by Cameron Jace
"Good day, citizens of Britain," are his first words. He talks slowly, confidently yet carelessly, and inhumanly. "I would like to make this short and to the point." He clears his throat. "Like my friend, the Cheshire, warned you before..." People around me shriek at the mention of the Cheshire Killer. "Any interfering by any of your 'authorities' will be annihilated immediately. I ask you to stay away, as this is a matter of the Wonderland Wars."
In any other scenario—in another, saner world, maybe—this would be a laughable phrase.
A matter of Wonderland Wars?
But it isn't. This the real life, as insane as it's exposed to be.
"I am not a ruthless serial killer," he begins to read from a paper. "I am what you'd think of as a 'wake-up call.' My so-called 'killings' have a greater purpose," he confesses. "I kill children..." Britain gasps in one breath. "Fat children," he elaborates. "Fat children who aren't supposed to be as overweight and unhealthy as they are today." He stops and holds one hand up to stop himself from sneezing. It makes him look a little vulnerable. Just for a fraction of a second. He must be immune to the pepper or has unprecedented control of his sneeze. "You filthy, ungrateful caricature of a society," he continues as a strand of hair shifts, briefly giving way to one of his eyes. Or should I say the vacancy of one of his eyes, and a darkly hollow socket instead.
He surely doesn't look vulnerable now. A woman faints on the street next to me.
"Here are a few facts you should know to understand why I do what I do," he reads on. "One person in every four British people is overweight." He takes a short breath. "The average person in Britain is nearly three stones heavier than they were twenty years ago. Your children are a generation of overweight and unhealthy lads who have the highest rate in history for being diabetic and seriously sick at the age of ten."
The Pillar folds his hands next to an old woman and whispers, "I don't care. I'm on the Dr. Oz diet. Not the wizard, the doctor."
The woman dismisses him, her eyes glued to her phone.
"The food industry is as imposing a threat as the cigarette industry." The Muffin Man sounds far more educated than a Victorian cook for the Duchess. "The food industry is slowly murdering our nation. I know you are worried about an apocalypse, but believe me, you won't even live long enough to see it if you keeping eating their food." He reaches for a glass of water, sips slowly, and clears his throat. The way he holds the glass of water suggests a man of a different caliber than what I thought he'd be. Who are you, Muffin Man? I feel I should know but can't put it together. "The companies spend millions of pounds on marketing their products. They make triple that money by seducing our children to force their parents to buy it. The child grows up and gets sick. The medical industry profits from the same person, now a patient. Then doctors prescribe us medicine that promises to make us better—and never does—so we spend even more money. It's a vicious circle that never ends."
"That's a Catch-22!" The Pillar clicks his fingers together. A few people shoot him piercing looks. He puts his fingers back in his pocket. "Sorry, I should've known finger-clicking is rude."
"You have to ask yourself who benefits from this." The Muffin Man faces the camera, abandoning the paper. "People wake up and ask how they became this fat and sick and penniless, and if it ever was their fault."
"Of course it's their faults," the Pillar says. "No one forced them to eat that much."
People eye him again. The Pillar pantomimes zipping his mouth shut.
"We live in the age of 'buy one, get one, get one free,'" the Muffin Man says. "Nothing in this world is for free."
"This Muffin Man rather reminds me of Willy Wonka in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory." The Pillar can't help himself. "He used to scare the panty pants out of my oranges."
No one eyes him this time. I think they can't even hear him. The Muffin Man's message demands attention whether they believe in his theories or not.
"Now that I have your attention, here is what I want," the Muffin Man says. "First, the easy part." The killer makes the rules now. "I want a personal apology from the Queen of England and Parliament toward the people of Britain for allowing the food industry to manipulate us and deteriorating our children's health." He pauses. "The second part is that I want a thorough investigation about the food industry, backed up with Professor Gorgon Ramstein's research, and have those responsible thrown in jail. I demand their profits divided among the poor citizens of Britain equally."
