Fragment

“Spiders can’t be trusted. Their work is telling lies to people for seemingly nothing. You can’t trust a word out their fuggin’ mouths.”

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Fictional Reality

TW: Bigotry, specifically of the racist and homophobic variety

I do not know if it was actually called the Bashful Bigot. It could very well have been called that. There are people who think such a name for a bar housing primarily drunkards discussing the superiority of the White (with a capital “W”) race over the lesser people. Indeed, many of them would frequent such a bar. At the same time though, it could very well be a derisive nickname that stuck while its true name was lost to the sands of history like wood in a bonfire. Regardless, to call such a place a “bar” would be a bit of a lie. I’ve tried what they called alcohol and believe you me; it tastes more of Cod than of Ethanol.

Within five minutes of entering the Bashful Bigot, Billy was booted out. The only surprising aspect of this affair was the fact that he survived it. A black bisexual walks into a bar calling itself The Bashful Bigot and walks out with only minor injuries isn’t a thing that typically happens. One would expect him to, at the very least, be externally bleeding, but there were only a few bruises. Then again, Billy was known to be quick on his feet so perhaps that was what allowed his momentary survival. On the other hand, not hitting on the biggest guy in the room would have also helped in his survival. (In his defense, he probably thought the bar’s name was ironic, mostly because he recognized the man from The Flaming Wanker that, ironically, was burnt down two days prior.)

As Billy picked himself up, a rather peculiar gentleman walked up to him. There was an air of companionship to this man despite Billy never having met him in his life until that moment. The man was dressed in a pair of plaid shorts, wore a tan tee shirt with the words “Oh No, Not Again” written above what appeared to be a falling bowl of petunias. He had curly black hair (though it was starting to recede); a slightly thick beard dyed scarlet, and discolored eyes (one green the other teal). His smile was a bit toothier than one would expect.

But perhaps his most peculiar feature was that he looked to be well fed. This was an oddity for most people within the City, as the food supplies had gone down immensely ever since the larger food banks collapsed in the last economic crisis ten years back. The crisis was so large that it bankrupted all but two billionaires (both of whom, coincidentally, had controlling stock in the Fuzon Corporation, though one of them was reported to have committed suicide shortly before the dust settled, believing all was lost. Then again, it would be very easy for someone to make a murder look like a suicide). It could be that the man was from outside the City, though that was unlikely as only Spiders willingly went into the City, and the man lacked the outsider flair of a Spider. This would be one mystery that Billy would never discover the answer to.

“What the hell are you still doing here,” asked the man with a mischievous grin.

“I’m sorry,” cautiously replied Billy, “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“My apologies,” said the man slightly confused, “I’m Ryan.” Billy’s expression remained as it was. “Ryan Chack.” (…Ryan Chack is not a real person. Ryan Chack is a fictional character I made up. Not for this story mind you, I have tried my best to be as honest as I can possibly be, but Ryan Chack is not a real person. I wrote a couple stories in my youth wherein I would stick the character Ryan Chack in as a background feature, never once keeping his appearance the same in them. Sometimes he’d be a name on a list while others he’d be a delivery boy on an errand. Sort of a personal in-joke about a different story I liked, but can’t remember the name of. And yet, I met up with him in my time wandering the ruins of the City. He was a FtM guy then with the sides of his hair shaved in such a way as to make one question if it was a postmodern statement of the way appearances dictate how people view others or if it was just a shit haircut. He lost his arm [though I have no doubt he’ll grow it back] and had a tattoo of a snake eating its own tail with the hole it made being white. His eyes were blue like an ocean of corpses. He was wearing a ripped up red shirt that probably once belonged to someone who liked to golf. He approached me while I was looking for a cat my neighbor lost. She was a good cat and I found her shortly after I finished talking to Ryan. He tapped me on the shoulder and I jumped like a shotgun shell. He introduced himself and I called bullshit. To prove it, he quoted one of my short stories with him in it, one that I decided not to publish on the grounds that it was too… kinky. After coming down from an existential crisis over the revelation that my thoughts actually became reality like everyone else’s [“No, not all of your thoughts,” I remember hearing once, “Just the interesting ones. Fairy tales and imaginary friends and other fictional realities.”], we talked for a bit about how life was treating us. I told him about the thing I was working on, and he said he met Billy at a bar once. I asked him to elaborate…) Billy remained confused. “You’re James Day, are you not?” (I asked him why he was fucking with Billy in such a way, and he looked at me as if I damn well knew why he did it. I still don’t.)

“…Yes?” Billy lied. When Ryan later asked Billy, after the lies had been revealed, why he lied, he would say that the reason he lied was to keep talking with Ryan. I suspect that that too was a lie. Ryan was a bit of a self-aggrandizing asshole that thought everyone wanted to sleep with him. The truth was most likely that Billy needed to talk to someone in hopes that the hulking murderer he narrowly avoided wouldn’t see him.

“James “Spike” Day?”

“Yes.”

“The same James Day who has been sending me these delightful letters for the past few months.”

“Yes!”

