Chapter 314 Salesman.

Chapter 314: 314 Salesman.

"I was originally just a propane salesman," he continued.

I sighed softly into my beer, settling in for the inevitable spiel. You couldn’t sit in McLaren’s for more than twenty minutes without some streeter giving you their tragic origin story completely unprompted.

"But during a tragic workplace accident, I was severely burned when a faulty tank exploded. The resulting medical debt got me fired, my wife left me and took our kids, and my house was ultimately foreclosed on by the bank. Thus, I resolved to burn down this sick, twisted society with clean-burning fuel as... Pro Pain!"

"That’s great," I said, not looking up from my coaster. "So, can I actually help you with something, or..."

"Actually, that’s exactly it," he said. He eagerly scooted into the wooden booth right beside Steve.

Steve shot the newcomer a distinctly unfriendly glare, which was completely and utterly ignored. "See, I think you can! Me and my friends over at the bar saw you walk in, and we really love your whole vibe. We were wondering if you might be interested in a little... you know..."

The welding helmet leaned in closer, the glass visor practically bumping Steve’s shoulder. "Fun."

I exchanged a flat look with Steve, then glanced back at the villain.

"Fun?" I said slowly.

His helmet bobbed in an eager nod. "Oh, yeah! See, we’ve been planning a really big job. We’re going to take the mayor hostage at City Hall and officially demand the release of our fellow prisoners of the revolution.

"We were hoping you might be willing to lend some muscle! We all saw the video of what happened at the bank yesterday, and we just know that you’re a likeminded individual ready to take on this sick world of ours."

I let out a long breath. Half of my sigh was relief that I wasn’t being actively invited to a frankly weird-looking foursome—though,

given my career, it wouldn’t have been the weirdest proposition I’d ever received. But mostly, I just felt a bone-deep exasperation.

"Listen to me, Pro Pain," I said, keeping my voice level. "I’m not really into the whole domestic terrorism thing. It’s just not my deal. I’m a villain for hire."

"But your villainess killed that hero," he noted, pointing a thick, fire-retardant glove at me. "And you took down the—"

"Yes, yes, I took down the Five," I interrupted, waving a hand to cut him off. "But notice how I didn’t go to federal prison for it. I’m running a legitimate business here. I’m not in the market to knock down buildings, murder politicians, or change the landscape of the world."

"But... you..."

"I’m sorry," I said firmly. "Look, you and your friends seem like lovely people, and I’m absolutely sure you’ll find plenty of open-minded psychotics in this city who would love nothing more than to set the world on fire and dance in the ashes. But I’m just not into these sorts of fearsome foreplays. Really."

"C’mon, man," Pro Pain pleaded, his voice echoing with a distinct, metallic whine inside the helmet. "We’ve got all the ropes and zip-ties we’ll need! And Skidmark over there has been really, really looking forward to breaking through the backdoor and railing those uptight stooges."

I stared at him, letting the terrible phrasing hang in the air for a second. "Again, I’m going to have to say no."

But even as I denied him, I felt something... off.

The hair on the back of my neck stood up, a sudden tingle of unease working its way down my spine as I felt a distinct shift in the room’s atmosphere.

I leaned back against the vinyl seat, my eyes leaving the propane salesman to scan the dimly lit bar. Pro Pain was still talking, but I completely stopped listening.

The ambient noise in McLaren’s had suddenly dropped. There was a strong, collective physical movement away from the front door.

It was a slow, nervous sidle—the exact kind of quiet, shuffling retreat that only career criminals instinctively knew how to do when a predator walked into the room.

Was it a hero? It might be. Every now and then, one of the A-listers showed up in McLaren’s just to pump a bartender for info about an upcoming syndicate job.

Only the biggest names could get away with walking in here in costume; the smaller ones usually ended up getting jumped in the parking lot.

But when I finally saw exactly who had caused the stir and was currently making a beeline straight for my table, I realized I was only half right. It was definitely a big name.

But it wasn’t a hero.

Samuel laid a pale hand on Pro Pain’s shoulder, and the minor villain instantly went dead quiet. Pro Pain turned his helmet slowly, looking up at the man in the suit.

Samuel stood there like a walking 1930s film negative, his edges shimmering subtly in the neon lighting of the bar. His grayscale eyes looked down at the propane salesman, and Samuel offered a polite, utterly terrifying smile.

