Fantasmagoria (13 page)

“So, you’re here to kill me.” Pugs twisted his child-sized tie around his neck.

Gilbert sat in his lead clothes, flanked by two very large minotaurs in tailored suits. He nodded and stared at the man-dog through the round portal in the hood.

Pugs stood on a stool in front of the mirror in his private bathroom. It was a shrine to cleanliness in gold and stainless steel. The rest of the office was sharp and modern in blacks and whites. There were no windows. “You know why I like using minotaurs?”

Gilbert shook his head. He knew better than to answer. Pugs was a green meanie pixie, through and through. There was no point.

“First, they’re not as dumb as you might think.”

The wide-horned henchmen turned to look at each other. They were both over seven feet tall, not counting the curved spears erupting from their foreheads, and the black one had a brass ring through his nose.

“But mostly, it’s because their behavior is predictable. Chop their balls off, and they’re a lot less aggressive. Not docile. Just not gore-you-to-pieces crazy.” Pugs pulled the tie taut and admired himself. He wiped some drool from his jowls with a handkerchief. “After that, all you have to do is dress them in a high-voltage restraining collar. And use small words.”

Gilbert looked up and saw a blinking collar partially obscured by a starched shirt.

Pugs combed his sleeves with a tiny lint brush, taking off the dog hair. “They’ll do anything to avoid being shocked.” He lifted a small transmitter from the sink and waved it at Gilbert. “Anything. But that’s the limit of their forethought. Do you know what that means?”

“You do the thinking.”

Pugs nodded. “Exactly. That’s why I like you, Tumors.”

Gilbert hated that nickname.

Pugs went on. “So, tell me again. How did you get this information?”

“I told them I needed something you wanted so I could get close to you. After they said you were the target, I thoug--”

“See? I’m already confused because NO ONE TOLD YOU TO THINK!” Pug screamed as loud as his little lungs were able. A blob of drool sprang from his flabby jowls. “You were supposed to get inside. Infiltrate! Infiltrate, Tumors. You know what word means?”

Gilbert nodded.

Pugs leapt down from the stool and continued yelling. “How the fuck are you infiltrating by sitting here in my god-damned office?”

“What was I supposed to do?” Gilbert kept his hands in his lap and his voice calm. “If I had said no, they would have killed me.”

“I couldn’t be so lucky.” Pugs stormed toward the desk on little feet. “They weren’t going to kill you, you dolt. Pimpernel just paid the Hand two hundred grand for you. You can be damned sure he was going to get a return on that investment.”

“I thought you would be happy.”

“That’s insulting. You insult me, Tumors.”

Gilbert didn’t respond.

“If I wanted to know where Pimpernel is making the drug, then I would find out. In fact, I’ve already taken care of that. How dumb do you think I am?”

“I don’t think you’re dumb at all, Mr. Roth.”

“Sure you don’t. Just like LaMana didn’t, or any of those asshole losers out there who think they can stiff me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“By tomorrow tonight, Erasmus Pimpernel will be out of business. His thug-in-chief belongs to me.” Pugs pointed to the sheet-covered gurney in the far corner of his office. A body lay underneath. “His drug production facility will be destroyed. Kosi’s is burned to the ground, thanks to you. All that’s left is the Dark Red. What I needed was you on the inside. As long as you were working for him, then when the rest of this shit went down, he would have circled the wagons there, taken you right to it. But now look where you are. Sitting there holding your dick like a pervert.”

Gilbert looked at the floor. He had heard about the Dark Red.

“This is a problem, Tumors. A real conundrum. Six weeks we’ve been planning this.” Pugs climbed into the chair behind the desk and nearly disappeared. It must have been the Butcher’s.

“Yes, sir.”

“Bargaining with those fucking crazies in the Hand. Staging the show at Hoosegow. Inventing your history as an assassin.” Pugs laughed. “You . . . a high stakes political assassin. That’s so ripe! And they fuckin’ bought it.” Pugs snorted and wiped drool with the handkerchief. “And of course money. Lots and lots of money. Do you know how much it costs to forge Imperial travel documents?”

