jamieproctor.ca

The compost bag was round and throbbing gently with life. It seemed to only take encouragement from the grip of Sarah’s fingers on its neck, and oozed affectionately at her as she dragged it to the shed.
Slam, bam went the door. Thud, scrape went the boxes.
Lid open. Woooosh! Goodbye compost, gone forever! Live somewhere else.
Sort sort drop sort drop sort drop sort sort drop. Fare thee well, recycling, in parts both paper and plastic and or metal and or glass! May you be repurposed in peace – although Sarah had the sneaking suspicion she’d heard that they just set it all on fire somewhere far away.
Lid open.
“Oh fucking hell. Piss. Shit. Goddamnit. Who does that?”
And this was the most rhetorical question of all, because Sarah knew exactly who did that.
Above her he lurked. Maker of muffled footsteps. The 2 AM shuffler. The One Who Flushes.
Bruce.
Angels, gods and demons, she cursed him.

The garbage can was full.
Full was such a small word. Overfull was too derivative.
Overflowing would do nicely.
What even WAS all that stuff? Packaging and wrapping and pizza boxes and pounds of mashed up what-looked-like-aluminum-foil and ham bones and wood shavings and a crumpled up ripped t-shirt and half a box of snotty Kleenex and a deflated basketball and a box of broken dog treats.
Bruce didn’t own a dog.
Sweet jesus, and that was just the top layer. What the hell. What the everfucking hell.
As she stood there, garbage bag held haplessly in hand, eyes roaming for an empty spot in the can, Sarah was counting. Counting weeks, counting months, counting trucks.
Not once. Not one time in the two years she’d lived beneath him. Not ever once had this not happened.
The battle was resolved in the usual manner – half the bag was crammed into the can, half the bag was surreptitiously sneaked into three unsuspecting neighbors’ cans – but the war was not ended.
Sarah had begun to think. This is normal and fine thing for a human to do, as long as you don’t point it at anyone else. Which she was.

On Wednesday, there was a knock on her door. On the other side of the knock was a Bruce.
“Yes?” said Sarah, eventually.
“Hi,” said Bruce.
“Oh.”
She opened the door and looked up at Bruce. He stood well over six feet, but in a way that was impossible to be intimidated by. He looked like a scarecrow’s emaciated and impoverished cousin. His wrists were almost as thin as his fingers.
“Uh…” he began, and continued in this vein for some time. His sentences had a habit of starting before they formed. “Well…it’s…not to be a bother, but….uh…. Well…there’s a lock on the garbage can.”
“Oh!” said Sarah. “Yes, that was me. Raccoons got into it last week.”
“Oooh. Uh, did you uhm. Did you really need… a padlock?”
“They’re very dextrous, can break into just about anything that doesn’t need a key. Can’t be too careful. I’ll give you a copy.”
“Oh! Thanks.”
They stood there.
“I’ll give you a copy when it’s made,” said Sarah patiently. “I’ve got to go visit the locksmith.”
“Ooooh,” said Bruce. “Ah. Sorry. Thanks. Sorry. Thanks. See you.”
He shuffled off.
Sarah gloated for a few hours, then snuck off to check the shed.
The lock showed some half-hearted signs of tugging, but the chain was well affixed. Excellent.
The same couldn’t be said of the recycling bins. Mounds rose out of them. Highly unselective mounds.
“Ssssshit,” she whispered. Adaptation. Well, she could adapt too.
So she hid the recycling bins under the porch.

On Thursday, there was a knock at her door. Sarah carefully ignored it and avoided making any and all noises for the rest of the day, which she spent smiling softly to herself. Upstairs all was quiet, save for the odd crunching footstep and a faint sob.

On Friday, the garbage went out, just before pickup.
Extremely just before pickup. Five minutes before the truck stopped in front of the building, the chain was removed. Thirty seconds afterwards, it was reapplied.

On Saturday, Sarah’s door was hammered on for ten minutes straight, accompanied by faint but heart-rending sobs, which she cherished deeply.

On Sunday, the compost bin, in a show of pure desperation, had four pizza boxes crammed into it. Sarah bought a chain for it too.
“Raccoons,” she said to herself. “Obviously.”

On Monday, there was no sound at all.
On Tuesday, there was no sound at all.
On Wednesday, there was no sound at all.
On Thursday, there was no sound at all.
On Friday, Sarah executed the fine-timed garbage pickup, patted herself on the back, put everything away, and stopped at her door.
Something smelled.
Was he hoarding up there? Hell, if she’d driven him to that, maybe she could get the landlord to boot him entirely. Worth a try!
The smell grew stronger up the staircase. Thicker. Foggier.
She knocked. The sound was smothered against the doorframe.
“Bruce?”
The door groaned.
“You there? There’s a smell downstairs.”
Knock. Knock. Thump thump.
Nothing but the busy stillness of fermenting air.
Sarah kicked the door once as three things gave way: her patience, the doorframe, and the floor of Bruce’s apartment, which was directly above her own.
It had been very compacted inside Bruce’s place. It was eager to fill new lands.

