In Corpore Sano: Part 1

[tekuno]

I'm not attributing the quotation here. Don't spoil it, please, those of you who know where it comes from. (I'll give the source later.)

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In Corpore Sano
Part 1

This story has been completed. Content warnings and general description are included with the prologue, general commentary is in the comments following the epilogue.

Prologue | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Epilogue

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Can you hear it?
Can you?
That clanking, scraping, whirring, buzzing, screaming, grinding, singing sound?
The machine, within the machine, within the machine...
It's the sound that gives me strength.

Can you feel it?
Can you?
That cold, blue, bottled, frictionless kiss?
The vacuum-faced rape of a meaningless god!
It's the grip that clears my vision.
Vision to fill the happy void with worlds again.
Round, dead, spinning grins...
Vision to make better.

Bastard heavens!
Wipe
your faces
clean!!

Behold: my masterpiece.

* * * * *

I graduated from high school in 1995. At the time, money had been tight, and since I excelled at neither sports nor academics, I entered the full-time job market immediately after graduation, and worked a long series of unrewarding jobs in retail and "service". I saw in the new millennium with the few remaining high school friends, but shortly thereafter we drifted apart as they took their degrees to found new lives and new families in new locations.

Looking back on it, I had an almost unnervingly lonely and boring life. I'm not a sociable person, and making friends is difficult for me. I lived in the other half of my parents' two-flat, staying in on my days off, watching TV and browsing the Internet.

I came out of the closet in 2005, hoping it would change my life. It didn't. All that happened is that I switched from not appearing on the local straight dating scene to not appearing on the local gay dating scene. Even my parents' reaction could be summarized as "that's nice, dear". I think I would have gotten more of a reaction if I had announced that I had gotten a cat.

In 2011, the one friend I had made in more than a decade of tedious work, Bill, contacted me out of the blue. He had been a fellow bartender (I had a talent in that direction) at my previous job. It seemed that he was now the owner of a thriving bar in the downtown area; it had become such a meeting place for couples that he had seen an opportunity, hired a couple of professional chefs, and expanded into a restaurant. He was coining money -- but his staff was stretched thin. He offered me a job as a combination bartender, bouncer, waiter, and maitre d'. The pay, even without tips, was excellent -- and the patrons were generally good tippers as well, since our location and the nature of the business kept us away from people who work in the financial services industry, the devoutly religious, and the elderly, the three groups of worst tippers in food services.

Oddly enough, working at the bar finally got my life moving, in a way. I made friends with most of the other staff, and started having something approaching a social life. But what made the largest difference was a request from Bill. A part of my duties, as mentioned, was to act as a bouncer when the need arose. Although I was a heavyset, bulky guy, it was mostly just fat -- too many years spent in front of the TV. And so Bill asked me to get in shape -- even offered to pay for a gym membership as part of my compensation.

After about a year of regular gym attendance, I had a lot more energy. I was noticeably stronger, at least by the poundages I was lifting. And although I was still pretty chunky, I was becoming streamlined in comparison to what I had looked like when I first showed up. I even had to buy new work clothes a couple of times. And I started getting even better tips, along with the occasional flirt, which I was professionally obligated to ignore.

Another three months later, I was doing duty behind the bar one night when a customer was led to a booth in the bar area, late one night -- long after dark. He wasn't a typical patron at all. His clothing was of good quality, but heavily worn. He looked dirty, and was unshaven. He was also rail-thin. He looked not entirely unlike a starving homeless man, but he had the self-assurance of someone with money, and when they ran his credit card after his meal -- which was, in effect, a small salad, an appetizer, and a truly vast quantity of very expensive and powerful alcohol -- the transaction went through without a hitch. Since he looked so suspicious, I kept an eye on him as I served up drinks, and several times I had the feeling I had seen him before.

It wasn't until he had left that I remembered who he was; his name was Paul, and he had gone to my high school, although we hadn't been friends and had only been in a few classes together. He hadn't been particularly smart or athletic either, but his family had money -- up into the "stinking with it" level -- and so he had headed off to college. I had heard that he had partied his way into getting kicked out of his initial school and had transferred into another, less rigorous program elsewhere, but that had been more than a decade earlier, and I hadn't heard a word about him since then.

A few days later, Paul showed up again, just as ragged and drinking just as heavily in the same booth. After he finished his "meal", he wandered over to the bar and caught my attention.

"Hey, it's Scott, isn't it?"

"Yes, that's me."

"Maybe you don't remember me, but we went to the same high school. My name is Paul Armstrong, does that ring a bell?"

"Yes, I remember you. You were in my world history class senior year. You sat in the back corner near the windows."

"Mmmm. It's been a while, hasn't it? Do you remember Jane Reilly? She sat in front of me?"

"Sort of. I didn't really know anything about her, really."

"Let me tell you a secret about her, c'mere."

Paul made the gesture usually associated with whispering, and I leaned over and turned my head. Then he licked my ear. When I involuntarily reached up, he pressed a piece of paper into my hand. It said "call me, sexy" and had a phone number. When I looked up from reading it, he was already heading out the door.

That night, I dreamed that Paul was at his usual booth in the restaurant. Sitting across from him was a tall, lean man with brown eyes and a ponytail, wearing a light blue denim shirt. Paul had a pointer, like presenters use to point out details, and was evidently giving a lecture; he was gesturing to a diagram on the table which was facing away from me.

It occurred to me that the other man was dead, and had been dead for a long time. I looked for the maitre d' to complain, but the restaurant was empty; all the lights had been turned off except the light over the table and the one over my head. When I looked back, the booth was no longer occupied, but on the plate which had been Paul's now held the other man's head. It caught my eye and gave me a solemn look, and a nod.

A hand reached over my shoulder and covered my eyes, and I woke up.

Part 2

[nnnrg]

Increasingly creepy and disturbing. Good work.