Miss Nine has stopped trusting me.

She used to come to me when I visited her. She would touch me, because I was the only one who would touch her. I was the sole source of warmth and companionship in her life. But that’s changed now. She’s avoiding me. She’s hiding from me. She recoils from my hand when I try to touch her.

I think she knows I lied to her.

I think she knows a lot of things.

Those eyes of hers see things. Maybe even everything. Not just the things on the spectrum of light, but things beyond that, into places I can’t even imagine, and maybe even into our minds. What are thoughts if not chemical reactions, tiny bolts of lightning shooting through a web of nerves. If you could see that lightning, there’s no reason you couldn’t read it. I think she’s reading me right now. All of her eyes are watching me through the camera in her room. I feel her watching me everywhere now.

It’s wonderful.

No one else feels this way, though. No matter how many times I try to bring up the subject to my staff, they look at me as if I’ve lost my mind. They look at her and they still just see an ugly monster. They haven’t evolved enough to perceive what she is beyond the body she’s stuck inside. Proof of their small minds. Proof that they shouldn’t be here. No one is worth the money Marie is paying them if they can’t see her value and significance and beauty. Not even Marie is worthy.

If it weren’t for her watching me all the time, I would feel terribly lonely, I’m sure.

But I need to earn her trust again. My fingers feel something like… sadness when they touch the objects of this world. They’re so plain now. Her texture was complex and challenging, but… tables? Mugs? Pens? Flat and smooth and irritatingly dull. If I can’t touch her again I think I might actually go insane.

I can’t promise her the cure she wanted out of me, but maybe I can make her understand her own beauty and perfection. Maybe if she understood her own art she would embrace her new body. But I can’t do that. I’m just not equipped to do that.

Marie gave some pills to some artist. A man known for his twisted perspective.

He would understand. He could help me.

He has to help me.

~*~

“Ture, it would appear our guests would like some brandy.”

Ture was curled up on the floor. He reluctantly, and with considerable effort, stood up.

“Okay. Um. Brandy. Right. How old. What kind?”

“They did not specify.”

“...course they didn’t. Why would they?”

He looked down at his selection. There were three major types of brandy: grape, fruit, and of course pomace. Within those divisions, however, there were a considerable number of brands and options, from which he had a comprehensive selection to choose. Without any specific instructions he tended to default to grape; and while he did have Armagnac to spare, he instead usually served E & J Gallo. It was less… complex. Perfect for the simple minds that so often frequented this place.

But Nikolay didn’t like E & J Gallo, or Armagnac, or Cyprus brandy, or Kizlyar brandy, which Ture was really sure would have been the ticket. And Nikolay straight-up refused to be more clear about the kind of brandy he liked beyond “the good kind”. At least once Nikolay accused Ture of trying to poison him. That’s where the bruises on his neck came from.

He had resigned himself to trial and error. And today, his baggy eyes settled quite firmly on a bottle of Brandy de Jerez, a spanish drink frequently paired with sherry. It was a historic wine with low alcohol content and an intense aroma and flavor. It was also versatile; but while some people served it warm, at the Silver Wheel Ture kept it in the cooled rack. He liked it better chilled, and even on the rocks, although that was a bold way to serve it. But he always went all-in: frosted balloon glass, two heavy chunks of ice, to ensure that they would melt slowly and avoid unnecessarily diluting the drink. By his estimate, taking the room temperature of the gambling parlor into account, you could nurse that drink for a solid thirty minutes before it started to dilute, and by that point the effect would be so subtle that only the most refined tongues would notice.

He withdrew two chilled glasses from the freezer and loaded them with ice.

“Hey. Teresa.”

“Yes, Ture?”

“Be straight with me. Why is my penis really gone?”

“...my progenitors discovered genitals were distracting for employees. So they made the decision to remove them for the duration of your service.”

“Really missing it now. I’d like to pee in his glass.”

“You could always spit in it.”

“He’d notice. He’d notice anyway, I mean, but the thrashing wouldn’t be worth it for just spit.”

Teresa didn’t reply.

“I mean, piss is… it’s ugly. You know? Ugly and gross. Spit is just insulting, but this guy is worth more than just spit.”

Teresa didn’t reply. He poured two equally sized glasses of Brandy de Jerez. The measurement was exact, 100 cl of brandy for each. It was important to have enough space to be able to safely swirl the drink, to help it air out and evenly distribute the chill of the ice. Plus, the pretentious act of swirling your drink was half the reason people drank brandy, Ture figured. May as well give them the full experience.

The sound of rain was playing on the radio.

“Alright. Be right back. Hopefully.”

He wasn’t as confident with the tray as Teresa was. He needed both hands, and he needed to walk slowly, to avoid spilling the drinks, or even stirring them up unnecessarily. He had no idea how Teresa managed to deliver them so gracefully and smoothly, keeping the tray perfectly flat with one gyroscopic hand, the glasses and their contents undisturbed; and he regretted not admiring that talent more when he had the chance.

He walked in just as Ratna was starting her explanation of the only game they ever played anymore. The man sitting opposite of Nikolay, another fat, flummoxed bureaucrat, barely reacted to Ture’s approach.

“Basically, it’s like normal Rock-Paper-Scissors. Paper beats rock, rock beats scissors, scissors beats paper. But there’s one small, tiny difference: you, the guest, have to announce what you’re going to throw before the round begins. If you throw something different from what you announced at the start, you lose the round. You bet 10 chips every turn and when someone runs out of chips the game’s over.”

The fat, flummoxed bureaucrat shook his head.

“...that’s unfair.”

“Life’s unfair,” Nikolay responded, shooting Ture a weary glance as he placed the glasses on the table separating them. “Just think yourself lucky you’re able to walk away from here at all.”

It was to Nikolay’s great frustration that he learned he could no longer use the Royale pills to kill people: after all, now that he owned the Silver Wheel, being summoned by him either by pill or instruction was as good as an invitation, and it seemed the rules against him killing people who had an invitation were steadfast and non-negotiable: much like the rule that insisted a game must be involved in the proceedings.

But there was still more than enough wiggle room for Nikolay to work within those boundaries.

