If I am going to Kickstart another Fermi Resolution collection this year, it’s going to need a Tom Vargas novella.
Tom Vargas and the Case of the Meddlesome Priest
There’s a sage of the Old Americans that argued that stories are dangerous, because they want to be told more than anything else in the world. Stories don’t care who gets used up in the telling, either. The more bodies on the floor, the bigger the story, right? No worrying about Destiny, either, because that’ll be filled in later. There’s always gonna be some schlub who’ll walk in at just the right moment, and get all the happy endings. Makes it all nice and neat, as long as you don’t squint too hard.
That same sage said that you had to fight back, become the ‘bicarbonate of history.’ Far be it from me to comment on the wisdom of the ages, but you don’t always need a fizzy drink to make somebody spit up a story. A head-butt in the gut can do the job just as good, as long as you butt the right gut.
You also need a pretty hard head; but when you’re a Shamus, that comes with the job. Or you’ll wish it did, real soon.
…
“You are Shamus Tom Vargas?”
I hadn’t heard a knock, but would have I, really? It was a quiet Saturday afternoon in Cin City, complete with a breeze fresh from the sea, and I had my feet up and my hat down, contemplating my plans for the evening. I’m told that I snore on such occasions, which I don’t believe in the slightest. I’m right there, ain’t I? So why don’t I ever hear it?