Blood For Culture
Mitul Mistry
Copyright 2012 Mitul Mistry
Smashwords Edition
Discover other titles by Mitul Mistry at Smashwords.com
For Ms. Linda Augustyn and Ms. Jodi Innes,
English teachers extraordinaire
The lightning flashed and the thunder cracked. It tore across the sky, ripping through the clouds like a thousand thousand blades branching off of one another. Shooting upright in his bed, Gideon found himself immediately awake, alert to the presence of sword fighting taking place nearby. That unmistakable sound of steel clashing with steel, of men forcing their destructive wills upon one another in that age old struggle he had reenacted time and time again was impossible for one such as he to sleep soundly through, for Gideon had witnessed firsthand the horrors that such cacophony signified. Standing up quickly, the lightning urgency of conflict imminent surging through his spine, he bolted to the window. Looking out, he could see a skirmish going on further down the city streets between the city guards and a band of ruffians. Thieves, no doubt, at such a late hour. It appeared that the guards were being overwelmed.
Gideon would have preferred to stay out of it, as his sword arm had been wearied by the viciousness of the past and he was in no mood for further bloodshed, but it appeared that he had no choice. The guards would probably die without him. Without further thought, Gideon pulled his blade from its sheathe by the bed and ran out of his bedroom and down the stairs, not wanting to waste any time equipping any armor, or even finding a shirt for that matter; men’s lives were hanging in the balance.
Kicking the door open, he sprinted down the dark streets towards the sound of clashing steel, the sound of blood conflict, of war. He could feel his heart pumping, thudding against the muscle of his bear chest, slick with sweat. Within moments, he found himself staring at the skirmish raging in the streets. More of the city guard had joined the fray, but the thieves were still overpowering them. The scoundrels were pushing the guards into an alleyway, the glimmering crimson on their tarnished blades shining in the moonlight, crying out for blood.
Crouching in the shadows, Gideon stalked towards the location where the main body of thieves were pressing their attack. Quickly, yet silently, he crept along the walls, his bear feet used to the cold touch of stone, of the battlefield. Suddenly, he found himself behind the thieves, in perfect position to flank them. However, he was loathe to strike from the shadows, without his enemies even having a chance to defend themselves. It was cowardly, and thieves though they may be, he must grant them at least some basic human rights.
He hefted his blade and tapped one of the thieves on the shoulder. The theif turned around, bewildered, his mask unable to hide an expression of confusion. But as he finally noticed Gideon in the shadows, he lashed out at him with his blade. Gideon parried the blows, his arm unflinching against the heavy reverberations, and slashed the thief across the face. As the thief yelped and grabbed at his split face, Gideon quickly kicked him in the head. The thief was bowled over and came crashing to the ground, screaming in agony. The others, now noticing the presence of a third party in the conflict, began rallying to deal with the new threat.
A couple thieves, turning, launched themselves at him, but Gideon rolled to the side and the two found themselves attacking nothing but thin air. Gideon kicked at the legs of one of them, knocking him to the floor. The other slashed, but Gideon reflexively jumped back, making a slash of his own in the process. Almost instantaneously, the thief lay upon the ground clutching at his stomach, a newly formed streak of red upon Gideon’s blade. The previous thief, struggling upwards, barely had time to stand upright before he found his throat cut open. Quickly, Gideon lined up a strike, and in one fell swoop decapitated three more.
The scoundrels began pouring upon Gideon now, coming at him from all angles, almost surrounding him. Yet for every strike they made upon him, they found only thin air or Gideon’s blade waiting patiently for a parry or a counterstrike, never his plainly exposed flesh. Once there was a moment of abatement in the thieves’ attack, Gideon pressed his offensive furiously and within moments had them on the defensive, slicing off limbs in a flurry of action, leaving only bleeding stumps. Yet at the peak of his attack, they found themselves suddenly cut apart from behind. It appeared that Gideon had provided the necessary diversion for the city guards to successfully press on their attack.
As the last few villains fled the scene, some of the city guards in hot pursuit, Gideon surveyed the battlefield. The streets were covered in corpses, in both the dead and the dying. Decapitated heads, stray limbs, and still struggling dismembered bodies – it was a gruesome sight, the blood almost pooling in the gutters, but it had been necessary.
“Master Gideon!” one of the city guards called out, pulling off his scarred helm. “Thank the gods you showed up when you did! There was no way we could have fended them off any longer without your aid!”
“Oh, please,” Gideon said, “it was nothing. I only did what was necessary.”
“Necessary?” the guard said. “Master Gideon, it was most certainly not necessary for you to enter the fray! This was our conflict and you would have been in no way held responsible for anything if you had chosen to stay out of this sordid affair.”
“Yes, well, I would have been responsible to myself, and that’s something no court really has any influence over, now does it?”
“Truly, Master Gideon, you must have slain at least twenty of those wretched crooks!”
“As I said,” Gideon reiterated, “it was nothing. Now please, we must clean these streets before morning. Can’t have the citizens seeing this mess, now can we?”
“Indeed,” the guard replied. “But please, Master Gideon, get some rest. It is our duty, not yours.”
“No, guardsman, the duty is also mine, for–”
“Joe.”
“–to take a life is a very serious matter. Too often, we take what life is given to us for granted and fail to explore and enjoy it to its fullest before, one day, it is suddenly, and perhaps even absurdly, taken from us. At the very least, we must take care of those that–”
“Joe.”
“What?”
“Break’s over.”
The scribbled words lay etched upon the old, weathered paper. Its torn notebook edges and seedy stains gave the impression that it was from another era, and perhaps indeed it was. It was hard to believe that Joseph had written those words a mere five years ago. Tossing the papers into his bag and pocketing his packet of untouched crackers, he stood up to return to work.
