Post by spiral on Jan 31, 2017 21:13:59 GMT
Note to readers:
The section marked SPIRAL’S JOURNAL is a public blog post and available for reference.
The remainder is off-camera.
The section marked SPIRAL’S JOURNAL is a public blog post and available for reference.
The remainder is off-camera.
SPIRAL’S JOURNAL
January 31, 2017
Nearly a decade of my life was stolen from me by the prosecutors and the doctors—the schemers. Those shortsighted fools. I could go on and on about them, but I’m not supposed to talk about my past. The lawyers tell me I should just let it go and focus on the future.
The past is happening as I write this, as is the present and the future. All at once, every moment of life happening concurrently. Most people cannot see time for what it is—tenseless. Temporal becoming is not an objective feature of reality.
Oh, oh, oh, am I losing you? I’ll save the theoretical physics for another day. Moving on.
I joined this outfit because it’s the only place that would have me. Let’s consider that I am a twice-committed maniac who has been accused (though never convicted) of a litany of crimes over the years. False accusations have tarnished my reputation in the world of combat sports.
That said, I see a few familiar faces. Hello, Jackson. Oh, and Lex. Sweet Lex. I enjoyed our little Shakespearian jousting on twitter a week ago.
Let the great gods,
That keep this dreadful pother o'er our heads,
Find out their enemies now.
I know I must address my two opponents: Adam Barrera and Frankie Starlight. Full disclosure, I had to look up your names. I must admit, I do not know a thing about either of you. That means I can’t exactly wax poetically about your shortcomings, and how neither of you are worthy to face me one on one so they might as well throw you both at me.
The thought of having to slum my way against the two of you in a dark match eats at me. Being relegated to that position on the card makes my stomach turn in knots. I can feel the bile in the back of my throat building from the disgust.
Oh, well. Since I cannot beat you both half to death in front of live cameras, I will instead take advantage of the situation. I will unleash such a showing of violence upon my opponents that Slaine Rodrick will be thankful for not putting it out live for the world to see.
His attempts to hide my work from the masses will be futile. Cell phone footage will leak. Word will spread. Barrera and Starlight will be martyrs whose sacrifice will remind everyone how things used to be, when you all felt the terror of knowing that I was out there.
Until next time,
Spiral
Nearly a decade of my life was stolen from me by the prosecutors and the doctors—the schemers. Those shortsighted fools. I could go on and on about them, but I’m not supposed to talk about my past. The lawyers tell me I should just let it go and focus on the future.
The past is happening as I write this, as is the present and the future. All at once, every moment of life happening concurrently. Most people cannot see time for what it is—tenseless. Temporal becoming is not an objective feature of reality.
Oh, oh, oh, am I losing you? I’ll save the theoretical physics for another day. Moving on.
I joined this outfit because it’s the only place that would have me. Let’s consider that I am a twice-committed maniac who has been accused (though never convicted) of a litany of crimes over the years. False accusations have tarnished my reputation in the world of combat sports.
That said, I see a few familiar faces. Hello, Jackson. Oh, and Lex. Sweet Lex. I enjoyed our little Shakespearian jousting on twitter a week ago.
Let the great gods,
That keep this dreadful pother o'er our heads,
Find out their enemies now.
I know I must address my two opponents: Adam Barrera and Frankie Starlight. Full disclosure, I had to look up your names. I must admit, I do not know a thing about either of you. That means I can’t exactly wax poetically about your shortcomings, and how neither of you are worthy to face me one on one so they might as well throw you both at me.
The thought of having to slum my way against the two of you in a dark match eats at me. Being relegated to that position on the card makes my stomach turn in knots. I can feel the bile in the back of my throat building from the disgust.
Oh, well. Since I cannot beat you both half to death in front of live cameras, I will instead take advantage of the situation. I will unleash such a showing of violence upon my opponents that Slaine Rodrick will be thankful for not putting it out live for the world to see.
His attempts to hide my work from the masses will be futile. Cell phone footage will leak. Word will spread. Barrera and Starlight will be martyrs whose sacrifice will remind everyone how things used to be, when you all felt the terror of knowing that I was out there.
Until next time,
Spiral
ONE
From below the dragon
dark comes forth,
Nidhogg flying from Nithafjoll;
The bodies of men
on his wings he bears
— Poetic Edda
IT IS 9:20 PM ON CHRISTMAS AND MY MOUTH TASTES OF BLOOD. Five floors above Decatur Street, I can see all of Jackson Square from my condominium’s terrace. There are too many people to count, too many to track. No one stands out. Beyond the glass, I glimpse down the sheer five-story drop to the entrance of my building. People come and go, but no one enters or leaves. On the sidewalk, a homeless man in ragged clothes and a hood holds a sign that says “What Doesn’t Kill Me Makes Me Stronger”. No one else seems to care as they file past him. The homeless man looks up at me and gives me a very Spiral-like smile.
