Dane/Arick Huebris

[Guest ThePoet]

Ok, I realize I may have just ripped Artemis a new one and insulted a lot of people in the process. So here's your chance for payback. It's not a character, but I would like some critiques. So here you go.

 

Prologue:

Circa 2060 AD

Like I said, the whiskey and turpentine cocktail is an acquired taste, but infinitely better than brandy, bourbon, vodka, or any other liquor you can name. Whiskey and turpentine just has that certain taste, the boldness and robustness of whiskey, the flat almost staleness of turpentine. Almost stale, but not spoiled rotten, still with some use left in its miserable *vulgarity*ed up existence. Put them together and you have a unique taste, a flavor that nothing else can match. I call it the flavor of Khazan, and of my life. Tired, down-trodden, depressed, and still with a couple ounces of good left to squeeze out. *vulgarity*, this drink depresses me the more I think about it, but I love savage irony so putting up with it is something I can tolerate. Plus the chicken wings, Daniel does a bangup job with chicken wings, jalapeno poppers, pretty much anything that involves a deep fat fryer. You wanna know his secret? Pretty damn simple. Every restaurant, bar, café, pub, tavern, has gone healthy. It makes me *vulgarity*ing sick. Going to a bar and seeing someone eat a salad or a fruit and yogurt parfait? Bunch of pussies. Shit, that chump Donald Hickens is probably their poster boy. Anyhow, Daniel didn’t change anything. He still fries the stuff up by the bushel with all the trans fats, cholesterol, saturated fat, and sodium I could want.

I saw a doctor 5 years ago after I got shot. Dumb *vulgarity*ing luck that I got hit. It was a ricochet of all things. I wouldn’t have gone to the damn doctor, but Pierre was off the grid and I probably would have died. I thought about the option for a few moments, but in the end I decided that living was better. Not sure if I would make the same choice again. Back to the doctor. He said I needed a blood transfusion and asked for my type. Hell if I knew. I lied and said it was O negative. The universal recipient and very little chance my body would react poorly. He gave me the transfusion but took some of my own blood to run some so-called routine tests. I didn’t believe him, but I was blacking out at the time so I really could answer. I came to about a day later. I was still too tired and sore to really move, so I just pissed in the bed. Disgusting really, but I hadn’t gone for more than a day. You try it. Not very fun is it? Then I started yelling for attention. It works for infants, I figured it would work for me.

A nurse, I think she was a nurse, came in at a slovenly pace. It was kind of fitting since I was questioning how she ever squeezed herself into her uniform. For that matter, I wondered why someone that fat was allowed to work in a health profession. I didn’t voice any of those thoughts, but it took some considerable effort. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not above candor. I tell shit like it is. But if I can avoid a hassle and perhaps an enema, I will. Anyhow, she did have a decent bedside manner. She asked me how I felt and how I got shot. Apparently they needed an explanation about all gunshot wounds and I hadn’t given one. I was preoccupied at the time. And I’m pretty sure I was convulsing or fainting. Anyhow, I told her the truth, well the partial truth.

Truth was that I was hired to retrieve some certain stolen valuables. I wasn’t the only man hired for the job. Our “boss†assembled a god-damn team. That pissed me off to no end. I work alone. If I can’t *vulgarity*ing do it alone, it’s probably more than I care to worry about or handle. I only kept going along because I really needed the money. My bookie was breathing down my neck and would probably send more than 5 guys the next time he tried to collect from me. Also, there’s my reputation to consider. I am the almighty, ever-dangerous, scared shitless half the time Mortician. You shirk one job after agreeing to it and all of a sudden you’re labeled as damaged goods. No one will hire you. If they do, they’re desperate. They won’t pay you what you’re worth. And they might kill you if you screw up. I learned most of those lessons the hard way. Luckily I have actually been known to dodge a few bullets. Anyhow, the job went off like something of this nature normally does. We got the stuff and had to fight our way out of a warehouse. This was an awful lot of trouble to retrieve a diamond-encrusted tiara and a couple of wedding bands. Sure the street value on the stuff was over a million easy, but the guy paid us a combined two million. Sentimental fool. I don’t understand it and don’t think I ever will. Back to the fight. They had guns and a couple guys with me had guns. I don’t carry one myself. They’re too unreliable and anyone who carries one is usually compensating for the fact that he thinks his dick is too small. Someone started shooting and before long most people were dead. I sensed what was going to happen mind you. I’d been doing this shit way too long not to see it coming. I started inching toward some crates that would provide cover as soon as the warehouse guards spotted us. I jumped behind the crates as soon as the first shot was fired. As luck would have it, a ricochet pinged off the metal shelf above me and the bullet missed my trench coat and went in to my neck.

