Body of Immorality

by Brandon Berntson

  Last one, he thought. Last one!

  If it wasn’t luck (fate), he didn’t know what it was.

  He giggled, shaking his head. They were meant to play!

  For a second, his mind went blank. Did something happen when his fingers caressed the cellophane?

  Gordy blinked several times, trying to clear his head. He looked both ways down the isle, making sure no one was there to witness his sudden bout of lunacy. Seeing no one, he put the game under his arm, fished for his wallet to see how much cash he had, and started toward the checkout.

  What he didn’t see was the electric blue charge leaping from the game. The electricity had nipped his fingers when he plucked the game from the shelf, the reason for the blankness in his mind.

  The overweight blonde smiled when Gordy put the game on the conveyor. He paid in cash. The girl smiled too sweetly, but Gordy ignored her. He had other things on his mind.

  “Don’t bag it,” he said.

  The girl didn't appreciate this. She frowned at him, handing him his change: six dollars and fourteen cents.

  Hurrying like a child through the parking lot with a sack full of goodies, Gordy jumped into the truck, and threw the game on the seat beside him. Like a good dog, he patted it lovingly, hoping and wishing for luck.

  Much as he’d entered, he exited the parking lot in the same fashion, tires squealing over the asphalt. As he made his way onto Wadsworth Avenue, turning north, Gordy Paladin thought about provincial victory. He steered the truck toward Kendall’s apartment. He wasn’t thinking about fate, let alone, luck. World domination occupied his thoughts.

  *

  “Let us indulge,” Kendall said, when Gordy arrived.

  The apartment was on the top floor of a five-story complex made of beige brick. Kendall lived in 7E.

  Gordy’s brother was a tall lanky scarecrow. Fiery red hair and bright freckles more pronounced than Gordy, defined him as the uglier, more cursed of the two. While Kendall was unsuccessful in the dating arena—being shy and repulsive—he prided himself on being an artist, somewhere between poet, painter, and musician. He liked all three.

  Kendall ambled to the kitchen cupboards, retrieved a glass and a bottle of Windsor Canadian. He poured a healthy dollop.

  “Why don’t you wait ’til Domingo gets here?” Gordy said.

  “Don’t put me on the firing line, brother. I’ve had a rough day. I need an early tranquilizer.”

  Gordy smiled. Kendall always needed an early tranquilizer. He seemed to enjoy these moments more than Gordy and Domingo because of the tranquilizers. Kendall never minded losing; he just wanted a reason to get high.

  Kendall raised his glass and toasted. “To world domination,” he said. “I’m going to have a good night. I can feel it.”

  Gordy smiled, keeping his earlier premonitions to himself.

  After the shot, Kendall rifled through Gordy’s compact disc case, looking for some appropriate music.

  “The stars are too easily obtainable,” Kendall said. “It takes no effort to grasp them. You and I are worth much more than that.”

  “You smoked before I came over, didn’t you?” Gordy asked.

  “Lon Chaney Jr. doesn’t live here anymore.”

  Gordy shook his head in bafflement and went to the telephone to order a pizza.

  “When’s Domino coming?” Kendall asked. He never pronounced the ‘g’ in Domingo’s name. It was always Domino.

  “Should be any time,” Gordy said.

  Getting an answer on the other end, he ordered two large pizzas with everything on them. He put the phone down and Kendall pressed ‘play’ on the stereo: Eric Clapton’s, Behind the Sun. Unable to resist, Gordy went to the kitchen, and poured a shot of his own.

  “Thought you wanted to wait?” Kendall said.

  Gordy shrugged.

  “Rough day?” Kendall asked.

  Gordy smiled, and the doorbell rang.

  “Domino!” Kendall said, getting excited.

  Gordy downed the drink and winced, shaking his head. Fire spread through his belly.

  Kendall went to the door and opened it. A short, portly man stood on the porch, wearing large round glasses, dark wet hair combed straight back from a balding head. A thick mustache, like a carpet, took up the space under his nose. Each arm cradled two twelve packs of Budweiser. Domingo wore a white tank-top and long, tan-colored shorts with flip-flops.

