NFTF: The Dairy, Part II

"My pleasure, Dr. Reinblatt. Victoria? Come with us, and we'll get you all fixed up for tonight's presentation. Ah, there's a smile. Just as the Lord foretold. So saith the Doctor."

whispers 

so saith the lord

wet slicing

laughter muffled screams 

We move toward a door and a lady in too much polyester steps out of an office and I glance in: it's me standing there, in the office, unmoving, staring at something right in front of me. All I can see are ropes cutting into the flesh of ankles, legs pulled wide apart. I gasp and Dr. Mayberry says,

"It's not real, right, Victoria?"

"It's not real," I repeat, looking away. The door shuts and I hear something wet splatter against it

I am blinking hot wet out of my eyes, it stings 

Dr. Mayberry stops at a door with a name plate on it: Dr. Torvald W. Mayberry. He is carrying two plates of strawberry Jell-O. He smiles at me, nodding at the door handle.

"Victoria, would you mind? My hands are full," he's very nice.

breathing in ragged gasping sobs, someone begs for them to stop stop stop stop

I hesitate to touch the door handle, fearing the scene beyond it, the barn, the blood and screaming.

"Okay, I'm sorry, lemme just put these down --" he begins, but I reach out and open the door -- I have to know what's beyond -- 

I gasp, stepping back: rough paneled walls, old framed photographs inside --

the sound of children crying, muffled

-- and a comfortable chair in front of a lovely old desk.

"Thank you, Victoria. Ladies first," he gestures with his Jell-O plates; I look at the Jell-O a second time, at its quivering. Was it always in individual molds? I thought it was in cubes when he arrived. I look at Dr. Mayberry.

"I made these special for you and I, Victoria," he is young and cute and kind. I still have problems looking at his eyes. "Do you want me to go first again, to show it's safe?" 

"No, I --"

not safe not safe, slicing screams I know it's not safe

"I ... ladies first," I finish, stepping in to his office. He's even had barn rafters put in. I'm looking at them as he closes the door with his foot, then sets the Jell-O down on his desk. There is a fresh cup of coffee steaming on his side of the desk. Oh, how I crave a cup of coffee

with a grain of salt a spoon of salt a fucking salt lick to penetrate this obscurity

"I'm an old country boy at heart," he says, following my gaze. "Grew up on a ranch here in the valley. Went to school back East, in Massachusetts," he nods his head up to the right toward a wall covered in diplomas, plaques, credentials. "But my heart has always been here, right here, in San Ramon." He busies himself, arranging some papers, opening my file

file file file their fingernails down to be bone, fingernails melt better when powdered

and selecting a few pens. I focus on the wall of credentials. There's a large, beautiful window right behind him, I think I should ask him about it -- 

"Will you tell me about your window?" I blurt.

"Sure! Yes, I remember, you've asked about it before. It's from my grandparents' farmhouse. They had this one, beautiful window. Well, many, actually -- but this one was my favorite because I could see the sunrise every day over the East side of the valley. So I had it installed here, hoping to shed bright light into the darker corners of my patients' lives ..."

As he's been talking, I've nodded and let my eyes wander the room, focusing mostly on the ego wall. Something about it is off, disconnected. I squint, but I still can't see what it is. And, not wanting to arouse suspicion, I look up at the rafters. There's a stuffed owl up there. I say,

"Whoa," involuntarily.

"My Grandfather's owl. He raised it from the egg, found the nest when he was hiking after a wildfire. The eggs were protected in the tree, but nearby were the owl parents, they'd ... not survived. Anyway, he took the eggs and built an incubator and they hatched. He learned to feed them, he set them free, but this one just stuck around. Imprinted so strongly that he never left. Grampa called him Archie, from Archimedes, Merlin's owl ..."

I've been trying to see his diplomas clearly, but it's like they're blurred out. I look for other details on the wall near them, and can clearly see knots in the wood, a crack that looks like a witch's hand

grasping screaming help me I am not a witch

and as I'm staring at that crack, I see the diploma next to it begin to resolve, swimming into focus. I shift my eyes and it's blurred. I look elsewhere again, not wanting him to know where I'm looking and see what I'm thinking.


"Tad loved -- loves -- I know, he ... he doesn't exist. I know. I'm sorry," I look at the floor, realizing I've said too much.

"Victoria," his voice is so kind. "I understand that it's hard to let go. Maybe if we talk about him, we can find what it is that anchors you to the idea that he was ever there at all. Okay?"

I nod, smiling a little. I'm not sure I can talk about Tad right now without crying. I'll try, though.

"Tell me where you two met," he says, leaning back in his chair a little. He's going to listen to me. I let my eyes wander as I speak. He sips his coffee.

"We met in a musical," I begin. "Reinblatt's Der Verdunkeln Meister --"

Coffee explodes from his mouth and nose in a fit of coughing. I had just let my eyes focus on the witch's hand crack in his ego wall. He hadn't even noticed. But now he's gasping, coughing, mopping the spray of coffee from my file and his desk. No computer monitor on his desk, it's very clean and very clear. Like a little like that poster of John Muir's desk -- no! Theodore Solomons! What was I thinking? Wow. 

"I'm sorry," he's saying. "What was the name of that musical?"

I pause. I can't remember. It's just ... gone. 

"I -- I think -- it's ... it must have been something else. I can't remember the name, but it was German. A very rare, dark comic operetta with a much more contemporary musical theatre sensibility to it than anything else written in the 1890's ... wow, how come I can't remember its name?"

He is staring at me, eyes narrowed a little. I realize I may have tripped myself up. How? How did I stumble? I've got to stay focused. I force myself to look directly into his eyes:

"Self-medication with marijuana has its drawbacks," I say, and he smiles. His eyes crinkle at the corners, their blue-with-brown-flecks all but disappearing. Even the silver at his temples is the same. I want to call out, to ask him why he's faking like this, why he's pretending, just say his name --

"Tad --" I freeze, I shouldn't have said his name.

"Yes? ... Victoria? Go ahead, talk about him," he smiles, encouraging. It's driving me insane to have Tad sitting there in his white doctor's coat, looking like he should be shooting an episode of ForScience!, only without the goggles.

" -- was always talking about musicals. Tad was. We met in a production of ... " I pause, panicked slightly. What should I say? Then out of nowhere, "The Best Little Whore -- house in Texas," I finish, but why did I emphasize 'whore'? Did his eyes widen when I did that? Why? I feel like a puppet.

"You talk a lot about theatre, Victoria, but always in reference to "Tad." Did you know that? Had you noticed this tendency?"

I hadn't, actually, not in any significant way. I mean, it's what he does -- did -- it's what I associate with him. Maybe I can get the doctor talking, get him to go on for a while. I say:

"I ... no. I didn't. What do you think that means, Dr. Mayberry? I mean, what do you think it really, really means -- at its core?"

He blinks. Sips his coffee.

"Well --" he begins. "It seems to me that you have a deep seated need to act out, to embody your fantasies so completely that they become real to you. Your commitment to these fictionalized accounts of your life is truly remarkable. I wonder sometimes what would happen if you were to focus that same dedication on actual professional theatre work, Victoria. You know, there's a story about Sigmund Freud and a production of Hamlet ..."

I let him talk, nodding every so often. My eyes are unfocused, aimed at that witch hand crack near his diplomas. I listen to his words, just letting the images settle in to focus. I can blink, I remind myself. I just can't shift my eyes to the right. Any attempt to look at them directly leads to the blurring. I can still hear his words, and I make the occasional validating, "Mm-hmm," or, "Oooh, yes," wherever appropriate.

"... but there is no reason why you shouldn't consider that a success, even if it's just a small one ..."

The crack that looks like a witch's hand seems to twitch. I blink, breathing, focusing on calm intent. The diploma is starting to swim into focus. I can see the first word. Ark ... ham. I glance a little to the left, resting my eyes slightly, making a, "Hm?" noise when Dr. Mayberry seems to be asking me a question.

"I said, are you going to eat any of your strawberry Jell-O, Victoria?" He is smiling, gesturing at the neatly molded red gelatin gleaming in the morning light that streams through his grandparents' window. 

