Wednesday, 4 June 2014

Deus Ex-Machina Chapter Six: Reaffirmation

Deus Ex-Machina 
Chapter Six

R   E   A   F   F   I   R   M   A   T   I   O   N
 ‘Have I really been such an arsehole to you?’ – Spiderfingers
‘Jesus, like yeah. Duh.’ – Saul Buchannan A.K.A Zombie-Boy

    On the way back home I'm imagining my creator - Steph. She's smiling, expressing her utmost gratitude through a long hug. This is what damsels in distress do for those who traverse metaphysical barriers to save them. I'm all wrapped up in this fantasy when I hear the clanking and clacking terror itself.

The prowling night minion, it’s just a few paces to my rear. I scoop out the picture of school kids I stole from that classroom. I glare at it and soon, my pet runs away. All chained up in the back of my mind.

    I arrive home to find Saul's body holding its severed head to his stomach region. The stench from his desperate gnawing is probably vomit inducing and so, I’m fucking glad I can relinquish my newly attained senses just as easily as I can reclaim them. So yeah, the next thing I do with my Judas is wait for his awareness to be activated by his self-canabalism. Then I wrench the wankers arms off,

    ‘That should fuck up your masturbation schedule for a bit, eh pasty face?’

    Then, I hold his face up to his belly so he can see what he’s been up to. I tell him where he can stick his excuses, that I don’t care how much he hates me. There is no justification for sending me into Mr Lime’s death trap. I go to work on Saul's kneecaps.

    Amputating shit heads like Zombie-Boy is tiring, so soon I’m ruminating about who I am and how I could make more sense. I figure out a few things,

    ‘My fire billows smoke that attracts killer-minions. Yet I stay here, in Camden Town. The real Spiderfingers is – was - nomadic. I’m sure of it.’

    Saul is quiet. No fun at all. Then he starts talking about the show.

    ‘You see that bit where Mr Lime offered you a chance to kill yourself, did you do it?’

    ‘The production I saw must have cut that bit out.’

    ‘What? That was the best bit.'

    ‘Oh man. What was Spiderfingers like? Was he really such an arsehole to you?’

    I say this immediately regretting how vulnerable it makes me sound. I watch the plaque covered teeth in his mouth as he smiles through his reply, ‘Jesus like, yeah. Duh.’

    Then he starts, just blah blah blah blah blah, talking some shit about the past that I’ve nothing to do with whilst I’m thinking, regretting - should have asked him what happened to the other Spiderfingers’. Then I remember the dazed chaos god I met outside. Saul interrupts my thinking with,

    ‘…This one time you nearly took an old couple into the Oma. Proper converts. They trusted you. They believed.’

    My cover’s been blown, may as well get an education on myself.

    ‘What happened to them?’

    ‘If it wasn't for mum, you would have taken them along with you. You saw the faith they had for you as ammo. To your kind – humans - we’re just cooked meat. You’re more like wolves, always hunting, feasting…living off people like me. You're all slaves to the ID.'

    ‘You know about psychology?'

    'Don’t act so surprised,'  grunts Saul, 'I’m not as dumb as Steph’s had you know me mate. After a decent meal the Pleasure Principle, the collective unconscious and all of that, doesn't go over my head.'

    I stroke my chin in an attempt to hide my grin. And then I have to voice a concern:

    ‘Now we're on the subject of gods and their psyche's, what about John Clay? Did I...ever…did Spiderfingers say what sad-luck story tore a hole in his heart?'

The Discordian just stares at me. He waits for me to continue, 'A rip so big, so gigantic, that only a god’s ego could hope to help plug it in..I mean, that's what led Boleraam to choose Clay as a host isn't it? He needed someone needy and egotistical and....'

I stop the talking.

Everything being said feels forced, somehow this conversation, it’s for the benefit of more than just myself and Saul. Even my thoughts...

Nope, I don’t give Saul any more satisfaction. I mumble a joke about his Sainsbury’s shelf-stacking future being well and truly over, and then I’m out, doing my lone wolf thing on the High-Road again. I feel so battered and bruised and I wish Nightingale was here to heal me.

That's when I remember my dream of confronting the evil Nightingale with Alice. The dream - if I can trust it - showed me how the real Nightingale is dead. I recollect how Saul thinks that she is still alive:

    ‘Aronson had everyone else carted a-a-away. Dad mum…e-e-e-everyb-b-body.’

Saul would never have made a deal with Aronson if he knew Aronson killed his mother. Or would he? I try to forget the coward and his twisted code of ethics and survival. There's another Spiderfingers out here, maybe more. I could go back and ask Saul about them, whether they might take the risk I'm psyching myself up for. I could ask Saul if there is something I can do to ensure their well-being. Fake or not, it feels wrong to do nothing. I fight my programming, I tell myself that they'll be fine. After all, I'm written to survive alone.

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