“Short Cuts and Bank Shots”


Amy Aston carefully considered all the angles before making her decision.

“Right corner,” she announced, leaning forward to make the attempt. With the nerves of a marksman she struck the cue ball into the eight, which caromed off the left rail and rolled inexorably to its predicted destination.

“Splendid shooting, m’dear,” Sir Mumphrey Wilton congratulated from his side of the table, “That’s the game.”

“Finally,” Amber St. Claire muttered to herself, holding her pool stick with clear unfamiliarity. The official government liaison for the Lair Legion had been dragooned into this impromptu round of billiards by the leader of Earth’s Defense Forces, and while she admitted the diversion had seemed to improve the old man’s humor, they were still well behind in their paperwork.

“Nice work, babe,” Simon Maddicks, Amy’s partner in the game, gave her a congratulatory pat on her rump. The young woman’s response was to take her cue and swat him across the calves. The pain caused his knees to buckle and he cracked his jaw against the table’s edge.

“Thonuva-! I bit my d*** tongue!”

“No touching without permission, Sasquatch!” the young woman said menacingly.

The Butcher Bird stumbled to his feet and ran a finger inside his mouth, “Blood. You made me bleed, you thupid broad. I oughta thlap you thilly –“

“That will do, Mister Maddicks,” the august Englishman cautioned, “Threatening female staff with bodily harm is well out of bounds here at Lair Mansion.”

“The Tharted it! What’th the thuperhero polithy on blindthiding invited guethtth?”

Sir Mumphrey returned his cue to the rack, “If the victim in question happens to be a fiendish cad with no sense of propriety, we usually gather ‘round and offer compliments.”

“Say, how about that tour of the alien zoo?” Amber suggested to the cameraman and associate producer documenting the exchange.

“Nah, we’re good,” the employee of Mnemosyne Media answered and kept filming.

“It’s a good thing Dancer and young Miss Shepherdson vouched for you, Shrike, otherwise I would have tossed you out on your ear,” Mumphrey avowed, “Any former minion of that blaggard the Hooded Hood is unwelcome at the mansion.”

By now Simon Maddicks had recovered his diction. He smirked, “That include your granddaughter, Mister Belvedere? Don’t forget, she was a member of the Offenders, too, along with Stabbypants and that tool Blackhearted. Look, I ain’t exactly thrilled at having to sit around here at Rank Amateur Central waiting for those Harper brats to finish helping their old man with whatever science project he’s got goin’ on. But I do it, ‘cause it’s the Job. And Killer Shrike always does the Job. And honestly, Geezer, if you think you still have enough testosterone in the ol’ s*** to throw me out, you’re more than welcome to try.”

“This is not going well,” Amber confided to Amy.

“Yeah,” she whispered back, “I hoped they would have started hitting each other by now.”

Something Wilton saw, or heard, in the Butcher Bird’s tirade seemed to satisfy him, “Good to know. About your dedication to duty, that is. ‘Course, if you’re lying, if you’re here doing work for the Hood on the sly, you best pray I never find out. I have no use for traitors; none at all. Well, Miss St. Claire, that’s enough recreation for today. What say we give those oiks in the American Congress a ring and tell them what we think of their foot dragging?”

“Well, s***,” Amy sulked after Mumph and Amber had departed, “I was hoping he was going to kick your head in.”

Killer Shrike sidled over to lean on the pool table next to his housemate, “Him? Please. Like I’d lose a fight with some fancy pants, tea drinkin’, snuff snortin’, mutton chopped havin’ limey prig. ‘Sides, you wouldn’t want to see him mess up this handsome mug o’ mine.”

“Are you kidding? You're so ugly, you could model for death threats.”

“Heh. Just keep fighting that urge, Chickie Pie.”

“The urge to vomit? I’ll try, but it would be easier if you showered once and a while.”

“I shower every day. Maybe it’s my technique. Next time, why don’t you join me and give me a few pointers?”

“I’d like to point a gun at your fat head.”

“OK,” the producer tapped the cameraman’s shoulder, “I think we’re done here.”

“Can I get a copy of that? It’s got some of my best work,” the Avian Assassin asked.

“Yeah, me too. I want that shot of Shrike crying like a little girl when I clipped him.”

“We stopped filming: you can quit playing for the camera now,” the man said dryly.

Simon and Amy gave each other a quizzical look, “Who’s playing?”