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The Wedding Album

Vawdias Main
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Essentially it’s a store semi-similar to that of any found in a strip mall or local Wal-Mart. It sells the things you need, the things you don’t, the things you want, and sometimes it even has just what you’ve came for. Though it’s essentially the same as any store you’ve been in before, its proprietor and interior are something altogether different. The place of business is hidden next door to the farm house, past the cellar door, down the rotting steps, and through a tunnel reaching beyond the nearby creek. Inside is a mix of “Hellraiser” meets new age design; the store music is East India meets techno. An eccentric woman known as “Grandmother,” or “Granny” if you choose, runs the place. She is paper thin and bones, topped off by age; silver hair in curls, too much makeup, and a red outfit that seems to have once been a rug now unraveling makes up the rest of her appearance. Having never met the expected protagonist, she takes in every detail when he enters her shop. The varying color tiers of tan to brown tropical shirt unbuttoned and revealing his almost athletic physique. The poorly kept cut-off jean shorts stained and grimy looking beyond the faint purplish hue; the wild hair, both the coming of mountain man age beard on his chin and the early 80’s era anime bush on top of his head. Naturally she’s long since taken note of the steel-poled STOP sign he carries in one hand and the ceramic liquor jug tied to his belt.

Meanwhile, the protagonist takes in his surroundings. The walls are screens of hanging chains with a multitude of obscure items for sale blanketing the links of iron. Neon ads glow near the ceiling, hoisted on the true walls of cement stone that encases the shop. He wonders if they have more problems here with thieves or chain-awed skaters.

“Ah! Weary wanderer come in, do come in! And may you have plenty to spend this day!” Greets Grandmother as she emerges from a mist of incense.

“Nay, I’ve but one item I seek and t’was informed ‘tis paid for.” The protagonist is grinning as he tickles the bamboo chimes. “Some kids from town sent me to pick it up.” Does anyone even know this is supposed to be a vague reference?

“Oh, oh yes, I see. You must be Chuck Drambuie then. Yes, I believe I know of what you seek. And believe me, many a pretty penny or few were paid for this, oh yes, and many indeed.” The elderly woman bobs her head and Chuck follows her through the maze of chain walls. She smiles while he wrinkles his nose as each section of the iron aisles reek of different, more potent incense. It doesn’t take long for the protagonist to become lost and drunk off of smell.

“Bless my garters! Here it is! I thought I may have misplaced it.” Grandmother lifts a dusty rectangle to eye level and blows the particles of ignorance away. “Been here for a while, oh yes, quite a while boy. Five years have passed since this book was left to me; started thinking no one would ever come for it. Hmm…Five years; ever since the suicide you know.”

At this the music switches songs to a beautiful, though haunting, crystalline melody. Incense smoke doppelgangs morning mist in looks, feel and movement. The room has just dropped a few noticeable degrees in temperature.

“Suicide? Do ye know this tale better’n I?” Chuck is perplexed; lighting up with his nicotine fix may help his wonder. He doesn’t even know why he needs the book.

“I may.” Grandmother wipes her dress across the book, tired of wheezing the dust away. “Only if you know nothing of this wedding album your friend Ry has left you.”

Chuck smiles back. “No, I s’pose I don’t.”

“Then more than you do I know of this tale. Yes, yes-yes, much more. But I ain’t the one to go tellin’ no one, not even you. Don’t know why he left it for the likes of you; don’t seem to be anything special about you. Now boy, if you aren’t going to buy anything, please depart as I await true business.” Grandmother drops the book into Chuck’s hands and dances away.

The protagonist flips through the massive album and shuts it, staring at the cover. Nothing makes sense of the book, not right off hand at least. He drags on his cigarette and sighs the smoke from his lungs. The music, he hears, is now a hip-hop Arabian them. The incense is back and has become hazardous to your health, as deemed by the surgeon general.

“I’ll take . . . these!” Chuck, desperate for some answers after having come so far, holds up a bucket of alphabet refrigerator magnets. “I’ve little money, but perhaps enough for ye to spin me a sentence or two with the ABCs here?”

“Aw, that really is sweet boy, really is. But grams doesn’t do story land here! Now quitchyer daydreamin’!” Grandmother spits disgust at her one customer and connects firmly, but not harshly, a ring-studded hand with Chuck’s jaw. Rather than a ringing in the ears, melody notes flutter like crazed grasshoppers escaping a lawn mower. The smelly smoke is less enthusiastic and simply lingers on in the spoken-word-silent room. Grandmother gives up and sighs at the motionless lad before her. “Very well. A questing mind seeks guidance, true? I’m not the one to be tellin’ you nothin’, but seein’ as how you ain’t a gettin’ out of my shop unless I do, I have no choice. So, you will not always travel alone. Much to your dismay, yes, I know, but you will gain companions on your quest. The first two will be along shortly. They’ll be important in that they’re gonna help you get this journey of yours underway. Reckon at least one of ‘em oughta know what I ain’t gonna tell you about your book. Now I can see your ain’t keen of travelin’ companions but don’t shoo any of ‘em away. All of them will have something to bring to your book! Now-“ The bucket of ABCs are taken from Chucks’ hands and opened. The letters magically escape and cling to the chains. Some of the letters cling more closely together, spelling out words that have no meaning or reason.

“Bone . . . wax? Bonewax? Bam? And . . . “ The protagonist has trouble deciphering the last word, partly due to the sheets of incense thickening with restlessness. The chains are swaying now with an unfelt wind. Merchandise falls to the floor as the metal link walls begin flailing about.

“Something’s amiss at the house.” Sneers Grandmother. She bunches up her dress and shuffles to the exit. “Perchance to do something with you and your book, lad. You may want to get out of here now if you hope to keep what you’ve come so far for.”

Instead, Chuck wordlessly chases after Grandmother through the winding tunnel. The serene sound of water trickling beyond walls does nothing now to slow up his racing heart. His palms are sweaty, both the STOP sign and the wedding album are hard to hang onto.

At last they come to the cellar and the door to outside. A bright light is shining through the cracks of wood.

“Wait!” Chuck holds his STOP sign message-out for Grandmother to see. “If ‘tis I who brought ‘em, oughta be me to face ‘em. Stay here.”

