A Cold One: Epilogue

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Revelations

Mooney came back with a manic gleam in his eye. He pulled up the biggest table, he could get and laid down a single cauldron of stew in the center.


“Everyone sit down. Time to eat. Callo, stand guard.” Callo promptly took his scariest pose along with his big flintlock rifle.


“Eat.” Mooney himself took the first spoonful and closed eyes as if in meditation. Gregory swallowed a mouthful, found it too spicy for his liking and reacted by sticking his tongue out to dry.
Mauray had a big spoonful. So, did van Borren. Rankin refused. Callo forcefed him. At gunpoint.


“Yes, now that everyone has eaten it, say your last prayers. I added this.” He placed, on the table, a small bottle with a red label. “Mizo Chilli Powder. 100 times hotter than the Baltimore variety of spice. Guaranteed to melt your minds. Eat again.”


Rankin smirked at that and took two more spoonfuls. He seemed to like it. Gregory and van Borren forced a smile and ate more.


Mauray had broken into a sweat, “I don’t feel so good. I think I’ll pass.” Mooney grabbed his hand. “Oh, no. Mauray you must eat this.”, he said as he raised another spoon to Mauray’s mouth. Mauray struggled wildly as the spoon neared his mouth. “STOP. It is poisoned! I don’t want to die! We are all going to die!” screamed Mauray.


“And why do you say that? Tell me or Callo will personally feed you this.”


 “Because I poisoned the chilli powder. Now, take me to the medicamp. Soon.”


Mauray had given up. He was sitting slumped up in his chair. Callo put a hand on his shoulder. 
Mauray breathed, “I loved her. Always have. She is a bitch though. Duped me. Her and Acetone, still work together. She played me. Didn’t have to, if she had asked for the money I would have given it to her. Then, Acetone came and roughed me up. That bastard. I poisoned his sausage soup this morning. Nice large dosage. Mixed Ricin in her shot and also in her drink. Dead.”


“Relax, it is not poisoned. It is another bottle. One that I like to use with my soup. Mauray here has been poisoning Acetone’s food and Niel’s drink. With Ricin. It is made from castor seeds. Easy to do for a chef. I studied toxicology and biothaumaturgy for my major. I saw the symptoms and made my play.”


The snowstorm hadn’t subsided. The night was yet to come.

[it all began here Prologue]

A Cold One: End?

No one from the real, fictional or alternate universes is present in here. At least, not to my knowledge. If they are, Hello.

accusations

Sol Niel was a beautiful woman. A beautiful dead woman. She was lying in the middle of the bar. No one made any movement. All eyes stared at her.

Callo put his hand on her throat and declared her dead. He moved back to the bar and took a shot of Aztec whisky. Mooney moved near to her and crouched down. He could see the attraction she held for some men. He saw the puncture mark on her arm. She had been using. “So, Gregory. Why did you kill Miss Niel?”, asked Mooney even as he got up to look at the vultures. Rankin and van Borren calmly stared at the floor. Gregory bleated and then made a break for the door. Callo tackled him before he even got close.

“She has puncture marks on her right hand. I have seen her drink, she is right-handed. So, she didn’t shoot herself. Someone helped her. It would have been easy for you to do that.”
“Look, I didn’t kill her. She has been the best thing to happen to my business. Really. She bought everything- scud, acid, mex, ribs. Gold mine.” Callo let Gregory go, “He is a lowlife but also a pansy. Couldn’t do such a thing.”

“So, now we have two dead people. Two people with motive. Rankin, must have felt bad when Acetone beat the living hell outta you, everytime he came to collect for Ted Ted.” Before Rankin could say something, Mooney turned towards van Borren, “Slimy Ed. Acetone’s share is now yours. Nice packet to live on. Most importantly, your little fib will never come out in the open again. Though, why kill Niel? She saw you do it? Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Let us eat, first.” Mooney smiled. As if on cue, Mauray came out from the kitchen to announce that the food was done. “Come out here, Mauray. Come and have a drink with your boss.” Mooney said. Callo went along and poured two shots of Aztec. Mooney went into the kitchen.
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[it all began here Prologue]

A Cold One: Middle

No one from the real, fictional or alternate universes is present in here. At least, not to my knowledge. If they are, Hello.

LET THEM TALK

Callo looked around.

He went to the bar, placed his lamp there and said, in his low rumbling voice, “Mooney, you haven’t paid rent for 3 months. Show us some of those psychic powers I have heard about. This lamp runs out in 2 hours. Solve this by then.”

Mooney had no choice. Mooney was a conman. He may claim otherwise but Callo knew him like the fourth blister on his left hand.

Mooney realized this was an easy way to pay. Besides, he was clear of any guilt.

An investigation outpost of sorts was set up at the bar. Callo sat behind it with a flintlock. Nasty gun it was. Mooney sat before it.

The suspects were seated at the back. All in one line. The beautiful Sol Niel, cunning Colm Rankin, vulpine Edwing van Borren, clumsy Gregory, calm Mauray and the very dead Jo Acetone.

Mooney decided that now was a good time to think.