It was thick and damp and crumby and oozing, all at once, all in different places. And no matter where you clawed, it wouldn’t give way.
Sarah clawed anyways, clawed like a mountain lion. She clawed and clawed and wished she could scream without letting whatever was stuck on her face into her mouth and clawed and clawed and was dragged out of her apartment by her leg and the noble efforts of three men in sanitation overalls.
“Thanks,” she spat out, wiping the Styrofoam from her lips.
“The garbageman is dead,” they told her.
“Sorry?”
“The garbageman is dead,” they told her. They were triplets, and they were all very beautiful in the face and body – fine, strong bones that lay close to the skin, and soft eyes that loved unconditionally. “Who will consume now? Who will take upon themselves the task of accepting the waste of our labours? Who will buy expensive toys and discard them? Who will eat the food of six people? Who will recycle all the soda cans we stock upon our shelves? The garbageman did and now the garbageman is dead. Without garbage, the circle of consumption is stalled, as an axle knee-deep in snow.”
And they bowed before her as one.
“Garbagewoman,” they said.
“Garbagewoman,” they said.
“Garbagewomen,” they said.
And then they turned on their heels and walked for the door.
“What about my apartment?” asked Sarah.
“Best get shoveling,” they said. And were gone.

“Fine,” she said. “Fine.” She could do this. Bag it all. Sort it. Needed to sort it first.
Right. Sort it first. Then bag it. Then put it out in the shed.
Then she wondered where the key to the garbage can might be, and she started swearing and never stopped.

The car was a blaze of glory. Emergency alarms, horn, airbags, headlights – a riot of sounds and sights. A real shame the driver couldn’t appreciate it.
I’d do it for him. Especially when keeping my eyes forward distracted me from the snickers already starting at my heels.
Focus, Norman. Focus. Look at the lights, at the sights, listen to the chief talking to himself as he looks at the wreck. Don’t listen to the names and the giggles; school was a long time ago.
“-and that’s a wrap,” said Chief Moonlight. The tiny little goblin at his side finished taking notes and walked off, dodging his aimless swat at her ass as she went. “Oh, look who it is. Good ol’ Norm. Come to look for conspiracy theories again?”
“N-”
“Gonna tell us how little overall’d men abducted the driver’s engine and put it in backwards on return?”
“I-”
“Or maybe you’re just here on a social visit, to tell me that leeching is a scam or someshit.”
“I just want to help.”
The Chief sighed. “Yes, Norman. You always do. And we repay you by ignoring that, just like we ignore your name.”
“Yes, Chief.”
“I mean, seriously? How nuts were your folks?”
“Very, Chief. Let me see the body.”
I had a hunch, and the corpse only verified it. Still fresh enough that the blood hadn’t drowned out every detail. I checked the fingers with my kit, then took that extra little step.
I sniffed its breath.
“Chief? What’d you peg him with?”
“Soma,” said the Chief, accepting a cup of unicorn broth from one of the milling rookies that had clustered around us out of boredom and curiosity. “One of the crime scene bozos tried to tell me it was pixie dust. Pixie dust! No pink under his fingers, his third eye was fully dilated… what kind of morons does the academy let graduate these days?”
“Same as always,” I said. “But you’re off too. Smell that buzz on his breath?”
The Chief shrugged.
“That’s booze. Your man here was drunk driving.”
And as I waited for the laughter to subside, I wished, I really wished, I really truly wished that I’d never been raised honest.

“Norman,” my mother had told me, “you have a gift.”
“What kind?” I asked her.
“You’re really boring,” she told me. “And it takes a boring sort of person to get at the truth.”

“Norman,” said the Chief.
“Yeah?”
“Are you still seriously on this alcorhal thing?”
“Alcohol.”
“Amazing. Great. Okay, so you believe this guy obtained your unmythical substance, drank it, and then spontaneously lost all control and slammed into the streetlight here because of an ingested ‘toxin’ interfering with…his ‘bodily functions.’”
“Yes.”
“Wow. Great. You know Norman, I value your input.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s always nice to have a member of the Round Earth Society nearby to cross-check things with. Keeps you sane. Case’s closed, soma’s on the sheet, going home now, have a nice time. Shut ‘er down!”

That had gone relatively well. Normally he started swearing at me.
I stared out at the city from my car. It avoided my gaze.
It needn’t have bothered. I was thinking. I was thinking about the things my mother had taught me, when I was young and stupid.
“It’s a gift passed down from your great-grandmother, Norman,” she had told me. “It’s called ‘Occam’s Razor’”
“A magic sword?” I asked.
“No.”
“A spell?”
“No.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a basic mental tool.”
Even then, I’d known that sort of thing was for nutcases. But she was my mom, and she sounded sincere. I’m a sucker for sincere. Bad trait in a detective.
Chief Moonlight had deduced that the victim had ingested too much soma, rocketing them through too many levels of enlightenment too fast until they appeared in the mundane world and rammed the streetlight with their car out of philosophical bliss.
Fine. But what then of the tyre tracks?
He’d been taking the corners at unnecessary speed, and the patches of rubber would lead me to the last place he’d been. And I was willing to bet that was where I’d find his booze.

