Re: The Relentless Slaughter [Round 3: Tormentorland]
01-05-2013, 01:44 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by Lord Paradise.
There was something less than story about this, Ke remarked, standing bipedal and uneasy in line to take her seat. The screens all around blared this narrative of “Rollo” to anybody who would listen. But “Rollo” was not a story, not quite. It was at best an exhortation, at worst a cruel deception, wrapped in images and soundbytes. These people were here to pay homage to “Rollo.” They completed the story with their coinpurses, taking on the form of Rollo in their garments and food and accessories. Despite being four limbs down, Ke realized that the security guards had actually given her a leg up—she had been able to become utterly Rollo, for free, in this place where Rollohood was absolute power.
A Rollo laughed at her from a screen above. Huhuhu-Hoy! ”Huhuhu-Hoy!” mimed Ke perfectly. The laugh was another piece of Rollo capital, another source of clout in Rolloland. How had Rollo been the first contestant to die, if he’d had all this power?
On another screen, a rolled-up Rollo yelped in agony as a giant sneakered foot punted him across a nondescript desert. The source of the power, Ke reflected, was not Rollo itself, but an virulent idea of “Rollo” shaped by distant puppeteers. Those who did not voluntarily become Rollo—naive and self-centered, the perfect consumer—were forcibly assimilated, Rollofied by the strange weapons of the “security” forces.
Ke wondered what a Rollo unleashed would have looked like, a character free from propaganda—Rollo as trickster figure, Rollo as revolutionary. She wondered what was the story of “Tara N. Tula,” a figure so abhorrent to the security troops, presumably one of her own kin. As she took her front-row seat to Mister Mystery’s Curious Collection, she reminded herself to withhold judgment and consent to simply listen, the dutiful recorder.
The stage was dark, yet. The remembrancer could make out black shapes, some walking upright, others rolling along the floor, setting up some manner of apparatus in the center. A musical score tilting unsteadily on the line between Vaudevillian and foreboding whirled through the room with no concrete origin. The tent smelled of processed food and ozone.
When the lights went up, Ke made sure to take in every detail. Most pertinent, perhaps, were two of her fellow battle-contestants: the beautiful battlecleric, his armor still spotless, the relative calmness of his demeanor representing a turn of the page in his life, so to speak; and the alchemist, smiling greedily in the shadows of his new companion, garbed almost entirely in Rollo. Ke tried to imagine what had happened that had brought them to this place, but she had the creativity only to tweak or adapt stories, not to create new ones on the spot. This “Grand Battle” was getting away from her. The former spider shuddered and drew her attention (only having two eyes was a hassle—her brain was designed for peripheral awareness, not distinct focus) to the man on stage.
Zimmer, on the other hand, was built inside and out for laser focus, shutting out his general surroundings to completely, perfectly examine a single moment. He paid no heed to the armadillo peering at him from a couple rows away, nor even to the violently-inclined alien sitting impatiently next to him. His personal theology presumed that God would provide for what he considered to be the little details. He was watching the show.
Mister Mystery was a wiry fellow dressed in a suit boasting a subtle Rollo theme. His undeniable showmanship seemed to emanate entirely from his eyes, which flickered strobelike, scanning the room as though counting money. The saw in his hand quivered slightly in time with his trembling wrist. He looked like he was either addicted to something or merely very passionate about it, and whether or not this was merely part of his act Zimmer felt an immediate kinship with the man. The alchemist leaned his chin on his palms and his elbows on his knees, drawn in by the spectacle.
“Ladies,” he began. “Gentlemen. Neuters and hermaphrodites and entities with sexual hangups beyond my comprehension. I... am Mister Mystery. And this... is my Curious Collection.”
Mister Mystery’s curious collection turned out to mostly be a collection of high-end Rollo products, but the manner of his presentation transubstantiated them into holy objects, the flesh and blood of Rollo himself. He juggled four 5DVD discs of Rollo’s classic antics with one hand, made Rollo tee shirts appear and disappear both on himself and on audience members, pulled Rollobucks out of children’s ears, and an infinity of another tricks, one after another after another. It was miraculous. Zimmer was enthralled both by the craft (or was it magic?) with which Mister Mystery performed his feats and the collective experience, hundreds of souls suspending disbelief in the name of Rollo. It was the closest to an Orashaldi holy service he had experienced since this battle had started. Most of all, Zimmer was fascinated by the box and the saw.
The box simply stood there, elevated to Mister Mystery’s eye level, shaped in imitation of a certain armadillo’s shell. It was just about big enough to hold an average human. The magician-collector never acknowledged the box except to lean his saw against one of the legs, nor, thereafter, did he acknowledge and make use of the saw. The audience, glued to the first image of the magician holding the saw before the box, were held in a constant state of anticipation—juggled, like the discs. He wondered whether it was the promise of bloodshed that was intriguing them or the prospect of audience participation, the dismantling of the wall that held performer and consumer at a distance.
Finally, Mister Mystery afforded the audience some release. “For my next trick,” he announced, rapping the surface of the box, “I will require a volunteer from the crowd.”
”Me,” affirmed Zimmer, raising his hand. Some dozens of other audience members raised theirs as well. The Orashald took solace in the fact that his hand could reach slightly higher than most of the other prospective volunteers, therefore setting him apart as a more desirable candidate.
