Spectacular Moments of Wonder with Dr. Monocle: That Certain Gentleman

by John Theesfeld

  “Oy, mate!” He slithered up beside me, “Oy, mate, are you a betting man? Is that the kinda bloke you are? ‘Cause I reckon the odds ain’t good for you getting out of ‘ere alive with that pocket watch.” His red, glistening bulbous nose glowed even within the shimmering lights of the gambling room as they flickered away. He was tattered. Haggard. Permanently rough around the edges and hardened as a result. The old chap was crusty as he was pickled. He casually raised his hand toward the thin chain hanging from my vest pocket connected to my watch and as his finger about touched, a large hand overcame his own and crushed it. The man dropped to his knees and winced in pain, a silent scream forming around his open mouth.

  My eyes shifted over; it happened so very quickly. I hadn’t expected him, but there he was, my friend, The Strongman.

  “Oy, Strongman!” The scuttler garbled a tone of suffering.

  The Strongman looked down on the pitiful man and asked calmly, but assertively, “What’s we say about touching, huh, Doyle?”

  Few others dared to look, but whispers did carry. “Please, Margaret,” I heard some rather uptight ninny whisper to his wife who stared on with a morbid curiosity, for Margaret had probably never seen such an interaction up so closely before. They were a prudish, gilded couple. A couple of nitwits, indeed, acting as tourists within a lower social class.

  The Strongman waved over a couple of well-dressed big fellows attired like the bar men. They hurried to and grabbed Doyle by his arms. The men escorted the fellow to an exit as he garbled and mumbled away some nonsense.

  I turned to him with a wide grin, “My friend, The Strongman! How are you?” I was overjoyed to see him.

  He smiled big and wide, grabbed me into a hug and nearly ground my bones to dust. As I struggled for a breath and just as tunnel vision set in he let me down, “How ya’ doing, Doc?” His smiled beamed and he held me by my shoulders.

  My perception warped into dizziness and back to a state of solid thought, “I’m well. And you?”

  “Just fine, Doc. Just fine, indeed. Sorry ‘bout ol’ Doyle, there, he gets out of line sometimes and sometimes I gotta straighten ‘im out.” The Strongman needed not apologize, but he was a nice lad that way.

  Upon sight of The Strongman, somewhere in his late twenties now, one might think they’ve happened upon a behemoth of a maldeviant being, but he is clinically proven to be quite the opposite. He’s always just been a large man. Tall, brutish. His size always amazed me so.

  “What say you about a little adventuring?”

  He smiled, “Where’re we going this time?”

  “The Chasm.” I said flatly, curious as to his response. Ever since I taught the big, old chap to read, he doesn’t go a day without reading The Gazette. I knew he must be aware of what was going on there.

  The Strongman balked, “Ooh, living life dangerously, professor? Chasm’s a little bit chaotic at the moment, don’t you think? Could be interesting fun.”

  “Two thousand in it for you,” I replied before he asked. “Ten altogether, but I suppose I’ll have to hand over a thousand to Mother Moth, and there are expenses, but I think I can assure you a bonus of some kind.”

  “Sounds good.” He then made a face of stone seriousity, “One thing,” he paused a brief moment and then leaned in to whisper in my ear, “I have to go see Giuseppe tomorrow.”

  The day’s date flashed through my mind and suddenly the situation was clear, “Oh... Certainly. I suppose it isn’t too far out of the way.” I knew there would be no argument. If he said we were going, we were going.

  “What’s the schedule like?” The Strongman asked.

  “We need to get to New Haverton as soon as we possibly can,” I began earnestly only to become pessimistically truthful, “but there are no trains going out that way until morning. Plus train service stops at Fenterwig. And I think I’m being tracked by GhostWurks. And an assassin or two.”

  “Dudley,” The Strongman called over the bartender, “whiskey.”

  Dudley, apparently the automaton, grabbed an ale glass, spotted and water-stained, and set it atop the bar. He grabbed a bottle of Wolfson White and poured the glass halfway.

  “I should make clear, we’ll be going into The Chasm, to the bottom, where all the weird plants and flesh eating flowers and underdwellars reside,” I said as The Strongman waited on his whiskey.

  Dudley slid the glass down the bar top. The Strongman took the ale glass, seemingly petite and dandy in his hand like a toy, and drank. “Sounds like fun, doc,” he exhaled a breath of alcohol fumes, “I thought you retired?”

