The War Against the Assholes

by Sam Munson

  Tunnels: They wash out your voice. Make it ghostly and thunderous. Like literature. “That round doesn’t count,” said Vincent. “It does, in fact,” Hob said. Their argument close and racketing. The walls of the corridor pristine. White tile. Water dripped. “Let’s stay focused, gentlemen,” said Alabama. She was bringing up the rear. She had her gun out. I could tell by the way she sounded. I didn’t want to check visually. “It amazes me how clean these walls remain,” said Charthouse. His cane scraped and chimed. A rat banged my shoe and leaped over. I didn’t mind. I like rats. Given the choice of coinhabitants city life offers, rats I prefer to roaches. They’re mammals. You can understand their motivations. Charthouse’s heavy, uneven gait broke our rhythm. I hoped they weren’t going to make me take another suicide jump. A phone trilled. “Are you kidding me,” said Charthouse. Vincent held up his phone. “The wonders of the modern age,” he said. He was still dressed in a black suit. This time with a purple tie. He’d done that at school, too, I remembered. Even though you had to wear a uniform: blue blazer, gray pants, white shirt, and a blue-and-white tie. If you violate the law’s letter while upholding its spirit, I think you can escape punishment. “Who is it,” said Hob. “It’s Mom,” said Vincent. “That is touching,” said Charthouse. The tunnel ended. I saw a white, high wall in the flashlight cones. We stopped moving. Bunched up. A beam flashed across a green-painted metal door. A gold, eye-shaped scrawl graffitied near the upper lintel. “Hob, would you do the honors,” said Charthouse. Hob slid a key into the door’s lock. The key glittered. “What was that thing on the door,” I said, “that symbol.” “What do you think,” answered Alabama. “Easy now,” said Charthouse. “I think this might actually be more difficult for you,” said Vincent. To me. My hands curled into fists. I thought about Alabama’s gun and calmed down. Hob opened the door. Warm yellow light leafed the tunnel floor. Three rats jumped the threshold. We followed them in.

  I don’t know why I was surprised to see a living room. Well lit and warm. The air smelling of oranges. Some herb. Bookshelves lined the walls. English titles, German titles, French. Other tongues. I was, as I said, no scholar. Leather chairs, their wooden legs gnawed on and scarred. A black, hexagonal wooden table in the room’s center. Near which stood an old man in a pigeon-gray fedora. “Mr. Stone,” said Charthouse. “Mr. Charthouse,” said Mr. Stone, “and the lovely Ms. Sturdivant, I see. Standing there against the darkness. It is always a delight, an encounter with you.” Alabama grinned and dipped her head. The door groaned closed behind her. “That’s how you can tell you’re dealing with a man of high quality,” said Charthouse, “is he’s polite.”

  Mr. Stone looked almost seven feet tall. His eyes ocean blue. He wore a gray suit and a silver-gray tie the exact color of his hair. A tiepin, too, set with a green stone. He leaned on the creaking back of his enormous black armchair. A large, tawny rat perched on the leather top edge, grooming its face near Mr. Stone’s elbow. “This is the offensive lineman you mentioned,” said Mr. Stone. He had an accent. German, I thought. “Come here,” he said, “and let us see what we can see.” Vincent had no more smart remarks to make. I stumbled up to the tall man with my flashlight still on. We shook hands. His enveloped mine. I have large hands. “Menachem Stone,” he said. “Michael Wood,” I said. “I imagine you have questions,” he said. “Yes, sir, I do,” I said. “Sir! That is excellent,” said Charthouse, “that is exactly right.” “Have a seat, Mr. Wood,” said Mr. Stone. “Mr. Wood and Mr. Stone,” said Charthouse, “it’s the meeting of the natural nouns.” Mr. Stone sat. Another rat, gray, leaped onto the back of his chair. I sat too. A black table between us. Charthouse and Alabama grabbed the remaining leather chairs. Hob and Vincent dragged up wooden stools. A third rat, black and beady eyed, scampered onto Mr. Stone’s armchair.

  “You are wondering,” he said, cracking his protuberant knuckles, “why young Mr. Charthouse brought you here.” I was. “It is not as simple to explain as it looks,” he said. “I have to admit that it doesn’t look simple to me,” I said. “That is encouraging,” said Mr. Stone, “you lack preconceptions.” The three rats crouched. The black rat scampered toward his hand, and he stroked its pointy head. “Are you familiar with the works of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart,” said Mr. Stone. Vulfgong: his accent. “Not really, sir,” I said. “Happily, that is a matter of complete irrelevance,” said Mr. Stone. “The point I wish to impress upon you is that not anyone can be Mozart. But we all have a modicum at least of musical ability. This young Mr. Charthouse here understands.” I began to wonder if this guy was an escaped Nazi. Lived in a secret tunnel. German accent. Fancy suit. It made sense to me. “Not that,” said Mr. Stone, “very much the other thing, I am afraid.” “Are you talking to me, sir,” I said. “You know very well that I was,” said Mr. Stone. “We all have ability. That’s a beautiful sentiment,” said Charthouse.

