MGK
01-09-2010, 09:57 PM
An installment in my MGK series. The girl has disappeared in a previous episode, from a subway train in between stops. The detective has been hired by Dahlke to find her.
On Men in Suits
The preoriginal caveman stands on the edge of the highest roof of the tallest skyscraper of the city. A breeze rustles his skirt of newspaper, fastened at the waist with a belt of police crime scene tape. His torso is covered by a black plastic garbage bag with a hole for his head. He is of human shape, but on a scale far larger than any homo sapiens would care to reach; He towers even in respect to the colossal building he calls his home. In the background, we can see several strange piles covered in black plastic, offering no clue as to their substance. The mouth of a cave is impossibly positioned near the opposite edge of the roof; it is made not of stone but of compressed trash. The darkness of its entrance prohibits any view of the interior, and brand names leer at us from its walls, as if taunting us to try our rationality on them. We realize that we have an illegal perspective; we know not how or why we acquired it, we know only that we perceive. The caveman, surely aware of our presence, is indifferent; our intrusion does not disquiet him. He gazes at the clouds below, as if he could pierce their veil and view the teeming humanity below. Presently, the rustle of wind against the black plastic heaps and the caveman's clothing is shattered by the penetrating ring of a telephone. The preoriginal caveman looks directly at us, and we see that our presence here is of his doing, and of his undoing, as the light starts to buckle and our view becomes distorted. The telephone rings on, and a million mobile phones answer its call; as we realize the nature of the black piles our perspective ceases existence; the last thing we see of this impossible place is the preoriginal caveman reaching under his black garbage bag and pulling out a receiver, connected to him with a thick telephone wire. Time shifted, the ringing stops, we are gone.
Our perspective shifts
We view a double-decker night bus, the only form of public transport in that time of night when even the omniscient subway sleeps. It is empty, the driver relaxed; he has driven this route a thousand times and knows every bit of the way. We see many things, as many as we are; so though nothing seems to be disordinary, we rest our view on the streetlights flashing by and wait for what has drawn us here.
The Detective
So it's been three weeks to the day since Dahlke's girl disappeared on the subway. I've ridden the line with him often, but there is nothing to give us any idea at all of what could have happened. I got my hands on some security camera footage, but it does nothing but prove what we already know; she got on and she didn't get off. Schuster's disappearance is turning cold as well; they've already employed a new guy at the place he used to work. What the police told Dahlke is true; quite a lot of people have started to frequent the shadier businesses of the city, the questions on each of their lips the same; Where have they gone? Why have they gone? What's the deal with the mobile phones? I meet him at a bar downtown, we've made it a habit to ride the same train she rode every day. As we pass the too-familiar stop where she got on, not a single other passenger is on our train. We leave the light haven of the station and accelerate into the neon darkness of the subway tunnel. For the first time I've noticed, a train going the opposite direction screams past. It's empty, save for two men sitting in a compartment together. Dahlke has noticed them as well, his eyes drinking in the precious seconds that they are visible as if they were some kind of clue. I notice the train slow down; not especially peculiar, but the first time I've seen it happen on this stretch. Dahlke, sitting next to me, stares off into space; he isn't taking all of this too well and I wonder if it was right to take him on as a client. A touch of hopelessness bleaches the yellow subway light, and I lazily muster the center pole. The stop button is on. Looking at Dahlke I see that he's noticed as well, he returns my look with one of confusion. We both know neither of us touched that button. The train continues its crawl toward the last stop on the line. Dahlke gets up and walks the few steps to the center pole and tentatively pushes the button. The light goes off. He turns to look at me as we feel the train stop. I get up. The doors open. We see a small figure detach itself from the shadow of the subway wall and come towards us. Dahlke utters a moan of relief; it's his girl. I have no clue what to think about this, and as the two of them go through the rituals of greeting someone long thought lost, I unbutton my shoulder holster inconspicuously. They sit across from me; the girl looks a bit pale but otherwise in good health. She is still trying to digest what has happened, she doesn't seem to have had the time to do so. As if remembering something from long ago, she suddenly stares directly into my face. "What's today's date?" she asks, a tone in her voice telling me the importance of my answer. "The 28th, missus", I reply. Her face goes slack, her eyes go blank. Holding up a trembling wrist for me to see, I look at her wristwatch. The time is right, but the date; it's exactly three weeks off. The train pulls into the subway station. Three men with wild black hair, identical save for the colors of their suits, stand alone on the platform. Now I know why I unbuttoned my holster.
