Post by The Evil Biscuit on Nov 10, 2015 22:57:23 GMT -5
So choobs got me into the subreddit, which gave me the writing fever, which led me back here. So thank him. I'm not as prolific as he is, but here's what I have so far.
[WP] Georgia, 1904. A minster awaits sundown at a crossroads, where he intends to confront the Devil with an axe in hand and the Word of God on his lips.
Gori, Sakartvelo (Georgia) - 1904
'Reveal yourself, devil. I have said the words.'
Bitter wind, too cold for this moonless autumn night, crawled through the thicket, rustling the wafer-thin pages of the priest's scriptures. He could barely see the book in his hands, but his feet felt sure against the trodden earth of the cart path; his ears pricked at the telltale chirping of toads on the banks of the Mtkvari, barely a half-mile to the west. The familiar aroma of will-o-wisp and Ossetian lavender lay lightly upon his nose. Even with no moonlight to guide him, he knew these lands by heart - a lifetime of memories had guided his careful steps through the undergrowth to this crossroad, long ago bypassed by mandate from the Governate in favor of more modern roads. He waited a moment longer, hearing nothing but the toads and the occasional rattle of cicadas.
Perhaps he had made a mistake. The scripture contained no verses for the summoning of demons, after all - but he was not relying on the Synod's liturgy for this encounter. Some things were older, more natural than Christian pantheons. This was udzvelesi dzala, old power, ancient religion and ritual divined from the folklore of his grandfathers. A crossroads. The setting sun. A summoning spell. The stories that frighten children the most have a bit of truth buried in their words. The old grandmothers of the township knew what they had seen moving in the treeline, in the magic hour before sunset. It was not the creation of a single God. It would certainly not be solved by one.
'Pokazhi sebya, spirit. Show yourself to me.'
Though he could not see into the pitch black caul of the crossroad, shrouded in the grasping, withered arms of the tallow trees, the priest suddenly felt that he was no longer alone.
'What would your father think of his proud Georgian son using Alexander's language before the Mother Tongue?' the voice leered from the shadows, somewhere in front of the priest, but impossible to place. It was far too near for his comfort. 'Little Anatoliy prefers the company of his conquerors these days, yes?' There was a wetness to the demon's speech; tinges of vile, unspeakable things dripping off each word - yet there was also a sweetness, a warm allure that the holy man could feel violently tugging at every fiber of his soul. He dropped his hands to his sides, fingertips grazing the sturdy haft of the hand axe he had used to chop his way through the overgrowth, and steeled himself.
'Do not use my name, creature. We do not know each other. I have come to command you to leave this place." The Word of God, claimed the Patriarchs, was to be worn as holy armor in the battle against evil, but here in this shifting eldritch thicket the priest felt naked. A heavy breath shuddered in his ears, and he knew the thing in the darkness was smiling. 'I have known you all your life, son of Vano. And you have known me all of yours.' He felt his arms and back explode into gooseflesh. 'Yes, priest, I can feel you beginning to understand. Do you know what I am?'
'You are arseba, creature. The blight of your presence hangs like heavy fog over the town. You cannot remain.'
'And you, little Anatoliy, will banish me?'
'The Word of the Lord commands you to leave.'
'I am far older than His written words, priest. It was not your scriptures that summoned me. They cannot bind me.' The cicadas had stopped their twilight symphony. Silence filled the crossroad, thickening the air.
'What do you want, devil? Why have you come to this place?' His mind toiled, dredging up the bedtime stories of his childhood. The old ways of banishing demons. Ask why they have come. Give them a compromise, or pay them to leave. Some could simply be told in a strong voice to retreat. The growing knot in his stomach told him this was no such spirit. The voice was closer now, coming from all directions. He felt hot, sulfurous breath on his neck.
'I have invested myself here, priest. There is another among your flock I seek.'
The compromise now. Eshmakis garigeba, the deal with the devil. 'I will speak to him for you. In exchange, you will leave. These are the terms.'
The thing in the shadows was right next to him now. He could hear the clicking of too many teeth, smell the rotten pestilence of the creature's roiling gullet. The smell of burnt sulfur was overpowering. 'And you will do exactly as I command, priest? I have your word?'
'You have nothing, arseba. You are bound to this bargain.'
The beast laughed, a deep, monstrous chuckle that froze the priest's bones and made his stomach twist hard enough to bend him over in pain. At that moment he understood that this devil would not be bound by any power, old or new. The thing in the darkness could devour him in an instant and carry on as it willed. He was helpless in the face of this primordial evil. He began to stammer out a silent prayer.
'Quiet yourself, priest. I will honor your bargain. I know you will do as I ask. Not long from now a boy, barely a man, will visit your door at night. He will ask for food, and money. He is a fugitive. You will send him to a friend, and you will give him another name. This is my bargain. Do you accept?'
