Invent a home for the rambling heart
Blaze a path on virgin soil, or carve a map of ancient bone
So others may follow
Bellow, bark, cry the speech of the mad
As an explorer, an artist, a child rapt in play
Wander
Till monster, till beast, till man
Taste thy flesh
And then say no more
“Your words, I presume?”
Basil nods.
“And what do you say it means, that little ditty?”
“It means I’ve come a long way, and I’m here to start over.”
“Okay, Walt Whitman. I’ll bite. If you think you can put that gentle wit to good use here at Savage, by all means let’s do so, but odes and haikus won’t do you any good. Here, the kind of work you’ll be doing as my copywriter, plain and simple language is your best friend.”
Basil rubs his chin, wondering when Bulcavage will shut up, because the man bores him, but mostly because he has to empty his bowels. He assumes it would be impolite to walk away in the middle of a potential boss’s diatribe, no matter how pointless.
“Let me put it this way,” Bulcavage continues. “As far as I’m concerned, ad copy and poetry don’t share too much DNA. Whereas a poem might sit differently with you than it does with me, a good ad will say one thing to all people, even the dumbest of fucks. It’s all about clear, precise messaging. An ad can go one of two ways: You either make things better for your client, or you make ’em worse.”
“In one hand poison, in the other a cure.”
“A more romantic way of putting it, but sure. If you’re lucky, an ad campaign will at least help maintain the status quo for the client, and then you can explain away later the fact that even though the campaign did absolutely nothing to grow the client’s business, your work helped keep revenues more or less stable in a challenging time, in an already tight market beset by a raft of aggressive new competitors—that sort of BS. My point: In this position you’ll be dreaming up the most basic of silver linings about farm equipment, barbecue grills and truck stops—inane shit like that. So let’s hope your skills are transferable.”
“My pen cannot fail.”
“Most of our clients are nothing to write home about,” Bulcavage drones on. “Most of them are in obscure sectors of manufacturing you probably had no idea existed, or maybe some sort of service industry, like the occasional plumber or house cleaner or tractor-blade sharpener. Take a deep dive into our book of business and you’ll notice that nine out of ten of these enterprises are dinosaurs on the verge of extinction, presided over by stubborn old men with outsized potbellies and zero imagination.”
Basil eyes the door, daydreaming of quiet places with holes in the ground into which he can deposit his ample waste. Bulcavage shows no signs of shutting his trap anytime soon, so Basil focuses on preserving the integrity of his body’s sphincters.
Don’t break the seal.
“Each one of these guys—our precious clients, I mean—is wasting too much time, space and money on acquiring more people and stuff to cram into an expressionless brick building, probably no more than a ten-minute drive from our front door, whereas he should be sinking his money into ad programs crafted by skilled professionals like yours truly. Someone who can make a difference, I always like to add. That’s our message. That’s our pitch.”
Bulcavage re-lights his cigarette and picks up where he left off.
“I don’t mean to stereotype, but these people can barely string a sentence together, let alone name a book they’ve read, other than the Bible, though I’d bet ten dollars to a bag of doughnuts not a single one of them has read anything but the kinky parts—the sex, drugs and heavy metal. These people were born here in Beak and, in all likelihood, will happily die here. And most of them wouldn’t understand the point of a poem, let alone take the time to crack open a book and actually read one. To them you’ll be a big, spicy meatball—a piece of exotic fruit from someplace they think they’ll never visit.”
Basil just sits there, nodding and clenching.
“Tomorrow’s Friday,” Bulcavage says, checking his watch. “As good a day as any to get the ball rolling. In fact, we’ll be brainstorming on a new campaign, so you’ll be jumping right into the fire, so to speak. We’ll see what happens from there.”
Bulcavage starts talking numbers, vacation days and employment benefits, mentions something about weekends Basil might need to work every now and again in order to make a deadline, but Basil’s mind is hopelessly adrift. He fingers his injured horn as he pretends to consider the job offer, though his predicament—having to shit—dulls his concentration. His fingertips ride the shallow trench left by the biker’s burrowing bullet.
