Writer's Journal

Things get strange

Cicatriz Episode 3×06

Cicatriz Episode 3×05

Here we are.  Take this.

The dwarf straightened his bow-tie and grinned with tiny shark’s teeth. He wore a dark gray suit with an unidentifiable red flower for a boutonniere.

“Come on in, have a seat,” he lisped, gesturing to the leather chair positioned opposite of him.

A woman in a red dress stood behind him, with a gray scarf tied around her left bicep. Other than her arm, she was the picture of a film noir femme fatale. Beneath the scarf, her arm was a mass of red flesh encased in electrum plates. Her hand had six long, long fingers that terminated in long, curved claws.

That hand held a tray with a simple silver cigarette case sitting in the middle of it. Her right hand had a half-foot-long cigarette holder.

She walked over to the guest, and offered him the tray. The man wore a jean-jacket with a flannel shirt under it. He nodded in thanks, before opening the case, and removing the only cigarette. He also pulled out the small scrap of paper inside.

The dwarf stepped back and hopped onto the leather chair behind him.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

The man shook his head, and put the cigarette in his mouth. A feminine left hand raised a silver lighter and lit the cigarette. He took a puff, nodded to her, and looked down, seeing only the right hand, with its holder, and the tray in the electrum claw. She smiled, and assumed a position behind the dwarf.

“Well, we know why you’re here,” the Dwarf said, “and so does our boss. Look around, would you?”

The man did so. He was in a tavern, the hangings draped in white linen sheets.

“Our employer needs you to do something for him.”

“Why should I?” the man asked, his voice sounding distant and hollow.

“Because of services rendered.”

The man took a puff off his cigarette, and the smoke in his lungs turned to memories, playing out before his eyes like a silent movie.

He was in this bar, but the dwarf and lady in red stood behind a slender man of exceptional height, whose head was hidden in shadows.

The man produced a wooden container the size of a shoe box, and handed it to him.

“I recall…”

His eyes dilated.

“What are you holding?” the dwarf asked, the grin not leaving his face.

The man looked down at the paper.

“It’s my name.”

“What does it say?”

“I don’t want to say.”

“Why?”

“Because I know that if I do, you’re going to make me do something terrible.”

“Say it,” the Dwarf commanded.

“Jackson Welles.”

“One of those unfortunates with two last names, I see,” the Dwarf said, before looking at the woman, “the ledger, please.”

The woman held out her tray, which now had a large leather-bound book on it. The Dwarf took the book, and opened it.

“Jackson Welles. A very valuable service was rendered. You remember what was in that box?”

“No.”

Jackson thought for a long moment. He could remember everything up until he opened the box.

“Well, the contents of that box killed you. You didn’t give it the proper respect, and now it’s time to pay up.”

“But I’m alive,” Jackson protested.

“So you are,” the Dwarf admitted, “I never said you were dead. Just that the contents of that box killed you. You people. Always with the whole unidirectional time business. I find it a little vulgar.”

“I’m sorry?” Jackson said.

“Apology accepted. Now. Do you accept your situation?”

“Owing you and your…employer…a costly, unspecified favor?”

“That is correct.”

Jackson looked down, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Do I have a choice?” he asked.

He felt six sharp points run over the back of his neck, gently grazing the skin there. Looking up, he saw the woman in red standing behind him, a small half-smile on her face.

“No,” the dwarf said.

“Tell me what I need to do.”

More exposition.  Of a sort.

Cicatriz Episode 3×04

For your reading pleasure(?)

Cicatriz Episode 3×03

Well, here’s the new one.  A little short, and a little late, but I like to think that certain things begin to become clearer–or at least more compelling–in this episode.

Cicatriz Episode 3×02

Also, Jave was correct in the comment on the backmatter for the last bit.  The quote does come from Mark Twain’s The Mysterious Stranger.  The reason for that should be made clear in this chapter.

“This is highly irregular,” the judge said to the couple standing before him. He’d been brought in while still dressed for bed, and under the judicial gown he wore slippers.