“Well, then I refuse to play. If you really are Nikolay -- and I severely doubt you are -- then you’d better understand that when I get out of here I’ll be reporting this to-”

“Hey. Hey. Shh. Shhh.” Nikolay leaned forward. “Shut up. Shut up. Think really carefully before you say no. I mean, sure. You can leave whenever you want. Can’t make you play. But if I brought you here, think of who else I could bring. Your wife? Your parents? Your… kids? You’re lucky, you have something I want and I’m willing to play for, so I have to be nice to you. But I don’t have to be nice to them. And lemme tell you: there’s no way you can protect them in their dreams. Hell, I can bring them here right now. You want me to bring them here right now?”

All the man could do was stutter, indignant and terrified in equal measure. Nikolay leaned backwards again.

“Thought not. So. You want to leave?”

“N-no. I’ll p-play… I-I’ll play, please, I promise.”

“Hey, so it’s agreed. You’ll wager your good reputation and your connections to the Saudi royal family, and I’ll wager… I dunno, my house and all my worldly possessions. Say ‘yes, I agree’.”

“Y-yes, I agree.”

“Then we can play.”

Nikolay took a drink of his brandy. He almost immediately spat it out.

“What is this shit?”

Ture sighed, taking a step forward.

“Brandy de Jerez.”

“The fuck is wrong with you!?” Nikolay tossed his glass into Ture’s face, which crashed against his left cheek. “Why is this so hard for you!? All you have to do is pour a fucking bottle into a glass and you manage to fuck it up!”

Ture picked up the glass.

“Maybe if you told me what kind of brandy you drank-”

“-How many types of brandy are there?! Just pick the one that’s least shit and give it to me! No-” he turned to his guest, who was pushing the glass away himself, “-no, you drink what you’re fucking given. Fucking pig.”

The guest took a drink.

“Ture I swear on my mom’s cold dead cunt that if you don’t fucking learn what a good bottle of brandy is I’ll find one myself, shove it up your ass, flip you on your head and drink out of your fucking nose.”

”Yeah, sure. You want anything else?”

“Just get out of my sight.”

“My favorite order.”

He closed the door quietly behind him.

Well, that would be another beating, at least. The beatings weren’t so bad: sure, Nikolay knew what he was doing, knew how to make it hurt, but pain could be endured, soothed with alcohol, and was at least a change of pace. But it was never just beatings with Nikolay. He wanted Ture to know he always had control. And he wanted him to know that unlike Ratna and Teresa, Ture was utterly and completely replaceable. It’s not like there weren’t bartenders in the waking world.

That was the stuff that scared him. When he looked down, saw the emptiness below him, the black under his feet, the memory of Juan’s betrayed, terrified eyes, and felt Nikolay’s thin, frail fingers curled loosely around his collar.

Nikolay wanted Ture to know that there was a big void outside, and nothing except his thinning patience stood between the bartender and absolute oblivion.

He sat down on the ground. It was the sturdiest thing he could find, and yet it still felt too thin a defense against the darkness that surrounded this place.

“You seem very tired, Ture.”

“I’ve been tired a while.”

He reached into his pocket, to feel the balming golden chips that he had won selling Juan out. But of course, Nikolay had taken them. He just couldn’t remember that unless he was pinching at the empty air.

“Is there some way I can help?”

“No, I… um… fuck it...did we ever hold hands?”

“No.”

“If we ever get out of this, I’d like to hold your hand.”

Teresa gently shifted her head to look down at him. Her lower jaw was completely missing, as were chunks of the left side of her face, including her eye: exposing the featureless dark that lurked beneath her frail facade. Her twisted limbs were nailed to the wall opposite the bar. And her naked, sexless body was cracked and shattered, chunks of her porcelain skin laying on the ground at her feet.

“Would that actually make you feel better?” She tilted her head slightly: what was left of her hair fell out of the way of her remaining blue eye, as piercing and cold as ever.

“Probably not.”

She closed her eye.

“Do not worry, Ture. I will think of something.”

He didn’t want to admit it, but hearing her say that did make him feel better.

If only a little.

~*~

As the saying goes: you have to spend money to make money.

Or, in Ehije’s case, you have to spend a lot of money to even get the chance.

There was no way he could half-ass it, so he didn’t bother. He raked together all the money he could find: he pulled out the substantial cash he got selling that car, he sold his holo-projector and his collection of forged documents to other scammers, called in a few favors, took out even more loans, and even cashed in the golden geese he’d been nursing for a steady income (turns out, some people really liked being scammed by obvious catfish -- it was a sex thing). But it wasn’t nearly enough to truly put him in the high echelons who usually solicited Helmut Beisner for his attention, so he needed something else to bridge the gap in capital: information.

If he could illustrate he was one of the privileged few who was aware of Helmut’s latest work, that would show he was, at least, connected enough to be worth paying attention to.

He didn’t bother reaching out to the people who had actually been invited to participate. Their desire to keep Helmut exclusively to themselves -- and their likely familiarity in dealing with curious press -- would make them too cautious to scam. Instead, he reached out to the forgotten foundation of all of Helmut’s work: the support staff. He already knew the arena where his last ‘gallery’ was on display, so he reached out to current employees under a number of guises to determine what they saw.

And what they ‘saw’ was a fat lot of nothing. As it turned out, he had his own staff who worked directly under him, and the normal staff were simply given paid vacations while he used their venues. Most of them loved the guy for that.

...but there was one group they couldn’t hire externally. The firemen. Fire departments often require that venues submit an itinerary of events and plans so they could be checked for safety. And while they wouldn’t get an exact play-by-play of the evening’s events, they probably got a vague enough explanation that he could use it as a baseline to figure out the rest. And indeed, when he impersonated a marshall looking to review recent applications, that was exactly what he got.

The venue was nearly full, but not entirely.

The parking lot, however, would be full of limos and larger cars, each with their own chauffeurs.

The lighting and electronics were… shockingly mundane.

...but there were a lot of people who were supposed to be on stage at any given time. In fact, almost the exact same number of people in the audience were also supposed to be on stage. The difference between the two numbers was merely one, which was presumably the presenter himself.

There was no way that was a coincidence. Knowing he worked with Marie Walker, the people on stage were probably alternate versions of the audience themselves. It was a specific enough guess to send a carefully-worded test email -- Ehije pretending to be one of the chauffeurs who, according to Facebook, was currently on vacation -- to one of the rich people in attendance to check if they could confirm his suspicion.

She did confirm. In fact, she even clarified: the double of her the chauffeurs had seen wasn’t a mere clone, but a version of herself without a soul.

Disturbing. But everything that Ehije needed.

