Jazz: Monster Collector In: Ultimatums By The Bagful (Season 1 Episode 8) Page 5

Nitsburg, one of the shining human cities on the inter-dimensionally merged planets called Mirth. Not that there was anything shiny about Scneksland, a non-human neighborhood lurking on the outer edges of the city, an area called the Burbs. Snecksland was something of the Burb’s unofficial capitol. The humans of Nitsburg were happy to have monsters do all their dirty work, but they wanted no parts of living with them, so most of the ‘deferred species’ worked in the city, but lived in the Burbs in what was proclaimed to be in an equal status to the humans.

  There was nothing equal about the Burbs, but willful suspension of disbelief was something of the mainstay of human life on Mirth. Despite what the masses believed, I had a sinking feeling that Mirth’s golden walls were beginning to crumble. I’d have loved to help the collapse along, but I had another, unsettling task to perform.

  I parked Ship on a roof for security and had him lower me down to Bilge Street on his cable-hoist. I followed the stench of rotting innards and fermented brain fluids to the restaurant district; a place where one can get everything from deep fried cat paws to bowels of squiggling moor’s bowels…if one had a taste for such things.

  And some humans did…or at least claimed to. I’d always figured that proclaiming to enjoy deferred species fare was more about bragging rites than fine dining.

  I shoved some torn off bits of gauze into my nostrils to keep from getting sick and made my way up the steps of the château de PU. As I approached the doors a pair of broad-chested orcs jumped off a bench and, brandishing thick iron pipes and grunting in their wretched native tongue, charged me.

  I have to admit, it made me smile.

  With a flick of my wrist I had the zoom-stick out of its holster, snapped open, charged, and thrown. Whistling, it ripped toward the first great oaf, who looked squeezed into its three piece suit, and forced it to stop in its tracks with a looked of terror parked on its ugly mug. But the boomerang arched out and away.

  With a growl and a flash of teeth, the orc raised its weapon.

  Me, I just crossed my arms and waited.

  Just as the first beast leapt for me, the zoom-stick circled back and struck the orc bringing up the rear. With an ear-piercing shriek it absorbed the ‘rang’s full charge. Shaking and twitching and covered with electric-blue sparks, it collapsed onto the leading orc and, with a crunching of bones and a rending of flesh, they tumbled down the stone steps.

  I leapt, clearing the avalanche of broken monsters, and let them pass beneath me. I landed as they crumpled onto the street.

  After a minute of straining, the orc on the bottom managed to shove its companion’s tazered corpse off and painfully righted itself. Forming two huge, hairy fists, it began to growl. I reached inside my left sleeve and, with a second wrist flick, sent a throwing dart into its neck. Struggling for air it stumbled and writhed about.

  Writhe away scumbag, I thought. I opened my hand and with a simple mental command, the zoom stick leapt up and returned to the homing crystal sewn into my right glove. I entered the restaurant as I sheathed the tazerang. A pair of adolescent looking goblins by the door screeched, “Blurgtroug,” most accursed piece of disgusting poop, the goblinish name for me, turned and ran for the kitchen, saving me from another distraction.

  As soon as I entered the crowded dining room, I began scanning for threats and escape routes. A thug dressed in waiter attire was stationed in each corner and a fifth, this one especially big and wearing a long trench coat, stood beside a large table with only two occupants.

  I headed straight for the large table.

  As soon as I was spotted the room went hushed; a stark contrast to the grunted, growled, and spit languages of its monster occupants.

  The goons in the corners immediately drew stout, iron clubs—monsters were legally forbidden to carry any firearms. The big lug in the trench coat looked up. Through thick, brown hair I saw two beady eyes alight with rage. Forming two fists that were as big as my head, he lunged toward me and I heard an odd metallic ring.

  The dwarf island troll sitting at the table raised a hand, bringing his sasquatch to an unwelcome halt. “Not now,” he growled, then his lumpy mug lit with a smile full of fangs. “Jazz,” the sharp-dressed beast said through a thick, troll accent. “I was wondering when you’d get down here. I’m glad to see you.”

  I stopped beside the table and crossed my arms, slipping my hands into my sleeves and onto the shafts of the throwing darts concealed there. “You might not be, Geeter.”

  The hairy crime lord shrugged. “Hey, what’s with the informality? Call me, Boss.”

  “Never gonna happen,” I spat back.

