Richter Crow raised his hand. “Thing about that is, I don’t need to know.”
Sticklan nodded. “But the question remains, what do you want done should someone turn hardheaded?”
“If you can’t turn them then kill them. But only if you can’t turn them. You come back with a pile of corpses and a story about how they were all impossible-”
“That happens and it means your little pill isn’t working too well, and I suggest you move.”
Richter’s eyes widened. He stood tall and barked at the man, “Get this straight, you ever threaten me again-”
“Back at you.” They locked eyes and Richter felt his heart race. For once he wasn’t the man in control. Sticklan spoke first. “I gave my word, and what you offered was fair. Your pill works, there won’t be a problem.”
Richter nodded and swallowed hard. “Took it today?” His voice was vacant.
“With my tea and muffin.” Sticklan stood and started for the door. He was almost there when he stopped and turned. “Oh, and get some Earl Grey for crying out loud,” he said before heading out.
Sticklan loaded his gear into the trunk of his new car and drove toward his first destination. He was agitated and looking forward to hurting people but he didn’t feel a need to do it. If he had, it was likely Richter Crow and his family would be weeping and begging right now, so maybe the pill was working. Still, he’d keep an eye out for a time when Richter wasn’t useful any longer. Hurting men was most fun when no one’s ever stood up to them before. Then they can’t believe what’s happening. How can he have me tied up? How could he be cutting little pieces off of me, doesn’t he know who I am?
Sticklan laughed as he drove.
He liked the idea of leaving Butcher Baker behind. He felt he’d done all he could as that person, and he understood why Richter Crow didn’t want it. He couldn’t have a man in his company named Mr. Baker, but Crow had overestimated the level of control his little pill gave him over Sticklan. He may have been done with the name Butcher Baker, but that didn’t mean he was ready to sit docile in the corner like a good dog until his master told him otherwise.
Of course there was the issue of the fact that the name Butcher Baker would strike fear, whereas no one’s ever heard of Sticklan Stone before. There had to be an example of his work. He smiled. Richter wanted to keep him in the corner, as an idle threat to any who would oppose him. After this he was going to have to lurk in the shadows, as a rumor like a boogeyman.
Andy Froth and his wife Jenna lived in a nice middleclass house in a suburban neighborhood. Their community was gated and had a clubhouse and was protected by one of the city’s many rain catchers. He looked forward to barbeques on the pool deck and playing tennis with his friend Tozy. Jenna talked about how she planned on using the gym to lose the baby weight, though she knew she was never fitting into the red dress again.
The red dress was what she was wearing the night Andy decided to ask her to marry him and on every anniversary since. It wasn’t just the dress that led him to that decision, of course, but she did look damn good in it, her blonde hair done up. He remembered looking across the room at this woman he’d been dating for almost two years and finally it hit him, no one else would do.
That was eight years ago. Now she was lying on the floor bleeding with his daughter in her belly. Andy was pleading through tears, “Just tell me what you want.”
“Unfortunately Andy, this is less about what I want and more about what I need.”
“Well then what the fuck do you need?” he shouted. Jenna squirmed on the floor, whimpering and looking to him, eyes puffy and slathered in tears.
“A reputation,” Sticklan said and walked over to Jenna.
He looked down at the woman sniveling at his feet and grabbed her by the throat, forcing her to sit up and slammed her back against the wall. Her head rang as it cracked the drywall and bounced back.
“Please,” she begged and he smiled. “I’m gunna have a baby. A little girl,” she added through tears.
“I know,” Sticklan told her, tapping a long thin knife against her cheek. “That’s why this is going to make news.”
Sticklan decided not to cut the meat off her bones, that’s what Butcher Baker would have done. He also didn’t feed bits of her to her husband for the same reason. He did take his time though.
“Look at me,” he shouted at Jenna as he sliced slowly through her skin. Her eyes met his and showed him agony and fear. “I want to see it,” he said. “Every second, every ounce of it. What was your daughters name going to be?” he asked, conversationally, and Jenna couldn’t take anymore. She cracked, screaming and crying she lost all sense of herself. “That’s what I’m talking about,” Sticklan whispered as he watched her strain against the ropes.
The knife was sharp enough for surgery and parted skin like a moist roast chicken. Andy tugged at his ropes and there was a moment when Sticklan turned holding a bloody mass of head and body and asked, “Would you like to hold your daughter,” that he thought he might get out. “Okay, okay,” Sticklan said compliantly. “We’ll leave her with her mother for now.”
He tucked the small corpse into the crook of the arm of what was about to be another dead body. Andy wept from across the room and Sticklan decided to give him some time. He dabbed a paintbrush into Jenna’s opened stomach and began to paint on the wall.
They didn’t have to die but they didn’t even try
a simple request refused and
Sticklan Stone will break your bones and death will follow after
“You’re a fake,” Andy said weakly.
Sticklan looked at him.
“Liar and a fake.” Then he shouted, “You didn’t ask for a fucking thing.”
“Sure, but they don’t know that.” He walked over to Andy and squatted down in front of him. “It’s a good thing you’re doing.”
Andy looked at him confused.