Armed with that information and just enough money, he made the calls. He rented the Nigerian Cultural Center for a weekend. He hired his own limo with self-driving technology. He booked the International’s VIP suite for the same duration. And after he found the right contact information (everything that was easy-to-find was just a ploy to throw the undeserving off his track), he reached out to Helmut Beisner as the owner of the Nigerian Cultural Center, asking him to fly over and discuss the possibility of presenting for “Nigeria’s growing cultural and artist elite”, showing that all his accommodations were already paid for.

The two weeks it took to hear back from him were the longest in Ehije’s life.

He didn’t agree to present, but he did agree to meet.

Good enough.

Dinner was booked. Suits were donned. And Ehije had to sit patiently in a restaurant he had to pretend he belonged in while he stared at the door. And he was fine with the wait, because he used those wasted minutes to fidget all the nervousness out of his system. Normally lying to people was second nature, and normally that was because he took the time to ensure he was only lying to stupid people. This was the first time he had to con someone who at least appeared smart. And the fact that he had to basically sell himself into poverty to make it happen certainly didn’t help either.

It was a lot to sacrifice, but he couldn’t imagine a more worthwhile calling. Besides… as long as he could lie without sweating, there was no door he couldn’t talk himself through.

It was late enough in the evening that the restaurant was starting to close when a pale man in a very casual sweater and jeans walked in. He looked normal. Too normal. Dirty blond hair, freckles, reasonably sized bags under his eyes. A wristwatch and a very simple gold necklace. Cheap sneakers. He looked the way a teenager imagined he would look when he reached his late thirties.

“Hey. Uh, sorry I’m- wait, are you Khaled? You look like him but-”

Ehije tried his best to look awed, and leapt to his feet.

“Ah, I have waited for this day for so long! Mr. Beisner -- may I shake your hand?!”

“Haha, right table I guess. Yeah sure go to town. You can even take some hair if you want. It’ll, it’ll grow back, I’m told.”

They shook hands. They both sat down.

“This place looks like it’s gonna close soon. Did you eat? Are you hungry? Maybe we can go somewhere else so these people can, can go home.”

“They’ll be fine, Mr. Beisner. It is what they’re paid for, after all. Besides, they should be honored for the chance to serve you.”

“I, I doubt they know who I am.”

Shockingly humble. Ehije already liked this guy.

“In that case, we shall have to make a point to tip them generously.”

“That’s, that’s a compromise I can deal with.”

Some wine was poured. They each ordered something small. For Ehije, it was mostly a money saving effort.

“I was, I was a little surprised to get your email, Khaled. I didn’t know… your organization existed.”

“Did you see our website?”

He made a website. He was more than a little proud of it. He was also every member of the board.

“Yeah, yeah, well… I’m interested, sure, I always like… working for people who are real patrons of art, but I have to ask… you… you weren’t part of my last exhibit. How did you know what happened there?”

Of course he would know everyone at his last exhibit at least somewhat personally. He had to work with dopplegangers of everyone in attendance, and Ehije had a distinctly non-European look about him. In a crowd like that, he would have stuck out.

But Ehije had figured this subject would come up. In fact, he was fairly certain that was the real reason Helmut was here: to suss out any holes in his veil of secrecy.

“Is it strange for a man in my position to be curious about these matters? I was not invited directly, unfortunately, but the topic came up among friends who did attend. Of course, they told me in the greatest of confidence.”

“Oh? Friends? Who?”

“Ah, if I told you, would they ever get another invitation?”

“Ha, I guess, I guess not.”

“You needn't worry about it. They, like myself, understand your intention. Your work is… well, this is a rather pedestrian term, but it’s bold. It’s challenging. And moreover, it always begs a question. And it’s important to ensure everyone who witnesses it comes to the right answer, which requires a certain kind of client.”

Helmut raised an eyebrow.

“Oh… I think I disagree.”

Uh oh.

“I wish I could be more public with my work. I, I really do. Yes, people would be offended, they would be mad not to be, but I think, I think that’s exactly what people need. To be angry, to feel something. So much of what’s killing our world, it comes, it comes from people not having a fire under them. The world ended too slowly and gently for people to, to actually care. And maybe if more people saw hey, I, I’m rich and can get away with anything, and they saw what ‘anything’ was, maybe it would… light a few fires. It’s why I killed my wife and kids you know.”

“...excuse me?”

“Yeah, yeah. The news doesn’t report it that way, of course, but it was just another show for me. Did the job, too. I escaped justice for seven years just because I’m rich and have rich friends, and, and in that time, my mere existence was art, riveting people, offending them, making them, making them furious! It was perfect!”

He sighed, leaning on his hand.

“But they were really scared I’d wind up in jail. Or, or prove my point? So they got some duplicates. The new Olivia’s nice. Same with the kids. Hate them though. We don’t talk.”

“That is… dedication.”

Ehije swallowed. He really hoped he was reading this guy right.

“...and it’s also deplorable,” he continued.

And Helmut’s eyes lit up.

“Ah, so you do get it!”

Ehije relaxed.

“I’m a bad person, Khaled, an, an awful person, actually. But there’s a point to it? There exists a class of people who are privileged enough to actually be evil. They, they personify all the worst things in human nature, the things we try to hide behind TV screens and jail cells and, and we pretend, we pretend they can be stopped by heroes before things get too bad. But there aren’t heroes. Or… or rather, heroes work on a different scale, smaller. A hero gives his kidney to his brother. The villians make billions over-charging the medication that hero needs to live afterwards.”

Soup was served. It was french garlic. Ehije hated french garlic, but drinking it enthusiastically helped him keep himself and his character different people.

“Being good in my position would be a waste of time. It wouldn’t say anything. It would help a few people who were going to die in a few years anyway. But doing, doing bad things makes me immortal. It’s won me a seat at the table. And while I’ve had to compromise it, you know, keep it select and exclusive so my evil can’t rile the sheep, I can still use it. It’s… it’s a tool, a critique. I try to use my art to remind everyone around me, that they, and me, we’re all rotten. We’re all just… just the worst. But there’s no heaven or hell waiting for us, so if we don’t have guilt to torment us, or justice to chase us… we’ve got nothing at all.”

He took his first drink of the soup. He nodded.

“Hm. This is terrible. But anyway, I wanted, wanted to ask you something, Khaled. Are you a good, or a bad person?”

