see? easy!
this particular story is a bit different for me - it's a comedy/adventure, rather than my typical contemporary fantasy/horror/scifi stuff - and i'm having a great time writing it. it's nice not to have to try and decipher the motivations of extra-dimensional monsters (in the land of nod, frost flowers), mythical creatures (trophy), or sociopathic little girls (crayon sugarsweet and the spooky thing).
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The Epic Template Tale
by d.p.maurer
(Work in Progress)
The Greatest Thief in the World™ stood atop the Thrift Tower, tasting the night wind. His real name was Fernando Sor, after the Corsican guitar wizard, and he was a wizard, too, or at least a magician. He had only one trick, but he did it well: He made things disappear, and reappear somewhere else. When asked his occupation, The Thief said that he was in the transportation business.
If you were a CEO, with your back against the wall and the board of directors circling like sharks, who could provide your competitor's secret marketing plans before they were even off their agency’s drawing boards? If you were an unmentionable government agency, in need of files that detailed the whereabouts of those destined to become victims of regrettable but inevitably fatal accidents, where did your footsteps lead you? If you were a worldwide religious organization with a hankering to get hold of what might or might not prove to be the genetically verifiable corpse of a certain Nazarene carpenter, whom did you call?
Not Fernando Sor.
No - you visited a tiny bookshop in Port Huron, Michigan, called 'Rose Read'. On the bulletin board in the foyer, you pinned a note containing a phone number and the name ‘Mister Sir’. The following day, you received a short, untraceable call from someone who called themselves ‘Mrs. Ma'am’. Mrs. Ma’am inevitably requested a description of the item to be collected, its current location, intended destination, and the all-important deadline.
No one at the bookshop knew anything about these transactions, of course. That had been checked countless times by spies, extremely private detectives, and possibly the Vatican. No one seemed to pay any undue attention to the notes in the foyer, either. Nevertheless, Mrs. Ma’am answered every request like clockwork.
Mrs. Ma’am (who sounded exactly like a man trying to sound like a woman with an English accent and failing miserably) listened carefully. She never interrupted. Most often, she simply said, “Sorry, ducks, I don’t think so,” and that was that. Sometimes - if the request was challenging enough - she named a fee. This was sometimes an object that the client already owned – most often, a priceless item that the client was extremely attached to and had gone to great lengths to keep secret. Fees, of course, were non-negotiable. You didn’t engage the Greatest Thief in the World™ if the price might be too dear.
Then you simply sat back and waited. At the appointed time, you received the requested item, and the stipulated fee disappeared from your possession, as if by magic.
This last was pure theatrics, but it served two important purposes: First, it was part of the mystique that kept clients clamoring for The Thief’s services, and willing to pay whatever he asked. The second reason was more personal:
It was wonderful practice.
Having an item of value was one thing. You might build elaborate security measures around it - seasoned guards, sophisticated electronics and so on - but all that you could do was protect the item from the general possibility of theft. You had no idea if or when someone might decide to steal it, or who would be doing the stealing.
Knowing that an item was going to go missing - from where, by whom, and exactly when - was something else entirely. His clients took up the challenge with gusto, partly to keep their secrets, but mostly because they were the kind of people who believed in retaining everything.
The Thief had learned long ago to conduct all transactions remotely. Many of his clients disapproved of witnesses on general principal, and would have been happy to send any number of assassins to kill him, if they only knew where and who The Thief was.
The Thief respected assassins - he had found reason to solicit their services himself, on occasion, when crossed by a client who really should have known better. None of the assassins that he hired knew that he was The Greatest Thief in the World™, of course. Some of them were even old friends.
One of them was standing directly opposite him now.
His professional name was ©The Mamba. Just like in porn, choosing a cool name was key in the killing business - when you were just starting out, it helped people remember you and, after you built something of a reputation, it helped in setting rates.
©The Mamba's real name was Clarence White. He had begun life as a carpenter's apprentice back during the Vietnam War. When the draft notice came, he had reported for duty and gone through basic training and then found himself in Cambodia with thousands of other clueless teenagers, scared, sweaty, and wide-eyed. For the first couple of weeks, anyway.
The truth was, Clarence was never much of a carpenter, but he soon discovered that he had a natural talent for ejecting people from the game of life. The training provided by the U.S. Army was simply the first step in a life devoted to the craft of killing. Guns, knives, garrotes, poisons, explosives - any method was as good as another, as long as it ended in the patient's demise.
That was the one creepy thing: ©The Mamba called his targets 'patients', as if he were Jack Kevorkian, Doctor Death®. Whenever a corpse lay cooling at his feet, Clarence had a little joke that he told over and over again to clients to let them know that it was time to pay him:
"The operation was a success," he would say, grinning into the phone. "The patient died." No one but Clarence ever laughed, but he always said it, anyway.
"Hello, Clarence," said The Thief. He stood perfectly still.
"Hello, Fred," said ©The Mamba. He stood perfectly still, too. Only his eyes seemed alive. (‘Fred’ was what Clarence always called The Thief. He thought that Fernando sounded gay; Fern even more so. Clarence hated gay men. This had nothing to do with his religion or his sexual identity; he just hated anyone who took attention away from him, especially if they could coordinate colors.)
