Back to Reality
Written by Andy "Dark Comet" Marshall
Frank cursed for the umpteenth time and once again shifted his position against the stone cold wall. It was no use. No matter how hard he tried, he could not stay in contact with either the floor or the wall for any longer than a minute before he felt the warning signs of frostbite envelop his skin. Glancing up, he briefly considered conducting his activities upon the sack of jagged rocks which was hilariously considered by his guards to be a mattress. But he pushed the thought from his mind, telling himself that if he focused, he would never have to set eyes on the wretched thing again.
The device next to him lay idle, its electronic counter inactive and silent. The book currently balanced on his folded legs contained all he needed to activate its payload, a small silently-contained explosion which would reduce the offending wall to something resembling a small quarry. Arming the device was proving to be more difficult than he expected however and he was currently flicking through pages at a more and more desperate pace.
'Why is nothing from the films ever true in real life?' he thought to himself, not for the first time. 'You never saw Steven Seagal mucking about with a seven digit protection code. What's wrong with just a shiny red button saying ON for Pete's sake?'
He turned back to the device, and carefully pushed several of the minute buttons located beneath the counter. He was awarded for his efforts with a red frenzy of lights illuminating the words ERROR - PLEASE RE-INPUT DATA on the screen.
In his mind, Frank released a scream of sickening obscenities that could have made the metal bars lodged in the window rust instantly. Out in the real world, he sighed and returned his attention to the book.
He had every right to be bitter. These last two years had been unkind to him. He had of course heard from his associates back home about what life in the 'big house' was like, but he always convinced himself he would never see what it was like first hand. And if he did, for whatever reason, he was sure there was nothing inside he couldn't handle.
But this... this was turning out to be hell on Earth. The Mexican state prison known appropriately as Santiago de Concertina prided itself on its soul crushing regime of humiliations, back breaking labour and third world-esque conditions, and truth be told there were plenty of times he felt he was seconds away from cracking. It seemed everything here was done with the sole intention of reducing him to a quivering pile of flesh. The food tasted like the stuff stereos were packed in. Bathroom privileges were a dignity served only for the most model prisoners.
And, worst of all, the television could only pick up two channels. One of which was Fox.
For an HBO man, this alone had sent him almost over the precipice of madness.
It was all so tragic. An up and coming crime lord, cut down in his prime. Everything seemed to be going so well. He had an office that was becoming very respectable, a list of connections that was growing by the day, and before he left he had a cosy protection job that would have set him for life. It was the events of this same job that had led him to this dank cesspit - saving Reality's current mayor, Michael Gower, from certain dismemberment at the hands of his maniacal brother Fred. Rather than thank him, Gower had instead terminated their contract and arranged for his arrest, thinking for some bizarre reason that Frank was responsible for his brush with death. Not one night had gone by without thinking of Gower, and the world of pain he hoped to introduce to him when he finally got out.
His finger stopped against a series of numbers. His eyes widened. Letting the book fall from his lap, he leant over and inputted the code with a trembling finger. The red display flickered, and then turned green. Stayed green.
The hint of a manic grin crossed Frank's lips. One step closer to freedom.
Now it was a case of setting the timer. Ten seconds should do it, he decided, and began typing in the relevant digits. This was straightforward enough, and once again his mind began to wander.
It was rather strange, now that he had begun to think about it carefully. This was supposed to be a maximum security prison. No visitors, no mail, no contact with the outside world at all. Yet, on his return from that morning's wash (he'd never known true disgust until he had showered in Block C - soap droppers, every one of them), there it was. Lying on top of his mattress. The package.
Tearing into it in a silent frenzy, he discovered three items. The bomb, in all its black rectangular glory. The booklet, containing the unsuitably cheerful instruction guide. And a note bearing a very short message.
'Tonight at lights out. The hole in the wall.'
There was no signature, nor any indication as to how it got there. But it was obvious to Frank. Someone knew he was here. And they wanted him out.
