Tag: deal

Day #32

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Apophyge: The small hollow curvature given to the top or bottom of the shaft of a column where it expands to meet the edge of the fillet called also the scape

Prescapula: The part of the scapula in front of or above the spine or mesoscapula (like lymph node)

Donatist: A follower of Donatus the leader of a body of North African schismatics and purists who greatly disturbed the church in the 4th century They claimed to be the true church

—–

Picture the scene:

The artist commissioned to paint your portrait hasn’t been seen for months and has presumably disappeared with your money. Upon breaking and entering into his studio, you find a letter addressed specifically to you. It states that the artist made a deal with a spirit and rightfully fears for his life. There is no signature.

This was the exact situation that Mr William Withers found himself in on the 17th morning of March, 1863.

Withers scrunched the letter into a chrysalis with his right hand and let it fall to the stone floor. The room was dark and stagnant, dust motes hung lazily in the air as though held by invisible spider webs. A terrible stench of rotting milk pervaded the air, from the apophyge of the Doric support columns down to the crusty grout upon the floor. Withers held his handkerchief up to his nose and looked around the small, dimly lit studio. The walls were covered in paintings that had been hung about with white muslin sheets. It looked as though no-one had been here for weeks.

The devilish swine, thought Withers with indignation, jiggling the few remaining coins in his trouser pocket subconsciously. A pittance. When he found the artist, there would be more than money to repay.

As though expecting to find a clue to the artist’s location, Withers began ripping the white sheets from the paintings. He was disturbed by their content and shocked to find in each image a recognisable likeness of the artist staring back at him. A hideous half-man, half-dog creature with bulbous tumours sprouting from its prescapula and fore-shoulders. A heretic being burnt at the stake by an ebony crowd of Donatist separatists. A man stretched upon a rack covered in spikes. A wretch nailed to a crucifix atop a mountain peak, eagles with bloody beaks feasting on his gizzards.

Withers turned away, fearful and disgusted by the paintings. Yet rather than the graphic subject material, he was more alarmed by look of pain and fear that shone from the pigments of the artist’s face in each scene. So much depth and resonance; the bulging whites of the eyes, flecks of white spittle smeared across his face, taut and tense muscles that strained as though they were being ripped from the bone. It was as if he were actually feeling his tortures, as though they were more than simple paintings, but momentary glimpses into some distant occult scene.

Highly disturbed, Withers turned to leave but as his hand touched the door handle, a scream of pure agony ripped through the small studio. Drenched in a sudden cold sweat, Withers looked about the room but could see nothing. He removed his shaking hand from the handle. Averting his gaze from the uncovered paintings, Withers hurried towards the artist’s desk, grabbed the crumpled letter from the floor and shoved it in his pocket. Without looking back he left the studio, the echo of a scream forevermore ringing behind him.

Day #17

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Peirastic: Fitted for trial; experimental; tentative

Catholicize: To make or to become catholic or Roman Catholic

Adrianople: a city in Northwest Turkey a Thracian town that was rebuilt and renamed by the Roman emperor Hadrian

—–

It was definitely the wet slurp followed by the smacking of lips. That was the only way to shut Beaver up; you had to show him you were busy drinking. Buck took another swig of his beer, amber liquid sloshing against the sides of the dirty glass. With each mouthful, the liquid sunk lower and the glass was raised higher, and at some point Buck had started likening the orangey distortion of Beaver’s face in the bottom of the glass to a strange insect stuck in amber. Both of ‘em bloodsuckers.

The two men were sat in the corner of a dive bar out on route 23, not their local haunt, but one that had been chosen for them. The beer tasted different and a dense hum of smoke hung in the rafters like bats. The locals were the dregs you’d expect to find in the bottom of a barrel, leftover flies on a spiderweb. The woman behind the bar, heavyset and stocky, was wearing a leather waistcoat she’d probably found ditched in the toilets; it had a faded motif on the back, a skull with a snake squirming through the eye.

Buck didn’t like the place, but Beaver, well he was happy anywhere he could sit and drink and talk. It didn’t matter who else was around, the man could talk to anyone; in fact it was because of Beaver’s big mouth they were here. Shouldn’t have listened to him, thought Buck glumly.

‘…So that’s why Hadrian didn’t just build walls,’ concluded Beaver. He produced a silver sheet of tablets from a jacket pocket, popped two of the caps and dropped them into his Whisky Sour, which fizzed angrily. Buck didn’t know exactly what the pills were, but Beaver had explained that they were some kind of peirastic benzodiazepine anticonvulsants – “experimental anti-anxiety pills” apparently.

Beaver chucked his head back and let the frothy orange liquid trickle down his throat. He flicked his tongue out, like a cat yawning, trying to get rid of the taste, then signalled to the bar for another round.

Buck’s attention was drawn to a crucifix hanging over the entrance. He hadn’t noticed it on the way in. How the fuck can you catholicize a place like this, he thought. He realised Beaver was staring at him, red-eyed.

‘Huh?’ asked Buck.

‘Adrianople, man! Fucking city named for Hadrian – he ain’t just been building walls. He’s been doing all sorts of shit, man.’

‘What the fuck are you on about Beaver?’ snapped Buck, beer foam glistening in his stubble. ‘I don’t give a shit what this Hadrian’s been doing or what he’s gonna do. You just keep that bag close, y’hear? That’s the reason we’re in this fucking mess.’

Beaver clammed up into a sullen silence and hugged the bag tightly to his chest. He looked like he was about to say something when the sudden eerie yawn of creaking joints made both men turn their heads toward the entrance. A man stood there, the briefcase in his hand stained red by an electric Budweiser sign.

‘I think this is our guy…’ said Buck, his voice tense.