Kill the Mall

by Pasha Malla

  And so on, and so on.

  People, it struck me, had invested their lives in these endeavours. Where were they now? Bankrupted, mortified? Or had they escaped while the “getting was good” and could now be found sipping elaborate cocktails on a tropical isle? (Klassanderella!) Though all that desolation suggested more tragic fates. Like that of poor Dennis: might all these proprietors have drowned, too, in that subterranean pool? My pace slackened as I imagined the mall as a kind of beast, the basement its guts, and those crystal-clear waters the bile-flooded gut where it digested once-intrepid entrepreneurs.

  Labouring now, I walked for another five minutes, or ten—with nothing to gauge my progress, it was impossible to tell how long or far I was travelling. Regardless, there was still no sign of the exit. Had I somehow gone the wrong way? Impossible; there were only two options: right to the food court, left to the outside world. And yet for hours I’d been stalking this gauntlet of broken dreams, without any end in sight.

  Ten more shops went past…twenty, thirty…The names began to blur.

  I stopped. My feet hurt. My legs felt weak and wobbly. My hands were swollen and fizzed slightly. The view down that interminable tunnel of deserted stores had turned vertiginous: like a shaft into, and through, the depths of hell. It was time to turn back. My worst fear was confirmed: there was no leaving the mall. At least not for me.

  I DECIDED TO DEDICATE the rest of my week to scheming—scheming, that is, under cover of “making work.” With that camera observing my quarters, I had to maintain the subterfuge of dutifully obeying the terms of my residency. So, head down, I set to it, while the public traipsed past, unengaged, without so much as a glimpse my way. On their way back from the second floor, I often overheard raving about whatever mastery Mr. Ponytail had conjured that day—Genius! Unparalleled! Soul-edifying! Soul-destroying!—which provoked a little wriggle from my tongue-hair as it surged through the flesh like a sapling; grimly I’d head straight to the bathroom and hack it down to size.

  The problem, however, was that “making work” took up so much of my time (50%) and energy (100%) that no scheme materialized. It merely itched at the back of my mind like a hair upon the tongue. Each night I went to bed harbouring instincts of mutiny, but these didn’t develop beyond a vague aspiration, which itself felt feeble and misguided. I quite liked the phrase Vengeance is mine, for example, but when I tried to picture myself uttering it, all I could summon was an image of a doleful figure hunched over a desk, scribbling away: hardly the stuff of glory.

  Also K. Sohail’s nightly send-offs had begun to sound hollow, as if gutted from within. Each goodnight no longer had the melancholy ring of communion between a lonely keeper and her lonelier keep, and I no longer felt eased by her words into sleep, but repelled from the living world into one of vague, colourless dreams. A wall had grown between us: one constructed by Mr. Ponytail, yes, but more so it was the wall of the mall. Each of us trapped on our respective sides, in our respective roles. How to tear it down? How to set us both free, and escape?

  Meanwhile more and more people were flooding in from the outside world to experience Mr. Ponytail’s incomparable “work.” By the end of the week, even the food court was bustling, with some three dozen people spaced around the tables and a line six deep at the chicken stall. The teenagers behind the counter worked feverishly. One impaled pale raw birds on skewers, another tonged their bronzed and blistering counterparts free, which a third hacked to bits and served, while a fourth took orders and stuffed the till with cash.

  I stood at the periphery of the food court, observing the crowd. The way Ponytail’s toadies feasted had the ring of celebration, of avowal and tribute. This wasn’t just lunch: it was a kind of banquet. In Ponytail’s honour. Legs of chicken were lofted in salute. Iced teas were raised in toasts. Smoke from the grill wafted up to the rafters in a kind of greasy mist. Repugnant, all of it! What had once been my twice-daily personal domain had been reduced to this sick bonanza. As the food court’s sole and dedicated customer—save that couple who’d bequeathed me my ring (which now I furtively pocketed, afraid the “rightful owner” might be among these masses) and my ill-fated comrade Dennis—I’d enjoyed special treatment, bordering on veneration, from the chicken teens. My regular order was delivered swiftly with a deferential bow. I no longer needed to produce my Acceptance Letter. They knew me. I had become a figure of towering importance in the mall, or at least in the food court at appointed meal times.

