Post by Cow Guru (Admiral jimbob) on Sept 26, 2006 13:00:33 GMT -5
Wrote this a month or two back.
Part the First: Introductions
BOOM.
A common noise to hear when traversing the city streets. Unremarkable. Unmistakable. Unworthy of notice.
The sound was that of an exploding head.
Dave had grown up with the sound; it was a constant companion, a constant reminder to everyone in the world.
Death is near, it told them.
The explosion could come at any time, to any person. The reaper cared not for status, health, age or lifestyle. Whoever you were, wherever you went, your head could explode at any time, bringing with it that final, irrevocable state of being: death and nothingness.
Dave had often wondered if there were other ways to die. Some said that death was simply caused by extremely severe injury - however, Dave had fallen off the Chrystler Tower when he was five and broken every bone in his body apart from his left femur, leaving his brain a squidgy, oozing mess, and had left the hospital the next day. If it were possible to die in any other manner, surely that would have done the trick.
His reverie was broken by the explosion just down the street. He ducked as a gore-matted eyebrow flew past his head and hit the young black man behind him with a wet smack.
"What the hellz?" Exploded he, smacking Dave in the back of the head, apparently blaming him for the incident. Dave turned around painfully, giving the volatile one a baleful glare.
"Sorry, man, sorry." He said hurriedly, lifting his palms. Well, his palm. He used the other to wipe the eyebrow from his face.
Dave nodded to him and turned to continue on his way through the lethargic mobs.
"Wait!" Shouted the black man. "You look like a reasonable guy. Lemme ask you something."
"...Yes?" Dave asked warily.
"What... do you think... causes the exploding heads?"
Dave blinked. It was something nobody ever really questioned. It just... was. You can't argue with something that IS. And the exploding heads most definitely were.
"Er. Natural selection?" Dave guessed. He didn't actually understand the concept - in a world where death could come without warning at any time, few devoted what could be their last minutes to science or philosophy; those that did, ironically, tended to have their heads explode shortly thereafter.
But it sounded good.
"That's where you're WRONG, my friend!" Shouted the slightly crazed black man. "I KNOW the cause, and many others too have SEEN the LIGHT!"
"That's... great." Dave said, slightly alarmed, hoping that the madman's head would explode soon. He disliked insane people. They seemed to stay around so much longer than most, and he couldn't understand why.
"My name is Abraham. Abraham J. Bongosen." Explained the black man, annoyed that he was still being referred to as "The slightly crazed black man". "Come with me, son. Ain't you tired of living your life under Death's axe?"
"Actually, I think it's a scythe." Dave said meekly.
"What?"
"You know, Death's symbolic weapon. He's always been depicted as holding a scythe. 'Reaper of souls' and all that."
Abraham blinked slightly. He was clearly not used to being thrown off his stride.
"My POINT..." he said, "My POINT is that you don't need to be living under the symbolic death figure's symbolic weapon any longer. Just a few simple steps, and you can guarantee you'll never need-"
The explosion was deafening. Dave had been near those whose heads exploded before, but Abraham had pulled him closer until their faces were inches apart. He was thrown backwards, careering into the crowd, hands thrown up instinctively to protect his face. He watched, dazed, as the body slumped to the ground, seemingly unaffected by the small explosion.
"Easy there." Grunted a voice from behind him. Strong arms propped him up to prevent his fall, setting him back on his feet. Swaying slightly, Dave turned to watch the Mopmen arrive from down the street, where they had attended to the earlier explosion. Quickly and efficently, they mopped up the remains, mopping Dave's face as an afterthought.
"Here." One of them said. "He had that in his pocket... no use to us." He thrust a small white card into Dave's hand.
Church of the Big Black Man In The Sky
11 Maribone Drive
New Genabackis
Dave pondered this for a moment, then tucked the card into a pocket with a shrug. The explosion of Abraham's head suggested that this.... Church's.... philosophy was so much fishystick sauce, but he had nothing to do later that day. Might as well pop in, he thought, if only to see their faces as he denounced their church's reason for existing.
Part the Second: Sins of the Father
Note: The idea of synchronicity, and the examples given, are true. It's a concept that's fascinated me for a while.
-----
Dave sat in his car in front of a green screen, moving the steering wheel until the director thought enough time had passed. He then made his way to the Church set.
The Church, if that was what it was, loomed imperiously over the surrounding fast-food restaurants and Bail Bond stores. A dull grey smoke issued from the chimney atop its lower steeple, carrying with it the smell of burning oranges.
The purple bubbles taste funny, thought Dave, knocking on the purplish, squidgy door.
It swung open after a few seconds, revealing the imposing figure of the Church Elder.
"Yeeeees?" Rasped he.
"I was wondering... I spoke to one of your number earlier today, and he asked if I'd like to come along here...." Dave began, hesitating slightly.
"Ahhhhh, poor brother Abraham," the priest sobbed, great salty tears gushing from his eyes to spatter on the spongy tiles, which absorbed them with a "schloop". "Alas, poor Abraham, I knew him slightly. Oh, woe, a sad and bitter day."
Dave stared at the odd display. Struggling to find his voice, he continued; "But... doesn't this disprove your beliefs? That you can somehow avoid having your heads explode?"
The enormous priest dabbed at his eyes with a small, dainty cheesegrater. "You had better come inside."
The interior of the church was nothing like the exterior. The walls were covered in cheery, yet somehow threatening posters of a huge, leering black man. Dave walked down the aisle to the small, plain altar, his footsteps echoing from the cardboard walls of the set.