Gilbert nodded again. “I know what yo--”

“It was all part of a plan, Tumors. A carefully orchestrated plan of which you had the easiest god-damned piece.” Pugs picked up a dog treat from a silver bowl on the desk and shoved it in his mouth.

“Sir, I gave up my life for this. They took everythin--”

Pugs swallowed. “I told you they’d take it. For leverage.”

“Yeah, but you said you knew why I didn’t die in the accident. If I knew why I am this way then--”

“No, I said I would introduce you to someone who did. But that was only if you made me happy, Tumors. And I’m not happy.” Pugs waved into the air. “Break his arm. I don’t care which one.”

The minotaurs grabbed Gilbert.

“What? Wait. WAIT!” He struggled, but the giants were too strong. He felt his arm pulled straight. There was a subtle, muffled crack. Gilbert’s scream echoed inside his hood. He clutched his right arm and fell to the floor, panting. He could feel his body heating up.

“It’s nothing personal,” Pugs explained. “But now that I have your attention, you have thirty seconds to give me one good reason not to kill you.”

Gilbert’s mouth was frozen wide in a silent scream. His arm burned. It throbbed and sent body-bending pain into his skull. He pressed the crown of his hood to the floor to keep his head from exploding, or at least that’s how it felt.

“Well?”

“Because,” Gilbert panted. “Then you’ll die.” His tongue curled. He could barely speak. “Everyone will die.” He blurted the words as fast as he could, then held his breath and gripped his arm. It hurt so bad.

“This oughta be good.” Pugs stood in the chair and grabbed his little coat off the desk. “Why is that?”

Gilbert rocked back and forth and tried not to think about the shearing pain paralyzing his entire right side. “Be--because . . .” was all he could manage.

“Fifteen seconds.” Pugs motioned to the ringed minotaur, who held Gilbert’s head through the hood as if he were about to tear it off.

Gilbert gasped, then yelled. He clutched his arm and tried to keep it still. It hurt. It hurt so much.

“Ten seconds.”

Gilbert took a deep breath. Tears trickled down his face.

“Because there will be a fissile chain reaction.” It was a female voice.

Pugs looked to the door.

A tall, middle-aged woman with salt-and-pepper hair and bright red lips stood in front of a small cadre of younger but equally stunning women. She wore a dark red uniform, tailored and pressed. “It will create a nuclear burn that would vaporize four city blocks.”

Pugs growled. Both minotaurs took aggressive postures.

“The effective blast radius would be half a mile, but the damage would stretch much farther. Isn’t that right, Mr. Tubers?”

Gilbert nodded from the floor.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Pugs demanded.

The woman in red took off her gloves. “We’re here to oversee the last shipment.”

“I told you. Everything would be delivered on schedule. How did yo--”

“Oh, shut up.”

The minotaurs stepped forward and the woman in red signaled her companions. Two of the voluptuous women produced automatic rifles and cocked the side-hammers.

“No one breaks int--” Pugs stopped as soon as he saw the white woman stride into the room between the guns. Everyone froze.

She wore a large-brimmed hat and sunglasses, but her ivory skin and black lips were unmistakable. She sauntered past the stiff minotaurs to the gurney and pulled back the sheet.

“Don’t touch that,” Pugs barked.

The woman in red walked forward. “This isn’t your club. It’s LaMana’s. And if it weren’t for us, you wouldn’t even be in that chair.”

“You were well paid,” Pugs retorted.

“Not in full.” The woman pulled a chair close to Gilbert and sat down.

Gilbert hunched on the floor, clutching his arm. He tried to breathe slowly.

“Who is this?” The white woman pointed to the body.

Pugs didn’t respond, so she turned and removed her hat and sunglasses. Her eyes were blacker than her lips. Gilbert looked away. It was like staring into death.

“The Jackrabbit,” Pugs said. “‘Blackjack’ Fulcrum.”

