Chapter 32, Part One: All in the Reflexes

As usual, warnings apply: This is the rough draft of a story with adult themes and situations. If you are offended by bad language and grammatical errors, gentle reader, read no further! For those of you who have decided to stay, thanks for reading. I hope you enjoy this week's chapter!




“Fuck!” Stirling shouted at his phone. “Fuck fuckiddy fuck fuck fuck!” he added, nearly dancing with rage. “Oh! I fucking hate those guys!”

The clock on the face of his phone blinked to a quarter after eleven. He’d need to move and move fast.

Magnon peered down at the glowing screen from his shoulder. “Bad news?”

Stirling relayed the conversation while beginning to pace. “I’ve got to try and help her.”

“They’re playing you, you have to know that. You can’t beat them when they’re dictating the terms. To even stand a chance against Rag and Bone you need to make them dance to your tune, not the other way around”

“How am I supposed to do that? Did I mention that they’re going to eat Rebbecca?” He made a face in revulsion at the thought. “I’ve got exactly no time to think up something clever.”

“That’s why they gave you such a tight schedule. They want you running scared, what they don’t want is you thinking how you can beat them.”

“Well, they’ve done their job. I’m not going to let one of the few people I call a friend end up as a Handy Snack for those two asshole satchels. This is a situation that calls for terminal levels of brute force.” He bounced on the balls of his feet like a boxer warming up.

“That statement is more stupid than usual,” said the crow. “What’s the special occasion?”

“When the only tool you have is a hammer, every problem is a nail. I’ve got a big hammer and it’s time to nail Rag and Bone.”

Magnon turned his head to cock an eye at him.

“In a killing, non-sexual kind of way. Get your mind out of the gutter, mister crow harem.”

“Let’s say for argument sake you arrive and Rebbecca is still alive. Do you really think they are likely to leave a witness behind who could identify them? They’ll kill Rebbecca no matter what happens. If you go, the only thing you’ll accomplish is to make yourself visible to them and include your head on the chopping block. We just got here!”

“Yeah, I’m well aware,” said Stirling, pulling on his jacket, “but it’s my fault she’s in this mess, and besides, I might win. Big hammer, right?”

“Big hammer or no, the day you beat Rag and Bone on their home turf is the day Satan will be hosting the Winter Olympics.”

“Everyone says the IOC is corrupt.”

“Madame Rag and Mister Bone have been in the business of killing for two hundred years for some good reasons. Their job is also their hobby and they’re good at it.”

“You are so negative. Hasn’t anyone ever told you about the power of positive thinking? Now that the gloves are off, I get to cut loose.”

“And let everyone know exactly where and what you are.”

“Were you even paying attention when I told you about how I cut loose at Strangefellows? The necromantic zombie cat is out of the bag.”

 “This is going to go badly. I need to mention it now, just in case you somehow survive and try to blame me, remember I tried to warn you.”

“Super. Instead of being a glass half empty kind of crow, how about some ideas to make it more likely that I’ll live.”

“Don’t go.”

“Something other than that.”

“The crow has a point,” said Candlewax who now stood in the centre of a scattering of ashes. His face had filled out noticeably and his cheekbones were less prominent. “Rag and Bone will eat your friend up and have you for afters.”

Stirling rolled his eyes. “Why do I sense the words, ‘take me with you,’ are about to enter this conversation?”

“Because they make good sense,” said Candlewax. “Even Rag and Bone are smart enough to fear a Great Fire.”

“And as soon as I’ve released you what’s to stop you from running away and burning the whole city down? Again. Thanks, no thanks.”

Stirling began to walk quickly toward the stairs down and called back over his shoulder to Candlewax, “I’ll probably be back in a bit! Don’t go far!”

“You’re a right fuck, Stirling!” Candlewax called back.

“Never heard that before,” he called back.

“Don’t let them touch you,” Magnon continued, ignoring the byplay. “The moment they lay hands on you, you’re done. Keep them at a distance.”

“How far?”

“Five or six miles.”

