Wedding Grift
Chapter X
καὶ λέγει αὐτῷ, πᾶς ἄνθρωπος πρῶτον τὸν καλὸν οἶνον τίθησιν, καὶ ὅταν μεθυσθῶσιν τότε τὸν ἐλάσσω· σὺ τετήρηκας τὸν καλὸν οἶνον ἕως ἄρτι.
Brother Dactyl flipped to the next page of the 1925 Book of Common Prayer, his inexperience tempered by a certain confidence and euphoria courtesy of a bottle of Monadix™ he had found resting on a bookshelf two hours prior to the ceremony. He rued the inattention and scatterbrainedness imbued in him by formative years spent on his father’s iPad, on which any number of wonders of the modern age–from bicurious milves to European video game streamers appraising him of racial slurs hitherto unknown–might be viewed. While the BCP was widely held within the congregation to be yet another example of Romanism, they had settled on its use for the marriage ceremony for want of a more orthodox liturgy with sufficient gravitas.
He felt strange new urges at the back of his mind. Oh, to be married…to Zephyr…to enjoy the marital fruits underneath her sundress…or perhaps even to experience the wholesome nubility of a sundress himself…just once. Oh, to experience submitting in a sundress…no. No. His member beturged itself slightly against the bottle of Monadix™ in the pocket of his black bathrobe. He had, to be safe, Googled the formulation and dosing before snaffling the bottle: extended-release dextroamphetamine and estradiol, now in a convenient one-a-day tablet, by prescription. It certainly made it much easier to focus on the liturgy. He made a mental note, now much less forgettable, to consult with his psychiatrist at their next checkup about adding an estradiol prescription to his ADHD regimen. At the very least it seemed like a new formulation, probably less likely to be out of stock at the pharmacy.
“What God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”
He looked up at the directions above the liturgy. Oh. He was supposed to join their right hands together first. Which one was…Right, left–he put the BCP down and turned ninety degrees to the right, then took Zephyr’s hand and joined it to–no, that was Blayden’s left–oh, to be a better shape rotator! Perhaps Monadix™ would help him with this.
“Forasmuch as…” He heard a door open and paused. The congregation’s eyes were now fixed upon a rather portly man in a fine cream suit sneaking briskly towards the side of the altar.
“I’m–I’m sorry, sir,” he said with as much solemnity as he could muster. “The time to raise objections to this vow of matrimony has passed. The–” what was the word?—”these nuptials are sealed forever as man and wife.”
“I object,” said the man, “to violations of the eighth commandment.”
“I–”
The man snatched a wooden case from the side of the wall behind the altar and turned around in the direction of the door through which he had entered.
“The communion wine!—”
“And the tenth. Get your own.”
“I–MOLOSSUS!”
Brother Molossus, standing at the back of the sanctuary, lunged for the door and grabbed the man in a somewhat amateur tackle. The man tripped but regained his footing, and looked at Molossus with an unexpected stoicism.
“Let go of me, please.”
“Hand over the wine,” snarled Molossus.
“It is my wine. Six thousand euros of it–at least, if you haven’t broken into it yet.”
He raised his free hand as Molossus made a final, hopeless attempt to reach for the case, then brought it down smartly and swiftly onto the back of his adversary’s neck. A surprisingly high-pitched squeal erupted as Molossus released his grip and fell to the floor amid noises of discomfort from the madding crowd.
“I have broken out of a pig-butchering slave compound in Burma and into the headquarters of a Swiss tungsten tycoon. I have been trained in the fine art of sodomizing you with your own femur. I have diplomatic immunity and Interpol on speed dial. You do not mess with me.”
Molossus grunted in spondees of agony amid chitters and boos from the congregants.
“My best to the newlyweds,” said the man, and strolled out the door into the vast labyrinth of the old Victorian.
“Török Zoltán speaking. The consulate is about to close, you know.”
“It’s Sadden. Calling in a favor.”
“Ah, yes, hello.”
“Do you recall that American college student I invited to the pronatalism conference in Szeged over Christmas?”
“Steve? Yeah.”
“He’s at a…he’s at a church conference and their wine got stolen.”
“A church conference…”
“In San Francisco.”
“Why would you—”
“Beats me. Do you have any Tokaji on hand?”
Török racked his mind. There’s some in the supply closet on the second floor…
“I mean, we have some, but…”
“We’ll replace it. Can you get it over a few blocks within an hour or so? Diplomatic pouch. I’ll make sure you get paid the overtime rate.”
“Thank you so terribly much.”
“Next time,” said Török, resting his briefcase on top of a wooden barrel, “please do a better job of hiding your—”
He lost his train of thought. On the other side of the basement, across a small sea of barrels and standing next to an important-looking, well-dressed man holding a suspicious-looking device, was—what was he doing here?
