THE NICK OF TIME
(and other abrasions)
Acquainted With The Night
by
Al Bruno III
Chapter Three
Cornell Way
The bar was called the Pink Pig, it was cramped, smoke filled and dimly lit. The floor was a mosaic of cigarette burns, scuff marks and the occasional bloodstain. The majority of the patrons were off-duty Sentries and Constables; they stood at the bar, swapping stories and showing off scars.
Scamander and Dr. Flesh sat at a table near the back, draining tall glasses of beer as quickly as they were brought. “So-” Scamander explained, “so- I swore that after Delilah there would be no more wives! No more! I said.”
Dr. Flesh sloshed down the last of his beer, he’d downed a handful of pills in the bathroom and they were mixing with the alcohol quite nicely. “But then-”
“But then I meet Amelia,” Scamander shook his head, “And the whole thing begins again!”
Both men roared with laughter, Dr. Flesh slapped his friend on the back, making him spill his beer. “Fifteen years ago you were a confirmed bachelor and now you have eleven wives!”
“The 1960’s addled my brain.” Scamander said with a twinkle in his eyes, “And I have twelve wives now.”
“Twelve?”
“Giselle is the latest and she is a prize.” Scamander's smile thinned to a leer, “All soft and curvy in all the right places.”
“Sounds delightful.”
“You must try her out.”
“Thanks,” He stared into his empty glass, “but no thanks.”
Scamander slammed his fist down on the table, “What? My wives aren't good enough for you anymore?”
Dr. Flesh tensed momentarily before he saw the glee peeking out from behind Scamander's angry scowl. They broke out laughing like schoolboys. “I wish you wouldn't mess with me like that.”
“Bah! Your problem is that you have been celibate for far too long.” The monk punctuated his statement with a gulp from his beer, “It is not good for a man.”
“I'll take my chances.”
Three more glasses were set down on the table in front of them. Scamander's eyes wandered boozily up from the swirling froth to the man that had brought them. He was skinny with a thick mustache and he wore the elegant dark blue uniform of a Constable. “Mind if I join you?” he spoke with clipped nasal tones.
Standing quickly, thne regretting it, Dr. Flesh managed to shake the new arrival's hand, “Lieutenant Constable Aethelstan Loundsberry! How the devil are you?”
“Actually that's Chief Constable Loundsberry now.” he proudly patted the stripes on his shoulders.
“Well congratulations.” Dr. Flesh said motioning for him to sit down.
“By the way, Scamander this is Aethelstan. Aethelstan this is Scamander.”
Dr. Flesh pushed one of the glasses to his friend and then asked, “So tell me Chief Constable, is this a coincidence or did you know I was here all along?”
“Well.” He stroked his mustache, “I try to keep tabs on things.”
“Well I'm very impressed, you're one Hell of a detective.”
“Actually I'm just a good liar. The only reason I'm in here is because my date stood me up and I came here to drown my sorrows.” the thin man shrugged.
“You're a pisser.” Dr. Flesh took a sip of his beer.
“A pisser or not, so long as he's buying.” Scamander joked.
Aethelstan leaned forward conspiratorially, “So am I correct in assuming you are here on business?”
Dr. Flesh finished his beer and ordered another, “You would be correct in that.”
“Is it Morgan?”
“Yes.”
“You’d best speak to Mr. Kriely then.” Aethelstan said, “They’ve had us keeping tabs on Morgan for months now. He’s something of a rabble-rouser.”
“You don’t say?”
A scowl darkened the Chief Constable’s features, “If they had let us pick him up right after his first act of subversion we wouldn't be in this situation now.”
Scamander looked up from his glass, “You honestly believe that?”
“Yes.” Aethelstan Loundsberry said, “One night in the vaults and he would have been singing a different tune.”
“All you would have done is start the rioting all the sooner.”
“I doubt that very much.”
“Riots?” Dr. Flesh interrupted. Polonius hadn’t mentioned anything about this! “I just got here, what am I missing?”
“Council politics aren’t enough for Morgan.” The Chief Constable snorted, “He’s made the Monarchs the target of his fear mongering.”
“But who isn't afraid of the Monarchs these days?” Scamander said.
Thorn Park
The walls, floor and ceiling of the room had degenerated beyond any hope of repair; they sagged and groaned their original colors eroded to a watery brown by the actions of countless lodgers. Dr. Flesh lay on the stained canopy bed and fumbled through his tattered walled it search of Rachel’s phone number. The last time he’d checked it was in there, but the last time he checked was months ago.
Only five days left till Christmas. He thought and then glanced outside at the sallow moonlight, Four days really.
While he might not have religion any more, he had to admit it would be nice if he could wrap things up here and see his son for the holidays. He gave up on the phone number and turned his attention back to the nightstand where the last of the pills and a half-empty bottle of bourbon waited for him.
Maybe Scamander was right, maybe he needed to get himself back under control. He’d been relatively clean until Rachel left but nowadays it was one binge after another. Sometimes he wondered if he wasn’t trying to kill himself, after all he’d drank, injected, snorted and swallowed enough drugs to kill a dozen human beings. When he woke up the morning with his hangover and his missing hours didn’t he feel a little disappointed?