Fifteen minutes before, I am straining to stay conscious as a nylon cord tightens around my neck. One hand is caught between the rope and my trachea, giving me time, but not much. The blood is being trapped in my head. I can feel the pressure of it, and black veins are beginning to cloud my vision.
This is where most people go limp, accept their fate, and spend their last waking moments going over every mistake made throughout their life. Throwing away a marriage, sticking with that job they hate, not wearing a condom - every regret, no matter how minute, analyzed ad infinitum as their perception of time slows.
When the black veins attempt to overtake me, I consider where to go for brunch tomorrow: Brennan’s or Two Sisters.
Somewhere near, a clock tower is ringing nine o’clock and I’m stepping off a street car. I walk into my building, letting, the jazz and alcohol of the French Quarter fade into the background when the door shuts behind. The lobby is empty, and quiet other than the sound of my Valentino oxfords clacking on the marble floor. The night guard isn’t at the station. It slips my mind.
Nat King Cole sings Unforgettable on the elevator ride. The doors open on the top floor. The song is in my head as I exit, and humming on my lips. The key is taken from my pocket. I’m about to slide it into the deadbolt when I note a mark on the metal hardware—wait, no, not a mark, a scratch, just beneath the keyhole.
I am certain it wasn’t there before. I run my finger over it, feeling the groove. A torsion wrench from a lockpick set could have caused it. My eyes lift to the door, to the spyhole. I wonder if I’m being watched. The darkness crawls under my skin. It wants out. It’s hungry.
I have a very Spiral-like smile on my face as I head inside.
The entryway is ten feet long, with a custom tile floor and crown molding. The walls are bear and it still has a smell of fresh paint. I lock the door behind me and secure the swing bar, then move forward, down the hallway. At the end, it angles right, opening into the living room. There are no couches or chairs. Not a TV or even a lamp.
Floor to ceiling windows run from the left wall of the living room to the right wall of the open kitchen and dining area. On the other side of the glass is a wrought-iron terrace. A set of patio chairs and table are the only furniture in the entire house.
I force a normal smile, give the long breath of someone who just escaped a stressful Christmas Dinner and needs a beer to settle his nerves. My body relaxes as I head to the kitchen. My eyes are everywhere, looking for any hint of danger, but it is my ears that save me, when a rubber sole squeaks on the floor from behind.
A nylon cord loops around my neck and a pair of leather-gloved hands pull it tight. I barely get my left hand between the rope and my windpipe before it sinches. The attacker leaps in the air, puts both knees against my shoulder blades, and hauls back. His weight brings us both down, and we end face up, him on his back with me pinned on top of his shins.
Despite having a hand between the cord and my windpipe, the pressure is sufficient to cut off the blood supply. We struggle on the tile floor. I can’t reach his face with my free hand. He’s taking heavy breaths and torquing back on the rope.
I decide on Brennan’s for brunch as I plant my feet and bridge my spine. The pressure is released and the blood rushes down into my chest. Before he can react, I twist my hips to get one foot on the kitchen counter, then kick off, flipping my body over his. The cord loosens from my throat when I land on my knees near his head.
I pull a knife from my ankle sheath. The automatic blade flicks out to cut the rope while he is scrambling to his feet. His barrel-chest heaves a long, deep breath. He’s taller than me and heavier, but it’s all muscle. His hair is buzzed to the skin and a long scar is raised across his right cheek.
He ditches the gloves and comes at me quick. I get tackled to the ground and the blade is sent skipping across the floor out of reach. He rises to rain his fist down into my face. Something catches my eye, just inside his jacket on the left side. A pistol dances around in a shoulder holster. When I grab for it, his right hand follows. In the struggle, a muted shot fires out the back of the jacket, into the kitchen ceiling.
When the gun yanks out of the holster, my thumb hits the button to eject the magazine and I squeeze off the final round. This one skips off to the right, through the side of the refrigerator, and the gun’s slide locks open. He gets control of the weapon from me and aims to hammer it into my face.
The pistol comes down through my hands. My head jerks to the right and it clanks against the floor. He pulls back the gun for another try, planting his left hand into my chest. I grab that wrist, hook my legs across his body, and pull him into an armbar. The gun drops to the floor. His free hand grabs at mine to keep me from pulling back on his arm. He tries to shake me off, lifting all but my upper back off the floor. It doesn’t work, and his grip on my hands is slipping.
He makes one last attempt to pull his arm free, lifting up with all of his strength. In doing so gives me room to arch my back, and with it, his arm. It snaps and immediately my weight collapses back on the floor. He makes a noise like a deer caught in a bear trap.