Not a deep wound, but it was in my neck. I started losing blood pretty quickly. Discretion is the better part of valor. Anyone who tells you otherwise is too full of shit to be of much use other than manuering a field. I started making my way discretely further from the fight and toward an exit. A quick lesson on being a hired mercenary. Knowledge is power. The velocity on various firearms, the flammability of various chemicals, and the quick ins and outs of where you happen to be. Knowing a quick exit, an accessible exit, can exponentially increase your likelihood of getting out unnoticed. Failing unnoticed, getting out alive and semi-mobile works too. I got out in one piece, but I had left a blood-soaked trail. Bad for me. I never leave a trail. Anyone who has seen my work knows that it was me who did it, but no one has ever proven anything.

Every trench coat I’ve owned is a prized possession. It’s a badge of honor when you’re a detective, mercenary or whatever the hell you think I am. I don’t care how grimy and dirty and stained they get. Those are just little marks of honor that make my big badge of honor look better. That’s why it pained me to no end when I had to tear a piece off the coat to make a turnicate. Pissed me off, but it had to be done. A man leaving a trail of blood and holding his neck is going to raise some eyebrows, even in the ghettos and sewers where everyone minds their own business because they want you to mind yours. A man with a makeshift scarf covered in dirt and blood is just another man. No one thinks to ask twice. Maybe a cop with a hard-on might glance twice, but no one would think twice. Not in the month of February.

I called Pierre. I don’t know his last name, and I really don’t need to. Rich people would call him a concierge doctor. Basically a doctor who is on-call 24/7 and brings the services to you. Give him your name and location and he’s there in minutes assuming he’s not busy with another client. But he wouldn’t qualify as a concierge doctor. They’re clean, sterile, hospitable, well equipped, and generally have a squeaky clean reputation. Pierre is none of those. He’ll clean and sterilize the limited equipment he has which amounts to a typical chef’s knife bag crammed full of doodads, but it’ll cost you extra. He’s not very nice. Like me, he’s doing it for the money. Cash only, and the higher the mortality rate on your particular ailment, the higher his price. But for all that, he’s damn good. He’ll keep you alive. I bet him $50,000 that Daniel wouldn’t make it two days after that knife fight when Pierre used duct tape and lighter fluid to patch him up, but Daniel’s still alive and frying up delicious treats whenever I want. Pierre always took a bet when I bet against him. Cocky son of a bitch and he’s only been wrong once. He always thought I was good for it even if I didn’t have the cash. He must not know my bookie. That’s Pierre in a nutshell, but the bastard didn’t answer when I called, so I was forced to go to this after hours clinic where they keep records. That’s the other thing, Pierre didn’t keep records of jack shit except for his bills. If you paid him, he might not remember anything about you the next time you call. Handy if you’re a criminal, not handy if you’re allergic to penicillin.

