Electric Spaghetti: The Strange Adventures & Sudden Fame of Norman Heese & Professor McCrackenbatten’s Fantastic Computer Shoes

by Oliver Skye

  ‘Dontcha worry, mister. Ya’ll be taken care of. Just make sure you get to the Black Swan Inn ... on time.’

  With that, the voice rang off.

  When arriving back home, Desmond refused to tell Dolly what had happened. He hadn’t wanted her to accompany him to the payphone, even though she’d been keen to do so. Dolly, nonetheless, whiningly persisted until Desmond told her about the sandpapery voice, without mentioning the Black Swan Inn or the cash he’d demanded.

  Dolly instinctively knew Desmond was hiding something. ‘I think we should forget about the whole thang, Dizzy,’ she said, frowning. ‘I wish I’d never told yuh anythang about them loon gadgets ... I can’t help thinkin’ somethin’ awful’s gonna happen.’

  ‘Well, I got the impression they already knew about the prof’s shoes,’ Desmond exclaimed, ‘even though they were tryin’ to make out they didn’t—’

  ‘But that’s impossible,’ Dolly blurted. ‘How could they?’

  Looking baffled, Desmond shrugged his shoulders, keeping quiet. Yet just the fact that someone had expressed interest in his unbelievable story, as well as the promise of hard cash, was enough for him to stay the course.

  * * *

  The next evening, Desmond Blaken lurched out of Giddy’s Junkyard in the battered sedan he and Dolly called The Smokestack. Expectantly he headed towards Manhattan’s skyline, his imagination running riot. All he could think about was the cash – and the things he could buy with it – he’d so brazenly demand. Nonetheless, once approaching the East River, he felt the icy stab of dread begin churning his stomach.

  Watching the sun sinking into a sea of smog, Desmond considered turning back home to Dolly. To get a grip on his feelings, he pulled into a side street on the river’s east bank. The lit-up Manhattan Bridge stretched majestically away towards Manhattan’s skyscrapers, like gigantic talons clawing at the twilit sky. Their reflected lights twinkled and brightened as dusk fell, giving the illusion of stars being born within the river’s murky waters.

  Once darkness settled over New York, a chrome-yellow crescent moon rose between two buildings within the monstrous landscape ahead.

  When Desmond arrived on Manhattan Island, he headed along Broadway past Time Square towards the docks into Hell’s Kitchen. Parking The Smokestack along West End Avenue, he walked towards 12th Avenue in search of the Black Swan Inn.

  The gloomy atmosphere gave Desmond the impression he was walking through a gigantic film set, especially when he turned into a street full of steam-belching manholes. He rather fancied himself on his way to rescue a damsel in distress, already visualising the masses watching awe-struck on imaginary silver screens.

  ‘I’m packin’ a .45 cannon, mister,’ he gestured theatrically. ‘So freeze and touch the sky! If ya only twitch, I’ll turn yuh intah a sieve ... sieve. Now let go of the girl, creep, or ya’ll never see yer hairy grandma again!’

  Desmond’s antics ended abruptly once he found himself standing in front of a dismal-looking building. For some reason it reminded him of a charnel house. A faded sign across the front read: THE BLACK SWAN INN.

  The surroundings reminded Desmond of a nightmare he’d had not long ago. In it, he was lost in a maze of dirty alleyways. Whenever he managed to bash one of the alley’s grimy doors down, it looked out onto a wondrous sun-swept landscape.

  ‘You haff first your sauerkraut to finish!’ he’d hear a thunderous voice behind him when attempting to flee through one of the open doors. With that, he’d feel invisible hands hauling him back, thrusting him headlong into a barrel of foul-smelling cabbage.

  The unnerving aspect of the Black Swan Inn was the drab, deserted street it occupied. Hardly any lighting existed, nor were there any pedestrians and few cars about. Only the crescent moon, floating just above the inn’s roof, provided dull luminosity. The inn itself didn’t exude light from within, perhaps because of the tightly-closed shutters. Its only illumination was a dirty, green lamp above the entrance.

  Desmond’s attention was attracted by a single reddish window across the street. As he looked up, the light faded as if someone had drawn the curtains. At that moment, a number of large rats scampered down the sidewalk, brushing his leg. Shuddering, Desmond couldn’t help remembering that supposedly one rat per person lived in his native city. Nervously he tried not to think about how many of the wretched creatures infested Manhattan Island.

