THE SAVIOR MACHINE: a brief collection of weird fiction
Written and illustrated by Daniel La Ponsie
Published by Without Adjectives
ISBN 978-0-9845799-0-7
Last modified 1 Jun 2010
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.
Cover design and illustration, interior layout, interior design, and all illustrations by Daniel La Ponsie. All stories and content edited by Misty M. La Ponsie.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or any part thereof.
Copyright © 2010 Daniel La Ponsie
ISBN 978-0-9845799-0-7
Published by
WITHOUT ADJECTIVES
Grand Rapids, Michigan
The stories:
Grand Rapids, Michigan.
THE NIGHT AIR WAS ICEBOX COLD. Scabs was wearing only a starched dress shirt, and slacks. He ran a sweaty hand over his thin face and then across his balding head. Every time he heard a passing vehicle, his eyes scanned the empty parking lot.
“Torturing prisoners isn’t something I wanna be involved with,” he said.
Gordon was rubbing his hands together, trying to keep warm. “It’s freezing out here,” he said. “How can a skinny guy like you stand it?”
Scabs shrugged. “It’s August.”
Gordon said, “Hell yes, it’s August. It’s also Michigan.”
Scabs checked his timepiece yet again. It was a little past midnight.
The gold pocket watch was a gift for his 20 years of service. He suspected it was also a thank-you for declining an offer to join the growing U.S. Bureau of Investigation. He didn’t trust the Federal Government, and he especially distrusted shadowy operatives. It was the easiest “no” of his life.
G.R. Police Detective Joe Scaberneli was only a half-inch taller than Gordon’s five and a half feet. But his lanky frame created the illusion that he towered high above his companion.
Police Lieutenant Gordon Cornell was dressed in a heavy warm overcoat, full suit and tie, and wore a long, bushy mustache. The man was large and heavy, with fingers like polish sausages and no neck.
He received the nick-name “Brick-Wall Gordon” while on the high school football team, for good reason. It’s a nick-name he still has, thanks to more than a few physical confrontations during his time on the police department, as well as an occasional bar room brawl.
Gordon was relieved to finally see a single headlamp turn off of the road and into the parking lot. The headlamp shut off seconds after pulling off the street. The motorcycle moved across the small parking area shrouded in moonlight, zipped between a row of parked police cars, and ground to a halt right in front of the pair.
A man wearing a long brown coat climbed off the shiny black Indian Motorcycle, dropped a finished cigarette to the ground, and walked up to the two men.
Beneath his long coat, the man wore a black suit. The white square of his Roman collar hovered like a badge below his smiling face. His jet-black hair was messed from the ride.
He quickly shook hands with Scabs. “Father Scott Sideways. It’s a pleasure, Detective.” And then he clasped Gordon’s hand. “Great to see you again, Gordon.”
“How is your sister doing, Scott?”
“Yes, she told me about your visit to her the other day.” Scott beamed. “Thank you, my friend. Isis is doing better today. Smiling. And still complaining about the hospital staff, and the dogs outside her window.”
And then Scott’s eyes took a more serious tone. “Where’s he being held?”
Gordon shook his head. “She.”
He placed another cigarette between his lips, and struck a match. “She, then.”
Det. Scabs led the way to up the front steps of the police department. The large four-story brownstone building was quiet as a corpse.
Almost all the lights were off in the place. The detective said, “You won’t be disturbed while you, ah …” He paused. “How much did the bishop tell you?”
“Not much.”
Scabs explained the situation while they climbed the stairs to the 4th floor. A delivery man had been murdered months ago. He was just a kid, well-liked by everybody. No crooked connections and no one had any grievance with him. His company truck was stolen. Bastards left his mutilated body in a drainage ditch.
The detective came upon evidence that pointed to the victim’s employer. Scabs and Gordon made an afternoon visit to the suspect’s office, hoping to find some clue as to his whereabouts.
What they found was the owner’s wife sitting on the floor, in a pool of her own urine. To make the scene even more unsettling, she was feasting on a pile of flies and spiders—eating them right off the floor!
When Scabs began to ask the old lady where they might find her husband, she spit a mouthful of bug in his face and proceeded to scamper on all fours right up the wall. It took both men to haul her 80-year-old ass back down to the ground.
Gordon insisted they telephone the local Bishop. Scabs relented. The Bishop promised to send someone immediately. As far as Lt. Gordon was concerned, the Bishop had sent the best.
Scabs led the way to a door at the far end of the hallway. He began to open the door, but hesitated. “You’re not going to hurt her, right?”
Scott impatiently shoved Scabs out of the way and entered the room. “Shut the door,” he said over his shoulder. “This shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”
Scabs shut the door and locked it. “Why couldn’t the Bishop have come?”
Gordon shrugged. “Bishop Pinten’s busy. Anyway, I know this guy. He’s better qualified for this sort of thing than anyone else.”
“We should have called a shrink, not a priest.” Scabs gave a worried glance toward the door.
***
Inside the room, the old lady strained against the handcuffs. They looked ready to break. So did the veins in her forehead. Her bulging eyes followed the priest as he walked into the room.
“Scott Sideways,” she said, “of the Vatican Intelligence Agency.” Her voice was dry and heavy. A smile revealed rows of teeth covered in bug paste from her earlier meal. “I was told to expect you.”
The room was completely empty, save for two chairs, one table, and a single bulb dangling from the ceiling.
Scott wordlessly walked up to the chair opposite the hag and kicked it out of the way. The wooden chair clacked against the wall and floor, and came to rest at the side of the room. He placed both hands on the table and stared hard into the old lady’s eyes.
He studied them for a full minute, and then he withdrew a small flask from his inside coat pocket. He unscrewed the cap and placed his thumb over the top. He moistened his thumb with the vial’s contents. Olive oil, blessed by the Pope. As he did this, he recited a few quick liturgical prayers in Latin.
The yellowish oil was glistening on his thumb. The old woman began thrashing back and forth in her seat before he even touched her.
He had to use his free hand to grip her hair tightly, holding her still while his thumb came into contact with the dry skin on her forehead. She began screeching in pain, legs flailing about. Her hands pulled hard against the cuffs.
As she screeched, the light above their heads flickered and then grew brighter.
He watched her eyes.
She paused. Then began cackling.
Scott frowned and withdrew his thumb from her forehead. Something was terribly wrong. In the eyes, he saw something there. Or rather, he noticed something wasn’t there.
He had thought at first that her pupils were not dilated. But now he saw that her eyes had no pupils at all—only white surrounding a dark brown iris.
This wasn’t a case of possession; this was impersonation! A demon was sitting before Father Sideways in the guise of a human.
The demon had a blistering burn on her forehead. She kept her eyes locked on Scott, and a curling smile on fixed upon her face.
“What’s your name?” he said.
She laughed.
“I demand your name, demon!”
She laughed harder.
“Tell me your name!”
She spat.
He pulled out a clean white towel, and began to pour the blessed oil into it. “You are going to tell me your name,” Scott said evenly. “And you’ll answer every question that I put to you.”
Out in the hall, Scabs and Gordon were taking turns peering through a one-inch slit in the center of the door. Scabs was horrified. “What the hell is he doing to her?”
“He’s a professional.”
“This whole thing stinks!” Scabs wiped his sweaty palms on his pants. “I thought he was just some sort of exorcist priest.”
“He also works for Vatican Intelligence.”
“He’s a damn spy?” He fired a betrayed look at Gordon. “I’m going in there.”
Gordon put a hand up. “Just give him a minute.”
“Beating an old woman is hardly professional.” After a few expletives, Scabs said, “You sure they can’t hear us down on the ground floor?”
“I’m sure.”
“She’s getting pretty loud. Better go and check.”
Gordon disappeared down the stairs. Then Scabs placed his hand on the door knob. He paused.
Inside the cell, she had burns and welts all up and down her bare arms, neck, and face—anywhere the towel soaked in blessed oil had come in contact with her skin.
Scott got ready to swat her with the towel again. “I could do this all night, demon.”
“Stop, please.”
“Give me your name, demon.”
“FixSix.”
“And why did you take the form of an old woman, FixSix?”
“To influence events. To make preparation.”
“Go on.”
She chuckled. “I am small. But someone bigger than I is coming to this world.”
“Who is it you are working for?”
“I will not answer that.”
“Tell me!”
She spat. “Suck my cunt, priest!”
Scott pulled a glass bottle from his pocket.
“No, please!” FixSix looked to the door, then back to Scott.
Scott waved the bottle in front of her face. “You do know that this isn’t tap water, right?”
“Please don’t hurt me.” Her voice changed to that of a sweet old lady. “Where am I? Where is my husband?”
Scott raised his voice. “You are trying to help a larger entity. Who is it?”
“Please, stop! Where am I?”
The door burst open. Scabs rushed in waving a hand at Scott. “You can go now.” Then he turned to the elderly woman, and put on an apologetic smile. “Hello, ma’am. My name is Detective Scabs, of the Grand Rapids P.D., and …”
“What are you doing?” Scott glared at the detective.
