by Douglas Jern
He had lost a tooth.
That was good.
The minotaur kept up the pressure, kicking Homer in the knee and following up with a powerful hook to the body. Homer felt one of his ribs snap like a twig.
Better and better.
Twelve seconds had passed since the fight had begun. He would let it go on a little while longer. He threw a slow punch in the general direction of the minotaur’s head, for the look of the thing—it would not do to throw the fight completely. The minotaur dodged the blow with ease and countered with a vicious elbow strike to Homer’s temple. Lights flashed before Homer’s eyes and an intense jolt of pain ran through his head, as if his opponent had driven a railway spike clean through his skull. The impact rocked his brain, making him nauseous.
He stumbled to regain his balance, still counting the seconds, and saw the minotaur winding up the knockout punch with a look of triumph in his eyes. Homer smiled. It was time.
He focused his mind, recalling the seconds leading up to this moment, tracing them back to the desired point in time, and reached inwards, seeking the switch that opened the Memory Hole.
Switch
The familiar heat and twisting sensation told him he had succeeded. The pain and nausea were gone without a trace, and a quick sweep with his tongue confirmed that his teeth were all present and accounted for. The Memory Hole had done its work.
Which meant that the minotaur must be hurting bad right about now.
Homer lunged at his dazed opponent and tackled him to the ground. The minotaur fell like a domino, too overwhelmed by his injuries to put up a fight. Homer landed on top of him, driving a knee into his crotch and slamming his head into the ground with a loud crack.
It was over. Homer stood up and brushed some dust off his pants. Diego approached him, staring awestruck from Homer to the fallen minotaur. He snapped his fingers and cocked an imaginary gun at Homer.
“Shit, man, you fucked him up!” The last word came out as an excited shout, accompanied by another snap of his fingers.
“Told you so,” said Homer, looking down at the man on the ground.
“Damn, you are so in, Homeboy!” said Diego, slapping Homer on the back. “All right, we better bounce before any of his buddies show up.”
“One second,” said Homer, bending down over the minotaur. “I want a souvenir.”
He reached out and grabbed the minotaur’s nose ring. The minotaur protested feebly, raising a hand to ward Homer off, but Homer swatted it away. Then he gave the ring a sharp twist and yanked it upwards, tearing it loose. It felt like pulling a drumstick from a roast chicken. The minotaur let out a deafening roar of agony.
Why, he even sounds like a bull, thought Homer as he tossed the ring up into the air, watching it gleam in the light of the streetlamps before catching it and shoving it in his pocket.
He grinned over his shoulder at Diego, who was staring at him, mouth agape.
“Okay. We leaving now?”
Later, at the bar where the gang usually met up, Diego related to the other members how Homer had caught the big man by surprise, knocked out one of his teeth, and then floored him. Homer showed them the golden nose ring, still stained with the minotaur’s blood. They all cheered and clapped and bought Homer drinks, welcoming him to the family.
Homer laughed and drank and played along, but his mind was elsewhere. The family did not interest him one bit, but gaining access was an important step in the right direction. It was time to move on upward.
12 YEARS AGO
The goon opened the door, letting Homer into the target’s inner sanctum. Homer surveyed the room as he entered, noting the layout, the furniture, and number of people present. The room was high-ceilinged and airy, with two large windows on the right-hand side, their curtains drawn against the bright sunlight. The room contained a big mahogany desk behind which the target was sitting in an upholstered swivel chair, a small armchair positioned opposite the desk, presumably for visitors to sit on, and a narrow coffee table off to the right, with two armchairs on each side, currently occupied by two goons in suits. The one who had let him in took his position next to the door, rounding out their number to an even four, including the target.
