“You conniving son of a—”
“Better get to it if you want to save the man who became the reason for your success!”
As if on cue, the Executive began pressing the weight up and down as forcefully and as quickly as possible. He exerted all of his available endurance and battled fiercely through his own fatigue.
This is defiance. Defiance against an absurd punishment. He’ll pay for all of this!
Tomas felt a sense of slight relief as the fire pit below the sphere steadily began to fade in intensity.
Sweat broke around the crown of his head; every muscle in his body twitched in wearied response; his forearm began bleeding even more profusely under the weight, but the Executive—a self-proclaimed “fitness specialist” and drugged to dull his senses—remained resistant, grunting as he endured the ensuing pain.
“When Marvin's brother, Frankie Gaye, returned from a three-year tour of a war-ridden province in the Old World, he began speaking about all the things he'd witnessed as a soldier; he was someone with eyes on the gruesome nature of war.
“Frankie had come back from what he believed was the true manifestation of Hell. The song, 'What's Happening Brother,' was intended to be about the same concept: a soldier returning from a long war and coming home to a new world, a world he no longer recognized. Thus, Frankie and Marvin collaborated to produce a song unrivaled in its exquisitely forlorn meaning. As I might have mentioned before, I’m a collector of all art forms… I'm glad you can listen while finding yourself in this world…”
“W-world?!”
The fire pit had all but been extinguished for moment before being revved up once more when Tomas Gostra felt his muscles begin to fail him; cramping and yielding to the burdensome demands of the killer.
Gostra cursed under his breath and attempted to spark again his own adrenaline… but the Executive noticed he was starting to experience returns that were progressively worse. His own exhaustion was triumphing the same spirit that had gotten him elected.
“Your campaign manager, a charismatic fellow who used to go by 'Squat,' was a soldier himself in days past…
“I had a little time to do some research on… Squat and found that he was some fellow in the Dawn Federation's infantry. Served four years. Supposedly would've climbed up in rank faster if not for his tendency to have a rather big mouth. Big mouths, as you already know, Tom, can be costly… devastating—and as fate would have it, that big mouth is what garnered a large majority of votes cast in your favor amongst the public.”
“What… exactly, are you saying?” Gostra buckled as he spoke.
“You really are a moron.” Amour sighed. “Amidst quite a large amount of police brutality scandals coming almost solely from your own Quadrant as Major, your estranged friend was able to mitigate the political damage done to you; he bribed ministers to let everyone in Zone D know that Major Gostra was for them!” He smirked. “Those fools didn't know what they were getting themselves into when they voted; I'll admit that I feel a little sorry for them, don't you?”
Before his eyes, the flames rose again as Tomas's whole body shook with all his remaining effort. I have to keep going; I've gotta save him!
Squat, aptly named because he was once able to squat press more than anyone in his platoon, had been woken and began beating on the walls of the sphere after realizing the gravity of his situation. His screams for help were nearly drowned by a combination of Marvin's voice in the background and the masked man's booming rants.
“Oh, it looks like Squat finally woke up! I'm guessing it got a little toasty for Zone D's favourite veteran. Did you know this same man spent his time going door to door for you, Executive? Would you let him down now?”
Next to his foot, a patch of the floor shifted and revealed a small microphone that rose from the ground to emerge before Tomas Gostra's face.
Attached to the microphone, there was both a yellow note and a small device armed with a timer. The Executive stopped squatting the staggering weight for a short time to take notice of the object but quickly resumed after watching the fire pit suddenly rage with renewed fury.
The song had already ended, and all that remained was the echoing of Amour's maliciously jovial voice. “In front of you, you now have your very own microphone! You should be used to delivering bullshit speeches, I know I am!” He said humorlessly. “So don't suddenly get stage fright on me now! I’d figured you'd eventually get tired of enduring a pointless struggle against the inevitable—even though it's always good to have your beach body prepared for any occasion—and so I gave you an out, Tom!
“–You can thank me later, but now all you’ve got to do,” he said in an exuberantly manic state, “is repeat what's been written on that convenient little note. The device you see there—yes, right there!—attached to the microphone is small recorder I’ve conveniently set up for you. After you repeat the words you’ve been given, like a good boy, clearly I'll need to go in and edit what’s necessary and release it through the proper channels.”
“This… is all about blackmail?”
“Nothing so frivolous! However, I'm sorry to say that you won't be telling the truth this time… but if you follow my instructions, Squat there will be released. You can save his life.”
“Blackmail. I should’ve expected this.”
The Executive gazed at what was written on the note…
“My name is Executive Tomas Gostra of Zone D, and I have a confession to make. Following a lengthy discussion with my staff and some personal soul searching, I shamefully regret to inform the public of a series of treasonous acts I’ve committed against the Dawn Federation.
“As an opening, I’d like to state—for the record—that Executive Joel Petrus of Zone B has been the victim of an attempt to frame a morally sound man, someone convicted in the public mind of crimes for which he is not responsible.
