The Continental: The Reunion, part II

“Ah- see? The lady you paid for is joining us at present, mon ami,” The Muffin Man said with the same silken tone that must have once tempted Eve.

“Whadabou’ Grant?” FitzClarence slurred. The speech showed that he was still inebriated, but the question eluded that the fog in his head may have been lifting.

“We are going to play a little game with Monsieur Grant.” With those words spoken, as if they were themselves a command, I found myself hoisted upwards by my bound wrists and ankles.

I once read a book about various corporal punishments when I was at The Academy. One of the instructors thought it was imperative for officers to know how best to inflict pain on soldiers. An old and outdated notion in the modern times, but old ideas have a near-immortal life of their own and generations of adherents to fight for them.

The book mentioned something called reverse hanging, and went on to describe in detail what rigors it put the body through. Explaining that such a punishment was not lethal until it was. How the recipient would be in excruciating pain for hours, perhaps even days, until their lungs collapsed under the weight of their own muscles. It was compared to crucifixion in its severity and recommended over it for obvious cultural reasons.

The vivid description of the pain evaded my memory’s command of recollection as the reality of the pain overwhelmed my senses. I was suspended in midair as The Muffin Man turned me to face out of the cell. A woman was suspended by her wrists from the ceiling, her ankles were tied together and fixed to a weight of stone. Her feet being flat on the floor, it was clear that any torture that would befall her would not be from gravity. She was nude aside from the manacles, rope and a gag fashioned of swaddled linen. The face was not quite recognizable as it showed age and abuse beyond her years, but I did recognize the dark nipples and darker bush on the light brown curves of her body. Too much had befallen The Queen of Tarts for my actions.

Oscar guided FitzClarence behind her and handed him a stiff strip of oiled leather as another one of the minions laid a small, wilted tree branch with 5 leaves on it on the floor between myself and the other victim. The Artifact.

“I will ask a question, and if I don’t like Monsieur Grant’s answer, then you may hit her. Understand, mon ami?”

The Continental: The Reunion

“Wha-da fuck isdis? I’se paid fora girl!” Hobbes slurred as Oscar led him to the door of my cell. He leaned on the bars and looked at me through the large dark circles of mezcal and coca hazed eyes. Speaking as someone who had partaken in more than he should have of either substance, I can tell you it was a wonder he recognized me as a man at all.

“Of course you did, mon ami!” The muffin man said. “She will be joining us shortly, consider Mr. Grant a gift from me.”

The iron door protested as it swung open on hinges. Hobbes stumbled into the cell, followed by Oscar. The four of us together in the cell showed just how small the area was.

“Grant? Who’sat?” Hobbes, FitzClarence, slurred. Apparently he could stick to our aliases better when he was inebriated, or maybe he really couldn’t remember with all the intoxicants in his blood stream.

“The man who tried to sell you out, Col. FitzClarence. I have him here for your enjoyment.” I couldn’t see his face, but I could feel the acid dripping from The Muffin Man’s tongue as he spoke. I’m sure it was only my imagination, but the flecks of spittle seemed to sear the bare skin on my back as they landed. If I am honest with myself, I deserved this. Every decision I have made in my life, before and after I acquired the artifact, had led me to this moment. Being tied up, in a dungeon, held by an ex-lover and being handed over to someone I had tried to betray. Still, it seemed as though something was missing.

The same unseen heavy door that had produced FitzClarence and Oscar opened again. The her that FitzClarence had paid for had a voice that was known to me, and I was surprised by how bad my heart hurt to hear her.

“Take your hands off me you brut! You may see me as only a whore, but don’t forget who I am!”

The Continental: Le Vice Anglais, deuxième partie

“Darling? Oh, Mon Amour, do you really want to start with that after how we parted ways?” His words dripped with sardonic amusement. Apparently he was still upset about how we left things.

And by ‘how we left things’ I must confess it means that he found me in bed with his sister. Truth is that I was not interested in either of them. That base need is not what drives me. I used him, both of them, actually. I needed their network to smuggle the device out here to the frontier to keep it safe. But when things ended the way they did the device was sacrificed on the altar of my own mortality. I only hoped they did not know what they had.

“I have been looking for you, Darling, I brought you a gift.” I said in a sweetly submissive way that made my soul cringe.

“Yes, my associate, Oscar, told me all about your meeting in the alley. If it is any consolation, you would have found your way into your current…” he paused and continued, “situation without Oscar’s help.“ He always did have a penchant for mellow drama. “You no doubt were ignorant of the fact that I now own the Crystal Pistol.”

