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Mr.
Crow, Volume 2 (For
the first Volume, check the January issue. And we mean NOW, damn it!) By Jonathan Redhorse ____________________ 3.
00:00 Filtspotter Clothing Store ™ sat somber and unperturbed on 32nd Ave. between a sunglass emporium and a batch of public phones and restrooms. A single employee stood at the cash register, leering out the plate glass windows barred by mannequins wearing the height of fashion. The employee’s nametag read: Gene. 00:13 Outside: A black Cadillac pulled up alongside the curb. Two elderly men emerged. One wore a black suit. The other wore a green shirt that burned Gene’s eyes and made him see colors when he looked away. The green-shirted man appeared to be carrying a box with balloons, although Gene wasn’t sure because his view was obscured by the hand of a mannequin patting the air. 00:37 The security cameras aimed at the entrance of the store recorded, in black and white: An elderly black-suited man entering the establishment and Another elderly man entering the establishment; this one wearing a patterned shirt that happened to create an extreme amount of visual interference on the video to such a degree that its recorded account was deemed unreliable. 00:58 Gene, following company training, said: “Hello sirs. Is there anything I can assist you with?” 01:04 At this point, the black-suited man removed a fluid-filled balloon with a #1 drawn on it in black marker. He proceeded to pitch (#1) at a rack of winter party dresses hanging on the wall. The resulting liquid dispersal revealed that the balloon was filled with bleach, ruining the clothes. Their retail price was $125 each. 01:11 Gene, dumbfounded by this attack, dropped his jaw, allowing the black-suited man to prepare a second attack (#2) against a cache of dress shirts of varying colors. Their retail price was $20 each. 01:19 Thus emboldened, the black-suited man initiated a two-fisted balloon attack, firing both (#3) and (#4) at a rack of blouses, causing considerable damage to other clothing racks in close proximity. The monetary damage of these hits was about $238. 01:24 Gene, discovering his inner strength, confronted the black-suited man: “What what what?!” Raising (#5), the black-suited man threateningly approached Gene, who said: “No! Dear God!” 01:32 The balloon detonated against Gene’s torso, ruining his black trousers by creating orangey white stains. Additionally, a puce dress shirt and matching tie, purchased by Gene’s mother for his birthday, met their doom. The retail damage to Gene was about $72, although his mother purchased his shirt on sale, so an exact figure was more like $63. 01:39 Gene, overcome by bleach fumes and neuroses, fainted from the period of 01:40-04:32. 04:33 By this point, the black-suited man and his accomplice were firing (#28), (#29), (#30), and (#31) at a batch of tuxedos. Mannequins across the store had been knocked to the ground, their garments chemically blemished. One of the vandals had apparently taken the time to make Gene a comfortable headrest out of women’s blouses. Bits of bleach had gotten into his dark hair, revealing orangey hues. Gene noticed all the store’s clothing racks were ruined, save for a large display at the back of the store. 04:45 The black-suited man took the remaining balloons in the box, (#32), (#33), (#34), (#35), and (#36) and chucked them at the back wall. He then proceeded to exit the store while his accomplice, using a sledge hammer, smashed all the store’s plate glass windows to bits. Gene covered his ears as the alarms went off and the pair absquatulated. 05:00. ** The opulent mansions of the town’s wealthy lined Tregarthen Street with vast yards of emerald grass populated with towering trees bearing assorted types of fruits and leaves. There was little parking. When Monty and Maxwell arrived, the sidewalks of Tregarthen Street were lined, bumper to bumper, with luxury cars. There were a few motorized scooters here and there, and large militaresque vehicles scattered randomly about. “Maybe it’d be best if you kept the engine running while I took care of this,” Monty said, climbing out of the car. “Alright,” said Maxwell. Monty Crow had been planning this event several times over in his mind for decades. His mental theatre showed him walking up these same steps and knocking on the door. Perhaps a servant would answer, a servant who would be quickly brushed aside, as Monty, in a flurry of movement, would take the house, finding its master, and knocking him squarely in the nose. The injured man (Filtspotter) would cradle his head in his hands, shamed, while his servants thumbed their perfectly uninjured noses at this defeated titan, some showering him with substantial gobs of spittle. The gobbed man would melt into the floor, a shadow of his former self, whimpering in agony, his tears flying away in exaggerated arcs. Monty rapped the knocker on the white door leading