IGMS Issue 8 Page 8

  Long story short, Melanie is evicted and moves in with her true love, me.

  And it's wonderful, except for one thing.

  She can't get over that I supposedly knew about Warren all along, so conversations like this become the staple of my day:

  "So when I signed up for that dance class on Wednesday nights and bought the shoes and leotard and everything, but never practiced even once, you must have known I was meeting Warren. There was one time he stood me up, some stupid thing with Ursula he couldn't get out of, and I just sat in the car and cried. You were so sweet when I got home. You could tell I'd been crying. I told you I fell doing a difficult move, and you iced my ankle. You must've known, and yet . . ."

  Yeah. Saint Masochistic Brian-the-All-Knowing must've known and now gets to hear it all. It seems her life has been one long furtive attempt to screw Warren. There are no details she sees fit to spare me. Blow jobs in elevators, previous suicide attempts, daydreams about murdering Ursula, shrinks she's gone through attempting to deal with her obsession. "I spent weeks talking to Daphne about whether I should tell you or not, and it turns out the whole time you already knew."

  Turns out.

  One evening -- after a vivid account of her meeting Warren in a Target parking lot for a quickie and her subsequent remorse she couldn't go shopping with him -- she's so upset she has to take to bed.

  I bang my head on the kitchen cabinet. "God, I can't take this anymore!"

  "And how's that mercy plan working out for you, Loverboy?"

  Apparently anything passes for prayer these days. I smell him before I actually turn and see him. The scar on my cheek, not quite healed after months, begins to throb. I once saw a marble cemetery angel that had been worked over with a sledge hammer. I wondered why anyone would do such a thing. I'm beginning to develop a theory. But all I have is a wooden spoon, and he still scares the crap out of me. "It's doing okay."

  "So you were taking the Lord's name in vain, were you? You didn't really mean what you just addressed to Him?"

  There's something a little different about the angel today. A little less smirk maybe. My kitchen's small. Last time he was here he would've pulverized the spice rack, but now he's got his wings tucked in like a pigeon's. "I only meant that her obsession with her dead lover can't be good for her healing, and I only want what's best for her."

  "Oh my. You're almost getting good at this."

  "Good at what?"

  "The Lord's work, of course." Smirk, sniff. "Mister Mercy, I call you." He smiles.

  I think it was a sledge hammer. It might've been a chain saw. A jack hammer. "Thank you," I say.

  "Nasty work, mercy. You couldn't pay me." He screeches with laughter. Angel humor, I suppose. "But I didn't come to exchange pleasantries. You're in the brotherhood now, so to speak. I must keep you informed. Justice, as you know, thrives on truth."

  "And what truth would that be?"

  "She's screwing Clifford again."

  "You're kidding."

  He gives me a brotherly, you're-a-total-idiot look, and my wound begins to ooze. "She confronted him about telling you about Warren, which he denied at first, but, opportunist that he is, eventually confessed to it when he realized she saw it as a strange bond between them, an erotic one as it turns out. Surprise, surprise. Oh yes, she sneaks cigarettes in the basement. Her pack is on the circuit box."

  He watches my reaction with the greatest interest, like a cat watching a songbird. I try to emulate his marble serenity and choose my song carefully. I know this creep. This is definitely a trap. "Clifford. Tsk. Tsk. She must be terribly unhappy."

  His eyes narrow. "You're concerned about her?"

  "Of course. I suspect she's consumed with self-loathing."

  His feathers ruffle. "As well she should be. You should return her fate to me. Much easier on everyone, wouldn't you say?"

  I smile. I couldn't possibly contradict a member of the brotherhood. I just smile what I hope is a merciful smile. I'm glad there are no mirrors in my kitchen, or I'd gag on my own sweetness.

  He's aghast. "But she's hopeless. Completely faithless. A wanton Jezebel."

  "Confused, heart-broken, a victim of a patriarchal society that teaches her to loathe her own sexuality." As pissed as I am at Melanie, I'm not going to let this harpy have her. He can't wait to wrap her up in those fiery wings of his and teach her a lesson she'll never forget. "I'll talk to her."

