personal:
polygamous
hometown:
Avila, Spain
hobbies:
concubinage, commerce, fornication
food/bev:
steak tartare, breast milk
life goal:
dominion, reacquire stolen gold
fav movie:
The Pit and the Pendulum
obscurity:
as a demonically-possessed captain of industry, Quiroga has a supernatural understanding of market fluctuations, and has amassed a fortune of nearly eight billion dollars
July 24, 2011
Seville, Spain
Bruce Wheeler
I didn’t know what to expect. Not this: a fireplace-lit moldering study that might have been fashionable some decades ago; two metro Seville policemen done up in riot gear carrying automatic weapons; and one old man.
If he had passed me on the street, I’m not sure he would have stood out in any physical sense. He was neither thin nor fat, tall nor short. He wore a gray suit and a tie, and wire-rimmed glasses. All things considered, except for the petrifying odor and aura of desolation, he could have been mistaken for an elderly businessman. But he wasn’t. He was Gaspar Quiroga, the five-hundred-year-old demonically-possessed Grand Inquisitor of Spain.
“I haven’t much time,” he said as he tossed a pile of reusable grocery bags onto the floor. “I’m to be married today. The lady in question is fairly begging to feel my spirit inside her.”
Hard as it was to look away, I stole a glance at the bags – they were from SuperSol, the popular chain where I did most of my food shopping. “Those are for your heads,” he explained, “if I don’t get what I want within the minute.”
Cuellar collapsed and began to grovel. I heard some Hail Marys, but most of it was begging, which was really too bad because he wasn’t helping things. For some reason, I couldn’t take my eyes off the grocery bags.
Quiroga smiled warmly, taking us in one by one. “My children.” He nodded to Naya who backed away, and to Duran who didn’t move. “Welcome home.” Moving on to Negromonte, “you, I have not yet met. But I’m grateful for the opportunity. And you,” moving on to me, “I’ve been waiting a long time for you to join me.”
“I didn’t come to join you,” I said, but he just nodded.
“You did. You did.” One of the policemen came at me fast, sweeping my feet with a baton and dropping me flat on my back.
“You went down almost as easily as your Michelle did, though she was more eager. Quite adept with her tongue, she was.”
I tried to catch my breath as the policeman flipped me over and searched me. I had hidden the Malleus Momias book in the inseam of my jacket, and it took him about four seconds to find it. Dutifully, he delivered it to Quiroga.
Quiroga regarded the book solemnly, turning the pages carefully as if they might crumble in his hands. “I had no notion it even existed. Rumors, yes, but I thought them just that.” He spent a few moments staring at the text as I regained my breath. Cuellar had groveled his way closer and now hung at his leg.
“Something of a tumi, the sword of the Indians, was also mentioned in your communications. Give it to me.”
I shook my head, but a more thorough and considerably more painful search led to the discovery of the tumi in my sock, and its pulverization beneath a police boot. All the trouble that Leon had gone to in finding it was now for nothing. I looked down in horror. There was nothing but dust left. My heart fell, realizing that it was all hopeless now. I would fail.
Quiroga laughed; it was little more than a giggle. He held up the book. “Then all you have are words.” He shook his head. “Don’t misunderstand, I know how powerful words can be. Precautions must be taken in case you have memorized the text.” He nodded, and the nearest policeman began winding a roll of tape around my head, shutting my mouth.
At that, Quiroga held up my precious and hard-won Malleus Momias book and tossed it into the fireplace. It caught the flame immediately and began to burn brightly. “Now then,” he continued, “as to revealing the location of my gold, or removing your heads, which shall we do first?”
“A moment, good sir,” Cuellar interrupted. He turned to me and brought forth an unexpected nugget of wisdom. “A memory from my days in seminary. Our teacher, the good Father, reminded us that the rosaries, like the crucifixes we wore, were nothing but props. Faith lies in our hearts, our prayers, our words, not in beads nor sticks of wood.” He gestured to the pile of sawdust that had been the tumi. “Perhaps the same can be said of this.”
