Dark Tales From Dandelion

1

The Drifter sat in the Roxy Milk bar on Jubilee Street. The blue-light candles on the window sills blazed in front of drawn shades. The table Vance sat at—and all the surfaces in the bar—were a white marble, though they all reflected the blue light, making the whole bar shine in slightly different shades of the color. His pale white skin had turned a light blue. Jazz vibrations played quietly over the speakers.

He’d never really gotten into the whole Roxy Milk thing but it did help with a comedown. After so many days of Boosting, a little sleep was necessary and it was a bit painful to deal with the muscle cramps that came with overexerting one’s body—Roxy Milk was perfect for this as it made you sleepy while also killing pain. But one mustn’t use the Roxy Milk too liberally; one might get addicted, and one did not want that.

The Drifter had seen Roxy addicts—or ‘blue-mouths’ as some called them—and he knew how desperate they became, resorting to violence or selling their bodies. Boosting just wasn’t as … necessary, he supposed. He took in the scene around him. Some were here using recreationally with their friends, while others smelled like caked piss and looked to be very alone. The Drifter felt like his helmet was going to crush his skull from being plugged into his jacks for too long. Wish this shit kicked in faster, He thought, taking a drink of the Roxy Milk.

The helmet plugged into several metal ports that connected to his brain with very thin fiber-optic wires; it had all sorts of benefits like night vision, an ability to download information for new skills directly, vibration detectors which could read what frequency other people or trancers were vibrating at, and the ability to go back and forth between Svargaloka without the use of Sly Grass.

The crazy Ol’ Fuck had made some pretty neat stuff before The Drifter had escaped the water filled glass encasement he was put into every night for ten years. After escaping, he had naturally murdered the man. To be fair, the Ol’ Fuck and his team of younger ol’ fucks had drilled holes into The Drifter’s head and installed the fiber-optic wiring that connected to his nerves and neurological pathways without so much as a ‘please’. They had put all kinds of drugs into his body to see what effects they would have on him while connected to the helmet.

Every morning upon waking and every night before sleep, they would inject a milky white fluid labeled ‘Mother’s Milk’ straight into his veins; as the liquid made its way up his arm and through the rest of his body, it would burn like fire inside him, and then would stiffen and he would jerk back onto the table, pulling so hard on his restraints that he broke skin. He would have to lay there stiff and solid as rock until the liquid softened again about twenty tiks later, after which they’d take him off to do some other painful tests or feed him their tasteless food.

When he’d murdered the Ol’ Fuck by snapping his neck, The Drifter had taken what he could with him. First he’d dressed in the Ol’ Fucks clothes: a dark red cape with several pockets on the inside, a black long-sleeved shirt, black pants, red socks, black slip on boots which he tucked the pants into, and a black belt with a red belt buckle. Then the sword and its strange sheath, the gun, and … the chained sesnickie. Fuck man, ten years since then. Ah, Pip, I miss you. And the old nutsack too. Ten years in. Ten years out … Boostin’ all the while. He itched at the scabs on his left arm.

2

Vance waited, sipping his glass of the blue-white Roxy Milk. It had a creamy, bitter taste. Vance didn't love it, but who actually drank it for the flavor besides those claiming it was an acquired taste? I suppose if pilgrim shit got folks feelin’ fine they’d acquire that taste too, he thought. It was like how Vance kind of liked the feel of a Boost even though it was administered by shoving a long needle into muscle and tissue.

An obsequious voice slithered through the ether of the bar. “Please, sir. Please. I haven’t got anymore Jubilee Chips and I left my Worth at home. If you’ll just—“

“Best go home and grab your Worth then,” Vance said, cutting the bent over beggar off. He was missing several teeth, and what teeth were left in his skull were stained blue. Fresh Roxy Milk dropped from his chin. This man was under the influence of the most ancient of creeds known to man and beast and all races: one more.

Vance translated the man’s words in his mind as the man continued his plight:

“One more? I want. Please one more? I do so want. Just. One. More. Please.”

“Ah. I think I understand you now. You want … one more,” Vance said.

“Well no, sir, it’s just that I haven’t eaten all day an’ I need to be buying myself a sandwich or some such if I’m to have the energy to make it home.”

“Oh, right then,” Vance said, then he whistled over the barkeep who was none too pleased with the gesture. “Get this man a sandwich. Put it on my tab. Thank ya.” The barkeep sauntered off moodily. Vance smiled. “They’ll bring your sandwich to ya man. Go on and sit somewhere else now, aight?”

