Dirty Hands, Clean Image

Link to article: Dirty Hands, Clean Image.


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====
[[include component:preview
text=
Naughty children get busted kneecaps for Christmas!
]]
=====
[[include :scp-wiki:theme:black-diamond]]
[[include :scp-wiki:component:text-style]]

[[include :scp-wiki:info:start]]
**Dirty Hands, Clean Image** by [[*user mxsinister]]
__**This work contains CWs for:** Drug use, violence, mentions of death.__

Written as a companion tale to [[['GlitterStix' (GLR032/STX787/REF819)]]], though prior reading is not required.

For more of my work, [[[https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/mxsinister-author |my office takes walk-ins.]]]
[[include :scp-wiki:info:end]]
[[include :scp-wiki:component:info-cw]]

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[[/module]]

[[div class="bemail"]]
[[div class="btofrom"]]
**To:** pr.office@drwondertainment.██
**From:** lucasmonaco@mcd_intmail.mcd
**Date Sent:** 12/26/2022 12:11 EST
**Subject:** [https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/glitterstix-glr032-stx787-ref819 GlitterStix Incident]
[[/div]]
------

Xmas--because if it were merry, you wouldn't be hearing from me.

I'm at a Crowne Plaza in New York for the afters. We just watched Julian Powers (Anderson lawyer) take a Lemon Zest straw up each nostril and announce that he could fly. He bounced off the balcony and killed the bystander he landed on.

I expect you want this cleaned up. You'd better come do it yourselves because I frankly could not care less if our clients think of you as a particularly colorful drug company. 

Ta-ta,
Lucas Aurelio Monaco
//External Acquisitions Manager 
Marshall, Carter & Dark Ltd.//

[[/div]]

@@ @@
[[div class="fancytext"]]
+ December 26, 2022

//If this delays my vacation to Lucerne, I swear to god, I'll make Powers wish the fall had killed him,// Lucas thought, jaw clenched. //Hell, who am I kidding? Wondertainment will probably do that anyway; at least this debacle is their problem.//

The convivial mood had tapered out shortly after the ambulance departed, the excitement of the event not outweighing the repulsion of witnessing it. Most of the party guests had absconded or were on their way out. 

Lucas didn't plan to remain at the scene for too much longer himself; after granting leave to his subordinates, he drank some more champagne and left the wrapping up in the hands of the event planners and hotel staff. 

//I'll write the incident report in the morning—have to wait and see what else I have to deal with before the night's over ... Dammit, how does one get to his age without being able to handle his high?//

He went to the bathroom to curb the creeping onset of his comedown. He entered a large, private stall with good counter space, monogrammed towels, and—to his irritation—a silver-backed mirror that covered most of the wall. Pure metals were an anathema to vampires, and although this hardware wasn't potent enough to do any real damage by proximity alone, it still omitted his reflection.

Habit led him to wash his hands first before reaching for the snuff vial from the interior pocket of his suit. He unscrewed the top, which included a skinny metal spoon, and brought a bump of white powder up to his nose. One more—the other nostril, for symmetry's sake—and he started to balance back out. 

When Lucas first tested Dr. Wondertainment's GlitterStix!® (which had consisted of him and some coworkers doing scintillating lines in the office lounge using rolled-up dollars, as Lucas maintained that cocaine tasted inexplicably better off American currency), he'd been pleased with its quality, even if he did not find it to be on par with the real thing. However, for tonight only, one could make out shiny specks of citrine intermixed with the pure snow—just enough to keep his demeanor pleasant, at least  by his standards.

There came a slow scuffing at the door, like someone was knocking by brushing their foot insistently against the bottom slit.

"Occupied," he called. 
 
//"Mrow."//

Exasperation rolled Lucas' eyes sky-high. //God dammit.//

He opened the door and was, as expected, met by the Dr. Wondertainment representative. Cat Emmett was a lithe, imposing man with tufts of calico hair peeking out from under a knit cap, which functioned to hide his pointed ears. His suit was elegant, yet distinctly costume-like—sewn in jade and crimson jewel tones that brought out the green hues of his chatoyant eyes. 

