Bacon and Eggs: An Easy Money Transmission

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Reggie buzzed the comm to Gris’ building, still riding the adrenaline rush from watching his conversation with Stahler. If he managed to pull off the job he was given, it would be his last. He’d have earned enough money to have a cydoc remove his cybernetics before they broke down and poisoned him. Freshly cloned eyes would replace the mechanics that now resided in his head.

He waved his wrist over the door scanner, the implanted ID chip letting Gris know he had arrived. When the door buzzed and popped open, Reggie stepped inside, immediately aware that that he lived in a slum.

This building was well maintained, and though not everything was state-of-the-art, it was a far cry better than the place he lived in. Jefferies was being good to her if she could afford this place, it seemed.

He took a few steps down the hall, clinically white walls gleaming from the overhead lights. The lift doors opened as he approached them, and a short Asian man hurried out. Chu nodded a quick greeting to Reggie as he shuttled past, an unwashed stench assailing his nose. Chu lived somewhere on the floor above Gris and always acted furtively, a false paranoia brought on by extensive stim use. Reggie watched him go, tempted to shout, “Boo!” but the stimboy was a decent enough guy when he wasn’t doped so Reggie remained silent. The lift doors began to close, so Reggie hopped in.

“Six,” he said. The lift jerked into motion.

“Stim” was a catch-all word for the variety of corporate sponsored drugs that kept the pharmas in business. It was a highly addictive stimulant, often causing hallucinations, seizures and paranoia in heavy users, like Chu. It was legal to obtain virtually world-wide, and put a severe wrench in the works of drug cartels. The older, illegal drugs, like cocaine and marijuana, could still be found, but a small amount of those could cost the average person a year’s worth of credit. They had become “novelty drugs” afforded by only the extremely wealthy.

All of the stims were used with an inhaler, entering the blood stream through the lungs. Different brands offered different types of a high. Purple Pleasure caused a feeling of euphoria while Red Death could put a user into near catatonia. In most cases, you could tell which stim someone was using by looking at their eyes. All stims temporarily changed iris color. Chu’s were usually green from Emerald Envy.

The lift jolted to a stop, and the doors shushed open. The corridor outside was the same sterile white as the lobby, but here there were a number of small vidscreens spaced along the walls that displayed works of art: paintings, sculptures and photographs, each ‘screen changing the picture every ten seconds. Brushing his hair out of his eyes, Reggie went left from the lift and silently counted doors, none of them were numbered, until he reached the eleventh on the right.

He squared himself in front of the door, pulling up the right sleeve of his olive drab jacket to expose the ID chip in his wrist. The door popped open before he had a chance scan it and a thin arm shot out, crimson-nailed fingers grasping his shirt, yanking him inside the dark room.

He stumbled in and found himself violently slammed into a wall before the door even slid shut behind him. Pain laced up his back; he grunted as a small body plowed into him, pinning him to the wall. He instinctively tried to reach under his jacket for a handgun that wasn’t there, but small hands closed around his wrist in a vice-like grip and pulled his arm away, shifting him and pinning it to the wall next to his head.

Lips mashed into his and a hand grabbed his crotch, kneading his cock. The pain threaded with a lance of pleasure that shot straight to his gut.

When she pulled away, he inhaled deeply, savoring much needed air but wishing she hadn’t stopped. She took a small step back from him, a short, petite woman with brilliantly orange hair. With her eyes steady on his, she slowly lifted her sleeveless t-shirt over her head to reveal small, perfect, almost pointed breasts. He grew harder, with a smirk and a grimace as his jeans restrained him. She shimmied off combat-style pants and stood there naked, white and sultry. What looked tough and hard in her military clothes just looked lean and tempting without them. She crooked a finger at him over her shoulder as she sauntered to the bed in the corner of the one room apartment, swaying those boyish hips like a snake charmer.

He complied, his grin spreading wider as he shed his jacket.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Later that afternoon, she busied herself at the food printer while he lounged on the bed, nursing a synth-beer. Her vidscreen was playing and old movie from the turn of the century, an adaptation of a graphic novel about superheroes.

“I don’t know why you like that old stuff,” she scoffed over her shoulder.

“I grew up with my grandparents. They watched this stuff all the time.”

“So you’ve said before,” she turned, a plate in each hand, eggs, bacon and toast steaming.

Reggie sat up. “Smells good. I’m starved.”

Gris smiled, her eyes lighting. “Least I can do.” She dropped down on the bed next to him, handing over a plate. Reggie jammed a slice of bacon in his mouth, chewing noisily.

“So,” she said around a mouthful of eggs, “where were you last night?”

Reggie stopped chewing, eyed her sideways. “Out.”

Gris glowered and her body began to hum, cybernetic muscles and sinew powering to life. Reggie’s eyebrows shot up and he leaned away, knowing it would do no good if she decided to attack, but he ran on instinct rather than logic.

“I got a new job from Stahler,” he said quickly. The hum ended and Gris seemed to relax, but Reggie decided it would be best to stay on his guard. The sex earlier was just that; sex. There was no love here, only a camaraderie born from battle. Gris called to “show him something” when she needed him. It was what his grandfather called, “being friends with benefits.”

“You shoulda stuck with the Rogers, Reg,” she said as she shoveled eggs onto her fork, all sign of impending violence gone. “Look around,” she waved her hand, taking in the entirety of the apartment, “the jobs pay well. You’d think Stahler’d be more free with his credit.”

“You know why I left,” he mumbled.

“Christ, Reg, are you still hung up on Sarajevo? That was three years ago.”

Reggie slammed his fork on to the plate. “He killed innocent people, Gris!”

“He says he didn’t know.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” he stood up quickly, dumping the plate over onto the bed, eggs and toast crumbs spreading. He jammed a thumb into his chest, eyes blazing. “I called it in! I had eyes on scene!” He threw his arms wide. “There were women and children there!”

“Intel reported only Stolovich and his cronies,” Gris was patient. This was an old argument.

“I know what Intel said and I know what I saw!” He began pacing the room, breath coming heavily. He stopped and turned to her. “I could have ended the whole operation with one shot,” he said as he poked a finger between his eyes. “But no! Mister High and Mighty Jefferies had to call in an air strike! A fucking fire-bombing!” He deflated then, eyes on hers, pleading to be understood. “Those kids didn’t have to die, Gris.”

Gris flashed a close-lipped smile, eyes sad. Sad for him. Sad for the truth. “I know, Reg.”

“Yeah?” he directed sudden anger at her. “Then why are you still with them?”

“Fuck, Reg,” she let her anger rise too, “Jefferies may be a prick, but Skitch and the others are realz. They’re brothers, just like you and me. I can’t walk away from that.”

He stood silent, looking down at her. She held his eyes for a moment then whispered, “I’m walking a tightrope, Reg.” Her eyes drifted down. “It’s hard.”

Reggie sagged, drained. This was an old argument, but it had just taken a new and unexpected turn. He looked down at this small woman; his comrade-in-arms, his lover, his friend. Her plasteel shell had shattered, one he didn’t know she had, and he saw a woman, small and afraid, lost and torn between two warring worlds: his and the Rogers.

He knelt beside her, took her hand, his thumb caressing. “I’m sorry, Gris. I didn’t know.”

A sad smile flowed across her face. “S’ok.” She looked into his eyes, trying to thank him for understanding without having to use words. She reached up, placing a hand on his cheek, sliding it to the back of his neck. “C’mere.” She pulled him down.

The story continues with “The Last One.”

A Sinking Feeling: An Easy Money Transmission

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Kate, the vidscreen avatar

Kate, the vidscreen avatar

The chime of an old-time alarm clock shattered the silence of early morning. Foot tall numbers flashed in the dark, a slow strobe timed perfectly to ease one out of sleep. A disorderly room appeared and disappeared in the strobe, clothes and food cartons scattered around everywhere. A man was sprawled on a foam mattress, face down in dried vomit.

He moaned at the flashing vidscreen, lofting a pillow at it. The pillow silently bounced off the ‘screen, falling gently on to the floor. He lifted his head, vomit crusted hair cracking as it pried loose from the mattress. Smacking his lips, pulling his tongue from where it was stuck to the roof of his mouth, he fumbled one arm over the side of the matress, knocking an empty food carton away until he found a mostly empty bottle of beer. Rolling over just enough, he emptied the warm, flat lager into his desert mouth.

