Hildegard looked at him, once again, as if he were a moron. “But, my dear man, it’s obvious! You will release the choke when Ralph coughs up the Harmony of the Spheres.” She frowned briefly, then added: “Actually, to be on the safe side, you’d best wait until he repeats it. Even the world’s greatest composers will have difficulty recording this harmony, and it’s essential that we get every note down properly.”
Greyboar was still frowning.
“Oh, stop worrying, young man!” snapped Hildegard. “You’ll have no difficulty recognizing the score of the Harmony of the Spheres! You’ve never heard it before, of course. No mortal has. But it’s quite unmistakable, really it is. And besides, we’ve all agreed that the Big Banjo will announce when the score is completely recorded.”
Greyboar threw up his hands in frustration. “You are the most impossible woman!” he bellowed. “I’m not worried about that! How will I know when you want me to let up because you’re about to die? That’s the problem!”
Hildegard’s look now conveyed the certainty that Greyboar was dumber than a moron.
“My dear man, the question simply won’t arise. I intend to have the score, and that’s that. Now, please! I’m a tolerant woman, but you are, after all, my employee. Do as you’re told!” The Schoolmistress From Hell, like I said.
Greyboar exhaled a deep breath. Then, stepped up and stood just behind Hildegard. Meanwhile, Ralph had been following the exchange with a look of growing confusion on his bat’s face.
“What’s going on here?” he demanded. “And who’s this big gorilla?”
“Name’s Greyboar,” rumbled the strangler.
The fallen angel looked suddenly interested. “Is that so? Well, I’ll be damned. Never knew what you looked like—although I should have guessed. Know who you are, of course, even though you don’t send much business our way.”
He paused, pondered, then: “Actually, I don’t think you’ve ever sent any business our way. But the devils are tickled pink with you. Talk about you all the time. ‘Best supplier in the business,’ they say.”
“Glad to hear it,” said Greyboar pleasantly. He placed his hands around Hildegard’s throat. As huge as they are, his hands barely went all the way around. She was such a feminine woman, Hildegard, that it was easy to forget what a giantess she was. Most people’s necks, even on great muscular bruisers, look like pipe-stems in Greyboar’s hands.
Ralph was now totally confused. “Hey, what gives? What’s the—”
The ringing of the bell cut him off. Greyboar started squeezing. Well, not really. I know what a real Greyboar squeeze looks like, and this was just a faint imitation.
Hildegard began ringing the bell impatiently, like she was a ranch woman summoning shepherds to the dinner table. And kept ringing. And kept ringing.
Greyboar’s shoulders slumped. He really wasn’t enthusiastic about the job, I could tell. Then he shrugged, took a deep breath, and really went to work.
Hildegard’s face turned bright red. Her tongue popped out of her mouth. Yet—I swear it!—her face mostly conveyed deep satisfaction. She even stopped ringing the damned bell.
Ralph winced. “Boy, that’s a horrible sight,” he muttered.
But he was a tough fallen angel, I’ll give him that. He took a deep breath and stared right at Hildegard’s face, without even blinking. And there it remained for the next five minutes, Hildegard and Ralph staring each other down. The woman must have had lungs like a whale, I thought to myself.
After five minutes, Hildegard started ringing the bell again. Greyboar tightened up further. He was scowling fiercely, his great shoulder muscles bunching up, the tendons in his forearms like so many steel cables.
Hildegard’s face was now bright purple. Her tongue was out a mile. Her eyes began protruding like a toad, except a toad’s eyes don’t show that horrid network of bright red veins in the eyeballs.
Ralph wasn’t looking much better. His complexion was now gray. His horns were starting to curl in. His cloven hoofs were crossed. Drops of oily sweat were pouring down his bat’s face.
Five more minutes went by. Hildegard rang the bell again. Greyboar went into overdrive. His shoulders hunched up like a bison’s. The enormous muscles in his arms were rippling like a nest of anacondas. His own face was red, and sweat was pouring off his forehead.
I was flabbergasted. Only once before had I ever seen Greyboar throw this much into a choke. That was three years before, at the Barbarian Games, when he faced the Terrible Talon in the finals. Been champion at the Games for six years running, Greyboar had—ever since he started competing, in fact—and the Terrible Talon was the only one ever really gave him a run for the title. Would have made a great rematch. Of course, rematches are unheard of in the choking event.