  “Aloha!” he said.

  Kendall returned the smile and opened the door wider for Domingo. Domingo went to the fridge and put the beer inside. He exhumed three cans before closing the door.

  “Kendall has some gange?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

  Like a magician, Kendall held up a joint.

  “Let’s start a fire before we drink,” Domingo said. “It’s better that way.”

  Kendall lit the joint and passed it around. Gordy readied the game; Kendall was red, Gordy yellow, and Domingo was blue.

  The marijuana numbed the edges of Gordy’s brain, working into him after they smoked. His eyes turned bloodshot, and he squinted. In minutes, he was red-eyed, relaxed, and giggly.

  “Ah,” said Kendall, taking another drag from the joint. “You do realize I’ve never won at Risk before? Tonight will be different. Victory is in the hands of the artist.”

  “I think the color you’ve chosen has depicted your fate,” Gordy said.

  “We might be able to get in a couple of games before the night’s through,” Domingo said.

  “We’re waiting for pizza,” Gordy said. “But we might as well set up the board.”

  “To the captain!” Domingo said, toasting, and they all drank.

  *

  On the dining room table, they drew their cards, spending the next five minutes placing their players strategically upon the board.

  Clapton continued to pluck blue’s riffs from the stereo. Soon, the pizza arrived. Paying the man at the door (Gordy was the more financially sound of the two brothers), he left a generous tip and carried the pizzas back to the table.

  “Gratsi,” said Domingo, helping himself. He took a bite of the pizza, hot cheese stretching from his mouth.

  Once they were comfortable—the last man upon the board—they sipped beers casually, nibbled on pizza, and began to play.

  *

  The first moves were basic enough, depending on how many territories and cards you owned. The more territories you controlled, the more armies you received for your next move. More turns and sets of cards added an increasing number to a player’s armies. The more numbers on the board, the more certain the defeat. Holding borders was an equally challenging strategy as well. Letting an opponent infiltrate an already occupied territory was a quick defeat to whoever owned the region. Wiping out the last armies of an opponent resulted in gaining their cards, thus more armies, fortifying a player’s position.

  The dice rolled. Armies advanced, stationed themselves, pulled back, and eradicated other armies.

  The minutes ticked by…

  Kendall lit another joint, and the three of them smoked and drank. Victories pronounced themselves as the night wore on.

  *

  “Jeez, here I am again,” Kendall said, facing defeat already. “You know what happens now, right?”

  “If you knew how to play the game,” Gordy said. “You’d be able to fortify your borders better.”

  Domingo laughed.

  Kendall had been fortunate to gain possession of Africa. Africa, however, was a challenge to maintain. Borders could be invaded form Asia, Europe, and North America. Kendall knew this. Holding Africa from the start was a maneuver sure to impress the most amateur Risk player

  “It’s a sure defeat,” Kendall said. “Do not waste your time, gentleman. Africa is impossible. That is where defeat lies, from Africa. You know Hemingway loved Africa.”

  “I think everybody knows that,” Gordy said. “Just roll the damn dice.”

  Kendall was now attacking his brother on the board.
The sore spot was how Kendall tried to obtain Europe while holding Africa, an equally daunting task.

  “You are attempting the impossible, yes?” Domingo said to Kendall.

  “Shut up,” Kendall said.

  They rolled the dice.

  “Take two,” said Gordy, smiling.

  Sighing, Kendall removed two of his men from the board.

  *

  Every move pronounced a magical stroke, the unheeded night as the dice rolled.

  It was tradition.

  *

  “You can’t do that!”

  Gordy grinned. “I’m doing it.”

  “Some brother,” Kendall said, in disgust. “I suppose in the real world, if we were both commanding officers, you’d not hesitate throwing me over.”

  “Wasn’t that The Civil War?”

  “You know this ‘no mercy crap’…I’m sick of it. It’s ancient history. Let me just have a piece of Africa, for crying out loud! I want to win just one goddamn game!”

  “Weep not, dear poet,” Gordy said, moving his yellow players into Africa. “Thy end is near. You have held your position valiantly, if not unwisely.”

