maestro

He looked out at the city; no movement yet. No sounds. He unspooled three cycles of grey tape and wrapped the handlebars. He jangled the bottle -holder. Still too loose. He made a decision; he took the screwdriver and loosened it completely, tossed it aside. He looked outside; the towers touched the sky, the clouds steady. The husks of giant buildings loomed. Former glass cases. Now skeletons, glass paneling eroded, empty, haunted. He sniffed the window. Still nothing. He strapped his feet into the Garneaus. Light as a feather, he said. Light as the wind. He walked to the door, each step producing a knock, a knuckle wrapping wood. I had been sitting at the little kitchen table, shirt off, watching, sipping coffee, looming through the steam of it. There's some left in the Bodum, i said. Kinda cold now. All good bro, he said. What time you get up? i said. Sun wasn't up, he said. I looked at the bike, then i put my face to the window. Anything yet? i said. He sat, looping more tape. I hear 'em, he said. I put my ear to the window. Distant rumblings, deep; crucibles of the earth, moving. You're good, i said. He righted the bike against the wall, slid on his gloves. How confident are you? I said. He looked at me, through the purple tints of his goggles, the WindRazors that Haverman had crafted for him before he died. I could feel the look. It was an answer. We heard a tilting, a shifting in the landscape, like an ancient creak breaking the tectonic plates. He rolled the bike to the door, and i opened it. The highway stretched from outside our door for miles, flanked by the towers on both sides. The ground rumbled, or so it seemed. He strapped the left Garneau into the pedal. Let me pour you some coffee first, i said. He shook his head. I looked at the wrapping around his knee, from last time. What if your speed is compromised? i said. He shook his head and squeezed my shoulder. What if, what if, what if. That's all you say bro. That's tired. You won't be coming back, eh? i said. Places to go, he said. Lots of 'em. He took off. He was a cheetah. A bullet. Sound and light. If only he'd been born in the time of the Tour de France. I held my breath, and watched the first tower. The sound rose from the depths, enormous, earth shattering. The tower teetered, and glass panels plummeted. The first missed him by what must have been inches, smashing against the concrete. I could hear him shooting, even that far in the wind, Woooooooooo! Woooooooohooo! The next building shook, and pieces of it tumbled down, crushing the highway, toppling parts of the pillars that upheld it. But he was already past it. He had the speed. He had the wind on his side 

