Several weeks passed since the artist attended the Dark Machine Show. He had kept the envelope hidden, and had not spent any of the money. He was conflicted. Who were these people? That would pay so much for his work? He wanted to find them and have them commission more work so he could make more money. He also wanted to find them and collect his painting from them, condemning them for paying such a ridiculous amount for a work he was sure they didn't understand.

He hadn't seen Flo since that night either.

He had seen Isabel over the weekend, and had made plans with her again this week. Isabel was a soft and feminine being who exuded only love and affection - like a cat - but like you want a cat to be. She was equally happy with sex or just being physically close. The artist loved the non-expectation from her, and the relaxed spirit that overflowed from her into his own. She wasn’t the kind to suddenly scratch and bite you.

Saturday was the day they planned to go out. Isabel met the artist at home. They had several drinks before departing for The Mill House. Isabel knew one of the bands playing.

The band - called Black Cell - were something like dark wave mixed with accordion and nonsense. Fortunately, the drummer had a good groove, and it was at least danceable. Isabel dragged the artist onto the dance floor, and made him move around with her. The way she moved around him - forced a reaction in him. He had to respond.

They stayed until the band was done, and made the trek back to the artist's place. Collapsing into bed, they were both feeling sexual - and they were both exhausted, failing asleep in each other's half-naked arms.

As he slept, the artist dreamed of himself as a child. He had been painting in his bedroom, and his father had bursted in. On the easel was "The Penetration of Jesus", although - it looked different from the one he had actually painted. But it was enough the same that it outraged his father.

Looking around his childhood bedroom, he could see a menagerie of animals, laughing at him. Foxes and bears, lions and raccoons... all making fun of him. A man with no face, dressed all in black shook his hand, giving him a large sum of cash. His father, screaming at him "What have you done?! What have you done?!"

When he awoke, he was a bit shaken by the dream.

The voice, this time: ”Ah yes, my son. The dreams. When could you learn to understand them?”

“Understand what?”, retorted the artist, in a quiet, but out loud voice.

“Understand the meaning. The roots and where they grow. The nerves that feed your reactions”, responded the voice.

“My reactions?”, queried the artist. But there was no response this time. Isabel woke up.

***

The artist felt dry. Empty. Uninspired. Lost. He wanted to move to the next work - but what would it be?

He kept thinking about the experience. He kept wondering who bought his work. He kept wondering what he should do with the money. He still hadn't spent it. His paranoia kept telling him it was a scam, a sting. Anyday, someone was going to come looking to retrieve it.

But, they never did.

And life for the artist returned to semi-normal. Although, he wasn't creating. He was spending the money, though, now. Mostly he used it for going out, eating, drinking, and such.

It was several months later, when he was on the crumbs of that cash, that he was out again with Flo. They were just out for drinks and food, and conversation. They had discussed the whole experience, but really just rehashed the same details they always did. Flo followed the artist home that night.

The next afternoon, the artist was awoken by his roommate. He tossed an envelope on the sleeping pair, rousing them from their sleep. "Fuck..." was the artist's first response.

Once his eyes cleared, he could see the envelope. It was dark black. It was addressed simply to "Artist" on the outside - no address or stamp. He opened the envelope - and inside was a single black card with a single word in white: "invitation".

He showed the card to Flo, who shrugged her shoulders. "Is this the thing?", he asked.

"I guess so.", she offered.

Continuing, she said, "I've only seen one before - and it looked basically like that."

His stomach sank a bit. This seemed imminent - and he had no work to offer.

"I gotta get up...", he tore the covers off, but set still on the bed.

"Honey... chill out", offered Flo as she put her hands around his waist.

"But aren’t they expecting ...", he started. "Something?"

"It's ok, honey ... if you don't have anything you don't have to go.", she said, supportingly.

"Yeah - but. Agh. But - I'm broke. I spent all of that other money!", he proclaimed.

"Aww, sweet, it's just money. When has that meant anything?"

The artist just sat there.

Wondering - what comes next? Have I gone far enough?

***

Not knowing what was expected, the artist felt a drowning anxiety begin to flood all around. “The jesus” idea had seemed to come to him almost out of nowhere. He knew where the basic foundation of it came from ... but the specific idea just appeared in his mind, like a bird had flown overhead and dropped a seed on his head.

And he needed time. He had no idea how much time he had. Flo had suggested he would be summoned within the month, which didn’t leave a lot of time. It was no use trying to come up with something; that was the kind of thing that just invoked mediocrity. He simply had to wait.

So he did. He waited. He waited in bed. He waited in the shower. He waited as he smoked cigarettes on the same corner where he had the “Connie” vision. He waited in the clubs with Flo and EB. He waited in the bars as the whiskey ice dried up in his glass.