“Alarm, off!” he croaked. The chimes stopped and the vidscreen blazed to life, displaying current weather conditions along the Eastern Seaboard and Europe, news headlines, unread messages and the date and time.

10:34 am, April 25th, 2073. “Good Morning, Reg,” the vidscreen faded into a woman’s face, long, curly red hair cascading around her head and past her shoulders. Green eyes glowed within a freckled face to either side of a small pointed nose. The voice was a playful female Irish brogue. Reggie had passed a lot of credit for that avatar.

“Ugh, I gotta piss,” he rolled out of the bedmat, stood on unsteady legs and stretched. “Light. Dim,” he commanded and the room was bathed in a soft glow. His frame was tall and thin, but well muscled. Shoulder length dirty blond hair stood out at odd angles here and there, the entire left side matted and crusted as a result of last night’s binge. He was naked except for one sock and his body was meshed with a number of scars.

“Mornin’, Kate,” he said to the ‘screen. Kate smiled a perfectly programed smile. He stood near the center of a small room, roughly ten feet by twenty. The foam mat took up most of the space. In one corner was a waste disposal unit and a sonic shower, in another, a small cabinet that housed a built-in Contractor Food Printer. The vidscreen took up most of the wall opposite the bed and along a side wall was a rickety bench. On it were scattered various handguns in differing states of assembly.

He staggered over to the waste unit, scratching himself, kicking refuse out of the way. “You have two messages, Reg,” Kate said as he relieved himself.

“Play,” he grunted.

“First message.”

Kate faded out and a different redhead took her place. Centered in the frame was a small, Hollywood thin woman. Where Kate’s hair simulated a true Irish red, this woman’s was a highly dyed affair of brilliant orange, cut short to resemble a male military cut. She was so close to the camera, all Reggie could look at were her lightning blue eyes.

The small woman smiled. “Hey, Reg, been lookin’ for you,” her voice was a no-nonsense mid-west. “You weren’t home or at the Zephyr. Hope everything is realz.” She leaned closer to the camera and whispered, “Why don’t you stop by later? I’ve got something to show you.”

As the video winked out and Kate returned, Reggie mumbled, “I bet you do, Gris,” a smile playing across his lips.

“Second message. Audio only,” announced Kate.

The vidscreen faded to black and a thin voice began talking. It was a voice used to giving commands and being obeyed without question. “Reginald. I’m sure that after our visit, you did what you usually do and are now just waking up, vomit soaked and head splitting. I’m also sure that you don’t remember a thing about our conversation. Be so kind as to access your RAM bank and review our meeting. I look forward to the results.”

There was only one person who called him Reginald besides his mother. Only one person that Reggie knew who spoke with that kind of command.

Johann Stahler.

Stahler was President and CEO of Yndi Halda Heavy Industries, a robotics manufacturer that focused on industrial robots and military applications. The company was a minor player during the Corporate Takeover of 2023, when major corporations used their influence with financial institutions and their own large private armies to enact a coup. It was three years of slaughter, but in the end, the old United States government was overthrown. Since that time, borders were redrawn and the new corporate-led countries prospered more than they ever did under the old republic rule.

Yndi Halda H.I. flourished during the third World War with a quadrupedal tank design that could go anywhere and housed enough firepower to destroy entire villages. With the money and power it gained, YHHI carved out its own space in what was once southern New England on the North American continent. It renamed the area Yndi City Provence and subdivided the land as per the new treaty regulations after 2026.

Stahler wasn’t just the President and CEO of YHHI, he was also the governor of Yndi City. He knew everything that happened in his domain and when he told you to do something, you did it.

Reggie was one of the special chosen few who worked directly with Stahler. He was a ruthless man and ruthless men often resorted to less than savory means of dealing with problems. Reggie was one of Stahler’s Guns.

Kate came back and smiled warmly at Reggie. He sighed and stepped into the shower. Punching a button, his body was bombarded with sub-sonic pulses. Dirt, grime and vomit all fell away and were whisked into the disposal tube. He missed the water showers he used to take when he was a kid, but global warming and other threats reduced the earth’s water supply enough that sonic showers were not only encouraged, in some places they were enforced by law.

He stepped out and pulled the neural umbilical off the wall and slipped the end into the slot behind his right ear. “Kate, download video and audio. Ten, twenty-four, twenty-seventy-three. Twenty hundred to zero hundred.”

“Accessing,” she said and then without a noticeable pause, “File RHE-10-20-4-20-73-T-20-0 is ready.”

“Thanks, Kate,” Reggie said as he pulled the umbilical out of the slot and hung it back up on the wall, carefully placing the end in an alcohol solution. “Play file.”

Kate once again blinked out and the file began. A view of a night-time Yndi street began moving. The point of view was Reggie’s, the footage recorded by his eyes. When the North American Alliance army gave him his new eyes, not only was he a walking, talking targeting computer, they also equipped him with camera, microphone and a terabyte of RAM to record everything he saw and heard. It was put there so that he could be monitored; functioning cybernetics were still in their infancy and the Jolly Rogers were one of the few test groups. Access and playback of the RAM was pass protected, but Skitch had figured out how to break it and all the Rogers now enjoyed the ability to access their own RAM, either viewing it within their mind’s eye or by direct download.

Reggie recognized the view as the street just outside his flat. “Kate, forward thirty minutes.” He began hunting around the room, grabbing a pair of black jeans with a belt still through the loops from the back of a chair.

The playback flashed ahead, a blur of urban light and motion. He slipped on the jeans, and when the video jumped back to a normal speed, Reggie recognized the interior of the mag-train. “Kate, thirty more.”

Again the video flashed. Reggie found a black t-shirt with Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon prism on it. It was a gift from Gris that she bought from a second hand shop. She joked about his like of oldies music, but Reggie suspected that she found it endearing. He sniffed the shirt, determined that it didn’t smell that bad, and slipped it on. The fast forward ended, the view centered on a monstrous pyramid of glass and plasteel.

Yndi Halda Heavy Industries’ headquarters was a monument that dominated the skyline of Sector One. Roughly half a mile square at the base, it rose over a quarter mile into the sky. A city block’s width of park area surrounded the pyramid; an arboretum celebrating the diversity of Earth’s flora.

The view shifted as Reggie walked toward the the main entrance of the pyramid, armed guards stopping him and conducting a quick search. He was told he was expected and would be escorted to Conference Room 27.

As Reggie pulled on a sock while he watched the footage, he relived the sinking feeling he felt last night.

The story continues with “Bacon and Eggs.”

The Price of Failure: An Easy Money Transmission

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This transmission follows directly after The Zephyr. For previous transmissions, visit the Easy Money page.

As close to Gris as I could find.

As close to Gris as I could find, almost spot on.

Reggie sat at the bar and ordered a plate of synth-stew. Raz nodded, punched a few buttons on the first gen Contractor and waited while the machine layered out a greasy paste the same olive-drab color as Reggie’s jacket. While the Docks sported all the wonder that was Old Mitchell Street, anything you bought there was expensive because it was real. Off the beaten path, in the real world, you had to take printed food stuffs, made from the likes of powdered insects, krill and seaweed. Fresh food had become a luxury commodity as farms disappeared under urban growth. If you wanted the real thing and had the credit to throw away on it, you had to go to Sector One and the flora encrusted arcologies. Then again, if you had the credit to throw away, most likely you lived in one of those arcologies.

Raz dumped the bowl of paste on the bar in front of Reggie. He stood and watched Reggie, a half smile playing on his face. Reggie glanced down at the bowl and asked, “If I had ordered chicken, would it look any different?”

Raz laughed, deep and throaty. “No, amigo.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think so.” Reggie spooned a mouthful, tried to ignore the texture and focus on the flavor, but it was impossible. “Ugh,” he swallowed, “just gimme a beer.”

“All we have is the lab stuff,” Raz shrugged.

“Bullshit. I know you’ve got Sapporo back there,” Reggie waved a finger, pointing to the entire area behind the bar. “My credit’s good.”

Raz laughed again. “No fooling you, eh, amigo?” Raz reached under the bar and Reggie heard a click as Raz unlocked the cooler that held imported drinks. Moments later, Reggie was holding an ice cold bottle of Nippon’s finest.