"Merry Christmas, Mr. Monaco," he purred, his voice low, lilting, and Bostonian.

"Evening, Emmett," he replied, deadpan. "What a sudden appearance: you make one quite giddy."

"Time is money, no?"

"Right enough." He beckoned him in curtly. "Well, don't just linger." It was bad luck to talk under doorways, and Lucas wasn't through. Besides, the idea of doing drugs with a Wondertainer in a hotel bathroom amused him immensely. Cat stepped through, and Lucas turned the lock three times in quick succession behind. 

"I must say," Lucas started as he resumed his previous activities, gathering a bit of powder on his fingertip. "I'm surprised you're here and not at the hospital."

"Oh, that'll be someone else's job," Cat said, unbothered. He sat atop the counter--legs crossed, hands in lap. "I'm here to talk terms, moving forward."

Lucas rubbed the snow into his gums as he listened to Cat speak, responding with a short sound of amusement. "Your Christmas present is coming here and negotiating with me? Wow, Big Brother really //does// love you."

Cat's smile turned a fraction icier. "We just don't want something like this happening again."

"Of course not," Lucas said. "A shame it was such a public affair, mm? We're talking at least fifty witnesses."

Cat hummed, his tail swishing contemptuously as Lucas continued—

"Our demand is holding steady so far. Increased, actually. Powers sounded like he was having a downright fun time up until his legs broke." Of course, Cat cared little for the numbers or cash flow. He confirmed as much when he replied—

"Public relations is about three things, Mr. Monaco—" he held up three gloved fingers. "Reputation, reputation, and reputation." Lowering his voice to a furtive hiss, Cat continued— "Which is to say, how much longer do you want me to sit in this stall watching you do coke in the dark?"

"Now, Emmett, why would either of us bother with the lights?" The tapetum lucidum of his crimson eyes twinkled in amusement. 

Cat's own reflective eyes narrowed. "That wasn't my point." 

"I know," Lucas replied, turning the faucet to wash his hands again. "Tell me something."

Cat crossed his arms. "Not likely." 

"I know about the kid who ODed at the LSE," Lucas continued anyway. "Only because an old professor of mine told me. Haven't looked, but I assume those hospital records are scrubbed now ... Were there any more?"

"No. We're happy to say we only had two mishaps since we began distribution of this particular product."

He found the answer almost charming; for as unserious as the Wondertainers were, they //were// good at their jobs, which Lucas valued above all else. 

"Such a capricious thing, the truth ..." Lucas remarked, slipping dried hands back into silk gloves.

Cat huffed, then asked—"Can we go now? I want to see where it happened."

Lucas wiped his nose with a napkin one last time, then retrieved a slim vial of cologne from his coat. He sprayed himself once and Cat twice. The runes etched into the glass glowed ever so faintly.

Cat scrunched his nose, but only in surprise. "That's nice. Citrusy."

"It's Dolce and Gabbana," Lucas said. "More importantly, it's glamor. New York isn't sub-Veil, not entirely. I don't care to walk around with you—ears, tail, and all. That ridiculous get-up draws enough attention as is." 

The spell was tailored to Lucas, and so did not disguise Cat quite as seamless--though it at least appeared to dull his fangs, ears, and eyes enough to be passable to someone not looking too hard. Lucas suffered another pang of annoyance at not being able to check his own aspect in the mirror; not to mention, the low-grade silver backing induced an uncomfortable, esoteric prickling in his nerves. 

Without ceremony, Lucas exited. Cat followed.

The Crowne had been mostly cleared out, though not entirely cleaned up. Atop one of the tables remained a tiered tower display, stocked with maybe half a dozen GlitterStix!® packets of each flavor.  Lucas pointed it out to Cat, who swiftly collected each and every one.

