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Chapter 4 Shadows Over His Mouth �I
remember my political science professor, Dr. Holtz, cautioning the class never to place too much trust in a system that relied heavily
on the rationality of the human animal for its operation.�
- Roger Zelazny
Crusty eyelids? Check.
Stench in nostrils? Check.
Agonizing pain in various parts of his body?
Check. Must be waking up. The feeling, Hargrove decided, was getting old. The stink in his nostrils was not, for a change, coming from any bodily odor; this time it was the acrid smell of gasoline. I�ll have to add the cost of dry-cleaning to the bill, he thought. Social economy was all very nice and good, but one did need to eat. And put Stan�s children through college, for
that matter. The Marxist Detective cracked open one eye,
squinting against the fiery, Californian summer sun, and surveyed the damage.
Well, he thought, powerful deductive abilities springing into action
with the grace of a three-legged iguana, I suppose this is rather beyond the capabilities of dry-cleaning.
Perhaps surveying the scene would be appropriate.
Hargrove found himself lying in the middle of a dusty parking lot, of
what appeared to be some sort of service station.
He assumed such, from the sign proclaiming Las-
Gas �or 35 mil-s. Obviously
the creator of the sign had never traveled with Captain Will.
The dulcet tones of said Captain could be heard from around the front of
the limosine, not 10 feet away. The
hood was up, and Hargrove, from his supine position, could see both her
stilletto heeled shoes, and the brilliantly shined flats of Marty Stabble.
As he watched, a thin, glistening thread slowly dangled down to hover
between Shirley�s shapely ankles. Her
crystal voice paused, and a horrible snorting cut the air.
The thread vanished. Hargrove
turned his face away, fighting a rebellious stomach, and found out from where
the stink of gasoline was emanating, as well as the reason for the cold feeling
under his shoulder blade.
Fixing on the nozzle stuffed into the gas tank, Hargrove�s eyes slammed
fully open in horror at the sight of the foul fuel spurting out from the
aperture, snaking over the hot cement and finishing its trail under his body.
McArthur�s flaming testicles,
they�ve locked it on and left it! Choking
back a scream the detective bolted from the ground, whimpering slightly as the
violent movement broke several scabs, and lunged, grappling with the nozzle and
finally managing to shut it off. Panting, he waited. A
flung cigarette...a short in the electrical of the car...spontaneous combustion
on the hot asphalt.... Just
get it over with. It was with
some relief that he realized somehow, a miracle had happened.
The gasoline soaking his body was evaporating rapidly under the fiery
sun, leaving only the residual stench. It
was a first for him, and Hargrove savored it.
�Finish�d a�ready?�
The voice came from somewhere near the ramshackle hut that served as the
station�s single building. Hargrove
moved closer. Yes, there they were,
the usual accoutrements of a gas station, found near a small � town airport in
The Middle of Nowhere. The old Coke
sign, proudly proclaiming that the drink of capitalists everywhere was �it�.
The wooden Indian, symbol of racial intolerance, sadly clutching his
equally wooden cigars. And the
silly piece of folk art, the stuffed, scarecrow-like figure lounging in a chair,
staring out into the world with its sunken, rheumy eyes�.
�I sayed, finish�d a�ready?�
Hargrove leaned against the rickety post to steady the beating of his
heart. The old man stared up at him
from the chair in disgust. �Y�all�re
ah mahte jumpeh, boah.� Any reply
the Marxist detective could have made was cut off by the reappearance of
Shirley.
Sliding towards the two men sinuously, hips swaying, the blonde touched a
finger to her lips seductively. They
parted, and Hargrove found himself leaning forward despite his chili-flavored
memories, irresistibly drawn by that pouting crimson mouth.
It opened further, and a wave of profanity blazed forth, setting the
detective back on his heels and making the old man fumble for his cross.
�Something the matter?� the
detective inquired cautiously when the storm blew over.
Besides crashing a plane, losing an
employer, and now definitely missing dinner at Spago�s�. �The distributor cap must have been hit by a stray bullet.� She shrugged, and Hargrove noticed the old man staring at the interesting undulations thus caused. Enjoy it while you can, old fellow�.but that flame of passion is methane powered. �We were lucky to get this far. I�m afraid we won�t be going anywhere in that car anytime soon.� �Weeyall,� the old man
snorted, still staring at Captain Will�s more prominent attributes, �if�n
y�all be needin� a rahyd inta th�citee, ah�d be ah�willing t�take
y�all.� Hargrove strained.
Familiar�not Dallasian, but�ah, it was the Texan White Derelict
dialect of Southern. He himself was
more familiar with South-Western Hill Family, but there was enough crossover (in
more ways that one) that the Marxist Detective found himself able to translate
the foul tongue. And after all, it is far more likely to find someone speaking TWD at
this sort of service station. Despite
it�s lack of proximity to Texas. �Ah�ve
me ol�truck t�git supplahs ihn, and ah figgah ah kin brayng y�all inta
th�citee in thayat.� �Well, that�s very kind of you, Mr�.?� �Crahbhayer.