  Kendall sat back and watched his brother move a massive force into Eastern Africa. Kendall had held it valiantly, Gordy thought. He had to give his brother credit. Kendall, however, knew his downfall. Instead of keeping his forces strong on Africa’s borders, he’d put them around Greenland and Asia, places he hadn’t a chance of maintaining. For that, he was paying the price.

  Kendall pulled out another joint and lit it. “To the gods,” he said, taking a deep inhalation. He passed it to Domingo. Kendall blew out smoke. “Ah! An artist’s demise. The perfect sleep. No mercy at the gate. Heaven is not invincible. My prayers have gone unanswered. Life has delivered a vicious blow, dear friends.”

  “I think this calls for a drink,” Domingo said. He stood up and grabbed three beers from the refrigerator.

  Kendall was on the verge of an overthrow. He’d fight, however, giving it all he had until Gordy and Domingo wiped the last of his armies from the board.

  “How sad the song’s end is for the poet,” Kendall said. “He is gallant in his heart only. His strength leaves much to be desired. He will not soar.”

  “Get your damn armies off the board,” Gordy said, without sympathy. “I’m moving in.”

  Beers were distributed, and they resumed play. Kendall stood up and changed the music. Gordy hadn’t yet finished his turn and challenged Kendall for what remained of East Africa.

  “Is there no mercy?” Kendall said, sitting back down. “Is there no one who can save us?”

  “The game’s afoot,” his brother said. “You gonna roll one dice or two?”

  “Two, oh my brother. I will roll two, and I will fight unto the death.”

  “Roll then.”

  They rolled.

  “Take two,” Gordy said.

  *

  “Lights out, poet,” said Domingo. “Take a bow.”

  Kendall sighed, taking the last of his armies from the board. He was done, the first one defeated for the evening. Greed and impatience had killed him.

  “Well, there’s always the dee-jay,” Kendall said. “A form of art in and of itself.”

  “Put Beethoven on,” said Domingo.

  “Beethoven?” Kendall said, raising his eyebrows.

  Gordy looked up and smiled. He still had confidence and strength to win. Domingo, however, was a different player than Kendall, strategic and wise with his armies. He’d played the game many times. If Gordy were going to win, he’d have to rely on rolls of the dice, and skilled, strategic planning.

  “Beethoven,” said Kendall, looking worried. “You know what that means?”

  Gordy did not reply. Domingo was an avid Beethoven fan. When he mentioned Beethoven, he meant one piece, one symphony alone.

  Kendall went to the stereo. Soon, the sounds of Ludwig Van and the first movement of the Ninth were audible from the speakers.

  “Beethoven, my friend,” said Domingo, nodding and smiling with confidence. “Prepare for war.”

  “You forget something,” Gordy said, smiling.

  Domingo raised his eyebrows.

  “I’ve always liked Beethoven, too. In fact, he’s my fucking favorite composer.”

  Kendall erupted with laughter. He went to the cupboard and pulled down the bottle of Windsor. “I think it’s mandatory we all take a shot before the major battle begins.” He grabbed three small glasses and poured two inches into each.

  One by one, the three of them grabbed a separate glass, and raised them over the board. Glasses clinked.

  “To Beethoven,” said Domingo.

  “Beethoven,” Gordy said.

  “Beethoven,” Kendall repeated.

  They drank and chased the shot with a beer.

  “Now,” Domingo said, licking his lips. “Let us play.”

  The two remaining players resumed their game. Gordy and Domingo rolled the dice, two men intent on an assured overthrow. The influence of the night’s chemicals hazily rubbed at Gordy’s brain. He blinked his eyes and tried to focus.

  After fifteen minutes, Gordy sat back while Kendall stood looking on with his arms crossed. Domingo waited patiently, sweating at the brow. Gordy turned over three cards.

  “I’ve got a set,” he said.

  “Sonofabitch,” Domingo said, sitting back in his chair, his shoulders slumping. He looked as if he’d been defeated already.