When I get to my feet, his arm is bent at a forty-five degree angle in the sleeve of his jacket. He looks around in a panic and finds my knife two feet away. I have the pistol in my hand before his fingertips touch the handle. When he looks up at me, I crack him against the side of his head. He’s unconscious before his face smacks on the floor.
Sixteen minutes later, it’s 9:31 and the homeless man with the sign is gone. I leave the rail to head back inside, but stop when I catch my reflection in the glass of the sliding door. My Yves Saint Laurent pinstripe suit is stretched and the stitching pulled around the shoulders. My hair is tossed, ignoring my attempts to brush it back in place with my fingers.
I stick two fingers into my mouth and feel around. I didn’t bite my tongue, or my cheek. The blood-taste in my mouth is coming from the back of my throat. Lifting my chin, there’s rope burn across my neck, and a mottled bruise is forming along the length of it.
Movement pulls my focus through my reflection and glass to my assailant. He sits in the middle of my living room, bound with zip-ties to one of my deck chairs. Finally awake, he is testing the strength of his restraints. The ties don’t concern me, but the wooden chair wobbles under his weight.
He looks up when the door slides open. His attempt to escape quickly comes to an end when he sees his gun clenched in my right hand.
Tut-tut, my teeth click as I secure the door behind me.
The zip-ties were in the black canvas bag sitting on the kitchen island. I found it searching the rest of the condo, on the floor in the master bedroom. Also in the bag: a karambit, two more pistol magazines, a hank of nylon rope (approximately three metres), a drywall saw, a lockpick kit, a prepaid cell-phone, and a box of latex gloves. Each item is laid out in front of the bag except for the cell phone. That went into my pocket.
I walk toward him. “First, introductions. What is your name?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Oh,” I say real big. “A tough guy, eh?” There’s another deck chair. I slide it in front of him and sit down. “How about I just call you Ivan. How does that sound, Ivan?”
His eyes flick away and rolls them around to take a quick survey of the room.
“I almost gave up on you,” I tell him, as I glance at my Movado chronograph bracelet. “Sixteen minutes you’ve been out. You have to be careful with a head injury like that. For a minute, I thought you might not wake up. I’m happy you did. Maybe that sounds strange, considering you tried to murder me, but from a certain perspective, I appreciate the attempt. But I have to say, Ivan, that off-the-rack suit is unforgivable.”
The pistol whip cut a deep gash on the side of his forehead. Blood leaks out and is thinned by the sweat breaking on the skin. The entire left side of his face is covered in red, as is his black suit jacket and the white undershirt. The jacket’s left sleeve I cut open while he was unconscious to reveal that delightfully horrid forearm fracture of the radius three inches below the elbow.
His eyes are still everywhere but on me.
“Ivan, you’re being rude. Look at me.”
He refuses. Something stirs beneath my skin.
“Look at me!”
He raises his eyes to mine. His face is expressionless, but his eyes are full of murderous rage.
“What’s my name, Ivan?”
He doesn’t answer.
“We’ll come back to that.” I take a quick glimpse out the window. The waning moon is slung low in the cloudless sky surrounded by stars demanding to be seen over the city lights. Looking back at him, I say, “It was eighty degrees today. I’ve lived here nearly my whole life, but I will never get used to the heat. Let me ask you something. Do you accept the overwhelming consensus of the scientific community that Climate Change is real?”
Still he remains silent.
“I love the cold,” I continue anyway, “the chill against my bones. It keeps a man sharp. It’s Christmas and people are walking around in t-shirts and sandals. Heat like this, it makes them soft. And weak. I prefer the bitter and unforgiving winters of my homeland. You know where I’m from, yes? I imagine you know a great deal about me.”
My eyes fall to the gun. The metal catches a bit of sunlight as it turns in my hand. The chrome and the grip are well-worn with use, but the pistol has clearly been well maintained.
“This is a Makarov. Russian-made, not one of those Chinese or Bulgarian knock-offs. This is the real deal. I know because I’ve seen them before. This one is quite old, but clearly cared for. A gun like this must have some meaning for its owner to risk smuggling it into America.”
I lower it to sit on the top of my thigh, the suppressor leveled till it aims at his chest.
“This gun comes from a cold place, and I’m better its owner does, too, eh comrade?”
His lips curl in a sneer and he shakes his head.
My patience is dwindling. “Listen, I understand. You’re a big tough guy. You think you won’t talk, no matter what I say or do. I get it. If anyone found out you gave me information, it would make it rather awkward for you at the next Ruski Hitman convention. But, here’s your problem.”
I uncross my legs and, as I lean forward, transfer the gun from my right to left hand. Then I reach out and grab his broken forearm. His eyes fill with lightning and he bites down hard when my fingers dig into the skin.
“You are going to spill every little secret,” I tell him. Spit is bubbling through the spaces between his clenched teeth as he screams through them. I feel along his arm to where the bone is pressing up against the skin and push down hard.
