The rain had ceased hours ago. A dreary mist insisted on settling in, ensuring that the night, like the day, would also be miserable. The glow of streetlights, headlights, and shop windows danced on the puddle glazed streets.
Seemingly oblivious to the damp, a man sauntered along, whistling "My Old Kentucky Home" as he went. Wearing a gray, pin-striped suit, a trilby, and simple, wire framed glasses, he would not have been hard to pick out in most crowds. His neatly trimmed hair and mustache were dusted with gray and he carried a cane, though it was obviously only for affectation as he bounced it on the pavement in time with his whistling.
At the next corner he abruptly turned down the alleyway. There was much less light this way and the only illumination came from a single sign above a door in the side of the building he had just passed. The sign shone with a dingy yellow light and simply read "Books".
The man tapped out the recognizable rhythm of "A Shave and a Haircut" against the weatherbeaten door. The hollow sound echoed off the walls and he stood with both hands resting on his cane when he finished. Several seconds passed and the door remained closed. no sound was heard from the other side of the door. He tapped out the tune again, louder this time and with some irritation.
"We're closed!" called a woman's voice, muffled by the metal door.
"For cripe's sake, Edith, open the damn door!"
The door swung open revealing a short, plump, middle-aged woman with curly brown hair. One hand was raised to the corner of her mouth and she winced.
"Sorry, Mr. Merryweather," she said. The man sighed as he stepped around her into a small office. Two desks, on opposite walls from each other, and a small bookshelf were plenty to fill the room.
"How many times have we been through this?" he asked.
"In all fairness, sir, it's not the most original code―"
"How many times?"
"I mean, it's just me in here and it could be anyone out there and―"
"How. Many. Times?" he asked again, louder.
"Six, sir."
"Six times. And on any one of those occasions was it anyone other than myself?"
"No, sir."
"Now, you see, this would be what is known as a pattern. One that is getting on my last nerve. Keep it up and I'll be adding you to the next deal as a bonus." He gave her a less than reassuring smile.
"Still don't see why you just can't use the key," she muttered.
"What was that?"
"Nothing, sir."
"Good," he said, taking off his jacket, "Anything new come in whilst I was out?" His mood changed in an instant, the stern scowl replaced by an expression of excitement and curiosity. Eager to move on to a new topic as well, Edith sped back to her desk and grabbed a few manila envelopes. She opened the first and skimmed the paper inside.
"Looks like a request for a centaur for an upcoming fantasy epic."
"No," said Mr. Merryweather with a sigh.
"Preferably one with jet black fur, chiseled abs, and fluency in three languages."
"No."
"Not even for fifty grand?"
"Not even for a million. If I've told them once, I've told them a thousand times, I don't do the weird shit."
Edith’s shoulders slumped. The centaur sounded like good fun. She opened the next envelope. After a few seconds, and without a word, she crumpled the page up and tossed it at the waste basket. She missed.
"Personal?" asked Mr. Merryweather.
"Vampire."
"Ah. Well done. Thank you." Edith had gone ahead and started reading through the third and final brief. She frowned.
"Two teenagers. One male, one female. Requested for use as romantic leads for impending teen angst series."
"Any other details?"
"Not really. Just says, 'more melodramatic and cliché ridden the better'."
"It always does. How much are we talking?"
"Fifteen hundred." Mr. Merryweather pinched the bridge of his nose and squinted.
"Hardly glorious, but I suppose it buys the bread. Fine, tell the Guild I'm on it. They should expect two ready for textualizing by tomorrow evening."
"Yes, sir. Anything else?"
"Not tonight. I'm off to bed. Goodnight, Edith." Mr. Merryweather passed through the door at the back of the office, toward his room. Behind him, he heard Edith call out in her best cheery voice.
"Goodnight, sir. Chin up! You can't bag a Heathcliff or a Huck Finn every day."
Morning brought the sun and chased off the gloom of the previous day. Edith, up before the dawn, prepared Mr. Merryweather's coffee the way he liked it― cream, no sugar, three squeezes of honey― and brought it to him.
Wearing a maroon, velvet robe, he drank it as he reviewed the short brief from last night. Edith hadn't been kidding when she said there wasn't much else to it. It was amateur work really, but then it would be easy money. Mentally he bemoaned the waste of his, in his humble opinion, considerable talents. He had Edith call a rental company about procuring a white van for the day while he went back to his room to get dressed. From his closet, he selected a dark gray jumpsuit with the name 'Larry' embroidered over the left breast pocket. A pair of ratty old tennis shoes and a dirty ball cap completed the ensemble.
Thirty minutes later, Mr. Merryweather pulled into parking lot of Silver Springs High School. It had been built in the mid 70's, as the architecture made abundantly clear. Over the past several decades, two new wings had been added to the school to alleviate an overcrowding problem. Neither of them seemed to do any good. An ebbing and flowing mass of students swarmed through the main entrance. Pulling the cap down over his eyes, and grabbing a small tool bag from the passenger seat, Mr. Merryweather joined the throng.
