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

by John Theesfeld

  He gave a good shove from the sole of his shoe and it stumbled backwards. The stone platform crushed the Wormaton flat. Cogs flew in all directions as the innards burst outward. The other Wormatons looked over to their fallen friend and then back to each other. After a brief moment of what I assume was some kind of paraphenomenal communication, they began to advance on The Strongman once again.

  As they tried to grab at The Strongman, he fought back. The fight quickly became quite intense and even more so as Louise joined in the fray. I stepped forward in the direction of Hendryk and he quickly turned, aiming his revolver upon me. I halted my stride.

  I looked over to see that one of the remaining Wormatons had Louise held aloft by her throat. The other Wormaton was still fighting with The Strongman, but I could tell he was becoming weak. He had been plenty battered and beaten along this journey and the Wormaton was a tough adversary, indeed. Eventually, the Wormaton won out and trapped The Strongman, wrapping its arms around him and squeezing him tight and nearly lifeless.

  Louise and The Strongman were now subdued. Pieces of rock and debris continued to fall from above, smashing on the ground around us.

  Hendryk looked to me, “Maybe there is something to that tribal ink keeping you safe.”

  “What is all of this, Hendryk? What’s going on?” I demanded he tell me.

  He walked over, one revolver drawn on me, “You think I really wanted to come down here to help you get some artifact instead of helping my brothers in wings?” He poked the barrel of the gun into my gut, “The key is down here for a reason.”

  “You’re one of them; a Master Keyper.”

  Louise struggled in the grip of the Wormaton, “Hendryk, as a fellow officer I demand to know what’s going on!” She tried to scream, but while her voice was fairly muted, her point was well taken.

  “There aren’t supposed to be any of you left,” I attempted the obvious, but that which proved me wrong stood there in front of me.

  “There are plenty of us, Monocle. Everywhere. We’ll remain hidden until summoned.”

  “When will that be? 1899? The year of the end? Isn't that what your people have prophesied?” I poked at him, “Tell me, what will happen when it doesn’t come? Just as when the prediction of 1717 failed to happen? Will you then be summoned to purposefully manifest chaos within the metros as they did?”

  “Those were the Keypers of old, Monocle. Those were fables.” He spoke assertively, “This, this is different. This is something that has to remain hidden.”

  “We can save the key, for posterity, Hendryk. You can take it to safety for yourself.” And I meant it, too. I figured why not still save it and leave it in the hands of the cultist it belonged to.

  “It’s not about the key staying or leaving, it’s the fact that you even know there is one,” he stated simply. He took a step back, “I just don’t understand why it’s so hard to keep a secret,” he wondered aloud. “What is it about the power of information, Monocle? I’ll never understand it.” And he raised a revolver to my face, “Now on your knees, Monocle.”

  I got down on one knee, then the other.

  There was movement among the crushed Wormaton. It seemed a frockle of strange, hairless, bug-eyed, bottom-feeding maldeviant underdwellar species was dining on the splattered guts and goo of the squished worm that oozed from it’s smashed and dented metal encasement. They were plump little things. They were stubby-legged, but they moved with a snappy and punchy quickness.

  A few more joined the party and began dining, as well. The Strongman, Louise, and even Hendryk took notice as these small creatures fought each other playfully over what was left of the worm.

  “Ah, yes!” It hit me right then and there in that strange moment and everyone looked to me, “Little clipper pups, I do say! How the randomosity finds us so!”

  They all looked at me with a rather bewildering look. Strangely enough, bewilderment was its name.

  I remembered key pages from my book, The Bewilderness. I could see the text in my mind clearly. Open the cover, page more than half way through towards the back, finger through for the chapter on underdwellars, look for the section on maldeviant underdwellar species outside of the United Metro areas notably The Chasm, and there the pertinent information lies.