The priest found himself unable to speak.
'You must say it, Anatoliy. This is the old way.'
'Y-yes.'
A blast of hot, wet breath washed over him and his stomach finally gave way. He vomited, again and again, into the ripe, dark earth. When he was finally empty, the crossroad was vacant, and he was alone. Cold wind chilled the sweaty nape of his neck. Toads ribbed on the riverbanks. The drone of cicadas serenaded the autumn night.
__________________________
The door banged loudly, startling Anatoliy from his supper. It had been four months since the affair at the crossroad, and in four months no fugitives had darkened his doorstep. The devil is a liar, he had said, and it had proven true thus far. He pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders as he unbolted the door.
'Dobryj večer, Father. Please, can you help me?' The man was filthy, yet despite his desperately unshaven beard and dirt-matted hair, Anatoliy could see that the man was handsome, and his piercing brown eyes were alive with fire. He was also incredibly familiar, though he could not place him.
'I know you, boy. What is your name?'
The man clutched his coat tighter against the chilling January night and looked away. 'My family name is Dzhughashvili.'
'Dzhughashvili... surely you are not Besarion's boy? Iosef?'
'Yes, Father.'
'You know he is in Tiflis now? He attacked the police chief while drunk. Your mother still lives on the hill.'
'Yes, Father. Please, I cannot go to my mother. No one can know that I am here. Please, any food you can spare.' Iosef shivered violently; he had been on the road for some time, it seemed. Running.
The priest's mind journeyed back to that night at the crossroad. Send him to a friend, the devil had commanded, give him another name. Was this cobbler's son a fugitive? Many boys had run off to join the Bolsheviks - it was a tumultuous time in the Union, and the idea of revolution made hot blood run hotter. It didn't matter. This was the bargain, and he meant to honor it.
'I have little to give, and my hearth is no warmer than this doorstep. The inn, however. There is a man staying there by the name of Rozenfeld, though he goes by another name here - Kamenev. Seek him out by that name. He is... sympathetic... to your situation, I think.'
'Spasibo, Father. The inn. I will go there now.'
The young man shuddered once more and staggered off down the street. Anatoliy remembered his bargain, and hissed after him, 'Iosef!' The young man turned, now silhouetted against the dark winter night. Snow was beginning to fall.
'Too many people here knew Beso Dzhughashvili, and you are his spitting image. You should give another name at the inn.'
Iosef nodded. 'What do you suggest, Father?'
Anatoliy thought briefly, unsure of a name to give that would allow the boy some temporary anonymity. 'Something strong. Neither Georgian or Russian. Iron. Timber. Steel.'
'Steel? Iosef Stalin? I'll take my chances with my mother's name, thanks.' With that, he pulled his coat tight and turned away, plodding up the road and out of sight.
Anatoliy watched him go, then retreated back into the withering warmth of his home. A strange bargain to fulfill, he thought, but then again, who can guess at the motives of devils?
[WP] A sweet, lovable, sandals-with-socks kind of dad is actually a cold (and highly sought after) assassin.
Today is Friday. It is twenty minutes past four. I remind myself that it is not sixteen-twenty. Twelve-hour time is on the other side of the Switch. I am standing in front of my home. My family is inside, waiting for me. I have been on a business trip. I remind myself that I got moved up to an earlier flight, thanks to delays at the terminal. San Jose was nice. I got a little sunburnt. I brought souvenirs. These conversations are on the other side of the Switch.
The sun is still high in the sky, warm and clear. Two blocks over a lawnmower starts up, backfires twice, pop pop and dies.
I am standing in front of the blown-out husk of an tenement house. Everything is covered in dust and sand. I taste it on my teeth. The sun bears down through oily clouds of smoke. Gunfire continues in the distance, pop pop. I am still on the other side of the Switch.
____________________
I step through the door and the Switch turns.
'Daddy!' My little girl pierces the air with her joyful shriek as she bolts across the den to greet her father.
I am in the Congo, and the same little girl is sprinting towards me, except now she is black and naked and covered in blood, so much blood, and she is not running to me, but rather away from something or someone else. I smell smoke and white phosphorus. Then my daughter latches onto my leg with her toddler strength and I'm back in my house. The Switch trembles, but remains in its place. The smells linger in my nose. I reach down to pick her up, and lift her high over my head. I smile and say something, I don't recall what. She seems to enjoy it, and cackles with laughter.