"Pretty noble demands from a man who stuffs children's heads in watermelons," the Pillar muses. "Would he be kind enough to show us how he actually stuffs heads in watermelons?"
The Pillar is mostly talking to himself.
"If these demands aren't met by five o'clock tomorrow," the Muffin Man announces, "I will poison most of Britain's children with the same candy that made them fat." This time his pause is longer, as if he is contemplating what he is going to say next.
I look around me. Everyone is holding their breath. They know they are about to see something they aren't ready for, but are forced to experience.
"In case there are still any doubts after all those killings," the Muffin Man says, "here is a footage of Mudfog Town, which is about seventy miles from London, a few minutes ago."
The broadcast shows the town of Mudfog as silent and dead as the most abandoned place on earth. Then the camera zooms to show everyone dead on the ground, white foam spurting out of their guts. Closer, the camera shows endless packages of Snicker Snackers, Queen of Hearts Tarts, and all other kind of food and drinks open and dropped to the floor. The footage then changes to "one hour earlier." It shows the few citizens of Mudfog nibbling on these snacks everywhere. Then suddenly, a kid begins to vomit uncontrollably, holding his stomach with one hand, a Wonderland snack in the other. And the rest of the town of Mudfog follows one by one.
"It only took a few minutes to kill a town of seven hundred citizens." The broadcast returns to show the Muffin Man. "If you have suspicions about my ability to poison all your food, ask yourself how I was capable of stuffing heads in watermelons."
"See?" the Pillar says.
"It shouldn't take me more than a few hours to kill everyone in London," the Muffin Man says. "And then I will poison your water. Give back to the people you cheated or you will die." His warning tone is confident and unmistakable. "Even if you live, ask yourself this: if I can poison all food, what will be left for you to eat?"
The broadcast ends abruptly with the Cheshire Grin logo on the screen. Silence crawls on every building and soul in Britain.
Chapter 50
The silence is only present for a few moments. It's like the few seconds the runners of the Olympics stand by before all hell breaks loose. The world around me explodes into people running in every direction. People debate theories, others panic, and the rest watch those who panic, contemplating if they should panic too.
The sun has sunk into darkness. We missed the sunset. No one is guaranteed to catch another one tomorrow.
"By the time the Queen of England sips her five o'clock tea tomorrow, all those people might be gone," the Pillar says, shakes his head, and then walks away.
"Where do you think you're going?" I run after him, avoiding a few pedestrians ready to step over me already. "We have work to do!"
"You have work to do." He doesn't stop, and keeps walking.
The panic around us intensifies. People are arguing if it's possible to poison all food. Others say only snacks will be poisoned. Others suggest only one brand of the snacks will be poisoned, so they could sacrifice a few people testing which brand is poisoned and which isn't. Then they wonder if they should buy food and stock it at home in case the panic gets out of hand tomorrow. A few educated people argue that the Muffin Man is bluffing, that it's impossible to poison the food of the companies he is actually opposing. Another few claim all of this is only propaganda to sell more Queen of Hearts Tarts.
I can't stop listening to all kinds of theories as I snake through
the crowd, looking for the Pillar. I hear people standing by the Muffin Man and calling him a hero, saying that food companies are no different to the toxic waste factories produce. Children are denied another delicious Meow Muffin by their parents. Then I finally see the Pillar. I pace faster and hold him by the shoulder. He stops, sighing, but doesn't resist.
"What do you mean by I have work to do?" I ask.
"Do I look like an Alice to you?" he says.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"It's you, Alice, who has to confront the Wonderland Monsters," the Pillar says as someone bothers him, running around. He tries to stabilize himself and avoid the panicked runner. "I've been trying to tell you this for more than a week, and all you do is whine about Jack, who you really are, and if you really killed your friends." He grits his teeth, still bothered by the man running in circles around us. "Don't get me started on you whining about what's real and what's not."
