Month: October 2016

He’d had a nice break on the Seabus, after playing ambulance, and felt all of his good humour and good sense marshalled around him. He’d arrive a little late, but that would be fine; George would find calmly sociable and useful things to say, maybe explain that he, Michel was his chief sexual rival, except that since he’d come to town, the two of them had been going at Kima like ants on fallen fruit with no sign of babies.

Michel couldn’t transfer a sperm packet big enough to start a pregnancy, and George couldn’t transfer one at all, and got madder than hell if you even mentioned it. Michel hoped that while coaching his lawyer friend on Michel’s many interesting qualities George would have to say something about his reproductive bobbles, because if he really was close to this human, as close as he claimed, he’d have to say something. It would be embarrassing to George, and that made any mockery of his own troubles worthwhile.

It amused Michel and he and George were on opposite ends of an emotional and physical spectrum, but comfortably friends. It hadn’t always been so, but George was nothing if not pragmatic, and had forgiven Michel for taking bad advice and trying to kill him back in the day.

If he was George, he’d have been preparing for the meeting since daybreak, rehearsing and trying various things in his mind.  There would be agendas, occluded and competing and colliding and colluding, and Michel thought it would all be horseshit.  There were two things in his life right now, and everything else was a sunny expanse of boredom and pointlessness.

There was sneaking around the city at night moving furniture, which he never in a dozen lifetimes would have guessed provided the right amount of work-related mayhem and routine for his sadly deranged personality, and banging Kima, or trying to. Even making a commitment to not making a commitment was too much for him; he was content to fall into the work while making the occasional half-hearted effort to understand what George was doing, and the crazy places that Kima’s brain was taking her while supporting George’s work.

According to George, the lawyer (who was ‘one of the finest Canadian jurists of all time’ according to Maclean’s, which to Michel was like saying he was something excellent and yet rationally undesirable) was sick and maybe dying, and his wife was definitely dying, and that irritated Michel.

Most Sixers had a distaste for humanity’s folkways of death that was blatant, bigoted, unrepentant and immune to even gentle admonishment. If you’re going to die, get it over with! — only a fool lingers once the pin has been pulled. Sixers died abruptly and completely, although you usually got a little notice so you could say goodbye, if you cared to. That was a natural death.  An unnatural death sent you away quicker than a lightning strike.

After a fine run, which included slapping a bear on the ass (it treed itself with a confused bellow, circled the top of the snag and mimicked a KFC bucket), Michel reached his destination. He was about to knock on the door when George who must have been taking invisibility lessons from Kima, forestalled him. The pain was stark.

“Ow ow ow shit fuck,” Michel said in English, but quietly. George’s hair had formed a clamp and pinched his three hairs. Michel mastered the urge to bob like a panicky spider on a thread and stayed still and quiet.

George’s voice, calm in Greek: “Cy is key to my plans, dead or alive, but if you scare him or do anything to hurt him or anyone in this household, or if you do anything puckish and droll and ignorant, I’ll make you wish you hadn’t.”

“You’re the boss,” Michel said, and tried to force a link. George, annoyed, slapped him off, and reefed just a bit on the three hairs. 

“Eee,” Michel squeaked.

“I’m not your boss, and I never will be,” George said.

“You have literally got me by the short hairs.  I don’t know how much more of a tyrant you could be,” Michel said. He kept his tone humble. “Then there’s my paycheque.”

“Thank Cy,” George said, releasing Michel. “He’s the one making it all possible. I mean it.  No funny business.”

“Sheesh, what a grouch,” Michel said. His hairs were screeching at him, and he tried to think calm thoughts back to them. They entered the house, George determined, Michel, his jolly mood destroyed, with foreboding.

Still silent and invisible, he dodged early morning traffic and crossed a few streets. There was an almost dead man in the alley he cut through to get to George’s apartment building. He stopped for a minute to look at him, and then remembered that George had insisted that the MMCo staffers all start carrying Narcan.

Colour slid back into the man’s cheeks. He gave an almighty snort and sat up so fast he would have done credit to a Sixer.

“Hi,” Michel said. He had taken the form of a feminized angel, just for laughs. “If you walk with me now, I’ll take you to the hospital and you can get clean. If you don’t, in about half an hour the Narcan will wear off and your high will come back, and your breathing will go away.”

“Lemme die,” the man said, leaning his head back into the scummy brick.

“As you wish, human,” Michel said, like a true stuck-up ass. “I have places to be anyway.” All Sixers who dealt with humans on a regular basis knew ‘the sandwich’, which was a three part illusion. The side facing the human you were talking was real enough to trick human vision, but not quite dense enough to fool another Sixer. The side facing the outside world shows nothing but the street scene, with the human, less the Sixer; once again, good enough to fool all but the most unusual human, but as subtle as a flare gun to another Sixer. In the middle, it was your normal human illusion, or whatever suited you. If you didn’t have to move, you could keep it up all day. If you did have to move, it was easier to make a ‘bubble’, which was your normal invisibility pushed out just enough to accommodate your human chum.

“Are you really an angel from Heaven?”

“Are you really a drug addict from Edmonton?” Michel responded, having stealthily turned his new friend’s pockets. He could already feel the man’s breathing slow again. He needed a drip, in hospital, or he was going to die. “God damnit,” Michel said, irritated that he might miss George. “I gotta make a phone call.”

“You’re not an angel!”

“Jesus Christ,” Michel said. He appeared to pull off a wing feather and handed it to the man. It was actually a swan’s wing feather. He tried to keep a couple in stock. “Fine. I’ll make a phone call and you can die while I watch. This day was a write-off anyway.”

The conversation took place in Greek.

“Don’t leave yet,” Michel said.

“I have appointments all day starting in half an hour, so, no, I’m not hanging around for you,” George said. “I was about to jump in a cab.”

“Give me the address and I’ll meet you there.”

“You already met Cy,” George said. “It’s his house in North Van.” He provided the address.

“I had a different face,” Michel said.

“He’s okay with that. Explain it once and he’ll be fine.”

“One of the smart ones,” Michel said.

“See you there,” George said, and hung up.

Michel said to the man, “Let’s take a ride.”

The poor man shit himself in terror as Michel tucked him into one of his pockets and started to trot toward Burrard. They were not even a kilometre from the St. Paul’s Hospital emergency entrance. Flat out, he could make it in seven minutes, slower, obviously than it would have been if he wasn’t carrying 140 pounds of shit and regret.

