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An original short story
Written
by
Kevin Scromeda
I
About two months ago, while I was downtown fishing pennies out of the various fountains around Victoria, I came across a dirty looking bum sleeping in an old refrigerator crate. Although I was physically repelled by this raving transient, I felt an uncontrollable urge to approach. The putrid stench of rotting cabbages and ground coffee attacked my nostrils as I got within four feet of the man, but my legs would not respond to my brain's protest. The derelict gave me a wide, green-toothed grin, as his madman's laugh rode the wave of his three dollar scotch breath. He motioned for me to sit in his homeless man's palace. His free hand rooted deep into his urine-soaked khakis. After an extensive, probing exploration of his nether regions, he produced a crumpled length of lavatory paper and handed it to me with a crooked smile.
"What is it?" I asked him in a whispered awe.
"'Tis a map it be," he replied.
"A map?"
"Aye! A map. Found it one December morn while I be washin m'hair in a public toilet. Treasure Laddy, that map be leadin to treasure!" And with the words of treasure still ringing in my mind, the man kissed me on the lips, punched me in the face, and dissapeared down a dark alley, laughing for no discernible reason.
Putting the distressing encounter out of my mind for the moment, I placed the map in my back pocket and headed for the local ice cream social for a cool glass of root beer. Locating Mountainous Mike's Molehill of Malts had become a skill I could proudly say I'd mastered within the few months I'd been frequenting the place. That is to say, I could've found Mike's with four blindfolds and a cat strapped to my face. But by some kind of divine intervention (or maybe I just wasn't looking where I was going,) when I turned the last corner, I found myself standing not in front of the local hangout, but in the shadow of a massive corn silo. Of course, there was no way of knowing rightly that the silo did in fact conceal sweet corn within its thin metal skin; that, my friend, was an inkling I had to chalk up to the little man in a green suit I saw greedily inhaling steaming corn grits by the handful. I don't remember this ever being here, I thought to myself. I performed an entire 360 degree location maneuver, hoping for at least one recognizable building. And it was in this maneuver that I came to the understanding that indeed I was not in any familiar part of town. As it turned out, I was not even in the same country. I had stepped from the relatively safe and comforting streets of a small Canadian city, into the vast and unknown void of rural farmland.
II
The mighty silver phallus-looking silo stood proudly erect in the hot afternoon sun. The sun itself, oblivious to the dilemma I'd wandered into, concealed its glowing visage just beyond the giant structure, that in turn concealed me from the sun's harsh stare. The man, finishing his pathetic display of professional gluttony, wiped his third and fourth chins, and ambled in my direction. Gaining in width what he'd lacked in height, the corn lover, with what was presumably his pet goat in tow, slowed his pace to a suspicious shamble when he finally took notice of my presence. And it was not until he'd come within ten feet, that I noticed his green suit was not a suit at all, but was, in actuality, a thin covering of either grass or some kind of moss. Using the temporary distraction of its owner as an excuse, the goat took a daring nibble at the man's thigh, tearing away a large chunk of greenery. Its master exploded into a tirade of cursing and kicking, sending the animal running for its life. After he'd seemed to have calmed down, he turned back to me and said, "that one's always been a problem, ya know?"
I nodded my head, a little confused.
"Damn Skeet's constantly thinkin I was some kinda prize lawn he could just eat whenever he damn well pleases. Well mister, do I look like I was raised on Miracle Grow to you? Huh?"
Well, as a matter of fact, he did, but I thought better than to say it out loud.
"So what part of this retched globe are ya from? Eh?"
"Victoria."
"Hmm, let's see? Venice? No. Valdez? No. Virginia? No. Victoria? N---Wait a minute?" His forehead seemed to fold endlessly upon itself. He looked as if he were trying to answer the Million Dollar Question. "Hot tamales!! Ya been talkin with m'brother Seamus, ain't ya?"
"Who?"
"Seamus, m'brother, Seamus!"
I stared at him blankly. What were the odds of me knowing this guy's brother?
"God's tootin his horn kid, the one who done gave ya that bleamin map!!" He reached over to my pocket and plucked up the lavatory map.
He smiled. "Good ol' Seamus' been findin these here maps all over that cursed city 'a yours. Why you'd be the fourth lad to grace these fields in little over ten years I'd say. Good ol' Seamus."