He screams out in Russian, begging me to stop.
I tell him, “You are going to tell me everything.”
He nods, pleading with me to end it.
When I let go, the blood drains from his face and for a moment I think he might pass out. He is taking several long, deep breaths, and his face is creased and puckered from the pain.
“There there,” I say while sitting back. “I know, I’m horrible. I’m the worst. Are you ready now? Good. So first thing’s first. What is my name?”
“Gram,” he spits between breaths. “Niels Gram.”
I let out a long sigh and pull the Makarov's slide to load the first bullet in the chamber. His eyes are wide and he’s giving me the ‘No, No, No, Wait!’ routine as I direct the mean end of the pistol at his forehead.
“Blyad,” he curses, full of anger, then says with a Russian accent, “Spiral. Your fucking name is Spiral, okay?”
My head tilts to the side so I can look down the side of the gun at him. I give him a very Spiral-like smile of appreciation. “Much better, Ivan. You’re learning, but I’m afraid that is the last freebie you get. Let me be clear, it currently benefits me for you to walk out of here, but one more wrong answer and I will not hesitate to kill you. Do we have an understanding?”
“I understand.”
“Good, Ivan. We’re on our way to being friends for real. First question: are you here alone?”
He hesitates. My thumb cocks the hammer with a click.
“Yes,” he quickly answers. “This was solo job. Klyanus—I swear it.” His english is broken.
“Can I just say something? And please, I understand that I am not a professional hitman, so maybe this is all over my head, but there are easier ways to kill someone. You could have just shot me in the back of the head.”
He nods his head yes.
“Don’t you feel stupid?”
His stare is cold and impassive.
I wave it away with my other hand and say, “That was rhetorical, Ivan. Lighten up, comrade. We’re just two men talking. You, over there, me over here holding a gun in your face. Friends for real, remember? Besides, I think I get what you were going for. But first, one more question: the nightwatchman was missing when I entered. Did you kill him?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
He ticks his head to the gun.
My eyes follow to the Makarov, before raising back. “Where is the body?”
“In the security room. I also disabled the cameras and erased the drive.”
“Excellent. I think I’m ready to solve the puzzle, Pat.”
He says, “Who is this Pat?”
“Stay with me, Ivan. You were sent here to kill me in a way that didn’t cast suspicion. If I was found with a couple bullet holes in me, there would be questions. Whoever hired you doesn’t want questions. So you were meant to strangle me to death, then string me up with that extra rope in your kit. The drywall saw is to cut a hole in the ceiling to secure the noose to a joist. How am I doing so far?”
I take his unwavering glare as a yes.
“Of course, I think suicide is a huge overstep. Why would I kill myself? I was locked away for years. I finally get released on Friday and then I kill myself two days later—on Christmas? It doesn’t stick. Not to mention that I just bought this condominium. You know, I did have a house over by the university. It was my parents’ house. It had five bedrooms, a pool… you would have liked it, Ivan. Someone burnt it to the ground a couple years ago. Is that why I did it? I couldn’t handle living in a house smaller than three thousand square feet?”
His body relaxes a bit when I lower the gun. I say, “I don’t think you understand me very well. If you did, you wouldn’t believe such a ridiculous story. Shall I educate you? If we are to be friends for real, there must be no secrets.”
He is telling me that it isn’t necessary. I say, “Oh, but it is,” and stand from the chair to walk over to the kitchen island. The gun is set next to the bag, then I slide the ruined jacket off my shoulders, down my arms, and lay it across the counter. My fingers go to the collar and, one by one, release the buttons of the shirt.
“For six years I have hidden behind the mask of Niels Gram, pretending to be something natural. The pressure threatens to rip out of this skin and release my true face, and with every passing moment it becomes harder to keep it contained. The doctors, the prosecutors, the politicians—all of them whores—they would never have let me out if they knew what lies beneath this human suit, if they had seen my dark schemata.”
Muscles flex as I pull the shirt off, exposing the gloriousness of my scarred body. Sunken pits where pieces of flesh were removed in back-alley surgeries. Raised mountains of ruined skin from lacerations, puncture wounds, and burns.
“I actually must thank you,” I admit as I fold the shirt. “I have waited so long for this moment. So long to let go.”
“On byl prav,” Ivan says. “Ty sumasshedshiy.”
He calls me crazy. I say in Russian, “Many have called me crazy.” I turn slowly, craning my head around first and allowing my body to follow. He sees my true face for the first time. My dark self seeps through my pores and spreads over the human skin until I am nothing but the Entity.
Once again he tests the strength of his binds as I come near. The chair creaks and groans from his shifting weight. He is breathing heavy from the effort. More sweat breaks on his skin and rolls down. More blood seeeps from his wound.
“You ARE fucking crazy,” he says while recoiling from my magnificence.
