After a moment, Raum nodded his horned head. “I’ll allow it,” the demon stated and looked at his bailiff. “Barney, fetch the witness.”
“Witness?” Henrietta asked in surprise. “What witness?”
Pym ignored her and waited as the bailiff returned, carrying a small black box with both hands. Gingerly the bailiff set the box down on the witness stand, angling one side of the box toward a small microphone. With a satisfied grunt the bailiff moved away, leaving the mysterious box perched atop the small wooden stand.
“To protect the identity of our witness, we ask that the person inside the box remain inside the box during questioning and cross-examination, Your Demonic Lordship,” Smith intoned as he walked slowly back to the defense table.
“That’s fine with me,” Raum stated. Anticipating an outburst, he held up a big hand before Pym had risen fully to his feet. “My courtroom, my rules, counselor.”
“Yes, Your Dishonor.” Pym sank into his chair, defeated.
“I’d like to introduce witness ‘R,’ an assumed name to protect the witness from recrimination or reprisal,” Smith proclaimed with a satisfied smile. “Mister ‘R,’ will you tell us what you saw that last, fateful day of your association with plaintiffs?”
“Objection!” Pym brayed. “Defense counsel is leading the witness.”
“Overruled!” Raum growled. “Shut up, Pym. Witness will answer the question.”
“Well, Marie came into the front room of her apartment in a snit and accused me of lying to her,” the voice in the box said. “She began ranting about how my prophecies had ruined her life and I had failed in my duty as a prophecy doll.”
“Rasputin?” Henrietta squeaked.
“In your capacity as a prophecy doll, Mister ‘R,’ what do you do for a living?” Smith asked, ignoring Henrietta’s outburst.
“I provide prophecies,” the box stated.
“Witness, please tell the court how you define a prophecy.”
“Objection!” Pym interrupted, rising to his feet. “I see no dictionary here.”
“Overruled,” Raum rumbled deep in his chest. Pulling a thick dictionary from beneath his desk, he thumped his clenched fist down onto the book. “Got one right here. Please continue, witness.”
“Yes, O Wise One,” the voice in the box responded. “Marie Antoinette and Henrietta Maria did not want prophecies in the traditional sense, Your Dishonor, yet that is precisely what I was created to do: prophesy. Marie and Henrietta wanted career and social counseling, which is not my function. Yet, knowing this, they continually asked me for prophecies. As I told them repeatedly, a prophecy reveals the future; knowing the future may allow the owner of a prophecy doll to act accordingly, and seek advantage. I performed to the best of my capabilities for my owners. It is not my fault that my owners are unable to distinguish a prophecy from a career path.”
“Thank you. Witness may be excused. Barney?”
Barney the bailiff walked over to the box and carefully lifted it from the stand. The bailiff and the box disappeared into the courtroom’s side chamber. A long moment passed before the skinny bailiff returned and took his place next to Raum’s bench.
The judge glanced over at Marie and shook his horned head.
“Marie Antoinette,” Raum intoned, his deep voice filling the cavernous courtroom. “You asked for ‘housing befitting your status,’ is that correct?”
“Yes, Your Dishonor,” Marie acknowledged slowly.
“And the Department of Unwelfare Housing is moving you into one of their apartments?” Raum continued, his glasses nearly falling off his thin nose.
“Yes?” Marie answered, confused.
“I fail to see the problem there,” Raum said. “You are a damned soul who can barely hold a job. You received exactly what you deserved and, quite frankly, what you could manage.” Looking back at his notes he continued, “Let’s see … then you requested a prophecy on how to be popular?”
“Yes, Lordship,” Marie nodded, still confused.
“Surely you admit you were popular when you had tres leche cake emanating from certain regions of your body,” Raum informed her with a delicate shrug. “This document attests to the fact that gentlemen came flocking to you. I will, however, sanction Prophecy Dolls, LLC, for their use of the ‘let them eat cake’ portion of the prophecy. That phrase could be construed as slander against the plaintiff, Marie Antoinette, since it has been proven that she never uttered those words before the arrival of said prophecy head.”