My wife steps into the foyer. Beautiful. I don't have to remind myself of how much I love her. I am the husband now, the loving father. This is one side of the Switch. The alibi of the early flight rolls off my tongue naturally. We embrace. We kiss. I feel my loins begin to ache as she invades my senses. For a moment, I have forgotten what is on the other side of the Switch, and I am happy. We separate, and she keeps her hand on my shoulder. I want it to stay there forever. She tells me the neighbors are having a party. She asks if I want to go. I lie.
________________________
Today is Friday. It is thirty minutes past six. I am surrounded by people whose lives I have documented meticulously, yet I must presume to know nothing about them. I must remind myself that I am the husband now, the affable neighbor with the interesting job. My little girl is playing on the swings, my wife is sitting with the other women in the neighborhood, gossiping. I am with my neighbor, who is holding court with his work friends about the merits of a particular game of golf. The wind shifts, and the smell of beef sizzling on the grill wafts into our group.
I am in Tikrit. His screams are muffled by a sock and duct tape. His eyes plead with me. I watch as a man in sunglasses tosses his cigarette on the gasoline soaked floor. I do not turn away. The smell of burning flesh is acrid, and sweet. I realize I am hungry. Someone offers me a beer. I am back at the party. The Switch is still turned.
Inevitably, I am asked what I did in The War. I tell them I was in Intelligence. They ask if I ever had to kill anyone. I lie.
My daughter asked me, once, when she was too young to understand the question. 'I killed little girls just like you,' I said, 'They got in the way.' She does not remember it. It is the only time I have ever been honest.
__________________
Today is Friday. It is almost eight. My brain is beginning to swim from the beer. I'm forgetting about the Switch. Things are normal. The neighborhood boys have brought out fireworks. I tell my wife that we should get home and put our daughter to bed. She agrees. As we leave, the first of many Roman candles is sparked, whump. A glittering red star streaks upward, trailing white smoke. I watch black shadows stretch across red faces, all staring up in wonder. For a moment, the faces are skulls, bones and teeth painted in the sparkling light of a descending signal flare. Another whump -
I am in Tbilisi. Mortars are falling to the west. whump. A hand wraps around my arm and pulls me down behind the crumbling wall. It is my wife. We are standing at the gate watching the fireworks. The Switch is still turned. She asks if I am okay. I lie.
[WP] You're the person who keeps mowing lawns during the zombie apocalypse of The Walking Dead.
Look, say what you want, but I was there. I met the guy, Nacho met the guy, he gave us a damn wheelbarrow - yeah, THAT one over there - full of beans and we got outta there. This is like the fiftieth time I've told y'all this story and I don't get any less tired of it than y'all because it is just that amazing. Stop laughing! I gotta stay cool!
Okay, so me and Nacho, we're down the West Side, over in Garden Acres looking for that, uh, that plastic shit Snuffy wanted for the greenhou- drop cloths, yeah, thanks. We're looking for the drop cloths, there's not a lot of Zeros around, the sun is shining, it's Garden Damn Acres so you know we up in the mansions; it's a good-ass day. I find some bags of mulch in a landscaper's truck that's still pretty fresh. Nacho's just found a bunch of rolls of duct tape in a crawl space behind some rich dude's tool bench but we're still short on those drop cloths. So Nacho say to me, yo Cheat, ain't they usin' drop cloths when they paint? What about the houses they was buildin' down off Whittaker? Where Gomez and Charo - Hey, you know what, forget that. My bad.
SO, I'm like yeah, let's go check it out, and right about that time we hear the noise, right? Yeah, y'all know what it is - thrmmmmmmmmmmmpapapapapa - and Nacho and I are lookin' at each other like whaaaaaat the fuck is that, so we figure it's about two blocks over and we go to check it out. We know for sure some Zeros are gonna start movin' in soon on account of the noise, so we wanna be quick about it.
Aight, so y'all already know this part for sure, we come around the corner and we see this little Mexican dude pushing a damn lawnmower up and down this yard! Yes! Stop laughing! Like what is this joker even smoking?! And I'm just dumbfounded by this dude, then Nacho slaps my arm and points at the rest of the houses in the culdy-sack. Y'all. This guy has put a laser fade on every damn yard in this hood. Pebble Beach'd the whole block. Respect, right? Dude is good! But the mower is still loud as shit, and as usual, here comes a Zero fumblin' outta the side street making a line for homeboy. I start makin' a move to go help but Nacho grabs me and is like, Cheat, hold up. So we wait to see if Mower Dude is about that life.
Don't spoil the ending, young buck! Yeah his ass went in the pool, but you gotta let me tell it, lil' bro. Aight, yeah, the Zero is closing the gap on Mr. Mower and it really doesn't seem like he notices, with the mower being so loud and all, plus he's got that landscaper shit on, the hat with the towel under it and the wraparound shades, so he probably doesn't see all that great with his preferable vision - huh? That's what I said, preferable. What? Per-if-er-al? What's the difference? Look, who's tellin' the story here? Anyway, he can't see the Zero 'til it's right up on his ass, but once he does see it he's so chill about it. He just turns off the auto-forward, leaves the motor running, and walks around behind the house where we can't see him, Zero just following along like they do.
