by Garrett Cook
“Start looting.”
Cass shrugs. Hopefully, I haven’t been in the hospital long enough for the place to start getting cleaned out. It seems like it must have only been for the evening and Penny took a bit to get the press conference and publicly confirm Jack’s death. The Contessa and her girls never would have admitted to it outright. No, not people so devoted to the ideals that Jack represented. If the Contessa’s girls show up to claim anything for their mistress, Cass has proven herself more than a match for any of those incompetent little tramps anyway. When Cass walks out, I enjoy the TV and the hospital room and the knowledge that I’m going to live. I also enjoy the thought of what I’m going to have to do next. The pundit was, after all, right.
BLD has proven itself a thorn in my sides on a few occasions. The pirated Jack broadcast, the Tanner murders, the times it nearly took my sanity from me. It’s the homebase of Reap culture and the most amoral place in existence. They were willing to risk a man’s livelihood, to kill fifteen people and to hide seven killers. Maybe if I’m lucky I’ll get Bobby Greer and some of his ilk. Maybe if I’m lucky I’ll get that damn obnoxious pundit. It feels like the most extreme thing to do, like the craziest thing to do and the right thing to do. God help me, I’ve got no choice. The Dark Ones and the nanites and the Psychopomps will keep coming until I’ve gotten this place off the air and gotten rid of it for good. I summon every ounce of strength in my body, and suddenly, those ounces of strength let me stand up. It hurts and my arm absolutely kills, but it’s good to know that I can. Now that I know I can stand, I lie down again and feel content in resting and knowing what needs to be done.
Cass wakes me up at the tail end of visiting hours. I’m thrilled to see her for so many reasons that I can’t keep track of them all.
“You won’t believe what I found at Jack’s,” she tells me, “I think you can find some use for it.”
“Oh?” I try not to act curious and excited. It’s unprofessional.
“Jack had a bunch of plastique lying around, apparently had some kind of plan B in regards to dealing with you. There’re a few pounds of the stuff, not to mention some other things I picked up that might be worth something in trade. Is there anything you can think of doing with all those explosives, my love?” She gives a sultry, arrogant smile and I can tell she knows that I’ve had something planned, something great most likely.
“BLD,” is all I have to say.
Cass looks completely taken aback and I don’t blame her. It’s desperate, it’s crazy, it’s an act of outright terrorism, and it’s probably nigh impossible. Nigh impossible, but of course nothing is impossible. People set foot on the moon. I killed Godless Jack with a fistful of teeth. I’ve survived a nail in my spine with no real damage. Miracles happen every day. If this miracle went off without a hitch, however, it would be more than a miracle. It would be heavenly vengeance rained down on all that deserve it.
“How you gonna do that? They do have ID scanners.”
“And I have an ID.”
“Hausmann…”
“Exactly,” I reply, “there’s gonna be a lot of death, a few innocents, but I…I can’t let this go on.”
Her face is somber, but she knows I’m right. She knows that there are six hundred employees working at the BLD studios and corporate office. She knows that many of these people have done nothing to incite others to violence, that most of these people are not the seven Tanner murderers or the men responsible for creating them. She knows all of these things, just as I know them, but she knows as well that the pundit was right. If BLD is on the air, then Reap will be given all the coverage it wants and anybody who wants to be a big news item can go out and kill people. Surely this has led to more than six hundred deaths. Six hundred lives huddled together in this gateway to Hell, six hundred lives that say the taking of lives is perfectly acceptable. How hideous it is to live in a world where a plan like this can’t be refuted. How hideous to live in a world without choices.
“The doctors say you might be well enough to leave tomorrow. I don’t know about you, you know, going out and…” Cass sighs.
“I won’t get hurt, I promise.”
“Too much going on at once,” she argues, “you can’t just get on your feet after taking out Jack and start toppling the system again. Particularly like this.”
I know I can’t argue with her, and she knows she can’t argue with me. Funny thing is that she stops trying to argue with me, because she knows I need to strike fast. I need things to hit people hard and quickly, to make sure that they don’t have time to recover. I would rather go home and lie in bed with Cass for days after leaving the hospital, but it doesn’t feel like an option, not with these people in my way. Not with the people that made those young men into the Tanner killers and made the world’s killers into celebrities still standing. There will be other stations, too, but maybe they’ll get the message. Maybe I won’t have to…the lightning must strike true. I hate how inhuman I have to be to feel human all the time.