"Our church believe that the explosions are caused by the whim of a big black man in the sky," explained the priest. "We believe that whenever he thinks of a certain person, their head explodes. So we are devoted to stopping him from thinking about us."
"How do you do that?" Dave asked, stupefied.
The priest took a deep breath. "Synchronicity!" He boomed. Seeing Dave's blank expression, he continued;
"Plainly put, it is the experience of having two or more things happen coincidentally in a manner that is meaningful to the person or persons experiencing them, where that meaning suggests an underlying pattern. It differs from coincidence in that synchronicity implies not just a happenstance, but an underlying pattern or dynamic that is being expressed through meaningful relationships or events. It's a principle that our founder felt encompassed his concepts of archetypes and the collective unconscious, in that it was descriptive of a governing dynamic that underlay the whole of human experience and history—social, emotional, psychological, and spiritual. He believed that many experiences perceived as coincidence were due not merely to chance, but instead, suggested the manifestation of parallel events or circumstances reflecting this governing dynamic."
"Bullshit." Dave was quick to surmise.
"Not so, child," the priest said kindly.
"A well-known example of synchronicity is the true story of the French writer Émile Deschamps who in 1805 was treated to some plum pudding by the stranger Monsieur de Fontgibu. Ten years later, he encountered plum pudding on the menu of a Paris restaurant, and wanted to order some, but the waiter told him the last dish had already been served to another customer, who turned out to be M. de Fontgibu. Many years later in 1832 Émile Deschamps was at a diner, and was once again offered plum pudding. He recalled the earlier incident and told his friends that only M. de Fontgibu was missing to make the setting complete - and in the same instant the now senile M. de Fontgibu entered the room. During production on the 1939 film version of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, a coat purchased from a second-hand store for the costume of Professor Marvel later turned out to belong to L. Frank Baum; author of the original children's book on which the film is based. Also consider the idea of dragons, how they were portrayed in fairly similar ways by cultures then unknown to each other, and the idea of a God or higher being, and such things.
"We believe that if we AVOID AT ALL COSTS thinking about big black men in general, he will never think of us."
"Interesting," Dave murmured, deep in thought - but not thoughts about... him, "So you expect that Abraham simply slipped up and thought of the... guy?"
"We do," came the quiet reply.
The priest gave him some time to think, then asked; "So? Will you join our church?"
"....No," Dave replied, "I'm... not entirely sure about the idea, to be honest."
The priest's eyes grew cold, and he moved to block Dave's exit path.
"I must warn you: I cannot let you leave without joining, having described our philosophy to you. It might have... unfortunate reprecussions. Why, what if someone, somewhere, were in contact with such higher forces, and let them know of our scheme?"
"That's your problem," Dave said quickly, trying to move sideways to make a dash for the door.
The unnamed priest grabbed for him, catching him by an elbow.
"BROTHERS!" he cried, "ONE RESISTS! ONE RESISTS!"
"
you, father, for you have sinned," Dave grunted, driving his knee into the priest's crotch. As he collapsed in a heap, Dave leapt over a pew and made for the door. Two small, rather timid acolytes appeared from a side door, rushing towards him only to trip over their robes and each other.
"Oh.... grant me... strength... to catch this one...." gasped the priest, "oh big blac-"
The explosion served only to cover Dave's escape.
Panting, he came to rest in an alleyway a few blocks away. His adrenaline brought up by the brief chase, he touched himself inappropriately.
"Whatcha doin' there, kiddo? Need another hand?" Growled a deep voice a few feet to his left.
Heart hammering, he tucked himself back into his trousers, turning to see who the propositioner was. It turned out to be a hobo, one of medium height and intense smell, his filthy beard and filthier clothing crawling with small, sentient slices of salami.
"I... sorry, I was..." Dave stammered.
"Nothin' to apologize about," grinned the hobo, "we're just getting' started."
Backing away, Dave made a grab for some sort of blunt object with which to keep the hideous creature at bay. His hand came to rest on a bar stool left there by unimaginative set designers shortly before, which he immediately used to club the object of his consternation over the head.
"Woo!" gasped he, "ain't seen a stool like that since... gotta be twenty years! See, lookit the polishin'. See how it still stands out, even tho' was under all that mess? That's quality engineerin', that is. And the finely rounded lip of the seat, there, saves yeh a HELLUVA lot on butt-massagin' if yeh sits on it too long..."
Dave, seeing that the creature was utterly entranced by what appeared to be a perfectly ordinary, slightly grubby stool, quietly backed out of the alley.
On the way home, he happily rolled a huge, semi-dried bogey between his thumb and forefinger. Now completely dry, he rolled it into a ball, walked past a roadside cafe, and flicked it into a young lady's lemonade.
Part the Third: Conspiracies
BOOM.
Dave's wife's head exploded as she slept.
Dave was not asleep; the events of the day had kept him awake long into the night. As he tossed and turned, he came to a stop at the edge of the bed, so the explosion managed to throw him off. Groggily, he looked around, watching the last of the assorted head-bits floop to the ground. He groaned.
The Mopmen arrived minutes later. Without a word, they set about mopping up the remains, their leader glancing over at Dave, who had slightly teary eyes.
"No silly grief," intoned the Mopman, "just the finality of the mop."
"No silly grief," repeated the others, "just the finality of the mop."
"No silly grief," Dave whispered hoarsely, "just the finality of the mop."
He knew the penalty for grief. He knew how death had been handled for uncountable ages - a mop, a wash, and back to the daily routine. He struggled to maintain his composure.
