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Post by supinesnake on May 30, 2024 12:47:12 GMT
Promo history - volume 80.
"Flume." (March 28th, 2022)
Thomas West def. Michelle von Horrowitz [FWA World Championship] (FWA: Carnal Contendership 2022).  MICHELLE von HORROWITZ in
[VOLUME EIGHTY]
"FLUME."
The water, emerging quickly and noisily from the showerhead, was cold upon her legs, hanging as they were over the side of the bath. The gold plating of her championship belt provided some comfort, too. It was upturned on her stomach, and she found the pressure and weight of the belt as well as the temperature of the metal refreshing. Everything else was blistering hot, and she could feel the sweat emerging from almost every pore upon her body, squealing in disharmony with it, desperate to extract itself in an agitated bid for freedom. She was lying on the floor of the bathroom in her motel. She couldn't quite remember how she’d got there, but imagined she must have positioned herself here because of the soothing effect that the cool tiles had on her pale, burning skin. That sounded like something she'd do. She’d laid here so long, though, that the ceramic floor was now just as hot and cloying as the rest of existence. Another force was pinning her down to them. One that she hadn't the power to resist. She straightened her legs beneath the stream of water from the showerhead, allowing it to trickle over her calves. The lightbulb hung loosely from the ceiling on a frayed black wire, flickering intermittently as the current struggled on through. It scorched her retinas and quickened the pace of the throbbing in her head. She feared her brain was about to leak out of her ears and turned away from the bulb for respite. Sanctuary.
There was none to be found. Through the half-open door she could see a slender rectangle of the grotty bedroom. Stained curtains were drawn across cracked windows. The room's only items of furniture were a small table, upon which sat a disconnected phone, and the old, firm, yet surprisingly comfortable bed. That comfort was reserved for the nights leading up to The Grand March. Tonight, the bed was a sorry second to the tiles on the bathroom floor. She adjusted her championship belt on her stomach as if it were a duvet.
Almost in reply, the woman - the other woman, the one in the bed - slowly turned in her sleep. Half of her left foot had been protruding from beneath the sheets, which she unconsciously rewrapped herself in, in preparation for a few more hours away from this world.
Michelle was surprised that the other woman had come here, but she must have won the argument. She was no doubt staying with the other 'talent' in the four-star hotel that was closed off to the public to accommodate them. Michelle had no intention of going there. It was safer here. She was glad to have won the argument.
When she turned her head to the other side, her nostrils were assaulted by the scent of her vomit in the toilet bowl. This was not what victory should smell like. She reached up with a lethargic arm to flush it away, the sound of the plumbing mechanisms a sudden and unexpected onslaught. She placed her head back on the tiles, her hair drenched with sweat, and closed her eyes. She wondered how she'd got here.
The pressure of the shower faltered, dragging her back into the moment. It gurgled and spluttered and dripped, and then it died away all together. She stared at the showerhead, her eyes narrowing, as if attempting to will it back to life with the power of her mind.
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She turned the dial and stared down at the water - mixed with blood from reopened cuts on her abdomen - as it washed around her feet before swirling down the drain. No sudden movements. She'd only left the ring an hour ago, and now was not the time for urgency. She toweled herself down with great care and uncharacteristic patience. She picked her baggiest clothes and slowly pulled them over her still-aching body, her eyes all-the-while trained on the ten kilograms of gold sitting in the opposite corner of the room.
That was what this was all for. Or, more accurately, it had been about the idea that the belt represented. She remembered the last time she'd held it, as she handed it over to the official in Tokyo. That night damaged her, damaged her intentions, and in many ways damaged the belt, too. What was to come next would be even more difficult, with the memories of those failures still fresh in their mind. Fresh in her mind. But it was hers again. At least now the work could begin.
Just as she pulled her second sock on, the door to her locker room swung open and a procession of Nephews entered one-by-one. At the head of the column was Uncle J.J. JAY!, who beamed at Michelle whilst he strode over to her championship belt for an impromptu and unannounced inspection.
"Dreamer! Don't mind if I… ?" he said, trailing off as he picked up the belt and held it in front of his face by one of its straps. "Pretty, yes! Could do with some more pink. But we'll see to that in Brazil, maybe. Thomas, catch!"
Uncle threw the belt up into the air, and West - who was second into the locker room only after their leader - caught it in both hands, with all the fleeting panic and caution that one would display if they were tossed a newborn baby.
"What a weekend, Dreamer!" Uncle continued, as Thomas's glance lingered on the gold for a noticeable and noteworthy moment before he handed it over to Quiet. Her locker room seemed large before the match, but now it heaved with a sea of humanity. Or, in some cases, something close to but not quite humanity. "Six wins for the Nephews! Pretty remarkable, if you ask me! Of course, half of them were Thomas's, but two championships are now with us! I couldn't be prouder!"
He placed one of his hands on Harry's shoulder and the other on Michelle's, and beamed widely and wildly beneath the tentacles of his mask. Quiet was flanked by the podcast host on one side and the young wizard on the other, and behind them the Leviathans loomed awkwardly. Maiden of Death, ь-I, and Gerald were gathered in the corner, whilst Alphonse, Stop Sign #2, and peripheral Nephew Eric Bana lingered around the doorway. She wondered why her tag team partner was amongst the background players. The belt was handed over to Harry, who struggled under the weight of hers and his together.
"Soon enough, Harry will be X Champion, and some combination of us will see to either the old men or the angry stockbrokers," he went on, showing no sign of slowing down. "Hot Nephews Fall might've been a tad optimistic, looking back on things. But I'm feeling quite wonderful about Spring, Nephews!"
There was a general chatter amongst the group that was excited and hopeful in tone. Michelle finished putting on her shoes. Gerald shuffled awkwardly, and several sets of eyes were drawn onto him when he cleared his throat. It was as if he meant to speak, but he didn't.
"The future is bright for you too, GiGi!" Uncle said, sensing the young man's anxiety and striding over to placate him. "The Carnal Contendership, if you want another crack at Dreamer here. Or the North American Championship again. I mean, who else is there? And you've got your tag team match, too."
"Whenever that is," Gerald said, looking up at Dreamer pointedly. She had gladly delayed their tag team championship shot when Stu and Caesar approached her about it, thinking she'd be preparing for a first defence against Mike Parr or Randy Ramon or Krash. Gerald wasn't consulted. She thought he'd understand, and even now reasoned that he probably did, despite his dour and accusatory tone.
"Whenever that is," Michelle repeated. She still felt a little hot from the match, and specifically from having to break up Gerald's sunset flip pin attempt on Nova. That wasn't part of the plan. In fact, it ran in direct contradiction to the plan.
"Look, Nephews," Uncle started, looking between the Connection in a somewhat agitated manner. "Tonight was always going to be difficult for at least one of you. We should be thankful that both of you don't feel this way! The victor is in this room. That's all that matters. It's all that matters tonight, and it's all that will matter in Indianapolis, too…"
As he delivered this last line, Uncle looked from Gerald over to Thomas, who was still examining the World Championship belt from over the shoulders of the Leviathans. It was unclear if the podcast host registered the comment.
"Now, what do you say we go and celebrate?" Uncle asked, returning to a central position in the room (its focal point, naturally) and rubbing his hands together. "I know Gator Guy wants to go to the casino on Deltranox Alpha-4, but I'm suggesting we save that until the end of the night. There's an end of the world party in the Gull System. Star's going supernova. Should be a blast! Or we could train? Tenkaichi Budokai isn't long away at all now, Nephews!"
The group exchanged hurried and private conversations, clarifying their preferences with one another. All except Gerald, who remained solemn and silent, until he finally stepped forward to bring them back to attention.
"Not tonight," he announced, his hands stuffed in his pockets and his eyes directed at the floor. "Not for me. I'm just going back to the hotel. My head kinda hurts."
"I'll give you a lift," Thomas put in, removing his car keys from his pocket and jangling them in the Daredevil's direction. "You might be concussed. Probably shouldn't be driving that Kawasaki tonight…"
The two filed out, with Gerald offering her a weak smile as he disappeared out of the door. Thomas didn't turn back at all, as if he were Orpheus, and worried that his title shot might disappear.
"Well, Dreamer?" Uncle asked, turning back towards her. "What do you think?"
”Same as Gerald, tulip," she offered, whilst standing up and collecting her belt from ÑŒ-I. "Early night."
"Suit yourself," Uncle answered, whilst moving towards the door and taking Harry under his wing. "We'll see you in a few days, Dreamer. Now, Harry, have you ever been to an end of the world party? Probably not. You gotta keep your wits about you, but a Gullanese woman's foot is really quite something…"
JAY!'s monologue was muffled when the door slammed shut behind him, and his voice trailed off into the distance as she settled back down onto her bench. She was still holding the belt. It seemed heavier than it was a year before.
A knock interrupted her thoughts.
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A knock interrupted her malaise. She had no ambition to stand up from the bathroom tiles any time soon. It had taken a few minutes, but eventually her intentful staring paid off and the stream of water re-emerged from the showerhead. After all that effort, she didn't rush to give up her hard-won position upon the floor, the refreshing, ice-cold blast of water running over her legs and numbing her from the bottom up.
The second knock seemed to bring all feeling back to her, and she groaned at the audacity of it.
The third knock prompted her to uneasily and unevenly drag herself to her feet, turn the shower off, and cover up with a towel. When she was lying on the floor she'd lost half a kilogram in sweat, but now - as she stepped barefoot over the moist carpeting of the bedroom - she shivered as a biting chill passed through her bones. Her head still throbbed. Her body ached. It was all part of the same problem.
She reached the door in time to interrupt the fourth knock.
"Oh, good morning, dear!" said the man on the other side of it, his voice dripping with a southern accent. He was middle-aged and heavyset, and what was left of his hair sat in clusters around his ears and under his chin. He was red in the face through the effort of his quite extraordinarily large smile, which Michelle felt herself unwittingly reciprocating. "I'm sorry to disturb you. I was just next door and, well, between you and me, dear…"
Here, the man leaned in towards her. He was close enough so that she could smell tobacco, rum, and egg mayonaise on his breath. She turned her head away, and as she did Michelle noticed that he held a small, cardboard box in his right hand. She had to presume it was cardboard for the outer faces had been smothered in layers of masking tape, but the weight of it and the inferred fragility from the manner in which this amiable interloper held it suggested it was so. He continued in a whisper, as if he didn't want to wake the sleeping mound of bedsheets behind her or their other neighbours along the corridor.
"Well… I heard an awful lot of noise in the middle of the night when you came in. Not that it's any of my business. You’re young and you're free and all! But, just now it sounded like someone was barfing up half of their internal organs, and I thought maybe I'd better check if you were okay before I went ahead and rushed out…"
He stared only at Michelle, and although his eyes were sunken into his bloated cheeks and overhanging forehead she could tell that they were warm and kind. He wore a beige suit and held his box a little away from his side. In his other hand was a brown, leather briefcase.
"I'm fine," Michelle offered, after having to teach herself how to speak from scratch again. The focus it took did little to quell the storm brewing in her head. "Thanks, but really… you didn't have to."
"Nonsense!" the man bellowed, forgetting about his whisper altogether. "What's to say we can't be neighbourly, even if it's only for one night?"
The silence seemed to stretch on forever, and she wondered if he was waiting for a response. She didn't have one for him.
"Well, if you're fine, I'll be off," the businessman said, standing motionless with his box and his briefcase. "Those washing machines aren't going to sell themselves."
He let out a chuckle, but still didn't move.
"That's a joke," he explained. "Because I sell printing toner. Not washing machines."
Michelle smiled awkwardly and, with the man still beaming widely in front of her, eventually pushed the door to. She pressed her ear against it to hear him stomp away down the corridor, and when she felt confident that he’d removed himself from her vicinity she returned to the bathroom, where she stood in front of the large mirror that had been drilled onto the wall above the sink. It wasn’t quite full length, and cut off just below her thighs, but Michelle removed her towel and allowed her eyes to examine the somewhat dilapidated figure that stared back at her. She was used to bruises and scars, and ran her fingers over a fresh patchwork of purplish-blue and red that spread across her left hip and much of her abdomen. She was gaunt, too: her sustained weight loss over the past half a year was the result of a lack of serious training and a sizable cocaine habit. More bruises covered her right thigh and her neck, which she rotated in a useless attempt to loosen it up and free it of its aches. Her short, blonde hair was stuck down to her forehead and neck by a thick layer of sweat, and her eyes were tired and old.
Her hand pressed down upon the most prominent cut on her hip bone and threatened to reopen it. The pain seared up through her body and distracted her from the headache, if only for a moment. Her coarse fingertips continued to brush over the soft, tender skin on her lower stomach, coming to rest in the edges of her pubic hair. As the lightbulb once again flickered above her, her eyes were drawn to a momentary shimmer of silver in the thick, dark hair between her fingers. She thought it a trick of the light, but closer inspection made the realisation unavoidable. Sitting proudly and obnoxiously amongst the thick matting of black strands was a single, knowing grey.
She attempted to subdue the sudden, mounting horror. It was no use. It overcame and overwhelmed her in an instant. She closed her eyes tightly, but against the black backdrop of her subconscious a single grey hair danced elegantly under a flickering spotlight. It bowed at her when it was finished, goading her with courtesy. She sat down on the toilet and prodded at the offending follicle with clumsy digits, questioning everything from the duration of its stay upon her person to the nature of her own mortality.
She thought of Thomas West. It wasn’t immediately clear to her why her mind made this leap, but there he was, staring back at her with his toothy, devious grin. Her relationship with the Nephews wasn’t something she really enjoyed examining too closely. They were, after all, a means for escapism, and such devices do not bear much scrutiny. Gerald was somewhat different. Her bond with him had existed before either one of them had even heard of Uncle. Perhaps it was stronger then, too. JAY!, by sheer force of character alone, had made an impression upon her psyche, also. As for the rest of them? She didn’t really spend too much time thinking about Quiet, or Harry the Sane Wizard, or any of the others including the podcast host outside of the hours she spent in their physical company.
The podcast host. A more suitable and impressive moniker was now available in the form of number one contender, though she still used the previous, more dismissive descriptors in her internal monologue. A week ago, she felt confident that she would be World Champion again, but her knowledge didn’t extend to her first challenger. She thought often during these days about the White Wolf and the Rockstar. She imagined that they shared her hunger to return to this spot… her sense of injustice at being dethroned before they could really get going. And she thought of Chris Peacock, a man with whom she shared a fleeting and regrettable acquaintance with a long time ago. He was building a head of steam over on the purple brand, albeit at the expense of invalids and irrelevants. And, of course, she had been thinking about Mike Parr, and the battles they’d shared twelve months ago. More than that now. That was difficult to believe, and the fast movements of time only served to amplify the grey hair’s mockery. NOLA still felt like yesterday, and the idea of picking up where they left off was an attractive one. Or perhaps it would be someone fresher. Kleio, maybe. She had been threatening to make waves for quite some time now, and the thought of an encounter in Indianapolis with the young Brazilian was now more frequently imposing itself upon her.
As she thought about these hypothetical challengers, strong and young and proud, her fingers and eyes alike brushed through the black hairs on the patch of soft skin below her stomach. Her mind raced to challengers of the past. To Chris Kennedy, and Bell Connelly, and Jon Snowmantashi. Three figures that had stolen so much of her thought and her time since she’d returned to the Big Tent. She failed to beat all three when it really mattered, and they stood above her and around her like monoliths still, imposing and ominous, life breathed into memory.
But Thomas West…
She reached for the pair of tweezers that sat on the top of Natalie’s wash-bag, and with a deft movement of her hand removed the errant grey.
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Michelle didn’t think the queue outside a club was a particularly appropriate place to be taking care of stray hairs upon one’s eyebrow, but she watched Natalie do just this none-the-less. She had a small pocket mirror open in front of her and delicately removed those strands she felt weren’t adding anything to her face as a whole. When she’d concluded the process, she fluttered her eyelashes in the direction of her own reflection before placing the mirror back into her handbag. She turned to Michelle with a smile.
“How do I look?” she asked, as the pair shuffled forward to the front of the line. The bouncer placed his thick arm in front of them without a word.
“Drastically different,” Michelle clarified. She wasn’t really looking. She stared past the bouncer and down the black staircase that led towards the cellar whilst adjusting the straps of her rucksack. The belt felt heavy. They were let past the bouncer and to the bag-checkers, who were reluctant to allow them entry given the wash-bag and change of clothes in Natalie’s bag and the championship belt in Michelle’s. A few hundred dollar bills covered a booth and allayed their fears, and they were led down the black staircase into a vast, dingy basement where half of Chicago’s underbelly was currently housed. Nobody was dancing, instead choosing to stare passively at the imported European DJ who was listlessly spinning records on the stage. The pair were taken to the foot of a spiral staircase which led up to their booth, one of around half a dozen in total that were suspended on platforms above the dance floor. Between each booth was a cage, a dancer - naked other than an elaborate Madi Gras mask - plying their trade dispassionately but dutifully behind the bars.
“Who told you about this place? Quiet?” Natalie asked, only half rhetorically, as her eyes traced around the mostly-motionless twenty-somethings on the floor below them. Most of them wore black, some of them leather, all of them were younger than Michelle. She spied a waitress beginning her way up their spiral staircase and watched her wind up towards them. Dreamer ordered for both of them before reclining into a deep and comfortable chair. She allowed the electronic music to wash over her, for a moment quite content that everything was just fine. That was about as much as anyone could hope for. She would’ve closed her eyes, and maybe even gone to sleep, but for Natalie’s insistence on keeping her conscious. “I saw them leaving your locker room, you know? Thomas and Gerald first. Then the rest of them. Everything okay?”
Michelle shrugged. The image of the ring announcer waiting around a corner for the Nephews to disperse so that she could knock on was an amusing one.
“Not exactly my place to say anything,” Natalie started, as a pair of beer bottles and a pair of champagne flutes were placed on the table between them. The New Yorker quickly picked the fizzed drink up and took a greedy sip. Michelle sensed she was about to ‘say something’, whether or not it was her place to do so. “But I’m not sure if Uncle and those things of his are the best company to be keeping.”
“You prefer Toner, and his lot?” Michelle asked, absently. She was watching the DJ as she leant an ear into her headset, as if listening closely for something unexpected.
“Maybe,” Natalie said, aloofly. “He’s keen on you, at least. I’m not sure the same is true of Uncle.”
“Is that envy?”
“Green’s your colour, not mine.”
“Uncle’s not the only one in the group,” Michelle said. She was conceding that there was truth in her suggestion that JAY! didn’t exactly have her back. The cephalopod's motives were usually a riddle, and frequently one without a satisfactory answer. “There’s Gerald.”
“And Thomas…” Natalie interjected. She let that hang in the air between them.
“Since when were you concerned about the company I keep?” Michelle queried, becoming agitated. The wounds from tonight’s match and the fifty before it flared up and gnawed at her.
“Relax,” Natalie insisted, whilst leaning back in her chair. “You’re meant to be celebrating.”
She drained her flute, and then started on Michelle’s.
“You should just order the bottle.”
An hour and two bottles of champagne later, the pair were pressed against one another in the tight confines of a toilet cubicle. They could still hear the muffled DJ set leaking into their sanctuary, as well as the standard comings and goings of a nightclub bathroom. Michelle dug her key deeply into the mound of white powder within the small, plastic bag, held delicately between them with her thumb and forefinger. She held it up in front of Natalie and stared into her big, brown eyes, unblinking and focussed as she sniffed the powder and licked her lips. Michelle kissed her with force, backing her into the side of the cubicle with a gentle clatter.
“Be careful,” Natalie said, as Dreamer bit the other’s bottom lip, gently at first but harder as she tried to pull away and eliciting a gentle, quiet groan. Michelle backed off to let Natalie wrestle with the button on the front of her jeans whilst she delved down into the plastic bag once more with her key. As the stuff roared through her, she felt her jeans unclasp and Natalie’s long, cold fingers running over the network of disfigurations on her left hip. Her tongue was on her neck, and Michelle closed her eyes tightly to soak in the girl and the moment.
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As she pulled up from the sink and the small, yellow-ish line that she’d prepared for herself on top of it, she couldn’t help but contrast the feeling she had now to last night’s euphoria. Her stomach was sort of hollow, and as she stared into the dead and black recesses of her eyes she found herself struggling to identify them as her own. Last night, the coke had served to amplify the celebration. It formed a comfortable, white blanket upon which she would lie for her coronation. This morning, its primary purpose (its only purpose) was to delay the oncoming dread. A pitiful and desperate attempt to fill the hollow space in her lurching stomach with something… anything…
In the mirror, she observed her hunched posture and the manner in which her clothes sat uneasily upon her body. She also noticed that her sweater was on back to front, and pulled the hood up so as to cover her face and block out existence, if only for a moment. She breathed in deeply, allowing the thick, black fabric to clog her airways. Finally, when there was nothing else for it, she pulled her arms back through the sleeves and swivelled the garment around on her torso. One more glance in the mirror. She wasn’t ready for the day.
Natalie still slept soundly when she shuffled back across the carpet towards the door, where her shoes waited for collection. She sat on the floor with her back against the wall whilst she pulled them on, gazing up at an exposed arm that found its way through the folds of the duvet. The hand seemed to be extended towards Michelle, and for a moment she felt like taking it in her own. But then she opened the door to leave.
Her progress was stayed at the threshold. In front of her in the corridor, on the ground before her open door, sat the same box that her concerned neighbour had held a little away from his body just a short time earlier. She stared up the corridor towards the stairs, half-expecting to see the heavyset man with his beaming smile and his rosy red cheeks glancing back at her. There was nothing but the stained, off-white walls and the dated carpeting. And, of course, the black box.
“We can’t take that,” the young woman on reception, Clarice according to her name-badge, was rather unhelpfully explaining to Michelle. “We don’t keep any luggage for guests here at the motel. Too many incidents. Drugs. Weapons. That sort of stuff.”
The receptionist chewed her gum and stared at Michelle with a bored countenance. The Dutch woman had very little interest in the motel's luggage policy.
“I don’t want to leave it,” Michelle explained, impatiently. “Somebody already has. The man in the room next to me. Room 42. He left it outside my door.”
“Then maybe he wanted you to have it,” Clarice suggested, with a gentle shrug of her shoulders. “Either way, we can’t take it.”
“Room 42?” another voice asked. A second receptionist emerged from the back office with an equally bored expression as the first. Her name was Yelena and she spoke with a European accent which Michelle hoped (incorrectly) would endear her towards her. “Big guy? Red face?”
Michelle nodded her head. She placed the box on the counter, only for Clarice to push it back towards her side, as if to make clear who it belonged to.
“He said he was on the 11:04 to Nashville from Union Station. Maybe try and meet him there,” she said, before pausing to clarify. “Union Station, not Nashville. He wanted to see Willis Tower before he went back home but didn’t know if he’d have enough time after his meetings. He sold washing machines, I think.”
“Printing toner,” Michelle corrected. Yelena narrowed her eyes, in deep thought.
“No, I think it was washing machines,” she mused, before turning around and disappearing into the back office.
She walked from the motel to a nearby cafe with the box held out in front of her, her eyes unwilling or unable to stray from the thick coating of masking tape that had been applied around it. She sat in a corner booth with the box on her table, and ate her dry toast and drank her bitter coffee whilst allowing herself to get lost in its blackness. The longer she stared, the more she was drawn into it, until the black spread itself out across her entire perception. For a while this was comforting, but soon enough a single grey hair appeared, beginning its familiar and sordid dance. She looked away and lost her appetite.
She arrived at Union Station an hour before her nameless neighbour was due to travel back towards home (she assumed) on the 11:04 to Nashville, and positioned herself on a bench near the entrance and in sight of a large, looming clock. She stretched out to wait, lighting a cigarette and watching the faces of those coming in and out of the station with a sort of morbid and detached curiosity. She waited.
Waiting was not, she thought, something that one could be good or bad at. She exhibited very little patience, of course, but a long wait was something generally imposed upon you that required enduring as opposed to overcoming. Regardless of how one approached such an enforced slumber, and regardless of how much patience one was able to conjure up in the face of it, the wait remained the same. One can force a way, perhaps, but patience only acts as an inhibitor to progress, not a catalyst for it. Michelle had known this for a long time even before she re-joined the Big Tent, and right now her mind was dragged back to the lengthy wait that she endured in-between her debut and last year’s Back in Business. Eighteen months. No weeks off, other than those forced upon her by management. And only when she’d proved herself against the entirety of the FWA’s roster in the Carnal Contendership was she finally deemed credible enough to challenge Saint Sulley’s monopoly.
Now? Well, the landscape had changed. Michelle found it difficult to decide whether it had changed for the better. She ran through the host of championship defences - few successful and many unsuccessful - that she’d been a part of or witnessed over the last year. Back in Business, the Anniversary Show, Lights Out, Fallout 007 and 008, Mile High, Meltdown X and XIII, and finally The Grand March. When men like Chris Peacock complained about a lack of opportunity she couldn’t help but scoff. She’d paved the way for this entitlement, she knew, by rallying against the closed off old boy’s club that the World Championship scene used to be. A year’s worth of Saint Sulley and Mike Garcia, coupled with her incessant rambling on the topic (as well as the incessant rambling of other, like-minded individuals) was enough to affect change, though it was quite possible an overcorrection had been made. Peacock had been given plentiful opportunities. The whole roster had.
Michelle von Horrowitz. Danny Toner. Randy Ramon. Jeremy Best. Konchu Hao. Krash. Gerald Grayson. These were not all of the names of those who had earned championship opportunities over the past year, but they were the ones who’d received their first during that time. As a direct result of Michelle kicking down the door when her knocks went unanswered. The trogs in the crowd might boo and hiss, but that didn’t really matter to her. She knew what these men owed to her. How much of this new landscape was thanks to her own heavy hands. Derision was fuel for the raging fire.
This new landscape that she had painted paved the way for Thomas West falling with style into his current position. She didn’t hold it against him. It would be hypocritical of her, after spending so much of her early career raging against the un-inclusive machine, to begrudge him this opportunity. Thomas was a man who, at least according to himself, held the secrets of time in the palm of his hands, and he had used the King of the Deathmatch tournament as a catalyst for a fast-forwarding of his own painfully slow timeline. He had waited long, also, and his progress was so painstaking and incremental that he’d had to pitch his flag to another. She contrasted this to her own reasons for assimilating into Uncle’s ensemble. Thomas was there to advance his own ambitions. She was there to fill the time. She didn’t know which was more pitiful.
Still, there was a danger in the sudden lurch forward that Thomas had taken. Just ask Alyster Black. She remembered the moment when he had skipped the line and leapt ahead of many more qualified challengers for Saint Sulley shortly after his debut. More qualified, not more worthy. Black had since shown himself to be a worthy adversary for Sulley, and one that the then-King was lucky to escape with his crown intact. But these conclusions regarding Alyster’s credentials were only drawn retrospectively, and many - Dreamer included - disregarded the masked man at the time as an upjumped pawn. Earning his reputation since had only been made more difficult by this early failure (a grand, ambitious failure, but a failure nonetheless) and the prevailing opinion of him as a weak, lazy defence. Thomas was a smart man, and an ambitious one. He would have considered all of this, and as a result the throwaway defence would be weighty and lofty in his mind. The banana skin seemed to block the whole road.
There was also the fact that, although it was clear Thomas West had benefited directly from this new landscape, so had she. The days after Tokyo still lay heavily upon the corpse of her subconscious. She remembered the pitiful days she’d spent in Japan following the most recent of her abject, colossal failures. She could still feel the outpouring of emotion that she’d experienced in some nameless city park, her stomach lurching, her head throbbing, fists clenching and tears welling… the overwhelming sense of shame, of loss, of defeat. It had taken her weeks to steady herself, whilst bedding down in a lengthy tryst with Truth and waiting for Gerald to arrive on the back of his white horse to save her. She’d expected to be away from the top of the mountain and the gold belt that currently resided in her rucksack for quite some time. But Russnow, in the context of the new landscape, had other ideas. And here she was.
And, of course, these memories of Tokyo… the phantoms of past failures, rearing their heads to mock and taunt Michelle as she embarked on this second attempt, this do-over, this mulligan… they served only to steel her in the face of this first, flimsy test.
Thomas West was nothing. Michelle von Horrowitz was everything.
The belt, within her rucksack and rested upon her knees, felt heavier than it did a year ago.
11:04 came and went, and so did the train. The black box remained uncollected on the bench next to her. She sighed, lit another cigarette, and stood up to leave.
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“You got one of those for me?”
The words fell out of Natalie’s mouth as the pairing emerged from the club. Michelle was busy removing a cigarette from her pack and dutifully retrieved one for the other, who took it greedily and placed the wrong end into her mouth. Michelle was unsure if this was for comic effect, and took it from her lips with a smile before repositioning it correctly and lighting both. Natalie let out a delicate cough, her lungs struggling under the unfamiliar weight of the Camel.
“I don’t know how you do this all day,” Natalie said, whilst staring at the cigarette with dissatisfaction.
“Dedication,” Michelle answered, with a shrug. “Commitment.”
They disappeared into an alley down the side of the club and indulged in one more line that Michelle racked up on top of a dumpster with the other’s credit card. It felt more luxurious than the library card she usually used. One more turned to two more turned to three four five more and the two wandered (wondered?) out of the alleyway with a lighter and more breezy (breezier?) and some would say more real perspective on reality but that was not for them to judge they were only in the moment striding walking walking striding through the streets and michelle at least always thinking thinking thinking
thinking of kennedy and what he took and where he is now and why he isn’t here and with her and whether all of this meant more to her than it ever did to him and if he’d come back to her come back to her come back
thinking of bell too (come back to her) because the links were too obvious and she couldn’t consider kennedy without bell or bell without kennedy any more (anymore) even though there was a time when it was bell and only bell and always bell but the mind lies and the mind tricks and every thing (everything) washes away erodes disappears it all washes away erodes disappears eventually won’t ever come back some parentheses just won't close
jaw hurts stop clenching stop moving just hold it still but not like that your mouth is open you look ridiculous close your mouth jaw hurts stop clenching stop moving
thinking of gerald safely soundly sweetly sleeping like a baby innocent naive and pure was this condescension what was this? what is this? gerald was difficult to place even now with the clarity of this moment and the clear air and the gentle breeze and the night and gerald
uncle and quiet and harry and thomas and thomas and thomas thomas thomas tom he was here now closer than the rest of them and he was nothing to her nothing to anyone (any one)
the lake, the lake with natalie, the lake under the stars with natalie, the lake under the stars at the end of the night with natalie, nothing but the lake under the stars at the end of the night with natalie
concrete beneath you stars above you
so many stars
concrete beneath me stars above me
and stars stars stars so many stars against a pitch black and pressing background
stars
So many stars.
They lay there for what felt like a really long time. She thought Natalie had fallen asleep, but was corrected by a fresh line of questioning.
“Why do they call you Dreamer?” she asked. She was slurring her words, and drifting in and out of consciousness.
“I dream a lot,” Michelle explained, rather simply. Natalie thought about this for more than a moment.
“And how do they know that?”
“I used to talk about it quite a bit,” Michelle said. “But not anymore. My dreams belong to me.”
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Lake Michigan stretched out before her and towards the horizon once again, but now the sun was in place in its midday apex above the water. The sky was grey and overcast, a thin layer of cloud trying but failing to block out the light. A small pile of stubbed out cigarettes lay strewn about her feet on the concrete.
The box sat a metre away from her.
She lit another cigarette, and watched on as a young woman on rollerblades slowly approached. She caught Michelle’s eye and smiled, before coming to a gradual halt in-between Dreamer and the edge of the lake.
“You got another cigarette?” the girl asked. Michelle offered her the pack, and then lit the end of it for her. The girl stared out at the water and sucked at the end of the filter.
The silence hung heavily, but Michelle wasn’t uncomfortable.
Eventually, the girl turned back towards her.
“What’s in the box?” she asked, without looking at it.
“I don’t know,” Michelle answered.
“Is it yours?”
Dreamer glanced at the box. She had to think hard about the question, which hurt her head.
“I don’t know,” she repeated.
The girl on the rollerblades held Michelle’s gaze for a moment, her expression unreadable but passive and cold. She took another drag of her cigarette, and then continued to skate along the edge of the lake.
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Post by supinesnake on May 30, 2024 12:48:42 GMT
Promo history - volume 81.
"Disconnect." (w/ Jam) (May 6th, 2022)
Michelle von Horrowitz and Gerald Grayson def. Joe Burr and Lizzie Rose [Tag Team Match] (FWA: Meltdown XIV - Homecoming: Brooklyn). the GRAYSON & von HORROWITZ connection in
”DISCONNECT.”
***
“Pass me a guy peg.”
“What the fuck is a guy peg?”
“The long, metal one.”
Michelle looked down at the collection of long, metal objects in front of her, still none-the-wiser as to which of them her tag team partner was in need of. With an audible and reprehensible huff, Gerald let go of the cable he was currently holding in order to collect the guy peg himself. She looked at the thing in his hand as he carried it back to his previous position and noted the arbitrary, minor differences between a guy peg and a regular peg.
“I thought you’d been camping before?” he asked her, whilst using his boot to force the spire down into the dry earth.
“I have,” she replied, absently, and fidgeted around in her pockets for her rolling materials. She hadn’t enough tobacco, weed, or cocaine to last more than a night, and hoped Gerald didn’t plan on elongating their impromptu and - at least to her - surprise camping trip beyond that. “I just don’t know the terms. Camping is one of those things that doesn’t need nomenclature but has it anyway.”
Gerald nodded, though she wasn’t particularly sure if he was listening. He stepped back with his hands on his hips to inspect his handiwork. The tent was now erected, under the overhanging branches at the edge of what looked a pretty meagre forest, with its ziplock door peering out over the rolling hills and towards the sunset. She didn’t know where they were. She’d resisted his bright idea to blindfold her but ignored the road signs on route anyway.
Did you bring beer?” she asked him. He turned to her with a smile, before throwing his car keys into her grasping left hand.
“In the trunk,” he clarified. She hurried off to the vehicle and pulled up its hind door. Peering back at her were two crates of Heineken, eighteen bottles in each, along with two packs of Camels. She smiled. No coke, of course. But where would Gerald find coke?
“You could’ve asked Toner or someone to find me some coke,” she complained, having worked out where Gerald could’ve found coke. She sensed his judgement as she lugged the beers over from the car to the tent. She tore open the corner of the first and cracked a bottle with her lighter.
“I’m not travelling over state lines with cocaine,” Gerald answered, turning slightly paler in the process.
“You just did,” she shot back, and continued before he could respond to that. “Some weed then. Uncle can get weed. Hell, Lizzie Rose could probably get weed. It’s probably legal here, anyway. What state are we in?”
“No weed,” Gerald answered, more as a statement than an instruction. “Besides, it’s those sort of excesses that brought you to this position anyway.”
“Brought me to what position?” she asked, with an eyebrow cocked. “You mean camping? Is this an intervention, Gerald?”
“No,” he replied, slowly and carefully. “I don’t mean camping.”
“Then what do you mean?” she hounded.
Gerald paused. She could tell he was reluctant to broach the matter that he’d brought her here to discuss. At least whilst the sun still shone.
“Maybe we should talk about it later,” he said, at length. “A walk first, I thought?”
“Great idea,” she said, with a forced and insincere smile. “What time shall we meet back here? For our talk by the campfire?”
“Don’t mock, Michelle,” he replied. She thought it almost a plea. “I thought we could walk together.”
“I’ll go alone,” she answered. “I need to organise my thoughts.”
She reached down to the crate and collected another quartet of Heinekens, which she placed into her recently-emptied rucksack. Her decisiveness and her derision elicited a deep, almost mournful sigh from her partner.
“Okay,” Gerald said. She was already half-way towards the brook that ran from the woods a few metres from their tent.
*** GERALD.
He decided to walk in the opposite direction from Michelle, and stuck to the line of the trees for a while as he tracked northwards. Occasionally, he looked out over the rolling hills to check on the location of the sun, but it generally seemed to be in the same position each time and eventually it began to hurt his eyes. He stopped looking at the sun.
Collecting a stick from the undergrowth of the nearby forest to swipe at the high grass, and then plunging into the thicket, brought back memories of similar walks he’d taken on similar camping trips as a young boy, and later as a young man. In truth, he hadn’t particularly enjoyed the concept of camping until he had grown into the latter. His younger self was an outdoorsman in an exclusively different, more extreme manner, and only as his tally of years grew did he begin to appreciate the quieter, more subdued elements of the world. He hoped that this would appeal to Michelle’s propensity for solitude, but hadn’t factored in that his presence would disrupt that.
He emerged into a clearing and paused to listen to the birds. The birds, and a babbling brook that meandered somewhere in the vicinity, anonymous and hidden. For a moment, Michelle was absent from his mind, but when he drew this conclusion she was right there again. She blocked out the sun.
There had been some good times since he’d moved to Meltdown and reunited with Dreamer. Great times, even. Tag Warz itself was a huge moment for the team, and their success in it was crushing and unanimous. In the ring, they were virtually unstoppable. As Gerald plunged on into the trees again, he found himself reliving the victories over the five different teams thrown together to face them. Jailhouse Blues had capped it all off nicely. That was his moment. Michelle let her obsession with Cyrus boil over, and got herself eliminated early off the back of it. It was him who had to claw his way back from the brink. For the team. It should have been their finest moment. The glue that bound them together for the next fifty matches.
But instead, the only adhesive they had was Uncle and his Nephews, who held them together despite the drastic and numerous differences between the two of them. At least outside of the ring. Since Mile High, JAY! had always been there. Every week, without fail. And where would they be if he hadn’t been? Gerald doubted they’d have lasted even this long.
Quite suddenly, Gerald stopped walking. He held his stick aloft, above the high grass in which he stood. His face grew more pale. His mouth stood ajar.
This sudden shift in demeanour, from aloof and absent-minded to attentive and arrested, was brought about by the only sound that Gerald could hear other than his internal monologue. A few metres from him, amongst the sea of high grass beneath the forest, the distinct sound of a rattle emerged.
He stood still, attempting to locate the source and, when he had, he backed away carefully. He’d read enough about rattlesnake safety to know that, sometimes, it’s better to pick your battles. Love to fight another day. And other such platitudes.
Still he heard the rattle. He felt vulnerable. He felt like prey.
In truth, the rattlesnake had as little interest in him as he did in it. Less so, even, for the snake felt no fear around Gerald. Perhaps it even sensed the young man’s anxiety, for it lingered in his proximity for longer than Gerald liked or expected.
The man’s fear was a result of his mind’s conditioning. The way he had been trained to think by his exploits in his day-to-day. He expanded on this thought. Part of him felt that it didn’t really matter who held the tag team belts. Stu and Caesar beat a weakened Golden Rock and then the same trio he and Michelle tore through during Tag Warz. Hollow accomplishments. Every fibre of his being felt that The Connection were the premier team in the FWA. The Men Out Of Time (which was, he felt, an altogether inferior name than The Connection, but that is a tangent that we don't have time for) held the belts for only as long as Dreamer and The Daredevil were delayed in being given what they’d earned. And every team, Meltdown or Fallout, was fully aware of this fact.
That strength weakened them. They were compromised, just as he was by the incessantly ongoing rattle, which still burst upon the shores of his ears as he backed further and further from its den. Lizzie Rose and Joe Burr were two of many snakes circling The Connection, and their position as the champions elect, and he knew that they were interchangeable with the others. Two more snakes that would eventually have to rise above the high grass, and present their heads to be cut off. But many more still circled, their names veiled but their intentions plain.
It didn’t matter. The Connection was on a course for implosion, anyway. This much was clear to him. He didn’t know if Lizzie and Joe would be the catalyst for that doom, or if it would be the next two serpentine challengers that were lined up for them a little further through the woods.
Eventually, the rattling relented. The beast slithered away.
Gerald turned and walked at a swift pace towards the brook. He followed it up an incline and into a clearing where the ceiling of forestry relented. Twilight was finally upon them. Or him, more specifically. There was no reason for him to continue thinking of himself and Michelle in tandem. At least for the time-being.
A short while and a difficult walk later, he emerged from the trees into rockier terrain, where the source of the brook finally became apparent to him. A large, clear, and deep pool was only a few metres in front of him, and beyond that a small but fast-flowing waterfall. He took in a deep breath, mostly to clear his lungs of the heavy, almost murky air ever-present in the woods. His memory of the forest painted it as denser than it actually was. Without much more thought, he took off his clothes and lowered himself into the cold, clear water.
With his back against a rock and his feet floating on the pool’s surface, he closed his eyes and tried to map out the next few months of his career and, by extension, his life. In truth, they should’ve been tag team champions already. Their shot was scheduled for Indianapolis, and the Stocke Market had tried and failed to capitalise on Michelle’s solo success in Chicago. The Grand March. He didn’t like to think about that night. The last time he’d seen Michelle before picking her up from Indianapolis to go camping was in the locker room after their triple threat main event. He’d gone with Thomas and… he wasn’t quite sure. Had he helped him? If he did, he didn’t feel particularly guilty about that. Michelle made her own decisions, regardless of how they affected him. It was time he started doing the same.
He felt happy for Thomas… and relieved that Michelle was no longer the FWA World Champion. He’d heard her mention title and streak a couple of times before, and he privately hoped she would end up with neither. Not that he wanted her to lose at Back in Business. If Michelle walked in with the gold, or managed to successfully goad Kennedy into a match, he would be behind her. One hundred per cent. He just… hoped that those matches wouldn’t even take place.
He wanted them to go to Rio together, as a team Last year, it was TxR and Golden Rock. Three Stages of Hell. Now? There was no TxR. No Golden Rock. No Gang Stars, really. Black Caramel was gone, too, with Gabrielle’s big announcement of retirement. The Division was fragmented, with the lesser half shacking up with The New Breed, of all people. Who was left, from that golden age? Only a team that wasn't actually a team for over a year. Only them.
Maybe it was time for The Connection to die, too. He didn’t like that thought, or the length of time that it persisted in his mind.
“You need a towel?”
The sudden question startled him as much as the rattlesnake had. His eyes jolted open and he found it more difficult to float than it had been before. The water was colder, more hostile, and the idea of snakes in its deeper, hidden recesses dawned on him for the first time since he’d lowered himself in. He quickly climbed out of it, looking up at Michelle.
Sure enough, she was holding a towel out towards him.
“Where did you get a towel?” Gerald asked. He had one in the car, and only now considered the long, dripping walk back towards it.
“You should always travel with a towel,” Michelle said.
*** MICHELLE.
A short, difficult walk after leaving Gerald, Dreamer emerged into a moderately large, rocky clearing. She had followed the brook from where it delved into the woodland, and paused to finish her second bottle of Heineken whilst looking into a deep, clear pool from which the stream sprung. The second beer slipped down even more nicely than the first and she hoped this trend was to continue with the third. She used her lighter to pop the cap and set the drink down carefully on the ground. She needed to piss. She squatted over the pool and pulled her jeans down around her thighs.
She thought of Thomas West, as she had more since losing to him than in all of her days leading up to that moment. Whilst she was pissing, whilst she was brushing her teeth, whilst she was showering, or completing a great number of other menial tasks. She didn’t think that the podcast host… no, the FWA World Champion... had permeated her psyche in the same way that the kaiju and Bell and Parr had, or ever would. With West, it was different. The loss to Thomas was an embarrassment. She pulled her jeans back up and fastened them around her waist.
She didn’t know for sure how long it took. Twelve seconds? Something like that? Chris Kennedy needed almost an hour, and an arsenal that would amply support an armed invasion, to keep her shoulders down for three. Thomas West needed one move, and less than a minute. Much less than a minute.
In these present circumstances, she didn’t think about Jon Snowmantashi, or Bell Connelly. She didn’t think about Chris Kennedy and Cyrus Truth, and she sure as shit didn’t think about Lizzie Rose or Joe Burr. In fact, the only thought she’d ever had about the pint-sized competitor was to wonder if he played the role of Epsilon beneath the mask. It amused her at the time. Now, there was a very real chance that she would lose to this mockery on FWA television.
That thought should have outraged her.
But who was she to feel indignant? She had lost to a podcast host… a supplemental character… a journeyman… a fucking nobody... in around twelve seconds.
She had no right to outrage. There was only shame.
She didn't think about any of these people, even those that were once obsessions, for she only thought about herself. And sometimes Thomas West.
Next to the waterfall, she found a series of footholds in the rockface that allowed her to climb to the top of the cliff. She sat with her legs dangling over the edge, watching the waterfall cascade into the pool below, and prepared herself a large cone of a mix made from Purple Kush and a broken Camel.
The crackling of burning paper comforted her, and eventually she lay back, the roll between her pursed lips and the woodland camping trip fading happily, temporarily, from her memory.
She almost fell to sleep.
Then, the crackling stopped, and was replaced by a rattle.
She opened her eyes, and - turning her head away from the clearing and to the ridge on which she now lay - saw the serpent slithering a few metres away from her.
She didn’t move.
The snake had green eyes.
It didn’t move for what seemed like a long time. It looked at her and into her.
She thought about trying to capture it. It was a distant instinct. Something animalistic and primal that didn’t warrant further explanation, for none could be given. But she didn’t move. She stared back at it, dispassionately.
She saw the reflection of her own green eyes in the snake’s.
Then, it slithered away. She watched it disappear into a patch of long grass. She picked up her lighter from the ridge, lit her smoke, and opened another beer.
A short time later, she watched with amusement as Gerald appeared in the clearing, took a deep breath, and then removed all of his clothes. She finished her beer whilst he bathed, and started on her fifth shortly after climbing back down from her perch. She fished out her towel from her rucksack whilst placing the empty inside it.
“You need a towel?”
***
Gerald built them a small but sturdy fire, which impressed her a little. But then he started talking.
“From my perspective,” he began, as she sipped on beer number six. The fifth one, consumed on the walk back, hadn’t been anywhere near as satisfying as the first four. This disappointment owed mostly to Gerald’s incessant smalltalk. Now, his talk became less small and she found herself missing it. “Things fell apart from The Grand March. I can understand, of course, why you wouldn’t want the tag team championship match at Carnal Contendership. But to find out the way I did? In Chicago, whilst I’m getting ready for our match? I feel it would’ve been fair to consult me, or at least to warn me. I shouldn’t have had to hear it from Stu and Caesar like some fan in the crowd.”
Gerald stopped talking. Michelle thought about this whilst smoking a cigarette. The silence persisted, until eventually it began to grate on Gerald.
“Are you going to say anything?” he asked, finally. His frustration was plain in the quiver of his voice.
“What is there for me to say? You asked no questions.”
Gerald blinked at her.
“You want me to tell you that your perspective is wrong?” she asked.
“You can’t tell a person that their perspective is wrong.”
“Well, you can,” she answered, dispassionately. He disliked her aloof tone. “But you shouldn’t, maybe. Society says you shouldn’t. That's why I didn’t tell you that your perspective is wrong, even though it is what I feel.”
Gerald sighed, and then breathed. It was a vain attempt to settle himself, so that some success could be scraped from this venture.
“Well,” he began, with something resembling caution, or maybe apprehension. “Maybe you should tell me how you feel.”
Michelle pulled a face. He’d picked his words a little too haphazardly. He knew that Dreamer wouldn’t go in for a discussion of feelings.
“Or how you see events from your perspective, since Chicago,” he corrected. Michelle paused, and eventually threw her finished cigarette into the fire.
“I think you acted like a coward, if not exactly a turncoat, at The Grand March.”
Another blink. He couldn’t deny, even to himself, that the words stung.
“A coward?” he asked. It was about all he could muster. “How?”
“You tried to pin Nova,” she said, in a matter-of-fact manner, with no hesitation. “That was our one rule. We would pin only each other. We would take care of Diamond, and then it would be one of us.”
“And before that?” Gerald asked, trying to drag her back on point. “Our championship shot? With The Connection?”
“I didn’t know that Grimes planned to announce that when he did,” she said. "I only found out that he did afterwards. I figured you would want to keep your mind focussed on our main event. And on Nova.”
Gerald thought about her words. Michelle lit another cigarette.
“And then where the fuck were you?” Michelle asked, between hasty, impatient drags of her Camel. Her Heineken lay discarded and forgotten about for a moment. A rare moment. “After Chicago. West gives you a lift home and I don’t see you for a month. And then you show up, for what? Camping? Where were you before Carnal Contendership? When I needed you to hold up your end of the bargain?”
“My end of the bargain?” he asked, thoroughly perplexed. “What, pray tell, is that?”
“To have my back,” she said, vaguely, with a wave of the arms. “To drag my mind onto the match, and my opponent.”
Gerald scoffed at the role he’d been assigned in Michelle’s mind. His face painted a picture of genuine shock.
“And what exactly is your end of the bargain?” he asked.
“To win the matches,” she said, bluntly.
Gerald stood up from his seat. His mind raced with memories of the last three years. Two tournaments. Countless wins. Two losses. Just two, in all this time.
What was this bullshit?
“What is this bullshit?”
“Well, of course, I wouldn’t win all the time if it was a handicap match,” Michelle explained, as if he were a child. “I need someone. But, yes, there are times when I need to drag us to a win.”
“Like in Jailhouse Blues?” he asked. “Or the countless other matches where I’ve scored the pin?”
“Come on, tulip, let’s not quibble.”
She reached for her beer. He kicked it away from her. It skidded away and spilled into the dirt.
A flash of rage crossed over Michelle’s face.
“What the fuck, Gerald?!”
“You think just anyone would put up with your fucking bullshit?” he asked.
“What fucking bullshit?” she asked, in return.
“Well, this nonsense, for a start. Not to mention your numerous, crippling additions. Caffeine, tobacco, alcohol, weed, cocaine. Am I missing anything? Cleaning up after Dreamer’s mess isn’t easy, Michelle.”
“I don’t need a babysitter,” she said, waving him away dismissively with her hand. She reached for a fresh beer.
“Oh, but you do!” he answered. “You’ve needed one since the day we met, Michelle. To drag you up from the mud when you’ve thrown yourself down onto the ground. To wipe away tears after every single fucking temper tantrum. And for what? A tag team championship shot that you don’t even seem to want, anyway?!”
“Careful, Gerald.”
“We stand aside for Stu and Caesar, and now for Konchu Hao, too? I don’t like Konchu Hao, Michelle. And why? So you can chase another dragon in Chris Kennedy, after losing the golden one for a second time.”
“A dragon you’ve only ever even seen because I showed you its lair, tulip.”
“And what is that even supposed to mean, Michelle?” Gerald asked, his rage fermenting and now flowing freely. “That's another thing. People are bored of this pseudo-intellectual bullshit. They bought it at the start, maybe. But now? It’s just fucking ten-a-penny. Predictable. Nobody wants it anymore. You need to show some fucking progression.”
“Yes,” Michelle said, dripping with sarcasm. “Maybe I should get some old cop friends to come and give me some life advice. Or a comatose brother that I eventually get bored of and forbid everyone from mentioning.”
“Don’t mention my brother.”
“See?”Michelle shot back, with a scoff. “You’re a fucking pig yourself, Gerald.”
Gerald opened his mouth to speak, but managed to resist that impulse. Instead, he thought for a moment. He didn't know why Michelle was saying these things. She was resorting to low attacks when he only wanted to bring their focus back on to Rose and Burr. Where it should be. He framed this measured but merciless vitriol as a byproduct of her recent misfortunes, and whatever torture she was inflicting upon herself as a result of that.
"You know," he started, exhibiting tact. “When I was walking, I thought a lot about you. About us.”
“I didn’t think about you at all,” Michelle returned.
Gerald paused only to sigh. He seemed defeated.
“Do you want me to drive you home?”
“No,” she answered, whilst staring out into the distance. The sun had set, but they were too close to some small city that she didn’t know the name of to see any stars. “I want you to drive yourself home.”
“What?” Gerald asked, his confusion spilling over once more. “I thought you hated camping?”
“I fucking love camping!” she fired back, passion finally infiltrating her delivery. “It’s adorable! The tranquillity. The solitude. Being at one with nature. All that outdoorsy shit. But, like most other things, including wrestling, I prefer to do it alone.”
“And New York?” he asked.
“I’ll see you there,” she answered, though she didn’t inspire confidence. “We’ll call it in the ring.”
“I’ll catch you beforehand,” he offered. It was almost a question.
“We’ll call it in the ring,” she repeated.
He didn’t ask her how she intended to get back. For once, he didn’t ask her about match strategy, or talk about their chemistry. He climbed into his car and drove to New York. When he got to a hotel, he realised he still had her towel. |
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Post by supinesnake on May 30, 2024 12:49:57 GMT
Promo history - volume 82.
"Test Dream #2." (May 20th, 2022)
Michelle von Horrowitz def. Gabrielle (FWA: Meltdown XV - Homecoming: Pittsburgh). MICHELLE von HORROWITZ
in
[VOLUME EIGHTY TWO]
”TEST DREAM #2”
***** She sat in the waiting room of the Dutch visa centre in New York City. They told her it was a routine appointment to check some original documents, complete some police checks, and extend her permission to stay and work in the country. It was necessary, they told her. It would be quick and painless, they told her. It was none of these things, of course. The visa centre in New York was surprisingly small considering the place used to be called New Amsterdam. The British must have knocked the old, expansive visa centre down in order to build this one, she thought.
She giggled to herself at how witty she could be. The family seated next to her turned at her in unison with quizzical expressions. Michelle stared down at the floor.
The number on the screen flicked over to read 112.
She looked at the ticket in her hand. 186.