“Such a chivalrous young man. You will go far.” The old lady gently pats the protagonist on the cheek. Without warning, however, she drops her fist atop his cranium, making him stumble backwards enough to fall on his ass. “I can handle my own self!”

No sooner is the door opened when Grandmother is pulled out by a noose of metal. Chuck’s blood runs of nitroglycerine, freezing everything from within and making his life force fragile to the touch. He breathes deep, dropping the half burnt cig from his lips. Slowly he walks up the water raped wooden steps and into a world of a dozen spotlights and a heavy metal nocturne. “Infinatum.”

“This ground you tread is sacred, 324. You’ve done ill to come so far.” The antagonist speaks in a hollow voice. He stands atop a spiky pot-bellied tank and is adorned in tatters of red and black cloth whipping insanely in the night air. He is immensely pale with long brown hair slicked back into a ponytail reaching his waist. He has a black goatee that could have been painted on due to how well-groomed it is.

“Thank ye kindly, but ye know this ground’s just as mediocre as that which you tread.” Chuck quips, relaxed now enough to put a new cigarette to his grin.

“Hmph. Ever vigilant with our humor, aren’t we? Even to the end, eh 324?” Infinatum sneers and lifts the gasping old lady to his level. The metal tendril wrapped around her throat can be traced back to the underside of Infinatums’ wrist. His coils, one from each arm, are his pride and joy. He stares at the old woman and growls to her, “And just what have you done?”

“Sounds like ye have me confused with someone from your Continuum.” Chuck cuts him off, though he couldn’t hear the threatening whisper in the first place. “Me name’s Drambuie. I have no affiliation with the Continuum ye have poisoned.” Chuck’s hand instinctively grips the STOP sign tighter in anticipation for what is to come. It seems to him like an eternity ago when he had founded the Jones Continuum, a gathering of people interested and charged with upholding the notion of free will in all. It doesn’t, however, seem all that long ago when one of the Upper Echelon members, Infinatum, began a mutiny that divided and almost destroyed it. All that remains of the Continuum today is that faction swayed and tainted by Infinatum and his lies of free will.

“So brave. So fearless. So diligent in your stupid beliefs of free will. You’re just so . . . nice. Oh, God, how I hate you . . . 324.” Infinatum strains his muscles and screams a heart aching shriek. All of those in his affiliation who may have never known of his passionate hatred of the Jones Continuums’ founder know it now. The business suited men take his “hint” and advance on their leader’s foe.

“Let her go Infinatum!” Chuck shouts with his sign pointed to Grandmother. “Fuck you.” Says the antagonist. He recomposes himself and lowers the rasping woman into the containment unit below him.

Chuck has already fended off the first three men known as MEChs (Men Enforcing Change) and looks up to the next set of suits, 20 ft. away but closing in. He takes one more glance up at the man who stole his peaceful organization right out from under him and feels the hatred he recently acquired; the hatred that only came after the fear.

“Consider her ‘Whacked.’” Infinatum boisters laughter as Chuck retreats into the farmhouse. He looks into the unit below him, down at the woman who will soon be an embodiment of her own dreams, be they good or bad. “What did you tell him? I see you gave him the book--how much does he know now?”

“This isn’t like you.” The brave Grandmother has gone; her trembling twin will be playing her part now. “You were always so-“

“SHUT UP! I’m nothing like who I was! Now, what did you tell him?” Infinatum screams coarsely into the echoing chamber.

“Enough to stop you. You can’t keep doing-“

Giving up, Infinatum has already closed the trap door. He wastes no time in listening to her babble and instead recomposes himself again. His temper is so over-the-top. When a little more calm, he orders a leave, being sure to send a group in after the fugitive 324, and one to stay behind and follow in case the protagonist makes it out. “Do not kill him. I want to know exactly what he learned here and why he came so far. He will be whacked. If you come across anyone else, waste them all.” He looks back to the house, “Goddamn you 324.”

Inside the two story farmhouse every room is dimly lit by the spotlights outside. Steadily it gets darker, signifying to Chuck that Infinatum is pulling out, and telling him that he has little to no hope now of ever rescuing Grandmother, but that there’s some chance in him getting himself out of here alive. “Can’t stick around for the fireworks, eh Inf? Well, suits me just fine for the time bein’, least until I know more about why them 'kiddz sent me all the way out here for a weddin’ book.”

Through doorways and halls Chuck runs. The house seems much larger on the ground level than what the outside suggests. He can hear the footfalls of the MEChs chasing him, having as much trouble navigating and seeing as he is, but never losing his trail. Moaning ecstasy in the darkness brings the protagonist to a halt. He backs against a wall and squints at the shadowy movements before him. His hand finds a light switch and it brings illumination to a massive floor heap of humping nakedness. Chuck smirks more in disgust than interest at Grandmother’s side business. Incoming footfalls spook Chuck to escape the orgy in favor of the next darkened room.

The MEChs are summoned to the light and are temporarily distracted. With not even the glorious spectacle of human sexuality stopping them, the suits make quick work of tasering beyond salvation their unpredicted prey.

“Shit!” Exclaims Chuck in a silent harsh breath. He’s now pressed to a wall near a doorway looking into a room with ascending stairs. The suits shuffle by noisily. Knowing they’ll be circling around to his left, Chuck takes his chances and runs to the steps. His left hand slides up the banister; his right holds his STOP sign while the wedding album stays stuffed under his arm with nil chance of being dropped.

“HEY!” Shouts one of the suited men. He quick draws and a taser-hook-bites Chuck in the arm, yanking him back down the staircase.

The protagonist drops on the deck and flops like a fish as new electricity surges through him at the touch of a button. His hands are numb but reach wildly until he’s torn the hooks out of his bicep and forearm. Learning to stand again is like learning Japanese; it’s as hard as hell and his tongue feels fucked up.

The suit, a younger fellow with a full bright future ahead of him, kicks Chuck in the gut before popping his knuckles. He grins as if he just pissed in the public pool. Then, he howls and tumbles down immediately as Drambuie takes his STOP sign and swings in a large, low crescent, chopping the octagon into unprotected tendon. The fellow is now a crying jumble on the floor whereas Chuck is the one standing.

