Hard Luck Hank: Prince of Suck (4 page)

“And they lost,” Mylan interrupted.

“Yes.”

“And in the dark corporate years of
Belvaille you did battle with
tanks
.” He went on to detail what a tank
was since most people had no clue. “You fought those personally?”

“Smaller ones,” I said.

I knew there were stories about me.
Stories like this.

Just about anyone who knew the gospel
truth was dead or senile like I was. Those stories did me a world of help when
I was trying to work as a Kommilaire, though. I only had to show up and fights
would stop. So setting the record completely straight wasn’t in my best
interest or that of the Stair Boys.

If people thought I thrashed hundreds of
Therezians, an absolutely ridiculous idea considering just one Therezian beat
me into a coma, then those people were less likely to cause trouble when I attempted
to maintain a semblance of order in the city.

Mylan pounced over to his table like he
had been possessed by whatever furry animal he had skinned to make his clothes.

He picked up the gun.

“So let me ask you, were you scared when
Mr. Imdi-ho allegedly pointed this weapon at you?”

“Scared? How do you mean?”

“Hah, you don’t even know that concept!
You want me to explain it to you!”

“I know what being scared is,” I said.

“When was the last time you were
afraid?”

There was a pause as I thought on it.

“See? Our Supreme Kommilaire drives
around every day dealing with the city’s most dangerous inhabitants—which does
not include Mr. Imdi-ho, who has no prior record—yet he can’t tell us when he
was last frightened.”

I was frightened as hell when I was
about to die from my numerous heart attacks, but I didn’t want to say that.

“Let me ask you,” Mylan continued, “if I
shot you with this gun, would it hurt you?”

I was taken aback.

“Are you challenging me to a duel?”

“No! No! No!” Mylan stammered. “I just
want to know if this gun could harm you is all.”

He held it up again.

“No.”

“Then I vote that this charge be thrown out
on account that Mr. Imdi-ho is
incapable
of threatening our Supreme
Kommilaire.”

Excited talking from the audience.

The prosecutor, who may have been
sleeping this whole time, suddenly became alert.

“I object!” He shouted.

“On what grounds?” the judge asked.

“Bad…bad jurisprudence. Bad precedence.”
He searched through his notes for more words to throw.

“I fine the defendant fifty thumbs and
confiscation of Exhibit A,” the judge gaveled.

“What?” I shouted, but Judge Naeb had
already stood and exited.

These trials didn’t mean a lot, but I
couldn’t have people pointing guns at me all the time!

Everyone was debating the outcome after
the trial.

I stepped down from the witness box,
waiting for people to start waving guns in my face, but instead I was assaulted
by reporters.

“Hank, an intriguing ruling, what is
your take on it?” Rendrae asked.

Rendrae was an old-school citizen of
Belvaille. Fat and green described him perfectly.

He held a microphone that plugged
directly into the station’s loudspeakers. He was a partial owner of them along
with some other groups. They hosted news and entertainment programs throughout
the day and part of the night. They were a near-constant noise.

Some news organizations put out a
printed daily paper, but that was only for the wealthy. Thus their content was
limited to financial dealings and society reviews.

The lesser reporters hung behind Rendrae
waiting for their turns, like pigeons waiting for a hawk to get his fill and
leave.

I cleared my throat, which echoed on the
speakers as the microphone was thrust toward me. I didn’t like doing this, but
it was part of the job.

“I think it is dangerous—” I started.

“Do you believe the ruling reflected Mr.
Imdi-ho’s membership in the Olmarr Republic? That there might have been some
efforts to appease them? Or maybe they even bought the ruling?”

“Maybe,” I said dumbly. Though Rendrae
was clearly correct.

The Olmarr Republic was a powerful
faction on Belvaille. They were trying to establish an empire based on their
ancient civilization, which was a precursor to the Colmarian Confederation. Belvaille
was in the territory that had once been part of the Olmarr Republic—so they
say. It morphed untold millennia ago.

In my view, the Olmarr Republic was just
another power grab by people wanting a marketable rally point. No one’s great-great-great-great-grandparents
were alive during the Olmarr Republic, so it was nonsense that anyone should
care now.

But they had money and support. I could
easily see them throwing their weight into the outcome of this trial. It would
score them points with their members and show they were influential. And Judge
Naeb certainly wasn’t above bribes—if anything, bribes were above him.

“What is your next step, then?” Rendrae
asked. “Is it lawful for people to intimidate the Kommilaire?”

“No. I understand the judge’s ruling to
only apply to me. My Kommilaire have instructions that if anyone threatens
them, they are to immediately attack. That doesn’t change.”

“Did the judge overstep his bounds?”

“Um…”

Judge Naeb had likely been bought and
this whole outcome planned. But I still had to tiptoe around this. I couldn’t
say half of the city’s law and order was invalid, even if it was true.

“Let me rephrase that. Should judges be
elected by the people of Belvaille, just as you, our Supreme Kommilaire, are elected?”

I guess technically I was elected. But
no one ever ran against me. I wasn’t even sure when the elections were held or
how it was determined I won. By weight?

It’s not that I was all that special or
anything, but name value means a lot. I’ve met refugees from every part of the
former Colmarian Confederation, and even in those far-flung places they have
heard of Hank.
The
Hank.

History gets simplified over time,
especially with the collapse of society and technology. What were fifty pages
of complex details and reasons, becomes five pages, becomes one, and then becomes
a sentence.

