previous meal and now Iâm famished.â
Coop and Morty got up and headed for the door. Mr. Babylon walked the other way.
âSure. Enjoy your dinner,â said Coop.
âEnjoy your thousand dollars,â said Mr. Babylon. âMaybe weâll play William Tell again sometime.â
âJust let me know in advance next time. And bring your wallet.â
Coop didnât bother waiting for a reply. Mr. Babylon was already cutting into his steak. He and Morty let themselves out.
When they were in the elevator, Morty let out a long breath and laughed nervously.
âHoly shit. The way you talked to him, I almost had a heart attack.â
Coop shrugged. âHe pulled a gun. It was upsetting. This whole place is giving me a rash. Letâs get out of here.â
Morty only had a couple of dollars on him when they got downstairs, so when the jester attendant brought the car around, Coop had to tip him with one of the hundreds. The attendant seemed genuinely confused when Coop asked for change.
EIGHT
IN A WIDE DARK ROOM, TWELVE ROBED FIGURES LIT only by red candles stood around an altar covered in eldritch carvings and ancient runes. A silver tray lay in the middle of the altar with five black triangular hosts arranged in the shape of an inverted pentagram. A robed priest at the head of the altar held up a host he plucked from a nearby bowl, which was also covered in a fearsome scrawl and glyphs of birds with what looked like pig heads. Plus, a kitten sticker someoneâs kid had put on it that theyâd never been able to completely scrape off.
âHear me, O Caleximus, thundering archfiend, master of the sky throne, creator and destroyer. Accept this offering of the flesh of your chosen beast. A gift to you from us, your unworthy followers.â
The priest was dressed in a robe so dark that it looked like his head and hands were floating in the blackness.
âGive us your ear, dire Caleximus. We have such tidings to share with you.â
He placed the host on his tongue and swallowed. Or tried to. At first he just coughed. Then he made a gagging sound like he was trying to gargle a porcupine. The priest collapsed to his knees before the altar. A low cry went up around the room. He was down onall fours. Everyone froze, wondering what heâd done wrong to piss off their cantankerous netherworld deity. Some people began edging toward the exit.
Finally, the priest coughed the host onto the floor. He got to his feet slowly and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked around at the other robed figures.
He said, âJerry? Were you in charge of putting together the offerings?â
The room was silent.
âJerry?â
âYes?â said someone quietly.
âWere you in charge of the offerings?â
âYes.â
The priest walked over to him and put a hand on his shoulder. âAre these the fried flesh of a black boar sacrificed with the eagle-headed blade on a mountaintop in a thunderstorm?â
Jerry shook his head.
âNot exactly.â
âNot exactly? What are they, then?â
âBlue corn chips.â
An angry murmur went around the room.
âCorn chips. Thatâs not really even in the same ballpark, is it?â
Jerry shrugged.
âWhat kind of chips were they?â
âWhat?â
âWhat brand of chips?â
âMonsieur Crunchero.â
âDonât you mean Señor Crunchero?â
âNo. Monsieur. Theyâre Canadian.â
âBecause when we think of Mexican food we think of Saskatchewan,â said the priest.
Jerry pushed the hood of his robe back, revealing a young manâs face, pockmarked and with an overly optimistic slash of red hair on his upper lip.
âThey were the only ones left in the store.â
The priest sighed.
âThatâs not really the point, Jerry. What happened to the black boar?â
âIt ran away.â
âIt ran away?â
â You try
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