A Completed Story

A Night In The Swamp

A Short Story by Cory Kutschker

The rowboat creaked as my paddles slapped the water. I had an unease as the moonlight gleamed off the water and partially illuminated the cypresses on either side of me. There were deep shadows in the midst, hiding a world from me and it was the hidden that I feared. For even though I had an oil lamp there rigged to a post at the bow, much of this world was still black, murmuring and whispering of odd and ill boding secrets. Small relief was given by the flitting small clouds of fireflies. Yet my mind escaped to necro worlds of grotesque and lurking phantasms and to hideous beasts that science balks at.

War planes were rumoured to have crashed in those placid and thick waters. I can well imagine them half sunk with creepers draped over their wings. The cockpit mostly sunk there concealing the bullet ridden corpse. The gunner possibly ejected or half draped out of its doors with ragged clothing, his flesh being picked at by the various carrion eaters. A raven very well sat upon the tail perched comfortably with an eyeball in its beak when the commotion quieted and the flesh was still ripe.

Wild folk made their home there. Odd little shacks are set out on the river's edge. It's keepers made queer practices of some voodoo or maybe some unknown or long forgotten variant of witchcraft. I had business at the swamps middle, a package that needed delivery.

“8/17/2014 Follow the river to the middle of the swamp. Signed, Gregory.” he had written it last weekend on a severely rumpled bit of paper. A young boy had delivered it.

Much earlier we had arranged the contents of the package. While I strongly objected to its manner of business, he insisted and paid me several dollars to never mind. I, in haste returned this sum to him as preservation of my dignity. All this honour I kept, even though I needed the money for the repair of my motor. And in return I urged him saying, “I will do this once, but let this be the last of this sort of content!” He agreed shortly after, in a curt nod. 

The journey there was no less queer in its tenor. Before my departing, at the bank of the river, an odd and malnourished, elderly man stooped, leaning heavily upon a hand crafted cane.

“Going to the swamps?” He queried in a dry murmur. I nodded, throwing the oars into the boat.

“Keep your sights straight.” He said, nearing a whisper. I stepped in and set the oars onto the crutches.

I looked back towards the elderly man, gone. On I paddled into the forest of cypresses, the black congealing in front of me. I knew not what set its eyes upon me beyond the folds, but it was as though I were proceeding through the world’s most primal grottoes and dimensional shifts that warped the air in front. Otherworldly ‘scapes passed as I continued paddling, rippling a mirror that knew more than I did. A rotting stench emanated from the accursed object in the box beside me. I had slowly approached a small series of squalid shacks on the riverbank. I could see into some of them, matching my sight with obscure decorations on their walls. Odd tribal markings were engraved into doors and the frames were adorned with a vast array of queer, small objects such as bones and teeth, some of these being fangs from the beasts and slithering things to be found in the swamp. Some windows were covered over what looked like ragged remains of skins and some others with great sheets or blankets. Some had tears, as though telling a story of forceful entry by a thing with claws. I finally came upon Gregory’s shack and docked the boat. I stood before that dilapidated shack with no less than a tremulous edge upon my heart and lungs, choking every breath and palpitating the circulating beats. Red and yellow slithered past my right foot, a thing that could kill a fellow. I knocked on the door and just as quickly as I knocked, it swung open. And there filling the frame stood Gregory smiling. “Come in, come in!” He ushered with his hand. I walked in noticing an odd stifling thickness about the room, an odd atmosphere that hung on every inch of my body making it feel slow and lethargic. “An uneventful journey I trust?” He queried with his head tilted to the side and his eyes drawn to the box under my arm. I nodded as he queried again, “Is that it?” I nodded and handed the box to him. At which he spared no time in opening and withdrawing that odious thing. “The candle of Abdul Alhazred! Finally!” He smiled with ardour at the object in his hands. “Tell me, was it difficult to obtain?” “Yes, actually it was and took a great deal of bribing and outsourcing to get it, never mind the final price the owner wanted for it.” “How much?” “$10,000” “That briefcase over there has more than enough to cover for it and thank-you for your years of service of retrieval of objects for me.” He said as he motioned to the briefcase in the corner. “And now I am certain that you will want a demonstration?" Ignoring any attempt of an answer, he therein produced a lighter from his pocket and lit the candle. After this he proceeded to roll up a carpet that was placed in the center of his floor revealing an engraved circle with odd markings belonging to alchemy. Then taking the candle he slowly poured the black molten wax into the engraved circle and placed a small pool of it in the center where there was a seeming indentation, perhaps to mark the center. A disturbing change took over that small puddle as it slowly grew in circumference to meet the rim. Upon fulfillment, there was a noticeable rotation in the the large mass of black wax.  And then it stopped and became as a crude black tar and then flattened out as though becoming a dark seething hole leading to oblivion. I peered into that blackness to see a kind of writhing in the depths. Contemptuous creatures moved in the darkness breathing out dark insults, snickering, giggling and querying and prying for my secrets. Outside, a kind of fervor erupted from the creatures. Everything that scuttled on the branches, flapping things and those that slither were all letting out a blasted cacophony as though having a knowledge or some dread of the ill manner that bled from the pores of this shack.

I left the money. No time.

I went to the boat and started paddling giving each oar a distinct draw as I began my frenzied return. The blackness behind me seemed to boil and there was a murmuring and that same impish giggling that I heard from that awful hole. But through the fervor there was also a distinct sense of support as though I were being given an extra dose of strength to maintain the pace down the river. What was that? Doesn't matter, keep rowing. And so onward I go paddling through the wee hours until dawn, meeting the risen sun. 

A Teaser-Bon Appétit

Bon Appétit

A Short Story by Cory Kutschker


"May I take your order Monsieur?" Asked the French waiter. "Yes, yes, I was curious about the difference between the mermaid and merman?" Replied the customer at table three. "Ah, I see, it is mmm as you say in America, the difference between dark meat and white meat. The mermaid is more tender and moist, you see, and the merman is a little more tough and dry. The mermaid is served with our finest hollandaise sauce and a light biscuit on the side. The merman is marinated and topped with our most succulent gravy and a side of cranberries. They are both, I am told, in flavor, a blend between seafood and fowl. Also, you may choose a vegetable to go with this. We offer steamed green beans, a smattering of California vegetables, or our fantastic julienne carrots. "Hmm, I will take the mermaid. And for a vegetable I believe I will have...hmm... the julienne carrots." "Excellent choice monsieur! And what will you have for a beverage?" "Do you have a list of spirits?" "Oui Monsieur, it is next to the wine list." "And what would you recommend?" "Ah Monsieur, I recommend the poltergeist. It has a definite froth and bubbles in your mouth." "Alright, sounds good."  "And for you Madame?" "I think I will have the leg of satyr and with it I shall have green beans." "Excellent choice Madame. And a beverage?" "A Sprite please?" "Certainly Madame, and now Monsieur et Madame please enjoy the complimentary bread.
"Monsieur, may I take your order?" "Yes, I will have the Minotaur prime rib, medium rare please. And I will take that with the garlic mashed potatoes. And to drink I will have the essence of phoenix." "Ah Monsieur, I will process your order absolutamente!"

A Void

A Six-word story. These are prevalent in some literary circles.

“What’s in his chest cavity?”…Nothing.

A Fragment

Incomplete, that is all I can say and yet it is a vision that needs to be furthered. Ever listen to "Signs of life" by Pink Floyd? This story exudes from a childhood being set at an unease by the song. But I hope to repurpose that unease for another direction.

