Two Old Men And A Bottle Full of Rain

Two Old Men And A Bottle Full Of Rain
by
Al Bruno III

April 12, 1985

It was raining. Despite the weather reports to the contrary it had begun to rain just after midnight. Just like the intruder had promised.

But that intruder had known more than he was telling, he was all shifty glances and smug remarks. Reginald might have confronted him if not for the blank faced man the intruder kept for a bodyguard. What little Reginald knew of killing told him there was murder in that man's eyes. They had shown up for his father's funeral without an invitation, 'to pay their respects'. No one knew who they were and when asked the intruder had introduced himself as Phil and told them he had served with Reginald's father during the war.

Which of course was patently ridiculous because Reginald knew his father and the old man had never been inducted into the armed forces and he had certainly never enlisted. That kind of thing had never been Kerwin Hayter's style at all.

Soaked through to the skin and shivering, Reginald pulled his coat in tight around himself and tried to look like someone waiting for a bus. When all the traffic had passed and he was alone on the street he hopped the cemetery fence. He made his way through the maze of headstones to his father's grave.

All during the wake, while Reginald was trying hard to balance being a good host with being a good son, Phil had been pulling him aside and asking inappropriate questions.

It was very sudden wasn't it?

Bet the old man took you under his wing didn't he?

Have the police ruled out foul play?

Did he leave you everything?

Even the good stuff?

Even his war mementos?

That of course was when Reginald realized who the intruder and his stone-faced thug were. They were Pharos Agents. His father had worked for the Pharos project for the better part of a the Sixties; according to the records he had been a consultant for the National Security Agency but in reality he had been part of a nebulous special project that seemed to answer to no one.

The grave of Kerwin Hayter was just up ahead, Reginald could see a shadowy figure crouched before it, kneeling in the freshly turned earth. Reginald swept his wet hair from his eyes. This was worse than Reginald imagined, one of his father's old friends showing up now. Was he after the infamous Hayter secrets? The devices that could never be patented?

Reginald knew from his father's journals that he had left the Pharos Project in nineteen sixty-seven, angered at the organization's insular attitudes and the lack of a clear goals. Too many fact-finding missions had ended up being battles for survival, too many outright raids left them empty handed. Of course as long as the Pharos Project was willing to fund Kerwin Hayter's research into psychotronics he was willing to put up with the organizations failings.

Once they budget cuts began however his father quit, he took his research with him- and as much equipment and untraceable cash as he thought he could get away with.

The heavy downpour made it hard to make out exactly what the figure at his father's grave was saying. It sounded to Reginald like chanting, some of the words sounded like Latin.

Great. He grumbled mentally.

Reginald had come of age in the Seventies and soon found himself acting as his father's errand boy. When your father is privately researching the field of psychotronics, your errands inevitably ended up being more than trips to the hardware store. Over the next fourteen years Reginald became well aquatinted with bribery and theft, he learned to move in that shadowy, pseudo-mystical underground the rest of the world tired not to notice. What ever his father needed, he procured- when a rival appeared he was eliminated. He did whatever Kerwin Hayter asked of him.

The weight of the gun in his jacket pocket was reassuring, the handle was taped, the serial number was filed off. Pharos Agent or not 'Phil' wasn't going to get in the way now.

Not when Reginald had finally figured out where his father had been hiding all that money for all these years.

Leaning against a headstone he drew the gun and took careful aim. No one would hear, not out here in the middle of the city's largest cemetery. One shot. Reginald thought. One shot and I've gotten away with it.

By the time Reginald sensed the presence behind him it was too late.

One cold hand had him by the back of the neck, lifting him off his feet. The other hand grabbed his gun hand and snapped it at the wrist with a simple twist.

Screaming and kicking, his vision blurred with raindrops and agony Reginald Hayter was dragged to his father's gravesite. Phil was crouched there, an old winebottle half-buried in the dirt before him.

The thug dropped him, Reginald landed on his wrist and sobbed with agony. "It's not Victor." The thug's voice was deep and ragged from disuse.

Phil laughed, "Fuck John. You think I don't know that? All this little pissant is- is too ambitious."

