The Beggar

The atmosphere boiled away from the garden world as its spin was stilled and it was torn from its orbit. Shockwaves flattened mountains and uprooted ecosystems as it was rotated at odd and seemingly random angles. Finally, the unnatural motion stopped.

It would do. The globe was compressed, and unseen blades began to cut it into molecule thin discs. The process would only take a moment.

Unholy abominations had happened by, bored and looking for a game. They needed a few materials to construct the necessary apparatus. There were other celestial bodies nearby, but unfortunately for the inhabitants of the dead planet, their world had required the least effort to convert. It would hardly have mattered anyway, since their sun was already being stripped for additional components. The heedless gods that had fallen on their world were not cruel. Their victims were incidental, sad sapients that simply went unnoticed. So it went.

Humans had come to play.

The beggar yelped, dispelling the vision that invaded his mind. He stumbled into a narrow alley, fighting back the urge to vomit. Old beer cans rolled away from his wobbling feet. Hands wrapped in tattered gloves grasped at old brick walls to either side as he struggled to remain upright.

Allen Barra stayed a short distance behind, quietly watching the struggles of his quarry as he followed. Discarded styrofoam crunched under his feet, but the sound went unnoticed. He carefully avoided small puddles of water and less wholesome fluids, nose wrinkling at the urine reek.

His target was a short man, clothed in old flannel and worn denim. An olive drab woolen cap partially obscured greasy uncut hair. At some point someone must have given him a razor, because he beardless if unshaven. His faint musk was evidence that he had few opportunities to bathe but was not altogether unsanitary in his habits.

The worst thing about the beggar, in Allen’ eyes, was his color. There was absolutely no reason for a white man to fall so low. The world was a harsh place, to be sure, but there was plenty of help for anyone willing to tighten his belt and pick himself up. Instead this creature chose to abdicate responsibility and find refuge in alcohol or whatever substance he could beg, borrow or steal. Probably had an abandoned family somewhere too. Disgusting.

Allen considered himself a cultured man, at the height of a North American standard that was the only standard that mattered. He preferred suits, but dressed down when he was hunting. He had donned simple blue jeans today, though fairly new and from a good designer. A bespoke navy turtleneck and his least expensive watch finished the ensemble. They were all things that could be discarded if necessary, but formed the minimum of good taste for public outings.

He had been surveying the local homeless and other charity cases in the safer areas for a few days now, ever since the urge came on him. He was hardly some murderous thug, more of a public servant really. His occasional forays into the wild removed nuisances and purged the gene pool of failure.

There. The old bum had finally come to rest, stumbling down into a seated position. His pants legs darkened with liquids of indeterminate provenance. Allen spared a quick survey of his surroundings. There were no windows and no one else in sight. The alley’s angles obscured the daylight, though rays still shone unhindered at the tops of the walls. It was dark enough and private enough. Time to get to work.

Allen pulled his blade from its concealed sheath under his sweater. It was a k-bar, a sharp and solid knife preferred by the armed forces. More than enough to make quick work of America’s enemies, let alone some drunken bum. He hummed in satisfaction as he stood over his prey. The homeless man was gazed up at him now and there was something strange about his eyes. He had seen this one before, and he remembered that his eyes were always dim and cloudy. A result of substance abuse, no doubt. Despite that, the beggar’s eyes seemed sharp and focused.

“Need some help?” he asked with a kindly smile. The sly turning of blade he held up belied his friendly tone.

The beggar stared at him, seemed to stare through him for a moment. Blue. His eyes were blue. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “Yeah, I need some help man.”

Give give give

“Yeah,” the beggar repeated. “D’ya think you can spare somethin’?”

Give give give

The knife wavered in Allen’s hand. He tightened his grip. Something was off here. Before, the old bum had seemed hunched and wary, a demeanor that screamed wretched. Allen had almost felt pity, but something had changed. The beggar looked almost…strong.