Exiting the staff room, he walked through a small corridor, finding himself in the storeroom yet again, a dark, secluded place where Joseph spent most of his days. The place was a mess as usual, the racks filled with all manner of miscellaneous artifacts, strange boxes of obscure toys, military modeling kits, slabs of packaged clay, puzzles, radio control cars, die cast tractors, dolls, and polystyrene, lots and lots of polystyrene, as well as boxes to package it all in. Slapping the keyboard, Joseph brought the computer to life once again, forcing it out of its undoubtedly restful hibernation. As the light of the cathode ray tube monitor struck his eyes through his glasses, he fiddled with the keys, and forced the computer to regurgitate what was necessary. The printer complied, but not without complaint, and spat out the various order forms like a drunkard after one too many shots of whiskey.
Joe grabbed the forms out of the printer as its screeching finally ground to a halt and dropped them in the empty 'Unfilled Orders' tray, which never seemed to stay empty for very long. With the holiday season at an end, at least the tray was vacant momentarily once in a while. Looking at the first form, he saw the items listed and began browsing through the inventory. One bottle of modeling plaster – check. One bottle of latex rubber – check. Three packets of model turf soil – check. One packet of dark green lichen – check. One bottle of ‘Realistic Water’ – check. Probably some guy trying to patch up his model railroad scene or something.
Gathering the items in question, he brought them to one of the desks. They weren’t very big, so one of the smaller boxes would do. Joe tossed in some packaging pellets, carefully layered the items in the box with more packaging material, placed in the order form after tearing off the address caption and closed the flaps of the cardboard box. He grabbed a roll of tape and sealed the package, glued the address label to the top, stuck on the store’s label in the corner, and placed it on the delivery rack. It was silly, really, considering everything was made in China; why not just order from them direct? He sighed and left the box as-is. Postage would be applied later by someone more knowledgeable about the rates.
“Hey Joe, how ya holdin’ up?”
Joseph turned and saw Daniel with a handful of items sitting down at the desk next to him.
“I’m doin’ okay, how bout you?” Joe replied, readjusting his glasses.
“Oh, same as always. Getting along, I guess you could say.”
“How’s Jane?” Joe asked.
“Oh, she’s fine.” Dan said soberly.
“How’s the city treating her?”
“Meh, could be better, could be worse. Last time I visited her, she was getting along okay, so it’s all good I guess.”
“How's school?” Joe said.
Dan laughed. “Break is just too damn short, and classes cost too damn much. Does that answer your question?”
Joseph picked up the next order form and got up, reenacting the all too familiar cycle for the umpteenth time. One Roman Coliseum brick and mortar kit – check. One scale model casting resin kit – check. One fiber optic fluorescent rod (10 pack: red) – check. One fiber optic fluorescent rod (10 pack: blue) – check. One Super Mega Model Rocket Set –
“Dammit.” Joseph couldn’t find it in the storeroom. He’d have to check outside in the actual store. He still couldn’t understand the fact that people actually bought that kind of junk, because, honestly, what did people do with it? It was a fruitless question, though. Maybe if he bought himself a Super Mega Model Rocket Set, he might understand, but considering the current state of his bank account, he wondered if he could ever even afford one, let alone consciously shell out his hard earned cash for something that would only work once.
Heading out of the storeroom door, he traveled through the small corridor and into the actual store, the maddening sound of a holiday radio station violating the sanctity of his mind. The aisles and aisles of artifacts filled the recesses of what would otherwise be a gaping void in the middle of a suburban shopping center. Yet that very feeling of emptiness prevailed nevertheless, as no one really came to the store in person anyway. Almost all of the store’s business came in through the web, and the bulk of that came in during the holidays. The off-season was generally pretty empty, though orders continued to trickle in despite it all. The store had recently let go the temporary holiday help, so there were only a few lost souls left working there, Joseph among them.
He caught a glimpse of the manager, but he wanted to avoid him. The manager was a jerk. Joe kept walking towards the registers. He saw Chris and Matt standing around by the checkout counter, idling away the time in the absence of non-virtual customers, and the bitter weather outside would ensure it would remain that way for a while to come.
“Joe!” Chris hailed, a rather tall young man wearing a familiar red store shirt.
“Chris,” Joe said.
“What’s up?”
“Not much. Just wondering if you knew where I could find a ‘Super Mega Model Rocket Set.’ Couldn’t find one in the storeroom.”
“A what?”
“A ‘Super Mega Model Rocket Set.’”
“You serious? That’s the name of an actual product?” Chris said.
“Yeah, that’s what the order form says.”
“Oh!” Matt said. “I know where they are! Just one nanosecond!”
“And he’s off…” Chris muttered. “The guy gets so excited.”
After a moment of awkward silence, Matt reappeared, lugging a gargantuan black box on top of his head.
“Oh my god…” Joe whispered, his stomach suffering a sickening lurch.
“Yeah, no kidding,” Chris laughed. “Have fun packin’ that sucker!”
Judging by the sheer size of the container that the rocket set came in, perhaps the ‘Super Mega’ prefix was indeed justified.
It took him a while, but with some help from Dan, Joe managed to get the items packaged and ready to ship. After about twenty or so more orders, Joseph found himself at the glass door, bundled up like an astronaut gathering the nerve to walk out into the void. With a sharp breath, he opened the airlock and stepped out into the black and frigid wastes, the nightmare outskirts of the universe, cold enough to suck the warmth from the living. With every stride, he could feel the world bleeding out the dying embers of his body, piercing the feeble armor of his winter coat.
Searching the slick snow covered emptiness of the parking lot, he found his weary steed sitting, waiting to be buried – beaten up, ravaged, having endured the brutal tortures of countless previous owners, bearing the wounds of war, bound with duct tape. Every time he saw the damned thing, he always got the new world heebie-jeebies. The menace of machinery, the mechanization of life… Couldn't live with it, but couldn't live without. Quickly, he fumbled for his keys and unlocked his car door in an attempt to get out of the bitter cold of the post-holiday season.