As Bulcavage launches into a treatise about a newly acquired client “in need of a swift kick in the ass as desperately as he needs a cogent advertising strategy,” Basil interrupts his would-be boss mid-sentence.
“I’m in, sir,” he says. “Just one point we need to clear up before I go. About that office window …”
* * *
Kamala kisses the claws of her dearest disciple, Kindness, and leads him along the perimeter, passing the communal rooms of Our Fiery Home. The shadows seem somehow warmer, safer than wandering out in the open—exposed on the offal-stained red rock of the hunting grounds. The air carries the stink of whatever meaty slurry cooks and pops in the cauldrons. The pair slip into the cold, empty hollow once considered the sanctuary of their departed leader, Basil, now a willful outcast.
Kamala knows she must find a safe haven to call hers, but this is no time for retreat. Rather, it is time to tear down and rebuild. First, she needs to settle unsettled business.
“Soon,” she says. “Soon the murk will be made clear.” Demons have defaced every word lining the walls of Basil’s throne room. Feces drip from the ceiling. Despite the stink, Kamala swears she can detect lingering traces of Basil’s scent. She circles Kindness, her gaunt little suitor, studies his sunken eyes and the bent carrot of a nose dangling loosely from the center of his face. Though she has announced nothing of the sort, she has chosen Kindness as her chief adviser. He is among the few she can trust—the few with any sort of intelligence or thoughtfulness, at least.
Her ears listen for hints of insurrection. No whispers, only the same unsettling scrrrrrrrick, scrrrrrrrick, scrrrrrrrick— she imagines a sturdy bone dragged against a pane of ribbed metal—that has been droning on since Basil left Our Fiery Home, lost to the world. The way sound travels down here, she cannot know from which direction the disturbance comes, how near or far its source. A call to battle, she thinks, or perhaps an alert for a clan of assassins to remove her from the seat of power. As Basil said, they will come for her, in time. She knows she will not sleep well anytime soon, at least not until she exerts the will to stand up and say, “This is how it’s going to be.” She imagines an army of hungry demons scraping flinty blades against nearby rocks: always sharpening their weaponry, craving the nectar of freshly spilled blood.
Then she notices an eerie quiet. The chorus of scrrrrrrricks has come to an abrupt end. Only the ever-present snap of overcooked coals exercises its voice. In the distance, a demon squeals, acquiescing to another, no doubt losing pieces of itself or, quite possibly, offering up the gift of its life.
“We will meet with Basil’s precious Council,” she says.
“And then?” Kindness quivers. His narrow eyes remain fixed on the doorway. He seems to expect the ax to fall at any moment.
“The Council will soon be no more,” she says. “Should they resist, each of the nine will be made into a corpse. And you, dear Kindness, will take their place.”
Kindness has no words for her. He pales.
She ceases her pacing to face him, her eyes finding his. She bends to brush his lips with hers, and then places a hand on his slight shoulder. He sinks beneath the weight of it.
“Understand, my dear,” she says. “We must erase Basil’s
footprint, undo everything he has put in place. As of now, this morass has no use for the gentle or the thoughtful—us. It benefits only those who consider suffering a form of currency. This must change, and it shall. Before long, the memories of Basil’s reign will fade. He might as well never have existed.”
“I know what you must do,” he says. “It’s just … I am concerned.”
“You cannot let fear consume you.”
“I have no say in the matter.”
“Now is our time—yours and mine. Trust me, my love. Even before Basil put this place behind him, his mind was miles away. He hadn’t been with us, hadn’t led us, for far too long. You might say I did his job for him, piece by miserable piece. Who do you think did the work of keeping the ceiling from caving in? Who do you think kept the mutinies at bay? You think he knew how to make this machine hum or that he even cared to keep it from the verge of collapse? Hardly. He was too concerned with feeling doleful or otherwise consumed by his failures. He was a dumb little boy lost in his mind. Now he is gone forever. Soon my name will grace the door.”
“You have my confidence, of course. My concern has little to do with your abilities. I fear for your safety.”
