Post by Scribbler on Mar 13, 2009 8:19:29 GMT -8
It wasn't the eternal damnation that bothered him; it was the wait.
Sitting unattended in the unfamiliar room, wearing only socks and a pair of faded blue boxers, he scratched the hairy back of his leg with a toe and wondered how long it would take. It wasn't that he wasn't a patient man! He liked to think himself a good man, perhaps even righteous. When there was something to be done, he was the first to be at it – if he wanted to be, anyway. If he had a temper at times, he never let it escalate beyond words, not unless someone really deserved it. He enjoyed the occasional cigarette, but that was the worst of his vices. He hadn't even had a drink since two months after he'd left the armed service of the Consolidated Nations United - who could ask for anything better?
Of course, any truly virtuous soul wouldn't be sitting in a witch's waiting chamber, passing the time until he could be met for his Dealing.
It was just a formality, he'd been told: “You're a likable sort. She wouldn't turn you away.” Of course, he'd also been assured just a bit later, “Just wait here, it should only be a few minutes.”
Sighing noisily, he looked at the empty waiting room. Just a few minutes? Riiiiight. Good call, Mr. Dominic; so glad I've got someone like you to let me know the score. He rubbed the back of his neck and closed his eyes, thinking back. He'd been so full of determination; I'd known that tonight was going to be the night....
***
Taking advantage in a lull in conversation, he said the magic words: “I want to Deal.”
The exchange was been one of several spaced out over the past few weeks, all in the backdrop of a grimy little bar called the Tricky Parlor.
Every meeting began the same: He arrived, sat at the table booth next to the corner, and ordered a house mix cocktail called a “broody”. The drink came – he'd tried guessing its ingredients once, and come to think that it was a shot of a red brandy, vodka, beef bouillon, and something else, with a shard of bone (a chicken legbone, he suspected) sticking out the dark liquid. He didn't touch it, but sat and waited. Somewhere between five and fifteen minutes later, a black-haired, clean-shaven, trimmed-nails man would arrive, down the glass in one toss, crunch the piece of bone between his teeth, then sit. There was to be no mention of the reason for their meeting while they were inside, was the rule. Once pleasantries had been exchanged, they'd step outside for a smoke break. That's where business would begin between him and the witch's agent.
The agent's name was Dominic. Dominic termed his trade, “magical promotions”, and he claimed that it was a thriving business - he'd been very upfront in explaining its history. Although traditionally, the men and women of magic-kind were known to be loners, changes in law had forced the intervention of agents like himself. Since the CNU's President Eternal discovered religion in his nineteenth consecutive term of office, those spell-working outside of the Order of the Angelical Compass were construed to be using illegal and fell magics; even to knowingly consort with one of these “Fell Ones” was a felony-class crime (proving once and for all that, while someone in the bureaucracy did indeed have a sense of humor, it wasn't a very good one). Which was where people like Dominic came in, making connections between the rogue witches and wizards of the countryside and the people that wanted their services.
Dominic didn't seem to hear him, so he tried again, louder - “Dominic, I want to make a Deal. When can I?”
The agent answered him after a thought-laden pause. “Cool your heels. I'll take you to her when I think you're ready, and not a moment before.”
“I'm ready! I've been ready, I'm more ready than even I can believe,” he insisted without hesitation.
Dominic snorted derisively. “This isn't kid's stuff,” the agent told him. The dark-haired man had just lit up a hand-rolled joint – the smell of the smoke was oddly pleasant. Spiced and rich, like a cooking roast. “You get caught, and you'll be dead before you even get to talk.”
“What? You're exaggerating,” he scoffed, determined not to get bullied. “The Angelicals wouldn't really go that far. Jail, sure, but--”
“They wouldn't. But I would.” Dominic flashed him a sanguine smile. “I've got my own interests to protect, and you being a dumbshit and helping along their Encompassing Decree won't get in the way of that.” The agent grew distant, staring off blankly at a wall.
He furrowed his brow, wondering over those words. “Encompassing Decree...?” he ventured, waving his box of cigarettes.
Dominic flicked his gaze back, then took a deep pull from his joint. “Purification of the land. Their mission statement. Look it up, kid, don't bother me about it,” Dominic sneered. For someone working promotions, the agent didn't care much for his customers.
Flipping open the lid of his cigarette pack, he surveyed its contents: half-empty. Pulling one from the pack, he looked in askance to his companion for a light. In response, Dominic stubbed his joint out against the wall, pocketed the remainder, and jerked his chin away from the bar. “All right. We're going now,” the suited man said, and began striding off.
