Chapter Twenty-Five
“The Taming of the Shrew”
The Fig and Bole's decor and food didn't quite live up to its name, but it was the only diner in town. The last thing Brittany remembered was walking back to Hiawatha Towers after splurging for breakfast there.
Usually she was able to remember how she had gotten from one place to another, so she was a little bit confused. It seemed as if she were in some sort of industrial building. That was strange. That was nearly as strange as having her wrists chained to an upright supporting beam.
The room was a classic factory room, cinderblock and concrete. The walls were painted a singularly unattractive mint. The floor was standard concrete worn smooth over the years. There was only one piece of furniture in the room, a battered old armoire the size of an elephant.
"Hello? Is there anyone here? I seem to be...stuck."
There was no answer. Brittany hadn't really expected an answer, but still, it would have been nice.
•
"Would you mind if I read to her alone for a little while?" Claudia asked the Mankeviches.
Claudia found it upsetting that the Mankeviches were not more cultured than they were. To look at them one would think that they would be. Lily looked like June Cleaver (well, the actress who played her, really) dressed for the new decade. Everything about her screamed 1950's rich man's wife. Walter was a tall, lean, distinguished looking man with immaculately coiffed hair beginning to turn grey. One would hope that people who dressed in such a fashion might live up to the expectation.
"Oh, of course. We didn't mean to intrude," answered Jill's mother.
Claudia was relieved when the Mankeviches, Mr. and Mrs., left the room. The combination of Mrs.'s whimpering and half-stifled sobs and Mr.'s incessant sniffling and sneezing had been driving her crazy. Besides, she wanted to talk to Jill.
"Look dear," Claudia said, walking to Jill's bed, "I want this to be a success. When the press arrives, I want you to wake up. If you don't wake up, I will be quite upset. My return has not at all gone the way I would have liked, what with this quarantine. Your awakening will make up for that. I don't care why you have refused to wake up, but you will do this one teeny little thing for me.
"Now, the press will be here in about fifteen minutes, so I want you to think about what it would look like if you were to stay comatose."
•
A tall thin man with a drooping mustache and a short fat man with three days growth of beard had come into the room.
My god, they look like Mutt and Jeff, Brittany thought. No, they look just like the Bugs Bunny castaways who wind up hallucinating each other as a giant hamburger and a giant hot dog.
Both men had jet black hair, cut short, and very light brown skin. Hot Dog had pock marks on his face and a long beaky nose. All of Hamburger’s facial features were rounded: nose, mouth, chin. They were dressed identically in loose linen trousers, sandals, multi-colored vest over white dress shirt, and turbans.
"Whatever you want, I'm more than willing to give you," she said quickly.
Mutt said something to Jeff. She wasn't sure, but Brittany thought it might be Hindi.
"Why did you bring me here?"
Mutt and Jeff didn't seem to realize that she was there.
Am I invisible or, possibly, not here? Brittany wondered.
"Hello. Can you hear me?" she asked.
Jeff started walking towards her. Alarmingly, he was carrying a rattan cane.
"Uh, what's that fo.....owwwww."
Jeff had struck her across her back. Brittany was about to become more than panicked, but Jeff didn't give her time. He began striking her rapidly. Each blow stung and burned and took her breath away before subsiding into a mere screaming ache. He didn't seem to care where he hit her. Brittany had quickly gone from stunned panic to screaming hysterics. Jeff didn't seem to notice or to care. He continued to lash her.
After what seemed an eternity, the blows stopped falling. When she was finally able to stop screaming and catch her breath, Mutt and Jeff were gone. Brittany was sure that she would never be able to move again. There was a wineskin at her feet. Suspiciously and with heavily trembling hands, she got it open and drank.
It was water.
•
Albert couldn't believe he was being subjected to this. Not only was it Teck poetry, but it was being read by the poet herself. Her reading made her poems even worse than he had thought when he had read them to himself. Combining Teck's inane natterings with Jill's mom's sniveling had been almost more than he could bear. In order to distract himself from what must surely have been Vogon love poetry aimed at killing Jill's mom, Albert had started to poke at Mr. Mankevich while screaming for him to save himself. Unless sneezing counted, Mr. Mankevich hadn't seemed to notice Albert.
Thankfully, after fifteen minutes Jill's parents left and Teck stopped reading. That was when he noticed that Jill, or her ghost at any rate, had begun moving. Rapidly. Jill's shade was revolving around her prone form. Albert judged one Jill year to take about three seconds. When he tried to hold her still he was violently thrown through the door.
