The Philosophical Strangler(140)

A few hours later, after nightfall, Gwendolyn made her own departure. She took the route through the Underground Railroad, of course. Even at night, Gwendolyn wasn’t going to risk being seen on the streets of New Sfinctr. Not with Queen Belladonna having just issued a new writ for her arrest.

She kissed me on the cheek before she left, and we hugged for maybe ten minutes and I’ll admit that warmed me up a bit. Well, okay, a lot. Even though I blamed her almost as much as Greyboar for the disastrous state of affairs we found ourselves in, I was still glad that the old feud was over. The truth is, I had a soft spot in my heart for that woman. Squishy soft, to be honest.

Then Greyboar wandered in and gathered us both up in his own embrace. It was the three of us again, like it hadn’t been in a lot of years. An awful lot of years. Even if it was only for a moment, before Gwendolyn went off to her crazy revolution and Greyboar and I went off on even crazier feats of derring-do.

The arms around me got tighter. Then tighter. Gwendolyn’s even more than Greyboar’s. I’d forgotten how strong the woman was. But I hadn’t forgotten her, it seemed. And so there was a little strange part of me—that maniac that resides somewhere in everybody—that was happy as a lark.

Stupid bastard. All these years I’d spent, trying to pound some sense into him. And here he was, back again, just as crazy as ever.





Gwendolyn left then, after giving me a last kiss. Greyboar escorted her out of the room. I stayed behind, simultaneously basking in the warmth of the present and shivering at the bleak bitter cold of the future.

Reconciliation. A marvelous thing, indeed. Marvelous.

Still—

A disastrous state of affairs is a disastrous state of affairs, no matter how you slice it.





And what was I doing all this time, you’re wondering?

Ha!

Working like a dog, what else? It’s the old story. The proles can play when the shift is over. But responsible management stays on, working weak and weary into the night.





Chapter 32.

Saved by the Rules

Sure, sure. Everybody else could lounge around, basking in the splendor of our glorious deed and our even-more-glorious newfound moral stature.

Professional Heroes, Excelsior! Marvelous!

Well . . . To be precise, Greyboar was a Professional Hero, Excelsior. I wasn’t. I wasn’t even a Professional Hero’s manager and agent, to my chagrin. The first thing I discovered upon our return—we’ll get to it; hold your horses—is that a Professional Hero can’t have a manager and agent. Matter of professional ethics, don’t you know? Seems that by the nature of the trade, a Hero must always act out of High Principles, and a manager/agent would tend to bring that principle under what they call a “cloud of disrepute.”

Which meant . . .

That I was now officially a Professional Hero, Auxiliary, Sidekick. With the wondrous prospect of eventually advancing—should the sidekick Prove His Mettle In Deeds Of Renown—to the august status of Professional Hero, Auxiliary, Companion.

Marvelous.





All this was explained to me the day after our return from the netherworld. At the crack of dawn, there came a furious pounding on our door. Bleary-eyed, I opened the entrance and beheld three stooped and withered old men, clad in rags, each clutching a bundle of tomes.

They charged into the foyer without so much as a by-your-leave. “Where’s the dining room?” demanded one. “We’ll need the largest table in the house,” quavered another.

The third one didn’t say anything. Jenny and Angela had appeared in the foyer, rubbing sleep from their eyes, and the oldster was ogling them. Not that they weren’t worth ogling, mind you, dressed as they were in those gauzy nightgowns which they favor (and I normally do except when lechers are in the vicinity). But I still thought it was grotesque. The way the geezer was wheezing, I was half-sure he was about to expire on the spot. Which I wouldn’t have minded in the least, except I’d have to deal with the body. From the looks of them, if his two companions tried to carry him out they’d drop dead themselves.

“It’s that way,” yawned Jenny. She pointed the way to the dining room and started back up the stairs. Angela followed. “Call us if you need anything, Ignace,” she mumbled.

All three of the vieillards ogled them until they passed out of sight. Then, they nodded in unison.

“Excellent! Excellent!” exclaimed one. “Flagrant libertinism,” proclaimed another. “The Second of the Sure Signs,” he added gleefully, cackling and rubbing his hands.

I had no idea what they were talking about. I was just coming awake enough to order them out of the house when they charged down the hallway toward the dining room. By the time I got there, they had all the tomes spread out and open, covering the entire surface.