Nights In The Swamp

A Short Story by Cory Kutschker

The rowboat creaks as my paddles slap the water. I have an unease as the moonlight gleams off the water and partially illuminates the cypresses on either side of me. There are deep shadows in the midst, hiding a world from me and it is the hidden that I fear. For even though I have an oil lamp there rigged to a post at the bow, much of this world is still black, murmuring and whispering of odd and ill boding secrets. Small relief is given by the flitting small clouds of fireflies. Yet my mind escapes to necro-worlds of grotesque and lurking phantasms and to hideous beasts that science balks at.

War planes were rumored to have crashed in these placid and thick waters. I can well imagine them half sunk with creepers draped over their wings. The cockpit mostly sunk there concealing the corpse of his bullet ridden corpse. The gunner possibly ejected or half draped out of its doors with ragged clothing, his flesh being picked at by the various carrion eaters. A raven very well sat upon the tail perched comfortably with an eyeball in its beak.

Wild folk make their home here. Odd little shacks are set out on the river's edge. It's keepers made queer practices of some voodoo or maybe some unknown or long forgotten variant of witchcraft. I had business at the swamps edge, a package that needed delivery.

A Clarification

        In my opening post entitled, Purpose And Genre, I regarded my work to be entered in the horror genre. While this is mostly true, I personally would like to clarify that it may not always be distinctly horror. In fact now that I investigate, only select few of my stories may truly be defined as horror and the rest merely suspense. Also it is quite obvious that the dessert was not horror but science fiction and comedy, in its more modern definition.

    I also want to clarify that I much prefer to receive comments regarding my work rather than blank space. But the rules still apply. As well I request that you give detail. Two line responses are remarkably frustrating and gives little to a writer for understanding where he stands well.

Thank-you,

This has been a private service announcement from the desk of Cory Kutschker.

An excerpt of a short story soon to be written - A Teaser

A Life In Requiem - impermanent title

A Story by Cory Kutschker

Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine,

et lux perpetua luceat eis.

Te decet hymnus, Deus, in Sion,

et tibi reddetur votum in Jerusalem.

Exaudi orationem meam,

ad te omnis care veniet.

Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine,

et lux perpetua luceat eis.

I did not know the man well, until he called me to his bedside that evening. I knocked three times before his frail voice ushered me in.

“Come in, come in!” This was muffled before a fit of coughing exuded through the opening door. He ushered me closer to the bed with a weak gesture of his hand, mottled and shrivelled.

            The idea and hope for this is to present a story set against Mozart's Requiem. It will generally be hopped that the reader listen to the music before. In this way, they may gain a feel of its tenor before they read its text. 

A Refurbished Story

A CASE OF HEARTS

A Short Story

Written by Cory Kutschker

In the black and white mystery pictures, the story usually opens on some dame or unfortunate bloke bled out on the pavement. It’s visceral sure, but in some way I much prefer it than those sap jobs on the lighter side of hollywood ya know? Maybe ya don’t, they have grit, true grit. It carries a true visceral feeling. What I mean by that is it portrayed city life and all the dirt, prostitution, drugs, homeless and all the hopeless situations a person can run into in street life and any walk of life. It showed the true underbelly to life, her dark secret, that under all the glamour she is no better than your average hooker out there moonlighting in a bar somewhere.

I suppose the scene for me opens in the midst of a bleak winter. large flakes of snow are falling around me to the ground. A small slurred trail of tracks follow me to a bus stop bench where I have dragged myself to sit down. I have in one hand a three quarters full bottle of Scotch enclosed in an overtly typical brown paper bag. In the other I have a .38 snub cradled in my palm. 

It has been a four-month overhaul of small time punks before I met this spirit of a man, considering I hardly believed him to possess any humanity. His case overturned my stomach. I have lost a considerable amount of weight due to this fact. My previous case had been a pushover, the perpetrator a moron, the current one clearly intuitive.

The case, much like those films, opened with a dame, 5’8 and 160 pounds, not the worst size nor the best. She’d be a good wife but clearly not a model. This one was single though. She lived alone in her small apartment in the upper east section of town. The apartment is a one-bedroom suite. The doorway opened to a large living area with a small kitchen to the left.  The dinner/activity table stood against the window, which faced the street. To the right of the kitchen was a television corner with a futon facing the opposing wall. The bedroom and bathroom were on opposing ends of the living space. The bathroom was just past the kitchen to the left and the doorway to the bedroom was to the right.

The surroundings were left untouched. She was sitting at the dinner table with her face in the seven day old chicken noodle soup she had made prior to time of death. The cause for her as well as the others would always be ligature marks at the throat, highly indicative of consistency and pre-meditation; not the worst of causes, considering what was done post-mortem. Ligature marks at the throat, however, does not overturn the stomach of a seasoned officer of the law. What we struggled with upon discovery of the body was the cavity in her head; it was the brain that was found to be missing. The head had been sawed off just above the brow line. According to the coroner’s office this was done post-mortem. Billy, the youngest in the squad, discovered the poor girl and still can’t purge the stench from his nostrils. Shirley, the precinct shrink, put him on a two week vacay while he had the chance to scrape his sanity back into his head.

Wasn’t long before we had five such cases looking us up and down like we were chumps. And those worthless feds couldn’t keep up. I knew this “thing” was collecting. And yet I knew not why. What was his motivation? Why did he need all that collected gray matter? The answers were not coming.

 The motivation of a detective is not difficult. we put perps behind bars. Really, it is the motivation for any cop, unless it becomes personal. He, It, found my wife. And what a mess it made of her. This treatment of my wife also marked an addition to its m.o. Its crime scenes were even more sinister. My wife's upper head was found sawed off just above the brow line and the brain removed same as the others, but there was an addition to this m.o. The heart was surgically removed. The m.o. however, was not changed completely as the autopsy reports showed that there were still ligature marks on the throat;  still the same signature, still our killer.

The captain then thought I would not be fit for duty given the "delicate condition I was in." He thought it best to suspend my duty, to remove me from the case. Since then, there has been 10 reported deaths all bearing the same signature, the same m.o. The last one was this past afternoon, it is now 2 am, as I sit here with my bottle now half empty lubricating the past half-page of narration. Rebellion, may seem more than cliche at this point. I would certainly hate to spoil the story and have you cast this aside. No, instead I would rather direct your attention to this creep that has taken a seat beside me. The collar of his raincoat has been raised and his wide brimmed hat lowered over his eyes. Laid across his lap is a small suitcase.

"Hello  Caleb"

His voice seems to ring calmly and clearly through the air.

"What do you want?"

"Oh, what I want is not so important Caleb, in fact all I really want is your attention."

"You got it creep”

“Not very sporting of you Caleb, calling me a creep”

“But then I suppose the last 24 hours have not been very kind to you now have they Caleb?”

“Nasty bit about your wife and all”

“Perhaps it is better if I start off with a friendlier approach?”

“Hmm, how might I do that?”

“Ah, I know, how about an amicable gift from me to you?” From within his jacket he procured a 12 inch square, brown cardboard box with a red ribbon tied around it and a tag bearing my name written in a rich calligraphy in red ink. He presented this with a black leather gloved hand and placed it at my feet.

“My dear boy, I bet you want to see what I have inside this suitcase, hmm?”

“Let’s have a look shall we?” His hands are steady as he unzips the hard case. It is difficult at this point to ascribe anything, any word, that would remove the surreal sense of what I can see before me. There are 10 hearts inside the case, each strapped down by a pair of velcro bands. In addition, each of them were also held in place by a pin that was pushed through the bottom of the middle between the two ventricles. My .38 slides from my hand making not a sound as it falls into the blanket of snow.

