Reroll

A job, huh?  Hmm… “What do you have in mind?”

“Restoration work,” Bambi smiles, “I get a lot of pieces through here that would be far more valuable if they were in better shape, and the blouse was one doozy of a demo of your ‘skills’ there.  You spruce up the pieces, I sell them for more, and - as I take everything on consignment - I give you half the difference in the consignment fees between the original expected amount and the revalued amount from your work after the piece sells.”

I go cross eyed for a moment trying to parse that.

“Heh, okay,” Bambi sees my confusion, “An example, then.  Take this piece….” Bambi shows me to a vintage sewing machine, “As is, it will eventually sell for about three hundred bucks, because it's broken. The needle is bent, a few gears are jammed, and a few other odds and ends. I'll make one fifty on it.  A working one, without any modern replacement parts, I can sell for about three thousand. I'd make fifteen hundred on that. That's a my-profit difference of thirteen fifty, so I'd give you half that: Six hundred and seventy five dollars.  Everyone's happy: The buyer gets a better piece for their collection, the seller gets a better price, I get a bigger cut, and you're dealt in… once it sells, if it does. I'll be honest here: Sometimes they won't. If it doesn't… neither of us get anything, but the failed seller gets their goods back in better condition… or signs up for another year of trying. It's just how this business works.”

I ask a question, “Why can't I get the entire difference?”

Bambi actually laughs at that one, “If there's nothing in it for me, there's no point in my participation.  Better for me to be up front that I'm taking a cut than for me to lie about how much I was going to sell the piece for before and after.”

“Stupid question, then.”

Bambi shakes her head, “Inexperienced question, not a stupid one.”

Wait, what?

Apparently I'm quite readable right now; Bambi continues, “The stupidest question of all is the one you should have asked, but did not.  That's a question relevant to the discussion at hand. It tells me you haven't done much (if any) real business before. No matter how obvious the answer is to me, if you don't know something relevant, we need to fix that before it becomes an actual problem. The only time I'm going to get on your case for asking an honest question is when the timing is detrimental - like, say, because I'm actively working with a buyer or seller.  Make sense?”

I nod slowly, “It does… and yeah, I'll take that deal. What can I fix first?”

Bambi looks down and to the left, “Nothing, yet. I need to talk to a business lawyer and get some new documents drafted up with some language about ‘restoration services’ - sometimes a seller won't want the dings and dents fixed for sentimental reasons, even when they're getting rid of the thing - so it needs to be in the paperwork as an option they opt out from rather than something we spring on them.” She takes a breath, “Gimme a month, eh?  I can also include some language about a restoration fee for when it doesn't sell, and cut you in for half of that.”

I nod, “That should work.” I pause, “Business aside… those ‘guardians’ that are regularly raping you and filming it… I've had some run-ins that lead to fatalities, and would like some information on them… if it's not too hard to talk about.”

She takes a breath, “...it hurts, but it might be worthwhile. Give me a minute…” She sits down and closes her eyes, taking a few slow and steady breaths, “What would you like to know about those gene errors?”

I shrug, “Everything you can give me. They seem to be monsters in every sense of the word.”

She nods, keeping her eyes closed and breathing slowly, deeply, and deliberately as she speaks, “We’ve had this ‘deal’ going for about fifty years now, ever since my dissection at their hands… that was…”

I just wait patiently, this is obviously not great for her.

“...anyway. The deal I was cut at the time: They come by whenever they feel like, tell me their fantasy of the moment, and I comply.  I keep my head down, don't make waves, follow their orders whenever they want to use me as bait… and they don't bury me in a grave somewhere to rot in darkness forever.” She shudders, then continues, “Sometimes they want something tender, sometimes something weird, sometimes something horrid.  It's been fifty years, and I've yet to see one of those brutes with a single gray hair or wrinkle. They refer to each other by code names… Adam, Brian, Carl, and David. They're all identical down to the moles on their inner left leg… except for their scars; that's the only way I can tell them apart.  ‘Adam’ almost always has the most scars, ‘David’ almost always has the least, with 'Brian’ and ‘Carl’ sitting between.  Sometimes one stops coming, and another takes his place in the possie… the new guy is always ‘David’, and always scarless.  If it wasn't a ‘David’ that stopped coming, the previous members move up to fill the gap and make room for the new ‘David’.  They don't seem to care when it happens… they don't talk about it, and it doesn't affect how they act at all.”

