Birth of a Monster (23 page)

He knew that the information would be
trickling into the capital city around a day or two behind, so they
were probably just now beginning to get a grasp on the basic facts
of the situation.

They would likely be willing to sit
back for a few more days to see what the governor would do about
the situation, but if he didn’t do something dramatic very soon,
then pressure would begin to build in the capital. And that would
mean federal interference. President Beldenshire might swarm the
state and city with a bunch of over-zealous troops and declare
nationwide martial law while the hunt for the guilty
ensued.

Although Governor Sehensberg was
relatively clean—he had been born into wealth and had never taken
bribes, more out of a sense of aristocratic pride than a proper
sense of right and wrong—but that didn’t mean he wanted the feds
poking around his state’s capital and uncovering all the dirt in
the world on the late mayor and the city council. He had heard
stories about the mayor’s corruption and had chosen to ignore them
rather than investigate.

Thus, his mind had reached a
singular objective but not the means to reach it:
Do something sufficiently dramatic to keep the
federal authorities out of this and make this whole thing blow
over.

He had watched his grousing advisors
wring their hands at the prospect of a “federal invasion of
Rodalia” but had heard little in the way of a solution to keep this
embarrassment from happening.

It was now 8:45 p.m. and time to retire
to his study. He ascended the stairs and entered his cozy office.
He had a proper governor’s mansion in the capital city, but he
greatly preferred his private mansion out here in the country. A
refreshing breeze whispered through the open window soothing his
spirits like a gentle kiss.

Feeling he had earned the right to an
hour or two of uninterrupted, pleasant distraction from his now
odious job, he picked up a book on Seleganian history and
approached his desk, ready to perhaps alleviate his own distress by
learning of a far more unfortunate historical figure or perhaps
even to be inspired by the shrewd actions of some ancient
politician.

To his great surprise, there was an
envelope on top of his desk composed of what was clearly fine
stationery and closed with an elegant seal.

He could have sworn he had read all of
the day’s mail by noon that day, so he wondered how this letter
could have made its way to his desk unread.

He opened it quickly and began to
read:

Esteemed Governor
Sehensberg:

Our interests are aligned beautifully
like the strings of a masterfully crafted guitar. Let us strum a
beautiful melody and leave behind the odious violence that has
filled our days and evenings with despair.

You are a man with sparse time, so I
will be direct.

You seek a solution to the recent,
unfortunate violence that will prevent that pompous President
Beldenshire—who beat your father twice in a race for president and
thrice in a race for senator—from sending federal troops into your
state in order to pose as the nation’s savior and pound one more
nail into the coffin of the Sehensberg name.

You also seek a solution to prevent
any such future violence.

I can deliver you all these things on
a grand scale.

Firstly, attached is a list of
villainous cutthroats, along with their addresses. They are
complicit in the recent crimes and many others. Arrest them and
hang them promptly and publicly pursuant to the harsh exigencies of
martial law. Remember—time is of the essence if you are to obviate
President Beldenshire’s “heroic” intervention.

He will no doubt use the
deaths of the federal agents as an excuse to impose federal
jurisdiction and fill your state with federal troops, yet their
deaths also constitute the state offense of murder, so you will not
want to lose the race to assert jurisdiction in a
conclusive
fashion.

What lies might roll out of the mouths
of these rogues if given the slightest incentive by federal agents?
Mayor Roverdile was corrupt, as was Chief Benson. Do you think if
these lifelong rascals were given even the slightest hint from
their federal interrogators that they wanted to hear your name that
they would hesitate one moment to claim they had personal dealings
with you? Even if you were not indicted, it would be a blemish on
your family name you would never wash away.

The ringleader of these knaves is a
soulless scoundrel named Crabs. He will serve as the focal point
for the righteous wrath of the state. No heed shall be paid to any
name that this rascal or any of his fellow rogues issue from their
lying mouths. Attached is the written confession you will have read
when he and his fellow cutthroats are properly hanged before the
entire city.

Secondly, I will assure that the press
writes of your actions in glowing terms of praise, painting you
properly as a hero who restored justice and preserved the inviolate
sanctity of Rodalian sovereignty. This could be the foundation for
a future presidential campaign, perhaps one more successful than
that of your late father, may he rest peacefully.

Finally, upon the realization of these
things, I will use my influence within the city to ensure that
crime rates are reduced by half. I will ensure full credit is given
to you in the press, which will describe the situation as “the dawn
of a golden age in Sivingdel.” Remember those exact
words.

In exchange for these magnanimous
acts, I ask very little in return. You will simply understand and
accept the reality that there is a de facto ruler of Sivingdel, one
whose aims are the same as yours—peace and prosperity—yet who does
not seek the limelight.

You must understand that SISA is
unconstitutional and that the contraband known as Smokeless Green
cannot be stopped, just as alcohol could not be stopped by our
forefathers centuries ago. But even in this area, you will have
your victories, as I will give you the names and addresses from
time to time of those whom you may arrest.

Should you fail to act quickly upon
all of these humble recommendations, or should you be so imprudent
as to seek to discover the source of this letter, I will have no
need to use violence against you. The hammer of the national
government is already poised above this state, and particularly
above this city, waiting to smash its sovereignty into smithereens
with full-scale military occupation.

