The Many Deals of Richard T Sereph- He Ran No More

"On your mark,"

John felt his muscles tense as he prepared to move.

"Get set,"

This was his favorite part, the calm before the storm, and his muscles practically fluttered with anticipation.

"Go!"

John was off, his legs pumping as he took off from the block. He was the first off the line, as usual, and as he ran, he felt the exhilaration of the wind as it whipped past. He felt like Icarus when he ran, his legs pushing him faster and faster as he raced for the sun. He would not fall, he would not melt, and as he passed the line again, he heard the coach whistle as he checked the stopwatch. John was catching his breath for about ten seconds before the next runner came jogging up, and John offered him a high five as he came up.

He was fast, but he didn't want to rub it in.

"Great times today, J. Put on a show like that at Nationals next week and you'll have colleges lining up around the block."

"Heck, that's not all," said Mr. Arnold, the assistant track coach, "I heard there might be Olympic scouts there recruiting for the games next year."

John felt his mouth grow dry, "Whoa, Olympic scouts? That would be a dream come true."

John was only seventeen, but he had dreamed of going to the Olympics since he was a little kid running around the track behind his apartment. When he felt the wind rushing past his face he always imagined he was flying down the rough rubber track of the Olympic stadium, the fans cheering as he took the curves like a race car and left his opponents in the dust.

He was still thinking about it as he left the locker room, Tom and Cedric talking excitedly about the upcoming meet. Cedric was an alternate for the 50 but Tom had managed to get a spot as the third leg in the relay. It was a pretty important spot, and Tom was a little nervous about it. It was right before the home stretch and he was afraid of messing it up.

"What if I trip? What if I drop the baton? What if I'm just not fast enough?"

John put a hand on his shoulder, "You will be, T. You'll do fine, your times are almost as good as mine."

"Right," Tom said, "only off by about thirty seconds."

As they walked out, John glanced up at the stands and saw they had a guest. The man was dressed a little nicer than the average track enthusiast, his black suit looking too nice for the bleachers he was sitting on. He had a cane sitting between his knees, his long white hair hanging down around his face like a curtain. Even those locks couldn't hide his grin though. It was wide, and John was afraid that it might split his face in two. His teeth were pearly white, like polished rocks in his gums, and he had a distinctly bitey look about him.

"What's up, J?" Cedric asked, following his gaze up to the bleachers, "Oh, yeah I've seen him a couple of times. I don't know if he's a scout or what but he's been coming for the last few days."

"He's got to be a college scout or something," Tom said, "Why else would anyone else come out to a Highschool track practice?"

"Could be a pervert," John said, but when the guy's eyes settled on him, he felt like if he was a pervert then he was the kind that hurt you to get his rocks off.

"I don't like the look of him. He looks off somehow, like someone wearing a costume."

John agreed, walking to the parking lot as he headed for his pickup. He was tired, but it was that good kind of tired that came after a hard run. He would go home, have a soak, get ready for bed, and have a good night's sleep before school tomorrow. It was Thursday, the meet taking place on Saturday, and he would have a nice long run tomorrow after school to make sure that his engines were primed for the next day.

It was going to be a good day Saturday.

* * * * *

The coffee shop was busy when he came in Friday morning. John wasn't a big coffee drinker, caffeine was a drug no matter what they said, but St John's Beans made the best health smoothies in the city. Smoothy King was okay, but St John's Beans used fresher ingredients and John liked that. His body was a temple and he liked to treat it as such. If he treated it well, then it would treat him in kind.

Melanie smiled at John as he came in, "The usual?"

"I think I'm gonna go with the banana protein today. Got a meet coming up and I want to be ready."

"Cedric was in here for his usual triple espresso shot this morning and said there might be Olympic scouts there."

"There could be," John said, trying to make it sound nonchalant.

"Whatcha gonna do if you have to choose between the Olympics and some prestigious college that needs a guy who can run fast?"