"We paid for those."

"And you'll pay for more," Cat replied, stuffing them into his pockets. 

"At least share."

"You're unbelievable," he said as they walked to the stairwell. A moment later, he asked—as if an afterthought—"Hey, what's that behind your ear?" 

Lucas halted before he tentatively reached under the brim of his hat, where he found three packets—one of each flavor. It knocked the smug visage clean off his face and traded it to Cat, who just turned on his heel and grinned like he'd got the cream. 

"How'd you do that?" Lucas' work exposed him to practically every kind of magic, but the mundane misdirection and sleight of hand so favored by Cat and his cohort drove him up the wall. "Emmett."

Cat acknowledged Lucas' vexed demand with nothing but a hum before he bounded up the rest of the steps--backwards the whole way, either to show off, to keep an eye on Lucas, or both.

//Of course, how could I forget?// Lucas thought, rolling his eyes. //He's a fucking tour guide.//

The night chill stung his cheeks as they stepped out onto the rooftop, Broadway glittering in celebration far below.

"What flavor did Powers have his nose in?"

"Lemon, predominantly," Lucas replied. "Five packets over the course of the night, at least that I saw." 

Cat nodded before striding up to the edge, peering over and letting out a long whistle.

"My, oh my. Quite the drop~" he noted before fishing through his coat, counting out five packets of Lemon Zest®. "Anyway, bottoms up!"

Before Lucas could react, Cat started tearing the paper packets open one by one. He tilted his head back and poured the powdered contents into his mouth. Lucas simply watched with raised brows and rapt curiosity.

When Cat was done, he licked his lips and tucked the trash back courteously into his pocket. He flashed a downright feral grin, and without another word, bounced once in place before diving off the edge. 

Unrelated to his stimulant consumption, Lucas' heart skipped a beat, and he lurched forward to watch him zip down.

With all his expected feline grace and precision, Cat's feet touched the street for only a moment before the substance's signature bounciness sent him propelling back into the sky. He directed his ascent toward one of the nearby, lower-tiered rooftops; he used it as a stepping stone to bound to yet another higher level, before at last landing a half-meter to Lucas' right.

Lucas faced him, assessed him—shoulders squared, suit unruffled, pupils absolutely blown—and gave three slow claps.

"Bravo. What the hell was that all about?"

"To point out that it's //candy//," Cat sang. "And Dr. Wondertainment is not liable for the fact that your clients cannot handle their candy."

[[div class="ornament1"]]
[[/div]]

Julian Powers could not muster the effort to open his eyes. He could hear screeching monitors and coding patients in the rooms around him; well, at least he hadn't been the only victim of holiday misfortunes. 

Whatever pain he should have been in from the hips down, he was floating far above. He felt horrible, of course, but god //damn// if those weren't good painkillers. The morphine was balancing him out, if he had to guess. He was so submerged in his fugue that he didn’t even perceive the uninvited guest playing with his PICC line. 

“Julian~” Came a sing-song voice. "Wake up, sleepyhead."

“Mhgmm…”

“Julian.” The voice was firmer now. 

“Five more minutes…”

His unknown guest sighed again before applying calculated pressure to the metal splints on his recently-shattered legs. He gasped sharply, shocked by the return of sensation. His eyes flew open, the lights cutting into his vision, bringing into focus the figure at his bedside.

He was greeted by the sight of a doll made flesh—or was it the other way around? In either case, she was a colorful character: long, rosy hair and porcelain skin interrupted by swatches of fine fabric—not appended, but sewn into the skin itself. Palette-wise, she had selected red and green pastels for the holiday season.  Her smile was pleasant and familiar, but not at all friendly.

//No fucking way ...// he thought. Maybe he said it out loud, because her grin widened slightly. 

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Powers."  Piper Elison's voice was as he remembered it—melodic and Transatlantic, though more glamorously polished now than it had been in college. 

