Which left Polly.
Keeping her from reading was a given—unless, of course, it was romance novels or tabloids. The poetry collection on her nightstand required constant surveillance and was tolerable only when it buried her Bible. Occasionally, the Grimpkin managed the malfunction of small appliances. A backed up toilet or leaky faucet did wonders for morale. And by all means, they must limit the subject’s contact with the Elements. Mulch under her nails and oxygen in her lungs could be lethal.
Then there was the Great Oz himself.
A retired muralist, and something of a geriatric saint to the neighborhood, Mr. Lewis Crupp lived next door to the Paines. His pinwheels and ceramic pottery were the rage in Gumtree. The geezer’s relentless cheer had felled not a few devils, most recently, Gorge and Tworn. A comedy troupe envisioned by Crupp conspired under their watch. MephistoFools consisted of several of his disciples, made the club circuit and cut a CD, and Pederman demoted the imps to a Siberian coalmine to brush up on their skills. From then on, Grimpkin referred to this as being crupped.
History was not on their side. Either way, Brichard’s corps had their work cut out for them.
AS POLLY PREPARED FOR THE GYM, Brichard and Goin reprimanded Sprocket for his impertinence and admonished him regarding his role on the team. A newfound solidarity, compounded by the promise of advance, seemed to galvanize the troops. The ring was within reach and they all sensed it. With that, Brichard and Goin attached themselves to the subject for what had become her tortured trek to the local health spa.
The gym was a labyrinth of capacious mirrors and token posers. “Bind ‘em with their own chains,” Pederman would say. And mortals were nowhere more bound than when entangled in themselves. Vanity and self-pity—symptoms of the same defect—could cannibalize the best of specimens.
Polly stuffed her belongings in a locker and headed for a treadmill. She was mulling the monthly fee, which emboldened Brichard. Canceling the damned membership would surely send her spiraling. But as she eyed the lineup of machines, he quavered. Inspiration came to her on the treadmill once—a great Spark that started a Story. He’d have to maneuver someone her way, force her to disengage. That old chatterbox, Mrs. Malloy, would accommodate. And Polly’s mystery man, that ego swollen math teacher, usually sent her spiraling.
As Goin slunk from her shoulder in search of reinforcements, Brichard unfolded himself and began threading her, lobbing thoughts into Polly’s brainframe. “Look at yourself,” he whispered. “You’re a moose in those tights. Keep it up, Ms. Thunder Thighs, and you’ll be wearing a tent. Really, do you think Garland cares? He hasn’t touched you in weeks, if that’s any indication.” Brichard continued the shelling, closing in on her cerebrations. “You’re behind on the chores—like, way behind. Spring is for cleaning, but by the looks of it, you’re stuck in summer. Last summer. And face it—being here only makes it worse. Tsk, tsk. Maybe it is time to bail. Quitting the gym will give you time at home . . . but of course, it’s also liable to land you in a size 16. You’re a mess, girl. A flippin’ mess!”
But Polly mounted the treadmill, unfazed, and started limbering up.
Curses! He’d have to chance it. Brichard burrowed deeper and took aim at her passion. “Forget the contest, Luv. You’re just not there. Nathan’s grades are way below average and Matty needs, well, lots more hugging. You don’t want him to turn into that Williams’ boy, do you? Then you’d best drop it. Who’re you kidding, anyway? That Honorable Mention was a fluke. It’s one and done for Polly P.” He was walking on thin ice bringing up the contest. Nevertheless, with her optimism already maimed and her muse incarcerated, a frontal assault could finish her off. “Nothing’s new under the sun. Grief, redemption, self-worth—boring! Face it, you’ve got nothing original. You’re a housewife, Sweets. Nora Roberts you ain’t.”
In mid-stretch, Polly suddenly froze, as did Brichard. An Idea streaked through her brainways with such ferocity that he had to extricate himself. Tumbling free, he landed on his noggin and sat dazed. Had the Idea grazed him, he could’ve lost a limb. The near miss left him shaken and more than a little worried. Polly took a deep breath and began walking, pumping her arms, waking the treadmill from its hibernation. Rapidly re-scaling the subject, Brichard scanned the gym.
Where is Goin?
