When Flo woke up, she was home, in her own bed. She was in her panties and a tank top. Her eyes were itchy, and she was a bit groggy. It felt like she had been to the club. But as she lay in her bed, parts of the night came back to her. She could remember the cage, and the cart. And then nothing until now.
She wanted to shrug it off, because there was no information she could access that suggested otherwise. However, in her gut something felt wrong. She grabbed the phone and called the artist... but there was no answer. Which was not unusual.
She got dressed and started the coffee.
***
There were three chairs. In the middle was the largest chair, although all three were pretty big. Each made of some kind of nice wood, with leather cushions. A man with a dark double breasted suit sat in the center chair. His dark hair slicked back. His infectious smile lighting the room. To each side, his two twin sons. They each opted for single breasted, but matching pin stripe suits. All three wore dark red silk ties.
The artist could smell the smoke of their cigars. He could also just make out the scent of whiskey in the air, as each man had a healthy pour in his hand that wasn't holding a cigar.
The artist could also sense that it wasn't just him and the three men. There must have been a handful of women as well. The head cover made it hard to establish exact numbers, obviously.
The hood was pulled from his head. His eyes took nearly 20 seconds to adjust. He was in a house. Something like the great room of a typical large scale American house. He was seated in a hard wooden chair, and in front of him he could now see three similar looking men, all in what looked like comfortable leather chairs; all with cigars in one hand and whiskeys in the other.
There were two couches, one on each side of him. Three exotic looking women occupied each couch.
The man in the middle started the conversation:
"Johnny, Johnny, Johnny..." he said with a broad smile.
"Johnny artist. Do you mind if I call you Johnny?"
The artist didn't move. It was only several minutes later that he recognized his "host" as the man who had trialed his art at the Dark Machine Show.
"Oh, Johnny. Johnny Boy", the man continued.
"That was quite a trip. I mean - how do you come up with this shit?"
The artist, still confused and uncertain what was happening. He realized now that his hands were tied behind his back, and his legs were tied to the chair he was in. If there was some escape, it wasn't easy.
He could now also see that his work was just behind the middle man.
"You know, I wanted to pay you. I mean - I want to pay you. I'm gonna pay you. I love this thing..." - the man motions toward the work behind him.
"But here's the thing, Johnny boy. I think you got more in ya...", his broad smile opening for another puff of his cigar. The big man spoke in a somewhat charming New Jersey accent, like maybe he was a mobster who could charm strong men to their deaths.
It was at this moment that the artist had enough awareness to wonder where Flo was. He recognized that she had been with him, but wasn't here in this moment. He felt nervous and scared, but still a bit defiant.
"Where's Flo?"
"Don't worry about it" ... the man said.
The artist shook his head and repeated:
"Where the fuck is Flo?"
"She's good. She's home. She's fine. I told ya, don't worry about it".
This whole situation was testing his ability to remain calm and patient, but that ability was rapidly receding.
"What the fuck do you want from me? Why the fuck am I tied up? You fucking crazy...", he stopped himself from that last retort.
"Hey - easy tiger. I ain't your enemy. I'm a fan. Maybe your biggest fan."
The artist could feel his stomach turning. In his head he thought: "What the fuck is this? What have I gotten myself into?"
"Sweetheart, I love this new thing you did. Hell, I love the old thing you did. I hang it in my piss room. Whenever my buddies come over, they gotta see Jesus gettin fucked up the ass! Ha! Get's em every fuckin' time!"
This was the worst. The end. The bottom. This was when the artist was resigned to just fucking die, by whatever means necessary. This asshole using his art as fucking bathroom kitsch was too much to take.
"How does it even work?", his guardian inquired.
"I mean, for real. I done it twice already. Boom! Same fucking weirdness. Like I'm falling endlessly. How do ya fuckin' do that?"
The artist just stared at him. Defiant as ever, he offered: "I take the souls of shitpots like you and I drain their power into my art and power it from their disenchanted ever-unenlightened souls!"
"Heh... that's real fuckin' poetic, my friend. I don't know what the fuck it means, but it's real fuckin' poetic."
"Well, I wouldn't expect you to understand, much less appreciate what it is..."
"Oh, I appreciate it. I can promise you that. I appreciate it. You got no idea how much I appreciate it."
The man puffed his cigar, knowing that this wasn't a battle of wits, even if that was the only game the artist had to play.
"Why am I here? What the fuck do you want from me?", the artist exclaimed, feeling a bit belligerent.
