Wicked Seeds

by Cameron Sword

  “These letters, can I see them?”

  “This one arrived last month.”

  The backwoodsman produced Nathan’s latest correspondence. The envelope had no return address label but the message within was printed on a small business letterhead. Karma. A retail shop that specialized in spirituality, mysticism and holism. It included a phone number along with street and website addresses.

  It was midday on a different day, and Nathan and a man thirty years his junior, Arvedge Dangsley, were loitering about in a park, passing a tablet back and forth as they played electronic chess. Curiously, Nathan was wearing nursing scrubs and Arvedge was donning a hospital gown and slippers. There was a wheelchair nearby.

  Arvedge spotted a well-dressed man taking a seat on a park bench some distance away, unwrapping a sandwich and taking a bite, enjoying the day.

  “Is that him?” Arvedge asked, pointing him out to Nathan.

  Nathan recognized Aaron Sedlack, a prominent lawyer, lobbyist and public relations crackerjack.

  “Let’s do this.” Nathan replied as he tucked the game away and found his feet.

  Arvedge climbed into the wheelchair, pretending to be a quadriplegic patient. Nathan wheeled him over to the bench where Aaron was enjoying his sandwich and took a seat on the opposite side of the bench, extracting a bag of sunflower seeds, proceeding to spit the shells into Arvedge’s face as he ate them.

  “Hey.” Aaron called out, unsettled, after watching for a moment.

  “How’s it going, man?” Nathan answered.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Oh. Don’t worry, he’s severely brain damaged, I doubt he’s taking offense.”

  “Stop it.”

  “Ease up, guy. What do you care?”

  “I’m asking you to stop it.”

  “And I’m asking why you care. You put him here. You and that tire client of yours.”

  Aaron frowned. What was this? Did Nathan know him? Nathan continued the confrontation.

  “They knew as early as four years ago that sudden tread separation on some of their tire brands was a serious problem. They knew because they were busy defending lawsuits from scores of survivors and relatives of dead people. Their cost benefit analysis – hire you to deflect blame and create doubt about whether there was anyone to blame at all – other than God, I mean – because maiming more people, like this poor sap, and shattering families’ lives and then defending against them in court was more profitable than replacing six million of their defective tires. So I’ll ask you again. What do you care?”

  The tense staring match persisted for a long moment as shells kept flying. Aaron finally got up and left without saying a word, hurrying off, disappearing into an office building… but not really. Aaron continued to peek out, stealing glances at them.

  “I think we got to him.” Arvedge said, not moving his lips, careful to remain in character.

  “We’ll see.”

  Nathan found his feet and wheeled Arvedge off in the opposite direction.

  “That drooling effect really worked. Where do you come up with so much saliva?” Nathan asked.

  “Table salt. Tore open a packet while you weren’t looking and sprinkled some under my tongue. Wild stuff.”

  They faded from view, vanishing around a corner, climbing into a van with advertisement decals prominently displayed on both sides. KARMA. The finest spiritually-based bookstore and mystic shop in the city.

  Both men quickly changed back into street clothes, Nathan reminding Arvedge to return the scrubs, hospital gown and wheelchair back to the local hospital from which they were temporarily pilfered.

  The awning identified the shop by name. KARMA. Inside, there was burning incense, hanging chimes and crystals, plenty of scented candles and stockpiles of spiritual self-help books. A smattering of bohemian types circulated throughout the store.

  A sixteen-year-old girl, born a natural blonde, now with purple hair and steel-studded black lips, handled a customer at the cash register. Nathan was also behind the counter, wiping down a display case as Olive entered, cloaked in an elaborate disguise. Her lips curled up into a perceptible smile as she spotted him and proceeded to approach.

  “Excuse me, sir. Is there a place we can talk?” Olive asked, modifying her voice brilliantly so as not to be recognized.

  “Just get down to it. What are you selling?”

  “Timeshares.” Olive responded, not missing a beat.

  “Not interested.”

  “Good because I hate them too.”

  Nathan looked up at her for the first time.

  “Come on, man, it’s important. Is there a place we can talk?” Olive reiterated.

  Nathan casually led her toward the rear of the shop into his office, which was comprised of one large desk, a few chairs, one TV, and a futon that doubled as a bed, dirty laundry strewn across it. This was the undisclosed location from which Nathan had watched Olive’s late night talk show appearance.

  Curiously, his desk was clotted with elaborate computer equipment, including a server.

  “Excuse the mess. If I realized how much apartments were renting for these days, I might not have agreed to the divorce.”

  Nathan was a married man when she met him? Or had he gotten married and divorced in the five years since? These were questions that popped into Olive’s mind, but she replied to his statement with hardly any time lapse.

  “It’s outrageous what’s happening out there. I’m thinking of moving back in with my mother because the cheapest apartment I could find in my area was a single for twelve hundred dollars. Twelve hundred dollars. Didn’t even include a stove.” Olive lied.

  “What’s this about?”

  “Sure.”

  Olive got right down to it. She removed a piece of jewelry she’d been wearing for the past few years and handed it to him. A necklace with a dangling ornament attached. It took a few seconds to properly register, but he ultimately recognized the ornament as the thumb drive he’d employed at Corporate Area 51.

  “You handed me a lump of environmental waste. I’m handing you back a fully functional intelligence gathering apparatus replete with useful statistics, practical details and potentially enriching features, including the finest in high quality malicious ransomware.” Olive pronounced, removing her disguise and no longer concealing her real voice.

  Nathan smiled. He didn’t even bother asking, just yet, how she managed to find him because it felt that special to see her again. She felt the same way. Neither of them knew it yet, but their professional lives would become permanently interweaved from this moment forward.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Cameron ~ Sword, a pseudonym chosen by a pair of collaborative actor/writers, arrives at Vanity Press via Hollywood where the duo share over 30 years of experience. Together, they've written or appeared in several movies and TV series. Some of their works are now expanded in novel form and reflect some of the types of stories they'd enjoy watching as movies or TV fare. They hope you enjoyed Wicked Seeds.

  Other novels include The Trouble In Dogflat Hollow.