I have nothing left

I am emotionally void

bereft

I play my part

the world a stage

concealing my despair

my rage

I long for life’s sweet end

my one consolation

I revel in rejection

isolation

I purge the very things

that I consume

my destiny

will be my doom

Sometimes it’s fine,
sometimes it’s nuts,
stabbing sunshine,
oh baby, it cuts.

Do what you have to do,
see the metal? ( Metal )
it shines on my chest.
Sticks out like bravery (ooh wah);
was what we did best?

Mission accomplished
that was the call
come see my waterboard
We’ll have a ball

Sometimes it’s fine,
sometimes a curse,
Mom sent me Kevlar,
oh baby, it’s worse.

Do what you have to do,
see the metal? ( Metal )
it shines on my chest.
Sticks out like bravery (ooh wah);
was what we did best?

As performed by Surplus Population

©2009 John Gifford for independent together studios

posted with permission of the author

I was ironing my slacks earlier (LOLLZ, WUWT-maid suing for harrassment) when an astonishing bit of inspiration struck. I bought a house out on the Camans some odd years ago and have yet to visit it!

Pack your finest warbler glasses and we simply must head out there this instant. I sent a wire to my driver this morning. I said, “Laurence, kick the dust off the Rolls!” Clever.

Well, old boy, I must shove off. There is a glass of Glenliver with my named embossed upon it.

Send word: a yay or nay will suffice.

Best in Show,

Vic

“I don’t know if I can take any more of this,” he said aloud to the mirror. The mirror just stared at him. What the hell.

Travis looked around. There was a mirror here, and nothing else. Just white for as far as the eye could see, but it was all so white he couldn’t even tell how far that was. Could be three feet or three miles. The mirror wasn’t very personable and there wasn’t anyone else around. But it was better than nothing. The never-ending expanse of nothingness invaded his thoughts and he had to focus on the mirror to stay sane. Look at the mirror.

“Hello,” the mirror said. So much for sanity.

“Hi.”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” the mirror screamed.

“It was a fucking beautiful day before you started on me,” Travis muttered, and  lapsed into furious silence as the mirror started fading, the white becoming darker as the mirror got further away. Finally, it was pitch black and he could see and hear nothing. The silence was deafening. He screamed and heard nothing, beat himself with his fists and felt nothing. Existence, it seemed, had stayed with the mirror. At least it was peaceful here.

“Hello,” said the darkness.

On the 12th of May, pack your essentials and the board the train to Calvington. You’ll pack seven bathing suits, whereas my cunning self shall pack none. Note that we shall spend one week with the Livington-Grambles and then head out to Wembley where Lord Morrie Tad Barbie shall host us. Oh, how you will adore him! Give my best to Orson and the twins.

Sincerely,

I stare into space.

I think.  I dream.

Alone does not necessarily

mean lonely.

I have no obligations.

I stare at the clock.

The seconds tick by marking time

but it means nothing to me.

I have nowhere to go.  I am free.

I do as I please.

No one requires of me, no one demands.

I shrug off their kisses, their hands.

Alone does not necessarily

mean damned.

Please somebody and tell the birds

And the salt man too
Yesterday and tomorrow
are similar; not same

My apologies to beaks

A butterfly bruise for your
bicep or mine might
not cut it

or paste over holy
that gaping ozone
tear

Chester Montgomery had never understood why Janice felt the need to speak in plural like that. There was no “we.” The High Boss, as Chester referred to her in the privacy of his own thoughts, stayed locked in her basement office, rarely speaking, and the chef was an angry man with no “inside voice.” Chester also resented the implication that he might potentially fail to show up to work one day. Had he ever missed a day in all his six years at the Salem Asylum? The answer was no. Sometimes, Janice’s mind seemed deeply shallow. But he supposed she meant well, so he refrained from using his angry eyes.

Chester didn’t reply, even though she always seemed to expect him to do so. Janice was always expecting things that way. He waited for her to ascend from her cubicle with the key. She cleared her throat importantly to end the prolonged silence before standing.

“Shall we?” she asked, twirling the key ring around her index finger. Chester merely shrugged. They probably would.
Together they walked down the corridor of endless white. Not a single painting adorned the walls. There had, at one time, been a single framed passage of scripture, but it had once made a resident fly into a horrid panic, the result of which had been seven broken fingers and a flaming chicken potpie.

“Here we are—Room six-oh-six.” Janice slid the old key in with practiced precision. With a creak, the door swung open—bit by dramatic bit.

Maylin Trent sat cross-legged upon her cot, watching them enter her territory, her reddened hands twisting relentlessly in her lap. The walls were a crosshatched work of demented art. She had accomplished much in the four days since the last re-painting.

As a long-time resident of Salem Asylum, not a lot was expected of Maylin. Most of her time was occupied by scratching continuously at the walls, using every possible means. No one asked why she did it; that was simply Maylin. Chester made a good living off of her, re-painting her cell on a regular basis. She was always in a state of repose when Chester was brought in. Her eyes would remain on Chester until, safely straight jacketed, she was escorted to her holding cell. Said straightjackets were only used in instances of heightened risk because no one wanted to impose upon the free will of the residents more than necessary. In any case, no one had died yet.

Chester didn’t watch Maylin as she left. He didn’t need to. He could feel her eyes on the back of his neck. While this had disturbed him the first couple of times, he had grown very proficient at ignoring her. As a painter of asylums, that was an important skill.

When the door clicked shut, Chester raised his brush to begin. The fumes he once found noxious and repulsive now set his mind at ease.

(later that day—Chester’s apartment)
“Good evening, Spoon,” Chester said, walking briskly across the stark white, uncluttered bedroom carpet and straight to the fish bowl. Spoon had been a college graduation gift from his Aunt Beatrice seven years ago, and after a long day at work, Chester often shared his secrets with his fish.

The aunt who had raised Chester and given him Spoon had also given him the elegant chandelier which hung from his bedroom ceiling. This chandelier had originally been created for the castle of King Walter Montgomery XVII of Winscovia, a little-known country to the south of England and north of France. When King Walter’s wife, Queen Nymphadora, refused to name their first child Walter, as was tradition in the family—she firmly believed that to name a child after a relative put too many expectations on the child—King Walter demanded a divorce. Devastated, Queen Nymphadora fled to America with her older sister Beatrice and the baby. Once King Walter calmed down, he became terribly depressed and threw himself over the banister of the castle’s highest turret. Seeking revenge upon the woman she believed responsible for her son’s suicidal tendencies, Queen Lady Montgomery set out for America to kill her ex-daughter-in-law.

It was Lady Montgomery who brought the chandelier to America. Nymphadora had had it installed while she lived in the castle, and Lady thought that bringing the chandelier back to Nymphadora would be a nice, ironic thing to do before murdering her. And so it was that Queen Lady Montgomery showed up on the doorstep of the house in which Beatrice and Nymphadora were staying and raising little Chester. Lady thrust the object at her, puncturing her heart with the chandelier crystals, and Nymphadora died instantaneously. Lady was outside the nursery, scheming the kidnapping of her grandson when the police arrived and toted her away. Beatrice never knew what fate befell her.

Out of respect for her deceased sister, Beatrice had the chandelier restored, but she found it exceedingly painful to look at on a daily basis. She packed it away until Chester turned eighteen. Chester took it to college with him and hung it from his single dorm room ceiling. When he moved into his apartment in Salem, he decided to hang it in his bedroom, since that was where he spent the majority of his time.

Chester tenderly lifted the glass fish bowl from his desk and into his hands. “Guess what I did today, Spoon,” he said. Spoon said nothing. “Yes! I painted Maylin’s cell again. I don’t think I like her very much, but I guess I’d be unemployed without her, huh? Not many establishments need paintwork like that on a regular basis….”