Having confirmed that the room was of a rectangular shape measuring five by seven meters and that everyone in it were thus well within his range, Homer allowed himself to admire the large bookshelf that covered the entire inner wall and reached all the way to the ceiling. A ladder on wheels was fastened to a pair of rails on the floor, allowing a prospective reader access to any book in the shelf. And there were many notable books to be found here; even a brief glance confirmed that the target owned not only a first edition of Moby Dick, but even a leather-bound copy of the Odyssey in the original Greek. Homer was impressed, and happily surprised; most of his targets were utterly uncultured, decking their lairs with gaudy baubles and tasteless kitsch rather than fine art. His gaze wandered over the books lining the shelf, caressing them. Once the job was done, he might help himself to a volume or two.
“A fine collection, don’t you think?” said the target, smiling at Homer while pouring two glasses of bourbon. “Always a pleasure to meet a fellow appreciator of culture, and one so young, at that. Please, take a seat.”
He motioned towards the armchair in front of the desk. Homer thanked him and sat down. The target placed one of the glasses in front of him.
“Are you perchance a collector yourself, Mr. Moley?”
“I would not presume to call myself as such,” said Homer, unable to look away from the bookshelf. “My meager shelf at home pales in comparison. Is that a first edition of Nineteen Eighty-Four I spy there to your left?”
“It certainly is,” confirmed the target after a look over his shoulder. “Well spotted.”
“That is one book I would know anywhere,” said Homer. “It is my bible.”
“Then it sounds like you and I may have much to discuss,” said the target with a wide grin. He raised his glass and bowed his head at Homer, who did the same.
“To literature—the compass that guides us on our voyage through life and the torch that lights up the darkness.”
“To literature,” Homer echoed, and sipped the bourbon without tasting it. He would not have anything to discuss with the target at all. He had a job to do, and while he was at it, a legend to establish.
He set down his glass and glanced at his watch. The old Timex was still ticking, faithful as ever. 13:38. He started counting.
Seeing him look at his watch, the target put down his glass, pulled out a drawer and rummaged for something.
“Of course, you are a busy man, and your time is valuable,” he said with an apologetic smile. “I have the money right here, just wait a second.”
“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Lowenthal.”
Homer adjusted his right sleeve, his fingers brushing against the handle of the knife concealed within, one of a pair of stilettos that he kept in small holsters sewn into the sleeves of his suit. Nine seconds and counting. He looked into the target’s eyes.
“Mr. Morricone sends his regards.”
He slipped the knife out of his sleeve and brought it to his own throat in one fluid motion. There was a commotion from his right as the two goons scrambled to their feet, knocking over the coffee table in the process. Twelve seconds had passed. He made a quick calculation in his head and memorized the new cutoff point.
Then he drew the knife across his throat in a swift stroke, slicing it wide open.
The pain was insignificant; he had done this a hundred times before and thought no more of it than the average person would of cutting their toenails. The injury was easy—the switch was the real challenge. He focused on the exact millisecond the short, razor-sharp blade had completed its journey through the flesh of his throat, keeping his target in sight.
Then he threw open the Memory Hole.
Switch
A gash appeared in the target’s throat precisely according to plan.
The target jerked in his chair and gasped for breath, producing a series of wet, bubbling noises.
Homer, his own throat now safe and uncut, sat back in the armchair for dramatic effect; he wanted the three goons to see their boss well, see him bleed out from a wound that to their eyes had materialized out of thin air. This was not his ordinary modus operandi, which demanded a rigorous upholding of appearances to give each death a plausible explanation. This was a special occasion, a rare and most welcome opportunity for some showmanship. He might as well enjoy it while he could.
One of the goons by the coffee table rushed over to the desk and pressed a handkerchief against the target’s opened throat. The other pulled out a gun from beneath his jacket and aimed it at Homer, while the goon by the door grabbed him from behind and forced him to his feet, pinning his arms to his sides.
“What the hell did you do to the boss?” demanded the goon with the gun.
“He had to die, so I made it happen,” replied Homer. “It’s what I do.”