“You hear the Reds rolled into Paris yesterday? Lo más loco.” Raz asked. “Too bad the NAA pulled out of Eurasia.”

Reggie cocked an eyebrow. “Is it?”

Raz shrugged. “Maybe they could have held it off longer.”

Beer sloshed in the bottle as Reggie took a pull. “Yeah, maybe.”

“You were there, right, amigo?” Raz was absently wiping a spot on the bar with a dirty cloth. “You and that little chica?”

Brows down, Reggie asked, “What are you getting at, Raz?”

The bartender shook his head. “Me? Nothing. I just hear some things, is all.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Things,” Raz turned away, but Reggie reached out and grabbed his wrist.

“What things, Raz?” Reggie growled.

“Amigo, you better keep hands to yourself if you want to keep them,” smile gone, Raz held a vibro-blade a hair’s breath over Reggie’s wrist.

The door burst open, afternoon sun blazing in, silhouetting a slim figure in a billowing coat. Reggie released Raz’s wrist and the vibro-blade disappeared somewhere under the bar.

Gris came in, closing the door behind her, once more bathing the Zephyr in dimness. She hopped onto the stool next to Reggie. “What’s going on, guys?”

Raz and Reggie displayed looks of feigned innocence, smiling. “Nothing, Chica.”

“No? All right,” she scratched her scalp, barely disturbing her short, bright orange hair. “I’ll have a beer, Raz.”

Raz smiled wider and got her a Sapporo. Reggie scoffed at the double standard, earning a shrug from Raz. At a call from the men in the erotica booth, Raz left.

“Glad you’re here, Reg,” Gris said.

“Since when are you glad?” Reggie grumbled. “Didn’t seem to care too much last night with Jefferies in your bed.”

“Fuck you,” she backhanded his healing arm and he yowled in pain, leaping from the stool. He stood, clutching his arm, breathing heavily, glaring at her.

“Christ, you pansy!” she teased. “I didn’t hit you that hard.”

“You damn near dislocated my arm! I paid a fortune to get it fixed last night!” he shouted, eyes on fire behind his fallen hair.

Holding up a finger, Gris’ eyes lost focus as she accessed her RAM bank. She gently shook her head and smiled apologetically at Reggie as her eyes came back to the room. “Sorry, Reg. I left everything on. Jefferies likes it rough.”

“Are you serious?” Reggie sat back down. “Do I need to know that?”

She shrugged. “Well, I’m not normally strong enough to choke…”

“Shut up!”

“All right,” her hands were up in a show of surrender. “All right, I’ll stop.”

“Bitch.”

“Pansy.”

They sat in silence for a while, each drinking Sapporo. Raz replaced the empty bottles with full ones. The Raptors switched holovids from Vain Gloria to a comedy program that was currently popular during night-time broadcasts. Their loud laughter was the only sound in the entertainment house.

Gris was fumbling through the pockets of her large coat, looking for her inhaler when she paused. “Wait, what happened to your arm last night?”

Reggie answered staring straight ahead. “I think you know, or you wouldn’t have told me to meet you here.”

“What happened, Reg?”

Reggie set his bottle down. “Tiburons.”

“What?” Gris was shocked. “I thought the job was a simple shoot and scoot?”

“It was supposed to be,” he said. He emptied the bottle, swallowing noisily. “I never made it to the mag. They jumped me on North.”

“What happened?”

Reggie shrugged. “I saw them coming from the mag, walking on the other side of North.” He waved at Raz for another Sapporo then raked his fingers through his hair, sighing. “I ducked into an alley, waited until they passed. They must have seen me. They were waiting when I came out.”

“How many?” Gris had stopped rummaging through her coat, all attention on Reggie, her blue eyes blazing.

“Five,” he shrugged, downing more beer, “not counting the Super. It was Hoss and his jumpboys.”

Gris’ eyes bulged. “Hoss recruited a Super? How the hell are you even alive?”

“Killed the Super,” Reggie smirked.

“Are you shitting me?” When he shook his head, she turned away, grabbed her own beer. “Fuck, Reg.” She turned back to him, holding her beer as if she wanted to crush it. “Realz?”

“Realz.” Reggie smiled again. “Once the big guy went down, Hoss and the jumpboys ran.” He shook his arm at her. “Got a broken arm for the trouble. Doc Jimi patched it up.”

Gris scoffed. “Have you got any credit left?” Raz perked up at that, eyeing Reggie.

Reggie waved a placating hand at Raz. “I’m good for it, Raz.”

“See that you are, amigo, or I start taking fingers,” the bartender threatened.

“Jesus, Raz, stop being so dramatic,” Gris chuckled. “I’ll cover if he needs it.”

Raz nodded and wandered off.

“Gris, I’m a big boy, I can handle my own mess. You don’t have to keep helping me out.”

Gris frowned. “If I was really helping you out, I’d pay to get your shit fixed,” she said as she waved a finger in front of his eyes.

Reggie swatted her hand away. “It’s not that bad yet.”

“No?” she searched his eyes. “You’re shit for a liar.” He turned away from her, tried to focus on the holovid the Raptors were watching even though he couldn’t hear it.

She grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. “What happened last night was bad, Reg. Hoss must have paid a fortune for that Super. He’s gonna be looking to take the cost out of your skin.”

“Dammit, don’t you think I know that?” he growled. “I’ve bigger things, though,” he shuttled the beer bottle between his hands. “The job was scheduled. I was on a timer. It had to be last night. The Tibs got nothing on Stahler.”

“I’m sure Jefferies and the Rogers can offer some protection for a while, but…”

“Fuck Jefferies!” Reggie shouted cutting her off. He saw Raz look over at them and continued in a quieter voice. “You know I want nothing to do with him after what happened in Sarajevo. Besides,” he drank some beer, a sudden pride creeping into his tone, “as long as he’s fucking you, I’d like to see his head leave his shoulders.”

Gris laughed. “Son of a bitch, you’re jealous.”

Reggie remained silent.

Her laughter stopped, but her smile remained as she began searching her coat again. When she couldn’t find the inhaler, Reggie smirked, “Breast pocket.” Gris’ hand shot to the pocket, removing the stim inhaler. Smirking still, Reggie looked right at her. “You always put it there. Bet Jefferies doesn’t know that.”

“Leave it, Reg,” she said. Reggie could hear the soft whoosh of the inhaler as Gris punched the button, taking a deep breath.

“That shit is gonna kill you eventually.”

Pocketing the inhaler, she waved his words away. “You’ve chosen your way, I’ve chosen mine.” She emptied her beer and waved Raz away when he offered another. “What’s the plan now, Reg?”

“Easy,” he said. “Get drunk now, avoid Tibs, and talk to Stahler tomorrow when I can think of what to tell him so that I don’t end up in the Thames.”

“What are you going to tell him?” Gris asked, the fringe of her irises were turning purple as the stim washed through her.

“Think fast, amigo,” Raz said as he placed a holocard on the plasteel bar. “For you.”

The card was marked with a gold lion’s head: Stahler’s crest. Reggie’s hand shook as he picked it up and said into it, “Play.”

An old and distinguished looking man’s head sprung from the card, made of glowing yellow light. The face was restrained anger as it spoke. “Reginald, I am displeased. You had better be standing in my office at eighteen hundred.” The head winked out.

Reggie deflated. “Fuck.”

Sunday Morning Brunch

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Hey everyone! Thanks for stopping by today. I know weekends have become a down time for blog reading as the weather gets nicer, so I appreciate the time you have taken to visit me today.

I’d like to talk about my plans for the blog, my writing, and future publishing plans. This information most likely is of interest only to me, but it’s good to organize your thoughts and I hope that the outline of this plan may inspire you to create your own. As regular readers will know, Sinistral Scribblings underwent a face lift a few weeks ago to what I hope is a more streamlined and easier-on-the-eyes look. I chose to use one of WordPress’ default themes for restaurants, which seems strange, but I think it works rather well for a fiction blog.

