I-I-VI

“Ouch,” I say. “You bastards.”

My kidnappers look at one another. Their masks are goldfish faces, big round popeyed things. One of them pulls out a dog-eared booklet and flips through it. He points at a page, and the other nods. They turn to me. They laugh.

It is horrible, horrible laughter.

I mean it, I’ve never heard such awful laughter. The silly sods are just saying “ha ha ha” at me over and over again. I sigh. “No, come on now. Make a bit of an effort, what?” And since they abducted me before I could laugh at Bansi Butcher, I start laughing at them instead. We drive and drive, and by the time the van stops I’ve got them doing a pretty fair job of it. “It’s still not good, gentlemen,” I say. “Tell Goo that what you say isn’t half so important as how you say it. Valuable life lesson, that.”

They seem hurt. One of them scratches under his mask. “Laughter indicates friendliness,” he says, “and is an expression of goodwill.”

“Bunging a chap into your rotten van when he’s talking to a friend indicates something else entirely,” I reply. “Anyhow, where’s your boss? I presume he wants to make a deal?”

Goo always wants to make a deal. That’s his way of showing off. DC’s fishiest gangster has worked hard to master the art of contingent logic -- his kind have almost no sense of causality -- and he never passes up a chance to strut his stuff. Goo may have a face like an octopus’s arse, but he’s as vain as the day is long. Just look at the name he picked for himself: it’s an acronym, and a misleading one. He’s not so great, and compared to some planars he’s not old at all.

Still, I suppose there is only one of him.

The bully-boys chuck me into Goo’s basement office. It’s a homey place, none of that new-money chic, but a bit damp and chilly because most of the floor’s missing. Goo had it knocked out so that he can sit in a pool of Potomac river water. He’s sitting there now.

“Hullo, Goo,” I say.

Goo gleeps with joy. He likes it when I come to visit, because I admire him immensely -- he knows this because I told him so once, and he hails from a universe that doesn’t understand sarcasm. “The one that is named I’m called Spex you squiddy bastard!” he burbles. “You were at a location that is not this one, and now you are at a location that is this one!”

“Great to be here,” I say. “Adore the new mask. You look just like Mister Obama.”

The grinning part of Goo’s beach-ball-sized latex mask ripples as, somewhere underneath it, tentacles writhe with smug satisfaction. He’s wearing a smart charcoal suit with a pink silk pocket square, presumably the handiwork of a tailor accustomed to clothing Volkswagens. The jolly red oven mitts protruding from his sleeves might almost make you believe that he’s got hands underneath them.

I plop down in a burgundy La-Z-Boy recliner in front of the mahogany desk that hides the less-easily-disguised bits of Goo’s anatomy. “So, Goo old chum,” I say. “Let’s negotiate.”

Time works differently where Goo’s from. He’s used to a flow of history that skips like a scratched record played with a bent needle. His kind are generally a laid-back lot, not worrying too much about a life that’s lived in scattered bits and pieces. When Goo wandered into my world, however, he soon realized that his own actions could reliably influence other people’s. Took to it like a duck to water. After a brief reign of unintentional terror he learned the house rules regarding the proper sequence for conducting business -- now he threatens people before he kills them -- and at this point he’s as upstanding a citizen as our shadowy little community can boast of. And he loves to negotiate.

Goo makes a pleased wet sound. “A deal is the thing that I would like to make at this moment in time. Your counteroffer is unacceptable.”

I pull the handle of the recliner. It slumps me backwards, kicking my feet off the ground and catching me in a saggy polyester nest. “Haven’t made a counteroffer yet, old boy,” I say. “Haven’t heard the offer yet. Think I can guess what it’s about, though.”

The Obama mask squirms in discomfort. Guessing confuses Goo. “Do not be doing the thing that is projecting analysis of possible events. It is very rude. What will instead happen is the saying of my offer, which precedes your counteroffer, which is unacceptable.”

I nod. I’m genuinely curious to hear what Goo has to say, because he’s the one who dumped that Newgie at the Mortal Coil. He might be willing to tell me where he got her from in the first place. Maybe he wants me to kill her. Maybe he knows that I already did; this wouldn’t be the first time he brokered a deal for something that’s already happened, just to make sure.

“This is the offer that I make at this point in time,” Goo rumbles. He huffs and hunches with excitement. “You will cause the Washington Nationals team of baseball to triumph as winners of the Series of the World at a point in time ten million years before this time. In exchange, I will kill you.”

Goo read a book on negotiation. He is concealing his real goal, as well as offering a price far below what he is actually willing to pay.

“I do not accept your offer,” I say. I pull open my messenger bag, because I never got that breakfast Blind Allie promised and I’m famished. I rip the plastic off a roll of ginger snaps and hold one up for inspection. “Here’s my counter-offer. I will eat this cookie, and in exchange, you will watch me eat this cookie.”

I eat the cookie. Goo quivers in admiration; his book spoke in hushed tones of men who can broker and execute deals with this kind of aplomb. My negotiating prowess only daunts him momentarily, however. “Your counteroffer is unacceptable,” he blurps. “Allow me to suggest a deal that is different from the other deal.”

I wave my permission.

Goo rubs his oven mitts together and leans forward in his puddle. “You will eat the thing that is dinner,” he hisses. “You will eat it with the person who is your brother. You will do this at the time that is tonight. In exchange, I will kill you.”

A crumb of ginger snap makes a jump for my trachea. I erupt into a coughing fit that shakes the La-Z-Boy. Behind his desk, Goo flails frantically; he knows what a sharp horse trader I am, and if I choke to death he’s completely out of bargaining chips to push this deal through. Even after I get the little crumb-bastard out of my lungs, I don’t say anything for a long time. Because, I mean, honestly.

Goo is a big wheel. If he slept, and if he did it in a bed, he wouldn't get out of that bed for anything less than business that means business. Yet, he’s meeting with me personally about my dinner plans? How the bleeding fuck could me chewing steak with a nonentity like dear brother Adrian possibly interest a transplanar crime lord? Goo is hopeless by human standards, but human standards aren’t the only standards. He’s a player on the transplanar stage because, even if he doesn’t quite understand how different bits of time connect up, he’s got a knack for being in the right place when they do. And he wants me to accept a dinner invitation. Why?

It’s a trap. That goes without saying. But for whom? Not me or Adrian. So what the deuce is going on? The worst part is, I’m absolutely fascinated. I have to find out more. I am just clever enough to know how bally stupid this is, but I’m still going to do it. “Not a chance,” I say. “Out of the question. On the other hand, I will have dinner with dear brother Adrian if you give me ten thousand dollars.”

Goo shakes his grotesque Obama-head. He’s no fool -- he knows that you never agree to the other chap’s first offer. “This is unacceptable,” he gurgles. “You must do better.”

“Right-oh,” I say. “In that case, I will have dinner with Adrian, and in exchange you will give me twenty thousand dollars, plus I get to borrow any of your cars whenever I like. It’s not as if you can drive them, anyway.”

I can feel the excitement radiating from Goo. He’s still got one more bargaining tactic up his sleeve.

“You must sweeten the thing that is the pot,” he blorps.

I un-recline, stand up, and pull out another ginger snap. I toss it onto the desk. Goo wuffles. “It is acceptable.”