  Everyone was looking at us. Alabama, Hob, and Vincent. “Mr. Wood,” said Mr. Stone, “we are in the middle of a war.” I laughed at that. I could not help myself. No one else laughed. So I stopped. When you’re that age it’s frightening to laugh on your own. “I assure you it is not funny, Mr. Wood,” said Mr. Stone. “I’ve never served,” I said. “There is no reason a man cannot don multiple hats,” said Mr. Stone. He had a point. He palmed his long chin. “You do understand,” he said, “if you say no all this is forbidden to you.” I nodded. “And you understand this is quite real,” he said. “That’s the part I sort of have difficulty with,” I said. “Do you have a cigarette,” said Mr. Stone. I offered him the bundle of brown ones I had with me. “I’d like you to smoke one,” said Mr. Stone. I set one in my mouth. Slapped my pockets. “I can’t find my lighter,” I said. Vincent snorted. I looked. Hob was holding it up: clear red plastic. “This is not a problem,” said Mr. Stone, “put the cigarette in your mouth and light it, that is all. I am not asking you to perform an impossible feat. I am not asking you to fly.” He grinned as he said fly. His teeth huge and white. The rats on his chair chittered in glee.

  “What do you mean, ‘a war,’ ” I said. “We’re in a war against the assholes,” said Hob. He had not spoken much to me so far. I think he was worried I’d make a fool of myself in front of Mr. Stone. “Makes sense,” I said, “nobody likes assholes.” “Mr. Callahan is correct, I am afraid,” said Mr. Stone, “and I know an excessive amount about, as he puts it, assholes. Light the cigarette, please.” The black rat danced. The gray rat chattered to the brown one. “And who are these assholes,” I said. “They run the world,” said Charthouse, “although you’ve never met any of them, I doubt.” “Will Alabama shoot me if I don’t,” I said, “light it I mean.” “You never know,” said Alabama. The gray rat ran down from its perch. It crossed the black table and sat at my elbow. I admire rats. I still had to struggle not to flinch. “Wittgenstein likes you,” said Mr. Stone, “I take that as a testament to your good character. And no. She will not. I have never permitted violence in my home. Light the cigarette, please.”

  The deck of cards was in my hands. I found myself shuffling it. The way you might find yourself biting your nails. The cigarette dangled from my mouth. It was still not lit. “Against the assholes,” I said. I admired the phrase. I was not fond of assholes at that point in my life. Wittgenstein sat there eying me. As did my human companions. “It is a question of precision, Mr. Wood,” said Mr. Stone, “Hob tells me you are an athlete. So you understand precision. Light the cigarette, please.” His voice resonant and his eyes clear. He had not blinked once. So I sat there, pondering what to do, the cigarette hanging from my lips. Well, I thought, if I can fly there’s no reason that can’t happen. It’s easy to let go of your prejudices when you’re young. I tapped the deck to even it out. I shot the cards from hand to hand. My parents at home. With their shows about apes and dragonflies and their tennis rackets. The nuns at Saint Cyprian’s adrift in their brown habits. My heartbeat slowed. Mr. Stone’s voice smeared. I compressed the deck again. It felt alive
against my palm. The cards arced out. Slow enough for me to count. They arced in a clean curve from my left hand to my right. Professional, I thought. I could see the fine lines of Alabama’s ribs expanding and contracting beneath her white shirt, which said the words BIKINI KILL across her breasts. The light in the room changed color. I swear. Amber to bloody orange. Reminded me of a forgotten phenomenon. From physics class. Couldn’t say what, precisely. I heard: the flutter of the cards. I smelled: sweet smoke. The cigarette blazed. For a second. It died almost at once.

