AND ITS FINISHED PT 11 WITH NOT A SEVOND TO SPARE LETS GOO
Fugi is so ANGY guys this is not good!! Anyways thank you all so much for being patient! Hopefully this will be the last time Im so close to the wire lmao
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Previous
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Part 45 of my story! Wow! Read the index and content warnings here.
Remember kids there are no bad breeds, just bad owners. Alcohol mentions + tinies get sold for money in this chapter.
Joe woke up on the floor of the cage, reacquainted once again with his old friends starvation and fatigue. They were the only friends Joe had at the moment – he had spent the night cycling through short and uneasy bursts of sleep, only to awaken each time fearful that his cage mates were plotting to stab him to death. With what he didn’t know, for each one was dressed in rags without a single keepsake to her name. He didn’t know any their names, come to think of it, and he was neither brave nor foolish enough to ask them; the look in the eyes of the bedraggled girls whenever Joe so much as turned his head towards them told him everything he needed to know. Their shared anger at Joe and what he represented seethed from every pore, as it did from every other miniature in the room. Now, when any unmarked miniature looked at him, all they saw was what they thought Joe was: something evil.
“If we could just find a way to get outta here…” He said to nobody in particular, though he secretly hoped that one of them might listen.
Joe took inventory of the cage. The latch that held it shut was heavy duty. It jutted out of the far side and was protected by a lock, offering little hope of lifting it. There was another, smaller, square door at the top, also latched and locked. Mr. Lessard clearly knew his bar spacing, for the bars of the cage were welded so densely together they formed tiny quarter-inch squares that even a mouse couldn’t get through. Each face of the cage was attached by a solid metal frame, and it was on this frame that the hinges sat. This was the weak point, Joe knew. There was a trick to everything, and the trick to escaping these sorts of cages, Joe had learned from his time at the watchmaker’s, was to climb up to the hinges and pull the pins out of them. The door would then be loose enough that, with enough force and wriggling, one could slip out of the gap between the door and the side. It was much easier to accomplish with a buddy – ideally one with longer arms than his – but Joe’s own determination made the best of company.
There were three containers in the cage: one for raw oats, one for water, and one for something else. He hopped onto the water dish, which was nearest the cage corner, and shimmied over to the side where the hinge stuck out. From here he could see the rest of the room. In front of him, across the aisle from his own, sat the cage of low value miniatures. On a table to his right was the holding cage he had originally been in, and beyond that, lining the walls, were two rows of shelves with stacked empty jars. Past those Joe could get a glimpse of the back of Mr. Lessard’s head through a doorway as he sat in an open office with phone in hand. He looked busy, which gave Joe some hope.
To Joe's left on the adjacent wall was the door the snatchers had originally come in from. Even though it was tightly shut, Joe could hear the barking of the dogs crescendoing inside it. He could also hear a muffled voice along with it.
“Do you want a little extra, Juliet? You better eat it. The boss’ll kick my teeth in if he finds out...”
It was Frankie’s voice, feeding the dogs from what Joe could tell, and Joe’s eyes grew wide at his own good fortune. With both snatchers busy he decided now was a good time to make an escape. He stretched his arm out as far as it would go and wedged it through the tight spacing of the cage, not through the quarter-inch bar spaces which would have put his arm too far out of reach, but through the tiny gap that existed between the front face of the cage and the side. From there he was able to bend his arm into an L shape and grip the curved head of the pin. To Joe’s dismay it was firmly embedded in the hinge, and no amount of pulling helped to dislodge it. He put more and more force into his arm, until his hand ached and his muscles grew sore.
Joe was so busy focusing on the pin that he didn’t hear the clicking of claws on the floor nearby, and if the other miniatures saw what was coming after him social convention forbade them from warning him. By the time he heard a snarl and noticed something moving in the shadows it was already too late.
A big, furry head with fangs half the size of Joe’s body flew in his direction, whipping drool this way and that as they closed around the cage. Hot breath that reeked of rancid meat blasted Joe’s face and with all the instinct of a terrified prey animal he kicked himself away from the bars. He let out a scream as he fell from his perch, landing on his already aching back. His cage mates, who had already been huddled as far away from Joe as possible, screamed along with him and scrambled at the sight of the beast’s jaws.
Joe sat up, grateful to find that his right arm was still attached to his body. The dog, a white-furred, black hole of hunger and killing drive with docked ears and a coat that was more scar tissue than hair, wasn’t done with them yet. Its teeth had closed around the bars, and when the dog squeezed and finally let go Joe could see that it had left a dent in the metal. Then the dog started barking loud as a gunshot, a sound that rattled through his chest and turned his blood to ice. The animal drew back to lunge again.