“My clients, Prophecy Dolls, LLC, deeply apologize, Your Lordship,” Smith piped up quickly, remaining in his seat. He folded his hands on the table before him and smiled at Marie and Henrietta. “We shall issue a public apology to Madame Antoinette forthwith.”
“Sounds fair to me,” Raum muttered as he scanned the page. “You told your Prophecy Doll ‘I want to be in a higher circle of friends.’ That’s a classic. I’m surprised you didn’t end up somewhere worse than the fifth circle of hell.”
“Your Lordship, I most strongly object!” Pym protested loudly.
“Shut up, Pym.”
“Yes, Your Dishonor.”
Raum raised his eyes from the notes before him. “Are both parties ready to receive my ruling?”
“Yes, Lordship,” Smith said, rising.
Marie, Henrietta and Pym followed suit. “Yes, Demonic Lordship,” Pym acknowledged.
“On the first charge of the complaint, regarding breach of contract,” Raum began, steadying his spectacles on his long nose, “I find in favor of the defendant. The plaintiffs did not demonstrate that the caveat cadaver emptor disclaimer had been sufficiently insufficient to constitute a breach of said contract.”
“Caveat cadaver emptor?” Marie whispered to Pym, completely confused. While she understood some Latin, legalese was beyond her.
“Let the deceased buyer beware,” Pym translated for her in a low, defeated tone.
“On the second count of the allegation…” Raum continued “…regarding false advertisement, I also find in favor of the defendant. False advertisement applies only when the purchaser is purposely misled, not when the purchaser is inarticulate or imprecise when utilizing the product. The advertisement clearly states that prophesies are interpreted by their individual owners and the results of that interpretation are not the responsibility of Prophecy Dolls, LLC.”
“On the subject of this frivolous lawsuit filed in my uncivil court, however…” Raum scowled at Marie and Henrietta. “…I find both plaintiffs in contempt of my court and sentence you as follows: you will learn the difference between prophecy and career advice. I sentence you both to be remanded into custody, where you will be taught the difference by a court-appointed advocate of this court’s choosing.”
“Noooooo….” Marie moaned, her eyes closing to keep her roiling stomach under control. After a moment, she turned to Pym, who slunk away.
“My legions are awaiting my command to fight against them, that damned Erra and his Seven peerless champions, and His Infernal Majesty is not one to forgive an earl for being late to war with enemies of the realm. Here in my courtroom I provide injustice, and injustice is what you two deserve. Court’s adjourned,” the demon snapped, slamming his gavel onto the bench. “I’ve got a battle to lead.”
“All rise!” the bailiff called out needlessly.
*
Marie blinked and looked around at the large dusty room, where indeterminate shapes hugged the walls and clumped in ragged rows. Dim light from narrow windows revealed dust swirling on the air amongst the shadows. Not a sound could be heard as she sat in the hard wooden chair. So far as she could tell, they were alone. Beside her, Henrietta shifted listlessly.
“This is worse than Unwelfare Housing,” Henrietta carped under her breath.
“I wish I could find a way out of this mess,” Marie complained. Ignoring her friend, she closed her eyes and tilted her head back until it was resting against the wall. “Or find someone who can.”
<
br /> “You already have,” a voice said, right in front of her. Her eyes snapped open and she found herself face to face with a wizened old man, a folder in his gnarled and arthritic hand. She looked at the man with the folder in confusion: a grayish man with a gray folder in a cavernously long gray room wrapped in dust and shadow.
“What? Who? Where?” she asked, baffled.
“You asked for a copy of the floor plan for the Mortuary, didn’t you? ‘Help me save myself; I must find a way to escape from the dreaded Undertaker’s clutches,’ you said.” The man wheezed tiredly, his grayish skin blending perfectly with their surroundings. He pushed the folder forward. “The note you gave my assistant said you’d be sitting in this very chair. This shows everything, including the new ventilation system the Undertaker recently installed.”
“Wait, what…?” Marie’s voice trailed off as she looked around and realized that the indeterminate clumps and shapes scattered about the room were wraithlike, dust-covered people.