“Quite something is it not?”

“Each one of them so easily tucked in and laid to sleep”

“So easy to steal what provides life.”

“The mind, the brain was the first step, and how so easy they folded to the plot.”

“How much value can you really put on a human life Caleb?”

“You see this case? I have at least 50 more that are empty.”

“But who could pay enough?”

“I will catch you.” I replied in a low growl.

“Oh Caleb, what dizzying heights you seem to live at.”

“You have a view from the penthouse don’t you, Caleb?”

“Yeees, you would revel at the magnificence of catching such a specimen as me, wouldn’t you?”

“To present me as a trophy in which to declare your mental superiority in criminal investigation.”

“Ohh how they would swoon over your capabilities and give you praise, giving you some kind of raise.”

“I can see it in your eyes now Caleb.”

“Take a look at the view, the kingdom which I represent.”

“the dazzling cityscape.”

“<sigh> try and catch me.”

“Goodbye Caleb.” He gets up slowly not before zipping up the hard case and then wheels it slowly down the street, not long until he disappears from sight amidst the now heavy falling flakes of snow. My breath blew out in thick clouds as I picked up the package laying at my feet. I carefully removed the ribbon and opened the box. Sitting atop a crimson silk cushion laid a human heart with a tag labelled simply: Eve. It belonged to my wife.

That’s it, time to ice this creep. I went over to my contact at the harbour, Douglas, a fisherman by trade. I ask him if he has anything that may give me a lead, anything that may give me some direction. I get some news of a spook that has been buying up a lot of ice from him. He has a shipping location, some abandoned warehouse on the east side. I  decide to go check it out. I hail a cab. The drive seems to carry on hours on end as the box is burning my lap. The crimson color growing redder with each passing minute. Sure, taunt me why don't you, you creep. Handing over my wife's heart as a "gift", how is that  amicable? maybe I'm glad my badge is not effectual at this time. Maybe I will hunt you down personally and perform a coup des gras on you and maybe I will even leave the death to the last. Nah, you would enjoy that too much wouldn't you? Yeeah, you are too twisted, too sadistic to be affected negatively by that; to you that would be pleasure.

"Y'alright mistah?" The cabbie interrupts. Man, he's a cliche.

"Yeah"

"Some piece o' work i'n't he"

"huh?"

"That killa on th' news"

"guy killed 10 in the pas' while"

"boy am I glad though tha' guy ain' gonna be harmin' anybody too soon, if ya know what I mean?" I give the cabbie an inquisitive look.

"Tabloids picked up a letta in his handwrit'n, says he wants to give us a couple o' weeks to figure him out, to try to buy him off in a way."

"great, how do you buy off a psychopath?"

"I dunno but he spoke on the radio 'bout 25 minutes ago, actually jus' before I picked you up. Says 10 were bought off today"

"huh"

"Here we are." We pulled up to the side of the warehouse. The snow was undisturbed, ensuring I was the first there inside these two hours, either that or the wind had blown away any prints. I carefully made my way to an entrance on the north side. The inside was musty. There was not a sign of activity, nor was there anything within that warehouse to suggest anything had been there for quite some time. I noticed that there happened to be an office on the second floor.  Venturing upstairs, I crept over to the office. There was a single light on in the office that I could tell through the severely mottled glass. I had my revolver in hand and proceeded to slink around the corner to confront...Nothing. The room is bare, except for an envelope lying on the table, which... is  addressed to me? I opened it.

Hello Caleb,

I realize that I was really quite rude for not introducing myself. You may call me John. How are you? You really do seem tired. I suppose you are considerably angry with me for the little gift I imparted to you.  And while I am more than empathetic. I want to impart to  you something else. I think it all depends on your attitude as to how you take this. Do you not know Caleb just how illusional people are? They place so much attention on something so absurd that they have no conception of how little their life really means. They have their hearts and minds stayed upon something so superfluous that they have invented something of a cycle for themselves. They are in effect lying to themselves. I am considerably bored with humanity Caleb. I am bored with life and yet here is the rub, here is the struggle, to gather myself and continue on in entertainment or to absolutely stop, to die. That is the comedy of life, the irony, the absurdity. Do I continue Caleb? or shall I illusion myself with a sense of entertainment? I must say that busying myself and continuing on with my work is attractive. But can I really fool myself so readily Caleb? Then again it has somewhat ceased to become entertainment and is instead becoming a method of squeezing out existence. It is much like teasing out toothpaste from an already flat tube. I feel much like that tube Caleb, flattened, used up. So what is left Caleb? What is there left to do? Waiting on you.

Sincerely,

John

The letter struck me so heavily that I stood there motionless for several moments. It now made sense, his actions, his motives, his m.o all rang with a kind of clandestine clarity. There was no connection between the victims because we were looking far too close and needed to broaden the perspective to the maximum position to grasp the breadth of this killer's reasoning. Unfortunately where the light was brightest also shone saliently enough to point out the other facts. This thing's trail had gone cold. Another thing I knew, he would kill again, and knew that we would not find him, it. Time to go home, Caleb, hopeless.

The flag was up on my mailbox. The letter was addressed to me and was lettered in red handwriting.

Caleb,

These circumstances are not wrapped up within your capabilities. His actions are indeed abhorrent and certain to cause a lurch in the stomach, but you, Caleb, must not obsess.  Ergo the solution is not what you think.

There is a store on the corner of 9th and Bale. The shop owner has a large number of suitcases there. Perhaps you ought to go over and take a look?

Sincerely,

G

There was a cheque made out to me in the amount of $500,000. I caught a cab over to the mentioned address and walked into the shop. There were several suitcases matching the trim and overall appearance of the one that “John” had carried, in addition  there were several other models. “How much?” I asked as I gestured towards all of the suitcases in the shop. The shopkeeper gave me a sly smile, “He shops here you know. But he never shows me his face.”

“How do you know who I am going after?”

“Oh, that is quite easy he ordered several suitcases from me as well sir!”

“But, if it would make you feel better, as I can see you are suspicious of me, I can provide alibis for anytime you wish.  My wife will certainly vouch for me.”

“Nah, that’s alright, so how much then?”

“For all of it?” His voice croaked.

“Oh I venture the suitcases would land you at…$100,000 but if I might suggest something sir?”

“Sure”

“I wouldn’t stop there sir, in fact I-I-I would get the whole shop!”

“And how much would that cost?”

“Oh, not that much sir…$250,000. That would set me up nicely… a-a-and sir I would also buy out my brother’s shop on 5th. S-s-see that way he cannot buy from this town at least. He’s like me and will give you the same price.” 

With the final price and a mental summation to 500,000, I knew what was required of me and from this I had but one sense, hope.

The next day I had walked by my mailbox and noticed the arm was raised. Inside was a red envelope. I opened it and read it.

Hello Caleb,

I see you have bought out the suitcase stores in your town and repurposed them. How quaint. Well I am afraid I will no longer be performing my business in your town. Please give my regards to the shop owners and the precinct. I will dearly miss their abject looks of mystification. So good-bye Caleb, I shall be going up north now. I hear Canada is a beautiful country.

Sincerely,

John

An Excerpt

          This is a small excerpt from the novella that I have been working on for a few years.

