The Chicago offices of the National Tattler are easy to miss. It is
a nondescript building in the city, without any large sign. The parent
company of the National Tattler learned this might be a wise move many
years ago, when one of their editors was killed by the Red Dragon. The
years had not been kind to the building. It had become steadily more worn
out, almost dilapidated. The paper inside, however, was doing quite well.
Its target market remained strong. The year 2025 boasted as many foolish,
uneducated people who would believe a paper's claim that a new miracle drug
will destroy cancer as previous years had.
Jason Smithfield, a reporter for the Tattler, strolled out of the office and towards the street where his car was parked. Smithfield had been a reporter for five years with the Tribune, until his habit of making up details he did not bother to check got him in trouble with that paper. He had spent the past three years writing about Bigfoot appearing in various states, vampires attacking trailer parks, and several lurid articles about the latest evil acts of Dr. Hannibal Lecter.
Smithfield did not know Hannibal Lecter and had been a child when he escaped custody in Memphis. He didn't have any particular grudge against the doctor. Nor was he a fan of the doctor, as so many on the Internet seemed to be. Lecter was simply a way of selling Tattlers to him. He had gleefully located Lecter in Missouri, L.A., Chicago, New York, and wherever a bizarre crime might be found. It was great, he thought – it wasn't like the guy was going to sue him.
As he walked to his car, he noticed a pretty young woman eying him. He checked out her body, as was his custom to do to any woman in his path who was under the age of forty. Instead of looking offended, she smiled at him and tilted her head.
Hey, now this might be fun. She was quite young, and had a sinfully good body. Since his divorce, he had been without female companionship on anything resembling a regular basis. He slowed his walk and allowed her to catch up with him.
"Hi," he said. "You lost?"
"Oh, no," Susana Alvarez Lecter said. "Do I look lost?"
"Not really," Smithfield grinned.
"I haven't seen you around before," he noted. "You new here?"
"I don't work for the Tattler," she assured him. "I was just looking for someone."
"Who?"
"Jason Smithfield," she purred.
Smithfield's grin grew wider. "That's me."
Susana had already known this. But to get the guy off the street, she looked at him with wide eyes. "Really?"
"Yup."
"I wanted to ask you a couple of questions, actually."
Smithfield gestured up the street. "No problem. How about asking them over a drink? There's a nice little bar up the way."
"Okay," Susana said naively. They started off towards the bar together.
"So what's your name?" he asked.
"Susie," Susana giggled. "I'm a journalism student at the U of Chicago."
"Oh, really?"
"Yep. And I wanted to ask you a few questions about Hannibal Lecter."
Smithfield's eyebrow raised. "Hannibal the Cannibal? What about him?"
"Well…I mean…you have ALL those articles about him. You must know a lot about him."
"Yeah, I'm an expert on Hannibal," Smithfield allowed with false modesty. "The Tattler's worked with the FBI, you know. I've worked with them to try to help them locate him and bring him to justice."
"Is he still in the U.S., do you think?"
"Definitely. Lecter loves cultured stuff, there's no way he'd go to another country."
Susana had to hold herself back from grinding her teeth. He was correct only on her father's love of culture, but there was plenty of that in Buenos Aires. This was something she had always disliked about Americans. They believed that any other country was some sort of stinking, cultureless pit. Her early life had been one of private schools, visiting art museums, and being educated by her father in the finest things in life.
"I heard he went to South America," she objected, still playing the dippy college girl to the hilt.
"South America? No way. It's too hot there, for one thing. Lecter hates the heat."
Susana thought briefly of the summers she had spent on private beaches, where her father had taught her to swim. No matter; this man's livelihood of spreading lies about her father would end soon.
At the bar, Smithfield continued to regale her with stories of the fierce murderer and tried to impress her with his intimate knowledge of Hannibal Lecter's mind. Susana touched the Harpy clipped to the waistband of her skirt. But no, here was not the place. Next thing to do was to get this foul, dumpy man to go somewhere private with her.
"Well, I'm probably keeping you from your work and stuff," she said with a perky smile. It made her cheeks ache and she was galled inside to play the dumb college kid, but it was necessary.
"Nah, I'm done for the day," he assured her.
It wasn't terribly hard to wangle an invitation to his apartment. The living quarters were as squalid as the man: cheap furniture, overflowing ashtrays. The only thing that even vaguely impressed Susana was the laptop parked on the desk. She would take that, when she was done.
Smithfield offered her a drink, which she accepted. It was a California red wine, inexpensive, and Susana took one sip and judged it inferior. She took a peek in his kitchen and decided it was the kitchen of a man who was neither very good at preparing food nor enjoyed it. A pity. Her father had always liked cooking.
Eventually, of course, the man tried to kiss her. She let him, pretending to enjoy it, even though had she been offered the choice between kissing Jason Smithfield and a large hog, she would have had to sit down and think about it. As the man's greasy fingers slid around her, trying to slip open the buttons of her blouse, her attentions wandered down to her skirt.
