Life Partner - Part I

By Bettyann Moore

I only have 12 hours, 10 minutes and 19 seconds of freedom left and I feel utterly paralyzed. Though I have never met any, the Old Ones say that the last 24 hours are the worst, that the paralysis sets in and there’s nothing you can do about it. I believe it now. I always swore that it would be different for me, that I’d be Partnering with somebody – or several somebodies – up to the last second. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

There are those who whisper that our last vaccination, always given at puberty, contains a drug that keeps our minds and bodies ready and open for Partnering and that its effects wear off exactly 24 hours before our twentieth birthdays. I believe that now, too. It was as if a light went out in my head and between my legs. The very idea of Partnering makes me sick to the stomach. If it is a drug wearing off, it’s damn timely and effective.

Of course, that’s not all. My CU-Screen, which has always shown titillating CU-Screenplays, now shows nothing but LifePartner- and DigiRest-sponsored BingeSeries. I swear they’re louder and brighter than the earlier fare. It’s hard to take one’s eyes off of them.

Though I am mesmerized by both, LifePartner gets my fullest attention. Judging by the comments on SocialNet, that’s true of most. LifePartner Humbotics, Inc. manufactures the most life-like humbots. According to their ads and their CU-Screen serials, they’re just one step away from being sentient. “They’re not robots, they’re Humbots and the best life partners to be found! They even have a funny bone!”

That refers to, of course, the most successful advertising campaign ever known: Jerry L., the star of thousands of comedies, beloved by all, who turned out to be a LifePartner humbot. He still tells jokes in a “club” within the Smithsonian-LifePartner Museum. He’s pretty good.

So, as a soon-to-be (11 hours, three minutes and four seconds) non-Breeder and bonafide Old One, I get to choose a LifePartner humbot to be my mate. I already have him pictured in my mind, and therefore on the CU-Screen whenever I want to call him up. He is, of course, gorgeous, with blue penetrating eyes, black hair, cleft chin and full lips. I plan on calling him Boone. We get a year to tweak our selections (green eyes might be nice), but after that we’re stuck with whatever (whomever?) we’ve chosen, for, as they say, the duration. Or until we choose DigiRest.

Many choose DigiRest right away, at least according to the company’s statistics, which is all we have. A full 35 percent go that route right away. When I’m watching one of their soothing ads or CU-Screenplays, I can almost understand why someone would choose InstantLifeSleep over having to become one of the Workers, despite having a LifePartner to welcome you home.

Let’s face it: After 10-12 years of being a Breeder, one gets used to all that fun and freedom. But, as they say, one has to pay for all that freedom by going into service. In just a few short hours I’ll be assigned to one of the Ancients as a PillowPartner. It’s not like I know how to do anything else. And there’s nothing else I could do even if I could. Humbots do absolutely everything else. Oh, but the thought of hands that are 35 years or older touching me … ugh.

I turn my eyes away from the CU-Screen – and my thoughts away from the Ancients – and check SocialNet, even though what little there is on SocialNet right now is merely irritating at this point. It used to be (just yesterday!) my life-blood, fueling my drive for bigger and better Partnering events. Oh, the Breeders are still at it, but in the last 12 hours I’ve found myself shutting down their chatter, except for Bren. Bren’s six months younger than I and still hormone-driven. It’s rather endearing.

Argh! Was that my first OldThought? Yes, I think it was.

“D, u ok?” she asks. I’m touched by her concern, given that she has one guy sticking his tongue into her ear and another pulling her toward a PleasureLounger. She giggles, doesn’t wait for my response and her feed goes dark.

I’m annoyed, but not that annoyed. I get it. With just 10 hours and one minute left, I call up the LifePartner order screen and go to my “favorites.” I let the six I’ve chosen strut their stuff in RealTime, then whittle it down to two. Aware that I’m down to two choices (though I’m not certain “aware” is the right word here), the two – Model 2206CB and Model 2190LV – give it all they’ve got to garner my favor. My finger hovers over the touchscreen, going from one to the other. In the end, I close my eyes and stab. Model 2190LV it is. He smiles adoringly at me. I smile back, then kill the screen. The last hours I will spend sleeping.

I think the hardest part is moving out of the Pleasure Dome. It’s been my home since I was 10. It had been difficult to move out of the Nursery as well. At the exact second that I turn 20, three humbots are at the door, ready to carry my belongings (what little I have) and escort me to my new home. The ride on the GlideRail is smooth and quick. I see nothing as there are no windows. They could have at least sent some entertaining humbots; my escorts are sticks.

There is no dome over The Colony, home to the Old Ones, and now to me. The air is thick and burns my nostrils. The complex is made up of stack after gray stack of cinder block boxes. There are no windows. My escorts fairly rush me inside. There is no lobby, no common room, merely an elevator; a humbot presses the button for the top floor. They leave my side without a word at the door of a new chamber, a new life. I press the thumb pad and the door slides open.

There he is, Boone, my new LifePartner. He’s even better looking than his on-screen self. I’m glad I chose blue eyes, they’re cool but hot, if you know what I mean.

“Welcome home, Diana” he says in a husky drawl. “Please don’t bother with your belongings; it will be my pleasure to see to them.”

I step inside. The rooms – there are three – are smaller than the ones I just left. The kitchen/dining area barely fits two. The living/sleeping section has room for a ConvertoSleeper, chair and CU-Screen. I’ll miss my big, full PleasureLounge. The first thing I notice about the tiny bathroom is that there is no mirror. All the better to not see one grow old?

It’s never too late to choose DigiRest, I remind myself, parroting the ads. My stomach growls.

“Do you wish for a refreshment?” Boone asks, startling me.

“Yes, that would be lovely,” I say, mimicking his formal way of speaking. I might have to have that part of his personality tweaked.

Boone pulls several vacutainers from a shelf, unzips them and pours their contents into a divided dish. They’re all varying shades of brown.

“Yum,” I say when he sets the dish in front of me. The sarcasm is lost on him. At least in the Pleasure Dome, an effort was made to make the Soytein look palatable. The taste, I discover, is just as bad as it looks.

“What?” I say, looking up at Boone who is hovering over me, “you’re not going to join me?”

“While I don’t require sustenance, I am capable of ingesting food products if required.” He pauses. “Am I required?”

“No,” I say, laughing, my first laugh in a long time. “No one should be required to eat this.” I push the plate away and hope that the Ancient I am to serve the next day will also serve me – food that is.

