The Hangman's Replacement: Sprout of Disruption (BOOK 1)

by Taona Dumisani Chiveneko

  “Think about it, Daphne. The weapons I used to make Benhilda probably killed thousands of people. A single AK-47 can mow down more than a dozen people before its magazine needs replacing.”

  Percival whistled like an angry sprinkler spraying a crowd of passersby. His hands panned in a wide arc to simulate the bullets’ trajectories.

  “Over its useful life, it can claim many more. Benhilda has a battery of AKs across her platform. They look like a metallic six-pack!”

  Percival’s tiny eyes widened with excitement. They only narrowed when it occurred to him that this new approach was only sacrificing reconciliation for candour. He had to get back on message. There would be no rewards for inadvertent honesty.

  “I have combined the murderous heritage of Benhilda’s components into a single machine. I have built a gallows that can only kill one person at a time. A bottleneck constricting the traffic of death through a single noose. Even then, it can only do so after the justice system has decreed the ultimate punishment. It is a beautiful idea. Like you.”

  Percival realized he had spoken two words too many. Though Daphne was not flattered, she knew that this was the highest compliment her husband was capable of. She also knew that he was lying. The story of where he got the weapons was true. However, Percival had not been honest about his real motivation for making Benhilda. He had simply made up an explanation that was dark enough to concede the perversion his wife already knew about. However, he had no plans to introduce her to the outer limits of that perversion. Daphne had no intention of venturing there either, so she did not challenge her husband’s diluted truth.

  “I am sorry for being the way I am,” said Percival. His voice was soft. His head was bowed. The contrition rose up from the dungeon of his soul. This was Percival’s sympathy-seeking pose. In fact, it was this manipulative device that had aided his unlikely courtship of Daphne.

  * * *

  The Savvynova

  Percival Allen was an odd man with beady, sunken eyes. Though he was a skilled artisan, courting women was not among his talents. He had met his future wife while she was playing bingo with friends at a local bar in Ipswich. Percival had studied the female patrons and settled on Daphne. He watched her carefully until he uncovered her weakness.

  She had a good heart.

  Percival was a “savvynova”. The term was Ipswich lingo for a charmless man who successfully courted women by appealing to their pity. A determined savvynova often made a hundred attempts before succeeding once. Therefore, the most important traits for those who chose to follow this calling were patience, persistence, and a self-esteem that was immune to rejection.

  After three years of failure, Percival travelled across eight British cities and studied many prominent savvynovas. He interned under the legendary Jacques Sangfroid, a French émigré who was also known as “the hardest-working man in courting”. Jacques was rumoured to have courted fifty women over ten thousand attempts. He had accomplished this feat in hundreds of bars across the United Kingdom, France, Belgium, and Switzerland. Even in his heyday, a success rate of 0.5 percent was unrivalled in savvynova circles.

  Jacques retired on his eighty-fifth birthday but remained a minor celebrity in his nursing home. Several young nurses had to be transferred to other facilities after developing symptoms that hinted they were succumbing to his persistence. Percival would later name his first son Jacques.

  For many weeks after his pilgrimage around the UK, Percival studied his notes and practised his facial expressions in the mirror. When he was ready, he went to one of the local bars’ bingo night. There were always single girls at bingo night.

  Percival sat alone at the corner of the bar. From his perch, he scanned the place in search of his prey. After a stiff beer, he came up with a strategy. He walked over to a woman sitting near Daphne’s table. Looking several inches below her chin, he suggested that the two of them leave together and “Make good things happen.”

  Percival did not stand a chance with the woman. He knew it. However, she was not his real target. Percival knew that not only would she turn him down, but she would also make a spectacle out of her rejection.

  Everything worked as planned. The woman dismissed Percival in a monologue laced with venom and arsenic. She glared at him like a rotting carcass as he walked away.

  The gall!