Shamefully enough, the victim’s tracks ended only a block and a half away. It had gone straight to his head faster than trollblood – unusual by my grandmother’s reckoning, but explicable. He might’ve been drinking on an empty stomach. He could’ve been a lightweight on his first real binge. Most people in this town didn’t believe in booze or medical impairment, even the real hardcore guys that got Asimov verses tattooed on their chests. An easy mistake for a first-timer to make.
The door was open. An old neighborhood then, where people still put their trust in guestright over modern wards.
“Evening,” I said to the gloom. “Police. Here to ask a question or two.”
Some of the gloom shuffled over to me. It was an elderly man, a retired warlock by the glint of his little stardust eyes and the twitch of his nose. He walked hunched, held up by the gentle nudging of his familiar, an old-fashioned lamp that had surely been out of style for decades.
“Eh?”
“A question or two.”
“Three!”
“Sorry?”
“Three! You must always ask THREE questions! It’s proper!”
Ah. A real staunch traditionalist here. “Yes. Three. What’s your name, mister…?”
“Clock! Wellspring Clock! And you?”
“Norman. Just Norman.”
“Your parents scientists or something? Bah!”
“Yes. Have you seen a confused or disoriented man recently, mister Clock? Not large, slight build, elfin around the eyes and with a spring in his step.”
“I don’t hold with elves! Never heard of him!”
“Understood. Do you mind if I have a look around? It’s possible you may have had a trespasser recently.”
Clock gave me a nod that was as good as an upraised finger, and I relaxed. Good. Now I could get some work done. The place was a mess, but there were only so many places a drunk would’ve been able to get into, as trashed as he must’ve been. Cabinet. Closet. The fridge.
I pulled a little packet from my coat, along with a brush.
“What’s that?”
“Magic,” I lied. My mother had found an old tome of trivia that explained the secrets of fingerprint dusting, and the applications had immediately become obvious. If I could confirm the drunk had been here, the next step’d be to
“Ain’t seen that before at the shop.”
“It’s new stuff. The commissioner approved it recently.” Damnit, those little eyes were glittering. I’d have to come a little cleaner than that. “Truth be told, it’s almost half-mundane. Checks for the perp’s fingernames.”
He blinked. “Mundane?”
“Only a li-”
“Fellow said he knew a man.”
“What?”
“Fellow who was in here earlier. Said he knew a man who was all about that dull stuff. Didn’t look like your description though. Shorter. Fatter. Looked dwarvish.”
A second man? I hadn’t bargained on any of this. “What did the man want?”
“Just to trade. I pawn, you know. Rings for favours, beans for cows, you know, you know how it is. Once you’re out, you’re never quite out. Still have to eat, eh?”
“Did he trade you anything?”
“A funny sort of bottle, yes. Said it was a potion. Standard rate. It’s in the cellar, if you want to try your fancy powder on it.”

It was a bad idea.
The stairs were rickety.
The bricks were stained.
The air was thick and buzzed on my tongue.
And then, right as I laid eyes on the massive, creaking apparatus that filled half the cellar’s guts, I knew the idea was even worse than I’d guessed, right as the dead weight slammed me between the shoulderblades. I fell over like an ogre had axed me.
The old man’s eyes were shining, and from more than spellwork. He’d had a nip of something, and I bet I knew what. His familiar was already on me, shade bristling, but there was something else, something else.
“Fellow can’t retire in peace,” he hissed at me as the lamp lashed for my eyes. “All those years in grief and they can’t let me have a little nip, eh? Not even a little nip, not even between friends! So what’s it to be then, nosy man! So what’s it to be!”
I pulled out my badge and stuffed it into the lamp’s body, let the wards do their work and peeled its spirit out. But Clock was still swinging, and that was no staff in his hands. It was flat, it was hard, it was
Oh my god it was a lead pipe.
How the HELL had he found that?
Protocol said to raise the badge forcefully and trust in the departmental blessing to disperse all hostile forces and powers from your person, bolstered with the incantation of the law.
Department standard said to pull my wand, toast Clock inside out, then take a paid leave for a few months until it died down.
I ducked. The pipe shot over my head, I grabbed the old man’s arm, and the rest was gravity.

What a goddamned night. A drunk driver, a moonshiner, and an intact and functional alcohol distillery (with lead plumbing – weaponized lead plumbing!) in a residential neighborhood. The Chief wasn’t going to like any of this. It’d all end up buried – in the departmental scrolls, in the lockup vault, and under this basement. My head already hurt, although a little of that was from the staircase.
Just the usual signs of a job well done.
My name is Norman. Just Norman. I’m the most successful, capable, and only detective in this burg that investigates mundane crime. Nobody believes me, but they come to me anyway.