Sol Niel used to be married to Acetone. A long time back. She was a glorified drunk, an okay singer and a permanent damsel-in-distress. Acetone hadn’t given her a single penny. Now, with the fight scandal, he was getting a lot more money. She was getting none of it. She had motive.

Colm Rankin was as crooked as they come. He once sold a sleeping llama to a very disgruntled trader from Razagh. The llama wasn’t very happy. The Razaghian was. Rankin had a bad habit of betting more than he could win. He was routinely beaten up by Acetone. Rankin still owed East Baltimore boss, Ted Ted. He could use Acetone’s money. He had motive.

Edwig van Borren was a newcomer. He was here only because of Jo Acetone. He was going to get double the money now. In his business, that was the motherlode.  Pretty strong motive.

Gregory was a Llama. Llama don’t kill people. Not his style.

Mauray was a cook at the tavern. The only one in fact. He was a student too. Studying psychometry or something. Seemed like a good kid. He had enough money to live here.

He couldn’t suspect Callo. He couldn’t afford to. If Callo had killed Acetone, they were all going to end up dead.

This is what he thought. This is what he said.

“Mauray, make dinner.”

Mauray dutifully followed. Callo just grunted. Nobody spoke.

Then, Niel got up. “Oh boy, all this tension and excitement is getting to me. I really, need a drink.” Niel walked up to the bar. She stopped abruptly.

“Balt, can you get me some water. Please. I can’t see well.”

Mooney ignored her. He had no time for her tricks. Callo, however, realized. He lurched forward to hold her. He missed.

Sol Niel came crashing down to the floor. She hit the ground. Her cherry red lips were moist with a white froth. Her eyes had lost colour.

She had lost her life.

A Cold One: Prologue

No one from the real, fictional or alternate universes is present in here. At least, not to my knowledge. If they are, Hello.




Raven’s Left eye

The Raven’s Left Eye is a tavern, right in the middle of Baltimore. Baltimore is like all other cities in Wyrd. It is grimy, corrupt and decadent. A symbol of glory that will never return and such a long fall from grace that it was hobbled forever. It is flatulent at the core and coarse at the edges. 

The tavern is run by Inert Callo, a veteran of the Thousandth War. He is gruff but fair. He doesn’t care who carries out what business in his bar. He gets them their drink and food and stays out of their hair. No one messes with Callo. Even the most hardened punks stay away from him. He is bad luck.
A seovangelist once pushed Callo in anger. Three days later Callo put him in the hospital with a tube in his nose and a glass in his chest.

The tavern is not crowded tonight. A snowstorm hit the town. Very few people are inside. 

Baltimore ‘Balt’ Mooney sat near the jukebox. He had red tea-shades, neck and hands wrapped in green cloth and sported an agonizing look common on people with moral compasses. A frayed University of Glass coat hardly protected against the groping cold which is why he was holding on to a flask of Nordic. The jukebox had a spear’s shaft sticking through it. There was entertainment though.
Local sensation and raging alcoholic Sol Niel was sitting right next to him. For a woman with a voice, she was not very attractive. The fact that she was talking to Mooney for the past hour was not helping her case.

“Shut off those thoughts they do you no good”, she said, looking at Mooney. Mooney didn’t look at here. He did not want to talk to her. So, he went with, “You say I love you and I say you should.” She was glad at least someone remembered the lyrics to her one-hit wonder. He was glad she stopped talking.

At the back of the bar sat Colm Rankin, shuffler of organs and books. His was an eclectic clientele and this tavern was an ideal place to conduct business.

In another corner, lay Jo Acetone, local thug whose primary business concerns included picking fights, passing out in the street and occasionally, fighting for money. He had been disqualified from the game that night as he had implied that a promoter had unhealthy relation with pigs. That promoter Edwig van Borren, had punched Acetone and was banned too. He sat right opposite Acetone.

The crowd was rounded out by Gregory and Mauray sitting in the corner. Gregory was a llama. He dealt in drugs. He was popular in this part of town. Mauray was a cook in the tavern.

The storm had been raging for a while. Suddenly, there was a crack and the lights went out. There was a muffled thump and a crashing sound. Mooney got up. Callo had rigged up some emergency light source and was standing in the middle. Everything looked alright to Mooney. But it was not. There was a bleat from the dark corner in which Acetone was. It was Gregory.

“Acetone is dead. Man, he dead. Gone.” After this short speech, Gregory promptly threw up.

Mooney was scrabbling at the door. Pulling at it. It did not budge. Mooney turned, faced them all and said, with as much gravity as he could muster in his voice, 

“The day has been kept out. We are snowed in. We are trapped. Trapped in a room with a murderer.”

glossary:

Wyrd is an island in the Nordic Ocean. It might be on some version of Earth.

The Thousandth War as the name suggests was the 1000th war fought. As usual, nobody won.

Seovangelists are basically roaming heralders of the future. They can be hired to make you famous.

The University of Glass is a reputed university in Mirpur, Southern Wyrd. It teaches nothing of any practical use.

Llamas were a religious minority in Baltimore. They walked on 4 legs, roamed naked and talked like men.

Crab was the only drug of any concern on Wyrd.