"Ah, Johnny... Johnny boy. You are here to be mine. My jester? My entertainer? My magician? My guy that gives me things and experiences I could not get otherwise."
The artist wasn't sure what any of that meant. "Your jester? Your entertainer? Your fucking magician? What the fuck is wrong with you? I'm not fucking entertaining you! Get me out of this fucking chair, you asshole!"
The man in the middle got up from his chair, and leaned toward the artist, and continued: "Here's the thing, Johnny boy. You’re mine. I want what's in that head of yours.” - he tapped the artist on his temple with his meaty finger, still holding the cigar - “And I'm fuckin' gonna get it. In the meantime, your friends - Flo? EB? They are home, they are safe. Your roommate? He's good too. We just wanna probe a bit deeper, see what else you got under the hood, if you know what I mean?"
The man chuckled briefly to himself as he retreated to his chair and sat down.
In his head, the artist called out to the voice. He thought it might hear him. It might offer some advice or something. But it was quiet.
***
The women on the couches approached the artist, placing a hood back over his head. He tried to protest, but as they lifted him to stand up, he recognized the smell inside the hood, and was instantly on his knees and out.
When he next woke up, he was in a bedroom. It had wooden plank floors, and typical drywall ceiling and walls. There was no window. The door looked similar to a regular household door. When he tried it, he realized that it was locked. From the outside. With a deadbolt. And he could tell that the door was not a typical household door. It was a heavy steel door, painted to look like a typical one.
There were 4 ceiling lights that lit the room, in a warm tone similar to sunlight. That’s when he noticed that the ceilings were taller than usual. They must have been at least 15 feet tall.
The walls were painted a shade of pale blue, robin’s egg, perhaps? The “bed” turned out to be a flat metal structure that lifted a thin mattress about twelve inches off the floor. A single sheet cloaked the mattress. His clothes had been replaced with a cheap, papery, hospital gown. He banged on the door, not expecting anyone to answer. And they didn’t. He noticed that the room felt cool, which was strange because there were no air vents. The spaces around the door were also sealed, or at least he couldn’t detect any space.
So what next? He sat on the bed. Growing tired, he laid on top of the sheet.
——
After a nap of indefinite length, he woke to the sound of the deadbolt. The door opened, and an Asian woman entered and set a paper bowl and spoon on the floor. She eyed the artist on the bed the whole time. He didn’t bother moving. After setting the bowl, she turned and walked out, shut the door, and locked it.
The artist was trying to see what was past the door, but he couldn’t make out anything. It just looked like darkness.
He moved to the bowl on the floor. There was some kind of soup in it - it looked like vegetables in a broth. The spoon was not like one he had seen or used before. It worked fine as an eating utensil, but had limited rigidity, and was obviously of no use as any kind of weapon, should he require one.
After finishing the soup, he left the bowl and spoon where they started. He started to inspect the room more closely - looking for some way to escape, or way to use something, anything, in the room as a possible weapon. But the walls were plain and solid. The floor the same. The metal bed might have offered some utility, but it weighed more than the artist could lift or move. He inventoried mobile items in the room. They were:
Himself.
His one-piece gown.
The mattress.
The sheet.
The leftover bowl and spoon
He wondered if he could use the sheet in some way - but it was made of a very thin and well worn textile - maybe cotton? He tested its strength, and it ripped instantly.
The mattress was large and awkward. He picked it up, and it toppled over him. It was the definition of unwieldy: he could not wield it.
Some time passed and he heard the deadbolt again. He stood in the middle of the room. The door opened, and 3 Asian women entered. One was holding a hood. He tried to protest, but two took his arms, and the third placed the hood over his head. There was no smell this time. However, they led him out of the room. He heard the door lock behind them. He then felt something bump into him from the back. The women let go his arms. Then two obviously much larger hands grabbed his arms, pulling him back onto a flat surface. Straps were strewn across his torso and arms, and also across his knees. All holding him tightly to the surface. There was no talking the whole time. The surface began to move, and he could hear the sound of wheels on a hard floor - maybe wood or concrete? He was in the position for only a few seconds, before it stopped moving.