What happened next happened so quickly that I still have trouble piecing it together. As one policeman hauled me up to my knees and produced a serrated knife, Duran turned to our host and pulled the trigger of that ancient gun he’d been hauling around. “This one is for you, Sopay,” he growled, but it produced nothing but a tiny wisp of smoke.
Quiroga frowned. Then Negromonte shot one of the policemen as my precious Naya crushed the skull of the other.
Finding himself outnumbered, Quiroga lowered his gaze and began petting Cuellar’s hair. “There, there,” he said turning to watch the book burn in the fireplace, “forgiveness can be at hand, my son. Let us understand that nothing left in this world can hurt me. Now… as to my gold.”
Negromonte shot him but he didn’t even flinch. I’m not certain he noticed. I was focused on getting the tape off my mouth but it wasn’t happening too easily.
I didn’t see Duran step around me, but he must have. Sword drawn, he came at the old man and drove the blade deep into his abdomen, pinning him to the desk. “Vasco,” Duran called out, “Vasco, I’m a swordsman after all.”
There was no more grinning at this point. I heard something guttural emanate from the old man, something not quite human. He struggled as his skin began to crack.
“Santo demonios,” Cuellar moaned, “Santo Sopay.”
Duran stood his ground as Quiroga, the demon inside him enraged, strode purposefully towards him. Still pinned to the antique desk by the sword, the hilt pressed against his stomach like a giant belt buckle, he pulled the desk along with him as if it were no inconvenience.
Negromonte emptied his gun to no effect. Naya stood frozen at my side, a policeman’s head in one hand. Duran grinned. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this, Sopay.”
I, for my part, did the only thing I could do. Maybe the tumi was nothing but an accessory after all. I opened my laptop and clicked the mouse, hoping Cuellar had been right.
What rang out through my speakers were just words, of course. But throughout human history, words have had the power to move mountains, to forge alliances, to alter destinies, and to vanquish evil. The transcription of the Malleus Momias I uploaded to the internet made those words available to anyone on the planet. It was a fitful yet melodic tongue, and I had recorded the words as best I could.
Those words might provide some comfort to a Peruvian cane farmer who might still shut his windows against the cool night rather than stare any longer at the pyramids of old. Those words might provide some solace to a dynasty of gypsies long overdue their reward. Those words might ease the sorrows of men and women transformed against their will to something not of their choosing. Those words were the salvation of a historian and his undead friends who vanquished an evil long in need of vanquishing.
As soon as that Sopay understood what was happening, he extricated that sword from his abdomen and hurled it at my head. I’d not be telling this tale had not Duran sacrificed his left hand in catching it. “That’s just one more thing,” he conceded as he retrieved his hand from the floor.
And he might have made it, that Sopay. He might have made it out of the room, out of the range of my puny laptop speakers had Cuellar not clung tightly to his leg. Not so easy to dislodge as a Toledo sword, Cuellar was a creature of his making – an undead priest, strong in body and conviction.
“Forgive me, Father,” Vasco Cuellar howled, holding tightly as the demon scr
eamed and writhed himself out of existence. “I have been sinning for a very long time.”
July 25, 2011
Seville, Spain
Leon Samples
The tenth best thing about this whole experience is staying in the penthouse suites at the Gran Melia Colon, one of Seville’s finest hotels. We have the whole floor. All things considered, we need the privacy. A discreet surgeon looked after our modest bumps and scrapes, the wounds of our battle while I drank Tequila and cherry soda. I thought about having a Mojito, but in the end, I decided against it.
The ninth best thing was Bruce having the foresight to make sure Naya, Duran, and Cuellar were wearing earplugs during our siege of the Alcazar. Otherwise, it would have been curtains for them too when that Malleus Momias recording came on. It’s not like we want a world free of walking mummies; we just want to get rid of the bad ones.
