few people who hate my guts. With some of them, the feeling’s mutual. I decided that I would have to write one for myself. You never know when it might come in handy.
Just in case, I accompanied Mrs. Skald upstairs. I was taking no chances on her destroying evidence, or something like that. But the troll lady didn't seem to have that intention. Either she was innocent, she had a more sinister plot planned, or she was just stupid. Regardless of which it was, Mrs. Skald gave me the list. It was on ordinary paper, written by numerous utensils, proving he'd added to it at different times of life. And, of course, it was in Jotun. But I can read that, so it was no problem. I sealed it in another baggie, which I stowed in another pocket, bid Mrs. Skald goodbye, and left, being sure to stay on the concrete path, and trying to ignore the flamingos, who glared at me as I passed by. I had two more calls to make before I could go home: Doctor Higgins's place, and Galveston, Texas, home of the most securely guarded prison of the monster world.
"Who are you?" the troll lady inquired in Jotun.
"Tristan Wormwood, detective; your brother sent me here to look for your husband." I just barely avoided another vicious jab for my eyes by the flamingo I was holding.
Mrs. Skald's enormous hand flew to her mouth. Then she snapped at the pernicious, plastic birds, "Go back to your places! This is a guest!" I released them, and they reluctantly did as they were told, giving me a few parting hisses. Then, in what seemed to me to be a very hurried manner, she brought me inside, closing and bolting the front door behind her.
"What's the rush?" I asked.
"Nobody outside you and our family knows Gunnar is missing. We would prefer to keep it that way. He hates being in the papers."
I gave the hallway a cursory glance. The house was as large on the inside as on the outside. It was also unnaturally tidy, looking as if it had been swept, mopped, and dusted almost every day since it had first been inhabited. It reminded me of another place, one I would prefer to forget. I shoved the memory away, and ordered myself to concentrate. I looked at the gold-framed pictures on the walls, the fancy glass chandelier on the ceiling, and other such obvious displays of wealth.
"Does your desire for anonymity have anything to do with the fact that your husband is a senator, Mrs. Skald?"
The woman looked surprised.
"How on earth did you know that?"
Managing to keep my eyes from rolling, I said, "His picture is on the wall; I recognize him from the newspapers."
Her eyes strayed to the photograph I meant, and then she rumbled with soft (for a troll) laughter.
"Oh, yes. I should have realized."
I was being expected to find a missing politician. It was all I could do not to express my disgust. Don't get me wrong, I know that not all politicians are bloodsucking, greedy, unscrupulous rats. At least, I’ve heard they aren't. But, as I have mentioned, I have bad experience concerning politicians. I was not overly enthusiastic about having to retrieve one, especially since he was probably just off with another woman, or something. Though why he would leave so early in the morning, and leaving behind one of his slippers, was beyond me, unless it was just an oversight.
Mrs. Skald and I sat down in a pair of fancy armchairs in the living room. The fabric was red velvet, with golden threads woven in so as to create a pretty, swirling pattern over the furniture.
"When was the last time you saw your husband?" I asked as I made myself comfortable.
"Early this morning. We got up at the usual time, and as I fixed breakfast, he went outside to get the paper. I saw him going down the path through that window-" she indicated which one- "-and I remember turning my head to glance at the clock. I was worried that he would miss his appointment with his secretary. When I turned around again- Gunnar was gone."
She choked down a sob, and quickly dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. I got up, and went into the kitchen.
"Where exactly were you standing?" I asked.
"By the stove-right there, I think," she sniffled. I stood where she had indicated. I scanned the area- there was a frying pan still on the stove, with pieces of bacon and eggs on it, burned to ashes. I presumed they had been forgotten due to the sudden disappearance of Senator Skald. That confirmed that she was probably being truthful. I looked up, towards the window she had mentioned. I could see the cement path-and the stupid flamingos-very clearly. I returned to the living room.
"Did-does Senator Skald have any enemies?" I asked, reseating myself.
"He does have some political rivals, but-"
"Anyone who'd want to harm him?"
"Well, you could examine his list."
"What list?"
"He made one of all the people he didn't like, or who didn't like him. It was his enemies list. He kept it in his study; I'll go get it."
Hmm, an enemies list. I rather liked the sound of that. I don’t have that many enemies, but there are a few people who hate my guts. With some of them, the feeling’s mutual. I decided that I would have to write one for myself. You never know when it might come in handy.
