by Murr
His father was in the kitchen, rifling through the mail. Even though he was home, Charles Reardon the Third refused to loosen his tie until well after dinner. He would carefully hang up his suit jacket, pull his double Windsor down to his first button, then retire into his study. A glass of Scotch, a soft leather chair, and financial news on the television. These were the identical boring evenings of the president of the largest law firm in six states.
“Hello, Father,” Richard said. “How was work?”
Charles did not respond immediately. Instead, he pulled a single white envelope out of his handful of mail.
“Another letter from another school,” Charles said. “Lots of people after you, boy. Have you made a decision yet?”
Richard sighed. “Father, we need to talk.”
The man’s face softened. “It doesn’t have to be an Ivy League school, son,” he said. “There are plenty of fine schools out there.”
Richard felt his cheeks growing hot. He considered putting it off again, but it was time, damn it. Time for him to be his own person.
“No, Father. It’s not that. I don’t want to be a lawyer.”
Richard closed his eyes and braced himself. He expected a stream of obscenities. Perhaps a slap across the face. Another long-winded speech breaking him down, hateful words, making him doubt himself.
He felt his father’s hand on his shoulder, and he waited for fingers to find and zero in on a pressure point, driving Richard to his knees. Instead, he felt a reassuring squeeze. He opened his eyes to find his father smiling. Beaming. Richard had anticipated everything but this.
“I was wondering when this would happen,” Charles said. “I’ve been expecting it.”
“Really?” Richard asked, not ready to relax yet.
“Of course, son!” Charles said, a twinge of hurt to his voice. “Just because I work a lot doesn’t mean I haven’t been paying attention. I know you don’t want to join the firm. I know you have dreams and aspirations of your own! I know you want to push the boundaries, find out what you can do for yourself, by yourself. It’s natural.”
Richard laughed. He finally unlocked his knees. His breathing rate returned to normal. It seemed safe to tell him the rest of the plan. “I want to go to community college for two years, then transfer to a state university. I want to major in Fine Arts. It’s really important to me. It’s all I want to do.”
Charles shook his head. “You don’t have to explain yourself, Richard. And believe me, you have my blessing to do as you wish.”
“You’re not mad?” Richard asked. “You mean I can go to art school and you’re not disappointed or angry or anything?”
“My son,” Charles said. “I want what is best for you, always. You can go to art school. I will pay for it. I’ll foot the entire bill. I only ask one thing.”
“Anything,” Richard said. “Name it.” Richard immediately thought better of saying that. His emotions had gotten the best of him. There was always a catch with Charles Reardon the Third. He would give you what you wanted, but he would get his money’s worth out of the deal.
“Come to dinner with me,” Charles said.
“That’s it?”
Charles smiled. To Richard, it was like watching a statue of God come to life and beam bright blessings directly into Richard’s soul.
“That’s it,” Charles said. “Formal dress, though. Go put on a suit.”
Charles hugged his son, and his son held him tightly. When was the last time his father had hugged him? Fifth grade? After his mother had passed away, at the graveside service? Richard wasn’t sure. It was confusing, but Richard wasn’t about to start asking questions. He ran upstairs and changed clothes.
The city looked different from the back of a limousine. Staring through the tinted window, Richard felt the pain of separation. He was riding with his father through the art district. Some of his friends were milling about on the corner, making plans for the night. Richard loved this part of town, and it felt odd cruising past it instead of immersing himself in it.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“A club,” Charles replied. “A private club.”
That was exciting. Richard had met some of his father’s friends before. Faceless men who spoke the mathematical language of profit and loss. Richard had nothing in common with them, but if his father was taking him to a private club for dinner, surely some of those people would be there. Could it be that his father was going to brag on him, be publicly proud of his decision?
He glanced at Charles, who had a mischievous smirk on his face. That had to be it, Richard decided. This was turning out to be a fascinating evening, indeed.
The limo moved out of downtown, away from the buskers and chalkers, even away from the high-class district with its skyscrapers and office towers. They were heading right into the underbelly of town. Garbage cans smoldered on the cracked sidewalks. Tenements stood dark against the sky, jagged glass hanging in rotting window frames like fangs. Richard wondered if the driver had taken a wrong turn, but his father said nothing, so neither did Richard.
After a couple minutes of driving around, the limousine pulled over to the curb. There were other limos parked on both sides of the street.
“What is this, Father?” Richard asked.
“I told you it was a private club,” his father said. “Where better to have a private club than a place where no one goes?”
The driver parked and let Richard and Charles out of the car. Richard’s nose wrinkled at the smells of burnt, wet wood and shit in the air.
“You hang out here?” Richard asked Charles.
Charles laughed. “Don’t be so quick to judge. Follow me.”
Charles walked into a building that appeared to be on the verge of collapse. Richard wanted to draw it. Maybe a former tenement building. A fire escape hung limply from the side of the crumbling brick wall. “Come on,” his father called from inside. “We can’t keep the others waiting.” Richard, wondering who the others were, walked through the doorway after his father.