Sitting unattended in the unfamiliar room, wearing only socks and a pair of faded blue boxers, he scratched the hairy back of his leg with a toe and wondered how long it would take. It wasn't that he wasn't a patient man! He liked to think himself a good man, perhaps even righteous. When there was something to be done, he was the first to be at it – if he wanted to be, anyway. If he had a temper at times, he never let it escalate beyond words, not unless someone really deserved it. He enjoyed the occasional cigarette, but that was the worst of his vices. He hadn't even had a drink since two months after he'd left the armed service of the Consolidated Nations United - who could ask for anything better?
Of course, any truly virtuous soul wouldn't be sitting in a witch's waiting chamber, passing the time until he could be met for his Dealing.
It was just a formality, he'd been told: “You're a likable sort. She wouldn't turn you away.” Of course, he'd also been assured just a bit later, “Just wait here, it should only be a few minutes.”
Sighing noisily, he looked at the empty waiting room. Just a few minutes? Riiiiight. Good call, Mr. Dominic; so glad I've got someone like you to let me know the score. He rubbed the back of his neck and closed his eyes, thinking back. He'd been so full of determination; I'd known that tonight was going to be the night....
***
Taking advantage in a lull in conversation, he said the magic words: “I want to Deal.”
The exchange was been one of several spaced out over the past few weeks, all in the backdrop of a grimy little bar called the Tricky Parlor.
Every meeting began the same: He arrived, sat at the table booth next to the corner, and ordered a house mix cocktail called a “broody”. The drink came – he'd tried guessing its ingredients once, and come to think that it was a shot of a red brandy, vodka, beef bouillon, and something else, with a shard of bone (a chicken legbone, he suspected) sticking out the dark liquid. He didn't touch it, but sat and waited. Somewhere between five and fifteen minutes later, a black-haired, clean-shaven, trimmed-nails man would arrive, down the glass in one toss, crunch the piece of bone between his teeth, then sit. There was to be no mention of the reason for their meeting while they were inside, was the rule. Once pleasantries had been exchanged, they'd step outside for a smoke break. That's where business would begin between him and the witch's agent.
The agent's name was Dominic. Dominic termed his trade, “magical promotions”, and he claimed that it was a thriving business - he'd been very upfront in explaining its history. Although traditionally, the men and women of magic-kind were known to be loners, changes in law had forced the intervention of agents like himself. Since the CNU's President Eternal discovered religion in his nineteenth consecutive term of office, those spell-working outside of the Order of the Angelical Compass were construed to be using illegal and fell magics; even to knowingly consort with one of these “Fell Ones” was a felony-class crime (proving once and for all that, while someone in the bureaucracy did indeed have a sense of humor, it wasn't a very good one). Which was where people like Dominic came in, making connections between the rogue witches and wizards of the countryside and the people that wanted their services.
Dominic didn't seem to hear him, so he tried again, louder - “Dominic, I want to make a Deal. When can I?”
The agent answered him after a thought-laden pause. “Cool your heels. I'll take you to her when I think you're ready, and not a moment before.”
“I'm ready! I've been ready, I'm more ready than even I can believe,” he insisted without hesitation.
Dominic snorted derisively. “This isn't kid's stuff,” the agent told him. The dark-haired man had just lit up a hand-rolled joint – the smell of the smoke was oddly pleasant. Spiced and rich, like a cooking roast. “You get caught, and you'll be dead before you even get to talk.”
“What? You're exaggerating,” he scoffed, determined not to get bullied. “The Angelicals wouldn't really go that far. Jail, sure, but--”
“They wouldn't. But I would.” Dominic flashed him a sanguine smile. “I've got my own interests to protect, and you being a dumbshit and helping along their Encompassing Decree won't get in the way of that.” The agent grew distant, staring off blankly at a wall.
He furrowed his brow, wondering over those words. “Encompassing Decree...?” he ventured, waving his box of cigarettes.
Dominic flicked his gaze back, then took a deep pull from his joint. “Purification of the land. Their mission statement. Look it up, kid, don't bother me about it,” Dominic sneered. For someone working promotions, the agent didn't care much for his customers.
Flipping open the lid of his cigarette pack, he surveyed its contents: half-empty. Pulling one from the pack, he looked in askance to his companion for a light. In response, Dominic stubbed his joint out against the wall, pocketed the remainder, and jerked his chin away from the bar. “All right. We're going now,” the suited man said, and began striding off.