Could the bum have been right? Was it indeed an authentic treasure map? "So the map's real?" I said.
"Well now, that depends on what ya be thinkin this map be leadin to?"
"Your brother said it was a treasure map."
To that, the green-grass man expelled a raspy cackle, slapping his hand down onto his fuzzy knee. "Is that what the drunkard's been fillin yer head with? Fool man's stories, every last one of 'em. No Laddy the only treasure left in these parts be the golden corn restin in that silo over there, and that wouldn't a be for passers by like y'self. No, that anit be leadin to no treasure, and by m'goat's nipples, I'll be right about that."
Feeling as if I'd been cheated out of something but not sure what, I sighed, a little annoyed. "So this isn't anything then?"
"Oh, 'tis a map, as sure as m'own name be Jumpin Jim Limabean!"
"Then what kind of map is it?"
"All in good time Laddy." He slowly unfolded the map and drew me close. "Look."
It was crude in it's exhibition, simplisticly constructed from the memory of it's creator, and faded black India ink. As it was the first map my young, inexperienced eyes had ever come in contact with, I could easily say that I could not even begin to be capable of deciphering its complex enigma. Never the less, the small, grinning stick figure pointing to a shiny chest with gleaming gold overflowing from within, pretty much gave me the gist of it. "Looks like a treasure map to me," I replied.
"Of all the rotten logs o' Piper's Woods," he exclaimed, "that be the side ol' Seamus be doodlin on. The real map be on the flip side." He overturned the map, and pointed at a much more intricate drawing. "Ya know what this be Laddy?" He said, hooking a bushy eyebrow in question.
I studied the picture for quite a while, not exactly sure what to make of it. "Well, it kinda looks like a porpoise standing upright. And it looks like he's hugging a giant pickle."
A greasy smile crawled across his fat lips. "Aye Laddy, aye. A porpoise it be. But that wouldn't a be no pickle that greedy bastard be holdin."
"No?"
"No sir."
"Well what is it then?"
"Wouldn't a know. Don't expect much folk round here do. Ya see, this map be drawn metaphorically, you know what that means, don't ya?"
"Yeah, sure I do."
"Good, that's good. See, that "pickle" might be lookin like a pickle, or maybe a cucumber, but mister, a pickle it ain't."
This was getting a little confusing. "What about the porpoise then, what's the porpoise?"
"Oh, the porpoise?"
"Yeah," I said.
He was nodding his head, but he hesitated a moment. "Well, it---it be a porpoise."
Now I was lost. "But the pickle's not a pickle?"
The air of annoyance was thicker than London fog. "Look Laddy, you best be forgettin about that bleamin pickle. T'ain't the pickle ya need to worry bout mussin up that little brain o'yours. Its what that pickle be representin that counts."
I could tell how frustrated this Jumping Jim Limabean was getting, I could feel the heat pouring from his doughy, reddened face. It seemed the more questions I asked this walking lawn, the more the rage bubbled and fermented, threatening to reach critical mass. So I did the only thing I thought I could at that point, I asked another question. "So what does the porpoise have to do with this then?"
"FOR THE LOVE O' CHEESE KID, I DON---" he took a deep breath through teeth that looked about to shatter, and started again. "Mayhap we been lookin at this map thingy all tha wrong way. I thinks ya need to be lookin at this map as a kinda legend, or myth, if ya catch m'followin?"
"I guess I do."
"Good. Ya see, these here pitures seem to be explainin some kinda story. A story datin back to before m'ganpappy be ol' 'nuf to plow his first field. Now I kin help ya in the decipherin department, but I gonna need a somethin in return."
"What's that?"
"You like corn Laddy?"
"Sure."
"Then why don't ya c'mon back and join me for a little hot grub, huh?" His eyes had a glazed, yearning look when he mentioned corn, as though his earlier feast had been nothing more than a simple appetizer.
I looked the man over quickly. The sun was slowly bowing out below the horizon, promising to anyone who may have enjoyed its performance, to return again tomorrow with an all-new act. My stomach gave a small shuck and jive, reminding me that there had been little or no nutrition its way for quite some time. There really wasn't much else I could do. I nodded my head.
