All posts by BlueCanary
Working for a Living
Johnny Equinox was at work. Not the construction job he had in the mortal world to help make ends meet, though there were some similarities. Like swinging a wrecking bar, for example.
He didn’t know who the guy was that he was beatin’. Or why. He was big, so he prob’ly got over-confident and crossed someone. It didn’t really matter to Johnny. For him, all it really came down to was being inside his own body: the sensations, the rush. When everything focussed down into the pinprick of light that was him, his body in this moment, everything else went away, lost in the black.
That’s why he typically didn’t use a wrecking bar. Oh, he knew that it had more stoppin’ power, but if you killed the guy he didn’t learn anything. Weapons had their uses. Like, if he had to beat on a Troll the guy would barely feel his hooves through his thick hide. And he’d heard somewhere that if you used a bag of oranges it wouldn’t leave bruises. Useful. But no, he liked feelin’ it. Flesh and bone on flesh and bone. Nothin’ but the pain in his knuckles. Nothin’ but his hot, wet breath. Nothin’ but the power in his muscles. Nothin’ else. Nothin’.
His Keeper used to beat him with a thyrsus. That pine cone must have been dipped in more’n honey because it hurt like it was made of cold-forged iron. One minute it was wine and laughter and dancing, the next it was a blind, brutal rage.
It had been a dream come true at first. When those crazy women dressed in animal skins came out o’ nowhere and grabbed ‘em from around the fire by the old railway, it had been a trip! Maenads were wild with a few drinks in ‘em. They’d torn him apart, but Big-D had put him back together. Yeah, they’d also torn apart a horse and weren’t too fussy ‘bout choosing parts for the reassembly, but it wasn’t so bad. Better than what Simpson got. He got eaten! Raw.
And so what if he couldn’t go home. The farther he was from his drunk old man and his belt the better. He’d miss his mom, sure, but he didn’t miss her cryin’. Or her shame.
So yeah, fuckin’ insatiable chicks with his horse-dick and serving Big-D wine when he called for it was a great gig. Parties all the time! Well, most of the time. Sometimes that dirty old Fae would stop laughing. You wouldn’t notice at first. Everyone else would be carryin’ on, singin’ and dancin’ and fuckin’. He’d just get quiet. Johnny’d keep fillin’ up his cup, but all it did was feed his dark mood. Then, just like that, all the mean would come pourin’ out. A smack would be heard over the music and all eyes’d turn to the big man. A nymph, fresh from fondlin’ his cock, would be on the ground, cryin’, and would sport somethin’ of a shiner the next day for her trouble. The maenads would scatter like the wild animals they were, but the nymphs usually stood there temblin’, all wide-eyed and frozen with fear. Johnny hated that. And that’s why he usually got the worst of it. But it made him feel good that it was him and not them. He wouldn’t say it was a righteous pain ‘cause that sounded all religious and shit, but those aches made him walk tall the next day. On tiptoe, sure, so as not to waken the bug guy nursin’ his hangover, but tall.
And so Johnny kicked and punched that guy until neither of them could take no more.
Guard duty
“I thought the desert was supposed to be cold at night,” said Johnny as the bartender passed over a cold one. He had stripped down to his undershirt and would have removed that too if the sign by the door didn’t say ‘No shirt, no service.’ He swished at some flies with his tail. Why this skeevy bar on the Interstate was so picky about shirts, he’d never know. At least the women in the crowd were pushing the boundaries of the rules, as well. With both elbows on the bar, he surveyed the crowd of sweaty skinned mortals with a wolfish grin.
A text came in and he plucked it from the back pocket of his jeans. “Industrial road. 11:30pm. Usual rate. V.” He thumbed an acceptance and pocketed his device.
Continue reading Guard duty
Agent 12
Less squeezed the bridge of his nose while he collected himself. He took a deep breath and rubbed the eye on the small of his back. “Johnny, if you cannot master this cipher you will not be able to communicate with me. The whole point of you infiltrating the Brimstone Barony is so that you can get me information. It might not be safe to meet me in person so you’ll have to encode your messages.”
