MISSION'S MERCY: Civilization As A Sharp Object

There is always sound, not simply noise but always sound, throughout the Alabaster City. Carriages stream like silt through a classifier for less-than precious metals and with them are always the popping shock of shod beast hooves reverberating off tall windows and throughout slick alleys.

The Alabaster City used to be known as The York and before that something New and before that something to Damn and before even that a name lost to all save the half-dozen souls that have endured since the dawn of creation (though death is a great stranger to them still they refuse to relinquish this oldest of names, millennia of endurance unable to inoculate one entirely against fear.)

This is a place that fashions itself indestructible and we should not hold that against the location, after all do not mountains also have a similar self-assessment? But mountains are not arrogant. Mountains are not cruel outside of circumstance. And mountains do not regularly cull their occupants. 

There is a part of the city that does not tolerate noise of any kind. Those on the streets walk between tall buildings with either whispers or absolute silence upon their lips and some strange power causes even the beasts to step lighter than nature intended.

It is in this part of the city that we find the restaurant and bar, Lavished Precious.

Patrons in the establishment are refined and impeccably outfitted. When they eat, there are no crumbs. When they drink there are no stray drops. When they laugh or cough it is clear and dry. Patrolling the space between bars and tables is a young woman with hair partially free and partially shorn dressed like a trollop dipped in refinement. Elyse Clipton has many several responsibilities a handful of which include: smiling, keeping her garters on and high, listening, gently asking the impolite to leave, following the impolite out the door, slitting the impolite's throat as soon as they are five steps out the door, but smiling all the while. Always smiling.

And who does Elyse serve?

On the upper floor of Lavish Precious is a large private dining room  with a circular polished table in the middle. Every Wednesday at three o'clock men whose very breath could be used as currency sit at this table and decide the fates of men. These twenty men, these wicked, well-groomed men insulating themselves against general decency with the whitest of gloves, the sharpest of mustaches, and money, money, money are the New Pinkertons. These men, almost impossible to distinguish one from another as if the room held but one person and nineteen reflections. These cruelly respectable men. Let us listen a spell...

"Horman? What news of the harbor?"

"Arrangements have been made with the Millers and Donaldsons. Their rough trade should ensure further cooperation and mitigate against any further delays in shipment. The percentage they begged was absurd in its ignorance of the venture's true value."

"What was it?"

"Four percent."

The New Pinkertons voices rise as one in cold, immaculate laughter. "You could have given them twice that and they'd be happy for eternity."

"True, Sebastian. But I gave them half and their spirits were inestimably high."
One New Pinkerton leans forward and relights a long cigar. He is different than the others only in that his mustache is yellow and a red emblem is pinned to his jacket: a limbless rabbit of tin. "Enough of that which resists hardship. What of the hard work? What of expansion?"
"An excellent question, Governor Morrow. Excellent."
"Yes! A burning uncertainty which must needs consideration and careful action."
Governor Morrow leans forward impatiently, "Well? Are we to address it or simply stamp around the matter like feathered savages?"
"The Bone Market and their considerable resources and holdings are ours to use. The treaty was signed not two days ago. Similar terms have been extended to Mountains Majesty but they talk of special consideration."
"There will be no consideration, special or otherwise," Governor Morrow says.
"Of course. And this matter should be settled to our satisfaction soon enough. I would not worry yourself."
"And yet I do find myself vexed and, yes, worried over the matter. Do you endeavor to instruct me in feeling? Please, explain to me exactly how it is that I should feel?" hisses Governor Morrow.
There is silence. There is stillness. In this assembly of cruel and twisted men...there is fear.
It is Governor Morrow himself that abjures the quiet, "What of the prodigal? What of Kellwood?"
"He has not yet gained entry to Mission's Mercy. His desire is as foolish and futile as it was the week before."
"I hear tell he lost himself his Death Sheriff."
"I received similar intelligence."
"As did I."
"I have heard of this as well."
Governor Morrow taps the long ash of his cigar into a bone ashtray, "He'll get himself killed most like...but why chance it? I think the wisest course of action is to forego our promises and dispose of the prodigal one and for all. Merryweather? Send your man to his last known location."
"Sir...we did give him our word. Swore it on our sacred honor. And while that is easily done away with there are other considerations. There are rules, how do I say, 'greater than ours.'"
"Craven superstition. Kellwood requires a good murdering. Now..." Governor Morrow puts out his cigar, "...are we to eat or not, gentleman?"
The door swings open and Elyse enters carrying a fat, bloodied dead man at least three times her weight. She plops him on the table sending glasses and silverware to the floor.
The New Pinkertons rise, bow, bare their fangs and set their hungry jaws upon the body.

