Deathstalker 06 - Deathstalker Legacy

Finn. Surely he wasn't crazy enough to take the drug himself? Well actually, he probably was that crazy; but he wasn't stupid.
    "I have the drug, yes," said Dr. Happy, his great goggling eyes blinking furiously. "Very rare, very dangerous. I have it in the pure form. Just a few drops, to make you a telepath, a polter, a precog. Make you an esper, or kill you. Most probably kill you, in fact, in horrible, horrible ways. Closed coffin, no flowers by request, very sad. Very strange chemical structure ... almost certainly alien in origin . . . but oh, the potential, if we ever solve the fatality problem." He smiled sweetly. "Such wonders lie within the human mind, waiting to be unleashed."
    "I'll take it," said Finn, cutting ruthlessly across Dr. Happy's eulogy.
    The good doctor shrugged. He was used to that. Few people really appreciated him. He wandered off in the direction of his refrigerator, reaching out to pat some of his favorite pieces of equipment along the way, like trusted pets.
    "What the hell do you want with the esper drug?" Brett said quietly. "You're not planning to take it yourself; are you?"
    "Oh no," said Finn. "I have no intention of taking it myself."
    Most of the Paragons who'd come to Logres for Douglas's Coronation had decided they might as well stick around for the marriage too. It was only a couple more weeks, and they so rarely got a holiday. Let the peacekeepers earn their pay for a while. Only ever really at ease in the company of their own kind, the Paragons spent most of their time sitting around in a bar called The Sangreal, swapping ideas and experiences and increasingly tall tales about past cases. Drinking was heavy, boasting was rife, and one-upmanship was rampant. Food and drink was in constant supply, the best of everything, and of course no one ever asked them to pay for anything. They were Paragons, after all. It was an honor to have them there, eating and drinking and carousing the host out of hearth and home.
    The Sangreal used to be a cop bar, patronized almost exclusively by Parliaments security staff, since the House was only just up the road; but the Paragons just moved in en masse and took over, and absolutely no one felt like arguing about it. The security people took to sulking in a slightly less salubrious bar just down the street, and did their best to ignore the cries of jollity and good cheer emmanating from what used to be their place. The Sangreal's owner sighed, bit the bullet, and smiled on his new customers till his cheeks ached. He was, after all, making a nice little earner out of selling his security cameras' footage to the gossip shows. Coverage of Paragons in their cups always guaranteed a good audience.
    The Paragons also attracted groupies in great numbers, men and women and everything in between, looking for autographs, good stories, sex, a spot of hero worship, or just to hang out in such excellent company. The Paragons tolerated them, as long as they didn't make a fuss and paid for their own drinks.
    Some nights the bar was so packed with gorgeous men and women that you couldn't get in the front door unless someone breathed in to make some room. The bar's owner hired extra staff, paid them danger money, learned not to wince when his furniture got broken up, and kept the place open twenty-four hours a day. People came and went, drink flowed like it was going to be made illegal tomorrow, and the party never ended. There was singing and dancing and much fondling of bare flesh, and always a fight or two going on somewhere, because living legends just couldn't turn down an opportunity to test how good certain people really were. Since they were Paragons, the duels were nearly always entirely good-natured, and rarely needed the regeneration machine the owner had installed out the back, just in case.
    The joint was jumping when Lewis Deathstalker walked in, even though it was early in the afternoon.
    The air was thick with smoke and general bonhomie, and the din was deafening. Someone had started a poker school, and someone else was losing loudly. A woman dancing on a table was taking her clothes off very slowly, to general approval. One Paragon was painting a mural on a wall. Another was urinating in the cuspidor. A group in a corner was singing a bawdy drinking song, while another group was lurching back and forth before them, fondly imagining they were dancing. The Paragons, the King's Justice, the best of the best; pissed as farts and twice as useless.