Scum of the Universe

by Grant Everett

  “What if I don't want to use the syringe?”

  Her smile faltered again. The cashier looked around, leaned over the neon yellow counter and lowered her voice.

  “Then you'll be dead within forty-five minutes. I'm not kidding. Please use the needle, sir. I can't have another one on my conscience.” The cashier straightened up and continued as if nothing had happened. “Would you like me to confirm your meal, sir?”

  Tuesday sighed. The things he did for fame...

  “Sure, fine. I'll have all that.” He grinned a black grin. “For free.”

  The cashier's entire demeanour immediately changed. She glared at him with true hatred, and reached for a button under the counter. But then her hand paused, unsure. Squinting in deep thought at Tuesday's face, the penny finally dropped (but it certainly wasn't a penny from Tuesday’s wallet).

  “Oh, wait! So you’re the government pet we've been waiting for, right?” The cashier glanced at a floating display and tapped at a glowing spot. Whatever she read seemed to enrage her. Glowering, the cashier wobbled three of her most prominent chins and spoke with barely concealed rage. “Mister Tuesday, you were due to be here almost two minutes and thirty-eight seconds ago! The MacDeath Combine expects only the most flawless levels of punctuality from our external contractors, even from flash-in-the-pan mascots. Out entire business model is built around split-second precision, and I will be making an official complaint to your handlers.”

  Tuesday grimaced at the scurrilous insult. Pet? The bloody gall!

  Tuesday clapped his Binary Star medal on the counter's grease-slicked plastic. It shone like a supernova. He tapped at the slab of jewels with a dirty fingernail.

  “See that? My friend says I can be as late as I want.” Tuesday's brain, late to the party yet again, finally caught up with the rest of what the cashier just said. “And what the hell do you mean by flash-in-the-pan mascot, bigfoot?”

  The cashier narrowed her eyes and bared her teeth before furiously jabbing at the screen. She didn't say another word, but Tuesday knew that there would probably be repercussions as a result of his lack of tact. However, he didn't bother with anything as tricky as the future. As usual, he'd simply deal with it when it happened.

  As promised, Tuesday's meal was flash-fried, wrapped in yellow paper and served on a laminate tray in less than nine-and-a-half seconds. After walking about for a little while Tuesday finally took a seat at one of the few ultra-wide chairs that remained.

  Tuesday steeled himself. Time to see what all those people were dying for...

  The paper-wrapped outer layer of the crusty-skinned bacon slab was, as expected, stained totally transparent from molten fat, and was firmly stuck to the tray with a layer of congealed gunk. It took an effort to dislodge it. The sugar-fried cheesy mash sticks on the side were a beautiful golden brown, and after a couple of sniffs Tuesday was pretty sure that they may contain trace elements of potato. The glug, as promised, was made of pig fat and cream, and it was so thick that swirling its large cup around didn't have any effect on the iced contents. There's no way the glug could be technically classed as a liquid...

  Tuesday took his first bite of the burger. The slab's crusty skin crackled loudly and released boiling rivulets of fat and cheese all over his hands. A microsecond before Tuesday could register the second degree burns, there was a sudden explosion of euphoria in his brain as MacDeath's well-guarded secret chemicals latched onto his receptors with a whole range of lovely effects: every colour instantly became brighter and more vivid, Tuesday's surly anxiety fled like shadows before the dawn, and an ecstatic grin spread stupidly across his face. His first-ever taste of ultrasweet kicked in, and Tuesday was immediately in paradise.

  He needed more.

  Eagerly crunching at handfuls of mash sticks, Tuesday could feel his doubts about life fading away. All those things he'd been worrying about – that he was nothing but a mascot, that everyone would get wise to his game, that Ernest Fell would catch up with him, that Ms Humple would probably throw him off his own balcony within a matter of days – simply evaporated. Sucking away at the glug with hysterical slurps brought on a concrete feeling that his future was totally safe and secure, that nothing would ever hurt him, that nobody would ever mistreat him ever again, and that he was loved by the entire Universe...