Give give give

Allen almost turned away at that moment, prepared to sate his appetite on another day. The beggar spoke quickly, eager for unearned bounty. “Do you think…d’ya think you could spare a buck?” A glistening gray tongue licked crooked orange teeth in anticipation.

Give give give

Allen’s hand involuntarily shot into his pocket. He jerked out a fine leather wallet and began rifling through it, looking for a small bill. The knife fell to his feet.

“Or how about a fin? Can you spare a fin, man?”

Give give give

Allen shuffled through his bills, finally deciding to be generous. He would give the beggar anything. He would give the beggar all of it.

Give give give

“Or even more maybe? I really need it, man. Give me more.” The beggar's tone sharpened, taking on what was almost a note of command.

Give give give

He was very strange, this foul old man. Was he old? He had not seemed that old, but something ancient peered out from his eyes. Yellow. His eyes were yellow. There was something to be pitied there, yes, but something more too. Something deserving of both charity and homage, a hymn to the brotherhood of mankind and taking care of one’s own! Allen held out his wallet. Take it! Please take it all!

“Or even more?” asked the beggar. He was rising now, pushing himself up from the effluvia to stand and face Allen directly. “It’s not just for me. I got people to look after, see? People who lose their lives and die, man.” His eyes narrowed as he looked over his superior. “How about…could you please spare…could you please give…?” The words were pleas, but there was no supplication to be found in the beggar’s voice. A breath of stale beer and sour coffee wafted through the still air. Still. It was so very still.

GIVE

GIVE

GIVE

“How about…how about a life? Could you spare your life?”

A frozen moment. There was no time for panic or resistance. Allen collapsed onto his back, shuddering as the edges of the world blackened. A detritus of torn newspaper drifted away, displaced by the weight of his body. A fluttering hand yet clutched a finely made wallet. He was still trying to hold it out to the beggar as he struggled for oxygen. His heartbeat increased in defiance before rapidly slowing.

“Take…please take…,” he gasped weakly, and then he breathed his last.

The Beggar stood up and cracked his neck. “Yeah, I will take that,” he said to the cooling corpse, as he reached down and seized the wallet. He was no thief, that was not his story, but a beggar looting the dead was perfectly acceptable. He pulled out the bills and tossed away the billfold. It was time to be on his way.

He had been in the comforting squalor of India, what he suspected was his homeland, when he heard the Call. The Beggar was not the type to ignore it. To his consternation, it had came from America. Still, he was an Avatar, or an Aspect as they were labeled in the West. He had access to the old paths. It had only taken a couple of days to get here. On the way, he had felt something wrong and had stepped back into the world to intervene. As First of the Destitute, he believed he owed it to those who unwittingly followed him.

Worst yet, he had suffered another of the visions that harassed the oldest and youngest of his kind. Altogether, the entire ordeal had taken too much time and now he had to hurry. “Broken Gods…” he muttered crossly. Well, he was in America, so he should probably say “Jesus.”

Jesus, he hated America. He hated that a single country took the name of the continent. He hated its philosophies, he hated its majority religion and he hated being some kind of indeterminate mixed Caucasian. He was impatient to depart and get back into a more comfortable Facade. He greatly preferred something Hindu or at least Asian. Those were people who knew how to properly mix contempt with pity and respect.

The backlash from this intervention would come at a cost. He was the Beggar, and most stories did not allow the Beggar to be a hero. The Gift of Charity was not meant to be used as an instrument of murder. Still, he was acting to protect his own, so he would certainly keep his immortality and avoid too much suffering. He could feel a throbbing behind his temples but he would survive and continue to function.

The Beggar shelved his irritation and gritted his teeth against the pain. He stepped forward and turned a corner that no one else could see. He shuffled under an arch that could not be and passed through a gate that was not there. Finally, he walked into the True City and started to make his way towards the Gathering.

