Bobby on a stick

by Vasileios Kalampakas

  * * *

  I just sat there, with my back against a wall, carrying an improvised flag strapped around my back with a very big, plainly drawn, stuck up middle finger. I was trying to look conspicuously nonchalant; what a romantic poet might have in earnest called a ‘mad fool’. On my end, it was simply an idea put into practice. Immortality hadn’t really proven its usefulness, and was about to put to the test, not as a solid battlefield advantage which I’m sure every fighting man would be interested in, but as a way to ensure the plan worked and I lived through it.

  As things were, the approaching hordes of Hell weren’t as relentless as I would have hoped in their pursuit of overrunning our position; instead of simply barraging us with hellfire, storming the impromptu trenches and cover positions of what few defenders remained with their halberds, axes, scything claws and gaping maws, they were content to keep our heads down by taking occasional shots, keeping everyone busy by assaulting a position with enough force as to give ground.

  It was like squeezing that very last bit of toothpaste from the tube with one’s nails. It also meant that they were effectively stalling, waiting for something to happen or maybe someone to arrive.

  A runner had gone back with a message, sharing my plan with Jules. An answer had come back a few minutes later, telling us that the hardest part of their trials was probably over since the lawyers in Falconi’s disposal - after having obtained a cease & desist order - were forced to retreat for a recess because of the ‘non-government organization’ status of the Normal Bureau. That and a few of Jules well-placed Magnum shots seemed to have put them effectively out of the fight, and only the lycans and werewolves remained alongside Falconi’s head-honcho demon lackeys.

  It seemed we would be safe from a backdoor attack. I was ready to start running around the various trenches, emplacements, and positions to make it painfully obvious and clear as rain, that I was showing them the finger and calling them jackasses. Generally, making it well-known that I thought they were nothing more than useless demonic hordes only good for filling the tar pits, and stirring the open-air shit baths.

  As the saying goes, if Muhammad can’t go to the mountain, let the mountain come to him. I looked at Eileen; she nodded and smiled. She didn’t wish me good luck, but I knew she meant it anyway. I pulled myself out of cover, and started off at a walking pace, waving a hand for everyone to see and smiling casually as if this was a friendly get-together.

  We’d told the guys to hold out a little while longer while I performed my antics, allowing Alice and Bob (the caterpillar and unicorn respectively - I didn’t know at the time that they were such a nice couple) to keep firing, especially at the hell-bat swarms that had filled the place with their droppings. The guys knew I was about to draw some attention, but none had expected the way.

  As I walked around the men the rate of fire dropped substantially, and I invariably saw everyone give me a weird look or rather, a peculiar stare. The kind of stare that people reserve for the weird, obscure relative, that no-one really knows but everyone always notices; the one they point at, comment on, and eventually admire just because he knows all that and doesn’t seem to care.

  That was exactly what I was doing because I looked like I was talking a care-free walk, exactly because I didn’t care; because I couldn’t die. But that point was lost to all those, friendlies and enemies alike, who saw me climb up to a small improvised parapet made of dirt, an anthill actually, and shout out of the top of my lungs extending both arms while facing the hordes and giving them the finger:

  “Eat shit and die!”

  I think my voice was carried around by an unusual echo that managed to somehow sideline the ever-mounting hubbub of the chanting that seemed to be coming from what was probably a demonic choir battalion, complete with lecterns-on-wheels drawn by cats. Even the demonic hooded figures seemed to have stopped and gasped at my taunting show of defiance, before silence - a silence too complete for comfort - followed.

  I grinned smugly and then I saw tens of thousands of the demons roar, growl and howl, wildly flailing their weapons and shouting a mix of obscenities and curses that even though indecipherable in their abyssal tongues, their intended purpose was clear enough.

  What impressed me as well, was that I didn’t actually have to run around to make my presence felt. I was now the center of attention, mostly in a bad way. It was also perplexing to see all these demons suddenly revitalized into acting much more like themselves; I was starting to believe they actually enjoyed being taunted, even in such a basic level as being given the finger.

  And then I went a bit overboard, seeing the instant success of the finger and the accompanying defiant shout, and decided it was time for something that usually I’d consider crass and childish; certainly not something I’d believe could be taking place in what could be considered the proverbial biblical fight of Armageddon: I turned around, dropped my pants, and showed them my ass. I could see Eileen burying her palms in her face.

  I heard this man a few feet away ask me in pure disbelief:

  “What.. The fuck’s.. Wrong with you?”

  Before I had a chance to give a more in-depth answer than ‘don’t worry, I can’t die’, I felt my bottom burn as hot as lava. All the while my senses reported that I was in fact flying in mid-air, rushing to meet with a concrete wall; there was also this terrible itch across my back.