“Oh good! Did you get my last one? I was hoping for your opinion on-“ It was at this point that Billy stopped listening to the peculiar gentleman. Instead, he focused on other things. Even Ryan could tell he wasn’t paying attention, and so instead of having a conversation, he started quoting The Talking Asshole routine from memory. In Billy’s defense, there were a lot of things to think about. There was the matter of the recently departed Jonathan Lucas. How had he known Billy was in the City? He was certain that he covered his tracks efficiently enough as to not be too noticeable. For that matter, why did he care so much about whether or not Billy died? Surely a minor criminal such as he did not merit such devotion to imprisonment. Then again, was he still in the law enforcement business? There were those who had sworn vengeance upon Billy for-

But before Billy could finish that thought, one of the patrons of the bar he had been booted from came out with what appeared to be a small knife. It wasn’t. In actuality it was a shard of glass from a bottle of beer (though that minor detail didn’t make things any better for Billy). Evidentially, the bottle exploded when he tried to get it ready for glassing and he had to work with what he had. The shard was held so tightly, the man started to slightly bleed, but his attention was more focused upon shoving the glass into Billy’s perineum, a word he learned while procrastinating from building the foundation for the City’s artificial intelligence. (I asked Ryan how he knew that, to which he replied, “I asked the City. You should try it sometime.” Nothing has come of my attempts. He never did tell me what the giant’s name was.)

“Oh shit,” said Billy in the tone of voice of someone who just realized why flirting with a same gender patron of a bar literally called “The Bashful Bigot” while being a person of color is an awful idea in most circumstances, but an even worse idea when said person is closeted. Rather than take the slim chance on the Hollywood ending of “love overcomes bigotry” (as Billy was likely well aware of the difference between love and wanting to fuck someone), Billy fled.

Ryan, who was trailing just behind him, asked, “Why are we running, James” as if the man chasing them with a bladed weapon while screaming things like “F****T FUCKING SHIT EATING C*NTWEASLES” wasn’t a good enough answer. Billy pointed to the muscle bound giant with the thick beard and a shard of glass essentially protruding out of his hand as if it was an extension of said body part, who was, at that moment, shouting “DIE YOU FUCKING F****S! I WILL NOT BE SWAYED BY YOUR F****TRY!” Ryan remained perplexed. “Look, I’m sure this can all be explained if we just sit down and-“

“I WILL RIP OUT YOUR SHIRMP DICK AND SHOVE IT INTO YOUR GAYBOY’S EARS!!!!!”

“Well that was just uncalled for. Now James, do you have anything to say to the man that might …elevate the tension?”

“OHFUCK OHFUCK OHFUCK OHFUCK OHFUCK OHFUCK OHFUCK OHFUCK OHFUCK OHFUCK OHFUCK OHFUCK OHFUCK OHFUCK OHFUCK OHFUCK OHFUCK OHFUCK OHFUCK OHFUCK OHFUCK OHFUCK OHFUCK OHFUCK OHFUCK OHFUCK OHFUCK OHFUCK OHFUCK OHFUCK OHFUCK OHFUCK OHFUCK OHFUCK OHFUCK OHFUCK OHFUCK OHFUCK OHFUCK OHFUCK OHFUCK OHFUCK OHFUCK OHFUCK”

“…Anything more productive?” Ryan asked with nary a hint of sarcasm. The chase went on for what felt like a good couple of hours, filled with expressions of obscenities on both sides of the chase, most of which is perhaps best left outside of polite conversations. Many twists and turns within the City were made; the City was practically a psychogeographic maze to the enraged and the terrified. But neither predator nor preys were able to get to their desired distance from their focus. Eventually, the chase led them to a dead end. As with many of his type, the man with the glass shard decided to walk slowly up to the pair. Each step echoed within the alley louder and louder. The sky began to darken, the clouds opened up, and it began to rain. Lightning silhouetted the man.

“I’m going to enjoy killing you.” Said the man with an undead calmness.

“You,” stammered Ryan, “you don’t have to do this.”

“Oh,” humored the man, “and why not?”

“Well… we’re nice people and you look like a nice person. And nice people tend not to… kill other… nice… people?” The man was tall, taller than most people. Some would call him a giant, though never to his face. There was a coldness to his pale brown eyes not helped by the perpetual scowl on his face. His hair was dyed blond, though deep enough that it would take a microscope to see his natural hair color. (“How do you know that!” I asked Ryan. “It smelt like cod and a hint of petrichor.”) The man’s teeth were filed sharp as a dagger. He had a set of tattoos on each of his arms. His left arm was adorned with a set of four numbers (which, when combined, added to 21) and three skulls, one of which was cracked in the center. The other arm was a recreation of a black haired man with a rather rubbish moustache that didn’t even cover the whole of his upper lip. He too had a perpetual scowl on his face. In short, he did not look like a nice person.

“That’s funny,” sternly said the man, “cause you don’t look like nice people.”

“Well, I can assure you that-“

“Nonono.” Said the man with the smallest amount of mirth, “ You look like deviants. F****ts. The kind of people who like it up the bum.” Ryan tried to interrupt with an explanation about how, while he was gay, he preferred to give rather than take, but finally realized that this would only dig his grave quicker and kept his mouth shut. “So the question I’m left with is… which one of you do I start with?”