Chester blathered on about his day for quite some time. Spoon never minded. He was a good pet. He just swished his golden tail and listened. At 8:47 PM, Chester realized he was exhausted. “By the power of Grayskull!” he said. “Would you look at the time, Spoon? I’ve got to get to bed. Nice chat.” Then, he clambered under the white sheets on his thin, white mattress in the corner of his exceedingly white bedroom and fell asleep.

October 19, 2008—Chester’s 30th birthday (3:14 AM—At the Seven-Eleven across the street)
“What do you mean you don’t sell fish tonic?” sobbed Chester to the bewildered Seven-Eleven cashier. This cashier, Jacob Naismith, had always been his favorite. He always understood that every now and then, one simply needed to experience the glory that is spreadable cheese, even if it was well past midnight. On this frigid, unfortunate night in Salem, Oregon, however, Chester felt his trust in the bearded teenager shatter. How could he let him down at a time like this?

“Chiiiiiiiiiiiiiiill, Ches’,” Jacob slurred consolingly. He patted Chester on the shoulder a few times. “This inna fish store,” he explained with an air of great patience. His words, unfortunately, were useless, as by this time, Chester had sunk to the floor in abject misery, his whimpers reverberating piteously throughout the otherwise empty store. With a murmured curse, Jacob left his post and moved to a forgotten corner of the shop where he knew he would find the frozen foods. With ease, he located a box of Fruit-O-Riffic Ice Pops and collected it. When he returned to the register, Chester was still huddled inward, so he knelt down to extend to him the box. “Here,” he said gruffly. “‘S on the house.”
Chester uncurled enough to pout. “Y-you know I only buy the purple ones.” Chester firmly believed that the jokes on the purple popsicle sticks were far superior to the jokes on the others.

“Well, take ‘em anyway. Will tha’ be all?” Chester straightened slowly and carefully composed himself. He glared mildly at Jacob.

“No,” he said shortly, and he placed a jar of his favorite cheese spread on the counter. “That will be all.” Jacob grunted in response and scanned the items.

“One-oh-eight’s the total.” Chester rummaged in his pocket for a moment and pulled out a large coin purse. Seventy-five seconds later, the counter held three quarters, three dimes and a nickel.

“Keep the change,” Chester said. Then, he exited the shop.

Snow seeped into Chester’s moccasins, flattened his sandy curls, and melted against his white t-shirt. Had Chester not been far too despondent to notice or care, he would have complained that only in Salem could such weather occur in mid-October. When he had awakened today at 2:51 AM to the enormous hankering for cheese spread, he had not been prepared to see the sickly pallor of his beloved pet goldfish’s face. More than anything else in the world, Chester feared that by the time he saw Spoon again, the light would have left the fish’s tiny black eyes. Though Chester did not own a car, and the buses didn’t run this late at night, and Chester deeply distrusted cab drivers, he would have willingly walked the three miles to the nearest pet shop if he had thought it would help. But he knew that the store would not be open at this hour.

Chester seethed at the injustice of it all as he passed over the threshold of his apartment. Pets didn’t die any less frequently than humans did at 3:00 AM, so why wasn’t there a proper infirmary for his poor fish?

When Chester reached his bedroom, he sank to his knees for the second time that night, but this time in relief; Spoon was stilling hanging in there. Gently, he picked up the fish bowl and carried it to his thin mattress in the corner, where he settled in for his vigil. He was glad he had his cheese to help him through the long night.

11:26 PM (later that day in Chester’s apartment)
It was finally time for the last square foot of wall. The paint looked lovely; there wasn’t a single scratch visible under the surface anymore. He had done well.

With satisfaction, he lifted the paintbrush for the final section of paint. His job wasn’t awful, but he didn’t have any urge to stay longer than absolutely necessary. He was looking forward to another quiet weekend with Spoon….
Something was wrong. The paint—why had his bucket of white paint suddenly turned red? It would take him ages to cover that! Baffled, he watched the red spread slowly across the white. This wasn’t normal paint behavior at all. This red quite frankly made him feel ill. It looked like pain. It reminded him of his poor fish—

“Spoon!” Chester shouted, jerking awake. He looked down at the bowl in his hands. “No,” he choked. It couldn’t be.
Spoon floated on the water’s surface, mouth agape and eye still open. He was dead? Chester’s heart snapped right in two. His best friend was gone.

At that moment, Chester felt like a turkey on Thanksgiving. What future was there for him now? He had no one, save for a nosy Aunt Beatrice in Rhode Island. He could hardly move back in with her. Spoon would never have approved.

“Spoon,” he moaned. He tried to recall what life had been like before Spoon and failed to recollect. Maybe he should take some personal time. Could he, really? He hadn’t missed a day of work in over six years. It’s time, he thought gravely.
He picked up the phone. “Hullo, Janice?”

October 25, 2008—Chester’s apartment
Chester tore through the hallway to his bedroom at a not-quite-run. Guilt ravaged at his pancreas as he thought of his poor, lonely dead fish. Spoon deserved a caretaker who didn’t leave him at the slightest twinge of his bladder. He was weak—weak! What if his dearly departed pet’s soul was still drifting, half-reposed? He was a failure. What had he been thinking? A fish as intrinsically good as Spoon would have quite the soul; there was no way it would have vanished after a mere five days.

He hung his head as he prodded the door open. Please forgive me, he thought. Sighing mournfully, he raised his gaze to rest upon his fish. But Spoon wasn’t there.

“What—where—Spoon!” Chester spluttered frantically. And he found Spoon.

Maylin Trent sat calmly upon his shoddy mattress, licking his dead beloved pet.

“I’ve missed you this week,” she said. Her eyes gave nothing away. Did she actually expect a response?

A pregnant pause elapsed. Then, Maylin’s sinister green eyes flooded with salty wet pain. “I have been distraught,” she sobbed. “I have not slept.”

Chester shifted his weight restlessly. “My… my fish. He is passed. I only needed time. Please give me my fish, Ms. Trent.” Maylin growled gutturally and hurled the glass bowl across the room. It shattered against the wardrobe, where water dribbled steadily down the wood to the rug.

“I. Have. Been. Distraught!” she growled. Chester shivered and scratched urgently at his week-old beard.

“I am deeply sorry, Ms. Trent! M-my fish, see—!”

“I have heard quite enough about your fish!” Maylin erupted. Chester was offended. No one talked about Spoon like that.

“Why are you here?” he asked icily. Maylin scoffed, indignant. Wasn’t it obvious?

“I told you. I’ve missed you, dear,” she said sweetly. Her dilapidated smile only flickered when Chester flinched.

“We have never even spoken, Ms. Trent,” Chester added haltingly. Maylin’s eyes flashed with fury, and Chester took a step back from the imminent explosion. This would be trouble.

“LIES!” she roared. “We spoke on the sweet occasion of our first meeting! The warden said, ‘Mr. Montgomery, this is Ms. Maylin Trent; she’s been here awhile.’ And then you said, ‘Hullo.’ Do you deny it?”

“I suppose not….” Chester acceded. The shock of the occasion was beginning to wear off, and he felt impatient and a bit afraid. “But won’t you leave Spoon alone? He has—” and here, his voice broke, “He did you no wrong!”

“On the contrary,” Maylin scowled. “He has done me wrong by winning your affection where I could not. But that is no matter. Your fish is in the great glass bowl in the sky! Heeheehm oooh hahahaha!”

So love was what she wanted? How unfortunate that it was the only thing that he could never truly give her. There must be a way out of this mess…. “What do you want?” Chester asked dejectedly. Surely this woman must have some kind of desire upon which they could compromise. Maybe she shared his appetite for cheese spread.

“I do not ask for what I know I cannot receive,” said Maylin. Then, from beneath the thin mattress upon which she sat, she drew a sword. Chester’s heart dropped into his small intestine.