“You’re dying so other families don’t. You and yours are going to make Sticklan Stone a household name. And the next bunch I pay a visit to, they won’t have to ask, who’s Sticklan Stone? They’ll know. And they’ll know the message,” he said, pointing his blood soaked brush at the wall. “And they won’t doubt.”
Andy sniveled from the chair he was tied to.
“I know it seems a small comfort to take now but-” He looked over his shoulder at Andy. “See, if Sticklan Stone comes in and asks you not to publish your geological report,” Andy’s eyes bulged as he finally understood, “It doesn’t mean shit. And I can’t go by Butcher Baker anymore.” Sticklan noticed the change in the man, the degree to which his fear rose. “Ah, and now you get it. There’s a lot in a name.”
Andy gave one last plea before Sticklan Stone started on him.
Nice thing about the suburbs is that no one’s up at night and if someone is, any dark car looks black. Sticklan sat on a recliner in the living room watching television while blood pooled and dried around him.
He left at one in the morning and posted an anonymous tip on the authority web site at nine from Andy’s own sheet. He also let some video of the crime scene, the rhyme particularly, out onto the network as well before dumping the sheet. He didn’t have time to wait for the bodies to be discovered organically.
Sen was a six foot two inch tall mountain of muscle, dark as oil with a voice like thunder. He’d killed men before, some for Richter Crow, more before he’d met the man, but he had a gentle nature. He knocked on the office door lightly and waited for his boss to yell, “Come in.”
Richter was surprised to see it was Sen. “What’s up?”
“Just got a call from Len. He’s frantic and on his way.”
Richter furrowed his brow and wondered, “Why?”
“Somethin’ on the news sites.”
Richter hadn’t looked at the headlines since seven. He turned, touched the screen on his desk and the computer popped to life. He touched the planetary network icon and the browser page flashed onto his screen. After th
at he touched news, and sunk back into his seat, mouth agape. Sticklan Stone’s murders were all over the first page.
“Fuck me,” Richter sighed. The first thought he had was the pill didn’t work.
“I’ll go wait for Len,” Sen said and Richter waved him off.
His computer pinged and his eyes snapped to the flashing icon on the bottom of the screen. New message. He touched it and read Sticklan’s report:
First subject uncooperative. I have higher hopes for the next.
Richter sighed. He hadn’t used any names. Being who he was, Richter could cover up a great deal, but the more that was out there the harder it became, and there was always a limit. No matter how powerful you get there’s always a point where you find the edge of what you can get away with. This business with Sticklan Stone, Richter guessed, was going to test his. Again though, he felt the thrill because that was the point, wasn’t it? The point to everything he was doing now, to test how far his control could reach and see what he could truly get away with.
It was a gamble, but then everything he’d spent the last few years building was. He was gambling no one would look too hard at the tax he instated to pay for the new form-stabilizing towers, or what they were doing with most of that money. He was gambling that his red flag would keep Blue Moon from sending any independent inspectors. He was gambling that he could get off this rock in time and that no one would look too closely at it after. He was gambling that they’d just burn the surface of the planet off and start again. He knew that was likely the way the corporation would handle it. There’s no profit in investigations.
Ryla and Her Robots
An hour passed before Ryla spoke through the Barbot again. “The assessment of your truck’s damage is complete. Your machine requires a complete overhaul of seventy-three percent of its systems to regain full functionality.”
Quey had been sitting at the bar sipping whiskey and speaking nonsense to Barbot, just to see what it would respond to when Ryla’s voice startled him. He’d also asked the bot to fetch a dozen or so albums from the planetary network. He took a moment to gather himself and asked, “What about to just get it running?”
“To achieve functional status your machine will require a complete reworking of its energy system. Your cells were shot and the motor is cracked.”
Quey sighed and leaned against the bar. “That’s bad isn’t it?”
Ryla didn’t respond.
Finally Quey asked, “How much do you want?”
“Unfortunately, I don’t believe you can pay.”
“What?”
“I have tested your ‘shine’ and have found it inadequate as either a cleaning solution or for use as a component in a fuel source.”
“Well that’s because it isn’t a cleaning solution or a fuel source, it’s moonshine and it’s the best damn shine on the planet.”
Silence.
“Have you tried the berry jumblee?” he asked. “It’s like summertime in your mouth.”
Silence.
Quey took a sip of whiskey. “Look, if you don’t help me I’m a dead man. Now I’m not askin for you to patch up my hurt without anything comin your way. I’m just sayin, there are those out there that’d pay plenty for what I’m sellin and if you don’t want the shine then let me finish my rounds and I swear I’ll pay you on the way back.”
“No,” she replied blatently. “Though I have been working on something that you might be able to help me with,” she added before he could protest. “Perhaps you could assist me with the project as compensation.”
“Sure,” Quey jumped at the opportunity. “Whatever.”
“It’s complicated,” she said, thoughtfully.
“I’m sure I can handle it. I may not know a lot about much but I know enough about plenty.” He waited a moment then added, “Why don’t you come down and we can discuss it?”