"Are you saying only I can stop this?" I am afraid he will confirm my suspicion. I don't think I can handle this.
"Yes!" He knocks the annoying citizen down with his cane, and then pierces through me with his direct look.
"I—" The truth is that I am speechless, and very much wish this was all in my imagination now. I would love it if this is a nightmare and I could wake up from it. But I don't seem to wake up. The fear and panic of the people around me is too real to be imagined.
"You are the Real Alice," he says. "Alice." He rolls his eyes. "And I am just a caterpillar. A special one, though." He seems vain about it. "But I can only guide you, teach you, and sometimes save you. I just can't confront the Muffin Man."
The panicking people around are still there, but I feel as if they have disappeared. I am all in my head now, trying to find the words to say and live up to their consequences. Lewis' vision seems to prove to be significant at every passing moment. It's mostly about Lewis struggling with the kids' poor health in Victorian times. The Muffin Man's case is all about the same, but in modern times. It can't be mad, because I couldn't have predicted it. Should I tell the Pillar about the vision?
"Professor Pillar," I say.
"Yes?" He cranes his neck forward.
"What is it I have to do to stop the Muffin Man?" I take a deep breath, my heart racing.
"From what I see, there is nothing you can do." He raises his voice against the crowd's shouting. "Not in this life."
For a moment, I am taken aback, upset that he would be playing games again. He knocks someone else with his cane and says, "Remember when we wanted to stop the Cheshire to save Constance? Remember what I told you before we knew his motives?"
"That a man's weakness lies in his past."
"Clever student." He nods.
"How are we going to know about he Muffin Man's past now?" I ask. "He has no name. His has no records. His file in the asylum doesn't say much. He has his face concealed."
"I know his past in this world, but trust me, it's irrelevant."
"Don't confuse me like that," I say politely. "We don't have enough time."
"Time." The Pillar flashes his cane in the air and circles me, knocking off whoever gets in his way. "Time, Alice! You have to go back in time." He acts like a performer on Broadway about to sing a finale song.
"To Wonderland?"
"Not exactly, but kind of." He continues circling, moving like Gene Kelly from Singin' in the Rain while the world is falling apart around us. "To know the Muffin Man's real motives, you will go back and try to stop whatever happened to him and turned a cook into a serial killer."
"Is that even possible?"
He stops in front of me. "Only if you're the Real Alice."
"And if I am not?"
"You will die, somewhere in the past," he says bluntly. "Frankly, who needs a mad girl who isn't Alice?" He is nonchalant about it.
"I am ready to do it," I say.
"It's not going to be easy."
"Don't!"
"I won't." He smiles. "So let me tell you how you could time-travel back to yesterday to save the world today." He signals for me to follow him. "And by the way, Alice, who said the Muffin Man has no name?"
"He has a name?"
"Of course. If he hadn't just popped up on national TV, I would have had time to tell you."
"Why am I going back in time if we know his name?"
"Because his name is Gorgon Ramstein."
Chapter 51
Wolsey's kitchen, Christ Church, Oxford University
Gorgon Ramstein, dressed in his cook's outfit, was chopping carrots on a metallic kitchen table in Wolsey's kitchen. He wasn't really cooking, or preparing to. Chopping carrots was his personal meditation to calm himself down and cope with the urge to kill again.
Every now and then he accidentally cut himself. He didn't mind. Blood spattering had stopped being a distraction years ago.
And now?
Now nothing mattered as long as the Queen didn't publicly apologize, as long as his demands had not been met.
Gorgon cut himself again. This time, the anger was too strong. He hurled the heavy kitchen knife at the wall and roared at the empty kitchen.
The knife plowed against one of the two turtle shells hanging on the wall. He looked at them through the haze in one eye. That turtle shell, he thought.
Only a few people knew that this turtle shell was Lewis Carroll's inspiration for the Mock Turtle character. Fewer people knew about the historical significance of the rarely visited kitchen underneath Oxford University.