Jay Ar Crabhayer.� Captain Will reached out, touching one finger
to the attendant�s desiccated pate, the wrinkles fracturing slightly under her
touch and instantly leeching all moisture from her hand.
�Aren�t you sweet, Mr. Crabhair,� she cooed, a small, hardened
nugget flicking in and out of one perfectly shaped nostril with each breath. �Captain Will,� Hargrove began, �I need
to speak with you. Alone.� Quickly the two moved out of the relativly
cool shade of the shack and into the blazing parking lot.
Hargrove paused to stare at the stain on his elbow, recently damp with
blood. It was steaming.
Experimentally he flexed his shoulders, to a shock of pain and a gentle
patter of a layer of brownish dust crumbling from his back and falling to the
ground. Perhaps dry cleaning
will do, after all. Returning his attention to the lovely figure
before him, he assumed his most stern expression and pendantic tone.
�Captain, I demand that you tell me exactly what is happening.
Your employer, now dead, meets me in the middle of an airport, obviously
knowing exactly where to find me. He
delivers me from the arms of the oppressive regime running this pathetic excuse
for a worker�s paradise, and into a flying deathtrap.
The assassin himself terminated, we find ourselves at the mercy of yet
another gun-toting maniac! Now, can
you tell me exactly what is going on here?� �No.�
She stared happily into his eyes, and Hargrove could swear he saw specks
of malice dancing in her gaze. Along
with, upon closer inspection, a heavy accumulation of �faerie dust� in the
corner of one eye radiant orb. �I�m
afraid, Mr. Hargrove, that such information will not be forthcoming until we
reach the office of my superior. He
will explain further.� �Your superior.� In a rare moment of clarity, Hargrove caught a flaw in her reasoning. �He�s dead! He won�t be explaining anything!" �Oh, not him,� she giggled. �Dewy
Stickum was a tool, in more ways than one.
Nothing more, nothing less. No,
the real boss on that plane was Link Offant.
The real one, at any rate; the
one who tried to kill you must have ambushed him and taken his place.
You see, Link was the brother of my ultimate superior, sent along with
Dewy the Stooge to keep an eye on you.� �And this brother would be�.�
Hargrove inquired, his mind prepared for any number of diabolical
adversaries from his past. David Thorne, the American industrialist?
Colonel Mustard, the Fascistist Brit?
Llash�d B�ttock, the Australian Aborigine of the crimson cheeks?
Santiago, Aka Delgado, the villainous, knife wielding Spaniard? Well, probably not him,
all things considered. Being
dead, while not exactly a foolproof barrier, generally exempted one from the
lineup. �None other than Syc Offant!� Hargrove paused. Rings a bell�.but a
little, crystal one that vicious noblewomen use to torment their servants,
rather than the deep, booming thunder of the bells of Red Square. �Syc is eager to see you, Mr. Hargrove. He feels that he could be of�invaluable assistance to your hunt for Ms. Appel. He has a stake in this as well, and would owe you a personal debt of gratitude for helping him.� Shirley leaned closer to him, gorgeous eyes glittering, bosom heaving. �I, too, would owe you thanks,� she breathed, the rank miasma washing across Hargrove�s rapidly tearing eyes. �Yes, yes,� he muttered, breaking out a
hanky to flap between them ineffectually. No
use; it was worse than teargas.
�I know�celebration after a mission, and all of that.�
Just like old times with Frieda. Or
did we? I can never seem to get
that straight. He pinched his
nose between two fingers in concentration.
�Another thing; why was I
lying in the middle of the parking lot?� �Well, the blood from your shoulder was
getting all over the leather,� Shirley replied in a perfectly resonable tone.
Hargrove�s grip on his own nose threatened to remove it. Calm.
I must remain calm.
�YOU WOULD PUT THE WELFARE OF A GOOD COMMUNIST, ONE THAT YOU
HAVE HIRED, BEFORE THAT OF A TRUMPED UP ZIL?� The beautiful lips turned down in a pout.
�A hired communist; don�t you think that�s a bit of a
contradiction?� Hargrove took in a deep breath.
�Are you evading the issue?� �Is there a penalty for doing so?� �Why would you want to avoid that particular
question?� �Mr. Hargrove, are you becoming paranoid?� �Would that preclude me being correct about
you evading the question?� �Repetition. 15 love. Too easy.� Shirley filed her nails casually. Thwarted, the famed Marxist detective ground his teeth in frustration. �I have another question.
What, exactly, is Mr. Offant�s stake in this situation?� �Oh,� the Captain murmured throatily,
reaching out her long, perfectly manicured fingers to run them along his neck.
Hargrove desperately fought a sudden urge to check for sinus debris left
in their wake and barely succeeded. �Don�t
you know? Ms. Appel is engaged to be married to Syc.� �Hmmmm,� rumbled the Marxist detective,
stroking his stubble and seizing the opportunity to pace, away from the woman. �What is it?� inquired Marty, coming
around the front of the limo, wiping his hands.