Ehije knew he was bad with conviction. By conventional morality, at least, he was a terrible person. But his character, Khaled, wasn’t so sure what he was. Khaled was a man who believed in art, and the humans who made it. Khaled was someone who was ambitious and was of means, but not such great means that achieving those ambitions was a foregone conclusion. Khaled was a man who struggled. Khaled was a man who was unsure. And Khaled was a man who would be disgusted at the idea of sharing a meal with a man who was a confessed child killer and a self-proclaimed villain.

Ehije had to think for a couple of seconds. Maybe even half a minute, before Khaled could speak.

“...I think… we see the world very differently, Mr. Beisner. I find it hard to disagree with some of your assessments, that the world has problems and that bad actors are responsible despite lacking responsibility. Your assessment of heroism is spot-on. And while it pains me to admit it, I think you may be right about goodness being a waste of time. It would certainly be a waste of your privilege: after all, anyone can be good, but so few can be evil without consequences.”

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

“That’s true, thank you.”

“...but art that’s perfectly reflective of reality feels like a waste of art, at least to me. And I wouldn’t dream of disagreeing with you -- you are the expert after all -- but there will never be a woman that can smile like the Mona Lisa. No one can sit like The Thinker. There’s a place for art to be a commentary on reality, but a reflection… how do I put this… people already live in the real world. Art may not always provide an escape from it, but it should at least be able to transcend reality and show us something… purer. And in that sense, the idea of a heaven and a hell is art in itself, since it’s a distillation of… our desires, I think, for a world of justice, where good and evil actually have meaning.”

Ehije was feeling the pinch. This was not his area of expertise. And this was the first con he’d ever had to do where he couldn’t just pick a new target and try again. He only had one shot.

“I can see your reasoning, but, but you’ve got one thing really wrong. People don’t live in the real world. The real world is where, where we keep our stuff, but people live in their brains, which couldn’t possibly be more divorced from reality.”

Ehije couldn't go deeper into this rabbit hole. The chance of saying something wrong was too high, and it didn’t seem to do much to get him closer to his ultimate goal.

“A fantastic point. Maybe I’ll start to understand what you mean if you agree to present for us and I see your art for myself?”

“Right. Business. Heh, I got so caught up, I could go on about this kind of stuff forever.”

“Maybe we can talk about it more at lunch tomorrow -- after we tour the Cultural Center. Are you… interested in a tour?”

“While I’m here… why not?”

The small talk that followed was brief and polite, but Ehije knew that he had accidentally played his hand incorrectly: Helmut, it seemed, had handlers, based on what he said regarding his murders and his desire to perform publicly. It was all well and good to find his real contact information, but he had been operating under the assumption that Helmut was more independent than he actually was… something a man who had enough connections to have heard about the last show should have known. Helmut was probably on guard now.

Ehije could try to devote time, energy, and resources into lowering his guard once again. But that was just a tempting distraction: his real goal wasn’t to ingratiate himself into Helmut’s inner circle, it was just to get his hands on one of those pills. All the lies and deceit up until this point were merely to get this chance to sit down with him. So maybe… maybe it was time to pull out a classic in his playbook.

The second course had been served. Each man was eating silently, drinking their wine, taking turns staring out the window. But when Ehije’s plate was cleared and pushed aside, he decided to take the plunge.

“...may I make a stray observation, Mr. Beisner?”

“Yeah, sure. And you can just call me Helmut if you want.”

“Thank you. But as for the observation: I may not know you as well as I’d like. But from what I know of you, I’m surprised you’d work so closely with Marie Walker.”

Helmut didn’t react to the comment in any visible way. He just nodded, and forked another bite of white fish into his mouth. But for such an eager conversationalist to pause and actually think was telling enough. Maybe it was the first time Ehije managed to challenge him this entire meeting, which was either very good or very bad.

He finished chewing. He swallowed with some wine.

“You mean from the murder trial? And the Fate of Beauty?” Helmut pushed.

Make or break time, Ehije.

“...that… and… beyond.”

“...you sure, sure seem to know a lot about me, for a nobody in Nigeria.”

“Maybe I’m not as much of a nobody as you may think.”

“Okay, Khaled. I was happy just getting a free dinner and trip to Africa out of your invitation, but now you’ve actually got my attention, which, which might not be a great thing for you. I don’t really want to cause any trouble for anyone, but, but if you start going down this path there just might be trouble.”

“Trouble is the last thing I want, Mr. Beisner, it was just a stray observation.”

“No, no, you don’t make those. Look, I’ve met a lot of people in the art world, you know, and they’ve all got this… what would you call it, dough-ness to them. They’re soft. Their eyes are soft and dull and flat. They like art, they like… they like my art because it’s the closest to reality and feeling they’ve ever had in their soft and dull and flat lives. You, though, you’re sharp. Your eyes have an… like an edge. A sharp edge. There was a reason you made that, that comment.”

Ehije smiled.

“...I’ve got a question for you, Mr. Beisner. And I promise I’m not trying to be coy. But do you think being bigger is better?”

“...what? Um… you mean like under the belt or-”

“-nothing so crude. Consider a gnat, an ant, and a human. Imagine you’re the size of a gnat. You see an ant, which by your standards is quite large, and you want to grow that big because you’re so ambitious and clever. But gnats never really have to worry about humans. They’re so enormous they don’t notice you, and you’re so small you can’t really be hurt by them, or even see them for what they are. So you don’t think about them as you grow, and grow, and eventually you’re the size of an ant… and large enough to be noticed, and crushed, by any passing human.”

“I, I don’t quite follow what-”

“-Humanity is a gnat, and Marie Walker is dangerously close to making you ant-sized.”

Their dessert was placed in front of them. Apple-cream stuffed marshmallows caked in a thin candy layer.

“...who the hell are you, Khaled?”

“You’ve been given a gift by Marie Walker, haven’t you?”

“Answer my question, who, who the hell are you?”

“I’m on your side, Mr. Beisner. And you may not know it… but you need my help.”

Helmut was breaking up in an amused yet disbelieving giggle. Khaled had a weary, world-worn smile. Their impatient, tired waiter was giving them the side-eye.

And Ehije had no idea what he was doing.

~*~

“...this isn’t enough. This isn’t enough at all.”

Nikolay was pacing in front of the shattered remains of Teresa’s shell, still crucified against the wall. Teresa did her best to raise her head and look at Nikolay with her remaining eye, but the most she could do was reach his knees. Any more, and her already fragile neck would snap.