inside Bobby Filtspotter’s house. It opened after a brief shuffling of doorknob machinery, revealing the plushy posh furnishings of the Filtspotter living room and Filtspotter Himself, not aged a bit over 30! Taken aback by this chronological anomaly but a second, Monty delivered a knuckle sandwich straight to the face of his greeter with a triumphant “Haha!” “Gahh!” the smacked said, crumpling to the floor. Shaking his fist, weary from the impact, Monty regarded the people observing him in the living room. There were a few utterances of “Good Heavens” and a “Gracious me” from the crowd. They were a dour bunch, dressed in dark clothing and sad eyes. None moved to either assist the bleeding man on the ground or apprehend his assailant. Feeling unease at the eyes pointed in his direction, Monty proceeded to back out of the room, only to spot someone else with the likeness of Filtspotter Himself, not aged a bit over 40! Unable to contain himself, Monty stormed past the guests to knock this Filtspotter in the face. “Haha!” he said. “Gahh!” the punched man said, backing into a plate of buffet shrimp. There were various mutterings throughout the crowd. No servants came to spit. Feeling a need to escape, Monty turned around to exit, his view of Maxwell in the car suddenly blocked by an incoming fist, knocking him to the ground. “Gahh!” Monty grunted, falling on top of the 40esque Filtspotter, who, feeling the brunt of the plummet, responded with an additional “Gahh!” Eyes blurry, Monty squinted at his attacker, seeing grayed Mrs. Elizabeth Filtspotter, dressed in elegant black, shaking her fight-weary wrist. She said: “Montgomery Crow… couldn’t see fit to settle his grudges and has now come in the winter of his life to seek his vengeance after his rival’s death.” “Death?!” Monty replied, his eyes widening in pain. “That’s right. Now if you’d kindly raise yourself from my son, that would be greatly appreciated as we’re trying to have a wake.” “Your son?” “Yes, my son Nigel. You also managed to knock my Eric to the floor, you wicked man.” Elizabeth helped Nigel to his feet while Monty remained on the floor, baffled still. “When did he…?” “Doesn’t matter. I severely doubt you’re that interested, seeing as you’ve no doubt managed to avoid the wide coverage of his death for the past week.” Over by the doorway, Eric Filtspotter entreated to his mother for assistance: “Mother… help me! I… I can’t get up either.” “Oh hush up. I’m berating your father’s enemies. Ask one of the guests.” Monty felt dizzy and was also unable to rise. “I’ve been preoccupied.” “Yes, no doubt, an old retired man such as yourself. Overcome by revenge fantasies. This is such a horrible thing to have to happen,” Elizabeth plucked a shrimp from the platter and shook it, menacingly, “So much death in this house. My youngest son sprawled over the same spot where his father’s servants were dispatched.” Eric crossed himself. Elizabeth spit a mucousy gob on Monty that surprised all her guests by its viscosity. “I suppose you don’t even remember what you two were fighting about, eh?” Monty struggled to answer, but stuttered. The shock of the spit was too much for him. “Just as I suspected. Please leave,” Elizabeth stood resolute as a statue, biting the shrimp and chewing. Monty slowly rose up, thought about saying something more, and then proceeded to the door. As he made his way across the room, he felt a whap of something hit him on the side. He looked at his shoulder and saw a wet gob freshly planted. Then came another from the left. Soon all the guests were showering Monty with gobs as he went running out of the house to Maxwell waiting out in the car. “What was that all about?” Maxwell asked, looking at the mob forming outside as they shook their fists and the like. “Never mind,” Monty replied, “Let’s go burn something. “What’s that?” “Let’s go burn something.” ** The funny thing about school buildings is the ratio of students wishing for the incendiary destruction of said structure to the amount of proper kindling provided through paper and flammable chemicals contained within classrooms, libraries, janitorial closets, chemistry laboratories, etc. While statistically debatable, the possibility of a 1 to 1 relationship might tweak the mindsets of an educationally concerned adult prone to panic attacks. Nonetheless, the town’s elementary school had been able to avoid such catastrophes. Unfortunately, when discussing the aforementioned ratios, the substitution of students’ wishes with a Mr. Crow’s wishes, along with the additional combustible resources implied by this new value tremendously affected this balance, negatively, depending on who you were. Monty and Maxwell gained access to the school through the assistance of a business-minded janitor named Wendell whose left pocket’s cargo increased substantially by some $1,000 through a chance exchange of services. Wendell, delighted by his night off, wandered off into town