“Thanks, Father. Please leave now. I can handle it from here.”
“You’re stupid.” Scott leaned against the wall, crossed his arms.
Scabs scowled. “And what makes you say that?”
“Because she got out of her cuffs.”
The detective’s face fell.
Before Scabs was even able to turn his head toward her, she was out of her chair and squeezing his throat. A low growl erupted from her twisted face.
Scabs managed a whimpered plea for help before she viciously grabbed him by the crotch and threw him across the room. He crumpled to the floor howling in pain.
Then she sprang toward the open door.
***
The Grand Rapids Art Gallery was gorgeous, especially in the moonlight. It was a massive Greek style home, renovated to house large blocks of gallery space and dinner gatherings for wealthy donors. Wide windows allowed the rivers of bluish light to flood into the spacious rooms, and cast the artwork in a haunting glow.
Despite the art and architecture and romantic imagery of it all, Dave thought about how terribly boring his job was. His employer, who was also his dad, couldn’t pay him enough to appreciate any of it. All this stuffy cultural crap, it’s for the birds.
He yawned, and scratched at his ass with his gun. The full moon hovering outside the window seemed to constantly remind him that normal people were sleeping.
“Dave!”
Dave looked to his partner. The young red haired kid was glaring at him from his post at the other end of the hall.
“Holster that gun.”
Dave sighed and stuffed the revolver into his holster.
“What the heck do you have smeared across your pant leg?”
“Chalk dust,” Dave said.
The redhead shook his head and muttered to himself.
Inside the main exhibition hall, about 2 dozen priceless Christian relics were being held in display cases. Dave thought about how much ammo he had, and mentally did a head-count of how many men were around the property.
***
“There are 25 men guarding the exhibit,” Lt. Gordon said to Scott. He shut the door of the police car. Another three cars marked GRPD pulled up behind Gordon’s.
They stood on Fulton Street looking at the Grand Rapids Art Gallery. “Twenty five?” Scott lit another cigarette. “Not gonna be enough.”
He reached into a leather bag that was attached to the rear of his motorcycle. He pulled out what looked like an over-sized revolver. Gordon’s facial expression betrayed the fact that he had never seen anything like it in his life. The most notable characteristic was an image of the Blessed Virgin carved into the wooden grip, 7 swords were piercing her Immaculate Heart.
“What kind of priest are you?”
Scott winked. Then he swung the large cylinder out and began sliding one bullet into each of the seven chambers.
The police lieutenant had worked with Father Sideways on a few other occasions, but Gordon was still amazed at the array of weapons and odd items that Scott carried with him. He found himself having difficulty thinking of Scott as an ordained Catholic clergyman who took the very same vows as his own parish priest.
Det. Scabs would have joined Scott and Gordon had he not needed immediate medical attention.
After FixSix accosted the detective, she tried to make it out the door. Gordon had returned in time to slam the door in her face. She landed at Scott’s feet.
Scott doused Fix with Holy Water. She talked.
The stolen delivery truck had been used to covertly transport a handful of mercenaries into Grand Rapids. FixSix only knew some vague details. Something is being built in the heart of the city. A device of evil, according to the tittering demon.
The last thing FixSix told Scott, before he sent her back to the outer darkness, was that these mercenaries would arrive at the Gallery sometime around 3am.
Scott finished loading his gun, swung the cylinder back in place, and fit the revolver into his holster. It left a tell-tale bulge in his coat. An extra handful of bullets went into his pocket.
Scott told Gordon he was all set, and the two made their way across the street, toward the front gate. “What sort of weapon is that?” Gordon said.
“She’s called the Seven Sorrows,” Scott said, referring to the gun. “Custom-made. Designed to fire these.” He held up one of the bullets. “Holy water, silver bearings, and wood shavings from a Michigan apple tree. The casing is entirely gold and was blessed by the Pope in a private ceremony at the Vatican.”
“Are we hunting werewolf?” Gordon looked tense.
“Don’t be ignorant, Gordon.”
“Ah. Of course.” Gordon nodded his head and managed a smile.
“Werewolves are primarily in Europe.” Scott gave Gordon a friendly slap on the arm. “What we’re after, my friend, are Northern Dogmen.”
Gordon furrowed his brow. “Dogmen?”
“Northern Dogmen. Doing mercenary work, according to Fix.”
At the front gate, a couple security guards greeted them. Four more police cars arrived, and parked on the street. Scott let Gordon do the talking.
Looking about, Scott saw someone watching from the window of a neighboring house. No doubt curious about what’s going on next door, Scott thought to himself. Scott hoped that there wouldn’t be anything to see tonight, nothing to tongue-wag about with other neighbors.
At that moment, a big black dog jumped from the darkness onto one of the officers, folding the hapless man to the ground like a used napkin. It sprung toward the gate and knocked Gordon off his feet. Then it turned and snapped at a security guard, sending a wave of blood across the sidewalk.
The shadowy animal sprinted toward the Gallery and sprang up the wall.
“On the roof!” someone shouted.
Gun fire rang out from everywhere. Striking the house and sending bits of rock flying into the air. A window exploded, launching glass across the lawn.
Scott dashed to the house, and right into the front lobby.
It didn’t occur to Scott that the window had shattered from a bullet fired from inside the house. He cried out in pain as a bullet struck his right shoulder.
***
Inside the gallery, chaos had broken loose. One of the security guards was screaming something about voices in his head and shooting at random.
Gordon was kneeling at Scott’s side, with two officers directly behind him. They had guns drawn at the ready. Gordon spoke into Scott’s ear. “Can you stand?”
Scott nodded. “Flesh wound,” he said.
Gordon helped him to his feet. They moved ahead through the hall toward a staircase. Gordon said, “The young man at the gate told me the main exhibit gallery is on the 2nd floor.”
The two stopped at a dead body. The security guard who had turned on the others was now on his back with a bullet through his head. A pool of blood was spreading across the white carpeted floor. Brain matter was sliding down a marble wall.
A young man was standing with a gun in his hand and his chest heaving in and out. His cheeks were as red as the mop of hair on his head and the blood on his shirt. “I knew something wasn’t right about him tonight,” he said.
Scott fell to one knee and placed his hand over the dead man’s eyes. He said a short prayer in Latin.
Then a quick search of the dead man’s pockets produced a stick of chalk, and something that looked like a large coin. Scott looked it over. It had an odd symbol, a triangle within a circle. Runes were etched all around it.
Scott said, “Poor kid’s a victim, too. He was being used.”
A third officer ran into the Gallery and informed Gordon that a delivery truck had just arrived outside. “Three more dogmen,” the officer said. “Our bullets don’t seem to be hurting them.”
“And the driver?” Gordon inquired.
“Didn’t recognize him, Sir. But he tried to attack us when we ordered him out of the car. He was shot dead in a hurry.”
“I wonder why the rest delayed.” Scott said.
“Perhaps the one upstairs was just a scout,” Gordon said. “Or a distraction.”
A worried thought crossed Scott’s mind, but he quickly pushed it aside. He pulled out his revolver, cocked the hammer back, and started up the stairway.
Scott stopped at the landing when a security guard tumbled down from above and landed at Scott’s feet.
A look of horror was frozen on the dead guard’s face.
The dogman came down the stairs, moving on hind legs. Up close it was thin and slender, like all dogmen, and only stood at a height of six feet while on hind legs—as opposed to werewolves with their broad shoulders and a height of eight feet or more.
But dogmen were nonetheless intimidating, with large sharp teeth and claws. This one had black fur, matted with blood from its victims upstairs.
Gordon took quick aim and shot him in the chest. The beast only laughed, and took another step forward. So Gordon hauled back and slugged the beast in the jaw. The dogman stood there, dazed and stunned.
Then Scott shot him between the eyes—point blank. The creature dropped instantly to the floor, dead.
“Good lord, they smell bad,” Gordon snorted.
“We need to get to the main exhibit,” Scott said, turning to the redheaded security guard.
“This way,” Red told them. He led them up to the second floor hallway and into the main gallery. Two guards were dead on the floor. “That was Dave’s doing.” The kid spoke through clenched teeth.
One of Gordon’s officers left to check on the situation upstairs. The other two kept watch at the doorway, guns drawn. Scott examined the display cases one after another, wondering what exactly they might be after.
Another dogman stormed into the exhibit hall, knocking over both police officers. Gordon dealt the beast a right and then a left. While the creature staggered, Scott casually lifted his pistol and fired. The thing fell to the floor with a thud.
“I do believe that we have found a workable dogman-busting formula,” Gordon said. He helped his men to their feet.
“We’ll have to ask the Bishop to bless your fists,” Scott said.
Gordon responded with an uncertain laugh.
