The Originators

CHAPTER 16: IF ANGELS REFUSE TO SING, TICKLE SOME TOES (CHRIS)

I.

I'm already bored.

I sit down on a curb, letting my leather soles soak up the water running down the gutter; observing how everyone's coming out now, reveling in the better air, climate, no need to hide anymore.

Everyone's moving back to where they were before, like nothing happened. Do they understand, in their furs, jewels; crying for plays, foie gras, their roles of power have been replaced in the order of thing? The cabbies, the restaurants, everything is limping in the direction of normalcy; except the old normal doesn't exist anymore.

Temporarily homeless, my hood pulled up, I wonder if I can count on the goodwill of those who pass me by. Will they look at me? Really, look at me. Recognize how I stink, in my threadbare clothes; desperation personified. Coating a finger in the oily, dredge of human waste and want, right before it sinks into the grate, I hold it up. Dabbing my neck and my inner wrists, I rise.

I have a few friends to visit. One extremely intimate friend. Another, if she survives, I'll need to reconsider. The odds, if I recall, I gave to her. However, I will hold tight to my insider information. No need to share.

Walking up the stairs of a tall, towering brick home, I'm facing a large, overly-worked brass knocker. I step back. I'm anticipating the fall, absorb how falling into an abyss of nothing never changes people. How a fall from Grace, the Lord, the Word, means you believe in nothing so you have to believe in material things to make you feel better about your life. How the material makes experiential become existential become spiritual. These non-believers inevitably move towards a black hole; a void – eternal emptiness. That's how they make sense of the archetype of their lives.

I hold the knocker with my fingertips. Releasing it, as it meets its landing pad; vibrations move through me. I wait.

A click clacking of heels approach the door. To my right, the window's swag slightly sways, after the peephole steams up. A set of feet are moving back and forth, from what I observe of the light patterns beneath the door.

"Who's there?"

I remember how much I hate her voice, especially when it climbs to incredible heights, falsely mimicking surprise. Standing here, I try to lower my blood pressure as I am about to confront the ex.

"Helen, you know it's me. Open up."

After a sharp, bad-mood click of heels, the door opens.

"What? Why are you here? Oh, you look like some homeless vigilante." Helen swings her dark locks, unfurling them, flinging them at me. I step back, knowing better.

Her hair is ivy; it beguiles, beckons, you want to drape yourself in it. You find you are growing her essence, not your own; you manifest her rampant proclivity for never ending lust. Helen finds you; your desires, you become her slave. That simple.

"Helen. I'm pretty sure Merc and Poll will be taken care of; Laura as well. I need a job."

She lifts her hair up, it redistributes over her neck, playing with itself.

"Do you think I look pretty Chris? I'm feeling lovely tonight. I just want to hear you say it. Say it, come on. Then I'll tell you about Floda's plans for his latest acquisition; a new toy – ConChaos, Co."

Helen pauses, gently caressing her own long neck with her slim fingers; her dark blue eyes blink rapidly.

She stops; she curls her lip, "We might...be able to use you. I'm not sure yet. Now, I'm sure - doubtful." Helen laughs, and hard-bites her teeth together, "So, pretty? Or, not so pretty?"

I'm not surprised to hear she's managed to land someone richer and more powerful than Reltih.

"Of course, you're pretty Helen. I married you, didn't I?"

Helen starts moving her hands, fingers twirling, flickering, trying to harmoniously join each other.

"We weren't really," the fingers from both hands weave into a twitching mismatch, "a fit. See. See how we didn't really fit. Come on Chris. You see it now. Not a fit."

Her fingers keep trying to fit together.

"That's why Chris, I'm not sure Floda and I think you are a fit. With us, in our new venture."

"Helen, you will face the wrath of God. We don't look kindly upon those who seek to do us harm." She steps back, surprised. I'm just beginning.

"You believe you have picked the winning side of the universal debate that will change everything we're embarking upon. Yet, truly you are sitting on the sidelines passively, manipulating, waiting for everyone else to take action. You are a faithless adulteress, a liar; a whore."

Helen looks at me. Her mouth opens, her ever-moving snaky tendrils of hair try to seek comfort in that warm cavern. "Floda, Floda, come down here. We have an unwelcome guest. An insulting guest."

"Helen, when the only thing you believe in is yourself, you cease to see hope, beauty, and life in anyone else. You are arid Helen. You die each day, unaware of how you kill yourself and everyone around you. I'm afraid for you."

I raise my arms, crossing them at the elbows. I see her dead. I know she is dead; a next-gen female like Eve or Pandora, consistently assisting in the ruination of civilization.

"You will be saved if you can be saved. If you are unworthy – well, I suppose you have to die."

From my arms, flames flow and attach to Helen. Her husband, Floda, runs down the stairs of their house.

I actually thought there was a possibility she wouldn't die. I'm so surprised when it happens I don't move. The flames seem to grow, balloon around her hair, expanding into a gigantic skewering of pale white marshmallowy face, licorice hair, finally a hissy, sizzle of screams as everything pops.

She must be dead. Floda is beating some expensive carpet on her head as I
run, I run, I run.

I keep running.

I laugh, expelling out words as I sprint into closure, "Yes. He is indeed on my side."

I can't stop laughing.

This is a good thing, right.

"Flagpole Sitta", Where Have All the Merrymakers Gone? Harvey Danger