CHAPTER 4 - A SENATE CORRUPT

Senator Hyrum Adlof Funstas, Demican for the Province of Clissa, rapidly descended the capital steps toward the waiting black limousine with gold wall tires. He wiped his sweaty brow, always conscious of the embarrassing scar on his forehead enigmatically resembling nothing less than the letters ‘j’ and ‘o’. He was moving much faster than his 24 stone body should move, but he was in a hurry, lest the paparazzi or the youtube media bushwhack him with embarrassing questions about the Penguin Affair and the murder of Ashton Kutcher. The Senator had little to fear, he had been selected by the Overseer of Clissa for the Senate for over 13 terms and what he had on the Overseer insured his continued service in the Senate until his death in office. An idea which gave Funstas many sleepless nights and caffeine charged days. Anyway, he had Senatorial immunity from that Penguin affair, and the Kutcher murder was yesterday’s news, already smelling bad and inviting no further nosing about by the press. Pausing briefly by the Column of Winds, the very spot upon which Governor Kentucky Linden had been assassinated by the hands of enraged Senate Pages over one hundred years ago, Funstas took a quick scan of the surroundings. The memorial park seemed empty and the Blimp Cartel Clock Tower read 8:62, an odd time, but then again this was Second Life and all things were possible. Only a smattering of tourists from the provinces had gathered at the hot possum dog cart at the foot of the staircase. You could tell they were tourists by the bunny ear hats, tee shirts emblazed with patriotic curses, and those shorts, those horrible shorts which accentuated skinny legs and ponderous bums. “There otta be a law,” mumbled the Senator under his breath.

“Pardon me,” whispered Ruprecht Murdstone, media mongol and President of Lupine News Corp, who accompanied his old friend down the stairs. “How many votes do we need for this law,” chuckled Murdstone who was well known for his media motto ‘fear and banal sells papers’.

Pulling at his tight suspenders, Funstas did not reply. He took a deep breath, then another, and raced down the steps toward the waiting car. Murdstone followed close on this heels. As Funstas raced for the limousine, the door swung open to reveal the tanned sexy thigh and calf of his lovely assistant Sindy Blazer, Society Editor for Murdstone’s Sonogno Times. Sindy was dressed in a deep red silk cheongsam with tiny embroidered black dragon files, and a high collar. The cheongsam had a slit up to her neck. As Sindy moved to make room for Funstas’ prodigious girth, the Senator paused at the car door breathing heavily and coughing.

A shot rang out.

The sharp retort echoed throughout the plaza. Funstas dived for the safety of the limousine. The door of the armored limo closed with an authoritative thud. The driver stabbed his foot on the gas, and the 80 squirrel V8 engine whined as kibble flooded into the feeding funnels supplemented by a slurry of tomatoes, beets, spinach, celery, lettuce, parsley, and watercress juices. The car shot forward at alarming speed, its tires squealing, leaving a bleeding Murdstone thrashing on the Carrera Marble curbstones. Tourists gathered about the wounded media mogul and began taking pictures. Eventually the hot possum dog vendor called the police hoping for a tip or perhaps a government job.

“Too close, too close”, wheezed Funstas as he held tight to the beautiful journalist.

“You OK Senator”, asked Blazer reaching for the notebook. mini-cam, and package of Kleenex? “There’s blood and gore on your camel hair blazer,” she said as she licked a tissue and began the hopeless chore of making the Senator presentable. “I’m not sure if dry cleaning will help this at all,” said Blazer above the whine of the squirrels and squeal of the still smoking tires.

“Where to,” asked the Whitney ‘Half Nelson’ Llanfair the Senator’s driver and off and on again lover for many terms?

Funstas’ brain raced, then doubled back and started again. Where was a safe place he wondered? His residence was unsafe at a time like this. Besides Mrs. Funstas would object to his tracking in blood and gore on her new steam cleaned carpets. No, home was not safe, the assassin, or assassins and there were always more than one, would be watching the house. The Calves Head Club was out, it was Tuesday and he hated kidney pie. No he needed someplace safe and unpredictable.

“Take us to the Embassy of Neopets, no one will expect us there,” shouted the quick thinking Blazer, “and step on it.” Llanfair pushed hard on the throttle, and several squirrels popped a gasket giving their all as the car accelerated toward the embassy district of the Capital.

“Who, who could have done this,” wondered Funstas aloud? He knew the list was long, very long. The Rubber Spiders Trust and Cabal, the All-Ocean Navy Faction, the Furriers Guild, the Republicrats and their ilk, Governor Linden himself? The list of those who hated him went on an on. And then there was the Overseer. That little cretan, thought the Senator, he so stupid he can’t tell the difference between onions and shallots.

