“Why don’t you come around more often, Arthur?” Em asked sincerely. In the showroom, she was one thing. Behind the scenes, it was different. It was pleasant.
I gave a good laugh, “So far tonight, I’ve been attacked by a gang of scuttlers, harassed by a drunkard, and laughed at by a group of ne’er-do-well, self-important libertines. You wonder why I don’t come around more often?”
It was rare occasion that I could make Em laugh. She walked over to her desk. There was a lovely teapot with matching cups, a design of intricate black upon a white base. “Seavenly, Arthur? It’s cold, but Gorillian, mountain leaves.”
“Ah, yes. Please.” This was a nice turn of events, I thought. It had been sometime since I had Gorillian tea brewed from mountain leaves, at least of the quality Mother Moth could afford. Gorillian seavenly tea was wrought with barter tariffs and taxes and nonsense that does not make for an interesting story. Long story shortened, it was not easy to come by at such quality.
We sat and sipped tea. The music came through the wall muffled. “I see you’re doing well,” I finally said. I wasn’t sure what to say and I just went from there, “Business seems to be in full bloom. Staying out of trouble with friends like those, I hope. It’s a strange and sometimes dangerous world this underbelly. You can move beyond this. Why not consider, just consider-”
She finally interrupted me, “My goodness, Arthur! You’re worse than my father, when he was alive and nagging me about hanging out with the wrong crowd. The ruffians. Or like my mother would call them, scuttling buggers.”
“Why don’t you transition into something more positive? It’s all I’m asking. Why not at least consider it?” I was trying not to sound like I was pleading with her.
“And do what?” She laughed, but her smiled faded. She said with a slight hint of disdain in her tone, “I’m a maldeviant, Arthur. The worst of the worst. My only known relatives are destroying Chasm metros as we speak. My history up to this point ain’t so dandy, neither. I could try to move up all I want, but who’s going to let me?”
“Fine, fine,” I said as I knew she wasn’t going to have any part of the concept of doing something other than something illegal and, instead, perhaps do something beneficial to society. Though she did have a point; society didn’t want her. The Gazette referred to her, and therefore so did the populace, as such other colorful names as: Queen Maldeviant, the Maldeviant Monarch, Maldeviant Moth, Mother Maldeviant, The Royal Maldeviant, among others.
Though, she could be a great ambassador between the maldeviants and underdwellars, and those in power. Instead, she controlled both groups, and most others, through fear.
She looked slightly older than when I last saw her. This seems like an obvious statement, but the maldeviant side of Em is what aged her. Due to her heritage and lineage, she didn’t know how she aged or how old she was or how long she had to possibly live. Em was technically in her thirties. Sometimes she looked younger. Sometimes older. Her maldeviant nature would change her appearance ever-so subtly. Here, she was different. She looked young, but I knew, in an instant, that could all change.
She spoke to me like that of an equal. She was not inhibited. It was with this confidence that she was able to make metros crumble. “I do consider you a friend, Arthur,” Em said softly, but assertively, “And I do wish you’d come around more often. The Strongman misses you.”
I looked at her from the corner of my eye and smirked. I took a sip of my tea. “What can you tell me of the Six?”
She sat back in her chair and thought a moment, “Very little that you don’t already know.”
“What about your father, he was of the same lineage as they?” I inquired.
“I had only seen it once, personally,” she started and hesitated, “but those of your generation and older, tell me of his temper.” She sipped her tea, “He was a brawler, underground; of course; and fought someone every night. Sometimes several fights a night. He had something savage in his eyes that I had never really seen. I followed him from our home to the ale house where he was fighting. I had to sneak in and hide. My father entered the ring after some time. When he was done with his opponent, they would feed him another.”
“Feed?” I echoed.
“Literally,” she sat up in her chair, “he would beat his opponent to near death, disembowel them, and feed on them.”
“My word,” was all I could muster.
