Who Is Brian Quinn?

Everyone Here is Crazy!

Dolores stood shivering in the cramped back room of the junk shop watching Gregorio in his little wooden bowl giggle into the murky depths of the toilet. She gazed at the pocket watch lying in her palm.

"It's a fine story my little friend but it doesn't cut the mustard," said Beardsley.

Gregorio straightened, fixed his steely gaze on Beardsley. "Mustard? You don't believe me? Then tell me exactly where I've gone wrong," he hissed. His eyes shone a cold blue blazing icily.

"For one thing," said Beardsley. "There was no bet. You made that up. Fabricated out of thin air in order to satisfy some bizarre fantasy you've cooked up. And you have no idea where this water is coming from. You're just as frightened and confused as the rest of us." Beardsley grinned, shoving his hands in coat pockets. "This wasn't part of the deal. The water, the endless darkness and damp."

Gregorio stood motionless in his tiny craft rocking gently on the water. "Is that all?" said the midget. "Because you're talking complete nonsense. You sound like a damn fool." He giggled and wagged his finger. "I know exactly where this water comes from. And I know exactly where this little strumpet's father has gone. And where he's gone, there's no coming back."

"You have no idea where he's gone. And no I'm not through. What if I were to tell you that you don't belong here? You never belonged here. You're a ringer. A stand-in. You were plucked from another book entirely. Her father grabbed you from the pages of some worthless pulp garbage to be a stand-in here, while he was out taking over the world as you call it."

"Lies!" the midget growled, barring unsightly teeth. Jagged, they shone like dirty diamonds. His tiny fists beat the air.

Beardsley continued. "You were meant to take his place. But you couldn't do it. You lost yourself. Lost sight of who you were before, of who you were supposed to be."

"Stop!" he shouted, rising on his toes in the floating bowl. "You devil!" he shouted. "I'll fix you." The midget began rowing furiously out the doorway into the front of the shop.

Beardsley followed. Dolores came behind, winding cautiously through the piles of warped and water-logged junk, her moon boots making wide surging ripples in the water.

"Now you've done it," shrieked the midget. "You despicable cretin!" He lifted himself out of the bowl onto a cracked and rotting dresser bureau, the shelves green with mildew, latches broken off, piled high with junk and rusted debris. Rummaging, back bent, muttering to himself he looked like a hairless rat, scavenging for string. Turning, Gregorio lifted an ancient single shot pistol, enormous in his tiny hands, an antique, from some forgotten war, leveling it at Beardsley. "I never wanted to come here," he screamed. "I never wanted to come. That despicable beast brought me here, left me stranded in this plot-less wasteland of nothingness and insanity. Everyone here is crazy," he cried. "Everyone. No wonder I've gone and lost myself." His body began to shake as he held the gun, extending his arms toward Beardsley.

"No!" cried Dolores.

Beardsley dropped down into the water. The shot rang out as it glanced off the surrounding junk.

Gregorio stood with his hands still clenching the great gun, peering into the water looking for Beardsley. "Missed him," he murmured. The midget slumped on top of the dresser, head bent, reloading the pistol.

A movement disturbed the water near the entrance to the back room.

Dolores stood wide eyed, hands gripping the collar of her pink slicker. Her eyes roamed the room searching for Beardsley. Another quick movement from behind the counter sent water rushing in currents.

"There you are," whispered the little man, turning his eyes toward the deep recesses of the shop. "You can't run." He hopped from his perch down into the bowl and began to paddle. "You're next missy," he said to Dolores as he passed her. "Once I find that boyfriend of yours." His face twisted into a wicked smile.

Dolores followed peeking around the corner into the back room. The midget had stopped in the middle of the room standing in his bowl peering about. "Mustn't waist a shot," he muttered to himself. He held the gun at arms length, swinging it out over the water, aiming at nothing. A tiny ripple seeped outward from the bathroom deep in the back of the shop.

The far edge of Gregorio's lips quivered and rose in a half-smile.

"No," whispered Dolores and lunged toward the tiny craft.

Gregorio made a sudden move, leaping from the bowl, gun held high in the air. He landed with a splash and leapt again sprawling into the bathroom with a spray of water. The midget shrieked and cackled as he fired the giant pistol.

The shot echoed in the little room like an old man's cough, the smell of burnt powder hanging in the air. The bullet ricocheted off a stainless steel bedspring then glancing off a tarnished helmet of the conquistador variety finally crashed into a full length mirror sagging against the far wall.

The penetrating thud of the cleaver sounded simultaneously with the crash of the glass.

The midget screeched high and long, a wail to be heard for miles around.

Dolores raced into the bathroom. Gregorio lay flattened against the wall, his arm stuck fast in the peeling plaster, held by the cleaver Beardsley had taken from the kitchen. The blade had penetrated Gregorio's wrist severing his hand cleanly. Blood gushed from the stump where it hung, still held by the blade, turning the water an even deeper shade of murky brown. The hand floated on the surface, rings glistening on the tiny fingers. Without a thought Dolores snatched up the hand and dropped it in the toilet.

"No!" bleated the midget.

Beardsley rose from the water behind the toilet bowl and flushed. The small hand thick with rings spun, swept around the bowl and disappeared.