Come and Watch a Man Die!

Watch a Man Die!

  Kyle B. Stiff

  Copyright 2012 Kyle B. Stiff

  For news and info about Kyle B. Stiff’s other writing projects, including Demonworld and Heavy Metal Thunder, visit his web site at www.kylebstiff.wordpress.com.

  To contact the author, send a letter to [email protected].

  Kyle B. Stiff can be found on twitter @KyleBStiff.

  They paid millions of dollars to take part in a ritual of human sacrifice…

  The walls of the gallery were filled with rows of high-definition television sets placed end to end all the way around. In the glow of the monitors stood huddled figures in fine suits, each and every one a great figure of finance, industry, or politics. Over here two men shook hands, over there two more exchanged words, and like a butterfly flapping its wings and creating a hurricane on the other side of the world, so too did the pronouncements and agreements of these men shape the world and the lives of others.

  There was a stage on the far side of the gallery. Vidmar Links, the “cooking revolutionary”, sat motionless in a small chair. He wore coveralls plastered with advertisements and his hands were delicately placed on his knees. He was the subject of this night’s entertainment.

  Before Vidmar stood none other than Sigmund S. Chariot. He was a young firebrand in a black suit with a yellow ribbon-tie - the sort of that was becoming quite popular. He sat on many boards, owned considerable shares in private military corporations and oil companies, and he was heir to the Chariot fortune gained through pharmaceutical enterprises. More importantly, he was one of the organizers of tonight’s entertainment. Many would say that he “had it all”, but the greatest thing that he had at this moment was his intense hatred for Vidmar Links.

  “You’re a real shit, you know that?” said Sigmund.

  Vidmar lowered his head. Sigmund wanted to believe that he’d actually hurt his feelings, but was instead haunted by the image of Pontius Pilate questioning Christ. Sigmund had never before met a man whose mere existence was an act of condescension. His blood boiled.

  “I guess you really get off on this martyr trip, huh?” said Sigmund. Suddenly aware that he was losing his cool, Sigmund adopted a carefree manner. “Then again, I guess you really are beating us, in some sense. You know that, Vid? I mean, after you’re dead, all of your debts and the debts of your adopted family are just going to… disappear. How’s that for a neat trick? You got to live high on the hog, your family got to run up their credit cards, and then – poof! The banks foot the bill. I wish I could live like that. Just carefree, irresponsible…”

  “Join me, then,” said Vidmar, looking up. “It’s not too late for you.”

  “Oh, get over yourself!” Sigmund spat. “I was fucking joking about the banks paying your way. When the clock strikes three and you’re turned into fried chicken, we’re going to break you into little chunks, put you into decorative glass containers, and sell the pieces for fifty grand an ounce. You’ll pay your way just like everyone else. Nobody gets a free ride around here.” Before Vidmar could insult him once again, Sigmund turned and left in a dramatic huff.

  No one else bothered to gloat over Vidmar, or even pay attention to him at all. Most of the elites watched the hundreds of television monitors spread throughout the gallery. Each monitor ran loops of various clips showcasing details of Vidmar’s life, Vidmar’s cooking show, interviews with Vidmar, and a few puff pieces about the people who had engineered the exciting enterprise to erase Vidmar’s substantial debts to society through a highly marketable, buzz-generating public execution.

  Just as Sigmund stomped through the gallery, a group of wealthy socialites laughed at the nearest television monitor. It displayed an interview with a brightly-dressed street urchin with his baseball cap cocked at an absurd angle. “Vidmar ain’t never gonna go down like that,” said the youth, his body rocking back and forth comically. “Vidmar tell it like it is, he always had an’ he always did, even on that gay-ass cookin’ show. Believe it: He got somethin’ planned.” There followed a quick rundown of possible scenarios that were currently “hot” on the internet. One was that Vidmar had secretly wired the execution apparatus into the seats of all who were in attendance, and when the switch was thrown the audience would be electrocuted but he would remain unscathed. Another scenario was that he had swallowed a large, empty bag, then poured an entire bottle of Everclear down his throat and into the bag so that when the switch was thrown the alcohol would ignite and explode, killing everyone in attendance, but he would lean back in such a way that his upper body would be thrown clear of the blast and kept alive by doctors sympathetic to the revolution. Still another scenario was that Vidmar fully expected to die, but also planned to be resurrected in three days using techniques known by the elites but hidden from the masses.

