D. Schmidt - They Ate the Waitress?

“Yes?” the woman asked, placing the pie on a windowsill. It smelled like blueberry. “Can I help you with something, son?”

“Did you see a fat man in handcuffs run through here?”

“Oh no,” she laughed, wiping her hands on a tattered dishtowel. “Did your playmate get away?”

“It’s not like that. See, I was engaged to his daughter, but only so I could get to him. – Wait, that doesn’t sound right. …Just forget it.” He turned for the doors, but stopped suddenly. “I have to ask you something, or it will bug me for the rest of the day. Why does a brothel need a kitchen?”

“It’s for the messy lovers, mostly,” the woman said. “Some of the boys like to cover the girls in pudding or whipped cream. Back in my younger days, I knew a nice man who loved to pour hollandaise sauce all over my body. I would have preferred béarnaise, but I wasn’t ready to share such a personal secret with him…”

“I’d really better go,” Nick said, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable. He left the woman to her reminiscing and headed upstairs.

The second story held endless rows of “guest rooms.” Most of them were identical, with a hot tub, waterbed, and a mirror on the ceiling. Other rooms were built around a particular theme: medieval dungeon, Roman bathhouse, dog kennel. Most of the guest rooms were occupied and, of course, locked. Nick searched the vacant rooms, gradually working his way down the hall. He accidentally walked in on a few couples but, fortunately, none of them were doing anything strange. At least, nothing stranger than what he did at home.

Opening a door, he saw that there was no bed in the room, just a stack of mops and cleaning supplies. It was either a storage closet or another theme room. Plastic shelves in the back were filled with cases of “Liquid Codpiece,” a spray-on prophylactic. The spray formed a protective layer that was thinner than a traditional condom and transferred heat better. The only downside was pulling it off.

A soft squeak from down the hall. He poked his head out of the closet just in time to see Fairbanks duck into an empty guest room. Nick sprinted down the hall and threw himself at the door. The door slammed open, knocking Fairbanks to the floor, his head bouncing painfully off the marble tile.

“Get up!” Nick yelled. “Slowly.” Grabbing a nearby bedpost, Fairbanks pulled himself to his feet. He was still wearing Nick’s handcuffs. “I can’t risk you getting away again. You’ve forced me to chain myself to you. I hope you’re happy.” Nick unlocked one of the cuffs and snapped it on his own wrist and then pushed Fairbanks down the hall to the stairs. He seemed almost eager to go, taking two steps at a time. “Slow it down, Fairbanks.” But Fairbanks leapt down the stairs four at a time, dragging Nick behind him. Suddenly, Nick lost his footing. He slid down the stairs, crashing into a wall.

Darkness.

When Nick regained consciousness, he was hanging from the third story window of a whorehouse in Beaver Creek, Montana. Forty feet below him was an ornate, concrete fountain that looked a rather uncomfortable place to land. At the window above him, Quentin Fairbanks was busy sawing off his own arm.

“Wait a minute!” Nick yelled. “I have a question for you.”

Fairbanks pulled the belt from his mouth, his face clenched in pain. “Do you mind? I’m rather busy at the moment.”

“Why didn’t you just take the handcuff key?”

“Whatever do you mean?” Fairbanks asked, bewildered.

“I was unconscious. Why didn’t you take the handcuff key from my pocket before you threw me out the window?”

“I… ah… the…Well, this is embarrassing. I don’t suppose you would toss the key up here? No? Are you sure? Last chance! …Alright, fine. If that’s the way you want it, I’ll just get back to the amputation!” Fairbanks sighed, frustrated. Biting down on his belt once more, he returned to sawing at his arm. He struck an artery, blood spraying the window and dripping down onto Nick’s face.

Wiping the blood from his eyes, Nick reached for the windowsill. Try as he might, the handcuff chain was simply too long; he couldn’t quite reach. Staring at the ground, he imagined his body broken on the cement fountain.

“Looks like I’ve run out of options.” He reached into his pocket, his fingertips brushing a familiar object: his laser stunner. “This is going to hurt.” He aimed at Fairbanks’ forehead and fired. A white bolt of electricity arced through the air, knocking Fairbanks to the floor. The electricity flashed down his arm, through the metal handcuffs, and into Nick.

Once more, darkness.

Painfully, Nick opened his eyes. His wrist was free, and Fairbanks was gone. He found himself looking up at a group of scantily-clad women holding bullwhips, riding crops, and leather paddles. One of the women, a redhead in a lace teddy so thin it was practically imaginary, helped Nick to his feet. “I knew that was dangerous,” he said, “but I didn’t think it would kill me. Oh, well. At least I went to heaven!”

“Heaven? No, you’re still in the Temple.” The wall of women parted, revealing Quentin Fairbanks collapsed on the floor. Three of the women were sitting on him, while a fourth threatened him with a cattle prod. “Who are you guys, anyway?”

Nick explained the events of the past few days, omitting the part about leaving a woman at the altar. His version of the story also had a car chase, gratuitous nudity, and a song and dance number. Other than that, though, it was strictly the truth.

“That’s quite a tale, Mr. Wergild,” the redhead said at last. “But one you left something out. You said this guy was a politician, but not what position he held.”

“I’m not positive, but I think he was Secretary of Agriculture.”

“Oh. Do you think he’ll be in the work camps for a while?”

“After the arbitrator hears about him trying to saw off his arm, he’ll probably end up in an insane asylum.” Nick gazed down at Fairbanks and sighed. “Listen, this guy is very dangerous, and my handcuffs obviously aren’t enough to keep him under control. Do you have anything I could use to restrain him?”

The women cackled uproariously. “He wants to know if we have any restraints!” the redhead laughed. “Can you believe this guy?”

As Nick drove back to Vancouver, Quentin Fairbanks was sprawled face-down in the backseat. His arms were encased in a tight, black restraint called a “monoglove,” a solid sheath of leather enclosing everything from his fingers to his elbows. Leather straps around the shoulders further reduced his movements. He was also wearing six pairs of leg irons, a ball gag, and a tight, vinyl hobble skirt.

The drive to Vancouver took nearly sixteen hours. Nick passed the time smoking a pack of Cannabliss Cigarettes and tailgating slow drivers. He dropped off Fairbanks at a security patrol office, where the desk sergeant reminded him that it was illegal to humiliate a captive.

“Don’t blame me,” Nick replied. “He was like this when I found him.”

“Oh… Well, everybody needs a hobby!”

Finally, Nick arrived at his office building. He trudged across the parking lot to his office and collapsed at his desk, exhausted. He pulled a bottle of pills from a drawer and, smiling dimly, took a much-needed break from reality.

Nick didn’t notice the man walk in, as he was far too busy having several hallucinations at once. He was in his office on the south side of Vancouver, sitting behind his giant, stainless steel desk, barely aware of the world outside his mind.

The walls were covered in framed newsfeed articles touting his accomplishments. He had edited most of the articles to make them more flattering or to remove the death threats. Occasionally, he would get carried away. As a result, several of the articles were completely fabricated. He had never even met the pope, let alone stolen his girlfriend. In the Old Days, he would have also had a detective’s license hanging on the wall. Without a government, this was no longer necessary. People could start any sort of business, as long as they didn’t defraud anyone. You could wake up one morning and decide to become a brain surgeon, as long as you told your customers you had no idea what you were doing.