Dortmund Hibernate

by C. J. Sutton

“And did you want me as a patient?” asked Jasper, when a silence began.

  “Yes, I did.”

  The blunt admission lingered between the two men, each on a different side of a wall. One labelled insane, one labelled doctor; the only difference in the world of Dortmund, the decider of freedom and incarceration.

  “I’ve escaped three times,” said Jasper, schoolyard talk, “and if I wanted to stay out, I would have. But they weren’t the ideal scenarios. You think you can cure me, right? But I’m not sick, Dr. Paul. You are, for what you’re doing. And you know it, better than anyone. So do you feel safe amongst the likeminded? Does it help you sleep at night, to know you’ll mingle with the insane, rather than the sane who point you out in bars and streets and social rooms as an outcast? You belong with us, buddy. And I’m here, to talk, whenever you need it. I’ll help cure you. Because we’re a coin, you and I, and all that decides our fate is a flip in the air. Placed before four men trying to take your life, you’d kill every last one to get what you want. I respect you. When you want something, you’ll do what it takes without a care for the consequences. You’ll break the nine of us out of here if you fail in your attempt to prove us sane.”

  “Excuse me?” said Magnus, standing up, the chair smashing against the wall.

  “I don’t repeat myself, Dr. Paul. You’re trying to save my neck. We have a common interest. I’m the sanest person to ever be admitted to Dortmund Asylum. I’ll play the game for my relative freedom. You fear the likes of Chaos and Christ, but they resemble men with guns cornering us; we’ll remove them to get where we need to go, together. You’ll never be lonely, and you’ll never fail. I’ll be that shadow on your shoulder, letting the true Magnus Paul break free.”

  Magnus knocked on the door for Walter to let him out…but the guard wasn’t there. Jasper’s voice rose from little more than a whisper to a booming megaphone screeching against the ears of prey. The walls were closing in.

  “Don’t go now, we’re so close, buddy. Who needs six weeks when we can solve everything on day three? Let the snake slither, let the teacher fill her needs, let the nigger find his calling and the Christ meet the devil. The only sane thing in an insane world is freedom!”

  Magnus banged on the door with a clenched fist. He could feel Jasper breathing heavily behind him, as though running from a tiger seeking a swift kill. Jasper knew everything. How could he know everything? There was something about Dortmund Asylum that stalked behind the bushes.

  “Walter,” yelled Magnus, “I’m done.”

  “Fly away, little bird. I’ll be seeing you soon,” said Jasper, looking skyward and grinning as wide as he could, receding into darkness.

  The door clicked and Magnus forced his way out. Walter nodded. He knew, without debrief. He placed a hand on his co-worker’s shoulder.

  “You did well. The last doctor we had, shit his pants on his first date with Jasper.”

  A flash from the end of the hall; Shirley, camera out, taking her AJ shot.

  Threat

  Ask yourself, Magnus: would you prefer a life of ignorant happiness, or successful loneliness? Successful happiness in our line of work is as rare as the unicorn.

  Saturday night; the dance floor swelled with drunken bodies swaying to the beats of the band on a makeshift stage. Bumps, dropped drinks, voices drowned by vibe, care diminished by scene. The paintings on the walls throbbed against their poor support, bartenders tried to keep up with demand of numbing product, and Magnus drowned himself in liquid gold, his seventh pint disappearing as quickly as the first. Every Dortmund inhabitant over eighteen must have been there. Magnus sat alone with his back to a wall, no chance of whisper from behind, no sneak attack; no disarm for the individual, no shadow on his shoulder.

  Magnus didn’t have the time. Time didn’t matter in a place like this. Time was told by the growing crowd, the increasing volume, and the eyes of the patrons. The door to the pub opened, and in walked the taxi driver, his hands balled to stop them from shaking. Anger rose in the doctor. He knew the driver had been sitting in his car outside, watching closely, but entering the building removed the privacy. And Magnus wanted his privacy respected. He rose out of his chair, ensured the pint was empty and marched through the crowd towards the older man.