The next day I’m out of the hospital, and true to my word, only hours later, I’m prepared. I don’t look at anybody as I wheel in my janitor’s cart full of explosives. No faces, no names, no doubt. These things are the enemy. The ID card works, and then the elevator works. A slow hesitant part of me wishes they wouldn’t, but the strong part looks at the studio and sees that the enemy is here. It feels the scouts, the breeders and the grown Dark Ones that surely occupy the offices, the ones with no skin, no identities, and no vulnerability. They are surely there, as surely as their influences are, the Dark Ones are present, they have come and they will never leave until I make them, and there is only one way to make them, tragic though it might be. Forget tragedy. Think only of triumph. It’s so hard to. I rig up the explosives in the elevator and I head upstairs, sliding a letter under the office door, as I rush down another elevator, head to my car and activate Jack’s fancy remote detonator, the one he would have used to blow me sky high if I hadn’t fallen into his little trap.
This is what the heads of the network read, seconds before their end:
“Dear Hate Mongers,
Mr.400 here. My name is Jeremy Jenkins and I was once a pharmacist. I grew up in a Catholic home for boys and then a foster home in Westborough Connecticut. I started killing when I murdered my foster mother because she was targeted by your masters. You know who I mean. I killed her because she would bring forth evil into the world. And then I kept killing. I killed several young, blonde women because they were chosen as targets for your masters, selected as suitable breeding material. I killed more of them than anybody in history did. Then when I was done killing them, I killed numerous Psychopomps, thinking they were the enemy, that they were the servants of the Dark Ones. Then, I found out about your little scheme, what you and Walter Hausmann were up to. You are truly the master corruptors, since you could turn several people into killers, and in your time you could transform several more. Mr.400 tires of fascism, world wars, drugs, gang violence and all the stupidities of life. Hopefully, there will be a way to resolve these. Here is a list of everyone I have killed, a juicy exclusive for you…”
All of my victims, every last name for greedy eyes to discern. And then, all of a sudden, there is fire, there is blood and there are screams. The souls of Dark Ones float in the air, bits of flesh from innocents and sinners alike, fly through the air. I have no more time to regret anything. I have come back from Hell already, and I don’t want this world to be another one. I am Mister 1000 now. A revenant, an angel of retribution, no longer uncertain where the lightning must fall. No more innocence no more guilt. I pray for some kind of order, some kind of inspiration, but it doesn’t come. Mister 1000 can make no more sense of everything than Mr.400 could. Triumph is cold and temporal. The world will remain the world that it was, the old, strange, world of bloodshed and loathing. Mister 1000, Mr.400, it almost doesn’t matter which one I am. No more counting heads. This isn’t a game now, it’s a war.
When I
go home, I unhook the phone and I lie down in bed. When I tell Cass about the flames and the Dark Ones and the way I walked away from the TV station, feeling better only because it was no longer there and there was no way I could have let it do what it did forever. The hand of God must be objective, since the same God lets children die of AIDS. I’m not altogether certain how to make it feel any more like I’ve won today. Cass doesn’t say anything. She knows that I’ve at least done right in my own eyes. She knows right now that I just need to rest and remember what it’s like to lie in bed and be loved. I will give myself some time to rest and be alive, some human time before I return to the angel I need to be. There will be no mountains in my dreams. No scorched towers and blasted cities. I will let my arm recover and my head and my soul recovers, and I will be ready for the first of my final moves.
Aftermath
Cock the shotgun and pray, I tell myself as I drive up to the cafe. When my armies are built, this is what I will tell them. This is all that I will be able to tell them. Cry for the dead since it was their lot to die. Cry for the survivors who wait for their loved ones to come home. Cry for the streets, paved with rotting flesh. Too warm for concrete. Too warm for cities. Cry for the streetsweeper who mops up his fellow man. Know all too well what it’s like to pick up a mess like that. Cry for the machines as they all break down. Our junkyards will be cemeteries and our cemeteries junkyards. Cry for America as she grows back severed limbs. The voice that drowned out sympathy is quiet, tense and lies in wait, where right now he should be screaming. I cry for those who have to grow up in my America, and I cry because it’s a better one anyway.