“Concerning the human trafficking incident involving the criminal organization, Genod & Portis, I find it necessary to admit to my personal involvement in the situation…
*Pause Here.
“Several months ago, I contacted Vice Executive Kasski of Zone B in an attempt to outsource Genod and Portis' business to the district governed by Petrus. It was safer… smarter…
*Pause.
“At the time, Executive Petrus was in the process of having a large section of his city undergo a mass remodeling in order to improve housing for both local agencies and consumers. This new initiative involved building superior energy sources available only to those with the adequate means.
“After speaking to Vice Executive Kasski without the Zone Executive's knowledge, we decided to conspire together in order to postpone Petrus’ vision for an extended period of time; all the while, we misinformed Petrus on the progress of the construction. While Executive Joel Petrus remained unaware of our activities, we executed a plan to have Genod & Portis begin manufacturing and distributing a recreational drug known as “Kiine” throughout the area without interference from the police.
“We encouraged them to create a slave labor market, a cost-effective approach that would focus on those possessing disabilities; those who had incurred exorbitant debts; or, those originating from a foreign province without adequate linguistic capabilities. Foreigners were often chosen more arbitrarily.
“After some time, we proceeded to scheme on moving the “company” to an area outside of the country to continue our operations using the revenue generated from exploiting Executive Petrus’ ignorance.
“I, Executive Gostra, take full responsibility for my part in the entire operation. All further punishment…
*Pause. Appear remorseful or I will kill you.
“All hate should be directed toward me.”
It finally began to make sense to Tomas Gostra.
This isn't just about some deranged serial killer living out his personal fantasies—no! This is Executive Petrus' last ditch effort to save his career!
By coercing Tomas to take the
fall for crimes committed against the public, Joel Petrus would be able to find his own redemption while Tomas would face trial.
But where did Joel find someone so… psychotic to help him?
The killer was an anomaly and certainly not someone who would normally be courted by a Federation government official. Though Petrus' situation was desperate, there was no way possible that the politician could seek out and actually find someone capable of building this death trap.
Has this already been planned from start to finish? H-he knew I would let him kill Loretta!
The weight of the organism was beginning to crush the Executive.
His panic faded, giving rise instead to an indomitable anger borne from the ridiculousness of his own situation. “I won't say any of this! Why would I sabotage my own career?” He shouted and began aggressively pressing against the weight while trying to free himself. He was entangled, however, unable to break away from the contraption.
“You can't do this to me!” Gostra exclaimed. “I'm not going to go down for that scumbag's goddamn mistakes!”
Over the intercom, Amour could be heard laughing maniacally.
“Your free will… It doesn’t exist. You're a servant of some Failure, like the rest of this country! Do you still not understand what this place is, Tom? I’m asking you if you understand exactly where you are right now?”
Tomas’s energy was draining rapidly. He saved his breath as much as his anger would allow him to do so.
The killer laughed prior to speaking once more: “Oh boy, you're about to be awfully weary before this is all over! I’ll admit I’m amused; you’ve absolutely no-where to run… but you have my permission to keep running anyways.”
“Damn you!” Gostra couldn’t contain himself. “When I get free—when I find you, and I WILL find you, I'll make sure you feel all of this ten times over!”
The Executive had entered a state of extreme heat exhaustion.
“It’s ironic that one such as you would believe you own the moral high ground—You, of all people! Did you not authorize your own police department to take liberties with the criminal population? Do you know how many innocent people died due to the authorities overextending their own boundaries—having their way on a bad day? —The lack of regulations, needed procedures to stimulate the wheels of justice. And what about all the lies you’ve told your wife, Tom. Do you remember them?”
“Stop… speaking! You can’t know!” Tomas pushed with even more force against the oppressive presence. “I've been… stressed; you wouldn't know what it's like to be in my position, b-because you can't! And even if you convinced me to admit to all those lies…” Gostra gasped for air. “What makes you think Vice Executive Kasski would go for it, huh?! –And what about the people who were really involved with that shit? Are you one of them?!”
“Kasski broke before she’d even made it past the first room. She was rather easy to convince. Kasski did as I instructed, so she's safe now. Petrus' personal accountant was killed after he resisted a 'mugging.'”
“What?! No… you’re saying she's already… She fell for this.”
Tomas Gostra was unable to move.
“That's exactly what I'm saying, Executive. You're the last piece of the puzzle for now. It took some time and a lot of plotting, but Petrus is finally beginning to look like an innocent fellow—can you believe it? And the jury for his trial is going to be its own walk in the park, thanks to some kind associates.”
Executive Tomas Gostra collapsed under the full weight of the object.
“And now I will increase the pressure. It’s okay; I’m here for you, Tom!” The killer laughed again in a taunting manner.
Tomas pressed upward with all his might but couldn’t produce adequate resistance to such a challenge.
The former campaign manager’s frantic beating on the sphere had increased in frequency; he was burning, and only the Executive could prevent his death. He gritted his teeth and used all remaining willpower within his being to shift the weight up once more—!