where he bought himself a nice pastrami sandwich for $7.36, leaving him with a cool $______ left over. He then proceeded home from the restaurant at 7:47 PM with an average velocity of 31 MPH, arriving at his destination at 7:58 PM. The distance traveled was approximately _____. Monty and Maxwell doused the library with gasoline, the spontaneous ignition point of which is about 495º F. The conversions to º C and K temperature scales would be ____ and ____ respectively. Hanging on a variety of hall walls were the drawings of young children, pilfered out of them in art classes. They too were drenched in gasoline, many of them smearing from the solvent qualities. After the preparation was made, Maxwell expressed his doubts about the feasibility of burning down the building due to the no-doubt sophisticated sprinkler system installed on the ceilings. While noting this potential failure, he peered into the exact room he had attended 4th grade in, immensely renovated since those bygone years, and where he had been embarrassed to admit he didn’t know Montpelier was the capital of ________. Screw it, he said, meaning the sprinklers, and following out Monty while wishing they had something on the scale of a bomb perhaps and taking cover while the flames engulfed the building in the order of library, halls, classrooms, cafeteria and so on, creating a blinding destructive image as a blowtorch is to a ________. 4. After the school visit, Monty began counting the moments up to his death. First: After helping Monty bury his suitcase of money for the fortune teller, Maxwell was driven home and dropped off. Maxwell’s wife waved from the doorstep. Monty waved back. Second: Monty proceeded back to his own home. He entered his darkened house and took a seat on the living room armchair. Third: Looking at his watch, he decided to prepare for bed. He took a shower and put on his pajamas. After brushing his teeth, he laid on the left side of his king-sized mattress. Fourth: Monty turned off his bedside lamp and prepared for imminent death. He posed for it, flat on his back, with his arms crossed over his chest. Fifth: Monty began thinking about his skin becoming clammy and his slow decent into rigor mortis. Uncomforted by this he broke his pose and rolled around the empty space on his bed. Sixth: He began reviewing his life, as was the custom before death. The event he started with was the birth of his first child, James. James had been a nice enough kid. He recalled the birth of his second child, Burt, who was also nice enough, but not as nice as James. A few years later, Edgar was born. He was barely tolerable. His final child, Patricia, the only daughter, was a vicious abomination constantly at war with her father. Unable to reconcile the two, Monty’s wife instead chose to pass away. Seventh: Monty could swear that he heard a noise outside the window. Like a clanking or something. But he dismissed the idea. He instead tried to remember the birth of his first grandchild. It was a memory filled with fog. And of course he couldn’t remember the name of the first one either. It probably belonged to James and his wife. Trying to remember the births of the subsequent grandchildren was impossible. Eighth: He realized that he had spent most every night before sleep trying to remember the names of his grandchildren. Even if he only considered it for a second, Monty was certain he had been doing such a thing for the past decade or so. Ninth: Monty felt a pang of hunger. And so he went downstairs and made himself a nice pastrami sandwich with lots of ketchup. Tenth: He carried it back upstairs and got back into bed. Eleventh: He pondered about where his daughter Patricia had disappeared to. Lord knows what she looked like. Monty closed his eyes and tried to imagine her. Unable to do so, he opened them and saw a perfect image of Patricia, dressed as a gypsy and wielding a knife. Twelfth: This Gypsy Patricia took it upon herself to speak: “Seems old age has finally caught up to you.” Patricia proceeded to plunge the knife into the bed several times, with pieces of flesh flying everywhere and a red stain growing on the blanket. Done with her work, she dropped the knife on the floor. Thirteenth: Monty, seeing the carnage done to his sandwich, tumbled off the bed and used the blanket as a net to capture his newly returned daughter. “So that’s how you knew I was going to die,” Monty said, sitting on top of the blanket as it kicked aggressively. “Let me out!” “Do you know what this means?” Monty said, an idea forming in his mind. “Let me out!” “It means I’m going to live.” “Let me out! Damn you!” “And I’ll have to learn everybody’s goddamn name. Hold on a sec.” Monty knocked the cordless phone off the nightstand with his foot. He dialed up his son James. “James? Quick I need you to come over to the house. Bring everyone.” “Let me out!” “Who’s that?” James asked. “That’s Patricia. Tell the kids they’re coming to see