So, what if Mythical creatures were real and emigrated to NYC in the1930s?
"Sir," said the jittery homeless man on the train. He was clad in a filthy dark jacket, had a an aged and ragged-edged ski cap on, and an uneven, grey-sprinkled beard. He was missing some teeth and he smelled like piss and liquor. Oh, no wonder - he had a thing of vodka in a brown paper bag.
"Sir, can you..."
"Sorry, I don't have anything." I said. He turned to the Goblin next to me, who helpfully held out Goblin-Gold with a big, toothy smile. That is, he gave him a little black, silk baggy of worms, beetles and rocks, which to his people were currency. I looked down and away to smirk, shaking my head. Poor Goblins - they hadn't figured out how to deal with the Homeless yet.
The man begrudgingly accepted the useless sack, probably planning on emptying it out and selling it if it wasn't too damaged. Or, hey, maybe he'd eat the bugs. I dunno how desperate he was.
He walked on while the Goblin crossed his legs and continued to hum his gravelly hum, occasionally scratching the moles on his bald, grey-blue head. Say what you want about how they reek of mold - they're good people. Well, "people."
I got off the train at Grand Central, taking my suitcase with me and adjusting my tie. The Goblin in the other seat got up, leaving a thick layer of Goblin-grease on the seat he was on. They really do need to segregate them one of these days. Never thought I'd say it in the most diverse city in the world, but I look at my nice black suit and picture all the screaming, scorching fury I would unleash if I were to sit down in that shit.
You ever wonder how Pigeons get into Grand Central? I see them wandering around - how the hell do they get there? Especially on the underground levels, Jesus Christ. Thank God for Fairies. They've been chasing them away recently with their little spears and shields and such. I walked in and saw a technicolor little parade of them, glowing red and blue and black, with a dead pigeon strung up by the legs on a stick between two of them. They were chanting one of their falsetto little tribal war-cries; the language unknown and not one any human could recreate. They were moving off to a Dolmen they'd built out of Trash Cans near the entrances to one of the train stops.
I had about an hour and a half before the job interview so I figured I'd go across the street to grab a cup of coffee.
Me, four other humans - three men and one woman - a ten-foot Troll, an honestly pretty adorable Pixie and a rather polite, withdrawn Zombie, chewing on a raw pig's leg. It's the closest thing to human flesh they can legally eat, but still - disgusting. Combined with their stink I gotta wonder why they'd ever wanna come anywhere with humans.
"Hey! Hey! Hey!" A loud, angry voice with a thick Bronx Accent barked at her. This was followed by a bird-like, warbling shriek - the Police Officer and the Wyvern he rode both strut up to her as she leapt back to the sidewalk. Pixies, right? You can't even hear them walking or feel their presence until they're right in front of you. I guess that's why so many people don't trust 'em. Shame - Pixie dust is good shit.
"No Jay-Walkin!" He yelled while the Wyvern blasted a red flame upwards. The Wyvern, when it strut, resembled an ostrich or a cassowary. Six feet high at the hip and twelve at the head, its massive, glassy yellow eyes regarded the five-foot, slender little creature with the same look a crocodile gives a gazelle.
"Easy, Buster." The Cop said, patting the thing's scaled neck. "Easy." It was colored dark blue on the body with a neck banded yellow and black, its head a deep, olive green.
The light changed and everything started moving forwards. The Cop's Wyvern, Buster, leapt into the air and began flying.
"Go back to the Cookie Factory, Princess Keebler!" He laughed before flying off into the sky on his dragon.
"Goddamn Pigs!" The Pixie shrieked skywards in a comically high-pitched voice like warm, flowing milk. Lower it an octave and she'd be a dead ringer for Margaret Lockwood.
She held her cone-shaped hat in place as the Wyvern's wingbeats made it flow; it reminded me of an oversized sock on somebody's head. She shook her free fist up at him before bringing it back to the pillowcase over her shoulder, jangling with cow bones and . The stereotype is that Pixies are all nocturnal thieves who steal milk and eggs and babies. I'm not gonna be an asshole and assume that, though.