Our perspective shifts to the night double-decker
Something is happening. The driver is concentrated on the road; he does not notice three men with wild black hair, identical save for the color of their suits, come down the back staircase from an empty upper deck and take their seats calmly. The same procedure repeats with the staircase behind the driver; the second triplet takes their seats. By the time the bus pulls in at the next stop, the driver realizes that the entire lower section of the bus, all 69 seats have been occupied in between stops. He blinked, blinks. The doors of the bus open, wait, and close. Each of the men is wearing a used-car salesman smile; they are seated in black, blue and grey. The driver very slowly turns his head back to the road and starts driving. As if programmed to do so, all the men get up and take a different seat. Once they are all seated, three spaces remain empty. Beads of sweat form on the drivers brow; his face is pale and his heart is beating double-time. Thought is impossible, his rationality refuses to assert itself. By the next red light, he dares a glance in the mirror. There are six men left. The driver grips his steering wheel harder; his last grasp at reality, or just to stop his hands from trembling. The light changes to green. The driver accelerates, functioning only on the years of routine. The three men in the back get up and ascend the staircase. The top deck remains empty, only three men remain. The driver feels something far beyond the realm of mortal fear; he feels an emotion that was never for humans to feel. As the last three men get up and ascend the front staircase, the driver's hands leave the wheel; with both, he clutches the small golden crucifix at his neck, his eyes closed, his lips atremble in prayer, as if the symbol, so long worn without belief that it became worn out, held any kind of power over this place anymore. Motion proceeds; a shattering crash. The front end of the bus wraps itself around the metal pillar of a bridge. The driver's hands are clamped around his own neck, as if the removal of the memory from life took precedence over preservation of life itself. As our perspective leaves this forlorn place, we see a small black object on the window of the bus. It is a black sticker bearing only the red, bold capital letters MGK.
The Detective
We get out of the train and the three men stand about thirty meters away from us. The middle one, in a black suit, starts walking towards us briskly, his face pasted with a used car-salesman smile and his movements precise. So precise, they seem studied. Leaving Dahlke and his girl behind me, I move forward a few steps. As the man comes closer, his stretches out his right hand as if wanting a handshake and starts speaking. Or something that sounds like speaking , the things he emits being sounds that approximate a word, never enough to lend it meaning. I shake my head as if I had water in my ear; it's difficult to listen to him. He's only five steps away when I pull out my revolver and point it at his head in one fluid motion. The man shows no reaction whatsoever, walking straight forward until his forehead meets the gun's barrel. He stops, only because he has realized the existence of a physical impediment to his progress. He continues almost speaking but lowers his hand, his expression not changing. We stand like that for a short moment, until he swiftly pushes me aside and continues towards the girl. I shout "Down"; raise my weapon and fire, putting a bullet straight through the back of his head.
By the time the echo has stopped reverberating through the bright empty stillness his body still stands. Then, as if realizing he should be dead , he slumps to the floor as if someone has cut the strings. I whirl around, but the other two men have gone. My gun arm starts shivering as I turn back, Dahlke and his girl cowering against the stairs. I see but cannot comprehend. The man's corpse has not emitted a single drop of blood. Forcing myself closer, I see there aren't even scorch marks on his skin, despite the small distance from the gun. I involuntarily look into the wound, and see a straight groove through a white substance. I struggle to comprehend what this thing in front of me is, and turn to Dahlke and his girl. They look back at me defiantly; they're dealing with it, they approve of me acting the way I did. Dahlke takes out his mobile phone and asks, "Should I call the cops?" "Go ahead", I replied. He stabs the familiar 110 number into the keypad and lifts the device to his ear. He listens and frowns. "Strange, I have full signal but the call won't go through, the net is probably down again", he says, looking at the silver object in his hand. "The way it was last time?" I ask him. He looks at me, uncomprehending. "Ah, you won't get a connection in the subway nowadays" a voice says.
Of its owner, only the head is visible, clad in a scuffed and dirty orange construction helmet with a lamp, his body hidden by the subway platform. He hoists himself easily onto the platform and nods to us. He would look like a typical subway worker save for the fact he was barefoot and clad only in a light orange overall and a shredded orange safety jacket. A cigarette dangled from his lip, emitting a greasy trickle of smoke.
"You've gone and done it now. You can see me and speak to me, which means something's been tipping your balance. The day you disappeared", now looking at the girl,
"you experienced something strange, causing you to what you might call desynchronize with your present, but what we call tipping your balance, which tipped you into something else. The chance that this could happen is by laws of human logic impossible, but it has happened. Everything happens sometimes."
A weary smile settles on his features as he looks into our faces, "Every minute spent off that train and in that place has made you disappear from the present for seven days. You coming back means something is now which shouldn't be" he concludes, nodding at Dahlke.
"And this guy here, well. The people who've been disappearing are being replaced with these things. There have been a few sightings and some speculation about their nature, but you know what? I know someone you can believe a lot more than me, and he can explain it a lot better. Come on"
"You," he says, looking at me,"give me a hand. We have to move the body."