Nacho and I run over there to see what's what, and when we get around the corner, it's just him! No Zero anywhere. He turns around and sees us, and he just smiles and says buenos dias muchachos and we're like bro where's that Zee and he points at the pool. We couldn't hear the Zero growling over the mower but Mower dude had led him back there and pushed him into the pool. There he was, laying on his back, both legs broke, grabbing at the air and clicking his teeth like they do. There's also like twelve other Zees crawling around in there - clearly this dude has been at it a while. Nacho says something to him in Spanish, he says something back, and we go out to the front yard where he kills the mower. Nacho does most of the talking after this, 'cuz I like y'all and all, we been fam for like six months now but I still don't know no Spanish. Stop laughing!
So Nacho's talking to this guy and he's just going on and on about something and I finally ask Nacho what's up with this dude, and he says his name is Hipolito but everybody calls him Hip and he's been mowing lawns here in Garden Acres for like six years. He came here by himself from like, Honduras or some place and he never got his card, so he was like, an illegal, right? That's cool and all, I say, but why is he still doing this shit and Nacho asks him and he says this phrase that I can't even say correctly but I hear it in my head so perfectly and I know exactly what it means before Nacho even translates it - its all I got left. See, all the people in Garden Acres got money, and they took off for parts unknown when the world went to shit. So Hip here thinks his old bosses are gonna come back, so he's keeping the place tidy for them until they do. At first he was walking home which was like eight damn miles through the city but then something happened, like a fire or something, so he didn't have a place to stay. Nacho says he was embarrassed to stay in one of these big Garden Acres homes, since he wasn't allowed to ever go inside them, but he figured if he was tidy he could get out if someone came home and they wouldn't notice.
At this point, I'm like this dude cray as shit and I'm ready to bounce and go find these drop cloths for Snuffy and get home. Nacho keeps on talking to him and then he gets real excited all of a sudden and then Hip waves us over to this big-ass house at the end of the culdy-sack. All the while he's pointing at yards, and talking about this and that, and Nacho's trying to translate and keep up with him at the same time. Something about adding tea leaves to the nitrogen boosters when he fertilizes, Nacho will mumble as he listens, using a cross cut on the fescues to make it look like golf courses, weird stuff. The dude clearly knows lawns. So we go in and it's swank as hell in there, crystal chandeliers and gold plated everything and the bathrooms got that second toilet that shoots water up your butt so you know this dude was big time. Hip goes into this interior hallway and starts feeling on the wall with both hands, knocking like you do when you're looking for a stud. He finds the spot and he shoves his shoulder into the wall and the whole thing just swings in. Mr. Moneybags had a bunker! Nacho asks if the owner stayed here in the bunker and Hip laughs and says that the owner spent like six million dollars on this thing and still took his family on a private jet outta town, leaving it all behind. Rich people, man.
Okay, so, end of the story. This bunker was stacked. Hip had enough food to last him well into old age. He grabs this wheelbarrow - that wheelbarrow - and starts dumping all these canned beans and other shit into the wheelbarrow. As much as he can fit, just floosh into the wheelbarrow. Nacho's like yo we got food, slow your roll but Hip isn't having it, he just keeps on dumping. Once he gets as much as he can fit, he goes to the back of the bunker and pulls out these big wads of plastic, which I immediately recognize as the drop cloths that we've been hunting. He brings those over and lays them across the wheelbarrow to keep the cans from moving around. He says something and Nacho translates - he's sorry that he doesn't have any bullets but he doesn't like guns and he gave them all away to other people that needed them more. I say that's cool and Nacho and I carry the wheelbarrow up the stairs and roll it out the door into the culdy-sack.
I see it's about to start getting dark, and we got what we came for, so I say let's bounce but Nacho wants Hip to come with us. He's trying to explain that we got a camp, and a bunch of people, and everything's real chill and we got food and fire and they wash clothes in the river with real soap. Hip just waves him off and goes back to the mower. Nacho says something else and I hear him say that phrase again - it's all I got left. I get it, and Nacho gets it, but he's kinda sad about it. We turn around and leave him with his mower, and he just stands there and watches us go, waving goodbye with a big old smile on his face. We get two blocks or so away and there's the sound again - thrmmmmmmmmmmmpapapapapa - and he went right back to what he was doing. We wanted to go back a few weeks later but we were already packing up the camp to move east. I guess that guy's still there, waiting on his bosses to come home and live in their houses and pay him for keeping their yards clean. It was the only thing he knew how to do - all he got left, right? Sometimes that's all you can do.
