Wurn cut the engine. The trawler glided up to the yacht. Its plastic bumpers thumped gently against the fiberglass hull. The Eyesore hissed at the sound, and pressed a sausage finger over his lips. He rolled his worried eyes then set to work. A hurried flick of the troll’s arms cast the bow rope and then the stern to an ugly pair of his brethren who looked down from the yacht’s high rail. They secured the ropes and lowered an aluminum ramp to the water. Wurn scrambled onto this before turning to steady his boat with splayed hands. Anxiety clutched the oversized features that hung inches over the darkness.
Felon was in no hurry. He studied the other Eyesores. Deformed like Wurn they went about their duties with strength and precision. He watched the interplay of hard muscle and bone and stored the information for future reference. They’d be dangerous in a fight. He glared at the aluminum platform. Its tight lattice of aluminum strips gave the impression of safety. Oily water churned inches below it. The assassin stepped out of the boat, foot touching the platform for a second, and then climbed the ladder. He slipped over the rail onto the deck. Wurn hurried after. The troll’s anxiety overwhelmed him at the last second and he fell on his face
The Eyesores laughed coarsely at Wurn’s antics and hauled the docking ramp free of the water. They grunted against the strain. Felon watched. For a second he thought he saw bone white fingers slide free of the aluminum lattice and sink back into the murk.
The other Eyesores were like Wurn in size, but had unique deformities. The creature with the bowline had a red beard growing from a baby’s face. Crooked teeth glistened through a constant lather of drool. Its body resembled a dwarf’s. The other creature had no lower jaw, which turned its mouth into a puckering hole from which a snake-like tongue wriggled. Its hands had two powerful fingers and thumbs on each, and its feet were pig’s hooves. Both of the Eyesores wore drab gray coveralls and were trussed with tool belts. They busied themselves securing Wurn’s boat while the troll struggled to regain what composure he possessed.
He looked up at Felon. “I will take you to Master Balg.” His eyes glinted in the light from the windows. Felon caught a shape reflected in the oversized pupils. He whipped around. 9 mm in hand. A tall thin man was standing there. The stranger froze-focused on the gun.
Felon glared. The man stood well over six feet. His body had a long, stretched quality that reeked of the supernatural. He was dressed in a loose white suit, and his hair tumbled between his black eyes in a spiraling white lock. Behind him the fiberglass upper deck loomed. There appeared to be no doors in the ship’s superstructure, and the light from the windows gave the entire ship a ghostly glow.
“Mind your station, Wurn!” the stranger snapped, and the troll hurried to aid his brethren. He offered the assassin a long thin hand. “I hope I did not startle you, Mr. Felon. It is always disconcerting to be surprised.” His voice was deep and throaty.
Felon slipped his gun away and stared at the welcoming hand until its long fingers dropped away quivering.
“Do forgive my rudeness, Mr. Felon. We do not get many visitors to the yacht from the mainland. As you are aware, we normally receive all guests at Master Balg’s offices in the City. My name is Passport, assistant to the Demon. Master Balg’s previous assistant Senji Shaiko met with a rather unfortunate demise when a dispute over petty cash caused our employer to lose his temper.”
Felon knew Shaiko. He was a medium-sized Asian man with pencil-thin mustache-a professional who wouldn’t waste time gloating.
The assassin looked past the thin man.
“A most unfortunate incident.” Passport’s eyes gleamed with growing embarrassment.
Felon studied Passport’s face. The Demon’s servant looked human enough, but something reptilian lurked behind the nacreous white skin.
Felon snarled and started searching for his cigarettes. He kept an eye on Passport.
The thin man’s head followed the arch of his eyebrow to his full height. “Master Balg has been taken away on business, but will return shortly. He has instructed me to see to your comfort until then. Would you follow me, please?” The gangly form spun effortlessly on his heel and led Felon along the deck toward the stern. “Master Balg has a number of yachts in his fleet, but counts this one his favorite. The Kennedy, he calls it, after a long dead family whose dealings with him led to their dooms. I believe he has always been an admirer of the cautionary tale.” Passport laughed.
Thirty feet from the docking ramp he stepped through an arch into a short hall that ran between two facing doors. “He enjoys the yacht’s comforts, which are numerous and you will find obvious, but most of all he desires the ship’s mobility. As you can imagine, with the number of competing family businesses at work within the Sunken City, one cannot be too careful. He retains his offices in the City of Light for business functions with the mortals, but has on this occasion allowed you access to The Kennedy to reward your proven loyalty.” Poised at the door to the right, Passport bowed to Felon.
“Master Balg has instructed me to inform you that he is most pleased with your work. Further, he apologizes for changing the mode of payment. The remainder of the ingots is here, with a bonus I might add. Master Balg has further employment opportunities that he would like to discuss with you in person.” He opened the door gesturing to the lighted hall beyond. “After you.”