“It wasn’t every night that he was feeding on people, mind you,” she stood up for him, almost reflexively. “Certain nights, metro sentry would pit criminals from the jail against him. I guess I just got lucky that night. Metro sentry would place bets, but he never lost. He took care of the prison population. Metro sentry got entertained and in return, they let him keep his home and his family within the metro as long as he cooperated with the fights. However so grateful we should have been, they let us live in Rust Waters.”
“Metro sentry, you say?” I had utter contempt for such corrupt conflabbery.
“There was a group of them. Occasionally they would throw some of the brawlers, including my father, a small stipend.”
“Had you ever talked to him about it?”
“No,” she replied quickly, without even having to think about the question. “My father was normally a restrained, peaceful man. Though, when he was pushed, that temper of his would trigger something savage and beastly within him.” She placed her cup on the table, “I thought it was just a thing that passed, originally. I guess I just stopped noticing him leaving every night. Really, until after he died, I thought he just did odd jobs and construction.”
“And now you make serious coin as men and women alike pummel each other senseless in the name of entertainment,” I smiled.
She smiled in return, “I make coin many ways, doctor.”
“Fourth Avenue seavenly heist?” I quoted the most recent front-page story from The Gazette.
“Not me,” Em frowned cutely, her humanistical side came to the surface, “believe it or not, most of my money is made in this very building. Almost all of it legitimately, too. I’ll have you know”
“It’s an interesting room you’ve got out there,” I sipped my tea.
“They’re not all scum,” she offered, “besides, the good room is upstairs, just another few floors. that’s the room you should see.”
“The fight floor?” I asked, thinking it was the very top floor where they held the bigger fights.
“No, no,” she poured herself more seavenly, “I have a floor reserved for dignitaries, royalty, ambassadors and the like. I’d invite you, but I know you would not come.”
“Well, had I known of this special room...” I retorted with a sly smirk.
“It’s quite the splendor,” she leaned back in her chair, “but the doors won’t open again for another month unfortunately. A very exclusive poker game, Dr. Monocle, would you be interested in attending, maybe even competing?”
“You know my luck with cards,” I replied, “never a hand to play. Ever. And being a spectator at a game of cards isn’t quite my cup of tea.”
“Well, then, will you join me to the bout, my dear, Dr. Monocle?” Em stood from her chair and extended her arm and offered her hand which I graciously accepted.
“Indeed,” I stood from my chair and she escorted me from the room.
Her beauty was enticing. Alluring. There was a definite charm about her. As intimidating as she was, she was equally attractive. Her neck was long, thin. Her jaw, defined. Thin wisps of hair draped loosely down the back of her neck.
As she escorted me through the main room back to the lift, all eyes were on us. Aside from the rabid gambler attached to their game, eyes became distracted. Members of her party joined us. It was enough to pack the lift like a tin of salted fishes. The lift operator kept a few people from joining us. Perhaps they were not invited or didn’t have tickets. Arguments here always ended in someone getting roughed up.
Where did this day start? It seemed like days ago
that I last saw Geraldine, while it was only just earlier this morning. Throughout the day, up until only just moments before getting on the lift, I had only seavenly the whole day through. I listened to the clanking of metal as the lift climbed upwards through floors unknown.
20
I had seen this wreckage of a man before. Of those I have come across, some have been less than marvelous people and not so savory characters, by any standard or stretch of the imagination. Antoine Bryce Brixton was one of the lowliest.
Perhaps most would recognize this oafish brute by his more common name, Bowery Butch Fandango. Also known as, The Bruiser. As if one nickname weren't enough; as if he were so tough and dastardly that he deserved another, secondary nickname. Alas, the names did not stop at simply two.
I suggest by conjecture and speculation only, that Antoine's nicknames were all part of a terrible overcompensation for that which he lacks, more or less, a sense of self, rooted from a deep insecurity. But... I am certainly not a doctor of psycho-logistics, though during this time I was still thinking about what Em had told me about her father and what she had seen. I’m not certain, though, Antoine was all that deep.
