As anyone who has been in an adult relationship can tell you, the early days of most monogamous couplings typically run one of two speeds: the snail’s pace, or the roadrunner. If you’re reading/listening to this tale, the chances are good that you’re familiar with the basic metaphorical nature of these labels, and getting into the nitty-gritty would do little more than pad this particular author’s word count, and we’re not going for that. Sometimes, brevity is best.
In Crick Solomon’s small handful of adult relationships since the age of 20, he had only ever experienced the snail’s pace, excepting a couple of one-night stands. Thus it was that his utterance in the aftermath of that afternoon’s coupling held true for him: “I need water. I think my loss of body fluids is teetering on the dangerous here, lady.” He hoisted himself up and off the bed, tossing on his bathrobe and sauntering out to the kitchen to grab himself a glass and fetching himself a long drink. Velis joined him half a minute later, wrapped in his bedsheet, leaning back against the kitchen counter and giving him a half-lidded smile.
“I’m guessing you’ve never had a very active sex life with anyone,” she commented.
“Unless you count my right hand between the ages of 12 and 16, then no, not really,” he replied, which received the snicker he’d been aiming for. “You?”
“In all honesty? Only once,” she said, looking away across the kitchen. “About fourteen years ago, guy named Farouk. Another one of our kind, you know. Really thought it was gonna become something.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, what happened?”
“Well, do you know how you can sometimes tell that something’s, I don’t know, off, about somebody, but you can’t quite tell what it is?” Crick nodded. “Well, I could tell after a couple of months that something was definitely off. But I didn’t come right out and say anything, or ask any questions. I just sort of started paying closer attention, doing a little snooping when we’d be at his place. And so one day, he goes off to work early, and I root around in his dresser, and I find it; a dime bag of coke.”
“Oof,” Crick replied, shaking his head.
“I didn’t drop him right away. I waited until he came home, and I asked him about it. A drug thing, I can handle that, you know? But, ah, his reaction was what I couldn’t handle. He started wailing on me,” she said, shaking her head, unconsciously tightening the sheet around herself. “And I mean, Crick, he was a big guy for one of us, a couple of inches taller even than you. It was, bad,” she said, shoulders bunching up. Crick didn’t comment, didn’t ask questions; he could sense that she was going to finish this telling on her own. “I called the cops on my way out to my car, drove right to the station. They drove me to Saint Francis.” She paused for a minute, drinking some of her own water. “He’s back in jail again, not that long ago. He’s been in and out ever since.”
“You keep tabs on him?”
“You always keep tabs on someone who nearly kills you and doesn’t go away forever for it,” she snapped, giving him a snarling look that brooked no argument. She softened immediately, though, reaching up for his shoulder. “Sorry.”
“I get it, no worries.” Over on the kitchen table, his phone buzzed, and as he unlocked it, he found himself grinning. “Looks like Libras picked out a movie. 7 o’clock showing okay?” Velis looked over at the stove, which had a digital clock readout on top of it, and she turned her half-lidded look to him once more, dropping the sheet.
“Works fine for me. Gives us time for another round or two,” she replied.
**
“Greetings, friends Velis and Crick. You smell of sex,” said the golem rather matter-of-factly as he opened the door to them. “That is a fascinating shade of yellow that your cheeks are flushing with, Ms. Ashlock. Curious- is this because of the coloration mixture of red blood and green flesh?”
“Do you know what ‘tact’ is, Libras,” Crick asked, forehead in hand.
“Tact; a term meaning sensitivity in dealing with others or with difficult or sensitive subject matter. Yes, I am familiar with the term, Mr. Solomon.”
“You need to learn how to use it, buddy. Come on. And grab a jacket, it’s cold out.”
“Very well, though it is largely unnecessary. I do not detect temperature differentiations in the same way as most sentients do,” the golem added, reaching out of sight and plucking up the very same long trench coat that he had worn that first night that he had attended group. As he drew it on, Crick noticed that there were still some bits along the hem that were frayed from the explosion of his creator’s home. “Though I must admit, I have been thinking about replacing this article, since it is damaged.”
“Might be a good idea,” Velis said. “I can still kind of smell fire and ash on it.”
“An unfortunate reminder of my creator’s untimely demise,” Libras said with a nod of his pyramid head. The trio made their way down to Crick’s car, with the cook using the lever on the side of his driver’s seat to winch it down, allowing the golem to crouch down and work his way into the back seat. It looked horrendously cramped when Libras pulled the seat back up with one large hand, the golem’s frame contorted at a slight slanted angle to allow him to fit in the back row of the small vehicle.
“Um, doesn’t that hurt your neck,” Velis asked as she eased into her spot in the passenger’s seat.