“M-Ms. Trent, you know I would never have hurt you intentionally. I-I will do anything, Ms. Trent!” Surely she wouldn’t kill him. It was simply too absurd.

“You will not love me,” she whispered, “And so you must be eliminated.” She threw the sword wildly and missed by a wide margin. The tip plowed through the bedroom door, causing it to slam shut entirely.

“You ought to return, Ms. Trent! You need help!” Chester yelped. He would have nightmares for the rest of his life, surely.

“Never!” she screamed. “You—you have not suffered! I command you to suffer!” Chester’s knees gave, and he hit the carpet with a muffled thump. He felt the water from Spoon’s bowl seeping through the knees of his khaki cargo pants.
“I am suffering a great deal, Ms. Trent! You need help! Please, I beg of you—leave me to bury my fish in peace!”

Maylin wailed; it was an unearthly sound. The chandelier rattled. She lunged across the room, perhaps to retrieve the sword or perhaps to make a physical attack, and—CRASH—the chandelier fell. Maylin’s scream came to a garbled close.
Chester stepped closer to inspect the situation. Was he grateful or guilt-ridden? “Maylin?” he asked hesitantly.

“Yes, love?” Maylin croaked. They both knew the end was near. A single tear dripped down Maylin’s agonized face.

“I apologize about the chandelier,” he said. Did he mean it? Did it matter?

“I forgive you, darling,” said Maylin, as if in a dream. That was nice to know, Chester supposed—even if it was a little creepy.

“And Maylin?” Chester said suddenly, needing to put her mind at rest. It wouldn’t do for her to haunt him all his days. Spoon probably hated him for allowing Maylin to get her hands on him as it was. He didn’t need two personal ghosts.

“Mm?” she responded weakly. Yes, he had to say something. They would both feel better.

“I’ve always thought you were very unique,” he said. Maylin smiled a bit and expelled a contented breath. Chester allowed himself to relax.

“And Maylin?” he asked again. He had one thing still that must be said. Then, truly, things might be alright again.
But Maylin did not respond, for she was in the great glass bowl in the sky.

Chester sighed. “You’re on my fish….”

Brewster’s hand is unconventional. It was maligned during the liberations of Vietnam and Kuwait. His weekends are as complex as most — coffee, morning news, pop tarts, grocery store, post office, couch, Montel, Taco Bell, skin sites, beer, bed.

He used to work at Al’s Hardware and Mr. Video. Now things are different. A driver goes places — makes sacrifices, takes a few for the team. Less Montel, more Taco Bell.

Yes, Brewster Middleman loves his new job. Hank doesn’t yank him around — even pays for his gas. It’s interesting work. He drives an old hearse equipped with a hydraulic backend. Doesn’t ask questions — just picks up cargo, drops it off…gets the job done.

His appearance is unassuming: wavy, dirty blonde hair just greasy enough to stay in a neat pile, round-rimmed spectacles, tight-fitting stone washed jean jacket, drab corduroys, and an untucked oxford button-down shirt. The sparse everyday traffic dissipates as he rolls slowly down the street. No need for a police escort in Westerly — folks are genuine, polite…genuflecting.

His old Toyota didn’t eat up as much gas, but the new ride is smooth as a magic carpet. Feels like he’s always driving in the clouds — home free, not a care in the burg. And Hank. Hank is nice — even had the tailor sew him a special pair of gloves — three fingers and half a thumb.

But days turn into nights as he comes home in time to see home fitness infomercials and static. Only fire hot cheetos and powdered milk remain in his cupboard. He nods off and then the phone rings.

“Brew, Baby. I need a quart of Vaseline and some scissors, you up?”

“Mmyeah. Be right there.”

The familiar smells of formaldehyde, leather, and freon command his trance. He’s back on the road — a familiar path glows ahead. Ol’ Herbie turns himself and there it is…the 21st century: iridescent and unsympathetic hulking dominance lording over barren asphalt.

***

That’s a decent enough beginning. Enough to shout at me from under my desk lamp across the room — FINISH ME.

I was probably about to write something fantastic, profound even, when my phone rang. It was Larry.

“Goddamit, Craig. They’ve finally done it – crashed the Chrysler. Meet me tomorrow for breakfast.”

They had lived in constant fear of such an event. Never did they leave the house without road flares and a cumbersome pile of flammable, wooly blankets. In fact, it was that morbid fascination…preoccupation that had kept me away from the ill-fated semi-annual family excursion to San Antonio.

Tired of the hemming and hawing about danger — alligators, airline terrorists, SUV rollovers, child abductions, socialist hurricanes…I had, much to the chagrin of the fam, decided to take a break. I’d just sit one out and try to make some progress on the story.

I would have been writing about Brewster’s ex-wife. I could have dedicated an entire chapter to her drunken escapades. Linda, the abusive ex-nurse with the acerbic wit and bad hair of a daytime court judge; her shrill voice had anthropomorphized my mid-afternoon migraine.

But this call from Larry had brushed the memory of Linda aside for the moment. The heaviness didn’t hit squarely, but lurked around the perimeter — waiting for an open hole in my psyche — a vulnerable scar leftover from a deep, old nasty gash.

So, the big, fat, stoic silence grabbed my spine and held on tight. I’m sure several seconds passed. I heard Larry’s breath: even and steady after all these years — the deep slow breath of a scuba diver: a man accustomed to the bends.

“So, we’ll eat then…”

“Yeah, I’ll be there.”

I flipped the lamp switch and hopped into my cozy twin bed, wondering if I was a protagonist or antagonist.

We met for lunch the next day at a small taco establishment. He stepped out of his anonymous brown compact, adjusted his spectacles, and walked toward me with an outstretched hand. I shook it. His face, more than ever, was shaped by a slight but pervasively detached dread — resigned to the inevitable like a veritable old monk.

I’m always cautious of that hand as though I might crush it — a small bird — through carelessness. Yet, that so-called hand is the least vulnerable thing about him; it twisted my sweaty palm like a loose doorknob.

“Tacos” I said.

A faint smile traced his lips; he nodded.

“Yes, Cousin.”

Giacone’s was a real stand-up joint serving beer for breakfast with a wedge of lime for posterity. He ordered two fried fish and egg tacos with extra hot sauce. The spicy scent kept Larry civil.

The cashier displayed her shiny teeth, biting her lower lip. Brown hair rested loose on the shoulders of her white-collared blouse. Larry stared back intensely. A grin flickered near the corners of his mouth as he collected his change.

I quickly ordered a carnitas, hash brown, and egg burrito and we sat down at a quiet table near the vacant adjacent lot. The near constant eye contact shook the pit of my empty stomach.

“So, I guess we should… Maybe we can…”

“Your order,” she interjected. Her steps were quick and light. Leaning far over the table, she placed the trays before us.

“It’s alright. I have the spare time… to, you know, arrange it. I just need a….”

“Can I help you with anything else?” Her hands rested firmly on her hips. Her head cocked to one side; she looked back and forth between us, tapping a menu slowly on her thigh. Larry rolled an orange toothpick between his thin lips, leaning back slightly in his chair.  The hot breeze pushed empty taco wrappers past our feet and traffic slid by on the adjacent street.

“We’re good,” I said.

The beers were ice cold in small frosty mugs. We sat munching. His face hadn’t changed a bit; only slightly deeper were the creases of middle age present in his leather-shined forehead. I glanced sideways at the thousands of tiny open pores, each representational of another Bloody Mary, extra Tabasco. The same spectacle-magnified pale blue stare carved a beam of concentration over my right shoulder as tiny bits of salsa-fried cod dribbled down from lips to chin.

I looked down and my beer was empty — didn’t remember drinking it. I sucked on the lime rind as consolation. The bitter beer aftertaste waltzed with the sweet citrus remains.