  “Hey doc, how—”

  Magnus grabbed the bigger man by the wrist, twisted, and sat him down in the smoker’s corner. Few turned to watch the event, too focused on the band and the alcohol.

  “Listen, I know you’re meant to be watching me. But this town is small. Fucking small. I’m either at the Asylum, at the pub or in my room. If you want to wait outside and drive my drunk arse home later, two blocks down the road, fine. But do not think for one minute that you’ll sit in here and watch me. Respect my privacy, or I’ll break this hand. All I need to do is twist a few centimetres to the right.”

  He was still holding the wrist, aware that a slight turn would snap the bone in half. The alcohol had diminished his worry for having to walk up the hill should this man be unfit for work.

  “I guess you met Jasper James then,” grinned the driver, trying to block out the pain.

  “You know nothing of Jasper. You know nothing of that place, up there,” said Magnus, pointing with his free hand, “and you know nothing of my job. So do your job and just drive. If you’re trying to be a spy, you’re a shitty one. Tell the people we’re working for to back off and give me some goddamn space to do what I need to do.”

  The driver squinted beneath thick eyebrows, conceding defeat. He stood, but Magnus still had a tight hold.

  “If I see you in this pub again while I’m here…”

  He allowed the threat to swim in the atmosphere. The driver, rubbing his wrist, walked away and exited the pub. Magnus breathed deeply. Time for another pint. As he approached the bar, his shoes sticking to the floor, he noticed his old seat was occupied by a girl; the same girl who’d entered the night prior flocked by glittering company.

  “Another pint,” yelled Magnus, beginning to feel the effects of almost four litres of beer. The girl turned to him, her hair a beacon in a dull setting, her eyes searching within.

  “You’re new here. I know, because we don’t get new people.”

  “Yeah,” he said, accepting the pint and swigging deeply, fuelled by the intake.

  “What brings you to shitty Dortmund?”

  “Work,” he answered quickly. The more the girl spoke, the less she resembled Astrid Ellen. But when silence lingered, the features quickly reappeared and made Magnus think back to the desirable school teacher and her playful ways.

  “What’s there to do here? We’ve got a pub, a zoo, a school, a few businesses and an Asylum. I don’t take you for a business man.”

  As Magnus pondered a response, the girl’s friends returned from the bathroom, dragging her to the dance floor. She winked, mouthing that her name was Lee, and started to sway to the tunes, keeping her eyes on the doctor. Magnus tried to divert his attention, but Lee allowed the music to overtake her, riding a cloud that rose above Dortmund. Men crowded around her. When Magnus lost eye contact his mind wandered. It wandered to his job and the people that waited for him. The words of Jasper and his knowledge. How could a man locked away from life know about a secret mission? Magnus didn’t trust anyone at the Asylum. He told himself to keep all information away from Walter Perch because he was likely undercover for the same people who sent him there. Carter, the old man, a likely snitch. Brian, the giant, a pawn. Shirley, the photographer, hardened with an insulation of understanding. And Jasper, he probably ruled the roost. His eyes – ice – appeared on the eyes of all the men in the room. They watched Magnus, waited, taunting for pleasure. Perhaps the nine needed to die, he thought; would that make everything easier?

  “Come dance with me,” said a soft voice, startling Magnus and causing him to spill half of his pint. Lee, sweat present on her tanned and thin exterior, smirked. Dimples formed in her cheeks, her breasts a plunging show for the depressed
.

  “I think I’ve had enough tonight,” said Magnus, suddenly tired and weary.

  “Very well, tonight was my night off, next time you want to see me it’ll cost you.”

  Magnus lifted from the seat and broke through energetic crowds to find the exit. The cold air whipped at his face, a chill that stung with a thousand barbs. No taxi driver waited for him on the curb; no cars were present. Magnus shrugged and began walking down the street towards his accommodation. Fear rose within. From each tree a head seemed to peer out, from each window a face seemed to watch. Magnus felt lightheaded, passing the accounting firm. He heard the screams of office workers being beaten to death with computers and supplies. He jogged away.