  Tuesday took a huge bite of thin air before he realised that the bacon slab was already finished. If he'd chomped just another inch to the left, Tuesday would be missing half a thumb. Reaching for the mash sticks, Tuesday felt a stab of panic at the sight of their empty paper cup. After sucking pathetically at the barren glug cup as hard as he could, Tuesday started to lick at his plastic tray for salty crumbs. He was so consumed by the sudden, horrid come-down from the MacDeath meal's lethal dose of ultrasweet that it took a few seconds for Tuesday to realise that there were a group of publicity people snapping at the sight with retinal cameras.

  They were laughing at him. Of course they were laughing: he was licking a bloody tray!

  Continuing to lap oil off the laminate until all the promotional photographers were too depressed to watch him for another second, Tuesday fought the urge to curl up. He was already experiencing the infamously fast comedown you get from ingesting ultrasweet, and the cravings for more were already freight-training through his nervous system. Thankfully, Tuesday still had the presence of mind to inject his complementary dessert shot, and he hoped with all his heart that it would take away the pain. Stabbing the needle into his bellybutton, Tuesday cussed viciously as he realised that he'd forgotten to take off the cap. He now had a nasty bruise for his trouble. The swirling liquid of the fit was immediately absorbed into his bloodstream, and within seconds he was back to his normal state. While this was hardly a good thing by any measure, at least he wasn't feeling like a strung-out junkie anymore.

  Buried deep beneath the black cloud of shame and regret that was always the inevitable result of eating at a MacDeath franchise, all those nasty thoughts from earlier started swirling through his head again. Tuesday was sick of wrestling with his own brain, and accepted reality: he really was just a mascot. Worse yet: he was becoming domesticated.

  When would the insanity stop? At a state funeral? Tuesday could just imagine his dead body laying in a designer coffin dressed in a Versace suit with a pig-fat glug in one hand and a Mister Drizzle stuffed toy in the other, his teeth capped with ceramic veneers, surrounded by a crying multitude who didn't actually know anything about him...

  Passing the Reaper (who was still nursing his crotch and didn't say another word), Tuesday immediately decided that something needed to be done, something that would prove he hadn’t sold out, that he was still a conniving, mischievous rebel. Getting to the taxi rank, Tuesday had an idea as a distant yellowcab approached. He tapped his Omni implant.

  “Organiser.”

  Mister Drizzle's miniature head slowly floated out of the back of Tuesday's hand. His eyes darted back and forth, as though watching out for another clip behind the ear.

  “Yes, Bob?”

  “You know that list of places the Mayor said I'm never allowed to go?”

  The purple head nodded and smiled.

  “Yup!”

  Tuesday smiled right back.

  “The place at the very top of that list? I want you to get me a taxi there right now.”

  Mister Drizzle twitched. He sank back into Tuesday's hand by another inch.

  “Um, that might not be the best idea, Bob. The Mayor had your best interests at heart when he wrote that list. You don't want to go to any of those places, especially the top one...please, Bob, trust me.”

  “Are you saying that I might be in danger if I went there? How about you explain the situation to me, Drizzle? Is the place radioactive? Filled with hungry Titan Slugs? Built on an ancient alien graveyard? Guarded by a Monolith? Is it a Mansonite church? It's Mansonites, isn't it?”

  Mister Drizzle shook his head. He had a pained expression.

  “No, no, of
course not! Seven Suns is one of the safest worlds in The Unison!”

  “So how could I, a Binary Star recipient beloved by billions, possibly be in any danger anywhere on this planet?” Tuesday asked innocently. “What could possibly happen?”

  Mister Drizzle flinched. “I'm not allowed to say.”

  This was the wrong answer. Tuesday readied his index finger for another vicious flick, but Mister Drizzle ducked until only his goggle eyes were poking out of the back of Tuesday's hand.