What is happening to me?, he thought. He'd never felt grief before. His mother... his father.... his brother and sister.... through all their deaths, he had felt nothing, as it should be. Just as he had suddenly began to question the exploding heads, he was know feeling.... grief.
How did this happen? A more difficult question. The Church? Abraham? He doubted it. Perhaps just triggered by thinking too much about the exploding heads? Possibly.
The Mopmen filed out, carrying with them the remains. They would be taken to Africa and fed to the "starving" orphans, who had now been fed so many bodies that they were all hideously obese.
As the last one left, he turned quickly, furtively, and whispered; "the great whale knows nothing of the mighty depths.", then he, too, departed.
Pondering the meaning of this message, Dave slip into uneasy sleep.
The next day, he found himself again traipsing down Genabackis High Street. The milling, grey-faced masses dully shuffled their way to their various places of work.
Dave did not. He had something else in mind.
Turning at random to a crowd member, he grabbed a pale, withdrawn young woman by the arm. She turned, slowly, lethargically, to see what he wanted.
"Tell me," he asked, "are you happy with your life?"
"No." She replied, turning to continue on her way.
"And why would that be?" He asked, knowing perfectly well. Most people were like this - apathetic, withdrawn, uncaring. It hadn't always been like this.
"My head could explode. Any time, any place. How can I enjoy life, knowing that?" She tried to get away again, but he doubled his grip on her arm.
"Why not?" he asked, "it just adds some uncertainty to life! Some mystery! Ignore it, enjoy what time you have!" He did not entirely believe what he was saying, but one overriding impulse of the uncertain and troubled is to make others as uncertain and troubled as you are.
"No." she replied, "bugger off." Pulling herself violently out of his grip, she made her way off at speed.
Dave cursed. He was sure he had been getting somewhere.
Exhausted and irritated by several such failures, Dave dragged himself into the Majestic cinema. He paid little attention to what was on - it starred The Admiral, but most movies did these days. He made a mental note to get that guy's autograph next time he passed through.
The film ended, the Admiral triumphed again, and Dave left the cinema.
The stereo churned out the latest uninspired talk show. The dishwasher clunked, creaked and occasionally sung "The Final Countdown". The television was showing repeats of "The World's Funniest Exploding Head Incidents". The window cleaner exposed himself leeringly, hoping to get attention.
BOOM.
"Damn," Dave grunted, "guess I'll have to clean my own windows."
He set about doing this, then retired for the night.
Bing.
Bing.
Bing.
Blinking, he rolled over and stared at the computer screen.
The computer was unplugged, and the case LEDs were off. He wandered over and checked the back, just to make sure; as he expected, it was unplugged.
This was of little comfort, as the message on the monitor displayed no willingness to vanish.
Follow the white muffin., it read.
Wide awake now, he reached out tentatively and pressed the power button on the monitor. The message remained.
White muffin?, he thought, utterly bewildered. He made his way to the wall and turned on the light...
The creature filled the window, pressed against the glass, its hideous visage contorted further by the squashy-ness. Covered in deep cracks and fissures, its deep red eye sockets glowing with an otherworldly light, its cavernous mouth spread wide in a hideous grin. This thing was no more a muffin than this story is fine literature.
Despite his terror, Dave stood, frozen, staring into those terrible eyes. His mouth opened and a slight squeak issued from his throat. He felt the warm, oddly comforting wetness spread through his pants as his bowels let go.
DAVE CHEESE, roared the creature, its voice seeming to come from inside his head, COME WITH ME IF THOU WANT TO LIVE.
Mutely, his senses screaming to stop being a bloody fool and run away, Dave stepped forward, opening the window and clutching an outcrop of hardened muffin. The thing laughed, a sound which sent tendrils of horror deep into the base of his spine, setting off switches there since the dawn of man....
They took off across the rooftops. Dave held on tightly.
Soon, he felt the muffin come to a stop. Opening his eyes, refusing to let go, he glanced around at the surroundings.
They were in a warehouse of some sort, as generic as they come. Nondescript boxes lined nondescript shelves against nondescript walls and a nondescript ceiling.
"Damn, we have some unimaginative set designers." Dave murmured.
IF THOU PERSIST IN BREAKING THE FOURTH WALL, I SHALT BE FORCED TO CONSUME THEE WITH HASTE.
Dave cringed. "Why have you brought me here? What are you?" he asked.
I AM A MUFFIN, YEA AND VERILY TOO, it replied, choosing not to answer the first question.
"I see you refuse to answer the first question." Dave said.
I AM REFUSING TO ANSWER THY FIRST QUESTION.
Dave nodded, satisfied.
Part the Fourth: Capture
After some time, Dave's patience was rewarded.
From what appeared to be the entrance to the warehouse came three awkward-looking figures. One was tall and skinny, one was short and fat, the other was a labrador. The whole scene had an eerie, surreal quality, like when you're on vacation in another city and "Jeopardy" comes on at 7:00 p.m. instead of 7:30.
"Ah, mister Dave," the tall one said, clearing his throat, "I believe you have been looking into the Church of the Big Black Man in the Sky?"
"Yes..." Dave replied cautiously.
The short one grumbled, "Well? What have you discovered? We'd like to know about them, but they refuse to divulge their secrets to us. We are men of science, Mr Cheese, and believe there must be a scientific explanation for the exploding heads."
"Well," Dave began, "it appears they believe there's a big black guy in the sky who causes the exploding heads. Whenever someone thinks of him, or big black men in general, he thinks of them - due to synchronicity, apparently - and causes their head to explode. They're devoted to not thinking about him."