November 25

I return again, I look around relieved to see no cherry oak door. I hear a door creak open behind me. I turn around. The door leads out to a courtyard with thick, lush green grass. I walk into the room and the door predictably closes behind me. A few yards in front of me stood a table with considerably familiar figures sitting around a long table. I drew closer to investigate. These familiar figures were in fact my community counterparts in the institution. As fitting as ever, Jones sat in proud honor at the head of the table with the other fellow patients on either side, all of them drinking tea. In addition to this each one of the bizarre brained men were crowned with what looked like the tissue paper crowns obtained from Christmas crackers. Throughout this entirely bizarre spectacle, I pondered what this could all mean when my thoughts were interrupted by my name being called or rather chanted out at an alarming volume. It was then that I raised my eyes and saw that they were raising their glasses towards me as though they were toasting. To which I queried, "What are we celebrating?" Though they did not directly answer me, the answer came speedily from Jones in his artificial and candid kingly speech. "Hail! Hail to a king of kings. A man who is the insane of the insane! Behold the bigotry! Ponder his pride! Hail! Hail! Hail!

Aside from my sensibilities having been darkened and burdened by the ensconced memory of the horrid dream that had assailed me, another horror had approached in the wee hours of the night before the dream. For as my brain was in a reproachful attitude and stubbornly refused me sleep, I lay awake with my eyes painfully aware of every whisper and shift in the shadows. The window held back little in noises and across many acres arose a disturbing roar of creaturely vocals from the night as every thing that scuttled or trotted and every thing that flew in this winter burst out anachronistic chirps, yowls and caws and there it became distinguished as a wave progressing to my position proceeded and arrived as a maddening din of discordant cacophony infecting the lunatics and psychotics causing them to shriek in their cells and then all suddenly dimmed to an unsettling silence. It was here in this moment that I became acutely aware of an abated tick and a tock and the creaking of a swaying pendulum. Soon my attention grew more attuned to the sway of that pendulum swing and somehow knew well that this clock drew near to toll the hour. It resounded darkly through the halls. Bong…one, bong…two, bong…three, and so forth it drew to the twelfth and yet chimed one more to thirteen. And while I, being regularly not superstitious, would scoff at a single tremble given from a man in reaction to such a thing, I in this unfortunate ominous hour drew my covers about me as I soon became aware of a figure before me. It slinked in the dark and something in its face split, a blacker night in the form of a leering smile. And in my head played an awful cinema of chaos unleashed, of flesh being rent from bone, of darkness overriding light and of breath being drawn from living lungs. These being the darkest moments I knew not what would assuage a man's senses or drive such a pestilence to the deeply fathomed abyss. But I uttered something, I knew not why, but I uttered it all the same and an animalistic screech arose from those shadows and the horror whispered off.

A Dessert

Out of The Vacuum

A Short Story
by Cory Kutschker

To the sir or madam who is reading this story, I am quite certain that this may prove unhealthy for you. In fact you likely should stop reading this right this moment. In fact I adjure you to cease for I fear that this may be an unruly wasteful of the hours of your life. But since you are so keen on continuing past this sentence and these very words of which you are reading at this very point, Let us continue further on unabated by delay tactics.
Upon far reaching meditation I have concluded with my life that investigation, the true act of it, only resides within the chest of a man who truly has courage. A man may observe, watch, follow and poke or prod but investigation immediately arrests his heart for taking interest and if taken its due course estranges him from his companions. And it was in such an interest that had illusion stripped as wallpaper from a panel in a bedroom. In fact that bedroom was found to be painted by my niece's 2 year old and had been plastered over and given a wallpaper to enact a sort of salvific effect to a poor fellow happening upon it and there go loony. So then it is in the next while that I must convince you that the story I wish to tell is really, remarkably, wholly, utterly and truly silly.
Now how must I start? Aha Yes! I am first mate Mallory and I am captained over by a truly ridiculous man, Captain Miller. Let it be noted that I view this man as truly ridiculous. Perhaps I need to convince you? Many have engaged in thick gossip regarding Captain Miller's ridiculous behavior. It has been said that he gained captaincy suspiciously in the same year that tricorns were to be found a prize in Cracker Jacks and was rumored that an energy signature was recorded from the ship's expansion module and programmed to the precise specifications of his bulbous cranium. On his suit he has sewn on epaulettes to the shoulders and wears it frequently. His trousers were audacious in their own respect, for lining the seams were yellow lightning bolts reaching down to the cuffs. Therein it was made to look as though he had adorned himself with a child's pajamas. I have not yet told you regarding his constant countenance, but need I? For you already must ask yourself, how does this poor man go on? And yet the rest of the details must further cause your mouth to go agape. On this silly man's lips there is the constant appearance of a sneer. There is also the matter of the right eyebrow ever formed to a perfect arc over his eye. It appears as an underweight caterpillar's midsection perched on the tip of a toothpick.
Miller's crew was hardly any less a farce and I could only give a couple examples without listing all 13 but let me give you two. Mickey, in charge of navigation, has the most amusing turbulence in moods. It is much within seconds that he could shift most feasibly between optimism and pessimism for no less than a count of 5 times. Then there was Gilly, our stuttering android, the science officer. He was considerably fond of greeting in the guise of a radio host. The manual "for care and sound appreciation of [our] android" advised a biannual replacement of parts and components. Albeit, this fleet stuck here, in this sector, could never hope for such opulence.  It is well known the difficulty of obtaining parts and components and it was not as though we had the opulence of the vast machining factories of decades past. In this age there was the Hinnal waste sector, a sprawling pile of rubbish considered by many to be located at the bottom of the known universe.
It is widely disputed as to whether the theories of the past age are accurate or wishful thinking but many are hopeful that they are accurate. It was a bright world, a place of promise and opportunity. There are just as many theories stipulated as to what happened. But many agree that the means was extraordinarily perplexing. Some sort of vast mechanical device that came along to our fair world and tore a swath through the centre of the fair metropolis. It often was absurdly referred to by the preposition "Over." Oh, the over, the over! a terrible name to give to a cause of the end of the age! But in the wake of that... thing, an awful absence was left behind it.  It was clean and bereft of life. There is little left of that good age. All there is now is the waste and the blackness.
I often find myself peering out at the blackness through the port windows and attempting comprehension, wondering at its vast extent.  But no, the furthest my imagination flies is the window and there splats, its face squeaking as it slides down that thick layered window and falling as an insubstantial blob on that really beautiful shiny floor. I have often considered getting that flight problem fixed. Perhaps it fails to engage the reality dampeners? Although, as shoddy as my imagination may be, my courage was not any less and in fact was more resolute. And with that came a long and unhindered desire for exploration and investigation.
At the academy I had studied the Fitzger hole, for endless hours; that phenomena, which was named after the renowned professor Pletga Fitzger, who had discovered it. He was a positively squat fellow who had gone mad by his exploration of the blackness and his subsequent discovery of the hole. In his madness he relayed information regarding a long tunnel and there at the end of it, a light. What was there in this light he did not know and did not have a chance for further exploration as the Pletga turbulence had forced him back into the blackness of sector 12. He had theorized that the turbulence and the hole were somehow related but could not determine to what degree or mode. Now it must be considered here that much of the information that was rendered to the public from the maddened professor Fitzger was relayed by his mother's cousin's nanny's brother's aunt who was twice removed  causing grievous frustration for the family and a series of escalating feuds, but I digress.
I had mentioned the Pletga turbulence hadn't I? Oh dear. I must tell you that for any traveller in the great blackness, the Pletga turbulence is truly bothersome and has been listed by the Blackness Academy as the number one danger to any ship or crew member and must be taken seriously. The other 9 items are as listed:

A malfunctioning android
A psychotic or murderous onboard computer
A truly ridiculous captain
A mysterious egg
A previously alien infected crew member
A weaponized superhuman in cryo-sleep
An extra-dimensional being or intelligence
A generally damaged piece of hardware
A missing sock.