[WP] Georgia, 1904. A minster awaits sundown at a crossroads, where he intends to confront the Devil with an axe in hand and the Word of God on his lips.
Gori, Sakartvelo (Georgia) - 1904
'Reveal yourself, devil. I have said the words.'
Bitter wind, too cold for this moonless autumn night, crawled through the thicket, rustling the wafer-thin pages of the priest's scriptures. He could barely see the book in his hands, but his feet felt sure against the trodden earth of the cart path; his ears pricked at the telltale chirping of toads on the banks of the Mtkvari, barely a half-mile to the west. The familiar aroma of will-o-wisp and Ossetian lavender lay lightly upon his nose. Even with no moonlight to guide him, he knew these lands by heart - a lifetime of memories had guided his careful steps through the undergrowth to this crossroad, long ago bypassed by mandate from the Governate in favor of more modern roads. He waited a moment longer, hearing nothing but the toads and the occasional rattle of cicadas.
Perhaps he had made a mistake. The scripture contained no verses for the summoning of demons, after all - but he was not relying on the Synod's liturgy for this encounter. Some things were older, more natural than Christian pantheons. This was udzvelesi dzala, old power, ancient religion and ritual divined from the folklore of his grandfathers. A crossroads. The setting sun. A summoning spell. The stories that frighten children the most have a bit of truth buried in their words. The old grandmothers of the township knew what they had seen moving in the treeline, in the magic hour before sunset. It was not the creation of a single God. It would certainly not be solved by one.
'Pokazhi sebya, spirit. Show yourself to me.'
Though he could not see into the pitch black caul of the crossroad, shrouded in the grasping, withered arms of the tallow trees, the priest suddenly felt that he was no longer alone.
'What would your father think of his proud Georgian son using Alexander's language before the Mother Tongue?' the voice leered from the shadows, somewhere in front of the priest, but impossible to place. It was far too near for his comfort. 'Little Anatoliy prefers the company of his conquerors these days, yes?' There was a wetness to the demon's speech; tinges of vile, unspeakable things dripping off each word - yet there was also a sweetness, a warm allure that the holy man could feel violently tugging at every fiber of his soul. He dropped his hands to his sides, fingertips grazing the sturdy haft of the hand axe he had used to chop his way through the overgrowth, and steeled himself.
'Do not use my name, creature. We do not know each other. I have come to command you to leave this place." The Word of God, claimed the Patriarchs, was to be worn as holy armor in the battle against evil, but here in this shifting eldritch thicket the priest felt naked. A heavy breath shuddered in his ears, and he knew the thing in the darkness was smiling. 'I have known you all your life, son of Vano. And you have known me all of yours.' He felt his arms and back explode into gooseflesh. 'Yes, priest, I can feel you beginning to understand. Do you know what I am?'
'You are arseba, creature. The blight of your presence hangs like heavy fog over the town. You cannot remain.'
'And you, little Anatoliy, will banish me?'
'The Word of the Lord commands you to leave.'
'I am far older than His written words, priest. It was not your scriptures that summoned me. They cannot bind me.' The cicadas had stopped their twilight symphony. Silence filled the crossroad, thickening the air.
'What do you want, devil? Why have you come to this place?' His mind toiled, dredging up the bedtime stories of his childhood. The old ways of banishing demons. Ask why they have come. Give them a compromise, or pay them to leave. Some could simply be told in a strong voice to retreat. The growing knot in his stomach told him this was no such spirit. The voice was closer now, coming from all directions. He felt hot, sulfurous breath on his neck.
'I have invested myself here, priest. There is another among your flock I seek.'
The compromise now. Eshmakis garigeba, the deal with the devil. 'I will speak to him for you. In exchange, you will leave. These are the terms.'
The thing in the shadows was right next to him now. He could hear the clicking of too many teeth, smell the rotten pestilence of the creature's roiling gullet. The smell of burnt sulfur was overpowering. 'And you will do exactly as I command, priest? I have your word?'
'You have nothing, arseba. You are bound to this bargain.'
The beast laughed, a deep, monstrous chuckle that froze the priest's bones and made his stomach twist hard enough to bend him over in pain. At that moment he understood that this devil would not be bound by any power, old or new. The thing in the darkness could devour him in an instant and carry on as it willed. He was helpless in the face of this primordial evil. He began to stammer out a silent prayer.
'Quiet yourself, priest. I will honor your bargain. I know you will do as I ask. Not long from now a boy, barely a man, will visit your door at night. He will ask for food, and money. He is a fugitive. You will send him to a friend, and you will give him another name. This is my bargain. Do you accept?'