—Tomas crashed to the ground and groaned in torment as his arm began to throb. He’d suffered significant blood loss, felt dehydrated, and searched around for some way out of this prison in his disorientation. Once more, the Executive felt completely helpless as the fire pit returned to its former intensity and Squat's knocking progressively died down. Tomas felt as if he couldn't even move his body anymore, and so he cursed and closed his eyes in the face of futility.
“Ah, Executive… this could all be over if you simply went along with everything. Soon, though, you shall know the truth.”
Tomas Gostra sighed in defeat and remained all but paralyzed upon the floor even when the weight applied was finally lifted from his shoulders and hefted back into the confines of a black hole in the ceiling.
I’m finished.
“You see, buddy, it's quite a simple matter to trade one corrupt politician for another. The Dawn Federation does it all the time; it's just usually a more… discrete process, you know? You were the perfect candidate: a child of privilege, someone who only cared about moving up in the system. And the major difference between you and Petrus is that you can afford to pay off an entire jury and any judge presiding over the case, but Petrus cannot on his own.”
Gostra’s campaign manager was burning alive, his life force diminishing as the Executive embraced his defeat.
“Politicians often resemble criminal enterprisers if you think about it. Instead of a stash, they’re burdened with a cabinet consisting of toxic garbage—scandalous gossip coupled with armies of sponsors, and instead of a central product, they sell whatever marketers and the people who endorse them tell them to sell. The only real difference is that bangers sell drugs and small-time services, whereas politicians sell ideas and promises to those reckless enough to believe in them.”
Amour paused for a brief second before continuing:
“That’s enough moralizing for one day. I think you’ve at least earned the right to know where you are. To not know… that must be quite an awful feeling.”
The Executive groaned. “One of Petrus’ hideaways, I’d gather.”
This time the killer neglected to respond, but to the far right of the room another panel of the wall gave away to reveal yet another passage. As the Executive exerted pressure down his lower back and legs, he felt an overwhelming weakness, and fell over as he was forced to stop his head from colliding with the ground.
Tomas Gostra allowed himself to catch his breath, resting for a time before trying to stand again and took several minutes to position himself on his knees before struggling to his feet and limping forth to progress through the newly-opened route.
I'm playing a game already rigged to produce a set outcome, he thought, I've been trying to fight this maniac the whole time, but there's no real way to do things differently. Does that make me responsible for Loretta and Squat? If I’d just obeyed, it might've played out differently. He might’ve spared them, but I think this is what he wanted all along.
Tomas made it to the entrance and collapsed against the wall to rest. I need water. Can’t last like this.
He then looked up and screamed upon seeing one immense eye staring at him through a tear in the wall ahead. As quickly as he could blink, the eye dissipated and revealed an opening to the outside.
An escape?
Gostra rushed to what he believed to be an exit, a way to finally flee from this madness. He stepped from the suffocating walls of the labyrinth to view only miles of dense, dark forest numbered with several more dark pillars resembling the one he’d seen earlier. In the distance, a colossal storm raged and produced a tornado the scale of which dwarfed the land for hundreds of miles.
“Do you now understand what this is?” The voice of Amour bellowed from the heavens.
To his own horror, Gostra viewed what could’ve have been a gigantic set of eyes staring down at him but mostly obscured behind thick cloud clusters.
“I…”
&
nbsp; “You should feel honored, Gostra; after all, you are the centerpiece of this Painting.”
13
Mercy Mercy Me
AN EXPERIMENT OF MY OWN DESIGN.
A manner in which I would engineer myself into godhood…
-
“Gostra, you are far from home; far from your own reality as you know it.”
“Meaning?”
“This is my work of art. I painted everything you see before you, and you’re merely a moving piece. Through your struggle, I will see if perhaps Beauty can arise from adversity; but you must understand, Tom, that there is no escape—not from an ongoing creation.”
Gostra noticed a long path down a subsequent hall that ended in what he hoped would be the final door in this maze.
I’m safer following the same trail, because what’s out there… aberrations not meant to be viewed directly; a twisted, fabricated reality made from the psyche of this man called Amour.
The hallway was decorated with a lengthy, lavender carpet containing golden embroidery that formed outlines of unknown humanoid figures appearing distressed. The Executive limped toward the door, exhausted well beyond minor disorientation. Tomas looked to his right to view another painting by Salvador Dali: The Burning Giraffe. The Executive became irritated as he realized that the painting had been hung up in his office by his assistant several days earlier; he knew because a small portion of the frame was discolored, and he'd purchased the piece itself at an art festival.
He realized that Amour had been conducting surveillance on him for some time.
Continuing onward, Tomas grasped the knob to the doorway prior to arriving in a much smaller den; it possessed what looked like an elaborate throne intended for a king. Overhead, “Mercy Mercy Me” began to play and resonated vibrantly throughout the area, adding a dimension of inanity to an already disturbing universe. The Executive proceeded and turned noticing that the throne faced a wide but slim television screen taking up most of the opposing wall.
Angelos Odyssey Page 24
