Unidentified Funny Objects 2 (30 page)

“That’s some bullshit; their heads were already full of notions of adventures and quests. They’re farmboys! Their lives suck. You think this courtroom would be packed with billionaire playboys if the call for the Chosen One went out to them? These dudes couldn’t wait to get off the farm and being the Chosen One was the perfect excuse.

“So here they all are, itching for adventure and quests, but for all we know collecting five easy installments of 99 ducats is the quest. What do you think’s harder for a farmboy to do, something that requires physical exertion or getting that dough? Farmboys have time and desire to practice sword fights and archery, what they ain’t got is money! If you can’t afford to wield the mighty Cleave, the epic sword I will soon urinate on, then you damn sure can’t afford to go risking your life tackling evil.

“We’ll never know if collecting payment was the quest to bring out the Chosen One… cause none of them actually completed the quest, something that would’ve separated the farmboys from the farm men. Since we can’t know the mysteries of the prophecies or the mysterious ways of the prophets, then we can’t say for sure that my client did anything criminal. If you got doubts, you gotta let him go.”

I rested my case. After an hour of deliberation, the jury came back with a verdict. Algus Truthseer was a free old kook.

A legion of farmboys booed. Luc Brawnshield stood up, fixed a blonde wig to his head and shouted “I can still complete the quest!” before dashing out of the courtroom. Just like that, the courtroom emptied with farmboys running with new fire under their asses.

Llevar gave me a high elf scowl, which to me is the twin sister of a high elf smile. “This isn’t over,” he said before storming off.

It was just as well he left before I could gloat. I wasn’t in pro form ’cause I hadn’t had a bathroom break since leaving the dungeon. Luckily, Llevar had left Cleave in its sheath on the prosecutor’s table. I smiled.

Time to make one prophecy come true.

Story Notes:

This is my fourth story set in Seven Realms, a fantasy world that takes typical tropes and fantasy stereotypes and turns them on their ear.  It's also the second Seven Realms story to feature Anglewood, a character so good at being bad I couldn't resist seeing him again.

When he found out how hard it was to win a writing award, James Beamon decided to settle for being one of the only writers he can think of with six-pack abs. Now he writes less fiction because he's always at the gym. It also keeps him in fighting shape, which is beneficial since his day job as a defense contractor takes him to places where running and ducking are oftentimes a great idea. Currently he's in Afghanistan.

By Wade Albert White

It all started the day the first apple trees blossomed on the moon. I had just finished a contract to assassinate some government-type chappy from the Lunar Council and was enjoying the one week turnover period the Agency allows between assignments before returning to Earth. Even the most ruthless of killers requires a little R&R once in a while, not to mention I could claim all the expenses on my tax forms. Besides, I absolutely detest space travel.

So there I was, stretched out in leisurely fashion on a chesterfield in the Trudeau Suite of Moonbase Zeta, enjoying an ancient tome on the art of electrocution. It was quite the thriller. High voltage, higher voltage, local brown-out level voltage. Who says science can’t be fun.

Then Humbert entered.

Humbert is my robotic butler and a bit of an odd looking fellow, what with the headlamp eyes and barrel legs and all. Tends to startle guests and plays havoc with pacemakers, but since I don’t really care for company anyway it usually works out in the end.

“There is a connection for you on the VID phone, Ms. Wackrill,” he said.

His facial features were, as always, completely inert.

I yawned. “Remind them I’m on my turnover.”

“It is not the Agency, madam.”

“Then I’m not here at all.”

“I believe it is a call of a personal nature.”

“Well, I’m not inclined to have nature personally call me right now, so tell it to go away.”

“The gentleman was rather insistent, I’m afraid.”

I threw down the book. “Oh, for the love of—Who is it then?”

“From Earth. A Mr. ‘Wiggy’ Turpin.”