The knee straps were removed, followed by the torso straps. The two large hands grabbed him and stood him up. He was pushed forward, and he heard a metal door close behind him. He removed the hood that was still on him. He was now in a strange ... bathroom? It was a solid metal room. The ceiling, a similar 15 foot height, with similar quad lighting, was solid metal. The walls, the door. Along one wall was a toilet which had been built into the metal of the wall. It all appeared to be one smooth surface. No edges, no corners. No screws, bolts, or rivets. Everything shiny and rounded. The only things not metal were the lights above. There was no toilet paper at the toilet, and no sink for washing up. He walked over to the toilet and relieved himself. There was no water inside the toilet, so his urine made an interesting metallic sound. As soon as he was done, the door opened. Before he had a chance to see what was beyond the door, the three asian women were on him. They turned him away from the door, and placed the hood back over his head. The whole procedure repeated as before, only this time he ended up back in the bedroom.
After a period of indeterminate time, the lights dimmed. The artist assumed this was some kind of signal. He decided it was a signal that the lights were about to go completely out, so he sat on the bed, trying to think. It was only a minute or two before the lights went completely out. The room was dark. Very dark. Darker than any he had ever been in. There was nothing but black wherever he looked. It was a bit disorienting because there was no visual reference at all. He thought maybe he just needed to wait for his eyes to adjust, but they never did. It was dark. As dark as dark gets. No light. No hint of light. A zero photon space.
He wanted to sleep. He was thinking the sooner he slept, the sooner he could mentally escape this space. Laying on the bed, the sheet over his body ... he laid there. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting for sleep to come. And he waited. And more waiting. He couldn’t tell if his thoughts were real or dreams. The darkness seemed to blind him in a way. Were his eyes open or closed? It was hard to tell.
Eventually he must have fallen asleep, because he was awoken by the lights coming on and the sound of the deadbolt.
***
This time, the big man entered. He looked at the artist in an almost loving way. The way a mother looks at her child.
He started to speak: ”I’m sorry.”
The artist was groggy, and his eyes hadn’t adjusted to the light yet.
The man continued: ”Look, Johnny. I need you. You are my golden goose.”
“What the fuck was this maniac talking about?”, the artist thought to himself.
The artist could now see the man more clearly. The door was open enough that he could also see several people standing beyond the door. It was probably the asian women and the other big men.
“Here’s the thing. I probably shouldn’t tell you this. Well, maybe I should.”, the big man chuckled to himself.
“That thing I said about your Jesus painting. I lied.”
The artist was thoroughly confused at how that had anything to do with what was happening, especially right now.
There was a subtle guffaw from behind the door, and a slight shuffling of feet.
“To to tell you the truth, I didn’t put your thing up in my piss room. That was just a little joke - to get you riled up, maybe.”
The artist’s confusion continued.
“What I did do, though, is sell it.”
With this the big man waited to see the artist’s response. But the artist continued to stare blankly at him, waiting for the so-called rest of the story.
“Look, Johnny boy. In some other life, I’d probably feel bad about it. But I don’t. It’s just what I do. I buy, I sell, I make money.”
“That Jesus thing you did got a lot of people very excited.”
“And this new thing - I don’t even know how to explain it. I mean, I’m gonna sell it too... but I don’t even know how to describe it. It’s way beyond the Jesus thing, and I got a pretty penny for that, let me tell you.”
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“You know what I got for that Jesus gettin’ fucked? Three million. Three million fucking dollars. Can you believe that?”
The artist’s face flushed to pale and the blood left him. His stomach, turned over and over. He felt nauseous.
The big man noticed this, and let off the gas a little. He waited for the artist to recover.
The artist did not recover quickly, though. He leaned over the edge of the bed, and vomited on the floor. He used the sheet to wipe his mouth. The big man, a disgusted look on his face, made a motion toward the room. An asian woman entered with cleaning supplies and cleaned up the mess. The big man waited for her to complete her task before continuing.
“So. Now I got this new thing you did. And I don’t know how to describe it. I mean, it’s really something. But if I can’t tell people what it is, I can’t sell it. The Jesus thing was easy - I just told people I got a painting of Jesus getting fucked in the ass, and they went fucking crazy for it. What am I supposed to say this time? I got this weird thing you get in. And it fucks you up?”
This was worse than the worst, the artist thought. This is hell. My hell. My hell where my art is not just misunderstood, but denigrated and sold to admirers for vanity. It wasn’t that he didn’t know that this kind of vanity and greed existed in the world, it was that he had worked to remove himself from that world. And now he had somehow become the center of it. An enslaved golden goose, whose only ambition was to make this fat man fatter.