"What happened to your Pixie-Sack?" I didn't mean to ask but it slipped out. She told me.
"Some bastards stole it while I was on my way home from the bar. Scumbags stole all my dust, too! Can you believe that? It takes me weeks to make that shit, and selling it's how I live! No offense but some of you - well, I mean, we call you 'Thunder People' 'cause you're all so, well, huge and clumsy and all - "
"I'm in a good mood, so I'll ignore that." I laughed. She giggled too and it sent a weird tingly feeling up and down my spine.
"Yeah, right, and no offense but some of you are really nuts for that shit! I mean, c'mon, my prices are fair, why can't you just..."
"Well, the prohibition was lifted just last month." I said. "People are going nuts for alcohol, tobacco, Sandman Sand, you gotta give it a little time to cool down, right? Right."
She laughed.
"Yeah, I guess so. It's better here in the City than it was in was in the mines in Dartmoor." She said. She smiled and I smiled back, admiring her wavy and sparkling, ivory hair that came down to her mid-neck. Short hair on girls - is that something they got from the Flappers or something the Flappers got from them? No matter.
She had blue-white skin and glowing, white eyes. Her cheekbones were pretty prominent, her big, round eyes baggy and her lips full and healthy. Traditional Pixie garb - silky, loose, ethereal stuff, since cold never phased them. Honestly if not for the skin and eyes she could've passed for a waifish young human woman. It's a shame, too - the world's not gonna let her pass for one anytime soon.
"Here's my card," she said, pulling out a business card and handing it to me. "I'm Zizby."
"Boris," I said, and shook her hand. I tried to be gentle, since my hand totally enveloped hers. It was cold to the touch and dry.
She went off and I went into the Restaurant. "NO IRISH (THAT MEANS YOU, LEPRECHAUNS), CYHYRAETH AND/OR ORCS NEED APPLY" hung in the window.
Behind the counter a thing between a wolf and a man stands, pouring drinks with his long, slender arms that end in thick, black claws. He garbles something clearly english, if stunted, to a Satyr who asked for a cocktail for the Succubus he's trying to impress. She flutters her eyelashes at him over her glowing, green eyes, giving him a toothy smile full of fangs before brushing her hair over her . I think this is a Skinwalker, though I don't know if it's taboo or faux pas to ask him so I just let him do his goddamn job. I ask for a Coffee when he's done and he does a pretty solid job of giving it to me without getting any hair in it.
Over in a darker corner a Demoness talks with an Angel. He's practically glowing, hairless save the golden locks that flow over his shoulders, slender bodied and nursing a coke (you'd be hard-pressed to find an Angel that drinks). His wings are curled up as much as possible, flame-red feathers falling here and there. The Demoness is red as a hot coal, curling her long claws through his hair. Fishnets, T-Shirt with the sleeves ripped off and lots of mascara over red-black eyes. Her long, curling black horns are caught in his halo - how cute, right? Her black lips touch his and I gotta look away before I throw up.
A bunch of Pixies - two guys and a girl - are getting stoned off Opium over in the corner, cackling their ear-shredding laughs as they blunder on and on about nothing.
There's a Fairy - one of the bigger types - wasted out of her mind and smashing into one of the ceiling lights repeatedly. Somebody with a giant butterfly net is trying to get her down but, honestly, it don't look too good.
I finish my coffee and check the clock. I think about asking the Skinwalker for a Donut and see his filthy wolf-hands and come to my senses. I thank him, go off, and get ready - mentally - for the big job interview.
On the way I see a street band of Demons, playing that horrible Jazz shit they love so much. I gotta give 'em skill though - they play music like they were born with a fiddle, guitar or piano in their mouths. So I throw 'em some spare change and get a thumbs-up. Good to spread the good will whenever I can.
So there I go.
Hades' waiting room is very nice. Nice ferns, nice lighting. Very, very relaxing. I like it.