  Trying to ignore the creeping sensation down his spine, Desmond attempted to take hold of himself. Yet while standing before the spooky inn he couldn’t shake off the feeling that once he entered, he’d never find his way out again. Despite the ill-omened premonition – with visions of $100 bills floating down from the darkened sky – he swallowed hard, pushed the double doors open, and stepped inside.

  * * *

  The first thing Desmond noticed was dense smoke rising from the tables. They sure don’t care about smoking laws around here, he thought to himself.

  The dimly-lit room rapidly became deathly silent.

  The wispy inhabitants – in the subdued lighting appearing wraithlike – stared at Desmond in his rumpled raincoat. Even the jukebox’s excruciating racket abruptly ceased. A slick-looking waiter, whose eyes reminded Desmond of the rats’ he’d seen outside, approached with a chilling smile. ‘Are yuh sure yer patronisin’ the right joint, mister?’ he asked with an expression which could kill a fly at a thousand yards. ‘Y’know, yuh came in through the wrong door....’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Desmond mumbled, beginning to sweat. ‘Well I’m here to see The Walrus ... ESTUS VEITCH NOSTRUM REX.’

  The waiter regarded Desmond with a grimace which was supposed to be a smile. ‘That’s groovy,’ he drooled. ‘Yer in the right place after all ... I was just gonna reach for ma fish gutter.’

  Without another word, he led Desmond into the bowels of the building. Desmond followed reluctantly, wondering how such a dilapidated-looking place could be so busy. His musings ended when stepping through an iron-gated entrance.

  Seated behind a vast mahogany desk before an unlit fireplace – in a room that looked completely out of place with the building Desmond had just entered – a pale-looking man was shuffling a pack of cards at an incredible speed. The man, who was as bald as an egg – a single low-hanging light bulb illuminating his pasty face – didn’t seem to have any eyebrows. Desmond couldn’t help noticing a black semi-automatic pistol lying at the man’s left elbow.

  While looking up at Desmond, the left side of the man’s face began twitching. Simultaneously, the right corner of his fleshy mouth turned sharply downwards. What really terrified Desmond was that, in the dim light, he seemed to have only four fingers on each hand, while his tongue appeared to flicker like that of a lizard.

  Yikes! Desmond thought, the hair rising on the back of his scalp. I wonder if this is The Walrus!

  A gorilla-sized man, wearing a white suit and dark glasses, seemed to appear out of nowhere. Desmond jumped back as the man stepped up and pulled out a chair. Grunting, he encouraged him to sit down. Desmond quickly obeyed. Yet even though just a grunt, he recognised the sandpapery voice from two nights ago.

  ‘How rude ov me, Mr Vlaken,’ the bald man whispered, looking up from his cards. ‘My name iss Krasnodepsky ... Yoris Krasnodepsky. I am also known as Ze Valrus. Ziss iss because I vos born vith two tusk-like teeth zat protruded from ze corners ov my mouse. But zey became entangled in ze hosepipe ... ant my little brother vos beginning to choke. Zen my father took hiss plumbing pliers ... but ziss iss a long, bloody story—’

  The incessant twitching slowly moved across Krasnodepsky’s face, towards his left ear.

  Desmond watched the ape-like man behind Krasnodepsky impatiently fold his huge arms, as though he’d heard the story many times before. He stood staring straight ahead, his back to what looked like spider-decorated wallpaper. His vacant-looking face – which appeared to have survived numerous past beatings – served to make him look more stupid than he probably was. What his hulking pres
ence most impressed upon Desmond, however, was not to do anything to upset the ominous-looking man sitting across the table.

  ‘Hey, look at me!’ Krasnodepsky shrieked, jumping up, gripping the sides of the desk with his sausage-like fingers. ‘How haff you the courage not look at me, you teeny-veeny-miniscule-zing! If you don’t show some respect, I vill pop your eyeballs out between my knuckles.’

  Desmond thought he was going to faint with fright when Krasnodepsky unexpectedly burst out laughing. The cackling rose to a crescendo until he collapsed back into his chair giggling hysterically. Behind him the gigantic man shook with silent mirth, though his face remained impassive.

  ‘I vos only making joke vith you,’ Krasnodepsky finally managed, breathing heavily. ‘But it iss very interesting vot you haff told uss last night,’ he rasped. ‘I am sure you did not expect uss to believe you ... but, in fact, vee do. ant ziss iss vhy vee haff allowed you to come here. Ze fact iss, vee already know all about Professor McCrackenbatten ant hiss invention. Does ziss surprise you?’