“How about you, little one?” Mister Mystery asked, indicating a blue-furred boy in the front row, who appeared to be around eight. The boy clapped excitedly. Zimmer seethed, exchanged a glance with Ensign Vuul, and came to a snap decision.
“Shoot to wound,” he commanded.
Faster than Zimmer could register, his loyal ensign pulled out a plasma pistol and fired a beam of scalding carcinogenic energy into the volunteer’s shoulder. The boy-thing had only a second to let out an abortive scream before shock got the best of him and he collapsed in front of his seat.
All eyes turned toward Vuul, who stood tall above the crowd, weapon still drawn. Zimmer stood calmly, still raising his hand. ”CORRECTION,” declared the battlecleric, his voice scrambling the assembly’s nervous systems and surgically assaulting their willpower. ”LIEUTENANT’MATTHEW’ZIMMER IS THE RANKING VOLUNTEER AND THE MOST DESERVING.”
Mister Mystery, too good a showman to lose his groove to even the most lethal of hecklers, only blanched for a moment. “Quite right!” he said, tipping his hat to the Alvum and surreptitiously tapping the panic button on the underside of the box. “Come on, down, Lieutenant, er, what was it again?”
“Matthew Zimmer,” said Zimmer, leaping cheerfully through the rest of the crowd and over the steaming unconscious child separating him from the magician. “Only a humble supergenius on a search for truth, like anyone else,” he added, winking at the boy’s weeping mother. He was no showman, but understood the need to engage his charges sympathetically.
“Lieutenant Matthew Zimmer, everybody!” cried Mister Mystery, lifting up the saw. “Be warned, Lieutenant,” he stage-whispered as an aside. “Sometimes, the truth hurts.”
“And sometimes pain can do a body good,” countered Zimmer. The magician pulled a lever on the side of the armadillo shell, opening it up to reveal a man-shaped mold inside. Zimmer crawled inside obediently, grinning.
Encased in the skin of Rollo, thought Ke. Would it save him from the saw? The Rollo figure was known for his regenerative properties, his constant endurance of unending pain. Ke thought she understood quite clearly why Rollo fascinated the Tormentor so much.
The box shut, leaving only Zimmer’s head visible.
Zimmer, however, was no Rollo. The basic socializing ethics implicit in the Rollo stories would have frowned upon the alchemist’s command to Vuul to shoot the boy. She looked over at the Alvum with a mix of awe and unease. Did some still think this was all part of the act? And did their belief make it so?
Mister Mystery began to saw through the thick scale of the box. Armadillo: little armored one, in a language foreign to her. Ke wondered how she knew that. The Tormentor’s ability to bring languages together was truly wondrous, in that it allowed individuals of different cultures to communicate while also having the subtlety to account for the quirks unique to each culture. Rollo, a pun on Roll, also the Latinization of the Scandinavian Rolf. Ke scratched her head, feeling the awkward paws touch the strange, mammal face.
Zimmer kept on grinning.
Mister Mystery grunted. A look of panic dawned upon him. Through her two eyes Ke could see a red tinge to the arm working the saw. For the first time in quite a while, the remembrancer felt confident that she knew more of what was going on than most of those around her. She consented for the time being simply to watch.
Zimmer’s smile broke abruptly. The alchemist let out a gasp, then a scream. The audience let out a scream, then a gasp. Ke could perceive a touch of red on the saw. The box was vibrating in a way that suggested a struggle. All of it was perfectly genuine.
Ke bristled. Should Zimmer die, she would once be transported out of the ringside, likely to struggle with some other grotesque shape-change or whimsy of the Tormentor. There would be no guarantee that she would be able to continue to observe.
Plus, each successive death brought the tale closer to a close, and Ke was left with the feeling that this one was just starting.
Besides, Zimmer dying by the Tormentor’s direct intervention seemed somehow to be below the entity, as it violated the fundamental principle of the battle; that the players would live or die according to their merits or, at the very least, according to chance. He was cheapening the narrative.
Or was this merely another form of torment? Was the blood-red god-thing merely playing off the remembrancer’s anxieties? Was he daring her to step into the story as an active player?
Zimmer continued to howl, a chord of manic laughter occasionally hiccupping its way through his pain. Vuul was fidgeting uncertainly. What was he wrestling with? Loyalty? Faith? Self-restraint, even? The battlecleric had changed since those glorious minutes she had spent atop his head.
Ke had changed, too.
“Huhuhu-hoy!” she announced, standing up and spreading her arms out wide, peacock-like, demonstrating her consummate Rollosity. “Rollo here! If you don’t mind me interrupting the horror show for a moment—” –a sarcastic air on horror show, dispelling the crowd’s belief, making it safe to laugh again— “And I’ll tell you a story.”
The grinding of the sawblade stopped. Zimmer moaned. The audience had their eyes on Ke.
Slow and clumsy in her armadillo suit, the former arachnid clambered into the ring and walked past the injured boy and his mother, towards the magician. “Quite a collection you got here, Missssster Mystery!” she barked. Her mockery, again, constituted a transfer of power.
“Help,” whispered the magician (who of course viewed Rollo, and by extension her, as an authority figure) so only Ke can hear. “I’m killing this man but it’s... it’s not me that’s doing it.”
“And a real swell show you’re putting on!” Ke added.
“I’ve summoned security,” said Mister Mystery. “They’ll be able to deal with all this. With that thing with the gun.”