  "You'll talk to her?"

  "Yeah. That's what I said. You got a problem with that?" I don't know where this comes from, but it's all I can do to keep standing after the words leave my mouth. I fully expect him to incinerate me in a heartbeat.

  But he doesn't. He steps back. He opens up the window and flies away as if he'd been a pigeon on the windowsill.

  Over dinner I come right to the point. I tell her an angel has informed me of her latest indiscretion with Clifford, and I have just one question to ask her.

  "An angel?" she says. "Are you out of your mind?"

  "Have you been screwing Clifford?"

  "Well, yes. It was stupid. But an angel, Brian, really -- "

  "I haven't asked my question yet."

  "I thought you just did."

  "I don't have to ask about Clifford. I already know about that. Like I know about the pack of cigarettes on the circuit box. My question is, have you ever been faithful -- to anyone?"

  She hesitates. "That depends upon what you mean -- "

  "It's a fairly straightforward question."

  She stops to think, boyfriend by boyfriend. "Well, since you put it that way, I don't suppose I have, actually."

  "So it's not anything personal then? In fact, I would be foolish to expect anything else. You cheated on all your boyfriends with Warren, and with Warren on everyone else. Why should things change now that Warren has exited the material plane?"

  She gives me a baffled look. "I guess you could look at it that way."

  "I prefer to, yes."

  "And you're cool with that?"

  I shrug. "I'd rather not hear about it."

  "I thought this angel tells you everything I do." I note the slightest dip in her skepticism. How else could I possibly know?

  "He'll only tell me if I care."

  "You didn't care about Warren, apparently."

  "I didn't know until the angel told me. I only dragged Clifford into it because I knew you wouldn't believe an angel and I didn't want to lose you. But it doesn't matter if you believe. Look. Warren was an ass. He's dead. He has nothing to do with us anymore. But how about I trust you? I mean, Clifford? C'mon."

  She smiles. "You know what I think? I think you're the angel."

  "Maybe I am." Smirk, sniff, kiss.

  This marks a dramatic turning point in our relationship that I can't fully explain. The Lord moves in mysterious ways. We've remained completely devoted to one another for many wonderful years now. Melanie's even quit smoking.

  There's no way to be sure of course, short of consulting with the angels. But why in Hell would I want to do that?

  Accounting for Dragons

  by Eric James Stone

  Artwork by Nick Greenwood

  * * *

  Introduction

  Most dragons rarely think about accounting. But you've worked hard to acquire that hoard of gold and jewels -- shouldn't you be keeping track of what happens to it? Just sitting on it isn't good enough any more. That's why you need accounting. Here are some tips:

  Tip One: A Copper Saved Is a Copper Earned

  Your hoard isn't just valuable to you; it's valuable to thieves. Once word gets out that you're sitting on a big pile of treasure, it isn't long before they come skulking about, their greedy hands trying to snatch the things you've gained through honest plunder.

  Dragons may have the reputation of knowing every single item in their hoard, down to the last copper, but the fact of the matter is that only a tiny fraction of dragons can remember more than six or seven thousand individual pieces before t
hey all start to blur together. Admit it -- you really aren't sure whether you have twenty-seven ruby-encrusted platinum goblets, or only twenty-six.

  But thanks to proper accounting, you can have a complete inventory of everything in your hoard. That way, if you find something is missing, you can go on a rampage across the countryside or demand a virgin as a sacrifice unless your treasure is returned.

  Tip Two: Plan for Taxes

  The Dragon King will always demand his share, but you need to remember: it's your hoard, not the king's. There are legitimate deductions you can take to reduce the amount you pay in taxes.

  For example, did you know that knight insurance can be written off as a legitimate expense? Defending yourself against those pests in plate-mail is something that happens in the ordinary course of business. A good knight-insurance policy will cover not only dents in your scales and arrows through your wings, but also full reimbursement for any treasure you have to give out to make the knight go away.