I reach out with fingers gnarled and spidery, to brush down the side of his face. My words shift back to English. “Crazy is a word used by men with small minds, to describe those who see so much more. Long after you have turned to dust, I will still roam this forsaken land. The mark I have left will still resonate centuries from now. Men like you will one day look back in horror and say that I was the beginning.”
Clutching his jaw, I angle his face at mine. “You are but a worm, wriggling on the ground beneath me. Your life is one spent in the dirt with the other phyla. You and the rest of your kind dig deep and hope to avoid your holocaust. Foolishness.”
“Please,” he begs me. “Prosti… I am sorry, Spiral. You said you were going to let me go. Just cut me loose and you will never see me again.”
“So I did, but before I can release you back to the dirt with the other invertebrates, I have one more question for you. Before you called me crazy, you said something else. ‘On byl prav’’... ‘He was right.’ Who were you referring to? Who is he?”
“The man who hired me,” he says. “He used to be vor v zakone. Russian mafia. His name is Tibor Petrov. He said you were a crazy man.”
My dark self grins, pointed white teeth gleaming in his corneas. I tilt my head like an auger, drilling my gaze to the back of his skull. “Oh, Ivan. Sweet Ivan. You have made me very happy.”
“You will let me go, da?”
“I’m a man of my word,” I say. “But you have provided me a great service on this night. You deserve a reward.”
“No,” he says. “I don’t need a reward. Please, just let me go—”
“Oh, but you it,” I say. “You have seen, but you do not know. Only when you know, can you begin to comprehend my majesty.” I wrap my hands about his unprotected face. My fingers dig into his cranium and I lean to him intimately, until our faces are but an inch apart. “Look upon me worm and weep, for you are in the presence of something greater. You bear witness to Nidhogg, the Malice Striker. The world eater. The dragon of ragnarok. I, who will lead this world on a downward spiral into the chaos that awaits all creatures.”
He shrieks out, “My God!”
My thumbs drive into his eyes, digging under the lids and pressing down, far down, all the way to the back of the sockets. He is screaming and shaking, and I can’t stop laughing.
dark comes forth,
Nidhogg flying from Nithafjoll;
The bodies of men
on his wings he bears
— Poetic Edda
IT IS 9:20 PM ON CHRISTMAS AND MY MOUTH TASTES OF BLOOD. Five floors above Decatur Street, I can see all of Jackson Square from my condominium’s terrace. There are too many people to count, too many to track. No one stands out. Beyond the glass, I glimpse down the sheer five-story drop to the entrance of my building. People come and go, but no one enters or leaves. On the sidewalk, a homeless man in ragged clothes and a hood holds a sign that says “What Doesn’t Kill Me Makes Me Stronger”. No one else seems to care as they file past him. The homeless man looks up at me and gives me a very Spiral-like smile.
Fifteen minutes before, I am straining to stay conscious as a nylon cord tightens around my neck. One hand is caught between the rope and my trachea, giving me time, but not much. The blood is being trapped in my head. I can feel the pressure of it, and black veins are beginning to cloud my vision.
This is where most people go limp, accept their fate, and spend their last waking moments going over every mistake made throughout their life. Throwing away a marriage, sticking with that job they hate, not wearing a condom - every regret, no matter how minute, analyzed ad infinitum as their perception of time slows.
When the black veins attempt to overtake me, I consider where to go for brunch tomorrow: Brennan’s or Two Sisters.
Somewhere near, a clock tower is ringing nine o’clock and I’m stepping off a street car. I walk into my building, letting, the jazz and alcohol of the French Quarter fade into the background when the door shuts behind. The lobby is empty, and quiet other than the sound of my Valentino oxfords clacking on the marble floor. The night guard isn’t at the station. It slips my mind.
Nat King Cole sings Unforgettable on the elevator ride. The doors open on the top floor. The song is in my head as I exit, and humming on my lips. The key is taken from my pocket. I’m about to slide it into the deadbolt when I note a mark on the metal hardware—wait, no, not a mark, a scratch, just beneath the keyhole.
I am certain it wasn’t there before. I run my finger over it, feeling the groove. A torsion wrench from a lockpick set could have caused it. My eyes lift to the door, to the spyhole. I wonder if I’m being watched. The darkness crawls under my skin. It wants out. It’s hungry.
I have a very Spiral-like smile on my face as I head inside.
The entryway is ten feet long, with a custom tile floor and crown molding. The walls are bear and it still has a smell of fresh paint. I lock the door behind me and secure the swing bar, then move forward, down the hallway. At the end, it angles right, opening into the living room. There are no couches or chairs. Not a TV or even a lamp.
Floor to ceiling windows run from the left wall of the living room to the right wall of the open kitchen and dining area. On the other side of the glass is a wrought-iron terrace. A set of patio chairs and table are the only furniture in the entire house.
