![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
"Wasting Away On WinsomeBerries
May. 21st, 2022 06:21 pm"Wasting Away On WinsomeBerries"
9/30/2012
I.
He was running a few minutes late that morning after being delayed by some phone calls. At twelve minutes past nine, Jeremy Bane crossed Third Avenue at 44th Street and rushed through the double glass doors which opened automatically as he neared them. Before he could pause to get his mail from the bank of tenant boxes on the wall to his left, the Dire Wolf spotted a glimpse of movement ahead that instantly put him on the alert.
Directly ahead of him was the wide staircase leading up to the second floor. The side of that staircase to his left made a narrow hallway with the north wall, and at the end of this short corridor was a metal exit sign. Just to the left of that sign was a bench and wooden door with a bronze plaque that read DIRE WOLF AGENCY. Stretching long legs out before him on that bench, arms folded, was a tall thin man in a brown business suit.
The Dire Wolf had never seen his visitor before. In an instant, decades of Kumundu training took over and he evaluated the man's possible threat status to find it low. The man was tall enough, two inches over six feet, but thin at no more than one hundred and fifty-five pounds. Judging by posture, readiness to respond to an attack, the lack of any weapon as shown by the way the suit slackly hung, the lack of tension in shoulders and neck, a dozen other factors... in a few seconds, everything the Dire Wolf had learned at Tel Shai reassured him that this visitor was not any immediate danger.
Bane himself was six feet tall and only one hundred and seventy pounds, but he was a stripped-down mass of hard muscle and bone with zero body fat. Wearing his usual all-black outfit of slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket, he moved with an intimidating quickness and precision like a predatory beast. Many had found his war name was appropriate. Beneath feral black brows, a pair of clear grey eyes moved over the unaware visitor one final time before he moved closer to make himself known.
"Something I can help you with you, buddy?" he asked, getting within arm's reach of the distracted man. To his surprise, his visitor gave a violent start and fell off the bench completely to end up sitting on the tile floor.
"Didn't mean to make you jump like that," Bane said as he helped the man up. "You okay?"
"Sure, sure," the visitor hurried to reassure Bane as he got up nimbly enough. He was in his early thirties with an open, likeable face that was extremely worried at the moment. Under short sandy hair, he had blue eyes and good features. Under most circumstances, he would have been quite presentable. "I hope.. you're Mr Bane?"
"I am. Jeremy Bane, Private Investigator," the Dire Wolf said. He unlocked the outer door and escorted his guest through the tiny waiting room into the office itself. "Have a seat and relax for a minute."
As the man lowered himself to a straightback wooden chair, Bane crossed around behind his desk into his own seat. "Might as well get to the facts. You would be...?"
"Me? Oh, Pete. Pete Robie. I wasn't sure if I should come to you but to be honest no one else has been of any help at all. I'm about ready to give up."
Bane leaned forward, clasping his hands in front of him. "Start with the problem, that seems to work best."
"Yes, yes of course." Robie gave a nervous little chuckle and took an eight ounce glass bottle from his jacket pocket. It had a textured surface and red swirly letters with blue outlines that read WINSOMEBERRY JUICE GUARANTEED PURE AND WHOLESOME. He unscrewed the metal cap, took a sniff and handed it over to Bane.
If Robie had not exposed himself to whatever was in that bottle, the Dire Wolf would have been more cautious. As it was, he held the open bottle near his nostrils and waved a finger to waft just a hint to him. "Hm. Much like pomegranate but more sour. What does it signify?"
"Mr Bane, I don't think I'm crazy. No more than anyone else in today's world anyway," Pete Robie said. "But this WinsomeBerry drink has been catching on fast in the Tri-State area. It's being marketed as a wholesome beverage and now they're selling cookies and cakes flavored with it. I've found out nationwide distribution is being planned and soon!" He slammed a hand down on the arm of his chair. "I only hope there's time to stop it."
Bane tightened the cap on the glass bottle and put it to one side, deliberately not returning it. "I don't seem to be following you, Mr Robie. Is there something dangerous about this juice?"