Behind the desk an old, old OLD woman looks through files. She looks like she's in her sixties - pretty rare nowadays.
"You need any help?" I ask.
"No, no," she says, her voice deep and gravelly from years of smoking. "I'm fine, deary."
I wait until Hades buzzes me in and his office is, indeed, very regal in its decoration.
Hades is a little old man with a big, eager smile like there's a five-year-old inside him trying to get out. His eyes sparkle with enthusiasm as he adjusts his slightly oversized crown of rusted metals, his giant spectacles reflecting the gentle lamp-lights of his office. There's a big portrait of him with Poseidon and Zeus on the wall, all smiling and happy to be together as brothers.
"Now, sit down, why don't you mister..." He squints and rolls his tongue in his mouth, looking up and to the left. I reach across to shake his hand and he's very enthusiastic about it, very excitable. What a nice guy, eh?
"Beckenstein." I said. "Boris Beckenstein." He nods, smiling.
"Yes, yes, Mister Beckenstein! As you can tell I need a new book-keeper."
"Of course," I say.
"And your services are recommended. In fact, I believe your last employer was one of my close associates, the Greeks called him Osiris but his actual name was..." he thinks again and I save him.
"Ausire," I said, remembering how Mister Grim-and-Green, as we used to call him, liked to be called.
"Yes, yes, yes." He says, remembering fondly. "How has he been doing?"
"He's pretty good. Not much of a cut-up but he's very precise, very effecient."
Hades laughs a gentle, friendly laugh. "Ah, yes," he says. "That was always his problem, he could never lighten up. Always treated this whole 'Death' business like, well, a business. I think you'll find me more amicable, or at least I'd hope so."
"I do already!" I said, beaming.
"So, now, there's a reason I need you here very urgently. Normally I would be more cautious but you have very, very good references here - Ausir, you said it was?" I nodded. "Yes, yes," he continued, "Ausire, Izanami, Yama, all recommend your services....all of this is good, I think. Can you start, say, next Friday?"
"Um, sure." I say, smiling. "So, um, why do you need me so urgently? If that's not too personal, I mean. Is something up with the current Book-Keeper?"
"Well," he looks out the window, suddenly rather defeated looking. "Well, you saw how...um, oh dear, I don't want to be rude to her behind her back and all......"
"She, um, is a little old," I said, nervously pulling my collar. "Is her memory on the fritz, or....."
"No, no, no," he laughed. "It's nothing like that," he said, laughing gently. "It's just that.......it's just that, well, I was going through my records today, and, well, sometime next week..." He frowned, shook his head.
"Oh," I said. "She's um......"
"Her number is up," he finished for me, adjusting his big, giant spectacles. "Next Wednesday, I think. Heart Attack." He frowns, shaking his head. "It's a shame, really. She's got a good place to go after all this, since she was a good woman and all but....well....."
"You'll miss her." I wince and he laughs, but this time it seems forced.
"Yes, yes," he said. "It is the way life goes and an unfortunate duty, but I've been at it for a long while and I'm proud of the job I do."
"Of course." I said. "So, um......"
"Next Friday," he said. "Nine O'Clock Sharp. And try not to mention this little business to anyone, alright?"
"Sure, sure, buddy." I feel like I've known this guy forever. "So are you, um, taking care of her......"
"No, no, no," he says. "She's a Catholic, very devout; they have somebody else for that, I think."
There's more smalltalk and such, but I got the gist of it. We depart on good terms and I hope, whenever my number's up, I can get as kind a guy as Hades to take care of it - though if it's somebody else, well, hopefully they recognize me.
After I bid a very enthusiastic farewell to the nice old lady with a frog's voice I get out onto the street with time to kill.
I take the card out of my pocket - *Zizby Cunningham, Pixie-Duster and Architect for various little peoples.* 'Cunningham' must be something she or her family decided to stick with to better fit in over here. Oh well.
I have worse options to pursue, apparently. And they recently legalized interspecies marriages, even if there's been more hate-crimes than in the past decade.