At the same time that I re-themed the blog, I also adjusted my focus on my writing plan and it has undergone numerous tweaks since then. If you take a look at the navigation menu over to the left, you can see that the majority of the navigation items I used to have are gone. I have narrowed my focus to three projects: Easy Money, Harper’s Grove and Wyld Hunt. I have also made the decision to no longer work with writing prompts (this decision was made yesterday, so it may change) so that I can focus on these stories. Ultimately, these stories will result in enough material for me to assemble novels, which I hope to then attempt publication through the traditional route of a big publishing house.

EASY MONEY

Easy Money was born back in the mid ’90′s. The first few paragraphs of it were written in a class I was taking on Ancient Mesoamerica. Those paragraphs eventually became a rather extensive action sequence which was cut from the original short story on the advice of my long-time friend, Kevin Wilson. Kev’s advice was sound, as most people have enjoyed the end result. About 10-12 years ago, Easy Money underwent a revision to make it more family friendly- profanity and sex were removed and some the characters got name changes. I also refined some of the language and streamlined a few scenes so that they read easier. At some point around 1999-2000, I sent the story out to two magazines for publication. It was rejected on both counts.

Easy Money was pushed into the junk bin, but last year, new life was breathed into it when my brother suggested to a friend of his that the story would translate well into graphic novel form. After spending time translating some of the story into a script and expanding on the world and story, that project abruptly ended.

The characters and story were fresh in my mind once again. The asteroid colony of Yndi had become Yndi City here in North America, and what was once to take place in the far future, is now taking place a mere 70 years from now. The relationships between Gris, Reggie and Jefferies have become more complex as their history was explored. The man behind the counter of the Zephyr, once only known as “the bartender” with only one line, is now Raz, a friendly guy whose speech incorporates a few Spanish words and acts as an informant to those with enough credit to spend. The gangs – Tiburons, Raptors, Jolly Rogers – are more than just street thugs. They have goals and ideals (no matter how low).

In short: This world grew rather quickly in a short amount of time. I want to tell these stories and I think you will enjoy them. As of this day, there are three stories published to the blog, a fourth mostly written, and a fifth planned. The stories are meant to be read one after the other in the order listed on the Easy Money page I created specifically to keep things easy to find. This is, essentially, a novel that is being posted roughly 1,000 words at a time as I write the parts. As it stands today, it looks as if the first five posts will cover the time period of the first fifth of the short story.

WYLD HUNT

Much like Easy Money, Wyld Hunt is a novel being posted roughly 1,000 words at a time. Also like Easy Money, the reading order can be found on the Wyld Hunt page.

Wyld Hunt came about as a response to a writing prompt. It was so well liked, that readers demanded more – and so I wrote more. The original posts have been removed, but I believe there were three of them. From those three, I felt I had the germ of a good fantasy book, so I set about ordering the posts, figuring out what transpired in between them and began to re-write and add material accordingly.

What happened is that I found I did have a novel on my hands and decided to work on it. Chapters and scenes were written (out of order, which is how I do things as long as I have a clear outline to keep things organized) and planned out. I currently have 14 posts either written, at  various stages of completion or outlined. As of this day, only two posts have been published to the blog.

HARPER’S GROVE

This project is a bit harder to deal with. It has become a “catch-all” for any of the modern urban fantasy stories I have written – Hannah Anne (the witch at 11 posts), Mr Lux (the mortician who can speak to the dead at 4 posts), Mrs Jones and Clarence Brown (the library ghosts at 1 post) and others I haven’t introduced yet, for a grand total of 16 posts! All of these posts have been categorized and placed in reading order on the Harper’s Grove page. In addition, the actual beginning of Hannah’s novel has been disguised as the post, Welcome to Harper’s Grove! so I suppose you could say 17 posts.

The Hannah Anne stories will become a book someday, though very different from the stories you can find here. Many of the posts (in particular the ones which mention magical items from other published works) will not find their way into the final story. Stories that have been written within the last week are more in line with what you can expect from the book. It may be that at some point in the near future, I may scrap all the Hannah stories that are currently posted and start fresh as I did with Easy Money and Wyld Hunt. That decision has not yet been made.

What I can say for certain is that Mr Lux will not have his own book, but I am writing a short story about him that I intend to send to Shimmer Magazine first above any others. I feel that his story will be a perfect match for what they publish over there. The library ghosts will pop in with their own stories now and then, and all of these characters will make brief appearances in Hannah’s book (if it’s necessary – there won’t be any gratuitous cameos just because I think it’ll be cool).

IN CLOSING

Last week, I published 6 posts to the blog – 2 from each project. The total number of words I wrote was almost 7,000 (according to Scrivener – other word processors may calculate differently). In total, the word count on all three projects so far is around 27,300.

I am going to work exclusively on these projects. I have become invested in this – sucked into the worlds and stories of these characters. And I’ve gotten pretty grumpy when I have to be pulled away from them (sorry, Honey! Please, bear with me!). I can’t say that there will be a post a day or that anything will be posted in any order, but I will keep writing and keep sharing.

As always, please leave a comment if you visit and read. Leave some criticism. I have a thick skin and am always looking to improve my writing so that it will be the best it can be. If you have questions about something going on in a story because you think you don’t have enough information, check to be sure you have read all of the previous installments and if you still have questions because of that, chances are you aren’t supposed to know yet. Remember, these are novels in progress, not stand alone stories.

Again, thanks for reading and supporting me. You guys have been a big help to me, especially my lovely wife (who is supporting me in this endeavor despite the financial difficulties), the wonderful folks of the Fab Four Writers: Shannon, Steph and David (I’m the fourth. Go check out their fiction, it’s some of the best you’ll find online.), my brother (whose actions with Easy Money allowed me to rediscover a great story) and everyone else who has taken time away from their families and work (however brief) to read and comment on my stories with your wonderful words.

Of Fear and Cows: A Wyld Hunt Yarn

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For the previous story, please read The Royal Huntsman.

Hodge raised his cup and nodded. “Yes, to business. What drives you to call on the Huntsman?” Not “royal,” no. Now that it’s business, it’s just me.

Saul cleared his throat, sounding no different than a bear. “There have been a number of unexplained deaths.”

“A number?” One eyebrow rose, the only sign of surprise Hodge was willing to show. “How many?”

The mayor ticked off fingers. “Six, I think. Maybe more.”

“Maybe more?” Hodge asked, incredulous. “You don’t know who’s missing?”

Saul laughed. “Not ‘who.’ What.” He gulped from his cup. “At least six of goodman Tate’s cattle have been killed.”

“Cows?” Hodge was instantly furious. “You called the Royal Huntsman out to this backwood for what’s probably wolves?” Doesn’t hurt to throw it around when you need to, does it?

“Now see here,” the mayor raised a hand. “I know a wolf killing when I see it. Or didn’t you notice the trophies on the walls? They weren’t given to me. I earned those.”

Hodge nodded. “To be sure.” Watch your place, fool, or you’ll become one of those trophies.

“Now then,” Saul cleared his throat again, “I took a look at the cattle and whatever killed them was nothing from around Bergn Forest. Small cuts on the neck to bleed them out was what I noticed first. They had also been hamstringed like wolves’ll do, but it was cuts, not bites.” He drained his cup. “There were also burns.”

“Burns?” Hodge was intrigued now, providing the mayor wasn’t lying.

“Aye. Burns on the hind quarters and shoulders, as if flames fell on them.”

Hodge sat back, crossed his arms and closed his eyes. He counted slowly to twenty, breathing in through his nose, out through his mouth. “You know what that sounds like, don’t you?” he asked without opening his eyes.

Saul Gaynor gulped. A transformation had come over the Royal Huntsman. It was nothing that Saul could really see, but the Huntsman seemed more dangerous somehow. More animal.

“Yes,” the mayor croaked. “I do.”

“What?” Hodge opened his eyes and locked on to Saul’s. “What does it sound like?”

The mayor stammered, going pale. Hodge seemed to loom, sucking the light away, causing the room to go dark.

“Say it,” Hodge barked in a whisper.

The mayor whimpered, growing paler, sweating. “Dragon.”

Hodge smiled and sat back, light returning to the room, though Saul wasn’t sure if it had actually left or not. The Huntsman seemed himself, all indication of anything out of the ordinary gone. The mayor swiped his palm along his forehead then rubbed the damp hand on his trousers.

“Dragons haven’t been seen east of the Grey Mountains in five generations,” Hodge said.