  “Holy shit,” Kendall said. “Forty-five. Forty-five armies, plus his territories, plus the continents he already owns.”

  Kendall stood over the board, looking down, and shook his head.

  “Sixty-seven armies,” Gordy said.

  “He could wipe you out,” Kendall said to Domingo. “With one swift move, this one turn. He could wipe you out.”

  “Don’t you have something better to do?” Domingo asked, raising his eyebrows.

  “Nope,” Kendall told him, smiling. “I’m watching this.”

  Gordy stationed some of his troops in Kamtchatka. Others armies, he fortified on the southern peninsula of North America. Here, he could fortify his armies in Peru and the rest of South America.

  “The world waits, my friend,” Gordy told Domingo. “Thou art simply too tyrannical a ruler. Prepare to die.”

  Domingo laughed and rolled the dice.

  Kendall laughed as well. It was, after all, a night among family and friends.

  “Take two,” Gordy said.

  “Damn,” Domingo replied, plucking two of his men from the board.

  *

  Isolated in his own victory, Gordy played on.

  Something came to life behind his eyes, however, a tunnel of light, a stretch of corridor revealing…something…

  Gordy shook his head. He couldn’t tell what it was, the drink, the gange…

  Land and sea did not deter him. Until the last man, or color, dominated the board, play continued.

  Victory was obtainable now.

  *

  “This seems to be the end for you,” Gordy said.

  “And I thought Beethoven was good to me,” Domingo said, sighing.

  “Is it getting hot in here?” Kendall said. “Or is it just me?”

  “It’s probably all the shots you’ve taken,” Gordy told him.

  “Let’s fire up another joint,” Domingo said. “Kendall?”

  Kendall went to the stereo and found another joint sitting among the compact discs. He lit it and passed it around. They’d been playing for three and a half hours.

  Gordy had, successfully, wiped the last of Domingo’s armies from the board. He had conquered. His feelings earlier had proved true, and it felt good to win the game, especially with Kendall and Domingo, this night of revelry.

  It was luck.

  “Uh, guys?” said Kendall.

  They ignored him.

  Gordy stood, looking down at the board, savoring the victory, all his yellow armies scattered throug
hout the world. To him, it was a beautiful sight.

  What a great feeling, he thought. Winning.

  “Hey, guys?”

  Kendall stood by the window, the curtains closed.

  Domingo walked over where Kendall stood, taking a hit off the joint.

  “It’s hotter than hell over here,” Domingo said, forgetting about the game. He frowned

  An orange/yellow glow emanated from the window, a slow, steady pulse of rhythm.

  “What the hell is that?” Gordy asked, standing up. He moved to where his brother and Domingo stood by the curtain.

  Should he have known? Again, something alien plucked at his thoughts…

  You could have avoided this, it said. You got too messed up, and you could have avoided this. Your greed is something else. You transgressed into greatness like every ruler before you.

  Gordy felt he should’ve understood what the glow meant, but was just shy of grasping it.

  Heat emanated from the window in a dull, steady throb. Something, Gordy understood, turned permanently to dust.

  Beethoven continued to triumphantly pound from the stereo, the last ten minutes of the Ninth.

  Kendall pulled the curtain aside. “My God,” he said, in awe.

  Domingo and Gordy were mute behind him.

  Had he felt the jolt, the electric blue current leaping from the shelf where the game had bit him?

  Kendall stepped away from the window, going to the kitchen, where he poured another drink. He said nothing on his way. He fired up another joint. In those moments, it seemed the right thing to do.

  On the streets below, the screams had dwindled. A single, untouched structure stood on Miller Avenue, a deserted island surrounded by Life’s consuming flame.

  “Get me a beer, will ya?” Domingo said.

  Kendall retrieved three more beers like a good host.

  In silence, sipping beers, they stood in front of the window and surveyed the holocaust.

  Why hadn’t they heard the destruction, the fire, the screams, Gordy thought? Had they been too absorbed in the game, that intoxicated, to notice?

  From sea to shining sea, fire blanketed the horizon, in all its blazing, blinding glory. The window bubbled with heat.