As I was explaining, his names were plenty. He had a plethora of stage names. In some circles he was known as Crazy Bowery Butch. There was also: Butch the Butcher, similarly Butcher Butch, Bowery Boom Boom Fandango (during a flamboyant turn after being pummeled senseless during a match, the name did not last), the Bowery Bruiser, and, behind his back, Blockhead Butch, Bonehead Butch, and as one rather salty sailor of the high seas nicknamed him, Butch who is of the Female Canine persuasion (except not those exact words... think alliteration, if you will). Truth was, boiled down, Antoine by any name was a mediocre boxer and a glocky ignoramous.
I had seen him before, fighting in the underground circuit, I recanted later to Mother Moth as we sat side by side. I believe he was employed as a gear man through GearWorks, although, he spent most of his time in and out of jail and pubs. Petty criminal for certain. Murderous prat, I would suggest. Men of pure intention rarely work for Judge Oberon Huppard and Butch was a heavy for the Judge. Of course, once a name is connected to Huppard's, that name is assumed just as crooked (not that Butch needed any help with such matters).
Butch was truly a glorified bully, a thug and a scuttler. Being the oaf that he was, he mistook Judge Huppard's approval as sincere, not because he was a tool of brute force and intimidation. Huppard used Bowery Butch as muscle. The Judge didn't like the way you did business? Send the Bruiser. The judge hears of a moon-shining operation in the metros he disapproves of? Send the Bruiser. The judge doesn't like the level of respect someone showed his friends? Send the Bruiser. His solution to everything was to send the Bruiser. In one rather unfortunate instance, the Judge even sent the Bruiser into Rust Waters to take care of some business. And as everyone is aware, if you would like to do any kind of business within Rust Waters, one must go through Mother Moth. Having attached The Strongman to another job, she was left to take matters into her own hands. Butch was one of few to tangle with Mother Moth and live to tell the tale. Although, I do have it on good authority that Butch has never set foot within one metro block of Rust Waters since. And good riddance, for the good people of Rust Waters have enough problems without Huppard dipping his greedy, corrupt little sausage-like fingers into their matters.
He was only back tonight for a hopeful taste of vengeance.
It had been a few years, but it seemed like not long ago. It was inside a cold, dank root cellar the first time I saw Butch. I was working with a certain gambling man, at the time. I was dragged along to every odd sporting event: cricket, boxing, cards, penalty cricket, trap croquet, pentuckle ball, spikeball rugby (played with a rugby ball rigged with clockwork to disengage spikes randomly, quite fun to watch), and even ale splurging contests. In fact, the lacerations on the back of my calves have just finished healing since penalty cricket. The lacerations to my liver and related innards from the ale splurging contest will never heal. I digress, but those are two particular games I do not wish to partake in ever again.
On one rather harrowing evening, we found ourselves navigating the streets of Paleen City in Medao Bay. The rain was torrential and the wicked wind whipped my whiskers something worrisome. I feared I had lost the natural curl to my mustache being worked over by the weather.
We hurried through an alleyway between a noodle house and a parlor of relaxation. I could see ahead of us an old man, much older than I, sitting in a rickety chair beneath a gas lamp enclosed in a decorated square holder. The flame contrasted the intricate pattern carved in the metal and cast shadows of abstract design onto the wall. As the wind howled through the alleyway and shook and rattled the gas lamp the intricate patterns formed a design resembling a flock of gravends storming through the sky. A quick chill ran down my back, I could feel bumps on my arms causing my arm hairs to stand on end.
We walked to him, The Gambler handed the old man a coin I had not seen before. There seemed to be no face on either side of the coin, but two geometrically queer shapes I could not recall having ever seen before. The old man held the coin in front of his face and examined it. The old man smiled a toothless grin and nodded. He rapped on the metal grate in the ground to his left with his hand-carved cane made of bone, most likely from a larger animal such as an elephant, giraffe, rhino, or one of their maldeviant equivalents (preferably one of their maldeviant equivalents). But, if the bone was authentic to the area of the eastern bay, perhaps the bone once belonged to a saurus of some kind native to the region.