"Then why are we here?"

"Because we had to be sure and besides, I think I owe poor old Kerwin this."

Reginald raised himself to his knees, "Look, if its about the money, I'll split it with you two- no three ways."

Phil smirked, "Kid, we're rich. If you're going to beg for your life at least show a little creativity."

John growled, "I'm not going to stand here and watch while you torment this moron."

This isn't happening. Reginald told himself, This isn't happening. Why hadn't he just gotten on the plane tonight like he'd planned to? Why had he left himself be lead into a trap?

"This is happening." Phil smiled as he drew the pistol from his jacket pocket, "And it was easy to get you here. All I had to do was hint that I knew something about treasures left over from your Dad's shady past."

John shrugged, "I think it was the rain that clinched it."

Phil rolled his eyes, "The rain always clinches it."

Reginald couldn't believe his ears, these were madmen, "You think...you think you made it rain?"

"I know I made it rain." Phil said as he made his prisoner sit on the freshly turned earth of the gravesite, his feet on either side of the slowly filling winebottle, "Not a cloud in the sky. The weathermen predicted sunny days all weekend and then all of a sudden out of the blue- I'm singing in the rain, just sing-"

"No..." John growled, "...singing."


"Just let me go and I'll give you whatever you want." Reginald said. His father's tombstone was cold against his back, water soaked through his pants, mud clung to the fabric.

"Can we please get this over with?"

Phil's expression went from gloating to glaring, "John could you please let me enjoy this moment here? If not for me then for poor old Kerwin."

"You hated Kerwin."

"No I didn't."

"You used to call him 'fuck-face' behind his back."

"You should hear what I call you."

"I do hear Phil. I do." John said with a wave of his arm. Glowering he retreated into the shadows.

"You'll have to pardon John." Phil crouched down so he could look Reginald in the eye, "He's not the man he used to be."

Reginald stared sullenly at the pistol in Phil's hand, he wondered if he could wrestle it from his grip. He figured he might be able to risk it, the guy looked to be pushing seventy. He could still get out of this, he still had the money. All he had to do was grab that bottle and use it as a weapon.

"I'm still old enough to kick your ass you little pissant!" His captor moved with sudden savagery, smashing he nozzle of the pistol into the side of Reginald's face. He yelped and fell to one side, pain-blinded and bloodied in the chilly rain. "Oh my God. Don't tell me you're crying now? You kill your old man and now you're crying?"

"He deserved it!" Reginald sobbed gently into the muddy earth. "He made us live like we were nobodies when he had all that money!"

"How did you find out?"

"Why do you care?"

"Look I need to know this and if you tell me what I want to know and give me what I want I'll let you live. That's more than a father killer like you deserves anyway."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

"He was sick. I was going bankrupt trying to pay his medical bills and take care of myself at the same time. The day after the bank told me they were going to take the car he told me. He had these briefcases full of cash stored in the crawlspace. They'd been there for years. We were millionaires and he'd never told me."

"Those were ill-gotten gains, he was trying to keep a low profile. Did you expect a fugitive living under an assumed name to live in a fucking mansion?" Phil straightened up to shout, "Hey John! All this bullshit because his Daddy didn't buy him a new bicycle for his birthday!"

An irritated voice called from the shadows "I'm going to the car."

"...my father has an assumed name?"

"Yeah. Your last name is really Bell. How about that?" Phil rested the end of the revolver against Reginald's bloody temple. "Now one last thing and we can all get out of the rain."

"Please..."

"Where did you hide the money?"

Some part of Reginald wanted to rear up, wanted to fight for what was his, but he had been a coward for too long. He had killed his father by poisoning because he couldn't bear to look him in the eye.

"Poison eh?" Phil hissed, "Not a very manly way to commit murder."

"If you can read my mind then why do you need me to tell you where the money is?"

"It's just a matter of difficulty. It's like the difference between shooting someone from a distance or from right up close." Phil jabbed him with the end of the revolver for emphasis. "Now the money… where can we find it?"

"Half." Reginald pleaded, "Leave me half. Please. You said you were rich."

