by P. J. Day
“I’m not God. My responsibility lies with my family and my clients.” Mark shrugged.
Rachel stood and moved to the door. “I’m heading to the ranch before it gets dark,” she said. She turned to Mark and leaned against the doorway before leaving the house and getting in her Benz. “Do something, Mark. There’s a powder keg out there and I think all you guys in that beautiful building in Manhattan are too comfortable.”
Mark toasted his glass and downed that last of his drink. Rachel picked up her purse and headed out the door.
The truth was, Marcus and Samuelson had a plan to revamp their website and their media outreach; he just didn’t want to tell Rachel, who had the tendency to reveal much more than she should to gain favor among her friends.
Mark poured himself another glass. He lifted it to his nose and smelled its fine aroma. He landed his drink on a small table and took off his blazer before enjoying another concentrative sip. His eyes trailed toward the center of the library. The way Claret Clarice’s hues mixed with the pale sunlight that shone through the window caught his refined attention and pulled him up from the chaise lounge. He stood in front of the fireplace, admiring his most recent acquisition. His glazed eyes drank in the striking colors.
As Mark became increasingly hypnotized with Logan’s fine piece, he felt a tickle inside his ear. He scanned the library windows; all of them were closed. The draft must have come through the main door, he thought. He continued to stare at Clarice’s large succulent bottom. Her bosom was accentuated by Logan’s brilliant strokes; her scarlet hair hung over her shoulders in a coquettish show of prime youth. His ear tickled again. This time, the sound seemed to come from the painting. He peered closer at the artwork.
Close the door, Clarice said.
Mark paused, stared at his drink, and chortled.
Please, close the door, Clarice whispered again, in a high-pitched, vernal, estrogenic voice. Mark scrunched an eye and focused it toward the coppery liquid in his glass, checking for impurities. There was nothing out of the ordinary.
“Milt!” he called loudly.
“Yes, Mr. Cohen.” The thin, somewhat frail, 70-year-old man approached the door of the library, wearing khakis and a pristine white polo shirt.
“Where did this Cuvee come from?”
“That was a gift, sir.”
“From who?” Mark asked, swaying slightly like a broken pendulum.
“King Abdullah of Jordan.”
“Why?”
“You secured the fine mineral contract for him. Remember, for Samsung Electronics?”
“Yes, yes.” Mark flashed a sloppy grin. “That was huge. Is this King Abdullah somewhat festive?”
“Yes, he has a reputation of being somewhat bacchanalian, sir.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Mark slurred, lifting his glass. “Milt, do me a favor, lock the door and close it, please.”
“Yes, sir.” Milt secured the door and walked away, wiping his mind clean of what Mark was doing in a closed library, like the true professional he was, and continued with his duties.
Mark’s smiling eyes turned toward the painting.
Thank you, Mark, murmured Clarice. Her body undulated in a blurred dance of seduction.
Mark always joked about his earliest memory of being inside his crib, and imagining the picture of a female genie that was in his room begin to belly dance, giving him his first recollection of arousal. Clarice had successfully rekindled that memory for Mark, and he was now under the spell of the hallucination.
Take off your pants, Clarice purred.
Inebriated beyond comprehension, Mark complied like a schoolboy who’d just wagered his purity.
Mark’s luxurious trousers dropped to his ankles. As he placed his thumbs beneath the elastic of his boxer briefs, Claret Clarice flickered. Her reddish hues bubbled like molten lava.
“Clarice, what’s going on?” blubbered Mark. “Your face is melting...Oh, God.”
Mark reached for his pants and fell to his side, landing on his glass of cognac. Pieces of broken glass lodged deeply into his rib. Mark was too drunk to show pain and too drunk to regain his feet.
The painting glimmered. The paint looked wet and fresh as if it was brush stroked an hour ago. Drops of blood began running downward, pooling at the edge of the frame, and finally spilling toward Mark’s admired wooden floor.
