PART II THE MORAL OF THE STORY
ALCHEMY'S CAMEO
The sky was bluer than a Ural sapphire. The second day passed without further incident. Thirty-Seven and 192 went over the rudimentary elements of Reincarnation as they related to failed and successful attempts.
At noon, they ordered a feast of exotic dishes from a flirty redhead on the large oval screen in the lab. A man dressed in black, who called himself Alchemy and whose eyes seemed to shake uncontrollably brought them their food and drink, then joined them for lunch. The three of them sat there talking about Reincarnation, impossible dreams, impossible realities. When they had finished, Alchemy stood up and collected the dishes, but before leaving the room, he made a point of getting Thirty-Seven’s attention and said to him, “I will see you again.” Upon hearing this, Thirty-Seven was struck with the oddest sensation of Deja’ Vu.
After lunch, 192 took Thirty-Seven into the Blue Room and they examined some of the bodies. There were men, women, and children of all ages. 192 explained that the human body was not designed to age at unnatural speeds and that particular aspect of the Reincarnation process usually proved fatal to the new bodies as they were artificially accelerated to the appropriate ages.
Thirty-Seven began to understand why there were so many bodies to take care of and realized that many of these bodies were actually just different copies of the same people, who had simply died - or ‘failed’ as 192 put it - at different ‘ages‘. He learned that the original versions of these people were still walking around, some of them waiting for another opportunity to attempt the process.
Several of them though would never return, having spent their entire life savings on these failed attempts. Each new attempt cost a veritable fortune and few could afford it more than once in a lifetime. Only the extremely rich and powerful could truly cheat death indefinitely.
At four o’clock in the afternoon the cute redhead - her name was Moira That and she smiled constantly - reappeared on the screen and announced the end of the working day and asked if either of them would care for some lemonade and cherry pie. A different man – not Alchemy - brought the drinks and pastries. Thirty-Seven and 192 sat in the lab for another half-hour eating and discussing nothing in particular. 192 finally called it a day and told Thirty-Seven it was time to lock up the lab.
Thirty-Seven got the message and wandered out into the courtyard and heard the door to the lab lock behind him. He laid out in the grass next to some smashed flowers and opened his eyes to the sky. Laying there for a long time, staring into that addictive blue void, he wondered what the next few days would bring.
MERCY SCREAMSBACK
The girl gave no sign that she liked the new name. She gave no sign that she disliked it, either. Suicide could tell 7185 was rolling the name over and over in her mind, trying to figure something out, and then they heard the knock.
It was two soft raps close together, followed by a ringing silence and then a single fierce pound on the door. It was his knock. They looked at each other and Suicide smiled but said nothing. There was another set of knocks, identical to the first. Both girls shot glances at the door and then back at each other. There would not be another knock.
Suicide looked at 7185, smiled and whispered, "Just play along!" and she reached her arm out and grabbed the back of 7185’s head and brought it towards her own. They sat there kissing, holding each other, and 7185 was playing along so well that both girls slowly closed their eyes.
The doorknob turned. Satan walked in and stood in the doorway, silent for a moment and then he spoke.
"I’m not interrupting anything, am I?"
The girls came out of a trance and snapped their necks back and Suicide turned to Satan and said, "You know you are!" She turned back to 7185 and stroked that perfect blonde hair with the back of her hand.
Satan said, "How touching. Sue, I’d like to have a little word with you when you’re done here." That meant now and Suicide knew it. She reached over and again drew 7185’s head slowly towards her own but this time bent it down a little and kissed the top of it, breathing in the unmistakable scent of stale wine.
Suicide stood up, looked at Satan and said, "This is Mercy Screamsback. I like her and I want her taken care of while she’s here."
Satan grinned and looked at Mercy and said, "Fine, fine. Mercy Screamsback, you are free to come and go as you please. No one will harm you as long as you behave yourself. I hope you enjoy your stay here in our lovely home." With that, Sue took a last glance back at Mercy and blew an overly-exaggerated kiss at her and then walked across the room, past Satan and out the door.
Satan stood staring at Mercy and deftly displayed a lewd grin. She could not bring herself to smile, but kept herself from looking hateful. Finally, he turned and walked out of the room, shutting the door behind him silently.
DOBIE REX
"Let the candles burn!” Dobie Rex was screaming at someone he had never met before. The assistant tried not to flinch and started relighting several candles which stood in the center of the table. This room was nearly identical to 192’s lab, the biggest difference being hundreds of black candles strewn all over the place.
