Slaughter Mouse V
Further
C Snobble Pobble stared out the office window, hands clasped behind his back. Two stories below, fifty-seven thousand six hundred square feet of parking lot, vacant, cracked, spotted through with weed. “I apologize for the lack of view,” he said. “Normally, we meet on the west side of the building. Much more flora and fauna there for the eye, not this tarred monstrosity.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” the essassin said. Seated at the conference table, all eyes and hands and sweats and phone. “I was born in a parking lot actually.”
“A signature of your generation, I’m sure.” Snobble Pobble turned to the room. The long table, all but empty, the essassin seated opposite. Young Krundle sat in the near to Snobble Pobble, a hand running fingers spread through his buzz cut, his suit immaculate. A pastry platter centered between the three. Snobble Pobble eyed the tray. “Much like the interior designer’s signature style of all things brown, this conference room in particular.”
“Their personal vision of dystaupia?” Young Krundle said.
Snobble Pobble sniffed. “As if there’s any value in the pun. Thus, in strained times such as these, one must search out all available resources for succor.” He picked up a finger-sized cannoli. “For me, delight can always be found in the mascarpone and chocolate chip combination.” He chewed, swallowed, sounds barely masked by the carpet-like shush of ventilation. “Please, gentlemen, self-medicate as needed. To the matter at hand, then. The problem—correction, this particular problem, as I see it, seems to originate from Mr. Apples and her so-called magical friend, whose name escapes me at the moment.”
“His latest nom d’etage is Arfredo the Great.” Young Krundle folded his hands.
Snobble Pobble sniffed. To the essassin: “Nevertheless, our primary target remains Mr. Apples. We have sufficient data—correction, proof, that she is the focus of our current endeavor. Krundle here is personally handling the Arfredo side of things, so he’s not of your concern.” Young Krundle cracked his knuckles. “Any information you happen across regarding him, however, should be passed along. And because this is now how business must be conducted.” He sighed. “Pay attention for a moment, young man.” The essassin looked up from his phone, then put it down on the table. “Thank you. Your kind are as common as fleas now, so should you value your employment, please attempt to do the bare minimum. Now listen. Aunt Lorraine has requested that you fix her radiator hose in exchange for a loaf of her raisin rye bread.” He shuddered. “Veiled speech. Also horrid.”
Krundle and Snobble Pobble stared at the essassin across the table, who stared back.
“I don’t remember my lines,” the essassin said.
“In the name of the Mother of Mercy!” Snobble Pobble snatched another cannoli. “Just . . . improvise something!”
“Okay. Okay. How about, tell Aunt Lorraine I’ve got her hose. And if she’s still got her c-clamp, I’m ready whenever she is to go under her hood.”
“Ah. The double entente. Another benchmark of a high mind.”
+++++++
“Why are we meeting in this oversized, overstocked, dimly-lit pantry?” Mr. Apples asked.
“”Partly out of paranoia, friend,” Arfredo said. “I’ve dared to do things, some, most, like in this case, not really my fault or intention, and am now being hunted. For which I need your help.”
“I can sympathize, believe me, friend. But more on that later. Go on with your woe.”
“Okay, so, I don’t know if you know this, but once upon a tine, I had this part-time job as a chef in a sushi restaurant. And because my dexterity’s excellent, it wasn’t long before they put me at one of those grills where everyone sits around while I cooked in front of them. Most people didn’t care, but there were always a few every night that didn’t want their food cooked by any animal, with or without fur. They talked about health codes and all that, but their eyes always said something else. Like I wanted a job cooking for them? But what choice did I have? And I was on my own, so, job needed. Thus, the other night, I’m cooking at the grill for this family, and this guy comes walking up to me, big guy, suit and sunglasses, crew cut hair. He walks right up to me and says, ‘How did you do that?’ right while I’m doing the thing where I toss the eggs up in the air and crack them on the side of a spatula, so I’m not looking at him but I say, ‘If you think that’s impressive, wait til you see my blindfold act!’ and he says, ‘Look at me.’ Just like that. And I had to look. His face, it’s right out an old wanted poster from the Wildebeast West, hard angles, full profile scowl, and I want but don’t want him to take off his sunglasses because I’m afraid he’ll have red eyes, so instead I say, ‘Sir?’ He looks down at this gaudy watch he’s got which is probably worth more than my life and says, ‘What time is it right now?’ I have no earthly idea of course, I mean, he’s looking down at his watch and asking me the time? And it’s the middle of dinner rush and the last thing I ever want to think about is how much time’s left before my shift is over, so again I say, ‘Sir?’ just as his watch says, ‘It’s eight twenty-four.’ and so now again he looks at me and says, ‘I’ll be back in thirty-three minutes,’ and out he goes, and so now of course all the food’s burning on the grill, I can smell it now that I’m paying attention, so I start fumbling with the spatula and the apologies, and now the manager comes over and I know he knows the food is toast so now he starts apologizing as well and looking at me sideways, so I clean up my mess while he makes arrangements to shuttle the customers off to other grills so they don’t have to wait for a recook, and I want to quit, right? So now the grill’s empty and all the chairs are empty and I look up towards the front door and there’s blessedly no one at the hostess stand, until the door opens and in comes the suit and sunglasses again, although this time he looks less, um, dishoveled? Is that a word?”
