The Philosophical Strangler Eric Flint
The Philosophical Strangler Eric Flint
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
Prologue.
Entropy, and the Strangler
“To the contrary,” demurred Greyboar, toying with his mug,
“the secret lies entirely in the fingerwork.”
But the bravo wouldn’t have it. ” ‘Tis rather in the main force!” he bellowed, and fell upon the strangler. The table splintered, the mugs went flying in a cloud of ale froth.
Needless to say, I scrambled aside. Like being a chipmunk caught between two bull moose, don’t you know? Besides, there’s no profit in this sort of thing.
Safe at a distance, I stuck my head between two cheering onlookers and saw that my client was in his assailant’s grasp. The lout’s great biceps, triceps, deltoids, pectoids and whatnot bulged and rippled as he worked at Greyboar’s throat. Couldn’t find it, of course.
They’re a low lot, these tavern rowdies, not given to temperate debate.
Stupid, to boot. What I mean is, the outcome was never in doubt. “Professional fingerwork,” as Greyboar calls it, is simply beyond the ken of hurlyburlies who lounge about the alehouses, until they encounter it firsthand.
For this particular clown, personal experience had now arrived. Casually, Greyboar sank his hands into his opponent’s belly, kneading and squeezing. It must be like eating ten cucumbers at once. An astonished grimace came over the goon’s face.
“Fouled our breeches, have we?” chuckled the chokester. A good lad, Greyboar, but his humor runs in a low vein.
His jest made, the strangler proceeded to more serious business. A quick flip of the thumbs popped the bullyboy’s kneecaps. His victim now at eye level, Greyboar leaned back in his chair and shrugged off the hands which were still groping in the vicinity of where his neck would be if he had one.
“As I said,” he concluded, “it’s all in the fingerwork.”
Then, just as I thought we’d gotten out of the silly affair with no harm, wouldn’t you know it but that the barkeep had to go pour oil on the flames.
“And who’s going to pay for all this broken furniture?” he demanded. The barkeep’s voice was shrill, in keeping with his sour face. He looked down at the bullyboy, now writhing on the floor.
“Not Lothar, that’s for sure,” he whined. “Not much money to be made by a loan enforcer on crutches.”
That’s done it! I thought.
“Him?” exclaimed Greyboar. “A shark’s tooth?” His good humor vanished like the dew.
“And here it is,” I grumbled, “there’ll be lawsuits, damages, weeping widow and wailing tots, and the Old Geister knows what else.” I squirmed my way through the crowd.
“Greyboar, let’s be off!” There’s nothing worse than a usurer’s lawyers.
“Not quite yet,” growled the strangler, reaching for the doomee’s neck. But luck was with us. At that very moment the porkers arrived, a whole squad of them.
“What’s the disturbance here?” demanded the sergeant in charge, flattening the nearest patron with his bullystick. “You’re all under arrest!”
If we’d been in our usual haunts, quaffing our ale at The Sign of the Trough in the Flankn, the porkers wouldn’t have dared come in—not with less than a battalion, at any rate. Of course, if we’d been in the Flankn, where Greyboar’s well known, no bullyboy would have picked a fight with him in the first place. But I’ll give the patrons in that grimy little alehouse this much, they didn’t hesitate but a second before the benches were flying and the fracas was afoot.
I seized the propitious moment. “Out!” I hissed, grabbing the strangler’s elbow. “There’s no money to be made here.”
“Money, money, that’s all you think about,” grumbled Greyboar. “What then of ethics, and the meaning of life?”
“Save it for later.” I pulled him toward the rear exit. Fortunately, the strangler was willing to leave. He’s not the sort one drags from a tavern against his will, don’t you know. On our way out, a beefy porker blocked the route, leering and twirling his club, but Greyboar removed his face and that was that. Fingerwork, he calls it.