In the very very very very very old days, the gods didn’t like people much, almost as much as they don’t like them now. So they kept to themselves, all alone in their palaces on the tops of the mountains, and watched the humans scurry and shiver in the dark and cold. Sometimes they threw lightning at them for fun.
It was in the middle of one such long, chill night that Three Crows walked into a human town and also a human face-first. It was hard to see where you were going.
“Ow!” said the human.
“Sorry,” said Three Crows. “Hard to see around here at night. You ever thought of putting up lights?”
“What, like putting the sun and moon on a string?” asked the human. “Seems difficult, I don’t think we can do that.”
“Nah, I mean like, fire.”
“What’s ‘fire’?” asked the human.
Three Crows tried to explain fire, but it was really hard. Back then humans didn’t have a lot or know about a lot of things, so most of the things she could compare them to weren’t helpful.
“It’s sort of like a lot of little stars, except it eats sticks and bites things,” she said.
“Woah. Can we have some?”
Three Crows considered this. On the one hand, the humans were asking her to steal a special treasure from the tops of the mountains where the gods lived, and she didn’t know them that well. On the other hand Three Crows was very nearly a god herself and so knew that they were jerks.
“Hey, why not?” she said.
It was a long walk up the mountains. The cliffs were steep, but that’s not a big deal if your fingers are strong; and the winds were fierce, but hairy people can push through that; and the way was guarded by many terrifying and ugly monsters, all of which Three Crows was on a first-name (and sometimes pet name) basis with. Finally, she came to the kitchen window of the palace of Fire, which she broke with a rock and let herself in through.
“This one looks good,” said Three Crows, selecting a particularly shiny flame.
It was around then that Three Crows realized she hadn’t actually brought anything to carry fire back in, but she was very nearly a god herself so she made up a new way to carry fire on the spot and hustled it out of there.
It was a little complicated. The trick was to get the fire out of your hand before it could be burned, then put it into your other hand.
“Hey, learned something new today,” said Three Crows. “’Juggling’ is just ridiculous enough to be a good name for this.”
She was so pleased she didn’t look where her feet were going, which is particularly important if you don’t have eyes in your feet, which she didn’t.
“Woah! Shucks.”
The fire flew out of her hands, bounced off a rock, down a cliff, over a river, through a marsh, and landed safely in the middle of the human village.
“Oh, okay.”
Three Crows relaxed a little and took the rest of the trip down the mountain real slow. She even made up a few humming tunes for the trip, about how clever and incredibly handsome she was. Unfortunately, by the time she came to the village nobody wanted to listen to her. They were all busy running around and waving their arms and hooting.
“Hey,” said Three Crows, “want to hear a hum?”
“Aaaugh! Oh nooooooooo! Aiiieee!” said the humans.
“They aren’t THAT bad. They’re about how clever and incredibly handsome I am.”
“Everything’s on fire!” wailed a human. “We don’t have a lot or know about a lot of things, but everything we have and know about is on fire!”
“Put it out,” said Three Crows.
“How?!”
“Throw some dirt on it.”
“We don’t have shovels yet!”
“Oh. Throw some water on it?”
“We don’t know what that is!”
“Ah, fudge,” said Three Crows. “I guess I better help out.”
So Three Crows ran up the mountain this time – and with no breath to hum with, which annoyed her – and passed the cliffs and the winds and the monsters without even enough time to say hello, making many of them very put out. She knew she’d have to apologize later, and that made her cross. She HATED apologies, at least when she wasn’t getting them. It made her so annoyed that she kicked a hole in the palace of Water, pulled out a nice fat current, and threw it down the mountain without looking twice.
“There,” she said crabbily. “Job done.”
And she stomped back down, apologizing through gritted teeth the whole way.
It was a long way to stomp, which gave her time to notice things, like when she stopped stomping and started splashing.
“Aw, pumpernickel,” she said. “Not again.”
And indeed it had happened again. The village was now a lake, and it was filled with extremely splashing and drowning humans.
“blorg,” they burbled at her. “blub, gasp, cough, sputter, boggle.”
“Fine, fine, fine, fine,” sighed Three Crows. “Gosh darn it.”
So she walked past the cliffs and the winds and the monsters – who accepted her (now much more contrite) apologies – and let herself in to the palace of Dogs using the key under the mat, where she stole a set of paddles.
“Here,” she said when she got back to the (patiently) drowning humans. “Do this with your hands like this.”
And they did. And just like that, they weren’t drowning anymore.
“Thank you,” they told her.
“Hey, it’s fine.”
“Except our entire village is still flooded.”
“Well, aren’t we hard to please?” said Three Crows in a somewhat insincere and snotty voice.
“Not really.”
Three Crows sighed in a needlessly dramatic fashion and walked off again.
This time, she was thorough. She checked every palace, looked under every bed, opened every cupboard, pried into every vault. In total, she stole bailing, dam-making, sailing, stilt-walking, parasailing, kayaking, windsurfing, canoeing, canal-making, surfboarding, ditch-digging, surfboarding, inner-tubing, and when her arms were full she gave up, stuffed it all into a palace, stuffed all the other palaces into THAT palace, and hurled the whole thing down the mountain, making it roll very nicely.
Then she took a nap before heading back down because man that takes it out of you.

When Three Crows finally made it back to the human village, she was pleasantly surprised. The knotted-up ball of palaces and manses had completely displaced the water from it.
“Hey,” she said. “How’s it going now?”
“A goddamned mess, fuckface,” said a nearby human. “Why don’t you piss off?”
“Woah,” said Three Crows. “Those’re some impressive words. What are they?”
“Swears,” said the human. “The gods have gifted us with them. They finally found someone they hate more than us.”
“Is it me?” asked Three Crows.
“No shit, Sherlock.”
“Wow,” said Three Crows. “I’m very humbled by this.”
“Go away.”
And Three Crows did.
But not before helping herself to some of the juicier swears. She figured they owed her that much.