Saul quickly regained his composure. “I know. That’s why we called you. If it is, in fact, a dragon, we’re not equipped to handle it.”

“No?” Hodge smirked. “Not the great hunting Mayor of Bergn Town?”

“Save your jabs for the filth at the taverns,” growled the mayor.

“Hmm, very well,” Hodge nodded thoughtfully. This backwood mayor recovered from the Fear effect very quickly. Bergn is full of mystery, it seems. “Have you saved any of them?”

“The cows?” Saul nodded and stood. “Aye. The most recent was last night. We had it moved into the stableyard.”

“Show me.”

Saul opened the door and barked for Lawson. The snooty butler arrived seconds later, apparently waiting just around a corner and sketched a short bow. “M’lord?”

“We’re headed to the stableyard, Lawson. If anyone calls, have them wait in the front room until I return.”

Lawson nodded. “As you say.” He turned sharply on his heel and vanished around the corner he had appeared from.

Saul sighed and shook his head slightly. “Man’s dry as my beloved grandmother’s…” He glanced at Hodge and cleared his throat. “Yes. Well. This way, Huntsman.”

Hodge followed the mayor outside. The rain had stopped and the clouds had parted. The low light of the setting sun lent an otherworldy cast to the freshly washed world. Shadow stood where Hodge had left him, still as stone. Glancing around, he saw no sign of the lurker.

The mayor led him down the main street to just the other side of the blacksmith where the stable and exercise yard was. Ducking his head into the stable the mayor bellowed, “Ho! Rolf! Get your hairy backside out here double quick!”

Within moments, a figure appeared, more dirt and filth than man. Hodge smiled. It was the lurker he had seen on his way into the mayor’s house. The dirt encrusted Rolf was nursing his left arm. As predicted, he had found Shadow no easy prey.

Rolf’s eyes nearly popped from his head when he saw Hodge and he shot into a low bow, almost prostrate. “Wha’ cannae do fer m’lords?” Rolf’s speech placed him as a native of the Northlands.

“Up with you,” Saul said, “The Royal Huntsman wants to see goodman Tate’s cow.”

Rolf looked up at Hodge through muddy brown hair and mouthed the words Royal Huntsman, fear evident in his whole being. Here is one that the Fear will drive to insanity. Hodge smiled.

The dirty stableman leaped up and over to Hodge, landing at his feet. Hodge took a step back, disgust on his face. Rolf pawed at Hodge’s boots, muttering, “I dinna try t’ steal the horse. I dinna try t’ steal the horse.”

“Here now,” Saul bent and grabbed Rolf under the arm, pulling him up and away from Hodge. “What are you going on about?”

“He tried to steal Shadow,” Hodge said calmly, “and got more than he bargained for, I’m guessing.” He pointed at Rolf’s injured arm.

Rolf cringed and shook his head. “No! It weren’t like that a’tall! I meant t’ bring ‘im t’ the stable, I did.”

“There,” Saul said, satisfied. He let Rolf go. “I’d say whether he’s telling the truth or not, that bite is enough punishment. No harm done, eh?”

Hodge looked Rolf up and down. “Perhaps.” Rolf whimpered under the glare. Hodge took a deep breath and smiled at Saul. “Let’s go have a look at this cow.”

Ley Lady Ley: A Harper’s Grove Tale

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This short scene follows immediately after Riding the Ley. For other stories about Hannah Anne and the citizens of Harper’s Grove, please visit the handy-dandy page.

“But I thought I couldn’t do magic,” Deborah said. She sat with her sister, Hannah, on the antique wood-framed sofa, each of them clutching full teacups as if their lives depended on it. Tears and hugs done, Hannah had brewed a fresh pot of tea and now they sat, Deborah with her legs crossed and Hannah with legs tucked up under her. Bridget paced the room, occasionally throwing glances Deborah’s way.

“I thought so too,” Hannah nodded, pushing her mouse-brown hair over one ear. “Aunt June always said that you didn’t have the spark. She said that I did and she was always pushing me and pushing me,” Hannah’s hand began to shake, tea sloshing over the brim of her cup and onto her hand.

“Well, what the hell happened, Hannah?” Deborah implored.

“I don’t know,” Hannah shook her head. “I’ll look in to it tomorrow. Right now, I think we need to just take it easy, get a good night’s sleep and work on the problem then.”

“If you say so,” Deborah was unconvinced. She glanced at Hannah through her hair. “It felt good,” she whispered.

“What?”

“Riding the Ley,” Deborah said. “It felt so good, so…” She smiled, her eyes staring far away, “Powerful.”

“Deb, that’s dangerous thinking,” Hannah said harshly. Deborah’s eyes popped back into focus and opened in surprise. “You’ve heard what Aunt June used to say. Magic isn’t about the power, it isn’t about the thrill. It’s about helping others and there’s always a cost.”

Deborah snorted. “I remember. But, c’mon, Hannah. It was only once. I doubt anything horrible will happen.”

“Famous last words,” Hannah mumbled into her teacup. “Remember the Three-fold Law.”

“I remember it,” Deborah set her tea down on the coffee table. “I should go. Jonathan’s probably worried about where I am.”

“Does he need to know where you are?” Hannah asked. “Is he your keeper?”

“Hannah, don’t start with me again,” Deborah’s voice raised in pitch and volume as she stood, causing Bridget to pause in her pacing. “It’s just that I left so fast and didn’t tell him where I was going.”

“Okay,” Hannah stood too and wrapped her arms around her sister. “Just remember you’re your own woman,” she whispered into Deborah’s ear. “No man can control you.”

Deborah took a step back, a wide smile on her face. “Hannah, look who you’re talking to. I control them.”

Hannah smiled back as Deborah took her light jacket off the coat rack and slipped it on.

“Bridget,” Deborah called to the goat, “you make sure Hannah gets some rest and don’t let her work too hard, okay?”

Bridget nodded and bleated an affirmative.

“All right, I gotta go,” Deborah opened the door. “I’ll see ya at the shop tomorrow.” She stepped out, closing the door behind her.

Turning around, Hannah crossed her arms and asked in mock anger, “Whose side are you on, you long-haired nanny?”

Bridget turned, and gave herself a slight shake, sending waves through her white hair.

“Yes, yes. Your hair is beautiful,” Hannah laughed.

Bridget harrumphed in satisfaction.

“Well,” Hannah announced, rubbing her hands together, “let’s get to work.” She pulled a book down from the bookshelf, settled on to the sofa and began to read.

The Zephyr: An Easy Money Transmission

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Not quite the Zephyr, but you get the idea.

Not quite the Zephyr, but you get the idea.

Cold morning sun cut between the slats of the window blind, slashing across Reggie’s face. He stirred and cracked his eyes, wincing as pain cramped protesting muscles. He grimaced, not sure if the price paid was worth surviving his tussle with the Tiburons. The Super had hit him hard, nearly driving him into the concrete like a nail. A metal bar had broken his left arm just above the elbow and chunks of flesh were ripped from him by razor teeth. Only the quick reflexes and cybernetic augmentations from the NAA army kept him from biting it last night.

The only death from the fight was the Super. Reggie managed to put a slug in the monster’s eye and that drove it into a frenzy. Supersoldiers were created during the Eurasia war in the last decade. Subjects were chosen who were inherently violent and administered large doses of highly refined HGH and PCP. The result was the Supersoldier, a monstrous killing machine. They could ignore pain and loss of limbs and had the strength of ten men. Injuries just made them angry. It thrashed among its compatriots, receiving an accidental knife to the femoral artery. The Tiburons scattered, Reggie limping off the other direction, leaving the Super to bleed out on the street.

Clutching his broken arm, Reggie made a few quick inquiries as to where Doc Jimi was working that night. Fortune had smiled on him; Doc was only a few blocks away.

After a quick exchange of an untraceable credit chit, Doc Jimi worked his magic; a blend of fast acting hormone, antibiotic and nanites. It was his own cocktail, untested in mainstream labs and highly illegal. It was also highly effective.

After that, it was a few derm patches to help with the pain, and back to his flat for much needed sleep.

Reggie sat up on the dirty foam mattress and tested the movement of his arm. All seemed well. He ripped the derm patches off, tossing them to the floor. Elbows on his knees, he scrubbed bloody fingers through his hair and wondered what Stahler would have to say about last night. Nothing good, for sure.

