Bobby on a stick

by Vasileios Kalampakas

  * * *

  The Rabbit’s Nest certainly looked impressive, even though it was in effect nothing more then a really deep and monstrously wide underground well. There were actually buildings sitting atop those balconies, as well as blast-proof doors scattered around the rock walls, large and small. There were all sorts of weird-looking people giving me the eye for no obvious reason, perhaps apart from the fact that I had this very miserable looking face on, feeling groggy, famished, and probably unable to resist the urge to use the bathroom pretty soon as well.

  I didn’t bother returning those looks, even though I felt I had every right to do so because of the silly hat. Steve had bothered to correct me too many times that it was called a mitre, and kept reminding me I should definitely not refer to it as a silly hat, especially in front of Von Papen whom I was supposed to meet shortly. Something about the whole affair told me it wasn’t exactly going to be a social visit.

  The name struck me as German; I was corrected once more to learn that he was half Austrian and half German, which further confused me. I couldn’t help asking more odd little things that struck me as weird while we kept hopping from balcony to balcony, in a downward spiral ever deeper into the Nest’s innards.

  Steve filled me in as best as he could, but even he had no clear idea why there weren’t any god-damn elevators around this place or why the place had an excessive number of waste baskets that were provocatively empty all the time. He did know though that the floor tiles were a mishmash of colours and types, a genuine mosaic indeed, not because of some flair of artistic design, but because they had used dirt-cheap left overs from discounts and sales as a cost-cutting measure.

  Jules had kept silent for the entire time, curiously choosing not to participate in my impromptu orientation. I’d noticed he kept an eye on the both of us, and an especially keen ear on what Steve was saying, who in turn seemed to think a lot about what he could and couldn’t say, choosing his words carefully. That didn’t strike me at all as a very friendly work atmosphere. Not only that, but I hadn’t seen nor heard of Eileen. When I asked about her, Jules hesitantly replied that she was being transferred to a different location. His words though had this hollow sound to them.

  Now I consider myself a very capable liar, and as such I’m pretty adept at separating the wheat from the chaff; I can tell when a person is lying out flat, when he’s just telling a small lie, and when he’s lying like only a man in congress can. Jules was talking exactly like that; he wasn’t exactly lying technically, but he wasn’t telling me everything either. What I found somewhat comforting though, was that he acted and talked like he wanted me to know he wasn’t telling me everything. And that only helped to tie my brain in a knot, not as large as the proverbial Gordian one, but still, definitely a pain.

  The further deep down we went, the fewer the people moving about became. I could barely see the actual bottom of the well, but I thought I could glimpse a faint shimmer from below and at the very center of it, some sort of huge, bulbous shape. I asked Steve then:

  “What’s that thing down there? What’s that shimmery thing?”

  “That’s the.. lake.” said Steve, who was evidently right about to say something different.

  “And what’s that thing in the middle? Some kind of weird gazebo?”

  “That’s the.. That’s were we’re going, actually.”

  “You folks should really think about installing an elevator or two. I mean, I’m starting to get sore feet. How do you ever get things done around here?”

  “What you don’t understand is that this is just a sort of front HQ. Forty eight hours ago, it was sealed tight and quite empty of life, except of course for Von Papen and his personal team. There’s probably a good reason there’s no elevator,” said Steve, shooting a couple of wary glances at Jules, who finally broke his silence to add:

  “Mr. Von Papen is the acting commander, sorts of. Operation Beetroot was directed by him, and the Rabbit’s Nest is under his immediate and absolute control, at every level and aspect. Please remember that when you are talking with him; he can be a difficult man.”

  “So this is like his own personal underground fortress? Isn’t it a bit too much for a federal government organization to allow such leeway with managers and directors? After all, this is a federal government organization, right?”

  “One could assume it works like one, and one wouldn’t be entirely at fault, but there are certain issues that make the Normal Bureau very special.”

  “Such as?”

  “Mr. Von Papen would be the most qualified person to answer that in full, should he feel you should be informed. After all, he created this organization.”

  “He did? When?”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss that. Again..”

  “..Mr. Von Papen can answer that, if he wants to, that is. Am I right?”

  “That is correct, sir.”

  “So he’s the head honcho, I get it. So how deep does this rabbit hole go?”

  “Really deep. But you gotta call it Rabbit’s Nest, man. You can talk other shit if you like, but not about the Rabbit’s Nest. You call it Rabbit’s Nest in front of Von Papen, always. Not ‘shithole’, ‘shitwell’, ‘rabbit-pot’, ‘hole-in-the-ground’, ‘sewer’s nest’, or anything other than Rabbit’s Nest. Last guy that was caught doing that fell all the way down from the entrance level to the lake.”

  “Did he die?”

  “It was an ‘accident’.”

  “Look, I’m not sure if you get briefed on things like that, but I’ve heard about accidents myself, and where I come from that’s called murder. I’m pretty sure it’s called murder even in Memphis. Now, I’m not saying I’m shocked to hear things like that, but it’s not exactly something to build trust with, you know? Not to mention it’s a bit of a let down to work for someone who might kill you on a whim. Believe me, I know. I’ve been there. Which is why I’m here, really.”

  Jules stopped, turned around and looked me in the eye with a level, piercing gaze that I knew was the truth, or at least his own very real version of it:

  “Mr. Barhoe, some of the things we do around here might be distasteful. Some might even be considered unethical or just plain wrong from most points of view. But believe me when I say it, that what we are facing will stop at nothing and has no reservations of any kind. We are the first, last, and only line of defense against a full-fledged invasion from Hell itself, sir. How could we face up to the hordes of Satan himself, without an iron discipline? Are you a religious man, Mr. Barhoe?”