Yet, he still didn’t say anything. He was hedging on his silence. He at least knew that being silent would only make the big man more uncomfortable and perhaps say more than he should.
“So, how would you describe it? What would you say it is?”
The artist remained close lipped.
“Eh”, the big man shrugged his shoulders.
“I think I might call it the Fall Through Machine or something like that. But even with a catchy name, what it does is still something I can’t put into words.”
The artist remained close lipped.
“I did it twice, myself, you know. What a trip!”
The artist remained close lipped.
The artist remained close lipped.
The artist couldn’t help this time, though: ”What did you see? What did you experience?”
“What did I see? What did I experience? Fuck me!”
The big man laughed to himself, and to the people outside the door.
“Johnny, you ever see that movie, Old Boy?”
The artist shook his head.
“Great flick ... great fuckin’ flick. Anyway. It’s about this guy that gets locked up, and his daughter taken from him. When he gets older they let him out, or maybe he escapes - to tell you the truth, I don’t fuckin’ remember.”
The big man was pacing around the room.
“So this guy ends up sleeping with this chick, and he and the chick then find out that the chick is his daughter! Can you believe that shit?”
The artist just sat that there, looking uninterested.
“But that’s what it felt like. It felt like that moment when that realization hits you. You didn’t see it coming, couldn’t have predicted that shit.”
“I saw everything. I experienced everything. Life, death, love, hate. But that part at the end - I was falling. It felt like I was falling forever. And the darkness of it. Falling down a bottomless hole forever. I don’t know how you did it, but it was unlike any chemical trip I’ve ever been on.”
The artist smiled.
The big man smiled back.
The artist continued to smile.
The big man continued to smile until he was uncomfortable with it.
The artist started this time: ”You fell?”
“For an eternity?”
The big man, losing his humor, said rather flatly: ”Yeah. I fell. For what seemed like an eternity.”
The artist seemed pleased by this. A small smile crossed his face now.
The big man, looking more uncomfortable by the minute: ”Isn’t that what I was supposed to do? Fall?”
The artist continued smiling, almost chuckling to himself. His eyes bright and alert. Himself clearly amused.
“You fell? Forever?”, the artist repeated.
“Yeah. Why? Does that mean something?”, the nervous big man said. He started to laugh like it was some kind of joke. “I fell. For like forever!”, and his laugh escalated. He was looking at the artist for confirmation or support or something. He looked at his crew outside the door, engaging them to laugh with him.
The artist stopped talking. He laid back on the bed, pulling the sheet over himself. He was smiling. Not a humoring smile, but a clear amusement deep within him. He laid there, smiling at the ceiling.
The big man continued his stance. He was eyeing the artist with such curiosity and confusion. Waiting for the artist to say something else. Maybe explain why falling was so interesting or amusing.
After several moments of realizing he wasn’t going to get any more from the artist, the big man left the room. As the door was shutting, all could hear a subtle laughter from inside the room. A few seconds after the door was closed and the deadbolt executed, the lights went out. The artist continued in his own mood and spirit. He was relaxed, and calm. And before long was asleep.
***
As he slept, the artist dreamt of nothing. Just nothing. His mind was empty and blank. If he had dreamt, it would have been of the darkness and the blackness. Sometime during the night, he awoke. He pulled the sheet closer, more for security than warmth, turned on his side, and fell back asleep. This time he dreamt vividly. It started in a hallway he didn’t recognize. On each side of him, an asian woman. But as he looked down, he noticed that the woman to his left had a familiar tattoo. In his dream it looked like a pyramid, but he still recognized it as Xuanwu. The women each took an arm, and led him down the hallway. At the end was a door with a deadlock on the inside. The women nodded to the deadlock, as he reached for it, the lock became a doorknob, and the artist twisted it open. When the door opened, he could see a vast valley below them. It must have been hundreds of feet straight down. The women nodded at him in encouragement. He stalled, took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and jumped in a swan dive as the women let go of his arms. He expected to fall. But instead, he only dropped a small amount before wings sprouted from his back. He flapped them and soared upwards. The sky was a clear and bright blue. Below he could see a waterfall flowing into a waterway directly below the cliff face he had jumped from. Looking back he could see a small crowd on the top of the cliff. They were watching him. He turned back toward the sky, and flew upwards. As he continued to flap his wings, he rose higher and higher. He could feel the heat of the sun getting warmer on his skin. The warmth felt invigorating, and he continued to climb. Suddenly he could see what looked like flames or fireballs emitting from the sun. They continued and flooded the sky. He tried to dodge them, but there were too many. In a flash, one of them struck his right wing, and it burned to just charred cartilage and bone. His remaining wing wasn’t enough to sustain him, and he started to drift downwards. As his body inverted, head facing the Earth below, his single wing still outstretched. It grabbed the wind and sent his body into a spiral. As the fear rippled through his body, he woke up. Though the room was cool, he was sweating. He pulled the sheet close again and turned to his other side, and quickly fell asleep again, not waking until the lights came on.
