Geppetto's is a trashy club on the Southside. It's where all the puppets hang out. By the time I get there night is in full swing. Marionettes are hanging from the roof dancing on air. Ventriloquist dummies are signing to each other, debating whether to buy time with misfit toys pedaling ass across the street, and hand puppets are well on the way to raging brawls about nothing.
"Fuck you Judy!"
"That's what I want. Fuck me Punch, or I'll beat you with this stick."
"That's a dildo."
"It can be two things!"
Neon Jumpin' Jacks flank the entrance, and as I try to step inside a glance from them sends a giant chocolate éclair into my path.
"We're full," he says.
Looking up at the towering figure I say, "One for a short bit. Can't hurt."
He folds his arms across his chest.
Throwing my hands up I saunter off. Sometimes a subtle approach is necessary. Trouble out front might send who I'm looking for out the back. So the second I'm out of sight I double back. Sneaking around I find the backdoor locked. Fortunately a busboy happens to step outside to get cinnamon toasted. Promising not to rat him out gets him to hold the door, and I'm in.
Geppetto's is a place full of glitz, but not enough to hide there's zero glamour. It's the kind of spot folks go to pretend they aren't bottom feeders sucking the dirt for gold.
Grabbing a waitress by the string I gently pull her over to ask, "Where's Collodi?"
She points to the bar. Surrounded by a swarm of sycophants, the prince of puppets stands basking in their admiration. Head designer in Big Red's workshop, Collodi is the elf to see if someone wants refurbishing, a second chance to go out in the world. When it comes to toys what stays here is often the overstock. Promised a good life -- tomorrow, always tomorrow -- like teenage orphans they soon find nobody wants them. It's all about the new shit. The best they can hope for is a dead end job so they can buy a fistful of butterscotch barbiturates that let's 'em die in their sleep.
Closing in on Collodi I overhear him say, "Sure baby, I can remake you. It's a simple procedure, you'll be the latest doll, but what are you going to do for me beautiful?"
I say, "She'll tell you there's something big 'n' creepy lurking behind you."
Collodi slowly turns. Swallowing hard he puts on a smile that isn't fooling anyone.
Throwing his arms wide he says, "Rudy! When did you get to town?"
"We need to talk."
He nods, "Okay. In private though." Turning to the puppet he says, "I'll be right back."
Something about that doesn't make me feel good. Fortunately, I've got the gun in my pocket. I just hope he can tell by my face tonight is not the night to screw around.
Collodi leads the way to a private booth. Once inside I pull the curtain shut, while Collodi slides to the other end of a crescent seat. I watch his hands, half expecting him to reach for a gun underneath, but he keeps them in plain view.
Sitting across from him I get right to it, "You know about Vixen?"
He smirks, "Do you?"
"What the fuck does that mean?"
He shrugs. I pull out the gun. The cherry goes out of his cheeks.
Milk white he says, "Take it easy Rudy. You don't want to do anything stupid."
"Then tell me something smart."
He says, "Okay, but you might not like what you hear."
"So sugar coat it."
"Vixen..." Before he says anymore the curtain flaps open. In steps two nutcrackers sporting red and green Uzis.
I say, "Make a move, and he's dead."
Collodi frowns, "Where the fuck've you been?"
One nutcracker says, "Making a phone call."
"Phone call? Do what you're paid for."
"Yes, sir," the nutcracker replies. Next thing I know the cracker is emptying his clip into Collodi. It catches me off guard, though no one's as surprised as Collodi. As the nutcracker fires I notice a wood-burn etching on his wrist. Before I fully recognize it, he tosses me the empty Uzi, and like an idiot I catch the damn thing.
The other nutcracker throws open the curtain, and shouts, "He's got a gun!"
The whole nightclub goes into a panic. Seems they were all hesitating, hoping the gunfire somehow might've been part of the music -- EDM is like that. The nutcracker's holler, that's all anyone needs to stampede. Puppets are pulling themselves into the rafters, or charging for the door. Meanwhile, the nutcrackers are riding the flood to a nearby exit.
Dropping the Uzi I look at Collodi. His eyes are rolling, but he isn't dead. Taking a chance I go over to him.
Quick as I can I search his pockets. I find a book of matches, but not much else.
Suddenly Collodi grabs me by the wrist. Eyes staring vacantly he says, "I's s'pposed to see her change... everything."
Then he died, blood glistening on his lips. Turning I see the éclair pushing his way through the surging mob. Pocketing my gun I exit. Bursting out the back door I hoof it to my bike faster than I've ever run. I'm roaring away from Geppetto's thinking none of this makes sense. Then I remember the matches.
Glancing at them is a hint. Purple cursive on a black background reads Sugar Plums. No other options I head there.