  On the opposite side of the street was a small church, the cross illuminated by a powerful bulb. Magnus knew he was being followed. He could hear the panting, the shuffle of shoe on pavement, so he jogged away.

  The school, in need of repair; dead children hidden because one woman couldn’t reach an orgasm, so he jogged away.

  The zoo with a sign stating to have the largest anaconda in the country, flashing despite being closed, circled by plant life. The painted snake seemed to move, blink, coil. The steps were getting closer, so he jogged away.

  The apartment was fifty metres from his position but the sound of a motorbike roared from behind, an approaching apocalypse that couldn’t be avoided. Magnus had no weapon to defend himself, but he promised from this day forward he would always carry a knife. To the pub, to the toilet, to the Asylum. He could hear whispers blending with the engine. It was Jasper, he was sure. This was it. The secrets were about to be revealed. Magnus, ten metres from the entry to his apartment block, pivoted with fists clenched and a mind boosted by the courage of alcohol…to see the taxi slowly rolling up the road towards him, the window wound down.

  “Have a good sleep doctor. I will pick you up from here in the morning.”

  The Reaper

  Intermittent Explosive Disorder: Outbursts of hate and violence. Eruption into angry outbursts or violent actions when responding to annoyance or disappointment.

  “Is there any way for inmates to receive information from the outside?” asked Magnus, seated on a chair with prison bars a metre from his grasp. Within the cell sat Johnson Morgan, better known as The Reaper to the guards of Dortmund Asylum. The man was in his forties and was missing an eye. His head only grew hair on one side, a burn or skin graft of some sort stopping the other side from sprouting life. From that one dark eye he watched Magnus while he took a shit. The smell was stifling but Magnus had a role to play.

  “Aren’t you here to listen to my story or some shit?” he said, wiping deeply, satisfaction present. “My apologies, doc, but good bowel movements are difficult in a place like this. You’ve got to take your opportunities.”

  “Just hurry it along. Your story? Sure, I’m here to cure you, of course. But to do that I need to know if there is any way of receiving information from the outside.”

  “I will tell you,” he said, checking the toilet paper and nodding at the excrement, “but not yet. I’ve always wondered why corn is so prominent in shit. Have you been to the Dortmund Pub?”

  Magnus started to wonder if the guards allowed the inmates to roam the streets at night.

  “Yes, not much else to do in this town, is there?”

  Johnson lifted off the toilet seat, flushed and waved his hands around to fan the smell. There was little in terms of ventilation. Magnus was struggling to breathe.

  “Many young people out and about?”

  “Not really.”

  “You see,” he said, pacing the cell, “that is what I like about this town. Not many youths destroying the place…destroying business.”

  Magnus wanted his answer but he also knew of his mission. Jasper James circled his mind, his knowledge too great for a man strapped to the floor and confined to a dark room locked away from the world. He needed to stay focused in the presence of the sickness.

  “Did they destroy your business?”

  Johnson turned. He was ugly. If he were to come at you in a dark alley you’d shit without the assistance of a toilet bowl or paper. Had the missing eye and missing hair been on the same side, perhaps it wouldn’t be such a sore sight in dull light.

  “Well, when you run a drug empire, you need profits to satisfy the players. You need customers who understand how things work. These youths, this generation of tweakers dropping in clubs, they’re cashed up but they’re also entrepreneurs. The need for men like me is diminishing in the age of the party drug.”

  The words brought Magnus back to the pub, the face of Lee interchanging with the face of Astrid Ellen, the sweat too profuse for mere dance moves.

  “You’ve read about me,” said Johnson, approaching the bars. “I know it.”

  Magnus came to each patient with a manner that suggested he knew nothing. It worked well, because the person with the sickness would go into further detail, often curing themselves in the process with a dialogue that becomes inner. He’d read about Johnson Morgan. Who hadn’t? The kingpin that almost killed a thousand youths.

  “Johnson, I come here with a blank slate. Carve in it what you will.”

  He was staring at the hard floor, a finger raised, shaking it violently.

  “I like you,” he said, smiling. “Very well, let’s enter a time machine.”