“And, more to the point, for your own.”
“Yes, my queen,” he chokes out, as he releases a wracking sob. A line of spit spills from the emptiness between his fangs. He raises a clawed hand to hide his tears. “Forgive me. I am a lamb. A weak little lamb.”
“Is that what you want, little lamb? To be sacrificed and served as meat for those with an appetite?”
“Of course not!”
“You must find a way to be strong. We deserve the world we have been seeking, but it will not reveal itself willingly. To survive what’s to come will require great courage from both of us. I need your courage. Your sacrifice will come, but it will not be of the flesh. I don’t intend to create this world without you, my love.”
“Your faith in me is a gift, but—”
“Revolutions do not come peacefully, dearest, but I can assure your protection. The safest place will be at my side.”
“I’m … I’m not so sure.”
She opens her arms and welcomes Kindness to her. His rail of a body folds into hers, and she holds him against her sagging breasts. She strokes the strands of thinning black hair hanging limply from his scalp.
“There, there, dearest Kindness, my pathetic little beetle of a boy. It will all be over soon—all this plotting and unpleasantness. I don’t favor this duplicity any more than you do, but fixing what’s broken sometimes requires tossing out all the dirty old pieces and starting fresh. Just burn everything down and build anew over the ash.”
“Murder sickens me.”
“My dear, it’s a miracle you’ve lasted as long as you have.”
She knows her words hurt, as proven by the sharp prickling in her back, as Kindness’s claws sink into one of the few unspoiled parts of her scarred body. She responds by digging two of her own claws, ever so slightly, into the base of his skull. He recoils immediately.
“Remember your place, dear,” she whispers into his ear. “Don’t pick this tender moment as the one you decide to grow some hair on those little marbles of yours. No offense, dear, but any number of ghouls your better would gladly step forward to enjoy the fruits of our arrangement. Blame the creator for his error in placing those little bits between your legs. We both know it is I who should have you bent at the waist, heaving and filling you with a sticky mess, not the other way around. I’ll bet sometimes you even dream of it. I would hate to cast you aside because you did something foolish. I would miss our talks.”
“Forgive me, my queen. Sometimes … my emotions … all these changes, so sudden.”
“Tell me, dearest: What is it you fear?”
She knows the answer. Her question has less to do with what but with whom.
“I dare not speak his name,” Kindness says.
“Let me handle Lubos. He too will soon be a memory.”
“We have been hiding in the shadows since Basil left. You have shown yourself to no one since the moment you took power. What must they think?”
“Do you consider me a fool? Or worse, a coward?”
“I would never suggest such a thing, my queen. It’s just …”
“What good is an adviser who cannot speak his mind?”
“Lubos has only venom in his heart. I will sleep better once his head has been parted from his body.”
Although she cannot admit such a thing to a creature as timid as Kindness, she feels the same. Among demons, Lubos stands on his own—famous for his cruelty, cunning, tough as a piece of cooled iron. And he will not give his life easily.
Chapter 7
Cold, Wet and Damning the Maker
Basil’s cool hand rests on the doorknob, palms moist, hooves shifting on the carpeted floor. Nervousness stays his hand, his eyes boring a hole through the gold-tinted plaque on the office’s front door. In his core he knows nothing bad can happen—nothing terrible—yet his heart races, made worse by his tired mind and empty stomach.
A shit show of a night has led to a wreck of a morning.
His coal-black skin glistens with sweat and rainwater. Worse, his mind has lost its sharpness, the result of a sleepless night he thought would be his last. Perhaps he should just turn around and lope down the stairs, and then head east to start over somewhere else far from here; this, at least, would spare him the embarrassment of a public tongue lashing courtesy of a lesser being, a human no less. All the omens seem to point him in this direction. He knows his sorry appearance and his obscene tardiness will make a less than glowing impression for his first day on the job. To make matters worse, he smells like a sewer—an aromatic blend of mud, fear and caked-on cow shit.
And everything had been going so well until now.