  These young maldeviant underdwellars were merely pups. Father wouldn't be far behind. Scientifically, these were not in fact cute pups at all, but larva. Soon they would grow even plumper before their skin calcified and hardened like stone as they became encased in their own egg. What hatched would grow into a terribly large insect-like beast.

  As for Schantylle Worms (otherwise known as, Shon-Teel Vyrms, in the old country), I refer one to my previous work: History The Schantylle/Venrue Pact of 1614, From a lecture series given 3rd Hentuary (H.) 1874.

  A good old bit of history, for history’s sake.

  Schantylle Worms, the goopiest and slimiest, but smartest worm on all of Orbis. They thrive in muck and rarely move, if at all. A strange existence, but one that is full of pontification and philosophization with one another or alone. They spend their entire lives wallowing in the mire, using their own conductive mucous to communicate thoughts with electrical pulses emitted from their dense foreheads. They are one of very few, if not only, successful creatures to use such paraphenomenal methods as a way of communicating.

  They tend to be a little off-putting to the poorly strengthened stomach, but very interesting none-the-less. (I tend to think it’s the mucous that puts people off.) Left undisturbed in the wild, some worms can theoretically live up to 300 years. Few have actually sought this existence, but they can be found if one knows where to look and has the time to do so. Though, even if you were to find a 300 year old worm, it may not be interested in talking to you. After 300 years one can grow to be quite wise. On the same side of things, after 300 years one may be so curmudgeonly that on principle alone, a worm may activate its defensive fume, a smell so unfortunate that it has driven men insane and women hysterical with sorrow. Although, unfortunately for the worm, using the defensive mechanism can, in fact, instantly kill it. A worm really must weigh the options when deciding to use it.

  It was the year 1614 and famed botanist Jacques Venrue was conducting research in the field, somewhere in the low mountain region of Schantylle with an expedition headed by Captain Hefron G. Kolmynar*1. They set up camp among what they thought would make a good food source, the worms, or as they referred to them, meaty grubs. Venrue reached down, and upon touching a worm with his bare hands he was struck by a frantically screaming voice in his own head. The a few members of the colony released their gasses and the expedition troop fell to their knees, sick as hounds. Members of the expedition without the mental fortitude slipped into psychotic states of despair.

  Jacques Venrue fell into a shallow puddle of the worms' mucous upon smelling the foul, rancid, noxious gas. Thus his discovery. It was in this state of immobility and contact with the worm mucous that the worms were able to communicate with him telepathically. The worms kept Venrue locked in this mental limbo for hours, it was reported by the surviving members of the expedition. Eventually, the worms learned all about Venrue and his physiology, resulting in the worms using Venrue's body as a conduit to relay their messages to the rest of the expedition. Any attempt to remove the famed botanist would result in more gas being released and no one wanted that. It was understood that the expedition would provide safety and that Captain Hefron would put a protective order on the species.

  For days they negotiated. They reached an agreement satisfactory to the worms. And thus the Schantylle/Venrue Pact of 1614 was born.

  The worms learned everything about what Venrue knew of life in the metros through that paraphenomenal mental connection. Some were frightened and wanted nothing to do with it. Others saw an entire world filled with new ideas and possibilities. They asked of two things in their negotiations, one, that the Captain provide safe travel to the metros for the worms who wanted to go; and two, that the
remaining worms, those whom wished to stay, be left alone. The Captain agreed and they let Venrue go.

  They wound up bringing along several hundred worms back with them. An entire carriage filled to the brim with worms and mucous.

  For the most part, the worms lost interest in our way of life fairly quickly and remain in the lowland mountain regions. Most found metro life to be shallow for their tastes. A rare few have stayed in the metros. It wasn’t until recently, 1843 or '44, that the worms began using tech built entirely for them: Wormatons, as they are called, various contraptions to house a worm to allow free movement. Most are ClockWork Foundation sponsored, therefore the majority of worms work as street cleaners, chimney sweeps, unbinders, and other lowly, but necessary, positions. These careers are offered to Schantylle Worms in return for a free livable automaton mech suited to the job's need. Wormatons are crude apparatus, but it allows the worm to move freely amongst the population. Few worms have alternatively sponsored automaton tech, though they are out there, existing in our metros. If I am not terribly mistaken, the population holds steady at roughly five hundred worms still living metro life according to the Handbook on Metro Statistics by The United Metropolitan Collective Sponsored by Quantive. Although, that estimate was given in 1868.

