Franklin slowed from a crawl to a snail’s pace as he crept around the desk and approached the figure sitting in the plush arm chair in front of the fire. The soft crackle and pop of the flames covered the sound of his supple leather moccasins as they slid across the floor, his movements a strange combination of shuffling and tiptoeing.
What little noise he had made ceased when he stepped onto the large rug spread before the fire, the garotte nearly singing with tension as he stretched his hands apart. Three steps, two, one. The garotte in place, tightened quickly to prevent a scream. 10 seconds. Five. Done.
Leaving the garotte, Franklin drew a card from his pocket and set it on the table next to the body. One last survey of the scene and he was back across the room, past the desk, and out the window.
Across the room, a door opened to reveal an ancient figure, his face deeply etched by the passing years. His erect posture was betrayed by a slight stoop, as if he was starting to bend under the weight of time. He made no sound as he crossed to the chair in front of the fire. With his hands clasped behind his back, he bent to examine the body, noting the location and depth of the wound made by the garotte. Moving to the other side of the body, he inspected the carefully placed card on the side table. He straightened, looked into the flames, and took a deep breath. Moving his hands for the first time, he brought them forward, clapped once, and returned them to his back.
Franklin opened the window and stepped back into the room. Crossing the room, he took up a position next to the old man, unconsciously mirroring the other’s pose.
“What did you miss?” The words were quiet, almost a whisper.
The young man followed his instructor’s gaze to the fire and grimaced. “The scent packet.”
“Indeed. While the card is a nice touch, it is the packet that marks the professional. The scent of the guild is unmistakable and cannot be counterfeited. Remember, once you graduate a personal scent mixed with the guild’s will be provided.”
The old man took a small paper-wrapped bundle from his pocket and tossed it into the fire. “Come, you still have much to do before dawn.”
Random seed phrase: unaromatically garotted
5:30 AM
Delivered to newsstand at the corner of Lincoln and Wilshire in rough manner
Suspect delivery boy is Fantastic Being fan
Condition: Mint
6:00 AM
Unpacked and placed on shelf next to Fantastic Being #436
Proprietor is unaware of the insult
Condition: Mint
7:15 AM
Paged through by middle-aged business man as cover for buying DDouble DDelights
Heard FB #436 make snide remark
Slightly roughed up edges
Condition: Near Mint
8:30 AM
Stolen by young boy and left in hideout
Take that, FB #436
Small tear on page 12
Condition: Fine
9:45 AM
Read by boy and his friends
Suspect one boy of being FB sympathizer
Greasy finger print on page 5
Condition: Good
11:00 AM
Traded to sister for copy of Fantastic Being #435
Contemplating appropriate retaliation
Condition: Good
12:45 AM
Traded back
FREEDOM! *shudder*
Retaliation on hold
Tea stain from tea party on page 7
Condition: Fair
2:00 PM
Found by mother and returned to newsstand
Caught FB #436 smirking
Canine bite marks in upper right corner
Condition: Poor
BREAKING NEWS BULLETIN
3:45 PM
Fantastic Being Defeats Evil Octo-Sloth
Three city blocks surrounding Lincoln and Wilshire were leveled in the battle. According to an eyewitness, “Everything was destroyed: the deli, the Indian restaurant, my newsstand, everything.” Police have set up temporary shelters for the affected citizens. Fantastic Being was unavailable for a comment.
6:15 PM
Collected by homeless woman and placed in shopping cart
Revenge will be had
*MWAHAHAHAHAHA*
Singe mark in lower right corner
Condition: Megalomaniacal
March 14, 44 BC—Julius Caeser draws up plans adding emergency exits to the curia in the Theatre of Pompey
September 28, 1066—Discovery of flaw in plans for Hadrian’s Wall; lack of emergency exits
June 17, 1941—Giovanni Giacomo Casanova uses an emergency exit for the first time
May 8, 1744—Due to a miscommunication, emergency axes are installed throughout the Alamo
December 15, 1956—Elvis has left the building
June 10, 1962—In Alcatraz, Frank Morris completes a correspondence course in emergency exit design and construction
He stopped a moment outside the ballroom doors, checking that the microfilm was still secure. Confident no one in the busy ballroom would have missed him, he slipped through the door.
Fifteen minutes to secure his payload. Longer than he would have liked but the first safe had contained nothing except letters from the Ambassador’s mistress. Taking a champagne flute from a passing tray, he surveyed the room; it would be at least an hour before he could leave and he was looking to enjoy the soiree.
A splash of red caught his eye, an unusual dash of color in the staid realm of stuffy diplomats. He took a moment to straighten his jacket and paste on his best smile before striding across the ballroom. This would be just the distraction he needed.
She stretched, her arms high above her head, and stepped out of the pool of red at her feet. The doorway and the heavy, claw-footed bathtub beyond beckoned. Behind her, the fire flickered as it ate the last of the microfilm.
I was driving down a deserted country lane at one in the morning when I saw her. I’d been up for 48 hours; just finished a case, the kind you can’t say no to because it’s your friend and you owe him. My eyes where shaking, refusing to focus, but the glow of her eyes in my lights was enough; dented my oil pan on a rock going around her.
She was filthy, covered with dirt and grass and scrapes and bruises. Her eyes were huge, reflecting the moonlight and the red glare of my brake lights. I thought she would run; instead she scurried past me, hopped into the car, and curled up in the passenger seat.
The first time I heard her talk was the next morning when she requested breakfast. A screech loud enough to wake the dead—and I wasn’t dead. She still howls every morning but makes up for it by purring on my pillow the night before.