"You can never be too rich or too thin. Besides it was our money to start with. Your Dad stole it from us."

"I thought-"

"Look unless you want your brains smeared across this nice new headstone you better tell me where the money is."

"In the trunk of my car."

"All of it?"

"All of it."

"There was that so hard?"

Reginald sniffled rainwater, "Can I go now?"

"Well I'm afraid I can't let you go. See the problem is that our little encounter tonight might raise questions among certain concerned individuals."

"I don't know anything."

"You know enough. See I need these people to think me and old John are dead. If you walk out of here and start talking…"

"I won't say anything! I swear!"

"Am I supposed to take the word of some little rat that poisoned his father?"

"You promised. "You promised you wouldn't hurt me!"

"So I did…"

The next words that came from Phil's mouth were harsh and strange sounding, they were from no language Reginald could recognize. Was he in the clutches of a madman? What kind of people had his father stolen that money from?

Everything seemed to pitch and heave around Reginald. He felt like he was loosing his balance but how could he be loosing his balance when he was lying flat on his back on the rain-soaked earth? Phil stood over him as he chanted in a long lost tongue, Reginald felt something hard and cold pressing against his cheek. Mewling, he closed his eyes.

Then opened them again.

The old man wasn't holding the gun anymore he was holding the bottle full. It was just glass that Reginald felt pressing against him, not gun metal. The rainwater spilled out over his face, flooding his nostrils, leaving him coughing.

What is he doing? Reginald wondered. Is he crazy?

The strange vertigo that gripped him grew worse, leaving him unable to stand, unable to speak. With every syllable Phil spoke the lethargy and light-headedness only grew worse. Reginald felt weightless and storm-tossed, like a leaf caught in the wind.

Water splashed in his eyes and mouth, the bottle seemed to have an endless supply of water. Reginald stared into the mouth of the old winebottle, it filled his vision with darkness and drew him deep inside.

Reginald felt his body draw its last breath, watrched it slump forward onto the muddy Earth. He watched every moment of it from within a prison of tinted glass.

When the cork slid into place he felt himself start to go mad.

In The Twilight: AMERICAN MONSTER

IN THIS TWILIGHT

American Monster

by

Al Bruno III

When they hoisted me up from the bottom of the well, I almost found myself mourning the silence and the darkness. The wooden cross I had been lashed to had long since rotted away but the weighted chains were still about my limbs. They rattled as my long dormant limbs shuddered and flexed; with each blink of my eyes my vision returned and became more precise.

There were four people in the basement of the abandoned Georgetown manor. The two closest to me were a tall woman and a little man. They wore pale blue hospital gowns, caps and surgical masks that puffed in and out with every word or breath. Rubber gloves covered their hands and thick, brown-stained aprons with pockets that hung heavy with the tools of their trade. They looked me over with clinical fascination and spoke as though I was some kind of long lost heirloom.

Which I suppose I am.

The two men near the door were tall, detached and statue still, they both had handguns hidden beneath their black suits. I recognized them as Agents of the Pharos project immediately but all that meant was that they were just new breeds of a very old kind of dog.

They always think I am helpless.

I let them examine me for a time, poking and prodding but all the while I could feel the trembling in my limbs weakening. An hour into the assessment put them to the test.

Rust and time had left my bonds weakened, with a single motion I pulled my right arm free. Links of rusted steel scattered everywhere, clattering on the floor and bouncing off the walls. The woman shouted, her surgical mask puffing out comically. My hands tore into the soft flesh of the little man's throat. Robbed of his voice he could only beg for mercy with his eyes.

And how he begged!

I tightened my grip feeling the blood well up around my fingertips. With a final pull the cartilage snapped and came away. I let the man’s body fall to the cellar floor, all the while leering at the woman.

The two Pharos Agents drew their weapons and fired. The woman was caught in the crossfire; bullets tore through her flesh to bury themselves in mine.

So many years, so many bullets.

Pulling free of the last of the chains I raised myself up to my full height. One of them bellowed for me to surrender. I made swift work of them, bending their bodies and twisting their limbs. I let one of them twitch for a while as I tried to assess what fresh surprises this new administration might have in store for me.