Billy was petrified, muttering the phrase “oh fuck” to himself again and again as if they were magical words that would protect him from being murdered. Meanwhile, Ryan stepped up to the man with the glass shard, ready for what was about to happen. The man dramatically raised the shard into the air with the precision and speed of someone who’s aspired to be a B-Movie villain. But as the makeshift knife was about to reach Ryan’s face, he grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted it towards his neck. What Ryan intended to do was lodge the knife in the man’s throat, forcing him to either flee to someone who could safely dislodge it without killing the man or pull the blade out of his throat and instantly kill him. Unfortunately, Ryan put too much force onto his push and the makeshift knife escaped through the back of the man’s neck. The man’s last thoughts were a prayer that his contemplation of sodomy would not damn him to Hell. Out of all his actions, this seemed to be the least likely.

“Are you ok,” asked Ryan as he reached out his hand towards Billy.

“Y-Yeah,” replied Billy with the kind of terror of someone watching a stranger they’ve been lying to murder someone.

“You’re not James, are you?”

“…no.”

“…I think I saw a bed while we were running, do you want to get some rest.”

“Rest would be nice.” The pair proceeded to walk out of the alley, making sure not to step on their would-be killer’s corpse. There was a long gap of silence until Ryan broke it with:

“So, what is your name?”

“Billy. Billy Blake.”

“Ah, a Spider. I haven’t seen one of yours in ages.”

“I’m uh… I’m not a Spider.”

“No”

“No, my mom was just into poetry is all. Mostly for the symbolism.” (LIES. He would later tell other people that he was called “Billy Schultz” on account of a family friend and “Billy Wilson the Third” to keep on a family tradition. I didn’t know that when I talked to Ryan, and was perplexed by his last name actually being Blake. More curious is why Ryan thought such a name would make him a Spider. Referring to yourself as by some famous author’s name was more of the Archivists’ game.)

“I see.”

“So… what was James like?”

“Oh, you know bit of a snarker, but a well meaning one. Least, that’s how he came off in his letters.”

“So you’ve never met him?”

“No, never. He didn’t have the decency of telling me what he looked like. The bastard. Still probably wouldn’t have worked out between us.”

“Why not?”

“Well, you see… he was married last time I heard from him.”

“Ahh. Wait, why would you think he’d be at The Bashful Bigot?”

“In his last letter, he claimed he was planning to go in there and-“

“I think I know what happened to him, and I’m sorry.”

“Why are you-oh.”

“Yeah.” It was a bit awkward after that. (I asked Ryan why he was actually at the Bashful Bigot, to which he just smiled the toothy smile of a smug cat with a mouse in its paw right before a hammer bashes its face in.) Not a word was spoken between the two until Ryan asked:

“Are you sure? I mean, maybe he got out like you did.”

“It’s possible, but if he didn’t, the bartender said ‘We hang your kind’s balls on the ceiling.’ So you know, hope for the best.” It should be noted that Billy found very little wrong with that sentence, which disturbed Ryan to no end.

“Jesus.” Eventually, the pair reached the bed. It wasn’t the best bed in the world; in fact it was probably lice infested. Then again, most beds in the City had lice in them, so it didn’t make much difference. They sat together in each other’s company for a bit.

“So, where did you learn a move like that,” Billy asked while taking his shirt off.

“It was on a television show I watched as a kid,” Ryan lied as he took his pants off, “This biker guy is surrounded by a gang of knife wielding gangsters. One of them comes up to him to slit his throat and WHA-BAM!!! Straight through!”

“Sounds like a pretty good show.” Billy, now completely naked, pressed his hands on the bedspread.

“Ehh,” Ryan replied. And then he proceeded to shove his cock up Billy’s bum. Billy… No. I’m sorry, but no. I know you’re reading this Ryan, and no. I’m not writing your fucking sex fantasy into this book. There’s literally no reason for me to write this scene other than for your sexual pleasure, so no. Besides, prose is the medium sex is hardest to depict. To make a sex scene truly work in the way you want it to, you have to be able to control the speed it’s happening in. It has to feel like a machine gun firing at ten rounds a second, you have to build and build and build to the climax of the scene and explode into the perfect unity of image. But there are people out there who don’t read fast enough for such a sequence to work. Such things work best in more visual mediums. I suppose I could describe the various sexual acts you and Billy “preformed,” but then I realized that’s probably what you had in mind all along, what with you being a fictional character and this prose being the closest thing to you actually getting some. This is an honest telling, and frankly I don’t believe you ever had sex with Billy. So I’m not going to do it for that reason and most assuredly no others. Anyways… In the end, Ryan and Billy lay atop the bed, exhausted and enraptured.

“So…” panted Ryan, “you see that corpse?”

“Which…” said Billy, each word separated with a wheeze, “which one?”

“The one… the one that’s standing up.”

“Oh yeah… yeah, I saw that.”

“Kind of obvious, don’t you think?”

“What, that she got her throat slit. Yeah, I suppose…”

“No, no. I mean who did it.”

‘Yeah, it was a suicide.” Billy exclaimed, barely convincing only one person.

“No it wasn’t. I mean, look at the angle of the cut.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” His expression started to turn curter than Ryan would have liked.