There was only her and the adjacent family, as well as two middle-aged gentlemen who may have been together or may have not been together. How was this possible? One hundred and twelve subtracted from one hundred and eighty six equals seventy four. She double-checked this. She counted the people in the room with her. Six, counting the four family members separately. She was short by sixty eight. Nobody in the room stood from their seats, nor did they find anything particularly noteworthy in this errant yet precise arithmetic. Michelle found it ridiculous, but she was alone in that. The screen remained steadfast in its declaration that ticket number 112 was next, despite nobody claiming that number.
Several minutes passed. The screen skipped to 113. Still, nobody moved.
Michelle fastened her eyelids tightly, covering the scene - which she found both mundane and ludicrous - with a screen of blackness. For a collection of moments, this blanket comforted her. Eventually, though, a lone silver-grey hair began to dance against this backdrop, casting a shadow that would block out the sun if any shone here.
Michelle's eyes jolted open. A piercing scream escaped her lips, single-note and awful and endless. Then, she slipped from her chair, and began to convulse.***** She came around in an altogether different location. The floor and ceiling as well as three of the four walls in the rectangular room were entirely white. She was seated on a metal chair (also painted white), her arms strapped against the rests and more bondage attaching her calves to the chair's front legs. Her metal throne was cold against her naked skin. In front of her was a massive screen that covered the entirety of the only wall that wasn't painted white, although she assumed that this was probably the case beneath the colossal television, too. She tried to turn away, but found that her head was fixed into position by a contraption placed around her shoulders and neck.
To her left, a door - which until now had remained camouflaged - opened up and three familiar figures emerged. Uncle J.J. JAY!, Bell Connelly, and Gerald Grayson, in that order. Each wore a long white lab coat and held a clipboard in front of them. They came to a halt in front of their prisoner.
"Do you know why you are here?" Bell asked. Michelle tried to shake her head, but her neck brace prevented success. "Please don't struggle. All of this equipment is very expensive."
"I don't know why I am here," Michelle verbalised. Gerald wandered away from the group and began to push a trolley towards Michelle's chair. She spied various liquids in glass bottles, syringes, eye drops, a pipette, bandages, and other medical items that she couldn't really name (but you get the point anyway, don't you?).
"You're here for recalibration," Uncle began. His tentacles wafted and swayed gently, but he didn't seem to be wearing a mask.
"What does that mean?" Michelle asked.
"There's a lot for you to process," Bell interjected. Gerald had rejoined his position next to the other two, in front of Michelle. "I think it's been a while since you were last recalibrated. How long has it been, exactly? Or roughly, if you can't remember."
"I don't think I've ever been recalibrated," she answered. All three of them cocked an eyebrow. Synchronised eyebrow cocking.
"This might take longer than we thought," Uncle said, whilst making a note on his clipboard. "Well, no time like the present."
He took up position at her side whilst Bell walked over to the screen and tapped away at its controls. Gerald remained in her eyeline, smiling a hollow smile.
"Was this your idea?" she asked, in almost a snarl, in her partner's direction.
"This was nobody's idea," he said. He seemed genuinely perplexed by the question. "It's just what you need to do."
He momentarily excused himself to wheel over a second trolley which housed a large, cubic machine with a multitude of wires emerging from various ports on its control panel. Her three captors (who would, it should be said, prefer the term processors) busied themselves in clipping the ends of the wires to her temples and her wrists. Finally, they placed clips on her eyelids to keep them open, a process that Michelle found invasive and uncomfortable.
She wasn't panicked, though, and was almost surprised at the level of calm with which she endured the start of this process. She had never been the most accepting of people, in every way that the word 'accepting' could be interpreted, but at this precise moment she found her body relaxing, waiting for the ocean to wash over her.
The movie began. Gerald dropped a liquid into her eyes to nullify the requirement to blink as the title card filled the screen.1: PREFACE. The proceeding image was a familiar one: a large outdoor swimming pool outside of a hotel, with a very young Michelle von Horrowitz sitting on a sun lounger and reading her book. The cover was blank. She didn’t know if that was because the book she was reading in this memory had a blank cover, or if she just couldn’t remember it properly and so voided that miniscule characteristic of the scene. But this was a memory. She felt very sure of this. She could name the town but not the hotel.
This was Marienbad, where she used to spend a couple of weeks every summer with her Aunt Maude. The most loyal amongst our readership will remember Aunt Maude and Marienbad, and the significance of this particular vacation, from a previous volume. Our newer friends will perhaps recognise this name as a phantom of Michelle’s past: something lingering at the circumference but never really progressing beyond that. Now, it would perhaps make sense to recount this story, in full and in truth.
I say in truth, for this is a particular memory that - whilst pervading Michelle’s consciousness frequently, and particularly so in her early years - is usually not to be trusted. Even the most faithful mind will play tricks, and Michelle’s mind was far from a faithful one. Sometimes, she would remember laying on the beach on that afternoon, even though Marienbad has no beaches. Then there were times when her mental image of these events would paint the setting as France or Belgium, when in actuality the town finds its home in the Czech Republic. These alterations were involuntary, as if Michelle’s subconscious was never quite willing to face up to these memories in their reality.
Now, though, reality was facing up to her. It was all the same: the hotel, the swimming pool, the sunlounger, the conversations taking place around her in Czech, the vaguely familiar faces of the other guests who would descend upon this same hotel year in and year out. Maude was Michelle’s mother’s sister. She was a grotesquely fat woman who showed no signs of altering her lifestyle right up until her final days (these final days, this final day). She married rich and outlived her husband, and now lived off the sizable inheritance she’d lifted from the man’s children from a previous marriage. Michelle didn’t like Maude. But Michelle didn’t really like anyone back then. Her mother found this attitude from her youngest tiresome and, after Michelle’s father passed, she was grateful for the two-week respite from the infant’s cynicism, contrarianism, and condescension that these annual holidays with Maude provided. Nobody really knew or questioned what Maude herself got out of the arrangement.
At some point during this descriptive passage, Michelle ceased to exist in her white room, hooked up to her machines. She was now a young girl, sitting on her sunlounger, reading her book. It wasn’t a very good book.
She placed the novel to one side and sighed. The sun was setting, and a cool breeze was beginning to roll in from the west. There was nothing else for it. She pushed herself up to her feet and walked back into the hotel.
She would be going back to Rotterdam in four days, she knew. Isobel was away with her cello at summer school and would be for another two weeks. That left just her and her mother. She dragged her heels at the thought of this, as if getting back to her hotel room a few seconds later than scheduled would somehow delay the oncoming misery of home. Her mother curbed the most excessive aspects of her drinking whilst Isobel was around, as if she didn’t want the talented one to see her in that crooked state. The stupid old woman probably thought it would give Isobel ideas, and she’d trade in her cello for a bottle. It didn’t matter what Michelle saw. Talentless girls could drink as much as they liked.
Michelle reached the door of her and Maude’s room. The old woman was lying, lifeless and disgusting, in one of the two twin beds on the other side (otherside?) of it. Somehow, the young girl knew this even before she turned the handle.
She felt as if her eyes opened, but she quickly reasoned that this couldn’t be the case. They were propped open, after all. Either way, she was back in her cruel cinema, the screen in front of her returning to black as Gerald poured more of the drops into her eyes. Uncle stood on the other side, injecting something into her arm. It seemed to relax her but not nearly enough.
“So?” Bell said, whilst standing in front of her. She had her pen lifted above her clipboard, as if ready to take notes.
“So what?” Michelle asked. Bell sighed a disappointed sigh and let the clipboard drop to her side.
“This is one of the key memories of your formative years, Michelle,” she began, whilst shaking her head. “Any thoughts? Feelings? Reflections? That’s the first time you’ve been to Marienbad since this all happened.”
“I’ve been to Marienbad lots of times,” Michelle answered, thinking of the dreams that plagued her on a near-nightly basis for years.
“Not this Marienbad,” Bell replied, with a roll of her eyes. “A different one, that you made up, yes. But not the actual place where that actually happened.”
“They are just details,” Michelle said, flippantly and with a shrug.
“How did Maude die?” Bell asked.
“A heart attack.”
“How did your father die?”
“He drowned in the bath.”
“How did your mother die?”
“Dehydration.”
“How did your sister die?”
“She was hit by a drunk driver.”
Bell paused. She was still smiling, which Dreamer found an odd facial expression to employ considering the tone and content of the conversation.
“Do you notice anything?”
“There are certain ironies,” Michelle answered. She was growing bored and impatient. This was nothing new. “But they are all chance events, ultimately. Different and the same.”
“Different and the same,” Bell repeated. “Is the next program ready?”
“Ready when you are,” Gerald answered.
“Do you just load the programs?” Michelle asked. “Is that your role here?”
“I also do the eyedrops,” Gerald explained, whilst holding up his pipette. Then, the next film started.2: SELF? She sat on the platform of a train station. There were lots of people there with her, and she knew them all. They were all silent and had their eyes turned in our protagonist’s direction, as if each of them were fully aware that this was her processing and not their’s.
“When does your train arrive?” her mother asked her. She was standing nearby, and took the same form that she did in her final days. Weak, fragile, and beaten. Michelle didn’t know how to answer.
“I don’t know how to answer,” Michelle answered.
“Well, I guess we’ll see you there, anyway,” her mother said. The old woman took a Camel out of her pocket and lit it. Michelle thought about asking for one, but thought better of it. Her mother turned away, regardless.
“Don’t mind her,” her father said, with a kind smile and vacant eyes. He was already drunk, and held four more tins of Heineken in one of his hands. He was swaying slightly. Michelle worried that he might fall off the edge of the platform. “She hasn’t been the same since I died.”
“What train are we waiting for?” she asked.
“We’re waiting for the next one, but you’re not getting on it,” he explained. “You want a beer?”
Michelle nodded. He opened one and passed it to her, and then cracked another for himself. They both took a long, refreshing pull.
“Well, I better get back to your mother.”
When he did get back to her mother, the pair of them stood next to each other in silence. They stared up the tracks in expectation. A few metres on, her sister sat on a bench. Her cello was in its case and propped up next to her.
“Don’t worry, Maude’s not here,” Isobel said. She scratched at the old scarring on her forearms. “She went on ahead. She can’t stand trains.”
“What is this place?” Michelle asked.
“It’s the link,” Isobel answered.
“The link between what?”
“Between this place and the next,” Isobel explained, whilst glancing at the tracks. “And between all of us.”
“Who are you all?”
“We’re the ones that left you,” her sister answered. She was still smiling. Isobel always smiled. “Would you like me to play you a song?”
“No,” Michelle said. Isobel’s songs were always sad.
“Suit yourself,” her sister said. She blew a bubble with her gum whilst staring at Michelle. When it popped she turned away.
Adrienne and Camilla waited a few steps after Isobel. They stood arm in arm, but they’d never met one another in reality. Only in whatever this was. Like the others, they said nothing to each other, and waited patiently for Michelle’s approach.
“Why is it always a train?” Adrienne enquired. “With you it is always a train.”
“You’re not dead,” Michelle said. She realised that she didn’t know this for sure. It was several years since she’d seen Adrienne, and several more for Camilla. “Are you?”
Adrienne shrugged. Camilla wore an unfamiliar smirk.
“Not all of us are dead,” Camilla said. “But our existence is only philosophically different to being alive, from your perspective.”
Michelle thought about this for a moment. She didn’t like Camilla’s snide and conniving facial expression.
“I guess that’s true,” she admitted. “Are you getting the train too?”
“Of course,” Adrienne answered. “Why else would we be here?”
The kaiju sat on the next bench. It bowed beneath his massive weight. There was no smile on his face. The Mountain looked upon her with nothing but disdain.
She said nothing. Neither did he, until: “I have nothing to say to you, Dreamer.”
She left it at that. Jean-Luc was at least more talkative, but that was probably just the coke.
“I’m not really sure why I’m here,” he said in a slightly skittish and unfocussed manner. “With these people. I left, admittedly… but I came back.”
“For me?” Michelle asked.
“No, I guess not,” he said, after a while. A moment later, he reached into his pocket to retrieve his headset. “Happy Fallout Friday, wrestling fans, and welcome to another jam-packed edition of your favourite weekly episodic television programme! We’re broadcasting to you live tonight from…”
He faded out of earshot as she approached Bell, who stood next to a dark figure that Michelle assumed was her husband.
“You’re not coming back, either?” Michelle asked. It was unclear who she was speaking to, even to Michelle.
“I was never really here,” Bell answered, whilst reaching out to place a palm on Michelle’s cheek. Her fingers ran through Dreamer’s short, tangled hair. “At least not at the same time as you were.”
Michelle had the urge to take Bell in her arms, to carry her away from the platform and whatever destination they all intended on travelling towards. It seemed that Kennedy read her mind, for he chose that moment to turn and face her. His face was stern and grave. A train’s whistle blew in the distance, and the low howl of its wheels against the tracks slowly grew and grew until she could see it in the distance.
“You’re coming back.”
It was more of a statement than anything else.
“You have to.”
He didn’t say anything.
“You’re coming back?”
Motionless and calm, Kennedy looked at her as if she was dirt that he’d already removed from his fingernails. The train stopped, a set of doors swinging open next to the three of them.
“Say something!”
He refused, and slowly walked into the carriage. Bell followed. Michelle reached for her hand instinctively.
“Wait!”
Bell looked down at her hand, which Dreamer grasped in hers, with a puzzled and threatened countenance. She pulled herself away and followed her husband onto the train.
“No! No!” Michelle shouted, panicked and afraid. She tried to enter the carriage, but the doors swiftly closed before she could. “Don’t leave me!”
The platform was suddenly empty. She could see them all through the train’s windows. Kennedy and Bell. Jean-Luc and the kaiju. Camilla, Adrienne. Isobel and her parents. She saw herself on the platform from the carriage, collapsing into a heap and beginning to sob.
She felt more of Gerald’s drops land on her pupils as the train pulled out of the station on the screen in front of her. Bell stood before her, complete with lab coat and clipboard.
“You see now?” Bell asked.
Michelle tried to nod her head. Uncle slapped her on the arm, trying to find a vein.
“We’ve told you once already,” he started, whilst flicking his needle. “Stop struggling. This equipment is expensive.”
“Why are you showing me these things?” Michelle asked.
“It is your processing.”
“What am I processing?” Michelle asked. She was sensitive to the fact that almost all of her utterances were questions. She became agitated again, tensing the muscles in her forearms and her calves against her bonds.
“Patterns in your behaviour are very cyclical, Michelle. We showed you the memory of Maude as a preface to the scene at the train station. Of course, we could’ve shown you more memories. Your father’s funeral, maybe. Or the last time you saw Jean-Luc in Moscow. Adrienne was Moscow too, wasn’t she?” Bell consulted her notes. “Yes, that’s right, at Belorusskaya. And Camilla at Piccadilly. Lots of train stations. But they all left. That’s the important thing. Now, you’re threatening to do the same thing with Gerald, and with Thomas, and Uncle by extension. We want to bring you back from the brink.”
Bell paused, and took a step towards Michelle. She attempted to appear comforting and kindly, but her smile made Michelle feel sick.
“We don’t think you can do this on your own.”
“You did put this together,” Dreamer started, whilst her pupils flickered between Uncle and Gerald. “One of you, or… both of you. I don’t know. But this is your doing. After that campfire bullshit failed you decided to go high concept? It’s not going to work. Let me out of this fucking chair.”
Bell sighed, and returned to her more neutral position.
“Is the next program ready?” she asked Gerald.
“No!” Michelle shouted, her fists clenching and her eyes narrowing. “Let me out of this fucking chair!”
It turned out that she didn’t need their help in accomplishing this, for her forearms made short work of the straps tying them to the armrests, before those on her legs followed suit. She jerked her head out of the confines of its brace and lunged at Bell, the wires tearing out of her skin as he did. She didn’t know what she intended to do when she got hold of her and never got the chance to find out. Bell disappeared into thin air, and all that remained was the white lab coat and the clipboard. Michelle turned around to see that her other two processors. The chair itself remained, and she spent a moment inspecting it before realising that she had no clue what she was looking at.
The screen itself was more interesting. It still played the image of Michelle sobbing on the new empty platform. The train was gone. In her white room, Dreamer stepped right up to it. She could see her reflection in its mirror-like surface. She pushed her fingers through the screen and watched it ripple out, and then - like Buster Keaton or Woody Allen - stepped right through it and onto the platform. Her other self still sobbed in front of her and Michelle found herself pitiful. She didn’t want to interrupt.
In the distance, another train appeared. At first, it startled the other Michelle, until she came to her senses and dragged herself to her feet. She noticed our protagonist for the first time and dully accepted this bizarre state of affairs. The train came to a halt and they boarded the same carriage.3: BEAST. The train pulled out of the station and roared across the tracks. Dreamer said nothing to Michelle. Michelle said nothing to Dreamer. They watched each other, mistrustfully and reproachfully. They came to a stop a short while later. Dreamer was alone when the doors opened. The engine turned off and then the lights quickly followed. She felt she was meant to get off the train.
She emerged into a room with grey concrete walls, and as soon as she stepped down onto the cold floor the train left the station in the same direction that it had come. There was a finality to this that Michelle didn’t particularly enjoy. A few metres in front of her was a large table, and positioned on that were several neat lines of cocaine, a tightly rolled fifty euro note, a few opened bottles of Heineken, and a big bag of Purple Incan Kush. She took a seat at the table with a smile.
She hoovered up two lines, and as she rose she saw them all standing behind her in the mirror. The people from the train station and many more besides. She didn’t turn around. She didn’t know if she wanted them to really be there or not.
After two more lines, the crowd was gone, but so was she. Now, looking back at her from the other side (otherside.) of the mirror was the Goddess. The Goddess as she once was, in what they declare to be her prime.
Not the washed up and sad old woman that she was now, in other words.
She stood on the red carpet in a black dress that sat tight on her hips and covered little of her thighs. Her lips were the same colour as the carpet and the soles of her shoes. She was easy and casual, her elegance playful and flippant. Behind her was a symphony of flashes and clicks as the paparazzi sought to capture every flick of her hair, every moment of her smile, every simple but thought-out gesture that the Goddess made.
She wanted more eyes on her than Dreamer did. That much was obvious. It would affect her more when they went, which Michelle didn’t doubt for a second. Michelle had the coke and the bottle. Gabrielle had the cameras. Different addictions, equally destructive. The end result would be the same.
After one more line, Michelle was confronted by the washed up and sad old woman.
The end result would be the same?***** Her eyes opened for what felt like the first time in a very long time. She blinked relentlessly, as if this might help. She wished she had some eye drops.
She was lying on the floor. Above her, several figures loomed. She worried for a moment that it was the Nephews, and her next adventure aboard the Octopi was upon her. But Kennedy wasn’t until Back in Business, and she quickly remembered that she wasn’t on the best terms with Gerald, Uncle, and the rest of them.
A few more blinks revealed the occupants of the waiting room at the Dutch visa centre in New York. She sighed a mournful sigh.
“How long was I gone?” she asked, whilst sitting up.
“A minute,” said one of the middle-aged gentlemen who had been waiting with her before her journey. “Maybe two.”
“It felt longer,” Michelle answered
“You think you should go to the hospital?” the man asked.
Michelle looked up at the small screen in front of her. 186.
“No,” she said, whilst reaching for her ticket. “It’s my number.” |
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Post by supinesnake on May 30, 2024 12:51:58 GMT
Promo history - volume 83.
"Seven Conversations With Nephews." (May 30th, 2022)
Michelle von Horrowitz def. Reagan Cole (FWA: Meltdown XVI - Homecoming(?): Tampa). MICHELLE von HORROWITZ
in
[VOLUME EIGHTY THREE]
”SEVEN CONVERSATIONS
WITH NEPHEWS*.”
(* about a variety of concerns, the least of which is Reagan Cole.) ***** 1: HARRY.
Tuesday 24th May, 2021. 10:38. Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.
She was awoken by the phone in the hotel room, obnoxiously buzzing and dragging her into the waking world. Her kicking and screaming wasn't externalized, but inside the storm began its first tortured cries. That would only build as the day went on. For now, her only defense against it was to pick up the receiver.
“Yes?” she asked, with her eyes still closed and most of her face pressed down hard against the disappointingly stiff pillow. For once, she’d sprung for something other than the cheapest motel in the city, but still comfort eluded her. She’d wanted to treat herself. It wasn’t every day that you beat a two-time world champion, and your biggest rival’s ex-wife to boot.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Ms. von Horrowitz,” came the voice of the timid receptionist. It was the same one that Michelle had muttered the simple instruction that she should not, under any circumstances, be bothered in any way or for any reason for the duration of her stay. “I know you told me not to. Disturb you, that is. But… he says it’s an emergency. He says that you’d want to hear what he had to say.”
“Who?” she asked. Anything beyond monosyllabic utterances, each designed to decipher who or what was bringing about an early end to her slumber, was beyond her.
“I’ll patch him through,” the receptionist said. There was a beep on the line, and then silence. Except for light breathing.
“Well?” she said.
“Good morning, Michelle,” came the answer of the young wizard. He was doing his best to sound breezy and comfortable, but Dreamer detected something off in his tone. His ease was an affectation. “Still in Pittsburgh?”
“You called my hotel in Pittsburgh,” Michelle answered, whilst pushing herself into a seated position on the edge of her bed and wiping the sleep out of her eyes. The motion jerked the phone off the bedside table, and for a moment she was worried that she’d accidentally hung up. Then she wondered why she was worried about this.
“Yes, you’re right,” Harry conceded, before letting out a slight giggle, his nerves plain upon it.
“Why are you calling me, Harry?” she asked, her impatience growing. Or; her patience diminishing. Either way the result is the same.
“Uncle told me to,” Harry said, hurriedly, as if this might absolve him from responsibility for the early wake up call. “I hope you’ll forgive the trickery. But he really wants all of us in Atlanta for Fallout 015.”
“Why?” she asked. She hadn’t even seen the card.
“Thomas has a match against Chris Peacock,” Harry clarified. The name stirred unrest in her. Both names, actually. Was it unrest? In Peacock’s case it was more distaste. “Uncle wants us there in support. All of us. A united front, he called it. Says it’s important.”
“Excuse me for not sounding too enthused,” Michelle said, whilst removing the bed covers and lowering herself onto the carpeting. “Thomas and I haven’t spoken much recently. And I try not to watch Peacock too closely.”
“It’s not just Peacock,” Harry went on. "Toner will be there too, of course. And Uncle's rambling about more enemies, too, from Fallout and Meltdown. He's talking of an anti-Nephew conspiracy, though I'm not sure how much of it is speculation. "
Harry stopped talking. His tone had become more frantic.
"What do you think?" Michelle asked.
"What do I think about what?" Harry replied.
"About the plan," Dreamer clarified. "Should I come to Atlanta?"
"Of course," Harry answered. "I mean, I don’t know why you’re asking me. I am, like, fourteen, remember? But if you want my opinion, you should come. I know you have Reagan Cole coming up and all, but it's on the way to Tampa, so really it's not –"
"I'm not worried about Reagan Cole," she interrupted, truthfully. She didn't know very much about the young man. He was from England. He lost more than he won. He came up at around the same time as Konchu, Peacock, Stu, and Caesar, and although all five had held gold in the big leagues, Cole's silverware was the gimmick belt. A trophy that Michelle wasn't even eligible to challenge for, which sort of invalidated it as a worthwhile endeavour in her eyes, anyway. He beat Randy, but a Randy too tired and jaded to face the world without his mask. She wasn't worried about Reagan Cole.
"Well, I guess that's good?" Harry asked. He didn't sound too sure of himself.
"Is Gerald coming?"
"Yeah"
She waited a few seconds, mulling over each option internally before reaching a conclusion.
"Okay, I'll come."
Harry didn't say anything, but she thought she could hear his smile.
"Shall I meet you at the stadium?" she asked.
"No," Harry said, as if the plan had already been worked out without her input. "Someone will meet you at the bus station. See you soon, Michelle."
With that, he hung up, and she was alone again.
***** 2: GATOR and MEG. Thursday 26th May, 2021. 15:21. Atlanta, Georgia.
The Leviathans were waiting for her in the parking lot across the street from Atlanta's bus station, an Octo-Pod occupying two adjacent bays and hovering a metre or two above the tarmac. The engine was powered down but Meg still occupied the front passenger seat, tucking in to a roast turkey and cranberry sauce sandwich that he'd picked up this morning from a universe in which it was always Christmas. Gator Guy had disembarked already and was smoking his pipe on a nearby bench whilst leafing through May's edition of The Atlantic.
"Dreamer!" Gator exclaimed, as she approached his bench and took a seat next to him. She slung down her rucksack and lit a Camel, much to Gator's chagrin. He frequently admonished her for smoking low-class tobacco, and constantly encouraged her to get a pipe. He let out a small cough, mostly for show, before continuing. "It's wonderful to see you. Been a while. Not since before…"
His voice trailed away mid-sentence.
"Since before I lost the world championship?" she finished for him. Gator shuffled uncomfortably on the bench. Meg was busy descending from the Octo-Pod, which was a cumbersome process for a being of his physiology.
"Yes, I guess it was before then," Gator said, nervously. "Have you seen Thomas? Since…?"
"No," Michelle returned, definitively.
"So now will be the first time?" Meg asked, sheepishly.
"Meg!" Gator interjected. "Exhibit some subtlety, please."
"Don't worry," Michelle said, whilst sucking at her cigarette. She was uncomfortable with the line of questioning, but enjoyed the fact that it seemed to make the questioners far more uncomfortable. "I'm not going to pick a fight with a fellow Nephew. Not unless a bell has rung. I'm here because Uncle asked me to be."
The Leviathans seemed satisfied with this, and exchanged contented smiles.
"Besides, I've got Reagan Cole to worry about," she said, whilst stubbing out her cigarette and climbing up into the Pod. "No time for skullduggery."
"Nasty business, ray guns," Meg said. "Had a scrape with one on the Altromonox System a few years back. Still got the scar."
"No, Reagan Cole," Gator corrected. "He's a wrestler. From nGw, I think. Or maybe CWA.”
Meg nodded absently and returned to the second half of his sandwich. Gator Guy attended to the complex interface of buttons, dials, and levers in front of him, the result of which was the gentle ascent of the Pod until it was above the majority of the buildings. Michelle pondered the fact that this sort of flight didn't unnerve her in anything near the same way as the more conventional methods. She thought about this all the way to the safehouse, but didn't find any answer that was particularly satisfactory.
***** 3: GERALD. Friday 27th May, 2021. 20:56. Atlanta, Georgia.
He sat across from her, slowly sipping at his orange juice and grimacing every time a clump of pulp slid through his teeth and clogged his throat. He had asked for orange juice without the pulp but they didn't have any. She was surprised they had any at all. It didn't really seem like the sort of place that would have fruit of any variety within its walls, both from the outside and after having gained entry. The main room of the bar was submerged below the ground, with no natural light to be enjoyed other than when the entrance swung open and a few shards of sun permeated the otherwise dark and drab dungeon. That didn't happen very often. There were only a handful of patrons dotted around the place, who were mostly old men who sat apart and avoided eye contact. She knew the sort. Their wives were dead and their children grown and flown, and now they came to these sorts of bars to enjoy an approximation of comradery without actually having to interact with any other souls. Michelle knew their type, knew their mind, because she'd seen them in taverns like this across the known world, from Los Angeles to Tokyo and everywhere in-between. She understood them because she was one of them, or would be when her years advanced as much as theirs had. For now, she was only in practice for when that day came. She'd ordered a beer. It was still early, after all, and they'd have work to do later on.
"Do you have anything to say to me?" Gerald asked. Dreamer attempted to stare back at him with as passive an expression as she could muster. One of the things she found most impressive about the kaiju, wherever he was right now, was his ability to remain calm and solemn regardless of what was going on around him. A tsunami could be coming straight at him, and he would stare at it with a dull acceptance until it withered back into a calm sea. Michelle had tried to master this, but she was not ready. There was no need for a tsunami: a cold cup of coffee or a watered down whiskey was enough to stir a storm up within her.
But, right now, she attempted to remain passive. It was an affectation, and she felt sure that Gerald knew this, but for the most part she managed to subdue any rising emotions that the simple question could've easily brought out. It was, after all, quite simple in its intention. He was fishing for an apology, or at least fishing to see whether she was prepared to give one. She hated fishing in all of its forms.
"About the camping trip?" she asked. She was delaying the moment in which she would have to commit, one way or the other.
"Yeah," Gerald replied, matter-of-factly. It was apparent that he thought this much was obvious. Michelle sipped at her beer elusively. "Some of the things you said were pretty rough."
Another pause. Another sip.
"Yes," Michelle acknowledged. It was far short of an apology, if that was what he hoped for, but it was an acknowledgement. More than he'd expected, no doubt, and more than she'd wanted to give. She felt there was guilt written on her face, and that he read this. She shuffled uneasily under his gaze and said no more.
"Did you mean it?" he asked. She felt that this was a stupid question. She shrugged in response, but Gerald's countenance made clear that this wasn't going to be enough.
"Some of it," she answered. "Parts of some of it."
"So… where do we go from here?"
"We will have to return to the stadium at some point," Michelle started, whilst staring off absently towards the exit. Her flippancy was manufactured. JAY! Had sent them off to get a drink before they were needed at Fallout’s climax, and she was maximising the time that they had away from the State Farm Arena. "For Uncle's thing."
"No," Gerald corrected. "I meant less literally."
He sipped at his orange juice. Picked more pulp from out of his teeth.
"I know what you meant," she conceded. She was averting her gaze, but felt his burning into her. "I suppose that is up to you."
"Well, it seems like you're a little preoccupied," Gerald said, firmly. "You have Reagan Cole on Meltdown. And then Kennedy, of course. If you succeed in… whatever it is you're doing there."
Dreamer sighed. She didn't want to speak about this now. She didn't want to speak about this ever, really, but she especially didn't want to speak about this now. She thought about telling Gerald this. About verbalising this thought. Repeating it but to the world, as she often liked to. But she suppressed this urge.
"Kennedy is just something that I have to do," she began, whilst leaning forward and lowering her voice, as if these words were for Gerald's ears only. "Something that I've needed for a long time. Since Tokyo, and Lights Out. I…"
She thought about trying to explain it all to Gerald. Her dreams had changed after that night in Japan. No longer did her subconscious paint Bell as hers, in even the meagre ways it often did before her barbaric dance with Kennedy. Now, he was always there too, blocking out the light from the girl and from the sun. His shadow was dark and cold. The girl, the storm, the sea… she was gone in this waking world, but Dreamer knew another, in which all was not lost.
She thought about trying to explain it all to Gerald. But it was impossible.
"I have to, Gerald. It's as simple as that. I know that you think it's about the belt or about the streak or about both, but it isn't. It doesn't matter to me if you understand that or not. That is the way it is."
Gerald was leaning forward too, listening to each word carefully and trying to piece together the jigsaw. The thoughtful expression on his face would've been comical, but Michelle was as invested in the conversation as he was. It was then that she realised, truly, how important of a friend Gerald had become. She couldn't imagine debasing herself like this for anyone else but him.
"Afterwards…" she started, but with much less certainty in her own words. "I cannot promise you anything. Nor can you promise me. But our dream, ultimately, is the same."
"The belts?" he asked. He emphasized the plurality.
"The belts," she confirmed. For the first time since, well, maybe before The Grand March, he smiled at her. She felt her heart swell.
"Come on," he instructed, as she drained the remainder of her drink. "Uncle will need us soon."
***** 4: MAID OF DEATH. Friday 27th May, 2021. 23:15. Atlanta, Georgia.
She waited at the bus stop a few blocks away from the arena. Her motel was on the other side of town, making the trip necessary, but she didn't want to wait too close to the stadium and risk unwanted interactions with those that would recognise her. Her hood was pulled up over her head to further ward away such conversations, but she felt the terror grip her as someone across the road stated back at her in sudden and unmistakeable recognition. Only when the woman carefully crossed the road did she realise it was the Maid. She didn't know if that eased her anxiety or amplified it.
The Maid stopped a few paces away from her. The bus stop was otherwise empty, and for a few moments the other woman said nothing. Dreamer wondered if perhaps she'd crossed the road without thinking, and now that she was here she had nothing to say. She doubted it, though. The Maid didn't seem the sort of woman who was prone to impetuous or unthoughtful acts, and the knowing countenance on her face suggested otherwise, also.
Still, though, she didn't say anything.
"You didn't go with the others?" Michelle asked. They'd gone to perform some impromptu service for Stop Sign #2. That was too much for Dreamer.
"We just finished," the Maid said. "Some of them have gone for a drink. Others back to the safehouse. I have… business of my own."
Michelle thought it best not to ask questions. She didn't want to pry, for she genuinely had no desire to know the Maid's affairs. Uncle's were enough, unclear as they often were.
"You didn't want to drink?" the Maid asked. "Too preoccupied with Reagan Cole?"
"No," Michelle answered. "To both questions."
The bus was late. Michelle lit another cigarette. The other bummed one off her.
"You're right not to worry about Cole," the Maid mused, dismissively. "You have other concerns far greater than him."
"You mean Kennedy?"
"No," the Maid went on. "But him, too. To a lesser extent. Your fears should reside within, not without."
The silence lingered. Another pair of commuters arrived at the bus stop, fogged by a night of drinking. They were talking loudly and hurriedly but Michelle couldn't make out the words: they were slurring, and the Maid's gaze seemed to distort them further. At this moment, the other woman - who seemed older by years innumerable - was staring into her. Michelle felt exposed and alone and small.
"Don't trust any of them," the Maid said, simply.
The bus pulled up at the stop. The drunks got on and Michelle made to follow, but paused at the doorway.
"You're not getting on?" Michelle asked.
"Of course not," the Maid said. She seemed genuinely confused by the question. "Why do you still get the bus?"
Michelle couldn't think of an answer before the driver barked at her. The Maid had left by the time she'd found a seat.
***** 5: UNCLE. Sunday 29th May, 2021. 09:51. Tampa, Florida.
She was awoken by the phone in the hotel room, obnoxiously buzzing and dragging her into the waking world. In reality, it was five mornings ago that she was last woken like this, but right now it felt like yesterday. How was this possible?, she thought to herself. She had issued the receptionist with a stern and clear warning that there was no emergency great enough to interrupt her slumber. She'd even told them to be on the lookout for adolescents telling them that she'd want to hear what he had to say, and yet still the phone rang. You never got this shit in motels. Most of them didn't even have phones. It was her own fault for being kind to herself. That was a dangerous game.
Meek and timid and passive, she reached for the phone.
"Yes?" she asked, with her eyes still closed and most of her face pressed down hard against the disappointingly stiff pillow.
"Michelle!" came Uncle's reply, delivered in an urgent and boisterous tone. He appeared to have bypassed the receptionist completely, and she would've questioned this if Uncle didn't continue with such alarm. "They've done it! They've finally done it!"
"They've done what?" She asked. And then, working backwards: "who've done what?!"
"Rupey and the rest of them!" Uncle raved on. "They've shown their hand, Dreamer! A conspiracy unmasked! I take it you haven't seen the card for Fallout 016?"
"Not yet," Michelle said. She hadn’t seen much of anything today, other than the inside of her eyelids. She reluctantly sat up and prepared herself for this conversation and, after that, the day. "Why?"
"It's as I thought it would be, Dreamer," Uncle said. She didn't know where he was or what he was doing, other than that he was most certainly pacing. She imagined him gesticulating wildly with his arms and tentacles, speaking to the room in a general manner and trusting SS9000 would do the rest. “They’re trying to undermine us! To expose our… recent difficulties and tear us apart from within. They’ve formed some sort of supergroup from our enemies, Dreamer! This is ragnarok, Michelle!”
“Who is it?” she enquired, calmly. She was doing her best to contrast Uncle’s wild and frantic delivery with kaiju-esque passivity. She was half successful, even, but attributed this to the numbness of morning. “Toner and Peacock?”
“And the rest!” Uncle went on, conveying outrage and surprise. “Diamond, too. And Golden, even! He thinks he invented his team, and his neurons despised him even before this epiphany. Such a ragtag bunch, Dreamer. Bred with one purpose: to destroy the Nephews. Can you imagine, Dreamer?! After all the worldbuilding we’ve done?! The mythos struck down in one fell swoop!”
“I’m sure you’re all up to the task,” Michelle said, absently.
“What do you mean, you?” Uncle replied. “It’s we. Me, Thomas, Gerald, and you. The rest of the Nephews will be present in a strictly auxiliary role. We need a team meeting. How quickly can you get to Miami?”
“I’m in Tampa,” she answered, definitively. “I’ve got my match with Reagan Cole.”
“Fuck Reagan Cole!” Uncle shouted, before controlling himself. “I’m sorry, Dreamer. That was a little loud. I think I woke everyone up. Except Stop Sign #2, of course. He’s still quite asleep. But the sentiment remains: fuck Reagan Cole. You’ve had enough time to think about him already.”
“I haven’t had any time to think about him,” Michelle corrected, whilst moving to the bathroom and collecting her toothbrush. “I’ve been busy with you in Atlanta, remember?”
“That was days ago!” Uncle declared, no longer bothering to measure his tone. “And you were on a bus for about twenty hours, Dreamer. What else do you have to think about? We need a team meeting. The rest of us are here in Atlanta, though I imagine some will make the trip to Tampa before Fallout. You should meet with Thomas, at least. The sooner the better.”
The silence conveyed her answer well enough. She didn’t have any interest in seeing Thomas.
“You have to, Michelle,” Uncle said, striking a more authoritative tone. “The belts come to us, and then the belts stay with us. All of them.”
“Fine,” Michelle conceded. “Where and when?”
“I’ll send the details to your hotel. And get to Miami as soon as you’re done with the Bag Carrier. I’ll get Jean-Luc to send a car. SS9000, have Jean-Luc send a car for Michelle.”
“Anything else?” the system asked.
“Hang up the call with Michelle,” Uncle instructed. “Goodbye, Dreamer. Oh, and one more thi –”
***** 6: THOMAS.
Tuesday 31st May, 2021. 22:03. Tampa, Florida.
Seeing Thomas went about as well as she had expected it to. It started poorly after he picked her up from her hotel in the Octo-Mobile. He’d tried to get SS900 to play something called The Thomas West Diaries - Michelle von Horrowitz Edition, but fortunately Uncle had given her administrative rights and she was able to override his command. She had no interest in whatever self-indulgent, high-concept drivel Thomas West had programmed into the computer system. She remembered SPLICE! well enough. Thomas frequently turned out to be the bad guy in their adventures. Almost as often as Uncle did. They endured the rest of the journey to the bowling alley in near-perfect silence.
The game was going well for her, but she stopped well short of enjoying it. She was pretty good at bowling, and had amassed a score of one hundred and forty one going into the final two frames. Thomas was languishing on one hundred and nineteen, and if anything his game was tailing off as they reached the later stretches of the duel.
She liked the fact that she was winning. It should have meant far less to her than it did.
“You’re better at bowling than I thought you would be,” Thomas offered, as she returned to the machine to collect her ball. She’d knocked six pins down with the first attempt of the ninth frame, and was particularly disappointed to leave two pins up on opposite sides of the alley. It was a below average shot, and this seemed a strange time to pick to compliment her skills.
“I don’t think Uncle brought us here so that we could talk about bowling,” Michelle answered, whilst picking up her ball.
“It’s interesting that you care,” Thomas said, as Michelle lined up her shot. The utterance clogged in her mind and affected her focus. She sent the ball through the middle of the two clusters of remaining pins. Thomas continued before she’d even turned around. “What do you think Uncle wants us to talk about?”
“Chicago, probably,” Michelle answered, with no hesitation. Thomas just shrugged, and smiled. He hadn't brought his belt with him. She was acutely aware of that from the moment she got into the Octo-Mobile. "About your new crown."
"The golden one, or the thorny one?" Thomas asked. She didn't like his flippant tone. "I don't think Uncle cares what we talk about. He just wants us to talk. I imagine he'd be happiest if we spoke about Reagan Cole."
"Hardly," Michelle quipped, as Thomas picked up his eighteen pound ball and manoeuvred towards the line. "Fuck Reagan Cole were his exact words."
"At least he used his real name," Thomas replied, as if this was indicative of at least a certain level of respect. Michelle doubted it. West proceeded to saunter to the faultline and spin his ball powerfully down the alley, knocking eight of the pins down in a loud and chaotic collision. A seven-ten split remained, eliciting a sigh from the world champion. "And besides, you shouldn't underestimate him. You shouldn't underestimate anybody. That's sort of what got you into this mess with me."
Dreamer bristled. His tone was becoming more objectionable by the moment. He confidently walked back up to the faultline and sent his ball directly into the pin on the right. The one on the left remained unmolested.
"Not going to try to hit both?"
"Sometimes it's better not to."
His smile suggested he thought he was being mysterious, but she just found him mischievous and tiresome. She decided to employ a more direct approach.
"You don't want to talk about The Grand March?" Michelle asked, whilst replacing him on the alley. She was unsure whether she wanted to. The answer seemed clear until this moment, and it had been a resounding no. Now that she was here she was overcome by a morbid and masochistic curiosity.
"Do you?" he asked, before she started her approach. He watched her knock nine of the pins down, somehow managing to leave the one at the head of the triangle standing. "Look, I know you have this idea of what that night was. And from your perspective, sure. It's far from ideal. But have you tried looking at things from my perspective?"
"You're beginning to sound like Gerald," she said, as she collected her ball. She turned away from him and, without much thought, sent her ball hurtling at the last remaining pin. It found the gutter two thirds of the way down the ramp.
"Is that a bad thing?" he asked. She shrugged her shoulders as she inspected her final score of one hundred and fifty six. She'd played better before, but Thomas was struggling on one twenty eight. That would probably be enough, she reasoned. He was more preoccupied with the oncoming monologue, anyway. "You know my story as well as most, I guess. You'd know it even better if you would've let me play that diary entry in the car, but that's by-the-by. You know where I've been before. The roles I've played to even acquire the small pieces of success that I've accrued over the years…"
With the pins reset into position, Thomas strode with purpose to the line and sent his ball crashing through the heart of the pack. They acquiesced without hesitation, toppling to their sides obediently and decisively.
"... and it's been a lot of years, Dreamer. Over a decade. I know that it was the same for you. There were times that I thought it was all hopeless, as I'm sure you did. Times I thought about packing it all in, as I know for certain that you have, too. You left and you came back. I stuck it out, by and large, clawing and creeping my way towards that opportunity in Chicago. When yours came in Paris, you took it ..."
Without breaking stride (either literally or in his monologue), he collected his ball and watched the mechanism re-gather the pins. His second shot was a carbon copy of the first, sending the skittles hurtling through the air before landing horizontally. She was worried they might splinter and break.
"... and I'm not sure you could really ask me to do anything but the same thing. I bled for this shot at The Granary. Not for nothing…”
He paused before taking his final shot.
”And I intend on keeping hold of the thing for much longer than you managed. On either attempt."
Predictably, he completed the turkey, and began changing back into his regular shoes without looking at the scoreboard. Contrarily, Michelle was transfixed, even after his score updated to one hundred and fifty eight.
"Do you need a lift anywhere?" he asked, whilst holding up the keys to his Octo-Mobile.
"No," she said, through gritted teeth. "I'll see you in Miami."
***** 7: QUIET. Thursday 2nd June, 2021. 01:14. Tampa, Florida.
As she ambled through the streets of Tampa, midnight well behind her and the evening's whiskey lying heavily on her stomach and her head, she looked at the masked man matching her stride beside her. It was then that she realised that, of all her interactions with the Nephews over the past ten days, this was the only one that she had entered into willingly. Harry and Uncle broke the sanctum of her sleep (the former on the latter's orders), and JAY! insisted on further rendezvous with the Leviathans, Gerald, and Thomas. The Maid was a chance meeting, she thought, but she couldn't be sure. That, too, could've been the work of Uncle's plotting, though to what end she couldn't guess.
But she'd sought out Quiet. Upon hearing that he'd accompanied Thomas to Tampa for Meltdown, Dreamer donned her detective’s cap and found out where the pair were staying. It wasn’t difficult. The Nephews usually left quite a trail. Quiet was keen to join her for an evening, which they’d spent mostly in silence in various dive bars across the city. Now, as they meandered along a trail with Hillsborough Bay to their right, Michelle halted to light a cigarette. Quiet stared out at the water.
“Kennedy’s from here, if you didn’t know,” Michelle said. She was looking at the moon whilst inhaling from her smoke. “You’d think that would be all I could think about. I’d be forgiven for not dwelling on Cole, I guess. But we’re in Tampa, and all I can think of is…”
“.....?”
“Yes,” Michelle admitted. “And the rest of them. It’s a full-time job?”
Quiet nodded his head. It was beginning to rain.
“I try to pretend that I don’t care about any of them,” Michelle began. She dragged her eyes from the moon and onto the man standing next to her. “But the last ten days prove otherwise. I wouldn’t be here if you people meant as little to me as I like to think. You’re…”
She thought about the train station. All I have left. She couldn’t say the words.
“... … …. ….?” he asked.
She nodded her head. His face would’ve been inscrutable, even without the mask.
“.. …… …”
And then they did. |
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Post by supinesnake on May 30, 2024 13:03:23 GMT
Promo history - volume 84.
"Untitled Fallout 016 Project." (w/ Jam and Commie Jobber) (June 8th, 2022)
Michelle von Horrowitz, Gerald Grayson, Thomas West, and Uncle J.J. JAY! vs. Danny Toner, Chris Peacock, Devin Golden, and Nova Diamond [Eight-Person Tag Team Match] (FWA: Fallout 016 - The Atlantic). UNCLE J.J. JAY!, THOMAS WEST, GERALD GRAYSON, & MICHELLE von HORROWITZareCTHULHU’S NEPHEWSin”[UNTITLED FALLOUT 016 PROJECT]”  PROLOGUE.
TEAM MEETING.
Miami, Florida.
Tuesday 7th June, 2022.
"I can't believe she's gone! One moment, she was here at my side, preaching caution and good road safety, generally doing her best to do good in her own, meager way. And the next she's gone! Engulfed in a ball of flame, her paint melting right off her! Leaving us nothing but charred and useless remains! I mean, can you imagine?! Take you people, my new friends. One day, you sit here and you eat your breakfast, and you make super-interesting new friends with COSMIC HORRORs and world champions and wizards and the like, and you think: 'my life is rather good'. Then, the next? Poof! Engulfed in a ball of flame! You never know, Nephews, which of these breakfasts will be your last. Enjoy that bacon! Savor it!"Uncle shook his head and returned to his knife and fork, delicately slicing into a sausage before placing it between his lips. He'd removed his mask to eat and placed it on the table in front of him. Immediately around him, occupying the same table as your beloved COSMIC HORROR, were three complete unknowns. They were Miami locals who just happened to choose this diner to break their fast, and - due to the lack of tables available in the place and the large number of Nephews who'd descended upon it - had since been joined by Uncle J.J. JAY!. The oldest of the three was a man with a bald head and a pockmarked face, who held an abandoned rasher on the end of his fork whilst he stared, blankly and mouth agape, at his new friend. His wife was more preoccupied with inspecting the tentacles of JAY!'s mask. "Uncle!" shouted Harry, who was seated at a round table with Quiet, in-between a young couple who'd been happily enjoying their morning before the Nephews' arrival. "We're all here and ready. You want me to do a role-call?"Uncle scanned the room. Amongst the regular diners were the aforementioned Harry and Quiet, along with Michelle and Gerald (who'd managed to get a table on their own thanks to some prolonged glaring from Dreamer), Alphonse (seated next to a young parent with her child in a pram, who was transfixed by the Swiss Sherpa), Thomas West and Eric Bana (at opposite ends of the long counter with four other coffee-drinkers between them), Maid of Death and ÑŒ-I (who couldn't find a seat at all and were lingering next to the door), and the Leviathans. Meg was the last to take his seat, busy as he was with collecting his extra-extra-large breakfast with extra everything, and did so in-between Gator Guy and a blind woman, whose guide dog growled at the shark accusingly. "No, no need, thank you Harry," Uncle started, whilst standing from his seat. The strangers who'd been conversing with him (or, more accurately, were being conversed at by him) continued to watch the bizarre being, hypnotized by his charisma, as he took center stage. "Nephews, I'm glad that you've all come. I understand that the last two months have been a… strange time. A strange time for all of us, and our fortunes in this period have varied drastically."Here, Uncle allowed himself a pause. His eyes, which had up until now been transfixed upon Thomas West, moved from the podcast host to the Connection. Michelle found that his gaze was not unkind but shuffled uncomfortably beneath the weight of it anyway. "But we must remember that we are Nephews, Nephews! Our commonalities far outnumber our differences, which are glorious and vast themselves. We must remember, friends, that there are many underneath the Big Tent who will strive to tear us apart. We have helped many. Millions. But more see what we've done for them… and they fear us or they envy us. They don't greet their Uncle and his Nephews with the love and respect that I deserve."This observation seems to almost pain Uncle, and he winces under the strain of uttering it. "They will see these divisions, divisions that have been caused by nothing but our own successes, and they will seek to make the most of them. To bring about our demise and exploit the gap that's opened up. It has already begun: the anti-Nephew conspirators have shown their hands, for this city of Miami will be the venue for what will perhaps be our biggest challenge to date. They have built a supergroup of anti-Nephew combatants…"
"... of jobbers!" interjected Harry from his table in the back. "Of jobbers indeed! And our biggest hope in this war to come lies in the fact that our enemies are more divided than even we are, but they will come for us on Fallout Zero-One-Six. So, Nephews, I have gathered you --"Whilst Uncle continued to build through his crescendo, Michelle and Gerald watched passively from their table. Until now, they had remained silent, but the impatient countenances on their faces would suggest to an observant onlooker that the elongated soliloquy was not having its intended effect on them. "He's going to suggest we go on an adventure," Gerald said, quietly, to the woman next to him. "Of course he is," she replied. "Which is why, Nephews," Uncle went on, triumphantly. "I think now is the perfect time for an adventure."There was a smattering of applause for the announcement, but it was mostly from the people who dined independently from the Nephews. Uncle was quite the orator, and these strangers were swept up in his speech, but most of the Nephews gave each other nervous, mistrustful looks. "Are you sure that now is really the time?" Meg asked. "We only just did SPLICE!," the Maid pointed out. "You can oversaturate these things."
"And there's the other stuff," Harry said, anxiously. ".... ….. …..?" asked Quiet. "You know," Harry started. "Michelle beating Gerald and then Thomas beating Michelle."Dreamer shot the young wizard a glare, but was tempered by his recoil. She concluded he'd only wanted to be helpful and informative. "We shouldn't get hung up on such… trivialities," advised Uncle, attempting to win his real audience back to his side. "You know, Dreamer beats me every year, and do you see me holding a grudge?! No! Because we are a team. That is why we are having a team meeting. How could we possibly have a team meeting if we weren't a team? And teams go on adventures!"A moment of silence, punctured by a sigh from Michelle. "I really don't think an adventure would help anything," she declared. "We should use this time to discuss strategy for 016," Gerald said. "No!" Uncle interrupted. "I know your game! We're not doing anything dull or conventional. If it makes you feel better, we can stay in this universe. We'll be home in plenty of time for the match."
"Under no circumstances, Uncle, are Gerald and I going on any kind of adventure between now and Fallout 016." CHAPTER ONE.
ARRIVAL ON WHEREVER.
Caribou X-450 Refueling Station.
Tuesday 7th June, 2022.
"Maybe I should get her waxed, whilst we're here," Uncle said. The serf-bots were just concluding the refueling process, and JAY! stood with Thomas, Michelle, and Gerald (his hand-picked team for the Octopi #1) to inspect his craft. "Um, I don't think it needs it," Thomas pointed out. He was quite right: the ship was gleaming. "Eric takes pretty good care of it."
"It looks clean, sure," Uncle conceded. "But I'm certain he takes shortcuts. Always best to hire a professional, whenever you can. But you're right, Thomas. No time to waste! The people of Wherever need us!"
"Wherever?" Gerald asked, as he followed with the rest of the team towards the front of the vehicle. In the distance they could make out Harry and the Leviathans coming into view, the Octopi #2 docked in the adjacent bay to its slightly older but identical sister. "Yes, the Planet Wherever," Uncle affirmed. "Though I guess you shouldn't call them people. There's two intelligent species on the surface, as far as my reconnaissance work can tell, and - as far as comparisons to people go - one of them is a little less and the other a little more. But they're down there, Nephews. They're down there and they're in need of our help."
"Along with tonnes of untapped phosphorium, rublevium, and chiral crystals, of course," Thomas pointed out. "You think this is a reason not to help the grunts?" Uncle asked. "The grunts?!" Gerald exclaimed. "I don't think you should call them that. That doesn't sound politically correct."
"That is what they are called, Gerald," Uncle argued, but this stream of dialogue was cut off by them arriving in front of Harry, Gator, and Meg. "Big day, Harry! Your first in command of an Octopi! What an honor! Are you all ready?"