As he crossed Robson Street the man passed out again. Michel started squeezing him to keep air going in and out, since humans, the poor dears, aren’t much good without air. In the parking lot Michel snuck behind a truck so that when he emerged, transferring his cargo from his pocket to his arms, he looked like a regular citizen trying to help this poor sick man. While yelling for Narcan, he suctioned off as much of the shit as he could out of respect for the staff. Then he ran down a corridor at random, found a blind spot to vanish in and a safe place to dispose of the shit.

“Finally back on my own schedule!” he said. He waited until somebody triggered the emergency sliding doors and then ran back up Burrard. 

He turned right on Canada Place and bounced over various obstacles while fare jumping, until he was balanced on one of the Seabus masts.

Michel woke and looked down from the tree he slept in.  He rarely slept in the same tree for more than a week, as he could damage it. He was sleeping in the tallest tree in CRAB Park to stay close to George’s apartment, so he could keep watch on George.

He could see the ocean.  There was always the possibility she could swim into the harbour to see him.

More fool George, to spend money on shit like an apartment. With his hair out he didn’t even have to get wet in the rain if he didn’t want to. And cable? — which Michel was convinced was among the last of the really great corporate scams — why bother with it? He’d once watched a lot of TV but it was mostly to see what people were thinking was important, and then he realized that none of it was. His preference for carefully curated personal interactions over media reasserted itself in the 1990’s, and he’d never bothered with anything but radio news since. 

He stretched out his arms and legs and performed a controlled fall like a Jacob’s ladder down the trunk of the tree. Sometimes he went for a run and a dunk in the morning, but not always. He silently and invisibly raided one of the trash bins for his breakfast. His nutrition buds told him what was necessary, and he ate it. 

Humans made such a big deal out of food that he felt sorry for them. Obviously their evolutionary path was much more sociable, and there wasn’t really a moral problem with it, but being that dependent on other people for something without which you’d die in less than six weeks gave Michel the shivers, so he avoided dependency. He silently and invisibly defecated and buried it.

Sixers vary widely in their sleeping habits. Watermorphs sleep in the ocean. Most of the four-legged versions of the landmorphs sleep on the ground, and any birdmorphs sleep in trees or on rooftops if trees are not available.

Jesse, hearing this, asked what the hell happened during thunderstorms.

“Nothing. I love thunderstorms.”

“What happens if you get hit by lightning?”

“I die, probably. It’s one of our swears, ‘rocks and lightning!’ ‘cause they’re just about the only two things that can kill us.”

“Hunh! Bullets can’t kill you but lightning can!” Jesse said in wonder.

“Oh, I’d have a tough time if somebody hit me with a few quick rounds from a 50 cal,” Michel said, placidly.  “Or a drone strike. That’d make me hop around for sure. Buckshot’s nothing, just makes me clang for a while after.”

“Clang?”

“You know, echo,” Michel said, illustrating this by cupping his hands, palms together, about 15 cm apart and shaking them.

“I don’t echo inside; I’m not hollow,” Jesse said.

“Neither me,” Michel said. “And that’s not quite right ‘cause you’re a tube. But at least you know what’s inside you. I got no clue. Could be ghosts and water beetles and cupcakes, for all I know.”

“Don’t you have a heart? And I don’t get how you can both eat and shit without having a tube to do it with.”

“I don’t know if I do have a heart, and I don’t know if I don’t have one. Just know that everything works,” he said, and slapped himself.  There was a loud reverberation, as if a gong had been struck.  Jesse inserted his fingers in both ears and waited for the noise to die down.

“You say you don’t breathe.”

“No lungs,” Michel said. “Talk with a diaphragm.”

“You live on Earth, but you don’t breathe air.”

“Most of us live in the water. Never been a big fan. Did I tell you I swam out to meet Kima and by the time I got there I was so fuckin’ tired I couldn’t mate?”

Jesse burst out laughing. “You’re kidding.”

“No. She was pissed.”

“This face is not surprised,” Jesse said, pointing to it. “So is she the greatest, or what?”

“Don’t know ‘bout that, cause I don’t know ‘em all, but of the ones I ever met, she’s the greatest.”

Michel remembered the conversation with his usual good humour.  Kima had only been mad for about ten seconds and then she was dying to talk to him. Her brain seemed like an elaborately geared toy that was going to catch fire from being spun up so high, so it was good thing she was sitting in four degree water all day. He had fondled her for hours, which was amusing in itself, while she talked. Her English was getting better, but she rattled at him in a disorienting mix of the language of light and Greek, sometimes at the same time, until he could feel his ability to keep up drop into unfathomed incomprehension.

It was obvious why George needed her for the project.  He still wondered why they’d picked Vancouver when Halifax was a better choice, but you couldn’t go up against the two of them once they’d made a decision.  Halifax at least he could keep living in Montréal and visit, but nobody had thought of his needs when they’d committed to this ‘logistical challenge’. This was George’s way of saying he was declaring war on the laughably named Western Civilization while hoping that nobody important or possibly nuke-tossing noticed. So far it was fine, or so George said. Michel was not a deep thinking individual, but he was no fool, and he wanted to practice the well known human aphorism Trust but Verify.

Today was the day he was going to hang out with George and see what he did all day.  He had this big plan, which he and Kima and possibly Hermes and others had been dragged into, but Michel was still not clear on what was happening. He had no fears for himself, but Michel didn’t think much of George’s plans for his human acquaintances, and wished to satisfy himself that George wasn’t marching them all off a cliff.

“I’ll take your statement,” said cop number two. Looking beyond him, he said, “Where’d the other guy go?”

“Michel?” Jesse said.

“Took off and left you to deal with the mess. What a pal.” Cop number one was gloating.

“That’s okay, I was expecting it,” Jesse said. His knees were so cold they felt like they’d gone sledding with Amundsen.

Two more cops in plain clothes arrived. They went inside to chat with Rodrigues after confirming who everyone was.

“Can you explain why the buckshot is all lined up in a row on the front step?” said the third cop, approaching Jesse from behind, which was unpleasant, and then dropping into a squat next to him to scowl into his face.

“It realized it was being fired into Michel and fainted in terror,” Jesse said. George had said he’d never spend a night in jail as long as George had anything to say about it. Whether that useful promise had any legs, or tentacles, or any other organic means of locomotion whatsoever, was not clear. He remained hopeful.

The medical examiner and the forensics people arrived.

“Look, I was called here for a job, and a man tried to murder me and I found a dead woman who turned out to be my customer.  Can you arrest me, detain me for questioning indoors or release me please?”

Cop number three got up in disgust and walked away.

Michel chose that moment to arrive — except it wasn’t Michel. 

“Jesse!” Michel called.  Reassuringly, it was Michel’s voice coming out of the strange face.

“Michel,” Jesse said obediently.

“I called the lawyer with our location.”

“Really?” Jesse said, pleased.

