by Jay Allan
“He started it,” Amanda commented with a smile to Bethany Anne and pointed to Artur, having seen her look.
He went a bit wistful again for a second but shook it off.
“So I explain that me mate’s not around at the minute, he’s off doin’… somethin’. Feck knows what. He’s a law unto himself, that scrotum-faced sack o’ shoite,” Artur said, shaking his head in disapproval. “But I tells her I’ll take a note and pass it on to him. I’ve got no intention of actually doin’ it, of course. I just want her to feck off and quit cryin’ her eyes out at me.
“Besides, I have this…condition where I kind of loses me temper at nighttime. It’s not dangerous—well, not for me—but it’s headin’ into evenin’ outside an’ I don’t really want the poor woman around when I start to get lairy, ye know? So, I’m tryin’ my best to send her packin’, so’s that I can lock meself away before nightfall.”
Artur bristled, irritated by the memory.
“And that’s when she starts with her badmouthin’, the big gobshoite,” he said. “Tells me I’m obviously not up to the job o’ takin’ on the case meself. Castin’ aspersions on me manliness, would ye believe?”
Rika snorted. “I wonder why?” she asked said, looking Artur up and down. Thanks to Artur’s size, this didn’t take long. “I mean, you’re a tiny robot wearing a dress. I mean, that is a dress you’re wearing, right?”
The air around Artur seemed to grow cold and his thick eyebrows knotted into a single V above his nose. “Is that a pair o’ eyes ye’re in possession of?” he growled. “If ye want to remain in possession o’ them, I suggest ye shut the feck up.”
He gestured down at himself. “Aye, it’s a dress, all right, and a fine one at that. Do we have a problem wi’ that?”
Everyone around the table was confident they could take care of Artur with one sudden bang of a fist, but something about the way he posed the question told them that even if they did have a problem with Artur’s choice of outfit, it would probably be unwise to say so.
“Some of my finest pilots wear dresses,” Ridge offered. “Granted, they’re women. Mostly. Lieutenant Duck does have that bearskin…uh, smock that’s questionable, but he was raised by wolves.” Ridge flicked his fingers as if that explained everything.
“It was just an observation,” Rika said holding up her left hand, its three fingers splayed wide. “Other than one old jacket, I haven’t worn clothes in over ten years.”
Artur held Rika’s gaze as he continued his story.
“So, obviously I couldn’t be standin’ for the likes o’ that, so I says to her, ‘Fine,’ I says. ‘I’ll take yer case personally.’ Tells her I’ll get the evidence she’s after, but that it ain’t goin’ to be cheap. I’ve got no feckin’ clue what the goin’ rate is, so I pick a number out of thin air and tell her that’s the price. She jumps at it. Goes for it right away.”
“How much did you charge?” asked Floribeth.
“Eight credits,” said Artur. He winced. “In hindsight, I should’ve asked for more. I mean, what the feck can ye buy for eight credits? Nothin’, that’s what. And I should know; I checked.”
He shook his head, clearly still annoyed at himself. “But anyway, I gets a description of the fella in question, she points me to the bar where I’m likely to find him hangin’ out, and I sets off. I’d only asked for half the money up front, and it turns out ye can’t even get a feckin’ bus wi’ four credits, so I’ve got no choice but to ride the old Shanks’s Pony the whole way.”
There were a few confused looks from those around the table. “Shanks’s Pony?” said Artur again, as if that explained everything. “It means I walked.”
He mimed a walking motion with two fingers in case they hadn’t heard of that, either.
“Four feckin’ blocks,” he continued. “Which might not sound like much, but on heels wi’ legs this size? Let’s just say I wouldn’t recommend it, just in case any o’ ye were thinkin’ about givin’ it a go.”
The looks on the faces of everyone else at the table suggested that no, they hadn’t been.
“Musta taken weeks.” Rika snickered.
“Not weeks, but it did take me ages. I finally get to the pub yer woman told me about, and sure enough, that bollocks o’ a boyfriend has installed himself on a stool by the bar. He’s hunched over his glass, lookin’ all shifty-like. He’s tryin’ to blend in, but this place is a real dive—a proper shoithole—and he stands out a mile. ‘Definitely moneyed,’ I says to meself, which only makes me more annoyed about the eight credits thing.”