***
The lights were bright in his eyes. The deadbolt opened, and another asian woman entered with a bowl of yogurt and spoon. He smiled at her this time. She didn’t smile back exactly, but something in her eyes responded.
He finished the yogurt and sat on the bed, waiting.
He began to bang on the door.
“Hey! Hey!” ... nothing.
“Come on!” ... nothing.
“I have an idea! I need materials!” ... nothing.
He banged again, still nothing.
He sat back on the bed.
About ten minutes later, he heard the deadbolt. This time a young redhead appeared. She looked Irish or maybe Scottish. She had a notebook in her hands and a pen.
“Please stay there and sit down”, she said. Her accent sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it exactly. It wasn’t foreign, but it wasn’t local either.
The artist continued sitting on the bed, the sheet around him.
“What do you need?”
“Well, I’m not entirely sure what all I need. But I can give you a list to start from. I may need more after that.”
The familiar ginger nodded, and took down the materials as he spoke.
“A variety of oil colors ... I can notate the specifics for you in a moment.”
“A canvas - at least 4 foot square. “
“12 yards of red or black silk”.
“A variety of brushes ... I can notate those for you as well.”
“3 wigs of real human black hair”.
“I’ll also need several razors, if that’s ok.”
She looked up - suspiciously.
“They are critical for the way I cut lines in the work.”
“Let’s see... A wooden frame, a canvas stretcher.”
“A flashlight ... so I can continue to work at night.”
“And several strips of leather. Prefer untanned or natural.”
She continued to notate these items. There were several more items he requested. When the list was complete, she handed him the notebook and pen, and he scrawled the paints and brushes he needed.
“As she got up, he shouted out: ”Oh, and a mirror! Don’t forget a mirror!”.
She rolled her eyes, but wrote it done still.
***
Several hours passed, while the artist alternated between sitting on the edge of the bed, and laying down. Before long, the deadbolt sounded, and the young ginger entered. She had several paper bags of items. She placed them in the center of the floor, and left the room, the deadbolt locking behind her.
The artist began to dump the items out onto the floor. Every item had been open and inspected before being delivered to him. He began by stretching the canvas onto the wooden frame, wrapping the canvas around the corners, and securing it to the frame.
There was no easel, so he placed the canvas upright against the bed. He sat in front of the canvas, and arranged the other materials in a semi-circle behind him. Next, he started with a sketch in his head, followed by ideas about color.
He worked for several hours. When he heard the deadlock, he would reverse the painting against the wall to conceal his work. His sustenance continued with more soup. And he left the room twice to visit the metallic bathroom.
The artist applied his work in layers onto the canvas, giving time between each layer to set.
He continued through the night, completing what he thought would be a great work that would spark the imagination of the big man.
***
In the morning, the lights came on and the deadbolt sounded like normal. The door opened. The ginger entered to check the artist’s progress.
As she entered, she had a sinking feeling in her stomach. In the center of the room was the asian woman with the Xuanwu tattoo. She was holding a painting, and had a fearful look on her face.
The ginger felt confused, and now scared herself. She looked around the room, but there was nowhere to look. There was just the bed, mattress, and sheet. The remains of the art supplies were gathered in a pile next to the bed.
She began to say something like: ”Where is the ...”, but stopped herself mid-sentence. That is because she suddenly saw the the artist’s painting. The background was dark black, not unlike the room at night. A compass in the top right indicated the cardinal directions - North, South, East, and West. On the East side of the painting was an asian woman, much like the ones accompanying the big man. On the West side was a ginger-haired woman. In the middle was the big man, each woman holding one of his hands. Well, not exactly holding. They were pulling him in both directions, and from top to bottom, his body was torn in half, and his entrails waterfalling down his legs (to the South). A pool of blood beneath the man appeared glossy and wet, and even appeared to still be dripping.
The ginger wanted to say something like: ”Oh, no!”.
Instead, she turned and ran out of the room.