Ke winced. “I hope you don’t mind if I step in for a minute!”
Zimmer was looking up at her in awe. The myth of Rollo had taken hold in his brain, clearly. Blood was trickling from his mouth. Mister Mystery reclaimed his stage presence as though buttoning a coat. “Not at all, my dear Rollo!” he said. “This is your land, after all!”
Ke smiled, first at the magician, then back at the audience. “You’re right,” she said. “This is my land.”
The storyteller took a deep breath, dropping the wacky-armadillo act. She tapped into an old voice, one steeped in oral tradition, and hoped that the Tormentor’s magic would convey the effect in the translation. “This story comes from before my land. Before Rollo had so much as a rock to crawl under.” Her use of the third person brought the audience into a time of myth, connecting them to Rollo-the-idea, not any individual Rollo. “In those days Rollo spent all his time rolling around a great desert, trying to find a little water or some bugs to eat.”
This was one of the universal trickster stories. The trickster always had to be down on his luck, with no advantages save his brain. Ke knew a great wealth of trickster stories—originally Anansi stories, largely, of course, but not all—and this one adapted nicely to the situation.
“Lotta people wanted to pop open that shell of Rollo’s and cook him up for their supper,” Ke lamented. “And worst of all was Bobby Cat, who was fast and mean and strong and smart and had claws could cut through rock.
“Now, Rollo’s shell wasn’t gonna do him much good against these claws, but he had one other thing he could do when Bobby Cat came calling for his supper, which was dig a hole. Bobby Cat couldn’t fit in a Rollo-sized hole and couldn’t dig out a bigger hole without dulling the sharp on his claws. So he was always hoping to catch Rollo unawares and carve his shell out and cut his throat afore Rollo could get away.
“Now, one time came Rollo had what he though was a stroke of luck, which was, he found the biggest anthill he’d ever seen, a genuine ant-mountain, taller even than Rollo was. Now to Rollo this was a feast you couldn’t find outside of one of Rolloland’s many delicious concession stands.”
Ke wasn’t sure why she’d put that part in, but somehow, it didn’t break the mood.
“He dove right in there and started gobbling up all the ants and wrecking that big beautiful anthill. And many ants died that day, but the ant queen, she got to safety.
“Now, most ants don’t bear a grudge against the likes of Rollo because they’re simple types and understand that Rollo gotta feed same as anyone else, and he was a higher form of life than they were and that’s just how things go. But this queen didn’t see how any form of life should be higher than her, she having built that lovely ant-mountain which was taller even than Rollo and had been around longer besides. And now Rollo’d come along and wrecked everything she’d built and killed her people.
“So, as soon as she was out of danger, that ant queen went looking for Bobby Cat. And she told Bobby Cat, here’s what we’re gonna do. I’m going to take what people I got left and get to building a scrumptious-looking anthill right by the foot of that mesa yonder. And when Rollo gets hungry again after filling himself up on all my citizens, he’ll see that anthill and try to eat up all the ants inside. But there won’t be any ants inside, and that’s when you’ll jump him from up atop the mesa.
“And Bobby Cat said okay, that’s how we’ll do it. And he shook the ant queen’s tiny little ant arm with one of his sharp, sharp claws and told her to get working on that fake anthill right away, and he perched himself up on top of that mesa and waited.
“And it happened like you’d expect, where Rollo got hungry again after not too long and was rolling around in the shadow of the mesa where it’s cool and saw that anthill and thought he might have himself some ant, when wham! down comes Bobby Cat claws out and scratches Rollo right down his face and knocks him out cold.
Now, you’d think this would be the end for Rollo but you’ve gotta remember that Bobby Cat wasn’t about that food chain the same way Rollo was with the ants. Bobby Cat, like all cats, he loved to play with his food. Torment, like.” Ke shot a glance at Mister Mystery, who looked back at her quizzically.
“So first thing Bobby Cat did was he cut Rollo’s armor all up, flayed him, like, so Rollo had to walk in the sun all day with his back muscles exposed, and it gave him the wickedest sunburn. And you better believe that Bobby cat likes his meat cooked, so he walked Rollo round on a string for days at a time til that meat was good and burnt up and Rollo near to dying.
“Couple times, Rollo’d try to dig himself an escape, but Bobby Cat would just pull on that string and bring Rollo back up to the surface. So that wasn’t going to work, and he needed to come up with a plan to trick Bobby Cat.
“So one morning he said Bobby Cat, why won’t you just kill me and eat me now, and not play with me like this.
“And Bobby Cat said, Rollo, I want you good and burnt and cooked up afore I eat you. Raw armadillo just tastes like processed ant.
“And Rollo said, Bobby Cat, I gotta figure this torment you’re putting me under has gotta hurt you half as bad as it hurts me, since you can’t catch any other supper lugging a half dead armadillo hanging off you on a string, and since you got that nasty burn up atop your head.
“Now anyone looking could see that Bobby Cat’s pate was looking handsome as ever, but there weren’t a lot of mirrors those days and Bobby Cat couldn’t hardly see his own head. So all he could say was, what burn are you talking about, Rollo?
“To which Rollo replied, the burn that’s got your head burnt read and ugly as a buzzard.
