In which sauce is appreciated.
New Mexico. 1850.
Four men and a woman surrounded the antique mahogany table. Like many of the other artefacts in the building, it was of great value. In fact, the value of the various items in the house was precisely what was being discussed.
The building belonged to the late Zepheniah Mann. The obligatory hordes of hopefuls had left the grounds ten minutes ago, when they heard that only four people were included in the will.
The bespectacled attorney adjusted his glasses, and then continued from where he left off.
"To my dearest maidservant Elizabeth, I, Zepheniah Mann, leave the rest and residue of my estate…"
Leaning against a wall, a tired-looking woman clad in a violet dress nodded sadly, lowering her cigarette holder from her mouth.
"…To my faithful aide and tracker, Barnabus Hale of the savage Australias, I divest complete control of Mann Co. and-" He was interrupted by a sudden breaking of glass as a majestically golden-furred cougar leapt through the window and made a spirited attempt at biting the face of the brawny and well-moustachioed man leaning back in his chair. Barnabus Hale responded by most emphatically throttling the creature, and they collapsed in a melee of pummelling limbs and lashing claws.
"Skip me for now, would you!" cried Barnabus. "I like this cougar's pepper sauce!"
But then again, what could you expect from an Australian?
The attorney gazed at the next paragraph of the will. He swallowed nervously.
"…To my layabout, brain-defective sons, Redmond and Blutarch, I leave the greatest curse of all. Partnership." The attorney paused, then continued. "What land I have purchased in this new world is to be split evenly between you both. You have wasted your lives bickering over nothing, and so I leave you dimwits something of consequence over which to feud."
The two dimwits in question briefly stopped arguing at the other end of the table to stare open-mouthed at the attorney. Redmond was wearing one of his many red three-piece suits, and a similarly-coloured bowler hat was perched on his head. His ears and pointed nose gave his face the appearance of a rat, and his thin moustache did nothing to improve his features. His brother, Blutarch, looked exactly the same as Redmond, albeit his clothing was entirely blue.
The brothers shared a glance. Each of them knew what they had to do.
1890. New Mexico.
"Mister Conagher, I'm told you are a man of many ideas and few words. So I'll get to the point." The speaker took a deep breath. It crackled.
"Forty years ago, my…brother..." He seemed to be reluctant to acknowledge him as a relation. "Yes, my brother and I inherited a considerable parcel of land. Now, under ordinary circumstances, this would not be a problem. But it was far from ordinary. You see, Mister Conagher, this land package was to share." The speaker emitted a dry laugh that would sound more appropriate from a corpse. "Naturally, I am assembled a team of the world's deadliest mercenaries to take the land by force."
He gestured to a photograph on the wall. It showed nine men, dressed in outlandish garb. All of them were brandishing various weapons. Among them, Conagher saw giant of a man wielding sledgehammer, another brandishing a bloody bonesaw. Yet another shouldered a long rifle of some kind, and…
…was that a flamethrower?
The man sighed. "What I did not expect was that my idiot brother would think to do the same. What started out quite an ingenious ten-minute land-grab soon became an intractable stalemate. The solution? If I could not take my brother's land by force, I would simply outlast him for it."
Blutarch Mann leaned forward at his desk. Now Conagher had a clear view at the machinery connected to the various veins on his body. Life-support systems of every kind pumped medical-grade drugs into his bloodstream.
"Look at my hands, Mister Conagher." The man in question obliged, noticing the intravenous drip leading into the veins on the top. And there was something else, too…
"I have never worked a day in my life with them. They are the smooth hands of a baby," Blutarch continued. "I have mounted an epic campaign of leisure again the ravages of time."
He chuckled.
"I have been waiting for nature to do to my brother what my men could not. And yet, here we are at the end…" He took a breath. "And he…won't…DIE!"
While Blutarch was ranting, Radigan's eyes strayed to a large painting in an exquisite gilt frame. It depicted a thin man in his forties, wearing a nondescript grey suit and a stovepipe hat in a velvet chair. Behind him, however, were two people, probably in their twenties, if Radigan was any judge. One of them, presumably Blutarch, was a strapping man with a handsome moustache, a blindingly white smile, and a muscled torso. The other…
…Wasn't.
His face had a pale green pallor to it, as if the owner was permanently ill. His teeth were crooked, his hair was mostly gone, and his moustache was almost non-existent. Rat would be a good word to describe his features, actually. But the painting's portrayal of Redmond was nothing that he hadn't expected, given the Mann brother's past history.
Then a particular memory surfaced from Radigan's mind, and although his features didn't budge, he mentally smiled.
From the pictures he'd seen of Redmond's mansion, the other Mann brother also had a painting such as this. The only difference was that in that one, it was Redmond who was exorbitantly muscly, and Blutarch the decrepit toerag.
Bribery is a wonderful thing.
Blutarch's words brought him back into reality.
"I must outlive my brother!" shouted the old Mann, blobs of spittle flying from his lips. He pointed a finger at Radigan. "And you must build me a machine to do it." He smiled a thin-lipped smile. "God wants me dead, Mister Conagher, and we are going to defy him." Blutarch stared at Radigan, his ice-blue eyes burrowing deep into his mind.
"Make me a monster." Radigan sat impassive in his chair. There was silence but for the gentle ticking of a clock.
"All right."