Elyse leaves with a smile. Very important to always smile.
   

MISSION'S MERCY: Are There Not Gentler Things?

Is our story, this sad tale, one of unending misery and betrayal? Of men and women driven to excess and further beyond even that? Of incivility and blood and sin and outrage and the premature termination of far too many tomorrows? Is there not hope? Is there not love? Are there not gentler things?

The Fruitful Plains are an oasis, there is no other way to in which to give it illustration. A bountiful, vibrant oasis of clean grass, temperate clime, healthy critters and cattle, and fresh water from a handful of hidden underground springs.

The residences within the Fruitful Plain are spread out in concentric circles and in the center lies a place for commerce and camaraderie with a thoroughfare so clean not even the horses dare shit upon it. Those that inhabit the Fruitful Plain consider themselves blessed and protected for even though they make targets both ripe and sweet great misfortune befalls all who try to enter with ill intention in their hearts. Savages are felled by illness, marauders torn asunder by wind, water, and thunder, thieves deciding at the very last moment to seek their score elsewheres.

Holly Kellwood Madison steps out of her home and stares out over the sloping plain, the wind a kind friend to her almond hair. She had come so far that she found it utterly incredible she was here: on a peaceful plain with her cool wind and nothing but love in her heart.

To the right of her front stoop, a little ways off stands a white tree of undetermined species with bluish green leaves and thing branches. At its base is a tiny tombstone into which are chiseled this words, "Charles Madison. Devoted Husband. Kindest of Fathers."

Holly turns to the stone and offers it a sad smile.
"Mama?"
A young girl who has seen only five Summers swings her way outside on crutches, her left extremity having unfortunately been found wanting in contest 'gainst an overturned carriage.
"Mama? Are we not to have supper?"
"Silly girl. As long as these four walls stand there shall always be supper for you and I."

Holly stirs a medley of beans, potatoes, and carrots on the stove. Next to it the chicken further browns in a frying pan. And little Thistle Madison pencils drawings into a tiny journal.
"And what finds result from your imagination this time, my love?"
"I am drawing the exquisite Miss Marigold Ollyganger in a fine dress."
"She must go to many great parties."
"She is a raccoon in human clothes, mother. She is not invited to any parties."
"That seems sad."
"Oh, it isn't! She sneaks in anyhows!"

Eating across from her daughter and taking in her natural auburn curls and wet chestnut eyes, Holly can only fixate on the instinctual mastication of her chicken else she might very well weep with gladness--and gladness or sorrow is not easily distinguished by the young.

Holly cleans up the scraps and the plates whilst Thistle awaits her in her bedroom.
"Mama? I'm waaiiiiting," her voice calls.
"Patience, sweetness. Almost complete."

