reporter and climbed in alongside Jared, but said nothing as the cab pulled away from the curb.
Hexe changed the channel yet again, landing on a live broadcast from the steps of the Tombs. I immediately recognized Tullamore, looking considerably more subdued and a tad hungover, standing next to a robustly built, clean-shaven leprechaun dressed in a scaled-down three-piece Armani suit.
“Who’s that?” I asked
“Seamus O’Fae,” Hexe replied. “He’s the top dog at the WFADL, and an important member of the Business Owners Organization. He’s also a criminal lawyer. The wonks in City Hall call him Little Big Man behind his back.”
As the reporters drew closer, O’Fae stepped forward to greet the cameras with the practiced air of a courtroom attorney. Since both he and Tullamore were the size of toddlers, the reporters were forced to drop to their knees in order to conduct their interviews. Despite Seamus O’Fae’s diminutive size, his voice was surprisingly deep. Little Big Man indeed.
“As chairman of the Wee Folk Anti-Defamation League, I have arranged with Captain Horn for Mr. Tullamore to surrender himself, in good faith, to the Paranormal Threat Unit.” He turned and gestured to the tall, solemn-looking Kymeran dressed in a police captain’s uniform and standing off to one side. “I have also facilitated the return of Mr. Wagner—in his original state—to his family. Furthermore, I wish to take this moment to state that the WFADL is one hundred percent behind Mr. Tullamore’s fight for justice—”
As Hexe flipped the dial again, an all-too-familiar voice suddenly came from the speakers: “Last night proves that numps have no place in Golgotham beyond those areas set aside for them—Golgotham is our home, not their playpen! Let them get drunk and make braying jackasses of themselves on Duivel Street, if that’s what they want to do. But make sure that’s as far into Golgotham as they can go!”
Hexe groaned and rolled his eyes in disgust at the sight of his uncle standing on the street outside the GoBOO Headquarters. Esau had an armload of pamphlets, and was busily handing them out to passersby while he conducted his interview with the television reporter. Behind him were people carrying signs that read GOLGOTHAM IS OURS and SAY YES TO NO-HUMAN ZONES.
“The GoBOO is so intent on lining their pockets with money from tourism, they have endangered our security and cultural identity,” Esau went on. “For centuries we’ve been encouraged to play down the fact that Golgotham is actually a sovereign territory, to the point that most numps think we’re simply another part of New York City, like Coney Island or Chinatown. My great-grandfather didn’t negotiate the creation of a Kymeran homeland just so a bunch of rowdy looky-loos could be amused by the ‘local color.’ That is why I have started the Kymeran Unification Party; to bring pressure on the GoBOO to see to it that Golgotham’s borders—both physical and cultural—are reinforced, recognized, and respected, by whatever means necessary.”
“You’re not advocating violence against New York City, are you?” the reporter asked.
“Of course not,” Esau replied. “But should Golgotham become the target of human attacks, my people will not stand idly by. After all, no one wants to see a replay of the Sufferance.”
“Race-baiting asshole,” Hexe growled as he turned off the TV. “I knew we hadn’t seen the last of him.”
“Do you think anyone will take him seriously?” I frowned at the thought.
“Esau’s separatist spraint is impractical as far as the average Golgothamite is concerned, but I’m afraid his message resonates with a certain demographic within the community,” Hexe conceded. “I can see him starting some real trouble.”
As Hexe saw Bartho to the front door, my cell phone began to ring. I glanced at the caller ID, but all the readout said was: QPQ. I frowned and hit the TALK button. As I lifted it to
Hexe changed the channel yet again, landing on a live broadcast from the steps of the Tombs. I immediately recognized Tullamore, looking considerably more subdued and a tad hungover, standing next to a robustly built, clean-shaven leprechaun dressed in a scaled-down three-piece Armani suit.
“Who’s that?” I asked
“Seamus O’Fae,” Hexe replied. “He’s the top dog at the WFADL, and an important member of the Business Owners Organization. He’s also a criminal lawyer. The wonks in City Hall call him Little Big Man behind his back.”
As the reporters drew closer, O’Fae stepped forward to greet the cameras with the practiced air of a courtroom attorney. Since both he and Tullamore were the size of toddlers, the reporters were forced to drop to their knees in order to conduct their interviews. Despite Seamus O’Fae’s diminutive size, his voice was surprisingly deep. Little Big Man indeed.
“As chairman of the Wee Folk Anti-Defamation League, I have arranged with Captain Horn for Mr. Tullamore to surrender himself, in good faith, to the Paranormal Threat Unit.” He turned and gestured to the tall, solemn-looking Kymeran dressed in a police captain’s uniform and standing off to one side. “I have also facilitated the return of Mr. Wagner—in his original state—to his family. Furthermore, I wish to take this moment to state that the WFADL is one hundred percent behind Mr. Tullamore’s fight for justice—”
As Hexe flipped the dial again, an all-too-familiar voice suddenly came from the speakers: “Last night proves that numps have no place in Golgotham beyond those areas set aside for them—Golgotham is our home, not their playpen! Let them get drunk and make braying jackasses of themselves on Duivel Street, if that’s what they want to do. But make sure that’s as far into Golgotham as they can go!”
Hexe groaned and rolled his eyes in disgust at the sight of his uncle standing on the street outside the GoBOO Headquarters. Esau had an armload of pamphlets, and was busily handing them out to passersby while he conducted his interview with the television reporter. Behind him were people carrying signs that read GOLGOTHAM IS OURS and SAY YES TO NO-HUMAN ZONES.
“The GoBOO is so intent on lining their pockets with money from tourism, they have endangered our security and cultural identity,” Esau went on. “For centuries we’ve been encouraged to play down the fact that Golgotham is actually a sovereign territory, to the point that most numps think we’re simply another part of New York City, like Coney Island or Chinatown. My great-grandfather didn’t negotiate the creation of a Kymeran homeland just so a bunch of rowdy looky-loos could be amused by the ‘local color.’ That is why I have started the Kymeran Unification Party; to bring pressure on the GoBOO to see to it that Golgotham’s borders—both physical and cultural—are reinforced, recognized, and respected, by whatever means necessary.”
“You’re not advocating violence against New York City, are you?” the reporter asked.
“Of course not,” Esau replied. “But should Golgotham become the target of human attacks, my people will not stand idly by. After all, no one wants to see a replay of the Sufferance.”
“Race-baiting asshole,” Hexe growled as he turned off the TV. “I knew we hadn’t seen the last of him.”
“Do you think anyone will take him seriously?” I frowned at the thought.
“Esau’s separatist spraint is impractical as far as the average Golgothamite is concerned, but I’m afraid his message resonates with a certain demographic within the community,” Hexe conceded. “I can see him starting some real trouble.”
As Hexe saw Bartho to the front door, my cell phone began to ring. I glanced at the caller ID, but all the readout said was: QPQ. I frowned and hit the TALK button. As I lifted it to
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