__________

The Monster

I don’t know why I took her. It happens that way sometimes. If you had my blessings, you'd know what I mean. There are times when you just look at a person and you know…that guy has to go.

You're latching onto the part where I said “blessings,” right? Nah, it’s not a religious thing. I’m an atheist. Don’t tell my family, I still go to church with them when I'm visiting. It keeps them happy. No, “blessings” is just an expression I use. It makes it easier for people to understand.

Honestly, I used to feel guilty about taking women. After all, a male’s purpose in nature, after reproduction, is the care and defense of women and children. It used to tear me up inside to have to take a woman off the shelf. Then I realized that most men feel that way. That’s why so many bitches get away with murder. Even when you've got them dead to rights, with smoking gun in hand, you feel bad for them. It’s totally unequal. I had to let go of that kind of thinking. No one gets away with it. I won’t have it.

Of course, I never felt all that guilty about a taking down some ball smashing feminist. Don’t get it twisted, I’m not a hater. I’m not saying all feminists deserve wetting up. The “we just want equality” crowd are alright, when they really mean it. I can get right on board. Thing is, too many don’t really mean it. At least the ones with all the magazines and shows. They really want superiority and control and to tear down all males. That’s what I see, clear as day. Hell, a lot of them want to fuck over any women that are happier or prettier or better off in any way. The ones that hate their so-called sisters for making the “wrong” decisions. Those ones get no sympathy.

Sorry, I’m rambling. Got to hurry, I hear someone calling and I just can’t miss it. Serious business.

So, this lady. Unexceptional in every way. You couldn't call her ugly but you can tell she was never pretty, not even when she was young. Short brown hair, cut above the shoulders. Pink Nike blouse, years out of date. Plain jeans and not much of a figure. No matter what they tell you, every guy looks at every woman if she isn't fat or really old, but you wouldn't give her a second glance. She’s standing outside the entrance to the Thriftway, maybe waiting for a ride or a cab to come by but she isn't carrying anything.

I’m driving by and my blessings kick. My sight zeroes right in. You know in the movies, where the protagonist sees the love interest for the first time? Everything slows right down and there’s a kind of tunnel vision effect. That’s as close as I can describe my blessings.

I park as quickly as I can and get out of the car, already thinking on my approach. It would be easiest to stay in the car and then follow her once her Uber or whatever shows up. But, as usual, I’m letting my blessings guide me now, and they’re telling me to get out of the car and approach her directly.

Charm it is. I’m actually kinda shy, but my blessings are in charge now and I know they’ll see me through. So I just go right for the target. She looks over at me but she’s not nervous or anything. Probably used to strange men approaching. Only the fattest or ugliest women never get any attention. Sad but true.

My blessings are a slow build up, but once they really get going it’s like I’m not in control at all. Truth is, I don’t even know what I said to her or if I even talked at all. I’m totally caught up in the power is all I can say. Bottom line, by the time I’m coming down, she’s in the car and we’re a ways down the road.

It doesn’t take long before she’s got a confused look on her face, like she doesn’t know why she got in the car. Too late! The game is pretty much over now. We're way off the beaten path at this point. It’s all shitty road and lots of trees, no help and nowhere to go. She tries talking to me, but I’m not playing so she isn’t getting much more than grunts out of me. She’s getting edgy now, about to panic. Can’t have too much fuss, so I keep one hand on the wheel and toss a couple punches her way. Man’s got to be safe and keep his eye on the road, but she’s right next to me. It’s not like I can miss.

Little missy squeals, but she isn’t too loud. The shock I guess. I couldn't do it this way with most guys, maybe not even with a knife out, but a woman? Too easy with bare knuckles alone, unless she’s armed. Anyone who tells you the average woman can stand up to even a slightly less than average man is a liar or an idiot. It would take more than a little training to up those odds. This was a done deal as soon I got her far enough away from the main roads and houses. I almost feel guilty about it. It’s not like I’m a sexist or anything but reality is what it is. Escapism is for comics and movies. Maybe I should pull over and let her run for it, give her chance? Nah. I’m not cruel or a psycho. Plus the blessings want what they want. I won't be giving chances. She’s got to go.