In sitting up in bed while Thistle listens and smiles with eyes closed, Holly looks over her daughter's drawings and concludes an improvised bedtime story.
"...and so, after a most trying endeavor with Maxwell the Beagle, Miss Marigold Ollyganger was finally free to sneak into the town ball. She was costumed magnificently in a purple and green dress, a tiny and lacy purple hat, and a glittering emerald parasol. She met many fine friends that night under that far table in the corner, far from the eyes of humankind. And deep into the night they danced and danced and danced. Miss Marigold slept quiet as a mouse that night and that was good for tomorrow there would be another adventure."
Eyes still closed, Thistle says, "I believe that's my favorite story so far."
"I love you Thissy Missy."
"I love you too, mama. G'night."
Holly gives her daughter a light kiss, a gentle thing. Then she gets out of the bed and takes the candle with her.
"Mama? I found a metal star today."
"What?"
"A metal star like Sheriff Morgan wears. It was buried. It was cold, mama. It was very, very cold. I left it there. Too cold."
Words almost catch in Holly's throat. Almost. "It's warm in here, my darling. Very, very warm. Sweet dreams."

Holly grabs a spade from against the wall and a lantern, "Should have buried the goddamn thing deeper."

At the age of sixteen her father took her to an underground courtroom filled with people that had the mouths of beasts. Amidst her cries and pleas the judge swore her in, stifled her tongue, and blackened her heart. She received the accoutrements of her office and fastened them with purpose, topping it off with a wide black hat.
Her own father made her a Death Sheriff.
She stayed that way ten years before the strength of Charles Madison's heart filled hers with blood again.

Are there not gentler things?
Indeed there are.
But first they must crawl through Hell.

MISSION'S MERCY: A Most Preferable Demon.

The queerest thing about Carrot Mandalay is that he is not Carrot Mandalay.

The entity inhabiting Carrot Mandalay's body is a minor demon from the subterranean bone market under what used to be a convenience store. This demon has a handle. Goes by "Zander."

If you can corner Carrot's shell and get Zander to be truthful like, he will freely admit to being in possession of the man. There are several that have done this and all are of a like mind: Zander is infinitely more agreeable than Carrot Mandalay.

Both are indeed "sporting men" but Zander, quite unbecoming a demon, never cheats. Carrot was notorious for it. In fact it is the fallout from a game of Queen's Run that caused Carrot to shoot off for escape and a proper hiding spot in the bone market. Bullets and playing cards followed like a comet trail behind him. And it was Carrot's desperation to avoid being ventilated like so much moth-feeding cheesecloth that led him to hide within the one area of the bone market cut off to patrons. And just like that, little Zander wandered out from behind an "Employees Only" door and took hold of his body and being.

To the list of Carrot's sins add drunkeness, womanizing, horse-thieving, and blasphemy most foul as he on several occasions drained his whiskey-soaked ball sack on sites held holy in the eyes of men and magic.

Yes, it was the old Carrot Mandalay that Annalynne Tuckle has a beef with. Not Zander.
A fact that the poor, frightened demon is trying to explain now that Miss Tuckle has a barrel betwixt his eyes.

"I assure you! You and I have never met! I am Zander Dank Hen of the demon dirt caste! Shit, I'm so fucking useless it took all my strength to possess this fucker and he ain't exactly the robust picture of masculinity!"

Annalynne presses the barrel harder between Zander-Carrot's eyes, "You sure had the timbre of Carrot back with Kellwood and Shane When. And even if it truth that shits from your mouth, what on this earth is preventing me from ending a demon?"

"I got his mind! I can talk and have the attitude. Hell, half the time I truly do believe I am Carrot Mandalay. As to the other... I am a worthless demon! I didn't take this body to torture it and I surely did not wish its soul for it is a rank and rotted thing! I took him because I wanted to get out of the bone market. Be flesh. Live with you bizarre things. And now that I have discovered apple pie, to eat myself a shit ton of apple pie!"

Annalynn looks to the floor and Little Shithead, "He telling the truth?"
"I expect to be fed no matter what truth I give you."
"You have my word."
Little Shithead wanders over to Carrot's ankle, takes a bite and draws blood. He laps the blood several times, "Demon. A pitiable demon, actually," Little Shit head looks up at Zandor-Carrot, "You make me sad."
Little Shithead then rubs his head gently against the wounded ankle.
Annalynne puts away her pistol, "Reckon that'll do."
"Aw thank you, Miss Tuckle. I ain't a near sight done walking above yet."
"We'll be doing a lot of walking."
"I'm...you want me come with you?"
"Yes I do, Carrot--I will call you 'Carrot', by the bye. And if you deign to refuse my request for company I will slap leather and send you to the bone market and beyond with an expediency that would make your head spin off. Demon or no."
"I'm all yours, Miss Tuckle."
"Course you are, Carrot. We're pardners."