Then I made my way to the top of the stairs. The door was locked but it tore off the hinges easily enough.

A figure greeted me at the top of the landing; a tall, slump shouldered figure, with thick mismatched arms and undersized legs.

The head atop those massive shoulders was dracocephalic; with small close-set eyes, a nose broken beyond all hope of healing and a cruel line of a mouth. Everywhere there were scars, making the brutish figure seem as tattered and threadbare as the clothes it wore. Miss-set bones jutted at odd angles; thick, rope like veins bulged against yellowed skin.

Bringing both fists down I smashed the full length mirror; the monstrous image fragmented and collapsed in on itself. Broken glass cracked under my bare feet as I moved through interior of the empty house. I could still remember the expensive furniture that had once crowded every room and the elegant oil paintings that hung on every wall. Now was only dust. I felt myself begin to laugh.

Once a great and learned man lived here, a noted historian and a mediocre mystic; he had believed he could make a civilized being of me, that he could make me manageable with his soothing words and opiates. I toyed with him for months, aping the results he wanted, telling him just what he expected to hear. Then one day he came home to find I had escaped my bonds, dismembered his sons, smashed his wife's skull to fragments and raped his daughter.

How she squirmed beneath me as I whispered to her the secrets only I knew. The knowledge drove her mad…

The expression on his face however was mine and mine alone and I still treasured it. I like to think he might have tried to kill me had there not been Agents of the Pharos project there with him that day. No agent of any administration would ever allow me to come to harm; I can never truly be punished, merely imprisoned until I am needed again.

And I will always be needed, that is my power.

Laughter echoing off the bare walls I headed out into the dusk, keeping out of sight as best I could. The air was warm but heavy with the odor of chemicals. Cars moved in an orderly procession down the streets, lampposts flickered to life, and citizens walked to and fro, enjoying the summer weather. I marveled at how much Sussex County could change in less than a decade, at how much one nation could change.

My mouth watered at the thought of what other wonders might be waiting for me but I knew I had to move carefully. By now my captors would be aware I had escaped once more and they would be desperate in their panic.

They have to be subtle, afraid to let anyone know there are still giants in the Earth.

Concealing myself until I had the full cover of night I spent an hour searching until I found a man with proportions near to mine. He was jogging, his respiration steady his expression vacant. I dragged him off the street and killed him bloodlessly.

It felt good to have clean clothes against my skin, especially clothes that stretched so easily to accommodate my frame. I found my way to the railroad tracks and followed them south.

Hours and miles passed with ease but I knew that soon the constellation of Lyra would be in ascendance and I would be helpless. I needed security, and I needed nourishment. Opportunity presented itself in the form of a house just off the main road. I kicked in the front door, surprising the family gathered around the television set.

I am always hungry, even now.

The patriarch of the family challenged me. I struck him and felt his ribs splinter. Blood spilled from his mouth, staining my new clothes. His wife and four children screamed as one. I subdued them easily, crippling them but making sure they stayed alive.

I ate the patriarch, starting with the soft entrails and working my way to the marrow. His wife and children begged and pleaded but their cries only sweetened the meal. It had been too long since I had last eaten but it had been well worth the wait; this new generation of citizens had been raised like veal, protected and sheltered.

Even raw, the meat falls right off the bones.

With that sanguine desire sated I demonstrated my gratitude by teaching the woman the secret of how to foretell the future from spilled entrails.

By her third child she found the trick of it.

Clad in an ill-fitting suit and heavy jacket I left the house behind. I followed the tracks again until I found a train yard. I didn’t see any guards or fences so I climbed into the first abandoned cattle car I could find.

Even with the shadows drawn in close I couldn’t fully relax, a fluttering nameless suspicion nagged at me. I picked idly at the fresh bullet wounds while waiting for the stars to be right. Having tried to ascertain my future, I naturally found my thoughts returning to my past.

My life began under the stars, in 1784 in an open air laboratory designed and built by Thomas Jefferson. He was working from Ben Franklin's notes and those notes in turn were stolen from the royal mystics of France. Franklin had refused to aid in my creation; the memories of his own disastrous experiments still haunted him.

