Presenting Slate Star Showdex, Act 2, Episode 2.

"Let's get something straight, Navy Suit."

Dr. Scott "Slate" Alexander and his prisoner of war are in the doctor-investigator's drawing room. The former is standing erect, massaging the knuckles of his right hand.

The latter is kneeling, bleeding from the mouth.

"I saved your life. It's time to return the favor. If you don't tell me where Hiss is building his weapon, I'll bring you along to see the lizardmen. When we get there, I'll explain your role in Hiss's crimes ... and I'll let them deal with you."

Navy Suit's eyes widen in horror. He shakes his head frantically, but remains silent.

"Last chance, Navy Suit." Scott leans in close, bringing his face inches away from Navy Suit's trembling nose. "You know, I haven't had a MealSquare in over twenty-four hours."

Just as Navy Suit opens his mouth to speak, there comes a knock at the front door. Scott orders Navy Suit onto the couch, as if he were a private patient, and then goes to see who it is.

"Dr. Alexander! I'm Willy Won't-He." The slim but chubby-cheeked man sports a toothy grin and an impossibly-cheap brown suit. He carries a bulging briefcase. "Tremendous Value sends his regards."

"You must be Mr. Value's enforcer," Scott says. "Come on in. I understand you have something for me."

Willy Won't-He crosses the threshold, and whistles. "Nice place, sir! All that doctoring does a wallet good, huh?" He catches sight of Navy Suit. "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

"We're just finishing up some physical therapy."

Willy, as sharp as his suit is shabby, tips Scott a wink. "Physical therapy! That's a good one, sir, I'll remember that." He sets the briefcase on an end table, clicks open the catches, and waves Scott forward. "OK, business time. This briefcase and its contents are rightfully yours. Have a peek!"

Scott peers into the briefcase. It's a cash cornucopia.

"I haven't seen this much gold in one place since the Hotel El Dorado," Scott says. "Willy, your boss is a generous man."

"Think nothing of it, sir," Willy says, his grin stretching even wider. "When compared to the boss's life, what's a little gold?"

Scott stares pensively into the case. "Willy," the doctor-investigator says, "something's happened to MealSquares. Every store is sold out, nobody knows where to get more, and when my secretary telephoned the factory directly, the operator said the line had been disconnected."

The enforcer whistles again. "Is that so?"

The Man of Slate drops his artificial composure. "You see this pile of gold? I'd trade the stack for half a pack!" He scoops up a double handful of gold coins, and drips them out between his fingers. One by one, they fall back into the case.

"I can make you a rich man, Willy. I just need two things. Number one: I need answers from the clown on the couch. Number two: I need enough MealSquares to finish the job that will avenge your boss."

Willy's mouth goes from puckish to puckered. "I can handle answers, sir, but if the MealSquare supply is as short as you say, they're not likely to turn up on the black market: everyone will be hoarding them. I have a single pack left myself; perhaps you know a chemist who could study them, and cook up the formula?"

Scott's eyes glitter. "That's swell, Willy. Open your hand." When Willy complies, Scott grabs a fistful of coins, and slaps them into the other man's palm. "Those are for you." He grabs another fistful and shoves them into his coat pocket. "These are for me." Finally, he closes the case and hands it to Willy. "And this is for Mr. Yudkowsky, at General Intelligence. Tell him Dr. Alexander wants someone on the problem."

"You have my word, sir -- but it'll be ages until the scientists succeed!"

"It will. I'll just have to tough it out." Scott grimaces. "Now, you said you could get me answers--"

Willy's already standing over Navy Suit. Before Scott can blink, there's a squish. Navy Suit screams in agony.

"Canada! He's in Canada!"

Fwoooooooooon.

"Alllll aboard!"

From his compartment in the Southern Pacific passenger car, Scott Alexander hears the conductor make the last call for the 3:15 to Santa Cruz.

Chugga-chugga-chugga. The train begins to move. The private compartment is safe and sound. Dr. Alexander reclines in a stupendously soft leather chair.

