Chapter 2

Jack meets a Guy from far, far away

There are no shades of black, really. Because black is the darkest possible color by definition. If it is indeed a color at all, and not simply the absence of color. However, there are things called shades of black which do exist, and they are defined as 'a typically dark color mixed with black.' So, by definition then, these 'shades' are not really black per se, but instead, are just very dark colors. The perception of black occurs when there is an absence of light. That is to say that true black can only be seen in the dark. This makes it unique in all of creation, being that it is the only thing that becomes easier to see the less light there is to see it with.

Right now, black is a color that Jack is really getting quality time to appreciate, as he finds himself quite unconscious. Not sleeping, not distracted, not daydreaming, not mostly everything. Not being dead was about as much as one could expect out of Jack at the moment. Which is why it came as an incredible surprise to Jack that he was aware of himself and his existence. There was nothing around. Nothing to see, not even light, because where Jack was, in a place inside his mind, there existed nothing but Jack. All was darkness, the true essence of black.

It occurred to him that he was somehow conscious of being unconscious. This made Jack's head hurt. Or hurt more perhaps, as he realized it had been hurting since he woke up yesterday. Was that yesterday? The last time he woke up. The time before this, here, now. He didn't really know how long he had stayed awake before passing out, neither did he know how long he had spent insensate since then. It felt like time didn't work the same here anyway. As if time was itself more subjective.

The cause of Jack's new awareness began to form in the limitless darkness that made up his current environment. It was a book floating in the nothingness. A peculiar book. Why would it be said to be peculiar? Well for one thing there was its size. It was a big book. which is quite paradoxical, because said book seemed to just float in the empty blackness and bereft of any scale it could perhaps be any size. It didn't look big, but it felt as if it was big. Just looking at it filled Jack with a feeling that he was tiny by comparison, regardless of the fact that Jack couldn't see himself for scale either. Which is the other thing that made the book peculiar. In this place, a place that is not a place because it exists solely inside jack's thoughts, there is no light. There can be no light. Because while it existed, it didn't exist as a 'place.' And also, while this area is perhaps a virtual 'place,' it did not, could not, in fact, exist physically. Nor then could Jack actually be inside it, because it was inside him. If it somehow existed inside him as he existed inside himself, then presumably there was also again another him inside himself in this place inside himself, like a mirror reflecting into another mirror, or a camera filming its own monitor, repeating unto infinity. Jack had, in a way, become an infinitely repeating fractal.

Jack was fascinated by this revelation and would have happily continued to ponder this, but the enormous glowing book began to stir. It rotated as if to vector itself to be read. Then it opened and inside its pages were unidentifiable symbols formed into groups, presumably words, but unfamiliar in every respect. The writing, if that's what it was, was geometric and fluid, as if some monstrously insane high school teacher had gleefully created a cursive version of geometry, cackling like a lunatic the entire time. And as if to add insult to injury, the fiendishly inspired script began to slowly glow in all the colors of reality. And then it glowed in all the colors of unreality. And then the symbols lifted off of their pages and flew like bullets toward where Jack felt himself to be.

The sigils, or perhaps they were glyphs? The symbols, burning with the colors of madness, flew into Jacks seeing bits. No, not his eyes, because Jack keeps his eyes on the outside, like most sensible people. And also, like most nonsensical people. Here, in this place, Jack could only with something else, something Jack had no name for, some invisible part which can see the invisible colors of things which don't exist. How can there even be a word for that? Whatever bits that let him be aware of the glowing book could certainly 'see.' And it turns out that they can also feel as well. For as those bits made contact with the flying glowing symbols, Jack felt pain; intense, searing pain. As his mental self was his only existence at this moment, his entire existence was that of an infinite measure of the platonic ideal of pain. The glyphs, and sigils did not seem to care that Jack wanted to scream his voice raw. They did not care that he could not do so for a lack of said voice either. They just continued speeding towards him, and burned their way inside, burying themselves deeply. There was no rest for Jack, no surcease in unconsciousness now. Jack maintained awareness of nothing save pain until the damnable book finished vomiting itself inside his insides. Then, as Jack more felt than saw, the book slowly closed and disappeared leaving Jack again alone inside himself. He prayed for the oblivion of the void, and this time it did not refuse him. He sank into it and again felt nothing for a time.

#

“Hey friend. You need to wake up now.” An unfamiliar voice said. “You must wake up, now! Or you may very well die there.” That got through to Jack. He groaned and blinked his bleary eyes while slowly sitting up. He was laid out on the floor of the half destroyed living room, covered in a disgusting sticky black goop.