"Ugh ... if it were merry, I wouldn't be in the fucking hospital," he grumbled, his leaden mouth forcing him to struggle against the slurring of his speech. "What are you ... ?" His words trailed off into a groan.

He couldn't think straight, and pieces of the night were still missing, gone for good from his memory, lost to an evening of rich revelry and expensive misjudgements. All that remained were the worst fragments—the landing, if not the jump. 

"I heard you're a hot-shot lawyer now," she remarked, sitting down at his side and crossing her stitched, slender hands upon her lap. She wore a long, lavender belted puffer coat, the fur of the collar brushing her cotton cheeks. Her eyes reminded him of iced-over ponds, inviting you to skate and play before the veneer shatters, swallowing you into inclement depths. "Congratulations."

"Yeah," he cleared his throat, looking for a call nurse button, or else for his phone. He found neither. "I do employment for Anderson." God, he hoped he still had a job after tonight.

"So I've heard!" Despite her enthusiasm, her volume never surpassed that of a stage whisper.

"And you ... " He choked as a little tidbit about his former classmate came back to him. "You still work for Wondertainment?"

"I do, yes! Public Relations." Looking at her, those facts checked out; the more uncanny facets of her appearance seemed to have become more pronounced over the years.

Inexplicable dread drained the color from his face. "... Why are you here?"

"Well, now that's a good question," she replied. "See, I //could// threaten to break your kneecaps, but it looks like you beat me to it." She gave a soft, mechanical laugh. Manicured fingertips traced slow lines over his restrained legs. He couldn't quite feel it, but as he watched, his brain filled in the gaps enough to make him shudder. "You never could handle your high, Julian ..."

His heart was racing. Was that still from the drugs? He had no reason to be afraid ...

... Right? 

Wondertainment was a toy company, for crying out loud. Piper was just making jokes. It wasn't as if she were some fucking mafioso here to smash his teeth or steal his skin—

Julian gave a laugh, the sound coming out as a snort that burned the inside of his raw nose; a half-delirious noise invoked by the resurfacing of an old memory. 

"So that's the career you've made? Fixing people's drunk mistakes before the hangover even wears off?"

Her smile twinkled something cruel.

"Ah, you talking about the tramp stamp?~"

Another half-laugh from him as he briefly closed his eyes. "Yeah ..."

The incident in question had occurred during their second year in University; Julian had woken up to a pounding headache and what he swore must have been a sunburn above his tailbone. When he finally got up, he discovered a bruised, poorly-lined scrawl of Cher lyrics right above his ass with at least two words misspelled. 

Now, beyond regular laser treatment, there were plenty of Sarkites willing to execute tattoo removal services in exchange for the affected pound of flesh (and then some, usually). Not wanting to pursue either option, he'd called none other than Piper Elison, who now watched him with clinical intrigue as he slipped further into a nostalgic haze.

Piper had worked in tattoo parlors for years—though she'd arrived adorned only in colorful cloth, she had decorated herself with more ink back in the day, keeping countless designs on rotation. //Piecework,// her artist friends had called her. Maybe they still did? Julian rarely took to nicknames, even well-suited ones.

In any case, knowing all this, he'd had her come over to his dorm—a single, thankfully, on account of his being a residential assistant—to assess the damage.

When she'd stopped laughing, she had him chug what remained of the hard liquor in his room before laying him face down on the bed. She traced around the edge of the tattoo twice before setting her palm to his skin and ripping the damn thing off like a bandage. 

He'd howled into the pillow, and to this day, he thought she'd taken a bit too much delight in it. Still, he couldn't complain: it had been a free procedure, and within a week, he bore no scar of the incident.

"You'll recall," her voice just barely interrupted his lapse. "That you made me pinky swear not to tell anyone."

She assessed something about his IV bag, but he could not gather the strength to focus on anything but her. 

"Yes ..." 