© 2009
On Men in Suits
The preoriginal caveman stands on the edge of the highest roof of the tallest skyscraper of the city. A breeze rustles his skirt of newspaper, fastened at the waist with a belt of police crime scene tape. His torso is covered by a black plastic garbage bag with a hole for his head. He is of human shape, but on a scale far larger than any homo sapiens would care to reach; He towers even in respect to the colossal building he calls his home. In the background, we can see several strange piles covered in black plastic, offering no clue as to their substance. The mouth of a cave is impossibly positioned near the opposite edge of the roof; it is made not of stone but of compressed trash. The darkness of its entrance prohibits any view of the interior, and brand names leer at us from its walls, as if taunting us to try our rationality on them. We realize that we have an illegal perspective; we know not how or why we acquired it, we know only that we perceive. The caveman, surely aware of our presence, is indifferent; our intrusion does not disquiet him. He gazes at the clouds below, as if he could pierce their veil and view the teeming humanity below. Presently, the rustle of wind against the black plastic heaps and the caveman's clothing is shattered by the penetrating ring of a telephone. The preoriginal caveman looks directly at us, and we see that our presence here is of his doing, and of his undoing, as the light starts to buckle and our view becomes distorted. The telephone rings on, and a million mobile phones answer its call; as we realize the nature of the black piles our perspective ceases existence; the last thing we see of this impossible place is the preoriginal caveman reaching under his black garbage bag and pulling out a receiver, connected to him with a thick telephone wire. Time shifted, the ringing stops, we are gone.
Our perspective shifts
We view a double-decker night bus, the only form of public transport in that time of night when even the omniscient subway sleeps. It is empty, the driver relaxed; he has driven this route a thousand times and knows every bit of the way. We see many things, as many as we are; so though nothing seems to be disordinary, we rest our view on the streetlights flashing by and wait for what has drawn us here.
The Detective
So it's been three weeks to the day since Dahlke's girl disappeared on the subway. I've ridden the line with him often, but there is nothing to give us any idea at all of what could have happened. I got my hands on some security camera footage, but it does nothing but prove what we already know; she got on and she didn't get off. Schuster's disappearance is turning cold as well; they've already employed a new guy at the place he used to work. What the police told Dahlke is true; quite a lot of people have started to frequent the shadier businesses of the city, the questions on each of their lips the same; Where have they gone? Why have they gone? What's the deal with the mobile phones? I meet him at a bar downtown, we've made it a habit to ride the same train she rode every day. As we pass the too-familiar stop where she got on, not a single other passenger is on our train. We leave the light haven of the station and accelerate into the neon darkness of the subway tunnel. For the first time I've noticed, a train going the opposite direction screams past. It's empty, save for two men sitting in a compartment together. Dahlke has noticed them as well, his eyes drinking in the precious seconds that they are visible as if they were some kind of clue. I notice the train slow down; not especially peculiar, but the first time I've seen it happen on this stretch. Dahlke, sitting next to me, stares off into space; he isn't taking all of this too well and I wonder if it was right to take him on as a client. A touch of hopelessness bleaches the yellow subway light, and I lazily muster the center pole. The stop button is on. Looking at Dahlke I see that he's noticed as well, he returns my look with one of confusion. We both know neither of us touched that button. The train continues its crawl toward the last stop on the line. Dahlke gets up and walks the few steps to the center pole and tentatively pushes the button. The light goes off. He turns to look at me as we feel the train stop. I get up. The doors open. We see a small figure detach itself from the shadow of the subway wall and come towards us. Dahlke utters a moan of relief; it's his girl. I have no clue what to think about this, and as the two of them go through the rituals of greeting someone long thought lost, I unbutton my shoulder holster inconspicuously. They sit across from me; the girl looks a bit pale but otherwise in good health. She is still trying to digest what has happened, she doesn't seem to have had the time to do so. As if remembering something from long ago, she suddenly stares directly into my face. "What's today's date?" she asks, a tone in her voice telling me the importance of my answer. "The 28th, missus", I reply. Her face goes slack, her eyes go blank. Holding up a trembling wrist for me to see, I look at her wristwatch. The time is right, but the date; it's exactly three weeks off. The train pulls into the subway station. Three men with wild black hair, identical save for the colors of their suits, stand alone on the platform. Now I know why I unbuttoned my holster.