Scott picked up a leaflet explaining the various items on display. The front page proclaimed that the event was brought to the city with the financing of one Doctor Vladimir Thinness, head of the Scattered Few Religious Society.
Doctor Thinness is a known eccentric, and an occultist. His so-called Religious Society is known to Scott for raising money through the sale of dubious art effects and counterfeit relics.
A short blurb at the back of the leaflet boasted recent Scattered Few members including a handful of state and federal politicians, and a local wealthy businessman named Joseph Civic. Scott harrumphed and stuffed the paper into his pocket.
Scott noticed some chalk markings on the floor in a darkened corner. They appeared to be runes drawn in a circle around one of the display cases. Because the rest of the room was fairly well lit, it seemed unnaturally dark in that corner of the room—just beyond those runes.
Red looked in the direction that Scott was. “What the hell?” He walked briskly to the corner.
“Wait!” Scott said. “Don’t!”
The kid stepped through the circle, and didn’t even have time to scream. In a flash of bright blue light, clothing and flesh instantly burned to ash. Only bone remained to fall to the floor in a smoking heap.
Scott ran to the circle. “Everyone keep away!”
“What is that?” Gordon said.
“This is a spell that keeps out everyone, except those permitted.”
“And I presume the dogmen are the only ones permitted?”
Scott reached in his pocket and pulled out a leather pouch of blessed salt. Uttering a few words of power in Latin, he poured the salt into the palm of his hand. When he was done speaking the words, he sprinkled the salt from the outside of the circle through to the inside.
As soon as the circle had been safely broken, light from the room illuminated the corner. A 2 x 2 foot square display case sat atop a raised dais. Inside the case was what appeared to be a small crystal gear. The first rays of sunlight flowed uninterrupted into the room, and danced upon the sparkling crystal.
Scott stepped forward. Gordon exhaled loudly. When Scott looked at Gordon, he smiled apologetically. “Not that I doubted.”
The final two dogmen burst into the room and Scott expertly fired off two shots. Brain and blood exploded about the ornate doorway, and the creatures yelped as they dropped to the floor.
Then Scott turned his attention back toward the corner. He holstered his weapon and threw the glass case aside, allowing it to shatter against the floor. He lifted the gear to the sunlight and inspected it more closely. Solid crystal. Beautifully polished. An image of Theseus slaying The Minotaur was engraved into its center. “The Theseus Key,” Scott said to himself.
Scott pocketed the key, and turned to Gordon. “Do you know where we might find Joseph Civic?”
“I would presume that he’d be at his new theater this morning. Preparing for the grand opening. My wife and I were planning to attend.”
“What can you tell me about this theater?”
“Not much, really.” Gordon stroked his mustache as he thought. “Large. Biggest theater in the state. Was built right alongside the Grand River. Huge banquet rooms on the lower levels. The upstairs is to host basic entertainments, including boxing. And there is rumored to be some sort of massive, cavernous basement.”
Scott gave Gordon a sideways glance.
Gordon quickly added, “He’s been most secretive about it. Refused to show both media and city authorities. But some well-placed political donations kept complaints among city officials to a minimum.”
***
The marble exterior of the newly constructed Civic’s Grand Theater gleamed in the morning sunlight.
The Grand River rushed noisily near the north side of the building, slightly swollen from a series of recent rainstorms.
To the east of “the Civic,” as the press was calling it, the downtown streets were beginning to spring to life. Joseph Civic stood on a nearby sidewalk, enjoying the fresh air.
Vladimir Thinness descended the marble steps of the Civic. “Good morning, Joseph.”
Joseph ignored the greeting.
Thinness hesitated, studying the man’s posture. “Or am I addressing Dark Lady?”
Joseph smiled. “Good morning.”
It could be difficult for Dr. Thinness, working alongside a man who was sometimes channeling the consciousness of someone else. He wasn’t sure if Civic was indeed possessed by another being, or just nuttier than a windmill cookie.
“We should have hired more men, um, Dark Lady,” Vladimir said delicately.
“Men.” Joseph chuckled at the word. “Dogmen are greedy, my dear Doctor. Besides, the work is complete. And …” he shut his eyes a moment. He pursed his lips. “I can see that the Theseus Key is on its way to us at this very moment.”
Joseph bade a pleasant “Good morning ma’am” to an attractive woman walking past them. His insincere smile vanished as soon as she was gone.
Then he turned to Dr. Thinness, and rested a hand on his arm. “Come, my darling Doctor! Time to prepare the Savior Machine.”
***
Scott and Gordon left their vehicles parked on the street and approached the expansive marble front of the Civic. Scott paused. “You feel that?”
“Vibration. We’ve had more than a few phone calls from citizens concerned about so much construction taking place below ground. Seems some folks are worried that the city might cave in or something.” Gordon had an amused smirk on his face.
They began climbing the stairs. “You say Thinness was overseeing the building of this place?” Scott said.
“He oversaw it all personally. Both he and Civic, from the very day they broke ground.”
They entered the plush lobby. The motif appeared to be blood red. Carpets and the wall covering and drapes were all the same deep red. It looked as if someone slit an artery and let it spray all over the place. A lighter Red Oak wooden trim was the closest thing to a break from the bloody monotony.
The two stepped into the elevator. Because there was no staff on duty, they needed to operate it themselves.
“Take us as far down as this will go,” Scott said, as he pulled the gate closed.
“I’ll expect a tip.” Gordon threw the appropriate lever and then released the brake.
On the way down, Gordon asked about the Key.
“About a hundred years ago, a man named John Murray Spear was visited by entities claiming to be the ghosts of Benjamin Franklin and other American Founding Fathers. They gave him the key, and told Spear that Christ’s second coming would take place in America. He would come in the form of a machine, allegedly.”
“And this is the key to that machine?” Gordon said.
Scott nodded. “They gave him detailed instruction on how to build a large man-shaped machine. He believed that the machine would herald a dramatic evolutionary step for mankind. No more sickness, no more bodily death.”
Gordon said, “Clearly this man was mistaken.”
“Spear thought he had both a patriotic duty and a Christian duty to build this machine.”
They reached the basement floor, but Gordon didn’t open the door just yet. “What happened to the machine?”
“An agent for the Vatican Intelligence Agency tracked down the machine and dismantled it. The pieces were dropped in a lake, and left there until a proper way to destroy the machine could be found.”
Gordon raised his eyebrows. “And?”
“And … I don’t think the case was ever followed up.” Scott smiled. “It was sort-of forgotten.”
“Sort-of forgotten?”
Scott shrugged. “Bureaucracy is the devil, isn’t it?”
They slid the gate open and stepped out into the basement. And it looked, disappointingly, like a basement. A pair of large boilers sat in the center of the basement like a fat harlot’s exposed breasts. And that was all there was to be seen. The only doorway lay open to a staircase heading up.
“This appears to be all there is to be seen down here,” Gordon said.
“In my line of work, Gordon, nothing is what it appears.” Another vibration rocked the basement floor. Scott raised his eyebrows.
They inspected the operating panel. There was a little door below the controls. Gordon opened it, revealing a small red lever. He made a gesture with his hand. “Be my guest, Scott. You are the ‘what happens when I do this?’ type of man.”
Scott smiled, threw the lever, and released the brake. The elevator dropped rapidly. Through the gate, they saw a massive basement level open up before them. Scott squinted. It appeared to be a mile deep.
On the far side was a giant man-like figure entirely constructed of steel. Bronze trim added a decorative touch. The machine was partially obscured by scaffolding allowing workers to finish their tasks. But Scott could clearly see the head was in the shape of a bull, with horns sweeping outward from each side. Thin pipes protruded from the shoulders.
Scott and Gordon exited the elevator. No one else seemed to be on the floor, but they both had their weapons drawn. As they approached the machine, Scott marveled at its height.
Gordon pointed at what looked like a door in the ceiling. “That must be how they plan to get it out of here. This place looks like an underground military hangar.”
Scott craned his neck, looking upward. “The mechanical beast must be four stories high. And that door must be six stories up. How will they lift it up there?”
“It’s called hydraulics,” came a smooth voice. “Hydraulics and steam power will enable me to lift the Savior Machine up beside City Hall.”
They turned around to see a very well dressed man walking across the paved floor. He wore a long white lab coat. His black hair was neatly coiffed, his full beard smartly trimmed. He had a toothy smile and a firm handshake.
“Thinness. Doctor Vladimir Thinness. I don’t believe we met before, Father …”
“Sideways,” Scott said.
“And what brings a priest down here, Father Sideways?”
“Your ungodly device.” Scott spoke the words sharply.
“We need to take a look at it,” Gordon said.
Thinness said, “Ah, you have questions about permits? I can alleviate any concerns.” He pulled a wad of cash from the inside pocket of his jacket.
“I also have some questions about an attempted theft and several murders at the Gallery. And now bribery.”
Two figures appeared from a room at the far end of the hangar. One walked toward them. The other, a dogman, remained in the distance.
