Francis of the Filth

by George Miller

  “Dumping heaven, I guess?”

  “No, man. Respect. You don’t dump at the market. You just don’ do that. That ain’t cool. The market’s a sacred place.”

  “Percy, I think I might hang out here for a while. I like this place. Frank in Fukui. Fukui Frank. It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

  “Hey, whatever roasts your rice.”

  “I think I’ll chill here before heading off to see if I can locate my buddies. I need to find somewhere to stay. Maybe get a job for a while. Blend in with the people. Become a community man. Got any ideas?”

  “You? Blend? Shit, man, all I know is to dump on people. Tha’s what I do. You know, you gotta find what you do best and then you do that. I dump on people. Tha’s what I do. And damn I’m good at it. You know what I’m sayin’?”

  “Well, I’m quite partial to taking a dump myself, I’m just less inclined to do it on people and I can’t see it endearing me to the local folk if I do. You know what I’m saying?”

  “Well, why don’t you go and ask the ol’ farmer dude back up on the hill there? Maybe he can give you an idea.”

  “Where?”

  Frank turned around to see the old house he had passed as he walked down the hill. On the rickety ancient verandah was an equally rickety ancient man, sitting rigid and lifeless, looking out over the fields and the river.

  Frank bid adieu to Percy and made his way back up the hill toward the old farmhouse, careful not to walk under any wires. As the homestead loomed into view, the farmer’s wife came out and joined him and together they sat, as still as statues on the deck. When Frank was within calling range, he waved a hand and said a friendly ‘hey!’ They never moved. He repeated the gesture and called in a slightly louder voice. They remained wholly detached. It was as though they were blind and deaf. On moving closer he saw the problem. They were both deceased. They sat, all mummified sinew and flesh, staring out through empty eyes with mouths frozen agape and partially exposed bones. In any other realm this would have terrified Frank to the core but here, there was an air of timeless benevolence, even among the departed. Perhaps it was the intent. The soulless bodies of the rice field realm were harbingers of horror and they targeted Frank. Here, there wasn’t even a hint of hostility; just people, dead or alive, going about their business.

  He took the liberty of walking around the side of the house and onto the verandah. The decking creaked and bent under him as he moved. He stood just in front and to the side of them and then made his introduction.

  “Good afternoon. My name is Frank.” This was met with complete silence.

  “Frank,” he repeated.

  The two figures continued to stare, as cold as stones, out over the fields.

  “Ah, I was wondering if you would be so kind as to let me know where I might be able to find a place to stay for the night.”

  This was met again by total indifference.

  “Ah, a hotel? Motel?” A gentle breeze fluttered across the patio. “A campsite? Even a dry hole would work. I’m not particular.”

  Suddenly the wife rose from her chair and beckoned him to follow. She creaked as she walked. She led him into the house toward a back room and once there, pointed to a perfectly made futon in the middle of the floor.

  “Is this for me?”

  “Yes,” she said in a rusty voice. It clearly pained her to speak.

  “I don’t mean to be any trouble,” Frank said. It had been a lifetime since he had needed to speak civilly to anyone. The old corpse pointed once again to the futon and then headed back to the deck. There she returned to her seat. Frank leaned against the side railing, and the three of them sat in silence and watched the sun set over the mountain beyond the river.

  When darkness had descended, the old man stood and walked out into the hills. Frank watched from the deck as he moved, at times almost floating backwards and forwards through the fields. The old woman went into the kitchen and prepared a feast for her guest and when it was done, Frank sat alone at a table covered with steaming dishes and boiling pots. She then retired for the evening, leaving Frank to feast and her husband to walk the fields. Frank gorged like a pig. And when he was done, he got into the clean, warm futon and enjoyed a rare night of fat, untroubled sleep.