  “Well, not per se, but if you mean whether or not I believe in an afterlife, you could say I’m becoming one pretty fast, with the express intention of postponing first-hand knowledge of it as much as possible.”

  “There is this saying: ‘The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he who, in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother’s keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is The Lord when I lay my vengeance upon thee.’”

  “Well, what does that mean?”

  “It means I’m a bad motherfucker. Am I clear on that, Mr. Barhoe?”

  “I believe ‘crystal’ is the word. Can we carry on now?”

  “Certainly.”

  And so we did, and within a couple of minutes we had finally reached the bottom, where the lake stood. We crossed a rusty, creaky gantry over to what could barely be called a small island but in essence was a rather flat piece of rock right above the surface of what I hoped was just plain water. Occupying the island was, without any exaggeration, a sort of giant blue-white Faberge egg, etched with faint but intricate decorations that from some angles looked like detailed, precise geometric designs and from some other angles like perfectl
y innocent depictions of Easter bunnies.

  It was easily three stories high and as wide as a moon rocket, curiously lit by some sort of inner light, as if it was painted with glow paint. There was this rather large, crude metal door at its base that looked quite out of place, as if someone had put it there as an afterthought, rather than by design. Jules led the way and stood in front of the door. He knocked once, paused, then knocked again three times, the hollow metal banging echoing weakly, while the sound of ripples in the water around us made me want to pee urgently, prompting me to ask Jules:

  “I really need to pee. Is there a bathroom in there?”

  “You should have said so earlier. You can’t do that now.”

  “I’m right about to burst, I’ll just go over there a bit,” I said and started off to take a piss in the lake. Then I heard the rueful sound of a gun cocking, and as instinct would have it I froze in place. Jules sounded impossibly as every bit as polite as a nun on St. Patrick’s day:

  “I even hear a zipper fly, you’re gonna have a bad case of lead poisoning, sir. We don’t piss in the coolant pool. Ever.”

  “I can hold it. No need to get itchy fingers. I’m pretty sure you recycle as well,” I said while slowly turning around and showing my hands which were nowhere near my zipper. I saw Steve standing there with an open mouth, apparently even more surprised than I was. He looked as if trying to say something like ‘no’, or ‘fuck’, but that would probably forever remain a mystery. A slit on the door opened, and a set of eyes appeared, sporting a troubled gaze right under a couple of eyebrows so large there could have been a whole lice ecosystem in there, hitherto unknown to man.

  The eyes wavered some and then I saw with mounting wariness that they were fixated on me. The next moment, they seemed to smile, a loud clang was heard and the door opened. From inside poured some soft candlelight, and while I waited for Jules to step in and lead the way, he instead showed me in and said in awed overtones:

  “Good luck, Mr. Barhoe.”

  I looked at Steve who was looking very sombre and thoughtful. He urged me to go inside with a nod, and spoke softly, as if in reverence:

  “This is it, Bobby. Make or break.”

  I thought that all those words sounded awfully like something someone would say to a soldier about to rush straight onto heavy machine gun fire through a minefield, or someone attempting to swim across the Atlantic naked in the middle of December. It felt like once I stepped through that door, chances were I’d soon end up dead or a bona fide hero, or both. Statistically speaking, the prospect wasn’t very endearing.

  I’d lost control over the rapidly changing state of things though, so adhering to the age old principle of going with the flow, I shot a glancing, pretentiously mildly indifferent look at the both of them before saying even as I stepped inside:

  “Man, I really gotta piss.”

  And then I heard the door close behind me with a hollowed-out sound, while my field of vision was filled entirely with a stunning vista of rows upon rows of insanely tall bookcases, well-lit by blindingly opulent chandeliers, their tiny pin-pricks of light magnified by their numbers to a warm summer day, the colorful rainbows around their insignificant little flames blessed with the radiosity of an angelic beam.

  It was without doubt the most magnanimous thing I’d ever seen, and even though my analytical mind kept screaming that there was no way in hell all this could ever fit inside that egg-shaped building, the more mushy, animal part of my brain told me that this was an important, inspiring place where I was curiously enough safe.

  Then I saw the man - or rather someone who might have resembled a man somewhat - to whom the huge eyebrows had belonged to: his back was monstrously deformed with a bulbous shape the size of a basketball, and his face looked like whole generations of plastic surgeons had used it for practice. Nevertheless, he was smartly dressed in some sort of brown uniform that sported some weird polished metal insignia involving cherubs, skulls, crosses and hearts.

  He told me then with an unmistakably British accent:

  “Well, cover me in lard and toss me in a pan! Ol’ Bobby Barhoe himself. Great to have you back on board. Big fan, big fan. Name’s Bartholomew Willpotshire, at your service.”

  I almost looked behind my back as if he had addressed someone else. It was a very odd thing to say, and shaking his extended arm by reflex alone, I said rather lamely:

  “Charmed. Big fan of what, exactly?”

  “Your work, o’ course,” he said and for the first time I thought that someone, even under these perplexing circumstances, actually treated my profession - and my own work in particular, no less - with some sort of respect, even adulation. Which was almost unsettling if one were to think that thieves were becoming respectable members of society, but then again politicians had always usurped our rightful spot by pretending to be an entirely different sort of people. Nevertheless that odd remark made me feel like someone famous, which was in and of itself, a uniquely new experience.

  “You mean the heists? Well, thanks.. It’s a surprise, really.. I always thought style was key in every job. Glad someone sees that.”