The beggar looked quite disappointed in the way his quest for one more had turned out, and sulked away to ask another patron for their patronage of his plight.

No, Vance didn't like the taste of the milk—didn’t like much in this comedown state. His throat felt like cracking paint from all the cigarettes he'd smoked instead of drinking water, his vision had little dancing balls of light that eluded him every time he tried to look directly at them. He was grimy, agitated, slimy, crusty, critical, suffocating, lethargic yet antsy; he was having trouble swallowing the drinks of Roxy Milk he could barely stomach, and he was craving a Boost like a motherfuck. At least you not destitute like that fuck, he thought, watching as the beggar tried to sell his sandwich to someone across the bar.

The Drifter coughed loudly and had to clear his throat. The coughing had been getting worse and he’d started seeing blood on his hand when he coughed into it. Looking down to his forearm, he pulled up the sleeve a bit to look at the black veins just underneath the skin that were beginning to make their way up his arm. A Boost would make everything feel better—for a time, that is. No, you gotta wait, Vance.

Vance wasn’t out; no, he had plenty of the syringes filled with orange liquid in his breast pocket on the interior of the red cape he’d carried for ten years now. There were a couple of reasons that Vance needed to actually comedown tonight, unfortunately: He had a hunch he was going to have to be fresh for his next job, and was going to be needing to Boost quite a bit to function quickly and efficiently, and, he didn’t know the next time he’d be able to sleep again, and he knew that it would be wise to take advantage of his last opportunity.

Hysteria began tugging on the edges of his consciousness. The comedown comes. This shit needs to kick in, he thought, taking another drink of Roxy Milk. This is when the phantoms of his past liked to come say hello. And, heedless of his efforts, all thoughts of Mother or his abduction were the comedown’s preferred phantoms. Those Voiddamned Rakshasas were waiting for me in the Forever Forest. And they took me. Twenty years now. And I still run from them. The Boosting and his clients were good distractions and they both usually kept him occupied. They helped him to run. But the Boost was wearing off and his client was not ….

Vance saw his client walk past two Deva-tar-tas who were licking eachother’s necks with tongues as blue as their skin. These two were obviously recreational users as they still had their youth and beauty about them. Watching the two simultaneously excited and sickened him—oh, the places you will go to avoid the places you fear most, he thought. His client inched along past the two, jerking back a bit a few times to avoid being touched by arms too enraptured to have a sense of propriety. The creature was of the Cri people; human-like in most ways, only fuzzier and shorter—they had brown hair all over their little bodies and they stood about four feet off the ground. This Cri was obviously male, wore thick, black framed glasses, a suit jacket with tails, a tie, a button up white shirt and black slacks. He carried a briefcase in his left hand, a cigarette in his mouth, and a vigilance in his eyes that made Vance feel more awake despite his fatigue.

“‘Ello Vance! I’m Roger. Heard so much! I see you’ve been nursing a drink, I’ll have to get on your level!” Roger said, turning toward the bar and waving over the barkeep. Vance decided he liked the Cri fellow, though he wasn’t sure if this had more to do with the balls Roger seemed to have, or the Roxy Milk finally smoothing out the raw, crusty edges of his comedown. He was thankful for both. The barkeep walked up to their table none too pleased at the notion of accepting their business, as if he hadn’t chosen to work in a fucking Roxy Milk bar.

“Thank ya barkeep, he’ll have a thirty milligram glass, please. Hi, Roger,” Vance said in his husky, sand-papery voice, “how ya doin’? I’ll buy the first drink, always do with my clients. No, please don’t protest, it’s a habit of mine and I’d really rather not break it today if you please, Roger. Thank you.” Roger allowed the courtesy and the barkeep walked away. “He acts like someone’s holdin’ a gun to his head while he’s doin’ this shit. It’s pretty entertainin’ to watch, I been doin’ it for a while now.”

“I’m not quite sure if it’s entertaining or painful. Or painfully entertaining! One gets the feeling though, that if one was to make a ‘your sister’ or ‘your mother’ joke toward the fellow, he might have an aneurysm with the pent-up sexual feelings he has for both,” Roger said this so dryly, In the almost perpetually sarcastic accent of the Cri, with an expression of pure innocence on his face as he looked directly into Vance’s eyes, that it took a moment before Vance completely registered what had been said. Vance and Roger exploded into a fit of laughter. People turned around—those that were still conscious that is—and stared at them. The barkeep turned around and gave them a dirty look. They quieted down after a short time of struggling with the bubbling up of laughter.

