Anthology Two Presents

Jack Crowley
"A Sketch of Things To Come"
By David J. Mollett

'What? A great man? i see only the actor of his own ideals.'
- Friedrich Nietzsche,
'Beyond good and evil' #97
 

Yeah, picture this Joe - this dame comes storming into the office - Layla, she says her name is - and slams some half-burnt polaroids on my desk. Spills my coffee, the fatal bitch; dark Columbian; strong, firm, real buzz. Green eyes, pearls,
dewdrops. She wants me to get the negatives. Pays in cash, up front, 25,000 bucks. Half now, rest on delivery. Well, i ain't one to look a gift whore in the mouth now, am i?

So here's me, Pacific goddamn City, main boulevard, sitting at table drinking black coffee, rolling a shag, when all of sudden like, the bank opposite blows up. Explosions, fire, the mob screaming - that kind of thing. And then, fuck of all fucks,
some dude in a laughable spandex suit suddenly swoops into view, descending from the sky like the ironic wrath of Yahweh, touches down in the middle of the street, hands on hips, and blows the damn fire out in one small breath. Then he flies into
the building, comes out a minute later with a cat in one hand and the bank robber in the other.

But the worst thing of all, of course, is that the people, the mob of Pacific City, they applauded. As he flew away. This surreal idiocy. Idiot country.

So that was my introduction to this place.

Hey, i haven't introduced myself yet, have i Joe? Crowley's the name, Jack Crowley. i'm a private dick, case you hadn't guessed. Based in dark New Orleans, old French colonial city, full of Creoles and vampires and dark Lovecraftian magick.
So yeah, i'm no stranger to magick, mystery, mystique - i use sorcery in my investigations. That's why i'm the best - no, you can stop that thought right away Joe - only the best would be in a position to tell a story like this.

So i start out with tarots, then depending on the case i'll invoke some higher power, maybe Tchehuti, or Maat - gives me a better picture of what's going on. Missing persons, now they're a piece of cake - just astrally project and you've got
'em.

In this case, it was Seshat, ancient Egyptian goddess of writing, who i invoked. i figured she'd extend to polaroids these days. Pacific City, she said. Damn her.

i saw the broad, Layla, once more before i left. She didn't see me. It was at the airport. Don't know where she was heading. She made a phone call then slipped away. Boy, she's a fine dame. i figured to wait till i got back though.

i thought a lot of her on the plane -  turning the polaroids over in my hands, drinking whisky, watching the burnt out face there; she didn't say much about the negatives, who the girl in the photo was (it wasn't Layla), why she wanted them, where they came from etc. etc. And sure, it wasn't my place to ask. And besides, my clients are used to not telling me anything, since i'm a psychic detective i'm presumed to be able to find out for myself. That's why they hire me - to find out things about themselves or their case that they don't already know.

Hey, it's a job. And i like it.

Yeah, Layla. At all times of the day. The name rolls 'pon thy tongue, Joe, Lay-Lay-Layla.

So i get to Pacific City, book into a hotel, nice rustic palace with a bar and roaring fire in the room, put the 'do not disturb' sign on the door, start preparing a ritual. Candles, geometric, geomantic symbols inscribed on black cloth placed on the floor, swinging censer, dark chants. Isis in her wisdom watching, onyx statuette.

Well, Joe, the long and the short of it is this: she tells me i'd be staying in this city longer than i'd wanted. Reluctant hero. Things i have to do. One of the polaroids gleams in the candlelight. i pick it up, look at it again. Behind the girl shadows start to form, something i didn't see before because it wasn't there before, a mansion, a moon, baying wolves. So yeah, the girl wasn't important after all, it was where she was that made the trick. First twist.

And who is Layla to know to give me this? Isis, she doesn't tell me these things. Not at first. Fatal.