Jumpin Jim bursted into another fit of impromptu laughter, which quickly turned into a wheezy cough. After regaining his composure, he muttered something unintelligible to himself, and turned to me with a smile. "Aye, some deeeeeelicious corn for me and m'new friend. Best be followin close son, tha wheat don't take too kindly to strangers this time a night, don't ya know." He waved a greasy finger across the infinitely golden fields of wheat.
What the hell does he mean by that? I thought. Well, better not think about it now, my voice of reason (or was it sanity?) said, time to get us some corn!! The little man, who was already on his way, whistled a tune as his massive carriage sloshed about like a bucket of extremely runny pancake batter. Finding myself alone once again, I decided to heed his ramblings, and ran off to join the little man with green grass for skin.
III
Calling what the man had built for himself a house, would've been like calling a hot-dog real meat. The series of weather-damaged packing boxes reminded me of the cardboard forts I'd frequently constructed when I was a child, although his was considerably less architecturally sound. I could tell makeshift homemaking ran in the family, as this was a scaled-up version of his brother Seamus' homestead. He was standing by the "front door", sporting a grin wide enough to park a car, when I arrived. Now he seemed more excited than ever, able only to repeat the word "corn" over and over, like some broken, agriculturally sponsored record. It was more than my stomach needed to hear though, as it moaned the gastric juice blues.
He ushered me into his home, and plopped on top of an overturned milk crate. "I need to be apologizin here Laddy. Ya see, last child who be a comin to visit, was this big ol' fat hoss, sat down on top of m'milk crate, and busted that bleamin thang right into bout a million little pieces. So ya best be sittin on that pile o'dirt over there, if yer feet be troublin ya."
I glanced at the mound of dirt in the corner. Red ants scrambled over the mountain top. They looked like tiny charging foot soldiers. "I think I'll just stand if it's the same to you."
"Ya kin be standin on yer head for all I care." He placed a soiled cooking pot on a few hot coals, spat into it three times, and wiped it nonchalantly with an even dirtier rag. "Ahhh," he sighed, inhaling deep, "we be in for some good eatin tonight."
His ritual of preparation drew near an end. The fresh corn was placed into the pot with a bubbly brown liquid. A gentle breeze was blowing outside the man's home, and my nose received a sneak preview. My nostrils flared in disgust. The smell was like nothing I'd experienced before, stinging my senses with a mixture of boiled garbage, and unchanged diapers. The aroma soon fill the cramped space of the cardboard house. It had the intensity of an early morning fog, enveloping and consuming everything that happened to be in it's path. But the worst thing was that the more bizarre the ingredients became, the more foul the stench got, the hungrier I was.
My gracious host made one final trip to the cupboard (actually, it was an old rotted cereal box with the front flap ripped away, and the word "cupboard" childishly scrawled on a sun-bleached spot with colored chalk) and grabbed the last ingredient, while his bullfrog voice broke into song.
Ya take a sock of three weeks old,
A bloated rat carcass covered in mold,
And this is what m'granpappy told,
Is what ya need to be makin gold.
Fresh corn all from tha field,
Latex condoms and banana peel,
Cedar wood chips and rusty steel,
Sure do make a mighty fine meal.
Now I'll a tell ya once, I won't tell ya twice,
Nothin beats a little head lice,
Throw in a pair o' casino dice,
The girl can't talk when 'er head's in a vice.
Entrails of cat,
Look better like that,
When they be all stretched out and flat,
They make a purty doormat.
When eaten all up it be good fo tha soul,
Don't just stand there, git a bowl,
Wash it down with red hot coal,
An' you be feelin just like gold.
The four last lines of the song seemed to be directed at myself alone, because when he finished singing, he stood there waiting for me to try some of his disgusting brew. Reluctantly, but with no kind of will power of my own, I grabbed a tin cup and dunked it into the steaming potion. I attempted to breath through my mouth as much as I could, to avoid the nasty smell. I looked over to the cook, and found him smiling and nodding me on anxiously.
My stomach was a demanding mistress, begging for satisfaction. Well this mistress was through with waiting, and she was ready for whatever I could throw her way. So, with a deep breath, and an eye closure, I took the hot soup straight up, without a twist.
Warmth filled my throat and spread south. It felt like I'd just swallowed a giant glass of liquid sunshine. It was the most wonderful feeling I'd ever experienced. Quickly, I took another dip and downed the liquid.