"Oh, yes! Of course --" I pick up the plate and the plastic spoon. I smile at him and feel some of the still-warm blood slosh off the plate onto my wrist, the pinkish-grey brain tipping slightly. I freeze. I force myself to smile, nodding, but looking at his face I can see a brain on this plate. I look down at it, deliberate and calm. When I do, it's a perfectly-molded red mound of Jell-O. There are chunks of strawberry suspended in it. It smells delicious, like strawberry. This was not scooped from the cranium of a still-living woman, a Rachel bolted to the wall through her clavicles, screaming as an old foot-pump bone saw's rusting edge snagged on her scalp and ripped half of it off to whirr around like an old wig caught in a food processor --

I force my eyes back to his. He's taking a bite of his Jell-O, smiling. "Mmm," he says, eyes lighting up. "I see why you love Strawberry Jell-O so much, Veronica."

screaming but not anymore, her brain is gone and she's leaning forward as a bolt is yanked from the wall and bloody saliva pours from her mouth

"What?" I ask, before I can control myself.

"What," he says. Then I see him realize he just called me by that other name. I have the distinct feeling I am on thin ice, and that the ice knows it.

"What, uhm ... what do you think I should do, I mean, what is the significance of my stories about Tad always being in musicals. Instead of, like, non-musicals? Or working at ... the pound, or something?" I'm grasping for something that doesn't make me sound like an idiot. I raise the spoon and dig in to the Jell-O -- should it be this firm? -- then wait, expectant, for his answer. His eyes are glued to the spoon.

A howl. Far away, but closer. We're looking directly at one another when we hear it. I see him hear it. I know who it is and before I can stop myself,

"Max!"

His expression flashes, for the briefest second, to rage. He catches it, smiles, shakes his head and says, "Who?"

I want to poke at him a little, I don't know why. I say, "Max The Wonderdog!"

Dr. Mayberry takes a breath, and I see another face beneath his face for a moment, a face broken and twisted as the soul inside. I think he's going to shout at me, launch himself over the desk. There are flashes of shaking, envenomed rage under that calm exterior. He masters it, though, and says:

"I remember now. "Max" is the serio-comic hero dog you invented, the noble companion to "Tad", his trusty sidekick -- a dog with unnatural, uncanny abilities and an apparent telepathic understanding of your needs, yes?" Dr. Mayberry is smiling, gentle, and oh so condescending at the same time. He's pitying me, or pretending to. "Pity," in quotes.

"Max isn't real either?" I ask. "Is he related to musicals at all? Like maybe Fiddler on the Roof or The Producers?" I know this guy knows nothing about musicals. Maybe I can fluster him.

"Well, the power of an imaginary dog in a musical could be very significant," he begins, and I let my eyes drift to the witch hand crack again. It's easier, now, a little faster: the words are swimming into focus.

"... there's a kind of noble strength in you that you haven't acknowledged, Victoria, and maybe that's why you invented "Max" ..."

The first word is clear: Arkham.

"... but I think it's significant that you depend on "Tad" and "Max" to save you, instead of saving yourself. Is this because you're female and therefore significantly weaker ..."

I can't let his bullshit distract me ... the second word is swimming into focus: Conservatory.

"Holy shit, you went to The Arkham Conservatory!" I shout, elated for no reason I can understand. But it throws him. It throws him! He sits back, actually throws himself back in his chair like I've slapped him and there is blood spattered across his chest. I pretend not to see it.

"What -- what do you mean -- ?" he is staring, intense, his upper lip twitching.

"It's right there on the wall, silly," I say, like it's nothing. I stand and move to the wall, pushing forward, following this line of happiness because it leads to revelation, reading aloud: "On this day, this year, blah blah blah, The Arkham Conservatory bestows upon Torvald Walter Mayberry a Baccalaureate Degree in ... Divinity?" I glance at him, there's more spattered blood now and some of his hair is missing. "Wait, wait, wait," I take a breath. "You have a degree in candy? You make ... candy?"

"How can you see that?" he demands, his voice low and broken, rasping. 

"It's right here, below this other one," I say, and the witch hand crack twitches again as I read: "The Arkham Conservatory ... Doctor of Divinity, as well! Holy shit, Torvald! You're a Doctor of White Fudge!"

"Cunt!" he bellows, raising a hand to backhand me, but someone else speaks from the corner behind me:

"Showing any shreds of past, he feels, would be ghastly, lastly." The tone is warning and I recognize Dr. Reinblatt's voice but I didn't know he came in with us. I pretend not to hear it or

no no no please no not my girl not my baby no please oh god oh god no

"Con--tinue. Continue, please, Victoria. Why is my first Alma Mater significant to you?"

I have moved back from the wall toward my chair. I don't remember doing this. I glance at the witch hand crack. It doesn't move. I sit, choosing to put him (them?) at ease by my apparent compliance.

"Tad went to Arkham, as well. He and Dexter Tremblay were classmates. Of course, you were there before their time, but no doubt you've heard of Dexter's work? He's a writer," I say, remembering that Mayberry probably doesn't get out much. But not knowing about Dexter Tremblay is like not knowing about Stephen King or J.K. Rowling. I continue, "He disappeared, remember? Leaving behind an incredible manuscript? ... And people keep reporting sightings of him in Nevada, Washington, Oregon?"

Am I making this shit up, or is it true? Hard to tell. Dr. Mayberry has sat back down. The blood appears to be fading from his clothes, his hair has grown back. If I really am hallucinating all of this, I'm amazing at hallucination.

"Victoria," he says, smiling, but with a brittle tone that makes me think he's struggling. "I think it really is time that you take ... a bite ... of your Strawberry Jell-O."

I realize I put the Jell-O on his desk when I stood. Looking at him, I can see where I shoved the spoon into the top of the brain. It's sticking up, out, slightly to the left, blood congealing underneath this brain on a thick paper plate. Looking at the Jell-O, it gleams in the morning light, the light that is shining into this room at the exact same angle as when we entered. That's odd.

no please please please please please not her, please

"Dr. Mayberry, I'm actually still full from breakfast --" I begin.

"Nonsense! It's delicious! Try some!" Dr. Mayberry is grinning and shoveling Strawberry Jell-O into his mouth; I glance away, but the brain on his plate becomes very clear, so I have to watch him, watch the chunks falling onto his tie, his white coat. I have to know that the squishing sound I hear as he eats is a human brain, and if I think about that too much, I will puke. So I turn my head to gaze at his diplomas.

He stands and moves into my line of sight, taking a huge bite of Jell-O. "Strawberry," he says. "It's your faaaaavorite!"

I look at my own plate and he moves to the corner of his desk to my left. "Let's take a bite at the same time," he says, so enthusiastic, and there's a hard, cold rage in his eyes that clashes with his smile. It's too hard, to see Tad this way. To see Mayberry wearing Tad's face and form like a mask. How does he do this? How am I trapped here like this? Am I, after all, suffering paranoid delusions as they say? That would explain everything.

Dr. Mayberry is still staring at me. The smile is fading from his face. I look at the plate again and he says, "Victoria. Do I have to make you eat your Jell-O? Again?"

Oh, God. Have I already eaten some of this before? I look at the spoon. I can't tell. 

I pick up the plate. There's only the mark from the side where I took a scoop, but that scoop is sitting on the plate next to the rest of America's Favorite Dessert. I turn the plate around.

Most of the other side of the Jell-O is gone, great scoops missing, looking like someone just could not get enough of this taste sensation. I look at Dr. Mayberry. 

"See?" he says, grinning, red stuff between his teeth. And pale chunks. "You like it! Take more, Veronica, take more and seal the pact."

He called me Veronica. I've had enough of this shit. I stand and throw the Brain-O at the window where the light doesn't move and it hits with a dull thwack-glop.

hands holding the large mirror falter

"Veronica! That is uncalled-for! Clean it up!" Dr. Mayberry sounds more like an angry father now.

