by Borne Wilder
The naked light bulb that hung from the ceiling cast the tiny man in a jaundiced wash. The frayed, cloth insulated wire that held the antique fixture in place would send a shiver up the spine of even the most lenient building inspector. Much of the shop maintained the same antiquity.
The smell of rain and magnolias, from the open air market, could never penetrate the smell of musty horn cases, rusty spit valves, and damp horsehair plaster, which dominated the music store.
A menacing shadow stretched across the floor, and up the wall. It could easily have been cast by a large closet monster dining on a small child, instead of the miniature fat man, who was indeed, casting it. The exaggeration might have been the lightbulb’s attempt to draw attention away from its own nudity, or a proclamation of its superiority over candles; light bulbs are inconsistent in their modesty.
Behind the man’s back, terms like midget, dwarf, and little person were bandied about, and though his appearance might fit any of those classifications, in a generic sense, they didn't really do the man justice. His too short arms, and too short legs lent him a uniqueness, which gave onlookers the feeling they had just peeked behind the curtain at the freak show and saved a quarter, but had they known the truth about the man, they would have shrunk in fear.
Though his stature was that of an obese five-year-old boy, his face, however, despite its rounded childlike features, was weathered and worn with age; the yellowed lighting did little to hide his antiquity, the bulb’s overhead position only deepened and highlighted every wrinkle. Quite possibly, intentionally, the naked bulb has a cruel, cold heart.
Too short to reach the floor, he swung his legs back and forth absent-mindedly, as he read. A passing glance, would give one the impression of a studious schoolboy, perhaps a relation of Humpty Dumpty, working diligently at his homework, but a closer look, particularly at his eyes, if they are in fact, windows to the soul, would reveal a monster. Evil can be satirical at times.
The man-boy chose a particular sheet from the pile, and held it out before him with his short, pudgy appendages, as far as arms went, they were almost useless, but he made do with them, just the same. Squinting in various degrees, through tiny spectacles, he perused the evidence before him. His cherubic face gathered and bunched as he read.
According to the document, some less than honorable fool had broken his promise. An exchange had been made in good faith, yet the man, whose signature graced the bottom of the contract, had failed to live up to his part of the bargain. Agreements had been reached, and promises made, the contract in his hand bore witness to this. A man’s word had been given in a gentleman’s fashion, and received as such, only to be discarded by a rapscallion, with absolutely no regard concerning his obligations. Such an indiscretion was not only despicable, in Baal’s eyes, but unforgivable.
There wasn’t much personal detail in the contract, there never was, only a basic description of goods and services, the all-important signature, and the payment required to satisfy the arrangement. The payment, no matter what was bartered or traded, was always the same.
As he tugged at the small triangular patch of hair that grew beneath his bottom lip, Baal tried to recall the general atmosphere of the transaction. Although the lack of integrity, involved in the treatment of the account’s balance bothered him greatly, he was also somewhat puzzled by the stipulations of the contract.
A first-century Shekel of Tyre, to be obtained by client, from a Palestinian coin collector in the Golan Heights, Hakim W. Jefferson, one round trip to Jerusalem, immediate physical enhancement (genitalia).
Physical enhancements were commonplace, though usually more drastic and complete, than the one specified in the contract, but what truly inspired curiosity, was the shekel. On its best day, at the most prestigious of auction houses, the coin would only bring seven to ten thousand dollars. Why would a man make such a lopsided deal?
There were no clues forthcoming in the document. Even in light of the “Dine and dash”, the rarity of such an occurrence and the fact that one has never been successful gave Baal cause to dismiss the notion of premeditated nefariousness.
Another peculiarity was the acquisition itself, the man had insisted on being flown to Jerusalem, so as to acquire the item from the coin collector in person. He vaguely remembered the man, though not in great detail. However, he did recall, a profound lack of intelligence, and if one were to make a judgment based on the man’s desires, Baal would have considered him to be somewhat simple in ambition, but imprudent, shiftless people were Baal’s bread and butter. Stupidity and laziness were two major qualities he banked on, in his line of work. In truth, there had been nothing that would throw up any red flags, no indications of a deal-breaker. It was quite apparent; the heel’s reasons for visiting the Holy Land were non-religious in nature when he had asked for Baal to jot down directions to the location of Christ’s grave. It was several minutes before Baal could contain his chuckling. He wasn’t chuckling now, however.