It didn’t take long for Richard’s eyes to adjust to the dark, especially after Charles hit the elevator button. A glowing arrow on the wall pointed down.
“What the hell is this?” Richard asked. His father’s face bathed in the faint light was grim.
“A man in my position must keep a lot of secrets, Richard,” Charles said. “There are things I have never told you, things I cannot tell anyone. You and I have never been close, but you’re an adult now. There are things you have to know. One of those things is that here, in this shit box of a building, is an incredible restaurant with a full bar, and they will not check your ID. You’re with me.”
“Is this a joke?”
Charles laughed. “No, son. It’s privilege.”
The elevator bell dinged softly and the door slid open noiselessly. Charles and Richard entered. Charles produced a key from his pocket. He inserted it into a keyhole on the button panel and twisted it to the left. “Going down,” Charles whispered. The door closed.
What Richard saw when the elevator door opened did not look like a restaurant. One long wooden table took up the center of the room. Dim light crawled out of elaborate pewter wall sconces. The walls were mahogany and the faint scent of cigar smoke hid in the air. Charles took a deep breath and exhaled with a sense of joy and satisfaction.
“This is my favorite place in the world, son,” Charles said. “This is the place where it all happens.”
“All what?” Richard asked.
“Have a seat. Here. At the head of the table.” Charles pulled a chair out for Richard who sat dutifully.
Charles pulled a cigar from his inside suit pocket and lit it. He puffed his chest out as he smoked, a caricature of himself. Mister Moneybags. Richard rolled his eyes, wishing someone would bring him coffee.
“At the law firm,” Charles said, “we represent the cream of the crop. The finest businesses in town. But even that isn’t the main thrust of what we d
o.”
“Dad, if you’re trying to talk me out of going to art school, it’s not going to work.” Richard crossed his arms in a weak show of defiance.
“You don’t understand,” Charles said. “I want you to go to art school. But I want you to do so for the right reasons. See, we have a duty, son. Generations of our family has been spent serving the city. That’s what I do at the law firm. The City comes to me and I do what I can to protect it. We keep the best interest of the City in mind.”
“What does that have to do with me?” Richard asked.
“Richard, you’re not looking at the City with the right eyes. You see it as a playground, a delightful jungle to explore. Such a narrow view. You claim to love the City, but you don’t even know her. The City is alive. She is an entity unto Herself. She thinks, She loves, She hates, She breathes. She grows organically through expansion and annexation. She propagates Herself through gentrification and tax breaks. We serve the City and the City, in turn, serves us. I believe, in her own way, She loves us.”
Richard pushed away from the table and stood. “I would like to leave now,” he said.
Charles shook his head. “No, no. It’s too late for that now.”
Softly, in the back of the room, the elevator bell rang. Richard sat back down as men in business suits came into the room like a silent army. These were cookie-cutter men; they wore the same expensive suits, the same hairstyle. They held the same refined, corpulent air. In unison, they stood behind the chairs, flanking Richard on either side. With eerie precision, they cocked their heads and regarded the young man.
“Kneel, Richard.” Charles motioned towards the floor.
“Fuck that,” Richard said.
“These are the Guardians of the City,” his father screamed, face red and twisted, spittle flying from his fat lips. “You see merely men, but they are gods!” He pointed to the people as he yelled. “Commerce! Planning! Research! Development! Marketing! And I? I am Law. Now get on your knees and show some fucking respect!”
Still, Richard hesitated.
“Do it!” his father roared, and the ferocity of it jolted Richard from his comfortable chair and to his knees.
“That’s better,” Charles said. He paced back and forth in front of his son, searching for words, stabbing at the air with his lit cigar. When he finally spoke, it was in a hurried mumble.
“Art school. Art school. Abstract shapes and pubic hair, trying to make people smell colors and feel something in their pathetic little hearts. That’s fine for the rabble, good for the philosophers, but it means shit to the City. She doesn’t care about introspection or spiritual growth. All She wants is for you to know Her. Desire Her. To love Her as She loves you. But you need to see. You need fresh new eyes and a clear mind, open to understanding.”
As one, the men left their stations at the table and stood on either side of Charles until they formed a circle around Richard. He stared up at them, all identical and faceless men. “Dad?” he whimpered.
“Cuff him,” Charles said. Just like that, it was done. His wrists were forced behind his back by two of the Guardians. The cuffs ratcheted down, pinching Richard’s skin. His ankles were also shackled. Surrounded and bound, Richard wondered what would happen next.
With a flurry of rustles, all the men, including Richard’s father, dropped their pants.
Without a sound, they joylessly began stroking themselves into fullness. Richard closed his eyes against the sight of his father, his hand around his flaccid cock, flipping it up and down like a loose door handle. Within moments, he could feel their cold fleshy tips nudging his cheeks, tapping him on top of his head.