The asian woman with the Xuanwu tattoo set the painting down on the floor, leaning it against the bed so that it could still be seen. She walked out of the door, and followed a hallway to the left. There was, of course, a bit of commotion somewhere nearby. As she heard footsteps and anger, she noticed a metallic door to her left. Unlocking the deadbolt, she opened the door, and shut it behind her. The door was closed, but not locked. She could hear the commotion make it’s way passed the door. She opened the door, and continued down the hallway. An industrial looking stairway was in front of her. She climbed to the mid-floor landing, and continued up to the next level.
Out of the stairwell was another, wider hallway. The floor was linoleum, and windows lined one of the walls. It was bright daylight outside. Opposite the windows were a series of doors, all white with locks on the outside. Not too far ahead, she could see a metal gate extending across the hall. There was no one there, but the gate was locked. She tried everything to open it, but all attempts failed.
There was something like more commotion coming from beyond the gate. She could hear deep voices and loud shoe falls. Thinking quick, she turned, her back to the gate, and stood as if she were on duty keeping watch. She couldn’t see, but could tell from the footsteps and voices that this was the big man, and probably his two sons as well.
The big man was obviously angry. He was yelling about: “How could this happen? How the fuck could this happen? I mean there’s no way in or out of that room! There’s only one fucking key! Ahh for fuck’s sake.”
There was an electronic beep, and the gate opened. The big man and his entourage noticed the asian woman, but didn’t say anything. They kept walking toward the stairway. She caught the gate before it latched, and waited for the men to descend the stairs. She pulled the gate open, and latched it behind her, as she continued down the hallway.
At the end of the hall was another stairway going up, and a door that led to an enclosed walkway. Thru the door, and down the walkway until another doorway. She pushed that one open, and found herself in a residential garage. It was a relatively large 3 car garage, but there were no cars in it. There were, however, six motorcycles. Another residential looking door was on the opposite side of where she was.
She looked for switches or controls on the wall to open the garage, but there were none. The only thing was a light switch on the wall. She tried to lift the garage door, but it was secured and wouldn’t move. Finally, she put her ear to the door. She couldn’t hear anything. So she opened the door.
***
She found herself in a typical residential kitchen. To her right was a counter with overhead cabinets. Mid-way along the counter there was a sink with a window overlooking a yard. To her left, just passed the oven and refrigerator, was a small dining table with places for four people.
Through the kitchen there was a large opening to her left that led into a great room. There were two couches positioned opposite of each other. There were also three large sitting chairs at one end of the room.
Each couch had three asian women sitting on it. They were spooked by this new asian girl’s appearance. They stood up and looked at her, but said nothing. They approached her, judging her from head to toe. One of them began to chuckle a bit. She was pointing at the Xuanwu tattoo. Another woman approached, looking the stranger in the eye. The stranger looked back at her, with a slight smile. This asian woman lifted her leg to reveal a tattoo ... a Xuanwu tattoo; she gave the stranger another look with raised eyebrows.
Like a trapped animal, the artist had to make a swift fight or flight decision. Fortunately, though, it was made for him. The real asian woman with the Xuanwu tattoo gave him a reassuring smile, and grabbed his arm, leading him out of the great room and down another hallway. There was a door to the outside, which she opened to let him out. As he walked through the door, he threw the black wig and asian dress at the woman. Then he disappeared into the daytime.
Several minutes later, the big man arrived back at the house. When he saw the woman with the Xuanwu tattoo, he confronted her: ”What the fuck? How did he do it? Is he some kind of fucking Houdini?”. She didn’t say anything. He began to pull his right hand across his body to backhand smack her. But, before he could complete the action, she pushed his hand, causing him to spin around and almost fall down. She threw the wig and dress at him and gave him a look that suggested he probably shouldn’t try that again.
***
The artist was walking through a neighborhood in his paper hospital gown, and lots of paint on his face making him look every bit a madman. He tried to stay out of sight of any cars. He noted the street sign as he came to an intersection: ”Shade Lane”. Below the street sign was a white sign that read: ”Reif Stimborne Sanitarium”, with an arrow pointing down the street - where he had just come from.
The intersection was a small highway, with a medium level of traffic. A sidewalk on his side of the highway ran east and west. He followed it westward for close to an hour before he came upon any kind of evidence of a town.
The artist stopped at a gas station and used the restroom there to clean up his face.
He suddenly heard the voice again: “Remember, my son, don’t look back”.