Susana liked to shop very much, a trait she had inherited from her father. A bit of her mother's practicality had slipped in there as well. The skirt she wore was one from Banana Republic. While her father would have sniffed at such a store and its goods, it had its advantages. Among them were pockets – good, deep, well-stitched pockets. They came in quite handy. She placed one arm around the oaf fumbling with her blouse and reached for her back pocket with the other.
Jason Smithfield didn't know quite what hit him. One moment, he was on his couch with the beautiful, bubbly coed. The next minute, her grip on him turned fierce and unbelievably strong. His hands were wrenched behind him and he heard a metallic click. Then, he was on his face on the living room floor. His nose was just above a cheap red plastic ashtray.
"What are you doing?" he panted. He felt his hands and discovered he was handcuffed. A slow grin slid over his face.
"Oh, you like it kinky," he said knowingly.
"You could say that," Susana agreed. She grabbed up a handful of paper napkins and wedged them in his mouth. Smithfield frowned, but went along with it. His expression changed when she pulled the Harpy from her waistband and snapped it out.
"You're a liar, Smithfield," she said.
Smithfield made a pleading noise as his eyes tracked the hawkbilled blade of the Harpy.
"Don't make noise, or I'll cut your tongue out," she threatened.
He fell silent as the dead.
"You, sir, are a liar. You tell lies about Hannibal Lecter. Not one single thing you said about him was right. But I'll tell you the truth."
He began to sweat and whimpered through his improvised gag.
"Hannibal Lecter was a better man than you. He lived in South America after fleeing the U.S. And he had a daughter along the way."
Shockingly, she twirled for him.
"Surprised? Don't be. I'm Susana Lecter. And I'm here to settle up my papa's accounts. Beginning with yours." She gestured at the apartment. "This apartment. Everything in it. All paid for by your lies about my papa."
She reached under him and began to haul him into the kitchen. Although he was quite overweight, Susana had inherited her father's wiry strength. In the kitchen, she tied him to the handle of his refrigerator.
"I don't know if you've done any real research into my papa," she said, "but I'll help you learn. We'll reenact one of his early murders."
She overturned a knife block on the kitchen counter. Five or six cheap knives came tumbling out of the block. Searching the drawers, she found a few more knives and a tool box in an upper cabinet.
"One of his early murders," she repeated. "Have you ever heard of 'Wound Man'? Papa was ever so proud of it."
Smithfield apparently did. His eyes went wide.
Despite his gag, he eventually did scream, and his screams were heard outside of the apartment. His neighbors, an older couple, simply looked at each other and wondered why their fat wretch of a neighbor was making all that noise.
"Probably ran out of Twinkies," the husband said.
The wife wasn't so sure. The sounds coming from the other side of the wall just seemed so wet.
Jason Smithfield, a reporter for the Tattler, strolled out of the office and towards the street where his car was parked. Smithfield had been a reporter for five years with the Tribune, until his habit of making up details he did not bother to check got him in trouble with that paper. He had spent the past three years writing about Bigfoot appearing in various states, vampires attacking trailer parks, and several lurid articles about the latest evil acts of Dr. Hannibal Lecter.
Smithfield did not know Hannibal Lecter and had been a child when he escaped custody in Memphis. He didn't have any particular grudge against the doctor. Nor was he a fan of the doctor, as so many on the Internet seemed to be. Lecter was simply a way of selling Tattlers to him. He had gleefully located Lecter in Missouri, L.A., Chicago, New York, and wherever a bizarre crime might be found. It was great, he thought – it wasn't like the guy was going to sue him.
As he walked to his car, he noticed a pretty young woman eying him. He checked out her body, as was his custom to do to any woman in his path who was under the age of forty. Instead of looking offended, she smiled at him and tilted her head.
Hey, now this might be fun. She was quite young, and had a sinfully good body. Since his divorce, he had been without female companionship on anything resembling a regular basis. He slowed his walk and allowed her to catch up with him.
"Hi," he said. "You lost?"
"Oh, no," Susana Alvarez Lecter said. "Do I look lost?"
"Not really," Smithfield grinned.
"I haven't seen you around before," he noted. "You new here?"
"I don't work for the Tattler," she assured him. "I was just looking for someone."
"Who?"
"Jason Smithfield," she purred.
Smithfield's grin grew wider. "That's me."
Susana had already known this. But to get the guy off the street, she looked at him with wide eyes. "Really?"
"Yup."
"I wanted to ask you a couple of questions, actually."
Smithfield gestured up the street. "No problem. How about asking them over a drink? There's a nice little bar up the way."
"Okay," Susana said naively. They started off towards the bar together.
"So what's your name?" he asked.
"Susie," Susana giggled. "I'm a journalism student at the U of Chicago."
"Oh, really?"
"Yep. And I wanted to ask you a few questions about Hannibal Lecter."
Smithfield's eyebrow raised. "Hannibal the Cannibal? What about him?"
"Well…I mean…you have ALL those articles about him. You must know a lot about him."