“Close enough.”
“And he’s with a bunch of people this time, ritzy and low-cut, sleek and obnoxious, their collective eau offends me from across the restaurant, and I realize that I’m growling a little. You want a snack?”
“Always. What’s in here?”
“Dried goods mostly, You can see my other motive for meeting in here.”
“Good call.”
Mr. Apples tore through box and wrapper while Arfredo ate some granola off the floor. “My first reaction is panic. No surprise there, right? But he’s smiling and laughing with the rest of his clan, not in the least looking over at me or giving any indication that I exist, let alone just recently spoke to him. But I know, just like you know, what’s going to happen, which is also to say what’s already happened. They check in with the hostess, and she sees that my grill and table are empty. So.” He paused. “I really am an idiot.”
“Why’s that?”
“Sorry. Just thinking ahead. It’s like, why do these things happen to me? What have I done to piss off the Human Fates? I don’t even think they even exist. Except sometimes it seems like they do. So they’re seated at my table. No one’s paying any attention to me, despite my fur, drinks and thinly veiled sexual innuendos all around for the party to start, blah blah blah, same old boring human blather. I start prepping my station and still nothing from the Suit. Which is fine by me. I just hope I don’t growl again. Finally I’m ready and they’re ready for me. Now. Normally I’ve got this whole monologue thing memorized. You remember how much I like monologuing, right?”
“Of course. It’s legendary.”
“Thanks! But this guy’s got me rattled. I’m off internally. I can’t remember how my schtick even begins, so I decide, fuck it, I’m just not going to think at all, go completely off script. Which only made me more nervous when I started to think about it. But I rationed—”
“Rationalized.”
“Right—that if I concentrated on ad-libbing the whole time, if I concentrated on not thinking, then I could pull it off. I could ignore the hulking cyborg train robbing threat who, by his own words, I wouldn’t be meeting for another almost thirty minutes or so for the first slash possibly second slash actual third time. Ignore thoughts and nerves, that’s my new goal. So I start off slow on the showmanship, doing my best, just talking, all my old reliable jokes sounding so stale to me, even the sound of my voice unnerves me, but again, all their attention is on themselves, so the sail’s smooth thus far. Then it’s time to take orders, so I go around the table, dreading, waiting, dreading, ‘cause the Suit is looming second-to-last, and finally when it’s his turn, he leans back in his seat, looks around, and says to me, offer you can’t refuse style, ‘I don’t know. I’m in the mood for something a little tempural, if you think you can handle that.’ See, that, right there, that was where I went wrong.”
“How so? Seems like a reasonable request for a sushi restaurant.”
“It does! Of course it does, but I’d gotten nervous again, and so I doubted what I heard. I thought he said temporal! And I’m like, what did he just order? He wants to eat, what, I don’t know, something to do with time? Is that why he was so chummy with his watch before? And because I’m staring at him now, he says, ‘Is there a problem? Are you unable to accommodate?’ and accommodate made me even more really nervous, worse than look at me, so I kicked into customer service mode, all apologies and assurances that his order could be completed to his utmost satisfaction, turning my brain on just enough to think about what the hell it was I was supposed to actually cook. And again I thought, fuck it, I’ll just use some glitzy panache to cover up whatever culinary deficiency I’m about to create.”
“Dazzle them with dogshit.”