  The next few moments consisted of a jarring feeling of being mushed into a pulp against a concrete wall with a flaming, molten lava rock shot smack on my behind. It wouldn’t have been that bad had my jersey not caught on fire. I pulled myself together and stepped out of the concrete wall. I spent a few seconds taking notice that I hadn’t exactly left a stamp on the wall so much as made an impression, and then I turned back to the once-more silent crowd of Hell’s soldiers who seemed to be craving a proper retaliation.

  I straightened up the half-broken, half-torn, flaming one-fingered salutation flag, and yelled feeling rather inspired:

  “My ass, your face, what’s the difference?”

  And they just roared enthusiastically, breaking any and all formations; they’d forgotten about rules, they had violated their orders, and they seemed like they couldn’t care less about being demoted to less-than-imp status, or perhaps turned into horned ants. Their minds, their very spirits were indeed focused on one thing: grabbing me.

  They rushed with all the speed and terrible force of a tsunami, some even dropping whatever weapons they carried. Eileen and I exchanged glances; we both instantly knew that we were soon about to find out exactly how solid my plan was. I also knew that both of us tried not to think that it now all rested with a pony on a stick, which no matter how elaborate or technically and scientifically advanced it might have actually been, was still shaped like a god-damn pony on a stick.

  “They’re rushing us from all sides! Fall back! Fall back!” I heard someone say, even as I saw everyone fire their last few bursts, sometimes followed by the ominous sound of a hollow, empty bolt and breech. Fireballs started to land all around, as if hell was raining upon us. Every creature that could fly was flapping its wings, of many shapes and sizes, forming up into a huge swarm that blocked most of the sickly, orange light in the sky.

  I saw the sheer scale of it, and every hair on my body stood up. Seeing them amassed, fighting slowly their way through, forcing us to fall back little by little was demoralising, bleak, and just plain ugly. Seeing them rush onwards with wild abandon, lusting for pure chaos to be unleashed among their ranks, was a breathtaking sight, in a very bad and literal way.

  I was standing on the exact spot where the very center of the pentagram was, the place where I would be ritually sacrificed, crucified, and generally very probably die should the pony fail to deliver its stated design goal, which was to obliterate the lot of them, sending them back to hell.

  Right about that time and while the seconds grew ever longer but fewer still, as the distance between me and the de
mons diminished with every bat of the eye, I saw this great shadow cover me as if a small cloud had picked me out of everyone else.

  Around me the Bureau’s people formed a last perimeter, a hopeless circle, some grimly pulling out their katanas or heirloom swords with all sorts of blessed srolls and holy seals of papal approval (but thankfully, no silly hats). I saw then what had been throwing that shadow over me, and only had time enough to gasp, before it landed right on top of me with tremendous force using me like some sort of training mattress to halt its fall.

  It literally threw me off my feet a few yards away. My one-fingered salute flag was now completely in ruins, having at least served its purpose. I shook my head, while the pain from the impact that should have cracked every bone on my body and rendered me nothing more than a rag doll or perhaps a soft crash test dummy, disappeared.

  I could still hear the chaos all around me; sporadic last shots being fired, the surprised gasps the appearance of the demon falling from the sky like a blight had caused among what few men remained standing. I glanced at Eileen who looked tense but determined, her hands glowing with that white-hot intensity that meant she was about to do something.

  The demon I was looking at was exactly what the term ‘lean, mean, killing machine’ aimed to describe, only it wasn’t as lean, and it was definitely meaner than a kid at school eating all the candy from the other kids and calling the girl wearing braces a ‘metal-mouthed freak’.

  That was guaranteed by its height of twenty feet, its bifurcated barbed tail, the red-hot flaming hoofs instead of feet, claws as large as jet engine fan blades, and a devilish smile that said that this one knew he had a natural capacity to instill gaping awe, mind-numbing fear, and send men early to their graves. Not only that, he was definitely one of those fellas who enjoyed spreading death, destruction and despair. He folded his leathery wings and said through a mouth filled with granite teeth and a set of fangs that could have been tusks for all I knew:

  “Bobby Barhoe. An audacious little man. Don’t you recognize me, Bobby?”

  His voice was like rattling embers. I had the most definite and distinct privilege to not have met such a demon in the few hours of my reinstated career as a demon hunter, paranormal fighter, and half-assumed, half-proclaimed almost-unwilling protector of every human with a soul (meaning journalists and lawyers were quite possibly exempt). While everyone around me stood warily their ground, and me knowing full well that this was a distraction my plan had not accounted for I stood up, dusted off my too-tight-for-comfort football pants and replied:

  “No, thank God, I don’t,” I said, and I meant it. I then heard a very familiar, heavy New Jersey accent, with all the nasal qualities and street-wise flair, the wiseguy tone, and that Italian-bred fluidity of Marco Falconi, saying what I instantly knew was true:

  “Who the fuck did ya expect? It’s a me, Mario! You fucking wiseguy, you!” he said in that joking manner mobsters like Falconi used right before they stabbed someone in the back with a screwdriver or choked someone to death with a shoe lace. He was grinning widely, perhaps showing off his capacity to choose between swallowing a car whole or chewing it first. Perhaps there was something seriously wrong with his facial muscles, but that wasn’t as probable as just enjoying himself immensely once again, ready and willing to mess up everything in his path.