Over the noise Joe could barely hear Mr. Lessard shout,
“Frankie! Do your job, you worthless piece of shit!”
Joe’s attention was pulled away when the dog flew towards the cage a second time, now on a perfect trajectory to make another dent in it. Joe did not want to know what would happen when the cage broke open, and luckily for him a hand reached out and grabbed the animal by the collar before he could find out. It was Frankie, and Joe remained completely stiff as the snatcher hauled the dog, which was over half his size, away from the cage with all the force he could muster.
“Heel! Heel! Romeo. Heel.” He ordered.
The dog stopped lunging, but it kept on barking and pulling, and it only quit when the snatcher reached into the right front pocket of his long coat. He produced a dog biscuit and tossed it overhand halfway across the room. Romeo followed it in hot pursuit.
Joe scuttled backwards as Frankie then turned his attention to the cage, his blue eyes wild with anger.
“Can’t you little idiots behave!? The boss hates noise, and if you try any funny business, he’s gonna start acting up.” Frankie jabbed a finger at Romeo, who was busy swallowing up the biscuit.
Joe had seen small horses the size of that dog, and even as it enjoyed its treat it kept growling non-stop in small bursts.
“If he starts acting up,” Frankie continued, “my boss will start acting up, and then I will start acting up, you understand? Do ya’?”
Frankie made a fist and pounded on the side of the cage. Joe clenched his teeth together as his heart beat shallowly in his chest.
“HUH!? DO YA’!?”
Every miniature inside of it nodded their head profusely. Finding their response satisfactory, Frankie sized each of them up and pulled something from his other front pocket.
It was a chocolate bar, which he unwrapped and broke a piece from. Faster than lightning the mother in the cage across from Joe clapped a hand over her son's mouth before he could make a sound.
“If any of you little shits wanna make it up to me, there’s a reward in it for ya’.” Frankie held up the chocolate and circled around the cages. “If anyone wants it, all you have to do is talk. Or sing, or dance. Do something special.”
Joe’s stomach was eating itself from the inside, but he wouldn’t dare volunteer. He could see from the looks on everyone’s faces that all the other miniatures were expecting him to. Their eyes all shifted towards him, and even Frankie took extra time waving it around Joe’s part of the cage.
“...any takers?” Frankie said after a solid minute of silence. “Look, it’s not poisoned.”
Joe watched with envy as the boy popped the piece of chocolate into his mouth.
"Last chance!" The boy announced, then he bit into the rest of the bar and savoured it in front of his starving captives the way Romeo had savoured its biscuit.
Joe squeezed his hands into fists at the sight, remembering the taste of pure chocolate and how badly he missed it.
“Still no'fing?" Frankie asked through the mouthful.
Joe bit his tongue until it bled and the room stayed quiet as a graveyard.
"...well if any of you change your mind, just ask.” Said Frankie.
Joe breathed a sigh of relief when his captor disappeared down the hallway to the left, back into the room with the dogs.
One dog remained ever present. Romeo kept its dark eyes fixed on the cages from where it sat by the doorway.
With the excitement over and the dogs fed the house became much quieter, to Mr. Lessard’s pleasure no doubt. The man had gone back to his phone calls, speaking Langue Belle, and when Joe rose up and listened in he could tell the snatcher was talking about him.
“Il est beau. En bonne santé. Marqué. Quelqu’un avait beaucoup d’affection pour lui.” Lessard said:
"He is handsome. In good health. Marked. Someone had a lot of affection for him."
The words hit Joe like a punch to the gut. He sank back down again and folded his arms over his knees.
"No, he doesn’t talk now, but maybe you could train him. Yes, sir, tell me when you’ve made up your mind, but think quickly. He won’t last long."
Lessard impatiently slapped the phone receiver onto the stick and hung up, causing Joe to flinch. He switched back to speaking Proper and spat,
“Damn circus people.”
Soon the boss was back on the line with someone else, still speaking Proper.
"Hello? Wilfred? It’s Julien. Your friends want a new dancer to replace mister Smalls, is that right? I have one here. He is... uuuuuuuh... nineteen years old." The Quebecer lied.
Julien Lessard went quiet for a moment.
“Kecé ça caliss!? He's too old!? What do you mean he's too old!?” He exclaimed.
Mr. Lessard hung up the receiver again.
“Ta-bar-nac!” He growled.
Wherever it was Joe ended up, it certainly wouldn’t be anywhere good. He found his footing and listened past the scratching of Mr. Lessard’s pencil and the whimpering of the dogs in the other room. He couldn’t hear Frankie anywhere, but Romeo was the much bigger threat, and he could see that the dog had settled into a spot in the corner with its head in its paws.