  For the next several days, Frank stayed with the old couple and helped with the harvesting of sweet potatoes in return for their hospitality. For the old man-mummy, Frank was a godsend. With his rickety frame, bending over to dig up the crops was a nightmare, so with Frank doing the hard work and him just wheeling the barrow beside him, life was as good as it could get for a deceased person. The satisfaction was mutual. It surprised Frank how much he enjoyed toiling in the sun, soiling his hands and reaping the fruits of his labor in such a literal way. And the old lady-mummy kept cooking up feasts that were to die for. Although this realm was clearly an alternate one, Frank felt a deep affiliation and comfort with it. He felt at home here, as much or even more than he had in Okinawa.

  On the first Saturday after his arrival, he accompanied the old man and his wife to the market. He wheeled an enormous cart with all the sweet potatoes they had harvested throughout the week, with the old couple stoically shuffling beside it. At the market, the town came alive, so to speak. The old couple remained as they were, as did numerous other perished folk who had similarly brought their wares. But the market also teemed with the living: mere mortals, rankenfiles from all over the omniverses, brute beasts of all kinds - they all set up shop and moved about with a sense of purpose and pleasure.

  After spending the better part of the day selling sweet potatoes with the old man (the old woman had gone off to do the buying), Frank took leave to stroll through the market and see what was on offer. It was a curious and highly eclectic mix of merchandise, everything from radishes to coffee to bohemian leatherwear to T-shirts advertising the glories of foreign dimensions and realms, including - rather ironically to Frank - one welcoming people to the rice fields.

  “‘Sup, my man?” came a voice from behind him.

  “Percy the Pigeon!” Frank was delighted to see an old friend. “What have you been up to? On second thoughts, you probably don’t need to tell me. But what are you doing here at the market?”

  “Sellin’ my goods, man? Takin’ it day by day,” he said, standing in front of his stall.

  “What are you selling, Percy?”

  “All sol’ out, my man. Busy morning! We sol’ out like there’s no tomorrow.” He continued to move backwards and forwards in front of his stall, as though to block Frank.

  “Come on, now Percy,” he chuckled with a wagging finger. “What are you hiding from me?”

  “Nothin’ man. I’s just about to pack up shop. We all sol’ out.”

  “What have we here?!” called Frank, stepping by the bird. “Eggs! Percy the Pigeon, are you selling eggs?!”

  “I can explain this, man.”

  “Whoa! I’d like to hear it! What about ‘eating someone’s progeny, you sick shmuck’?” Frank recited back to him. “What about ‘eating my brotha’s kids’?”

  “Now you gotta understan’,” he said with a bad stutter. “These here are hen eggs, not pigeon eggs.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “What’s the difference? What’s the difference?! I ought to take you out the back, whip you wit’ a rubber hose and dump on you twice for saying that. What’s the difference? What’s the difference between a Frank and a single cell amoeba? Probably not much. But between a pigeon and a hen, there’s everything man. There’s intelligence, there's smarts, there’s soul.” He poked Frank in the shoulder with each point. “Hens and pigeons are tiers apart. Not even close. We’re talking dimensions, man. And something else. Hens are damn ugly. Don’t you forget it.”

  “All right Percy, don’t get your feathers in a flap.” Frank turned and moved on. “You sick shmuck,” he muttered.

  “I heard that!” Percy called.

  “Not you,” Frank lied. “The duck
they’re selling over here. It looks sick.”

  Frank continued to nosey from one dusty stall to another, fascinated by all that was on offer and frankly quite disturbed that anyone would want to buy much of it. He stumbled upon an antique stall manned by an odd-looking character dressed in a flying cap and goggles with a long yellow scarf, a bright pink shirt tucked into a pair of safari shorts, and workman's boots. The stall sold old kettles and picture frames, model aeroplanes and spinning tops, water pumps and chairs made of bones. Yet what really caught Frank’s attention was lying on the bottom of a box of what appeared to be discarded items. The box was labeled ‘WORTHLESS’ and was filled with mainly broken pieces of crockery and odd sandals. Yet right at the bottom, Frank saw and retrieved a recorder. At first he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t any old recorder but as he observed it, he could see the color distortions and the grain texture; it had the exact abrasions from lifting the manhole cover in New York; and most of all, it had the slimy aroma of his dear friend. This was, without any doubt, Salamander Man’s recorder. Frank was over the moon.