"I kicked your ass once, Torvald Walter Mayberry, I can do it again!" I shout.

the brain slides down the surface

"I have no idea what you're talking about. We have made such progress. Do I have to call the orderlies?" Dr. Mayberry sounds reasonable, but there is blood on is coat again. Not Jell-O of any flavor. 

I am reflected in the mirror, someone obscured behind me, whispering

The walls of the room look like they're moving slightly, like they're being held up by hands too weak to support them. 

smell of burning hair, smell of blood, smell of shit

I need to break something. I grab his lamp and hurl it at the window -- he shouts, "No! The mirror -- !" and before he is finished with the sentence ("...must remain intact!") --

The window pivots neatly to the side, the cheap battery-powered LED lantern smashing against the barn wall beyond. The window pivots back and I see hands holding the sides of this large, heavy, ornate mirror spattered with fluid and brains and blood and, at the corners, what looks like shit with eyeballs and fingers sticking out of it.

"Well now, it looks like someone needs her medication to be extra-strong today," Mayberry says. I turn my head and see, in a gap between the walls of his office, a Rachel's head slide wetly to the blood-soaked straw beneath, half of her face cleanly sliced away on what looks like a very large mandoline. Mayberry steps into my field of vision. 

Oh, God. He's completely nude under a blood-soaked doctor's coat, his man teats sagging but the jagged, sharpened, splintered wooden pole he's strapped on over his missing genitals is very erect, glistening wet and red with blood. He says, through a broken jaw and shattered teeth, "Der she wann her injercshn or, werr she eeah her Jerr-O?"

There is a face looking at me from behind the beam behind me, I can see in the mirror, as long as I don't look directly at the face: bright, crazed, laughing eyes, focused on mine. Whispering laughter.

NFTF: Journal of Brother Ambrose, Day 2, Part II

9:57 pm

My head feels like a hornets' nest, swarming with thoughts. I sit outside Father Michael's office, having been escorted here by Brother Paul and Domenico. They would not say why I've been summoned -- I suspect that Paul did not know, but Domenico had a certain tension around his eyes and would not meet my gaze for long.

Is it possible that Father Michael knows what I've been doing? Can I have somehow tipped my hand? On the way here I tried to gauge the nature of my summons, asking several questions. I tried to keep them light, but I have been described as dour and I know that levity would have left them more suspicious than they arrived. (Truly, I do not believe I am dour. I believe I am focused. If my neutral focused face appears dour to those unwilling to inquire, perhaps they should attempt a level of focus beyond snoozing in the chapel.)

That was uncharitable. I feel out of balance. Perhaps it is good that Father Michael is calling me before him, I could confess my recent ... sins? Do I believe them to be sins? Not really. Then what are they? I have no idea. But even now as I write this I hear Scarborough Faire in my mind's ear, clear as day. Or is someone playing it in the music room? Leaning in that direction doesn't change the sound ... and neither does getting up and peeking around that corner. Who would be playing Scarborough Faire here, anyway? At this hour? In this place? I suppose, technically, it's folk music. Simon and Garfunkel merely spread it about. They didn't write the damned song. Why do I hear it?! Who is playing it? Haunting, lovely, sad, bittersweet, longing ... how well I remember the first time I heard it. Before the dark days.

I hear him coming --

11:48 pm

The world is turned on its head and shaken. What falls out? Everything I had sought to leave behind. I have just spoken at length with Father Michael. Thus:

"Good evening, Brother Ambrose," the handshake and Fatherly hand clapping my right shoulder lightly, just enough to imply camaraderie without overstepping any boundaries. Clearly-defined roles.

"Father Michael," I begin, preemptive as ever when threatened; as he closes his office door behind us, locking it, he speaks over me:

"We've had word from Johannes and Oswald," he says, gesturing to the chairs in front of his desk. I sit automatically, shocked; he is sitting in his chair behind the desk as I blurt:

"How -- where?" 

"Before we go any further, Ambrose, I want you to know that I respect your reasons for wanting to leave your past behind you; I have made a point of leaving you to your business and keeping you out of certain activities in which I have asked a few of your Brothers to assist. I would never ask this of you, were it not a dire situation."

"Father, I will do anything you ask if it means getting them back here, whole. Johannes and Oswald --" I'm stumbling over my words.

"As to that," he says, holding up a hand in, what, warning? Caution? "I do not know that we can bring them back whole, if at all."

"What happened? Where are they? Were they able to find why the fires are burning unchecked? Where is the National Guard? Where is the Red Cross? Why do we just sit here when people all around us need our help?! I have been waiting and praying --" I see his eyes widen, his eyebrows raise, and I'm aware that this is more than I've said in months, perhaps years. I start to speak again, then stop.

For a long moment, there is only silence.

"I knew when you joined us that you needed more than just retreat or retirement, Ambrose. I hesitate because I think I understand your pain, but because I do not -- can not -- know what it is like for you. If I show you what we've found, I want you to understand clearly that I am not asking you to do anything about it. I am asking you for your advice only. Anything beyond that is entirely voluntary. Am I clear?"

"Yes," I say, certainty settling into my bones like a comfortable old coat. I know what my answer will be before he turns his computer monitor around and clicks play.

At first I see only people -- the backs of men in plaid flannel shirts with heavy suspenders and tough denim pants, the women in what look like a mix of American pilgrim and Hollie Hobby garb, though every one of them seems to wear some kind of bonnet or ... nurse hat?

Then one of the men turns and looks at the camera. I can hear feet shuffling on gravel and wind and some birds chirping, plus another sound -- a kind of keening shriek; like a boar in agony. There are oak trees, clearly this is local, this is East Bay chaparral, but the man who turns and looks at the camera is Brother Oswald.

"What -- ?" I start, then fall silent as Brother Oswald shifts to the left and the camera moves forward a step to two -- Brother Johannes must be recording this -- picking up the scene beyond.

A filthy, half-naked homeless man is screeching at the crowd, flinging gestures at a man on a stationary hospital gurney, tubes trailing from under the bloodstained sheets; if I couldn't see his face, I would wonder if it were a pregnant woman: he has a large belly.

I recognize this.

Not the place and people. The situation. I sit upright, all my old training clicking back into place.

The rocking, the rolling of the eyes, the moaning from the crowd. This is a cult. A cult in the beginning throes of mob ecstasy. The filthy man must be the leader, people flinch at his shrieking. His words become clear: 

"...Somewhere among you he may yet lurk! This man's twin in all things, even the broken leg! This man with stolen Godspeak come to deceive you with his dark magic! She questions my power because she thinks she can! Yet you all know I hold the power of Life and Death in my hands! See! Ezekiel, bring me the White Sheet! So saith the Prophet!"

"So saith the Lord," someone behind and to the left of the camera shouts; it's echoed by a few others..

A man dressed like the rest comes running up with a clean white sheet.

"Behold! I place the sheet and he will die at my command! So saith the Prophet!"

"So saith the Lord," more people repeat. They sound unhappy.

The filthy cult leader unfurls the sheet like a sideshow charlatan over the unconscious man on the gurney, grinning and leering at the crowd. I am always surprised at what people will put their faith in. The cult leader continues to shriek:

"Lo and behold, the Prophet did see that the man and woman were Of The Devil, and he did ask Almighty God for his thundrous hand to smite them down. And God did as the Prophet asked, so saith the Prophet?!"

Then a voice comes from somewhere, loud and clear but slightly muffled:

"So saith your Mom!"

A woman's voice cries out, "Tad!"

The cult leader is derailed, turning with a start to the gurney as the man I'd thought unconscious and possibly dying whips the fresh sheet down from his face, a big grin lighting his face. Like this is all a joke, or ... more like it's performance. An act. 

The crowd, though -- all of them take a step back, some of them fall to the gravel beneath their feet. A few try to leap forward, rage burning in their faces, but are restrained by others behind them. I think I catch a glimpse of Brother Louis restraining a short, balding man, but I can't be sure.

Brother Louis, I had been told, was visiting family. I turn to Father Michael as the camera turns to Brother Oswald, who scowls and gestures back toward the gurney with a jerk of his head. I save my question for later as the camera turns back and the man on the gurney ("Tad"?) calls to the cult leader:

"Hey there, fucko!" At this the leader whirls to him, like a bad little boy caught setting something on fire. The man on the gurney smiles like a celebrity and calls out, all bonhomie, "Feeling rapey?"