I force a normal smile, give the long breath of someone who just escaped a stressful Christmas Dinner and needs a beer to settle his nerves. My body relaxes as I head to the kitchen. My eyes are everywhere, looking for any hint of danger, but it is my ears that save me, when a rubber sole squeaks on the floor from behind.
A nylon cord loops around my neck and a pair of leather-gloved hands pull it tight. I barely get my left hand between the rope and my windpipe before it sinches. The attacker leaps in the air, puts both knees against my shoulder blades, and hauls back. His weight brings us both down, and we end face up, him on his back with me pinned on top of his shins.
Despite having a hand between the cord and my windpipe, the pressure is sufficient to cut off the blood supply. We struggle on the tile floor. I can’t reach his face with my free hand. He’s taking heavy breaths and torquing back on the rope.
I decide on Brennan’s for brunch as I plant my feet and bridge my spine. The pressure is released and the blood rushes down into my chest. Before he can react, I twist my hips to get one foot on the kitchen counter, then kick off, flipping my body over his. The cord loosens from my throat when I land on my knees near his head.
I pull a knife from my ankle sheath. The automatic blade flicks out to cut the rope while he is scrambling to his feet. His barrel-chest heaves a long, deep breath. He’s taller than me and heavier, but it’s all muscle. His hair is buzzed to the skin and a long scar is raised across his right cheek.
He ditches the gloves and comes at me quick. I get tackled to the ground and the blade is sent skipping across the floor out of reach. He rises to rain his fist down into my face. Something catches my eye, just inside his jacket on the left side. A pistol dances around in a shoulder holster. When I grab for it, his right hand follows. In the struggle, a muted shot fires out the back of the jacket, into the kitchen ceiling.
When the gun yanks out of the holster, my thumb hits the button to eject the magazine and I squeeze off the final round. This one skips off to the right, through the side of the refrigerator, and the gun’s slide locks open. He gets control of the weapon from me and aims to hammer it into my face.
The pistol comes down through my hands. My head jerks to the right and it clanks against the floor. He pulls back the gun for another try, planting his left hand into my chest. I grab that wrist, hook my legs across his body, and pull him into an armbar. The gun drops to the floor. His free hand grabs at mine to keep me from pulling back on his arm. He tries to shake me off, lifting all but my upper back off the floor. It doesn’t work, and his grip on my hands is slipping.
He makes one last attempt to pull his arm free, lifting up with all of his strength. In doing so gives me room to arch my back, and with it, his arm. It snaps and immediately my weight collapses back on the floor. He makes a noise like a deer caught in a bear trap.
When I get to my feet, his arm is bent at a forty-five degree angle in the sleeve of his jacket. He looks around in a panic and finds my knife two feet away. I have the pistol in my hand before his fingertips touch the handle. When he looks up at me, I crack him against the side of his head. He’s unconscious before his face smacks on the floor.
Sixteen minutes later, it’s 9:31 and the homeless man with the sign is gone. I leave the rail to head back inside, but stop when I catch my reflection in the glass of the sliding door. My Yves Saint Laurent pinstripe suit is stretched and the stitching pulled around the shoulders. My hair is tossed, ignoring my attempts to brush it back in place with my fingers.
I stick two fingers into my mouth and feel around. I didn’t bite my tongue, or my cheek. The blood-taste in my mouth is coming from the back of my throat. Lifting my chin, there’s rope burn across my neck, and a mottled bruise is forming along the length of it.
Movement pulls my focus through my reflection and glass to my assailant. He sits in the middle of my living room, bound with zip-ties to one of my deck chairs. Finally awake, he is testing the strength of his restraints. The ties don’t concern me, but the wooden chair wobbles under his weight.
He looks up when the door slides open. His attempt to escape quickly comes to an end when he sees his gun clenched in my right hand.
Tut-tut, my teeth click as I secure the door behind me.
The zip-ties were in the black canvas bag sitting on the kitchen island. I found it searching the rest of the condo, on the floor in the master bedroom. Also in the bag: a karambit, two more pistol magazines, a hank of nylon rope (approximately three metres), a drywall saw, a lockpick kit, a prepaid cell-phone, and a box of latex gloves. Each item is laid out in front of the bag except for the cell phone. That went into my pocket.
I walk toward him. “First, introductions. What is your name?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Oh,” I say real big. “A tough guy, eh?” There’s another deck chair. I slide it in front of him and sit down. “How about I just call you Ivan. How does that sound, Ivan?”
His eyes flick away and rolls them around to take a quick survey of the room.
“I almost gave up on you,” I tell him, as I glance at my Movado chronograph bracelet. “Sixteen minutes you’ve been out. You have to be careful with a head injury like that. For a minute, I thought you might not wake up. I’m happy you did. Maybe that sounds strange, considering you tried to murder me, but from a certain perspective, I appreciate the attempt. But I have to say, Ivan, that off-the-rack suit is unforgivable.”