Dobie was a small man. He stood only a meter and a half tall and had a weak frame. He wore clothing identical in every way except size to 192’s and his hairline had receded long ago over the top of his head and was making its way steadily down the back towards his neck. The hair which did remain was stringy and dark white; dirty-white. His skin was dry and he appeared to have some psoriasis on his nose and forehead, lending extra creepishness to his overall appearance. He was a wicked old man with few teeth and absolutely no compassion.
To say that Dobie Rex was a difficult man would be an insult to his character. Dobie was the ultimate in ideals for all impossible men. He loved no one, tolerated nothing, and despised all activities save one: his job. He had the unique responsibility to give the command which burned the bodies of thousands of strangers each day. This was his only real duty and what he did with the rest of his time was spread misery.
Once, an assistant whose father was a well respected Marshall had dared to ask the question, “Who cares what you think?” When Dobie heard this, his face twisted into a positively indecent smile, his eyes widening and sharpening at the same time. Dobie rubbed his hands together and said, “Why you care, my boy. That’s who!” Dobie had then reached into his coat and produced a tiny green sphere, which he held in the palm of his hand to show the young hapless assistant. “See this?” Dobie had said, raising his palm a little for emphasis, “This - is death! And you will note that I hold it in the palm of my hand, just as I hold you!” The boy had watched indifferently as Dobie turned to face a counter and tossed the small green orb into the air, towards a very wide and deep beaker of acid used for dissolving heads and skulls.
The Kid kept watching that green sphere as it flew through the air, as if it were in slow motion. And that is just too bad, because if he had been watching Rex, he may have been able to save himself, for he would have seen Rex leaping behind a large file cabinet just as the little green orb splashed down into the acid.
The jar exploded violently. Acid and glass blasted in all directions and several hot, burning shards struck The Kid directly in the face, ripping his eyes apart on contact. The Kid went down screaming and grabbing at his face.
Rex was laughing hysterically behind the file cabinet, bending over and slapping his knee. Tears of joy streamed down his cheeks. He peeked out from his hiding place just in time to see the kid falling to his knees, and somehow it was that downward motion that pushed Rex over the edge. His rage crested suddenly and he jumped out and leaped towards The Kid, heaving one foot deeply into his stomach. The Kid cried out pathetically and Dobie looked around. He grabbed a tall rack of beakers and bottles and pulled it crashing down over the poor creature writhing on the floor. The Kid gave up hope and lay in the shards, burning and weeping through ruined eyes, not bothering to struggle anymore.
Dobie was
prancing around the mess, waving his arms in the air, and laughing the happiest laugh The Kid had ever heard. My boss is crazy, thought the kid. He’ll kill me if I stay here and he’ll kill me if I tell anyone what he’s done!
In the end, The Kid was sent to The New American Center For The Hopelessly Disfigured, where he died two months later, having hung himself in a stairwell.
THIRTY-SEVEN'S NIGHTMARE
The first man said. "Men are not meant to be free. A free man will lie, cheat, steal and even murder to accomplish his small minded and selfish goals. A free man will break a law, and laws must never be broken. To avoid these things there must be order. There must be discipline. There must be control. In the spirit of the infinite wisdom of those who came before us, we, the leaders of your world give you the precious gift of that order, that discipline, that control.
The second man said. "We guide your lives so you do not experience the evil temptation of freedom. Not one among you has the strength to lead. That is why you are who and where you are. If you had the ability to lead it would have been recognized and you would not be you, you would be one of us. One of the few with the strength to endure and understand the responsibility that comes with cursed freedom."
The third man said. "Freedom is a low and vile thing. It corrupts, it tempts, it draws desires to one's mind that men are not meant to have. When a man is free he will wish to rule his own life however he pleases and sometimes he may wish to rule the lives of others as well. This is impossible. It is impossible for a man who is not chosen as a leader to lead himself, much less others. There is not one leader among you. Not one of you who could make an important decision without disastrous results. We are here to lead, and you are here to follow."
Thirty-Seven woke up gnashing his nails into the palms of his hands. He was furious. He had been dreaming of his first day at Eternalife University.
STAINFACE
Stainface chopped a huge rail of deth out on the wooden table, grinding black powder into the curling grain of the planks.
“Best kick in Hell,” he told Pain, who watched intently as Stainface steered the drug into a fat straight line.