I've got to to get one of these for the office.

There's a knock on the compartment door. "Beverage service!"

"No, thank you," Scott calls out.

"Are you sure?" says the voice on the other side of the door. "The map that led me to this mineral water matched the territory exactly!"

Scott perks up. "Come in."

The door slides open. A redheaded man, middle-aged but strong of build, enters the room with a bottle. He's wearing an attendant's uniform: a puffy white shirt with ruffles, black pants, and black shoes. The man nods in greeting, takes a big step into the room, shuts the door, and stands at attention.

"Dr. Alexander, pleased to meet you. Tremendous Value is an old friend, and he suggested I offer you my services. My name is Eric. I can wrestle and karate-chop with the best of them, and drop a man at 40 yards with one shot."

"I'm impressive," Scott says. "I mean, I'm impressed."

"Hold your horses, Doctor: that's only half the equation." Eric winks. "Let me show you my real power." Eric kneels on his left knee, sticks his right leg straight out, and crosses his arms over his neck. He splays his fingers, then makes them into claws.

"『SNAKEY NO STEPPY』"

Before, there was Eric. Now, there is Eric -- and, in loose coils around him, an enormous translucent rattlesnake. It's twelve feet long, and as wide as a horse.

"Whoa," Scott says.

"Snake," Scott adds.

The rattlesnake rattles.

"Not bad, huh?" Eric tosses his head, and the snake fades from view. "Kung fu isn't just about combat. Kung fu, at its core, is about channeling your spirit."

"Channeling your spirit ... into a ghost snake?" Scott says. So much for taking down Hiss the old-fashioned way. Who needs a gun with this guy around?

"Not everyone gets a snake, or even an animal," Eric says solemnly. "One of my fellow disciples at Mount Nozick can smell changes in the stock market." He stands up and clears his throat. "Now, I'm ready and willing to help you take the fight to -- whoever, really."

Oh, yeah.

"However, I only accept two kinds of payment: redheads, and gold."

Oh, no.

"I ... I'm afraid I'm all out of redheads," Scott says. "As for gold, well..." He reaches into his coat pocket, and shows Eric the fistful of coins.

Eric slaps his knee and comes closer to inspect the gold. "The good news, Dr. Alexander, is that we can come to an arrangement; the bad news is that this isn't enough for my personal services." He rubs his stubble, then grins. "I see you carry a revolver."

Dr. Alexander's revolver is tucked in his waistband, hidden by his shirt and coat as always. The fearless doctor-investigator raises an eyebrow.

"Tell you what, doc. Tremendous Value spoke highly of you, so the least I can do is bring you into the 20th century." As he walks up to Scott's comfy chair, Eric reaches behind his back and produces a Colt M1911.

"Take my gun. Hell, take the whole kit." After trading his pistol for the gold, Eric takes off his ruffled shirt to reveal a webbed vest festooned with accessories and ammunition. He removes the vest and gently places it on Scott's lap. "Can you figure everything out?"

Scott Alexander squirms. "Yes, I think so."

"Great!" Eric puts his shirt back on, then claps Dr. Alexander on the shoulder. "Best of luck. Enjoy your water."

Once Eric leaves, Scott locks the door. He hefts the gear vest. A tag sewn into the padded shoulder section pledges lifetime support for all customers of B&S Armaments. Scott pokes gingerly through the vest's contents, bewildered by the labels attached to each item. Glass Knuckles. Gas Knuckles. Soaky Surprise: "convert any sidearm into a water pistol." What on earth?

Scott stoops to set Eric's vest of goodies on the floor, but a sudden wooziness and bursting chest pain cause him to lose his balance and drop the vest. He lies on the floor, panting. Gee. I'm supposed to be unflappable, but I'll be in trouble if I don't get myself Squared away.

The pain slowly subsides. The Man of Slate clambers into his fancy chair, and leans it as far back as possible. He covers his face with his fedora, and goes to sleep.

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