A was pissed at B because B cheated on C with D when they all lived together on the fourth floor of The Gilmore, in the room with the neon sign outside the window. C said they didn't care about the cheating, but A swore revenge on C's behalf. A bought a Delagrote folding knife from E at the extremely run down pawn shop, not the nice one across the street. E felt misty parting with the blade. It had been a gift from F, when they still ran together, before the pawning days, before stints inside. It had an irremovable spot of rust on the handle that F had liked to pretend was blood before giving it away, a reminder from the moment F plunged it to the hilt in miserable G's belly. G had survived, but not without permanent complications in the digestive category, and regular need of H's services as a caretaker. H had served G for years, when the time suited G, in a more pleasurable capacity. H didn't report their earnings from G to I, even at the risk of violence or worse. Those earnings H kept, tax free. When I wasn't sitting in the car at 2 AM, watching J try to work the corner, staring at J's jerky left leg as it constantly tapped the concrete, watching while chain smoked, hoping for a car to pull over, ensuring valid effort through the pressure of proximity, I'd be with K. K performed as best as possible, always acting as if private time with I was pleasurable, even desirable, and not painful or violating, but K was desperate for a way out. K and J made a pact to split together. As they packed their bags, I burst into the room, intuiting the betrayal. I tackled J, the stronger of the two, and K unearthed the razor blade always hidden in the left boot, taped to the stocking, and turned I's right Achilles tendon into a canyon. J and K holed up at K's older cousin L's place. L, years recovered from a nearly fatal heroin addiction now ran the Daisies and Dukes Daycare, though was thinking of changing the name. One of the kids, M, would hug L's leg all day long. L tried to get M to eat and nap and play with the other children, but nothing worked. M just clutched that leg until it was numb and L would walk with a limp for the rest of the evening. When N came to pick up M every day they would ask how much leg clutching went on, and M would say oh not much, it's getting better every day, and then close the door and limp back inside on the numb leg. N would tuck M in after dinner, and then stare out the window for two to three hours, contemplating infinity. Then N would call the Hotline, hoping O would be working. O was the only operator at the Hotline that turned N on. But then N got the news that O had quit, leaving the Hotline unceremoniously to go live in an airstream in the middle of the New Mexico desert. O got bitten by a rattlesnake on the third day in the desert, and walked 6 miles along the road, snakebit and freezing, until a truck pulled over. P drove O to the hospital, minding the puke and the incoherent ravings about the devil coming from O's mouth. P did not stick around to learn the results, after O had been sufficiently placed in front of the Emergency Room doors. P went to Harrington's Pump, sat at the usual seat, drank the usual beer. Much to P's delight, Q was behind the bar. Q only worked once a week, sometimes less, for all the organizing. Q wore a black patch not dissimilar to that of a pirate, acquired six years earlier, the result of a ricocheting rubber bullet that did not spare the eye it struck. Q'd been tear gassed, tasered, and beaten with batons, but never thought of giving up the life. Q's stories kept P drinking and kept the whole bar entertained. Once S got annoyed, being a staunch conservative and detester of protests, and confronted Q threateningly, only to have a highball glass smashed over the head and then a few subsequent skull whacks with a bottle of Jameson. T nursed S's wounds, the whole time S ranting about how liberalism was tantamount to terrorism and had to be stopped. T's assignment was to go to Eastside Hardware and buy sparkplugs. The city hall bombs were to be the first attack in a string of many. U approached the car as T sat in it, and asked if T needed some company. And after they had fucked in the back seat, T's bad knee popping the whole time, U spent time massaging T's head, eventually convincing T to go again. T returned home with no money and no sparkplugs. U wanted to use the earnings to rent a car and escape somewhere, anywhere, a plan long in the works. But the courage wasn't there, and U gave the earnings to V, who replied with a kiss on the forehead and a light slap on the cheek. V could sense the impending betrayal, and planned to show U that there would be consequences. V took the earnings to The Roundabout, to the back room for cards and dice, where X was dealing at poker. V sat at the table, thinking about whether they would cut U or just give a firm warning, and paying peripheral attention to W, who was always sketchy, but seemed particularly agitated now. An hour in and Sketchy W unleashed two civil-war-era revolvers and pointed them at X, demanding all the money in the joint. W, being less than a super genius, failed to anticipate that Y would carry a gun, which was quickly applied to the back of W's head. Y, however, failed to spot Z at the table, pulling out their own gun, the promise of outlaw heroism finally realized, only to have W shoot Z right in the head, as Z's gun went off, missed W, and struck Y in the eye. X of course had the shotgun hidden under the table, and blasted through the felt, lifting W five feet in the air, scattering cards and chips and blood about the room, and the place was once again quiet, no sounds of chips clacking, no chatter. A sat there stunned, terrified, blood splattered. Up until that moment A had been thinking about B. A was pissed at B because B cheated on C with D when they all lived together on the fourth floor of The Gilmore, in the room with the neon sign outside the window   

There is nothing left to write, i tried to tell them. They would not hear of it. They said there would be no food. I had found the tunnel weeks ago but had not ventured into it. I had to believe they were bluffing. But after what felt like two days no one had come down, i assumed the worst. I ventured. The walls smelled of mold at first. Consistencies changed. Hard surfaces softened. The smell changed. Something perfumed, inorganic but irresistible. A tiny kernel of unblack pinged from somewhere deep on. Could have been miles away. Allowed me to see the walls, just barely. They appeared to be breathing. I'd been here before. There was no denying it. An absolute certainty. A return. It wasn't only a place I'd been before, but the place. But when? I decided to go back. I didn't feel equipped to make the trip, wherever it was going. I would die in there, most likely. With my back to the kernel I felt profound sadness. I'll be coming back. One day soon. I'm coming back. I'm coming home   