“Right now it seems all I can do is turn myself into the same conglomerate of talents, connections, and money that Walker’s lackey, Charlie, turned into. The Silver Wheel is certainly a kingmaker but I was promised more. I was told I could make myself into a god."

“I do not recall you being told you would become a god explicitly.”

“Teresa.”

He stopped, grabbing her chin and forcing her to look up. Something cracked. He turned her head slightly, so she was staring at the door to the parlor, where both Ratna and Ture were cleaning up after his last game.

“...what would you like me to do about it, sir?”

“The Silver Wheel was built by someone. Who?”

“The Boss. They do not have a name.”

“And this Boss also gave the Silver Wheel its powers?”

“Yes.”

“And this Boss… cares at least marginally about human affairs?”

“...technically, yes.”

“What does that mean, ‘technically’?”

“They care about the element of humanity. The part it plays in the whole. From my understanding, however, they do not care about the specifics of your species.”

“I want you to bring your boss here.”

“You are my boss, sir.”

“I meant the guy who made this place, you retarded shit.”

“...I am sorry, sir, I do not think I follow.”

“I want you… to bring him… here. I want to play him.”

“An ambitious plan, sir. But there is nothing you can offer them that they would want.”

“What if I wagered the Silver Wheel itself? He’d want this place back, right?”

“I do not think they would trouble themselves. The Silver Wheel is one of many establishments of its kind.”

“...wait a moment… there are other Silver Wheels out there?”

“Not exactly Silver Wheels, sir, but establishments that fulfill the same purpose.”

“...and those places… they have owners?”

“Yes, sir.”

“...then I want you to bring them here.”

Teresa’s eye flickered in a dull, terrified acknowledgement of this order.

“Sir. I can empathize with your dissatisfaction with the offerings of the Silver Wheel. But I would strongly advise that you reconsider this order. There is a reason, however alien to you, for the way this system operates. There is a considerable amount of risk in what you suggest, both for yourself and for your world.”

“I’m sorry, Teresa, maybe there’s something in your ears. But I said ‘bring them here’, not ‘spout your bullshit’.”

He grabbed one of the nails in her wrist and yanked it out with his bare hands. Half of her body collapsed, followed quickly by the other. She lay splayed across the ground, more parts of her cracking and snapping as even gravity proved enough to break what was left of her shell.

“I’m leaving for now. When I get back, there better be another… thing like you here ready to play. If not, I’m bored enough with the Silver Wheel that I really wouldn’t mind throwing Ture into the void for the hell of it.”

With that, he finished his drink, dropped it on the ground, and fell backwards into the void.

Teresa lay motionless for a few precious seconds. Then, slowly, she raised her shoulders up and shrugged herself an inch forward, dragging her entire body behind her. She paused another moment, collecting herself as best she could, before shrugging again. And again. Oozing her way across the blood and alcohol-stained carpet beneath her. She made no effort to raise her face up, until she tapped what remained of her forehead against something during her long and painful crawl against the carpet.

“Wow. You’re a mess, huh?”

Teresa didn’t need to look up to know who that was, so she didn’t bother. Her face remained flat on the ground.

“Hello, Miss Walker.”

“Heh. No, wait, no, I take it back. I wanna try again: wow, you really look like you’re falling apart! That’s way better. Pretend I said that first.”

“...did you come here to gloat?”

“What? Pffft, no I don’t have time to gloat! I pay other people to gloat for me! No, no no no, I’m here to steal your bartender.”

Teresa nudged her face upward slightly. Just enough that her blue eye could pierce the shadows that surrounded her..

“...he cannot leave. That will kill him.”

“Nah, I’m pretty sure I figured something out. I’ve been doing some science -- which I’m pretty great at, by the way, that whole science thing -- and I’m like, 90, no… no, 50% sure I can bring Ture back with me. It’ll be great. He can eat ice cream. Take fat dumps. Set his pubes on fire. Whatever the hell he wants.”

Teresa gently tapped the woman’s ankles again with her forehead. Just enough to remind the woman that she was still there.

“Please do not take Ture.”

“Oh, sure. Of course. Sorry, I’ll be on my way now byeee.”

Marie didn’t move.

“...but no, really, why not? Is he having so much fun here with you and… and… god, what was his name, Nicolas? Yeah that sounds right.”

“It will kill him.”

“Sister, you say that like it’s a bad thing. If it works, he’s a modern-day jesus. Except he’s real. If it doesn’t, well, at least he’s not getting ass-fucked by mommy's #1 sperm donor. There really are worse things than non-existence.”

“Please.”

Her voice was too cold to be pitiful, or even terribly sad. It was as familiarly distant as it had always been, although it was starting to fall apart much like the rest of her body. But that was the strange thing: as far as Marie could tell, there wasn’t anything underneath that shell. Her words, like her skin, were hollow. And Teresa was trying so hard to keep them in one piece for reasons Marie couldn’t begin to fathom because she couldn’t begin to care.

“Hey, you know what, I remember a certain someone saying ‘please’ a lot before you fucking painted the wall with his brain. Clearly the word doesn’t mean a lot to you, so I wouldn’t start trying it now. So, if you’ll excuse me…”

Marie attempted to step around Teresa. Teresa threw herself in the way again in a desperate flop of her body. More of her shell shattered away.

“...wow, you’re like a really sad fish. But I guess all fish are sad, so… you’re like a fish. Slow down bitch or you might come off as desperate.”

Teresa didn’t say anything this time. Marie kicked her aside with her foot, but when she tried to step around, she felt what remained of Teresa’s hand, two shattered fingers, pinching the bottom of her hot pink pajama pants. Combined, her two fingers had the force of a severely worn paper clip.

“Wow. You didn’t even care this much when your actual dealer got offed. Why do you care so much about this traitor, anyway? He obviously doesn’t care this much about you.”

Teresa tightened her two fingers. Marie didn’t notice.

“...no, seriously.” Marie shook off Teresa’s miserable grip and sat down on a stool, staring down at what was left of the waitress, “I’m not being hyperbolic here. What’s going on?”

Teresa didn’t get the chance to answer. The door to the parlor cracked open, and Ture peeked his head in. His expression was awash in trepidation, until it settled upon their visitor.

“...I thought I heard you, Marie.”

He looked like he was staring at a ghost.

“Ture! Jesus on jet skis you look terrible.”