  “Where did you get this?” Frank asked the man. He was intimidated by Frank’s intensity and took a step back. “Where did you get this?” Frank repeated, elevating his tone.

  “I don’t know…I don’t remember…It wasn’t me…” he fumbled.

  “Listen buddy, I’m not after you. But this belongs to a good friend of mine and I need to find him. Now where did you get this?”

  “It was brought to me. I don’t get any of this stuff myself. Bounty hunters and realm scavengers bring it to me. They find it. They bring it. We trade. That’s how it works. We trade.”

  “Who’s the scavenger that brought this?” Frank pressed.

  “I don’t know,” he whined.

  “Who brought it?” Frank yelled, holding it up to his face in a threatening manner.

  “I don’t know, Frank, I swear I don’t,” the man sputtered. His voice was trembling.

  “How do you know my name?”

  “What? I don’t know your name. Never heard of you. Who are you, again?”

  Frank grabbed him by the collar and buried his nose into the man’s cheek. “Start talking, dipshit, or I swear I’ll end you.”

  The man broke down. “All right, all right, I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you. Just leave me alone,” he wailed in a falsetto panic. He caught his breath for a moment. “Everyone knows your name, Frank. Everyone. There isn’t a person here who doesn’t know who you are or talk about what is happening. We don’t know what’s fact and what’s fiction but we do know the tiers are shifting and we know that you are a part of it. As for the flute,” he said pointing to the recorder, “it was given to me by a scavenger called Dr. Sack, and he lives in this very realm. Can’t say if he’s here now ‘cause he’s always traveling but his home is just a day’s walk north from here.” He looked Frank calmly in the eye. “Beyond the rice fields, by a lake at the foot of the twin peaks. Now please release me.”

  Frank wasted no time. He noticed an old bicycle standing at the back of the man’s stall and quickly laid his hands on it.

  “Hey! That’s mine!” the man said. “It’s not for sale.”

  “I’m not buying it,” said Frank, absconding with it. Then without so much as a goodbye to the old farmer and his wife, he set off out from the market with a fresh resolve, and began pedalling his way north. The sun was bright, the roads were straight and he was cycling through rice fields. It didn’t get much better than that. What’s more, these rice fields appeared to be completely devoid of soulless bodies, feisty negis or seductive chimpillas. Frank began to hum a little tune as he pedalled.

  By mid afternoon, the twin peaks loomed into view and the landscape gently transformed from rice fields into taiga forest, and from gently sloping topography into rolling hills. The uphill climbs were no fun but the downhill free falls made them worthwhile. Frank would coast down them, legs wide apart, wind in his groin and a ‘yeeha’ in his voice. It was on one of these runs that, rounding a curve, he almost ran into the largest water buffalo he’d ever seen. Huge. Unnaturally so. This thing was of prehistoric proportions. And it stood right over the middle of the road, completely blocking it. As intimidating as it looked however, it spoke in the most gentlemanly tones.

  “I’m terribly sorry, old chap but I cannot let you pass.”

  “Ah, I don’t think you understand,” Frank started. “I need to find the man who bought this recorder.” He held it up for the colossus to see.

  “It’s a magnificent instrument, sir, but I cannot let you pass.”

  “Why not?” Frank asked.

  “There’s a scavengers’ convention going on and I’ve been employed to make sure that it remains undisturbed.”

  Frank walked around and put his hand up on the brute’s shoulder. “That’s impressive,” he said giving it a bit of a squeeze. “You’ve been working out, huh?”

  The creature looked flattered. “Well…yeah.” It was weird to see such a powerful creature speak in such bashful tones.

  “Hitting the steroids?” Frank pressed.

  “Well, I…” It just looked embarrassed now.

  “What’s your name? What are you my friend?”

  “My name is Tyrone, sir. I’m a rankenfile but I’m trying to work my way up to chimpilla status.” He leaned in as if to whisper a deep mystery. “They say the tiers are changing.” He looked around before speaking on. “One doesn’t want to get left behind in these things.”