He started his radio, tuning it to an alternative rock station in an effort to drown out the haunting echoes of the siren song known as holiday spirit. As he switched on his headlights, he watched as they pierced the darkness of early night, a cryptic song providing the soundtrack to his experience. The notes of his discordant sentence rung in the form of song, and the world beyond the windshield twisted and roiled to the haunting notes as he pulled out of the lot, driving through the maze of sprawling spaces and wasteland passageways until he finally reached the main road. Though his eyes were focused on the street before him, he had driven this route so many times before that he could get home driving in his sleep, and as the words struck his thoughts, his mind wandered, on a slow walk… his body, limping behind…
A land mine, waiting for him at every turn
…Cut to shreds by forgotten shrapnel.
A coal mine, on the horizon
His body, a vehicle of labor, made for digging diamonds and uranium.
A bad thought, all that was left
The skeletal structures, missing limbs, lining the roads where once there was earth. There in the darkness, his lights falling off, he felt the ancestral forces pulling at his borders.
On a road, riding to where, even god didn’t know
His brain was the burger, his heart was the coal
Like a snake detaching its jaw, its fangs piercing flesh, swallowing the mass of fur and skin, the modest, mouse colored quarry dying slowly.
His sightless eyes, his prison skull
Pushing out through his mouth
Refilled through his ears
This heartland… This new world… Refilled through his ears. The phantom visions of cold and bitterness, a new zeitgeist, one of remorse and resentment, blunt spite aimed at the creators.
Inland from Lake Shore Drive
The ravens and the seagulls push each other in and outward
Smoke and mirrors… Mirrors and screens. Delusion and indifference… Disillusion and disappointment. Inward and outward, into the abyss. Into the lonesome crowded west… An empty world, filled to the brim with nothing. A hallucinatory state of grace, the flickering afterimage of a hungry skull superimposed on the blackness of the road before him – the ghost of civilization…
On this life that we call home
The years go fast and the days go so slow
The fields of asphodel… The spirit of the suburbs.
The days go… slow
The roads were straight, yet they wound, their channels flowing into holes lining the ground. His vision broke, his eyes realigned, and he was left in his car, alone, with his thoughts, with his madness, left to rot.
He began thinking about his story. It was a very old thing – at least five years is rather old for a nineteen year old. He had dug it up in an old collection of high school junk he had been sifting through, tossing it in his bag upon whim. He couldn’t believe that he had actually written such drivel. Granted, even the masters had to start somewhere, but, again, he couldn’t imagine any of them ever writing such drivel.
Joe hit the brakes as a car in the other lane swerved and cut him off. “Asshat…” Joseph cursed. If Joe hadn’t braked, they would have collided.
Regardless, he tried to let his thoughts drift away once again. The story was extremely childish, it was settled upon – but why? Was it simply the ludicrousness of the violence? It couldn’t be just that. There were other aspects that turned the writing into something cringeworthy.
The song on the radio station ended and another one began. It was some ugly punk song, with its whiny vocals and redundant riffs; it broke his train of thought. Joe turned the radio off. Was it really that difficult for a band to produce music that was at least palatable? And was it really that difficult for a radio station to come up with more than a couple decent tracks? On second thought, perhaps it was, judging by his own limited collection of quality music.
He drove through the artificial landscape, knowing that the buildings surrounding him wouldn't be there in a hundred years, let alone a thousand. The large breadbox forms with peaked roofs and vinyl siding lined up in regularity, temporary shelters meant to fulfill a singular coffin-like purpose in life, not meant to last after death. But thinking about the reality of that particular brand of civilization made him feel ill, considering he was stuck as one of its inhabitants. Not as ill as he felt, however, passing the flashing red and blue, like fireflies drawn to the corpse of a vehicle.
For the rest of the ride home, he focused his eyes on the road, his mind taking up a similarly blank countenance. He was tired, too tired to do anything more than make sure he didn’t crash into anyone, or vice versa.
The dim lights of the suburbs passed by in a hypnotic sort of blur, as if he was proceeding in some sort of a dream state, prone to wake up at any moment. As he turned into the driveway, however, he knew that there was no waking up, not from this dream – though the word dream implied something mystical and fantastical, his reality appearing to be neither. It wasn’t really a nightmare, though, either – simply a surreal portrait of existence caught in limbo.
Turning off his car, he hesitated. As much as he disliked, and indeed feared the task of driving, his car had become a sort of sanctuary for him, the only place he could get any real solitude, and despite its mortal implications, he was loathe to leave the comfort of its dominion. Yet eventually he got up and got out, not so much because someone might miss him, but because he was hungry, and he had no food in the car. Well, he had his crackers, but they could only quiet the demands of his over-large stomach for only ever so long.
Joseph pulled out his keys and slowly unlocked the door. It was nice getting out of the cold – well, the physical cold, anyway. He attempted to close the door as silently as possible, but apparently not silently enough.
“Joseph, that you?”
Who else could it be? “Yeah,” Joseph replied.
Joe hung up his coat in the closet and took off his shoes. It was refreshing getting his feet out after ten hours, as it always was. He had learned to appreciate the simple pleasures in life as of late, in lieu of any major ones. After all, one could not be picky when one’s endless numbered days were spent working at Oakwood Hobbies and Toys.
He walked into the living room and saw his father curled up on the loveseat clad in a flaming pink bathrobe, a shock of gray hair sprouting from his head, a book in his lap. He looked as if he had just awoken from a nap, a sort of passive delirium glazing over his distinctly ordinary visage – in other words, just how he always looked.
“You ever going to get your own bathrobe?” Joe asked.
“Why? Your mother never uses hers, and it's in perfectly good condition,” his father replied, not lifting his eyes from his book.
The simmering flames from the fake fireplace crackled, filling the silence with at least some substance as Joe leaned against the wall and sighed, untucking his shirt.
