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

by John Theesfeld

  “All my life.” She lead us down a short flight of stairs into a much cooler subterranean room. It was just as crowded as above, but the shade and cool air made all the difference. “I’ve been as far as The Chasm, but have never traveled far from the region.”

  “Will you be in touch with Mr. Kilmarten soon?” I inquired.

  “As soon as I possibly can.”

  Something was off. I had not told anyone, especially Mr. Kilmarten, of who my assistant was to be. And being from Fenterwig she would have never seen a circus or carnival in which The Strongman worked, so she could not have recognized him as such. The Strongman’s celebrity only traveled so far.

  Through this cave entrance, a foyer to the underworld. Down another flight of stairs and the air was becoming chillingly crisp.

  The stairwell spread out to a cascading, drawn out, flowing design of rock that sloped down leading to the vast underground metro, Interior Fenterwig. Far beneath rock and shaped by nature and carved by hand, it was a glorious metro of multi-level living on a small scale. A small scale relative to what it was sculpted for, that being the model for Chasm living. Over time, and as The Chasm took shape of its own, Interior Fenterwig became an artwork and metro of its own. On a single wall, one could become lost within the architecture. Where walls connected and levels shifted, entire new realms of metro were found.

  I heard a familiar tone blaring from behind me. It was that tone of voice that signaled impending scolding. Bursts of “Him!” and “There!” and “Stop him!” from the voice of a snootishly pestiferous man.

  The three of us turned. Running down the stairs upon us feverishly was whom I suspected to be a RailWorks bureaucrat, along with two WingedMen.

  The WingedMen must have escorted the last trains out. It had been a rather long time since I last saw a WingedMan, I thought. Their uniforms, while just barely matching, had a motif of dark red and a blue deep enough to be mistaken for black. Their leather flying caps and goggles were a rather nice touch. Still, it seemed their wingpacks were still of varying design and build. I knew from the beginning, that each WingedMan would take the utmost pride in his flying and gliding gear. The jump-pack, or wingpack, as they called it, could never be restricted to just a one-size fits all apparatus. These men and women had modified their aero-packs in the most creative and interesting of ways. Some had functional wings. Others let out bursts of steam for propulsion. Then a few were just gliders, those showmen of the skies who often relied on their acrobatic skills. Everyone had a different method of operation, as it were.

  As each of our groups came together at the bottom of the wide, sloping stairs, one of the WingedMen revealed themselves by removing their flying cap and letting down their goggles. I was pleased to once again meet Miss Louise Liani, but taken aback not expecting to see her in uniform. A patch on her arm, of a clockwork engine shaped like a heart of sorts with wings, the name, WingedGrrls, embroidered and oddly spelled as such.

  “Dammit, Monocle!” She shouted in my face, showing how much she had taken after her father. She was gruff and ready for a fight.

  The Strongman stepped between us and the poor lass nearly bounced off his chest and onto the ground if not for the quick reflexes of the snootyish RailWorks manager.

  “Back off,” The Strongman growled.

  “No need, Strongman, no need.” I pleaded and he stepped back.

  Sasha Greenwich whispered in my ear quickly, “Please, doctor, we really must go,” as she tugged on the back of my coat.

  Louise was back a hair’s-width from my face once again as The Strongman gently pried her away, “You bumbling arse, Monocle! You’re a troublesome old man!”

  “So good to see you, as well, dear Louise. In uniform, now, I see? Splendid, indeed.”

  “It seems, dear sir,” the snooty manager started to explain, “the train in which you arrived, there was an incident of a rather unpleasant outcome.”

  “That ConductMaton went berserk, pal,” The Strongman leaned in towards the snooty manager causing him to tremble in sudden, near-paralyzing fear.

  Lousie piped up, craning her neck upwards into The Strongman’s face, “Yeah, well that faulty ConductorMaton helped set fire to the train which destroyed our supplies that were locked up in the rear cars!”

  “I am sorry to interject,” Sasha chimed in, “but we are on a very busy schedule. We really must be going.”

  The gentleman WingedMan (WingedGentleman, perhaps) spoke up, “Next train doesn’t leave out for another half hour, you’ve got the time to spare.”