June was sick of being told girls can't mosh, so she set out to prove it wasn't so, first with the little knife on the wrist that no one noticed, then with the half sleeve, which Stacey and Alexa said was a bit much for a former miss eighth grade gymnastics silver medallist, then with a full sleeve by the end of the year, complete with blocky Xs on both fists, vowing never to drink or smoke again, but at the xSurvivorx show she was still pushed out to the back of the pit by the boys and almost lost an eye to a spin kick that forced her to spend most of the set in the washroom holding her face with a damp clump of toilet paper, a little bit of blood on her Bane shirt, doing her own expert makeup for the next two weeks to encourage the eye to look normal, when she got wind that Knuckle Sandwich were finally coming back to town after a five-year hiatus, and Jerry and Mitch beat their heads against their lockers in anticipation, because they remembered that at the last Knuckle Sandwich show six people left in an ambulance and Oren Okowski lost his two front teeth, which was why he wore veneers, and which June learned only recently was how he'd earned the nickname beaver, so she took her time with a mannequin's head she'd stolen from The Levi's Store, drawing realistic blood and gore coloring around the neck, adding firm horse hair and drawing realistic facial features, and when the show finally came she snuck the head in under her jacket, pretending to be pregnant, which particularly disturbed Mack Jones who was working the door and hadn't seen June in months and had always had a crush on her, and she bided her time, waiting through the openers, avoiding conversation near the back, until Knuckle Sandwich came on and opened with Ten Count, to which she unearthed the head from her ruse of pregnant belly, and ran as fast as she could through the circle, swinging the fiberglass and plastic head by the hair, mashing anonymous faces, noting Beaver in the crowd making a face like Oh Shit! and within seconds the crowd cleared as June swung with all her life, and then she rushed the stage for the singalong, thrusting the mannequin head up to the mic as Pete Knuckles shoved it at her, and the mannequin head owned the moment, with the crowd behind her carrying the words, security forcing their way through the pit to hoist June and her weapon out of there, everyone screaming and manic, June still holding the head up trophy-style, twirling it by the hair like a helicopter blade, screaming the final lyrics to Ten Count, foaming at the mouth, pit queen, if only for a minute 

Okay now this is supposed to be the part where Macnello hoists the delicious carcass onto the spit. We've had it in the ground six hours now, slowly cooking, and i mean isn't that a delicious looking pig Sandy? Look at that. I mean the meat is already sizzling, dripping with what must be its own juices. Gotta be careful not to get any on my shirt here. ATV News pays for the Ralph Lauren but they don't pay for the dry cleaning, hahaha. What's that Sandy? Yes here it comes, Macnello is climbing out of the hole now. His little workers, Pablo and Pedro, they are doing the hoisting here, onto the spit. Boy is it a hot one today. Macnello is catching his breath here, trying to wipe the dirt off; he's practically covered in it. You know i feel silly in this shirt Sandy, i don't know about you. Just so the audience is aware, we did in fact travel 48 hours total to get here. Two planes, two continents, a twelve hour ride in the back of a truck, through the mountains, and i gotta say, it wasn't exactly sunny out or dry out. That's right Sandy, the rain was pouring. Another eleven hour ride through the desert, on a bus that shall we say was a little more cramped than our city buses back home, and i was of course sitting beside a woman who had lost the ability to walk years ago, who did in fact soil herself during the first hour of that trip. The clothes i wore that day are long gone, but not forgotten. Macnello is chewing on a root of some kind, something we don't have in America and if we did it would probably be classified as a Schedule One drug, hahaha. Now i want to warn the audience, this is the part where Macnello blesses the meat, quote unquote. You see the scarring on his wrist there, that's from years of doing this and of course he's got Pedro and Pablo to assist with the medical attention afterward. What's that? Oh yes, of course, Marco! Pedro and Marco. Now of course with a process this involved, Macnello can only make this dish once a year. He gave up a world-renown restaurant and the Michelin Stars years ago to be able to devote himself to the craft, but i'm told that once we taste it, once we're eating together with the villagers, we'll understand. And i don't know about you Sandy but i for one am famished. Now i want to warn the audience, this part is going to get graphic, as Macnello is going to open up a part of the wrist, in order to get the right amount of his blood onto the animal in a short amount of time as it starts the last segment on the spit. There's going to be quite a bit of spraying, so viewer discretion is advised. We've got Marco and Pedro ready with the towels and bandages, and folks remember they are very experienced here. Oh, look at that Sandy, Macnello has the blade ready, a stone he carved and grinded himself, into a razor sharp stub just for this annual occasion. Well let's just look away here so not to get sprayed. Guess i should say goodbye to the Ralph Lauren for good, hahaha. Now boy that meat smells good, i gotta say, i am very excited to eat that pig  