Wingham Beasley Turpin, of the Dorchester Turpins, no less. He and I had attended grammar school together and on through to undergraduate classes until he ventured off into classical music and I took up serious study of close knife fighting and death by a thousand paper cuts. Wiggy was sort of the runt of the litter, but a quick wit and better than me at maths. We still exchanged Christmas cards every year.

I reached over and flicked on the end table monitor. Wiggy’s rather bovine features rezzed into view.

“Ashleigh, darling,” he trilled, “how’s the hair?”

Did I forget to mention he had a hair fixation? I suppose I thought the nickname rather gave it away. Toupees, extensions, you name it. It was a fetish gone wild, and not for the betterment of all humankind, let me tell you.

“My hair is perfectly normal,” I answered, “and yours?”

“A smash, Ash. An absolute tootle on the noodle. This week it’s green.”

I could see plain as day that it was green; he needn’t have pointed it out. A disturbingly luminescent green that quite frankly hurt the back of my brain a little.

“I honestly couldn’t care less,” I said.

“Oh, come now, Ash. I’m trading in wigs on the side now. Sort of a hobby thing. Let me set you up. Some metallic silver forelocks?”

“No.”

“A rainbow spread of feather extenders?”

“No.”

“A full mop in a fetching leopard pattern?”

“Definitely not.”

“Seriously, let me send you a leopard. I accidentally bought an entire crate and they’re horrid. Absolutely ghastly. Frightened the maid so badly she cried and short-circuited herself.”

“I said
no
, Wiggy.”

He burst into tears.

“Oh for goodness sake,” I said, rolling my eyes, “send me one then if it’s that important to you.”

“It’s not that,” he sobbed. “I’m afraid I’m in a terrible predicament. A dreadful quandary. A horrible fix.”

“Well, spit it out then,” I said, “before my great-grandchildren are billed for the call.”

“It’s quite simple, Ash. I-I’ve gone and killed a man.”

I waited for the rest, but apparently that constituted his full confession.

“I fail to see the problem,” I said.

Judging from the look on his face this was possibly not the response he’d been looking for.

“But I didn’t mean to,” he protested.

“’Didn’t mean to’ accounts for nearly half my kills,” I assured him. “There’s no shame in a bit of collateral damage, though it’s best not to advertise it. Don’t want them thinking you’re only racking up points with hand grenades.”

“You don’t understand,” wailed Wiggy. “I’ve become a murderer, Ash. An out-and-out criminal of the worst breed. There’s blood on my hands.”

“Is that all? Let me switch you back to Humbert. He’s simply a wizard with stains.”

I reached toward the monitor.

“Wait!” he cried. “That’s not the end of it.”

“Speaking strictly as a professional,” I said, “I can assure you it is.”

“No, it isn’t.” He glanced around the room and then back into the VID monitor, hunched lower now, his great beak of a nose filling the screen. “He’s back.”

“Who’s back?”

“Howard Hornsby. The chap I accidentally dispatched.”

I smiled. “Technically, Wiggy, if they’re still kicking then you haven’t actually killed them yet.”

“No, no, I’m positive I did. Absolutely so.”

“On what grounds?”

“I accidentally knocked him into one of the combines here on the farm.”

“One of those mechanical harvester thingys?”

“A rather big one, I’m afraid.”

“And you think what now? He’s patched himself back together and is out for revenge?”

He sniffed. “As absurd as that may sound, yes. Or, well, something like that. I mean, he must be dead, he simply must. But… oh, I don’t know. I tell you, the whole thing’s got me baffled but good.”

“Well, I can certainly appreciate your dilemma,” I sympathized. Then I thought about it a bit longer. “Actually, no I can’t. Why exactly did you call me, again?”

“I need protection. I want to hire you as my bodyguard.”

“Ah, see, I actually do the opposite of that.”

“I’m serious, Ash. It’s only a matter of time before he gets me. Or else hires someone for the job. I’ve seen people lurking about, shadows in the bushes. Cold-hearted, backstabbing bastards, the lot of them. Not a twig of guilt or conscience. But that’s your world, Ash. You’re one of them.”