The couple before him stood handcuffed, the man wore a crumpled suit, and the woman a skirt and blouse. His hat–a full-brimmed fedora–looked as if a dog or three had taken a bite out of it, and a mass of surgical tape held his left ear in place. Both seemed to smoke, slightly, but both smiled, and cast sidelong glances at each other. Every now and again, the woman would glomp onto the man and start kissing him. If he didn’t laugh from joy, he’d reciprocate.

The guards pulled her off him, and the man replied:

“What is, yr’onor?”

“Well, the traffic ticket and fighting the officer who arrested you were bad enough, but demanding that you be tried immediately?”

“I had the skrill for it,” the man said. The woman laughed. Remembering himself, the man added a “yr’onor.”

The judge rifled through the paperwork.

“According to the paperwork, you both–Ishmael Caulder and Laurel Frank–are officially dead. I have paperwork for your cremation, young lady.”

“Well, I was,” Laurel replied.

“I wasn’t. I just bribed the coroner.”

“Why?” the Judge asked.

“They don’t let you into the underworld without either two silver coins or the proper paperwork. Rules are rules, and all.”

The judge blinked twice.

“So, how did…?” he began.

“Well, yr’onor, I just got a death certificate, laid down in bed for a couple’a days, and got taken. When I got down there, I searched high and low for Laurel. After I found her–no mean feat, mind–I slung ‘er over my shoulder and booked it for the land of the living. We stole an ‘82 Ford Fiesta and headed for the liquor store, but were stopped around the time that officer got a black eye.”

“So, you’re admitting you punched an officer of the law?” the judge asked.

“To be fair, he started it, yr’onor,” Ishmael answered.

Laurel began to laugh.

“How? How did he start it?”

“He saw us come out of the ground. yr’onor. Tried to shoot us in the head. Don’t know about you, but I’d prefer not to be dead for real.”

Cicatriz Episode 3×01

Now with attempted suicide and awkward sexual tension.

John F. straightened his tie, as the Dealer brought the three safe deposit boxes out and set them on the table. This was a mere formality, they both knew–the decision had already been made, the amounts settled in advance, everything but the check written–but a necessary one.

The first box was opened.

A glass bottle, shaped roughly like a bullet with a cylindrical neck attached to it was removed. It contained a reddish-amber liquid that sloshed thickly like syrup. Something clinked lightly inside it when the bottle was moved.

“Fig brandy,” the collector said.

“Fig brandy?” John F. said, as he felt his throat closing up.

“Made from the fruit of the bodhi tree. Mixed with a portion–as little as a teaspoon–of the ashes of the Buddha, and distilled until almost completely clear, then repeated with the ashes of the third dalai lama. Over the years, it took on the remains of nine boddhisattvas. It is said to be the sweetest, most intoxicating of liquors, but overconsumption leads to a terrible fate, as far as most drinkers would be concerned.”

“How so?”

“Upon waking, one will experience something that is half hangover, half enlightenment, and lose all desire to drink.”

“No.”

The collector put it back, and pulled a small box. Opening it up, he showed a disk of fibrous, brown meat.

“One of the Lanciano Hosts, transformed in the eighth century into human flesh during mass. To all measures, they are indistinguishable from fresh human cardiac muscle tissue. Blood type AB.”

John F. shook his head.

The collector sighed, made a show of being unsatisfied, and brought out the final treasure, a bone tube, which he opened with gloved hands, and from which he pulled a document written in calligraphy. A signature in red was at the bottom.

“The Contract. Signed here at the bottom by Johannes Georg Faust.”

“No.”

The collector sighed, and put the parchment back in the tube. John F. produced a taser and shocked the collector. He pinned the man down, and injected a syringe of ammonia into his jugular vein, and waited. When he was sure the man was dead, he packed away the contract, and put it inside his jacket. He considered taking the others, but felt no need.

As he left the room, and walked out the back way, he pulled out his phone and placed a call.

“Mr. M, I handled the situation. Maybe now we can clear up this DNA test, and we can get to work…”

Fun little pulp story I’ve been tinkering with a bit.  It’ll make a fine interlude while I’m working on Cicatriz 3×0

Acting as a Wave 1