  *1 Captain Hefron G. Kolmynar (pronounced as /coal miner/, from a long line of coal miners, so very long that they were given the last name coal miner since that is what they had always done for a living. In fact, the original clan from which they originate was of the quarries in the midland area. They've ALWAYS been mining from their time as tribes people; carving out and living in lairs/caverns their tribe mined with their own hands. As the decades wore into centuries and the world became more civilized, Hefron's descendents assimilated into the cities, but remained coal miners. This was all until Hefron's grandfather struck diamond and took the family out of poverty. Not only was Grandfather Coalminer a professional coal miner as it were, but also a hobbyist miner as well. The man loved to dig, known to spend lazy afternoons out of the coal mine shoveling dirt and hammering rock.

  Grandfather Coalminer found an advisor to help him make decisions with his money. He first asked to change his name. The advisor said, "Of course, you can change it however you like, you can afford to do that, now." And Grandfather Coalminor took a piece of paper and a pencil and scribbled down the name Kolmynar. The advisor looked at the piece of paper quizzically and snorted, "But, sir, if I'm misunderstood, forgive me, but isn't the pronunciation, the sound of your last name the same as it is now?"

  And Grandfather Kolmynar said in return, "Yes, but I felt that's how it always should have been spelled. Make it so. Plus, there will be less confusion than if I showed up at the pub with the name Finneas Nabbering, or some other such tomfoolery. Now when I show up and gents call me by the same name, everything's dandy. The spelling, though? Change it. K-O-L and whatever else kind of letters I written down there." He was not the most well-spoken or perfectly enunciated or most eloquent speaker, but I do suppose he knew what he wanted.

  35

  Essentially, The Master Keypers were unimaginative cultists obsessed with doom and the end of the world. They had it down to the year, 1899 (after failed predictions of the years 1499 and 1717).

  They were an offshoot from a sect of a religion that has faded into the distant past. Originally they called themselves something obscure in their native Flynnish; they were worshipers of the night and the stars, the clockwork of the sky. They were a scientifically advanced group, using the stars above to map out their ancient world, the seasons, time. They were brilliant with stone-age machinery, their original kingdom teeming with a medieval steam tech that was a great forerunner to our very own modern tech. Eventually the people gave up on their myths and the religion nearly disappeared if not for a small, but veritable sect of followers.

  It was these followers who were staunch in their beliefs. This sect still worshiped the night, but also began developing their mythos into a strange science of paraphenomenon, for lack of a better term. It was the darkness instead of the night which they began to obsess over. They lived only after sundown and were gone before sunrise. They believed death was the eternal darkness where life originally sprung forth. For some members of this sect, it wasn't enough. They believed there was power in the dark aether. These members became the next branch.

  In short, death was the ultimate power and they believed the death of the world would occur in 1899 as a result of night taking over. They saw the chaos in the world and nothing but. They looked upon everything as decay in progress.

  In truth, they were interested in power and coin. With both came control.

  Malcolm Blythe was a descendent of the original sect and a founding member of the offshoot. He was a master locksmith and taught his trade and secrets to others of his sect. Locks big, locks small, locks within locks, vaults, safes, prison doors. To have a Blythe brand meant to be secure. Their locks are still used far and wide. He taught his craft to other members. Their monastery was that of an industrial factory churning out locks and keys, clockwork marvels, and telescopical contraptions for star gazing.

  Their factory monastery was a sore upon the eyes. Large and looming, kept in a constant haze of its own filth. Blythe and his sect became wealthy men and women. Still, they never shook the paranoia and superstition that the end of the world would occur in year of 1899.