“Not completely helpful,” but noted. “Also, consider learning the metric system. You live in Canada, you’re not some godless savage.”

“How about weaknesses?”

“Like what?”

“Silver bullets, garlic, kryptonite, gluten intolerance, logic paradoxes! I don’t know, that’s why I asked you,” he said, passing the demon moose and coming up on the door out.

“How would that last one work?”

“Well, I could tell him that everything I said was a lie, then I would tell them that I was lying.”

“And then what?” Magnon seemed genuinely interested.

“If it went according to plan, smoke would begin coming out of their ears and they’d die.”

“Why would they do that?”

“It worked on the original Star Trek.”

Stirling opened the door and stepped back out into the basement of L’Abattoir. Brian was sitting on the stairs looking slightly shell-shocked as Stirling stepped through.

“Brian, good to see you, no need to get up, I’ll see myself out.”

“Wait! Where did you go?”

“There’s a place downtown where the freaks all come around,” Stirling sang, mounting the stairs and putting in a bit of hip action as he did.

“What!?”

“I’ll come back and give you the whole five dollar tour, but right now I’m on a tight schedule."

“Five dollar tour?”

“It used to be a nickel, but inflation’s a bitch.”

“What!?”

Stirling pushed up the trap door and stepped out into the restaurant. He paced quickly to the front door and was out before people could even begin to comment on Magnon.

His transfer was still valid, so Stirling jogged to the Granville platform and got back on the Skytrain.
“Let’s look at my pros and cons,” he said to the bird once they were underway again.

“Fine. You possess a near-supernatural ability to irritate people to violence when you are awake. You cause people to flee in mortal terror when you sleep.”

“Which one of those is a pro and which one is a con? I can’t tell.”

“Yes,” agreed the crow.

Stirling thought about that as the train shimmied along the electrified track and something resembling a plan began to form. It wasn’t a good plan, as a matter of fact, it was a very bad plan, but it was a plan. He filled the crow in on his idea as they went.

“That isn’t a plan, it’s interpretive suicide.”

“But it’s better than nothing. Will you do it?”

“Fine.”

“Really?”

“You’re going to do something stupid anyway, at least this way I know what it is.”

By the time he’d made it to the Vancouver Community College platform it was a quarter to twelve. He’d still need to travel a city block to get to Broadway and Clarke. During the ride, neither he or Magnon had come up with any plan better than Stirling’s Wile E. Coyote plan, so it won by default.
He trotted down the stairs to street level and began loping toward Clark. Though Stirling walked regularly, that was about the extent of the exercise his legs ever got. With all the trotting around he’d done in the last day, his calves were beginning to feel rubbery as he wove past pedestrians. To top it off, Doc Martens, while comfortable and an excellent choice for applying bruises to those who deserved them, were proving sub-optimal for much beyond a brisk walk—especially when damp. He could already feel the incipient blisters forming on his instep.

 He’d toyed with the idea of taking up running around the time he began to walk for exercise but gave up the idea after discovering some horrible truths about the activity. Beyond the expected shin splints and sore muscles, raw, bleeding nipples, were pretty much the unofficial uniform for the serious runner.

Then there were the shorts ton consider. A piece of wardrobe so brief, that by pulling out the pockets and landing too hard, any man worthy of the name would suddenly be in danger of doing an elephant impersonation. Walking was bad enough, bringing bleeding nipples and public exhibitionism into the mix seemed a poor trade for shaving a few minutes off a trip. 

Now that time was of the essence though, he was beginning to rethink his decision. Just because short shorts were the fashion didn’t mean they were absolutely required. He could be the sane one pounding the pavement in normal non-exhibitionist clothing, his sense of mystery intact while other runners around him thrashed along, their parts flopping like a freshly landed trout.

Having a good stock of Body Glide laid by would help to alleviate the nipple problem. With so much depending on speed at the moment, a few sessions a week pounding the pavement seemed a small price to pay. He’d have to make it out of this mess alive of course, a prospect that seemed less and less likely the closer he got to the meeting point.