  “I did.” I said without missing a beat, “This is me relaxing.”

  The Strongman laughed and finished his drink in a gulp. He slid his glass down along the bar top and motioned for me to follow him, “C’mon, she’s upstairs.” The glass slid down the length of the bar. Dudley, the bar tending automaton, spun around and caught the glass only to crush in to shards in his metal hand of clockwork gears.

  And so I followed, through the grand ballroom of bawdy and salacious offerings, amusements, and abuses. A drunkard tried grabbing at my monocle only to be face-pushed to the floor by The Strongman and threatened not to get up. I believe his words were, “If you get up, I’ll break your legs.”

  It was good to see my old friend once again.

  18

  Few times in the past have I ever truly taken the time to write about my friend, The Strongman. Usually I rattle on about his feats of greatness and our adventures together, but rarely have I written about him as I understand him and have come to know him.

  He was atypical to the world at large and misunderstood through and through. His father was a first mate and navigator to Stanislaw The Pauper1, and his mother was your average, turn-of-the-crank wench and barmaid who just so happened to board at the brothel above the pub where she slung ale. (Mind you, if you ever mixed up the fact that she slung ale for a living and lived in a brothel, for working in a brothel and living for ale, he’d be sure to straighten you right out. For a man who never truly met his mother, he certainly had high regards for her.)

  It was at this pub that the two met and as nature does take its course over large quantities of ale, my friend was soon born and abandoned and orphaned at the Bridgeport Orphanarium and Kennel some nine months later, where the slogan was, Responsibility Not Your Thing? Why Not Trade It In For A Dog? Either an all-too effective slogan, or just being in step with their customers and clientele, I’m not sure.

  I suspect The Strongman knows of his parents, but I do not think he really cares. I think he’s fine with knowing the basics: dad a sailor and mom was a bar maid. Beyond that, there is never a second thought. I do know that his father went on to captain his own vessel, but aside from that not much else is known. His mother, lost to time, another bar maid swept to the gutter.

  The Orphanarium took him in and cared for him. He showed signs of great strength from an early age. From the notes of Dr. Malachi Damien Webster, by at least the age of two he was able to fend off several nurses from a diaper changing. When a nurse tried taking his pacifier, he socked her one good, knocking a front tooth loose.

  Also from the notes of Dr. Webster:

  "The lad can most certainly eat his fair share and it shows, he has grown twice as fast as any child I have ever seen. Dr. Patton suggests we use his strength to move boxes from the warehouse. In time he'll be eating for three, then four. He is faring far too costly."

  Somewhere within the age range of 8 to 10, The Strongman was already showing signs of problems one might find with a brawler-type: He was ornery, curmudgeonly, and paced at his own step and only his own step. Even at that young age he was surly and downtrodden, always a furrow in his brow. Imagine: A massive 9 year-old, the look of a beaten savage world carved into his face with expression lines and wrinkles. An icy stare. A grim and gravelly voice. Equipped with the confidence grown men are barely able to show. In the right light, his face seemed darkened by a fresh stubble.

 
; Dr. Webster knew the young man needed activity and room to grow, so to speak. He felt obligated to move the boy onto a different path than what they had to offer. Unfortunately that meant slave labor within the confines of the most treacherous parts of The Walls2. Seemed old Dr. Webster had a knack for business when he knew he could make a few coin.

  The Strongman as a young lad didn't stand a hope's chance in a wishing well; he would have been rendered limb from limb had he not escaped. Then again, had he stayed, randomosity been on his side and survived, pray tell what he may have become. Being inside certain parts of The Walls for too long have made men mad and worse, turned them into pure monsters. The Strongman turned mad monster wouldn’t be a force I would want to tangle with, let alone be introduced to. No, the young lad escaped upon learning where he would be taken to and sought emancipation.

  But from the mouth of a whale to the teeth of a shark, The Strongman did not find refuge for long.

  He took to the back alleys and lower levels of Bridgeport. He found refuge in the underground tunnels and rarely made his way above the first level of rails above the metro floor. And never, ever above into the better, wealthier areas of the metro. Being so young he never really knew an entire city was high above his head. He knew there was a level he couldn’t pass, but figured that was it and that was all. He was always told he wasn’t allowed up there. So, he stayed put at the ground level.