Stainface had a voice like razor blades in a meat grinder, with a face to match. Long ago the final hair had fallen out of his head. That was when he had started getting the tattoos of dancing and rotting corpses all over his scalp. His nose was bulbous and shiny, and his upper lip was stained permanently black from the drainage caused by snorting deth all the time. He wore moth-eaten rags not fit for a medieval slave and he never clipped his nails. They were long and very yellow.
Stainface had eaten his parents at a very young age. At the time it had happened, he was heralded as the youngest person to ever be sentenced to Hell - he was still a Double-Zero then. When he first arrived in Hell, no one would come near him. He had gnawed off the forefinger of a Marshall on his way to The Dent and subsequently been led around in magna-cuffs - electromagnetic bracelets around his wrists and ankles whose movement was forced and controlled by an external hand-held device.
The new Marshall they had assigned to him, Iceberg 901 hated prisoners, and when the child refused to cooperate and resisted the magna-cuff’s movements, Iceberg caused the cuffs to drag along the ground, with the boy’s face in the dirt. After this, young Stainface hatefully marched in time with the movement of the cuffs.
Satan had been made aware of the young murderer’s case and had taken a special interest, sending a then-very-young Alpha Centauri and two goons out to greet the kid as he arrived. They were to invite the kid to join Satan’s army, and if he refused, kill him. When Alpha’s team arrived and explained their intentions the boy’s only response had been, “What took you so long?” He then climbed up on the back of Alpha Centauri’s bike and yelled at the others, “Let’s go!” Satan’s three men looked at each other then Alpha laughed and shouted gleefully, “You heard the man! Let’s hit it!” and they rode off into the north, glad they had not had to slaughter another child. On that ride Alpha thought of a name to give the boy who had a blood-stained face.
The name stuck, and ever since then Stainface had cultivated a reputation that decidedly reached far into the realm of unparalleled criminal insanity. He simply could not stop eating people! Not that he had ever tried to quit . . .
He had also earned himself an honored post as Lord of The Flies. The Flies were Satan’s gang of ruthless maniacs who loved nothing more than formulating plans that could only be described as diabolically insidious. They set up small communities for newcomers, only to come back and raze them to the ground after a few weeks, teaching harsh lessons to the uninitiated. They would round up groups of people who had formed friendships and perform optectomies - putting out the right eyes of each of them, discouraging the rise of any force save Satan’s. They killed men, women, and children. Thereby ensuring that the people of Hell lived in fear, both for the living and their dead.
Stainface now bent over the table and snorted the black line of deth through a rolled-up strip of skin and a few seconds later, he dropped the makeshift straw, smacked his hands to the sides of his head, and started clawing at the dancing zombies immortalized there and he began screaming.
Pain grimaced at first and then grinned, realizing Stainface had not lied and that this kick probably was the best in Hell.
Stainface went on clawing at his own face and screaming. He fell sideways out of his chair into the grime which coated his floor. His legs were now jerking spasmodically and his breathing came in huge strangled gasps of desperation. His body began to shake uncontrollably and with such a violence that his head slammed into one leg of the table repeatedly. Then with a final outburst, he screamed and vomited. The scream becoming a bubbling gurgle. Then he lay perfectly still, his open eye resting in a small pool of yellow bile.
TIME'S UP
On the third day, Thirty-Seven rose again. This time however it was to the sound of Mozart, not wrenching metal. He and Penta Tonic had a long talk the previous night about alarm clock protocol and basic respect for others and their boundaries.
Penta was to wake Thirty-Seven up every day with pleasant classical music and otherwise keep her opinions to herself unless specifically asked what she thought. Thirty-Seven was surprised to find out how agreeable Penta Tonic really was. She agreed to everything without a single word of protest and this morning’s alarm had been an indication that things might indeed be changing for the better.
192 had told Thirty-Seven they would be going to The Temple of Eternalife today where they would find Dobie Rex. Thirty-Seven could hardly wait. He got up and went into the washroom and rinsed out his eyes and mouth then hit the shower. He yelled from the bathroom for Penta-Tonic to start the coffee maker and by the time he got out of the shower it was ready. He poured himself a huge cup and grabbed some eggs and bread out of the refrigerator.
After breakfast, he checked the time: 6:45 A.M.. He had 15 minutes to get to the lab. He put on his shoes and looked around. The red sphere! The thought hit him just as he was about to head out. He ran back to his room and found the white pants he had worn to Maximus’ office. The sphere was still in the pocket. He grabbed it and headed out the door, picking up Penta-Tonic and his ID disc on the way out.