  “No, they’re not waiting for the train,” Louise had a keen eye like her father, “You’re going in, aren’t you, you old bugger?”

  I remained silent and my silence was admittance enough of guilt.

  “We can handle this from here, Mr. Efrem,” Louise said to the snooty manager, Mr. Efrem.

  “Very well, madam.” He carried off and away up the stairs.

  I looked to Louise, whom I remember as being just a reckless teenager, but was now a grown woman, and a Chasm WingedMan, “I am headed in. I’m on a mission.”

  “Oh, Monocle, you do make me laugh so,” she smiled at me.

  “Was there a joke?” I asked.

  "Somehow I shouldn’t be surprised; you heading into a war zone. Seems the reasonable thing to do,” she quipped sarcastically. She gave a moment to thought and continued, “We'll take you in, ourselves. You'll be safer. I insist. Plus, you'll have a chance to explain the situation and plead for forgiveness from my father.”

  "I suppose I have no rightly say in the matter," Sasha said, "who am I to argue with WingedMen?"

  "I am sorry to have wasted your time, Ms. Greenwich." I apologized sincerely, "By chance would you happen to know my next contact?"

  "I'm sorry, I couldn't say, doctor," her eyes were apologetic, "I was given little information as it is. Just to look for an older gentleman- Dr. Monocle, who wears a monocle, mustache, has rugged good looks and is handsomely weathered, but not worn."

  "Oh, I do say," I must have been blushing.

  "And his large friend, here." There it was again.

  "I do say, Ms. Greenwich," I began, delicately, "I must inquire, curiosity and all, your knowledge of my assistant does baffle me."

  "Oh," she seemed confused, "my last wire from Kilmarten informed me."

  "I see."

  "He must have someone keeping tabs on you," she offered. "Well, I should get to a telegraphical station, inform Kilmarten that you've arrived safely."

  "Although," I caught her before she could turn and disappear off, "you did refer to him as The Strongman. Quite odd, such specific information."

  "I don't know what to tell you. Kilmarten knew. A very dapper chap with the best of resources." She shrugged, "I should be going."

  Mr. Kilmarten was far from that of being a dapper chap. She acted peculiarly. Anxious. Nervous. Odd. She turned and left. Darted into the roadway in front of a large transport, it barely missing her. As it passed, she was gone from sight. The Strongman gave me a glance. Kilmarten, a dapper chap. He was a slob. He smelled of booze. He was unshaven, unclean, and unkempt. As the next instant followed, our attentions were turned towards a racing, out of control steamdriver thoughtlessly tearing through the roadway.

  "I don't think she was our contact," I said flatly. "There’s nothing remotely dapper about Kilmarten, he’s a drunk and an attorney. We should follow her."

  Louise piped up, "What do you mean, follow her?"

  "She's suspect." I looked Louise directly in the eye, "It's been a growing trend in my day to day affairs where the most odd and psychopathic have been making attempts to take my life. There was no way she could have known about The Strongman. None whatsoever."

  "Looks like she's gone, now." The Strongman looked across the roadway, bustling with all different sorts.

  "Too bad, doc," Louise said, "C'mon, my desert-driver is down another level."

  We walked through the cavern metro, populated with buildin
gs like that of jolly, old Haverton, but carved from stone, built into the walls and ceiling. Stacks of turreted carved houses built on top, beside, beneath, and within one and other.

  "Fighting has subsided and quieted down in Chasm City," Louise said as we walked down the worn flat stone, "but it is not without random outbursts of violence or explosions. Percolating, you could say. Simmering, perhaps? Right before the pot begins to boil. You ever been to The Chasm, big boy?" She looked to my friend, The Strongman.

  "Yeah." The Strongman said and left it at that.

  Louise seemed a bit put off by the short answer. The Strongman always somehow managed to clam up around the ladies, or "dames" as he often coarsely put it.

  We came up on the Lift Station and waited for our ride down to the driver station. The Lift Station was quite a remarkable accomplishment, a series of elevators built around a vast column of stone that could take you to any level within Interior Fenterwig and out to Surface Fenterwig.

