Page 54 of Reptile Dysfunction
The iridescent snake in question is indeed executing an unnecessarily elaborate surveillance pattern, leaning forward with exaggerated vigilance whenever anyone glances our way.
“Professional hazard,” I mutter. “He’s been impossible since the sequin fitting.”
The meeting begins with Mayor Whitaker calling for order. My security crew maintains their positions as the agenda items are addressed—standard business first, building tension for the main event.
“Item seven,” the mayor finally announces, “Addressing concerns regarding predatory real estate practices targeting monster-owned businesses in districts four and six.”
The room stills. The elder Harrington shifts in his seat, expression carefully neutral, but my snakes pick up his elevated heart rate.
“The council has received multiple complaints regarding business practices employed by certain development companies,” the mayor continues, diplomatic to the end.“Tonight, we’ll hear testimony from affected business owners before considering emergency protective zoning measures.”
What follows is a parade of monster business owners—a bakery run by an orc, a bookstore owned by a sphinx, a butcher shop managed by a troll—each recounting similar stories. Harrington representatives approaching with lowball offers, followed by escalating pressure tactics if declined. Veiled references to “changing neighborhood demographics” and “regulatory challenges for non-human enterprises.”
Halfway through the testimonies, Bradley eases to the back of the room, phone to his ear. Two of my security staff exchange glances but maintain their positions as instructed. No need to stop him—the real target is still seated at the council table, growing increasingly uncomfortable as the evidence mounts.
When Bradley Harrington II finally rises to speak, my snakes all snap to attention, sensing the aggressive energy beneath his practiced corporate veneer.
“These accusations are, frankly, absurd,” he begins, voice smooth as expensive bourbon. “Harrington Development has always sought to improve Harmony Glen through strategic investment. If our offers were declined, we respected those decisions. These supposed ‘pressure tactics’ are nothing more than normal business negotiations, perhaps misinterpreted by… less experienced business owners.”
The subtle prejudice in his tone makes me feel as though fire flows through my veins. Before I can shift into moreobvious enforcer mode, Sloane steps forward, press credentials displayed prominently.
“Mr. Harrington,” she says, voice carrying clearly, “I have recordings of your representatives specifically mentioning how monster businesses might face ‘regulatory challenges’ if they don’t sell now. Would you care to explain what regulations you were referring to, given that none currently exist?”
His expression flickers—surprise that the mayor’s daughter is the one challenging him. “I can’t be expected to account for every conversation my employees might have had.”
“Then perhaps you can explain this email from your office,” Sloane continues, holding up a printout, “detailing a strategy to ‘acquire target properties in monster districts before integration protections can be established’?”
The murmurs in the crowd grow louder and more aggressive. Harrington Senior’s face darkens as he realizes the trap. “Where did you get that? That’s proprietary company information!”
“It was provided by a concerned employee,” Sloane says smoothly. “One who was uncomfortable with targeting business owners based on species.”
My security team tenses as Harrington’s composure cracks.
“This is a setup! Charles, control your daughter!”
The mayor rises slowly, expression contemplative. “My daughter is operating as a journalist, Brad. And a damn good one, based on the evidence she’s uncovered.”
What follows isn’t the clean victory we’d hoped for. Councilman Rasmussen, who I now realize has been unusually quiet, clears his throat. “While these allegations are concerning, we can’t make zoning decisions based on unverified claims.”
“Unverified?” Sloane’s voice hardens. “I have recorded conversations—”
“From unnamed sources,” Rasmussen interrupts. “Hardly admissible in any legal sense.”
The room murmurs with uncertainty. Two other council members nod along with Rasmussen, and I realize Harrington’s influence runs deeper than we thought.
That’s when Sloane does something I didn’t expect. “Then perhaps we should hear from Mrs. Serenmutdirectly.” She gestures to the back of the room, where an elderly sphinx sits quietly. “Since she’s here tonight and was willing to go on record.”
Mrs. Serenmut rises slowly, dignity in every line of her posture. “I own Delights Bakery on Fifth Street. Last Tuesday, a man from Harrington Development told me that if I didn’t sell, the city might find ‘health code violations’ in my kitchen. He said monster businesses have to work twice as hard to meet ‘human standards’.”
The room falls silent. Rasmussen shifts uncomfortably.
“Mrs. Serenmut,” Mayor Whitaker says gently, “are you willing to repeat that statement under oath?”
“Yes.”
That breaks the resistance. The council votes 5-2 to enact emergency zoning protections for monster business districts.
Harrington Sr. storms out, already on his phone, likely calling his legal team. Bradley follows, pausing only to shoot a venomous look at Sloane.
