Johannes Cabal The Necromancer by Jonathan L. Howard Read Free Book Online

was such a critic. “I summoned you. That’s just the way you turned up. Don’t presume to blame me for any physical shortcomings you might display.”

    “But, but…” The man put down the mirror and approached Cabal, emphasising every syllable with his hands. “But you were the one sortin’ out the components, man. Where’s my fat?”

    “Fat?” Cabal realised he may have made a small oversight. “Rag, bone, hair. That’s traditionally it. Nobody ever said anything about fat.”

    The painfully thin man waved his hands in disbelief. He looked quickly around the car and ran for the corner in long, angular strides. He grasped a crate and pulled it out into the open. Stencilled on the side was a single word: “Lard.”

    “Just a little dollop, that’s all, man. That’s all I needed! I could’ve been a fine-lookin’ man, guy. Instead of which, I’m nothin’ but a bag of bones.” He looked beseechingly at Cabal. Cabal looked back at him with a profound lack of sympathy.

    “Well, Bones, what do you expect me to do about it? An intravenous drip of melted butter, perhaps?”

    “D’ya think that would work?” asked Bones with piteous hope.

    “Not for a second. Look, in a little less than a year, all this”—he indicated the immediate environs—“goes, and you, my vain friend, return to the components whence I raised you. So—you must try to understand one simple thing. In one year’s time, there won’t be enough of you left to amuse a dog. Thus, I don’t care what you look like, and neither should you. Our immediate concern should be getting this show on the road. Now, are you going to help, or am I going to have to dispose of you as an unsuccessful experiment and try again?”

    Bones put his hands on his hips and allowed himself to slouch into a sassy pose not unlike a crane-fly with attitude. “You am de boss, baaaahss. Dis dumb-ass boy sure am yours to comman’, an’ ain’t dat de trufe?”

    “Excellent,” replied Cabal, unperturbed. “Now, come over here.”

    “I was bein’ sarcastic,” said Bones in his normal voice—a cadenced tone in a largely American accent with perhaps a hint of French growling through the long vowels—as he walked to where Cabal crouched by the stack of signs.

    “You were being tiresome. Look at these.”

    “Freaks, derring-do, eighth wonders of the world. Looks pretty standard sideshow stuff to me.”

    “So which ones are exciting? Which ones will people come from near and wide to see? I need to know.”

    Bones looked at him questioningly. “Why you askin’ me, boss? You the man with the plan, aren’t you?” He looked closely at Cabal. Cabal continued to go through the boards, trying to find the secret. “You have got a plan?”

    Cabal stood up and stepped away. He glared at the signs. “I don’t understand. Why would anybody want to waste their time looking at this sort of nonsense? It’s just rubbish! Bogus exhibits, deleterious mutations, lies! None of this is real! None of it’s lasting! They’re just…” He sagged. He hadn’t felt so useless in years. “Dreams. I don’t understand it.”

    Bones was having a few problems as well. “But you volunteered for this, didn’tcha? Him downstairs wouldn’t just sock you with this gig unless you knew what you were doing, would he?”

    “It’s … a wager.”

    “A bet?” If Bones had lived a generation for every one of the five minutes he had so far drawn breath, he still couldn’t have been more surprised. “You got a bet on with the Man himself? You’re crazy! Nobody ever wins against the Man! He’s …” Bones tried to think of a convincing metaphor. He failed. “He’s the MAN, man!”

    Behind the dark spectacles, fire returned to Cabal’s eyes. “He’s not going to win this one.”

    “You’re kiddin’ yourself!” muttered Bones with evident disdain. “Only folks in stories get the drop on His Satanic Luciferiness. Sorry to be the one to break the news