Maybe, Joe thought, if he got especially lucky, the beast would fall asleep and he would get another chance to escape.
-
Joe looked back up at the hinge, and his hands began to shake. He could see that the dent made by the dog had loosened the pin from it. This would save him hours of work, and if he moved quickly he might be able to pull it out.
He couldn’t tell if Romeo was awake or sleeping, but the dog was very still all the same. The rest of the morning had passed uneventfully and the boredom was already crushing. He envied his cage mates, who at least chattered wistfully among one another as they daydreamed of better places than this. Joe had no such luxury, so he threw all his energy into plotting his escape instead.
He began his slow climb to the top, keeping one eye fixed on Romeo all the while. He reached out once again with his arm in an L-shape and gripped the pin.
It would move. Not a lot, but it was better than nothing, he reasoned. Joe concentrated all his strength into his arm, braced his feet against the bars, and heaved upwards. The pin moved along at a glacial pace, but Joe kept on pushing. The work, he knew, would take hours, but he had plenty time to spare - or so he thought.
Just then, Romeo's eyes snapped open. A cacophony of barking erupted from the creature, but this time Joe anticipated it. He dropped down and fled into the farthest corner, curling into a ball and making himself as small as he possibly could as he braced himself for the jaws to strike.
A painful minute of enraged barking passed. Joe slowly lifted his head as he realized the dog wasn’t coming for him. It was barking at the door to the dog room, and Mr. Lessard, cursing it under his breath, got up and let it out. Romeo raced into the other room, and set off all the other dogs in the vicinity in the process. Joe hadn’t heard the knocking at the door on account of all the noise, so when the snatchers returned, accompanied by two giants in starchy white coats, it took him by surprise. Both Lessard and Frankie hovered in the background as the men in white perused their wares. Romeo, his job done, settled back into his spot in the corner.
One of the visitors was older and carried a briefcase. The light shone off the bald patch on the older giant’s head as he browsed through the cages and examined the miniatures through spectacles reminiscent of Mr. Dawson’s. Accompanying him was a much younger giant, a thin man with sharp shoulders and a short, square face, who scribbled on a notepad and asked a lot of questions of his superior.
“Is this really where we’re supposed to get them? Why are there so many dogs?” Said the bewildered assistant. “Is... is this place legal, sir?”
The older man in white held up his hand.
“Stay focused on the criteria, please.” He answered coldly.
Joe wasn’t certain, but he had a hunch who these men might be. He had heard of them, but never seen them in person: these were the lab giants, in all likelihood there to buy back the tinies Dawson had sold out from under them.
Joe waited in suspense as they took their sweet time sizing up every miniature in the room.
“We’re looking for specimens that are either very tall, very fat, or both.” Said the older lab giant to the one with the notepad. “Subjects with those characteristics have the most viable responses to the treatment.”
Joe, who was neither very tall nor very fat, had little to worry about. As the afternoon ticked away the snatchers stood about impatiently while the researchers took their time making their final choice. All the while they spouted babble about vestigial traits and surgical excisions and Banting and Best. Joe’s heart sank as they drew closer to the woman and her child.
“Professor? Will these ones work?” The younger giant with the notepad turned to the older giant.
The older giant leaned in and appraised his potential subjects.
“Take the boy." The professor decided. "We’ll need males only for consistent results.”
Joe’s entire body shook. He watched, sick to his stomach, as Frankie slipped on a pair of thick leather gloves and unlocked the cage door. His hands drew nearer and nearer to the mother and child, then clinically pried them apart. The snatcher didn't even flinch at having to do this, even as the mother and child made sounds of despair that Joe would hear for the rest of his life in his nightmares. Then, as simply as if he were a worm, or a caterpillar, or a cockroach, Frankie dropped the crying child into a jar. From the inside of that jar, without his mother by his side, the boy looked infinitesimally small.
“One hundred dollars, please.” Frankie said to the lab giants, and the young snatcher looked gobsmacked when the older lab giant handed him the money without question.
Joe realized he was gnawing on the cage bars in rage. He watched as the woman, still trapped in the cage, sank to the ground and lay there, not like a person, but a thing. A thing that had been broken. A noise escaped Joe on her behalf, one between a sob and a scream. It drew the attention of the lab giant with the notepad, and for a moment the two locked eyes.
Joe spat the bar out and looked at that giant with pure hatred. He wanted to say something but the words wouldn’t come to him. What could anyone say to it?