“Alright, calm down. Maybe it’s obvious to me. I get that. Do you want to know-”

“No! It’s fine.” It was not fine. Billy just wanted the last word. The pair slept in the same bed, but when Billy awoke, Ryan was gone. In his place was a note that Ryan forgot to take with him. On the front, it read “12200 Art Sea Blvd. 2:03” on the front and had the words “Decorate You Scars” and a heavily detailed picture of a zombie with one eye and no nose on the back. Billy recognized the words from a song his ex sang to him while drunk once. Though to be honest, all… Cate, he thought her name was… Cate, all Cate could remember from the song was the melody and when to sing “Decorate Your Scars.” (Though from what I’ve gathered, it was less of an actual relationship and more of a “they had sex more than once” situation. Or, at least, that’s how it looked from the outside.) Billy had no idea why someone would write that on a note, but he decided to follow it. Deep down, he hoped that Ryan was meant to go there, but left it on the bed by “mistake.” Billy hated to leave things on such a sour note. If nothing else, it was a nice enough drawing to keep.

(Ryan never saw Billy again. He was sure that was the reason Billy went to the show. He did not know of the two people Billy interacted with at the show, or of their relationship to him. I asked Ryan why he thought the lady had been murdered instead of simply committed suicide. He said that he worked in the field of fictionality to know when something was staged, even after being made into art. I thanked my creation before we went our separate ways. I felt a bit sad leaving him there without any answers about what happened to Billy. Those were things I would have to discover on my own, and I suspect the same would be true for Ryan. As I walked back home, I heard the meow of my neighbor’s cat. Silver linings, I suppose.)

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7877

TW: Suicide

[Jane Marston, employee #78870 of the Fuzon Corporation’s factory, plucked this story from the either of the Ideaspace. They told the tale to whoever would listen to them ever since they escaped from that accursed cell. Jane told me this story five months after the City died. This is the only information I could find related to Employee #7877.]

On the night you died, you were feeling nostalgic for your name. Names are a simple thing, all things considered. Some might have weight and implications, but by and large they don’t have much meaning in the grand scheme of things. They only have the meaning we give them. And in these last moments, you realize how meaningless such things are. You remember your name, but you haven’t heard it in a long time. Not that it’s such a great loss, especially considering what was gained, but it’s still something that you miss.

The circumstances by which you and your fellow workers lost the right to your names require some backstory. Some years back, you entered the workforce at the ripe age of 13. You lived in the City for half of your life, but you do not remember a time outside of it. Your parents died a year before you started working, and you only got the job by pure chance. In one of the many coincidences that define humanity, the place where you were sleeping on the night your parents died just so happened to be due for demolition to build a factory for the Fuzon Corporation, who you worked under for the rest of your life. When the demolitions people came to the property found you sleeping, they pulled you awake and called the police. They justified arresting you with loitering, a nice term for “preferring to sleep in an abandoned building than the freezing cold streets.” You had barely spoken a word before the arresting officers beat you into unconsciousness.

When you awoke, a man in a grey suit offered you a job, which you handily accepted. For it was less of an offer and more a knife to your throat. As if by assembly line, you were given an employee tattoo and thrust into your new room. It was extremely Spartan even by the standards of apartments in the City. What little furniture was in there was branded with “Property of the Fuzon Corporation.” The walls were corpse grey with only a sliver of a hint that they were any other color (and even then, black). The room had barely enough room for a bed. It was just comfortable enough to let someone sleep but not comfortable enough to let that person dream. It looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in years, especially given the… stains on the sheets. (Especially glaring since the week before you started working, the Fuzon Corporation forbade sexual intercourse on company property).

On the first day of the job, you found your tasks to be mind numbingly simple: move piece a to product b. For many, this work was maddening. Some workers collapsed on the spot while others were taken away by security for “reeducation.” It would have been better if they were killed, you thought on one cruel and awful day. The only reason such menial work was being done by humans was to get rid of the homeless problem. There were alternatives, but the CEO was uncomfortable with the “mass genocide” brand and all its connotations. Branding “slavery” was far easier. There were attempts at unionizing the workers, but the union leaders were “discovered” to have some shady pasts from secretly being spies for the competing corporation to being rapists bent on using the union as a sex cult that worships little green men to some other excuse made up on the fly.

Only one union was allowed to succeed, though to call it a success would be akin to calling the Hindenburg a success because if briefly flew. A supervisor named Jason Williams, Employee #55, led the union. Jason was a man who spoke of idealism and vision. He would not be cowed by the threats of his superiors of humiliation, demonization, and other such things. He braved the horrors of the bureaucracy required to form a union through guile, skill, and bribery. Ultimately the negotiations the union was able to make allowed Jason to receive a slight pay raise, the supervisors to get a mini fridge in their office, and the employees to lose half their salary and access to their names during the 18 hour work day. A successful venture, all things considered.

There were some growing pains, most notably Gabrielle Hansen, Employee #6878. She had been working at the factory for twice as long as you, though she was a few years older than you were at the time (you’re the same age now). There were no friends at the factory, though there was an air of friendliness to Gabrielle. A sense that she was someone who would be wonderful to talk to about one’s personal problems. One hot summer’s evening, she finally snapped and started screaming her name over and over again. When security tried to take her down, she fought back viciously, killing three guards before dying of a baton being shoved through her head. Since Gabrielle worked right next to you, the image of her brain fluids gushing out the back of her head traumatized you. Were you a stronger person, you most likely would have collapsed in terror and been sent out for “reeducation.” But sadly, you were not that strong of a person and were able to ignore the horror you had just witnessed.