While Boone tidies up what little there is to tidy, I park myself in front of the CU-Screen. Before long, I’m yawning. I’m not used to doing nothing. There’s no rule that says I can’t go outside or knock on someone’s door, but I’m not up for that yet.

“Argh!” I cry, “I’m so bored!”

If a humbot can look taken aback, Boone does. It’s like he takes it personally.

“I’m so sorry, Diana,” he says. “Please allow me to entertain you. I can sing, dance, play roles – I’m programmed with scripts from over a thousand CU-Screenplays – I know every game, can tell jokes and much more. Perhaps you would like to be intimate?”

“You can’t be serious!”

“I am incapable of lying,” Boone says flatly. It sounds almost like a challenge.

I file that statement away for further examination. Suddenly I’m totally exhausted. It might be the middle of the afternoon, but I need to sleep. Isn’t that what Old Ones do?

The morning shower will take some getting used to. No more luxuriating. It’s a quick, sharp blast of tepid, soapy water, then a short pause. Next, a slightly longer blast of cold water, then a strong, hot burst of air that nearly knocks me off my feet. Done.

Before I’m completely dressed (only a short robe is required), two humbots are at the door, ready to escort me to an Ancient One. Nervous, I’m chatty, but the bots are all business. By the time I’m standing before the Ancient’s door, I’m a mass of nerves. My knees actually knock together as I press the thumb pad.

The less said about the day, the better, but I will say this: I never, ever want to become an Ancient. I’ll take DigiRest first. His skin is loose and spotty; his eyes runny and red. And his hands, those awful hands! The fingernails are yellow and thick, the knuckles huge and knotty. The only saving grace was that I got to eat and the Ancient tired easily; he slept much of the time.

Still, I feel utterly dirty and spent when I reach my chamber. It’s a new feeling for me. Partnering as a Breeder always left me energized and sharp. This, though, was sad and ugly.

Boone is waiting just inside the door, a cocktail in his hand. I grab it and throw it down my throat before I think to ask where it came from. Liquor is forbidden here.

“It seems you made an impression,” Boone says, pointing to a crock on the counter. “It was sent by your Ancient.”

“He’s not myAncient,” I snap. I head to the ConvertoSleeper, which Boone has already prepared, and curl up facing the wall. Before long, I feel his weight on the thin pallet. He matches my contours and holds me. I let him.

The next day is a free day. It’s a good thing; I’m still exhausted. It’s almost as if life is being sucked out of me. I’d like to just sit and stare at the CU-Screen all day, but Boone suggests a walk.

“A walk? Out there?” I ask. “Aren’t we … uh, I … supposed to limit my exposure to the air?”

“The recommendation is no more than 10 minutes at a time, yes,” Boone says. “I believe you will greatly benefit from this outing.”

There’s something in the way he says it that makes me curious. Curiosity is new to me. It’s not something that is encouraged. I agree anyway.

Outside, Boone produces a small, white mask and places it over my nose and mouth.

“Will this really help?” I ask. I can already feel a slight burning in my throat.

Boone surprises me by grabbing my hand and holding it as we walk. He squeezes it a couple of times.

“It will help in some regards,” he answers. I feel like he’s telling me two things. I just can’t figure out what one of them is.

The area around the compound is blandly ugly, all grays and browns, even the air. We walk without talking. In fact, every time I begin to say something, Boone squeezes my hand again, shutting me up. We come to a slight rise. On top, I see something I’ve never seen before. It’s flat, black, oily and utterly huge. It stretches out for as far as my eyes can see. It scares me.

Boone pulls me to its edge. Reluctantly, I follow.

“The Great Ocean,” he says, barely moving his lips.

It smells of salt and dead things. Dotting its surface are tall, gray columns, topped by slowly spinning blades.

“Windmills,” Boone says. “They provide power, at least when there’s wind.” Again, he barely moves his lips. “It’s the one thing your kind did well, finally, though it was much too late.

“You have questions,” he adds. “You may talk here, but only with the mask.” He looks out over the water and I follow suit.

“Why is it so still?” I ask. I truly don’t know what to ask, not yet.

“Once, a long time ago, there were many oceans and each one teemed with life.”

“Life?” I say. “People?”

A small smile plays on his lips. “No, though people did swim in it, sailed boats upon it and took sustenance from it. There were fish, crabs, lobsters, tiny plankton, giant creatures called whales and sharks. Dolphins and porpoises played amongst its waves.”

I have no idea what he’s talking about. These words are strange to me. We learned nothing of such things in the Nursery. Boone actually sighs when he sees how my eyes scrunch up.

“I’m going to do something,” he says, still looking ahead. “It’s important to not flinch or act surprised.”

“Okay,” I say, trusting him.

Slowly, he brings his hand up and places it on the back of my neck. It feels surprisingly warm. He spreads his fingers, placing his fingertips just beneath my ear. At first, I feel a tingling sensation there, then, shockingly, I hear his voice coming through his fingers. No wonder he warned me not to flinch.

“I can communicate with you in this manner when we are not here,” he says though his fingers. “You, however, cannot talk back unless you are wearing the mask and we are near the ocean. Do you understand?”

“Yes and no,” I say. “I understand what you’re saying, but don’t understand why you’re saying it. I’m afraid.”

“You should be afraid, but not about what I will tell you. All will become clear,” he says. He takes his hand away from my neck and lets it rest on the small of my back, like a lover would. “It’s time to go back,” he adds. I notice that this time his lips move normally.

I’m bursting with questions, but resort to silly chatter. I’m good at it. Still, it’s odd interacting with a humbot this way. They were always silent workers in the Pleasure Dome, sort of a backdrop. I’m trying to wrap my head around that and what he’s told me so far. It’s exciting and scary at the same time. I’m anxious to learn more.

After another horrid meal, helped by a few swigs of the Ancient’s liquor, Boone and I settle in front of the CU-Screen. It’s comedy night, with humbots competing to win the Jerry L. Comedy Award. They don’t show the audience, but I know it’s full of Breeders looking for some diversion. I know, I’ve been there myself.

Pretty soon, Boone stretches an arm across the back of the ConvertoSleeper like a shy lover. Knowing what’s coming, I can barely pay attention to the jokes, but try to laugh appropriately. After a few beats, Boone begins to massage my shoulder, then my neck. It actually feels wonderful, so I’m a bit startled when he starts talking through his fingers. I smile at him, then turn back to the screen.

“Very good,” he says. “I knew you would be a fast learner.”

The praise pleases me.

“If you sit on the floor between my knees,” he says with his mouth, “it would be my pleasure to give you one of my special neck massages.”

