Ralphie was standing in an overtly defensive position; her nose was so wrinkled up that her entire face looked like it was sucking into itself. In front of her the brackish water in a rusty old barrel was reflecting the harsh light of the single bulb that swung overhead.
“Smells like horse piss,” she said. “Old horse piss. Not even fresh.”
Ayzook was grumbling under his breath. He wasn’t quite tall enough to even see into the barrel. But he wasn’t really happy with Ralph’s cooperation, so far.
“Just read it, or whatever it is that you do, will you? Aren’t you supposed to be able to connect to any living dead spirits that are in the area? Besides you, I mean. I have about all the connection to you that I need.”
Ralph straightened up, towering three feet over Ayzook. “You really should show some respect, dear,” she said. “I could probably make my foot big enough to stomp you into the dirt, even though it’s so cramped in here I might have a hard time raising my leg high enough.”
The druid knew there was no upside to pissing off an angel, even a defrocked one. “Okay, okay. But be a little helpful, would you please?”
Ralphie leaned over again, putting her face closer to the barrel. “Do you think it would help the situation if I just threw up in it?” she asked.
Ayzook was huffing and puffing but didn’t say a word to Ralph. She looked like she was concentrating a little bit as she gave her attention back to the fifty-five gallon “well of souls”.
“Well there are traces of a couple dozen beings here in Butte that fall into the ‘dead with an asterisk’ category. What am I looking for again exactly?”
“Like I said, one of them has the sacred pouch with all of my poker machine money in it. I’m sure of it. Either that or that God damned dog buried it somewhere. And I think he’s too lazy to go to the trouble. Probably just passed it off to the first person or thing that approached him, and I’m betting that would be some sort of deceased entity.”
“Hmm. Sacred purloined pouch in the possession of a putrid pooch. I see, I see . . .” Ralphie was smirking but seemed to be directing at least some of her attention towards the dilapidated barrel of filth. “You and your ill-begotten casino cash. Maybe somebody from the reservation reclaimed it.”
“If I don’t have that money back by the end of the week, you will be living in this shithole of a cave by yourself,” Ayzook said rather bitterly. “They don’t give me anything to work with around here. Butte, Montana. Feh. This is ridiculous. Even old Fuzzy Pizzle, over in Minot, has a better gig than this. And he had his nose bit off by a dragon five hundred years ago, or so the story goes. He can’t even go out in public without a patch. But he isn’t stuck in Butte.”
“Don’t go knocking Butte,” Ralphie admonished. “This may not exactly be the crown of creation, but there are worse places out there, believe me. I have probably passed out in the gutter in most of them. Butte’s good people.”
Before Ayzook could say anything, Ralph’s eyes narrowed and she again assumed a posture of concentration. “Wait a minute,” she said. “There’s something here, I think.”
Ayzook was working his stubby little legs, trying to jump up and get a look into the murky barrel. “What is it? What!” he demanded.
“Well,” said Ralphie, standing up and stepping back, “there seems to be some presence here in Butte which matches up to the emanations of that pouch. It’s an undead thing, but I am not getting a name or any real identifying features. Except that the dead brain waves are pretty weak.”
“What does that spell?” asked Ayzook anxiously.
“It means the creature is in bad shape, or else it means he is some sort of fucking idiot,” said Ralphie. “I guess either way he is in bad shape. But it’s harder to get a definite location than if he was fully functional.”
“I need to find this thing!”
“I know, I know, jack down a yard, will you Zookums? We can hit the trail and probably track him down. Unless he decays into a puddle of stinky slime before we get there. He’s pretty screwed up, it looks like to me. But the aura should be trackable. And his only connection to the sewer dog might be that they fought over the same rancid old cow leg or something.”
“Okay, let’s go!” Ayzook was practically squealing. His voice became embarrassingly high pitched when he was excited. “I want to find that pouch!”
“We need to wait until the morning. It can keep.”
“Why? Why wait?”
Ralphie yawned, stretched, and scratched herself in a very unladylike fashion. “I’m too tired for this right now. It takes energy. We can pursue this business in the morning. Late morning. Maybe closer to noon.”
Ayzook was fuming, but he knew his impatience would get him nowhere; better to ruminate on the situation and develop a plan for reacquiring his cash. How much money could a retarded dead man spend overnight in Butte, after all?
“Fine,” he said as he turned and stomped noisily out of the room. “We can track down this thieving corpse creature tomorrow.”
The angel was now concentrating on pulling the bottle of Old Grand Dad out of her robes. From the hallway Ayzook called back to her.
“Put the lid back on that barrel of Lost Souls when you’re done in there. And DON’T piss in it!” Ralphie just looked at him and wrinkled her nose.
He really did wish he was in Minot about now.
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