Hellboy: Odd Jobs Read Online Free PDF Page B

screen.
    When it was someone else's problem, there was a certain fascination in seeing an eye so neatly breached, a

    perverse pleasure to be savored in the precision of the arc of the cut.
    "I've still one good eye," the old man cackled. "Your petite belle is a saint, so mind your manners about her, Guy."
    "Thomas, I meant no insult." Guy grinned.
    "Don't speak of your chéri that way," Thomas grimaced. "I won't hear of it."
    Guy and Francine each had their favorites among the patients, but Thomas was Guy's only friend among them. The old man was approaching a century in age, but few people offered him the respect his tenacity had earned. Guy was one of the few who seemed undisturbed by the old man's gruff manner, barely coherent speech, and disfigured visage. When he grimaced like this, it emphasized the puckered ridge of scar tissue where his nose had once been.
    "Pardon!" Guy laughed, "Never again!"
    It was rumored that Thomas was the last surviving fossil of the Union des Gueles Cassees, World War I veterans who had lost limbs and faces in the trenches, but Guy had never bothered to ask Thomas. It seemed possible; surely, teenagers had fought there, too, and the hospice bedded many veterans of later wars.
    Thomas never spoke of the war, any war, or the cause of his mutilation, so Guy never inquired. It seemed unimportant.
    Thomas was his own man, and Guy felt a great affinity with him.
    Thomas's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.
    "How is the new job going at the Faculté de Médecine ?" he asked.
    Guy pulled his chair closer to Thomas's bedside and leaned in to speak softly. Fraternizing so with the patients was discouraged, of course, as death was a frequent visitor to the home. Francine and Guy had been repeatedly warned not to grow too close to any of their wards. They acknowledged the cold logic of the rules, given the high mortality rate, but neither could maintain the aloof stoicism of the older nurses or the callous disregard of their more cynical workmates.
    "Fine, I think," Guy whispered. "I can't tell yet if they're giving me all the shit details as an initiation, or if that's what they hired me for."
    "What did you find last week sweeping up the bibliothèque?" Thomas asked, his finger crooked to urge Guy closer with his reply. "Anything of interest?"
    "Nothing much," Guy whispered back. "A cloth bookmark for Francine. No one will ever miss it. Very ornate, she loves it. But you could hide anything in some of the nooks and crannies of that library."
    Thomas grunted and nodded, though he couldn't hide his disappointment. Guy leaned in closer with the promise of treasure yet to be found.
    "They've got me assigned to the medical archives for the rest of the season. Some rooms haven't been touched in decades, I'm told."
    "Ah!" Thomas grunted with satisfaction. "If you find my arm there, bring it back for me, will you?"

    There was much to despise about the hospice job
    long hours, low pay; bedpans, bedsores, and constant
    illness; accusations and abuse from suspicious relatives or uncaring visitors vainly asserting their regard for discarded lives; the thieving of greedy siblings, adult children, and untrustworthy caregivers; the tenants'
    bottomless sorrow, depression, and despair; the merciless dimming of eyes, hearts, and lives. All there was to love in it were the people like Thomas who somehow retained their dignity and heart amid the remnants of so many dwindling sparks.
    "Go on with you," Thomas croaked. "Steal some dinner with your belle before you head off to your new job.
    Long, long night ahead of you, mon frère."
    Guy squeezed Thomas's lone hand, and bid him adieu. There were others to attend to within the remaining hour, and the long Metro ride to the Faculté ahead of him.
    But between the two, there was a fleeting meal with Francine at the cafe on the corner, right by the Metro Richard'lenoir entrance. He had enough to cover their dinner and his round trip on the Metro.
    Tomorrow, he would