Argentina and South Korea are fighting to see who gets to be President of Soccer, or whatever. Saxby feels fleeting guilt for not having voted. He decides that tomorrow he will go register, this time for real.
“Hi, where do I sign up for the soccer election?” he asks, tomorrow.
“I think you’re in the wrong place,” says the hassled person behind the veneer counter at the courthouse.
“Sorry,” says Saxby, rolling his eyes, “where do I sign up for the football election.”
They still can’t help him. Damn bureaucracy. Saxby mails Argentina five dollars and an apologetic note.
Argentina wins!
“We’re moving ahead with a sharper property tax curve, and doubling school funds with the proceeds,” says the Ombudswoman. “Also, Fridays everyone gets chocolate milk, and the puppy-lending library will…”
She trails off. Everyone at the council meeting glances to the back of the room. “Hsst,” says somebody.
“Oh!” says the Cantankerist. “Is this me?”
She nods encouragingly.
He shakes his fist three times. “This feckless generation will bring about its own ruin, and so forth,” he reads.
Council members hold up scorecards in the low 3s.
“That’s unfair!” shrills the Cantankerist.
The Russian Judge smirks, and strokes his beard.
Born into the name Eberhardt Bulstrode and growing thence into a barreloid body and spadelike hands, he knows early on that the field of careers is less than open to him. His archetype counselor needs only a glance to slot him as a Stepfather, subclass Blustering/Cruel.
Eberhardt wants to show willing: he grows a mustache and takes squinting lessons. But his cuffs lack malice, and his tirades feel rehearsed. Gifted children in his watch rarely develop even hints of megalomania.
“Do you have to be so… so three-dimensional?” asks the counselor.
Eberhardt needs all his strength not to deprecate himself.
Blood is aging, still fast as a dagger and twice as cruel. His palms are calluses, and a scarf hides the scar on his neck. Treasure’s hot and young and knows it. He’s got a shock of blonde and arms draped in bracelets, a rapier wit and a rapier rapier. But it’s his tongue, Blood learns, that does the disarming.
They meet on the laundry job, each primarily self-concerned; in a night they go from strangers to rivals to lovers. They abscond and spend everything. They are suddenly a team.
Blood and Treasure, Treasure and Blood. Everything ends in either.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to be repenting,” says Harlequin.
“Aren’t you one of those sexy people?” says the Ticktockman. “On the fronts of romance novels? And I’m some kind of repressive figure…”
“I think that’s a harlot, not a harlequin,” frowns Harlequin.
The Ticktockman has a face like a clock with gears behind it, probably. “Well,” he says, “now I want you to repent for doubting my vocabulary.”
“Okay. Sorry?”
The Ticktockman punches a card with his mouth, like clocks did in 1960 or whenever.
“This story is dumb,” says Harlequin.
“You haven’t even read it!” says the Ticktockman.