The leader is pointing immediately, screeching,"Tell me now how you did it and I may allow your Whore to live! Tell me how you created your double!"

Still smiling, and including the crowd in his words, the gurney man doesn't miss a beat: "Well, I can't exactly tell you that, Torvald Walter Mayberry. But I can show you, you false prophet and fucker of corpses! Would you like that, Mr. Twistydick?" 

Torvald Walter Mayberry? 

I stop breathing, but feel like I need to gasp.

A woman has laughed and the gurney man turns to his left, waggling his eyebrows at her, I imagine; there are people in the way, we can't see clearly who is over there.

The leader looks like he's trying to flag down an airplane, waving his arms, pointing at the man on the gurney, then keeping one arm up and turning to him.

"Yes, yes, do show us all, Foul Deceiver! Show us your Hellbane and Hemlock!" 

"No hellbane and hemlock here, Torvald," says the man on the gurney.

That name again. I breathe. Can't be coincidence.

"Just good, old-fashioned know-how," the man on the gurney continues, then looks at his right arm; blood has continued to soak the sheet. He turns to his left, speaking perhaps to the same person who laughed earlier; definitely someone specific. "Do I need a tourniquet for this?"

"Yes," two women, in unison. He seems to gasp a little, or laugh quickly. I see panic under that smile. But he's putting on a good show. Ah, I see: he's being brave. He loves one of those women. Both? Is this a polygamist cult?

"Done, ladies. Honey, I love you. Hold on to that amulet."

He throws her a kiss. At least three of the women near the camera sigh. Sounds like the crowd is swayed. This feels final. I sit forward.

He whips the sheet back up over his head, he's completely covered and there's a brief shifting under the sheet.

Gunshot. Mannlicher Carcano, from the sound of it, and a bullet tears through the sheet into the man on the gurney and the woman screams but someone steps in front of Brother Johannes just as I want a clearer look at that gurney.

"Move your ass," I mutter, and am shocked when Father Michael says, "Amen."

Brother Johannes wants to see the gurney as well. He steps around the woman in front of him just as the cult leader pulls the sheet from the gurney to reveal ...

A fat, healthy rabbit. Sitting on a pile of pillows.

The cult leader is shrieking as he falls to the gravel, "Aaauuyyuuughhhhh, no bunnies no bunnies no bunnies NO! BUNNIES!"

We hear Brother Johannes gasp and half-chuckle, but a woman's voice calls out:

"Bearded Ezekiels! Nurse Rachels! NOW!"

Sudden jumbled action, fumbling of the camera (must be a smartphone).

The video ends.

I know immediately what I must do. 

"Torvald Walter Mayberry," I say.

"Yes?" Father Michael is alert.

"I have his journal."

Notes from the Future: Journal of Brother Ambrose, Day 2

I am entirely uncertain as to the correct course. I have not yet approached the master of our order and I feel deep shame at this deception. But I feel that there may be some wisdom in delay, as the next passages of my transcription carry an entirely different tone. I am getting ahead of myself. Here is what happened:

Yesterday morning I left my room, agitated and determined to speak with Father Michael. He was in a meeting. I went to the redwood chapel to pray and meditate, as I have always found the morning light among redwood trees to be more lovely and peaceful than even the most powerful and ornate rose windows of any of our European cathedrals. As I sat breathing clean air and listening to birds chirping over the now incessant roar of Mt. Diablo, I had the distinct sense that there was a kindness near me, a presence at my right shoulder. The sensation of a hand, possibly even warmth and pressure. The scent of Rosemary, and a breath on my ear  no, that's not possible, but perhaps the impression of a breath as a word came into my mind: persevere.

Perseverance. Yes. My constant companion. In the darkest, most difficult times, I have learned much by simply shouldering my burdens and carrying on. The British seem to have the right idea. Keep Calm and Carry On. Not being one to dash about, though, I proceeded -- calm and collected -- to the library. Not usually in favor of divination, I nonetheless engaged in a little accidental bibliomancy. As I sat musing upon the strangeness of the scribblings within my books, I was idly flipping through a copy of the King James edition and muttering, 'What to do ... what to do ... ?' Which is when my finger fell right in between verses 15 and 16 of II Samuel, Chapter 13:

         " ... And Am'non said unto her, Arise, be gone.
         16 And she said unto him, There is no cause: this evil in sending me away is greater than the other that thou didst unto me. But he would not hearken unto her."

Now, setting aside the nature of Am'non's incestuous rape of his sister Ta'mar, which assuredly does not apply to my case, I disobeyed a basic tenet and chose to take these words entirely out of context. If there is some penance I must later do as a result, so be it. But they struck me, these words of Samuel. Am I Am'non, the unlistening? I thought I had been sleeping, but I was in congress with some source of the writing. Though my congress was not carnal, am I somehow doing greater evil in attempting to send it away? What if the words in my books, however upsetting, come from a good source? Hasty action could lead to hasty conclusion, and in these troubled times after the earthquake, perhaps it would be wise to wait, to listen, to "hearken unto" whom- or whatever is speaking to me in my sleep.

Though this time of contemplation seemed to me to only take a few minutes, perhaps a quarter of an hour at most, it was nonetheless a surprise to glance at the clock and see that evening had come. I had passed the entire day in the library, though it felt like minutes, contemplating the words and feelings of a virgin raped by her brother. Is it rape that I have experienced? Is my mind penetrated against my will, or have I been coerced or seduced? I do not feel like a victim in this. And the word that came to me in the redwood chapel: persevere.

These thoughts were foremost in my mind as I joined my brothers for our evening meal: I am still upset by the words in the books. I am upset by what has happened. But I am not certain that this is a bad thing. So, whether I am Am'non or Ta'mar, I believe that I should listen. And in listening, perhaps it would be wise to continue to transcribe. And in listening and transcribing, I shall thus persevere. Who knows what bends await in my trail?

So it was that I returned to my room last night and, intent upon transcribing the continued obscenities and foulness of what had come before, was surprised to turn a page and discover something entirely new. It was so engrossing that I confess I took it to bed and curled up reading it with the avidity of the most secretive of voyeurs -- a chilling thought, in light of its uncertain source and its strange contents. Here, then, is what came next:
    
            "August 29, 1955
            Arkham, Massachusetts
            9:36 am

     Dear ... future me. Today is the first day of our time at The Arkham Conservatory, and I am very excited to be able to attend this truly unique school. We, the incoming Freshmen, Class of 1959, are all gathered in a Lecture / Performance hall on the eighth floor, I forget the name. It's full of lovely woodwork and some very strange carvings on the beams of the rafters.
     I was worried, before this morning, that I would be seen as an outsider by the actors and dancers, and even though I knew I would be in the Divinity Department within the School of Theosophical Inquiry, I had convinced myself that I would be the only one. Not so! I am surrounded by friendly, kind, even titillating people majoring in everything from Parapsychology and Hypnotic Researches, to Musical Theatre. Everything here is laughter and light, in spite of the school's darker reputation. I have found nothing but acceptance, thus far, and though I know that there are bound to be rocky roads ahead (we will have ice cream after lunch, ho ho ho, knock wood), I feel as though I have finally left behind the shadows of my childhood. How odd to leave California and feel better in what will surely be a darker, colder climate for much of my time here?
     President Prescott is heading to the podium, will write more later. Remember to ask about historian and mansard roof.
     -- Torvald Walter Mayberry"

A knock at my door, oh please let it not be

Notes from the Future: The Prophet's Reckoning, Part IX

I see Chauncey dart away the instant the shot is fired, and I'm watching him now, wishing him freedom, feeling very detached. I'm thinking about the chunks in my hair, how they will be tangled and that will be gross, when I look up to see Fat Bald Ezekiel standing over me, a club raised in one arm. 

I should do something.