“There’s some pasta in the fridge, I think,” his father said, out of hand.
Joe moved to the kitchen and headed straight for the fridge. He opened it, his eyes glancing past the numerous food-like substances until finding the one he was in search of. It was a small disposable container of somewhat crusty pasta, but it seemed edible enough, so he pulled the container out and thrust it in the microwave. After a few minutes of waiting, the machine beeped and he pulled it out. Grabbing a fork from the drawer, he left for the living room once more.
Collapsing onto the couch, he cracked open the container and commenced his Friday night dinner. But as he switched on the TV, his father cried foul.
“Excuse me,” his father said, “can’t you see I’m trying to read?”
“Oh come on, you’re not reading,” Joe said.
“I never said I was. I said that I was trying to read, and I’ll never get to it with all that noise.”
“Why don’t you find another book? It’s obvious you’re just not interested.” Joe said.
“This is a perfectly good book, and I mean to finish it,” his father said.
“Dad, you’ve been trying to read Crime and Punishment for like ten years now, and you still haven’t gotten past the first part.”
“Oh, come on, it’s not all my fault! If this author would just pick up the pace a little bit, my attention would be held. But he stretches things out so much – I mean, enough with all this contemplation already. Will this fellow just kill this woman already? It’s obvious he’s going to do it, so honestly, just do it!”
“Well, it’s sort of supposed to be about the psyche and that sort of… thing…” Joe said slowly. “You’re better off with something more… recent, if you want fast moving plot.”
His father grunted. “I think I’ll just go read in the den.”
As his father left, Joseph breathed a small sigh of relief. Now at least he could eat his gruel in peace.
Flipping through the channels in an attempt to find something interesting, he found himself watching a news report; the violent images had unconsciously caught his attention. It appeared to be a foreign report on some foreign country experiencing a foreign rebellion. He couldn’t quite follow what was going on – it was all so foreign – but the videos of the government soldiers marching and firing seemed to tell a deeper story. The slew of images of gunfire, of ravaged buildings burning in the background seemed so unreal as the reporter in the newsroom spoke of casualties and social unrest. It was amazing how people could be so troubled and so miserable and yet so unheard and so unseen simply because they were so far away.
Joe switched the channel. It was too depressing. He found himself watching some action show. It was a very lively, flagrant sort of affair. It looked like some sort of a large gunfight was occurring with several explosions going on in the background. The visual effects were amazing, as they seemed they had to be in order to catch anyone's attention. One of the men got shot, blood erupting from his chest as the sound of the pistol report recreated itself in the TV's speakers. One of the characters, the protagonist presumably, continued firing with his automatic rifle into the warehouse where some of the other characters, presumably the antagonists, were hiding out. It was turning out to be a rather bloody episode indeed, yet as a few of the innocent bystanders got caught in the crossfire, Joseph noticed a peculiar thing had happened – he had moved to change the channel… out of boredom.
Joseph forced himself to pause and consider this. The show seemed to be providing all the excitement one could ask for from the station censors, yet he had still not felt compelled enough to continue watching. The flicker of the gunfire lit up the room, dancing across Joseph's glasses. Maybe it was because the violence was so disconnected from reality. But it's not as if the news provided a clear picture either – just a bunch of ominous forces constructing narratives for proles to buy into. Maybe people didn't want reality. Maybe he did. So what was he to do? Write about alpha males with automatic machine guns and give the people what they really wanted? Maybe that would work with TV, but with writing… writing was different. People read for vastly different reasons than they watched television, or so he liked to believe. So what was he to do? He didn't know. He honestly just didn't know. Joseph hadn't written anything in months, and certainly nothing serious in years. Maybe this was the day he broke his hiatus. It was a fine day, was it not? Well, he was tired, but he'd been saying that for years; it was no excuse. But what was he supposed to write about? He didn't have any worthwhile concepts. With a sigh, he shut the TV, picked up his bag, and headed to his room. Like cleaning up the kitty litter, he knew what he had to do. He was exhausted and cranky. He wasn't in the proper mood. But he had to. He had to write.
As he sat down in his decade old swivel chair, he powered up his computer with a sense of dread. He hadn't written in so long, and breaking that kind of a hiatus was always so demanding and costly. Hell, he couldn't even remember the last book he'd read. Joe knew by now that he was always maturing, always compiling more and more thoughts into his mental arsenal as time went on, even if he did nothing other than live his life robotically, but no matter what, it was always a struggle to start the creative process going. It was like trying to get an old car to run, one that would much rather sit, rot, and idle away its life in peace at the junkyard, awaiting the earth to reclaim it.
The computer finished booting, and William Shakespeare stared mockingly from the computer's desktop. Joseph opened the word processor program. It flickered open, a large white space coming into existence, simply waiting to be filled with magic. Joseph proceeded to stare into the said empty space, imagining a trail of drool dribbling down his lip. What the hell was he doing? He had no business putting pen to paper, or characters to screen, or whatever. Writing was a craft reserved for people who actually had at least a modicum of talent. It was something that intelligent, sophisticated, artistic people did, not crass buffoons like him. He began typing anyway, looked at the sentence he had written, deleted it, and quickly closed the program. But that left ol' Billy Shakes staring at him again from the desktop. The sneering bastard. Joseph could almost imagine the smug prophet decrying him as a miserable, pudgy cretin, a talentless hack that could never be anything more than a second grade scribbler, never a true wordsmith, a craftsman… an artist.
But screw Shakespeare. The man was old and dead. Time for something new. Joseph shut his eyes, cleared his mind, and when he revealed that space again, he began to write.