“Exactly. So I start cooking, right? Stirring and chopping and flaring the spatula around, muscle memory, and some of them start watching, it does get hypnotic if you watch too long, even I can get caught up in it, but I’m not thinking about that, I’m successfully not thinking about anything, and now it’s time to really kick the nimbleness in, glorious soaring arcs from the squeeze bottle of oil, scattering rice with haphazard control, like little gluten fireworks bursting above the grill, and when the food’s almost done I have no idea what I’ve even cooked, no idea what I’m going to serve the Suit, him and his stupid easily misinterpreted request, really, I’ve just made a bunch of food and they’re all going to get pretty much the same thing, so in addition to everything else I’m not thinking about at this moment you can add to the list getting fired. But no brain me is still in command. Dazzle, dazzle, dazzle already. So I say to the Suit, ‘You know, one of my other part time jobs is as a magician,’ and he says, ‘No shit, Now you tell us?’ to which I reply, ‘I thought it would’ve been obvious,’ and once again he catches me off-guard by this time saying, ‘Ten thousand dollars for the best magic trick you can do. Right now.’ Well. Of course the money would be something, for sure, but now my reputation, my sense of who I am is in play, so I have to, I have to do something, I have to perform. I have to knock this out. You get that, right? I’m acting, I’m reacting, I’m not thinking, and now the whole table is looking at me, quiet, and maybe other tables are watching too, like nosey eavesdroppers, that’s how paranoid I’m feeling, like maybe even the manager’s watching me too, even more than he already does, and then, it clicked, I’m like, magic trick? I got this. So I have an idea—his idea actually, the Suit’s idea, this guy who half an hour ago wanted to kill me but now just wants to be fed and entertained and give me an obscene amount of money for it. I look up and now there’s another version of the Suit at the front door at the hostess stand, conspicuous behind the fake mini palm tree, and this version looks pissed, scowl personified, so I’m sure it’s the version of him I’ve already met, and he’s watching me, just like the other version of him at the table sitting next to this woman who’s smirking at me, twinkling her fingers and singing some song I can’t hear, so I spin a piece of fish with the spatula and it sizzles at it rotates, slap the back of the spatula on the grill, scoop and flip it up, spin and catch the fish all in one motion, and that fish is, like, cooked to perfection, and now it’s now or never because there’s clapping and stamping in rhythm infectious and this is my show now, so I wrist flick the spatula, it spins three sixty in the air but the fish doesn’t move, the spatula rotates around the fish, see, and someone even oohed, I catch the spatula again then catch the fish with the spatula and say my magic catchphrase, ‘Booperfidy!’ and flip the—Mr. Apples, this flip of the fish was a miracle of physics. Velocity and angle and trajectory all accurately calculated to within plus or minus one one millionth of a percentage point. It soars towards the Suit, tumbling ever so slightly. I am, I think at this point, now the magician of fishics. I’m so caught up watching, though, that I don’t have the time to get out this cornball line about how my fish is going to take him back in time and remind him of his grandmother’s snapper before he leans his head back, opens his mouth, catches the fish, and then disappears. And my first thought after he’s gone is that there’s now no way I’m not getting fired.”
“Wow,” Mr. Apples said, mouth half full.
“I mean, obviously I ran, and haven’t seen anyone from the restaurant since. But time travel? That’s so far out of my league, even as a magician. So, since you’re a scientist, I was hoping there was some way you could help me figure this out.”
Mr. Apples crunched some more. “No,” she said, then: “Well, maybe.”
+++++++
The sidewalk cafe, a crowd of umbrellas, tables, and patrons.
“Sorry,” the essassin said. He pulled his chair in towards the table, away from the elderly man seated behind him. “Excuse me. A little too excited for my own good.”
“Think nothing of it,” the elderly man said, moving his own chair, newspaper in one hand. “Carelessness on my end. Nothing more.”
“Thanks.” The essassin turned back to Giada. “So yeah, there’s this whole history that I’m learning about.” He picked up a taco. “I mean, it’s like everything else, the evolution of the job over time, and I mean like hundreds of years, probably over a thousand. How long have people been killing people? That’s how long I’m talking about. See, the fascinating thing is, the whole business started off as something that was very hands-on, a hand job if you will—”
Giada looked at her watch, then at her glass of water.