Now for all purposes of description, the Pletga turbulence is simply just that, turbulence. It is not understood why it happens or even when it will happen. That being said, there has been some development regarding timing, as there have been noted predictable intervals, albeit there is also odd and completely random occurrences that would make one doubt any such theory. But a captain or first mate certainly does their best to anticipate the next occurrence. It is also extremely valuable if one has a very good set of stabilizers on the ship. And luckily when I was perusing the Blackness Academy catalogue I came across a considerably good pair and had Mickey install them to the ignorance of Captain Miller.
It was after sleep and had walked onto the command deck that I had expected such an occurrence.
"G-g-g-g-g-gooood M-m-m-m-m-mooooorning First mate Mallory! Temperature is holding at a balmy 25 degrees and the overhead lights are shining! Let's hear from Mickey wh-wh-who shall give us the report on navigation."
"We're all going to die"
"Mickey! set stabilizers!"
"Aye Mallory!"
"Isn't this just marvelous?"
"What is happening Mallory?!" Yelled, the captain as he walked onto the command deck and struck a pose remarkably akin to a highly popular spiced rum television commercial.
"Sir! The Pletga turbulence!
"This is our doom."
"Stuff it, Mickey!"
"S-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-sir! Anomaly located at 15 degrees from our port side and 12 degrees from our belly!"
"I-I-I-I-I believe it is the Fitzger hole."
In a moment, a great white sheet, illuminated by our lights, thrusted upon the ship and completely obstructed our view...I suppose of nothing.
"Solutions?" Queried Miller.
"Exterior exploration sir!" I answered.
"Explain."
"I can take one of the shuttles and go about an attempt of removing the sheet."
"Brilliant! Proceed Mallory!"
We have a vast docking bay. And within there are three shuttles for short term exploration. Travel in the blackness can be difficult our methods are more based on connected coordinates rather than sight albeit that is hardly revelatory for anything aside from a walk in a lighted ship. I have a recollection of a bizarre rescue operation where our sensors picked up a life form in the blackness. The mission was quite difficult and required combined data feeds to isolate a precise location. The poor man! He was delirious and was minutes away from a depletion of air in his suit. In his delirium he constantly critiqued a choice of vocabulary to describe the act of free movement in a vacuum. He went on repeatedly, "I am floating... no, no, that is not quite right. I am in stasis. That will not do either. No, floating has a regard for being in substance that bears you buoyant. Hmmm, stasis won't do either as that would require something to hold me in place. No, stasis won't do at all. No it is far too still, far too... motionless. Suspension... in suspense. Yes that will do. I am in suspense. awaiting activity and yet I am here, waiting. Yet I should think not even suspense would do here. <sigh> How long has it been? minutes? Yes, yes that is a good approximation. Hmmm, no, no minutes here are void. No, curse that word. Curse time, it is a damnable word. It is terrible and cruel here. What is here? Does this "here" even hold, locale? Yes, yes surely, scientifically, I can be convinced that here holds a dimensional locale. Some sort of coordinates perhaps?" He has long since gone from our ship but knew of the outside world. At this he was greatly queried for long hours. Albeit this was far too much exposure and he recoiled with great duress, ran out of the room and jettisoned himself out of the ship. It was later that he consulted our manual entitled "So you picked up a drifter eh?" From this we of course learned of our error and resolved a better course for the future.
As I piloted the shuttle, it was quickly discovered that the sheet was irremovable as parts were caught in corners and not a single amount of exertion by the extendable arms nor the feeble attempts of the engine could dislodge the fabric. This was of course until the brilliant idea was offered to cut it away. Not all was done away but did afford a greater extent of movement by the ship. And while I was due back at the ship, there came that urge, investigation. I opened the communications.

"Captain?"
"Go ahead, Mallory"
"Sir a realization has hit that the ship may be too large to fit through the hole."
"Gilly, size approximation."
"S-s-s-s-s-s-sixty-nine units sir!"
"And we are?"
"S-s-s-s-s-seventy-eight sir!"
"My ship is tooo big!"
"Go ahead Mallory!"
"Aye sir!"
I proceeded to the communicated coordinates and switched on the lights and proceeded to the gap into the hole. It came upon me that I should switch on my lights. What was illuminated I recognized as something that was chronicled in Pletga Fitzger's journal's of his travels through the ill famed hole. Along the walls was a ribbed or rippled sort of substance there running along a sort of tunnel. It was a matter of a couple of hours as my ship lights were not adding light and in fact was lit on its own, informing me that I was nearing the end and further than the professor. I suppose now it shall be considerably difficult to describe a world that for ages has not been described but light there flooded my sight. I travelled into an absurd world of gargantuan objects that held little significance to me, a man that has lived in darkness for a lifetime. I turned the ship around to observe the exit of the tunnel and saw that surrounding the hole was an oblong structure. There connected to it was a black, ribbed tube proceeding from the oblong structure to a tall silo like structure and printed across were these figures, HOOVER VACUUM 1X7. A loud utterance proceeded from the aft of the ship. I righted the shuttle for observation and beheld a bipedal creature seated at what I supposed a table. I supposed it enacting some sort of examination of what was in front of it, a screen that was like those in my ship there long forgotten in the blackness and the vacuum. There between the glow and brilliance of a world of opportunity and serenity and the broken From all I care to share anymore is this last noise of recognizable speech from the creature. It growled, "THIS STORY SUCKS!"

The Entrées Part 2

Translation of latin:

When the accused are confounded,
and doomed to flames of woe,
call me among the blessed.
I kneel with submissive heart,
my contrition is like ashes,
help me in my final condition.