Oh, well. I'll give her a call after lunch. I think there's a nice ethnic place near here - much as they hate hearing it, there are some Elves with seriously wild pastry skills.
"Sir, can you..."
"Sorry, I don't have anything." I said. He turned to the Goblin next to me, who helpfully held out Goblin-Gold with a big, toothy smile. That is, he gave him a little black, silk baggy of worms, beetles and rocks, which to his people were currency. I looked down and away to smirk, shaking my head. Poor Goblins - they hadn't figured out how to deal with the Homeless yet.
The man begrudgingly accepted the useless sack, probably planning on emptying it out and selling it if it wasn't too damaged. Or, hey, maybe he'd eat the bugs. I dunno how desperate he was.
He walked on while the Goblin crossed his legs and continued to hum his gravelly hum, occasionally scratching the moles on his bald, grey-blue head. Say what you want about how they reek of mold - they're good people. Well, "people."
I got off the train at Grand Central, taking my suitcase with me and adjusting my tie. The Goblin in the other seat got up, leaving a thick layer of Goblin-grease on the seat he was on. They really do need to segregate them one of these days. Never thought I'd say it in the most diverse city in the world, but I look at my nice black suit and picture all the screaming, scorching fury I would unleash if I were to sit down in that shit.
You ever wonder how Pigeons get into Grand Central? I see them wandering around - how the hell do they get there? Especially on the underground levels, Jesus Christ. Thank God for Fairies. They've been chasing them away recently with their little spears and shields and such. I walked in and saw a technicolor little parade of them, glowing red and blue and black, with a dead pigeon strung up by the legs on a stick between two of them. They were chanting one of their falsetto little tribal war-cries; the language unknown and not one any human could recreate. They were moving off to a Dolmen they'd built out of Trash Cans near the entrances to one of the train stops.
I had about an hour and a half before the job interview so I figured I'd go across the street to grab a cup of coffee.
Me, four other humans - three men and one woman - a ten-foot Troll, an honestly pretty adorable Pixie and a rather polite, withdrawn Zombie, chewing on a raw pig's leg. It's the closest thing to human flesh they can legally eat, but still - disgusting. Combined with their stink I gotta wonder why they'd ever wanna come anywhere with humans.
"Hey! Hey! Hey!" A loud, angry voice with a thick Bronx Accent barked at her. This was followed by a bird-like, warbling shriek - the Police Officer and the Wyvern he rode both strut up to her as she leapt back to the sidewalk. Pixies, right? You can't even hear them walking or feel their presence until they're right in front of you. I guess that's why so many people don't trust 'em. Shame - Pixie dust is good shit.
"No Jay-Walkin!" He yelled while the Wyvern blasted a red flame upwards. The Wyvern, when it strut, resembled an ostrich or a cassowary. Six feet high at the hip and twelve at the head, its massive, glassy yellow eyes regarded the five-foot, slender little creature with the same look a crocodile gives a gazelle.
"Easy, Buster." The Cop said, patting the thing's scaled neck. "Easy." It was colored dark blue on the body with a neck banded yellow and black, its head a deep, olive green.
The light changed and everything started moving forwards. The Cop's Wyvern, Buster, leapt into the air and began flying.
"Go back to the Cookie Factory, Princess Keebler!" He laughed before flying off into the sky on his dragon.
"Goddamn Pigs!" The Pixie shrieked skywards in a comically high-pitched voice like warm, flowing milk. Lower it an octave and she'd be a dead ringer for Margaret Lockwood.
She held her cone-shaped hat in place as the Wyvern's wingbeats made it flow; it reminded me of an oversized sock on somebody's head. She shook her free fist up at him before bringing it back to the pillowcase over her shoulder, jangling with cow bones and . The stereotype is that Pixies are all nocturnal thieves who steal milk and eggs and babies. I'm not gonna be an asshole and assume that, though.
"What happened to your Pixie-Sack?" I didn't mean to ask but it slipped out. She told me.
