Reign of the Pussfellows

By Rick Hartford

Hank looked at his face in the mens room mirror. Haggard and hung over, just behind his eyes was a spot that felt as if it had been hit by a ball-peen hammer. He took out his flask and slugged back a shot of whisky, bent to the sink and splashed cold water on his eyes.

Hank thought about James, the beautiful James, her arms outstretched to him as he crawled into her bed, positioning himself above her, lowering himself down onto her.

“You never should have let her get away, Hank said to himself.

They should have made love and then packed the car and left town and kept on driving until they hit the coast where they would board a boat to Belize where they would escape, never to return. He could see parrots off in the distance as he and James ran toward them in the soft white sand…

Hank was pulled out of his day dream by the sound of suction cups crossing the tile floor behind him. He glanced over and saw Sydney, Lord Byron’s toady, sidling up to the urinal, one of his eight arms slapping Hank hard in the back as he passed by.

“How you been, Hank baby?” Sydney said. “De boss has been specting you. Are you not showing him the love?”

Hank wished that he had had that ball-peen hammer in his pocket that he could take to Sydney’s soft brains, however many he had. He had read somewhere that outlaw bikers used to carry ball-peen hammers for defense. How stupid was that? Hank was one of those outlaw bikers himself, in his youth, not so long ago when he was a wild man cursing at the sky as the silver ships descended, the beginning of the end of life as he knew it. And now it was 2050 and he was in a black and white seersucker suit over a silk muscle shirt and a small automatic pistol tucked into his waistband, working for the Pussfellows.

Hank left the bathroom and headed down the hallway to the District 3 Sector offices where the east coast Pusses now ruled. Lord Byron was District Manager.

A guard opened the door to Lord Byron’s outer office. There at her desk was Lord’s Byron’s secretary Sadie. She rose to greet him. They hugged. “How did we get to this place,” she whispered into his ear, a tear running down her cheek. Hank was almost overcome with sadness. Instead he grinned as he held her away from him. “Is Suckers in?”

She smiled. “He’s waiting for you.” Hank took a deep breath and headed toward the door, closing it behind him and turning to the sight that never failed to unnerve him. Lord Byron, a giant octopus, 10 feet tall with eight 12 foot writhing arms folding and unfolding with nervous energy, suckers grasping and releasing, restless motion all bathed in a fog of water vapor coming from spray moisturizers from around the room.

Hank looked to the right and saw Lars, Lord Byron’s personal human bodyguard, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, a smug smile on his face. Hank and Lars had a mutual hatred for each other. Lars was a sadistic beast, never happier when he was using a pair of brass knuckles or a sap on somebody who had been brought in for “questioning” the new global order.

Yes, there was an underground, a dedicated resistance, a group of rebels who actually had Hank on their hit list.

Because Hank was a traitor, in their eyes. He was Lord Byron’s chief of security. Technically he should have been Lars’s boss, but the Pusses were smarter than that. That was why Lars was answerable to no one but Lord Byron. Hank knew that Lars was planning to take his job. Hank had heard from his sources that Lars was sniffing around, looking for vulnerabilities. But so far Hank’s criminal past had served as a perfect resume. He grew up a survivor from the treacherous streets. He was a rebel who refused to bend to authorities, a man who knew the system from the inside out, a man who had the uncanny ability to predict threats from both the deep state and the underworld, criminals at opposite ends of the spectrum.

Lord Byron was one of the many generals of the invasion force which had hidden beneath the ocean before springing a surprise attack on the world, easily defeating the most sophisticated weapons that mankind marshaled against them. They said that their goal was world peace and that their only purpose was to demilitarize a society that was perched on the edge of its own destruction with nuclear and chemical weapons.

Their real goal was a lot more sinister than that. The world they came from was fast becoming a parched desert. The earth had the water they needed. They didn’t plan to share. And the rumor was that as carnivores, the Octopus invaders were planning on us as a renewable food supply.

“So, what do you have for me, Hank?” Lord Byron said. “Any word on the Saviors? The Saviors were the inner circle of the Resistance. The Pusses wanted them dead. Their capture and execution would demoralize the resistance. “Why not nail them to the cross,” Lars said. Lord Byron looked at Hank.

“I think not.” Hank said. “Lars is missing a little detail that could light a fire that you couldn’t put out, Lord Byron. A lot of people think that the son of god was nailed to a cross. You pulling that out again would be to start big trouble. You need to stay away from that.