Two more of Infinatum’s men stumble upon #324. They each go for their own tasers but are dropped by a series of flat slaps and pangs by the well-wielded road sign. At last, all three are killed with a sturdy chop in the back of the neck. Chuck assures himself that he has enough people after his head already.

The stairs are forgotten and a new plan consists of Drambuie running out the back door to a nearby decrepit barn and the rustic truck within. With his ass in the seat, and the screwdriver-now-key turned, the rust-bucket piece of shit rattles and bounces over the grass. It dangerously rounds out of the river rock driveway and leaves a trail of dust and monoxide as it disappears down the dirt road.

The two surviving MEChs come out from searching the house in time to watch the dust fall. “Will we follow him?” They ask of the watchman next to the yellow-ribboned oak tree.

“I will go. Infinatum says he’s not concerned with #324 at the moment and to just monitor his progress. He says we must learn all we can from the book #324 came here for and that we will only find anything out so long as we let the renegade proceed.” The once-hidden man has spoken. He brings from his belt an object that resembles a motorcycle handgrip complete with handbrake. He takes a pose as if he is sitting on a motorcycle and tugs the acceleration on the handle back once; a phantom cycle, translucent and void of a front wheel, forms beneath him and he is gone, speeding down the same road Chuck took.

The protagonist, having been speeding for hours without incident, still sours the look on his face when a cop flashes his sirens and bids him to pull over. A world of disorder and chaos and one fucking policeman is tracking speeders.

“In a hurry son?” Asks Officer Martin while penciling his notepad. He’s a stout man, one of muscle and gut, but no other fatty qualities.

“Aye, that I am. Figured t’was late enough to hurry home with no one bein’ the wiser.” Smiles Drambuie coolly.

“Right.” The word is drawn out and Martin looks the truck over from front to back. His gaze returns to Chuck and then move on to the STOP sign poking post-up from the floor. “And what d’you reckon that’s all about?”

Chuck, having followed his eyes the whole time come back to meet his, “Heh, aye.” His head bows and slowly shakes, “I wish I had an explanation ye’d believe.”

Officer Martin shines his flashlight directly at Chuck and sighs, “I haven’t seen any missing STOP signs anywhere. Let’s hope it stays that way. Now, get this heap of shit off my highway, freak.” And just like that, ticket averted.

Burden lifts and flies away as Chuck watches the man leave in his mirror, an object still closer than he may actually be. The police car comes to life, the flashing lights flicker off, and zips by. The truck rattles to life, ready to pursue. Idle, idle, falter, idle, put into drive, and dead. It won’t start. “Heap of shit” legacy? Nope. Ain’t no gas in it.

Chuck sits there a moment. The door’s ajar, dome light is on, and the troublesome wedding album is laid open in his lap. “Might bit ‘o pain in getting’ ye, book. And to top it off, ye seem normal enough. Time-yellowed, matted lace, lackluster silver and gold accents. Missin’ a few piccys though I chalk that up to ye all but forgotten status.”

Pages are turned, pictures are glanced over; the protagonist holds little interest in the documented matrimony. He takes note of small details that may be important later, such as the paper. Too thin for the album but unlike any kind he’s known except maybe the thick grey “recycled” stuff. Also, certain pictures are tintypes, old burnt-image-on-metal things. There is no particular theme to the wedding, nor is it a financially flaunting affair; it does look to be more recent than the condition of the book suggests. Finally, no one is smiling in any picture except the one with the bride and groom; in the background the best man is grinning like a devil.

The only other detail retained nags the piss outta him. He stands in a ditch and pisses with the wind, muttering with his cigarette holding lips, “Aschlynn…Sophie…Aschlynn and Sophie…” The bride and groom, who stare so lovingly in one another’s eyes without so much as a grin, while the best man sneers his teeth, smiling like a skater’s half pipe. “Aschlynn and Shen…no, I mean Soph—Sophie? Do I mean Sophie? Aschlynn and Shen…Shen-what? There was more.” There’s no more. He shakes and zips up and walks back to the truck. The STOP sign and wedding album are collected and Chuck takes to hoofing the field rather than the road.

It takes another 20 min. before the solitary MECh catches up to the dead pickup. It takes 14 min. to search the truck and immediate area for fugitive #324, and then an additional 3 min. used to failingly leave the scene to be whacked by a soon-to-be-angered Infinatum. Interestingly enough it takes approximately 37 min. for Chuck to find the railroad tracks.

Night continues to exhale. Soon it will finish and the breath of dawn will be drawn.

Drambuie continues down the railroad. His gaze still follows the parallel streaks of metal at his feet. His stomach’s empty; his liquor jug’s empty; his STOP sign has become gravity’s bitch and feels more like a locomotive engine on a stick. Asphalt kills the monotony of the weathered railroad ties. It mounds over the wooden planks to fashion a respectable driveway for a small sitcom-worthy house. A light is on but it’s of the “sleep-security” variety.

No horn, no whistle, only the clickety-clack vibrations warn Chuck of an oncoming railroad carriage. The thing comes to a stop at the drive. It looks to be some kind of converted horse-drawn Victorian wagon of red but with no top. Gold railings keep the eight passengers safely seated amidst the restaurant style booths inside the rectangular cart. Taking the pause of travel as invitation, Chuck Drambuie climbs aboard.

“I’m sorry sir,” says a man of passenger train uniform, “but there is no room left. If so determined you may cling to the railings until there is a vacancy.”

“Aye, beats the ‘hooves’ at any rate.” Smiles the clinger.

The carriage shakily begins rolling with its new passenger. Less than 15 feet down the line it stops, releases a singular man reading a newspaper and the conductor invites Chuck aboard. “If you wish, sir, you may have a complimentary meal of your choosing.” He stretches out his hand to introduce the chef/waiter beside him.

Chuck looks to either side and behind him and grins a frowning grin, “Heh…where’sa kitchen at?”

“Or, if sir chooses, you may rest.”

Blackness follows. It isn’t dreamless sleep, but nothing is remembered. Chuck awakens to the jostling sensation of train travel. Birds are singing and the sky is a beautiful and untouched blue. The setting is a winding railroad through smooth green tree-spotted hills. It was only seconds ago when the conductor enchanted sleep on him, wasn’t it? But I feel so refreshed, thinks Chuck.