#
The giant clock at the center of town is tolling midnight when I arrive. Sugar Plums is a gingerbread brothel in a part of the city I could get arrested just for being in. It's the kind of place the rich like to have close at hand, though they always pretend it isn't there. A fountain out front of the joint is bubbling with lemonade, orangeade, orgeat, and currant syrup. The cobblestone driveway is made of hard candy, and the whole building smells freshly baked. I can hear a celesta playing within alongside the sound of rowdy laughter.
An elf valet sneers at my motorcycle as I roll up.
Parking I say, "Don't touch it."
"Wouldn't dream of it," he says, "Filthy."
I can't really be sure if he means me, or the bike, but I take it as a compliment either way.
Marching through the entrance it's immediately clear I don't belong here. Everyone is wearing some kind of evening get-up, except for the hookers. Fairies in lingerie escort teddy bears in tuxedos through ribbon candy curtains to private areas. A plush doll in nothing but a thong sashays by a leering group of rabbits in top hats. It isn't long, however, until eyes are coming my way. Something about the reindeer in a leather jacket, his blood red nose, and ripped jeans doesn't fit. Their obvious discomfort makes me smile.
I feel an arm gently coil around mine, and a luscious voice whispers in my ear, "This is not your scene."
"No shit." Glancing over I see a fairy in a red dress, the edges trimmed in white fur.
A gentle pull suggests I let her take the lead. There's an authority to her, subtle but tangible. Not wanting to cause a scene, not yet anyway, I follow her. Making our way through the mansion we chat softly.
"What brings you here?" she asks.
Taking a stab in the dark I say, "Vixen sent me."
Smiling and waving to customers she says, "I doubt that."
"Why?"
"Because she knows better than to send someone like you here. No offense."
I nod, "None taken. This isn't my usual hang out."
"Then let's not play games," she says.
"I've never been one for games."
We go through a chocolate door into a cozy little office. She takes a seat behind a large desk. She blinks, and the softness is gone from her eyes.
She says, "I'm Ostergren, and you must be Rudolph."
Tapping my nose I say, "What gave it away?"
Setting a cigarette in a long filter Ostergren says, "So why are you here? Really."
I get a feeling lying to her is a waste of time, so I lay everything bare. From start to finish I give her the whole story. Along the way I recall that wood-burn, though I keep it to myself. Some cards need to be kept secret. Still, by the time her cigarette is finished she knows most everything I do.
At the end I ask, "Do you know what Collodi meant?"
Nodding Ostergren says, "I'm afraid I do, though I don't know if I should tell you. How should I put this? You see, I don't like to take sides unless I'm sure who's going to win. Do you follow?"
I say, "I think so. Vixen got mixed up in something. Whatever it is, folks expect it to change things. Those same people probably asked if you'd go with 'em down whatever rabbit hole they're planning for."
Ostergren softly claps, "Bravo. The only question left is who those folks are."
"I don't suppose you want to tell me."
She raises an eyebrow, "You already know one."
I frown, "If you mean Vixen, I got a bad feeling she's dead."
"If I've learned one thing running this place it's that looks can be deceiving." Rising she says, "Now, if you please, a fellow like you makes my customers uncomfortable."
I smirk, "And when they're uncomfortable they don't..."
"Spend," she cuts in. Coming around the desk her wings flutter letting loose a shower of purple sparks. The glittery rain fades as it sinks to the floor. For a moment I think she's cruising in for a kill, but then in a blink the softness is back in her eyes. Still, that doesn't mean I'm safe. So when she smiles warmly, gesturing at the door, I take the hint and leave.
Getting on my bike, however, I keep thinking about that wood-burn. The nutcracker owned an etching of a reindeer. Maybe if he hadn't been unloading a clip into Collodi I'd've recognized it right off the bat. It's a design usually sported by flier guards.
Flier protection is a high level position. Some nutcrackers spend their whole lives aspiring to get it, and only those in the detail sport that etching. If he got reassigned to watching over a puppet maker that can only mean a demotion -- fallen from grace.
Glancing back I can see the fairy madam watching me from a window. I nod, she waves, and with that I'm off. Motoring along I figure there's one person who might know about a disgraced nutcracker.
I'm not out of the driveway five seconds before lights are flashing behind me. The old familiar flare of red and blue. Just for spite I take my time pulling over.
Looking over my shoulder I don't know why I'm surprised to see Elfberg and Milkshake. Detective Elfberg emerges from the passenger side.
As he saunters over I ask, "Something I can help you with detective?"
He replies, "If you'd be so kind, Rudy. We got a few question we'd like to ask."
"Down at the station?" It's practically a rhetorical question. The answer's yes, but I need to stall, time to figure what to do with my gun.
"It won't take more than an hour, or two. Tops."
"You promise?"
He spreads a smile full of butter yellow teeth. I've seen it before. Nothing good is coming, but unless I want a legion of cops chasing me all over the city there's only one choice.
