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

by John Theesfeld

  "Oh, I am sorry, I must say." I didn't know what to do. Do I put the lid back on or make conversation, I wondered. Did The Strongman know about this little fellow? I just wanted tea. I stammered and and must have looked visibly befuddled.

  "Trying to get some sleep, here! Hey! You hear me? Noctural! Up all night, asleep all day. C'mon! Yer killin' me here!" He shouted in his tiny, squeak of a voice. The angrier he got, the more adorable it became. I did try not to giggle.

  The Strongman stood up from his chair and stepped over to the kitchen area. He took the kettle from my hand.

  "What was the agreement, Floggenshoen? You remember? You were supposed to be gone weeks ago," he grumbled into the kettle. I really did not know what to make of the whole situation. It became apparent the two had a falling out between them, perhaps.

  “I’m a wanted man, anvil head,” Floggenshoen squeaked, “I can’t be out there. You owe me! The streets, they’ll eat me alive out there.”

  “Yeah, well be prepared when Huppard’s gasters show up,” The Strongman countered.

  “Gasters?” The little fellow squeaked.

  The Strongman put the lid back on as the little fellow squeaked a plea. He opened the cupboard and placed the kettle inside and then shut the cupboard door closed once again. "Forget the tea," he said dryly as he put on his overcoat and placed his bowler atop his head. He was rather gruff and needed not these distractions.

  I, too, put on my coat and hat and followed him from the flat to the lift. I made use of the ride down by dressing myself properly. I tucked in my shirt, set the cuff links of my sleeves, and brushed my hat free of lint and dust. I loosened the straps of my umbrella only to refasten them in a more taught fashion.

  "Eli Wendall Floggenshoen," The Strongman stated as we opened the front door of his building and stepped out onto the bustling metro street.

  “Pardon?"

  "The mauzenhoff. His name's Eli Floggenshoen. Master lock cracker. Got a hit out on his head. Helped me out, so I gave him a place to stay. These mauzenhoffs, I’ll tell ya’. You give them an inch, they’ll take a mile. At their size, any amount should be plenty. They hoard like the worst of them, though.”

  Rodents. Mischievous little vermin. Cute as they were troublesome. Fact of the matter was, they were considered to be maldeviants by scientifical classification and were to be treated with respect. Few Bureaucrats pushed that their classification be changed to that of underdwellar considering they live mostly below the surface or within walls. Such underdwellar infestation would be cause for eradication. Mauzenhoffs were almost voted into genocide. It was the fact they could organize and react as a group with such order and efficiency and thusly secure their place as maldeviantized rodents.

  We stood at the corner. Traffic of all sorts filled the streets and overhead on elevated rail lines. Above the elevated rail, airships fluttering swiftly. Steamdrivers, carriages, tri-cycles, bi-cycles, monowheels; just a huge mechanical bumblecluster of a mess. Steam hung in the air, smoke swirled through the thickness of it all; whistles, bells, chugging, puttering, sputtering, cranking, mechanical ticking, clomping, chomping, and grinding created a background cacophony of a SteamWorks approved and endorsed symphony.

  We began crossing the street as Metromaton conducted traffic and poorly so, at that. Every time he stopped cross traffic, you could hear in the distance the crashing of various malleable metals as vehicles crashed one into another as they came to sudden stops. It was rare to see a nice looking vehicle of any sort in this part of the city. Roads too narrow. People not caring where they were going or what was in their way.

  "We needed Floggenshoen to do some big lock work. He's a mauzenhoff, right, he can get into those tiny, little places. Little bugger can pick a lock like nobody else." The Strongman continued, an eye attentive to traffic.

  As we ventured forth, I sidestepped a malfunctioning automaton. It twitched erratically beneath a lamp post. This automaton, like others on the fritz, wriggled and jerked and contorted like a fish out of water.

  "Thing is, someone tipped off someone else. The entire thing was a mess." The Strongman still seemed a bit peeved about the whole thing.

  "Someone is whom?" Looking for a bit of clarity on the matter I inquired.

  "Huppard, owner of everything," he said and things became more understandable to me.

  I put the pieces together, “You steal something of his, he knows you stole something of his, he tells you to throw a fight to make it all copacetic? Am I correct?”