That is the bourbon talking. He reached for the pills and stopped suddenly.
Cursing to himself, he reached over to the nightstand and switched off the lights. Dr. Flesh rolled off the bed and waited for his eyes to adjust to the murk. This was precisely the reason why he had checked anonymously into this run down motel.
Crouching low to the floor, he listened. The sound came again, a thin scratching, like fingernails on a chalkboard.
The question was, was this someone after his services or his head? Either way he wasn’t in the mood.
The streetlights cast weird shadows into the darkened room; twisted silhouettes slithered along the walls. Dr. Flesh looked to the curtained window and saw a familiar shape pacing the sill.
The sound wasn't like fingernails on a chalkboard, he realized, but fingernails on glass.
His expression growing more sour with each step, he crossed the room and shoved the curtain aside.
The orange tomcat was perched on the ledge. It matched him glare for glare.
He banged on the glass, trying to shoo it away.
The cat's only reaction was to blink.
Dr. Flesh threw open the window and swatted at it, “I'm not in the mood for this!” The cat dodged his blows easily and trundled down the rickety fire escape. For a crazy moment Dr. Flesh considered giving chase, then chided himself.
A deep leathery fluttering sound reached his ears as he watched the tomcat go. He pulled his gloves off and stepped away from the window.
The door flew open, a teenager charged into the room, an inverted ankh was tattooed on his face.
“Isn't it after curfew?” Dr. Flesh asked.
A tall figure landed roughly on the fire escape.
The boy assassin snarled and drew a pair of ivory bladed stilettos from the sheaths embedded in his forearms. His accomplice crawled in through the open window. This second assassin was at least nominally female. She was hairless and naked save for the crossbow and quiver of arrows slung around her neck. Her wings were a thick membrane of skin and muscle that stretched from her ankles to wrists.
His blades hissing as they cut the air, the boy assassin sprung. Dr. Flesh dropped to the ground and rolled through his legs, toppling him. One of the stilettos clattered under the bed.
The female fired the crossbow. The bolt raked across the fabric of his shirt and embedded itself in the floor.
Jumping to his feet once more, Dr. Flesh faced his two attackers. His glasses hung askew on his face, he swatted them away. “I'll tell you what. I'll assume you two amateurs have no idea who I am.” He lowered his voice to a gruff whisper and brandished the pair of interconnected circles tattooed on the back of his left hand, “I am Dr. Flesh. That's right THE Dr. Flesh. Now that you've had fair warning, you've got five seconds to leave.”
The female paused to reload her crossbow while her accomplice attacked once more, his blade whistling through the air. The first cut practically split Dr. Flesh' shirt in half, the second brushed his ribs.
Dr. Flesh caught his attacker by the neck and lifted him off the ground with practiced ease.
In spite of the iron grip on his throat, the male assassin managed a long, raspy scream. The inverted ankh began to twist as his skin rippled and glistened. Rivulets of pink and red began to well up and drip from his extremities and with each drip the dissolving increased. Moist clumps of meat and blood ran down his pant legs. The assassin's nose came loose and slid away leaving a gaping hole for the rest of his tattooed face to drain into. What remained of his skin was stained red by the pulsing flow of unrestrained blood. His headdress and the scalp beneath it slid down over his face and plopped into the ever growing pink puddle at Dr. Flesh' feet.
Blood pooled in the assassin's boots until they swelled and dropped off, revealing wet, white bone. The internal organs shriveled and fell from ever widening holes. Sinews twisted and snapped, curling upon themselves like holiday ribbon.
The remaining husk issued a final plaintive gasp and died with a shudder.“I don't suppose…” Dr. Flesh let the bony remains clatter to the floor, “…you'd like to tell me who sent you now and avoid a long and sloppy interrogation?”
The female snarled a reply but kept her distance; her finger tightened on the trigger of her crossbow.
“I thought not.” He stepped forward.
She fired, the bolt embedding itself in Dr. Flesh's abdomen. He doubled over.
The empty crossbow clattered to the floor, she advanced, a smile creasing her painted lips, her claw like nails clicking against one another in anticipation.
Dr. Flesh jerked the arrow from the dry would and straightened. “I'll give you credit.” He examined the head, “No one else ever thought to try quartz tipped arrows.”
She began backing towards the window.
“Did you really think you could take me out with your knives, arrows and back alley incantations?” Dr. Flesh kept pace with her. He was vaguely aware of something crunching under the toe of his boot, one of the arrowheads he supposed “All you've managed to do is ruin a perfectly good shirt and piss me off.”
“Morgan.” Her back was at the windowsill, “He knows.”
“What's your name?”
“My mother called me her little Moonbeam.”
He picked idly at the flecks of blood crusting on his palm, “Well Moonbeam, why don't you get lost before I decide to take my frustrations out on you.”
She stared at him with disbelief.
“I said get lost.”
Moonbeam turned and leapt from the window.
Alone once more, Dr. Flesh bent down and retrieved his glasses. A jagged diagonal crack had split the right lens in half. “Shit.”