"Shoot, I'm going to the Olympics. That's not even a question."

"Ever thought there might be another option?" came a smooth voice from behind him.

Melanie looked up with a smile but it seemed to prickle as she caught sight of him. John had never seen such a visceral reaction from anyone, and when he turned, he understood why. The man looked almost angelic with the bright windows arrayed behind him, but when John got a full blast of him, the illusion was broken.

As the man stepped forward, John realized it was the same man that had been sitting in the stands the day before.

He extended a hand, "John McCan, the track star of St Francis Charter School. It is truly an honor to meet you."

"Like...likewise," John said, forcing himself to reach out and take the extended hand. He didn't want to. He wanted nothing so much as to refuse the hand, and as he gripped it, it felt like a bird's wing. The bones moved weirdly beneath the skin, and when John let go, the man's smile was huge.

"I was hoping to get a chance to talk with you before the big meet on Saturday."

John moved aside, letting the man make his order, and when he turned back, John tried to fix his face so it looked normal.

"Are you from some kind of agency?" John asked, trying to get interested.

"I am. I work for Libris Talent and we would like to inquire about whether or not your Talent is for sale?"

John looked at him funny, not sure what he was talking about. Was he asking to represent him? Trying to become his agent? John didn't really want to work for someone like this man, but if the money was right he supposed he could look past it. His mom was working two jobs to pay for his tuition, and some extra money would be nice right now.

"Well, I could be looking for representation. What are you offering?"

"We want to manage your Talent, maybe put it in hands that can better mold it. We will pay you handsomely for it, more than compensate you for your considerable Talent."

John thought about it, sipping his smoothy as he tried to look anywhere but at the man.

"I don't believe I've ever heard of Libras Talent before. Are you guys new?"

"Well, we used to only cover literary Talent, hence the name, but we've been branching out as of late. Why just handle Literary Talent when we could offer Talent of all sorts? Now we can be the premier Talent agency for all needs."

"How much are we talking about as a sign-on?" John asked, still seeing dollar signs.

The man pulled a piece of paper out of his coat pocket, scribbling something on it with a golf pencil before sliding it across the table.

John looked, his eyes getting big as he read the 0's.

"It's a very generous offer," The man began.

"A little too generous," John said, "What exactly would be expected of me?"

"We're buying your Talent, John. That's all we expect of you, to show us. Meet me here if you're interested," he said, handing him an address that turned out to be the school track where he had run just that day, "We'll be waiting there at eight pm, with your check, of course."

He got up then, leaving his drink on the counter, and John couldn't help but watch him go as he left the shop.

"Usually people give their name when they make a deal."

When the man turned back, John wished he hadn't as he gave him the full attention of that sharklike grin.

"Richard T Sereph," he said, speaking the name like a spell, "Don't be late, my boy."

* * * * *

"So, the dude from the bleachers yesterday turns out to be from an Agency?" Cedric asked as they came into the lunch room at noon.

"Mhm," John said distractedly. The numbers the man had given him had been his worry stone all day and he had been distractedly rubbing it as he sat in class. He couldn't focus, couldn't get his head around things, and as the day went on, he considered just going home. He wasn't going to get anything out of today's lessons, no matter how hard he tried, and he might as well go home and rest for tomorrow. Maybe, he reflected, it was tonight he was resting for and not Saturday, but that was too much to think about.

If his body was a temple, then there was a whirlwind inside it.

"Are you gonna go?" Asked Tom.

"Dunno," John said, still distractedly rubbing at the paper.

He sat his lunch tray down, only then noticing that he hadn't bothered to put any food on it. Cedric laughed as he noticed too, but John found that he wasn't feeling very hungry. He didn't like this. He wasn't used to feeling this way. John had always been in control of his thoughts, of his body, and this sudden lack of control was more than a little upsetting.