It was ten o’clock and all was very much not well oh god they were going to be here any minute.
The hedges weren’t trimmed. The snow was half-shoveled. I hadn’t spiked the punch yet. I wasn’t even finished getting dressed, and I couldn’t remember how many of them there were going to be which was sort of important.
Four? No, there was a single one – three. Wait, there were two couples. Five! It must be five. Probably.
This is what getting old is like. ‘It’s just like riding a bike’ is only said by people who have never ridden one.
Knock knock knock knock oh damnit out of time to panic it’s time to breathe.
I put on my outfit.
Giant lumpy hideous sweater. Yes.
Conspicuously loose ski mask. Good.
Red gloves. Done.
Now, time to oh right the punch shit shit shit.
I jumped off the side of the staircase (ah! Ankle! Ow! I’m not twenty – or thirty! – anymore!), sprang over to the fridge, shoved two bottles neck to neck and squeezed like they owed me money.
Ka-clik.
Key in the lock. That’d have to do.
The door handle turned.
I slid open a window.
Creak.
I jumped out the window.
“HOME, SWEET HOME!” sang out the joyous guests and I slammed the window shut as quietly as I could and ducked into the hedges.
Jesus. My heart was pounding and my ankle hurt. Not my best start to a day.
Well, I had time to breathe now. They wouldn’t need my attentions until at least two o’clock. Time to kick back, relax and
Oh. I’d left my e-reader upstairs. Shit.
Okay, time to sit under a hedge staring at the backs of my hands for a few hours. Times like this I almost wished I’d taken up smoking.

Giggles, laughs, titters, chuckles, snide commentary, cattiness. Yes, they were already in full swing in there. Party starting early. If I’d guessed right they’d spend a little bit unpacking while alternating between flirting and fighting, then go out on the slopes.
Except for one. That’d be my in. I’d knock, and then circle around back. Leave the kitchen door open and hide in the closet, then sneak up behind them as they investigated the draft. Classic.
What would I use? A kitchen knife was a little pat, a little flat…but maybe if I did it ironically. Yeah, maybe I use the knife, but it breaks in the process. That’s a Statement. Yeah, I could do that.
Or I could do a ski po no no no. No. The line between classic and cliché may be thin, but it’s violent. Not the ski pole. Not now, maybe not ever.
No. The knife. I was far enough into my career that I could substitute a little irony for a lot of novelty.
The door opened. A little early, surely? I hadn’t been woolgathering THAT long.
No, out they came. The jock first – yes, that made sense. Snowboard over her shoulder.
Then next came..
Next came…
Well.
Wait. What?
“See ya! Pricks.”
They were going out there alone? Damnit, this was EXACTLY why novelty got less fun as you got older. I’d planned for one earlybird special and plenty of time to prep for four returning guests; this was going to throw my pacing completely out of whack. How long had it been since I’d dealt with a full house right off the bat? Six years? Eight? And that was on purpose! I‘d just have a fourpack sprung on me by surprise and I hadn’t even warmed up yet!
Fuck. Fuck, fuck fuck. I pulled out the tiny jar of caffeine pills, jammed half the bottle in my mouth, and tried to focus. Well, you play the hand you’re dealt, even if you do stack the deck and cut the cards.
Enough metaphors, time for improv.
I needed them to split up. How? Should I cut the lines? No, that’d be stupid. Cell phones were a thing now; all I’d accomplish would be making them phone the cops faster. Preserving and prolonging the uncertain period would be my goal. The moment the panic set in it’d have to be hard and unrelenting. 911 isn’t hard to remember, but it gets a lot trickier to dial it if you’re sprinting from room to room being chased by an axe.
I could really use an axe right now. Knife probably wouldn’t cut it.
Just a little peek in the window. How’s everyone doing? Okay, one of them’s taking a call – she’s going upstairs. Could start with her – the other guy says he’s going to the bathroom. That leaves two in the living room with the TV on. Gotta get upstairs. Gotta get upstairs fast. How?
One moment a time, same as always. Get on the deck, feet on the railing, WHY IS THE DOOR OPENING AGAIN OH SHIT.
“See? Look at the stars.”
“Wow…”
“Toldja we’d be far enough from the city.”
“So many of them!”
Had they even had a chance to drink the punch yet? Oh thank god they didn’t see my feet. Now I just had to walk very quietly over all of their heads, on shingles, and open the attic in less than twenty seconds before the phone call is over, then get out of the attic and get her before she makes the stairway.
And I didn’t have an axe. Or a knife. Or anything. Is there anything in the attic? Look around look around look around.
Well, there’s some old ski poles.
No.
There’s a…fire extinguisher? No. Blunt trauma never really sings.
Okay, I was going to pick the next thing I walked by. Reached out aaaaand
Ski pole.
Fuck.