“Also all the media, and your supervisor, you braindead anchor on the taxpayer’s ass,” Michel said, giving a little wave to cop number one. “With a little reminder about how not to treat people when they’ve called in a murder.”

“Now can I stand up?” Jesse asked.

“I took pictures of them all, too, since it’s not illegal to take pictures of officers from the street unless there’s an active shooter (I don’t see one) or an evacuation order (nope, nothing around here like that), or there’s a national security issue (nope, plain old everyday femicide) but even then judges can be fussy when they think the cops are bringing the administration of justice into disrepute.”

“You can’t wet a river,” Jesse said.

“I hear ya, kid, I hear ya,” Michel said, nodding thoughtfully.

“Would you try to focus sir,” — the word sir nearly imploded under the weight of his contempt — “and tell us what happened?” cop number one said.  His partner took notes.

“Jesse banged on the door. I heard the shotgun while I was coming up behind. I used a battering ram to shove Jesse to one side and the blast hit the battering ram.”

“Why would you take a battering ram to a client’s house?” cop number two asked, pausing in his dictation, appalled by such barbarism.

Michel was dismissive. “You think this is our first trip to Playland? We’ve both had guns pulled on us by unhappy exes, and had to get into places that had been barricaded by paranoid hoarders and crazed boyfriends and whacked-out landlords.”

“Don’t forget the pimp.” Jesse was not going to forget that night anytime soon.  George had turned up for that one.

“Where’s the battering ram now?”

Michel looked around, eyes wild and dubious. “Should be here somewhere.” Jesse tsk-tsked.  Michel was obviously pranking the cops, who would never find what had never been there.

“No record of Jesse Silver in the system,” cop number one said, coming back from his car. “How about you, Michel?”

“Here, have some ID.” The change in appearance made much more sense now.  He’d lifted some poor soul’s wallet and was skin-walking his way through the encounter with the cops. He felt sorry for whoever it was had parted with his wallet. Or maybe Michel had squirrelled it away well in advance. 

“The ID doesn’t say Michel.”

“It don’t when you were born a man and your true name is Michelle,” said Michel, softening his voice and raising his pitch a smidgen, “And you can see how much I look like the picture,” he said, presenting a profile and then replicating the blank expression on the driver’s licence. It was all Jesse could do not burst out laughing, so he looked down.

“Where’s your BC I.D.?” cop number one asked, eyes narrowed.

“I only just moved here from Montréal! Jesse can confirm,” said Michel. “I got three months, you officious dough head.”

Jesse said, “Can I please stand up now?”

Cop number two did something with his face, something Jesse couldn’t see.  Michel snickered. Cop number one, surly to begin with and angered by his partner’s apparent lack of support, said, “Sure. But don’t move.”

Jesse was sorely tempted to break into a two person conga line and motor away into the darkness while Michel allowed a week’s allotment of RCMP 9 mm ammo to rain down on his ass. Giving up the truck hardly seemed worth it, and he had to wait for the lawyer, now anyway. He was amazed that Michel, with George’s assistance, seemed to have had no trouble rousting out a lawyer at two a.m. It took a little under an hour for him to arrive. Michel mentioned he was coming from North Van.

When he pulled up, there was a stir. Supported by a slender young man a few years older than Jesse, a very pink and white old man in an expensive black suit slowly made his way to him.

“I’m representing you, it appears,” he said.  His voice was frail and breathy, but the intellect behind his eyes seemed unimpaired.

“My name is Cyrus Armbruster. You can call me Cy.  This is my son Colin.”

“Grandson Colin,” the young man corrected gently.

“Yes. It’s your father’s fault for naming you after himself.” This appeared to be a gag of some standing, and Colin sighed but did not speak.

“Sir, aren’t you a retired B.C. Supreme Court judge?” cop number three asked hesitantly. Cop number two, realizing this was true, slipped inside to warn the others.

“Why, yes, I am!” the old man said, delighted to have been recognized. Colin gave Jesse a lopsided grin. “So young man, have the police been harassing you? My understanding is that you reported a murder and now they’re treating you like you did it.”

One of the detectives could be heard yelling, “What?” through the open front door.

Cop number one looked like he wanted to chew on some Tums®.

“I just want to go to the station house to get my fingerprints done for exclusion and go home,” Jesse said, suddenly realizing that even if he did get home within the next couple of hours, sleep would be impossible.

“Well, gentlemen?” the retired justice asked, smiling with welcoming calm.

“Don’t leave town,” growled cop number one.

“Jesse, will you undertake not to leave town?”

“I promise I will not leave the Lower Mainland without informing the RCMP for the duration of this investigation,” Jesse said promptly.

“Michel?”

“Nah, I can’t do that.”

“Michel.”

“Nah, I can’t do that.  I won’t leave town or go more than 20 k out in the water. Love fishing you know.  It’s why I moved to BC!”

“I’m not letting them leave until I search the truck,” cop number one said.

“Got a warrant?” Michel asked.

“Michel, your steadfast defence of your hard-won liberties is a credit to you, but in this case, there’s no harm in the police searching your work vehicle. Unless you think there’s a reason not to.”

“It’s not my truck, it’s the company’s. Your say-so, you’re the company lawyer.” Michel turned aside with apparent indifference.

Jesse took out the keys and opened the cab and the back doors. The old man and his grandson went back to their car to wait it out.

Cop number one, assisted with obvious distaste by his partner, took his sweet fucking time, but after about twenty minutes he realized that he would probably have to dig his career prospects out from under a disciplinary letter — or worse — if he kept it up.

While they were waiting, Jesse went over to the judge’s car. Colin rolled the window down. 

“Do you know about our friends?” Jesse said.

“I only met George before tonight,” Colin said, not misunderstanding. “Michel is something else.”

“Do not talk about it,” said the judge, in a voice that had once commanded a courtroom.

“Colin, old buddy, I just replaced my phone and I lost your number,” Jesse said, winking badly.

Frowning, the judge decided to ignore the rest of the conversation.

“Sure.” They exchanged contact details and a knowing look that promised alcohol-fuelled revelations.

Emerging from the truck, cop number one looked at Jesse and Michel with a contempt that did not dare express itself in full, and said, “I’m keeping my eye on you. I don’t know what you’re doing here but I know you’re up to something. Kids like you don’t have pull like this.”

“Colin and I are drinking buddies,” Jesse said.  The lie came easily, and Colin’s number was now on his phone.

“All we do is move furniture while complaining about the police, sir,” Michel said. “Last I checked none of that was a crime.”

“Get lost,” cop number one said.

“Get fucked,” Michel said, waving, as soon as the door closed and Jesse had started the truck.