"Out on a job?" said The Thief.
"You guessed it."
"Me?"
©The Mamba shrugged. He was a big man - big, but fast. This was an unusual combination. Not being aware of it had cost many people their lives.
"You know how it goes," said ©The Mamba. "Nothin’ personal. Job's a job."
"You could have turned it down."
©The Mamba shook his head, grey ponytail streaming in the wind. (He still thought ponytails were cool. What could you do?) "Too much money."
The Thief closed his eyes briefly, sighed. “So you know.”
“Yeah.”
“How did you figure it out?”
“When that Munch painting got stolen, you said how you would have done it, if you were The Thief. Turned out, that’s exactly how it was done.” He shrugged. “The rest was just waiting for the highest bid.”
"You mind me asking how much?"
"Two million."
"An insult! I'm worth twice that."
"Anybody ever tell you you're an arrogant bastard?"
"Besides you? Only everyone. Is that why you took the job?"
"You know why."
And the thing was, The Thief did. It was the "R" word. The word that had first entered their conversation a few years ago and, as time went on, came to dominate it: Retirement. It was almost an incantation. Take the money and disappear, like Bobby Fischer or D. B. Cooper. Venice, Paris, Costa Rica... the world beckoned.
All it took was One Last Job. The Big Score. Enough to buy a one-way ticket to anonymity, beyond the reach of old enemies and the recriminations of old friends. The less-than-legal version of heaven. The alternative was waiting for the bullet, the bomb, or the dusting of radioactive material under your bed that ended you, because the world was full of people who wanted to do that. It was just a matter of time.
"It's because of what I said about the Twins, isn't it?" said The Thief. ©The Mamba was based in Minneapolis and never missed a game, even if it meant turning down a job. Murder was his occupation, but baseball was his love. The two of them had often gone to games together, if they happened to be on the way to or from a job in the area. In fact, they had just caught a night game together on Tuesday.
"You watch; they'll take the pennant this spring," said ©The Mamba, but he didn't smile. "I lied, before. It’s five million."
"You're just saying that to make me feel better."
"Actually not. I said two million to keep you from getting a big head. As if it could get any bigger.”
Five million dollars. It was insane, that number.
"Who hates me that much?" The Thief wondered.
"Can't tell you that."
"Even though you're going to kill me? That hardly seems fair."
"Sorry. You know the rules."
Rule One: Never give up a client’s name, even when the death of the one doing the asking is imminent. In case of wires, in case of unplanned events, unfortunate accidents, or the ever popular one-in-a-million chance.
"Do they know who I am?" asked The Thief.
"I'm hurt that you’d even ask," said ©The Mamba. He took a step. The Thief stepped back.
Rule Two: Never do groundwork for anyone who might follow. This was a kind of insurance; it helped discourage one's employers from seeking others’ services. And in the case of unplanned events that included your own death, it was an unsubtle “Fuck you!” to the competition. Let them do their own work, let them take their own chances; that was part of the game.
"You're right; I'm sorry," said The Thief, glancing quickly around. "You know I have nothing but respect for you."
©The Mamba grunted, but his expression softened.
"You could turn your back," he suggested. "I could do it really quick. You wouldn't feel a thing."
"Hello, Clarence," said The Thief. He stood perfectly still.
"Hello, Fred," said ©The Mamba. He stood perfectly still, too. Only his eyes seemed alive. (‘Fred’ was what Clarence always called The Thief. He thought that Fernando sounded gay; Fern even more so. Clarence hated gay men. This had nothing to do with his religion or his sexual identity; he just hated anyone who took attention away from him, especially if they could coordinate colors.)
"Out on a job?" said The Thief.
"You guessed it."
"Me?"
©The Mamba shrugged. He was a big man - big, but fast. This was an unusual combination. Not being aware of it had cost many people their lives.
"You know how it goes," said ©The Mamba. "Nothin’ personal. Job's a job."
"You could have turned it down."
©The Mamba shook his head, grey ponytail streaming in the wind. (He still thought ponytails were cool. What could you do?) "Too much money."
The Thief closed his eyes briefly, sighed. “So you know.”
“Yeah.”
“How did you figure it out?”
“When that Munch painting got stolen, you said how you would have done it, if you were The Thief. Turned out, that’s exactly how it was done.” He shrugged. “The rest was just waiting for the highest bid.”
"You mind me asking how much?"
"Two million."
"An insult! I'm worth twice that."
"Anybody ever tell you you're an arrogant bastard?"
"Besides you? Only everyone. Is that why you took the job?"
"You know why."
And the thing was, The Thief did. It was the "R" word. The word that had first entered their conversation a few years ago and, as time went on, came to dominate it: Retirement. It was almost an incantation. Take the money and disappear, like Bobby Fischer or D. B. Cooper. Venice, Paris, Costa Rica... the world beckoned.
All it took was One Last Job. The Big Score. Enough to buy a one-way ticket to anonymity, beyond the reach of old enemies and the recriminations of old friends. The less-than-legal version of heaven. The alternative was waiting for the bullet, the bomb, or the dusting of radioactive material under your bed that ended you, because the world was full of people who wanted to do that. It was just a matter of time.
