David Ohle - The Pisstown Chaos

Roe built a fire in the potbelly. Soon the poacher was warming his callused hands against the evening chill. "Don't worry, Mr. Watchman. I won't run amok on you. We're a special breed of stiff, not like the rest. We're the peaceable kind and we have a strong appetite for imp meat. What's more, I've got a proposition for you."

"Tell me what it is. I'm prepared to listen."

"If my stink bothers you, please say so."

"It isn't so bad yet."

"If it gets where you can't stand it, I've got some scented oil in my pouch. You can rub me down with it."

"All right. Now, a proposition you said?"

The poacher's mouth opened at intervals and his black tongue darted and quivered. "Yes, the proposition. It's quite a good one for you. Do you have any tea? I'm parched and drowsy."

After a cup of urpflanz tea and four starch bars, the stinker fell asleep on the floor near the fire.

"I suppose we'll talk in the morning," Roe said to himself, and retired to his pallet on the other side of the stove.

Some time during the night, a light awakened him. The poacher held a burning match at the face of an old wind-up clock ticking on the mantel. "What's that?" he asked. "Is it marking time?"

"Yes. It's called a clock."

"A clock?"

"The little hand tells the hour, the big hand tells the minutes."

"That makes no sense. An hour is big, a minute is little."

"What is your proposition? You say you have a letter from the Reverend? May I see it?"

The poacher produced a sheet of paper. "There it is. It gives me harvesting rights, signed by the Reverend himself. It's all for charity, you know. We feed a lot of city stinkers with the meat. I expect you'll abide by the document."

Roe lit a candle. "It looks official."

"That's the proposition. That you be shifted back to Bum Bay and I and my fellow workers will take over this tower. We need a place to rest and regroup after the harvest. This is an up-shift for you. You'll be in training at the Office of Parasite Control. Very cushy position. A load of responsibility."

"I can say without hesitation, I accept the proposal."

"Good. I'll be on my way."

"Will you join me for a little something to eat?"

"You got any imp?"

"Sorry, no."

"Urpmilk?"

Roe shook his head.

"All right, then. I'll be going now. Hope you like your new position."

"Have a safe trip."

The poacher made his way to the stairs and climbed down. Roe went out to the gallery to see him off. After squatting to defecate, the poacher climbed into his pedal car and waved. "The best of luck in your new position." The car rolled off down the road that went north, eventually, to Indian Apple.

Roe oiled his saw and packed his duffel that evening, pulled on his walking boots and took the same road on foot. After trekking two days and a night, resting, eating and bathing once at a roadside Templex, he arrived at the PC office just as they were opening their doors. His case officer, a square-faced American female with a bald head, interrogated him briefly.

"Any recent mouth-to-mouth contact with stinkers?"

"No."

"Anyone in your family or circle of friends infested with parasites?"

"My grandmother. She's at Permanganate Island. A mild case. She'll be getting early release."

"What is in that bag over your shoulder?"

"My saw."

"You're a carpenter. That's very handy around here."

"I play the saw with a bow. I don't know one nail or plank from another."

The officer stood up and took a set of keys from a hook behind her. "How very unusual. I'd like to hear that sometime, but right now I better show you the ropes."

Roe and the officer pedaled a van out of the PC garage and rolled across town to Grand Street, a posh neighborhood. The officer said, "I'll show you the ropes," and stopped before a nicely appointed home with a red tile roof and a granite chimney. "Now here's a typical situation," she said. "That's the Peterbilt mansion. These are stinkers with money and parasites. It's a situation crying out for some control."

A servant led them into the rear of the house and through the kitchen, where a maid was rinsing dishes. Mrs. Peterbilt, a third-stage stinker, entered in a white silk chemise, carrying an envelope. There was a pendulous growth on her throat, filled with parasites. One could see their movements through the flesh.

"You take the envelope from her," the officer said, "without making physical contact, and count what's in it."

Roe counted the bucks. "One hundred."

"That isn't half enough, Mrs. Peterbilt," the officer said, with extreme annoyance.

Mrs. Peterbilt begged for more time. "Please. You know my husband has been shifted. I'll be destitute if this keeps up. A hundred here, a hundred there."

"In a case like this," the officer explained to Roe; "when they fail to pay up, do something that hurts them. They don't feel much pain, so you have to be brutal. Hit her in the head with something, or kick her over and over again as hard as you can." The officer demonstrated her skill by taking two or three steps back, then charging forward with a kick to Mrs. Peterbilt's leg that cracked her brittle shin bone and dropped her to the floor.

"See, their bones are brittle. A hard kick to the shins will topple them like a stool with a broken leg."

"This is my work?"

"Yes, to put the squeeze on wealthy stinkers, to slowly drain them dry of financial resources. In return they get protection."

"From what?"

"Further harm, I suppose. I've never really wondered or asked. That's why I haven't been shifted in ages. They like me at the office."

"Does that hurt?" Roe asked Mrs. Peterbilt.

"Not much," she said, "but now I can't walk without help. How will I pick the bagworms off my cedar bush?"

"Where do the bucks go after I collect them?" Roe asked the officer.

"First they go from you to me, then I pass it on. I suppose sooner or later it ends up in the private account of Reverend Hooker. He deserves it above all and to the exclusion of every other."

"He's known for his witty sayings," Roe said.

"So he is. Now, go over and hurt that old sack of bones. You need practice. Make her tell you where the bucks are."

Mrs. Peterbilt still lay sprawled on the floor.

The maid and the servant had been watching these doings with interest, smiling, their arms folded. "Hurt her good," the servant said. "I like to see it." He held out a pair of poultry shears. "Cut something off her."

Roe took the shears, knelt beside the old stinker, placed her little finger between the blades and cut it nearly off by squeezing the handles as hard as he could. "My apologies, Mrs. Peterbilt, but I was shifted into this. Just doing what I'm told. Where do you keep your bucks?"

"I won't tell."

The officer nodded toward Roe. "Take it all the way off."

The first squeeze of the handle had not been enough to cut completely through the bone, so Roe placed the shears on the floor and stepped on the handle. This severed the finger completely. Mrs. Peterbilt groaned, then placed the slightlybleeding stump into her mouth.

The officer rifled through kitchen cabinets, looked inside all the crockery. "Where've you hidden it?"

Mrs. Peterbilt had no response.

"Okay, Roe. Do something else to her. Show me what you're made of."

The maid held out an iron skillet. "Smash her head with this."

The servant stepped forward with a lit candle. "No, burn her face. She doesn't like that at all. She'll tell you where the bucks are."

Roe took the suggestion and held the flame just beneath her nose. Mrs. Peterbilt could only endure this a few moments before giving up, turning from the flame, and crying, "It's under the begonia pot in the greenhouse."

"That's good, Roe," the officer said. "I think you'll be out on your own starting tomorrow. We'll get the bucks and go to lunch. The Impeteria's got stew on special, all you can eat."