Pain blossoms bright in the left side of my head and I gasp, throwing myself to the gravel to my right as the report from a second shot echoes from the hills and mountains around us. I can feel blood trickling down my face from where the gravel hit me, and Fat Bald Ezekiel has whirled around to shout at the sniper, but everybody is shouting and running and screaming, so his voice is lost in all that. Odd: people are falling to the ground all around the place. Have they been shot, or is this a flight-or-fight response? Sets of Ezekiels are running up to those who fall, wrapping them in white sheets and carrying them away. Yikes, I don't want that. I start to get up, watching as the Prophet screams and points at terrified Rachels and Ezekiels; it looks like he's cursing them or something. Iron Rachel stands near him, turning to look at or move toward each person he curses, but never moving; she seems uncertain. That's nice. I still plan to punch her in the twat. Keeping my eyes on them, I am moving slowly to my knees where I hold still, breathing and waiting. They must think I was hit because of the shot and how I fell. Oh fuck. I should have stayed down. I freeze as I realize this, then feel my hackles raise as I hear someone run up behind me.

"Meddling bitch!" 

A man's voice, and at the same time something hits my head and shatters -- but does not hurt at all. A sheet is thrown over me and I'm lifted bodily and carried as they run over the gravel and onto dirt. I don't know if I should be scared or struggling, but whatever they hit me with didn't hurt, so I opt to listen very carefully.

Their feet are on pavement, now, and I hear a door open and a woman's voice, urgent, whispering as we move closer to her and then we are on linoleum and we turn a few corners and I am set -- gently -- on something soft. The sheet is whisked away.

"Hold still, we have no time to lose," says Mother Henrietta, and she begins wrapping my head with bandages; Nice Rachel and Young Nurse Rachel step forward to help, and the two bearded Ezekiels who carried me in are each watching the goings-on outside from a different window. I can still hear people screaming and, every few seconds, a gunshot and then its echo. The sounds dim slightly as the bandages cover my ears. They've already covered my eyes and now someone is wrapping my arms. Mother Henrietta is speaking.

"We keep a Rachel bandaged like this constantly, in case we need to make someone disappear; when that time comes, the bandaged Rachel becomes a nurse again and we wrap up the fugitive. What we're hoping is that this keeps you safe long enough to get The Prophet to pass out, and then we're putting you and Edward in a car and driving you both to safety," her voice is soothing, but I have a question.

"What about Max and Chauncey?" I ask, my voice muffled by bandages.

She is still and silent for a time. I feel someone else take over her bandaging work.

"I do not know," she finally says. "I can see if there is a way to find Chauncey, but short of setting a snare I cannot guarantee that we can retrieve him. Max, on the other hand ... I have a sense that Max is somehow closer than any of us realize. I don't know why. But in any event, you need to lie very still and not react if anyone comes in and speaks to you. You are heavily medicated, suffering severe poison oak allergies. We will not inject you or anything along those lines, but we may need to pretend to. Have no fear, you are safe."

The window on the left shatters and through the bandages I see the figure of that Bearded Ezekiel spin away from the window and fall as the echo of the shot  -- or is it another one, another shot? -- sounds in the distance. Everyone in the room is shouting as they jump to help him. I ask where he was shot and if he is okay a couple of times, but nobody hears me through the bandages covering my face. 

Another bang, louder now, sounds like the front door slammed open; there's angry shouting and frightened shouting and it's getting closer and closer and everything in the room goes still as a voice speaks. I do my best not to cringe.

"Take the Whores, take them all! The Interloper Whore has been killed as I wished, but her body is taken and hidden! Who but the healers would know where to hide a Whore's corpse?! Whores are Whoremagnets! Like flies to shit, they must be shriven for their sins, and questioned for their knowledge, even unto death!" The Prophet is always so fucking loud. Doesn't he know he's inside?

"Mighty Prophet," this from Mother Henrietta. "We do humbly submit to all of thy Holy Ministrations, but allow one of our number to stay and care for this Rachel so racked with Poison Oak that it is in her lungs and brain." When she says 'Poison Oak,' I hear a gargled gasp and see the Prophet's form retreat a step.

"Poison Oak is Satan's lure! Satan's taunting lure! Oh, how I itch just to think of it! Know ye, Whores!, that if ye spread thy unclean sex for my Holy Blessing, and if it be besmirched inside with the oils of Poison Oak, I will personally pull the skin from thy bodies, keeping ye still alive, misting ye with juices of lemon and salted waters! Know that, Whores! Know it! Mmm-hmmm, it is time, it is time for a Whore to have her second Rapeday. You!"

I hear Young Nurse Rachel gasp.

"Ezekiels, hold her! It is time for her to learn what her Father should have made her father do to her before she had her first flowering!" I see him shrugging his pants down, and the standing Bearded Ezekiel helps the other one to his feet -- he must not have been hit, it must have been the glass that everyone was so concerned about -- where they reluctantly hold her, one at each arm. Why? I want to scream. Why not just kill him? 

But then I see Nice Rachel take an involuntary step toward Young Nurse Rachel as the Prophet viciously backhands her where she is held, and two figures step into the room, rifles at their shoulders trained on the Bearded Ezekiels as a third figure steps in and clocks Nice Rachel with the butt of a rifle, neatly flipping it to train it on Mother Henrietta, gesturing her over toward me. Nice Rachel hasn't gotten up.

The Prophet is grunting with the effort of beating Young Nurse Rachel, and I find myself flinching with each blow and cry. Mother Henrietta puts her hand on my right hand and squeezes. I squeeze back, desperate to stop this. The Prophet is telling Young Nurse Rachel to dry her sex with sand. What the fuck?!

An idea hits me and I flinch bodily, like when I dream I'm falling. Mother Henrietta cradles my head in her arms, I can hear her breath, she is crying. I turn my head slightly and whisper, "Mother Henrietta ... what is his name?"

"Shhh, shhh ..." she whispers, rocking me slightly. "It's just a bad dream, shhhh ..."

"His name?" I whisper again. "I forgot. Tell me."

Mother Henrietta pauses, I feel her go still. She's not going to tell me. Or maybe the Ezekiel with the gun on us has seen my mouth move beneath the bandages. I realize I've closed my eyes and I open them to see that my left eye is partially uncovered from Mother Henrietta cradling my head, and I can see that there are indeed three Clean Zekes with guns, avidly watching as Young Nurse Rachel, her face streaming blood and tears, her skirts hiked up around her waist as the Bearded Ezekiels she trusts hold her in place, is rubbing sand into her vagina. The Prophet stands there stroking himself, muttering and keening some biblical gibberish, punctuated with more, more, more sand.

Oh. My. Fucking. God.

I will stop this. I will do anything to stop this. Nothing matters but stopping this. 

I squeeze Mother Henrietta's hand as hard as I can. The Clean Zeke with his rifle trained on Mother H. is watching Young Nurse Rachel's fingers push sand into her vagina, the rifle is actually pointed more at the window than us now. Mother H. isn't saying anything. Can I get the rifle from him and fire with my hands bandaged? Can I get them unwrapped in time? 

"Good," says the Prophet. "Now assume the stance of the Penitent Whore!" Young Nurse Rachel turns her back, adjusting her skirts as she presents her ass to him and begins to unbuckle the belt of the nearest Bearded Ezekiel. Both Bearded E's are shaking with rage, staring kill-you-now eyes at the Clean Zekes with the guns. The Prophet takes a handful of Young Nurse Rachel's hair and yanks hard, not just pulling her hair, but tearing away a clump of it as he digs his sharp, jagged fingernails into the flesh of her back, tearing into her and doing a little jig of delight as she screams. Then he starts stuffing the clump of her hair into her, whether it's her anus or vagina I can't tell, but she's screaming, screaming, screaming.

I grab both of Mother Henrietta's hands, risking everything, turning to her and pulling my bandages aside to look her directly in the eyes. "His name. Now. I can stop this, and if not I would rather die than stand by and let it happen!"

