By The Inksters

When Raoul awoke the room was dark except for a sliver of dim light that passed through a gap in the shades and lay across his chest like an iron bar.  Rain ticked against the roof.  He yawned and stretched like a cat, then got out of bed and approached the window.  He raised the blinds and squinted as the gray light washed over him.  It was an ugly day. The sky was bruised, and rain soaked the bare branches of black trees.  He lifted the window.  The air was heavy and damp and smelled like oil.

 The sheer dreariness of the morning had an unusual affect on Raoul.  He began to feel elated.  His hands started to sweat, his vision narrowed, his heart beat loudly in his chest, and his temperature began to rise.  He ran and vaulted onto the bed and jumped up and down on its creaking frame.  Then he picked up the phone and dialed his office..

"I can't make it in today," he said in a loud, jubilant voice.  "I'm terribly sick! Tell Matthew how sorry I am!"

A minute later, he began to come down.  His sweat dried up, his vision expanded, his pulse slowed, and his temperature dropped. He returned to the window.  I have a feeling that today is going to be very strange, he thought, watching a pair of ravens tug worms from the sodden grass.  He frowned at his sudden feeling of deep foreboding.

Raoul sat down heavily on his bed and sighed. This was familiar country. The cycle of beautiful and tragic ups and downs happened every time he tried to go off his medication. He hadn't taken any of the detested beige pills since . . . well, if he had taken them he would be able to remember when.  Resignedly, he trudged to the bathroom and popped two of the prescription capsules in his mouth.  He knew he would feel "regulated" in less than an hour.  He flipped on the tube and lay down to wait.

Raoul opened his eyes after a long, dreamless nap, and left his dreary apartment two hours later  He stepped out into the sweet, clean air and thought it must have rained hard while he slept. Gone were the bruised clouds and oppressive air.  "The sky has cleared, just like my mind," he said and snorted wryly, startling some pigeons on the sidewalk.  He unchained his rusty bicycle from the black metal railing and brushed the water droplets off its seat.

As he rode north towards Eric's place, he pondered whether medically induced calmness and rationality were better than the extremes of emotion. While he would never wish to remain manic-depressive, he sometimes wished he could feel more.  Eric hadn't noticed Raoul’s lack of emotion or that he had to force most of his laughter when they watched Monty Python together.  Well, taking his medication was essential, since the manic Raoul couldn't hold a job for longer than three months or manage a relationship.  A relationship.  Wow.  A small smile reflexively crossed his mouth when he thought of Eric.

With a slight shudder Raoul recalled how Eric had spent their last three dates together begging him to move in with him.  But Raoul knew he’d never be able to hide his manic twin.  Raoul peddled faster toward Eric’s place.

Eric raised his pounding head off the twisted sheets and looked at his watch.  The two naked girls entwined next to him stirred slightly.  He sat on the edge of the bed and  took a long hit off a roach from last night's orgy.  He ran his fingers through his curly black hair and rubbed his face, pondering how he might end it with Raoul.  The gay lifestyle was good, but no more so than the rest.  He'd become accustomed to his decadence, and it no longer scared or thrilled him. Morality was just a word.  He still feared disease, but accepted the risk.  Now Raoul had spoiled it all and gotten serious.  He was sure Raoul bought into the ruse when he begged him to move in last week. Thank God he'd refused.  Maybe he could feign a broken heart and get rid of him.. He just hoped no violence erupted.  He didn't need any more trouble

He lit a cigarette and threw the pack down near the small leather bag he had stolen from the hotel room last night.  Nice score – he looked at the diamond necklace and thought it must be worth a fortune. The Americans were always eager and so easily fooled - a few drinks, a nice dinner, some ruffinols, and they were his. The woman had struggled a little last night, leaving a deep scratch on his cheek. It was probably time to think about moving on. He'd just about worn out his welcome in London, and couldn't afford to be questioned by the police again.  Poking the women with his toe, he said, "Get up, let's go - get out of here."  He threw their clothes at them and motioned toward the door with his head.  They hurriedly dressed, and he grinned coldly at the fear in their eyes.  Pulling back the curtain, he peered out into the street.

Across lay the waterfront and a rare cerulean ocean twinkled serenely.  Some corner of Eric's drug addled brain was still capable of appreciating the picturesque beauty of sea and sky.  Ivory triangles bobbed in the wake of maniacally-driven testosterone-powered speedboats.  Crazy Englishmen.  Even though every instinct in his body was tingling warnings, Eric couldn't help but lean against the window of his flat and spin lazy dreams of a tropical heaven populated by half-clad dancers. The reassuring sight of the diamonds lent weight and substance to his fantasy.  He lit a cigarette and made a dismissive gesture to the scrambling women.

A movement caught his eye.  Focusing his sight on the water, Eric could see that one of the sleek machines was zipping on a straight course for the pier across the street.

