The Multitudes of the Lizard Man

Chapter 2

“Oh, come on. Pain is the only thing that’s real in Singapore. When these people whip you, they do it with thrice-folded generational trauma from three different cultures—ones that also traumatized each other. There are very few places where you get that and running water,” said Jeremy Thorpe as he removed my handcuffs and offered me an electronic cigarette, the kind that mimicked an old-school Marlboro.

“Boss, I was just about to do the Singapore swing. Forgive me if I’m not in the mood for cultural criticism,” I said, taking a slow drag and touching the place where the noose had been around my neck. My skin was soft and moisturized even, but I still felt like I had a severe case of rope burn.

“I bet, old sport. But still, you’ve got to hand it to them. These people are authentic in their own way. Food and pain—that’s something few first-world countries can boast. I don’t know about you, but I’m craving some laksa,” said Jeremy Thorpe, giving his thin, withered lips a short lick.

“Still, why’d the Bureau let the noose get around my neck, boss? We have clear-cut procedures for an agent getting in trouble with the law. A ten-day response and extraction timeline. I know because I wrote the damn articles when I was a junior agent,” I said, getting up from the floor. My legs were still shaky, my body unsteady, but I felt strangely invigorated by whatever was in that magic cigarette.

“Old sport, let’s not exaggerate. You’re not up for a promotion here. You got it. But what you drafted back then had to be revised. Now you’ll be doing the revising. Hope you’re up for it,” Jeremy Thorpe said, patting me on the back.

“Promotion? This is all too much, boss. I’d just made peace with my Creator, ready to let go of my life moments ago,” I said as I started dressing in the suit, Jeremy had brought into the interview room they’d offered us after he halted my execution for drug trafficking. That’s what you get when the police find you with a bag of Mary Jane on a Singapore beach. It's hard to argue you weren’t trafficking.

“Keep on that feeling, old sport. Non-attachment is always a good thing,” Jeremy said as he helped me into my blazer. “Too much for this, eh?” He held up the black tie with yellow stripes. I almost nodded but, fighting back the shame, took the tie and looked at it.

The sigil of the International Bureau of Vice: a man burning books beneath an eagle, clutching a rifle in one claw and a bottle of booze in the other. I made a four-in-hand knot—the only one I could, hazy as I was. The fluorescent glare of the supermax cell was still burned into my retina, long, dim shadows clinging to the edges of my vision.

We walked out of Changi Prison in silence. My mind was still haunted by the small gallows room, unable to believe I was now on the other side of that barred window—that sliver of daylight just a heartbeat away.

“I’ll drive, old sport,” Jeremy said as he opened the door of his old Bentley Mulsanne. The interior was clean, but something about the car’s age kept it from feeling pristine. Maybe it was the pack of unopened Dunhills resting on the dashboard or the lingering scent of tobacco, cognac, and that cologne they don’t make anymore.

“You did a good job in there, my dear lad. A really good job. It used to be the bread and butter of vicemen in the old days—getting taken prisoner, nearly being executed. You should’ve seen us during the Little War.” He smiled, but there was sadness in it. “Many of us died. Berlin, Siberia, Tokyo…” His voice trailed off as he swerved through traffic—or was it more that traffic moved around him?

“You know, boss, I always liked how a Friday felt. Guess from now on, I’ll like it even more,” I said, slipping the seatbelt’s diagonal strap behind my back.

“Old sport, I hope you know we wouldn’t have waited so long if there wasn’t hope of catching the asset—”

“Boss, you know I don’t like when you call him that—”

“Well, he fucked you over, didn’t he?” Jeremy chuckled slightly in that restrained way that came with age.

“I guess he did… So, what’s my next assignment?” I asked.

“You’re rather uninterested in your traitorous friend,” Jeremy said as we made our way through the heavy but moving traffic toward Newton Hawker Centre.

“I figure if there’s something I need to know, you’ll tell me now, sir,” I said, straightening my seat.

Jeremy sighed, glancing at me before returning to the road. “There’s much we’d like to know as well. But your friend disappeared after he left you on the beach.”

He let that hang in the air. “That’s why we waited so long.”

We pulled up in front of the hawker center, where an old man with deeply tanned skin and a bald head stood waiting. He gave a slight nod as he took the keys from Jeremy Thorpe, slipping them into his pocket without a word.

"Nice guy. He wasn’t so quiet as a kid," said Jeremy Thorpe as we walked to a table shaded beneath a palm tree. Two old Chinese men appeared when we sat down, each placing a steaming bowl of laksa before us.

“They know why I come here. They have been coming here all their lives. Just for the laksa,” Jeremy said as he lazily unwrapped his chopsticks. I reached for the spoon and fork.

He ate in wolfish gulps, barely pausing before getting down to business. “Now, about your work in Bucharest,” he said, wiping his mouth. “You’re going to be doing clean-up—like on our emblem. But you won’t be burning books. Well, maybe accounting books. But leads. That’s what you’re there for.”

He took another bite before continuing. “You see, old sport, those Munenori blockheads have gotten into another pickle. It's some ghastly business with a body double, but you’ll have plenty of time to read the files. And there’s going to be a freak show. Oh yes, the circus is in town, and we have reason to believe your reptilian will be there to run it. But you’ll browse the file at your leisure on the plane—”

Just then, a brown pit bull-looking dog trotted up to our table. He had a brown coat but was white on his chest and feet like he was dressed for the occasion.

“Dope, cuh,” I heard him bark.

I blamed it on the fluorescent buzzing still lodged in my skull. Despite the pitch-black aviators shielding me, my eyes were still aching from the sun. Jeremy Thorpe, unbothered, offered the dog his bowl, but the dog shook his head like a man, refusing.

“Meet your new partner, old sport. This good boy right here will be your best friend in Bucharest,” Jeremy said. The dog barked again. Something about dope, low and insistent.

“Got a bit of a habit, he has, but it’s more than manageable. The nice people at the Uranus Triple Tree will take good care of you two,” Jeremy added, scratching the dog behind the ears. The animal barely reacted, eyes still locked onto me.

“Boss, so what’s this dog gonna sniff? And does he have a name?” I asked between short, measured bites.

Jeremy leaned back in his chair, swirling his soup with his chopsticks. “Droid here is gonna smell his own kind. You see, old sport, he’s Munenori-made. Like your friend. And like the other assets gallivanting around the streets of Bucharest… or in other realms.”

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Invitation to Collaboration

Thank you for reading The Multitudes of the Lizard Man. I have a lot of ideas for where this story could go, but I want to hear your thoughts, too. What did you enjoy? What questions are you left with? Where would you like to see the story head next? I would love to know whether it is about the IBV, the Lizard Man’s mysterious past, or something else entirely. This story is meant to grow and evolve; your input can help shape it. Feel free to share your feedback in the comments or reach out directly. I am excited to hear from you.

Thank you to everyone who has shared their thoughts and feedback—your input has been invaluable. If something you suggested hasn’t made it in yet, don’t worry; there’s plenty more to come, and your insights will help shape the chapters ahead.