The Convention
Tony and Sawyer
Four shadowy figures stroll down to the bottom hall, where they’re asked to show their badges. Security checks them three times, droning out instructions to demonstrate that their controller has indeed rendered these big, tough men completely mindless- for now or for always, no one can say for certain. But the routine is familiar to all concerned, to judge from the studied indifference of the man on the left and the resigned smile of the man on the right.
The man on the left wears a spotless white suit with a red tie and European hat. He has the look of a man of many nations, and claims whatever nationality is most convenient for him on any given day. The knockout blonde woman who walks one pace behind him and to his left is dressed to kill in a red pantsuit accented with black, though the slight wobble in her step and the youth of her features suggest that she’s far more comfortable in blue jeans and a sweatshirt. But for now, she serves Tony Horn, arcane investigator and government informant. A stage hypnotist and showman once as venal as his colleagues, his retirement led to a change of heart, and to a personal crusade to locate and destroy controllers who abuse their power. The dashing costume is out of the ordinary; normally, he prefers the thralls who serve their time as his loyal Syndrome to serve him in whatever they’re most comfortable in, but this is not an ordinary convention. Bright red and somber black are danger colors in this world; like a brightly colored snake, she serves warning that her master is not to be trifled with.
On his right, Sawyer Samuels is even more brightly colored, wearing a black tuxedo, a ruffled shirt, and a rainbow vest. His flowing moustache and wild hair have gone completely white, and not even his top hat can keep that hair under control. At his belt is a gold pocket watch- a classic tool of the trade for many, but for Sawyer, merely a custom-built cell phone, a way to keep time, and an old-fashioned reminder of the way the business used to be. His enraptured assistant wears a gold bunny tuxedo that shows off her perfect figure; she looks and acts in every way a magician’s assistant. He walks forward with the stride of someone who’s lived his whole life on the water- as he has, living and working on his beloved riverboat on the Mississippi, leading raunchy boat trips up and down the river, enchanting new beauties at every port until letting the whole lot of them loose in New Orleans at the end of the trip. Like Tony, he had retired; like Tony, time to think had given him second thoughts about the bad seeds that had sprung up over the years; unlike Tony, he takes advantage of little blue pills and can’t say no to a pretty blank face.
“Greetings once more, Sawyer,” Tony says with a smile.
Sawyer blinks and rubs his eyes. “Well, I’ll be! Fancy seeing you here so early. See you brought your little X-File along, too. Sometime today, we’ll have to swap, your Syndie for my lovely Miss Behave. I thought you were like the rest of ‘em, waitin’ till the evening session. You know it’s only the old fossils like me who wake up at the crack of noon.” He chuckles at his own joke, but Tony remains composed.
“We are not like most controllers, and I have far too much to report back to Major Tom.” He glances at his thrall. “Syndrome, read notepad.”
“On day 1 we have seen fifty-six new registered groups and 240 registered ‘amateurs’ among a total attendance of over twenty-five hundred, including thralls and assistants for small groups. Over four hundred and fifty booths have been registered,” Syndrome recites with just the faintest hint of a Southern drawl before returning to her ready state.
Sawyer’s jaw drops. It takes him a few moments to rehinge it, then he splutters, “WHAT?! The kackheads are one thing- those fools most likely been hangin’ round the green pages too much, but blow me down, fifty-six new cults- oh, darlin’, that was a figure of speech. You’re a good gal, and I’ll take you up on that later. But you’ll get your dress dirty.” He helps Miss Behave off her knees, rezips his fly, and composes himself, almost daring Tony to comment on his faux pas. When Tony doesn’t rise to the bait, Sawyer goes on, “This ain’t usually an international conference- you sure the Russkies didn’t show up for once?”
“I fear not. Though not all the new groups had set up their booths, none of the lettering was in Cyrillic.”
“Fifty-six new cults,” Sawyer says, still shaking his head in disbelief. “What’s the average size? Sure some of them are offshoots of the big boys.”
“At least one sub-controller and fifteen thralls,” Syndrome replies at Tony’s signal.
“Jumpin’ Jehosaphat! And I thought last year was a banner year with just twenty-eight!”
“And it appears that all of those survived as well. 450 booths, after all. Our lot is three aisles to the left and four in,” Tony says briskly. He leads Sawyer and the women to their designated area, and as mindless drones buzz around them, erecting tents and pavilions, Tony and Sawyer put together the “MC Safety and Ethics” booth themselves, only allowing the two women to hand them tools. When they’re finished, the theme from “The Twilight Zone” plays at ear-piercing volume, drawing everyone’s attention.
“Sorry, folks, that’s mine. Hello! Sawyer Samuels, master hypnotist, pool hustler, poker master, and riverboat tour operator at your service!” he says all in one long breath, as if trying to talk over someone. As Tony rolls his eyes, Sawyer continues to the person at the other end, “Okay. Okay, sweetheart, I’ll meet you upstairs in two minutes.” He hangs up the phone, turns to Tony and explains, “Nicky did show up. I guess someone at the registry did get my message about her and that nice Stepford boy of hers.”
“Nicky? Your daughter? I was under the impression she would prefer to see you dead in a ditch somewhere,” Tony says with a raised eyebrow look of questioning.
“Yeah, she likes to say that, don’t she? But someone’s got to show her around and keep the sharks off her. Maybe once she sees what the rest of ‘em are like and what I’ve taken to doing, she’ll take up this part of the family business. If she hates my guts for having my way with my beauties, I don’t think she’ll much like what some of the scumbags down here do. When she sees the real victims, not just the class one or 3 suckers on the upper floor, I reckon she’ll feel a little different about helping out. Miss Behave better stay back and help at the booth, though. Might make it easier for us to talk. I’ll give you a buzz if I need you to talk sense into the girl, all right?”