The courtyard was smothered with dew as he stepped out into the morning air. This was more like it, he thought to himself. Maybe today would go right for a change. He went over the disasters of the past two days in his head: the cigarette disaster on the first day, the scheduling and alarm clock disaster of the second. Today would be different. Today would be a success.
He walked into the lab at 6:55 A.M. and 192 was already busy, squinting deeply into a microscope. Thirty-Seven put Penta down on the big, round table with a smack and 192 just about fell over. He was concentrating so heavily on whatever it was he was looking at.
“Ah, Thirty-Seven, you startled me,” he said, looking up and switching off the scope.
“Sorry, I’m just glad to be here on time.”
“Sure! Let’s get going!” With those words Thirty-Seven had unwittingly tipped the first of many, many dominoes.
STAR NUMBERS
Mercy softly padded down the hall. She had overcome her fear and left what she now took to be her room. Walking down the hall, she came to an open door. She looked inside and saw a man hunched over several sheets of paper. He wore a red bandana on his head, which kept his sandy hair out of his eyes as he labored over the drawing materializing beneath his scratching pen.
She raised her hand to the door and it creaked and the artist’s head spun instantly. He smiled at her as his eyes came to rest on her, clearly appreciating her interruption.
“Hello there, I hope you’re all right.” he said in a too-familiar tone which only seemed to raise her defenses but then his smile instantly deflated them and she walked into the room as if she had been invited.
“I’m fine.” she mentioned absently, looking around the room. The walls here were covered with meticulously rendered images, some horrific, some utterly beautiful. Monsters stared out from white rectangles tacked here and there. And between these, heartbreakingly alluring faces and bodies were described in curves and shadows so perfectly conceived as to be nearly impossible to describe. Words fail.
And in the corner of each sketch, each masterpiece was a single word: Ping. Dotting each ‘I’ in that black signature was a tiny spiral.
“You must be Ping.” She finally laid eyes upon him again, ripping her stare from the eye-magnets all around her.
He was dressed in a black pseudo-uniform complete with heavy black boots, as she was to discover was practically a rule around The Citadel. The bandana wrapped around his head reminded her of the stories she had heard of pirates who had supposedly existed in the ancient world. His eyes were huge and alive, and the exact color of caramel, such a light brown as to almost be yellow. His face was scruffy, but the jaw line was a flawless curve, from chin to ear and he had the overall expression of one utterly satisfied with himself and the world. She liked him instantly upon realizing this.
“That’s me!” he tipped an invisible top-hat and never stopped smiling. He blinked slowly. She blinked as well.
“Do you like them?” he looked up at the dozens of drawings covering one wall. She followed his gaze and both of their gazes fell on the same spot, an incredible depiction of a naked angel riding a dragon which she was also trying to kill with a vicious-looking serrated sword.
Mercy’s eyes were locked on the page for quite some time in silent awe before she barely whispered, “I think they’re . . .” She could not finish the sentence.
“I know just what you mean.” Ping said, saving her from her speechless desperation. They smiled at each other in a way that means more than a smile - they showed each other their teeth, but the corners of their mouths did not turn up and something silent and secret passed between their minds, never needing to be said.
Ninety-three minutes later, Ping was dabbing a damp cloth on the back of Mercy Screamsback’s left hand, soaking up the blood which oozed from her new tattoo: a tiny red crescent which he had explained was the accepted mark of allegiance here at the Red Pyramid. Their conversation began by spinning circles around this concept – alliegance - until they reached its center and decided that she did indeed wish to wear ‘The Mark’ as it was called. Later she would learn that nearly everyone in Hell, including the guards at The Great Gates wore The Mark. Ping told her that to wear The Mark would almost certainly extend the length of her life.
"It can get pretty crazy around here sometimes," Ping was saying-matter-of-factly with a smile as he dried off the bloody little moon, "and it helps to know who your friends are. One piece of advice I can give you," his voice lowered to the volume of a bee's buzzing wings, "Never trust Satan – ever." She had to squint at his mouth as the words came out, in order to understand them. His voice was so low. Her face cleared and she nodded knowingly. She was thinking of Pusher and the cruel trick which had killed her.
Time passed and got completely away from Ping, as he got completely lost in Mercy’s vibes. At 6:00 P.M. an alarm buzzer went off at the drawing table and Ping almost fell out of the bed. Mercy sat bolt upright and asked him what was the matter.