Silence for nearly ten seconds and then the Barbot’s speaker cracked open again and Ryla said, “The storm isn’t going to pass until late tonight and I don’t know when you’re vehicle will be functional again. I’m going to let you come up stairs.”
Quey stood, finished his drink then proceeded to the main room where he saw the doors were opening at the top of the elegant red-carpeted stairs with the dark wood banister.
Bowserbot and the other one, the one with the pig man painted on it, rolled away toward the back of the room, disappearing behind the staircase.
Quey stepped slowly to the stairs and ascended them cautiously. His hesitation came from that he still didn’t know what to make of this place, and he especially didn’t have a lock on Ryla.
At the summit he crossed through the doors and found himself in another small room with a metal ladder along the far wall that led up through an opening. He thought the room might have been an elevator shaft once and it was like he was climbing up through the maintenance hatch.
When he was through he found himself in a large room that must have taken up two thirds of the second floor. There were tables stationed even as dots on a die throughout the room. Tools and parts lay on them and dozens of bots, many of them no larger than a trash can, roamed free throughout the space, each with an elaborate and unique paint job. In the center of the room was what seemed to be a massive computer station with multiple holographic monitors and dozens of tangles of wires. Two sets of double doors were on the far wall and another was in the wall to his left.
Quey wondered what was beyond them as a slight woman, about five-five and somewhere between twenty-five and thirty years old, emerged from behind the computer station wearing a black slip of cotton that was as thin as she was. Skinny straps ran over skinny shoulders and hung just enough fabric over and snug against her delicate frame to cover what modesty demanded. Though he saw no modesty in her. She didn’t seem self conscious about wearing a dress she couldn’t bend over in, or her breasts that hung free and drew his eye mostly because the room was very cold. He had a suspicion that she’d been naked before inviting him upstairs and the slip was for his benefit not hers. She had long brown hair that hung down around her gentle face and over the back of her shoulders and a sort of plainness about her that contained an underlying elegance. There was delicacy in her nature and when she moved it was graceful, as if each simple step she took was part of a ballet.
Quey tried to adjust his pants subtly as he watched her move forward, bouncing slightly under the snug fit of thin cotton, as they were beginning to feel constricting.
The two bots that had been watching him downstairs rolled up to either side of him, he hadn’t noticed where they came from. Quey chose to ignore them and approached the woman with his hand extended.
Ryla took a step back, eyes wide, and raised her hands to stop him. “Physical contact violates a defense directive,” she warned. Her voice was soft and certain.
Quey stopped and the smile he only realized he’d been mustering when it faded, left him. “We shake hands and they kill me?” he asked, indicating the bots with a nod. Ryla confirmed it with a nod of her own and Quey added, “Alright, important safety tip, thanks.”
“You know Bowserbot,” she said with a bit of pep. Then she turned to the robot with the pig man on his chest and said, “This one is Mecha-ganon.”
Mecha-ganon rolled to him and extended his hand. Quey looked at it for a second, uncertain, then glanced at Ryla. She nodded at him and said, “Don’t be rude.”
“Why?” Quey asked with a smirk, “Does it violate a defense directive?”
Ryla cocked her head and answered with a simple, “No.”
Quey reached toward the bot and it gripped his hand and shook it twice.
“Welcome. Friendly. Male. Please state your designation,” Mecha-ganon said in a smooth yet mechanical voice.
Quey looked over at Ryla who told him to, “Tell him your name.”
“Quey.”
Mecha-ganon released his hand and said, “Good to meet you. Quey.”
“I’ve had a room prepared for you, if
you’d like to take a minute before we discuss my proposal,” Ryla offered.
“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary. Maybe last night, you know, when I was huddled on the ground with Once Men plotting to eat me, but I’m fine now.”
Ryla watched him, unsure.
“Now that we’re friendly does that mean we can shake hands?” Quey asked unconcerned about an answer (he was sure he already knew what it was) while he walked over to the nearest table. Circuits and the boards they were to be mounted on lay scattered across it.
“No,” Ryla replied.
“You really build all this yourself,” he commented reaching toward one of the boards.
“No!” Ryla snapped and he looked over at her. “You might have static. And dirt,” she added, “I can see you definitely have dirt.”
Quey knew he was filthy, he could feel last nights sweat dried to his skin and the dirt that had collected in it pasted to him like a plaster. “Comes from sleepin on your porch, I reckon.”
“Just don’t touch anything.”
“How's it work out that you can watch a man sleep in the dirt with mad cannibals about but you deem a table full of parts precious.”
Ryla glared at him. “Don’t think I don’t see you. I know the truth. I see it, every time I leave.”
“Mind sharin’ what bit of truth that might be?” Quey asked, shifting toward her.
“You think you’re different than the ones that live in the wastes. You call them savages, act like they’re animals but you’re no different. I’ve seen the cities. I’ve watched what you do and I don’t see a difference. I trade with them for the same reason you’re inside now, they have something useful and need what I’ve got.”
“What have I got that’s of use to you?”
“Your truck.”
Quey looked at her, took notice of the suspicion and disgust in her eyes and nodded. “So your robots, they’re better are they?”
The Saffron Malformation Page 7