Jesse was inclined to agree.

A news van turned onto 14^th just as they were pulling away, which was lucky for them since they now had a nice big parking space in front of the crime scene.

The man whose identity had been purloined was asleep, and he would have been startled to hear that he’d been stopping buckshot in Burnaby while sawing logs in Côte des Neiges.

Michel ground up the ID later that night. He had spares, of course.

Thirty seconds after their departure, the detectives emerged from the house and told everyone not to sweat it.  It was open and shut.  The phone calls proved it.  The asshole friend gave up Rodrigues, the gun matched, the bloody clothes in the burn barrel were his, and each of the four discharges had a matching hole. One in Melissa, one in the door, two in the poor dog.

The weird ballistics at the front door weren’t an issue. The movers had gotten lucky, that was all.

“Did you witness the murder?”

“No, but I found the body and the guy who confessed to it is still here.”

“If you have a vehicle please remain in it until the police arrive. What’s your friend’s name?

“Michel Calabria,” Jesse said slowly.  He realized they had big problems; they’d be wanting fingerprints for exclusion. “Shit,” he said. Then, “Sorry.”

“What’s happening?”

“My friend’s no fan of the RCMP,” Jesse said, prevaricating like mad, “So he probably won’t be here when they get here.”

He smelled disgusting smoke. He continued to answer the operator’s questions, confirming that the weapon in the house had been secured. Phone in one hand and flashlight in the other, he slowly circled the house, looking for the source of the smoke.  There was bloody clothing in a burn barrel.  Jesse, looking around, found a hose and, putting the flashlight in its holster, doused the fire to preserve the evidence and told the operator that’s what he was doing. He learned the cops were minutes out and got off the phone, although the operator offered to stay with him if that’s what he wanted.

Doing his best to stay out of the worst of the scene, he went back inside. Michel read his face, and had likely heard the phone call too — he and George seemed to be able to put ears on the ends of their tentacles and then stretch them out a long way. 

Michel gave his now-gagged captive a little squeeze, which nearly popped his eyes out. Michel kept the long white skinny zip ties on his person, and had used them lavishly, binding knees, ankles, elbows and wrists. As he said, “They hurt a lot more,” and he mocked George for using the more comfortable ones.

“Did I ever tell you,” Michel said softly, “that I only killed guys who deserved it?”

“Don’t, Michel, just — don’t,” Jesse said. “It won’t bring her back and this witless, violent, drunken fuckface should stand trial.”

The man’s phone rang and Jesse’s 230 pounds jumped into the air like a startled hare. Michel made a face at his cowardly response, and mimicking his captive’s voice perfectly, picked his pocket and answered, “Yeah.”

“Ignore the truck, I took care of them,” he growled. He hung up.

“He should stand trial along with this waste of skin,” Jesse said. “He’s obviously coming to help dispose of her body.”

Michel stood over their captive and gave him a light, almost affectionate kick.

“You’re gonna be mad at me, seeing as how you’re almost puking, but I’m having a really good time.  Keep an eye on him. See you in a minute!” He bounded off across the lawn and vanished, heading toward the closest intersection to await their visitor.

Jesse righted a chair and sat looking down on his client’s murderer. Her face kept being superimposed over his. He blinked.

“Michel’s going to collect your friend,” Jesse said. “You’ll both be in custody by morning.”

Two squad cars arrived, sirens blaring.  Jesse moved slowly down the front stairs, hands well in the air.

“On your knees,” bellowed a white cop in his thirties, drawing his weapon and pointing it at Jesse.

“I called it in!” Jesse said. It didn’t matter. They put him on the wet ground and frisked him. “Thanks a pantload, Michel,” Jesse said.

“Who’s Michel,” the same cop barked again.

“He’s the poor slob who’s trying to catch the friend of the murderer who is driving toward us right this instant to help the clown inside this house bury his wife,” Jesse said bitterly.  “By showing up, sirens blaring, you probably scared him off. Now you’ll have to actually do some police work to find him and question him.”

“You’d better adjust your tone,” the cop said.

His partner, whose ancestors had likely hailed from some part of India, sighed, and said flatly, “Where is the deceased.”

“Car trunk.  I left it unlocked,” Jesse said, glad to be dealing with a human being. “Can I get up now?”

“What happened here?” said a third cop, calling down from the front door. 

“Shotgun blast,” Jesse yelled back.

They had found the shotgun, an ATA Etro 8 Tactical, and Mr. Rodrigues.

“Who tied him up?”

“Michel,” Jesse said.

“Is he coming back?”

“Not likely. If you point a gun at him, you’ll wish you hadn’t,” Jesse said mutinously.

“Oh yeah? How so?”

“It’s my opinion, based on my observations of my coworker,” Jesse said, with less ire. “Can I get up now?” A hand on his shoulder said no.

“What were you and Michel doing here in the middle of the night?”

“There’s a dead dog with a gunshot wound back here,” Jesse heard the fourth cop yell.

“Christ,” Jesse said, realizing he’d probably walked right past it on his way to the burn barrel.

“You have something to do with it?”

“Nossir, but you, me and a civil suit are gonna have a go if you don’t let me stand up, Sir.” When it became obvious that cop number one was a large diameter douchenozzle, Jesse chose the saner course and answered an earlier question. “My coworker and I were hired to help Melissa with a household move, and to provide material and emotional support if the fucking dirtbag who just murdered her showed up.”

“You stay put until the scene is secure,” said cop number one, in a fine, offhand tone, as if he hadn’t believed a word Jesse had said.

Jesse puked on his shoes. Technically it wasn’t assault and the cop’s partner turned away, shoulders shaking, so Jesse figured it was all good. That burger and shake hadn’t been sitting right since he’d opened the trunk, so he let it go in two mighty heaves. The cop groaned in disgust and jumped back to avoid the second wave.

“I just saw a horribly injured dead body for the first time sir,” Jesse said, and spat, and then made a noise like he might hurl again. “And being yelled at and drawn on kinda finished me off.”

“Ya punk! You could have aimed somewhere else!” — this while shaking his pantlegs.

“Came on real sudden, sir,” Jesse said. 

Michel’s voice whispered in his ear.  “Look down the road and look pleased.”

“Well well,” Jesse said, doing exactly what he was told.

His attention got the cops’ attention.

Michel whispered, “Tell ’em to turn the cop lights off.”

“Turn the emergency lights off, he’s coming,” Jesse said.

They refused.

“Fuck me,” Michel whispered. “I hate it when I have to improvise. I’ll be out of range. Trust me and stay down.”

Jesse gave a strangled little cackle, which nearly triggered his vomit reflex again. “What the hell’s so funny,” said cop number one.