“And Bobby Cat, who was just as vain as you’d expect from a cat, got awful embarrassed and started trying to cover up his own head, and then started looking for a hat. And then Rollo said Bobby Cat, since I can tell this bothers you so much, and I being a slave to the food chain bear you no grudge or grievance, I humbly suggest that you go back to where you cut my armor off and use it as a hat, to protect you against the sun. All I ask, as payment for that idea, is that you kill me quick tomorrow, and spare me this torment.
“Bobby Cat, who had to admit that Rollo had always looked good in that armor, went back and got it and put it on his head, which satisfied his vanity. And to this day that style of hat that looks like Rollo’s armor is the height of fashion and you can buy one at any of Rolloland’s many gift shops. And he promised to Rollo that after a night’s rest he would kill Rollo proper and cook him up for a delicious armadillo breakfast.
“And of course that night Rollo took his armor off the sleeping cat’s head as quiet as could be. Of course he still couldn’t just put his armor back on and run away seeing as how he was still tied by that string. So what he did was he dug a hole out at the end of the length of the string and he hid in that hole and covered the hole up with his armor, which he curled up into a ball. So what Bobby Cat saw when he woke up the next morning was a ball of armadillo plate, which he thought was Rollo, having stolen his armor back.
“But Bobby Cat knew his claws were sharp enough to cut right through that armor, so he crouched down beside the ball and said, Rollo, I’ll kill you slow for this. So he jabbed one claw right through that armor real quick. And Rollo, down below in the hole, saw that claw, and let out a shout, so Bobby Cat would think he’d drawn blood. So Bobby Cat got a little more encouraged and stuck three claws right through the ball of armor. And Rollo started screaming as though his very guts were getting shorn out.
“After that performance Bobby Cat was worried he’d kill Rollo too soon, so next he only stuck one claw in and sort of swirled it around, like, trying to draw out the pain. And Rollo saw his chance, and picked up the rope that tied him to Bobby Cat, and sawed it off against his claw. And before Bobby Cat could think as to why Rollo wasn’t screaming any more, the armadillo had grabbed his armor and dug his hole down deep and out of sight where the cat couldn’t get to him.
“After a couple of days resting up and fixing his armor and sticking it back on himself, Rollo got to thinking how he could avoid this situation in the future. So he went and found the ant queen, whose role in his sorrows he could guess at. He found her starting work on rebuilding her ant-mountain, so it would be bigger than it was before, even. And he said Ms. Ant Queen, you spent all that time building that second anthill for Bobby Cat so Bobby Cat could kill me, and I’m still alive, so you have just as much reason to hate him as to hate me, now.
“And while this wasn’t strictly speaking true, the ant queen was indeed furious at Bobby Cat, and her little insect mind turned to revenge.
“So Rollo gave her a proposition whereby he vowed never to assault her glorious ant mountain, and in return she would send a contingent of ants to watch over Bobby Cat, and if Bobby Cat ever came near where Rollo was hanging his head, they’d whisper in his ear so he could get away well beforehand.
“And from then on anytime Bobby Cat set his sights on Rollo, by the time he got there Rollo was miles away. And he never found out why, because he was too big and too proud to pay any attention to the ants.”
It was a decent story and a great performance, and though it hadn’t been exactly what the audience was expecting, it had a certain kind of power. The crowd cheered at the story’s conclusion, and many of them immediately ran outside to the gift shops, stacks of Rollobucks in hand. Even the mother of the boy who had been shot seemed to be somewhat entertained.
Zimmer, for his part, realized that the agonizing pain and general all-over-the-place-ness of his mid-abdomen had subsided completely. Mister Mystery recognized his part in this minor miracle, and opened the box back up to reveal that the lieutenant was completely intact. “Just an empty shell after all!” he remarked. The audience laughed in relief at the dissipation of the suspense of the act and at the thematic tie-in to the story. Zimmer laughed with them.
Mister Mystery’s voice dropped and took on a sinister, forked-tongued quality. ”Nicely done,” he told the odd, eloquent Rollo.
Vuul heaved his form up out of the crowd and onto the stage, bowing nervously to Rollo. ”I AM ENSIGN’VUUL,” he said tremulously. ”PLEASE ACCEPT OUR OFFER OF SERVICE, O ROLLO.”
Zimmer, vaguely aware that he had cheated death due to this Rollo’s intervention, was only mildly perturbed at his inclusion in the offer. He offered the Rollo his hand. “What are you?” he enquired.
The Rollo smiled. ”Only a humble supergenius on a search for truth,” it mocked. ”Like anyone else.”
Zimmer beamed.
* * * * *
”Wait, wait, wait, wait,” said Henry, watching the screen.
“What?” asked Christian.
“That was a new Rollo story.”
Christian recalled the past several minutes. “Huh.”
“The only new Rollo story anyone’s been able to come up with since Rollo ‘died.’”
“So it was.”
The two looked at each other silently.
“Do you have any idea what that means?” asked Henry.
“Nope.”
“Cool,” Henry sighed. “Me neither.”
After Christian had gotten back from his lunch they had dragged Doug’s corpse into the refrigerator. It had been a long day.
* * * * *
The girl walked up to what appeared to be the leader of the security force surrounding the tent. “Are you going in there?” she asked absentmindedly.
The officer shook his head, Rollo-gun at the ready. “There’s a Rollo in there who seems to have the situation under control,” he said. “We’re a little nervous about starting a situation with that... big thing... in there. So we’re waiting to see how it pans out.”