I just made it. She hung up right as I opened the bedroom door, turned around, gasped, and then as she opened her mouth to scream I grabbed her neck and shoved her out the window and slammed it on her head repeatedly.
Great. Blunt trauma, no weapon involved, and no thematic resonance. Zero stars. Mother would be proud.
Sometimes I hated this job. People expect so damned much from you. At least nobody had heard anything.
Then I heard a flush behind me, spun about, and watched the bathroom door creak open across the hall, leaving me face to face with…
Huh. I hadn’t had any time to check this. Was this the nerd? Or did I just kill the nerd? He couldn’t be the jock, she’d gone snowboarding or skiing or whatever by herself. Was this the jock’s boyfriend? Or was the jock single? I knew ONE of them was single, was the single one cheating with one of the couples or were the couples mutually unfaithful?
He screamed his lungs out.

It was a good scream. Full-force, powerful lungs, diaphragm action, long-running – and he didn’t just stand there, no, he kept it full-tilt even as he bolted for the staircase. I hadn’t seen a scream like that since my first night out.
A real pity that it was blowing my whole night to shit with every decibel. Too soon, too soon even midspree. The jig had barely started and it was already up.
Wait, I could salvage this. One scream – even a great scream – meant confusion, panic. A hunt for answers and missing friends. Yeah. That’d do it. Yeah
All I had to do was stop him.
I jumped forwards, reached out, missed his shoulder, missed his waist, missed his entire leg, and tugged pathetically on his sock, which came off in my hand. The nerd(?) pitched over, still screaming, and descended the entire staircase in one go. Head-first.
Well, it stopped the screaming. Worst kill I’d had in years, even counting the one upstairs, but hey, it stopped the screaming.
I ran downstairs, grabbed his leg, looked around. A closet, perfect. I hoisted the body over my shoulder, heard the door slam open, and immediately jammed myself and the corpse inside.
Fuck.
“Where is he where is he where is he?”
“I don’t know. Quick, get a phone.”
“Where’s your phone?”
“Coat. Get my coat!”
I used my free hand to explore the closet a little and confirmed that the soft objects hanging around me were exactly what I thought.
Well. This could have gone better.
No matter.
I put the body in front of me. I breathed. It’ll fall out on top of the phone-hunter (was the phone hunter the nerd? Maybe he was the slut and the guy I’d tripped down the staircase the nerd), then I could step out and get him. Fine. That was fine.
What would I get him with? It’d have to be fast.
Well, there wasn’t just coats in here. Something’s handle was pressed against my back. A mop? A broom? Hell, I could work with a broom.
I hefted it. Ski-pole.
The closet opened. The body fell out. The nerd(?) jumped back and shouted something like “Fuck!” Fuckbutter? Fuckshit? I wasn’t listening.
I lunged out, pulled the coat over his head, and threw him into the coathooks. It sort of worked. I guess. Lots of thrashing but I reckoned I got his jugular on there.
Lucky. Lucky lucky lucky.
And then the slut(?) attacked me from behind. Or wait, was that the romantic.
Either way, it wasn’t good. You don’t have to be a black belt to mess someone up, you just need to mean it, and the people I’m working with usually do. The closest I’d come to death before was at the nails of a five-foot-nothing and wow everything was still spinning.
What was that, a vase? Whatever it had been, the bagginess of the ski mask wasn’t enough to stop it ringing my bell pretty good. Something had burst on the back of my skull and even if it wasn’t my brain it sure FELT like it. I wished I had more protection back there, but it wouldn’t have fit. Wouldn’t have fit into the gimmick.
God, how long had I been doing this? What on earth made me decide that my shtick would be ‘ski resorts’? Well, I had shaken it up a bit – the time when I moved into an ice castle, the hot springs resort spree, and of course that one classic trip I took down to Hawaii – but still. How many times could I NOT stab someone with a ski pole and make it look good, or at least like I wasn’t trying too hard?
Oh, he was taking my mask off. Better shut my eyes.
I got a good gasp off him. Hey, thanks kid. Took a lot of careful work to make scars like that. The one across the nose was line of duty from an angry brunette with a blowtorch, but the rest? All me.
I’d knew I’d have to open my eyes inside the next half-second. That’d give me a freezeup for a moment, and then whatever was in my hand would be a weapon. Just once. Just once tonight. It would look good.
I opened my eyes. That got me the second gasp.
I sat up, hand moving.
It reached.
It closed.
It thrust forwards.
With god as my witness, I impaled that (nerd? Slut? Romantic? Wait, what if this was the clean-cut?) like a shish-kebab with the ski-pole, hoisting him as a flag.
And you know what?
It looked pretty damned good.
Marty Matthews, the Ski Stabber. Unmasked, framed against the black backdrop of the open closet. A body at his feet, a victim held overhead, a ski-pole in his red gloves.
You could stir hearts with this. You could sell copies of this.
Then I saw someone standing in the doorway.
Oh. It was the jock. Right, the stargazing corpses had left the door open. That’s why I hadn’t heard it. She must’ve finished skiing or snowboarding or whatever early.
Wait, what was she holding? That didn’t look like snow equipment.
Oh. A bowhunter.
“Fuck you,” she said, and she shot me.