"The boy has balls," he grunted in appreciation, blowing smoke out of the window.  The thrum of the motor grew louder.  Still the pilot showed no signs of slowing. The repressed alarm bells in his brain repeated their clamor.  Eric tensed as the speedboat grew larger in his vision, large enough to see the slumped form of the driver.  The cigarette slipped from his nerveless fingers.  His mouth opened in an 'O' of horror as the boat gracefully sailed over the pier in an arc of destruction.  White heat filled his body, and through the roaring in his ears, he could hear the muffled screams of the two women as they rushed frantically toward the door. 

He watched transfixed as the boat began its fatal descent.  He could even see the barnacles on the underside of the black and white hull.  A vestigial conscience appreciated the absurdity of his approaching death, mocking his wasteful and pointless life.  Dimly, he heard the door crashing open.  "Hey!", screamed a voice, as rough and urgent hands pulled at his shirt to drag him away from a quick and fiery death.

Edwin struggled to wakefulness at the insistent pull of Primo’s fingers.  As the remnants of his dream dispersed, he was appalled at the decadence of the foursome  the fourth part of his brain had conjured up.  Fully awake, he had Primo mechanically release his fingers and put them back to Secundo, the normal brain section. While he dressed, he programmed Primo for a Field Search that would find and identify the source of the alarm.  He quickly donned his tights and long-sleeved, loose top that concealed the dagger snapped firmly round his wrist.  Grabbing his sword, he crept towards the door.

The hut in which he had sheltered overnight was roughly constructed but kept out the bitter cold nights of the Ulano wilderness.  Built of fallen trees and brush, the edifice had been entwined with growing vines and brush and well hidden.  Edwin took a silver coin from his purse and bent to leave it in the usual hiding place for Gribling.  Danger!!!  Primo's warning signal beeped in his mind.  Working on instinct, Edwin bent and rolled twice.   He leapt to his feet. Two assailants!  Primo prompted again.  Before him stood a Sangor, a soldier of Heranus, ready to plunge a long serrated spear into his body.  His second pair of hands wielded a four-foot cutlass.  Edwin had signaled Tertio to send a mind vai to his dagger's clasp and propel it into Edwin’s hand.  He threw straight and true, a skill that had been his almost from birth, and the blade caught the Sangor in the link between his two hearts.   He died soundlessly.

Now, Primo and Secundo were frantically searching for the second assailant and found him as he jumped from the roof of the hut.  Driving downwards with a spear in each pair of his hands, the Sangor let out an exultant scream of victory which died on his lips, as Tertio threw another mind vai and knocked him to the ground ten feet away.  Edwin leapt forward and calmly finished him with his sword.  He retrieved his dagger and cleaned both weapons well, lest the fine steel of his weapons be corrupted with the corrosive Sangor blood.

Primo's Field Search had located some of Heranus' cavalry and a coven of Singers which accounted for the two Sangor troop’s near-successful assault.  Primo had been beguiled sufficiently by their seductive voices to let the Sangors get too close, but they had not sufficient power to hide the mass of troops successfully.  Edwin knew he must leave now to evade his pursuers, but worried that Quarto was trying to tell him something with this sordid tale of love between two men, one of who was most repulsive.  Ugh! And the drugs!  What sort of world could be inhabited by creatures such as these?  Whose death was being foretold?

"William. Willlllliaaam. Wake up now, William."

He felt the large white-robed Sangor shaking his unclothed shoulder and heard its mouth make words.  He realized he must have once again attained the seventh level.  But what was this?  His arms were held with animal skin straps, and he was captive in a white stone room. They had somehow tricked him!  He could not allow the Sangors to imprison him. They had tried to fool him with the image world they transmitted to his mind when he slept but he knew their sorcery. The images were beamed to him through portals in the stone walls.

“Come on, fella. Wake up. It is time to go see the nice doctor, William."

He opened his left eye barely a slit and looked at their blurred shifting forms. There were four of them now! The Sangors had brought the round, dark one, and the tall, tan one with hard arms had the white wrap coat with him.  Didn’t they know he was Edwin, Warrior God of the Ulano Plain!  He grasped his fourth finger and quickly turned it to the right, then pulled it out twice quickly to activate his cloak of invisibility.

"AARRRGGHH," he screamed as the straps released and he lunged toward the gap in their midst.  He shrieked in surprise as Sangor hands caught him, clutching him firmly.  The tall one draped the wrap coat round him.  He fought to break their grip with limbs flailing futilely until they trapped his arms inside and tied the straps behind him. He could not activate his fingers!   He could not reach his hands!

"Yo, what da  story with dis leotard, dude?" said the round dark one. "Did y'all see him when dey brutt him in lass nigh'?"

"Oh, Jerome. It’s  a really bizarre story.  Witless Willy is pretty much a regular here," said little nurse Missy as they wheeled him down the hall to the E.C.T. unit.  

"Believe it or not, he used to manage this place many years ago.  They say that he was brilliant when he was in his right mind."