While talking, he observed the gunman, noting that he was holding the gun in his right hand, which was of roughly the same size as Homer’s. Remote manipulation was tricky, but he loved a challenge. He curled the fingers of his right hand around an imaginary handgun and bent his wrist so that it pointed towards his own leg.
“There is one thing I do not understand,” he said to the goon to keep his attention on his face. “Why would you shoot yourself?”
Chuckling at the goon’s puzzled expression, he mimed pulling the trigger.
Switch
The gunshot, though muffled by the goon’s leg, was still deafening in the enclosed space of the study. The goon screamed in pain and tumbled to the floor, dropping the gun. He clutched at his right leg, where a dark red patch was spreading on the fabric of his pants.
“What the fuck are you doing, man?” yelled the goon holding Homer, while the one by the desk just stared in disbelief. No surprise there; they had just seen their comrade, who until recently had been keeping Homer in check, turn the gun on himself and fire—a completely ludicrous action with no rational explanation.
Taking advantage of their confusion, Homer bent his head forward, then whipped it backward as hard as he could into the face of the goon behind him. The crack as the goon’s nose broke was music to his ears. He twisted his body around, breaking the goon’s grip. With his arms free, he put the goon in a headlock and pulled him close. While the goon, too surprised and overwhelmed to fight properly, wasted his energy tugging at Homer’s arm, trying in vain to pry it loose, Homer reached up his left sleeve and pulled the other knife from its holster. One swift jab was all it took. He let go and danced away to avoid getting blood on his suit. A hard shove sent the goon hurtling to the floor, where he thrashed about like a fish out of water, pressing both hands against his neck.
Homer stepped over the upturned coffee table and picked up the gun from the floor next to its owner, whose attempt to stop him was thwarted by a sharp kick to the face.
“You can’t hurt me,” said Homer, raising the knife to his own throat again. “Just watch.”
Another cut, another…
Switch
…and the goon lay dying on the floor. Homer turned to the last survivor, who was cowering behind the desk, his hands raised in front of him as if to ward Homer off.
“You get it now?” Homer asked him. “He who controls the past, controls the future. Everything that happened here today happened because I said so.”
His gaze fell on the copy of Nineteen Eighty-Four, and he chuckled.
“You could say I have my own personal Ministry of Truth, of a sort—one that really works.”
The goon stared wordlessly at him. Homer sighed.
“I suppose this is a lot to take in all at once, so I’ll simplify it for you: All of these men are dead because I decided it. I’m calling the shots. If you try to hurt me, you’ll end up the same way. Do you understand?”
The goon nodded.
“Good. Then you get to live. And if anyone asks you what happened here, you tell them Homer Moley came to do his job. That’s all. Do you understand? Speak up.”
“Yes, sir. Homer Moley came to do his job. That’s what I’ll tell them.”
“Excellent. Now, if you would excuse me…”
Homer walked over to the bookshelf. The goon hurried out of his way, crouching down in a corner of the room with his hands on his head. Homer pulled out Moby Dick and Nineteen Eighty-Four from the shelf. He already owned five copies of the latter, in three different languages, but such a finely preserved first edition was too good to pass up. He walked out of the room with the books under his arm, leaving the terrified goon behind. Whatever happened here later was none of his business.
The target was dead. His job was done.
SIX MONTHS AGO
“The job is done. The target is eliminated, isn’t he?”
“Newspapers are calling it an accident, and Mr. Morricone is inclined to agree. Sorry, buddy.”
“You do know who you’re dealing with, yes?”
“Can the attitude. You’re not getting paid.”
“Let me speak to Mr. Morricone.”
“Not a chance. Goodbye, Mr. Moley.”
“I won’t forget this.”