  But now? Now I stood at the edge of it all like a fool toeing the shoreline while a great orgy of lecherous bathers frolicked and romped through the surf. If I wanted lunch I’d have to line up for it among these plebeian masses—a great lost tribe dedicated to the veneration of my enemy. Fans, acolytes. Disciples, even, of someone who was at best an impostor and at worst a murderer. Whom did I have? Klassanderella, sure, but she was hundreds of miles away…

  Suddenly the clucking of conversation was interrupted by cheers that went roaring around the room. And then they were all standing and clapping and chanting his name in a sort of frenzied call-and-response:

  MIS-ter! Pony-TAIL!

  MIS-ter! Pony-TAIL!

  I shrunk behind a pillar.

  After a few rounds, the deranged lot of them sat, chortling at a job well done, and a round of cheers rippled through the room: plastic cups were tapped; iced tea was chugged.

  I scanned the crowd for the Ornately Hatted Woman. No sign of her: in absentia, she maintained her devotion to me. Though the support of my only patron might have bolstered my sagging spirits, I had to trust that the Ornately Hatted Woman would loyally return for my “piece of resistance”…whatever that might be. Not “work,” certainly; I couldn’t imagine even my Final Report passing any sort of professional muster. I would have to produce something far more revelatory, a grand disclosure of the mall’s nefarious secrets…But how? Some type of banner? Where would I get the materials?

  Though my stomach was rumbling, I couldn’t bring myself to enter this mindless, puerile throng, none of whom even glanced my way. Surely they were aware of the mall’s original resident. What cruelty not to seek me out, even as a show of politesse. A cursory glance into my quarters, a nod of recognition. It wouldn’t take much. They walked right past me! Was I really so inept and my activities—my “work”—so insipid as not to warrant even the most basic acknowledgement?

  Heading back to my quarters, suffering a hunger as profound as any I’d ever known, my alienation flared into rage. Ponytail’s minions weren’t just misguided and rude and literally “eating my lunch,” they were imbeciles. Enticed by inane spectacle and cowed by parlour tricks. They were slaves to mob rule, caught up in the spectacle of a fraudulent megalomaniac slashing not-quite-sevens up the walls. Impressive, sure. But not visionary. Mr. Ponytail didn’t care about his audience; he only had eyes for himself.

  Well, I had seen things.

  And I would show these people. I would show them all.

  PROGRESS REPORT #5

  It’s hard to imagine a greater tribute than a banquet in your honour. Not simply a gathering of devotees supplicating before your majesty, but one with a compulsory feasting aspect too. A banquet isn’t any old meal. No, multiple “services” culminate with a whole animal broiled in its living skin and presented as such, trotters and all, with a fruit crammed in its maw. Is the fruit forbidden? Kind of. It’s there mostly for camouflage, unappetizing as it can be to chew on something’s thigh with a full view of its face.

  What a banquet is, is an orgy of food. And a banquet specifically for you is an orgy with you as its auteur, directing bodies into whichever formulation strikes your fancy. Or else simply lying back and accommodating this chap or gal’s escalations of pleasure. “Let’s have at it,” you might say, pointing at a bowl of succulent mutton or rutabaga stew. And then you make love to it with your mouth amid thunderous cheers all around.

  Other than a so
w or billy, what other dishes might be on offer? All the classics. Before dinner even begins, one entrées with the spoils of the orient: figs, olives, capers, nectarines, dates, mixed nuts, rices, raisins, sundry items cured and curried, “delight,” etc. You appreciate the gesture, and normally you’d join the masses gorging like jackals upon a fresh, gut-frothing corpse, but tonight you’re above the free-for-all. Tonight you’re above everything.