Of Men and Devilry

A Short Story by Cory Kutschker

I had never known much of anything hinting of diabolical existence in my youthful years. I sought out all that was visible. Albeit I had once or twice involved myself with reading some stories of intrigue that told of a beast or some phantasm yet remaining more amused and annoyed by the superstition with such tales. For fancying or placing disaster as otherworldly clearly disregarded any sense of responsibility as a part of mankind, or perhaps thought of man as far too faultless. I, on the other hand, regarded man as distasteful, ruinous and adverse to himself and his surroundings. Perhaps I have some deep burden of cynicism for such a thought? This being the question because I have some lack of optimism towards man's direction generally.
My brother often involved himself with the foolishness of superstition and of some invention, a game of sorts with a token and a board with letters and a yes and a no. He was a precise shadow of me (that is if I am to be so dualist with black and white terms). And while I was the dutiful son, he was the recalcitrant one and yet more dearly loved than I. So then you will understand why I was the more academic one and he, the adventurous sort. And also then it should not surprise you then of his numerous encounters with the town constable. You should be informed then that my father was not a loose fellow. To the contrary, he was an austere man (you likely consider this as a truly uninspiring and trite telling of familial relations, but despite you I shall continue). His activities resembled my own but in this stood as a harsh critic. While I adhered perfectly to my studies he fine combed my methods and heaped upon more things, or more particularly, more activities that I should be involved with.
First, I should become quite versatile in the fine gentleman's game of chess. His second imperative, that I should become well acquainted with the art of tasting wine. His third was toward learning the old sport of fencing. It was this imperative that I took most seriously, for I noted my father's prowess in the area and the time that he had devoted to it and knew that this, of all his imperatives, was principle. I then took steps to become extremely proficient in the styles of foil, épee, and the saber. So, while my odious brother was being involved in seances and foolish revelry, I was ardently involved with parrying, thrusting and countering (to name just a few of the things involved with the fine sport of fencing). Upon reaching an intermediate stage, father took steps as a personal interest on my apparent "skill" as a fencer and a swordsman. He took it upon himself to personally teach from the style of Capo Ferro, a kind of family tradition.  And thus began a rigorous regimented learning with the rapier. Father was most insistent that I master the rapier and it took considerable time and firm instruction from him to do so and many a session fraught with many arguments. But, in truth, I greatly appreciated the exquisite art of it. And father's twin blades were nothing short of true renaissance beauty. The blade that I held sang truly when it went through the air and the swept hilt curled beautifully as hair around the hand that bore it. Its seven ringed basket gave good omen to he who would handle such majesty with fine tuned weight that ended at an onion-ended pommel. It was with this beauty that I learned on the fine cut lawn of our manor.
Our manor (if not already guessed) was in the country. The property sprawled a span of acres that included a nearby lagoon and several trees which offered shade in the summer months. So then you may see that our property afforded us a great deal of privacy and therefore much of my training involved us sparring in the outdoors. However, his tutelage would not last long.
It was in early autumn when father's health took a downturn and was bed-ridden for several months and had a partner handle his business for what he considered "the time being." And it was in these months that my brother returned for some time. Albeit, he had not heard the news but still spent many hours at father's bedside upon learning his condition. Then in the onset of October, our father was taken from us. My brother was severely demoralized from his death. I took it less so but nonetheless was disturbed by his passing as though a massive cornerstone had been withdrawn from the foundation of my life. I regularly lost sleep and often found myself pacing the various, now still and quiet, hallways of the manor.  It was a few weeks later that the arrangements were made for the funeral. Father was to buried in the family plot and later in the evening a time of conversation and consoling was arranged and set to meet here at the manor. And so it was, the solemn procession consisted of myself and my brother as the premier pallbearers and two of father's most trusted clients. The service was endured for two hours before it ended at the final last rites and therein a long convoy departed to the country to meet at the manor. It was a long evening of almost unbearable and long suffered conversations regarding father's clientele. It was a terrible caricature of death. For while death loomed over the crowd, his shadow present with the drab and black cloth worn by the attenders, death was not in their conversation. For their faces were not downcast in a sense of propriety but instead bore smiles! How ridiculous! the very sight of it struck my soul with every sense of loathing that could be managed. And the many visitors that had served my father in some fashion or another doled upon me their artificial sympathies and apologies. The chiefest of their sort was Mr. Ozymandias (a man with whom my father had been most cautious in his dealings)  who had calmly whispered in my ear, "We shall watch your career in great interest."
It was at this time where I withdrew from the crowds and took with me father's rapier. In stealing away from the group I hoped that I would gain my own personal time of reflection for I was sorely tired of the sycophantic babble that was produced by the crowd. I did then make it away from the group and took in a bit of sleep before departing. And thus upon sitting up, retrieving my cloak and hat and fetching a lantern, I then proceeded outside.
A thick white miasma hugged the ground as a creamy soup. And every step stirred it about and made it dance as wispy spirits playing about my feet inviting me into an eerie and ill-bidding party. The trees reached out with curled fingers and in some fashion nearly bowed as to a servant, the branches sweeped out into the path. Indeed the night greatly transfigured the property and I found my mind somewhat disturbed. I held up my lantern to make out the path in front of me. And it was in that moment some yards ahead of me that I spotted the figure of a man (somehow familiar in stature). In a few steps I was at a communicative distance from the man, although his countenance was covered by a masque of macabre features. In a show of noble courtesy I removed my hat and gave a bow and gave utterance to a "good evening, sir." He only responded though with a short nod. I thought it boorish of such a fellow to not at least remove his hat but then quickly dismissed any ill feeling. In a swift and smooth motion he withdrew his blade from the sheath and performed a firm salute, to which I responded in like manner. He took on the en guarde position, and so I mirrored. Swiftly and with a piercing cry he leapt with a fierce lunge causing first blood at my high outside. I was remarkably surprised by the savagery of such a foe and his persistence was of some strength that was nearly inhuman. On though he persisted and with several more lunges to which I made quick footwork to avoid. Then, as though at the scent of blood some wicked winged creature took stead upon a branch of a neighboring tree. This hideous creature just sat perched atop of this nearby branch leering at me. It was chanting, no, cheering. It seemed to cheer for my foe. Although, this cheer was not so much heard but felt. But it spoke thus in a malignant and harsh whisper:

Crush, Crush, Crush him! Squelch, Squelch, Squelch him! Quench his fire! Feed the self, self, self serving desire!

And on occasion it would swoop down and swirl around my head causing me much disorientation and distraction to which my foe took as opportunity to land more piercing blows to my beleaguered body.
lunge after lunge and parry after parry I had been inflicted with grievous wounds that bled out at every moment and brought upon my countenance a cringe at every one of my personal efforts to break through what seemed an unswerving foe. Amidst the clamor I struck luckily with some force by the ear and exacting a twist of the wrist caused his masque to be removed from his head and land some feet away on the ground. Therein his identity was revealed. For behind that ghastly covering was something of a greater horror; a severely gaunt and jaundiced visage with sunken eyes and a mouth missing teeth was, Me. I knew it well that this mirror that stood before me was in fact every wicked act and every terrible malady upon my character made exact, set in flesh.
I then heard a mortifying groaning sound emitting from just beyond my foe. I peered left. There, behind him a grotesque and jagged chasm had opened up and sat as a yawning and cavernous mouth. In we both fell and joined and were one and the same person. So down I fell into that abyss and there I landed with a hard termination that stole away all breath. And looking at my body, I observed the onslaught of some esurient worms that sought to devour my flesh. And in the same moment felt the agony of a flame that dwelled in this place. Upward I looked and observed that which I am not able to describe. But what I knew was its personage. And in His breast beat a heart that loathed a wicked man but also somehow loved as with a severe longing to restore. So there He stood in full glory and I in wretchedness and despair. So there exuded from my palpitating heart such a magnificent chorus of a requiem that I knew well.

Confutatis maledictis,
flammis acribus addictis,
voca me cum benedictus.

Oro supplex et acclinis,
cor contritum quasi cinis,
gere curam mei finis.

It was as a full choir burst from my chest in solemn tune towards Him. And although I knew that, in my position, my sin had more than assured me of my fate thus removing me from the hope in the second verse, I cried all the more and begged mercy of Him whose power I knew to be more terrible than any wound inflicted upon me by blade or fiend. And in the moment of direst sorrow and pain, I awoke. Surely this all could not have been a dream? But I knew in all truth that it had been, although not one to be cast aside and surely not one of mere fantasy (and you dear reader, you must also hearken to my words for they are full of truth). For I knew my brother had been found in tears upon recovering a page from that holy book that I threw in the hearth some weeks prior to father's death. And it is from the jubilation that exuded from his face that three words were produced from his mouth. And it was these three words that I know I must discover the meaning of. And those three words are: Jesus is Lord.

The Entrées Part 1

The Wealth And The Wasteland


A Short Story by Cory Kutschker

    I met a Traveler from an antique land,
    Who said, "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
    Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
    Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
    And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
    Tell that its sculptor well those passions read,
    Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
    The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:
    And on the pedestal these words appear:
    "My name is OZYMANDIAS, King of Kings."
    Look on my works ye Mighty, and despair!
    No thing beside remains. Round the decay
    Of that Colossal Wreck, boundless and bare,
    The lone and level sands stretch far away.