MISSION'S MERCY - When There Is Need There Is Shane When.

Merry Peak is an oddity in the Thriving Wastes. Vegetation is abundant and many swear that even the air tastes fresh and pure. Also odd is that Merry Peak is not a peak. It is a small community located on the top of a grassy hill and in the center of that community--positioned rather neatly between the Bank, the Church, the armory, and the market--stands an impossibly tall fruit tree bearing both blood-red apples and sun bright lemons. Children smile more here. Pursuits other than base survival--service, camaraderie, mercy, and the strange stuttered clockwork of love--are quite common. This would be regarded as the true haven of this blasted new world and Mission's Mercy knocked down a peg were it not for the fanatical violence and protectiveness of Merry Peak's residents. Quick bloody murder comes to all not bound for the bank.

In the community the bank is simply known as the bank. Out in the wastes it is known as either the Fruit Bank or The Place Of Shane When. Yes, money is put away there and interest accrues. Yes, currency bearing the Merry Peak mark is exchanged for gold. And yes, even loans are provided by the bank and enforced by a handful of dedicated mercenaries spread five hundred miles in either direction. But...

But the real reason most come to the bank is to speak to Shane When.

In an office at the back of the bank and furnished in pure walnut Shane When sits behind a desk in an elevated chair. He has one large but simple journal on the desk and when he writes in it things that matter happen.

Shane When is a dwarf. Shane When is often cursed as a "goddamn celestial" which entirely smacks of the truth. He wears simple clothing: child's pants, child's shirt, oversized leather jacket bleached and dyed gray. His eyes are dark green but have been known to change colors by firelight. Some say he is a fair man, he thinks himself fair...but he does not consider himself. And that is what the rest of the population believes about Shane When: he is not a man with connections. He is something "other." And when he speaks there is something in his voice that itches at the back of even his closest associates' necks: "I am very much like you. But I am not like you."

The man that enters the office with Death Sheriff in tow, is Bill Kellwood.
Shane When gestures for Bill and the Death Sheriff to take a seat across from him. Bill rests himself easily into the chair. The Death Sheriff bends his knees and stands up straight again.
Bill explains, "My apologies Mister When. Otis here, well he don't sit. Been standing past fifteen years far's I can tell."
Shane When interlaces his short fingers and taps his shorter thumbs, "He will sit. Or he will leave."
Bill Kellwood looks up at the Death Sheriff, "C'mon, man. Redouble your efforts and double over a bit."
The Death Sheriff plunks down into the chair, his legs extended stiff and outward like that of a barely articulated children's toy.
"Your knees, man. Give 'em a proper bend."
"That will be fine." Shane When opens his journal to a blank page and dips his pen into an inkwell, "Now what can I do for you, Mister Kellwood?"

Kellwood's gloved hand produces a cheroot from his breast pocket, "May I?"
"You may."
The cheroot is placed below Kellwood's mustache and into his invisible mouth. The Death Sheriff hisses and the cheroot is lit.
"It would appear, Mister When, that I am in one hell of a quandary. As you may or may not have heard, I have resolved myself to seek greener pastures as it were in the form of Mission's Mercy. Now-"
When stops writing, "I do not provide passage to Mission's Mercy. Surely you know of my treaty with the white city."
"I do indeed. And I have made arrangements for alternative means of entrance into that glittering stone cunt. My trouble is... Sir, though I am loathe to show my belly to any creature living or dead I fear that I must trade with you in absolute disclosure and transparency. You see Mister When, once I have lost something I am not able to find it. It is a dastardly curse put upon me the New Pinkertons, these same Pinkertons who not very long ago considered me of their blood and called me 'brother.' A foul thing to do. I have lost many pocket watches, Mister When, and even though I know precisely where I must have left them when I return to reclaim what is mine, though it may very well be right before me, I am afraid it is as invisible as this poor flesh."