“It is mildly uncomfortable, yes, but my sense of pain is not as acute as yours. It is more like a logical understanding that maintaining this position is temporarily putting my neck at an increased chance for damage. The actual pain itself is merely signal, which I am,” Libras said, the front face of his glass-like pyramid head flashing momentarily a peculiar shade of orange. “Oh. This is, curious.” Crick started the car, and as he was pulling his belt around to buckle up, he looked back at the large creature in his back seat, eyebrow raised.
“What’s curious, Lib,” Crick asked.
“I no longer seem to be able to consciously reduce my sensitivity to discomfort. Intriguing.”
“Aww, you’re becoming a real boy,” Velis said with a sliver of over-the-top saccharine sweetness. “Of course, if you were to start lying, you haven’t got a nose to start growing.” Crick gave a single short laughing snort, and guided them away from Sam’s place toward the Marcus Theater over in Shakopee.
“Ah, a reference to the story of ‘Pinocchio’. Fitting, given that he, like I, was an automaton. Though, I should make a clarification in differences,” Libras said in his oddly formal manner. “Where Pinocchio was constructed of wood, cloth and string, I am composed primarily of clay and metal.”
“Metal? Where,” asked Velis.
“My creator composed my pseudo-skeletal framework of mithril, allowing for my movement range to be wide and strong while keeping my overall weight minimal,” Libras answered. “It is a shame that mithril does not exist in this world; if something should happen to my base frame internally, my repair would be almost impossible.” Crick rolled down his window a little, lit a cigarette, and cleared his throat after letting out his first exhale.
“Lib?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t ever tell anyone else that you have mithril inside of you,” said the hook-nosed cook, slowing down at a red light.
“Why?”
“Because there’s people in this world who’re greedy enough to not bother to ask if you’re a full, legal, real person or not; they’d try to rip you apart just to be able to sell off bits and pieces of that skeleton of yours for a tidy little profit.”
**
From Crick
Listen, I’m gonna shoot straight with you, folks. Whether you’re listening to my story on Rumble or reading it on Substack or in an e-book (depending on how Josh opts to publish this thing in text format), the guy writing it is not what one would call ‘playing with a full deck’. He’s a good enough guy, but he’s really not accustomed to telling stories like this one. He’s usually got some Big Bad that works against his primary protagonist (yours truly), and he has a habit of letting you folks see snippets of that Big Bad outside of direct confrontations, to make them somehow more three-dimensional and maybe relatable, or at least understandable.
He doesn’t have that benefit here. He’s opened a window on a very narrow but important time in my life, to give you folks a look at who I am. Or, rather, who I was. I won’t spoil things for you, don’t worry; I know how infuriating that can be. Let’s just say that in this story, my story, the Big Bad isn’t all bad, because it’s life itself. Every life is fraught with chaos and turbulence of all sorts! You really think this lapsed Catholic chowderhead needs to invent some world-ending monster to give me palpitations or put me at risk? God Almighty, no! Just driving down 42 through Burnsville on a busy weekend in the winter could see me dead a dozen times over if I wasn’t a decent driver! Thank Christ for winter tires….
But he does things like this, telling you about my life and my experiences, because that’s what he does. Maybe he’s not as talented at is as Sanderson or Rowling or Pratchett or Gaiman, sure. But let me ask you this: did any of them do me the favor of telling you about this time in my life? No, they didn’t. And will this Calkins-Treewedgie guy make gangbusters money doing it? Probably not, no. But he loves doing it. You’d have to love it, to tell a story like mine.
Oh, and don’t worry, I’m no Deadpool, and he ain’t no Vonnegut; this 4th Wall Break thing isn’t going to become a running gag. And he’s not gonna pull a bullshit MCU/She-Hulk thing where he comes out and insults his potential audience, or blame potential listeners/readers for his own lack of success. He’ll leave that for the Hollywood weirdos.
Anyway, last note before I head back to being referred to in the 3rd person omniscient viewpoint perspective- if you enjoy indie works like this, then ask the guy who’s telling my story who else to look at or where to go online to find more. The indie scene is his people, and he will happily share the love.
Oh, and share and subscribe for God’s sake.
Crick Solomon out!
**
“That was abysmal,” Crick said the moment they got out of the cineplex, halting to light a cigarette and offering his pack to Velis. “Lib, did you even check out any reviews before picking that movie?”
“I have discovered that many of the more popular film review sites online are believed to be untrustworthy when it comes to declaring what is ‘good’ or ‘bad’, cinematically,” the golem replied, walking alongside his goblin companions. “For instance, many professional critics seemed to believe that ‘Captain Marvel’ was an excellent film; however, I did not find it enjoyable in the least bit when I watched it on Sam’s streaming service.” The trio stepped off the curb fronting the theater, immediately birthing the explosion of a car horn to their left, along with the screeching of tires.
