Static left over from when the Universe began

Mr. Parsons watched the boy cross the yard coming towards the main house. Wet fog hung over the grass and the air was thick and grey. The boy's footsteps startled a pair of quail and they fled for the safety of the sky with an eruption of beating wings and alarming cries.

The boy continued on without even turning his head.

"He's a right steady lad," Mason said. "I cannot see the problem you're having with him."

Mr. Parsons turned from the window and faced Mason. The caretaker, tall and lean, stood at the door, not wanting to enter further into the elegant room with his muddy boots. His hands, never idle, clenched and twisted his ratty brown flat-cap as he waited for the interview to play out.

"Not a problem," Mr. Parsons replied. "Not necessarily. I'm just not sure he's right for the job of butcher."

"Oh aye? Well and you told me to take Harrison off that work. Now Barrett. I canno' do everything around here, sir."

Mr. Parsons patted the air with his hand. "Of course not, Mason," he said. "But - I do wish you'd sit down."

"All the same sir, I'd rather not have to take your carpets up again." Mason lifted one foot to show the condition of his boots.

"Yes, okay." Mr. Parsons said. "Here now - the gist of it is, I saw that Barrett boy preparing a hog the other day and something about the way he.... Well, something about the.... Damnit, Mason, it gave me the heebies the way that boy killed the poor beast!"

"Aye?" Mason almost dropped his hat. "I've never seen him be anything but proper and respectful around the tools and animals. What are you on about?"

"Just that - proper and respectful and absolutely without emotion! Why, he didn't hesitate or flinch.... He was like a bloody machine that boy. Like a heartless robot. We'd do just as well to send our stock to the slaughterhouse and have that pneumatic hammer device do our work for us."

Mason did take a step into the room then, putting a moist size eleven print on the oriental rug. "Oh come now Prissy, if that's not the living end!"

In using Mr. Parsons' old nickname from their school-boy days, Mason had stripped away all veneer of employer/employee and the two men were once again chums swapping stories in the yard.

"Ah but, Ziggy, have you watched his eyes when he delivers the killing strike?" Mr. Parsons put both hands on his desk and leaned forward, whispering for effect. "Absolutely cold. Like a winter's blow."

Mason counted off on his fingers; "First you tell me to take Harrison off because you say he liked killing too much; now you want me to put off Barrett because he doesn't shed a tear over the wee beasties? Maybe you would like a little orphan Lord Byron around the place for these chores, what?"

"Oh you yourself called Harrison a psychopath," Mr. Parsons countered. "And I'm not saying I want a queen in the shed, but.... I just didn't like Barrett's eyes. His eyes, Ziggy, gave me such a chill."

Mason sighed and rocked back on his heels. "Well then, what have you? None of the other older boys volunteered. Should I force them one by one? You can stand there and watch their peepers in turn?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Look here, I've summoned the Barrett boy this morning for a chat - might be I can sound him out and see if I'm just being an old lady about the whole thing."

"Right you are. I'm telling you, the boy is sound as houses."

"But I want you here during."

"Oh for...," Mason stomped across the carpet, aggressively spattering mud, took a chair and dragged it around the desk to Mr. Parsons' side. Once seated, he motioned for Mr. Parsons to 'get on with it' and the headmaster used the intercom to direct his secretary to show the boy in.

***

Fifteen years old with brown hair, brown eyes, and a trim physique, Barrett entered the room, respectfully took off his cap, and closed the door softly behind him. He remained standing and silent until spoken to.

"Mr. Barrett," Mr. Parsons greeted him. "Do come in. Have a seat."

Barrett nodded, hesitated a moment before stepping on the carpet, but quickly decided against making a scene and stepped lightly to the chair.

"Will you take some tea then?" Mr. Parsons asked.

"Thank you, no sir," Barrett replied. "I've already had my cup for the day."

"Very good." Mr. Parsons leaned back in his chair and tented his fingers under his chin. He hemmed and hawed for a while, searching for the right words.

"You like the butcher work then?" an exasperated Mason took over. "Killing the chicks and pigs and whatnot?"

Barrett looked from one man to another then tilted his head in confusion. "Sir?"

"Killing the animals? You like it then? The blood and guts and all the...," Mason made circles with his hands. "Killing?"