Revving my engine I ask where to go. He says to simply follow them. So I do, and sooner than I want we arrive at the station.
"Fuck you Judy!"
"That's what I want. Fuck me Punch, or I'll beat you with this stick."
"That's a dildo."
"It can be two things!"
Neon Jumpin' Jacks flank the entrance, and as I try to step inside a glance from them sends a giant chocolate éclair into my path.
"We're full," he says.
Looking up at the towering figure I say, "One for a short bit. Can't hurt."
He folds his arms across his chest.
Throwing my hands up I saunter off. Sometimes a subtle approach is necessary. Trouble out front might send who I'm looking for out the back. So the second I'm out of sight I double back. Sneaking around I find the backdoor locked. Fortunately a busboy happens to step outside to get cinnamon toasted. Promising not to rat him out gets him to hold the door, and I'm in.
Geppetto's is a place full of glitz, but not enough to hide there's zero glamour. It's the kind of spot folks go to pretend they aren't bottom feeders sucking the dirt for gold.
Grabbing a waitress by the string I gently pull her over to ask, "Where's Collodi?"
She points to the bar. Surrounded by a swarm of sycophants, the prince of puppets stands basking in their admiration. Head designer in Big Red's workshop, Collodi is the elf to see if someone wants refurbishing, a second chance to go out in the world. When it comes to toys what stays here is often the overstock. Promised a good life -- tomorrow, always tomorrow -- like teenage orphans they soon find nobody wants them. It's all about the new shit. The best they can hope for is a dead end job so they can buy a fistful of butterscotch barbiturates that let's 'em die in their sleep.
Closing in on Collodi I overhear him say, "Sure baby, I can remake you. It's a simple procedure, you'll be the latest doll, but what are you going to do for me beautiful?"
I say, "She'll tell you there's something big 'n' creepy lurking behind you."
Collodi slowly turns. Swallowing hard he puts on a smile that isn't fooling anyone.
Throwing his arms wide he says, "Rudy! When did you get to town?"
"We need to talk."
He nods, "Okay. In private though." Turning to the puppet he says, "I'll be right back."
Something about that doesn't make me feel good. Fortunately, I've got the gun in my pocket. I just hope he can tell by my face tonight is not the night to screw around.
Collodi leads the way to a private booth. Once inside I pull the curtain shut, while Collodi slides to the other end of a crescent seat. I watch his hands, half expecting him to reach for a gun underneath, but he keeps them in plain view.
Sitting across from him I get right to it, "You know about Vixen?"
He smirks, "Do you?"
"What the fuck does that mean?"
He shrugs. I pull out the gun. The cherry goes out of his cheeks.
Milk white he says, "Take it easy Rudy. You don't want to do anything stupid."
"Then tell me something smart."
He says, "Okay, but you might not like what you hear."
"So sugar coat it."
"Vixen..." Before he says anymore the curtain flaps open. In steps two nutcrackers sporting red and green Uzis.
I say, "Make a move, and he's dead."
Collodi frowns, "Where the fuck've you been?"
One nutcracker says, "Making a phone call."
"Phone call? Do what you're paid for."
"Yes, sir," the nutcracker replies. Next thing I know the cracker is emptying his clip into Collodi. It catches me off guard, though no one's as surprised as Collodi. As the nutcracker fires I notice a wood-burn etching on his wrist. Before I fully recognize it, he tosses me the empty Uzi, and like an idiot I catch the damn thing.
The other nutcracker throws open the curtain, and shouts, "He's got a gun!"
The whole nightclub goes into a panic. Seems they were all hesitating, hoping the gunfire somehow might've been part of the music -- EDM is like that. The nutcracker's holler, that's all anyone needs to stampede. Puppets are pulling themselves into the rafters, or charging for the door. Meanwhile, the nutcrackers are riding the flood to a nearby exit.
Dropping the Uzi I look at Collodi. His eyes are rolling, but he isn't dead. Taking a chance I go over to him.
Quick as I can I search his pockets. I find a book of matches, but not much else.
Suddenly Collodi grabs me by the wrist. Eyes staring vacantly he says, "I's s'pposed to see her change... everything."
Then he died, blood glistening on his lips. Turning I see the éclair pushing his way through the surging mob. Pocketing my gun I exit. Bursting out the back door I hoof it to my bike faster than I've ever run. I'm roaring away from Geppetto's thinking none of this makes sense. Then I remember the matches.
Glancing at them is a hint. Purple cursive on a black background reads Sugar Plums. No other options I head there.
#
The giant clock at the center of town is tolling midnight when I arrive. Sugar Plums is a gingerbread brothel in a part of the city I could get arrested just for being in. It's the kind of place the rich like to have close at hand, though they always pretend it isn't there. A fountain out front of the joint is bubbling with lemonade, orangeade, orgeat, and currant syrup. The cobblestone driveway is made of hard candy, and the whole building smells freshly baked. I can hear a celesta playing within alongside the sound of rowdy laughter.