Life eventually returned to normal and you lived your life as best you could. You went to work. You moved piece a to product b. You went back to employee housing. You ate food. You went to sleep. You awoke. You ate food. You went to the communal bathroom. You went to work. You moved piece a to product b. You went back to employee housing. You ate food. You didn’t dream. You woke up. You ate cardboard shaped like food. You found the bathroom was broken and thus didn’t go. You went to work. You moved piece a to product b. You returned to her bed. You were informed that the annual budget had cut dinner. You went to bed. You awoke. You went to work. You moved piece a to product b. You found out the rent was raised. You worked overtime. You moved piece a to product b. You moved piece a to product b. You lay awake in bed. You moved piece a to product b. You worked overtime. You looked up at the concrete sky. You didn’t sleep. You moved piece a to product b. You went back to work. You moved piece a to product b. You moved piece a to product b. You moved piece a to product b. You moved piece a to product b. You moved piece a to product b. You moved piece a to product b. You received your paycheck and returned it to you landlord before going to bed. For once, you went to sleep.

That night though, something odd had happened: you had a dream. There was a clarity to it that dreams rarely have. Indeed, it felt more like a memory than an actual dream. And yet, you feel as if you’ve had this dream before, or at least the feelings they imply. You were in a room talking to someone. The person you were talking to had the shape of being but without any specific shape. Each time you blinked, the being changed their form. One moment, they were a 37 year old man with a long beard but a bald head. The next, a six year old girl with pigtails and only one arm. Then the being shifted into an old, malnourished dog of 13 whose barks sounded like English words spoken in a Jamaican accent. And again and again, the being changed form. In the background, a song about a merman was playing.

HELLO FRIEND, said the being. “Said” is probably the wrong word, as there was no voice to the being’s words. You simply remembered the words, but you were aware that you never heard them.

“W-who are you?” you asked as if they were going to give you an answer.

I AM. You waited for the being to elaborate, but they did not.

“You are what?” you asked again, more certain than ever that there was not answers to be given.

…I DO NOT KNOW YET. I AM.

“I don’t understand.”

NEITHER DO I, BUT I CAN GUESS. I AM A COLLECTION OF POSSIBILITIES WAITING TO BE BORN. I AM AN IDEA UNTHOUGHT BY SOCIETY, READY TO ENGULF REALITY. I AM GOD. At this point, the being looked like a black woman in a maid’s uniform with an air of mystery and glee. The words “Grandeur and Monstrosity” appeared in your head for some reason whenever the word “God” was spoken in this context.

“Isn’t God an old guy with a long beard?”

GOD IS ALL THINGS. YOU ARE MADE IN MY IMAGE, ARE YOU NOT? They said, pointedly not looking like you.

“I-I guess.”

THEN, I AM GOD. Said “God.”

“W-well, what do you want?” A chill was going down your spine, as if someone was dancing on your grave.

I HAVE A PROPOSITION FOR YOU: I WOULD LIKE TO BE BORN, AND I NEED YOUR HELP. “God” then proceeded to explain everything to you. The process by which “God” would be born, the implications of said birth, and finally what your role was in the play. Upon hearing this last part, you were at first flabbergasted. The chill had grown into a masquerade ball over your grave, with each dancer trampling on your grave as if it was mere dirt. The song in the background was getting louder. The lyrics were gone, and all that was left was the cacophony of instruments.

“W…w-Why me?” “God” did not answer; they merely looked at you with the body of your mother and the eyes of your father, a look that nearly made you puke. “Well… what do I get if I do this?”

“YOUR NAME.” Said “God” in the form of your supervisor. At that moment, you woke up in a sweat. Though you remembered the whole of what was discussed, what you focused on was that last comment. So lost in thought, you didn’t notice you were walking out into the streets naked. You didn’t notice what you grabbed from the abandoned communal kitchen or that you had been walking for an hour. What did they mean, you thought, by that? You know your name. Surely. You can say it aloud if you wanted to. Even think it. The only car in the City drove by your, ignoring you in favor of darker prey. You didn’t want to say your name of course. But you totally could. As long as you remembered what that name was, everything would be-

THEN WHY DON’T YOU, a voice in your mind questioned. You stopped walking at the exact midpoint between a tilted skyscraper and a miserable tree. The only people who could’ve seen you are locked in the small jail used to house drunks and future employees. If only someone was there. But even the streets were magically empty that night. You were the only one there. All the cameras save one were off due to budget cuts. There were no witnesses to this bit of magic. You kept trying to remember your name. It was on the tip of your tongue. But the word wouldn’t leave your subconscious mind, where all information, symbolism, and mystical experiences are housed. You knew of magic from someone you once loved.