“I don’t know,” Blazer lied.

She knew. She knew that the assassin had aimed not at the Senator, but at Murdsone. But in his typical way, thought Blazer, Funstas assumed it was aimed at him. It was always about him, never about her. He was going to eventually think it was perhaps the Overseer, the Barron, whom she knew Funstas feared and loathed. The feelings were mutual. She loathed both of them, the Overseer and Funstas. And the Overseer, Barron von Thundergst loathed them in return.

Two weeks before, at the Ball of Tears, a charity ball seeking to fund the Find a Cure for AFK Research Foundation, Blazer had interviewed the leading socialites and bachlorettes of Second Life at the exclusive event held at the Montforte Palace not far from the Capital. The Ball of Tears was the social event of the season, and Montorte Palace, the former home of the ancient kings of Second Life, was decorated with the colors of the seasons, black, deep blue, and a hint of puce. The gowns of the bacheloretts were magnificent and millions of lindens had been spent to improve the girls rankings in the Book of Blues social register. It was well know that those who wasted the most lindens, and elicited the loudest gasps of fashion envy would improve their social status, regardless of birth or moral defect. Prissy Plumblossom, of the famed founding Plumblossom family of Second Life, had been the bell of the ball. Her consort, Major Minor had been the clapper. Much to her surprise Blazer found herself called for a private meeting with Major Minor in the Red Room of the Palace. There had been stories about the red room, the Montfortes, and the famed red carpet. Red the color of blood. Sindy realized that the old stories might contain a hint of truth. You could bleed to death on the rug, she thought, and no one would notice.

Upon entering the famed Red Room, Blazer notice a heavy presence of security. Young tall unattached men with little white things in their ears and with those ever obvious bulges glared at her from behind impenetrable dark Rainbans. The room was brightly illuminated, and the music wafted in through the open French Doors, their cream gauze curtains fluttering in the evening breeze. Bono was performing and she was missing the good part, when he stopped. Glancing about the room she saw Major Minor resplendent in his Martial Attire, the Order of Saint Golphus gleaming from his sunken chest. Then her heart froze, for also standing in the room, next to the roaring fires of the walk in fireplace stood Mother Superior Adel Flossberg of the Order of the Bloody Stain of Saint Hymenos the Benighted - Mothers of Earth Druids (reformed).

Sindy did not waste time. Quickly she walked to the Mother Superior, and falling to her knees, she kissed Adels signet ring. “Forgive me mother, for I am a sinner,” said Sindy in a trembling voice.

After a long pause of rumination, a voice of retribution said, “You are forgiven my daughter. Stand and let me see you,” intoned the Mother Superior.

Sindy stood, and gathering all the courage that remained in her shaking frame she stared into Mother Superior’s gun metal granny glasses and into the all knowing eyes of Adel Flossberg. Sindy found herself reverting to the scared and little bed wetting child she had been while confined in the convent of the order.

“You have grown, and matured as a lovely young woman,” said the Mother Supeior in a voice sounding nothing less than the voice of the grave. “I have an important task for you,” said the Mother Superior, reaching into space. Major Minor placed an etch-a-sketch into the Mother Superior’s black gloved hand. “The redemption of your sinful soul depends on your actions. I know I can rely upon you my child,” said Adel with a hint of irony and disgust. “I want you to look at this document,” she said passing the etch-a-sketch to Sindy’ trembling hands. “Stop shaking Blazer, your going to ruin the document,” said the Mother Superior in a nearly inaudible voice. A voice Sindy knew all too well. A voice of pain, real pain. Not the pain of a pinch or a punch, but the pain of the soul and of doom, and the pain of the pinch and the punch also.

“Yes Mother Superior,” said Blazer settling her nerves and beginning to understand the danger and gravity of her situation. Sindy began to read. Not more than a few sentences into the document Sindy’s blood ran cold. She looked up at the Mother Superior and then to Major Minor, and then at security, and then back to the Mother Superior.

“Ahh,” said the Mother Superior, “you understand.”

Yes, Sindy Blazer, Editor of the Society Pages of the Sonogno Times, Dic Torium of the School for Wayward Girls, Winner famed Skinner prize from the hand of William R. Hurst himself, and lapsed Durid, yes she understood. She knew that her short life was not worth a plug linden from this moment onward. From this point on she knew too much. Such was her fate, determined long ago, in the Temple of the Druid Priestess, in a time now only a rumor or a whisper in the litter filled corners of ancient libraries and used antiquarian shops.