Bottom of It

The knight glanced at me. He amassed a broad countenance with an enormous square jaw and surveying blue eyes under heavy eyebrows.

His nose was misshapen from being smashed too many times. The hat hid the fur, or more probable, the absence of it, but I was inclined to wager that what was evacuated of the growth on his head had to be murky and short.

The guardian signalled me to one of the minor red seats fixed before the desk. I sat, getting a glance into the cardboard crate on his desk. It encompassed a half-eaten jelly doughnut.

The knight proceeded with heeding the phone dialogue, so I looked around his office. A huge bookcase, also of murky cherrywood, strutted at the distinct embankment.

Above it, I saw a massive wooden map of Texas adorned with smears of barbed wire. Golden script engraved under each chunk endorsed the name of the manufacturer and the year.

The guardian finalized his chat by hanging up the phone without mumbling a word.

"You've got some sheets to show me, now's the time."

I gave him my merc ID and half-a-dozen recommendations. He hurled through them.

"Water and Sewer, huh?"

"Yes."

"Gotta be brutal or silly to plunge into the tailors these days. So, which one are you?"

"I'm not silly, but if I confide to you I'm brutal, you'll peg me for a bravo, so I'm getting on to grin cryptically."

I bestowed him my fairest cryptic smile. He did not plunge to his feet, buss my shoes, and promise me the world. I must be getting worn.

The guardian fluttered at the signature.

"Miche Tellez. I've laboured with him before. You do regular work for him?"

"More or less."

"What was it this time?"

"He had a dilemma with vast chunks of the tool being dragged away. Somebody notified him he had an infant mark"

"They're marine," he asserted.

"They perish in freshwater."

A rotund slob who consumes powdered jelly doughnuts wears shirts with fringe and recognizes a dim metaphysical creature without a momentary halt. Knight-protector. Camouflage professional extraordinaire.

"You got to the bottom of Miche's problem?" he inquired.

"Yes. He had the Impala Worm," I explained.

If he was impressed, he did not express it.

"You kill it?"

Extremely funny.

"No, simply made it feel unwelcome."

The remembrance jabbed me, and for a period I fumbled again through a dim cavern surged with watery excrement and soot that rose to my hips.

My left leg simmered with icy pain and I strived on, half-dragging it, while behind me the tremendous pallid torso of the Worm dribbled its life-blood into the slime.

The greasy green blood twirled on the veneer, each of its cells a slight living organism consumed by a sole purpose: to reunite.

No matter how many times or how many miles distant this creature seemed, it was constantly the exact Impala Worm. There was just one and it regenerated endlessly.

The guardian put my articles on his desk.

"So, what do you want?"

"I'm investigating the murder of Greg Feldman."

"On whose authority?"

"My own."

"I see." He crouched back.

"Why?"

"For personal reasons."

"Did you recognize him personally?" He conveyed the query in a flawlessly indifferent tone, but the underlying connotation was all too apparent.

I felt pleased to dishearten him.

"Yes. He was a pal of my father."

"I see," he mumbled again.

"Your father wouldn't be available for a statement?"

"He's dead."

"I'm sorry," he let out.

"Don't be," I asserted. "You didn't know him."

"Do you have anything that might substantiate your connection with Greg Feldman?"

I could handily provide him with affiliation. If he was to gawk me up in his catalogues, he would learn that Greg had financed my petition to the Order, but I did not wish to move in that path.

"Greg Feldman was thirty-nine years old. He was an intensely private man, and he despised being photographed." I conveyed to him a slight rectangle of the portrait.

"This is a picture of me and him on the day of my high school graduation. There is an identical picture in his lodgings. It's located in his archive on the third shelf of the main bookcase."

"I've seen it," the guardian asserted.

How bloody nice.

"Can I have that back, please?"

He returned the picture. "Are you conscious that you're dubbed as a successor in Greg Feldman's will?"

"No." I would've welcomed a moment to deal with my guilt and commendation, but the knight-protector ploughed on.

"He endowed his financial assets to the Order and the Academy."

He was staring at me for a reaction. Did he feel I minded about Greg's money?

"Everything else, the archive, the weapons, the objects of power, is yours."

I mumbled nothing.

"I've checked on you with the Guild," he mumbled.

The blue eyes fixed me in place.

"I've learned you're eligible but hurting for money. The Order is equipped to make you a considerable offer for the items in question. You'll find the sum to be more than adequate."

It was an insult and we both inferred it. I thought of telling him that if it wasn't for Oklahoman cowboys and Mexican whores having a handful of fun, there would've been no Texans, but that would be counterproductive.

One didn't dub a knight-protector a whoreson in his own office.

"No, thank you," I asserted with a cheerful smile.

"Are you sure?" His sights took my measure.

"You gawk like you could utilize some money. The Order will offer you extra than you'd get auctioning it off. My suggestion, take the money. Acquire yourself an adequate pair of shoes."

I glimpsed at my beat-up lurkers. I relished my shoes. I could bleach them. It snatched the blood right out.

"Do you reckon I should obtain some like yours?" I inquired, looking at his boots.

"Who knows, they might throw a cowboy shirt with a ledge in with them. Perhaps even a girdle."

Something swirled in his sights. "You got a maw on you."

"Who, me?"

"Talk's cheap. What can you do?" Thin ice.

Progress with vigilance.