Joe watched the younger lab giant’s face shift uncomfortably at the expression on his own. He leaned in closer to Joe in fascination, as if for one gleaming moment he saw something almost like himself, then looked back at the older researcher holding the jar.
The little boy had not stopped crying for his mother.
“Um... professor?” The assistant turned back towards the low value cage. “I see a better subject. We haven’t tested his age group yet. Why don’t we start with an older cohort instead?”
The assistant pressed his finger on the cage bars.
Behind that finger, with a horrified look on his face, stood Gutters.
“The more data we have across age groups, the easier it will be to predict the outcomes...” The assistant trailed off.
Every miniature in the room watched in suspense as the professor pondered this suggestion.
“Very well. We’ll take that one instead.” The professor said.
Frankie quietly rolled his eyes as he turned the boy loose back into the cage and exchanged him for Gutters. The tiny child flew into his mother’s arms like a magnet and Joe’s limbs felt rubbery with relief at the sight. Finally, after hours of careful appraisal, the lab giants left the room with Gutters in tow.
Joe got one last look at him as he was being carried out. He sat quietly in the jar, as he sat quietly in most places. He didn’t even bother to look up at Joe, or at anyone for that matter. Joe had always thought that watching him get taken down a peg would be satisfying somehow, but in reality it wasn’t: it was just sad. Considering everything Gutters had faced at the circus, all the young assistant had done was trade one tragedy for another.
“One hundred dollars for a junk tiny like that!?” Frankie exclaimed as he counted up the money, and Joe bristled at the words junk tiny. “I can't believe they gave me the money. Those scientists must be nuts!”
“No amount is too high for Garrison.” Said Lessard. “We will get even more for that other male over there if we can get him to talk, and even more than that for the females.”
Joe could tell Lessard was referring to him, and he took a moment to appreciate how strange it sounded to hear someone refer to him in third person as a male. He watched as Lessard snatched the money out of Frankie’s hand and handed him back a meagre looking pair of coins.
“You named a good price. Well done.” Said the elder snatcher to the younger one.
Frankie glowed with pride, and Joe felt pure disgust at the sight.
Lessard disappeared into the depths of the house and Frankie whistled for Romeo. He threw the dog another biscuit.
“Romeo, guard.” He ordered the dog, then turned to his audience of sad miniatures as he pulled off the gloves. “I’m going out. Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone or you’ll be dog meat.”
As Frankie got ready to leave, Joe was fully prepared to take his chances. It was hard for him to take his eyes off of that loose pin in the hinge. All the while he thought about Gutters. How quickly they could have pulled it out if they had just worked together. How, if they hadn’t been so arbitrarily divided, they could already have been running free by now.
He was distracted by rapping on the top of the cage.
“Fancy some chocolate, pretty boy?” Asked Frankie to poor, tormented Joe as the snatcher munched on the remains of the chocolate bar.
Joe didn’t make a peep. He shook his head no and then stared at the ground.
“...hm. That don’t look very secure.” Frankie said, and a bad feeling filled the pit of Joe’s stomach. “Damn thing’s gone loose again.”
Joe buried his forehead in his hands. He didn’t bother to look up when something hard repeatedly struck the side of the cage. He already knew it was the sound of a hammer tightening the loose pin up again.
“Why do you little shits always do this?” Frankie muttered.
With Joe good and trapped, the young snatcher disappeared into the hallway, leaving him with only Romeo for company.
-
As the hours passed and evening fell into night, Joe drifted into more uneasy bursts of sleep. Even now the watchful eyes of Romeo never left him, and there was nothing else to do but sit and think. Joe thought about the family he never got to have. He thought about Herman. He thought about Tiny Town. He thought about Gutters at the circus and Mutters in his place, and regretted not being nicer to him yesterday.
He thought about art, and god, and heaven, and hell. Joe, for so many years, had thought himself evil for his attraction to giants. Every other miniature in the room would agree. Yet as he looked across the room to the cage of low value miniatures, to the mother who was now doing her best to tell her little boy a bedtime story, he began to replay the events of the day and realized something about evil he never had before.
Evil was a side effect of choice, he decided. That was what his encounter with the young lab giant had taught him. Evil existed because the world welcomed it in, and it could be resisted on those rare occasions when the world consciously diverted it. Sometimes, as today, people were faced only with two evils. Sometimes the best anyone could do was choose the lesser one.
If Joe had his way, between Gutters and the boy, he would have sacrificed neither of them – but that wasn’t how evil worked. He thought of the choice he had been faced with during the Tiny Town fire, to run towards the giant or to run away, and wondered if he had made the right one.
All the while, Lessard’s words started replaying in his head.
