“Grph ruph mugh?”
The ceramic gun was immediately withdrawn, and it disappeared behind the wall of strobing light. Tuesday felt that this was his chance to talk fast before things got grim.
“What do you want?” Tuesday demanded like a true hostage, squinting in pain. “I'm poor, and I have no money, too, so I'm not worth anything to ransom. This is a total waste of your time and resources, and you should all be embarrassed to have made such an amateur mistake. Go learn to be proper kidnappers, and try again with somebody worth more than cockroach droppings. You can drop me off as soon as you get a chance. I can make my own way home.”
He couldn't be positive, but Tuesday swore he could hear snickering.
“Who are you?” Tuesday demanded.
The chances of getting a straight answer to a question like this was somewhere between zippo and none unless they were planning on dumping his dead corpse into a protein reclamation unit afterwards, but the Tuesday bloodline wasn't renowned for its foresight and mental acuity, so it was worth a go. There was silence, than a quiet hissing and scuffling, as though two people were whispering. Tuesday was starting to think that these bozos knew less than he did.
“So...” Tuesday said slowly, savouring the vowel, “What's happening here, really? You kidnap me, a total bum who's worth nothing to no one, and then you tie me to a chair. What could you possibly gain from this?” Tuesday unintentionally shouted the last sentence, and heard the unmistakable noise of two safeties getting clicked off. He groaned in bored frustration. “Yeah, like you're going to shoot me now! If you wanted me dead, you could have just broke in and shot me when I was on the crapper. I live alone, I have no friends on this entire world, and my death wouldn't have been noticed until my rotten meat started to stink up the Welfare Sector. So cut the crap: why did you take me, really? What's the game?”
“I enjoy it,” said a cultured voice.
Tuesday knew that voice. It was the voice of a Very Bad Man.
The wall of flashbulbs switched off and Tuesday spent thirty seconds gradually regaining his eyesight. Blinking away a thousand black spots, he looked up to see that the crimelord known as Ernest Fell, now well past retirement age, was standing over him and tutting with a smug look branded on his face. Besides whiter hair and a few new wrinkles, Ernest hadn’t changed all that much. Tuesday flexed every muscle in his body, as Ernest was armed with the same unfolding kinetic rifle he'd used to kill Ruska, Tuesday’s Mum, by shooting her in the back. That loathsome weapon had changed Tuesday’s life like no other object in the entire Universe.
“Little boy,” Ernest said softly, getting far too close to Tuesday's face for comfort. “You should have stayed in your playpen on The Dream Factory. I liked it when you were there. Jeeves liked it when you were there. Everybody was happy.”
Jeeves silently shifted a little in a dark corner. Tuesday saw the thug was just as big as ever, but had gone grey on top.
“Why did you come here, Bobby?” Ernest scolded, utilising a nickname nobody else had ever voiced. “Here on Seven Suns? Don't you know that I own this world, that I run things here? Didn't anybody tell you that I'm the big boss? Are you stupid or something, crashing a World Slug into my home territory?”
“I didn't know,” Tuesday said truthfully. He flexed against the cables, and narrowed his eyes. “I knew this stupid world couldn't be crime-free. But nobody knows how infested this planet really is, do they?”
Tuesday shook with rage. He didn't want to talk: he wanted to kill them both. If he had a free hand and a double-barrelled shotgun, he'd already be blowing smoke off both barrels. Ernest merely shrugged and smiled in response, apparently enjoying Tuesday's impotent anger.
“It's not easy hiding an entire criminal underworld from billions of so-called geniuses. What can I say: I'm good at what I do.” Ernest's face darkened, as though he'd suddenly switched into Business Mode. “Bobby, you've got to understand that I can’t let you get away with what your family has done to me. The embarrassment of losing millions in revenue to a trio of circus freaks is...it's beyond words, beyond insulting. You have no idea how much I wanted to kill all three of you right there and then…”
“Why didn't you?” Tuesday asked defiantly.