their Aunt Patricia.” “Patricia?” “You have to hurry though. Use the key under the mat.” Monty called up his other two sons and told them to bring their children as well. “It will be a night to remember,” he said. Having completed his calls, Monty returned his attention to his daughter whom he was sitting on. “So, Patricia. Your brothers are coming over. They certainly sound excited to see you.” “Go to hell!” “Now, now Patricia. Tell me, why were you going to nix off your dear old dad like this?” The wriggling blanket underneath stopped. Puzzled, it said: “Dad?” “Yes, that’s right. I’m your father, aren’t I? How else did you know who I was and where I lived?” There was a pause, and then: “I… it’s all coming together now, isn’t it? Well shit. All this time I really thought I was psychic. Me knowing your name and everything. Right when you walked in, I knew everything about you, and what an evil man you were.” “Evil? What made me so evil?” “I… I really don’t remember right off hand. But it was a feeling I got. And it was such a strong feeling, that I felt obliged to kill you off, do the world a service… you’re kidding me, right? You can’t be my dad.” “Poor dear. Must’ve repressed the whole thing.” “Where’s my knife? I’ll show you repression.” Monty heard the sound of his sons coming up the stairs with their families. It turned out to be James and Burt. Edgar had to yet to arrive with his family. Marcie, James’s wife, upon seeing the lewd inappropriate spectacle in the bedroom, tried to cover the eyes of her children, discovering she didn’t have the proper number of hands to do so. “What’s going on here dad?” James made his way to the front of the crowd, “Who’s that underneath the blanket?” “It’s your sister. I’m going to get up now. When I do, grab her and tie her up. We’re all going for a little drive.” James and Burt weaved a little, trying to gather their bearings to tackle their sister as Monty rose from his position. Securing her amongst her protests, everyone made their way downstairs to the living room. “Wait, wait don’t tell me. I know who you are. You’re James, aren’t you? And you’re Burt?” Patricia looked at her captors and shifted her attention to Edgar as he came in the door, “And that one over there… isn’t that…Edgar? You’re Edgar, I know it.” Edgar, taken aback by the gypsy outfit, said: “How… how did you know my name?” “Shut up Edgar. Everyone, get in your cars and follow me!” Monty, in his pajamas and a jacket, hopped into his Cadillac. A caravan of Crows commuted through the town towards the high school football field while air raid sirens wailed off, alerting the members of the town’s volunteer fire department that their assistance would be needed. A blaze that had started at the elementary school had grown momentously out of control and was in the course of engulfing nearby buildings and threatening the business district. Upon reaching the field, Monty assembled everyone at the 50 yard line. The youngest generation of Crows was peeling off their winter coats in the heat. Monty’s sons and their wives were shivering and rubbing their hands together, saying, “Brr” every few seconds. Patricia, who had ridden in James’s minivan, had apparently been gagged with a sock. She stood between two of her brothers, tied up by ropes in a makeshift straitjacket. “Listen up,” Monty announced, “I need one of you boys to dig at this area right here until you reach a briefcase. Whatever you find in there, I want you all to split it amongst yourselves. Edgar, talk to your sister. Try and remind her of pleasant childhood memories, if you can think of any.” Monty turned to the children. “As for you, I want you all to line up. I’m going to have a little chat with each of you. Is that alright?” “I wanna build a snowman,” one of them said. “Later,” Monty looked and saw in the distance, a line of police cars with their strobe lights on headed towards the field, “Come along, we’ve got to do this quickly.” The children all lined up, facing Monty, as he reached into his pajama pockets, finding his wallet. Taking out his thousands of dollars, he prepared a hundred dollar bill, which he placed into the palm of the first child in line. Despite the incoming lights and the sirens signaling destruction into the night, he stressed himself to speak gently to the first child: “And who may I ask, are you?” ____________________ Jonathan Redhorse is a student at the University of Denver. He does not like the month of February. He enjoys March and April. May's iffy. In the month of August, Jonathan had a verbal shouting match with June that called for the mediation skills of October, who tried to bring in November, but was denied since November had this big date with December planned since like, September and so everything just fell apart into chaos. A quote from an angry January, who received a black eye during the summit: "July oughtta be wiped off the f_______ planet." |
(c) Defenestration Magazine, 2004