Mister B. Gone, Page 2

  Then, without any warning, my legs gave way, and I fainted, falling facedown—

  into—

  the—

  fire.

  So there you are. Satisfied now? I have never told anybody that story in the many hundreds of years since it happened. But I’ve told it to you now, just so you’d see how I feel about books.

  Why I need to see them burned.

  It’s not hard to understand, is it? I was a little demon-child who saw my work go up in flames. It wasn’t fair. Why did I have to lose my chance to tell my story when hundreds of others with much duller tales to tell have their books in print all the time?

  I know the kind of lives authors get to live. Up in the morning, doesn’t matter how late, stumbles to his desk without bothering to bathe, then he sits down, lights up a cigar, drinks his sweet tea, and writes whatever rubbish comes into his head. What a life! I could have had a life like that if my first masterwork had not been burned in front of me. And I have great works in me.

  Works to make Heaven weep and Hell repent. But did I get to write them, to pour my soul onto the pages? No.

  Instead, I’m a prisoner between the covers of this squalid little volume, with only one request to make of some compassionate soul:

  Burn This Book.

  No, no, and still no.

  Why are you hesitating? Do you think you’ll find some titillating details about the Demonation in here? Something depraved or salacious, like the nonsense you’ve read in other books about the World Below (Hell, if you prefer)? Most of that stuff is invented. You do know that, don’t you? It’s just bits of gossip and scraps of superstition mixed up by some greedy author who knows nothing about the Demonation: nothing.

  Are you wondering how I know what’s being passed off as the truth these days? Well, I’m not completely without friends from the old days. We speak, mind to mind, when conditions permit.

  Like any prisoner locked up in solitary confinement I still manage to get news. Not much. But enough to keep me sane.

  I’m the real thing, you see. Unlike the impostors who pass themselves off as darkness incarnate, I am that darkness. And if I had a chance to escape this paper prison I would cause such anguish and shed such seas of blood the name Jakabok Botch would have stood as the very epitome of evil.

  I was—no, I am—the sworn enemy of mankind. And I take that enmity very seriously. When I was free I did all that I could to cause pain, without regard to the innocence or guilt of the human soul I was damning. The things I did! It would take another book for me to list the atrocities I was happily responsible for. The violations of holy places, and more often than not the accompanying violation of whomever was taking care of the place.

  Often these poor deluded devotees, thinking the image of their Savior in extremis possessed the power to drive me away, would advance upon me, wielding a crucifix and telling me to be gone.

  It never worked, of course. And oh, how they would scream and beg as I pulled them into my embrace. I am, needless to say, a creature of marvelous ugliness. The front of my body from the top of my head to those precious parts between my legs had been seared so badly in the fire into which I had fallen—and where Pappy Gatmuss had left me to burn for a minute or two while he slapped my mother around—that my reptilian appearance had become a mass of keloid tissue, shiny and seared.

  My face was—still is—a chaos of bubbles, little hard red domes of flesh where I’d fried in my own fat. My eyes are two holes, without lashes or brows. So is my nose. All of them, eyeholes and nostrils, constantly run with grey-green mucus so that there isn’t a moment, day or night, when I don’t have rivulets of foul fluids running down my cheeks.

  As to my mouth—of all my features, I wish I could possess my mouth again, just as it had been before the fire. I had my mother’s lips, generous below and above, and what kissing I had practiced, mainly on my hand or on a lonely pig, had convinced me that my lips would be the source of my good fortune. I would kiss with them, and lie with them; I would make victims and willing slaves of anyone my eyes desired, simply by talking a little, and following the talk with kisses, and the kisses with demands. And they’d melt into compliance, every one of them, happy to perform the most demeaning acts as long as I was there to reward them with a long, tongue-tied kiss when they were done.

  But the fire didn’t spare my lips. It took them too, erasing them utterly. My mouth is now just a slot that I can barely open an inch because the scarred flesh around it is too solid.

  Is it any wonder that I’m tired of my life? That I want it erased by fire? You’d want the same thing. So, in the name of empathy, burn this book. Do it for compassion’s sake, if you have the heart, or because you share my anger. There’s no saving me. I’m a lost cause, trapped forever between the covers of this book. So finish me.

  Why the hesitation? I’ve done as I promised, haven’t I?

  I’ve told you something about myself. Not everything, of course. Who could tell everything? But I have told you enough that I’m surely more than just words on a page, ordering you about. Oh yes, while I think of it, please allow me to apologize for that brutish, bullying way I started out. It’s something I inherited from Pappy G. and I’m not proud of it. It’s just that I’m impatient to have the flame licking these pages and burning up this book as soon as possible. I didn’t take account of your very human curiosity. But I hope I’ve satisfied that now.

  So it remains only for you to find a flame and get this wretched business over with. I’m certain that will be a great relief to you and I assure you an even greater relief to me. The hard part’s over. All we need now is that little fire.

  Come on, friend. I’ve unburdened myself; my confession is made. It’s over to you.

  I’m waiting. Doing my best to be patient.