Felon scowled and twitched his chin at the door.
Passport smiled, pointing at his own chest. “After me. As you wish.”
The assassin followed the angular form through the door and down a curving stairway. Music floated wraithlike from below. At the bottom of the stair Passport paused by a set of massive gilt doors. “My Master’s Games Room.” And he swung the doors wide. “Offered for your comfort.”
Felon was hit with a wave of hot air that reeked of cigarette smoke, body odor and brimstone. The music, haunting before, became discordant. It was lost, and commingled with mad laughter and screams, and a distant chorus of human voices moaning. The sounds pealed and swung between terror and glee.
The Games Room ran away from him some forty feet. The floor was covered in an enormous Persian carpet; its surface depicted Judgment Day. Against one wall, a fifteen-foot wide Jacuzzi steamed. In it, bodies writhed. Six people-men and women-thrashed and howled in water that rolled and steamed like it was boiling. Any of the bathers who could blindly thrash his way to the side was bullwhipped back under the surface by one of four deformed Eyesores that guarded the perimeter.
Opposite this were three steel crosses. A man in black leather cowl was crucified upon each, fastened in place with barbed wire. Felon watched as four naked women tore at their flesh with pincers, taunted them, and applied hot iron staves to blistered parts of their anatomy. The assassin felt Passport’s gaze upon him. He growled.
His guide led him across the room. Further along were six tables upon which an equal number of men and women were strapped. They screamed and wept as Eyesores performed sexual and violent tortures upon them. The trolls gleefully raped, and thumb-screwed their victims, flat eyes shining with liberating malice.
Felon followed Passport to a long bar that ran the width of the ship. A topless woman stood behind it. Both of her breasts were pierced with long shards of rusted iron and her midriff was run through with a pair of gardening shears. She was in obvious pain, and moving slowly about her tasks. When she reached Felon and Passport she asked matter-of-factly, “What will you have?”
“Club soda,” Felon said, tossing his dead cigarette into an ashtray. Passport gave her a dismissive nod. His face had burst into an excited smile upon entering the Games Room, and he now turned this smile upon Felon.
“Threats?” Felon asked over the moans, lighting a new cigarette.
Passport’s smile widened. “Threats? Mr. Felon, what could you mean?” He followed the assassin’s gaze to the scenes of torture. His eyes brightened, comprehending. “Our guests! Oh, I understand. Mr. Felon, you misinterpret the activities. Each and every one of these guests has paid to be here. They enjoy this kind of thing, and we provide a service. Those you see here are extremely important clients of Master Balg’s. They just desire the luxury of surviving their particular kind of entertainment.”
“Threats don’t work on me.” Felon puffed a cloud of smoke, snarling at the Games Room.
“Most certainly, it has never been the desire of Master Balg to give such an impression. You must remember that all points of view are not equal. To my Master this gaming room is nothing more. Pleasure. Pain. Pain. Pleasure. It is just the firing of nerve endings. Had I brought you to the Room of Concubines, I’m certain you would think we were attempting to bribe you with pleasure-if you’ll forgive me the jest.” Passport looked away from Felon’s scowl. “I assure you these people want to be here.”
The bartender returned with Felon’s drink. He sipped from the glass, but found the acrid background stench unpalatable. The assassin put the drink down.
“You would prefer something else?” Passport had produced a long thin cigarette of his own, and gestured toward Felon’s glass with it.
“Fucking cowards.” Felon felt the distant power of a killing rage growing in him.
“Cowards?” Passport echoed, genuinely amused.
The assassin grunted at the violations being visited upon the bound people in front of him.
Passport smiled, nodding his head rapidly. “I see. I see. And you would like to show them? You would like to educate them about-how shall I say- real pain.”
Felon sneered around the room, and then started toward the door. “I’ll wait on deck.”
Passport cleared his throat. Felon turned to him, but saw that the Demon’s servant no longer occupied the space by the bar. A voice behind him spun the assassin around.
“I’m sorry.” Passport stood there now. “I didn’t mean to startle you. But it would be best to stay below decks where it is more secure. We lost a pair of Eyesores to the Swimmers last night. I’m certain you’ll understand that Master Balg considers you too important a guest to risk topside.” He wrapped both arms about his thin midsection and grinned. A little mischief crossed his features and his eyes rolled. “If you’ll follow me to Master Balg’s office, please? He has just returned.”
Passport walked back toward the entrance. Felon ground his cigarette on the rug. A voice came from his right-begging. Terror was in the woman’s eyes. She was tied to a table. An Eyesore was working his deformed member in and out of her. Felon bared his teeth with disgust and followed Passport.