no more bark or bite [Eagle]

Clyde Duval

It said a lot about a persons personal hygiene to carry uncovered meat in their pocket. Highly unsanitary and unneeded. Was the person he had just filched this from one of those up in arms environmentalists concerned about the whither to's and why for's of paper and plastic? It wasn't as if either of things were in short supply, one was manufactured in seven and the other in nine. That was an open invitation for all manner of lint, dust, and those little specks that no on was ever sure came from or indeed what they were made of. What if the meat had gotten soaked through with sweat from his pores, giving it the unfortunate taste of human? What if the meat had fallen out of his pocket due to a hole? What would he do then, when his snack had been rolled around like it was being seasoned and breaded, except that the breading would actually be composed of the grime that had collected on the ground over the past few decades.

Take the piece of chewing gum that his foot had narrowly avoided stepping on. It was grey as a stone, and almost as hard. How long had it been stuck there, collecting a fine coating of dust as the elements transformed its properties. Was it once a stick of spicy cinnamon, as red as the raspberries in the fruit pie he had eaten for dessert only the previous night? Had it's blue minty freshness satisfied someones craving for icy goodness; or had its fruity deliciousness lasted only a few scant seconds before being disposed of like all things that had lost their flavor? There was also the possibility of it being one of those nasty medicinal gums meant to wean someone of their nicotine addiction or even one of those absurd meal in a stick things that they sold at several street corners. There was even the chance that it wasn't chewing gum at all, but the remainder of any one of a hundred and a half different things.

But how had such a thing come into existence? What event had led to the capitulating meeting of sidewalk and chewing gum? Was it as simple as a jaw growing weary of repetitive movement and spewing out its snack as it tired? Or was there more to the story? Perhaps two young lovers had been walking together with their heads on cloud nine, when one of them had leaned in for a kiss, the other immediately divesting themselves of the treat so as to avoid a potentially amusing yet embarrassing anecdote. Maybe a group of hooligans that were up to no good, seeking to start all manner of trouble in the nearby neighborhood had been eating various styles of candy, when one lad gave another a friendly clap on the back, causing him to cough, and lose the grip his teeth had on the treat. Could it have been that a mother told her child not to spoil there appetite with sweets, but the child, refusing to listen, was forced to spit the candy out on the sidewalk?

There was also the chance that a lady of the night, having been unable to find work, and bored of having a flavorless piece of gum in her mouth simply spat it on the floor in disgust before moving on to better hunting grounds. Is that what the girl named Charlotte Blair had done? Were her regular stomping grounds running dry of willing johns; forcing her to seek out a more wealthy side of town? That was one explanation that he had thought of in his spare time, entertaining the possibility that someone had offered her a deal far greater than the one he had, and that she was now living in some mansion as the mistress to some stuffed shirt. Of course, concerned with social standing, the man would never let her leave the house, and she would be subjected to all manner of cooking, cleaning, and childbearing.

Then again, this was the seedier side of town, and many of the inhabitants had severe mental or social problems. It wasn't a stretch to think that someone had refused to pay, and that her boss had taken it out on her, leaving her body in some forgotten alleyway as a warning to the rest of his workers about the necessity of the money he needed. Something could have gone wrong, and she could have been killed by someone who was supposed to pay her as well. People went missing in the district all the time; rumors of cannibals and slavery rings abounded, and that wasn't even counting the shady dealings that surrounded the Institute of Psychology like the leathery wings of a giant bat. The bodies, some living and some dead, that were delivered to that foreboding place every few nights were a cause for much concern.

However, the most likely scenario that had gone through his mind multiple times is that she had simply been picked up by a patrol and deposited for a stay in the Hotel Du Detention. Though Peacekeepers never seemed to have any trouble sampling such wares, that didn't change the fact that her livelihood was honestly illegal. There were plenty of people to piss off in the district, and who cared if another person disappeared? Clyde Duval for one, who made it a point to avoid the law bringers like the plague, barring that one altercation in which Clyde had found himself in deep trouble. That situation with Hemlock Buxby; or was it Nilhock Bumblebee? Though Clyde prided himself on his attention to detail, when he was put into a terrible position, it mattered little to remember the finer points of what had happened, as what he had been most concerned with was getting away in one piece.