Someone had a lot of affection for him.
As he sat in his cage, feeling thoroughly drained, a song clawed at his chest and escaped from his mouth, a song that made him ache for his family.
“S'io fo colpo di lancia,
Farò per vostro amore…”
His throat grew tight with sadness and he grabbed his temples, overcome with the weight of the misery of the world. Maybe misery was all there was to life, Joe thought. Maybe the only way to live in a world like this was to live out of spite. Maybe-
Joe was snapped out of his meditations by the sound of the last voice in the world he wanted to hear.
“You have a fine singing voice, my friend.” It said.
It was Mr. Lessard. He was standing in the doorway of the dogs' room with a candlestick in one hand and a glass of whisky in the other. He set both down on top of an empty cage and the flickering candlelight cast a sinister orange glow throughout the space, which was magnified and reflected through the glass that sat beside it.
Joe didn’t respond to him. Instead he tensed up his muscles as the giant’s footsteps grew closer. Sure enough, the giant unlocked the front of the cage and reached inside for him. The big man prodded Joe with enough force to knock him flat on his side, and Joe wished he still had O’Grady’s knife on hand so he could at least die fighting. As the meaty hand hovered over him, he noted the stopped Omega watch on its owner’s wrist with disgust.
“Come on you little shit! Do it again!” Lessard commanded .
Joe sat up straight, crossed his arms, and kept his mouth firmly shut.
Lessard looked from Joe to Romeo and smiled as shadows danced across his face, a sickening smile absent of all warmth and humanity. Then he swung the cage door wide open and said,
“GO GET IT!”
Before he had so much as spoken the first syllable the dog was in pursuit. Joe’s heart beat so hard it hurt his chest as the fangs flew in his face again, this time with no cage bars to stop them. The girls in the cage with him screamed and frantically climbed up the bars on the back of the cage. Joe tried to run too, but he didn’t know which direction to go in; Romeo’s scarred muzzle kept lunging for him this way and that with dizzying speed.
Above the snapping of the dog, all Joe could hear was the snatcher’s sadistic laughter. It sounded almost childlike with glee. Joe could see that Lessard was holding the dog back by the scruff of its neck. In all likelihood Joe was worth too much to the man for him to let the dog eat him, but nonetheless the sight of those fangs rattled him to his very core.
It was only when he was pressed firmly up against the back of the cage, shaking with fear, that Lessard wrestled the dog aside and ordered it to sit down.
“Get out of here.” He said to the dog as the cage door swung shut again, then turned his attention back to Joe. “He loves the taste of tinies, so you better sing for me, and you better sing well. Understand?”
Joe seethed at Lessard, and took a moment to appreciate just how much he despised this cruel man with his big dog and his revolting indifference towards living things with every fiber of his being. Nevertheless, he nodded and kept on singing.
“S'io moro alla battaglia,
Morrò per vostro amore.”
Mr. Lessard stroked his chin at the sound of it.
“So you do understand. You know English, then? Français? What are you?” Lessard demanded.
Joe wasn’t sure if he should label himself as Italian or Giardino or Casa or even Canadian for that matter, and his words caught in his throat. Lessard raised his hand and pointed it at Joe.
“Romeo...” He began.
“I speak!” Joe exclaimed. “I speak. I’ll say whatever you want, just please don’t hurt me.”
Mr. Lessard beamed at him.
Just then, the hallway door flew open and Frankie flopped onto the scene. He reeked of alcohol and proudly held up a little rectangular piece of paper in Lessard’s face.
“Bert Corbeau rookie card.” He hiccupped, and Joe didn’t even bother trying to parse what that meant.
Lessard didn’t, either. He shoved Frankie out of his face and then grabbed him by the collar and pulled his head towards the cage.
“He sings. He sings! I know who this one will go to. Well done, Frankie!” Mr. Lessard declared as he released him, and the boy glowed with pride once again.
“Oh, that’s good, eh? All right.” Said Frankie as he rubbed his eyes, then his face fell as some unknown realization sank into him.
Joe watched as Frankie tucked Mr. Corbeau into one of his pockets and straightened his sagging hat.
“...all right.” He sighed again, sounding more resigned this time.
Meanwhile, Mr. Lessard had raced to the phone.
“Allô? Est le marchand d'art en ville? Ce matin!? Parfait! Dites-t-il que j’ai trouvé la poupée il recherchait. Moins cher que Lorraine...”
"Hello? Is the art dealer in town? This morning!? Perfect! Tell him I found the doll he was looking for. Less expensive than Lorraine..."
Adrenaline rushed through Joe at the mere mention of Lorraine. He would never forget the scar she had shown him.