He recalls the precise moment his fortunes shifted, the previous afternoon, when he shook hands with Bulcavage and agreed to take the job as Savage Communications’ chief copywriter.
It all went downhill from there.
* * *
By the time Basil left the Savage interview and descended the stairs to exit the building, the day had turned old and gray. He hurried out the door, impelled by the demon in his gut, knowing he might not make it outside in time. He stopped just beyond the exit door and squatted behind an overgrown shrub. There, in the mix of mulch and spent cigarette butts, he unleashed the mostly liquid contents of his bowels. The expulsion burned so intensely he half-expected tongues of fire to spring from his anus and set the shrub ablaze. The smell choked him—atrocious, even by his standards.
As he finished, he inhaled deeply, because he couldn’t help himself, and stretched his arms wide. The bones in his back cracked in reply. Beyond the stink of his feces, the air smelled different—electric, almost alive. He eyed the western horizon, where the haze-shrouded ball of the late-afternoon sun had dipped perilously close to the crown of a modest hillside.
Although his brain waves had flat lined after listening to so many of Bulcavage’s hollow words—the phrases “retirement plan” and “graft” and “vacation days” had no meaning—Basil felt remarkably light in the hoof. Just two days above ground and he had started to find his way, with a real job and everything. Sure, two humans had forfeited their lives to him—the collateral damage of his arrival, a necessary write-off—but he knew he would forgive and forget those transgressions in time.
Besides, those wretched pig-men had deserved his wrath.
He studied his open palm, where a strange sensation lingered. A prickling of sorts, he might have called it. The coarse skin felt the same as it had an hour ago, yet it seemed somehow different after shaking hands with Bulcavage, a symbol of their agreement: Basil had consented to showing up the following morning, promptly at nine a.m., and every weekday thereafter, “ready to set the world on fire”—Bulcavage’s words. Basil felt infallible yet also indebted, loving and loathing in the same body. He saw Bulcavage for
what he was: a direct, untrustworthy and single-minded authoritarian who liked to hear himself talk, a ruthless fool in blind pursuit of the possessions and titles and accomplishments he thought were important.
Even so, Basil had a soft spot for his new boss, the man who had handed him an opportunity others had not. And he assured himself he would not disappoint, chaotic bowels be damned.
Basil’s first day among the willfully employed would begin in a few mere winks, so he knew he must rest well if he were to awaken with a nimble mind, ready to produce his best words. He climbed onto the motorcycle and fired up the engine. The smell of fuel exhaust seared the stink of his own feces from his nostrils. He backed out of the parking spot and pulled forward. The bike wobbled beneath him. At the stop sign near the far end of the lot, he glanced over his shoulder to survey the four-story building in which he would make his mark—an eyesore of brown brick and reflective glass, to be sure, but his eyesore—and gave an approving nod.
His stomach rumbled in time with the bike’s engine, knowing he needed to sate his appetite. Otherwise, his mind would not ease. As the landscape zipped past, his eyes darted from one new scene to another. Hay rolls and cornfields and wandering streams where cows drank. He urged his brain to remember the route—right after left after right—but before long all semblance of civilization had faded from view. With a newfound terror, he found himself alone on a barren stretch of road that seemed to stretch toward the edge of the earth.
His skin chilled as he registered the approach of an entity his brain could not explain. The monstrous-looking thing churned toward him, and he slowed the bike as the yellow-and-green beast skulked to within striking distance. Unnatural smells crept into the tunnels of his nose. He had grown used to the presence of these mechanical beasts, all metal and rubber, but he could not yet fathom the hows and whys of their existence.
Magic abounds in the mortal world.
This particular beast dragged its prize in a crudely made wagon. The pungent odor of organic material saturated the air. Decaying prey, perhaps. A human imprisoned in an all-glass vestibule seemed to control the beast, or worked in tandem to accomplish a shared goal—symbiosis. The man waved toward Basil as the two vehicles passed one another, and Basil waved back. Basil took note of the treads of the oversized tires and the name “John Deere” etched into the beast’s metal skin.
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