“That would be wonderful, Boone,” I say, tossing a small cushion onto the floor. I sink down on it and stretch out my legs. He’s soon massaging and finger talking. I’m not sure which one I like better.

“In order to understand your world as it is today,” he says, “you first need to know how it was in the past. Not the past that only goes back to your nursery days, but the past that came long, long before.”

I moan with the pressure on my neck. It’s both a signal to continue and one of contentment.

“I know you have been taught that the world consists of the Nursery, the Pleasure Dome, the Colony and the Ancients’ Domain. This is not so. This world, the planet earth, is far larger than one can imagine. It is part of an even larger thing called the universe, filled with stars and other planets. This earth, in fact, is home to other people across the Great Ocean.”

“Boo! Hiss!” I screech at the screen, but what I’m really telling Boone is that I’m not pleased, nor inclined to believe or understand what he just said.

“Hush,” he says, continuing to massage. “I don’t expect you to grasp it all immediately. Please just listen. There will be a time for questions and more answers.”

I clap for the latest joke, signaling to go on, not really sure I’m ready for that.

“The earth is ancient,” he says. “Not like the Ancients are ancient, but billions of years old. It was a paradise of verdant fields, huge forests of trees; clean, clear oceans, lakes and streams; home to millions of species of birds, plants, insects, animals and sea creatures. Not to mention billions of people.”

Again, I am overwhelmed. Again, he’s using words I simply can’t comprehend. I give my head a shake as if to brush away a stray hair. What are trees, I wonder. Birds? Lakes? If only he can transmit images through those fingers of his.

“I know it’s a lot to digest,” he says, making small circles under my earlobes. It hurts, but it feels good. “Through greed and a thirst for power, your kind destroyed the balance that kept the world’s abundant life fed. Its livable acres shrunk to two-thirds its size. Then one-third as the oceans rose higher. What little land was left became barren and useless, poisoned by the greedy. The few who survive, who hold the reins of power, do so at the cost of the powerless. You are, I’m afraid, more of a servant than I am.”

At this, I rise, rigid, angry. I try not to let it show. I make a dismissive gesture at the screen.

“Those judges,” I say, “what do they know? It’s clear to me who the winner is.”

I have never been so angry, so distraught. I have been a Breeder for half my life, free to do what I will, to have fun, to bed whomever I choose. Servant indeed!

“Prepare the sleeping space,” I say, hautily. “I am in need of rest.”

Neutral Ground

Image via Wikimedia Commons

Author's note: this story features characters introduced in Carne Fresco.

I stare at my number. It is printed on a thumb-sized slip of paper in the kind of ink that gets all over your fingers but never wants to wash off. My number today is G106. Yesterday it was H55. I wonder if the guy who replaces the roll of tickets in the take-a-number machine each night is trying to be funny, going backwards through the alphabet while time moves forward. Maybe he just grabs a roll at random. But then I think that can’t be right because the red LED display behind the counters has to read the same thing as the tickets or the system all falls apart. If there’s one thing the DMV values, it’s a system.

A man in a ripped-sleeve denim jacket stares at the ceiling. He’s mouthing words silently, tilting his head this way and that as if weighing them in his head. The words are short, single syllables all, but his head sloshes from side to side as if they weigh tons. The reason the DMV needs its systems are for people like him.

“The word of the day is …” he says out loud.

The younger woman sitting next to him taps at her phone’s screen. That’s what most people do while waiting for their number to be called. It used to be magazines or books, but now it’s all hand-held idiot boxes. Stimulus, response. She pops the gum in her mouth and sighs when she realizes the guy is waiting for a response.

“Is what?” she asks.

The man holds up a finger. “Boobs.”

“Boobs?”

He nods with a smile. “Ding.”

The woman shakes her head and turns back to her phone.
I’m sitting in a state-approved plastic chair three rows back. The two came in together, but took separate numbers from the ticket machine. I’m betting that they’re either father-daughter, or will be meeting at a motel after they renew their tags.

My knife rattles under my armpit.

“What?” I mutter. In this place, I don’t worry about looking like I’m talking to myself.

“At your 10:30, Angus,” my knife whispers. Balance is what’s known as a sentient magical construct, which is a mouthful way of saying it’s a talking knife. Very few are known to exist, and I believe it’s not only because they are difficult to forge, but also because they never shut up. I look ahead and to the left.

“The guy who’s creasing the spine on his paperback?” I say. Balance knows I hate people who mistreat books, and it never misses a chance to yank my chain.

“No, the guy next row up.”

I look past the abuser to a slight man in cargo shorts and a tank top. He’s got one leg crossed over a knee and an arm draped over the empty chair next to him. He’s smiling, and looks to be nodding to a tune only he can hear.

“So what?” I say.

“Well, doesn’t he seem a bit too happy to be here? You should go check it out.”

“Maybe he’s just on drugs.”

Behind the counters, the sign chimes and a woman calls out G19. Around the room, people check their slips of paper, and either sigh or resettle themselves in uncomfortable chairs.

“G19,” the woman says again, calling out loud enough to make me wince. No one moves.

“G19.” She looks from side to side, then presses a button under the counter. “G20.” A woman in a suit pops up as if prodded and rushes to the open window.

The man in the cargo shorts leans over to the book-abuser and shows him a slip of paper. They huddle in conversation, and a fiver is exchanged for the slip. Cargo shorts goes back to his internal music, and the book-abuser puts his paperback away, but not before turning down a page corner. If there is a tenth circle of hell, it is for people like him, along with people who talk at the movies.

“You see?” says my knife. “You gotta go check that guy out.”

“So he’s scalping numbers at the DMV. It’s not like it’s illegal. Even if it were, I’m not a cop,” I say.

Balance rumbles in its sheath, the knife equivalent of pouting.

The sign chimes.

“G20,” a man calls out.

Book-abuser and some kid in a burger uniform go to the window at the same time. There’s a pause, then both start arguing and shoving their numbers at the DMV guy, who squints at each slip through the thickest set of glasses I’ve ever seen. He looks over his shoulder at the display, and then waves book-abuser forward. Burger kid says something about civil rights and his congressman, looking around for support but no one meets his gaze. I feel sorry for his loss of innocence, but you gotta learn someday that life just ain’t fair.

Cargo shorts guy is still smiling, and starts whistling. There is a touch of fey in the air, and that should not be. There are rules about that kind of thing.

“Angus, come on,” says Balance, sensing it too.

