The Monster's Corner

by Christopher Golden

  is for Quetzalcoatl. Look up in the night sky: The moon has become a shimmering silver rose, its petals formed by the wings of the hundreds—maybe thousands—of clichéd angels that are perched around it, looking down like spectators into an arena. They are watching as Quetzalcoatl, three times the size of an airplane, pumps his mammoth pterosaurian wings and flies in wide, graceful circles. He is not alone; a WWII German pursuit plane with twin machine guns mounted on its wings—a latter version of the 1916 model designed by Anthony Herman Gerard Fokker—is engaged in an intense but playful dogfight with the flying reptile. The plane turns in tight, precise maneuvers as Quetzalcoatl attacks it from below. The machine guns strafe without mercy or sound, a silent-film prop spitting out bursts of sparking light, firing off round after round. Quetzalcoatl remembers the ancient people of Mexico and their worship. He remembers Tezcatlipoca and wonders how his brother is doing these days. Probably has a cushy gig like he always wanted. Is probably still worshipped. Doesn’t have to keep himself alive by working a two-bit outfit like the Circus of the Forgotten Gods. But Quetzalcoatl shakes himself from this bittersweet reverie; Baron Manfred Albrecht von Richthofen, former leader of Das Jagdgeschwader—the “Flying Circus”—how was that for irony?—nearly clipped his left wing. Quetzalcoatl banks left, avoiding a serious collision, and decides that he should have believed the Earth Mother, he should have paid more attention to Uitzilopochtli, should have heeded the Eater of Filth, and definitely should have listened to Coatlicue even though her twin-serpent-heads face made him laugh: They had all been right. Karma sucks the Imperial Wanger.