But nothing. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. A week had passed, and he felt lost in his own lack of inspiration. There was always something, something he could just latch on to, something he could just get the edge of a barb into, before he ripped it open to expose its entrails.

And on into the next week, it was the same. The same nothing. The same anxiety. The same depression. The same darkness. Everyone in his orbit could see it. They saw it in his vacant eyes. In his lifeless demeanor. In his anti-joie de vivre. They were losing their interest in the company of the artist.

And so it was. On a late weekend evening, he was alone. He had been at the club, but found it overwhelming and uninteresting. He didn’t stay more than one drink, and walked out alone. Feeling bored with the usual trek home, he took a long stroll through the streets. Cigarette after cigarette until his lighter would only spark. That left him with tobacco that was useless. Just another failing, he thought to himself.

He had just passed a small park. It was late, but there were lights providing visibility around the swing set and benches. He imagined the stay-at-home parents - mostly mothers, but a few fathers - sitting on the benches, as their kids swung higher and higher. The parents, bored and hardly engaged. Paying just enough attention to ensure that the kids didn’t get kidnapped.

He sat on one of the benches. He instinctively pulled another cigarette and put it to his lips. He reached for the lighter, and had the realization at the same time that it was kaput. He drew it up to the cigarette anyway, and gave the thumbwheel a couple of good tries, just in case. He shook the lighter for a second or two, and tried again. A small flame burst out of the lighter, and he smiled with the tobacco stick still in his mouth, putting the flame to it and inhaling. His exhale wasn’t just the smoke, but a letting go of what he had been holding on to. Holding on to the need, the expectation, the mad desire to find the answer to this puzzle. In that one out breath, he let it all go. He would either have something, or he wouldn’t. What the fuck did it matter? If he didn’t, maybe he wouldn’t be invited back. So what. He’d just be right where he was before. And that was fine. It was familiar and comfortable.

As the cigarette burned down to the filter, closer to his fingers - he took one last drag before flicking it off into the darkness. He strolled back toward the sidewalk. As he walked, his shoe caught in a hole in the ground, and he nearly fell to his face. But he did one of those run-skip movements where you think you are going to fall, but catch yourself at the last moment to regain your balance. He was embarrassed even though there was no one around to guffaw at his misfortune. He collected himself, and continued to the sidewalk and back to home.

***

That night, he lay in bed just staring. Not focusing on any one thing or point. Not at the ceiling or the wall. Just staring off - beyond the walls. He felt defeated, but had given up playing the game, and he was back to tabula rasa.

Eventually, his eyes glazed, and his eyelids descended over them. His breathing slowed and his body relaxed. Before long, his eyes were moving rapidly beneath their covering. Who knows how dreams come to you? But this one came to the artist.

He found himself in a field. It was an overcast, almost gray day - only clouds, no sun, no blue sky. The field was vast, extending what looked like forever in all directions. There was a small oasis not far from where he was. He could see two rabbits drinking from the small spring that fed the oasis. He started to walk in that direction, but was stopped as he scanned the field. A fox was moving slowly toward the oasis also. His eyes fixed on the rabbits. The artist wanted to enjoy the beauty of the fox. And he didn’t want to disrupt his hunt.

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

The artist stood still for several minutes, watching the fox make his engagement with the oasis. There was a tree between the fox and the rabbits, blocking the rabbits view or sense of the approaching predator. The rabbits continued their periodic head dip into the creek, and the fox continued his stealthy approach until he was just behind the tree, but in a place where he could still observe the rabbits. Then, without waiting for anything else, the fox pounced from his place.

One of the rabbits jumped into the creek, and began swimming. As it reached about halfway across the creek, the water turned into a whirlpool, pulling the rabbit below the water. The rabbit disappeared, and the whirlpool settled back to a still water. The other rabbit had leapt upwards, doubling in size as it did. The rabbit landed just near the tree, the ground opening up beneath it, swallowing the rabbit before the grass recovered the hole.

The fox melted into the ground, become nothing but a pelt, teeth, and claws. Next, the artist found himself staring over the remains of the fox. He was trying to make sense of the scene - staring at the creek, at the tree, at the fox, at the spot where the rabbit disappeared.

The artist felt his body drop, like that feeling when a roller coaster begins its descent. The grass below him had given way, and quickly. There was no time to jump or grab on to anything. He was suddenly falling into the earth, down a long tunnel. The walls all around him were dark. But then he was still falling, but the walls had become a mirror, and he could see himself falling. And he was distorted. His head had become a rabbits head. His legs had become fox legs, and a bushy red tail behind him. The mirrors around him began to pull him apart. He could feel his body disintegrating into millions of pieces, being pulled in all directions toward the mirror walls. The last to go was his head, and then he woke up.