The man approaching was Joseph Civic. As he talked, he gestured with his hands in an almost feminine way. “You’re just in time,” he said. He snapped his fingers with a flourish. “After months of hard work, we are just about to test the Savior Machine.”
Scott watched in horror as a hospital bed was rolled out of the room. The dogman wheeled it directly to the front of the Machine.
A young woman lay still on it, speaking deliriously. “What … what … who … oh …”
Scott gripped Civic by the throat. His voice was steady and direct. “Let my sister go right now.” With his other hand, Scott pressed his revolver to Civic’s left temple. “Or maybe we should see if you can breathe through the side of your head?”
At that moment, Thinness produced a pistol and pointed it at Scott, and Gordon whipped out his pistol and aimed it at Thinness.
“Easy,” Gordon cautioned the doctor in an even voice.
Civic’s eyes scanned the situation around him as he emitted a choked giggle. Scott pressed the muzzle of his large revolver tight against his skull.
“Come now. Your twin sister has been sick all her life,” Civic said. “a weak immune system. A bad heart. And now cancer. The Machine can cure her of this tragedy.”
Scott didn’t budge.
Civic held out a trembling hand. “Give me the key. Together, we can deliver her a miracle.” Scott pressed the gun harder against his head. It was enough to make Civic wince. “Father Sideways, I know you aren’t afraid to be curious. That’s what makes you good at what you do.”
Scott hesitated. Closed his eyes.
Gordon looked at Scott wide-eyed. It was as if Gordon could see into the mind of his friend. “Scott! These men are involved in several murders. And bribery. And theft. And all manner of vile things. They are hardly interested in defending life and healing people.”
Scott lowered the gun and released his hold on the man’s neck. He reached into his pocket and tossed the key to Civic like a tin coin.
Civic held it on the palm of his hand, and marveled at it. The crystal gear seemed to shimmer beneath the electric lights that shined down from overhead. Then Civic handed the key carefully to Thinness.
The doctor wrapped his fingers around the key and grinned. With a giddy spring in his step he dashed toward the machine. He scrambled up the scaffold like a school boy climbing into a new tree house.
Civic demanded that Scott and Gordon hand over their weapons. The two complied. Gordon did so with visible regret.
Civic carried their weapons off toward the room at the far side of the hangar, after telling the dogman to keep an eye on them.
Scott rushed to his sister’s side. She was looking up with eyes that kept blinking open and then shutting again. The expression on her face was that of someone drifting in and out of a bad dream. And her bed was filthy, because she had evacuated her bladder into the sheets.
“Not even a blasted bedpan,” Scott murmured.
Gordon walked up to Scott’s side, and spoke in a hushed voice. “Where is everyone? Obviously they had at least a small team of workers down here.”
“I think we already killed most of their employees,” Scott said, referring to the dogmen.
Gordon kept his voice low and his eye on the dogman. “We have to move now, Scott.”
“She was all the family I’ve had since our parents died,” Scott said. He ran a hand through sweat-soaked hair. He spoke to her gently, telling her not to be afraid. A blue rosary was wrapped around her fingers, and she was holding it tightly to her chest.
She kept muttering about dogs. “Terrible, terrifying … dogs … dogs …”
Scott looked up at Gordon. “Help me move her to the elevator.”
They both looked toward the dogman. It had wandered away slightly, watching Thinness up at the machine. Civic had disappeared into the room. They had little time.
“They aren’t watching us too closely,” Gordon said.
“Probably think they already won,” Scott said.
Scott worried that wheeling the bed toward the elevator would make too much noise. So together they lifted Isis as carefully as possible. They shuffled toward the elevator until they were able to lower her to the floor of the lift.
Scott and Gordon paused to catch their breaths. “I have to confess,” Scott said. “I would like to see what this Savior Machine can do.”
“Bureaucracy may be the devil, Scott. But curiosity could well be the devil’s mistress.”
A sudden sound sound of groaning metal came reverberating from above, eventually overtaken by metallic laughter. Scott and Gordon looked up in time to see the massive metal fingers twitching. One arm shivered, and then swayed. A burst of steam came from the exhaust pipes at the shoulders.
Finally, the large head began to move, hollow eyes looking around the room. The head turned from side to side, knocking its wide horns against some of the higher scaffolding.
“I am Asterion,” it said. The voice sounded metallic and hollow. “I am the New Model Power.” A groan echoed from within its body as it stretched and flexed its arms.
The dogman noticed that Scott and Gordon were at the lift. It growled and sprinted on all fours toward them. Scott shoved Gordon into the elevator with his sister. “Get her up to safety!”
Gordon nodded his head, and released the brake. The elevator began to move slowly upward.
The dogman was almost on top of Scott as he reached for his pistol, and cussed as he remembered that he had handed it over to Civic. He dove to the floor and rolled out of the way in time for the dogman to lunge. The beast bounced off the elevator gate and rolled onto the floor.
Scott scrambled back to his feet and ran toward the machine’s legs. As he ran, he reached into his pocket. Then he quickly spun around with a handful of blessed salt, and threw it into the dogman’s face. The dogman yelped and stopped in its tracks. The blessed part didn’t matter with the dogman, but salt in the eyes sure seemed to sting.
The elevator was almost safely out of sight. Civic had stepped out in the open and fired twice. Then he gave up and turned his gun toward Scott, and shot three times. Two bullets struck the dogman and apparently did nothing to harm the creature. The third hit Scott’s right hand, entering the palm and exploding painfully out the other side.
While the dogman was still busy trying to get the salt out of its eyes, the Minotaur took a step forward. Scott moved to the side. The metal hoof missed him by inches. The ground shook, and the pavement cracked.
The Machine pulled the scaffolding apart with a sweep of the arm. Metal and wood began raining noisily to the floor. Scott dove under the now-empty hospital bed, and cried out in agony as he hit the floor. His injuries sent waves of pain through his body.
A heap of metal rods came down around the hospital bed, and on top of the dogman. One sharp, broken plank dropped directly through the beast’s heart, killing it with a sickening thwump.
Only a layer of scaffold behind the great metal giant remained erect, with Thinness holding on for dear life. As Scott began looking around for a way to get up to Thinness, he saw that Civic had fallen as well. A metal rod lay on the ground and a small line of blood was running from Civic’s mouth.
A moment later, the gash on his head began allowing blood to fountain forth, as if the wound had momentarily forgotten to bleed.
The Machine paused to look down at the fallen dogman. It leaned over and held the palm of one hand over the dogman’s body. A beam of light flashed out the palm over the dogman. It lifted its head. Alive!
Yes alive, but only briefly. The sharp piece of wood was still protruding through the dogman’s chest. The poor creature stood up and then convulsed. Blood briefly sprayed out across the floor as if propelled by a garden hose. Then it dropped to the floor. Dead, again.
Scott remained under the bed, momentarily frozen with a mix of horror and curiosity. He watched as the machine did it again, and then again. And with the same results. The dogman stood. Convulsed. Sprayed blood. Dropped dead. Repeat.
“Powerful. But dumb,” Scott said to himself. While the Machine was busy, Scott rolled out from under the bed and scurried between the metal legs. He reached up and grabbed a rung of the scaffold and pulled himself up, and began a painful climb.
A loud clank came from the direction of the elevator. Scott continued to climb, aware that the elevator was now lowering. Gordon and three well-armed police officers were on the way down. Meanwhile, Thinness was helplessly screaming at the machine to leave the poor creature alone.
Finally Scott arrived near the top of the scaffold, and climbed to the same platform that Thinness was standing on. The doctor’s back was to Scott, allowing him to see the tell-tale bulge of a pistol beneath his lab coat.
When Scott spoke, it seemed to catch the madman by surprise. “Your so-called savior isn’t very bright,” Scott said.
Thinness spun around and immediately took a swing at Scott. The right connecting against the side of Scott’s face.
Next Thinness went at Scott with the left. Scott caught the doctor’s left fist in the palm of his good hand, and spun him around, twisting his arm tightly behind his back.
Scott threw the doctor forward to the floor of the platform. Thinness leapt to his feet. An expression of crazed rage on his face. He screamed and ran at Scott with fists flailing. Scott made a quick sidestep to avoid him. Thinness missed Scott and continued headlong toward the platform’s safety railing.
Scott plucked the pistol from the shrieking doctor’s holster, and then easily helped him continue right over the side with a swift kick to the ass. Thinness screamed with rage all the way down.
Scott cringed at the sound of Thinness’s body smacking against the cement floor, like a side of beef hitting the bottom of an empty swimming pool. He made a quick sign of the cross, and then turned his attention to the Savior Machine.
The mechanical idiot remained bent slightly at the waist while it busied itself with the dogman. Scott saw where the key was set into its back, glowing with some mystical energy. It was only a three foot jump from the platform to the metal back, so Scott made the leap.
But then the Minotaur moved slightly to the side, and began to straighten.