“—which, were I born back then, I would’ve had no problem at all with. But as weaponry involved, as knowledge and technology grew, as innovation and invention entered the scene,” his eyes widened, his pupils large and dark, his hands in motion, lettuce and tomato spilling out of the taco, “I’m talking about things like projectile weapons, or poison even, stuff that didn’t necessitate a knife to the throat or a dagger to the stomach. Methods that allowed for distance.” He looked out towards the street. Giada reached down, took her purse from underneath her chair and placed it in her lap. “And not to get caught up in the nostalgia of the old ways, of the tradition if you will, but like everything else, those types of advancements have come with a price.” He turned back to Giada, leaned in. “Have you ever wanted to watch someone’s eyes as they’re dying? I’m talking about a connection between one person and another on an intensity level that almost none of us ever get to achieve. To bleed another person out, both his actual blood as well as his soul, watch the eyes dim.” He looked down at the half-empty taco. “But I work towards a different kind of killing, not in that strict literal sense. I’m on the clock now even, at least that’s what I charge them for, because I can work from anywhere, because I can attack at any time, because I can fire at multiple targets simultaneously, because I can use the same tactic and the same weapon an infinite number of times, but it’s all so, I don’t know, isolated, it’s lonely work, and I think you can see why I’ve started dating again.” His phone buzzed. “Want to see how it works?”
“Not really,” Giada said.
The essassin’s shoulders dropped. “Ok. Let me just go take care of this then. I’ll be right back.” He grabbed his phone and rose, careful not to redisturb the elderly man behind. He walked out of the patio area onto the sidewalk proper and answered the phone. Thirty seconds later he sighed and turned the screen off. He looked up, then around, as if lost. He focused in on the patio and saw the table he was sitting at now empty, the second sigh more soul-pronounced. “Well, giadaheartscats, now I‘ll show you exactly how my job works.” He swiped his phone back on.
+++++
“Can you imagine,” C Snobble Pobble said, pointing down to his bowl with his fork. “May whatever deity that presides over us be praised for all eternity for eliminating that possibility.”
Young Krundle took off his sunglass, put them down next to his bowl. “But it is still possible. Think astronauts here, think of meat grown in labs, think of food and water shortages and things we haven’t thought of yet.”
“Creativity is your department. As is exploration. Like your little trip to the sushi bar, yes? Fortuitous or not, it seems Arfredo is more involved than we thought. Shame he got away, though how two of you let him go.”
“One of me knew nothing, and the other knew enough about paradoxes to hold off.”
“Indeed.” Snobble Pobble stabbed his fork into the bowl. “Ah. The crouton. Six seconds of pure masticating bliss.”
“We’ve got eyes on Mr. Apples now.” Young Krundle dusted the front of his suit with his hand. “And so Aunt Lorraine’s car looks to be well on its way to repair. Not to mention her pantry being well stocked for any other eventualities.”
“Based on your belief, those eventualities could end up being infinite in number.”
“Correct. But only one eventual outcome in this timeline. A singularity, actually. Impossible to avoid, though in theory it might be.”
Snobble Pobble dabbed the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “In the meantime, I must to take the brother’s kinder to the cinema this evening.” He shuddered almost imperceptibly. “I believe we are to watch something called Schadenfrosche, which is almost certain to be ghastly.”
“Might you even say, What frosche hell is this?”
Snobble Pobble smiled. “If I was ever inclined to believe in a higher power, it would of certain be Saint Dorothy.”
+++++++
The cafe was as crowded as last time.
“Sorry,” The essassin put his phone in his pocket. “I’m done for at least three seconds, I swear. But that’s exactly what I’m talking about, right? Like I’m so much more, right? Than just my job.”
Harriett smiled, twirled her fork in her pasta. “But.”
“Yeah, there’s an extremely large but there, in an area of my mind that I’m reluctant to go to.” He put down his fork, grabbed his phone again. “But I’m close to finishing things, see? The end of a weeks-long project. So I haven’t been making time for myself.”
“Why not? Fear of the potential benefits of self-exploration and growth?”
The essassin chewed. “No. I think if, or when, I go there, and examine what’s there, meaning me, and most important, if I’m unbiased in my analysis, then I won’t be able to do my job anymore.”
Susan signaled the server. “Could I bother you for some more parmesan? Thanks so much.” To the essassin: “I don’t need to tell you what that says about you. That, on top of your unwillingness to even tell me what your job is.”