When he opened his eyes again, his father’s erection was dancing in front his eyes, a hoodless cobra. It was immense, purplish-black, with a wicked upward curve. It must have been twelve, maybe fourteen, inches long. The thing waved, undulated, wriggled as if it were sentient, a blind pseudopod searching for heat.
The thing that broke Richard and made him scream was not the ridiculousness of the situation. Part of him still believed none of this was truly happening. It wasn’t the concept of being orally raped by his own father. It was the rippling. Underneath the skin of his father’s penis, Richard could see small things moving about, swimming. Tiny creatures, things unnatural and hidden, flipping and sliding about over each other. His father’s penis shimmered with motion. It was that which sent Richard over the edge, screaming for just a moment, until his voice was cut off by the insertion of his father’s horrible cock into Richard’s throat.
All around the boy, the Guardians of the City clenched their genitalia in soft manicured hands, stroking themselves in various rhythms, eyes rolling back into their heads. Charles was laughing and could not stop as he gently rocked his hips back and forth. He thought about Commerce. He thought about Property. He stared with utter glee at his companions, the pantheon he had always sought to join, pleasuring themselves. One of them was rubbing the head of his cock on Richard’s hair, tickling himself to the edge. Then he locked eyes with his terrified son, countenance mad in the ecstatic throes of violation.
One of the men to Richard’s left growled angrily. Seconds later, the first glob of jizz hit his face. Richard flinched in surprised disgust. It was cold and smelled like metallic cheese. He could not lift his hands to wipe it off and fling it back in the bastard’s face, like he wanted to. But the stuff didn’t drip down onto his chin like he expected. He felt it coagulate and divide. It moved like thick mercury, half flowing into his eye, forcing its way into his tear duct. The other part swam into his ear, coating the eardrum, obscuring his hearing.
Richard could feel each individual microscopic creature exploring his body. There must have been millions of the things. He wanted to rip his skin off like a hallucinating junkie searching for non-existent spiders, except these were real. Tiny living beings blindly seeking entrance to every orifice they could find, wrapping themselves around nerve endings until Richard’s entire body felt like an abscessed tooth. He could feel changes occurring on a molecular level, dopamine and serotonin levels oscillating, new neural pathways being bored into his brain. His skin rose and fell, rippling and bubbling, as the microscopic monsters renovated his body, making it their new home.
“Now!” Charles cried, loosing a torrent of viscous semen. Richard gagged and choked. Some of it came out the boy’s nose, then caught itself and slithered back into his nostrils. The creatures within the liquid swam up Richard’s cheeks, entering his tear ducts. He blinked madly as they slithered across his retinas, slowly burrowing into his eyeballs. He could feel all of them within him now, inside his cheeks, coating his throat. They filled and coated his stomach, wriggling their way into his bloodstream, coursing through his bloodstream like salmon fighting their way upriver to spawn.
The others began to reach their peaks also, a cold, white rain, plastering Richard’s head and face. Ears plugged with the horrible goo, hair matted down, the little monsters diving into his pores, through his eardrums. He convulsed violently as the invaders swam through him, a maddening itch just under his skin, and deeper.
At last, his father reared back, pulling his still spasming erection out of the boy’s raw throat. “I love you, son,” said Charles Reardon the Third.
Richard screamed.
***
It took two years to gain all the permits to build the new office building. All the environmentalists screaming about green space and raising a stink at city council meetings caused ridiculous delays. Once the construction began, it only involved relocating seven-hundred residents. In the grand scheme of things, not difficult at all.
At the dedication of the skyscraper, officially known as the Reardon Building, protesters showed up by the hundreds to voice their displeasure with something that was already done. It was a pointless display of whining, as far as Charles Reardon was concerned. The police had already cordoned them off. From across the street, they sounded no more threatening than distant honeybees.
The architect of the building gave a short speech, as did the Mayor. Charles didn’t pay attention to their words. They weren’t for him. They were for the City. All praise to Her.
As the ribbon was being cut, a protester hurled a balloon filled with red paint across the street. It burst upon the sculpture on the sidewalk, an art piece specifically commissioned by Charles Reardon the Third. An abstract representation of the City as a center of power, it was a shiny aluminum square, balanced on one corner, with a titanium sphere suspended by steel monofilaments in the center.
From his office on the forty-eighth floor, Richard watched the paint splatter across his work. He crossed his arms and shook his head. Pikers, he thought. All he had to do was call maintenance and it would be sparkly clean within an hour. Besides, this was only one piece. The entire Reardon Building was decorated with Richard’s art. Soothing abstracts, swaths of grey gliding through patches of blue. Landscapes, trees and rivers, the occasional bear wandering through. Restaurants up and down the main drag displayed his paintings proudly. Calming pictures, no brash colors. It’s what they did in jails and hospitals. Mind tricks to keep the rabble docile. Richard had spent hours in his studio creating images of the City, which now hung in buildings up and down the main drag. The City celebrating the City. All praise to Her.
