Fables of Failure

by Gregory R. Marshall

  It tasted like wine at first, even a particularly good vintage, though I had always been an Elven Vodka man myself. But soon it started to work its dark magic. It was like my throat was filling with hot, dry sand. I gasped and collapsed. The weird sourceless lighting became a baking summer sun.

  “THE BAG MAN AND OTHER THINGS I HAD HOPED TO FORGET”

  George had Tommy in a full nelson, and I was wailing on him. “No one turns on the Blood Eagles!” I shouted. “No one!” I was eleven years old. I was taking a boyish pleasure in bloodying this pathetic traitor. I felt a sense of youthful vindication. I had objected to initiating Tommy on the grounds that he had not completed anything close to the requisite number of thefts. Rob and Karl would have to defer to my judgement in similar matters going forward. “Squeal, Piggy! What does Reverend Burstin know?”

  “H-he knows you have a gang! He knows y-you’ve been stealing!” Pathetic. I was disgusted that it had taken so little punching to get this stool pigeon to sing. He wasn’t even a good informant. He played for both sides, badly. Hard to believe someone this soft was even an orphan. Just as I was getting too disgusted to punch him anymore, a firm hand grabbed my shoulder. The Reverend was leading me to his office, and in a hurry.

  Burstin’s room always made me sick. It was a shrine to holiness and respectability. He wore a cassock and one of those weird authoritarian-looking collars that crosses over itself. As usual, he didn’t bother with anything like a human greeting. “That image on our buildings is not a ‘Blood Eagle,’ whatever that might be. That is Saint Tritium, a lofty hero of the Church of Provisian Saints who ministered to a colony with the contagious Bird Flu. He was a good man in spite of his looks. I will not have you using him as a symbol of violence. I will not have you punching other boys. I will not have you stealing. I will not have you leading a gang. These things are not permitted in my orphanage. Is this clear?”

  Burstin would never hear anything you said unless it was “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You have kitchen detail for the rest of the week. I hope you learn from this punishment.”

  I went hungry that night, partly because they were serving beans and Kargivian couscous, but mostly because of the dread for the work that lay ahead. I stared stonily at my brethren in the St. Tritium Orphanage mess hall. Two hundred orphans. Three hours of work per night, at a minimum. I felt sick. We always ate at a preposterously late hour, presumably just to further interfere with our ability to digest the awful food. I was going to be up working for that fat pious old goat until midnight.

  It was a relief when the rest cleared out. The mess hall was silent. I had to get this shit done. I ran from table to table, stacking the filthy bowls and rushing them to the kitchen. The job was enormous—the difficulty was in figuring out which corners could be safely cut without extending my sentence. As I gathered, stacked, and scrubbed, I tried to pass the time by plotting my revenge.

  I was on my last legs when it was all finally done. My eleven-year-old body was so weak it could barely stand. I grabbed a bowl at random, spat in it, and wiped it dry. With only four remaining Blood Eagles, probability stated that some other chump would get a taste of my saliva tomorrow.

  A shriek lacerated the night. At first I thought that someone had seen my dirty trick, but I soon realized that I was alone. I hit the lights and made my way to the exit. I heard the beginning of another scream, this one closer. It was muffled, as if a hand had stifled it. As near as I could tell, it was coming from the game shed.

  I snuck up, taking cover behind the wheel barrow and vat they used to crate us our tepid drinking water. I heard a rhythmic banging coming from inside the shed. Is someone making a new game? I thought. And then, instantly, I knew that that was the last thought I would ever have as a child.

  The door creaked open. I saw a furrow of brown plastic gripping the frame like a hand. As the thing stepped into the light, I saw that its entire body looked like it was made from bags. It had no consistent shape, its arms and legs inflating and deflating as invisible air currents filled it and left. It had a gaping mouth and cavernous eyes. It looked around, satisfying itself that it hadn’t been seen, and then it vanished into the shadows.

  Ten minutes ago, all I wanted to do was sleep, and now I felt like I would never know rest again. I opened the door to the shed and pulled the string to turn on its light. Joey was lying in a mess of tabletop Questball pieces. His pants and underpants were down around his ankles.

  “Gods, Joey. Pull up your pants. What happened?” He didn’t answer. His eyes were rimmed in tears. It looked like he was in a different place. I snapped my fingers in front of him, then stooped and pulled up his pants for him. His legs were bleeding. Here was a fairly wimpy kid, not Blood Eagle material by any means. Still, Joey was alright. There were maybe ten times the guy could have rolled on us and tattled, but he didn’t. I draped his arm over my shoulders and led him to the Reverend’s room.

  I banged on the door. There was silence. I tentatively released Joey and banged with both hands. He flopped to the ground like a catatonic rag doll. Burstin wasn’t opening up. I thought I would choke if I was polite to the lazy old goat under these circumstances, but there didn’t seem to be any other choice. Something very wrong had happened to Joey. That thing, the bag monster, was still around. I felt a gagging chill, as if something was slithering inside me. “Reverend Burstin!” I called. “Please open up! Joey was hurt! Please help us!”

