SRθ: Grim Inquiries (2023-2024)

Sit.25: The New Low

The Heathen wasn't satisfied with his muckful domination of our town, Catalite. He needed to ruin it, too... to desecrate its moral remains. When business in beer plateau'd, meaning it had none wavered but only kept beneficial, he grew bored with his success and crept ever deeper. No longer was mead just for adults or those teen of age, The Heathen stooped lower: selling "child-sized" mugs while not ENTIRELY suggesting what should go in them; sloganing that his mead would make one "sleep as a tyke can"; outright laughing through his cock-sock-puppet rooster icon that if you "Get 'em while they're small, they're drunks fer lyfe! An' there ain't no better way to be, CUCKAW!" It was the same thing he'd once said about love. It wasn't long before I saw children as young as eight drinking mead, and mothers giving it to their infants as 'sleep-aid'. While child-abuse was no stranger to me, for in my home of Ireland I'd seen many a tyke and teen hit bottles back for guts' sake, I'd been relieved to see it gone from here – the parents had lost their siblings to poison, I'd been told, and saved it for themselves. But the pervasive ads in the center of town had eroded that lesson learned, and successfully unlearned it from the very people who once knew better. None of them were scientists, none of them had labs and beakers with which to toy. They could only know what they were told – they had no way to prove either story.
When the winter came, I was grateful. The stage was snowed over, and none wanted their boots wettened for another dull rooster show. But The Heathen saw fortune in sharing his home, and made dinner theatre the new social gathering for the chilled time; he'd begun hosting the wealthiest members in town to dine with the actors themselves, in full-costume, for an "immersive comedy experience". It was also a back-stage pass to meet the great writer himself, who'd penned so many classics like as many sentences could possibly contain the word "cock". It secured him attention and coin, while at the pub all were drinking to him in name by his brand of "honor": the Golden Showers mead company he represented back in England had begun printing the Cock of the Walk on every barrel. Stencilled black ink made of each and every single drink, in every hair-backed hand, a toast to The Heathen and all hedonists too, for eternity to come. And I wanted him dead – like none so bad before, I wanted him buried. I wanted him ruined, desecrated, head in a barrel to pickle and body to sprout moss in the mud, the two brought so far away that even their rot could never reconnect. It was the only way to ensure his wretched heart couldn't send more bile through his putrid, gunk-caked teeth. As well, I resented The Artist a bit in telling me I wasn't 'Deathly' enough, and I wanted to prove her wrong – but mostly, I wanted to prove The Heathen weak. I had made her enemy mine, even after she'd retired from that fight to live another day... perhaps that was the better way, I realize now: to plant seeds instead of razing the ground with fire. But it was all-too late for a happy resolution, where forgiveness and hugs could make The Heathen into The Brave, and fairies could whiten his teeth and make his breath smell of mint again. In my range he remained, and I yet had my chicken to burn.