That’s the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help me God or whatever the *vulgarity* higher power is in charge for the moment. That’s not all of what I told the nurse. I told her there was some gang activity in the area and some shots were fired. True enough, there was always something unsavory going on in this part of town. Drug deals, smuggling, swindling, vandalism, anything short of a life sentence. And something always seemed to go bad one way or the other and that’s when the shots came in. According to my modified story, I was tracking down a rare book and had a list of pawn shops that I had to check. I was hit by a ricochet in the process. Luckily for me this nurse was as dumb as she was fat. She marked her form and told me the doctor would be in to check on me in a moment. I really didn’t have that kind of time. It’s one thing if I’m holed up in my office for days. My enemies know I’m there, they want me dead, but I’ve got more booby traps and surprises rigged there than the United States has armored personnel in Fort Knox. But this clinic was exposed, vulnerable and my enemies act pretty quickly when they can sense a weakness. My clients all love me, 100% satisfied every last one of them. But that love ends when the job does, and usually through the course of the job I’ve managed to piss at least one person off. It’s not really me that’s pissing them off, all the shit I do falls in the scope of my job. Nevertheless, most of them blame me and not the people who hired me. I had to get out, too much chance an assassin would show up. That and the food. The food at a normal hospital is crap and most farm animals won’t touch it. I couldn’t imagine what this place had or if it even technically qualified as food. So I left. No doctor, no nurses, no bill. That’s what happens when you don’t carry an ID. They can’t really bill you. It’s all hearsay unless they have it on camera. I wouldn’t call myself a deadbeat, but I wouldn’t deny it either. I stole their chart they had written up on me. My vitals were stable, I was decently fit, blah blah blah. Then I noticed a bit of writing in red. My cholesterol was above normal range. *vulgarity* it all.

Since that time I’ve felt a bit guilty about eating the fried chicken, the jalapeno poppers, the fried zucchini that most restaurants put on their healthy choice menus. Bullshit, it’s still fried in oil or some shit that does the same job as oil. But I haven’t had a heartattack from eating this stuff. Sure I get stomach cramps, major diarrhea, and nasty acid reflux from it, but those aren’t life threatening. And in this case, they’re usually worth it. And there’s always Zantac, pepcid, pepto, or whatever the hell the lazy-ass drug companies are pitching nowadays. Honestly, I don’t think anything new is necessarily better, I just believe that those assholes are money-grubbing capitalist pigs. I can’t blame them, money solves a lot of problems. It doesn’t solve everything mind you. For *vulgarity*’s sake, I offered that guy a million dollars not to kill me. That was twice and then some of the value of a warehouse he owned that I blew up. He just wanted to kill me and money was no object. And God was he pissed when his gun blew up in his hand. This was shortly after I got back from the Mindsplatter. I didn’t really have a million dollars, but I can bluff with the best of them. Maybe he talked to my bookie. Anyhow, back to greedy, filthy rich assholes. I hate them. I also respect them. They’ve managed to convince millions of people that what they’re selling is awesome. It will cure their ailments. It’s worth four grand a milliliter. They’re doing for the good of humankind, not for the cash. Ok, the last bit is a stretch, but you get the idea. Come to think of it, I don’t hate them per se, I just resent them because I’m scrambling to make rent, bookie payments, and looking over my shoulder constantly, and they live in their mansions, yachts, and vacation mansions while sipping martinis and playing golf.

I ordered another whiskey and turpentine when Jessica brought out my chicken wings. She started scowling at me the same way Daniel did. I know they hate me by and large. I know most people I’ve associated with in a social setting hate me. Clients love me. Daniel and Jessica like me too, but they just can’t publicly admit it. Everyone knows the Mortician doesn’t have friends. I have acquaintances, clients, and enemies. I don’t decide which category they fall into, mostly because I just don’t care. The reason Daniel and Jessica like me so much is that they get a cut of my paychecks when a tip they give me pays off. That’s why I gave Jessica the full tab and then some when I paid for the wings. Their true score should have been about four grand more than that, but what they don’t know shouldn’t come back to hurt me. Anyhow, the reason they hate me publicly is the same reason I’ve been banned from almost every bar, restaurant, and club in the city. I have an extremely unsavory reputation. I can’t imagine why. The trade off when business is slow is that no fights break out at the Salty Dog. That’s the name of Daniel’s bar. The savings in broken stools, broken glass, and police hassles makes up for any customers I drive away.

