Splattered-Out, Ch. 1, pt. 4

Straight ahead, where the alley intersected with a small side road, Callus noticed his opportunity. On an unassuming concrete building was a small pivoted window, which swayed noisily as the breeze drafted through the corridor. It was low enough to the ground that he could dive through it, if only he could make it across the road. Sure, he would probably end up in somebody's basement, but at least it would buy him time.

Barreling toward his only escape, with wild dogs snapping at his heels, Callus could hear a bevy of footsteps flocking into the alley behind him. "You're surrounded, Presexed!" a man shouted, but Callus didn't buy it. The window was too close now. His escape was too imminent. He burst out of the alleyway and made the biggest leap his titanic leg muscles could muster. It was the kind of leap that could win a basketball game.

Callus coasted fearlessly through the air. He saw the window in front of him. Suddenly he saw the window zip out of sight. Then he saw asphalt. The next thing he knew, his body was tumbling violently along the street; in another moment it was lying in a marred heap against the curb of the sidewalk.

Callus lay there, quiet and bewildered, while blood trickled from his head and elbows and all the rest of him. His breaths were rapid and shallow; they registered to him simply as pain. He wanted to open his eyes but couldn't, only hearing the drove of feet pour out of the corridor and gather all around him. With an excruciating effort Callus reached for his riot shotgun, but found nothing.

He sensed the subtle force of several large pistols aimed at his face. "Mr. Presexed," a familiar voice above him said. Callus jimmied one eye open with his fingers and looked obliquely at the speaker. It was the blurry but unmistakable figure of Og Pog's chief constable. "Mr. Presexed," the man said again, "I'm sorry to say I have to place you under arrest."

"I think I need a doctor," Callus mumbled, barely coherent. "I don't have any feeling in my right hand."

The chief looked at Callus's hand quizically, discovering his own steel-rimmed boot standing on top of it. "Oh!" blushed the chief. "Sorry about that."

"Hold on a second," Callus replied. "Did you just say you're arresting me?"

"I'm sorry Mr. Presexed. I really don't want to do this, but the evidence we have gives us more than enough cause."

"Evidence? Evidence of what?!"

"Aiding and abetting a known felon."

Callus's jaw dropped. What the hell was going on here? The only thing Callus was ever guilty of was defending this forsaken slag of a world. Besides, he figured he had already taken out all the known felons. But when he saw the solemnity in the chief constable's eyes — the regret — it felt like being nailed to a cross. A fitting thing, Callus thought, since his body felt like it had just been scourged by Roman soldiers.

"I still think I need a doctor," Callus sighed.

"I'll see what I can do for you, Mr. Presexed," said the chief. "Attention troops! Can somebody here get this man some drugs?"

The question was met with heavy silence. "That's unfortunate," the chief shrugged. "Well, I tried."

And then, after getting handcuffed by the man who had entrusted him with the protection of the planet, Callus again found himself shuffling wearily down the main boulevard. He stared wistfully into the distance. The Og Pog skyline still had such a charming effect on him. A handful of skyscrapers, all of them pitted and scarred by decades of bombing raids, remained defiantly erect, as if in a competition to see which would be the last one standing. Callus knew those skyscrapers from when he was just a boy. They towered above everything: the poverty, the injustice, the noise and confusion of the urban core, the mire of despondency. Above it all, they were free.

The police headquarters facility, on the other hand, was a total cesspit. Inside, tasteless false-mahogany paneling lined a common area cramped with tables of dirty styrofoam cups, used ashtrays, and messy stacks of legal paper. The chief constable led Callus to a dank, windowless room, where they sat down alone. Well, not completely alone; several guards flanked each wall. By now it didn't surprise Callus to see that each guard had his pistol pointed directly at Callus's head. The chief constable remained silent for several minutes, fidgeting with a pencil while gazing disconcertedly at a laptop computer on the table.

"I want you to know," the chief eventually began, "that I will be treating your case with utmost discretion."

"Oh, is that so?" Callus replied. "Is shooting at me from a rooftop your idea of being discreet?"

"Mr. Presexed," said the chief somberly, "The man who shot at you was not part of our force. I'm sad to admit nobody on our force knows how to shoot like that."

"What?! How many enemies do I have in this town for godsake?"

"You've made enemies all over the galaxy, Mr. Presexed."

Callus squinted with skepticism. "Chief, let me ask you something. Have you ever had to dodge flying sawblades before?"

"No, Mr. Presexed," the chief stammered, "I have not."

"Have you ever been lashed by a blue-flaming chain whip?"

"No — well, not a real one anyway."

"Have you ever found yourself in the kind of conundrum where, let's say, you're making passionate love to the commissioner's daughter, and suddenly out of the corner of your eye you see a missile heading right toward your motel room?"

"Of course not, Mr. Presexed. Those sort of things doesn't happen to normal people. Did you say the commissioner's d—"

"Right, of course not," Callus interrupted. "But what I mean to say is, I've been through a lot over the years trying to keep this world safe from harm. Whatever evidence you may have against me, Chief, you above all should know I am innocent of any crime."

"That's exactly what makes this case so difficult for me," said the chief. "Mr. Presexed, can you handle a few unpleasant facts?"

"No, generally not."

"Oh, okay. Well, the first is, I think I'm in love with you."

"Yeah? Hey, that's cool. I already had a hunch. But really, Chief, I'm afraid it would never work out between you and me."

"Yes, I know, I know," replied the chief deflatedly. "Moving on then. We have in our possession an authentic video capture of you making a large monetary transaction — it aggrieves me to say this, Mr. Presexed — with none other than Juarez Glade."

"What? Juarez Glade? You mean the transvestite?"

"Mr. Presexed, Juarez Glade is one of the most feared pirates in the galaxy."

"Juarez Glade is a doddering old queen. He wears blush and eyeliner and I'm also pretty sure he doesn't have a cock. Haven't you ever wondered why he's always handling cucumbers?"

"Whoever he is, we saw you accepting a briefcase from him, filled with cash."

"Ridiculous. I have no memory of any transaction with Juarez Glade. Listen, Chief, this is obviously some kind of setup. I'm not about to go down in history as the guy who brokered a deal with the galaxy's prissiest cross-dresser."

"You'll just have to see for yourself, Mr. Presexed."

From his pocket the chief removed a small thumb drive and inserted it into the laptop computer. Slowly, reluctantly, he swiveled the laptop toward Callus's view; and, turning his head as if to avoid witnessing an execution, struck a key to start the video.

What Callus watched on the screen over the next few seconds was possibly the most atrocious thing he had ever seen. It made him recoil with nausea; it made him question if he possessed even one ounce of sanity. And it filled him with those agonizing feelings that inevitably accompany one's imminent condemnation.

But it wasn't seeing himself accept a money-stuffed attaché from a man in a tight leather leotard that made him so upset. Any individual convinced enough of his own innocence could handle such a sight. It was seeing himself, with a rascally smile frozen to his face, shamelessly groping Juarez Glade's bulgeless crotch.