"Now, we all care a lot about your recovery, Julian," she crooned, leaning over him with a gentle smile, smelling of strawberries and festive evergreen. Her fingertips traced his scraped-up cheeks so that the very fibers of his skin reached toward her. "But I'm going to need you to return the favor."

"Okay ..." He'd have done anything she asked—something he could not even remotely blame on attraction to her or any other woman (a realization that had ended their brief romantic stint). Could he chalk it up to fear, then? No—he felt less afraid now than he should have. He just felt ... //nice//—nice to a stupidly sublime degree.

"Good. So listen to me, then repeat, yes?"

"Yes."

"You spent tonight at the Marshall, Carter, and Dark Christmas Party at Crowne Plaza in New York."

"I spent tonight at the Marshall, Carter, and Dark Christmas Party at Crowne Plaza in New York."

"Yes, you did. There, you drank a lot, and did a lot more drugs."

He repeated as much.

"Cocaine, Adderall, Xanax ..." That sounded right, he agreed. "Am I missing anything?"

"No ..."

"No? Try again." Despite his inexplicably blissful intoxication, he gasped as a sharp, white-hot pain reminded him of her hand upon his braced leg.

"GlitterStix," he gasped. 

"Yes, there we go. You had a lot of it. Everyone saw you," she said, easing her hand off, allowing him to exhale in relief. "But that's not what got you. No, for that, you have the shots, the lines, the pills. Really, Julian, don't you remember? You went into a room with MC&D's Acquisitions team and got more fucked up than you'd ever been in your life."

"I ... Did I do that?"

"Yes, Julian, you did. Lucas Monaco and Alexander Beltman //both// told me." She suddenly looked very concerned--brows furrowing, eyes softening. "I mean, //really,// they were horrified by your actions. Very disappointed, too. Can you //imagine// what's in store for you if you've turned their clients off to one of their product offerings?"

His throat tightened, and he babbled out something in half-coherent terror as nausea coursed through him in waves.

"Shhh ... Julian, darling, I didn't mean to frighten you. You're going to be okay. They let me come talk to you instead," she ran a thumb tenderly over his bandaged brow, his split lip. "I'm much nicer than they are, as I'm sure you know."

"I'm sorry—" he started to cry, but she only shushed him again, a canvas hand covering his mouth as she leaned in, her warm words tickling his face. 

"Don't apologize to me," she said, the room nonexistent beyond her. "Just do better. And tell me exactly what led to your bad decisions."

He told her. He did not mention GlitterStix!®.

"And the Lemon Zest? Icing on the cake," she explained to him. "Your bad decisions were entirely //your// decisions, Julian. Dr. Wondertainment is not to blame for them."

No. Of course not. Heavens, no ... Whatever he babbled out in dazed desperation seemed to please her.

"GlitterStix by Dr. Wondertainment is just candy," she said. "And Dr. Wondertainment is not liable for the fact that you cannot handle your candy."

[[div class="ornament1"]]
[[/div]]

//Shkk. Shkk.// 

Scraps of redwood pitched away from a blade's keen edge. Snow fell in gentle flurries beyond the tall, shuttered windows, fractalizing upon the glass. Moonlight drenched a frozen sky. An ambient mix of anodyne music played from somewhere in Wonder Tower. 

The ubiquitous Christmas cheer of Wonder World!™ had given way to the quietude preceding Boxing Day. From his cold, lofty office, Dr. Wondertainment Inc.'s  Chief Operating Officer ignored the lovely view of the city below, concentrating instead on the project in his hands.

//Shkk. Shkk.// Mr. Redd (discontinued) Wondertainment drove his knife purposefully against a small wooden mass, whittling it down into a reindeer figurine—the hundredth he had carved in a month. Redd knew, as did those close to him, that he had inherited not even a fraction of the creative faculties of his family; this controlled, artistic destruction was as close as he would get to experiencing the wonder of making. 