Homer hung up, slipping the stolen phone into his coat pocket for later disposal. Giuseppe Morricone had refused to pay him. In the fourteen years he had been in this business, no one had ever dared stiff him, thanks to the rumors about his supernatural abilities. They had morphed and mutated over the years, amplified and elaborated by the ravings of occasional survivors, much like that one goon he had let live after assassinating Lowenthal eleven years ago. Depending on who you asked now, Homer Moley was either an immortal vampire, the devil himself, a far-right terrorist cell composed of former Special Forces members, or a time traveler from the future, which was not too far from the truth, in a sense.
But now someone had dared to challenge him, to question his power, and that was a problem. His reputation was his bread and butter, and once it became known that Giuseppe Morricone had gotten away with not paying Homer Moley, others would soon follow suit. Business, already slow enough in these relatively peaceful times, would dry up. The money was not important; he had a considerable amount saved up from various hits over the years, and thanks to the Memory Hole, he rarely needed to pay for things anyway. But the thought of people scoffing at him, declaring him a fraud, not fearing him, was something he could not bear.
A loss of business would also have dire consequences for his ability. During a previous dry spell, he had gone an entire month without flipping the switch and had almost bungled the next job once it came. The timespan he could manipulate had shrunk from the usual fifteen minutes down to twelve during his period of inactivity, and he had noticed too late. The intricate chain of events he had set up to make his target fall down a flight of stairs had been ruined, leaving the target alive and a random bystander dead in his place. He had rectified this error afterwards, but the incident was a grave reminder that even he was not infallible. If he had taken the fall himself, he would not be alive today.
He made sure to exercise his ability at least thrice a week after that, pulling simple pranks on unsuspecting people, measuring the timespan and range each time. He had been relieved to find that these little practical jokes kept his ability from deteriorating, although they did little to enhance it.
Reasoning that the switch in his mind was like a muscle in need of intense exercise to grow stronger, he grew bolder in his activities, picking fights with ruffians and gang members like he so often had done in his adolescence, noting with satisfaction that he was back up to his ordinary fifteen minutes and six-meter range after about seven weeks.
This had appeared to be the limit—and was indeed enough for his needs—until that day two weeks ago, when he had measured his ability as he always did after a job, and found to his astonishment that the timespan had increased to fifteen minutes an
d eight seconds after just one switch. It was as if he had surmounted a plateau and started on a path to even greater heights. He had been dizzy with excitement at the possibilities. He needed a steady stream of work more than ever right now, and he was not about to let some geriatric crime boss stand in his way.
Homer got up from the table, paid his check, and walked out of the café where he had been enjoying a double espresso before the phone call, which had left a sour taste in his mouth. He left the coffee unfinished.
Outside, the winter cold bit into him even through his coat. He walked homeward, contemplating how to get back at Giuseppe Morricone. If the old man refused to pay, he must be punished, and Homer had an idea how best to do that. Giuseppe had been in the game a long time and was not afraid to die. Given his old age, he was not long for this world anyway. Killing the old man would be a feeble vengeance, but there were other ways. Anyone who knew anything about Giuseppe Morricone knew that there was but one thing in this world he truly treasured: his son. Forcing the old man to suffer through the remainder of his days knowing that his greed had cost him his only son, now that would be a worthy revenge.
Homer had seen Vincent Morricone in person once before, at a party a few years back—Homer had been there incognito, engaged in what for lack of a better term would have to be called market research. Giuseppe, the host of the party, had sung his son’s praises, boasting about his athletic prowess and promising career in real estate development, patting him on the back with a proud look in his eyes. Vincent himself, however, had merely stood there, snorting and grunting like an animal, doped up to his eyeballs on cocaine. Then he had punched a guy in the face and had to be led away from the room with the promise of hookers and booze. The man was by all accounts a vile creature; a drug-addled, self-obsessed party animal who would laugh as he slapped his escorts around or ordered his goons to rough people up for kicks. There were even rumors, whispered in muted voices and with careful glances over shoulders, that Vincent would sometimes take a pubescent youth, boy or girl, with him for a long drive out of the city, and that he would later return, alone.