The girl giggled. “That’s not Rollo,” she assured the officer.
“Rollo’s dead.”
There was something less than story about this, Ke remarked, standing bipedal and uneasy in line to take her seat. The screens all around blared this narrative of “Rollo” to anybody who would listen. But “Rollo” was not a story, not quite. It was at best an exhortation, at worst a cruel deception, wrapped in images and soundbytes. These people were here to pay homage to “Rollo.” They completed the story with their coinpurses, taking on the form of Rollo in their garments and food and accessories. Despite being four limbs down, Ke realized that the security guards had actually given her a leg up—she had been able to become utterly Rollo, for free, in this place where Rollohood was absolute power.
A Rollo laughed at her from a screen above. Huhuhu-Hoy! ”Huhuhu-Hoy!” mimed Ke perfectly. The laugh was another piece of Rollo capital, another source of clout in Rolloland. How had Rollo been the first contestant to die, if he’d had all this power?
On another screen, a rolled-up Rollo yelped in agony as a giant sneakered foot punted him across a nondescript desert. The source of the power, Ke reflected, was not Rollo itself, but an virulent idea of “Rollo” shaped by distant puppeteers. Those who did not voluntarily become Rollo—naive and self-centered, the perfect consumer—were forcibly assimilated, Rollofied by the strange weapons of the “security” forces.
Ke wondered what a Rollo unleashed would have looked like, a character free from propaganda—Rollo as trickster figure, Rollo as revolutionary. She wondered what was the story of “Tara N. Tula,” a figure so abhorrent to the security troops, presumably one of her own kin. As she took her front-row seat to Mister Mystery’s Curious Collection, she reminded herself to withhold judgment and consent to simply listen, the dutiful recorder.
The stage was dark, yet. The remembrancer could make out black shapes, some walking upright, others rolling along the floor, setting up some manner of apparatus in the center. A musical score tilting unsteadily on the line between Vaudevillian and foreboding whirled through the room with no concrete origin. The tent smelled of processed food and ozone.
When the lights went up, Ke made sure to take in every detail. Most pertinent, perhaps, were two of her fellow battle-contestants: the beautiful battlecleric, his armor still spotless, the relative calmness of his demeanor representing a turn of the page in his life, so to speak; and the alchemist, smiling greedily in the shadows of his new companion, garbed almost entirely in Rollo. Ke tried to imagine what had happened that had brought them to this place, but she had the creativity only to tweak or adapt stories, not to create new ones on the spot. This “Grand Battle” was getting away from her. The former spider shuddered and drew her attention (only having two eyes was a hassle—her brain was designed for peripheral awareness, not distinct focus) to the man on stage.
Zimmer, on the other hand, was built inside and out for laser focus, shutting out his general surroundings to completely, perfectly examine a single moment. He paid no heed to the armadillo peering at him from a couple rows away, nor even to the violently-inclined alien sitting impatiently next to him. His personal theology presumed that God would provide for what he considered to be the little details. He was watching the show.
Mister Mystery was a wiry fellow dressed in a suit boasting a subtle Rollo theme. His undeniable showmanship seemed to emanate entirely from his eyes, which flickered strobelike, scanning the room as though counting money. The saw in his hand quivered slightly in time with his trembling wrist. He looked like he was either addicted to something or merely very passionate about it, and whether or not this was merely part of his act Zimmer felt an immediate kinship with the man. The alchemist leaned his chin on his palms and his elbows on his knees, drawn in by the spectacle.
“Ladies,” he began. “Gentlemen. Neuters and hermaphrodites and entities with sexual hangups beyond my comprehension. I... am Mister Mystery. And this... is my Curious Collection.”
Mister Mystery’s curious collection turned out to mostly be a collection of high-end Rollo products, but the manner of his presentation transubstantiated them into holy objects, the flesh and blood of Rollo himself. He juggled four 5DVD discs of Rollo’s classic antics with one hand, made Rollo tee shirts appear and disappear both on himself and on audience members, pulled Rollobucks out of children’s ears, and an infinity of another tricks, one after another after another. It was miraculous. Zimmer was enthralled both by the craft (or was it magic?) with which Mister Mystery performed his feats and the collective experience, hundreds of souls suspending disbelief in the name of Rollo. It was the closest to an Orashaldi holy service he had experienced since this battle had started. Most of all, Zimmer was fascinated by the box and the saw.
The box simply stood there, elevated to Mister Mystery’s eye level, shaped in imitation of a certain armadillo’s shell. It was just about big enough to hold an average human. The magician-collector never acknowledged the box except to lean his saw against one of the legs, nor, thereafter, did he acknowledge and make use of the saw. The audience, glued to the first image of the magician holding the saw before the box, were held in a constant state of anticipation—juggled, like the discs. He wondered whether it was the promise of bloodshed that was intriguing them or the prospect of audience participation, the dismantling of the wall that held performer and consumer at a distance.
Finally, Mister Mystery afforded the audience some release. “For my next trick,” he announced, rapping the surface of the box, “I will require a volunteer from the crowd.”
”Me,” affirmed Zimmer, raising his hand. Some dozens of other audience members raised theirs as well. The Orashald took solace in the fact that his hand could reach slightly higher than most of the other prospective volunteers, therefore setting him apart as a more desirable candidate.