  Nothing. I tried the door—it was open. The lights were off. Reverend Burstin was sprawled on a comfortable armchair, wearing a monogrammed robe. His eyes were glassy and vacant. “Shit.” I thought. “The bag monster got him too.” My mind was sprinting through a funhouse. Reverend Burstin was the only adult on the compound. His program for orphans was based on distributing chores and fearful punishments among the children. He didn’t part with his donations to hire help.

  I pulled Joey in and leaned him against the wall. I pushed the door closed. Yesterday this would have been a dream come true—the tyrant dead and the whole orphanage to ourselves. I would have turned the place into my own private kingdom by lunch time. The Blood Eagles would have taken Burstin’s office as our headquarters. But I had reached the close of childhood’s chapter. The fact was that we were now even more alone than we had been, and at the mercy of a terrible evil. I found the Reverend’s phone. Before I could call the emergency number for the Royal Guard, the door opened.

  I placed the phone silently down in its cradle and ducked under the table. It was the monster. It stood there in the doorway, its silhouette changing shape grotesquely as its fake skin billowed. There was a terrible contradiction, a need to breathe heavily, to gasp, to cry, but also a need to hide, to stay silent. The thing knew. It had stalked me here. The lights turned on, startling me. I was against the floor, crouching, taking up as little space as possible. I saw its formless feet pad their way to the dead Reverend. There was again that terrible contradiction, that feeling of being torn open. I wanted to race for the door and escape. I wanted to never come out from hiding. Compromising, I tilted my head up to observe, to wait for my moment. The monster opened its mouth, a gaping hole that got wider and wider like a silent wail. I thought for a moment that he was going to eat the corpse. But then a white smoke began to pour from his mouth. The mist snaked and coiled its way into the Reverend’s nostrils.

  The monster collapsed into a flat sheet as Burstin came to his senses. He got up from his armchair and folded the monster up like a blanket. Neatly spread across his ottoman, it looked like some old-manish decoration. Then he noticed Joey next to his book case, and froze. “Who’s here?” He demanded. “What is the meaning of this?”

  I couldn’t stand it anymore. I jumped out from hiding, filled with a fatalistic desire to improvise. “I’m sorry to bother you, Reverend Burstin! Joey got hurt—I heard him screaming when I was walking home after the dishes, and--”

  The reverend seized me under the jaw, tilting my hea
d back and glaring down into my eyes. “Don’t you lie to me! You saw everything! You…” He let go. “It doesn’t matter.” His face relaxed. He was smiling with a gentle contentment that was far worse than the moralistic scowl I so hated. “It doesn’t matter because no one will believe you. There is not a soul in the Gods’ Provisia that will believe a word about this. Go home. Your life now is home and chores. If you cross me, the Bag Man will get you. Remember that.”

  I didn’t realize that I had left Joey until I was back in my bed. What a pointless failure to risk my neck for someone who wasn’t even a Blood Eagle, to be exposed and compromised and to have done nothing for him in the end.

  The next three days were a hypnotic, robotic blur. I did everything that I was expected to do. I woke up. I said morning prayers. I played with second-hand boardgames like Gorks and Goblins and Starving, Starving Were-Flaffs. Mess hall duty. Sleep. Some people live their whole lives in that state, that kind of deep programming that lets you function rather than live, that lets the world turn past you without risk or pain. I could only stand three days of it.

  “Enough of this shit.” I said. I had pulled the gang together. “We’ve played possum long enough. Burstin thinks the gang’s broken up. We’ll never have an opportunity like this again. It’s time for a heist. A big one.”

  “It’s good to have you back, Forrest. You’ve been like a flag-sucker these last few days.”

  “It’s just tactics. We’re making the big score.”

  “Are we going to knock over Candy Haven?”

  “No. The target’s Burstin.” The gang looked uncomfortable. “I’ve been in there. He buys really top notch stuff with all the money he’s supposed to use to take care of us. Jewels, expensive books, fancy artwork. We rip him off, we steal a car, we fence his shit. We don’t have to live here ever again.” They still looked queasy. I hit them with some orders so that they wouldn’t have too much time to think. “George, at lunch time you leave the hose on and set fire to the game hut. That will draw all the kids away from the soup truck. Rob, Karl—you tell the truck guy that the Reverend needs his help. Hotwire his car and park it by the back entrance. Then all three of you come to the Reverend’s room and help me carry his shit to the truck. We’re only going to get one shot at this.”

  I waited in the bell tower as the plan was put into action. I saw a trickle of warm water against the parched earth, then a spreading dark puddle. The game hut went up like a tinder box, with the help of a lighter and some fuel-soaked wood I stole in a heist last year. Pee-pants Tommy was running for the Reverend. I got up and made my way over to the building where he lived. He had left his door ajar in his rush to extinguish the flames. We had wasted so much water that there would be hardly any pressure. The gang joined me. “Truck’s in position.” Karl said.