“...mais je pense que la fille sera très heureuse.”
"...but I think the girl will be very happy."
The phone receiver fell for the third and final time, and with that Joe knew his fate had been sealed. Mr. Lessard scribbled on a piece of paper and handed it off to Frankie, who was slapping himself in the face and shaking himself awake.
“Wrap this one up. He is going to this address. Make sure he smells nice.” Said Mr. Lessard.
Joe could only hope that wrap up didn’t mean that he was actually going to be wrapped up.
Frankie grimaced at the sight of the note.
“Whoa-ho, that girl!? Yikes. I’ll do my best, boss.”
Joe watched as Frankie plucked the piece of paper from his boss’s fingers with his right hand. At the same time, his left hand slipped a cigar from Mr. Lessard’s waistcoat pocket and pushed it up the sleeve of his coat. Frankie then whirled around as if to distract Lessard and tucked the forbidden cigar into one of the many pockets of his own, then raced towards Joe as his boss lumbered obliviously back into the recesses of the house.
It was Frankie’s turn to tower over Joe. Before he so much as touched him, the snatcher grabbed the leather gloves and put them back on, dashing Joe’s hopes of biting him. After that he took a jar down from one of the shelves and drew closer to the cage. Joe braced himself and squeezed his eyes shut as Frankie lifted the heavy latch and nabbed him in one of the dusty old gloves, then tossed him into the waiting jar. He didn’t even bother to poke air holes in the lid before closing it. Instead, he simply turned around and walked Joe through the doorway filled with barking dogs, down a long hallway of cages, and as Frankie walked along Joe noticed that the snatcher was constantly shivering.
Somehow, being jarred by Herman had been scarier than being jarred by Frankie. At least when a snatcher did it, it didn't feel personal.
“You don’t know French, but I do." Said Frankie. "He said you're going to a special home for tinies and you can leave whenever you want. Isn’t that nice?”
It was a comforting lie that mentioned nothing about a girl or Joe being a toy, and he wondered how many of those Frankie had told throughout his lifetime. Perhaps the idea was to trick Joe into compliance, but regardless all Joe could do now was cower as the rows of miserable animals barked at full volume and flashed their teeth at him. Some lunged against the bars, some whimpered, some even wagged their tails. Though they would kill him in an instant, Joe still felt an odd kinship with the dogs.
An odd kinship with all but one of them, of course, and that dog was trailing right behind them.
Frankie turned a corner, into the relative quiet of a side room, and set the jar down at a table. This room was filled with boxes and rolls of paper. It also had a window, and through it Joe could see a thin strip of red on the horizon as sunrise approached. Joe waited impatiently as the boy took the stolen cigar out of his pocket, lit it, and kicked back in his chair. The desk jumped as his dirty boots hit the desktop, as did Joe and the jar along with it. Frankie slid off his hat, rubbed his forehead and through the glass Joe could hear him say to himself,
“I have the stupidest job.”
Joe, who was getting increasingly worried about running out of air, pressed his face against the glass and banged his fists on it. His view was soon obscured by thick cigar smoke, and the desk shook again as Frankie took his feet off the table and doubled over in a coughing fit.
“What do they put in these things?” He wheezed.
Considering Frankie was now running out of air along with him, Joe could only guess that the secret ingredient was justice. Frankie, meanwhile, slumped forward in his chair and coughed for a minute straight, then set the cigar aside in an overflowing ash tray. With tears in his eyes the young snatcher finally got to work.
When Frankie unscrewed the jar, Joe was picked up once again with all the care someone would show a toy solider. He shook along with Frankie’s shivering hand and his skin prickled as the giant held him in one hand with his limbs pressed against his body, then rubbed a wet rag over his face.
“You’re gonna hate me for this, but we gotta fix your face.” Said Frankie, as if Joe didn’t hate him already.
Joe shook the water out of his eyes, then opened them to see that Frankie’s other hand had curled around a small, circular container. He set Joe down on the table.
“Don’t try anything funny with him on guard.”
Frankie tilted his head over his shoulder in the direction of the doorway, where Romeo sat ever watchful.
“Hold still.” Ordered Frankie.
Joe had seen containers like the one Frankie was holding before. They were especially favoured by giant women, if the newspaper ads were anything to go by. Joe’s face contorted as Frankie’s quivering fingers opened it, took a small brush, and slapped a strange white powder over the bruises O’Grady had given him the other night.
“You get in a fight or something?” The snatcher asked dryly, though Joe was too busy gasping for air to answer him.
Noting his bloodied ear, Frankie added,
"Looks like you're freshly marked, too. You're in for a real treat! Wait 'til you experience hot water."
