Tinker was up at sparrows fart; the persistent dawn chorus of “we want worms” could normally be ignored, but this weekend was the Hawg Wallow. That wasn’t really the name, but the first year was a washout that left Harleys mired to their hubs, and it stuck.
He wasn’t a pretty sight in the wee hours, as all-too-rare sleepover girlfriends and the bathroom mirror were quick to inform. Long tousled black hair with silver in the curls, heavy beard, and heavier eyes greeted him—at least he couldn’t smell his own breath. Still, Tinker reassured himself, Harley riders are all middle-aged and at least he kept himself in shape. Some hogsters can’t see their speedo for beer gut.
A big bowl of Scottish oats and several cups of tea later, Tinker was feeling road-ready. On with the leathers and out with the bike; he’d packed camping gear the night before. Pocahontas, his Indian Scout street-racer, was already full of gas and all systems go except the electrics. Lucas alternator with a battery eliminator and Edison/Splitdorf magneto meant kicking for your sparks.
As Poke warmed up, Tinker reminded himself to take it easy on the ale. Last year he’d woken up behind the beer tent with a major brain pain. Opinioning, within the hearing of too many large clubbers that only bum boys rode Softtails, and electric-starts were for cripples or drunks, had caused to be laid several large eggs on his noodle. Harley riders were always shit-kicking Indians one way or the other—Tinker put it down to penis envy.
Nothing like a strong running squaw beneath you, the open road ahead, and the prospect of old friends at journey’s end—perfect riding weather didn’t hurt either. Tinker was without a care in the world. Noticing the oversight, Fortune’s wheel took a turn for the worse.
A sharp crack, a howling engine, and Poke had abruptly lost drive train at half throttle. Tinker’s boot was mashing the clutch before he even told it to, while his hand spun the piano wire throttle shut.
Great, middle of nowhere, empty country road, almost noon. The engine calmed down into a resentful idle, but clearly it was no longer on speaking terms with the transmission. As he rolled to a stop, Tinker checked he hadn’t thrown his rear chain—nothing so simple.
After a brief flurry of tools and intemperate language, the problem was horribly clear–less so was any logical reason. Be that as it may, the fact was Poke had snapped her drive pin off flush with the sprocket. After all the stick he’d given her over their years together, the baseball bat was now firmly up his arse.
If he’d been a H.O.G. member on his “Softie-tail”, Tinker would have flipped open his cell and been beamed out of there as fast as you can swipe a credit card. As it was, he had neither and could basically pull his dick—or as Billy Connolly might say “Pull ane o’ thon magic tricks, ya mug ya”.
The former being of only temporary relief and its likelihood of attracting assistance slim, Tinker was left with the latter—and that required serious thought.
The worst time to deal, especially with the devil, is when you have to. The worst way to use magic is for personal gain. Either way it’s gonna cost yah, sucker. On theother hand, conventional repair meant splitting the cases, splitting the flywheels, and dial-gauge aligning ‘em back true after fitting a brand new drive pin—manufactured entirely from unobtanium.
Such cheerful thoughts passed through Tinker’s head, interspersed with violent fantasies and colourful language. An indenture ship to Magic John had developed Tinker’s latent talent and he’d become something of a minor gutter-mage. Magic, however, doesn’t come free. .
For want of drink, Tinker soberly reviewed his options. A recent favour to a certain entity had lumbered him with a pet black hole in his jacket pocket. He could access anything in space or time—if concentrating on the object of desire and willing to pay with frostbite and bleeding fingernails. He could grab a new drive pin right off a time-erased factory shelf, but could hardly heave a truing stand out of his pocket. Then there was the torque wrench, dial gauges, and sundry required tools—he wouldn’t have a finger left.
Tinker had got lumbered with his “familiar” black hole from Anarch, the irascible manifestation of total freewill. The last thing he needed now was that maniac blasting up on his skeletal, blown Brough to gloat. Black holes were both Anarch’s eyes and sigil, and in them the terrifying, irresistible attraction of utter, unfettered freedom. No laws may hold within their orbit, everything becomes possible. Unfortunately, Tinker using the hole would be like a poke in the eye and likely to invite attention. Anarch’s behaviour might be utterly unpredictable, but he was invariably trouble.
On the other hand, Tinker was unwilling to add to his growing debts in Underhill. The Fey are so unpredictable with lines of credit and the prospect of foreclosure on his bar tab alone was enough to induce minor panic. Anyhow, fairies were bloody useless with anything made of iron and couldn’t follow a shop manual if you held them over hellfire.
