A gentle rain fell outside an apartment where four anonymous individuals dined in silence. Their host, Arnold Cavenstein, stood nervously in a shadowy corner of the room waiting for the signal to deliver the next course. This signal was a ring from a tiny silver bell resting at the head of the table next to what was, presumably, the person chosen by the group to be their moderator. Mr. Cavenstein had instructed the party to ring the bell whenever they found themselves prepared for the next course.
The evening had begun with two light amuse of shrimp on ice, delivered in silver goblets, and a small portion of chilled fava bean soup with seared scallops. Mr. Cavenstein stood rigid in the corner with his face to the wall, so as to grant his guests the most intimate privacy. In the doorway next to him, sitting on a silver cart, was the next course, four small plates of caviar on buttered bread accompanied by wooden knives and forks.
The four dining members had communcated very little since their arrival. Mr. Cavenstein had taken their coats and, after placing them in the open closet in the foyer, led the party to the dining room. His guest list consisted of three men and one woman, all of whom had come dressed in the expectation of an evening fit for high society. The man who sat at the head of the table was a dark ivory with a skinny build. He looked to be in his late thirties and was bald with a well-groomed goatee. The man on his left was white, but with a dark tan and a thick black mustache. He was much larger than the rest of the individuals in attendance, sitting at almost twice the size of the other guests, and looked to be in his early thirties. His black hair fell to his ears and was combed back and to the right into straight and rigid lines.
The only woman present sat at the far end of the table, opposite the head. She had a fair complexion and a small petite frame. She wore thin-rimmed glasses and held her brown hair back in a tight bun. She wore a striking silver ring on her left hand’s ring finger and looked to be, though it was hard to tell, in her early sixties. The final member of the party sat across from the tanned gargantuan and to the right of the head of the table. He looked to be the oldest member of the dining party with thinning white hair and a creased face. His skin was an olive color and he had entered into the apartment that evening wheezing and leaning heavily upon an ivory cane topped with a shiny black handle.
Mr. Cavenstein, growing complacent in his newly found space, realized that he had never looked so closely at this particular corner before and he began to notice how dirty the walls had become since he had moved in. In a panic of worrying about whether or not his guests would notice his filthy walls he grew distracted and nearly jumped when the first conversation of the evening began behind him.
“So, Roland,” wheezed the elder member of the party, “why have you called us here this evening?”
The table drew silent for several seconds and then the black man at the head of the table spoke with a gentle, but directed tone.
“You have all been called here tonight for the only reason you still remain an asset to this organization.”
Roland cleared his throat and continued.
“All of you, in your own unique way, have been involved in the matter that we will be dealing with in the coming hours. After our affairs have finished you will be free of any obligation you may have previously held with the party. However, your participation in the dealings of this evening is non-negotiable.”
Mr. Cavenstein, with his nose rubbing nervously against the wall, jumped a second time as the table rattled under the weight of a colossal fist smashing down upon it.
“Roland,” spoke a deep voice in a thick British accent, “you know I don’t go for this type of thing. Tell me what I’m involved in and then I’ll tell you if I want to stay or not.”
“Now, Simon,” whispered a gentle female voice, “there’s no need for theatrics here. Roland has no intention of harming anyone. Let’s keep the evening civil.”
The old man’s wheezing became heavier as the party once again drew silent. Silverware clinked against plates and seats creaked as the party members shifted in their seats. After several minutes of awkward silence Roland addressed the party again.
“While Ms. J is correct about my intentions to conduct an evening of civil discussion let there be no mistake as to the consequences of any refusal to cooperate. You have all been summoned here because of your unique experiences, but you can and will be disposed of if you decline to contribute to the task at hand.”
The old man expelled a louder than normal sigh and the party halted their conversation.
“Why are we here Roland?” said the old man in a tone much colder than before.
Roland chuckled and his chair squealed as he leaned back in it.
“I like your straightforwardness Victor. You remind me of my father. The older he got the less he said. Always to the point. Anyway, we’re all here tonight because of a problem that was never properly taken care of.”
The room drew quiet as the sound of a cigarette lighter clicked in the background.
“The dreamer has escaped. And he’s disappeared.”
The room fell quiet for several minutes. Mr. Cavenstein pressed his nose against the wall and plunged his hands deep into his pockets. He wished his recent guests would go away and take their business elsewhere. He was tired of being worried. He was tired of being nervous. He was tired of all the ambiguous language being thrown around the room.
A silver bell tinkled from the table.
“Arnold,” said Roland quietly, “we’re ready for our next course.”
Arnold turned on his heel swiftly as if operated by a machine. He smiled brightly and moved forward to the table.
“Yes, sir.”
Saturday, May 19, 2007
Chapter 19
Edward’s shoes slapped against the pavement as he ran down a small corridor between two high-rise slums. He emerged out of the corridor, jumping immediately into the cover of the next building while a bullet sailed through the space he had just occupied. His suit jacket had already been abandoned and a katana hung securely to his back in the suspenders of his under-vest.
He looked left and right as he calmly reached for the grip of the blade. The sound of approaching feet slaps echoed in the corridor. Edward closed his eyes and waited. He wiped the sweat from his hand and stood
READY
for anything, but this. Witticker emerged into the distrip from a short side-street from the main road he had followed through the city. The view was anything, but what he had expected. Men and women walked around quickly in clothes of every color and style. Vendors covered the sides of the streets, yelling at passers-by. Masses of people crammed into the streets, all on their own business. The market was colorful and
ALIVE
,and then lifeless as Edward shoved the sharpened metal into the man’s back. The bodies of two men lay broken on the ground, dressed neatly in black suits. Edward pulled the sword from his pursuers back and leaned against the building, his lungs trying to compensate for their recent short supply. He pulled himself alongside the building towards the adjacent alleyway. More feet could be heard in the distance. Edward sprinted down the alleyway, towards the growing sound of
PEOPLE
filled all the spaces and Witticker began to breathe heavily in the suffocating closeness. His eyes darted around wildly and his mouth went dry. People of all shapes and sizes, different descriptions and acounts. Everyone staring at him, watching him. He turned to the nearest vendor.
“Girondo?” he cried frantically, “Where’s Girondo?”
The vendor pointed down to the far end of the street.
“Three blocks.”
Witticker nodded as a deer might to oncoming headlights. He moved slowly down the maze of people. So many people. So
AFRAID
there might be more, Edward ran into the crowds to get lost. He pushed into the mob and quickly ducked down to half his size. He shuffled awkwardly through the masses on his knees, taking care to hold the sword close and out of sight. He bumped into a man, twice his size, who promptly shoved him back. The crowds subsided creating a circle for the two men, a makeshift fighting pit. In the distance more figures in black suits had
ARRIVED
at the wrong time of day. Witticker had quickly become aware that night was no time to be in the distrip. He gripped his briefcase tightly as he slowly maneuvered through the anxious crowd. So many people. Too many to dodge. He began to shove through people without concern. The more people he pushed past the more they seemed to multiply. The paths to walk through were becoming smaller as the crowd seemed to grow
LARGER
than he had anticipated, Edward knew the man he’d pushed was not one to fuck with. The man’s nose was crooked from a lifetime of physical negotiations.
“You picked the wrong day, fella,” said the offended colossus.
Edward backed up as the man drew
CLOSER
than he had ever wanted to be to this many people. A panic flew wildly through Witticker’s mind. A phobia never fully recognized and now operating at full
FORCE
of the blow threw Edward to the ground like a rag doll. Strangely, the mammoth didn’t pursue him. Edward looked up to see the man teetering from left to right, his white tank top soaking up blood from the newly formed hole in his back. His most recent enemy had, inadvertently, taken a bullet for him. Edward turned and
RAN
as fast as he could through the crowd. Too many people. Witticker wanted to get
OUT
of sight was the only way to get safe. Edward pushed through the sea of bodies. He could hear the storm of feet behind him and realized he didn’t have much
TIME
slowed down and Witticker felt every second pass. He fought his way through the mass of faces, pushing away from the fear that echoed in his mind. There seemed to be motion up
AHEAD
of this last row of people there was a clearing and Edward saw his chance to escape. Gunshots echoed through the cavernous district as his pursuers watched their prey begin to slip
AWAY
, far far away. Witticker yearned for the horrors in his mind to stop. He seized himself up and ran through anyone in his way. Suddenly, he broke through and stood in an open
PATHWAY
was blocked by a orange-haired man in a light blue button-up. A gunshot whizzed past Edward’s ear and sank into the orange-haired man’s arm. Edward ran forward, grabbed the victim by his surviving arm, and sprinted through the
CROWD
flew by as a searing pain shot through Witticker’s right bicep. His legs moved without his consent as he was pulled into a dark doorway. The door closed and the room went black. Witticker fell from consciousness as the sound of running footsteps faded into the distance.