That lumpy sweater was my pride and joy. Stitched and reknitted, it had seen me through more kills and laundry cleanings than my own eyes.
The bullet-proof vest underneath, however, was my practicality and common sense. A lot more replaceable, but a lot more useful.
Except bullet-proof vests are meant to stop little round angry things, not sharp blades. B’jezus that hurt.
Well. One out of four ain’t bad. Time to quit. I spun around twice and fell out the nearest window, face-first, and really wishing I still had my ski mask on. I waited until she looked outside, listened for the crunch of footsteps turning away, then rolled behind one of the shrubs and goddamnit legged it.
See, that’s the part the audience never appreciates. How good a runner you have to be. All those sprints between kills never get noticed, but they’re at least implied. The end marathon, when you need to put miles between you and the stage as fast as possible? That’s entirely omitted, from sight and mind both.
But it was over. I was unwinding even as I ran. One hand on the arrow wound – ow, ow, ow – the other pumping, pumping, working as hard as my legs even as it sang and snapped at me and oh okay my arm hurt a LOT.
A LOT.
I stopped running.
“Oh,” I said. “Maybe that was too many caffeine pills.”
Well, I tried to say that. Instead I just went ‘aaaugh’ and fell over into a lot of extremely grey mist.

Great.

And you know what really made the whole thing unfair?
They didn’t even try the punc

The trail, much like the witness, was cold.
Like, really cold, like ice or something.
And it was getting colder.
Wait, what’s colder than ice? Nothing! Jesus, this detective work was a lot harder than the TV made it look. I missed TV. I’d been down here in the damp dark slurking around waiting for new evidence for ages and then all of a sudden this dead body turned up. It was a good thing my trusty sidekick ‘Johnny’ Doesmurders was down here with me – his finely-tuned senses had located the victim immediately.
“Whaddya reckon COD is here, ‘Johnny’?” I asked him.
‘Johnny’ frowned and thumbed his chin with the barrel of his still-smoking pistol as he considered the corpse lying directly in front of him. “Big hole in the back of his head,” he noted. “Musta gotten blown away. Could’ve been a gun or an icepick or a jackhammer or a narwhal or something.”
“Where would a mug get a narwhal around here?” I demanded.
“The zoo.”
“You kidding me? They don’t even let you ride the polar bear no more. Shit, I bet they keep the narwhals locked in a safe somewhere and the head keeper’s the only guy with a key. Nah, I think this was like, a gun. Or maybe something like that. I dunno, what do I look like?”
“A gumshoe,” said ‘Johnny.’
I checked my foot. Goddamnit, he was right. Someone really needed to clean these alleys.
Then I froze as the world settled into perfect, clear crystal.
‘Johnny,’ I said, carefully. “Look at my shoe. What do you see?”
‘Johnny’ peered into the murky depths of my sole. “Looks like mint or maybe spearmint,” he offered.
“No, not that. Look at it. Look closer.”
He squinted so hard his eyes crossed, then gave up.
“It’s a MAP, ‘Johnny,’” I told him. “And we’re going there now.”
“But where’s there?” he asked.
“I’ll know it when I see it.”

“Okay,” I said. “I don’t know where we are.”
We were fifteen miles from nowhere in a fourteen-pound sack, in some godforsaken fast food place behind a parking lot behind a suburb behind a hideous little townlette that had been swallowed whole by Big City. It was quiet – too quiet. The fryer bubbled to itself, overflowing with dirty little secrets. My hands smelled bad.
‘Johnny’ wandered over to the counter to scope the place out. Then there was a loud, overpowering noise like ‘bang’ or something, three times.
“Holy shit!” he yelled.
I ran over and was face to face with a corpse. Well, face to back of the face. It was some dead guy lying on top of the counter so his face was pointing at the counter, not me.
And right in the back of that head that I was face to face with instead of his face was a big, smoking hole.
“Aw fuck,” I said. “We’re too late.”
“So is he,” quipped ‘Johnny.’ “Because he’s like, dead.”
“Wow,” I said. “That makes no damned sense, ‘Johnny.’ Maybe you should look for clues instead of being weird, you ever thinka that?”
He scuffed his shoes and pouted, but went to check the fryer for evidence. Me, I cleared out a rack of freshly-prepped burgers and went over the birds-eye view of the case in my mind. This just wasn’t adding up.
For one thing, how the hell had the guy gotten hold of TWO narwhals? I was pretty sure the zoo only had one.
For another, why would the crook leave the delicious salty bounty of the building untouched? This motive was whacko.
For another after another, who the hell had left onions off these things? You couldn’t pay me to eat burgers like these. It was almost a crime.
Then I froze as the world settled into perfect, clear crystal.
“‘Johnny,’” I said, carefully, “ when you said this stiff was ‘too late,’ did you mean actually, physically late… or were you referring to how he was expired.”
‘Johnny’ looked at me with genuine amazement. “Wow,” he said. “Wasn’t thinking of that at all. That was like, an accident.”
I nodded, tapped my chin, squinted a little, and cleared my throat. “Or WAS it?” I said. Then I almost fell over.
“Geez!”
“Sorry. Tapped my chin too hard. Listen, I think I got a clue or a hunch or a lead or something like that. Follow me.”
“I’m the driver, boss.”
“Well then follow YOU,” I said, pissed off now. “Jeez. Do I gotta do everything around here?”
“No,” he said.
“Right. Just most of it. C’mon.”