Baal was just part of a process, part of the procedure, a system designed to separate the wheat from the chaff, and ensure the chaff was properly disposed of. Now, due to this reprobate’s absolute disdain toward the verbal and written agreement, there appeared to be some chaff in the wind.
Collectors, the lowly underlings in the realm of things evil, usually handle trade matters gone awry, in the field as they happen, allowing Baal to focus on matters of more import. Collectors, also known as Reapers, are if nothing else, wholly and thoroughly enthusiastic about their work. Perhaps their commitment is a result of their limited intelligence, which suits them to menial tasks, or it might be, due to the satisfaction they derive through the torture of the human soul. Either way, they conduct their chores in a timely manner, which is quite an achievement, considering they spend most of their existence in a dimension where time doesn’t exist.
The Reaper is a misnomer, probably owing to all the farming references in the Bible; however, the creatures wouldn’t know a hoe from a hailstone, if they held one in each hand. They are basically, nothing more than an extraordinarily efficient method of shipment. Any harvesting to be done was completed prior to their arrival.
Those that read the Good Book, with a western, modern mindset, might gather that God started out as a farmer, with all of His allusions to sowing, harvesting, soil conditions and livestock tending, but a little digging, would show God’s true passion is physics, quantum physics to be precise.
God’s use of sand and stars as metaphors for unfathomable numbers is commonplace throughout the Old Testament. Telling a sheep rancher, that he would have fifty or sixty billion grandchildren, might produce the same quizzical look, as mentioning particles lose their locality at 10-35. Yet, modern science has discovered, God revels in the astronomical. The Almighty appears to find comfort in the immeasurable. Man, unless it pertains to the sum in his pocket, continues to be baffled by big math.
God probably thought the average Israelite might have become frustrated trying to wrap his head around such things as, The Cosmological Constant, Universal Fine-tuning, the inability to see the fifth dimension from the fourth, and the graininess of time/space. Perhaps, at the time, when hunter-gatherers had just started poking seeds into the dirt, it was best to leave gravity a mystery and let them draw their own conclusions from falling apples.
In fact, He might have lost Moses altogether, had he tried to explain Schrodinger’s cat. Moses was good when it came to taking God’s word on matters of the supernatural, but the quantum superposition of life and death occurring simultaneously might breed skepticism in his faithful servant.
Some might say that God would do well to reveal the secrets of the universe. Strip bare the correlation between sin and death, stop all the metaphor stuff, but once the cat was out of the bag, and the educated man realized he was but a whim of some greater entity, the wound in his pride would bleed him out.
Baal didn’t care much for farming, physics, or God. He had always been of the opinion the deit
y craved too much attention, though most principalities conceded the dark prince’s disdain of the Almighty was consequent of pure, green jealousy.
Nevertheless, there was a deviate soul on the loose, and no excuses could be made, at least none that would be accepted, not by Baal, for precious cargo had been lost. The responsible minion would, of course, be extinguished. The Trumpet Fixer ran a taut ship. As far as he was concerned, charity was as mythical as a cabin boy’s virginity, after a year at sea. Payment would not be avoided.
Although deferments had been known to happen from one age to another, and even if one considered the high level of dishonesty in humans, these occurrences were extremely rare, (probably due to the tautness of Baal’s ship, a penchant for soft skinned cabin boys, and zero tolerance for mistakes and…) all mishaps were usually corrected immediately and viciously.
Somehow this one had slipped away before corrective actions could be taken. Somewhere out there, suspended illegally in the ungoverned fabric of creation, was a dark soul, doing who knows what. He had a runner on his hands.