“A favor,” he whispered.

She walked back toward the stand, turning once to catch our eyes.

***

His car, beastly old symbol of reliability; it shuddered; trembled like a sea-weathered old sailor in the grips of pneumonia. Gasping, wheezing, smoking, then sputtering, Brewster still kept the faith. That is until flames shot out of the hood.

He sailed out of his open window into the dewy grass. Quickly up on his feet, he burst into his apartment, snatched the fire extinguisher, pulled the pin, and coolly doused the flames. Through the smoke, he glanced down at his digital watch. It chirped the half hour and a bead of sweat rolled down his forehead.

He walked across the parking lot, hoisting the fire extinguisher slowly above his head.  And with loping desperation, he crashed it through the driver side window of an ’86 Camaro. Brewster’s arms were bleeding beneath his cardigan sweater. He did not know this, but he did know that his hands were busy boosting the first car he had ever owned.

The back wheels fishtailed slightly along the moist asphalt with controlled recklessness as he pressed the accelerator further toward the floor. The red light up ahead blinked “look both ways.” He flew through several such lights, heading straight for the only store still open. With minutes to spare, he spun the car into a CVS parking lot with a screech from hell. His legs jogged for the first time in years and once inside, he sprinted for back of the store. Grabbing a large tube of lube, he continued out the back. Piercing alarm tones followed him into the parking lot as he jumped back into the roughly idling Camaro. Visibly bored employees walked out the open back door to catch a glimpse.  They witnessed a cloud of smoke and a near accident leaving the parking lot. A green blur shot down the main drag of Corgansville. Security tapes would turn up surprisingly little more evidence: three rear angle action snapshots of a denim-clad figure wearing dark tinted aviator sunglasses.

But Brewster was heading for less than anonymity on the outskirts of town. Hank, by most accounts, was a pillar of unparalleled justice…except for the small issue of timeliness.

***

Prison hadn’t changed Larry.  He still didn’t look capable of murder. I suppose that’s why the judge and jury saw it fit to convict him of manslaughter rather than murder, eight years instead of twenty.

The man killed his boss. Self defense? I’d like to think so.

As he finished his beer, I eyed him sideways, admiring the strength of his maimed hand. Sweat rolled down the outside of the bottle. I pictured it gasping for air…losing liquid life. My mind wandered to shouting in the driveway of a first rate mansion. Through the immaculately rounded hedges, I saw streetlight shine off a black metal pistol. It cocked hollow and then came the fleshy sound of an arm falling forcefully out of socket.

I’d been in the courtroom; heard the testimony. Witnesses described a “grotesque gurgling sound” audible from the balcony above. I saw medical x-rays and crime scene photos. The thought of that crushed larynx made me grasp my throat. And I hailed our waitress for another beer.

Larry kicked my foot under the table. He cleared his throat. I had, after all and against my better judgment, agreed.

“I’ll have another, please…and my friend here…he’d like to know what time your shift ends.”

She brushed a piece of hair back behind her left ear and smiled.

“I’m Linda,” she said. “And you are my last table.” 

Sincerely,
Shecky Merman

FADE IN TO

Flashback sequence, as Bobby J. Memphis stomps out of the conference room, the others still laughing.

Bobby J. enters the rest room, still perturbed at the rest of Yanstebangus. He selects a piece of reading material from the rack. Close-up of it: a Johnny McStuff catalog.

~_^.^_~

Eddie Fraught and George Portent had gotten laid off when the truck-building plant was shut down in the latest attempt to adapt to a rapidly failing economy. There weren’t any sweetheart deals for the rank-and-file, although Upper Management supporters of various politicians tried to call in favors. Regrettably, several states and a wide cross-section of the bankers had been in line first, snapping up $700,000,000,000.00 in relief checks. Most of managers got shuffled to other plants; some got “golden handshakes” equal to three years’ pay for “worker bees” like George and Eddie.

Fortunately for George and Eddie, neither had to resort to sweeping Aisle Number Nine at Mal-Wart, the world’s bargain super-center. They got jobs sweeping aisles and fulfilling orders at the local Johnny McStuff Novelty Warehouse.

“Hey, Eddie, check this out. Somebody ordered the last 3 B625A’s we’ve got.” George waved the crinkly pull ticket as he stuck it on the clipboard on Eddie’s forklift.

Eddie flipped a few pages in the catalog. He hadn’t quite memorized what all of the codes signified. A wide grin broke over his grizzled face. “Someone’s going to have fun with these!”

~_^.^_~

Giovanni leaned in to the table, addressing the other 3 musical superstars. “All I can tell you is that this… thing… spoke. It knocked me out and must have dumped me in the car and moved it. And the scroll warned me about ‘The Shadowy Masters.’ ”

Billy P. sat back and said, “And you’re sure you weren’t drinking? I mean… Shadowy Masters… android machines with floating political consultants… lion-men living in underground lairs? It’s a little… well…”

Giovanni snapped, “I wasn’t drunk! I know what I saw.” He buried his dark eyes in his brow and slammed himself back in his chair.

“Alright, alright,” said Stefano, bending forward and raising his hand slightly. “Let’s figure what Giovanni says is legit. What are they going to want with us, anyway? Maybe to play a benefit concert for some big politico? Hey, that might make us more bread than a cereal endorsement.”

An audible groan came from the others.

“Whatever, it would;” Stefano went on, “but what I’m saying is that we have to focus on this tour we’re doing. No creepy Halloween ghost stories, we have 25 cities in 39 days. So, gentlemen, we keep our eyes open but get ready to rehearse.”

Bobby J. Memphis spoke up. “Hell yeah, y’all. I’m not worried. I’m just glad we’ve got the little breaks in there, because Brother Claghorn wants me to do a couple of those benefit shows for his campaign. Not like I’m makin’ any money off ‘im.” He gave Stefano the hairy eyeball.

“Okay, Bobby J., enough.” Stefano shrugged off the barb. “I meant we’d sell more albums after an appearance. I know you wouldn’t object to that.”

“Yeah, true,” said Bobby J. “Anyway… don’t forget that chili the Mrs. sent in. It’s in the crock-pot.”

“Yeah, it smells great,” said Billy P.

The others nodded agreement. It was the generic lunchtime, around noon, so they broke and enjoyed the chili. Bobby J. didn’t take much, attributing this to a huge brunch at Victory Worship Center on the way in.

~_^.^_~

NOTE: faint of heart? Squeamish? Low “grossout’ factor? Have better taste and aesthetic sense than Shecky Merman? Give up now, scroll to the bottom, and look forward to the next installment of Yanstebangus! Even Jim Carrey or Mike Myers fans should cringe. Consider that a warning.

The rest of you, well, read on.

~_^.^_~

The four-alarm chili was delectable, as the second and, in Stefano’s case, third helpings attested. There was just the right amount of heat, and a delicate balance of peppers to meat and bean flavors. The chili had obviously simmered for at least a full day, very low, to infuse everything with Southwest goodness. There were even almost chocolate notes to the flavor.

“Wow, kind of the reverse of Chocolat,’ said Billy P.

“Yeah, well, just don’t get no funny ideas, man,” quipped Bobby J.

Everyone roared at this. And A Good Time Was Had By All.

There was a moment, shortly following, that to this day will get you a trouncing by three members of this League Of Ordinary Gentlemen.

Almost at the same moment-now, seriously, if you hate gross-out gags-oh, hell, you were warned-three out of four band members felt a strange curdling in their stomachs. There was that sensation that, once experienced, is never forgotten. It’s one of the hallmarks of the human experience, and not one of the fun ones. The sensation of your intestines coming to a full, roiling boil, which only the most insensate would not connect to an immutable, imminent, nauseating explosion.

