The Crash of Hennington

2) Because of this, Jacki also worked as a prostitute for her boss, Thomas Banyon, biological son of Archie Banyon and general manager of the Hennington Hills Golf Course and Resort, lent out to clients to feed a specific need, thereby pleasing Thomas and causing him to provide her with more Forum, although of course never quite enough. These shifts were in addition to the full day’s work she put in as Thomas’ Head Accountant. Never let it be said that Thomas Banyon lacked a darkling sense of humor.

3) And all of this was true because, at age forty-one, with her youngest child fifteen years old, Jacki still produced, on a daily basis, nearly two pints of breast milk, and there were a surprising number of men who would pay a surprising amount of money for just such a delicacy. Thomas Banyon was not a man to let potential income go unexploited.

Her phone rang. Alone in her office, she mouthed an expletive.

—Hello?

—Jacks.

Jacki frowned, but the Forum was already dribbling its way through her veins and she began to feel her consternation melt away, butter in boiling water.

—Yes, Mr Banyon?

—I have a clip for you tonight. Are you up for it?

As if there was a choice involved.

—Of course, Mr Banyon. It would be my pleasure.

—It’s Councilman Wiggins. You remember the good Councilman, don’t you?

Remember? She had to put salve on her nipples for nearly a week after the good Councilman displayed a tendency for toothiness. This memory too, though, floated away into the shimmering mirage of the drug.

—Certainly, Mr Banyon. What time?

—Say ten?

—All right. Ten it is. Usual place?

—Usual place.

—I’ll be there.

—I truly appreciate that, Jacks. I’ve got some really wonderful merchandise here that I had been hoping to share with you. I want to thank you for giving me the opportunity.

—I’m grateful for your indulgence, Mr Banyon.

—You’re a good girl, Jacks.

He clicked off. Jacki closed her eyes. She was deep into butterscotch warmth now and glorious waves of light and color filled her head. The anguish, thank the heavens, was winding its way clockwise down the drain, spiraling blissfully out of her presence.

God bless Forum. Forum’s name be praised.

9. Hospitality. (#ulink_f6bc2f91-1209-5191-9ec4-9beb793c37a7)

—Mr Noth?

Eugene Markham knocked again. After a lengthy pause, Tybalt ‘Jon’ Noth opened the door. He was wearing one of the Solari’s bathrobes. His hair was wet, and he held a towel in his hands. Still, he smiled when he saw Eugene.

—Eugene! What can I do you for?

—I was just checking to see if everything is to your satisfaction.

—Slow day for you then?

—Yes.

—And you still have yet to manage a proper smile.

Eugene almost smiled at this, but not quite.

—That was pitiful, Eugene. And enough of ‘Mr Noth'. I told you to call me Jon.

—All right, then. Jon. Is everything to your satisfaction?

—I’ve only been here long enough for a shower, but the bathroom fulfills most accepted definitions of nice.

Jon smiled again, more warmly this time. Maybe he was a preacher. Maybe that was it.

—Are you some kind of preacher?

—How is it that I just know this surliness is something you’re trying to overcome and that there’s a perfectly personable individual in there somewhere struggling to get out rather than just plain old dour Eugene?

—You smile a lot, is all I mean.

—Your perception is bizarre, Eugene, but somehow, perhaps accidentally, it may even be correct. Interesting.

Eugene blinked. He wasn’t sure if he was being agreed with.

—So …

—I have been called a preacher in my time, Eugene, but even then, it could have been wrong. As for now, definitely not.

Eugene blinked again.

—'Why don’t you come on in and talk for a while, Eugene’ is what you’re waiting for me to say, yes?

—I don’t mean in any male-male sex kind of way, but—

—I didn’t think you did. Why don’t you come on in and talk for a while, Eugene?

Eugene, surprising even himself, smiled, stepped over the threshold, and entered Jon’s room.

10. The Crash at the Bridge. (#ulink_709c1dd1-9ac4-5076-a2b2-e798337cac1d)

Once, early on in her time as leader, the search for food had forced her to take them across the bridge that flung itself over the bay away from the city, a difficult, frightening and lengthy journey. The whole way along she could only smell salt water and the noxious metallic scent of the boxes that the thin creatures rode in. The wind drowned out all sound as the herd picked its way through the stopped boxes, the thin creatures inside staring out impassively. It was slow going, with much nervous lowing and braying among the members of the herd until, perhaps inevitably, disaster struck. About two thirds of the way across, some of the older animals started to panic, the confinement of the bridge causing a claustrophobia unknown to them even in some of the city’s starker alleys.

She attempted to keep some sort of order, firmly shaking her head, stepping forward and back. She snorted and affected a prance to try to hold their attention, but the wind snuffed her out. An old male began to get aggressive in his fear, knocking some of the smaller animals out of his way. An old female stumbled, accidentally pushing over a pregnant mother. The final stroke was the appearance of a flying box carrying some of the thin creatures. (— … so avoid the Firth Roundabout if you can at all. And finally, it looks like we’ve got a serious traffic jam on the Harbour Bridge, caused by The Crash of all things. As you can see from SkyCam5, cars are just at a standstill. Looks like rush hour’s going to be even longer tonight all over the city. Back to you in the studio . . .) Hovering to the side of the bridge, the box brought a swirling roar that proved too much for the more nervous animals. They turned and charged, running full gallop back the way they had come, leaving her and more than half the rest of the herd standing near the far end of the bridge.