It was now shifting to reach Thinness’s body. Scott hit the back of the beast hard. The impact was almost entirely on his already injured shoulder. He cried out in agony as he slid helplessly down the lower back. His hands groped for anything to grab hold of.
Thankfully, his fingers found the edge of the machine’s waist. He winced as his arms felt like they were going to pull from the sockets. The injured hand tore a little, and the pain was incredible. Some of his own blood was splattered on the side of his face. The machine jerked to a stop, and Scott’s feet flailed outward helplessly.
Finally the beast bent again at the waist. It lowered a hand over Thinness’s lifeless body. With the metal giant bent at the waist, Scott was easily able to pull himself up and run to where the key had been affixed into the beast’s back.
Scott tried to grab at it, but it burned his fingers. He looked over and saw that the Savior Machine’s hand was beginning to glow.
“Screw this,” Scott said. He pulled out the doctor’s revolver, aimed, and fired point blank at the Theseus Key. The explosion sent white-hot crystal shards into Scott’s face, tearing off flesh and even small amounts of bone.
Knocked unconscious and sent off his feet, he tumbled to the ground far below and landed directly on Thinness’s crumpled corpse. A final burst of energy from the metal monster’s hand was followed by a metallic cry.
The Savior Machine stumbled forward and then a few steps to the side like a drunken John Adams. Then it fell crashing to the floor, sending out a quake that split the cement floor.
The elevator gate opened. Gordon ran out, calling out Scott’s name. Three other officers spilled out of the little lift. One quickly pointed out that the foundations looked ready to buckle.
Gordon knelt down next to Scott. “Can you hear me?”
Scott groaned. His eyes opened. “I think I can stand.” Scott looked at his hand. No injury to be seen. Plenty of blood, though. He sat up and put a hand to his face. It was fine! No injury at all on his face, hand, shoulder, or anywhere else on his body.
One of the officers returned with Scott’s weapon, as well as Gordon’s. “There’s a whole other room back there,” the officer said.
“Not for much longer,” Gordon said. “The foundation is crumbling.”
Gordon helped Scott to his feet. He marveled at the healing Scott had just experienced. “You know, the government would love to get their hands on a machine like that. Perhaps that’s why a few politicians were among Thinness’s donors.”
“It won’t work now,” Scott said. “Not without the key. At any rate, no government should have that kind of power.”
Scott looked at the mangled body of the lifeless dogman, and picked up a wooden plank and examined it. “Apple wood!” He threw it aside. “That’s what killed it. And then killed it a dozen more times.”
Then Scott turned to Gordon and asked about Isis.
Gordon’s face fell. “I’m sorry. It was all too much for her. She had a heart attack upstairs.” Gordon handed Scott his sister’s blue rosary. The thrill of victory very suddenly had been flipped upside down. The entire day was tainted. Soured.
Scott stepped into the elevator after Gordon and the three officers. He grasped the gate, to pull it shut.
Then Scott hesitated, his eyes wandered back over to the empty hospital bed with the soiled sheets.
Gordon placed a consoling hand on Scott’s shoulder. “It is said,” Gordon said slowly, “that health and good sense are two great blessings.”
“But, Scott, you know that Machine would have sacrificed one for the sake of the other.”
Father Scott Sideways nodded and grasped the edge of the elevator gate to shut it. His gaze fixed upon his own hand, the supple freshly healed skin. He slammed the gate tight, sending a metallic bang echoing through the ruined pit.
SNOOT, NOT WANTING the rainwater to soil his finely crafted suit, turned to his companion and asked, “Is this London, my good man?”
Aneel responded with a chuckle, “Pip, pip! This is Grand Rapids, you periwinkle. We Michiganders do sometimes call it ‘America’s London.’”
“Ha! And for good reason, I can see,” Snoot observed.
At that, Snoot proceeded to tie the tourniquet about his arm. It bore a tartan plaid pattern that reflected his elegant taste. Soon he was inserting the filthy needle into his flesh, like a disease-carrying mosquito stabbing its prey.
A terrific smile played across Aneel’s mustachioed face. He counted his money and planned to buy for himself a fine new pair of spats.
THE HUMAN BODY is undoubtedly the greatest work of art in the entire universe. This is Stanly’s sincere conviction as he silently springs and hops and even moonwalks.
Swirling with grace, Stanly is placing the human form on nude display while keeping his mind expertly focused, eyes calm and expressionless.
The audience is all gasps and murmurs. Clearly they are shocked by the majesty, awestricken by the beauty.
Stanly continues to dance in the moonlight on the city street corner, harvesting the sounds of an audience that is at once captivated, and shocked.
There is a crowd gathering. Pictures are being taken. People are talking into cell phones. Suddenly it is as if people are here, not by mere chance, but to see Stanly. And here he is, ladies and gentlemen! In all his naked glory.
The cold air and loss of blood are doing strange and wonderful things to the loose-fitting, 90-year-old body. But it matters not. There are undoubtedly laws against this sort of thing, but it matters not! People are gawking and gaping at Stanly … and calling for help. But. It. Matters. Not.
Stanly does a twirl, and strikes a pose with a flourish. He is an entertainer, and a dancer. He is Sammy Davis Jr., Fred Astaire, John Travolta.
One hand on his hip, another hand hanging limp-wristed over his head. He winks. He places a finger on his nose and laughs.
He sits on the pavement, places one leg behind his head, and sings the national anthem. This man can do it all!
Gut and chest and butt are rumpled and sagging, but oh the human body is glorious. Nay, the most glorious thing in all of creation. Nay again! The most glorious thing in the entire universe. Paintings and sculptures may duplicate — but nothing can ever replace the real, natural thing.
And here come the sirens. How predictable. Let them wail.
The arms are hanging loosely, flapping in the wind as Stanly springs back into motion. He does his best ballet-style hop, and does it again. He adjusts the rump, for it slid slightly to one side. And he snugs up the arms, like one might do with a jacket that had slipped out of place slightly.
And then the show continues with a spin and a kick, a thrust of the hip, and a knowing nod to the speechless ladies.
The spinning, strutting, sauntering Stanly makes his way into the very center of the intersection. Rotating red and white lights and wailing sirens approach. Cars marked “Homeland Security” and others simply marked “police” pull up, forming a tight circle around him.
Stanly straightens the fat, balding head and the large gut. Everything keeps sliding out of place. He always preferred them to be “fairly roomy.”
The looser fit is more comfortable for him, as he recently explained to the fat elderly man before procuring the skin. That was about 10 minutes, and 3 city blocks ago.
Now the dance appears to be at an end.
One final act! He struts his stuff. Wags his butt. Shimmies and kicks. He is on Broadway! He is Lord of the Dance. He’s Michael Jackson, James Brown. Hell, he’s even Vanilla-freaking-Ice.
He is the very embodiment of living, breathing art. He’s wrapped up in it, baby! He’s … he’s …
He’s being ordered to stop and lay face-down in the street. Hands out where they can be seen. But Stanly doesn’t stop dancing. For goodness sakes, art cannot be made to stop for men with guns! Art is far more than a mere human institution. Stanly continues to dance. He’s doing the Lord’s work! Shots are fired.
He strikes a pose. He is Madonna. Bullets rain through Stanly’s fat, flabby, and fantastic human shell. One of the bullets shears the nipple off one of Stanly’s man-boobs. Another takes off an ear. A finger.
Yes, it hurt. But one must suffer for art.
But, woe! the violation being visited upon the human body with bullets – this causes Stanly the most agony. This is akin to urinating on the Mona Lisa.
For a few moments Stanly lay in the street feeling as if he would die a failure; having won no appreciation for his tribute to the human body.
But then, hark! A sound.
Like a rain, beginning gently at first, and then growing and spreading. Clapping? No, not clapping. Full-fledged applause! Appreciation, perhaps, for Stanly’s efforts. Stanly lifts his head. “I am the walrus.”
“Coo-coo ca’choo,” a man says.
The sudden reply elicits a giggle from Stanly, and hushed awe from the gathered people. Stanly looks up to see the old man from whom the skin was taken.
The man seems to be smiling, although it is difficult to tell. For, obviously, he has no lips.
ANEEL ENTERED the upscale shoe store, saying, “Tut tut! Where is the fine salesperson?” His eyes wandered about the store. “I have an itch on the palm of my hand, and I am ready to buy the most expensive pair of hand crafted spats that I can lay my gentlemanly mitts on.”
At that moment a young lady, with long red hair hanging about her exposed neck and shoulders, appeared on the sales floor.
“How can I help you, my good sir?”
“Dear lady, you can help me by wearing something other than that improper red dress! Your sweet shoulders, fine neck, and top-most part of your generous chest are exposed in all immodest glory.”
The sales lady explained that she had worked all night and into the morning. She had no time to change her attire before starting her shift at the shoe store.
“You see, by night I am in fact a Lady of the Night. That is, if you catch my meaning, sir.”