  Sufficient, though. “There,” said Mr. Stone. Alabama clapped. Charthouse clapped, too. My whole body ached. My nose was bleeding. Mr. Stone took the deck of cards from me. “You must use higher-­quality equipment,” he said. “I stole this one,” I said. “Praise the lord and pass the ammunition,” said Vincent. Loud. Harsh. “Please lower your voice,” said Mr. Stone. “A war,” I said. “Yes,” said Mr. Stone. “Assholes,” I said. “Yes, Mr. Wood. Assholes,” said Mr. Stone. “Are you an asshole?” “I am not,” I said. When you have to choose, you have to choose. You’ll have no time to decide. Yet you still have to choose. The inability to choose: that’s what afflicts and crushes my generation. “I am glad to hear you say that,” said Mr. Stone, “it is important to know where we all stand.” I blotted my lip. I asked about the book. “Everybody asks about the book,” said Mr. Stone, “I myself asked about it, when I was a younger man.” “That’s not an answer, though,” I said. “It is not, I admit, but that is precisely the problem, Mr. Wood. We do not know. Who or what. No one does. There are theories. There are rumors.” “Rumors,” I said. Sweet smoke in my lungs. “The author was either a man of total obscurity or so expert at covering his tracks that even I have been unable to discover them, and I have been looking for fifty years.” Wittgenstein danced and slapped at his whiskers. “Fifty years,” I said. “It is a sad truth that the theurgists have done their best to ensure they remain nothing more than rumors. Nothing more than empty guesses,” said Mr. Stone. Theurgists: no idea what it meant. The word Charthouse had used the night I met him. To ask if I served other masters. I assumed they were identical to the assholes Charthouse had mentioned. “And why can I light cigarettes now,” I said, “it seems like a comic book thing.” “First of all, I would not say that you can light cigarettes now,” said Mr. Stone. “Point to you, sir,” I said. “And you do not ask yourself, do you, why you can play football,” said Mr. Stone, “or why you can sleep. The answer is simple: because you can. The book is anamnestic, to speak Platonically. Anyone, as I said, can whistle. Perhaps you remember certain moments on the playing field. Certain sun-flooded moments. Perhaps I, a salamander of fate, to quote one of my most beloved authors, escaped from the clutches of Hitler’s minions. Anyone can whistle. And everyone does. Do you understand what I mean, Mr. Wood?”

  Anamnestic and Platonically: also bafflers. I caught the general gist. I didn’t say a word but I had already sided with him and with Hob, with Charthouse and Alabama, with Vincent, even. Against the assholes. Certain pledges you don’t have to make out loud. Certain pledges it’s better you keep silent. “By and large we live in ignorance of our abilities,” said Mr. Stone, “which our antagonists prefer.” “Is it magic you’re talking about,” I said. “Call it what you like,” said Mr. Stone. He was up now, his hat scraping the ceiling. He swayed. As if in pain. Seemed to be part of his regular stance. “Look,” he said. Pointing at a blank wall on the other side of the audience room. Eighteen feet of space. Rough, marked concrete. I got out of my chair to examine it. “I think this is about your reading level,” said Vincent. “Please save your witticisms,” said Mr. Stone.

  The concrete warm against my fingertips. I saw what made it rough: hatch marks, cut into it. Four, then a slash through them. Another four, another slash. What you see in old prison movies. Where they’re marking the days of their suffering and confinement. The marks covered the whole wall. Floor to ceiling, nearly. A blank patch near the upper left corner. Waiting to be filled in. “Is this how long you’ve been down here,” I said. “Even I am not that old, Mr. Wood,” said Mr. Stone. “These represent casualties I have seen. That I am responsible for. In the sense that a commanding officer is responsible for the deaths of his men and women.” Hundreds. Thousands. I counted a few sets. Then gave up. “Casualties,” I said. “Casualties, Mr. Wood,” said Mr. Stone. “Of the assholes,” I said. “Yes, Mr. Wood. Of the assholes,” said Mr. Stone. “And do these assholes have names,” I said. “Their names are legion,” said Vincent. “If there’s one thing I will not abide it’s misquotation and misappropriation,” said Charthouse.

  9

  He talked a lot about Hitler, the old man. The failed artist, he called him, the true spirit of the bourgeois. His motivations differed from no other second-rater of his era or ours. To be Hitler takes imagination, said Mr. Stone, though not too much; it takes will; it takes a certain inordinate love of reality. I tried to look serious and sensitive. That’s what I do when Jews start talking about Hitler. Not that I’ve been around a lot of Jewish discussions. I remember only one Jewish student during my tenure at Saint Cyprian’s, Reed Aschenfarb. He didn’t last long. He didn’t talk much about Hitler, either. I appreciated the way Mr. Stone had explained my situation to me. No nonsense about my unique nature and important fate. I liked the concept of a war. All adolescents do. He filled me in on the Erzmund problem, too: the best candidate, he said, was Alfons Froch, a professional Viennese gambler and fortune-teller whose checkered and obscure career came to an end when he died of syphilis in the midst of the Russian arrival in Berlin. His corpse, said Mr. Stone, was interred in a pauper’s grave, in the shadow of a limeworks. In war, he said, no time is permitted to weep over such matters. Especially when you are the hunted, the quarry. He asked me if I knew what the word Freiwild meant. I told him no.

