Limitless Evolution As a Snake

The fake version of me had knees, which meant somebody had spent money improving my anatomy before bothering to ask whether I wanted employment.

He stepped into reception carrying a cardboard duck almost as tall as himself. Cherry took the advertising board, read the promised private experience, and turned it around before the waiting guests could become too interested.

”Who’s paying you?” Lyra asked, while I watched through her phone and quietly developed several new opinions about family.

”The liquidation company,” he said. ”They paid the rehearsal rate, but Mr. Hansen said the real performer might need encouragement before accepting the main booking.”

”Tell him the real performer needs an uncle-shaped punching bag, although he currently has to admire it from bed.”

Lyra repeated the useful part, leaving out my medical complaint. The man pulled the padded hood back, revealing an ordinary tired face that hadn’t deserved whatever Hansen had sold him.

”I just do mascots,” he said. ”Last week I was a mushroom giving financial advice, and nobody warned me the mushroom company had collapsed.”

Cherry offered him toast. I revised my assessment from enemy to unfortunate NPC trapped inside my brand.

[System: Poor bastard’s gone from bankrupt fungus to your family, mate. His career’s a guided tour of things that should’ve stayed in the bloody dark.]

We could at least make the next part worth his rehearsal money.

Hansen remained on the connected call, breathing like he had personally invented being inconvenienced. I asked whether his exclusive performer was ready for the routine.

”That isn’t necessary,” he said, which made it necessary immediately.

The mascot explained that his instructions required a victory dance, a suggestive tail flourish, and an announcement about my family’s continuing support. The costume tail had been attached too low, giving the whole performance an argument with gravity before it began.

”We should hear the announcement first, because my uncle’s support usually arrives with poison and a demand for repayment.”

Bridget rested her phone where we could both see. ”If this man was paid to rehearse, he should be allowed to finish his work. Hansen can explain why he hired a different species afterward.”

Lyra’s laugh came through clearly enough to ease something tight in my chest. I had missed that sound without a warning attached to it.

The man attempted the dance. His padded tail struck the cardboard duck, which fell against the reception desk and knocked over Hansen’s reserved chair. Cherry caught the chair before it reached the floor, then set the duck in its place.

”There we go,” she told him. ”Your employer’s representative has arrived, and it looks much easier to negotiate with.”

Hansen swore. The performer stopped, but I told him he had done excellent work and could keep eating while the adults embarrassed themselves.

Lyra photographed his booking sheet. It carried Hansen’s approval beside a promise that I would provide a personal appearance and access to the club’s dancers. No signatures from me, the women, or the dancers appeared anywhere.

The broker finally stopped describing the situation as a misunderstanding.

”Your uncle represented himself as authorized,” he said. ”Our offer depended on the attraction actually being available.”

”My uncle represented himself as solvent too, so I would start checking the rest of his nouns.”

[System: Ask whether the bloke’s even a qualified uncle, mate. At this point I’d want references from somebody who wasn’t currently trying to repossess his trousers.]

I had already checked the unfortunate family connection, and there was no return window.

Hansen tried blaming me for the lack of cash. I happily accepted that particular accusation, then asked whether the broker understood why handing an angry broke man control of a paid event might end poorly.

Nobody answered for several seconds, which was the closest that morning came to useful peace.

Bridget broke it by asking about the rest of the package. ”If you built a whole attraction around him, what else did Hansen promise?”

The broker sent an inventory to Lyra’s phone. She forwarded it to Bridget, who read it beside me while Cherry gave the performer another slice of toast.

There were cold counters, chrome taps, a cheese display, and enough used catering equipment to give Old Mate a reason to stop insulting my family.

He stood on his barstool so quickly that his drink sloshed across the counter.

[System: That’s a milk bar, you magnificent pool noodle. Proper cold spearmint, strawberry on tap, cheese behind glass, and not one smug bastard explaining the emotional journey of a lettuce leaf.]

You had described a dairy counter as if it were returning from war.

[System: Some of us have been through things, mate, and one of those things was paying nine dollars for a coffee that tasted like wet fence.]

I wanted the taps immediately, which was why I asked Lyra to look at the prices before my enthusiasm became another hospital expense.

She agreed, then told Bridget which of my interested silences meant I was calculating and which meant I had already decided to do something stupid.

”He gets that particular look when he thinks a purchase might impress us,” Lyra said.

Bridget looked at my face. ”Then I owe you an apology, because I thought he was fighting a painkiller.”

I liked them together far too much to defend myself properly.

The broker said the equipment came from a closed entertainment venue. Hansen had offered to arrange shipping in exchange for a commission he would receive only after the event succeeded. He hadn’t funded the stock, owned the warehouse, or acquired a sudden new fortune.

His entire investment was apparently me failing to read the bottom of a page.

Cherry pointed at the final item on the inventory and asked why a mechanical cow needed a military disposal certificate.

Bridget enlarged the attached photograph. The plastic cow wore a cheerful pink bow, but the long metal unit under its platform belonged to something that had once been launched at a ship.

The label beneath it read DECOMMISSIONED TORPEDO DRIVE, while Hansen’s handwritten note called the whole package a quiet family attraction.