Birth of a Monster (8 page)

“Is it information you want?
Let me summarize. My name is Richard Franklin Simmers. I was born
in Ringsetter, a one-horse town near the border with Sodorf. I was
a professional boxer and almost became national champion before a
wrist injury cost me the match against the
now
legendary Oscar Peters. I went
from being Righty Rick to Righty the Shark for biting the
ref.

“Then I was banned from boxing for life
and worked over a decade in a lumberyard before I decided to start
planting and selling Smokeless Green. I ended up becoming kingpin
of the city more by accident than by intent. But . . . that’s kind
of a long story. And I’m not sure if . . . here is the right place.
What do you say, officer. Can we negotiate? Money, information . .
. you name it.”

Willis was befuddled. He was pretty
sure he knew the boxing story he had just heard, not that he had
any way of knowing whether this was in fact the boxer in
question.

Still mightily suspicious, he said,
“I’d have to cuff you before we could talk any further.”

“Now, officer, I’m trying to negotiate
with you. Perhaps you don’t want to know the name of every
individual in my organization. All I want is out. I was never meant
for a life of crime. I’ll testify, tell you what you want to know.
But then I walk, and I keep all my earnings.”

Willis’s guard began to drop
mentally.

“You’ll walk in front of me,” Willis
said, keeping his eyes on Righty while gradually moving sideways
towards his horse, which had heroically refrained from
fleeing.

“A-a-a,” Righty said. “Fool me once,
shame on you. But it would be on me this time. I know what happened
last time I turned my back to you; I got cuffed and humiliated.
We’ve got to shake on it first.”

Warily, Willis approached Mr. Simmers,
shifting his sword to his left hand, and holding it ready to lop
Mr. Simmers’ head off if he tried anything clever.

The moment Righty’s hand wrapped around
his, he felt as if it had been stepped on by an elephant. Several
tendons popped, the bones nearly crunched, and he saw a malevolent
smile appear in Righty’s eyes.

Righty pulled him forward hard with his
right hand, turning him sideways, while he let his compressed sword
fall from his sleeve and into his left hand. Right hand still
grasping Willis’s, he lopped off his hand just above the wrist bone
with a crisp, upward arc.

He then quickly grabbed the compressed
sword with his other hand, extended it in a flash, twirled it in a
downward motion, and lopped off Willis’s left hand.

“AHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!” Willis shouted out
so loud Righty was tempted to whack his head off right then and
there, but he wasn’t going to let Willis off that
easily.

Righty quickly compressed and then
sheathed his sword inside his left sleeve and faced
Willis.

“Sorry about changing my mind. It’s
just that that sword you had in your hand was illegal. According to
Article 14, ‘No man, except a soldier on a military base or acting
in his military capacity, shall be permitted to carry a sword.’
Now, let’s see . . . you work for the NDP, which is a federal
agency; it’s completely separate from the Seleganian Army. You
answer to the chief of the NDP. The chief answers to the attorney
general. And the attorney general answers to the
president.

“Now, I’m no attorney, but it seems
pretty hard to see how you could be deemed a soldier, much less a
soldier on a military base or in his military capacity.”

Righty grinned widely.

“That means you’re just a crook like
me!”

He ducked down and gave him an uppercut
to the stomach that literally picked him up three inches off the
ground and abruptly ended his screaming. A soft “huuuuuuu” replaced
it.

“Trickery . . . it hurts, doesn’t it?”
Righty said. “He then delivered three body shots to his left, then
right, ribs, each of which shattered bones like they were dry
twigs.

“No need to answer that question, is
there?” Righty said. He then slipped on a pair of brass knuckles,
and in about ten seconds delivered more damage to Willis than the
average man could have with a sledgehammer.

By the time it was done, Willis was
very dead, Righty was covered in blood, and he felt much better. He
knew this was little different than checking off a couple chores on
a very long list, but most tasks seem less daunting once they’ve
been started.

His head felt clearer than it had at
any point since he had first heard about Tats’ arrest, and he
calmly but thoroughly frisked Willis for anything of a useful
nature. Then, he frisked his saddlebags. When it was over, Righty
had a federal police badge, Sam Higler’s criminal case notes, and
keys to NDP headquarters.

Righty had Harold track down the other
agent’s corpse, and he frisked it just as thoroughly, confiscating
another badge and set of keys in the process. Lastly, Harold
tracked down Benjamin’s fleeing horse and set Righty on top. Righty
coaxed the horse to a stop, then searched the saddlebags. Nothing
of note was there besides a third-rate sword, which Righty quickly
discarded.

“We’ve got company,” Harold said
calmly.

Righty turned but saw
nothing.

“There a ways off yet,” Harold
said.

“Civilians?”

“Yep.”

“Let’s scram. Fly low till we’re a safe
distance away. There’s plenty more blood to shed without throwing
innocent blood into the mix.”

Harold took off.

Chapter 18

It was 9 p.m. and nearly pitch black. A
sliver of the moon survived, grudgingly granting a dull glow that
served to distinguish the milieu slightly from the belly of a deep
cave.

“See anything down there?” Righty
asked.

“A couple of dogs,” Harold
replied.

