“Melons,” the peaches man said and giggled.
“Quiet please! The Saviour wishes to speak.”
Aleister felt dry, weak and horribly filthy. However, he was used to all that. Being woken from a dream and dragged into some dingy room was something new.
That’s right, I was dreaming, wasn’t I? People were screaming, and I had to do something before the giant’s foot squashed everyone. Christ, what did I have to drink last night?
Now the headache had settled in for the long haul and his mind was beginning to blow the drunken cobwebs away, he saw he was in a bar, a very old and very much disused bar, but a bar nonetheless. He didn’t recognise it — the place must have closed down before Shauna left him and he started on his long and bleak spiral to the bottom. Aside from the Saviour five people were sitting on either empty crates or discarded chairs. They all looked unwashed and wore layers of ratty clothes and aside from the two women, all had long gray beards.
I was kidnapped by a bunch of bums?
Aleister chuckled, but doing so hurt his head, so he stopped.
“Listen, if you don’t mind, I’m gonna leave and go home.”
“No, you can’t go,” the Saviour said. “No no no, not good at all. You have been chosen. As we have all been chosen. No, you can’t go. The world depends on you.”
Aleister gave a rummy grin. “The only thing that depends on me are the bars. I keep them in business you know.”
“I was in show business,” Broadway Queen said. “Yep, could’ve been a star.”
Aleister noticed the dreamy gaze in her eyes, then the mouse she was stroking. It didn’t look too active.
“Say, that’s a nice mouse you’ve got there,” Aleister said, tucking in his shirt and slowly backing towards the door. “What’s its name?”
“Rat,” Broadway Queen said.
“That’s a strange name for a…” His stomach squirmed. “Oh.”
“Where are you going?” the Saviour said. He rushed from his position near the long and dusty bar over to Aleister. “You can’t leave. The world needs you.”
The skeletal looking bum stepped up to Aleister. Aleister stopped. He didn’t want to piss this guy off — he looked old and frail, but there was no telling what kind of mental state he was in. “Look,” Aleister said. “You’ve made a mistake. I’m not one of you. My name’s Aleister P. Donaldson and I work on Wall Street. I had a, well, let’s say a rough night…”
Rough couple of months is more like it.
“…and I must’ve fallen asleep in the alley out there. Now, I don’t know what it is you people are doing in here, and I’m sure it’s great and really important, but I feel like crap and all I want to do is go home, puke my guts out and sleep. Okay?”
The Saviour gazed at him with intense, piercing eyes. He reeked something terrible — a combination of garbage, urine and alcohol — but when he opened his mouth to speak, Aleister stumbled backwards.
Good Christ! The stench that wafted from his maw was not of this world.
“He spoke to me and told me to find six people,” the old man said, softly. “Six people who will be spared the wrath of His almighty. He told me I would know them, and indeed I found them all, except for one. Until now. You are the last one, Mr. Donaldson. I am your saviour and you will stay here and do as I say.”
“He? You mean…?”
The Saviour nodded. He then picked out what looked like a baked bean from the tangle of his beard and popped the little morsel into his mouth. “Come, sit.”
By day Aleister was a powerful broker, someone who knew what it meant to be on top, and most definitely knew how to stay there. He was good at barking orders, at getting someone else to wipe the shit from his ass; so why in god’s name was he letting some old vagrant lead him to a vacant crate? Why was he sitting beside some stinking garbage-feeder who looked like Abe Lincoln’s great grandfather?
Either I’m still dreaming or I’ve gone completely crazy.
No, I’m just going to rest up for awhile, sober up and then get the hell out of here. No harm in that. Hell, this might even be amusing. A good story to tell on Monday.Aleister turned to the bum sitting next to him. The gangly old codger turned, farted and extended his hand. “Hi boss. Name’s Jack.” He had cold eyes set deep within a very thin and filthy face.
Aleister declined the offer of shaking hands. He may have been a cheating, bombastic prick, but he was no diseased wino. “Nice to meet you, Jack. I’m worth millions.”
Jack frowned and took back his arm.
“You got a last name, Jack?”
Jack smiled and it wasn’t a pretty sight. “Surely do. The Ripper.”
It took a moment for Aleister to put the two together. He nodded. “Right. Okay. Just don’t slit my throat.”
“Why would I do that?” Jack said, frowning again.
“Never mind,” Aleister said.
“I say we get this meeting started,” one of the bums that had yet to speak said. “Court’s now in session.”
“I don’t see a judge or any bailiffs,” Aleister quipped.
The man turned and faced Aleister. He looked a tad younger than the others and had a stern glare. “Well then, sir, you are an idiot. The Saviour is the judge and we are the bailiffs.”
Something vaguely familiar about this man…
“Who’s the defendant?” Aleister inquired.
“The world, of course.”
“Lawyers?”
“We act as both bailiffs and lawyers.”
“Impressive,” Aleister said, wading through the swamp that was his memory, trying to remember where he had seen this man before.
“Judge Stevens turn around. We have important business to discuss.”
“Holy crap!” Aleister cried. “You’re Judge Henry Stevens? The same Judge who tried that actor fifteen odd years ago? Who was it…?”
“Bruce Harris,” Judge Stevens said with a nod. “Yes, I do believe that’s I.” He looked almost proud that someone had recognised him.
Aleister remembered from the television a stately, impeccably groomed man with a soft face and a rich voice. The person sitting two crates in front was gaunt and had glazed eyes. His gray beard was knotted and full of odd bits of food and beside him was an old briefcase that looked as battered and had it as the Judge did. “Christ man, what happened?”
Judge Stevens huffed. “Bruce Harris.” He turned back around. “Court’s now in session. Our Saviour presiding.”
The Saviour sighed and stroked his Z.Z. Top style beard. “Thank you, Judge.”
“Welcome,” Judge Stevens said in a deep voice.
Unbelievable, Aleister thought, and felt some pity for the guy.
“Rat’s hungry,” Broadway Queen announced. “We need to feed Rat. Anybody got any food?”
“Peaches!”
“Rat doesn’t like peaches,” Broadway Queen said. “He only likes roast carrots.”
“Roast Rat!” cried Peaches and everyone in the room — including Aleister — laughed. Everyone except Broadway Queen. She held Rat up to her face and muttered, “Don’t listen to them Rat. They’re a bunch of meanies. Yes they are.”
“I don’t think he can hear you,” Jack said.
“I think he’s deaf,” Judge Stevens said.
That rodent’s about as deaf as you people are sane, Aleister thought, but kept quiet. He didn’t want to upset anyone.
“Can we all please quiet down and discuss the plan?” the Saviour pleaded. He reached behind, grabbed an imaginary glass and drank whatever was supposed to be in it. “Ah,” he said and placed the invisible glass back on the counter. “Okay, can we begin?”
“I’ve already announced that court’s in session,” Judge Stevens said. “I can’t do anymore than that, can I?” His face began to turn red.