  “Okay! Okay! Your yellowcab will be here soon.” A virtual tear seeped out of Mister Drizzle's left eye. “I tried...I really, really tried...”

  *

  It was crystal clear that the bouncer wasn't having any of it. No matter what Tuesday said or how hard he tried to highlight the fact that he was a celebrity, it was like arguing with a wall. It didn't help that the bloke looked like a wall, either: at two and a half metres tall and at least two hundred kilograms, Tuesday wouldn't be surprised if the bouncer had Monolith blood somewhere in his distant ancestry. Celebrity or not, Tuesday only threw his weight around with people who didn't have the physical capacity to pop his head off of his spine like a champagne cork.

  Sure, for the last ten minutes the bouncer had been nothing but respectful – pleasant, even - and hadn't resorted to threats, intimidation or even bad language. Considering he was dealing with Bob Tuesday for a protracted period, this was quite an accomplishment. But no matter how well-spoken and professional the gorilla was, being repeatedly told “no” was getting on Tuesday's nerves.

  “My apologies, sir, but I am unable to admit you.” The bouncer growled for the fiftieth time. As the thug's voice was so naturally baritone that it was like a minor earthquake, growling wasn't a matter of choice. “I am more than happy to direct you to other establishments that would be more to your tastes. The Heights can offer many wonderful places for such an esteemed guest, and I am certain many of them would be able to provide for your needs better than our venue. I would be pleased to discuss alternatives at length, if you so desire.”

  “But why?” Tuesday harped. This was the first time since getting the Binary Star that he'd heard the word “no” from somebody. Worse yet, the bouncer didn't seem to be willing (or able) to give an actual reason for the denial. “At least tell me why I can't go in!”

  “Our venue is unable to serve you today, sir. My sincere apologies.”

  Tuesday scowled. From the moment he'd hopped out of the robotic yellowcab, the bouncer had said nothing but a variation on the same thing: I'm sorry, we cannot admit you. I'm sorry, this venue is unavailable to serve you today. My apologies, we regret to inform you that your patronage is not currently possible. It was like feeding a sentence into a randomising program that did nothing but say the exact same thing in a million different ways. It was infuriating.

  “Is there someone in charge I can talk to?” Tuesday hectored, casually polishing his Binary Star with his shirt. “Could you call your supervisor? I'm sure he'd be thrilled to hear I've been trying to get in for hours...”

  “Due to an internal situation, all members of management are currently unavailable right now. I would be pleased to pass along your request by the proper channels, and they'll be sure to contact you within the day. May I scan your Omni? If you'd prefer, I'd also be happy to arrange alternate contact details for your file, sir.”

  Tuesday was getting a headache. He scratched at his eyebrow in anxiety.

  “Situation? What situation?”

  The bouncer blinked. His calm stare had gone sort of vague, as though he was listening to something that Tuesday couldn't hear. Even though the bouncer wasn't wearing any obvious spook-type headset or earpiece (after all, they'd gone out of vogue centuries ago), there was a very good chance that the bouncer was listening to some kind of invisible communication device.

  “My deepest apologies, sir, but I must ask you to leave.” The bouncer insisted more firmly. “I am unable to have you stay here any longer. I hope you have a great day.”

  Tuesday was incredulous. Not only was he not getting in, but now he wasn't even allowed to stand outside the rotten place! Somehow, all this arguing had only gotten him further away from where he wanted to be.

  “I'm not going backwards a single bloody step!” Tuesday flared up. “You have no right to tell me what street I'm allowed to be on! This is a free planet, and-”

  “I need to advise that you must leave immediately, sir,” the bouncer insisted. There was emotion creeping into his voice. Not anger, or hostility, but...worry? Fear? What could possibly scare someone so big? The bouncer activated his own Omni and began to tap at a holographic screen. “I'll call you a yellowcab right now, sir. To show our regret for being unable to admit you today, we will be happy to pay for your fare to any destination. Where to, sir?”

