Jazz, Monster Collector in: Downtown Clowntown season one, episode three RiFT Tricorner Publishing’s Smashwords Edition Copyright 2011 This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons living or dead are purely coincidental. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. JAZZ, Monster Collector Season One: Earth’s Lament RiFT Season-1, Episode-3: Downtown Clowntown I was deep inside Clowntown, one of the most dangerous places this side of the wilds. The Not Now Stone had regenerated my battered, beaten, burned, and partially digested body. I’d decided to ignore my usual apprehensions and be thankful about having used it. I was back in fighting shape, but my clothes were tattered and stained…with my blood. I was starving and the clock was ticking. I still had over twenty-three hours to find my way out of this monster ghetto, but if anything kept me from reaching the jar of soul-lution at my office in Nitsburg, I would suffer a horrible, and excruciating, series of injuries. I needed to scrub the stone and I couldn’t let anything get between me and that old pickle jar. When I heard the laughing, I knew that something was about to get in my way. Clowns, just great; they had about as much love for me as I did for them. Given better circumstances I would have set up an ambush and dusted these creeps, but my situation was dire at best. Still, considering my strategic options, an ambush might be my least unattractive option—it would certainly be fun. But I’d try hiding first. I reached inside my cotton jacket, drew the macdaddy revolver from my shoulder harness, and moved as quickly and as quietly as I could, backtracking my steps to an old brick building I’d passed earlier. I stopped outside of the decorative iron gate. This building was unique for Clowntown as it still had its windows and doors intact, and lacked the colorful, smiling faces the Clowns mark their territory with. A building with no graffiti stands out in this neighborhood. I scanned the windows and walls, looking for a clue. Something about this place had kept the militant monsters and violent vermin away. Maybe, if whatever it was didn’t kill me, or worse, the clowns would pass it by. More laughter, coming closer. Keeping low and my pistol at the ready, I crept along the brick walk and up the short stack of concrete steps, the shreds of my long, pleated skirt dragged behind me. The door was a heavy, fiberglass model, popular before the coming of Mirth and its vast supply of magical construction methods. It was, of course, locked. I slipped the magnetic pick from the seam of my shirt and slid it in the door. As soon as I did my shadow-sight caught a glimmer of enchantment. Something was protecting the house. But the cackling laughter was very near and I needed the drop on these clowns, so I tripped the lock, opened the door, and slid in with my revolver at the ready. I shut the door, closing out the fading light of day. My shadow-sight took over. A childhood ‘accident’ had rendered me completely color blind, but I’d also gained the ability to see in all but complete darkness, and what I saw really creeped me out. There was a long, floral print sofa in front of a bay window treated with a pair of pleated curtains, drawn closed. A thick cushioned recliner stood in one corner, and a wooden rocker was nestled beside the brick fireplace. Several photographs were arranged on the mantle. I was standing on a deep pile, wall to wall carpet. Gooseflesh swarmed over me, standing the hairs on the back of my neck and arms on end. I was in a living room, a perfectly preserved, museum quality replica of a room from a century ago—a room from my childhood. How could this house exist here, now, and in, of all places, Clowntown? I pulled the revolver’s hammer back, scanning every inch of the space—the striped wallpaper, the ceiling fan, the crochet throws—with my shadow sight. Aside from being able to see in the dark, it also allows me to see the normally invisible portions of the magical spectrum. I saw glowing, blue-white blotches everywhere—ghost fingerprints. Something spectral, something that had touched the other side, was in that house. Keeping my eyes and ears open, I crept across the room, pressed my back to the wall and looked around the corner into a dusty, but otherwise sublime, dining room, complete with cobwebbed candelabrum in the center of the table. I picked a pen up off the server. I hadn’t seen a regular, ink-filled writing instrument in a while. I tapped the pen on the top of the rocker, then gave the chair a persuasive tap with the tip of my moccasin boot and started it gently rocking. It was solid enough, real enough—this was no illusion. But why? Why was it there, intact? A thought struck me in the back of the head; maybe this was a set up. Maybe someone had figured out my secret, had set up this house as bait, someone resourceful, and moral-less, and with a twisted sense of humor, someone like the clowns. If so, then I’d just bungled in like a true amateur. Laughter, just outside the house; if they were springing a trap, now was the time. I