So yeah, i guess that's what's wrong with all this, i mean the world here, Pacific City - something beautiful, aesthetic, punctuated and dirtied by superheroes. But they're not really supermen, are they? Not in the true meaning of the word? They throw filth on all this, all that is sacred, all that is humanly possible, the possibilities, the wonder, the becoming more than what you are. It's the holy guardian angels who should be calling the shots now, not some trussed up foreigner or alien keeping the souls and evolution of man in check.

And as for their morals - no understanding of the universe. 'Pity in a man of knowledge seems almost ludicrous, like sensitive hands on a Cyclops.' They must be flawed.

So i prepare a bag of tricks and head off downtown, to the library, hoping to find out the facts on this mansion. No luck. So i have a coffee. That's when the spandex-clad dude swoops down to save the day. i ask the waitress about him. That's Millennium Man, she tells me. What's his name? i ask her. No, his real name baby? No one knows, she says, he has some 'secret identity', it's why he wears a mask. Sounds ridiculous to me - why hide himself? Does he have no pride either?
Stupid Judaeo-Christian ethic. It's vanity in the end. All is vanity. Made worse by not admitting it. He reveals his origins that way. The girl doesn't seem to appreciate what i'm saying about their local superfucker. Reluctant, unappreciated hero.

So i go back to the hotel and decide to follow the bastard astrally.

And lo and behold - where do you think he ends up? Yeah, that's right, Joe - polaroids. i watch him changing out of his stupid suit, see his face. i know where he lives. So that's why these negatives are so important, because they reveal his identity. i get to thinking there must be more of them up there. Sure enough, i see envelopes in the safe where he stashes his suit. Just the right size for polaroids.

Of course he doesn't see me, hovering above him in my beautiful aesthetic irony. Flying. Wired and wide awake.

Tomorrow i will pay him a real visit on the material plane.

What this story needs now, of course, is an interlude, before the climactic confrontation. But that's just my own style. It certainly needs something. Perhaps you are hoping for some facetious or pretentious presentation of how the dame Layla
fits into the whole scheme of things, or just enough to leave it open, rather than admitting that she's just a name i conjured up on the spur of the moment to get things underway. Does she have a further part to play? Right now i don't care.

Or maybe you'd like to see some colourful incident happening between now and the next bit, or a description of how Crowley gets to the mansion? Sorry, descriptions aren't my thing. You'll have to use your imagination to fill in the gaps.

See what i meant earlier by the beautiful world having filth thrown 'pon it by spandex-clad parodies was also meant to extend to literature as well - the aesthetic. i thought it a bit too subtle to reach all my readers. See let's say this is some kind of showcase for my own literary genius, my own stylishness - all these sorcerous words and gorgeous rhythmic turning are frankly worth fuck all and turn to emptiness as soon as a superhero shows his face. It throws filth upon good discourse. And as i say, they are not true supermen, in the original meaning of the concept.

Do i apologise for this interlude? Talking about myself in the third? Perhaps not. It's postmodernism, Joe, it's postmodernism. Postmodernman who kills people by deconstructing them and who has a special hyperreal mode he enters in tight situations.

i, Jack Crowley, P.I., am fully aware of my madness. There is chaos in me. But i am real. i am real and i have entered into fiction and brought it back out with me, the parallel realm which does exist now. It is not just a dream. As if from some
dark, distant cave of me, it has arrived. And it bursts forth fully formed. i am a dancing star.

So i get to the mansion, rap on the door. The butler opens it, asks me who i am and what my business is. i shove my 45 in his face and the limey backs off. i walk through the lobby to the drawing room, since i know that's where he is. You can leave us now, i tell the butler. His master nods to him, he exits, shuts the door behind him.

'Millennium Man, i presume. i want your negatives.' i tell him. 'Or rather, my client wants them. They're in your safe. Get them for me.'

Millennium Man laughs. Glances at the gun. 'You seem to have me at a disadvantage. You presume to know me, but i don't know you.'

'Crowley. Jack Crowley, P.I. You won't have heard of me, Joe, since i'm not from around here, thank god.' i put away my 45. i won't need it.