He looked left and right as he calmly reached for the grip of the blade. The sound of approaching feet slaps echoed in the corridor. Edward closed his eyes and waited. He wiped the sweat from his hand and stood
READY
for anything, but this. Witticker emerged into the distrip from a short side-street from the main road he had followed through the city. The view was anything, but what he had expected. Men and women walked around quickly in clothes of every color and style. Vendors covered the sides of the streets, yelling at passers-by. Masses of people crammed into the streets, all on their own business. The market was colorful and
ALIVE
,and then lifeless as Edward shoved the sharpened metal into the man’s back. The bodies of two men lay broken on the ground, dressed neatly in black suits. Edward pulled the sword from his pursuers back and leaned against the building, his lungs trying to compensate for their recent short supply. He pulled himself alongside the building towards the adjacent alleyway. More feet could be heard in the distance. Edward sprinted down the alleyway, towards the growing sound of
PEOPLE
filled all the spaces and Witticker began to breathe heavily in the suffocating closeness. His eyes darted around wildly and his mouth went dry. People of all shapes and sizes, different descriptions and acounts. Everyone staring at him, watching him. He turned to the nearest vendor.
“Girondo?” he cried frantically, “Where’s Girondo?”
The vendor pointed down to the far end of the street.
“Three blocks.”
Witticker nodded as a deer might to oncoming headlights. He moved slowly down the maze of people. So many people. So
AFRAID
there might be more, Edward ran into the crowds to get lost. He pushed into the mob and quickly ducked down to half his size. He shuffled awkwardly through the masses on his knees, taking care to hold the sword close and out of sight. He bumped into a man, twice his size, who promptly shoved him back. The crowds subsided creating a circle for the two men, a makeshift fighting pit. In the distance more figures in black suits had
ARRIVED
at the wrong time of day. Witticker had quickly become aware that night was no time to be in the distrip. He gripped his briefcase tightly as he slowly maneuvered through the anxious crowd. So many people. Too many to dodge. He began to shove through people without concern. The more people he pushed past the more they seemed to multiply. The paths to walk through were becoming smaller as the crowd seemed to grow
LARGER
than he had anticipated, Edward knew the man he’d pushed was not one to fuck with. The man’s nose was crooked from a lifetime of physical negotiations.
“You picked the wrong day, fella,” said the offended colossus.
Edward backed up as the man drew
CLOSER
than he had ever wanted to be to this many people. A panic flew wildly through Witticker’s mind. A phobia never fully recognized and now operating at full
FORCE
of the blow threw Edward to the ground like a rag doll. Strangely, the mammoth didn’t pursue him. Edward looked up to see the man teetering from left to right, his white tank top soaking up blood from the newly formed hole in his back. His most recent enemy had, inadvertently, taken a bullet for him. Edward turned and
RAN
as fast as he could through the crowd. Too many people. Witticker wanted to get
OUT
of sight was the only way to get safe. Edward pushed through the sea of bodies. He could hear the storm of feet behind him and realized he didn’t have much
TIME
slowed down and Witticker felt every second pass. He fought his way through the mass of faces, pushing away from the fear that echoed in his mind. There seemed to be motion up
AHEAD
of this last row of people there was a clearing and Edward saw his chance to escape. Gunshots echoed through the cavernous district as his pursuers watched their prey begin to slip
AWAY
, far far away. Witticker yearned for the horrors in his mind to stop. He seized himself up and ran through anyone in his way. Suddenly, he broke through and stood in an open
PATHWAY
was blocked by a orange-haired man in a light blue button-up. A gunshot whizzed past Edward’s ear and sank into the orange-haired man’s arm. Edward ran forward, grabbed the victim by his surviving arm, and sprinted through the
CROWD
flew by as a searing pain shot through Witticker’s right bicep. His legs moved without his consent as he was pulled into a dark doorway. The door closed and the room went black. Witticker fell from consciousness as the sound of running footsteps faded into the distance.
Chapter 18
“Imagine you’re riding a bike, watching for traffic, and a pretty girl comes walking down the street beside you. I mean, right toward you.”
Witticker stood shivering in the remains of an old bus-stop analyzing a crude map carved on the wall. A man in a white suit had been talking rabidly at him, rather than to him, for the last several minutes. Rain fell in gallons around the small structure and a cold breeze crept through the night air around the two men. A streetlight hung far above them, lighting a small, dim circle on the ground below.
“Our minds are so amazing! I mean, they are able to operate the three activities at once and arrange them in order of importance based entirely upon our needs. Personally, I’d probably wreck the bike, but hey, that’s just me. Ha!”
Witticker had walked into the bus-stop a few minutes earlier, just missing the rain. He had been walking the abandoned streets of Recon-Chicago since Harvey had dropped him off an hour earlier and had found no sign or direction until the discovery of the map in the deteriorating waiting area.
“Like now, for instance. You’re looking at that map, thinking about where you’re about to be off to, and listening to me; all at the same time. Amazing!”
Witticker found ignoring the man in the suit was becoming progressively more difficult as the suited man had begun to intermittently address him directly. Witticker turned from the map, a bit more confident in the direction of the distribution property, and looked out onto the rainy street before him. He stared away from the man in hopes that he could avoid the trappings of a conversation.
“Of course, your mind was probably concentrating most of its efforts on the map, so you probably haven’t heard much of what I’ve been saying,” heralded the man as he eagerly extended his hand, “Hi, I’m Carlin. And you are?”
While Witticker had become used to exchanging pleasantries with Harvey he was still not quite ready for physical contact with a stranger. He silently cursed the rain for creating his dry prison and turned slowly to face Carlin. Witticker looked down at the outstretched hand in its greeting position, but could not bring himself to reach out towards it.
“Witti-uh, pardon, Brisby. My name is Brisby,” he said with his hands plunged deeply in his pockets.
Carlin stood with his hand out towards Witticker for a few more seconds before pulling it back.
“Brisby. Neat name. Well, like I was saying, the mind is an amazing thing. Just the amount of information it can hold is staggering. And the way we remember things, just amazing.”
Witticker nodded and looked out across the streets, away from Carlin. He had found, through his brief experiences with Harvey, that the best way to avoid small talk was to not encourage it with any responses. With enough head nodding and re-assuring mumbles the conversation would eventually wash away into nothing.
“For example,” said Carlin enthusiastically, “Try to think back as far as you can. Can you remember every single detail of your life? What you did every day? What you did yesterday? Probably not. Most people can’t even remember what they did a few days ago unless they’re asked to. It’s because we don’t have any markers to attach to every detail of our day. If it’s mundane our mind just files it away under ‘unneccessary’.”
At this point Carlin went as far as highlighting the word unnecessary by gesturing a pair of quotations in the air.
“However, think about where you grew up. Not just that. Think about the house you grew up in. The blueprints even, if you will. You can probably remember every square-inch of the place. What could be more mundane than that? But your brain remembers! In fact, you could probably draw the blueprints of every place you’ve ever been in, with enough time of course.”
Witticker thought of the house he had left only a short while ago. It was the only house he could remember as it was the only one he’d ever been in. He thought of the kitchen and the living room, the upstairs rooms, his bedroom. He could remember every corner of every room.
“Your mind stores away these blueprints because you have a mental picture attached to them. You don’t remember the structure as much as you remember the place. Simply amazing.”
Carlin reached his hand out into the rain, catching raindrops in his palm. Witticker watched as the drops formed a small puddle in the crease of his recent acquaintance’s hand.
“If you put all that information on paper you’d have boxes and boxes of blueprints. Just blueprints. And that’s just buildings. Imagine how much stuff you’d have to carry if all your memory was on paper.”
Carlin tossed the puddle from his hand onto the ground. Witticker tried to imagine all his boxes of memories stacked around him. How he might access each one with a specific reminder. How much easier things would be if he could remember all the way back. Just find the box and look inside.
“Lots and lots of paper. Ah well, just a thought. Where are you off to tonight?” asked Carlin as he moved to lean against the wall of the bus-stop.
The boxes of memories tumbled in Witticker’s mind as he thought on how to answer the question without putting any real information into play.
“I’m looking for a distrip actually,” answered Witticker, “Would you happen to know if this map is accurate?”
Carlin turned towards the map and shrugged.
“Close enough, I guess. Just stick to the main streets and you’ll be fine. It’s in the side-streets that…”
Witticker cut Carlin short by picking up his briefcase and running across the street and down the main street towards the distrip. It wasn’t that Witticker didn’t like Carlin; it was that he simply didn’t know what to say next. Running away seemed a viable option, so Witticker took it.
As Witticker jogged down the street he felt a hint of regret nip at the corner of his mind, a nagging whisper reminding him of his latest awkward social encounter. He reached another overhang two blocks further and looked back at the tiny bus-stop he had left on the corner. Witticker could make out the faint silhouette of a man standing under a dimming street light vigorously waving goodbye. He couldn’t help but appreciate Carlin’s persistence.
Witticker stepped out from his shadowy cover and slowly raised his hand into the air. As he stood in the rain shaking his hand at a man he barely knew Witticker was certain that he had lost his senses entirely.
Witticker stood shivering in the remains of an old bus-stop analyzing a crude map carved on the wall. A man in a white suit had been talking rabidly at him, rather than to him, for the last several minutes. Rain fell in gallons around the small structure and a cold breeze crept through the night air around the two men. A streetlight hung far above them, lighting a small, dim circle on the ground below.