The metal grate opened and the Gambling Man headed down first. I leaned over to ask the old man what type of bone his cane was carved, but the Gambler grabbed me by my tie and yanked me down into the basement. We walked down the staircase to a platform, turned a corner and down another staircase, and down another staircase, and again. While it was nice to get out from the rain, the smell we were entering into was a foul mist of ale, seavenly, regurgitation, and possibly human waste, although I’m certain the odor of urine was definitely there. If anything, the smell hit me in such a way that my mustache bounced right back to the provocative curl I am so accustomed to.
The cellar was cramped with people, an old seavenly and ale bar was set up along the front wall, an unused stage piled with unused tables and chairs in the back. This must have been some gin joint at one time in the past, but now it was a cesspit of violence and debauchery. The walls had been stripped all the way through to the dirt walls of the hole this building was placed in. Pipes of varying size and use jutted from the walls between hundreds of protruding roots of all thickness.
My gambler friend was off somewhere, presumably doing what he does, that being gambling, placing bets, and finding trouble. And I was left to take in my surroundings. Mostly gentlemen and their mistresses; a few maldeviants and even a few underdwellars, but sharply dressed ones. And peppering the crowd were large, brutish men. These were the type of men who would most likely have beaten up a younger me if given the chance. In fact, I’m not sure a few of them would be against hammering and pounding my cranium bone into tiny bits and pieces just for being too bookwormy, even my being a senior mattering not.
And there he was, with a woman on each arm, all sweaty and bare. By whichever name, Butch was an intimidating sight. His women were as well, to be honest. The three of them looked lowly on the social ladder, yet proud to be not only uneducated, but crass and crude as well. I believe the women would be considered wenches of sorts. I'll say for certain, if they were to attend a University social, neither would be asked to dance, if allowed to be let in at all. I believe I spotted a blade haphazardly concealed on one of them. Perhaps I'm just old-fashioned in my tastes in women.
Bowery Butch Fandango gnawed on empty ale bottles, breaking and chewing and grinding the glass shards to powder. He spit a thick stream of blood across the floor. He smiled with pink, blood stained teeth. He laughed w/ a deep bass heavy tone. It seemed one of his ears had been t
orn from his head. The other ear was a lump of poorly coagulated fluid, a bulb of disjointed cartilage covered by pocked, scarred skin. His head had been shaved, a few weeks worth of stubble sit on top of his head. All of the scars that covered his scalp contrasted against his short black hair. His nose was flat. Broken so many times, it was surprising it hadn’t been punched clear from his face yet.
A well dressed gentleman took center room and all attention turned to him. He was slender and slight and not a seemingly obvious presence, but he held a look in his face that was part deep contemplation and what seemed to be a sense that he was just about boiling beneath the surface. The man held court with such a directness and authoritativeness. “To the ring, please!” He asked of no one in particular, but to the smokey air hovering above his head. He looked around at the faces of the crowd that surrounded him. Their eyes were all upon him before turning to each other and then around the entire cellar for the fighters up next.
From the back, Butch pushed his way his way through the crowd after shoving both wenches away. He lumbered through the crowd like wading through a shallow pool. Butch stood next to the man at the center of it all.
“Who challenges this man here?” The man at the center of it all asked the crowd.
The cellar remained still. My eyes shifted slowly over the faces in the crowd. A moment upon another and finally the man at the center of it all broke the silence.
“Reinhardt Abe...” said the man at the center as he looked to his right. From the crowd came a large Bay Islander native whose size rivaled that of Butch. Reinhardt entered the center and stood face to face with Butch. He was a sinewy man, tall. I could see in his face, somewhere in a slight wince of his eyes, that he was fearful.
Spectacular Moments of Wonder with Dr. Monocle: That Certain Gentleman Page 20