He reasserted himself into Polly’s head, the trench still warm from his previous incursion. Luckily, she’d forgotten her iPod. The prattle of the TV near the stationary bikes combined with the R&B in the house speakers formed a frenetic concoction inside her. Unable to drown it out, Polly intensified her march, forcing herself to focus.
“Reverse! That’s what you’re stuck in—reverse!” Brichard’s tone was shrill. “It’s the calm before the storm; the dying gasp of a fat, uninspired, degenerate loser. You can’t beat it, babe—it’s fate, predestination, genetic inevitability. Just surrender.”
She wrinkled her brow and looked sideways at the man next to her: some nerd with a yellow headband and ankle weights, flailing on the treadmill as if trying to impress. Before he could return her bemused gaze, she looked away, shifted gears and started jogging. In a few minutes, she would be impermeable.
Brichard reared back, preparing for one final blitz, when a libido surge broke her rhythm. He swiveled his head, in search of the possible cause. The math teacher strode their way with Goin draped across his shoulders, beaming and trailing drool.
Her hard-fought momentum fizzled and Polly wilted.
Mr. Math approached the vacant treadmill next to her, pumping his arms across his chest. He looked at Polly, and then did a double-take.
“Patty? No, Polly. Wasn’t it?” They both laughed.
Goin peeked over the man’s head, saluted Brichard and howled. It was all downhill from there.
THE FREIGHT OF GUILT and self-torment was in full swing. Polly slouched at the computer in her robe and slippers, twirling a lock of hair. Yesterday’s flirtatious buzz had given way to shame, and Brichard rubbed it in. With his help, she had excavated some old outlines. But their impotence, combined with his accusatory onslaught, left her vapid. At the rate it was going, Polly would not be entering that contest.
But they had to keep the pressure on.
Goin and Sprocket mesmerized the boys with the television and managed to keep them intermittently sparring. After grumbling about her writing fixation, Garland huffed into the garage to tinker with his truck and listen to the NASCAR feed. And down below, Molemin kept a vigilant eye on the dying fairies.
Brichard remained in Polly’s head all morning, enflaming and then savoring the fatigue. Her plunge was almost laughable and he entertained himself with repeated volleys off her conscience. The landscape of her imagination grew bleak, shards of creativity ebbing into debris across the battlefield.
He had settled into the sweetest of nightmares when she suddenly bolted from the desk, extricating him with a brief, unexpected prayer.
At the sound of the commotion, Goin and Sprocket hustled around the corner to see what happened. They raced to Brichard’s side and stood, sniffing at the air, panic slowly suffusing their features.
“No—” Sprocket wrung his wattled hands.
Brichard smelled himself and winced. He stank of supplication. “She didn’t . . . ” Goin went pallid.
But Brichard jumped to his feet and frantically scanned the room. The front door was open. They exchanged horrified, gaping stares and then rushed to it.
A gentle rain had fallen in the night, leaving the aroma of earth mingled with a scent of jasmine. The Grimpkin recoiled. Sunlight washed the porch, fetching fractals from spider webs and dewy grass blades. Birds bustled in the trees and voices murmured nearby.
“No!” Brichard flung himself into the maelstrom.
Polly stood at the fence holding the newspaper, talking to Mr. Lewis Crupp. Thinning grey hair drawn into a pony, the old man was crowned by five fully lit muses.
Goin and Sprocket skidded into Brichard who stood curling his s
nout at the infernal pixies.
“You let ‘er slip.” Goin growled. “Maybe I should’a been in charge.” “This is bad,” Sprocket whimpered. “Real bad.”
“Knock it off! Get a hold of yourselves.” The Adversary was gaining ground—they had to move quickly. “One in each ear,” he barked. “Start a thread. Sprocket, far side. Goin, near. Move it!”
Yet Sprocket shuffled backward with his eyes bugging.
Why did Brichard always get the greenhorns? He signaled Goin and they seized Sprocket and dragged him to Polly’s feet.
“Can it, Grimpkin!” Brichard ordered. “Get a spine—now—or you’re kindling!”
Sprocket continued blubbering, squirming in their grasp, as they ascended the subject. They reached the summit and, fighting off museglow, turned toward Mr. Lewis Crupp. The muses hovered over the old man’s head in formation, glaring at them. Unlike Grimpkin, unity was a natural trait of the sprites. And, just as Brichard feared, Polly was talking about the writing contest.