“Our minds are so amazing! I mean, they are able to operate the three activities at once and arrange them in order of importance based entirely upon our needs. Personally, I’d probably wreck the bike, but hey, that’s just me. Ha!”
Witticker had walked into the bus-stop a few minutes earlier, just missing the rain. He had been walking the abandoned streets of Recon-Chicago since Harvey had dropped him off an hour earlier and had found no sign or direction until the discovery of the map in the deteriorating waiting area.
“Like now, for instance. You’re looking at that map, thinking about where you’re about to be off to, and listening to me; all at the same time. Amazing!”
Witticker found ignoring the man in the suit was becoming progressively more difficult as the suited man had begun to intermittently address him directly. Witticker turned from the map, a bit more confident in the direction of the distribution property, and looked out onto the rainy street before him. He stared away from the man in hopes that he could avoid the trappings of a conversation.
“Of course, your mind was probably concentrating most of its efforts on the map, so you probably haven’t heard much of what I’ve been saying,” heralded the man as he eagerly extended his hand, “Hi, I’m Carlin. And you are?”
While Witticker had become used to exchanging pleasantries with Harvey he was still not quite ready for physical contact with a stranger. He silently cursed the rain for creating his dry prison and turned slowly to face Carlin. Witticker looked down at the outstretched hand in its greeting position, but could not bring himself to reach out towards it.
“Witti-uh, pardon, Brisby. My name is Brisby,” he said with his hands plunged deeply in his pockets.
Carlin stood with his hand out towards Witticker for a few more seconds before pulling it back.
“Brisby. Neat name. Well, like I was saying, the mind is an amazing thing. Just the amount of information it can hold is staggering. And the way we remember things, just amazing.”
Witticker nodded and looked out across the streets, away from Carlin. He had found, through his brief experiences with Harvey, that the best way to avoid small talk was to not encourage it with any responses. With enough head nodding and re-assuring mumbles the conversation would eventually wash away into nothing.
“For example,” said Carlin enthusiastically, “Try to think back as far as you can. Can you remember every single detail of your life? What you did every day? What you did yesterday? Probably not. Most people can’t even remember what they did a few days ago unless they’re asked to. It’s because we don’t have any markers to attach to every detail of our day. If it’s mundane our mind just files it away under ‘unneccessary’.”
At this point Carlin went as far as highlighting the word unnecessary by gesturing a pair of quotations in the air.
“However, think about where you grew up. Not just that. Think about the house you grew up in. The blueprints even, if you will. You can probably remember every square-inch of the place. What could be more mundane than that? But your brain remembers! In fact, you could probably draw the blueprints of every place you’ve ever been in, with enough time of course.”
Witticker thought of the house he had left only a short while ago. It was the only house he could remember as it was the only one he’d ever been in. He thought of the kitchen and the living room, the upstairs rooms, his bedroom. He could remember every corner of every room.
“Your mind stores away these blueprints because you have a mental picture attached to them. You don’t remember the structure as much as you remember the place. Simply amazing.”
Carlin reached his hand out into the rain, catching raindrops in his palm. Witticker watched as the drops formed a small puddle in the crease of his recent acquaintance’s hand.
“If you put all that information on paper you’d have boxes and boxes of blueprints. Just blueprints. And that’s just buildings. Imagine how much stuff you’d have to carry if all your memory was on paper.”
Carlin tossed the puddle from his hand onto the ground. Witticker tried to imagine all his boxes of memories stacked around him. How he might access each one with a specific reminder. How much easier things would be if he could remember all the way back. Just find the box and look inside.
“Lots and lots of paper. Ah well, just a thought. Where are you off to tonight?” asked Carlin as he moved to lean against the wall of the bus-stop.
The boxes of memories tumbled in Witticker’s mind as he thought on how to answer the question without putting any real information into play.
“I’m looking for a distrip actually,” answered Witticker, “Would you happen to know if this map is accurate?”
Carlin turned towards the map and shrugged.
“Close enough, I guess. Just stick to the main streets and you’ll be fine. It’s in the side-streets that…”
Witticker cut Carlin short by picking up his briefcase and running across the street and down the main street towards the distrip. It wasn’t that Witticker didn’t like Carlin; it was that he simply didn’t know what to say next. Running away seemed a viable option, so Witticker took it.
As Witticker jogged down the street he felt a hint of regret nip at the corner of his mind, a nagging whisper reminding him of his latest awkward social encounter. He reached another overhang two blocks further and looked back at the tiny bus-stop he had left on the corner. Witticker could make out the faint silhouette of a man standing under a dimming street light vigorously waving goodbye. He couldn’t help but appreciate Carlin’s persistence.
Witticker stepped out from his shadowy cover and slowly raised his hand into the air. As he stood in the rain shaking his hand at a man he barely knew Witticker was certain that he had lost his senses entirely.
Chapter 17
A petite chandelier hung low in the small dining room of one Arnold B. Cavenstein. It emitted a dim and inviting glow over adining-room table which had been well-set in preparation for a small dining party. Each piece of cutlery was polished to a silvery shine and the cotton tablecloth had been bleached into almost radioactive white. The walls of the room were papered in a dark beige hue, neutral enough to blend in, but not too stagnant as to offend. The room was topped off with a reproduction of Leonardo’s “Last Supper”, which hung with a somber tone at the head of the table.
The host, Mr. Cavenstein, was in the narrow foyer adjacent to the dining room pacing nervously in anticipation of his impending dinner party. Beads of sweat ran furiously across his brow as he mopped at them with a red silk handkerchief. He was dressed finely in a blue pinstripe suit with several small accoutrements including gold cufflinks clipped to the wrists of his firmly pressed white cotton shirt.
Despite being impeccably dressed and thoroughly prepared, Mr. Cavenstein was still rather anxious about the schedule of the evening. In fact, he had been scrutinizing over this particular engagement since he had been informed of it three days prior.
* ~~ *
Three days prior…
Arnold Cavenstein had just finished a light breakfast of grapefruit on his sunny balcony patio. He was about to go down to attend to his potato market in the local distrip when he heard an abrupt clank from his door knocker. Noting that it was particularly strange for guests to be calling so early in the morning, Mr. Cavenstein was surprised at the sound.
Upon answering the door he was met by a man dressed in a black suit and a bowler hat. The man handed him a letter and turned promptly to leave. Normally Mr. Cavenstein would have invited his visitor in for a bit of breakfast and a light discussion on the weather, but the man escaped him much too quickly for any such invitations to be made. Resolving not to let the awkward exchange ruin his morning Mr. Cavenstein took the letter inside, opened it up, and scanned its contents. The letter read as follows:
Dear Mr. Arnold Cavenstein,
Greetings and good morning sir! It is my sincerest hope on behalf of those who I represent that this letter finds you well.
I am writing at the behest of a group of influential individuals who would prefer, at this time, to remain anonymous. It is their expressed wish, in three days time, to hold a dinner party at your residence in which they may discuss and conduct their business.
These individuals realize that this request may lay a bit of an imposition on your schedule, but they also wish to inform you that they are in possession of records of your financial dealings, specifically how you went about acquiring your most recent holdings. They are prepared to release this information to certain people of interest unless you assent to their requests.
The dining party requires a twenty-one course dinner (see attached listing of proper order of courses), a concealed room with the curtains drawn, a table set for four, and a working telephone. They will remain at dinner until their affairs are concluded. You are only accountable for preparing and serving the evening meal.
Finally, those who will be in attendance wish to thank you in advance for your services. It is their wish to settle their issue quickly and to leave you to yourself. They do regret the use of such a means of motivation, but wish to remind you that your acceptance of these terms is obligatory if you wish for your affairs to remain your own.
Thank you for your time.
Warmest Regards,
Riley Pervis
Secretary of ------- ------
Mr. Cavenstein stood in quiet shock, the type of utter amazement that leads a genius to breakthrough and a simpleton to drink. He read over the requests of the attendees again and again. It was not a question of if, rather how.
* ~~ *
Mr. Cavenstein stood rigid in the foyer of his apartment, waiting attentively for his guests. He cupped his hand to his mouth and blew into them, lightly sniffing the air. He turned towards the kitchen to grab a mint when the knocker sounded loudly as it had three days before. Mr. Cavenstein jumped back from the door, springing like a gazelle away from a hungry tiger.
The time had come. The dinner party had arrived.
The host, Mr. Cavenstein, was in the narrow foyer adjacent to the dining room pacing nervously in anticipation of his impending dinner party. Beads of sweat ran furiously across his brow as he mopped at them with a red silk handkerchief. He was dressed finely in a blue pinstripe suit with several small accoutrements including gold cufflinks clipped to the wrists of his firmly pressed white cotton shirt.
Despite being impeccably dressed and thoroughly prepared, Mr. Cavenstein was still rather anxious about the schedule of the evening. In fact, he had been scrutinizing over this particular engagement since he had been informed of it three days prior.