“Fine you inanimate psychopath. I’m moving,” I say. It would be just my luck for my wise-ass piece of metal to complain to my boss and have me put on report.

Cargo shorts sees me coming down the aisle, but stays relaxed. I sit down next to him and stare at the arm he still has draped across my chair. His smile freezes for a moment and he stretches both arms above him, trying to make it look like a natural reaction.

“What can I do for you, officer?” he says, settling back in his chair. He wants to seem cool and collected, but he’s leaning away from me.

“I’m not a cop,” I say.

“You work for the Judicar’s Office.”

“But not a cop,” I say, “there’s a difference.”

Cargo shorts shrugs.

“What’d you give that guy just now?” I ask.

“I sold him G19.”

My stomach starts burning, and I wish I hadn’t run out of antacids earlier this morning. My annoyance from the book-abuser is starting to flow and imprint onto this guy. If anything, his smile grows as if he just took a hit of some really high-grade marijuana.

“He gave you five bucks. You need the money that badly?” I ask.

Cargo shorts smiles. “I felt the sudden need for a latte, and I forgot my wallet.”

“What brings you to the DMV?”

“I’m renewing my driver’s license.”

“I thought you forgot your wallet.”

“I’m in no hurry,” he says, and gives me that blissed-out smile.

“Lemme deflate one of his lungs,” Balance says. “Or better yet, even out the length of his fingers.” For the first time, cargo shorts looks a little uneasy. As his smile fades, my stomach settles, and I recognize what cargo shorts actually is.

“What was that?” he says.

“My conscience. Let’s cut the cute act, okay?”

He holds out his hands. “Hey, you can’t do anything to me here. This is neutral territory.”

When light and dark called a truce and decided to co-exist rather than burn Creation, they retreated into strongholds and established territories. There’s a reason vampires can’t go into churches and angels can’t walk down Wall Street. However, there are certain functions of life that transcend philosophies and ideologies, like the IRS, Mc Donald’s, and the DMV. Denizens from either side can walk in to the DMV and enjoy immunity from violence and even name-calling while getting their tags renewed or CDLs stamped. In fact, the building we’re in employs a Seraphim and at least one Death Eater, though on separate shifts. My boss, the Judicar, is responsible for maintaining that neutrality, which is why he sends me here when he’s pissed at me. Sending me to mind the DMV is like sending a SWAT team to read parking meters. So while cargo shorts is right, he is also wrong.

“You know,” I say, “last year an eefreet filed a complaint with the Judicar because it was denied a neutral job. It argued that it was the most qualified applicant, and was discriminated against because it served the dark. Wanna know what the job was?”

He opens his mouth, but I cut him off. “Fire marshal. Wanna know why he was denied?”

“Because –“

“Because even though the Judicar makes sure neutrality is enforced, it’s not an idiot. Eefreets can’t be firemen, vampires can’t work blood drives, Seraphim can’t be marriage counselors, and ,” I say, lowering my head, “a vexing demon can’t loiter around the DMV.”

“But where else can I get my fix?” cargo shorts whines. I lock down my emotions. Vexing demons are little parasites that live on anxiety and annoyance. Related to gremlins, they feed on life’s little frustrations.

“Go sit in front of Walmart and harass people into signing some bullshit petition, or have a loud phone conversation in the park. I don’t care as long as you’re not doing it in neutral territory, or in a movie theater,” I say.

“The movie theater isn’t neutral territory.”

I crack my neck before responding. “Let me put it this way: if I catch you here again, I’ll haul you in to the Judicar and let you plead your case. You’ll lose. If I find you in the theater, I’ll give you to him.”

I pull back my jacket and let him get a look at Balance’s hilt. It starts rattling in its sheath.

“Strip the flesh, salt the wounds!” it says.

The demon swallows and leaves through the front door. I return to my seat behind the guy in the jean jacket and his younger companion.

“Takes all kinds, doesn’t it, Angus?” says Balance.

“And they all come to the DMV,” I say. “This place attracts nothing but boobs.”



“Ding!” says jean jacket.

Dance For Me

By Bettyann Moore

Panic was starting to set in as Lynne Gould erased the last brainstorming ideas from the chalkboard. If the Silverman-Gould Agency didn’t come up with a blockbuster ad campaign for Cheesy Pizza Noodles, she – and the rest of the team – could find themselves in the unemployment line. She put the chalk back in the tray, resisted the urge to wipe her hands on her black slacks and faced the group.

“What’s up, people?” she said. “We’re getting down to the wire here and we’ve got nothing.”

No one on the small team met her eyes. Ben Young scribbled on a legal pad. Barb Poston had a compact open and was re-applying mascara. Sylvie Brown was methodically crushing the contents of a bag of Cheesy Pizza Noodles into powder on the conference room table by using a pencil as a rolling pin. Half a dozen bags of the product lay open on the table. 

Lynne sighed. It was a good thing that she didn’t allow cell phones in the room during brainstorming sessions; she had a feeling that everyone would be texting like a group of high schoolers – herself included. She glanced at her watch. It was already past six o’clock.

Without looking up, Ben cleared his throat, something he did whenever he wanted to say something.

“Yes, Ben?” Lynne said, hoping he had an idea.

“It might help,” he said slowly, “if the product didn’t taste like sawdust and smell like ass.”

Sylvie and Barb chuckled, but Lynne wanted to cry. Ben was right, but at this point, the agency couldn’t afford to be picky. As it was, the chance to woo Snackmaster Foods, Inc. was a bone thrown to her partner by one of his former frat mates who sat on the food company’s board of directors. Snackmaster’s CEO, Robert Fairchild III, would much prefer to stay with his in-house marketing team, even if they hadn’t had a good idea in 30 years. They were the ones, after all, who’d come up with the name Cheesy Pizza Noodles in the first place.

Just then, Jon Silverman breezed in, saving Lynne the effort of chastising Ben. He was dressed in evening wear, his tie knotted perfectly beneath his square, fashionably bristled chin. He looked around in surprise.

“You’re all still here?” he asked. “Lynne, you’re overworking this crew. It’s Friday night! Time for fun, not work.” He strolled to the table, grabbed a Cheesy Noodle and popped it into his mouth. He actually looked like he enjoyed it.

Lynne fumed while Ben, Barb and Sylvie swiveled their heads from one partner to the other. Lynne was their supervisor, but Jon was part-owner of the company. As the CFO and Schmoozer-In-Chief, though, he had little understanding of the creative process. That was up to Lynne. Nonetheless, he was right, but she wished he hadn’t said anything in front of the others.

