Nightside 08 - The Unnatural Inquirer

the caricature out of the frame, and ripped it up, letting the pieces fall to the floor at my feet. Bozie goggled at me, torn between shock and outrage.
    “You…You can’t do that!” he managed finally.
    “I just did.”
    “I’ll sue!”
    I smiled. “Good luck with that.”
    “I can always draw another one,” Bozie said spitefully. “An even better one!”
    “If you do,” I said, “I will find you.”
    Bozie couldn’t meet my gaze. He looked around him, hoping for help or support, but no-one wanted to know. He sat down at his table again, still not looking at me, and sulked. I went back to Bettie’s table, and sat beside her. She patted me on the arm.
    “That was very sweet, dear. Though a bit harsh on poor Bozie.”
    “Hell,” I said. “I saved his life. Suzie would have shot him on sight. She doesn’t have my innate courtesy and restraint.”
    There was a certain amount of coughing around the table, and then everyone went back to their discussion on what the Afterlife Recording might actually contain. The suggestions were many and varied, but eventually boiled down to the following:

There was a new rebel angel in Heaven, rebelling against the long silence of millennia to finally broadcast the truth about Humanity. Why we were created, what our true purpose is, and why we are born to suffer.
It was a transmission from Hell, saying that God is dead and they can prove it. Satan runs our world, tormenting us for his pleasure. Which would explain a lot.
An exact date for the final war between Heaven and Hell. Broadcast now because…it’s all about to kick off.
There is a Heaven, but it’s only for the innocent animals. People just die.
There is a Heaven, but no Hell.
There is a Hell, but no Heaven.
It’s all bullshit.

    There was a lot of nodding and raising of glasses at that last one. Once the subject of the DVD’s contents had been thoroughly exhausted, I took it upon myself to raise the possibility of the Removal Man’s involvement. Everyone perked up immediately and tumbled over each other to provide anecdotes and stories they’d come across but had been unable to get printed. Because no-one could prove anything.
    “Remember Jonnie Reggae?” said Rick Aday. “Used to headline at the old Shell Beach Club? Rumour has it he vanished right in the middle of his set because the Removal Man was in the audience and decided his material was offensive. Management was livid. They’d booked Jonnie for the whole season.”
    “He’s supposed to have made a house disappear, on Blaiston Street,” said Lovett, from the Nightside Observer.
    “Actually, no,” I said. “That was me.”
    There was some more awkward coughing before Bettie determinedly got the conversation back on course.
    “Remember Bully Boy Bates?” she said brightly. “Used to run a protection racket in the sweat-shop districts? Julien Advent was just getting ready to run an exposé on him in the Times, then suddenly didn’t need to because Bates and all his cronies had gone missing. Or how about that alien predator, that disguised itself as an ambulance so it could eat the people put into it? That was the Removal Man. Supposedly. He has done some good.”
    “Yes,” said Aday, drawing the word out till it sounded more like no, “but on the other hand, look what he did to the first incarnation of the Caligula Club. You know, that place that caters to all the more extreme forms of sexuality. Lots of people having a good time, according to their lights, all of it adult and consensual…but too much for the Removal Man’s puritan tastes. He made the whole Club disappear, along with everyone in it. Just like that! Which is why the current version of the Club has such heavy-duty protections, and it’s so hard to get in. Or so they tell me…”
    And then the whole place fell suddenly silent as the door crashed open and General Condor entered, along with a dozen heavily armed and armoured body-guards. They made sure the place was secure and only then put their guns away. The General strode forward and looked the place over. He didn’t appear especially impressed—by the bar or its customers. He was still wearing his Space Fleet uniform, complete with golden bars on his shoulders and rows of medal ribbons on his chest. He had the look of the old soldier, the calm steady look that said he’d seen a lot of men die, and your death wouldn’t bother him in the least.
    “John Taylor,” he said, his heavy deliberate voice