"That's **** stupid," the tall one complained, "why is it they've been hunting us down and kidnapping us?"
Dave blinked. "I... didn't hear anything like that."
The short one grunted. "Never mind. Fancy a muffin?"
Dave turned, startled, looking over at the now-immobile creature. "Ah... what's with..."
"Him?" asked the tall one, gently. "He's a golem."
Golems were often used in such positions as guarding facilities, taxi driving, plane piloting... anything where a human's exploding head could have very unfortunate repercussions. However, they were mostly humanoid, at least... vaguely.
"A muffin... golem?" Dave asked, slowly.
"Yes. Nobody wanted him, because he was muffin-shaped," the tall one said with a tear in his eye. "He was abandoned, left to fend for himself. We found him in the alley behind Tesco, using old, stale pastries to patch himself up."
A single tear seemed to form in the muffin's great, crusty eye.
IT WAS A SAD TIME FOR ALL INVOLVED. AFTER I RECOVERED, I DID RETURN TO THE FORGE AND CONSUME MY CALLOUS CREATORS FOR GREAT JUSTICE. "A happy ending, then." Dave said weakly.
QUITE.
They sat down to a frugal meal of cheese and ale. The tall one introduced himself as Steve, and the short one as Harold. The labrador was named Bob. They soon began to discuss the movie Dave had just been to see, as they quickly discovered that they couldn't find out anything from him about the exploding heads or the Church.
"Yeah," Dave said, chewing on some edam, "'m a big fan 'f th' Admiral. B'n wondering when he's going to come around here next."
"Ah," said Steve, "I have reason to believe he's passing through in a week or so."
Dave choked on his cheese, and Harold leaned over to pat him on the back.
"I'm a big fan, also," Steve was saying, "and I've managed to procure a meeting with him before his speech. He claims to have a few leads as to the cause of the exploding heads, and wishes to discuss them with a level-headed man of reason - which, I'm sure you agree, describes me far better than it does any of the priests."
Dave nodded his agreement. "Tell me," he asked, "what are you doing to research the causes of the exploding heads?"
The two scientists looked at each other, narrowed their eyes. Steve cleared away the food quickly, and got to his feet.
"Well, Dave," he sighed, "we've been examining the bodies of the deceased - greatly angering the Mopmen, I might add - but there's very little we can discover about heads from somone who, well, has no head..."
Harold circled round to behind Dave, who began edging towards the door.
"So, Dave, that's why we've brought you here..." Harold murmured, "we need to examine a live person's head. Believe me when I say that it will be fairly painless, though if we find the... switch, or whatever causes the explosion, we will set it off... sorry."
Harold lunged forwards with a small can, spraying something into Dave's eyes.
"Ye Gods!" he shouted, "toothpaste!"
Cursing, Harold fumbled in his pocket. Dave took the opportunity to run for the door, but was tripped up by Steve, who grabbed him as he fell and forced something into his neck. It hurt the way your tongue hurts after you accidentally staple it to the wall.....
Then several things happened at once.
BOOM.
Harold's head exploded, showering the two with assorted bits and bobs.
The muffin-golem's eyes lit up.
THOU SHALT NOT, it blazed. MUCH AS I OWE TO YOU, THOU SHALT CEASE THY BLASPHEMIES.
Steve crouched in a defensive pose, for what good it would do against the golem. "I just seek an explanation! A reason! Is that so blasphemous?"
IT IS.
"Against who?" he hissed. "The big black man in the sky? Ha!"
IT IS BLASPHEMY AGAINST BEING.
"**** Mopmen baked you, didn't they-" began Steve, before the golem rushed him, bowling him over. He disappeared underneath its bulk with an enraged "sqawk" noise.
Dave staggered to his feet, his head pounding with the fury of an elephant trying to squash a chihuahua. He weaved his way over to the prone, still form of Steve. He was out cold.
The golem deactivated with an audible sigh.
Shivering, he made his way out into the night.
He found himself in the middle of a run-down council estate. Everywhere he looked, shabbily-dressed lowlifes glared at him, shouted incoherent obscenities and waved broken furniture. And, at the mouth of one darkened alley, a freshly exploded corpse was being mopped up by a group of disgruntled Mopmen.
"Excuse me," he said to them, "can you tell me where I am?"
They glared at him.
"No silly grief..." one intoned.
"Oh, shut up, I just want to know where I am," Dave snapped.
"Carusthal district," came the monotone reply.
He walked off without a word of thanks. He felt it would be wasted on them.
He felt their cold eyes watch him go, which disturbed him. Usually, when one left the presence of Mopmen, you felt you were gone but unnoticed, like the period after the Dr. on a Dr Pepper can.
It was morning by the time he made it home. He didn't feel tired, despite not having slept. He decided to make his way to the nearby Civic Center, to see if he could find out more about the Admiral's coming visit.
"I'm sorry, sir, the Admiral's only going to be making a private conference this year," said the pneumatic receptionist with a false smile, revealing a row of gleaming white teeth.
"Well," he asked, "can you tell me-"
BOOM.
A few minutes later, the plastic, blood-soaked panel was mopped clean by a group of Mopmen, and another worker came out of a side door to take the unfortunate woman's place.
"Excuse me, can you tell me where the Admiral is having his conference this year?" Dave asked quickly.
"Yes, sir," replied the new receptionist, "it'll be 4:30pm the tuesday after next."
"John, you bastard, it's meant to be private," shouted a security officer.