He wasn’t sure where he was. Worse, he wasn’t sure where to go. He was sure they knew where his house was. And Flo’s too. He decided that Isabel might be his best bet. He asked the attendant if he could use the phone. He dialed Isabel’s number, but there was no answer. He did not leave a message. He then asked the attendant what town they were in.
“You are in Grimville, son.”, he replied.
“I mean, most outsiders call it Grimeville, cause that’s how it’s spelt. But we call her Grimville”.
The artist made note of this, and nodded his thanks.
He had no idea where Grimeville was. He had never heard of it before. He told the attendant he was trying to get back home. The helpful attendant was happy to oblige:
“Well yeah, son. That’s just over the bay. You gotta take a ferry or go the long way around. They keep talking ‘bout puttin’ a bridge in, but don’t nobody want to pay for it.”
“How much is the ferry? I lost my wallet earlier today.”
“I think for just one person it’s pretty cheap. Like fifty cents or something.”
“Is there anyway I could borrow two quarters from you? I promise to return and repay you.”
“Aw, shoot. You ain’t gotta worry about that. Just take care a yourself. You’re looking mighty pretty rough, son.”
The ferry station was a few miles south of the gas station. The artist walked the distance. It was only midday, so he figured there must be plenty of time to make it across.
The ferry station was relatively small. Just one small shack where you could buy tickets. There was a group of seven or eight cars waiting to drive on. A pier stretched into the water for walk-on passengers.
He approached the shack, but there was a sign in the window that read: ”Buy tickets on board”.
The ferry hadn’t arrived yet, so he found a place to sit and wait. Forty-five minutes had gone by before he heard the fog horn of the vessel. Once docked, the gate to the drive on ramp was opened. A stair case also dropped onto the pier about mid-way down the boat. The artist walked down the pier and climbed the few stairs. Once onboard, there were several padded benches. He found one that looked comfortable and sat down. It took about fifteen minutes before the ferry was ready to depart.
As he sat there, he was feeling tired - exhausted. Overwhelmed. No one had come by to collect his quarters for the trip. He laid down on his back on the padded bench. He placed the quarters - one on each eye - to help block the sun coming in from the eastern window. He closed his eyes, and fell asleep.
——
The sound of the fog horn woke the artist. He sat up, and looked out the window - it was a view he recognized. The quarters were gone from his eyes; and a ticket had tumbled from his torso down to his lap. Within a few minutes, the boat was docked, and he walked down the stairs onto the pier. As the ramp was lowered, and the gate opened, the cars began to drive off the ferry. There was a loud sound coming from the ferry, and as it got louder, six motorcycles sped from the ramp, and flew down the road.
The motorcycles looked familiar.
***
The artist continued on foot, since it was his only option. He was about a mile from Lenny’s, and so made his way there. Lenny didn’t seem to be around, but Elle was. He gave her a nod, and she looked back at him with aversion.
“What happened to you, sweetheart? You look like shit. And what the fuck are you wearing? You escape from a hospital or something?”, following that with a short giggle to herself.
“Something like that.”, he told her.
“You need anything, honey?”.
“Is Lenny around?”.
“Nope. He wasn’t feeling well, so I’m just here solo today.”
The artist asked Elle if he could use the phone. She obliged, and he tried to call Isabel again. She answered this time.
“Cha cha cha!”, she answered.
“Hey Issie...”.
“Hey yourself!”.
He took a breath and sighed. Why was he calling her? What would he have to tell her? He kept it brief, asking her to pick him up at Lenny’s.
Isabel arrived fairly quickly. She was a bit shocked when she saw him.
“My goodness, you look like a wreck of shit!”
He asked her to take him by his house, but to stay in the car while he went inside. He wanted her to wait while he could grab some clothes.
The artist’s room mate wasn’t home. He went to his room to gather a few items. Inside his bedroom, his heart sunk. All of his works were gone. There was nothing left. It was the only thing out of place. “Fucking son of a bitch!”, he thought to himself. Wanting to leave even sooner now, he grabbed just the essentials, and was headed out the door. He stopped at the doorway, and ran back inside. Rustling through a basket in the main room, he found a notepad and a pen. He jotted a quick note to his roommate:
“If anyone comes looking for me here, just tell them I moved and you don’t know where. Thx.”
Back in the car, he asked Isabel to drive him to her place. Once there, he took a shower and cleaned up. He put on his own clothes and laid down next to her. He was asleep within minutes.