She starts fumbling at her pockets, probably trying to get a phone. I hit her a couple more times, put some real pepper into it. She’s moaning, bleeding a little and totally stunned. In a minute she’ll start fighting or begging, and I can’t be having that nonsense. So I tell her to shut the fuck up and sit tight before she can even get started. Maybe it’s my blessings at work, but she clams right up. She's still building up to begging, I can see that, so I tell her I’m not trying to kill her or anything. Won’t even hurt her if she cooperates. That gives her enough hope to keep her quiet. There’s plenty of tears, of course, but she’s keeping piped down.

Deep down, I’m pretty sure she knows what’s coming, but a little hope can go a long way. She’ll make herself believe it will all be okay until her fate is undeniable. I’m not going to make it quick, I’ll tell you that for free. If the blessings point you out, you deserve plenty of punishment. I don’t know what she’s done or what she was going to do, but I know it’s bad. I’m going to fuck her up before I put her down. That’s justice.

__________

The Homewrecker

Sarah Lisa Bennett looked into her vanity and smiled contentedly. This last role had gone particularly well. She could hope for better, but that would just be greedy. For a nonentity, Harold Jusman was a prize. He had a wife that was faithful but had little regard for her husband. He had a successful business that brought him wealth without inconvenient fame or prominence. He had no children. Best of all, he had an ironclad prenup that his wife had insisted upon. Once upon a time, she had been the primary breadwinner and had feared palimony, as rare as that was. Now it worked against her. What a laugh. Money was almost useless, but the sting she thought her opponents must feel at its loss was an intoxicating balm.

Sarah Lisa’s Facade had unerringly led her to Harold. She had seen the lay of the land immediately, and kept things simple. It had started with a few kind words at the office, the kind of simple flirting that could be taken as goodnatured banter and basic friendliness. She had then moved on to a stronger game, “accidentally” running into him at the coffee shop he frequented during breaks away from the office. The banter had continued. Chance meetings became planned “get-togethers.” Banter became more serious talk spiced with unspoken yearning. Get-togethers became dates.

The very first time she had him, she knew he was her’s. He was both uninspired and uninspiring, but had an urgency that spoke volumes about his desire to be truly loved and appreciated. She had answered his unskilled endeavors with all the sublime talent of over one hundred years of practice. Even his guilt was a tool to be leveraged when invoked at just the right time to promote desire. Western men often disparaged romantic comedies and romance novels, but they watched those same movies and read some of the same books. Sarah Lisa had found that most men either dreamed of numberless women falling at their feet or were just as hungry for passionate love as any bored housewife. If breaking down Harold and taking possession of him was a game, he was easy mode. She never had to use any powers. It had only taken five months, not her best but nothing to sneeze at. Oh, how delicious her confrontation with the wife had been! The memory of her shrieks and tears would sustain Sarah Lisa for quite some time. Harold was her’s now.

Sarah Lisa no longer wanted him, of course. She hardly ever wanted any of them. When the shards of the Broken Gods first found her, she had wanted to fall in love and her target had been a married man. Her attempts to capture his heart had ruined his marriage, but he disdained marriage to her as well. Later, she found out that his rejection saved her life. She no longer remembered who she had been, but the shards had made her the Homewrecker. That was the modern name. If she ever truly fell in love and married, that would no longer be the case. She would just be another wife and the shards would leave her. She would become mortal. She could die.

No, there would be none of that. Now that the divorce was final, Harold would be coming for her. Unfortunately for him, he would never see her again. This game was over and it was time to move on. Her things, including numerous gifts from Harold and all the others, were already packed. The money she had drawn from Harold’s accounts was safely away and would find her in her next Facade. She had no idea how that worked and it hardly mattered. As long as she could keep what she earned, she was content. She hardly needed money but she worked for it and it was her’s.