“That’s Michel out there in the dark,” Jesse said. “If I can’t predict what he’s gonna do, you’re pretty much euchred.”

After the longest two minutes of Jesse’s life thus far, Michel appeared out of the gloom walking down the road abreast a glassy-eyed man in his late thirties, whose gait was so unusual that both of the cops standing next to Jesse stood taller and craned their necks. “What the hell is wrong with that guy?” cop number two said.

“Is he walking funny?” Jesse asked. He couldn’t see from where he was kneeling.

“I’d say so,” said cop number one, with bemusement.

Jesse tried really hard not to laugh, since it would only end in him dousing his upper alimentary tract with a fresh coating of bile, an outcome he wanted to avoid. He held it back to one brief muffled noise, reminiscent of an old man coughing up a gob into a wadded handkerchief.

He could only imagine what Michel was doing to the man now, or what he planned when he arrived.

“Look dumb, stay motionless, say nothing,” Michel whispered.

The perfect job has found me! Why can’t it be like this all the time.

The man abruptly stopped walking funny and walked straight up to a cop.  “I’d like to assist the police any way I can,” he said.

“Something’s wrong,” Michel said. “My hairs are wiggling, they won’t lie flat.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jesse said. They’d just pulled up to the house in their brand-new used truck.  Jesse parked it close to his apartment at night, like half the tradespeople in Burnaby.

“They tell me things,” Michel said.  “But sometimes they whisper to themselves and sometimes they yell.”

“What do they say about Kima?” Jesse asked, amused. He wasn’t concerned about something being wrong. He was never concerned about anything when he was with Michel. It was, now that they had a working understanding, very relaxing. Afterward, he realized that relaxing around Michel was a mistake — and that it was no longer possible to pretend he didn’t need treatment for his PTSD.

“I think they like her even better than I do!” Michel said enthusiastically. “But there’s still something wrong,” he added. “There’s smoke that isn’t a house fire.”

Jesse got out of the truck and banged on the door.  It was a small, elderly, overgrown house in that strange part of Burnaby between Marine Drive and Marine Way.

There was a loud scraping noise, a thump, and then he heard heavy footsteps on the way to the door.

An intense looking man opened the door.  He saw Jesse, and the moving truck beyond him, and slammed it closed again.

Heart pounding, Jesse yelled through the door, “Where’s Melissa!?”

His chin out like Mussolini, Michel abruptly appeared beside him on the front step.

“We could call the cops,” Michel said. “But that’s never any fun. Give me a second.” Then he grabbed Jesse and threw him to one side, since whoever was on the other side of the door was about to discharge a shotgun through it. The buckshot tinkled harmlessly to the concrete, from where it had struck Michel. Jesse, deafened, didn’t notice at first that he’d been grazed. It was no worse than a bad cat scratch, but it was the first time he’d ever been shot.

Michel, enjoying himself, said, “Calice, what a welcome!” and vanished. Jesse meantime stood to one side at the bottom of the steps while Michel effected ingress by shoving his hand through the hole in the door and snapping the locks open. He then leaned on the door and as it opened said, “Nope nope nope you don’t get to reload.  Get one that takes more rounds next time! I don’t think you heard my young friend. Where’s Melissa?”

There was a squawk, but no words.

“Please don’t kill him,” Jesse called, chiding. “He can’t talk if he can’t breathe.”

He approached the door and saw Michel restraining the man from behind, one enormous hand over most of his face.

Squatting, he said, “I’m Jesse, and this is Michel.  Michel used to kill people for a living.” This, to encourage the man not to squirm too much. Michel dropped his hand so their unpleasant new acquaintance could talk.

“He’s too late,” the man rasped. “I could have used him, but the bitch is already dead.” Unseen by the man, Michel dropped his jaw about a meter, and then closed it up again.

Jesse, panic-stricken, tore through the house, upstairs and down, but apart from the torn-apart and spilled cardboard boxes, and a tiny amount of bloodsmear from what looked like a hurried shower, there was no sign of her.

“Trunk,” Michel said, and tossed Jesse the man’s keys.

He got out his Maglite® and, after apologizing to every atheist who ever lived, asked Cernunnos for strength. As if in response, a lilac bush shed some water on him.

He realized he’d tracked through her blood on the way to the door and his mouth filled with saliva.  He could smell the blood now in the damp, chilly air.  He paused and tried to control his breathing and nausea. George could probably smell it half a mile away, and Michel must have known before he even got out of the truck. There was blood, smeared and sticky, all over the bumper and trunk, and a small pool of it where it looked like someone had set down a body.

Jesse started to shake. Part of him wanted to flee, but the other part, the part that Raven said was the best part of him, opened the trunk in hope she hadn’t lost too much blood.

Melissa Rodrigues’ sightless eyes looked back. The shotgun blast that killed her had destroyed her neck and some of her chin. Likely she had died more or less instantly.

Jesse gently closed the trunk without securing the catch and called 911.  He moved away from the car and composed himself so he could be as useful as possible.

“Hi. My name’s Jesse Silver. I’m at the end of 14^th Ave southwest of Willard in the flats,” Jesse said, when the operator answered. “A woman named Melissa Rodrigues has been murdered here. I’m really sorry, I walked through the crime scene without knowing.”

“Are you safe?”

“The man we think did it is in the house, being sat on by my friend, so unless he has any friends showing up — ” And here Jesse paused.  If you’ve just murdered somebody in the middle of the night you don’t open the door unless you’re expecting someone.  He looked up the street, but saw neither movement nor light. “Yeah, I think so for the time being,” he added.

He’d put away the dishes when the phone pinged.

“I asked around. You seem to have a reputation.  The cops frickin hate you but at least one of your clients thinks you’re awesome.”

Jesse’s heart thudded.   

She’d sent a link. Sighing, he clicked it.

There was, on a social media page, an earnest four hundred word wall o’ text, crammed with ellipses and emojis, from someone called 44liy4h2oo0. She described how a dreamy guy named Jesse had saved her sister from two Sikh gangstas with guns.

“Oh, Aaliyah,” Jesse said. It always comes as such a shock when brown people don’t get along, but when Poles hate Germans nobody’s surprised.

He texted Paddy.

“A great recommendation. Too bad nothing apart from the move happened as she described.”

The phone rang. “I thought I’d call.”

“Awesome,” Jesse said.  It was stupid, and George had commented that his use of the word came closer to being a vocal tic than true communication; or that it was like birdsong, but not as charming. Michel was a jerk about other things.

“So you’re a local hero,” Paddy said.  Jesse could feel her winding up for more questions.

“George identified the need.  We charge a lot of money, so heroic is maybe not quite the right word.”

