In Your Fiery Arms

Chapter 2:

Chapter Two

Edgar Artblitz was a cashier at the Hazel Family Grocery. He lived across the street from Carmine Trapper’s large quarters, in a one room apartment, which was scarcely furnished with a mismatching love seat and reclining chair. An un-made bed stood in the corner of the room, and no curtains framed the large, bare windows.

He stood much shorter than most middle-aged men you see, and was so extremely fat that he was almost round. His suits were always specially tailored (this explains why he couldn’t afford a better home). He had a large, crooked nose (he broke it at try-outs for the high school hockey team a long time ago, which he didn’t make). He had large, pale blue eyes, giving him an appearance almost alien-like, and his completely bald head was always protected from the glare of the bright sun over Borkshire by a black, tattered derby.

Now Edgar had always dreamed of being a meteorologist, and so, on this same fine afternoon, he was sitting in his threadbare red chair with his binoculars, next to the only window in his apartment with a good view of the sky from in-between the numerous skyscrapers that made up Borkshire. He had seen the hovercraft pull up (and was cursing it loudly from the safety of his room for blocking a particularly strange-looking cloud). He saw the rope extended, he had seen Emma’s curious blond head pop over, and he had seen the capture. He had seen, gaping, the craft speed silently away, and he was now (the strange and threatening cloud being completely forgotten) frantically jumping around, wondering what to do.

The telephone rang.

Edgar fumbled to answer it, but instantly wished he hadn’t when he heard the baritone voice on the other end.

“‘Ey, Edgar, ole fellow, you wouldn’t mind fetching a bottle of brandy from Hazel’s, now would ya? For a hard working fellow?”

“Mr. Learmouth, there’s no time. This is an emergency!”

“Yeah, yeah, wot know? Did your mother die for the third time? Do you need some money to pay for the funeral, again?”

“No! No! Mr. Learmouth, listen to me!”

*silence*

“Mr. Learmouth? I—I’m sorry, please listen to me?”

“Come upstairs immediately. I can’t understand a word you’re saying, you blithering old fool.” David Learmouth sneered before slamming down the telephone.

The tall, dark, handsome young fellow slouched at his desk, with his hair ornately sculpted in the latest Gilgone fashion for young men.

David was a lazy law student with a goofy white smile, and extremely wealthy parents. Stuck in the most expensive law school in Mede, he was barely sliding his way through the first few years,   always with the back-up of rich, supporting parents with a reputation, if things didn’t go his way.

Edgar appeared in his office a few minutes later, panting heavily and pulling at the tie which lay tightly snug around his fat neck. He related a rather choppy version of the story, pausing every here and there for a breath. In the end, he persuaded David to go after Emma Hartfield.

“You wanted to ‘get acquainted’ anyhow, right, Mr. Learmouth? This is the perfect opportunity to make a good impression, and on top of that, she’ll owe you!” he stupidly sniggered.

“Shut up, fool.” David said with a smile. “I have business to attend to in the Desert anyway; I might as well make a little detour, eh? You said they went towards the Desert?”

“Yes, yes, he went down Gibson Way, due north.”

David, or rather Edgar, with David yelling commands, packed the spoiled young man’s suitcase, and within the hour, they were prepared. Just as they were leaving, Edgar paused and said,

“Mr. Learmouth? Do you hear that banging noise?”

“What banging? You’re hearing things, my good fellow. Out you go, take these down to the Benz, I’ll be there promptly.”

Edgar disappeared down the hall, while David Learmouth shut the door and locked it silently. There indeed was a “banging” noise, coming from behind the rattling door at the back wall of Learmouth’s office. He strode quickly toward it, and undoing three almost invisible (but by no means less powerful) locks, swung the door opened. He was immediately body-checked and, skidding half way across the room, landed against his mahogany desk, cracking his head painfully against the carefully carved corner. The perfect curls he had spent hours on were now ruined. A tall, muscular man stood above him, his blonde hair plastered to his face with perspiration, and his mouth gagged. What little was left of his once white polo-shirt was soaked, bloody, and torn, and his sinewy arms were tied painfully tight with ropes at the wrist, making his rough hands purple. Panting, he stood over the evil young man’s aching head, trying to steal the key to the door as best as he could with his hands tied behind his back when he was jerked back a step or two by David’s Italian leather shoe in his stomach. The dark-headed fiend rang a bell on his desk before slamming the blond brute pertly in his already bloody face with a manicured, heavily jeweled fist. The captive, unable to defend himself, charged, head down toward David, (who was shaking his smarting hand from the punch he had thrown) but he side-stepped, letting his captive run headlong toward the door, which at this moment opened, revealing two burly, foreign men, who, quickly gaining their countenance, caught him, and with a sharp blow to his handsome head with a metal cane, knocked him unconscious. They threw him into the closet again, but not before tying his feet securely. David said something to them in Spanish, and they disappeared out the same side door through which they had entered. A honk was heard from below, and glancing towards the closet door, David Learmouth drawled in a honeyed voice dripping with sarcasm,

“You had better take care of yourself, my friend; we wouldn’t want you to get hurt, now would we?”

His only response was a sound whump from the other side of the door. David Learmouth let out a sardonic laugh, and unlocking his front door, he stepped out, slamming it loudly behind him.