by Luke Kondor
“It’s a fucking mess of hair and skin and ectoplasm,” Rosie said as she walked towards it. “I’ve never actually seen ectoplasm or anything like this before. I mean, I’ve read about it in the library.”
“Spiritual energy exteriorised by physical media,” Bexley said. “Or that’s what they say.” He put the EMF reader back into his bag and grabbed a pitchfork from the side of the barn. He flipped it over so that the fork end was facing upwards, and then used the handle to poke the skin of the pig. He prodded it a few times, around the face, the front legs, the stomach.
“What we actually believe ectoplasm to be nowadays is a substance of dark matter, pushed into our own world through some sort of chemical reaction. Now, what caused the reaction? What is it about this pig? What inconsistency is forcing the pig to … change the matter around it?”
“I think you should leave the pig alone,” a voice said from behind them.
Rosie turned to see a skinny little farmer, with his white vest top, crooked teeth and malformed face. He looked a man with a child’s mind.
“It’s dead,” she said. “We’re not doing any harm to it.”
“That’s not the point,” the boy said. “You shouldn’t be on our property in the first place, never mind touching our pigs.”
“We’re not touching your pigs,” Rosie said. “And … we’re supposed to be here.”
The farmer tilted his head.
“What do you mean?”
“We’re an environmental team, put together to look out for potential health risks and chemical hazards,” she said. “Look, kid, there’s something wrong here. You could get sick being near this pig. In fact, the other pigs may well be contaminated as well. We’re here to help.”
The boy looked around his little farm house. He looked at the other pigs, at the dead body of the pig on the floor. He took a step forward.
“Please don’t take another step.”
He stepped anyway.
“Please!” Rosie shouted. “We could be looking at the next swine flu, or mad cow disease or whatever. Do you really want to be involved? Do you really want the place to be plastered all over the news? Stupid farm boy accidentally starts flu that wipes out all livestock across Europe?”
The boy stopped.
“What do you want to do?”
“Well, I could do with seeing some papers or something. Where did the pig come from?”
“That’s Elsa. She was born here on the farm, but I think I have some stuff about her dam in the admin cabin,” he said.
“Her dam?” Rosie said.
“Her dam, you know, her mum.”
“Okay,” Rosie said, smiling. “Lead the way.”
She turned to look at Bexley who was still poking the dead body. She waved him to stop and he put the pitchfork down. As they went to follow the man to the admin cabin, she thought for a second that she saw the dead stomach of the pig move — she thought she saw something poke back.
***
The gangly little man with buck teeth walked them back to the car park without saying a word
“Do you live here? In that house?” Rosie asked, pointing to the main building of the farm, but he didn’t answer.
Every now and again the farmer’s head would jolt left or right, like he was scared that danger lurked behind every corner, ready to pounce on him. Next to the car park, they walked to the admin cabin. The place looked as decrepit as before. But this time the farmer was there with the key. He unlocked the door and they walked inside. Rosie could see the dust clinging to the air. She could see the papers and office equipment everywhere. She saw an empty shelf with a few empty bottles of alcohol on it and an old fashioned yellow Walkman. She saw an old computer that looked high-tech compared to the one they had at The Family House.
“Phew,” she said. “You guys get a cleaner in here every now and again?”
He looked at her and matter-of-factly said “No”.
She noticed Bexley looking at the farmer. He hadn’t taken his eyes off him. He was cautious of the man. She wasn’t worried. If it came down to it, Bexley could break the runt’s neck with a flick of the wrist, like he was squeezing toothpaste out of a tube. Hey, she could probably do it herself to this little mouse.
“I think the old animal papers are down here in this cupboard.” He flicked through the keys on his keychain and found a small bundle of two. He tried one and the cupboard swung open and more stacks of papers and files toppled out.
“Sorry, it’s not very well kept down here, not since the farm closed to visitors.”