Righty pulled out two raw steaks from a
bag and dropped them at slightly different trajectories, ensuring
that they landed on nearly opposite sides of the luxurious estate a
couple hundred feet below.

Righty heard a loud “Woof!” repeated
several times, but silence supplanted barking as the dogs chowed
down on their steaks. Righty had visited a quality botanist that
day in Sivingdel and asked for something that would cure his
stubborn insomnia. And if the powder he had massaged into the
steaks was even half as good as she claimed, those dogs were going
to be having the best nap of their lives before they even finished
their meal.

“They’re dozing,” Harold said a couple
minutes later, saving Righty a lot of unpleasant
guesswork.

Righty summoned the rock coach to his
mind briefly for a bit of justification.

The only way is up,
the coach told him flatly.

In this case, “up” meant
down.

“Take me down nice and slow, Harold.”
Righty then suddenly felt a flash of doubt. “Wait a second! Do more
one check of the perimeter. Let me know if you see anyone looking
out of the windows.”

Harold calmly did as he was told, the
whole job taking a mere twenty seconds.

“The coast is clear,” he
assured.

“Let’s do it,” Righty said.

This was it. No more scoping out the
house.

Harold glided down softly, lazily
tilting to one side and then the next, looking a bit like a leaf
drifting leisurely towards the ground.

As soon as Righty’s feet touched the
ground, he felt a surge of adrenaline bigger than he had ever felt
since the Oscar Peters’ fight, but much worse.

Suddenly, the image of being at home
with a lovely baby girl in his arms and a wife by his side asking
him if he wanted anything to eat seemed like heaven.

But, tough job that it was, he knew
that if he ever wanted to enjoy another tranquil night of sleep
with his wife and child, without worrying about police crashing
into his home to harass and berate him the way they had done today,
he was going to have to man up and follow through.

He looked at Harold, and Harold looked
back.

He was tempted to tell Harold to go in
his place, this just being a bit beyond Righty’s mettle. But he
wasn’t about to risk Harold getting trapped inside a house when
Righty’s anatomy was far better suited to the job.

He approached Harold and whispered, “If
I don’t see you again, I just want you to know you’re the best
friend I’ve ever had. Ever!”

Harold nodded.

Righty turned away and inched towards
the door. Not really expecting his luck to be so great, he
half-heartedly grabbed the door handle and tried giving it a slight
twist.

Nothing.

He knew as much about picking locks as
a horse does about playing the cello.

His heart threatened to explode in his
chest, it thundered so violently.

There was only one option left—a
caveman-style onslaught.

He tried to think of a peaceful place
for just a few seconds, in case he never experienced another moment
of peace in his life.

He counted to three.

WHAP!

He gave the door a hard kick, clearing
the deadbolt, and almost knocking the inside chain lock off, but it
hung there stubbornly, like a piece of gristle. He unsheathed his
sword and cut upwards, slicing it in two and charged
inside.

There was darkness everywhere, making
outside look like market at midday.

He heard a low growl.

“Grrrrrrr!”

“Sic ‘em, Francis!” he heard a voice
shout. It came from upstairs.

Righty quickly turned that way and
heard paws clacking against what was clearly a wooden
staircase.

When the sound was nearly on top of him
he reluctantly swung his sword in a horizontal arc in front of him.
It cleaved something, drew a whimper, and then produced
silence.

Righty had hoped he would get the
benefit of some internal light, but now that it was clear he would
have no such luck, he pulled a match out of his pocket, struck it
against his boot, and lit a small candle that he now held in his
left palm.

He compressed the sword to dagger size,
since any fighting was likely going to be in close quarters, and he
had to keep a hold of this candle at all costs.

He knew that as the intruder he had a
lot going against him. He didn’t know the layout of the house. It
was only a matter of time before a bloodcurdling scream or other
loud noise alerted the neighbors or before those dozing canines
outside awoke from what proved to be more of a siesta than the deep
sleep promised by the botanist and started barking like there was
no tomorrow. Thus, he had no choice but to proceed
forward.

He began ascending the steps slowly,
and as he did so he heard scurrying footsteps in retreat. He was
tempted to sprint at that same moment but feared a trap.

He continued up the stairs slowly and
methodically, not unaware that to any observer of the drama he must
surely look like a campfire-story monster.

It’s a dirty job, but it’s
gotta be done
, he reminded himself, while
simultaneously assuring his subconscious that at some peaceful
moment in the future he would carefully reflect on all the moral
intricacies of his deeds thus far, the deed he was about to do, and
the other deeds he still had left to do on his dirty job
list.

He had reached the top of his stairs.
Muffled whispers informed him his prey was just down the hallway
inside a bedroom to his right. Warily, he glanced both directions
down the hallway before proceeding carefully towards the
sound.

He was now about two feet from the
closed door. His heart was racing so bad he wasn’t sure how much
longer he could take this before he keeled over from a heart
attack.

He was tempted to kick in the door and
just start swinging his sword around wildly, but he wasn’t wearing
any armor, and he knew that if it was him on the other side of that
door he would be waiting with some nasty surprise, such as a
readied knife to poke into the burglar’s side or perhaps a heavy
object to send crashing down on top of his head. He needed to do
something at least a bit more clever.