You know, the roof must be higher, Yuri said. Juliana glared at the half-formed bus stop, its immense concrete pillars looming over her. Well, she said, the roof is already supposed to be thirty feet high. We can't change it. I'm only using the specs that The Bureau approved. The Bureau? Yuri said. The Bureau does not understand buildings. The Bureau does not understand architecture. The Bureau does not understand art. Juliana took her phone out of her pocket. I'm calling The Bureau, she said. The Bureau! Yuri spat. The Bureau won't help you. They have hired me, only me! Only i can design these public centres for transportation, he said. The Bureau are nothing but a pile of useless, faceless goo. We are six months behind schedule, Juliana said, to design a goddamn bus stop. I'm sick of not seeing my daughter before she goes to sleep. I'm calling The Bureau, they can deal with you. The Bureau! Yuri said again, more viciously. The Bureau never sat in a cell in the Gulag! The Bureau never froze its balls off for six years! The Bureau didn't lose half its body weight, watching its friends starve to death all around it! The Bureau didn't have to eat stray cats! The Bureau! The Bureau! The Bureau! I'm calling them, Juliana said. They can call you. They'll tell you what to do, and you will listen, she said. Yuri took his own phone out of his pocket and threw it on the ground. Argh! He yelled, and then he took off his shoe and beat the phone to death with it. He kept yelling The Bureau! at the top of his lungs while beating his phone until it was reduced to paste on the concrete. Juliana had her phone to her ear, on hold. She shook her head at the old man, who was now on his knees, sweating. She looked up at the unfinished pillars of the station, feeling the same spine-shiver she felt every time she looked at them 

Marguerite had won the short story contest. Several famous authors had entered, and she beat them all, and had done so with a story of only 100 words. She went to receive her check and her little plaque from the literary magazine's office. They gave her her awards and shook her hand. She felt amazing. Outside she sat on a bench and ate a hotdog and drank Coke from a glass bottle. A tall man with an oily-looking leather jacket sat next to her and asked her about the plaque. I won a literary contest, she said. Did it in only 100 words. The man said Congratulations. Did you know Hemingway once wrote a story that only had six words? Marguerite nodded as she swallowed her last bit of hotdog. She smashed the Coke bottle against the bench and stabbed the man in the liver. The man survived for three weeks before succumbing to his injury. Marguerite went to jail, where she continued writing. Over the years she tried to enter literary contests, but was mostly rejected. When she was in her forties, she won a contest with a story that was one single word long. An article was published about the convicted murderer literary genius. A literary agent came to see her and tried to convince her to write a novel. Marguerite refused to speak, but wrote the word NO on a piece of paper in big letters and slid it to the agent. The agent came to see her a few more times, but failed to convince her to write a novel. Marguerite responded with the same one word answer each time. She was nearly sixty when she was released. She took a job at a bookstore. After a few days of work, she noticed that a book had been written about her life, unbeknownst to her. The introduction to the book was written by the literary agent that had come to see her in jail. The intro began by saying Hemingway was famous for, among other things, publishing a story that was only six words long... Marguerite closed the book. She bought a Coke and a hotdog on her lunch    

