At first Baron Teague had been hesitant, but after discussing the matter with his closest advisers, in- cluding Cort Strasser, he decided a pyramid was just what he needed.
With almost superhuman effort Strasser had managed to keep from erupting into gales of laughter at the sight of his boss perched atop the pretentious construct, and word quickly escaped into Mocsin that the good baron was becoming loonier and loonier each day. It was an assumption Strasser had done nothing to suppress.
Cort Strasser had his own plans for Mocsin and for the ville’s leader.
“Balls,” league said confidently, rolling one of the spheres between two fleshy hands.
“That’s right,” Strasser agreed, ever the vigilant yes-man. “Balls.”
Teague didn’t appear to be impressed. He gave a great sigh that seemed to start low in the pit of his doughy stomach and then come hurtling out of his open mouth. Strasser and the other sec men in the room knew the signs. Their boss was bored. “So, this old fart’s no peddler or trader, since he offers nothing of value in the way of hard goods, correct?”
“Correct,” Strasser replied.
“And he’s too dried up to be worth fucking or selling his ass,” Teague continued. “So a thriving career as a male gaudy seems to be out.”
“Right.”
Teague leaned forward ever so slightly and fixed Doc with a contemptuous stare. “My question is, what do you have to offer me, old man?”
“First, uh, my good fellow,” Doc began, trying to summon the courage to ignore the men with high-powered weapons surrounding him and fixate instead on the unarmed baron.
“Baron,” Teague corrected in a frosty tone.
“My good, um, Baron,” Doc said nervously, but without pause, “I am not old. Haggard, yes, I will accept that description. But old, never.”
“Seems like you’re in a powerful world of denial, old man,” Strasser said, and the other men in the room chuckled. Teague didn’t acknowledge the crack, another sign of Strasser’s continually growing power, since a year ago the baron would have slapped his second-in-command down either verbally or physically for daring to comment during one of his interrogations.
Doc pressed on, keeping his chin high as he looked up at the seated baron of Mocsin. “Second, I am a teacher, a man of learning who wishes to share his knowledge.”
“Teacher?” A wash of confusion passed over Teague’s ruddy face. “Teach what?”
“The sciences,” Doc replied.
“Tech?” the baron asked with the first active look of interest he’d shown since Doc’s arrival.
Now it was Doc’s turn to be confused. “Beg pardon?”
“Tech. Hardware. Machines,” Teague replied impatiently. “You a fixer? I can always use a fixer. Or a techie. Know anything about engines? Comps? What’s your field?”
Doc shook his head sadly. “No, mechanical apparatuses are not my forte. ‘Tech’ is not my calling.”
Teague shook his head, already bored again. The siren call of the addict was starting to whisper in his ear, and he grew weary of discussing job descriptions with Doc Tanner. The glowing pipe, the oversized joint of happyweed, both were waiting for him and Teague wanted to feel the burning sensation between his lips and teeth.
But not until business was done. Baron Jordan Teague hadn’t backslid so much as to reveal his addiction openly to his underlings. At least, not yet.
“We have no use of theory here, Doctor,” he finally said. “I need men who can produce results. You sound like a user, a taker, a man with nothing to offer.”
“Begging your pardon, Baron Teague…?” Stras-ser said in a polite tone.
Teague matched it, answering as if they were seated together at a banquet table passing a basket of biscuits instead of deciding Doc’s fate. “Yes, Cort?” he asked.
Strasser stepped up beside Doc and placed a friendly arm around the man’s skinny shoulders. “I think you’ve got Doc all wrong. He does serve a purpose.”
Teague wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his purple robe. He needed a fix, and soon. “Enlighten me, please, Cort, for I sure as hell don’t see it.”
Strasser pulled back the friendly arm and used it to slap Doc on the back…hard. “He’s a fun guy, a clown. He can help keep us entertained. He tells great stories. Recites Shakespeare! Why, I bet he even sings and dances once you get a few beers in him.”