"Damn," Sophie seethed, echoing my own personal feelings. I had always detested the methods employed by the Knave, even during my own days of being a bit of a womanizer. I never used emotions to try and get to my targets, and I never, ever twisted a woman the way the Knave did.
"That's not the worst," I said, as Sophie finally made the last of our misdirection turns and started back towards Mount Zion. "The worst part is, he's married. His reputation is that he looks young, maybe just twenty three or four, but he's actually pushing thirty or so. It's part of his game, he comes off as this barely out of high school guy, but he's actually got a wife at home."
"How can his wife be cool with that?" Sophie asked, disgusted.
I shook my head. "I don't know. From what the rumors have told me, she's the same as him, a Mata Hari type who left the business when she couldn't pass as a teenager any more, and wasn't quite old enough for the MILF act yet. But if this guy is the one who I think has been seeing Tabby, your friend is being played."
"So what do we do?"
I clenched my fists, the knuckles cracking as I thought of all I'd like to do to the man. However, he did have a wife, and I don't like killing people with families, if it can be avoided. I know how hypocritical that sounds, and I know I've killed men with wives and even children, but they were jobs I never enjoyed doing. "Let's go to the bell tower," I said, thinking. "I have an idea."
"You going to fill me in on the idea?" Sophie asked as she made the turn towards Mount Zion. "Please tell me it's painful and slow-acting."
"Slow-acting it isn't, but painful? You can say that for sure," I said, thinking of some of the alternative lessons I had gotten from some of my instructors over the years.
There's an old song from the Wu Tang Clan member Redman that includes the line six million ways to die. The line is actually older than that, but he's probably the most famous user of the line. In any case, the truth is there are less than that, but the number is still pretty high. While I doubt there is anyone in the world who knows all of the different ways that the human body can be killed, the really creative methods are actually quite useful. Any idiot can pull a trigger, just look at the gun violence statistics. The same is almost true for bladed weapons as well. Even the most pacifistic person can be pushed to the point they'll bury a knife in someone's guts, especially if you don't give them a chance to think about it first.
But the creative methods are a sort of deadly art, or a deadly science, depending on your point of view. The martial arts are filled with methods of shattering bone, cutting off blood flow to the brain, and potentially stopping the heart with just your bare hands. When you add in hand held weapons, the possibilities increase. When you then add in the use of chemicals, electricity, and other means, well, you understand. You can go slow, you can go quick. You can be painless or mind breakingly painful. You can affect any of a dozen systems in the body, if you want. Someone could study to a PhD level and still not fully know every way to kill someone. In fact, I studied under a teacher who was called Doctor Death, and he willingly admitted he didn't know everything.
But there was another level underneath just death that was just as large, and sometimes even more useful, that was manipulation of the body. Truth serums, minor poisons, crippling agents, all of them were just the beginning. I had a better idea in mind.
"I learned a few combinations, some things that I keep in the bell tower," I said, running through the list of stuff in one of my cabinets. "He'll be alive, but he's going to be out of the seduction business for the rest of his life. His wife might not like how he ends up either, but at least he'll be alive."
"I can deal with that."
* * *
Mark
The night was colder than it had been in a long time, fall was coming on again. It wasn't cold enough to snow, we wouldn't get that until mid-winter, but it still was cool enough that I wore my lightweight tactical jacket. I had gone to one of our alternative bases, where I had a nondescript car. While I had been mixing up my little surprise for the Knave, Sophie had tried calling Tabby, using both our normal phones and her old personal phone, which we had reserved only for emergencies. Tabby hadn't picked up either, which told me she was probably either distracted or asleep. Either way, her apartment was the best place to start looking.
I had been waiting about twenty minutes outside Tabby's place when the door opened, and she came out with a man, five foot ten, who was wearing the same sort of polo shirt that Pressman had been wearing earlier that day. He looked a lot like Mike Pressman, but slightly bigger, more filled out. He was definitely Scott Pressman. The Knave of Hearts.