“I assure, sir, that a full nights rest has transpired.” Speaks a different conductor, one with a thick German accent; the other is no where to be seen. “Do not be alarmed; the time is only 10:38 a.m. You needed the rest more than sustenance.”

“Guess so, eh?” Agrees a not-at-all-groggy Drambuie.

“Based on fragrance we took the liberty of filling your flask with your choice of alcohol; Drambuie, is that correct sir?” Speaks the German.

“Aye. Same’s true in account of me name. Chuck Drambuie.” The protagonist tips back his jug with a full and satisfying swig. It’s drambuie all right, and it’s excellent.

“Would you care for breakfast now, sir? Or an early lunch?”

“Ye best in breakfast with a bit more ‘o the ‘sauce’ to drink.”

Two infant twin boys sit across the table from Chuck. One stands and hoists a tarnished fanfare to his mouth, sounding it and then declaring, “I HAVE NO HAIR!” The child sits with a face of contentment.

The other, wearing aviation goggles over his eyes, clasps his hand and speaks directly to Chuck, “Brother Farnsworth seeks the acceptance of his peers. His studies brought the fortuitous removal of his hair, in turn catapulting him upward the social ladder, much unlike one would think in that friend sought ring of your age group.”

“Brother Allen shows me no envy, though his curl of red bang has left him an outcast. But then he is only still a lad, what with being my younger by 23 and a half minutes.” The other baby smacks his hands on the table in a fit of real childlike laughter and behavior.

“True,” says Brother Allen, “no green-eyed jealousy beast holds me dear sibling, but indeed only my research. It’s foul sciences elude me still and I’m getting no younger I’m afraid. Why, just last week I began teething!” He pauses a moment to wink at his brother and the two follow up with another act of laughter.

“Ah, please excuse me sir, for it seems I’ve the manners of a juvenile delinquent. I am Farnsworth, and in crystal clarity, this is obviously my brother Allen. He is the researcher, I, the inventor.” The bald goggle less babe stands wobbly and gives a proper bow. Chuck returns with a dip of his head and Farnsworth goes on, “Might I question your disposition, Mr. Drambuie you said it was? Yes, you’re an interesting character, aren’t you?”

“Aye, I s’pose I may be just that.”

Farnsworth looks to Allen who merely holds his breath and pops his eyebrows. Only a moment of mourning for the quickly murdered conversation before Allen chimes in. “Yes, well, perhaps you would tell us more of your destination then. Surely you do not ride only for the scenery.” Farnsworth, meanwhile, finds this quite humorous in a reserved snort-of-a-chuckle way.

Chuck looks around and smiles his beard coated maw beneath contempt squinted eyes. “T’is a beautiful ride we have. And a destination? Nay, I can’t say for sure I have one now.”

“Of course,” Allen’s got it, “it is not the journey he takes but where it takes him.”

“A drifter?” Farnsworth is close.

“Oh no,” Allen still has it, “A drifter is without purpose, or with severely limited appeal thereof, and Mr. Drambuie has reason. However, he is not the focal point here, for it seems this quest and it’s own story within is at the helm.”

“Mr. Drambuie is no passenger, but a crewman.” “Precisely brother! He is but one of many who drive the story, though ultimately it is still the ship, or quest, that carries him.”

“Balderdash! Then all of us are nothing but crewmen with no passenger or captain in sight?” Farnsworth seems to disagree. “Or are we? Or are there? Yes, I see; an interesting character if ever there was one.” He concludes with a smile.

Chuck chuckles. “Seems there’s more to me that’s interestin’ in this tale after all then.” Roll call. The wedding album is present.

“Fascinating. A tome with a look that is a testament to the ages.” Allen thinks it’s old.

“I speculate it’s older than I.” Farnsworth is a comedian.

“I s’pose this’ll be what tells me where to go next; my destination.” Chuck peers into the open book with the two infants. They point out the same facts he noticed earlier about the condition of the paper, though they go further to liken them to the material a trading card is made of.

“3-2-4. Number 324.” A raspy voice comes from the booth across the aisle. A man dressed in a bathrobe with a towel worn ninja-mask-style sits with a monkey wearing a worn child’s’ monkey costume.

Every passenger looks first at the man before settling a soul-stabbing stare at Chuck, who in turn glares at the identity fouling bastard. Drambuie’s blood ices in fear of what foes may join him in this tiny carriage. The brothers twin look at him with widened awe.

“A celebrity of notoriety is in our midst.” Farnsworth is no foe, nor is Allen who nods furiously.

“I am not your enemy #324.” Bathrobe man claims to be on the level.

“Be yer word well then, but me name is Chuck Drambuie if’n yer on the level. I’m a man of no affiliation to the Continuum of Infinatum’s reign.”

All passengers devoid of the two active tables go back to minding their own bees’ wax; a fickle bunch with either more pressing matters or ADD, a blessing in whichever department.

“My name is Bonewax. BAM!! The monkey is my traveling companion.” Bathrobe man, Bonewax, makes introductions and exceeds the book of manners by courteously accepting a seat next to Chuck. BAM!! shuns solitude and monkey waddles to the table, coming to sit next to Allen who gave no invite but takes no offense. BAM!! stares through the monkey mask eyeholes; it is a creepy animation of living peepers beyond a lifeless latex likeness of that inside.

“Certainly the word curious does your friend half the justice it would do if his name were George.” Farnsworth will be here all week.

“Color me curious as I find little in reason for a primate to wear the artificial skin replicating his own hide. Does he not know he is a monkey?” Asks Allen in a more serious demeanor.

Bonewax leans back far enough for his towel scarf to reveal the 5 o’clock scar over his cheeks, mouth, chin, and smile. He winks and answers, “Actually, he thinks he’s a monkey. He dresses as such because he’s so convinced that he is a chimp that he wishes for all others to believe he is a monkey as well.”

Allen, with Farnsworth peering over his shoulder, looks beyond the monkey mask to reconfirm the true chimpanzee creature within. There’s no doubt in what is seen. “But…he is a monkey.”

“Down right effective, isn’t it?” Concludes Bonewax. He looks to Chuck who is wryly grinning and watching Allen across the table. Farnsworth’s mouth hits a growth spurt and stretches with comical concurrence with Bonewax. The protagonist seizes with inaudible chortles; Allen giggles; Farnsworth hyucks; Bone bellows laughter, and BAM!! sits with the idle animation of shifting blinking eyes.