shoved the pen in my pocket and ran to the front, gun in hand, and pressed to the wall beside the window. I tipped an edge of the curtain back with the pistol nozzle—clowns, a lot of clowns, out in the street. But there weren’t any near the house that I could see. In fact, they seemed to be keeping their distance; they even avoided looking at it. Was this part of the trap, or was there something else going on, something right in front of me that I’d missed? My left ear caught a creaking sound. I slowly turned my head. The wooden chair was still rocking back and forth. It hadn’t slowed a bit; in fact, it seemed to have gained both vigor and a sort of particular tempo. Most anyone else would have simply seen an empty chair rocking of its own accord, and if it were most anyone else, their hair would have stood on end as they let out a horrifying scream. But I’m not most anyone else. My short hair tends to stand up all on its own anyway, and I rarely scream, though I wanted to. I saw the chair’s occupant plain as could be. It was an old woman, her grey hair tied up in a tight bun, wearing a lace dress and had a thick sweater draped over her shoulders. She was thin, and gaunt, and the edges of her form wisped off into thin air. She was dead, a ghost. It sat with its bony, swollen knuckled fingers gripping the arms of the chair. Its grey eyes looked too big for its small head; they were empty and stared at me—no, stared through me, glaring. Ignoring it I checked out the window. I never paid much mind to ghosts. They were empty spirit, too lazy, or too stupid to move on, and few of them had enough energy to do more than ring a bell, flip a light switch, or rock a chair. The clowns had thinned out some; I wondered where they’d gone? One, the big one, probably the ringleader, stood in the middle of the street. Several others were gathered around him. Some debate was going on, they were probably wondering where I’d gone. Just then the leader’s head snapped over to the house. I backed out of the window and hoped he hadn’t seen the curtain move, but he probably had, that’d be my luck. I expected the ghost to be gone, most will fade into the ether if you ignore them, but it was still sitting there, rocking and staring. I raised my palms, the revolver dangling off a finger by the trigger guard. “What are you staring at gassy?” It was getting on my nerves, but didn’t react to me at all. Most ghosts can’t see the living; they’re as unaware of us as we are of them. Me, well I’m a special circumstance. “Go on, shoo!” I waved a hand through its form, displacing more of the ecto-fog that created the illusion of its form. “Move it out of here, go on.” It reacted at last. Its mouth dropped down to its lap, its mouth formed a huge, black gorge. It raised its hands, its fingers curling like claws as they lengthened, and bellowed a terrible moan. I wasn’t impressed. “Yeah, yeah, I’ve seen it. Now move on, out’a this realm before I flush you someplace worse.” It floated off the chair. As its twisted feet left the floor they dissolved into ecto vapor. It continued to grow larger and larger, as it did, spreading out its gassy form, it thinned and grew transparent. I’d had enough of the show. I pulled a small, hinged mirror from my jacket pocket, flipped it open, and held it up. “Take a gander of that grandma.” It howled a long, low moan of excruciating torment, turned its head, and flew away from me. By the time it hit the stairs it was little more than a faint wisp that dissolved completely at the second floor landing. Most ghosts don’t know they’re ghosts at all. In fact most aren’t even a human spirit; they’re just a bit of lingering life energy generated by repetitious brain patterns that, refusing to submit to mortal fate, defy death and remain, and, lacking a consciousness, are only able to repeat what they did in life. Denying that they’re little more than a flicker, they despise the undeniable truth of their reflection—tough crap. Now for the clowns. I didn’t want to risk being spotted, and figured the higher ground was better ground anyway, so I hustled up the stairs and moved into the front bedroom. I couldn’t help but chuckle as I went up. The clowns were a bunch of jerkity-jerks to let one little ghost scare them off the house. I stopped laughing when I heard the baneful wails drifting from somewhere inside the house. I let out a shuttering breath, closed my eyes and hung my head. Looked like the clowns weren’t so dumb and I was the jerk. Man, I hated wraiths. I slid the revolver away as it wasn’t going to do me any good. Wraiths are more than just dangerous; their very touch is death, and worse, as no sooner do you die then you rise up a wraith yourself. Try fighting something you can’t touch sometime, it’s harder than it sounds. The wailing was coming closer. I retrieved the piece of wax paper from my pocket, unfolded it, and broke the gob of putty it held into two pinches. Most wraiths have terror-bellows, their horrible wails can push a mind into a total panic, an inescapable state of absolute fear—as if their horrid appearance