  Krasnodepsky began crushing pretzels between his fingers, staring Desmond down with his reptilian eyes. Their cold outward squint made Desmond unsure which of them was actually looking at him.

  ‘You know ... about ... the shoes!’ Desmond croaked.

  ‘Yesssss,’ the pasty-faced man gloated. ‘Ichabod knows about many zings ... ass vell ass about you, Mr Vlaken. Ant he iss very interested in ze computer shoes. You must obtain zem, ozervise Ichabod vill make you kaput!’

  ‘Er ... Ichabod ... knows about me?’ Desmond asked, hardly believing he was actually holding a conversation with the creepy-looking man before him.

  Krasnodepsky slowly waved Desmond to silence.

  ‘Ichabod does not vish to be identified. But you vill do humankind a great service, Mr Vlaken, ass vell ass making yourself very vealthy. Zerefore, you vill be briefed about vhere you are to deliver ze professor’s shoes vonce you haff secured zem. Und remember, my dear Yankee New Yorker, Ichabod does not desire any mistakes....’

  Krasnodepsky said this with what looked like black blood dribbling from his swollen lips.

  Jittery monkey’s spleen! Desmond thought, his skin crawling. Yet at the mention of cash, his imagination went berserk, an assortment of sports cars and sleek motorboats rapidly flashing before his mind’s eye. Wildly, in the dim light, he imagined the spidery wallpaper behind Krasnodepsky changing into crisp $100 bills.

  ‘It iss ov utmost importance zat ze scientific vorld does not know ov ze professor’s invention,’ Krasnodepsky added, jolting Desmond out of his well-heeled daydream. ‘Ze shoes must not fall into government hands; ozervise, zey vill be lost to uss forever ... do you understand?’

  Desmond nodded weakly. ‘How come a stupid pair of electric shoes is so important?’ he ventured.

  ‘You just haff no idea, Mr Vlaken. Not even ze professor fully understands. Yet how sure are you,’ Krasnodepsky added with a raised hairless eyebrow, his eyes giving the impression they were rattling about in a darkened dungeon, ‘zat ze professor hass not already revealed hiss discovery to ze scientific community?’

  ‘Well, it ain’t likely,’ Desmond said warily. ‘According to my vife ... er ... I mean, wife ... he don’t wanna let anyone know about ’em ... except Doctor Grammaticus. He’s a scientist from over yonder, an English colleague of Prof McBatty. The shoes themselves apparently wanna keep their existence a secret. That’s why, for the life of me, I can’t understand how ... um ... Ichabod knows about ’em—’

  Krasnodepsky jumped to his feet. ‘Stop uttering stupid zings,’ he screamed, his lips blubbering as if in a furnace. ‘You VILL secure ze shoes! Even if you haff to follow ze professor to London—’

  ‘London! Just hold yer horses ... horses!’ Desmond retorted hotly, trying to sound tough. ‘D’yuh s’pose I’m a couple o’ bricks shy of a full load? I told ya I’d try to obtain them lousy shoes. But I ain’t agreed to help in any other way. I ain’t gonna follow the batty prof all round the world ... just to prevent him from exposing his loony invention. An’, anyway, how d’yuh know he’s plannin’ to travel to England? ... Ain’t that where London’s situated?’

  ‘Look here, Mr hot-shot Vlaken!’ the bald man sneered with an increasingly menacing look, tapping the semi-automatic with his long fingernails. ‘You vill do ass you are told vithout question!’

  Throughout the one-sided conversation, the hulkish man behind Yoris Krasnodepsky hadn’t moved. Now the muscles in his arms began twitching while looking down at Desmond. ‘Calm down, Marloth!’ Krasnodepsky snapped, looking back over his shoulder.

  ‘Now, because ov your connection to ze computer shoes through your vife,’ he continued, sitting down, ‘you are ze best zing to do ze job. Vonce you haff delivered zem, you vill receive $250,000 in cash.’

  Desmond’s mind meanwhile had begun wandering because of lack of sleep. Marloth? he wondered, studying the colossus behind Krasnodepsky.

  ‘But I want at least a million,’ he piped up once Krasnodepsky’s words had sunk in. He quickly froze when seeing the expression on Marloth’s face.