"Coordinates are set," Harry started, with his chest puffed out. "The course will take us into a hovering position above the north pole, ready for resource acquisition. What is it we're looking for again?"Uncle paused and glanced sidewards at Thomas. He leant in towards the young wizard and continued in a whisper. "Phosphorium, rublevium, and chiral crystals," Uncle said. Thomas let out a chortle, shook his head, and returned to the craft. After a message of good luck to Harry on his maiden voyage in command of the Octopi #2, Uncle and the Connection followed. When they arrived at the bridge, Thomas was already seated in the pilot's chair. Uncle took his position at the command center, leaving Michelle and Gerald at the communications hub. "Take her up, Thomas," Uncle commanded. The world champion obliged by pressing a series of buttons before pulling down on a lever. The ship roared into action, its engines beginning their faint whirring and propelling the craft away from Caribou X-450. In front of them was the dense blackness of space. Specifically, they were gliding into a portion of the abyss that Uncle called the Uncharted Minor Segment of the Second Quadrant past the Crease. This meant nothing to Michelle or Gerald. Instead of dwelling on it, they strapped themselves in and held the arms of their chairs anxiously as the ship jumped to hyperspeed and made short work of the lightyears between here and Wherever. "So," Uncle began, when he was content that they were following the correct trajectory. "Where was I? Before Harry interrupted me?"
"You were telling us about the 'grunts'," Gerald reminded him. He was careful with his delivery of the word, as if still unsure that it was okay for him to use it. "Ah, yes! Excellent memory, GiGi!" Uncle said, whilst flashing Grayson a thumbs up. "You'll know exactly why they refer to themselves as grunts as soon as we arrive, I don't doubt. They are almost like worker ants, only bigger. Still have six limbs, though, and smaller than humans. Harry's height, perhaps. But they are a hardy people, Nephews. Not war-like, certainly, but they have built up a commendable level of sturdiness and resilience through generations of hard toil. And that's all they do, really. It's like that Rihanna song goes: work, work, work, work, work."
"Haven't heard it," Michelle interjected. "Good, it's trash," Uncle offered, before erasing the tangent and continuing on his main thread. "But yes, the grunts are the workers. The hands of this planet. And the minds are the Conquisti. They are taller, fairer, and - supposedly, though I'm yet to see the evidence - wiser. They have a sort of angelic vibe to them, Nephews. But you shouldn't let that fool you. Usually, when there's such an obvious division in a society, it was unjustly earned. That should do for background. The Conquisti set the work quotas, and the grunts fulfill them. That is how life on this planet works."
"All well and good," Gerald said, with deadpan delivery. "But that doesn't really explain why we are going there."
"Phosphorium, rublevium, and chiral crystals," Thomas suggested, as he skilfully navigated his way through a cluster of meteors. The planet Wherever came into view in the distance beyond them. The ship began to slow to below the speed of light. "No, not at all," Uncle said, whilst shaking his head. "That is only a side concern of a side adventure. We are here to right injustice and inequality, for that is what Nephews do."A stony silence lingered in the bridge. Nobody rushed to agree with Uncle. "And you've met them?" Michelle asked, puncturing the pause. "The grunts and… and the other ones?"
"The Conquisti, Michelle," Uncle replied, whilst inspecting one of the navigation screens in front of him. "Better learn their names if you want to overthrow them. And yes is the answer. I've met many of the grunts. Some were more amenable than others. The majority seemed perfectly happy with their serfdom, if I'm honest. Living up to their names again. As for the Conquisti, I met two of them. But there are only four to begin with."
"Here we go," Thomas said, with a roll of his eyes. "What?" Uncle asked, as though butter wouldn't melt. "They're stand-ins, aren't they?" Thomas said. "For our four opponents."
"I would think that you of all people, Thomas, would understand the significance of fate and coincidence, given what happened in SPLICE!..."
"You mean where he was the bad guy?" Michelle said. "This won't do!" Uncle exclaimed. "No petty bickering!"
"Okay, so tell us about the two you've met," Thomas instructed. As he did, the screen in front of him flashed up a message informing them that they'd entered their desired hovering pattern above the planet. West smiled to himself, pleased at his skilful piloting. He handed the controls over to SS9000 and began preparing to leave the bridge. "Initially I dealt only with Vitatius," Uncle started, whilst leading the way to the pods. "He was very popular with the grunts back then. Not so much now, but they still have a certain amount of respect for him. As far as I can see, he was handed over control of quite a large portion of Wherever by one of his peers, and has since cultivated his own stock and influence as a priority. Quite narcissistic, if you ask me. I thought we were friends at first, but that turned out to be somewhat one-sided. He stopped toying with me as soon as it became clear I wasn't really going to help him, and since then I've dealt with Seductus. He's older and should, in theory, have seniority by now, but that is not the case. Probably because he's never around. I can't tell you how many of our meetings he's no-showed."
"Oh, please," Thomas said, as he opened the doors of one of the Octo-pods to allow Michelle inside. Gerald was to ride with Uncle in the other one. "Does Vitatius dance and Seductus smoke?"
"I don't know what you are implying, Thomas," Uncle returned. He closed his Octo-pod's door but opened up a communication channel between the two of them. "Drinking and smoking are quite alien concepts to these beings. I don't suppose either of them have ever heard of those words. Which reminds me: Babel fish."The four of them reached into the pockets of their tracksuit jackets (purple for Gerald, Thomas, and Uncle, green for Michelle) and each pulled out a jar, inside of which was a small, yellow fish. The three men quickly placed theirs in their ears without much of a second thought. "I'm not sure I really agree with this exploitation of animals," Michelle said. "It's okay," came the fish's reply. It had swum to the side of its jar and was smiling pleasantly at the young woman. "I enjoy it, really. That's why I volunteered."
"Is everything going to be a Douglas Adams reference?" she asked. "The hands-mind societal dynamic was more Fritz Lang, I thought," added the fish. Michelle agreed, and then placed the fish - which would allow her to understand and communicate with those on the planet's surface - into her ear. "Open the pod doors, SS," Uncle said. The ship's system silently obliged, the doors in front of them sliding open to reveal the green-pink planet below them. As the Octo-pods thrusted out into open space they were surrounded by the bluish-purple haze that constituted the planet's atmosphere. West was a skilled flier, Michelle knew, and was able to put her misgivings about the man as a whole to the back of her mind whilst he deftly navigated their way down to the surface. They landed on a thin tract of land next to a white sand beach, the pink sea beyond giving off a faint fog that almost seemed to hiss at them. The beach was empty. Michelle could see no sign of life regardless of how far she looked in any direction. "Where are they all?" she asked. "Probably in the fields," Uncle suggested, whilst leading the way from the pods and the sea. "Grunts have no time for beaches when there is work to do. And there's always work to do."But he was wrong. The fields lay deserted, too, though here there were signs of the society that Uncle had described in the ship. Farming tools were strewn around the vast complex of fields that paved the way between the beach and a large, domed building in the distance. Small, wooden huts lined either side of the road, and had the appearance of domesticated buildings used for housing. All of these were empty, too. "Do you think something happened?" Gerald asked, whilst picking up a shovel that was driven into the earth along the path. "No," Uncle said, confidently. "They were here recently. You can tell from the mud. It's fresh. There's nothing like the smell of fresh mud, GiGi!"
"Then where are they?" Gerald asked again. "In there, I imagine," Uncle said, pointing to the dome. Michelle wondered why they couldn't have parked closer. "It must be Harvest."Uncle was correct with his second guess, and after a short time they arrived at the domed building in question. There were a couple of guards on the main door, but they seemed to recognise JAY! and let him and his Nephews in after a brief and congenial conversation. Inside, thousands of grunts were sitting in neat rows, all facing a raised stage where a few more of their number (those that were senior, Michelle thought) were busy exchanging inaudible but frantic words in hushed tones. They were as Uncle described them: short and with six legs, and with a hard, beetle-like shell on their stooped backs. A few of them turned towards JAY! as the group entered and found seats of their own at the back, but only one of them was moved enough by his appearance to approach the group. "Uncle!" he said, whilst clutching the COSMIC HORROR's hand in four of his own. "You came back! And just in time for Harvest, too."
"Have I missed the opening statement?" Uncle enquired. Michelle and Gerald both found themselves very confused. Thomas too, but he was more adapted to going with it. "No," the grunt said, almost ruefully. "If I'm honest, you'd have missed the whole ceremony, if Seductus had shown up on time. But what do you expect?"The two shared a brief, knowing laugh. They would've continued in their private conversation if Thomas hadn't cleared his throat suggestively. "Oh, excuse me," Uncle said, remembering his manners. "Nephews, meet KK_42863. He has hosted me on more than a few occasions during my visits to Wherever. KK_42863, this is Michelle, Gerald, and Thomas."
"Pleased to meet any friend of Uncle's," came KK_42863's response, which was accompanied by a fresh round of handshakes. "Where are you all staying? I'm sure that room can be made in my hut."
"We'll be on the ship," Uncle answered, quickly and to Gerald's relief. The ship seemed much more spacious and well-equipped for human inhabitation. "Then you'll have to come for lunch tomorrow," he insisted, before pointing off towards another grunt that had been watching them converse this whole time. Apparently it was a female, though there was very little difference to the untrained eye. "That's my wife, over there. She makes a mean yeoman's stew. GM_88263, she's called. Such a beautiful name."
"We'd be honored," Uncle said, before Michelle could inquire as to the ingredients of a yeoman's stew. She never got the chance, as activity on the stage prompted a quick hush amongst those assembled. Before long, a particularly old and particularly stooped grunt waddled up to the pulpit and leaned towards a microphone. "Brothers and sisters," he said, though his voice was strained and weak. "I believe we are about to begin.”
"I'll see you tomorrow then, Uncle," KK_42863 said, with two left hands on JAY!'s shoulder. "You know where my hut is. My break is at midday."With that, KK_42863 shuffled back to his wife, taking his seat and giving the grunt on stage his undivided attention. A few moments later, the room - which until now had been drab and rather lifeless, despite the sea of grunts that were garrisoned beneath its lofty dome - was filled with a brilliant and somewhat implacable white light. The grunts let out a synchronized and content sigh as, from almost within this light that was in no one place, a tall, fair being emerged. Michelle understood what Uncle had meant when he described the Conquisti as a little more than human. "Seductus cannot come tonight," the being said, to noone and everyone at the same time. "But I am here to inspect the work. Is the Harvest ready?"
"Yes, Novi," the old grunt on the stage said. He was bowing so low that Michelle thought his nose might touch the ground. "It is ready for you to inspect."
"Show me," the Conquisti, Novi, said. At his command, the whole wall behind the stage began to lower like a huge garage door, and behind it was revealed a colossal warehouse. Upon its numerous, vast shelves was food of all manner and descriptions: fruit and vegetables that were alien to Michelle but bright and alluring nonetheless, tonnes of grains and beans and nuts in uncountable sacks, barrels filled with strange and nameless alcohols, salted meats and preserved fish. Beyond the food was stone from the quarries, timber from the lumberyards, coal from the mines. After a short perusal, the Conquisti was satisfied. "It is as it should be. Begin with the loading."With that, both the being and the white light disappeared as quickly as they had arrived.  CHAPTER TWO.
DESERTERS AND DISSIDENTS.
The Octopi #1. Command Bridge.
Tuesday 7th June, 2022.
"Yeah, we're in position above the icefields," Harry was saying over the ship's communication system. The young wizard's first command had hit a few snags on the way into the planet's atmosphere, but it seemed as if Harry had acted admirably in the face of adversity. Uncle beamed with pride. Michelle read a book. Thomas played paddle-ball. Gerald flossed. "You should see them, Uncle. Quite beautiful. The extraction of phosphorium began just over forty minutes ago. We should be deep enough to start on the rublevium tomorrow morning. No sign of chiral crystals, though. Maybe only in the northern hemisphere."
"Perhaps we'll have to wait, then," Uncle said, disappointedly. "Wait for what?" Thomas asked after halting his paddle-ball. The podcast reasoned that JAY! was planning at best exploitation and at worst genocide. "Don't interrupt whilst I'm talking to Harry," Uncle said, elusively. "Okay. Great work, Harry. Keep looking, maybe you'll detect some chirality closer to the equator. Get Gator and Meg out in Octo-pods, if you need to."
"Gator and Meg are busy," Harry replied. "We came across a small society of innuit grunts whilst setting up our surface camp. It seems they are deserters and dissidents from your city in the north. I sent Gator and Meg to make contact and ingratiate us, if possible."
"Interesting," Uncle said, whilst emulating The Thinker. "I must have overlooked them entirely on my reconnaissance. Rash and lazy. Very uncharacteristic. But still, maybe it can work out to our advantage. Deserters and dissidents might prove useful, if we are to stage a revolution. Very good, Harry! Send the Maid and ь-I to the equator. Or Alphonse. It's up to you. You're in command, after all! Sleep tight, Harry!"
"You too, Uncle!" he answered "SS, hang up the call," Uncle instructed, before swiveling towards the Connection in his chair with a wide smile on his face. "How about a game of Tag Team 5D Go? You and Gerald against Thomas and I."
"I don't know the rules," Michelle replied, whilst setting down her book. "And it's too late to learn. We have a big lunch date tomorrow. I'm going to go to bed."
"Suit yourself," Uncle said, dismissively. "Gerald? Triple Threat 5D Go?"Gerald decided that it was time for him to retire as well, and a short time later the pair found themselves tucked up in their beds. "Is this the same room that we had before Lights Out?" Michelle asked, from her bottom bunk. "I wasn't here before Lights Out," Gerald answered. "Oh," Michelle said, remembering. "I remember."A short but thoroughly uncomfortable silence lingered between the pair. Both became acutely aware of the fact that - although they had recently partially buried the hatchet and re-united behind the common goal (or, in Michelle’s case, a promise) of becoming FWA World Tag Team Champions - an awkwardness and a distance still existed between them. “Are you not scared?” Gerald suddenly asked from his top bunk. “What?” Michelle retorted, peeking upwards from her bottom bunk. “Of all of this? We’re on the other side of the freaking galaxy. I’m surprised I’ve been this chill so far. I feel like I might have a mental breakdown any minute,” Gerald said, as silence again filled the air. “You’re being dramatic,” Michelle started. “This is just child’s play. Last time we adventured with Uncle, we mastered time itself. Time is the great enemy, Gerald, and she’s fickle. Sometimes, it works in our favor. Other times… well, I guess you know.”
“That makes a lot of sense,” the Daredevil said, solemnly. “Every time I’m in the moment, doing something that a normal-minded person might deem extreme, I never want it to end. But the moment passes and I have to look for the next high.
“Time allowed this team to work, Michelle. I knew next to nothing about you when we first partnered up - and the more we teamed up, the more I heard the negatives. But you know what? Time showed me that no matter what happens, we always pull through. We always figure it out even if it takes a while.”Gerald sounded more and more positive with each word. “When you were drafted to Meltdown and I was drafted to Fallout, I always had a feeling we’d partner up again. And I won’t lie, holding onto that thought kept me going during the times I wanted to stop.”
“Dramatic, again,” Michelle said, causing a chuckle from Gerald. She laid back down. “Even through all the nonsense with Diamond?”
“You know,” Grayson started, affecting a more thoughtful tone. “I know that we’re facing him this week, and he’s sort of been lumped in amongst this anti-Nephew supergroup that Uncle spoke about. But it almost wasn’t even him. If Golden had been given a week off before The Grand March instead of being randomly booked against your Snowmantashi, Nova wouldn’t have cashed in and Devin would have the gripe instead. Which, apparently, he does anyway, considering he’s in the anti-Nephew supergroup, too…”
“What’s your point?” Michelle asked. Fatigue was beginning to overwhelm her, and her partner's meandering monologue wasn't helping. “My point is that the Grand March wasn’t the story of Nova Diamond. It was the story of Gerald Grayson and Michelle von Horrowitz. His supporting role could’ve been played by just about anyone on the roster.”
“I guess you’re right,” Dreamer conceded. “I usually am,” said Gerald. “Devin and Nova… heck, even Peacock and Danny… they are interchangeable. Dispensable. They are incapable of bringing about the end of the Nephews, as Uncle fears. The only people capable of doing that are…”
“The Nephews themselves,” Michelle finished for him. She was already half-asleep. “You agree?” Gerald asked. “Sure,” she answered. “Go to sleep, Gerald.”And he did. At just around the same moment that Grayson lost his grip on consciousness, Uncle stroked his chin and placed down the thousand page doorstopper manual of 5D Go. "And that, my dear, Thomas, is why Boogey Baby and the Chessmaster are too simple minded to ever wrap their heads around the game of 5D Go like you and I. We think far too many steps ahead. That dynamite on Fallout 015 had not an ounce of forethought? There's a reason Toner keeps his shit down to earth and zero gimmick all fist, and there's a reason Boogey Baby thought ripping off me would turn his career around. They're simple minded nephews. I mean, it's why I love them, but let's not lie to ourselves.""And that's my turn," Thomas says, as dozens of the green pieces across the horizontal, vertical, and three diagonals of the board turned pink. "How did you-?""Gonna take another couple of hours for your turn? Think I'll nap for a bit, Unc. You wake me up when you're done." CHAPTER THREE.
ZEROES AND ONES.
North-Central Farms. Planet Wherever.
Wednesday 8th June, 2022.
Gerald dipped his large, silver spoon into the thick brown yeoman’s stew, which was hearty and filling and something close to tasty. Dreamer had enquired about the dish’s ingredients before it was served out, the large chunks of grayish-red meat revealed to be from a bovinesque creature that their host referred to as a plynux. KK_42863 had offered to pick the meat out of her bowel, but instead Michelle sat at the opposite end of the table from Uncle with a piece of dry bread in her hand and a vaguely dissatisfied look on her face. “It’s good, right?” KK_42863 was saying as he devoured his own stew. His wife, GM_88263, was equally as messy in the consumption of hers. “Locally sourced plynux. That’s the secret. We rear a couple ourselves. ‘We’ being the local collective. That way, we get an occasional treat for ourselves instead of having to give the entire harvest to the Conquisti. Not that I’m complaining, of course.”
“You raise the plynux yourself?” Dreamer asked, whilst cocking an eyebrow. “Yes. We have two right now. Polly and Molly are still young, though,” KK_42863 answered, casually. “You can pet them if you’d like? I can tell you’re an animal lover.”
“I’m okay,” Michelle said. She narrowed her eyes and bit into the heel of her bread. “How much of the harvest goes to the Conquisti?” Uncle asked, whilst happily munching through his own bowl of stew. “Almost all of it,” KK_42863 clarified, airily. “But it comes back to us eventually. The Conquisti provide our food, water, housing… all of the luxuries that we enjoy when we are not in the fields. The harvest is a token of our gratitude.”
“And what do they do with it?” Uncle questioned, unwilling to accept the grunt's nonchalant attitude towards this grossly unjust redistribution of wealth. The grunt just offered a shrug in return. "Not for us to question," KK_42863 said, before returning his attention to his stew. Uncle stared at him blankly and somewhat flabbergasted. Thomas was invested in his own food. "It's really quite good," he offered, in the direction of GM_88263. "My compliments to the chef."Dreamer noted the podcast host fluttering his eyelids in the female's direction. Fucking a grunt would be a new low. That's our world champion, she thought. "Excuse me," Gerald interrupted, whilst standing from his chair. "Can you direct me to the bathroom?"
"Oh, of course," KK_42863 replied. "Up the stairs, second door on the right. Yeoman's stew can go right through you, if your intestines aren't used to it."Gerald smiled and nodded and then followed the directions given, the voices of the grunt couple and his fellow Nephews drifting away as he disappeared up the stairs. After his visit to the bathroom (which was surprisingly advanced considering the society, although it did take him longer than he'd have liked to figure out the flush), he found that one of the other doors along the upstairs corridor was ajar. Drawing him towards the opening were a variety of distinct, but equally strange, noises: a low, persistent buzz, a slow and eerie tick, a distant whir that oddly resembled the engines of the Octopi. All of them conspired to form a mechanical orchestra that beckoned him further through the door. Inside was a multitude of bizzare machines, varying from pocket sized to taller than the Daredevil, each performing unfathomable functions but undoubtedly operational. On a nearby workbench were piles of notebooks, each filled with complex mathematical calculations and arrays of zeroes and ones. Gerald flicked through them, a quizzical and curious expression on his face, until he'd seen enough to know their contents were well beyond his understanding. “Meg would love this," Uncle was saying of the braised and stewed plynux as Gerald took his seat at the table again. "We should take some back to the ship for him.”
"Of course," KK_42863 obliged with a wave of three of his hands. "GM_88263 will pack you some up, when you leave. Though I hope that won't be for a while?"
"We intend to stick around for a few days," Uncle said lightly. "We have some business to attend to on-planet."
"Anything I can help with?" the grunt asked, subserviently. "Perhaps," Uncle suggested. Thomas felt his stomach lurch. He worried that JAY! was about to suggest revolution right here at the dinner table. He kicked his shins underneath it to ward off anything so direct. "Ouch! Fuck, that hurt, Thomas! Try to be less clumsy. But yes, KK_42863, perhaps you can help me. You have satisfied my appetite. Now let me gauge yours."
"My appetite?" KK_42863 asked with a puzzled expression. “I can assure you I’m quite content. The Conquisti provide the food, and my wife prepares it. What more could a grunt ask for?”
“The Conquisti provide the food,” Uncle repeated, broaching the subject but with a more strategic and delicate approach than Thomas anticipated. “But you yourselves pick the fruit, and process the grain, and rear the plynux. Yet, you see only a small portion of it return to your plates.”
“I do not work the quarries, or cut down the trees, or cast my net into the sea,” KK_42863 countered. “But if I need stone or wood or fish, the Conquisti provide that, also. It is give and take. If I understand your meaning.”
“So you are content with your masters?” Uncle asked, becoming a tad irate. “Content as serfs?”
“Our masters?” KK_42863 asked. “The Conquisti are our friends, and we chose them ourselves. We serve them, and they serve us. This is how it’s always been.”
“No reason to keep doing it!” Uncle exclaimed, whilst throwing his arms into the air in exasperation. “I don’t know! You offer a grunt the opportunity to fight for a better life, to overthrow his oppressors and even out his society, and this is the response? Denial. Denial and a lack of gratitude?”
“‘Otherthrow my oppressors’?!” the grunt retorted, whilst setting down his spoon and screwing his face up to express his discontent. “Uncle, if I’d known that this is what you meant when you offered us your help, I would never have asked you to our dinner table!”
“Don’t worry, KK_42863,” Uncle shot back as he stood up from his chair, which was knocked backwards and onto its side in the process. “We were just leaving. Nephews!”He stormed out. Thomas and Michelle followed at a more leisurely pace. “It really was very delicious,” Gerald said to the grunts, who stared back at him in stony silence. The Daredevil hurriedly followed his comrades out into the street. “Some people!” Uncle muttered as he paced back and forth. “They’re not people,” Thomas pointed out, unhelpfully. “Very helpful, Thomas,” JAY! responded. At that exact moment, he seemed to make up his mind as to what he intended to do and began to march back towards the Octo-pods. “You just can’t give people liberation anymore. Well, Nephews, if they won’t help me free them, I’ll just have to force it on them.”
“Um, Uncle, I’m not sure that’s exactly the best idea,” Thomas said, whilst struggling to keep up with the COSMIC HORROR. “I don’t feel great about it, but I think I agree with the bad guy,” Dreamer put in. “I agree that they seem strange,” Gerald began, thoughtfully. “But I don’t know if we should be forcing them to do anything.”
“Strange?” Thomas returned. “They seemed pretty normal to me. You know, as far as aliens go.”
“Check this out,” Gerald said. He reached into his pocket and produced a page full of binary. “This was in one of the upstairs rooms of their hut. There’s whole notebooks filled with stuff like this, and machines that wouldn’t look out of place on the Octopi. Pretty advanced for a farmer.”
“You see, even Gerald’s rattled!” Uncle declared, as if this was meant to be conclusive proof that action must be taken. “No! Apathy and lethargy are no options. We are Cthulhu’s Nephews, remember! We are the heroes! The good guys -- even Thomas! And when we encounter injustice and inequality on this sort of scale, where four beings can raise themselves above the rest of the population based entirely upon their own inflated opinions of themselves and of each other, we must confront it! For that, Nephews… that is what heroes do.”
“He still thinks he’s a hero,” Thomas said, with a shake of his head. “Uncle, I think we should maybe pass on this one,” Dreamer offered. “Sit it out. Let the grunts work things out for themselves.”
“I agree with Thomas and Michelle,” Gerald chimed in. “I think… maybe we should go home and concentrate on our match.”
“No,” Uncle said, plainly. “We are the good guys. I’ll show you. These grunts will have a revolution, whether they like it or not.”With that, they reached the Octo-pods, and returned to the ship.  CHAPTER FOUR.
CENTRAL INTERFACE.
Citadel Plaza. Planet Wherever.
Wednesday 8th June, 2022.
The Octopi #1 Command Bridge.
Wednesday 8th June, 2022.
The pair hid behind a bush to scope out the area. Gerald took out his binoculars from his bag to get a better look at the resistance they’d be facing should things turn ugly. Which things usually did, when Uncle was involved.
“Are you sure we’re in the right place?” Gerald asked, holding onto the comms device in his ear.
“Affirmative,” came Dreamer’s response through his headset. “There should be guards scattered all over your location. In fact, one is right in front of you”
Uncle and GG immediately hid behind the bushes whilst the towering grunt guard patrolled directly in front of them. Towering, that is, for a grunt. He was still perhaps a head shorter than Gerald.
Their task here was simple: to gain access to the Citadel, the most heavily guarded building on the whole of the Planet Wherever, in order to find out more about the Conquisti, their history, and their purpose. ‘Simple’ was a relative concept, Gerald had discovered since meeting Uncle.
The guard looked around as if he heard something. Just then, a bee started to fly around GG. With the guard still nearby, GG tried to remain calm, swatting at the insect as it buzzed right back at him. Uncle looked at GG with confusion, motioning for him to be quiet. Finally, the guard moved away from them, prompting GG to run as fast as he could into the dark of the night. Into the woods, essentially, which Uncle didn’t think was a very wise idea. Here, Grayson let out a sneeze audible to Uncle but hopefully not to the guards.
“I hate bees. There’s gotta be some pollen nearby because my allergies are flaring up,” GG said, adjusting his nose as best he could and returning to Uncle's side. Just as the Daredevil managed to successfully stifle his sneeze, an external call for Uncle displayed on his wristwatch, which let out a high pitched whistle. His eyes scanned the name on the screen before he diverted the call.
“Get it together, Gerald,” Michelle said over his headset.
“I get it, though,” Thomas said, from the seat next to her on the Command Bridge of the Octopi #1. “Hayfever’s no joke.”
Michelle reclined in her chair and did her best to zone out the commentary of the man next to her. They were still aboard the ship, offering Gerald and JAY! tactical support and assistance from their orbit. In truth, Thomas was doing all the work, seeing as he was the only one of the pair who understood the complex interface in front of them. Michelle simply parrotted his findings to the ground crew so that Gerald could hear the instructions in a voice he was used to taking orders from.
“Tell him the pollen count is 340% of Earth’s reading at the height of summer,” the world champion instructed whilst inspecting a report on the planet’s flora. “Some flower called the hanging goddess, apparently.”
“Pollen count’s bad, Gerald,” Michelle offered over the comms system.
“Tell him about the flower.”
“He doesn’t need to know about the flower.”
“No one told me there would be pollen, alright? Had I known, I would’ve been prepared,” Gerald snapped back into the transmitter on his wrist as he took his place next to Uncle.
“Here, drink this,” Uncle said, handing a water bottle of dark liquid to Gerald. The hesitance on the Daredevil’s face was obvious as he pushed the bottle back to Uncle. Again, his wristwatch began to whistle to herald an incoming call, with JAY! once more rejecting it immediately. “It’s Harry with his evening progress report. He’ll have to wait. Well? Are you going to drink it or not?”
“I don’t know, Uncle,” Gerald replied.
“Trust me,” Uncle said, becoming characteristically more insistent as Gerald’s hesitation grew.
Gerald pinched his nose and took a gulp of whatever concoction - undoubtedly of his own making - Uncle had in that water bottle. His face shrunk, his body making the involuntary movements it felt it needed to get the taste out of his mouth.
“Good, right?” Uncle asked. “Hardly yeoman’s stew, I’ll admit. But not bad at all.”
Gerald glared at him, causing Uncle to take a step back. However, the Daredevil soon realized that his nasal passages were suddenly clear, his allergies retreating before Uncle’s medicine.
“See. All that was in it was --” Gerald put his hand up, not wanting to know the contents of the bottle.
“You sure?” Uncle asked.
“I’m sure,” Gerald immediately retorted. He fixed the contents of his backpack before finding a bottle of water, intending to wash the taste out of his mouth. “But thanks, I appreciate it. Stuff like this makes me confident you’ll have my back in our upcoming match.”
“Was there ever any doubt, GiGi?” Uncle questioned.
“Sort of. You are Uncle after all,” Gerald said casually.
Uncle turned his head sideways, seemingly squinting his eyes through his patented octopus mask.
“Explain,” he implored.
“You’re a wildcard is all. When I team with Michelle, I usually know what I’m getting out of her. West, I’m sure won’t want to screw this up. But you? I never know with you, Uncle - and that’s okay,” Gerald said, taking a big gulp of water followed swiftly by a second.
“Do you not worry about our opponents?” Uncle asked, clearly offended by Gerald’s words thus far.
“They’re our opponents, Uncle. I expect them to go at us with all they’ve got because if they don’t, they’ll be looking up at the lights for the 1-2-3,” Gerald said.
“Fair point,” Uncle paused. “I appreciate your honesty, GiGi.”
“Gerald,” Michelle interrupted the pair through his earpiece. “We’re detecting some life forms approaching. Probably a grunt patrol squad. Stay where you are and we’ll patch through their fields of motion.”
“Gotcha,” Gerald said, as he and Uncle crouched behind a stone wall.
“You want me to show you how to patch that through?” Thomas asked Michelle as the data presented itself to him on the Bridge.
“You just go ahead and do it,” Michelle instructed, dismissively. She was in no mood for a lesson from Thomas and doubted she would be any time soon.
“Are you annoyed because I beat you at bowling?” Thomas asked, with a grin that Michelle found insubordinate and repulsive.
“No,” she said, honestly. “Of course not.”
“Are you annoyed because I beat you at wrestling?” he asked next. She didn’t reply straight away. Perhaps that was enough of an answer for West. But she didn’t give a response immediately because she didn’t really have one to give. The question was more complicated than the manner in which it was asked seemed to indicate.
The silence went on, but Thomas’ grin was deafening.
“Wouldn’t surprise me if you rigged the pins to fall over,” Michelle offered, weakly.
“Because I’m the bad guy,” Thomas stated. Michelle affirmed with a nod. “In seriousness, though, it’s the wrestling thing. If you want me to guess, and your stubborn silence suggests you do, I’d say you think I stole your main event.”
Michelle let out a derisive snort.
“Close to the mark?” Thomas asked. “I’d say so. I think the idea of Michelle von Horrowitz versus Danny Toner, the night after you break Kennedy’s streak, was more important to you than you are letting on. And you blame me for taking it from you.”
“Close to the mark,” she returned. “But it’s not me you’ve stolen this ‘idea’ from.”
“The fans?” West exclaimed, with a laugh. “The FWA Cosmos? Or are you talking about Russnow and Watkins? Or maybe the handsome man himself? I’m sure you could make compelling arguments for all of them. But, ultimately? What they want is unimportant. I beat you. I won and you lost. Me versus Danny in reality is much more important than you versus Danny in fiction.”
The podcast host started smirking again.
“Are you ready to patch through that data?” she asked.
“I did ninety seconds ago,” Thomas answered.
“I’m seeing three to the left just standing still while the far left has two guards standing atop a tower. If we move quickly, we can bypass them easily enough,” Gerald said, looking at Uncle.
“Or we can cause a distraction and move in from there,” Uncle suggested. He put his backpack down, opened it, and retrieved some dynamite from its recesses. He almost dropped it as his wristwatch whistled once again. The COSMIC HORROR shook his head at his clumsiness whilst diverting Harry to voicemail for a third time. Then, he returned his attention to the dynamite.
“What are you doing?! No, no, no. You’ll alert the entirety of the Citadel's defenses, and then there’s no way we can find out more about the Conquisti,” Gerald said, waving his arms in disagreement. His body language was bold and loud, whilst he spoke in little more than a whisper. Uncle found the contrast quite amusing, but pondered Gerald’s argument for a bit before putting away his dynamite. “Thank you.”
“GiGi, my boy, it’s not often we get paired to do things. I shall respect your wishes and do things your way,” Uncle said innocently. Gerald let out a huge sigh of relief.
“Oh thank goodness, I was beginning to think --”
Gerald paused. One by one, the guards on duty fell to the floor. Gerald’s eyes grew in diameter as Uncle continued to blow precision sleep darts towards each of the grunt patrols in turn. Gerald looked at Uncle, having previously thought they'd come to an agreement.
“What? You didn’t really think we’d go the dull, safe route, did you?! Every mission needs a dose of Uncle,” JAY! said, gesticulating with his hands as if he were pizzazing things up.
“I guess I should’ve known better,” Gerald said with his face in his hands.
“C’mon GiGi! Off we go to the Citadel!” Uncle exclaimed, deeming there no more need for caution and continuing as loudly as his unpredictable whims desired. Gerald took a deep breath to calm himself before following right behind Uncle towards the stone tower in front of them. They reached a door at its base, to the side of which was a large keypad that featured forty different and unfamiliar characters as well as a retinal scanner. "Ah… we might need a little help with the security system."
"You hear that, Michelle?" Gerald said, with his finger against his headset.
"On it," she replied, whilst watching Thomas fiddle with the code for the Citadel's defenses. "The sooner they're in, the sooner they're back."
"And the sooner you don't have to be alone with me?" Thomas said, whilst still tapping away at his keyboard. "You're not good with grudges, are you?"
"Not the best," Michelle admitted, her mind racing through the kaiju, her Bell, the Prodigy, and Kennedy. Each had, for a time, monopolized her thought and focus. She didn't want to let Thomas occupy the same space in her mind, but her pettiness was driving her towards it.
"You know, you could argue that I did you a favor," West went on. He was leaning forwards in his chair and inspecting a particularly tricky sequence of code. "Shame the Maid isn't here."
"Why?" Michelle asked.
"She's a master hacker," Thomas answered.
"No," Michelle started. "The other thing."
"Oh, about the favor?" Thomas said, as a few more clicks broke through the first set of the Citadel's defenses. "Well, you and Toner are quite close, right? Or were. I'm not really sure where you're at with that. But if you'd have faced him at Back in Business, and if - God forbid - you'd have lost? Well, that would be the end of that. Obsession would have followed. Some stalking too, most likely. Like you're doing now with Kennedy. No. Probably for the best that you never face him."
Michelle thought about the podcast host's words. Perhaps he was right. He was surprisingly astute, she'd found, even with his propensity for playing both sides and being the bad guy. There were already elements of mania in her thoughts on the handsome man. More removed and distant than with Bell and her husband, of course, but Danny Toner had been lingering on the edges of her subconscious for months. Circling her, almost, from a safe and happy distance. His perpetual rising and falling was a dance that she couldn't take her eyes off. And she knew that one day they would dance together.
"I wouldn't have lost," she muttered, as West finished up with his work.
"They should be through the doors," he said, redirecting the conversational thread. He tapped a few buttons that opened up a direct channel to both Uncle and Gerald. "I'm picking up a group of life forms on the lower levels of the tower. To the west of their position. Eight grunts and something else that SS9000's processors can't identify. A Conquistus, maybe?"
"Almost definitely," came Uncle's response over the ship’s speakers. "Send through their fields of motion, Nephew."
"Nine of them?" Gerald asked, with a gulp.
"Don't worry," Uncle said, as they crouched behind a statue of a wild, horned plynux in the middle of the large, ground-level room in which they'd emerged. "We're relying on stealth. And the grunts aren't much when it comes to fighting. The Conquisti either, really."
"But they have guns," he returned, as the group Thomas warned them of emerged through an arched doorway. A bright light emanated from the tallest and fairest amongst them.
“So do we,” Uncle reminded Grayson, pulling out his own photon gun. Gerald did the same, and the pair stared across the room at the conversing guards.
“They’ve been spotted in the city,” the Conquistus was saying to the group of grunt guards gathered around him. “Two of them. The cephalopod and one of his friends. Find them, my little neurons.”
With that, the being and his bright light withdrew, leaving the grunts to emerge into the room in formation. They broke off into pairs to carry out the patrol.
“How do you feel about this neuron thing?” one of them said to his partner as they approached the plynux statue in the middle of the room.
“I’m not crazy about it,” the other replied. “But that’s what he’s doing now. I’m not about to start questioning Stari.”
The other nodded, and completed his circuit of the statue, finding no sign of Uncle or Gerald on any side of it. Nearby, our beloved heroes were scaling a ladder that ran up the inside of the tower's west-facing wall.
“This leads to the Central Interface?” Gerald asked from a few rungs below Uncle. Before JAY! could answer, though, his wristwatch began to whistle. He paused his climb, sighed, and diverted it yet again.
“As far as I know,” JAY! replied. “I wasn’t idle during my visits. I know a fair bit about the layout of the city, and what you found in KK_42863’s house only confirmed my suspicions. The grunts are far more technologically advanced than they let on, and I feel certain that the Central Interface will tell us more about them and their masters.”
“What will it tell us?” Gerald asked. He didn’t seem quite as confident.
“If I knew that, GiGi, we wouldn’t be climbing this ladder,” Uncle returned. At that moment they reached the very top of it, and JAY! Opened a trapdoor that was within arm’s reach of the uppermost rung. He had a smile on his face as he pushed himself up through the resulting hole, and almost kicked Gerald in the face with his dangling legs as they fought against gravity to help his ascent. Grayson’s own transition from the ladder through the trapdoor was more elegant and assured. He stood up and brushed himself down before taking in his new surroundings.
There was a series of machines lining the walls, each of which buzzing, ticking, whirring, or flashing with activity in the same manner that KK_42863’s appliances had in his workroom. Gerald found himself puzzled again, but Uncle seemed to know exactly what he was looking for. Set in a line at one end of the room were four particularly large and particularly complex machines, which JAY! approached in a forthright fashion.
“What are they?” Gerald asked.
“Come and look,” Uncle said, waving Grayson on. He looked over JAY!’s shoulder at the interface of one of the machines, a small screen on which displayed an anatomical diagram of the Conquistus that led the guard patrol at the foot of the ladder. “It’s Stari.”
Below the diagram was another series of screens, each of which was filled with constantly altering computer code, mathematical computations, and shifting zeroes and ones. Gerald found that he couldn’t stare at it for too long before he became dizzy.
“What is Stari?” Gerald asked, struggling to follow Uncle’s meaning. At the very top of the machine was a plaque that read GLD069 in small, gold lettering. He looked at the others: TNR420, NVA420, PCK03.5.
“This machine, Gerald!” Uncle answered. He seemed almost pleased with his discovery, but - at least in Gerald’s mind - not quick enough in sharing it. “And that’s Seductus, Novi, and Vitatius…”
“They’re…” Gerald started, his mouth agape. Once more, Uncle’s wristwatch began to whistle.
“Yes, Harry, what is it?” Uncle said, finally answering the call. “We’re sort of in the middle of something here.”
“Sorry, Uncle,” came the wizard’s voice through the communication device. “I know that you said if you don’t answer on the first five tries, I shouldn’t call a sixth, but… I think you'll want to hear what I have to say.”
“Well, what is it?” Uncle asked.
“Meg and Gator returned tonight with a progress report from the innuit grunt settlement,” Harry explained. “And what they found out is… mind-blowing, Uncle. The Conquisti aren’t… well, they’re not really living things at all. They’re…”
“Machines that run on an extremely complex and advanced computer code with its processing unit housed in the Citadel’s Central Interface?” Uncle asked. “Yeah, we’re sort of arriving at that realization up here in the north, too.”
“Not just that,” Harry went on. “The innuit leaders told Gator and Meg that these machines… they were coded by the grunts themselves.”
“Doesn’t surprise me,” Uncle answered. “But it still upsets me. People’s willingness to live as abject serfs… their dismissiveness of the dream of a fair and just society… their manufacturing of legends like Golden, Nova, Toner, and Boogie Baby, when this mythos will only serve to keep them in their chains --"
“What do they have to do with this?” Gerald asked. Uncle didn’t have a chance to answer, though, as just then the first blast from a photon ray gun shot past the Daredevil’s ear.
“We’ve got to go, Harry,” Uncle said. “Little bit of trouble.”
He hung up the call and whipped out his own gun, the Nephews earning direct hits on the first three grunts that emerged into the room. Gerald’s second and third shots deflected off the shell of a particularly large (but still short, remember) guard who waddled towards them to get a better shot with his own weapon. JAY! grabbed Gerald’s arm and pulled him towards the ladder, leaping through the trapdoor and struggling to plant a boot on one of the rungs. He managed it, but had dropped perhaps five meters down the hole, and just then realized that he’d lost hold of Gerald’s hand.
Uncle stared up through the trapdoor. He saw Gerald’s anxious face, and the two smiling visages of grunts either side of him. They each had four hands on one of the Daredevil’s shoulders.
The trapdoor slammed shut. But not before a projectile was thrown down the shaft.
Uncle watched the grenade fall past him.
“Oh fu --"
“What was that?” Michelle asked Thomas in the Command Bridge of the Octopi #1. A light had begun to flash on one of his screens. “Gerald? Are you there? Uncle?”
“Looks like an explosion,” Thomas said. “Uncle still has his dynamite wrapped up in its safety pack in his rucksack. It can’t be that. Must be the grunts’ work.”
“They’re not responding,” Michelle said, becoming panicked. “Where are they?”
“SS9000, activate the Octo-Pod’s auto-recovery system,” Thomas instructed.
“There’s a problem, Thomas,” SS responded. “Gerald has left the Octo-Pod’s field of operation. I can recover Uncle only. How do you wish to proceed?”
“Recover Uncle,” Thomas said.
“What?!” Michelle exclaimed.
“One is better than none,” Thomas said.
 CHAPTER Five.You Are Tired.
The Octopi Dormitory Quarters.
Thursday 9th June, 2022.
The Nephews stand in the distance with a clear view of the entrance of the ballroom. Uncle’s eyes widen, recognizing the octogon-shaped mask of the figure standing at the door. He reaches out desperately, but he’s too far away to do or say anything. And even if he were not, the flames engulf the figure before his hand is a quarter-way up, so it stops short there.
Uncle blinks in disbelief, and stares down at the pod containing the remains of Stop Sign #2. The Nephews surround them, even the ones who weren’t there, are there this time around. Thomas presses the button, and Stop Sign #2’s pod zips out of the Octopi through an air hole. Soon enough, it’s out of sight. Still, he reaches out for it, knowing he’ll never see it again.
And he blinks once more, still reaching out, this time for Gerald. Countless hands hold Gerald back, dragging him into the darkness, while a door keeps them apart. A grenade falls past him before the door shuts closed, and Uncle has but a moment to curse his fate-
Before he wakes up in his dormitory within Octopi #1. COSMIC HORROR tossed aside his weighted blanket and stood to his feet, his feet snug in a pair of pink slippers. He grabs a pink night robe, tightening it around his waist, though leaving a greater part of his torso naked.
“SS, tell the Nephews to meet me in the conference room. Immediately.”
Uncle marches down the halls of the Octopi #1, taking note of Octopi #2 in the near distance. Uncle arrives in the conference room to find only Thomas and Michelle there. He noted Dreamer’s investment increasing with Gerald’s life at stake, though pocketed the ethical debate on using the lives of other Nephews as drama fodder in the future. Given recent events, he may not even have to force it.
“Nephews, I’m all for a good, dramatic death, and a sudden one. But one must have variety. Two off-screen deaths back to back? This isn’t who we are. I won’t accept another Nephew dying in no less than glorious fashion. After all, every time a Nephew dies, I get nightmares. And cutaway deaths make for poor nightmares. You know what would make for a good death? Being riddled with arrows to save a comrade you once considered betraying. Or attempting to violate the laws of the high ground despite your mentor-turned-enemy’s warnings and getting your legs severed. Or-or-or, having a recently melted pot gold poured over your cranium. Deaths should be flashy and spectacular!”
“YOU ARE TIRED”
Uncle frowns. “I am tired, SS, but we’ve bigger issues to deal with than my exhaustion.”
“YOU ARE TIRED”
“That’s enough. I understand you care about my well being, but I’m not the one in mortal danger, am I.”
“AREN’T YOU TIRED?”
Michelle frowns, a vague sense of deja vu, though without the vaguest idea from what. Thomas too, wonders at the behavior of the ship’s A.I., but Uncle sees nothing wrong with it.
“Of course, I’m tired. But every second I sleep, is another second GiGi is at risk. Who knows what they might do to him? Blow him up? Mutilate him? Break his knees? Make him-”
“YOU MUST BE TIRED”
“Enough, SS. I don’t need you worrying about me.” Uncle turns towards the two Nephews. “Thomas, Dreamer. We’re not leaving without GiGi. And we’re not leaving without pulling the plug on the Conquisti. Here’s the plan-”
“THIS promo IS VERY LONG”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, SS. You’re overstepping. You’re no promo expert, I’ll be the judge of what is and isn’t too long. Now, I hate to do this, but I think you need a time out. Mute yourself.”
“THIS promo IS TOO LONG.?.”
“Hmm. Well, this is new,” Uncle remarks.
“What’s new?” Dreamer asks.
“SS9000 doesn’t ignore Uncle’s orders. Something’s wrong.” Thomas remarks.
The trio watch as the Octopi #2 which had been trailing the Octopi #1 begins to turn away.
“STOP READING THIS promo”
“Shut up, SS! We’ve still got a whole Saving Nephew Gerald sequence to go through, don’t remind them how long they’ve been reading this for.”
“Is this all a dream? Is Gerald safe?”
“No, it’s not one of your dreams, Dreamer. It might be one of mine. I’m pretty sure it isn’t though.” Uncle glances at Thomas, uncertain. Thomas shrugs.
“YOU ARE TIRED?”
“Alright, just ignore it. We can just ignore it. That’s what people used to have to do when something annoyed the shit out of them. Just ignore it. Dreamer. Thomas. We’re not losing GiGi. The truth is, I let GiGi down once upon a time. I let him get his lights knocked out by Golden. Thomas, you traumatized GiGi with your diary shit. And Michelle, you know you let GiGi down often. I don’t need to remind you. But we all have let GiGi down, and we’ve gotta make it up to him, but we can’t make it up to him if we leave him behind here.”
“He forgot he was telling us a plan and he’s giving us a pep talk instead.” Thomas whispers to Michelle, shaking his head in disappointment.
“What about the plan, Uncle?” Though Dreamer is less enthused by the distraction considering the stakes.
“you have been reading this PROMO for too long”
“SS, FUCK O- no. Ignore it. The plan? The plan! The plan! Right, the plan. SS, play my recording of the plan.”
…
“Shit. Sorry, Nephews. I’m afraid we’ll have to come up with a new plan.”
“Stop reading this PROMO.”
Uncle pulls out his photon gun and shoots at a speaker blowing it up. Dreamer ducks at the rampant firing.
“Uncle, we’re closing in on the Citadel. Let’s focus on the plan?” Thomas suggest. He glances at Dreamer. “He’s just going to waste time until we have no choice but to improvise.”
“We can’t improvise,” Michelle found herself getting bothered by Uncle’s behavior, more than the COSMIC HORROR’s antics usually made her feel. The stakes, after all.
Thomas noticed her worry, try as she might to hide it. “Uncle, at this point Gerald’s going to end up like SS #2.”
“YOU ARE TIRED”
Uncle aims the photon gun at another speaker, but gazes at Michelle, takes a deep breath, and holsters the gun once again.
“The Conquisti know we’ll come back for Gerald. We were going to use Octopi #2 as a distraction team. Harry had a great speech. Quiet wrote it for him. He writes all my speeches. I read some of it. Great slogan in it. About how they were going to hold the line.”
Thomas checks his watch.
“Do you have another plan?” Michelle asks.
“Well, if SS wasn’t broken, we could use some droids, but I guess we’ll have to use clones instead.”
“YOU ARE TIRED”
“Clones are more expendable too. Means we don’t have to spend much time destabilizing their defenses to keep the B team from getting hurt. We can let them vaporize the B team, instead. If they survive, we’ll have to put them down ourselves, and SS is write, promo’s gone on too long to do that.”
The trio look outside to witness one of the Octopi’s wings exploding in tongues of flames.
“Looks like we’ll have to improvise after all,” Thomas says. “Don’t worry I’m good at improvising. You got a gun?”
“DANNY TONER… YOU’RE THE BEST IN THE WORLD.”
“Okay, that I can’t ignore.” Uncle rushes to the cockpit of the Octopi #1, his hands quickly tracking across the screen. “Ah. This isn’t good.”
Michelle seemed suddenly reminded of her fear of flights. She seemed to want to ask what wasn’t good, but she felt on the verge of puking her guts out and thought better.
“Conquisti take over SS?” Thomas queried.
“It’s going to be a rough landing,” Uncle admitted.
“I’M THE BOOGIE MAN… AND I’M GONNA GET YOU”
“An advanced artificial intelligence capable of ensuring a well-functioning society free of war and suffering being able to overcome a knock-off starship A.I.? Eh, not that surprising.”
“Knock off? We used your man!”
“You get what you pay for, Uncle. Shouldn't have haggled on prices.”
“YOU WILL DROWN IN YOUR SHARED DELUSIONS”
Explosions occur haphazardly across the starship. The bridge combusts, revealing the fast moving clouds beyond. Thomas has suited up with a backpack, a belt of tools, and two straps going across his chest filled with capsules. As the air sucks him out, the backpack extends into four metal arms, catching themselves on more stable parts of the ship.
Michelle isn’t so fortunate, having to use her own limbs to gain some purchase right on the edge of the starship. Uncle is in much the same situation, but having been in the cockpit, had enough time to grab a more stable hand hold. He reaches out for Michelle, but he’s far too short of breadth to grab her hand. She reaches out with one hand, but it shakes the hold she has. She gives COSMIC HORROR one last fleeting look, before letting go and vanishing.
“DREAMER!”
“THE DREAM WILL NEVER DIE. SIEMPRE!”
“Mixed up two characters there, SS9000,” Thomas observes.
The Octopi #1 crashes at least, drifting through countless kilometers of sand as it slid to a stop.
“SI. Em. PREeeeeeeeeeeee…”
The SS drifts off, and the many lights of the starship turn off one by one, barring whatever remnants of energy are left in the emergency lights.
Uncle sends a door flying away and dusts himself off. Thomas removes himself from a cocoon that wrapped around him courtesy of his backpack. COSMIC HORROR looks around the lengthy stretch of the beach, and his eyes narrow on the corpse of a blonde woman in the distance. He gazes at the Citadel towering over them and then at Michelle, and then at the Octopi #1.
“Looks like the Octopi’s going to blow,” Thomas observes, stepping away from it in no hurry. “So what are we doing, Unc? Octopi, GiGi, Michelle? Probably just got time for two of those?” He glances at Michelle in the distance. “Although, I don’t know. Dreamer’s tough, but she’s probably not that tough. Might be too late already.”
“I’m not going to say Dreamer, or Gigi are more important SS9000 just because they’re not artificial… but we’ve got a match on Fallout and it’s the first time me and Dreamer were going to team. Plus, we can always just order an SS10000.”
“Or, better yet, pay for some quality.”
“SS9000’s barely got one foot in the grave and you’re disparaging it’s good name. Have you no sense of decency, Thomas? Enough. I’m going to save Dreamer, you go save GiGi.”
“No plan?”
“Improvise, Thomas.”
“You got it, Unc,” he says, clearly enjoying himself despite the circumstances.
Thomas pulls out a headset from his backpack and places it on his ears, music blasting into his head. He pulls out two photon guns from his holsters and with calculated precision begins blind firing in the distance. A few pairs of grunts fall out from the forest bordering the beach, dead with holes through their skulls. But dozens more file out of the forest. Unintimidated, Thomas West’s backpack’s extra four hands pull out more photon guns and the shots ring out, catching countless more grunts in the process.
Uncle stops in front of Michelle lying face down on the ground. He rolls her onto her back, and uses his watch to render a diagnostic of the Dreamer’s condition, the lifeline that emerges is a pitiful showing.
“Dreamer, generally I’m against the ethics of this process and would have preferred getting your permission beforehand, but I wagered you and Gigi might pass on adventures if you realized the genuine possibility you may die. Or, for all I know you’d be much more content dead, given your own propensity for outright disregarding your own life, but we have a team-up on the horizon, and if you’re going to die, better it be your own doing than mine. I’m a good guy after all, if I start being responsible for one too many Nephews dying, I’ll have no choice but to have some gritty edge lord phase. And that’s not a good look on me, I’m sure you’d agree. So, my apologies ahead of time.”
Uncle pulls out a dagger from his trunks and cuts open one of the tentacles from his mask, a pink ooze emerging from the stump, though the tentacle quickly regenerates. He forces Dreamer’s mouth open, and lets the squirming end of the tentacle be swallowed by Michelle. Uncle falls over onto his back next to her, his breathing becoming ragged, while Michelle’s own breathing is no longer so faint.
Thomas kicks open a door and in a flash, leaves seven of the grunts in the room dead on the floor with holes in their foreheads.
“That’s sixty-one through sixty-eight.” He aims the last one at the remaining grunt. “Care to be number sixty-nine?”
The grunt hesitates, then reaches for an emergency button, but is shot well before he can hit it.
“Nice!” Thomas approaches an intercom, “Gerald? Can you hear me, it’s Thomas. I’m going to need you to step away from the door.”
Although there are cameras depicting dozens of rooms in the prison, nearly all of the rooms are empty, but for Gerald’s, which is actually a quite comfortable setup, even better than the hut’s they’d eaten at, all things considered. Gerald obliged, taking a few steps back away from the door. Thomas pressed a button on his watch and the door fell forward. Gerald gazed at a tiny spherical ball staring up at him. “Follow the bot. It’ll get you out. Try to keep your head down.”