“It seems I’ve lost it, Lewis. I just don’t have any creative energy.” She smiled—the wan, lifeless smile that Brichard cherished. “Maybe I used it all up the last contest. I’m a one-hit wonder.”
Crupp chuckled, reached over the fence and took her hand. “Creativity, you have,” he said in a sappy empathetic tone. “Energy?” He patted her hand. “You just need a recharge.”
“Hurry!” Brichard shouted. “Plug her!”
Sprocket stumbled back as Brichard and Goin suctioned themselves to Polly’s ears. With no time for subtlety, they vomited condemnatory static into her head. Yet it was too late. The muses were preparing to dive.
“I’ll drop by a little later and bring you some,” Crupp leaned forward and whispered, “Inspiration.”
Ripples of hope lapped the shoreline of her psyche, sent out from some hideous, uncharted spring. Brichard and Goin quickly uncorked themselves as Sprocket shrieked and dove to the ground. The muses rose in formation, luminescent in alliance, and dove. The Grimpkin plunged to the ground and landed near Sprocket, who stood dithering. Polly rushed past them, newspaper under her arm, fuzzy blue slippers slapping the walkway. The encounter left her sparkling.
What’s worse, something roiled inside her, something ancient and wild which had been dormant for so long. It was a storm—a Brainstorm.
THE GLOWING HUDDLE WA S A SLAP in the face, evidence of the turning tide. Quickened by Polly’s interaction with Crupp, the imprisoned muses, now reignited, stood anxious and incandescent. The Grimpkin milled about in the shadows.
Brichard did not have Pederman’s rhetorical skills, and wasn’t fool enough to fake it. But they needed to regroup. Despite the setback, their strongholds remained intact and could still be exploited. Thanks to her penchant for penance, Polly’s guilt, though scabbed over, could be reopened with relative ease. Between Garland’s lethargy, Nathan’s hyperactivity and, most of all, Cecly’s confinement, the troops rallied behind Brichard.
He led them inside and was relieved to see Polly sitting at the kitchen table with Garland, drinking coffee and reading the paper. World news rarely induced Light, so they left her contemplating nuclear escalation and random acts of violence. With the kids still sleeping, they assailed Garland. In a few minutes, the numbskull began grumbling about his breakfast and a shortage of clean socks. However, Polly did not take the bait and he stormed away from the table leaving them to devise a plan of attack.
After accusing Brichard of mishandling the campaign, Goin suggested they Cap the subject. Upon mention, the troops became noticeably restless. The Duncecap maneuver, developed by the ancient djinn, was seldom used and potentially perilous for inexperienced demons like themselves. The move required a Grimpkin to fasten itself over a mortal’s brainbucket, fully encasing the cranium and gradually asphyxiating Thought. Many victims eventually went mad. However, the move was exhausting and, occasionally, incapacitating for the assailant.
Brichard ignored the suggestion, all the while sensing a mounting inevitability.
With Garland pouting in the garage, Goin and Sprocket scurried into the boys’ rooms. The brats were stirring and, if something erupted early, the momentum could carry them through the day. Nothing like starting things off on the wrong foot. Brichard remained with Polly as she cleaned the kitchen. The tension between her and Garland, combined with the drudgery of housework, stripped her of any leftover Light.
Then there was a ray of hope.
“Mom!” Matty shouted from his bedroom. “Nathan’s bugging me!” Brichard stood poised, studying Polly’s response.
A thump followed by muffled cries sounded. “Mmm . . . om!”
Polly pursed her lips and grew rigid, her hackles undulating. She tossed the washrag in the sink and marched down the hall with Brichard at her heels. The boys lay in a tangled heap on the floor with Matty attempting to pry his brother free. “Nate won’t . . . leave me . . . alone.” Polly stood in the doorway with her arms crossed, boiling with inarticulate anger.
Brichard nodded to Goin and Sprocket who leaned against the toy box, snickering. Then they braced for Polly’s meltdown.
She wiped her hands together, stepped over the toppled lamp, and pinched Nathan’s ear, pulling him to his feet. “Let’s go, Mister.” The Grimpkin bustled behind as Polly led Nathan to his room and pointed him to the bed. “This has gone on too long, Nate. There’s going be some changes around here.”