Thomas Jefferson did not work alone that night however. A series of ever more dangerous setbacks led him to commission Jedediah Orne to assist him in his endeavors. Orne was only too happy to visit the young nation and aid in translating and supplementing Jefferson’s incomplete transcription of The Talos Formulae. Jefferson was determined that the new fledgling nation would have an avatar on par with the articulate, wise and beautiful creatures that had advised the royalty of the world since the age of antiquity.

Orne however was determined to put some of his own more radical theories to the test.

No ash and copper wire for him! Or for me.

My original body was that of a long forgotten Egyptian Lord, shriveled and grayish but perfectly preserved. Once he had been a god king but grave robbers had ransacked his tomb and sold his remains as a curio. Jedediah Orne worked tirelessly in Jefferson’s laboratory, using The Talos Formulae more as a guideline than a gospel. Runes were carved beneath the mummy’s tongue, at the bottoms of his feet and most importantly on the underside of his skull. Where mechanical contrivances and ash had been called for, Orne used the flesh of the recently dead in combinations specifically chosen to create sorcerous fission.

The heart of a patriot. The blood of one a native. The brain of a traitor.

I came to life in a haze of alchemical smoke. Terrified and confused I kicked my way free of my glass womb. At first the cool air was an agony to my lungs. My muscles struggled to raise my misshapen head. Jedediah Orne rolled me on my back so his audience could gaze down upon me. My first sight was Vega at its zenith; its bluish white light filling my mind with knowledge and mysteries. Twelve of the nation's founding fathers stared down at me and I instantly knew their histories and potentials; I even knew how they might die.

The President of the United States in Congress Assembled, Richard Henry Lee, asked me a question. I wanted nothing more than to curse him but I was helpless. I had to answer in full.

The low drone of a helicopter startled me from my reminiscing, it sounded close. A spotlight swept over the train car, shafts of light insinuating between the gaps in the walls and the open doorway. I heard shouting voices and the barking of dogs.

I climbed up onto the train car’s roof and spied a dozen police officers and dogs moving in. The spotlight found me and an amplified voice ordered me to surrender. These were ordinary officers of the law and I wondered how much they had been warned to expect by the Agents of Project Pharos.

An animal sound stirring in my throat, I leapt down into the midst of them. The sight of me gave them pause but they kept coming, confident in their training and body armor. One leapt at me and I slapped him in the side of the face with all my strength. The snap of his neck sounded like gunfire.

A second one struck me across the knees with a baton, I caught him easily. My thumbs found his eye sockets, his head split apart like an overripe fruit. The high pitched keening of his voice panicked the dogs and slowed the other police officers’ approach.

The amplified voice from the helicopter cursed me, promising revenge. They released the dogs; the two beasts leapt as one, their teeth sinking into my forearms. Their eyes were small and frenzied with terror. I grabbed one of the dogs by its collar and tore it free not caring that a mouthful of my flesh came away with it.

I hurled the yelping animal at the helicopter. The spotlight shattered, the aircraft twisted in mid-air, fighting to stay aloft. The second dog let go and slunk away.

A high-powered rifle shot pierced my back, knocking the wind from me. I turned to see a woman, a Pharos Agent, methodically taking aim again. Another bullet caught me in the meat of my leg. I stumbled for her but the surviving police surrounded me.

They clubbed me, landing blow after blow. I fell to my knees clawing at my attackers. I knew if I could just get ahold of one of them I could take a hostage, I could bargain and delay.

Then Vega was at its zenith and my mind was on fire. I could only whimper as the rune carved into the underside of my skull reacted to the starlight. My mind is flooded with knowledge, everything I should know, everything I could know.

…allies that can become enemies… pragmatic motives… …enemies that might become allies… the Monarchs drawing ever closer to the world… …clever idealism… economic probabilities… …empty dogmas... …the dark gods still in hiding, waiting and playing at oracles. Does one of them see me now? …technological dreams… …cannibalistic nationalism… …emerging heroes and familiar scapegoats…

…and politics, always politics…

And then I knew how they had found me. I reached to the back of my skull, to the nest of scars and cysts and plucked out the tracking chip.