  Mr. Stone’s front door let us out in a building’s garbage alley on Eleventh Avenue. I’d been expecting to return to the tunnel. I didn’t show my surprise. I forced my mouth shut. You can’t look like an innocent all the time. We had to hop a fence to reach the street. The raw scent of the water washed over us. Charthouse waved good night with his cane head and staggered off. Vincent went with him. He matched Charthouse’s gait. My parents were asleep when I got home. They stayed that way. It turned out that theurgists meant “practitioners of ritual magic.” Anamnestic meant “that which enables our recollections.” The name he’d mentioned, Alfons Froch, appeared in my dream, other­wise unremarkable. I was alone in a meadow. At night. Great sky above. The dizzying health of the stars. I recognized no constellations. And the shapes of the distant trees at the meadow edge seemed alien too. Even the smell of the grass, strong and strange. A tall woman with pale hair was walking among the trees, her face turned half-away. Crows croaked. Water glinted in a stone basin. At the edge of which, along the lip, ran the simple, incomprehensible words ALFONS FROCH. In large yellow letters. Like a NO PARKING announcement on a curb. I woke up at dawn. I remembered fragments of my dream: a pale female face. A black bird. I did not feel tired. I’d slept four hours at most. My throat raw from the cigarettes. That’s all. I wanted to laugh aloud.

  Theurgists went to special schools, said Mr. Stone, a network of primary and secondary schools spanning the world. Most of them came from theurgist families, whole families, Mr. Stone said, of the obsequious and mighty. They spent their childhoods studying for the Certamen, also known as Damnation Day. A test, said Mr. Stone, a tragedy. I asked him if it was like the salto. Theurgists frown on our more immediate methods, he said. There was one such school in Manhattan, called Mountjoy House. I’d never heard of it. The chief patron of Mountjoy House was a man named Verner Potash, who also served as the de facto head of the theurgical community on the East Coast. The legend of Mountjoy is known far and wide, said Mr. Stone, and you would find echoes of it in all manner of mendacious and saccharine books. The school had existed more or less since the Dutch first arrived on these shores, or
iginally under the supervision of a man called Godfried Brink. When the colony had fallen to English control the institution changed hands and changed names. William Mountjoy served in the Cabal Ministry of King Charles II, said Mr. Stone. An eminent scholar, he said, among the greatest of his age.

  Hob rustled and groaned. Dawn, blue-gray dawn, in the windows. Alabama asleep in my desk chair, snoring. A higher register than my mother. Arms loose, feet on the floor. Her pistol on my desk, next to the biology textbook. The book’s yellow cover displaying an enormous photo of a grasshopper’s face and mandibles. The gun’s huge barrel pointed at the door. Hob lay on my rag rug, underneath his coat, a ball of dust kicking around in his exhalations. He and Alabama both looked pale and weak in the morning light. They’d come home with me. I’d invited them. I didn’t want to be inhospitable.

  De facto: I had to dredge that one up. As in not de jure. Not by right. Simply by brute fact. Potash is the informal name for potassium salts. That I knew from my mother. The rest of Mr. Stone’s lecture gripped me because it was absolutely strange to me. Nothing exerts the same hold on you as the completely unknown does. Like: theurgy’s success depended on incantation, formulae, alchemical techniques, wands. In other words, theurgy’s success depended on fear and weakness, said Mr. Stone, as the cigarette smoke thickened around us. It seemed to me a white spotlight had isolated us from Hob, Alabama, Charthouse, and Vincent. Like we sat alone, in deep, slow discussion, on a stage. Theurgy has its roots in the early priesthoods of man, the Sumerian, the Greek, the Judaean, the Zoroastrian, said Mr. Stone. I listened. Theurgy is not in fact different from religion, in the sense that it requires supplication and nothing more. Humans, he said, are constantly hunting, forever seeking and finding an idol to abase themselves before. For centuries, theurgy had been the dominant form of magic practiced in the West and the East. While most theurgists never attained public, historical prominence, Mr. Stone said, notable exceptions existed. Adolf Hitler, he said, had been a minor theurgist and had enjoyed the aid of one of the greatest theurgists of the twentieth century, Rudolf von Sebottendorf. The art Mr. Stone practiced had no name. Call it what you like, he said again and again, it would be an act of presumption to give it a name. Like all slaves, he said, theurgists were full of irony, anger, and presumption to authority.