Johnny flicked his pencil down onto the table, took a drink of the water that had been provided, and wished it was at least beer. “Who uses pencils anymore?” he complained. “I haven’t done math in, like, forever.”
“It’s hardly math,” intoned Less, failing to conceal his irritation. “It is addition, and sometimes subtraction.”
“That reminds me of a joke,” laughed Johnny, eager to leave the encryption lesson behind. “How is sex like math? Add a woman, subtract the clothes, divide the legs, and multiply!” Johnny grinned lasciviously as he ground his hips on the chair. “Is Mira going to be on this mission? She’s great undercover.”
“I’m sure she is but, as I’ve already explained, you are going to be operating alone. Mira’s position is too tenuous in the Duchy at the moment. She could not operate in the Barony without drawing suspicion, especially with her rivalry with Vicissitude. Your past dealings with her will be your way in.”
Johnny squirmed uncomfortably. Vicissitude was a harsh mistress.
“But don’t let yourself become exclusive to Sissy’s retinue,” warned Less. “You need to be a free agent in the Barony. We need to know who is part of the Barony, their names and Seemings, and what they are planning. Try to get close to Dame Nightshade. We don’t know anything about her besides she was in charge of the operation to take control of the Ishtar Gate.”
“When do I get a code-name?”
“When you pass the field test.”
“Oh, come on!” Johnny stood up and began singing the instrumental theme tune to the 007 films and mimed the famous brandishing of the Walther PPK. “Dun-di-di-dunnnn-dun-dun-dun…DEE DOO! Doo do dooooo!”
Less tried to give him what he wanted so they could get back to the lesson of the day. “Okay. How about ‘James’?”
“James!? How is that a code-name? It has to be cool like ‘Crackerjack’ or ‘Star Lord’, or ‘Watch Out Super Spy Ladies I Got a 12-inch Dick!’ Oh yeah!”
“Fine. Welcome to the Wardens, Agent 12.”
Hot Spy Cold
Less tapped once on the large snow globe. It shifted slightly over the scuffed surface of the oak table and the drifts of snow swayed about the village scene. It was a jolly little village with warm firelight shining from the windows. Some of the villagers, bundled against the cold, carried parcels through the streets. There was a small group of carollers on the corner. He knew the village like the back of his hand. He stared at it often, for hours, late into the dark nights.
There was a timid knocking at the door. Less looked up as Jangles entered apologetically. The dwarf looked as though he were trying to hide under his own hump. His long arm trailed behind him and kept hold of the door, securing his escape route. “Constable? Do you need assistance with…?” He gestured with a long finger towards the magic globe on the table.
“No, Jangles, not tonight,” sighed Less. “You can go home. Get some rest.”
Once the door shut softly, Less returned his study of the tiny, snow-covered village. There was a small figure outside the post office. It was so short that it was nearly entirely covered by the snow drifts. Only the terror-stricken face and one hand could be seen over the flakes. The figure was Happy, a gentle hob who had seen seven years’ service in the Summer Court. Now he was imprisoned in the globe with his unwelcome companion, Bria.
Bria’s face was also painted with fear, but snow did not cover her. The Unseelie stood in a ring free of the white flakes. A spider-web of dark smoke trailed up from her red curly hair. The party dress she wore revealed arms and legs of dark chocolate brown skin, set off beautifully against the white background of the diorama.
Less sat back in frustration, letting out a sigh that rattled through the room like an October breeze. Vicissitude’s betrayal at the Roundhill place was eating away at him. He had felt he had been making positive in-roads to getting the Summer and Winter Courts to at least call a cease-fire so that they could meet and discuss issues. He didn’t expect that Seelie and Unseelie would kiss and make up overnight, but they should be able to be in the same room to talk about common threats like the New World Order. The Brimstone Baron must be thoroughly enjoying this. Damn Carnifex!