The thought cheered him up to no end.
The time now set, all that was left was to push the irresistibly inviting button on the side and take immediate cover. After that... a swift run across the grounds to presumably find a dug opening in the stone wall separating him from the outside world. And then, who knew? Certainly not him.
It wasn't exactly a foolproof plan. In fact, now he was properly considering it, there was a lot being left to chance. Finding the hole in darkness was bad enough, but then clamouring through what could possibly be a very tight space through a concrete wall, meeting whoever was on the other side, while alarms would no doubt be screaming within thirty seconds... a lot could go wrong. The most recurring outcome in his mind was him being shot repeatedly by a battalion of burly Spanish guards who seemed to enjoy their work too much.
Don't think about it, he told himself. Just push the button and run like crazy. Don't think about the guards, or the alarms, or the very real possibility you will die in thirty seconds. Because whatever happens out there now, it will be a heaven compared to one more day of this hell.
His mind clear at last, Frank Malone pushed the button and awaited his fate.
*
It was another hot night in this one horse town called Reality. It had already just gone six, but the summer sun had only just mustered up enough momentum to start its daily descent. The door of Skid's bar was open in a vain attempt to allow the air to circulate and cool down the bar, yet only succeeded in making the patrons thirstier. Somehow I don't think George was complaining in this respect.
I sat at my normal table in the corner, as out of the way as it were possible. The bar was nearly deserted, save for one table jammed up against the wall besides the door to the back room. I observed the reclining form of Bryan, watching him adjust his dark woollen hat in a vain attempt to stem the tide of sweat pouring down his forehead. The dealer was currently being bored out of his skull by some bespectacled adolescent, who was gabbling away enthusiastically whilst beckoning wildly to several cardboard boxes covered in what looked like Japanese. Yet another one of his little business transactions, I guessed. Who he planned to peddle that garbage onto was a mystery even to me.
Normally I wouldn't be here until the late evening, when the drink started flowing and the place was alive with chatter and conversation. But this was different. This was business.
I turned back to my client, who was sipping at the dry sherry he had bought from the bar and watching me intently through half moon spectacles. I could never stand the stuff myself. To me, sherry always seemed like wine that had been left out in the sun too long. Something university professors drank after they'd spent a whole day discussing Wodehouse over a game of Bridge. Given the choice, I'd take drunken oblivion over a sophisticated conversation any day of the week. But that's just me.
Seeing both of us sitting there in the corner of Skid's bar, you couldn't have picked out two completely polar opposites. He, the formal intellectual, clad in a tweed jacket and jeans, agitatedly tapping his leather gloved hand on the red wooden table. And me, the hard as nails private detective, slouched in a trench coat and fedora, puffing happily on a Havana honey.
Funny that, how opposites always attract the best business. Although there was nothing funny about my business. No sir.
He cleared his throat. 'So then, Mister Griff... do you have anything for me?'
I took the cigar from my mouth and examined it, blowing smoke out through my nose. The fellow twitched his nose slightly in distaste, but held his tongue. Sensible lad. No one told me how to do my job, and that was the way I liked it.
'I reckon so. Enough for you to get your teeth into, that's for sure. You did the right thing coming to me, Julian. Most of these papers came from the City Hall archives; I hadda call in a few favours just to get down there. And this guy you're after, I get the feeling he didn't make his presence too known around here.'
The kid's mouth curled at the corners into a faint smile. 'I thought as much. Let's see what you've managed to find.'
I nodded, watching him as I leant underneath the spirit stained table and withdrew my leather satchel from the shadows. Julian didn't really strike me as the nervous type, but I saw his eyes widen as I brought the battered case into view. I could tell he was tensing up. He was obviously staking a lot on what was inside, and I was starting to hope that I had found what he was after. Not that I really gave a damn about what may happen after we concluded our arrangement. Keeping it strictly business was a policy I always adhered to, and whenever I let business get too personal it always came back to haunt me. But no one had ever walked away from my services less that completely satisfied. When you hire me, you get what you pay for.