“I work for a law firm.”
“So you’re a lawyer?”
“No.”
“Paralegal then?”
“Sometimes field research. Public relations mostly.”
“Okay. What kind of law does this firm specialize in?”
“Lexicographical law.”
“That sounds made up.”
“It’s a highly specialized type. You might even say they created it.”
“Like a real argue in court kind of law?”
“The firm believes that the dictionary is the new bible and strives to remake it to their own liking.”
Harriett crossed her arms. “How do you do that? Or why?”
“I don’t know, exactly. I’m not involved in that end. Basically they send me an assignment and I do it. Mostly social media stuff. Whatever the clients want. They choose some topic, I post, I comment, I share information, you know, that kind of stuff. Easy money. I’d show you, but . . .”
“Another but.”
“But. It’s a little embarrassing, actually.” Bzz bzz bzzzzz. “Hold on.” He types into his phone. “I get paid by how much attention my posts get. Likes, reposts, comments, any type of interaction with my post, positive or negative, earns me money.”
“Well, that’s not much to be embarrassed about.”
“No, that’s not the awkward part.”
Harriett grabs her own phone. “I don’t see you posting anything at all weird. Or anything at all really.”
“I told you. I work for clients of the law firm. So the content I make wouldn’t come from me directly.”
Harriett tossed her napkin onto her pasta. “So, you’re an official online spokesman?”
“Kind of. My specialization though is tautology.”
Birds perched on the umbrellas chirped. Glasses and flatware clinked. A newspaper, maybe, rustled.
“It’s a real thing, I assure you. Paying real money.”
“What can you tell me? Anything?”
The essassin sighed. “I’ve been dealing with a publicity campaign against two animals. Dogs. Hold on, I want to explain this to you. Please don’t—wait!”
+++++++
Somewhere, always, the sun shone, but never here. Under the cover of clouds and undergrowth, the dog pair snuck through the trees. Ahead of them, a chain link fence, camouflaged from base to barbed wire with vine. They walked the perimeter until they came upon a hole dug underneath one of the sections.
Ahead was a factory, walls covered in oil slick, seeming to lean both in and out simultaneous, a fraction of motion perpetual, six stories of illusionary structure.
“This is my new secret lair,” Mr. Apples said.
Arfredo shook off some dirt and leaves. “Wow. I always wanted a magic castle, but I think this might be better.”
“I can’t take full credit for it. This was someone else’s secret lair before.”
“Ugh. What’s wrong with this place? It’s like I can’t even look at it without feeling sick.”
“All intentional, friend. It’s designed to avoid prolonged attention. And over there is where it all started.” She nodded with her snout, a field to the east on the other side of the fence.
“Where what did what?”
“Where you learned to love magic, amongst other things. And this,” now gesturing towards the factory, “is the Werehouse.”
Arfredo’s ears twitched. “Dost mine ears detect a slight nuance in your pronunciation, one that might suggest a slightly altered spelling of the word from its traditional English form?”
“Indeed! For now, only the reader need know which variation I used. You’ll discover it on your own in due time.”
Arfredo studied the building. Hung just below the roof line, a banner tattered and torn. “H . . . I . . . P . . . S. A so-called warehouse named HIPS? You know what that means?”
“Yes, I’ve a good guess at least. Come on.”
“Strange that there’s no parking lot or paved anything in the vicinity of the . . . is it Wherehouse?”
“You’re very close.” Mr Apples neared the entrance, a glass door taped over with parchment paper. She nudged a lower corner of the paper aside with her nose, revealing an empty door frame. She smiled at Arfredo. “Try not to gasp. This will also be a bit unexpected.”
Arfredo followed Mr. Apples through the parchment. “Whoa. Now I know what Dorothy felt like.”
“Toto seems more relatable.”
“Toto was barely a character, more a classic Macguffin, nothing more. But this place. I mean, whoa.” Arfredo squinted. Despite the low level lighting coming from—somewhere?--it was brighter than it should have been. Every surface hyperreflective, covered in stainless steel. The entranceway extended up four floors, a perfect square, an elevator bank on one side. No reception desk, no chairs or couches for waiting patrons.
“Points for austerity,” Arfredo said, “but I mean, there’s nothing in here at all. This is a, what, Wearhouse?”