He moved deftly through the crowded hallways, side stepping chattering girls here, and conveniently ignoring a locker stuffing there. He came to a stop in front of a door marked 'Custodial' and turned the knob. Rather, he tried to turn the knob only to find it locked. He cursed under his breath and, checking to make sure he wasn't drawing unwanted attention, retrieved a small, thin skeleton key from the tool pouch. A quick jiggle and a few seconds later the lock popped open. Mr. Merryweather grinned in triumph. His disguise was working perfectly. If anyone is more ignored than janitorial staff in an academic institution, you'd be hard pressed to find them. He hadn't drawn a second glance since entering the building.
He placed his bag on a cluttered supply shelf and grabbed a mop and bucket before allowing himself to be absorbed into the activity around him. It was easy to be overwhelmed by it all. The potent funk of body odor, fruit fusion lotions, body sprays, and hormones was enough all by itself to swirl up in the brain and cause an overload. But Mr. Merryweather was a professional. He blocked out all his senses except for sight; he only needed to observe for now at any rate. In this setting, it didn't take long to find what he was looking for. Entwined like two octopuses fresh from a trip through the spin cycle and sucking each other faces like the very fate of the universe depended on it, was exactly what Mr. Merryweather had hoped for. They were young, passionate, and perfectly generic. So much so, he couldn't even describe their appearance seconds after seeing them. Mentally, he named them Tiffany and Justin.
The ringing of a bell alerted everyone to the start of class and students scurried and vanished to the respective rooms. Tiffany and Justin lingered an extra moment in each others' embrace before parting ways. Now alone, Mr. Merryweather took the opportunity to check the locker number they'd been in front of during their amorous moment.
Committing it to memory, he returned to the custodial closet and took out a rather clunky looking revolver. Swinging open the cylinder revealed three fairly large holes in place of the standard six. He inserted three tranquilizer darts and swung the cylinder closed. Next he hunted down two of the wonderfully large garbage cans you find only in places with large crowds that seem incapable of cleaning up after themselves. He wheeled them into the closet, where it was a tight fit, but sufficient for his purposes. Lastly, he took out a sheet of paper and scribbled a note.
He slid it into the locker he had noted from before. Trap set, he concealed the gun in his jumpsuit and proceeded to pretend to clean the restrooms until class let out. The sounds of "My Old Kentucky Home" echoed out into the halls.
The end of class was announced with another blast from the bell and Mr. Merryweather gave up his mopping to watch the swarm of students stream into the halls. He saw Tiffany and Justin in the crowd and he tensed. This wasn't right. He watched Tiffany open the locker and saw the note float to the floor. She picked it up and began to read it, but she didn't get far before Justin tore it from her hands and read it himself. Mr. Merryweather cursed himself. It was going all wrong. Only one of them was supposed to find the letter! Tiffany and Justin began to argue, with Justin gesticulating wildly at the paper. If only I could hear them, thought Mr. Merryweather.
Suddenly, he grabbed Tiffany's hand and began tugging her towards the custodial closet. Almost as quickly a new thought began to form in Mr. Merryweather's head. He followed the two teens at a distance. When the bell announcing the next set of classes sounded, he stopped, waiting to see what they would do next. While the other students hurried to their next assigned room, Tiffany and Justin remained.
"Come on! We've got to go! We're going to be late!" said Tiffany
"Not until I find out who's in there!" Said Justin. He pounded on the closet door and gave it a swift kick for good measure.
"Open up asshole! I know you're in there, so come out!"
"What did that door ever do to you?" said Mr. Merryweather, coming up behind them. His voice was friendly and warm and laughter danced in his eyes. Tiffany started and a quick wave of panic washed over Justin's face. Merryweather stared at them calmly.
"Someone's hiding in there that wrote this," said Justin. His tone shifted gradually from angry to embarrassed as he spoke.
"I see," replied Mr. Merryweather.
"It was to my girlfriend," said Justin. Tiffany, for her part, stood there looking mortified.
"You must really love her to make such a scene over something so trivial," said Mr. Merryweather.
"I do," said Justin, and as if to prove it, he took Tiffany's hand.
"Well, I can promise you one thing. No one is in there. In fact, I'll show you." Mr. Merryweather slipped out the skeleton key and jiggled the lock again. He pulled the door open, slipping back behind the couple in the process.
"I don't get it. The note said he'd be here," said Justin. There was a hollow noise like the sound of a bottle being uncorked, and tiffany fell forward, bouncing off the wall before collapsing to the ground.