  “The.. what? Oh, bugger me, I must’ve jumped the gun a bit there. Never mind that, just thinking aloud. In any case, I’m sure it’ll all get back to you. Eventually,” he said and then muttered something under his breath, looking a bit disappointed.

  He then picked up a three-piece candlestick, and lead the way through the bookshelves, straight on ahead:

  “Shall we? The Baron has been expecting you for some time. Oh, you can loose the mitre, it’s safe as houses in here.”

  I was happy to comply and handed him the silly hat, which I noticed he hadn’t been wearing at all.

  “The Baron? Von Papen, you mean? He’s some kind of royalty, too?”

  “Among other things and titles, yes. You can address him as ‘Baron’, or ‘your Excellency’. Though he might not mind, really.”

  “Is that supposed to be a joke on etiquette? ’Cause I’ve got this full bladder that’s about to burst and I can definitely go on this guy’s etiquette, too.”

  “That would be insolent, crude and most messy.”

  “It’d also be a god-damn relief.”

  “Witty as always! I think you’ll do just fine in there.”

  “You people are weird. Let’s just get on with this, so I can pee,” I said and we started off towards the long end of the improbably huge library of sorts, that seemed almost as large as a small forest bathed in that warm candlelight, mysteriously clean and dust-free. It kind of got my attention, and I wanted to ask this guy about it, and only then did I realise I hadn’t caught his name:

  “I’m sorry, what’s your name again?”

  “Bartholomew. You can call me Bart if you like.”

  “Alright, so, what’s the deal with this thing?” I asked, waving my arms around. “It’s so much bigger in the inside, it’s impossible. I mean, I’ve seen optical illusions, I’ve seen weird things, but this is just plain wrong. Right?”

  “Quite so.”

  “So, what about it?”

  “I wouldn’t know about that, really. I just work here.”

  “What about the uniform?”

  “Just that. I’m the butler, sir, and little more than that.”

  “So you just what, make dinner, press his shirts, dust the library?”

  “I do, sir.”

  “Dust the library?”

  “Every day, sir. Just put some feathers on the ladder, move it about, and bob’s your uncle.”

  “Whose uncle? I mean, what an ugly job,” I said, looked at him and realised it was almost fitting. “Do you at least have dental?” I asked. Bartholomew smiled, showing perfect, shiny, pearly teeth that could make a blind man see again.

  “Excellent dental, sir. We’re here,” he said, and rapped his fingers against the door lightly. A sharp and authoritative clear voice came from inside:

  “En
ter!” the voice said and Bartholomew complied, swinging the large wooden doors open.

  We walked inside an incredibly opulent study, decorated with all shades of gold, wood, and granite, with rich evocative carpets strewn around as well as tapestries hanging from the tall walls, amidst various detailed paintings. There was a pervasive scent of cigar in the air, and the room was dominated by a huge sort of display on one side and of course, the only other man in the room, who I was right to presume, was Von Papen himself. He was dressed in a plain red uniform, with matching black and red breeches, wearing a single but very distinctive button on his collar. He rose from his chair and I saw him squint through his monocle, before grinning and saying to me, sounding exactly like a bad actor trying to do a German accent:

  “Herr Barhoe, velkom to ze Kaninchennest. I trust zat you have a lot of qvestions zat need to be answered, ja?”

  VII

  “More strudel, herr Barhoe?” ventured the Baron, even as he cut a hefty slice and put it in his plate.

  “No, no, thank you. I’m full,” I said and declined politely because indeed I had eaten as much as a starving bull. I hadn’t quite expected this sort of reception, especially with what I’d been told up to that point about the Baron. Had I based my expectations solely on the merit of what I’d been led to believe, brutal torture would have been the order of the day, instead of a lavish, gourmet banquet that seemed impossibly exceptional by any standards. It was indeed far better than the usual all-you-can-eat buffet, and definitely a lot more satisfying than Jules’ sandwich.

  Bartholomew had laid out everything on a solid, definitely antique wooden table with experienced precision and unusual alacrity and grace, not to be expected from someone looking so ungainly. Not only that, but it appeared he’d actually cooked everything himself. My initial reaction upon learning of that fact would have been to search my plate for signs of hair, fallen teeth, or worse. Once I took a bite, I found the idea childish since it all tasted, and looked, perfectly fine.

  I felt full and content. I’d left all my cares behind, postponed every thought and notion of why and how, and had instead focused on pure enjoyment of the simpler things in life: roast phageant with sour berry and cream sauce, a deliciously refreshing sauerkraut, a variety of grilled sausages and lots of other things I couldn’t be bothered asking about and rather concentrated on eating them. I’d even taken a piss, in what could’ve been an exact replica of the bathroom of the Queen of England.

  It was bliss. The Baron even gave me the luxury of engaging in nothing more than small-talk about nothing important in particular, like the Colts’, the federal budget, or the Republican convention. Unfortunately, the generally unavoidable rule of thumb in the universe was well in effect in the Baron’s study as well, and bliss could only have lasted for that long:

  “Please, Herr Barhoe, komm, let’s sit by ze fireplace. Brandy?”

  “I won’t say no to that, Baron,” I replied and followed him to the fireplace, a delicately crafted marble-lined fireplace, the wood inside creaking and cracking as it burned beautifully. I sat on a very warm and comfortable chair, sporting ivory inlaid arms and green velvet cushions. It felt like enjoying the afterglow of sex, without any sex. Even as my gaze wandered around the room for a bit, I felt for a moment like I was doing intel work for a job.