  Also, many dragons forget that alternative forms of income, such as virgin sacrifices, are taxable, too, and they get a nasty surprise when the tax bill arrives. Plan to set aside some treasure to cover those unexpected extra taxes.

  Tip Three: Keep Good Records

  In case of a tax audit, you need to have good records. But that's not the only reason.

  Imagine the following scenario. You swoop down out of the sky onto some innocent village. Your teeth and talons are sharpened. Your breath is smoky fresh. But before you can rend flesh from bone and set the buildings ablaze, some village elder comes out with documentation showing they sacrificed a virgin to you earlier in the year. It's enough to make you slink away with your tail dragging in the mud.

  You can avoid such embarrassment by recording all of your income, including sacrificial virgins. Note down the amount, the source, and the date.

  Good recordkeeping also allows you to be more proactive. For example, you may notice that a particular village is late in offering a sacrifice. Then it's your choice whether to demand an immediate sacrifice or to wreak havoc on the village.

  Tip Four: Hire a Good Accountant

  Maybe you're just too busy. Or maybe you're bad at math. For whatever reason, you may decide to hire an accountant rather than do the work yourself. Generally, you have two options when it comes to hiring an accountant.

  A dragon accountant can be expensive, although he usually pays for himself through tax savings.

  For the more cost-conscious dragon, a smarter choice is to find a human accountant who will gladly do all your accounting without charging you a single copper, simply in return for not being eaten. Over the long term, the savings can really add up.

  "That's the end," I said after I finished reading the brochure. The echo of my voice faded away inside the cave.

  "I'd never realized the advantages," said the dragon. Its black tongue flickered out to moisten its scaly lips. "After I eat you, I'll have to find myself an accountant."

  I cleared my throat. "By sheer coincidence," I said, "it turns out that I'm an accountant. That's why I happened to have the brochure with me."

  "An accountant?" The gold and jewels of the dragon's hoard sparkled as he snorted flame. "The village elders claimed you were a virgin!"

  "Strange as it may seem," I said, "the two are not mutually exclusive."

  "Oh," said the dragon. "Well, then, I suppose you'll do. You'll work for not being eaten?"

  "I would find that quite satisfactory," I said. "Plus, there's a substantial tax benefit to you, because an uneaten virgin sacrifice doesn't count as income. Now, let's review your financial situation. I'll need to see your tax returns for the past three years, your current knight insurance policy . . ."

  "But I don't have a knight insurance policy," said the dragon.

  "Really? You're in luck." With a broad smile, I reached into my pocket. "I just happen to have a brochure with me called Insurance for Dragons."

  End Time

  by Scott Emerson Bull

  Artwork by Dean Spencer

  * * *

  "Damn heat," Jacob muttered, as overhead the sun bleached the sky, claiming temporary victory in its immemorial battle with darkness. He leaned forward on his chaise and lit a brown Turkish cigarette, an old addiction that refused to kill him. He was too old to care. He'd stopped counting birthdays after fifty-nine and was convinced that death kept him at arm's length just for spite. If God possessed an ounce of mercy, he would have taken Jacob by now, but Jacob knew the Devil had right of first refusal and evil's patience had no limit.

  A screaming child shattered the surface of the pool. The kid's parent, a stooped man with frazzled hair and dead eyes, hovered close as if expecting disaster. It's a sin to bring kids into this world, Jacob thought. What future did they have anymore? He spied one of the cabana boys and waved his empty scotch glass. "And be quick about it," he told him. "The first three are wearing off."

  In the pool, the splashing kid swallowed a mouthful of water and flailed away as if drowning. The father grabbed the kid by the arm and pulled him to the steps, ignoring the offered assistance from a middle-aged woman in a pink bathing cap and matching sunglasses. The woman shrugged and continued her journey around the pool, collapsing on the empty chaise next to Jacob in a muddle of paperbacks and sunscreen.

  "My Lord it's hot," she said, in perfect Middle American. "I wanted to escape the cold, but this is ridiculous."

  Jacob closed his eyes. Maybe if he ignored her.