Artur stretched up on his tiptoes and took another sip from his straw. The very last remnants of the liquid burbled in the bottom of the glass.
“I hoists meself up onto the bar a few feet from the guy and orders meself a drink. I’ve still only got four credits, so I get a fecking thimbleful of some watered-down orange shoite and make it last. Meanwhile, I’m watching yer man from the corner o’ me eye. Scopin’ him out, like. Detective-style or what have ye.”
He shrugged. “I mean, I’m no expert, but the whole investigatin’ thing seems pretty feckin’ easy at this point. I’m just sittin’ in a pub watchin’ some shady-lookin’ bastard. It’s not rocket science, like.”
“What did he do?” Standish asked.
Artur frowned. “What did who do?
“The guy you were watching.”
“Oh, that gobshoite. That’s the thing. Nothin’. He did feck-all. Over an hour I sat there, waitin’ for him to meet someone or head off to partake in some of the old depravity, but no. Not a thing. He just sits there nursin’ the same drink wi’ the same worried look on his face. Everyone else in the place is scopin’ him out, probably tryin’ to figure out how much money they can sell bits o’ him for later. It was that sort o’ place.”
Artur gave a shrug. “Now, I’m a man of many outstandin’ qualities,” he said. “But patience ain’t one o’ them. I decides to head over to him and see what I can find out, one on one. I’m goin’ to go interrogate the bastard, but subtle-like. I don’t want to put the frighteners on him just yet.
“So across the bar I goes,” Artur continued. He strolled around the tabletop as if reenacting the moment. “He doesn’t look at me until I’m right close up, but then all of a sudden his eyebrows are raisin’ and he’s got this surprised expression on his face like he’s never seen a six-inch-tall transvestite before. Or, maybe he’s just taken aback by me fine beard. I don’t know. Either way, he’s starin’ at me, all wide-eyed-like.”
“Did you say anything to him?” asked Cain.
“Of course, I said somethin’ to him. Ye don’t just stroll up to a fella and not say anythin’ to him. That’s just impolite, and far be it from me to be rude,” said Artur. “I says, ‘Ye all right there, ye ugly great bastard?’ and he looks at me like I’m a piece of shoite on his shoe, so he does.”
Artur prodded a finger into the center of his own chest. “Me! And him the one who’s been up to all sorts in back-alleys with ladies o’ the night. Sure, if anyone should’ve been judgin’ anyone, it should’ve been me judgin’ him. I told him as much, too.” He got more and more irate as he spoke. “I said, ‘Here, ye filthy feckin’ no-good cheatin’ pervert, that ye are. Don’t ye be lookin’ down yer nose at me or I’ll cut the feckin’ thing off and feed it to ye sideways.’”
“What happened to subtle?” Kelsey asked.
“When you’re that small you have to amp it up,” Rika suggested with a wink as she grinned at Artur. “I really want to take you home.”
“I said it in a subtle way,” Artur countered. “Sure, me sayin’ it again to ye now sounds harsh, but I was lighthearted about it, ye know? It was all said as a bit o’ fun, wi’ no harm intended.”
“Did he take it that way?” Kelsey asked with a skeptical expression.
“To be honest, no,” Artur admitted. “He looks more worried than ever, and he starts shoutin’ at me. ‘Now!’ he says. ‘Now! Now! Now!’ And I’m lookin�
� up at him, wonderin’, ‘What the feck’s he shoutin’ “Now” at me for?’ Ye know? I’m thinkin’, ‘What’s this bastard up to now?’”
Artur rocked on his high heels and lowered his voice to barely above a whisper. “And that’s when I notice.”
Amanda leaned closer “Notice what?”
For a moment, Artur was too distracted by Amanda’s breasts to respond. She glanced down at her chest and then back at Artur.
“Yeh like what yeh see, little man?”
“Sure, ye could say that,” he answered with a wink, eventually finding his voice.
Amanda laughed and sat back. “Keep dreaming, little man, keep dreaming.”
“Anyway, the other lads in the bar? The ones who were all watchin’ yer man?” Artur said. “I realizes that they aren’t watchin’ him, at all. They’re watchin’ me.”