  “Quite right,” Frank said, keeping his hand on the creature’s shoulder. He was unaware that he was shrinking. Frank continued to reassure him. “A creature like you, so big, so strapping; you could really go places, you know; jump tiers. I can see you being a creature of great influence.”

  “Really?” he asked, with a smirk he just couldn’t hide.

  “Absolutely.” By this point he was reduced to the size of a young cow and on finding himself now looking up at Frank, he asked in a state what was going on. “I’m just borrowing, my friend. I’m just borrowing. It’s going to be okay.”

  By the time he fully realized his situation he was too small and too weak to resist. In the end, Frank took a ton of chromosomes from him but left just enough for him to continue living as miniature cattle. “What have you done to me?” he asked in a scared, squeaky voice.

  “Less methane now, my friend. You’ll be a real hit with the ladies. And I have some important work to do at the convention.” Frank hopped back up on his bicycle and left the little calf to wander helplessly backwards and forwards across the road he had only very recently presided over.

  A modest sized lake lay before the twin mountains, just as the man in the stall had said, and a small log cabin sat in front of the lake. Frank stopped pedalling and let his bike roll the rest of the way down the hill and right up to the edge of the property. The cabin was a humble one, rustic and splintered with a slight slant which gave it a charming old world appearance. Gray plumes of smoke puffed out from the chimney and a solitary hen clucked and scratched at the ground near the front steps. A gust of wind blew across the lake, bringing a scent of camphor from the trees.

  Frank stepped onto the bottom step. “Hello?” he called. There was no answer. The hen continued to scratch and peck. He slowly clunked his way up to the top step. “Hello?” he called again. “Anyone here?” Looking up he could see the billows of smoke blowing up into the late afternoon sky. There was still not a word in reply. He made his way onto the deck, leaned on the gnarled wooden railing and looked out over the pleasant country scene.

  It was then he heard a click and felt the cool end of a metal cylinder pressed up against his temple. “Get off my deck and get the hell off my property before I blow a hole in your head the size of a grapefruit!” bellowed a voice. Without a word, Frank gingerly stepped back down the stairs and out into the front yard. He turned to look at the man. He was a short, pudgy man, ageing, with long stringy brown hair and a tawny brown hat on his head. His
clothes were of a color that almost matched his hat, but not quite, and were of a style that one would associate with hunting season. He never took his eyes or his aim off Frank.

  “I just wanted to ask a simple question,” Frank said in a kindergarten voice. The man cocked his gun and bellowed again. “I ain’t warning you a second time.” At that moment another gust of wind blew across the lake and over their faces. The man’s expression relaxed, he lowered the gun and then broke into a soft chuckle. He looked at Frank. “Well, good afternoon there, friend. What can I be doing for you this afternoon?” Though he was pleased to be spoken to in a less bloodthirsty way, Frank looked at this guy with serious reservations. “I, ah, I,” he was still nervous in this man’s presence. “I was wondering if I could ask you about some of the items you have collected on your travels across the omniverses.”

  “Well, of course!” he said with tremendous cheer. “In fact we’re holding a scavenger’s convention right here as we speak.”

  “You are?” Frank asked. “Where is everyone?”

  “Here!” he said pointing around at empty spaces and chairs. “Come on up, my friend. Come and take a seat and join us and I’ll grab you a glass and you can have yourself some whiskey and we’ll all talk until late in the evening about some of the treasures we’ve found - and some that just escaped us too.” He let out a loud guffaw at the recollection of some of these. Frank took the steps two by two and stood back up on the quaint timber deck waiting to be shown inside.

  Right then, another gust of wind blew across the lake. It ruffled the old hen’s feathers and sent the chimney smoke off into the trees. “I thought I told you to get off my property!” came the same roar as before. Frank turned to see the old man with his rifle pointed right at his face, a centimeter from his nose. When Frank, stunned by the psyche of this man, failed to move, he pressed it firmly onto Frank’s nose and pushed him all the way to the bottom of the steps. “Now go on! Get!” He was as livid as a freshly castrated bull. “I ain’t warning you a second time,” he said.