Stray splinters clung to his crimson suit, littering the pristine scarlet floor. The office was sparse, almost barren, contrary to what one might expect from his role--all paper stacks and screen lighting. Charts, camera feeds, and an onslaught of incoming messages consumed his desktop displays.

//And the old man thought he couldn't leave me in charge,// Redd thought with a sort of bitter smugness, swiveling round and round in his chair, propelling himself with the occasional kick off his desk.

For the past week, his twin sister, Isabel, and their father had been at the North Pole office, accompanied by a large fraction of the Wondermaking Departments' workforce. However, it was not as if Wonder World itself could be unattended; for all the joy and delights of the season, the bulk of Dr. Wondertainment Inc.'s staff was expected to work at full throttle through the end of the year. 

//Yeah, except he didn't leave us in charge, now did he? Not really ...// Charge, as he was so frequently reminded, belonged to the Real Adults. To the Board of Governors, the Department Heads, to Mr. Mayor. To Emma Aieselthorpe-Brown and a couple Little Misters. 

Redd's authority was supplementary, his mandate simple: [[span style="color:red;"]] stay behind, see the dirty work done.[[/span]]

As such, he'd wished for nothing more for Christmas than a crisis—preferably a corporate calamity to something familial. Not that it wasn't all tied together for him, of course, but he'd rather stress in his capacity as COO than as a son. 

So when he heard sh*t had hit the fan in the Big Apple in the company of their friends from across the pond, Redd had been happy to sic the dogs.

Speak of the devils! Redd's desktop monitor displayed live footage from Wonder World's CCAO[[footnote]] Closed Circuit Avian Observation. [[/footnote]] Cam!™ network, capturing the pair of Publicity Puppies as they arrived by [*https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-3938 bike]. They chatted affably in the garage before going toward the lift, opting to launch themselves up to their COO's office rather than risk running into colleagues and having to bother with some story about their whereabouts. 

//Oh, the burdens of popularity,// he thought half-ironically. But in all seriousness, what could he expect from such personality hires, save for intracompany celebrity status? 

The past few days had been a feverish, festive frenzy for the Public Relations Department every bit as much as for the tinkers and taste-testers. The size and secrecy of their office gave them overtime and odd hours more often than not, and Redd knew they'd resorted to sleeping in shifts before omitting rest entirely in the past thirty-six hours.

//I'll treat them to dinner or something,// Redd thought, reclining in his chair. //I mean, they're just doing their jobs, of course, but some extra appreciation is just part of the holiday spirit, no? ... Though, I suppose they've already received their bonuses ...//

"Come in," he called just as they reached the door, deftly switching to a different set of screens before they entered. He spun to face them, kicking his feet up on the mahogany desk. "Good hunting?"

"Good hunting," Piper and Cat confirmed in unison. They masked their exhaustion well, but Redd's ruby gaze still discerned the chips in the polish, the frays in the fabric. Nevertheless, pride swelled in his chest.

"Excellent!" Redd's grin widened. //See? It's all been handled. When Dad gets back, he'll see—// He cut off the thought by too-aggressively slicing a piece off the wooden reindeer's flank. "Piecework, no hitches at the hospital?"

"No sir—but when I went to deal with the woman's body, the Janitors were already sniffing around."

"My, they are sure are quick on the draw, aren't they?" Redd remarked. Piper only shrugged.

"I stuck around for a bit to make sure they intended to save me the trouble of cleanup. Sure enough, they lived up to their names--so we shouldn't have to worry about chatty coroners or NYPD."

"That's good to hear, at least," Redd replied, continuing to carve away at the shape in his hands. "What about Anderson Robotics? They don't think we almost killed their lawyer, did they?"

Piper's laugh came as a relief. "Are you kidding? They're the ones getting to deal with the fact that one of their counsels got higher than a kite and took a swan dive from fifty stories up. Over the phone, their PR Director sounded just about ready to make the jump herself."