The chicken wings were great. Oily, extra-breaded, and enough hot sauce to barbecue an elephant. I ordered a third cocktail and some pepto. I could tell from the first bite that these wings would be trouble. I could also tell that they would be worth it.

 

I'm adding more to the story here before we delve into the next section, I'm just reorganizing notes at this point.

 

Chapter 1:

 

 

2012 A.D.

The woman’s dwelling was simple, if a bit extravagant and upscale. London had both slums and highrise lofts and penthouses in equal measure. This place was the latter. It was a lush penthouse on the top floor of a well-to-do highrise. Very spacious, with several bedrooms, bathrooms, a kitchen, dining room, sitting room, and a small den where this woman had done the bulk of her work. Yet things were remarkably unadorned for a penthouse of this woman’s social status. There were flowers on the dining room table is a vase and others around the quarters. Yet the vases and flower pots were not expensive at all. Some of them looked as if they had been purchased second or even third hand. The furniture was neat and functional, but not overly lavish. All of the furnishings spoke largely of someone who had a remarkably level head and a good deal of common sense. Some items were expensive and pricey, but they seemed to fit with the whole décor. The ensemble of various decorations was very friendly and non-threatening. None of these things surprised Dane when he first entered, nor when he quietly disappeared and vacated the premises. Like any other time in his life, Dane had done his research and made sure he was prepared for what would come. He very much hated leaving things of consequence to any miniscule bit of chance. In fact, leaving things to chance made him sick and nauseous on occasion. Still, he knew this woman, at least he knew her as much as one person can know another without actually meeting them. It was secondary and tertiary knowledge at best, but he knew her. He knew she had risen from poverty to international fame seemingly overnight. He knew she had no lofty dreams of fame and grandeur, she had simply worked to provide a better life for her children. She became filthy rich doing it, but that was irrelevant. So when he saw the simply adorned apartments, he was not at all surprised. He didn’t lose even a second wondering or staring in admiration. He had a job to do. Now it was done.

Dane stood over the body of the woman he had just killed. A necessary act, her murder, but she was innocent all the same. That paradox invoked a curious feeling in Dane, one that he had honestly never felt before. His world had always been black and white. Things were a certain way and that was that. There were certain things he had been confused about in his life and for that matter there were things that still puzzled him, but this particular time still vexed him. He knew all the information, he had all of the facts, his motives for committing murder were not unfounded, yet he could not shake the feeling. Compounding his problem was the fact that he had never used a gun before. Yet here he was, standing over a woman’s body that oozed blood on to her floor even now. He had no fear of being caught and if he was caught, he had no fear of being unable to escape. The gun simply came from a world he never really knew. Oh it was a silenced pistol like anyone could see in a secret agent or spy movie. He had seen his fair share of those. But watching a gun being used and actually using one in person turned out to be two very and completely different things. A gun in a movie was tangential. It doesn’t really exist. Dane knew that for a long time. A movie about the destruction of every living thing in the universe was fake, pretend, a mere charade. He lived in reality. And a gun in reality was exactly that, too real. Too real, crude, and severely foul-smelling. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of sirens from several levels below him growing steadily louder. Unsure whether they came to his current location or another crime being committed, Dane left nothing to chance. He quietly made his way discretely from the premises.

As he made his way quietly back home, Dane still pondered his actions. More importantly, he pondered each motive for his actions, each single, emotional, logical, and strategic reason for his actions. Love, honor, duty, prestige, and a hundred more besides those flooded through his mind like torrents. He had read the histories of both his own race and that of humankind, as well as bits of folklore from other species. Joan of Arc came to mind. A woman who had really done nothing wrong, but she had to die for who and what she was. The world turned out to be a better place because of her death, and he hoped that the same would happen here. Still thinking, he arrived home to a dark house. His parents would be asleep most likely. Nonetheless, he had done too much tonight to take chances with something like this. A seventeen year-old caught outside their bedroom in the dead of night was almost certainly up to something regardless of their race, species, or social standing. Not that his parents would whole-heartedly object to what he had done, but they would definitely not approve either. He hoped that one day he could tell them. He hoped that one day they would be truly proud of him. He hoped they would stop comparing him to his father, his uncle, his older brother and sister, my grandmother, and every other member in his family of wizards. This hope in mind, he slipped off his shoes and laid down on his bed. As he pulled the covers up to stave off the chill that a February night brought to the majestic land of Finland, he replayed every event of the night. Confident that he would not be discovered as the murderer, he drifted off to peaceful sleep.