The vidscreen’s new message light was blinking. Reggie stood, scratched his backside and stretched. His muscles protested, but it was a good pain, one that would fade as the day went on. Twisting his head from side to side, he cracked his neck.

The ‘screen flashed to life as he walked past, stopping at the waste disposer, Kate smiling down at him. “Play message,” he said as his stream hit the water.

Kate faded away to be replaced by Gris. She looked worried and had placed herself only inches from the camera.

“Reg,” she was whispering. “Look, Reg. I heard about what went down.” She leaned to the side, out of camera, and Reggie could clearly see the shape of a man asleep on the bed in the background. His face contorted.

Gris’ face came back and she quickly huffed on the stim inhaler. “I told you I had a bad feeling about the job. If you’re still alive, meet me at the Zephyr, fourteen hundred.” The message abruptly went black, Kate fading back in.

“I don’t need this, Gris,” he said into the air. He had clearly seen a ring on the man’s hand. A Special Forces ring. There was only one man in Yndi City Reggie knew who still wore one of those. Jefferies.

“Fuck!” Reggie punched the wall, popping open freshly closed wounds on his knuckles.

He looked at the ticker. Thirteen-thirty. Only thirty minutes. Best to see what she wanted. Maybe she had some ideas on how to deal with Stahler.

He got dressed, and headed out.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Reggie paused before opening the door, standing underneath the dead neon sign designed to look like a face gusting winds across the seas. The broken tubes were covered with decades of filth. The neon sign announced the building as the Zephyr. It had been established before the space port was built for actual sailors and, of course, tourists. After the space port was built, the natural ebb and flow of the city changed and the Zephyr fell off the beaten path. It was now just a run-down local watering hole, no different than any other in S3.

He scrubbed a bloody-knuckled hand through dirty blond hair and stretched his jaw to the side, testing the level of pain. A few cuts and bruises marred his Romanesque face and new holes and blood stains had sprouted on his clothing after last night’s meeting with the Tiburons. He took one limping step forward and pulled the door open.

Reggie paused a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dimness of the entertainment house. It wasn’t a large space, but the lack of custom at this time of the day gave it the illusion of space. Along the left wall was the bar, a long flat plasteel slab the color of a dead sky. A variety of stools ran its length, no two alike, all empty. Raz, the owner, was leaning his thin forearms on the bar, greasy black hair duly reflecting the space lighting on the wall behind him. On the wall opposite, was a row of booths that offered a choice of entertainments: gambling on the midwest dog races, holovids, ‘net wires, erotica and even a stim station. At one of the erotica booths, two men were groping each other. One wore a black faux-leather vest that was too tight on his muscular frame and the other wore a thread-bare pink angora sweater over his feminine body. Angora’s eyes practically glowed purple, deep on a stim high.

The only other occupied booth was in the back corner. Two Raptors sat there, their heads sporting an inch-wide rut of shaven scalp down the middle, a reverse response to the Tiburon crest. Hovering over their table was a holovid of Vain Gloria. Reggie could barely hear it, but he was sure it was playback of her latest concert. The holvid was made of light that threw off a soft orange-yellow glow. Vain Gloria pranced and sang, an elaborate hairstyle nearly as tall as she was sported small figurines of cherubs. Her surgically enhanced voice was nothing less than pleasing even if you didn’t like the club music she made. Her surgically enhanced body helped as well, displayed in all its erotic beauty, nothing left to the imagination. The Raptors, however, stopped watching the ‘vid when Reggie entered, focusing on him. One of them raised his glass, the day-glow green liquid slopping about, and nodded. They had heard about last night.

Overall, the Zephyr exuded filth and decay. The main floor was filled with empty tables and chairs and would serve as a pub area later in the evening as dock workers came in for synth-ale and a snack before returning home. Almost every surface was sticky from years of not being cleaned properly, paint was chipping from the walls, empty bottles and glasses could be found here and there and the whole place smelled like a toilet. Raz said that in its current state, the Zephyr had charm, an air of being lived in, used.

It was one of Reggie’s favorite places to be.

The story continues with “The Price of Failure.”

The Royal Huntsman: A Wyld Hunt Yarn

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The lone horseman rode into Bergn Town late in the afternoon from the Mast Road. He was a grim and dirty man, an ugly scar on his left cheek pulled his mouth up into a perpetual sneer. Greasy dark hair was pulled back and tied at the nape of his neck with a plain leather cord. He wore dark wool in browns and greens, sturdy leather boots and a large green cloak that flowed out onto his horse’s black haunch. A massive knife, just shy of being a short sword, hung from his belt, the lower tip of the sheath tied around his thigh. A club-like long bow rested under the cantle of his saddle, the ends showing from under his cloak, and a quiver full of arrows, some seemingly too big to even be called arrows, hung from the pommel. Saddlebags were full to bursting and a bedroll completed the ensemble. A small silver pin on the collar of his dirty coat, embossed with the upraised hand of the ancient Kurov family overlaid with a drawn bow, marked the rider as the King’s Huntsman.

Bergn was more of a large logging post rather than a town, but it was important to Kurov, the Split Kingdom. It sat in the eastern foothills of the Grey Mountains, among the white pine forest. The chief export was the white pines themselves; straight and tall, they were shipped down the Mast Road to the city of Portsmouth, Kurov’s largest port and shipyard, to be sold as masts to the ship builders. The straightest and tallest were claimed by the King, used in the construction of the massive three-mast ships of the King’s Navy. Bergn also housed a paper mill, making and exporting a medium grade paper made from the de-limbing of the white pines.

The horse’s hooves squelched in the mud. A light rain had been falling since the morning and even though it was early spring, the air held a chill. Most of the people hurried about the town, cloaks pulled tightly, sounds muted in the dampness of the day, even those from the saw and paper mills. The Huntsman walked his horse straight to the large two-story house that marked the beginning of the Mast Road. He passed the people, inns, shops, blacksmith and farrier without a glance. Almost all of the townsfolk stopped to look at the Huntsman, most glancing warily, others staring outright, all knowing what his arrival meant.

The Huntsman stopped before the house, dropping the horse’s reins. Trained, the horse would not move while the reins dangled to the ground. The Huntsman looked back along the road and saw a man crouched behind the corner of the blacksmith’s shop, eyeing the horse hungrily. He smirked and hoped the fool would try to steal his horse. Some lessons are only learned the hard way and that fool would learn Shadow was not to be trifled with.

The door to the house opened, revealing a thin stick of a man with a stuffy air. He looked down his nose at the Huntsman, nostrils flaring as if he smelled something foul. Strange to find someone in this backwater acting as if he belonged at court. Perhaps he did. Time to follow the forms.

The Huntsman sketched a bow, no more than a nodding of his head, really. He hated the formality of his job. The hunt was what mattered. The pulsing in his veins as he cornered his quarry, blade at the ready for the first gush of hot crimson…

The Huntsman shuddered and smiled ruefully. No, not here. Not at this time.

“His Royal Highness, King Domenic Cristobal Munoz, has answered your petition and sent his Royal Huntsman to hear your case and do all that is necessary to solve it,” the Huntsman sneered. He really hated this part.

The thin man raised an eyebrow, a sign of extreme surprise when in court. Yes, the Huntsman was convinced this man had been at court, or at the very least, was trained there. Why was he all the way out here, though? “This way, M’lord,” he intoned, turning sharply and entering the building. Oh yes, definitely from the court and quite unhappy to be in Bergn Town.

The Huntsman followed the butler inside. The house was built entirely from rough-cut logs, the holes and gaps filled with a soft yellowish mortar. The place was plainly decorated to resemble a hunting lodge, the owner clearly had no illusions above his station, or perhaps he enjoyed hunting. If so, this particular job might be easier that expected. Too often, those who petitioned the Royal Huntsman had no understanding of what the job entailed and made ridiculous demands.

The butler led him down a short hall. The floor creaked a little under the runner and the trophy antlers that dotted the walls cast vein like shadows. The butler paused outside a plain, closed door and glanced back at the Huntsman, disdain clearly showing. Sighing, he rapped once on the door and opened it.