The room was still lit. His eyes adjusted, and he pulled the covers closer to comfort himself. Two breaths later, he consciously felt the bed beneath him, the pillow below his head, and the weight of the blanket over him. The dream had seemed not just strange, but incredibly vivid. He tried to remember each element, each scene. He recorded them to memory, then got up to shutter the light, then right back under the cover. Within moments he was back asleep.

***

The artist was sleepy. He had been out for a while - maybe nine or ten hours. When he woke, he had no idea where he was at first, and certainly no idea of the time. His body was clammy, and his pillow was damp with sweat.

It only took a few seconds before the dream came back to him.

He got up and formulated a hacked up plan.

Where in the world could he get curved mirrors?

No. That wasn't enough. It would need to be more than a static mirror work. Time and money were both short - but the idea - was grand. It was beyond anything he had dreamt or created before. He called Flo...

"I've got it."

"That's great, honey. What've you got?"

"The work. The work. You might not see me for a while - it's going to take some effort..."

"Well, I'm here if you need me..."

The artist hung up.

The idea had a simplicity to it - but was ripe with intention and experience. And he would need some help.

But once the idea was there, the rest was just execution.

***

It was another several weeks before another black envelope arrived. Inside was a card with an address and a time. The artist called Flo and asked if she would join him.

The artist was concerned, however. The work was not like a painting. It wasn't going to fit in the back of a courier van. To even get it to the pickup location would be a struggle. He had rented a hauling truck, and driven it to the location.

To his surprise, when the black van arrived, there was a person in addition to the driver. The second person looked like he could have been the driver's twin or brother. He simply approached the artist, and put out his hand - palm up, and gave him an inquisitive look. The artist reached into his pocket and placed the keys in his hands. The artist and Flo entered the van, while the other guy climbed aboard the rented truck, installing himself in the driver's seat.

As they drove to their location - the artist was feeling excited. He thought this piece would be groundbreaking - an elevation beyond his previous work.

As before, when the van stopped, they had no idea where they were.

Surprisingly, the same guide as before met them at the van. And, as before, he took Flo's hand, and led them into the dark. They didn't have to walk quite as far before they could see the red lights. There were two of them on either side of a stairway leading down, like a subway.

As they descended the stairs, they found themselves in an underground tunnel - also lit with the same red lights. They could just make out a few other guests ahead of them, also with their guide. After a walk that lasted about 20 minutes, they came upon a staircase leading up. Ascending the stairs, they found themselves in a somewhat familiar greeting area.

The host extended his arms, embracing Flo and kissing her cheek. He shook the artists hand, clasping both his hands warmly around the artist's. A beautiful Asian woman handed them both masks. This time, Flo was Cleopatra, and the artist was the devil or some kind of demon. His mask was red, with horns erupting at the top. They moved forward, behind the curtain the Asian woman held open for them.

The room was huge. At least 200 or 300 feet square-ish. It was lit with a variety of gas lamps. The crowd looked smaller in this larger space. In the center of the room there was a square cage of probably 20 feet on each side. There was a divider in the middle of the cage - separating four exotic looking women from two exotic looking men and two animals the artist didn't recognize. They were like deer but with larger horns that were twisted. Each man was caressing the animal next to him. The women, not naked, but hardly clothed looked like they were exploding in heat. The men were nearly frothing seeing the beautiful women before them.

Before long, their guide appeared, taking Flo's hand, and indicating to the artist that he should follow. They approached the eastern archway, finding their way behind the dark curtain. Behind yet another curtain they entered a new room. It was similar size as the other, but was lined with black curtains along the sides, each curtain bearing a unique symbol on the floor. This time the artist found himself standing near an omega symbol. The guide pulled the curtain to reveal his latest work. He nodded to the guide.

They then walked to the far end of the room, and the guide retracted the curtain to reveal a chorus line of beautiful Asian women. As before, they walked down the line to evaluate and examine each one. This time, Flo was happy to whisper into the artist's ear: "She's cute. Oh I like that one", and so on.

But it didn't take long for the artist to recognize the tattoo. And with that, his selection was made. He thought he heard the voice say: “Yes, we like that one.”

Below the cage, there was a windrose indicating the cardinal directions. The artist and Flo had entered at the southwest corner, and could see that there were doorways on both the eastern and western walls. They noted a small alcove near the northeast corner, where other guests had clustered, and assumed that's where they might find the goodies they had come to expect. Flo enjoyed her typical lines, while the artist simply requested a bottle of whiskey, eschewing any signs of taste or proper upbringing. As usual, most everyone kept to themselves. There were, however, a few moments when the artist received compliments on his mask - mostly from what appeared to be balding older men.