  “What's the real problem?” Tuesday demanded, getting really angry. “What, I'm not even good enough to stand outside your stupid club now?”

  The bouncer's fingers stopped their tapping. His face took on that vague expression again, the bouncer gave a full-body twitch, and his head snapped towards the black front door at top speed. Strangely enough, rather than continue to encourage Tuesday to leave, the bouncer bowed deeply and ran for it. Tuesday watched the slab of muscle disappear around a corner without a word.

  “What's so great about your stupid club, anyway?” Tuesday yelled at the innocent corner, his words having no effect on the bricks whatsoever. “Your place can't be that good! I've never even heard of the Low-Hand Club before!”

  “It's pronounced Lohan, actually.”

  Tuesday froze on the spot. He knew that rumble. Turning ever so slowly towards the black front door of The L D Lohan Noonclub, Tuesday came face to face with the voice's owner: Jeeves Butler. To make matters much, much worse, Jeeves was flanking the elderly form of Ernest Fell. They were both standing less than two metres away, their fine suits streaked with what could only be congealing blood, and armed with a total of four accelerator pistols. Each of the weapons were pointed at his head. Tuesday may not be up-to-date on the sort of hand-held mass driver weaponry that was currently popular in the criminal underworld, but the humming devices were obviously more than capable of reducing him to a wisp of foul smelling smoke. A strange part of Tuesday's brain was relieved by this, as such a death would be instantaneous.

  “I, uh,” Tuesday said inelegantly. He couldn't help but look down the barrels of the quartet of weapons one at a time, going from left to right and back again. He took a backwards step and tried to talk again. “It's, um...I...the, the, the...”

  “Do you have any idea what you've done?” Ernest asked through gritted teeth. “Your father may have stolen money from me, but you? You, Tuesday, you took my Face. My Face! Do you have any conception of what it takes to earn a single point of Face, let alone to gather the largest stockpile in the known galaxy?” Ernest had a crazed look in his eyes, and he didn't seem to care that there were thousands of cars streaming past the scene at top speed. If he didn't care about half of the planet witnessing this stand-off, things were destined to only end in one way. “Decades of work, gone. I was just attacked in my own club...my own damn club!”

  “Uh...” Jeeves rumbled. “Sir, if you recall, I was actually the one-”

  “Don't contradict me in front of him!” Ernest snapped, his right eye twitching. The old crimelord didn't take his sight off Tuesday for a microsecond. “You have to die, Tuesday. You need to die. You understand why, right? At least tell me that you understand why I'm about to shoot you in broad daylight in front of everybody in The Heights! Tell me you get it! Tell me!”

  Tuesday slowly raised his hands placatingly.

  “But...but I've got the Binary Star! You'd rot in a hole if you killed me! I'm famous! People love me!”

  Ernest actually smiled at this. His eye twitched again.

  “It's better than what I have now.”

  “But you're a billionaire!” Tuesday yelled, getting more and mor
e desperate. “You can do anything, go anywhere, have anything! I'm not worth it!”

  Ernest shook his head, smiling sadly.

  “You're right. You're not worth it, Tuesday. You're not. You never were.”

  Without a further second of hesitation, Ernest pulled both triggers.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  FAREWELL, FRYING PAN

  A lot can happen in two seconds. Future history can skew down an entirely different, unexpected track. Prey can become predators, and predators can become prey. A single mote of detail switching between the timestream's violent tides can be enough to change everything forever. For Bob Tuesday, Ernest Fell and Jeeves Butler, the next couple of seconds were denser and more significant than they could have imagined.

  Cringing like a whipped dog, Tuesday had deflated to half his normal size by the time Ernest's index fingers squeezed both triggers. Although Tuesday's cowering accomplished approximately nothing beyond making his death even more humiliating, his deeper animal instincts were wordlessly commanding him to submit to Ernest, to try and appear non-threatening so that the alpha dog wouldn't tear his throat out.