Just in case, I accompanied Mrs. Skald upstairs. I was taking no chances on her destroying evidence, or something like that. But the troll lady didn't seem to have that intention. Either she was innocent, she had a more sinister plot planned, or she was just stupid. Regardless of which it was, Mrs. Skald gave me the list. It was on ordinary paper, written by numerous utensils, proving he'd added to it at different times of life. And, of course, it was in Jotun. But I can read that, so it was no problem. I sealed it in another baggie, which I stowed in another pocket, bid Mrs. Skald goodbye, and left, being sure to stay on the concrete path, and trying to ignore the flamingos, who glared at me as I passed by. I had two more calls to make before I could go home: Doctor Higgins's place, and Galveston, Texas, home of the most securely guarded prison of the monster world.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
TANSTAV part 11
Chapter Four
I have some clues, a suspect, and a therapist appointment for Calla (to say nothing of getting attacked by flamingos)
As I traveled to the address I’d been given, I asked myself, How could someone have kidnapped a troll, anyway? At least, in the method Mr. Jorgensen described? Because it sounded like whoever had done it had been using magic. Sorry, that’s kind of a ‘duh!’ statement; whoever it was had definitely been using magic. Trolls, despite not having any powers of their own most of the time, have the inherited trait of being resistant to any magic used against them. I’m serious; you can’t put any kind of spell on them, because it’ll just bounce off or something. Besides that, trolls are really big, and powerful, so anyone who tried to capture one would probably wind up with his head torn off. And yet someone had managed to kidnap one? I’d have to see if I could smell any chloroform or potions on the scene to show how he’d been subdued.
I found the homestead of Gunnar Skald, Mr. Jorgensen's brother-in-law. It was in one of the nicer districts of town, which made sense, since Jorgensen was rich enough to afford expandable pockets. It was 3 stories tall, with 12 windows on the front of the house, a neatly-cut lawn with two pink, plastic flamingos on it, and a sign with the words HOME SWEET HOME on the front door. All nice and normal, almost human. Except, of course, that the house was twice the size of a human house, the better to accommodate trolls, HOME SWEET HOME was written in Jotun, and the flamingos had fangs. And one of them had a piece of cloth dangling from its beak. I concluded that they were magically enchanted to guard the house against trespassers. My suspicions were confirmed when they simultaneously raised their heads and hissed at me as I approached. I held up my hands defensively, to show that I meant no harm. However, their beady black eyes still watched me with clear suspicion.
As I came close to the area where the newspaper was typically thrown, I scanned the ground. I surmised that, as protection from the territorial flamingos, the newspaper monster probably tried to land it on the sidewalk, and as far away from them as possible, so I checked at the very edge of the lawn. There was no newspaper there, but presumably it had already been taken indoors. I felt some annoyance at the removal of evidence from the crime scene, but decided to let it go, considering that I had been guilty of the same thing earlier. I could smell grass, troll (which is best described as a combination of mountains and grizzly bear), the very faint whiff of newspaper, proving my deduction correct, and- At the same moment as I recognized the smell, my eyes caught two other clues that distracted me from it. Floating in the air was some magical residue. Unlike Calla's, it was red shot with black, and very oily in nature. Quickly I pulled out one of my magically enhanced baggies, and ensnared it. It beat against the plastic walls for a moment, and then sagged limply to the bottom. Odd.
The other piece of evidence was just as interesting, and I crouched on my haunches to examine it better as I stuffed the baggie in my pants pocket. It was a set of footprints in the grass that started close to the sidewalk, and then vanished. The tracks were oddly unmatched; the left was that of a cloven hoof, and the right shaped like the claws of some bird of prey.
As soon as I saw that, my hands clenched themselves into fists, and my vision became tinged with red. I knew who those tracks belonged to, all too well. So he was involved! Funny, I would have thought a petty kidnapping was beneath him, but hey, who can fathom the mind of a felon? Pulling myself together, I gave them closer scrutiny. The footprints were several hours old; I would place them at about the time of day when Mr. Skald had disappeared. That was certainly incriminating. I reached out a hand to touch the tracks, in order to see if I could learn anything else, such as how he could have been there, anyway- and was immediately set upon by those bleeping-bleep-of-a-bleep flamingos!
Let me just say that I think it is very wrong of people to keep magic attack flamingos. It is not only inconvenient and obnoxious, but it is just plain rude! The stupid things completely misunderstood my intentions, and, assuming that I was attempting to desecrate their lawn, they began trying to peck my eyes out! Of course, I began defending myself, gouging and slicing, but it is very hard to destroy plastic enchanted flamingos that keep healing themselves. Finally, as a last resort, I pulled myself to my feet, and, hands over my head, I ran like heck across the lawn, with the blighted creatures right behind me. When I reached the front door, I slammed a fist against the doorbell, and then promptly turned and grabbed one bird around the neck, and used my foot to pin the other to the ground by the throat, thus halting the attack. The one in my hand squirmed furiously, stabbing again and again at my unprotected throat. Its metal legs were braced against my chest, and I could feel some burning pain there. Regardless, I hung on for dear life. Finally, the door opened, revealing a maternal female troll, about 7’11”, with long gray fur, and red-rimmed, orange eyes. Her gigantic ring finger had a gold wedding ring on it.