“How improper!” Aneel exclaimed. “I shall not spend my ill-gotten dollars in a store staffed by a harlot,” he announced. After all, he had a reputation. And image is everything.
In a huff, Aneel announced that he wished to exit the store. Furthermore, he insisted that the lady in the red dress show him out of the store via the back door, leading to the alley. He wiggled his eyebrows as he said the words “back door.”
Soon, Aneel found himself with little cash remaining and his bare ass on the cold filthy pavement.
“Back door costs extra.”
“The spats will wait,” Aneel whispered.
“I’LL BE BACK LATE.” Coot’s hands went for Cindy’s behind, gripping her tush.
“I never see you anymore, Coot.”
He released her bottom.
“Coot, this isn’t ok. We need to talk.”
Doctor Coot avoided her gaze as he walked to the kitchen table, set his car keys down next to a heart-shaped box.
“Who’s the heart for?”
He tightened his black necktie, slipped into his white lab coat. And then, car keys in one hand, the box in the other, he made his way to the front door.
“Can’t I visit you at work?”
Coot kissed her, open mouthed. When he forced his tongue into her mouth, she angrily pushed him away.
Unfazed as always, Coot turned and tossed a casual “See you later!” over his shoulder as he strolled out into the chilly night.
“For fuck’s sake, Coot! You treat me like a toy, and I am getting god-damned tired of it! I’m not your fucking property!”
Coot froze.
Cindy stood with her arms crossed. Her hot breath was visible. “I don’t want to be treated like a Doll.”
He turned slowly, and thoughtfully. His index finger tapping at his chin.
“Cindy...” He hesitated before continuing. “Yes! Stop over at my work. In one hour.”
He smiled as he returned to the doorway.
“Thank you, Coot.”
He planted a tender kiss on her forehead. Looked into her eyes. And then, with a wink he held up the heart-shaped box. “Now. I gotta go get this shit to Linda!”
“Oh, thank you, Coot!” She glared.
“Well, you should see her. She’s fucking gorgeous!” He walked in a wide gait to his red sports car. Soon, he was speeding down the quiet suburban street.
She slammed the front door and leaned against it. The large living room wall-clock said that it was precisely midnight. She was left only with her suspicions for the hour. The only sound was the clockwork tick-tick-ticking.
***
An hour later, Cindy pulled up across the street from Doctor Shaky’s. The small research lab was located at the edge of Grand Rapids; back behind the swanky pubs and clubs, the trendy galleries, and the city’s massive arena, where single mothers are thrown to the lions.
In the cold night air, the steam billowed from a grate in the sidewalk, further obscuring the narrow street. Cindy parked her car, an old Dodge with a rattling muffler that was far louder in the quiet night.
The clicking clockwork and the buzzing neon above Doctor Shaky’s echoed in the empty street as Cindy quickly walked from the side of the street over to the front door. Soon, Cindy was safely inside the small poorly lit lobby.
Before she approached the front desk, she saw one of Coot’s coworkers. She walked quickly up to the man with the white lab coat and bow tie.
“Doctor Thinness, where’s my husband?”
“Ah, Cindy! I think you’ll find Doctor Coot down in his workroom.” The much taller Thinness smiled down at her through his thick beard, and gestured toward the young lady at the front desk. “Shall I have Janice buzz him, and let him know you are on your way?”
Cindy shook her head and started toward the stairway. “Nope. Thanks, Doctor.”
He lingered to watch her descend the stairway, making Cindy suddenly uncomfortable. She quickened her pace down the stairs.
At the end of the poorly-lit hallway. The sound of clockwork tick-tick-ticking echoed in the hallway, hammering away in her chest. At the end of the hall, she heard voices coming from the last room, through a small vent above the door.
“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Linda.”
“Oh, that’s bullshit.”
Her voice danced in the air, light and sweet. Almost sassy, in a cute way.
Cindy tried to imagine what the new girl must look like. Did Coot want a sweeter, sassier wife? If so, he only had to push the right buttons, so-to-speak.
“It’s nice, isn’t it?” His voice full of pride and charm. That asshole.
“Oh, it’s just bullshit.”
Cindy tried to peek under the door.
“Can I stick it in you?” Coot giggled.
Linda giggled, too.
Cindy felt her face flush with anger. She tried the door with a trembling hand. It was unlocked. She threw the door open and went thundering into the room.
“Dammit, Coot! I should have guessed – oh!” Cindy put a hand over her mouth.
“Oh, it’s just bullshit,” chimed Linda.
Coot stood calmly in the center of the room with the heart-shaped box in hand, the sound of mechanical gears pouring from within it.
Linda was lying in the very center of the room on a hospital bed, clothed in a gown. The front was undone, exposing a heart-shaped pit in her chest.
“Who’s that bitch?”
“A new wife for the Lord President.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “She’s very nearly human, so be careful of her feelings.”
“I’m sorry,” Cindy said instinctively.
“Bullshit,” Linda replied.
Then he smiled broadly. “I only need to wind her up.” He tittered.
Cindy rolled her eyes. “Does the Lord President allow you to wind his wives?”
“So I am glad that you stopped by when you did.” He glanced at his pocket watch.
“You changed the subject, Coot. I asked …” Suddenly, Cindy was gripped with realization. She gasped. “My heart!”
The room was filled with a sickly mechanical whining. The tick-tick-ticking began to slow.
“Please, Coot.” She began trying to reach at her back—that spot in the center of the back that’s impossible to get at. “Wind me, Coot. Help me!”
“Oh, that’s bullshit,” Linda offered cheerfully.
Cindy collapsed to the ground, her breathing suddenly shallow.
Coot strolled up to her. He reached to her back, and plucked out a large clockwork key. “You won’t be needing this.”
Cindy stared up at him with disbelief.
“For the Lord President!” Coot lifted his eyebrows. He dangled the key in front of Cindy’s face. “King and country, as they say on the other side of the pond.”
He strutted over to Linda, dropped the heart into her chest. Then he sat her forward on the bed and inserted the key into her back.
Linda smiled and arched her back as he slid it in “Oh, Coot,” she purred as he began to wind her.
The room was soon filled with the healthy mechanical sound of clockwork being wound firmly, and of Linda’s moans, moist with pleasure.
She smiled and closed her eyes as Coot twisted the key, over and over again. “Oh, yes …” she smiled, arched her back further, raised her shoulders, closed her eyes, shuddered.
Coot continued twisting and turning the key. His own arousal was becoming visibly obvious.
Linda smiled. Licked her lips. In a whispered voice, she coaxed him on.
“Oh yes, Coot. Oh, keep going ...”
His eyes lit up, and his smile became almost unnaturally wide. He began turning Linda’s key maniacally, cranking her harder. Faster. Stronger.
Linda began yelling like she won the lottery, pounding her fist on the bedding as if it had wronged her. “Shit, shit, shit …” suddenly seemed to be the only word in her vocabulary.
Cindy watched helplessly from the cold cement floor. “Coot … I am dying …”
“Oh, that’s just bullshit. Oh! Oh! Oh! Yes!”
Friday
THE ROOMS WERE DRAFTIER THAN A WHORE’S SLOT, but this is to be expected with any old home. Thankfully, a fireplace in every room created extra warmth. Plush carpets and solid oak trim added charm. And there was a general sense of silence about the property, like being in an old library. Or a morgue.
“Yes,” Skeet said. “This will do. Indubitably!”
He looked about the spacious living room with the kind of satisfaction of a man who gets what he wants. Lord President Octocon Skeet was just such a man. “We’ll be here through Monday. A long weekend is what is in order.”
“I can’t believe this used to be a servant’s home!” Linda looked around the place in wide-eyed amazement; as if she were being strangled to death, and found it fascinating.
“Tut-tut, my latest wife.” Irritation hovered at the edge of his voice. “The glory of this place suggests nothing of the sort. Now I am reminded that the Aristocrat’s Mansion is a hundred times more magnificent. A shame about that place.” He hesitated a moment, twirled his great mustache.
He looked like the very model of significance. Top-hat and tux, shoes and spats, gloves and cane. His round belly seemed to exist for the sole purpose of showing others how much he can afford to eat.
Skeet snapped his fingers once and wagged his butt three times—the signal for the servants to carry the mountains of luggage up to the master bedroom. “This is going to be a lovely weekend,” Skeet said. The Lord President had badly needed the weekend getaway, what with all the affairs of politics.
He waited while one of the servants licked the snow from his spats with a three-foot tongue. After that, the servant briskly mopped up the remaining moisture with his long golden locks of hair.
Real gold hair. 24 carat. Skeet called him Goldie.
The servant had some wild surgeries done over the past decade. Sadly, not all of the surgeries turned out to be a good idea. The man couldn’t poop without a machine to help. But he could pick up bowling balls with his behind. So it was well worth the price, in Skeet’s opinion.
