The Uncanny Guest

Mr. Smith arrived exactly on time. He didn't knock. The heavy oak door simply opened, and he was there.

He was... generic. That was the only word Sal could find. He wore a charcoal suit that fit well but looked brand new, as if it had never been sat in. His face was pleasant, symmetrical, and completely forgettable. He had brown hair, brown eyes, and skin that looked smooth, perhaps a little too matte under the warm lights.

"Mr. Smith," Sal boomed, extending a hand. "Welcome to Sal’s. Please, come in. Warm yourself."

Smith looked at the hand. He didn't shake it. He stared at it for a second too long, his head tilting in a sharp, bird-like motion. Then, he stepped forward.

"Sal Rossi," Smith said. His voice was flat. It sounded like a radio broadcast coming from another room. "The Architect. We appreciate the invitation to your... feeding enclosure."

Mikey snorted from the corner. Sal shot him a glare.

"It’s a restaurant, Mr. Smith. Please, sit."

Smith sat. He didn't slide the chair out; he simply lowered himself with a fluid, vertical motion that didn't seem to use his knees.

Sal poured the wine. The liquid splashed ruby-red into the crystal glasses.

"So," Sal began, taking his seat at the head of the table. "I hear your people are looking to expand into waste management. The waterfront routes."

"Waste management," Smith repeated. He blinked. His eyelids moved independently—left, then right. "Yes. We are efficient at processing biological refuse."

"Biological, industrial, we do it all," Sal said, pushing a plate of rigatoni toward his guest. "But the waterfront is union. My union. If you want to move trucks there, we need to discuss a tax."

Smith looked at the pasta. He picked up a fork, holding it in a closed fist like a child. He stabbed a piece of rigatoni and brought it to his mouth. He touched it to his lips, but didn't open them. He just held it there, then put the fork down.

"We are willing to pay the tax," Smith said. "Our resources are... extensive."

"Glad to hear it," Sal smiled, sipping his wine. "Money solves a lot of problems. But there’s also the matter of jurisdiction. My guys tell me you’ve been picking up pickups in the dead of night. No manifests. That makes people nervous, Smith. We like to know what’s being buried in our backyard."

"Buried?" Smith looked confused. "Why would we bury the harvest?"

Sal paused. "The harvest?"

"The collection," Smith clarified. "The skins. The calcium. The fluids. We do not bury them. We process them. The biomass is... negotiable."

Sal felt a chill that had nothing to do with the drafty door. "Skins? You talking about furs? Leather?"

Smith smiled. It was a wide expression that showed too many teeth, all of them perfectly straight and white. "If that is your terminology. Yes. We require the outer layers. The soft tissue is a delicacy, but the skins are for the... suits."

Sal laughed. It was a forced, loud sound. "You’re a funny guy, Smith. A real joker. Talking about people like they're cattle."

Smith didn't laugh. His face returned to that smooth, waxen neutrality. "Are they not?"

The fire popped in the hearth. The smell of the tomato sauce suddenly felt cloying, heavy in the air. Sal looked at Smith’s skin in the firelight. It didn't have pores. It looked like high-quality silicone.

"Okay," Sal said, his voice losing its warmth. "I think the comedy hour is over. Let’s talk brass tacks. You want the routes? I want twenty percent. And I want to know where the bodies go. We don't do sloppy work in Philly."

"Bodies," Smith said, testing the word. "You wish for a cut of the bodies?"

"I wish for a cut of the profits!" Sal snapped. "Don't play dumb with me."

"We can provide you with the discard," Smith offered. "The bones. We have no use for the bones once the marrow is extracted."

Sal slammed his fork onto the table. The silver clattered against the china. The cozy atmosphere shattered like a dropped plate.