Lord Byron nodded.

“This is why I hired you, Hank.”

The door opened and Sydney poked his head in. He looked sideways at Hank and then nodded to Lars.

“Got the report that you wanted, boss,” he said.

Bring it over and put it on the desk,” Lord Byron said. Sydney did as he was told, bowed, and then exited the room, which was sort of a comical sight, as he had to pull his fat body through the narrow frame of the door.

“I have a report here from our surveillance team which I want to share,” Lord Byron said.

“I think you are going to be extremely happy. We have identified the inner core of the resistance, We now have a dossier on the Saviors.

Lord Byron tossed a folder from the report onto the desk in front of him.

“Have a look, Hank. And then we can get started on running them to ground.”

Hank pickled up the first envelope and removed the contents.

His face showed no emotion but inside he felt that he might just collapse: The 8x10 glossy photograph looking up at him was James, the leader of the Saviors.

The photo meant that Hank’s life was nothing more than a lie.

Hank first met James at the Green Door, a nightclub in the Industrial Section of the city which featured nude dancing, mud wrestling and vaudeville acts, such as jugglers, magicians, sword swallowers. He was at the club on comedy night, waiting for a woman friend who had cancelled at the last minute. She was out taking care of her mother who had developed walking pneumonia.“Wear a mask!” he called over the phone.

He was still nursing his Old Fashioned when the main act of the night came on, preceded by Chucklebones, a tap dancing horse.

James was wearing a tight stretch black body suit. She had chaotic glistening black hair like an exploding ink well.

She specialized in political and feminist humor, starting off her set apologizing for finding absolutely nothing humorous about a world being run by Suckers from Outer Space with Sea Weed for brains. She soon had the audience convulsing with laughter.

Hank was immediately drawn to her.

She left the stage and sat down at a table with a young man when a couple of thugs working for the Pussfellows showed up at the table. They dragged the startled man toward the door, James immediately coming to his defense, throwing vicious punches at the two men as the audience scattered in a panic. Hank fought his way through the crowd and pistol whipped one of the thugs, who fell to the ground holding his head. The other got a cocked pistol to his neck. Hank searched both of them and took their weapons. “What the fuck are you doing here? I work for your boss and I can have you both eliminated.” Neither of the two would meet his eyes. Hank pushed them both out of the door. Neither of them had any identification. Hank talked to Sylvester, the head bouncer for the club. “Keep somebody out here till closing, Sly. And call me immediately if they or somebody else shows up.”

He went back inside.

“Thanks, but I could have handled it,” James said when he reached her table. “This is my little brother, Tim. I guess they didn’t like my act. But why pick on my little brother?”

“Where did you learn to fight like that?” Hank said.

“”Didn’t you know? My other job is a professional boxer.”

“I’d like to see you fight,” Hank said. “But first, I want to go out to dinner.” He gave her his card.

“Please call me. I think I’m in love with you.”

“Who are you?” She said.

“I’m in the security business.”

He didn’t want to tell her who his only client was. He was suddenly embarrassed by it.

It was at that very moment when Hank knew he had to get out of this job. He wanted to be with this woman. She mesmerized him.

At her next performance he was back stage waiting for her. She had an electric smile. Slightly crazy eyes.

“I”ll drive,” she said, leading them to a classic 1955 lipstick red Thunderbird convertible.

“Take me for a ride,” Hank said to himself.

And now he suspected that, in fact, he had been taken for a ride.

Hank’s attention turned to Lord Byron.

“See anybody you recognize?’” Lord Byron said.

Hank pawed through he glossies. Spy photos. Long lens. Slightly blurry.

“Your photographer leaves a lot to be desired,” Hank said. “I don’t know if I could identify any of these people.”

Lord Byron studied Hank’s face. Hank was betting that the octopus was like others in his species who could not see the difference between faces. It was the old all humans look alike routine.

There was that seed of doubt that was running to Hank’s advantage.

But Hank was shocked.

What did it all mean? Was James playing him?” He thought of the first time they made love. No, it couldn’t be! She was in love with him. He knew it. There must be some explanation. She would make everything right. He had to find her. To warn her.

It was at that moment that Hank decided that Lord Byron had lived long enough.

He wondered judging by the suspicious look in Lord Byron’s eyes whether Lord Byron had come to the same conclusion.

About him.

TO BE CONTINUED