* ~~ *
Three days prior…
Arnold Cavenstein had just finished a light breakfast of grapefruit on his sunny balcony patio. He was about to go down to attend to his potato market in the local distrip when he heard an abrupt clank from his door knocker. Noting that it was particularly strange for guests to be calling so early in the morning, Mr. Cavenstein was surprised at the sound.
Upon answering the door he was met by a man dressed in a black suit and a bowler hat. The man handed him a letter and turned promptly to leave. Normally Mr. Cavenstein would have invited his visitor in for a bit of breakfast and a light discussion on the weather, but the man escaped him much too quickly for any such invitations to be made. Resolving not to let the awkward exchange ruin his morning Mr. Cavenstein took the letter inside, opened it up, and scanned its contents. The letter read as follows:
Dear Mr. Arnold Cavenstein,
Greetings and good morning sir! It is my sincerest hope on behalf of those who I represent that this letter finds you well.
I am writing at the behest of a group of influential individuals who would prefer, at this time, to remain anonymous. It is their expressed wish, in three days time, to hold a dinner party at your residence in which they may discuss and conduct their business.
These individuals realize that this request may lay a bit of an imposition on your schedule, but they also wish to inform you that they are in possession of records of your financial dealings, specifically how you went about acquiring your most recent holdings. They are prepared to release this information to certain people of interest unless you assent to their requests.
The dining party requires a twenty-one course dinner (see attached listing of proper order of courses), a concealed room with the curtains drawn, a table set for four, and a working telephone. They will remain at dinner until their affairs are concluded. You are only accountable for preparing and serving the evening meal.
Finally, those who will be in attendance wish to thank you in advance for your services. It is their wish to settle their issue quickly and to leave you to yourself. They do regret the use of such a means of motivation, but wish to remind you that your acceptance of these terms is obligatory if you wish for your affairs to remain your own.
Thank you for your time.
Warmest Regards,
Riley Pervis
Secretary of ------- ------
Mr. Cavenstein stood in quiet shock, the type of utter amazement that leads a genius to breakthrough and a simpleton to drink. He read over the requests of the attendees again and again. It was not a question of if, rather how.
* ~~ *
Mr. Cavenstein stood rigid in the foyer of his apartment, waiting attentively for his guests. He cupped his hand to his mouth and blew into them, lightly sniffing the air. He turned towards the kitchen to grab a mint when the knocker sounded loudly as it had three days before. Mr. Cavenstein jumped back from the door, springing like a gazelle away from a hungry tiger.
The time had come. The dinner party had arrived.
Chapter 16
The grass bent forward…
…against the wind…
…in the front yard.
Click.
Stars sparkled in the sky as the moon peeked from behind a cloud. The light stretched across the nightscape, illuminating a small truck winding down a maze of broken pavement.
“Hey, you up?” asked Harvey excitedly.
Witticker growled an answer as he slowly shifted into a sitting position. He found this considerably difficult having recently discovered that, by sleeping in a truck, his lower right shoulder and entire right buttock were entirely numb.
“Surprised you didn’t wake up earlier! I’ve been takin’ some nasty turns on this stretch for a while. Hell, I nearly ran off the road a mile back. I coulda sworn I saw a spike strip across one of the lanes. Damn radicals out here on the outskirts’ll do anything to down a tough ol’ truck like this one. Turned out it was just a vine, but hindsight’s 20/20 you know. Didn’t lose much time in any case. Musta passed about a dozen cotton-tailed…”
Harvey continued his rambling as Witticker adjusted himself in the poorly-upholstered seat. The numbness he had discovered before was gone and had been replaced by an aching pain. He prayed that the aches would remain and not be exchanged with anything worse.
“…they tend to migrate here in the Summer. Anyway, how’d you sleep?”
Witticker simulated the conversation that would ensue if he described every pain that his sleep had caused and decided to work the conversation in another direction.
“Fine,” he said groggily.
“That’s good,” replied Harvey quickly, “doesn’t sleep the best, but it’s better than nothin’. Anyway, it’s a good thing you got up when you did. We’re not too far off from where we’re gettin’ to and I wanted to give you a quick prep about where we’re goin’.”
Harvey pulled a steel thermos from underneath his seat, unscrewed it, and poured a thick black liquid into the mug resting in the cup holder. He topped off his cup and held the canister towards Witticker.
“Hey, you want some? This is some good shit. I got it from a guy that said it came from somewheres deep down south. Coffee of the gods he said. Each bean ground out by hand. Each tablespoon passed by the hand of a virgin. Not really sure if that last part makes much of a difference, but it sure does the trick. This stuff’s kept me goin’ all night!”
Over the time that Witticker had come to know him he could tell that Harvey did not mean him any genuine harm. While his mannerisms and sayings were a bit off-putting Harvey was the sole reason he was still alive and well-fed. For these reasons, and those of an empty stomach, Witticker decided to quench himself with the dark brew that Harvey had offered. He poured a cup, sealed the thermos, and handed it back to Harvey.
“So, anyway,” started Harvey, “the place I’m takin’ you to is called the Long Spoon. It’s a distrip on the edge of what used to be called Chicago. Not much of a city now, but the distrip there is the biggest in the area.”
Witticker took a sip of the storied coffee and quickly realized that he had been sold a lie. His taste buds shriveled around the toxic horror and his eyes squinted in bitter distaste.
“Harvey…,” hissed Witticker, hot-mouthed from the unforgiving coffee, “what…is…”
“Oh yeah,” said Harvey, oblivious to Witticker’s distaste, “You don’t even know what a distrip is. Sorry ‘bout that. Keep forgettin’ you’ve been in that dungeon for the past two decades.”
Witticker winced at the description of his past residence and began to formulate a proper defense when he realized that the terrible taste had subsided and had led way to a most relaxed feeling of euphoria. He sat in awe of the magic feeling the drink had conjured as Harvey continued.
“The distrips are what formed in place of what used to be general farmer’s markets. They started formin’ in response to public demand. Public Demand! People don’t want organized governments or even neighbors, but they sure as hell still want food! Brisby told me their actual names are distribution properties, but people shortened it out to make’em feel less institutional.”
Witticker took another drink of the coffee and the taste, while still harsh, grew to be a bit more bearable. It appeared that with each sip the flavor became better and the relaxing effect sustained longer.
“They’re basically a one-stop shop. People have come out of the wood-work for these things, selling whatever they can grow or find. Hell, I know one guy who hunts down old televisions in recon-Chicago and sells them to antique dealers. People are crazy buyin’ that useless shit, but hey, whatever floats your boat. Ours is not to reason why, ours is but to do and die.”
Witticker’s attention was immediately drawn from his cup to Harvey’s words.
“What did you say?” asked Witticker, staring at the aged driver, “What is that from? I think I know that.”
Harvey thought for a moment about what he had said last before answering.
“What did I say? Hmm. You mean that ‘ours is not reason why’ thing. That’s just somethin’ Brisby used to say. Thought it was neat, memorable.”
Witticker sighed with disappointment and returned his attention to the comforting steam of his coffee.
“Anyway, that’s what a distrip is. Like I was saying, this particular distrip is called the Long Spoon and it’s the biggest one in the area. Not real sure why they call it that, The Long Spoon, but it’s good info to know. It’ll help ya fit in better.”
Harvey reached for his cup and took a long draw off it.
“There’s all kinds of stuff for sale in the Spoon and you should be able to find a quiet place to stay. Brisby told me about a guy once. He was young at the time, but I’d bet he’s about thirty or forty now. Name’s Terrence Girondo. He rents out to a ton of people in the area. He hunts down old apartments inside recon-Chicago and re-does’em real nice. Brisby said he went in one once and couldn’t believe his eyes. Hardwood floors and everything. Anyway, he’s also real discreet, so you won’t have to worry about anyone findin’ you.”
At the last statement Witticker turned to his guide.
“You know Harvey, what’s with this whole incognito effect? Ever since I’ve met up with you you’ve treated me like a fugitive. I’ve been in the same place for the last twenty-five years! Who’s going to come looking for me?”
Witticker suddenly realized that he was yelling. He slowly leaned back into the seat and turned his eyes to the road. Harvey took a drink of his coffee and let out a long sigh.
“Alright, Witt. I guess you’re entitled to know everything if you’re gonna head out on your own. Brisby told me not tell you this, but, hell, he’s dead, so to hell with it. Truth is we had three jobs when we were hired. We were supposed to watch ya, make sure you grew up okay, and,” Harvey stopped for a moment, “kill ya if ya ever tried to leave the property.”
Witticker looked wide-eyed at Harvey and scooted in his seat away from him.
“Now,” said Harvey warmly, “don’t worry ‘bout that now! Brisby and I decided about two years in that we couldn’t ever kill ya. We both decided that we’d tell anybody who come askin about ya that ya’d wandered off while we were asleep.”
Witticker’s heart began to slow down.
“When ya left the property a few days ago a red light blinked in our house, which was our signal to go out and get ya. Of course, I was just gonna bring ya the briefcase, but I don’t know if anyone else got signaled as well. So, keep your eyes open for people trailin’ ya. Somebody somewhere didn’t want you to leave that house.”