An elf valet sneers at my motorcycle as I roll up.
Parking I say, "Don't touch it."
"Wouldn't dream of it," he says, "Filthy."
I can't really be sure if he means me, or the bike, but I take it as a compliment either way.
Marching through the entrance it's immediately clear I don't belong here. Everyone is wearing some kind of evening get-up, except for the hookers. Fairies in lingerie escort teddy bears in tuxedos through ribbon candy curtains to private areas. A plush doll in nothing but a thong sashays by a leering group of rabbits in top hats. It isn't long, however, until eyes are coming my way. Something about the reindeer in a leather jacket, his blood red nose, and ripped jeans doesn't fit. Their obvious discomfort makes me smile.
I feel an arm gently coil around mine, and a luscious voice whispers in my ear, "This is not your scene."
"No shit." Glancing over I see a fairy in a red dress, the edges trimmed in white fur.
A gentle pull suggests I let her take the lead. There's an authority to her, subtle but tangible. Not wanting to cause a scene, not yet anyway, I follow her. Making our way through the mansion we chat softly.
"What brings you here?" she asks.
Taking a stab in the dark I say, "Vixen sent me."
Smiling and waving to customers she says, "I doubt that."
"Why?"
"Because she knows better than to send someone like you here. No offense."
I nod, "None taken. This isn't my usual hang out."
"Then let's not play games," she says.
"I've never been one for games."
We go through a chocolate door into a cozy little office. She takes a seat behind a large desk. She blinks, and the softness is gone from her eyes.
She says, "I'm Ostergren, and you must be Rudolph."
Tapping my nose I say, "What gave it away?"
Setting a cigarette in a long filter Ostergren says, "So why are you here? Really."
I get a feeling lying to her is a waste of time, so I lay everything bare. From start to finish I give her the whole story. Along the way I recall that wood-burn, though I keep it to myself. Some cards need to be kept secret. Still, by the time her cigarette is finished she knows most everything I do.
At the end I ask, "Do you know what Collodi meant?"
Nodding Ostergren says, "I'm afraid I do, though I don't know if I should tell you. How should I put this? You see, I don't like to take sides unless I'm sure who's going to win. Do you follow?"
I say, "I think so. Vixen got mixed up in something. Whatever it is, folks expect it to change things. Those same people probably asked if you'd go with 'em down whatever rabbit hole they're planning for."
Ostergren softly claps, "Bravo. The only question left is who those folks are."
"I don't suppose you want to tell me."
She raises an eyebrow, "You already know one."
I frown, "If you mean Vixen, I got a bad feeling she's dead."
"If I've learned one thing running this place it's that looks can be deceiving." Rising she says, "Now, if you please, a fellow like you makes my customers uncomfortable."
I smirk, "And when they're uncomfortable they don't..."
"Spend," she cuts in. Coming around the desk her wings flutter letting loose a shower of purple sparks. The glittery rain fades as it sinks to the floor. For a moment I think she's cruising in for a kill, but then in a blink the softness is back in her eyes. Still, that doesn't mean I'm safe. So when she smiles warmly, gesturing at the door, I take the hint and leave.
Getting on my bike, however, I keep thinking about that wood-burn. The nutcracker owned an etching of a reindeer. Maybe if he hadn't been unloading a clip into Collodi I'd've recognized it right off the bat. It's a design usually sported by flier guards.
Flier protection is a high level position. Some nutcrackers spend their whole lives aspiring to get it, and only those in the detail sport that etching. If he got reassigned to watching over a puppet maker that can only mean a demotion -- fallen from grace.
Glancing back I can see the fairy madam watching me from a window. I nod, she waves, and with that I'm off. Motoring along I figure there's one person who might know about a disgraced nutcracker.
I'm not out of the driveway five seconds before lights are flashing behind me. The old familiar flare of red and blue. Just for spite I take my time pulling over.
Looking over my shoulder I don't know why I'm surprised to see Elfberg and Milkshake. Detective Elfberg emerges from the passenger side.
As he saunters over I ask, "Something I can help you with detective?"
He replies, "If you'd be so kind, Rudy. We got a few question we'd like to ask."
"Down at the station?" It's practically a rhetorical question. The answer's yes, but I need to stall, time to figure what to do with my gun.
"It won't take more than an hour, or two. Tops."
"You promise?"
He spreads a smile full of butter yellow teeth. I've seen it before. Nothing good is coming, but unless I want a legion of cops chasing me all over the city there's only one choice.
Revving my engine I ask where to go. He says to simply follow them. So I do, and sooner than I want we arrive at the station.
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