The priest found himself unable to speak.
'You must say it, Anatoliy. This is the old way.'
'Y-yes.'
A blast of hot, wet breath washed over him and his stomach finally gave way. He vomited, again and again, into the ripe, dark earth. When he was finally empty, the crossroad was vacant, and he was alone. Cold wind chilled the sweaty nape of his neck. Toads ribbed on the riverbanks. The drone of cicadas serenaded the autumn night.
__________________________
The door banged loudly, startling Anatoliy from his supper. It had been four months since the affair at the crossroad, and in four months no fugitives had darkened his doorstep. The devil is a liar, he had said, and it had proven true thus far. He pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders as he unbolted the door.
'Dobryj večer, Father. Please, can you help me?' The man was filthy, yet despite his desperately unshaven beard and dirt-matted hair, Anatoliy could see that the man was handsome, and his piercing brown eyes were alive with fire. He was also incredibly familiar, though he could not place him.
'I know you, boy. What is your name?'
The man clutched his coat tighter against the chilling January night and looked away. 'My family name is Dzhughashvili.'
'Dzhughashvili... surely you are not Besarion's boy? Iosef?'
'Yes, Father.'
'You know he is in Tiflis now? He attacked the police chief while drunk. Your mother still lives on the hill.'
'Yes, Father. Please, I cannot go to my mother. No one can know that I am here. Please, any food you can spare.' Iosef shivered violently; he had been on the road for some time, it seemed. Running.
The priest's mind journeyed back to that night at the crossroad. Send him to a friend, the devil had commanded, give him another name. Was this cobbler's son a fugitive? Many boys had run off to join the Bolsheviks - it was a tumultuous time in the Union, and the idea of revolution made hot blood run hotter. It didn't matter. This was the bargain, and he meant to honor it.
'I have little to give, and my hearth is no warmer than this doorstep. The inn, however. There is a man staying there by the name of Rozenfeld, though he goes by another name here - Kamenev. Seek him out by that name. He is... sympathetic... to your situation, I think.'
'Spasibo, Father. The inn. I will go there now.'
The young man shuddered once more and staggered off down the street. Anatoliy remembered his bargain, and hissed after him, 'Iosef!' The young man turned, now silhouetted against the dark winter night. Snow was beginning to fall.
'Too many people here knew Beso Dzhughashvili, and you are his spitting image. You should give another name at the inn.'
Iosef nodded. 'What do you suggest, Father?'
Anatoliy thought briefly, unsure of a name to give that would allow the boy some temporary anonymity. 'Something strong. Neither Georgian or Russian. Iron. Timber. Steel.'
'Steel? Iosef Stalin? I'll take my chances with my mother's name, thanks.' With that, he pulled his coat tight and turned away, plodding up the road and out of sight.
Anatoliy watched him go, then retreated back into the withering warmth of his home. A strange bargain to fulfill, he thought, but then again, who can guess at the motives of devils?
[WP] A sweet, lovable, sandals-with-socks kind of dad is actually a cold (and highly sought after) assassin.
Today is Friday. It is twenty minutes past four. I remind myself that it is not sixteen-twenty. Twelve-hour time is on the other side of the Switch. I am standing in front of my home. My family is inside, waiting for me. I have been on a business trip. I remind myself that I got moved up to an earlier flight, thanks to delays at the terminal. San Jose was nice. I got a little sunburnt. I brought souvenirs. These conversations are on the other side of the Switch.
The sun is still high in the sky, warm and clear. Two blocks over a lawnmower starts up, backfires twice, pop pop and dies.
I am standing in front of the blown-out husk of an tenement house. Everything is covered in dust and sand. I taste it on my teeth. The sun bears down through oily clouds of smoke. Gunfire continues in the distance, pop pop. I am still on the other side of the Switch.
____________________
I step through the door and the Switch turns.
'Daddy!' My little girl pierces the air with her joyful shriek as she bolts across the den to greet her father.
I am in the Congo, and the same little girl is sprinting towards me, except now she is black and naked and covered in blood, so much blood, and she is not running to me, but rather away from something or someone else. I smell smoke and white phosphorus. Then my daughter latches onto my leg with her toddler strength and I'm back in my house. The Switch trembles, but remains in its place. The smells linger in my nose. I reach down to pick her up, and lift her high over my head. I smile and say something, I don't recall what. She seems to enjoy it, and cackles with laughter.
My wife steps into the foyer. Beautiful. I don't have to remind myself of how much I love her. I am the husband now, the loving father. This is one side of the Switch. The alibi of the early flight rolls off my tongue naturally. We embrace. We kiss. I feel my loins begin to ache as she invades my senses. For a moment, I have forgotten what is on the other side of the Switch, and I am happy. We separate, and she keeps her hand on my shoulder. I want it to stay there forever. She tells me the neighbors are having a party. She asks if I want to go. I lie.