  Especially when I saw the high-tech display at the far side of the room that looked rather like a map of sorts. Lights and icons blinked on and off, moving, vanishing and reappearing as if stuff was happening all the time. The way the display seemed to be made out of thin-air reminded me of Star Wars holograms, and stupefyingly rich folks with a tendency to spent it on perfectly useless gadgets such as this one. The Baron offered me a glass of a rich, full-bodied brandy that didn’t require a connoisseur’s experience to tell it was the best stuff on Earth. He sat opposite me, cupped his own glass in his hands, drank a mouthful, tasted it thoroughly, swallowed and said:

  “Fantastische, ja?”

  “You mean the brandy? I’m no expert, but it seems.. One of a kind.”

  “It is. From my personal vineyards. You vere looking at ze screen, ja? Mezmerizing, isn’t it?”

  “It does have that ‘wow’ factor about it.”

  “Do you realize vat it is vee are actually looking at right now, herr Barhoe?”

  “Not really, no.”

  “Ze var.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Zee vaarr.”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t quite get that.”

  “Ze-e va-aarr!” he said, bulging his eyes and then aiming and shooting with an imaginary sort of rifle, even taking proper care to imitate the recoil. I could imagine this man would have made an awesome air guitarist.

  “Oh, the war you mean?”

  “Yes, yes. Ze var.”

  “I was told stuff that didn’t make much sense, about a war going on. That it somehow involved me. And Eileen as well. Where is she, actually?”

  “Ah, ja. Ze guardian zpeerit!”

  “So you know about that?”

  “How could vee not, herr Barhoe? See zat bright white and blue roundel, almost near ze zenter, zurrounded by all ze red and yellow boxes? Zat, is vere Eileen is.”

  “And what’s she doing there?”

  “Fighting, herr Barhoe. As is her duty. As is our duty.”

  “I’m not sure we’re on the same page here. You’ve been all too kind and frankly I wasn’t expecting that, but ever since this demon and spirit business started, all I’m getting is opportunities to get myself killed, and weird stuff going on that no-one explains. Then I’m pushed and shoved this way and that and all the while, I’m supposed to bring some one back from the dead just to save my own ass from what is arguably the most powerful mobster in the western hemisphere. All’s fine and dandy, but I’ve got problems of my own. I never signed up for all of this, whatever this actually is.”

  “Ha ha! Bobby! I’d missed zat air of stubbornness and self-indulgence! You really care about yourself, first and foremost, ja?”

  “Well, you make it sound like I’m a really mean son of a bitch, but yeah. I think my own ass is worth more than anyone else’s, if that’s what you mean. And now that I come to think of it, what do you mean by ‘missed that air’? I don’t recall having met before. Believe me, I would.”

  “No! Of course. You have no recollection. But vee have met, I can assure you. You can see for yourself.”

  Then he grinned at me, and what I saw behind that grin was a friendly-looking, jovial, well-mannered, half-Austrian, half-German gentleman that could become the wiliest son of a bitch with the flip of a switch. It would have felt very reassuring at that time had I known for certain that we were on the same side. Judging from what I saw on the display next though, it seemed like for some reason, we were like best buddies. But I could’ve sworn, on pain of anything other than death or excruciating torture involving genitalia, that I had never laid eyes on that man, or any of the other folks on the screen in my life; not even waiting in line for the cash register, or in one of those cult films on after-hours TV.

  Yet here I was, seeing myself in photos, playing cards with the Baron and the Pope, looking seriously drunk alongside a very healthy, yet still fat, gray-haired Elvis, and all very naturally it would seem, having birthday cake alongside the Queen of England. And that was just the people I could recognise: because there were hundreds of photos that I was in, wearing fatigues, those silly hats, examining crates of weird-looking stuff, some in exotic locations, others in what appeared to be laboratory facilities.

  There were even photos of me jumping off a plane holding something that looked like a blob of pus-ridden flesh with stumped tentacles, skiing in the alps carrying a really strange sort of gun and shooting at faint blueish things, that looked eerily like ghosts. To top things off, I saw a photo of me in an astronaut’s suit mock-humping another astronaut on the moon, with a vast building complex in the background and a couple of things th
at astonishingly similar to flying saucers right above our heads. I just couldn’t believe all that and even though I was about to start laughing hysterically, especially after that astronaut photo, I just said what came to mind first:

  “That’s bullshit. I don’t know why you’re trying so hard, but that’s just doctored. Fake. Those guys must be lookalikes. Or made with a computer, I dunno. They can do some seriously good-looking fakes. Ever seen Avatar?”

  The Baron smiled knowingly, as if this was exactly what he wanted to hear:

  “Vell, zat’s exactly vat I vanted to hear from you Bobby. I couldn’t expect any less. But it’s troo. And, no, zer is no vey for me to really make you beelieeve, Bobby. No amount of documented proof can really, really, convince you of zat matter. Even if I brought to you ze truckloads of reports zat cover every operation you have ever taken part in. It would not be enough. Even if you had a talk vith every one of your now retired clozest colleagues, Jimmy ze Spazz, Voimund of Savoy, Helen Mirrene, Hilderich D’Augnacy. Even if zey cried in front of your very eyes and begged you to believe them, hoping zat some spark of your former life remained alive in you, if not in your mind, zen in your soul, still you vouldn’t be convinced. You can never be convinced that you are, in fact, Bobby Barhoe, and zat vee have been friends, ever since zee vaarr.”

  “I’m sorry, since what?”

  “Ze-ee va-aarr, Bobby. Ze zecond vorld vaarr.”