Laying the case on the table, I flicked open the catch holding the straps together and pulled back the cover. Dipping one hand into its depths, I carefully removed several sheets of yellowing paper and laid them out on the table. Julian leaned in to get a closer look, and carefully bought the papers into focus. I watched as his glasses practically gleamed with excitement as he scanned the ancient records, resting his bearded chin on his hand as he quietly mouthed the texts under his breath.
'So... who is this guy? If I had to guess, I'd say a relative.' I said after several minutes, hoping to fill the silence.
'You'd be right. The house I recently inherited is in his name. Apparently he was a Professor at the university, teaching the same subject I'm studying. Hmmm...' His gaze had paused on a cutting from the Reality Times, dated 4th June 1893 - 'Search for missing professor called off - little to no hope of discovery' proclaimed the headline.
'Yeah, I thought you'd find that interesting. That's not all. Take a look at that.' I pointed towards one of the folded papers hidden beneath the pile. Julian pulled it out, and I could see his eyebrows rise as he studied it.
'I couldn't make a lick of sense from it myself. Looks like it's in Arabic or something, doesn't it?'
He didn't answer. I was getting impatient, and felt it was time to be getting around to slightly more important issues.
'Mister Lapis, unless you require my services any further...' I hinted.
He jerked out of whatever mental process he was currently undertaking, and seemed to notice me for the first time in five minutes.
'Hm? Oh yes, your fee.' He dipped into the pocket of his jacket and carefully counted out several Dollar Bills, passing them over with a nod of approval. 'Thank you very much for your help, Mister Griff. I won't take up any more of your time.'
He hastily gathered up the records into a neat pile and, tucking them underneath his arm, nodded a swift farewell and strode out of the bar.
I stared down at the cool fifty bucks I was now the proud owner of. Not a bad couple of days work, all things considered. A welcome absence from getting shot, tied to chairs and dangling over certain doom, that was for sure. Some small part of me did feel cheated, though. It was hardly a taxing case, and there was no hiding the fact that I was in a bit of a slump at the moment. Truth be told, it was the most exciting job I had taken for weeks. Which was a little bit depressing when you thought about it. I still held fast to the notion that someday I would get the Big One - that final payoff which would let me get out of this stinking burg once and for all. But no matter how much I earned, how many disasters I helped to avert, it was always there, just out of reach. Never to be.
Ah well. Now was not the time for thinking. Now was the time for enjoying my newly earned loot.
'George? Send the Jim Beam this way. We got lots to talk about.'
*
Isn't it fascinating how something dark and macabre can lurk beneath such a simple facade?
No? Well, suit yourself then.
You wouldn't find a more normal sight than the exterior of the Jones residence, though. A red brick detached dwelling from the late sixties, two storeys high, painted a rather poorly chosen white which now looked distinctly shabby after forty odd years of pollution. The face was punctuated by five crossed paned windows, a rather radiant looking crimson front door, and a sizable skylight embedded into the roof.
True, the middle of town was a rather odd place to find such a structure, nestled snugly between the local convenience store and a high rise block of flats. But it had been there for as long as anyone could remember, and the plot of land had belonged to the Jones family since the fifteenth century. Any serious attempt made to move the property would find itself mired in an unintelligible lake of Judicial Precedent and Property Rights as to make any potential eviction an impossibility.
But, despite all this, the sight of the house stirred many emotions those who passed by. Blind indifference, open hostility, awed respect, and even blatant demands for its burning to the ground by one Father Finch, have all been expressed over the years.
The focus of this uproar centred upon one eighteen year old.
David 'Davy' Jones. Student, adolescent, and fledgling student of the Dark Arts.
Considered by most to be the most dangerous individual in the entire town.