  After a while, someone hurls a glass to the floor and screams the name of their favourite grandparent. It’s the signal to sit. Everyone waits for you to take your seat first, standing around awkwardly with their hands perched on their chair backs. What nervous birds! And you taunt them, don’t you. Crouching halfway, then rocketing to your feet, then wandering around for a bit, before finally racing to your throne and assuming it like the grand monarch you are—tonight, anyway.

  The banquet opens with bread rolls, crusty on the outside and the opposite within, and freshly churned butter ripe for the slathering. There’s (grape) wine by the gallon, as rich and purple as wet liver and twice as sweet.

  The first course is a steaming bisque, sprinkled adoringly with salts dredged from a nearby seabed. It’s delicious. Then more rolls and more butter (in constant supply; no one can get enough), and a slice of cheese each, for everyone.

  What’s next? A salad as green as the hills. The vinaigrette is to die for. Nobody dies, though, not tonight—no one would dare ruin your evening. The leaves of the salad are impervious to the dressing’s moisture and remain crisp until the final vegetal shred.

  Then a snack to “amuse the mouth,” something exquisite spiralled upon a cracker. Caviar, probably. You munch it down, offering your compliments to the chef. But the chef won’t hear it, for tonight the only one worthy of praise is you. “I’m human garbage,” she calls from the kitchen, hanging her head in shame, “actually.”

  That’s right, no singing for your supper! Instead everyone else sings for you. “He or she’s a jolly good fellow or ma’am,” they sing, and laugh, and you laugh too, and shrug, and guzzle your flagon. There are shields on the wall, and swords, and in the fireplace roars a mighty conflagration. You’re right at the head of the table, the lord or lady-lord of dinner. Yet benevolent, certainly. It’s not like you’re forbidding the lesser attendees from eating, or spearing your neighbour with a fork.

  Here’s the next course: veal. It’s so young and tender you can fairly hear it bawling, and the blood gushes forth with every bite. Wow.

  Then some sausages.

  Then vegetables in blond sauce.

  Then a hen.

  Then a whole marlin, spike to tail.

  Then a classic goulash of potato, egg, lentil and bean.

  Then a “mystery meat.” (Ibis? No one knows.)

  Then another hen, i.e., hen two ways.

  Then a sort of froth.

  Then a slice of melon and two almonds, arranged in a smile.

  Then a break for speeches. These follow one after the next, with titles like “Were I Not So Lesser?” and “Ne’er a Clout Deservéd” and “Praise Be the Abundant One!” Maybe there’s even a moment of silence, suggested by one of the more distinguished and ornately hatted speakers. Words can’t capture your grandeur, she concedes, and crawls under the table in shame. So for a full minute everyone just shuts their mouth and stares at you, unblinking, and you stare back. Pretty soon they’re all crying. Not too shabby!

  Then a spaghetti.

  Then two fondues.

  Then an assembly of fricasseed leaves, cuke spears and artfully shaven radish.

  Then “wings.”

  Then a palate-cleansing beet.

  Then—my god—another hen!

  Then gravy, served almost tenderly in a carafe. It steams in the middle of the table like the orifices of one’s snowbound beloved.

  A pause.

  What’s to be done? Go at it with a straw?

  A rumour circulates that this gravy has been sapped from the main course, which is gusting great wafts of its enchanting odour from the kitchen. The smell is enough to re-whet even the most vomitously sated appetite, and it hurls the guests into fits of rapture—for more food, but also at the possibility of clinging a little longer to your company.

  The gossip mill speaks the truth: here it is, the main event, a great sizzling carcass wheeled out on a trolley. What a huge animal, too, and fresh, having been shot in the head first thing that morning. And it’s all just for you.

  While you devour the beast, everyone chants your name. They’d love a taste, of course, but they’re glad to merely bear witness. You’re a shining light, a beacon of hope, a spark of grace in the interminable darkness of their dismal, meaningless lives.

  How is it? Sumptuous, naturally. The skin is just right. And the meat? Let’s just say you’ve rarely chewed anything so juicy. And it’s just for you—the whole thing, mane and all, right down to the gleaming hooves.

  Then at the end they give you a plaque.

  WHEN PREVIOUSLY I’D ONLY BEEN SCHEMING about how to scheme without getting caught, I spent the entire next week actually scheming in earnest.

