Critical Failures VII

by Robert Bevan

  “What's this?” asked Julian, accepting the paper and unrolling it.

  “Our contract, of course.”

  “When did you have time to write a contract?” asked Chaz.

  Fazul shrugged. “I have engaged in many business dealings. Most of it is standard. Only the details need adjusting.”

  “This looks pretty straightforward,” said Julian.

  “Great,” said Chaz. “I hope you're as good a lawyer as you are a negotiator.”

  “That's just it. There's not a lot of lawyering to be done. No fine print or legal mumbo-jumbo. Just the terms we agreed to.”

  Chaz shrugged. “Cool. Where do we sign?”

  Fazul stared at him with a furrowed brow. “Sign?”

  “I'm sorry. Is that not a thing here? Where we come from, signing a contract makes it legally binding.”

  “Writing your name?”

  “That's right.”

  “Can another man not write your name just as easily?”

  “Yeah, it's not a perfect system. Can we move this along? What do we have to do to make this official?”

  Fazul drew a shiny, thin-bladed dagger from the sheath on his belt.

  “Whoa, man! Take it easy!” said Chaz. “It's more about the way we write our names. Individual styles of handwriting are difficult to replicate. Forgeries can happen, but most major contracts involve having a witness present, so... I don't know. Is that enough? Should I keep going?”

  Fazul pressed his own fingertip against the tip of his blade, drawing a small bead of blood, which he smeared onto the bottom of the contract. Taking the dagger by the blade, he offered the hilt to Julian.

  Julian followed Fazul's example, wincing a bit as he poked the tip of his finger. He held his finger over the contract next to Fazul's smear.

  “Is here okay?”

  Fazul nodded. “Anywhere on the document will do.”

  After adding his own blood smear, Julian passed the dagger to Chaz.

  Chaz looked for a place to wipe the traces of Fazul's and Julian's blood from the blade. His new RazzmaChaz clothes were still clean enough that it would be noticeable. He settled for wiping it on the grass and hoped that he wasn't exchanging clean blood for some errant dog shit bacteria.

  Pressing his finger lightly against the tip of the blade, he found that the point at which it would break his skin was greater than his comfortable pain tolerance. How had Fazul and Julian made it look so easy? He cringed as he pressed a little harder.

  “YOW!” he shrieked when Julian slapped his hand upward, slicing his fingertip open. “Son of a bitch, that hurt!”

  “Don't be such a baby,” said Julian. “You were taking too long. It was embarrassing to watch.”

  Chaz sucked on his bleeding finger. “Dick move, man.”

  “Just try to get more blood than spit on the contract.”

  “Oh, don't worry,” said Chaz, revulsed by the taste of blood in his mouth. “There's plenty. You just about cut my fucking finger off.” He wiped a thick line of blood across the bottom of the paper. “Satisfied?”

  Julian winced. “Yeah, that's a lot of blood all right. Sorry about that.”

  “Fuck your sorry.” Chaz sang an incantation softly to himself. “Magic, heal my finger. Let this pain not linger. I don't...” He couldn't think of any rhyme to finish that last line, but it didn't matter. His wound had closed itself up.

  “It is finished!” said Fazul with more urgency than seemed appropriate. The paper, as if in response to his words, rolled itself up and crackled with magic. When it unrolled again, it had multiplied. Fazul handed a copy to Julian and another to Chaz, keeping the third for himself. He clapped and smiled. “Who is hungry?”

  This felt like the right time to ask for the die. Chaz gave Julian an encouraging nod.

  Julian acknowledged the nod, but didn't seem to understand what to make of it. He turned to Fazul. “I'm hungry!”

  Chaz rolled his eyes. “Perhaps we should take care of the die part of the contract first, since we have it right here.”

  “Oh,” said Fazul. “Of course.” He started to reach into his pouch, then thought better of it. He held it open to Julian. “You may retrieve the die.” When Julian started to reach, he pulled the bag back half an inch and gave Julian a warning glare. “And only the die.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Julian. “I would never...” He sighed. “Okay.” He reached into the pouch and felt around a bit before pulling out the die, then held it in his open palm for a second to show that he hadn't taken anything else.

