Read Online Lieutenant Arkham: Elves and Bullets by Alessio Lanterna - Free Book Online
Authors: Alessio Lanterna
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while, I don’t know if I can get there in half an hour—“
“Thunder farts, use that magic box with all the pretty lights and buttons… you know, on your desk, next to your vibrator, in your office.”
“The filing system is still
paper-based
.” He grunts threateningly.
“Okay, listen, I’ll be there in half an hour. As soon as I arrive, I’ll order you a coffee, that way if you’re late, you’ll have to drink it cold. That’s a good incentive, don’t you think? Half an hour.”
I hang up and hop in the car.
I like Pantalassa because the spicy food is spicy. A load of places write “coastal food” on the sign and business cards, then they bring you a flabby, insignificant steak, half a stunted chili pepper shivering from coldness and loneliness. Here, on the other hand, you’ve got to move them out of the way to get to your piece of dead cow. Another reason why I like it is because the sun shines down at exactly lunch time. The owner, whom I’ve known by sight for years, corrupted five separate officials from some dynasty or other so he could open his restaurant in a particularly advantageous square paved with white cobblestones which, when the sun shines, dazzles like the teeth of a troll who’s rich enough to afford a dental hygienist.
I find my customary illegal parking spot, grab my sunglasses off the dashboard and push them onto my face while I get out of the car. Everybody in Nectropis owns at least one pair of sunglasses, because the world outside is ruthless. Numerous
nouveau riche
dicks, who could suddenly afford to go on a beach holiday to some third rate hole, every year ended up as part of the statistics measuring stupidity because they burned their retinas off as soon as they woke up, along with the rest of the fucking family. The progressives who take part in those ludicrous summer talk shows always say that it’s not their fault if they’re ignorant, and the ministry should provide more information. Yeah right, like a pamphlet saying: ‘You’ve lived in the dark your whole life, you wanker, put on a pair of fucking sunglasses when you leave the City’. If the ministry ever does anything like that with my taxes, I swear I’ll hunt them down with a rusty crowbar.
You never really need dark glasses in the City, but I like them. They make me look tough, hide my bloodshot eyes together with the bags languishing beneath them, along with any black eyes I may have acquired, this happens more often than I’d like. I sit down at a lovely table bathed in light, and bask in the warmth of the sunshine. The waiter comes and I order two special steaks, two beers and a coffee. I did promise him, after all.
Cohl arrives fifteen minutes late. He says ‘hello’ but stops halfway through my name, staring in confusion at the steak smothered in chili pepper, the beer and the coffee. The steak is cold and spicy, the coffee stone cold. The beer is lukewarm and on duty. The expression on his face is my dessert, seeing as I’ve already finished my meal.
Defeated, he plonks himself down. He doesn’t know what to say, so I break the ice.
“Thanks for lunch, Nohl. Eat something, though, otherwise I feel guilty.”
Cohl breathes in to answer, but it’s a false start. He tries again, same story. By the third attempt, his tone is more curious than angry, in that he’s damned curious and only fucking angry.
“Why do you do this?”
Yeah, why? Probably because I’m a complete bastard. Or because this Nohl Cohl gets on my nerves. No, wait, it’s his Fiamma 1600 that gets on my tits.
“When I was a child, a fella from Frosgaarde bit me.”
“That doesn’t explain all the blaspheming.”
“Jesus fucking Christ—“
“There, you see? Why do you have to—“
“May Muraddin take you, what are you, a priest?”
“Insulting the Gods of the dwarves, too, well done. A world-class blasphemer.”
“So what faith do you follow then, the Cult of Morons?”
“I’m Dualist.” Then he adds,
“Thunder farts, use that magic box with all the pretty lights and buttons… you know, on your desk, next to your vibrator, in your office.”
“The filing system is still
paper-based
.” He grunts threateningly.
“Okay, listen, I’ll be there in half an hour. As soon as I arrive, I’ll order you a coffee, that way if you’re late, you’ll have to drink it cold. That’s a good incentive, don’t you think? Half an hour.”
I hang up and hop in the car.
I like Pantalassa because the spicy food is spicy. A load of places write “coastal food” on the sign and business cards, then they bring you a flabby, insignificant steak, half a stunted chili pepper shivering from coldness and loneliness. Here, on the other hand, you’ve got to move them out of the way to get to your piece of dead cow. Another reason why I like it is because the sun shines down at exactly lunch time. The owner, whom I’ve known by sight for years, corrupted five separate officials from some dynasty or other so he could open his restaurant in a particularly advantageous square paved with white cobblestones which, when the sun shines, dazzles like the teeth of a troll who’s rich enough to afford a dental hygienist.
I find my customary illegal parking spot, grab my sunglasses off the dashboard and push them onto my face while I get out of the car. Everybody in Nectropis owns at least one pair of sunglasses, because the world outside is ruthless. Numerous
nouveau riche
dicks, who could suddenly afford to go on a beach holiday to some third rate hole, every year ended up as part of the statistics measuring stupidity because they burned their retinas off as soon as they woke up, along with the rest of the fucking family. The progressives who take part in those ludicrous summer talk shows always say that it’s not their fault if they’re ignorant, and the ministry should provide more information. Yeah right, like a pamphlet saying: ‘You’ve lived in the dark your whole life, you wanker, put on a pair of fucking sunglasses when you leave the City’. If the ministry ever does anything like that with my taxes, I swear I’ll hunt them down with a rusty crowbar.
You never really need dark glasses in the City, but I like them. They make me look tough, hide my bloodshot eyes together with the bags languishing beneath them, along with any black eyes I may have acquired, this happens more often than I’d like. I sit down at a lovely table bathed in light, and bask in the warmth of the sunshine. The waiter comes and I order two special steaks, two beers and a coffee. I did promise him, after all.
Cohl arrives fifteen minutes late. He says ‘hello’ but stops halfway through my name, staring in confusion at the steak smothered in chili pepper, the beer and the coffee. The steak is cold and spicy, the coffee stone cold. The beer is lukewarm and on duty. The expression on his face is my dessert, seeing as I’ve already finished my meal.
Defeated, he plonks himself down. He doesn’t know what to say, so I break the ice.
“Thanks for lunch, Nohl. Eat something, though, otherwise I feel guilty.”
Cohl breathes in to answer, but it’s a false start. He tries again, same story. By the third attempt, his tone is more curious than angry, in that he’s damned curious and only fucking angry.
“Why do you do this?”
Yeah, why? Probably because I’m a complete bastard. Or because this Nohl Cohl gets on my nerves. No, wait, it’s his Fiamma 1600 that gets on my tits.
“When I was a child, a fella from Frosgaarde bit me.”
“That doesn’t explain all the blaspheming.”
“Jesus fucking Christ—“
“There, you see? Why do you have to—“
“May Muraddin take you, what are you, a priest?”
“Insulting the Gods of the dwarves, too, well done. A world-class blasphemer.”
“So what faith do you follow then, the Cult of Morons?”
“I’m Dualist.” Then he adds,
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