A Request-Part 1

Mr. Rollins needs a favor but when he meets his genie he realizes some desires should never be granted.

The glass of scotch in front of me was sweating and began leaving a ring on the wooden table under it. My back and bottom had begun to ache as the unyielding chair did its best to cut into me. I waited. He told me to be at this particular pub at six sharp; it was now nine. The meeting place was odd -- I expected it to be at some deserted crossroads in the darkest hour of night; something along those lines. What was odder was being approached in broad daylight by a normal-looking man in a business suit, telling me he knew I requested an audience and would be granted one at Cross' Pub; that, and the fact that I was on my seventh scotch and still felt as dry as when I came in.

  Was this how he operated? That man on the street could have been some poor schizophrenic, but that didn't explain how I knew exactly where Cross' pub was when I got on the road; especially having never heard of the place, it being in a part of town I didn't know existed. There was certainly nothing strange about the area; it was mostly industrial parks and very old apartment buildings that looked totally deserted. The pub was the only thing that stuck out, definitely not belonging there. Five cars were parked in front, which made me feel more at ease. Cross' may have been out of place here, but it wasn't like I wandered into another dimension. I sat in the car for ten minutes trying to make up my mind to leave despite the weird circumstances--my curiosity won out.

  After the first glass the scotch seemed to lose its strength, until now its taste was reminiscent of weak iced tea. I swirled the ice around in the glass and watched the cubes dance around for a bit. When I looked up again he was there. No sound had preceded him, he was simply standing next to the table looking down at me. "Mr. Rollins," he said, extending a hand. I rose, flustered, and shook it quickly. When he was seated in front of me I said, "I didn't think you were coming." He looked at me slyly for a moment. "I've been waiting for hours," I said, trying not to sound impatient considering who I was talking to. "You would have waited much longer I wager," he said, almost threateningly. His voice was dry and low, expressing none of the craftiness evident on his face. I looked from his face to his arms resting on the table and was mildly shocked when I saw that his right hand was missing completely. There was no covering, just a smooth, square, stump; as if the hand had never been there at all. The sight was somehow unutterably gruesome and filled me with atavistic disgust.
 
  His eyes, however, never left my face. "This wasn't what I was expecting," I said. "You pictured it as something much more supernatural and dramatic, I know. But this is a business transaction Rolly," he casually informed, calling me by the nickname my mother had given me till I was eight. "We don't need the Hollywood horror cliches for that, do we?" he said, smiling. That smile told me there was nothing he'd like more than to terrify the hell out of me, but he was being courteous. Past the undistinguished, normal-looking face with plain brown eyes, I did see something--just for a moment. It was a brief flash but enough to make me recoil so heavily that the chair tipped, and I nearly went sprawling. With my eyes closed I tried to expel the image, my breath coming raggedly, and he chuckled loudly. "Just lightning the mood," he said. My body was shaking and I would have bolted to the car had he not grabbed my hand, immediately removing the horror from my mind. I opened my eyes and he was looking at me like a kid who had just pulled off a nasty prank. He let go of my hand and leaned back, waiting.