“Well at least now we know why he’s lookin’ at us with that ‘you fucked my sister’ stare. He’s jus’ walkin’ around thinkin’ every-one is fuckin’. His. Sister. ‘Cause someone is, he doesn’t know who—all he knows is … it ain’t him,” Vance said, and they both fell into another fit. The barkeep came over with Roger’s glass of thirty milligram Roxy Milk—a pretty low dose, but not so low that someone who had dabbled before wouldn’t feel anything. Regardless of his client’s tolerance, this would give a euphoria that loosened the tongue and the wallet when coming to an agreement in the late-game of the consultation.

“Here you are, sir,” The barkeep said in a soft, kind voice that almost seemed to float above the weight of normal conversational tones. Roger did a double take, and Vance just watched, keeping his facial expressions within his head. He wanted to smile. Roger looked up at the barkeep, and the smile that cracked the barkeep’s face turned him into one of the most beautiful things Vance had seen in weeks. Roger’s mouth dropped, and Vance would’ve guessed the Cri’s face would have been crimson if not for the brown fur covering it.“Name’s Mar. holler if you need anything.” Then Mar winked at Roger and walked back to the bar.

“Brother,” said Vance.

“What?” asked Roger, still dazed from the encounter.

“Looks like we had it all wrong. It was a brother thing, not a sister,” Vance said with a toothy grin. Roger let out a nervous chuckle. Well, it looked like Mar had done Vance’s least favorite part of the consultation for him: disarming the client. He’d try to do this in a subtle way, get the client to show vulnerability and then Vance would put himself just a step above them, thus making it easier to negotiate the client’s inhibitions down, and Vance’s prices up. Vance did like Roger, but this was business and he’d take help where help was given.

“I’m not … I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, Vance,” Roger said.

“Oh, I think I’ve got the right idea, and I gotta say—he even had me a little unsteady, Roger, with that smile ’n’ all. I’m not afraid to admit to it, that man is beautiful. And, Roger? I couldn’t give two shits if you let that boy fuck you from thirty of eleven at night until next year’s Keepin’ day.”

“Now w-wait a min—”

“I’m not done, Roger, please, let me finish. Thank you. Now I don’t have much time before this Roxy Milk kicks in full tilt and I have to say goodnight to all the blue-lights and pretty mights if ya catch my drift. Maybe we can meet up as friends sometime and talk about how you like men and how I think that’s just wonderful that you’re going after the tail that Void says you should go forth and chase. Funny how Void changed its mind about that so many times, but at least it ended up saying y’all should go ahead and fuck each other if you want. It’s none of my voiddamned business anyway! Now, Roger—I need you to relax. Good, thas right, jus’ relax them shouldas down and take a few drinks o’ that nasty shit. We here to talk business?” Roger nodded his head, slipping back into some of the confident swagger he’d walked in with.

“The proposition my client has for you is in this folder,” Roger said, sliding over a brown folder. “Please take your time to look it over and if you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask.” Inside the folder was one sheet of paper. As Vance’s eyes scaled down the bounty, his mouth opened slightly and his eyes grew large behind the red screen that dropped down from the helmet, a gratuitous expression that he would not have allowed his client to see if the screen didn’t cover his eyes.

“And who am I bringing my quarries to at this … ” Vance looked back down at the sheet, ”363 Sugar Hollow Rd?”

“That is something that I do not know, unfortunately. I get my information from a third party individual and he meets with someone who covers their face during the conferences,” Roger said, lighting a cigarette. Vance lit his own and closed the folder.

“You got the advance, Roger?” Vance asked.

“This job … is a bit different than most. The advance is actually waiting for you with a woman in a multi-partner whore house just inside the mouth of the Endynas Valley. The whore house is marked by a giant Fisher King sitting on top, it’s the only one and impossible to miss. The lady’s name is Genna. She has hair as red as the Fisher King’s, and blue eyes like the sky. If you take the job, you’ll just ask for her at the front desk and tell her Roger Blithely of Jubilee Street sent you,” Roger replied.

“I never take on a client without an advance, Roger, that’s just my way. I believe our meeting here tonight is preceded by my reputation. That is why we are here, is it not?” Vance asked and he took a drag. The smoke filling his lungs felt smooth under the effects of the Roxy Milk. The jazz vibration seemed to be following Vance’s mental state as it slowed down, the saxophone a lover’s breath in his ear as it rasped its longing.