Dave thanked him and left.
I'd better get to work, he thought.
Part the First: Introductions
BOOM.
A common noise to hear when traversing the city streets. Unremarkable. Unmistakable. Unworthy of notice.
The sound was that of an exploding head.
Dave had grown up with the sound; it was a constant companion, a constant reminder to everyone in the world.
Death is near, it told them.
The explosion could come at any time, to any person. The reaper cared not for status, health, age or lifestyle. Whoever you were, wherever you went, your head could explode at any time, bringing with it that final, irrevocable state of being: death and nothingness.
Dave had often wondered if there were other ways to die. Some said that death was simply caused by extremely severe injury - however, Dave had fallen off the Chrystler Tower when he was five and broken every bone in his body apart from his left femur, leaving his brain a squidgy, oozing mess, and had left the hospital the next day. If it were possible to die in any other manner, surely that would have done the trick.
His reverie was broken by the explosion just down the street. He ducked as a gore-matted eyebrow flew past his head and hit the young black man behind him with a wet smack.
"What the hellz?" Exploded he, smacking Dave in the back of the head, apparently blaming him for the incident. Dave turned around painfully, giving the volatile one a baleful glare.
"Sorry, man, sorry." He said hurriedly, lifting his palms. Well, his palm. He used the other to wipe the eyebrow from his face.
Dave nodded to him and turned to continue on his way through the lethargic mobs.
"Wait!" Shouted the black man. "You look like a reasonable guy. Lemme ask you something."
"...Yes?" Dave asked warily.
"What... do you think... causes the exploding heads?"
Dave blinked. It was something nobody ever really questioned. It just... was. You can't argue with something that IS. And the exploding heads most definitely were.
"Er. Natural selection?" Dave guessed. He didn't actually understand the concept - in a world where death could come without warning at any time, few devoted what could be their last minutes to science or philosophy; those that did, ironically, tended to have their heads explode shortly thereafter.
But it sounded good.
"That's where you're WRONG, my friend!" Shouted the slightly crazed black man. "I KNOW the cause, and many others too have SEEN the LIGHT!"
"That's... great." Dave said, slightly alarmed, hoping that the madman's head would explode soon. He disliked insane people. They seemed to stay around so much longer than most, and he couldn't understand why.
"My name is Abraham. Abraham J. Bongosen." Explained the black man, annoyed that he was still being referred to as "The slightly crazed black man". "Come with me, son. Ain't you tired of living your life under Death's axe?"
"Actually, I think it's a scythe." Dave said meekly.
"What?"
"You know, Death's symbolic weapon. He's always been depicted as holding a scythe. 'Reaper of souls' and all that."
Abraham blinked slightly. He was clearly not used to being thrown off his stride.
"My POINT..." he said, "My POINT is that you don't need to be living under the symbolic death figure's symbolic weapon any longer. Just a few simple steps, and you can guarantee you'll never need-"
The explosion was deafening. Dave had been near those whose heads exploded before, but Abraham had pulled him closer until their faces were inches apart. He was thrown backwards, careering into the crowd, hands thrown up instinctively to protect his face. He watched, dazed, as the body slumped to the ground, seemingly unaffected by the small explosion.
"Easy there." Grunted a voice from behind him. Strong arms propped him up to prevent his fall, setting him back on his feet. Swaying slightly, Dave turned to watch the Mopmen arrive from down the street, where they had attended to the earlier explosion. Quickly and efficently, they mopped up the remains, mopping Dave's face as an afterthought.
"Here." One of them said. "He had that in his pocket... no use to us." He thrust a small white card into Dave's hand.
Church of the Big Black Man In The Sky
11 Maribone Drive
New Genabackis
Dave pondered this for a moment, then tucked the card into a pocket with a shrug. The explosion of Abraham's head suggested that this.... Church's.... philosophy was so much fishystick sauce, but he had nothing to do later that day. Might as well pop in, he thought, if only to see their faces as he denounced their church's reason for existing.
Part the Second: Sins of the Father
Note: The idea of synchronicity, and the examples given, are true. It's a concept that's fascinated me for a while.
-----
Dave sat in his car in front of a green screen, moving the steering wheel until the director thought enough time had passed. He then made his way to the Church set.
The Church, if that was what it was, loomed imperiously over the surrounding fast-food restaurants and Bail Bond stores. A dull grey smoke issued from the chimney atop its lower steeple, carrying with it the smell of burning oranges.
The purple bubbles taste funny, thought Dave, knocking on the purplish, squidgy door.
It swung open after a few seconds, revealing the imposing figure of the Church Elder.
"Yeeeees?" Rasped he.
"I was wondering... I spoke to one of your number earlier today, and he asked if I'd like to come along here...." Dave began, hesitating slightly.
"Ahhhhh, poor brother Abraham," the priest sobbed, great salty tears gushing from his eyes to spatter on the spongy tiles, which absorbed them with a "schloop". "Alas, poor Abraham, I knew him slightly. Oh, woe, a sad and bitter day."
Dave stared at the odd display. Struggling to find his voice, he continued; "But... doesn't this disprove your beliefs? That you can somehow avoid having your heads explode?"
The enormous priest dabbed at his eyes with a small, dainty cheesegrater. "You had better come inside."
The interior of the church was nothing like the exterior. The walls were covered in cheery, yet somehow threatening posters of a huge, leering black man. Dave walked down the aisle to the small, plain altar, his footsteps echoing from the cardboard walls of the set.