  That was just so crazy in so many ways, that I could not help myself any longer: I started laughing uncontrollably, spilling almost half of the brandy into the fire, which abruptly flamed up and even singed a couple of hairs off my hand. I only knew because I could smell it. Then I heard the Baron go on, talking mirthlessly as if to himself, while his gaze remained locked on the fire:

  “Flammability, my dear Bobby. Ze degree of eazeeness vit vith something burns, or ignites, resulting into fire, or combustion. How fitting, to sit idly by ze fire, while ze vorld hangs by a tread.”

  I barely had the capacity to stand upright, but I managed to find the right amount of breath in me to correct the Baron:

  “You mean.. Thread?” I asked, and still couldn’t stop laughing.

  “Yes. Zat is vat I mean,” he replied with an ever-deepening frown, and pressing another button on his chair, the screen changed back into displaying the earlier map. He continued:

  “Zat is a map of ze intrinsic enthalpy field around ze Earth. If you vill, it is a map of n-dimensional mass-energy lambda field entropy-enthalpy distribution,” he said and another burst of laughter shook me.

  “You’re.. You’re just making that kind of shit up, it doesn’t even sound meaningful. I mean -” was all I could say before another fit of laughter left me breathless. The Baron looked ever more sombre, even as I looked like a complete idiot high on laughing gas:

  “I didn’t make zat ‘shit up’, Bobby. You did. And your research. Our, research.”

  “My -” I had time enough to say before I started biting my hand and laughing because of the sheer size of it all. I gathered my breath and my wits long enough to say:

  “Please, Baron, whoever you really are, stop this. I appreciate it, I really do, but I think I’m about to die of laughing. Don’t go on, please. This whole prank, whatever it is for I can’t understand, but please; you’re killing me, softly.”

  “Zis is simply ze truth, Bobby. I admit, I vanted ze chance to have dinner together as if vee had never met before, to remind me of zat day in der Adlernest, ven you recognized ze potential in my zeories and offered me, a young, misguided Ahnenerbe researcher, a chance to make zem vork. Ven you taught me ze value of cheap scotch, and real kamaraderie, ja? Veen vee dreemt, Bobby. Have you forgotten vat it iz like to dreem?”

  I could hear him lost in some kind of crazy talk, the kind old people sometimes are liable to start when there’s little else for them to do other than talk to themselves. But then, as I wiped the tears of laughter off my eyes I caught a glimpse of him, and I saw tears of his own welling up in his eyes. That image somehow managed to shake me. I stopped laughing just as abruptly as I had began, and he continued:

  “Vee dreamt. Vee vorked. Vee succeeded, but at vat a terrible price, ja? There is danger in ze unknown, and vith danger comes terrible responsibility.”

  “I don’t understand what you’re talking about. I’m sorry, Baron, you’re asking me to believe we’re friends from World War II. That these ghosts and demons, and all that, that I know all about that. Now you’re telling me we’re what, responsible as well? Now, I see you’re taking this seriously, and maybe I shouldn’t have started laughing like that, but come on; you need professional help.”

  “Zat, indeed I do. Vee all do. Your help, Bobby.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that before, but I think that you have the wrong guy. Maybe this is just some long lost uncle of mine. Maybe I got framed. Hell, maybe I even got punk’d. I just hopped along all this ’cause I thought I could do this job for Falconi, and get off the hook. Then disappear for good, maybe get in the banana-growing business some place warm. Now, I’m god-knows how deep underground, listening to an old man’s fantasies.”

  “Let me tell you something. You should.. Vee should have destroyed ze gatevey to ze aftervorld, ze same one vee created all these years ago, ze same one that cursed you vit life eternal. And zat abduction of yourz.. Immortal, but ztill valnerabull; a victim of Falconi or whatever his real demon name is. Brain-washed, fed laiz, your reeal memoriez taken avey from you.”

  “Wait! Wait! Immortal? False memories?”

  “Ja.”

  “You’re saying I can’t die, Falconi is a demon, and I never had a hamster named Peggy Sue?”

  “But of course! A demon prince no less, tasked by Satan himself to achieve vat hasn’t happened for millenia: deestroy and spoil everyzing zat is good and beautiful on zis vorld and harvest our souls to serve as his minions, for all Eternity. Ze same demon prinz that abducted you vaile you vere figure-zkating in Montreal, vaiped your mind using reruns of Bonanza, and turned you into his unvilling pawn. Ze same one that implanted you vit zhose false memories, and tricked you into doing his bidding. Ze real reason he wanted you to go into ze aftervorld vas to keep you zere for all eternity, since he cannot take avey your life. He could though, trap you into zat hellhole forever. And ask yourself if you vill, vat kind of a man names his pet hamster like zat?”

  “You’re serious? I figure-skate?”

  The Baron nodded affirmatively.

  “You’re a very rich, eccentric fruitcake that should’ve been locked up many, many years ago.”

  “You still don’t beelieve me, zen?”

  “As much as I’d believe a talking cow that her milk isn’t radioactive at all.”

  The Baron sighed there for a moment, and in a surprisingly fast and fluid move, got a pistol out of his pocket, and shot me; repeatedly, until the magazine ran out and I was laying sprawled on the floor. I thought at first that it was a very stupid way to die being caught unawares like that. I felt like a naive debutante, being seduced by dinner with an old, rich man. My lie-sense hadn’t tingled, I had thought this man at least believed in what he was saying.

  The bullets inside hurt like hell, and they were too damn hot. A few more moments had passed and I realised I wasn’t dead yet, or at least I couldn’t see any sort of tunnel, or blackness approaching. I wasn’t growing cold and I definitely couldn’t see my body from the outside. All I saw was the ceiling, in an exquisite rococo style. ‘Must’ve cost him a fortune’, I thought, and his smiling face filled my vision:

  “I’m very sorry about having to rezort to zis kind of unseemly beehavior, but I thought zat perhaps a test vould be more convinzing. I’m sorry for ze shirt, Bobby,” the Baron said.