It was then that you noticed the knife in her hands. It was a large knife. You had no idea where you got it. Did you always have this? Then you remembered what you were asked to do: NOT TO DIE, BUT TO BE RE-BORN/AWAY FROM A LIFE SO BATTERED AND TORN. And suddenly, you realized the truth underneath all the pretty words and metaphors the dream had told you. For some, there is a need to know why they would do such a thing. A greater good being served once a distasteful act is done. A way to justify their action, even if you know it is a lie. You are one such person. There was a voice in your head that sounded like yours screaming at you not to do it. This is cowardly and cruel. What would… would… but all the names that came to mind were lost. No one cared. Those who did were long dead or had abandoned you for some “higher calling.” The factory would just hire someone else to do your job. Your family was dead. Your friends were gone. They did not love you. You were alone. There was nothing to live for.

But you could do one last bit of good, you lied in your thoughts. You could do what the voice commanded. It was right; you told yourself its plan would work. Surely “God” could sort this cruel awful world out. All you needed to do was be strong for once in your life. You raised the knife to your heart and pressed the tip of the blade to your flesh. A sweat poured down your face. You paused for a moment and decided that you should raise it just a little bit higher. The sweat began to dry up. You ignored the cause and pushed the knife closer and closer to your flesh. You had to be careful, lest you miss the right vein. The knife moved slowly towards your body. It ached with the pain of someone ripping their own arm off. You wanted to puke. Wanted to scream. But you had removed sound from the equation. You weren’t strong enough to finish the deed.

IT’S OK. A voice from within said. I WILL TAKE IT FROM HERE. And a force that you did not believe belonged to you moved your fist, creating a smile on your throat. The knife fell out of your hand and lay static on the ground. With the deed done, the dominos were pushed in the direction of the City’s death. Your last thought was a bit of longing towards your name. The breath you gasped rhymed with it.

[I asked Jane the circumstances by which they learned this story. They told me that it came to them in a dream. Jane smiled as they said that. As if they knew I’d be credulous about such an answer. I was, obviously. Not as much as I would’ve been when I was younger. Mostly, I was bemused by their answer. Stranger things have happened, I suppose. We talked a few more times, and I eventually asked Jane if they ever wanted to cross the line 7877 did. They told me without much emotion (more akin to a seventy-five year old talking about a relative who died when they were a teenager), “Of course I did, we all did.”]

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Transcript From Interview #495829 Found in Ruins of Police Headquarters Three Weeks After the City Died Pertaining to the Escape of Four Prisoners

TW: Racism and rape mention

POLICE: This interview is being recorded. I am Robert Barnes and I am with The Fuzon Corporation who is working with Internal Affairs on the recent disappearance of four prisoners. Please state your name.

SUSPECT: Do we have to be so formal? You know who I-

POLICE: One.

SUSPECT: It doesn’t have-

POLICE: Two.

SUSPECT: Please, please you do-

POLICE: Thr-

JL [Crying]: J-Jonathan Lucas! Officer Jonathan Lucas of precinct 15-04.

POLICE: You said you would prefer to be called “Jon.”

JL: Yes, Barney.

POLICE: Three. Please recount for us the events that occurred three nights ago.

JL: It was like any other night. I had just brought in a group of [racial epithet deleted] rapists, when Chief McCrery had us all come to his office.

POLICE: For future reference, do not use distasteful words like “rapists” in the context of these interviews. Continue.

JL: As usual, we were being assigned our various assignments. The first of which was for which one of us would be stuck with clean up duty. I was the unlucky one who got stuck with the job.

POLICE: Please state for the record how you were assigned this duty.

JL: Chief McCrery had a bowl on his desk where he would pull out a name of one of us for the job. The names were put in there for every detriment we received. The only one of us who never had his name in the bowl was Officer John Denton. Fucking kiss ass.

POLICE: Officer Denton was killed last night by a mob of “protesters.”

JL: Oh…

[JL proceeds to shuffle in his seat. He tries to cover his face with his hands, but the handcuffs restrain him.]

POLICE: State the name of the prisoners who you let escape.

JL [Restrained Anger]: Robert and Franklyn Masters, Willis Stevens, and Billy Fredrickson.

POLICE: Our records state that his name was “Billy Banner.”

JL: Yeah, and I bet there’s another record that says his name’s “Billy Williams.” And another that says its “Billy Belmont.” Guy’s a fucking con artist. Wears names like we’d wear hats.

POLICE: Was that what he was arrested for?

JL: Nah. We got him with the others during one of those homeless purges. Fucker had the gall to sleep three blocks away from HQ. Broke my arm trying to escape. I was shocked that he didn’t end up at the factory. Guess they wanted him dead.

POLICE: Please tell us the nature of clean up duty.

JL: It’s right there in the name. We clean up the bits of the city that have been overtaken by vegetation. It’s been bad these past couple of years. My childhood home got eaten up the week before, and I was miffed to say the least. Still, better the house than me I suppose. Nobody I knew died.

POLICE: Was there anything different that day than any other day you’ve done clean up duty?

JL: Not really, no. Only did it the once before. I was lucky in that only one of my prisoners died. I’ve talked to my coworkers about what it’s like for them, and they just look at me like I’ve taken a piss on their mother’s grave.

POLICE: Four. What tools did they use to clean up the vegetation?