What would she have done to Rey and him? Killed them, and given their heads to the Baron or the Duke for his trophy room? That seemed the most likely, considering the assassin’s predilections, but Less couldn’t help but consider their lives as bargaining chips. To gain control of the Ishtar Gate? Cassandra and the Countess wouldn’t allow it even if it meant their lives. As a prisoner exchange for the spy Bria? That would imply that Bria has something they need. Information about the Gate or Casandra herself? Unique skills? Sissy wouldn’t petition for her release for anything less.
Less sat up and shook the glass violently. The lack of information concerning the Brimstone Barony was his personal nemesis. Operation Water Wings had collapsed in tatters and the training of Johnny was taking time. The silenus had a hard time focussing on anything but his dick for any length of time. The only thing going for him was that women in his presence seemed to also have a hard time focussing on anything but his dick. Less put the globe back onto the table. The snow swirled in a blizzard and slowly settled on the roofs and people of the village. He had to maintain his patience. Good things come to those who wait.
Licensed to Kill
Less craned his neck forward and scratched at the back of his neck, massaging fruitlessly at the kinks. The room was lit dimly except for the bright cone of light that illuminated the table at which he sat. The other chairs were empty now. Claire sat cross-legged on a reed mat in the corner with her hood up. She was meditating and mumbling a chant to herself but he couldn’t hear the words over Septimus’ light snoring from the armchair. Worm was present but he couldn’t tell her apart from the shadows. Saya had left after the initial planning session, citing ‘feeding time’ as her excuse. Only the Almoner had been entirely absent, who had to keep a meeting with one of the witches back on the Mainland. Continue reading Licensed to Kill
Less’ life from his perspective
He was once a boy. Well, he was a full grown man of nearly 18 but a still a boy nonetheless. A war raged on in Europe but he was still too young to enlist. Not that he had wanted to. All he cared about were his dreams, roaming the English countryside and lying on his back in the grass to watch the butterflies and the birds in the sky. But his birthday approached, and with it, the front lines.
The night before his birthday was a full moon. His bedroom was bright and he couldn’t sleep. Though, he thought he was dreaming when his closet door opened on its own volition. A cold breeze swirled about the room and disturbed the curtains. A woman stepped out from behind the door. She was tall and pale as the moon, dressed in a white fur coat and a crown of diamonds. She was the most beautiful thing the boy had ever seen. Continue reading Less’ life from his perspective
Linguist Yearnings
Less sat in front of the library computer. The keyboard was filthy. The keys had a build-up of grease and dirt and between them it was a forest of hairs, skin flakes, and food. The mouse was not much better. He wasn’t comfortable with computers but he’d done Google searches before with some success. Pushing his reluctance aside, he tapped in some search terms for the pronunciation of Irish Gaelic. He had decided to start with Irish because most of the old faerie tales had originated there. He scanned the list of results and decided on a “Beginner’s Guide”.
He sighed as he scrolled down through the tables of pronounced letters. The vowels and consonants weren’t too bad, even with the accents. But then he came across further tables. Consonants could be broad, slender, aspirated, and eclipsed. Long and short diphthongs. What was with all the H’s? Ah, it’s not a letter; it is how they show the aspiration. He tried to match up the syllables with what he knew of the mysterious uh-face do.
The first syllable could be an ‘a’ as in ago or ‘u’ as in muck. The strange f sound was tougher. ‘F’ seemed to be pronounced as in English but it wasn’t really an ‘f’. ‘fh’ was silent in Irish, ‘ph’ was like ‘f’ in English again. Could it be ‘ch’ as in ”loch”? He wasn’t sure.
