In some ways, I am the scum of the earth. People who don’t know me peer at the shabby clothes, the smell of a butcher’s abandoned shop, and unshaven face and think, ‘My, my, that piece of scum’s fallen on hard times.’ People who do know me just smirk to themselves, thinking, ‘Well, well, if it isn’t Montmorency Lucain, scum of the earth.’ Occasionally, some people who recognize the face will march up to me just to say that they don’t know who I am. People who actually know who and what I am yell abuse, usually from far away.
Bloody prejudice. It is everywhere. That’s probably why Marian and the kids went; people judging them. Well, maybe Marian went because I was skint. But the kids didn’t need to go; they were clever, perceptive, you know. I bet they could have gotten into Oxtongue University if they hadn't run away. It wasn't their fault. They just didn’t like it when they were sworn at.
Then again, maybe this new job with that nutcase Coda Wihara will help me out. Hopefully.
As I was sitting in the middle of what would be called a room, but for the bits of smashed wood everywhere, the sun rose and a sprite-mail arrived.
“This montylucain@spritemail.cty?” the tiny faerie called, opening the door cautiously.
“Yeah. This from codan3cromanc3r@spritemail.cty?” I replied, lifting my eyes from what used to be a card table.
The sprite nodded. You could tell he was new to the job; for one thing, he was young, barely five months out of the chrysalis, his front teeth bucktoothed, his fangs only just growing in. His ears were pierced just like every other adolescent in the bloody city.
For another thing, something that just screamed green, his fly was undone. It made it hard to concentrate on the e-sprite message, but no way was I mentioning the zipper. Anyway, it was fairly satisfying knowing that mortifying things happened to other people as well.
“Ahem.
Dear Monty Lucain,
“I’ve been looking around places for setting up shop. You said, somewhere secluded, so that ‘normal’ people won’t narrow their eyes at us.”
Then again, the sprite did it all with enthusiasm. He spoke with the ‘official’ voice, and even motioned, with his dextrous index fingers, ‘quotations’.
“I think I found the perfect spot. You know that place down Soul Calorie Street? The one with the mumbly people going in and coming out with wide staring eyes? The one owned by that member of the Cthulu Sect?”
I snorted. It was unspoken rule that Cthulians, although getting rich and sometimes famous during life, tended to end up with less limbs and internal organs than was comfortable for the forensic officers.
“Well, according to other people, he’s in some better place, meaning that it’s for sale! In fact, according to the estate agent, It’s even dirt cheap! So, now, waiting for the partner’s (i.e your) say-so for this purchase.”
The sprite waited, tapping his foot. “Well?” he eventually asked.
“What?” I said, mind drifting back to the matters at hand. I was concentrating on the fly and the way he was able to motion brackets.
“Well, are you going to reply just yet?”
“Erm... Just a short reply?”
“Smashing,” the sprite said, grinning.
I leant back to some rubble that used to be a sofa. It was, admittedly, a good deal. Cthulians kept the place clean, except for their remains, even if you occasionally found disturbing figurines in the cupboard; they sometimes, with keen foresight, left some welcome mints, which was nice, although somewhat eerie.
However, I really had to take a look at the place. Soul Calorie Street was a bit of a ditch; anyone not stealing, murdering, or sacrificing something to the Elder Ones was either dead or leaving. I recalled that intensely weird thing I read from the newsboard, in which a knifed guy rose from the dead to steal from his killer, his mother, and a priest who owed him money.
“Dear Coda, I’d like to have a look at this place before you buy it. Until then, just focus on the course, okay? From Monty,” I dictated. I saw the sprite’s lips move along with the message; pure fledgling that was.
He nodded, having memorized the message. He looked around, and whistled softly.
“Rough party, last night?” he asked.
“Yeah, you could say that,” I grinned, canines glinting.
And finally he was off; hopefully, someone else would point out his zipper problem.
I turned back to listening to what three doors down was arguing about.
Oh yeah; don’t call me a werewolf. Its lycan or nothing; lycan, like my ancestor Lycaon. Even though it’s never pronounced right, its better than werewolf. Lawdy, the prejudice.