And when this same town has numbered zombies, pirates and eccentric Victorian gents as prominent respectable citizens, you really have to wonder what in God's name this lad has done.
*
'Now, you know the rules?'
Davy sighed. He had heard his father's 'Laying of the Rules' at least a thousand times before.
'No parties, no drinking, no smoking, no loud music after eleven, just stay here and do my uni work', he recounted without thinking, trying his best to hold back any hint of irritation. Living off campus with the parents, whilst a financial lifesaver, was proving to be somewhat more restrictive than he first thought.
'Right. Simon's concert should be finished by ten, which means we should be home by half past. Just keep the house in the same condition as we leave it. Ok?'
Davy leant his elbow upon his work desk and cast his father a withering look. Who did they honestly think he was? A Serbian terrorist?
'Dad, I'll be fine. Really. You have nothing to worry about.'
Davy attempted to look sincere. He failed miserably.
His father raised an eyebrow in suspicion, but finally smiled awkwardly.
'Ok. I'll see you later tonight. Take care, son.'
His father adjusted his tie and gently pulled the bedroom door closed, leaving Davy sitting at his desk. He counted to thirty in his head, absently cradling his gilt Parker pen over some unintelligible research that his Professor demanded he compile that very night, and listened to the sounds of his father descending the staircase and shutting the front door.
When he reached the satisfactory number, he smirked.
'Ok Elandra. You can come out now.'
*
As Frank cowered under the rocky mattress, the only thought going through his mind was 'I bet this doesn't work.'
Oh, how wrong he was.
There was no explosion. No ear-splitting kaboom, no red hot shrapnel slicing through the air. There didn't need to be. Within the space of a second, it had done its job.
Frank saw or heard nothing, but felt plenty. Even with the igneous mattress covering him, he still felt the whump of the silent seismic charge as it rippled its invisible radius out through the cell. He gritted his teeth in pain as some of the waves rebounded off of the wall behind him and proceeded to slowly crush him, whilst the mattress in front of him quickly began to buckle under the barrage of the inaudible assault.
He cursed his own lack of foresight. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Of all the places to let off a bomb, he had to do it in a prison cell. A cramp, tiny, boxed in prison cell no more than eight metres squared in size. What kind of fool had dreamed up this elaborate suicide?
This is it, he thought between agonised gasps. I'm going to die. Here, in a Mexican prison cell in clothes several sizes too small for me, cowering beneath a concrete mattress. How anticlimactic.
He couldn't bear to watch it. He screwed his eyes shut and held his breath, convinced that death was seconds away.
*
'Look Max, for the last time, we don't sell whisky by the pint'.
'Fine then. Half a pint, and make it a... double!' demanded the drunken detective, employing that strange logic which seems to make perfect sense late at night after you've had a fair few.
'Max, that's your seventh tonight. Don't you think you've had enough?' asked George, a note of concern in his voice.
'Damnit, George, I'll tell you when I've-' began Max, but before he could finish uttering the now famous retort, his legs chose that very moment to give away. The PI went from vertical to horizontal in no less than two seconds, causing him to crash painfully to the floor.
'I think you just did' George sighed.
*
Silence. Pure, deadly silence.
And a sudden draft, which Frank couldn't remember being there before.
He risked snatching a breath. Air filled his lungs, and he noted it wasn't the sulphuric variety. A good sign indeed, that ruled out the bad place for a start. So far, so good. So what did that leave?
Oh god, not Heaven. An eternity of choir singing and watering Bonsai beckoned.
'Dios MIO!'
... or maybe not.
Frank's eyes snapped open. What met them could only be described as a scene of localized destruction.
The offending wall was gone. There was no gaping hole, no crumbled masonry in the corners, not even those overhangs that collapse to the floor very loudly long after everything goes quiet, the way they always seem to in those generic action flicks. Nothing.