Were this to occur, do you really
think you would escape unscathed? The press would only have to
begin to publicly question whether it is possible for the mayor to
have been so embroiled in bloody corruption without considerable
complicity on the part of the governor. Such speculation alone
would serve to quickly condemn you in the court of public opinion
and soil your family’s name forever, if not result in your
incarceration or worse by orders of President
Beldenshire.

Would he hesitate to hang you to
remove a future political opponent?

I can be your best ally or your worst
nightmare. There is no middle road.

You have an impressive study. But you
would not want to find me one day standing inside of it.

Sincerely,

De Facto Ruler of Sivingdel

The governor barely noticed the threat
at the end. Like a bloodhound, he could sniff out a bargain when
one was a mile away. He had nothing to lose by ordering the
immediate arrest of the rascals indicated in detail on the attached
page, and if the promised praise from the press did not immediately
ensue, then he would know that the “de facto ruler of Sivingdel”
was nothing but a knave himself.

But if this man delivered as he
promised on these successive points, then, the governor would
gladly accept this alliance.

He sprinted downstairs, startling
several of the armed guards on the bottom floor of the
house.

“We’re going to Sivingdel!”

Chapter 43

Crabs’ stomach was growling viciously.
He and about ten of his pals had been holed up inside this house
ever since the day they had helped Tats block all exits from the
police station while that maniac Mr. Brass had somehow managed to
set fire to the place and blow it up for good measure.

It had been superfluous when Tats had
passed the word for them to lay low until told otherwise. They had
locked themselves inside the house like money in a vault, locking
every door in the house, putting heavy furniture in front of each
door, and ultimately pounding pieces of wood across most of the
windows.

Nearly every time a carriage drove by,
they about jumped out of their skin, thinking that it must have
been whatever was left of the police force headed their way and
about to get more than their pound of flesh for what they had done
to their colleagues back at the police station.

But anxiety was giving way to boredom,
and boredom to insatiable hunger, the likes of which few of them
had ever experienced, although Crabs had known the experience of
skipping a few meals each month when he grew up in the
junkyard.

But only a couple of the people here
with him were from the junkyard, so they wouldn’t know anything
about hard times like that. And even though he had lived them, it
didn’t mean he was eager to repeat the experience. They had cleared
the pantry by day two and had spent the subsequent three days
grousing about whose wise idea it had been to stuff themselves when
they could be stuck in here for quite some time.

Several fistfights had already broken
out, and the sweltering temperatures weren’t helping anybody’s
mood. Without opening the windows at night—which they still dared
not do—the house just soaked in all the rays of the sun in the
entire city, and by the time each evening came around, most of them
were wringing sweat out of their pants, having long since discarded
their shirts.

They had seen an occasional police
patrol go by whenever they dared peer through the cracks between
the boards covering the windows, but only small units of around
three or four. That wasn’t too much of a surprise once they thought
about it, given that the number of policemen in the city had
probably gone down a number or two after the central police
headquarters had been blown to splinters.

But Crabs wasn’t just afraid of the
sight of half a dozen angry-faced coppers heading up the steps,
billy clubs in hand, ready to smash skulls into fragments far
tinier than what was left of the police station.

The sight of Mr. Brass or Tats might
have spelled equal trouble.

He was pretty sure Mr. Brass didn’t
know of his treachery at the time that he busted him and his fellow
ne’er-do-wells out of jail. And in fact, the odds were stacked even
better on his side once the police department went up in smoke
because that place just might have had his name written down with
the word “informant” or “witness” a little too close-by for
comfort.

And since Mr. Brass had surely gotten
chummy with the chief and paid him a lot of money to get the lot of
them released, how much time could go by before the chief happened
to mention to him that it was thanks to Crabs and his excellent
cooperation that the arrests had happened in the first place, thus
leading to the chief’s and Mr. Brass’s excellent business
relationship?

But with any luck, that old chief had
gotten blown into as many pieces as the rafters and would never
have the chance to tell that tale over a stiff whiskey with a good
laugh.

He would be more careful from now on.
He would make sure not to ever let himself get into that situation
in the first place. But what was he supposed to do when the
sergeant had told him, “You’re lookin’ at twenty to forty hard
years, son. But if you help us a little, we’ll help you a
little”?

After all, he had suspected Mr. Brass
would make it all right in the end anyway by paying a bribe. Why
hadn’t he done that beforehand anyway? This was really what Mr.
Brass got by trying to be clever and not pay his tax. Heck, even an
ignorant third-grade graduate from the junkyard like him knew that
the top dog in the game had to pay the chief to keep his dogs at
bay.

That was something he learned around
the same time he learned water ran downhill, leaves fall from
trees, and birds can fly. Sometimes he couldn’t help but wonder how
a dumb ass like Mr. Brass ever got to be so rich in the first
place. Sure, he could box, but he had the smarts of a barnyard
swine.

But there was no reason to
be too hard on Mr. Brass, he supposed. After all, this house was
his because of the work Mr. Brass gave him—though it wasn’t a
mansion, like the
several
mansions Tats had. But it was a decent house, far
better than that miserable shack he had grown up in in the junkyard
and that he had once figured he would spend his whole life in: that
one-room pigsty smaller than any of the closets in this house but
that once upon a time had him, his two brothers, his three sisters,
and his mom practically stacked on top of each other like
firewood.