•
When Mutt and Jeff next entered the room, Brittany began pleading immediately. To no apparent effect. Unless Jeff had taken pity on her and that was why Mutt had been the one to deliver the beating this time. When she had got control of herself, they were gone.
•
Albert made sure that all his parts were as there as they could be and walked back into Jill's room. Jill was still orbiting herself. Teck was sitting in a chair by the bedside, apparently engaged in a deep breathing exercise. Albert decided that there was no fucking way he was going to try to touch Jill as long as she was orbiting. On the upside was the fact that Jill's orbital period seemed to be steady at 20 rpm. Albert was pissed that there seemed to be nothing he could do. Poking Jill's father had at least accomplished something, so he decided to poke Teck and see what might happen.
Teck was impenetrable. In fact, she was untouchable. To Albert, it felt like she was surrounded by a smooth plastic bubble. At three inches from her body his hand would touch a cool, smooth, and very solid wall.
•
The General's command tent was like something out of a fantasy novel. It was more of a pavilion, really. If he could have thought of a reason to have a purple tent he would have done so. As he hadn’t been able to, it was olive drab, the same as all the others. Inside, it had been divided into four rooms, each one taking up exactly a quarter of the square footage. The front right room was his aide's office, the back right his sleeping quarters (literally). The front left was the conference room. The General and his aides were in the back left room, the true command center.
The General and his aides were kneeling, heads bowed. In the center of the room was Temmael, eight feet tall with four faces, one facing each of the cardinal points of the compass at all times. Temmael emitted an intense blue light, its six wings threw confusing and truly horrific shadows around the room. Temmael's wings were pure white, its body a dull glowing red. If it had arms, they were hidden by its wings. An ear-splitting, tooth-grinding, bass sound came from the angel. Only through long exposure was the General able to make out the words.
"HOLY, HOLY, HOLY, HOLY, HOLY..."
The seraph's four throats created a sound that reminded the General of an extremely low-pitched hurdy-gurdy, or perhaps bagpipes. The General watched three adam's apples bob up and down. He wondered how it ever inhaled.
"HOLY, HOLY, HOLY, HOLY, HOLY..."
"His Lord, Temmael, would know the status of the girl," grated the little man in his high, nasally voice.
The General had never learned the little man's name. Apparently he didn't have one. He claimed to be one of the Galearii, a low ranking, essentially janitorial class of angel. The General always referred to him as the Homunculus. The Homunculus was wearing black wool trousers and a white linen shirt under a geometrically patterned wool poncho. A battered black derby with a green feather was perched on his head. He stood all of eighteen inches tall.
"Sri and Ghopal are seeing to it. She should be delivered to us within the week."
The bone-rattling hum continued to emanate from Temmael. It never stopped. The General supposed he was lucky to be able to hear the words.
"HOLYHOLYHOLYHOLYHOLYHOLY..."
Or maybe not.
"His Lord, Temmael, would hope you understand just how dangerous she is," grated the Homunculus.
"My lord, I understand all you have told me. Sri and Ghopal will make sure that she will do as she is told and nothing else," replied the General. He was going to have a splitting headache that would last for days if Temmael didn't leave soon.
"His Lord, Temmael, would have you inform him as soon as she arrives," said the Homunculus.
"I will, my lord," replied the General.
Temmael and its attendant vanished with an audible pop. The General wondered what would possess an angel, even a minor one, to dress like an Inca from the Peruvian Andes.
•
Over the course of the week, the pattern remained the same. Every few hours Mutt and Jeff would come into the room and beat the crap out of Brittany. If she had been in any condition to notice, Brittany might have marveled at their skill in avoiding her head and vital organs with the blows they delivered with the rattan canes. No matter what she did, they would mercilessly beat her about the arms and legs, rarely hitting her back or abdomen.
For the first two days, Brittany begged and pleaded for them to listen to her. Neither one seemed to notice that she had spoken. By the third day Brittany was a mass of welts and the fact that she had soiled herself multiple times did nothing for state of mind. She gave up trying to communicate with her tormentors at all and merely tried to protect herself and cried out with each blow. By the fifth day, the beatings and lack of sleep had done her in. She no longer even tried to protect herself from the blows.
And the end of the fifth day, Jeff came to her room alone. Brittany remained silent.
He unchained her wrists and said, "Please to follow me."
And she did.
•
Teck's beeper bleeped. The number on it was 444-4444. Claudia slowly started to count, "One Mississippi, two Mississippi..."
When she reached one hundred, she began to read. When the reporters and photographers showed up she was reading:
"Alone on my bed. A bunny. Warm and cuddly and fluffy. How I long for the days, When everything was play, When I was young … and soft things."
Jill sat up laughing.
•