The pistol whip cut a deep gash on the side of his forehead. Blood leaks out and is thinned by the sweat breaking on the skin. The entire left side of his face is covered in red, as is his black suit jacket and the white undershirt. The jacket’s left sleeve I cut open while he was unconscious to reveal that delightfully horrid forearm fracture of the radius three inches below the elbow.
His eyes are still everywhere but on me.
“Ivan, you’re being rude. Look at me.”
He refuses. Something stirs beneath my skin.
“Look at me!”
He raises his eyes to mine. His face is expressionless, but his eyes are full of murderous rage.
“What’s my name, Ivan?”
He doesn’t answer.
“We’ll come back to that.” I take a quick glimpse out the window. The waning moon is slung low in the cloudless sky surrounded by stars demanding to be seen over the city lights. Looking back at him, I say, “It was eighty degrees today. I’ve lived here nearly my whole life, but I will never get used to the heat. Let me ask you something. Do you accept the overwhelming consensus of the scientific community that Climate Change is real?”
Still he remains silent.
“I love the cold,” I continue anyway, “the chill against my bones. It keeps a man sharp. It’s Christmas and people are walking around in t-shirts and sandals. Heat like this, it makes them soft. And weak. I prefer the bitter and unforgiving winters of my homeland. You know where I’m from, yes? I imagine you know a great deal about me.”
My eyes fall to the gun. The metal catches a bit of sunlight as it turns in my hand. The chrome and the grip are well-worn with use, but the pistol has clearly been well maintained.
“This is a Makarov. Russian-made, not one of those Chinese or Bulgarian knock-offs. This is the real deal. I know because I’ve seen them before. This one is quite old, but clearly cared for. A gun like this must have some meaning for its owner to risk smuggling it into America.”
I lower it to sit on the top of my thigh, the suppressor leveled till it aims at his chest.
“This gun comes from a cold place, and I’m better its owner does, too, eh comrade?”
His lips curl in a sneer and he shakes his head.
My patience is dwindling. “Listen, I understand. You’re a big tough guy. You think you won’t talk, no matter what I say or do. I get it. If anyone found out you gave me information, it would make it rather awkward for you at the next Ruski Hitman convention. But, here’s your problem.”
I uncross my legs and, as I lean forward, transfer the gun from my right to left hand. Then I reach out and grab his broken forearm. His eyes fill with lightning and he bites down hard when my fingers dig into the skin.
“You are going to spill every little secret,” I tell him. Spit is bubbling through the spaces between his clenched teeth as he screams through them. I feel along his arm to where the bone is pressing up against the skin and push down hard.
He screams out in Russian, begging me to stop.
I tell him, “You are going to tell me everything.”
He nods, pleading with me to end it.
When I let go, the blood drains from his face and for a moment I think he might pass out. He is taking several long, deep breaths, and his face is creased and puckered from the pain.
“There there,” I say while sitting back. “I know, I’m horrible. I’m the worst. Are you ready now? Good. So first thing’s first. What is my name?”
“Gram,” he spits between breaths. “Niels Gram.”
I let out a long sigh and pull the Makarov's slide to load the first bullet in the chamber. His eyes are wide and he’s giving me the ‘No, No, No, Wait!’ routine as I direct the mean end of the pistol at his forehead.
“Blyad,” he curses, full of anger, then says with a Russian accent, “Spiral. Your fucking name is Spiral, okay?”
My head tilts to the side so I can look down the side of the gun at him. I give him a very Spiral-like smile of appreciation. “Much better, Ivan. You’re learning, but I’m afraid that is the last freebie you get. Let me be clear, it currently benefits me for you to walk out of here, but one more wrong answer and I will not hesitate to kill you. Do we have an understanding?”
“I understand.”
“Good, Ivan. We’re on our way to being friends for real. First question: are you here alone?”
He hesitates. My thumb cocks the hammer with a click.
“Yes,” he quickly answers. “This was solo job. Klyanus—I swear it.” His english is broken.
“Can I just say something? And please, I understand that I am not a professional hitman, so maybe this is all over my head, but there are easier ways to kill someone. You could have just shot me in the back of the head.”
He nods his head yes.
“Don’t you feel stupid?”
His stare is cold and impassive.
I wave it away with my other hand and say, “That was rhetorical, Ivan. Lighten up, comrade. We’re just two men talking. You, over there, me over here holding a gun in your face. Friends for real, remember? Besides, I think I get what you were going for. But first, one more question: the nightwatchman was missing when I entered. Did you kill him?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
He ticks his head to the gun.
My eyes follow to the Makarov, before raising back. “Where is the body?”
“In the security room. I also disabled the cameras and erased the drive.”
