Collector Jones
“I am quite serious, Master Crawson.” The thin man had a voice to match; a reedy kind that said its owner was a pushover or a pint-sized jackfool with more brains than balls. “You owe the government -” he checked the pad he was carrying again - “sixty-two million dollars. We're willing to let the hundreds and tens of thousands go, so long as you pay us promptly.”
Uter laughed, a hacking sound thanks to years of great booze and more cigars than any man should ever smoke. “You're crazy, I'll give you that,” he said with a smirk, “but crazy don't get paid.” He liked the rough quality of his voice, the power that two decades of self-abuse had brought. Gravelly tones and a steely rumble suited his line of work just perfectly.
“Master Crawson, the government is all kinds of crazy, I assure you – and we always get paid.”
Another laugh; Uter had to admit the guy was amusing. “Look, Mister -” he left it hanging; the guy had barged in an hour ago without so much as an introduction and started demanding payment. He'd flashed some kind of badge, but metalcrafts were a dime a dozen in the slums. It was likely some kind of scam, some kind Uter had never seen before – that was the only reason the thin man hadn't died on the spot.
“Jones,” the man replied. “Collector Jones. Now that the pleasantries are out of the way, how would you like to start your payment? A lump sum is typically best, and gets us off on the right foot. But if you can't afford it...” Jones looked around the torn-up shop with a pained expression and Uter bristled; it was only a temporary safe house. “We can always discuss a payment plan.”
“Here's the thing, Jonsey,” Uter said, rising from his chair. “People pay me to do work – I don't pay the government. Hell, as far as the government knows, I don't even exist.”
“Uterald Mennal Crawson,” Jones read from his pad. “Born 2025, Banfield, Iowa. Parents were Manfred and Brenna. Two brothers, one killed in a -”
“Shut up!” Uter roared. He'd faked his own death six years ago to avoid a number of messy problems, and assumed the government had been stupid enough to buy it along with everyone else. “Fine! You know who I am but it doesn't matter. I'm a paid assassin, and I don't pay taxes. Cash is my commander in chief and I don't answer to suits.”
“I would suggest you reconsider, Master Crawson. While the government is willing to be understanding in this matter, they never forget a debt that is owed. You answer to us because you live within our borders, and enjoy the freedom and protection we provide. Though you haven't voted in -” Jones glanced down, “twenty years, you are nonetheless a citizen of this country, entitled to all of the rights that go along with that citizenship and a party to all responsibilities. Do you understand?”
“No!”
“Master Crawson, allow me to explain again -”
“Yes!” Uter was furious now. “Yes I bloody understand you, I just don't agree. I don't take advantage of a single one of your benefits, and all the risk I assume is my own. Crack-job doctors sew me up if I get cut, and you can be damn sure I've never used your welfare or collected a dime of unemployment insurance. I might be a citizen on paper, but that doesn’t mean I owe you any green.”
Jones took a step forward, tucking his black pad into a suit pocket. “I do not wish this to come to a confrontation, Master Crawford, but if you are not willing to cooperate I will have to take more assertive measures.”
Uter smiled. He'd been spoiling for a fight since the bungle on his last job – he hated double-bookings, especially when the other guy got there first. Killing the competition had been easy, but it was after the fact and that meant he didn't get paid. Riddling the target's body with his signature ammunition had been fun, but hadn't served a purpose – his boss knew well enough which hunter's bullet hit home first. That and a whispered rumor that the son of a recent target was out for revenge had him lying low, and Collector Jones was the perfect outlet for some barely repressed hostility.
“Bring it,” he growled, putting his hands up. Killing a government agent wasn't a good idea, but seriously hurting one and leaving him to be found worked just fine. A step forward put him at arm's length and he swung, but Jones was gone before the fist came down and Uter stumbled forward.
“We're not quite so fragile, Master Crawford,” the squeaky voice came from behind him and he spun. Jones stood calmly, hands in his pockets and not a hair out of place. “The government has supplied me with a number of...enhanced capabilities.”
With a roar Uter swung again but Jones brought up a hand, one that stopped the incoming fist as though it had struck a stone wall. Uter stepped back, shook his aching fist and then charged Jones full-bore, hoping to knock the fool flat on his ass. Impact came hard but the suited man didn't fall, and Uter found himself sailing through the air to crash into a nearby desk. Rising from the rubble, he charged again.
The next fifteen minutes were the most embarrassing of his life; every move his bigger and stronger body made was easily countered by the Collector. Soon he was sweating, bleeding, and having a hard time standing up.
“Jones,” he wheezed, “will you take a check?”
The Collector smiled. “Certainly. Let's see some ID.”
Uter grumbled as he pulled out his wallet with slick hands, stomach sinking.
“You'll be able to get most of this money back,” Jones said, “as soon as you start filing taxes. Also, I'll need a basic schedule for your work – hours, wages, the usual.”
There was no sense in a reply; Uter had clearly missed an opportunity. The real money was in collections.
- D
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