 "No Shit!" said Jerome as he looked into William’s frantic eyes.

Raoul. He could hear his name echoing somewhere off in the distance.  It was happening in the real world and it transfixed him like a deer caught in headlights, pulling him toward it. Time and space were distorted again.  He was back in the whirlpool diving headfirst into the dread of reality.  Louder now, louder . . .

 "RAOUL, can you hear me boy?  RAOUL!"  He sat bolt upright. His hulking mother glared from the end of the bed.

 "Why do you hurt me boy?  Your poor old mother.  After all I've done for you."

"Yes, mother," he managed, trying to shake the dreams away.

 "How many times must I tell you -- stay away from drugs and women.  They're evil."

 "Yes, mother."

She frowned at the packaging from the acid tabs in the trash, and shook them accusingly.

 "You know what will happen don't you Raoul?  You know, don't you? THE BOOGIE MAN WILL GET YA!  Now be a good boy and run an errand for your poor old mother, and don't dilly-dally, here's the list."

 He struck out into the afternoon heat, still buzzing from the acid’s return trip. Jesus, man, he thought, manic depression, a rusty bike, gay lovers in London, flying speedboats and Sangors.  I'll have to get some more of that shit from that Internet writing group, it's wicked stuff.  He was coming down fast and wished he could go back into his surreal world.  At least he had a life there. At thirty-seven, he had no friends, never  had a girlfriend and was stuck living in a cramped apartment with his crazy mother and tripping on whatever escape came his way.

He carried his purchases to the checkout in the small corner store. Oh, God, he started trembling. The girl at the check out counter must be new. He mumbled through the purchase, darting glances at her tight tee shirt and honey-blond looks.

They're all wicked Raoul, you stay at home and look after your poor old mother!

He made the pavement, feeding the change into his pocket.  And there it was, another acid tab among the coins. It pleaded with him, and he succumbed.

He stumbled on, the air was syrupy with silent sounds. He was in another store, in another world.  "Dream Girl Magazines" had lured him in.  A "Biker's Monthly" opened in his hand, a muscled rider on the page suddenly sprang to life and stood before him, beckoning, smiling.  He dropped the magazine, and the biker disappeared.  He reached for  "P.C Monthly".  Bill Gates was there in person, touching, caressing him. The magazine dropped to the floor and Bill evaporated.  He moved left, nervously eyeing "Playboy."  Stay away Raoul, I've told you a thousand times, girls are evil!  But he was beyond listening and beyond this world.  His hands trembled, his sweat dripped in rivulets down his sides.  He lovingly took the magazine and gingerly opened to the centerfold.  He felt warm hands reach around his waist from behind and slide to his crotch.   He turned slowly, his eyes growing wide and his mouth mimed a deafening scream.

Hugh Hefner stood too close, his hands reaching for Raoul's face, the knowing smile permanent on his gray lips.  He flicked his reptilian tongue.  Raoul ran. The exit opened ahead of him, and he burst onto the street in panic.  He never saw the truck bearing down.

 A scream of tires sent the store clerk out to find Raoul lying face down on the street, blood running from his mouth.  A black truck had screeched to a halt in scorched rubber with too little time.  The clerk saw the writing on the side of the truck.  "THE BOOGIE MAN - DJ SERVICE, PARTIES, WEDDINGS, CELEBRATIONS.   ANYWHERE, ANYTIME."

The distant sound of sirens could be heard, wailing their dreadful song of death, as the crowd stood gawking at the man lying in the Chicago street.  The distraught driver stood nervously chanting, "Man, I didn't even see him.  He just ran right out in front of me.  I couldn't stop.  I didn't see him. I swear, it was like he wanted me to hit him."  The ambulance arrived with the police car in its wake, and the paramedics pushed the curiosity seekers away from the broken body.

 At the same time, the wail of sirens could be heard in the streets of London, where a bizarre speedboat accident had resulted in the death of a gigolo thief.  At the fringe of spectators stood a nervous man, who kept his hand in his jacket pocket protecting the diamond necklace.  He smiled, then turned and headed back to his hotel, whistling a jaunty tune.  He’d be back in Detroit tonight.  

Yet, in an isolated ward of a Detroit psychiatric hospital, the doctor listened for a heartbeat, shook his head and pronounced the man dead. "He was a brilliant author, you know.  Science fiction was his genre." The doctor looked at the body clad in tights and a lacy woman's long-sleeved top.  He slowly shook his head again.  "What a waste."

Raoul clicked the off button on the remote and killed the movie.

"God, what an awful movie!"  He couldn't believe he actually watched the whole damn thing.  He walked to the window and peered out through the gap in the shades.  It was still raining.  He knew he shouldn't have called off work.  Suddenly, his hands began to sweat, his vision narrowed, his heart beat loudly in his chest, and he felt his temperature begin to rise. "Oh, no," he wailed.