What would Harold do? He might not be concerned about a missed call or two, might not even worry the first time he stopped by and she was away from home. As her absence became longer that would change. Would he realize or suspect that she had left and had no real feelings for him? Or would his mind leap to foul play, kidnapping or some kind of accident? Would he suspect his ex-wife? Her coworkers?

The Homewrecker shrugged to herself, deciding it was irrelevant. She dismissed all thoughts of Harold from her mind and examined herself in the mirror again. Yes, Sarah Lisa was almost gone now. She was hoping for something a little more elegant this time. Sweet young suburbanite was nice sometimes, but she had developed a taste for more sophisticated lives. Maybe an heiress and a bit older. She was the Homewrecker after all, not the Golddigger. She had no desire to be too much like that bitch.

Maybe someday she could exercise more control over her Facade. The Homewrecker had heard that some of the oldest Aspects could shape themselves and the lives of their Facades at will, even storing them away for later use. Of course, they would fade away within a normal lifetime, but how great would it be to be able to do two or more games at once? When her power was in full throttle, she felt like she had no need to sleep or eat. What a challenge it would be, to take on many targets at once and just keep going!

Justina Harimoto stood up and yawned. The change was always a little tiring, but well worth it. Asian this time, how delightful! And a virgin too! That could be good or bad, depending on the next target. Not an heiress this time, unfortunately. Japanese as a second language and a smattering of Japanese history filled her head. It was as much as the average American of Japanese descent might know, which was very little. She felt reality bending around her, giving her new Facade a history, records, childhood friends and teachers who would vaguely remember her. Dead parents of course. Relatives were probably too hard. Maybe if she could get more powerful…

Well, it was time to get moving. She had felt the Call yesterday and she tried not to miss Gatherings. It may not be important, but somebody in a Primary Aspect obviously felt that it was. If she hurried, she might get there early enough to avoid being forced to sit with the Golddigger or the Faithless Wife. Whatever anyone else thought, she had nothing in common with those bitches. Grouping her with them might not be racist, but it was some kind of “ist” or “ism.” Maybe sexist. The latest Chemist was a woman. If it was a gender thing, maybe she could be grouped with her.

She was, after all, a good guy. She rescued so many men from weak, passionless or disastrous marriages. She freed the women as well. She only seriously punished the worst men. Of course, she had to hurt most of the wives but they deserved it. If they had truly strong and loving marriages they would never meet the Homewrecker. Whatever she took when she departed was what she had earned. She was meticulous about receiving no more than what was due. Someday, she would be ranked with the heroes and Primary Aspects. Someday. She was sure she could feel the stories reshaping her soul. Her true value was being recognized!

With that thought, Justina gave the mirror another big smile. It was a pity it belonged with the apartment. It was just so her. Well, there would be another.

She smoothed out her dress, took one last look around and walked towards the door. Departing, she left Sarah Lisa and her wreckage behind.

__________

The Henchman

Vast iridescent shapes moved across an ocean of stars, casting great shadows on the surrounding moons and planets. They were vaguely whale-like, but dissimilar in almost every detail. Some sported masses of glowing tentacles or a profusion of fine wings, covered in hundreds of lidless eyes. Others were scaled or had arms, hands or trunks. The only thing they truly had in common was that they were human and there was a human at the heart of each one.

Moving around these creatures like swarms of flies were humans of a more terrestrial appearance, though they too glowed with pearlescent light and eschewed any sort of clothing. These were men and women who had chosen not to adapt or create vehicles for their endless intergalactic migration. Instead, they made the universe adapt. Processing trillions of calculations per second, they exerted a small fraction of their energies to make breathing, pressure support and countless other requirements irrelevant within small localized fields around them.

