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    The Rats' Man's Lackey and the Delphi Taco
    The Rats' Man's Lackey and the Delphi Taco
    The Rats' Man's Lackey and the Delphi Taco
    Ebook61 pages51 minutes

    The Rats' Man's Lackey and the Delphi Taco

    By Michael Warren Lucas

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Arachnids with ideas above their species?

    A wandering grimoire masquerading as an old Star Trek novel?

    The Whine Cellar and the Boom Closet?

     

    In Whackadoo Manor, we call that Tuesday.

     

    In my straight career, I did terrible things to protect normal people. Now, I do insane things to keep regular folks out of Supernatural Witness Protection. This time it's a sweet couple too connected to be healthy, staggering on the rim of fubar and about to lose everything.

     

    I know all about deadlines and ticking clocks.

     

    But this time, the clock ticks backwards.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherTilted Windmill Press
    Release dateApr 12, 2023
    ISBN9798215157701
    The Rats' Man's Lackey and the Delphi Taco
    Author

    Michael Warren Lucas

    Michael Warren Lucas is a writer, computer engineer, and martial artist from Detroit, Michigan. You can find his Web site at www.michaelwarrenlucas.com and his fiction (including more stories about life in the universes beyond the Montague Portals) at all online bookstores. Under the name Michael W Lucas, he's written ten critically-acclaimed books on advanced computing.

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      Book preview

      The Rats' Man's Lackey and the Delphi Taco - Michael Warren Lucas

      The Rats’ Man’s Lackey and the Delphi Taco

      The Rats’ Man’s Lackey and the Delphi Taco

      MICHAEL WARREN LUCAS

      Tilted Windmill Press

      Contents

      Acknowledgments

      The Rats’ Man’s Lackey and the Delphi Taco

      Author’s Note

      About the Author

      Acknowledgments

      My gratitude goes to ZZ Claybourne, Brigid Collins, Rob Cornell, Richard Jones, and Alex Kourvo, for their valuable advice as I wrote this.

      I must also thank my fine Patronizers, who every month send me money for no good reason. Maximilian Kühne, Craig Maloney, John Hixson, Florian Obser, Ray Percival, sungo, and Peter Wemm Patronize me so much that that I must thank them in the electronic versions of everything I release. Kate Ebner, Stefan Johnson, Jeff Marraccini, and Phil Vuchetich Patronize me to such an extent that I must thank them in the print and electronic versions of everything I put out. My thanks to you all.

      The Rats’ Man’s Lackey and the Delphi Taco

      I’d found this heavy bag dangling from the ceiling of the abandoned gym in Whackadoo Manor’s third sub-basement and spent a good week restoring bag and gym alike, making sure the weight bench hadn’t succumbed to corrosion, and evicting decades of spiders that looked dangerously close to evolving arachnid sacrifice. They had already woven tiny silk dormitories, and that web pyramid sure looked like a temple. Once the vacuum and I brought down ineffable divine wrath on arachnids with ideas above their species, adding a couple rollout mats for falls made it a usable solo gym.

      Oh, and an electric fan to stir the fossilized air. Clearing the air duct would have brought more air through, but when I pried off the vent cover three unmatched orange eyes blinked at me from the deeps. Discretion is the better part of survival in the manor, mostly because we follow the Don’t eat me and I won’t exorcise you variant of the Golden Rule.

      The heavy bag was sure tempting me to break that rule, though.

      Kicking people in the head looks flashy, but it hangs a great big PUNCH HERE sign right over your groin. I practiced it every morning anyway. Wearing the heaviest boots I can find. If you can kick a heavy bag head-high while wearing ten-pound boots sloshing with your own sweat, not to mention your sweatpants and T-shirt dripping, kicking a knee is trivial.

      I halted my fifty-third right leg roundhouse three inches short of the bag.

      The bag had twitched before I hit it. Again.

      I know my kick. Kicks and punches have repeatedly saved my life. I know how my foot strikes, how the bag should roll and sway with the impact. But for five times in a row, my foot hit a little late. The ball of my foot should have hit dead on, not half an inch towards the arch.

      And now I’d caught it twitching in anticipation.

      I recovered my stance and glared at the heavy bag. "Look. I know how things work here. But you’re a heavy bag. You have one reason to exist, to give me something to hit and kick. That doesn’t work if you keep trying to dodge out of the way."

      Guilt twinged. Violence is like sex; you should only indulge with the enthusiastic consent of everyone involved. (Taking a poke at me isn’t just consent, it’s begging.) Maybe the heavy bag had decided it didn’t like being hit?

      I wasted half a second wishing I could just join a gym out in the normal world, but supernatural Witness Protection doesn’t work when your demons can find you.

      Fortunately, my pager saved me from having to ponder the ethical dilemma.

      Yes, I have a pager. He won’t allow cell phones, television, or Internet in the manor. I sort of understand. House-wide wifi is like having a sewer dump into the nursery. What I don’t understand is how a pager signal can get four levels underground without signal boosters. I won’t ask him. He might tell me, and I already know too much to die happy.

      The pager said CONSERVATORY 30 MINUTES.

      I huffed out a breath. Enough time for a shower, if I hurried.

      I scrubbed the ragged towel across my dripping face—pure luxury. Look, I

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