"Torvald," she whispers, barely audible against the girl's screaming and the Prophet's gibberish, and it comes back to me: Torvald Mayberry, former Pastor of Three Square Christian Church and Missionary Bible School, in Castro Valley. I let go of her hands as I adjust my bandages to mostly cover my eyes. The last thing I clearly see of the Prophet is that he is using the muzzle of a rifle to shove her hair into her ass with one hand, as he licks and chews on a dirty, greasy wooden dowel in his other hand. He begins to preach.

"Lo and behold, the Whore did know the healing penetration of God's Holy Firearm, and as an arm of fire, her own hair was pushed into her True Womanhole, the Hole of Shite! Thus did her cleansing begin! Thus did the Earth within her foul sex absorb her sin, ready for the Rod of the Prophet!"

I take a breath.

"Inside voices, Torvald!" I shout. Everything in the room freezes, save for Young Nurse Rachel's gasping, panting fear. Hearing that sound alone in the room somehow builds my rage beyond where it had been and I realize I have stuck a blow, even if only a small one, that may be greater than throwing Chauncey onto his head.

I can see the forms of the Clean Zekes glancing between the Bearded Ezekiels, the Prophet, and me.

"Whore -- !" the Prophet begins.

I raise my right hand, pointing it toward the Prophet.

"Inside voices! How many times must I tell you?!"

"Your mouth is better used elsewhere, Whore!" The Prophet turns away, raising his hand to beat Young Nurse Rachel some more.

"Torvald Mayberry! You will listen when your Mother speaks to you!" I hear his gargled gasp and the wet bing-bang thud of the dirty greased dowel as it hits the floor.

"You dare! You ... dare to claim to be my ... Mother?" he's confident at first, but his voice arches up on the last word and becomes a question, almost begging. 

I knew it, I've always known it, my Great-Grandmother told me when I was nine years old, "Todos los hombres son los niños pequeños. Y todos los niños pequeños quieren que sus madres. La cuestión es cómo los quieren, y por qué." 

All men are little boys.

And all little boys want their mothers.

The question is how they want them, and why.

"Mother is very upset with you, Torvald! Mother is deeply disappointed! Look at you, Torvald! When is the last time you bathed?!"

"I ... do not need to listen to a Whore! I am The Prophet!" His right hand is spasmodically grasping at his penis, shaking it and pulling on it, trying to keep it hard, I think. Ah, another hole -- ha, ha -- in his defences.

"Prophet?! What kind of Prophet is so small and shriveled? Look at you! Your followers are better men, with better manflesh between their legs! Go ahead, you disappointing and unholy son, pull on your tiny inadequate wiener! It still won't be attractive. No woman would willingly suck that ugly thing, so of course you use religion as an excuse to force them!" I find myself sitting up slightly as I rage at him.

He surprises me by rushing forward and backhanding me, shouting, "No Mama of mine would ever speak of my dingle-dangle! Mama never, ever spake of it! Mama never spake of anything dirty! Mama only wanted me to be good! I was good! You are not my Mama! You are not my Whore Mama! You are just a Whore!" He's reaching a clawed hand toward my face and I grab it, holding it to my breast, taking his energy as Tad always says, and topping it, matching him as best I can in intensity -- but keeping my volume lower so he has to lean in to hear me:

"You dare to call yourself my son? You dare to question your own Mama? How do you know what I spake of, tiny disappointment? I should have aborted you when I had the chance! I should have flushed you down the toilet and given birth to a better son, with a larger dingle-dangle to make Mama proud! Do you even remember the color of my eyes, Torvald Mayberry? Do you?! Do you know your Mama's eyes when you see them, or have you fallen so far that your ugly dingle-dangle pulls you into sin and cruelty, away from the memory of your Mama's eyes?" I can see him only from the waist down at the moment, and each time I say Mama's eyes, his ugly dick gives a twitch and gets harder. Ooooh, boy. How far am I going to have to take this?

As far as I have to.

"Blue," he is saying. 

Oh, shit.

"Blue is the color of my Mama's eyes. Blue as the sky, blue as arctic ice, blue as ... a flower, Mama?" The Prophet's voice is singsong, almost lilting. He sounds like a little boy, sort of. A little boy filtered through a skinny, stinking, scraggly-bearded lunatic rapist.

A rapist whose mother had blue eyes. 

My eyes are brown.

Nothing to do but twist the twisted:

"Blue! Truly?! Torvald Mayberry, have you so forgotten your loving Mama? Have you fallen so far? I thought you loved me, Torvald! Or were you just being kind? ... Or, am I losing my mind?"

Jesus, I'm quoting Sondheim. Hope he doesn't know his musicals. 

"Mama never lost her mind!" he stomps his little boy foot, and if I could see his face I'm sure his lower lip would be pouting in boo-boo face with his little boy fists I can see bunched at his sides.

Of course he doesn't know any musicals. What was I thinking? He ran a church in Castro Valley, for fuck's sake ...

"My Mama had blue eyes and never lost her mind, Whore!" he yanks his hands away and claws at my bandages, and I grab his hands and am pulled up until I am face to face with him. His breath reeks of rotten meat and rotting teeth, and I nearly gag when I realize he must live off of the raw flesh of the people he eats. And maybe, if he eats their brains ...

Holy shit. Maybe those shakes he has are not from excitement or fear.

I think this crazy fucker has Creutzfeldt-Jakob. Maybe he is so far gone that all I need to do is keep pushing.

"Mama lost her mind with disappointment and heartbreak, Torvald. She did. Because of you. You had such potential, you could have been so great. Three Square Christian Church and Missionary Bible School brought Blessed Jesus into every sinner's heart! Didn't it, honey? Didn't you just fill those sinners with good, pure Jesus?"

"I did, Mama! I did!"

"Mama is so proud of you, little Torvald. Mama is so proud of you for what you did ... then. Right up until ... what was it you did, Torvald? Why did you have to leave?" I'm pressing my bandaged forehead against his disgusting face and all I can think about is getting these bandages off my face because his stink will stick to me like dead body smell from shallow graves.

"I was trying to ... trying to ..." he leans back from me. "No, noooooo, no I don't talk about that ..."

"Look at me, Torvald! Look at your Mama!" I'm pulling on his hands, my arms hurt.

"No! Noooo!" He's pushing away from me. Does eating live human flesh give you super strength? Jesus.

"Look your Mama in the eyes and she might love your dingle-dangle, Torvald! Mama might love your dingle, and your dangle, if you just ... look her ... in the eyes."

"Mama? Mama ... ?" The Prophet is looking at me askance, shrinking away from me, over his left shoulder. I whisper:

"What color are Mama's eyes, Torvald Mayberry, former pastor of Three Square Christian Church and Missionary Bible School in Castro Valley? If you love me, you know my eyes. If you love your Mama, you remember."

" ... blue ...?" his eyebrows are crinkled up, his mouth working to hold back tears or vomit, who knows with this loon?

"Look at Mama's eyes," I say, and, pulling the bandages up, I stare into his eyes as he turns his head and looks directly at me. I can see that the Clean Zekes are staring at us, their rifles lowered slightly, though I do not dare shift my eyes from the Prophet's for a moment, so I do not know what their expressions are.

For a moment, there is only joy on the Prophet's face.

Then confusion, and he rears back from me in horror.

I grab his beard with both hands and yank as hard as I can, screaming in his face, "You forget your mother's eyes, Torvald! What color are my eyes?!" Holding his beard with my left hand, I reach out with my right, hoping Mother H. will understand, and that the Clean Zekes are so mesmerized that they don't notice.

"Brown ..."

"Mama's eyes are brown, Torvald Mayberry! And your dingle-dangle is tiny and ugly and always was and always will be!" I feel something placed in my right hand, something with a handle. I think I know what it is, and I begin stretching my arm out, getting ready to swing up and into his face.

He vomits all over my arm and chest. The fact that it's probably all human chunks is disgusting, but it's distant -- far more important is the instrument whose handle I grip in my right hand.

A shout from the hallway followed by a gunshot, "You there! Stop in the name of the Prophet!" The spell is broken. The Prophet shoves himself away from me, I try to tuck the instrument in my right hand under the sheets, and Mother H. helps out by adjusting my blanket.

The Clean Zekes raise their rifles, shaking their heads as though coming awake and resuming their aggressive stances as a fourth Zeke runs in, eyes wide and face pale.