Armed with this shaky and amaturish knowledge of Irish, he called up a web page containing an Irish-to-English dictionary. He started with ”do” since it was short and seemed like a word of its own. It could mean Your or Two depending if the vowel was long or short. Next, he scrolled through the A’s. The closest thing was afach which meant however. Probably not. He tried the U’s. Again, there was nothing with an ‘f’ sound following. The closest thing was uafas which meant terror. ‘Your terror.’ It was plausible, he supposed, but he figured he was over his head. He would need to find a native speaker of the various Celtic languages and say it as he heard it in his dream to get anywhere concrete.
Young Blood
The morning after Mira stayed over at his apartment (Get your mind out of the gutter!) he was running late for work (Out, I say!) He jogged to the train station but he didn’t have a shift that morning. His business was elsewhere.
After accessing his secret maze of tunnels throughout the Hedge from his office in the train station, he quickly changed into appropriate attire and sprinted to the distant Door. He paused before it to catch his breath and checked his watch, adding 14 hours. Less sighed in relief. It was still a few minutes before midnight. He waited until the last moment, wiping dry the sweat dripping from his forehead, and opened the Door.
The night air was acrid with some kind of industrial smoke. There were no stars visible. Less stepped into the street and tugged his scarf higher up his neck. He no longer felt the cold but it somehow made him feel more secure. The street was deserted.
He fished around in his bag for a box of matches. He was suddenly gripped with fear that he had somehow forgotten them. How? How could he have forgotten? With relief he found it in his coat pocket. He struck the match on the wall of the derelict shop. The flare illuminated a lantern with a clean shade of green glass. It looked out of place on the decrepit building. Lowering the glass over the lit candle, he leaned into the shop doorway to wait.
It wasn’t long before a small crowd began to approach. They came hesitantly, two by two. They gathered in the occult green glow of the lamp, looking around at each other with fearful eyes. One figure, far taller than the rest reached out to knock on the door when Less stepped forward, suddenly appearing out of shadow. There was a collective wail of fear and several of the children dashed away to hide. Less breathed in the emotion and savoured it before addressing the woman in charge of the dozen or so children. The oldest was possibly twelve; no more, certainly.
“You have the payment?” he asked simply, holding out his hands as if to carry something. Most of his contacts here could not speak English.
She nodded and shrugged the sack she had carried slung across her back. Less looked inside and counted the bulging insulated foil bags. Only a fraction of the box he had supplied to her people. They didn’t need resupplying just yet.
Less nodded and the woman left without a word, and didn’t look back. He took his satchel off over his head and set it on the ground and knelt beside it. He drew back the flap and took out one of the brightly coloured lollypops and brandished it tantalizingly before the awed children. An older boy came forward and snatched it away and Less replaced it with a fist-full of more candy from the bag. It would draw them all in, even the ones that had skedaddled earlier.
Less rose and surveyed his new charges, all devouring the sugar in relative silence. He beckoned and opened the Door once again. The sight of the tunnel stretching away behind the old door caused a new wave of fear (which he happily ate) but all it took was another beckon to get them to cross the threshold. He had no idea what stories the people who collected these children told them to prepare them for this journey. All he knew was that, whatever it was, it wouldn’t prepare them for the reality. Their parents had given them up, perhaps with the hope that they would find a better life in America, perhaps for money. He would do what he could to get them to parents wanting to circumvent the restrictive adoption process. The Bleak Seal would profit handsomely from the proceeds, and he had a sack full of sweet, young blood.
He shook a shiver from his body. Why had he thought that? Sweet, young blood? Disgusting!
Snakehead
It was cold in the street. Less pulled his fur cap further down over his ears and tightened his wool scarf around his neck. The wind made the sign hanging above him squeak as it swung on rusty rings. The sign once bore a carved image of a rose, painted in bright colours, but by age and vandalism it now depicted just a thorny vine. He shivered and hunched into his coat, hoping to find warmth there. His contact was late but he didn’t want to take his hand out of his pocket to check his watch. He glanced up to look at the moon – as if he could tell time by it, which he couldn’t – but it and the stars were obscured by the thick pollution of Chinese industry. Continue reading Snakehead