Our perspective shifts to the night double-decker
Something is happening. The driver is concentrated on the road; he does not notice three men with wild black hair, identical save for the color of their suits, come down the back staircase from an empty upper deck and take their seats calmly. The same procedure repeats with the staircase behind the driver; the second triplet takes their seats. By the time the bus pulls in at the next stop, the driver realizes that the entire lower section of the bus, all 69 seats have been occupied in between stops. He blinked, blinks. The doors of the bus open, wait, and close. Each of the men is wearing a used-car salesman smile; they are seated in black, blue and grey. The driver very slowly turns his head back to the road and starts driving. As if programmed to do so, all the men get up and take a different seat. Once they are all seated, three spaces remain empty. Beads of sweat form on the drivers brow; his face is pale and his heart is beating double-time. Thought is impossible, his rationality refuses to assert itself. By the next red light, he dares a glance in the mirror. There are six men left. The driver grips his steering wheel harder; his last grasp at reality, or just to stop his hands from trembling. The light changes to green. The driver accelerates, functioning only on the years of routine. The three men in the back get up and ascend the staircase. The top deck remains empty, only three men remain. The driver feels something far beyond the realm of mortal fear; he feels an emotion that was never for humans to feel. As the last three men get up and ascend the front staircase, the driver's hands leave the wheel; with both, he clutches the small golden crucifix at his neck, his eyes closed, his lips atremble in prayer, as if the symbol, so long worn without belief that it became worn out, held any kind of power over this place anymore. Motion proceeds; a shattering crash. The front end of the bus wraps itself around the metal pillar of a bridge. The driver's hands are clamped around his own neck, as if the removal of the memory from life took precedence over preservation of life itself. As our perspective leaves this forlorn place, we see a small black object on the window of the bus. It is a black sticker bearing only the red, bold capital letters MGK.
The Detective
We get out of the train and the three men stand about thirty meters away from us. The middle one, in a black suit, starts walking towards us briskly, his face pasted with a used car-salesman smile and his movements precise. So precise, they seem studied. Leaving Dahlke and his girl behind me, I move forward a few steps. As the man comes closer, his stretches out his right hand as if wanting a handshake and starts speaking. Or something that sounds like speaking , the things he emits being sounds that approximate a word, never enough to lend it meaning. I shake my head as if I had water in my ear; it's difficult to listen to him. He's only five steps away when I pull out my revolver and point it at his head in one fluid motion. The man shows no reaction whatsoever, walking straight forward until his forehead meets the gun's barrel. He stops, only because he has realized the existence of a physical impediment to his progress. He continues almost speaking but lowers his hand, his expression not changing. We stand like that for a short moment, until he swiftly pushes me aside and continues towards the girl. I shout "Down"; raise my weapon and fire, putting a bullet straight through the back of his head.
By the time the echo has stopped reverberating through the bright empty stillness his body still stands. Then, as if realizing he should be dead , he slumps to the floor as if someone has cut the strings. I whirl around, but the other two men have gone. My gun arm starts shivering as I turn back, Dahlke and his girl cowering against the stairs. I see but cannot comprehend. The man's corpse has not emitted a single drop of blood. Forcing myself closer, I see there aren't even scorch marks on his skin, despite the small distance from the gun. I involuntarily look into the wound, and see a straight groove through a white substance. I struggle to comprehend what this thing in front of me is, and turn to Dahlke and his girl. They look back at me defiantly; they're dealing with it, they approve of me acting the way I did. Dahlke takes out his mobile phone and asks, "Should I call the cops?" "Go ahead", I replied. He stabs the familiar 110 number into the keypad and lifts the device to his ear. He listens and frowns. "Strange, I have full signal but the call won't go through, the net is probably down again", he says, looking at the silver object in his hand. "The way it was last time?" I ask him. He looks at me, uncomprehending. "Ah, you won't get a connection in the subway nowadays" a voice says.
Of its owner, only the head is visible, clad in a scuffed and dirty orange construction helmet with a lamp, his body hidden by the subway platform. He hoists himself easily onto the platform and nods to us. He would look like a typical subway worker save for the fact he was barefoot and clad only in a light orange overall and a shredded orange safety jacket. A cigarette dangled from his lip, emitting a greasy trickle of smoke.
"You've gone and done it now. You can see me and speak to me, which means something's been tipping your balance. The day you disappeared", now looking at the girl,
"you experienced something strange, causing you to what you might call desynchronize with your present, but what we call tipping your balance, which tipped you into something else. The chance that this could happen is by laws of human logic impossible, but it has happened. Everything happens sometimes."
A weary smile settles on his features as he looks into our faces, "Every minute spent off that train and in that place has made you disappear from the present for seven days. You coming back means something is now which shouldn't be" he concludes, nodding at Dahlke.
"And this guy here, well. The people who've been disappearing are being replaced with these things. There have been a few sightings and some speculation about their nature, but you know what? I know someone you can believe a lot more than me, and he can explain it a lot better. Come on"
"You," he says, looking at me,"give me a hand. We have to move the body."
© 2009