They looked at each other with that hopeless anti-grin, top teeth resting on down-turned bottom lip. They all stood abruptly. Their legs sent the rolling conference-room chairs haphazardly spinning backward. They were all calculating that there were 2 bathrooms, one with 2 stalls, the other a single.

Bobby J. remained seated. “What’s up with you all?” he asked, innocently, suppressing a smirk.

“No time!” shouted Stefano, rushing at the door. Billy P. and Giovanni just nodded and sprinted closely behind.

Bobby J. howled with laughter alone in the conference room.

As they raced toward the restrooms, Stefano said, “Ladies Room’s got 2 stalls, right?”

“Yeah,” confirmed Giovanni, breathless. “Janitor always leaves the door propped after cleaning and we never use it, so you can see that.”

“Not like I’m looking in there, usually,” he added.

“Usually,” said Billy P., keeping much better humor than one normally would under the circumstances. “Anyway, Stefano, you go for the men’s, whatever, I don’t care, I gotta GO!”

They made it there, with mere seconds to spare. Their shoes clattered over the floor with the sound of tap-dancers having epileptic seizures. As each flicked the stall doors, open, they raised the toilet lids, rapidly.

Shrill electronic screams greeted them, and each saw a horrifying monster, claws outstretched, leaping from inside the bowl. That it was made of rubber and its claws were suction-cupped to the inside of the lid didn’t ease the shock.

The explosive force with which the bowels of each of our hapless heroes let go could have cracked a cinder block. Suffice to say that it had the sound of a trombone section playing while immersed in chocolate pudding. Billy P. and Giovanni did much better than Stefano, each of them actually making the stall, ripping the plastic toilet monsters out of the way, and flinging themselves onto their respective thrones. Stefano, unfortunately, had a wardrobe malfunction: his button-fly gaucho pants were not made for a speedy escape.

The chili was.

Stefano’s manner and mode of dress were Southwestern, in tune with his persona, but his constitution was decidedly from Pittsburgh. Even though he could withstand 3 cabbage rolls, a pot of black coffee, 4 kielbasas, and a 12-pack of Iron City Beer, he was no match for the fiery chili burning his rump. The hot burst blasted against the taut linen barricade, splashing back against Stefano’s keister, and running down his leg. The vile droll leached to the outside edge of his pants.

Almost instantly, the heat in the trickling mess turned to a cold clamminess, making Stefano’s stomach flip upside down. The toilet monster, tossed to the floor, still looked up at the queasy troubadour. It taunted him with its snaggle-toothed smirk. The garish, sewery scent leapt into his nostrils, reached down his throat, and pulled as much gloppy sputum as it could back up his throat and out onto the discarded prank creature.

A chorus of groans in the stalls of the still-open ladies’ room was a sour soundtrack to Stefano’s indignity. Ashen-faced, befouled in the worst way, all he could do was head back out the door and look for old rags in the janitor’s closet.

Bobby J. was in the hall, laughing and pointing. “What’s a-matter, man, can’t handle yer chili?”

Stefano growled through the bile in his throat, “Just clean that crap up, man! Get the hell outta my way.” He didn’t even take a swing at Bobby J., though the thought had crossed his swirling mind.

At this point, he just collected a bunch of old newspapers to line the seat of his ebony SUV and headed back to his place for a change of clothes. “Paybacks are a bitch,” he thought to himself. He faintly smiled at a plastic skeleton decoration hanging in a tree strung with phony spider webs.

~_^.^_~

Just remember: sometimes a treat may contain the trick. Happy Hallowe’en from Yanstebangus!

If any of you join us next time, God bless you.

And on a serious note, it will soon be Election Day. Be the change you wish to see in the world. Don’t waste your voice on silence. Vote early and vote often.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Previously…

atmfakmf]]> http://www.wordchasm.com/2008/10/19/yanstebangus-poll-position-part-4-novelty/feed/ 1 http://www.wordchasm.com/2008/10/06/yanstebangus-poll-position-part-3-generation-why/ http://www.wordchasm.com/2008/10/06/yanstebangus-poll-position-part-3-generation-why/#comments Mon, 06 Oct 2008 15:00:55 +0000 sheckyMerman http://www.wordchasm.com/?p=445 The shiny new catalog was resting comfortably in the walnut-stained mail tray. The tray had a faded, curled sticky note proclaiming “IN” taped to it. Stefano had just come back from a short tour, promoting his latest instructional DVD and Guitar Accessory Kit. It was also available on Blu-Ray and the Blu-Ray disc featured an interactive game starring Stefano and the other members of Yanstebangus.

Stefano had been looking into a cereal endorsement deal, but so far was the only member to even entertain such a concept. He recalled the day he’d mentioned it to the rest of the supergroup. Those three were always ambivalent about a new idea, until you “pitched” them, he thought.

“I’m not going to be a sellout,” proclaimed Bobby J. Memphis.

Stefano had looked at him incredulously. “You did that dancing show and you’re not going to be a sellout?” he quipped.

Billy P. and Giovanni were already snickering, suppressing laughter. They bellowed out explosions of hilarity when Bobby J. simply muttered, “Shut up, man.” Bobby J. had glared at all of them and scowled his way out of the room. He shook his head in disgust, mullet haircut swaying like a drunken lemur.

Stefano paused at the door, smirking at the visual, then turned the light on. He looked around the office, taking in how much it looked exactly as he’d left it. There were several things piled in his Inbox. A slick, shiny “Vote For Claghorn” mailer perched precariously atop the stack; unceremoniously, it flew into the recycle box under Stefano’s desk as he looked at his correspondence.

There were several items of equal importance. These invitations to marketing seminars in Las Vegas, “Urgent—Open Immediately” offers of 35%-Interest-Bearing Credit Cards, and Call Now To Receive Your Free Gift, Small Membership Fee Required notices met a similar fate.

A couple of envelopes resembling resumes, which Stefano flipped to his desktop, a Modern Marketing Methods magazine, and—a prize!

This quarter’s Johnny McStuff catalog… pages brimming with novelties, idiotic/obscene/offensive t-shirts, desktop decorations, and the finest in Phony Dog Poo. Now here was mail that defined what mail should be.

~_^.^_~

“Hey Merman. Visitor.” The gigantic, lantern-jawed walk-on playing the guard somehow dropped any form of accent, inflection, and tone below the usual low standards here in my sweet little cocoon. I think his name was Smith. It could have been Lurch.

I looked up, and, to my shock and dismay, my ex-wife was there. “Geez,” I said, “first, no pudding at lunch and now this. What’s the matter, overdrawn at the blood bank?”

“Save it,” she said, raising her hand to me, palm first. I’d talked to that hand for well over a decade. It rarely answered with more than one finger. “I don’t have time for that now, and neither do you.”

“So, to what do I owe the honor?”

“It’s your daughter… ugh!” She exhaled with that inimitable derision—a sound she’d mastered over years of dealing with the lesser intellects she was forced to endure. “She is heading for trouble, and she’s going to wind up in Juvenile Hall. You should be happy to know she takes after you.”

My eyes rolled, almost involuntarily. “No, really, I’m a captive audience, keep teasing me. What are you talking about?”

“I think you should ask her yourself.” The immense guard stepped aside, as if on queue. My daughter, Serena, stepped forward from his shadow, bedecked in her usual chain-covered Tripp pants, leather jacket, spiked hair, and various shades of black makeup and jewelry. All in all, the very picture of a normal, well-adjusted child.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Hey, kid, glad to see you! So, what brings you to my little resort here?”

“I don’t know, I, um… well…” She looked at the floor hesitantly as her voice trailed off.

My ex turned to her, arms akimbo. “You were pretty cocky about it a while ago. Well, tell him.”

I was almost glad I had bars around me at this point. “So…?”

The syllable hung there for a moment, and then the child spoke up. “I’m… umm… I… well, I might have to go to Juvy.”