wasn’t enough to do it. I shoved the putty in my ears as I moved across the room, but I spotted it just as it did me. It was out in the hall, floating from room to room. As soon as it saw me its hideous mouth dropped open and it started to howl. I showed it the back of my first two fingers, and then ran. I shot through a connecting bathroom, all the towels were draped neatly over their rods, and into a small bedroom, slamming the doors behind me. I knew a door wouldn’t stop a wraith, but it was habit. The room was neat and tidy. The tightly made bed was in the shape of a race car. The curtains had dinosaurs all over them, and the lamp had a Superman shade. A baseball bat with several pegs pressed into it hung to one side of the door and served as a hat-rack sporting a baseball cap and glove. Mickey, was carved into the bat. Then, despite my globs of putty, I heard a loud, baneful wail and had to bite my cheeks to keep my mind in check. As I watched the wraith passed effortlessly through the door. Rage and pain and torment filled its droopy lidded eyes. Its lower jaw hung on its chest, leaving its mouth opened into a huge black cavern with no apparent end. It’s unnaturally long fingers were bent, twisted, malformed, and curled over like claws. Its wrinkled skin was a deathly shade of blue. It had no apparent feet as its form faded into mist somewhere below its knees, and it floated toward me, absolute fury burning in its huge, black eyes. Time to panic. I spun, leapt over the bed and shot to the window. A second story jump was a better risk than tangling unprepared with a wraith; two broken legs beat an eternity of torment and damnation anytime. It didn’t try to intersect me, but kept its slow, torturous approach; its howls echoing in the small room. I whipped the curtains apart to reveal nothing but brick wall. I’d love to act surprised, but I didn’t have time too. I ducked under a furious swipe of the wraith’s hand, rolled away, clambered over the bed and tore the other pair of curtains to the floor. I didn’t expect to see glass, but when the wraith phased through the bricks I nearly lost my lunch, or would have if I’d eaten any. I broke for the door, I needed out of that house, but a terrible chill sent me into shivers as it flew past me at a blur of speed. I crept backwards. Bricking over windows, moving faster than I could see—this thing was strong, probably the strongest wraith I’d ever faced, or had heard of; I was in deep doo-doo with no way out. When my back hit the bricked over window I realized my only remaining option; my revolver was still loaded. I drew the gun knowing all to well that flying projectiles wouldn’t do a wraith any harm. I cocked the trigger and set the barrel against my temple. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d died, but this time I didn’t expect to come back again. With the cold steel pressing against my head I wondered if death might be the thing that would propel me back home, as I still had a strong suspicion that this whole screwed up, dimensionally merged planet was some kind of vision, or hallucination, or delusion. Real or not, I knew I could feel pain, and a bullet in the head’s an eternity less painful than wraith torment. I began squeezing the trigger, it felt harder, and the gun felt heavier, than I had remembered it being. Then I smiled; time to say goodbye. But it suddenly looked scared, its grotesque mouth snapped shut, its eyes arched up, and it clasped its hands and drifted away from me. I released the pressure from the trigger, watching it, trying to understand. Does it want to turn me? I doubted that something a base as a wraith would care about such things—they’re all evil instinct. I started taking in the room’s décor and a thought struck me. “Mickey?” I said, lowering the pistol. A mix of fear and anger painted its expression. “Mickey,” I said, more confidently, and took a step toward it. It began shaking its head, looking from the door behind it and back at me. It seemed confused and in turmoil, but I had something on it, a word as a weapon. So I took another careful step and said it again, pointing at the engraved baseball bat. “You’re Mickey, little Mickey.” The creature laid its head back over farther than any person could have and bailed out a horrific wail. I grimaced and covered my ears. I could feel the fear lighting a candle in my mind. It quickly began to grow, spreading like wildfire that threatened to consume my grip on my senses. I bit my cheeks until I tasted blood. The sharp pain kept the fear from overcoming my thinking, but just barely; I surely wouldn’t last a minute more. The name had backfired; I’d struck a nerve and needed a new advantage. It was coming for me. I was paralyzed, locked in an internal combat, fear battling for control of my mind. It was reaching for me, and since it didn’t breathe, it never stopped its terror-bellow. If just one of its icy fingers touched my flesh I would die a terrible and painful death—death by wraith poisoning is no pretty sight. Then I spotted it, there, on the bedside table, a photograph in a