Fiction: Evil Possum demo

 It's past time for the third post of the off-week, and I decided to see if I had something backlogged I can use. I settled on a vignette from the Evil Possum, which would have been a follow-up to Trails. Unfortunately, this was about where I went through one of my burnouts, so there isn't much more than you see here. Some day...

The figure behind the desk was shrouded in darkness. The one thing that was apparent was that it was far bigger than the desk was scaled for, and close to the limit of what the ceiling could accommodate. He was also very heavily built, almost as big around as he was tall. By comparison, the figure that entered was small and slender. It was a rat-like creature, unmistakably male, constantly wringing its hand-like forepaws. A nasal but commanding voice said, “I am No-Hands, El Diablo Sin Mano Derecho. You have sought me out. Now what do you ask of me?”

“I… uh… I… need someone to kill my wife,” the creature answered.

The shape behind the desk leaned forward enough for its eyes to shine brightly. “Your wife.”

“Uh, yeah, and uh, it should prob’ly look like an accident. They, uh, say you’re good at it.”

No-Hands leaned back again. “You know who I am, do you know my fee?” When no answer came, he said, “A tenth of your wealth, however great or small. And I already know exactly how much that is.”

The rodent wrung his hands. “Well, I, uh, suppose that’s less than her lawyers will take…”

No-Hands rose to his feet. “And I would pay more than that to see a creature like you die! Now go! Go, and make sure I never hear of you or your wife again!” The rodent scrambled out the door, and No-Hands sat down again. “Send in the next one.”

There were two who entered. They were as tall as No-Hands, and almost as robust. Their race was believed to be descended from guinea pigs, and normally considered the most docile of the species that inhabited their world. No-Hands was sufficiently surprised that one of them spoke first. “I’m Bob, this is my brother Rob,” he said. “I think we need help.”

“You think,” No-Hands said.

“So, here’s the thing,” Rob said. “We don’t haff any money.”

“How much you have need not be a concern,” No-Hands said. He picked up a photo they had offered with a metal pincer that replaced his right hand. “If the task satisfies me, I will work for a tenth of your wealth, however great or small.”

“I know,” Rob said, “but we don’t have any money.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bob cut in, “but we do have beer.”

“A lot of beer, actually,” Rob affirmed. “Lots. We make it, see. It’s a business with our uncle Job.”

“If you can help us, we’ll give you half,” Bob said.

“Perhaps we should discuss your circumstances,” No-Hands said. “Are you not able to sell the beer?”

“Nope,” Bob said. “There’s this rat named Magruder, he says if we try to sell beer in town again, he’ll shoot us like he shot Rod. Oh, and he shot our cousin Rod.”

“I see,” No-Hands said. “And if this Magruder were removed, could you make your money back?”

“Umm, not really,” Rob said. “If he was gone, his boss would just move in. An’ even if we could sell all the beer, it still wouldn’t pay what we owe to the bank.”

“Banks, yes, I deal with them,” No-Hands said. In fact, he had controlling interests in several of them, but he didn’t care for it to be known. “Then what would you ask of me?”

The guinea pigs both pondered. “I guess, I’d like to go back to making beer,” Bob said, “‘stead of having to stay up makin’ sure Magruder doesn’t burn our shack down.”

No-Hands sighed. He started to reach for a button to signal his handful of assistants to escort them out, but withdrew his hand. “I will help you,” he said. “My condition is, you will let it be known that I am working for you, not least to Magruder. As for the rest, I will tell you what I will do: I will sell your beer!”