  The pain had subsided, and I was only feeling a bit numb where the bullets had hit. I couldn’t see any holes, or any blood. But the shirt was ruined. These weren’t blanks. I’d been shot with a magazine of bullets and all that
got me was a mild burning sensation. The Baron offered his hand to help me up.

  “So.. I can’t die? I can’t die. Wish I knew that from the start.”

  “Vould you like a moment to sit? It’s not everyday someone hears he’s immortal, ja?”

  “I can cope with immortality, thank you very much. It involves not dying; I can dig that. It’s true, all that then? Everything you said is true? But then.. Steve was working for Falconi?”

  “Indeed. Vee knew vee had been infiltrated, and it took sometime too before vee realised by whom. Agent Johnson is being ‘debriefed’, as vee speak.”

  “So I was being setup, and I had no way of knowing? What else is fake? What can I remember that’s real? When did all this happen?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Yesterday?”

  “Did you zink zat an organisation of zis size vould’ve been able to loose a man as valuable as yourself for long?”

  “And.. This is so messed up! What’s Eileen’s part in all this?”

  “Eileen vas in fact a mole of our own. Counter-intelligenz operazion. To root out zee infiltrator. A valuable source of intel. A most capable operative.”

  “And she wasn’t crazy?”

  “Oh, she vas crazy. Crazy for going along vit such a dangerous plan to uncover ze mole.”

  “So Steve didn’t know all this? He thought that me and Eileen were..? Maybe that’s why he popped out of nowhere.. Son of a bitch tried to blow up the house, kill her. If I hadn’t gotten her out in time.. Get her off his back. Maybe Adele didn’t know? Maybe he was trying to keep his cover. Stick to his plan, get me to the underworld. That was what the deal with the ninjas was all about. And the silly drunken act. Playing me, all along.. I bet the horse was a prop as well. I knew he was gay. The minute he started talking shit, I knew he was -”

  “I have only had limited knowledge of vat has happened in zeese last few hours, Bobby, but I can only assume zat vee can only tell vat Steve really knew, and vat he really knows, only after ze ‘debriefing’ is conclvuded.”

  “You mean torture?”

  “Zat might be a bit harsh, but that could be ze right vord.”

  “I’m game. So, I’m this really bad-ass dude, who invented a gateway to the after-world and that made me accidentally immortal? That kind of backfired because now Satan’s trying to get hold of that gateway, and I’m the only one who can stop him?”

  “Zat is ze gist of it, yes.”

  “So, what you’re saying is I don’t have to go to the after-world to get John the blowtorch specialist back to get Falconi off my back, cause he can’t even actually kill me.”

  “Vell, ja, but zen eizer vey, Falconi vill achieve his purpose and open zat gatevey to zis vorld, and zere shall pull fort myriads of demons and-”

  “What’s holding him now?”

  “Nothing but Eileen and a few brave men. And some allies.”

  “You said earlier, she’s the bright white-blue roundel over there, surrounded by all those red and yellow boxes?”

  “Zat is her, ja.”

  “Is that like on a scale, or what? I mean, that’s a lot of boxes.”

  “Zat is correct, ja.”

  “So Eileen’s all that stands between them and the gateway?”

  “I’m afraid so, Bobby.”

  “God-dammit people, I leave for one day, and all hell’s about to break loose?”

  VIII

  The after-midnight dinner with the Baron had made me groggy. Jules seemed very eager to make me some coffee, so I happily obliged him. The way the coffee he made carried over some of his most distinctive features was uncanny; he made some mean, black coffee.

  I had been briefed in hurriedly on what the current tactical situation was: Eileen was holed up around the gateway on the after-world’s end. Demons and literally all hell’s kinds of things kept coming at her and a few hand-picked men and women, wave after wave, again and again. More and more personnel was being stacked on this end of the gateway as well, fighting off Falconi and his own mob, a mix of a few summoned demons, wild monsters, and unscrupulous men. They were trying to get to Eileen and the gateway by the backdoor. It was looking bad, and the only bright side about the situation was that I was immortal. Which, after making sure that there was no catch - like cutting my head off or melting me in hot metal - was pretty cool, and would definitely prove a life-saver; at least for me.

  It was the middle of the night, and I was an avid believer in that the faster things got done, the faster everything would return back to normal. Of course, in the Normal Bureau, normal had many meanings none of which had any similarity to the definition of the word. Nevertheless, I found it strange that I could’ve probably walked away right then and there, but I didn’t.

  I could have walked away, and Falconi couldn’t - as Jules would have put it - ‘pop caps in my ass’. I could have walked away and all these people with their silly hats, all they could have done was go all wild-eyed and insist that I thought about it once more, and then perhaps cry alone or en masse for the coming Revelation, Armageddon, Rapture, or whatever they wanted to call the huge bitch-slapping that was about to hit home.

  But then, I thought, where would that leave me? How could I have lived with my immortal self for aeons afterward, in a barren, molten, putrefied sulfur-ridden landscape, with not another human around, and everyone’s soul back in the pits of Hell, building more tar pits, and mountains made of bone, rivers of blood and bile, nd the occasional but seemingly necessary, pit full of shit to bathe in? I’d just hate the place, and there even wouldn’t be anyone or anything to steal from. I’d probably end up asking demons for favors of the worse kind, and that somehow seemed like a bad idea from the very start.