  He was too young for a proper job and being just a child, he was frightful of being found out, fearful he'd be sent back to the Orphanarium and then on to working in The Walls. He feared Dr. Webster being out there looking for him and finding him. The Strongman tells me that he could have probably clobbered him even at that young age, but he didn't know any better.

  The Strongman would roam the back alleys looking through garbage bins for any signs of food. He would pick through rotted meat and soggy bread hoping to find something fried or pickled that would have fared well in the wretched filth. For a boy his size and growing, what he needed was not going to be found in the trash receptacles or gutter.

  He considered stealing, but thought against it nearly as immediately. Perhaps The Strongman has associated himself with some nefarious characters, but he is an honest man and I believe he has been for a very long time. He would never steal something from someone who didn’t deserve it or couldn’t afford it, he reasoned. He decided hunting for his food would be fair and better than stealing or going through rubbish bins, but upon leaving the metro and stepping to the forest edge his fear got the best of him.

  Instead he learned to catch city rats. After catching his first disease-ridden vermin, he decided they were rather cute and friendly little buggers. He instead began making friends with the rodents.

  Then The Strongman met the man he called, "A man worse than Dr. Webster." I do believe that does sum it up, indeed.

  Cornelius Swogglestan was his name. He gambled and swindled his way into the pub business at a young age. As Swogglestan would have you believe it, a saloon empire, the largest in Bridgeport. The factual truth of the matter was, and one can obtain this information from the Bridgeport Metro Archives Sponsored by BurueaWorks, Swogglestan owned three pubs all on the same metro block. While not located in the nicest part of Bridgeport, in fact it was located in the very worst part of northern Bridgeport, it was a popular area. The area was, at the time, stricken with poverty, crime, and swarming with pirates of the high seas.

  Swogglestan had noticed the boy in the area over the span of a couple of days. He had seen him digging through a rubbish bin, looking for edible goodies. The day after, trying to catch a pigeon. One particular day, though, he noticed the boy standing at the window of a restaurant, peering inside and caught in a daze. He looked longingly at the diners, his gaze dilating his pupils to sheer black, like that of a wild animal on the scent of blood and ready to break into a frenzied attack. It was merely a grungy soup-kitchen for sailors and dock workers, but to the boy, it was far and away better than trash.

  Swogglestan made his way towards the boy, his usual toothpick stuck in the corner of his mouth, his left hand tossing a shiny gold coin, and his wispy handlebar mustache waxed thinly like straw. Oculargraphics of Swogglestan often capture him with his chin up and his eyes locked in an icy glare. He was worse than the rats that infested the streets. In a cliched manner the archetypal low-level gangster/high level thug, was a perfect oculargraphical example of this very scuttler.

  The Strongman remembers Swogglestan’s first words to him. Swogglestan stood next to the boy and stared at him for a moment. The Strongman knew someone was there, but he didn’t care. Someone from the Orphanarium would have grabbed him immediately, so he wasn’t nervous.

  “Aye, kid? You don’t want none of that, it’ll give you the runs,” he giggled a high-pitched laugh and waited for a response, but the boy didn’t care about the man. Cornelius reached over to tug at the boy’s ragged shirt, but the boy flung his arm away with such force it took him aback. “Whoa, there! Looks like we’ve got a little strong man ‘ere! Is that what we ‘ave ‘ere? A lil’ strong man?” Swogglestan taunted the boy.

  The Strongman said he didn’t know what else to do, but to stand up for himself. It was like a man getting between an animal and its food, like instinct. And he just uttered a response, “That’s right, I’m the Strongman, fella’ and don’t you mess with me.” He didn’t yell or growl or smile or show any sign of emotion or expression. The Strongman has a way of being very direct and dry. I almost can’t imagine a child with that sense of dryness, but I can almost see it only because I can never really imagine The Strongman being a boisterous child.

  Swogglestan grinned something sinister, “Looky ‘ere, boy... You ‘ungry? I knows you is.” The Strongman could remember smelling cheese on his breath. Every time Swogglestan missed pronouncing an H, The Strongman got a whiff of foul cheese curd like the rancid stench of an underdwelling rhinophantle's backside. The Strongman thought twice, and he knew thinking twice was once too many. He knew if he had that bad feeling, then something bad was going to happen. But his stomach took charge.