Redd gave a pleased smile. Although Wonder World!™ locals contributed exceptionally to the company's soul, there were innumerable advantages to the fact that Piper had maintained so many of her connections in Three Portlands. 

"Yes, well, I presume it's not been her //merriest// Christmas," Redd chuckled. Satisfied with Piper's report, he pivoted his attention. "Cat, you've got glitter on your whiskers."

Cat stiffened, but did not fluster from the comment. No—Redd had trained too much composure into his publicists for that.

"The stuff really does get everywhere, doesn't it?" He replied bemusedly, taking a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket to wipe at his nose. Redd chuckled, then continued—

"How went your night? We lost track of you after you went back to Mr. Monaco's place."

Cat's brows floated up. "Don't phrase it like //that//, boss. The hotel was half a crime scene, and I wasn't gonna argue business walking down Broadway."

"S'pose that's fair," Redd said. As if Monaco's vampiric immunity to surveillance technology weren't enough of a pain, he had deliberately masked himself and Cat beneath some magic or another. "Tell me what I missed."

"I went with him to the Upper East Side," Cat said as he unloaded his extra-spatial pockets, placing several manila folders and at least a score of GlitterStix!® packets on the desk. "We hung out under a bridge with a bat colony, then decided to make a house call. We didn't go to his place till after."

"House call?"

"We paid a visit to a representative from the Crowne; the good news is that hotels are more practiced than people realize in covering up deaths," Cat shared. "Plus, given how much money they made off that party, they've got enough to pay a settlement."

"For what it's worth, I doubt it will be needed," Piper interjected. "The woman Julian landed on was without relatives, and the guy himself is on some cushy Anderson insurance--heck, it wouldn't surprise me if he walked out of this on a pair of shiny new legs. Speaking of, we can see about playing with the hospital records after he's discharged, but that shouldn't be necessary either. As I made clear to Mr. Powers, GlitterStix was the //least// of the substances in his system."

"Good, good," Redd nodded. "What about NDAs?"

"That was the main thing we spoke to the hotel manager about," Cat replied. "I finally got Lucas to cough up the names from the night's guest list, so it's a matter of getting signatures. Thing is, while the wee hours of the morning count as working hours for the two of us, we didn't want to do any more door-knocking that night."

"Mm, especially not on Christmas, unfortunately," Redd agreed, then continued to brainstorm out loud. "Maybe I'll send one of you guys out under the guise of being from the hotel ... Holly's better at the door-to-door stuff than you two, no offense. I'll ask her in the morning ..."

"I should mention that Monaco offered a certain ... facilitation service on that front," Cat said. "They've got that guy in-house—[*https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-9123 silver-tongue type], you know? Apparently, a lot of his job is talking people into signing contracts."

Redd scoffed, taking the tip of his knife back to the deer's head. "How convenient. And how much would we be charged per signature?"

"No less than five million USD a pop."

//Shkk—!// Redd swore as his blade slipped too close to a precariously thin wooden antler, causing it to snap off before the edge pushed rather harmlessly into his fingers. "Yeah, we're not doing that."

"Didn't think so."

Redd sighed, frowning thoughtfully at the figurine. "You know, the more I think about it, I think we're going to have to cut the stuff."

Cat and Piper pinned him with affronted expressions.

"Well, not altogether from production," Redd clarified, grabbing a crimson packet of Berry Blast® off the table. "I mean altering the formula. Putting out a weaker composition of the stuff. Would probably save us some money anyway."

They continued to look distinctly displeased. Redd gave a sigh.

"We'd keep the stuff in Wonder World the same, don't worry." With that assurance, the pair seemed satisfied. He continued—

"Now—in the spirit of Christmas, I feel like there's really only one thing for us to do, and Mr. Emmett's already beaten us to it." Ignoring Cat's flush of embarrassment, he passed Piper the paper packet. "Piecework, be a doll and cut us some lines, would you?"

[[/div]]

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