  So I’d decided I’d go in; use my mind, heart and soul, preferably only figuratively speaking, and destroy the gateway I’d once build myself once and for all, so then the Normal Bureau could go back to policing the odd cult, the few occultists that actually got the incantations right, and the occasional stranded demon that had forgotten to dial home. At least that’s what Jules told me they used to deal with. Up until my abduction.

  They were scared, actually. The people in that briefing room, with their mitres on and their black suits carried hollowed looks. It was plain in their eyes that they thought their chances - our chances - were too slim. Maybe that was because they understood what we were up against. I, on the other hand only had a faint idea, and was only partial to what they perceived as a horrific, end-of-days situation. Frankly, I thought they were overreacting, and that things weren’t all that bad.

  I noticed Jules was looking at me intently. Under the harsh, bright white light in the situation room at first I thought he was squinting; then I noticed everyone was looking at me like they badly needed some prescription glasses. Jules made a hand gesture that I should go on. I had been woolgathering, and I couldn’t remember what I was talking about at all, so I asked no one in particular:

  “Was I talking, just now?”

  They all bobbed their heads up and down, and the sight of about two dozens papal mitres shuddering like that was so hilarious I’d thought I’d burst in laughter once more, which would be really bad manners, a detriment to morale, and hurt my stomach muscles like hell. I contained myself barely, and asked them to take those things off:

  “Could you, please, for the love of God, take those hats off? I mean, I can’t look at those things with a straight face.”

  Someone protested:

  “But, sir! Regulations clearly state that wards are to be warn at all times!”

  “Yeah, well, it’s like a bad joke. The real fight’s out there, not in here. If things come to that, I’m pretty sure that hat will only have an effect on demons with a sense of humor, which according to my personal experience, however limited it may be, aren’t exactly a majority. So, just, I don’t know, put them away. You might as well had clown hats on.”

  “Are you referring to Incantati
on Device CXR-7A?”

  That made me cock my head sideways, as if I wanted to see more clearly whether or not this guy was trying to be funny. He looked too uptight and scared to be any amount of funny at all, so he was being serious, and ironically enough, I found that funny:

  “You mean you actually, wear clown hats? Have a designation for them as well?”

  “I believe so, sir.”

  “Alright, I’m new to this but I’m catching up. No hats. Whatsoever. I mean, what kind of an idiot gets these kinds of ideas?”

  Jules cleared his throat and said in a low-keyed voice:

  “Ahm, that was your idea, sir. With all due respect.”

  “Me? I must’ve been dead drunk. Well, that was an entirely other person. Well, not entirely. You know what I mean. Even if it was only yesterday, think of this as a new start. Okay? Wiping the slate clean.”

  I could see a few grins, and hear the imperceptible yet unmistakable sound of snigger.

  “Did I say something funny?”

  Jules threw a few threatening glances to certain people in the room and the atmosphere immediately sobered up and dried. It was like he could kill any kind of mood with his gaze. He was most helpful though when he explained:

  “That might have sounded funny to some people in here,” he said, still gazing around the room to indicate he knew who he was talking about and disapproved, “because you conclude every briefing with these words.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, I guess old habits die last. In my case, not at all,” I said and grinned appreciatively as if I had been talking to myself. Probably from fear of being reprimanded by Jules no one had even so much as twitched a facial muscle.

  “It was a joke, okay? You can laugh at jokes if you find them funny. It’s one of those human things we’re supposedly fighting for. I don’t think demons are funny unless you count the horns and the barbed tail.”

  Silence ensued. I sighed and said, sounding slightly disappointed:

  “That was a joke too. Never mind. The clock’s ticking. Jules, what was I saying earlier:”

  Jules looked down on his sheet of paper, cleared his throat and said:

  “.. and that’s why I’ll make sure this piece of shit, Steve, gets his gay rights, in the form of a large male animal in heat, preferably a rhino.”

  “I was talking about that? Aloud?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Never mind that for now. Let’s get over this before the sun’s up and the world’s over. How is Eileen holding out?”

  “It’s a pretty tight situation sir. They’ve progressively gained more ground and right now they’re about to get through to the installation itself. Commander Eileen believes that at the current rate, she’ll be overrun before dawn.”

  “So, that’s like two, maybe three hours, tops, right?”

  “That is pretty much correct, sir.”

  “And what about the home ground on this side of things? Falconi and his cronies are gaining on us?”

  “Things on this end aren’t as bad. It’s a sort of stalemate, but we’ve committed everything we can on this, and there are reports Falconi is bringing in more forces: werewolves, lycans, zombies, and perhaps a few attorneys as well.”

  “Wait, attorneys? You mean, lawyers, right?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “They’re in league with Satan, then?”

  “They’ve done it before, sir. They’re unscrupulous people and tend to work for the highest bidder, and Falconi is known to pay handsomely.”

  “What are they going to do? Sue us to death?”

  “They’ll stop at nothing, sir. They might try that as well.”

  “And these lycans you mentioned? Isn’t that another name for werewolves?”

  “Not at all, sir. It’s a pretty common misconception, especially since lycans are very able shape-shifters and can transform at will, not only on a full moon. They’re stronger, and more bulky than werewolves, and they urinate while -”

  “Don’t give me the details, please. You shoot them with silver bullets and they die, right?”

  “Well, no sir. Silver has no effect on them at all. You have to sever their spines to actually kill them.”

  “Sever their spines, right. Note taken. Zombies are easy, right?”

  “Well, it depends sir.”

  “On what?”

  “On their numbers. In overwhelming numbers they can be quite daunting.”

  “But they’re as cunning as a dead fox. We’ll mow them down with machine guns. You have machine guns, right?”