  “More or less,” he shrugged, “but what I helped steal of his, wasn’t his to begin with.”

  “What was it?”

  “No idea,” he shook his head and gave a slight shrug. “I was just there for protection.” He looked at his watch, “Doc, we only got a few minutes to catch our train, so let's stop gabbing and let's start moving." He picked up his pace and so too I. I couldn’t be certain, but I don’t believe he wanted to discuss the topic of Huppard at the moment.

  It wasn't but twenty steps into our swift moving stride that we turned the corner and into none other than a gentleman blockhead, Mr. Brisk. He seemed large enough to block the entire sidewalk.

  The Strongman stopped short of running into him, I bumped into his shoulder rather foolishly. The two stood face to face, eye to eye. Beasts. Well-dressed monsters.

  "Brisk-" The Strongman blurted out almost as soon as he stopped, seeming to be genuinely surprised to see the large man. We slowly made our way around him, our backs facing the direction we were initially walking. We were just doing it backwards now with this thug breathing down our necks.

  "How ya' doing Strongman? Got a second to chat, Mr. Muscles?" Brisk asked as he backed us into an alleyway, darker and danker than the city street. It smelled of urine. It was clear several pipe connections were loose, some releasing steam, others dripping water. Or worse; sewage.

  "Actually, we are on a tight schedule... Mr. Brisk, is it?" I answered.

  He looked down on me and then back to The Strongman, "What's this, Strongman? You running with a different crowd nowadays? Or is this your gramps?" He had a gritty voice, like he had been gargling with gravel. He was condescending as well, an attitude I didn't much care for.

  So I introduced myself, "Ah, yes, my name is Dr. Arthur Monocle, professor of world studies with-" Mr. Brisk, unimpressed, pushed me aside into a brick wall.

  Mr. Brisk, while dressed very gentlemanly, was quite the opposite. His suit was immaculately tailored. His pocket watch made of the finest gold. His hair was styled neatly beneath his top hat. I could see his rings, expensive jewels and precious metals. I imagine those rings have imprinted many a-forehead.

  The Strongman dutifully and carefully ushered Mr. Brisk away from me, “Leave him out of this.” He didn't back down or look scared. He just stared and waited patiently.

  "Judge Huppard would like a word with you. So, you gonna come along nicely-" And just like that The Strongman threw his head forward, smashing his forehead right smack dab into Mr. Brisk's face, knocking him backward and dimming his lights right down, but not out. I was flabbergasted. Absolutely astounded.

  The Strongman grabbed my arm and ushered me out of the alleyway nice and swiftly, "C'mon, Doc, he's gonna wake up sooner than later and we got rails to ride. It’s too early for fighting."

  "But you knocked him out!" Was all I could muster.

  We ran from the alley and down the street to the station.

  "Believe me, Doc, it would've come down to that anyways, so I was just speedin' up the events in light of the train leaving!" He pointed ahead to the small passenger train beginning to accelerate away from the station. Drunkards hung on from the back, being dragged along. A few engineers here and there. A handful of ladies just ending their shifts. I believe the model was a simple Top Hat Nimbulator 300, just the right size engine for small groups of commuters traveling long distances. I do believe the name was inspired by that of a magician’s top hat. Both the top hat itself and the nimbulator
were small and compact, yet held a good quantity of people and automatons. Perhaps rabbits, scarves, cards, flowers, and a whole multitude of trickery in the magician’s case.

  I heard some commotion behind us and my curiosity got the better of my attention. I turned to see a group of thugs run into the alleyway in which we had left Mr. Brisk. A moment later they came tumbling out as a group, thrown by Mr. Brisk. He exited the alleyway in a huff, all soaked from falling backwards into a puddle. He brushed off his top hat and put it back atop of his head as he yelled at the group of men he threw from the alley, "Get up, ya' bums, get up!"

  There were three of them. Normal men, but definitely thugs and definitely Mr. Brisk's very own. A motley looking group compared to their boss. At least two of them, just by looking at them I could tell, had killed men. Don't ask me how I could tell, but as sure as I am that the sun shines, two of those thugs have experienced the blood of men on their hands. And probably liked it, too, for that matter. The third thug looked as if he enjoyed the taste of flesh rendered by his own hand. He was portly, slobberly, and quite devolved looking altogether.