“Okay, okay, I know when I’m outnumbered,” she said. “Go home, enjoy the weekend, but I want each of you to take home a bag of Cheesy Noodles with you.” Everyone groaned. “Just for inspiration,” Lynne added. “Robert Fairchild and his gang will be here next Friday, remember, and we have to wow his socks off.”

The creative team scurried out the door, leaving the partners alone.

“Jon, you’re the CFO. You of all people should know how important it is to land this account.” Lynne tried not to sound peeved, but it didn’t work. It didn’t help that he was all dressed up, in designer clothes no less, and probably going out with some socialite. Lynne looked down at her own dowdy beige blouse and black slacks; she’d managed to get chalk dust all over the pants.

“I have faith in you and the others,” Jon said, ignoring her tone. “You work too hard. Maybe a little fun would loosen the creative spirit. What are you doing this weekend?”

The question surprised her, but Lynne knew he was just asking out of curiosity, not out of some desire to spend time outside the office with her.

“Booked solid all weekend,” she lied. “A couple of parties, a luncheon. The usual.” She made a show of looking at her watch. “Wow,” she said. “I better get home and get cleaned up! You look like you have somewhere to be, too.” She nodded at his outfit.

“Actually, I was …” Jon began, then looked at his watch, too. “Man, it is late,” he said. “I’d better see if I can flag a cab. Have a great weekend!” He breezed out the door, but not before grabbing a fistful of Cheesy Noodles. A second later, he popped his head back into the room.

“By the way,” he said, “you might want to, um, do a little dusting on your, um ...” he nodded toward Lynne’s backside, then disappeared again.

Mortified, Lynne craned her neck to see the back of her pants, checking one side, then the other. She had managed to put two perfect chalky hand prints on her butt.

The subway ride home was uneventful, always a good thing. A surly man wearing a camouflage cap emblazoned with a sequined crucifix had sat down next to her, but he kept to himself. Lynne was too tired to even think about making dinner, so she was glad when her neighbor, Judy, waved at her from her front stoop and invited her over to eat with her and her husband. Lynne loved spending time with Judy and Porter Welch. The older couple, married for 40 years, gave her hope for the world. She changed into jeans and a sweatshirt and pulled out a bottle of Riesling from her fridge before heading next door.

“Oh, how nice,” Judy said when she saw the bottle. “Looks to me like you could use a glass or two of this. Hard week?”

“Not the best week, that’s for sure,” Lynne said. “It’s like everyone’s creative juices have dried up, and at the worst possible time.” The two women sat side-by-side in the living room, sipping wine while Porter drank his in the kitchen where he was preparing dinner. Lynne told Judy about the Cheesy Pizza Noodle account and how important it was for Silverman-Gould to land it.

“It’s probably just a dry spell,” Judy assured her, patting her hand. “Maybe you’re just trying too hard because it’s so important. Relax, have fun, and maybe something will hit you when you least expect it.”

“Funny, that’s pretty much what Jon said, too,” Lynne said, suddenly and unreasonably feeling a bit ganged-up on.

“Hmmm, the mysterious Jon,” Judy teased. “Are we ever going to meet him? You’ve been in business together for, what, five years now?”

Despite herself, Lynne blushed. “It’s not like we’re social friends, Judy. We’re business partners. Tell you what: if we land this account, we’ll hold a huge party and you and Porter will be invited.”

“Deal,” Judy said, pouring another glass of wine for each of them. “So, any dating prospects on the horizon? Anyone you’re seeing … or want to see?” Judy quite enjoyed the latitude she had as a senior citizen. She could be nosy and pushy and get away with it. Not that she ever needed that excuse.

Uncomfortable with the juxtaposition of “dating” and “Jon,” Lynne changed the subject.

“How did you and Porter meet, anyway?” she asked. “What’s your secret for such a long and happy marriage?”

Judy smiled. Instead of answering, she called out: “Porter dear, could you come in here, please?”

Porter came in, dish towel in hand, wearing a chef’s apron.

“You rang?” he asked.

“Dance for me, Porter,” Judy said.

Without pause, Porter flung the towel over his shoulder and started doing an elegant soft shoe. Then he switched to a two-step, pausing in front of his wife to gather her in his arms. Wide-eyed, Lynne watched as the two went from the two-step to the tango to a waltz with amazing grace. They ended with a flourish, Judy bent backwards in her husband’s embrace.

“Thank you, my love,” Judy said, kissing him on the cheek.

“Always, my dear one,” he answered, then scooted off to the kitchen.

“Wow.” Lynne said. “I never thought Porter ...”

Judy gazed toward the kitchen and sighed.

“That’s how he got me, and how he keeps me,” she said. “I was with a couple of friends at a college mixer. My friends were off dancing with every boy who came along and I was trying not to look like a wallflower.

“Suddenly, this beanpole topped by a shock of yellow hair was standing in front of me. He did this crazy little dance right there, all by himself, without a shred of embarrassment, then held out his hand to me. I was already half in love with him by the time we started to dance together. By the end of the song, I was hooked.”

“What a great story, Judy,” Lynne said.

“It is, isn’t it?” Judy replied. “Take it from me, any man who will dance at the drop of the hat is a man to hang onto.”

From the kitchen, Porter bellowed, “Come and get it!”

“Oh, it also helps if he loves to cook,” Judy added as the two women headed in to eat.

After an excellent meal and much laughter, Lynne went back to her apartment. As she put the key into the lock, she felt the germ of an idea nibbling at her mind. By the time she went to bed that night, it was a full-blown campaign. She just needed to call in a few favors to get it accomplished by Friday.

“Lynne’s such a nice girl,” Porter said as he and Judy got ready for bed that night. “But she seems so sad and lonely.”

“That’s because she hasn’t found someone who will dance for her, but she will” Judy said. “I told her how you and I met,” she added.

“Did you tell her your romanticized version, or the true one about how both my feet had fallen asleep and I was trying to wake them up before I fell flat on my face and reached out toward you to steady myself?”

Judy’s eyes twinkled. “Which one do you think?”

“You’re incorrigible, my dear,” Porter said, reaching for her hand for a little dance.

The videographer was easy; Lynne had promoted his work so much that he was always in demand. He owed her big time. Sophie was a whiz at graphics, so Lynne put her to work on the print ads. Ben and Barb were busy working on a new craft beer account, small but promising. Still, they would play a role during Friday’s presentation. The choreographer was a bit more difficult. True, Lynne had introduced her to her current girlfriend, but the relationship was waning. Lynne had to secure a much coveted reservation at the hottest restaurant in town before she agreed to help out. The manager at Lynne’s own neighborhood grocery store had a crush on her and readily agreed to using the shop for the shoot. Lynne even enlisted Judy and Porter’s help.

