it's no good, I mean I'm sure they sent the right picture, but it's no good for an ID of the vic."
"I'm not following you, Stan."
" Because he doesn't have a face no more!"
Chapter 2
Mary Margaret Doyle looked up from the Washington Post's editorial page and said, "The pundits seem to be of the opinion that we haven't got a prayer."
The demon Sargatanas used Howard Stark's mouth to produce a tiny smile. "In my case," it said, "that is literally true - and has been so for a period of time longer than you could possibly comprehend."
"It's just an expression," she said hastily. "I meant no offense."
"I know."
"But the pundits have a point, damn them."
Sargatanas shrugged. "Damnation? That might be arranged."
She touched his face softly. "I know, my sweet, I know. But later, after The Plan succeeds."
"You still think that it will?"
"I only know that it must. Therefore, it will."
"I like your attitude. It is rare among humankind."
"Yes. Yes, I expect it is."
Sargatanas walked over to the window of Stark's condo and looked out onto M Street. "You're the political expert. So, tell me - why is the campaign not catching fire? No pun intended, of course."
"The main reason is that the field of candidates is a lot bigger than anyone expected."
"And why is that?" His voice was didactic, professorial.
"Because the recession came on so suddenly, and hit so hard, a lot of Republicans have concluded that the Democrats are vulnerable this time out. So, as a result, there are six other serious candidates besides you, not counting the usual fringe fascists. Many of your competitors have bigger reputations and better connections - and, consequently, larger war chests."
"The so-called 'Un-Magnificent Seven.'"
She nodded. "Another pundit's not-so-clever pun. The six others, and you." She grinned then. "This is not to say that you're not pretty magnificent yourself."
He inclined his head in a slight bow. "But that does not solve our problem, and it must be solved. Otherwise there will be displeasure, from a source whose displeasure is something to be greatly feared."
"Yes, I understand that," she said and began to pace a slow circuit of the living room. After a few minutes she said, musingly, "We have to find a way to make you stand out from the herd."
He nodded. "Yes, all right, you are the expert in such matters. But there is another approach to the problem which we should also consider seriously."
She stopped pacing and looked at him. "And what is that?" she asked, not at all certain that she wanted to hear the answer.
"The Seven, whether magnificent or not, are far too many." A small smile appeared on what had once been Howard Stark's face. "There is an expression used, I believe, by professional hunters in your world. I think they call it thinning the herd ."
It was Friday night in New York City - the town where, as Huey Lewis has famously claimed, you can find half a million things to do, even at 2:45 a.m. - and Libby Chastain was bored.
It had been a busy week in the white magic business. Libby had been so preoccupied attending to the urgent needs of several clients, she had neglected to make plans for her downtime. But all the spells had been cast, all the evil curses dispelled, all the pesky spirits banished. And now the weekend was here, and Libby found herself with nothing to do, and nobody to do it with. Crap .
There was a new exhibit at MOMA that she wanted to see. Libby didn't mind going to museums alone; but MOMA had closed at 5:00, which meant that her dose of high culture would have to wait until tomorrow. Double crap .
She called a couple of her friends, well aware that such short notice meant slight odds of success, and was not really surprised when all she got were a series of voice mails. Well, at least somebody's going out tonight. Have fun, kids.
Then, after a brief hesitation, she tried Quincey Morris in Austin. She hadn't seen him since that nasty business in Idaho a few months back.
"I'm not following you, Stan."
" Because he doesn't have a face no more!"
Chapter 2
Mary Margaret Doyle looked up from the Washington Post's editorial page and said, "The pundits seem to be of the opinion that we haven't got a prayer."
The demon Sargatanas used Howard Stark's mouth to produce a tiny smile. "In my case," it said, "that is literally true - and has been so for a period of time longer than you could possibly comprehend."
"It's just an expression," she said hastily. "I meant no offense."
"I know."
"But the pundits have a point, damn them."
Sargatanas shrugged. "Damnation? That might be arranged."
She touched his face softly. "I know, my sweet, I know. But later, after The Plan succeeds."
"You still think that it will?"
"I only know that it must. Therefore, it will."
"I like your attitude. It is rare among humankind."
"Yes. Yes, I expect it is."
Sargatanas walked over to the window of Stark's condo and looked out onto M Street. "You're the political expert. So, tell me - why is the campaign not catching fire? No pun intended, of course."
"The main reason is that the field of candidates is a lot bigger than anyone expected."
"And why is that?" His voice was didactic, professorial.
"Because the recession came on so suddenly, and hit so hard, a lot of Republicans have concluded that the Democrats are vulnerable this time out. So, as a result, there are six other serious candidates besides you, not counting the usual fringe fascists. Many of your competitors have bigger reputations and better connections - and, consequently, larger war chests."
"The so-called 'Un-Magnificent Seven.'"
She nodded. "Another pundit's not-so-clever pun. The six others, and you." She grinned then. "This is not to say that you're not pretty magnificent yourself."
He inclined his head in a slight bow. "But that does not solve our problem, and it must be solved. Otherwise there will be displeasure, from a source whose displeasure is something to be greatly feared."
"Yes, I understand that," she said and began to pace a slow circuit of the living room. After a few minutes she said, musingly, "We have to find a way to make you stand out from the herd."
He nodded. "Yes, all right, you are the expert in such matters. But there is another approach to the problem which we should also consider seriously."
She stopped pacing and looked at him. "And what is that?" she asked, not at all certain that she wanted to hear the answer.
"The Seven, whether magnificent or not, are far too many." A small smile appeared on what had once been Howard Stark's face. "There is an expression used, I believe, by professional hunters in your world. I think they call it thinning the herd ."
It was Friday night in New York City - the town where, as Huey Lewis has famously claimed, you can find half a million things to do, even at 2:45 a.m. - and Libby Chastain was bored.
It had been a busy week in the white magic business. Libby had been so preoccupied attending to the urgent needs of several clients, she had neglected to make plans for her downtime. But all the spells had been cast, all the evil curses dispelled, all the pesky spirits banished. And now the weekend was here, and Libby found herself with nothing to do, and nobody to do it with. Crap .
There was a new exhibit at MOMA that she wanted to see. Libby didn't mind going to museums alone; but MOMA had closed at 5:00, which meant that her dose of high culture would have to wait until tomorrow. Double crap .
She called a couple of her friends, well aware that such short notice meant slight odds of success, and was not really surprised when all she got were a series of voice mails. Well, at least somebody's going out tonight. Have fun, kids.
Then, after a brief hesitation, she tried Quincey Morris in Austin. She hadn't seen him since that nasty business in Idaho a few months back.
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