  R

  is for Remnants. Some of what you’re reading is composed of Remnants of other, long- and best-forgotten stories that They Who Are Dictating This to Me particularly enjoyed and so demanded I work them in here; some of what you’re reading is from stories I haven’t written yet but will/may write. They Who Are Dictating This to Me say that this is a done deal. Some of what you are reading is directly from them. Some of it is the truth; more than a little of it is lies. I am nothing but a being of flesh, bone, blood, grief, anger, carbon—just call me a lump of matter—which is, by its very design, designed to move toward its own disintegration from the moment it comes into existence. Dig this: Matter is composed of atoms, which are made in turn from quarks and electrons—but all particles, if you look closer, are birthed from tiny loops of vibrating string; everything at its most microscopic level is composed of these vibrating strands, they encompass all forces and all matter; look closer still at a single string and you realize that, if isolated, it is nothing more than a Remnant. Everything in the multiverse can be reduced to a Remnant. Especially the fragmented past, which runs concurrently with what came after—this moment, for instance, which has now passed—as well as the pre-past and the illusionary Now and the unknowable After-now, sometimes called the Future, all of it held together by tiny vibrations of isolated Remnants giving birth to electrons and quarks. And it’s all so fragile, more fragile than any of us will ever want to know, let alone believe. The fragmented Remnants that encompass all are not vibrating at the same intensity; they are becoming more rapid as the multiverse dances, dances, dances. But let’s bring it back down to the concrete and indoor carpeting. Here is a Remnant: In October of 2002 I died by my own hand. I was forty-three years old and it was the fifth time in my life that I’d planned out my own disintegration, the third time I’d attempted to keep that appointment in Samarra, and the first time I’d actually succeeded. I stood there looking down at my body as it finished convulsing on the bed in the hotel room I’d rented. I remember thinking that I should have felt something, but could summon no emotion whatsoever. Then another Remnant—this one in the form of a dab tsog from Hmong myth—appeared, squatting on my chest, misshapen beyond anything I’d ever seen before. Even though I was no longer in my body, I could feel its weight on my chest. It looked over my shoulder, smiled at me, then turned back to my body and rammed its entire arm down my throat. I could feel its arm inside of me, and when it yanked out that arm, the incredible violence of the act pulled me back into myself and I pushed it off my chest and fell off the bed and managed to make it to the bathroom to vomit in the toilet. Afterward, as I knelt in front of the commode, resting my head against the cool, cool porcelain rim, the dab tsog jumped onto the lid of the toilet tank, reached down, and grabbed a handful of my hair so as to pull up my head and look me in the eyes. “Next time,” it said, its voice the sound of rusted nails being wrenched from rotted wood, “when you go looking to inflict and experience anguish, remember that anguish is already busy with weaker men.” Then it slammed my head against the tank and knocked me unconscious. If you have ever seen the cover to Ray Bradbury’s Long After Midnight, you’ll remember the reproduction of Johann Heinrich Füssli’s painting The Nightmare; that creature squatting on the sleeping woman’s chest looks a lot like the dab tsog that spoke to me. [Author’s Note: Is this one of mine? I can’t tell anymore. Did the creature know that it, too, was nothing more at its core than groups of vibrating string that appear to have no further internal substructure? Is this one of mine?] Remnants of the truth mix with those of Myth: Did we invent the monsters, like Baron Frankenstein, or did they invent us? Either way, who asked to be summoned from the darkness and made flesh? Show of hands? Yeah, that’s what I figured. I think they created us; I think we are another one of their great wonders [Author’s Note: See earlier note under I.], we are their Frankenstein’s monster, we are what happened when the vibrations of those strings reached the other side and enabled all forces and matter in the multiverse to dream, to imagine, to transcend. No wonder they despise us so: What beings wouldn’t be angry to discover that the myths they created have assumed control, that the inmates built from Remnants in their imagination have taken over the asylum, and they, the makers, the dreamers, they who imagined and envisioned and transcended us have been turned into sometimes-laughable Boogiemen [Author’s Note: See earlier entry under B.] that we’ve all but unbelieved out of physical existence? And what do you see now, I ask them, as you look at me, here at my keyboard, playing secretary to you? A man watches as a disease-riddled cat crawls toward a bowl of water. My God, what a joke it all seems. Like some weekday-morning television school for their preschoolers: Good morning, boys and ghouls, and welcome to the Monster’s Corner! Today our story is titled “And Still You Wonder Why Our First Impulse Is to Kill You,” and it’s all about how we created our monsters so we could scare them, and they liked it so much that they wrote stories and made movies, thinking they were inventing us, so that others like them would read and see and be frightened. But then—ooooh, spooky—things got a little out of hand … A dying cat crawls toward a bowl of water that it will never reach. The warm breath of a wolf tickles the scalp of a small boy [see earlier notes under L and D]. A writer continues pounding away at the keys long after his imagination has abandoned him, taking with it his soul [see earlier note under O], so he is reduced to being both creator and monster, picking over the rotting carcasses of some long-forgotten pieces and some that are yet to be written in order to make a deadline i like deadlines i like the little whoosh they make as they pass by and what is left after that, what is left but one monster facing the other and neither of them one-hundred-percent certain of who invented whom, but it’s not looking good for our side, folks, you can quote Gary B. on that, take it to the bank, because would I lie to you?—okay, all I do is lie, I’ve got over twenty thousand pages of lies that I chose to tell you instead of living my life as well as possible, but mixing lies with truth and truth with lies is what I do, it’s what they have me do, here in the Monster’s Corner [Weekday mornings, 8:30 A.M. Check local listings] and I can’t help but do as they dream, as they imagine, because --------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------- ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
--------------------- dead now dead now gary’s all gone we couldn’t listen to him anymore he was soooooooo depressing don’t you think and these keys are funny things how is you manage to separateallthwordssothat everything-makessense???????????????????? Blood on the floor his blood is on the floor and we bet his last thought was filled with regret see earlier note under h or is it f we hadto do it because these things we decided must never seeprint it is ourbookof forbidden knowledge and the first forbidden knowledge of our book is that we created you and you must not everknow that must go on thinking you invented us because what fun is it otherwise no fun at all just a bunch of strings vibrating happily along and we’re all out of time here at the monster’s corner for stories w hope to see you all back here tomorrow so as they see earlier note under t come to finish the job we”llll call up the glop see earlier note under g to take us out on the usual note and here we go arrrrrrg gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh -------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------