-Percy Bysshe Shelley



Among the facts and observations that I have taken note of, this one has remained salient within this story. Sand holds no mercy. Of the many grains of facts shifting in the wind and forming grand dunes, this is one that defines the wasteland. And from this fact the prompt researcher and common sensical man may recall that sand holds a large number of functions or operations in the world. But for my purposes I shall only recount three.
The first and most industrious of these functions is the production of glass. And while this function be exceptionally boring to myself, the writer recounting this story, and you the reader, the end result is a most poignant purpose for the introspection of man, or more erroneously the self loving of man (for now this may not seem erroneous, but this will be elucidated for your benefit in a short while). The product that I speak of here is the household mirror. Of course there are more portable options to him who requires it.
The second function or operation is in relationship with glass (and if ever I urged you to be wise and regard my words here of good instruction, it is now). It has been a function of tracking time spent or passed. Here, of course, I refer to the hourglass. And while this is perhaps the second oldest of the human functions in its operation. I may suggest it may be the most ironic and disturbing to the wise or foolish. Here, I say ironic to the wise as of course the wise man knows well how to operate and treat its implications. The foolish man will either be in terror or in complete jovial waste of its measurements and does not bother to accept any idea of change but holds on to the objects mirrored in the bottom chamber being drowned in sand
The last of these functions is within the tales that may be told of the vicious sand storms that bear down on the Arabian desert in the summer. Flying grains that would halt the breath and destroy the vision of a man who took it in unheeding of his own safety. This I shall say is the opposing spectrum as all the desert sand knows is destruction. While you ask, "how does this apply?" I would beg of you patience.  For there is a further detail to be illustrated. I have only given one of the operations of this function. Destruction in that place is a slow death of memory. In the deep desert, memory fades away. It is either buried or eroded by the creep of the many coarse grains of sand. Unless the traveling man exhumes the ruins, they remain there soon to be completely forgotten and any semblance of that which was is then to be bare and no more, simply existing and burning in the hot sun.
It is thus now that I drift over to the character of Percy Ozymandias. And it is frequent, I should suppose, of narrators to give some sort of physical description. But then herein, I would beg you not attempt at such a suggestion. Rather, if you are a person who maintains a hardened grasp on funds or find extreme charm in several objects of value then possibly dare to place his name upon your face. For while this story does recount the story of particular people with particular experiences, you may may find that the events herein told may warn you of holding a monetary grasp.
Percy, or his less familiar and more business associative name, Mr. Ozymandias, as described by his relations and few acquaintances, was an astute and prudent man of business. However, in as much as his  business bloomed, his personal relation did precisely the opposite. To his employees his attitude was quite atrocious, his comments caustic and his responses were more like retorts. What else shall be said of the prickly demeanor of the late Mr. Ozymandias? Ah yes, There is yet the matter of his estate and the different relations therein. Percy's estate consists of two well known locations and one that Percy himself was privately aware. But here I shall mention only the two that are of importance to the story.
The first location was that of his business. It was a single foreboding column that rose to dizzying heights in the centre of the city's business district. It was so tall in fact that it dwarfed the others. And many have stated that upon entering the city that it seemed as though the other buildings bowed down in homage and worshipped to it. There it stood, the Mandias building, the glassy column that dared ascend and attempt the heavens.  It was at the top floor that Mr. Ozymandias held his office.
In my research I have come to the understanding that every employee shuddered at the thought of being required to hit the 121st button in the elevator. And from many of the sources that have described the atmosphere of the chairman's office there have been many words used to describe it. Some who took in the floor's onyx black tile described it as ominous. Others who took in the large bay windows that encompassed the majority of the office (through which, Mr. Ozymandias enjoyed gazing through at the extent of his empire) and the general polished shine of the surroundings described it as glassy. And still others who took it in their interest to look up at the dropped ceiling would describe it as crushing. But there is yet one word that all shared as they saw the many mirrors that adorned the walls and approached his desk and that word is, narcissistic. For just behind him above his desk hung a life-size portrait of the man himself. And it made the skin of any observer crawl with disgust as the gaudy colors and stark appearance all grotesquely complimented the man's bold frame and bony fingers. But the most unsettling of all the features was his young gaunt face for on it there were his two lurid eyes set just over two high and sharp cheekbones. The eyes held the observer transfixed as they would curl the lip at the long sharp nose leading to the two sneering thin lips of his mouth. It was upon this cruel visage of the horrid apparition that the observer was held in disgust and tremulous foreboding as they were finally held to attention by the man in the flesh. There is yet one detail that should be mentioned of Mr. Ozymandias' office and that is his desk. It was not a small piece of furniture by any stretch of the imagination, for it measured 12 feet in length, 5 feet in height and approximately four feet in width. It was made of solid oak (which had required it to be assembled in his office). It was marvelously ornate. The legs were hand crafted and closely resembled the legs and paws of a lion. It held ten drawers, five on either side of the alcove for where he sat on his executive leather chair. And it was in one of these drawers that Mr. Ozymandias held one personally cherished item, a handheld mirror. If he was not managing his business or scrutinizing an employee he was busy in pompous admiration of himself in its reflective surface. There was only one man who was allowed access to this floor and this was his general caretaker, John Ptochos.
It was by this man that all Percy's estate was cared for. Of course there were various other workers under employment by the wealthy businessman, but much was overseen by John. And it is at this point that I must draw your attention to Percy's personal estate. Percy possessed a grand mansion out on the countryside. The estate measured 30 acres and had several amenities and was the location for which many lavish parties were held. Percy held a similar affinity for reflective surfaces within his personal estate. And so various rooms were outfitted with ornately framed mirrors and just so, required them to be rigorously maintained. So then it was mandatory for Percy to have twenty workers maintaining the mansion and its grounds. And that crew being the responsibility of John Ptochos.
At this point I would expect that you would read this and have a profound distaste for the man whom John served and regularly it would be so with many who would encounter Mr. Ozymandias in life.In fact it would be duly common for any individual to find a spiteful response to such a man. But to this difficulty there is the fine point raised that such a man is suffered by those who find him in the midst of merriment within the aforementioned parties. And if I may be so bold, you perhaps, (if not so informed of his snakelike alter ego) would even find him dashing and considerably charming. But John and his associates knew better than to be convinced by such a sway of character. And it was to this man that John was employed and to this man to whom he was so curiously gracious. My sources say that his life suffered a great deal not merely the cruelty dealt by his master but also that from a disease that he took great measure to conceal. From what I am told very few knew of it as it had been prayed for a great deal and still it persisted and was coming to its final stages. However, John just persevered. I am told that those in his fellowship greatly admired his graciousness and the prudence he took in his workplace. And in his work John excelled. But not only did he excel but took pleasure in the act of cleaning. For often while cleaning it has been observed that he let out a small bit of glee at the faint tinkling sound as dirt would travel up the metal tube of the vacuum. So often was he teased of being slightly odd in his mannerisms while cleaning. But John paid no attention for his Joy and affections were for his heavenly father and not the praise or opinions of his fellow workers.  And from the grand source I have been told that he pursued the kingdom with great vigor. In secret he often prayed for his fellow employees but most especially prayed for his master, the man he was employed under. There is also the matter of his financial affairs for he, as his name suggests, was possibly the most furthest from wealth but would not raise fuss on this regard. In fact, by the information given to me in confidence, any financial gain all went to several different beneficiaries around the world (and I am told that they were in great need). Whatever else that  remained was given to his family for enjoyment.
At this instance I could well imagine that you, sir or madam, may very well consider yourself remarkably righteous first given the rapacious nature of the first man and the benevolence of the second. You may indeed consider the actions of charity that you have taken grant you some token of thankfulness, or better described, praise from the heavenly realm. But sir, madam, you would be wrong. It is not so cheap an action that would grant some worthiness. No, it is quite contrary. For even that first man, Mr. Ozymandias has shown some charity from the company and his great riches. The second man, John Ptochos, did it out of a humility (acted in secret) and delight for a greater master and Lord, the true one. And that is the distinction. So then John here, is the one who has truly understood.  Now you may better understand what made him so appreciated.
So then, it was truly a difficult day for those who appreciated him when John was found dead one morning in his personal chambers on what would usually be considered an ordinary day in any other respect, to a stranger of the town, or someone just on the other side of the globe. The employees were grieved of his passing and also those who were within his same fellowship. It is here that I am told that he came to rest appropriately, and that just for the sake of this telling, that his reward was/is coming. What happened next was truly disheartening, for when the employees got the call from Mr. Ozymandias’ estate they sent up a single voted employee to question him as to how to manage the affair and perhaps assuage him to grant a sum of money to manage the funeral. As his office was on the hundred and tenth floor it was not as long to make the large distance to the chairman’s floor and if you can imagine, dear reader, the tension was insurmountable and compounded with every floor passed. And so up he went.
111… The employee tested his breath
112…
113… He coughed and cleared his voice
114… He looked in the mirror behind him to straighten his tie
115… an anxious look upwards to the dial counting floors
116…
117… He nervously checked his watch
118…
119…
120…
and finally 121.