A waiter brings breakfast to Drambuie and the group calms down. A meal consisting of a short stack, eggs, bacon, and jammed rolls with a toast tower side, all complimented with the man’s namesake saki.

“Back to business gentlemen.” Allen shifts the wedding album around so it lay right side up to him. “You remarked to having no destination other than that which this book entails. Surely something, Mr. Drambuie, has granted you this notion?”

“Aye.” He butters his toast. “Mucho mysterio. T'was in a ren-village known as Enex whence I first heard of it, though they called it the ‘book.’ Word of the ‘book,’ now referred to as the ‘album,’ arose in Temont, the Epicenter of Chaos. There the misfits known as the Asylumkiddz directed me to Granny’s. Help yerselves to me breakfast, I’ve no bottomless gut.”

“Temont to Granny’s?” Farnsworth butters his toast. “That is no short trek should my area cartographical memory serve me well. Even with transport, still it is a good ways.”

“Aye, that t’is. And t’is why I took a shortcut through The Closet. Shown to me by the Asylumkiddz t’was.” Chuck eats heartily and drinks long.

“Unlikely!” Allen takes his toast plain. “Everyone knows and further dares not to so much as near The Closet. That inconceivable fear-manifesting wretched invent is unlikely to wield any survivors!”

“There have been few to pass through. It’s no small feat, but it can be done.” Bonewax chimes in and tips his glass, which came from nowhere, to Chuck. “In fact, some seem to find it therapeutic to face ones fears. What better way than through a portal that gives your fear life.”

“If nothing else it does make possible a literal stare down of your hauntings. Yes, I can see your point.” Farnsworth tilts his head at Bonewax.

“Aye, t'was troublesome to get this book and still I’ve nary a notion why I need it. T’is no map; no directions; no message, no names I recall other than ‘Aschlynn and Sophie…’cept Sophie is wrong. T’was another name to go with Aschlynn, but I knew this long ago only in Enex. Slept since then…” Chuck looks out to the scenery in defeat, chewing the fatty bacon nonchalantly.

“The pictures are not of optimum quality and time seems to have diminished some clarity, but perhaps there is a familiar face among the guests?” Allen looks to Chuck who answers “Nope.” And then proceeds, “Perhaps the place is somewhere you’ve been before? If it was so important for you to have this book then surely it should have some connection with you.”

“Mayhap, but I don’t know if it was so important for me to have it. T’was never put that way, only that I needed to get the book. Granny’s shop added more mystery. She seemed to know plenty about this book before handing it over, but was reluctant to tell me. Gave me a bit though; some names, includin’ Bonewax and BAM!! here, the last one I couldn’t read. Had no time neither as Infinatum crashed and took Granny. T’was all I could do to save me skin from those MEChs.”

“Well then, the possibilities are endless. Let us forget the fate of the album for a moment and consider what we know of it. Figuring it out may give us our premiere answer.” Allen looks to his brother who is stuffing his face with jammed rolls and gives him a look that demands he partake. “The pictures; there are featured people in focus, sometimes people in the background, but they are much too vague to see now. There is also the setting of the picture and in correlation, the timeframe. Looking at the fashions of those in back we may be able to gather a thought of when. Mr. Drambuie, you said the locales where not familiar so we will have to skip the where. Lastly, there is the matter of who took the pictures. These are not professional. Clearly no tripod or other device was present in holding the camera. The photos are not level and seemed to have been snapped at any convenience. Hmm…they almost seem rushed.”

Throughout the entire examination of the book, only Bonewax seems uninterested. He, in fact, spends most of his time diverting BAM!! away from it, perhaps so the monkey does nothing to bother Farnsworth and Allen.

“Yes, I see this too.” Agrees Farnsworth while wiping his mouth. Next to him Allen is pushing his goggles up to his head to better look into the pictures. “If the pictures were rushed that could suggest a stage. A mocked wedding. Logically there is little other reason as to why a matrimonious occasion would be rushed. As well there are no smiles. Except the best man, here.” He points to the picture that crept up Chuck’s spine earlier. “I wish to say that besides this smirk there is no emotion, but the eyes. Look at the eyes of the bride and groom. Though they wear no smiles themselves, there is love in their eyes. It is unmistakable. Having broken hearts before, I know such a gaze.”

Chuck wonders at Farnsworth. He too had noticed the loving eyes, but still it all means nothing.

“I agree with the idea of a staged wedding. Notice also that if you look closely to the fashions of clothing that they do not match up with the supposed age of the album. Indeed, I believe that the album is not very old at all, but was certainly supposed to look like it. Perhaps the album is meant to prove that this wedding happened some time ago.”

Though to fate it seems discovery was too close for comfort. The conductor commands in a loud voice a full stop and all passengers look to him as the carriage comes to a complete halt. “The way ahead is unclear. We shall try not the destinies and will full reverse back to civilization. My apologies for this inconvenience. For all those who wish to press on, please disembark now while we are stilled.”

Chuck stands and looks to the long stretch of track ahead; untouched and easily visible, it reaches on for miles. He looks to the conductor only to receive the response, “Our patrons’ safety is our utmost priority. As well, their destination follows behind us.”

Looking still at the length of railroad, Chuck asks, “Can’t be goin’ back, can I? How long until the next town?”

“That I know not sir, as we’ve never come this far. We only go as far as our passengers need to go, and this is as far as you are to go with us. If you so wish, we can provide you with provisions.” A cloth satchel of goodies is handed to him. He gladly accepts and vaults over the side with sign, book, and bag in hand, never questioning how the conductor knows so much of what he needs and where he is to go. He wouldn’t get a straight answer anyway, would he? His heart sinks a good deal as the carriage slowly pulls away and turns the last corner, out of sight forever. He now looks forward at the unknown rail trail and contemplates the final words of brothers Allen and Farnsworth.

“Books of any kind are a source of information. That is all I believe this to be. It may or may not be meant for you, but I do not think it is the source of your destination. The only conundrum here is that you must figure out what the book is to be used for to find out where to go to learn the reason for the book.”

