asked him.
“Yeah, on Twelfth. Out back in a sty, right?” Frank honked a laugh.
Warren forced a smile. “Good one. Anyway, right next door lives this nice old lady. Growing in her garden are the best watermelons you’ve ever tasted.”
Rank Frank sat forward, suddenly interested. “Really?”
“As soon as the sun goes down, they’re yours for the taking.”
“All right! Thanks, Piggy!”
“Don’t mention it.” Warren only hoped that the old hag was into garden slugs now instead of pigs.
The sound of backfire ripped the morning air, and Princey’s rusty pickup struggled into the agency’s driveway. Princey was a Cyclops, with one eye in the middle of his bald head, scrub brush bristles growing out of his ears, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, and a constant snarl showing yellow, pointed teeth.
“GRR-OW WITCH!” Princey groaned as he unfolded himself from the pickup’s cab. Princey was tall, over eight feet, and pickups were small. Driving to work never left him in a very good mood.
He trudged to the side of the dispatching office—really an old garage—hacked, spit, and unlocked the door. He went inside, and a moment later the garage door opened to reveal Princey leaning on the desk he’d built. He scowled even more than normal and smacked his lips as if he’d eaten a bad skunk for breakfast. His bleary eye scanned the bleachers.
“TRUMBULL! YOU’RE ON TIME!” Princey said everything in capitals.
“Yes, sir,” Warren answered.
“WHERE’S O’ROURKE, CHEN, AND HARPER?” Princey waved away any answer. “FORGET IT. I KNOW WHERE THEY ARE.” He studied the tattered spiral notebook that served as a work log. “HERE’S TODAY’S ASSIGNMENTS.” Princey wasn’t much for small talk.
“DIVINE, COME HERE.” Rank Frank rose and grinned his way to the desk. He could grin because he knew he was getting the best assignment available. He wasn’t named Divine for nothing—his dad was Jupiter, the king of the Olympian gods, and Princey always stayed on Daddy’s good side.
“DIVINE, A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG PRINCESS IS TRAPPED IN AN EVIL WARLOCK’S TOWER. TRY TO HAVE HER OUT BEFORE CLOSING, WILL YOU?”
Rank Frank was still grinning. “Sure thing, boss.” He wrote down the address from the log and was gone on his fifty-eight-speed touringbike—a gift from his father—before anyone could tell him what a lucky scuzz he was.
“RODRIGUEZ.” Rodriguez stepped forward. Princey didn’t like Rodriguez, especially when he’d first had to be nice to Frank. “OLD MAN FREDERICK WANTS HIS HORSE BARN CLEANED OUT. FIND A RIVER AND SEE WHAT YOU CAN DO.”
Warren groaned in sympathy for Rodriguez. Three thousand years ago, Hercules had cleaned the huge and extremely filthy Augean stables by diverting a river through them. Ever since, Cyclops like Princey always assumed that rivers were the only way to clean stables. Most humans were not as strong as Hercules—actually no humans were; they had to use a shovel. Rodriguez had a manure-filled day ahead of him.
Princey handed out the work assignments, one by one. Thurston had to capture an escaped winged horse; Doolittle had to shingle a witch’s candy house with chocolate bars. The bleachers emptied until only Warren and Rick were left.
“TRUMBULL AND … YOU, THE NEW GUY.”
“Howell,” Rick said.
“RIGHT, HOWARD. COME UP HERE.”
“Both of us?” Warren asked. He’d never been part of a two-man assignment before.
“BOTH OF YOU. YOU’RE GOING TO TRAIN HOWARD.” Princey scanned the work log. “MRS. HELGA THORENSEN CALLED IN THREE DAYS AGO ABOUT A GORGON IN HER BASEMENT. I SENT OUT O’ROURKE, THEN CHEN, AND THEN HARPER, BUT THEY …” He waved his hand again. “WELL, YOU KNOW WHAT GORGONS DO.”
Warren knew—if you looked at one, you turned to stone. There were animated Gorgons on television commercials, but the censors kept how nasty they looked to a minimum. The commercials always began with a green winged female
“Yeah, on Twelfth. Out back in a sty, right?” Frank honked a laugh.