"I think I'm gonna knock off early today," John said suddenly, getting up from the table as he took his empty tray to the bucket. Cedric and Tom followed behind, asking what was wrong, but John just told them he was feeling off. He wanted to go rest, he wanted to be fresh for tomorrow, he had a lot to think about, and he just needed to clear his head. They said they would see him later, and when he went to the office, the lady winked at him as if it was all a big joke.

"Sure, track star. Knockum dead tomorrow," she said, handing him a pass.

John thanked her, walking to the lot as he drove through town and back to his house.

His mother's car was in the driveway, and that was surprising since he hadn't actually seen his mother since Monday night. When she wasn't working as a housekeeper at the Rancho Bonita off the highway then she was working as a waitress in the Starlight Dinner. She worked sixteen to eighteen hours a day and crawled in late almost every night after he'd gone to bed. She did this because John's father had decided one day, about three years ago, to up and leave without a word. He left no note, told no one, and suddenly it was just the two of them.

John offered to get a job, but his mother wouldn't hear of it.

"You keep runnin, sweety. You keep runnin all the way to college and the Olympics and wherever else your legs will take you. Do whatever it takes to make your dreams come true and when you get there, you remember the people that got you there."

He came inside to find his mother slumped over on the couch, snoring softly as the tv played quietly. She had gotten off early from her job at the Hotel it seemed and she had been watching a little tv before her shift started at the Diner. She had one shoe off, the other still up on the table, when her exhaustion had taken her. John took the old afghan off the back of the couch and draped it over her before calling Henry at the Diner and telling him his mother was feeling under the weather.

"She's worked herself too hard and picked up a cold or something. She's running a fever and I think it might be best if she took a day to recover."

Henry sighed, but he had understood.

"I keep telling her that she has sick days for a reason. She just wants to do right by you, kid. She wants to give you the best. Tell her I hope she feels better tomorrow. She said she was commin in late so she could watch your big meet. Knockum dead, kiddo!"

John smiled as he hung the phone up and went into the kitchen to start dinner.

When his mother came awake, sounding like a deep sea diver coming up for air, she rushed into the kitchen like a bat out of hell.

"Jesus, John. Why did you let me sleep so late? I'm gonna be in so much trouble. Henry will fire me for sure. I have to hurry, I have to,"

"It's okay, mom. I called Henry and told him you were feeling under the weather. He said it was fine. Said he would use one of your sick days to cover for it. You rest, you've earned a little time to recuperate."

John had just been taking the pork chops off the stove, the green beans and mashed potatoes already done, and when he sat the plate down in front of her, his mother looked surprised.

"John, when did you have time to do all of this?"

John turned away, not wanting to see the disappointment when he told her he had come home early.

"I just left school a little early today. I was having some trouble focusing and I thought it might be best if I got myself right for tomorrow."

He couldn't see the disappointment, but he could hear it when she spoke.

"John, you have to take your studies more seriously. what if they don't let you compete tomorrow because you missed a test or,"

"My grades are fine, Mom. I'm not gonna be the valedictorian or anything but I'll pass. When I go to college, it won't just be for my running times either. I'll get in on my own merits. Can't run forever, after all." he added with a wink.

His mother nodded, tucking into her dinner as John finished his.

He looked at the clock on the stove and realized it was creeping up on eight o'clock. Watching his mother eat had resolved John to taking the deal, regardless of what the old man looked like. He kissed his mother on the forehead, going upstairs to get ready.

"Where are you going so late?" she asked ten minutes later as he headed out in his running gear.

"I need to do something. I'll be back soon. I love you, Mom."

He kissed the top of her head again and headed for the door.

Seeing her like this made it all the easier to decide what was right.

* * * * *

Mr. Sereph was waiting for him when he arrived, his smile back in place.

"You came! I thought for certain you would."

John nodded, the lights making him look even harsher in the hazy illumination.

"Yeah, so what am I here for?"