  The plan was working smoothly. Daphne had seen it all. She walked over to the woman and pelted her with a torrent of obscenities that Percival had never heard before or after that night. When she was done, she followed him to the corner where he had gone to lick his superficial wounds.

  “Are you okay?” she asked. “My name is Daphne.”

  Then Percival sprung the trap. He dressed himself in the humiliation of a man who knew that he attracted women like a tube of exploding lipstick. His face broke Daphne’s heart.

  Later that evening, Percival lay awake in bed with an idiotic smile on his face. He was no longer a virgin.

  Six children later, the pitiful face still had an impact on Daphne. However, Percival knew that this currency would lose its value if he used it too often. Even by his frugal standards, today seemed as good a time as any to unleash it. When he did, Daphne closed her eyes and sighed deeply. The anesthetic was taking effect. Her rage was getting drowsy. Daphne stood up and walked over to her husband. She placed the cat gently on his lap and sat beside him. Her large brown eyes peered down his deep eye sockets. Percival was tense. He had to consolidate the emerging truce.

  “Percival?”

  “Yes, Daphne?”

  “Please remove your hand from my crotch.”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  “Thank you. Now, do you see this face?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s calm but ruffled. It means that the rage cells have not fully drained from my blood stream. Thus, I will be unresponsive to seduction until all the stragglers have left. After that, a less crude gesture would be appreciated.”

  “Of course, Daphne. I didn’t mean to offend you or your stragglers. I just felt an action imperative, that’s all.”

  “A what?”

  “The pressure to do something when inaction feels like incompetence.”

  “Is it the same imperative that is guiding the same wayward hand under my bathrobe?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, now is the time when inaction is the best imperative, Percival. Is that okay with you?”

  “Sure thing Daphne. I just thought –”

  “Don’t think, Percival. Bad things always happen when you are forced to think under the pressure of social norms. Just hold Doris until she wakes up. I am going back to bed. You can join me once you are certain she will live. But, I will not accompany you to visit your hideous gallows.”

  Percival bit his lip. It was difficult to hear his wife referring to Benhilda as ‘hideous’. But he had hurt Daphne so much. Her anger was understandable. More importantly, her reaction had assured him that though she was unhappy, she was not going to leave him. That was the most important thing. There was no need to rekindle the possibility with a poorly timed retort.

  Percival continued to sit with Doris. He was not a cat person, but even he had to admit it: this one had personality. The kitchen was awash in a crisp morning light. Soon, Percival felt comfortable enough to let his mind drift to the lovely lady he had left in the workshop. Benhilda was amazing. How he wished his wife understood: Men and machines just mix.

  * * *

  Spiritual Voltage

  Percival was daydreaming about Benhilda when Daphne returned to the kitchen.

  “Give me my cat!” she said, snatching Doris off her husband’s lap. The unconscious creature was now showing signs of life. She was snoring with her tongue dangling from her mouth.

  Daphne placed her free hand on her hip and squinted at her husband.

  “Why are you still with me, Percival?”

  Percival’s heart sank.

  “What sort of a question is that Daphne?
You are my wife! My life! I love you!”

  “Percival, you only love things that you make with your own hands. Or your penis. Like the children. That’s why you insisted on having six of them when I had set a limit of three.”

  “Daphne, don’t be ridiculous! How can you say things like that?”

  “Because it’s true! You only love manifestations of yourself. Everything else you simply tolerate. Look me in the eye and tell me I am lying.”

  Percival crossed his hands and bundled his mouth into a tight knot. He wanted to send a clear message that this question was absurd.

  “Which eye?”

  “Pick one!”

  Percival shifted his gaze between Daphne’s coffee-brown eyes. They were beautiful.

  “I do not believe you are lying. You are just mistaken, that’s all.”

  “Percival, you wanted me to be pregnant from marriage to menopause. That way, you could create a different version of yourself throughout my child-bearing years.”

  “What ravings are these, Daphne? I will not stand here and entertain such ravings!”