A trail of footprints marred the dirty floor. She followed it with her eyes and saw that the strange man had moved through the room without disturbing anyone else there. Marie looked back at the old man. “Where am I?”
“Decapitol Records Eternal Waiting Room,” the old man informed her patiently. “We call it the Lobby. Here.” His hands were gray too, and skeletally thin. He held out the folder.
Marie took the folder. “I don’t understand….” But maybe she did: she’d wished for a way to save herself from the punishment that the demon judge had decreed for her and Henrietta. Hadn’t she?
“Who does?” the man shrugged as he tugged on his gray shirt. He rubbed his thin hands. “Anything else?”
“How do I get out of here?” Marie asked him, looking around the shadowy Lobby through the thick air. None of the others waiting in the room had so much as twitched since she arrived. Some of the people sitting in the Lobby appeared to be sleeping, their shoulders leaning against their neighbors as they slumbered. She clutched the gray envelope tight to her breast. “Tell me how, tell me now.”
“Well now, that’s the rub,” the old man smirked, his teeth blackened and worn down to nubs. “You must wait your turn.”
His breath is almost as bad as the Undertaker’s. A sudden urge to vomit overwhelmed her. “Wait my … turn?” Marie swallowed nervously. Nobody else in the room was moving. How long would she wait here? A month? A year? A decade. She sighed. “And my turn won’t come for a long time, is that it?”
“Ayup,” the old man nodded, grinning. “It’s hell, babe. What’d you expect?” And he was gone in a puff of dust.
Henrietta hadn’t moved all this long while.
“Someone’s going to miss this folder eventually,” Marie muttered as she closed her eyes. “Come for it. And when they come to get it, the only way I’ll give it up is if they show me how to get out of here.”
“Sssh,” Henrietta whispered to her, her own eyes still shut. “I’m trying to sleep while I wait my turn. Time will pass more quickly if we sleep.”
The two women waited quietly in the Lobby. Someone would want the envelope, Marie was convinced. Some important person would eventually come to get it. She had the plans to the Mortuary – a bargaining chip. When someone came for the plans, she would convince that person to take her and Henrietta to freedom.
Until then, she would wait. Patiently, if she must. She looked down at the gray envelope clutched to her chest: her ticket to freedom. And Henrietta’s, too. Marie squirmed in her seat, trying to find a more comfortable position.
Would she give up the plans to the Mortuary, when the time came? Items of power came rarely to anybody in hell. Even if it was a mistake, she now had her hands on one of those rare items. The gray envelope held the power to someday set her and Henrietta free. It was hope for her, and hope for Henrietta. The wait would be but a small price to pay for freedom.
A little wait. She could stand it. Henrietta could. However long the wait might be, waiting in this room was but a small price to pay. Satisfied, Marie closed her eyes and leaned against Henrietta, using her larger friend as a pillow.
A very small price to pay, indeed.
Or so she thought, until something bumped her right foot, jittering on the dusty floor. It was a cardboard box.
From that box, a muffled voice she well remembered said, “So, we meet again, Queen of France and dimwitted friend Henrietta.” Rasputin’s voice was unmistakable, even through the cardboard. “Let me prophesy for you, Marie and Henrietta, just how long we’ll be waiting here together … until retribution finds you both!”
Rasputin’s voice screeched through the quiet waiting room like fingernails on a blackboard.
Measure of a Man
by
Deborah Koren
Lose your temper and you lose a friend; lie and you lose yourself.
– Hopi
Gunshots shattered the quiet, glass broke, and a man screamed. Alan Bensinger jolted awake at the noise. The lumpy mattress creaked on unsteady springs beneath him, and he gripped the edges of the unfamiliar bed in alarm. He did not recognize where he was. He sucked in air to calm himself and touched his chest, face, and arms. He was in one piece; he was all right.
“Good morning,” a voice said.
Alan jumped.
In a chair a few feet away sat a short, broad-chested man, with blue-grey eyes in a face boyish despite the thick moustache. Dark hair curled under the brim of a worn cowboy hat.