In any case, he had learned some valuable lessons from tangling with DryDock Cruxly, chief among them to never again attempt to pickpocket someone in the dead of night when poor lighting does nothing to reveal what kind of clothes they are wearing, and certainly not when the mark in question was dangerously close to the Justice Building. Another lesson he had learned was the importance of cardiovascular exercise in his day to day routine, for not only had the Peacekeeper managed to keep up with him, but had overtaken him and inflicted bodily harm on his delicate constitution. There was merit to be said for having a large vocabulary as well. Clyde wasn't sure whether it had been his dialogue or his dashing good looks that had given the keeper pause, but in any case, once he had retrieved his wallet, he appeared to lose all interest in Clyde altogether, which allowed him to quietly slip away into the night as unnoticeable as the syringe in the gutter.

It was shattered, bits of glass all over the place like tiny crystals of ice around the rusty looking needle. Drops of amber liquid clung to what was left of the container, drying into a molasses like substance that was both viscous and gummy. It was a common enough sight to be had, and Clyde wondered briefly whether the needles owner was shivering in some alleyway or if they were rotting away in the morgue; or worse, being experimented upon behind closed doors as a disturbed doctor examined the effects of continued Morphling usage on the humann body. Clyde had never wanted to try the substance himself, feeling that it would cloud his reaction time, dulling his senses and making his daily activities far more difficult than they had to be.

Take for example, the cry of outrage that reached his ears from somewhere behind him. Half-turning, the previous owner of the beef was in hot pursuit. But was it beef? Clyde dared not taste it, as it was probably germ covered from the lack of a protective wrapper. As he sniffed it though, he could not place the scent. It was not quite pork, nor beef. Venison perhaps? Maybe he'd ask the man about it. For he was not in the mood to lead someone on a merry jaunt around the streets, too tired to deal with all of that nonsense. No, he'd use a formula that was tried and true, the old "You dropped this" Always worked fairly well. He was not intimidated by the height, though he as at least five inches taller than Clyde, if not more.

What was slightly more disturbing was the coal black eyes matched by the jet black hair that fell over said ocular cavities. It was an interesting length, and Clyde wasn't sure if it was styled or not. As he yelled for Clyde to give it back, he caught a glimpse of yellowed crooked teeth. That was usually a good indication of a poor diet, which, if his diet consisted solely of dried strips of meat, was a very good indication of a down on his luck fellow. Or one that simply did not want to use a toothbrush. Could he be an abuser of substances? This too was a possibility. A pity considering what he had wanted to do with the days earnings. At this rate he'd barely be able to afford a bag of potato chips like the empty one what whirled away in an updraft on wind.

It blew away like the promise he had made to Charlotte, the deal he had offered. What was there to dislike about a constant paycheck and protection in exchange for nothing but a listening ear. No need for any of her varied services, just the need for a friend. Was that so wrong that it necessitated the complete banishment of the one person he wanted to get to know better? The universe had a funny way of working things out sometimes. As the man came closer, Clyde slowed to a stop, noting the callused hands and the dirt that covered them. It was just too bad that the mark he had picked was clearly homeless and down on his luck. Putting his hands up non-threateningly, he graced his mouth with a smirk.

It should be easy enough to get out of this situation, easy as taking candy from a baby; or well, a meat strip from a vagrant. Not only was anyone who carried unwrapped food in their linty pockets dirty, it was likely that they were also lacking skills in either the mental or social areas of the brain, if not both. It should be naught but child's play to convince the tall smelly stranger that the beef fell out of his pocket, and that Clyde had merely seen in on the ground and decided to pick it up. The only major flaw with that explanation is why he want to pick up dusty meat from the ground. It wasn't as if he looked like he was starving, plus he kept himself rather clean cut and dressed to boot. Still, he had to say something to begin the process of smoothing things over after a failed filching.

"You dropped this delectable dainty my good sir. I merely retrieved it and would have returned it post haste, but I was racking my brain to decipher what your treat was composed of. Here you are. Take it back then."

And so began a battle of the wits, a battle, possibly for the ages. It was Clyde's desire to get this over with before it turned into an ordeal equal to the one he had suffered through with Silkshot Bellsky. But this was not a peacekeeper out for a walk at night, no, this was just a fool coming after him in broad daylight for a glorified piece of bacon. It wasn't like he has taken a wallet or jewelry or a fine watch. he hadn't even taken a checkbook. How angry could the guy be? How much could something like that really be worth. Clyde supposed it might be worth something if there wasn't anything else for the poor sap to eat that day.

But what was the other guy really going to do? Clyde didn't scare easy; barring peacekeepers with sadistic tendencies of course.