  “You are not standing. You are sitting. And you will remain that way until this conversation is over!”

  Percival glared at his wife. What to do? Defy or concede? The former would provoke her. The latter would confirm her worst fears about him. The choice was clear.

  “I am insulted, Daphne! Insulted and appalled! ‘Marriage to menopause?’ How long did you spend thinking of that clever phrase? I love the kids! Besides, what is wrong with a man wanting to have an extensive legacy?”

  “Yes, yes, I have heard all that nonsense before. ‘The legacy of your loins,’ blah, blah, blah! Percival, your motivation is not so romantic. In fact, the word ‘motivation’ is too lofty to describe what fuels your manic desire to procreate. The only thing that drives you is the basic impulse for self-replication. Like bacteria. They strive for survival, and yet they are incapable of thought. Replication is a compulsion. Not an ambition.”

  “Well, I failed biology in high school so I cannot comment on the ambitions of bacteria.”

  “I just taught you all you need to know about them! Now consider yourself educated on the subject, and stop avoiding my point. Percival, you are a nonstop genetic photocopier. Well, congratulations! You married yourself a stack of blank paper and got your ink cartridge busy!”

  “Daphne, the kids are sleeping!”

  “Oh right ... You forgot to drug them too before you left to see your junkyard strumpet! But don’t worry about them. They woke up at four in the morning to surprise you with a ‘happy birthday cake’. They waited for two hours before slinking of to sleep when you did not show up. So don’t bother yourself with that problem, Mr. Carpenter. The children are too tired to be awakened by the sound of their mother screaming as she tries to yank the worm of irresponsibility from their father’s brain! Happy birthday, Percival Allen!”

  “Right. It is my birthday. Thanks, Daph.”

  Daphne leered at her husband with a murderous glare. She was breathless. Her body was quaking. Though she had been yelling at the top of her voice, Doris had not moved a paw. Percival slowly lowered his hands from his chest. They had migrated there to protect the sensitive parts of his body from the verbal onslaught. Unfortunately, his exposed face had been smacked stiff. Percival had never seen Daphne so upset. These feelings went beyond Benhilda. They must have been building up for some time. Percival had no choice. It was time for drastic measures. It was time to re-don ... “The Face”.

  “Daphne, was that really necessary? Things can’t be that bad? Huh, baby?”

  “Yes they are, Percival! I married a man who gets aroused by nails and nooses. Do you remember our first wedding anniversary? You took me to Germany so we could enjoy Rothenburg, ‘the most charming town in all of Bavaria’! But romance was not your motivation. If only I had been that lucky. No, you planned the whole trip so we could ‘coincidentally’ walk past the Medieval Crime Museum. ‘Well this is peculiar,’ you said, before suggesting we take a ‘quick tour’ of the place. Our quick tour lasted two hours. Even the overzealous museum guide began to tire of your questions. And not long after that, he became gravely alarmed. That was no small achievement, Percival. It takes a special person to unsettle a man who works in a crime museum.”

  “Your retelling is a little dramatic, Daphne. In fact, I had almost forgotten that part of our wonderful trip until now.”

  “Percival, your eyeballs stuck so far out of your skull when you saw that iron maiden. You didn’t even react as strongly the night you lost your virginity, and I agreed to marry you. The museum experience was devastating. You clamped my heart on a medieval torture rack and pulled it apart. I seriously considered running to the hotel, packing up, and fleeing back to England. I only reconsidered because I thought it would be cruel. I felt you needed help, not criticism. I was willing to commit my time, patience, and love to help you get over your condition. Sadly, it turns out that my patient loves his disease more than his healer.”

  Percival had to intervene. He had to find a way to help Daphne relate to his worldview.

  “Listen, Daphne. You know how you always joke that you have a separate dessert stomach? That you can eat a big meal and still have room for ice cream? Well, my brain works in the same way. One part is responsible for my attraction to you. A completely different part is drawn to ... implements of mortality and discomfort. It was that latter part that was responding to the iron maiden, so you don’t have to worry, Baby. The two of you were never in competition. The same applies with Benhilda.”