Mark backed away from the uncontrollable drizzle, kicking his legs wildly, desperately trying to gain his balance as he clumsily writhed on the floor. He was soon covered in blood. He couldn’t tell if it was from the wound on his side or the blood that cascaded from the canvas.
The red liquid spread out onto the floor, coagulated upward, like an Eagle Nebula, and slowly created a somewhat coherent form.
Mark was paralyzed. A translucent and smoky red hand reached out of the blood-mist shadow and covered his mouth.
A slender body emerged from the grotesque, chaotic collection of plasma, with a demonic face made of plaster. Logan appeared, wearing a mask of the vampiric demigoddess, Empousa. The feminine, fanged face was constructed to elicit the highest level of fear that was humanly possible.
“Shhh...” said a masked Logan, placing his finger up to his exposed lips.
Mark desperately tried to mumble words through the spaces between Logan’s fingers.
“If I take my hand away from your mouth, will you cooperate with me?” asked Logan, as he brandished a silver dagger from his pocket with his other hand.
Mark nodded rapidly.
Logan crouched over Mark, who was sitting on his ass, vulnerable.
Mark slapped himself.
“Don’t hurt yourself.”
He slapped himself again.
“Quit making noises, please.”
Mark, wide-eyed and terrified, placed his hands on the cold floor. Logan removed his own hand from Mark’s quivering lips. “What have you done, Mark?”
“I haven’t done anything.”
“Yes, you have.”
“What? Are you implying that hard work and success are somehow sins?” Mark said, quickly snapping out of his drunken stupor.
“I’m not here to debate philosophies with you. Hard work and success are implied virtues,” Logan said, as he flickered from opaqueness to solidity. Logan examined the library and snickered with cynicism. “Seriously, though, how much shit do you actually need?”
“Who or what the fuck are you?” Mark asked, his eyes fearful.
Logan stood up. His black slender jeans hugged shapely thin legs. The leather on his black boots creaked as his heels touched the floor. “I’m here to check your unchecked greed.”
“Can I sit?” asked Mark.
“Please,” said Logan, crossing his arms.
Mark wiped the tears that had pooled under his eyes. While covered in blood, he slouched on the chaise lounge.
“That looks like a nasty cut, sorry about that,” quipped Logan.
Mark touched his side. His hand smeared blood. “I think I need stitches.”
“Doesn’t look too deep.”
Mark shook his head and winced. He looked at Logan with pained frustration. “What do you want, money?”
“I have plenty of that already.”
“Let me guess. O.W.S. is hiring illusionists now?”
“This is no illusion, Mark.”
“Prove it.”
“Check your side.”
Mark touched his side. The small gash seemed to have disappeared. Hurriedly, he took his shirt off, then his T-shirt, and all he found was dried splotches of blood on his pale skin. He looked up at Logan, surprised. “How did you do that?”
“Again, this is no illusion. Have I convinced you to listen to me?”
Mark nodded like a child.
“All of you are on the precipice.”
“Who’s all of us?”
“The entire planet. Humanity. Black, Chinese, White, Hispanic, Caucasoid, Mestizo, Mongoloid, Negroid. All and everyone are consumed by their
own bullshit.”
“Yeah, that’s a given. It’s been like that for millennia,” Mark said with a snort. “What the hell do you want me to do?”
“That’s my point. Your species’ inherent gift for mimicry has made you vulnerable to parasitic powers beyond your realm of comprehension.”
Mark shook his head rapidly, in confusion. “I don’t understand what the hell you’re trying to imply.”
“I’m surprised. Harvard, right?”
“Yeah, class of ‘78.”
“Come on, Mark, you’re a smart guy.”
“I’m sorry, but some fucker with a mask just sprang out from a painting and you want me to all of a sudden comprehend what you’re trying to say?”
Logan pulled up an antique Baroque chair. It matched the table next to the chaise lounge. He sat on it, resting his arms on its back.
“Careful with that,” Mark blurted.