  ‘You vill no longer refer to ze package ass computer shoes!’ Krasnodepsky continued as though he hadn’t heard. ‘From now on ze code name iss Project Achilles. Tomorrow at 12h00, you vill meet a man at Lenny’s Diner at Grand Central station. He vill haff a red carnation in hiss lapel. Hiss code name iss Ulysses. Here, in ze meantime, iss $50,000 in cash ... to motivate you. You vill receive ze balance vonce you deliver ze goods. If not—’ Krasnodepsky drew a bony finger in a sawing motion across his throat ‘—you vill find yourself in serious trouble. Remember, Mr Vlaken, vee vill be vatching you!’

  Krasnodepsky said this with such a scary look, it left Desmond in no doubt about his intentions. The semi-automatic on the table was still very noticeable, its ugly snout pointing in Desmond’s direction.

  Without warning, Yoris Krasnodepsky, a.k.a The Walrus, leaped up, howling like a wolf. His face quickly turned ashen while looking up at the ceiling at a peculiar angle. Before his bodyguard could stop him, he rushed across the room cackling hysterically. He then proceeded to repeatedly pound his bald head with full force against the far wall.

  Desmond was too shocked to react.

  After a while, he cautiously watched the hulking bodyguard help his peculiar host back across the room into his chair. Krasnodepsky looked at Desmond as if observing him for the first time. Not a mark was evident on his glistening head. Only his eyelids – Desmond noticed they didn’t have any lashes – were violently fluttering.

  By now, Desmond was extremely anxious to leave. Yet he didn’t dare move a muscle. Meanwhile Marloth swivelled his head, staring in his direction as if reading his thoughts. With an enormous hairy hand, the bodyguard slowly removed his dark glasses. Desmond couldn’t help fidgeting with his collar. Moreover, from his agitated point of view, the huge man’s eyes appeared to have matchstick heads jammed into them.

  Next, Marloth, stooping down, picked up a brown paper package and placed it on the desk. Krasnodepsky handed it over to Desmond while attempting to make eye contact with him, but only giving the impression he was staring at one of Desmond’s misshapen ears.

  Cold panic welling up inside him, Desmond realised he was making a big mistake. There’s no way outta here ... unless I make a run for it.

  Despite his fear of the strange men, the $50,000 had such a hold on him, he found himself unable to hand it back and flee. If he had, he was sure he wouldn’t have made it out alive. So without a word he put the package in his coat pocket, slowly turned round and left the room.

  * * *

  ‘S’pose someone’s tailin’ ya ... catch a bus or the subway. As the sub or bus is pullin’ off, jump out! That way, the skunk on yer tail’ll have tah go along for the ride. ’Cause if he jumps off too, he knows ya’ll spot him ... get it?’

  This was what the shadowy figure, code-named Ulysses – wearing a Bronx-style hat and raincoat – was explaining to Desmond B
laken. They were sitting in Lenny’s Diner in a curtained-off cubicle, away from other customers.

  ‘No foolin’!’ Desmond said irritably, ignoring the lecture. ‘What’s this all about anyway? I mean, why does that Krasnodepsky creep call himself The Walrus? He looks more like a turkey to me. And who’re you? And what’s all this lousy cloak ’n dagger baloney?’

  Ulysses regarded Desmond with a look of pity mixed with contempt.

  ‘Dontcha like the dollars, Blaken?’ he drawled in his Bronx twang. ‘Just do as yer told. Don’t ask too many questions, an’ ya’ll be all right. Welcome to the underworld ... welcome to Ichabod!’

  ‘Underworld ... Ichabod!’ Desmond spluttered. ‘All I wanna do is sell the prof’s shoes for a cool million, not get involved with the House of Horrors. Last night, Krasnodepsky and his Missing Link told me that Ichabod – whatever that is – already knows about the shoes. That means I only get one fourth of what I really want. An’ I ain’t even got that yet ... only $50,000. And how come Krasnodepsky knows about McBatty wantin’ to take his crazy shoes along to London?’

  ‘Cut it out, Blaken!’ Ulysses chipped in, looking round the diner through the curtains. ‘Don’t ask stupid questions an’ keep yer voice down. An’ from now on only refer to Project Achilles ... nothin’ else ... as you were instructed last night.

  ‘Now don’t yuh worry about a thang,’ he continued, leering. ‘Ya’ll get yer million once ya deliver the merchandise. Ichabod wants them shoes real bad. An’ you’d better succeed if y’know what’s good for ya. By the way, yuh don’t need tah tell me what happened at the Black Swan Inn. I was there ... controllin’ the proceedings.’

  Desmond gaped at Ulysses.

  ‘If yuh don’t believe me, just see what happens when the entire Manhattan Island electrical grid goes on the blink, tonight at ten sharp ... until five past ten.’