“Wha... How... Who?” Jack sputtered, mostly in his head, as when he tried to speak, only a wheezy sound came out. Followed immediately by a coughing fit that wracked Jack's already painful head hurt so much he almost passed out again. Nasty black mucous flew out of his mouth. That's when he tasted it. Simply a description of that taste would get any government certified torturer a well-deserved promotion. “Oh god. No. Just no. I need something to drink. Anything! Anything to get this awful taste out of my mouth! Please!” then Jack gagged, which cleared some black mucous from his sinuses. Suddenly Jack could smell again, and he learned to his dismay that the taste was only an appetizer, not the main course. Jack began dry heaving and spitting between coughs, tears running down his face leaving slightly cleaner tracks across his dirty skin. A quiet chuckle came from very close to Jack, but he couldn't really see anything between the tears and the continuous retching. A glass bottle was placed into Jacks hand, and he gratefully drank its contents after spitting out the first mouthful. Huh, beer. Beer fixed so many things. Still, Jack hated the damn taste of it. He was a poor excuse for a Maniac.

“I am very sorry friend. To see the state that my untimely arrival has placed you in shames me. You need to clean yourself. Your breakthrough has covered you in [unintelligible]. If you don't get it off of you, you will die. Do you have a bathhouse here? Or perhaps a close-by stream or river? You do not have much time. The only reason that the [unintelligible]'s venom did not kill you immediately was your blocked meridians. Now that has changed, and yes that too is my fault. But I am crippled. I cannot help you. But you are not without hope, if you listen to me and do exactly as I say. Does this place have a bath?” The stragne man spoke the last sentence very slowly as if to a man in shock. Which, as it turns out, is exactly what jack was.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

This came from the man likewise leaning against the wall next to Jack. Which wasn't where Jack had left him. He must have dragged himself over here given the trailing smear that led through the worst of the mess on the floor and his now filthy hands. He had seemed much smaller yesterday fighting that... whatever it was. The Stranger was a large man, likely six foot something when standing. Thickly muscled, with longish black hair tied in a ponytail and a handsomely rugged face with a strong jawline and the faintest hint of a soul patch. His Clothes were mostly destroyed in the fight, and what was left didn't survive Jack's 'first aid.' The poor bastard was basically wearing bandages and whatever passed for underwear wherever he was from. But at least he was cleanish, unlike Jack. Examining him Jack decided he did a fantastic job fixing this dude up, considering Jack probably had a concussion.

“Yeah, there's a bathroom. Oh my Christ, I stink. You know, I actually believe you: I think that this smell could actually kill me. I'm probably banned by the Geneva convention.” With his vision slowly clearing, Jack leveraged himself slowly to his feet, and bracing himself with the wall, tried making it to the stairs. Nope. Jack was too exhausted to climb the stairs, so he turned around and walked back through the living room, nearly tripping on broken pieces of furniture and detritus thoroughly coated in viscous black and green ichor. “Thank god someone left this wall here, or I'd be stuck crawling along the floor” mumbled Jack, and the still nameless man chuckled softly again. “Which reminds me; who, the fuck, are you?!?”

The man stopped chuckling instantly. “Clean yourself quickly stranger, and I will answer all of your questions, I so swear. You may call me Guy. Now go! Time is of the essence!” Jack was facing away from Guy, slowly maneuvering around a puddle of suspiciously colored ooze, so he couldn't see the somewhat sad and guilty expression on Guy's face.

#

Bathrooms in Maine during the winter are not known for their excellent water heaters, and dead great Uncle Randall's bathroom was not an exception. The shower started at frigid, and slowly warmed up to merely tepid, which it maintained for not long enough, before cooling again. As a result, Jack spent most of the shower in frigid water. Normally this would be a nightmare for Jack, as he, like many people, prefer his showers hot. But instead, the cold was invigorating and helped to sooth his swollen muscles. Why were they swollen? Jack didn't fight, Jack didn't even physically exert himself that he could remember. Maybe there was something to Guy's assertion that he had been poisoned, but the brief memories of his brief yesterday were jumbled, confused, and blurry. As if it were all a dream, which he would have absolutely believed to be true, had he not awoken to see the proof of yesterday's unbelievable events strewn all about the living room, covered in unspeakable bloody monster snot.

The shower took what felt like forever, given that Jack was moving so slowly, and the nasty stuff covering every inch of his body was like industrial grease; it required vigorous scrubbing and scraping. And apparently, every bit of body wash and shampoo to be found in the downstairs bathroom. These washcloths would need to be burned after this he thought, then as he watched the nasty ooze slowly dissolve said washcloth, he decided that might not be necessary, it'll just disappear down the drain with the runoff. By the end of Jack's bath, instead of being more exhausted, Jack was actually starting to feel human again. Which is ironic, given the news that Jack is soon to learn.