“How about you, little one?” Mister Mystery asked, indicating a blue-furred boy in the front row, who appeared to be around eight. The boy clapped excitedly. Zimmer seethed, exchanged a glance with Ensign Vuul, and came to a snap decision.
“Shoot to wound,” he commanded.
Faster than Zimmer could register, his loyal ensign pulled out a plasma pistol and fired a beam of scalding carcinogenic energy into the volunteer’s shoulder. The boy-thing had only a second to let out an abortive scream before shock got the best of him and he collapsed in front of his seat.
All eyes turned toward Vuul, who stood tall above the crowd, weapon still drawn. Zimmer stood calmly, still raising his hand. ”CORRECTION,” declared the battlecleric, his voice scrambling the assembly’s nervous systems and surgically assaulting their willpower. ”LIEUTENANT’MATTHEW’ZIMMER IS THE RANKING VOLUNTEER AND THE MOST DESERVING.”
Mister Mystery, too good a showman to lose his groove to even the most lethal of hecklers, only blanched for a moment. “Quite right!” he said, tipping his hat to the Alvum and surreptitiously tapping the panic button on the underside of the box. “Come on, down, Lieutenant, er, what was it again?”
“Matthew Zimmer,” said Zimmer, leaping cheerfully through the rest of the crowd and over the steaming unconscious child separating him from the magician. “Only a humble supergenius on a search for truth, like anyone else,” he added, winking at the boy’s weeping mother. He was no showman, but understood the need to engage his charges sympathetically.
“Lieutenant Matthew Zimmer, everybody!” cried Mister Mystery, lifting up the saw. “Be warned, Lieutenant,” he stage-whispered as an aside. “Sometimes, the truth hurts.”
“And sometimes pain can do a body good,” countered Zimmer. The magician pulled a lever on the side of the armadillo shell, opening it up to reveal a man-shaped mold inside. Zimmer crawled inside obediently, grinning.
Encased in the skin of Rollo, thought Ke. Would it save him from the saw? The Rollo figure was known for his regenerative properties, his constant endurance of unending pain. Ke thought she understood quite clearly why Rollo fascinated the Tormentor so much.
The box shut, leaving only Zimmer’s head visible.
Zimmer, however, was no Rollo. The basic socializing ethics implicit in the Rollo stories would have frowned upon the alchemist’s command to Vuul to shoot the boy. She looked over at the Alvum with a mix of awe and unease. Did some still think this was all part of the act? And did their belief make it so?
Mister Mystery began to saw through the thick scale of the box. Armadillo: little armored one, in a language foreign to her. Ke wondered how she knew that. The Tormentor’s ability to bring languages together was truly wondrous, in that it allowed individuals of different cultures to communicate while also having the subtlety to account for the quirks unique to each culture. Rollo, a pun on Roll, also the Latinization of the Scandinavian Rolf. Ke scratched her head, feeling the awkward paws touch the strange, mammal face.
Zimmer kept on grinning.
Mister Mystery grunted. A look of panic dawned upon him. Through her two eyes Ke could see a red tinge to the arm working the saw. For the first time in quite a while, the remembrancer felt confident that she knew more of what was going on than most of those around her. She consented for the time being simply to watch.
Zimmer’s smile broke abruptly. The alchemist let out a gasp, then a scream. The audience let out a scream, then a gasp. Ke could perceive a touch of red on the saw. The box was vibrating in a way that suggested a struggle. All of it was perfectly genuine.
Ke bristled. Should Zimmer die, she would once be transported out of the ringside, likely to struggle with some other grotesque shape-change or whimsy of the Tormentor. There would be no guarantee that she would be able to continue to observe.
Plus, each successive death brought the tale closer to a close, and Ke was left with the feeling that this one was just starting.
Besides, Zimmer dying by the Tormentor’s direct intervention seemed somehow to be below the entity, as it violated the fundamental principle of the battle; that the players would live or die according to their merits or, at the very least, according to chance. He was cheapening the narrative.
Or was this merely another form of torment? Was the blood-red god-thing merely playing off the remembrancer’s anxieties? Was he daring her to step into the story as an active player?
Zimmer continued to howl, a chord of manic laughter occasionally hiccupping its way through his pain. Vuul was fidgeting uncertainly. What was he wrestling with? Loyalty? Faith? Self-restraint, even? The battlecleric had changed since those glorious minutes she had spent atop his head.
Ke had changed, too.
“Huhuhu-hoy!” she announced, standing up and spreading her arms out wide, peacock-like, demonstrating her consummate Rollosity. “Rollo here! If you don’t mind me interrupting the horror show for a moment—” –a sarcastic air on horror show, dispelling the crowd’s belief, making it safe to laugh again— “And I’ll tell you a story.”
The grinding of the sawblade stopped. Zimmer moaned. The audience had their eyes on Ke.
Slow and clumsy in her armadillo suit, the former arachnid clambered into the ring and walked past the injured boy and his mother, towards the magician. “Quite a collection you got here, Missssster Mystery!” she barked. Her mockery, again, constituted a transfer of power.
“Help,” whispered the magician (who of course viewed Rollo, and by extension her, as an authority figure) so only Ke can hear. “I’m killing this man but it’s... it’s not me that’s doing it.”
“And a real swell show you’re putting on!” Ke added.
“I’ve summoned security,” said Mister Mystery. “They’ll be able to deal with all this. With that thing with the gun.”
Ke winced. “I hope you don’t mind if I step in for a minute!”