"Mrs. Skald, I presume?" I panted.
As I traveled to the address I’d been given, I asked myself, How could someone have kidnapped a troll, anyway? At least, in the method Mr. Jorgensen described? Because it sounded like whoever had done it had been using magic. Sorry, that’s kind of a ‘duh!’ statement; whoever it was had definitely been using magic. Trolls, despite not having any powers of their own most of the time, have the inherited trait of being resistant to any magic used against them. I’m serious; you can’t put any kind of spell on them, because it’ll just bounce off or something. Besides that, trolls are really big, and powerful, so anyone who tried to capture one would probably wind up with his head torn off. And yet someone had managed to kidnap one? I’d have to see if I could smell any chloroform or potions on the scene to show how he’d been subdued.
I found the homestead of Gunnar Skald, Mr. Jorgensen's brother-in-law. It was in one of the nicer districts of town, which made sense, since Jorgensen was rich enough to afford expandable pockets. It was 3 stories tall, with 12 windows on the front of the house, a neatly-cut lawn with two pink, plastic flamingos on it, and a sign with the words HOME SWEET HOME on the front door. All nice and normal, almost human. Except, of course, that the house was twice the size of a human house, the better to accommodate trolls, HOME SWEET HOME was written in Jotun, and the flamingos had fangs. And one of them had a piece of cloth dangling from its beak. I concluded that they were magically enchanted to guard the house against trespassers. My suspicions were confirmed when they simultaneously raised their heads and hissed at me as I approached. I held up my hands defensively, to show that I meant no harm. However, their beady black eyes still watched me with clear suspicion.
As I came close to the area where the newspaper was typically thrown, I scanned the ground. I surmised that, as protection from the territorial flamingos, the newspaper monster probably tried to land it on the sidewalk, and as far away from them as possible, so I checked at the very edge of the lawn. There was no newspaper there, but presumably it had already been taken indoors. I felt some annoyance at the removal of evidence from the crime scene, but decided to let it go, considering that I had been guilty of the same thing earlier. I could smell grass, troll (which is best described as a combination of mountains and grizzly bear), the very faint whiff of newspaper, proving my deduction correct, and- At the same moment as I recognized the smell, my eyes caught two other clues that distracted me from it. Floating in the air was some magical residue. Unlike Calla's, it was red shot with black, and very oily in nature. Quickly I pulled out one of my magically enhanced baggies, and ensnared it. It beat against the plastic walls for a moment, and then sagged limply to the bottom. Odd.
The other piece of evidence was just as interesting, and I crouched on my haunches to examine it better as I stuffed the baggie in my pants pocket. It was a set of footprints in the grass that started close to the sidewalk, and then vanished. The tracks were oddly unmatched; the left was that of a cloven hoof, and the right shaped like the claws of some bird of prey.
As soon as I saw that, my hands clenched themselves into fists, and my vision became tinged with red. I knew who those tracks belonged to, all too well. So he was involved! Funny, I would have thought a petty kidnapping was beneath him, but hey, who can fathom the mind of a felon? Pulling myself together, I gave them closer scrutiny. The footprints were several hours old; I would place them at about the time of day when Mr. Skald had disappeared. That was certainly incriminating. I reached out a hand to touch the tracks, in order to see if I could learn anything else, such as how he could have been there, anyway- and was immediately set upon by those bleeping-bleep-of-a-bleep flamingos!
Let me just say that I think it is very wrong of people to keep magic attack flamingos. It is not only inconvenient and obnoxious, but it is just plain rude! The stupid things completely misunderstood my intentions, and, assuming that I was attempting to desecrate their lawn, they began trying to peck my eyes out! Of course, I began defending myself, gouging and slicing, but it is very hard to destroy plastic enchanted flamingos that keep healing themselves. Finally, as a last resort, I pulled myself to my feet, and, hands over my head, I ran like heck across the lawn, with the blighted creatures right behind me. When I reached the front door, I slammed a fist against the doorbell, and then promptly turned and grabbed one bird around the neck, and used my foot to pin the other to the ground by the throat, thus halting the attack. The one in my hand squirmed furiously, stabbing again and again at my unprotected throat. Its metal legs were braced against my chest, and I could feel some burning pain there. Regardless, I hung on for dear life. Finally, the door opened, revealing a maternal female troll, about 7’11”, with long gray fur, and red-rimmed, orange eyes. Her gigantic ring finger had a gold wedding ring on it.