  Inspired by the virtue of Klassanderella, the patronage of the ornately hatted woman, the potential vindication of Dennis’s murder, the possibility of trouncing the depraved Ponytail and his disciples and freeing K. Sohail and myself from the mall, trapped as we were within its tyrannical regime, I schemed. Oh, how I schemed! And after several days of said scheming I had schemed a scheme so brilliant, so cunning, so unexpected (especially to myself) that, glutted with nerve, I dared to utter my favourite phrase…

  Vengeance is mine, I whispered into the shadows. Or if not quite “whispered,” exactly, then mouthed, or at the least very loudly thought.

  Whether my catchphrase was spoken aloud or not was irrelevant. As the mall shut down for the day, a surge of heat flushed from my loins up into the face and went sparkling down through my limbs: the spirit glitter of rebellion.

  I watched the chicken teens clear out and the last of Ponytail’s followers drift back to their sad and empty lives. That others were permitted to come and go from the mall didn’t bother me. My body thrummed with imminent glory. Soon enough I would prove that good could triumph over evil—if I didn’t qualify as “good,” exactly, I was certainly too ineffectual to be considered “evil,” which seemed to require a lot of effort, not to mention a capacity for homicide.

  At any rate, the stakes were high.

  The lights dimmed. On came the security lanterns. K. Sohail’s signature jingle and squeak echoed faintly from somewhere off in the mall. And as she approached, that revolutionary sparkle curdled into a hot gnarl of disquiet in my gut.

  But this was no time for bowel movements. The moment of action was at hand.

  It was time.

  Instead of waiting in bed, I greeted K. Sohail at the gate, preempting her usual bromides by asking what Mr. Ponytail had accomplished that afternoon; I’d been busy “making work,” I explained, and was sad to have missed the exhibition. K. Sohail flushed visibly, turning shy and discombobulated. After a few halting starts at summarizing the day’s masterpiece, she shook her head, shuffled from one foot to the other, lapsed into silence and finally offered a chastened and helpless shrug.

  The desired effect! Humbling K. Sohail might have been cruel—but it was necessary. Shamed by her feeble attempts to capture the great artist’s virtuosity, sheepishly she withdrew, nearly tripping over her feet as she backed away. Goodnight, I said commandingly. K. Sohail bowed in apology—not to me, of course, but to the legacy of Mr. Ponytail—and scurried off down the hallway without so much as a reply.

  For once I didn’t need that sweet send-off; my scheme was afoot. I listened until the caretaker’s retreat faded completely. Satisfied that she was gone, I slipped from my unlocked quarters into the dim blue light and headed to the food court.
r />   I had work to do. Actual work, too, and not the arbitrary busywork that one “made”; what lay ahead wasn’t token fabrication of content to fill some illusory container, but a meaningful task that required moxie and valour. Fortunately I had my ring back on, and my House of Blues (Dennis, R.I.P.) jeans were really starting to come into their own; after several days of uninterrupted wear, they had moulded to my legs like a second, denim skin.

  Every night the chicken teens dutifully cleaned the stall, wiped down the counters, dismantled and scoured the grill, and replaced the stainless steel skewers in the rack for the next day’s trade. As I entered the food court, these skewers glistened in the pale moon-glow permitted by the skylight. I hopped the counter and slid one free: about the length of a walking cane and sharpened to deadly points at both ends. But could it impale a foe?

  I swung the thing sword-like through the air, jabbing, feinting, lunging, parrying an imaginary attack—and then plunging in for the kill. A slash to the throat, a stab to the eye, and then, with my make-believe rival driven to his knees, I took my weapon by the hilt and plunged it through his spine and out through his stomach, pinning him to the tiles. Next I gored his bowels, stirring them like a soup, before scooping everything free—a spleen, a liver, some sort of glandular arrangement, the whole lot, lined up along my skewer like a kebab—only to slurp from the tip each organ, one by one, and swallow it all down in glorious, cannibalistic triumph. (Imagined, of course.)