“That’s okay,” Rosie beamed. “We can look through these, but … I don’t suppose you have any coffee?”
He looked at her, then Bexley, then back to her.
“No,” he said.
“Right,” she said.
“But we do have tea.”
“Perfect,” Rosie said as she placed her hand on his shoulder.
From this distance she saw his yellowing teeth, chipped on the front. She could see the heavy brow ridge, like a Neanderthal’s.
“Sure,” he said. “Two teas then, I guess.”
As he left the cabin to get the tea, Bexley watched him.
“What are you worried about?” she asked him.
“I don’t have a good feeling about that man, and why are we looking through the pig’s records?” he said.
“I’m buying time. We know there’s something wrong with the pig, but why wouldn’t he clean it up? Why would he leave a pig dying in the pen for so long? I need to find out more about this delicate little flower before I kick it.”
“Okay, so what now?” Bexley said.
“Get your gun,” she said. “Go get your gun.”
Markus Schmiebler
Markus scratched at the strap behind his mask. A loose thread irritated the sides of his head. He adjusted his green trousers as they were slipping. The suit smelled of fusty old sweat. It didn’t matter how many times the costume guy had run the thing through the wash, it still stank of stag parties, shots of alcohol, second-hand smoke and even a little bit like sex. The Dragon Boy character he was dressed as, a favourite from the Fantasy Sword Online franchise, smelled like it had drawn a different breed of role players.
Cosplay.
That was the dress code for the secret Yayatoo event: the session, no, the Sesh. Markus had made his way to a dingy old factory in East London. The kind of place where you find people partying at all-night raves, but this was different. It didn’t feel like a party. He found the place by following the trail of game, movie and comic book characters, like breadcrumbs, through an old industrial estate, past empty warehouses, some squats and several flat conversions.
As Markus queued up at the entrance he found himself about one hundred people back. Soon enough, a hundred more joined the queue behind him.
“This is going to be incredible,” said the woman in front of him dressed in a black way-too-tight vinyl leotard with a white wig tumbling down over her shoulders. “I can’t believe that we’re lucky enough to get an invite to the Sesh.” She turned to Markus, expecting something …
“Ahem … yeah … sure. It’s unreal,” he said and she nodded. “Listen, do we know if Louise will be here?”
“Who?” said the skinny teenager from behind. This one had hair gelled into violent spikes and a fake plastic longsword strapped to his back.
“Yayatoo … do we know if Yayatoo will be at this event?” he corrected himself.
The skinny swordsman leant close to Markus and whispered, “Well … word on the grapevine is that today will be a special event indeed. Yayatoo herself will be here to meet each and every one of us. She wants to personally welcome each of her new Yayatooists.”
The women in black squealed with delight and clapped her hands together.
“So how did you find your Yayatooism?” asked the woman.
Markus wasn’t even sure what she was talking about.
“My Yayatooism?” he said, and the energy i
n his queue-mates changed. They looked at him like he didn’t belong. “Well … just like everybody else, really,” he said. “We all find it when we need it most, right?”
The swordsman took a step back as a few of the other cosplayers looked over.
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” said the swordsman. “I was in a pretty dark place before I found Yayatooism. It came to me when I needed it most, like when you’re stuck in a dungeon on Fantasy Sword Online and you’re down to five health points and then, out of nowhere, you find a potion.” He patted Markus on the shoulder.
“Exactly that,” Marcus agreed.
Two huge men dressed like knights guarded the entrance. They stood next to lanterns of fire lighting up the night sky.
“Yeah dude,” said the swordsman, looking over with Markus. “This is some real epic shit.”
***
When they got inside they were met with sounds of the game soundtracks of old. Markus remembered his wedding night and readjusted his mask. The interior was a tunnel of black drapes, lit by lanterns, leading them through to a main hallway area where a stage and a microphone waited, like a stand-up comedian might walk out at any minute. They were handed little goody bags as they walked and found their own spaces to stand.