Frank sat amidst the rubble of his former mattress, gaping at the carnage, watching the night sky stare back at him. For two long years, he had stared at the outside world through a tiny concrete square, more isolated and alone than he had ever felt in his life. Now, staring back at the black infinite laid out before him, the walls of his impossibly small world had, both metaphorically and literally, come crashing down.
Then he remembered that someone had spoken, and turned to the cell door. The slit had been thrown open, and whoever was on the other side viewed the cell's latest makeover with similar, albeit more outspoken, awe.
He heard a sudden rustle of keys and the telltale clanking of them being placed firmly in the rusty lock of the cell. His brain swiftly calculated that within five seconds, whoever the person was would be on the other side of the door. And, judging from the angry tone of his earlier exclamation, he would not be in the best of moods and more than up for beating the living Hell out of him.
His feet, on the other hand, put themselves to far more useful endeavours. By the time the guard had made it past the door, Frank had left the ruins of his cell at top speed and was currently heading, very fast, towards the ground outside.
*
'... Which leaves a minor deficit of 1,205 dollars in the construction and maintenance budget for the year ahead. I'm sure with careful allocation any problems with this reduced amount can be overcome. Of course, there may have to be some compromises.'
'Such as?' inquired Gower, struggling against ever increasing odds to keep his attention focused on the speaker. He couldn't understand it. The undead didn't even get tired, and yet he'd had to suppress at least three yawns so far.
'Well, we may have to postpone the re-opening of the Reality Museum by at least a couple of weeks', the Treasurer continued. 'There's already been some minor cutbacks in the building materials used, the inspectors will need more time to make sure the foundations are secure. The proposed renovation of the front of the A. Hahn library will also have to wait until year as well; our reports say the original estimates were slightly beneath the final figures. This of course doesn't factor in the remaining repairs needed for the Reality Hospital; several wings are still out of commission after the chaos two years ago...'
Gower winced at the memory of the events which the Realiser had dubbed the 'Night of the Kittens'. Many buildings in the town had to be repaired or completely torn down as a result of the rampant horde, and the Reality Hospital had taken it on the chin. The totaled cost of the clean-up had been astronomical. He briefly felt a pang of guilt at his hand in the event, but quickly pushed it from his mind.
He wondered idly if the people on the street ever considered how difficult it was to get Reality back on its feet all the time. Disasters, strange occurrences and things of a random and bizarre nature seemed to befall the town on a regular basis. It seemed odd to him that his citizens could witness the unraveling of Causality in front of their very eyes and seemed to do no more than raise an eyebrow, yet would be the first to complain when the drains packed up, or no one had taken their rubbish away.
Maybe that was just it, he thought. They just want things to carry on as normal, and for tomorrow to be just like today. Never mind how it's done, or how it works - only that it does.
He was suddenly aware of the silence around the boardroom table, and assumed that the Chief Treasurer's report on the budget was over. He quickly snapped out of his ruminations and returned his attention to present events.
'Yes. Thank you for that Roland, it's good to know the city's finances are in capable hands. Now then, next on the agenda... ah yes, your new proposal, Thomas.'
Three chairs down from the mayor Thomas Baines, a fairly young politician, perked his ears up at hearing his name mentioned, and his formerly bored expression was suddenly replaced with one of undivided attention.
'Yes... a most... courageous proposal indeed.' admitted the Mayor's campaign advisor, poring over the document in question. Although it was impossible for him to do so, the impression given was that he was raising his eyebrows. 'Certainly different, I'll give it that.'
'It meets with City Hall's approval, then?'
'Ha!' barked a gravelly voice, belonging to newly instated ward councilor Dr. Raoul Duke. 'Courageous and different? Wise up boyo. When someone says those words in this room, it means 'dead on arrival!'
Thomas bristled at being spoken to with such blatant contempt, but held his tongue - based on the stories he heard, the former Gonzo Journalist he was sitting across from was not someone he wished to antagonize. Particularly when he was sitting in a room with fire extinguishers close at hand.