  I felt this was probably his idea of settling things, having his personal hand in this invasion plan, from start to finish, from the first to the last stroke. He was that kind of a prick, and I’m certain all his charm as Falconi didn’t go to waste in that demon form, but was all the more exaggerated. My mind raced with what I should do, while the moment where I’d had to fire up the pony was approaching fast. While I was thinking, others preferred the more direct approach.

  Someone from the Bureau men thought it wouldn’t hurt to try and cut a demon’s leg off, even though it was as thick as a tree. Falconi barely looked his way when he simply flicked his wrist and his claws cut him down not unlike swatting a fly, only there was much more blood and gore involved.

  That was the exact moment Eileen unleashed a lightning bolt she had been probably drawing energy for ever since Falconi had appeared. The air around me parted with explosive intensity. The after-world was lit up with a blinding white light that for a moment obscured everything from sight, casting fierce shadows on anything it touched; and it touched everything. It was hundreds of times stronger than what Bob the unicorn could shoot out of its horn. It was the most awesome display of firepower I had ever seen, rivaling nature’s and man’s most powerful devices.

  Nothing normal, alive, or man-made could have withstood that amount of concentrated, focused power. But Falconi was still standing there once the smoke and haze cleared only moments later. He looked visibly shaken, and some of his skin seemed singed as well; his great, dragon-like wings had been reduced to skinned bones and straps of leather.

  And all the while, from the corner of my eye I could see innumerable hordes all around us, finally having reached us at a stone’s throw, ready to dismember, gore and utterly annihilate everyone. I could even see large, spiked, infernally hot chains, the ones meant to shackle me where I stood.

  Though I had probably gone temporarily deaf from Eileen’s thunderbolt, I could hear the incantations again, reaching a climax I had thought would only come a lot later, when everything had already been lost and only I had remained as a sad witness and an unwilling executioner of all of creation’s last will. But I could hear them now, satanic verse after satanic verse, uttered with that same regurgitating quality those European metal bands preferred.

  I could see Eileen almost spent, faint and withering, unable to even stay afloat in her incorporeal body. I could see the last few men and women gathered around me and Falconi, bracing themselves for a last stroke, a last defiant kill, their faces grim but flushed red from the heat of the battle.

  And I could definitely see Falconi looking as smug and confident as ever, slowly pacing his way towards me, ready to gloat about their impending victory and his impending elevation from a prince to perhaps a spiritual successor of Satan himself. It was plain for everyone who could spare a look that he felt positively triumphant and totally invincible. There were only a few more moments left before everyone was cut down in a flurry of claws, swords, axes, bullets and hellfire; there were only a few more moments left before the end of everything.

  Eileen used up whatever little force remained in her spirit to throw me the pony she was safely keeping with her until the very last moment. I grabbed it with one hand, still looking at Falconi whose eyes had met with mine only a flick earlier, exchanging gazes like messages of hate and defiance, curses, and the odd term of endearment like ‘you little fuck’.

  And in those eyes, through that gaze that worked as a bridge for a silent communion, a thing only possible between creatures - human or otherwise - that had gazed deep into the fabric of the cosmos, I saw a flare of uncertainty.

  It was the fear of something new; it was the sensation that something was amiss, that something had been overlooked, underestimated, forgotten, misplaced. It begun as a simple hint of ignorance that turned into an avalanche of fear, uncertainty and doubt with all the rapid alacrity that the demonic synapses of his brain’s equivalent could deliver.

  In an instant I grasped the pony-on-a-stick with eyes closed, searching into my inner self. I urged my most natural basic self to come through, to feel, to remember, to dig inside that animal cortex and light up those searchlights of the soul; to really remember, to really think. In that split fraction of less than a second, while Falconi was being tormented by waves of uncertainty and I was probing my inner self trying to remember what my brain refused to by itself, there was a sweet balance; a cold time of glory for an uncaring universe where everything was possible, and every moment could harbor a change for everything, for ever, no matter the cost.

  And then just when Falconi reached to grab that pony out of my stick, I belie
ved I knew; that I remembered. I folded my legs around the stick, clenched my arms around the pony’s head, and leaped into the air shouting as if everyone, the living and the dead, should hear it and know it was done:

  “Go horsy!”

  And then I saw this pink light burst out and completely cover everything, as if nothing else had existed other than pink, ever.