  “Any model ever manufactured, sir. And all kinds of ammunition: silver armor-piercing bullets, Holy water hollow points, miniature bronze Buddha fragmentation ammo and Qur’an-scripted explosive rounds.”

  “Thank God for the second amendment then. We’ll see what we’ll do about those lawyers. Maybe we can avoid killing the poor bastards. I’d hate to kill a man, even someone so inhuman. Do we have a legal department?”

  There was some hesitation in his voice, even something faintly akin to embarrassment:

  “Yes, sir. They mainly handle PR and lawsuits against our blimps.”

  “Lawsuits against the blimps? From who?”

  “A well-known tire manufacturer, mostly. And patent trolls.”

  “Never mind. Suit them up as well. And keep an eye on them, they might actually find out there’s a law against killing demons in the state of Kansas. Who else do we have?”

  “Everyone in this room, sir. Except for Rogers over there who has to keep the xerox machines warm.”

  “Why, are they feeling sick?”

  “They tend to jam when not in use, sir. Someone has to keep making photocopies of white papers.”

  The world was on the brink of turning into a wasteland, and we were discussing the need for xerox machines. It felt uncannily like something that could have only happened in the higher echelons of the armed forces. I had to clarify that, in the hope that it was actually something important for survival:

  “You mean, like research stuff?”

  “No, sir, actual blank pieces of white paper.”

  “Screw that, what do we need all those photocopying machines for?”

  Jules instantly looked pale. His face went blank, and he seemed to stutter before he could actually reply:

  “Well, I.. I don’t know, sir.”

  “Good. Rogers, you’re coming as well. So, what else do we have apart from guns and stuff like that? I mean, do these even work on the other side?”

  “Well, there haven’t been many documented cases on the usage of projectiles, sir.”

  I found what that implied most unsettling. Were we supposed to punch those things to death?

  “You mean you don’t know?”

  “It has to do with incorporeality, sir. Simple mass projectiles might not be sufficient against all demonic forms, especially incorporeal ones.”

  “You mean you don’t know?”

  Unwillingly, and looking a bit flushed, Jules said it plainly:

  “We don’t know, sir.”

  “What are we supposed to do, then? Smack them until they give up? Scold them off? I thought we were in this paranormal business. Don’t you people have something like those things in the Ghostbusters movies?”

  “Seriously sir, that was just a movie.”

  “Well their guns worked, didn’t they? There’s got to be something. Aren’t there any geniuses working here? Lab coats and everything, bad coffee, boring geek small-talk while crunching numbers? Bad personal hygiene? Greasy hair? Ever seen one?”

  “Well, if you insist sir. There is something of your own design, that might prove effective.”

  “You don’t say?”

  “But it hasn’t been tested before. At least, not in realistic conditions.”

  “Why is that?”

  “The last test left British Columbia without electricity for a few hours. It’s also highly dangerous, and
uses all sorts of as-of-yet fringe science and technology you yourself have been known to say, and I quote: ‘hell if I know how it works. Get it?’.”

  “Can I carry it?”

  “Well, yes, it’s man-portable.”

  “Good, how many shots does one magazine carry?”

  “Just this problem, sir. There’s only one shot for that equipment. It’s designed as an area-of-effect denial equipment. Completely perishable, single-use only.”

  “What does it exactly, deny?”

  “Sir, this is a highly technical matter. In fact, you’d be the most qualified to answer these kinds of questions. To put it plainly, from what I gather, it’s like a nuke; only it’s supposed to work in the after-world, while being rather harmless around normal people and matter. Thankfully enough, that part’s been tested.”

  “Good, I’m packing that as well. I bet it looks cool, doesn’t it?”

  “Well, that depends on what you mean, sir. It’s certainly original, though familiar-looking.”

  “Never mind that, suit up and let’s get over there fast. Sulphur, Nevada was it?”

  “In the vicinity, yes. Abandoned copper mine. Sir, if you don’t mind. What do you mean, by ‘suit up’? We are already wearing our suits.”

  “What, you mean you actually fight demons and assorted creatures wearing just that?”

  “Well, yes sir.”

  “No helmets? Kevlar vests? Padding on the legs and shoulders? Any sort of protection or armor whatsoever?”

  “Well, we do have the papal mitres,” said Jules, and I found out I couldn’t even bear the thought of those impossibly weird-looking hats.

  “That’s just stupid. Whose idea was that, wearing nothing but those hats for protection against evil? Never mind, I can tell. Have you people seen what these demons look like? They’re twelve feet tall, and they’ve got claws that can cut down a tree in one swoop.”

  Jules looked skeptical, and definitely uncomfortable wading in unfamiliar waters:

  “What do you propose then, sir? We don’t have the kind of equipment you are suggesting.”

  “You mean you have machine guns, supersonic blimps, anti-demon ray-guns -”

  “You mean convolution matrix field transducers, sir,” Jules corrected me. Maybe my former self knew about these things, but it all sounded like horse-crap.

  “I mean what I said. That’s what it does, right? Kill demons? Anyway, you’re telling me all you’ve got to wear is the silly hat, and that suit?”

  They all nodded appreciatively, as if somehow that sounded reassuring. And these guys were our best bet against hordes of hellish creatures. What a peachy thought. I kept at it:

  “No riot shields? Any kind of police or paramilitary equipment?”

  They shook their heads in unison.

  “Gloves? Motorcycle helmets? Anything thicker than a piece of cloth?”

  Still, nothing but a ‘no’.

  I couldn’t believe myself when I said it, but it somehow felt like it was the only option left that I just had to explore. I sighed before asking, feeling embarrassed to even consider such a thing:

  “Do you.. Do you people have a football team?”