"I think I'll write a novel," said the Doc idly, as he lit his cigar. The other card players said nothing, intent upon their poker faces. They were the elite of the White Picket Gang, and they were currently engaged in that form of wealth redistribution called “gambling.” This was the quintessential final step of the paperwork process: they had carefully, properly worked through the financial paperwork (neatly organised in filing cabinets at the back of the room), made a list, checked it twice, and were currently eating pizza (no need for them to check if they’re naughty or nice). Its remains littered the backroom of the gang’s headquarters, a warehouse on forty-first street. It was a squashed place, with a table, several folding chairs, and room for little else save the filing cabinets. On the table were all manner of drinks and two types of chips - poker, and salt and vinegar.
The Doc took a drag on his cigar, puffing the smoke out to the side, and tossed a card into the ring. They did pokery things, things beyond the Author's feeble comprehension, for a moment, until he resumed, his voice accompanied only by silence and the slap of cards.
"It will be a cultivation novel, of course."
Slap.
"It will expose the dark underbelly of the cultivation world."
Slap.
"Not the violence of the cultivation world - I don't believe in beating a dead horse; it's a form of animal cruelty - but its sheer meaninglessness. Yes, I can see the opening line now-"
But before he could relate this opening line, people started calling out inscrutable commands like "fold" and "flush" - as if bending paper or depressing a toilet lever had anything to do with gambling - and the table became a flurry of excitement as cards and chips were tossed all over the place. When things calmed the Doc took all his winnings (I have since been informed that he had an excellent hand, but while it's true that his fingers were lovely and narrow and his nails clean I fail to see why this would incline others to give him money), and started narrating his future smash hit as if nothing had happened.
"-'what was he doing. Day and night, he asked him that; and when day blended into night, he stopped asking. It all started to blend into each other - journey from secret realm to tournament to secret realm, one exotic locale after another. And then there were the nights - the pills, the dual cultivation, the constant, petty fights. Henry popped another couple purification pills down his throat, gurgling, and stared blearily at the dawn. Or was it the sunset? He knew-"
"Boss! Boss, we got a problem!" Tommothy cried, bursting through the door into their underground speakeasy, blood streaming down his face. He face with flush with exertion, and he was folded at the waist as he sought to catch his breath. (So THAT'S why they call them "fold" and "flush" - because doing them leaves you out of breath.) The Doc raised one finger for quiet, motioning for him to catch his breath.
"Yes, yes we do have a problem, and a big one. I'm planning out my Pelb Prize-winning novel, and I can't think of a name. I was going to go with Tropic of Cultivation, but that sounds too derivative. But enough about me - how can I help you?"
Tommothy's recounting of the events of last chapter was scarcely coherent. This was not entirely his fault, for Yaaroghkh's polite attempt to get him to put down the club and have a reasonable conversation had shattered his mind, and for every coherent word the gangsters could get out of him they had to listen to ten times those words in raving. The gist of what he said, as far they could make it, was as follows:
Tommothy and his brethren in the White Picket Gang had been carefully unloading some kickboards to fence when they had become aware that another cultivator was spying on them. When they had called him out, however, they had not discovered not another First Circuit cultivator from one of the other gangs, but some Cimmerian monstrosity of indescribable countenance, something so unutterably alien to our plane that it couldn't even fully manifest within it, but flickered within the storm of its own devising. (In fact that was the result of Yaaroghkh's movement technique, the Flickering of the Crystal Seals - reality would never deny him the right to manifest as much or as little of himself as he so desired.)
After giving the lot of them a good thrashing, the abomination from beyond hell had chased Tommothy down the street, the former slipping and sliding over the wintery ice, the latter howling and ululating in a blasphemous blot upon normality. (The translation, rendered out of the eleventh dimension, was something to the effect of "I say sir, it's all well and good if you want to go for a jog, but I'd appreciate it if you'd answer my questions first." But of course I'm missing the sentence's nuance and full range of emotional expression.)
Eventually a panicking Tommothy had taken a wrong turn, and instead of entering the warehouse on twenty-four forty-first street (where the illegal poker game was taking place) he entered the warehouse on forty-two forty-first street.
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
He had been momentarily thrown by the rows of heartwarming orphans in cages (the White Picket Gang didn't hold with that sort of behaviour), but didn't have the time or energy to do anything about it, and anyways the men guarding them looked like nasty customers.