For weeks, i brought Anna rations in her little hole while she worked on her particle accelerator. I don't know how the hell she got all her materials, but day after day, this thing was getting bigger and more complicated-looking. I would ask her how it was going, and she'd usually reply with something like Maybe if you'd screw off and not bother me so much i would actually make progress! She enjoyed the food rations, but didn't want me spoiling her because, as she put it, hunting kept her sharp. But then things started to change. Over time, her work on the accelerator started to wane. I'd peak an eyeball in there and see piles of metal tubing on the floor, and she'd be working on other things. Once i saw her binding a book she'd made, using ultra thin sheets of wood. She'd written a whole novel by hand and bound it into a book. Eventually, she became disinterested in science altogether. All i ever saw her working on was artistic stuff. She'd unplugged everything electronic that she'd made and repurposed it all for picture frames for paintings she'd made using her own blood, and, uh, other stuff. It was hard not to be mesmerized, looking at these tiny little paintings. They were really something. She'd crafted her own museum. Then, one day, she was gone. I went to bring her a blueberry, and when i peered in there was no trace of her, or her artworks or novel. What remained was a miniature Golgotha. She had built three wooden crosses, and affixed a termite to each cross. One of the three termites, the one with the crown of thorns on its head, was still alive, wriggling with its last few ounces of strength. On the floor she had written I've done enough. I cleared out all of the debris and the crucified termites and threw it all in the trash, then i patched up the hole. I'll have to fill it with something or else mice might move in there. I went to my computer to check if she had emailed me, but of course she hadn't    

Glenn came home from the lab. He decided to forgo the usual announcement of his arrival home. Sheryl said Is that you? and he muttered Yeah. Come in here, she said. Stir this risotto. I need to change Charles before his diaper becomes a shit bowling ball. Glenn walked into the kitchen and took the wooden spoon from Sheryl, and she gave him a peck on the cheek. He stirred and stirred, and Sheryl put the baby on the dinner table. What's wrong? she said. Glenn sighed. You remember Dr. Anna Zeenan? he said. Of course, she said, changing the baby's diaper right on the dinner table. Well, Glenn continued, after she disappeared, we started scouring her old notebooks for any unpublished theories and formulas that might be of use. Recently we discovered a very peculiar formula that she had been working on. Well, today we... solved it. Her formula proves, beyond any doubt, that this is all a simulation. What's a simulation? Sheryl said. This is, Glenn said, making a circular motion with his hand. Us. Life. Everything. It's all some kind of computer program. Zeenan proved it. Sheryl looked at the baby as she applied the new diaper and said It's burning. What? Glenn said. It's burning, Sheryl repeated. The risotto. It's burning. Glenn! Stir! I can smell it. Did you add more milk? What, no, Glenn said. Was I supposed to? We've made this how many times? Sheryl said. You know how to make it, stop playing stupid. Add another splash of milk and keep stirring. Sheryl, Glenn said, are you not hearing me? Our whole life, everything on this planet, our baby, this stupid risotto, none of it is real! It's all software. Sheryl took the baby and put him in the high chair. She put baby food into the little plastic blue bowl and the baby shoved its whole fist in its mouth while eating the mush. Do you even care? Glenn said. Sheryl set the table. Does it mean i can stop changing diapers? Does it mean i can go back to sleeping normally? she asked. Glenn stirred and said Well, i mean, i guess probably not. She took the wooden spoon from him and commandeered the risotto. Then no, i don't care, she said. Go change, last time you spilled on your work shirt you moped about it for three days. This will be ready in four minutes. She gave him another kiss him on the cheek, and he walked upstairs, unbuttoning his shirt 

Ziggy played guitar in the death metal band Penile Hacksaw. Wonk Magazine had labeled them the heaviest band in the world for two years running. At shows Ziggy would throw his infamous guitar picks into the audience. They played the Toledo Portuguese Community Center to a crowd of thirty-two people. During the song Extra Virgin  Blood Oil, Hana Fyst stood headbanging in front of the stage, and headbanged so hard she hit her head on the barrier and split her skull open. Ziggy noticed the incident when a modest spurt of blood hit him on the nose. After the show Ziggy went to the hospital to see Hana. You are an exceptional headbanger, he said. The best i've ever seen. My cousin Boyd runs a headbanging academy. He could use a junior instructor like you. Hana said i'm no good, look, as she pointed to the stitches in her forehead. That is a mark of talent and dignity, Ziggy said. She smiled, and said thank you. Ziggy reached into his pocket and handed her a bag of his infamous guitar picks. They were shaped like penises and had silly-looking blood flowing down them. Here, he said, you can have all of these, for your headbanging efforts. You're giving me this bag of dick picks? she said. He nodded. She was so happy that she cried, and a little bit of blood seeped out of her wound. Ziggy left, for he had obligations, and Hana played air guitar with his dick picks all night long