When the job was done Joe's first instinct was to rub at his face, but the snatcher anticipated this. The second he reached up to rub off the makeup, the boy jabbed him in the ribs, a sensation that was a bit like being hit with a leather sofa, and snapped,
“Don’t touch that!”
Joe settled for blinking the last of the powder out of his eyes instead. When they were clear he looked up to see that Frankie was studying him and tapping his chin as he tilted his head from side to side with a squint, as if appraising him.
“The rest of you should be all right if we can hide the blood.” Frankie said of Joe’s stained shirt and trousers, as though a miniature being covered in blood stains were a regular occurrence.
Joe watched as the snatcher rewarded himself with another puff of the cigar – it sent his voice up an entire octave.
“You’re a lucky guy, pretty boy.” He choked. “You’re going to Walter’s house, way outta town. That guy’s loaded.” He croaked between stifled coughs. “So you gotta look your best."
To Joe's dismay, Frankie sifted through an assortment of cartons and boxes and pulled out a tiny tailed coat that was close to Joe's size. He could only wonder how the snatchers had come across such a thing.
"Put this on."
As Frankie flicked the miniature jacket into his hands, Joe was stricken with the chilling thought that the clothes had been taken from previous victims, and it sickened him to even think about wearing it.
Romeo’s growling in the doorway gave him no choice but to do so.
“Yeah, that covers it up! You look sharp.” Said Frankie.
The snatcher went back to his rummaging. A sinking feeling came over Joe when Frankie pulled out a long, red ribbon.
Wrapping up really did mean wrapping up.
“Watch out for that niece of his, though. Real bearcat of a lady. She’s pure evil, and she’s got a mean right hook!” Frankie continued.
Joe jumped as a gift tag landed next to him on the table. The giant pulled out a felt-tip pen.
“What’s your name?” Asked Frankie.
Joe narrowed his eyes. He didn’t want the likes of Frankie to know it. Nevertheless, he said,
“Joe Piccoli.”
He had no idea where the conversation was about to go when Frankie went to scribble his name down and then stopped himself.
“How do you spe-oh!” Frankie raised his eyebrows. “Piccoli as in Punch-out Piccoli?”
Joe’s eyes narrowed in confusion. He didn't know why the boy was so intrigued all of a sudden. Had Frankie met another Piccoli?
“I dunno who that is…” Joe said, and although it went against his better judgment, he decided to name his family members on the slim chance the snatcher had seen them. “I had a brother named Lorenzo and a father named-“
“Lorenzo?" Frankie cut him off. "As in Larry Piccoli?”
Every single hair on the back of Joe’s neck stood on end.
“...yeah, that was his nickname. I’m his brother-”
“Giuseppe. Right.” Frankie finished, and Joe blinked at him in disgusted amazement. “Yeah, that’s the guy! One of the hardest hitters who ever came through here.”
It had to be a mistake. Joe couldn’t imagine Larry throwing a punch; his brother was too uptight for that. Then again, Joe couldn’t imagine himself being a doll for a little girl, either.
“M-my brother!? You saw my brother!? Where is he?” He demanded. “Who’d you sell him to!?”
Joe raced all the way to the edge of the table, and Romeo, barking up a storm, leapt up and threatened to snap at him. Fear stopped Joe in his tracks and caused him to stumble back onto the table, holding perfectly still.
Frankie shrugged.
“Can’t tell you where he went. He fought for my boss a while ‘til another ring made a good offer on him. After that? Don’t really know, don’t really care. We don't keep tabs on our guys once they've left."
Frankie's words dug their way under Joe’s skin and refused to come out again. He couldn’t contain his emotions. Soon he leapt back up and paced around the table, absolutely distraught with his newfound knowledge. Romeo kept careful watch of him as a shiver ran down his spine at the thought of his brother ever encountering these people. Then, at a complete loss, he stopped and spoke to his shoes.
“...you have any family, Frankie?”
“That's personal.” Was all Frankie said.
Joe’s fingers curled into fists. He wished with everything inside him that he were a giant. A respectable, responsible, older giant, the sort that people listened to. Perhaps, then, Frankie might take his next few words to heart.
“Well do ya' have to go ruining my family!? What about my brother, my dad, my mom? Guys like you take them away and we never see each other again! I haven’t seen my brother since I was a kid. I didn’t even know he’d been snatched. Hell, I thought he was dead!”
He pointed a finger at the indifferent youth.
“How can you live with yourself doing this to people!?”
Frankie took the cigar from his teeth and carelessly waved the hand that now held it.