Thomas exited the room and made his way down the hall. Every corner he took seemed to be the opposite direction of a flurry of grunts charging at him. The limbs from his backpack replaced the photon gun’s fuel chamber with capsules from his hip, and occasionally pulling out grenades, mines, pocket dimension portals to deal with the many grunts chasing after him. With each fallen many-limbed grunt, a counter on Thomas’s watch went up.
He approaches a door with a numerical keypad on it, and turns around to face the one hallway leading to this solitary door. More grunts begin pouring down the hall, and he pulls out a bigger firearm that seems fueled straight from his backpack. Flames poor out from it, burning whichever ones make it close enough to not be shot down by the backpack’s three shooting arms. Meanwhile, a fourth arm spreads out into countless tendrils attempting an endless array of combinations to get into the room the door blocks, before eventually landing on the right sequence of numbers.
“Don’t need much security when the entire planet’s subservient.” Thomas strolled up to the complex machinery that was the Conquisti. He pulls out an EMP sticky grenade and tosses them half-heartedly about the room.
“NEW RECORD!”
Thomas glances at his watch a second after his hand nails one last grunt where the number has exceeded 334.
“Oh yeah! Wait till Quiet hears about this.”
The Octopi Medical Bay.
Friday 10th June, 2022.
Michelle woke up from a dream, expecting to be in Miami but finding herself in the familiar environs of the Octopi #2. Memories of her last moments in the Octopi #1 came flooding in, and though she expected her body to feel like she’d just fallen off a starship and crash landed on a beach, she felt particularly energized. In all honesty, more energized than she had ever felt before.
She looks up to see Thomas West reading a hologram on 5D Go strategies, though he shuts it off once he notices Dreamer awake.
“How are you feeling?”
“Alright, I think. Did we…” win, she wanted to ask, but she wasn’t sure if this was a win or lose situation. She settled on “Save Gerald?”
“Of course. Honestly, they’ve got an incredible prison system down there. They weren’t gonna touch a hair on his head. We really had nothing worry about. And in case you’re wondering, all the Conquisti were terminated too. I mean, they’ll be working on programming new ones, and probably beefing up their security. I wouldn’t be too surprised if they were a bit more xenophobic after this whole affair. But still, it was a positive outcome. Shame about Octopi #1, but we needed to have at least one defining loss in this story. Can’t tease too many fake deaths and not deliver on one of them, you know. Thankfully we got a second Octopi like I said we should when we recruited you. All Conquisti gone. About forty-eight thousand grunts dead. We've fucked up a lot worse.”
"And Uncle?"
"Ah. Bit exhausted. But he'll get better after some rest. Are you tired?"
"Not really."
"Hmm. Well, get some rest anyway. I have a feeling you'll need it." Once you get Uncle out of your system, Thomas thought, but kept that to himself. |
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Post by supinesnake on May 30, 2024 13:06:15 GMT
Promo history - volume 85.
"She Stared At The Sea." (June 25th, 2022)
Michelle von Horrowitz vs. Chris Kennedy (FWA: Back in Business XVI). MICHELLE von HORROWITZ
in
[VOLUME EIGHTY FIVE]
”she stared at the sea.”
*****
In February of 1664, Admiral Specific Virgil van der Blockmann of the 48th Overseas Regiment, stationed in New Utrecht in the Dutch colonies of North America, looked out to sea and saw a fleet of British ships sailing into his harbour. Nobody could doubt the general intellect or strategic nouse of van der Blockmann, for throughout decades of decorated service he had procured many victories for the Dutch Republic and much honour for himself. What was in question, though, was Admiral Specific Virgil's ability to think and flourish under pressure. With the influence and power of New Netherland waning, and a blockade of British troops encircling New Utrecht on land and at sea, van der Blockmann decided that there was no other option than to pack up his belongings - along with the eighty four men stationed at the barracks and the two hundred and sixteen slaves working in the fields around his encampment - and set sail into the Atlantic.
In April of the same year, the Nunnery of Saint-Matthieu near Plaisance in Newfoundland opened its doors to a group of eight First Nations men along with their immediate families. The men were accused of murdering the daughter of General Charles duPont, though the nunnery's Mother Superior, Delphine LaCroix, knew at least one of them to be innocent. This certainty stemmed from the fact that she was in the presence of Chief Swift Bird whilst breaking her vows of chastity at the time of the alleged crimes. Sister LaCroix also had knowledge of the cruelty of General duPont, particularly in relation to the indigenous tribes inhabiting the land he was engaged in settling. The General's rage led to swift - and sanctioned, by King Louis XIV, no less - retribution, and the holy building was under siege by the end of the month. LaCroix, along with the thirty eight nuns and nineteen Native Americans under her protection, escaped in a smuggler's ship under the first moon of May.
That December and back in New Utrecht, Governor James L. Fittelwhicket was just getting comfortable in Admiral van der Blockmann's chair when, in a cruel and ironic mirroring of February's events, he found himself surrounded by Dutch ships. The circumstances of van der Blockmann's desertion of his post was not known to those in Europe, and - given the Admiral Specific's collection of glories, which gave no hint that he was a craven - the general consensus was that Fittelwhicket's men must have ruthlessly and savagely exterminated the former garrison before raising the St. George's cross and renaming the town New Preston. Tensions were also easing between King Charles II and the Stadtholder of the Dutch Republic, William the Orange, who would be the ruler of both empires only two decades later. As part of this normalisation of relations, concessions were made that amounted to the giving up of Fittlewhicket and his one hundred and fifty two men. The Governor promptly followed the safe-and-sound Dutchmen and the brave French nuns on a midnight ship into exile.
Santa Camila, as the islands would come to be known, had until this point remained entirely uninhabited for the thousands upon thousands of years that it sat in its spot due east of Willikies, Antigua and due north of Fortaleza, Brazil. It takes the form of a cluster of three islands, one in the shape of an apostrophe and the other an upside down exclamation mark (or a lowercase 'i', depending on your perspective). The coincidence of the arrival on Santa Camila, as the islands would come to be known, of these three parties is often attributed to a passage shaped by three things:
I say 'often attributed', but this, dear readers, is probably overstating the truth. These explanations were bandied around frequently on the islands themselves, but Santa Camila remained a mystery to the growing population of the world at large around it. Those on the islands built their own society, their languages slowly converging into a common tongue, and - thanks to the rich, lush soils of the volcanic northern island, the tittle of the lowercase 'i' - quickly became self-sufficient and quite content. They grew oranges and grain and nuts and potatoes, built bridges to connect their three islands and their blossoming civilization, and installed a government in the largest village of Mémoire, founded upon the principles of collectivism and governed by a representative and elected committee.
There are few places like Santa Camila, this secluded Galapagos of thought, left in the world. The cruel and tantalising fact remains that, if I was to tell you their precise geographic coordinates, this act would remove the islands of their most important and alluring quality. Their secrecy and their mystery is essential in a world that prizes both but allows for neither. And so, instead, I will tell you as much as I know about a string of events that occurred on Santa Camila in a different century to the one you've just got comfortable in. I will describe to you these events exactly as they were described to me long ago.
It is Tuesday the 28th of June in the year 2022, and a typically calm, warm evening wraps the islands of Santa Camila in false comfort. False on account of the flash storm, the biggest since Admiral van der Blockmann first placed a clog onto the white-sand beach on which his fleet landed, that would shake the foundations of Santa Camila and all those who lived happily and peacefully upon it.
***** ACT ONE
the prodigal son’s prodigal daughter.
[DREAMER]
Two kilometres to the south-west of our exquisitely-described archipelago, a bright, full moon climbed over the gently breathing ocean. Its white light shimmered atop the suggestion of a current, though this was slight and soft and barely troubled the surface. The black canvas of sky formed a dancefloor for intermittently glinting stars. No sound could be heard but for the whistling of a subtle sea breeze. There was, is, only the expansive and voiceless blue, but for a few specks of brownish-green land in the distance and the watchful silver moon.
Rumbling in the deep. No, not rumbling: a whirring noise, and one that gradually grew until a small, purple periscope disturbed the surface of the water. Its one eye gazed directly at the small, seemingly insignificant islands upon the horizon. Moments later, the surrounding water was upheaved by a large vessel forcing its way up though the surface. The displaced ocean ran off the cylindrical nose of the submarine in white sheets. Long, mechanical tentacles were situated on its stern and kicked lazily beneath the calm current, the boat continuing on a direct path towards the islands. The periscope retracted and the upper half of the ship folded in on itself like a convertible, an upper deck revealed with three figures standing aboard it. Finally, the periscope reappeared, and climbed high into the air before unfurling a bright pink sail.
Aboard the ship, Dreamer stared through binoculars at the cluster of islands in the distance. White-sand beaches, rolling hills, orange groves, and a smattering of buildings. She lowered the looking glasses with starry-eyed wonder etched upon her face. She must have believed the old man, else she wouldn't have brought him with her, but only now did it begin to feel real. The ocean swamped and swarmed the tiny tracts of land that they were heading towards.
She turned around and contemplated the bright pink sail that had unfurled when the Yoct (pronounced 'yacht') poked its head above the surface. It was gaudy and obnoxious and utterly predictable, and she didn't doubt that whatever watch existed on the shores was already aware of their presence.
"Why not send up some flares?" she mused. The old man told her that those on the islands were passive and sluggish, but she still imagined they'd notice a purple convertible submarine with bright pink sails coming towards them.
"We're not smugglers," the Maid replied, quickly and sharply. She was standing at the large, metallic helm, gently altering their course by a few degrees here and there, whilst ь-I was occupied with a telescope at her shoulder. "Besides, if your old man is right there is no need for secrecy."
Michelle shrugged her shoulders. The Maid was probably right. She usually was. ь-I lowered her telescope and turned towards Michelle.
"You should go and get your quarry ready," the younger woman said. Michelle had felt like an inconvenience to their trip since they'd set sail from Barranquilla. At least to the Maid and to ь-I. Quiet was the only other Nephew on-board that seemed to want her here, dragging them a few hundred kilometres from their own course. "Your raft, too. We still have a long way to go, after you've gone."
She found the old man in the cabin that they'd assigned him back in Colombia. He'd promptly disappeared into its confines and hadn't re-emerged since. A chest full of rum went in with him, of which only empty bottles remained. She knocked twice on his door before entering to find him packing up the last of his belongings into a weathered, leather hold-all. He picked it up in his left hand and collected his fishing rod with his right. The empty bottles were left for the Nephews to deal with.
"We're almost there?" he asked. Michelle nodded. "Good. I thought so. I'm ready."
"Will they be? For us?" she asked. It was getting late, and the islands lay in the exact, remote coordinates that the old man had given them. She felt he'd earned some of her trust for getting this much right, but still felt wary and weary.
"There's always lookouts," the old man said, confidently.
"What are they looking out for?" asked Dreamer.
"For prodigal sons," he answered, with a grin. He was missing several of his teeth and the ones that remained were yellow. "Speaking of which, where is this prodigal son's prodigal daughter?"
The old man let out a chuckle that slowly hunched into a cough. He began to roll a cigarette.
"She's up on the deck," Dreamer informed him. She was glad he had taken to his self-appointed role as the orphan's father, referring to himself as such even now, though she didn't enjoy his casual laughter. He didn't seem the sort to take very much seriously. "You think your plan will work?"
"Of course it will work," he replied, dismissively, before bustling past her and towards the Yoct's deck. She followed him to find the ship stationary, the whirring of chiral activity in the reactors more dull and remote than it was when she went below deck to rouse Espen. He was waiting for her with Quiet and the orphan girl by the rafts.
"Can't we take that one?" Michelle asked, whilst pointing towards a state of the art Octo-Raft, complete with a phosphoreum propulsion system and a coldsilver shell. The masked man was instead standing next to a much more primitive willow contraption, more in line with Michelle's understanding of the term raft. Quiet shook his head.
"..... ...... .....'.. .......... .. ....-.... .... ....," he explained, slowly and carefully. "... .... .........."
"I guess you're right," she conceded, whilst watching the old man climb down onto the willow planks. It was currently suspended a few metres above the serene surface of the ocean by iron chains. He offered the orphan girl a helping hand, but she refused it and shimmied down the side of the Yoct until her feet were on the platform. "See you on Friday morning?"
"... ... .. ...... .......," he repeated.
Their raft had no phosphoreum propulsion system, but the small petrol motor was enough to negotiate the calm seas and deposit them on a white-sand beach. Dreamer stared back at the ever-darkening blue for a glimpse of the Yoct's periscope, but the evening was gloomy and she ventured the Maid would be making haste towards their destination without a second thought for Santa Camilla. The only eyes upon her and her two companions belonged to those on the island. Shortly after their partially-clandestine arrival on the beach, a quartet of what Michelle surmised were a combination of guards and customs officers approached and asked who they were.
"Espen Virgil La Rouge The Third," the old man declared, whilst flashing them a glimpse of his yellow teeth. He neglected to speak further, as if this should have been enough. They disagreed, and asked him who his companions were, and what business they had on these islands. Michelle noted that they didn't speak the place's name, and generally approached the interaction with a guarded caution. Espen started with the true part. He explained that he was born and raised on the islands, that his brother Janus still lived in Mémoire, and that he owned the adjacent property to the one where they'd find his sibling's family. He was a fisherman who'd worked Point Bay here on Santa Camilla before moving to the continent nearly three decades ago.
Then came the lies. He introduced Michelle as his wife, and the orphan girl as their daughter. The guardsmen looked Dreamer up and down from head to toe and back again, and then repeated the gesture with the seventeen year old girl who stood between her and the old man. What Michelle knew of her stemmed from a conversation she and the old man had shared in a tavern in Barranquilla, the night before they'd set sail. The orphan had the blood of the islands in her, according to Espen, but it wasn't his. Her mother was working as a prostitute in the port city when she died, but she was born on Santa Camilla, too. When he found a Colombian street rat who spoke the peculiar blend of English, Dutch, and French native to the islands he'd taken a great interest in her, and eventually confirmed his suspicions with the girl herself. He had promised to help her get back, when the time was right. Why the girl wanted to go back, she would not tell. He, of course, told none of this to the men on the beach. To them, she was his unremarkable daughter, to go along with his unremarkable wife.
Eventually, and mostly due to the ease with which the old man was able to converse in their language, the guards were moderately satisfied. They gave the trio permission to stay the night in the town, but Espen was to report to the library with Janus in the morning to process his documents. Michelle and the orphan girl would get theirs in due course. Dreamer didn't intend to stick around long enough to claim her new passport, but it was nice to know that she was welcome to if she so desired.
A short time later, the three of them stood at the doors of the first tavern that they found upon leaving the beach. Michelle and Espen both smoked whilst the orphan stood with her arms folded, staring at the moon. The silver disc was partially obscured, from their vantage point, by a peculiar spire of a peculiar church. The cross, wrought with tightly-bound bamboo reeds at the top of the south-eastern tower, was what gave the impression that the building was a church, but it was humble and modest and not after the elaborate fashion that Dreamer was used to from the institute of Christianity. It was made from a hotchpotch of different types of wood and glass salvaged from fifty different sources, carefully maintained over the centuries by those that practised a unique offshoot of the religion on the islands. Michelle began to question whether the orphan was looking at the moon or the cross.
"You're leaving right away?" Michelle asked her. The orphan nodded in return. Dreamer had learned from the old man that she didn't intend to stick around in Mémoire, and would make north for the village of Sinaasappel. "It'll be quicker to travel under the sun. I'll buy you a drink. Or the old man will buy us both one. I don’t have any of their money."
The young girl thought about this for a moment. She continued to stare at the moon as if it might help guide her decision. She nodded again, and - when Michelle and Espen put out their cigarettes - she followed her makeshift parents into the tavern.
"Why have you come back?" Michelle asked the old man, when they were settled at the corner table with a tankard each of ale. The orphan had also ordered a bowl of fish stew and was paying it her undivided attention. The old man sipped his drink thoughtfully.
"For l'Ancien, more than anything else," he replied. He was admiring his ale, as if it stirred in him a memory he'd thought lost. Michelle thought it too bitter, but better than water.
"L'Ancien?" Michelle repeated.
"It's a fish," the orphan girl said, whilst polishing off her stew. She used her words sparingly, and it soon became apparent that she had nothing more to add. Even this, technically, was incorrect. L’Ancien was not a fish at all, but everyone on the island still referred to her as such.
"Everyone on Santa Camilla knows about l'Ancien," the old man began, picking up the conversational slack. "Our daughter here proves that point. It has become something of a local legend, and all legends grow over time. If you drink with a fisherman for long enough, he will tell you of a leviathan in the deep, with teeth like swords and eyes like fire. But, by most accounts, l'Ancien is only a fish. A very big one, yes: three metres long and half a tonne on the scales, if I was to guess. And old, too. Hence the name. They say she's been swimming in these waters for three hundred years."
"How do you know it's the same fish?" Michelle asked. She resisted the urge to ask what it had been called when it was in its infancy.
"She has a scar," Espen explained. Michelle noted his correction, from it to she, and thought it odd that he demanded this respect for a fish he intended to catch and, she assumed, eat. "From her eye to her dorsal fin, down the left side. Three centimetres deep, from when Old Man Maglooglin glanced her with a spear back in 1804. Maglooglin wasn't the only great fisherman to try and reel in l'Ancien. There was Francois du Baitman in the late 19th Century, and Ol' Cross-Eyes van l'Shortspear lost his life when she dragged him under a rough current in 1901. They never found his body. More, too, but I forget their names."
Michelle thought about being dragged under the water, and what mania would drive a person to refuse to let go of the rod. She felt she understood something about this. In her mind, she was being pulled into and beneath a cliff-like wave, the monster at the end of her line a phantom in the deep, its body indistinguishable from the shadow of her own.
"You should come," the old man said, whilst finishing his drink and signalling for another round. "Have you ever done any fishing?"
"I don't like fishing, nor the idea of it," Dreamer replied. "I don't see the point."
"To be the one to have caught her," the old man said, with another grin. His teeth seemed to be growing more yellow with each sip.
The orphan girl agreed to stay the night in Mémoire before heading north to Sinaasappel in the morning, and the three of them arrived at Espen's house just before midnight. The old man pointed to his brother's abode, which was situated at the top of the hill, and instructed them to make themselves at home whilst he went to tell him that he had returned. Dreamer thought the old man casual about this, particularly when considering he'd been gone for three decades now, but followed the instructions as best she could. It wasn't easy to make oneself at home in such a building. The furniture was riddled with mould, the brickwork was cracked and crumbled, and dense thickets of spiderwebs cladded the walls and ceilings. But the windows, at least, were intact, and it was dry and warm enough.
"I'm going back to the mainland on Friday," Michelle said to the other girl, as she made preparations for rest. She didn't acknowledge or respond. She gave the young girl her sleeping bag and left her downstairs. She assumed the old man would want the master bedroom so took a smaller one at the end of the upstairs corridor, the furniture in which consisted of a rusted iron frame for a bed and a rotted old dressing table. She placed her rucksack on the latter and looked at the mouldy, bug-ridden mattress on the bed frame. She thought better of it and made up a space to sleep on the floor.
From her rucksack she retrieved her tobacco, skins, and the Colombian green she'd picked up in Bogotá. The rest of her stash remained hidden away in her bag's recesses. Colombia was a good place to buy drugs. She rolled herself a strong joint with only a thin trail of tobacco amongst the green to help it burn, pushed open the window, and watched the moon disappear behind a heavy, dark grey cloud.
***** ACT TWO
twin fantasies.
[MARGARETHA]
She sat on a hill and she thought. She had already smoked two of her stolen cigarettes whilst watching the sun climb to its midday apex, and was now busy preparing herself a joint. She'd never been particularly good at rolling, and the sudden, sharp breeze didn't help. The green was also loot taken without permission. Margaretha had intended to ask, but she couldn't wait all day for the old, Dutch woman to wake up. It seemed that she perhaps never would. That was none of her concern now. She was already more than half-way towards Sinaasappel and Christiaan, and would go no further today. She would wait here and organise her thoughts, and then she would sleep. She'd slept in worse places.
Christiaan and Sinaasappel were twinned thoughts, twinned fantasies, that were constant pervaders of her mind when she was back in Barranquilla, and even further in the past in Bogotá. Now that her physical proximity to both of these things - which had seemed for so long to be abstract and distant, not too dissimilar from her most fanciful inventions - her stomach was leaden and her heart was prone to lurching. And the boy… no: now the man, just as she had been a girl when she was last here, and returned now as a woman, was always there. Here. She was an archaeologist, digging amongst the bones of memories that made her happy when she was a child.
Mostly, her memories were centred upon the boat. She was no expert on seafaring, but she had learned in the intermittent years since her summer in Santa Camilla that it was a caravel. Nobody on the islands was really sure how it got there, or could pinpoint with any specificity when it had first appeared. But there it was, nonetheless, turned over on its side upon the white sand, rainwater persistently gathering in pools atop the yellow and green fabric of its large sails. It was there that she and Christiaan spent almost every afternoon and evening of that summer, their summer, sitting atop the sky blue hull and staring out to sea.
The summer spent on Santa Camilla was now three years ago, and felt like many more. They'd come for her grandfather's burial. Margaretha had never met the man whilst he was alive, but she did think he had a sort of noble, proud look about him in death. Perhaps mortality suited him. She didn't really remember the funeral outside of how the body looked in the casket. But she remembered Christiaan de Verzeband. She remembered every warm, easy smile, every welcoming or quietly lustful glance, every carefully constructed and deliberately delivered monologue. She remembered every small detail of his uniquity. Every subtle pretension that made him unlike anyone she'd ever met or would meet again. That's why she came back. Why she had to come back. As soon as her mother finally kicked the bucket, which was a long time coming and not a moment too soon, she began to make her plans. Espen's arrival in her life had quickened that process, and for that she was endlessly grateful.
"You leave tomorrow?" Christiaan had asked her on the day before she left, three summers ago. They were sharing one of the Marlboros he stole from his mother, who had them 'imported' from the mainland, whilst sitting in their favoured position atop the hull of the shipwreck. He'd once carefully described the smuggling processes that supplied the islands' citizenry with things like cigarettes, coffee, and chocolate, a couple of weeks earlier and in precisely the same location. He spoke as eloquently and expertly on that topic as he did most others.
"I leave tomorrow," she affirmed. There was sadness in her delivery. A bleak resignation.
"This is it, then?" he asked. She found it difficult to read his tone. She thought it likely he felt as she did. The weight of their shared experience over that summer was real for both of them, she knew. She just wanted him to show it.
"For now," she said. "For now, this is it. But I'll come back, eventually."
"Easier said than done," he warned. He was right, but he didn't account for Espen. "And if you do get back, someday, maybe I won't be here anymore. Or maybe I won't remember you."
He was smiling, but remained inscrutable. Her expression was more plain. It conveyed the displeasure she took in what he was saying.
"Will you remember me?" she asked. He thought for a moment, in silence, whilst he finished his Marlboro.
"Yes," he said. "I'll remember you."
That was the last thing he said to her. I'll remember you. She believed him. Trusted him. She stared off towards the north, in the general direction that Sinaasappel lay, somewhere beyond the orange groves.
She remembered something her mother often said to her, before she died. The trawler will come to you. You don't have to swim towards it. Her mother said the dumbest things.
She lit her joint and closed her eyes.
*****
[DREAMER]
She sat on a hill and she thought. It was already late afternoon and the breeze was picking up. She forced her hands into the front pocket of her hoodie, a half-smoked Camel perched between her lips. Before her was the endless blue of the ocean. It felt distant but smothered her still.
On her way to the top of her hill, she'd come across a handful of islanders travelling this way or that on their morning errands. Some of them smiled and nodded, others wished her a good morning in their hybrid mode of speech, or commented on the dull, dying grass across which they tramped. We're due some rains, two separate islanders said to her. Dreamer thought they should be careful about what they wished for.
The most striking building on the walk through the village and up the hill was the church, which sat near the crown of the green-brown mound up which she'd climbed. Usually, she found the sight of churches unnerving, and sometimes even nauseating, but what Espen had told her about St. Delphine's went some way towards remedying these natural aversions. When Delphine LaCroix and her nuns arrived on the islands in May of 1664, they desired to continue observing their faith but felt liberated and unshackled by their newfound seclusion. With the Vatican looking the other way, Sister LaCroix proceeded to take the Bible she smuggled to Santa Camilla with her and rip out any pages or passages that she found objectionable or problematic, a hundred and fifty years before Thomas Jefferson did the same thing. Whilst Jefferson removed anything inherently unbelievable, most notably all of Jesus' miracles, Delphine LaCroix had no such issue with the divine. Instead, she edited out chapters unfit for the modern world, and those that allowed hate and division to persevere with Godly justification. She was left with around a hundred and ten pages, which she subsequently rounded out with writings from Descartes, Hume, Pascal, and the like. Her successors added Voltaire and Kant to the canon, and over time this essential guide for living on Santa Camilla - these basic instructions before leaving earth - grew and shifted like a living beast itself.
When Sister Delphine presented Admiral Specific Virgil van der Blockmann and Governor James L. Fittelwhicket with what was later dubbed the LaCroix Bible, the story goes that they pointed out that what remained was barely Christianity at all. She agreed, and was content with this. Happy to defer to the Sister in spiritual matters, the Dutchman and the Englishman instructed their men to help the nuns in the building of a church, which was completed later that year. An amalgamation of elm, willow, oak, and a dozen other woods, St. Delphine's sat alone and undisturbed on the top of the hill, empty but for the meagre and modest weekly service each Sunday morning.
Dreamer's mind was unconcerned with the miracles of Jesus and the building of churches. The spectre of last night's dream still lingered, an ominous shadow that retained its gloom, even in this midday sun. She dreamt of clocks. Specifically, her subconscious delivered her to her grandfather's workshop, where he'd while away his days tinkering with antique timepieces. Afternoons lost looking for indentations and marks, the signs of old hands that would inform his own journey like whispered instructions from the past. She watched him through the eyes of a child as he delicately prodded and poked around inside the belly of some grand, old contraption, observing his skill with an unspoken reverence. He would never let her touch any of the pieces, but occasionally he would hold up a cog and explain its function, or note some manner in which it differed from the norm. Eventually, the hands would again begin to rotate, the mechanisms to tick and to tock, the cuckoo bird to show his face and sing his song at the appointed interval. In the old man’s garden was a sundial - a primitive timepiece, evidence of man's inherent folly of counting the time as it escapes him - and in her dream she watched the shadow cross the stone for many hours. Her grandfather told her that all sundials have an engraved message, and that all sundial messages are sad. The one in her dream said the same thing as the one in his garden: it’s later than you think.
She left the sundial when the absence of sun made it useless, and walked through the tulip patches at the end of his garden. On through the hedge. She stood on the edge of a cliff, a passive and unmoving ocean opening up before her. There was no sun and no moon, and it felt like it had always been that way. Below, Adrienne, Bell, and Camilla stood on a white-sand beach. A single bolt of lightning struck the face of the water, but there was no disruption to its gentle flow. Her old friends waved at her from the shore.
The dream ended after the leviathan emerged from the deep to take her line between its teeth. She hadn't been holding a rod, but she was dragged beneath the surface by her tangled puppet strings. She made no attempt to loosen herself from their confines. A wave rose like a wall before her, air driven from her chest, vision blurred and sounds, roaring and crashing and…
In the comfort of daylight, she sat on her hill and she thought about Espen's white whale, and her own. Ignorance is the parent of fear, Melville wrote of Ahab and his hunt, and this was partially true for her, now. Though not how he meant it. She knew the beast she was tracking. This was equally true of all of them. The kaiju, the Prodigy, Bell, and now… each were familiar foes who opened themselves up willingly. She would move beyond ignorance with all of them in an organic, almost accidental fashion. But still there was fear. Her quarry was not a strange and alien creature, hidden in the depths, but one that had already been at the end of her line. One that she'd already looked in the eye. The ignorance that clouded her mind was ignorance of self; of her ability to wrestle the fish into the boat. But man is not made for defeat, Hemingway wrote of his own elusive catch, more modest in scale, more visceral and modern and raw. A man can be destroyed but not defeated.
"Did you catch her yet?" Dreamer asked, hours later, when the old man returned from an afternoon in his boat. He drank one beer in silence on the porch and then began to work. They cleared all of the mouldy furniture into the front yard, where he and Michelle broke it down and separated it into a pile for fuel and a pile for refuse. They worked mostly in silence, a thoughtful countenance engraved on Espen throughout his toil.
"A man doesn't catch a fish like l'Ancien in an afternoon," he replied, whilst lighting a cigarette. A sledgehammer lay next to a rotten double bed that the pair had just lugged out of the house. Michelle picked the hammer up by the handle whilst Espen paused to enjoy his smoke. "And besides, I had our friends from the beach to deal with at the library this morning."
"Do I have my passport yet?" Michelle enquired, remembering the interaction with the border patrol on the prior evening. Her impatience elicited a chuckle from the old man.
"Not quite," he said. Michelle gripped the sledgehammer and he nodded his permission. She brought the thing crashing down over a corner of the wooden frame. "It'll be a week or two. They'll want to see you and the girl at some point. Why? You're thinking of staying? Married life suits you, after all?"
"My husband will have to serve something other than fish stew," Dreamer answered, before bringing the hammer through a second swift arc, breaking the post from the frame on another corner.
"When I land l'Ancien, it'll be fish stew for two years and a day," Espen said, wistfully.
"But not today," she chided. The third stroke with her hammer broke the entire frame apart. Espen proceeded to dismantle its remains and throw the wood onto the fuel pile.
"Not today," he repeated. "It may be weeks. Even months. Today, I mostly smoked and drank. And read a bit, before I'd drank too much. I'd be surprised if I even caught a glimpse of l'Ancien before the summer is out. The seas are too calm."
"Just smoked and drank?" she repeated, absently. "That doesn't sound so bad."
*****
Three white whales swam before our protagonists as they readied for the night's voyage. Each was acutely aware of the fact that they were closer to their respective quarries than they ever had been. Each thought the central conflict of their obsession resolvable, and that a climax was, relatively speaking, close at hand.
For Margaretha, the inception of her desire occurred here on Santa Camilla, three years ago. She didn't mean her prey any harm. She only wished to swim with him. To skip upon the gentle waves, swift and delicate, towards a setting yellow sun. Margaretha fell asleep with this image.
For Michelle, this obsession - this current obsession, one of a set - was only a year old. But its roots grew deep, and even on this strange, hidden archipelago she found it difficult to evacuate her mind completely of her whale. Some nights she wished to swim alongside it, like Margaretha and Christiaan in the orphan girl's dreams. Others, she desired only to stare at it from afar, in deference and respect and maybe also envy. And then there were the nights when the lust overcame her, and she'd wake with sweat on her brow and the taste of blood in her mouth. The sea had always been untrustworthy and savage and terrible, and had come to represent Bell in her dreams. Now, the shadow of a leviathan swam in Bell's deepest depths, whilst Dreamer stared at it from above the surface. Michelle fell asleep with this image.
Espen's mind was filled with the story of Ol' Cross-Eyes van l'Shortspear, which was (incidentally) the tale that first sparked his desire to reel in l'Ancien. The first retelling of l'Shortspear's ballad in Espen's earshot was not the first time he'd heard about the fish itself, one might be surprised to hear. It was l'Shortspear, though, who piqued his interest. Ol' Cross-Eyes was a sailor and amateur fisherman who had come across l'Ancien whilst trawling home from the Caribbean, where he'd been to further and protect Santa Camilla's interests (an act labelled by others, those off the islands, as piracy). He was alone and in awe of the beast, and watched it swim away from his trawler with a countenance displaying his respect for this magnificent, almost elegant monster. The juxtaposition of grace and power, of beauty and beast, moved him deeply. He told the story in all of the taverns across the three islands upon his return, eloquently describing the beast and particularly its scars. He'd stared into the largest crevice upon the fish's flesh for as long as he could, and felt the crack open up and invite him in for supper.
"You didn't catch it?" came the answering call of a man named Pierrot Le Fou, when he was in attendance at one such re-telling in August of the year 1900. "You didn't even try?"
A stony silence descended upon the tavern, or so the story goes. It was well known that Le Fou was carrying out an intimate affair with l'Shortspear's wife, and that when they appeared in public together she was constantly attempting to convince him to take another long fishing trip. Santa Camilla's interests need protecting, she'd chide.
"Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster," Ol' Cross-Eyes began, slowly and deliberately. He was unaware of it, but at that very moment the man he was quoting was dying alone of pneumonia in Weimar, Germany. "And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you."
"I'm surprised you didn't try to fuck it," Le Fou said, eliciting a cry of laughter from those around him. Pierrot didn't care for foreign philosophy. The needle was enough for l'Shortspear to challenge him to a duel right there and then, and the two paced it out on the road between the tavern and the ocean. L'Shortspear was quicker, and the patrol scraped his foe up from the dirt track before the sun was up.
It didn't matter, though, that he'd shot and killed the man who branded him a fish-fucker. A fish-fucker he was branded still. It also didn't matter if the islanders actually believed it: the mockery was enough to make a disgrace of him. His wife left him for the late le Fou's older, more handsome brother before the year was out. And so, he sailed out into the seas once more, vowing to kill the thing he once spoke of so eloquently and respectfully.
His first mate returned alone, and told of the madness in his captain's eyes when l'Ancien pulled him under. He refused to let go of the line. He didn't come back up. Espen fell asleep with this image.
***** ACT THREE
nothing really happens, nothing really changes.
[MARGARETHA]
That morning she awoke in brambles. She thought that perhaps this was a sign or an omen, but quickly remembered that she didn't believe in that sort of thing. She didn't think she'd fallen asleep in brambles, although she wasn't entirely sure. Maybe she rolled into them in the night. Either way, she awoke in brambles, which was a thoroughly unfortunate and disappointing start to her day.
This lingering irritation (both physical and mental) and the solitude of the walk made her think about her mother. She didn't like thinking about her mother. The happiest time they'd spent together was when they'd been apart. Her final few weeks, as the syphilis and consumption conspired to drag her low, could almost be described as blissful. Almost, but for the obligatory visits to the dirty, cloying hospital for uncomfortable and terse dialogue with a woman too sick to really speak but too stubborn to remain silent. Her room was cramped and depressing and filled with a handful of croaking groans from the other women dying there. She remembered one such occasion, near the end.
"You know this is it for me?" her mother asked her, passively. She seldom looked at Margaretha, and right now was busy staring at a mouldy stain on the ceiling, just to the left of a lightbulb that hung from a frayed wire. Margaretha nodded. "What will you do? When I go?"
The young girl thought about this for more than a moment. She didn't imagine there would be much difference, other than in her sleeping arrangements. No words emerged from her lips.
"You know the man who did this to me?" her mother asked, gravely. She appointed the question weight and meaning that Margaretha didn't feel. She shook her head. Could be any of them, she thought. "El Arrastrero, they call him. He drinks in the bar. Short and fat, and dressed like an Englishman."
She knew which bar she meant. It was the one where her mother snared her customers, until one of them finally snared her.
"Why are you telling me this?" Margaretha enquired.
"This man killed your mother," the old woman, now little more than a crone, whimpered between feeble coughs. "You've always been a sullen girl. I thought maybe you'd be predisposed towards revenge."
Margaretha said nothing. Her mother was looking directly at her now, as she rarely did, and the young girl narrowed her eyes in reply.
"The trawler will come to you," her mother began. If she'd known it would be the last thing she'd ever say to her daughter she would've probably thought of something more original. "You don't have to swim towards it."
Margaretha spat on the hospital room floor.
"What else did the sailors tell you, as they fucked you to your deathbed?" she asked. She stood from her chair at her mother's bedside. She was preparing to leave. "Get your own revenge."
Two weeks later, on Margaretha's next and final visit, her mother had been too sick to say anything at all. Margaretha enjoyed the final visit more than any that went before it. This memory made her smile as she continued to tramp towards Sinaasappel and Christiaan. As she reached the bridge between the apostrophe and the tittle of Santa Camilla, she forced her mother from her mind. She'd wasted too much time on her when she was alive, and didn't want to make the same mistake now that she was dead.
She did her best to ignore the itching from the brambles when she came to the beach, and the sight of the boat went some way to lifting her spirits. It looked much the same as it did in her memories, although certainly a few years older and more weathered. The sky blue hull was faded, the paint scratched away in patches to reveal the dull, grey metal beneath. A sheet of cloud rolled over the day as if to amplify the decay. The green and yellow sails were nowhere to be found. She made up several stories to explain their removal, but none of them were entirely satisfactory. The rest of it was intact, though, and she spent the happiest hour of her morning sitting on the stern, staring at the sea.
"What will you do without me, on the continent?" he had asked her, one evening in this spot. Margaretha thought it an odd question. Or at least the phrasing of it was strange. Christiaan had never been to 'the continent', as those on the islands called any patch of land that wasn't their own, let alone been there with her. Contemplating Barranquilla or Bogotá with him was much more alien than picturing the city without him.
"Probably much the same as I did before I came here," she replied. It was true, but evasive nonetheless. "What will you do? When I go and you disappear forever again?"
"I won't disappear," he said. "I'll be right here. Same as I've always been."
She thought about his words and disliked them, even if she herself had flippantly echoed the sentiment that she found offensive.
"So nothing will change?" she asked him. She didn't know if she expected him to answer. "Nothing has changed?"
He shrugged and lit his Marlboro.
"Only as much as it ever does."
She heard his voice but she was alone. Her arms still itched from the brambles, and she wondered if this is what her mother was talking about when she warned against swimming after the trawler. Margaretha finished her stolen cigarette and watched the waves steadily gather before crashing gently into crescents of white foam beneath an ever-darkening sky.
*****
[ESPEN]
Michelle was sitting in much the same position as she had been all day, and Espen regarded her curiously as she stared out at the open water and smoked her cigarette. He'd watched her carefully choose her perch, ensuring that there were no harpoons, nets, or other fishing equipment to obstruct and disrupt her panorama. Usually, even though his primary purpose here was to scout for l'Ancien, he would have another line with him and spend the day reeling in whatever minnows took the bait. Today, though, he left his rod at home, and was content with maintaining the ship and enjoying the girl's (almost entirely) silent company. The moment that they'd left, when he saw his abandoned rod propped up against the pane of an upstairs window, was the one in which he realised he liked her and didn't want her to leave.
"You need another beer?" he asked, whilst holding one out for her to collect and taking a seat himself. She set it down ready for when she was finished with the current one, but didn't trust the quickening sways of the boat on the waves and picked it back up again.
"The sea doesn't seem so calm," she said. He'd noticed it himself. Yesterday afternoon, the boat - which was far smaller than the Yoct and much more susceptible to the tides - barely moved at all unless he wanted it to. "A good sign?"
"Good?" he replied, with a grimace. "Not usually, for a seafaring man. A calm sea is a gentle one, but she's always fickle. Volatile. Not to be trusted."
"Yesterday, you said you doubted you'd see l'Ancien when it was so calm," she reminded him.
"Did I?" he asked, with an eyebrow cocked. "Well, I guess you're right. Or rather, I’m right. I don't remember very much that I say."
For some time, that was enough of an answer for her. The girl drank quickly and quietly. The sun was hot, but grey clouds frequently masked her yellow face, and a black dreadnaught was gathering in the south. Espen didn't like the look of it.
"You're really here for a fish?" she asked, puncturing the silence with little in the way of tact or regret.
"I'm really here for a fish," he answered. "Simple men enjoy simple things. And I have ties here. Roots, which grow deep. There will come a time when you're ready to go home."
The girl said nothing for a moment. He watched her with intrigue, attempting to read her mind through the strange, thoughtful look on her face. She didn't like him using the word home. He fancied that she was trying to work out where that was.
"Why did you come here?" he asked in return. "If not for a fish."
"You're here for l'Ancien, and the start of your hunt," she mused, in-between pulls from the bottle. "My own is coming to its end. One way or the other. I would guess there will be a time, when your fish is all you've thought about for a year and waits for you in your dreams, you'll want to step away from the chase. If only for a deep breath."
"Has it worked?" he asked. "Do you feel calm?"
She didn't say anything. Espen stood up and drained his bottle.
"It's going to rain soon," he said, whilst nodding at the gathering black cloud in the south, which seemed larger and darker and closer now. "Maybe a storm, even. You want me to take you back to shore? I need to check my nets, but I can drop you off first."
In the distance, a single bolt of lightning struck the face of the water. Thunder rumbled towards them on the back of the wind.
"I'll go with you," she said.
*****
[MARGARETHA]
I cannot quite describe to you the dizzying emotion that overcame Margaretha when she beheld Christiaan again. It was the rediscovery of a feeling that she'd feared lost forever, only amplified by the false gravity of youth. It was already beginning to rain when she came to the village. She didn't mind, or stop to dress more appropriately for the sudden shift in weather. Until now, her indecision had masqueraded as patience, but she wasn't willing to delay the moment any longer. When she saw him he was chopping wood outside his mother's house. He looked almost exactly the same, except a little taller and stronger. As he brought his axe down from above his head in a smooth, swift crescent, her heart and her stomach lurched and her throat seemed to close up. She found herself momentarily struggling for breath, gasping for air, clawing…
She felt as though she was under water, and this sudden, uncomfortable sensation broke the memory of her dreams the night before. She'd been swimming with Christiaan, as she often did at night, and as she had a number of times in her waking hours during their summer together on Santa Camilla. They swam far from the islands, as the yellow sun rose and set a thousand times ahead of them. Last night, though, she was pulled beneath the water by an implacable force. She watched as Christiaan gently paddled away, negotiating the quickening current better than she could. She was never very good at swimming, even in her dreams.
The water filled her lungs and, after Christiaan had escaped her view, a bleak emptiness spread before her. She was struggling for breath, gasping for air, clawing…
But she was here, now, and her breathlessness was of another sort entirely. Drowning suddenly seemed a gentle and relaxing way to go. He was here. Close enough for her to reach out and touch, if she could only gather up the strength.
He didn't return her gaze immediately. He was too involved in his work. She'd seen him doing the same thing three years in the past. Less hair on his body. Less power in his strokes. It was the same and different. She found him intoxicating. He wiped the sweat from his brow before collecting and readying another piece of wood. He placed it on the stump and gripped the handle of his axe. He didn't seem to mind the rain, either.
Then, something happened that brought a swift halt to the lurching of her stomach, and instead dragged her heart down into it. She was acutely aware of the earth's gravitational pull on her body. The ends of her fingers tingled. She couldn't feel her feet, and feared they were sinking into the dirt.
She stared at him as a lost, little girl would her mother, and he stared back at her with indifference. A total and shameful lack of recognition. She didn't sink into the dirt: she was the dirt.
"Christiaan," she said, though her voice faltered and trailed into a mutter by the third syllable. He dropped his axe and picked up his t-shirt, pulling it over his body to preserve his modesty from her. That broke her heart.
"Yes?" he replied.
"You don't…" she couldn't finish the sentence. Instead she turned around and she left. The lightning started, and afterwards the thunder. It was raining so hard that she wasn't sure if she was crying.
She dragged her gaze up from the ground after a hundred carefully counted steps, expecting to see the spire of St. Delphine's. A thick fog and the black sky prevented her from doing so. But she could feel it watching her. Her heart pounded. She felt the church’s call, strange and unmistakable.
***** ACT FOUR
white whale.
[DREAMER]
Espen was slowly bringing the boat closer and closer to a small smattering of rocks that protruded from the water's surface, and both he and Dreamer were acutely aware of the blood surrounding them. She stared down into it, assuming it fresh considering the quantity and the colour. The driving rain made it hard to see anything with any clarity, but the deep claret was striking and unavoidable. The waves, too, were troubling the fisherman more and more. Michelle had discarded her beers and cigarettes in favour of tightly holding onto the railings on the side of the boat. Rain was running freely down her face, her clothes drenched and heavy and sticking to her freezing cold body. The lightning was frequent now, over land and over sea, and the proceeding thunder was almost ever-present, a deep rumbling that drowned out all but the closest sounds of the sea.
"You think we should go back?" she asked. She thought they should go back.
"Yes," Espen replied, struggling to keep the boat steady as a high wave bore them up and broke a few metres closer to land. The wind howled at them from all sides. "After I check my nets. So much blood…"
She didn't think this an appropriate time to be checking nets, but who was she to argue? It was his boat, and a long swim back to shore.
"You think it's l'Ancien?"
He didn't answer, but Dreamer caught a glimpse of desire and obsession in Espen's eyes that hinted at the truth of it.
The fisherman did his best to hold the boat's course against the current as they came to his nets, which were set up around the jagged rocks that were often consumed by the larger waves, disappearing beneath them before reappearing in what seemed like altogether different locations. There was more blood here, and amongst the wiring were the carcasses of huge fish that she didn't know the name of. The fisherman stared down at the graveyard with awe and wonder in his eyes.
"Your bait?" she asked.
"Some of it," he said, slowly. "Not all of it. The sharks come for the chum, and l'Ancien comes for the sharks. That's the idea, anyway. And maybe…"
He paused again. A rod of lightning struck the water a dozen metres from the fishing boat. A huge gush of water was thrown up into the air, large quantities of it landing in their boat and throwing it further into turmoil. Espen almost fell from the helm, but seemed more lustful than panicked.
Then, the boat rocked so suddenly and so violently that Michelle was knocked from her feet and landed heavily on the wooden deck. She thought they'd hit a rock or that, maybe, a bolt of lightning struck a direct hit with their vessel. The wind was driven from her chest, but the adrenaline rushed through her and she climbed back up to her feet, ready to provide any meagre assistance she could in their battle with the oncoming storm. Espen held the helm steady, but his eyes were drawn to the water - and dragged hers with them - as a thick geyser of ocean emerged from the blowhole of a colossal, swift beast. Its white tail reared up and lashed a wall of water at them, Espen swiftly turned the wheel, the boat shifting into an oncoming wave, the manoeuvre only just barely keeping them the right way up.
"Take the helm," he ordered, before leaving her no choice but to comply by darting across the deck to collect his harpoon and another huge net. He began to unfurl the wiring over the side of the boat, attaching it to a system of pulleys, the thick and sharp spear slung over his shoulder. Dreamer saw the mania in his eyes and felt her ignorance mature into fear.
"We have to go back!" she screamed, as another wave began to build in front of them. More lightning. Constant thunder. Back towards shore, the sky was hidden behind a dense and warlike cloud, the spire of St. Delphine's only visible when it was illuminated by a fresh array of violent lightnight bolts. An infant fire burned in the forests around the village of Mémoire.
She was barely able to negotiate the incessant waves, and the battle was entirely lost when l'Ancien reappeared for his second lunge. She seemed to come from almost beneath them, thrashing into the side of the ship like cannon fire from an enemy fleet. She slipped and the wheel spun wildly. Whilst the beast's attack was ferocious like thunder, Espen was surprisingly swift like the wind, nimble and agile and quick to strike back. His harpoon glanced the right side of l'Ancien, opening up a fresh wound to mirror the one given to her by Old Man Maglooglin back in 1804. This in itself filled Espen with great pride, but he was crazed by his bloodlust, and wanted more. He unfurled his net over the side of the ship, but the beast lashed out with its gargantuan tail, knocking the old fisherman to the ground. Dreamer, meanwhile, dragged herself up to stay the freely-spinning wheel, attempting to correct their course and steer them towards land.
The wind howled into Michelle's face as she fought against the ocean and the skies, which were conspiring against her and the fishing boat she struggled to steer. The tiny vessel might as well have been a planet in the path of a black hole, at the mercy of its whims, of its nonchalant cruelty. Fresh blood billowed out into the water, giving Espen a trail to watch as he fought back up and reeled in his net. A fresh spear glinted in the brief but frequent flashes of lightning that surrounded them, a blinding backdrop for the closing walls of the wind. A bolt struck the cross of St. Delphine’s, setting it ablaze as if it was a beacon upon the hill.
L'Ancien launched one final attack. First, her tail crashed against the stern of the boat to knock it off balance, before its body drove upwards against the keel. Another geyser of water escaped her blowhole, blinding Michelle with spray. They collided with the rocks, and the jolt threw Dreamer down onto the deck once again. Espen, though, didn't blink. He drove his harpoon into the beast a second time, opening up its ancient wound and forcing a roaring groan from the monster that drowned out even the thunder. He deftly wrapped the beast in his net, the sophisticated pulley system cranking and leveraging the fish up into the boat. The spear still protruded from the freshly opened wound along her left side.
Espen grasped the spinning wheel whilst fighting to keep his eyes open against the flashing lightning, the driving rain, and the ocean spray. He turned course for land, ignoring a gigantic wave that was building behind them. Michelle stood to her feet and stared down at the fish. She was huge and impressive still, but her dominance and her terror had diminished. She flopped around uselessly and pathetically on the deck, the rainwater just barely enough to keep her functioning to even that level. Dreamer regarded her scars, old and new. She thought about the fishermen that had battled her, piercing her scales with spears and entangling her in nets. Espen was the last in a long line, driven into the hunt by a strange and indescribable lust that she understood better than most. All before him had been overcome, and only a few left even a mark upon the leviathan. Until now. Espen would stand alone in history. But the fish - that wasn't, of course, a fish at all - would die, and get chopped up into pieces, and made into stew.
She didn't want to be the fisherman. She would rather be the hunted, if that was the only other choice.
She began to untangle the net. Espen glanced at her from the helm. Up until then, he had been tunnelling on the approaching land, but now a new fear flashed across his visage.
"Michelle! What are you doing?!" he shouted, his voice weak in the wind. She didn't answer, and silently continued to unravel the net until the fish was loose. She pulled the harpoon from its flesh and threw it overboard, eliciting a moan of confusion from the fisherman. She placed both of her arms beneath the beast and began to uselessly heave it towards the side of the boat. She was too heavy, and barely budged but a few centimetres.
Instinctively, though, and with a terrible cry that was filled with rage, Espen let go of the wheel and strode over towards Dreamer and his catch. He reached for a fresh spear, but as he did a violent wave broke beneath and against the ship, throwing it off balance and into chaos.
Two things happened:
The deck now swam with water, which pooled near the stern and filled Michelle's Vans. She grabbed the wheel, but the boat had already been turned around. She looked out into the open water before her, at the flashes of lightning that troubled the bleak sky, and at the distant tornado that was gathering above the treacherous sea. She gazed into the abyss for long enough for it to gaze back into her.
In front of her, a cliff-like wave rose quickly, even larger and more terrifying than the one in her dreams. It carried her up into the sky, as if she were on a mountain top, and for a second she felt as though she looked down upon the moon. Then, the wave broke.
The ship was thrown over. The last thing that Dreamer could do was grab hold of the fisherman so that they were flung in the same direction. She came up above water what felt like minutes later, her grip upon him firm, as a second wave swallowed them whole. She felt the water fill her lungs, and then she didn't feel anything.
*****
All three of our protagonists, at one point or another through their pursuits of their white whales, saw their hunt as some sort of manifestation of fate or destiny, or a variant thereof. Margaretha thought that her destiny was to reunite with Christiaan, the great, lost love of her childhood, which would bring about a simple happiness in her hitherto miserable life. Equally, Espen was sure that his own fate surrounded him reeling in l'Ancien, and collecting the glory that had long eluded him and that he felt inherently entitled to. Perhaps he is. That is not for me to say.
This idea of destiny, though, is only an example of a much simpler and prevalent solipsism than the one we've grown used to elsewhere as of late. Fate and coincidence are often mistaken. Consider the prerequisite coincidences for the arrival upon Santa Camilla of the respective parties of Sister LaCroix, Admiral van der Blockmann, and Governor Fittlewhicket. Or those surrounding Cross-Eyes van l'Shortspear, and the many men who went before him and left scars upon l'Ancien. Scars akin to those indentations upon antique clocks, guiding new hands to take old discoveries further. And to make new ones. Much more modestly, consider the chain of coincidences that led to Espen and Margaretha meeting in Barranquilla at such a time when their white whales aligned with the storm's first breath.
All of this, so that a Colombian orphan can rekindle a dormant and fleeting flame? Or so an old man can catch a fish? Their obsession, more disappointingly, is built by chance. The legends of their mythic opponents, or their heartfelt symbols of desire, are built by chance. And just as easily, in a storm lasting only an evening, chance can tear them apart or snatch them away again.
Michelle regained consciousness in the early hours of Friday morning. She expelled a litre or two of ocean water from her lungs onto the white sand before finding Espen a few metres away from her on the beach. He was breathing, and regained a limited form of consciousness after a brief battle to rouse him. He wouldn't say very much. She left him shortly afterwards and headed for the village. They'd managed to evacuate most of Mémoire, but would still be finding bodies in the weeks and months that followed, some of them thrown up into trees or washing up to shore, time uncovering the secret extent of the storm's wrath.
Margaretha was one of her victims, swallowed up by the fire that consumed the church when its cross was struck by lightning. Her body was contorted by both flames and prayer, they told Dreamer.
She returned to the beach alone, and found the raft on which she'd travelled to the island in the adjacent harbour. She was surprised to find Espen waiting for her there.
"You're leaving, then?" he asked. He didn't seem angry, now. He was almost smiling. She nodded. "They'll still come, even with the storm?"
"They'll come," she said. Quiet wouldn't leave her here. "What will you do?"
The old fisherman's smile became a grin. A glint returned to his eye.
"You're going to go after her again?" she asked.
"I'm the only man to have caught her once," Espen began, his pride growing. "Not that anyone but you or I knows it. But it's possible for some young upstart to go out there and catch her again. The scores would be tied, one apiece. But if I was to catch her twice?"