The eighth best thing was realizing that Bruce had uploaded that whole book to the internet. Malleus Momias was already being translated into other languages. Honestly, I have no idea what kind of problems the good folks in China, Portugal, the Philippines, and Turkmenistan are having with mummy uprisings. But they’ll be prepared.
The seventh best thing was watching Rafael Duran and Vasco Cuellar walk arm in arm past the Giralda Tower as we left the Alcazar. It was early morning by then, and we were all exhausted, but these two conquistadors carried a lot of the battle, and judging by the spring in their steps, I think they understand that.
The sixth best thing was shooting a scimitar-wielding eunuch guard who tried to kill me. I’ve never shot anyone before, nor come up against a eunuch of any kind bearing any sort of weapon. So I’m pleased that I didn’t choke under pressure.
The fifth best thing was filling my pockets with gold doubloons — real ones. Sopay/Quiroga’s desk drawer was full of them, so I helped myself. We did a little ransacking once the bad guys were down. Negromonte stationed a few of his men in the Alcazar apartments to keep things under wraps until we get back to sort out our new business affairs.
The fourth best thing was watching all those eunuch guards fall to the ground. Like all at once. The moment Bruce and company put that Sopay down, all of his minions fell apart. It’s not like they disintegrated or anything — they just more or less died, as did all the wives. And I know that’s not a thing to really be happy about, but there was something peaceful about it.
The third best thing about this whole experience was that Bruce’s new girl Naya agreed to take us to Sebastiano. And he’s really the only piece of this left. Only he knows where the gold is. Naya promised Bruce she’d take him to the gold, and she promised Bolivar the same thing almost two hundred years ago, so it’s time she did so. We’re heading out in the morning.
The second best thing was that I finally got to sleep with Kim Castillo. She isn’t quite herself, what with the dying and the cannibalism. But with Quiroga gone, it’s like some haze has been lifted. In any case, she is experiencing some rudimentary sense of gratitude, which she conveyed in a way that was meaningful to me. I asked her out afterwards, but she told me not to press my luck.
The best thing about this whole experience was not being castrated. Seriously, if you get through the day without having your balls cut off, then you’re a lot better off than you could have been.
Sebastiano Gota
age:
458
occupation:
missionary priest
education:
Holy Orders, Madrid Theological
personal:
celibate/single
hometown:
Caceres, Extremadura, Spain
hobbies:
charity
food/bev:
bread/wine
life goal:
salvation
fav movie:
has never seen a movie
obscurity:
has no tongue, wrote Malleus Momias
July 27, 2011
Seville, Spain
Bruce Wheeler
It took us two days to find Sebastiano. It was mid-afternoon when Naya led us to the old priest holding court at the San Fernando cemetery. Some distance from the monumental graves of poets and politicians, smaller plots marked the final resting places of orphans and the dispossessed.
A line of beggars, runaways, and gypsy women with children in tow led to the nondescript gravestone from which Sebastiano gave out his blessings and his alms. Behind him, an ageless hunchback tamped the earth over a grave which had been recently disturbed.
Not wanting to interrupt his ministry, we waited in the shade of a poplar, watching as the old priest doled out rings, wire, bits of filigree, even thin plates, all gold of course. As I suspected, the seventeen coffins that Sebastiano brought from Peru two centuries ago did not contain the bodies of priests, but rather the Inca gold that Duran and Cuellar hid in the pyramid, to cheat the Spanish King of his share.
As the line thinned and the grateful stragglers headed off to the jewelers of Seville to convert their treasures to cash, Naya made her way forward. The old priest fell to his knees when he saw her. He folded his arms around her legs and wept.
He made no sound as Naya explained the events of recent days, but some distress was evident when she told of the destruction of his greatest accomplishment, the Malleus Momias. Naya’s explanation of the internet, and the place the book now had in that realm, was slow to load. When he spoke, Sebastiano did little more than murmer, his tongue having been removed by Quiroga centuries ago, but Naya seemed to understand.