'And what makes you think you can come in here and threaten me?' he says.

'If i am Millennium Man, of which you have no proof, then surely i could defeat you with my little finger?'

'Why talk of proof? Why do i need proof, Joe? Mystical knowledge is enough. Your safe is behind that picture, for example. Who else could know that? And as for you thinking you could kill me just like that, that's your ignorant arrogance talking.
You couldn't kill me in your dreams.' i look at him with pierced eyes. 'But i could. Just remember that. i could.'

Millennium Man gets to his feet, takes a stride towards me. i do not back away. i reach into my pocket and pull out my bag of tricks. Take out a stone, toss it in the air in front of me. Speak the hekau as it falls. It lands on the floor and dissipates. The result is invisible. He doesn't see it. Millennium Man bullrushes me, gets to within an inch and then is thrown back with an opposite and equal force away from me. He slams into the wall behind him, dislodging the picture there, revealing the safe.

i walk towards him. He cowers on the floor, the fool. 'Please, who are you?' i put my hand on the combination lock, start to go through the rotations i memorised from the astral.

'i am a man.' i tell him.

'But how? How?'

'That's something you'll have to work out for yourself, arsehole. Everybody else has to.' i open the safe, pull out the envelopes, sift through them.

'Please, don't make them public. Think of all the people i help!'

'You narrow minded fool! Can't you think long-term? You're not helping anyone! You're keeping them from their own evolution, keeping them from god, placing a barrier between them and the so-called unattainable. And besides, this dame's paying me 50,000 bucks for this stuff.'

i take out another item from my bag of tricks. Point the 45 at him and tell him to swallow the trick.

To my surprise, he laughs. 'Now it's you who doesn't understand. You may be able to kill me, but you can't kill Millennium Man. If you kill me, someone else will take my place. There's always been a Millennium Man, and there always will be.'

'You're talking about parallel worlds impinging on this one by the directorate of higher powers when there is a need for balance to be maintained, i take it?'

He stops smiling.

'Yes, i know about all this. It's my job. But i am a human being from this plane.' And i get angry. 'i am a fucking human being and i will not be dictated to by fucking aliens! Got that? Now swallow the fucking stone!'

He tries to resist, but i point the gun in his face and shove it down his throat anyway. Shut the safe, twist the dial for good measure and leave, leave Millennium Man writhing there on the floor like a common prostitute. Fatal whore. Flawed. Pity?
i'm no Cyclops.

When i get back to the hotel i call a cab, was about to get the first flight home, when there's a knock on my door. i open it, cocked 45 behind my back. It's Layla. i put the pistol back on safety and place it on the table.

'You want a drink?' i pour two whiskies. Hand one to her.

'You got my merchandise?' she asks.

'You got my dough, lady?' i ask.

She throws a heavily stuffed envelope on the floor. i glance over to the bedside drawer, that's where i put the polaroids, she goes over. i pick up the envelope, open it, there's another 25 big ones inside.

'These are good.' She says, looking through the negatives up in the light. 'Fix me another drink, Joe.' She smiles.

i go over to the bar, pour another two whiskies. Then i hear a rustling behind me. i know that sound. i turn around. She's thrown the pictures in the fire! All of them! i rush over to try and retrieve them before it's too late but she grabs hold of
me, her grip is surprisingly strong, she plants her mouth firmly on mine and there's no way i'm getting those negatives back. Let them burn, baby, let them burn.

i cancel the cab. Lay-Lay-Layla leaves in the morning before i wake up. She never told me why she wanted Millennium Man's identity kept secret, although it's obvious she didn't trust him to keep the polaroids safe. Hah! i wouldn't either. Buffoon. i pour another whisky, light up a smoke, stand at the window in my dressing gown and look out over the street, where she walks away. And i watch her as she disappears into the crowd. i smile, and wonder how she'll feel when she finds out what i did to her precious superman.

And the whisky tastes like burning chocolate as it slithers down my throat.

Snake eyes. Snake eyes....