Before long he was surrounded by a sea of cosplayers. He began to think that he should’ve put more effort into his costume. Everyone else had evidently spent the last week assembling each item of clothing like it was their purpose in life. Markus felt uneasy. He could’ve sworn a few of the cosplayers were looking at him; lingering looks. Maybe it was his shitty costume. It didn’t matter anyway, he wasn’t there for the fashion. He was there to get his wife back.
The 8-bit-chip-tune music and the lights dimmed and a man walked onto the stage. His bottom half looked normal, smart even — a nice suit — but he had black lines on his face and a fiery orange wig. He walked straight to the centre of the stage, pulled out his phone and took a selfie with the audience behind him. Everybody cheered.
“Hey guys,” he shouted down the microphone and everyone replied together with “Hey Samwell!”
“Who the fuck is Samwell?” Markus whispered to himself.
“I wanted to thank you for all coming today, guys. I know it was late notice and I know that you probably had other plans, but … if you’re anything like me, nothing would’ve stopped you from making your way here … am I right?”
The crowd cheered.
“Not your job.”
They cheered.
“Not your gaming.”
They cheered.
“Not your spouse.”
They cheered. Markus winced.
“So you all got the e-mails about the Sesh and you know what’s going to happen. I trust you all brought your chosen items?”
They cheered and, for the first time, Markus noticed everyone was carrying canvas bags, each one with a red circle painted on it. He didn’t remember reading anything about chosen items. Not in the e-mail or the text. Maybe he missed it? Maybe …
“And right now I’d like to introduce you to your new god … Yayatoo!”
Samwell pointed to his right and to someone hidden behind the curtain. A figure slowly stepped onto the stage. Completely shrouded by a cloak. The cosplayers erupted with cheers and applause and quietened down after several minutes as the shrouded figure took to the middle of the stage. Samwell pressed his finger against his lips and everyone hushed each other. With a giddy smile, he tip-toed over to the figure and placed his hands on the hood. Markus’s heartbeat thumped against his chest. Samwell pulled the hood back to reveal the familiar pink and blue hair of Yayatoo, Louise, his wife.
Everybody went crazy, jumping and howling, but Markus stood with his feet firmly planted to the floor. She was dressed like the elf queen of the Fantasy Sword Online Kingdom — Evenera. The shroud, the plastic elf ears, the leather boots. She seemed emotionless. She stood there, accepting the craziness like it didn’t mean anything, and the crowd loved it even more. She was a rockstar to them — no, a goddess.
Samwell held his phone to her at all times, recording the whole thing.
When the crowd eventually calmed she walked to the microphone. She looked into the audience like she was scanning them, looking for something. Her eyes scanned past his Dragon Boy mask without stopping.
“Welcome humans,” she said, “to the Yayatoo Sesh.”
Aidan Black
White Log Farm, 2002
The pigs were behind their fences, mostly sleeping. A couple of bored piglets wandered around, sniffing the floor, snorting … doing a bit of nothing. The wind whistled against the sides of the walls and the ceiling.
“You see JK Rowling has got it made now,” Aidan said. “I know it may sound crazy, but with the box office figures of the film she’s got to be rolling in dough. She’s won it. She’s fucking won it.”
“Yeah, but I don’t see what the fuss is about. A boy with a wand and a scar and a … school.” Sammy’s head was loose to his shoulders. It bobbed and weaved, and as he spoke Aidan got a whiff of his rum-soaked breath.
“Sammy, there’s a secret that I know now, that I wish I knew before Mum and Dad disappeared. The secret to being happy in the world.”
Sammy sat back, resting his head on the wall behind them, his eyes staring straight upwards.
“I just know one thing … that if I keep telling myself that I’ll grow up to be a success, the universe will conspire to make that happen.”
Sammy laughed like he’d shit himself.
“That sounds like some of Granddad’s self-help bullshit,” he said. “It can’t be true.”