Zimmer was looking up at her in awe. The myth of Rollo had taken hold in his brain, clearly. Blood was trickling from his mouth. Mister Mystery reclaimed his stage presence as though buttoning a coat. “Not at all, my dear Rollo!” he said. “This is your land, after all!”
Ke smiled, first at the magician, then back at the audience. “You’re right,” she said. “This is my land.”
The storyteller took a deep breath, dropping the wacky-armadillo act. She tapped into an old voice, one steeped in oral tradition, and hoped that the Tormentor’s magic would convey the effect in the translation. “This story comes from before my land. Before Rollo had so much as a rock to crawl under.” Her use of the third person brought the audience into a time of myth, connecting them to Rollo-the-idea, not any individual Rollo. “In those days Rollo spent all his time rolling around a great desert, trying to find a little water or some bugs to eat.”
This was one of the universal trickster stories. The trickster always had to be down on his luck, with no advantages save his brain. Ke knew a great wealth of trickster stories—originally Anansi stories, largely, of course, but not all—and this one adapted nicely to the situation.
“Lotta people wanted to pop open that shell of Rollo’s and cook him up for their supper,” Ke lamented. “And worst of all was Bobby Cat, who was fast and mean and strong and smart and had claws could cut through rock.
“Now, Rollo’s shell wasn’t gonna do him much good against these claws, but he had one other thing he could do when Bobby Cat came calling for his supper, which was dig a hole. Bobby Cat couldn’t fit in a Rollo-sized hole and couldn’t dig out a bigger hole without dulling the sharp on his claws. So he was always hoping to catch Rollo unawares and carve his shell out and cut his throat afore Rollo could get away.
“Now, one time came Rollo had what he though was a stroke of luck, which was, he found the biggest anthill he’d ever seen, a genuine ant-mountain, taller even than Rollo was. Now to Rollo this was a feast you couldn’t find outside of one of Rolloland’s many delicious concession stands.”
Ke wasn’t sure why she’d put that part in, but somehow, it didn’t break the mood.
“He dove right in there and started gobbling up all the ants and wrecking that big beautiful anthill. And many ants died that day, but the ant queen, she got to safety.
“Now, most ants don’t bear a grudge against the likes of Rollo because they’re simple types and understand that Rollo gotta feed same as anyone else, and he was a higher form of life than they were and that’s just how things go. But this queen didn’t see how any form of life should be higher than her, she having built that lovely ant-mountain which was taller even than Rollo and had been around longer besides. And now Rollo’d come along and wrecked everything she’d built and killed her people.
“So, as soon as she was out of danger, that ant queen went looking for Bobby Cat. And she told Bobby Cat, here’s what we’re gonna do. I’m going to take what people I got left and get to building a scrumptious-looking anthill right by the foot of that mesa yonder. And when Rollo gets hungry again after filling himself up on all my citizens, he’ll see that anthill and try to eat up all the ants inside. But there won’t be any ants inside, and that’s when you’ll jump him from up atop the mesa.
“And Bobby Cat said okay, that’s how we’ll do it. And he shook the ant queen’s tiny little ant arm with one of his sharp, sharp claws and told her to get working on that fake anthill right away, and he perched himself up on top of that mesa and waited.
“And it happened like you’d expect, where Rollo got hungry again after not too long and was rolling around in the shadow of the mesa where it’s cool and saw that anthill and thought he might have himself some ant, when wham! down comes Bobby Cat claws out and scratches Rollo right down his face and knocks him out cold.
Now, you’d think this would be the end for Rollo but you’ve gotta remember that Bobby Cat wasn’t about that food chain the same way Rollo was with the ants. Bobby Cat, like all cats, he loved to play with his food. Torment, like.” Ke shot a glance at Mister Mystery, who looked back at her quizzically.
“So first thing Bobby Cat did was he cut Rollo’s armor all up, flayed him, like, so Rollo had to walk in the sun all day with his back muscles exposed, and it gave him the wickedest sunburn. And you better believe that Bobby cat likes his meat cooked, so he walked Rollo round on a string for days at a time til that meat was good and burnt up and Rollo near to dying.
“Couple times, Rollo’d try to dig himself an escape, but Bobby Cat would just pull on that string and bring Rollo back up to the surface. So that wasn’t going to work, and he needed to come up with a plan to trick Bobby Cat.
“So one morning he said Bobby Cat, why won’t you just kill me and eat me now, and not play with me like this.
“And Bobby Cat said, Rollo, I want you good and burnt and cooked up afore I eat you. Raw armadillo just tastes like processed ant.
“And Rollo said, Bobby Cat, I gotta figure this torment you’re putting me under has gotta hurt you half as bad as it hurts me, since you can’t catch any other supper lugging a half dead armadillo hanging off you on a string, and since you got that nasty burn up atop your head.
“Now anyone looking could see that Bobby Cat’s pate was looking handsome as ever, but there weren’t a lot of mirrors those days and Bobby Cat couldn’t hardly see his own head. So all he could say was, what burn are you talking about, Rollo?
“To which Rollo replied, the burn that’s got your head burnt read and ugly as a buzzard.
“And Bobby Cat, who was just as vain as you’d expect from a cat, got awful embarrassed and started trying to cover up his own head, and then started looking for a hat. And then Rollo said Bobby Cat, since I can tell this bothers you so much, and I being a slave to the food chain bear you no grudge or grievance, I humbly suggest that you go back to where you cut my armor off and use it as a hat, to protect you against the sun. All I ask, as payment for that idea, is that you kill me quick tomorrow, and spare me this torment.