"I am," said Mr. Merryweather as he squeezed off a second shot that embedded itself in Justin's neck. The boy looked momentarily confused before joining Tiffany on the ground. Mr. Merryweather looked around. No one had seen a thing. Quickly, he scooped up Justin's body and dumped him into one of the trash cans. He had to bend his legs and arms a bit, but he managed to squeeze him in. To avoid prying, he tossed a trash bag on top. Tiffany, being smaller, was easier and he didn't have to contort her nearly as much. With both teens ready to go, pushed the trash cans through the halls, out the entrance, and to the rented van. He dumped them both in the back and was back on the road in no time. All in all, it had taken him two hours.
He drove across town to the waterfront. Typically considered a shady area of town during the best circumstances, it was not usually an area people liked being if they could help it. Of course, with the reputation and the abundant warehouses, it was exactly the kind of place Mr. Merryweather could do business. He pulled up in front of an especially worn down warehouse with the words 'Best Fish' painted above the door and honked his horn four times; short toot, long toot, short, long. A few seconds later the rusty door lifted up and Mr. Merryweather drove the van on in. Several large men stood waiting as he pulled to a stop and got out. Another man in a lab coat approached him.
"And what have we got this time?" he said. The man had thinning red hair and a bulbous nose that often squeaked when he spoke. Mr. Merryweather handed him the brief.
"More? Such a shame really. But I guess if that's what's selling right now. Let's get them unloaded shall we?" The other men opened the back of the van and extracted the unconscious couple. Without much care, they carried them over to a strange, large machine that looked like a coffin made out of solid glass. Next to it was a machine covered in various knobs and buttons. It beeped and blipped constantly and there was little doubt that it cost a small fortune.
"First, the girl" said the man in the lab coat. He looked at Mr. Merryweather and asked what her name was.
"No idea. I've been calling her Tiffany. Does it matter?
"Not really."
The coffin was opened and Tiffany placed inside. Several tubes were attached to various places on her body and a viscous gray liquid pumped into her. Slowly the lid began to close and as soon as it shut, the man in the lab coat set to working at the machine.
Lights flashed and klaxon sounded and steam erupted from the coffin. A bright white light emanated from Tiffany's stomach. Slowly, beginning with her feet and hands, her skin began to dissolve and fade. In its place words began to appear. The change spread over her body as more and more of became text, until she was nothing more than a vaguely human shaped pile of words. When the last bit of organic matter had disappeared, the air was removed from the coffin, condensing the words together and packing them into the size of a ping pong ball. The lid opened with a hiss and the man leaned over and picked up the ball of words that was now Tiffany.
"That'll do, I think," he said. Watching textualization in action always made Mr. Merryweather uneasy. He had no problem with what he did for a living. Stories needed characters, and if it meant that a few people had to be converted from living and breathing into little lumps of words, then so be it. In a way, he was granting them immortality. But, watching the process happen just played at the back of his mind. Mostly he wondered if it hurt.
The job wasn't officially done until everyone that needed it was converted to text. He stood around impatiently while Justin was textualized, labeled and boxed up for shipping to the Author. Only then, finally, did Mr. Merryweather collect his fee. Money in hand, he didn't waste another second before getting out of there.
Having returned the van, he headed back to his office to change back into his more standard suit/trilby combo. His mood was light and though his task had been an easy one, he took pride in a job well done. Stepping back into the office, he called for Edith, who had just returned with some Chinese takeout. It wasn't much of a celebratory meal, but Mr. Merryweather could eat lo mein for every meal of every day and that's what he wanted. He hummed to himself as he opened the little boxes.
"I take it things went well today, sir?"
"Extremely. Like taking candy from a baby," said Mr. Merryweather before taking a ridiculously large bite.
"Good, good. The rental place didn't charge you insurance did they? I told them not to."
"As a matter of fact they did, now that you mention it. You know...you...know," Mr. Merryweather shook his head. His tongue was feeling thick and heavy.
"Edith...thereth no shlefish in this? I'm...allergeric."
"No, sir. No shellfish. I know about your allergies," said Edith. She pursed her lips together in a smirk and she was holding a bottle of something in her hand. Mr. Merryweather rubbed his eyes but the label wouldn't sit still.
"Eeeeeeedithhhhhh?"
Edith picked up a manila envelope from her desk and pulled out a paper. "Says here they need a bounty hunter. Preferably middle aged, egotistical, with an unnecessarily bizarre taste in fashion. Pay bonus if said subject is mad as a hatter. Needed for use in a short story of dubious quality. Payout is thirty thousand."
She put the paper back down and looked at her watch. Mr. Merryweather attempted to curse, but his mouth wouldn't work. He got out a grunt and a couple of moans before his head drooped and slammed into the table. Edith stared at him, looking offended.
"Please don't take this personally, sir. It's just business after all. And like you always said, stories need characters."
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Published by: Shawn Yates on Wattpad
Characters Wanted!, Copyright Shawn Yates 2011
All Rights Reserved