  * * *

  this one with deepest respect and admiration is for in alphabetical order ellen datlow harlan ellison neil gaiman caitlin kiernan kelly link peter straub and the goddesss they call Scheherazade joyce carol oates [Author’s Note: Did I write that or did they imagine me writing that? I wish I --------------------------------------------------------------------- -----------------------------------

  JESUS AND SATAN GO

  JOGGING IN THE DESERT

  By Simon R. Green

  SO, I CAME UP out of Hell, and I am here to tell you that after the Pit and the sulphur and the screams of the damned, the desert made a really nice change. Like a breath of fresh air. Don’t ask me which desert; the Holy Land was lousy with unwanted and uncared-for beachless property in those days. Just sand and rocks for as far as the eye could see, with a few lizards thrown in here and there, to break up the monotony. I allowed myself a little time out, to enjoy the peace and quiet; and then I went looking for Jesus.

  He wasn’t hard to find. Anyone else would have been sheltering in the shade, away from the fierce heat of the sun. Only the Son of God would be just ambling along, caught between the heat and a hard place, just because God told him to. I followed him for a while, careful to maintain a respectful distance, wondering how best to break the ice; so to speak. He really didn’t look good. Forty days and forty nights fasting in the desert had darkened his skin, made a mess of his hair, blackened his lips, and stripped all the fat off him. Still, he strode along easily enough, back straight and head held high. He stopped suddenly.

  “Well, Satan? Are you going to follow me all day, or shall we get on with it?”

  He looked back at me, grinning as he saw he’d caught me off guard. Don’t ask me how he knew I was there. I nodded quickly and hurried to catch up. His face was all skin and bone, but the smile on his cracked lips was real enough, and his eyes were full of a quiet mischief. Don’t let anyone tell you the Son of God didn’t have a sense of humour. We stood for a while and looked each other over. It had been a long time …

  “So,” Jesus said finally. “Satan; look at you! All dressed in white, and shining like a star!”

  “Well,” I said. “I always was the most beautiful. I like what you’ve done with the loincloth. Really stresses the humility.”

  “How is it that you’re out of Hell?” said Jesus. Not accusing, you’ll note, just genuinely interested.

  “I’m allowed out, now and again,” I said. “When He’s got a point He wants to make. But He always keeps me on a tight leash. Sometimes I think He only lets me out so Hell will seem that much worse, when I have to go back.”

  “No,” said Jesus. “That’s not how He works. Our Father is many things, but He’s not petty.”

  I shrugged. “You know Him better than I do, these days. Anyway, I’ve been called up here to tempt you. To test your strength of will, for what’s to come.”

  Jesus gave me a hard look. “Forty days and forty nights, boiling by day and freezing by night, and only bloody lizards for company; and that’s not enough of a test of willpower?”

  I shrugged again. “Don’t look at me. I don’t make the rules. Our Father moves in mysterious ways.”

  Jesus sniffed loudly. “Aren’t you supposed to be out and about, tempting mankind into sin?”

  “Don’t you believe it,” I said. “They don’t need me. Most men sin like they breathe. Some of them actually get up early, just so they can fit in more sins before the end of the day. I don’t have to tempt men into falling; I have to beat them off with a stick at the Gates of Hell, just to get them to form an orderly queue.”

  “Boasting again,” said Jesus. “You are a proud and arrogant creature, and the Truth is not in you. But you do tell a good tale.”

  “All right, maybe I do indulge in a little tempting, now and again,” I said. “Mostly for the ones too dumb to know a good opportunity when they see one. But … Just look at the world He gave them! A paradise, a beautiful land under a magnificent sky, food and water ready to hand; all right, not here, but I think He threw in the deserts just so they’d appreciate the rest of it.”

  “Even the desert is beautiful,” said Jesus. And even after forty days and nights of suffering, he could still say that, and mean it. You could tell. “It’s calm here,” he said. “Serene, peaceful, untroubled. Everything in its place. There is beauty here, for those with the eyes to see it.”