frame. A young, chipper lad in a little-league uniform posed with an old lady with a kind smile. They looked happy, and normal, and completely unaware of the coming of Mirth. I released my head and dove for the picture. I grabbed it and shoved it in the wraith’s approximation of a horrid, human face. It spun its head away, breaking the terror bellows at last. I took my chance and, after dropping my revolver on the bed (not something easy for me to do), ripped the back from the frame and held the photograph in two hands. It was glaring at me with a tangible hatred that pressed against my heart. I glared back with an intent so intense that there was no need for me to vocalize it—back off or I rip it in half, destroy perhaps the last record of this abomination’s in-life appearance, of the time it was happy, and safe, and alive. Its expression kept switching back and forth from horrible anger to terrible sadness, from a monster to child, with no muscular effort and at such a rate that its face seemed to strobe from one to the other—freaky. The important thing was that I had it. And what I had I could destroy. Fire was the answer here. The wraith was tied to the hose and the life it once had here, very strongly tied, unusual for its kind but not unheard of. Without the tie it would loose its hold on the physical plane and fade into one of the dark neither-realms. It would suffer horribly forever, but it would pose no more danger to this world. Holding it off with the picture like a vampire with a cross, I drew a chili pepper bomb from my deep skirt pocket and began working my way to the door. I laid the photograph flat so I could toss it Frisbee style and make my run for the door, but the wraith began to sob…I think it was sobbing, hard to tell with the deep, echoing bales—totally weird. Then the ghost, the old lady, floated into the room through the wall. I figured it would have stayed scared of me, it would be right too. But it didn’t pay me any mind. It floated over to the wraith and began to comfort it. I could feel my forehead wrinkle. I’d seen a lot of weird and unbelievable things in my life, more than anyone I’d ever known, so it wasn’t all that easy to surprise me, but I can tell you surprised doesn’t even begin to describe what I was feeling just then. Ghosts can imitate life; sure, they try at least. But wraiths, they’re pure evil, there’re tormented and hate all living things; they’ll destroy life whenever they can. But here was a big, nasty, powerful wraith being comforted by a ghost—man, I hate this world. The wraith had its face literary shoved inside the ghost’s chest, its tattered rags quaked with powerful sobs. The ghost looked up at me with eyes all of white and a grandmother’s judgmental scowl. Now I was being reprimanded by a ghost, and I was still perfectly alive. Most people will tell you that I’m all but heartless, and I would never publicly do anything to teardown the reputation I’d worked so hard to create, but it didn’t mean it was true. I dropped the chili pepper in my pocket and walked to the bed, sliding my revolver back in its holster. The old woman stared at me; it looked uncertain and nervous about my intentions and stroked the back of the wraith’s head. Maybe this ghost was something more than a flicker, but, in my weary, hungry, and strained state, I wasn’t coming to any conclusions just then. I picked up the frame, laid the picture back in and stood it on the little table. Her spirit face relaxed some, but I won’t go so far as to say I felt that she thanked me. Can’t blame her though, I did invade their house—darling Mickey and his adorable grandma. I left them and moved down the stairs. It was fairly irresponsible of me to leave a wraith intact, but this was only Clowntown after all. Crud, I’d forgotten all about the clowns, I still had them to deal with. But perhaps I had an advantage now. Me, that ghost, and my trusty chili pepper bomb had a little conversation. I’d let them exist and I felt they owed me—fair is fair. They may have disagreed; I didn’t know and didn’t care if they did, either way the bomb was a powerful bargaining chip. Now invisible, the old lady swung the door open with a vigor to display how badly it wanted me out of its house. The clowns were still milling in the street. At the sound of the door opening they gathered up around the big clown, who was smoking a cigar the size of a doll’s leg. He started laughing and his chorus joined in, though they had absolutely no sense of harmony. I had my macdaddy revolver in hand as I crossed my arms, leaned against the door jamb, and looked just as smug as I could muster, and I could muster a lot of smug. The ringleader lost his smile first, then the others slowly and stupidly followed suit. Jerks. The leader’s head spun right and left, scanning the exterior of the perfectly preserved brick house in the middle of the monster ghetto. As the wraith sailed out over my head the gang of make-up caked monster faces screamed and broke into a mad scramble of panic, all except for the big boss clown, who’s mouth dropped open and let his