“Who?”

“By Kraxus.” Pugs rubbed his hand-paws over his eyes. “He’s only the most prolific hit man in history.”

The white woman turned back to the prone body. “Really?” she whispered.

“A god-damned legend.”

She studied his face. “He looks like a toy. How many people has he killed?”

Pugs shook his head. “He’s seen better days, but trust me, he’s strapped down for a reason.”

“Lette,” the older woman interjected.

The white woman put her glasses back on. She glanced at the gurney one last time and stepped away.

“The ’noids are downstairs.” Pugs pulled out a cigar. “It’s all going into the vat, everything from the last couple nights, just like I said.”

“Yes, we saw the line in the alley. There is a tanker truck waiting to haul it away as soon as they’re done.”

“So take it already and get the hell outta my club. I don’t ever wanna see you bitc--again.”

“There’s still the matter of Mr. Tubers.” The woman in red motioned to the crumpled man on the floor.

Pugs growled at him. “Oh, I get it. You followed the stupid prick. Don’t trust me, huh? Well, I said you could have him after I was done, and I ain’t done, so he’s still mine.”

The woman leaned forward in her chair. “Hello, Gilbert.”

Gilbert grunted. He was sweating from the pain and his visor was fogged.

“I am Colonel Sryn, but you can call me Selga.”

Colonel, Gilbert thought. The women were Amazons. Soldiers of the Master Race. Genocidal fascists. And that meant the white woman, Lette, was a Fury. He didn’t know what to say. He would have been less surprised if his dead father had walked into the room dressed in drag. He thought about the mural underneath Hoosegow.

Colonel Sryn smiled. “I recognize this is a lot to take in, but I’m the one Mr. Roth spoke to you about. I know all about your accident, Gilbert. In fact, I engineered it.”

Gilbert twitched. It was like discovering you were switched at birth or that your spouse of twenty years was a mechanoid.

“I know why you are the way you are.”

Gilbert struggled to sit up.

“You see, I am your grandmother.”

Gilbert shook his head. “No.”

“Wha . . .?” Pugs’s mouth hung open. “Wait, I didn’t think you all could . . .”

“What?” the woman asked.

“You know, get pregnant.” Pugs scowled. “I thought if the seed of a man touched one a’ you, you turned into that.” He waved at Lette with his cigar.

Lette smiled with black lips.

Selga sat back in her chair and said nothing.

“Whatever.” Pugs shook his tiny head and puffed on his cigar. “Let’s hurry and finish this before the stiff wakes up.” He looked at his watch. “We have a date with a dinosaur in thirty minutes.”

Selga stood and faced the small aminal. “We don’t care about your little gang war. We’ll be taking the last of our payment, which includes my grandson.”

Gilbert shook his head in protest. He wanted to scream that he was a man, a man in full, not some bastard half-breed.

Lette had wandered back to the stretcher. She ran her hand across the Jackrabbit’s shredded face. It was grotesque. “Ma’m Colonel, are you sure we can’t take the mechanoid? Such a potent killer might be useful.”

Pugs scowled. “Now, hold on.”

Selga turned to Lette. “Leave him. Take what is ours and leave these creatures to their fate.”

“Yes, ma’m.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Pugs asked.

Selga grabbed Gilbert’s arm and pulled him up. “You’ll find out soon enough.” She pushed a minotaur out of the way.

Pugs waved. “So long, Tumors. Them’s the breaks.”

Gilbert clutched his broken arm as he was dragged from the room. He turned to look at Pugs one last time. The gun barrel that prodded Gilbert forward made it clear they were leading the half-breed to his death.

(FIFTEEN) The Killing Time

“In case you didn’t notice, Jack, you’re strapped to a dinosaur.” Pugs was drooling with excitement and kept slurping between loud, nasal breaths.

Jack opened his eyes and looked around. Pugs was right. Jack stared at the little rat-dog, held aloft by a thick-necked minotaur in a pin-striped suit. The tips of the aminal’s horns were five feet wide.