"Some bastards stole it while I was on my way home from the bar. Scumbags stole all my dust, too! Can you believe that? It takes me weeks to make that shit, and selling it's how I live! No offense but some of you - well, I mean, we call you 'Thunder People' 'cause you're all so, well, huge and clumsy and all - "
"I'm in a good mood, so I'll ignore that." I laughed. She giggled too and it sent a weird tingly feeling up and down my spine.
"Yeah, right, and no offense but some of you are really nuts for that shit! I mean, c'mon, my prices are fair, why can't you just..."
"Well, the prohibition was lifted just last month." I said. "People are going nuts for alcohol, tobacco, Sandman Sand, you gotta give it a little time to cool down, right? Right."
She laughed.
"Yeah, I guess so. It's better here in the City than it was in was in the mines in Dartmoor." She said. She smiled and I smiled back, admiring her wavy and sparkling, ivory hair that came down to her mid-neck. Short hair on girls - is that something they got from the Flappers or something the Flappers got from them? No matter.
She had blue-white skin and glowing, white eyes. Her cheekbones were pretty prominent, her big, round eyes baggy and her lips full and healthy. Traditional Pixie garb - silky, loose, ethereal stuff, since cold never phased them. Honestly if not for the skin and eyes she could've passed for a waifish young human woman. It's a shame, too - the world's not gonna let her pass for one anytime soon.
"Here's my card," she said, pulling out a business card and handing it to me. "I'm Zizby."
"Boris," I said, and shook her hand. I tried to be gentle, since my hand totally enveloped hers. It was cold to the touch and dry.
She went off and I went into the Restaurant. "NO IRISH (THAT MEANS YOU, LEPRECHAUNS), CYHYRAETH AND/OR ORCS NEED APPLY" hung in the window.
Behind the counter a thing between a wolf and a man stands, pouring drinks with his long, slender arms that end in thick, black claws. He garbles something clearly english, if stunted, to a Satyr who asked for a cocktail for the Succubus he's trying to impress. She flutters her eyelashes at him over her glowing, green eyes, giving him a toothy smile full of fangs before brushing her hair over her . I think this is a Skinwalker, though I don't know if it's taboo or faux pas to ask him so I just let him do his goddamn job. I ask for a Coffee when he's done and he does a pretty solid job of giving it to me without getting any hair in it.
Over in a darker corner a Demoness talks with an Angel. He's practically glowing, hairless save the golden locks that flow over his shoulders, slender bodied and nursing a coke (you'd be hard-pressed to find an Angel that drinks). His wings are curled up as much as possible, flame-red feathers falling here and there. The Demoness is red as a hot coal, curling her long claws through his hair. Fishnets, T-Shirt with the sleeves ripped off and lots of mascara over red-black eyes. Her long, curling black horns are caught in his halo - how cute, right? Her black lips touch his and I gotta look away before I throw up.
A bunch of Pixies - two guys and a girl - are getting stoned off Opium over in the corner, cackling their ear-shredding laughs as they blunder on and on about nothing.
There's a Fairy - one of the bigger types - wasted out of her mind and smashing into one of the ceiling lights repeatedly. Somebody with a giant butterfly net is trying to get her down but, honestly, it don't look too good.
I finish my coffee and check the clock. I think about asking the Skinwalker for a Donut and see his filthy wolf-hands and come to my senses. I thank him, go off, and get ready - mentally - for the big job interview.
On the way I see a street band of Demons, playing that horrible Jazz shit they love so much. I gotta give 'em skill though - they play music like they were born with a fiddle, guitar or piano in their mouths. So I throw 'em some spare change and get a thumbs-up. Good to spread the good will whenever I can.
So there I go.
Hades' waiting room is very nice. Nice ferns, nice lighting. Very, very relaxing. I like it.
Behind the desk an old, old OLD woman looks through files. She looks like she's in her sixties - pretty rare nowadays.
"You need any help?" I ask.
"No, no," she says, her voice deep and gravelly from years of smoking. "I'm fine, deary."