“Mark, quit worrying about this silly old stuff. Listen, I’ll let you know what I mean in layman’s terms. Human beings tend to copy each other. That’s their most important biological trait. That particular behavior has sparked wonderful inventions, innovations, and led you guys out of the trees that used to populate vast stretches of the Sahara. However, as of late, humans tend to copy behavior from those who achieved fame through nefarious means or the most despicable means,” Logan stated excitedly.
“Thanks for the lesson in sociology, but what the hell does this have to do with me?” asked Mark.
“Are you a religious man, Mark?”
“No, not particularly.”
“I assume you feel you’re bigger than God or gods?”
“I don’t feel the relevance of revealing my particular belief system at the moment,” Mark said, mustering up an ounce of confidence.
Logan brandished his dagger again. He began to carve pieces of Mark’s masterfully grooved and sculpted chair.
“Leave my stuff alone, please.”
“Ah, see,” said Logan, lifting his brows. “You love this shit, don’t you? All of it. Do you want to keep everything, hmmm?”
“Fine, fine. I’ll say whatever you want me to say, but please don’t wreck my stuff,” begged Mark. “What do you want to know?”
“Are you larger than the universe?”
“No, of course not. But what’s out in the universe doesn’t affect us or me. That’s what I believe, okay? What more do you want to know?”
“How do you explain me?” asked Logan. “I’ve just shattered your laws of physics. What a mindfuck, am I right?”
Mark nervously licked the top of his lips. “I don’t know. I don’t know how you did what you did. What is it you want?”
Logan laughed. His loud and boisterous cackle must have caught Milt’s attention three rooms down because Milt walked up to the library door and knocked.
“Sir, is everything okay?” he said through the door.
Logan looked at Mark and narrowed his eyes and made a throat-cutting gesture, letting Mark know that he must do what he could to disperse Milt’s curiosity. Mark nervously eyed Logan and then spoke loudly. “Everything is okay, Milt. Go on about your duties. Please go check on the lavender candle I lit upstairs. I don’t want the house to burn down.”
“Yes, sir,” Milt responded, as he turned away from the door.
“There,” Mark whispered, with a sudden bout of calmness. “You were saying?”
“Do you believe in the end times?”
“What is up with all these questions? I don’t know, I haven’t really thought about—are you part of an apocalyptic cult or something?”
Logan paused; he placed his finger to his head. “You know what? Kinda.”
“So, you spiked my drink and now you want to use the CEO of the largest investment bank in the world to propagate your message?” Mark said skeptically, as he sat up.
“No. Well, you got the second part right,” Logan said. “I really did come out of your painting, but I did not spike your drink. However, you are here to help me spread my message.”
Mark looked at his Rolex and began shaking his leg, his eyes darting toward the windows.
Logan snapped his fingers. “Look at me. No one is coming to get you, Mark.”
“Just cut to your message,” Mark emphatically stated, but with a slight quiver in his voice.
“You’re going to return every last cent you made from your credit default swap scheme to every distressed homeowner in the country and to everyone who’s lost a home over the past five years.”
Mark began blinking wildly. His head shook with a slight tremor. “You want me to do what?”
“You’re the most powerful man on this planet, do you know that? I know you can do this,” Logan said, condescendingly.
“That money is all gone, it’s tied up with new investments; we lost billions as well, and it wasn’t pretty—just who are you?”
“Isn’t your company worth billions? What’s a couple billion here or there that you’d have to dole out, to fix the neverending shit storm around the world that your scummy company was responsible for, hmm?”
Mark sprang up from the chaise lounge and lunged at Logan, attempting to snatch his mask. A small whirlwind of matter circled in Logan’s palm. He thrust his fist forward, barely missing Mark’s stomach. A small sound wave and a blast of air, like the ones produced by a fighter jet breaking the sound barrier, exploded in the space between Logan’s fist and Mark’s torso. The invisible force flung Mark’s rigid body across the library floor. His back smashed against a planter he had placed by his liquor cabinet. Logan continued to pin Mark down with ethereal pressure, with just a raised hand.
“Just who do you think you’re dealing with?”
Mark began sobbing. “I don’t know. Please, I think my rib is broken. Stop. I’ll do what you tell me.”