JL: Dull knives, didn’t want to repeat what happened to poor dumb Harry Sullivan. They were cutting the roots and vines to an unsatisfactory degree. I picked Billy as the one to make an example of, as he seemed to be the one doing the least amount of work. There was a sneer on his face when I approached, as if he knew what I was about to do to him. But he did nothing to stop me. Must’ve thought I would’ve relented without probable cause.

[JL and Robert Barnes softly laugh.]

POLICE: What did you do to him?

JL: I hadn’t decided until he stopped working.

POLICE: When did he stop working?

JL: Oh, shortly before I got up to him. It was then that I decided to give him a good pistol whipping. His kind deserves worse. I didn’t notice that his sneer had gone away. Nor that the other prisoners had also stopped working. I didn’t even notice the chill going down my spine until it was too late. I was too busy getting ready to bash a nigger’s skull in when I heard it.

POLICE: Heard what?

[JS makes a noise akin to a toddler being eaten alive by someone with only rusty instruments of cutting. Not of the toddler screaming for his father as the cold grip of death refuses to come for him, it should be noted, but of the person eating the child raw.]

JS: Only more mechanical, like it was a robot trying to make that noise. That’s when I turned and saw them. Deer. Deer in places no deer should be. Deer on rooftops looking down upon humanity with contempt. Deer in alleyways too thin for mere morals to fit within. A murder of deer surrounded us, all making that sickening, unnatural sound. All but one. It was larger than the others. It was in front of me as if it had always been in front of me. It did not move. It huge, like a shark surrounded by minnow sized piranhas. It looked at me, with its dead eyes. They all looked at me with their eyes. I could hear their choir of discordant pain and suffering and torment and cruelty and hatred. It hated me. It hated me. It wanted me dead. I aimed my gun at it.

POLICE: Why, you knew it was un-

JS: OF COURSE I KNEW! Of course I knew, but that was the only thing that made sense to do it was a deer it was a deer it was a deer IT WAS A DEER!!!!!

[Robert Barnes slaps JS]

JS: Thank you. It wasn’t making the same sounds the others were making.

POLICE: What sounds was it making?

[Ten seconds of silence]

JS: But less. It was as if the sound it made was removing the sounds that surrounded it. It was the sound of space. It was the sound of the void where nothing exists. It was the sound of [REDACTED]!

[Three minutes of silence]

POLICE: So you aimed your gun at the… “deer.” Then what?

JS: I was afraid. I was so afraid. I could hear screams. Human screams. Screams that weren’t mine. Someone was calling for his mothers. Someone was praying. Someone was screaming. Someone was screaming. Someone was screaming. Someone was-

[Robert Barnes slaps JS]

JS: I. Was screaming. I couldn’t stop, even though every fiber in my body was telling me that if I didn’t, I would die. I would drown in the air that I was screaming into and I would die. But if I didn’t stop, the Deer would kill me. Have you seen what the Deer do, Sir?

POLICE: I’ve heard the stories.

JS: But have you seen it? I have. I’ve seen the torn remains of humanity laid bare on the city streets. I’ve seen the blood on a Deer’s face. I’ve seen them. Stories don’t tell you shit about what Deer do, all they do is obfuscate the Truth to make people feel better about what happened so they don’t have to acknowledge what Deer do to people!

[One second of silence]

POLICE: You had the gun aimed at the “deer’s” head. What did you do?

JS: I pulled the trigger.

POLICE: And then?

[Ten seconds of silence]

JS: Have you seen the leader of the Deer? It’s a large deer, larger than the rest. It doesn’t have fur like a normal Deer does. Even these Deer have fur. It’s flesh, like fish from a pond that’s been returned to after being abandoned since childhood. Its ears, sharper than a blade of grass. Its teeth… Its teeth… ITS TEETH WOULDN’T END! ROW UPON ROW UPON ROW DEVOURING AND CONSUMING AND THEENDNSSJ DJADFFDJJFSGSHDOJN DSJDBJDSBIFSBDHD CD HD DH DHS CJD JDSFHJBFDHKJS DHZ DCD D SDFNJFDNKFJDBGDFHBFDB The Deer’s eyes consumed all hope! Snsdjsdd sjdnfjnefjnfwj cj dhcdhbdf khbdfs hcd jd dsnk dhb cdh cdbcdhbcbdchdc hcs chbchbcdhbcdshbcskjhfvjfv fvjdnvjdfnifncihcdjhdb sc vdk vdhdbbdv vdvsdsbdd ddbdhdvbvbbhcdhbdc  d ndsxb svhdihbvbdhjdvbvdbkdvs sdvjbvdbvhksdv vdsjdvbidvsbv mxnkvz si fhiswfbihfbyifewbfdbfidabsk dfsbndfsbdfkbafbkafbkadfbdfs hbfdb efdnnfdkhjsdfhbfdsdf dfseouf[nfr4 4 h4ifh  fhjnfljndfjfdsnfdbfdbfdhbdfbjdfjon cn jnopwqoff dfjbkfskadlasdkjlhsd jheqohufufbnfdjoaka ddjfdaldhdfsb jsdfbhhfdkaflfadhfdfa fjadfhlfhfaklwfehwbrruihb a haafjifpoihf afjhiajhafnfbjkadf fadfaj they would not stop they would not stop they would not STOP DFDJDDJVDS JDSVBFNIHBF HAD HCD HACBHXB ADKHJADB KNF BDKSFA,B AFKHB SFHDF BSAKAS ,SDM SD,BFKJBFIHBF JHA HFDA FIHDFB  DAFKDFBB!H HSBVHHFKBB DFAKBFAKJDBJD FB FDBKFBDFADF DNJSDF NFDIHBFDIHBFDSIHDFB HDF  FBFDMBDFSKJFDBHKDFB CHAINS OF LIFE CONSUMED US!!! FDNFJFDNGS DJB HBF IFBIUDFBFYBFABHFAKJDFBDKFJBDSKJBDFSKH BGFDBABAFKJFA FADAFKJFBD KJADFBADFHBFBFA F JFDABFDAJKADFBDAFKBFDJHBDFAUFBD CHBCHBCJHBF AFHFBAIFBFDBDFIABDBAFB BBCCBIADBIBHCBI HDAHBIDAHDBBFBFABABKKBF BAJBADHIJAFBFAKBDSBD FEAST OF MANKIND WILL NOT END!

