VIII Gram

Ordering a rare ribeye and a bottle of Hermitage in his best accent, Gram tried to add an air of suaveness to mask his giddy, childlike excitement. He had never been to Upper Elysia, but Marco paid for his pass.

“I’ll ‘andle the waiter good, make sure those lazy lads actually cook the steak!” Marco said, beaming with pride.

Gram had always liked Marco, but he had always been painfully aware of one inescapable fact, Marco was a bit of an idiot.

“This isn’t butchers special ya nob, or that soy-protein simulacrum nonsense. This is a steak, from a real proper cow. Ya cook it too much, all the flavor goes out, and it becomes tough and dry. Might as well be saving a few denarii by slopping down some of Sal’s back alley special if yer gonna insist on it being incinerated.” Of course, this would be Gram’s first time actually trying steak—or proper wine for that matter—but he had read about them extensively.

“You always think y’re better th’n us, putting on airs, but yer jus’ like us. Simulacrum. Jus’ talk like normal folk.”

“So, ya need my help. You take me to a fancy restaurant where you proceed to pronounce every silent-fucking-t on the menu, not to mention cham-PAG-gen, then you accuse me of putting on airs?”

“Ahh, go fuck yourself. So, are you going to help me or not, king fancy pants?” Marco always knew exactly what to say to diffuse a situation.

Gram sighed and took a deep sniff of his wine. Cutting the steak perpendicular to the grain, just as the cookbooks had said, he closed out the bustling restaurant bringing all his senses to a singular focus. Taking his very first bite, he could feel the meat almost melt in his mouth, the rich savory near nuttiness melding with garlic, some thyme, and the oh-so-very-much butter. The richness of it all he cut with a sip of his Syrah—dry, acidic, and full of flavors he had yet to contextualize. This was the exact perfect moment he had dreamed of. He sniffed the wine again and took another sip, this time gently swishing the wine around in his mouth. It was astringent, leaving his tongue feeling dry, very unlike the sweet medicated aftertaste and oily mouthfeel of a slum-wine. He had read it tasted earthy with notes of black fruits and leather. He couldn’t really taste the leather, but he tried. Would it be better if he could taste the earthy leatheriness instead of the dry fruitiness? What did that even mean? It felt like a tangled ball of flavors that he wasn’t able to undo. Perhaps by the end of the bottle, he would understand it better.

Emerging from his momentary tranquility, his eyes refocused on his friend sitting in front of him. He couldn’t afford to indulge himself too much, not when Maro’s blood was picking up the tab. “So what kind of contract do I have to thank for this lovely meal with such an old friend?” 

“I got meself the most expensive contract they had. An anonymous no-fight contract went fer double some o’ them. An’ that way ya get the money upfront, none of that waitin’ to be selected te get yer fare like getting picked fer a team in grade school—not that I’d have to worry too much about that.” He said, flexing his right bicep showing off what a prime candidate he was for slaughter. 

“Ain’t that just bloody splendid! I’ll have you fight ’em off with pillows, I suppose. An’ if you won’t even know who the hunter is, you could ask the guy for fucking directions!” Gram let out a frustrated sigh, shaking his head.  “For King’s sake, mate.”

“Pretty sure can’t use pillows either.” Marco’s expression was earnest, “Not like fighting back helped blokes in the past. An’ the ones that like ya to fight, them’s the ones liable to keep ya held up for days, cuttin’ and proddin’ an’ the like.” His face made a sour expression.

A standard contracted hunt was paid one year in advance for the hunted to ‘prepare,’ which in reality usually meant throwing off your yoke and living like a king while trying to forget that later that year, you would be gunned down for sport. There were all kinds of contracts where fighting back against the hunters was allowed to varying extents, some even with guns. Those were usually not in particularly high demand, and you didn’t want to meet the hunter that did have them in demand.

As for cutting and prodding, all hunt contracts had a proviso in them forbidding torture, but in effect, there was not even the slightest incentive to enforce it. It was true no-fights—all else held equal—were more likely to go for a clean kill or turn out to just be whitehats and fuck your mom instead of killing you. But the reputation of a hunter also made a big difference on the final contract price since both parties normally got a chance to decide whether or not to sign. Anonymous contracts were too expensive, basically priced at around how much a well-known torturer would end up having to pay, which meant, of course, that Marco could look forward to a prolonged and painful death by a particularly cowardly torturer. The logic of adverse selection wasn’t that complicated.

“Well, why take one to begin with?” Gram asked, knowing that Marco somehow had trusted him to get him out of the impossible situation.

“The fuck ya think? Because fuck them, that’s why. Coulda’ just quit, but why trade one boss fer’ another? Get the most outta a year then make an exit. Better a year as a king than a life as a mouse.” Marco took a big glug of his cham-pa-gen, “But then I cooled down a bit, and thought hey! What about Gram? You always got all them daft plans buzzing about! Maybe I can have my cake an’ not be murdered fer’ it.”

“So glad you thought of me.” Gram took a sip of wine. There had to be a way.

“So can ya help me er not?” Following another, even deeper sigh, Gram nodded with a grim expression, “You sure as hell aren’t making it easy on me, but fine, I think I can cook something up. But you know, thinking is thirsty work.” He said, pointing to the wine list.