"Our church believe that the explosions are caused by the whim of a big black man in the sky," explained the priest. "We believe that whenever he thinks of a certain person, their head explodes. So we are devoted to stopping him from thinking about us."
"How do you do that?" Dave asked, stupefied.
The priest took a deep breath. "Synchronicity!" He boomed. Seeing Dave's blank expression, he continued;
"Plainly put, it is the experience of having two or more things happen coincidentally in a manner that is meaningful to the person or persons experiencing them, where that meaning suggests an underlying pattern. It differs from coincidence in that synchronicity implies not just a happenstance, but an underlying pattern or dynamic that is being expressed through meaningful relationships or events. It's a principle that our founder felt encompassed his concepts of archetypes and the collective unconscious, in that it was descriptive of a governing dynamic that underlay the whole of human experience and history—social, emotional, psychological, and spiritual. He believed that many experiences perceived as coincidence were due not merely to chance, but instead, suggested the manifestation of parallel events or circumstances reflecting this governing dynamic."
"Bullshit." Dave was quick to surmise.
"Not so, child," the priest said kindly.
"A well-known example of synchronicity is the true story of the French writer Émile Deschamps who in 1805 was treated to some plum pudding by the stranger Monsieur de Fontgibu. Ten years later, he encountered plum pudding on the menu of a Paris restaurant, and wanted to order some, but the waiter told him the last dish had already been served to another customer, who turned out to be M. de Fontgibu. Many years later in 1832 Émile Deschamps was at a diner, and was once again offered plum pudding. He recalled the earlier incident and told his friends that only M. de Fontgibu was missing to make the setting complete - and in the same instant the now senile M. de Fontgibu entered the room. During production on the 1939 film version of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, a coat purchased from a second-hand store for the costume of Professor Marvel later turned out to belong to L. Frank Baum; author of the original children's book on which the film is based. Also consider the idea of dragons, how they were portrayed in fairly similar ways by cultures then unknown to each other, and the idea of a God or higher being, and such things.
"We believe that if we AVOID AT ALL COSTS thinking about big black men in general, he will never think of us."
"Interesting," Dave murmured, deep in thought - but not thoughts about... him, "So you expect that Abraham simply slipped up and thought of the... guy?"
"We do," came the quiet reply.
The priest gave him some time to think, then asked; "So? Will you join our church?"
"....No," Dave replied, "I'm... not entirely sure about the idea, to be honest."
The priest's eyes grew cold, and he moved to block Dave's exit path.
"I must warn you: I cannot let you leave without joining, having described our philosophy to you. It might have... unfortunate reprecussions. Why, what if someone, somewhere, were in contact with such higher forces, and let them know of our scheme?"
"That's your problem," Dave said quickly, trying to move sideways to make a dash for the door.
The unnamed priest grabbed for him, catching him by an elbow.
"BROTHERS!" he cried, "ONE RESISTS! ONE RESISTS!"
"
you, father, for you have sinned," Dave grunted, driving his knee into the priest's crotch. As he collapsed in a heap, Dave leapt over a pew and made for the door. Two small, rather timid acolytes appeared from a side door, rushing towards him only to trip over their robes and each other. "Oh.... grant me... strength... to catch this one...." gasped the priest, "oh big blac-"
The explosion served only to cover Dave's escape.
Panting, he came to rest in an alleyway a few blocks away. His adrenaline brought up by the brief chase, he touched himself inappropriately.
"Whatcha doin' there, kiddo? Need another hand?" Growled a deep voice a few feet to his left.
Heart hammering, he tucked himself back into his trousers, turning to see who the propositioner was. It turned out to be a hobo, one of medium height and intense smell, his filthy beard and filthier clothing crawling with small, sentient slices of salami.
"I... sorry, I was..." Dave stammered.
"Nothin' to apologize about," grinned the hobo, "we're just getting' started."
Backing away, Dave made a grab for some sort of blunt object with which to keep the hideous creature at bay. His hand came to rest on a bar stool left there by unimaginative set designers shortly before, which he immediately used to club the object of his consternation over the head.
"Woo!" gasped he, "ain't seen a stool like that since... gotta be twenty years! See, lookit the polishin'. See how it still stands out, even tho' was under all that mess? That's quality engineerin', that is. And the finely rounded lip of the seat, there, saves yeh a HELLUVA lot on butt-massagin' if yeh sits on it too long..."
Dave, seeing that the creature was utterly entranced by what appeared to be a perfectly ordinary, slightly grubby stool, quietly backed out of the alley.
On the way home, he happily rolled a huge, semi-dried bogey between his thumb and forefinger. Now completely dry, he rolled it into a ball, walked past a roadside cafe, and flicked it into a young lady's lemonade.
Part the Third: Conspiracies
BOOM.
Dave's wife's head exploded as she slept.
Dave was not asleep; the events of the day had kept him awake long into the night. As he tossed and turned, he came to a stop at the edge of the bed, so the explosion managed to throw him off. Groggily, he looked around, watching the last of the assorted head-bits floop to the ground. He groaned.
The Mopmen arrived minutes later. Without a word, they set about mopping up the remains, their leader glancing over at Dave, who had slightly teary eyes.
"No silly grief," intoned the Mopman, "just the finality of the mop."
"No silly grief," repeated the others, "just the finality of the mop."
"No silly grief," Dave whispered hoarsely, "just the finality of the mop."
He knew the penalty for grief. He knew how death had been handled for uncountable ages - a mop, a wash, and back to the daily routine. He struggled to maintain his composure.