Witticker lifted his mug to take a drink when he realized that he had run out of coffee. As he looked at the bottom of the cup he wondered why somebody would want him dead. He wasn’t special, or he didn’t feel special. In fact, he was pretty standard as far as he could tell.
“It’s possible that someone else out there had a red blinking light too, so just watch yer back,” said Harvey as he reached for his coffee cup.
Witticker began to think about what he was going to do. He wasn’t particularly excited about being hunted, but he couldn’t go back to the house. He resolved to stay hidden until he figured out who he was and who was after him.
“My advice is to find that Girondo fella as fast as you can and get invisible. And stay out of the distrip as much as you can. People there seem nice, but you can never tell and if they find out who you are they’re bound to tell anyone, providin’ the price is right.”
Witticker nodded and looked down the road. Both men sat in silence as the truck zigzagged across the broken pavement. Witticker tried to push the thoughts of people dressed in black following him from his mind.
“Hey Harvey,” asked Witticker, “What’s with the road? Seems a bit distressed.”
Harvey laughed as they wove through two piles of rubble.
“Well, a while back there were a few skirmishes in this area between the locals in the distrip and a cult called the Golden Acolytes. I can’t remember what they were fightin about, somethin’ about ideas and numbers. Don’t honestly know to tell ya the truth. People in the Spoon call it the War of the Golden Sheet. Anyway, they got into it out here and blew the hell out of each other. This road used to be as straight as an arrow, but one of the two sides decided to bomb the other while they were on it. Don’t know if it worked, but it sure as shootin’ wrecked the road for the rest of us. That’s the long and short of it.”
Harvey opened his thermos and poured himself another cup of coffee. Witticker smelled the faint aroma of the concoction and his stomach yearned for another cup.
“Hey, Harvey?” asked Witticker offhandedly.
“Yeah?”
“You mind if I have another cup of that stuff? If you’ve got any extra?”
“No problem,” he said tossing the thermos over to him, “Glad you like it. I’ve been drinking it for months now. Addictive as hell.”
Witticker poured his cup and re-sealed the thermos. As he propped himself up on his seat Witticker sniffed the fumes rolling off the broiling mug.
“Should only be a little further,” said Harvey making a turn on the road.
The road curved farther ahead and the landscape grew more desolate. A skeleton skyline backlit by blinking stars began to grow in the distance as the two men drew closer to the edge of the abandoned city.
…against the wind…
…in the front yard.
Click.
Stars sparkled in the sky as the moon peeked from behind a cloud. The light stretched across the nightscape, illuminating a small truck winding down a maze of broken pavement.
“Hey, you up?” asked Harvey excitedly.
Witticker growled an answer as he slowly shifted into a sitting position. He found this considerably difficult having recently discovered that, by sleeping in a truck, his lower right shoulder and entire right buttock were entirely numb.
“Surprised you didn’t wake up earlier! I’ve been takin’ some nasty turns on this stretch for a while. Hell, I nearly ran off the road a mile back. I coulda sworn I saw a spike strip across one of the lanes. Damn radicals out here on the outskirts’ll do anything to down a tough ol’ truck like this one. Turned out it was just a vine, but hindsight’s 20/20 you know. Didn’t lose much time in any case. Musta passed about a dozen cotton-tailed…”
Harvey continued his rambling as Witticker adjusted himself in the poorly-upholstered seat. The numbness he had discovered before was gone and had been replaced by an aching pain. He prayed that the aches would remain and not be exchanged with anything worse.
“…they tend to migrate here in the Summer. Anyway, how’d you sleep?”
Witticker simulated the conversation that would ensue if he described every pain that his sleep had caused and decided to work the conversation in another direction.
“Fine,” he said groggily.
“That’s good,” replied Harvey quickly, “doesn’t sleep the best, but it’s better than nothin’. Anyway, it’s a good thing you got up when you did. We’re not too far off from where we’re gettin’ to and I wanted to give you a quick prep about where we’re goin’.”
Harvey pulled a steel thermos from underneath his seat, unscrewed it, and poured a thick black liquid into the mug resting in the cup holder. He topped off his cup and held the canister towards Witticker.
“Hey, you want some? This is some good shit. I got it from a guy that said it came from somewheres deep down south. Coffee of the gods he said. Each bean ground out by hand. Each tablespoon passed by the hand of a virgin. Not really sure if that last part makes much of a difference, but it sure does the trick. This stuff’s kept me goin’ all night!”
Over the time that Witticker had come to know him he could tell that Harvey did not mean him any genuine harm. While his mannerisms and sayings were a bit off-putting Harvey was the sole reason he was still alive and well-fed. For these reasons, and those of an empty stomach, Witticker decided to quench himself with the dark brew that Harvey had offered. He poured a cup, sealed the thermos, and handed it back to Harvey.
“So, anyway,” started Harvey, “the place I’m takin’ you to is called the Long Spoon. It’s a distrip on the edge of what used to be called Chicago. Not much of a city now, but the distrip there is the biggest in the area.”
Witticker took a sip of the storied coffee and quickly realized that he had been sold a lie. His taste buds shriveled around the toxic horror and his eyes squinted in bitter distaste.
“Harvey…,” hissed Witticker, hot-mouthed from the unforgiving coffee, “what…is…”
“Oh yeah,” said Harvey, oblivious to Witticker’s distaste, “You don’t even know what a distrip is. Sorry ‘bout that. Keep forgettin’ you’ve been in that dungeon for the past two decades.”
Witticker winced at the description of his past residence and began to formulate a proper defense when he realized that the terrible taste had subsided and had led way to a most relaxed feeling of euphoria. He sat in awe of the magic feeling the drink had conjured as Harvey continued.
“The distrips are what formed in place of what used to be general farmer’s markets. They started formin’ in response to public demand. Public Demand! People don’t want organized governments or even neighbors, but they sure as hell still want food! Brisby told me their actual names are distribution properties, but people shortened it out to make’em feel less institutional.”
Witticker took another drink of the coffee and the taste, while still harsh, grew to be a bit more bearable. It appeared that with each sip the flavor became better and the relaxing effect sustained longer.
“They’re basically a one-stop shop. People have come out of the wood-work for these things, selling whatever they can grow or find. Hell, I know one guy who hunts down old televisions in recon-Chicago and sells them to antique dealers. People are crazy buyin’ that useless shit, but hey, whatever floats your boat. Ours is not to reason why, ours is but to do and die.”
Witticker’s attention was immediately drawn from his cup to Harvey’s words.
“What did you say?” asked Witticker, staring at the aged driver, “What is that from? I think I know that.”
Harvey thought for a moment about what he had said last before answering.
“What did I say? Hmm. You mean that ‘ours is not reason why’ thing. That’s just somethin’ Brisby used to say. Thought it was neat, memorable.”
Witticker sighed with disappointment and returned his attention to the comforting steam of his coffee.
“Anyway, that’s what a distrip is. Like I was saying, this particular distrip is called the Long Spoon and it’s the biggest one in the area. Not real sure why they call it that, The Long Spoon, but it’s good info to know. It’ll help ya fit in better.”
Harvey reached for his cup and took a long draw off it.
“There’s all kinds of stuff for sale in the Spoon and you should be able to find a quiet place to stay. Brisby told me about a guy once. He was young at the time, but I’d bet he’s about thirty or forty now. Name’s Terrence Girondo. He rents out to a ton of people in the area. He hunts down old apartments inside recon-Chicago and re-does’em real nice. Brisby said he went in one once and couldn’t believe his eyes. Hardwood floors and everything. Anyway, he’s also real discreet, so you won’t have to worry about anyone findin’ you.”
At the last statement Witticker turned to his guide.
“You know Harvey, what’s with this whole incognito effect? Ever since I’ve met up with you you’ve treated me like a fugitive. I’ve been in the same place for the last twenty-five years! Who’s going to come looking for me?”
Witticker suddenly realized that he was yelling. He slowly leaned back into the seat and turned his eyes to the road. Harvey took a drink of his coffee and let out a long sigh.
“Alright, Witt. I guess you’re entitled to know everything if you’re gonna head out on your own. Brisby told me not tell you this, but, hell, he’s dead, so to hell with it. Truth is we had three jobs when we were hired. We were supposed to watch ya, make sure you grew up okay, and,” Harvey stopped for a moment, “kill ya if ya ever tried to leave the property.”
Witticker looked wide-eyed at Harvey and scooted in his seat away from him.
“Now,” said Harvey warmly, “don’t worry ‘bout that now! Brisby and I decided about two years in that we couldn’t ever kill ya. We both decided that we’d tell anybody who come askin about ya that ya’d wandered off while we were asleep.”
Witticker’s heart began to slow down.
“When ya left the property a few days ago a red light blinked in our house, which was our signal to go out and get ya. Of course, I was just gonna bring ya the briefcase, but I don’t know if anyone else got signaled as well. So, keep your eyes open for people trailin’ ya. Somebody somewhere didn’t want you to leave that house.”