Out of the misty darkness, the clatter of ringing steel mingled with the bestial roars of both men and flame. The cacophony of combat echoed across the ravaged stone buildings of the city, down the murky alleyways, and through the shattered window. They were the sounds of midnight nightmares, the cries of minds gone mad, of worlds colliding, shattering each other until nothing was left but empty remnants. They were the howls of the nightstalkers, the walkers of the lands of the maimed and the damned. It was a nightmare, yes, but whether one of the waking mind or the sleeping one, it was impossible to discern.
Gideon contemplated this wearily as he stood before the window, looking out into the mess taking place down the street below. The shadows of men silhouetted against the dancing flames flickered amidst the night, disappearing and rematerializing ceaselessly. He had been awoken by the cries and the screams of havoc being wrought yet again. The stone cobbled streets were slick with the previous night's rains and reflected the intense yellows and oranges of the burning warehouse; the fiery glow was almost hypnotic.
The forms of the figures shimmered as they fought against the intensity of the flames, but it was difficult to surmise their identities. Yet who else could they be? The insurgents were unwavering in their nightly assaults and had recently stepped up their attacks. The city guard could barely keep the streets under control anymore and, as of late, they had taken to hiring mercenaries just to make it through the nights. The garrison was slowly being depleted and every morning it was anyone's guess who was running the city.
The sword hung against the bedside, a rusty, tarnished old thing that looked better sheathed than drawn. He knew he ought to go down and help. It was his job. They paid him to to do these types of things. But as he stared out into the city, the streets slowly becoming slick with blood, he wondered what for? Gideon drew the curtains and sank back into bed, the sounds of men killing and being killed echoing across the alleyways. Better they fought out in the streets than in his apartment. And with that, he went to sleep.
Joseph sat back in his swivel chair and frowned. What a messed up beginning for a story. It wasn't too bad, he guessed, but it was rather dark, wasn't it? No matter. It was something, and something was infinitely better than nothing when it came to his writing. He would think on it and see where the story might take him. Maybe Gideon was a character that might actually go somewhere. He would just have to see. But it didn't seem like Joseph had any more words left in him that night, so he saved his file and closed the word processor. William Shakespeare glowered at him with his big bug eyes, but now a bit more melancholic rather than snide. Maybe where before the bard had looked upon Joseph as a talentless hack trying to be something grand, now he looked upon him with disdain and sorrow for his dying craft, for though Joseph's ability had evolved, he wondered if he would be capable of doing anything with it. Or if anyone would care.
Joe opened up his web browser and went to check his email. He logged into his account and opened up his inbox to find… nothing. As per usual, he supposed. No one seemed to bother keeping much in touch anymore. They were all quite busy, they kept telling him, though he couldn't quite understand how busy one might be to be unable to write him a paragraph once in a while. He closed his browser and began shutting down his computer, but as he turned, his heart jolted, a mythic figure standing impatiently in the doorway. His mother, a displeased grimace lurking just beneath her customary terse and testy expression. Joseph always dreaded these encounters with her after she got back from work. They were even worse than the encounters with her before she left for work. In fact, in recent times, he more or less tried to avoid encounters with her in general.
“Joseph,” his mother said.
“Mother,” Joe said.
“What are you doing?”
“Uh… I was just checking my email before going to bed.”
“That's not what I meant. You were writing your little… stories again, weren't you?”
“Uh, no, I was just checking my email. I use a computer for other things too, you know.”
“Oh please, Joseph, who's going to email you? You're always complaining about how none of your friends stay in touch with you anymore.”
“Well, I have a right to check sometimes, just in case, don't I?” This wasn't going to end well.
“You're sidestepping the issue, Joseph. Now tell me, have you been wasting more of your time writing your little ditties again? Answer me.” She coughed hollowly.
“I… I just wrote a few paragraphs, mom. It was barely like fifteen, twenty minutes–”
“I don't know how many times I need to repeat myself. How many times do we have to go over this, Joseph? Look at yourself. What are you doing, Joseph? Tell me, what are you doing?”
“I'm–”
“You're what? Huh? Save your breath. You've no idea.”
“Listen mom, why do you have to–”
“Because somebody has to look out for you, if you won't. I'm your mother. I love you. And when I see my son rotting away, doing nothing with his life but working at some god forsaken hobby hellhole and writing little fairy tales pretending to be J. R. R. Tolkien, what am I supposed to do? It makes me sick.”
Joseph paused, letting the bombshell disperse.“You can try letting me make some decisions on my own.”
“You? Making decisions? Joseph, it's your decisions that got you stuck in this mess in the first place! Let me tell you something. You know why your friends are so busy? Because they're all going to college, Joseph. They all have classes, homework and tests to attend to, football games and parties to go to. They're all getting drunk and having sex, but at least in three or four years they're going to graduate with a degree. Then they will either get jobs, or go to graduate school, then get even better jobs. Then they will get married, have kids, and live generally decent, happy lives. But what are you doing, Joseph? I'll ask you again? What are you doing?”
Joe just looked through his glasses and dropped his gaze.
“You may think I'm being too hard on you, Joey, but I'm only looking out for you. You said you needed time to think. But Joey, you've had enough time. It's time for you to get going with your life.”
Joe remained silent. When he looked up, the doorway was empty. He went to the bathroom, brushed his teeth, changed his clothes, turned off the lights, and went to bed. After a time, he realized he was having trouble falling asleep, so he got up and went to his window, imagining what it might feel like to see the streets aflame. But there were no fires in the suburbs. And even if there were, the fire department would quickly put them out. And obviously this was a good thing, right? But, like everything, it had its consequences, and its costs. In times of turmoil, all anyone ever wanted was peace and stability. But in times of peace and stability, all anyone ever wanted was a bit of turmoil. But there he was, getting all falsely philosophical again. After all, no philosophy ever led to anything but suicide. He went back to bed and closed his eyes. Maybe the feelings would go away if he didn't think about them.
