Action Figures - Issue Four: Cruel Summer by Michael C Bailey

Author:Michael C Bailey
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Innsmouth Look Publishing
Published: 2015-03-23T23:00:00+00:00

SEVENTEEN

Dr. Quentin greets the news with a slow raise of her eyebrows. “If you’ll forgive my morbid curiosity,” she says, saving me the trouble of asking.

“He fashioned a ligature out of his bed sheet,” Edison says, “tried to strangle himself.”

“How did he manage that?” I say. Having spent a little time in a Byrne cell, I can say with complete confidence that there is no way someone can hang himself in one. The cells are smooth cubes, no exposed rafters or the like, and they’re all monitored constantly. Guards would respond to a suicide attempt within seconds.

“He fashioned a noose, slipped it over his neck, tied the other end in a knot, then flushed it down the toilet,” Edison says. Dr. Quentin and I do simultaneous double-takes. “I promise you, I am not making that up.”

“Well.” Dr. Quentin takes a long sip of her drink. “That’s certainly imaginative.”

“Yeah, points for creativity, but he must have been truly desperate to even try it.”

“I don’t get it,” I say. “The King of Pain’s supposed to be a hardcore psychopath. Why would be try to kill himself?”

“It shouldn’t come as a surprise. Individuals like the King of Pain are driven by the need to control others, exert their power over their victims,” Dr. Quentin says. “His power has been taken away. Suicide is simply his pathetic way of attempting to reclaim control.”

“Too bad he didn’t succeed,” Edison says. “Would have saved us a lot of trouble.”

Dr. Quentin tsks. “Really, Edison. Such vindictiveness is beneath you.”

“Sorry to intrude,” Bart says, intruding and not at all sorry for it, “but this has all the appearances of an official confab and I thought we agreed we wouldn’t discuss business today.”

“Don’t worry. We’re done here,” Edison says, unceremoniously ending the impromptu meeting.

Business remains on the back burner for the rest of the day, and I allow myself to become distracted by the eating, drinking, and merry-making. Stuart and Joe wind up embroiled in an unofficial rib-eating contest, polishing off plate after plate without ever slowing down. Dr. Quentin puts away, by my count, four glasses of wine in as many hours. Each glass makes her louder and more susceptible to uncontrollable giggling at the least provocation. Matt reduces her to a quivering mass of hysterical laughter after making a joke about someone named Heisenberg getting pulled over for speeding.

Once our stomachs settle, Meg breaks out a portable stereo and fires up the tunes because, in her words, “It’s my party and I demand we dance until we barf.”

Dancing happens. Barfing, thankfully, not so much.

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