Witticker lifted his mug to take a drink when he realized that he had run out of coffee. As he looked at the bottom of the cup he wondered why somebody would want him dead. He wasn’t special, or he didn’t feel special. In fact, he was pretty standard as far as he could tell.
“It’s possible that someone else out there had a red blinking light too, so just watch yer back,” said Harvey as he reached for his coffee cup.
Witticker began to think about what he was going to do. He wasn’t particularly excited about being hunted, but he couldn’t go back to the house. He resolved to stay hidden until he figured out who he was and who was after him.
“My advice is to find that Girondo fella as fast as you can and get invisible. And stay out of the distrip as much as you can. People there seem nice, but you can never tell and if they find out who you are they’re bound to tell anyone, providin’ the price is right.”
Witticker nodded and looked down the road. Both men sat in silence as the truck zigzagged across the broken pavement. Witticker tried to push the thoughts of people dressed in black following him from his mind.
“Hey Harvey,” asked Witticker, “What’s with the road? Seems a bit distressed.”
Harvey laughed as they wove through two piles of rubble.
“Well, a while back there were a few skirmishes in this area between the locals in the distrip and a cult called the Golden Acolytes. I can’t remember what they were fightin about, somethin’ about ideas and numbers. Don’t honestly know to tell ya the truth. People in the Spoon call it the War of the Golden Sheet. Anyway, they got into it out here and blew the hell out of each other. This road used to be as straight as an arrow, but one of the two sides decided to bomb the other while they were on it. Don’t know if it worked, but it sure as shootin’ wrecked the road for the rest of us. That’s the long and short of it.”
Harvey opened his thermos and poured himself another cup of coffee. Witticker smelled the faint aroma of the concoction and his stomach yearned for another cup.
“Hey, Harvey?” asked Witticker offhandedly.
“Yeah?”
“You mind if I have another cup of that stuff? If you’ve got any extra?”
“No problem,” he said tossing the thermos over to him, “Glad you like it. I’ve been drinking it for months now. Addictive as hell.”
Witticker poured his cup and re-sealed the thermos. As he propped himself up on his seat Witticker sniffed the fumes rolling off the broiling mug.
“Should only be a little further,” said Harvey making a turn on the road.
The road curved farther ahead and the landscape grew more desolate. A skeleton skyline backlit by blinking stars began to grow in the distance as the two men drew closer to the edge of the abandoned city.
Chapter 15
A full moon shone clear in the sky over the Trotting Pony as a gentle wind sent trash scuttling through the street in front of the great music hall. A man passed into the light of the building and, as abruptly as he had appeared, turned into the shadow around the corner. He walked with a slow purpose down the dark alleyway running alongside the building.
His figure cut out against the light of the street from behind, drawing specific attention to the bright red handkerchief poking prominently out of the breast pocket of his tuxedo. His black hair had fallen mildly disheveled and his bowtie hung undone around an open shirt collar. In his left hand he carried a lit cigarette and in his right he gripped an unsheathed katana. The man approached the end of the alleyway and stopped to lean in a shadow next to a door stamped with the words 'BACK ENTRANCE'. He balanced himself against the sword and took a long drag on his cigarette before flicking it across the open alleyway. The wind rushed between the buildings, blowing debris swiftly past the man’s feet. He looked up into the clear night sky and released an extended sigh.
Suddenly, the back door slammed open and a small man in a blue pinstripe suit flew out of the door and into the brick wall adjacent.
“Don’t need none of your preachy bullshit here, motherfucker! Go back underground!” shouted a deep voice from within the building.
The man recently thrown into the brick wall quickly picked himself up and hobbled as fast he could down the alleyway, away from the threatening voice and, presumably, from the body attached to it.
The voice’s body proceeded to step out of the doorway to follow the trail of his prey. He appeared as a large Samoan man donning black pants and a plaid vest covering a finely pressed white dress shirt. He stood nearly seven feet tall and he wore very small wiry glasses which rested lightly against his pudgy nose. He shook his head as he watched the small man limp out of the alleyway. He turned to go back inside when he noticed the man in the tuxedo leaning in the shadow next to the open door. The Samoan quickly stepped back in surprise.
“And just who are you?” snapped the Samoan angrily.
The man in the tuxedo shifted himself so his katana remained out of sight of the giant. He squinted towards the beast of a man and quickly sized him up.
“Well, if you must know I’m…”
~ FLASH ~
Edward St. Cavalier was born on October 9th, 2181 to Miranda Goethe in the reconstructed district of Chicago. He was abandoned shortly after his birth and was found on the first floor of the former Methodist Temple by Brother Ricard, a member of the Brotherhood of the Broken Sword. Edward was taken to the Sanctuary of the Brotherhood and was trained there for the next nineteen years. On January 13th, 2200 Edward left the brotherhood to fight in the War of the Golden Sheet. On February 22nd, 2203 Edward was given, as a reward for valor in battle, the prestigious title of librarian in the New York Public Library. In 2208 Edward was fired as professor and summarily dismissed from the Library. Within the same year he went back to Chicago and in 2209 he took over ownership of the Trotting Pony Music Hall. In March of 2210 Edward formed a partnership with Terrence Girondo with the intent of reviving the failing establishment. Edward and Terrence created an entertainment venue for the community over the next two years. In May of 2212 Edward found Terrence Girondo dead, executed, in the lobby of the Trotting Pony.
~ FLASH ~
“…Edward St. Cavalier,” said the man in the tuxedo.
The Samoan straightened himself up, managing to seem even taller than before.
“Haven’t heard ‘bout any St. Cavalier’s comin’ round,” said the Samoan, daintily emphasizing Edwards’ last name. “How ‘bout you leave. I got enough ta deal with tonight.”
The Samoan turned away from Edward and began to walk back into the Trotting Pony. Edward pushed himself from the wall and turned towards the door with his katana fully exposed. He took a step towards the door, approaching the guard.
“I’m not here to cause trouble. Surely Mr. Girondo mentioned my name to you when you were hired.”
The Samoan stopped in the doorway, leaving his back to Edward.
“Mr. G didn’t tell me shit ‘sides, ‘don’t let nobody through tha door who ain’t with tha show’,” he turned towards Edward, “You with tha show?”
As the Samoan turned he spotted the sword and lunged towards Edward. Edward moved and the guard skidded across the pavement, his glasses knocked from their resting place. The Samoan looked up to find a blade placed neatly across his throat.
“What’s your name?” asked Edward as he stood over the colossal mass.
“Max and you betta get that shit off my neck.”
“Okay, Max,” said Edward calmly, “you’re not in a position to negotiate. I’m not here to disrupt the concert. I just wanted to drop this off.”
Edward pulled a letter from his coat pocket and dropped it on Max’s chest.
“There is a card for every employee of the Trotting Pony in that envelope. Each one contains the amount of money each person was promised upon being hired. I trust that you’ll distribute them responsibly.”
Max nodded and Edward slowly moved the katana from his throat as he took a step back. He pulled a carton of cigarettes from his coat pocket, shook one out, and stuck it in his mouth.
“Thank you for doing your job, Max, but next time don’t throw yourself at your target. Just pull out your gun and open his sinuses.”
Edward cupped his hands to the cigarette, coordinating his inhalation with the timing of the flame. Max grabbed his glasses and stood to face Edward.
“I’ll be in the lobby during the performance,” said Edward, pointing towards the front of the building, “Make sure that no one enters back here after the concert starts.”
Max nodded and Edward began walking down the alleyway towards the front of the building. Max picked up the envelope from the ground and began to inspect its contents.
“Max, remember” shouted Edward as he reached the end of the alleyway, “don’t let anyone in and, once the concert is over, get out. Your services won’t be necessary after tonight.”
Max cast a large shadow down the alleyway as Edward turned the corner towards the lobby. The wind picked up and a few raindrops fell from the sky, messengers sent ahead to warn of the coming storm. Max reentered the Trotting Pony and shut the door firmly as the trash skittered in circles in the alleyway. The concert was about to begin.
His figure cut out against the light of the street from behind, drawing specific attention to the bright red handkerchief poking prominently out of the breast pocket of his tuxedo. His black hair had fallen mildly disheveled and his bowtie hung undone around an open shirt collar. In his left hand he carried a lit cigarette and in his right he gripped an unsheathed katana. The man approached the end of the alleyway and stopped to lean in a shadow next to a door stamped with the words 'BACK ENTRANCE'. He balanced himself against the sword and took a long drag on his cigarette before flicking it across the open alleyway. The wind rushed between the buildings, blowing debris swiftly past the man’s feet. He looked up into the clear night sky and released an extended sigh.
Suddenly, the back door slammed open and a small man in a blue pinstripe suit flew out of the door and into the brick wall adjacent.
“Don’t need none of your preachy bullshit here, motherfucker! Go back underground!” shouted a deep voice from within the building.
The man recently thrown into the brick wall quickly picked himself up and hobbled as fast he could down the alleyway, away from the threatening voice and, presumably, from the body attached to it.