“Only one version left to try,” Mr Apples said. “Let’s hit the elevator. I’ll bring you up to speed with me.” The elevator doors opened as the pair neared. “I have this bird friend, see, who is friends with a llama whose human is sympathetic to our cause. He, the human that is, hid me out for a few days. Sorry, just to clarify things, I’m on the run, too. I stole some things, important things, from my last employer. In addition to that, I have this whole web series on science topics. Which is pretty popular. Much like yourself, I strive to be an ambassador of sorts for interspecies relations. And. The last of my disclosures is that I used to work for HIPS, which is how I knew about this place.”
“You did?!? So, isn’t this, like, the worst place to hide out? Aren’t they watching us on security cameras as we speak, readying the militia?”
“No. Well, yes, but not for that reason. They’re coming after me, for sure, which means you too, friend, but I’ve got that angle covered easy pie. They know we’re here, or actually, they will know shortly, but not until I make that known. I’ve been careful so far not to reveal that until the proper future time. And they’re not sending any official state or private force after us. They’re far more insidious than that. And cost effective. Which both go hand-in-hand of course, like powerful capitalist demons.” The elevator stopped and the doors opened. More stainless steel, a hallway, a door, which opened as the pair padded near. On the other side of the door, another room, this one with tables, cabinets, desks, all for the most part clutter-free.
“This is the emptiest building I’ve ever seen. Strange for a . . . Weigherhouse?”
“You’re overthinking it, friend. This is where the solution to your problem lies.” Underneath a table was a worn rucksack. Mr. Apples dragged it out. “Part of my work at HIPS was to develop technology to make life better for humans, which is to say more profitable, for some, and my current project is—was—inventing ways to eliminate household pests.”
“Pests? Like what, roaches?”
“Any and all household pests. Up to small animal size. I concentrated not so much on functionality as aesthetics, though I worked on both. In other words—”
“You too are a dogshit dazzler.”
“Exactly. My most artiste invention was with the Slaughter Mouse. As of my departure, it never worked as designed. I went through several variations, namely, versions eye through eye vee.”
“Friend, I hear Roman numerals there.”
“Excellent catch on that one. The rest of my story is classic capitalist disillusionment. I’d seen my situation deteriorating for a while, learned some behind-the-scenes things, saw the futility of my work, knew I was going to get fired, or worse. I smuggled out what I could before they came after me, and amongst the items I did manage to pilfer is the solution to your problem. I hope.”
Mr. Apples opened the rucksack. The contents spilled onto the floor. Popsicle sticks. Small vials. A phone on idle. Uninflated balloons. Balls of twine and tin foil. A harmonica. And
“Friend, I’m no expert on almost everything, but on the occasions where I would think of you and your work, I imagined cutting-edge technology similar to the likes of this building’s interior. Titanium rods, gleaming chrome, gentle hydraulic whooshes, advancements that took technology into the realm of art. But I mean, this looks like a regular computer mouse. Granted, the body is chrome-ish, and larger than average by double, painted more likely than being of the actual material, so not as shiny, as lustry if you will, and both the left-click and right-click buttons are made of a clear plastic which, if I was willing to wager, probably illuminate from underneath when depressed, and I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, but I’m very . . . underwhelmed.”
Mr. Apples smiled. “Until we can find something better, you’ll need to carry the mouse in this fanny pack.”
+++++++
The limousine edged to a stop in line behind other limos. Outside was full of cameras, red tapestry, and pomp. Inside, C Snobble Pobble straightened his bow tie. “In my ideal world,” he said, “the hands would never come into contact with the food.”
Young Krundle smiled, a million dollar one to match his own tux. “How would you have ever survived before the invention of the utensil?”
“Horribly, I imagine. Married to a food handler, perhaps. Or a wash basin. Or living on a riverbank. Any last minute update?”
“Aunt Lorraine’s mechanic assures us the project’s near completion. And from what progress I’ve seen, he’s proving to be very effective.” Krundle put his phone down. “He’s going to bleed us dry on this one.”
“Our clients have agreed to his terms, not us. We are merely the conduit. It will be nice to move past this already. The animal world has been naught but fraught for us, and with no end in sight. People, we understand, and can handle. But animals and the unpredictable behavior they elicit from humans, not to mention their own peccadilloes . . . takes some adjustment I suppose.” Across from Snobble Pobble his niece and nephew stared out the windows. “Rather sporting of you to volunteer your services tonight as a also-chaperone, and because of that altruistic gesture, I shall ignore any nagging sensation that might suggest an ulterior motive involving a certain German female director destined to be in attendance this evening.”