  “Whatcha got?” The boy asked.

  Swogglestan smiled, flashing a set of black, rotting teeth, “‘at’s right, ‘at’s tha spirit! We’ll get you fixed right up, my lil strongman friend. Eels on the spit? Stu surprise? Gills and cabbage? We got it all, my li’l friend.” Swogglestan lead the boy down the street and around the corner, through an alley and across another street. The Strongman knew things were going from bad to worse, the degradation of the metro around him was abrupt. The menu upon his final destination didn’t sound too pleasing either. When he recants the story to me now, he wonders aloud why he went with Cornelius. Just the thought of food, I would tell him. You needed to cover your basic necessities, I’d say, and Cornelius seemed a means to an end for food.

  “See, kid...” Swogglestan talked down to the boy, his breath a heavy, hot wind, “I own this. All this you see ‘round you. Nobody does nothin’ without my say-so. And I see the look in your eyes boy, I see you’re ‘ungry. And when someone gets as ‘ungry as you, my boy, they’ll do anyfing, anyfing at all. And your grubby lil’ ‘ands were ‘bout to start fievin’ from what I own.”

  “Fievin?” The boy shouted up to Cornelious, mocking his slobbishly sloppy accent and grammar as they walked through the crowded metro streets. Bridgeport was without inner-metro rail at the ground level, the population taking to foot or bi-cycle, those silly big wheel/little wheel contrapulations. Others took to carriage or steamdriver or monowheel, though traffic of these types were rare.

  Even on this rather seedier side of Bridgeport in the north, people were still friendly enough. It was the charm of Bridgeport, that of a friendly and pleasant populace. The prostitutes all waved to the young lad, though he was far too stoic to even blush. A drunken sailor swayed and fell into the boy, he just pushed him off and into another drunkard. The Strongman didn’t like these people. They smelled. They were obnoxious and loud. If he
weren’t so hungry, he said, he would have gone back to the over-sized pipe-cap he had been sleeping in. Instead he followed on.

  Swogglestan lead the boy into a pub. It was dark and nearly everything was decorated in blue. Everything was either dark blue or a lighter shade of dark blue. A blind piano man wearing darkly shaded goggles sat at the piano tapping away at a song that was terribly ear splitting due to one key being far out of tune.

  “Mr. Swogglestan! So good to see you today, dear sir!” The blind musician exclaimed with a hearty dose of sarcasm.

  “Welly well, boy, this ‘ere is my number one place!” Swogglestan said as he ushered the boy into the hall and tried to lift the hefty lad onto a pub stool. In a brief instant, as Cornelious tried to lift the boy, a snapping pop sounded from somewhere deep within Cornelious’ lower back. Instead, Swogglestan decided to allow the boy to mount the stool on his own. “Aye! Busko, matey!” He shouted to the barkeep, “This ‘ere is my friend, The Little Strongman. Get ‘em the house special with the works!”

  “The works? Right up, boss.” The stout little man said as he disappeared back to the kitchen with a waddle.

  The pub was filled with all sorts of shady characters, The Strongman recalled to me, but the only faces he needed to remember were those of Cornelious Swogglestan and the barkeep, Busko Claverdorne. (Incidentally, Swogglestan and Claverdorne were related twice over, probably and possibly due to interbreeding somewhere in the past.)

  Busko reappeared from the kitchen with a plate barely able to hold a heaping helping of thick, gloopy stew. Before Busko could lay the plate atop of the bar, the boy had grabbed a spoon and began devouring the gruel. He chomped down on crusty stale pieces of bread followed by further spoonfuls of stew.

  As the lad neared finishing his meal, he grew tired and “the world disappeared,” as The Strongman put it. Swogglestan had seated the boy at a dead-fall trap door at the bar. His food was heavily laced with sedatives. The floor fell out from beneath him where he fell into pile of discarded mattresses and soggy pillows. The Strongman, with a group of other kidnapped men, was then sold as a crew to a ship captain, Hamilton Tenpenny. (I do believe, in Captain Tenpenny’s defense, had he known the crew he was buying and, essentially enslaving aboard his ship, had included a child, he would be have been outraged. Though, as it goes, a captain with a freshly boarded crew whom have been stolen from port by way of drugging needs to get into the open sea as soon as possible, lest any try getting away.)