Wolsey's kitchen. Oxford's legendary kitchen since the sixteenth century, where so many secrets were buried and hidden.
Gorgon was taught the art of cooking in this kitchen. He learned about the passion for cooking. That there was a rhythm, a tempo, and a song and dance to it.
Who were Auguste Escoffier, Alexis Soyer, or Isabella Beeton compared to him? They might have been great names carved in Victorian history books, but Gorgon knew he was something else. He was legendary. An icon to be remembered. He wasn't just a cook. He was a scientist turned cook. His approach was detailed and meticulous like no one else's.
But all that was gone now. And not because of what Margaret Kent did to his lawyer and his family in this world. His anger and hatred, although suppressed for years in the asylum, began when he was in Wonderland.
He pounded a heavy fist on the table, remembering what the Queen of Hearts did to him in Wonderland. The spoons and knives shook all over and bowls slipped to the floor. The pain was so strong that he fell to his knees from his own impact. And then a tear trickled like a drop of olive oil down his face. A tear that came out of his empty socket.
Slowly, Gorgon stood up and went to a side table, where he swallowed a muffin whole without even chewing it. Gorgon loved muffins—and pepper. He loved them because his kids were crazy about them.
Gorgon washed blood off his hand, staring at his reflection in the mirror.
It wasn't like he hadn't seen it before, but his image seemed to shock him this time. He had turned from victim to a ruthless killer, and he didn't know if he should like it.
The Cheshire certainly liked it.
Gorgon stood six feet four. His hands were lanky and very useful in cooking. He wore his double-breasted white jacket, which was actually the asylum's straitjacket. The main idea behind cooks wearing double-breasted jackets had been the possibility to reverse it many times and hide the cooking stains. In the past, when this kitchen was still proudly called Wolsey's kitchen, there was no time to change before presenting the food to the obnoxious and pretentious Victorian rich who had enough money to pay for it. They had to flip the working side of the jacket and present the cleaner side within minutes.
To Gorgon the idea was almost the same when he committed his murders, except he used it to hide the bloodstains of previous victims. It allowed him to kill two victims in the span of minutes before he had to change the jacket. Kill, reverse, and kill again. Or better: kill, reverse, escape while looking clean.<
br />
No one ever thought of the cooks to become serial killers.
Still, Gorgon's jacket had many other purposes. The thick cotton cloth of his jacket protected him from the heat of the stove and oven back then in Wonderland. Victorian kitchens weren't as safe as today's kitchens. Cooking was a dangerous profession back then; you were exposed to the insanely large stoves and not really protected from the splattering of boiling liquids. A good jacket had been a must. In present times, it helped him hide from his pursuers in a heated place that people usually avoided.
Under the jacket, he wore specially tailored trousers. They had black and white patterns. In the past, cooks wore patterned trousers to hide minor stains. Gorgon used them to mock the White Queen's belief in what she called the Chessboard of Life, where good people walked on white tiles and bad people walked on black. Gorgon believed he had walked both tiles evenly.
Gorgon stared at the toque blanche he wore on his head on his head, the kind of hat once worn by kings like Philip II. Some liked to simply call it a toque, as it had been the traditional headgear for magistrates—an officer of the state. In modern usage, the term usually referred to a judge.
Looking at it in the mirror, it seemed like an ironic coincidence. In his psychotic endeavor to correct the world, he was in many ways playing judge.
He didn't laugh at the thought. He rarely laughed at his thoughts. Gorgon, unlike other delusional killers, knew what he was. He knew his head wasn't buzzing to the right frequencies. But he just couldn't help it. What the Queen of Hearts did to him had shattered every single molecule of humanity inside him.
"Portmanteau." Gorgon tipped his toque, looking in the mirror. A French word, and one of the rare things that brought a smile to his lips.
Portmanteau was the art of combining two words or their sounds and their meanings into a single new word. Lewis Carroll loved that. That was how he invented the words like "slithy," which meant "lithe and slimy."