“I told you to listen to me. This is not a joke, Mark. I’m not some politician you can fucking bully to do your bidding,” Logan yelled.
“All right, all right,” Mark said, through his clenched teeth. The pain was unbearable. Three of Mark’s ribs were almost split in half; every breath he took was like a hundred knives slicing and slashing his side.
Logan crouched and grabbed Mark’s chin, tilting his head upward, trying to initiate eye contact through the extreme pain. “Do you want the chance to be a hero, Mark?”
Mark nodded as he screamed in pain.
Logan licked his lips. Before saying his next word, police sirens began to wail in the distance. “How did they know to come?” Logan yelled, squeezing Mark’s cheeks.
“I gave Milt a signal,” Mark seethed, still fighting through the agony. “Why would I tell him about a stupid candle, you dope?”
“I’d slice your throat right now if I could, you slimy bastard,” Logan roared, baring his sharp teeth at Mark. “Look at me, Mark. The end of the world is coming. If you can’t believe someone who has come to you through supernatural means that the Prophecy is about to be fulfilled, then you’ll be responsible for everyone’s death, do you understand?”
Mark breathed heavily; he gazed into Logan’s eyes, and became paralyzed by the sight of Logan’s reddened and fiery eyes that were filled with sudden rage and terror.
“Be a hero, Mark. Be a hero, for once. You have one of my more mediocre works in your office. I know everything about you, the feds, your friends. You can continue your soul-sucking life after you play hero, do you understand?”
Mark’s visage relaxed in submission. The determined and feisty eyes of the most powerful human on the planet gave way to an expression of appeasement. “Just tell me who you are.”
“Once you do what you have been told, I’ll call you and tell you. Then you can do whatever it is you want to do with me,” Logan said, serenely. “I’ll expose you, Mark. I’ll expose the entire corrupt system if you don’t do what you’ve been told. Be a hero.”
Logan stood up. The flashes of blue and red bounced off the varnished walls of the library. The familiar sound
of helicopter blades mixed in with the chaos outside the library. The chopper’s spotlight beamed through the glass. Logan’s back was turned toward the flashlights. Mark could see silhouettes of officers and their guns pointed at him. Logan glanced over his shoulder and schemed his escape in a matter of seconds.
“Drop your knife and put your hands on your head,” boomed the officer over the loudspeaker.
“What do you know, freak?” asked Mark, with a halfhearted chuckle. “Never mind, it doesn’t matter, does it? You won’t escape. Half the L.A.P.D. is out there.”
“There is exactly 64.3 billion dollars’ worth of tax money, unaccounted for, spread about your accounts, meant to ease out some of your clients and reserves for yourselves. You and your vice president, Eric Mendelson, are the only ones who know of this money and are the ones who spread it out. You’ve essentially raided the Treasury. You want to hear more?”
Mark lifted his finger and pointed at Logan. “You got me,” he said. “Have any dirt on the L.A.P.D.? Because that’s the only way you’re gonna get out of this.”
Logan turned around and faced the blinding glare of the police force outside the mansion. He lifted his arm and extended the palm of his hand. An invisible pulse of energy shattered the windows, hurling the flapping pigeon-winged books toward the policemen. The officers, who had their pistols steadily aimed on top of the hoods of their patrol cars, were tossed down toward the clean-cut, emerald-green lawn like plastic toy soldiers on a young boy’s backyard battlefield.
Legs first, Logan leaped out from the open windows and hurdled the police cars. Like spotlights during a premiere, flashlights swung every which way, trying to pinpoint his exact location. Officers yelled at each other in mass confusion. The helicopter pinpointed Logan with its spotlight, only to lose him in the cover of Mark’s majestic spruces. “Turn off the spotlight and turn on the heat sensor,” yelled the pilot.
His partner peered through the heat-sensing goggles that had been rigged onto the dashboard. “I’m not picking up any signals,” he yelled. The helicopter committed a risky 180-degree maneuver; the co-pilot was almost thrown overboard. “Goddammit, keep her steady, Chuck.”