"I’m late!" he stumbled up to his feet and grabbed a helmet off a hook by the door. He rushed over to the bed and kissed Mercy’s lips briefly, hardly more than a peck. He said, "I’ll be back at midnight! Wait for me?" She said she would and he was out the door. She began to rub the back of her tattooed hand absently, and less than a minute after Ping had left the room, she found herself wishing he would return, so they could screw and erase some of the horrible memories that she was so sick of facing alone.
DONT FENCE ME IN
Suicide waited at the end of the hall as Satan strolled out of Screamsback’s room. She wondered what he had said to her, if anything. He was always such a prick to the new girls. What was his problem? But she knew he was on a constant power trip. His friends in The Real World made sure that he had plenty to throw around; plenty of money, plenty of drugs, plenty of lives. He could have anything he wanted, as long as he maintained the vortex that kept people from climbing over that goddamned Wall.
He sidled up beside her and she smiled her fake convincing smile and whispered sweetly to him, “What is it, my love, which you wish to say?”
Satan rested his hand on the small of her back and said, “You know all there is to know about that. Don’t you? I mean, we both know how I feel about you and your little friends, right? She simply cannot stay here. She has got to go.” As he had uttered these last words, his eyes had become as hard as diamonds and his words seemed to score lines across the space between her ears and his lips.
“She does not have to go just yet, does she?” Sue batted her lashes at Mr. Egomaniac.
Satan smiled. “Well, I suppose we could entertain her for a few more days. But if she is not gone by this time next week, we may have to reconsider our arrangement, my dear.” His smile was entirely transparent, and his words as cold as the stones at the bottom of an ancient well.
Her smile was complete and her words warmer than a summer’s day. “Oh thank you! I knew you’d understand! All you ever do is make me happy!” She bent over and kissed his cheek with exquisitely puckered lips and went swaying down the hall, seemingly satisfied. She fantasized about blowing up his corpse.
A BRAND NEW ATOM BOMB
An Atomic bomb hung on the wall above the place of honor in Satan's throne room. The Citadel stood centered exactly over the spot where the bomb had landed during the final years of The Apocalypse, a war fought mostly over subtle misunderstandings of a so-called peace agreement between the New American States and the rest of the world.
The details of the war are unimportant. What is important is that the bomb had not exploded. So it remained there in the desert, a black sphere a meter in diameter surrounded by an ocean of sand. Until one day an exiled man, wandering the vacant dunes spotted a speck on his horizon. He walked and walked until his shadow crossed that of the bomb's, and he stood there thinking to himself. This is it. This is where I shall make my final stand. The desert would eventually be known as Hell, and the man would eventually not be known as I Killmen.
SUPERHELIX
On the other side of Hell, on the southern desert plains, distinct because of its lack of rock formations, the Zealots were having their daily mass in Saint Manson's Cathedral.
It was a beautiful building in black and white marble. The green doors were each surmounted by an exquisite gothic arch coming to a point high above the heads of all who passed beneath. The entire structure seemed to be metaphorically modeled after the ideal of some metaphysical ladder, whose rungs launched the minds, hearts, and souls of all the building's i
nhabitants into the heavens. This structure was also triangular, but not a pyramid or a spike at all. It was the shape of a giant prism stood on end with one great tower at each of the three corners. And each tower surmounted with a glorious crowning spire. Each spire supported a different symbolic article of faith. The northern spire held aloft an elegantly rendered crucifix, the aching body of Christ having been masterfully painted by some obsessed devout. The southeastern spire presented a paradoxical star of David, comprised of two interlocking triangles - one black, and one white. Its perfect lines crossing over and under each other suggested in their appearance the accomplishment of the impossible through an orchestrated synthesis of seemingly opposing forces. The third spire on the corner pointing into the southwest, glorified the symbol that had been used by many post-Christian religions that bypassed Christ as a minor figure and saved all their praise and reverence for a truly unnamable god. These popular religions were collectively known simply as the 'Deists' and they all used this subject as their one and only icon: an iron circle.
The circle on Saint Manson's was rusted lightly red by the rare yet torrential rains, which graced Hell mercifully at least twice a year.
Saint Manson's Cathedral was the most beautiful structure in Hell. The Zealots congregated inside every day without fail. As the sun fell and the shadows lengthened in the sand, the sanctuary filled to crowding with the white-robed faithful of Hell. They held on to many forgotten traditions and broke bread with each other. They lit candles and stared into the flames, searching for divinity. They memorized verses and quoted them to each other, creating conversations from them in endless combinations. Their lives were a great circle, revolving around a thought – a thought that the world outside of Hell had ironically forgotten or cast away.