  He sat on the floor, face pressed against a bar, a child seated before a teacher trying to be noticed. His hands were gripping his ankles, cross legged.

  “I ran a small drug business in my home town, a rather large city. My friend was an amazing cook; he made these pills that were basically ecstasy but more potent and with less of a come down. In three months everybody wanted them. I was a rich man, doc. Men wanted to work for me, women wanted to fuck me. To be wanted by both genders equally, it’s raw power. Sometimes…you don’t know what to do with it.”

  He bopped his head, as though listening to earphones, revelling in the nostalgia of times gone by.

  “Drug lords don’t end up in institutions such as this,” said Magnus, focused.

  “Patience, doc. Geez. I’m shooting out ten thousand pills a weekend. On the side we have weed, meth and what not, but the pills are my signature. Imitators are rising. My drug runners are starting to steal my profits. Heavy lies the crown, you know? A man has to make an example of those that do him wrong.”

  “That he does,” said Magnus, drawing the narrative further.

  “A kid tells me that one of my prime movers is starting his own little operation, with my product! And my young customers are siding with him. I just can’t understand the youth of today. Drug users in generations gone by were easy to manage. But these kids…pop a pill one night, study law during the week, and then double drop the following weekend. Live out of their parents’ basement and then buy a Mercedes. You just can’t control that. So I think fuck it. Time to rid of the dead weight. Everyone who has sided with this cheese-eating rat bastard needs to die. I’m cleansing my city of the scum. I tell my friend about my plan; he doesn’t like it. So I hold a syringe infected with HIV blood to his throat while he cooks the pills for the prime mover. We add rat poison into the ingredients, and I mark the pills with a little reaper symbol. One thousand pills, poisoned, to be sent to the prime mover to distribute to his customers. They’ll all die, he’ll cop the blame since he’s severing ties with me, and the remaining youths pass the test and get rewarded with my business. He comes to my house…this spick fuck. Turns out he’s screwing his crew on the side too. He smiles at me, shakes my hand, accepts a beer and sits there holding the bag of deadly pills. The arrogance on this one. I want to stab him in the face, but that would ruin my plan.”

  “But the pills, they didn’t see a single club, did they?”

  Anger flashed across Johnson, every muscle tightening.

  “No, he knew, somehow. At first I thought it was my friend, the cook. I stuck his hand in a blender and questioned him. He even
tually passed out from blood loss. The spick took the pills straight to the cops and ratted me out; I heard this from a contact. So I thought fuck it I’ll have to destroy these youths myself. I grabbed my semi-automatic and drove to the most popular club in town. I dressed up like Tony Montana – love that fucker. Coked myself up, shot the bouncers and entered. The place was dark…darker than Dortmund Asylum. At first I was just creating fear, shooting all the mirrors and equipment…but then I turned on the youths. Drugged up fucks. I never did find out how many I killed.”

  Magnus knew; twenty-one dead in one of the worst shootings the country had ever seen.

  “And the cops caught you?”

  “Nah, I flew to Mars and married a lion; of course they caught me. I’m here aren’t I?”

  “Do you regret that night?”

  “The only thing I regret,” said Johnson, trying to lean in closer but stopped by the bars, his hair the only part of him that found a way past the barrier, “is not killing more of them.”

  “I’m here to cure you of your sickness. How can I do that, if you don’t want to be cured?”

  “Cure?” he laughed, spitting to the side. “You’re not here to cure us. You’re here to save us from the noose.”

  Through clenched teeth, Magnus spoke.

  “Where do you get information?”

  “Of that, I cannot say. But if one were to begin investigating, I’d start with Old Man Lonie.”

  Lonie

  If there is something you want, snatch at it and elbow the closest competitor if need be. Why live a life to appease others, Magnus?

  Magnus Paul and Walter Perch were walking side by side away from The Reaper’s quarters, down the dank corridors that were holding less mystery, as the majority of inhabitants now had faces.

  “I never really got to ask you about Jasper,” said Walter, starting up the conversation like an engine in winter.

  “Ask me what?”