The voice’s body proceeded to step out of the doorway to follow the trail of his prey. He appeared as a large Samoan man donning black pants and a plaid vest covering a finely pressed white dress shirt. He stood nearly seven feet tall and he wore very small wiry glasses which rested lightly against his pudgy nose. He shook his head as he watched the small man limp out of the alleyway. He turned to go back inside when he noticed the man in the tuxedo leaning in the shadow next to the open door. The Samoan quickly stepped back in surprise.
“And just who are you?” snapped the Samoan angrily.
The man in the tuxedo shifted himself so his katana remained out of sight of the giant. He squinted towards the beast of a man and quickly sized him up.
“Well, if you must know I’m…”
~ FLASH ~
Edward St. Cavalier was born on October 9th, 2181 to Miranda Goethe in the reconstructed district of Chicago. He was abandoned shortly after his birth and was found on the first floor of the former Methodist Temple by Brother Ricard, a member of the Brotherhood of the Broken Sword. Edward was taken to the Sanctuary of the Brotherhood and was trained there for the next nineteen years. On January 13th, 2200 Edward left the brotherhood to fight in the War of the Golden Sheet. On February 22nd, 2203 Edward was given, as a reward for valor in battle, the prestigious title of librarian in the New York Public Library. In 2208 Edward was fired as professor and summarily dismissed from the Library. Within the same year he went back to Chicago and in 2209 he took over ownership of the Trotting Pony Music Hall. In March of 2210 Edward formed a partnership with Terrence Girondo with the intent of reviving the failing establishment. Edward and Terrence created an entertainment venue for the community over the next two years. In May of 2212 Edward found Terrence Girondo dead, executed, in the lobby of the Trotting Pony.
~ FLASH ~
“…Edward St. Cavalier,” said the man in the tuxedo.
The Samoan straightened himself up, managing to seem even taller than before.
“Haven’t heard ‘bout any St. Cavalier’s comin’ round,” said the Samoan, daintily emphasizing Edwards’ last name. “How ‘bout you leave. I got enough ta deal with tonight.”
The Samoan turned away from Edward and began to walk back into the Trotting Pony. Edward pushed himself from the wall and turned towards the door with his katana fully exposed. He took a step towards the door, approaching the guard.
“I’m not here to cause trouble. Surely Mr. Girondo mentioned my name to you when you were hired.”
The Samoan stopped in the doorway, leaving his back to Edward.
“Mr. G didn’t tell me shit ‘sides, ‘don’t let nobody through tha door who ain’t with tha show’,” he turned towards Edward, “You with tha show?”
As the Samoan turned he spotted the sword and lunged towards Edward. Edward moved and the guard skidded across the pavement, his glasses knocked from their resting place. The Samoan looked up to find a blade placed neatly across his throat.
“What’s your name?” asked Edward as he stood over the colossal mass.
“Max and you betta get that shit off my neck.”
“Okay, Max,” said Edward calmly, “you’re not in a position to negotiate. I’m not here to disrupt the concert. I just wanted to drop this off.”
Edward pulled a letter from his coat pocket and dropped it on Max’s chest.
“There is a card for every employee of the Trotting Pony in that envelope. Each one contains the amount of money each person was promised upon being hired. I trust that you’ll distribute them responsibly.”
Max nodded and Edward slowly moved the katana from his throat as he took a step back. He pulled a carton of cigarettes from his coat pocket, shook one out, and stuck it in his mouth.
“Thank you for doing your job, Max, but next time don’t throw yourself at your target. Just pull out your gun and open his sinuses.”
Edward cupped his hands to the cigarette, coordinating his inhalation with the timing of the flame. Max grabbed his glasses and stood to face Edward.
“I’ll be in the lobby during the performance,” said Edward, pointing towards the front of the building, “Make sure that no one enters back here after the concert starts.”
Max nodded and Edward began walking down the alleyway towards the front of the building. Max picked up the envelope from the ground and began to inspect its contents.
“Max, remember” shouted Edward as he reached the end of the alleyway, “don’t let anyone in and, once the concert is over, get out. Your services won’t be necessary after tonight.”
Max cast a large shadow down the alleyway as Edward turned the corner towards the lobby. The wind picked up and a few raindrops fell from the sky, messengers sent ahead to warn of the coming storm. Max reentered the Trotting Pony and shut the door firmly as the trash skittered in circles in the alleyway. The concert was about to begin.
Chapter 14
“That will not work,” said the white box with a stale voice as Witticker pressed a button on its’ screen marked “Options”. Witticker had been experimenting with the box for the last half hour as he sat in the passenger seat of Harvey Turlingdown’s dusty brown truck. During the walk to the farmhouse Harvey had managed to convince Witticker to accept a ride to the nearest “watering hole”, as he so quaintly called it, and they were currently on route down a stretch of abandoned highway in the middle of the night.
As they shuttled down the empty road Witticker thought on what Harvey had told him as they walked to the car.
“If you don’t know where you’re goin’ or why you’re goin’ there you might as well start out at a place where you can get yourself food and shelter.”
While Witticker hadn’t been very keen on the idea of a long ride in a small space with Harvey he couldn’t deny the not-so-subtle logic in his statement. He had also done some thinking since hearing the late correspondence from Brisby and couldn’t deny that he was mildly curious about why he had been living alone for thirty years. He resolved that if he was going to find out anything at all it would be more probable to surface where people were gathered as opposed to a dusty road in the middle of nowhere. In addition, his feet had grown sore, so Witticker decided to suck it up and take the ride.
Since he had made his decision they had been traveling for two hours and Witticker had still not seen any trace of life, just endless fields of grass on either side of the road. To stave off conversation he had taken out the white box and had been trying to operate it with varying degrees of success.
“No,” said the memory box as Witticker pressed a button labeled “Menu”.
“You know,” said Harvey, “I always wondered what it is you did out at that farmhouse.”
Witticker had noticed, in their short time together, that when Harvey asked questions, which he often did; he never quite phrased them as questions. They instead took on the form of statements that implied the existence of questions.
“So, I wonder when we should eat.”
“You know, I’ve always wondered who your parents might be.”
The structure of the statement seemed to infer that Harvey was directing his question inward, or that is how Witticker chose to see it. In any case, Witticker justified ignoring Harvey until he was confronted with a direct line of questioning, in which there would be no room for misinterpretation.
“Hey,” said Harvey, patting Witticker on the shoulder, “you awake? What is it that you did with your time out there?”
Witticker put the white box back in the briefcase and stared out the side window.
“What most people do, I guess. Whatever I wanted.”
“Yeah, I figured that much, but did you have any hobbies? Anything you did for fun? I mean, you didn’t just sit around staring at the wall all day did you?”
Harvey laughed at the last part of his own comment. Witticker, un-amused, sat silent as he tried to determine if he had any hobbies. He didn’t really identify his day-to-day affairs as “hobbies” so much as he saw them as a means of self-improvement.
“Well, I read and I painted. I kept a garden in the basement windows and I exercised every morning. Not a terribly exciting life, but I liked it.”
Harvey nodded and murmured in agreement as he looked down the road. Witticker bathed himself in the momentary silence that followed, knowing he had only seconds as Harvey was inevitably preparing another barrage of questions.
“So, I figure you never got lonely out there, seeing as how I haven’t seen you in twenty-five years.”
Witticker shook his head at the half-question and decided to humor the aged driver.
“Nope. I was fine.”
“Can’t imagine it myself, but whatever suits ya is fine by me. I figured I’d see ya one of the times I was out there, but notta once. Not in twenty-five long ones.”
Witticker could sense that Harvey was moderately suspicious of his absence, but he felt that the truth wouldn’t help matters. The fact of the matter was that Witticker knew that someone, evidently Harvey, had been coming to the house every week to deliver his food. He had timed out the arrival of the delivery man and made it a point to be in the basement and out of sight during those times.
“Ah well, doesn’t matter. Anyway, how was the house when you left it? Still in good shape? I was thinking of getting some of the furniture out of the den there to take back to the farm, seeing as how you won’t be there to use it or anything.”
“You won’t be able to do that, Harvey,” said Witticker quietly.
“What’s that?”
Witticker started to pick the dirt out of his fingernails.
“I burned the house down, so you won’t be able to get the furniture from the den.”
Suddenly the silence that Witticker had yearned for filled the cab of the truck. Harvey scanned the horizon with a puzzled look as Witticker shifted himself in his seat so that he was positioned away from Harvey, facing the side window.
“So, you burned the…”
“Just let it go, Harvey,” said Witticker rigidly, “Just let it go.”
* ~~ *
It was another hour before Harvey attempted to communicate with Witticker again.
“So,” the driver said tentatively, “whatcha think you’re gonna do after I drop ya off?”
The same question had been circling around in Witticker’s head since he had decided to take the ride from Harvey back at the farmhouse.
“Well, I’m not entirely sure. I guess I’ll go to the nearest library and see if they have any record of me.”
Witticker wasn’t quite sure if that was his exact plan, as his only lead was his own name; and only a first one at that, but he figured that was enough information to sate Harvey for the time being.
“Ah, well. The thing about the library,” said Harvey casually, “is that there isn’t one.”
“What do you mean?” asked Witticker.
“Well, it’s complicated. You see, after the decline most of the libraries were either burned down or looted. Depended on who got there first really.”