Shit! I knew that organ playing Stephen-Stinking-Foster sounded familiar. “So you are a purveyor of flesh now in addition to an importer of refined coca. Congratulations.” I made my words sound believable and choked down the revulsion. Some level of my mind was sickeningly astonished at how well I had become at lying and a debate began between the splintered parts of what was left of my conscience if the sacrifices I have made, and will make, will be worth it in the end.

“Smuggling is smuggling,” he said with a shrug. “It is only right that a human life is worth more than powder.”

“Slavery has been outlawed for forty years.” I said with a passion I should have kept hidden.

“Did I speak of slavery? My business is helping people. Some people I help by funding their journey to The New World, and others I help by finding inexpensive labor.”

“So the workers in these brothels and mines can leave whenever they wish?” Careful Grant, some part of my mind chided me and was quickly silenced by the majority of my splinters.

“Well, the workers need to pay their freight somehow, but let’s use your language, Mon Amour. The laws passed in Europe outlawing slavery are somewhat ambiguous about the legal status in the colonies. Consider also that this territory is claimed by The Hapsburgs, The Hanovers, The Bourbons-In-Exile and even your malcontented terrorist friends – law here is an illusion. Anarchy is the ruling House and I am their steward.”

Somewhere in the near distance I heard a heavy wood door swing open on iron hinges that were in bad need of oil. Heavy, booted footfalls stumbled drunkenly down a flight of stairs, followed by a lighter and more sure-footed pair.

“Sosaye canna maker scream bloody murder?!” A familiar voice slurred drunkenly.

“What ever your wicked heart desires, Mr. Hobbes. As far as that you do not kill her,” Oscar answered.

“An’ ifenaye do?”

“There is an extra fee that I dare say you could not afford, Mr. Hobbes. Believe me when I tell you that you do not want to become acquainted with our methods of collection.”

“Ah- your companion approaches. This will prove most entertaining for me, Mon Amour!” His words were soft but his sadistic pleasure was palatable.

Pike’s Conference

“So what’s this guys story?” my boss asked after taking a long draw on an unfiltered Camel. The room was dark except for the light over the table between us illuminating the crystal ashtray that needed cleaning, a pair of recently emptied neat glasses and a half drunk bottle of Jack Daniel’s. The scene looked like a cliche trope from a noir film of yesteryear, and we were both consciously aware of it.

“He’s a young one,” I answered after snuffing out my own Camel and pouring us both another round. “Did a stint in Iraq, the first time. He showed us what we were looking for. So he inherited his father’s territory when the time came.”

“And his parents were?” my boss inquired from the shadows.

“Of no consequence, low ranking, small territory in an economically blighted area, but they ran a tight crew. Kept things good and quiet.”

“What’s changed?” The boss asked, picking up the glass of bourbon I had poured.

“A new operative is my best guess.” I answered, picking up my own glass.

“Rogue or wildling?” The voice came from the shadows between audible sips on the whiskey.

“Whittle is competent, if it was a rouge he would have dealt with it by now.”

“Wildling it is then.” The statement was underscored by the indisputable sound of a Zippo being opened, ignited and closed. Then followed by the sound of the first drag on the next Camel.

“A wildling would have been too careless, arrogant and ignorant, to get away with murder in a cop shop. And now there is a second murder. I don’t think it was a wildling.”

“So it really was a bear then,” my superior said in an amused tone.

“That or an Heir of Remus.” I said in a deadpan manner.

My superior replied with a long, genuine laugh but kept hidden in the shadows. I leaned forward so that my face could be seen plain. My expression was devoid of any emotion, mirth most of all.

“You can’t be serious,” my superior said incredulously.

“I’m always serious.” I answered.

“The last known Heir of Remus was executed over a century ago.”

“Known,” I emphasized.

“What are you driving at, Pike? Don’t bring ghosts into this; The House if Remus is extinct.”

“It might interest you to know that the last Heir of Remus died in Whittle territory. Our records do not indicate whether she had a mate or not, but it would be safe to assume she did.”

“Ok, I’ll bite. So your theory is that we are dealing with the last alpha of Remus. Why is he is active now after all this time? What was the stressor?”

“That is the real mystery.”

My superior downed the bourbon in a single jolt. “Don’t waste our time on legends. Just find the wildling and deal with it.”

I sipped my own bourbon as a reply. I was right, she was wrong. But I had no need to pursue the matter further unless I wanted to be reassigned to Siberia.