He stares dreamily at the tracks until a tug at his shorts spins him around. BAM!! is pulling out the loose strings from his cut-off jean shorts, muttering in monkey. “Aye?” Asks the protagonist.

“I think he believes the same thing as I do.” Says Bonewax, whom Chuck had neglected noticing. “The carriage came only this far because of you. You say you seen our names, so it came this far because of us as well. How would company serve you on your quest to reclaim the Continuum?”

Chuck sighs a silent laugh at the well-knowing Bonewax. “Misery loves company, but I s’pose a man content would enjoy fellow travelers as well.”

BAM!!, staying put as the others walk away, suddenly screeches one long heavy scream and throws his unknown-of-‘til now skateboard halves at Bonewax and Chuck as they attempt to take to the railroad. While the duo turn, each picking up a section of skateboard, BAM!! takes to hand-walking up the gravel and grass hillside. The monkey zigs and zags up halfway, collects something, and somersaults down to his friends.

“A railroad spike.” Says Bonewax before even seeing the object. He looks up the hill to see a rust-wrought iron ingrown hair on the surface. “This track here is a fake. The original climbed the hill but has since been covered up. It was covered recently but the railway is very old. I doubt it was still in service when whoever decided to hide it.”

“Looks like if‘n it leads anywhere, t’is up.” Smarts Chuck. He agrees with Bonewax that they’ve all the time in the world and that atop the hill would give them a bird’s eye view if nothing else. They pacify the irate BAM!! and ascend after him. Midway to their apex Drambuie asks, “So how far are ye goin’?”

Bonewax accepts the conversation, “Maybe as far as you. I have my own vendetta against Infinatum. At this point I’m sure you can use all the help you can get in reclaiming the Continuum.”

“Aye. About that-“

Bonewax chuckles softly, “I’m no foe of yours Chuck. And the story is quite opposite from unknown. Many people know you’re out here working to reclaim what is yours—what is right. Surely you can use someone to guard your back. Though, if you wish to go alone—“

“Nay, t’is not that.”

“I’m not one to be lost in this endeavor. And even if so, it wouldn’t be your fault.” Bone is shot a quick look that suggests he knows too much and has maybe hit a nerve. “Come now. You did not have to undertake this alone. You feel you have failed those who shared your beliefs in the Continuum, the beliefs of a proper free will, not the tainted lie Infinatum so openly spreads. You may be a slacker, but you’re making a difference just by being out here. Your only flaw is you love what you created, and you loved those who supported you and shared your dream. You, simply loving.”

“Ye know plenty about me.” Is Chuck nervous or suspicious? He is at least relieved that Bonewax seems to know nothing of his previous party members.

“Not hardly. Notoriety is a bitch. You’re a celebrity and as such you’re the talk of many a town.” They have reached the top much more quickly than anticipated. An awkward conversation as this one is usually expected to drag on.

BAM!!, having peaked the hill long before the others, stands halfway between them and a single layer cinder block building 100 yards away. He has unzipped and is relieving himself ever so rudely right where he stands as opposed to in a bush or beside a tree.

Bonewax admires the scarce forestry; the sky-high evergreens dotted here and there and two over there, and one over yonder, all of them ever green, even in winter no doubt. He enjoys the bits of shade that blotch the gravel earth in contrast to the light of this sun filled day. He notes alongside with Chuck the lack of windows in the building and the possibility of it being a sweatshop, though the location is questionable. He too proceeds forward in figuring that if they’ve come this far. They pass an occasional railroad tie jutting from the ground as if its center had been smashed in; a glint of metal signifies that they are passing past rails as well. Everything pretty much leads to the building.

The short amble brings Chuck and Bonewax to BAM!! who holds open one shattered glassed business door as if he were a professional door chimp, like on TV.

“Damn civil monkey you’ve got ‘Wax.”

“That he is. Much more intelligent than any trained animal. I believe there is much more to him, yet, I do not think he is one of Infinatum’s ‘whacked’ experiments. I think he has always been a chimp, and not some result of a twisted attempt at tainted free will.”

All three walk down a slightly descending linoleum hallway to double plastic doors that open to a large room of two levels. The ground level has a concrete floor and thin steel support beams amongst the rows of decrepit automobile tires. The top level is roofless and overgrown with a weedy field and one small tree. To their left they take in a slightly busted up wooden hallway leading to a singular doorway back outside. To the right of the hallway the concrete gives way to a crumbled rock slope leading down into a man-made 9 ft. deep ravine lined with stoned walls. It is here that they part; Chuck goes right, towards the collection of smaller rooms, the offices; Bonewax goes left, towards the splintered hallway; BAM!! teeters up a wall and finds a corner with a salvageable bit of ceiling to hang from. The monkey dangles with a monkey sigh.

Inside one of the dusty cluttered offices Chuck finds an old computer and sets to putting it right. He checks to see that it is unplugged before going over all the connections. After plugging it in and watching it power up, the protagonist takes out a smoke and lights up while sitting in a tattered pleather chair. A fine mist of dirt drifts up without any respect from the sitters’ planted ass.

Bonewax path finds his way through the rotted wood and debris and steps outside to intake much fresher air. He soundlessly takes a chainsaw to the gut. He has just been ambushed by a black leather clad transvestite gnawing on a wad of chewing tobacco. “How’d you like that, bitch?” Spits the character named—

“The Queen of Antarctica.” Grumbles Bonewax. His body does not fall as the chainsaw is removed; nor does he bleed.

“WHAT?!”

“Oh yes, I know of your tale. I dare say you’re very far from home.”

The Queen revs her weapon to life and attempts to run her foe through with revolving chain. Most unfortunately for him/her a stuffed swordfish is brought from within Bonewax’s bathrobe and shoved into the bottom of the jaw until it pokes out of the top of the head. Silenced only by the clever way his/her mouth is held shut, the Antarctic royalty flails the chainsaw blindly.

“What is your business here? You’re dead as far as I know.”

“You’re really one to talk!” Drawls the Queen. “So far as I know you’ve still got a few debts to clear up before you go over to the ‘side of angels,’ fuck-face!”

“I owe nothing to the Indygo Children. It’s been some time since I’ve been a supporter of Infinatum.”