"Well, no sir. I don't necessarily like it or dis-like it," Barrett answered. "It's me job. Have I made a mistake?"

Mason looked at Mr. Parsons who gave him a quick, disapproving scowl then turned his attention to the boy. "No, Mr. Barrett. No mistake was made," Mr. Parsons said in a calming voice. "We just like to check up on our boys - make sure everything is coming along nicely. So you enjoy being the class butcher, then?"

"Sir, it's like I told Mason - Mr. Mason - here. It's me job. I guess I'm not sure if I should like it or not - are you supposed to like work? I mean, isn't it mostly for necessity?"

Mason made an approving sound and again shot Mr. Parsons' a look.

"Indeed," Mr. Parsons said. "That is unfortunately how it does turn out for many people. Some, however, do like their jobs, don't they Mr. Mason?"

Now the groundskeeper openly laughed. Barrett's lips twitched, uncertain how to react.

"So you would like to be a butcher, perhaps?" Mr. Parsons continued. "When you grow up?"

Barrett shook his head. "It wouldn't be me first choice sir. No disrespect."

"None taken. So why did you volunteer for the job, if I may ask?"

"Well sir," Barrett looked at his shoes and rubbed the back of his neck. "The other boys weren't at all keen on it, and Harrison...."

"The less about him the better," Mason interrupted, "But go on."

"Yes sir. So since none of the other boys were stepping up, I thought it to be my duty - as the oldest - to set the example. Besides, Mr. Mason, it's like as you always tell us, they can take everything away - our parents, our homes - but they can't take away what we learn. I may not want to be a butcher when I grow up, but at least now I can be if I have to."

That was enough for Mason who came out of his chair, applauding. "Very true, Lord Master Barrett! Walk with me back to the quarters and we'll see if we can't find some iron to mend those gates, what? If, of course, Master Parsons is quite done?"

Mr. Parsons rose slightly from his chair, "Indeed, yes. Thank you Mr. Barrett. It was a lovely chat."

Mason put his hand on the boy's shoulder as they left Mr. Parsons' office.

***

Barrett watched the pig from the bench where he sat pulling on mud-boots. Nothing special, this one. Rather ordinary. Barrett caught the animal's eyes and continued to be unimpressed. Not much there.

Still, you never know until the kill.

It was the cock that first turned him on - Barrett repressed a smile thinking about it, even at the language it called up in his mind (clever that, cock turned him on. Heh.) But so true - the rooster Mason had told him to prepare when he first volunteered for the butcher work.

"That ruddy ol' cock's done for this time," Mason had said, rubbing the blood away from his knee where the bird had attacked him, using sharp claws to tear pants and skin. "You take that bloody fowl out back and have his bloody head off now. Well suffer through his tough ol' meat for one night's stew, I imagine."

And that was the first time Barrett felt the transfer through death. As soon as he'd successfully corralled, caught, and snapped that rooster's neck, Barrett's legs responded with a surge of power. It was all he could do to restrain himself from leaping over the fences and kicking the sun out of the sky.

However, later that day, on the soccer field, Barrett scored ten points without passing the ball once. At the conclusion of the game, he celebrated by kicking the ball so hard it sailed right over the hedges and so far into the woods it took an hour just to find it.

See, he'd gained the cock's legs when he'd taken that cock's life. It didn't last forever, only a few days, but it clued him into the transfer through death: the best trait of any living animal - speed, strength, cunning - could be Barrett's as long as that animal died by his hand.

It was a unique gift, an unprecedented power, and he'd almost blown it by running his mouth. Barrett had been trying to find a way to explain what had happened to the other boys at the home when Mason called him back to the shed.

It was time to prove himself, Mason had said. It was time to bring down a hog.

The beast was a grand old Mister. Fat and indolent. Formerly a stud, now waning in energy and prone to illness. Mason had decide it was time use the animal for its ultimate purpose.

Barrett listened to Mason's instructions, nodded as the caretaker pantomimed the act, but all the while kept his eyes locked with the massive pig's.

Those eyes, the pig's eyes, were fathomless. Deep and brown. You could get lost in them, and Barrett did. He imagined the pig had a voice; he heard it in his head.

"Use it wisely," the pig said.

Then, when Barrett brought the hammer down just so at the just right place at the back of the pig's head, a sudden surge of awareness washed over him like a waterfall.