"Mrs. Skald, I presume?" I panted.
Sunday, June 17, 2012
TANSTAV part 10
Chapter Three part 4
Kisses are like soda: wet, and kind of sticky, but every one you have makes you want more. Xen was only too happy to oblige me. After a moment, we both sat down on the sofa, and did more of this for a while. I loved the feel of her long, spider-like fingers in my hair, and being able to stroke her wings with my claws. She washed and brushed them every day, making the fur as smooth as silk. I breathed in the combined scents of wild rose and campfire smoke until I felt giddy. You might want to skip over some of this if you’re one of those people who hates maudlin sentimentality.
Soon I was lying with my head in her lap, and Xen was running her claws lightly along my face. I could hear her heart; it was jackhammering away, probably as fast as mine was. Xen's eyes were closed, and she was smiling to herself.
"What are you thinking about?" I whispered.
"Nothing much. Just feeling happy," she murmured.
"That's good."
Not very eloquent, I know. But too much talking would have ruined the moment. Xen's fingers ran along my forehead, down my nose, over my cheekbones, and smoothed my eyebrows. Next she proceeded to comb my beard with her claws. Gently she separated the many strands, disentangled knots, and tickled slightly. Every time she did I jumped, and she giggled. When she finally finished, she traced my mouth. I kissed each fingertip. (Cool science fact: the most sensory receptors of the body are the face and the fingertips. It's true for both humans and humanoid monsters, such as gargoyles.)
Next Xen lowered her head close to mine, making me quiver with anticipation; suddenly she rubbed noses with me, an Eskimo kiss. It was nice, but it was not what I had in mind. So, I lifted my head, and kissed her properly. Much better.
I could have done that forever, it seemed. I certainly would have preferred to. But suddenly, I remembered something important.
"Oh, dang it!"
"What?" Xen frowned.
"I forgot, I have a case! I have to go to the crime scene, and see if there's any evidence left!" I looked up at her guiltily, and then over at Calla's room.
"It's okay, I'll stay here and look after her until you get back," Xen promised.
"Thanks." I sat up, and used my claws to comb my hair. Xen straightened my tie for me, and then said, "Just be back soon."
"I will." With that, I kissed her goodbye, and then hurried out of the apartment.
Kisses are like soda: wet, and kind of sticky, but every one you have makes you want more. Xen was only too happy to oblige me. After a moment, we both sat down on the sofa, and did more of this for a while. I loved the feel of her long, spider-like fingers in my hair, and being able to stroke her wings with my claws. She washed and brushed them every day, making the fur as smooth as silk. I breathed in the combined scents of wild rose and campfire smoke until I felt giddy. You might want to skip over some of this if you’re one of those people who hates maudlin sentimentality.
Soon I was lying with my head in her lap, and Xen was running her claws lightly along my face. I could hear her heart; it was jackhammering away, probably as fast as mine was. Xen's eyes were closed, and she was smiling to herself.
"What are you thinking about?" I whispered.
"Nothing much. Just feeling happy," she murmured.
"That's good."
Not very eloquent, I know. But too much talking would have ruined the moment. Xen's fingers ran along my forehead, down my nose, over my cheekbones, and smoothed my eyebrows. Next she proceeded to comb my beard with her claws. Gently she separated the many strands, disentangled knots, and tickled slightly. Every time she did I jumped, and she giggled. When she finally finished, she traced my mouth. I kissed each fingertip. (Cool science fact: the most sensory receptors of the body are the face and the fingertips. It's true for both humans and humanoid monsters, such as gargoyles.)
Next Xen lowered her head close to mine, making me quiver with anticipation; suddenly she rubbed noses with me, an Eskimo kiss. It was nice, but it was not what I had in mind. So, I lifted my head, and kissed her properly. Much better.
I could have done that forever, it seemed. I certainly would have preferred to. But suddenly, I remembered something important.
"Oh, dang it!"
"What?" Xen frowned.
"I forgot, I have a case! I have to go to the crime scene, and see if there's any evidence left!" I looked up at her guiltily, and then over at Calla's room.
"It's okay, I'll stay here and look after her until you get back," Xen promised.
"Thanks." I sat up, and used my claws to comb my hair. Xen straightened my tie for me, and then said, "Just be back soon."
"I will." With that, I kissed her goodbye, and then hurried out of the apartment.
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