Brichard swallowed hard and looked nervously at his colleagues as Polly walked to the TV, knelt down and snapped the plug from its socket. “No!” Brichard shrieked.
“One week,” Polly said coolly. “No TV. No video games.”
Nathan flung himself backward and lay limp on the bed. “Mom,” he whined. “Then what am I supposed to do?”
“Well, for starters, you can clean your room.” “What about Matty?”
“Same goes for him. Look,” she motioned to the bookshelves. “You have all kinds of books. You have sketch pads from last Christmas and a pencil set that’s barely used. Well, now’s your chance. Read or draw or play outside— I don’t care. But I’m tired of you sitting around all day, fighting and bickering, hypnotized by that darned televison. You’re bored, Nate.”
Matty sheepishly wandered in, flashed a guilty look at his brother and hugged Polly’s thighs. She ruffled his hair and her voice softened. “I’ve got a project I’m starting and I need you guys’ cooperation. Please, I know you can.”
Nathan rose, moped to her side and she hugged both of them.
Brichard looked away in disgust and Sprocket slumped to the ground, whimpering.
Suddenly, a knock at the front door sounded that sent Sprocket lunging for cover under the bed. “It’s him! It’s him!”
Polly patted the boys’ heads and left the room, a newfound lilt in her step. Brichard and Goin followed her and rounded the corner to see Mr. Lewis Crupp on the porch, smiling and bearing gifts. Museglow, mingled with sunlight, slashed the must with a hideous brilliance. With it came the warble of lyres and flutes, accompanied by the decadent chatter of joyous hordes. The old man had brought reinforcements.
Brichard crouched into a fighting stance and bared his teeth at the gleaming squadron of muses.
“I’ve got a little something,” Crupp said. “To help with that Imagination of yours.” He extended some potted flowers and a container of liquid. “Daffodils and apple juice—juiced it myself.”
Polly tipped her head back and laughed. “Oh, I love it! Thank you, so much.” She hugged him and, as she did so, muses cascaded about her in giddy abandon. “I’m sure this will help.” She took the gifts and thanked him again. As he left, Polly spun around and tapped the door shut with her heel. Then Brichard watched in horror as she buried her nose in the flowers and drew a deep breath.
This meant war.
He turned to Goin. “Get Sprocket in here now. If we don’t do something, we’re toast.”
Polly walked into the den and set the daffodils near
her computer. Then she took the juice to the kitchen, poured a glass and chugged it. It would take more than one glass of juice to undo the sediment of potato chips and ice cream. But, as he feared, she went straight to the computer.
Goin emerged with Sprocket, who was now twitching uncontrollably. “He’s gone,” Brichard said curtly.
Polly gathered some notes while the Grimpkin looked on, mulling the moment, sensing the ominous gathering of forces greater than theirs.
“Our last stand will be here.” He stepped to the fore, bristling with resolve. “We’ve fought side by side, through adversity and loss, and here we stand comrades in arms.” Goin and Sprocket glanced at each other, brows creased with incredulity. “We’ve suffered defeat, yes, but we’ve also inflicted pain. This is our destiny, our glory—to crush the arm of the Adversary, to hail mediocrity, to lessen the Light of mortals. In that only can we find honor.” Brichard glared at them, commanding the silence, rapt by his own outburst of eloquence. “We are the offspring of Legion and Beelzebub and the gods of old; we are heirs to the plunder of thrones, recipient to the ruination of souls, surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses. Let us remember our heritage and steel ourselves!” His voice swelled with manic confidence. “Today,” Brichard growled. “Today we become devils.”
Sprocket dabbed his eyes with his paw and they stood spellbound, awaiting orders.
Brichard glanced over his shoulder at Polly. “Forget the brats. Forget
Garland. It’s just us against her.”
She settled in at her desk, closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. The daffodils had drugged the air with a heady fragrance. Yet she would need every particle to withstand their barrage. After huddling in conversation, Goin and Sprocket attached themselves to the subject and began worming into her mind. Brichard scrabbled upwards and crouched atop Polly’s head. He paused there with a type of tremulous dignity, then unfolded himself and prepared to Cap her.
Polly abruptly stopped and probed the back of her neck with her fingertips.
MIdnight Diner 1: Jesus vs. Cthulhu Page 8