They left a host of changes behind. Their many minute alterations defied universal laws and disrupted stellar ecosystems. Some few of their number sought to stabilize, fix or even perfect what laid behind them but most simply passed by, heedless of the chaos. Entire civilizations were shattered in their wake. Gods had come and gone, destroying without cause, judgement or care.

The galaxy receded and another spun into view. There, a small human child had been separated from his family group and was left far behind. They would discover his absence soon enough and retrieve him, no matter where he was in the universe. The child was unafraid but was lonely and beginning to feel hunger. He had not yet learned how to feed himself without resorting to the crude conversion of matter. There was a planet nearby, pristine and populated by small agrarian bipeds who were just learning how to shape metals.

The little human did not think of the dust and particles that were all around. He was fixated on that planet. It had plenty of the matter he craved and just needed to be shaped into something that would taste good. Something sweet. He lifted a hand, reaching out towards the world below…

Giuseppe Bianco woke up with a gasp. He hated dreaming of the old days, before humans were defeated and were still gods. He was usually energetic and lucid in the morning but when he had the dreams he was always groggy and out of sorts. It was like his brain got bigger and he was thinking someone else’s thoughts. Then he would wake up with his regular old brain and be messed up for a few minutes to a few hours. He had been special for two weeks and another two weeks of dreams would make go nuts.

This was a bad day for one of those crazy dreams. The Call had gone out yesterday, something Giuseppe had never experienced before. It was like a bell ringing in his head. He thought he really was nuts but the boss had explained it all. Special people could be called to go to a place that other people could never find or see. A place where those special people would meet and do business. This would be Giuseppe’s first Gathering, and he could not afford to upset the boss by slowing him down and making him late.

With a groan, Giuseppe heaved himself out of his four poster bed. His feet sank into thick wool carpet. It was really nice to have the good stuff. Things had been going particularly well since he became the Henchman. According to the Don, the last Henchman had lived almost a thousand years and finally decided to give it all up and retire. A thousand years was a long time, but Giuseppe had a hard time thinking anyone could ever really be tired of life. It could happen if you aged, but being special meant you never had to get old. The last Henchman might have decades of life but he was still basically committing suicide.

Rarely, a special person could find someone with all the right qualities and voluntarily pass on his shard. Giuseppe was proud to have been found worthy, but he was going to have to get a lot smarter to fill his new shoes. The best Henchmen did more than just follow orders and protect their bosses. They had initiative and were more active than reactive. Giuseppe was thinking of ways to become a better Henchman as he walked into his bathroom.

Getting ready should never take a man too long. He gave himself a rich, if quick, shave and checked himself out in a silvered mirror. He was getting a little heavy in the face, a sure sign that he needed to change his exercise regimen and reduce the ratio of meat to vegetables. He hated his eyes. The gray that some might call piercing just seemed weak to him. It was too much like a couple of blind guys he knew. Still, he thought he was looking pretty good. He rested his hands on the cold marble tabletop and inched forward, closely examining his teeth. Nice.

Giuseppe kept his dark hair almost as short as a sailor’s, so a brush was all it needed. He checked the clock above the toilet. No time for a shower and he had taken one last night anyway. He quickly finished his morning cleaning and hurried to the closet that held his newest clothing. Before becoming special, he always thought obsessing over clothing was unmanly but he had to admit that hand tailoring made a great deal of difference. A quick trip to his watch drawer for something from a top designer and he was all set.

He glanced at the watch and muttered a curse. He might still be late, even if he hurried. There was only one thing to do. He closed his eyes and activated one of his new Henchman powers, the things the boss called “Gifts.” The Henchman brought the Gift of Obedience to the fore. The boss said don’t be late. Giuseppe was obedient and he would absolutely be on time.

The boss had gotten him a new car, a silver Maserati Ghibli. The thing drove smoothly, like quicksilver. Cars seemed to leap and almost pour out of his way when he hit the highway. It was utterly perfect, like something out of a dream.