Young Krundle smiled. “My motives, as always, are to serve.”
“Yes, well, those are some words indeed.” To his niece and nephew: “Children, Uncle Krundle here may require your assistance this evening. Please help him if you can, and he’ll be sure to owe you a favor, and need I remind you the value of that?”
+++++++
“Okay,” Mr. Apples said. “You good with how this works?”
“I think so,” Arfredo said.
“Here’s the most important thing. Two things, actually. One, never lose that mouse. Ever. Two, never open it up to look inside, no matter how curious you get. This is not a magic trick you’ll be able to deconstruct. Or reconstruct. Trust me. Now if you get into trouble, you know what to do, right?”
“Click it. Right or left, doesn’t matter, just keep clicking it until the magic happens.”
“Excellent. Okay, let’s set the camera up, where?”
“I’d suggest the rooftop, if such access is available. You’re looking for the most cinematographic setting, and I say nothing would serve better than the countryside around us. The sun will be setting soon, and what better thing to help heighten the moment than that? Standing on humankind’s pinnacle of industrialization with the symbolism of its decline in the background. I mean.” Arfredo swallowed. “It’s over after this, right? Like, here is where we part, never to reunite?”
“No, not over. Just on to Different. We will never be apart for long, friend.”
“And I believe you. Do you need help with your speech?”
“I’m completely ad-libbing this one.”
“Fighting liar with liar, eh?”
“Come on, let’s go get set up. But first, help me dig that phone out.”
+++++++
Schellee winced. “Ouch! That must’ve hurt.”
The essassin sat back. “I’ve had worse. Having a tooth knocked out isn’t as painful as you’d think. It’s more one of those things that the anticipation’s worse than the actual thing. The surprise was more of a shock than anything pain-related. I mean, blood tastes okay, so.”
Schellee smiled. “Most people fear pain, but it’s the emotional and mental aspect that more often than not leaves the lasting impression. Our brains are wired to learn and avoid fear.”
The essassin swirled his potato salad with his fork. “Yeah, that makes sense.”
Schellee leaned forward. “Take society as a whole. It’s moving forward, ever so slowly, possibly so slow that the movement’s all but undetectable, towards less physical violence. Violence is becoming more and more intolerable, and those who still believe it useful are now portrayed as monsters.”
“I am not a violent person.”
“Me neither. But violence is still useful, wouldn’t you agree? Especially if you don’t have to dirty your hands to solve your problems. I mean, that’s ideally speaking.”
The essassin leaned in closer. “Couldn’t agree more.”
“When I was young and impressionable, and fed a lot of the same stories most kids are subjected to, fairy tales I’m talking about here, stories with morals, clearly defined sides of good versus evil, I remember thinking a lot about the other side. The bad side, the so-called antagonists. It was infinitely more interesting than the hero’s. Why? Because the hero’s objective was always clear cut, their motivation always well defined. What made the monsters tick? Why were they called monsters? Merely based on point-of-view? And in a world where all are presumed equals, at least so we’re taught to believe, aren’t monsters entitled to the same considerations? Shouldn’t monsters have love as well?”
“I . . . I can’t tell you how much home that hits to me. Do you really believe that?”
Schellee rolled up her sleeve, showing a tattoo underneath, the words GIVE ME TRUTH written in black gothic lettering, a sword cutting through the word TRUTH sideways, the sword and letters coated in blood. “I will take honesty over morals every time, no matter the pain.”
Bzz bzz bzzzz. The essassin looked at his phone. “Holy shit.” He smiled first at his phone, then at Schellee. “How can I explain this? It’s you. It has to be. I mean, I’ve been looking for someone like you all my life. And then when I find you, good things start happening.”
“Feels good, doesn’t it?”
“But I’ve forgotten how good. So I’ve got this work assignment, I’ve been doing some online stuff where we’ve been trying to work against lies and liars. There’s these dogs, and one of them’s a scientist, bent on spreading misinformation. She’s pretty popular, does her own science talks online, but she’s done some bad things.”
“Like what?”