cigar fall to the cracked and weedy asphalt. Bailing and wailing, the wraith flew circles around the house. I sauntered down the concrete steps to the street, waving my gun to insure they hadn’t missed it. As I crossed onto the sidewalk I heard the door slam closed behind me. As if in warning, the wraith circled out wide over the remaining clowns. They ducked down, covered their heads, and screamed. Then the wraith, with a loud baneful wail, passed though the brick wall and back inside the house. As my moccasined feet walked up to the big, painted goblin he looked up at me and squealed, falling back on his hands in surprise. He collided into the goblin behind him. The leader’s face switched from scared and back to angry in a flash. Snorting and cursing in goblin-speak, the leader slugged his goon hard in the gut then scrambled to his leather-booted feet. I stuck the revolver barrel in his ugly mug, though, being that he easily had a foot and a half of height on me, I had to be up on tip-toes to do so. “So clown, are we going to have a problem here?” He growled, showing me half of his pointed fangs. He shoved me away with an inhumanly strong hand and drew a serrated-edged dagger from his belt. I quickly caught my balance and shot him in the hand. The dagger hit the street with a tinty chime. He began wringing the hand, cursing me in goblin. I cursed him back in goblin. He growled again, his beady eyes were burning red, and this time showed me all his teeth. In response, and now returning from where they’d hidden, his gang members gathered around drawing weapons of various sizes and styles and numbers of killing edges. I drew the hammer back and took careful aim at the boss’s head. He grunted, growled, and then began to laugh. “Cretan, you can’t shoot us all with that pop-gun.” I couldn’t keep the smile from my face. “I’m all too happy to die if I get to take a slum-lord like you with me. But the real question here is how many of your gang will it take to kill my little friend in the house there?” “Friend?” he asked, unable to hide the quiver in the words, and glanced at the house. His troops looked too, their eyes filling with trepidation and their grips weakening such that their weapons drooped down. The ringleader barked and his troops jumped in surprise. “Stow ‘em!” he ordered and they sheathed their weapons. Clutching the hand that ran with black blood he cut the distance between us in half with a single sytep, his eyes fixed on the business end of my macdady. “Aren’t you going to lower your weapon?” he said in English. “Not to a gang of clowns.” He stared at me for a moment; I figured he was sizing up whether he could break my neck before I shot him. “You’re Jazz, right?” I had to admit, his English was flawless. Goblins normally had terrible accents. He must have spent a lot of time around humans, maybe in prison, or maybe he’d been a servant. I was curious. “Yeah, I’m Jazz. You know what I do right?” He nodded, and looked at his injured hand. “Yeah, you hunt non-humans.” “Wrong, I kill monsters, especially ones that get in my way.” A furious grumble passed through his gang, but he barked them into silence. “I’m not here to fight, I want to hire you.” I laughed, I couldn’t help it, I was too tired to resist. “Yeah, right. If you think that’s going to make me lower my guard than you don’t know anything about me at all.” “I’m not trying to trick you,” he snapped, his anger slobbering over his words; Goblins always had such short fuses, that’s what got them the bad reputation. “I was looking for you.” I sized him up, he was hurt worse then the bullet I’d put through his hand, and his gang looked weary, weak, and half-starved. This was not normal for clowns who pretty much made the rules inside Clowntown. I holstered the gun and crossed my arms, setting my hands on the daggers hidden up my shirt’s puffy sleeves. “First off, if you want to hire me, call my secretary. Secondly, how could you be looking for me, I’m only here because some fly-jerks shot me down? I would never willingly come to Clowntown, so you’re lying.” Someone in the back growled, but we both ignored him. “Don’t be daft, you know I can’t call you, and even if I could you’d have never come. We heard about your tussle with the cranks over the nuralpod-network and came looking for you. We saw you burn that building down, and, frankly, we don’t take kindly to folks who damage our stuff.” “Yeah!” The skinny goblin in the leather armor punched himself in the chest-plate. “That’s what we get to do!” “Shut up you oaf!” The boss smacked the other in the back of the head, setting his helmet over his eyes. Looking offended, the struck clown uncovered his eyes and stared at his boots. The nuralpod-network, a multi-channel physic broadcasting system. Most of the city dwellers have tunable receivers installed in their heads. So one of these goblins either had a transmission converter, or, more likely, has a brain mounted until which meant it had definitely lived with humans; curiouser and curiouser. “If you saw me there, why didn’t you contact me then?” “Because I had