"Mighty Prophet, there was a man in the Interloper's room! He was ... he was ..." The fourth Zeke trails off, staring at the scene: Young Nurse Rachel is still bent over, the blood clotting on her horribly swollen face, sand falling from between her legs; she has the closest Bearded Ezekiel's belt unbuckled, all three are staring at the newcomer. Two of the three Clean Zekes already in the room are pointing their guns at the Bearded Ezekiels. The third is pointing his gun at me; I see dirty grease and some blonde hairs stuck to the muzzle: this was the gun the Prophet was using on Young Nurse Rachel. The Prophet is hunched, staring, between the newcomer and me, his eyes locked on what he can see of my face.

"Speak, Ezekiel," the Prophet almost whispers. I think better of praising his use of appropriate inside voice.

The newcomer Clean Zeke clears his throat, takes a breath.

"There were two of them, Mighty Prophet. There were ... two ... Interlopers," he is staring at the wall above me, or staring through it, rigid.

"And did you shoot them both, Ezekiel?" The Prophet is still looking at me, eyes narrowed.

"No, Mighty Prophet. I shot at one, the one who was standing. But he disappeared. He was ... exactly like the first one," his eyes dart from the wall to the Prophet to me and to the Bearded Ezekiels. He is clearly confused. I see Young Nurse Rachel's eyes move to where Nice Rachel has been on the floor this whole time, then to Mother Henrietta. This is significant. But how?

Now the Prophet turns to the newcomer, fast and twitchy. "Tell me everything you saw, Ezekiel, tell it quick," stepping close, the Prophet sniffs deeply at the newcomer's neck. This galvanizes the young man into stiff fear. He takes a deep breath and speaks:

"I was told by Iron Rachel to come in the back way and check for fleeing Rachels for the dairy --"

"What happened when you were in the building?" The Prophet speaks over him, loud and fast.

Dairy? What dairy?

"I was passing the Interloper's room when I saw a figure standing near his bed, Prophet. I looked in and it, it, well it was like he had a twin, Prophet. He was lying there in bed in his hospital gown, and the other man was leaning next to him, reaching out a hand. His right leg was in a cast, same as the Interloper's. Then he stopped, he didn't touch the Interloper. I raised my rifle, shouting, and he disappeared --"

Snarling, the Prophet grabs me by the bandages and hair, hauling me from the bed and into the hall; I am yelling and twisting and I see the Clean Zekes usher my friends out at gunpoint.

What the hell is going on? Did Tad really do this? How did he appear like that? Is this kid hallucinating? He can't be more than seventeen, he doesn't look like he's doing shrooms or acid.

The newcomer continues, "He may have disappeared before I fired, Prophet. I am ... not certain. I don't really know what happened, Holy One."

By now we are in Tad's room. The Prophet yanks me to my feet by my hair, throwing me against the right hand wall.  Tad is laying there with tubes in his nose, breathing deeply. His cuts are healing. Machines are beeping. I forget the pain of my yanked hair and just want to go to him and stroke his brow, maybe scratch his head the way he loves. Tad is like a human puppy that way. If only Max were here, too. I feel like we could escape and get to the mountains if we were only together.

The Prophet has stalked up to Tad's left side and is leaning over him, screaming:

"How?! How do you do these things?! Who sent you?! Who gave you Godspeak?! Wake and tell me now, I kill kill kill you --" Whirling, eyes wild, spittle running down into his beard to mingle with half-digested chunks of someone's arm or hands, he reaches toward a Clean Zeke, grabbing at his gun.

Then his eyes fall on my right hand. He stops. Everyone is looking at my hand, now. I look down.

Fuck.

The scalpel. Disposable, plastic handle. Sharp as hell. I forgot I had it. How did I not cut myself?

Then I see the clumps of my hair stuck to the Prophet's hand: I cut him. Badly. This is very satisfying. I smile a little, looking away. Does he know he's bleeding?

"Where did you get that? Where, Whore?! Did he appear and give it to you? Is he here? Is he in this room? Tell me now!" The Prophet is standing so close to me, his weird little prick is almost brushing against my thigh. I'll bet I could cut it off if he angles a little to his left.

It hits me: he doesn't scare me any more. I made him bleed, not with a rabbit but with a blade in my own hand. This feels good. Maybe a little too good. I don't even care.

"Your name is Torvald Mayberry. You are probably wanted for sex crimes, and you are not a Prophet at all," I say, calm and confident. The Clean Zekes gasp.

I see him winding up to beat me, turning around calmly but I know what he'll do. And it's like the movies, or in a book when they say it seems to be in slow motion: as he comes around, his left hand raised to smack me down, I bring my right hand up in a fist, hoping to nick an artery, bracing my right arm near the wrist with my left hand and smack, schliick/crunch with a little spray of blood, the scalpel has gone straight through his left hand.

He stares at it, stupid and angry.

I say, "Torvald Mayberry, false Prophet, you have no power. You didn't know about the rabbit, you didn't know I had the scalpel. You are a sorry, weak man."

The Prophet screams, "No power?! No power?! See my power, Whore!"

He dashes to Edward's bed, shoving it away from the wall from the back, launching it into the left-hand wall. I am baffled, until the bed crashes through a set of french doors behind a curtain. I hadn't noticed that before. All I see in this room, all that really matters, is Tad. Stupid. I could have used those doors somehow.

Now the Prophet -- Torvald -- is pushing Tad's bed through shrubs and over a little grassy bit of landscaping, dragging the IV and some other equipment with them until tubes come out and the IV tears loose from Tad's arm and I hear a gasping, sucking noise and I'm running after them through the little birch trees outside and the Prophet is bellowing:

"Rachels and Ezekiels, the Reckoning is come to an end! Attend your Prophet and see! See the truth! See the Interloper come to meet his maker! See Satan's relish fall from his mouth like ashes of the burned vagina of the Whore of Babylon! Ebasagu, Ebasagu, ebanah-ebanah-ebanah-flerr-na-na-na-na-The Lord is Mighty!"

Rachels and Ezekiels appear from everywhere. This guy's voice can carry. They come running, but ... there are a lot fewer. In fact, most of the Rachels under Thirty seem to be gone. Even the little girls. I wonder if they all were shot, or fell down earlier. The Rachels and Ezekiels gather in a loose crowd in front of us. Weren't there thousands once? And now there are maybe two hundred. I don't see as many Bearded Ezekiels as I would like. I begin to worry about the younger girls.

Then I see Tad's arm bleeding heavily from where the needle was torn out and I can't look anywhere but there. Why didn't I castrate Torvald when I had the chance?

"I have discovered this Whore hiding among the healers! Spies! Spies and Interlopers in our midst! She -- this Interloper Whore -- she questions my power! She conspired with her DevilMan to create a double, to infiltrate us and steal our American way of life from us like the Unclean Mexican she is! Somewhere among you he may yet lurk! This man's twin in all things, even the broken leg! This man with stolen Godspeak come to deceive you with his dark magic! She questions my power because she thinks she can! Yet you all know I hold the power of Life and Death in my hands! See! Ezekiel, bring me the White Sheet! So saith the Prophet!"

"So saith the Lord," one or two people in the group respond automatically, their voices loud in the absence of support.

A Clean Zeke runs up with a white sheet, slightly stained with blood and other fluids. Torvald sniffs and licks at the other fluids, smiling, then winks broadly at his followers. It's chilling, like he's on stage or something.

"Behold! I place the sheet and he will die at my command! So saith the Prophet!"

"So saith the Lord," this from more of the faithful in the group, now sounding a little quiet.

The Prophet Torvald unfurls the sheet over Tad and it covers him perfectly, the stains on the right down near his legs. As the sheet is settling down, gentle and soft, Torvald turns and raises his hand toward the main house.

I see movement on the roof and there is the sniper: a Clean Zeke with his sights set on Tad. Or on me. All I want to do is get to Tad and stop the bleeding.

"Lo and behold, the Prophet did see that the man and woman were Of The Devil, and he did ask Almighty God for his thundrous hand to smite them down. And God did as the Prophet asked, so saith the Prophet?!"