“And some time since you’ve been to Temont, cock!” The Queen lowers defenses and kills the chainsaw engine. “The bond is off! No more good stuff! Fuck the Asylumkiddz and FUCK YOU!” A foreseen charge with a prophesied trip. Bonewax stands guard. He is curious of the information the Queen has brought him. So far as he knew, the Infinatum-siding Indygo Children have long since upheld the bond with the #324 supporters, the Asylumkiddz.

“We have the wedding album, the bond—“

“The book is useless now, shithead! Don’t you know? Aschlynn is in the Closet! He ain’t gettin’ out of there alive! Shenoa too! Aschlynn, Shenoa, praying for death; went into the Closets depths!” Sings the Queen. He/she cackles while face hugging the earth. “No one even cares about the fucking bond anymore! It’s back to square-shittin’-one now; everyone for themselves! All anyone is interested in now is Spirit Master!”

“The card game?”

“The real deck saggy-nuts!”

Meanwhile, Chuck’s computer is worthless. A black background with green lettering means he most likely has no chance of checking his e-mail. He shuts it off and kicks back for a moment to smoke with his thoughts. A man flaunting a Native American print on an olive green shirt leans over him. His face, though much hairier, could almost pass as Chuck’s reflection. The protagonist sits forward and turns to properly look over the man in tan corduroys. “Kavenn Nightsky.”

“#324—Ah, I mean Chuck Drambuie. Clever name.” Kavenn flashes a smile to Chuck. Chuck flashes back to his first return to Temont. He had met Kavenn while rummaging through the remains of his separate-from-house garage bedroom. Kavenn came to him spouting some gibberish about balance and helped to send Chuck on his way by presenting him with the pawn ticket that yielded the same STOP sign that has become one of many trademarks for the protagonist.

“The odds are still against you, aren’t they?” Kavenn takes initiative. “I see you have the wedding album; good. You’ll need this too.” A plain black audio cassette is lifted from pocket and tossed to Chuck. “The rules of Spirit Master.” Kavenn refers to the elemental card game introduced to Chuck first in the medieval-themed village of Enex.

“I don’t play.”

“Oh no, these rules apply to a much different deck. The game Spirit Master inspired something quite similar, quite real to be created. There was only one deck however, and it has been meticulously destroyed for certain safety measures; certain people shouldn’t have control of it, if you catch my drift.”

“Aye, Infinatum and his kin.”

“’Aye.’ You’ll have to repair the deck and figure the rules out for yourself. I can only tip the scales so much.”

“Ye still have a heart for balance, eh?” Chuck turns the tape over in his hands. No writing; looks brand new.

“That I do. And learn the rules well. This is meant to help, not end. Don’t make an enemy out of me, Chuck.” Kavenn, who so far had been so nice and generous, takes a serious voice. “I told you before to pursue your quest. Reclaim the Continuum. Infinatum has no right at the helm; he’s given no caution to balance, thus the ‘Epicenter of Chaos.’ But bear in mind that this world has progressed and cannot go back. Do not try to change that.”

“Ye don’t want me to be gone with the Whacked, eh?”

“Your dream had its heart in the right place, Chuck. ‘To promote and protect free will above all else.’ Freedom in all forms is always a hell of a hook. And you’re right in going after Infinatum. He has tainted the notion of free will by invading minds and forcing peoples’ desires onto them. But what has happened has happened for a reason. There is still room for balance, even in this world.”

“Tell me what this wedding album’s all about.”

“The wedding album is the Spirit Master deck. But there’s more to it. There is reason why a matrimonious occasion was chosen to be the cover-up for the deck. Believe me, no one ever would have guessed that this book is the deck.”

“But ye knew for how long?”

“Since the book was made—“

Chuck scoffs at this.

“—I was there Chuck. But I’m not going to go into detail right now. You know what you need to know. The back inside cover, rip the page from it and there is a tape deck. You have to find Danae and study the rules with her.”

“Danae?” Chuck chokes. The faerie girl from Enex who he fell in love with. When he had given up hope for the world after Infinatum took over and banished him from the Jones Continuum, Danae was the girl who loved him equally as he had her. He wanted to change the world for her so they could be together, always. He left her that day with only a kiss on her forehead. A stupid kiss on her forehead instead of an embrace, or proper kiss.

“Hers was the name you could not make out at Granny’s. I sold her the alphabet magnets and instructed her only to use them if the Asylumkiddz had told you nothing of the wedding album. And if that was the case, knowing you would take to the railway as soon as you found it, I set up for the carriage to come for you.”

Chuck’s head swirls. Everything from the past year is smashing together as if all predetermined. His spine chills in thinking about what else has already been planned.

“I feel for you Chuck, but time is wasting. Infinatum knows about the wedding album. He knows everything and is after Danae. He came to Granny’s thinking you and her would have intersected, but I led her astray so she would never find Granny’s shop. Again, the scales of balance hang too heavily in Infinatum’s favor.” And then Kavenn flashes that smile again and leaves the room as if he left his car running and will be back in a minute. Chuck even stares at the doorway waiting for him to come back in. It doesn’t happen.

Okay, he leans back in the chair and puffs the last few embers from his forgotten cigarette while sorting through his brain. Spirit Master is a game of magical elemental properties. It has a real incarnation that was destroyed and turned into a wedding album. The album of which has a connection to Kavenn, who was there, and some importance that must be discovered before I somehow restore the Spirit Master deck and listen to the rules with Danae, who in turn apparently is also looking for the deck, or wedding album, whatever, and is on the run from Infinatum, who knows everything. “At least I’m expected to only save the Continuum and not the world.” Mumbles Chuck out loud while reflecting on Kavenn’s insistence of a balanced coexistence. Danae…must wield Spirit Master…?

The protagonist stuffs the cassette into a front pocket and takes album and STOP sign into hand. He exits the offices and returns to the open room to inform Bonewax that he has acquired more to his quest, but still has no destination. “…but I led her astray.” Great, so I’m after Danae with nary a notion t’where she is.

“How do you know about the deck?” Asks Bonewax, still outside and just out of view of Chuck. He pierces the swordfish into the Queen’s back. “Who else knows?”