  The attendees laughed at each scenario. Partly as a way to release moral discomfort (this was the first execution for many of them), and partly out of the nagging feeling that Vidmar really was up to something. He was a charismatic figure. His cooking show had been politically dangerous; it was no secret that he had little respect for society’s authority figures, or even for the concept of authority.

  But he was also a bullshitter. Conspiracy theorists who desperately tried to piece together a cogent picture of his youth using Vidmar’s own words either went mad themselves, ended up believing he was some kind of interdimensional being capable of bending time and space, or concluded that he was a liar worth studying only because he charmingly believed his own fairytales. Among Vidmar’s absurd claims was his insistence that he was the creator of the Hellraiser franchise. Many incredibly wealthy businessmen who, lacking free time or even any inclination to watch a film since their childhood ended, openly gawked at several monitors that showed clips from the incredibly old and dated Hellraiser franchise; it was all new to them. Several clips gave a background on the mythology of the Hellraiser idea: A puzzle box from antiquity is found by various characters who seek more than is readily available in their drab lives, the puzzle is solved, a doorway to “another world” is opened, and then the character meets dreadful, scarred, imposing figures known as Cenobites – the principal figure being Pinhead, who to this day can be seen on shirts worn by spiritually bankrupt low-lifes who are culturally only one step short of becoming wiggers.

  But there was one haunting aspect that those interested in Vidmar’s character could not easily dismiss: The Cenobites were sadists who confused pleasure and pain, and Vidmar was obviously fascinated by their need to give their victims peak experiences.

  “I grew up locked in a basement,” Vidmar said from one monitor. The interviewer could be heard stifling a giggle in the background. “In that basement, I had the idea for Hellraiser. I wrote a few short stories about the Cenobites, and then I passed the stories up through a grate. They were taken by someone. The idea was deemed “good enough”, and so I was finally released on my eighteenth birthday.”

  “You had the idea for this famous franchise?” said the interviewer. “Just as it is now?”

  “Mmm, no-o-o, it was a little different,” said Vidmar, un-phased to an autistic degree. “The way I saw it, the Cenobites were aliens. They were monks who traveled through space in giant black ships. They had access to immense resources, but culturally they were quite different from us. Instead of every man being out for himself, they were obsessed with seizing on, uh, visions I guess you’d say. The Cenobites were driven by the vision of their leader. I never gave him a name… people called him Pinhead, you know, in those movies. He was trying to create something through suffering. He was trying to orchestrate something. His people would scoot around the cosmos and pick up one person here, one person there. In the early stories, they
used physical torture. Only on someone who was willing, you have to understand. Later on, they would toy with people’s emotions. It was a little absurd, I guess. I mean this was a species with access to unimaginable energy, wealth, and military power, but they would pick up one guy from a stone age civilization and just try to make him cry. In the later stories they started orchestrating the creation of messiahs. Martyrs, you know. They were quite good at it… then again, the leader was always haunted by sadness. Haunted by the idea that he was creating an endless string of failures. I’m not even sure myself what they were after. Then again, you could take a look at the most sensible, sober person in our own culture and easily make light of the things that he holds dear. We’re all chasing after phantoms.”

  “So!” said the interviewer, “You single-handedly created a million-dollar franchise, but it was stolen from you?”

  “I never said I created it,” said Vidmar. “I said I had the idea. That’s different.”

  “How is that different?”

  “Ideas don’t come from us,” said Vidmar, glancing at the camera. “We channel them.”

  And then, on another screen: “Who are