continued from http://cityofnewbabbage.online/reader/node/9459
It was March. The Oiling Festival was in full swing. Mr Underby, the mayor’s personal assistant, had been tasked with overseeing the removal and storage of the furnishings, files, and artifacts in City Hall in preparation for demolition. That is to say, he was standing in front of the building looking important, while workers carried a steady stream of items out to the wagons waiting in the street.
Mr Underby considered his position. He had everything he ever wanted. Money. Influence. Women. Power. Everything, save one.
“I say, old friend. Who is that?”
Underby did not turn, noting the unmistakable shadow of the man in the pickelhaube helmet on the pavers in front of him. Count Bologna was not on his list of favored associates after bungling the job on City Hall. “Who is what?” Underby said, after a measured pause.
“That man in the picture there.” The Count pointed a half peeled hard-boiled egg at the large portrait of the mayor that was crossing in front of them, carried two burly men. “Who is that?”
“That,” Mr Underby drawled dryly, “is the mayor.”
The Count cocked his head to align it with the angle at which the portrait was being carried. “He looks much taller in the painting, wouldn’t you say?”
“I wouldn’t.” said Mr Underby, a hint of a smirk at the edge of his mouth.
“Who knew a mayor would be such a dodger,” said the Count. “He owes me.”
The mayor’s personal assistant breathed slowly out through his nose. Underby knew the mayor was most meticulous about indebtedness, so found the Count’s statement preposterous. He wondered what scheme the Count was attempting to launch and waited for it to play out.
The Count continued to peel his hard-boiled egg, letting the bits of shell drop onto the paving stones. “Little dodger just disappeared on me.”
“He does that.” said Mr Underby.
“Bad form. Most ungentlemanly of him, I’d say. Positively unsportsmanlike. It’s no way at all for a mayor to act! He’s an ungrateful little man,” said the Count.
Underby agreed silently.
The Count mused for a few moments as he reached inside his coat retrieving a salt shaker. He sprinkled a generous amount onto the egg, then munched it, seemingly without satisfaction. After some time, he sputtered: “I saved his life!”
Underby turned, his full attention focused on the Count. “You what?”
“I saved his life! He would have been run over by a trolley if it had not been for I.”
“Show me.” said Mr Underby. For once in their association, he hoped the Count was not lying.
“What?” said the Count.
“Show me exactly where it happened. Now.”
The Count stuffed the rest of the egg into his mouth, then nodded.
Uh, oh… this can’t be good…
It might be interesting to note that the egg has, throughout history, been a symbol of the soul.
Bon appetit.
The Count led Underby across city hall to Canal Street, then to a spot on the trolley tracks near to the old Chandlery where Mr Tenk kept his forge.
“T’was right at this exact spot, Ozzie old chum.” The Count pointed toward the spot, or as best he could recall now that the snow had melted away. “I’d stake my reputation on it.”
Underby did not attempt to hide his contempt for that statement.
“I was running down Jefferson, you know, quite full tilt! Chased by a pack of widows. Why in Builder’s name are there so damned many of them in this city?”
“That’s a story in and of itself.” Underby huffed. “Now get on with it.”
“Steady on, Ozzie. I’m no fool, as you most certainly seem to be assuming.”
“No?”
“No. You see, I have surmised from your interest that you gain some sort of advantage from the tale I am weaving for you. All true, of course, all true, and yet storytelling is such a sweet art, and—”
“Get ON with it.”
The Count stopped short, and smiled. “A little grease for the wheel, hm?”
Underby breathed out through his nose again. How many thugs were currently in his employ, he wondered, and who was the meanest? They would need to be put to work later this evening. “That can all be arranged.” he answered vaguely.
The Count reached into his inner breast pocket, and pulled something out, palmed in his kid gloved hand. Underby raised an eyebrow. The Count produced another hard-boiled egg, crouched down, and tapped it against a stone. He stood back up, and began to peel the egg.
“You’re not going to continue until I grease the wheel, hm?” Underby asked, swiftly losing patience.
The Count continued to peel his egg. “That is correct, sir.”
“Ten marks?”
“More than sufficient.” said the Count.
As Underby counted out ten marks, the Count reached into another inner pocket, producing a salt shaker. He covered the the egg, then munched thoughtfully. “It was quite a spectacle, I shan’t lie to you. That dwarf dancing around on one leg, oh dear, I was rue to interfere. You were a carny too, I’m sure you understand.” The Count didn’t wait for a reply. “I had escaped the widows somewhere back around the Turkish baths, tenacious women them, and yes, there he was, in all his glory. Asked me for a crow.”
Underby frowned. “He… what?”
The Count nodded, munching on the egg. “Yes, some sort of exotic tool, I suppose. I’d certainly never laid eyes on such a contraption in all my life.”
Underby frowned deeper. “What did it look like, you fool?”
The Count pondered for a moment. “Oh, about the length of my arm, I suppose. Sort of metaly. Metal like. Might have been metal, I don’t know. And on one end it looked rather like one of those drivescrew thingies.”
Underby rubbed his forehead, trying to decypher the Count’s nonsense. A a few moments, his face relaxed. “A crow bar.” he grunted.
“Crow bar. That was it.” the Count smiled, then twirled his mustache looking at Underby. “Say, Ozzie, you’ve certainly learned how to roll in the muck with these engineer types, eh old chum?”
“So. He asked you for a crow bar. And?”
“Ah, yes, well, he fairly wanted me to perform manual labor like some sort of common fool.”
“You are a common fool, Rex.”
“I am not!” the Count sputtered. “I am a count!”
Underby smirked. “Did you really think I believed that? Me, of all people?”
The Count blinked. “But, it’s true. I married Countess Rosalyn of Latveria.”
“Oh,” said Underby. “Oh… well. And what happened to her?”
“She died.”
“Of course she did. And how?”
“Illness. You know.”
“I do. Now, Tenk asked you to assist in prying his foot… where was it exactly?”
The Count looked around. “Just here, I suppose. Where the stone meets the track here, though I admit here in the daylight and without the snow it looks rather tight.”
“Precisely. But you said you saved his life. How.”
“Well, one of those insane trams started lumbering down on us. Those things are a nuisance. Automated things cannot be reasoned with, I’ll have you know. I thrusted with all my might, and lo- he popped out at the last moment! We were both nearly dismembered by that contraption.”
Underby rubbed his chin. “You do indeed seem to have saved the little man’s life.” he said. The tip of his cane caught on something. Something soft. He crouched down to inspect it closer. A piece of frayed cord stood up from the cobblestones between the tracks. A bootlace? The placement was impossible unless someone had deliberately shoved it between the stones with a knife. How could this be unless a boot had actually gone down into the stones. Underby took off his glove and ran his fingertips over the stones, finding no flaw in the mortar. Curious.
Underby stood and smiled. “Come, my dear old friend. We must plan carefully.”
The Count stuffed the rest of the egg into his mouth, then nodded.
*melts some butter for her popcorn*