Free The War Against the Assholes by Sam Munson Page A

letter while upholding its spirit, I think you can escape punishment. “Who is it,” said Hob. “It’s Mom,” said Vincent. “That is touching,” said Charthouse. The tunnel ended. I saw a white, high wall in the flashlight cones. We stopped moving. Bunched up. A beam flashed across a green-painted metal door. A gold, eye-shaped scrawl graffitied near the upper lintel. “Hob, would you do the honors,” said Charthouse. Hob slid a key into the door’s lock. The key glittered. “What was that thing on the door,” I said, “that symbol.” “What do you think,” answered Alabama. “Easy now,” said Charthouse. “I think this might actually be more difficult for you,” said Vincent. To me. My hands curled into fists. I thought about Alabama’s gun and calmed down. Hob opened the door. Warm yellow light leafed the tunnel floor. Three rats jumped the threshold. We followed them in.
    I don’t know why I was surprised to see a living room. Well lit and warm. The air smelling of oranges. Some herb. Bookshelves lined the walls. English titles, German titles, French. Other tongues. I was, as I said, no scholar. Leather chairs, their wooden legs gnawed on and scarred. A black, hexagonal wooden table in the room’s center. Near which stood an old man in a pigeon-gray fedora. “Mr. Stone,” said Charthouse. “Mr. Charthouse,” said Mr. Stone, “and the lovely Ms. Sturdivant, I see. Standing there against the darkness. It is always a delight, an encounter with you.” Alabama grinned and dipped her head. The door groaned closed behind her. “That’s how you can tell you’re dealing with a man of high quality,” said Charthouse, “is he’s polite.”
    Mr. Stone looked almost seven feet tall. His eyes ocean blue. He wore a gray suit and a silver-gray tie the exact color of his hair. A tiepin, too, set with a green stone. He leaned on the creaking back of his enormous black armchair. A large, tawny rat perched on the leather top edge, grooming its face near Mr. Stone’s elbow. “This is the offensive lineman you mentioned,” said Mr. Stone. He had an accent. German, I thought. “Come here,” he said, “and let us see what we can see.” Vincent had no more smart remarks to make. I stumbled up to the tall man with my flashlight still on. We shook hands. His enveloped mine. I have large hands. “Menachem Stone,” he said. “Michael Wood,” I said. “I imagine you have questions,” he said. “Yes, sir, I do,” I said. “Sir! That is excellent,” said Charthouse, “that is exactly right.” “Have a seat, Mr. Wood,” said Mr. Stone. “Mr. Wood and Mr. Stone,” said Charthouse, “it’s the meeting of the natural nouns.” Mr. Stone sat. Another rat, gray, leaped onto the back of his chair. I sat too. A black table between us. Charthouse and Alabama grabbed the remaining leather chairs. Hob and Vincent dragged up wooden stools. A third rat, black and beady eyed, scampered onto Mr. Stone’s armchair.
    â€œYou are wondering,” he said, cracking his protuberant knuckles, “why young Mr. Charthouse brought you here.” I was. “It is not as simple to explain as it looks,” he said. “I have to admit that it doesn’t look simple to me,” I said. “That is encouraging,” said Mr. Stone, “you lack preconceptions.” The three rats crouched. The black rat scampered toward his hand, and he stroked its pointy head. “Are you familiar with the works of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart,” said Mr. Stone. Vulfgong : his accent. “Not really, sir,” I said. “Happily, that is a matter of complete irrelevance,” said Mr. Stone. “The point I wish to impress upon you is that not anyone can be Mozart. But we all have a modicum at least of musical ability.