It had been an exceedingly clever animal; that pig.

Barrett knew then that he had to keep his secret. He mustn't ever again show off around the other boys. He must be patient. Eventually he would be free from this orphanage and, once out, he would be loose in a world of animals with much more to offer than strong thighs and keen eyes.

You watch the telly and see the man who knows all about money. Three minutes with your fingers around his fat throat and that knowledge becomes yours. Here's a bloke with two gorgeous ladies; one on each arm. He whispers in their ears at turns and they laugh and hug him closer. A quick hammer blow to his head and now you have those whispered words in your own mouth. What's this? Some dandy with a guitar preening about a stage singing while the entire world falls at his feet in adoration and supplication. A quick blade across his neck and those fingers, that voice, are yours.

Clever and patient, was the pig. Use it wisely.

And so Barrett did; particularly the patience. That morning, for instance, with those geezers going on about him being a butcher. A quick assessment of the situation and Barrett knew he was in jeopardy; they were thinking of taking him off the job. At that point, Barrett had two choices - kill them both take their powers and escape, or shine them on and leave very soon on solid footing.

Well now what powers then? As far as Barrett could see the headmaster's best trait was being a mincing toad and whereas he wouldn't have minded taking Mason's expert craftsmanship, that certainly wasn't worth risking even more imprisonment than he'd already suffered at this Goddamned orphanage.

So he'd been clever. He'd said what they wanted to hear. And now he was back in the shed, ready to swing the hammer again.

Swing the hammer and see what happens.

Embarrassed on the battle field by Kazimír's feathers

A young lady exited the royal blue Reliant K and stepped lively to the front door of the squat, ranch style house. She pushed the buzzer and tugged on the hem of her red mini-skirt while she waited. She looked side to side, nervous.

Across the street, one house down, an Oldsmobile with heavily tinted windows sat parked in the driveway. Two men waiting in the front seat of that car smirked as they watched a guy open the door and usher her in. The guy poked his head out and looked around before shutting the door.

"Not bad," the man at the passenger's side said. He was a bodybuilder type with an enormous chest, biceps bulging against the short sleeves of his button-down, diamond-patterned shirt, and thick black hair above the dark, plastic sunglasses he always wore; day or night. His name was Brett.

"She could lose a few pounds," the man behind the wheel countered. His build was much more normal, average really, and he had a clean cut look with soft, neatly trimmed brown hair and a polo shirt over blue jeans. He called himself Virgil.

A window shade in the living room was open and the two men watched as the girl and guy embraced. The guy's hands went all over her, tugging her blouse up and out of the skirt. The girl pushed away and, quickly, closed the shade.

"Shit," Brett said.

Virgil chuckled.

Brett reached under the seat and came back holding a four-corner tire-iron.

"Wait," Virgil said.

"What for?"

"Let them...," Virgil made a circular motion with his hand.

"Really?" A smile broke across Brett's face. "Really? Like all the way finish?"

Virgil lifted a shoulder. "Why not? It'll be their last."

Brett set the tire iron on his lap and sat back. "So how long are we just going to sit here?"

"I don't know. You saw the guy, what do you think? Five minutes? Three?"

"The way he was tugging on her clothes? Ninety seconds. Hell, he's probably saying 'Sorry! I don't know what happened! I swear I don't usually come so fast!' right now."

Virgil took a pack of cigarettes from the breast pocket of his Polo. "One of these and we'll go." He offered the pack to Brett who waved him off.

"Never touch the stuff. But you go ahead, just crack the window."

"Oh, why thank you." Virgil rolled his window down and touched fire to tobacco.

***

Virgil bit the cigarette down to its last ash, held it, and blew smoke out the corner of his mouth. He dropped the butt outside the window.

"Okay, lets...."

A red Firebird whipped around the street corner and came to a skidding stop in front of the driveway, blocking them in.

"You have got to be kidding," Virgil muttered.

A young man in a Judas Priest concert-T and khaki shorts stumbled out of the Pontiac and raced towards the Olds. "Guys! Guys!" he exclaimed as he gripped the edge of the driver's side window. "Hey, guys, it's been called off!"

Virgil held a hand up to stop his outburst. "Tell you what, Paul. Just on the chance nobody's called the cops yet, why don't you get in the backseat so we can talk private like."