PART I:
Spirit of the Suburbs
Chapter 2
He looked left and right, peering down the sights of his automatic rifle. The dusty terrain was uninterrupted all around, and the sandy sun drenched buildings stood, conveniently enclosing the battlefield. With his back against a stone wall, J-Money waited patiently in anticipation as the timer ticked away. A shadow of movement. He fired, the echo of the rifle's reports blasting his ears. Within a moment, the enemy lay dead at his feet, a rough bloodstain against the bullet strewn wall. The satisfaction was short lived, however, as the enemy's teammate came from the side and shot J-Money in the face with a shotgun. Dammit.
He watched the rest of the fight play itself out from a distance, becoming a disembodied spirit haunting the battlefield. There were several terrorists still in play, with only one counter-terrorist standing his ground by the bombsite. The CT got moving, checking spastically around each corner, anticipating his own imminent death with each passing moment. Then, through the arched gateway across the bombsite, the masked warriors appeared, firing upon the CT taking cover. He fired back, letting bullets fly that pierced skull and brain, dropping one of the terrorists in a bloody display of superior marksmanship. But then there was a metallic grating sound, and the CT, that sole defender of freedom left to save their souls, fell to the floor with a groan, a terrorist standing behind, still swinging his knife with rigid arms. He then proceeded to lower himself upon the fallen CT's face up and down in a lewd gesture that surely flew in the face of the Geneva Conventions.
The battle began anew, and J-Money purchased his weaponry once more. He looked through the scope of his new rifle and took a position overlooking the underpass. Scanning back and forth, he kept his eyes peeled for the masked assailants that would surely be upon him any moment. A foot appeared. J-Money fired, striking flesh. The victim took cover and began peppering J-Money's position with automatic rifle fire. J-Money pulled back but saw gunfire erupting from the tunnel to the right, and blasted at it with his pistol as he made for the bombsite in an effort to regroup with his comrades. The rapid booming of an automatic shotgun tore into his ears as a CT covering the tunnel went down. The terrorists were brutal and efficient, and the future looked grim.
J-Money pulled back to the bombsite and tried to spot enemy limbs through the scope of his rifle. He fired, the sound numbing his ears. A terrorist appeared through the gateway, and as his head fell under the crosshairs, J-Money silenced him in an instant, but then he turned and drew his pistol, firing away at the side passage. Suddenly, he got the call – the terrorists had managed to plant the bomb at the other site. J-Money cursed and quickly made his way there. He moved through a door and stood staring into the eyes of a garbed terrorist. J-Money panicked, but managed to shoot him in the face, yet there was no time to savor the lethal blow. He poked around the corner with his rifle, and shot the two terrorists guarding the bomb, dropping them one by one. As the bomb's beeping quickened, J-Money ran to it, attempting to defuse it. He almost managed, but he was too late; the bomb blew and ripped his body to shreds like a cut of overcooked meat. The score appeared, along with individual kill counts. Joseph cringed. He almost had it!
The buttons of the menu bar lingered on the screen, and though Joseph was tempted to play again, it was more out of habit than enjoyment. How many terrorists and counter-terrorists had he killed over the course of his years? Thousands? The graphics were so bad, the buildings nothing more than giant flat boxes of geometry, ugly pixellated textures stretched over them in an appallingly crude imitation of reality. The game always made him feel so pathetic, as he could never compete with the truly skilled. Getting one-shot killed within the first few moments of a round was commonplace, as was getting raped 10 times for every one kill. Why did he even play? He shut the program down, and flinched as the bard assaulted him by surprise. He really needed a new desktop wallpaper. Eh, he'd find one tomorrow.
Joseph slumped in his chair, his back where his butt ought to have been. He groaned and sputtered to himself, as he always did when he was alone in his room with nothing to do but wallow. What did the old aristocrats used to call it? Ennui? Yeah, ennui. He had a lot of that. In fact, such was the degree of his ennui that it had collapsed into a black hole in his chest cavity and could actually suck the energy out of anyone within a ten foot radius.
As Joseph stared blankly into his monitor, the cat rolled over onto his keyboard. With a grunt, he grabbed the animal by the paws and dropped him onto the floor – he fell with a plop. Garfield was fat, old and Joseph's patron saint of sloth. The cat stared at the ceiling with drooping eyelids, pawing at the sky, unable to roll over. It moaned, as if begging for the sweet release of death. And in truth, Joe probably wouldn't shed any tears if the creature suffered a heart attack. He had been cute as a kitten, but now the poor creature was so obese that he really just needed to be put out of his misery. With idle pity, Joe prodded the creature onto its belly with his foot.
Another day off, another day bled, lost forever, beaten dead. He had only just finished eating lunch, but the unmistakable taste of a wasted day mingled with the bologna of his sandwich, and he knew what to expect. He really ought to do something productive, shouldn't he? Live life to the fullest, and all that. He could read a book, or write, or something, surely? But as he eyed the icon in the corner of his desktop, that golden “S” with crossed blades, he knew where his hours would be going that day; indeed, the worn out WASD keys told the story well.
The application opened up, and, after a moment of loading, the rousing music thundered to life – “SHADOWCRAFT.” He typed in his username and password, and his list of characters opened up, alarming in length. He clicked his main character and a rustic illustration of warriors and warlords filled the screen, a loading bar slowly filling up at the bottom. How many times had he watched that little blue bar fill up? How many times had he sat, staring blankly at the screen, waiting for something to happen?
An expanse of digital highland stretched out before him. The dusty red and orange of the sky mingled with the clouds, lighting up the textured grasses of the landscape. A stone road cut itself through the terrain amidst rocks and shrubs, savage monsters and beasts roaming aimlessly in the distance. A matrix of buttons arranged in rows filled the interface in what may as well have been the console of a space ship. In the chat window, words appeared: “Welcome to the world of Shadowcraft! Patch 2.3.0 is now live – Server transfers for characters are now available, for a low surcharge! Customers with complaints regarding the recent account intrusions can contact customer support through the Shadowcraft website. Enjoy your stay!”