'But Mr. Mayor' he said, ignoring Duke's outburst, 'you cannot deny that it is an issue that we need to resolve. The safety and wellbeing of the citizens of this town was something you vowed to address at your last press conference. All of the problems this town has faced in the last five years can be traced to a group of select individuals. Remove them, and you remove the problems - precisely what this legislation would give you the legal authority to do!'
The shadowy figure of the campaign advisor sighed in annoyance. An impressive feat, considering how he lacked a respiratory system.
'Mr. Baines, this is not the first time we've been over this,' said Death. 'I do agree that on paper, the granting of emergency powers to expel troublesome citizens from the town is an attractive proposal, if somewhat extreme. I'm sure there are a number of people each of us wished they didn't have to deal with,' trying his best not to catch Duke's eye as he said so. 'But this is democracy, not a dictatorship. Who would go? What would precisely constitute "a serious and current risk", as you put it? And who would make these decisions? I myself would feel uneasy about so much authority being exercised in the hands of one person. That would lead us down the slippery slope to totalitarianism. Take it from me, I've seen it happen.'
'Well, obviously it wouldn't just be one person, if you'll read section-'
'Give it up, Mao' seethed Duke. 'What you're proposing puts the Enabling Act to shame. This is the grossest breach of civil liberties I've come across in my twenty six years of political experience. Nobody with a shred of goodness and purity in them will back this sham of a proposition.'
'And what, precisely, does a drug addled, gun obsessed failure of a journalist know of goodness and purity, doctor?' spat Baines maliciously, his patience finally coming to an end.
Duke lunged across the table wildly and grabbed Baines's tie, yanking him out of his chair. 'MORE THAN A GRASPING SYPHOCANTIC NAZI EVER COULD, YOU FU-'
'Gentlemen, please!' said Gower, raising his hands. 'Let's keep this civil, shall we?' The two stared each other daggers for what seemed like eternity and then returned to their seats, trying to maintain their collective dignity.
'We clearly have a sensitive issue being raised' began Gower, trying to restore a semblance of order to the proceedings. 'While ineloquently put, I can understand Dr. Duke's objections to the proposition, and I doubt he is alone in possessing them. It is true that most of the town's more... bizarre occurrences can be attributed to a group of select individuals, several of which I confess to harbouring little regard for. And yes, if they were to be evicted, then I am sure a large number of the populace would sleep a little safer at night. But that is worth nothing if it comes at the cost of our citizen's rights and freedoms. If we have to sacrifice our basic liberties for safety, then we deserve to have neither.'
'Hear hear!' cried Duke, earning a weary side glance from Death.
'However', continued Gower, 'I cannot deny there are several valid points Thomas has raised. People have expressed their displeasure at living with those who have jeopardized their lives and those of others in the past. It does seem that this town has a poor track record when it comes to securing a conviction. Whether or not that is down to our law enforcement remains to be seen, but-'
'Lies and slander' snarled Sheriff Morrison. 'I do mah job no matter th' risk. I gave mah leg up just to bring in a chicken, and don't'cha forget it!'
'Of course' assured Gower quickly. 'The point is, gentlemen, that something does need to be done. The people of this town will not tolerate having their lives continually put at risk. They may even choose to express their displeasure at the ballot boxes next year.'
There was a taut silence as the occupants of the boardroom considered the repercussions of this last statement.
'So... what are we going to do?' piped up Magistrate Hartman.
'I think it is a decision that lies with the people' decided Gower. 'If everyone agrees, we'll organize a ballot in the coming months and let the town have their own say on it. If it is deemed to be important enough to them, then the bill will be passed. How does that sound?'
There were noddings around the table - it seemed a fair compromise. Even Duke shrugged in approval. The only person who kept their opinion to themselves was Baines, but he wisely chose to keep schtum. He simply averted his gaze and glared at the table, clearly agitated by this setback.
'Then it is decided. Now then, moving on...'