Michelle couldn't help but smile.
"Good luck, I guess," she said. She didn't mean it. Espen nodded at her, and he left the harbour. Immortality awaited him.
Michelle meandered to the end of the jetee and sat with her legs dangling over the end of it. The sky was clearing. The rain had stopped. The sun was beginning to rise.
In her memory of these events, she hadn't battled the storm. The waves and the fire and the howling wind were no longer her enemies, but part of herself. She was no ally or analogue of the feeble fisherman and his meek, savage dreams, nor of the silly orphan girl and her half-remembered love. She had empathy for the beast, but its timid, hollow ambitions were limited. She was without limits. She was the visceral reaction. She was treachery and she was chaos.
She was the storm, come to break apart the legends built by chance.
She stared at the sea.
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Post by supinesnake on May 30, 2024 13:09:41 GMT
Promo history - volume 86.
"Capulets." (July 22nd, 2022).
Cyrus Truth and Devin Golden def. Michelle von Horrowitz and Thomas West (Tag Team Match) (FWA: Meltdown XVII - One Year Anniversary Show). CTHULHU's NEPHEWS
CAPULETS.
Every other table was occupied, so she was left with no choice other than to sit at the bar, nursing a warming Heineken and turning over a small piece of cardboard - a postcard she'd purchased upon arrival in Mexico City - in her fingers. She didn't like the picture on the front of it very much, but the blank side was somehow even less satisfying. Eventually she placed it down on the bar and used it as a beermat.
The tavern was a reasonable approximation of the same sort of dive bar she frequented in the United States or in Europe, complete with an unfashionable and unenthused clientele that occupied every one of its high tables. There was nobody sitting at the bar but her, and on the other side of it a dour and displeased barman who - fortunately, surprisingly - had no inclination towards idle smalltalk. Occasionally, one of the patrons would approach in silence, nod at the custodian in silence, and then wait in silence until he (or she, but usually he) could leave again.
She lifted her drink from its makeshift mat and observed the ring of condensation that had gathered upon it. The picture on it was of a belltower in a city square. It wasn't the one that she'd been to in the centre of Mexico City, or any that she recognised elsewhere in the country or the world. The face of the clock had no hands and congratulations was printed in gold text in the bottom right corner. She brushed her thumb across the damp ring left behind by her drink, the soft, pastel colours of the photograph running into one another as she did.
A bell above the door rang, and a moment later Thomas West walked into the bar. He took off his heavy coat, which seemed to be more an amalgamation of pockets than anything else, and placed it on a rack in the corner of the room. He turned to Michelle and flashed her an easy, casual smile. She offered him a passive, dull glare in return.
"Dos cervezas por favor, mi amigo," he said, whilst taking a seat on one of the empty stools next to Michelle. The podcast host let out an exaggerated smile as the load was taken off his feet. He seemed weary, as if he'd travelled far to get here, but otherwise was in typically jovial spirits considering he'd just lost the FWA World Championship and been humiliated in front of the world. "Dreamer, it's good to see you. You must've made a quick getaway in Rio. Didn't want to celebrate with us Nephews? Worried we might bring the mood down?"
He let out a chuckle. The beers arrived.
"You don't seem overly upset," she observed. The former world champion, the more recent former world champion of the two, responded with a shrug.
"Titles are props," Thomas said, whilst pulling a case of Phantom Cigars from his pocket and placing them on the bar. "Uncle is right about that, at the very least. I was the last ever FWA World Champion, Dreamer. And I've got around three hundred and fifty thousand replica belts left on Westworld. I'm reasonably confident that the real belt is amongst those, anyway."
"Sounds like you're taking it all in your stride," Michelle said, dully.
"We can't all tailspin into obsession every time we face a setback," Thomas replied, pointedly. Michelle tried to not let the barb sting. She was a calm sea on a clear day. "We never really did get a chance to talk about that mess between us. Bowling doesn't count. I was too focused on my game. You really pushed me to my limits. At bowling, I mean. Not so much in the ring. But I digress. I guess now that the smoke has cleared a little - with the belt no longer here with me or even in our company, and you having avenged one of your pet obsessions - it might be time."
"It's not time," Michelle retorted, quickly and maybe a little sharply. The man took a Phantom Cigar from his case and held it between his lips whilst he lit the end of it.
"There's a lot going on right now, Dreamer," West continued, the tip of his cigar glowing white as he dragged deeply and contently from the other end. "Watkins has made his move. Your Danny stands at his side, and across the tracks from us. And Uncle is there with him, indirectly but undeniably. I think it's important that the Meltdown Branch sticks together. You, Gerald, and I. At least for now."
Michelle registered no discernable reaction to her counterpart's speech, except for to allow her eyes to flicker towards the discoloured postcard on the bar at the mention of her Danny.
"It's not me you have to worry about," Michelle said. The herbal odour of West's Phantom Cigar made her dizzy, and she lit a Camel to clear her head. "I'm here now. And I'll be there on Monday. I haven't seen Gerald since New York, though. Haven't spoken to him, either."
"Because you don't have a phone," West said. "I've spoken to Gerald every day. He always checks in a little after nine. He's fine. Just been chilling, mostly. He's coming here tonight. Two of us recognise that this Meltdown super-group will require at least a little preparation."
"Supergroups are tenapenny," Michelle replied. "We're the only group that matters."
"That's the spirit," Thomas answered. "You, Gerald, and I."
"And the rest of them," Michelle said, uneasily.
"And the rest of them," the bad guy conceded, with a devious smile. He drained his drink and signalled for another.
The bell rang before it arrived, heralding the arrival of Gerald Grayson. He looked relaxed. Calm. Michelle couldn't help but feel that he never looked this good after prolonged exposure to her. He already seemed more tired.
*****
I took a handful of Cheetos and shoved them in my mouth - the feeling never felt so good. I’d been devouring these chips the past few weeks and several bags lay on the floor around my hotel room. The sound of each crunch tempting me to eat more – and that’s exactly what I did. I wiped the residue on the side of my joggers before picking up my PS5 controller.
The local pizza place, “Galucci’s”, has been on my speed dial as it’s been in my rotation of food. I don’t even have to talk anymore because the owners recognize my number. It was 3pm and I had just woken up. First thing I had to do was listen to the rumblings of my stomach and so I did. I took my phone and dialed the number for Galucci’s.
“Gino!” I yelled through the phone.
“Gerald, my man! What can I get ya?” Gino, one of the sons of the owner, asked enthusiastically.
“The usual meat lover’s, G,” I paused. “Add in some of those buffalo wings while you’re at it,” I continued, nodding my head at my decision.
“Of course! Coming right up,” Gino said, before hanging up.
This has been my life for a few weeks now since requesting some time off from FWA. Luckily for me, FWA management cares for their employees’ mental health. With how crazy it gets in the FWA, they were more than willing to grant my request. It pained me that the time I requested off coincided with Back in Business. I haven’t missed a Back in Business show since I signed with FWA, but I just couldn’t do it. I owe it to the fans and to my fellow FWA brethren to get back to 100% before getting back in the ring.
I didn’t even tell Michelle. She hasn’t called once, so I take that as her knowing my situation. She had to focus on her match against Kennedy at Back in Business anyway. There’s no way I was going to distract her from one of the biggest wins in her career.
So for the past couple of weeks, my routine is as follows: wake up late, eat whatever junk food is around, and play video games all day or pick from a myriad of streaming services and watch whatever I felt like watching. Much preferable to the X4, all things considered.
***
Quiet and Harry were my buds when it came to gaming. We frequently played this game called Destiny 2 where we were pretty much space rangers fighting various alien species. We would stay up for hours and hours playing and it was never boring despite some missions feeling repetitive. Constant space adventures lose their allure after a half-dozen or so incarnations, it seems. Regardless, all of us brought something different to the table. Quiet played as a Warlock, who specializes in space magic and area of effect moves that can destroy hordes of enemies. Harry played as a Titan, specializing in protecting the team with his various shields and abilities to take a ton of damage. I played as a Hunter, the speedster of the group (obviously), specializing in swift, damage dealing abilities that can take out enemies quickly.
Destiny 2 is a whole different game when playing solo. It’s doable, but it’s not as fun and missions are more difficult. But I didn’t want to bother the Nephews as they all had something going on. If they didn’t, I’m sure they were helping Uncle with something silly and diabolical. I missed them.
So there I was playing the game as a solo Hunter. I tried to speed through the current mission I was on but fell victim to a series of boulders that would fall from the sky and instantly kill you. I couldn’t remember the path to take to avoid them. Harry was usually the strategist or we’d just hide behind his shield and make it through. I started getting frustrated and was ready to throw my controller against the wall after dying for a fifth consecutive time.
Suddenly, the doorbell to my hotel room rang. I stood up from the couch and made my way towards the door. Through the eye hole, I saw the pizza guy from Galucci’s. I had left a chair outside and wrote some instructions on a piece of paper, posting it right above the chair. So whenever I ordered takeout, whoever delivers the food just needed to leave the food on the chair since everywhere I order takeout from automatically deducts payment from my card.
As soon as the pizza guy left, I retrieved the pizza and put it on the counter. I grabbed a plastic plate and took three slices of pizza for myself to eat before going back to the couch. I decided to go on Netflix and hit the “Surprise Me” button. It surprised me with an animated cartoon of the Ninja Turtles.
“Not a bad surprise,” I said out loud.
I finished my meat lover’s pizza and started to feel a bit sleepy. I continued watching the Ninja Turtles before I eventually knocked out on the couch.
***
I woke myself up from snoring really loud, jerking up to a seated position. I looked around, not sure what I was expecting to find. When I looked at the TV, Netflix was asking me if I was still watching. I pressed yes as more Ninja Turtles started to play.
I started to feel hungry again but this time, I remembered I had cookies and cream ice cream in the fridge. I immediately grabbed a spoon and retrieved the pint of ice cream from the freezer. I sat at the counter and took a few bites of the ice cream. The pizza I ordered earlier was staring me in the face, prompting me to eat pizza and ice cream simultaneously.
After a good while, I made it back to the couch to refrain myself from eating more. I closed my eyes, my head falling to the side. I immediately propped myself up, not wanting to fall back asleep. At this point, I began to feel a range of emotions. I tried closing my eyes again to meditate while doing some breathing exercises to calm myself down. When I opened my eyes, I felt better. I let out a sigh, knowing these anxiety attacks have become a little too frequent for my liking.
To distract myself, I picked up my Playstation controller and began browsing my video game catalog. I’ve been playing a lot of video games and completing them to 100% to gain the trophies. Trophies are achievements of challenges that video game developers put in games to show that you’ve mastered the game. For example, in Destiny 2, there’s a trophy where I needed to defeat 200 opponents within a certain amount of time to get it. Some trophies are harder to get than others, but that’s what makes this fun.
Getting these virtual trophies made me feel a sense of accomplishment. I know these accomplishments don’t count in real life, but it still made me feel like I wasn’t a total let down. Up to this point, my FWA career hasn’t been what I envisioned it to be, but you already know that. But I’m not the type to quit - and you already know this as well. Despite not hearing from my brother in so long and being as down in the dumps as can be, I still feel the FWA is where I need to be. Nothing can compare to the “high” I feel when I go out there and compete for the fans.
*****
A little after midnight, Michelle sat with her two 'partners' at the edge of a cliff that looked down upon a small, black, deep lake. Thomas had told them about the spot, reciting a convoluted, spectacular, and dramatic tale about how he'd first happened to find it. That isn't re-told here, for it is just another Nephew adventure, and you've had quite enough of those already. It is sufficient to tell you that they ended up here at the end of their evening, intermittently staring at either the dark surface of the lake below or the patchwork of softly dancing stars above. Nobody had said anything in quite some time, until Gerald punctured the comfortable silence.
"You're ready for Monday, Thomas?" he asked. Michelle noted that he didn't pose the same question to her. For once, she wasn't the object of his concern. "I can't imagine you're quite over the debacle in Rio, despite your sunny front. But these team matches will be good practice. For your eventual revenge."
"Revenge?" Thomas asked, with a cocked eyebrow. Michelle struggled to find her lighter, so the podcast host held out his Phantom Cigar for Michelle to ignite her cigarette from the end of it. "Against who? And for what?"
"Danny Toner," Gerald elaborated, almost immediately and with surprise for Thomas' surprise. "And the rest of them. That is the eventual destination. Executive Excellence. Surely you want to be the one to see about their end, after what they did to you."
"Maybe, eventually," West mused, whilst dragging lazily from his cigar. "But there are other battles for us before that. I feel certain that Uncle will make his move soon enough. He won't be able to resist."
Gerald didn't seem convinced, of either Uncle's forthcoming malfeasance or of Thomas' readiness for the oncoming battle. Regardless, he turned to face Dreamer instead.
"And you?" he asked. "I thought you'd be happier. You've been hunting Kennedy for a long time."
She did nothing except let out a deep sigh. She knew that Gerald would read it as exasperation. Misread it, rather. If there was any exasperation at all, it was in herself. Her disappointment concerned her inability to fill the hollow space in the pit of her stomach. The satisfaction that came with each moment of redemption was fleeting. She had nothing to say to Gerald, and so she only sighed her exasperated sigh.
Parr, Bell, Kennedy. Each of them were behind her.
She thought about the Mountain. Her first, and maybe the only one that really mattered. Or perhaps the kaiju was as irrelevant as the rest of them.
"Michelle?" Gerald said, only partially interrupting her malaise. Her cigarette had burned down to its filter. She flicked the end over the cliff but lost it before it hits the surface.
"I'm not happy and I'm not sad," she answered.
Gerald continued to stare at her for a moment, and then he nodded his head. Without a word of explanation, he stood up and pulled his t-shirt over his head. His shoes and jeans followed, leaving a trail of his clothes between their seat and the edge, which he promptly jumped over. No more than a second later, she heard the splash but didn't see it.
Thomas stood up and replicated Gerald. The splash was louder, but still hidden from view.
She heard the words she'd said a hundred times about a hundred opponents. When she closed her eyes, she could see the old man in Richmond, leaping from the bridge beneath a pale silver moon. Her grandfather's sundial was covered by shade.
She remained in position, her eyes closed, picking blades of grass out of the mud.
Finally, she reached into her rucksack and removed the postcard and a pencil. She glanced at the image once more, the smeared paint now dried into position, before flicking it over onto the blank side. She began to write.
D.
Enjoy the summer. It will be hot this year.
I'll see you when the snows come.
M. |
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Post by supinesnake on May 30, 2024 13:11:34 GMT
Promo history - volume 87.
"The Bandit Queen: Part Two." (August 8th, 2022).
Michelle von Horrowitz def. Devin Golden (FWA: Meltdown XVIII - Get the F Out). [previously…]
MICHELLE von HORROWITZ
in
[VOLUME EIGHTY SEVEN]
"THE BANDIT QUEEN."
part two.
Eighteen months later.
Western Alberta. Spring, 1874.
The container which I'd managed to sweet-talk a spot in for the journey out west was at the very tail of the train, and I sat with my legs dangling out of the back of it, its doors opened up so that I could get some air. Liz, the train driver's wife, promised to ensure my safe and comfortable passage to the rendezvous spot. So far she'd done well enough. It pained to require the assistance of anyone to make what was a relatively safe and routine trip, but my horse was full with a few too many bullets to make the journey. I'd buried him the night before the train. Liz was there, silent and watchful. She poured me a bourbon when I was finished. Liz is a good woman.
I sat at the back of the train and smoked my pipe, watching as the landscape turned from forestry to lakeland, and then finally a patchwork of green grass and yellow rapeseed fields. Horses grazed in strangely regimented groups. Occasional haybails were strewn across the prairies like inanimate cows. I was alone, but I could hear music. The same song as always.
When we reached Torl's Point, I grabbed my pack and jumped out onto the track. I didn't say goodbye to Liz's husband. He didn't know I was there, or so the story went. No point entangling him in this whole mess. The authorities didn't look too kindly on accomplices to train robbery. Liz didn't know I was wrapped up in all that. Or, more truthfully, I hadn't told her explicitly. I imagine she worked it out for herself, though. Liz is smart, and in many ways an extension of me. Her thoughts mirror mine. As I watched the train disappear into the distance, I made up my mind to return to Saskatchewan to say thank you in person, if I made it out of Coyote with all of my faculties intact.
The camp was set up a mile and a half south of Torl's Point, just like the man said it would be. I was the last to arrive. I knew them all, but was acquainted with each of them to varying extents. There was the starry-eyed youngster that they called Diamondfist, who I knew only from afar, as well as the handsome man from out east. Both of them were younger than me by a good few turns of the earth, but I still fancied myself to beat them on the draw, if it ever came to that. The fourth and final of the party was Asombroso, the grizzly and now transient figure from south of the border who was older than even I was. I'd had my fair share of run-ins with the handsome man and Asombroso, but at least with the latter we'd settled into a rhythm of something resembling mutual respect. Dueling was a young man's game. Better to survive to see your share of the score.
The three of them were sitting around a campfire and eating beans from pots. Only Asombroso nodded as I emerged through the line of connifer trees and into the small clearing where they'd built their fire. It was still light but wouldn't be for long.
"Late," Diamondfist said. The whinnying of nearby horses punctuated his speech. "Lost your horse?"
"Dead," I answered, as I took up the spare position at the fire and began to prepare my own food. Asombroso offered me a cup of what I soon found out was a strong and bracing whiskey. If I'd wanted to elaborate on the state of my horse, I wouldn't have been able to. The amber drove my breath away.
"If only Parr was here," Asombroso started, whilst staring down into the campfire. "We'd have all of the Five Gangs in on this one."
"Parr?" Diamondfist said with a scoff. "The three-fingered bandit is now missing a functioning heart, to go along with those absent digits. And all of us are lacking in gangs. This is the gang. Just the four of us."
Diamondfist's tone was commonly brash and abrasive, but I sensed a hint of defeatism in his words, too
"What happened to Parr?" I asked, ignoring the young man's goading and focusing on his news. "Dreamer?"
Diamondfist didn't say anything in reply. He looked as though he was doing some thinking of his own. Asombroso took up the thread.
"Not directly," he began, whilst pushing beans around in his bowl with his fork. "But what she did to him back east was enough to spell a slow death. He spent a whole year since embroiled in a petty dispute with some bastard down south. He won, too, but I don't think he had much heart left after the fight. One of his own men shot him and took what loot he hadn't already spent outside a tavern in Tijuana."
There was a time when the three-fingered bandit's reach was long, despite his missing digits, and his name still commanded some semblance of respect. Picturing him lying face down in some Mexican back-alley felt unfitting. But the dour reactions of the other men suggested that Asombroso was telling the truth.
Suddenly, Diamondfist punctuated the ensuing silence by spitting on the floor next to him.
"Fucking Dreamer," he said. That was all.
"What did she take from you?" I asked. My beans were ready and I started them too eagerly, burning the roof of my mouth. Fortunately I wasn't expected to speak again for a while. Diamondfist was equally eager to tell his tale.
"What didn't she take?" he started. "Our lives would be quite different right now if it wasn't for Dreamer. We should've done something about her when we had the chance."
"She was the law back then," Asombroso interjected. "Sheriff."
"So?" Diamondfist shot back, his one-word question laced with an accusation of cowardice. "Wouldn't have been the first time. And it's been a while since she wore the badge. Dreamer's an outlaw now. Same as the rest of us. She was already on the wrong side of the law by the time I met her, shortly after her business with Parr. She'd traded her sheriff's star for ill-gotten jewels, which she'd looted from the corpse of some wealthy Irishman. Something about the endless parade didn't sit right with me. Each of us here, all four of us, have increased our wealth through nefarious tactics at one point or another. But Dreamer… she was goading me."
He paused to set aside his food, which was by now cold and unappealing, and looked into the fire. For a while, it was unclear if he was going to go on, until eventually he did.
"I was in a town just outside of Milwaukee, in a saloon with some generic name and even more generic interior, when I first saw her. Well, it was the jewels that hung around her neck that I saw first. Emerald and amethyst, hanging from a thin golden chain with a clasp of silver doves. The girl seemed frail and weak, and with no titles or much of a name, even. No employ. Nobody to vouch for her. Yet she was here, exhibiting this exorbitant wealth with apparently no source. I surmised that it was ill-gotten, correctly, and declared it fair game.
"I was in no particular hurry. The girl seemed happy to stick around, and couldn't seem to help but parade herself and her trinkets for all to see. So I waited, and I watched… for perhaps too long. For one evening, she walked into our genetic tavern with a pale and bare neck. Her prized prize was gone, and so was her smile."
Another pause. I noted Asombroso shuffling uncomfortably upon the tree stump that he sat on. Diamondfist drank from his cup but found that it was empty. He held it out towards the southerner, who promptly topped it up with bourbon.
For my own part, I listened carefully, my face a stone wall. I didn't let on that I knew the jewels that he spoke of, though my mind drew a picture of the eccentric highwayman I'd taken them off at the culmination of long, arduous toil.
The handsome man said nothing, and smoked his lavender cigarettes.
"As for me, I was despondent. I'd gathered enough wealth from other scores to make Dreamer's jewels next to meaningless, and yet I could not be consoled. I travelled north, into the wilderness, and left my affairs to my second. My operation out east dwindled into nothing, my gang into extinction. But I didn't think of this. As the winter snows built, my mind was always drawn back to Dreamer, and the green and gold jewels she wore around her neck.
"The time came for me to return south, if only to increase my chances of getting a sniff of her. I gathered what was left of my gang - three men and a pair of boys - and headed out west, taking a job near the Rockies to get my name back in the game. I didn't know what was on board. Gold, I was told. Some vague hint about the thirteenth spring service to Denver."
Without my permission, my eyebrow cocked at the mention of the train. Of this particular train. I don't think Diamondfist himself noticed it, for he was too embroiled in the telling of his tale. As for Asombroso and the handsome man, I couldn't say. Both kept their cards close to their chests.
"Call it fate, call it coincidence, call it destiny… divine providence or dumb luck… when my men cranked open the cargo, the first thing that my eyes fell upon was that glittering gold chain with its emeralds and amethysts. And now it was mine. I let my men take what they wanted from the rest of the loot. That was all I wanted."
His tone grew wistful as he neared the end of his story. Something about him suggested that he was a defeated man. He was here, ostensibly, for the early morning train, and a score that the handsome man promised would be worth the long journey. But his heart and his mind were both elsewhere.
"She was waiting for me less than a mile from the track. Her and that fucking horse. She knew which way I'd be travelling. Knew when the train was, how many of us there would be… everything. And she was quick. Maybe if I was mounted, I'd have stood a chance. She got me once, right under the heart…"
The young man was absently rubbing at the wound in the described location. I watched his fingers gently working away at the bruising. Even when it had physically healed, his mind would still be on it.
"She took the jewels and left me for dead. I would've, too, if I wasn't… found," he paused in order to take a short involuntary glance towards the handsome man, who didn't return it. "But I didn't see her, her horse, or her emeralds again. Only meagre scores."
And not even that for long, I thought. Though I didn't speak. We needed the numbers for tomorrow, and I didn't want to scare the young man off. His heart was already faltering.
"I knew Dreamer, or at least of her, when she still wore the badge, as Devin did also," Asombroso began, taking up the story in his own laconic tones. "The Bandit Queen. That's what some call her, now. But back then, that title belonged to another, and has only since been mis-appointed to our Dreamer. Do you know how she came to give up the badge?"
"She was shot by some whore," Diamondfist offered. "Rode out of town on her horse. Left the badge in the sheriff's office for the deputy to find."
Asombroso paused. I detected that he didn't like the young man's sharpness. But then again, I knew which whore it was that put a bullethole in Dreamer.
"Yes, shot by some whore," Asombroso conceded. "By a woman named Belle, with whom I am acquainted in ways that your foe only ever dreamed of. It is in this way that my life is entangled with Dreamer's, and these jewels that you speak of - of which I know a little, and will fill in some gaps in your story - play only a minor role in my own tale. I didn't see her for three months, during which time she had left her service, and I had left mine. The money to be made in corruption was waning, and so any worth in official employ that I found within the government dwindled out. I moved north, and took Belle with me, and assumed that this would be the last we'd ever see of Dreamer. But the girl is nothing if not… persistent.
"She arrived at my manor along the northern border, riding her horse and with nothing but her six-shooter at her side and a neck gleaming with emeralds. The amethysts shone more cool beneath the pale moonlight. She told me she'd come for Belle. Belle told her she didn't want to go. Dreamer said she'd come for her anyway."
He stopped to fill his own cup and drink deeply from it. I looked out across the canyon, my eyes slowly scanning each of the snow-capped peaks in front of me. In the twilight, the sun cast its final rays out onto the uppermost crevices of only the tallest mountains, illuminating them in an odd glow that almost seemed to come from within the rock itself. The peaks were like paintings in a museum, granted the privilege of the evening's dying light whilst the rest of us were subjected to the first throws of the oncoming gloom. Eventually, the sun would retreat low enough for only the tallest and most distant summit to catch its glow. It looked like a burning beacon, but what it proclaimed I wasn't sure.
"We walked ten paces on the dirt path in front of my old manor and drew. She was quick, but I was quicker. I put a second hole in her, right above the one that Belle made. I'd have finished the job, but she changed my mind. Instead, I took the chain from around her neck, and left her to rot. The Doctor tells me her horse dragged her to his house in the middle of the night and he got the bullet out of her. Smart animal. Or maybe stupid. I don't know."
"What happened to the jewels?" Diamondfist asked. He knew that Asombroso didn't hold them, still. They'd resurfaced, at least in his perception, when he'd hi-jacked the thirteenth spring service to Denver. The intermittent months remained hidden from him, it seemed. Interesting.
"I arranged to sell them, to our friend here," Asombroso continued, with a nod towards the handsome man. "In Oxtown."
The stonewall defense of my facial expression continued, but again my interest was piqued by the mention of the tiny town south-east of here where the proposed deal was to go down. Diamondfist was already out of the picture by then, a recluse in the far north whilst his gang dwindled away in size and stature. Dreamer was also licking her wounds, embroiled in a turf war with a bandido named Verdad to the south. But I was in Oxtown, and so was my horse. Back when he still ran free, the wind blowing through his red mane.
"What happened in Oxtown?" Diamondfist insisted. It was difficult to say if his curiosity or his anger was showing more. Asombroso winced at the question, and even the handsome man's eyes were drawn away from the fire for a mere moment.
"It's not a particularly fond memory," the southerner went on. "As a man who has made a living out of swindling, to admit to being swindled isn't easy. But that's what happened. The deal was done, and the horses being loaded. A stableboy told us that our friend's horse had bolted, but when we checked the stables Rondo was quite fine and present. The stableboy described a grey horse, onto which he'd loaded the quarry, and which had ran through the doors as soon as the saddle was mounted. He was lucky to get away with his life, he said. I didn't let him do so."
That the stableboy wasn't alive to describe the horse in more detail was unfortunate for him, but quite the victory for me. If the lad had been allowed to elaborate on the horse's silver coat and its bright red mane, perhaps its identity could've been more swiftly placed. All for naught, though. The highwayman had intercepted Redmane before I could get to him. The poor beast hadn't been the same since.
"I didn't even think of Dreamer for most of the year, until she arrived unexpectedly at this summer's peak," Asombroso continued. "Once again, she came to my manor, but this time she came on foot, her six-shooter in her hand. She told me she'd come for Belle. Belle told her she didn't want to go. Dreamer said she had come for her anyway.
"Ten paces in front of the manor, once more. This time, she was quicker. She put a hole in my shoulder, and another in my gut. Belle stayed with me, at my side, as Dreamer approached.
"'I don't have your jewels,' I told her
"'I haven't come for the jewels,' she replied. 'I've come for her.'
"Still, Belle wouldn't go. She covered me when Dreamer lifted her weapon to expel its third, fatal shot, laying atop of my unconscious frame until she finally gave up. Dreamer rode away alone, and Belle went to find the Doctor."
He said no more after this, but scratched at the bullet hole on his right shoulder. When he realised the tick he put a stop to it, and reached again for his cup. The stars now held dominion overhead.
"When did you first meet Dreamer?" Diamondfist asked, of me. I thought my silence had gone hitherto unnoted, but the young man's redirection of the conversation suggested otherwise.
"A long time ago," I stared, whilst packing the end of my pipe. "Back when she still had the badge. I guess she'd heard about some score I'd made near her office. Silver, mostly. Word got to me that she was trying to cut me off at Trawler's Pass. But Redmane was swift back then. I made the Pass and escaped west, arriving with enough time to look back over the foothills and see the sheriff upon her Gigi."
Redmane was swift back then. Swift, and obedient. The night I buried him came back to me. The musk in the air. The hard grey rock that lay a foot or two below the earth. The harsh taste of Liz's bourbon. There was nothing for it. Had to be done.
"What happened to Redmane?" Diamondfist asked.
Good question.
The horse had been fine for a long time following the chase to Trawler's Pass. Swift, strong, and seemingly without fatigue. The beast had acted admirably at Oxtown, too, playing his role in the swindle to perfection. That the highwayman who called himself Maverick, a foreigner even more so than the rest of us, took the quarry from the beast before he'd dutifully brought it back to me was just… a quirk of fate. Something I righted not long after. History is there to be written, after all.
But after his brief tryst with Maverick, Redmane had not been the same. Less ready to throw himself into risky business than he had been before, perhaps. And as a result, less obedient. The beast was lame, or becoming lame. Better a clean death.
Not that I told any of them this.
"He just got old," I answered, finally.
"And what about Dreamer?" Diamondfist asked. "You never saw her again?"
"From afar, and only once."
"You don't want to share?" Diamondfist asked. His eyes were piercing. I wondered what it was to him. "In the spirit of the evening?"
Asombroso had oddly fallen silent, though his gaze belied the fact that he wanted me to go on, too. The handsome man still smoked his lavender cigarettes.
"I believe she was going to hi-jack one of my trains once. Only someone else got there first."
I didn't have to mention the thirteenth spring service to Denver. The realisation was plain in the young man's visage. He didn't know that the bullet that found its way into him had my name on it.
"I heard she's lying low again," Asombroso said. "If we had any sense, we'd probably do the same."
"We've got a job to do here," Diamondfist replied. "And besides, she's half the country away. I heard she lost some barfight out west to this hulk of a man. Took everything she had on her."
"Your jewels too?" Asombroso asked.
"Probably," Diamondfist answered, with a shrug. The handsome man's grip on the satchel next to him hardened slightly. Ever so slightly. "Beats me."
Nobody said anything for quite some time, until the young man was agitated enough to do so.
"You've never met her?" Diamondfist asked, of the handsome man.
He looked up from the fire, meeting the young man's gaze in a cool and distant fashion.
"Not yet," he said. Nobody else spoke that night.
In the early morning, when I awoke at the appointed time to travel to the tracks, two of the tents had been packed up and two of the horses taken. Only the handsome man's steed remained. I missed Redmane, and I missed Liz.
I wasn't interested in Asombroso, though, or the silver-tongued youngster. It was the handsome man, and specifically the contents of his satchel, that held my curiosity.
Ill-gotten, and belonging to another.
So, I stayed.
Dreamer was far away, and preoccupied, and nothing to worry about.
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Post by supinesnake on May 30, 2024 13:13:29 GMT
Promo history - volume 88.
"Just Another Nephew Adventure!" (August 23rd, 2022).
Cyrus Truth and Devin Golden def. Michelle von Horrowitz and Thomas West (Cosmic Playground II) (FWA: The 17th Anniversary Show - Meltdown vs. Fallout). HARRY the SANE WIZARD, THOMAS WEST, NOT_QUIET, GERALD GRAYSON, and MICHELLE von HORROWITZare[CTHULHU'S NEPHEWS]in"JUST ANOTHER
NEPHEW ADVENTURE!"***** ACT ONE.
Iago's Square upon Veronex 1597WSX.
Relatively close to Earth in Cosmic terms.
When Terron the Engineer, whose forefathers for the past fifty generations had all been engineers and had all been loyal to the Capulonox faction, cocked his photon rifle and sent a warning blast into the nearby clocktower, everyone assembled in the city plaza knew he meant business and stopped what they were doing immediately.
That included Flux Caravel, a wildcard farmhand in the employ of the Capulonox faction, who had previously been engaged with Kimochi Warui, the Montaguesen head mage. Kimochi was, of course, the bookmaker's favourite in this fight, but had allowed himself to be distracted by his own shadow (which oddly seemed to converge with Terron's). Ol' Flux was now putting a dent the size and shape of Warui's head in the base of the clocktower. Until, as we've established, a bright flash of blue light blinded this opening scene's protagonists, and both turned to face its source: Terron the Engineer and his badass photon rifle.
This also included Extraterrestrial Extraordinaire, as the Gang of Four Montaguesen sewage workers had taken to calling themselves. Everyone upon Veronex knew that these upjumped toilet cleaners were trying to use the current chaos to elevate their standing, and this street brawl was only the latest opportunity for them to do just that. The Count, as the foremost amongst them called himself, was dowsing Goltrex IV - a wealthy paper merchant employed by the Capulonox faction - in flames, whilst two of his goons circled the brawl in hovercrafts. Nobody knew exactly where the fourth was. Their engines stopped, though, and Goltrex IV earned a momentary reprieve, when the blast from Terron's photon rifle thudded into the clocktower's side. A sonic boom rippled over the scene and threw the combatants off balance.
Also present were the Capulonox Ghouls, the Crimson and the Magnolia, their ray guns in hand as they harried the head of the Giant's guild. The friendly and oversized Montaguesen servant attempted to hold his own, crouching behind his golden shield as the Ghouls surrounded him, but eventually it slipped from his grasp and was swallowed whole by his assailants. The Ghouls seemed to double in size, enveloping the Giant in their shadows as they blocked out the sun. The Montaguesen shrank before them… until they were showered in springs and cogs and other mechanisms from the exploding clocktower, moments after Terron's photon blast ripped the structure apart.
In the silence that followed his timely intervention, Terron the Engineer stepped forward into the very middle of the riot. As he did, the hour hand from the clockface landed at his feet, jutting from the ground like an Olympian's javelin.
"Go home," he began, simply and softly. His rifle still smoked at his side. "Your masters will hear about this, and they will not be pleased."
Terron lifted his rifle up again, pointing it towards the air but keeping his eyes fixed on those nearest to him. They saw it as a challenge. Nobody dared question the Engineer, his authority, or his rifle. Eventually, the crowd began to withdraw from the plaza.
Terron was left alone. He looked up at the destroyed clocktower. The second hand was all that remained of its face, and - miraculously, he thought - it still ticked on solemnly. He sighed to himself, and then he followed his own advice.
*****
Earth.
Around five kilometres east of Rachel, Nevada.
As the sun set on another day above a seemingly endless and persistently drab desert, four figures stood in front of a colossal and isolated building. The figures were all identically dressed and, to an observer who knew what he was looking at, instantly recognisable. Three of them were idly chatting about the day behind them and the day ahead of them, whilst the fourth remained somewhat aloof, and played with the zipper on the jacket of her bright pink tracksuit. Her facial expression gave away that she was nonplussed by the specifics of the design. "Can't I just wear my normal clothes?" she asked, cutting into the dialogue (that will remain hidden to you, so there) being shared by her three comrades. "No, Dreamer," the smallest and youngest of them replied. "I'm afraid I have to insist, as team captain. A uniform is good for team unity."
"But not for individuality," the woman, Dreamer, shot back. "Can I at least wear the green one?"
"People didn't like the green one," one of the other males, the unmasked one, put in. "We might as well go all in on this one, Michelle."The woman shoved her hands into her pockets and kicked at the ground in a dissatisfied fashion. "I broke the streak," she mumbled, to nobody in particular. "I should be able to wear what I want."
"Where's Thomas?" the unmasked man asked. "He said he had something planned."
"Had something planned," the youngest of the four answered, quickly. "Past tense. Thomas is my second in command on this one, and I listened to his suggestions. All of them were adventures, of course. But no. I am the captain, and I say that we're going to an Intergalactic Spa. And not one of those weird ones Uncle likes with the Bo-Ho-Ghaeyrish masseuses with twelve feet. I'm picking the spa. Captain's prerogative."
"Not to step on the captain's toes," Michelle began, whilst retrieving a cigarette from her back pocket. She lit it and turned to inspect the sign on the building behind them. "But if we're not going on an adventure, what are we doing at Jeremiah Z. Huxley's Cosmic Parts, Tools, & Stuff?"
"Well, with both Octopis and now the Yoct out of commission, we need some way of getting to the spa," the young captain answered. "You can't catch an Uber to an Intergalactic Spa, Michelle."
"Uber is aggressively against the unionization of its drivers," Michelle replied. "I would never catch an Uber."
"Well, you couldn't, even if you would," Harry said, stamping his authority on the conversation. Just as he did, a black Toyota Camry arrived in the unique store's parking lot, and a fifth person in a pink tracksuit stepped out of its back seat. "Ah, Thomas! And only twenty minutes late…"
"!!!!!'! !!! !!!!!?" the masked man asked. "It's in the shop, still," Thomas, the late arrival, replied. "Bit of a hassle, really, but I just had an interesting conversation with that Uber driver. I wanted to talk to him about the importance of collective action, but when he found out I was a professional wrestler he was just interested in discussing metaphysical philosophy and solipsistic existentialism. I think he'd had an experience in the past."
"Enlightening, really," the unmasked man interjected in a deadpan and sarcastic tone. "Since we're all here, maybe it's a perfect time to start talking about Cosmic Playground."
"Save it for the spa," the young captain instructed in a captainish tone. "Still settled on the spa then, Harry?" Thomas asked. "Uncle's almost definitely going to do an adventure. Seems a shame to miss the opportunity."
"What opportunity?" Michelle asked. "If both teams do a Nephew adventure, it completely negates any negative consequences of doing a Nephew adventure," Thomas explained. "Unless you're a distant civilization in the grip of a black hole," Michelle said. "No time for callbacks, Dreamer," Thomas answered, with a shake of his head. "Especially to loser adventures. Finish your cigarette. I want to buy a ship."A few minutes later, two of our heroes found themselves wandering through the aisles of Jeremiah Z. Huxley's Cosmic Parts, Tools, & Stuff, whilst the other three spoke to Jeremiah himself about a ship he had out back. Michelle was busy picking up objects from the shelves and inspecting them, before invariably surmising that she had no clue as to their function and setting them back down on the shelf. "What treatments do you think they have at an Intergalactic Spa?" the young man asked. "I don't know, Gerald," Dreamer responded, whilst holding up a strange tube towards the light. As she turned it over in her hands, a thick black goo escaped from one of its ends and burned through the carpet, prompting her to set it back down again. "I don't really know what treatments they have at an Earth spa."
"I think I'll get a massage," Gerald said, whilst rubbing his neck. "Maybe something like a Thai one. Sort of like letting Kevin Cromwell stretch you for an hour and a half."
"I don't think Kevin has the stamina," Michelle answered. "Hey, look at this."She held up a contraption for both of them to observe, and her counterpart's eyes traced over the engraved text at its base: D6500 Chiral Alternate Timeline Corrective Device. "Shame the rest of the time machine went up in flames," Gerald said, whilst inspecting the price tag. "Only one hundred credits."
"Time machines are ten-a-penny now," Michelle replied. "There's one in the Fallout set, for Christ's sake."
"Guess we'll have to settle for a spaceship," Gerald mused, as the other trio re-emerged. "Pretty mundane, really."
"A bargain, team," Thomas was saying, with a wide smile on his face. "Ignore Harry's negativity. I just got us an absolute steal..."
"... that's likely to break down before we even get near the Spa Quadrant," Harry jibed. "!!!! !! !!!! !!!!?" the masked man asked. "No time like the present, Nephews!" Thomas posited. "Hey, scheduling is under the purview of the captaincy," the young man, Harry, said. A long, awkward silence followed. "I guess we can go now."***** Romatron-XфJ, known to his friends as Roma, stood with his palms outstretched on the windowsill in front of him, surveying the tapestry of rolling hills, fast-flowing rivers, and dense forestry down below. His heart should have been lifted by the picturesque vista outside his bedroom window, but instead he sighed a deep and sad sigh. He was unhappy, to the point where his friends and relatives were describing him as mopey, for want of a better term. In his thus far short and sheltered life, Roma - the eldest son of Old Montaguese himself - had never experienced a sorrow as full and as piercing as this one. "You know what you should do?" Benvodile asked. Roma turned to face the reptile with eyes that suggested he had no idea what he should do. "Go to the Derby."
"And meet a grizzly end at the mercy of a photon blaster?" Roma quipped, with a roll of his eyes. "Not likely, cousin. The Capulonox run the Derby. No Montaguesens allowed. Strict policy."
"Don't ask for an invitation. Sneak in!" Benvodile replied, whilst forcing himself up onto his stunted legs. It was a barely-kept secret that Benvodile's mother was one of the sentient reptiles that lived in Vonnegut Swamp (and the five slaughterhouses around its perimeter). His father was Roma's eccentric and far-travelling Uncle, who was well-respected for his anthropological discoveries but oft-maligned for his penchant for cross-pollination. Roma stroked thoughtfully at the eight tentacles that protruded from his chin. He wasn't prone to rash decisions, and sneaking into the Derby - regardless of how much he'd love to see the hovercraft races and revel in the decadence of the celebrations, not to mention his beloved Rosaline - was a decision as rash as they come. Eventually, he shook his head. "No, it's a stupid idea," he said, his tentacles bristling at the proposition. "There must be an easier way to see my Rosaline again."
"Easier, maybe," Benvodile said. "You could wait until next season and catch her on a friendlier planet. But quicker? I'm not sure about that, cousin."
"I have a pretty distinctive look," Roma pointed out, employing reverse-hyperbole. "And I've heard the Capulonox guard their prodigy like hawks."The reptile lumbered towards Roma, and held him up by the shoulders whilst he inspected him. "Go to the tailors and have them make a shirt you can tuck the tentacles into," Benvodile instructed. "And you'll need a fake beard. Just keep quiet. Don't draw attention to yourself."
"And for you?" Roma asked. "I'm afraid this will have to be a solo stealth infiltration mission," Benvodile answered as he waddled back to his chair. Disguising his own monstrous and unique frame - complete with his long, scaled tail and the dorsal fin that sprouted from between his shoulder blades - would not be so easy. "But if your Rosaline is half the girl you say she is, I'm sure you've all the motivation you need to pull it off."Roma's heart fluttered at the mere mention of her name. He thought about her carefree spirit, her daredevil attitude, her cavalier and aloof air. He turned back towards the window of his balcony, the morning birdsong suddenly sounding sweeter amidst the prospect of his oncoming reunion with his love. ***** ACT TWO.Aboard their new ship, the Nephews embarked on yet another adventure (despite the fact that their captain was quite insistent that there would be no adventuring of any sort). Everyone was doing their own thing to pass the time. Michelle was in the corner, huddling to keep warm after the disappointing revelation that the ship had no heating. Gerald was admiring the views of space from one of the many windows on the new craft. Thomas was manning the controls, making sure the crew were heading in the right direction. Harry was in the captain’s chair, looking all high and mighty, taking his appointed role very seriously. The masked one, who we don't really recognise, was inspecting a series of dials and levers on a panel to Thomas' right, his face perturbed beneath his mask. “How do you guys feel about wrestling with no boots on?” Harry suddenly asked. The room was silent with not a single reply headed Harry’s way. Unfortunately for Gerald, he was nearest to Harry. So, of course, the Sane Wizard headed in the Daredevil's direction and took a seat next to him. “Gerald,” he paused, getting uncomfortably close to the other's face. “How do you feel about wrestling with no boots on?” Gerald put distance between himself and Harry, but the persistent young wizard followed. Seeing no point in his efforts, GiGi let out a sigh and turned to Harry. “Sounds like a bad idea, Harry, if I’m being honest. We wear boots to protect our feet. Without boots - -” “Hear me out, alright?” Harry cut him off, beginning to motion with his hands. “There’s this type of nail polish at the cosmic spa we’re going to that enhances the power of our feet."
"Enhance how?” Gerald hesitantly questioned. “You know, makes us faster, makes our kicks more powerful, stuff like that." “Okay, so why do we have to wrestle boot-less again?” Grayson asked, but probably shouldn’t have. “Because it’s going to ruin our pedicure! Duh!" Harry said, as if the question was offensive. "And what's the point in getting your nails painted if nobody can see them? It'd be like Quiet getting Botox."
"Where is Quiet?" Thomas interjected. "!! !!!!," the masked one, who we don't really recognise, returned. “Right, right," Gerald began. "Well, I still don’t think it’s a good - -" “Plus, they glow in the dark!” Harry shouted. Michelle began to approach (thankfully, from Gerald's perspective). “C’mon, isn’t that cool? I could rock purple. You can rock navy. Michelle can rock green…" The young captain felt a tap on his shoulder. When he turned around, it was Michelle wagging her finger at him. “Harry, what you’re proposing is the equivalent of performance enhancing drugs,” Dreamer scolded. “We will not be needing any of that to defeat the Nephews Fallout Branch, you understand? What is it with you people and feet…” She glared at Harry, looking into his soul. Harry seemed scared for his life, gulping in terror. Michelle went back to her corner of the ship, sensing her job was done but not before receiving a mouthed thank you from her tag team partner. “Well, I still can’t wait for our cosmic spa day!” Harry said suddenly, garnering no reaction from the rest of the Nephews, this time Gerald included. The Sane Wizard went on with conviction, regardless. “We’re going to do so many things! I’ll get us right and ready to take down Uncle and the Nephews Fallout Branch. Because a captain’s job is to lead his team to victory. And who’s the captain of this team? That’s right. It’s me!” It had been a never-ending (but subdued, like an undercurrent) battle between Harry and Thomas over the captaincy since the team were still on earth. The Wizard had been trying a little too hard to stamp his authority for pretty much everyone’s liking. The result was generally a stony silence when he attempted to rally support. “Have you ever been in a sensory deprivation tank, Gerald?” he said, as the Daredevil bowed his head in defeat, knowing more dialogue was likely coming his way from Harry. “I feel as though I'm in one right now," he groaned. “Well, we’re going to do something similar to that. I’ve never tried it before, but apparently, it’s something like a sensory deprivation tank, only you're lowered into a black hole on this cosmic harness. You feel the effects of a regular sensory deprivation tank a thousand times over," Harry said with excitement once more. He tapped Gerald on the shoulder numerous times before he picked his head back up to see how excited he was. “Shouldn’t you be more concerned about our match against the Fallout branch?” Gerald questioned. Unfortunately for match focus enthusiasts, Harry didn't get a chance to answer. Instead, a sudden jolt rumbled through the ship, causing the wizard and Gerald to fall to the floor. With the ship constantly shaking and throwing most of its occupants here, there, and everywhere, the crew tried to make their way towards West, who was manning the controls with his seatbelt on. “We’re going down!” Thomas shouted from the controls. “Or up! I don’t know how it works in space…" “What do you mean we’re going down?!” Gerald shouted through all the noise. “We seem to have entered the orbit of some planet called Veronex!” West shouted back. “It's like the planet had some sort of cloaking device. It only popped up a few seconds ago!" “Damn you, West! This was part of your plan all along, wasn’t it?!” Harry accused. “What are you on about, captain? I just told you what happened…" The ship shook once more. The engine let out a rumble that sounded like a croak. Harry rolled around the ship like a tumbleweed in the desert. “Hold on tight, Nephews! We’re about to land!” West screamed as loud as he could, as the sphere of green rock grew larger and larger in the window in front of them. ***** Inside the elegant reception room of his manse upon the Ophelian Riviera, Capulon East - the head of the Capulonox faction and, with the exception of maybe Old Montaguese himself, depending on who you asked, the most powerful man in Veronex - reclined upon his chair and accepted another handful of grapes from a servant. His hands were busy plucking the petals from a flower, meaning the serf was obliged to place the fruit upon his tongue. None of the servants particularly enjoyed this task, but they'd grown used to it over time. A man like Capulon East couldn't be expected to hold his own grapes, could he? "For your pleasure," an attendant at the door's main entrance announced. He would usually follow this up by introducing someone from the Waste Management Guild, or a designer of aqueducts, or the head of the Veterinarian's Union. Capulon East very rarely took any pleasure from these meetings at all. "Terron the Engineer."A moment later, the Engineer strode through the doors. He had a grave expression on his face, and it seemed as though the weight of the planet's troubles was on his shoulders. "Terron," Capulon East began, whilst adjusting the thorny crown upon his head. "You look burdened. Troubled. I heard about your intervention in that street brawl, and I worry that perhaps you're over-exerting yourself."
"I am content that I did what was right," the Engineer said, solemn as ever. He wasn't surprised that Capulon had heard about the street brawl. East's reach was long. "And I suppose you've come for your reward?" Capulon asked, derisively. He toyed with the idea of punishing Terron instead for his presumptions. But the Engineer was loyal, and punishing loyalty was not a good precedent at a time of unrest. "Usually, I ask for no reward but my righteous work. But today, I've come for the highest reward a man can bestow, if you'll grant it," Terron replied. "Your daughter's hand in marriage."
"Rosaline?" Capulon asked, with a cocked eyebrow. "Juliet," Terron corrected. "I have loved her from afar for years, now. Although fate has pitched us on opposite sides of the divide for much of it, I cannot escape the love I feel in my heart. I have said… cruel things of the girl. Coarse and artless things. But the fragile heart will harden. And so, I ask now for her hand, to master this cruel fate, to ward away this sorry isolation."Capulon East waved away the servant with the grapes and shuffled in his chair. He leant forward, observing the Engineer carefully as he mulled over his proposition. "You are a good man, Terron," Capulon started, eventually. "Loyal and steadfast. It would be an honour to welcome you into my family. However… Juliet is still young, and I do not wish for this flower to be plucked from my garden just yet. I ask you to wait for two turns of the larger pink sun, and then to ask me again."A momentary disappointment passed over the Engineer's face, until he remembered where he was. "As you wish," he said, calmly. He bowed low, and then turned on his heel to leave. Capulon East had only re-reclined in his chair for a few seconds, and only consumed three more grapes, before he was interrupted again. A second door, leading to the control room that housed the security hub, swung open, and a short, stocky man walked in. He was breathing heavily from exertion and was sticky with sweat. "Yes?" Capulon asked, visibly annoyed by the unexpected and unannounced arrival. "A small unidentified craft entered the planet's atmosphere just now, sir," the guard began in a fluster. "We thought originally it was entering a holding pattern in orbit, but it hurtled to the surface and crash-landed in the Othellan Plains."
"A Montaguesen craft?" Capulon asked. He seemed suddenly more interested in the guard's news. "We don't think so," the other replied, still standing to attention. "The Montaguesens seem to be scrambling to work out what it is, too. The ship was issuing a distress call as it went down, but the recording was poor quality. We think the craft is ancient. It mentioned something about an Intergalactic Spa and a Cosmic Playground. The playground might be linked to the spa, I don't know. Maybe somewhere to leave the kids whilst adults get their treatments."
"I know how an Intergalactic Spa works, captain," Capulon said, curtly. He affected a thoughtful pose whilst the attendant waited awkwardly. "The Othellan Plains are in our district, meaning the Montaguesens won't be able to intercept them without crossing the Falstaff Parallel. Send a unit to investigate, and bring this ship's pilot to me. It's the eve of the Derby, captain. No foul play. Not this week."The captain bowed low, and then left. Capulon East attempted to recapture the comfort that had existed before the guard's visit, but found it difficult to find. Instead, he swatted the grapes away, and stroked his chin thoughtfully. ***** Four Capulonox guards greeted the somewhat disheveled Nephews as they arrived at the city’s gates. After surviving a crash-landing in a ship bought from an apparent huxter, the last thing they wanted to encounter was an armed and suspicious unit. “Hello, my name is Thomas West and these are my friends – the Nephews,” Thomas said, motioning towards the others to signify that they were his acquaintances. The Capulonox guards looked at one another, seemingly unimpressed with the Nephews. “Our ship happened to enter Veronex’s orbit by accident, causing an emergency landing that damaged our engine, our chiral reactor, and parts of the hull, too. Is there any chance your society is sophisticated enough to help us?” The Capulonox guards looked at one another once more, thinking of their next moves. Suddenly, one of the guards held onto a communication device in one of his large ears, getting a message from headquarters. The Nephews were all sweating, wondering if their imminent demise was coming. Long overdue, in the eyes of many. Eventually, the guard nodded his head after receiving his orders. “We do not carry those parts, but a nearby system will surely have those resources. We've arranged for you to stay at a nearby cotel, giving you all accommodations for the night, whilst we process you and determine whether you are to be detained,” the Capulonox guard said like a robot reading off a script. "Capulon East would like to talk to your pilot." "I'm the captain," Harry said, stepping forward. "Capulon East specifically asked for your pilot," came the guard's reply. "That would be me," Thomas said, as he stepped up alongside Harry. The young wizard looked at him reproachfully. "If you'll follow us," the guard instructed. His unit surrounded the Nephews, acting as an escort as the gates creaked open and they entered the city. “You’re not buying this one bit, right?” Dreamer said to Gerald, in a whisper. “No, of course not. Be on your toes,” The Daredevil answered, garnering a nod from Dreamer. They made sure to follow the guard immediately, so as to not show their uneasiness about the hospitality they’d been shown. A short walk later, they found out that a cotel was a cosmic motel, an accommodation that Dreamer at least found herself quite comfortable with. She was escorted to her shared room with Gerald, whilst Harry bunked with the masked man. A pair of Capulonox guards were positioned at each of their doors. A third room was set aside for Thomas, though the pilot didn't return to it until the morning. Not that the other four Nephews realised this, for they soon found themselves fast asleep, grateful for the bed and the armed guard. Thomas, meanwhile, was taken to the manse of Capulon East, and shown to the dining quarters. The master of the house waited for him there at the head of a long table. Initially, West found himself disquieted by the man's regal and almost pompous nature, but settled into his company when the food and drink began to be brought out. “You seem to be the most advanced of your group, I take it you’re their leader?” Capulon East asked, taking a sip from his chalice. He proceeded to pick up a piece of nondescript red meat between his fingers and place it between his lips. “Of course,” Thomas simply said, nodding his head. The wine was good but wasn't really wine. He made a mental note to ask the cooks for the recipe. "Then why, Captain, did you bring your men onto my land, without first obtaining the proper permits?" East asked. His tone wasn't unkind, but West still shuffled beneath the weight of his gaze. "It wasn't a planned stop," Thomas answered, whilst bristling. "Our distress call explained that our engine blacked out on the way to the Spa Quadrant. We've asked your guards for parts."
