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Chapter 3
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It seemed like an insufferably long amount of time, that ten minutes, during which I hesitated every time the perfect insult for that wide-brimmed monstrosity atop the brow of the perfect gunslinging stereotype rested on the tip of my tongue. Not because I was afraid of either death or this clearly overcompensating clod, but because I was actually enjoying the free transportation. Walking gets tiring for someone my height, that someone being me specifically.
However, my agonizing journey ended abruptly as we rounded a wall of trees and broke in upon a rather hushed conversation held by two individuals shrouded in the gloom of the darkness. Of course, at this distance, they wouldn’t remain hidden from my view for very long.
“That was remarkably quick.” One of the party said, cocking a sidelong glance at the two of us. Goodness, did I just refer to myself and this strop-strapped gaucho as ‘us’? I need to stop this guilt by association thing before it does me in. “Please tell me you didn’t break in and cause a row.”
“Nah,” Diero began, the first word dropping the southern dialect while the rest of the sentence immediately picked it back up and doubled down on the dialect to save face. “Mister walked right out in the middle of the street. Saved me a heap’ve trouble, and saved them folk the disturbance of a good night’s rest.”
“Diero, you-” One of the figures began, irritation sinking into his teeth and dripping from his most likely scowling mouth, as he began to walk forward, but abruptly stopped after a single step. “He’s still wearing his mask.”
“Huh?” Diero whirled around in a dramatic tornado of leather and stabbed his chiseled face directly into my personal space, dropping me on the ground in the process. “You little scamp! I thought you were just that ugly all on your lonesome. Hand it!”
As you may have suspected, the accent vanished without a trace during his surprise and irritation, but there would be no successful attempt on his part tonight. Deftly I caught the wrist of the hand that dove madly towards my eyes, threatening to deprive me of my mask. As I felt the unmoving skin beneath my gloved fingers, I- ugh. Ugh ugh ugh did I seriously just admit to be wearing gloves? Have I lost all amour-propre as a dramaturge so expeditiously? Should I stop using histrionic and daedalean lexemes which in their incogruous usance they flat-hat aloft the capitulum of the cumulative elocutionist assemblage that punctilious perusal of a lexicon is paramount for the perspicacity of the belles-lettres?
Yes, I have gloves. Yes, they are perfectly fit for my oversized hands. Yes, they are leather gloves. And yes, I want you to shut up so I can finish my thought.
As Diero’s wrist was caught in my big, stupid, gloved hands that want to give you a black eye for existing, I noticed the unmoving skin was extremely coarse and very stone-like. What was the secret of this callous clowboy, who now stared down at me in flaming disbelief that I could be so bold, so ambitious, as to grasp at the hand that dared to dominate and remove my lovely mask?
“Don’t bother.” I replied lazily, glaring up at the stunned desperado. “To avoid the machinations of Ghid I carved my mask out of wood. See?” I tapped at the mask which let out a resounding timberland tone. “So don’t touch it. Or me. Ever.”
Ah, but fool that I was to so easily let him go, as his hand resumed its mission to grasp my mask. Only now he simply ran his thumb over the grainy, painted surface to confirm my word was true. With a hiss of disappointment he resumed his stoic stance, folding his arms and becoming even more angular somehow.
“Disappointing.” The figure in the dark resumed his march, coming up to where we stood before crouching to glare me directly in the one visible eye. I couldn’t help but admire his dedication to leaving an impact. “The one job I thought Diero could accomplish without any difficulty. Well, I assume you know why we brought you here.”
Trying my best to ignore the reaction of disparity Diero possessed at the comment of failure I examined my rather unfriendly host. He wore a series of ragged black robes, obscuring the vast majority of his body, but his eyes gleamed out of the dark hollow they were nestled into. He looked like a large pile of trash bags; probably extremely cool in his own mind, but here he was just disappointing to look at. He seemed to sense this, his eyes squinting past the strange, black breathing filter across his mouth and nose, while the rest of him stood back up and grumpily marched back to his compatroit in the background, immediately blending in with the shadows.
Off to my side Diero had lit a match and was now igniting a cigar. As he dropped the match I caught it, pulling out a cigarette of my own to consume. By its light I barely identified the second figure, but he was so reflective it was impossible not to have discerned him with anything brighter. He was metallic, armored to the teeth, having no visible part of his body exposed. What was it with these people and completely closing off all exposure to air? That can’t be healthy for the skin.
Regardless, he was a head below the trash bag figure, yet in spite of this and his comparatively smaller frame, he had a presence which made it more than obvious he was the leader of this little expedition. With glowing white eyes he approached and glanced downwards at me, giving me a much better look at his armor. It was clearly some kind of metal, although almost artistically shaped and smithed, archaic in its layering and detailed with different designs. Despite his smaller frame the suit gave him the appearance of being fairly well-built, but it was impossible to tell if this was compensation on the part of the design or if he was that way underneath it all.
“I expect a great deal of information from you, Cordax.” He began. “It took us a great deal of time to locate you, and I hope you’ll be cooperative with helping us find your friend.”
Yes, I know you’re wondering why he addressed me as Cordax when my name is obviously Tott, and to be honest I have no idea what a Cordax is. Maybe it’s an insult for an exceedingly short person or something. I imagine with this interrogation-style questioning I’ll find out soon enough, especially since the moment he finished speaking he handed Diero a note of some kind and stalked back to the living dumpster.
Diero removed the cigar from his mouth, using its feeble light to inspect the contents of the note with a nonchalant air. Then, to my utmost confusion, he snapped up the note like some kind of hungry dog, devouring it with a voracity extremely unbecoming of someone of his dress and attire. Wordlessly he grabbed me by the back of my collar again and marched me over to the pair, revealing by proximity that they were standing in front of a logically impossible machine resembling some sort of wheel-less motorcycle with extremely extended seating.
“You’re going to tell us where Monopoly is, Cordax, and when we find him we’re going to ensure justice is done.” The silver figure said, walking over to the rear seat of the vehicle where a square object was obscured by a cloth. “We have it on good authority he is responsible for several murders and the detonation of a nuclear warhead.”
“Good authority?” I mused, sticking the cigarette in one of the lower holes in my Akaku.
The silver figure pulled the cloth off of the square object with dramatic flair, revealing an incredible object which I had absolutely no clue as to its purpose. It seemed completely useless, being a long rectangle of heavily-compacted metal, on top of which - and slightly crammed into the rest of the shape - rested a drawn, alien-like robotic head, sickening twisted pits where eyes presumably would go, and coupled with a pair of long, sinister pincers, which were the least damaged portion of the entire thing.
“Only the best.”
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