Friday dawned foggy and cold, but didn’t dampen Lynne’s mood. When Jon walked in with Robert Fairchild III and Snackmaster’s entire marketing department, Lynne was ready for them. She didn’t expect a positive response from the marketers; all she had to do was convince one man to use Silverman-Gould.

The conference room was set up like a small theatre, with the conference table pushed to the front of the room to serve as a stand for a projection screen. Once everyone was settled into their chairs, Lynne nodded and the room went black.

A small ceiling spotlight snapped on, illuminating two children (Barb’s 1- and 4-year-old sons) who sat on the floor, a bag of Cheesy Pizza Noodles in the younger child’s hands. Lynne crossed her fingers; anything could go wrong when children were involved. She sighed with relief when the toddler reached into the bag and offered his brother a Cheesy Noodle. The older boy took it, ate it, then grinned. He did a little dance, all arms and legs and bobbing head. Lynne was thrilled when his brother started to mimic his movements. A voice (Ben’s) came out of the darkness: “Cheesy Pizza Noodles. They make you want to dance.”

The light snapped off and another snapped on across the room. All heads swiveled that way.

This time, two teenaged girls were lying on the floor facing each other. Their elbows were propped up on large pillows and they’re texting. A bag of Cheesy Pizza Noodles is between them. One of them reached into the bag and popped a noodle into her mouth. Slowly, she set down her phone and rose, then began to pirouette. The other girl, still texting, absent-mindedly ate a snack, then jumped to her feet and started busting some moves. Again the voice came out of the darkness: “Cheesy Pizza Noodles. They make you want to dance.”

The light went out and another went on in the middle of the room. The backs of two easy chairs are illuminated. An older couple (Judy and Porter) are sitting in the chairs, a bowl of Cheesy Pizza Noodles between them on a small table. With the video screen before them, it looks as if they’re watching a movie. At the same time, they reached into the bowl for a noodle. They eat. Their heads swivel away from the screen towards each other. The man rose and held his hand out to the woman. They danced a slow waltz. The voice again: “Cheesy Pizza Noodles. They make you want to dance.”

They dance out of the spotlight and the video began on the screen. Shoppers pushed carts through a grocery store. Before a large endcap display of Cheesy Pizza Noodles, stood a table full of free product samples. One by one, the customers took the samples. Pop music swelled over the speakers and before too long, the aisles are full of well-choreographed dancing people. At this point, Lynne hopes that Robert Fairchild hasn’t lived his life under a rock and knows a flash-mob when he sees it. The music stopped and the shoppers headed to the endcap to snatch up bags of Cheesy Pizza Noodles. Across the bottom of the screen reads: Cheesy Pizza Noodles. They make you want to dance.

Lynne’s stomach has butterflies as the lights went up in the room. From her position at the projector, she saw Fairchild rise. Then she heard him clap, at first quietly and slowly, then with enthusiasm. Reluctantly it seemed, his team rose as well, clapping along with their boss. Even Jon has joined them. Soon, everyone in the room is looking at her and clapping. Lynne beamed and took a small bow.

“I’m glad you liked the presentation, Mr. Fairchild,” she said, going down the aisle to shake the man’s hand. She handed him a presentation folder of print ads that echo the campaign theme. “Of course,” she added, “the vignettes will be filmed professionally, but I liked the immediacy of the live performances for the presentation.”

“Marvelous, simply marvelous, Ms. Gould,” Fairchild said, leafing through the booklet. He looked at Jon, who grinned broadly. “I guess you’re the money man, Silverman. Let’s go to your office and take a look at a contract, shall we?”

While Jon tended to business, the part that Lynne abhors, she accepted kudos from her staff and friends. Before long, she’s left alone to put the room to rights and enjoy reliving the morning in her mind. It went much better than she ever thought possible. As she returned the large table back to its position in the center of the room by pushing it slowly across the carpet, Jon came in, still beaming.

“All locked in,” he said, helping her with the table. “Three years with an option for three more. I think you’ll like the price, too. Nice work, Lynne.”

With the table back where it belonged, Lynne hopped up on it and swung her feet, feeling pretty proud of herself.

“Why, thank you, Mr. Silverman,” she said. “I owe a lot to Porter and Judy, though. They were the inspiration.”

“Then you and I should take them out for dinner at the very least, don’t you think? Maybe out dancing? You, Ms. Gould, make me want to dance.”

Surprised, Lynne smiled, then began to smirk.

“Prove it,” she said. “Dance for me, Jon.”

And he did.

Corncob and Michael Visit the Old Folk's Home - Part 4

Photo by Thomas Wolf via Wikimedia Commons

Corncob stood in Archie’s doorway with his arms folded, doing his very best imitation of a CIA heavy. It would have helped if he was wearing a suit with shiny leather shoes rather than torn work pants, muddy steel-toes, and a t-shirt with the Abbey Road album cover on it. He thought even a pair of sunglasses would have helped if only to armor himself against Archie’s narrowed eyes as Michael poked about. If the geriatric actually had the morphine stashed away, it was nowhere to be found in his room. Thankfully, Archie didn’t seem to have any weapons either because Corncob was pretty sure the old codger wouldn’t hesitate to use one right now.

“You ain’t never going to find it, so just piss off,” Archie said.

Michael went to the closet for the fourth time, listening with one ear cocked as he rapped on the walls.

“If you come clean now,” Michael said, “Special Agent X and I can make sure you won’t get sent to Guantanamo.”

Archie made a rattling noise with his mouth that sounded like a set of dentures getting in the way of a raspberry. “Now I know you two Nimrods aren’t with the government. Gitmo? The spooks only put towel-heads there. Citizens get put under Yucca Mountain with the Nazi rocket scientists.”


Michael paused and looked back at Archie. “What in the world makes you think there are even any Nazi rocket scientists still alive?”

“Not the originals, you idiot, their kids. There’s a whole colony of ‘em there under the mountain, except they’re not as bright as their parents, cause they’re all inbred. That’s why all them space shuttles blew up. They’re on the third generation now, and the government’s lucky if it can even launch a bottle rocket. So now they ship political prisoners there as breeding stock.”

Michael turned to Corncob and gave a hidden wink. “He’s remarkably well informed.”