The boss had a gated compound just outside Albany, a nice piece of real estate with lots of trees and nature. Giuseppe pulled up with more than five minutes to spare. Perfect timing. Armed guards in flat blue uniforms pulled open the wrought iron gates. It was a little old fashioned, but Don Eneide went for guns and muscle power as his first layer of security.

A week or two ago, he would have had to deal with a lot of rigmarole to get in the front door, let alone get in to see the boss. Now, people were falling over themselves to get out of his way as soon as he got out of the car. They had no way of knowing that he was special, but somehow they recognized the Henchman. He saw Anthony leading two German Shepherds, walking along the fence line. Not long ago, he would have been doing the same job, sharing jokes and daydreaming about moving up. Well, Giuseppe had gotten a big leg up.

He could even sense the other henchmen around the compound, almost feeling their thoughts. No one really used the word “henchman” anymore, not outside of comic books, but that accurately described most of the men on the compound. Since he was the Henchman, it was like they were a part of him. Giuseppe could never be a boss or even the number two. The boss had explained that, told him those roles were for other people, but as the Henchman he would be able to lead anyone who was not a boss.

Millions shrieked in terror and agony as the surrounding matter was transformed. The ground blackened and took on a tar-like consistency before the effect moved into the vegetation. It was too much, far too much, but the child had little understanding of refinement or restraint. The sweet blight seeped into the natives’ legs first, turning flesh and bones into jelly…

“Damnit!” Giuseppe swore, shaking his head to clear it. Another week or two of this, before his shard settled. Apparently, waking dreams frequently happened to the very new and occasionally plagued the oldest of the special folks. Well, Giuseppe would not be slowed down. He was special, he was going to rock the house at his first Gathering, and he would be the best Henchman ever. He straightened his jacket, shot his cuffs and headed towards his meeting with the Don and destiny.

__________

The Miser

Donald James decided to have breakfast in bed. He sat up just high enough to reach the intercom above the headboard and ordered a poached egg and grapefruit.

He had gotten both the eggs and the grapefruit for a song. His business interests allowed him to exert control over a number of small agricultural concerns that survived on his forbearance. As a result, numerous small gifts flowed into his pantry at little to no cost. He would, of course, foreclose and sell off those assets when the price was right, but in the meantime he would happily enjoy the fruits of their production.

The Butler arrived with Donald’s light meal and a small paper. He carefully set down the tray and stood with perfect poise, awaiting the further commands of his master. Donald ignored him and tucked in. Let him wait.

Aspects made the absolute best servants. Their unimpeachable loyalty and obedience meant that he could pay them as little as possible while expecting premium service. He had to pay them something, of course, but the less the better. Acquiring the Butler and the Chauffeur had been a real coup. It was really too bad the Slave was no longer around. There was still slavery in the world, Donald knew, but no one had seen the Slave in the last hundred years. Trying to locate him would be costly and Donald would need to either relocate or fashion an entirely new Facade. Keeping the Slave in most western countries would pose far too much risk. The bribes to officials and the cost of any potential court battles would be far too high, even if he could win. No, the Slave was an investment that could only be seriously considered at a later date.

Many of his fellow Aspects, and people in general, considered Donald callous. To Donald’s mind, they were not entirely correct in that assessment. He was simply a clever man with a long view. Two of his predecessors had fallen victim to the folly of catering to the masses and would be forgotten. Herschel Weinstein had been a bit too generous in his annual donations to Israel. Herschel’s own predecessor had been an Englishman who had some kind of lucid dream on Christmas Eve and suddenly decided to start giving away a fortune. It was madness. Donald protected his life and his fortune by making sure to give absolutely nothing to any person, cause or charity of any kind. He truly did feel for others, but they were not worth his life or a single penny of his fortune. Fair payment for services rendered was the extent of his generosity. How could that be faulted?