  We ran through the streets. The Strongman cleared the way, I flailed my umbrella in one hand, the other kept my top hat from flying from my noggin.

  I could see the train catching speed ahead of us. I would quickly look behind us to see if they were catching up. The bad news was they were. The good news was they could not catch us if we caught up to the train. Of course, catching the train was a matter all in itself.

  The Strongman was far ahead of me. The young chap had at least twice my gait, along with speed. I had knees and hips that felt as if they were shattering with every step.

  I used my umbrella to knock over garbage bins behind me. I could hear them gaining on me. I could see ahead of me that The Strongman had caught the back of the train and was on. He reached out for me as he leaned from a railing.

  My stomach dropped, but my legs moved faster beneath my body. I could see the look on The Strongman's face, it was one of impatience and annoyance. He grabbed onto the train's back rail and jumped backwards grinding his feet into the street below him and behind the train.

  Either I was gaining speed or, more likely and logically, The Strongman was slowing down the train. I was finally catching up. The Strongman reached his arm out behind him and I grabbed onto his hand. He pulled me up onto the train and followed. As his feet lifted from the street below the train jolted with a quick, but powerful burst of speed plowing through the intersection just missing cross traffic.

  And we were off, Mr. Brisk and his thugs left behind to deal with Metro Sentry. I could see Mr. Brisk yelling down a guard. Another guard throwing one of the thugs up against the wall. We took seats amongst the miserable. I sighed and looked to The Strongman with a smile. He remained unamused.

  We were off.

  It was a good few hours by train. I met a wide variety of individuals. There was the cogman missing both eyes who worked completely by sound direction. He handled the large cogs, used the surrounding ambient noise to figure out where he was and relied on a partner, generally an oilerman, to tell him where to put the cog or the gear. He seemed to be only missing the two fingers. I also met a woman who claimed to be the bastard grandchild of the tyrant Lord Jeminy. What she meant exactly, I do not know, nor did I ask.

  One bloke, looked to be a regular fellow, held the head of an automaton in his lap. There was a maldeviant lass, looked to be a burlesque dancer, who had skin of pale blue and a third eye centered between her other two. One gentleman, a fine-tailored fellow, read The Gazette that bore the headline: Steamdriver Explosion Rocks Central Haverton!

  As the journey progressed and these people left the nimbulator upon each station, we were eventually the last passengers.

  The train finally pulled into the last station. Unmanned, strangely. The conductor turned to us, "OK, you got a half hour, that's as long as I get for break, and this is where I gotta take my break. Understand? If you're not back here in 30 minutes, I'll be back tomorrow at the same time." He tone was droll and boring.

  "Oh, this is end of the line?" I asked, puzzled.

  "Look, I'm on break, old man," the conductor, who, to be honest for scholarly purposes, wasn't that much younger than I, pulled his cap down and proceeded to nap.

  The Strongman tugged on the back of my jacket. I turned and he gestured, a flick of the head as to say, "Let's get going, Doc." I understood. We stepped from the nimbulator onto the meager wooden platform of the crudely built station.

  For as far as the eye could see in any direction around us, we were surrounded by grave stones and mausoleums of all shapes and sizes. Stacks and stacks. Statues sprung up randomly like sculpted stone arbor. It was overcast, but it had been for the entire train ride. The highly intricate designed sign hung above the station, "Hefton's Station, sponsored by MortuaryWorks a Subsidiary of HealthWorks."

  I'm sorry to say that business looked dead.

  I believe the graveyard had started in this very spot, the spot where the station now stands, almost 400 years ago. I believe the radius of the graveyard, the station being its center, spread out in every direction to the horizon, aside for the large hills to the southwest. The southwestern hills took to a valley before ascending into mountainous terrain. In a way, this was almost the edge of the very region.

  Hefton's stopped burying the dead about a hundred years ago. Unless, if you had the coin, you could be buried where ever you liked.