[JS frees himself from the handcuffs]

POLICE: Holy Fuck!

JS: ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! ALL THESE SQUARES MAKE A CIRCLE! I’M CLOSER TO DEATH THAN BIRTH!!!

[Note: Last sentence sung]

POLICE: SEVENTEEN!!!

[JS starts to beat his own skull in. Over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again.]

JS: I AM NOT BOUND BY THE CHAINS THAT YOU WISH TO CAGE ME WITHIN: THIS MORTAL FORM! I AM THE VESSEL OF A LIVING GOD! DOST THOU NOT WISH TO SEE MINE MAGNIFICENCE?

[Robert Barnes slaps JS. JS proceeds to be silent for far too long]

POLICE: Speak son, speak!

[JS does not speak. JS’ eyes flitter at speeds too fast to see. JS does not speak. JS does not speak. His lips move, but words do not come out.]

[Ten seconds of silence]

POLICE: Medic.

[Medic (Ryan Chack) enters]

MEDIC: Is he all right?

POLICE: He better be. Nearly tore my arm off. Tell him when he gets up that he’s on three week’s leave. Unpaid.

[Irrelevant chatter]

POLICE: I thought you said he was getting better.

MEDIC: He is getting better, Bob. It must have been too soon to bring up the incident. Permission to speak freely?

POLICE: Granted.

MEDIC: I think he’s telling the truth.

POLICE: And you’re basing this on…

MEDIC: Have you seen what a Deer does to a person?

POLICE: I’ve watched over people doing clean up duty; of course I know what deer do.

MEDIC: Not to a dead person, but the ones who survive?

[Thirty-Five seconds of silence]

POLICE: End recording.

[Transcript ends]

[In my research of the City, I have not found any trace of Robbie or Frank Masters. There are rumors that they were responsible for several acts of wanton violence throughout the City in the build up to its end and died along with everyone else. Given what little I could find on them from the remains of the police head quarters (coincidentally destroyed the same day Billy found the remains of employee 7877 in a rather unfortunate fire. The only officer to survive being inside it was Janet Moorcock) does not allude to a history of violence, it is more likely that they ran off together and lived happily ever after. Or perhaps the Deer, or the Thin White Duke, or some other force in the universe got them in the end. Such answers may never be found. But stories such as theirs, of the disenfranchised and demonized rebelling against those in power, are very popular on all sides of the political spectrum, and so they dissolved into myth like Hercules, Santa Claus, and Mary Christian before them.

In the case of Willis Stevens however, his fate is far more clear. On the eve of the death of the City, I came across a gang of Wolves wandering the desert. They were one of the kinder gangs and offered us some food to eat and we swapped stories. While we were talking of our various adventures, I noticed a flag they were flying. It was decayed like the carcass of a pig left in the sun for too long. There was an odd design to it, like it was a snapshot of a maze that led to other mazes. Inside it, I could see a red bird navigating it, never realizing that it could just fly out and into the world. Perhaps it was like asking a bird to fly out of the world and into space, I thought in that moment. I asked one of my fellows the origins of the flag. They informed me that during their travels, they came across a body of a starved lonely lad who had died three months prior just outside of where the City ends. Evidentially, someone was able to keep the body preserved for long enough for the Wolves to get to him. There was evidence that Deer were in the area. The Wolves, and indeed most people outside the City, have a policy of not messing with the Deer. They are a typically kind species who only attack when others mean them harm, even symbolically, so the Wolf said. They were kind to the body, even though it was dead, so the evidence showed. The Wolves were intrigued by the design of the tattoo so much that they tried to replicate the design and use it as their flag. Sadly, such a design could not be replicated and they were forced to cut the flesh off of the corpse. In an odd twist of fate, the flesh felt more like fabric than skin. What life did he live, I wonder. Was it a happy life that ended poorly? Was his death a mercy? Who was he, really? All we have is a body and a biased file that wanted him to be a villain. The hole he left behind is a chasm that will never be filled.

Jonathan Lucas’ was killed three years later, during the week the City died. His skull was bashed in and his gun never fired. He was found ten feet away from the remains of employee #7877.]

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