A Mad Man's Eye

Eliot lit the end of his cigarette as he and Quentin walked out of the used CD and vinyl shop, known as Vinyl Idol. After taking a drag, he exclaimed, "That was the flashback of the year for me, dude."

"You didn't buy anything," remarked Quentin.

"Hey, asshole, don't even try to get me down. I live for this shit. You know, in the moment stuff and all that. I don't go into stores always to buy things."

"Ah okay," Quentin said. "Hey, when does Janet get back in town?"

"She added another couple days to her getaway in Switzerland. What's with you two? It's like both of you are trying to get away from me all the time. It's not like I'm going to surprise you with a weird party involving male dancers in police costumes, Quentin, despite popular belief."

Quentin ignored Eliot while checking new emails on his phone. "What the...?"

"What is it, Q?" asked Eliot

"Mayakovski is in Syria. Says you have his eye? He needs it right away, apparently."

Eliot remembered the eye he was given by the crazy old professor. "Oh yeah. The griffin's eye. I don't know why he gave it to me to hold onto."

Quentin sighed with relief, happy it wasn't Mayakovski's own eyeball he sent off with Eliot. He continued reading, then said, "Oh, and apparently we're flying to Syria tonight. There's a flying carpet waiting for us at home."

***

The magic carpet was lazily draped over one of the hedges in the front yard, as if someone carelessly through it out a window.

"Do we have time to pack?" asked Quentin, not knowing how crucial time was at this point, or the importance of the griffin's eyeball.

"I dunno. I think we can pack one backpack with, like, one set of clothes each, then hit the road."

They both rushed to their bedrooms, grabbed pants, underwear, socks, and a shirt. Quentin grabbed their toothbrushes and floss, smiling at the way Eliot had to floss his protruding fangs from a funny angle.

They ran outside, Quentin hastily yanked the carpet off of the hedges, the carpet instantly became animated, scooped up the two magicians, and flew high above the house.

***

The Atlantic Ocean was a beautiful sight at night, more so than Eliot and Quentin could had ever imagined. The moonlight reflected off of the current in a shimmer, a mixture of bright whites and dark blues, like fast vanishing and reappearing strokes of a paint brush.

Quentin reread the email on his phone. He wondered why the hell Mayakovski was in Syria. Damascus, Syria, to be precise. Couldn't Mayakovski get into trouble for leaving Brakebills South? Did Dean Fogg still have authority over him, or was Mayakovski pretty much his own dean?

When he became tired, Quentin lay down and rested his head upon his arms, closed his eyes and fell asleep to the soft sounds of the ocean.

Eliot, growing bored, lit another cigarette and started doodling pictures in a notebook.

***

At precisely a quarter after eight in the morning, the carpet started to lower into what seemed to be the ghetto of the middle-eastern country. Old, crumbled buildings were surrounded with debris, and there were no people around. It was an abandoned area. Quentin thought it looked like a teenage "bad boy" hideout, where discreet sexual encounters happened.

"Quentin, this place would so make for a bitchin' kegger. What do ya think? I mean, apart from the travel."

"There's something off about this place," Quentin replied. It felt like everything was somehow frozen, like time had stopped before they had gotten there. There was no wind, no noise, and in front of Quentin's face, sustained in midair, was a quarter-sized chipped off corner of a brick.