“So why Murderland?” says Cass as she loads Mr. Right’s magnum, “Why not le Couteau?”
“Because I plan on having numbers when I move on Le Couteau. It would be suicide to go in by ourselves. I still have one broken arm and there are metal detectors and armed guards outside there. Here, there are no metal detectors and if I spray, half the room goes down. If half the room goes down, I hope the other half gets cooperative.”
“And if they don’t?”
Cock the shotgun and pray. Act like you weren’t stifling tears a minute ago. Never tell your girl that you’ll probably be killed. If she knows you’re a soldier, she knows there’s always a chance and since she knows it, there’s no need to make her think about it too. I think of pleasant thoughts, like the knowledge that one less television station spreads its tentacles over the country, the knowledge that there is no more Godless Jack, the knowledge that I have dedicated myself to doing the right thing and shall soon be repaid. The dead will forgive me I hope, we must always hope the dead will forgive us, and if they don’t, we must hope that they at least understood us. Mister 1000 must be understood, Mister 1000 cannot be scorned by those who had to give their lives. If the dead scorn me, I have a feeling the living might feel similarly. So, I don’t know how to answer Cass’ question. If the living don’t understand and the dead don’t either, I have only two choices afterwards: I can be more eloquent or I too can die. The first one would be harder than the last, but I won’t let her know that. I think she ought to by now. If she doesn’t know what silence means by now, she never will.
“I love you,” I tell her. It doesn’t answer her question, it won’t reassure her, but I feel it too strongly not to say it. I can’t see why the two of us are so scared of this little raid after all of the big ones we’ve done. Maybe because the big ones didn’t end with us asking for help. Maybe because we haven’t gotten all that much help since Lud gave his life for the cause. Nobody’s helped us but Jones and Penny Dreadful, and we need so much help. It has always surprised me how much we could do alone, but it’s not enough now. It won’t be enough until the liars and the killers are in their place. It’s not like that hasn’t always been the problem, it’s not like others haven’t tried, but maybe we’re the ones who finally want it enough.
When we walk in, me with the Mr.400 shirt, no lenses, no fake teeth and no deceits save my big long trenchcoat, Cass dressed in tight black slacks, and a black tank top adorned with a skull, people look at us. How dare we. How dare I come in dressed as the man who robbed the world of Godless Jack, Hacksaw Sally and many of their favorite television programs? How dare I come to Murderland looking like this, looking like I disagree with everything they believe? The Manson waitress moves aside, not asking if I want a menu and letting me choose my own seat. We pick a table right across from the group of Ripkids that Joey hangs out with and behind the former Ripkid leader.
Joey the Ripkid looks at me, says, “I can’t believe you’re wearing that.”
I shrug. “I know, white after Labor Day. It’s a risk.”
The Ripkids snicker. Joey doesn’t snicker. “I don’t know who the fuck you are, man, but you come in here with a Mr.400 shirt, you’re asking for trouble. Do you know what Mr.400 did last week?”
“Nope.” I put my feet up on the table, look arrogant and stupid so that when I get ready to tear shit up, the Sons of Sam two booths away who are fervently cleaning their pistols won’t be able to react on time. Of course, Cass does have a half dozen hand grenades in her purse and a small canister of Sarin gas in case things get real nasty. I’m glad that Jones is back on speaking terms with me. All it took was a bunch of mementos from Jack’s bedroom that sold like hotcakes on E Bay. Joey the Ripkid is thinking hard, which is good, because he’s about twice as smart as anybody else in here. Anybody else but…
Holy shit. I cannot believe this stroke of luck, or unluck or whatever it is. It remains to be seen what it is, besides a strange coincidence. What a strange coincidence. Nobody gives Ian a hard time when he walks in; wearing the same shirt I’m wearing almost. A homemade version produced by an adoring fan, but nonetheless the same shirt I’m wearing. Ian Sterling, Reap guru looks around the booths and sits down beside me, proudly wearing the Mr.400 t-shirt he made. He smiles.