Witticker turned sharply to Harvey with a look of mild confusion.
“Decline?”
“Oh. Shit. Well,” said Harvey as he reached for his cigarettes, “it’s complicated.”
Harvey pulled out a cigarette and held the pack towards Witticker.
“You want one?”
Witticker didn’t know much about smoking, but could see that it wasn’t doing much for Harvey.
“I don’t smoke.”
Harvey chuckled as he lit the cigarette.
“You may want to start.”
* ~~ *
Three hours later Witticker sat motionless as Harvey blew a puff of smoke out the window.
“…and that is pretty much it. At least, that’s as much as I know and all I know is what Brisby told me. Like I said, I was born in this area and nobody around here ever had the same story about what happened. All the stories stay the same until the point where the televisions went off and then people make up all kinds of shit. My dad was born a few years after everybody moved out of the cities. He grew up on the farm and when he got old enough he just took it over. The decline didn’t hurt the farmers much and once the distrips got up and runnin’ people stopped lootin’ the fields for food.”
Harvey threw his cigarette out the window and pulled another one from the pack.
“You sure you don’t want one?”
Witticker didn’t move.
“Guess not. Whatever. Anyway, I was plannin’ to take the farm like my dad did, but Brisby came through and changed all that. Said he needed a good farmer and I figured, why not? Anyway, now you know as much as I do.”
Witticker nodded and leaned his head against the side window.
“You goin’ to sleep?” asked Harvey.
Witticker nodded and closed his eyes as he shifted around on the seat, trying to find a comfortable position.
“Probably for the best. We’ve still got a ways to go and you’re gonna need some shut-eye. Oh, hey!,” said Harvey excitedly, “Look, at this thing. Never been able to figure out what it is exactly, but I think it’s what they used to call this place before everything went up in flames. Last one still standing between here and the distrip. Up ahead!”
Witticker opened his eyes against the cold window to see a green sign hanging over the road supported at an angle by a rusty iron column. The sign was black with dirt and had several rusty holes decorating its’ surface. Through the grime, Witticker made out the words, “Crown Point, 1 ½ miles”.
“Sounds like a nice place,” said Harvey longingly.
“Couldn’t have been too nice,” said Witticker bitterly as he turned and closed his eyes, “or someone would have been around to remember it.”
As they shuttled down the empty road Witticker thought on what Harvey had told him as they walked to the car.
“If you don’t know where you’re goin’ or why you’re goin’ there you might as well start out at a place where you can get yourself food and shelter.”
While Witticker hadn’t been very keen on the idea of a long ride in a small space with Harvey he couldn’t deny the not-so-subtle logic in his statement. He had also done some thinking since hearing the late correspondence from Brisby and couldn’t deny that he was mildly curious about why he had been living alone for thirty years. He resolved that if he was going to find out anything at all it would be more probable to surface where people were gathered as opposed to a dusty road in the middle of nowhere. In addition, his feet had grown sore, so Witticker decided to suck it up and take the ride.
Since he had made his decision they had been traveling for two hours and Witticker had still not seen any trace of life, just endless fields of grass on either side of the road. To stave off conversation he had taken out the white box and had been trying to operate it with varying degrees of success.
“No,” said the memory box as Witticker pressed a button labeled “Menu”.
“You know,” said Harvey, “I always wondered what it is you did out at that farmhouse.”
Witticker had noticed, in their short time together, that when Harvey asked questions, which he often did; he never quite phrased them as questions. They instead took on the form of statements that implied the existence of questions.
“So, I wonder when we should eat.”
“You know, I’ve always wondered who your parents might be.”
The structure of the statement seemed to infer that Harvey was directing his question inward, or that is how Witticker chose to see it. In any case, Witticker justified ignoring Harvey until he was confronted with a direct line of questioning, in which there would be no room for misinterpretation.
“Hey,” said Harvey, patting Witticker on the shoulder, “you awake? What is it that you did with your time out there?”
Witticker put the white box back in the briefcase and stared out the side window.
“What most people do, I guess. Whatever I wanted.”
“Yeah, I figured that much, but did you have any hobbies? Anything you did for fun? I mean, you didn’t just sit around staring at the wall all day did you?”
Harvey laughed at the last part of his own comment. Witticker, un-amused, sat silent as he tried to determine if he had any hobbies. He didn’t really identify his day-to-day affairs as “hobbies” so much as he saw them as a means of self-improvement.
“Well, I read and I painted. I kept a garden in the basement windows and I exercised every morning. Not a terribly exciting life, but I liked it.”
Harvey nodded and murmured in agreement as he looked down the road. Witticker bathed himself in the momentary silence that followed, knowing he had only seconds as Harvey was inevitably preparing another barrage of questions.
“So, I figure you never got lonely out there, seeing as how I haven’t seen you in twenty-five years.”
Witticker shook his head at the half-question and decided to humor the aged driver.
“Nope. I was fine.”
“Can’t imagine it myself, but whatever suits ya is fine by me. I figured I’d see ya one of the times I was out there, but notta once. Not in twenty-five long ones.”
Witticker could sense that Harvey was moderately suspicious of his absence, but he felt that the truth wouldn’t help matters. The fact of the matter was that Witticker knew that someone, evidently Harvey, had been coming to the house every week to deliver his food. He had timed out the arrival of the delivery man and made it a point to be in the basement and out of sight during those times.
“Ah well, doesn’t matter. Anyway, how was the house when you left it? Still in good shape? I was thinking of getting some of the furniture out of the den there to take back to the farm, seeing as how you won’t be there to use it or anything.”
“You won’t be able to do that, Harvey,” said Witticker quietly.
“What’s that?”
Witticker started to pick the dirt out of his fingernails.
“I burned the house down, so you won’t be able to get the furniture from the den.”
Suddenly the silence that Witticker had yearned for filled the cab of the truck. Harvey scanned the horizon with a puzzled look as Witticker shifted himself in his seat so that he was positioned away from Harvey, facing the side window.
“So, you burned the…”
“Just let it go, Harvey,” said Witticker rigidly, “Just let it go.”
* ~~ *
It was another hour before Harvey attempted to communicate with Witticker again.
“So,” the driver said tentatively, “whatcha think you’re gonna do after I drop ya off?”
The same question had been circling around in Witticker’s head since he had decided to take the ride from Harvey back at the farmhouse.
“Well, I’m not entirely sure. I guess I’ll go to the nearest library and see if they have any record of me.”
Witticker wasn’t quite sure if that was his exact plan, as his only lead was his own name; and only a first one at that, but he figured that was enough information to sate Harvey for the time being.
“Ah, well. The thing about the library,” said Harvey casually, “is that there isn’t one.”
“What do you mean?” asked Witticker.
“Well, it’s complicated. You see, after the decline most of the libraries were either burned down or looted. Depended on who got there first really.”
Witticker turned sharply to Harvey with a look of mild confusion.
“Decline?”
“Oh. Shit. Well,” said Harvey as he reached for his cigarettes, “it’s complicated.”
Harvey pulled out a cigarette and held the pack towards Witticker.
“You want one?”
Witticker didn’t know much about smoking, but could see that it wasn’t doing much for Harvey.
“I don’t smoke.”
Harvey chuckled as he lit the cigarette.
“You may want to start.”
* ~~ *
Three hours later Witticker sat motionless as Harvey blew a puff of smoke out the window.
“…and that is pretty much it. At least, that’s as much as I know and all I know is what Brisby told me. Like I said, I was born in this area and nobody around here ever had the same story about what happened. All the stories stay the same until the point where the televisions went off and then people make up all kinds of shit. My dad was born a few years after everybody moved out of the cities. He grew up on the farm and when he got old enough he just took it over. The decline didn’t hurt the farmers much and once the distrips got up and runnin’ people stopped lootin’ the fields for food.”
Harvey threw his cigarette out the window and pulled another one from the pack.
“You sure you don’t want one?”
Witticker didn’t move.
“Guess not. Whatever. Anyway, I was plannin’ to take the farm like my dad did, but Brisby came through and changed all that. Said he needed a good farmer and I figured, why not? Anyway, now you know as much as I do.”
Witticker nodded and leaned his head against the side window.
“You goin’ to sleep?” asked Harvey.
Witticker nodded and closed his eyes as he shifted around on the seat, trying to find a comfortable position.
“Probably for the best. We’ve still got a ways to go and you’re gonna need some shut-eye. Oh, hey!,” said Harvey excitedly, “Look, at this thing. Never been able to figure out what it is exactly, but I think it’s what they used to call this place before everything went up in flames. Last one still standing between here and the distrip. Up ahead!”
Witticker opened his eyes against the cold window to see a green sign hanging over the road supported at an angle by a rusty iron column. The sign was black with dirt and had several rusty holes decorating its’ surface. Through the grime, Witticker made out the words, “Crown Point, 1 ½ miles”.
“Sounds like a nice place,” said Harvey longingly.
“Couldn’t have been too nice,” said Witticker bitterly as he turned and closed his eyes, “or someone would have been around to remember it.”
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