Exceptions to Reality_ Stories - Alan Dean Foster [36]
Its companion had no feet at all, sported a kind of loose-fitting dark blue turban around its middle, and was one-third oversized skull. Half a dozen bulbous eyes framed the vertical, fanged mouth, which more than anything else resembled an oozing Venus flytrap. The creature’s breathing was loud, slow, and exceedingly fetid, in keeping with its air of general putridity and poor posture.
Barely visible over the collar of the brown suit, a small babyish mouth addressed him. “Time’s up, Parker-Piggott. You did brilliantly there for a while. Really well, ha-ssst. But you stepped over the line with the Youbithian ikkim. What were you thinking? Don’t you watch the Youbith commodities markets? Any fool should have caught that rise in Bing-wa prices!”
“Bad weather,” rumbled the flytrap with the eyes. “Any fool.”
“Look, I know I’ve had a rough couple of weeks here lately. But my basic moves have been good. Everything will come back, and more, by the end of next month. There’ll be a full recovery, you’ll see.” Slipping out of his jacket, he loosened his tie. Another gift from gratified investors, it was impregnated with some kind of permanent perfume whose scent varied from day to day. “My instincts are still as sound as ever.”
Flytrap stepped forward, advancing as if he had twice the usual number of joints.
An alarmed Parker-Piggott retreated in the general direction of the mirrored mini-bar. “Here now, my good creature! Let’s control ourselves like civilized beings, shall we? This is global finance we’re dealing with here. This is not a game for the nervous or faint of heart.”
“Haven’t got one of those,” Four-arms responded, “so I wouldn’t know. Your margin has been called in, Parker-Piggott. Time to forfeit.” The bald half a head twisted slowly from side to side, as if mounted on a spindle. “Too bad. I made a couple of thousand wivwuks taking your advice on the side.” Eyes that could barely see over the white collar glanced significantly kitchen-ward. “Drouk…”
“No, wait!” Parker-Piggott squeaked as Flytrap closed in on him. He quickly saw that it would be impossible to give the slip to something with six eyes. “I can fix it! I can make it all back! Just give me another couple of weeks. No, no, a week, just one week!”
Four-arms sighed and lit a cheroot. It stank alarmingly of burning flesh. “Sorry, Parker-Piggott. If it was up to me…But I ain’t the one whose millions of botobs you were throwing around as if they were so much minced spiyork. They’ve run out of patience with you, Parker-Piggott. You should’ve been more careful with other folks’ money.”
“But,” Parker-Piggott screeched as Flytrap worked him into a corner from which there was no escape, “it wasn’t even money! It wasn’t real! It couldn’t have been real!”
“Easy for you to say.” The surreal speaker let out a porcine grunt as the shrieking Parker-Piggott was enveloped by Flytrap. Ominously Four-arms thoughtfully switched on the big-screen TV and turned up the volume to a suitably ear-numbing level. “You’re not the one who lost twenty million schmerkels last week.” With a barely visible nod from his barely visible head, he gestured tersely for his partner to proceed.
“Call in his margin, Drouk.”
They did not kill Parker-Piggott. After all, only the business of the schmerkels constituted a truly objectionable matter. The punishment was designed to fit the crime. In consequence, he forfeited a particularly sensitive and precious 10.5 percent of himself, which could not be recalled by speculation on the relevant open market or by any other means.
As a bit of a consolation, the enchanting Jennifer Lowen agreed to accompany him to the Bahamas—until that first evening in the suite they