  Percival was proud of his analogy. He looked smug.

  “Oh, thank you for clearing things up, Percival! I now appreciate the principle that justifies your sickness. You are right. I can reconcile a conflict between a steak dinner and a bowl of ice cream. You can accommodate one between your wife and a hollow statue that’s lined with spikes to punch holes into the poor souls thrown inside.”

  Percival saw an opportunity to diffuse the situation with humour.

  “You have to admit, Daphne, that the iron maiden has a quirky charm,” he chuckled hopefully.

  “No, it does not!” screamed Daphne. “You see, Percival, this is the sort of thing that prevents you from befriending normal people. After a few minutes of conversation, even the most tolerant people end up slamming the doors of their open minds in your face.”

  “Well, maybe I don’t want to befriend them either,” said Percival as he sulked in his chair.

  “Well, I do. I happen to live in their world. I enjoy their company. I meet them at the parents’ association meetings. At the children’s soccer games. Oh! I also like to spend time with my ‘normal’ friends who once warned me not to take a wounded stranger home from bingo night! Friends who are still mystified by my commitment to you. But all this modern British woman can do is point at six children and ask the single question she’s never been able to answer: Why am I still in love with you?”

  Daphne dug the tip of her forefinger into her chest. Her tight strawberry blonde locks quivered from the vibrations.

  “I am always tense when we are in the company of others. I constantly ask myself: What will Percival say or do? I feel like a wet nurse who must always be ready to clean up the next major disaster. I’m always half-listening to the people I am talking to because the remainder of my attention is focused on how you are interacting with others. You can call me ‘Daphne, The Great Anticipator’. I have learned to predict and intervene before you can cause offence. How? Because you get this devilish twinkle in your eyes just before you say something stupid. It never occurs to you that the person you are speaking to is a normal human being who doesn’t share your warped view of the world.”

  “Surely, I am not that bad, Daphne?” asked Percival. The outer ends of his eyebrows had slanted so far down that they brushed against the corners of his eyes.

  “Oh, yes you are, Percival! Yes, you are. This iron-maiden nonsense is a perfect example. Inste
ad of offering to get help for your obsession with death, you had to jump into foolish analogies to defend it. You equated my harmless guilty pleasure with your guilt for experiencing pleasure in harmful objects. The difference matters, Mr. Allen. A lot. When we apply that clever analogy to the real world, the results are not so cute. The reality is that my dinner and dessert always end up in the same stomach and, eventually, the same thighs. I know this. Your love for your wife and gallows also live in the same part of your brain. I should know. It’s a crowded space where I am constantly in danger of being crushed to death by an avalanche of wood and metal. My only refuge is the interior of that stupid iron maiden. Even then, I don’t have much room to move around. If I don’t remain perfectly still, those spikes will promptly remind me of something I have known for years: my husband’s affection may be divisible, but his machines of death will always get the bigger piece. So I remain frozen, clutching my meagre allowance of matrimonial bliss. Terrified of being gored to death. Maybe you want to consider all this before you use insensitive analogies on a wife who must raise a family while living inside a medieval armoury.”

  Percival did not look so smug anymore. He opened his mouth, but Daphne motioned him to shut it.

  “Now don’t get me started on those pictures I found under the mattress.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “The ones of a warehouse filled with antique pillories.”

  “Those weren’t mine. One of the kids was doing a project on pillories ... for school.”

  “Which of the kids?”

  “Um ... I don’t remember.”

  “Of course. And now there is this Benhilda. Percival, do you have any idea what it feels like to share a husband with a machine that’s stacked with enough weapons to make an arms dealer blush? But don’t mind me. How can all the objects in your head live with a man who will not commit to one of them? I know nothing about the laws of love and inanimate objects, but I am sure they also frown on promiscuity!”