His voice quickly rose again until he was back to full volume. “I figures it out right before one o’ them tries to make a grab for me. He’s an Igneon, the lad, made o’ some kind o’ living rock or what have ye. I know from experience that those bastards don’t go down easy, but I’m not about to let them get the jump on me, so I dodges out of his way, leaps off the bar, an’ I sticks the head in the bastard. BANG! I just throws meself at him, drives me head into his chin, and that’s all she wrote. Lights out. Down ye go. Thank ye very much.”
Charline whistled quietly, impressed. “You knocked him out?”
“Huh? Oh, no. I knocked meself out. Sure, it was like headbuttin’ a brick wall. What I was thinkin’, I’ll never know. Totally should’ve seen it comin’.”
Artur rubbed the top of his head, feeling for a bump that had long since gone down.
“Anyway, I wake up a while later tied to the leg of a chair, surrounded by the stench o’ death,” he continued. “I know, right away that it’s me mate. They’ve got him.”
“They killed your friend?” Ridge asked.
“Who, that smelly big bastard? No. He’s been dead for ages. Sure, it’s one of his best qualities. Maybe his only good quality, now that I think about it,” Artur said. “They’ve got him tied up just like me, only he’s tied to the whole chair, not just one leg of it. Ye know, because of him bein’ a lot bigger ‘n I am.”
“That wouldn’t exactly be hard.” Rika giggled and rested her chin on her hand. “Seriously, you should come with me. I can get you a huge mech body. You’ll be awesome. I mean, if I didn't have Niki in my head translating I wouldn't have a clue what you’re saying, but I think that’s part of your charm.”
Artur glared at her. “Met a fella named Mech once. Right arsehole,” he said. “I’ll pass, thanks.”
He looked around at everyone else, making sure they weren’t about to interrupt him, then continued.
“Anyway, Deadman, me mate, he’s got an arm missin’, one of his feet is hangin’ off, and he’s lost his hat.”
“Nasty.” Floribeth grimaced.
“Tell me about it,” replied Artur. “He feckin’ loves that hat.
“Anyway, he’s right across from me, an’ I can tell he’s pleased to see me. He probably knows he’s up the old Shoite Creek, an’ I’m the only one wi’ a big enough paddle to get him out of it. I swear, he’s practically cryin’,’” Artur said. “Although that may’ve just been because o’ the hat.”
He shrugged. “Either way, he’s not lookin’ to be in the best o’ shape, so I reckon that whatever mess he’s got himself into, it’s up to Muggins here to sort it out. I’m about to break meself out of the ropes that are holdin’ me when who appears but yer woman. Dauphin Soise, the client.”
“Aaah, a setup,” Amanda commented.
“Ye bet yer big gorgeous arse it was,” Artur agreed. “She knew she couldn’t take me herself, so she arranged for me to go to the bar where her lads could grab me. The whole thing was a setup. Her boyfriend was nothin’ o’ the sort, just some lackey who worked for her.”
Artur strutted across the table, shoulders back, chest puffed out. “So up she comes, tryin’ to look all scary-like, and then she bends down an’ eyeballs me, an’ says, ‘Give me the key.’
“An’ I’m like, ‘What key?’ Ye know? ‘What the feck are you talkin’ about, ye mad cow?’
“An’ she’s givin’ it, ‘Ye know full well what key. The Key of Effenine. Cut yer shoite.’
“An’ I’m like, ‘Sure, I don’t have the faintest feckin’ clue what ye’re talkin’ about.’ An’ that’s when we notice that Deadman is laughin’. Just sittin’ there, tied to his chair, laughin’ his bollocks off at the pair o’ us.
“Me an’ yer woman just sort of look at each other, then we both ask him what he’s finding funny, but he just shakes his head and says it’s nothin’. He’s rememberin’ a joke, he says, which I know is bollocks because Deadman never remembers jokes, and also has a shoite sense of humor.
“I don’t buy it, but I don’t get a chance to say as much because yer woman starts interferin’ wit’ me. An’ not in a good way, I hasten to add,” Artur continued. “She pulls the string she’s got me tied up with tighter so that it’s almost slicin’ me into pieces. ‘Where’s the Key?’ she’s askin’. ‘Where’s the Key of Effenine?’”
Artur sighed. “I mean, I had no idea what the feck she was bangin’ on about, but I was in no mood to be sliced to pieces, so I says, ‘It’s in me pocket.’ Only, I don’t take into account the fact that this key she’s after is bigger than me pocket. And also, I don’t have any pockets. She sees right through it, so she does.