  It was through this factory monastery that a whole new breed of cultist was born. It was about the end and nothing but. They had little presence in the world, but enough to be noticeable. A main belief of theirs was that of non-progress. The advancement of man was futile for the darkness would overcome, until then, worship the sky from which it came and lock yourself away until it subsides, if ever it does. They were an odd and funny bunch, until they started abducting people for sacrifice.

  I found it interesting to find a Master Keyper among the rank and file of the WingedMen of Chasm City. He was a decorated member of the WingedMen, yet only served in order to keep an eye on this rather ancient relic. Now he was putting his service aside.

  A locksmith and fellow Master Keyper by the name of George Malloy was essentially just a self-employed craftsman. He had the bright idea to exploit the Schantylle Worms paraphenomenal mental aptitude. He reasoned that he could build an incredible lock, one that wouldn’t require a physical, actual key, not one made of metal. Rather he would attach a worm to a man through paraphenomenal means. A worm would be put behind a lock, attached to it mechanically. A pool of goop would collect on the other side of the lock, for instance, in a cup built within a door, almost like a post slot in the front door. The point was to have a man who was paraphenomenally connected to the worm be able to touch the mucous thereby triggering the worm to unlock the lock. It was designed to work with one man, one worm. Though the worms wouldn’t cooperate.

  He showed his invention to one of the cultist leaders, Doyle Harold Boyd. Harold Boyd, as he was referred, suggested using chemicals to perhaps sway the worm into wanting to work. He suggested a mixture of rust moss with phennery root. The combination made the worms into mindless drones, hungry for the rust moss and it’s euphoric effects. The phennery, when mixed and only when mixed, focused the paraphenomenal connection to one other mind. With a bit of vicious training, Harold Boyd was able to get the paraphenomenal lock and key system to work.

  The downside was that the worms also became terribly violent in their euphoric state, they often thrashed and bit through the lock mechanism to free themselves soon after dosing started. Harold Boyd found the worms in the wild and took them back to the lab for testing. He killed hundreds of them before he finally gave up.

  What Hendryk and his other cultists had going on was based on Harold Boyd’s idea. They built these mechanized suits for the worms and placed them here to protect the key, in exchange they’d be administered as much rust moss as they liked. Once they became dependent, they never stopped with the rust moss. Alone, by itself without the phenner
y root, they were safe. In too high a dose, they would die, but the cultists made certain they were taken care of.

  It took some work on the cultists’ part finding the right worms to do the job. Many of them wanted no association with the cult or with the rust moss, most wanted to be left alone. Though, they found three of them to guard the key in exchange for the drug.

  I knew a good part of the history and idea behind what he had going on, but I didn’t understand why. And what information Hendryk offered to fill in the blanks was of little use.

  “My word, Monocle,” Hendryk smiled as he pointed his gun directly into my face, “you certainly do know your history. It is a shame to have to kill you. I don’t really like you, but you’ve got quite the mind, indeed. A bullet will stop that.”

  He cocked his pistol and a knife pierced Hendryk in the shoulder knocking him backwards a fair bit as he dropped his revolver. I turned to find Anna and the monkey wearing a fez. Hendryk raised his other pistol and aimed only to be met with another knife in the corresponding shoulder. Again he was knocked a bit backwards and dropped his other weapon. The monkey wearing a fez ran to Hendryk speedily, climbed him like a tree and tore at his face. Hendryk fell backwards into a patch of the pernicious ivy which latched on and twirled around his appendages and burned across his skin all over his body.

  The monkey jumped back and away from the entangled WingedMan. The Wormatons let go of The Strongman and Louise to save Hendryk, but the ivy worked quickly. A vine wrapped itself around his neck before he could scream and strangled the life out of him. His arms struggled, his hips convulsed. Not a word. The Wormatons stood there at the patch of ivy at a loss before turning on us.