Mostly, Skeet kept Goldie around for his generous tongue and head of hair. The other week, out of sheer boredom, Skeet vomited simply to see the servant putting his tongue and hair to work on the mess. For Skeet, it was something to behold. And, naturally, it aroused Linda.
“Oh darling,” Linda poured on, bringing Skeet’s mind back to the moment. “This place is absolutely perfect. Here was are high atop Mount Mercy, while all the common folk are down below in the valley! I cannot believe it. Oh! Oh!” She sounded as if she was becoming aroused by the glamor and glitz. But she always does.
“I cannot wait to eat the fabled vegetarian breakfast of fake eggs and fake ham. I simply cannot believe that it is all really just white corn, mantis phlegm, and seaweed. And I cannot believe …”
She went on like that for the remainder of the evening. She punctuated nearly all her statements with limp-wristed gestures of her hands. Skeet kept her around for the amusement. She was a Doll.
Once in his room, he slipped out of his shoes and socks. He wanted to sit in bare feet and read through the various political news magazines. But not at the fireplace. He wanted to be on the balcony, where he could take in the picturesque scene of the Grand River Valley below.
Skeet had a soft recliner set out on the snowy balcony. One of his servants brought him a drink. Skeet clapped his hands three times, and touched his nose. This signaled for his largest man-servant to sit naked on Skeet’s bare feet, to protect them from the cold air.
The man-servant looked like the lovechild of a dump truck and Fatty Arbuckle. Skeet liked this big guy because his buttocks were wonderful for shielding his sensitive feet from the elements. It was almost as if they were designed for that very purpose.
If only he could recall the names of his man-servants, but it’s not that important anyhow. Skeet often forgot his current wife’s name as well. Sometimes he simply called her “Tits.”
She laughed when he called her that. She was required to laugh. Especially if the joke was unfunny.
The entire Grand River Valley stretched out before him, like a prisoner on the rack. He had lorded over it for over a decade. And he hated it.
Tonight, like every night, the hot, crowded, stinking city was resting uncomfortably at the foot of the frozen mountaintop.
From atop Mount Mercy, the city seemed deceptively quiet. The Grand River moved slowly through the city like a snake, with the setting sun casting crimson and orange across the surface of its skin.
From this great height, he easily picked out Government Building, 171 floors of metal and glass stabbed into the heart of the city like a knife.
Little lights of the ever-vigilant drones hovered like little twinkling stars, alongside the larger lights of glowing zeppelins moving quietly through the sky. The view was immaculate. Huge. Glorious. Merciless.
Then Skeet turned his gaze to behold a sad scene a quarter mile away from the weekend home. He sighed and shook his head slowly.
The fabled Aristocrat’s Mansion was teetering on the edge of a cliff, ready to crash to the ground, thanks to the steady march of time. Nature had weathered away the side of the mountain where the massive home had been built long ago.
At the time the mansion had been built, it must have been glorious. It was a modern palace built by the Kings of Yesterday. Alas Mount Mercy, once providing a majestic and strong foundation, was soon going to betray the Aristocrat’s Mansion and shrug it off.
With a heavy sigh, Skeet peeled his eyes from the Mansion and picked up a newspaper. The front page of Grand Rapids Confidential had a news story about how Skeet’s office had been invaded the previous day.
A would-be activist had tried to bug his office while disguised as a telephone repair man. Now the news media was gossiping about the incident.
Skeet grunted and dropped the paper next to his chair, accidentally spilling his drink.
A lady-servant appeared and cleaned up the mess. She had a head of delicate blond hair, and a pleasant smile. She also had a strong, striking pair of silver eyes. They seemed to lash out at Skeet like a pair of metal javelins.
She quickly returned with a new drink. Skeet kept this one around for the promptness. The gal curtseyed. Those eyes! When she smiled at Skeet, her silver eyes seemed to flash with a vibrant energy that was somehow, how to put it in words?
“Bullshit!” Linda said as she stepped outside.
Skeet sighed.
“This hairspray is just such bullshit.” She tipped her hands to accentuate both syllables: Bull. Shit. She was a conductor, and the cuss words were her orchestra.
“Indubitably, my dear!” Skeet turned back to the lovely view of the mountains. He yawned and gulped the last of his drink. He considered having his wife sleep on the floor, so he could have the over-sized bed all to himself.
***
He had a dream. Spiders. Three dozen little Spiders, no bigger than the head of a pin marching single file from his toes to his nose.
***
Saturday
Skeet had to begin his day with the morning meeting with other heads of state. A small press conference was planned to precede the meeting, and there was a dinner party slated for the end of the day.
He was on vacation, true. But one in his lofty position is never entirely on vacation.
The press conference had been arranged on the steps of Government Building. Skeet used the event to comment on the activist posing as a telephone repair technician. The activist, who called himself “the Last Angry Man,” was to be imprisoned indefinitely for firm questioning and a sound beating.
The Last Angry Man was caught while Skeet’s back was turned. The sneaky activist made the mistake of thinking that he was not being observed. Skeet was in fact always watching. He had seen the Last Angry Man plant a small listening device beneath his desk blotter, and caught the sap red-handed.
Skeet fondly recalls watching the peace officers beat the crap out of culprit before dragging him from the office. The Last Angry Man shook a fist at Skeet and said, “Why do you get to watch us, and tap our phones, and fly drones over our homes? Why can we not do the same to you?”
“Because we are the rulers.” Skeet laughed, and extended a finger toward the bloodied and broken activist. “You, worm, must learn your place.”
At the morning meeting with the other heads of state – defense chiefs, economists, and media moguls – Skeet planned to talk about a new law that would ban all cameras, audio recorders, and listening devices among the private class. They were all assembled around a large illuminated glass table, in a massive glass and marble room, within the 171st floor of Government Building.
Skeet dropped his trousers and britches, reached around with his fist and crammed it up his own ass. This signaled for the meeting to begin.
When all the assembled turned their attention to the head of the table, Skeet withdrew his fist and introduced his proposal. While buckling his pants, he elaborated on the benefits of such a law.
The rest of the meeting went rather quickly, which pleased Skeet a great deal. Others made brief qualifying statements. No one disagreed with the need to make sure that the ruled could never watch the rulers.
They all agreed on the law with a rousing “Here, here!”
The law would be unpopular, but this was easy to contend with. Quite simply, no one need take credit for the law. Thus, there is no one for the private citizenry to blame. This was the beautiful thing about the way the system worked.
After the meeting, Skeet allowed his driver to take him back up to the weekend home. The entire mountain came to a single pointed peak high above the city. It was like a finger pointing toward the stars, or a landscape from a Doctor Seuss book.
His wife undressed in a separate room. What was her name? He watched approvingly at the video monitor as she wriggled into the blue evening gown he had laid out for her. She avoided looking at herself in the mirror until after she was clothed. Then she adjusted and tucked and frowned.
In his own room, he undressed to slip into a brand new tuxedo for the formal dinner. His earlier outfit was in a heap behind him. Standing before a wide mirror, he examined his round body. One side. Smile. Then the other. “Looking good,” he said to no one in particular.
He thought he detected movement from behind. He spun around to see something disappear into the folds of the shirt he had worn earlier that day. Something small. Shiny. He dug through the pile of clothing and found nothing.
He shook his head, harrumphed, and put on his tux. He smoothed out the pant legs, adjusted his bow tie; all the while Skeet’s third eye moved across his body, sliding beneath his skin.
At all times the eye was seeing what was happening around him. Wide, alert, and never blinking.
The view through Skeet’s skin and clothing was, for this eye, like watching from behind a thin curtain. No one knew he had this constant companion. He told nobody, not even his wives. It gave him an advantage against everybody. Most recently, this was how he saw the man planting a bug in his office.
***
Down in the city, Skeet and his wife were enjoying a luxurious dinner. The wife was enjoying another trendy vegetarian meal of maple leaves smothered in Mediterranean mud, and rubber bands soaked in olive oil.
Skeet was enjoying chicken wrapped in bacon, with a side of meatballs, when Goldie tapped him on the shoulder.
The various heads of state, and their latest spouses, were just having a good laugh over a joke. Vice-Lord Snoot was telling a story about how his man-servant, Aneel, had nearly choked to death during a stunt involving sex and drugs, some street performers, and a plunger.
Skeet was doing his best at feigning laughter, because everyone else was laughing. He didn’t mind the interruption. “I hope this is important,” Skeet dropped his voice to a whisper. “Important enough for me to leave early.”
Goldie dropped the evening edition of Grand Rapids Confidential on the table in front of Skeet. The front page reported that someone had recorded video of the morning meeting. The article gave a good account of the discussion regarding the recently proposed bill.
“Holy hopscotch.” He handed the paper back to his man-servant with a trembling hand, and excused himself from the table.
Taking his wife by the hand, he scurried back to the waiting limousine with the desperation of a man about to evacuate his bowels into his raiment. He was seeing red, his mind was reeling.
“This is bullshit,” Linda said.
“Tut-tut, my lovely. We must leave, post-haste.”