  Indeed, I will go so far as to say that I’m being more patient right now than I’ve ever been in my life. Here we are on page 18 and I’ve trusted you with some of the most painful confessions I have ever made to anyone, simply so that you would know this wasn’t some fancy trick. It was a real and true account of what happened to me, which, were you ever to have seen me in the flesh, would be instantly verified. I am burned. Oh, how I am burned.

  It’s a sign of your mercy that I’m really waiting for. And your courage, which I’ve somehow sensed from the beginning was like your mercy, a quality you possessed. It does take courage to set a flame to your first book, to defy the sickly wisdom of your elders and preserve words as though they were in some way precious.

  Think of the absurdity of that! Is there anything in your world or mine, Above or Below, that is so available as words?

  If the preciousness of things is bound in some measure to their rarity, then how precious can the sounds we make, waking or sleeping, in infancy or senility, sane, mad, or simply trying on hats, be? There’s a surfeit of them. They spew from tongues and pens in their countless billions every day. Think of all that words express: the seductions, threats, demands, entreaties, prayers, curses, omens, proclamations, diagnoses, accusations, insinuations, testaments, judgments, reprieves, betrayals, laws, lies, and liberties. And so on, and on, words without end. Only when the last syllable has been spoken, whether it’s a joyous hallelujah or someone complaining about their bowels, only then is it that I think we can reasonably assume the world will have ended. Created with a word, and—who knows?—maybe destroyed by one. I know about destruction, friend. More than I care to tell. I’ve seen such things, such foul and unspeakable things . . .

  Never mind. Just the flame, please.

  What’s the delay? Oh wait. It isn’t that remark I made back there about knowing destruction that’s got you twitchy, is it? It is. You want to know what I’ve seen.

  Why in Demonation can’t you be satisfied with what you’ve been given? Why do you always have to know more?

  We had an agreement. At least I thought we did. I thought all you needed was a simple confession and in return you’d cremate me: ink, paper, an
d glue consumed in one merciful blaze.

  But that’s not going to happen yet, is it?

  Damn me for a fool. I shouldn’t have said anything about my knowledge of destruction. As soon as you heard that word your blood started to quicken.

  Well . . .

  I suppose it won’t hurt to tell you a little more, as long as we understand one another. I’ll give you just one more piece of my life and then we’re going to get this book cooked.

  Yes?

  All right, as long as we agree. There has to be an end to this or I’m going to start getting angry, and I could make things very unpleasant for you if I decided to do that. I can get this book to fly out of your hands and beat at your head ’til you’re bleeding from every hole in your head. You think I’m bluffing?

  Don’t tempt me. I’m not a complete fool. I half-expected that you’d want to hear a little bit more of my life. Don’t think it’s going to get bright and happy anytime soon. There was never a happy day in my whole life.

  No, that’s a lie. I was happy on the road with Quitoon. But that was all so long ago I can barely remember the places we went, never mind our conversations. Why does my memory work in such irrational ways? It remembers all the words to some stupid song I sang when I was an infant, but I forget what happened to me yesterday. That said, there are some events that are still so painful, so life changing, that they stay intact, despite all attempts by my mind to erase them.

  All right. I surrender, a little. I’ll tell you how I got from there to here. It’s not a pretty sequence of events, believe me.

  But once I’ve unburdened myself any doubts you still have about what I’ve asked you to do will be forgotten. You’ll burn the book when I’m finished. You will put me out of my misery, I swear.

  So . . .

  As is self-evident, I survived my fall into the fire and the minute or longer that Pappy Gatmuss left me to struggle there in my bed of flames. My skin, despite the toughness of my scales, melted and blistered while I attempted to get up. By the time Pappy G. caught hold of my tails, and unceremoniously dragged me out of the fire, then kicked me over, there was barely any life left in me. (I heard all this later from my mother. At the time I was mercifully unconscious.)

  Pappy Gatmuss woke me up, however. He brought a pail of ice water from the house and drenched me. The shock of water dowsed the flames and brought me out of my faint in an instant.

  I sat up, gasping.

  “Well look at you, boy,” Pappy Gatmuss said. “Aren’t you a sight to make a father weep?”

  I looked down at my body, at the raw blistered and black flesh of my chest and belly.

  Momma was yelling at Pappy. I didn’t hear all she said but she seemed to be accusing him of deliberately leaving me in the fire in the hopes of killing me. I left them arguing, and crawled away into the house, grabbing a big serrated knife out of the kitchen in case I had to later defend myself from Gatmuss. Then I went up the stairs to the mirror in my mother’s room and looked at my face. I should have prepared myself for the shock of what I saw, but I didn’t give myself time. I stared at the bubbling, melting masterwork of burns that my face had become, and spontaneously vomited at my own reflection.

  I was very gently wiping the vomit off my chin when I heard Gatmuss’ yowl from the bottom of the stairs.

  “Words, boy?” he yelled. “You were writing words about me?”

