The New Weird - Ann VanderMeer [147]
She had taken the poet into a backstreet with promises of sexual gratification, but the pleasure had been entirely hers. She had peeled him like a piece of fruit, absorbing his skin with an orgasmic thrill that had restored her to her uttermost vitality. And now it was time for her to act.
Time for her to summon the Psychomatics.
The Gutter stood out like a moth among butterflies. He didn't try to hide the fact. Instead, he was a gaunt-looking fucker with sleepy eyelids that hooded his eyes and made him look like he was capable of doing very bad things.
He was.
He eyeballed people as he walked passed them: they didn't hold his gaze. They looked away like he'd sent an electric shock through their line of vision. This was typical of the Gutter, who was careful to exert his influence over people.
He had found the Salon of Catastrophists on a street called Patron's Way. Patron's Way divided the Cymbeline and Cerebral Districts and was one of the city's liveliest thoroughfares. This explained the heavy presence of City Arbiters idling among the gregarious hordes, with studded coshes dangling from their wrists.
Which, of course, presented certain difficulties when it came to organising an open confrontation with the Psychomatics.
Which is why the Gutter had developed a plan.
The Covenant of Ichor led them to the door of the stairwell for the office of the Information Syndicate.
"I warn you, Sisters, it's an ugly sight." The leader of the local order smiled faintly. "Men are rarely beautiful, especially when they're mutilated. The sight of them may please you nevertheless."
"No," said Little Sister. "It will. Let's go."
The smell of the corpses grew stronger as they ascended the stairs. When they reached them, the Sisters were indeed pleased, but not for the reasons the Ichorites were thinking.
The Sisters of No Mercy quickly assessed the situation ― two corpses with their throats cut; the other sliced open along the underside of the belly, with bits of him still hanging out.
"Interesting," said Little Sister.
"Very," Big Sister agreed.
"The two gooks at the door were taken out with minimum fuss, leaving plenty of time for interrogating the Information Master."
"In more ways than one," said Big Sister.
"Quite. These gooks can count themselves lucky."
"Very lucky."
"But not that lucky."
"Not fucking lucky at all."
Little Sister sat on her haunches and examined the Information Master. "Looks like he had one of his eyes removed first."
"Looks like he did."
"I guess it was a case of, Tell me, bitch, or I'll skewer the fucking other one."
"Guess it was."
"Well ― " Little Sister stood up ― "this Information Master looks like he was one hell of a fat cunt. The Gutter must have had himself a rare old treat."
"A very rare treat."
"But not as rare as we'll be having."
"No," said Big Sister, "not so fucking rare as that at all."
The Gutter entered the foyer of the Salon and was immediately accosted by two receptionists who asked him brusquely to declare his business.
"Catastrophe," he said, and proceeded to knock them unconscious with the butt of the Gutting Knife.
He hastened into the auditorium, where a debate involving about fifty attendants was fully underway.
Gradually, the feverish exchange between rival factions began to subside as the whiff of the Gutter spread among them like a toxic fume. Heads were turned. A mixture of bewilderment and disgust washed over their faces like a vapour.
"What is the meaning of this?" declared one wizened old scroat with a coiffed mustachio.
The Gutter fixed a stare on him. The mustachio drooped, perhaps for the first time ever.
"I have a message for the Psychomatics," he said.
The faces of the Catastrophists turned pale in unison.
"Tell them,"