"You should ask the mechanics instead," Capulon said, whilst sipping from his cup again. "Spa enthusiasts? This is your business?"
"We're athletes," West answered. "Fighters. Our… strategist thinks we need to rest up before our next engagement."
"Sportsmen?" Capulon asked, showing a greater interest in his guest. He set down his cup and readdressed his plate, though this didn't stop him from speaking with his mouth full. "I take it you've heard of the Intergalactic Chiral Derby?"
"The ICD?" West said, whilst tasting a mouthful of the meat. It was good, but like nothing he'd ever tasted before, and he didn't trust it. "Of course. The forty best hovercraft pilots in the universe compete in a season across thirty races on thirty planets to become Derby Champion. The Fastest in the Galaxies."
"Indeed, and the thirtieth and final race is right here, in my beloved Veronex," Capulon said, as he finished his second plate of food. A third plate was brought out for him almost immediately. "My daughter is racing. Stands a real chance of being Fastest in the Galaxies this year."
"Good luck to her," Thomas said. "You know, there are some in my party who'd love to see the Derby. After I explain to them what it is, of course."East looked over West carefully, trying to judge his character. Thomas, casual as ever, drained his cup and signalled to one of the servants to fill it up. "You'll watch as my guests, in the senator's box," Capulon declared, decisively. "That way, my personal guard can keep an eye on you and your… Nephews, was it?"
"That's it," Thomas said, with a devilish grin. "My Nephews. Speaking of which, I should be getting back to them. We've had a long day, and - -"
"Nonsense," Capulon interrupted. "A captain shouldn't share board with his troops. I'll have a bed made up for you here in the manse. You can round your Nephews up in the morning for the Derby."Thomas had stayed in a cotel before. He turned to the attending servant who held the wine. "Just leave the bottle right here."***** ACT THREE."Big fans of pageantry," Roma mumbled to himself, as he pushed his way to the front of the crowd. He was disguised to the point where he barely recognised himself in the mirror. His tentacles were neatly tucked away, and a red flurry of faux-follicles sprouted all around his chin. Benvodile had secured him a ticket in the international visitor section, where he felt there would be the fewest amount of prying and curious eyes. Even with this fact, coupled with his excellent disguise, he still felt self-conscious, and wouldn't be satisfied until he first caught sight of his beloved Rosaline. The racers were just concluding the process of lining up in the pitstop, the announcer reading out the name of each driver and head mechanic in turn. The race's protagonists were standing next to their vehicles, looking off into the middle-distance like national heroes about to embark on nationally heroic deeds. The Veronex planetary anthem - the Capulonox version, naturally - was blaring out over the stadium's speakers, and a flourish of multi-coloured fireworks was reaching a crescendo in the midday sky. With the dark purple smog that seemed to perennially linger around the atmosphere, the pyrotechnic display was perfectly visible and quite breathtaking against the twin-sunned backdrop, the assembled audience numbering in the tens of thousands and lapping up every moment of it. "And that leaves just your fabulous three," the announcer announced in his deep, booming baritone. "After twenty nine races, it's all come down to this, folks! Only two championship points separate your top three drivers, which means if any of them are able to triumph here in Veronex, they will be this year's Fastest in the Galaxies!"A huge cheer circulated in the grandstand, just as three spotlights illuminated the drivers and hovercrafts at the very end of the line. And that was when Roma saw his Rosaline again for the first time. His heart leapt, and then fluttered like the wings of a thousand butterflies. "From right here on Veronex," the announcer continued, to another massive cheer. "Currently sitting in third place with one hundred and eighty four points, only two behind our overall leader… supported by her sister, Head Mechanic Capulon Juliet… she is Veronex's Favourite Daughter… Capulooooooon Roooooooosaline!!!"Another cheer as Rosaline stood forward, raised her arms in the air, and absorbed the favourable, home-planet reaction. "And from the Planet Earth," the announcer continued. "Currently in second place with one hundred and eighty five points… supported by Head Mechanic Custos… BIG… BAM… SLAM!!"Roma's eyes lurched from his Rosaline to Big Bam Slam, and suddenly he found himself enraptured again. His eyes traversed his big, burly muscles, and the no-nonsense, almost mean-spirited look in his eyes gave him a dangerous, volatile air. In that moment, as his eyes lingered on this new object of his affection, he altogether forgot who his Rosaline was. This man was his destiny. This man was the one. He didn't hear the introduction of overall leader Double K, who was sitting pretty going into the race on one hundred and eighty six points, or his Head Mechanic who went by the name Wrench Goddess. He didn't see the photon blast sent into the sky to signify the beginning of the race. He didn't witness the initial jockeying for position, or the crash that sent four of the other racers into the side of an adjacent mountain, or the oil leak that caused six laps behind the safety-craft at a snail's pace. His mind was full of Big Bam Slam. That was until the crafts stopped in the pits for the first time. Just by chance, his eyes wandered away from Big Bam Slam for long enough to see Rosaline's mechanic. He remembered her introduction as the racer's sister, but nothing about the woman was at all like Rosaline. Whilst Rosaline was elegant and forthright, this younger woman was awkward and defiant. She seemed to find the world difficult to look out upon, and did so through narrowed eyes. Roma fell in love, for the third time in one afternoon. He cursed his fickle heart, and carried on watching the race. ***** The leading pack rounded the last corner for the penultimate time. As they did, a blue-gold hovercraft lost control after making a desperate attempt to pass two smaller - but clearly also faster - vehicles. The craft sort of bobbled for a moment above the ground, before flipping over onto its side and sending sparks high into the air as its wing scraped across the tarmac. Eventually, it came to a rest on the inside line of the track, causing two more vehicles from the peloton to crash into it and send a mushroom explosion up into the midday sky. Harry winced at the violence of what must have been the fifth explosion they'd seen already today, and when he opened his eyes again he noticed that Thomas West was returning to the group. "Great seats, eh?" Thomas said, boastfully. He watched on as the leading three whizzed down the home straight to begin their final lap. "Not bad," Harry began. "But could you please tell me what the heck Big Bam Slam is doing here?!"
"My best guess is XYZ," West answered, with a shrug. "He likes to give jobbers rides to distant planets so they can live out their dreams. Just last month I saw OMBhausen herding cosmic manatees through the Delta-Hardwood Asteroid Belt. Someone should have a word with him."
"Harmless," Harry replied, as he turned back to the action. Two of the racers had managed to build up a small lead, the numbers on the side of the crafts signifying that these were Slam himself and Rosaline, their host's daughter. They were duking and diving as they traversed the back straight, Slam going low and Rosaline trying to overtake him from above as they skidded around the perimeter of Monrath's Volcano. Their positions reversed as they skimmed the Rainbow Lake, the strange deposits of alien minerals on its beds causing the water to spray a multi-coloured mist behind the ships. The audience collectively crept to the edge of their seat and a gasp circulated as Slam opened up his boosters. A huge, orange flame emerged from his exhaust, his engine roared, and he sped away from his rival… … only for his right wing to clip the pink sands as he reached the lip of the beach. He attempted to regain control, wrestling in the pilot's mount with various levers and buttons and pedals, but it was no use. The crowd cheered as the ship spun out of control and ploughed into the sand dunes. Rosaline saw the explosion late, and the debris flying across the beach even later. She dodged out of the way of a large chunk of Bam's wing skilfully, but didn't have much luck when his landing gear rolled across the track. She hit it nose first, a communa gasp emanating from the audience as her hovercraft turned end over end before landing upside down in the sand. "Oh shit!" Harry exclaimed, jumping up from his seat and looking down at the carnage. He turned to face Capulon, expecting to find him distressed, but the only frustrations on display related to Rosaline bailing from the race as opposed to her safety. "East doesn't look too worried about his daughter."
"The ships are installed with top of the range safety equipment," West said. "The only people who've died at the Derby are audience members."
"Reassuring," Gerald put in. Meanwhile, as Slam and Rosaline both removed themselves from their respective cockpits, a third ship - belonging to championship leader Double K - weaved through the debris and on towards the chequered flag. "There's always next year," Capulon East said, after the race was over. He was leading a small delegation from his executive box to the pitlane in Iago's Square, where the presentation of the championship trophies was to be made. With him were two of his brothers, Terron the Engineer (his most loyal servant, who had his photon rifle in hand), and the Nephews. "As amazing as that was," Gerald started in a whisper to his teammates, still reliving the action in his head. "Perhaps it's time we head back to the ship? We have a match to prepare for, after all."
"Good thinking, Gerald," Harry began. "We'll go as soon as the trophies are presented. I'm not interested in staying for the speeches. They're prone to monologuing here. We'll speak to some of the mechanics and see if they have the parts we need. Hovercrafts and spaceships aren't that different, under the chassis."The young captain meant to remain true to his word, but the speeches were scheduled for before the presentation of silverware, and so the team watched diligently as Capulon East took the stage. He made allusions to the current troubles, but mostly kept his monologue light and fluffy, cracking jokes to relieve tension when something else entirely was needed. Rosaline spoke briefly next, thanking the fans for their support today and through the season, and issuing a few other platitudes that aren't really worth repeating. Juliet, her mechanic, was offered the microphone and spoke only a couple of sentences, but seemed to do so in riddles. The Nephews surmised that Juliet thought she was smarter than she actually was. All except for Michelle, who concluded the young girl to be some sort of genius. The microphone was finally passed to Double K, the overall winner, who began a speech that was somehow even more full of empty platitudes than Rosaline's (only with a more gloomy tone), but fortunately for an audience craving creativity it was soon interrupted by a commotion at the barrier separating the delegation from the audience. Terron the Engineer had been marshalling along with a trio of other guards, and had quite unexpectedly reached into the audience and dragged a young man over the barricade. He threw him down to the ground at Capulon's feet. When he rolled onto his back, his huge, red beard was his dominating feature. "Terron?" Capulon began, confused. "What's the meaning of this?"
"Montaguesen," Terron answered, simply. He reached down towards the audience member and ripped at his beard, and then his shirt. The hair came away in the Engineer's hand, and when the other's clothing was loosened the eight hidden tentacles that surrounded his chin were exposed. "Montaguesen Roma, specifically," East said, gravely. "What are you doing here? You know that your faction isn't welcome in my district."
"I only came closer to hear her speak," the young man, Roma, said. His eyes fluttered towards Juliet, which only seemed to stoke the Engineer's anger. "This is an affront," Terron said. He lifted his rifle until the barrel was pointed towards Roma. "There is only one punishment."
"No," said Capulon, calmly. He used a hand to push the photon rifle back to Terron's side. "I will not spill blood here. Not in this sacred place. He should go home, and await judgement for this crime there."Roma pushed himself up onto his feet. He looked first at East, then at Terron, and - the longest and most longingly - at Juliet. Without a word, he turned to leave. ***** Back at the cotel, Harry and the masked man decided to spend the night in the Connection’s room, mostly because the latter hated sleeping alone if it wasn’t his own bed and Harry needed people to listen to more of his ranting. Luckily for the Connection, their room could house a sizable party, so them being around wouldn’t be too much of a problem. “It’s just not fair,” Harry said, with his arms crossed. “Why is Thomas doing these captain-ly things when he’s not even the captain of this team? It’s me! I’m the captain!” Michelle and Gerald looked at one another in despair, as Michelle covered her ears with a pillow. The masked man was already snoring like a hurricane ravaging a village but even then, Harry’s voice cut through and overpowered it. “I bet Capulon’s manse isn’t even that cool. It’s probably made of cheap material and could easily be destroyed by this weapon prototype I’ve had in the works,” the Sane Wizard said, twiddling his thumbs. The Daredevil could do nothing but put his face in his hands while Michelle remained safely beneath her pillow. “Harry, you gotta let it go man,” Gerald said, with a defeated tone. Between the loud, almost unbearable snoring and Harry’s unrelenting rants, Michelle was losing it. She took one of her pillows and threw it with force to silence the masked snorer. The impact from the pillow caused him to fall to the side of his bed, but it wasn’t enough to wake him from his slumber and the snoring immediately continued. “Kill me,” Michelle pleaded to the heavens and to any god that would listen. "Kill me, now." “Harry, listen,” Gerald said, pounding on a seat on his bed, inviting Harry to take up position next to him. When Harry did, Gerald put his hand around the young man's shoulder. “Harry, you have to let this go. All this bickering and resentment won’t be good for us against the Fallout Branch,” Gerald said, before being cut off. But this time, Gerald cut him off right back. Reversal! “Just listen,” the Daredevil paused. “I know you wanted to do all the captain things and it hasn’t turned out the way you wanted because of things just playing out the way they have.
“I know if you really wanted to, you would have caused a major catastrophe by now, but you haven’t. Do you know why?” Gerald questioned, looking at Harry plaintively. “Because you’re a team player. Your constant want and willingness to be a team player is admirable, Harry, and we all see that,” Gerald said, pointing to everyone around the room. “Isn’t that right, Michelle?” Gerald gave Michelle the signal to give Harry a thumbs up – and so she did. Harry realized that Gerald was right, nodding his head. With a thumbs up from Michelle and wise words from Gerald, Harry seemed to have his head on straight. A new calmness came over him and you could feel the tides turning in his brain. “You know what, Gerald? We’re keeping it simple this time around. What do you guys think of going to a normal Earth spa to get ready for Cosmic Playground?” Harry jolted backwards then forwards instantly, as if he couldn’t believe the words that came out of his mouth. With tears in his eyes, Gerald began clapping after hearing Harry make sense for the first time this entire trip. From under her pillow, Michelle gives another thumbs up for the plan. ***** Thomas West sat in the decadent dining hall of Capulon East's manse. He had originally intended to wait for his host before he started to eat, but as the minutes stretched into hours that plan fell through. When East did finally enter - flustered and panting and just generally tired - he found a Thomas West that was full to the brim, a table almost entirely devoured, and Whatta Man being played on repeat through the speaker on Thomas' phone. "Ah, I'm pleased to see you started without me," East began, whilst taking his own seat opposite from Thomas. "So sorry I'm late. You wouldn't believe the evening I've had."
"Anything I can help with?" West asked. He lifted his chalice, looked into the thick red liquid distastefully, and then put it back down on the table again. "Perhaps," East started. "Y'know, Thomas, I feel that you are somehow a kindred spirit, and that I am close to you, even though we've just met. Maybe you can help me with my current troubles."Thomas waved him on, and Capulon proceeded to briefly and eloquently tell of the woes on Veronex leading to the current unrest between the Capulonox and Montaguesen factions. He spoke of their past friendship, and the flourishing society they build before the fissures opened up between them. Thomas listened along, suddenly finding a second wind with his appetite as he did and proceeding to fill up the corners with a large bowl of fruit. "Which leads us to this afternoon, and Roma's interruption at the Derby," Capulon continued, with a rueful shake of the head. "My security cameras recorded a scene shortly afterwards, with Roma visiting my daughter, Juliet, right here at the manse. He stood at the foot of the tower in which she sleeps, a hundred metres below her window, and used voice-amplification software to project a message of his love to her. She then did the same to him. He stole a pod from the stables and took her, right from this castle. From what we can tell, they were married shortly afterwards by a pastor in one of the Outer Hamlets.
"Terron was inconsolable, almost as much so as myself. He wanted the girl's hand for himself. He marched to the Hamlet and demanded that Roma meet him in a duel. But the Montaguesen refused. Cowardly, if you ask me. But Terron wouldn't take no for an answer. He tried to kill the boy, but somehow Roma put a laser through the Engineer. Didn't think he had it in him. It's been chaos ever since. Duels and more deaths. Maidcutio, one of Roma's cousins, was shot down here in the city."
"Maidcutio?" West interrupted. "Never heard of him."
"Well, yes, I imagine a lot of these characters seem as though they've been inserted rather suddenly and randomly to make up the numbers," East conceded. "But I promise you they've been there in the background all along. Narrative promotion, is all. Anyway, Roma is in hiding. Who knows where the bastard is. And I guess that's where you can help me. If you or any of your Nephews should happen upon any information, I'd be most grateful for it."Thomas thought about the proposition for a while. He wasn't a snitch, nor was he about to stand in the way of true love. But he didn't want to give up East's favour just yet, either. Eventually he agreed, and then asked about the repair of his ship. ***** ACT FOUR.The following morning, as Michelle and the masked man drank their morning coffee and Gerald enjoyed an orange juice, Thomas returned to the cotel and informed them of the evening's developments. The young captain was still asleep, having returned to his own room after staying up for most of the night in a failed attempt to fix the ship himself. Thomas was reaching the end of his story, and informing the team of Roma's disappearance, when there was a knock on the cotel room door. "Come in, Harry," Gerald instructed. They were sat in a circle in his and Dreamer's room, and he assumed the Wizard had finally entered the realm of the living. The door clicked and then slowly opened, but the slight figure on the other side of it belonged to Capulon Juliet, her hands stuffed into the front pockets of her large, black, hooded robe. "Excuse my interruption," she began, as she took another step into the room. "But I didn't know where else to go, when all doors have been closed to me, just as my own family have closed their hearts. My love is gone, and his own kin hold me responsible, and in contempt. They've killed the pastor, our only friend. And I need help."
"What makes you think we can help you?" Thomas asked. "Or that we would, even if we could?"
"I've heard stories," the girl continued. "The legend of Cthulhu's Nephews reaches all corners of the universe, including ours. I believe you can help me."
"What do you need?" Dreamer asked, after a sip of her coffee. She eyed the girl carefully, noting the anxieties that riddled her frame. "My sister tells me that, on distant planets, you can buy a potion that acts as a poison, but only puts you under a deep sleep indistinguishable from death," Juliet explained. "When my Roma hears of my demise, he will surely return to my side, to see me one last time. As I would him. He would rejoice at my awakening."
"It's not a great plan," Thomas interjected. "I've heard worse," Gerald said. "You've had worse," Michelle added. "I mean, it definitely could be done," Thomas began. "And it might work. Your timing would have to be pretty spot on, I guess. And how do we keep your family away from your body, for Roma's return?"
"Capulonox burial customs," she began. "They'll leave me unattended, but guarded, in a crypt for a week before they put me in the ground."
"Handy," Michelle said. "Alright," Thomas conceded. "You son of a bitch, I'm in."
"You are?" Gerald asked. "We are!" Thomas declared. The girl's pale face lit up. "You won't regret this," she said. "Our fathers won't be around forever."
"It's later than you think," Michelle added. The girl looked at her, smiled, and then stood to leave. She almost walked right through Harry in the doorway as the Wizard yawned and made himself large. He scurried out of the way, allowing her to stride away from the cotel with her hood up. "Was that - -?" he began, with consternation upon his face. "What was Capulon Juliet doing here?!"
"A lot's happened, Harry," Michelle said, as she finished her coffee. "We're going to make her some poison that - -" Thomas started. "Oh no!" Harry interrupted. "We are not making her any poison. We are meant to be going to a spa! I am supposed to be in a black hole sensory deprivation tank right now! Instead I'm here, contemplating patricide or regicide or suicide or some sort of 'cide so that you can…"His voice trailed off. Thomas' eyes narrowed. "So that I can what?" the podcast host asked. "Nevermind," Harry said, remembering himself and the captaincy. "No," Thomas insisted. "Let's have it."
"So you can cosplay as Uncle," Harry said, calmly. "Cosplay as Uncle?" West repeated, quizzically. "I'm just trying to get our ship repaired, Harry."
"Oh, please!" Harry shot back. "This whole thing has been completely manufactured. Or at least manipulated. It's a classic Uncle tactic, being employed now by you, Thomas. You mean to tell me we just miraculously crash-landed on a planet with two Thomas West stand-ins? Some guy named East and Big Bam Slam's here, too?! Not even Uncle would be that narcissistic. And speaking of which, where's my stand-in?! Michelle gets Juliet. Gerald gets Rosaline. Uncle gets Roma. You get two fucking stand-ins. There's a Cyrus-type lurking around. What about me and Quiet?!"
"What's Quiet got to do with this?" Thomas interrupted. "And now who's being narcissistic? Listen, Harry, true love is blossoming here on Veronex. Don't you want to water the flower, instead of plucking it from the stem?"
"And then?" Harry asked. "And then, I promise, we'll go to the spa," Thomas said. It was Harry's turn to narrow his eyes. "I'll go get my potions," he conceded. ***** Breaking into the crypt wasn't particularly difficult with the right tools, know-how, and can-do attitude. Soon enough, the five Nephews stood a healthy distance away from Juliet's body, which was laid out atop of a raised slab in the middle of the large and otherwise empty cavern. "How long until she wakes up?" Thomas asked, in little more than a whisper in Harry's direction. The young wizard turned his head to return the larger man's gaze. His eyes narrowed once more. "... wake up?" he asked. The rest of the group groaned in unison. Four of them, with the exception of the masked man, turned their backs on the body, as if they were worried it might overhear them. "It was meant to be a trick poison!" Gerald said. "She's supposed to wake up when Roma gets here!"
"You never told me any of this!" Harry exclaimed. As he did, the masked man kept his eyes on the entrance at the far end of the crypt, in which a shadow was lingering. "That's because you flew off the handle back in the cotel before we had the chance," Thomas said. "You should work on your anger and control issues, Harry. They've really let us down here."
"What are we going to do?" Gerald asked, earnestly. As he did, the masked man watched on as a figure walked through the entrance he was eyeing. He recognised him as the same boy who'd been thrown down at the senator's feet at the Derby. Roma. "What can we do?" Michelle asked. "We should probably think about leaving real soon."
"We can't," Harry pointed out. The masked man continued to silently watch on as Roma walked towards the corpse of his love. "We have no ship."
"No, Dreamer's right," Thomas said. "I sorted the parts last night and fixed the ship this morning. We'll make a quick getaway tonight."
"You mean we could've left and got out of this mess before we got ourselves wrapped up in it?!" Harry asked, exasperated. The masked man was busy observing Roma as he knelt at his love's side. He took her pale, lifeless hand in his own. "It's like Dreamer always says," Thomas said, with a shrug. "Throw yourself in."
"I do always say that," Michelle added. "That's what you've taken from all this?!" Harry exclaimed, in his frantic whisper. "With a dead princess a few metres away from us?! That we should get more involved in other people's shit?!"
"She's not a princess, Harry," Thomas corrected. "Veronex is a constitutional democracy."
"Whatever it is, we are leaving," Harry said. As he made this demand of his team, the masked man watched the young Montaguesen reach into the inner folds of his robe and retrieve a small, glass vial. "Now. We're not waiting for first light. We're going."
"Agreed," Gerald agreed. "You're taking his side?" Thomas said. The masked man watched Roma unscrew the cap of his vial and lift it to his lips. "I'm not taking anyone's side," Gerald replied, defensively. "I just think we should leave before we cause any more trouble here."Finally, the masked man lifted a finger towards the interloper. "!!!!," he said. As the others turned towards him, Roma's body gave a violent jerk, and then he slumped down lifelessly next to Juliet. The Nephews looked on, motionless. "Oh, fuck."***** The five dishevelled and exhausted Nephews sat in their respective positions on their newly-repaired ship as it hurtled through space in the general direction of Earth. Their eyes were focused on the dense blackness in front of them, but in their rear a flaming sphere of rock was visible upon the monotone background. "I really hoped the death of their children would bring those two factions together," Thomas said. It was the first thing that any of them had uttered so far in the journey. "I didn't expect a bloody civil war that would rip apart their whole civilization in an hour and a half."
"Expect the unexpected," Michelle said, whilst gripping the arms of her seat as they gathered speed. "This is what I think," Harry began. And then, with a tired and listless crew around him, he told them what he thought in a tired and listless fashion. "The Anniversary Show is our chance to show Uncle that we aren't pawns for him to push around on a 5D Go board. We know our worth. I don't need to run through a list of our accomplishments, here. But this is our opportunity to show him that we can't be easily replaced. I look upon Cosmic Playground II as the biggest and most important collective action in the FWA since the referee's strike of 2014. But it's not against management. It has nothing to do with that soap opera. It's about us demanding better treatment, directly from Uncle himself. And the way we do that is by beating him. Dreamer gets that chance once a year, but it doesn't come so often for the rest of us. Who knows when the next time will be.
"But after that? Win, lose, or draw… ultimately, we need Uncle. We need… a real leader. A captain. This catastrophe showed that much. Regardless of how the landscape in the FWA looks, and the respective branches that we ride under… we are still Cthulhu's Nephews. All of us. The ten of us in this match, the Prince, Alphonse, and McClone. They are the only ones that matter."
"Quiet, too," Thomas said. "Wherever he is."
"An octopus is an octopus," Harry went on. "No matter the colour, or the seas in which it swims."Harry seemed to grow in size in the captain's chair, despite his body being just about ready to give up on him. "Agreed."
"Agreed."
"!!!!!!."
"Agreed."
"Let's fucking go."
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Post by supinesnake on May 30, 2024 13:14:57 GMT
Promo history - volume 89.
"Everyone Dreams Alone And It Makes Me Cry." (September 5th, 2022).
Michelle von Horrowitz and Gerald Grayson def. Kayden Knox and Gabrielle. (Tag Team Match, World Tag Team Championships #1 Contendership) (FWA: Meltdown XIX). GERALD GRAYSON and MICHELLE von HORROWITZ
are
[CTHULHU'S NEPHEWS]
in
"EVERYONE DREAMS ALONE AND IT MAKES ME CRY."
Marseille, France.
October 28th, 2004.
“Quicker,” the tall, broad girl said as she emerged from the edge of the trees and held back a branch so that her counterpart - her accomplice - could follow. The short, pale girl emerged more slowly, owing to the heavy, concrete breezeblock that she lugged along in both arms.
“More quickly, Lea,” the other corrected. She paused for a moment at the treeline, resting her burden on the ground beside her and lifting her hood up above her head.
“If you’re going to insist I speak English, you can’t keep correcting my grammar,” came the reply. Lea collected a crumpled packet of Camels from the pocket of her long, black skirt and stared at the moon whilst lighting one. "You sure about this, Michelle?"
"I'm sure," Michelle answered, whilst busying herself with hoisting the breezeblock up again. She continued to shuffle towards Lea and the tracks. "Having second thoughts?"
"Not exactly," the other said, though her delivery was shaky and belied her nervousness. "But… I don't know. I don't want to hurt anyone."
"There's nobody on board except the driver," Michelle explained, as she had several times already. Each word up until that point was hard-won, and delivered between grunts of exertion. She paused now to set the block down in position across the tracks. "And the driver is a tool of big business. And the coal industry, no less. He doesn't deserve your sympathy. Stop worrying so much."
Lea nodded. Michelle took the cigarette from her fingers and helped herself to a long, satisfying drag before inspecting her handiwork on the track. In the distance, the shriek of a train whistle sounded, piercing and shrill and sudden. Both sets of eyes were summoned towards its source. The glow of the train's headlights peaked from around the line of trees.
"Come on," Michelle said. She stamped the cigarette out beneath her boot and took the other girl's hand. "It's time to go."
San Dimas, California.
September 7th, 2022.
“Michelle?” Gerald said, snapping the woman out of her malaise.
“What?” replied Michelle. She realised that her drink was half-full and went about correcting that.
“I asked you if you’ve ever been so reckless?” he repeated. His own beer had been finished for several minutes, the bottle cleared away, and the reorder neglected. “Heavy-handed?”
“As Kayden Knox?” Michelle asked, the conversation drifting back to her and becoming clearer with each sip. “I think it’s quite difficult to be as reckless and heavy-handed as Kayden Knox.”
"That's what I'm worried about," Gerald admitted, whilst leaning back on his bench.
"Stop worrying so much," Michelle instructed, with a shrug.
"Reckless is unpredictable," he replied. "You saw what happened at Roughs Tower, I assume? With Stu Grimes?"
"I would've thought you'd have appreciated that," Dreamer answered, casually. The look of horror on Grayson's face suggested there was a need for elaboration. "After we won Tag Warz, when we were preparing for the triple threat against Nova, we stood aside for Grimes and the Roman to challenge for the tag team championships. Remember?"
"Of course I remember," Gerald said, slowly and carefully. It was clear he didn't want to start dredging up the painful recent past, if it could be avoided. "But not all of us see revenge as a necessary part of the healing process. I was horrified by what happened to Stu. He's a friend. Nobody deserves that sort of treatment for just, you know, doing their job. Part of me can't wait to get my hands on Kayden and Gabrielle for what they did."
Here, Grayson made a motion with his hands, as if he was wringing an invisible neck.
"Careful, Gerald. You're beginning to sound like someone who sees revenge as a necessary part of the healing process," she warned, whilst draining her beer and holding up the empty bottle towards her tag team partner. "One more?"
"No, we've got a match tomorrow," Gerald answered, whilst shaking his head. He began to look around himself for his jacket and his bag. "I shouldn't have had that one. Remember the interview, Michelle. It's at four. And I'd like to meet to talk about strategy - both for the match and for the interview - beforehand, if possible. But you absolutely must get there before four. Got it?"
"Got it," Michelle repeated, with a hand on her heart. "I'm just having one more."
September 8th, 2022.
(... the next day… )
"I don't mean to press you, Gerald," said Todd Salum, as he took a seat on the high stool positioned opposite me. I was agitated and anxious, feelings which only compounded as I looked at the third, still-empty seat between us. "We're an hour late starting already. I don't think she's coming. If she does, she can join in."
"Five more minutes?" I asked, whilst holding the five fingers of one hand up as an illustration. Salum scratched his head and let out a deep, exasperated sigh.
"No, Gerald," he answered, firmly. "It has to be now. Do you know how much there is to do today? It's show day, Gerald! I've got the Boulder waiting for an interview, and the last time I sat down with him we did eighty four takes and none of them were usable. I'm not even supposed to interview Nephews at all, you know? It's in my contract…"
I let my own disappointments out in a sigh and then nodded my acquiescence. One more longing look at the empty stool, as if that might somehow cause Michelle to materialise next to me. It wasn't as though I was incapable of doing the interview on my own. I'd spent years of my career doing just that, and had my own conversational patter down just right to the point where I could almost predict the interviewer's next question before they'd even asked it. To tell the truth, sometimes having Michelle present at these things made it harder to get through. I could never be quite certain of exactly what she intended to say, no matter how much time I spent in her company learning her ways. Without the Connection's own wildcard, I was free to conduct myself as I wished, with no unexpected declarations and no unpleasant surprises.
But still: she should be here. If for no other reason than the fact that I had asked her to be.
My internal monologue was disrupted by a boom being lowered into my field of vision and some indistinct mutterings from the cameraman. Todd was busy clearing his throat and reorganising his notes, assuming his appointed role with the guile and professionalism that we'd expect.
"The brand split is over, ladies and gentlemen," he began, whilst smiling courteously at the camera lens. "The war between Meltdown and Fallout has come to an end, and - as the smoke clears - we now prepare for our first show in the resultant landscape. I'm joined at this time by one of the few men who worked on both Meltdown and Fallout through that year of division, the FWA's resident Daredevil himself: Gerald Grayson. Mr. Grayson, my first question pertains to that move from Fallout to Meltdown, and whether you'd agree with many fans who are pointing out what a colossal waste of time it was, considering we're back under one umbrella once again…"
Salum looked at me with a devious glint in his eyes, and that coupled with the tone and content of his question led me to wonder whether this was going to be as easy as I'd expected…
September 7th, 2022.
(... the night before …)
This wasn't going to be as easy as I'd expected…
The sidewalk seemed more comfortable when I wasn't sitting on it. The last beer and the last shot of whiskey had seemed a better idea when they were full. The thought of standing Gerald up was easier now, when the event was still at a distance.
I was sitting on the sidewalk and it was fucking uncomfortable. The cigarette I'd just smoked was conspiring with the beer and whiskey in my gut to start an oesophageal revolution. Gerald would be impossible tomorrow. He'd be fine in the interview. Better. Would just get in the way. If we lose he will hold a grudge. Gerald loves holding grudges.
Things always seemed easy. Never were.
I put off the task of standing up, which wasn't going to be as easy as I'd expected, for a few more minutes. Lit another cigarette. Inhaled deeply. Closed my eyes and then opened my eyes, closed my eyes and then opened my eyes. Deep breaths. The night was still young and I was flagging but the task wasn't beyond me. No task is beyond me. I am Michelle von Horrowitz. Steady yourself, Dreamer. Steady yourself and then steady the ship and then, in a few minutes when you're really really ready and not a second before, think about standing up again.
My head was propped up against the outer wall of whatever Californian night club I'd stumbled into earlier in the night on the back of the wind. This is how I chose where to spend my nights. Where to spend my money and my time. I would close my eyes and let the wind blow me, this way and that way, agency and autonomy offered up willingly. What was I saying? My head was propped up against the outer wall of whatever Californian night club I'd stumbled into earlier in the night on the back of the wind. I stared listlessly up the nameless San Dimas street. A man stands in the middle of it, his hood pulled up and his feet unsteady. He has a cigarette perched between his lips. So do I. We have that in common. He screams at a passing couple, like I wish I had the courage to. He is on drugs, like I am. I don't understand what he is saying but I understand him nonetheless. The passing couple have already passed; passed as quickly as they could so that they could forget about the man and his unsteady feet. He is not part of their evening.
He takes a seat on the curb and inhales. Deeply. Exhales. He has his eyes wide open and he looks at the plume of smoke emanating from the end of his cigarette. He made that. That's his. He marvels at the beauty of creation.
He stands up when he sees another pair of young men scurrying up the side of the street that he is apparently guarding. More incomprehensible screams. He spits at one of them. Gets them on the leg. The young men walk away quicker more quickly as quickly as they can.
I taste the filter again. Spit it out. The sidewalk is still made of concrete and I am still made of me. But if the man with the unsteady feet could stand so suddenly and easily, there was nothing stopping me doing the same. That would show him. Don't mess with this one. She stands up as suddenly and easily as I do. Save your saliva for lesser beings.
Too many people inside. I'd come to find coke and like most places in California it turned out it was quite easy to get coke in San Dimas. It wasn't great but I'd had worse and at this stage in my life I'd come to accept this sort of mildly satisfying middle. That's why I'd come but I wasn't particularly sure why I'd stayed, but here I was, standing at the bar again. Waiting my turn again. Ordering one more again. Too many people inside.
This isn't pointless, I tell myself.
The whiskey tastes good. This isn't pointless.
"The move from Fallout to Meltdown was far from pointless, Todd," I began, casually and calmly. "For one thing, it allowed me to fight for the side I believed was in the right over this past month. I'm sure that guys like XYZ and Jeremy Best would've liked the privilege of picking their own team in the dispute, rather than having it picked for them by contractual obligations. I'm not claiming to be some sort of oracle here, but I kind of saw all this coming when I first met that Rupert Watkins cat. Didn't really like his vibe… gave me the heebie jeebies, if you want complete honesty! But, most of all, I came to Meltdown for Michelle. We're not just tag team partners, Todd. We're best friends, and I saw the dark path that she was heading down. Sometimes, friends have got to be there for one another."
"Oh, I agree," Salum responded. The devilish glint in his eye hadn't disappeared. I sensed that he was up to no good, and shuffled uncomfortably on my stool. "And where is your tag team partner, and your best friend, right now? Eagle-eyed viewers at home will note the empty stool next to you right now. Dreamer was meant to be here with you today but… change of plans?"
My eyes narrowed. He wasn't just up to no good. He was hostile.
"Dreamer's a loose cannon," I said, with a shrug. My intention was to pour cold water over the fire Salum was trying to light, but the interviewer just seemed to lick his lips. "That's the narrative, right? There's probably some big underlying issue between me and her, threatening to throw us out of our groove just as the FWA World Tag Team Championships are within reach."
I paused for a moment, and then folded my arms. Salum opened his mouth as if to speak, but I cut him off again before he had the chance. If he wanted to play hardball, I could play too.
"But that's just not the way it is, Todd. Michelle just… hates interviews. Or, more specifically, interviewers. Except for Lindsay Monaghan. But you're not her, Todd. Not by a long shot."
"Well, that's not the way I see it," Salum began, with a scoff. "The two of us just waited an hour for Ms. von Horrowitz to show up for this interview. You were as disappointed as I was when she failed to do so."
"I'll catch up with her tonight," I responded, nonchalantly. "Right before we go out there and do what we always do, Todd. Win. Now, ask me one about Kayden Knox or Gabrielle, if you've got any of those in your notepad."
I relaxed a little, half-expecting Todd to fumble. But he didn't hesitate. He was a professional.
"Kayden Knox and Gabrielle are, of course, two competitors who rather quickly achieved what you and Michelle have failed to, and that's become the FWA World Tag Team Champions. Although their reign was short, what do you say to online commentators who suggest that Bad Reputation belong in this number one contendership match, whilst your spot is unearned?"
"I'd remind them that we're owed a shot at those belts, thanks to our win in the Tag Warz Tournament," I returned, a little heated from the accusations. "Look, Knox and Gabrielle have accomplished a lot as a team in a short amount of time. That's undeniable. But they lost at the Anniversary Show. In my opinion? They should do what Michelle did when she let go of her FWA World Championship, or me my FWA X Championship… and that's go to the back of the line. Work their way up to the top. I would say again, but their spot in the championship picture was unearned in the first place. They owe their success to a disgraced businessman. Whilst Michelle and I?"
This time, when I looked at the empty stool next to me, I couldn't help but smile. I was about to walk down memory lane, and reminisce about how far we'd come. But here I was, stood up once more. Same as it ever was.
"We were runners up back in 2020 in the Elite Tag Team Classic, and when I look back at the teams we shared the stage with? The Toner Brothers, or TxR? Dead. Golden Rock, the team that beat us in those finals? Dead. The Division? Deader than dead. The Affliction, starring Kayden Knox and… you know, I've quite forgotten his name… Dead, regardless. And Black Caramel? Dead."
I wasn't looking at the empty stool anymore. Nor was I staring at Todd. I had eyes only for the camera, as if Bad Reputation themselves might be sitting on the other side of it.
"We are all that remains from that golden crop of tag team wrestling. Michelle and I: the greatest team in FWA history to have never held those belts that you stole on the back of a corrupt suit. I mentioned that we were runners up in that tournament, and we went one better earlier this year. We reformed on Meltdown and nobody could stand in our way. And if this is the best that Fallout has to throw at us? There's no doubt in my mind that we are still the best. The rightful number one contenders."
I noticed that all joviality had disappeared from my tone. I attempted to regain my cool, and turned back towards Todd, rejoining our conversation.
"This match is only a formality."
Sitting down in the cubicle, reading the graffiti. Nonsense, mostly. Warnings that the end is coming. Tags. Names. Phone numbers. The usual shit. The coke was weak, and disappearing quickly like weak coke does. You can taste the petrol. I can taste the petrol. Can you taste petrol?
Sitting down in the cubicle, for my head's sake, because I felt confident that standing up would be altogether too much for it. The chaos was back. It only ever abates for moments. Minutes or months, it's all moments.
Sitting down in the cubicle, I thought about Gerald and knew that it would be the last time I'd think about him all night. I pictured his face and his eyes were judgemental, and it was difficult to remember that they were like that because I had pictured him that way. I didn't want to listen to his pre-match rambling, either in front of a camera or safely stowed away from it. Gerald thinks that he is meticulous. Studious. A professional and in control. In reality, he's worrisome and tiresome.
And comfortable. Or comforting? Not sure. But there is comfort to be found around the boy.
Sitting down in the cubicle, I think about Gerald and Kayden and Gabrielle, like I'm supposed to. As Gerald, with his tedious love of the formalities, would hope that I was. Two more that claim to know the chaos: Kayden surrounds himself in it, and talks of it like it is his home. He swims amongst the gloom and fights his demons out in the open, a slave to their whims. We all know the soap opera that is Kayden Knox. We have seen it. We are a part of it. He would drag us all down, given half the chance. But he is weak, and unsteady on his feet. His petals wilt and die and fall away. It is this weakness that stokes the flames of his Affliction, and it is this weakness that prevents him from overcoming it. The bird eats itself. This is the measure of the man.
Weakness for Kayden, bitterness for the other. The spoiled princess who wore black in mourning of herself. Of her legacy. Of her Reputation. She rants and wails and throbs, with my name in her mouth on more than one occasion. With my successes a thorn in her side. An excuse for her malcontent. But time still ticks. The great enemy, whose victory is inevitable and apparent to Gabrielle Montgomery even now. The beauty had become the beast; but a tepid and thinly-drawn beast, whose rage is impotent and banal, whose teeth are crooked and whose claws are blunt, whose anger is externalised and vapid. She wails into the night, incoherent but loud, a forlorn cry of the day just ended, echoing off the setting sun.
Sitting down in the cubicle, I open up to the chaos. I allow it into me: the infinite echo chamber of voices, the ocean of grasping hands. My eyes are open. This is where I live. I don't shout it from the shadows like Kayden Knox. I don't wail and babble as I flee from the face of it like Gabrielle. I endure through it. It is my secret and my curse. It is an imposition to my character, rather than the entire basis of it.
I stand up in the cubicle. One more key in this sanctuary. I remark to myself that I have no idea what this key is for. I've had it for as long as I remember. I guess it's for cocaine.
"One more," I managed, as I returned to my seat at the bar and took a stool.
"The last six or seven have been one more," came the reply, over the general din of the club.
"All of them until the last," I said. The man behind the bar busied himself in fetching me a Heineken and pouring a shot of whiskey to go alongside it. I watched him work and found it difficult to focus. Moreso than usual. I watched him work and found it more difficult to focus than usual.
"You're not from here," came a half-heard interjection from my left. Barely registered. Would have ignored completely, if the man responsible for its utterance hadn't been intent on this vapid conversational gambit. "The accent. It's, like, European, or something. Sounds Dutch. I got a buddy who's Dutch. But I don't recognise you at all."
"You know everyone that comes in here?" I asked. Weighed him up. Mid-thirties. Cowboy hat and sleeveless shirt suggestive of quite a lot about his character. I don't need to elaborate. Frenetic, unfocussed eyes. A general distaste for blinking. Pale, pallid. Average height. Underweight. Bad tattoos. Local. Smelled good.
"Most people," he said, with a shrug that suggested this was impressive. That I should be enamoured by this. "I operate the mechanical bull here. I know most of the girls that come in, and I've never seen you before."
Didn't know how to respond. Didn't want to. Didn't.
"So what are you doing in town?" he went on, incessantly. He presumed the right to this dialogue and I hated him for it.
"There's a show tomorrow," I said. My drinks arrived. The mechanical bull operator signalled to the barkeeper that they were on him. I did the shot and asked for another round. "Meltdown."
"Oh, you're going to that?" he began, as he took the seat next to me. "A couple of buddies of mine are going. But I haven't seen that stuff in years. I was tempted when I heard that Gabrielle was still a part of it, but… I don't know. She must be pretty old, right?"
"You liked Gabrielle?" I asked.
"There aren't many men my age who didn't," he said, with a wide and toothy smile that belied some of his baser impulses. He was becoming less likeable by the moment. "But, you know, even beyond the looks, I guess she did a lot for women in sports. When I used to watch, she was doing things with the men in the ring that most of the other women could only dream of. Opened doors for a lot of lady wrestlers. And fans, like yourself, of course."
He took a sip of his beer. He felt proud. A champion for the girls. Raise a glass to this freedom fighter.
"Do you smoke?" I asked. His features lacked clarity. That was his problem.
"Sometimes," he shrugged. "We can go for a cigarette, if that's what you want to do."
The walk through the club to the entrance was clumsy. I led him out and towards an alley a couple blocks away from the doors. He followed, docile and malleable.
I lit my cigarette. Then he kissed me. Bite down hard on his lip until I taste blood.
Salum was acting like he tasted blood. He didn't buy my flippancy, and was circling as if ready to finish off his prey. He was much less fun than I remembered him.
"Sounds like you're confident," he began, with a cocked eyebrow. "A little too confident, maybe, when you consider your opponents. Gabrielle is a multiple time world champion, and Kayden Knox had his own reign with the X Championship before their recent run with the tag team gold. Aren't you worried about pride coming before a fall?"
"I don't look past the accomplishments of our adversaries," I started, whilst attempting to re-find comfort on the suddenly rather sharp and hard stool. I was worried that I was sweating. Todd, on the other hand, was as cool as a cucumber. "I'd be a fool to. But there's nothing that Kayden and Gabrielle have done that Michelle and I haven't achieved… other than capture those FWA World Tag Team Championships. Regardless of your opinion on that championship reign, which I personally think more than earned them the name of Bad Reputation, that's one thing that they can hold over us. And tonight is about correcting that."
I turned away from Todd, offering my shoulder and leaving him nonplussed. I was back to the camera, but did my best to keep a hold of myself and my emotions whilst addressing its cold gaze this time.
"I ask you, wrestling fans, if there is anyone that honestly believes Bad Reputation were the premier tag team in the Fantasy Wrestling Alliance, even when they had gold around their waists? Even as they engaged in their pointless struggle with the Crimson Ghouls, the spectre of Tag Warz loomed over the entire scene. Those who watch the product closely will know who has earned their title shot, and who had theirs handed to them. And even as the businessman propped them up, still this duo teetered. Knox and Montgomery are a team who look ready to fold, and who hope the other will keep them steady. That's the difference between us and them... whilst Bad Reputation hope the other will stave off their oncoming demise, in one form or another, the Connection continue to bring out the best in one another."
"Excuse me," Todd began again, his tone as fiendish as ever. "But it's been more than once that Gerald Grayson has had to drag Michelle von Horrowitz away from a precipice. You alluded to that yourself earlier in this interview… and if rumours are to be believed, you yourself have come close to calling it a day on your FWA career. It seems to an outside observer that you and Michelle have needed each other in that regard just as much as your opponents tonight."
The lens seemed to narrow its eyeball as the cameraman elected to zoom in on me. On the sweat forming on my forehead, I imagined. I wiped it with my sleeve before responding.
"That's right," I conceded, with a defiant nod of the head. "We've needed each other, from time to time. And we'll need each other again, I'm sure. But we've always been there for one another, when it was really needed. Even in our opponents' short and tumultuous relationship, that hasn't been the case. This current group, at least from Kayden's perspective, is as much a reincarnation of The Affliction as it is Executive Excellence. Once more, he's chosen the wrong people to let control him."
"There you have it, ladies and gentlemen," Salum began, almost immediately and in a light tone, as if in an attempt to undercut - or undermine - any tension I'd built. "A Connection that apparently stands united… despite the fact that only one of them could be bothered to show up to this interview. You'll see both of them, hopefully, this evening, as they take on Bad Reputation for a shot at The Crimson Ghouls at Lights Out. You'd be a fool to miss it!"
And with that, the camera clicked off. Todd turned to me with a smile.
"Thanks for the interview, Gerald," he began, whilst clutching my hand. "You were great."
He left me to discuss the footage with his camera crew, and would've probably exited without another word had I not regained myself and approached him once more.
"A little hostile, Todd," I said, prompting the interviewer to shoo away his crew and turn towards me. "What was that about?"
Salum's eyes narrowed. He looked me up and down, as if to weigh me up.
"You're all going to be together again," he began, slowly and deliberately. "And I know what you lot are like when you're all together. Let's be clear: I'm not a part of your games. I am a member of the press. The opposition, at times, and at best neutral. I don't want in. Leave me alone. Is that clear?"
He didn't give me chance to answer. He only spat on the floor, and then made his exit. I wondered who was going to clean the clump of phlegm up.
I spat part of the young man's lower lip out onto the concrete. It wasn't the first time I'd torn part of a person with my teeth and it didn't strike me as the last. On the concrete, the clump of pink flesh didn't look very much at all. But the boy still yelped in agony.
"You fucking mad Dutch bitch!" was his cry, before he went on in a bombastic monologue comprising of semi-comprehensible babbling, sorrowful groaning, and theatrical howling. When you looked at the tiny clump of pink flesh that didn't look very much at all, this melee of sound was embarrassing. Sobering, even. And that was unforgivable.
It was time to go.
Marseille, France.
November 11th, 2004.
The other three girls were already sat, sharing a cigarette, on the steps of the church when she arrived on the scene. They were invariably more punctual than she was. Cold, grey clouds covered the midday sun. It didn't stand a chance. None of them did.
"Late," Margot offered, whilst offering Michelle a cigarette. The pale, short girl shook her head. She had her own.
"Late again," Yve added, redundantly. "How is it that you're always first out of class and last here?"
Michelle just shrugged. In truth, she didn't feel like answering. The other three stood and began to saunter towards the library, which was the first of three standard calling points for an evening in the city.
"She's been getting ready, obviously," Anna added, whilst revelling in the plain monotones of Michelle's attire. The other two snickered. They were still in their uniform after the first day of term, but the pale girl couldn't get hers off quick enough. She was back in the black hoodie and jeans that she'd spent the previous two weeks of holiday in.
"It was strange today," Margot began, carefully, whilst stubbing out their communal cigarette on a lamppost. "Without Lea."
"I guess she won't be coming back," Anna offered. "I heard she got expelled."
"Worse than that," Margot continued. Margot enjoyed the sharing of hearsay, regardless of its veracity. "She might even end up in jail. Juvenile, but still. That's no place for a St. Delphine's girl."
"Sounds like the perfect place for a lot of St. Delphine's girls," Yve added. More snickers. Margot turned to eye up Michelle, as if looking for an opening.
"Did you hear anything?" she asked. The other two looked at Michelle to gage her reaction before quickly averting their gaze.
"Did I hear anything about what?" Michelle asked.
"Oh, please," Margot replied, with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. "You two were practically inseparable. You mean to tell me you don't know anything about all this?"
Michelle returned the girl's gaze. Narrowed her eyes. Didn't blink.
"You shouldn't play on the railway," she said.
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Post by supinesnake on May 30, 2024 13:18:38 GMT
Promo history - volume 90.
"Grotesque Arabesque" (September 19th, 2022).
Michelle von Horrowitz def. Aka Yurei (Singles Match) [FWA: Meltdown XX]. MICHELLE von HORROWITZ
in
[VOLUME NINETY]
”GROTESQUE ARABESQUE.”
***
There were quite a large number of American cities which Michelle von Horrowitz felt no fondness for or affinity towards. New York was too full, Portland too pretentious, San Francisco too condescending. Detroit and, to a lesser extent, Pittsburgh were relics of the past, whilst Chicago was a caricature and D.C. a bold, cunning lie. Any city within two hundred miles of the Mexican border, with the exception of New Orleans, was either a backwards echo chamber or a knee-jerk reaction to the ones that were. It was true that Michelle would look for things to dislike in a city, but - in the States, at least - she usually didn't need to search very far to see these places for what they were. They were brand new and at the same time already dilapidated; degenerative in their infancy, like evocations of Benjamin Button erected in steel and glass and concrete.
But none of these cities could hold a candle to Las Vegas. She detested everything about it: every obnoxiously bright and garishly coloured light, each lost and stagnant soul. She hated the place down to the last granule of sand.
This is why it was unsurprising that Dreamer found herself standing in what could be described as a distant corner of the city, lurking upon its edges as if the heart of it was altogether too much for her. And this was, indeed, the case: she had earlier in the evening walked amongst the revelers along the strip, overwhelmed by the assault upon the senses that was the Vegas skyline. Even during the day she had strained beneath the weight of the place, and plotted this escape to its outer boundary before the moon appeared to give the cowards their eyes and their courage.
She sucked lazily on the end of her Camel and stared through the gap between two large warehouses on her right. She could see the desert. She felt cold, and shuddered, and stuffed her hands into the front pocket of her hoodie, allowing her cigarette to rest limply between her pursed, dry lips. The warehouses were broad, stout shoulders, walling the city in from the unforgiving and desolate sands beyond.
It was from the parking lot of one of these buildings that the first atypicality of our story emerged. We mean atypical as is relative to Michelle: although most other visitors to the city of the sin wouldn't find themselves in such a far-flung periphery, this is indeed what one might expect from the pariah. But her solitude was soon to be punctured by this emerging atypicality: a small, pale, and pretty atypicality, with blonde hair and tanned skin and features that were well on their way to being gaunt. It was only as the girl approached - and she was indeed coming straight for her - that she began to appear younger, even though her facial features were strained, as if aged by experience. She has a wild look in her eyes that Michelle instantly recognised. The same frenetic abstraction that was now a staple of her own countenance, birthed out of vice and dependence.
"Do you have another?" the girl asked, whilst nodding at the cigarette in Michelle's hand. Dreamer took one out of her packet and handed it across. She had her own lighter. Her movements were sluggish and clumsy
"How old are you?" Michelle enquired. Observing the girl with a cigarette in her hand made her look younger still.