  "Looks like you're enjoying it though," she went on. "My ex used to go on about global warming and I'd tell him he was nuts. Now look at the world. Is it true what they said on the news? Did another polar ice cap break away?"

  Yeah, lady, Jacob thought. The earth is melting and the days are getting hotter and the nights blacker and it's all thanks to those wonderfully toxic gases we belch into the air.

  The woman continued unfazed. "I have a brother who lives on the Outer Banks and they swear the beach is creeping up to their bungalow. What a world we live in."

  You don't know the half of it, Jacob thought.

  A rogue cloud blurred the sun and cast a long shadow across Jacob. He had a sudden feeling of disconnection, as if the world had shifted on its axis. Across the pool, a wiry gray-haired man in thick, black glasses shuffled towards one of the umbrella'd tables. A thin moustache curled like a caterpillar over his lip and he had on a white robe with the hotel's crest embroidered on its breast. Scuffed sandals on his feet indicated either a certain frugalness in the man or that he had traveled far. Jacob knew both to be true. The cloud moved on, but the man remained in shadow. He looked over at Jacob and smiled.

  The woman prattled on. "I'm from Minnesota," she said. "Just got in this morning. I tell you, I don't know how the airlines keep running. Three hours to get through security, then a six-hour flight without so much as a bag of peanuts. So are you American?"

  "Lady," Jacob said. "Would you please shut the hell up."

  Evening descended upon the island. Back in his room, Jacob unpacked his last suitcase. He'd unpacked the first two when he arrived, transferring clothes to the provided dresser, and books and writing implements to the desk by the window. At that time, there'd been no need to unpack the third. Now he spun the rusted tumblers on the black valise and let the locks snap open. Inside were two guns. He placed one under the mattress and the other beneath the cushion of the couch.

  Afterwards, he went down to the Tiki bar with its smoldering torches and scowling waiters. He took a seat on one of the stools and nodded to Fred the bartender, who assembled him a Manhattan. Fred made a lousy drink, but possessed a disinterested nature.

  To the right of the bar sat a palm-lined patio. The wiry man from the pool, now adorned in a wrinkled linen suit and blue sneakers, sat at a table in urgent conversation over umbrella drinks with Ms. Minnesota. Candlelight played off their faces, his dead white, hers wildly sunburned. They made a clichéd couple, the skinny hen-pecked husband and his over
-bearing wife, though nothing could have been further from the truth. Jacob imagined them discussing the sorry state of the planet and how environmental shift wasn't really all that bad and wasn't the drainage plan they'd devised to save New Orleans from more Post-Katrina misery a marvel of engineering design? Jacob's curiosity overcame him and he took his drink to a table close by and listened.

  "You seem so confident about this," the woman said. "I've been having nightmares ever since that something or other collapsed."

  "The Larsen B," the little man said. His honey-smooth voice sent a chill through Jacob.

  "So you believe this will lead us to a new age of reason?" the woman asked. "A new Enlightenment?"

  "Change is good," he said, taking a sip from his drink. His cheeks bellowed around the straw like a puff adder. "We've become too complacent. Even about violence. We crave it. Knowing that others are dying makes us feel more alive. It's the fear of it all. We need a world-wide threat like this to really make us sit up and take notice."

  Same old sleight of hand, Jacob thought. Keep your eyes on the rising tide as I slip away with your soul.

  "But what about the war?" she asked.

  "Wars come and go," he said. The little man was really getting full of himself now. "They're inconsequential in the scheme of things. They kill off some of us. We kill off a lot more of them. Our God's happy. Their god's happy. Everyone gets the requisite sacrifice of souls. At the end of the day the Earth has completed another rotation and we're one step closer to a new day. Nothing can stop it."

  The woman slurped her drink. "Talking to you has made me feel so reassured," she said.

  I'm going to vomit, Jacob thought.

  The wiry man smiled. "You know you have remarkable green eyes."

  Jacob sprang to his feet, attracting their attention. "They're not green," he said, "They're blue," and walked out of the bar, the wiry man's smile burning into his back.