I am standing out in front of St. Pierre's, staring intently at a poster from probably a couple years ago, of a movie I've never seen. The Eternal Worm, it says. I'm standing here, looking at what appears to be a rotoscoped image of some type of centipede, with a screaming androgynous human face for a, well, face. For some reason, I'm really fucking freaked out at this poster and I avert my gaze, but that worm is still looking, cripes- And desperately I swallow a small circular tablet, Valium, pale blue, ten milligrams, dry, and then I down a second one. I stop tweaking long enough to stare at the small heart holed into the Valium tablet, and below it the sidewalk streaked with rainwater and sewage, and the yellow hue of shitty lightbulbs from above.
There is honestly no real reason to be here, but even if I wasn't, there's no reason to be panicking. This is all extended employment, I assure myself.
I'm wearing my poor excuse for business casual. I'm relieved, though, when I stroll into the corridor of St. Pierre's, and it's readily apparent I am far from underdressed.
I swallow hard, because the Valium isn't working, and it's pretty hard to get your hands on Valium in this day and age, and for a moment I panic that I've been had, it's all a big joke; I might as well be gargling sugar pills and snorting Sweet'n'Low.
What can you do about it, though? I try to flash a grin to myself in the reflection of the window. Outside, a wino is hanging about, literally crying, fucking crying, and all I mouth to him is "get a fucking job you slob" and then I do nail the smile, which reassures me.
Right, the job.
"I'm here in the dinner party for Sally Acorn," I tell the maitre d'. The maitre d' is this goat, and when he moves, he makes these really jerky movements, like a retired prizefighter with brain damage. The Valium is picking and choosing where it wants to work, meaning this goat, he's alternatively moving in slow motion and then jerking about in real time, which scares me enough to make a mental note to switch to Xanax.
This goat leads me to the back of this glorified greasy spoon; Alternatively this is more or less the best (read: only) dining establishment in knothole. The walls are either gray or wooden and the bar is filled with a haze wherein you can't see two feet in front of you. The faux-leather on the chairs are peeling. It's such a shitty place. Normal circumstances and I wouldn't even think of going here.
At this booth in the back is Sally Acorn, Miles Prower, this coyote named Antoine and Sonic, whose full name is a mystery, which really bugs me because there's no reason I shouldn't know these names.
Acorn is talking with Antoine. Antoine appears to be in his thirties, foreign, and wears old clothing from what appears to be some old regiment. Army surplus fashion. Sally Acorn is wearing nothing except boots and a denim vest. Prower is only wearing boots and gloves.
"Oh, god, An-toine," Sally is saying. There is a very fine Chardonnay in her hand that she is not drinking.
Wine is possibly the only food product that gets more valuable past the expiration date.
"You mean to tell me that George Pet-it's The Philosophical Significance of Shooting My Sister in the Face wasn't a perfect essay representing avant-garde in the new millennium? God, Antoine, you are a riot."
"What do you two know about the New Weird Second Wave of writing?" Miles chimes in.
"Are we headed to Scalia's tonight?" Sonic interrupts. "Because if not I have like ten grams going to waste."
"We only have Scalia's and... What was it, Kezia- we only have those two to choose from, really. Cool off, Maurice."
"God, Sally, I know, I'm just really fucking tense over this business with Robotnik." Sonic leans over his nondescript chop suey and beer and holds his head in his gloved hands. "If we screw up, Knothole is beyond fucked."
Sally's face darkens. "I'm very aware of that. That's the reason I've been looking through my network- don't look at me like that, Antoine, I do have one- and reaching out to the appropriate people. I was directed to a mobian named-"
"Nack," I interject.
The patrons of the booth look up. They appear to be less than thrilled at my appearance, but what can you do?
What can you do, I mean.
"You hired the fucking-" Sonic hisses. Antoine, he says something in French, and Miles just downs another root beer, because he's underage. "You hired this guy? Are you trying to make me go insane, Sal?"
"No, I expect you to increase your dosage of lithium," Sally retorts. Watching this situation unfold, even if it involves me is still pretty engrossing, and my head is swinging back and forth between the participants like one might watch in a tennis contest.
I am enamored, yet this may just be the drugs talking.
"My client is arguably the best with a submachine gun in all of Knothole. I assure you, the toppling of Ivo's regime is a very important subject to Nack." The squirrel- or chipmunk? Or some other rodent, she twirls a lock of her red hair between thumb and forefinger.
"It's fucking Nack," Sonic insists.
"That's my name, guy."
"Shut up," Sonic snaps. "I still remember the shit you pulled." Then, appealing, he turns back to Acorn. "You remember what he did?"
"Yes, I remember what he did."
"You remember what I did?" I query, innocently.
"Shut up," Sonic says again, but this time it's less of an order and more of a whine.
"I remember exactly what you did, Nack," Sally continues, using a straw to endlessly stir the untouched drink. "Of course, trying to take hostage a royal rarely ever ends well. You are less than respectable."
"A... Scumbag, maybe?"
"I wouldn't go that far. However, the facts remain in plain sight- you are as good a gun anywhere in the world. Having an addition like that to our immediate command team only strengthens our position against Ivo Robotnik. Robotnik needs to be stopped. He has to-"
"Guilty of war crimes, forced roboticization, so on, so on, so on."
"Yes, Nack, exactly that." Sally waves away the goat, who must have seen Sonic wildly gesturing in my direction.
"And you're expecting me to..."
"Continue being yourself. You dislike Robotnik as much as anyone. You are also a vicious, conniving weasel. A whore spreading his legs- in this case, services, to the highest bidder." She sees me roll my eyes, and shrugs. "None of us are forcing you to do this, but I assure you, your reward for contributing to our cause will be grand."
And I ask, how do you know I won't betray you at the first chance? I still kind of dislike you guys.
Sally laughs. "Nack," she whispers. "You would have done that by now. You are not the smartest in the room."
"So what do you want me to do, exactly?" Then: "Wait, first, what exactly are you offering me? I don't do currency; it fluctuates too much."
"Nack,"
"I don't do like, gold and silver or any of that shit."
"Nack,"
"And I don't do it for drugs, either. I'm not an addict."
Sally grins again.
"Oh, Nack."
That last voice, it wasn't Sally.
Sonic is cheering.
I feel something soft and cottonesque pressed against my face. Instinctively, I struggle and cough, but mother fucker, whoever's behind me has driven their knee into my back, right above the tailbone, and the towel, it's applied like a vice grip, while a gloved hand grabs me by the belt.
Dietyl ether oxapentane. Whoever's got this on, they've done their homework, but there's no reason that I can't hold my brea- Sonic just got up from his seat and sucker punched me in the gut.
Instinctively, I gasp, which is a bad move. It's not long before it feels like my body has been filled with sand. Damn. Damn damn damn.
My legs buckle, and whoever's holding me lets me fall backward. My eyes are wide open, but the veil of sleep is closing on me, fast.
I look above at my assailant.
Nic is staring down at me, towel in hand.
"Oh, Nack."
The darkness swells over me before I ca