"Not according to the FDA, which passed it with full approval. Not according to Municipal Analysis where I work for the city. But something awful is going on anyway. Listen. WinsomeBerry is supposedly made from berries transplanted here from Samoa, grown in volcanic soil and distilled with artesian spring water. Pure as an angel's song, the slogan goes."
"You should realize I handle crimes involving violence," the Dire Wolf interrupted. "My game is serial killers, secret cults, creatures of the night. Consumer safety is not my area."
"I've been researching the substance at the lab after hours. I can't find any foreign contaminants, anything suspicious. And yet, while some people just don't care for WinsomeBerry Juice, about one third who try it really form a habit of drinking it every day. They feel great, cleansed and clear-headed, or so they say. But their appetite decreases." Peter Robie gave his uneasy laugh again. "You think that'd be a good thing, right? Lots of people want to lose weight, right?"
The Dire Wolf let some edge into his voice. "Come out with it."
"All right. I just bought this suit yesterday so I'd have something that fit. Seven months ago, I weighed two hundred and sixty-eight pounds. I've had all kinds of bloodwork and MRIs and everything, they can't find anything wrong. In fact, my doctor thinks it's great. And then there's my wife Moira."
"She's been losing weight the same way?"
"You have to see her now," Robie said. He handed over his wallet to display a good-looking Italian woman about thirty, with thick black hair down past her shoulders, classic Roman features and an impressive bust ledge under a red sweater. "Mr Bane, I'm a native New Yorker. I've heard wild stories about you all my life. The Dire Wolf. Anything weird or unexplainable, it's said the authorities call you in to straighten things out. That leads to what made me decided to come see you."
"Enough with the build-up," Bane said impatiently, "Let's just get to it. What did you see?"
"This weird stranger, following me the past week. Watching me from across the street. Driving away after I arrive at work. It's a woman with a face like a living skull."
That made the Dire Wolf sit up straight, grey eyes suddenly bright. "A Nekrosan!"
( the rest of the story )
9/30/2012
I.
He was running a few minutes late that morning after being delayed by some phone calls. At twelve minutes past nine, Jeremy Bane crossed Third Avenue at 44th Street and rushed through the double glass doors which opened automatically as he neared them. Before he could pause to get his mail from the bank of tenant boxes on the wall to his left, the Dire Wolf spotted a glimpse of movement ahead that instantly put him on the alert.
Directly ahead of him was the wide staircase leading up to the second floor. The side of that staircase to his left made a narrow hallway with the north wall, and at the end of this short corridor was a metal exit sign. Just to the left of that sign was a bench and wooden door with a bronze plaque that read DIRE WOLF AGENCY. Stretching long legs out before him on that bench, arms folded, was a tall thin man in a brown business suit.
The Dire Wolf had never seen his visitor before. In an instant, decades of Kumundu training took over and he evaluated the man's possible threat status to find it low. The man was tall enough, two inches over six feet, but thin at no more than one hundred and fifty-five pounds. Judging by posture, readiness to respond to an attack, the lack of any weapon as shown by the way the suit slackly hung, the lack of tension in shoulders and neck, a dozen other factors... in a few seconds, everything the Dire Wolf had learned at Tel Shai reassured him that this visitor was not any immediate danger.
Bane himself was six feet tall and only one hundred and seventy pounds, but he was a stripped-down mass of hard muscle and bone with zero body fat. Wearing his usual all-black outfit of slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket, he moved with an intimidating quickness and precision like a predatory beast. Many had found his war name was appropriate. Beneath feral black brows, a pair of clear grey eyes moved over the unaware visitor one final time before he moved closer to make himself known.
"Something I can help you with you, buddy?" he asked, getting within arm's reach of the distracted man. To his surprise, his visitor gave a violent start and fell off the bench completely to end up sitting on the tile floor.
"Didn't mean to make you jump like that," Bane said as he helped the man up. "You okay?"