“Who are you?” Alan knew his stare was rude, but he was unable to make sense of the man’s unusual outfit. He wore black trousers held up with suspenders. A partially unbuttoned blue shirt showed the pink of a well-washed union suit beneath. The rolled-up sleeves exposed muscular forearms. Alan’s gaze dropped to the man’s waist where a gun-belt was buckled, the silver handle of a pistol in obvious sight. Alan swallowed.
“I hear you’re an attorney,” the man said and pushed his hat back on his head with his thumb.
“I … where am I?”
The man gestured to the window.
Alan got cautiously to his bare feet. He was wearing long johns himself, he found. He brushed the material with one hand, self-consciously, then looked around. The small room seemed old-fashioned somehow. Maybe it was the floral wallpaper, or the lack of carpeting on the floorboards. A low chest of drawers held a pitcher, water basin, and a folded white towel. He saw no adjoining bathroom, nor any modern accessories, not even a light switch. The window seemed cloudy, and he scrubbed at the glass with his fist before realizing it wasn’t a film of dust, but the imperfections in the glass itself that marred his view. He glanced over his shoulder at the visitor, then thumbed open the latch and pushed the casement wide.
The second floor window faced onto a dirty street. The buildings across the way – a general store, a saloon, and a stable – looked old. Not built old, but time-period old. He’d never seen a street like it in New Hell. It was crowded too, and the people bustling past looked old too, cowboys and farmers and women in head-to-toe dresses. It was like peering onto a movie set for a Hollywood Western. Two cowboys cantered by on what he took to be horses until he looked closer and recoiled in horror. They were shaped like horses, they moved like horses, but their ropy sinews appeared spun of human body parts. Arms and legs twisted, re-shaped – and, on the hell-horse’s wither, a gape-mawed face stared outward with one eye.
He spun back toward his guest. “Is this a joke?”
The man smiled. “Welcome to New Bodie.”
Alan managed to keep his mouth shut and not echo the town’s name like some idiot just off the bus. Or stagecoach. “Look, Mister…?”
“Masterson. William Barclay.”
“Look, Mister Masterson,” Alan automatically dropped into his soothing lawyer voice, “there’s been some mistake. I am an attorney, you’re right. I was just on my way to a courtroom in the Hall of Injustice, but this place … wait a minute.” He cocked his head, puzzled. “Masterson? Why do I kno
w that name?” He studied the man. No, he didn’t seem familiar, but he never had been as good at placing faces with names as he should have been. “Did I win a case against you back … before we died?”
The man laughed, an easy laugh, but it did nothing to put Alan at ease. “What’s the last thing you remember?”
Did the man never answer a direct question? “Now look here –”
Masterson got to his feet, and Alan backed into the window unconsciously. Something about the man’s manner – the easy physical grace, the smooth voice, the pale eyes – intimidated Alan. He tried not to look at the gun-belt strapped around the man’s hips. “What do you remember?” Masterson asked again, and Alan understood he had just enjoyed a sort of rare luxury. Masterson did not look like a man who repeated himself.
Alan gnawed his lip and tried to recall. “I was walking through the Hall of Injustice. I was late for an appointment – there was so much tension – nobody knew where Erra and the Seven would appear next. There was an enraged demon racing through the halls… Then I remember … the Undertaker’s table. It was horrible, God, it was horrible.” He blanched. “Does that mean…?”
“Yep, you died. You were reassigned here.”
“But my apartment, my cases, my –” He started to say my life, but realized the pointlessness of those words. This was hell. The concept of having a life was not the same as it once had been.
“Well,” Masterson said, “all that’s gone. You can’t leave here, and I have a job for you, if you’ll come along with me.” He started for the door, but Alan balked as the sound of rifle shots blasted away outside.
“Where is this New Bodie I’ve been brought to?”
“Out in the boonies of hell somewhere. What does it matter?”
“What do you mean I can’t leave?”
“Well you can, but you’d have to die again, and I don’t think you’re looking to reacquaint with the Undertaker quite so soon.” His lips quirked sympathetically at Alan’s hasty headshake. “Now, hurry up, get dressed.”
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