The advent of reincarnation had had many unforeseen consequences for the human race, not the least of which being the eventual mass-consciousness shift away from all forms of religion. The fear of death had died itself. The people were no longer interested in how they could achieve a favorable afterlife, they became more concerned with pursuing an actual eternal life in the material world. Gone were the days of televangelists begging for 'God's money'. They had been replaced by seminars and rallies orchestrated by companies such as Immortall, Neverdie and of course, the richest and most powerful of them all: Eternalife.
The masses from all walks slowly turned their backs on the churches of the world and filed one by one into the so-called immortality clinics popping up all over the world, where people could be promised the impossible and get to know others who had seen the light at the end of mankind's tunnel.
Near the end of Christianity's reign, the pope had condemned the new immortality craze as 'a blasphemous and heretical fad, it will pass …' But it did not pass. It swallowed the church whole. People did not like thinking that extending their own lives was looked down upon by religious zealots. The church waned and its last lights sputtered out soon after the government established its Hell policy and people gave up on the afterlife altogether. Eternal life was where it was at, these days.
Saint Manson had fought openly against the leaders of the New World Order and without fear. After a symbolic incarceration, he was released and lived his life in the public eye. But in the end, he was assassinated by the Government in the cruelest way imaginable. He was sentenced to live out his life in solitary confinement, kept alive as an example to the rest of the world. He died alone, but what he left behind was more than enough. He left behind a name.
His ancestors had been the leaders of religious faiths in those final years of the Old World Order. Now, in Hell, Sister Angelica Mansonite presided over the seat of her family's namesake, passing long-dead secrets into the minds of all who sought such things.
She spent her days sitting on a white dais in the center of the cathedral. Her hair was long, so blonde it was almost clear. Her eyes were such a pale blue that they often appeared to be snow white. She wore only white silk and a shoe never touched her foot. Her nails were short and immaculate. Her lips thin and unlined. She never spoke aloud. She only whispered into those ears that were close enough to hear. A scribe sat perched to her at all times, recording for the others all they could not decipher.
Saint Manson's Cathedral was the only church left standing within a thousand-mile radius.
SUICIDE AND SATAN
Suicide and Satan walked down the corridor towards the Great Hall. They held hands in silence. Both knew the other's thoughts. He knew she was thinking: 'I need a friend. I want out. I could stay here forever but do not want to.' She knew he was thinking: 'That girl is going to have to go. Nothing shall come between Suicide and I. She is mine and always will be.' So they walked without words, and to everyone they passed they seemed very much in love.
ALPHA CENTAURI'S LAMENT
Alpha Centauri slept in a secret chamber below The Citadel. A stout ladder led up to the trap door behind Satan's throne. A tunnel shot out behind a door in Alpha Centauri's room to a point outside the Great Gates where three very fast motorcycles were kept in priceless condition waiting patiently, available, to be taken advantage of.
He kept large casks of alcohol in his room, for the women whom Satan had tired of. He knew there was only one love for him, and that he would never have her. All things considered, he would rather be alone than have to betray his best friend.
Alpha slept between the hours of six and six, but he only slept for four hours. The other two hours were spent tossing and turning, his tortured thoughts trading off between his infatuation with Suicide and his loyalty to Satan. He had known Satan nearly all his life. Alpha Centauri had grown up in Canto and worked for the Killmens a lifetime ago. The phrase was accurate. Satan had arranged for Alpha to be reincarnated along with himself the year Suicide was born. Alpha owed Satan his life, but he was positively in love with Suicide. He had watched silently as Satan made his claim to her and said nothing in protest. He stood at Satan's side as the wedding was performed and let it happen. He witnessed Satan's heartless cheating and ruthless abuse and said nothing. Every morning he whispered three words to himself, pretending that she was there to hear them: Good morning, Suicide.
TRIANGULAR THEMES
Thirty-Seven and 192 left the lab through the steel doors and walked down the white halls and out the front door of the Eternalife Administration and Processing station. They headed down the sidewalk towards the tracks and Thirty-Seven remembered two days ago when he had just arrived.
A small car came skimming along the rails and lightly screeched to a halt directly in front of them. 192 seemed totally bored with the whole thing. Thirty-Seven was eager to find out where the tracks led. Those tracks he had thus far ridden only to this point. He wanted to see beyond.