  The lift brought us down to the driver station, a holding station and railyard for steam engines and rail-cars of various contraption, but also room enough to include a vast area for steamdriver parking.

  "Louise," I said over the grinding of gears and the mechanical thundering, "this is my friend, The Strongman. Strongman, this is Louise Liani. Her father was the original WingedMan."

  They greeted each other amicably, but they seemed at odds. A bit of hostility was lingering. Louise then introduced us to her partner, Officer Nathaniel Gruychev. He was a quiet sort. It was not long after this introduction, as the lift reached our the lower floor and the gate opened, that a shot echoed out and a bullet tore the life from said partner.

  Louise grabbed the man as he slumped to the ground in a lifeless heap, his light dimmed eternally. Our attentions were tuned forward. People ran frantically in all directions of the driver park, as the echo of the shot lingered unto a faint distant rattling.

  Perhaps a hundred paces forth, a steamdriver piloted by none other than Miss Sasha Greenwich sat idle. Riding "shotgun" as it were, that Fool Assassin. Riding in the back, The Weather Man and a cloaked figure, someone slight, perhaps a lady. And someone we had not expected to see, Mr. Brisk.

  Sasha's steamdriver roared to life. The engine fit centered into the bulk of the vehicle, Sasha directly up front in a cramped pilot's pod. The wheels on the rig were massive, very wide, just as the frame was set. The machine sloped upwards in the back where exhaust let forth. It held room enough just for the lot of them and little else.

  Our eyes were locked to the steamdriver and its passengers. The cloaked figure stood and removed her hood to prove that Miss Dorothy Shelton was indeed a part of this nefarious crew and had indeed tried to poison me on at least one occasion.

  His dirty mouth filled with a mangled set of rotten chompers, I could see him grinning, The Fool Assassin took aim. Louise grabbed me by my sleeve and pulled me away from the lift. The Strongman ran alongside to cover us from any further shots taken.

  “You’re cornered, Dr. Monocle,” I could hear Miss Shelton, “surrender.”

  We hid behind a large junked engine, Louise had a six shooter on her, a rather sleek looking pistol.

  “It’s going to be that way, is it?” The Strongman pulled his molten-slug launcher from where it kept holstered inside his coat.

  “Who are they?” Louise demanded an answer.

  “Well, I am positively certain that is not my contact,” I said dryly as it was the first thing that came to mind. “They’re the ones I mentioned just earlier. The cloaked woman tried to poison me. That fool has tried to shoot me on numerous occasions. That bulky piece of machine man conjured up some form of paraphenomenon to do us in. The large fellow is Mr. Brisk, he wants The Strongman. And I don’t think I would have liked to find out where Ms. Greenwich would have lead us.”

  Another shot rang out and a bullet ricocheted as it struck the top of the engine we hid behind. I instinctively flinched.

  “Hey, Strongman!” Mr. Brisk shouted, “Strongman! You hear me? I made some new friends. Care to play with us?” He tried taunting him from afar, but The Strongman didn’t rattle easily.

  “My steamdriver is right over there,” Louise said as she pointed to an older model engine surrounded by a lightweight frame, “Ready?”

  I nodded. The Strongman nodded. Louise looked at us both, putting aside any doubt that we may in fact get her killed. We then dashed from our hiding spot across the lot. The Fool shot at us, The Strongman and Louise fired back. The shots echoing within those dense rock walls was unbearable. From the deep thud of The Strongman’s revolver to the pop-snap of Louise’s pistol, the range of loud, but brief, explosions were so terribly awful upon the eardrums.

  Sasha’s driver growled and lunged forward into a steady acceleration in our direction. Louise jumped, and I do mean, jumped, into her pilot seat and steam whistled brightly. The engine chugged and sounded as if it was barely going to pick up, but on the contrary, the thing came to life in a matter of moments. As The Strongman and I got ourselves better situated, Louise threw the driver into gear and was off directly directed in the direction of the oncoming steamdriver full of psychopathic murderers. The Strongman stood tall from his seat, aimed his hand cannon steadily and fired. The hot lead tore through the top of The Weather Man’s stack, nearly tearing and shredding the metal in half.