“My, but you do have a way of flattering a girl.”

“I’m begging you.”

I am, generally speaking, immune to begging, having understandably encountered my fair share of it in this line of work, but there was something in the way his chubby little cheeks quivered that got the better of me. I hate it when that happens.

“Fine,” I said, “I’ll come. But at twice my normal rate and a full maintenance checkup for Humbert. He’s due next month.”

“I’ll pay, I’ll pay. Whatever it takes.”

“Fine. Expect us the day after tomorrow.”

I snapped off the VID and looked down at my book with a sigh.

Electrocution would just have to wait.

WE ARRIVED AT WIGGY’S as scheduled, a vast, sprawling parcel of land. The Turpin estate was old money. Full east and west wings, guest houses, gardens, stables, a private observatory, and two thousand acres of prime farmland. A bit of Downton Abbey meets the American Midwest.

The maid, Greetta, and the butler, Jeevz, met us at the front door. Both were android servants and sported matching bronze Mohawks. I sensed Wiggy’s influence here and no one seemed overly happy about it, least of all me. We left the pleasantries aside.

“I’m afraid there’s been another incident,” Jeevz intoned.

“Hornsby again?” I asked.

“No,” Greetta chimed in. “It’s Mr. Turpin. He’s… well, h-he’s expired you see.”

“Doesn’t anyone ever check the due dates around here?” I quipped, tongue firmly in check.

Apparently it was a poor time for risqué humor, as the two of them simply stood there and stared at me blankly. Possibly they had been expecting more in the way of grief from an old friend, but take my word for it, when your final exam with a room full of school chums is “last one standing,” you learn to let go fairly quickly.

I put on my best somber face. “May we examine the body?”

“I’m afraid there isn’t one,” said Jeevz.

The maid let out a shuttering sob and a few sparks flew from the corner of her eye socket.

“Obviously,” I said, “you’ve been schooled in such matters by the late master of the house. You see, normally we base accusations of death on actual observation of the individual’s current state of health, or, more typically, the lack thereof.”

Jeevz frowned. “There isn’t a body because Mr. Turpin fell into the combine harvester.”

I leaned over to Humbert. “Make a note. The next time we require a third man we’re contacting that harvester. It’s establishing an absolutely first rate record.”

“I can, however, direct you to the location of the incident,” Jeevz continued.

“And why, pray tell, would we want to do that?”

“Were you not hired to protect Mr. Turpin?”

“Yes, but I would venture to say we’ve arrived a little too late to fulfill that particular contractual obligation.”

“But will you not wish to investigate his death?”

“Investigate what? It was the combine harvester. You just said so.”

“Mr. Turpin’s estate will pay you for your services in the successful determination of his murderer.”

“But… the combine harvester. Remember? We just talked about it. Twice. I say, do you suffer from some sort of short-term memory loss?”

Jeevz sighed. “The harvester was the instrument, madam, not the culprit.”

“What culprit? You said he fell in.”

“My apologies. I meant to say he was pushed in.”

“Ah, yes, well that’s the problem with the English language, isn’t it? All the words mean different things.”

“You would be free to pursue the investigation in whatever manner you see fit, completely uninhibited and beholden to no one, save that you provide the estate with a name.”

“Butterfield.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Butterfield. That’s a name. You said to provide a name.”

“I meant the name of the actual killer.”

“Well, if you’re going to be fussy about it.”

Since there were still several days remaining before my next official assignment, and since the thought of traveling back to the moon held even less appeal than checking over greasy farm machinery for the mangled remains of a former classmate, I accepted the job. Jeevz showed us to our rooms, gave us directions to the dining hall, and told us dinner was served at six bells. That was still several hours off.

“What say, Humbert, old goat? Might as well jump in with both feet, eh? Make hay while the weather-controlled sun shines?”