The same could not be said for the illimitable embodiment of endless void following him, which upon seeing the heartwarming orphans in their cages released an almighty roar and began laying into the kidnappers faster than the Author could write ‘Content Warning’. (The translation of the roar was as follows: ROAR. Unlike in the former instance, I believe I’ve fully captured the depth and nuance of the sentence: my translation skills must be getting better.)
This had given Tommothy the time he needed to get away and find his employers, bringing us back to the present in our story.
Tommothy’s story was dimly received. The other card players scoffed, and asked how he expected anyone to believe such nonsense, although the Doc remained silent. They said that he must have suffered a nasty fall, or been ambushed by a superior - but still completely normal - cultivator, and made up the story out of embarrassment. The Doc merely stood up and checked Tommothy’s pulse, then began applying qi to the most injured portions of his body (the mind would have to wait till later).
Tommothy himself reeled with uncertainty. He had seen the monster, of that he was sure, but the particulars were hazy in his mind and his memory of the entire encounter was like a candle in the wind, on the verge of blowing out.
In fact he would all but certainly have accepted the claim that he never saw any noxious and repellant execration had there not, just at that moment, come the sound of bloodcurdling screams from the door. Screams, and plap, plap, plap, as something entered the warehouse, and lumbered obscenely towards the card players.
The other players looked at each other, smirking, and remained sitting in their chairs. The Doc motioned Tommothy towards the back entrance - an escape the latter was only too happy to make - but himself sat back down, drawing another puff on his cigar.
Plap, plap, plap, the thing went, and then one rubbery yet vulpine arm reached around the cardroom door. A single, bulbous eye, floating at the end of a stalk, followed. By the time a webbed foot landed on the floor, however, only the Doc was left in the room.
The rest of the thing followed, crawling slowly on arched feet until it stood where Tommothy had stood and been mocked not five minutes prior. It observed the Doc quietly.
The Doc gazed at the creature, letting nothing pass by him. Then he poured a tumbler of brandy and offered it to the elf. “Care for a glass?”
By this time, it had occurred to Yaaroghkh (for it was Yaaroghkh, our novel’s intrepid and adorable hero, who had chased Tommothy to the warehouse, and not some other dashingly handsome eldritch abomination) that maybe talking in the ancient and extinct language of Drazh-kran was a poor way of trying to communicate, and so it was that, as one long, sinewy tentacle grabbed the glass, a hoarse and accented voice thanked the Doc kindly.
The Doc poured himself a tumbler, downing it in a single shot. He tapped the glass on the card table and began speaking calmly.
“So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Am I speaking to the Doc?”
The Doc blinked. Well, he’d always expected it would end like this. Live with the darkness long enough and sooner or later it will consume you, although he’d never expected the darkness to be wearing a cute sweater and pointed hat when it did. He poured himself another shot, downing it immediately.
“That’s what they call me, although my name is Caedes. Can you at least tell me who I angered?”
Four dozen eyes blinked, and a single claw scratched at a loose fold of flesh. “Angered? Why would I know?”
“Well you came for me, didn’t you?” The Doc (real name Caedes) replied, bemused. He poured another shot for himself, and the thing held out its tumbler for him to refill (although he couldn’t recall ever having seen the creature drink the contents).
“Sure. When I accidentally entered your warehouse, one of the men kept screaming your name in his mind. You seemed like a knowledgeable guy, so I followed him back here to talk to you.”
Caedes stared at the thing. It stared back, probably (it was a little hard to tell, given the nightmarish geometry the thing occupied). Then he burst into laughter.
“Oh man, I really need to teach those guys situational awareness, and not just cultivation. Oh bloody hell.” And he continued to laugh, becoming more and more relaxed. Yaaroghkh just sat quietly. Humans were strange, and he’d never understood them.
At last Caedes returned to a more normal state of mind, and still chuckling asked Yaaroghkh why he was looking for a man of knowledge. Yaaroghkh was a trusting fellow, and with someone finally - finally - showing some willingness to speak to him was more than happy to oblige. He spilled the whole story, from the assault on Santa’s workshop, to the giving of the task, to his journey to the City of Tombstones and his decision to find an expert in the art of evil. Caedes was a good listener - attentive, enthusiastic, and interjecting only during the pauses, and only with requests for clarification - and the hours flew by uninterrupted as the two talked (uninterrupted because everyone else who might have gone to the warehouse was hiding in a safehouse on the other side of town).
At last Yaaroghkh reached the end of his story, and came to the crucial question:
“So, are you an expert in the art of evil?”
Caedes leaned forwards, elbows on his knees, and gave Yaaroghkh a broad grin. “Am I an expert in the art of evil? Oh buddy, nobody knows evil quite like me.”