Followed by a swift outstretch of the golem’s arm and hand, and the crumple of metal. Crick took a hesitant step forward, staring in disbelief at Libras’s hand, which appeared to be holding a Dodge Caravan in place. The driver, slumped against the steering wheel, sat up slowly as Crick watched, and he came stumbling out of his vehicle, reeking of beer and sweat. “What the hell happened,” the drunken motorist muttered, stumbling toward the trio. The front end of his vehicle, crumpled against Libras’s hand, started dripping something loudly on the blacktop beneath it.
“You appear to be inebriated, sir,” Libras replied evenly. “In said state, you failed to yield to the three of us stepping off the curb here.” Libras withdrew his hand, and the front of the van settled a little; he had apparently been holding it up off the ground an inch or two as well. “As to your purpose for traveling through this lot, I cannot say, but I assume you were here to pick someone up. Unfortunately, it is likely that they will need to arrange some other means of getting home.” The drunken fellow just stared at the golem, one hand on his head, the other on a hip.
“Should we call,” Crick began, but Velis was already on her phone, contacting the Shakopee Police Department. Letting out a sigh, he took a few steps back and sat on the curb; it would likely be a while before the three of them were going to be going anywhere. On this assumption, he was half right; when the police arrived, they spoke mostly with Velis, being familiar with her from the county Sherriff’s department. There had also apparently been several other eye witnesses, most of whom had also come out after watching the same movie as the trio, and they all gave roughly the same stunned testimony- drunk in van, not watching what he was doing, almost runs down a couple of goblins and some weird big creature/guy with a glass pyramid for a head, weird big guy puts out his hand and Superman-stops the van.
As the responding officers turned their attention to the golem, however, Crick felt a little flash of alarm. “So, Misterrrrr,” one of the officers began, trying to prompt a response from the golem.
“Libras. My name is Libras. No last name was assigned to me at the time of my creation,” Libras replied. The officer’s eyes turned briefly to Velis, then to Crick, both of whom simply shrugged at him. “Okay. Well, are you injured? Do you want us to get a second paramedic unit for you?”
“That offer is appreciated, officer, but it is unnecessary. I am unharmed from the incident.” The officer jotted something down, then, to Crick’s eternal relief, started to turn away from them. “You folks can probably go ahead and take off, then.” Crick didn’t need anymore motivation, hopping up off the curb once again, cigarette in mouth, and led Velis and Libras to his car, motioning quickly for the golem to get in the vehicle before one of those officers could ask them a few more questions. As Crick swiftly moved them away from the theater, Libras spoke up from the back seat. “Mr. Solomon, you seemed nervous back there. Why? None of us did anything illegal.”
“Sure, no, none of us did anything illegal back there. On that score, you are absolutely correct, Lib. But you seem to forget; you are not yet technically a legal citizen here.”
“I hardly see how that would be the concern of local law enforcement, Mr. Solomon. They are not directly involved in affairs related to immigration and naturalization. And given that I am a native of Caldea, they would at worst request Outworld Relocation Services.”
“And where would they relocate you to?”
“Probably a cage of some kind,” Velis muttered darkly. “I’m with Crick on this one, buddy; the less direct involvement you have with cops, the better for now. At least until you’re a full citizen.” Libras brought up a finger to stay further comment, so that he could make a quick point.
“Wouldn’t that technically include yourself, Ms. Ashlock?”
“I’m just a dispatcher; I don’t have any enforcement powers myself, so you’re fine. And I’m not going to blow you in. You’re our friend. Sure, there are things I’d turn you in for, but not for being in the weird circumstances you’re in. That wasn’t something you opted into, or consciously did.” Libras was quiet for a moment before responding.
“I appreciate that sentiment, Ms. Ashlock.” Ten minutes later, as they pulled up in front of Sam’s building, a quiet, tucked-away two story with his apartment on the upper floor, Crick hopped out and adjusted the seat to allow the golem to finagle his way up and out of the car. The golem stood in the dark chill, looking up at the sky, if Crick read his body language correctly. “It is rather incredible, isn’t it,” the golem asked quietly.
“The night sky? Sure, if you’re into that sort of thing, I suppose,” the goblin cook remarked, blindly reaching back to put his seat back into position.
“Not that, Mr. Solomon. The fact that under this sky, some day soon, I will finally be my own free person.” The golem shifted, looking down at Crick. “It is a wonderful place to have gained self-awareness, even if the cause was unfortunate. And it is good to have made you and Ms. Ashlock and Mr. Coffet my friends. I will speak with you again soon, Mr. Solomon.”
“Yeah, Lib, you will. And hey,” he replied, lowering himself into his car. “Just call me Crick.”