Things would be so much easier if everyone he dealt with kept their word. The entities on the other side of the spectrum needed no escort or guidance. Drawn by a sense of reward, they passed through the dimensions on their own accord. On the darker, more unpleasant side of the spectrum, the souls, who had already received their negotiated rewards, were placed in his charge, so that he might coax them on to their final residence. None were happy to go, of course, yet most, though a bit reluctant, submitted and moved forward.
In the end, all those in his care needed a slight push; the Chantry could be quite intimidating. Especially for those who had not carefully weighed the pros and cons during negotiations, or given serious thought to the finality of their commitment. The accuracy of hindsight can be heartbreaking.
The low value, the human man placed on honor, had always astounded Baal. Such a powerful currency was honor, yet the philosophy of it seemed completely lost on mortal man. Throughout measurable time, man had ricocheted from one promise to another, primarily unconcerned with the damages he brought to his reputation by not fulfilling each assurance. Damage to trust and honor were usually irreparable. In Baal's eyes, once it was damaged, it was gone forever. And man didn't seem to care.
Baal knew how to renovate such behavior. Mankind needed to be taken behind the woodshed for a good thrashing, or perhaps a good old fashioned plague or two. Baal was quite fond of The Book of Revelation.
Without immediate consequences for their actions, man would never learn, their attention spans were much too short. When man deviated from the rules, God should step in with a swift backhand while the infraction was still fresh in the worm’s mind.
Though Baal had been tempted, many times, to implement his own version of admonishment, to go against the protocol of the Head Office would have devastating ramifications. Ramifications he had seen firsthand, with the termination and severance of Lucifer. He would rather such a punishment didn’t befall him.
Baal had subordinates, who could easily handle the retrieval of one lost soul, but the questions that might arise concerning the details, or more pointedly, the inattention to the details of the contract would most certainly raise a few eyebrows, should the higher-ups get wind of the situation. He thought it best to handle this situation himself. If Michael or God forbid, Gabriel was to discover this minor mishap, while the culprit was still at large, his very position would be placed in jeopardy.
Gabriel liked to throw his weight around, in Baal’s opinion. Michael would work with a fellow, as long as results were forthcoming, but Gabriel was by the book and always quick to point out that he, ‘stands before the Throne of God’. Baal had often wished he had a shekel for every time he’d heard that.
Baal would retrieve the soul and have it delivered before anyone was any wiser. The hiding places for an entity in early level suspension were as vast as eternity itself. It could place itself at the singularity of a black hole or within the dark energy of a massive cloud nebula, the possibilities were endless, but history has shown, that every one of them, without fail, went directly home without so much as a side glance at the wonders of the universe that had been created for them. It was almost like the ungrateful deviants were drawn back to the mess that had brought them to the unwanted conclusion of their existence. Like serial killers returning to dump sites. Home was where he would find Nolte and Baal was leaving all methods of soul acquisition on the table. There might be suffering. There would be suffering.
***
Nolte looked into the window of the antique shop and tried to rehearse his lines. The music store looked like a real shithole, but so had the witch’s place. Nolte checked the palm of his hand to see if he was at the correct address. His head was more than a bit fuzzy. The crazy witch had put magic ink in his dick beater and as instructed, he’d licked it a few minutes prior to his arrival at the shop. She wasn’t shitting when she told him to only lick it once, if the fuzz got any worse, he would be lucky to remember his own name.
As he opened the door, a small bell rang over his head and once again when he closed it. He waited for another bell, but there wasn’t one. Usually, things came in threes. He looked back at the top of the door. The bell remained motionless. He looked down at his palm, the shit she had given him was strong, he needed to maintain. He figured he was already at functioning retard, and quickly heading south toward babbling fool.
“Is your business musical, or personal in nature?” queried an effeminate male voice from the back of the shop.
This pole smoker sounds like he has sugar in his britches, Nolte thought. He didn’t think he had it in him to deal with any fag shit in his present state. “A coon-ass named Leroy…Linus sent me from Plaquemines…I need to talk to the trumpet player.” Nolte scratched a phantom itchy spot on his ass while he waited for a response. He could hear the fag in the back wrestling with some paper. Soft footsteps crossed the rear of the shop. A tiny man suddenly appeared off to his right, startling Nolte enough to make him jump.