Juvy, or Juvenile Hall, was for Problem Children to go stay for a while to consider the lilies. While it might seem impressive, it’s usually an idea best not considered. Certain types of glamour aren’t as nice as others. Then again, it beats glamour like Scissor Sisters, right?

“OK, so that sounds incomprehensible. Why would you be going there?”

“I… umm… you know your old chainsaw? I… umm… borrowed it?” Her sentence ended with a questioning inflection, as many teens’ did. I ignored the urge to tell her to use the inflection of making a statement and kept listening. Involuntarily, my arms folded across my chest.

“Well, you know Kelly Memphis?”

How could you not? Even here in the gray-bar hotel, you saw ads in magazines and on TV for Kelly-Memphisibilia. Bobby J. Memphis’ teenaged daughter had become a superstar in her own right; actually, No, she was not a superstar, but a merchandising icon. Somehow, some way, the Milt Dizzy entertainment megalith had snapped up Bobby J. Memphis and his daughter for a cheesy sitcom.

It had taken the world by storm, by dint of great self-sacrifice on Dizzy’s part. They had sacrificed millions in marketing dollars, and it must have been paying off. Bobby J. Memphis got to appear on a dancing celebrity show and enjoyed a renaissance of his own flagging career. I continued to sit in here.

“Yes, the height of quality entertainers, no doubt,” I said. “So what does she have to do with all this?”

“I kind of… umm… chain-sawed her head off.”

Eek. Murder? My expression belied my innermost thoughts. So I had to express myself. Sagely, I said, “Eek. Murder?”

“No, but it might as well have been!” Her mother could no longer resist, and burst into the thick of things. “Your daughter—“ long pause for dramatic effect, head sweeping as she turned to regard the offspring, toothy frown on her face—“your daughter took it upon herself to carve up a billboard!”

“What?”

“Yes, a billboard.” My ex growled and pushed on Serena’s elbow. “Go on, tell him.”

Even the gargantuan Smith, or Lurch, whatever his name was, shifted uncomfortably. For a fleeting moment, I considered asking him if he wanted to be in the cell where it was safe.

“I was sick of seeing all these advertisements for Kelly fu—–, uh, umm, Kelly Memphis all over the place. They put up a billboard like a mile from my school. I can’t stand seeing her plastic smile. So me and some friends got your chainsaw.”

I raised an eyebrow, but nodded for her to go on.

“Well, umm, we climbed up the billboard and I kinda, uh, chopped off her head.”

I stifled a laugh, snorting, pretending I sneezed. Nobody bought it. The Ex glared. Lurch frowned. Serena sneaked a smirk over her forced blank expression. The kid definitely was paying attention. However, I had to play the Dad here. Granted, that’s A Little Difficult To Do from behind bars. In fact, it started to creep into my consciousness that this scene didn’t make any more sense than a bad soap opera from the Milt-Dizzy-owned Already Been Cancelled network. I shook off the logic and proceeded.

“And when, exactly, did the thought ‘bad idea’ pop into your head?”

“I don’t know.” She got mad, more at being caught than at being put on the spot, I’m sure. She inhaled and exhaled, loudly. “I guess when the cops got there. Somebody ratted us out.”

The picture in my mind’s eye was just wonderful. Twilight’s gathering gloom; Goth Child on rickety billboard ledge with sputtering, smoky, rusty chainsaw, removing head of pop-superstar icon. Nice. “Did you think maybe the noise of that clanky old chainsaw might have given it away?”

Her cheeks flushed, brows furrowed, head dipped down so I could just see the glaring eyes from underneath. A familiar, inherited expression I had seen elsewhere many times before as well. “No…” The strained force with which this was uttered could have hoisted a girder to the top of a tall building.

“Look, I don’t have a lot of room to talk, but what exactly were you thinking?”

“I don’t know.”

What do you say in a situation like this? Obviously, the protest sentiment was awesome, if a little over-the-top. OK, completely over-the-top; fine. Thanks, fathead, I need to be kept straight, especially given the company in the preceding narrative. Whatever. I’m used to it by now.

Moving right along…

The ex again jumped in. “I just thought you should see what your little stunt inspired your daughter to do. She’ll probably be in Juvenile Hall until senior year. Thanks to you.” The accusatory tone and glare came to rest on me with immaculate, split-second timing.

“Well, that’s not that long, anyway,” I shot back. “Besides, it’ll make a model citizen of her.”

Serena’s jaw dropped a bit. She gave me one of those quizzical one-eyebrow-up, one-eyebrow-down frowning looks that teens are genetically hard-wired to use. I smirked at her and her expression lightened.

The ex gasped audibly and shook her head. “I knew it was useless to try to get a straight answer out of you.” She grabbed at Serena’s arm. “Come on, young lady, we’re going to go.”

“Well, umm, uh, thanks for stopping by?” Trying to make sense out of this was also useless, so I had given up.

“I was going to see if you could help with a lawyer. You never did anything else, of course,” hissed the ex, stopping by the security door and turning back. “I called your wife and she said to ask you.”

This was a complete fabrication. If she’d spoken to my wife, the answer would have been to suggest she check into a hotel and enjoy fornication under consent of the king by herself. Besides, my wife had a pretty fair grasp on the family finances and doctors and lawyers and such. It was pretty essential for a starving artist and suburban cowboy to have someone gifted that way. That she hadn’t dusted me when I got thrown in the clink was a testament to her character. Maybe not to her sanity, but definitely to her character.

“I will call my lawyer and see what he can do,” I said, magnanimously, palms upturned with a minor shrug of my shoulders.

“Oh, we already found a good attorney. We just need to have help paying for her. My daughter needs to have the best attorney money can buy. Your lawyer got you stuck in jail.” She had a fist on her hip and gave a sharp, pointed nod of her head, like a cobra striking at its rodent prey.

Still with the palms upturned, I looked up at the ceiling, silently asking if Anybody Up There Was Watching This. I suppressed a sighing groan. “Well, I don’t know then. I’m a little removed from my accounting stuff here, ya think?”

The ex huffed in exasperation and turned to go.

To Serena, I said, “Look, kid, you screwed up. Funny! Probably a strong statement against greed and corporate consumerism—but it was a screw-up. “

Very quietly, she said, “I knowwwww…..”

“OK, so make the best of it now, do what you have to. We’ll pull for you best as we can. Just think: we’ll have matching striped pajamas.”

“Da-ad…” Serena shook her head, rolled, her eyes, and smiled in spite of herself.

Smith let out a low, rumbling groan, either of disgust or indigestion. “Time for the visitors to go,” he said, in his deep monotone.

“Oh, yes, we were leaving,’ spat the Ex. “Thanks for nothing! As usual!” She stormed out the door, then turned and folded her arms, watching Serena until the child reluctantly walked to follow her.

“Bye, Dad,” said Serena, as she walked out. She seemed resigned to her fate; certainly, her stay at home would be just as punitive as the visit to the judge and the possible excursion as the guest of the county.

“See you kid, I love ya!” I intended to call my lawyer and see what advice he could give.

A quick turn of the head toward me as she paused; “Love you, too.”

The Ex rolled her eyes and motioned for the child to hurry up.

The door slammed shut. Wow. Merman—the Next Generation. Maybe there’s hope after all.

~_^.^_~

TO BE CONTINUED…

Previously…

In retrospect, I actually don’t know exactly where I went wrong. Somewhere along the line, I must have taken a wrong turn or two to land myself so directly in this position, completely opposite to where I started out. I thought I was right then, and I think I’m right now. But who even knows? Who even cares? Who are the bad guys, who are the good guys? Who judges what ends justify which means and if how you do something is more important than getting it done right? I could have started out that way. Maybe it just took a while to finally manifest, cut through the clutter and confusion to find the truth that was always really there. Whatever the path was, it lead me here to this moment.

