totally fucking with the enemy if you’re not around to enjoy all the fuckin’ because the Dave stomped you to monster jelly, is it?’
Lord Guyuk seemed to weigh up the equation, and perhaps Compt’n ur Threshrend’s usefulness and life expectancy with it. But then he grunted.
‘No. It is not.’
The old prick surprised him once again. Scaroth would have roared some bullshit about his honour and his code and stupid gurikh or something. Probably would have charged back up top and got himself killed by Hooper all over again. But Guyuk was smarter than that. Even if it cost him his honour and his code and his stupid gurikh.
Or something.
None of them were concepts Compt’n ur Threshrend understood down in his meat and ichor. He wondered, and not for the first time, whether throwing in with the lord commander was the smartest thing he’d ever done, or the dumbest.
05
A fter killing the monsters, they had cheesesteak. And they talked. The cheesesteak guy, a large-bellied Turk, comped them the food and kept mugs of thick Turkish coffee coming while Dave and Karen fuelled up. It wasn’t a leisurely meal. They ate quickly, filling the tank.
The cheesesteak guy babbled at them in his native tongue, and a teenage boy, presumably a son or a nephew, translated his thanks for all the monster killing. The fast food joint was strangely empty, given the mad crush out on the street. But their privacy was guaranteed by a couple of huge bodybuilders, also related to the cheesesteak guy in some abstract way. They stood vigil at the door, holding back the crowd which had piled up out there. The kid wore a Cubs jersey and spoke without a trace of any foreign accent. He took selfies with both Karen and Dave, but he seemed most proud of the one with Karen. That one went to Reddit. Dave only rated Flickr. He tried not to feel a little put out about that. Tried and failed.
The cheesesteak joint was only half a block from Broadway and 42nd, and Dave promised the cop, Chadderton, they wouldn’t just disappear without letting him know. Mobs still thronged the streets outside. Some milled around, as if unwilling to leave the uncertain safety of the area where they knew, or had heard, that Super Dave was kicking ass. Some of them were pressed up against the window, watching him eat, and he worried about the glass shattering under their weight. Others surged past in huge pulses of foot traffic, some heading uptown, some headed down, all of them just wanting to get the hell away.
‘Excuse me, do you have tea?’ Karen asked the owner, a question translated by his young relative, who then answered without waiting for the reply.
‘Yes. You like your tea black, lady?’
Karen told him black tea with lots of sugarwould be fine as she picked the meat from another platter of cheesesteak rolls. The older man started babbling his own questions from the hot grill, perhaps worried that she did not like his food, but she spoke a few words to him in his own language, or so Dave assumed, and he calmed down.
‘You speak Turkish?’ he asked, although he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised with this chick.
‘He’s Armenian,’ Karen said, not really answering him. ‘The protein,’ she added, removing another greasy slab of meat from a soft, gravy-sodden roll. ‘Just eat the protein, Hooper. It has much higher energy density than the sugary carbs in the bread. And we’re on the clock here.’
Dave did love him a steak sandwich, and these were pretty damn good, especially for freebies, but he did as she suggested and started to dismantle the meal. He set the bread aside as they sat under faded posters of Turkish beaches, or maybe Armenian, while the street heaved with frightened crowds and throbbed with the flashing lights of first responders. Lucille was leaned up against the booth where they sat, humming somewhere deep inside his head, wanting to be gone, wanting to be about her business.
‘We have to go as soon as we’re ready. There
Lord Guyuk seemed to weigh up the equation, and perhaps Compt’n ur Threshrend’s usefulness and life expectancy with it. But then he grunted.
‘No. It is not.’
The old prick surprised him once again. Scaroth would have roared some bullshit about his honour and his code and stupid gurikh or something. Probably would have charged back up top and got himself killed by Hooper all over again. But Guyuk was smarter than that. Even if it cost him his honour and his code and his stupid gurikh.
Or something.
None of them were concepts Compt’n ur Threshrend understood down in his meat and ichor. He wondered, and not for the first time, whether throwing in with the lord commander was the smartest thing he’d ever done, or the dumbest.
05
A fter killing the monsters, they had cheesesteak. And they talked. The cheesesteak guy, a large-bellied Turk, comped them the food and kept mugs of thick Turkish coffee coming while Dave and Karen fuelled up. It wasn’t a leisurely meal. They ate quickly, filling the tank.
The cheesesteak guy babbled at them in his native tongue, and a teenage boy, presumably a son or a nephew, translated his thanks for all the monster killing. The fast food joint was strangely empty, given the mad crush out on the street. But their privacy was guaranteed by a couple of huge bodybuilders, also related to the cheesesteak guy in some abstract way. They stood vigil at the door, holding back the crowd which had piled up out there. The kid wore a Cubs jersey and spoke without a trace of any foreign accent. He took selfies with both Karen and Dave, but he seemed most proud of the one with Karen. That one went to Reddit. Dave only rated Flickr. He tried not to feel a little put out about that. Tried and failed.
The cheesesteak joint was only half a block from Broadway and 42nd, and Dave promised the cop, Chadderton, they wouldn’t just disappear without letting him know. Mobs still thronged the streets outside. Some milled around, as if unwilling to leave the uncertain safety of the area where they knew, or had heard, that Super Dave was kicking ass. Some of them were pressed up against the window, watching him eat, and he worried about the glass shattering under their weight. Others surged past in huge pulses of foot traffic, some heading uptown, some headed down, all of them just wanting to get the hell away.
‘Excuse me, do you have tea?’ Karen asked the owner, a question translated by his young relative, who then answered without waiting for the reply.
‘Yes. You like your tea black, lady?’
Karen told him black tea with lots of sugarwould be fine as she picked the meat from another platter of cheesesteak rolls. The older man started babbling his own questions from the hot grill, perhaps worried that she did not like his food, but she spoke a few words to him in his own language, or so Dave assumed, and he calmed down.
‘You speak Turkish?’ he asked, although he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised with this chick.
‘He’s Armenian,’ Karen said, not really answering him. ‘The protein,’ she added, removing another greasy slab of meat from a soft, gravy-sodden roll. ‘Just eat the protein, Hooper. It has much higher energy density than the sugary carbs in the bread. And we’re on the clock here.’
Dave did love him a steak sandwich, and these were pretty damn good, especially for freebies, but he did as she suggested and started to dismantle the meal. He set the bread aside as they sat under faded posters of Turkish beaches, or maybe Armenian, while the street heaved with frightened crowds and throbbed with the flashing lights of first responders. Lucille was leaned up against the booth where they sat, humming somewhere deep inside his head, wanting to be gone, wanting to be about her business.
‘We have to go as soon as we’re ready. There
Similar Books