Joseph's character, Cratos, stood in the middle of the screen, wrapped in savage armor, the lithe form of his tall, muscled body moving with calm and collected breath. A wicked blade rested in each hand, and he fingered them impatiently. Joe moved his character forward through the highlands, in search of something to slay. In the chat window, green words appeared.
(Guild) [Slinky]: The filthy son of a bitch. That bastard knew damn well I needed that effin wraith armor, and he took it with a smile on his face! Him, a berserker! What the hell is a godamn berserker going to do with a set of wraith armor? Tell me! Godamn ninja…
(Guild) [Fortunato]: Dude, just chill. It's not that big a deal. You will get more armor later.
(Guild) [Slinky]: Yeah, I know, but it still pisses me off.
(Guild) [Mormon]: CRATOS. WHAT IS UPP DUDE =)
(Guild) [Fortunato]: Cratos, you're behind on your guild dues.
(Guild) [Cratos]: Yeah, I know, I'll pay up when I get some damn gold. Wasted it all gambling.
(Guild) [Mormon]: you need to get your damn gambling under control, man! maybe you should join gamblers anonymous or something. hang out with all the undead dwarfs =)
There was a howl, and over the ridge, a large, rabid, misshapen troll appeared, towering over him. With a blood curdling roar, Cratos charged, slashing at the creature with both blades. The troll battered at Cratos with a large, fanged club, but it did little harm. Within a minute, Cratos had cut the creature to ribbons. He leaned down to snatch up the silver coins from under the corpse's loin cloth, then proceeded on his way. He looked at his map. There would be a troll camp not far from here. If he got up on that ridge, he might be able to spot it.
(Guild) [Mormon]: so Cratos, what you up to today?
(Guild) [Cratos]: Oh, I dunno. Probably troll killing in the highlands.
(Guild) [Mormon]: aw, I'd join you, but I'm not on the Western Continent. highland trolls are good money and experience.
(Guild) [Cratos]: Don't worry about it.
Cratos checked his social tab. There were only a few members of his guild online, and Mormon was the only person he really liked, but he was all the way on the Eastern Continent. Looked like Cratos was on his own, as usual. He crested the ridge and saw the vast, majestic highlands stretch out for miles into the distance, fading away into the atmosphere. There, deep in the highlands, he spotted the troll village, and licked his lips in anticipation. He summoned his dark steed and rode forth through the ragged lands.
Upon nearing his destination, he dismounted and drew out his slender crossbow. There, through the bushes and the trees, he saw the trolls milling about, but-
The ring of a doorbell.
…but if he faced them all at once, he would surely perish. So he raised his crossbow, took aim, and-
The doorbell rang once again.
…he fired at one of the stragglers. The troll grew enraged and, bringing a friend along with him, charged. Cratos stood in wait, blades drawn, the blood coursing through his veins, his Dark Elven skin barely visible under his sleek, sinister armor. And just when the trolls came in sight…
A cascade of violent rings, somebody pressing the doorbell over and over again in frantic, amphetamine induced spasms. With a caveman groan, Joseph ran downstairs to open the door. And there, in the bitter freezing cold, stood a portly man dressed in a suit.
“Good afternoon,” the man said.
Joseph furrowed his brow. “Hi. Can I… help you?”
“No no no,” the man said. “The question is, can I help you?”
Joseph stared, expecting more. “Can you…?”
“Indeed, I can!” the man said, smiling broadly. “I am calling on you to bring good news!”
“Oh?” Joseph said. He looked around, hoping it was Publisher's Clearing House.
“Indeed!” the man said. “The world is ending!” He smiled broadly.
Joseph frowned, looking upon the man, smugly grinning as if he just said to a five year old boy 'free ice cream!' “So… you're not Publisher's Clearing House…?”
“No, but I bring good news!” the man said. “The good news of Jehova god and his kingdom!”
Somehow, Joe felt as if instead of ice cream, he had received a titty-twister, yet he couldn't express the pain, or else they'd think he was weak. “Oh, well, I'm not-”
“Indeed!” the man said. “Do you know that when judgment is laid upon the bordello of sin and hellfire that is the mortal presence on earth, only 144,000 faithful will be allowed to enter heaven?”
“Really? Well, that's-”
“And believing in the cross means you're a pagan?”
“Aha, well, that's-”
“And that if you do not believe the truths of Jehovah god, then you, like the rest of the world apart from his Witnesses, are under the diabolical sway of Satan and will burn in agony for the rest of eternity?”
Joseph winced, knowing that as the man spoke, in an alternate realm, Joe was dying.
“And indeed, the first step towards truth is reading this magazine. With a low low subscription price of-”
“I'm sorry,” Joseph said, “but the devil knows the Bible like the back of his hand.” He closed the door, but the man stuck in his foot, and Joseph had to kick at it before he could seal the gateway shut. Frozen stiff, he rushed back upstairs to see himself dead on the screen. Cursing, he guided his floating spirit all the way from the graveyard to the location of his corpse. Resurrected, he flexed his limbs, ready to murder again.
Cratos made the pull and pounced, unleashing his fury on the creatures that had just taken his life. They pummeled him, but his swords carved into the thick troll flesh with vigor and precision, cutting deep; they stood no chance. Cratos looted their bodies when he was finished.
(Guild) [Mormon]: hey Cratos, actually, I think I'll get a teleport to the highlands and join you. getting bored over here.
(Guild) [Cratos]: Sure. There's a troll village to the northwest. Let me invite you to a group.
Cratos shot some more trolls to get their attention, and proceeded to cut them to bits. He continued his killing spree for about ten minutes, before he could see Mormon moving towards him on his map. Within a few more moments, Mormon appeared over the ridge, a nightmarish undead man riding his skeletal steed. He dismounted, his arcane robes flowing, his unliving eyes set deep within the sockets of his skull.