Speaking of which, focusing might be a good idea right now.

“We seem to have a bit of a problem,” you say coolly. I could throttle you, but I smile instead.

“So it seems.”

Problem indeed. How could one possibly hold so much power and yet be so intensely powerless? Kind of like back when we were in high school. I held your hand and you held mine in the good old summertime, but when the shady lanes turned to dark alleys, your hands were stiff and cold. Opportunities come and gone.

“You know, at some point you’re going to have to make a decision.”

“I know.”

God, it’s cold out. Never mind this jacket, the one you got for my birthday last year. Seems like a century ago now with all that’s happened since then. I mean, you can come to expect change, but soon it starts coming at you fast and hard and rolling with the punches isn’t as easy as it had been. Reflexes slow and bad decisions come with them if you’re not careful. Guess I wasn’t careful enough. Never asking questions, taking you at your word, now those — those were mistakes. Makes me wonder, if the close few were actually the furthest, then what could I expect from the others?

There’s really only one way out of this.

“Allie?”

“Yeah.”

“How are those fingers holding up?”

“Interesting choice of phrase.”

“Just checking.”

Silence again. However this turns out, that was our last fight. Like I haven’t heard that one before.

“Allie?”

“What?”

- Exasperated.

“I’m really sorry about what I said.”

A brief silence.

“So am I.”

“I’m going to go now. ”

“No, you’re not.”

“I love you, Allie.”

“I know.”

A bitter laugh finds its way out of my throat.

“All right, then. This is the way it is.”

I’m not sure what to think as the bullets pass through my chest, throwing me to the floor. Even the smallest decisions, you say, make and break the world. With the last bit of energy, I look up at you, smiling. One world broken, the last one crumbling. One word comes out, but my last words were never spoken.

The stairwell was lit with an indirect, diffuse light at the tops of the walls and with large torches burning along the walls. A closer inspection of one showed the torches were actually mounted via a pipe that appeared to be a natural gas or propane supply. These would be perpetual flames, as long as the fuel supply remained. The ceiling was pale blue and curved, making the walls seem even taller than they were. The soft light above was almost completely swallowed up by the pitch-black walls, floors, and stairs.

Two huge, walnut-and-ebony doors were at the top of the long, wide staircase. They were half-open, the tongues of their locking mechanisms sticking out, taunting the shadowy visitor.

Approaching the door, he saw that there was some source of light from inside the room. He had slipped out of stealth mode since most of the hallway was in shadow. He pulled back along the wall. He stopped momentarily, pulling from his pocket the LED document reading light and the 3-by-5-inch card that had led him here.

The cryptic card was delivered in a plain envelope, with a return address that checked out as a PO Box at the Washington, D.C. Zoo. There was a link to a Google Map and a string of numbers printed on one side, and a hand-drawn sketch of what proved to be the floor plan of this building. There was also a key enclosed. The map, of course, had led here: a non-descript, tattered warehouse in the seedy, poverty-scarred badlands near the docks of New York’s West Side. It was the reality outside the barrage of the mind-bendingly shiny, beautiful excess of Times Square.

He’d decided to drive in under night’s cover. The parking lot was surrounded by rusty chain-link fence topped with sagging security wire. Tatters of some hapless intruder’s jacket or pants, captured by the security wire, fluttered in the chilly breeze. A few pink-orange security lamps glowered down from poles scattered around the pothole-ridden parking lot.

There was a chain at the corner of the rolling gate, fastened with a heavy padlock. The enigmatic key, of course, fit the lock as if the author had been struggling to state the obvious. The lock popped open and the chain scraped along the gate as it slid apart.

The gate was rusted and bent but it, too, opened, grudgingly, rolling to the side with a couple of metallic creaks and groans. He slipped back into the car, quietly closing the door, and pulled forward, slowly. A rat stopped to look at the sleek black sports car, then turned back to the moldy pizza crust it had retrieved from a nearby dumpster.

There was a somewhat out-of-place numeric keypad on the side of a ground-level receiving door. The code on the card opened the door, loudly, but he’d driven the car inside anyway. The area was not one in which you would leave a car unattended, if you had a choice. There were plenty of glitterati driving these sorts of vehicles all around the city, but you’d certainly want to have a ride out of here when you went back for it.

The others had suggested he not go it alone, but he resolved not to endanger the whole team. The envelope had been marked with a logo he was familiar with—a little-known crest used by the elite of the craft. A square composed of 3 connected, black-outlined white rectangles with 2 smaller black rectangles inset across the centers of the inner dividing lines… the symbol for the group known only as C2E.

C2E was not the group who had advised against his solo venture here. True, the stakes herein would be ones that most members of C2E would probably risk. But C2E was more of a professional organization than the day-to-day team. To calm the team—or avoid the haggling—he’d taken off when the rest of them broke for lunch. He’d kept a small bit of insurance by leaving detailed maps of the route here. He also left one of the computers open and locked on the micro-GPS he’d secured to the inside of his shirt. Since it was outfitted with a “panic button,” if anything went South, he could press the contact and, at the very least, alert the others as to where he was and that he needed assistance. He smirked at the thought, then shook his head to focus on the matter at hand.

A vague sense of motion from the corner of his eye. The inaudible whisper of cloth on cloth from the corner of the room. A slight change in the air pressure in the room. The slightest hint of the sound of breathing—just above the sound of his own breathing—helped him get away from the foray into woolgathering.

He shook off the sudden apprehension as being nerves.

He approached the raised dais. There was a large, thick table that jutted up in the center of it. It stood on 2 wide legs, like a trestle table, but was 6 inches thick. The surface, on closer inspection, appeared to have been made of plastic. The top of the table was covered with buttons and dials.

It was the stuff of legends, especially the legends shared by the elusive members of C2E. Maybe it was the geographical simplicity of the tool of their craft, or perhaps the complexity of the mechanics of those devices, but C2E members loved the shroud of mystery. One did not join the organization: the organization recruited members.

So here he was, and this, his second odyssey. So was this his initiation or was he here to guide another? The puzzles and conundrums would have maddened many; resting on the fulcrum edge between genius and madness was sitting in the catbird seat for C2E’s populace. Or so it has been alleged in some dusty old manuscripts thrown over the transom into Shecky Merman’s cell.

The buttons, dials, and slider switches atop the thick table seemed to be arranged in a familiar pattern. Was it Moog? No… not enough dials… and not many patch-cord sockets. Unusual. Newer? Oberheim…? No… a bit older… Arp!

He almost shouted it aloud, and stopped himself. He busied himself with the dials and slider switches. Oscillators… filters… old-school, hands-on synthesis. He set them in a pattern that, if electricity were applied and amplified, would create the sound of a whirling wind. He then set about the dusty ADSR panel… he set attack at 0, Decay at 30, Sustain at 60, and Release at 90.

There was a square button that had begun to glow with a blue light, more and more brightly as he set each of the ADSR sliders. He pressed it, hoping this would provide the next clue.
A vague whirring, as a small motor started and gears engaged, and a long, rectangular piece of the table slowly moved forward, disappearing into the table. A long row of black and white keys was gradually revealed. He counted the octaves—5—so it was a limited-range keyboard.

That probably wouldn’t matter. This puzzle hadn’t been too difficult… so what was the real point? He’d been hoping primarily to find a master’s keyboard and the elusive platinum logo, which would signify his upper-level abilities and membership in this ghostly fraternity. Jim Fetch had already become part of it… and it was his recommendation that had brought Giovanni this far.

He perceived another movement near him in the shadow. It made him stop and look up. He was sure there was someone else in here with him. “Come to the light,” he said, quietly. There was also a commanding tone in his voice that even surprised him.

Nothing.