to know it was you for sure. I figured we’d mix it up a little, make sure you were all we’d heard you were, but when you blundered inside the haunt, I figured I’d let the wraith prove your worth for me.” I smirked. “I never blunder, I seek, stalk, and slay. And you saw me walk out of there with my soul intact, doubt anyone else ever has. So, any lingering doubts, because I’d be more than happy to provide you with further evidence?” “Not necessary, you’re her. So, can I hire you?” I scratched my head and glanced at my watch. Aside from hating goblins, I was running out of time. I needed to get back to the office and scrub the not-now stone, but I had to play this out carefully. If I went along too willingly, they’d smell a rat and it’d be a fight that, not only would I probably loose, but would cost me way too much time. But if I played this too abjectly, then it’d be a fight again. I needed the middle path here. “This is a joke, right? Why would a monster hire a monster hunter?” “Forget your prejudices for a moment human, I have money, lots of money, do you want it or not?” I hated clowns. They were a wretched lot of misplaced goblins, trolls, and goons. Many of them were criminals that had escaped confinement, or were escapees from the monster containment camps. Some were runaway service providers, which was a comfortable way for society to say slave, which was something me and my gypsy brethren could identify with. Others simply had nowhere else to be. Many of the races, like the goblins, had such a genetically deep rooted need for violence they simply couldn’t meld within a civilized culture, and drifted to the outlands. Others still, the really, really chaotic creatures, survived in the wilds, which is why so little else did. The goblins and hobgoblins, having such a military nature, had formed ranks. In a thumbed nose gesture to the rest of Mirth’s inhabitants, they’d taken to painting their faces and doing everything in their power to mock the life around them. Have I mentioned that I hated clowns? But, like it or not, I had to deal with this lot. “Look clown, I don’t take most of the jobs that cross my desk because, much to my staff’s chagrin, I don’t covet money. I only take jobs I believe in, if you don’t know that than you don’t know me at all.” “I’d heard that, I just didn’t believe it. I thought all humans cared about was acquisition.” “Yeah, you’re mostly right.” Damn, I hated to agree with a goblin, especially one with a painted face. “What is this about?” “Hunters, they’re killing us, all of us, one by one.” “Who’s killing you?” “If I knew I’d kill them myself!” he shouted. “That’s why I’m hiring you, you idiot!” I raised my eyebrows. “Careful.” His eyes flashed back and forth from mine to his feet. “Sorry,” he grumbled. I’m impressed, it’s no easy thing for a goblin to apologize, this guy was scared, really scared. Then several of his troop’s heads snapped up, they’d heard something. There was growling, and goblin-speak, and weapons were drawn. I turned around, now side by side with the boss clown who’d drawn a long battleaxe that he brandished in his good hand. He stared down the darkened street. I cocked the revolver. “If this is a trick—” “It’s not!” he snapped in goblin. I trained my shadow-sight down the street, but goblins were just as good at seeing in the dark as me, and they could hear and smell a lot better. “What is it?” I whispered as his gang formed ranks behind us. “A machine, something strange, a foul smell, we don’t recognize it. Shh.” He held up his hand, the wound had almost stopped bleeding already, and listened, sniffing the air. “Someone’s coming, a woman, human, and alone. She’s heavily armed, gun oil and explosive devises.” “Yeah, well she’s dead!” another goblin spat, setting a large, automatic rifle to his armored shoulder. I uncocked the pistol and straightened up, relaxing my posture. “Relax. Tell your men to lower their weapons.” “No, it’s a trap,” another goblin said, blood lust was in his eyes. I glared at the boss clown. “She’s with me. Now, if you want me to work for you you’ll do as I say, do it now.” The boss clown looked from me to what lurked unseen in the dark ahead. “She’s with you?” I nodded. “Then tell her to show herself, and to drop her weapons.” I huffed. I hated taking orders from a filthy goblin, but I just wanted to be home. Besides, we were still vastly outnumbered. “I’ll meet you halfway.” Against the protests of the clown behind me, I walked several steps forward then called to the dark. “It’s OK DJ, I’m fine. You can come out now.” “Hey!” a high-pitched voice called back, “I was sneaking up. How did you know I was here?” I rolled my eyes. DJ still had much to learn. I hoped I could teach her before she got herself killed. “Just come out please, now.” I heard her kick something. “Fine.” Then my little shadow crept from the shadows and stood aiming a very large Robotusen personal mini-missile launcher and digital music player at the clowns. The big gun was as long as she was tall. She was in her ‘action’ jumpsuit, the red one with the black leg and arm