The door to the car opened as they approached and 192 climbed inside and made room for Thirty-Seven on the wide front seat. When they had settled in, 192 pushed a red button on the dashboard and the door automatically closed then bolted itself securely. 192 pressed and held another button, this one black, and said aloud, "The Temple," and the car lurched momentarily before picking up speed rapidly and streaming down the rails. Thirty-Seven stared out the windows in amazement.
The countryside took on a uniform look as civilization disappeared behind them. Distant buildings gave way to distant walls of trees and fields of manicured lawn slowly morphed into tall brown and yellow grasses, full of crickets and beetles.
Thirty-Seven was spacing out completely when something up ahead in the distance caught his eye. It was a thin spire of white, creeping up from beyond the brown wall of the horizon. The car rounded a broad corner and merged with a straight track that led directly to the source of that spire.
Thirty-Seven knew it had to be The Temple; there was no other possibility. He was overjoyed and then he remembered – he stuck his hand into his pocket and thumbed the small red orb that Maximus had given him. He was satisfied and took his hand out of his pocket. He looked over at 192.
192 se
emed to actually be enjoying himself now, on some level. His dull and even stare was leveled on that white spire. That tall thin triangular dart rising before them, that arrow to the sky. 192 sighed, "I've never gotten used to how beautiful things can really be." He seemed to be talking to someone that was not there. Not himself and not Thirty-Seven, but some other person. Some other being elsewhere that might actually understand what he had meant.
Thirty-Seven realized that the track had been climbing steadily up a slight hill because now they were cresting that hill, and The Temple complex was swiftly revealing itself.
A huge sprawling court surrounded the triangular sky-scraping tower and an intricate design of triangular grassy beds were worked into a tessellating pattern which gave the optical illusion that the entire scene was spinning before Thirty-Seven's eyes. He marveled at this, realizing he was being tricked, yet allowing it to happen all the same. 192 silently experienced an identical reality.
The tracks rode out before them and into a great circle around the court and they sped along this and came to a halt at the perimeter of the outermost concrete slabs.
The doors opened automatically and Thirty-Seven was awestruck by the aroma of the air that rushed in: burning cinnamon and vanilla, with hints of strawberry and melon, he could hardly believe his nose. This place instantly became his heaven and he never wanted to leave.
192 was getting impatient and nudged Thirty-Seven, who snapped out of it and almost jumped out of the car.
"Smells nice, doesn't it?" 192 said as he climbed out and onto the huge white chunk of pavement next to the tracks.
Thirty-Seven could not speak. His eyes were closed and his hands were rising from his sides in an attempt to grasp the place. He could not imagine leaving this place without taking some of it with him.
The temple was about 50 meters away in the center of the court. Pointless ornamental stairways led to unnecessary terraces. It was overdone to the point of suggesting undeserved opulence. They made their way through the pretentious architecture towards the only truly redeeming edifice in sight: the white needle whose presence made all this superfluous debris figuratively transparent. There was no door to the temple, merely an opening to the world inviting anyone unfortunate to venture here to discover and plumb the unfathomable depths of the secret misery within.
END OF ACT TWO
Suicide stared at Satan, unable to accept what her brain insisted he had just said: "She's got to go." It was not an entirely unusual thing for him to say, it was just that he had said things like this so many times that something inside her was no longer willing to accept it. Something was telling her to say 'no' this time. She could feel it gnawing at the back of her mind. This inhumanism, this ultra-malice, which had become his trademark more and more over the course of their relationship, it was breaking her. Not in a way that makes someone give up but in a way that makes someone explode.
"You do not understand Suicide." he placed his hand upon the altar and stared across at her.
He had brought her to the cemetery. It was the only place in Hell where birds chirped and flowers bloomed. Satan had used his connections to the Outside World to bring in machines that controlled the climate in this place and helped bring life into the middle of nowhere.
Suicide had been here before but one particular visit stood out vividly in her mind and that visit had been her first.
She was a child then, only six years old and Satan had brought her here; not the young man she knew now, but an older, worn out version of the same person. He was sixty then, but owing to his first reincarnation he had appeared to be a weary forty.
He had arrived late in the evening when the shadows were long, longer than the objects that cast them were tall. He told her foster parents that he was going to take her on a trip. So began their journey into the Northern Desert, farther than any dared go without Satan's permission – and even then it was not allowed unless he accompanied you.
They rode in Satan's jeep – the motorcycle craze had not yet caught on – and Suicide fell asleep on the way. As he drove he explained to the sleeping child that they were going to visit her sister and that it was very important.