Feeling somewhat cleaner, Jack walked down the hallway into the kitchen. The kitchen was fairly large and like most of dead great uncle Randall's house, paneled in wood. Not the crappy seventies fake wood paneling, but real wood paneling. It made the house feel like an old bank, or a country club or something. It was hard for Jack to believe that someone from his family had ever had the kind of money needed to own a house like this. It was almost a mansion as far as Jack was concerned. Which to a degree explained why Jack had never heard of great Uncle Randall. His brother, Jack's mother's father, or rather, Jack's maternal grandfather had never even mentioned him having a brother the few times Jack had met him growing up. He had thought that he had been the last member of his family alive these past ten years, which was when Jack's mother had passed, only to find out that not only was that not true, but that now it was. Furthermore, Jack was dead great Uncle Randall's only living relative when he had passed away at the age of 98.

It was the beer that killed him in the end he was told. Randall's lawyer, Mr. Martin 'Marty' Goldman, had explained the whole story when Jack had met him on Monday morning, the day before Guy somehow showed up. Mr. Goldman had said that he had expected Uncle Randall to die from his love of the bottle for years, but it was still surprising when it happened. It was a surprise to Uncle Randall too. Apparently, he had been walking a case of beer upstairs so it would be easier to drink from bed, when he slipped on an empty bottle and fell down the stairs. The bottle giveth and the bottle taketh away. Amen.

Jack made a pot of coffee and slowly climbed up the rear stairs to the master bedroom, then on to the guest bedroom where Jack had left his stuff. And there it was, his stuff, next to the bed was a big black trash bag full of clothes. Jack picked it up and dumped it out onto the bed, he dressed himself in old jeans and an even older tee shirt with a now unrecognizable band logo on it. Then, thinking of his guest, he grabbed a pair of stretchy sweatpants, the only thing Jack had that might fit Guy, and another tee shirt and threw them over his shoulder. Back down the rear stairs and to the kitchen just in time to see the coffee machine finish up. Preparing two mugs, both with sugar and cream, he left them on the kitchen's thanksgiving sized kitchen table thinking how nice it was to have nice stuff. Or any stuff at all, really.

Back in the living room, Guy had managed to finally stand up. “Can you make it into the kitchen, or do you need a hand?” Jack asked him.

“I am recovering, thank you, I can make it.” replied Guy. “Although I think I would like to use your bathhouse first if I may?”

“Sure, it's on the other side of that door” Jack pointed at the door in question. “Call me if you need something” looking at the ceiling, jack realized he had used all the soap in there. “Give me a second” Then Jack went to the upstairs bathroom and retrieved the soap and shampoo bringing them back down the front stairs which was much closer to the first-floor bathroom. Then he left the sweatpants and tee shirt on the changing rack. It's nice to have money, isn't it? Jack had never had furniture just to put clothes on before. Popping back out he turned to Guy, “there you go, now there's soap for you too. When you're finished, meet me in the kitchen. Er... over there through the big archway.” he pointed towards the kitchen.

“Gratitude, Benefactor, I will do so.” Then Guy disappeared into the bathroom and Jack went to finally drink his coffee.

“Jesus, this Guy talks funny.” muttered Jack as he disappeared back into the kitchen.

#

Seated at dead great Uncle Randall's ridiculously large natural wood kitchen table, Jack looked out of the window. The snow had finally stopped, sometime while he was unconscious presumably. So had the freak lightning storm. Lightning during a blizzard? What do you even call that? A Blightning? A Lizzard? Electrisnow? But the good news stopped there. From his seat, the view out the window showed how much snow there was, it was halfway up the window. So, something like five feet of snow maybe? Thank God there was a plantation style porch on the front of the house, or Jack and Guy wouldn't be able to open the front door. Not that they needed to right away, Jack had packed the kitchen with food on Monday, after meeting with Mr. Goldman. So, there was no pressing reason to leave, which was lucky because Jack had no idea where the shovels were kept. Besides, Guy might leave the way he had come: through a giant terrifying hole in reality. Regarding which, Jack was anxious to hear about. Answers would be very welcome right now, though Jack had a suspicion that he wouldn't understand them any more than he understood the things he had seen already. Eh, whatever, he'd figure it out.

Jack had just about finished with his cup of coffee when Guy shuffled in. The image of a man the size and shape of Dwayne Johnson wearing Jack's old sweatpants with a tee shirt with "You don't know Jack" printed on it, and hobbling like a geriatric was a study in contrasts. Guy sat at the table, looked at the cooling coffee mug, then sighed a long weary sigh. Tasting the drink, he made an appreciative grunt and finished it in one long swill, holding out the mug for more, which Jack obliged. “So.” said Jack.

“So.” said Guy.

“Hello Guy, pleasure to meet you. I'm Jack. Jack Elder. Now that the pleasantries are out of the way, perhaps you can explain what the fuck is going on?” dead panned Jack.