Dane awoke to his mother’s voice, bordering on the edge of furious. Glancing at the timepiece next to his bed, he discovered that he was supposed to be awake for nearly half an hour by now. Again, his mother’s voice echoed up from below, this time with threats to haul him out by his hair or whatever else she could get a hold of. Dane barked an apology along with a promise to come downstairs as fast as he could manage. But by the time he was groomed, dressed, and prepared, it was still too late to appease his mother. A hard woman, but fair. A little unfair when it came to her own children, but she had high expectations for Dane and his siblings. Letting them slide on something as simple as arriving to the breakfast table on time would surely lead to greater slights down the road. For that reason Dane arrived at the table when his sisters were finishing their apple-brandy pancakes and elk sausages. Dane himself received a bowl of porridge, unsweetened, unflavored, unadorned except for the spoon. When Dane apologized again profusely and begged for a spoonful of cinnamon or sugar to flavor his meal, his mother gave him a blank, yet oddly stern look. It was the type of look that promptly halted any negotiations and requests that could take place. Dejected, Dane started to eat. It would have to be apple-brandy pancakes this morning, Dane’s absolute favorite breakfast fare. He saw his sister Thora sitting there, sighing with contentment, flashing a taunting smile when their mother wasn’t looking. If they only knew what he had done. He was sure it would trump anything his sister could do, but he was unsure of his parents’ reactions. In his experience, not knowing hi s parents reactions was worse than knowing a bad one. He had broken the rules before, mostly his curfew. Once he knew the punishment, it was a simple task to weigh the punishment versus the item or event he was breaking curfew for. Calculated risk, that was the ticket. Satisfied with his thought process, he turned back to his bowl of lifeless, tasteless sludge.

“This complicates my day greatly.†Dane heard his father’s voice rising from his office on the far side of the kitchen. “I’m the chief criminal investigator for all of Northern Europe. Even if the humans find the murderer, I’m obligated to run my own thorough investigation. Especially with a human of this fame and notoriety not only among her own people, but she has drawn considerable ire and debate among our community as well.â€

“Is it really that bad Norrin?†Dane’s mother left the kitchen briskly and entered her husband’s office.

“Yes it is. Loreanna.†He said almost defeatedly. “A bum off the street is pretty cut and dry. A streetfight, footpad, cutpurse, cat burglar, gang war, and anything else can explain that. The humans usually chalk it up to one of those reasons and hardly give the matter a second thought. In their minds it’s one less mouth to feed, one less citizen not paying taxes, one less headache for their overworked policemen. One less headache for a man in my position. But this is a white-collar crime, definitely a murder. Doubly bad because of who she was.â€

“What was her name? And why does it have you so scared?†Loreanna asked with a bit of growing apprehension.

“J.K. Rowling.†He replied.

“The same J.K. Rowling who the councils were debating to have murdered anyway? The woman who almost exposed our world with her writings? This could turn out to be a blessing in disguise.â€

“Yes it is the same woman. The debate over having her killed was not really a debate. Aiden tells me that a few members of the high council were still in uproar over the impending war with the vampires and their hot blood carried over into the portion of the docket that had a few issues concerning Rowling. If anything, after her books were written, there was a great deal of debate in favor of revealing our existence to the human population. But we already have enough on our plate without worrying about these humans reacting to us in a negative way. They have enough issues and prejudices against factions of their own species.â€

“Still darling, wouldn’t you rather the human media shift their attention away from magic. Rowling was wrong about the fundamentals of magic and spellcraft is a good many ways, but she also hit a lot of points on the head. With her gone we may be able to breath easier.â€