"Twenty one," the girl said, absently. She shuffled her weight from one foot to the other, not out of awkwardness but rather a lack of balance. At this point in the conversation, Dreamer realised that their eyes had not yet met directly.
"How old are you?" she repeated, through a lack of belief. The girl seemed frail, as though a strong gust of wind might blow her away.
"How old do you want me to be?" the girl asked. She was looking at the moon. Michelle noted that there was another on the scene: a man of about thirty in a dark business suit was standing in front of the closed and locked gate through which the girl had first appeared. He watched them in silence with his hands in his pockets, a look of general consternation upon his face.
"That's not why I'm asking," Michelle replied, noticing the series of bruises on the girl's calves and thighs. A large purple blemish that was hard to make out in the twilight crawled around her neck, too. The wounds were old but still looked sore.
Finally, the young girl raised her eyes to look directly at Dreamer. Her wild air seemed to dissipate immediately as she did. She no longer seemed abstracted, and she regarded Michelle with such a direct clarity that the older woman almost cowered in the face of it.
"Are you here to rescue me?" the younger girl asked. Michelle didn't reply immediately, and the pause gave her counterpart the chance to look away. She smoked the rest of her Camel in one long drag. "I have to work first. Perhaps you could rescue me afterwards? I get off at six in the morning."
The girl flicked her cigarette end into the road. Michelle looked at the patchwork of discoloration and disfigurations on her legs, which had seemed long and shapely from afar. She struggled to determine the degree of the girl's sincerity.
"Angel," barked the man in the business suit from across the road. He didn't move from his spot. "Come on."
"Thanks for the cigarette," the girl said, as she walked away towards the closed and locked gate without turning back towards Dreamer.
Michelle stayed and watched for a while as a series of stylish cars approached the warehouse over the course of the next hour. Most of them were driven by chauffeurs, and when Dreamer was able to observe their quarries through partially opened tinted windows she saw old white men in dark grey suits, their cheeks red and their eyes wild with revelry. Some of them brought young women - generally conventionally beautiful ones but with some exceptions - along with them, but the majority were alone. Their cars would wait in front of the gate for a few moments, until eventually the doors would slowly open and a pair of young, well-dressed attendants would wave them in.
She counted thirty eight cars in total entering the warehouse, arriving in reasonably quick succession and none reappearing after the gates closed behind them. When the moon had reached its apex, the cars stopped arriving, and eventually Michelle left the scene.
***
Michelle made no promises to come back at six in the morning, but - feeling perturbed and confused and perhaps even a little concerned by her conversation with the young girl the night before - that is precisely what she did. Out of habit or perhaps a lack of inspiration she took up the same position as she had when the moon had been rising. It was already gone, and now a bright and bold band of orange light was rearing its head over the lip of the world. It was the obnoxious opening gambit of the great bastard sun, imposing the coming day on those who could do just fine without it.
Sure enough, the girl arrived at a little after six, but if there had been any sincerity in her request to be rescued the night before it had been now promptly forgotten about as day creeped in. She simply slid out of the gates as they opened only slightly, took a few steps away from them, and lit a rolled up cigarette that she'd prepared earlier.
Dreamer watched her actions closely and carefully, noting the slight limp with which she now walked that she didn't have when they'd first met. Or at least that was how Michelle remembered it. Her own recollections were usually hazy and unreliable. But the gash above her eye and bruising around her shoulder were fresh, at least. You could tell from the way the young girl grimaced whilst observing the wounds in her pocket mirror.
Michelle crossed the road and sort of loomed over the other, who was down on her haunches as she smoked her cigarette and inspected her visage in the mirror.
"Yes?" the girl said, removing her eyes from the glass and looking up at this interloper. She seemed a lot more present and less frenetic than she had less than twelve hours before, but looked back at Dreamer with a total, absolute lack of recognition.
"You don't remember me," Michelle replied. It was a statement, not a question. "We met here last night. I gave you a cigarette."
"Oh," the girl began, awkwardly. "Thanks? Do you want one back? My tobacco is inside, but if you want to wait here I can –"
"No," Michelle interrupted. She had the intention of following up with an explanation of why she was here, but now that she stood at that particular precipice she had no real idea as to why that was. "I… well, you… you asked me to rescue you. You don't remember?"
The girl smiled, and despite the network of new and old scarring her whole face seemed to light up when she did. Michelle thought that she could still feel old trauma, and that this apparent acceptance of whatever new trauma resided through those closed and locked gates was somehow linked to the wounds buried by time. The girl began to laugh. Michelle wasn't aware that she'd said anything funny.
"Look, I was pretty fucked up earlier tonight," the girl began, whilst still crouched down beneath Dreamer, as if in implied subjugation or deference, or most likely and simply a lack of self-confidence. "I don't know what I said to you but… I don't need your help. Thanks, but… no thanks."
"Who was the man you were with?" Michelle asked. She felt that this was probably important.
"My brother?" the girl said, but without certainty. "Look, I told you: I don't even remember meeting you. But it was probably my brother. He looks after me, so you don't have to."
Michelle felt the girl was attempting reassurance in her facial expression, but her smile lost its sincerity, and the older woman felt her discomfort mature. And, as if summoned by mere allusions to his person, the gate began to open once more. The man in question appeared through the gap and joined them. He looked Michelle up and down from head to toe and back again upon arrival, as if attempting to gain the measure of her. He seemed nonplussed by what he found.
"You a fed?" he asked. Dreamer couldn't help but let out a chuckle.
"Not a fed," she said, simply.
"What do you want with my sister?' he asked. Michelle didn't answer, and instead lit another cigarette in an attempt to appear aloof and un-fed-like.
"She's here to rescue me," the girl interjected, with another smile. Her brother seemed less amused.
"You need saving, Angel?" he asked. The girl shook her head, but was now looking at the ground. Her brother turned back to face Dreamer. "There you have it. You can leave her alone now. Thanks for your concern."
"And thanks for the cigarette," Angel added, as they began to walk away. The man's strides were long and assured, whilst his sister limped awkwardly beside him. For a brief moment, and one that existed only in Michelle's head, the girl's little black dress was transformed into a loose-fitting hoodie, and her high heels with red soles a pair of old, ragged Vans.
"You already thanked me for the cigarette," Michelle said.
"Then thanks again, I guess," she answered, as they disappeared through the gate once more.
A few minutes later, a silver Bentley appeared from the parking lot and sped off towards the nucleus of the city. Michelle's eyes met the young girl's in the passenger seat, and for the brief moment that they were able to hold this gaze she felt a connection that she couldn't yet form an explanation of.
***
Gerald had rented a large black Jeep with tinted windows when the pair had arrived in Vegas together, and so - deeming such a vehicle to be conducive to the clandestine reconnaissance mission she had planned - she drafted her tag team partner in to help that evening. The assistance that she required stretched only to a ride and continued use of the car's sanctuary through the night. His presence wasn't exactly needed or, in honesty, desired, but she surmised that it would be somewhat rude to insist he leave his car with her and then disappear to amuse himself.
He'd shown something resembling interest - or atleast a vaguely piqued curiosity - when the girl had arrived at the warehouse again with her brother and she'd told him about their peculiar interactions over the past twenty four hours. He expressed surprise when she showed no inclination towards exiting the vehicle and confronting her for a third time. That wasn't what tonight was about. Instead, she took her notepad out of her bag and began to scribble barely-legible notes with a pencil she'd stolen from a bookmaker's back in California.
Gerald's interest quickly began to wane, especially after he'd concluded that his assigned role in tonight's proceedings was little more than chauffeuring. Minutes crept by and turned into hours. His anxious, impatient shuffling evolved into anxious, impatient yawning. Dreamer showed no signs of tiring or giving up on whatever it was she'd come here to do.
"I guess this is as good an opportunity as any to talk about the match at Lights Out," Gerald began, as the time crept past nine o'clock and he shuffled uselessly in his seat to find a posture comfortable enough to sleep in. "It's not long at all, now. What is it you say? It's later than you think..."
"Yes," Michelle began, whilst scrawling the registration plate number of a black Lamborghini into her notepad, next to a long list of makes, models, and plate numbers belonging to cars that had entered the warehouse earlier. "That is the thing that I say."
"Any thoughts on either of them?" Gerald asked. His tone seemed as absent as hers, which surprised her. There was usually nothing that enthused him more than discussion of strategy. She blamed (or thanked) his fatigue.
"Not particularly," she answered. Next to the Lamborghini's license plate number she wrote an exact time of arrival, but was forced to leave the description of its owner blank thanks to its blacked out windows.
"Unsurprising," Gerald said, with another yawn. "I'd have hoped you'd at least have some musings on Aka. You face her in a few days."
"Strategy is your job," Michelle replied, with more than a little flippancy creeping into her tone in. "I just do the moves."
Gerald let out a deep sigh, brimming with exasperation, and then joined Michelle in watching the steady stream of executive saloons pulling up at the gates. Michelle paused in her task for just long enough to wind her window down a pair of centimetres and light a joint she'd prepared earlier in the day.
"It always astounds me that you're able to find drugs wherever we are in the world," he muttered, obstinately.
"Weed's not a drug anymore, Gerald," she said. "We've all decided that it's fine."
"And the other stuff?" he asked, deciding it worthwhile to continue the interrogation. Michelle gave him an elusive shrug.
"We're in Vegas," she said, as if that was enough. She thought of the entrepreneurial spirit she'd met on her first day here, and the host of illicit substances - as well as weaponry, both lethal and less lethal - that he'd tried to upsell her with. She'd kept his number, which wasn't a normal thing for her to do. She liked his money. "You'd be surprised at the things you can find here, if you know where to look."
Michelle went on with her note-taking. Her partner watched her with dull eyes.
"Always looking for distractions," he said, to nobody in particular but with a very deliberate audience of one. "You know, people are saying that Aka and Cole are a little bit like us. I'd have thought that that at least would've tickled your interest."
"People say a lot of things," she answered, opaquely. "They are a man and a woman, and there are certain parallels in terms of emasculation… but they are not us. This is surface level. Don't parrot the surface level thoughts of basic people, Gerald."
Another sigh. More impatience and exasperation. Shortly afterwards, Gerald fell into a restless, uneasy sleep, and Michelle continued with her task.
***
She stood in front of the full-length mirror in Gerald's hotel room (there wasn't one in her motel) and examined the long, black cocktail dress that she'd purchased earlier in the afternoon. She felt it was stylish enough, even if a little more demure and sexless than the types of attire she'd seen the businessmen's guests wearing as they arrived at the warehouse. But this was by design, of course. A glimpse of ankle can be as erotic as full frontal nudity, she'd found, if presented in the correct way. A plunging neckline was neglected in favour of a high collar, though her neck looked longer and more regal in such exquisite and atypical attire. Her arms were bare, and her pale skin contrasted the black dress like virginal snow beneath a midnight sky.
There was no single outfit in the world that she could adorn that would physically repulse her as much as the one she was currently wearing.
"How do I look?" she asked Gerald as she emerged from the bathroom. The man stared up at her and, not for the first time, allowed his jaw to gape open.
"Different," he said, eventually. "You sure you don't need more help tonight?"
"Not in this, tulip," she answered, whilst collecting her rucksack and slinging it inelegantly over her shoulder. "Don't wait up."
It wasn't a difficult task to find some of the cars that she had enumerated and catalogued in her little black notebook. Each of the casino parking lots in downtown housed at least one of the marked vehicles within their walls, with the MGM Grand the eventual winner with five of them. She settled into the casino bar and chose the most likely mark: a tall, thin, balding man with a pockmarked face that she'd seen climbing out of a black Benz with a leggy Slavic-looking woman the previous night. She clocked two others that she recognised from the warehouse, but both were dressed more casually and had dates on their arms, suggesting that tonight was for the casino as opposed to whatever revelry lay behind the closed and locked gates.
The seduction was even less difficult than the scope. Smile more. Talk less. Exaggerate the accent and appear to understand only ten percent of what you actually do. Men are stupid.
Less than an hour later, Michelle was sat in the back of the Benz with her new friend, who she'd since come to learn went by the name of Bryan Jeffries, and - in a quirk not as uncommon as you might think (or hope) - felt the need to announce his title of C.E.O. of Jeffries & Jeffries Ltd. after introducing himself to anyone he met. Michelle would learn through the course of the night that Jeffries & Jeffries Ltd. was a pharmaceutical company, and that Bryan Jeffries loved pharmaceuticals. They had that in common, if literally nothing else.
Michelle von Horrowitz, Bryan Jeffries, and Bryan Jeffries' chauffeur drifted through the sin city streets, beneath the bright and baffling Las Vegas lights, and as they did Michelle put her arm around the disgusting, odious man that she'd attached herself to for the evening. She stroked the lapel of his jacket, her fingers coming to rest on the pin that was housed there. It was in the shape of a butterfly, its wings a deep, crimson red.
"Careful," the old man said, whilst his clammy hands gripped Michelle's wrist, lifting it away from the pin and placing it onto the folds of his neck. "That's important. Which reminds me…"
The old man reached beneath the seat in front of him and produced a small, leather briefcase, which he proceeded to place on his lap and open after fiddling with the locks. Inside were a series of masks, which he leafed through with an eager smile on his face. He picked a black one with a long, gold beak and feathers around its rim, held it up in front of him, and then smiled approvingly.
"You'll need one, too," he said. Michelle cocked an eyebrow. "You said you want adventure."
She steadies her fraying nerves and searched through the briefcase, picking through the half-dozen or so masks that were housed inside. Eventually, her fingers came to rest on a dark green Venetian number, the print on which reminded her of a toad's belly. She brushed her thumb over the silken material before decisively taking it from the briefcase.
"Very good," the old man said, with a smile that she didn't enjoy.
She was wearing her mask when they arrived at the warehouse gates, though the old man only donned his as they approached the doors of the building. In his hands he carried a second briefcase, which he produced from the trunk of his car, and he walked through the parking lot with purpose and confidence. He looked up towards the lens of a small security camera above the door before tapping the crimson lapel pin with the index finger of his left hand. Michelle watched him carefully, inwardly recording his every move and word.
"Jeffries, Oregon," he said, softly. Nothing else. A few seconds later, the door clicked open. They passed a bald man in a tuxedo who was sitting at a table next to the entrance, but the bald man wasn't half as interested in them as she was in him, and continued to read the copy of Story of the Eye that he had in front of him. A few steps later they approached a pair of security guards, one of whom held open a heavy, iron door for the new arrivals.
"C'est une grenouille!" he said, whilst motioning towards Michelle's mask. "C'est manifique!"
In a small reception room they checked the old man's briefcase. Another bald man in a tuxedo held up each of the items in turn, which amounted to a series of increasingly large anal beads and a pair of black, leather snorkels. He eventually seemed content, placed the items back into the briefcase, and handed it back to its owner.
As they climbed a staircase towards what was the main complex of rooms, the sounds of Johann Sebastian Bach became more and more unmistakeable. Michelle's sister, Isobel, had loved Bach, and played him so frequently during their childhood that even Dreamer - uncultured in the field by a determined choice - could place his waltzes. As the music became clearer, visibility decreased. They emerged into a large reception hall illuminated only by occasional candles and a roaring log fire in its north-east corner.
Next to the fire, undeterred by its heat by an indeterminable force, was a young man in his late teens or early twenties, his arms tied above his head on a tall tree that seemed to grow from the floorboards. Mock arrows pierced his stomach like a porcupine, evoking Saint Sebastian in his final pose, open and at his end. From his 'wounds' gushed blue paint that had dried around his well-defined abdomen, his strong thighs, and his semi-erect penis. His chest gave away the masquerade, his breathing slow but existent, the charade lost upon the viewer.
The old man who'd brought her here left her to join the others in the room, who were sat with their backs towards Sebastian and their eyes on an empty stage. Michelle crossed the room and stood next to the exhibit, and clapped along with the rest of the audience when a young, unmasked woman in a black robe walked onto the stage. As she removed her robe, a series of masked attendants - all in tuxedos or cocktail dresses - placed buckets of what looked like animal hearts next to their tables.
The 'performer' onstage - pale and thin and bruised around her thighs and stomach - waited patiently. A bald man in a tuxedo walked out next to her and wrapped a blindfold around her eyes, before disappearing in the same direction he had come from. The music stopped, and - in what seemed to Michelle a respectful silence - the audience took turns to collect an organ from their buckets and throw it at the performer. Some of them struck her body and caused her to flinch or recoil, but many more flew straight past and stained the wall behind her, which was already stained in a patchwork of a hundred past performances. Soon, residual blood ran down her body, and fresh bruises and welts sprouted up amongst the network of old ones.
The throwing stopped when the music started again. The woman on the stage, perhaps stirred by her own memories of the Blue Danube, began to contort her battered body into a grotesque arabesque. The men (and women but mostly men) in the room clapped again.
"Can I look around?" Michelle asked, whilst leaning in next to the old man who'd got her into the building. He was still giddy from the performance, having achieved a couple of direct hits himself.
"Be my guest," he said, with a disgusting and ominous wink. She left him promptly, and paused at each of the deliberately open doorways down a long corridor she found off the main hall. Such descriptions of what was inside are unnecessary. Michelle looked upon the debauchery, which ranged from the tame to the wicked, with passive eyes. But inside, she felt the storm brewing.
At the end of the corridor, Michelle found the young girl - Angel - busy in the unspectacular task of pushing a cart of drinks along the line of open doors. She paused at each of them, listlessly glancing up at the occupants within, and occasionally entering herself to refill their glasses. She handed a champagne flute to Dreamer, and was forced to suppress a distressed yelp when the older woman took her hand and pulled her into an adjacent empty room. Michelle gently closed the door behind her.
“We’re not supposed to close doors,” the girl said. MIchelle removed her mask. She wasn’t expecting any moment of realisation, or of rejoicing for oncoming salvation, and was unsurprised at the continuation of the girl’s blank passivity. “You’re not supposed to take your mask off.”
“You don’t remember me?” Michelle asked.
“Sure I do,” she answered. She mumbled her words, and swayed gently in the spot in front of Dreamer. She seemed pretty out of it. “You were going to rescue me.”
Michelle allowed herself a deep breath. It was a start. There was some recollection, at least.
“What is this place?” the older woman asked. The young girl couldn’t help but smile at the question.
“You’ve seen it for yourself,” she replied.
“How did you come to be here?” Dreamer followed up. Her interrogation was gentle, but somewhat urgent in a confused and distant sense of the word.
The girl didn’t speak for what felt like quite some time, and in the silence Michelle managed to regulate her own breathing. The storm seemed to quell.
“You got a cigarette?” the girl asked. Michelle gave her one, and lit one for herself. Angel took three long, thoughtful drags before she said anything else. “This place is nothing. You should’ve seen where I was before.”
“Was that really your brother?” she questioned. The girl shrugged.
“Does it really matter?”
“I guess it doesn’t,” Michelle conceded. Angel took a seat next to the large, low bed that dominated the small room. “Where were you before?”
“With my father at first,” the girl said. “My father was a violent man. He only cared about squeezing every dime out of me that he could, in any way he could. Then, after I got away from my father, I was with my uncle. He was a teacher, too. But… I guess he only taught me how to be more like the man I was running from in the first place.”
She paused to stub her cigarette out on the side of the bed.
“My brother brought me away from all of that,” she went on, assertively.
“To this?” Michelle asked.
Her implication lingered in the air. The idea that her brother was exposing her to exactly the same sort of men with the same sort of behaviours as those she’d just barely escaped from remained unspoken. This old trauma was masked only by new instances with a similar flavour, which was a delicate, precarious situation that could not reach equilibrium. There’d never be peace in this path.
Her brother was the same as the rest of them. He held Angel’s feet to the same fire, and watched her burn more slowly. But burn she would, nevertheless.
“You’re still bruised,” Michelle added. “Still collecting fresh ones.”
“It’s not the same,” the girl replied, whilst standing from her perch and moving towards the door. “Not even close. I should get back. Thirsty work, out there.”
“Do you want me to rescue you?”Michelle said, blankly, sincerely.
“Maybe tomorrow.”
A half hour later, she found her old man in a room in an opposite wing, with two young men wearing his leather snorkels.
“You’re ready to go?” he said, his face red and covered in sweat. “I’m just finishing up here.” *** Gerald sat on the end of his bed, staring at Michelle with unblinking eyes and his mouth, again, agape. It was fair to suggest that he was dumbfounded, though Michelle's calm and solemn demeanor suggested she thought the emotion to be misplaced.
"That's the most ridiculous idea you've ever had," Gerald responded. "And you routinely have ridiculous ideas."
"Does that mean you're in?" she asked, hopefully.
"No," he said, quickly and stoically. "It means exactly the opposite. How do you even plan on accomplishing any of the things you just laid out, anyway? With your bare hands?"
Michelle smiled.
"Come with me," she instructed. She led the way to the elevator, Gerald following her in with his arms folded and a nonplussed expression.
"I really think you should reconsider your plan," he said, as they descended towards the parking lot.
"My mind is made up," she answered, with a shrug. "I really think you should reconsider your hesitance."
The elevator doors slid open again and Michelle strode across the concrete towards the black Jeep the pair had completed their reconnaissance in a pair of nights prior.
"Open the trunk," Michelle instructed.
"Of my car?!" Gerald asked, with his tone bordering on outraged.
"Well, you rented it, but that's by-the-by," Michelle said. "Just open the trunk."
Grayson shook his head before doing as he was told, his eyes once again widening and the colour draining from his face as the trunk opened itself up after the push of a button on his keys. His eyes traced over the series of strange objects in front of him. Some of them were so alien to him that he couldn't even utter his name, whilst others were unmistakable. His first three attempts at forming a question resulted in unintelligible babble.
"Is all of this real?!" he finally managed.
"Well, it's less-lethal," Michelle responded. "But real enough. So… I ask again, tulip: are you in?"
"Of course I'm not fucking in!" Gerald exclaimed. "How did all of this shit end up in my trunk?! No – don't tell me. You broke in and out it there whilst I slept. Because of course you did. How many times do we need to talk about boundaries, Michelle?!"
"There's no need to cause a scene, Gerald," Michelle said, whilst looking around to check that they were still alone. "Either you're in or you aren't. I can find somebody else. I just need your car."
"Oh, sure," Gerald began, throwing his arms up in disbelief and rolling his eyes in sarcasm. "Good luck finding someone else as headstrong and amoral and just altogether extra as you are at this short notice…" *** Michelle von Horrowitz and Uncle J.J. JAY! arrived at the gates of the warehouse in Gerald's jeep, with Uncle at the wheel and looking dashing in the three-piece suit she'd picked out for him. He waited patiently at the gate for them to open up, and was more concerned with his pursuit for comfort in these alien clothes. The search eluded him.
"Was it really necessary for you to dress me, Dreamer?" he asked, whilst adjusting his necktie.
"Absolutely," she answered. "Which reminds me…"
She reached into her rucksack and retrieved the butterfly pin-badge before fastening it to Uncle's collar. With the object being crimson in colour, she almost didn't notice the small, red blotch on one of its wings. She used JAY!'s pocket square and a globule of her saliva to wipe it off.
"You remember what you need to say?" she asked, as they parked up between a black Rolls and a silver Aston.
"Uncle knows his lines," the COSMIC HORROR replied, proudly. She believed him, and followed a step or two behind whilst placing her grenouille mask over her eyes. Uncle's own mask was audacious enough to fit right in, she thought, and the way his tentacles bristled in the wind gave her an odd comfort that warmed her through from the inside.
They stood in front of the main door of the building, JAY! with the leather briefcase that Michelle had given him in his hand, whilst Dreamer’s trusty rucksack was slung over her shoulder. Uncle stared up towards the small camera positioned above the door. He tapped the crimson lapel pin with the index finder of his left hand.
“Jeffries, Oregon,” he declared, as softly as he could but, Michelle noted, a lot less softly than the actual Jeffries had managed. Nonetheless, the door clicked open a few moments later, and they were in.
The bald man in the tuxedo paid a little more attention to the newcomers as they filed by tonight, which would’ve concerned Michelle if their plan hadn’t involved his swift removal from the situation in the next ten seconds. They approached the pair of security guards at the far end of the entrance room, where her French friend was happily holding open the iron door for her, as he had the previous night.
“Ah, ma petite grenouille!” he began. “De retour si tôt ? Vous aurez votre propre papillon cramoisi en un rien de temps –”
If there was more of the thought to finish, Michelle stopped that from happening by removing a taser gun from her rucksack and driving it into his chest. She caught the door before it slammed shut, and Uncle was ready with his bear spray as the second security guard stepped up to support the fallen first. Michelle tasted enough of it to know how unpleasant it must have been for the poor soul taking it to the eyes from close range. The man in the tuxedo at the door was out of his chair but frozen in place, and seemed caught in two minds between charging at the interlopers or charging for the exit. He didn’t get chance to make a decision for himself. Uncle unveiled a flamethrower from his briefcase and engulfed the entrance room in a blaze, cutting them off from the third man in the room.
Michelle threw a smoke grenade into the room in which they’d checked the old man’s briefcase the previous night, and in the ensuing confusion her and Uncle slipped through and up the staircase beyond it. The sudden nature of their assault and the blaring Johann Sebastian Bach meant that their arrival in the large reception hall beyond the stairs was unheralded, and in fact coincided with a fresh, young performer's appearance on the stage. Their coming was thus accompanied by a round of applause, which emboldened Uncle into taking a low, proud bow.
"You okay here?" Dreamer asked.
"Uh-huh," Uncle affirmed, whilst placing his flamethrower back into his briefcase and retrieving his riot shotgun, a gift he'd looted from the body of the last fed he'd killed. He cocked it and opened fire with rubber bullets whilst Michelle traversed the room and threw a flash grenade into the adjacent wing. The bang that followed brought a host of men in various states of disrepair out into the corridor. Many of them filed past her, but a tall, broad security guard emerged from one of the open rooms with a gun in her hands.
He told her to freeze. She ignored him. She barrelled into him with her taser gun, his wayward pistol shooting a hole into an adjacent plaster wall in the ensuing struggle. She left him limp and shaking on the ground, and took his gun from his hands. Another security guard emerged from the opposite door, but Michelle was quick to shoot him in the knee as she filed past.
The young girl was in one of the bedrooms at the end of the hall, and was discovered only when Michelle kicked the closed door in. Her brother had locked himself in the en-suite, but she wasn't here for him. She stood in the doorway and looked upon a frail, gaunt girl - a projection of herself and of another - cowering in fear in the narrow gap between the bed and the wall.
"I've come –" Michelle began, but she didn't finish. She felt the bite of a blade in her thigh, and looked down to see Saint Sebastian on his hands and knees, his body riddled with the puncture marks of rubber bullets, driving the point of an arrow into her leg. She could feel the blood pooling beneath the delicate material of her cocktail dress. She bit down hard on her own pain and drove a knee into the young man's face, breaking his nose and sending him tumbling backwards across the bed. He landed in a heap next to the girl, and thought twice about continuing his offensive. Instead, he crawled beneath the bed.
Michelle tried to take another step towards the girl, but felt her leg buckle beneath the weight of it. Blood dripped from the hemline of her dress.
"I've come to rescue you," she must have said, though she didn't hear her own words.
"I don't want to be rescued," her Angel replied, more sternly and assertively than she seemed capable of whilst cowering. She stood to her feet, and left the room.
Michelle lay back on the bed.
She remembered a high whistling noise. A siren. A bright light.
Uncle carrying her away as she lost consciousness.
Far away. |
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Post by supinesnake on May 30, 2024 13:20:54 GMT
Promo history - volume 91.
"Afterlife 1.0" (October 13th, 2022).
Michelle von Horrowitz and Gerald Grayson def. Aka Yurei and Reagan Cole. 
GERALD GRAYSON and MICHELLE von HORROWITZ are
[CTHULHU’S NEPHEWS]
in
”AFTERLIFE 1.0.”Raleigh, North Carolina. 2074. There are only a few guarantees in life. Unfortunately for us, death is one of them.
‘The Daredevil’ Gerald Grayson lived a very fulfilling life. In his younger days, he was known for his love of extreme sports. That love brought him to his next and greatest passion, wrestling, where he enjoyed a rollercoaster ride of a ten-plus year career. He won his fair share of championships, battled against bitter enemies, made friends that turned into family, and learned a lot about himself along the way. It was here he found the woman that would become his wife. Together, they would have five beautiful kids, twelve equally beautiful grandkids, and four only slightly less beautiful great grandkids.
Everyone hopes to live a life they can be proud of and Gerald did just that, until the fateful day that his impressively long and risk-filled existence caught up with him. Knowing his time was near, the proper arrangements were made in regards to the Daredevil’s assets for when that sad but inevitable moment would eventually come.
It had been a hard time for everyone after finding out there was nothing else the medical team could do for Gerald. It was quite dark to think that a machine was the only thing keeping Gerald 'alive'. Even more dark was the fact that, with a shell lying in his bed, those quotation marks could just as easily fit around the word 'Gerald'. After a month, the decision was made to pull the plug on said machine. It was a rainy and solemn Wednesday evening. Gathered around his hospital bed was Gerald’s wife, Denise, and their five kids, Daniel, Marie, Alexa, Jacob, and Zach. A lot of emotions were in that room that night: sorrow, fear, anger, and a lingering but abstracted joy for the long and fulfilled life that Gerald had led. When the doctor came in, the room somehow grew even more silent. As he neared the tube that would disconnect Gerald from this world and send him blissfully into the next, the doctor glanced at Denise for the go ahead. With tears running down her face, she looked to her children, who consoled her, then back at the doctor, giving him a woeful nod.
The machine let out an almost ceremonious beeping noise before being shut down by the doctor and the medical team, who didn’t overstay their welcome. At exactly 9:23pm, the Daredevil left this world and passed on to the next. Just like that, Gerald’s life was over, or so he thought.
And then, a subtle pop.
Gerald's ghost left his body and hovered above the shell. He looked down at his wife, his children… the happy and hopeful family that had emerged out of his and Denise's shared love. He smiled to himself. This was it. Not the championships. Not the wins. They all meant something, too, but this was it.’Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched in some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you’re there. It doesn’t matter what you do, he said, so as long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that’s like you after you take your hands away.’ Gerald had read Fahrenheit 451 and a million other science fiction stories in his ninety and change years on the Earth, but now - looking down at his family from his ethereal perch - he really understood what the words meant.
“That took fucking ages.”
The voice came from above him, and, although thinner and more delicate than it once was, it was a tone that he recognised immediately. He turned around as best he could whilst still deciphering the physics of being a ghost to see Michelle glaring back at him with an air of impatience. She was also a spirit, and was also old, but maybe not as old as he was.
“What are you doing here?” Gerald asked, earnestly.
“I’ve been asking myself the same question,” Michelle replied. “Would’ve been handy for you to die first, tulip. My death sequence would’ve been more entertaining. Anyway, I’m here to fetch you.”
Gerald understood what she meant. He was to go with her now, as he had done so often as a young man. But, like Orpheus and Eurydice, he glanced back at his mourning family. They were still gathered around his shell… still clinging onto him. He found he didn’t want to leave.
“Can we not stay a little while longer?” he asked, hopefully.
"No," Michelle said, firmly. "I've waited a long time already."
Gerald sighed. Acquiesced.
"Where do we have to go?"
"I guess the concept is the same as your heaven," she began. "But I don't think they call it that here. Either way, it's up."
Gerald was no stranger to great heights, and nor was the sensation of flying as alien to him as it was to most other human beings. Still, he couldn't help but register awe as their spirits ascended through the stratosphere and looked down upon creation. To see the curvature of the Earth without so much as a parachute strapped onto him, and indeed to do so whilst experiencing true weightlessness for the first time, was a powerfully stirring thing that the old Daredevil breathed in readily. He wished to savour it. To remember it.
Michelle, on the other hand, had her eyes firmly closed and a pained grimace etched upon her face. It appeared that the lack of an aeroplane was not quite enough to alleviate her fear of flying.
Before long, they arrived at a single stratocumulus crowd that was perhaps a little whiter and a little fluffier than the others in the vicinity and hovered idly over the Horn of Africa. The Daredevil had expected to see the pearly gates, and was quite looking forward to observing their alleged magnificence, but was nonplussed to arrive at a single door that reminded him more of the entrance to a speakeasy. Michelle gave it three sharp knocks, and a few moments later it opened slightly ajar. A furrowed brow and a bristling moustache appeared through the gap.
"Ah, you're back!" the voice said, with warmth and kindness. "And you brought a friend!"
"Is that…?" Gerald began, but before he could finish asking the question it was answered for him. The Moustached Maverick himself stepped out of the doorframe, a broad smile on his somewhat pallid face. The first thing that Gerald noted was that, despite Michelle being how he remembered saying goodbye to her at the harbour when she was a little over sixty, and he himself being as he was when he passed at the age of ninety-something, Krash was still young. Pale and deathly, most certainly, but otherwise in his prime and precisely how he'd appeared on the night of Back in Business XVI.
"Yes, it's me!" the White Wolf started. As he spoke, he lifted both of his arms into the air and a few litres of lake-water spilled out of his sleeves. Only then did Gerald realise that the Maverick wasn't a ghost in the traditional translucent sense, and seemed reasonably solid even if a little gaunt. "Your good friend, Krash. And by your, I'm talking about both the royal you and you specifically all at the same time. They call me Saint Krash now. The guardsman on the door."
"Well, guardsman," Michelle interrupted. "I've done what you asked. I waited for him. Can I come in now?"
"You couldn't come in before?" Gerald queried.
"Something about dubious moral convictions," Michelle started, before shrugging her shoulders and trailing off.
"There's a separate place for the bad guys," St. Krash said. He whispered the last three words whilst pointing with an index finger towards the ground. Or he would've done, if cloud had ground. "But yes, everything appears to be in order. Now that the Connection has reconnected, I see no problem in welcoming you. If you'll please follow me, and close the door behind you."
The duo followed St. Krash up a long, narrow corridor, and as they ventured deeper and deeper into the stratocumulus they experienced yet another strange and new sensation: that of their weight returning to them. By the time they reached the other end of the corridor and another door not dissimilar to the first, their feet were planted firmly upon the ground again.
Heaven was much bigger on the inside. In fact, when St. Krash opened the interior door, revealed within was a large skyscape made up primarily of cumulus clouds, but with clusters of altocumulus and a floor of stratus. The three of them walked down a path signposted as Altostratus Street that snaked across the sky towards a great city of glass buildings that climbed up through the clouds.
"So, what do you want to do today?" St. Krash asked, as they reached the boundary of the sky city. "The Big Guy has assigned me to show you around, and we can do almost anything you'd like to. Maybe you'd like to go to the Nephew Compound? With the rate at which Nephews have been killed off and more created over the last fifty years, inhabitants of the Compound make up fifteen to twenty percent of our population. Lots of old faces to see there. Or maybe you'd like to see your brother, Gerald? Remember him? He lives on Nimbus Auxiliary with a bunch of other semi-familiar figures you may or may not recognise. Good pizza on Nimbus Auxiliary."
"Can we go and meet The Big Guy?" Michelle asked.
"Who's The Big Guy?" Gerald enquired, whilst craning his neck in a futile attempt to take in his surroundings. "Like, the Boulder? Or Stu Grimes?"
"I doubt it's literally a big guy," Michelle mused.
"You can't meet him yet," St. Krash interrupted. "You only just got here, and he won’t see visitors on their first day. But there's plenty of other things to see! How about Ollywood?"
Krash pointed to a series of large, pink, block letters that were mounted on a distant rolling cloud that resembled a snow-covered hill.
"That's sort of like our celebrity wing. Someone stole the H. You could hang out with Tom Jones or Julius Caesar or Eric Bana, if that's how you'd like to unwind."
"Eric isn't at the Nephew Compound?" Gerald asked.
"Only when he's cleaning it," the Wolf continued. "Or there's the Ryan Hall of Records. We've just finished archiving. Lots of stories that needed to be told in there."
"That sounds perfect," Gerald declared, all of a sudden. "I've wanted to relive the Fall of '22 for nearly five decades now. I knew it was important at the time, but… not until afterwards did the gravity of it all really hit me. What it all meant. Let's go there."
"Come on, Gerald," Michelle began, with a roll of her eyes. "You only died an hour ago, and already you want to start traipsing through the past? I didn't wait decades for you to get into heaven so that I could study tape. Strategy and analysis are earthly concepts, tulip. And so are the tag team championships."
"Tag team championships?" the Saintly Wolf interjected. "I could tell you a thing or two about the tag team championships…"
"Let's just go to the Compound. Quiet will know the score here by now."
"Considering you needed me to get here in the first place, I'd think you'd be more accommodating toward my wishes," Gerald said, whilst folding his arms stubbornly. "We're going to the Ryan Hall of Records."
They did just that. Standing next to the door was a huge guard in the regalia of a Roman Centurion, which - unbeknownst to our protagonists - was bequeathed upon to him by his best friend in a previous life. As the trio approached, the large man lifted the visor of his helmet, which allowed water from the North Sea that had pooled there to spill out and escape through the clouds.
"St. Krash!" he bellowed, as the Wolf reached him with a sturdy handshake. So much water was spilling out of their respective garments that a puddle was forming between them. "And you've brought the new arrivals! Come to see the Ryan Hall of Records? Maybe you'd like to rewatch Fallout 013? Always been one of my favourites."
St. Stu opened the door to the Hall, and he and Krash followed after the Connection as they made their way inside.
But instead, the pair were settled on an old but comfortable couch within the main chamber of the Hall, as St. Stu prepared the first tape for the projector and Krash equipped them each with a tall glass of homemade lemonade.“Ah yes, a confident Dreamer. I remember this well,” Gerald noted with a grin. Michelle looked in his direction as the two shared a nod.
The clip continued to play, Gerald’s demeanour shifting as their Lights Out ‘22 opponents came into greater focus.“They tried to throw you off by bringing up your World Title aspirations? That’s an old line… and predictable,” Gerald said whilst looking at Michelle, holding his cheek in his hand. He turned back to the screen to observe the rest of the clip. “Can’t say I blame them… after what happened with Bell…”
“Again, Gerald?" Michelle rolled her eyes. “Still not over all that? Even with another half a century to process it all?”
“I’m just saying, it’s a good point. Even if a tired one. You can’t tell me Bell didn’t divide your attention between her and the tag team championship match we had against Golden Rock.”
The memory stung as if it happened not too long ago. It was difficult to believe it had been fifty four years, now.
"Tag team championships?" the Saintly Giant interjected. "I could tell you a thing or two about the tag team championships…"
On the screen, Reagan Cole summarised Dreamer's character and concluded that she only wanted to win the tag team titles so that she’d be a shoe-in for the F1 tournament. Gerald shot Michelle a questioning look: one that suggested he saw some truth in Reagan’s words. She returned his gaze with a glare of her own as the big screen fizzled out like the end of a home video.
“Well?” Gerald questioned.
“Well what?” Michelle instantly retorted.
“Was he right?
“Seriously Gerald? Even at this point in our lives you doubt me?” Dreamer said, flashes of annoyance in her tone.
“Everything they said in that clip is factual, Michelle. I’m afraid to say it, but Lights Out ‘22 was just… history repeating itself,” Gerald stood from his seat, putting his hands in his pockets, looking to Michelle to respond.
“Let me tell you about history, Gerald. For the longest time, I used to sit back and accept that history was destined to repeat itself. But I don’t think that anymore. History is meant to be changed. And if not us, who? That’s the attitude we should have had in ‘22. The way we should’ve looked on the Ghouls’ weak reign. I might be stubborn, but I’ll learn a lesson, eventually.”
“At least you know you’re stubborn,” Gerald said nonchalantly. Michelle stared a hole through him, which Gerald tried to hide from.
“You were never one to pick your battles, huh?”
“One rarely needs to pick battles at all, if things are set up separately from the start,” Gerald said, sitting back down, as St. Krash signalled for the next clip to be shown. St. Stu began to busy himself with the next betamax tape. “I’d like to think it was one of the things that made us work.”
Michelle said nothing, slouching into her seat, wanting to be anywhere but where she was at that exact moment.“Reagan Cole better have thanked you at some point in your lifetime after you saved him from… whatever I was going to do to him,” Michelle suggested. Now that she thought about it, she couldn't quite remember what she had planned for Cole in Vegas.
“Now that I think about it, I don’t think he did. Ungrateful doesn’t even cover it.”The two sat for a moment in stoney silence as the clip ended.
“We had a lot of issues back then, huh?” Gerald said eventually, smiling to himself after the memories they just watched. He proceeded to put his hands on his head, almost surprised that he put up with so much, before letting out a sigh. He turned to his right and met the eyes of Dreamer, who didn’t back down. He was smiling. “That was a lot of fun.”
“Which part?” Dreamer questioned.
“Well, seeing you hit Reagan Cole with a chair, first of all. I regret stopping you from carrying on now,” Gerald said, chuckling as the Connection shared a laugh. “But the whole thing we went through in FWA. Fun times. Really fun times…”
Gerald paused, reminiscing about the past. His smile turned into a frown as his eyebrows furrowed.
“It’s difficult to hear them talking to you that way,” Gerald said, looking at Michelle apologetically. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s no big deal –”
“No, it is,” Gerald cut her off. “People don’t see that you’re actually a good person. We wouldn’t have been a tag team for long if you weren’t.”
Michelle just shrugged.
“They don’t understand that not every tag team works the same way,” Gerald paused. “But when it came down to work, we worked our asses off in all aspects… and we did it together. We trained. We watched film. We talked strategy. These are just some of the things we did to prepare for our matches. But no one knows that.”
“It’s not a big deal, Gerald,” Michelle said. ”And we can probably stop doing all of those things now that we’re dead, you know?"
“It pisses me off so much that people discredit you for not being a team player.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve heard worse,” Michelle said. ”So have you.”
“No! You’re a good person, Michelle!” Gerald stood from his seat, startling everyone. “You were there for me EVERY TIME. Even when I didn’t know I needed someone, you were there. You weren’t just there for me, you were there for my family. From Daniel’s birth to Zach’s birth, all of my kids’ first days of school, even when Denise and I had problems… you were there.”
Dreamer gulped.
”Even with eternal life, I don’t have time for this, Gerald,” Michelle quipped, attempting to cut through her partner’s melodrama with humour. ”You’re in a minority of one, tulip. You said it yourself: nothing that Reagan or Aka said was untrue. It doesn’t really matter what you want to do. It only matters what you end up actually doing.”
Suddenly, the doors to the Ryan Hall of Records burst open. At the doorway, St. Stu fell to the marble ground with a withering groan. The culprits were clear as day: the Spirit Walkers, Aka Yurei and Reagan Cole, stood either side of St. Stu’s body.
“STUUU!!!” St. Krash exclaimed, falling to his knees in despair next to the felled giant. "Oh, it's just a flesh wound."
“Aka? Reagan?” Gerald squinted his eyes in question. Meanwhile, Michelle stood from her seat and balled her fists, ready to throw hands.
“Why are we here, St. Krash?” Aka questioned.
“We don’t belong here. We belong up there at The Big Guy's side. We didn’t use a chair as a weapon on a fellow competitor, who still to this day can feel the effects of the chair shot, like someone over there, standing next to Gerald Grayson,” Reagan said, his insinuation clear.
“Hey, fuck you!" Michelle began, with a healthy amount of indignation. "You want to come here and cause a fuss? Here of all places? I wasn’t the best person on earth, but even I’m smart enough to know not to start anything in the afterlife. But if that’s the route you want to go, Reagan, let’s go!"
“No, this is not the way,” Gerald said, looking at Michelle. “I was right before and I’m right this time. This isn't how I want to do this..."
A lengthy and uneasy silence descended, during which St. Stu climbed to his feet and dusted himself off. St. Krash, meanwhile, observed the situation and sensed that the tension might spill over if not for a timely and measured intervention.
“How about chess?” the Wolf suggested. “Chess is big here.”
“Fine, anything,” Michelle said, whilst folding her arms and shrugging her shoulders. “If you win, we’ll leave this place and head downstairs. Have a beer in the Banned Bar with the redacteds. See how many masks James Sync is wearing now. But… if we win, you’ll leave us the fuck alone. We’ve watched a fair bit of your tape today, and I’m sick of the pair of you.”
“We’re the white pieces,” Aka demanded. “Fetch the board, Stu.”
A few moments later, the quartet was seated around a table, Aka and Reagan behind the white pieces and the Connection across from them, commanding the black. Gerald wasn’t one for chess, really, and so hung back slightly and placed his faith in his tag team partner.
“Timed?” Michelle asked.
“What’s your rush?” Aka said. “You’re infinite now. Classical.”
"As you wish."
"Gerald?" she said.
"Michelle?" he replied.
"You think they call Saint Sulley St. Saint Sulley here?"
"I doubt he's up here…"
"Well, I'm here. Don't rule it out."“You’re barely even focussing,” Aka said, when Michelle had moved her piece and begun to stare about herself absently. “Same as ever. Death hasn’t changed you.”
“Just worry about your own game,” Michelle replied, with a slight smile. Aka wasn’t wrong, though: Dreamer’s focus had been drawn away from the game and onto St. Krash, who was whispering into a headset a few paces away from the action.“It’s like everyone always tells you,” Reagan interjected, remaining aloof from the game with his arms folded. Despite this abstraction, he still felt his analysis worthy of voicing. “Your mind is too clouded. Too frantic. You can’t win this way.”
“Is that so?” Michelle asked, though she wasn’t really listening for a response. Instead, she watched St. Krash reapproach their board whilst absently groping for her bishop. She spoke to Aka without looking at her. “A knight on the rim is dim. Do you even know how to play?”
Aka only scowled as Dreamer slid her piece across the board.“Who was that?” she queried of the moustached saint. The Wolf now loomed over them again as he re-examined the board.
“Barely even focussing…” Aka repeated. “She’s the black pieces and she’s barely even focussing…”“That was The Big Guy,” Krash said, ignoring the Ghoul’s complaints and addressing Michelle’s question. “He said he’d be happy to meet the winner of this game in the treehouse. Unheard of, really, considering it’s your first day here. But who am I to argue with The Big Guy?”
“They’re not going to win,” Reagan argued.
“I think they’re probably going to win,” the Saintly Wolf offered, as von Horrowitz reached forward for her queen.A bead of sweat formed on Aka’s forehead. Michelle yawned.
“Zero hubris,” Aka said. She sighed deeply whilst making her move. Defence was all she thought of, and it blinded her to the real attack.“How far is it?” Michelle asked whilst standing from the board. Gerald reached over to make the final move. He didn’t really know the rules, but had seen Michelle play often enough to finish the sequence.“Checkmate,” he said. Aka’s eyes scanned the board, her indignance taking a turn towards rage.
“Did you cheat?” Aka asked. The Connection were already following St. Krash out of the Ryan Hall of Records.
Before long they arrived at the base of a great tree whose roots delved into a particularly sturdy cumulus at the end of Altostratus Street. Around its thick base wound a staircase, which the party promptly began to climb. Occasionally they would stop at a viewing platform to look down over the sky city as a whole: a sprawling metropolis, bustling with alumni. Dreamer sighed, and lamented the prospect of an eternity here. But, as was so often the case in life, she had dug her own grave.
At the top of the staircase they came to a large treehouse that had been built with glass in the highest branches. It wasn’t guarded, and a bright light emanated from within. Now that they were here, the Connection hesitated to go any further. The Saints turned towards them when they reached the door and noticed that their guests hadn’t followed.
They opened the door, white light spilling out and dancing amongst the tree’s golden leaves. It was Gerald who steeled himself first, marching through the doors and disappearing into the brightness. Only at the sight of her partner accomplishing this did Dreamer find the nerve to do the same.
Inside they found the light’s source. At the end of the room, seated in a meditative position on a raised platform, was a figure in a long, white robe. He looked as though He was deep in prayer, or at least in thought, and that He was blissfully unaware of the presence of the newcomers.
Michelle and Gerald waited, more out of awe than patience.
Eventually, when He was ready, the figure stood up, and as He did gallons of dirty lake-water spilled out of the folds of His long, white robe. Around His head - pale from His premature drowning - was a sodden red bandana, and when He turned to look at them He did so with sad and cold eyes.
"You?" Michelle asked, somewhat dismissively. "Why you?"
The Saintly Rockstar smiled.
"This place exists only in one of your consciousnesses, or perhaps an amalgamation of the two. I am here because I handed you one of your two defeats, and the bigger of the two by some degree of magnitude. The other came courtesy of St. Krash, here. Whilst St. Stu never faced you in the ring, you stood aside so that he and his Roman friend could address other concerns. The business with the Ghouls perhaps would never have happened if not for him. That is why I am here. Why each of us are here."
There was a pause as the duo bathed in this saintly figure and the bright light that sprung forth from him. It took Michelle’s voice to break the spell.
“You mean that all of this,” she began, whilst gesticulating in the general direction of the sky city below them. “Was to teach us a lesson about the tag team championships?”
"Tag team championships?" the Saintly Rockstar interjected, with a cunning smile. "I could tell you a thing or two about the tag team championships…"
“We all could,” the Wolf spoke up from behind them. He placed a hand on Gerald’s shoulder as he went on. “I was once like you were, Daredevil: constrained by my own sense of morality, but indebted to or enraptured by another without those same bonds. Only when I learned to stop worrying and love the bomb, so to speak, and gave myself up entirely to this other, did I achieve what you have now set out to accomplish. It is up to you whether it is worth this price.”
“I disagree,” the Giant said, whilst stepping out of the shadows to join the dialogue. He had his arms folded, and seemed to look at the Wolf reproachfully. “I know the sort of relationship you speak of, Krash, for the bond between Cornelius and myself was not dissimilar. But… you’re right to not sacrifice who you are and what you believe, Gerald. You shouldn’t throw yourself in, but rather continue to drag Dreamer from the darkness. This is the way to the gold and to the light.”
The Daredevil seemed conflicted, the contrasting advice weighing on him. He looked to Michelle for help. She reached out with her hand. The Rockstar spoke again before he could take it.
“How you conduct yourself in the ring,” He began, carefully. “Is irrelevant. The path to success can be paved by betrayal or by righteousness. But you must learn from the mistakes of your past. It is a shame that my partner cannot be here to tell you the same. Even if our own relationship is soured, he would agree with me on this point. But he is downstairs, with Alyster and Cornelius, where old rivalries no doubt still rear their ugly heads. You didn’t lose to us fifty four years ago because Michelle cheated too much. Nor did you lose because Gerald didn’t cheat enough.”
“Then why did we lose?” Dreamer asked, when the Rockstar paused and seemed to require prompting.
“You lost because of your obsession. With the sea, as you used to call her. And now you begin down the same road again, at the end of which lies only defeat. A different obsession, but an obsession nonetheless. History repeats itself. Time is a flat circle.”
The Connection remained silent for a few moments, processing His words. Gerald’s hand finally found Michelle’s.
“Isn’t all of this in the past anyway?” Michelle finally queried. “What’s the point in re-hashing it now, half a century later?”
“No,” the Saintly Rockstar said. “This is just a dream.”
Suddenly, the until now serene bright light flashed in anger, and lightning blinded Michelle and Gerald. The roar of thunder turned into a baying crowd. The bright lights now hung from the edge of a coliseum.
Across the ring were two figures. Not the Wolf and the Prodigy, nor Mile High's Bane. Just a couple of ghouls.
The opening bell rings. |
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Post by supinesnake on May 30, 2024 13:23:00 GMT
Promo history - volume 92.
"The Bandit Queen - Part Three: Drunken Master." (November 6th, 2022).
Michelle von Horrowitz and Gerald Grayson def. Anderson Vega and Spooder-Man [FWA World Tag Team Championships] (FWA: Meltdown XXI). GERALD GRAYSON and MICHELLE von HORROWITZare[CTHULHU'S NEPHEWS]in"THE BANDIT QUEEN.”part three: drunken master.previously: part one || part two.
music. *****
September, 1876.
The American Midwest.
*****  ONE.
Autumn had taken hold of Lonehill. The orange and brown leaves were falling from the trees and cluttered the town’s narrow streets, through which Meg steadily trotted, the echoes of her iron hooves against the cobbled stone whistling in the Sheriff’s ears. There were times when such a sound would be like birdsong to him, but today it only served to amplify the busy nature of the million and one thoughts already echoing in his frantic mind. Meg was concerned, too. She let out a short, shrill whinny as the Sheriff tugged gently on her reins to turn her towards the right, the horse registering her dissatisfaction with the day before acquiescing to his command. The Sheriff stroked her neck as a symbol of his gratitude.
Meg was grateful to be left in the stables, where she cantered towards Gate and joined him at the water trough. The Sheriff watched the mare nuzzle the stallion, content now that the day was finally over. When he sensed that he was dangerously close to envying the horses, he had to turn away.
The stack of paperwork remained where he’d left it on his desk before his evening sojourn to Montgomery's Saloon. He didn’t recognise the woman behind the bar there. It seemed to be someone different each time he went in, nowadays. Gone were the days when Ms. Montgomery served the ale, even if her name still remained above the entrance. It was said she’d moved north, and had shacked up with a few bandits near Deathpool. But that was just rumour. Lonehill was full of rumour.
Much of the paperwork related to the men he’d seen in the Saloon tonight. They were all known faces to the law, which Gerald was the meagre town’s meagre representation of. He couldn’t remember if they’d already descended upon the tavern when Ms. Montgomery finally took off, or if they'd set about defiling it once she'd left. The railway line she’d once dreamed of was built three years ago, but the only custom it brought through were profiteers and even shadier types. The Saloon was a hotbed for bandits, now. Gerald knew it. But in most cases he was a long way from proving it.
