No Rest 4 Wicked Botniks Chapter 22
Bobby Malone #11: The Magic of Modern Technology
CHAPTER 22
Bobby Malone #11:
The Magic of Modern Technology
“Oh, now I recognize you,” said Bobby. “Thanks for stepping into the light, boys. I see what’s going on.”
Bish shot Abner a hilariously confused glance, like that cartoon bulldog from Rover Red that used to always ask the sheriff “Ruby Who?” Abner brushed an invisible chip off of his left shoulder, clearly an unspoken cant between the two of them: Forghedaboudit.
Abner edged closer to Bobby and squatted so he could lean in to see Bobby’s face from a mere six inches away. “The Boss wants a word with you,” Abner squeaked out. Then he cackled.
Fresh sweat formed on Bobby’s already dehydrated face. “Is he here?”
Abner slapped his knees and turned to cackle again, now at Bish, who also rumbled laughter deep in his belly and throat, but none of it made it to his stern weepy eyes.
“Is he here?” Abner repeated, mocking Bobby. He turned back to face the plastered detective. “No, Mr. Dick. He’s not here. He’s above the likes of yooze. The Professor does not show up in person for dummies and rummies like little ol’ Bobby Bourbon.”
Abner jabbed a finger near Bobby’s right eye, but he missed, or else his aim was more exact than Bobby anticipated. It hit him below his temple, near his own stubby, bulbous nose. And Abner leaned closer.
Bobby exhaled as much rancid breath as he possibly could. Abner shot backwards, making fly-swatting motions.
“Jesus, Bobby! What did you eat?”
Bobby laughed. “Honestly, I can’t remember. But whatever it was, it must have been damn delicious.” Enchiladas, most likely.
Bish grabbed Bobby by the shoulder. Bobby glanced up at the brute. No funny business, then.
Abner composed himself, brushing the wrinkles out of his wife-beater. He snapped his red suspenders back in place. However, his dark Italian slacks looked more rumpled than ever. He kicked the ends of his over-large fake gator boots onto the concrete, stubbing toes into place. He was ready for a fight again, but now he kept his distance.
“No, asshole,” Abner remarked. “He’s not here. The Professor will appear to you shortly, through the maaagic of Modern Technology. I know yooze not a big fan, bein’ such an old stupid fogey and all. Hell, the Boss is ancient compared to yooze, and even he knows how and when to use a holo.”
With that, he took out a small device no bigger than a baseball—or rather, the bottom half a baseball. Bobby had seen a few holo-projectors, but few were this exact shape and size. This one was an inky blue-black, with “Texas Instruments” stenciled finely on the bottom, and the big A for Akita over it, and finally the almost Spicy-Cola-looking Yin Yang symbol biggest of all to represent what the device actually was: a brand-new Moon-Arc. He’d heard about them, but he’d never seen one up close.
Abner pushed an almost imperceptible button on the other side of the Moon-Arc, and several things happened at once. Abner was right. To Bobby, it all looked like some mystical voodoo bullshit, but he understood a tiny bit of the actual science. There were lights and lasers and electron-stuff and mirrors involved, and probably some obscure chemistry as well. Reflection, refraction, comms, and blahblahblah. But here is how he actually saw it:
Fireworks. First Black Kats, then a tiny sprinkler, then a Roman candle, then a whole fountain of beautiful green and purplish color, traced with silver and gold. The fountain resolved itself into a perfectly symmetrical dome of visual wonders and resplendent surreal color. The dome was only as big as the physical half of the Moon-Arc beneath.
The vivid colors resolved themselves into something resembling reality, and finally, after three strange seconds, he could see the man himself, Mr. Harry Bernard Hoyle, behind the gnarled and giant old oak desk from which he used to teach Latin all those years ago.
And dammit it all if the old man wasn’t smoking.
Harry. Hoyle. Smoking. Bigby cigarettes!
Bobby had known the Professor for eight years, ever since he ran from Texas and came to Envy. And in all that time, he had never seen Harry smoke a single cig. He had given up the habit ages ago, the boss had said. The Professor only had a puff on his old-fashioned pipe before and after dinner.
Yet there Harry was, in his bizarre and debonair manner, chimney-sucking away at half a pack of Bobby’s favorite brand.
This could not be good news.
END OF CHAPTER 22
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