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On top of the loss of Minor, the revelations of the kidnapping of the D.A. in the same way Major managed his abductions had not added joy to Major's life. Far from it. He had told du Clark in no uncertain terms that Baracus was clean. To have him disappear this way would cause some questions in the head office of Max Rager … and Vaughn du Clark did not like things that caused questions.
Major waited for the summons, which didn't take long to arrive.
Rita was there with du Clark when Major showed up in the office, along with another man Major didn't recognize.
"Major! Come on in."
"I was summoned?" Major no longer had the energy to pretend any kind of enthusiasm for this job or these people. The sooner they were out of his life, the better—not that he saw any way to accomplish that particular feat.
du Clark wasn't paying attention to him, though. He was looking at the giant screen in his office, scrolling through what appeared to be his Twitter mentions. "'Max Rager tastes like the ass of a turtle swimming in a dirty river,'" he read.
Major had to give the Tweeter props for originality, if nothing else.
Rita rolled her eyes. "I don't know why he does this to himself."
"Thank you, Sambulo21 from Swaziland. I just love this guy's comprehensive knowledge of how turtle ass tastes." He looked at Major finally. "Thanks for dropping by, Major. You know our security consultant, Janko?"
That would explain the rigid bearing and the total lack of any kind of facial expression. "Haven't had the pleasure."
"Six years in Iraq."
Major nodded, turning to Janko. "Thanks for your service." Still no response. Not a twitch of the jaw or a change in the steady hostile stare.
"Private military contractor," du Clark clarified.
"Ah." Of course. Mercenary for hire. Major shouldn't have expected any other kind of person to be working for Max Rager.
"He's in charge of ass-kicking, name-taking, really doesn't like when I brag about him, but he's such a good egg."
Now Janko's face did change, ever so slightly, expressing his distaste at being called a 'good egg', especially in the faux baby talk du Clark was using. At least that was something he and Major had in common.
du Clark was no longer paying attention, his eyes back on the screen full of tweets. "Unlike these haters here," he muttered.
"Max Rager has over three million Twitter followers," Rita protested. "Why obsess over the trolls?"
"No troll left behind, my dear. Nobody should slip through the cracks." His eyes were on Major now. Well, here it came. "Isn't that right, Major?"
"Yeah, I guess."
du Clark turned fully toward Major now, leaning across his desk, his attention fully on this one topic. "So why is it a man you told me is not a zombie gets taken out by the Chaos Killer?" Rita walked around the desk and handed Major a paper with the kidnapping story front and center, right above the fold. "Now we are …"
As du Clark searched for a suitable word, Janko offered one. "Concerned."
"Okay. I mean, you're really underselling it, but … whatevs." du Clark glanced at Janko and then focused on Major again. "So the question is, what the hell is going on here, Major?"
Major studied the paper. "I'm as confused as anyone. I mean, it looks like someone else wanted Baracus gone and stole my M.O. to do it. I checked Baracus; he wasn't a zombie."
"Interesting," Rita said, giving Major a hard stare. "Because his credit report tells us otherwise."
To Major's surprise, Janko spoke up. "Seven hundred dollars at Spice Mountain. Ghost pepper hot sauce, weekly spray tans, and salon dye jobs. Suspicious, don't you think?"
Major shook his head, not quite sure how to get out of this one.
"Sounds pretty undead to me." du Clark got up from his desk chair and came toward Major.
"Or just as likely, metrosexual foodie," Major protested.
"I'm gonna be so upset if you're not telling me the truth. And I don't get mad, Major."
"You get even?"
"Oh, god, no. No, where's the fun there? No, I get even, with interest. I embrace the Chicago way. Someone pulls a knife, I pull a gun." He shifted to some kind of Sean Connery accent. "Someone sends one of mine to the hospital, I send—"
God, this man was batshit crazy, and with all sorts of money and power. Really just a terrible combination.
Major broke into the monologue. "I got it."
"You got it, Major, do you? Don't just say the words. Reflect—on their meanings." du Clark looked back at the screen full of tweets. "These internet trolls, for instance. Who say the most hurtful things about this company which I built from the ground up."
"So someone sends a mean tweet. You—"
"I know, yeah. But there's definitely gonna be some escalation." He looked at Rita and Janko, as if for approval. "Hey, why don't we send them some really embarrassing magazine subscriptions, huh? Chub Hub. Or Bathhouse Monthly. Or, wait, what's that really freaky one you like, Slow Torture and Gardens?"
Janko sighed almost imperceptibly, as if du Clark was enough to try even his patience, and looked at Major, who was starting to feel like he was being set up for more than just a denial of Baracus's undead nature. He should have expected as much—nothing was ever straightforward with Vaughn du Clark.
So he wasn't surprised when du Clark turned to him and asked, "So which one should we go after first, Major? Huh? Which one of these rat bastards gets hit?"
There wasn't going to be any getting out of this one. He was going to have to choose. "Uh … Trickster107."
"Trickster107!" du Clark seemed delighted by the choice. "From Bangkok. Who tweeted to his fourteen followers that he thinks our product caused his father's heart attack." He turned to Major, smiling broadly. "Oh, game on, pal!"
Major felt sick. Whatever happened to this man now would be at least partially his fault. Whatever had happened to Baracus was at least partially his fault. At what point did what he was doing harm more people than it helped?
It was a relief to get out of that office and away from the lunatic who lived there … but only partially. Because no matter how far Major went, he could never entirely escape Vaughn du Clark.