  Chaz sighed with relief. It was a much different feeling to have legitimate possession of the die without the looming specter of a pissed-off wizard hunting them down. Throwing Julian under the bus had been the right call.

  “Excuse me,” said Julian. He turned around and shoved the die back down the front of hit pants.

  Fazul watched curiously. “If I may be so bold, why is this child's plaything of such value to you?”

  Julian turned back around to face him. “It's not a child's plaything.”

  Chaz didn't know if he was being so insistent because of how powerful the die was, or because calling it a child's plaything made it extra weird that he chose to keep it next to his dick.

  “Forgive me. Of course I noticed it has a strong magical aura. But as much as I studied it, I could find no practical function.” Fazul's gaze fell to Julian's crotch. “Perhaps it aids in fertility?”

  “That's right!” said Chaz before Julian could respond. Honestly, what better way was there to put a pin in that issue? “Julian hasn't had much luck knocking up his old lady. He's hoping this will invigorate his little swimmers.”

  Julian pursed his lips, then nodded. “Yep. That's what it's for. But I'm not sure the whole world needs to know about it.”

  Fazul laughed and slapped Julian on the back. “Have no fear, friend. Your secret is safe with me. I am relieved to be rid of it now. As you saw in my home, I have extremely healthy seed.”

  Julian smiled politely. “Indeed you do.”

  “My wife carries twins now, and I barely squirted inside her!”

  “That's very potent.”

  “I sprayed most of it on her backside.”

  “We really don't need to –”

  Fazul laughed. “If I released into the sea, mermaids would give birth to children with legs!”

  “You know what?” said Chaz, wishing as much as Julian to put an end to this line of conversation. “Now I'm getting hungry.”

  Julian and Fazul grimaced at him.

  Fazul shrugged. “Who am I to judge what will whet a man's appetite?”

  “No,” said Chaz. “I didn't –”

  “Wait here.” Fazul went around the corner and disappeared into the henhouse. The clucking grew louder.

  A few moments passed, then a fat brown hen waddled out of the coop.

  “Hey there,” said Julian. “Are you lost?”

  “Fazul?” Chaz called into the coop. “I think one of your chickens got –”

  "Methylchloroisothiazolinone!"

  “Wha–”

  With a sizzling pop, Chaz was blinded by an explosion of brown feathers.

  “Jesus!” cried Julian. “Did you just Magic Missile a chicken?”

  Fazul laughed as he stepped out of the coop. “I find it's more humane than holding it down to chop its head off. She never saw it coming. And look. No feathers to pluck!”

  Chaz could now see through the rain of falling feathers. As advertised, a completely bald bird lay dead at Fazul's feet.

  Fazul picked up the chicken carcass and started walking back toward the house. “Grab some thyme and rosemary from the garden, would you?”

  Chaz looked doubtfully at the herb garden next to the house, having no idea what either of those plants looked like. Julian seemed to know, though, as he deliberately picked off pieces of plants that Chaz would have guessed were weeds.

  “You can identify thyme and rosemary by sight?” h
e asked when Julian had harvested enough herbs.

  Julian shrugged. “I guess my character can. I don't think I've ever seen either of these outside of a plastic McCormick canister.”

  When they went inside, Fazul called them into the kitchen, where he was rubbing the chicken down with butter. “Here, give me the herbs.” He took them from Julian, ripped them to tiny bits, and rubbed them between his buttery hands before massaging them into the chicken.

  Even with its eyeless head still attached and staring at him, the chicken was starting to look really appetizing. Chaz's stomach grumbled loudly.

  “Do not worry, friend,” said Fazul. “Supper is almost finished.”

  “But you haven't even started cooking it.” A sudden thought turned Chaz's stomach. He was all about tolerating other people's cultures, but... “We're not going to eat that raw, are we?”

  “Hmph,” said Felania as she waddled into the kitchen to fetch a stack of wooden bowls. “You might wish you had after you get a taste of his cooking.”

  Julian rushed to her side. “Here, let me help you with those.”