"Oh, right." It took Paul a few tries with the door handle, but he eventually made it into car. "Wow, guys. I am glad I caught you in time!"

"Paul?" Virgil caught his eyes in the rear-view mirror.

"Yeah Virgil?"

Virgil looked at Brett who was gripping the tire iron so hard his knuckles were white. Virgil touched his knee, got his attention, and slightly shook his head no.

"Who sent you?"

"Oh! God, talk about lucky. Jimmy had left, right? To go get some beer and then the phone rings and it's the guy and, man, he is crying and blubbering and begging me to call it off. I'm like 'I don't think so', but he's like 'you have to!' so I get in the car and fly - I mean fly! - all the way here. Just in time, right?"

"The guy called it off?"

"Right. But he'll still pay. He made sure to tell me that he'll still pay. He said he'd even pay more - double! - if I could call it off. Man. Lucky, right?"

"Right. Okay, Paul, you can go now."

Paul looked at the rear-view. Virgil's eyes were fixed on him; steady and void of emotion. Brett's eyes were inscrutable behind his sunglasses, but the tilt of his head made and the set of his lips made Paul flinch.

"Oh. Okay. But it's good, right? That I got here in time? We'll get paid double for doing nothing! That's good, right?"

"Paul," Virgil said. "Get out of this car, go get in your car, and drive. The. Fuck. Away. Right?"

Paul hesitated for a moment, until he noticed Brett's head tilt another few degrees towards his direction, and then he left the Oldsmobile. Before he could close the door behind him, Virgil said, "And don't burn any rubber driving away. Just...." Virgil held his hand horizontal and made a smooth passing motion.

A moment later the Firebird slowly, cautiously, motored down the street and around the corner.

Virgil and Brett got out of the Oldsmobile and started walking towards the house across the street.

"You think they called the cops?"

Virgil shook his head. "No. Not these two. Not after what she's done. Still. They may be alert now. Might try something stupid."

"Yeah, well," Brett thumped the tire iron against his palm. "It has been a day for stupid."

"Anyway, no wasting time on this one."

Brett grinned. "I swear I don't usually come so fast."

***

The Oldsmobile's trunk swung open revealing two bodies wrapped in plastic tarps, some tools, and a pair of elegant cowboy boots.

"Okay, muscles," Virgil said to Brett. "I'll take the lighter of the two."

"Tell you what...," Brett moved towards the center of the trunk, edging Virgil away. Brett scooped up the guy's body, slung it over his shoulder, and then used one of his massive arms to hoist the girl over his other shoulder.

"Impressive." Virgil nodded.

"Clean living," Brett said and started walking to the down-hole that was around 50 yards away from where they'd parked.

Virgil lit a cigarette and followed. "Must be."

The sun was setting on the horizon of the expansive drilling field. Rigs dotted the landscape like an invasive species; some nodding their heads, others sleeping. The dying light of day turned the dirt salmon pink. A cooling breeze occasionally dipped low enough to create streams of dust across the land.

Thirty yards or so into the journey, Brett stumbled over a rut but caught his balance before falling.

"You just let me know you need help," Virgil offered.

"Psh." Brett adjusted his burdens. "I can do this all night."

***

Brett came to the edge of the down-hole and, without ceremony, chucked both bodies into the abyss. It took a long time until the muted 'thud' of contact was heard.

"You okay?" Virgil asked. Brett was breathing heavy with his hands pressed against his lower back.

"Oh yeah. Feels good. Some people say this is the best way to get a work out - doing real life chores, but with more weight or more resistance."

"There you go. The next big fad in exercise. Twenty pound irons and vacuum cleaners with square wheels."

Brett stretched his arms over his head. Virgil went about preparing the specially made rig. From a distance it looked like any other piece of oil-field equipment, but the drill-head was a unique design - a sphere instead of a cylinder, with swirling rings of vicious spikes and sharp edges circling the iron ball. It was covered with rust that was a shade darker, redder than you would expect from normal oxidation. Virgil swung the device over the down-hole and joined Brett at the control console. He pushed a button and gears inside the sphere started turning, the rings of spikes and razors spinning. He pulled a lever and cable played out, lowering the ball.

"Maybe we should wait until Paul's body is down there? Two birds, one stone," Brett said over the noise of the machinery. "Well. Three birds."