“Capping all three of you was the logical choice, yes, but in my opinion, continuing to exist as somebody like you is far worse. Death would be a kindness, and I'm not all that renowned for my kindness.” Ernest smiled. It was the smile of an executioner who always enjoys flipping the switch. “I haven't found your father yet, Bobby, but I will. From the way you responded to that card, it seems like you want to see him, too. Is that right? Do you want to see your daddy again, Bobby?”
Tuesday couldn’t help it: he spat in Ernest's face. The crimelord effortlessly dodged the green loogie and slammed Tuesday across the jaw with the flat of his hand in one smooth motion. It felt as though the entire lower half of Tuesday’s face had been sent flying across the room. Even getting hit by Brian all those years ago hadn't hurt as much as that one expert strike.
Holding up Tuesday’s head by his greasy hair as his eyes rolled around like dropped meatballs, Ernest managed a few more words before Tuesday lost consciousness.
“That was your final mistake, boy. And here I was, thinking I'd be merciful and sell you to some other factory world!” Ernest violently shook Tuesday's head, keeping him conscious enough to take in the next few words. “You know what? No more favours. I'm sending you to The Prince to get dismantled. And once The Prince is finished with you, I'll show the vid to that thieving junkie bastard of a father of yours while the exact same happens to him. Kid gloves are off now, Bobby.”
The last thing Tuesday heard was Jeeves making a sharp inhalation, as though he'd just heard something shocking. Although Tuesday was ninety-eight percent unconscious, he knew that whatever was in his immediate future was far from encouraging.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
PRINCE CHARMING
The nightmare only got worse when Bob Tuesday woke up.
Considering the generally awful quality of Tuesday’s life, regaining consciousness was very rarely an occasion worth celebrating. However, this particular exit from the Land of Nod was an especially noteworthy level of Hell.
Where to begin? Well, for starters, Tuesday had been stripped naked and manacled to a smooth, stainless steel wall by his bony wrists and ankles. Just to make things worse, Tuesday could see that his scrawny body had been inexplicably shaved of all hair. Detecting an odd scent, Tuesday sniffed to discover that he now smelled like apricots and cinnamon, rather than his usual odour of chlorine-flavoured cigarettes and Parmesan cheese.
He'd been moisturised.
Tuesday lolled his blurry vision away from the contagious green moss that grew all over his toxic feet and crunched the sleep from his eyes. Everything gradually came into focus…and instantly got a million times worse.
Every inch of wall beyond Tuesday's minimal reach was covered by Ryobi power tools, polished kitchen implements and other assorted sharp things that glinted from hundreds of orderly rings. As Tuesday had become a bit of an expert on the subject of Things I Don’t Want Jammed Into My Body thanks to being born with a particularly punchable face and a distinct lack of social skills, he immediately recognised cleavers, machetes, scalpels, can openers, corkscrews, bolt cutters, nutcrackers, ball hammers, drills, lathes and potato peelers, but there was also a lot of really exotic stuff he couldn’t name, too. The implements had all been carefully arranged both alphabetically and according to their size.
Tuesday wisely decided that he really, really wanted to get out of this room, and did what little he could to look for some sort of weakness, some sort of opportunity. He was hoping for a conveniently loose grating that would lead into the ventilation system...or, better yet, maybe a hot, leather-clad female guard would come and check on him at some point, and all he'd have to do was seduce her into letting him go...yeah, he'd make her fall in love with him, and the moment her back wa
s turned WHACK, he'd knock her out with a precise – but gentle - chop to the side of the neck...
Lolling his head left and right, Tuesday saw that the angled chrome walls on either side had been buffed to a high shine and looked as solid as a starship hull, so digging through them was out of the question. Looking up, there were lines of bright lights mounted along the ceiling within nigh-unbreakable Perspex shells, so no luck there either. Scanning his eyes along the ventilation ports in the ceiling, it was pretty obvious that the slots set in the roof were far too high, and even if he could reach them they were a mere two inches across.