"Yeah, I'm an expert on Hannibal," Smithfield allowed with false modesty. "The Tattler's worked with the FBI, you know. I've worked with them to try to help them locate him and bring him to justice."
"Is he still in the U.S., do you think?"
"Definitely. Lecter loves cultured stuff, there's no way he'd go to another country."
Susana had to hold herself back from grinding her teeth. He was correct only on her father's love of culture, but there was plenty of that in Buenos Aires. This was something she had always disliked about Americans. They believed that any other country was some sort of stinking, cultureless pit. Her early life had been one of private schools, visiting art museums, and being educated by her father in the finest things in life.
"I heard he went to South America," she objected, still playing the dippy college girl to the hilt.
"South America? No way. It's too hot there, for one thing. Lecter hates the heat."
Susana thought briefly of the summers she had spent on private beaches, where her father had taught her to swim. No matter; this man's livelihood of spreading lies about her father would end soon.
At the bar, Smithfield continued to regale her with stories of the fierce murderer and tried to impress her with his intimate knowledge of Hannibal Lecter's mind. Susana touched the Harpy clipped to the waistband of her skirt. But no, here was not the place. Next thing to do was to get this foul, dumpy man to go somewhere private with her.
"Well, I'm probably keeping you from your work and stuff," she said with a perky smile. It made her cheeks ache and she was galled inside to play the dumb college kid, but it was necessary.
"Nah, I'm done for the day," he assured her.
It wasn't terribly hard to wangle an invitation to his apartment. The living quarters were as squalid as the man: cheap furniture, overflowing ashtrays. The only thing that even vaguely impressed Susana was the laptop parked on the desk. She would take that, when she was done.
Smithfield offered her a drink, which she accepted. It was a California red wine, inexpensive, and Susana took one sip and judged it inferior. She took a peek in his kitchen and decided it was the kitchen of a man who was neither very good at preparing food nor enjoyed it. A pity. Her father had always liked cooking.
Eventually, of course, the man tried to kiss her. She let him, pretending to enjoy it, even though had she been offered the choice between kissing Jason Smithfield and a large hog, she would have had to sit down and think about it. As the man's greasy fingers slid around her, trying to slip open the buttons of her blouse, her attentions wandered down to her skirt.
Susana liked to shop very much, a trait she had inherited from her father. A bit of her mother's practicality had slipped in there as well. The skirt she wore was one from Banana Republic. While her father would have sniffed at such a store and its goods, it had its advantages. Among them were pockets – good, deep, well-stitched pockets. They came in quite handy. She placed one arm around the oaf fumbling with her blouse and reached for her back pocket with the other.
Jason Smithfield didn't know quite what hit him. One moment, he was on his couch with the beautiful, bubbly coed. The next minute, her grip on him turned fierce and unbelievably strong. His hands were wrenched behind him and he heard a metallic click. Then, he was on his face on the living room floor. His nose was just above a cheap red plastic ashtray.
"What are you doing?" he panted. He felt his hands and discovered he was handcuffed. A slow grin slid over his face.
"Oh, you like it kinky," he said knowingly.
"You could say that," Susana agreed. She grabbed up a handful of paper napkins and wedged them in his mouth. Smithfield frowned, but went along with it. His expression changed when she pulled the Harpy from her waistband and snapped it out.
"You're a liar, Smithfield," she said.
Smithfield made a pleading noise as his eyes tracked the hawkbilled blade of the Harpy.
"Don't make noise, or I'll cut your tongue out," she threatened.
He fell silent as the dead.
"You, sir, are a liar. You tell lies about Hannibal Lecter. Not one single thing you said about him was right. But I'll tell you the truth."
He began to sweat and whimpered through his improvised gag.
"Hannibal Lecter was a better man than you. He lived in South America after fleeing the U.S. And he had a daughter along the way."
Shockingly, she twirled for him.
"Surprised? Don't be. I'm Susana Lecter. And I'm here to settle up my papa's accounts. Beginning with yours." She gestured at the apartment. "This apartment. Everything in it. All paid for by your lies about my papa."
She reached under him and began to haul him into the kitchen. Although he was quite overweight, Susana had inherited her father's wiry strength. In the kitchen, she tied him to the handle of his refrigerator.
"I don't know if you've done any real research into my papa," she said, "but I'll help you learn. We'll reenact one of his early murders."
She overturned a knife block on the kitchen counter. Five or six cheap knives came tumbling out of the block. Searching the drawers, she found a few more knives and a tool box in an upper cabinet.
"One of his early murders," she repeated. "Have you ever heard of 'Wound Man'? Papa was ever so proud of it."
Smithfield apparently did. His eyes went wide.
Despite his gag, he eventually did scream, and his screams were heard outside of the apartment. His neighbors, an older couple, simply looked at each other and wondered why their fat wretch of a neighbor was making all that noise.
"Probably ran out of Twinkies," the husband said.
The wife wasn't so sure. The sounds coming from the other side of the wall just seemed so wet.