stripes; she said it made her feel like a superhero. Her face was blanked out by the tinted visor of her color coordinated motorcycle helmet. The clowns made a cacophony of grunts, growls, curses, and gasps at sight of the weapon—that’s my DJ, she does love attention. “What is this?” boss clown, teeth clenched and legs trembling with surging energy, asked. “That’s my trusty sidekick. I’ll handle it,” I said. “You’d better.” I eyed the big oaf. Seemed he was in no position to be threatening me, but I let it slide, committing the breach of etiquette to memory. “I’m fine DJ, you can lower the silo.” She shifted back and forth on her tall, red boots. “Come over here, come alone.” She sounded nervous, that, combined with her overprotective nature, could end with a lot of dead clowns. As I couldn’t see a down side, I walked away. A strong hand grabbed my arm and wrenched me to a stop. I glared back at the boss clown. “Leg go of my arm before I make you clown.” “I don’t trust you, this is a trap.” I laughed. “You’d be smart not to trust me, I certainly don’t trust you, but if I wanted you clowns dead, I’d have killed you already. He bared his fangs and growled deep in his throat, my chest rumbled with the vibration, but he saw my logic and shoved me back into motion. I held up my hands as I approached her. “DJ, lower the gun.” “Are…are you sure?” she asked, her high-pitched voice echoed inside the helmet. I stopped a few yards in front of her and set my hands on my hips. I deepened my voice. “Yes, I’m sure, now lower it, that’s an order.” She immediately lowered the weapon, resting the nozzle end on the street and circling her shoulder; apparently bearing the weight of it had been something of a strain for her. “Sorry boss, but that’s an awful lot of clowns you’re pal’n with over there.” I glanced back over m shoulder. “We’re certainly not pals, but they just might be clients.” “What?” her echoing shout got the clowns growling again. “Lose the helmet please.” “Oh yeah.” She unbuckled the chin strap and whipped the helmet off. Her long, black hair spilled out over her shoulders. “Are you sure you’re OK? I’ve been searching for you all day.” I still couldn’t get used to the thick, Brooklyn accent coming out of her petite Asian face. “Yes, I’m fine.” “Maybe you’re under a spell or something?” “I’m not under a spell,” I said, walking up to her and taking the mini-launcher. As I did I stepped into a shaft of moons light. I sometimes forget that everyone can’t see in the dark. DJ’s little face lit up, her brown eyes brightened as she looked me over. “Wow, your clothes are a mess, but you look great, better then ever in fact, are you exercising—” Her flying lips snapped shut, her eyes filled with understanding as her expression darkened. “You used the stone again, didn’t you?” “Ummm, yeah,” I said shortly. “Look, I need to deal with this. Did you bring the cycle?” “Yeah,” she said, visibly struggling to keep her lecture behind her perfect, white teeth. “Good. That gives us a way out of this wasteland.” DJ grimaced and sucked in air like she’d just stuck her foot in ice water. I felt my face droop. “What?” “Cranks. They’ve got a couple squadrons looking for you.” “Let me worry about that. Right now I need that clever brain of yours to figure a way to get the currently grounded Ship out of here and back to Nitstown undetected.” DJ’s dark eyes were unfocused; she wasn’t listening. “DJ! Come on now,” I shouted, clapping my hands together. Her head reeled back, but she still stared at me with the hazy gaze. “You shouldn’t have used the stone, you know it could backlash. It’s too unstable.” As she spoke, her upper lip rose up on one corner. “DJ!” I shouted louder than I intended to. “We’re standing in the middle of Clowntown, in the dark, and without allies. Let’s stay focused on getting us and Ship back home, then you can lecture me about backlash.” DJ shook her head and ran her eyes over the surrounding buildings, the broken glass, the demolished cars, and the crumbling sidewalk. “Yeah, you’re right.” She shrugged. “You’re always right.” “Forget right, let’s just get to work.” I turned and discovered that the entire troop of clowns was now standing directly behind us. I’m embarrassed to say I jumped a little. I’m still not sure how those lumbering clods had managed to creep up on me. “You’re not without allies if you’ll take the job,” the boss clown said, his creepy smiled exaggerated by the red makeup circling his snout. “Yeah, I’ll take it,” I said as if I had a choice. The boss looked understandably surprised. “Really?” “I get a hundred blue a day, plus expenses.” His eyes opened wider than when he saw the wraith. “That’s outrageous!” I shrugged. “I know. But I’m the best and the best is expensive.” “Fine,” he growled and dug into a leather pouch on his belt. He dug through a decent pile of chips, and pushed aside what looked like a severed human finger. I decided to ignore it. He shoved a black and two blue chips in my hand. “Six hundred, that enough to start?” I made a quick count, and then handed the chips to DJ. “I’ll let you know when