This brought Tinker, reluctantly, to the final option. When you want a top-notch welder out of thin air you got two choices: Haephestus or Hell—and Olympian gods still won’t take on piecework from mortals, the snooty gits.
So that left him looking over the edge of the Pit, in astral form, of course. To a casual observer, Tinker sat asleep leant against his bike, unless they noticed his eyes rolled back and the drool in his beard.
The flames were intense this far down, even in spirit form Tinker was sweating—and not just from the heat. Magic is mainly sheer nerve.
“Hoi!” he yelled at a passing imp, “who’s the best penetration welder down there?”
The imp obviously thought he was being made game of, and performed an extraordinarily rude contortion.
“Never mind the brass monkey jokes,” cautioned Tinker. “Or would you prefer to deal with Magic John?”
Now that brought a swift attitude change. As fallen cherubim, imps were the gofers in Hell’s hierarchy but even they knew John had pulled off major strokes on the upper echelons.
“That’s more like it,” said Tinker, mollified. “I want your hottest precision incandescent, mind you, not some bloody firedrake.”
The imp suddenly vanished in a blast of flame and sulphurous smoke. But in its place now stood…
“Shitfire,” muttered Tinker to himself. “A third circle fire demon.”
“Magic John,” said an urbane voice. “Now there’s a name to conjure with, or should I say con?”
Tinker was regretting his big, show-off mouth.
“Ah, you must be his unfortunate apprentice.” The demon laughed like a Bessemer converter, spraying showers of sparks. “The naïve tinkerer, and what can I do for you, hmm?”
“Well, it’s like this,” Tinker began. “The drive shaft snapped on my bike a bit inconvenient like. Just needs a wee spot of welding, hardly worth wasting your time with.”
The demon smiled hungrily, showing teeth blue as gas jets. “Oh, we can always accommodate another friend of John’s”
Tinker didn’t want lodgings in Hell, not now or ever, thank you. But he had made the invite, and now he’d better think fast.
Upstairs and re-embodied, Tinker showed the demon his problem.
“Simplicity itself,” the demon observed. “I’m surprised you didn’t use a spell of binding.”
Bugger, thought Tinker, a binding might have got me home at that.
“Now don’t look,” instructed the demon, more to protect trade secrets than Tinker’s eyes. There was a violet flash and a stink of vaporized carbon-steel, then the demon stood back with its hand out and that nasty smile again.
Tinker had a flash of inspiration. “Oh, there’s some Eucharist wafer in my pocket, Vatican quality.” He motioned to his jacket hanging on the bars as he bent to inspect the near-invisible weld job. “Grab a handful.”
The body of Christ is like blowfish for Hell’s gourmands—too much can kill a demon, but just a taste is exquisite pain. The demon greedily stuffed his hand in, and then gasped with shock. Extreme cold and hard vacuum agrees with fire demons even less than mortals. Besides, it wasn’t his black hole—the hand was trapped and, for all he strained, slowly being sucked in deeper.
“Nice bit of welding,” Tinker observed conversationally. “I’d like to shake your hand, but it seems stuck. Besides,” he added slyly, “I don’t even know your name.”
The demon’s cutting-torch eyes glared, but it was caught like a monkey with its fist in a jar. “Clarence,” it whispered, colouring-up even redder.
“Oh well, it’s your life,” said Tinker huffily, and turned to go.
“No, no, it really is Clarence,” the demon hissed, looking around anxiously lest a bird or beetle was eavesdropping.
Tinker tried, with a conspicuous lack of success, not to laugh. Even a demon couldn’t tell a whopper like that. “Pluto,” he ordered loudly, “let the nice Mr. Clarence go.”
Clarence made frantic shushing gestures, with both hands—only one was rather blue and appeared to have lots of little wafers frozen all over it.
“Bit more than a handful,” Tinker quibbled, as Clarence checked his numb fingers. “But who’s counting, eh?”
Clarence looked daggers at him, but with a new respect born of fear. He was only too glad to be dismissed to the infernal regions to thaw out digits and taste his hard-earned dues.
Poke started first kick and ran smooth as a baby’s bum. Tinker held down the front brake, wicked it, and took his foot off the clutch abruptly. The weld held, and a nice hot rubber doughnut marked his spot as he released the brake and shot away.
Still time to make the Hawg Wallow and a tale to tell—not that anyone would ever believe him. You just can’t trust a gypsy… ask any demon.
