Was this divine retribution? She wasn’t one to believe in god. Less so since learning about the existence of gods, odd as that might be.
But the god-bothered were pretty good at the whole guilt schtick. That whole eye-for-an-eye deal.
Her fingernails very nearly dug crimson crescents into the skin of her palms. The only thing that stopped her from puncturing the skin was the knowledge that the goblins would smell the blood.
Being surrounded meant that no matter which way the wind blew, she could smell some trace of them. Sometimes it was faint, sometimes it was almost a slap in the face. The wind was blowing in her face, which slowed her down and made her scarf whip behind her. The cold gust threatened to make her eyes tear up, so she squinted.
Squinting meant she didn’t have quite as good a view of the ground in front of her. One hump of snow caught the underside of her foot mid-stride. She stumbled a little.
There. Fermented testicle sweat, fecal matter and hot garbage, right in her face, in the moment she looked down to catch her balance.
The wind direction and smell combined-
Yes. Buttsack stood in the middle of the sidewalk. He looked like a cross between the worst features of a small child and a very old man, simultaneously lumpy, misproportioned, hairy, wrinkly, gnarled beneath his too-loose skin.
He was bigger than most of the local goblins, tougher. He didn’t shiver, despite the cold, even though he had only coarse body hair, a pair of shorts that reached his ankles, a pair of panties on his head, scrunching up loose flesh around the elastic. A scrap of paper in his hand, fluttering in the wind.
His face was bulldoggish, his one visible eye a yellow slit, brimming with simmering emotion.
For all the drama he’d displayed on their first meeting, where she’d caught him with the chain, Buttsack’s face didn’t twitch. He stared at her with a degree of emotion that she couldn’t even identify.
Hate?
She’d never really seen someone’s expression distill hate before. Not real hate. Not like this.
It unsettled, seeing him like this. Even with a pair of underpants pulled tight over his head, the crotch covering one eye.
Her underpants, as it happened.
As if he’d noticed her noticing, he used his one free hand and reached up to grabbed one side of the undergarments. He pulled them down further, as if giving himself a reverse wedgie, his asshole of a face contorted into something uglier in the process.
The front of the fabric bulged as his tongue traced a line down the front, slow, from top to bottom, then back again.
When he let go, the elastic snapped back into place with a force that made her flinch just a bit.
“Do you really want to go for a round two, Buttsack?” she asked. “I seem to recall you begging and pleading. Shall I tell the others here just how you sounded?”
“Paper,” Buttsack said.
He let go. The wind carried the paper to her, too low to the ground.
He wanted her to reach for it. She could either let it go or she could risk falling, or failing.
Simply failing here could be disastrous. If they were dogs surrounding her, one moment of weakness could be like a snap of the fingers or an order, bidding them to close the distance and take her to pieces.
She reached with her foot instead, with no time to even make sure if her other foot had any traction.
The paper was caught between her foot and the ground.
She bent at the knees to collect it, and saw the shadow of the goblin with the sack behind her. Squat, neckless, bug-eyed.
She recognized it as one of the ones she’d directed at Molly Walker.
Unnerved, her hands shook as she unfolded the paper. Two papers, as it turned out, folded twice over so they formed a neat square, kept tidy with a simple paperclip. Buttsack’s greasy fingerprints marred the outside.
The writing was florid, complete with a stylized capital letter starting each paragraph. It was easy enough to read in the clear moonlight.
How odd, I don’t believe I’m certain who I should name in the salutations. I trust that if it’s found its way to your hands, the letter is intended for you.
Don’t stop your reading once you’ve begun it. I did make these foul little beings promise to deliver the letter and refrain from interfering until the reading was finished one way or another. It’s part of the terms for a game I’ve set up, you see. But I shouldn’t digress. Everything in time, for niceties’ sake and for dramatic effect.
The boxes stacked in the bedroom said ‘Maggie Holt’ on them, so I went on to assume it’s my room. A brief word with the two gay gentlemen who own the house helped clarify the matter, with both assuring me that the room was mine and it was mine for keeps. I thought I would make sure that my room was properly aired out before I made any return. That isn’t to say that I’m planning on coming back any time soon, or that the bindings didn’t look sufficient to keep the smell contained, but I like to be sure. I’ve had words with the other occupant of the room and I’ll be shooing him off as soon as I’ve finished this letter, handed it to him with further instructions and gone on my own merry way.
I realize I’ve left you in dire circumstances. As I said, no hard feelings are intended. In the interest of fairness, I’m thinking I might flip a coin. Heads, I’ll come back before you’re completely gone, to give you a sporting chance. Tails, I’ll wait long enough. Yes? No?
I have heard the Fair Folk do like their lopsided deals, which is surely in the realm of your imagination, so you might naturally conclude that I have spent the last two centuries or so practicing the flipping of coins in such a way that I almost always get the result I want. No, I suppose a coin flip doesn’t count for much in the spirit of things. Let me think, let me think.
What if I were to say I will return to Jacob’s Bell, albeit with no warning, and promised that if I did, and you were still present in some capacity, I would present myself to you for a conversation? Of course, it would be ever so tragic if I were to arrive when you were out of town. I’d say it was inevitable, even, that the one time I returned, it would be while you were away.
I think, in the end, that I will ignore small graces and give you a gift instead. Two, hints as a matter of fact, in this very letter, about how you might escape the predicament with the goblins. Taking and using the hints would mean you couldn’t meet me before I departed, which might leave you feeling chagrined. I do suppose you could follow me soon after. But wait! Leaving the town would mean you weren’t around in case the goblins came after your fathers. How tragic a thing is that? It seems you just can’t win!
I seem to be going on and on. I’m just so very excited! You might even say I’m as giddy as a schoolgirl! Ha ha!
I did claim a set of gremlins bound in papers as I passed through the bedroom. The others were unusable. I’m not quite a practitioner, you see, and certain deals and powers afforded to mortals aren’t for my like to claim. Certain tricks, yes, but there are rules to be observed. Give me time to get more settled into this skin, and that may change.