She pauses a bit, “They speak of their ‘handler’, but he never comes in… and his name changes every decade or so… much less turnover than the brutes. The current ‘Adam’ has been in the possie for about a year, and was promoted just recently when both the prior ‘Adam’ and ‘Brian’ stopped coming on the same visit.”

I chuckle darkly at that.

Bambi cracks an eye open and looks at me, “No way.”

I smile, “I was far from the only one involved, but yes, I helped two of them go down recently.  Please continue, though; this is all stuff I didn't know, and may be useful later.  You mentioned being bait?”

Bambi takes a deep breath through her teeth, “Yes… they call on me for that about once a year. Last time… the ‘guardians’ stripped me down, stuck something up my rear, tied me spread-eagle to a big wooden X, and set me out in a forest.  Some ten foot tall ugly naked guy came by on the second day, stuck his rather bumpy rod into my bakery without so much as a hello, pounded me until I bled and he got off, then picked up the X (with me on it) and dragged me back to a collection of huts in some caves… and I do mean ‘dragged’ - face down, I left quite the bloody trail.  Their tribe took turns with me for a couple of days, never actually asking anything, and so not triggering my curse, and then there was a bunch of gunfire, and eventually a ‘Guardian’ came in, cut me loose, gave me my clothes back, and brought me back here.”

Bambi continues her horror story, “Another time, I was stuffed into an evening gown and told to walk down a dark city street, where I was attacked by… something. I never got a good look at it before it died in a hail of gunfire. Oh, and they weren't picky about their shots: I took three before I went to the fire that cannot be quenched for the time it takes me to get back up.”

Bambi doesn't let up, “There was also the time they had me lead them to… well, I guess a colony of vampires? They sucked me dry a few dozen times before the so-called ‘guardians’ firebombed the place… with me in it.  Took me a bit to tell the difference between ‘dying’ and ‘dead’ that time.”

She keeps going, “Then there was…”

“Ah…” I interrupt, “Specific suicide missions aside, how do they contact you for them, transport you to them, tell you about your part, and so on?”  I really, really don't want to know the horrors, in case I come back in a form that does sleep.

She shrugs, “They pretend to be police, unlock my door, arrest me - even leaving an arrest warrant behind, which my lawyer has told me is fully in the system and legal, tied to some current case… but there's never an actual arrest record; as far as the real police are concerned, the warrant was served to an empty house - toss me in a crate with a light and a print-out with my instructions… they used to be typed; I've never gotten anything hand-writen. I'm pretty sure they have their own airplanes, but I've never seen them: I'm in the crate before we get to the airport, and they don't let me out until we're on site.  They bring me back the same way, using the same crate, and let me go, naked, about a mile from my house.”

She pauses, “Sorry if that's a little disjointed.  It's basically just a brain dump.”

“How are you not in an asylum sobbing in a corner or something?” I'm feeling sick just hearing you say it so matter-of-factly, Bambi.

The poor, poor woman gives me an answer, “Best guess? Most guys find insanity to be a huge turn-off, so the same effect that keeps me beautiful keeps me grounded.”

“I have another question if you don't mind; this one isn't directly related, more of a personal curiosity, so do feel free to ignore me here if I'm going too far,” and this one might be, but I do want to know.

“Anything that can maybe put this nightmare to bed is worth the pain,” the tortured soul chuckles, “fire away.”

So I ask: “How is it you don't want to die?”