"Why, to run, of course. Running is your Talent, and if we are to have it, then you must do it."

John stepped back, "Run? run where? You've seen me run already. What are," but when he looked back there was a book in Mr. Sereph's hands.

The book looked old, eldritch in its fragility, and the binding looked like it meant to bite just as much as its owner.

"Sign your name. Sign your name in the book and all will be explained."

John suddenly felt like the last thing he wanted to do was sign that book. The longer he watched, the more it seemed to breathe. The longer he looked, the more it seemed to hunger for him. He could see a pen in Mr. Sereph's hand, and as he hesitated, he thought again about his mother's tired face. Didn't she deserve to be happy for a change? Didn't she deserve a rest?

The pen was cold as he grabbed it, and the ink seemed to move across the paper as he signed his life away.

He didn't know why he had thought of it, but he almost chuckled as it did.

He could always quit if he didn't like the representation.

"Now," Mr Sereph said, "Get out there and run."

All at once, John found that he did want to run. His blood was up and the night air had filled him with a kind of secret strength he didn't know he had. He wanted to run, he wanted to fall on all fours and fly, he wanted to feel the wind rush past him and revel in the exaltation of movement. He was a hunter, he was the prey, and he would run until he couldn't anymore.

Suddenly he was on the track. His shoes were gone and the blacktop felt strange beneath his bare feet. He got down in the starting position, listening for the imaginary pistol shot in his head, and as it sounded he took off up the track. He couldn't see it, judging the track by the islands of light that graced it. He ran from one island to the next, his feet slapping at the rubber as fast as they would go. The wind whipped past him as he ran, his feet hitting the ground like pistons. He was running faster than he had ever run. He was running faster than he had ever thought possible, and as he cleared his first lap, he truly felt like Icarus as he flew.

He went round and round and round, once and then twice and then three times and four times until his breath was coming in and out like bellows in a lunatic factory.

His legs began to burn, the veins throbbing as they pushed. His knees creaked like an old man's. His feet had stopped slapping and began to plop as they left wet streaks. His legs hurt, the skin cracking, but he ran on and on and on. His exhilaration was becoming confusion, and John became aware that he could not stop. His legs refused to stop pumping, his feet refused to stop working, and as he rounded the corner, he felt like he would go skipping across the hot top like a hockey puck at any minute. He was still flying, his legs running on autopilot, and when the veins burst in his calf, he limped only a single time before running again. His muscles stood out like the muscles on a horse's leg, and when his tendons cramped badly, he ran on despite it.

He screamed as the muscles began to shred themselves, separating from the bones and tendons as they unraveled. He had learned about how his legs worked in Biology class, but it was amazing how they seemed to unravel like yarn as he pulled themselves to pieces. He staggered, his legs still trying to move, and when he finally fell, the concrete ate him up as he bounced across it.

He came to rest within a puddle of light, his body throbbing as his bruised lungs tried to pull in air and scream.

His legs were thankfully going numb but it was hardly a comfort.

He passed out with his cheek against the concrete, bleeding and throbbing in impotent pain.

* * * * *

That was where they found John. The volunteers had just arrived to begin setting up for the meet when they found his broken form lying on the track. He was rushed to the hospital, but the damage was already done.

It was a great tragedy, a real blow to the town's sports program. John was hospitalized, his legs mostly pulp at this point. His tendons were shredded, his muscles frayed, and the prognosis was grim. He would likely never walk again, the doctors said, and they had to amputate one of his legs due to the damage it had suffered. No one could quite explain what had happened to him or how he had gotten in such a state, but when the check arrived in the mailbox the next day, his mother was at a loss for words.

It would cover their medical bills a hundred times over, but the note was what disturbed John the most.

Libras Talent would like to thank you for your Talent. We do hope your payment will help you in your time of need.

Warmest regards, R T Sereph.

PS. Don't miss the Olympics next year. I'm sure someone will want to thank you at their medal ceremony.