Oh, I’m Going to Get Killed Any Minute Now (Part 14)
As ever, readers who are new to the diary, please scroll down a bit to where you see the Thppgrg tag. Click on it. Yeah, that’s right. Otherwise, if you missed part thirteen, you can just click here. (Art by Chris McFann.)
Can’t write. Hung over.
Also, extremely poor yet again—Mr. Bliss is just frighteningly good at poker.
Supernaturally so, perhaps; I have certain suspicions about his repeated claims that he “never uses” his at-will time-stopping power while playing cards, and that he is “shocked” that I would “even consider such a thing” and that he “can’t imagine how being able to stop time at will—and having mind-control, teleportation, and quickened wish 9/day—could EVER be used except for the noblest of purposes”
. . .
Like I said, suspicious. Although Jimbo seems convinced. I feel that this may place something of a damper on our burgeoning friend-hood and/or evil-mentor/evil-student relationship; must reconsider how much I can truly trust a creature older than (at least) two previous universes.
Also: stabbed. Repeatedly. Badly.
Shaendralya popped by Sigvald’s ex-room last evening, well after strategically important poker night had wrapped up. I was rudely awoken; she was just rude. And well-armed.
We were both kinda drunk; me on (sadly ineffective) nephew-hatred-reducing-intentioned rat-based beer, her on strawberry/peach/mango-flavored-ale martinis and a few shots of something with licorice, taurine (or maybe turpentine?), and possibly horse-steroids in it. There were tears, and accusations, a few unflattering observations, several shouts, some recriminations, kicking, several swiftly invented facts from yours truly, and then she opened up the closet and discovered—much to MY surprise, as well as hers—that there was an immaculately groomed, bow-tie-wearing flesh-golem con man with a ten-thousand-watt smile hiding in there.
More on that later. Still quite hung over.
But long story short, I wound up getting stabbed. A couple times.
So that sucked.
Going back to bed.
Anyway. On the topic of that flesh-golem con man in my new closet: there’s apparently a flesh-golem con man—hiding out out from an angry mob or two—in my new closet, which used to be Sigvald’s closet, and which now houses a hot-plate, a poster of “The Music Man” signed by Robert Preston, and a small rack for storing bow-ties and spare brains when they’re not being kept in the flesh-golem con man’s fancy leather traveling satchel.
This guy’s name is, allegedly, General Vladimir Genonoviovi VonO’Shaughnessy VanO’Toole de los Elsqiggiemonondes the Third, no relation (although I tend to think it sounds a little made up), and he’s quite the fast-talking, street-hustling, snake-oil-selling man-of-the-world, man-about-town, man, oh man, just a jet-setting international, intercontinental, inter-TRANS-dimensional huckster, itinerant musician and infrequent gambler-golem, with emphasis on . . . (double-snap) . . . the “razzle-dazzle, you jive?”
His introduction, not mine.
He talks like a carnival barker doing an ironic impersonation of a county-fair auctioneer, he has a really great haircut that really suggests you can REALLY trust him on a deal, and he can do some truly amazing card tricks, including waterfalls and palming and stuff and this one trick where he steals your wallet. He and I get along famously.
Especially since he’s kind of at my mercy at this exact moment, which we both noticed almost immediately.
It seems that Mr. “VanO’Shaughnessy Blah-blah-blah #3” will be staying in my closet for the foreseeable future; his opening suggestion was that my job from this point forward would be to not mention to anyone that he and his brains, bow-ties and confidence scams are stowing away in the dungeon, and in exchange he would cut me in as a silent, nonvoting, 0.001%-profit-sharing “pyramid” partner on a mail-order “instant box-of-ninjas; just add ninjitsu” scam; if all goes well with that, he then offered to make me a partner in his “mad-science/construct-a-monster/mad-rampage” long-con.
I’m not really sure on the specifics, because he lost me once or twice while describing it, but apparently the idea is that he approaches —in disguise—the hunchbacked lab assistant of a depressed mad scientist, stymied in his efforts to build a monster, while aforementioned “Igor” is out looking for corpse parts or drinking at a bar or what have you, and then, after gaining the assistant’s trust, he . . . he switches places with . . . one of them? The other one? The monster, maybe? Or sells them something? Or gets them to . . . sell something else? To him? And there’s a riot?
Not really sure. It was a lot to take in all at once. Anyway, there’s allegedly profit in it. Up until the mad-scientist-led pitchfork-an-torch-wielding mob comes after you, anyway.
Upon some consideration, and with the realization that I trust this guy about as far as I can throw him—which is not very far, considering that he’s two size categories larger than I am—I gave him a counter-offer: in exchange for me not immediately informing anyone at the Exceptionally Evil Corporation of his presence—including any of the senior partners, one of whom he has DOUBTLESSLY swindled in the past, (which was something of a gamble on my part, but it turned out for the best, especially when he turned a really particularly nervous pale green)—his job is now to help me on any project that happens to cross my mind, including (but not limited to) the execution and advancement of prank wars, corporate espionage, and dwarf-lady-dating.
He seemed impressed by my moxie. He said as much, anyway. And then I slammed the closet door in his face. That part was nice.
Good for the soul.
Or “evil” for the soul.