“I was thinking of filming a five minute documentary about Midnite Moving, something you could use to raise awareness that could also serve as an ad. Also, you’re very well-spoken, you should think about TED-X.”

Jesse burst out laughing.  Then he sobered and said, “I think it’s a fantastic idea.” Subtext: If it means I get to hang out with you. “My colleagues, on the other hand, will probably say no.”

“I knew you’d say that. You want to get together and bang out a script?”

“I barely finished high school and I can’t really type,” Jesse said, avoiding the question.

“Fine, I’ll sit cross-legged with my lap top and play scribe,” Paddy said.

Naked, I hope.

Aloud, he said, “We broke a lot of laws, doing this work.  If we bring attention to ourselves, I’m the one that will go to jail.”

“For what?” she asked in disbelief.

“Theft over,” Jesse said, thinking about the furniture from the British Properties move. He and George had gone through the entire Criminal Code of Canada, and it had been very disturbing to realize how fast he’d become blasé at the prospect of another charge. “Assault, robbery, forcible confinement, stealing a cop’s service weapon — sorry, I don’t know the statute — breaking and entering, being unlawfully in a dwelling place, disguise with intent, possession with trafficking — of stolen goods, not dope — theft from mail, bringing into Canada property obtained by crime, various false pretences charges, pretending to practice witchcraft —”

“Whoa, whoa! Who pretended to practice witchcraft?”

“Not me, but I’d probably get blamed for it.”

“You’re serious.  You’ve done all those things.”

“Collectively we did, and the police when they’re laying charges throw everything they can.  I only did about a third of all that, and I don’t assault anybody, mostly because I’m a very devout coward with no martial arts training.”

She made a noise of disbelief.

Jesse said, “We almost rustled cattle, but dude sold it before we got there.”

“This is incredible.”

“That I will not deny. Do you want the rest of the list?”

“What, did you memorize it?”

“I wanted to; we kept adding to the list of charges,” Jesse said apologetically. “Fraudulently obtaining transportation, falsifying employment records — there are other crimes but I can’t remember them and I think you’ve gotten the point.  George knows them all.”

“You are a bad boy,” Paddy said.

“You really wouldn’t say that if you saw my face when someone pulls a gun on me.  Fortunately my colleagues have the badassery covered.”

“I should meet them.”

“You think so now.  You’d regret it later.”

There was a long pause.

“Are you protecting them or me?”

“Ha. I’m in no position to protect anyone.  It’s friendly advice.”

“Can you set up a meeting?”

Jesse’s heart sank. “I’ll ask them, but I don’t think you’ll get much traction.  Michel will start lying the instant you meet him, and George’s ability to not answer questions is almost godlike.”

“You really don’t want me to meet them.”

“I’d love you to meet them.” Michel’s googly admiration and hijinks would be something to see.  “If they don’t see any good coming from the meeting, you won’t get the chance.”

“Give me their contact info, I’ll deal with it.”

See, this is the point where being poly is very, very useful.  If I was super lonely and desperate to make an impression, I’d say sure even though I know it’s a bad idea. But I can say no.  I can say no and mean it. I can say no!

He softened it, a little. “I’m sorry, but no.”

“I’ll turn you in to the cops,” she said.

You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.

“I’ve been truthful, with the intention of building a relationship, and your response is to make threats. Now that I know what kind of person you are, buh-bye. Lose my number.” He hung up. She called and texted non-stop, and he blocked her. It was probably time to get another burner phone. She filled the voicemail on the business phone, which put the nail in the coffin.  If her self-regard was so high she thought nothing of preventing other women from getting access to Midnite Moving Co., she was the type of asshole Jesse did not need in his life.

Jesse emailed his poly partners separately, saying that he was feeling gross and could use some company in the next couple of days, and went downtown to get as drunk as he could without injuring himself. At one point he remembered walking out of the Cobalt toward False Creek and heaving his phone into the water. He somehow got home safe before dawn, which was good. He was so upset he’d left the house without his sungear. 

George had given the cell phone with the business number to Jesse. At 10 a.m., it rang and Jesse let it go to voicemail, since he’d been in bed for two hours after a job the night before. Strangely, that hadn’t been a move at all, but giving guerrilla filmmakers some assistance with a fly-by-night shoot. 

He was exhausted and elated, after a conversation in front of a 7-11 in East Van with a certain Paddy Norland. She was a challenging individual with a very clear voice and direct gaze. Within ten seconds she was the most attractive woman he’d ever been this close to. She resembled one of the actors on the television show Orange is the New Black, he couldn’t remember her name¹, and immediately he promised himself that he would never acknowledge the similarity, ever, even if she brought it up.

There was a problem with the lights, and they were taking a short break while the tech wrangled with it.

“You aren’t going to ask me for my phone number?”

“We’re colleagues,” Jesse said austerely. “Not really appropriate.” It was stretching it, but he was secretly thrilled and preferred to stay calm until he had a clearer idea of her intentions. ‘You’d be perfect for my girlfriend!’ was only one conversational tripwire. There were others.

“Colleagues — yuppers,” Paddy said. “I’ve never seen you before! Can I give you my phone number?”

“I won’t take your number, not until you hear the pre-existing conditions speech.”

“You have a pre-existing condition? What, like being gay?”

Jesse realized that he’d gone Sixer; he felt the pressure of her questions in ways that seemed foreign to him.  George don’t fail me now. “Affectional and sexual orientation can change, but I’m convinced I’m straight.”

“Like, straight no pegging? — or straight no homo?”

“I’m happy to take Dan Savage’s advice to straight boys on the subject,” Jesse said, keeping his face calm as a middle path between a Cernunnos-style over the shoulder ravishing and a childish giggle. What subject, exactly, they were talking about now seemed clear. It took all of his childhood training to keep his face relaxed and open.

She absorbed his comment with an expression of thoughtful agreement. Taking a breath, she continued to throw down questions. “What do you do when muscle worshippers hit on you in clubs?”

“I say, ‘Thanks man, I play for the other team’. If they offer me money, I recommend a guy I ran into once who’s a specialist.” He reached for his wallet and extracted a card. It was a sex trade worker’s business card, all right, and rather scuffed. She looked at it, and her eyebrows popped up in surprise, and then down as she made a scowly little smile.

“You must have some clue how fucking gorgeous you are, though, eh?” She handed the card back, touching his fingers unnecessarily. 

“I wasn’t 10 years ago.  Keep telling me how gorgeous I am,” Jesse said, putting the card away and bringing his palms toward his face like a celebrity accepting plaudits, —”it don’t get boring.”

“About your pre-existing condition….”

“No, not herpes. I have solar urticaria; I’m allergic to the sun.”