“Woah!” said ‘Johnny’. There was a bang, and then another bang, and then a big fat wet hairy thud.
I spun around, then spun around again because I’d overspun the first time. By the time I was done spinning I felt terrible and threw up all over the place.
“Auuuururghghtlltltllpppth,” I said.
“Aw NO,” said ‘Johnny’.
“Huurururururullllk. HRRRRMMMMPLTH!”
“Dangit!”
“blort”
“Wow.”
I stopped throwing up and pulled out my gun. “Nobody move!” I shouted in an incredibly authoritative voice.
I’ll give this creep his dues: he didn’t move an inch. He was cool as a cucumber. Lying there on the floor, spread-eagled and covered in vomit, he acted like he was standing upright, in a lotus pose and covered in refreshingly chilled Hawaiian punch.
My eyes twitched. My hand crawled across the trigger, dragging a finger after it.
“Last chance, scumbag,” I growled.
I flinched, and put a round in his forehead.
“Damnit!”
“It’s okay, boss. I saw everything.”
“No you didn’t.”
“Yeah I didn’t see anything.”
I walked over and conducted a crime scene investigation, snapping my gloves on and off again and tasting the various substances around the victim for chemical evidence.
“Suspect was a person, aged adult, and had three holes in her on account of being blown away.” Damnit, how many narwhals did this guy HAVE? Were we dealing with a smuggling ring? I hoped not. Squares were so much easier. “Looks like she threw up a lot all over the place. It’s possible the perp is a really bad cook or that the victim had a real delicate stomach.”
“That was you,” said ‘Johnny.’
“I’m not putting up with your insubordinate shenanigans for one more second, Doesmurders,” I snapped at him.
Then I froze as the world settled into perfect, clear crystal.
“‘Johnny,’” I said, carefully, “pass me the garbage can. I’m not done throwing up yet.”
When I was done throwing up we searched the joint bottom to top. Don’t know why anyone does it the other way; too many staircases.
“We’re overthinking this,” I said. “Let’s just go find that guy who saw the first murder and ask him what happened.”
“Yeah,” said ‘Johnny.’ “Jeez, I bet he knows lots. He sure was in a hurry to show off about it. ‘Oooh, lookit meee, I’m a WIIIT-nesss. Don’t you wanna question me? C’mon, question me!’ Showoff little punk.”
“Stay frosty, ‘Johnny,’” I told him. “Keep your cool. Don’t freeze up. Be chill.”
“Okay okay okay okay okay,” he said.

The witness’s house was a tall glass of bricks, three stories high and one story wide. I knew for sure we’d find out what kind of person lived here the moment we found him.
The doorbell didn’t work, so we let ourselves in. Door didn’t work either. We ended up using the window.
Then I froze as the world settled into perfect, clear crystal.
“‘Johnny,’” I said, carefully, “can you get tetanus from broken glass?”
“Nah.”
“Oh. Okay.”
I stepped over the perfect, clear crystal and ignored the ouchies. I’d put bandaids on ‘em later. For now, I just needed the truth.
“Hi,” said the witness. “Why’d you break my window?”
“Damnit I’m asking the questions here!” I shouted.
“Click,” said ‘Johnny.’
“Me, not you, ‘Johnny.’”
“Yeah. Sorry. Out of bullets.”
“Listen,” said the witness. “There’s something I’ve got to tell you. These murders this night… were done by the murderkiller.”
I wanted to freeze as the world settled into perfect, clear crystal but instead all I did was say ‘holy fuck.’
“Holy fuck!” I said.
“Yes!” said the witness. “The murderkiller! The fiend who has killed so many murders over the years, so many of them so close to you! The elusive monster! The man who has killed your parents and your siblings and your pals and your buds and your first through second wives!”
“Wow!” I said.
“And your dog and your cat and your fish and your pet rock and your car and your apartment and your super and your goldfish crackers and your bike and your lawn and your hopes and your dreams and”
“This is getting boring,” I said. “I’m bored.”
“and that guy tonight and that other guy and that girl”
“Hey, can I borrow your gun?” asked ‘Johnny.’
“Sure, here.”
“Thanks,” said ‘Johnny.’ Then he pointed it at the witness and blew him away.
Wait a minute. That was the fourth witness we’d found dead. What if he’d blown away the others? Who else liked blowing away witnesses?
“Holy SHIT,” I said. “’Johnny’ Doesmurders is the murderkiller!”
“No,” said ‘Johnny.’
“Oh,” I said. “Shit. That was my best lead.”
“It happens, boss,” he said. “Hey, let’s forget this scene and go wrap up the case with some burritos. My treat.”
“Sounds great,” I said. “This trail is stone cold and boring as flip. Where we heading?”
“Big Pete’s,” he said. “I hear that place is… to DIE for.”

“Heh,” I said. “I get it.”
‘Johnny’ Doesmurders squinted at me over a mountain of sour cream. “Get what?”
“Dunno,” I said. “Hey, quit hogging that.”