Lowering his gaze and squinting, Tuesday finally noticed that there seemed to be a door situated directly ahead, but the portal was so seamlessly integrated with the wall that it was hard to tell for sure. The slab wouldn't look out of place on a military fortress.
While the cell was spotlessly clean, well lit, and reasonably warm - which made it nicer than most places Tuesday had woken up in over the years - it was shut up tighter than the magic underpants of an unmarried Mansonite virgin.
Below, Tuesday's ten little piggies were dangling six inches above a surgical steel floor, and his diseased toenails were pointing at a tiny drain set in the exact middle of the cell. As usual, Tuesday's contagious foot-moss was dripping slime that pit-patted into a little puddle before slithering towards the drain like a liquid worm. It took one instant to discount any chance of escape through there. Even if Tuesday somehow managed to detach two layers of welded metal grates from the drainpipe with a tool from the racks of torture implements, he wouldn't be able to fit a balled fist through the tube, let alone his whole body.
Just to be sure, Tuesday rattled at his wrist and ankle manacles. In a twist that surprised nobody, the steel didn’t give. Tuesday wriggled a bit more, but his arms were already numb and useless after the punishment of dangling from a roof for what might have been hours, so he didn't accomplish all that much. If Tuesday wanted freedom from his chains, he'd need to try a lot harder.
Tuesday tried not to whimper. He failed.
“Help,” Tuesday blubbered to nobody in particular.
Kicking at the wall with both mossy heels in what little movement he could manage, Tuesday’s blisters encountered some random scratches that had been jabbed into the polished surface by something sharp, perhaps an ice pick…an ice pick used in a frenzied stabbing motion…
Everything flickered and browned out for a moment, as though there was some kind of severe power drain going on nearby, but Tuesday's brain stopped working in a logical manner at the sound of a muffled scream. It was a long up-and-down wail that finished as a wet, drawn-out choking gurgle that eventually dipped below what Tuesday's ears could pick up. Tuesday's blood froze into red gelato in his veins at the sound, and his dire situation got even more terrifying.
Kicking against the ankle manacles and twisting his wrists about in a growing panic, Tuesday thrashed and growled like a coyote with all four paws stuck in a bear-trap and tried his best to break the bonds. If the steel manacles weren't inanimate objects, they might have laughed at his puny efforts. By the time Tuesday gave up, all he'd managed to do was to wear away two or so layers of skin, but nowhere near enough to draw blood.
He sobbed.
Tuesday performed a full-body twitch at the unexpected sound of a pneumatic hiss from the opposite side of his cell. The seamless door opened smoothly and a figure completely wrapped in black plastic entered the bright room, whistling When The Saints Come Marching In. On closer inspection, it appeared the dark shape was was actually dressed in an easy-to-clean PVC business suit complete with a shiny black necktie and a glossy raven shirt. A pair of waterproof goggles were secured atop an elastic shower cap by strap. The outfit looked very uncomfortable, but it was clearly an example of function over form.
Tuesday was no genius, but his guess was that this guy must be “The Prince” that Ernest Fell had mentioned.
The Prince made a casual beeline for a bank of power tools, and gently stroked an extra-large industrial drill with one latex-covered finger as though silently greeting a lover. He still hadn't bothered looking at Tuesday, as though there wasn't some shaved and moisturised loser hanging near-naked from his ceiling. After a second The Prince glanced at his three-faced watch. It was plastic, like everything else he was wearing, but Tuesday couldn’t see the time from all the way on the other side of the cell. Such things became irrelevant as The Prince took a tiny remote from his top pocket.
Things got worse again.
Tuesday audibly choked back dizzying fear as the silver walls of weapons smoothly flipped over to reveal a second assortment of torture devices: electric turkey carvers, oyster scoopers, fire axes, mallets, circular saws, power sanders, sharpened caviar spoons...