  Felania jerked the stack of bowls out of his reach. “You go and wash those filthy hands first. Fazul's told me where they've been.”

  Fazul smiled innocently. “I might have mentioned your fertility problems in passing.”

  “In passing?” said Julian. “You only left us for a minute.”

  “You really should wash your hands.” Fazul nodded to a stone basin next to the window. It was full of semi-clear water, outside of which sat a fist-sized brown chunk of something that Chaz hoped was soap.

  Chaz joined Julian for a hand washing, and allowed him to test the soap theory first. It was rougher than he was used to, like scrubbing his hands with a slippery chunk of rock, but it was definitely soap.

  When they turned back around, Fazul was almost elbow deep up the chicken's butthole. Its empty eye sockets conveyed a proper sense of alarm.

  Fazul laughed at Chaz, who must have had a similar expression to the chicken's. “What's the matter? Have you never cleaned a chicken before?” He pulled out a fistful of viscera, which he plopped into an old tin bucket. “I suppose a fancy entertainer like you has servants to do all the dirty work. Mayhap I'll hire a few once my twenty percent starts rolling in.” He glanced toward the next room to make sure his wife was out of earshot, then winked and whispered, “Or when I finally make my big score.”

  Chaz couldn't help but feel put off by the knowledge that Fazul was already planning to gamble away the additional money he expected to be earning. He was more put off when Fazul started fisting the bird again.

  “How much more innards can that thing possibly have?”

  “She's all cleaned out. Now it's time to roast her.”

  “You know what would make you look better?” Julian asked the dead chicken. “A pair of eyes that didn't melt down the sides of your face.”

  Chaz and Fazul glanced at each other in confused shock, then at Julian, who was inexplicably grinning.

  “Because you look with your eyes,” Julian insufficiently explained.

  Fazul turned to Chaz for further clarification, but all Chaz could do was shrug and shake his head.

  “You've got a face like a doll, sweetheart,” Julian continued with his unprovoked harassment of the dead bird. “But an ass like a ventriloquist dummy!” He stared back at Chaz and Fazul like he was expecting a reaction. “Seriously? Nothing?”

  “Dude,” said Chaz. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  Julian sighed. “He said it was time to roast her.”

  Chaz closed his eyes and shook his head again. “You're like the dad I wish had abandoned me.”

  “That was comedy gold and you know it.”

  “May I proceed with the cooking?” asked Fazul cautiously.

  “Please!” said Chaz. “Put that thing out of its misery before Julian can tell any more jokes.”

  Chapter 39

  Dave stared angrily at the stump where his middle finger used to be. The message was clear. Fuck you, Dave. That little psycho shitbag wanted to make sure Dave knew that he wasn't just bailing on him to save his own ass. This was revenge for denying Tim the pleasure of shooting Officer Williams. He would have waited longer, scheming and biding his time for the perfect opportunity to fuck Dave over if Dave hadn't immediately dropped such an opportunity right in his lap.

  Now that he thought about it, there were so many other places he could have teleported to. The Crescent Shadow, Porttown, Millard's abandoned castle. Hell, they could have gone to the field behind their old high school, just to get out of immediate danger and cool off a bit.

  But now that he knew what he knew about Tim, he was glad he came here. All he needed to do was survive and escape, then he could start planning his own counter-revenge against Tim. He'd start by telling Officer Williams that Tim owned the Chicken Hut, then do everything in his power to get him teleported back to Earth. If Tim ever did make his way back using the dice, he'd have a nice surprise waiting for him.

  Was that enough? Dave smiled to himself and shook his head. An eye for an eye. A finger for a... No. A digit for a digit. Tim took Dave's finger. Dave would take Tim's dick. He could spend the rest of his life in this world a happy man if he knew Tim was spending the rest of his in a Mississippi prison with no dick.

  But before he could get to plotting, he had to find some way to get away from Stacy and Cooper before they dragged him back to the Whore's Head to answer to Frank. He didn't think Professor Goosewaddle would have any objections to him walking out the door, but if Stacy and Cooper caught him trying to make a break for it, they'd be on top of him in a matter of seconds. He might be able to outrun Stacy in his hybrid form, but probably not Cooper. And then he'd have all the citizens on the street and Kingsguard to deal with as well.