I wait until Hades buzzes me in and his office is, indeed, very regal in its decoration.
Hades is a little old man with a big, eager smile like there's a five-year-old inside him trying to get out. His eyes sparkle with enthusiasm as he adjusts his slightly oversized crown of rusted metals, his giant spectacles reflecting the gentle lamp-lights of his office. There's a big portrait of him with Poseidon and Zeus on the wall, all smiling and happy to be together as brothers.
"Now, sit down, why don't you mister..." He squints and rolls his tongue in his mouth, looking up and to the left. I reach across to shake his hand and he's very enthusiastic about it, very excitable. What a nice guy, eh?
"Beckenstein." I said. "Boris Beckenstein." He nods, smiling.
"Yes, yes, Mister Beckenstein! As you can tell I need a new book-keeper."
"Of course," I say.
"And your services are recommended. In fact, I believe your last employer was one of my close associates, the Greeks called him Osiris but his actual name was..." he thinks again and I save him.
"Ausire," I said, remembering how Mister Grim-and-Green, as we used to call him, liked to be called.
"Yes, yes, yes." He says, remembering fondly. "How has he been doing?"
"He's pretty good. Not much of a cut-up but he's very precise, very effecient."
Hades laughs a gentle, friendly laugh. "Ah, yes," he says. "That was always his problem, he could never lighten up. Always treated this whole 'Death' business like, well, a business. I think you'll find me more amicable, or at least I'd hope so."
"I do already!" I said, beaming.
"So, now, there's a reason I need you here very urgently. Normally I would be more cautious but you have very, very good references here - Ausir, you said it was?" I nodded. "Yes, yes," he continued, "Ausire, Izanami, Yama, all recommend your services....all of this is good, I think. Can you start, say, next Friday?"
"Um, sure." I say, smiling. "So, um, why do you need me so urgently? If that's not too personal, I mean. Is something up with the current Book-Keeper?"
"Well," he looks out the window, suddenly rather defeated looking. "Well, you saw how...um, oh dear, I don't want to be rude to her behind her back and all......"
"She, um, is a little old," I said, nervously pulling my collar. "Is her memory on the fritz, or....."
"No, no, no," he laughed. "It's nothing like that," he said, laughing gently. "It's just that.......it's just that, well, I was going through my records today, and, well, sometime next week..." He frowned, shook his head.
"Oh," I said. "She's um......"
"Her number is up," he finished for me, adjusting his big, giant spectacles. "Next Wednesday, I think. Heart Attack." He frowns, shaking his head. "It's a shame, really. She's got a good place to go after all this, since she was a good woman and all but....well....."
"You'll miss her." I wince and he laughs, but this time it seems forced.
"Yes, yes," he said. "It is the way life goes and an unfortunate duty, but I've been at it for a long while and I'm proud of the job I do."
"Of course." I said. "So, um......"
"Next Friday," he said. "Nine O'Clock Sharp. And try not to mention this little business to anyone, alright?"
"Sure, sure, buddy." I feel like I've known this guy forever. "So are you, um, taking care of her......"
"No, no, no," he says. "She's a Catholic, very devout; they have somebody else for that, I think."
There's more smalltalk and such, but I got the gist of it. We depart on good terms and I hope, whenever my number's up, I can get as kind a guy as Hades to take care of it - though if it's somebody else, well, hopefully they recognize me.
After I bid a very enthusiastic farewell to the nice old lady with a frog's voice I get out onto the street with time to kill.
I take the card out of my pocket - *Zizby Cunningham, Pixie-Duster and Architect for various little peoples.* 'Cunningham' must be something she or her family decided to stick with to better fit in over here. Oh well.
I have worse options to pursue, apparently. And they recently legalized interspecies marriages, even if there's been more hate-crimes than in the past decade.
Oh, well. I'll give her a call after lunch. I think there's a nice ethnic place near here - much as they hate hearing it, there are some Elves with seriously wild pastry skills.
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