It took six of them to hold me down as I writhed, my mind boiling with stolen wisdom. The woman approached me, her rifle abandoned for a long bladed knife and in a moment I know her name and I knew what she had suffered what had been done to her. She hamstrung me with practiced efficiency.

The helicopter landed somewhere nearby. I tried to raise myself up with my arms and crawl away only to be brought back down again.

They manacled me with heavy chains, my arms and legs bound behind my back. A steel bar was jammed into my screaming mouth. I wanted to curse them, I wanted to tell them what they truly served and how little it meant.

Then a man with graying hair and a sour expression approached me, he was holding a syringe. Ridiculously over the din of the chaos he tried to speak to me of reassurances, promising me that it would all be all right. He even dared to call me Citizen Aslingan.

That name is a sick joke. A veritable slur. Do you know your Old English?

The hypodermic descended in a slow deliberate arc, burying itself in the corner of my eye, where an ordinary man might have a tear duct.

The drugs took hold and I slipped into fugue full of new memories and old dreams.

“Citizen Aslingan… all hail Citizen Aslingan… the Soul of a new nation…”

Of course you must understand now that I was unlike any other of my kind. The others had been built from known mystical and alchemical principals by nations at the height of their power.

The line began with giant Talos, made from bronze; he stood guard of the kingdom of Minos. The conquering Greeks brought Talos’ remains to wise Daedalus and he used what he discovered to create the nine clockwork muses, whose wisdom led a nation and whose beauty inspired a generation of artists. The Egyptians stole Daedalus’ notes and used them to create stoic Ptah, who would defend their empire for generations until he fled before the coming Romans, losing himself in the shadowy Husk Worlds. The world-conquering Romans had their own copy of what was now called The Talos Formulae and used it to birth Quirinus; so perfect in his features that his was frequently mistaken for a living man.

Quirinus’ fortunes would ebb and flow with those of the empire, some Caesars would take his council, some tried to have him killed, some took him in their beds. Mongol raiders captured him and studied him until they learned the secret of his creation. From that knowledge they created artificial concubines that served the emperors and Mandarins of China. The secret found its way to the wizards of that land and they used it to create the blasphemous Song of Tian-gou.

With the fall of Rome the secret of our creation was lost to the West. While it is true that Muslim scholars had copies of both The Song of Tian-gou and The Talos Formulae, there is no record of either ever being used. The same held true for Hebrew scholars.

It fell to Gerbert of Aurilliac to rediscover the secrets long lost. He created Meridiana from the purest bronze and last remaining sketch of the muse of hymns. Her wisdom guided him until he became Pope, then in an act of contrition he had her melted down in 1003. He died shortly afterwards.

Like a living thing the secret traveled to Britain where Gog and Magog were created to defend the city of London. By the time of the Renaissance each nation had its own avatar. In France there was a near perfect copy of Meridiana called Luxuria who never spoke but always taught. In Portugal winged Esibraeus sat at the side of kings. In Italy Demodocus spoke only in song but his advice was always correct.

By the year of my creation they all still lived but their faculties had begun to dwindle; Gog and Magog had become reclusive, Esibraeus had lost the ability to fly, Demodocus had gone blind. Did the fortunes of a nation dwindle with their avatar or did the avatar falter when a kingdom fell to disrepair?

The powers of this nation are all too aware of that question, which is why they never stopped trying to improve me, melioration upon melioration. Piece by piece the body of the old Pharaoh was stripped away and fine American flesh was put in its place.

This arm belonged to the assassin John Wilkes Booth. These legs came from an unnecessary amputation performed on a valiant soldier. Here and there are bits of slaves and madmen.

They have tried to make me handsome but my little excursions always leave such scars. They have tried to make me obedient with drugs, bribes and chains but they are always too careful. I am actually surprised they dared to put a tracking chip at the base of my neck.

When I awoke I found myself chained to a metal gurney, legs bound together arms outstretched.