The Butler cleared his throat. Donald might have become irritated with any other servant, but he knew the Butler would be looking out for his interests.

“Yes, Albert?” he asked, turning his head to look directly upon his batman.

“Sir,” the Butler began in a cultured British tone. “I must remind you of the upcoming Gathering. It will commence today and you indicated that you wished to attend.”

“Right, the Gathering,” Donald said, sourly. He had almost forgotten and that was no way to be a proper Miser. There was opportunity there, a chance to increase his already substantial fortune. “Have the Chauffeur prepare the town car and send a note to the accountant to find the best way to offset the cost. I’ll want my favorite black suit, with the red tie.”

The black would respect the formality of the occasion and red made the subconscious feel a masculine presence. These would be helpful if the Gathering led to dealings with the Businessman or any other interests.

As the Butler whisked off to carry out his orders, Donald rose from his bed and entered his master toilet. Within the hour he was refreshed, had his blond hair clipped and combed, and had donned his favored attire.

As he hurried down the main staircase, he surveyed his surroundings. Past Misers had been rather extreme, skimping on such extravagances as cleanliness and maintenance. They had been complete fools. Acting in such a way would ultimately reduce wealth. No one would do business with a dusty crackpot. One had to look the part as well as act it. No, Donald paid to maintain a healthy and vibrant household. The secret laid in what could be clawed back through penalties, legally extended hours, favors…the possibilities were endless. Payments flowed out in a trickle as wealth rushed in like a river.

The Chauffeur was already waiting at the main entrance when Donald emerged. He doffed his cap respectfully and opened the passenger door for the Miser, who accepted his due and took his seat in the plush leather interior. He chuckled, reflecting on his own superior acumen. The Chauffeur and the Butler had to be completely aware of his nature and yet he still had them.

Donald hated paying for things. The car was a gift from a grateful business partner. The Miser’s acumen had saved the firm from various competitors that had circled it like sharks. The poor man had been absolutely shocked when Donald plundered its equity and began selling off divisions. Donald had not been being cruel, of course, merely smart. The buyers would quickly discover that the business was barely worth a fraction of what they had paid. All legal of course.

The Chauffeur left the estate and carefully maneuvered the car towards a stand of trees. Donald hummed to himself as the vehicle increased speed and leapt the curb to collide with a tall oak. Vehicle and tree merged, and the town car was suddenly traveling along a cunningly concealed road of flat white cobbles. The old paths were the best paths, and this route would have them in the True City in less than an hour with a paragon like the Chauffeur driving.

__________

The Gambler

Henry groaned and stooped his shoulders as he walked away from the cash cage. He was having one of the worst days of his life. He had placed a large bet on a long shot, a horse that everyone felt was past its prime and would have been retired a season ago if the owner was less stubborn.

Of course, his horse won.

It had been almost a decade since Henry had lost a single bet. If he bet on them, the worst teams suddenly gelled. Lottery odds became one to one. Dealers found a way to fill his hands with flushes. The only gamble Henry was taking was with his life. He was banned from establishments across the East Coast and a number of very bad men with very bad tempers were looking for him.

Then again, even if they found him they would never be able to kill him. They could blow his body up and he would be revived elsewhere, in a new body that was still unable to lose.

This sucked.

What he needed was a real chance, something high stakes that could see him lose every penny. There was only one place for that kind of action. The Gathering. He usually ignored the Call. Those meetings were too high level for him, always fate of the world nonsense that he had no business getting into. Now he was growing bored and anxious, with an Aspect that was driving him mad.

Could he win against other Aspects? Most of them maybe, but some of them would have a chance beat him. One of the lucky heroes, or someone like the Grifter or the Cheater. Surely at least one of them would consent to a game of chance before the event was over.

Henry looked around a saw a path that would take him where he needed to go. He straightened his hat and walked towards the maintenance closet.

He dropped his winnings in a trash basket on the way out.