“I don’t know, Agent Y,” Michael said. Impersonating a government agent was one thing, but besmirching the space program was quite another.

“Special Agent Y, you mean,” said Michael

“Bologna! You two rubes are as dumb as a box of rocks,” Archie said. “I made that all up.”

“Archie, just tell us where the drugs are, and we’ll leave,” Michael said.

“You wouldn’t believe me.”

Michael stood over Archie in his chair. “Try us”

Archie just smiled. “Nuts to you, Special Agent Goober.”

Michael’s shoulders bunched and for a moment, Corncob thought his partner might hit the old man. Then Michael straightened and held out his hand. He spread his ring and little finger, and peered through the gap like he was about to do a mind read. Not that Archie would know that, thought Corncob. Michael then let out a breath that might have been a laugh, and reached for his flask.

“Drinking on duty, Goober?” Archie sneered. “Or are we playing peek-a-boo?”

“You’re right, Archie, we’re not from the government,” Michael said. “We’re mages.”

Corncob checked the hallway to make sure it was still empty. “Michael,” he whispered.

“You going to pull a rabbit out of your whiskey?” Archie said.

“No. You see, I’m what you might call a kind of mind reader. My colleague over there does somewhat the same thing except with machines.”

“Mind reader? Fine. I’m thinking of a number between one and ten.”

“Thirteen,” Michael said, taking a swig. “You old liar.”

Archie’s eyes widened for a moment, then he shook his head. “Bull hockey! Lucky guess.” Archie folded his arms and glared back at Michael. Corncob didn’t believe it either. Michael’s magic was sedated, as was his own. At least he thought so. He tried to remember how long the pills were supposed to last, when he realized the doorjamb he was leaning against was whispering to him.

I was installed by a left-handed man. My middle hinge is loose. The outlet’s wire skin was nicked by a careless knife and now cries blue arcing tears -- I fear it will burn us all down soon. I wish I weren’t painted …

Corncob’s stomach lurched, and he glanced over his shoulder at Erasmus. Did the old mage feel that whisper of power? He seemed agitated. Was his face always that pinched?

“No sir, I don’t lie about my gift,” said Michael. “So I’m going to give you a chance to tell me where all the morphine is, or I’m going to go through your memory and find all your secrets.”

“Michael, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Corncob said. “Erasmus –“

“Is under sedation. He won’t feel us stretching our legs a little.”

“I don’t like it Michael. What if he wakes up and goes nuclear? He could fry our brains without even realizing it.”

“Duly noted.” Michael turned back to Archie. “So are you going to tell me, or do I have to expose all the skeletons rattling around in that skull of yours?”

Archie laughed. “There ain’t no such thing as magic.”

Michael sighed and shook his head. “Corncob, what do you call it when a guy believes there’s a Nazi space program under Yucca Mountain but says there’s no such thing as magic?”

Corncob thought for a moment. “I believe they call that irony, Michael.”

Michael nodded. “So they do, Corncob, so they do.” He raised his hand to his eyes, and peered between his ring and pinky finger at Archie. Moments later, the air whooshed from Michael’s chest and he bent at the waist with hands on his knees. Corncob ran to his partner and helped him steady the flask at his lips. Michael’s throat bobbed until the contents were gone, then he slowly stood and waved off Corncob’s support.

“There’s an AA chapter that meets on Thursdays in the ballroom,” Archie said. His arms were still folded, but in a way that seemed more nervous to Corncob than defiant.

Michael nodded. “Someday, maybe. But you know Archie? You weren’t kidding. I wouldn’t have believed you.”

“Believed what?” Corncob asked.

“It’s the dog. The dog’s running the whole show.”

“Wilhelm?” Corncob said.

“Appears so.” Michael said.

Archie’s jaw hung open. “You saw that in my head? The mutant dog and the lady from the Illuminati?”

Michael nodded. “Yes, and I know all about the fake fire extinguisher with all the jewelry you’ve filched over the years. You’d better hope a fire doesn’t break out on the second floor.”

“Wilhelm’s not a werewolf, is he Michael?” said Corncob.

“No. There’s no such thing as werewolves. At least not in any form you’d recognize.”

“Maybe he didn’t remember it right. Could it have been Nurse Thora?” Corncob said.

“Nope.”

“In my brain,” Archie said. His eyes worked from side to side and a look of horror came over his face.

“How do you know?” Corncob said.

“Because it’s a yeth hound, and it’s definitely not a creature that takes orders.”

“Okay, I’ll bite,” said Corncob, “What’s a yeth hound?”

“But there’s no such thing as magic,” Archie said.

Michael turned to Archie and patted him on the shoulder. “It’s okay. If it makes you feel any better, focus on the moon landings. Those were faked.”

“Michael!” Corncob snapped. Michael just winked and gave him a wave.

“Sure, a soundstage in Hollywood. The moon rocks are just CIA-doctored meteorites. Anyway, a yeth hound is thought to be the damned soul of an unbaptized child, a kind of grave spirit. Their baying chills the soul, and the ancient Scots were said to run for safety before the hound bayed three times. And the yeth hound gets quieter the closer he is to his victims.”

“But how does it get into a locked med chest, and what does it need the morphine for?” Corncob asked.

Michael wiped at his brow. “From what Archie saw, it just noses at the lock, and it pops open. Nurse Thora takes the meds out and tosses it down Wilhelm’s gullet.”

“The moon?” Archie said absently. Then his expression hardened. “You don’t scare me, David Copperfield. You’re not getting my stash.”

“Archie, you have bigger problems than someone snatching your cubic zirconia. Yeth hounds are bad news.”

“Bad how?” Corncob said.

“Soul eaters.”

“Bull!” Archie said, and leapt from his chair. He dodged Corncob and shot into the hallway.

“Wait –“ Corncob said, but Michael pulled him back.

“Let him go; we have to get Erasmus out of here.”

“Okay, Michael.” Corncob wondered if he could take a car using his magic before Erasmus’ morphine wore off. If not, he’d just have to hotwire something.

“Strange thing is,” Michael said, “I thought yeth hounds took the forms of headless dogs.”

A scraping of nails on wood made them turn around. A glassy-eyed Thora stood in the doorway, resting her hand between Wilhelm’s ears. The dog shook his head, and Thora fell to the floor. He shook out his coat and regarded Michael and Corncob.

“You know how peasants embellish, mage,” Wilhelm said.