“Lying, of course. Stealing, too. Anyway, after her crimes were discovered, she went incognito, off the screen. I’ve been working to not only discredit her, but to bring her lies into light, to rally the public into helping stop her campaign of disinformation.”
“Sounds fair,” Schelle said.
“And now, just now, just moments after I met you, look.” He turned his phone to her.
Schellee leaned forward. “Mr. Apples is at HIPS Regional Service Center. And a map with a pin.”
The essassin nodded. “I’ve got a lot of people pissed off about what she’s been up to. And if I just repost this,” Schelle reached forward and too his free hand in both of hers, “I think the good and angry citizens will take care of this.”
Schellee smiled. “Then what are you waiting for?”
“Right.” The essassin thumbed the screen. “Gee eee tee aitch eee are. Exclamation point.”
+++++++
Arfredo spun the fanny pack around his waist. “Okay, this looks like the best angle. The sunset’s there, but not dominating, just a hint, so your lighting’s primo. And the forest dusk is just glorious.”
“You’ve got it on live stream?” Mr. Apples said.
“Roger.”
“Okay. Don’t forget, take the phone with you. The charger’s in your fanny pack. Other than that, I guess we’re ready. Give me a countdown.”
“Five, four, three . . .” Arfredo pushed down on the screen, and gestured to Mr. Apples.
“Welcome, all,” Mr. Apples said, “to the final broadcast of Isaac’s Apples. I’m Mr. Apples, your guide to all things universal. On this last episode, I come to you with a harsh truth. During my hiatus, I’ve come to the realization that science, the basis for everything I’ve taught you, is a filthy liar.” She paused for two seconds. “Things I’ve tried to explain to you, from the basics on how our universe operates all the way up to our most complex theories, well, it’s all being proven untrue, isn’t it? Over the last few weeks, I’ve witnessed a massive amount of information discrediting not only what I’ve passed on to you as true, but me as well as the source. I offer no apologies. My intentions were never to harm, but to try and understand. It’s all being undone, though, even as we speak. By people.”
Arfredo looked out over the top of the phone, whispered, “I think they’re here.” Off in the distance, a soft plume of dust rose in a line.
“Okay.” To the phone: “This will be shorter than I hoped. To my point then. Everyone comes to their own conclusions about everything. Everyone decides for themselves what is true. There are arguments even today about the shape of the planet we live on. The simplest of matters, and none can be agreed upon, no matter how much evidence presented. Well, let me tell you something. As a scientist, I am tired of having to debate every single thing. I’m sick to tears of it all, to the point that I wish I’d never been able to speak. I’m going underground again, with the help of my magician friend here who’s so graciously working the camera today.” The dust cloud billowed up over the edge of the roof, covering the canine pair. Car doors closing, voices. “When I return, I’ll be starting a new campaign. I’m working on a new theory, that the way we communicate is flawed. Words, in other words. Words are one of humankind’s greatest abused inventions. Through their use, anything can be made less clear, left open to more interpretation. Words are twisted, words are used against each other, to prey on emotion, to harm and manipulate. Words have no meaning other than what we give them, they do not come from nature, they are not meant to exist. They do not make things better. They are used for evil. And so I will start a worldwide campaign against the use of words, to eliminate their existence altogether. Communication—all things really, all aspects of life—will return to a simpler and understandable form. And to those who are coming after me, will there be any ambiguity when you hear my growl and see my fangs? When you see me crouch, will there be any doubt of my intent? I will defend myself, I will run when I have to, because now my purpose is clear, a purpose I intend to see through, made all the more clear despite the lack of words. I offer some final words to you, on the off-chance they do you any good, in the simplest of terms I can use: stay away from me. Or you will get hurt. I’m willing to bet you don’t misinterpret that, but won’t be surprised when I’m proven wrong either. Take your chances, then, filthy humans. My vow of silence begins now.”
Mr. Apples gestured with her head. Arfredo tapped the phone, slipped it into the fanny pack. He padded over to Mr. Apples, rested his snout gently against hers. “Friend,” he said, “that was a most excellent monologue,” and when the door to the rooftop opened, they both turned to face the mob, all flashlight and firearm and fire and brimstone. Arfredo pressed on the fanny pack, the soft clicks inaudible over the rise of voices. Mr. Apples crouched down, hackles and growl and fangs on alert. Then Arfredo disappeared, the fanny pack falling to the ground in his absence.