She points to Deadman, who’s still strugglin’ to hold it together through laughin’, and says, ‘He told us you had the key.’ An’ I’m like, ‘Oh, did he, now? Well, ye can’t go listenin’ to everything that bollock-faced gobshoite tells ye.’”
Artur held up a finger as if about to make a point of deep importance.
“An’ that is when her face fell off.”
There was a confused silence from all sides of the table.
“Her face fell off?” echoed Charline.
“Just fell right off,” Artur confirmed. “An’ behind it was this, like, swirlin’ mass of darkness, ye know what I mean? Just a void of nothin’, like an endless abyss that wants to suck ye dry. Again, not in a good way, ye know?”
“Not really,” said Charline. “I don’t know that I’ve ever seen that before.”
Artur nodded. “No, I suppose ye really had to be there to appreciate it. Feckin’ scary it was, though. And it wasn’t just her face, either. The rest of her just kind of fell off, too. One minute she’s a fine figure of a woman with a hole for a face, the next, she’s mostly just hole.
“But, as I watch, she starts changin’ shape. She goes from woman to hole to this big scary-lookin’ bastard with arms comin’ out of its legs, and, like, nine faces where its tits should be.”
“There’s something you don’t see every day,” Kelsey remarked.
“Our dragons can change themselves into all manner of shapes,” Ridge told them, “but they’re more likely to turn into ferrets than nine-faced critters. You’re right, I can’t say that I’ve seen anything like that on a daily basis. Or ever.”
“Ye’d be surprised what crazy shoite I see every day,” said Artur. “Sure, I don’t know if I can remember a case o’ Deadman’s that didn’t end up with some feckin’ monster tryin’ to eat us. He practically invites it.”
Artur gestured up and ahead of him as if seeing someone up there. “And Deadman, he’s still there enjoyin’ the show. Just sittin’ there, tied up, watchin’ this fecker unfold and reform itself in front o’ me, so I asks him again, ‘What’s so feckin’ funny?’”
A grin spread across Artur’s face, appearing like a crack in his beard. “And that’s when I notice the time. It’s late. It’s real late. It’s ‘time for me to become a lairy bastard’ late. And suddenly, I know why Deadman told them I had this key they were after. He had it all planned out. He knew they’d nab me; knew they’d bring me there to that spot. Kn
ew what’d happen when they thought I was all tied up and helpless-like.”
He shot accusing looks at some of the others at the table. “See, yer woman or monster or whatever she was, she wasn’t worried about me on account o’ me size. She thought I was just a funny little fella in a fetchin’ dress, and that once I was tied up, there was nothin’ I could do.”
Artur’s face darkened. “She was mistaken.”
He put his hands behind his back, miming being tied to the chair leg. “So, she’s standin’ over me now, and she’s totally changed. She’s all teeth and faces and these fat tentacle things slapping the ground around me, tryin’ to put the wind up me and get me to spill the beans. Only, I’ve got other ideas.”
With a grunt, Artur pretended to pull himself free, snapping the imaginary string that had been holding him in place. “I breaks out of me bonds—ruinin’ their chair in the process, I might add—and instinct kicks in. It’s me against some great nasty demon-monster thing, and so I do what I always do in such a situation. I deploy Old Faithful.”
“I don’t know if I dare ask, but what’s old Faithful?” Amanda inquired.
“Ye know how everyone has their favorite fighting move? For some it’s a flyin’ kick. Maybe ye favor the headbutt or the spinnin’ elbow, or just a good old-fashioned toe-punt to the balls. Everyone has that one special move they fall back on time and time again. I’m no different. That’s me Old Faithful.”
“And what does it involve, you amazing little man?” asked Rika.
“In a nutshell,” said Artur, puffing out his cheeks, “I climb up their arse.”
There was silence from around the table.
“I might need that other stuff again,” Bethany Anne looked at her Coke. “I’m not sure I want to know what you are about to say without being drunk.”
“Stars, I’ve never been so grateful not to have that particular hole,” Rika said, her eyes wide with a mixture of amusement and horror.
“I climb up and insert meself, and then I just sort of go wild in there, ye know? Just find anything that looks interesting, and leather seven shades o’ shite out o’ it. Sometimes literally, depending on the physiology o’ the victim in question.”