He was casting a nervous third eye in every direction. All the way home he scanned the night sky above and the city below.
***
That night his dreams were again of spiders. Dozens of little spiders, no bigger than the head of a pin were marching single file from his toes to his nose. One at a time leaping into his eyes and ears and mouth.
***
Sunday
Skeet was exhausted, having only slept fitfully. Still, he chaired the requisite morning meeting.
Everyone needed to be reassured that they were watching, but not being watched. Thanks to the video that had been handed to the press, security had become a paramount concern.
Vice-Lord Snoot made the most fuss over security. In fact, Snoot was pointing blame for the leak at Skeet. It was clear to Skeet that the Vice-Lord wanted to be the next Lord President, and was exploiting the situation.
After the meeting, Skeet excused himself to the toilet. He dropped is britches and sat on the bowl. Then he saw something that caused him to emit a tiny high-pitched screech. A little bug moved across his thigh! It looked like a small silver spider.
He began slapping at it. It scurried around to his backside. He flipped himself over, his stomach upon the toilet seat, and began slapping at his backside. He felt its little spider legs pinching as it scurried across his left butt cheek.
He began furiously spanking at his backside, yelling and carrying on. Until the door of the restroom opened.
It was Snoot. He stood there in utter shock at the spectacle before him. Finally, he found his voice. “Goodness gracious me!”
Skeet was frozen with his hand on his left buttock. There he was with bum in the air and stomach pressed into the bowl of the toilet. “Um …” He searched for the right words but nothing came to him. “Yes?”
Aneel appeared behind his master. “What is going on?”
The Vice-Lord pointed to Skeet. “Now see here. This is hardly the conduct of a competent Lord President.”
Skeet turned himself over and stood up. He fought to get his britches up over his waist and round belly.
“Yes, yes, Snoot. Everything is fine. Now close the door! I’ll be out momentarily.”
***
He had a dream. Spiders. Three dozen little Spiders marching single file from his toes to his nose. One at a time leaping into his eyes and ears and mouth. Mechanical, every one of them. And a voice. Female. “This is why I keep you around.”
***
Monday.
Skeet awoke from a terrible dream only to begin his day with the news that his job was in jeopardy.
Someone had given video to people in the news media of Skeet entering all the codes at all the doors of Government Building. Anti-government activists seized upon this opportunity to let themselves into Government Building.
Skeet glared at the television news coverage in disbelief. “This can’t be happening.” Once again, it was as if someone held a camera right over his shoulder. How is he not seeing the culprit?
He stood in the living room and stripped naked. Yes, his eye must have as little interference as possible.
He showed up at Government Building to see protesters standing outside holding signs. More were inside. Likely, every floor was occupied by these scoundrels. An officer approached Skeet, hesitating momentarily when he saw the Lord President’s nakedness.
“The lobby is full of anti-government activists. They locked themselves into floor 171.”
“Break the door down,” he said. Then he lifted a finger and added, “Remember that dead people don’t tie up the court system.”
“Yes sir.” The peace officer winked.
Soon, an explosion from the upstairs lit the entire upper floor and rocked Skeet’s car. The people below shielded themselves instinctively, although no glass fell thanks to the blast-proof glass.
The sound of gun shots followed.
Moments later, the peace officer walked back to Skeet’s car with the report that the upper floor was clear. “We’re removing the bodies from the upper floor and beating the survivors, sir.”
“Excellent.” Skeet stepped out of his car.
Goldie walked up to Skeet and told him that the conversation with the peace officer was already all over the radio.
“How?” Skeet fumed. His eyes widened. “It must be that sniveling, conniving Snoot.”
The peace officers cleared the way for Skeet to enter Government Building. He took the elevator to the top floor. Upstairs, the double doors of the meeting room hung open on broken hinges. Bullet holes decorated the marble walls and blood stained the floor.
The other members of government were already assembled around the table, whispering to each other as Skeet marched nude through the room and over to a window. He threw it open. Wide and tall, it allowed the noise from the streets below to enter the room like a herd of stampeding birthday clowns.
Skeet wore the smile of a man who had absolutely everything figured out. “We are the kings of the world and we shall remain kings.” He walked up to Vice-Lord Snoot, and took him by the hand. “I have figured the puzzle out, Snoot. Come and look at the city with me.”
Snoot allowed himself to be led by the hand by the nude Lord President with more than a little hesitation.
“See those little people down there below us?”
“Yes. What exactly do you want me to see?”
“I think I see him. Oh! Down there!” Skeet pointed at the pavement down below.
“Who?” Snoot leaned forward to see what Skeet was pointing at. Skeet planted both hands the Vice-Lord’s lower back, and pushed.
Snoot emitted a small, high-pitched “Oh my!” as he disappeared out the window.
Skeet stepped away from the window with a wealth of self-satisfaction erupting on his face.
“No!” Aneel said. And he ran to the window with his arms out wide. “Master, I’ll catch you.” And with that, he dove out the window.
Skeet raised his eyebrows. “Now, let’s get back to the business of government.”
“What the hell was that?” one of the bankers demanded.
“That, my colleagues, is called thinking-outside-the-box.”
One of the defense chiefs tugged nervously at his tie. “Goodness gracious me. What will we say about Snoot? Because, good lord, there will be questions!”
“We’ll say he killed himself.” Skeet shrugged. “What does it matter?”
In full view of the windows, the Aristocrat’s Mansion finally teetered off the cliff and began its slide down Mount Mercy. There was a loud rumbling, like thunder, as the old mansion slid until it hit a ridge of rocks. Then it began to turn end over end before disappearing behind the buildings of the city. The sound of a final roaring crash erupted into the air.
Skeet watched with a heart heavier than Orson Wells. The others in the room were standing at their seats, trying to see. They looked like highway rubberneckers. Skeet was disgusted. More-so, when a round of applause could be heard from the throng of people in the streets below.
At that moment, the peace officers kicked in the door. Every one of them had a truncheon in hand, and applied firm and repeated doses of peace to Skeet’s noggin, torso, arms and legs. Only after the beating was he arrested and charged with murder.
Then he passed out.
***
“Suspicion of murder?” Skeet said when he had regained consciousness on the floor of a prison cell.
“No, sir.” A grinning guard was standing outside the cell. “No suspicion about it.”
Skeet dragged his nude butt up onto a cold wooden bench. His hands were still cuffed behind his back.
“Video of you pushing Vice-Lord Snoot out that window hit the news media within seconds. You’ve already been judged and sentenced by your successor.”
At that moment, a lady appeared at the cell. The guard let her in. “Hullo,” said the lady servant. Her silver eyes shimmered in the dark cell. The prison guard locked the door behind her.
“Is my wife with you?”
“No. She is busy at Government Building. She was elected to replace you.”
“She’s replaced me?” he said. “Now see here, she cannot replace me.”
“But she did. And her first act was to dissolve government entirely.”
His eyes widened. “No, no! That cannot be.”
She smiled. “Your wife asked my advice. And that was the advice that she got.”
Skeet sat up, an expression of horror on his face. “But who will run the affairs of the people?”
The lady-servant shrugged. “Maybe we are all servants now. Maybe we are all masters. What does it matter? Maybe we no longer need the State. Maybe we have socially evolved, and grown beyond that.”
Suddenly her hand thrust out to Skeet’s stomach. Her fingers pressed firmly into his flesh, forming a little cage around the eye. It was trapped.
“What is this? See here!” He strained against the cuffs behind his back. “What are you doing?”
She smiled. Her silver eyes gleamed. With her free hand, she reached behind her and pulled out a scalpel. “I can see your eye. I could always see your eye.” She placed the tip of the blade against the soft flesh of his belly.
Skeet began yelling for the guard. She shook her head. “He won’t come. They are a private company now, and I am paying them to hold you.” Then she pushed on the blade gently, cut through the skin.
Skeet screamed. More from terror than from any physical pain.
She flicked the scalpel expertly around the eye. Then, with a quick application of pressure at just the right spot, she pushed the eye out.
It sat in the palm of her hand, glaring at her. Quivering. Unblinking. Still bound to Skeet by a thin, fleshy cord.
Then the girl with the silver eyes severed the cord and tossed the dead eye to a corner of the cell.
Bugs began crawling from Skeet’s ears. Nose. Mouth. From his crotch and from between his toes. Little tiny mechanical spidery bugs. Silver.
The color of the bugs matched her eyes, and shimmered with the same glow.
“My children,” she said. “My eyes.”
“What do you see?” said Skeet.
“I see freedom being poured into a cup. And the cup runneth over.”
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THE
SAVIOR MACHINE: a brief collection of weird fiction by Daniel
La Ponsie is licensed under a Creative
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The Savior Machine: A brief collection of weird fiction
By Daniel La Ponsie
ISBN 978-0-9845799-0-7
Published by
WITHOUT ADJECTIVES
Grand Rapids, Michigan
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