"It's because of what I said about the Twins, isn't it?" said The Thief. ©The Mamba was based in Minneapolis and never missed a game, even if it meant turning down a job. Murder was his occupation, but baseball was his love. The two of them had often gone to games together, if they happened to be on the way to or from a job in the area. In fact, they had just caught a night game together on Tuesday.
"You watch; they'll take the pennant this spring," said ©The Mamba, but he didn't smile. "I lied, before. It’s five million."
"You're just saying that to make me feel better."
"Actually not. I said two million to keep you from getting a big head. As if it could get any bigger.”
Five million dollars. It was insane, that number.
"Who hates me that much?" The Thief wondered.
"Can't tell you that."
"Even though you're going to kill me? That hardly seems fair."
"Sorry. You know the rules."
Rule One: Never give up a client’s name, even when the death of the one doing the asking is imminent. In case of wires, in case of unplanned events, unfortunate accidents, or the ever popular one-in-a-million chance.
"Do they know who I am?" asked The Thief.
"I'm hurt that you’d even ask," said ©The Mamba. He took a step. The Thief stepped back.
Rule Two: Never do groundwork for anyone who might follow. This was a kind of insurance; it helped discourage one's employers from seeking others’ services. And in the case of unplanned events that included your own death, it was an unsubtle “Fuck you!” to the competition. Let them do their own work, let them take their own chances; that was part of the game.
"You're right; I'm sorry," said The Thief, glancing quickly around. "You know I have nothing but respect for you."
©The Mamba grunted, but his expression softened.
"You could turn your back," he suggested. "I could do it really quick. You wouldn't feel a thing."
"Funny - I was just about to ask you the same thing," said The Thief. "I'm on a bit of a tight schedule."
"Better make other plans," said ©The Mamba. He hesitated. "Mind if I ask you something? Professional secret?"
"The man comes to kill me and asks for favors. I blame the schools."
"It would mean a lot to me."
The Thief glanced at his watch. It seemed to have stopped. Twelve thousand dollars wasted. He shrugged. "Ask."
"I figured out the thing with the note. You read'em from across the street, right?"
The Thief nodded and smiled sadly, the magician giving up his tricks. "The Starbucks. I have a high-definition camera hidden in its sign, pointed at the bookshop, wireless. What else?"
"How do you - you know..."
"Collect?"
Nod.
"I can't tell you that."
"I promise not to tell anybody. You won't be doing it any more, anyway. How could it hurt?"
The Thief glanced at his watch again. Did the second hand twitch? For twelve thousand dollars, the damned thing should glow in the fucking dark.
"Clarence, I really don't think I should."
"Fred, how long we been friends for?"
The Thief sighed. "Long time. A record, for me. Six years, seven months, four days, and…” Another peek at the watch. “…eleven minutes. Right up until I put the Havadoc™ in your beer."
There was a long pause. “What?”
The Thief nodded. "That's the secret, Clarence. I do it beforehand, and think of a way to keep them from finding out until it's time. I've read your mail and listened to your calls since the day we met. Tuesday night, Progressive Field, when you went to go take a leak during the seventh inning stretch, I poisoned your beer."
"How long have I…" said ©The Mamba, and toppled like a tree.
"That long," said The Thief. He looked down at his friend's corpse; his face looked old, old, old. And then he got on with it because, as his late friend used to say, a job was a job.
"Better make other plans," said ©The Mamba. He hesitated. "Mind if I ask you something? Professional secret?"
"The man comes to kill me and asks for favors. I blame the schools."
"It would mean a lot to me."
The Thief glanced at his watch. It seemed to have stopped. Twelve thousand dollars wasted. He shrugged. "Ask."
"I figured out the thing with the note. You read'em from across the street, right?"
The Thief nodded and smiled sadly, the magician giving up his tricks. "The Starbucks. I have a high-definition camera hidden in its sign, pointed at the bookshop, wireless. What else?"
"How do you - you know..."
"Collect?"
Nod.
"I can't tell you that."
"I promise not to tell anybody. You won't be doing it any more, anyway. How could it hurt?"
The Thief glanced at his watch again. Did the second hand twitch? For twelve thousand dollars, the damned thing should glow in the fucking dark.
"Clarence, I really don't think I should."
"Fred, how long we been friends for?"
The Thief sighed. "Long time. A record, for me. Six years, seven months, four days, and…” Another peek at the watch. “…eleven minutes. Right up until I put the Havadoc™ in your beer."
There was a long pause. “What?”
The Thief nodded. "That's the secret, Clarence. I do it beforehand, and think of a way to keep them from finding out until it's time. I've read your mail and listened to your calls since the day we met. Tuesday night, Progressive Field, when you went to go take a leak during the seventh inning stretch, I poisoned your beer."
"How long have I…" said ©The Mamba, and toppled like a tree.
"That long," said The Thief. He looked down at his friend's corpse; his face looked old, old, old. And then he got on with it because, as his late friend used to say, a job was a job.