When they pulled up in front of the cemetery's white marble walls Satan turned off the engine, got out and walked around to Suicide's side of the vehicle. He reached inside and picked the slumbering girl out of her seat and carried her over to the silver gates where he laid her down in the sand, like an offering.
This is where Satan kept all of his regrets. Every single grave within these walls belonged to someone whom Satan had called a friend. They had also all died as a direct or nearly direct consequence of his actions. It was the only hallowed ground he allowed himself to recognize, and secretly to himself, he called this place The Garden of Lost Souls.
He squatted down in the sand next to sleeping Suicide and roused her from her rest saying, "Sue, hey Sue, wake up. It's time to meet your sister." his tone both pleading and commanding. Her eyes opened on the sky and she saw the tall gates reaching four meters into that sky to meet the crest of the marble wall. Her eyes turned to Satan and she whispered, "Is she in there?" He nodded and offered his hand to her. She took it and he helped her to her feet and together they pushed their way through the gates, into another world.
The silhouettes were impossible. In all her years - few as they were – young Suicide had never seen such things, and so many! Trees and flowers as were not to be believed! So many colors and so much of it green; this place was a dream from which she must never wake.
They walked down a path leading between rows of monuments. She had been lucky enough to learn how to read and saw the names upon them: Invisible Shadow, Aluminum Eye, and Mistress X. Most of the larger monuments bore simpler names like Zax, Portal and Scump.
In the center of it all though, casting all the rest into the obscurity of the forgotten like a star shining so brightly that it lights all sides of a planet leaving no shadow to define the peaks and valleys on the surface making the planet all but invisible, was the reason they had come to this place: Scar's Memorial.
It was a gargantuan angel hewn from marble pure and white as thickly fallen snow. The angel's face was a picture of rage and she held aloft a sword. The sword was not carved from stone. It was an actual sword somehow lodged into the sculpture's hand as to be one with the whole. Young Suicide's eyes magnetized to a gash carved into the angel's throat. She did not know what it was about that gash, but she could not stop looking at it. The statue seemed frozen in the midst of some epic battle. "What a terrible way to get stuck!" thought Suicide out loud as she looked on, ever staring into that mysterious gash. It seemed an imperfection to the angel's form, an insult. And yet – she knew it to quite possibly be the figure's most important feature.
"Is that my sister?" she asked, and Satan replied, after an uncomfortable silence, "Yes, she is the one."
They said nothing else for a long time and then Satan broke the spell saying, "Sue, if anything ever happens to me it will be up to you to make sure that I am buried here, in this place, next to … her." Suicide did not understand exactly what he meant, but she nodded her head gravely and they ended up spending a long time in the midst of Scar's effigy, saying nothing, only reflecting on the concepts of life and death, existence verses non-existence. When it was very dark and tiny spots of light filled all the sky, Suicide and Satan walked out of the Garden and he drove her back to her foster parent's house. They did not see each other for another fourteen years.
Now the two of them stood there, Suicide and Satan. Suicide glared at the statue. Satan remained calm. They had been through this before, so many times. Suicide had many strengths and her tenacity was one of the strongest.
"You can not have her." he was talking about Screamsback.
"Why?"
"You know why." He casually turned to gaze up into Scar's furious visage. "She will come between us. They always do." His head turned to her and tilted, as if she already understood his next wo
rds. "You can not have her because she is mine, and I want her."
Suicide stared him down for three seconds then whirled around and stomped off into the graveyard, kicking headstones. "Fuck you, Greenlove!" she screamed at a huge granite fist covered with moss that bore that name carved into its wrist.
She walked farther into the grounds than she had ever been and sat down on the back of a huge marble crow and sulked. She was tired of this, being led around like a fucking dog by the only person she had ever fooled herself into loving.
Some thought was coming. She had avoided it so long but she could not take another failure, another lost argument, another smashing blow to her will. He always did this - without fail! Every single person she had ever attempted to befriend - aside from Satan himself and Alpha Centauri - ended up dead sooner or later. He had killed them all! And for what? To prove it could be done? To keep her to himself? Or, was it as she had slowly began to realize she had always feared; he did this for the fundamental desire he seemed to have for killing? She knew the answer, plain as the capital R-A-V-E-N carved into the wing of the monument on which she now sat. She accepted it. She welcomed the thought she had always forbidden herself to have: He was the one who had to go. He was the one who was at the heart of all her misery. She realized this, and she realized what she had to do. And that was the beginning of the end.
This Number Speaks Page 4