Warren forced a smile. “Good one. Anyway, right next door lives this nice old lady. Growing in her garden are the best watermelons you’ve ever tasted.”
Rank Frank sat forward, suddenly interested. “Really?”
“As soon as the sun goes down, they’re yours for the taking.”
“All right! Thanks, Piggy!”
“Don’t mention it.” Warren only hoped that the old hag was into garden slugs now instead of pigs.
The sound of backfire ripped the morning air, and Princey’s rusty pickup struggled into the agency’s driveway. Princey was a Cyclops, with one eye in the middle of his bald head, scrub brush bristles growing out of his ears, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, and a constant snarl showing yellow, pointed teeth.
“GRR-OW WITCH!” Princey groaned as he unfolded himself from the pickup’s cab. Princey was tall, over eight feet, and pickups were small. Driving to work never left him in a very good mood.
He trudged to the side of the dispatching office—really an old garage—hacked, spit, and unlocked the door. He went inside, and a moment later the garage door opened to reveal Princey leaning on the desk he’d built. He scowled even more than normal and smacked his lips as if he’d eaten a bad skunk for breakfast. His bleary eye scanned the bleachers.
“TRUMBULL! YOU’RE ON TIME!” Princey said everything in capitals.
“Yes, sir,” Warren answered.
“WHERE’S O’ROURKE, CHEN, AND HARPER?” Princey waved away any answer. “FORGET IT. I KNOW WHERE THEY ARE.” He studied the tattered spiral notebook that served as a work log. “HERE’S TODAY’S ASSIGNMENTS.” Princey wasn’t much for small talk.
“DIVINE, COME HERE.” Rank Frank rose and grinned his way to the desk. He could grin because he knew he was getting the best assignment available. He wasn’t named Divine for nothing—his dad was Jupiter, the king of the Olympian gods, and Princey always stayed on Daddy’s good side.
“DIVINE, A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG PRINCESS IS TRAPPED IN AN EVIL WARLOCK’S TOWER. TRY TO HAVE HER OUT BEFORE CLOSING, WILL YOU?”
Rank Frank was still grinning. “Sure thing, boss.” He wrote down the address from the log and was gone on his fifty-eight-speed touringbike—a gift from his father—before anyone could tell him what a lucky scuzz he was.
“RODRIGUEZ.” Rodriguez stepped forward. Princey didn’t like Rodriguez, especially when he’d first had to be nice to Frank. “OLD MAN FREDERICK WANTS HIS HORSE BARN CLEANED OUT. FIND A RIVER AND SEE WHAT YOU CAN DO.”
Warren groaned in sympathy for Rodriguez. Three thousand years ago, Hercules had cleaned the huge and extremely filthy Augean stables by diverting a river through them. Ever since, Cyclops like Princey always assumed that rivers were the only way to clean stables. Most humans were not as strong as Hercules—actually no humans were; they had to use a shovel. Rodriguez had a manure-filled day ahead of him.
Princey handed out the work assignments, one by one. Thurston had to capture an escaped winged horse; Doolittle had to shingle a witch’s candy house with chocolate bars. The bleachers emptied until only Warren and Rick were left.
“TRUMBULL AND … YOU, THE NEW GUY.”
“Howell,” Rick said.
“RIGHT, HOWARD. COME UP HERE.”
“Both of us?” Warren asked. He’d never been part of a two-man assignment before.
“BOTH OF YOU. YOU’RE GOING TO TRAIN HOWARD.” Princey scanned the work log. “MRS. HELGA THORENSEN CALLED IN THREE DAYS AGO ABOUT A GORGON IN HER BASEMENT. I SENT OUT O’ROURKE, THEN CHEN, AND THEN HARPER, BUT THEY …” He waved his hand again. “WELL, YOU KNOW WHAT GORGONS DO.”
Warren knew—if you looked at one, you turned to stone. There were animated Gorgons on television commercials, but the censors kept how nasty they looked to a minimum. The commercials always began with a green winged female
Similar Books