“Uh, you think I look bad?” He laughed throatily, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. He cast a single but extended glance to the waitress on the floor. “...you should see the other guy, his fists are a mess.”

“Ture, do not go with Marie. You will die.”

Her voice cracked further. Some actual emotion was breaking through, as weak and indeterminate as it was. But enough for Ture to actually pause, until Marie interjected.

“Yeah, so, I was just going to say the exact opposite of what your former boss said. Come with me. You won’t die.”

Ture looked between the two. Teresa couldn’t muster the strength to even pull her face from the carpet, and lay flat and motionless. Effectively little more than broken porcelain shards and a flayed wig. Marie, an actual human made of flesh and blood, was checking her nails. They weren’t there.

“You…”

“Yep! Figured it out. Super simple, really,” She pulled out a small plastic chip, fake silver, and flipped it to him. It beeped three times when it landed in his hand. “I was out, throwing rocks at poor people or whatever the rich are supposed to do, and I had a thought: when we step out into the void, how come we always fall down? There’s nothing out there, and so, there should be no gravity. But clearly there is gravity, so, whatever’s causing it must be invisible. So I did some tests, figured some stuff out -- short and simple, it’s not gravity, it’s like magnets. I land somewhere because I’m attracted to my dimension. You land nowhere because you’re repelled by all the dimensions. So we just gotta make you more attractive and make sure you’ve got somewhere to land. That’s what the chip and the coma patient are for.”

He flipped the plastic silver chip in his hand, frowning. For so many years in the Silver Wheel (as much as he could track the passage of time), he had been surrounded by and terrorized by the impenetrable darkness that these murkey walls and broken lights barely kept at bay. It had trapped him, tormented him, and even robbed him of a friend. To hear it waved aside so callously with a plastic chip and a few curt sentences… it seemed impossible. It seemed insulting.

He felt a stirring in his chest. So many emotions were demanding their say he couldn’t tell them apart. Except for fear. Fear spoke to him in a distinct, clear icy-cold blue pitch, that matched the broken porcelain that lay powerless at his feet.

“...it can’t be that easy.”

“Well, no shit, but you’ve got a simple brain and I’m explaining it simple-like for you. Look, we had a deal, that deal was that you trust me, so… less grumpin’, more jumpin’.”

He looked down at Teresa. She wasn’t moving, but even prone and broken she was like a wall he couldn’t see over. For years, he had either hated or tolerated her. The bridge between them now, built from the death of Juan, was as thin and fragile as glass. And yet, that somehow made it all the more sacred to him.

The soft patter of rain was still hammering over the radio.

“Teresa… um…”

“...you will die, Ture. Do not follow her.”

More of her voice was breaking. He felt a pain in his heart, a pain he couldn’t describe, but it was cold and sharp. He clenched his fist tightly, and fought back with passion and logic alike.

“But it’s only a matter of time before Nikolay kills me.”

“I will protect you.”

It sounded more like a plea than a promise. There was something underneath her shell after all. Something that hadn’t been there before. Something she had been building slowly and carefully, but was forced to use now, despite not truly being ready to share.

Ture looked up at Marie. She was tearing some skin off the tip of her thumb. She met his eyes briefly, and shrugged. She was either ambivalent or obstinate. It didn’t matter which.

“You want to stay, that’s your call, buckshot. But you don’t get to keep the chip. You jump now, or you’re pushed later.”

Ture stiffened up. If Teresa was a cold, ethereal mist, Marie was the hard, blunt earth. Knowingly or not, her words dragged him back from being spellbound by Teresa’s desperate plea. Which not only made him grateful… it made him rather angry.

“...hey. Marie. Why are you letting Nikolay run the Silver Wheel?”

“Did you… did you forget what we were talking about?”

Ture tightened his grip around the chip until his fists were white. He was too weak to do any actual damage to it, however.

“Nikolay is your puppet, everyone here knows it. Why are you letting him do this?”

“Hm? Oh. That’s easy. I don’t care about the Silver Wheel anymore.”

The sound of the rain stopped.

“...what?”

“Your chip is good for one trip back to the land of the living, not my goddamn life story, sugar. And as much as I want to respect that this is an emotional moment for you, I also have to respect the fact I don’t care. So… we’re sort of stuck, you know? Clock’s ticking.”

Marie’s words struck like a rock against the head. A wake-up slap that shook the clouds away. She was cruel, yes, and she was the enemy of the Silver Wheel. But she was also the winner, and moreover, his only hope. He couldn’t let himself get sucked into Teresa’s world of hope and magic again. He… had to move.

“Ture. Do not leave the Silver Wheel.”

“I can’t not try. Teresa.”

“I don’t want to lose another one.”

That cold pain intensified. He mustered up all his strength to grapple it, wrench it out of his heart, and move forward.

“...you were going to have to lose me eventually, right? You told me that was the point, was for me to leave.”

Teresa, for the first time ever, almost sobbed.

“But… not like this.”

And she managed to trap him into one final spell.

Ture didn’t know what to say. He had imagined, for what must have been years, how he would quit the Silver Wheel if he ever had the chance. Thousands of what-ifs. But in all of those thousands, he never imagined, and thus never prepared, for this. For Teresa to be a broken shell, laying helpless on the floor. For some wealthy monster to be standing over her, ambivalent yet his only hope. And for a stranger to be sitting where Juan sat, nursing bruises with useless shots of booze.

He couldn’t possibly stay.

He just didn’t know how to leave.

He closed his eyes.

“...I’m sorry.”

He forced himself to step over her, towards the door. He couldn’t take another step, though, not when he felt the tiny pinch of Teresa’s hand against his pant leg. A force that Marie had so easily ignored stopped him in his tracks.

“Please trust me.”

Her cold voice had a too-familiar heat to it: and now he knew what had been hiding under her shattered shell: A single candle burning desperately in the wind. He could feel her fingers trembling as they started to slip. Too weak to even maintain their grip.

He took a deep breath, and took his next step forward. Towards the open door. To the same edge where Juan had fallen. Staring into the same darkness that had tormented and crushed his soul this entire time. Into the same pit Nikolay had threatened him with. This void, his tormentor, turned into his only passage to salvation. He was trading that glass bridge for a plastic chip. And he had to swallow all the bitter tastes that came with that trade.

“Wow.” Marie Walker whistled as she walked up behind him, “I am impressed. And shocked you would be stupid enough to trust me.”