“Excellent. I think I’m ready to solve the puzzle, Pat.”
He says, “Who is this Pat?”
“Stay with me, Ivan. You were sent here to kill me in a way that didn’t cast suspicion. If I was found with a couple bullet holes in me, there would be questions. Whoever hired you doesn’t want questions. So you were meant to strangle me to death, then string me up with that extra rope in your kit. The drywall saw is to cut a hole in the ceiling to secure the noose to a joist. How am I doing so far?”
I take his unwavering glare as a yes.
“Of course, I think suicide is a huge overstep. Why would I kill myself? I was locked away for years. I finally get released on Friday and then I kill myself two days later—on Christmas? It doesn’t stick. Not to mention that I just bought this condominium. You know, I did have a house over by the university. It was my parents’ house. It had five bedrooms, a pool… you would have liked it, Ivan. Someone burnt it to the ground a couple years ago. Is that why I did it? I couldn’t handle living in a house smaller than three thousand square feet?”
His body relaxes a bit when I lower the gun. I say, “I don’t think you understand me very well. If you did, you wouldn’t believe such a ridiculous story. Shall I educate you? If we are to be friends for real, there must be no secrets.”
He is telling me that it isn’t necessary. I say, “Oh, but it is,” and stand from the chair to walk over to the kitchen island. The gun is set next to the bag, then I slide the ruined jacket off my shoulders, down my arms, and lay it across the counter. My fingers go to the collar and, one by one, release the buttons of the shirt.
“For six years I have hidden behind the mask of Niels Gram, pretending to be something natural. The pressure threatens to rip out of this skin and release my true face, and with every passing moment it becomes harder to keep it contained. The doctors, the prosecutors, the politicians—all of them whores—they would never have let me out if they knew what lies beneath this human suit, if they had seen my dark schemata.”
Muscles flex as I pull the shirt off, exposing the gloriousness of my scarred body. Sunken pits where pieces of flesh were removed in back-alley surgeries. Raised mountains of ruined skin from lacerations, puncture wounds, and burns.
“I actually must thank you,” I admit as I fold the shirt. “I have waited so long for this moment. So long to let go.”
“On byl prav,” Ivan says. “Ty sumasshedshiy.”
He calls me crazy. I say in Russian, “Many have called me crazy.” I turn slowly, craning my head around first and allowing my body to follow. He sees my true face for the first time. My dark self seeps through my pores and spreads over the human skin until I am nothing but the Entity.
Once again he tests the strength of his binds as I come near. The chair creaks and groans from his shifting weight. He is breathing heavy from the effort. More sweat breaks on his skin and rolls down. More blood seeeps from his wound.
“You ARE fucking crazy,” he says while recoiling from my magnificence.
I reach out with fingers gnarled and spidery, to brush down the side of his face. My words shift back to English. “Crazy is a word used by men with small minds, to describe those who see so much more. Long after you have turned to dust, I will still roam this forsaken land. The mark I have left will still resonate centuries from now. Men like you will one day look back in horror and say that I was the beginning.”
Clutching his jaw, I angle his face at mine. “You are but a worm, wriggling on the ground beneath me. Your life is one spent in the dirt with the other phyla. You and the rest of your kind dig deep and hope to avoid your holocaust. Foolishness.”
“Please,” he begs me. “Prosti… I am sorry, Spiral. You said you were going to let me go. Just cut me loose and you will never see me again.”
“So I did, but before I can release you back to the dirt with the other invertebrates, I have one more question for you. Before you called me crazy, you said something else. ‘On byl prav’’... ‘He was right.’ Who were you referring to? Who is he?”
“The man who hired me,” he says. “He used to be vor v zakone. Russian mafia. His name is Tibor Petrov. He said you were a crazy man.”
My dark self grins, pointed white teeth gleaming in his corneas. I tilt my head like an auger, drilling my gaze to the back of his skull. “Oh, Ivan. Sweet Ivan. You have made me very happy.”
“You will let me go, da?”
“I’m a man of my word,” I say. “But you have provided me a great service on this night. You deserve a reward.”
“No,” he says. “I don’t need a reward. Please, just let me go—”
“Oh, but you it,” I say. “You have seen, but you do not know. Only when you know, can you begin to comprehend my majesty.” I wrap my hands about his unprotected face. My fingers dig into his cranium and I lean to him intimately, until our faces are but an inch apart. “Look upon me worm and weep, for you are in the presence of something greater. You bear witness to Nidhogg, the Malice Striker. The world eater. The dragon of ragnarok. I, who will lead this world on a downward spiral into the chaos that awaits all creatures.”
He shrieks out, “My God!”
My thumbs drive into his eyes, digging under the lids and pressing down, far down, all the way to the back of the sockets. He is screaming and shaking, and I can’t stop laughing.