�I cannot say.� Might need that excuse
later. �We must not fall to
idle speculation.� �But-�
Marty began. Shirley slapped
him on the back of his head, tumbling the pathetic chauffeur�s hat to the
ground. �Don�t interrupt the nice detective while
he cogitates!� While I WHAT? Hargrove
hurriedly checked the dust at his feet for suspicious bodily fluids.
�Has Mr. Crabhair got his car working yet?� �Yes, ma�am.
That�s what I came to tell you.� With an appalling blast of ozone depleting
gases and carcinogens, the rusting truck lumbered around the side of the limo,
clanking and wheezing. �Hop ahn!�
the old man shouted out the front window.
�A-course, we awnly hayave about enuff ruum fer wan o�y�all, so you
boah�s�ll have t�git inta th�bayack.� Cursing and muttering, the two men hopped over
the back bumper. The only pleasant
surprise was the fact that they had Hargrove�s luggage for seats.
The unpleasant surprises were legion.
Hargrove could not move for fear of finding one such surprise on the
bottom of his feet; apparently this was the toilet for the local fauna.
The truck began down the highway to the
pleasant tune of Mr. Crabhair and Captain Shirley singing 99 Bottle of Beer on the Wall (or rather, Nahnteenahn bottles o�beeyar on th�waghll).
Wincing, the Marxist Detective turned to Marty in an attempt to drown out
the terrible singing, periodically mixed with hoots of deranged laughter from
the old man as Shirley expressed herself with non-verbal, but certainly audible
methods. �So, fellow slave to the
exploitative ruling class, fellow member of the proletariat, how long have you
been in the employ of the Offants?� �Only about a year, sir.�
The Chauffeur leaned back, winced, then leaned forward again.
The detective tried to guess what the man had leaned against, but every
attempt brought a new horror to mind, and he quickly ceased.
�They�ve been good employers so far. Good wages, and the like.� �Nothing...unusual?� the detective queried
subtly. �Nope.�
His face screwed up for a moment. �Though
the bath does plug up something fierce sometimes.� Hardly
worthy of comment. The
singing peaked in the front for an instant, followed by a deep base counterpoint
that rumbled through the sheet metal of the old truck.
Lenin�s teeth. Marty was speaking again, but Hargrove ignored him, trying to
figure out the direction they were heading by dint of studying the position of
the sun. �-always plugging up, everytime we took a
bath, and so we called a plumber, and he-� It appeared, fortuitously, that they were
heading in the proper direction. The
detective pulled out his Webley, trying to ignore the Chauffeur�s constant
rambling. Carefully he began
checking the beloved firearm for damages. �-the waterweasel pulled out big chunks of
hair, you know how hair never goes away even with Liquid NinjaTM ,
and it always get in big clumps of-� There were none, not a single scratch on the
heavy, antique pistol. Breathing a
sigh of relief, Hargrove replaced the weapon in its holster, grimacing at the
pressure on his wounded shoulder. �-some of it with the scalp still attached,
in little threads, and that�s why-�
This
road is longer than a commissar�s rationalizations!
The Marxist Detective turned to the front seat.
�I say,� he roared, knocking at the window, �how much longer will
this take?� �-but the secret basement took care of the
problem. THAT plumber didn�t tell
anyone, and besides, our Lord was become a bit peckish, if you know what I -� �Nahnty-Whan Bawttels....Huh?
Nawt lawng nahw! Awnly anotha fahve Owahs!� screamed Mr. Crabhair over the
cacophany of the engine, but Hargrove wasn�t paying any attention.
Something had caught at his trained senses....something terrible.
Something unfathomable. Something
unnamable. �- so the next time we needed to perform the
Dark Ritual of the Verminous Sanguinous,
ah-heh heh, we had something tailor made to just whip out the knives and -� From where he sat, the Detective could see clear down the front of Captain Shirley�s blouse. Despite the wonderful view thus presented, the terrible odor now drifting from the window caused his eyes to tear, violently. Worse than the time in Kiev, in the old tannery with the hydrochloric acid and the three tonnes of flaming sheep manure. He cursed his trained senses; sometimes they were more of a detriment than an aid. �-then we...then...Sh�aal locktyl vostatim, n�creck...Ia!
Ia! Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wagn'nagl fhtagn!� Tearing himself away from the sight, Hargrove
glanced at Marty. �Did you say
something?� The man blinked at him calmly.
�Not a word.� The Marxist Detective stared at him for a moment, then
shrugged. He had been sure his ears
caught SOMETHING, but it must not have been important. �Saaay,� warbled Crabhair from the front,
flinging the Marxist Detective�s thoughts, never too firmly grounded, straight
out the window, �whayat numbah was we ahwn?� �Three!� screamed Hargrove in fury.
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