Giovanni set back to the task at hand, uneasily, and attempted a few different musical passages on the keyboard. This was most likely a musical lock, which he’d seen before. It couldn’t be as simple as the last one had turned out, he reasoned. He did try playing Chopsticks here. Of course, it did nothing.

Mozart’s Eine Kleine Nachtmusik.

Nothing.

Polovtsian Dance No. 2 by Borodin.

Nothing.

Mary Had A Little Lamb.

An LED in the center of the table glowed bright red and went out. No other effect.

“Couldn’t be…” he murmured, aloud. He reflected for a moment and played Mary had A Little Lamb backwards.

A row of green LEDs flashed to life across the controller’s surface. A green LED came to life on the wall directly in front of him, and a section of the wall scratched, scraped, and slid to one side.

Another long tunnel, but this one lit with ordinary fluorescent tubes. The light was searing after the gloom of the C2E controller room.

Giovanni looked carefully around the rest of the once-inky controller room, now that the tunnel lights illuminated it. No one else was there, after all. A simple case of apprehension, apparently.

With newfound resolve, Giovanni walked down the tunnel. It was old—many years old—and made of light-colored brick. Most of the lights burned brightly, but there were a few that had darkened. Some sputtered as their gas had begun to dissipate and the electrons were lacking passage between poles. He could hear subway trains hurtling past, louder near several wooden doors along the tunnel.

There was a metal door at the end of the tunnel, simply marked “NBC,” with a red-eyed peacock crest above the lettering and a C2E logo beneath it. Giovanni reflected for a bit and realized that they were somewhat near Rockefeller Center, but that should still have been at least a mile away on the surface.

This door was locked. Giovanni looked around for the mechanism, since there was likely another musical lock here. Pressing on a small panel oddly placed on the hinge-side of the door, a tiny keyboard popped out.

He exhausted several more complex ideas, but finally understood the C2E concept of “simply complex.” You yourself would have known the combination. Since the early days of radio, the National Broadcasting Company had used a 3-tone chime to announce itself. Dong Ding DONG. The 3 keys played the famous chime, and the door mechanism unlatched.

As cautiously as he opened the door, Giovanni stepped into the next room. It seemed to be an odd laboratory of sorts. There was a master’s keyboard sitting on a desk, a tiny platinum rectangle sitting on its keys. “So this was the adventure,” he thought. “Lots of fun.”

A harsh, metallic voice rang out.

“Come to me.”

Giovanni whirled to see a strange machine, designed as if by a bizarre, reclusive professor from some early-1980s sci-fi thriller. The “head” had two cameras at its top; below them, a microphone sat atop a speaker, giving it a ridiculous “face.”

Pictures of various luminaries in some of their most-memorable moments adorned the walls—Nixon in China, the Reagan Assassination Attempt, JFK’s motorcade, even Britney Spears with a shaved head. A picture of Bobby J. Memphis’ superstar daughter, Kelly, was taped to the brick wall.

There was a huge glass cylinder, filled with a teal-blue liquid and a couple of bodies. . . one of which appeared to be that of Karl Rove. The others looked strangely like some authors from this very Wordchasm, into which you have fallen for this grim tale.

“Come to me.”

The machine spoke again, urging Giovanni toward it. There was a long table with a helmet wired into the machine and something that looked as if one would clamp it over the lower half of their body. It seemed so compelling.

“All of the musical knowledge in the world can be yours.” the machine said. “Come to me. Now.”

Suddenly, there was a growl, and a rush of motion from behind him. “No!”

A strange creature: part man, part animal, dressed in strangely medieval clothing—grabbed at Giovanni’s arm. He spun him away from the machine bodily. “Do not get into that thing!” he hissed.

A large, brightly-lit collar glowed angrily on the beast-man’s neck as lights on the weird machine began to flick on and off and sounds of whirring hard-drives emanated from it. The beast-man clutched at his neck, attempting to tear the collar away amid horrid, gurgling roars of pain.

Giovanni stepped up to the machine, hunting for a keyboard or some control to shut it off. Nothing, apparently, was a control interface. He noticed a large cable coming from the base of the glass cylinder. It ran from just below the machine’s “face” and into the tube. Though obscured by fluid, it seemed to run up to the head of the floating, corpulent body of Rove.
Giovanni pulled the connector out of the machine. Almost instantly, Rove’s body began to twitch inside the cylinder, but the machine went dark, as did the beast-man’s collar.

“I thank you,” said the beast-man. “But you are not safe now. The Shadowy Masters have been alerted, certainly, by the Mastermind going off the grid suddenly.”

“But who—what—are you?”

“It matters little. Let’s just say that I am a figment of an imagination from another time and another network. To protect you—and myself—I must take you away from here and come back and restart the machine.”

“Won’t that also restore your slavery?”

“Yes, but I can work far more effectively here in the guise of one of their minions… the guardian of their laboratory… underground. Also, the machine does help block out memories of the one I lost, and 2 more seasons of progressively-worse dialog.” His husky voice trailed off, lost in memories and recitations of Shakespeare.

Giovanni noticed a wistful look in the thing’s eyes, and could appreciate his pain at the mediocrity forced upon him by too many seasons of commercialization.

The beast-man looked up. “However, I mustn’t let you see where I take you to escape. I apologize, Giovanni.”

The thing lunged; Giovanni felt an impact on his head, then blackness.

~-~

Consciousness returned.

Giovanni’s head still ached, and he raised his hand to rub it. As he became clearer, he was inside his car, and it was outside of a different warehouse.

On the passenger’s seat was the platinum C2E logo and a small scroll. Giovanni turned, and engulfing in the small space behind the seats, was the master’s keyboard.

He opened the scroll to read the words.

These were printed from some form of printing device:

He who has determined the key
Is now a part of C2E

There were also words written in longhand with a pen.

Beware the Shadowy Masters, as they are aware of you. Your mystery intrigues them. You must understand that this was their trap to enlist you for their devious ends. V

Giovanni decided he’d better get back to Yanstebangus HQ as quickly as he could.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Previously…

“They’ll be men yet,” he sighed, elbowing me in the ribs. I shook my head, but couldn’t hold back a smirk.

“A little bit of the devil in all-of-em,” I said. “Boys…”

“They say times change, but it’s only the weather.” said Father Kaveatz. He grabbed a high ball glass of scotch with his meaty hands, wiping the glass’s perspiration on the front of his tight, black cassock. A quick swig smoothed the crease of tension from his tan forehead and he stared down at his dining room table. He unwrapped a small stack of letters, pulled his silver letter opener from the top desk drawer, and sat down. He made quick work of the envelopes then patted down his pockets.

“Can’t read a damn thing without my glasses.”

I watched his dark eyes closely for a moment or two. And all while, I twirled the rosary in my habit pocket, testing my strength by resisting the strong urge to scratch the itch underneath my rayon apostolnik.

“May I?” I asked, reaching toward the binoculars. He nodded and I carefully positioned them in front of my bifocals. My skinny, wrinkled fingers struggled to control a tremor. Still, I saw Craig Simmons, Damon Jones, and little Michael Stenson. Their faces were twisted and barely audible screams reached my old ears. But the action moved too fast. A bit dizzy, I set the binoculars down on Father’s desk.

“Such violence,” I mumbled. “After all this time, can’t we find a better…”

“We’re all animals,” he said as he took a long slug. He sucked down a wet breath, exhaled fragrantly, and stared out the window again.

“Sister, the sooner they realize…the sooner they’ll be ready.”

I watched him watching for what must have been five minutes. The smooth rosary beads felt cold against my aching fingers. I must have been in communication with the Holy Spirit, because I don’t remember thinking a single thought. Once back in focus, I pulled Father’s eyeglasses from the third drawer down and placed them on top of his desk. He was still deep in thought as I exited the room.