  Stacy stormed angrily back into Arby's. “Cooper's gone.”

  That was a step in the right direction.

  “What about the little guy?” asked Officer Williams.

  “Tim's gone too,” said Stacy as she set down the small cooking pot she'd been carrying for some reason. “I jogged up and down the street, peeking down alleys, but there was no sign of either of them. It doesn't make sense. Cooper's way faster than Tim. It shouldn't have been that long of a chase.”

  Tim's disappearance was easy enough to explain, but Dave wasn't about to volunteer any information. The smug bitch thought she was so smart. She could figure it out for herself.

  Officer Williams glanced down at Dave's bare feet, then said to Stacy, “He has some kind of magic boots. That's how we came here.”

  Dave sighed. Fucking cops.

  Professor Goosewaddle let out a long low whistle. “Boots of Teleportation. Impressive.”

  “Shit,” said Stacy. “That means Cooper's out there chasing nothing.” She stared out the window for a moment, and Dave forced down the urge to encourage her to go out and look for him. If she came to that decision on her own, great. Dave would tell Officer Williams about Tim, then plead to Professor Goosewaddle on the officer's behalf. Even his bitch of a manager, Jennifer, wouldn't argue to keep an old cop here against his will.

  But Charisma wasn't Dave's strong suit. If he told her she should run off and look for Cooper, she'd know he was up to something. Neither could he recommend she stay here and wait for him to return. She'd see right through his reverse psychology. All he could do was keep his mouth shut and hope for the best.

  “He'll give up sooner or later,” Stacy finally said. “He knows where we are.”

  Shit.

  “Let's see if we can fix this one while we wait.” She took a step toward Dave, then paused. The smell of her sweat and the apprehensive look in her eyes excited him. “Can someone hold him down?”

  SHIT!

  Dave locked gazes with Officer Williams, then tried to make a break for it before the officer got the jump on him, but he was paralyzed.

  “I have him held,” said Professor Goosewaddle
. “Commence fixing.”

  Though the rest of his muscles were completely immovable, Dave's heart was beating like a motherfucker. How did this crew-cutted slut think she was going to fix him? What did that even mean? Why the fuck was she picking that pot back up?

  “It's going to be hard to make him chew bread like that,” she said. “Is it okay if I just pour some straight into his mouth?”

  Professor Goosewaddle shrugged. “It is okay with me.”

  “How much should I give him?”

  “Perhaps one ladle's worth. Any more than that might kill him.”

  “Hey Shaggy?” Stacy called out toward the kitchen. “Can you bring me a ladle, please?”

  One of the goblin employees peeked out from the kitchen holding a ladle. He looked to Professor Goosewaddle before proceeding any further. The professor nodded, and Shaggy walked over to Stacy and handed her the ladle.

  Stacy tilted Dave's head up like he was a poseable action figure. “This isn't going to taste good.” She sniffed whatever was in the pot, then scowled. “At all. But hopefully it will make you not be a wererat anymore.”

  Who the fuck did this bitch think she was? What if Dave wanted to be a wererat? Fuck her. He'd go out and find some other wererat to scratch him. Then he'd hunt her down like the whore she was, and he'd make her regret this. She wanted to force things down other people's throats? Fine. Two can play at that game. And after he finished, he'd tear that shaved head clean off and fuck her up the neckhole until his jizz dribbled out of her dead whore mouth. And then he'd – FUCK!

  It was easily the worst thing he'd ever tasted, and it burned when it went down. He felt like a tubercular hobo was vomiting bile straight down his throat. As hard as he willed his muscles to contract, it flowed down from the ladle to his stomach entirely unimpeded. He could feel it pooling inside him, but not without leaving a thick residue all the way down.

  When she was done torturing him, Stacy stood back, and Professor Goosewaddle released his magical hold on him.

  Dave collapsed, rolled back and forth on the floor like he was on fire, and tried to throw up. Nothing would come out.