Alas, I'm satisfied to say I did NOT spend the last few seasons twiddling my thumbs, gritting my teeth, nor fondling my pride. I'd been preparing a show of my own, one to make once and for all The Heathen's nature known. All I needed was help from the acting troupe, whose integrity I'd long-since doubted after The Author's grave was rolled clean into a mine-shaft by their infidelity... but luckily for me, they were all-too happy to help.
"I have the script," I hushed, to The Actor who'd once told me of St. Finan. I looked for my simple-minded friend, but he was elsewhere. The pub was quiet, but we were being quieter.
"Good, finally!" The Actor whispered. He brushed the long, straight, black hair out of his bright, blue eyes, and rubbed the fuzzy goatee on his tan face. I guessed him for a Turtle Islander, mixed English. Turtlean? His lean but thick body, soft of muscle and hard of joints, was as usual complimented by his corset-collared shirt and flowy black pants. Under the table, his leather boots were playing with mine as if an entirely different conversation were happening above – I pulled mine back, mostly for our gap in age, though it did amuse me.
I continued, "I know this must be hard for you, bein' that he's your patron an' all."
The Actor smiled at my footsie-withdrawal, but pretended not to notice. "Oh, don't say we're any different. You're as draconic as I am, we both want the same thing: The Heathen is ruining business, raping the arts and the women I should have pleased myself in victory. He makes a pop, like bottles do, and spills out half his contents over into floorboards. Then he demands more of himself, over and over." He illustrated each analogy with colorful hand-sways and flicks, painting the air. "His writing is hack-and-slash, his jokes are tired, and the people owe us their coin for worthy drama, not shit-heeled degeneracy." The Actor took a sip of his berry tea, a kind too red and sour for me. I sipped mine violet, and kept listening. Suddenly, he took my mug and poured some of into his, and back and forth until both of us had a pink tea.
I was shocked at his audacity, but curious – I closed my jaw and tried some. I was pleasantly surprised with the flavor, both tart and mellow. It was honestly exquisite. "Ask next time?" I jabbed.
He shook his head and laughed, "Nah." Then he went on, "And not to mention he cancelled the festivals, turned away all our tourists, and lost us our yearly bounty – then told us his paltry sum would be 'more than enough.' No, I'd say he's long-since lit his own oven." He lifted up his legs to stretch on the table, attracting attention, which I was annoyed at for obvious reasons. Then he put them down, and spoke plainly in good volume, to give attention something to be heard. "I studied in England with the royal family, for fuck's sake – I've performed for The Pope himself! And every one of his cardinals! I thought this town my home, and you know what? It stinks now! Slowly but surely-" he sipped again, and put it down. He was fining himself for a fantastic performance, and all there who listened could enjoy it - free of its conspiratious context. "He's made this once-lovely neighborhood STINK. And I can't stand to be here, but I haven't got the fare to take all my dramatics with me – my equipment! Costumes, props, effects, all vital to our craft. And, I suppose, my co-stars as well," he snickered.
I cracked a grin and rolled my eyes. The salacious ham, should've been given a pig to play in my tale.
He flicked his wrist. "You feel me on this? It's EXPENSIVE to be this FINE of a performer!"
I nodded, "I feel you, and your boots." They'd returned to mine, and I was losing at the wrest for not wanting to bump the table over. Then I remembered mine at home, having been kicked, and worry flashed over me. I glanced around to make sure we weren't being heard anymore. Dull chatter covered ours.
He shrugged. "Sorry, I do get a little... expressive. What are you doing later, perchance? I've seen your performance of a woman, and I must say... it's highly convincing." His tone was wavering like one of his flame ribbons, and his legs had mine secured like a vice. Maybe I had him figured wrong for a pig – he was more like an impossible snake. For God's thanks, he was on my side... for now.
I wrested free and put my legs aside to sit sideways, and glared at him for mercy. "SPEAKING of women – more of them have left. They don't scream anymore, because every time he does it, the people give him license. If we..." I lowered my voice. "...if we killed him, in public, they'd riot – he has them so dependant, his hand might as well be up ALL their asses."
"Crude, Reaper. Very crude," he mocked. Then he chuckled himself quiet.
I rolled my eyes. "You know what I'm saying."
"Chemical addiction," he agreed. "Beer is nothing but a way to sell addiction, in truth. Swap it for anything else, the business remains intact."
"Exactly," I sighed. "And I've noticed men leaving as well, young ones. Entire families, even ch-"
He held up his hand, and pinched his nose. "I know, but don't speak of it. He'll burn in Hell for it, take peace in that," he assured.
I shook off my chills. "So, let me be clear: everything must go as-written. Otherwise, however you may want to pull my punches for your audience, The Heathen will see-" I stopped, looking for the right words.
The Actor picked up where I dropped off. "We want his chicken-legs to quiver, so he'll rise to peck your eye out."
"An' I can beak 'im," I confirmed, "make 'is neck into rope and snip."