The big fella helped me into a sitting position and put something in my hand. It turned out to be a glass. I sipped from it, it was water. What kind of water I can’t tell you, but I had my doubts as to whether it came out of the tap; either way I was still grateful to have it, so I drank. The witch smiled at me, which was very creepy since I could barely see her eyes through her hair. She must have noticed the uneasiness, as she brushed her hair back from her face. She was pretty. Not gorgeous, or drop dead beautiful, but pretty enough. That was probably her real face. Most of these types that wear masks usually go all the way with them. So gorgeous you have to change your clothes after they walk by. She seemed to also be able to tell that I thought she was attractive because I could see a little blush forming.
I have this tendency to lose my poker face after a night of heavy drinking or just after waking up after an explosion. Both of those occurrences are pretty similar now that I think about it. Either way you wake up groggy, fuzzy, in pain, and with fewer clothes on than when you started. I checked and my clothes were thankfully still mostly intact.
“I got you here as soon as I saw the spark go off. Still we were fairly lucky, you wouldn’t have been killed by the blast, but you would have been crushed by one of the cars it threw,” she said as I sipped some more water.
“Teleport?” I asked.
“Yes, it was the fastest way,” she said. Great, I thought, blown up and teleported. Good thing I was asleep for the ride. Not that being teleported was particularly unpleasant, but it just never feels right. Plus I always taste blue at the end of the trip, and blue is a hard taste to get out of your mouth.
“Okay, well, should we get to business then?” I say, putting the empty glass down on the nearest table. The big fella, who had moved outta sight, slipped back into view and refilled the glass with what looked like bourbon. I picked the glass back up again and sniffed. I smiled and took a sip. Bourbon alright, not bad either. I took another sip.
“Yes, like I said before I’d like you to kill the thing that killed my father,” she said, taking the seat across the coffee table from the couch I was sitting in.
“I see. We’ll he’s an orc, and he ain’t gonna be the easiest bastard to take down. He’s part of a pretty well known clan, and he ain’t enough of a small fry for me to just off and then walk away,” I say.
“I see,” she says. “Name your price.”
“10k plus expenses, and a favor,” I say.
“A favor?” she asks.
“Yes, a favor, to be determined and used by me later,” I say.
“What kind of favor?” she asks.
“To be determined by me later,” I say again.
She thinks about it a little bit. “Fine,” she says. I stand and shake her hand.
“The deal is made. As stated, I Bernie, will kill the murderer of Vince Stiles in exchange for $10,000, expenses encumbered in the undertaking, and one favor whose nature will be determined by me at a later date and time, from Miley Stiles,” I say.
“Agreed,” she says. A white orb bubbles out from our hands and surrounds us before popping silently. The orb signifies that the deal has been witnessed and will be enforced by The Grey. I don’t particularly trust those bastards, but it seems to be the only way people will do business in this city anymore. A regular handshake isn’t good enough. You have to have it sealed by The Grey, bunch of mumbo-jumbo crap if you ask me.
“Well, you had better get to work, Mr. Bernie,” she says, waving her wand and speaking something softly in an incantation.
“Yeah, I guess,” I say, right before she pops me out of existence.