There was no gong this time, but there was a rapid silence. The crowd at the goodie corner dispersed into places around the walls. A large chain, attached to the divider in the cage, was pulleyed up toward the ceiling. From somewhere, they could hear what sounded like tribal drums. The artist could now see that the women and men in the cage had particularly dark skin. The women's faces were painted with dots and lines in a white color. The men's faces were painted in red, with circles and arrows. The animals stayed in their places as the women began some kind of dance in place, and the men crossed the divider to perform a dance that appeared to be a hunt of the women.

Within moments, the first ring girl appeared at the eastern curtain. She held a rope in her hands. Attached to the rope were four young boys. They appeared to be around 14 or 15 years old, possibly Thai or something similar. The ring girl was secure in her silk robe, but the boys were all naked and had their heads shaved. She led them around the room while the drums continued to beat, and the tribal men and women in the middle continued their dance.

After circling the room, they departed behind the western curtain.

The next ring girl entered with a cage on a dolly. Inside the cage was a mostly naked man. He had a small cotton cloth wrapped around his pelvis. His head was shaven, and his skin was dark tan. His ribs showed through his skin. His nails were visibly long and he was jittery beneath the lights and amongst the crowd. As the ring girl drew the cage nearer, the artist thought the man looked familiar. Flo grabbed his hand tightly at the same moment. As the cage wheeled it's way past them, Flo couldn't help but whisper in the artist's ear: "You know who that was?"

The artist gave her a squeeze back, indicating that he understood, but that they shouldn't be conversing right now.

As each item made it's way around, the artist became nervous and anxious. What would these people think of his creation - or him?

Eventually, the girl with the Xuanwu tattoo emerged from the eastern curtain. She also held a rope in her hand. But as she made her way into the room, the rope was pulling something large on a moving dolly. The crowd was clearly intrigued as they didn't yet know what it was.

At this same time, the tribal drums changed. The men in the cage began to pursue and grasp the women, holding them in place. The men stripped the minimal clothing from the women, and made a sound that encouraged the animals with them.

As the artist's work made its way into the room, there were many curious and interested onlookers.

The woman with the Xuanwu tattoo stopped in front of a couple. The man was wearing a princess mask, and the woman was wearing a Medusa mask. With the cart stopped, the ring girl dropped the rope. She approached the man with the princess mask, and grasped his hand. Medusa made an encouraging sound. She led him to the cart. Two very large and athletic looking men appeared from the eastern curtain, each carrying a ladder. They placed their ladders on the eastern and western side of the cart. The man on the eastern side led the princess masked man up the ladder, while his counter part ascended on the other side. They each grabbed the man from atop the ladder, and lowered him into the center of what looked like a large sphere. As soon as the princess masked man was lowered, the tribal drums stopped. The women and men in the cage also stopped.

For a moment, there was nothing.

One of the ladder men placed a cover over the hole where the masked princess had been inserted.

There was some kind of sound, like a light whirring. The patrons looked on for several minutes. After 5 or 6 minutes, they began to have conversations with their attending partners. And that's when they heard the shriek. After that, the ladder man removed the cover. Each man reached down to pull the masked princess out of the contraption, allowing him to descend the western ladder. Once on the floor, the man stopped - looking stunned. It took at least five or ten seconds before he moved. But when he did, although his face was covered, all could sense the smile on his face. He returned to his Medusa, and the patrons all gave a rousing cheer and applause.

With that, the Xuanwu girl continued to walk the machine around the room, eventually evaporating into the western curtain.

***

The artist seemed pleased with this moment. In his mind, this was a great success.

Flo, too, felt a rush of excitement, despite having no idea what the artist had actually created.

His creation was the last item of the show. Their guide appeared, and handed the artist a ticket. As before, they made their way to the host.

At the host desk, the Asian woman reached out her hand, palm up. The artist placed the ticket in her hand. She then vanished behind the curtain. While she was gone, the host gave them both a broad smile.

After several minutes, the woman had not returned. Neither Flo nor the artist thought much of it. As they looked at the host, though - they could detect the falseness in his eyes. They were just about to ask about the woman...

Two large men appeared behind them, placing dark bags over their heads. They both began to scream out, but tape was wrapped around their mouths.

Then they both smelled something awful that they couldn't recognize, their breathing became difficult, and instantly they were both unconscious. The last thing the artist heard was the voice: ”You must descend before you ascend”.