“The Royal Huntsman, Sir,” the butler intoned. The Huntsman expected everything the butler said sounded like an announcement.

“Well, send him in!” a voice boomed.

The butler stepped aside and held out a hand into the room. “M’Lord?”

The Huntsman stepped into the room. A very large man was standing at a window, a sheaf of papers in his hand, moving them back and forth as if trying to read them clearly. He looked up when the Huntsman entered, smiling broadly.

“Well? Come in, come in! Have a seat,” he pointed to a plain, ladder backed chair, something one would find in a farmhouse. The seat cushion had seen better days, but the only other chair had no cushion. “Lawson, some ale for me and the Huntsman,” the butler bowed and as he was shutting the door, the big man added, “And none of that swill you usually send me. Tap one of Jakob’s barrels.” Lawson scowled and left.

“An interesting man,” the Huntsman said to the closed door.

“Eh, Lawson?” the big man laughed. “Little too stuffy for me, but I’ll work with what I got.” He stuck a meaty hand out towards the Huntsman. “Saul Gaynor, Mayor of Bergn.”

The Huntsman took the offered hand and pumped once. “Hodge.”

“Hodge? No ‘Royal Huntsman’ muckety-muck?” Saul laughed.

“I prefer Hodge,” he said as he sat in the cushioned chair. He put Lawson out of his mind, a mystery for another day, and took a good look at the Mayor.

Saul was in his middle years, youthful muscle turning to fat, but Hodge didn’t think for a second that Saul had become complacent. Short hair going grey met a neatly trimmed beard framing his jovial face. He was taller than most men and carried himself with an evident self-assurance. His clothes were plain wool, though of a good weave and his leather boots had been tooled with a running stag. He was every inch a country born leader of men. The perfect type of man to run a logging camp.

The mayor tossed the papers on a side table, muttering about his eyesight and sat in the other chair, legs apart, resting his elbows on his knees. His entire posture took on a conspiratorial tone. Hodge noted this, but said nothing.

Saul stared into Hodge’s eyes. “You seem young for one of your station,” he grumbled.

Hodge raised a calculated eyebrow. He was familiar with the feeling out phase of his job. Politics and games. How he hated them. Couldn’t they see that all that mattered was the thrill of the hunt? The kill? Why play games? Well, perhaps this country mayor would see.

“I earned this badge,” Hodge said, lightly touching the pin on his collar. Earned with blood and screams.

Saul laughed, leaning back. “No doubt you did. I’m sorry if I caused offense.”

“No,” Hodge spoke quietly. “They all question me. It is an unfortunate part of the job.”

Saul nodded. “Well to business then.” The door opened and Lawson entered, a tarnished silver pitcher in one hand and two wooden cups in the other. He threw a disdainful glance at the papers on the table. Pushing them aside with one arm, he set the pitcher and cups down.

“Will there be anything else, sir?” Lawson droned, eyes looking over the mayor’s head.

Saul sighed. “No, thank you, Lawson.” The butler nodded curtly and left the room. “Man does his job well, but he’s a pain in my backside,” the mayor laughed. Groaning, he stood and poured the ale, handed a cup to Hodge. Saul raised his cup. “To the hunt, Huntsman,” he toasted, emptying his cup in one go. Hodge lifted his cup in response, taking a swallow. His eyes widened a bit. Whoever this Jakob was, he knew his way around a brew.

The mayor filled his cup and dropped into his chair. “As I said, to business.”

The Brown Memorial Library: A Harper’s Grove Tale

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Mrs. Petunia Jones shoved the padlock together, her frail, liver-spotted hands shaking under the strain. The closet-sized Post Office was now closed for the evening. She waved one skeletal hand goodbye to George Winstock, who stood with a bored expression behind the counter of the general store which contained the Post Office, as she shuffled past. “Enjoy your Sunday night,” George called after the nonagenarian. He added, under his breath as he turned to count the cigarette packs, “Crazy old bat. Whoever heard of opening the Post on Sunday?”

Mrs. Jones stepped into fading light of early evening and draped her shawl over her head. Cowl-like, the shawl covered most of her face, only her hatchet nose appearing beyond the opening. Grasping her cane in one unsteady hand, she began her slow and painful walk up the hill to the Town Hall.

Ninety-two years she had lived in Harper’s Grove and she could say with complete certainty that it hadn’t changed much at all. A few new houses here and there, but the builders had to conform with the strict rules of the Harper’s Grove Historical Society and the result were homes that looked as if they had been around since before Mrs. Jones had been born. She loved Harper’s Grove and couldn’t imagine a finer place to live. Leave the sunny beaches and palm trees for the Hollywood sinners, New England winters were a true test of your love for God.

She had seen many people come and go from her town. She had a granddaughter somewhere south, perhaps New York City, she couldn’t quite remember, but other than that, her family was gone to God’s sweet embrace. It was the winter of ‘53 that took her husband John and oldest son, John Jr. when the grippe blew through town. Three years later, her daughter succumbed to smallpox of all things. Her youngest son, Matthew, survived long enough to marry and have a daughter of his own. He and his wife drove off the Miller Bridge in ‘69 when the plow truck hit them. Holes in her heart, all of them.

Most of the citizens looked upon her as a curiosity, a relic of times gone by. Except for young Miss Ennis. The sweet girl was a Satanist, Petunia was sure, but she was a nice girl. Corrupted by her mother and aunt, both of which had died young, surely punishment for their sinning ways. Mrs. Jones stopped by Miss Ennis’ store every Wednesday, Bible clutched to her chest to ward off the devil’s influence and tried to convince Miss Ennis to repent her evil ways. The poor girl never did and always assured Mrs. Jones that she wouldn’t put a spell on her for disturbing her day. Nice girl, to be sure. Such a shame.

Cresting the rise, the Town Hall loomed before her, ground floor windows ablaze with light. The upper floor was as dark as Miss Ennis’ soul and it was there that Mrs. Jones was going. She painstakingly climbed the steps of the building as a cold wind began to blow. Too cold for Spring. Mrs. Jones pursed her lips. Devil’s work, for sure.

Inside, the Town Hall was warm and inviting. Worn floorboards creaked as she entered the vestibule and she paused as a raised nail bumped the toe of her hard leather shoe. The building smelled of stale smoke and wood polish. Petunia inhaled deeply through her nose, relishing the smell of old. Through the doorway proper, she could see the neat rows of wooden benches all facing the large age-darkened oak table at the head of the meeting room. She didn’t enter, but instead, headed up the stairs to the second floor.

It was a painful climb, her knees screaming in protest. Twenty-four steps with a landing after the first twelve, was a long way to for a ninety-two year old woman. When she reached the top, she paused in the doorway facing the blackness of the library. She closed her eyes and sniffed again. In addition to the wood polish and old smoke, her could detect the faint scents of dust, dried leather and just underneath it all, the vanilla of old paper. The Brown Memorial Library smelled just like her grandfather’s house.

When her grandfather, Clarence Brown, died in 1929, Petunia was only eight years old. Grand Papa donated a large sum of money and his entire personal library to the town in his will. The money was used to convert the upper floor of the Town Hall in a public library. It didn’t take much because the town officials were able to use Grand Papa’s bookcases. The library’s smell, its very atmosphere, reminded her of one thing: childhood.

“I’m so tired, Grand Papa,” she whispered into the darkness.

Opening her eyes, stepped inside.

She needed no light to guide her. She came here every day after the Post Office closed and every night in her dreams. A few steps in, she dropped her cane and held her arms out to the sides letting her fingertips brush against the smooth wood of the bookcases on either side of her. A playful smile caressed her lips and she spun in place on the ball of one foot, a graceful pirouette. She stopped, her dress continuing to spin, wrapping her legs briefly before it unwound.

Slowly, she continued down the aisle, turning in among the books to the right about halfway down the center aisle. Expertly, her hands found the old tome she sought, its leather cover stained across the center of its spine from decades of use. She pulled it off the shelf and reverently clutched it to her chest.

Along the side of the great room, she found her favorite chair and carefully sat down. Moonlight played among the leaves outside the window, motes of dust dancing in its silver shafts. Petunia opened the book’s cover and inside read the faded words, penned in a spidery hand, “To my lovely Petunia, may your dreams always come true, Grand Papa.” She sighed, running her fingers over the brown letters, a small smile lighting her face.