“Are you inquiring about the Trumpet Fixer?” The tiny man asked. The tiny man's facial expression looked to Nolte, as though he had just chewed on a lemon, but Nolte’s motto was live and let live, he didn’t care what the cocksucker put in his mouth, as long as he kept his fag cooties to himself.
Baal’s inspection of Nolte went from head to toe and back from toe to head, and despite its brevity, the scrutiny was intense enough for Nolte to feel it in his bones, it felt even more judgmental and prejudiced than his own assessment of the faggoty voice.
Just as Nolte had feared, the booty bandit was checking him out. Nolte could only nod; the question and the eye rape had unnerved him. In his fuzzy mind, he thought he had just told the little man that very fucking thing. If the little fucker could keep his mind off my corn-hole, maybe he could understand English.
“I asked if you are inquiring about the Trumpet Fixer?”
“No offense, but you can keep it in your pants. I don’t go in for that inquiring shit; I’m a pussy hound, myself.” Suddenly concerned with date rape drugs and setups, Nolte forgot his rehearsed patter. “I was sent here by a Plaquemines nigger named Linus, he tells me I need to talk to a trumpet player.”
Baal found the man wanting in many ways and was quite sure he could provide any number of services, which might benefit the rather dim looking fellow, but the mentally afflicted were under the protection of God himself and could not be engaged in negotiations.
“Please allow me to be blunt,” The man’s vacant stare was giving Baal cause for concern. “I cannot, in good conscience make any deals, with any person impaired by, or under the influence of drugs or alcohol, nor do I deal with those found to be simple of mind, unless the mental affliction was the result of an injury, and the transaction is a means to repair the injury.”
“Listen, Nancy boy, I’ve only had three beers and I’m as sober as any judge in New Orleans. I was told by a nigger coon-ass, that you and
I could help each other. I’m not here to waste your time. I find offense in not only your words but your tone.” Nolte secretly thanked himself and every cop that had ever pulled him over while he was drunk, it wasn’t what the witch had told him to say, but the indignant attitude he always used on cops. He knew in an instant, the improvisation had served him well. The little man actually appeared to be amused.
The tiny man walked toward him, rocking from side to side on the legs of a toddler. Stopping in front of Nolte, he offered his small hand for Nolte to shake. “Hello, my name is Baal. I have the full authority to speak on behalf of the party, through which, all deals are finalized and to whom, final payment shall be made. Please state your business.”
Nolte started to speak, but thought better of it, afraid he would jinx his DUI checkpoint response. Instead he pulled the small folded paper the witch had given him, from his pocket and handed it to Baal along with a wink. He instantly wished he could take back the wink. What if the mini-fag thought he was coming on to him? Nolte tried to shake the thought from his head, but it was stubborn.
Baal carefully unfolded the paper and read the content of the note. A moment later, he looked sternly into Nolte’s eyes. “Sir, this item hardly seems worth the price you will be required to pay. I must reiterate, that no agreements will be struck with those found simple of mind unless the diminished capacity was the result of injury, and the deal includes repair of said injury.”
Who in the fuck did this thigh-high twink think he was? Nolte bit hard on his tongue. “Sir, I’m a coin collector, initiated by an inheritance I received from my dearly departed daddy. The addition of this Hebe coin will make my collection one of the most complete Jew collections on the planet. I want this specific coin, because my dear old daddy and dolly lommy dothead, over there in Jewland had an agreement, that if ever the sandnigger was to sell this coin, my dearly departed daddy or me, would have first dibs on it.” Nolte looked around the store as if the next part of his request was for their ears only.” And…” he paused as he bent to whisper in the twink’s ear. “And, I want you to give me a bigger dick.” Nolte straightened himself, and grinned, all the while, wondering how he had managed to pull all of that out of his ass, with the mind of a barely functional, window licking retard residing in his head.
