They dressed him like a mannequin, a fashion piece to be left in the front of a window sill, to be gawked over by the passer biers. To be envied. They put his pants on first, then his undershirt, then his coat and the green sash that went over it. A thin, braided green sash, decorated with small pins of emerald and diamond. It went shoulder to waist and it inhibited his movement. But Junior did not care. He was watching television, going through the channels with a drooling mouth.

Golf. Anime. Film noir. News. A cycle, on and on, as the dressers powdered his face and fixed it with a bright red blushing agent.

He looked like a doll. A thirty year old boy, sitting in a pow-wow position, with the dressers around him, on his bed watching television.

It was his big day. He was to inherit the company, whatever that meant. He was to bear the mark of the beast, whatever that meant (Mammon never said it like they said it). He took his big spoon and took a giant scoop of cereal to stuff into his shaved mouth.

Stuffed animals were set all around him, in a ring on his bed. Some were set against each other, to give the impression that the toys were speaking to one on another. Some were laid on their back, staring with black beads into the ceiling. More toys were to his rear, for this was his room after all. A train track that moved without rest across the roller coaster of set pieces; caves and forests and lakes, all part of the set.

He was about to stop at a channel, a program on the Discovery channel, one of sharks. He heard his mother, her clacking rather. The doors burst open. She allowed herself in and with a snap, dismissed everyone but Junior, who sat, staring.

“Junior.” She said. “Junior! Oh, Junior,”

She walked over and took the controller from his hand. She threw it, somewhere, against a bear. She took the spoon, then the bowl, and set it to the rear.

Salome sat by his bedside now, with his hands in her hands. She had a strong grip.

“Today is your big day, Junior. You know that, right?” She rubbed him. “You’re going to be a good boy today, right Junior?”

He waved up and down, eyes shifting between her and the television set. She must have noticed, because she looked at him disgusted-like. With two fingers she placed upon his chin, she closed his mouth and forced her face to gaze upon her. Her nails felt sharp against his chin, like a razor blade. He saw clearly, what kind of woman Salome was: the wide sun hate with the black ribbon, the small veil surrounding the circumference of the hat that covered her pallid skin. She had a suit on with a puffed shirt, a long skirt too nearly fell to her ankles.

“Junior, I need you to listen to mommy, okay?” She asked. His mouth opened again like a malfunctioning toy. He felt the drool down to his shirt and she took out a napkin to fix it. The face she had on her made him want to cry. A gross-looking, desperate, sad face.

Why mommy mad.

“Junior,” She said. “Please, for daddy, and for me please do this right.”

“O-okay.” He shook his head, child-like, with devout excitement.

“Today is the big day, and I need to know that you know what you’re doing.” She said. “Do you remember what mommy taught you, yes sweetheart?”

“Drink from the fountain.” He smiled and flashed his bucked teeth. The topmost row more pronounced than the lower, which explained his off-set chin (that looked like a chili pepper, by his own admission). Though it looked more like a light bulb, especially with his oversized skull and his Neanderthal-like brow.

“Drink the water, like a juice box.” He repeated, waving his hands and searching for an action figure to fit in them. She beat him to it and grabbed a little Batman figurine that she clasped in her hand like a monster. Squeezing, pulling, disjointing. The things she did made him want to cry and he glared at her.

Let go.

“There’s more Junior, what are the words. Tell me them, now.” She said, “You can play when you’re done.”

“The words.” He repeated. His mouth moved, and his lips released that audible, discomforted noise, like a pained groan. He closed his eyes in thought, his tattoo wrapped around his wrist glowing from the concentration. Salome grabbed him. Fast, clenching his wrist. She was sweating, nervous. He opened his eyes to see his mother anxious. The fear she showed made him want to cry. His lips quivered.

“They’re just words, okay?” She rubbed his head and hugged him, perhaps seeing his emotional explosion incoming. “Don’t worry, they’re just words. Words don’t hurt. They don’t kill. Okay?”

“Okay.” He rocked back in forth, his face on her bosom. “Okay.”

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

“You’re a big boy aren’t you? What is a big boy like you going to do at the fountain?” Clutching him, holding him close.

“Mammoth…”He mumbled. His tongue was caught in the m’s and stumbling down the stairway of phonetics, tripping and hitting every step along the way. “M-m-m-m. Ma-mamama.”

“Mammon.” She said. “Good boy.”

“I need to say thank you to Mammon. Thank you, Mammon.” He waved his hands to gesture a Hello, though there was no one here but the mother. He waved anyway, to the corner of the room. “Thank you, Mammon. Thank you!”

His mother looked to see, empty. She laughed a bit.

“That’s right, Mammon.” She said. “It’s important you do that. You don’t have to say it loud, as long as you mean it and He can hear it.”

“Mammon.” He repeated. Looking emptily into the corner of the room, an inconspicuous space whose only furniture of note was a small cupboard and a vase of water.

He clapped his hands in glee, in reverie, as he shouted incomprehensible inanities.

“Mammon.” He parsed in between. “Mammon.”