What is happening to me?, he thought. He'd never felt grief before. His mother... his father.... his brother and sister.... through all their deaths, he had felt nothing, as it should be. Just as he had suddenly began to question the exploding heads, he was know feeling.... grief.
How did this happen? A more difficult question. The Church? Abraham? He doubted it. Perhaps just triggered by thinking too much about the exploding heads? Possibly.
The Mopmen filed out, carrying with them the remains. They would be taken to Africa and fed to the "starving" orphans, who had now been fed so many bodies that they were all hideously obese.
As the last one left, he turned quickly, furtively, and whispered; "the great whale knows nothing of the mighty depths.", then he, too, departed.
Pondering the meaning of this message, Dave slip into uneasy sleep.
The next day, he found himself again traipsing down Genabackis High Street. The milling, grey-faced masses dully shuffled their way to their various places of work.
Dave did not. He had something else in mind.
Turning at random to a crowd member, he grabbed a pale, withdrawn young woman by the arm. She turned, slowly, lethargically, to see what he wanted.
"Tell me," he asked, "are you happy with your life?"
"No." She replied, turning to continue on her way.
"And why would that be?" He asked, knowing perfectly well. Most people were like this - apathetic, withdrawn, uncaring. It hadn't always been like this.
"My head could explode. Any time, any place. How can I enjoy life, knowing that?" She tried to get away again, but he doubled his grip on her arm.
"Why not?" he asked, "it just adds some uncertainty to life! Some mystery! Ignore it, enjoy what time you have!" He did not entirely believe what he was saying, but one overriding impulse of the uncertain and troubled is to make others as uncertain and troubled as you are.
"No." she replied, "bugger off." Pulling herself violently out of his grip, she made her way off at speed.
Dave cursed. He was sure he had been getting somewhere.
Exhausted and irritated by several such failures, Dave dragged himself into the Majestic cinema. He paid little attention to what was on - it starred The Admiral, but most movies did these days. He made a mental note to get that guy's autograph next time he passed through.
The film ended, the Admiral triumphed again, and Dave left the cinema.
The stereo churned out the latest uninspired talk show. The dishwasher clunked, creaked and occasionally sung "The Final Countdown". The television was showing repeats of "The World's Funniest Exploding Head Incidents". The window cleaner exposed himself leeringly, hoping to get attention.
BOOM.
"Damn," Dave grunted, "guess I'll have to clean my own windows."
He set about doing this, then retired for the night.
Bing.
Bing.
Bing.
Blinking, he rolled over and stared at the computer screen.
The computer was unplugged, and the case LEDs were off. He wandered over and checked the back, just to make sure; as he expected, it was unplugged.
This was of little comfort, as the message on the monitor displayed no willingness to vanish.
Follow the white muffin., it read.
Wide awake now, he reached out tentatively and pressed the power button on the monitor. The message remained.
White muffin?, he thought, utterly bewildered. He made his way to the wall and turned on the light...
The creature filled the window, pressed against the glass, its hideous visage contorted further by the squashy-ness. Covered in deep cracks and fissures, its deep red eye sockets glowing with an otherworldly light, its cavernous mouth spread wide in a hideous grin. This thing was no more a muffin than this story is fine literature.
Despite his terror, Dave stood, frozen, staring into those terrible eyes. His mouth opened and a slight squeak issued from his throat. He felt the warm, oddly comforting wetness spread through his pants as his bowels let go.
DAVE CHEESE, roared the creature, its voice seeming to come from inside his head, COME WITH ME IF THOU WANT TO LIVE.
Mutely, his senses screaming to stop being a bloody fool and run away, Dave stepped forward, opening the window and clutching an outcrop of hardened muffin. The thing laughed, a sound which sent tendrils of horror deep into the base of his spine, setting off switches there since the dawn of man....
They took off across the rooftops. Dave held on tightly.
Soon, he felt the muffin come to a stop. Opening his eyes, refusing to let go, he glanced around at the surroundings.
They were in a warehouse of some sort, as generic as they come. Nondescript boxes lined nondescript shelves against nondescript walls and a nondescript ceiling.
"Damn, we have some unimaginative set designers." Dave murmured.
IF THOU PERSIST IN BREAKING THE FOURTH WALL, I SHALT BE FORCED TO CONSUME THEE WITH HASTE.
Dave cringed. "Why have you brought me here? What are you?" he asked.
I AM A MUFFIN, YEA AND VERILY TOO, it replied, choosing not to answer the first question.
"I see you refuse to answer the first question." Dave said.
I AM REFUSING TO ANSWER THY FIRST QUESTION.
Dave nodded, satisfied.
Part the Fourth: Capture
After some time, Dave's patience was rewarded.
From what appeared to be the entrance to the warehouse came three awkward-looking figures. One was tall and skinny, one was short and fat, the other was a labrador. The whole scene had an eerie, surreal quality, like when you're on vacation in another city and "Jeopardy" comes on at 7:00 p.m. instead of 7:30.
"Ah, mister Dave," the tall one said, clearing his throat, "I believe you have been looking into the Church of the Big Black Man in the Sky?"
"Yes..." Dave replied cautiously.
The short one grumbled, "Well? What have you discovered? We'd like to know about them, but they refuse to divulge their secrets to us. We are men of science, Mr Cheese, and believe there must be a scientific explanation for the exploding heads."
"Well," Dave began, "it appears they believe there's a big black guy in the sky who causes the exploding heads. Whenever someone thinks of him, or big black men in general, he thinks of them - due to synchronicity, apparently - and causes their head to explode. They're devoted to not thinking about him."