  “We’ll see,” he quipped, then, stabbing a thumb in the air, spoke to his dining companion. “Beat it babe, I got business.”

  A woman, and I do mean a human woman, dressed like a million dollar a photo shoot super-model despite the fact that she was a good two-hundred pounds overweight, tossed her napkin down in a snit and dragged herself out from behind the table. As she passed she shot me a good dose of stink eye. I watched her heave her wide load over to the bar, then turned to the hairy sasquatch shifting anxiously behind his boss.

  “Hey, Mickey,” I said to the oaf. “You must be saving a lot of time and money on pedicures these days.”

  With a roar and a clang of metal, the huge beast lunged again. I stepped back into fighting position and drew my hands out, each holding a dart. I’d lured him into another attack because I was too dammed curious for my own good. Sure enough, the leg he’d taken the step with had a large, metal foot, matched in size and shape with its big, shoeless mate, strapped to the end of its hairy leg—strange choice of material for a prosthetic.

  “Mickey!” Geeter shouted. “I said not now. Take a seat.”

  Despondent and looking like he felt ill used, the big foot stomped his fake foot over to a table and sat. I knew my little taunt would stir the goon’s rage because he’d had a recent amputation; I knew this because I was the one who’d preformed the procedure and I’d used a gun instead of a scalpel.

  I sat across from Geeter, whishing I’d stuffed a lot more gauze up my nose.

  “You want something to eat?” he asked just to mess with me.

  “No, the stink of this dump kind of kills my appetite.”

  “You sure you don’t want to try the salamari? It’s just in, fresh as could be.” He stuck his fork into the saucy sludge on his plate. His dinner squealed in pain. Geeter lifted his fork and showed me the wiggling, two headed eel-like creature skewered there. He set the salamari’s tail in his disgusting mouth then sucked it in like spaghetti. “Yum,” he said chewing and hopping his crag-like brow up and down. Then he set his fork aside and crossed his hands on his distended belly. “So, you come here to ask for what I took. See, I told you you’d leave a deposit.”

  My head fell back. “What are talking about, Geeter? You didn’t take anything from me,” I said thankful to still have two ears. “I came here to extract information, and maybe draw a little past due revenge while I’m at it.”

  Geeter nodded, his black eyes studied me, searching for something. “What kind of information?”

  “I want details on the hits—dates, times, places, names. Tell me everything you know about these attacks on your kind.”

  Geeter smiled, showing me his long, sharp incisors. “So, you decided to take the job.”

  I felt my lips curl up with revulsion, and not just from the rotten stink of the place. “No Geeter, I’ll never work for you, though I’ll be eagerly working against you. I’ll just say that, in this particular instance, we have a mutual interest.”

  “Humm,” Geeter said and I saw him share a glimpse with the sasquatch. “Tell you what, you tell me what you know and then maybe I’ll tell you what I know.”

  That was that, I’d had enough of the smug smuchk’s attitude. In a flash I had my customized MacDaddy revolver drawn, cocked, and jammed in Geeters ugly face. “New deal, you tell me everything you know and I’ll kill you f
ast instead of slow.”

  “Mickey,” Geeter said, his eyes were crossed as he was staring at the barrel of my gun. Sadly he looked more curious than scared. “Show her.”

  Mickey stomped over to the table; something was in his big paw. I raised my right hand, which held a very sharp knife in throwing position.

  “Hey!” Mickey shouted and jerked back, raising a thick arm defensively across his face.

  “Very slowly then,” I said, turning the knife so it would reflect the light.

  Cautiously, the big lug ambled over and set a portable tele-com on the table. With the wave of a paw he activated the hockey puck shaped communicator. It projected an image from some unknown location. It was Moxie, the annoying flower fairy that had bound itself to me. She looked terrible, laying face down at the bottom of a rusted and rent birdcage. Her normally bright, golden glow was but a dim shimmer. Her curly, blond hair was matted flat against her round head and her wings were but four small stubs quivering on her back.

  “Geeter,” I growled and let the hate pour onto my face. I felt my finger unconsciously tightening on the trigger.

  “Whoa there, Monster Collector, it almost sounds like you care.”

  I pursed my taunt lips. He had me in an emotional snare that I hadn’t even known existed until just then. I jammed it back down into the dark pit where I kept my other useless feelings. “You idiot, she’s fae, one of