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Today is Friday. It is thirty minutes past six. I am surrounded by people whose lives I have documented meticulously, yet I must presume to know nothing about them. I must remind myself that I am the husband now, the affable neighbor with the interesting job. My little girl is playing on the swings, my wife is sitting with the other women in the neighborhood, gossiping. I am with my neighbor, who is holding court with his work friends about the merits of a particular game of golf. The wind shifts, and the smell of beef sizzling on the grill wafts into our group.
I am in Tikrit. His screams are muffled by a sock and duct tape. His eyes plead with me. I watch as a man in sunglasses tosses his cigarette on the gasoline soaked floor. I do not turn away. The smell of burning flesh is acrid, and sweet. I realize I am hungry. Someone offers me a beer. I am back at the party. The Switch is still turned.
Inevitably, I am asked what I did in The War. I tell them I was in Intelligence. They ask if I ever had to kill anyone. I lie.
My daughter asked me, once, when she was too young to understand the question. 'I killed little girls just like you,' I said, 'They got in the way.' She does not remember it. It is the only time I have ever been honest.
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Today is Friday. It is almost eight. My brain is beginning to swim from the beer. I'm forgetting about the Switch. Things are normal. The neighborhood boys have brought out fireworks. I tell my wife that we should get home and put our daughter to bed. She agrees. As we leave, the first of many Roman candles is sparked, whump. A glittering red star streaks upward, trailing white smoke. I watch black shadows stretch across red faces, all staring up in wonder. For a moment, the faces are skulls, bones and teeth painted in the sparkling light of a descending signal flare. Another whump -
I am in Tbilisi. Mortars are falling to the west. whump. A hand wraps around my arm and pulls me down behind the crumbling wall. It is my wife. We are standing at the gate watching the fireworks. The Switch is still turned. She asks if I am okay. I lie.
[WP] You're the person who keeps mowing lawns during the zombie apocalypse of The Walking Dead.
Look, say what you want, but I was there. I met the guy, Nacho met the guy, he gave us a damn wheelbarrow - yeah, THAT one over there - full of beans and we got outta there. This is like the fiftieth time I've told y'all this story and I don't get any less tired of it than y'all because it is just that amazing. Stop laughing! I gotta stay cool!
Okay, so me and Nacho, we're down the West Side, over in Garden Acres looking for that, uh, that plastic shit Snuffy wanted for the greenhou- drop cloths, yeah, thanks. We're looking for the drop cloths, there's not a lot of Zeros around, the sun is shining, it's Garden Damn Acres so you know we up in the mansions; it's a good-ass day. I find some bags of mulch in a landscaper's truck that's still pretty fresh. Nacho's just found a bunch of rolls of duct tape in a crawl space behind some rich dude's tool bench but we're still short on those drop cloths. So Nacho say to me, yo Cheat, ain't they usin' drop cloths when they paint? What about the houses they was buildin' down off Whittaker? Where Gomez and Charo - Hey, you know what, forget that. My bad.
SO, I'm like yeah, let's go check it out, and right about that time we hear the noise, right? Yeah, y'all know what it is - thrmmmmmmmmmmmpapapapapa - and Nacho and I are lookin' at each other like whaaaaaat the fuck is that, so we figure it's about two blocks over and we go to check it out. We know for sure some Zeros are gonna start movin' in soon on account of the noise, so we wanna be quick about it.
Aight, so y'all already know this part for sure, we come around the corner and we see this little Mexican dude pushing a damn lawnmower up and down this yard! Yes! Stop laughing! Like what is this joker even smoking?! And I'm just dumbfounded by this dude, then Nacho slaps my arm and points at the rest of the houses in the culdy-sack. Y'all. This guy has put a laser fade on every damn yard in this hood. Pebble Beach'd the whole block. Respect, right? Dude is good! But the mower is still loud as shit, and as usual, here comes a Zero fumblin' outta the side street making a line for homeboy. I start makin' a move to go help but Nacho grabs me and is like, Cheat, hold up. So we wait to see if Mower Dude is about that life.
Don't spoil the ending, young buck! Yeah his ass went in the pool, but you gotta let me tell it, lil' bro. Aight, yeah, the Zero is closing the gap on Mr. Mower and it really doesn't seem like he notices, with the mower being so loud and all, plus he's got that landscaper shit on, the hat with the towel under it and the wraparound shades, so he probably doesn't see all that great with his preferable vision - huh? That's what I said, preferable. What? Per-if-er-al? What's the difference? Look, who's tellin' the story here? Anyway, he can't see the Zero 'til it's right up on his ass, but once he does see it he's so chill about it. He just turns off the auto-forward, leaves the motor running, and walks around behind the house where we can't see him, Zero just following along like they do.