Shane Wren writes all of this in his journal and does not stop as he asks, "Your manservant is of no assistance?"
"Unfortunately, no. It appears the curse extends to all in my vicinity."
"Darjanan's Geas of Want."
"Excuse me?"
"That is the true name of your curse should you ever seek to relieve yourself of it."
"Darjanan's Geas of Want," Kellwood repeats.
"But you are not here to seek remedy. You are here to find something."
Hesitatingly, Kellwood inhales deeply, the smoke like a distended liquid mushroom in his head and neck, "Let us say I were to seek remedy for this curse-"
"You haven't the currency. Nor will you ever. But take heart, Mister Kellwood. There are a solitary few in the wastes that have the knowledge to undo what grievously ails you. Alas, you neither have the currency for me to provide their names."
The Death Sheriff hisses, "Killlllll hhhhhim" and puts its hand on its holster.
Shane Wren folds his hands, "No."
And the Death Sheriff disintegrates into a pile of fine white dust where it once sat awkward.
Though his expression is invisible the short sharp breath of Bill Kellwood is enough to gauge just how very much impressed he is by Shane When's power. And how very much uncomfortable he has become.
"Mister Kellwood. What do you want. I need to hear you say it."
"Th-the location of Carrot Mandalay and Annalynne Tuckle."
"That you can afford. Two months of service in Merry Peak baking pies and pastries. Usual restrictions apply: no violence, no unkind words, no denial of assistance for any resident in need."
"A terrible weakness of mine is that my tendency towards speedy rage and speedier violence most foul is one that I simply must give into when it arises. I shall hear the alternative."
"And you know that once the alternative is given it must be accepted under pain of living damnation?"
"I do."
"Alternative payment is the head of the witch Johanna Stickwood. Payment shall be due on the last of fifteen dawns."
"But..."
"That will be all."
Shane When waves his hand and just like that...

...Bill Kellwood finds himself on a barstool in Copper Hovel.
"But that's my mama."

Shane When folds his journal shut. From a concealed door in the office emerge Annalynne Tuckle and Carrot Mandalay.
"I cannot thank you enough, good Shane."
Shane scratches his hairless chin, "You make me smile, Annalynne. That is a rare thing in this world."
"Mister Shane sir," grovels Carrot, "I would thank you but for fear of weeping at your kindness."
"You are swine. But you are both welcome in Merry Peak. You should try the apple pie before you leave. It is a fortune in flavor."

MISSION'S MERCY: Annalynne, Carrot, And A Most Inscrutable Man

Annalynne finds the cool and peaceful darkness part only to discover she is tied to a chair next to Carrot Mandalay who is likewise bound.

This...this is damn peculiar. Last thing she remembers is sneaking up on Carrot with pistol drawn and Little Shithead in tow and now...

"You're awake. Excellent. Now we can begin."
The voice comes from across the table she has just noticed in front of her.
And the voice itself belongs to...
"Holy fucking saints and pleasant ghosts," she mutters.
The voice belongs to Bill Kellwood.
Bill Kellwood dresses in the finest suits, has the finest shoe leather, and the finest hats and gloves all of which are shipped directly from Alabaster City. This is fortunate because Bill Kellwood is invisible save for a red mustache that slides just a tiny bit up and down as he speaks.
Next to her, Carrot still hasn't gotten over the shock.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck on a fuck," he whispers.
In the pantheon of despicable villains that populate the Thriving Wastes none inspires so much dread as Bill Kellwood. The only rumor repeated more than once considering Kellwood is that he was once a New Pinkerton Mercenary King who proved himself far too reckless, vicious, and depraved for his black-hearted brothers.