“That’s good, that’s good.” She said.

He looked away from the corner and back to her. His joy somewhat disappearing and the cold growing air receding back. It felt as if the grip of cool weather had loosened, had retreated underneath the door frame and ran far away.

Once again, they heard the people talking, laughing and screaming. The thick layers of walls could not contain them, not so much as hide them.

“Is the tall man going to be there?” He asked. “At the party.”

“Tall man-? What?” She turned her head. “The animals?”

He shook his head up and down.

“The funny walking person.”

“Apollo? Don’t worry about him or his little tramp friend, they won’t be anywhere near you. I made sure of that. They're banned from the recession, they’re only allowed into the ball and outside the ball.”

“So he’s not going to be there?” His face drooped. “Why not?”

“Because he’s part of that savage order, Junior.” She said. “Bad men like him kill good people like us. It’s their job.”

“Kill me?”

“Kill you, yes.” She gestured up and down.

“But he seems nice.” He picked up a toy to hold in his lap. His massive, hairy arms, his pronounced skull, his hands nimbly working at the toy. It was a soldier and he, an ape. Unrefined, unrestrained, unthinking. An ape trying to learn of civilization, a primal being whose affluence and antenna aligned to higher beings.

“Apollo's like me.” He said.

“What do you mean?”

“He sees what I see. I see what he sees. It's easy, mama.” He put the toy down. “I want to be his friend. He's not bad. Not bad at all.”

“You don’t need you to think or want anything, Junior.” She caressed his cheeks. They felt soft, but as she moved, he could feel her pluck and scratch against his fuzzy chin. He had not been shaved well.

“Mama is here, Floyd and Jezzy and Luanne too. We’re all the friends you need.” She rubbed him. He jerked his face away.

“You don’t see what we see.” He said. “You can’t. You’re in the prison box. We’re not though, we get to play.”

“Stop saying we. Stop talking about that idiot. He’s a stranger. You only met him once. We’ve known you all your life, so don’t you act distant young man.”

He kept his face away from hers, his eyes shifting between her and the toys and the bed. She tried getting closer. All he could see was her sagging clothes, like a black drape trying to shield his eyes, trying to suffocate him. He moved. Crawled down his bed and hid behind the pillows.

“You’re not going to be a good boy?” She asked.

He raised a pillow to his mouth.

“I want to see him again.” He said, quietly. Just loud enough to be parsed through the background noise of festivities.

“I told you to stop talking about him!” Her finger, raised, she shook it at him. Her face flushed red. He remained quiet, silent. She screamed some more at him, he quieted. Junior, after all, was a strange boy. Capable of untamed rage and long-lasting catatonic dismissal. He lived these two modes, which ought to have been opposites, but he lived them in the constant day to day, as if time itself was an irrelevance to his demanding existence.

So it went then, his eyes narrowed towards his mother before he shifted them entirely to the television. Then, the corner again. Of which, at the turn of his head, a sudden chill sprung back up on all their backs. The boy (man), the mother, and the workers.

“Junior! Look at me.” She screamed. He did not. “Junior! You better be ready in an hour, young man!”

He stayed quiet. The workers came, curious, opening the doors to peep.

“Don’t disturb him.” She nearly threw the doors as she walked out, with her pompous stride. “I’ll be back to pick him up in an hour. Just make sure he doesn’t stain his clothes. I want him clean and prim.”

They looked at her, eyes wide open. She leaned in on them, her chapped mouth wide in a frown.

“You’re dismissed.” She waved at them. “Go on.”

They all scattered. Junior did not bother looking at Salome or her workers. He did not move much of anything, for he knew all and saw all and spoke all and need waste his time in the headache of work or petty disgrace of desperation. Junior did not move, for he need not run for a destiny that waited for him.

For Junior knew what notch on the circle he occupied, and knew with calm, collected uncaring. And Junior sat, with his bowl of cereal and his toys and his television set, a screen of static that reflected in his wide, brown eyes.

He sat there. As he had before. As he would, in the infinity to come.

He sat, not waiting. For waiting and time and all those things meant nothing to his strange and touched brain.

And one hour, or minute, or second (what mattered of time?), when the most of the workers were on their quick break and when only few remained, a young man and woman cleaning after the room, he heard the doors open.

Mama lied. She came early. Mama came early. His eyes did not even move to meet him. I know what Mama told me and I know what Mammoth told me and mammoth rhimes with mammon.

The foot steps approached. The two workers screamed, a millisecond, before they were hushed.

Mama isn’t here for me. But mammon sure is. And Mammon rhymes with mama. And Mammon is Mama.

The figure stood in front of him. His breathing, tempered and quiet. But Junior did not turn to look or was even ever worried. His face was stubborn, past the static on the television, to the corner of the room. He felt the cold on his neck and he smiled.

Mama came to pick me up. And I'm dressed up. And Mama goes with Mammon and and and m m m m ma ma ma ma

One blow. A thump. A body, dropped. A seizure that would not stop. Junior's tongue, stuck in his throat, speaking a word that would never, could never be said.