(Group) [Mormon]: hidy ho, neighborino.
(Group) [Cratos]: Good to see you. With your help, we can mow through these bastards no prob.
Mormon was a priest of the dark arts, and the very smell of the air warped in the presence of his unholy incantations. Cratos felt his strength bolstered, the dark energy flowing through his body and his blades.
(Group) [Mormon]: yeah, undead priest and dark elf swordmaster are good together. let's go kamikaze that troll village.
With a roar, Cratos charged, cutting a swath through the encampment. The trolls beat at him in fury, but to no avail. Cratos's blades glowed violet with power and severed limbs in single swings. The guttural chanting of Mormon haunted the creatures, twisting their minds, turning them mad, and they fell, weakened, their bodies warped and torn. Soon all were dead, and the two looted the village as they saw fit.
(Group) [Mormon]: ooo, potions in this hut. lots. here, I'll share.
They continued this way, raiding the troll villages, looting them, then circling back when the villages repopulated. Their purses soon grew fat with silver, their packs with potions and other goods. It was a nice system, and the revenue stream was steady. But after a while, Mormon the fell priest grew weary.
(Group) [Mormon]: dude, getting sick of trolls. why don't we try the barbarian camp to the north?
(Group) [Cratos]: I dunno, pretty risky business. The barbarians are way tougher.
(Group) [Mormon]: aww come on. you and me, we can't be beat!
After a moment's consideration, Cratos assented, and they traveled on horseback north. Day had turned dim in the highlands, and the onset of night was nigh. The village bound creatures returned to their huts, for strange monsters now began to appear, eager to commence their nocturnal stalkings. Cratos wondered if it would be best to turn back, but Mormon insisted on continuing, for he thirsted for barbarian blood, and would not be sated until he tasted some upon the dead flesh of his wandering tongue.
The forms of twisting trees and shrubs silhouetted themselves against the deep blue of the night sky, the moon rising from behind. Things moved amidst the darkness above and below. And Cratos, steely as his resolve may have been, began to feel unnerved. Out there, in the wilderness, against an entire village of highland barbarians, far from any trace of civilization – this was not a journey for the faint of heart.
Out on the ridge stood a row of posts, shooting into the sky at odd angles. But as they moved closer, they found that upon the spikes rested skulls and half rotten heads. They passed through, and saw the fires burning below. The village was large, and the barbarian watchmen patrolled the perimeter. Getting in would be no easy task. They dismounted and crept amongst the bushes and the trees, trying to remain unseen. How would they get in? They moved in silence, weapons at the ready. Mormon quietly chanted, bolstering their strength and resolve with his magic. And there, next to an outlying hut, stood the towering, bestial barbarians. These were no men of ordinary origin. They were mutants, with savage, bony limbs and twisted, hellborn faces. They ate flesh, and would be eager to make a meal of Cratos, at the least. Cratos looked to his partner, asking if he was ready. The sweat laced itself around Cratos's palms, and his grip felt weak. He took a deep breath and-
A door slammed, and a chill passed through his heart that not even an eight foot man-eating mutant with blades for arms could have been capable of inspiring.
(Group) [Cratos]: Dammit mom's home gotta go.
The world collapsed, and the bard returned. Godammit! He was so startling. Joe tried to calm himself – act natural, act natural.
“Joseph.”
With a deep breath, Joe turned in his swivel chair. “Hello mother.”
“Don't hello mother me! You were playing that stupid little game of yours again, weren't you?”
“I, uh-”
“Weren't you?”
“Yes, god, yes, fine, I was. Could you please speak in a slightly less terrifying tone? ”
“Damn it, Joseph! Didn't I tell you to cancel your subscription to that game a month ago? It's such a waste of money! And what's the cat doing on the floor? You know he pees everywhere!”
“Mom! It's not really that much money.”
“But you pay monthly, don't you?”
“Well, yeah…”
“And how many years have you been paying?”
“Uh, well… Damn it, it's still cheaper than heroin!”
“Don't you curse at me young man!”
“I'm not cursing at you, mom! I'm just cursing, uh, as a matter of course.”
“Joseph! The cat! He's peeing on you!”
Sure enough, Joseph looked down to find Garfield releasing a shower of gold upon his foot.
“Clean that mess up, and come down when you're finished. You're driving me to the grocery store.”
Dazed by the stench of cat urine, it took him a while for the significance of the words to set in. But when they did, Joseph felt akin to being notified of his imminent castration, to be delivered within the hour. His reaction could be described as such: DEAR GOD NO. PLEASE, HAVE MERCY.
As he rubbed at the stained carpet with a paper towel and baking soda, he cursed under his breath. He never understood his mother. She must have some voodoo psychic powers, or something. How does she know these things? How can she tell so precisely what he's been doing? But this was the least of his concerns, for his mother had just come home from working overtime on a weekend, and she wanted him to go grocery shopping with her. This was a dark journey, not for the faint of heart, and, quite frankly, Joseph questioned whether he had the courage to survive to see the day's end. Maybe he ought to bring a weapon.
Joe opened the front door and quickly zipped his jacket, the shock of cold cutting into his chest. He was surprised to see the sun sinking beyond the roofs lining the streets. It seemed as if only a few moments had passed since eating lunch, yet there he stood, watching the day coming to its end. The orange glow lit the piles of snow like fire, but it was momentary, for soon all would be black in the cul-de-sac – as if there was anything worth seeing in any case. God, every time he got into his car, it felt like his next turn at Russian Roulette. One of these days… He started the engine And rubbed his hands, letting the car warm up.
“Joseph, your car is disgusting,” his mother said, sitting next to him. “You really need to clean it.”
“It'll just get dirty again,” Joe said. “Why fight nature?”
“Your room is disgusting too. I want you to clean it tonight, after dinner.”
“Hey! What if I told you I was going to do something with my friends tonight?”