“Oh, Infinatum knows if that’s what your leaky anus is getting at. He knows everything now! He knows Sophie did commit suicide after being whacked and that her look-alike, Shenoa, was brought in to cover it up! Oh, he fuckin’ knows now!” A whine escapes as the swordfish is jabbed a little harder with the words “suicide” and “whacked.”

Bonewax knows the story. He kept it from the passengers on the carriage because it had so painstakingly been covered up with a wedding album. Both he and BAM!! had attended the wedding of Aschlynn and Sophie. But yes, the lovers that came from the Asylumkiddz and the Indygo Children were whacked. When the two factions caught wind of the secretive marriage a storybook-worthy bond flourished, abolishing the friction that separated the two groups from accomplishing spectacular things.

Chuck, having followed the noise and now accompanied with BAM!!, steps into the sunlight. He observes Bonewax digging the snout of a stuffed swordfish into the back of a man, or woman, he can’t tell. He listens intently as Bone forces the ground-lover to retell essentially the same information Kavenn just gave him. He is doubly attentive as Bonewax shares his string of thought out loud.

“I was the best man, Chuck. I had reasons to support Infinatum outside of either faction and I was the one who betrayed them in the end. You see, when the Spirit Master deck was created it was entrusted to Aschlynn and Sophie. I told Infinatum where to find them, but they wouldn’t talk. He whacked them both. Aschlynn became something fantastic; a work of art in our eyes; a modern superhero with awesome abilities. He was still human. The same can’t be said about Sophie. Even Infinatum felt a great deal of guilt about what she became. Sophie killed herself; she couldn’t live with what she’d become.”

“The wedding album—“ Chuck falters.

“—was a fake presentation of the wedding. Sophie had a look-alike; Danae’s sister, Shenoa.”

Suddenly Chuck confronts the confusion that washed over him in the piece o’ shit truck when looking over the wedding album. Yes. He knew of Shenoa. Danae had told him of her sister, another faerie girl who had supposedly become a real faerie and ran off with a man named Rydias. A man Chuck knew in the Maniac Society, the defunct pre-Jones Continuum, as Aschlynn. Aschlynn and Shenoa. Only Shenoa was wrong, not Sophie; Sophie was Aschlynn’s true love. They looked so alike that it’s no wonder he looked so lovingly into her eyes.

“Word of the suicide began to spread with each faction blaming the other. We faked the album so that there was visual proof of the wedding for all the non-believers. Asch and Shenoa then tried to keep the bond between the two factions, Indygo and Asylum. They couldn’t afford to have an all-out battle for the Spirit Master deck. The two groups fashioned it with Joshua and Jeromy, your colleagues from the Maniac Society, so everyone knew of it and was determined to destroy the other with it. Infinatum was confused; he knew Sophie was dead, but we were telling everyone else differently. However, this was his time to try and get the deck for himself. While all the cover-ups were going on and nobody knew what to believe, he thought he could get it with no one knowing. But it had been superbly hidden. At this point, I was out of the picture. I never betrayed them again.”

“But you fuckin’ betrayed us! You belong to the Indygo Children! You can’t escape that shitwad! But I ain’t stupid! I ain’t lettin’ your numbnuts back in with us just to betray us again! I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you!!” The Queen of Antarctica snaps the stuffed beak of the swordfish and kicks Bonewax away. The transvestite is up on its feet jerking to life the chainsaw and swinging wildly at Chuck. In all of the confusion, the Queen steadily makes way back inside. It is in here that fate is met. Just as if déjà vu to those familiar to the story, the Queen of Antarctica is killed, crushed under the weight of a door, one as thick as a diesel truck tire, and all iron. BAM!! is the culprit and stands chattering to himself.

Chuck snickers at this. He knew the story. Being crushed by a door is how the Queen of Antarctica originally died; though the story of how such a creature returned is unknown to him. Still, he snickers and slightly bobs his head.

Bonewax approaches him slowly. “Chuck, I never would have bothered you on that carriage if you hadn’t brought out the wedding album so freely. It has a lot of secrets I felt should stay with that book.” Bone obviously seems untouched by the Queen’s swift death. “I came with you afterwards, however, because I know what destiny the wedding album asks of its’ wielder. You deserve to know everything.”

“I think I know enough for now. The book is made up of the Spirit Master deck. Aschlynn wanted the deck once Shenoa had been whacked; figured now that she was a faerie, something capable of handling actual magic, that he and she could use the deck together against Infinatum. Least he could do, I reckon, even if it t’were outta revenge. But seems he knew he was gettin’ in over his head with the Closet. Left it to me I s’pose cause Shenoa must’ve mentioned somethin’ ‘bout me and Danae. Asch wants us to take up his part.”

Bonewax smiles and looks at him as if proud, “You’re clever all right. I think that’s exactly it. He must’ve instructed the Asylumkiddz to send you after it. I’m only surprised at his level of trust. The bond still exists, even if it is crumbling apart now.”

“Nay, t’was love. He knew he could trust the ‘kiddz because they were the ones he loved. If that weren’t the case, Infinatum would have the deck because of you.” Chuck feels his front jeans pocket to make sure he still has the cassette. “Though I can’t say I know why he’s in The Closet anyway…”

“You’re a lot like Aschlynn, you know. You both believed heavily in love. I told you before that was your only flaw, just as I had believed it was his only flaw. Seems though that his love was what saved us all from a much worse fate. You’re right in that he knew who to trust because of love. And that is why he didn’t leave it up to me. I’ll be damned if he didn’t already know it was me who betrayed them.” Bonewax takes up his dropped and broken swordfish and keeps his head sunken, “I’m a much different man from that sneering picture in the album. I meant it when I offered to help you and to watch your back. I had my reasons to support Infinatum long ago, but I have alternate plans nowadays.”

“’Wax, relax. I know we all change. Yer welcome to accompany me, just don’t make this an awkward moment.” And a cigarette is lit. Chuck leads Bonewax and BAM!! into the man-made ravine, assuring them that their business here is done. As the journey begins he tells them of Kavenn. He tells them of his adventure thus far; from Temont to Enex and back again; from Temont to the Closet, up to this moment, and how he’s heading to The Epicenter of Chaos once more, searching for Danae along the way. His head swirls, not from the massive intrusion of information and the task at hand, all due to a wedding album made of playing cards with real-world properties, but because of the sense of destination.

End Transmission

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