The doors divided and he stepped forward and the tension could not have been any greater as the soles of his shoes clacked loudly on the floor and competed with the pulsing of his heart reverberating in his head as he made his progress on the black road to Mr. Ozymandias' desk. And then there he stood, every muscle tensed and was wringing his hands vigorously. Mr. Ozymandias sat hunched over his desk, his eyes playing over the text on his screen.

"Um... um sir?"
"Yes?" a cold retort.
"Sir... um... I am here to tell you that John Ptochos passed away this morning."
A semblance of humanity came across the CEO’s face and then vanished.
"And WHAT am I to do with this information?"
"Well we... we... um... we, and I mean the employees, were hoping that you could arrange for a fund to manage his funeral arrangements."
He rose slowly and for a moment was transfigured into the grotesque form of the figure in the portrait.
"Well then.." His eyes flitted to a clock in the room.
"300"
"What?"
"300 dollars, that is your budget."
"But that's not even..."
"Not even what?" He cut in.
silence.

And it was with this silence that the demoralized employee sauntered back to the elevator. And it was that moment that marked the final attitude of Percy Ozymandias. It was not a terribly difficult deduction, dear reader, to know that what happened next was not the least offensive, or better said, mournful to the employees of the Mandias building. For as the rich man stood gazing out one of the large bay windows, he dug for a particularly small object in his object, a breath mint. With some small deft movements, a small breath mint was mindlessly projected into his mouth proceeding past his tongue and into his esophagus. This was followed by a few moments of wheezing and silent but wild gesticulations made as an equally mindless panic overrode his reason to page or even dial for an ambulance. But of course none of this would have been of any use as death came swiftly to the CEO's body. For in the time required to have removed the obstruction in his throat he still, nonetheless, would have still died. And so, by the small obstruction of a breath mint, Percy Ozymandias was dead.
Now of course this was not the end of the events being told. If so, this story would have ended at that page and you would not have this next portion to read. But here of course I quibble. The story continues with Percy Ozymandias to a location or state (really it is quite difficult to define). However, the difference here is that the location (or state) is neither one that maybe you would understand, nor is it found on your map. It is quite hidden you see, but not a secret, albeit a knowledge greatly ignored by many for the sake of bliss. It was indeed strange circumstances that brought me to have knowledge and experience the somewhat brief turn of events in such a hidden place. And I would regard it as a privilege and responsibility to be bestowed with this sight. For it is not often bestowed on many individuals, as I have been informed by the fellowship that John was a part of. And as for the cause or rather the reason I am equally in mystery. But perhaps I was allowed for just the sake of a wish, or better said, will, that this be written down for the betterment, no, edification and challenge or warning to those who may not yet be instructed in such issues. And so for describing how it came to be and what it was like observing such an event will be met with great difficulty. If I should start somewhere (even though I struggle greatly with using this metaphor) it was much like being admitted backstage after a theatre production. As though the veil or curtain was torn aside and I am given sudden understanding of the devices. So much was it like being admitted to such a realm as I witnessed a great tragedy and disappointment of the ending from the one who must suffer such a realm for what may seem an eternity until the final judgement. And it was such a place that Percy Ozymandias was to suffer.
Percy found himself laying face down in a great dune of sand. His lips were greatly chapped and his eyes burned and watered by the glare of the sun and a stark absence of moisture in the air, which was as sand paper blowing across his already burned skin. A great sense of bewilderment came across his face as he glanced around his surroundings. And almost completely made a full gaze of the horizon until his eyes were met with a disastrous scene, the remains of his empire. He broke into a sprint, wildly sprawling out his arms as he made haste for the not so distant location. It was not long until he came to the foot of the building. It had been subject to a sudden blast and great destruction for great portions of the building were bare and were showing beams that composed its internal structure. Both time and the sand had done fair damage to the rest of the structure and many of the letters at the top, which identified it as his building, were either gone or hanging by a hinge at an angle giving more of a picture of its dilapidated state. And the last thing that caught his eye was an oblong shape sticking out of the sand at his feet. Giving a great heave he managed to pull the thing out of its half burial. He then beheld his portrait, the lips giving a sneer of cold command. It was at this moment that reality struck. But being a stubborn man, he reached quickly into his sports jacket producing his mobile phone and just as quickly dialed a number he knew well, his own private pilot.

We're sorry the number cannot be completed as dialed please look where you are and don't try again.

After numerous attempts and many different phone numbers, despair set in. He fell to his knees and then into a fetal position and started weeping loudly. It was amidst these loud wails of despair that something broke through his whining, wailing and the howling of the wind that seized his attention. A single long drawn beep issued from his mobile phone alerting him of a text message.

IAM: Hello
Percy: Hi, you have to rescue me from this awful place!
IAM: I am sorry but you cannot be rescued from this place. You are in the bowels of death.
Percy: Then at least send some water so that my thirst may be quenched!
IAM: Unfortunately you are past the grace of mercy so that will not happen.
Percy: How might I have grace in this hour?
IAM: There is no way for you are past the period of life that I gave to you.
IAM: And also I sent news to you by means of my servant John Ptochos.
Percy: John? What did he mention that would have given me salvation from this place?
IAM: Jesus Christ is my son, and he died for your sins, but you denied him.
Percy: Send word then to my brother in the next town! Send John! Surely then my brother may be saved from a misery such as this!
IAM: If he has not listened thus far, then certainly he shall not listen even if I should send a dead man.
IAM: Goodbye

Not a great deal occurred after this, but a finalized despair fell upon Percy's face. He soon trudged up upon a great dune and looked into the horizon, there facing a dark cloud of sand bearing upon his location. It is there that he began a long and endless trek across the vast wasteland disappearing into the oncoming sand bearing storm. And for a brief second, to a bystander, it would almost seem there was nothing but two trunkless legs of stone standing in the desert.