He poured himself a glass of lemonade from a jug that Harry, his Deputy, had left for him on his desk, and picked up the first document in the pile. It related to a well-known philanthropist who had gone missing from the town a couple of months ago. Gerald was no closer to finding the cause for his disappearance, but the sudden elevation of Triple B - who’d been the philanthropist’s right hand man, despite a well-documented past within the shade - was unmistakable. B’ was at the Saloon tonight, like he was most nights. The Sheriff fancied his own ambitions were B’s primary concern for now, and old habits die hard.
The lemonade was good, but the news was bad. The Old Man was back in Lonehill, too, and although he was no longer the force he was when he’d first held pull in town, he’d recently come into some unexplained gold and was - by all accounts - setting his sights on more. The lawman had been keeping a close eye on Peacock, too. Four years ago, the Dancer had been an entertainer in the Saloon, but since Ms. Montgomery left town and Randy was drowned he’d put himself in the middle of every story. Gerald sensed he was on the verge of something real, and he didn’t much like that thought. Verdad, too, had grown in prominence since Michelle left town. She had his number, but each day that she was away the elder statesman grew bolder, his fear of Dreamer increasingly remote.
And then there was Liz. Gerald had heard stories about who she was in the north. The wife of some working stiff, but with ties to some bandits there, some of whom were tied up with Dreamer. His Dreamer. The thought of the name stirred something in him. He reached into the top drawer of his desk and groped for the gold Sheriff’s badge that lay amongst the rest of her belongings. She’d left lots behind. Even her horse. Gate still waited patiently for her, unsaddled and unused. One of the townsfolk sold her a mule that she’d been seen riding north on. He’d taken her responsibilities, but not the badge. That still waited for her.
Gerald picked up the pile of documents from his desk and placed them in the second drawer, before returning the badge to the first. All except for one document, which had eluded his hands when he’d grasped for the pile. It concerned a man who hadn’t been at the Saloon when the Sheriff visited earlier that night, unlike the rest of the town’s petty bandits who sipped ales there whilst planning their next scores. A newcomer to Lonehill, even with the town’s relative notoriety for transients.
Nobody lived in Lonehill for long. Except for Gerald.
The man in question went by Mr. Vega, the owner of the local bank. The Sheriff didn’t know much about him, other than his reputation for ruthlessness, particularly with those who spent invariably short periods of time in his employ. There were also whispers about an anonymous Gunslinger, and suggestions that his involvement in recent skullduggery was somehow linked to Mr. Vega’s sudden wealth.
It was too much for one mind to wrestle with.
He looked down at the Sheriff’s badge in the still-open top drawer, which was placed next to a half-finished bottle of bourbon. Also Michelle’s. He was sure she wouldn’t resent him a couple of swigs. God knew he’d earned it. He closed his eyes, shook his head. Reached for his lemonade.
When the glass was empty, he collected an adjacent inkpot and a piece of paper. A single letter had already been scrawled at the top:
It was the start of a letter that he’d been shaping up to write for a few weeks already, but he’d got no further than this one-character address. But tonight felt different. He was too loaded with hopelessness and fear to remain idle. Surely.
He paused, the words not easy for him to find. He was unsure of himself, as he always was.
He would ask Quiet to set out and find her that night, feeding him a whispered name of a rumoured town, and then retiring to a restless sleep.
*****  TWO.
Deathpool was named for the narrow but deep pond just to the north of the town, where the water was black and viscous, and where a half-dozen people and half a hundred animals had lost their lives since the first tavern opened up there. That’s what Deathpool was known for: booze and sleaze and debauchery and death. And for the bandits, who were of course drawn to such a place, devoted as it was to revelry. They came in large numbers, and a lot of the time they stayed.
It was here, so they say, where the man they called West first but his fist through Dreamer’s chest, before taking the coveted green-gold jewels from her person and then promptly losing them to the handsome man. He’d held them ever since, and after a foray into the west a couple of years prior he’d come back to Deathpool to settle, a loose band of ruffians answering his call and helping to establish him here. They included Ms. Montgomery and the Three-Fingered Bandit, both of whom were known to Dreamer from her time back in Lonehill. She’d often see them and a fourth who remained unfamiliar to her, either drinking in one of Deathpool’s many bars or riding at speed through the city gates to cause whatever mischief they’d set their minds on. Not that it had anything to do with Michelle. She’d given up the badge. Wasn’t her job to go chasing rumours anymore.
They weren't here now, she noticed, as she ordered herself another drink from the old, balding man behind the bar in 'the Snake Hole’. He nodded his acquiescence to her order and busied himself in pouring another bourbon. She took another scan of the faces in the bar.
Many of them were known to her, even if the handsome man's unmerry band of bandidos were nowhere to be found tonight. Their absence explained the Man in Black's presence. He'd tried twice to remove the jewels from Mr. Toner's possession, and twice he'd come back from the Corral with nothing but blood in his hands and shame in his heart. It was well known around the town - both amongst the bandidos and the honest folk, whose numbers were dwindling by the day - that the Man in Black was avoiding his handsome bane. He drank alone, and Dreamer reasoned he was either plotting a revenge he'd never take or picking through mistakes he'd never fix. The Cowboy was here, too. She'd been here when he arrived, and watched him march to the bar with swagger beyond his years. He demanded to see Toner, his hand already on the pistol at his side. The Cowboy wasn't scared, for better or for worse. Fear came with age.
The barman placed the bourbon down in front of Michelle, and as she reached for the glass she noticed blood on her sleeve. The Roman's blood, or her own. She couldn't really be sure. The only thing she knew was that her duel with the Roman wouldn't be her last here. Deathpool was wild. A frontier.
As she sipped her bourbon, the heavy saloon doors swung open and a familiar face emerged. Familiar to her, but not to the rest of the patrons inhabiting the place. He wore his black hat low, and a bandana covered everything beneath the bridge of his nose, meaning only his eyes were visible through a narrow slit. They were black, too. The newcomer scanned the bar, clocked Dreamer, and made his approach.
Michelle kicked out a chair for him. He sat down and signalled to bartender for another bourbon.
"How long has it been?" she asked.
"..... …..?" the man replied. "....?"
"That long?" Michelle mused, wistfully. The Quiet Man took off his heavy coat and placed it on the back of his chair. The barkeep arrived with his bourbon. He clinked his glass against Michelle's and took a long, satisfied sip: the first after a long journey. Michelle regarded him carefully. Although she was pleased to see what she could of his face, he was an unexpected relic of her past, which usually she sought to keep at arm's length. "You're not here only to share a drink with me?"
The Quiet Man reached into his inside pocket and handed over the envelope that Gerald gave him. Michelle's eyes looked over the seal, noticing that it was one she'd used many times in this aforementioned, neglected past. It belonged to the offices of the Lonehill Sheriff. She carefully ripped through the navy blue wax and removed the letter from the envelope, immediately recognising Gerald's tidy scrawl.
"You can wait until tomorrow?" she asked, after reading the text and carefully folding the letter away into her pocket.
". … ….," the Quiet Man said. A lengthy silence followed, during which Michelle pondered returning to Lonehill. Four years was a long time. She'd changed, just as Gerald said the town she'd left behind had. She doubted many more besides her former Deputy longed for her return.
As Michelle considered the implications of such a journey, the Quiet Man spied the Cowboy in the corner. He was surrounded by a handful of whores and a half-dozen slick types that must have migrated here from the city. Even the Quiet Man, who'd only arrived in Deathpool that afternoon, had heard about the huge rancher who would march into the taverns and ask for Toner by name. He'd also heard that Toner wouldn't come.
He'd heard other things, too.
"... … …. … …… ?" he asked.
"I heard," she said, with a nod. "I won't believe it until I see the body, or the jewels in someone else's hands."
"..... …….?" the Quiet Man asked.
"Still chasing," Michelle repeated.
Just then, her eyes were drawn towards the Cowboy, too. The Cowboy and the scene that was brewing in his peripheries. One of his whores had slapped one of his slicks, deeming him too handsy before the proper sums were settled. The Cowboy roared with laughter, attracting the attention of every patron in the room.
"Come on," Michelle instructed. "Let's go somewhere quieter."
*****  THREE.
From the outside, the hotel looked quite obviously unfinished. The bottom three storeys had been completed, but more were evidently intended that hadn't quite yet come to fruition, and as a result the upper half of the building resembled a construction site (for, of course, that was exactly what it was). The function, though, was taking place in the grand ballroom on the incomplete hotel's completed first floor, and when inside one had no real idea that the building as a whole was as yet only a shell.
The Sheriff was inside of the shell, but - as his eyes scanned the lavish room and took in the people, most of whom he recognised as the rich, the corrupt, or the rich and corrupt - he felt like he had no place being so. The rest of them were assembled there to raise money for some political party. Gerald wasn't much one for politics, but scanning the room left him under no uncertain terms that this probably wasn't the party for him, political or literal.
So, how did he come to be here?
The morning after the Sheriff sent his letter with the Quiet Man into the North, he climbed onto Meg's back and left at a trot in the direction of the Bank. A trot was all that the old mare could manage, nowadays. He arrived at a little before midday, and an unpleasant but somewhat expected scene was taking place in front of the building as he did.
It began with Mr. Vega accusing one of his workers, who now lay flat on his back in a heap in front of the building, of tardiness and a lack of energy. The underling wasn't remonstrating or defending himself in the slightest, allowing the boss's assertions to grow larger and bolder. Soon enough, the employee (or former employee, as it transpired) was guilty of all sorts of skullduggery, as Mr. Vega let him have it for theft, extortion, and perceived low levels of moral fibre.
The livid businessman disappeared back into his Bank, but re-emerged a moment later with the underling's hat, coat, and briefcase, which he hurled onto the ground next to him.
"Don't let me see you around here again, thief!" Mr. Vega instructed, whilst frothing at the mouth. His rage was unbecoming, and reminded the Sheriff of a basterd he'd seen in the town from time to time. "I have friends, boy! Friends whose names you wouldn't even want to know!"
The berated and brow-beaten victim scrambled to his feet, collected his belongings, and then scurried off down the street. Mr. Vega spat on the floor. Gerald climbed down from Meg and removed his gloves, clearing his throat in the process to garner the businessman's attention.
"I think we're closed for the day, Sheriff," Mr. Vega said, with a smile. He knew who Gerald was, at least. That was a start. "Suddenly short-staffed. Perhaps you'd like to come back tomorrow?" [/b][/color] "I'm here now," Gerald replied, firmly and - he thought - assertively. The businessman leant against the frame of his door, and folded his arms. "What is it you're looking to do, Sheriff?" he asked, with narrowed eyes. "Opening an account? Probably for the best, Sheriff. It's not good to keep your cash beneath the bed anymore. The world's a wild place, nowadays."A silence lingered, during which the businessman's smile faltered. "I'm here about the company you keep," the Sheriff started, puncturing the silence. His opposite number still lent against the frame of the door, his arms still folded, and his smile refixed upon his face. "You're here about whispers, then," Mr. Vega retorted. "Well, Sheriff, I'll do you one better than a guarded conversation in the backroom of a closed bank. It's too hot for such talks today, with nothing to whet one's whistle. But on Saturday I'm throwing a ball for the Party at 'the Cowbell'. You know my hotel, I trust?"The Sheriff nodded, and stroked his horse's mane. Meg wasn't happy. She enjoyed the man's elusiveness even less than Gerald, it seemed. "You should meet the company I keep," Mr. Vega began, whilst opening the doors to the bank again. And then, before he disappeared: "a man shouldn't rush to judge."Now that Saturday had rolled around, Gerald found himself positioned as far away from Mr. Vega as was possible. Perhaps that was by design. His invitation meant very little when he was in the periphery of proceedings. And so, the Sheriff could do little else other than sit and mope, and watch on as the city’s well-dressed underbelly paraded their ill-gotten wealth before one another. He was about to give up entirely, and drained his glass of lemonade - far from homemade, he feared - with the intention of leaving, when Mr. Vega finally decided to register the fact that Gerald was there at all. “I hope the Sheriff is enjoying himself,” the businessman said through a toothy smile, having approached Gerald’s table. He now loomed ominously above the lawman with his thumbs behind his braces, a large, seemingly unused, but well-polished six-shooter visible inside his jacket. “No expense has been spared on the food, the drink, the music… as I’m sure my friend’s distinguished senses can attest to.”“The music is fine,” Gerald lied. He stopped short of plastering on his own snide faux-smile. “But I had hoped for somewhere more quiet. Where we could talk properly.”“Very well,” Mr. Vega began. “If my ballroom is not fitting for our Sheriff to speak, perhaps you’d like to join me in my office for a cigar?”Gerald allowed the bank owner to lead the way, and soon enough found himself sat across a large, imposing desk from him. Mr. Vega’s name was inscribed onto a golden plaque on the edge closest to the Sheriff, and for once he lamented not having the five-pointed badge on his chest, if only to proclaim his own position and stature in equally as ostentatious a manner. He shuffled uncomfortably in his low seat, looking up at Mr. Vega and waving away the box of cigars when it was presented to him. Gerald wasn’t much one for smoking. Even less so than politics, really. “It’s not often a man joins me for a cigar and neglects to smoke himself,” Mr. Vega said. He paused to allow an underling to light the end of one. “You don’t mind if I do?”“I’m used to it,” the Sheriff said. In truth, it had been four years, but he hadn’t forgotten the smell of tobacco that had once choked him on a daily basis in the office. “What’s on your mind, Sheriff?” the businessman asked, in light and airy tones. Gerald couldn’t work out if his comfort and ease were affectations. They seemed natural, but that didn’t mean they were sincere. “What do you think of the company I keep, now that you’ve had the opportunity to actually meet my friends?”“Your friends here were known to me before tonight,” Gerald began, in a guarded fashion. He didn’t tell Mr. Vega that he thought very little of his fancy friends, but felt this was implied regardless. “It’s the unknown associate that I’ve been hearing so much about that I’d most like to meet. This… Gunslinger.”The businessman drew thoughtfully from the end of his cigar. Kept his cool. Expelled a half-dozen smoke rings into the dusty, fogged room. Continued to smile. “You put too much stock in rumour and innuendo, Sheriff,” he said. “Rumour and innuendo is most of my job,” Gerald replied. "And rumour can mature into knowledge, when investigated properly and taken with a pinch of salt.""You'll need more than a pinch, Sheriff," Vega retorted, though Gerald sensed he sat a little less easily in his high chair. "What knowledge do you think you've come by?"Gerald leant back in his own seat. Watched the businessman shuffle uncomfortably. He allowed the pause to linger and used it to his advantage. "Do you have any of that lemonade?" the lawman asked, eventually. "I mean, it's shitty lemonade, but there's nothing like a sip of lemonade in a dry, smoky room."The businessman's eyes narrowed in the Sheriff's direction, before he finally turned towards a nearby underling and offered him a nod. The employee scurried out of the room to prepare Gerald's drink. "I know that you weren't alone when you arrived here," the Sheriff started, slowly. "I know about the two strangers who arrived in the middle of the night, together, nursing injuries and fatigue from a long journey south. Nursing ambition, too. I know about the masked man who hit the train at Mercia last week, and the bank down in Redfoot the next night. A Gunslinger was mentioned, and an accent from the north. Same accent as yours. I know that you're showing more money in political donations than your operations here - your legal ones - should allow you to. I know a few things, Mr. Vega. You see quite a lot around here if you take the time to look."Silence again. Vega continued to suck at the end of his cigar, his eyes locked onto the Sheriff's. Both men gazed at the other in reproach. In warning. The underling re-emerged into the smoke-filled office and placed a glass of lemonade in front of the lawman. He picked it up and took a long, satisfied sip. "I would like to meet this Gunslinger," Gerald began again, after setting his half-full (always half-full) glass back on the desk. "I believe that you can arrange this. It will be remembered that you helped when I get to the bottom of the incidents in Mercia and in Redfoot.""If you get to the bottom of it…" the businessman corrected, boldly. Gerald faltered. Steeled himself. "You've got a lot on your plate already, Sheriff. This town is overrun with bandits. I counted five last night in Montgomery's. I feel your office's time could be better spent elsewhere.""When I get to the bottom of it, Mr. Vega," the Sheriff repeated. His approximation of confidence was convincing enough, he felt. "I'll remember which side of this you came down on. And your fine friends out there won't hesitate to drop you like a bad habit once your usefulness dries up. Don't kid yourself otherwise."The businessman gulped. Gerald afforded himself a smile. Checkmate. "He isn't here often," Mr. Vega conceded. He stubbed his cigar out in an ashtray next to a bottle of rum, which he promptly began to pour a healthy measure of into a dirty glass. "He's due in town on Thursday night.""Friday morning, then," Gerald suggested, forcefully. He liked these colours on himself. "At the Corral, in So-So.""He'll bolt if half of the department is there," Mr. Vega said, and the glum look on his face suggested sincerity. "You and one other. And bring your best man. He won't blink before lighting you up."Gerald stood. Nodded. Drained his glass. *****  FOUR.The two horses moved slowly, trotting down the dirt path as the moon crept higher into the sky, towards its apex. Hundreds of stars opened themselves up to the travellers, dancing heel and toe as the night grew deeper and darker. Beneath the climbing moon, Dreamer and the Quiet Man held the reins of their horses, fatigue thick upon them as they continued on towards the south, towards Lonehill, and towards Gerald. The Quiet Man, living up to his name, said very little. Dreamer, failing to live up to hers, had been awake for days, stubbornly clinging onto reality, her mind and her body unwilling to allow themselves to be overwhelmed by her subconscious. "I'm sure there's a tavern here somewhere," Michelle said, permeating the silence that had persisted for the last hour. In her growing delirium, she didn't realise that she'd said the same thing the last three times either of them had spoken. "Somewhere down this road, there's a tavern.""... …'. … ….. …. …," the Quiet Man quipped, whilst adjusting his bandana. His black gelding strode on, assuredly. Michelle's mule struggled to keep pace, slow and old as it was. "You're not thirsty?" she asked, though his answer wouldn't have changed her closed mind. "Thirsty work, travelling."". …. …. .. … …. .. ……..," he answered. "I want to get to Lonehill, too," she agreed. "But the town will still be standing the day after tomorrow. It's in Gerald's safe hands, remember.""..'. .. ……'. …. …..," the Quiet Man repeated, as if it were a mantra he would adopt. “Is Uncle still around? In Lonehill?” she asked. In truth, she’d only had a couple of brief interactions with the enigmatic stranger (and he was still a stranger, and probably would be no matter how long she spent in his company) in the town itself, and most of their relationship - or at least the blossoming thereof - had occurred outside of the city. But she’d heard that Uncle and his acquaintances were back at Gerald’s side, the last time she’d checked in on the comings and goings of Lonehill. “... ….,” the Quiet Man explained. “... …… … … ….., …. … .., ………. … ….. ….. … …., … ….? .. …. .. .. …. .. …. .. …. .. …. …. .. ….”Michelle pulled a face at the Quiet Man’s declaration. She didn’t quite like the idea of being taken care of, by him or by anyone else. Uncle was peculiar and singular, and she was willing to forgive him for much in the name of his uniquity. But the idea of Harry, Thomas, and the Quiet Man keeping an eye on her would’ve been amusing, if she was prone to finding the comic before the tragic. It didn’t surprise her that they’d chosen to surround Gerald instead of her. ". ….. …'.. ….. …. .. .. … ….," he pressed her, as they continued on southwards along the edge of a forest. A stream had flowed into a river, which trickled gently at their other side, the evening's only soundtrack. "Gerald doesn't need me to look after him," Michelle argued. The Quiet Man took it as confidence in the Sheriff's ability to look after himself and take care of the town's business. Dreamer meant it as an admission of her own struggles and failures in Lonehill, and the eventual defeat that still haunted her. Her mind was cast to the Three-Fingered Bandit, who waited for her for another confrontation in Deathpool. One that she was running away from in order to fight Gerald's battles once again. "... …'.. ……, ….-...-....," he said. "But I'm coming, none-the-lesss," she agreed. A silence fell again. "I'm sure there's a tavern here somewhere," Michelle said, eventually. *****  FIVE.Gerald sat on the bench in the corner of the empty jailhouse and pulled on his boots. He lowered his feet back down at an angle, allowing the cold iron spurs on his heels to grip the timber floorboards of his office. He ran his thumbs down the inside of his braces and to the brass buckle on his belt. Finally, his fingers gripped the two pistols in symmetrically positioned holsters at his thighs. One for Mr. Vega, and one for his anonymous friend. If it should come to that, of course. But Gerald didn't feel there was any need to hide the fact that he'd come to play. He doubted a man known only as the Gunslinger would arrive at the So-So Corral unarmed.
Thomas had wanted to come to the meeting, of course. Perhaps Gerald could've used him, but it was difficult to fully and firmly trust Thomas, given the deeds that he himself freely owned up to. His tale of a meeting with Michelle in the north, a short but bloody affair over some green-gold jewels that Gerald himself had come close to on one occasion, was enough to dissuade him from taking Thomas to the Corral. Harry was too young, but enthusiastically volunteered none-the-less. Gerald praised his moxey, and asked him to saddle up Meg before going home. Quiet was still out on his errand, and the Sheriff lamented the fact that the meeting had come too early for his return.
He walked over to his desk and drained a glass of lemonade before opening the top drawer. The gold badge, recently polished by Harry, stared back up at him. He reached down. Ran his fingers across its five points. Brushed the engraved lettering that read SHERIFF upon its front. He clutched it between his fingers and turned towards the mirror that hung next to the door, before carefully fastening the badge upon his lapel.
Sunny outside. Dry.
As he walked towards the stables, his spurs gently singing as his heavy boots padded against the cobbles, he wondered how he’d managed to find himself in this mess. He didn’t have to seek out Mr. Vega and his mysterious Gunslinger. He could’ve sat back, and watched on with disinterest as the one grew in wealth whilst the other in notoriety. But he wore the badge. Even though he’d only just fastened it to his chest, he’d been wearing it as far as the town was concerned for the last four years. When that gold was on his chest, challenges from men like Vega and the Gunslinger were to be expected. And it was expected of him that he would answer them.
At the door of the stables, he paused. Sighed. Listened to the wind. Its song sounded sad.
Inside, there were three horses. Meg, Gate, and a third: a mule that he didn’t recognise. Behind that, curled up in a ball amongst a hastily assembled bed of hay, was a human being. A woman. Michelle.
She slept. Uneasily, she slept.
Gerald crouched over her on his haunches and shook her by the shoulder, gently at first and then a little more vigorously when she resisted his initial attempts at rousing her. Eventually, she came to, rolling onto her back and sitting up before attempting - a futile attempt, it should be added - to bring the world into focus by rubbing her eyes and shaking her head. She could see the outline of Gerald, her old Deputy, in front of her, and remembered enough about the night before to know that she’d at least arrived in Lonehill. The rest of the evening was patchy. She’d found a tavern on the southbound road, where she and the Quiet Man had taken up a brief but eventful residence for the twelve hours of daylight that preceded this oncoming twelve hours of daylight. They’d travelled again beneath the moon, but the ale and the bourbon had flowed freely enough for the events on the road to remain a patchwork of blurred mundanities.
Maybe, if she put her mind to it, she would’ve been able to remember more. But the effort of focussing was beyond her. Her head hurt too much. She hoped beyond hope that Gerald wouldn’t say anything, through fear that the words of another human being might cause her brain to spill out of her ears. The only exertion that seemed worthwhile was the collection of her pipe and hip flask from her saddlebag. She sat back on the straw and stared up at Gerald, his face finally coming into something resembling focus as she reintroduced a mouthful of amber to her system.
"You came," he said, finally.
"I came," she repeated. It was all she could muster. All that she could think to say.
"Can you stand?" he asked.
"I'm not sure," she said, with a heavy and noticeable slur on the third word. "I don't think so. Not yet."
"I doubt you'd ask me where we're going," he said, slowly. He was used to Michelle in this condition, even if it had been a while. He knew how to approach her: with a direct simplicity. "Who we're up against. And to tell you the truth, I couldn't tell you much about them, even if you wanted to know. Some businessman, and whatever hired gun his ill-gotten wealth will stretch to. But it doesn't matter who they are. They're coming for what you built here, and what I've struggled to keep standing."
He paused, and stood up. He whistled once for Meg, and then again for Gate, the two horses responding to the subtle differences in the calls.
"That you're here is enough," he concluded, simply. "For now."
He held out Gate's reins, which Michelle took in her hands. Without a word, for all of her concentration was dedicated to the next sequence of physical motions, she stood to her feet. She stroked the familiar but forgotten mane of black hair on the white horse's neck, the soft hair catching between the coarse skin of her fingers and palms. She placed her foot in the stirrup, and then pulled herself up onto the horse's back… before promptly falling off the other side.
She landed in a heap in the straw, where soon she fell back into her uneasy sleep.
Gerald crouched over her once more, to fasten her hip flask and put out her pipe. He placed both on the sill next to the long, north-facing window, and then patted Gate to calm him down after the strange, long-awaited reunion with his former rider.
Finally, with the sun casting a bold, orange band across the horizon, he mounted Meg, and left the city in the direction of the So-So Corral. |
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Post by supinesnake on May 30, 2024 13:24:22 GMT
Promo history - volume 93.
"Flume (Reprise)." (October 27th, 2022).
Michelle von Horrowitz def. Cornelius Aurelius Caesar (FWA: Fallout 021). MICHELLE von HORROWITZ
in
[volume 93]
”FLUME (REPRISE)”
*****
Caught the bus from New Orleans to New York and then the ship from there: Trans-Atlantic cruise liner, meaning lots of people, meaning I stay down below deck for as much of it as possible other than daily trips to the bar for beer or whiskey or both. Cabin is fine. Unremarkable but I've slept in far worse places, and at least it isn't in the air. Voyage is a little over six days and I run out of sniff on the third one. Didn't want to bring too much and risk a run-in with customs like the Black Widow thing in Hong Kong. Will be easier once in Europe and don't have to worry about commercial vessels and lots of people. No coke means more important that I stay below deck and don't let anyone bother me, don't bother them in return. Knuckle under and drink until I arrive in Liverpool. Pretty worthless city but an easy one to top up in so I do and get what I think will be enough to last me all the way to London but in truth I'll run out again in Leeds. Drink in Liverpool for the night but struggle to find anything that isn't full of people from Liverpool. Fortunately nobody recognises me. Short conversation with barman in a place called ‘Dive’ - which isn't really a dive bar but most places that call themselves ‘Dive’ or something like that aren't really dive bars - who asks me why I'm in Liverpool. I tell him I have a show in London and work out how many days it is and am pleased that it's still five away. Told Gerald and Uncle would meet them at the venue. No real plans but having no real plans is better alone. The barman at ‘Dive’ still doesn't understand why I'm here and honestly neither do I so I guess we have that in common. Tells me London is a long way away but it's really not but to him it probably is I imagine. Man in a grey suit buys me a drink but it's served in a watering can on a patch of AstroTurf so I don't drink it. He's not too offended and tries it on anyway, talking about the Beatles and Anfield which I find out is a football stadium. Barman has same topics in his conversational repertoire. Man in the grey suit wants to go home with me but I tell him I don't have a home and he's not interested enough to take me to his home so I leave …
*****
She didn't really remember saying goodbye to Gerald, which she must have done after the tag team championship defence, or boarding the boat, which she also must have done considering she was waking up in an unfamiliar cabin that was unquestionably below deck. By this stage, she was well-versed in the art of autopilot, and had the uncanny ability to guide herself to where she needed to be regardless of how many kilometres (or, in this case, seas) lay between her and her destination and how few of her wits remained available to her. Last night was one of those occasions. She had crossed the North Sea and now - when she emerged onto the main deck through a narrow, spiral staircase - was docked in the Port of Copenhagen. The sun was just showing its face, casting its light upon the Øserund Bridge and the city of Malmö across the bay. The deck seemed deserted, and it was only when she disembarked onto the harbour itself that she noticed a young-ish sailor busy securing the boat to its moorings.
"Morning," he said, with a cigarette perched between his pursed lips. His accent was German and thick. "You seem a little more with it this morning. A good sleep?"
She nodded, stretched, and looked at her boat for the first time, unless you counted the photographs she'd seen when exchanging emails with its captain. It wasn't as large as some in the harbour, but given that she was the only quarry it was more than enough. It was to be her home for the next three months, and therefore needed to be small enough to negotiate the Main Canal in Central Germany whilst being swift enough to span the seas at the beginning and end of her journey. Its sails were furled and its steam engine, which would remain dormant but for the passages upon the open seas, was powered down, the only soundtrack to the scene the gentle rolling of the wind and the intermittent whistling of birds.
"Have you seen the captain?" Michelle asked the sailor, who was still engaged in winding a thick length of rope around a bollard.
"Whenever I see my reflection in the water," he answered, before flicking his cigarette end over the edge and onto the jetee. Michelle stamped it out for him. "Welcome aboard, Frau von Horrowitz."
She nodded absently at the banal greeting whilst her eyes traced over the inscription on the bow: S.S. Sisyphus.
“What does it mean?” she asked, nodding at the ship’s name. The captain stopped in his work for a moment to regard his own vessel.
“Not one for Greek mythology?” he replied, with a smile.
“Something Roman would’ve been more appropriate,” Michelle said. The captain pulled a face that suggested he didn’t understand her thread. She was pleased with this: he clearly had no real idea as to her business on the ship, given that he didn’t understand her reference to Caesar, and she would endeavour to keep it that way.
“Aren’t we finishing in Athens?” he asked. She got a sense that he enjoyed answering questions with questions. “Sisyphus will do fine.”
“Who was Sisyphus?” she went on with her enquiries whilst retrieving a pack of Camels from her pocket. She'd slept in her clothes on the passage from London, and the packet had become crumpled in the process. She straightened one out and tapped it against the box to level it off.
"He was the trickster," he answered. She found him to be elusive, and wasn't sure if she thought much of that. "The master thief."
"But what did he do?"
"Lots of things," the captain said, whilst returning to his ropes and the process of mooring. "Fathered Odysseus, by some accounts. You've heard of him, I assume? Good. And fathered some more sprogs with his niece whilst plotting to steal his brother's kingdom. That scheme didn't work out too well for him, though. The best laid plans, et cetera. He's probably most famous for cheating Death, though."
"Cheating Death?" she repeated. It seemed appropriate that she'd chanced upon the most literary-minded seafarer in Northern Europe. "How?"
"Thought that might interest you," the captain said, with a knowing chuckle. "When Thanatos came for him and put him in chains, Sisyphus asked how the herald's bonds worked. Thanatos granted him his wish, given that he'd been instructed to take the poor soul so early, but Sisyphus tricked him. He chained Thanatos himself up and returned to the Overworld, where he continued to live to a ripe old age."
"Happily ever after," Michelle mused, in-between drags of her cigarette.
"Not quite," the seaman went on, with a knowing smile. "With Thanatos in bonds, nobody in the World could pass to Hades. Ares grew bored of his endless battles, judging his wars less fun if none of his enemies died. He found Thanatos and broke his chains, and then Sisyphus was taken to Hades for real. And there he was punished, by being forced to push a boulder to the top of a mountain. When he would approach the peak, the rock would roll back to the bottom again, and his toil re-started."
Michelle said nothing for a moment. She didn't know this story, but she had read about Orpheus, who sang for Hades and Persephone to win back his wife's soul from the Underworld. In this story, whilst Orpheus sang, another man - ostensibly Sisyphus, she now knew - paused in his endless toil, sat on his rock, and listened, moved by the beauty of the song. She wondered how many times Sisyphus had approached the peak in the centuries since he was first punished, and if at this moment - as she stood on the dock and learned about him from her captain - he was closer to the base or the summit.
"Going to the city?" the captain asked. Michelle nodded. "Be back by midnight. We'll have to lift anchor in the early hours, if you want to reach Rotterdam by dawn. That's still your plan?"
"That's still my plan," she confirmed, and then took her leave.
*****
… Most places in Liverpool close at one or two, places open later than that are reprehensible. Head to a park but it starts to rain so I wait at the train station until it opens after finding a store that'll sell me alcohol at any time of the night which is this nation's saving grace. Meet several groups of students who ask me if I'm okay, who don't think I should be waiting by the station on my own. Some even ask me if I'd like to join them but I say no and I think they worry that I think they're out to get me but I explain that I'd rather be on my own and that makes them leave. Train to Manchester and don't try to sleep because it's short. Everything is close together here especially in the north. Manchester is slightly better than Liverpool but not by much but the people at least are more prone to leaving you alone. Hate cities where friendly people are sold as a plus-point. Go to the library and read some of a book about Wigan Pier but it's not interesting and eventually I just sit quietly in a corner and then head to the cathedral for a joint until the sight of the police moves me along. Out of the city slightly along the canal until I find a place called ‘the Yeoman's Arms’ which is full of old men who don't work anymore drinking lukewarm beers which is what English people like to do. Sign in the toilet that reads 'drug users will be prosecuted' which seems like more of a challenge than an admonishment so two more big bumps in the toilet that send me a bit sideways and I admonish myself for lack of self-restraint and fear I'll run out by the time I get to Leeds. Also admonish myself for using the word admonish twice in the same sentence. In two consecutive sentences now. Walk back along the canal and stop for a joint but there are no benches which I guess is to stop people stopping here for a joint. Feel a touch light-headed and worry I'll fall in and then hope I'll fall in and then walk back to the city centre and consider going to the library again but it's dark now and they're closing the library and the skateboarders are outside the building practising tricks and it reminds me of that time I saw skateboarders outside of the library in Madrid. Watch them for a while and smoke three cigarettes, make my stomach feel weird. Spend the evening in a bar called ‘the Castle’ which is fine and quiet until a band starts in the back room but the band isn't bad so I spend eight pounds on a ticket to go see them …
*****
Copenhagen was one of the few major cities in Europe that Michelle had never been to before, and she was unsurprised to find it choked with people. Most major cities were unbearable for this reason. An unreasonable proportion of them seemed to be riding bicycles, and an equally unreasonable proportion of this subset were intent on mowing Michelle down on them (or at least barraging her with incessant, pre-emptive bell ringing). She had been in Copenhagen for around half an hour before deciding that she didn't care for Copenhagen.
She was pushed along by a steady stream of people in the general direction of a pedestrianised area that ran along the seafront, and before long she found herself sitting a few metres away from the Little Mermaid, upon a bench that was positioned at the top of a staircase. She looked down at the statue and the steadily revolving crowds that approached, took a photograph, and then departed. This didn't hold her interest for very long. She was mainly curious about the flock of geese assembling around the base of the statue and a solitary osprey perched in an adjacent maple tree. She lit a cigarette, opened a beer, and longed to be a bird.
“Du kan ikke drikke her.”
A male voice interrupted her malaise before she could really get invested in it. She took a sip from her beer and placed it down next to her, before glancing up at the patrolling policeman addressing her in a language that she didn’t understand. She shrugged in response.
“Français? English? Deutsch?”
“Any is fine,” she said, in English. “Just not Danish.”
“You can’t drink here,” he said, nodding at the tin in her hand. Then, he just loomed.
“Okay, I’ll just finish this one,” she responded. It was a statement rather than a request. The cop continued to loom, casting a short and stubby shadow over Michelle. “Is there anything else?”
“Don’t open another; there are children here,” he said, before walking on down the path. She looked around and observed that there were children here. Perhaps that was an unrelated statement. She watched him plod away, finished her drink, and dropped the cigarette into the empty tin. Then, she opened a second can.
The solitary osprey, who seemed to be alone but not lonely, had begun to fly in wide circles above their heads, and for a while Michelle thought it was preparing to swoop towards the sea in search of its lunch. The thought of it made her hungry, and she couldn't put her finger on how long exactly it had been since she'd last eaten. Eventually, though, the hawk decided to instead fly towards the group of tourists assembled on the walkway and perch upon the railing that separated them from the Mermaid. She surmised that he'd found nothing worth lunging for during his orbit above the water, and had decided to test his luck with the people. Some of them greeted him with intrigue and curiosity, particularly a young Spanish boy, who hesitantly walked towards the bird and held out an empty hand. His attempts at ingratiating himself with the bird were cut short by an American couple, who shooed the creature away with fat, uninterested digits.
"Can't be too careful with hawks," she heard the American man saying to his equally grotesque partner as they waddled past towards the statue.
Her Aunt Maude had told her Hans Christian Andersen's story when she was a young girl. She hadn't been particularly enamoured with it the bulk of it, but certain elements - particularly the themes of envy and unrequited love - she felt a natural connection to in spite of her tender count of years. Age and experience would later validate a lot of the thoughts she already had on such concepts, even if they were developed through abstracted observations of her family and her peers. She would later learn that Andersen wrote the story - where a mermaid gives up her voice to trade her tail for legs in a fruitless attempt to ensnare the prince she loves - in reference to his own love for a friend who was about to marry a girl he deemed unworthy. Michelle could empathise with this: her own life had eventually become a series of hunts, each more futile than the last. Even those that could objectively be deemed successes by the time of their conclusions, like the dalliances with Bell Connelly, Chris Kennedy, and Mike Parr, quickly became utterly pointless when a new trail presented itself, leading to a new hunt. The fruits of her labour were invariably spoiled.
But her empathy was stayed when she considered the tame, tepid reaction, of both writer and character, towards the reciprocation (or lack thereof) of their passion. Andersen decided to write a story, and ended up alone, unfulfilled and unhappy when Thanatos presented himself. His mermaid refused the knife, offered to her by her sisters, and delivered her love - who treated her as though she were little more than a pet and a plaything - into the arms of another. Then, she would burst into seafoam, to be carried away on the back of the wind.
Despite her own insufficiencies and the long list of disappointment that still clung on to the edges of her mind, at least she'd never pathetically acquiesced when her quarry expressed disinterest in being caught. Never had, never would. Her disappointment in herself was outmatched only by her disappointment in others.
The hawk was circling again. Circling, not howling. At first, it hovered close to the surface of the water, but always at the westernmost point of its circle it would hover above the land, its eyes fixed upon the smattering of people still (rather flippantly) regarding the Mermaid’s statue. The geese were less interested, going about their business in the bay, drifting further and further from the shore. She identified with both species: the geese for their gently increasing and self-imposed abstraction from the shore and the tourists, and the hawk for its intriguing inability to remain entirely aloof from them despite it being entirely within its power to do so.
After a half-dozen more wide and high circles, the hawk eventually came to rest on the Mermaid’s shoulder. The tourists stopped taking photographs, and some of them seemed perturbed by the imposition upon their shot. It escaped them that this variant would make their photograph infinitely more unique and interesting than the millions of replications taken before they reached this perch. This current cohort stared with passive eyes at this unwanted interloper until the most daring amongst threw a handful of M&M's (may have been skittles - difficult to say) in the bird's direction. The osprey wasn't hungry enough, and flew away from the dispute.
As she neared the end of her third can she noticed her policeman friend on the seafront pathway. She threw her empties into her rucksack, lit a cigarette, and then took her leave.
*****
… The band in Manchester isn't bad but the room is very small and there are too many people in it so I go back to the bar and listen through the wall instead. Bar closes at two and go to the train station to watch a steady stream of people leaving the city to head back to the provincials and tell mum and dad what a great night they've had in the city and mum and dad worry that one day soon they'll move to the city and they imagine Christmas with just the two of them and remember how much they hate each other. Police harassing drunk students and then a homeless man who just wants to sleep on the pincic benches they have by the station there until some of his friends arrive to take him away to whatever part of the city is deemed acceptable for him to sleep in by which time it’s getting light but it starts to rain again like it always seems to here. Get the first train to Leeds but don’t stay there for long just long enough to get some more coke and then towards Sheffield but stop first in a place called Bamford because the name sounds familiar and when I’m there I remember why but I can’t remember where the hill called the Octopus is and the memories of Esteban aren’t firm or clear enough for me to search for him or where he used to live and I assume he doesn’t live there anymore considering how we said goodbye and there’s probably a new master of the house there now and I imagine he’s not as interesting as Esteban was. Back on the train to Sheffield and straight to the cathedral there for a joint until a security-ish type pushes me along but fortunately he doesn’t smell the joint or doesn’t know what joints smell like or maybe the protestants are okay with joints now but I don’t question it too much so leave when he asks me to. Buy another six Heineken and find a field nearby that has a skatepark and a children’s playground where I drink the six Heinekens and smoke the rest of my packet of Camels. Cigarettes hideously expensive here but I remind myself that I have more money than I could spend in a lifetime given my lifestyle so I buy three packs and give one to a homeless man outside the shop who looks at me like I’ve just saved his son’s life or a better metaphor because if this man has a son I imagine they’re estranged by this point but either way he’s pleased with the gift. In a bar named ‘Park’s Corner’ I meet a girl whose name is Lauren and she’s beautiful but also sort of vapid and she talks about where she wants to live when she’s retired mostly as if this is the main object of her thoughts and she wants to fast-forward through the good parts of her life or the bad parts depending on your perspective on this. Lauren is younger than me but not by very much and eventually I ask her if we can go back to her place and that I haven’t slept for I think two days now or is it three it might be three but could be two I’m not quite sure but she tells me she’s not into girls and that she’s sorry to have wasted my time. I don’t think she really is that sorry to have wasted my time but most people waste my time so she’s not really that special but I don’t tell her this but really I don’t say anything more of note to her and soon she’s bored of the lack of conversation and so she leaves. Drink a couple more on my own and then finish with a whiskey which turns my stomach so another bump in the toilet to settle that and I think about getting a hotel for the night but the trains are still running so I get one of those instead but can’t sleep so stare out the window but it’s too dark dark dark dark to see anything so I close my eyes but I can't see anything then either …
*****
Some of the old, dilapidated buildings that surrounded the central square in the Freetown were cordoned off for the use of the Fantasy Wrestling Alliance, and Michelle changed and prepared (as best as one with a frazzled mind and a black heart can) in the room specified for her. Afterwards she took a quick walk around the commune itself, and was pleased to find a small part of Copenhagen that didn't make her feel physically sick or overawed. It was teeming with people, just like the city itself, but somehow she felt more affinity towards the locals there than the armies of tourists existing around it. And most people she saw were locals, save for the few dozen that had come as guests of Russnow or Jean-Luc. This second group of people stuck out like sore thumbs, clear anomalies amongst people who seemed like they belonged. Michelle wondered what that was like.
She walked down an alleyway and perched on the curb at the side of the pedestrianised and cobbled road, where she lit a cigarette and stared back towards the square. She could see the ring, around which a number of crew members were hurrying and scurrying in preparation for the show. Her alleyway was quieter, and she felt happiness in her abstraction. The only other occupants of her sanctum were a pair of young men, both bearded, one with long hair and the other bald, who were passing a joint back and forth between themselves whilst they spoke in their alien, frantic tongue.
Dreamer was hardly even bothered when these two men instigated a conversation with her. Dialogue with strangers was quite common in her rather mundane life, but she made a point of not conversing with those who would call themselves fans. The men - Michael and Lars, she learned during the conversation and forgot promptly afterwards - were here to see the show, and they inevitably knew who she was. But she found herself willing to forgive them thanks to the peculiar feeling that had gripped her whilst wandering around the Freetown.
“When do you fight tonight?” the bald one, Lars, asked, as he passed her the joint.
“I don’t know,” she said, truthfully, and with a shrug. She knew that she wasn’t in the main event or the opener, and the matches in between those were difficult to differentiate.
“And you’re prepared?” Michael asked, whilst staring up the alley towards the ring. “You’ve figured him out?”
“I’ve been able to think about little else all week,” she replied. This time, she wasn’t being anything close to truthful. Her mind had done its best to think about almost anything but Cornelius Aurelius Caesar, a man she’d had little contact with throughout his short time in the FWA. There was, of course, that time when she’d agreed to postpone her tag team title shot so that the Roman and his Giant friend could deal with Stocke, Lynch, and Hughes, but this wasn’t done out of a favour to the then-newly crowned champions. Michelle had her own concerns: namely dethroning Nova Diamond and winning her second FWA World Championship. Gerald should have had the same priority, but - as her decisions generally did - that choice only served to force another schism between them. They were only just recovering now, and even the belts themselves didn't convince her that they'd fully succeeded in these reparations.
The only time that she'd contemplated Caesar since leaving New Orleans was when she'd stood on the docks in Copenhagen for a brief conversation with the captain that morning. Their dialogue on Sisyphus had brought to mind the Roman's toil, as well as her own, over the past handful of years. At first, she'd considered whether Caesar was the man or the rock: whether he had been pushed up the mountain by his giant of a tag team partner and, after they had reached the precipice, promptly rolled to the bottom again. Reincarnation itself, she thought, was something resembling Sisyphean punishment, in that one must suffer through the ordeals of life ad infinitum rather than only once. She imagined dying and being returned to the same world in a different body, thousands of years in the future, and shuddered at the thought. She found that she understood very little in this world, her world, and the thought of losing even her fragile grip on its edge was too much for her.
In reality, Caesar was neither Sisyphus or his bouder, and neither was she. Real life refused to be neatly boxed into such a restrictive, ancient metaphor. The Roman’s toil - as well as her own - had been spawned out of ambition, which was also true of the Greek, but the parallels were thin thereafter. If anything, her own journey featured more of the darkly comedic tedium that plagued Sispyhus in Hades: her life was a series of similar movements, each looping towards the same disappointing end point like an osprey creating concentric circles overhead, repetitions and variations upon the same uninspiring theme. She greeted her failures with a pig-headed stubbornness, as if this time the boulder was hers to tame, the peak was hers to reach.
The Roman, on the other hand, was ready to walk away from the climb completely, after his own personal boulder had slid out of his grasp for only the first time. He was brought back for other reasons than his own ambition. Loyalty to his deceased friend, who - through nothing more than his colossal scale and his own tale of woe - felt like something straight out of mythology himself. Perhaps it was revenge: a far purer and unadulterated motive. But, either way, Michelle was unsure if the same ambition that had first caused Caesar to lay his hands on the rock and start pushing was truly there. She considered the fact that, at this current moment in time, her own ego was larger and wilder than a man who claimed to be the reincarnation of Julius Caesar himself. This thought made her smile.
"You always smoke before a match?" Lars asked, as he reached over and took the joint from between her fingers. She had retreated into a malaise, and wondered how long she'd been silent and lost within her thoughts. Not long, she imagined.
"Never," she said, with a shrug, and then took her leave.
*****
… Get off the train in Birmingham and head to the first exit I see but there's loads of pigs there and some of them have dogs so I head back into the station because I still have lots of the Leeds coke and a tiny bit of the Liverpool coke in my rucksack. Finish the Liverpool stuff in the toilets in New Street Station by gumming the bag which is disgusting and makes me wince and my stomach turns a bit but the fresh stuff levels me out and I leave through a different exit and there's no pigs. Find a hotel in Birmingham that has smoking rooms but sleep is still beyond me so I sit by the window and smoke half a pack of Camels and drink a bottle of cheap wine I got from the hotel bar that tastes a bit like vinegar and I remember they love that shit here. It gets light so I go out into the city but find that you can't buy booze from a supermarket here until ten thirty so head to the park for a few joints using my backpack as a pillow under an oak tree that's shedding its leaves and manage a couple of hours of dozing in and out of consciousness until the park fills up with children and there's too much noise so I get some breakfast but can't manage more than a bite or two of dry toast and then fall asleep in my uncomfortable chair until an old and sort of grotesque woman with a hideous accent wakes me up and moves me along and tells me where the nearest bar was which was actually quite helpful even if she meant it as an insult so I thank her and then I'm on my way. There's no sign in this bar telling me that 'drug users will be prosecuted' which almost seems like an invitation and mother taught me it's rude to turn down an invitation mustn't be rude must keep up appearances must be a lady must be a human things take a turn here the Leeds coke is pretty strong stronger than the Liverpool coke and soon enough the world is spinning or I am spinning one of us is spinning and I can't be sure which one must hold on can't let go grip is loosening stomach is tightening can't remember Birmingham can't remember train to London can't remember anything in London except the man in Trafalgar Square who tells me I look just like his daughter but I look like a monster sunken eyes flared nostrils pale skin wild hair his daughter must be a monster too maybe his daughter doesn't look like me it's difficult to understand what people really mean …
*****
Michelle returned to the S.S. Sisyphus at a little after midnight, bruised and battered and maybe beaten, but with a much better opinion of the city now that she'd seen the best part of it. Of course, the Freetown wasn't really part of Copenhagen at all, but the fact that it was allowed to exist via an uncomfortable and unsteady agreement was something that made her smile. Or would've done, if her aching muscles were capable of anything other than climbing into bed and laying down on top of her covers. She remembered to take her half-packet of Camels from her pocket and threw them down onto the bedside table next to her. Then, she closed her eyes, the world already a blur, giving up on her as she gave up on it.
The last thing she saw was a small, curved crack directly above her on the ceiling of the cabin. It was a little longer than a banana and roughly the same shape. She tried to reach towards it, so as to feel the rough edges of wood on either side of the chasm against her fingers, but she was too tired.
She took her leave. |
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Post by supinesnake on May 30, 2024 13:30:42 GMT
Promo history - volume 94.
"Untitled." (November 20th, 2022).
Michelle von Horrowitz and Gerald Grayson def. Dan and Doug LuPone (FWA: Meltdown XXII). "I love the forest," Gerald mused, absently. He sat with his back against a willow's trunk, a great many more of them scattered around him in a dense woodland. He breathed the fresh, crisp air, closed his eyes, and found himself thinking about a memory almost lost to time…
****
My dad taught me at a young age that if I wanted something, I needed to work hard for it. I never really understood until I turned fifteen. I started racing against tougher competition, which meant I needed to get better. One of the ways for me to improve was not just through training, but having the right equipment. I was fortunate enough that my parents were able to provide my first ever bike, but it was on its last wheels. If I rode it one more race, I’d be putting my life on the line.
It was summer time in good ol’ Raleigh, North Carolina when I decided to work at “All Seasons Grounds Services,” which provided lawn care, sprinkler installation, tree removal, and more. It was a business owned by one of my dad’s good friends, Bobby Lewis, who graciously allowed me to work there to earn money for my first professional bike.
The guys who worked for Bobby were strong and they needed to be. As a young, skinny kid, I thought the manual labor they were doing would whip me into shape. For motocross, I had to be strong mentally, but also physically. I had seen them hacking down trees before and I was astonished at how quickly they worked. They had various contraptions that made cutting down those trees easy, but they also had reliable tools like saws and axes.
My first day of the job came and I was excited. I thought I’d be out there in the heat with the rest of the guys, but I wasn’t. I was in the store, answering calls, sweeping up the place, doing admin work. While admin work was honest enough, I wanted to be out there. However, that was also the day one of Bobby’s guys suffered a severe injury. He had gotten his hand stuck in the wood chipper machine and had left with one less hand. From that day forward, I learned that whatever work you do, no matter how small, helps the company you work for. I strived for perfection when it came to my administrative duties.
Eventually, though, Summer ended.
“The paperwork around here has never been so organized, Gerald. For that, I thank you,” Bobby told me, shaking my hand.
“It was a pleasure working here, Mr. Lewis. Because of you, I can buy myself a new bike."
“You earned it. Here’s your final cheque,” he said, handing me an envelope. I looked at it with starry eyes, before glancing back at Mr. Lewis. I thanked him again and was off to buy my new bike that very same day.
****
"Me too," Dreamer replied. She was lying down on the cold grass, the earth firm with winter. Movement was difficult owing to the patchwork of injuries, physical and psychological, that riddled her body, but if she remained perfectly still she could almost forget about that. The shade of the willow brought rejuvenation.
Gerald had been quiet for quite some time, and she feared he was asleep. She closed her own eyes, and found herself thinking about a memory almost lost to time…
****
It was in Marseille and Florian was there, meaning that I must have been fifteen, with all of youth's headstrong naivety. The image is still clear to me, now that I try to conjure it up: two large, yellow diggers, to be used for the excavation of the woodland, were parked up only a meter away from us, their offensive parts pointed at us in some dim replication of the Cuban Missile Crisis. Behind them, a series of workmen waited, their impatience quietly growing. Often, one of them would look over at us, whisper to a colleague, and then continue to wait. The picture was absurd, now that it was laid out before me.
Most vividly, I could feel the chains that bound me to the poplar, biting against my hips, my bare forearms, my shoulders. It had been a while, but I could remember the liberation that came with being confined by my own will.
Florian, the exchange student from Naples, had been flagging for hours. Two days strapped to a tree with little food will do that. As I looked at him, uneasy and struggling against his constrictions, I wondered if he ever really cared about the woodland. Now, I wondered if I ever did either.
"I really think we've made our point," he said, out of earshot of the idle workmen. "We can't stay here until we die."
"We can hold out longer than this. Or I can, at least. You follow your own heart."
His heart held out another hour, until his father arrived and they engaged in a brief conversation. I couldn't hear more than the occasional word (which mostly centered upon his responsibilities), but the manner in which he loomed above Florian - wearing a gray suit and with his hands tightly clasped behind his back - was striking. Memorable, I guess.
I stayed for another few hours, until night came and the cold with it. This time, though, the evening bite was accompanied by the police. They cut my chains and arrested me, for the first time in my life. I should've made more of that before I was old enough to matter. Life is full of regret.
****
Without opening her eyes, Michelle reached into her pocket and pulled out her cigarettes. She lit one, inhaling lazily as the afternoon swept by.
"You want to talk about our match?" he asked her. The willow trunk scratched his back but he wasn't irritated. He felt close to nature. Peaceful, and more comfortable than he had in a good few months.
"Not really." |
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