  I peered over the banister, and saw the enraged behemoth below. He was carrying a few partially burned sheets covered with my scrawled writing. Obviously he’d plucked them from the fire, and had found some reference to himself. I knew my own work well enough to be certain that there was no mention of Gatmuss in any of those books that was not accompanied by clots of insulting adjectives. He was too stupid to know the meaning of “malodorous” and “heinous,” but he wasn’t so dense as to not be able to grasp the general tone of my feelings. I hated him with all my heart, and that hatred poured out of the pages he carried. He dragged his lumpen carcass up the stairs, calling to me as he came:

  “I’m not a cretin, boy! I know what these here words mean.

  And I’m going to make you suffer for them, you hear me? I’m going to make a new fire and cook you in it, one minute for every bad word about me you wrote here. That’s a lot of words, boy.

  And a lot of cooking, you are going to be burned black, boy!”

  I didn’t waste breath and time talking back at him. I had to get out of the house and into the darkened streets of our neighborhood, which was called the Ninth Circle. All the worst of Humankind’s damned—the souls that neither bribes nor beatings could control—lived by their wits in its parasite infested wastelands.

  The source of all parasitic life was the maze of refuse at the back of our house. In return for our occupancy of the house, which was in a state of near decrepitude, Pappy G. was responsible for keeping watch on the garbage heaps and to discipline any souls who in his opinion were deserving of punishment.

  The freedom to be cruel suited Pappy G. hugely, of course. He’d go out every night armed with a machete and a gun, ready to maim in the name of the law. Now as he came up after me it was with that same machete and gun. I had no doubt that he would kill me if (or more likely, when) he caught up with me. I knew I had no chance of out-running him on the streets, so throwing myself out the window (my body curiously indifferent to pain in its present state of shock) and heading for the steep-sided heaps of refuse, where I knew I could lose him in the endless canyons of trash, was my only option.

  Pappy G. fired from the window I’d just jumped out of a minute or two after I’d started to climb the heap of trash, and then he fired again when I reached the top. Both bullets missed me, but not by much. If he managed to make the jump himself, and then closed the distance between us, he would shoot me, in the back, I knew, without giving the deed a second thought. And as I stumbled and rolled down the far side of the hill of stinking refuse, I thought to myself that if the choice was between dying out here, shot down by Pappy G., and being taken back to the house to be beaten and mocked, I would prefer the former.

  It was a little early to be entertaining thoughts of death, however. Even though my burned body was emerging from its shocked state and starting to pain me, I was still nimble enough to move over the mounds of rotted food and discarded furniture with some speed, whereas Pappy G.’s sheer height and cumbersome body made the garbage heaps far more treacherous. Two or three times I lost all sight of him, and even dared believe I had slipped him. But Gatmuss had the instincts of a hunter. He tracked me through the chaos, up one slope and down another, the troughs getting deeper and the peaks higher, as I ventured farther from the house.

  And I was slowing down. The effort of climbing the heaps of refuse was taking its toll, the garbage sliding away beneath my feet as I attempted to scramble up their ever-steeper slopes.

  It was only a matter of time now, I knew, before the end came. So I decided to stop once I reached the summit of the pile I was climbing, and give Pappy G. a good clear shot of me. My body was fast approaching collapse, the muscles of my calves spasming so painfully I cried out, my hands and arms a mass of gashes from slitting my cooked flesh on the shards of glass and the raw edges of tin cans as I sought a handhold.

  My mind was now made up. Once I reached the top of this hillock I would give up the chase and, keeping my back to Gatmuss so that he couldn’t see the despair upon my face and take some pleasure from it, I would await his bullet. With the decision made I felt curiously unencumbered and climbed easily up to my chosen death site.

  Now all I had to do was—

  Wait! What was that hanging in the air in the trench between this summit and the next? It looked to my weary eyes like two beautiful shanks of raw meat, with—could I believe what I was seeing?—cans of beer attached to each piece of meat.

  I had heard stories of people who, lost in great deserts, seemed to see the very image of what they wanted most at that moment: a glittering pool of refreshing
water, most likely, surrounded by date palms lush with ripe fruit. These mirages are the first sign that the wanderer is losing his grip on reality, I knew, because the faster he chases this phantom pool with its shady bower of fruit-laden trees, the faster it recedes from him.

  Was I now completely crazy? I had to know. Forsaking the spot where I had intended to perish, I slid down the incline towards the place where the steak and beer hung, moving just a little on a creaking rope that disappeared into the darkness high above us. The closer I got, the more certain I became that this was not, as I’d feared, an illusion, but the real thing; a suspicion that was confirmed moments later when my salivating mouth closed round a nice lean portion of the steak. It was better than good, it was exceptional, the meat melting in my mouth. I opened the chilly can of beer, and raised it to my lipless mouth, which had dealt well with the challenge of biting into the steak and now had their hurts soothed by a bathing of cold beer.

  I was silently thanking whatever kindly soul had left these refreshments to be found by a lost traveler when I heard a bellowing from Pappy G., and from the corner of my eye I saw him at the very spot I’d chosen to die.

  “Leave some of that for me, boy!” he yelled, and having seemingly forgotten the enmity between us, so moved was he by the sight of the steak and beer, he came down the steep slope in great strides. As he did so he yelled:

  “If you touch that other steak and beer, boy, I will kill you three times over, I swear!”