“Bobby Cat, who had to admit that Rollo had always looked good in that armor, went back and got it and put it on his head, which satisfied his vanity. And to this day that style of hat that looks like Rollo’s armor is the height of fashion and you can buy one at any of Rolloland’s many gift shops. And he promised to Rollo that after a night’s rest he would kill Rollo proper and cook him up for a delicious armadillo breakfast.
“And of course that night Rollo took his armor off the sleeping cat’s head as quiet as could be. Of course he still couldn’t just put his armor back on and run away seeing as how he was still tied by that string. So what he did was he dug a hole out at the end of the length of the string and he hid in that hole and covered the hole up with his armor, which he curled up into a ball. So what Bobby Cat saw when he woke up the next morning was a ball of armadillo plate, which he thought was Rollo, having stolen his armor back.
“But Bobby Cat knew his claws were sharp enough to cut right through that armor, so he crouched down beside the ball and said, Rollo, I’ll kill you slow for this. So he jabbed one claw right through that armor real quick. And Rollo, down below in the hole, saw that claw, and let out a shout, so Bobby Cat would think he’d drawn blood. So Bobby Cat got a little more encouraged and stuck three claws right through the ball of armor. And Rollo started screaming as though his very guts were getting shorn out.
“After that performance Bobby Cat was worried he’d kill Rollo too soon, so next he only stuck one claw in and sort of swirled it around, like, trying to draw out the pain. And Rollo saw his chance, and picked up the rope that tied him to Bobby Cat, and sawed it off against his claw. And before Bobby Cat could think as to why Rollo wasn’t screaming any more, the armadillo had grabbed his armor and dug his hole down deep and out of sight where the cat couldn’t get to him.
“After a couple of days resting up and fixing his armor and sticking it back on himself, Rollo got to thinking how he could avoid this situation in the future. So he went and found the ant queen, whose role in his sorrows he could guess at. He found her starting work on rebuilding her ant-mountain, so it would be bigger than it was before, even. And he said Ms. Ant Queen, you spent all that time building that second anthill for Bobby Cat so Bobby Cat could kill me, and I’m still alive, so you have just as much reason to hate him as to hate me, now.
“And while this wasn’t strictly speaking true, the ant queen was indeed furious at Bobby Cat, and her little insect mind turned to revenge.
“So Rollo gave her a proposition whereby he vowed never to assault her glorious ant mountain, and in return she would send a contingent of ants to watch over Bobby Cat, and if Bobby Cat ever came near where Rollo was hanging his head, they’d whisper in his ear so he could get away well beforehand.
“And from then on anytime Bobby Cat set his sights on Rollo, by the time he got there Rollo was miles away. And he never found out why, because he was too big and too proud to pay any attention to the ants.”
It was a decent story and a great performance, and though it hadn’t been exactly what the audience was expecting, it had a certain kind of power. The crowd cheered at the story’s conclusion, and many of them immediately ran outside to the gift shops, stacks of Rollobucks in hand. Even the mother of the boy who had been shot seemed to be somewhat entertained.
Zimmer, for his part, realized that the agonizing pain and general all-over-the-place-ness of his mid-abdomen had subsided completely. Mister Mystery recognized his part in this minor miracle, and opened the box back up to reveal that the lieutenant was completely intact. “Just an empty shell after all!” he remarked. The audience laughed in relief at the dissipation of the suspense of the act and at the thematic tie-in to the story. Zimmer laughed with them.
Mister Mystery’s voice dropped and took on a sinister, forked-tongued quality. ”Nicely done,” he told the odd, eloquent Rollo.
Vuul heaved his form up out of the crowd and onto the stage, bowing nervously to Rollo. ”I AM ENSIGN’VUUL,” he said tremulously. ”PLEASE ACCEPT OUR OFFER OF SERVICE, O ROLLO.”
Zimmer, vaguely aware that he had cheated death due to this Rollo’s intervention, was only mildly perturbed at his inclusion in the offer. He offered the Rollo his hand. “What are you?” he enquired.
The Rollo smiled. ”Only a humble supergenius on a search for truth,” it mocked. ”Like anyone else.”
Zimmer beamed.
* * * * *
”Wait, wait, wait, wait,” said Henry, watching the screen.
“What?” asked Christian.
“That was a new Rollo story.”
Christian recalled the past several minutes. “Huh.”
“The only new Rollo story anyone’s been able to come up with since Rollo ‘died.’”
“So it was.”
The two looked at each other silently.
“Do you have any idea what that means?” asked Henry.
“Nope.”
“Cool,” Henry sighed. “Me neither.”
After Christian had gotten back from his lunch they had dragged Doug’s corpse into the refrigerator. It had been a long day.
* * * * *
The girl walked up to what appeared to be the leader of the security force surrounding the tent. “Are you going in there?” she asked absentmindedly.
The officer shook his head, Rollo-gun at the ready. “There’s a Rollo in there who seems to have the situation under control,” he said. “We’re a little nervous about starting a situation with that... big thing... in there. So we’re waiting to see how it pans out.”
The girl giggled. “That’s not Rollo,” she assured the officer.
“Rollo’s dead.”