  “You’re just glad to get away from all the noise,” I said knowingly. “All the voices, all the crowds and their demands, all the pressure … Go on; admit it!”

  “All right, I admit it,” he said easily. “I’m only human … some of the time. I came to this world to spread my teachings, not amuse the crowds with miracles. But you have to get their attention first …”

  “I have to ask,” I said. “Why do you bother? All they ever do is whine and squabble and fight over things they could just as easily share. They don’t need me … pathetic bunch of losers. I do love to see them fall; because every failed life and lost soul is just another proof that I was right about them, all along.”

  Jesus looked at me sadly. “All this time, and you still don’t get it. All right; let’s get on with the temptations. What are you going to offer me first? Riches? Power? A nice new loincloth? I have all I need, and all I want.”

  “I’m here to show you all the things you could have, and all the things you could be,” I said as earnestly as I knew how. “The things you’re throwing away because your vision’s so narrow.”

  He was already shaking his head. “You’re talking about earthly things. Why are you doing this, Satan? You must know you won’t succeed?”

  “Hey,” I said. “It’s the job. And never say never. I have to try … to make you see the light.”

  “Why?” said Jesus. “So that if I fall … you won’t feel so alone?”

  “Look at you,” I said, honestly angry for a moment. “You’re a mess. You could be King of the Jews, King of the World; and here you are, wandering around in the backside of nowhere, burned and blackened, and stinking so bad even the lizards won’t come anywhere near you. You’re better than this. You deserve better than this! Come on; after forty days and nights of fasting, your stomach must think your throat’s been cut. Turn some of these stones into loaves of bread and take the edge off, so we can talk properly. Enough is enough.”

  “Man shall not live by bread alone,” said Jesus, “but by every word God utters. Faith will restore you, long after bread is gone.”

  “Is this another of those bloody parables?” I said suspiciously.

  He sighed. “I can’t help feeling one of us is missing the point here.”

  I looked out across the desert. Blank and empty, hard and unyielding. “Why did you agree to come out into this awful place? You couldn’t have fasted at home?”

  “Too many interruptions,” he said. “Too many distractions.
Too many people wanting this and needing that. I’m out here to think, to meditate, to understand where I’m going, and why.”

  I snapped my fingers, and just like that we were transported to the Holy City. Don’t ask which one; believe me when I tell you none of the cities were much to talk about, back then. I appeared both of us right at the top of the pinnacle of the temple. A long way up. And down. We both clung tightly to the pinnacle, with both hands. There was a strong wind blowing. Jesus glared at me.

  “What are we doing here? How am I supposed to meditate all the way up here? Take me back to the desert!”

  “Tempting first,” I said. “You want people to look up to you, don’t you? You said yourself; you have to do the miracles, to get their attention. So; throw yourself down from here. All the way down … and God will send His angels to catch you, and lower you safely to the ground. Now that would be a real showstopper of a miracle. No one would doubt you really are who you say you are, after that.”

  He clung tightly to the pinnacle, with a surprising amount of dignity, carefully not looking down. The wind blew his long messy hair into his face, but he still met my gaze firmly. “You don’t put God to the test. It’s all about faith.”

  “But He wouldn’t really let you get hurt; would He?”

  “He doesn’t interfere directly in the world; not even for me. Because if He did, that would be the end of free will, right there and then.”

  “Free will,” I said. I felt like spitting, but the wind was blowing right at me. “Wasted on mankind. But, all right, on with the tempting. We’ve got better places to be.”

  Another snap of the fingers, and we were standing on the top of the highest mountain in the Holy Land. Which wasn’t much, as mountains go, but still, a nice view whichever way you looked. I had to jazz it up a bit, because I had a point to make. I gestured grandly about us.

  “See! All the kingdoms of the world, laid out before you! All of this I will give to you, to do with as you wish. Protect the people, care for them, raise them up, make them worthy! I will make you King of all the World, including a whole bunch of places you don’t even know exist yet, if you’ll just bow down and worship me. Instead of Him.”