my eyes to the fork truck. Just behind the bare metal seat sat a long, silver cylinder. A black rubber hose ran from the cylinder into the body of the machine. So why hadn’t a digester beast eaten the hose? “Of course!”
I raised my knife, but a new wave of dizziness sent me stumbling back. I struggled to keep my head up and my eyes open. My left leg was completely numb, and my right wasn’t far behind. It was getting hard to stay upright. “No!” I slashed the knife across my face, making a shallow cut in a cheek. The sharp pain drove me fully into consciousness. I managed to hobble back to the fork truck, catching my weight on the roll-bar. I cut the rubber line, then grabbed the loose end of hose and dribbled the foul-smelling gasoline over the wriggling mass moving further up my body. I doubt many people remember the smell of stale gasoline, but I always would. Then, bracing myself for the pain, I lit my fire-starter and touched it to the creature.
A huge flame leapt up. The creature wriggled and wrought, making a terrible, high-pitched squeal. The heat was terrible, and the horrid stink indescribable. I turned my head and held my breath, but despite the numbness, I could feel, and smell my skin burning.
I hobbled back, lost my balance, and fell to the concrete floor. There was no more honor in silence so I screamed loud, proud, and long. And when I ran out of breath I inhaled and screamed again. I repeated this cycle until I was near complete exhaustion, then I just lay there for I have no idea how long, panting, my eyes squeezed shut, trying to endure the terrible pain as the numbness had completely dissipated.
Panting, my eyes blinded with tears, I grimaced and worked up all my courage, then sat up.
The creature, what was left of it, was still attached to my leg, now crispy and black and lifeless. With its source of physical life energy destroyed, its spirit force would return to whatever terrible realm it came from. It could be many thousands of centauries before it could return. Holding my breath from both the stink and the pain, I began peeling the card remains off. It crumbled like spent charcoal at my touch, and made short work of its removal. But my leg was a mess. Where skin remained it was burnt and blistered, but most of it had been partially digested by the organ binder. My left leg no longer looked like my left leg. My clothes were scorched and black, and I stank to death of death.
A wave of nausea swept over me. My head reeled and I collapsed back down. I don’t know how long I lay there, but at last some semblance of sense returned.
I raised my hands to where my bleary eyes could make them out. I worked my left shirt and jacket sleeves down to my elbow. On my left forearm is a ‘pocket,’ a flap of skin I’d had surgically added for a single purpose. Using the thumb of my right hand, I pushed at a lump inside the pocket and worked a slender yellow stone out of it. Normally this was a painful process, but at the moment my nervous system seemed to be overloaded.
I set the stone between my hands and pressed my palms together. I closed my eyes, took several deep breaths, and rallied my concentration. Keeping my mind on the stone, I felt a warmth begin flowing out of it, moving through my palms, up my arms, and over my face. As soon as I did I spoke aloud three times, “Not now. Not now. Not now.” Then I swallowed the stone. It wasn’t easy, especially lying on my back. I almost gagged, but managed to force it down. I felt it painfully moving down along my spine. Then the warmth began to spread, covering me like a blanket. I felt as if a million tiny fingers were moving over me, massaging me, weaving and looming me back together. After the sensation had subsided I lay there a while more, letting myself settle back into my own, familiar form, then opened my eyes and leapt to my feet.
I was whole again, every wound healed, ever burn smoothed over, and every tired muscle reenergized. I set the twenty-four hour alarm on my wristwatch, and then ran to the fork-truck, still dribbling gas on the floor, and grabbed my revolver, slipping it back inside its holster. I found my knife and retuned it to its sheath, then ran to the front of the building.
I stopped just outside, looking back through the broken window. Chances were that the organ binder had been destroyed by the fire. Chances were, for all intents and purposes, it was dead. But I didn’t like leaving loose ends behind me, besides, it was nearly dark, I was still deep inside Clowntown, and a distraction wouldn’t hurt. So I drew a chili pepper bomb from my pocket. I’d harvested these over a month ago. There was a good chance it was spoiled. What the hell.
I gave the little pepper a good squeeze, breaking the membrane that separates the pepper’s gooey heart from the seeds, mixing the compounds that thankfully weren’t dried out. I felt it warming up in my hand, then, with a little smile I couldn’t help, heaved it through the window and started running.
I managed to tuck myself behind an old mailbox just as the bomb went off. An explosion blew smoke and debris out several windows and the building’s empty doorway. I smiled. I liked explosions, but then who didn’t, right?”
I walked away, this time keeping to the shadows. In the dark there was no advantage to keeping out in the open. Fire crackled behind me, something inside the old building was burning. I could feel the not-now-stone settling in my belly. It wasn’t my favorite piece in my arsenal, but it had saved my butt more times than I could count. It’s the only one of its kind, as far as I know. It was a gift, of sorts, from a grizzled old wizard who no longer had need of it as he was dead; a victim of his own twisted magics. I won’t tell you yet how I came to posses it, as there’s still an investigation underway. But I can tell you I use it only when I absolutely have too, as it has its price. First off, I can only use it once until it’s been scrubbed. Secondly, I have twenty-four hours to cough it up and scrub it, if I don’t my wounds return, only four times worse. To scrub it I have to drop it in a jar of soul-lution, a magical mixture of unknown substances. I may not know what it is, but I do know that it can scream with a thousand tiny voices, because that’s exactly what it does every time I drop the stone in. And the worse my injuries had been, the more horrific the screams; and this is the second worse that I’d ever been hurt. I’ve been assured time and time again that the soul-lution is completely inanimate, and that the ‘screams’ are only an effect of the chemical reaction, but my heart tells me different.
So after a bath in the old pickle jar, the stone’s good as new and gets tucked back in my skin pocket, ready for my next life-threatening injury. But a long and dangerous road stood between me and that jar. I had to make it out of Clowntown without suffering another life threatening injury because I’d run fresh out of Not Now Stones.
I was totally screwed.
…to be continued.
-Next Time-
The Clowns of Clowntown are cruel, dangerous, deadly, and anything but funny, and a gang of them are headed straight for Jazz. Under normal circumstances she’d welcome the opportunity to dust a few orcs, but she doesn’t have a second to waste as the Not Now Stone is churning in her stomach, warning her of the terrible price she’ll pay if she doesn’t make it to the pickle jar waiting in her office. Planning to avoid the Clowns, she ducks into an apparently abandoned house, but is about to discover that she’s fled the frying pan for the fire. Good luck, Jazz.
Jazz, Monster Collector, Episode 3, Creatures & Clowns
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