“We’ll be much more careful next time,” said Brother István. “But we’re really grateful for your help. They’re—you’ll be very glad to know that they’re even planning to raise fertility rates this evening.”
“Where are they honeymooning? We can probably put them up in the Corinthia at a discount.”
“Japan,” he replied. “The bride is a cosplayer.”
“Ah?” said Török, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes, well. She’s very tasteful and not at all inappropriate about it.”
“Well, my congratulations to the bride and groom,” said Török. “Unfortunately, I’ve got to get back to the consulate as quickly as possible. But,” he added, with subtle insincerity, “don’t be afraid to reach out if there’s anything else we can do.”
Brother István picked up the cases of Tokaji, bade his leave and scurried out a side door up a stairwell. Török deliberated. That—what was he doing here? Approach? No, who knows who that other chap was…best to report it to the consul and…what was that—device?
He returned to the loading dock to find the consulate’s Mercedes hemmed in by an eighteen-wheeler from Aquaculture Supply World, flanked by a delivery man of little apparent competence holding a clipboard.
“Good evening, sir,” said Török icily.
“G’d evenin’,” said the delivery man. “Yew Mr. Noomin?”
“I beg your pardon—”
“Ah said. Is yew Mr. Noomin? I got a special delivery rush-order for him.”
“I am the vice under-secretary to the deputy attaché of the Hungarian Consulate in San Francisco.”
“Ah ‘ssume that’s a no.”
“Your truck is blocking an diplomatic vehicle,” said Török. “If it is delayed or harmed I will have to file a complaint with the U.S. Department of State.”
“What’s yer name, sunny?”
“I am the vice under-secretary—”
“Heard that. Ah axed ya what yer name is. Yew Mr. Noomin?”
“My name is Zoltán Török.”
“Yew know where this Noomin guy is?”
“I do not, sir, and I remind you that you are—”
“Yeah, you’re in a rush. I ain’t. I gets paid long as I gots to wait for him. You wanna get out?”
“I insist on—”
“Son,” said the delivery man, clapping Török on the back, “you ain’t in a position to insist on nothin’. Ain’t nothin’ capable of pullin’ this truck outta the loading dock within a couple hundred miles. Now I gets paid overtime long as I’m stuck here, but I’d—”
“Move the vehicle.”
“That ain’t your car, is it? You’s drivin’ the company car. They’ll replace it. If they have to. Hope they don’t,” he sniffed. “Might wanna help me find this cat.”
Török stared at him, then recalled he, too, was making overtime—and he might get a closer look at that device…
“Fine,” he said. “But as soon as I find this…this Mr…”
“I gotta get home too, sunny,” the driver replied. “Besta luck. Think you might need it.”
Half an hour later Török returned with a woman wearing artificial fangs and a t-shirt reading ✓Ingroup.
“Good evening,” she said. “I’m Nebula, the main organizer of World of Vibes.”
“Nebula,” said the delivery driver. “Ain’t that a nice name. I got a delivery for—”
“And this needs to be quick. I’m hosting a circling session in forty-five minutes.”
The delivery driver rolled his eyes and pulled the top piece of paper off the clipboard. “Says right here it’s going to World of Vibes for uh…Pron von Noomonn? New-man? at uh—how d’you pronounce this one…”
Delivery to: PRAWN VON NEUMANN III MAXIMUM VIABLE PRODUCT at CRUSTARDACEAN 3462 LINCOLN WAY SAN FRANCISCO, CA 94122
Nebula blinked.
“Sir, I think this must be a practical joke or a software error. This is a private institution, not a business.”
“Between you and me, ma’am,” said the delivery driver with a pronounced unctuousness, “there ain’t too many folks orderin’ a quarter million bucks of fish farm feed to the wrong address.”
“Well, uh...well, we can speak to your manager but I can assure you that this is the last place on Earth you’d possibly be delivering that.”
“Oh yes ma’am, I am certainly happy to continue drawing my hourly overtime rate for rush deliveries, not a problem, let me uh...oh, oh wait, there was a note with this. Do uh...does the guy who owns this place have a private plane? Some guy named Harding?”
“Uh…well…well there are some trustees who own private planes, but…”
“What I mean is,” the driver continued, “does this place got a runway. Some a them tech guys got mansions with runways for their private jets. We uh...I think we have delivered by cargo plane before, but we’d need to know WELL in advance, can’t rush it, and it’d be probably at least another hundred grand.”
“Why would it—”
“The uh...Mr. Nooman added a note for delivery...”
Please have Elmer Harding sign the invoice and arrange for delivery to my brethren. The company’s remaining runway is just long enough for the cost, sales tax and delivery fee. He and his cofounders may rest assured that their coöperation will be rewarded in the order to come.