“Hey, we’ve got the same shirt,” he says.
I nod. “Well, one of us is going to have to go change,” I say in the most fey fashion I can muster. Confidence is key.
“Glad to see these things are catching on.”
I nod again. “These kids are going to tell me about what Mr.400 did last week. I haven’t really been up on the news.”
“Yeah,” says Ian, “I’d imagine so. Your phone was off the hook all…”
If he were drinking anything, it would inevitably have ended up spat out. He smiles in disbelief as Joey begins to relate the story.
“So, last week, Mr.400 kills Godless Jack and delivers his head to Penny Dreadful, and there she is parading it around on a stick on the evening news and on BLD Reap news and MTV and VH1, and it’s just everywhere. Everybody who turns on their TV knows that Godless Jack is dead and that Mr.400 killed him. That’s the kind of shit that really divides the Reap camps. Me, I respect the fuck out of the guy. Jack couldn’t have gone down easy, but I have no doubt he went down fair and square. I wasn’t too offended when I heard he was gone, He was beginning to turn into a total fucking dinosaur anyway.”
“Bold statement,” Ian says.
“Yeah,” says Joey, “you kind of tiptoed around it, but I knew what you were saying, Mister Sterling. A few folks think you might have been Mr.400.”
“You think that?” he asks, a little bit worried for his hide.
“Nope, I sure as hell don’t. You’re not the type. No offense man, but you’re kind of a sit-back-and-watch kind of guy.”
“Still wouldn’t surprise me,” says one of Joey’s Ripkid buddies, looking Ian over, “I mean, look at the shirt. He does have a Mr.400 shirt.”
“Yeah, and I got a Spiderman shirt. You don’t see me chasing Doctor fuckin’ octopus up a building,” Joey answers, “you gotta fuckin’ think, man. Anybody can make a shirt and anybody can wear a shirt. There’s two guys at that booth alone wearing Mr.400 shirts. Probably not too wisely at this place, but they’re still sitting there like retards wearing Mr.400 shirts at a reapjoint. I mean no
offense. Mister Sterling, I’ve been reading your webpage forever, and your friend saved my life, so I got nothin’ against either of you. Or against Mr.400, but I think some shit could go down here.”
Cass, who had previously been petrified of this whole excursion, is holding back some laughter. She grabs some lipstick from the pocket of her handbag. A comforting little in-joke that makes me almost burst into laughter, blow my cover and get shot to ribbons by the Sons of Sam. Ian, in the meantime, now feeling very much a member of team 400 is speculating on what’s going to go down here today. Joey seems to wonder why it is that Cass is carrying such a bulky handbag, but he dismisses it. He’s good at that. I take that into consideration. It might be good having somebody bright who doesn’t ask questions around.
“So,” I say to Joey, “tell me more about last week.”
“Man, you musta been on Mars or some shit. I can’t believe you didn’t hear about all this. So, Mr.400 starts out by killing Jack and then he goes and he does something that’s just like too Reap for Reap. Or maybe it’s not Reap at all. Maybe it’s something else, ‘cause it’s completely fucking psycho. Not that he shouldn’t have done it, but it’s completely psycho. He puts a bunch of plastique on an elevator at BLD studios, outside some dude’s office and he goes and blows up everything. Musta had a real good remote detonator, cause they could identify all the remains and they think Mr.400 got away. Isn’t that crazy?”
“Completely,” I reply, “I should’ve been following the news.”
“Yeah, no shit,” Joey answers back, “you missed like one of the biggest events in fuckin’ human history, I think. It’s just fuckin’, you know, like the fuckin’ Titanic. It’s like the fuckin’ Titanic sank and you had to find out a week later at a busy restaurant. I just can’t believe you could’ve missed something like that. Six hundred people went and died that day, man, and you gotta respect that, so I think maybe you oughta find yourself some other place to have lunch, cause if you keep wearing that shirt in here, then some shit’s going down. I don’t know what you’re doing, Mister Sterling, but, you know, you’d better be really really…”