How we Americans love our crucifixions!

A nest of machines clustered around me, measuring heart rate and brainwave activity. If you were to look at them you would see that they meet no human criterion. IVs and catheters pass fluids to and from me, bright lights shone in my eyes. My skull still rung with the roar of information the mystical circuit gave me. At that moment I was the most well informed being in the nation, perhaps the world. But even without that wisdom I would have been able to guess that I would not be able to escape this chamber easily. There were no visible windows, and a single air-lock like doorway.

The man that had called me by my old name was there and I could see now that his hair was more blonde than gray but that he carried himself like a man ten years his senior. I knew his name now just as I knew that he lead the Pharos Project as his father had before him.

And he knew that I could tell him how his father truly died. That I could tell him why there was a closed casket. He had only to ask.

He offered me a draught of water. I accepted. He took a damp cloth, held it far over my mouth and squeezed out a few drops. I wanted to ask him if he understood the symbolism of Project Pharos’ name.

He wanted to ask. He needed to ask. But he didn’t dare.

Everyone stopped what they doing at the hiss of the vault door opening. Two Pharos agents in dark suits, practically twins to the ones I had killed earlier in the day, walked into the room; a small, middle-aged man followed them. The agents of Project immediately began fawning over him, full of salutations, apologies and compliments. The President of the United States waves them off.

He wasn’t there to speak to them.

He was there to see me, but I could tell he’d rather be anywhere else. I disgusted him but he knew I would only truthfully answer the questions of the nation’s leader.

Like every other President in the last quarter century, he looked like a substitute pallbearer. His eyes were dull and collusive, his skin soft and pink. When he spoke his voice had an effected rural twang, “You stirred up a lot of trouble for us.”

“Mr. President.” I replied, “I serve at your pleasure."

“My pleasure would be that you stopped acting like a beast and started acting like a man. The trouble you’ve caused this administration… Witnesses have to be quieted down. Explanations created. You think that kind of stuff is easy?”

“I have my appetites. We all do.”

“When I read the reports about you – ”

“What do you want to know?” I cracked a smile, “Why did you have them pull me up out of that well?”

The President bristled, “Who do you think you’re
talking to?”

“I know who I’m taking to.” I said, “And I know what you need. Ask your questions and stop trying to scold me like I am one of your errant children.”

For a moment he just scowled at me, and then he pulled a sheaf of index cards and a pen from his suit pocket and asked his questions. His administration wanted advice on finances and diplomacy; how best to reverse the current recession and how best to navigate the current brewing conflicts simmering around the world. He wanted to know which of his political allies was plotting against him and which of his enemies he could trust. His last question was about his wife’s fidelity.

The questions have changed so little in over two centuries.

When it was over the President thanked me, but from the expression on his face I could tell that he immediately regretted it. He slipped the cards back into his pocket, I glimpsed the notes he had taken; his handwriting was scrawling and child-like.

“Is it back to the well for me now Mr. President?” I asked.

“No.” He shook his head, but his eyes were already on the door, “You’ll stay here. Special Agent Wight has some ideas about what to do with you.”

“Really?” I tried to watch him but the bonds and the drugs kept me from doing more than turning my head.

“Of course.” The President said, “There have been advances in science that even you would be amazed at. I'm sure you can be rehabilitated.”

I started laughing then, my voice mad and booming. The President flinched at the sound as Pharos Agents ushered him out the door. The gurney shook with my hysterics, the chains rattled. Special Agent Wight was ready with another of his syringes and injected an opiate directly into my IV tube.

The weeks became months, I could hear them as they performed fresh miracles upon me. Stem cells and skin grafts, bone marrow transplants and gene therapy; they re-sculpted me as though I were made of clay. They thought that if I ceased to look like a monster I would cease to be a monster.

Then all I had to do was wait for them to become trusting, to become complacent. This latest escape was the easiest of all.

If I am careful it will take them years to find me again, if ever. Perhaps even now I am reading the newspaper over your shoulder and as I decide whether or not to allow you to live I cannot help but chuckle at what has become of your nation now that its Presidents finally have to think for themselves.