Corncob glanced around the room for a weapon, wishing the retirement home had been constructed with a hunting lodge theme; a boar spear would have been the very thing to have close at hand. Michael seemed unruffled, but Corncob thought he saw his partner’s lips tighten as he regarded Wilhelm.

“Is she dead?” Michael said.

“I must say it is so good to be talking to people on my side of the fence,” Wilhelm said. “With mundanes, they’re always carrying on, ‘oh no, a talking dog’ and all that rubbish. I don’t suppose you two follow the Premier League standings by chance?”

“We’re football fans,” Michael said, “not soccer.”

Wilhelm sighed. “Mages, but still American. Thora was never alive, just a construct I could manipulate. A flesh puppet, I believe you Yanks call them. Mundanes are so reluctant to give keycard access to those of us without thumbs. I’m glad to be rid of it. Splitting one’s consciousness between two bodies is so very distracting.”

“So why just the morphine, and not any of the other drugs?” Michael asked.

“Because morphine is a pure extract, and not a synthesized product. The additives and binders in those other drugs make me sick,” Wilhelm said.

“You eat it?” Corncob said.

Wilhelm panted in what must have been a canine equivalent of a laugh. “No, not directly. I use it for finishing off the livestock before harvest.”

“The patients, or at least their souls.” Michael said.

Wilhelm cocked his head and panted. “I doubt the farmer sees ducks as patients when he makes foie gras, though the principle is the same.”

“What’s foie gras?” Corncob asked.

“Gourmet food, Cornelius. They force-feed ducks until their livers swell, then make pate out of it.”

Corncob scowled at Wilhelm. “That’s sick.”

Wilhelm panted some more. “Really, mage, their inner lives are so much better: pleasantly euphoric, never bored, happy until the very end. And when their souls release, as they were going to anyway, they taste so much sweeter. Surely this is the most humane way to treat your unwanted elders.”

Wilhelm looked to each of them and sighed. “I can see you don’t agree, but it’s academic anyway. Time for me to move on.”

“The Brotherhood isn’t going to like you messing about with Erasmus,” Corncob said. “Your activity had to have caused him great pain.”

“The battle mage?” Wilhelm glanced over his shoulder. “I was fattening him up for a truly celestial meal, one that would have required me to cover my head with a napkin to hide my face from the Almighty. But I suppose this will be one of my many regrets.”

“To say the least,” Michael said.

“Let me tell you a secret,” Wilhelm said. “Now listen closely.”

Corncob inadvertently leaned in and stared in dawning horror as Wilhelm’s jaw unhinged, revealing a throat that could swallow bowling balls. The maw grew wider and the jaws split to the left and the right, filling the doorway. A sound no louder than a whisper but with the pressure of an ocean wave bowled him over. His limbs went numb and overhead lights faded. A hand grabbed at his shoulder, and Michael was there, pulling him to his feet.

“Find something to stop him!” Michael called, “I’ll keep him busy!”

Corncob searched around the room as Michael twisted at an oxygen knob built into the wall behind the hospital-style bed. Corncob grabbed at an armchair and hurled it at Wilhelm, who was drawing in another breath. The chair briefly lodged in its throat, then collapsed into splinters and was swallowed.

A tongue of fire shot from the wall where Michael held a conjured flame in his palm in front of the gas jet. Helldog spittle crackled and gums turned black, but Wilhelm’s jaws still blocked the doorway. Corncob put his hands on the bed, and reached out with his mind to release the brakes. He swung the bed around and launched it at Wilhelm.

Wilhelm bayed a second time. The flame died, and Corncob found himself sandwiched between the bed and the wall. His muscles went rubbery and the room seemed to fade into monochrome. Michael lay face-down on the bed, struggling to push himself up. Corncob stood and rolled Michael to the floor. He heaved the bed toward Wilhelm, but it slewed as it reached the doorway, jamming itself. Wilhelm’s long red tongue snaked out and curled itself around the footboard. Corncob pulled, but the bed didn’t move.

Corncob’s gift whispered in his head, and his eyes came to rest on a plain white box with molded handles slung between the bed’s wheels. His hands reached for the box as Wilhelm’s maw gathered the room’s air. Corncob’s hands slapped the box and came away with the handles, now two saucer-sized, shiny metal ovals with wires leading back to the box. A high-pitched whine cut through the dog’s growl.

“Clear!” he shouted, placed his hands on either side of Wilhelm’s wet nose, and depressed the button under his thumb. The button closed a switch, releasing a capacitor’s stored electricity. Blue plasma arced from the defibulator’s paddles through the yeth hound’s nose, transforming Wilhelm’s third bay into an ear-splitting yelp. The hound’s jaw closed and it took a step back into the hallway.

Corncob ran for the door, but Wilhelm lowered his head and knocked him off his feet.

“You’ll pay for that one, mage,” Wilhelm said. Yellow ichor flowed from its eyes. “Your pain will take you to madness as I pull your soul out like taffy.”

Michael heaved himself up. “You know what, Wilhelm? You remind me of a four-legged Jordan Montigane. Tossing magic around a place like this is like playing with matches at a bomb factory.”

Wilhelm growled and shook out his coat. His jaws distended, and the air rushed from the room. A wheezing shout sounded behind him, and the air around the dog seemed to shudder. Corncob felt a pressure in his head and he fell to the floor.

When his eyes opened a moment later, the room’s color had returned. A glittering white stone statue of Wilhelm stood in the doorway. The statue held together for a few seconds, then collapsed into a pile of salt. Across the hall, Erasmus’ open eyes regarded Corncob for a moment, then rolled back as his mouth opened in a wordless scream.

Corncob half-crawled, half-ran to Erasmus’ room and fumbled at the man’s IV pole. His fingers found the morphine drip’s control and his magic instantly told him everything about the unit. Erasmus gasped even as Corncob tapped in a code that shot more painkiller into the old man’s system.

Erasmus’s body relaxed, and the pain reflected in his face melted. Erasmus’ chest rose and fell in a slow rhythm.

“Damn,” Michael said behind him.

Corncob nodded. “Can you imagine how much power Wilhelm threw out to wake Erasmus from coma plus the morphine?”

“No, I mean he’s under for another three months now at least.”

“You wanted to leave him not too long ago.”

“Sure,” Michael said. “That was before I went through all this trouble. It would have been nice to know if the Packers were going to cover the spread this Sunday.”

“Can Erasmus predict stuff like that?”

Michael shrugged. “I don’t know, but it never hurts to ask.”

Corncob looked at the pile of salt across the hall and shook his head. “Michael, I beg to differ.”