I know someone killed the Caliph, and I know that's a very big, very bad thing. I know that someone attacked you, and you're pissed. But pleasepleasestop this. Because I'm here on the road with the people you're killing. I've talked to them. I've eaten with them. And here's the thing. Killing the Caliph?
They didn't do it.
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The Tin Man's Lament
Ian Tregillis
. . . THEY DIDN'T DO IT.
What's worse than being hated for what people think you did?
Wally Gunderson, aka Rustbelt, aka Toolbelt, aka You Stupid Tool, aka Hey You, aka Racist, sat in the darkness of his bedroom in the Discard Pile, scrolling through Bugsy's blog. It chronicled cruel people doing senseless things to others. Harmless and undeserving others who hadn't said or done anything wrong.
The monitor cast a sickly hue across his cast-iron skin, tinting the midnight blue-black with green, like he was a nat mottled with half-healed bruises. It fit the ooky feelings that he'd carried in his gut since he got kicked off American Hero. Sadness. Confusion. Shame. Anger.
The blog didn't help matters any. As confusing as this Egypt thing wasWally didn't really understand the detailsit was depressing, too. Innocent people were dying for no good reason; he got that much.
But reading still beat venturing outside. The place was awful crowded; all but five of the American Hero contestants had joined the Discard Pile. (Twenty-three aces. Four bathrooms.) Of those not living in the overcrowded mansion, two had up and left the show: Bugsy was in Egypt, and Drummer Boy had decided he'd rather be a rock star than a discard. The other threeCurveball, Rosa Lotería, and, of course, Stuntmanwere still competing.
Oomp-thump-oomp-thump . . . Somebody cranked up the bass downstairs. Tonight, the others were holding a knock-down, drag-out party to welcome the arrival of Dragon Girl, Jade Blossom, and the Candle, whose team had been eliminated in the most recent challenge.
Wally didn't much care for Joker Plague. Not because of Drummer Boy himself (although he wasn't all that swell) but because their music was so angry. He would have used headphones to drown out the noise, but he'd never found a pair that fit around the massive hinge joints on his steam shovel jaw. Not that he had anything to listen to. His Frankie Yankovic CDs had disappeared when the others sent Joe Twitch to his room to complain about the polka music.
The scent of grilled meat drifted through the open window. When Wally's stomach gurgled, it sounded like somebody squishing up water balloons inside a soup kettle. Earlier that evening the Maharajah's invisible servants had fired up the grill and laid out one heck of a spread on the long, cantilevered deck suspended over the pool and patio. Wally scooted off to his room as soon as he realized the others were preparing for a party. That had been hours ago.
A splash, followed by peals of laughter and a brief rainstorm. Holy Roller must have joined Diver in the pool.
He tried to put food out of his mind and opened a bookmark for the network's American Hero website. Wally had stopped watching the show. At first, he'd tried to watch the dailies in the TV room with the other discards, but he might as well have been ice fishing, it got so cold down there. Even Holy Roller, who seemed like a nice enough guy, had taken to saying things like, "As you have done unto to the least of my brethren," every time he saw Wally. So Wally stuck to himself and got his information about the show off the web.
Huh. The new arrivals had been close to winning the latest challenge until Rosa got a good draw from that magic picture card deck of hers. They had a picture of the winning card on the website. It was called "El Tragafuegos"whatever that meantand it showed a fellow with fire coming out of his mouth. Wally didn't know what to make of this, except that it had cleared the way for the final three contestants, Curveball, Rosa, and Stuntman. Mighta been me up there, but for what he said I said.
It didn't matter. Curveball was a shoo-in. Lots of people said as much, too. They said tons of stuff on the message boards. Stuff like:
Why is Rustbelt with the other discards at all? I can't believe they're still letting him participate after
CLICK.
Stuntman might be an arrogant jerk, but Rustbelt is a racist, plain and simple, and
CLICK.
Rustbelt-Redneck hick.
CLICK.
The New Face of Racism. This one was just the one line, followed by an image of Wally's publicity head shot from the American Hero press package Photoshopped onto the cover of Time magazine.
CLICK.
The next one started out: You go, Toolbelt! You got friends out here . . .. Finally. Friends were friends, even if they didn't always get the name right. Drummer Boy had a knack for giving people catchy nicknames. Wally kept reading: . . . you done nothing wrong but put that spear-chukkin' jungle bunny in his place
CLICK.
What's worse than being loved by hateful people?
Tiffani's throaty laugh came through a lull in the music, just as Wally took a long pull on his glass of pop. Something about the Candle trying to light Toad Man's gas. It startled him. The glass shattered in Wally's fist, dousing his face and hands with sugar water.
"Cripes!"
He'd have to scrub his face before going to bed, otherwise he'd break out in new rust spots by morning. This time he'd try to remember to clean the bathroom sink afterward. Nobody got mad at Pop Tart for leaving her makeup stuff all over the bathroom, but they sure got sore when he left his used SOS pads on the sink.
A guy would think they never scrubbed a pot before.
He'd been a pimply kid before his card had turned. Turns out you can have bad skin even when that skin is living iron.
Hunger got the better of him. I wonder if they got any of them Rice Krispies bars downstairs? Maybe he could just slip out long enough to fill up a plate.
K-chank! K-chank! K-chank! K-chank!
It's hard to tiptoe when you're three hundred fifty pounds and wrapped in inch-thick iron. But Wally was getting better at it, skulking around the Discard Pile.
Chank. Chank. Chank. Chank.
A little better.
Wally paused at the bottom of the stairs for a deep breath before wading into the fray. It's hard to slip through a crowd unnoticed when your elbows can crack ribs.
"Look at me, I'm big and important!" said Mr. Berman. Jade Blossom, Matryoshka, and a few of the others stood around him, laughing. He waved his arms over his head. "I'm a rich Hollywood weasel! I'm" Something crunched when Wally tried to sidle past the group. The television executive howled in pain as he dissolved into a pale-faced Andrew Yamauchi. "Aaah! My tail!"
"What?"
"My tail! Get off my tail!"
"Sorry, sorry, I'm sorry." Wally jumped back. Wild Fox swished his tail around and delicately inspected the tip. The last few inches, where the coppery fur blended into smoky gray, had been flattened. It also had a new kink.
"My tail . . ."
Wally spun around to get out of there, only to bowl over Spasm, causing him to splash his drink on Pop Tart.
"Damn it, you stupid tool. I was going to switalk wardrobe into letting me keep this top, too."
He tried to apologize, but he couldn't form the words around a very violent sneezing fit that nearly knocked his eyes out of his head. Wally bashed a hole in the wall as he stumbled blindly away, trailing apologies as he went.
"Clumsy oaf! Go crush some rocks or something."
"Did you hear about his audition?"
"No."
"Oh, man. It was classic."
Wally pushed his way toward the kitchen.
Somebody had made a pan of Rice Krispie bars. Now, how about that? Wally got the last one, too, until Blrr came zipping past and snatched it from his hand. He found some brownies, but Joe Twitch got those, too. They were having some kind of competition, she and him. For crying out loud!
Most of the good stuff was gone, but he managed to fill a plate. He didn't feel up to braving the crowd again on the way back upstairs. Instead, he slipped into the library. Nobody ever went in there, not even for a party. Wally didn't, either. He wasn't much of a reader.