"So saith your Mom!"

What? Tad?! Everyone is looking around to see where he is, to see where his double is hiding. The Prophet stumbles toward the group, peering at them, left hand clutching at the air, right hand fumbling at his junk.

Tad whisks the sheet down from his upper body, blood smearing all over it from the needle tear in his right arm. The faithful gasp as one, several of them cry out. Someone calls, "Tad!"

Oh. That was me.

The sheets are very bulky over his belly, has he gotten fatter?

"Hey there, fucko!" He calls to the Prophet, who whirls, stumbling back, shocked: his back to the bed, he hadn't seen Tad pull the sheet down. "Feeling rapey?" Big grin. I love my crazy man.

"Tell me now how you did it and I may allow your Whore to live! Tell me how you created your double!"

"Well, I can't exactly tell you that, Torvald Walter Mayberry. But I can show you, you false prophet and fucker of corpses! Would you like that, Mr. Twistydick?"

Someone laughs from within the faithful. I laugh, too. The Prophet whirls, signaling the sniper, pointing to Tad.

"Yes," the Prophet says. "Yes, do show us all, Foul Deceiver! Show us your Hellbane and Hemlock!" His arm is still in the air.

"No hellbane and hemlock here, Torvald. Just good, old-fashioned know-how," glancing at his heavily bleeding arm, he turns to Mother Henrietta and I. "Do I need a tourniquet for this?"

"Yes," we both answer at once.

"Done, ladies. Honey, I love you. Hold on to that amulet," and, kissing his hand with an Elizabethan flourish, he blows me a kiss and throws the bloody sheet back up over his head so it covers his whole body again. The ladies among the faithful sigh.

The Prophet, enraged, drops his hand.

A bullet slams into the sheet before it's fully settled, and I see Tad's belly convulse as he twists to the side.

God, no, please no.

I've shouted something, some wordless noise and I'm running toward the hospital bed when someone grabs my arm and I whirl around to kill whoever it is, but Mother Henrietta is hugging my arms to my side saying, "Look, look: shhh, look ... !"

Turning to look, I see the sheet has settled and the Prophet is staring at it, aghast.

Something is wrong.

There's the bullet hole, in the bloodstained part. There's Tad ...

Or, no ... wait, is he there? There's bulk, but no blood. Tad isn't moving.

But his belly is. Or seems to be.

The Prophet runs screaming, snarling to the bed and snatches back the sheet --

 -- to reveal Chauncey, sitting on pillows fluffed into a vague man shape, only they're raising like weight has been removed from them. Was it Chauncey I saw move when the shot was fired? It must have been!

"Aaauuyyuuughhhhh, no bunnies no bunnies no bunnies NO! BUNNIES!" The Prophet throws himself to the ground, convulsing.

"Bearded Ezekiels! Nurse Rachels! NOW!" Mother Henrietta cries.

From every corner Bearded Ezekiels appear or step forward, armed with guns or swords or daggers that all look very old. A battle begins, but it's clear that the Bearded E's are far more skilled than the Clean Zekes. Nurse Rachels, with syringes and scalpels and bone saws, are stepping neatly between combatants, injecting here or slicing there, creating bloodflow to blind or severing an Achilles tendon if they must. I am amazed at how precise they are. I forget about danger until I hear the gunshot and feel something zip past my cheek.

Then someone tackles me and shields me with their body, and they're whispering something and it's, "Thank you, thank you, thank you ..."

I turn to see that it's Young Nurse Rachel, almost unrecognizable for all the swelling and bruising of her face. She's smiling as best she can, tears streaming down her face.

Then I see the Prophet standing behind her, reaching for her hair, the bloodied scalpel pulled from the palm of his left hand, his eyes bright and a big rot-toothed grin lighting up his face. He looks like a moldy jack-o-lantern. I breathe in to warn her and suddenly she's whipping around onto her knees, slicing left, right, left again at his thighs and his --

... puh-thump, tump-tump ...

Wow. I've never seen cock and balls cut off before. Can't say I'll be eating calamari any time soon.

"Oh, ouchy. Ouchy, ouchy, oh my. Oooohhhh, ouchy ouchy that hurts me. It hurts me so, oh please. Please? Will someone please help me?" Torvald has fallen to his knees, clutching at his copiously bleeding junk region. I feel bad for him. Why do I feel so bad for him? I hate this fucker.

All I want to do is kick him in the face. I stand up.

Everything is quiet. The fighting has stopped.

Chauncey sits, perfectly composed, among the pillows of the hospital bed. He begins cleaning his left ear.

"I didn't mean to be bad, ouchy, oh, please help me, I didn't mean to. I couldn't help it, please? It ... hurts to move, oh Mommy please, Mama, Mama please ... I tried to be good, I did. But it was like there was someone inside me, and they wanted to see pain. And I didn't want to. Please? Somebody?"

I look around. People are on the ground, either moaning weakly or out cold. The only ones standing are about two hundred Bearded Ezekiels, maybe fifty Nurse Rachels, Mother Henrietta and myself. Young Nurse Rachel is still crouched with her blade pointed at Torvald Mayberry, false Prophet.

"You know what, Torvald?" I say. "You say you couldn't help it. Someone inside you wanted to inflict pain on the weak and helpless, and I know what you mean. I want, more than anything, to kick your teeth in right now, and to keep kicking until your face is a bloody pulp and you choke on your own blood. But I believe that we have a choice. We all have a choice, you sick fuck. No matter how tortured, angry or mentally unstable we are, there comes a moment when we can choose not to harm another human being. I believe that that is the better choice." I take a breath. "And, you know what? I don't give a fuck."

I spin and plant the heel of my shoe squarely in his teeth, savoring the way his head snaps back and the blood spurts from his broken nose and lips and he hits his head hard on a corner of the bed as he falls, and I'm watching as my shoes keep kicking him, kicking his face, his chest, his flabby belly, his torn bleeding crotch, kicking and kicking and kicking him, someone is screaming, I am, it's me screaming and people are trying to pull me off him but I've grabbed a handful of gravel and I'm shoving it into his mouth, I slap someone pulling my arm, forcing gravel past his broken teeth and his eyes are wide in terror and I realize I'm laughing at him, laughing and sobbing and screaming, "That's right, asshole! Take it! Take it! Take the holy Gravel! God made it, it's good for you! Eat it! EAT IT! EAT IT, YOU EVIL MOTHERFUCKER!"

Holding his mouth shut, I stand and deliver one final, vicious, stomping kick to his jaw, shattering it and all his teeth on the gravel I've stuffed into his mouth.

I am laughing uncontrollably. I turn.

Everyone is staring at me. I realize I've done something bad, but I can't stop laughing. And crying. I feel so light and free, so good, so powerful. And I know I just became a little like him, which for some reason makes me laugh harder. I look around. Where is Iron Rachel? Because now I'm pretty sure I could punch right through her twat and pull her shriveled old uterus out and shove it down her throat.

Man, my feet hurt. So do my hands.

I sit down on my knees, I'm on some grass now. How did I get here? I can't seem to get enough breath. I'm laughing and breathing and I can't get ahold of my lungs, I can't --

Someone steps up next to me, placing their fingers against my forehead and a little metal device that clicks and shocks the nerves in my face.

I can breathe. I take a good deep breath. I start to sob. I am cold, shaking so hard my eyes hurt. I lie down on my right side, I see my hands, how torn and bloody and bruised they are. I hurt so much.

I feel a jab in my left butt cheek, and pretty soon I feel good, kind of floaty.

I'm floaty and breathing. I miss Tad. That makes some tears flow, I can feel them running down my face. I'm not sobbing, but the tears are wetting my shirt. I want Tad and Max, but Chauncey is safe. Chauncey is safe and okay. I saw Young Nurse Rachel cradling him earlier, staring at me, eyes wide, mouth open.

Did I kill the Prophet? ... where did Tad go? ...

I don't know. I'm very ... floaty ... this is nice ... cozy ...

... someone is barking ...

... floaty ...

... barking ...