Nacho and I run over there to see what's what, and when we get around the corner, it's just him! No Zero anywhere. He turns around and sees us, and he just smiles and says buenos dias muchachos and we're like bro where's that Zee and he points at the pool. We couldn't hear the Zero growling over the mower but Mower dude had led him back there and pushed him into the pool. There he was, laying on his back, both legs broke, grabbing at the air and clicking his teeth like they do. There's also like twelve other Zees crawling around in there - clearly this dude has been at it a while. Nacho says something to him in Spanish, he says something back, and we go out to the front yard where he kills the mower. Nacho does most of the talking after this, 'cuz I like y'all and all, we been fam for like six months now but I still don't know no Spanish. Stop laughing!
So Nacho's talking to this guy and he's just going on and on about something and I finally ask Nacho what's up with this dude, and he says his name is Hipolito but everybody calls him Hip and he's been mowing lawns here in Garden Acres for like six years. He came here by himself from like, Honduras or some place and he never got his card, so he was like, an illegal, right? That's cool and all, I say, but why is he still doing this shit and Nacho asks him and he says this phrase that I can't even say correctly but I hear it in my head so perfectly and I know exactly what it means before Nacho even translates it - its all I got left. See, all the people in Garden Acres got money, and they took off for parts unknown when the world went to shit. So Hip here thinks his old bosses are gonna come back, so he's keeping the place tidy for them until they do. At first he was walking home which was like eight damn miles through the city but then something happened, like a fire or something, so he didn't have a place to stay. Nacho says he was embarrassed to stay in one of these big Garden Acres homes, since he wasn't allowed to ever go inside them, but he figured if he was tidy he could get out if someone came home and they wouldn't notice.
At this point, I'm like this dude cray as shit and I'm ready to bounce and go find these drop cloths for Snuffy and get home. Nacho keeps on talking to him and then he gets real excited all of a sudden and then Hip waves us over to this big-ass house at the end of the culdy-sack. All the while he's pointing at yards, and talking about this and that, and Nacho's trying to translate and keep up with him at the same time. Something about adding tea leaves to the nitrogen boosters when he fertilizes, Nacho will mumble as he listens, using a cross cut on the fescues to make it look like golf courses, weird stuff. The dude clearly knows lawns. So we go in and it's swank as hell in there, crystal chandeliers and gold plated everything and the bathrooms got that second toilet that shoots water up your butt so you know this dude was big time. Hip goes into this interior hallway and starts feeling on the wall with both hands, knocking like you do when you're looking for a stud. He finds the spot and he shoves his shoulder into the wall and the whole thing just swings in. Mr. Moneybags had a bunker! Nacho asks if the owner stayed here in the bunker and Hip laughs and says that the owner spent like six million dollars on this thing and still took his family on a private jet outta town, leaving it all behind. Rich people, man.
Okay, so, end of the story. This bunker was stacked. Hip had enough food to last him well into old age. He grabs this wheelbarrow - that wheelbarrow - and starts dumping all these canned beans and other shit into the wheelbarrow. As much as he can fit, just floosh into the wheelbarrow. Nacho's like yo we got food, slow your roll but Hip isn't having it, he just keeps on dumping. Once he gets as much as he can fit, he goes to the back of the bunker and pulls out these big wads of plastic, which I immediately recognize as the drop cloths that we've been hunting. He brings those over and lays them across the wheelbarrow to keep the cans from moving around. He says something and Nacho translates - he's sorry that he doesn't have any bullets but he doesn't like guns and he gave them all away to other people that needed them more. I say that's cool and Nacho and I carry the wheelbarrow up the stairs and roll it out the door into the culdy-sack.
I see it's about to start getting dark, and we got what we came for, so I say let's bounce but Nacho wants Hip to come with us. He's trying to explain that we got a camp, and a bunch of people, and everything's real chill and we got food and fire and they wash clothes in the river with real soap. Hip just waves him off and goes back to the mower. Nacho says something else and I hear him say that phrase again - it's all I got left. I get it, and Nacho gets it, but he's kinda sad about it. We turn around and leave him with his mower, and he just stands there and watches us go, waving goodbye with a big old smile on his face. We get two blocks or so away and there's the sound again - thrmmmmmmmmmmmpapapapapa - and he went right back to what he was doing. We wanted to go back a few weeks later but we were already packing up the camp to move east. I guess that guy's still there, waiting on his bosses to come home and live in their houses and pay him for keeping their yards clean. It was the only thing he knew how to do - all he got left, right? Sometimes that's all you can do.