"Oh no," Virgil answered. "No, Paul's not going in this sacred ground. He made the kind of mistake that gets you a shallow grave in Texas. Too stupid to be covered up by good, honest Oklahoma dirt."

As the cable played out, the noise died down. In the dusk, they could hear crickets and the occasional call of a night bird.

"Why did you give them that time?" Brett asked. "The cigarette time?"

Virgil shrugged.

"No, I'm just asking because, had we gone in sooner, Paul wouldn't have had a chance to.... Well. Let's just say it would have been better for Paul had you not decided to have a smoke."

"He may have earned a few more days. Maybe a year." Virgil started another cigarette. "But he wouldn't have lasted long at this job anyway. Pretty obvious."

"He is Terry's cousin."

"So? I'm Jesus' son."

Brett laughed. Virgil eyed him through a drifting veil of cigarette smoke. "Why do you ask? You got something with Terry?"

"Not at all," Brett snorted. "Nothing like that. No, just.... Well, you remember Billy?"

"Yeah."

"He warned me about you."

"Yeah?"

"Maybe not warned, but he said you were funny. Not queer funny, just odd. I don't know."

"You think I'm funny?"

"Nah. You're just a romantic, I think. And I know you're a queer, the way you always look at my ass."

Both men chuckled. The sound of the cable unwinding was a gentle hiss, barely above the whisper of the night breezes blowing across the field.

Virgil tossed his cigarette towards the down-hole.

"Bad things are out there," Virgil said, "waiting for us all. We're lucky in that we can, because of who we are, who we know, and what we do, sometimes we can control bad things. It won't last forever; eventually the bad things will catch up to us - nobody gets out of this world alive and unscathed - but when I get a chance to allow something good...? If possible, I'll do it. Not because I'm romantic, but I'm not the worst thing out there. There are things worse than I am."

Suddenly the cable attached to the drill-head made a horrendously loud squealing noise and started whipping around erratically. Brett jumped to his feet while Virgil started slapping buttons on the console.

The equipment didn't respond to the kill command; the cable continued to whip and cut to and fro. The clamor from down-hole increased in severity. It sounded just like screaming. Impossibly loud screaming. Brett covered his ears and backed away from the hole.

The cable snapped. The bottom part smacked against the ground with force enough to slice a car in two. It whirred around, kicking up great clots of dirt, and then was sucked into the hole.

The gears stopped. The machinery gradually grew quiet. Dust settled.

"What the fuck...?" Brett joined Virgil at the control console.

Virgil walked cautiously towards the down-hole. It hissed and vapor rose from the opening. Shortly, a thick, dark liquid bubbled over the hole's edge.

"What is that?" Brett asked, joining Virgil at the site. "Oil? Did we strike oil?"

"Impossible," Virgil bent down and touched the liquid with two fingers as it continued to spread slowly over lip of the hole.

Virgil inspected the gunk stuck to his fingers. It was brick red and smelled just like blood.

"Impossible," Virgil reiterated. He furiously wiped his hand on his jeans and stepped away to avoid the growing puddle.

"We should go," Brett said. "Find a phone and call Jimmy about this."

"Yes," Virgil agreed. They turned and walked briskly toward the Oldsmobile, now barely visible in the dark distance.

After five yards, Virgil noticed the fingers that had touched the blood were freezing cold. He shoved that hand in his pocket for warmth.

Fifteen yards: Virgil couldn't feel his arm.

Halfway to the car Virgil had to stop. "Brett," he said, his voice slurred because one whole side of his face had become numb with cold. "Something's wrong."

Brett stopped and turned but before he could ask what was wrong, Virgil collapsed sideways, like timber falling to the ground.

Brett knelt at Virgil's side, but the man was incapable of communicating; only stammering incomprehensibly with a thick tongue.

"Okay buddy," Brett scooped up Virgil's body. "I got you.... Jesus! You're like a block of ice!"

Holding Virgil like a baby in his arms, Brett ran for the car.

...and die hard if die I must.

"There he is," Virgil said as he passed Raymond in the hallway. "How you doin'?"

"Livin' the dream," Raymond replied.

"Heard that."

***

Later, sitting in his cubicle, waiting between calls, Virgil started thinking.... Living the dream. So, I'm in Raymond's dream. He is dreaming of me. 