“Indeed, Vance, you come well recommended, as do I, which is why you agreed to meet with me as well, I believe? Listen … it is, of course, up to you. There are plenty of Drifters out there, maybe none as quick as you but there are others who could get the job done,” Roger said.

Vance looked back inside the folder and added up the two bounties: ^280,000^ dandys. It was more than Vance had ever dreamed of making. He could retire, though he wasn’t sure if that was his goal, it was still a nice sentiment. But those names, those two names with those numbers next to them … if someone else was hired, then Vance would have no control over the situation one way or the other. But did Vance want to be the one to do this? Vance took a drink. The Roxy Milk was in full effect now and he needed to make a decision so he could go to sleep.

“I’ll take it, Roger. I’m sure you’re aware of what I’ll be doin’ should this lady in the whore house happens to not be there when I travel all that way for this advance,” Vance said, leaning forward. Roger stared at Vance’s eye visor attentively as if waiting for Vance to tell him the price of leather. Vance kept his voice low and even. “I’ll come back here, Roger, to Harrentree. I’ll sniff you out of the cracks in the ground on Jubilee Street, where you’ll be, as I know that folks like you don’t move too far away from The Street. There is just too much Worth to be made. Once I sniff you out, Roger, I’ll take your balls off with this,” Vance tapped the sesnickie blade that stuck up behind his head, “and I’ll feed ‘em to you! Then, I’ll take off your little Cri cock, and I’ll feed that to you too—oh, and I have ways of gettin’ people ta eat things they don’t wanna, you can be sure as pilgrim shit of that. After your cock, I’ll jus’ feed errythin’ else on your body to ya, now how does that sound?”

Roger exploded into laughter and slapped the table. Vance sat and let a smile creep onto his face. “Oh my Emptiness,” Roger said, “You should’ve seen your face!” The Cri man continued laughing and Vance let a few chuckles escape.

“You think that’s pretty funny, doncha?” Vance said.

Roger kept laughing, his head down on the table. Vance let out one laugh, put out his cigarette, then reached underneath the table with one long arm and gave Roger’s testicles a nice big squeeze. Roger shrieked, Vance tightened his grip and made his way around the circular table to be closer to his client, pulling his chair behind him with the unoccupied hand, making a loud scraping noise. Vance sat down next to Roger, covering the Cri’s mouth while tightening the grip on his balls and leaning into his ear. The room darkened and the air grew thick.

“If you think I’m fuckin’ with you, then we are very misunderstood, you Cri fuck. This ain’t no joke, this is ma time and ma mo’ fuckin’ Worth, ya’und’stand? I’ll take this job, and yo right! I’ll do it faster than anyone else and I’ll do it bettah. What I’m saying is: if my advance aint in this Fish-fuck orgy house, I’m gon’ feed your entire body to you, startin’ with yo balls. Now … this barkeep is comin’ up behind us and you’re gon’ reassure him errything is alrigh’ and you were just havin’ an adverse reaction to the shit drink you drinkin’, you motherfuck. Can you get to that?” Vance said, speaking Seru.

“W-W-What, get to what?” Roger said through clenched teeth.

“Do you undah-stand?” Said Vance. Roger nodded and Vance let go of his balls. “Good! That’s good, Roger. Here comes yo man.”

“Is everything ok over here?,” Mar said in his soft voice, looking from Vance to Roger.

“Perfectly fine, thank you Mar. The taste of this stuff, I never have gotten the hang of it,” Roger said, giving the barkeep a wink. Mar smiled at Roger and gave Vance a speculative look. Vance just smiled at him for the length of the exchange. The barkeep walked back to the bar and Vance grabbed the folder as he stood up to leave.

“Thank you for your services, Roger. I’m glad we could come to an understanding,” Vance said, reaching his hand out to shake Roger’s. The Cri flinched back at first, but then shook The Drifter’s hand, looking up to him nervously, his hair standing up on end. Vance chuckled. “I jus’ needed to make sure you was serious, Rog’. It’s a long way for an advance. Your balls are the only collateral a guy like me has.”

“She’ll be there, Vance. Genna. Tell her I sent you and you’ll get more than your advance. You won’t need the collateral of my—,” he coughed, “balls,” Roger said, clutching his stomach. Vance let go of the man’s hand and smiled down.

“I sho hope so, Roger. You alright. Take care o’ them rocks, now. Maybe Mar over there could help you out with that,” Vance threw down three Jubilee Street chips. He was almost out of the things. Thankfully, Vance was leaving Jubilee Street and he wouldn’t need to trade any more dandys for chips. He walked out of the bar and into The Street, the folder in his left hand.