Those Bastardly Dastards - Part Eight

"Jesus, Siddhartha, Joseph Smith, whoever can talk some sense into you, will you PLEASE! STOP! SHOUTING?!" shouted Upton Behringer from a leather armchair in the corner. "There are those of us...in this room...in this very...cave of, of, of, WELL NOT FUCKING SOLITUDE, that's for damnably sure, who are trying to leech the pains of an evening of sin from our livers and minds and, most importantly, and most regrettably, our souls."

"The boss is hungover, so shut the fuck up," said the one in sweatpants.

"Frederick," said Upton to the sharply dressed dwarf sitting on the wooden stool next to him. "Will you tell that nimrod Carmichael to refrain from relaying my communications to our guest in such...simplified fashion?" He pinched the bridge of his nose and squinted at the ground.

Frederick raised a single fist and Carmichael was struck dumb.

"Now. Ezra McNeil. As you will remember, we have met before, though I hesitate to call it a true meeting. Thus, let us strike it from the record. My name is Upton Behringer, and these," he gestured at the two men in front of the elevator, Frederick the dwarf and four men playing foosball a few feet from Ezra, "are my associates. Frederick is my right arm man, my most trusted and loyal friend, my partner and my lover. I believe you have already met Carmichael and Gibson. They are what we in the business call my muscle. The four playing that...game are The Four Wise Men. They wanted to be called 'wise guys,' but I refuse to let this look like some shoddy Italian organized crime syndicate, so numerically challenged nativity reference they are. Say hello, gentlemen, give our guest a wave."

The Four Wise Men stopped their game to turn and raise their arms in unison at Ezra, showing their matching nametags, which read, "Melchior," "Caspar," "Balthasar" and "Carl". They were of identical height, wore identical plain business suits and skinny black ties and sunglasses and had identically parted blonde hair.

"C'mon, Behr Bear," said Gibson. "Call me Mr. Blonde."

"And I'm Mr. White," said Carmichael.

Behringer closed his eyes tightly and ran his fingers through his pomade.

Frederick raised a threatening fist.

"Okay, okay, sorry," said Gibson.

"Aside from their obsession with that damned film, they are really quite good at what they do."

"You mean chase people down alleyways and point guns at them?" asked Ezra with sudden courage.

"Put simply, yes. They shoot, they hit with large, heavy bits of metal, they break doors, that sort of thing. You see, we all have a role in these, these heists. I'm the leader and the planner. Frederick keeps me sane--" Frederick patted his knee comfortingly. "--The Four Wise Men work logistics, scheduling, lock picking, safe breaking and alarm fixing and those two hit things that need to be hit. So we have a face, a heart, a brain and balls."

"Hey, did he call us balls?" asked Carmichael.

"That's where you come in," said Behringer.

"What do you mean?" asked Ezra.

"You're our connection, Mr. McNeil. You're the most important part of all. You're this body's hands."

***TO BE CONTINUED***