This was the last of the gold, only a few pieces remained. It had all been doled out, all that Inca treasure, over the last two hundred years to the needy, to the orphans of Seville.
Negromonte sighed as he rubbed the last few pieces between his fingers. “So much effort, for so little,” he said. “So in the end, we fail.”
But that wasn’t the case, of course. We didn’t fail. Sebastiano did the work of a priest, long after his dying day. And that is an accomplishment of a sort. And of course, we did find the gold. Duran let those few pieces slip through his remaining hand. He’d already taken his share, he reminded us. Vasco Cuellar bit a gold ring to be certain it was real, then swallowed it to be certain he would keep it.
We wouldn’t hurt for money. The last thing a demonically-possessed long-dead Inquisitor thinks about, apparently, is making a contingency plan. So we took his money. Quiroga’s company, Grupo Yapos Iberia, now drained of nearly six billion euros, would soon see the departure of its executives and the foreclosure of all its properties.
We would share the money. There was a lot of it. We had but one final duty here before we left the cemetery. Naya had insisted on it and ultimately, we reluctantly agreed. “It’s something he has been craving for centuries,” she told us.
So we waited as she explained to the old priest what had become of his words, so painstakingly recorded nearly five hundred years ago. And we waited still as she told him what that meant for him. When he finally understood, he wept openly, tears falling to the ground. He nodded once, then again and again as if he could not stop.
“He wants to say something first,” Naya told us, “but he doesn’t know how.” So I opened my laptop. Sebastiano was our number nine. We still had a place open on this, our last day of service from Blogspace9, and nobody deserved it more than he did. Naya would help guide his fingers on the keys, to make his last statement. Then when he was ready, she would guide his fingers to the mouse, and let the Malleus Momias guide him out of this world. Although we had just met, we said our goodbyes.
July 27, 2011
Seville, Spain
Fr. Sebastiano Gota
http:www.sebastiano.blogspace9.ex
Have mercy on my soul, My Lord, My God. Restore me to the joy of your salvation, and sustain in me a willing heart until they Kingdom Come. And it is my sincere desire that very soon thy Kingdom will Come.
Amen.
July 27, 2011
&n
bsp; Seville, Spain
Leon Samples
Father Vasco Cuellar pulled it together. He said a prayer for Sebastiano, his old protegee, as the old priest faded out of the world. I hope he will find some measure of peace.
Once Cuellar, Duran, and Naya again removed their earplugs, to avoid a similar fate, we returned to the hotel, to Kim, to Radu, to the minibar, to make plans for the future.
I’ll be returning to Peru, to that pyramid at Segovia. I’m an archaeologist after all, and what archaeologist doesn’t love a pyramid? Besides, there’s an imp there I want to learn more about. I can’t help thinking that we have a lot to know still about these little demon spawns, even if there are only a few of them left.
Kim won’t be coming with me, and I’m a little broken up about that. She’s going to spend some time in New York with Duran, and that’s OK. Of all the walking mummies, he’s probably the sanest, and he’s promised to counsel Kim in the way of things, in the way of their kind. That being said, Kim did assure me she’d visit me over Christmas to pick up where we left off. For now, I feel blessed.
Also, having split up the money, I’m almost a billionaire, so it’s hard to be too upset about anything. On the off-chance I need it for spring break or something, I just bought the Gran Melia Colon hotel. The largest penthouse suite is now my personal apartment, and the minibar is stocked with mescaline.
July 27, 2011
Seville, Spain
Bruce Wheeler
I found it heartbreaking, watching Sebastiano leave this world for provinces unknown. History shows us that any man can change the world, and for what it’s worth, this old priest changed it more than most. Not only did he feed the poor for two centuries, he helped vanquish some poorly-understood evil that had been lingering for a long time.
The Mummies of Blogspace9 Page 15