  “Good. Find boxes or bags and load up everything you can. The pricier the better.” They got to it. I fished around in Burstin’s desk and got my hands on a letter opener. I picked up the Bag Man suit. It felt cruel to the touch, as if invisible hairs were trying to grab my pores and dump poison into them. I lanced it five or six times, then forced myself to fold it up the way I found it. I hated touching it. “Get the dishes! China, silver!” I barked. “We’re going to need to sell this garbage to survive.” I went to the back of the suite and unlocked a window. “We’ve got to bail. The distraction won’t last much longer. Go load up the truck. Dump as much of that soup as you have to and make room for the goods. Then stash the stuff and find a new base. I’ll catch up to you tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? We gotta get out of dodge! He’s going to know it was us.”

  “No arguments. I have unfinished business. I’ll meet you in the empty lot tomorrow. Get gone!” I made my way out. The game hut was a smoldering wreckage. The Reverend had sent everyone back to the dorms. I picked up the hose and squeezed it into my mouth. It had been running for ages. It was the first time I had ever tasted cold water, and it refreshed and soothed my body live an elven elixir. You never realize how much of a Gods-in-the-heavens miracle water is until--

  “Oh, Gods! Water!”

  A little before midnight, I crept to the Reverend’s unlocked window. I had made myself scarce all day. I wondered what sap had cleaned the mess hall that night. I spent about two minutes pushing the door of his pantry silently open; another two to close myself inside. He was here, somewhere. But he wasn’t asleep. He had an urge he would have to answer, especially after a stressful day. I peered through the slats, my eyes on his ottoman.

  Something inside me was changing. I was not scared—not a little. A part of me hoped that he would discover me. I still had the letter opener and the element of surprise. He crept and creaked his way over to the ottoman. He smiled down at it.

  “Second skin and darkest cure

  Blackest evil I harbor

  You are the left hand and the sin

  Open your mouth and let me in.”

  The white mist poured from his mouth and nostrils towards the bag suit, seeping in. But just as it began to inflate, the smoke flowed out through its new holes, dissipating. The suit flattened again, and the Reverend collapsed to the ground. I opened the pantry. “Trapped between bodies!” I crowed. “Your soul is an orphan, you perverted old goat!” My words didn’t feel right. I couldn’t taste the victory. I grabbed a prod from the fireplace and hooked the bag suit, flipping it into the fire. I still didn’t feel better. I looked at the letter opener. Pearl handle. Would I sell it? Keep it as a trophy? I threw it to the ground. That was my last night at the orphanage.

  “He done survived the ’nitiation.”

  “Good. Bring him water.” My entire body felt like parchment. I tried to get to my feet, but the room tilted and I collapsed. Water! Water was flowing down my throat. How had I never realized what a miracle it was! “Don’t give him any more yet. We don’t want him to throw up. Mission Creep—please help Forrest to his feet.”

  Dripping and drooling, I was lifted to my feet. I knew that if Mission Creep let go, I would collapse. It was as if dust had replaced all my blood, xylem, and phloem. The headache was worse than any hangover, and I know my way around hangovers. I still wanted more water.

  “Forrest Cromwell. You have survived. You are now a Dry Man, first degree. You have been initiated into our Order. What did you learn?”

  I tried to speak. My vocal cords were on strike. I threatened them with lockouts and strikebreakers until words came out. “The Bag Man of Oily Peaks was real.” I gasped. “And I killed him.”

  “Yes. Your first job for us. The monster suits were a grisly manifestation of the imprinting technique. Consciousness can be temporarily transferred to a crude synthetic body. These are a boon to corrupt politicians, who can more easily lead a double life with control of two forms. Their darkest urges could be satisfied without sullying their reputations.”

  “The Reverend was no politician. He was just a crook who was running an orphanage.”

  “His brother, Eldrige Burstin, was a governor of the Ignoble stripe. He must have given his suit to the Reverend after he traded up for a better one.” Mission Creep approached the one in the center, placing the chalice in his hand. “Our agents pulled the charred remains of the suit from the fire and analyzed the material. You handed us the keys to the richest source of blackmail in history, all before your twelfth birthday.”

  I didn’t say anything. I felt hollow inside, empty of any feeling other than dehydration. Idealism isn’t my style; I didn’t get into the journalism game to change the world. Even so, I couldn’t say that any of this sat well with me. It was hard to believe that these guys could be any better than Burstin and his ilk.

  “You have begun you journey, your quest for enlightenment through the Dry Men system. You are first degree. You will have other opportunities to serve us.”

  “LET THE SUNSHINE IN”

  1

  I had spent the morning walking around Mission Creep’s compound. It was clear that, as he had put it, he
was a ‘mighty rich man,’ though one with a simple taste for roughing it. Provisian flags were displayed on three different flagpoles. He had the most enviable armory I’d ever laid eyes on stashed in an underground bunker. He poured me a generous helping of Rumble Rum and we had a seat on two lawn chairs on his front porch. “Want to show you somethin’ on that there TV.” He said, popping in a cassette that proved to be an old episode of Black Paladin, one of the good ones before the shithead producer killed off the Gore Ogre and started fucking around with that ‘peace anointing’ crap.