it runs out.” “I want the heads of whoever’s behind this,” he said, clenching his uninjured hand into a fist. “I’ll provide you with names and numbers, anything more, if I deem it necessary, costs extra.” Again he flashed his fangs and struggled emotionally with lowering himself to hire a human, then he spat on he ground. “Agreed. Now what do you need?” I looked over at DJ. She was chewing her lower lip in the way she does when she’s really concentrating. Her eyes lit up with the answer. “You can’t do it. We’re already on a case.” She looked awfully smug. I narrowed my eyes and tilted my chin down just enough to let her know I was serious, and spoke through my teeth. “DJ.” I let the J ring a little long. She looked down and sighed out the words. “The air-rail. It has a line that runs though the outskirts that border Clowntown.” My brow lifted and I nodded. “Yeah, that could work.” Then I turned back to the clowns. “Can your men get my ship to the air-rail and load it in a cargo car?” “Piece of cake, but transporting a ship’s going to be expensive.” I held an open hand up to DJ. “Keys.” I took the keys and started walking away, calling back to the clown boss, “Either be creative or consider it expenses. And be careful with that ship. Anything that happens to it I’ll take out of your hide.” The big clown cursed me vilely in goblin. Good one too, I was impressed, but didn’t respond. “Come on, DJ.” She was standing and staring, probably still trying to figure out if I was under a spell or something. She ran up behind me. “What did he say?” “He just wished us luck.” I hopped on and started the sportster’s engine. I revved the throttle and felt myself begin to relax. For as long as I could remember, I felt the best when I was in control of a fast machine, especially ones with two wheels. I steadied the bike as DJ, after adjusting her helmet’s chin strap, slid on behind me. “How long until backlash?” I glanced at the bike’s clock and did some quick math. “A couple hours.” “A couple of hours!” she shouted in my ear, thankfully muffled by the helmet. When excited, DJ’s voice could reach ear piercing pitches. “We’ve got to hurry.” “Then hang on!” I popped the shifter down and punched the throttle. The tire spun on the asphalt and the bike whipped around one hundred and eighty degrees, then I kicked it up into second and we shot off like a rocket; and that’s pretty much what my cycle is, a rocket with a sprocket. There hadn’t been much in the way of personal transportation since worlds merge, as the unlimited source of power that Mirth offered, controlled by the technology of Earth, had given the whole wide worlds the benefit of seemingly free, and unlimited power, though I knew better. And with the advent of the teleportation depots, people had all but lost interest in traveling machines. But not me; I trusted machines, and didn’t trust magic a bit. Backlash, DJ was right to caution me. Backlash is the magical equivalent of a meltdown, and you never know when it’s going to happen. Most stuff, meaning all the gizmos that controlled magic with technology, were relatively safe and reliable, but they’re also limited. Something as random and powerful as the Not Now Stone was a wild card. It could go all blazo at any moment, and when that happened, the wielder, namely me, would suffer all the magics it had ever expressed back again four-fold. In this case meaning I would find myself on the receiving end of a great many past injuries. And I had no idea just how old the stone was, or how many times it had been used. I was going to find out, but that’s another story. I twisted the throttle and jammed the shifter up into seventh gear, breaking the hundred kph mark; I liked to leave eighth in reserve. DJ held me tighter; she got nervy when she thought I was going too fast. This was something she was going to have to change if she planned on staying in this business. The sun was rising in my handlebar mirror and the edge of Clowntown was just ahead. I turned the throttle a little further. I needed to wash the stone, eat something, and sleep, and my office wasn’t far off now. With a little good luck, we’d be there in half an hour. But in my life times, good luck had been a rare commodity. -Next Time- DJ, Jazz’s trusty sidekick, brought Jazz her favorite motorcycle and a bevy of weapons. Leaving the clowns well behind them, the Nittsburg boarder is minutes away and Jazz desperately needs to scrub the magical stone gurgling in her belly. But it seems that Jazz managed to rile up a squadron of Cranks and as fast as it is, her bike is no match for Crank fighters, especially the Kriscrossa, the Crank’s elite fighter squadron. Seems like Jazz has two choices, run and get herself shot, or stand and fight and get herself shot. Jazz, Monster Collector, Episode 4, Welcome to Nittsburg Watch for it at Smashwords I hope you’ve enjoyed this Jazz story. If you’d like to learn more about the monster collector, or me and my other works, please visit: http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/tricornerpublishing blogging at: www.RiftsRants.com