Free The Order of Odd-Fish by James Kennedy

counter. How about it, Shanks—like to live dangerously?”
    “Apple pie.”
    “Very well. Never let it be said that Hoagland Shanks doesn’t know what he likes. An apple pie it is. But first…why not have a spoonful of this?” And Ken Kiang held up a tiny gold spoon, which held the tiniest bit of yellow filling, scooped from a tiny pie on the table.
    Hoagland Shanks shrugged, took the spoon, and tasted. His eyes immediately popped wide, his mouth hung open, and he whispered, “Whoa! Ooh…I mean…wow! What is
that,
Ken?”
    “A personal favorite,” Ken Kiang said. “Made of a substance that activates dormant taste buds on the
insides of your veins
—and thus you taste the pie
with your entire body
as it pulses throughout your internal organs! Come on, Shanks! Can you bear to pass
that
up?”
    Hoagland Shanks shuddered with pleasure as the extraordinary dessert worked through him. He reached for another bite.
    “All in good time, my man,” said Ken Kiang gently, moving the pie out of Shanks’s reach. “You shall have all the pie you like, in good time.”
    Hoagland Shanks licked his lips. “If they’re all as good as that pie, lemme at ’em!”
    “You shall have them all,” promised Ken Kiang. “But before we begin, won’t you join me in a little pie of my own—a recipe I’ve concocted myself—won’t you do me that favor, Shanks?”
    “You bet! Whatcha got?”
    Ken Kiang said a few words in French to the waiter, who brought out a pie with a black, lumpy crust. The waiter threw the pie down and stole away as quickly as he politely could, standing far from the table, muttering darkly.
    “Jeez, Ken,” said Hoagland Shanks. “What kinda pie you got here?”
    “I doubt you have tasted it before,” said Ken Kiang. “It is the Pie of Innocence Slain. In it, Shanks, you will taste crushed dreams, and defeat; youthful enthusiasm curdled into despair; desperate loneliness; and at the center, Shanks, that rarest, most dainty of delicacies—the heart, Shanks; the pure and uncorrupted human heart. Tonight, Hoagland Shanks, you consume your own soul.”
    “You talk like a darned fool, Ken,” said Hoagland Shanks. “Tastes like peaches.”
             
    Fifty-five pies later, Hoagland Shanks trembled with joy.
    “I thought I knew about pies,” he whispered. “I thought I knew what pies were all about.”
    “I told you they were good pies,” said Ken Kiang.
    It was four in the morning. They had been at La Société des Friandises Etranges for eight hours. Ken Kiang sat up straight, fresh as a flower, and drank coffee. The waiter slumped in a booth, watching the Belgian Prankster on a black-and-white TV.
    “You must know an awful lot about pies, to know about this place,” said Hoagland Shanks.
    “Oh, I’ve picked up a little knowledge here and there,” said Ken Kiang carelessly.
    “Reckon you know…about any other pie places? Like this?”
    “Of course!” said Ken Kiang. “But, unfortunately for you, a deal’s a deal. I promised you the most delicious pies you have ever tasted. You have received said pies. End of transaction.”
    Hoagland Shanks looked hurt. “But telling me about just one—that wouldn’t put you out, would it?”
    “That’s just it,” said Ken Kiang. “It
would
‘put me out.’ I’m evil, remember? I refuse to tell you where more delicious pies may be found, Shanks, simply because it is a mean thing to do.”
    Hoagland Shanks started to cry. “But, but…all I want is more pies.”
    “I confess I find your tears strangely satisfying.”
    “Isn’t there a way for me to get pies that still lets you be a mean guy?”
    “Hmmm.” Ken Kiang cocked his head. “Perhaps there is, Shanks. Perhaps there is…”
    Ken Kiang was ruminating, considering the problem from several angles, when his eyes happened to fall upon the TV in the corner; the Belgian Prankster was still on; Ken Kiang watched for a few moments—his eyes grew wide; and all at once he let forth