Kellwood is also supposed to have a Death Sheriff under his employ.

"Just kill us now, you vile well of the Devil's own ejaculate," sighs Carrot.
"Fear not, fellow. An excruciating end is most certainly that shadow that darkens your future's doorstep but take heart! I have need of you. Both of you."

Annalynne looks down and sees she is still armed. She tests the rope that binds her hands together behind the chair. There is slack. But not enough. Not yet...

The mustache of invisible Bill Kellwood wriggles as he continues, "Carrot Mandalay you have killed your way across the wastes collecting tribute for entry into Mission's Mercy. Annalynne Tuckle, you were once a Representative of Mission's Mercy and may return whenever you want for that fair white haven does not truly believe in banishment."

"Yeah," from Annalynne.

"I have...grown indolent, I must admit. Preoccupied with a great deal of nothing is no way to live a life. I have claimed all that I desire, partaken of the forbidden to a degree that not even the Lord God coming down and shitting himself would cause me to bat a lash, and amassed more terrified loyal followers than I frankly know what to do with it. And yet all of this...leaves me wanting. And what I want is what up until now I could not even dream of possessing."

"Mission's Mercy," from Carrot Mandalay.
"Curse me," Annalynne whispers quickly to Carrot.
"Yes. Mission's Mercy," a gloved hand twirls the suspended mustache, "I have tried and failed to lay claim to that gleaming city several times, all my carefully planned machinations embarrassingly rebuffed. It was then I decided-"
"Curse me and I'll take you with me, Carrot," Annalynne whispers again.
"Do you have something to say, Miss Tuckle? I do hope it is of great import because I do not require your tongue."
"Shut up, you fucking bitch! Bill Kellwood is talking!"
A wound opens on her shoulder, blood trickles down.
"Mister Mandalay is a scoundrel too be sure, but he is also a champion of manners it would seem."
"You dumb, fucking cunt! It's bad enough we're caught by Kellwood but then your dimwittedness seeks to enrage him by interrupting the man whilst he's talking? Don't you have a fucking brain in your bitch head, you unforgivably fucked cow!?"
A wound on the forehead, a wound on the rib, a wound on the forearm, and yes! a wound on both wrists. Annalynne begins shifting her hands up and down, up and down.
"Mister Mandalay I appreciate your pursuit of decorum but let us not stoop to rough rudeness and base name-calling."
One hand is almost free, her pouch glows purple. This is it.
"Out! Out, damn cat!"
Little Shithead leaps from pouch to desk, teeth bared and hissing loudly.
Bill Kellwood bolts out of seat and waves his hands in front of a face that isn't there, "Horror! Horror!"
The hand is freed then the other.
A quick draw, three shots into Bill Kellwood's chest, one at the Carrot Mandalay's bonds. She must keep her word. She must.
Carrot draws his own gun, "Did you just kill-"
"Fuck no. It'll take far more than that to end Kellwood."

And then there are footsteps, the high jingling of spurs, and a figure with tin star fashioned to his duster, a figure clutching a shotgun made of bone in both hands, a figure with living wet eyes in a bleached bone skull enters the room.
"Run!"

Annalynne and Carrot bolt out of the tent and find themselves at the top of a plateau. The edge is less than fifty yards away.
"Keep running! Give me a knife! Little Shithead!"
Little Shithead bounds out of the tent faster than damnation and quickly overtakes Carrot and Annalynne. Carrot tosses Annalynne a knife.
With a terrible slash and then a raw more painful one, Annalynne Tuckle cuts off her pinkie finger. She brings it to her lips, whispers secret things to it, and then throws it off the cliff.
"Jump!"
They jump and the finger explodes into a could of black and tan smoke. The enter the explosion but do not come out the other end.

Whatever Annalynne had planned will have to wait. The same could be said of Carrot. Vengeance and sanctuary will have to tarry a while longer. Bill Kellwood and his pet Death Sheriff take priority.