“...wha-”

And she pushed.

Teresa had raised her head just enough to see the woman lay her hands upon his back, and shove him into the void. And her frozen eye, as blue as the void of the sea, caught the smug, irreverent glee on the woman’s face as she turned back to face Teresa. It was victorious and vindictive.

“You take one of mine…” she licked her lips as Teresa remained frozen.

“...I’ll take one of yours.”

Teresa shot one arm forward, mindless of how her body continued to shatter, including the final shell of blue that covered her remaining eye. She dragged herself forward, the unblinking blackness behind her eyelid locked onto Marie as she moved, leaving increasingly large shards of herself embedded into the carpet of the Wheel as she moved.

“Marie.”

The other arm shot forward. Her two remaining fingers curled into the carpet and pulled. More and more of herself was being left behind. Teresa was barely more than a fraction of a rib, a neck, a piece of head, and two skeletal arms. But it was enough.

“I will kill you Marie.”

Marie laughed.

“K.”

And hopped into the void.

Teresa reached the edge of the open door.

Teresa stared into the darkness that had so mercilessly swallowed Ture, and stole away the woman she decided she actually, genuinely hated.

And she lay motionless for a long, long time.

~*~

Ehije really didn’t want to get into Helmut’s limousine, but he didn’t really have much choice. Helmut had decided they needed privacy, and insisted,and Ehije couldn’t think of a good enough reason to oppose the idea. The artist sat next to him, and ordered the car to simply drive in circles for a bit. The car’s AI driver chirped in response, and the two sped off into the night.

“You know I always figured Marie’s… her shenanigans would grab someone’s attention before long,” Helmut noted, pulling a white package from the side door. “Want some cocaine?”

Ehije really wanted that cocaine.

“...maybe later.”

“Whatever, whatever you want my man.”

A cloud of white began to fill the limo as Helmut inhaled deeply and passionately into the drug, occasionally releasing a satisfied gasp of air before delving back into the murky smoke. He didn’t so much breathe as he drank, eyes fluttering and limbs flexing, rolling into his seat with a satisfied and belligerent grin.

“Oh fuck. Mmh. Okay. Okay… right. So. You were saying?”

Helmut coughed, and squeezed the package close to his chest.

“...look, I-”

“-Wait, wait wait wait -” Helmut interrupted him, “- let me guess let me guess. You want the pills, don’t you?”

“...I-”

“Oh my god it’s so fucking obvious. So! Fucking! Obvious!” Helmut pounded his fist against the window three times with increasing vigor and enthusiasm, “tell me I’m right. Go on. Tell me tell me tell me!”

“I did want a sample of the pill, yes.”

“HA! Of course you do! Why else come to me?! I’m not the one fucking… fucking exploring the outer wilds. I’m an artist. I’m not even in Marie’s fucking inner circle I’m just a guy she trusts to care more about art than morals! She wanted my bodies did you know that? She bought every body I made for my last exhibit. Every single one Khaled. She bought them all it was amazing I have sooooo much money.”

“...um.”

“But you, you you you you can’t go to Marie because she’s basically this untouchable can I say goddess I’m going to say goddess and the other guy with the pills is just a cliché asshole so you have to go to me. But. Why do you need the pills at all, huh? That’s what I would be asking if I didn’t already figure it out you want to stop me and Marie and the other guy I think his name is Nickleson from messing around with the Silver Wheel but I can tell you buddy it just won’t work no sir not one bit. The pills just make it easy to go to the Silver Wheel and Marie is smart -- she is so goddamn smart ok like she genetically enhanced herself to make her smarter she’s a fucking human singularity -- she’s got a pin on the thing she’s never ever going to let it go not until she’s fucking fucking fucking done with it you get me my man? But who are you anyway?”

Ehije waited for exactly a second and a half.

“You called yourself a friend earlier right you said you were on my side? But I don’t have a side man. I’m fucking Paul Philippoteaux at Gettysburg, I don’t give a shit who’s fighting or what they’re fighting for I just want to make pretty pictures with what I fucking see you get me? I don’t care if we get ‘noticed’ or whatever I’ll fucking paint ankles crushing humanity if it’s literally the last thing I do that’s what artists do so unless you’re like trying to hand me pigments or whatever you can’t really be on my side I guess in this analogy you’d be like Tipton or something how much do you know about the American Civil War and 19th century photogrpahy?”

He started smoking again. Ehije capitalized on this brief respite.

“Maybe calling myself a friend wasn’t quite right. You might instead call me a muse-”

Helmut started coughing violently, a brutal hacking that spread spittle to the far end of the car. He spun to Ehije, and stabbed him in the nipple with his finger.

“Oh fuck off with that shit are you for real?” He laughed, but then stopped -- cut off by the ringing of his phone. He grunted irritably, and took it out. Giving Ehije a few more precious seconds to come up with a new plan.

“Who is it?”

“Gene Oberman. Marie’s right hand in that he’s always stroking her dick. Fuck him. Fuck him and the horse he fucked to get here, you were calling yourself my goddamn muse?”

“Not literally, just...listen,” Ehije continued as Helmut tried to go back to smoking his drug of choice, “I didn’t just come to you because you are arguably the most approachable. I came to you because you are an agent of chaos. You don’t want things to be resolved. You want them to be interesting.”

“Oh man that is so true.”

“Right now, things are going to slow down. Nikolay has almost accomplished his goal, which will be very boring for you. It doesn’t help that he’s going to think of you as a threat before long and try to end you. At the cost of one, single pill: I can promise you things will stay interesting for much, much longer. And you’ll be around to see it.”

“One pill, huh? My dude dudey dude Khaled, you are so fucking unlucky I’m an asshole, because anyone else would just give you the pill, y’know? You did a real good good good pitch. But here’s the thing I’m fucking bored and I heard the Silver Wheel is a gambling place, right? So let’s gamble for it right here and now.”

“That’s agreeable.”

“But what the fuck do we play? Are there any cards in here? Or dice or something? Oh I know we can go to a casino or something…”

While he was rambling, Ehije took a look outside.

It seemed fairly windy that night.

And that’s when Ehije saw an opportunity.

And he smiled.

“Isn’t that a little too pedestrian for you, Helmut?”

“Eh?”

“Tell your limo to take us to the Nigerian Cultural Center. I have a wonderful idea. Something more fitting for a man of your caliber.”