The Prince gravitated to a shelf that contained an assortment of tiny, unusual machines that had a lot in common with miniaturised dust-busters. Although seemingly benign on first glance, the moment Tuesday recognised PainCo's distinctive logo splashed over the machines he knew one thing for certain: all of these hand-held devices had been designed by brilliant “comfort reduction technicians” for the singular purpose of inflicting indefinite marathons of non-lethal torture on their fellow human beings. Their plastic shells were emblazoned with names like ScreamBox, Blood Boiler, and Chainsaw Tickler, but for once it was a positive thing that Tuesday was borderline illiterate.
It may seem impossible, but seeing the horrible implements wasn't the worst part. Somehow Tuesday managed to keep the contents of his stomach in place when he saw what was sitting directly beneath the shelf of non-lethal nastiness, and this was quite an achievement in self-control. The lower rack contained dozens of industrial cleaning products that had been painstakingly lined up like a television commercial during The Bold & The Bionic: ultrableach, blood remover, vomit dissolver, a range of industrial detergents, lime spray, drain cleaner and, last of all, Big Fanny's Ultra Stain Blaster. Big Fanny's USB was one of the most caustic substances in the known Universe, and made hydrofluoric acid look like grape-flavoured Gatorade in comparison. All those bright colours and friendly mascots smiled mockingly at Tuesday, speaking volumes about how easily he'd be wiped off the walls and discarded down the sink after...after...
Tuesday tried not to be sick.
The Prince wordlessly held up a few knives, allowing them to glint in the light, then put them back in their foam packing. He revved a turkey carver for a moment and Tuesday flinched at the sound of the electric motor. For no particular reason, The Prince chose this precise second to finally acknowledge his guest.
“Nice weather,” The Prince said pleasantly in a cultured voice. Tuesday could tell this guy was posh, no doubt about it. He ran a single latex-covered finger sideways across a barbed knife. “Last afternoon was a bit of a disappointment, to be honest.”
Tuesday nodded like one of those stupid little dogs that defectives stick to their dashboards. Maybe if he got this psycho talking there might be a chance of survival...
“Y-yeah. Lots of them, though.”
“I find that the fifth afternoon always tends to sadden me,” The Prince said softly. He carefully put the blade down, tilting its angle ever so slightly, and once he was pleased with its placement he removed his transparent latex gloves. His nails were immaculate, as though just filed and buffed. “And the sixth afternoon always puts me in an especially bad mood. It...annoys me. Sort of thing can…it can ruin your whole day, can't it?”
“Y-yeah. I know about that,” Tuesday said truthfully.
Whistling again, The Prince cracked his knuckles and snapped on a fresh pair of latex gloves. Tutting at a crease, he pulled them tight with a high tension whine.
“Ernest neglected to mention your name. So you are...?”
So he wants to talk. There may be hope yet.
“Tuesday. Bob Tuesday.”
“Really?” Squeak squeak went the gloves as they were rubbed together with talcum powder. Tuesday flinched at the noise. “N
ice handle. Well, Bob, my name is Roger Prince, but everybody calls me...”
“Prince Charming.” Tuesday blurted.
Even somebody as woefully uninformed as Tuesday had heard of the worst serial killer in the history of Seven Suns, a borderline urban legend that most locals (including the police) preferred to pretend simply didn't exist. Despite his legendary levels of rat-cunning, being in the presence of a man who had personally killed more people than undercooked chicken sushi robbed Tuesday of what little smarm he had left. Babbling was the most he could accomplish.
“But obviously the pigs mustn't know your real name, which is, ha ha, sort of, um, ironic, and all that, yeah?”
Tuesday felt faint when Prince Charming half-smiled.
“Yes.” Squeak squeak went his gloves. Prince Charming stopped playing with the latex and wiped both palms on his plastic suit. “So. Your name is Bob Tuesday, and it seems you are my latest victim!” The Prince produced a small organiser and tapped at it, nodding. “And, like all of my guests, it seems that you broke the golden rule.”
Scum of the Universe Page 20