“’cause that’s life.” He said. “I’m not that bad a guy. I go to church on Sundays like everyone else."
Joe had barely opened his mouth when Frankie doused him in a spray of cheap cologne.
"Sure, maybe there’s good guys like you who get thrown into the mix," Frankie continued, "but most of the guys I grab up are useless layabouts who don’t even care about their families. I take 'em here and if they have potential we make 'em into something or send 'em to good homes. I’m doing a public service in the grand scheme of things and at the end of the day, I gotta eat.”
Joe coughed through the thick aldehyde stench as he fought to get his voice back. A public service. How revolting!
“Good guys, bad guys, it doesn’t matter! None of them deserve this!” Joe sputtered though the cologne.
He had just opened his watering eyes when Frankie’s left hand knocked Joe clean over and pinned him down.
“Oh, shut your mouth! Can't you see we're doing you a favour?” Frankie said, trading the cigar in his right hand for the red ribbon.
Joe thrashed and fought as it was tied around one ankle, and then another. Soon the both of them were tied together. Frankie’s face contorted in frustration as Joe squirmed and made his upper limbs as hard to grab as possible.
“Rooooomeo!” The snatcher called and whistled.
The dog’s paws clicked along the floor, and with every step a little more life drained from Joe until he was lying completely still. The snatcher kept tying.
“Look on the bright side, you’re gonna make our clients really happy. You should be thankful you’re not going to the fights like your brother.” Frankie said.
The ribbon tied down Joe’s arms next, and finally gagged his mouth.
“Hell, you talk, you sing, they'll love you! You’ll have a nice cushy life, buddy. For an earless guy like you it’s the Ritz!”
Joe scowled a thousand-yard scowl, eyes full of venom, as Frankie tied the ribbon off with a perfect bow at the top of his head. Then the world turned upside down and spun as he was tossed into a cardboard box. Straightening himself up, he thankfully noted that it had air holes. He soon found that if he shifted his weight properly he could prop himself up against the side of the box and look through one of them like a window. Through it he saw that he was being taken back through the dog room, then he caught a glimpse of the room where the rest of the miniatures were being held and another doorway labeled Fighters. After that, Frankie turned into a cramped foyer and down a front hall where he placed the box onto a side table.
“I’ll be back in a sec. Wait here. He’s still guarding, by the way.”
A scarred muzzle came into view. Joe examined Romeo through the hole in the box, for with his limbs tied together it was all he could do. His muscles tightened as the dog's curious snout drew near and filled the box with the stench of its breath, and for a fleeting moment he looked the creature directly in the eyes, as if challenging it to swallow him. It could snatch the box from the table and make a feast out of him if it really wanted to. Impatiently Romeo started pacing back and forth in front of the table and whimpering, as if resisting the temptation, or perhaps taunting him. He passively admired the way its tongue lolled out of its scarred jaws. How it licked its chops and growled at the slightest thing. How it was the only dog in a farmhouse full of dogs that wasn’t locked in a cage. Something about Romeo reminded Joe of the earless son-of-a-bitch at the watchmaker’s.
As he sat there he felt proud of himself in some small way. He had not taken the chocolate. He had not spoken voluntarily. He had not turned against his fellow miniature or done any of the giants’ dirty work for them. Joe had not chosen evil that day. All he had done was live, and it was all he wanted to keep doing whenever he reached his next destination. Joe Piccoli had thought himself evil for more years of his life than he had thought himself good, and it was only when he had been marked as something evil that he finally accepted that evil was not part of his ontology, but one choice in a sprawling web of possible choices to be made.
If Joe had been in that young lab giant's shoes, he liked to think he would have left the building empty handed.
Joe had barely finished this thought when, seemingly for no reason at all, Romeo's jaws pulled back into a snarl. He squeezed his eyes shut and braced himself for a coming bite, but instead Romeo's head flew back and the dog howled so loudly and barked so madly that he could feel the soundwaves vibrating through the box.
Then Romeo ran to the front door, and sure enough a loud knock rang through the house moments later. The floor creaked under oncoming footsteps and someone swore in the distance. Joe watched the pockets of Frankie’s coat pass by the box, and the dog whimpered and barked as the snatcher grabbed it by the collar and heaved it away. Then Joe heard the door creak as Frankie, looking visibly exhausted and holding a glass of some strange hair-of-the-dog concoction, swung it open.
“Is your boss home?” Asked a visitor outside the doorframe.
A large hand came into view, and Joe's eyes widened.
This story is tough to write sometimes. I don't always enjoy doing it. However, I am eagerly looking forward to subjecting Harry to the mortifying ordeal of knowing Danny Smalls. <3