That's not right.

Virgil looked around, checked his desk; his computer. All seemed normal. The office supplies, little personal touches, program applications; everything in it's place. He stood up and looked at his reflection in the playing-card sized mirror affixed to the filing cabinet. Same face.

Raymond is dreaming me the way I am. No changes. 

Why?

Virgil sat down, narrowed his eyes, and surreptitiously put a hand on his crotch.

I'm still a dude, then. So, it isn't a sex thing. Or maybe it is. But Raymond isn't gay. Or at least, not when he's not dreaming....

Virgil stood up again, this time craning his neck to look over the tops of the cubical farm until he spotted Raymond.

Raymond, also, was between calls. Sitting with his feet propped up on his desk. Reading a magazine.

Virgil sat back down.

So. Raymond dreams about slacking off at work, reading magazines. Seems like a pretty lame-ass dream, but I shouldn't complain. Since I'm in his stupid dream, at least there are no monsters.

The phone buzzed, and Virgil went back to work.

***

The next morning, Virgil passed Raymond in the hall again, but this time he avoided making eye contact. Raymond, however, initiated conversation.

"Hey, Virg. How are you?"

"Yeah, fine. And yourself."

"Oh, you know. Livin' the dream."

Goddamnit!

***

After that, the morning turned awful. The in-coming calls were relentless and every customer he talked to was royally pissed about something. Virgil started hating Raymond.

Fucking dream something better than this, you shit! Dream us onto a beach with female volleyball players or spaceship or something. Christ, what the hell is wrong with you? You can live a dream and this - THIS - is what you choose? 

***

During the lunch break, Virgil found Raymond in the break-room, eating a sandwich and reading a book. He sat next to him. Raymond glanced up, lifted a corner of his mouth in a semi-smile, then continued reading.

Virgil tapped the table with his index finger. He breathed deep and exhaled. He scratched the back of his neck.

"So...," Virgil said. "A sandwich?"

Raymond didn't take his eyes off his book but said, "Yes."

"Mmmm hmmm."

Virgil clucked his tongue.

Time passed. Raymond turned a page.

In an explosion of activity, Virgil slapped the sandwich away from Raymond, tore the book from his hand, and threw it across the room.

"Living the dream!" Virgil yelled in his face. "The DREAM? This is the dream? A fucking sandwich and a goddamned book?"

The other workers sitting at the tables gasped in shock.

"Don't...," Raymond cowered away, pushing his chair back. "Don't start."

"Do me one favor, pal," Virgil kept pushing. "You want to live your dreams? Count me out. I don't want to be part of this nonsense anymore. Christ, you put me in your dreams then give me some shit detail where all I'm doing is answering phones; talking to cunts all day? Oh, fuck you, man. I want out. Understand? I want out of this messed up dream."

"You don't know what you're doing...," Raymond whispered.

"Oh yeah? Well maybe I don't." Virgil hitched his elbow back and made a fist, aiming it right at Raymond's face. "But I do know how to wake up a sleepyhead."

Suddenly, an octopus tentacle appeared mid-air and wrapped itself around Virgil's punching arm. It pulled away, tearing great hunks of flesh, exposing bone.

Virgil screamed in pain.

Raymond hid his face behind his hands, but it didn't help.

The monster attached to the octopus tentacle snapped into existence with a hellish roar. It had dozens of tentacles and all of them lashed out across the expanse of the break-room, snapping at and wrapping up the co-workers. Beneath soulless snake eyes the size of hubcaps, the monster had an oozing, vertical slice for a mouth - very much like a vagina with teeth. The tentacles fed the vagina people.

Virgil lay on the floor at Raymond's feet, cradling his ruined arm. The smell and sounds of the monster as it gobbled up co-workers were horrifying. Virgil whimpered and cried for Raymond, "...stop this... stop it."

"I can't," Raymond said. "This is NOT the dream."

A tentacle reached for Virgil, found his foot, and, with lightning speed, snaked up his leg all the way to his crotch.

With a whoosh and a crunch, Virgil disappeared into the mouth of a monster.

***

"Hey now," YogSigoth said as he slithered passed Zule entering the eighth level of hell. "How you doin'?"

"You know," Zule replied, rolling over a carpet of human corpses. "Livin' the dream."

"Heard that."