  X

  There was a cup of a mud-like substance Claudia insisted was made of quality hand-picked, freshly-roasted, home-grown, pesticide-free coffee beans. I was her boss and I insisted it was mud; not that cheap-skate runny mud they have in Florida and the tropics, the stuff that looks like just dirt and water all mixed up together. This looked, felt, and tasted like one-hundred percent frozen, volcanic sludge-like mud with all the physical qualities of cement.

  I buzzed her:

  “Claudia, this isn’t coffee.. This is -”

  “- mud, I know. Why do you keep asking me to make it then?”

  “It’s my prerogative, I’m your boss. Now be a good girl and make me a fresh cup, yeah?”

  She didn’t reply to that, and I knew she was already hard at it. I had hand-picked her from among the bureau staff because she was one of the few who had finally survived the ordeal, a real good shot, and very keen on voicing her personal opinions, which could be easily discerned from the fact that I could see her through the glass pane, pouring actual dirt from a pot plant into the coffee machine.

  I returned my focus to the briefing report laying on my desk, which contained little noteworthy intelligence on the Himalayan incident of a few weeks before. There were some dark points to cover, but there were capable people on it, and I was pretty adamant that they’d get to the bottom of who was behind the resurgence of ghost yetis and bone dragons near McLeod Ganj.

  I had been signing paper after paper concerning logistics supplies, administrative reorganization efforts and most notably, putting into full effective force the discontinuation of the practice of using those awful papal mitres and other silly hats as warding devices. We would be replacing those with stylish, dependable - and above all perhaps - inconspicuous-looking fedoras. Jules had said that the next thing we knew, we’d be in the music business, doing concerts to save orphans.

  Von Papen had visited just the other day, and was quite looking forward to going on vacation to his hunting lodge at Pomerania. Or was it Baden-Essen? He had been very elusive about the exact whereabouts of his lodge, and when I had asked him what his preferred game was, he had rather mischievously or perhaps with a look of confusion answered: ‘chess’.

  Even though he had been very vocative in celebrating the demons’ defeat (in a rush of euphoria and wishful thinking he had exclaimed among other slightly misdirected comments, that ‘ze Stalinist pigz are finally vanquiwshed!’), he remained prudently alarmed of the fact that even if the gateway had been destroyed (technically speaking, rendered inoperable rather than physically destroyed - I wouldn’t want me dead), there were still demonic operatives lying around. That only enhanced the theory that they still had ways of moving back and forth, and that there was still a very real and valid reason for the Normal Bureau to exist. Until at least I managed to unlink my soul from the gateway to the underworld. Or something to that effect.

  I felt a rush of cool, air-conditioned air sweep inside. It was Claudia, who had actually gone ahead and made coffee out of dirt, seemingly quite proud to admit it as well:

  “Here’s your daily sludge of mud, my insipid master. Shall I whip myself or will your minions do so after they have their way with me?”

  The cup of mud smelled like it was just the right kind of coffee. I momentarily thought that an open mind should always be, well, open, and that perhaps the taste wouldn’t be as disagreeable as the popular opinion held. The phone rang and quite possibly saved me from tasting actual mud; it was Eileen. She sounded positively and properly pissed:

  “Why are you still in the office? Shouldn’t you be on the blimp already?” she said, and the image of being badly charred on a rotating spit by a few lightning bolts flashed across my mind.

  “I was just finishing up the last of the paperwork. About the hats mostly. Did you know I issued that directive in September of ’58? I mean, we were doing that for more than fifty years!”

  “Aha. I don’t care. You were supposed to be flying by now. Do you want to irritate me?”

  I knew she meant extremely agitated or pissed off. That was always a bad thing, even when her eyes didn’t give off lightning sparks. I didn’t have much of a chance or time to mount a poor defense when she continued:

  “Just because there are two Bureau blimps on stand-by at any one time, it doesn’t mean you should commandeer one whenever you feel like it.”

  “Well, I could still make the eight o’clock flight,” I said trying to save face. I wasn’t even sure there was an eight o’clock flight for Honolulu out of Colorado.

  “Is that Pacific Time or Hawaiian? Hawaii does have its own time zone, you know.”

  “It does? No, I think it’s eight o’clock Mountain Time.”

  “Just get on that blimp. Oh, and Bobby?”

  “Yeah?”

  “We can try that.. That thing, you mentioned you really wanted to do. You know.”

  “We can? Wow, you really changed your mind, didn’t you?. You’ll see, it’s just a matter of getting used to it. You’ll like it in the end, as much as I do. Well, gotta go, right?”

  “I’ll be by the pool,” she said and hung up.

  I was so excited. Me and Eileen had this thing going, now, nothing as serious as a fake marriage yet, but we were having a good time. Going slowly with everything. But that night.. That night was going to special.

  We were going scuba-diving under the Hawaiian moonlight.

  Hope you enjoyed it!

  Forge of Stones

  Of man, Sun and Stars