Bad Fiction
Written by Tim on 5:22 PMThe Trickster.
The room is like a sealed box floating on an endless ocean. Not much matters on the outside of the box. The world that is, is the ocean. The inside of the room is the box. There's a door that leads to the cold harsh reality of the world. But not that that matters, leaving the box is certain death, and what lies beyond the door is utter madness. We've been in here for quite some time, this box room, its white walls shrinking around us, the rain pattering on the glass windows. A second ago there was boisterous laughter, my companion and I engrossed in conversation. We were chums he and I, mates on this ironclad boat protected from the waters. But now entered someone different, someone new. Opening the door and walking through as if it was nothing. He was a man of few words, though many ideas. I was cold, it was cold, or so my companion had told me early, and acting accordingly I had wrapped a warm afghan around my shoulders. But the chill I had previously recognized had gone when this new man entered the room, and I remember asking him, "Is it cold?" He had answered no, he said that it was very warm out, and looked confused at my attire. It was warm. My companion, who only a few seconds ago was trustworthy unto death, had lied to me. He had mocked and taunted me, I thought. I should now place the trust into this new man, a stone sober man of few words, and many ideas. He enraptured me with stories of indigenous malcontents, and orgiastic bestiality. His philosophy intrigued me, no matter how curt or concise he might have been. I began casting sidelong glances at my once chum, my former companion, silent now cowering in the corner of the room. He had not said one word to the new man, when it several things dawned on me at once. At first I realized that the new man was bundled up in various frocks and furs, heating himself on our fire. Second I realize he had taken my wool blanket and was using it as a pillow. And at once I felt utterly chilled to my soul again. I snatched the afghan back and shouted, "Prince of Lies!, is there no one to trust now?" I threw the blanket over my head and wondered now, whose hands was I to place my life into, whom could I call friend? Certainly not this Prince of Lies, with his vague ideas and his quick talk. Certainly not my old companion, who must certainly see me now as a traitor and a simpleton, eating up this Prince's falsehoods. He would betray me in spite. The seawater was leaking into the box, and once more steps shuffled down the corridor from the door. And so entered my fear, a trickster of worse proportions. A jester with glued on faces and a facsimile smile, one of which there was no trust or belief. But there was nothing to say, he could be of value to me for he was new, and I knew him not yet to be a Liar or a vengeful soul. I asked the trickster, "Is it cold on the outside?” but he did not respond. Or, he did not respond with speech but with capery and slight of hand. And now I was astounded by this Minstrel's dexterity and deftness. He plucked the raindrops from the windowpane and juggled them with his eyelashes. He contorted his body to make the signs of the zodiac. But he did not talk. My former companion, still sitting in the corner, watched this jester with a wide grin. He was bemused and excited with this new stimulus, and I imagined that he hoped it would never end. The Prince distractedly watched this action, but was more concerned with tending the fire and keeping himself warm. I caught a sneer on the Prince's lips, and a mock in his eye. I feared the Trickster would take offense to this, and that he would stop his merrymaking and go to blows with the Prince. But the heckling did not faze him, and the Jester continued to alight the room with his pratfalls and cutups. I thought, with such skill and grace this Trickster must be a god in a world of ants on the outside of the box. And we on the inside must look even more pathetic and wretched to him. I continued to put on a wonderstruck facade though, as to not alert his attention to my new revelation. What if I were to anger him, and he were to strike us down with terror and malevolence, changing his shtick for blood feasting, defiling our sense and defecating on our corpses. I could not let on to this Trickster God. Why had he come here? Why had the Prince come here? To step away from the wary world for a while? To trade tales and tricks for the warmth of our hearth? Nay they had come to feast on our souls. My companion was none the wiser, he had partaken in strong drink to warm himself further, and childlike gazed at the Trickster God, while the Prince of Lies spewed the shite of the dead into our room. I gagged at the stank of his language, and clapped my ears shut with my hands, screaming to drown out the ever increasing noise of his lies. The Trickster now spun around dervishley, his chicanery building to such great a passion it blinded my once companion and friend, who's hand now cut across his belly, spilling forth his own bowels in an effort to free himself from the pain of being a man. The God and the Prince now stopped their task and began feasting on his innards, while my dying friend's grin widened further and further, filling up his entire head. His face mushroomed and ballooned to a freakish dimension, cracking the ceiling in walls. My hands still clasped over my ears I wailed and moaned, vomited at the stank of the shit and bile and blood. The four humours splashing on my leg. I collapsed finally to my knees in a corner, and saw now the God and the Prince, once human men, now bloated animals with wings. Their goat legs covered in brittle black hairs, their torsos fat and disproportioned, scaly with the flesh of fish. Their many arms were all wrong, jutting from improper places and jointed and sickening angles. They had no heads yet some how continued to feast the rotting flesh of my no longer smiling companion, his head had deflated to a wrinkled prune, and the grin was replaced with a Mongoloidian gape. I saw as they stuffed the rest of him down into themselves, through unseen maws. As I now lay, eye-widened, chewing down on my tongue, blood trickling from my cracked lips, the damnedable sons of Cain began to fornicate. Baying like pigs and killing each other in the process, spraying blood and indeterminable juices all about the former white walls and all over my face, the feasted on each other in horrible pleasure, their engorged organs penetrating orifices that had not once existed. The bizarre inhuman sexual frenzy became sour and slow as they began to lose whatever vital fluids or functions they had needed to exist, their intertwined figures, I now unable to determine which parts belonged to which body or where the bodies where separate at all, these figures now collapsing in a colossal thud down next to where I lay. My breathing was deep and I coughed blood uncontrollably, the afghan tossed now over my head, protecting me from whatever lay beyond its veil.
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