“That is true, but early indications suggest that a wizard may be the culprit. There are gunshot wounds that caused her death, a definite human element. But there is nothing there to suggest that any other being was there. No footprints, forced entry, scratched walls, or even ruffled pillows. The doorlock is advanced enough by human standards to bar anyone who didn’t have prior access. So it was either a friend, or someone who could remove all traces. It’s true there could be other culprits as this woman seemed to have a fair number of enemies and detractors, but the logic suggests a wizard, one of our own.â€

“How can you be so sure already? You haven’t even been to the crime scene.â€

“Dorian was on duty last night. His report arrived by messenger right when we woke up this morning. He’s checking for any other clues as we speak. Hopefully he’ll have something by the time I get in to the office. Otherwise we may be in for a long several days.â€

“Do your best. That’s usually good enough to solve anything that comes your way.†Loreanna said as she kissed him and turned to go back to the kitchen.

Dane quickly turned his attentions back to the almost empty bowl and his sister pretended to be fixing her hair when their mother’s eyes passed over them. Their father’s job and position had always fascinated them for one reason or another. There were any number of reasons as to why. First, he was their father. He had raised them and been a model of good behavior and a good teacher of ethics, morals, and values. They simply looked up to him. Also, he was an investigator, an inspector, an enforcer of the law. They were proud to tell their friends that their father was a detective. Finally, the parts of his job that he was permitted to speak about at home sparked curiousity. A fellow wizard found dead in his home, several storefronts robbed in the space of a few minutes, and a number of other oddities from the world of crime. Of course, he could not speak about things at length because some of the information was confidential. That didn’t stop Dane and Thora or their older siblings from asking for more. Who did it? What was stolen? Who was killed? A literal myriad of questions had popped up over the years and each time Norrin’s response was the same. He couldn’t talk about it.

 

Comments, criticism, questions, snide remarks, and popsicles welcome.

 

-ThePoet

[treacherous]

The return of Huebris. Oh boy, that's long. Later...later.

[granobulax]

I'd like to point out that I don't believe I've read your Arick Huebris character and I didn't even know there was a Dane Huebris. If any of my comments aren't within the stories continuity, please disregard.

 

Prologue:

 

First, as a nurse myself, I know that any facility wouldn't allow a client to not void in a 24 hour period. Usually, if a hospital or clinic client hasn't voided within 8 hours they will strait cath him/her. Your character certainly wouldn't have gone 24 hours without voiding. Especially if this took place in the future. Who knows what methods they may have in 51 years?

 

I know that this is supposed to be a monologue, but I noticed that a lot of the sentences started with "I" did this or "I" did that. It was a bit overdone with him saying "I" all the time. Maybe that's just me though.

 

Did he really make a tournequet around his neck? The pressure that would be needed to keep him from bleeding profusely would cut off his airway. He's still gotta breath, right?

 

Chapter 1:

 

I didn't really see anything in particular that stood out as "wrong." Grammar and spelling was near perfect as one would expect coming from you.

 

What I like most about your characters is the voice of the character. It's very distinctive. I thought the story lines could have used a little more... pazzaz, but you more than make up for it with delving into the character's thought processes.

 

I wish I could give you better criticisms, but I suck at criticising.

[Guest ThePoet]

Thanks for the stuff Grano. I appreciate the nurse's view on things. I like the elements of my stories to be believable. If the 24hour void and tournicate aren't plausible, I have some reworking to do. You caught me. I re-read paying attention to the use of "I". I did over do it by a good bit. Again thanks for the critiques, however poorly you think you did.

 

FYI, Dane is Arick's father and I'll dig up the original Huebris sheets for reference.

 

-ThePoet

[granobulax]

FYI, Dane is Arick's father and I'll dig up the original Huebris sheets for reference.

 

-ThePoet

If you still happen to have the Arick Huebris character saved on your computer, I'd really appreciate it if you to sent it to me via PM. I'd like to read more on the character.

 

Thanks.