  As we neared, The Strongman aimed again. I could see The Fool panic, yelling at Sasha, “You’ll kill us all! Don’t be daft!” His pleas turned physical as he grabbed the steering mechanism and pulled the steamdriver off course and away from collision. We sped by easily. Sasha quickly regained control of her steamdriver, turned it around, and sped after us.

  We sped on through the lot, through various cave systems and tunnels, pursued by those who came to be known as, The League of Ornery Bedfellows. They were a team of assassins hired to end me. Miss Shelton was the first with the poisoning attempt. Now I had to consider whether or not Rotterdam was in on this, or was he just a patsy, used by Miss Shelton to get close to me? The train bombing, I then thought. In the midst of the chase, my mind flooded with clarity and sudden realization. I peered back to get a good look at them all:

  Two strikingly beautiful women. A man wrapped and twisted with mech, rust on his skin, soot in the creases of his already black face, and mysterious in his control over the weather, his reanimation of the dead. And The Fool Assassin, a man at odds with randomosity. He had his chances, but always by some small margin of error, he came out to lose. Mr. Brisk was merely an addition for muscle. He only wanted at The Strongman and The League only wanted him for that purpose.

  The channel of road led to a glimmering white light, blinding and emanating a warmth which grew into an intense heat. And the light grew, both in size and intensity. Sasha rammed us violently from behind nearly causing Louise to veer off into the channel wall.

  Our steamdriver wove through the slower carriages and drivers and Sasha was able to keep upon us without deviation. Rays of light streamed in from the entrance, clouds of dust illuminated in the sunlight. The Strongman fired off another shot, but missed entirely.

  My eyes were drawn to the light outside, now flooding the entrance to Fenterwig Interior. We burst from the mouth of the rock kicking up desert dust; the heat was comparable to an oven. I held on to my hat as we veered off the metro roadway and into the immediate desert.

  While flat as far as the eye could see, the entire desert was dotted, sparsely, with massive umbrella trees. These trees grew with a trunk width vastly superior in size to that of your average oak or elm or redwood. Wide was barely an adequate word. Umbrella tree trunks grew just immensely in width, its root base spreading out vast distances taking up as much moisture it possibly can. The entire trunk reaches a steep height, like a large cylinder sticking up from the desert ground. The entire gigantic stem is strong and solid. At the very top of the umbrella tree, thin, spindly branches that venture out just a short distance from the trunk.


  I do suppose the umbrella tree might resemble that of an umbrella if drawn by an imbecile, but just the same, I could see the resemblance.

  The Strongman fired another shot, missing his target as he squinted to terrible lengths from the dust in the air. “You better take a look at this, doc!” The Strongman yelled to me. I took a look behind us as it seemed The Weatherman was winding up. I could see the machinery on his chest reverberating and chugging. I could see Miss Shelton was shouting something angrily at him as she banged on his chest with her fist and tried rewinding a few keys.

  I sat back around and leaned over to Louise, “Could we go faster?”

  “Faster?” She shouted back and tried adjusting the throttle and kicking in the pressure mount. Her desertdriver picked up speed, but not nearly as much as I was hoping it would.

  I looked back, again. The Weatherman seemed to be functioning despite the damage done to his machinery by The Strongman’s bullet. He was chugging away and kicking up a mild sandstorm, like a wave built of billions of billions of particles of sand and dust.

  I sat back and leaned over to Louise, “Could you perhaps outrun a sandstorm if you had to?”

  “Sandstorm? What are you on about?” Louise shouted as she took a quick look behind us in a side-view looking glass. As Sasha’s steamdriver pursued us, the sandstorm pulled behind them and ripped to shreds everything in its path. There were very few umbrella trees, but those caught in the storm had their outer bark torn to shreds.

  I think we all understood the ramifications of being caught in what The Weatherman had brewed up. Millions of grains of sand tearing the flesh from our faces, our clothes to shreds, and our bodies to dust. We witnessed other steamdrivers caught in the oncoming wall of violently whipping sand, the sound of engines seizing up instead of the screams of men, which were far too faint to be heard in the sound like that of a wind laced razorblades and carrying upon it, machine-shop shards like snowflakes in a blizzard.

  “Can you get a good shot?” I yelled up to The Strongman.