"Sure, sure," the visitor hurried to reassure Bane as he got up nimbly enough. He was in his early thirties with an open, likeable face that was extremely worried at the moment. Under short sandy hair, he had blue eyes and good features. Under most circumstances, he would have been quite presentable. "I hope.. you're Mr Bane?"
"I am. Jeremy Bane, Private Investigator," the Dire Wolf said. He unlocked the outer door and escorted his guest through the tiny waiting room into the office itself. "Have a seat and relax for a minute."
As the man lowered himself to a straightback wooden chair, Bane crossed around behind his desk into his own seat. "Might as well get to the facts. You would be...?"
"Me? Oh, Pete. Pete Robie. I wasn't sure if I should come to you but to be honest no one else has been of any help at all. I'm about ready to give up."
Bane leaned forward, clasping his hands in front of him. "Start with the problem, that seems to work best."
"Yes, yes of course." Robie gave a nervous little chuckle and took an eight ounce glass bottle from his jacket pocket. It had a textured surface and red swirly letters with blue outlines that read WINSOMEBERRY JUICE GUARANTEED PURE AND WHOLESOME. He unscrewed the metal cap, took a sniff and handed it over to Bane.
If Robie had not exposed himself to whatever was in that bottle, the Dire Wolf would have been more cautious. As it was, he held the open bottle near his nostrils and waved a finger to waft just a hint to him. "Hm. Much like pomegranate but more sour. What does it signify?"
"Mr Bane, I don't think I'm crazy. No more than anyone else in today's world anyway," Pete Robie said. "But this WinsomeBerry drink has been catching on fast in the Tri-State area. It's being marketed as a wholesome beverage and now they're selling cookies and cakes flavored with it. I've found out nationwide distribution is being planned and soon!" He slammed a hand down on the arm of his chair. "I only hope there's time to stop it."
Bane tightened the cap on the glass bottle and put it to one side, deliberately not returning it. "I don't seem to be following you, Mr Robie. Is there something dangerous about this juice?"
"Not according to the FDA, which passed it with full approval. Not according to Municipal Analysis where I work for the city. But something awful is going on anyway. Listen. WinsomeBerry is supposedly made from berries transplanted here from Samoa, grown in volcanic soil and distilled with artesian spring water. Pure as an angel's song, the slogan goes."
"You should realize I handle crimes involving violence," the Dire Wolf interrupted. "My game is serial killers, secret cults, creatures of the night. Consumer safety is not my area."
"I've been researching the substance at the lab after hours. I can't find any foreign contaminants, anything suspicious. And yet, while some people just don't care for WinsomeBerry Juice, about one third who try it really form a habit of drinking it every day. They feel great, cleansed and clear-headed, or so they say. But their appetite decreases." Peter Robie gave his uneasy laugh again. "You think that'd be a good thing, right? Lots of people want to lose weight, right?"
The Dire Wolf let some edge into his voice. "Come out with it."
"All right. I just bought this suit yesterday so I'd have something that fit. Seven months ago, I weighed two hundred and sixty-eight pounds. I've had all kinds of bloodwork and MRIs and everything, they can't find anything wrong. In fact, my doctor thinks it's great. And then there's my wife Moira."
"She's been losing weight the same way?"
"You have to see her now," Robie said. He handed over his wallet to display a good-looking Italian woman about thirty, with thick black hair down past her shoulders, classic Roman features and an impressive bust ledge under a red sweater. "Mr Bane, I'm a native New Yorker. I've heard wild stories about you all my life. The Dire Wolf. Anything weird or unexplainable, it's said the authorities call you in to straighten things out. That leads to what made me decided to come see you."
"Enough with the build-up," Bane said impatiently, "Let's just get to it. What did you see?"
"This weird stranger, following me the past week. Watching me from across the street. Driving away after I arrive at work. It's a woman with a face like a living skull."
That made the Dire Wolf sit up straight, grey eyes suddenly bright. "A Nekrosan!"
( the rest of the story )