She closed her eyes, face bathed in the moon’s glow.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When Mayor Johnston opened the Town Hall the next day, he found old Mrs. Jones sitting in a chair by the window, an old copy of Alice in Wonderland resting in her lap and a look of profound peace on her face. Shaking his head fondly the way you would do after witnessing a toddler do something cute, he gently touched her shoulder. Her head dropped to the side and that was when he noticed she wasn’t breathing.

scriptic

For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, Michael gave me this prompt: I’m so tired.

I gave Talia this prompt: There’s a stain on my notebook where your coffee cup was. – The Squeeze, “Black Coffee in Bed”

Old Mitchell Street: An Easy Money Transmission

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Old Mitchell Street

Old Mitchell Street

Reggie leaned back against the door to Gris’ flat and huffed a deep breath. His false bravado had reached a limit and he had to get out of there before he stayed another night and defaulted on the job. She may not know it, or even care, but she had him wrapped so tightly around her finger that he didn’t think he’d ever get free. Tonight’s job though, ah, that would fix it all.

He combed his fingers through his hair and slunk down the five flights of stairs. The lift was broken, had been for some time, and any talk of it being fixed was long gone. So went life in Sector Three. Rotting from the inside out.

The job was in Sector Five on the other side of the city, but Reggie had plenty of time. He had cased the area yesterday and knew where to set up. He considered stopping in at the Zephyr for a quick drink. It was only down the corner, but he waved the thought away. He needed a clear head this evening. This was the biggest job yet; the one that would set him up for the rest of his life.

He stepped over Chu’s legs where the stimboy lay sprawled across the vestibule, sparing a few seconds to be sure he was breathing. Satisfied at the rise and fall of Chu’s chest, Reggie threw open the door and stepped out into the filth of Sector Three.

On the official charter documents, this part of what used to be Groton, Connecticut was labeled Sector Three. Most people called it S3 or the Docks. Reggie could see the hulking masses of the orbiters in the distance to the west across the Thames River, in what was once New London. The shipyard ran day and night, orbiters either being unloaded or prepped for a trip into Earth’s orbit where they would dock with a solar skimmer and transfer their cargo. From there, the skimmers rode solar winds to bring men and supplies to the lunar mining colonies and raw ores back to Earth. At night, the shipyard area of the Docks was ablaze in light and on cloudy nights, that light lit up the sky in an electric grey that could be seen for miles.

S3 was the working slug’s part of Yndi City. It was dirty, beat up and run down, and the average slug seemed to like it that way. It was the backbone of Yndi City’s economy, a hub of import/export and tourism.

Reggie headed north along Old Mitchell Street, or OM as the locals called it, toward the mag-rail station on North. The street was lit in a wash of neon, the sun having just set behind the silhouettes of the orbiters. OM was the main thoroughfare through S3 and catered to locals and tourists alike. Clubs were on every corner, the heavy drone and pulse of the current rave suffusing the ground as he walked past. Food vendors taking up closet-sized holes in store fronts shouted fresh catches and fried goods, most inspired by the snack foods of Japan from the early part of the century. Corporate stim kiosks stood in solitary abandonment, giant phalluses ignored when stim could be had for an eighth of the price in the Underground. Chi-bi girls stood in groups of two or three, the big-eye, small-mouth surgical alterations having turned them into grotesque caricatures of the anime characters they were inspired by. Reggie never understood the BESM fad, but each group of Chi-bi’s attracted a small flock of males, known as Jumpers, after a long defunct manga magazine, most fingering the Chi-bi’s pink or blue hair and flashing credit chits with blinking green lights indicating full accounts. Judging by the large number of Jumpers, the Chi-bi’s stood to make some good money tonight.

OM was a noisy and garish tourist trap, but it was also the top of the Underground. If you needed something, anything, you could find someone who knew somebody who could get you what you wanted if you were willing to step off the main street and into the unlit, trash covered, slimy stink of the back alleys and from there into the darkest part of Yndi City; Sector Five. Always a bad idea to do so without a weapon of some sort.

Reggie walked along, boots thumping, hands thrust into the pockets of the olive drab jacket he always wore. The weight of his Colt hanging at his side was a comfort as he ignored the spectacle of OM and focused on the job he had to do. Leaving the Chi-bi’s, Jumpers, kiosks and fried foods behind, Reggie crossed onto North Street, just one block from where it intersected with the old bridge and the mag-rail.

If OM had an exact opposite, North Street would be it. Here was the collection ground of OM’s leavings: piles of refuse, half occupied buildings and the dregs of humanity. Without looking closely, Reggie thought of the Northers as a hundred variations of Chu scattered along the length of North. As with any city, the lines between the wealthy and poor parts were as clear as a lightning bolt.

A block away, Reggie could make out the grey shapes of perhaps five or six people coming towards him on the opposite side of the street. The large crests on their heads marked them as Tiburons, a nasty collection of thugs who ruled all the streets of S3 except OM. They shaped their hair to resemble the dorsal fin of a shark and most had their teeth replaced with plasteel razors. They weren’t a group Reggie wanted, or needed, to tangle with. Not tonight.

He ducked into a side alley, back to the wall, dark shadows wrapping him in a blanket of obscurity. He clicked on his En-Vee and the world became tinted a digital green. Heat signatures marked the Tibs as they strolled along North, engaged in a violent argument. Yes, it was best he remained hidden.

Automatic targeting reticles popped up on the display hud, marking each Tib with a green halo. With a thought, Reggie could turn those halos red and pop off the required rounds with his Colt, perhaps only missing one target. The NAA army had blessed him with abilities that allowed him to survive and thrive in a city whose Underground ate people daily.

He watched and waited. Five Tibs. Six rounds. He might survive. He could take them out, but, no. He was too close to OM and unwanted attention would be drawn to the sound of gunfire. The YC Protectors didn’t do much in the way of protecting anything, Jefferies and the Rogers did most of that, but the Procs did patrol OM in droves, upholding the appearance of safety and security for the tourists. He didn’t need Proc bullies bothering him tonight. He had work to do.

The Tibs passed him and he lost them in the glare of a streetlight. En-Vee was for near darkness, any light source could make it bright enough to blind him. Reggie waited to a count of one hundred before stepping out of the shadows, a thought turning the En-Vee off.

“I told ya I sees a chump-stick slink into the dark, Hoss,” a voice chortled behind him.

Reggie spun around, hand reaching into his jacket and closing on the grip of his revolver. The five Tibs were arrayed before him, standing in varying degrees of combat readiness. They held metal bars, knives, chains: standard street gang weapons. Behind the Tibs loomed a sixth, and eight-foot-tall monstrosity with an impossible amount of muscle bunched on his tank-like frame. His dorsal hair was so large, it flopped over to the side, drooping under its own weight. A Supersoldier. They must have picked him up on their way back towards the alley.

“Ah-yurp,” nodded one one the Tibs. Hoss.

Another Tib, the smallest of the group, was bouncing on the balls of his feet. “He’s here without say-so,” he squeaked. “He needs say-so to walk our waters.”

“Lemme squash the bug,” the Super rumbled, cracking his knuckles with a sound like gunshots, flexed muscles stretching his skin to near ripping.

The one called Hoss nodded. “No say-so, no go-go.”

Reggie tried to smile. “Hey, guys, c’mon. Just passing through, yeah?”

The Supersoldier leaped forward, roaring.

Things had been much better when he had been hidden.

Storch-Badge

For this week’s Master Class, we were given the line, “Things had been much better when he had been hidden.” from Douglas Adams’, Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul. This is the second time a Hitchhiker’s Guide book has been chosen for Master Class and I count myself lucky to be included in a group of writers who thrive on such geeky books.

True to Master Class offering hard prompts, Professor SAM required her students to use this line somewhere in our story in a position that is a multiple of four. In my story, the prompt line falls in the 24th paragraph.

This entry in the Easy Money online novel follows immediately after The Last One and was a required evil. Full of exposition and descriptive passages, it fit naturally as the next installment. It might be a long and tiring read for some people, but it is our first good look at Yndi City and helps to set the stage for further stories about Reggie, Gris and all the others. I hope you enjoy what I consider a brief look at this world.

The story continues with “The Zephyr.”