“It is fucking true. It’s called cosmic ordering.” Aidan slammed his good hand down. “You put your positive thoughts out into the world and you tell it what you want, each and every day, and then the universe and the gods, or whatever, conspire to make it all happen for you.” Aidan’s voice rose with every word. Passion and anger. Alcohol and an empty stomach. “And to make it happen, you read yourself your words, your affirmations, every day and it deepens the message, it strengthens the connection with the universe.”
“Sure,” Sammy said, his eyes rolling. “Sure it does.”
“Whatever dude, just know that one day in the future I’ll be the one bringing home the bacon, and you’ll be the one cleaning up after me.”
Aidan laid back and looked to a hole in the ceiling. Through the hole, he saw the clearest night sky he’d seen in as long as he could remember. It was unbelievable to him how many stars were over him. He wondered which of the lights were stars, which were planets, space stations, satellites, etc. He wondered what might be out there, looking back at him. He wondered if there was some alien pervert staring back with a telescope, touching himself. He shook his head to clear the thoughts as Sammy climbed to his feet and stumbled towards the door. He mumbled the word “Piss” and Aidan ignored him, still focusing on the skies above.
Moomamu The Thinker
“So …” Luna said. “Do you, like, come in peace?”
She looked over to Moomamu and then looked back to the front of the tiny moving machine. It was incredibly small. He was sitting next to her in some sort of entrapment machine — a single strap of solid fabric tied him down and his feet were tucked beneath the seat in such a way that he couldn’t pull them free. Luna was also enclosed in a similar cage of fabric and inconvenience, but she also had the wheel control in front of her. She moved the wheel left to right, flicked some switches here and there, and the tiny moving machine moved forward, past towering grey boxes of rock and concrete. They’d driven all the way out of the queen’s nest and into the farming lands of the countryside.
“I come in peace,” Moomamu said. “I wouldn’t have the energy to attack any humans right now. My body feels like it’s shutting down, like it did last night. My eye-flaps are getting heavy.”
“Oh right,” Luna said. “You mean you’re tired?”
“No,” Moomamu said. “Thinker’s don�
�t get tired. They just become … well … they just kind of …” Moomamu’s words words trailed off. His eyes closed.
“Feel free to sleep,” Luna said.
“No!” His eyes were wide open again. “I need to stay alert in case any more broken humans come to attack the cat,” he said. “He’s in no state to protect himself at the minute.”
Gary was in the back. His paw was encased in the hard white clay mixture. The medicine woman had also placed a plastic cone around his head so he couldn’t lick his wounds. He looked ridiculous. Moomamu laughed and pointed at the snoozing feline.
“Why are you laughing?” Luna said. “I thought you were concerned for his well-being?”
“I am concerned,” he said. “I’m a being of space and time and this little creature appears to be the only thing that knows how to get me back to where I belong, and look at him, in his stupid plastic cone.”
“Sure,” Luna smiled and nodded. “So you’re like … Doctor Who?”
“What?” Moomamu said. “I’m neither a medicine man or a who … I am a what,” he said.
“And what is that?” Luna asked as she moved the moving machine to the other side of the road, which was full of other tiny moving machines.
“A Thinker.”
“Right,” Luna said. “A thinker.”
Suddenly the cat groaned. His good paw flicked and batted at nothing. His tail whipped.
Luna looked at the concern on Moomamu’s face and said, “He’s just dreaming.”
“Ah,” Moomamu said and nodded. “Very good.”
“I can’t help you, Susan,” said the cat. He was still asleep, moving and ‘dreaming’, but he was now talking, unaware of the words that were coming out of his mouth. Luna looked at him through a conveniently placed mirror hanging from the roof of the moving machine. “Everybody’s dead … everybody’s dead.”
The cat’s eyes slowly opened and he looked right at Moomamu like he wanted to open the moving machine door and throw Moomamu out of it.