“Being all mysterious on me? Alright man. Nigerian Cultural Center! Let’s go fuck up some art or something!”

The Nigerian Cultural Center was originally supposed to be built in Abuja, in the distant years of the early 20th century. Those plans were postponed, and ultimately fell apart following some radical changes of leadership and shifting priorities as the polluted, engorged sea started eating up larger and larger chunks of what was once the coast. The new Nigerian Cultural Center, which was the vanity project of the Ilorin governor to kickstart his presidential bid, came about not more than a decade ago, and was far more reasonable both in cost and scale. Ultimately, the presidential bid went nowhere, but the Cultural Center was, regardless, completed a few years prior, and actually managed to get some acclaim for its modest collection of modern West-and-Central African art.

It was still nearly bankrupt, though, so it didn’t actually cost Ehije much to rent it out for the weekend. His original plans had been scrapped, but he could still make use of such a wonderfully secluded, tall building.

The doors opened to them. No one was there so late into the evening. There was no need to secure the art: it was double-protected by the fact that 1) only Khaled could enter the building, and would thus be accountable, and 2) it wasn’t really worth stealing anyway. The two men, puffs of cocaine smoke marking their trail, walked through the darkened halls, barely paying mind to the finely crafted yet inspiringly mundane paintings and statues on display. Rather, Ehije swept past them all, and walked straight to the emergency stairs.

“Here’s what I propose for our game tonight, Helmut: Chicken.”

“Chicken” isn’t so much a game as it is a model of game theory first called “Brinkmanship” by John Foster Dulles, an American diplomat who lived between the late 19th and mid-20th century. The ‘rules’ such as they are, are simple: two parties engage in a risky, potentially mutually destructive activity, and the first to give up out of concern for their health and safety is the “chicken” and thus, loser. In game theory, it’s considered a quintessential anti-coordination game, a game where you are advantaged by playing a different strategy than your opponent, and harmed (often lethally) if you play the same strategy. It’s also an example of a game that utilizes “Nash equilibrium”, a state where both players have what is perceived to be a winning strategy and there is no ‘benefit’ (outside avoiding the gruesome consequences if both players commit) to changing your strategy, so they commit and enter an unending state of play.

But practically, a game of Chicken is more of a test over who has the stronger nerves, and who wants it more.

“Hmmmm?” Helmut preened, leaning forward with widening eyes. “Why Chicken?”

“I’m surprised you ask, Helmut. Look at us!” He shouted abruptly, his voice echoing through the flat-walled stairwell, “We’re famous. We’re rich. We’re artists. Our lives are bursting with potential and opportunity. We have so much more to lose than the average man, and we have so much more to offer this sick world. The two of us, dancing with an impartial death while the whole of civilization, both ambivalent yet inextricably desperate for us, holds its breath, unaware of what hangs in the balance. Will that weight anchor our feet to the ground? Will it draw us away from danger? Or push us toward it? Our lives and legacies will hang on a narrow thread, and our raw determination, combined with the belief in our mission being greater than the others, will be the sole determining factor of victory. What could be more…”

“...artistic…” Helmut whispered with reverence, “Let’s… let’s do it! Let’s fucking do it! This is the best night of my life!”

He inhaled more cocaine.

They went up the stairs.

“The rules are simple. We stand on the edge of the building, battered by wind. First man to retreat back to the roof loses. If I win, I get my pill. If you win-”

“-You will star in my next exhibit.”

The look of extravagant madness that ignited in Helmut’s eyes, more the product of the chemicals in his own brain than anything the drugs could have loaned him, paused Ehije’s advance up the stairs. But he rose to that madness, and nodded with a firmness only possible with clarity and foresight.

“Alright.”

They escaped into the cold night air. The city buzzed, lights over, around, and under them, yet not enough to completely illuminate them. They were standing on a small patio, a flat surface that allowed their feet purchase on the naturally slanted and steep roof of the artistically designed building. The drop was short, compared to the buildings that spiraled into the sky around them, but lethal. Unquestionably lethal.

The wind buffeted them as they approached the edge. Ehije took a deep breath.

“I didn’t think this is how the evening would go.”

“Me neither. Thank thank thank god!”

“You have the pills, right?”

“Of course! But you won’t get your hands on them.”

“Is that so?” His host smiled back.

Ehije hoisted himself up onto the railing and he nearly shat himself. The railing was thin, an inch and a half at most, and while he was not a big guy, he was big enough that he wanted more than an inch and a half separating himself and a fall to his death. The wind, too, made a point to remind him how thin and frail he was, with even a slight breeze rocking him, forcing him to push back carefully against the breeze.

Helmut laughed at this. Ehije was a good liar, but no man can bluff himself. He looked terrified up there, and Helmut delighted in that. His new friend here had pitched this as a battle between two determined men who had much to offer and a fear of the death that would stop them from doing that. But Helmut? He didn’t fear death. And he proved it as he hopped up onto the ledge with the surefootedness of a mountain goat, and stood up straight, hands in pockets, while Ehije still crouched and kept his knees bent.

“A-aren’t you afraid?!” Ehije gasped in disbelief.

“You’re scared enough for both of us!” Helmut shouted back over the wind and the traffic, “But don’t you dare quit on me, Khaled! I was promised art! And this performance is just starting!”

Ehije slowly straightened himself up, flinching once as a strong wind howled past him, forcing both men to brace.

“How do you feel?” Helmut asked, leaning forward, “Scared?! Alive?! Feeling the weight of your mission?! And tell me, what direction does it push you?!”

Ehije shuddered, looking down at the ground far below… then looked up at Helmut.

“...this way.”

He put his hand on Helmut’s shoulder.

And he pushed.

There would be time, later, for Ehije to consider the line he just crossed from con-man to straight-up murderer. There would be time for him to sit down and work through the twisted complicated webs that had spun their way across his mind as he watched a man, practically a stranger, roll against the steep slopes of the Nigerian Cultural Center and slam face-first into the pavement, fifty feet below. And there would be a time for him to feel a sickening disgust nip at his fingers as he remembered peeling back Helmut’s flattened, blood-covered coat and gingerly pinching the hotel keys from his pocket. And there would be a time when he would think on the haunted beauty of stepping into the dead man’s executive suite and seeing his two bags, recently unpacked, prepared for a weekend he would never get to enjoy.

But that time was not now. Now, he had about an hour to pop some pills and do his job before he was arrested.

It was time to go back to the Silver Wheel.