“And you live in Vancouver,” she said with amusement.

“If the sun hits me, my eyes swell up and then my throat closes and I die.” He brought up his forefinger, closed and crossed out his eyes, and stuck his tongue out sideways.

“Holy shit. Do you have any other allergies?”

“Aspens, latex and bullshit.” That line of patter came out easily, after helping train all those med students.

“Your honesty is suspicious, ya know? I don’t really see a problem though.  I’m nocturnal myself – I got turned around in film school and never really came back.”

Jesse slowly allowed his happiness at this remark to command every muscle in his face. They looked at each other, smiling. A man emerged from the 7-11 and, while paused to light a smoke, said, “Get a room!” to them. 

“You paying?” Jesse said, without thinking.  The man blew a raspberry and walked away.

“Charm City North,” Paddy said.

No fun city.

Jesse smirked, and then Jesse became solemn, because another trap lay ahead.

“Dealbreaker number two: I’m poly.  Getting involved with someone new means renegotiating previously existing relationships.”

There was a short but not hostile pause.

“Plural.”

“Roger that.”

“How do you find time?” This with envy, irritation, admiration.

“You seem like an accomplished and focussed person. I don’t have to explain it to you. “

“I’m punctual, too! – and please do explain it to me,” she said, grinning her face off. “I gotta know if you’re really polyamorous, or you’re just a dog with mad time management skills and a Plenty of Fish profile.” She was cough-laughing as she said this.

“I don’t think I feel safe talking about my partners to you,” Jesse said, after a long pause. He knew Lark would have broken into a slow clap, hearing that. “How’s this. You give me your number, I’ll text you where and when the next poly meet is. I’ll go to the meet and you can make up your mind about whether I’m poly or ‘just a dog with a calendar’.” Jesse’s tone was soft and his face unthreatening.

 “I just completely fucked over any chance of getting with you.”

Jesse was about to say something that was a Jane Austen scale masterpiece of sense and tact, and then the tech came back with his thumbs up. Their eyes met, Jesse’s expression saying, ‘Well?’ and Paddy’s saying, ‘Big oops’. Paddy sucked on her teeth and returned to their business.

Load out ran late, and he had to put his mask on, which he hated, because it stank no matter how and how often he washed it, and the sweat from his face would wick into the fabric.

Paddy reappeared in front of him, marvelling at the mask.

“I’m glad you think it looks cool.” Jesse sounded muffled.

“Here’s my number,” she said. “First beer’s on me,” and the fiery trails her ass left in his imagination as she departed kept him company on the ride home.

He was almost happy the phone had woken him up. 

He texted Paddy.

“I didn’t grow up with a cell phone and I prefer IRL so expect me to be terse, slow to respond and unclingy. Really, really, want the opportunity for anything from a balloon ride to a movie. Tell me when to show up and what gear I should bring.”

Then, because he wasn’t an idiot, he turned the business phone off, and his own phone too, so he wouldn’t be lying there with his heart pounding and the possibility of four hours’ uninterrupted sleep migrating south with the mountain jays as he listened for that fucking ping to tell him that he’d won a free plastic coating for his car, since it probably wouldn’t be her anyway.

Having acted, he could sleep.

His happiness on seeing that it was almost suppertime when he woke up — the longest stretch of sleep he’d had since he’d been possessed by a god — was snuffed when he checked for messages. There was a text on the business line from someone wanting to interview him for a local weekly.

“No — thanks!” Jesse said. He was going to erase the message, but who knew, perhaps George would see things differently, so he kept it. And nothing from Paddy.

¹ Natasha Lyonne, if anybody cares.

Jesse went back to work. The client, once she believed Michel had control of the situation and the ex couldn’t call for backup, worked like a woman possessed, getting as much of her stuff out as possible. Once again, it wasn’t the furniture or books, it was the photographs, the kitchen gear and the mementos. She didn’t even take much of her clothing, since it was all in a style that suited hubby.  “I don’t give a shit about this house,” she said at one point.  “He can keep it for all I care.”

After about half an hour, she started hiding in the house again.  The cop was out of the car, and Michel was saying, “You can go back in when she’s out.” The cop looked cold, wet, not quite scared and very, very white under the ghostly streetlight.

As Jesse came up to find out why the hell Mr. Piggy was out of the car, Michel called, “Why do women marry? It’s not like it’s a game they can win.”

“What?”

“Never been more glad to be who I am,” Michel said in disgust.

“I’ll find her,” the cop said abruptly. “She’ll never testify against me.”

“I just showed you pictures of your last day, doing all kinds of horrible shit, and you’re worried about a court case with her? Shouldn’t you be worried about your job?”

“That’s all inadmissible evidence,” the cop said contemptuously.

“Once I figure out how to get it on the internet, who cares?” Michel said. “You’ll help me with that, right?” he added, turning to Jesse.

“Sure,” Jesse said. Speaking with care, he said, “Sir, I don’t know what you’re thinking right now, but if you assault or harass our client, we’re going to respond.”

Michel added, “My cousin got the Chief of the VPD on speed dial, so don’t be an idiot.”

“Seriously, we should drive him someplace remote and tie him to a tree and leave him there,” Jesse said.

“When I’m done with you you’ll be wearing dentures and shitting in a bag in a wheelchair,” the cop said.

“George won’t let me,” Michel said, ignoring the threat. He wiped away imaginary tears with the backs of his hands.

“Give me back my phone.”

Michel, not even trying to hide what he was doing, snaked his arm across the ground, picked up the sodden phone from where he’d thrown it, smashed it to bits on the roof of the car, and carefully handed what remained to the cop.

“Your phone, as requested,” Michel said. “I gotta find something that will motivate you,”

“Pull his teeth out,” Jesse said, angered by the threat. “It’s non-fatal and it’s what he promised me, so he must think it’s an appropriate punishment for people who piss him off.”

“Oooh, summary justice,” Michel said. He shoved his right hand into the cop’s mouth and emerged with a molar, bleeding with bits of flesh attached.

“Auuugh!” the cop yelled.  He tried to run away and sadly, tripped. Blood poured from his mouth.

“Not ’til I’ve pulled out all of your teeth,” Michel said. “After that we’ll have to get creative.”

“I think maybe we should not be so angry and, you know, vengeful.” Jesse said. The cop’s distress was truly heartbreaking. Deserved, but heartbreaking.

“You suggested it.”

“Honestly, I didn’t think —“

“I’m not angry,” Michel pointed out.  “He hasn’t seen me angry.”

Jesse wished he hadn’t been so spontaneous in his suggestion.

“Just let me go. You guys are crazy.” He spat.