"That's **** stupid," the tall one complained, "why is it they've been hunting us down and kidnapping us?"
Dave blinked. "I... didn't hear anything like that."
The short one grunted. "Never mind. Fancy a muffin?"
Dave turned, startled, looking over at the now-immobile creature. "Ah... what's with..."
"Him?" asked the tall one, gently. "He's a golem."
Golems were often used in such positions as guarding facilities, taxi driving, plane piloting... anything where a human's exploding head could have very unfortunate repercussions. However, they were mostly humanoid, at least... vaguely.
"A muffin... golem?" Dave asked, slowly.
"Yes. Nobody wanted him, because he was muffin-shaped," the tall one said with a tear in his eye. "He was abandoned, left to fend for himself. We found him in the alley behind Tesco, using old, stale pastries to patch himself up."
A single tear seemed to form in the muffin's great, crusty eye.
IT WAS A SAD TIME FOR ALL INVOLVED. AFTER I RECOVERED, I DID RETURN TO THE FORGE AND CONSUME MY CALLOUS CREATORS FOR GREAT JUSTICE. "A happy ending, then." Dave said weakly.
QUITE.
They sat down to a frugal meal of cheese and ale. The tall one introduced himself as Steve, and the short one as Harold. The labrador was named Bob. They soon began to discuss the movie Dave had just been to see, as they quickly discovered that they couldn't find out anything from him about the exploding heads or the Church.
"Yeah," Dave said, chewing on some edam, "'m a big fan 'f th' Admiral. B'n wondering when he's going to come around here next."
"Ah," said Steve, "I have reason to believe he's passing through in a week or so."
Dave choked on his cheese, and Harold leaned over to pat him on the back.
"I'm a big fan, also," Steve was saying, "and I've managed to procure a meeting with him before his speech. He claims to have a few leads as to the cause of the exploding heads, and wishes to discuss them with a level-headed man of reason - which, I'm sure you agree, describes me far better than it does any of the priests."
Dave nodded his agreement. "Tell me," he asked, "what are you doing to research the causes of the exploding heads?"
The two scientists looked at each other, narrowed their eyes. Steve cleared away the food quickly, and got to his feet.
"Well, Dave," he sighed, "we've been examining the bodies of the deceased - greatly angering the Mopmen, I might add - but there's very little we can discover about heads from somone who, well, has no head..."
Harold circled round to behind Dave, who began edging towards the door.
"So, Dave, that's why we've brought you here..." Harold murmured, "we need to examine a live person's head. Believe me when I say that it will be fairly painless, though if we find the... switch, or whatever causes the explosion, we will set it off... sorry."
Harold lunged forwards with a small can, spraying something into Dave's eyes.
"Ye Gods!" he shouted, "toothpaste!"
Cursing, Harold fumbled in his pocket. Dave took the opportunity to run for the door, but was tripped up by Steve, who grabbed him as he fell and forced something into his neck. It hurt the way your tongue hurts after you accidentally staple it to the wall.....
Then several things happened at once.
BOOM.
Harold's head exploded, showering the two with assorted bits and bobs.
The muffin-golem's eyes lit up.
THOU SHALT NOT, it blazed. MUCH AS I OWE TO YOU, THOU SHALT CEASE THY BLASPHEMIES.
Steve crouched in a defensive pose, for what good it would do against the golem. "I just seek an explanation! A reason! Is that so blasphemous?"
IT IS.
"Against who?" he hissed. "The big black man in the sky? Ha!"
IT IS BLASPHEMY AGAINST BEING.
"**** Mopmen baked you, didn't they-" began Steve, before the golem rushed him, bowling him over. He disappeared underneath its bulk with an enraged "sqawk" noise.
Dave staggered to his feet, his head pounding with the fury of an elephant trying to squash a chihuahua. He weaved his way over to the prone, still form of Steve. He was out cold.
The golem deactivated with an audible sigh.
Shivering, he made his way out into the night.
He found himself in the middle of a run-down council estate. Everywhere he looked, shabbily-dressed lowlifes glared at him, shouted incoherent obscenities and waved broken furniture. And, at the mouth of one darkened alley, a freshly exploded corpse was being mopped up by a group of disgruntled Mopmen.
"Excuse me," he said to them, "can you tell me where I am?"
They glared at him.
"No silly grief..." one intoned.
"Oh, shut up, I just want to know where I am," Dave snapped.
"Carusthal district," came the monotone reply.
He walked off without a word of thanks. He felt it would be wasted on them.
He felt their cold eyes watch him go, which disturbed him. Usually, when one left the presence of Mopmen, you felt you were gone but unnoticed, like the period after the Dr. on a Dr Pepper can.
It was morning by the time he made it home. He didn't feel tired, despite not having slept. He decided to make his way to the nearby Civic Center, to see if he could find out more about the Admiral's coming visit.
"I'm sorry, sir, the Admiral's only going to be making a private conference this year," said the pneumatic receptionist with a false smile, revealing a row of gleaming white teeth.
"Well," he asked, "can you tell me-"
BOOM.
A few minutes later, the plastic, blood-soaked panel was mopped clean by a group of Mopmen, and another worker came out of a side door to take the unfortunate woman's place.
"Excuse me, can you tell me where the Admiral is having his conference this year?" Dave asked quickly.
"Yes, sir," replied the new receptionist, "it'll be 4:30pm the tuesday after next."
"John, you bastard, it's meant to be private," shouted a security officer.
Dave thanked him and left.
I'd better get to work, he thought.
."