  George Hefton, son of Montgomery Hefton, grandson of Charles Hefton, great-grandson of Abdullah Hefton, and great-great-grandson of Henfield Ahmera Hefton, the original proprietor of the site, took care of the grounds and essentially operated the place. He figured tenants were merely renting the land. First come, first serve, until a bigger buyer came in. The bigger buyer made an offer on a spot, if the family of the deceased couldn't match the offer or there were no descendants, the bigger buyer moved in. It seemed business as usual. George Hefton was eventually ordered to stop, but not before making an incredible amount of coin. He thusly retired and left the cemetery as is.

  We trudged through the thick grass and weaved between gravestones and statues. And there it was. Quite modest. Very humble. Giuseppe Barnaby.

  The Strongman knelt down to Giuseppe's grave site. I heard him just barely, “Hey, boss,” and he began to cry. At first, just tears rolling down his cheeks. Then into a sob. Finally he let out a wail that I believe could be heard on the other side of graveyard.

  I stepped back and let The Strongman have a moment. I took shade beneath the only tree around and sat quietly and politely. He just knelt there and cried. His broad shoulders and back convulsed with sorrow.

  In an instant, he was no longer that sideshow attraction or hired muscle. Not that his company was taken for granted, but I saw something much deeper within him so very suddenly. I truly felt for him and what he was going through at this very moment in time. Giuseppe was like a father. Together they built Giuseppe's Carnival Cavalcade and Wondrous Arcadium from a one-act called, Giuseppe and The Strongman.

  The Strongman had been with Giuseppe for a very long time, longer than Captain Tenpenny, or Mother Moth, or me. It’s another instance of positive influence. Without Giuseppe in his life after Tenpenny, who dares to imagine where The Strongman might be today? Probably in front of a firing squad or chained to a wall in some dank cell within the Metro Civilian Containment Department (sponsored by SteelWorks).

  The sky above began to water and rain gently pattered down upon all the headstones and statues around us. Water crept its way between the intricate carvings within the stone. Everything had become a shade darker as the rain continued down.

  The wind picked up a gust and whistled through all of the stone sculptures. Like the woeful moans of the dead trying to escape from brittle throats.

  I stood up and made my way over to my friend, The Strongman. I don't think he even noticed that it had begun to rain. I stood next to him and quietly and ever-so
gently opened my umbrella. I held it over his head. And I let him be.

  24

  From what I could gather as events carried out, while we grieved, so did Mr. Brisk.

  The following is what I was able to cobble together from other accounts of the matter. Judge Oberon Huppard had an exquisite secretary known for having outstanding note-taking abilities. The woman was top-notch. How she captured, word for word, The Judge's essence was remarkable for the fact that she didn't grow mortally ill from his vile ways.

  Mr. Brisk stood before Judge Huppard there in his office, his three goons cowering behind him, he still held that cocky look on his face as if he had something to be proud of. He twirled a toothpick with his tongue and teeth annoyingly and obnoxiously and overall very unattractively (this, of course, from the secretary's notes, as I stated previously: top-notch, indeed).

  The Judge sat behind his desk, a giant cigar hanging from his mouth, his bald head glistening in the ambient light from outside. His face, as I remember him, reminded me of a cross between an overstuffed oven mitt and an average, run-of-the-mill sour puss. The Judge held puffy eyes and held a bloat about him (again, from the notes).

  I had heard stories of the man, how he was gluttonous and a foul slob. The man ate through his plate; once rumored to have actually nearly eaten through the table he was being served upon. If the man had not a degree in law and was not appointed Judge, I believe Huppard would have several trophies, medals, and awards from various eating competitions and most likely, underground boxing competitions. The man was a brute.

  As I remember him, his suit was always fine-tailored, but soaked in sweat. He would drink from a spotted, grimy glass, most likely whiskey and most likely bootlegged from some gin joint he was in control of. (The Judge had made booze of any sort illegal within his jurisdiction, parts of Rust Waters, and connecting areas ending just short of Royal Fields sponsored by Huntsmen Arms. Point being, a giant section populated by the working class and the poor, was under prohibition by Judge Huppard who not-so-secretly owned several gin joints and speak-easies throughout the metro.) The man was a vile pig, and a corrupt and greedy hypocritical deviant. I believe time has proved my assumptions correct of the man.