“I don’t beat my wife,” Michel said pointed out, “And if I was dumb enough to get one I’d treat her like she wanted.”

“Crazy? I don’t think any of us meet the legal standard, even you, you fucking asshole,” Jesse said. “Tie him back into the car and we can push him off a bridge when we’re done.”

“No, no, don’t do it!”

Michel took the hint. “I think it’s a great idea. The coroner’s gonna have his hands full with this one.”

Michel gagged and bound the cop, returned him to the car, and they finished loading.

Jesse and the client went to the truck. Michel ungagged the cop, and as the cop realized that Jesse, who had not actually harmed him, and his wife, who didn’t spare a backward glance, were leaving, and that he was now alone, injured and unarmed in the company of the biggest fucking crazy goon he’d ever met, he finally panicked. Michel could feel the fright wash over him and grinned to himself.

“I need medical attention,” the cop bleated.

“What?” Michel said, handing back the car keys. “Drive.  Dead men don’t need medical attention.”

“You can’t kill me.  You won’t get away with it.”

“Got away with it every other time, didn’t I? Not that you knew that, but now you do. Turn left.”

“Where are we going?”

“The bridge.”

After a very tense and silent drive, they were on the Port Mann Bridge. Michel told him to pull over.

“It’s strictly against the rules, but there’s hardly any traffic this time of night. Look at me.”

Reluctantly, he turned his head.

“Mike Peller, you got two choices. Leave your wife the fuck alone or get pictures of you banging a streetwalker in your car on the internet. Fuck up again after that warning, and I’ll bring you here and shove you off this bridge myself.”

All Michel got was a nod. He got out of the car. “I’m keeping the tooth,” he said. “And the gun. I like souvenirs.” He moved out of anyone’s sightline, and vanished. The car took off east across the bridge, fishtailing and skipping across lanes.

Mike Peller took early retirement and moved to Thailand, which was probably sorry news for someone. Candace Peller, who immediately reverted to her maiden name, was not one of those people.

“How can you say that and call yourself his friend?”

“He calls me friend.  From this angle it looks different.”

“What do you think his hair is?” Michel said.

“Whatever it is,” Jesse said, now forcing himself to acknowledge that he did think about it, “It’s tied to the fact he doesn’t eat. Do you know how many calories you burn through in a day?”

“I get by on about twelve hundred.”

“You learned about calories and checked.”

“They were invented before I was spawned; it wasn’t hard. It’s very strange to have watched the progress of science since before the turn of the previous century. Every time it speeds up there are these weird hiccups and waves of humans thinking the human race can be made more perfect.”

“You don’t sound hopeful.”

“I think you can get the average person to be better behaved, with a carefully selected bag of bribes and punishments, but mostly you gotta stop fucking with your own family structures to prop up capitalism. Nothing’s gonna be perfect ’til you manage that as a species.”

“No argument here. Nifty,” Jesse said with heavy sarcasm. “The client has finally shown up.”

The client was indeed visible, but there was a man holding a gun to her back as they got out of the car.

Jesse wasn’t going near the ex, who was an active service police officer well-known to be armed. “This looks like a job for Michel the Magnificent.”

“Aw,” Michel said, jumping down into the rain with a spectacular bounce, unnoticed by the couple making their unhappy way to the house. He loped up to the cop and said, “You holster that gun.”

“I’m a police officer and you’re interfering with an investigation,” the man said.  His voice was clipped and his hair even more so. He paid no attention to the rain.

“Do as he says,” the client said. She managed to sound toneless and scared at the same time.

“Naw,” Michel said. “I really don’t think so.” He stuck his finger in the barrel of the gun, and then, no matter how hard the cop tried to pull the gun away, retained a tight seal on the muzzle. The cop struggled and yelled a bizarre series of threats, but did not fire, since while he was demonstrably unpleasant, he was not, technically, stupid.  The client meantime made a run for the door like a sensible person. Michel made a jerking motion and the gun, butt pointed upward, swivelled around on his finger like a kid’s toy.

“You, beat it!” Michel said to the cop. “Let me know when you want me to come down to the cop shop to give this back to you.” He waved the gun around negligently. “S’okay, the safety’s on.”

“You’re in a lot of very serious trouble,” the cop said.

“You’re the one that’s never going to get another promotion after your bosses find out that you beat your wife, you lost your service weapon — what? No, you can’t have it —“ as the cop lunged at him again — “you screw night girls in your service vehicle, and you rob drug addicts for whatever they have, to plant on whoever you don’t like.  You may have to become a security guard or go work on your cousin’s fishing boat.” Michel had been tasked with following him around for a day and he hadn’t found much to amuse him.

“Fuck you.”

“Come at me!” Michel said with joy.

Well that didn’t last long, Jesse thought from the truck. Butthead was on his ass on the dirty wet sidewalk, and Michel had tied him up with the zip ties the cop had (no surprise) brought with him.

“Say a word,” Michel said, “And I’ll shove my hand down your throat until you choke. I won’t even mind if you try to bite me.”

The cop started to yell.

“And you’re the fuckers George wants to make party plans with,” Michel said in disgust. He picked up some goo out of the gutter and shoved it in the man’s face. It took the cop about two minutes to stop coughing and choking, and when he had spat the last of it out he said, hatred bulging out of his eyes and every straining muscle, “There’s no place on earth you can hide.”

“Fuck, you’re dead boring,” Michel said in disgust, and choked him with a tentacle, as promised. He opened the car door, shoved the cop in, removed everything from his pockets and threw it all many metres away, and then tied him to something inside the car.

The move proceeded as planned. Every half hour Michel made sure his new friend hadn’t died or had a stroke or run away. Once when he opened the door the poor bastard started screaming in incoherent rage, trying to make himself heard above the rain and wind.

“Shut up, or I’ll cut your throat and dump you in deep water. You’re not wearing track shoes so they won’t even find your feet.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“You’re right, my boss would be pissed if I killed a cop without his permission, just like the old days,” Michel said. “My boss says by the time the department’s done with you, you won’t be a cop, so it’ll be be plain old manslaughter if they can’t prove I planned it.” Michel ducked his head and seemed to be taking a good look at him. With cold contempt, Michel said, “Mebbe you can kill yourself when I let you go and everybody who doesn’t know you can feel sad about it.”

Then he forced his enormous form into the back of the vehicle and the cop disappeared.

Jesse ran up to the car and banged on it.  Michel was sitting in the back, and the cop could not be seen.

“Where is he!?” yelled Jesse.

“I ate him,” Michel said, pretending to pick his teeth.

“You’re hiding him.”

“I’m running playback, shaddap I’m busy. He’s fine, getting a little educated.”