"Excuse us for a moment," he said smoothly.

Pro Pain swallowed so hard I could hear it over the jukebox. "Y-yeah. Sure, man. Of course. Happy to," he stammered, violently scrambling out of the booth.

Steve watched the exchange with a raised brow, his posture stiffening as he leaned toward me. "Trouble, man?" he asked in a low undertone.

"Almost definitely," I whispered back.

"Mhmmm," Steve hummed. Instead of bailing, he just casually scooted around the curved booth so he was sitting directly beside me, presenting a united front.

Samuel smiled genially as Pro Pain practically sprinted back to his table. The salesman and his buddies didn’t even bother finishing their drinks; they joined him in rushing straight out the front door the second he arrived.

Once they were gone, Samuel swung his attention back to me. The air around him popped and crackled faintly, sounding exactly like the audio track of an old, degraded television set.

"Polaris," he said. His voice carried all the bright, manufactured cheer of a vintage newsreel cheerfully describing marines storming a heavily fortified beach. "Wonderful to see you again."

"I bet," I said, taking another sip of my beer. I was hardly in the mood for parlor tricks. "What do you want?"

"Now, now," he chuckled, delicately smoothing his grayscale silk tie as he took the empty seat opposite me. "There is absolutely no need for this kind of antagonism."

I could only scoff at that. The Rod Serling-looking bastard had a lot of nerve.

"Sure there isn’t," I said. I set the brown bottle back down on the coaster and eyed him coldly. Beneath my leather jacket, I subtly deployed my armor. The overlapping iron plates slid seamlessly into place over my chest and forearms with a faint, comforting weight.

"Get on with it," I told him. "Are you here to threaten me again?"

"Maybe I’m just here for a quiet drink."

"Bullshit. The heir to The Jester’s empire wouldn’t lower himself to drinking in a dive bar like this."

Samuel chuckled again, radiating a grating cheeriness usually reserved for door-to-door encyclopedia salesmen. "Astute. Very astute. That’s no doubt exactly what my father likes so much about you."

"I thought he just liked the prospect of having a new employee to kick around," I said.

"You are terribly cruel about him," Samuel said. He kept smiling, his physical body humming and subtly flickering like a malfunctioning projector reel. "But you have nothing to worry about today. I’m not here to do anything to you."

"Then why are you sitting at my table?"

"To discuss matters of mutual interest."

"I’m pretty sure your dad made his extortion attempt pretty explicitly clear the last time we spoke."

"Haha. You’re almost right," Samuel said, leaning forward slightly, the static crackle growing a fraction louder. "But I’m not actually here on my father’s behalf today. I’m here strictly on my own."

This ought to be good.

"Let me guess. Trying to drag me into a secret alliance to kill your father?" I asked.

"Heavens, no," he said, waving a monochrome hand dismissively. "No, no. If anyone should know exactly how pointless of an effort that would be, it would be me. No. Instead, I’ve come about something else entirely."

"Are you going to tell me what it is, or are we just going to dance around it all night?" I demanded.

"You’re quite abrupt," he observed, tilting his head.

"Yeah. I am a bit. It’s probably a direct side effect of your dad jerking my business around and putting my people in federal crosshairs."

"Now, now. He has made you a highly generous offer, you know. Most villains would literally kill for the opportunity he’s handing you. Some have murdered entire city blocks just in the vain hope of getting his attention. Which actually brings me to my purpose here..."

"Does it?"

"Yes, indeed," Samuel said, flashing another bleached, black-and-white smile. "You see, our father genuinely wishes for you to join us as his second-in-command. That part is entirely true. But he also has a secondary interest in this arrangement. He desires that my sister come back into the family fold as well."

I frowned, staring at him. "So he wants me to bring Vanessa with me when I show up to the funhouse?"

"He certainly hopes you will, yes."

I gave him a flat, unimpressed look. "And you came all the way down to a sticky dive bar just to tell me that?"

"No. I did not."

I squinted at him, trying to figure out what the hell this guy’s angle was. If he didn’t want to overthrow his dad, and he wasn’t here to reinforce the ultimatum, what was—

Oh.

Ohhhhh.

I let out a slow breath, the pieces finally clicking together in my head. The childhood rivalry Vanessa had talked about. The ruined birthday party.

"Ah," I said with a slow, heavy nod. "I get it now. You want me to kill your sister."