“Hank of Belvaille brought about the
destruction of the corrupt Colmarian Confederation” is a common folk legend.

And how often do you get to elect a folk
legend to office?

Rendrae had been doing this reporter
business for a long time. Since before I had destroyed the galaxy—or whatever.
He had competition now, but he was better than they were. He knew what people
wanted.

“Garm picks judges from her stronghold
in the Gilded Tower,” Rendrae said, referring to City Hall. “She created the
majority of our laws by fiat. Do you think the upcoming election will change
that or will she still wield ultimate power?”

Rendrae had never much cared for Garm.
But Belvaille could, in a second, turn into anarchy. A handful of Stair Boys wouldn’t
stop this city if it wanted to pull itself apart.

And it really wanted to.

We had an election coming, the first
ever in Belvaille’s history. We were electing a Governor and City Council.

We had no clue what they would do.

It was hard to shake off our Colmarian Confederation
inefficiency. So we were going to elect a bunch of people and then decide what
we were electing them for later.

Rendrae was covering the election continuously,
which was why he was personally at this trial interviewing me. He didn’t care
about the case. He wanted some juicy sound bites on the election.

“Rendrae, I have to say that I am excited
about Belvaille’s future. To this day, we are still one of the most important cities
in existence. We have room for improvement, but I don’t believe in change just
for the sake of change. With the election to come, I feel Belvaille will have a
chance to exercise its freedoms at a degree never yet seen.”

I hoped that was a fuzzy enough speech
of non-talk to appease people. I could hear a general murmur from Courtroom
Three Street, and from its pitch, it sounded placated. You quickly learn the
tone of a mob.

“I want to thank you for your time,
Hank. As my listeners know, I have been covering news, and your place in it,
for centuries now. This is Rendrae, your Force for Facts, signing off.

The other reporters jostled and yelled
for quotes, but I was fed up and began my walk back to the train.

http://www.belvaille.com/hlh3/rendrae.gif

That night I headed out to escape the
crowds.

The Belvaille Athletic Gentleman’s Club
was the most exclusive club in the city.

Actually, I have no idea why I said
that. I’m not sure what the most exclusive club was. It was the oldest club,
though. Sort of.

It had formerly been two clubs: the
Belvaille Athletic Club, where all the crime bosses met; and the Belvaille
Gentleman’s Club, where all the thugs and goons met.

The Old Belvaille concepts of bosses and
thugs were a lot hazier nowadays so the Clubs had merged, taking the Athletic
Club as its base of operations. The Gentleman’s Club, which was now apartment
buildings, still smelled like rancid foot odor seventy-eight years later.

But the name. Every time I saw the name
of the club I got angry. It was so ridiculous.

Athletic Gentleman?

“Good to see you again, Mr. Hank,
Supreme Kommilaire!” Dample said obsequiously at the door.

Dample was the grandson of Krample, who
had been the coat check of the Belvaille Gentleman’s club for maybe two hundred
years. Krample had been so bitter and angry, his very blood must have been
lemon juice.

It was the kind of personality you
expected to be coat check in the social club of a bunch of murderers and
bandits.

Dample was simpering and kind. I didn’t
like him.

“Is there anything I can get ready for
you, sir?” he asked, bowing. Not sure why he bowed.

“Sandwiches,” I replied tersely.

The Athletic Gentleman’s club only
served bad sandwiches. Oh, and this kind of meat cake with meat frosting and
vegetable sculptures on it. But no one ate that. I think they had it just to
say they had more than one thing on the menu.

The club itself was a mixture of highbrow
and lowbrow. There were card games and sports games, but there were also
paintings and the odd fountain. Half the guys were unshaven, wearing shorts,
and the other half were in suits of the latest style.

I had a special booth at the club that
was made out of reinforced steel. As I was walking to it, a blond-haired man
hurried up to me.

“Hank?” he asked, as if there were a
thousand people on Belvaille who fit my description.

“Yes.”

“Excuse me for interrupting. My name is
Jorn-dole. I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time.”

The man was extremely good-looking. It
was hard to tell when a man was attractive. Women had the ability to give
honest appraisals of other women. But men were terrible at it. Not sure how
that ever came about. I thought MTB was a handsome guy with his square jaw and
rugged features, but I had been told, quite frequently by women, that he was in
fact not attractive. Even I could tell Jorn-dole was handsome, however.

“How did you get in here?” I asked him.
It was clear right away that he did not belong in the club for a lot of reasons.
He was too pretty. He didn’t know who I was and I had been in this club for
several hundred years. And he had an unusual manner that was simply not
Belvaille.

“What?” He was taken aback. “I just
bought a membership.”

“Who sponsored you?” I asked.

“Fifty thousand thumbs,” he said.

I sulked. He had bought his way in. I
guess the club wasn’t as exclusive as I thought. Athletic Gentlemen indeed.

I reached my table and sat down with a
crash. I think the whole club was slightly tilted from me always sitting in the
same spot.

Jorn-dole was still at my heels like a
puppy, with a face and eagerness that matched.

“Do you think Belvaille is dangerous?”
he asked.

Who was this guy? If I was faster, and a
bit meaner, I would punch him in the nose for asking such a candy-ass question.
The people in this club
made
the station dangerous!

“I mean, is it true that Belvaille used
to be much safer?” he continued.

“Eh, sure. Yeah, it was. But it had
maybe a tenth the population and hadn’t gone through a war. That Belvaille is
gone. That galaxy is gone,” I said.