"Now," the man whispered, "don't that just be hittin tha spot?"
"Yes, it's wonderful."
He stood up, ducking a bit because of his low ceiling. "Well, m'thinks it be time to git down to business, wouldn't ya agree? As I recall, it was m'information fo a little bit a service?"
What was this? I didn't agree to any service. Anyway, what kind of service could I give to him? "I'm not sure what you mean?"
The moss-man was slithering towards me. "Aye Laddy, I be sure ya don't. Ya see, sometimes a man like m'self kin start ta git a little lonely. Livin like the way I be doin, and ya find yaself a talkin with tha wheat. So Jumpin' Jim be thinkin that a young buck like ya could help out an old croon like me wit a little o' companionship. Wadda ya say, huh?"
What was I going to do? I was being propositioned. I tried to think, but my mind felt heavy and thick. Oh no, have I been drugged? I thought. I finally managed to wheeze out a reply. "You tell me about the map first," I said.
"Oh no ya don't, Laddy. I didn't a bring ya all this way ta be outdone by the likes a you." While he spoke, his left hand was busy untying his belt, which was no more than a ripped up scarf cinched about his waist. "So you best be actin like ya enjoy what yer gettin, 'cause yer gettin it no matter what." The smile on his face was now more like a perverse grimace.
I backed up as far as would permit, but the walls of the house were stronger than I'd first anticipated. I was trapped in the far corner.
He finished struggling with his belt, and let his mud-caked pants drop to the floor. His legs had almost no hair (or grass) on them. Just two plucked chicken drumsticks, yellow and covered with scabs. The underwear he was wearing seemed to be clinging to his body for dear life, held together by only two frayed threads. If they had ever been white, it was surely before I was born. My vision became blurry and out of focus. I noticed there was a glowing haze pulsing from his head; a halo of blue light that drifted towards the ceiling, then vanished. His face seemed to contort and shift, slowly spinning into a spiraling whirlpool pattern. The warmth I'd felt earlier settled in my stomach and became increasingly hot. Trying to speak again, I found my motor skills at nearly zero. I stumbled for a grasp on my vocal abilities, but heard little more than an idiotic babbling. The sound of booming footsteps reverberated through my head as the man took his final step towards my body. He kneeled down for a closer look, while the features of his face spun like a drunken televangelist. His voice filled my head with thunder. The stereotypical Southern drawl was not needed anymore. "Don't be afraid, little one. Once I consume you, you'll never feel pain again. You'll live forever as a fragment of time and existence. You will be existence. There is nothing you can do to prevent it." The man's entire being shifted before my heavy lids. And that's when I realized my earlier mistake. That what I was seeing before me now was not some hallucination brought on by my ingestion of the man's cooking. I was seeing this thing for what it really was. It was not some little fat man with grass for skin, it was some kind of multi-dimensional being, and it was removing its mask.
IV
So this is how it's going to end? my desperate mind babbled. After all those loyal years working in the cheese factory? My volunteer service at the vasectomy clinic? The all you can eat haggis tournament and championship? All of it for nothing? Somehow, I'd envisioned my death to be a little less involved than this. The heels of my boots dug into the softened dirt of the man's floor. If I was going to die, I wanted to be on my feet when it happened. My visual perception was crazier than a jar of assorted nuts. The man was laughing now. Actually, he had been laughing for some time. Then, as the laughter grew louder, I realized that the sound was not coming from anywhere inside the house. My captor must've noticed it as well, because for a moment, his attention was focused on the mystery noise, and not on me. Here's your chance. Get the hell out while you still can. But I was glued to the spot. The laughing was replaced by a primal scream more fantastic than anything I'd ever heard at the "War Cry and Grunting Ceremonies" I sometimes used to attend. There was a distinctive chewing sound from outside, as someone, or something, began to eat its way into the cardboard walls. And with a final tear from the enforced front door, the screaming intruder tumbled into the living room. Although my vision was deceptive, I could still decipher it's identity. It was Skeet, the man's pet goat. I caught a look on his face that was unmistakably one of revenge. I saw in his eyes the years of torture and abuse he must've suffered at the hands of his master. All the kicks to the backside, all the cursing, all the beatings. He had a look of desperation. Of being pushed to the point where thoughts of brutal murderous revenge filled his mind. He turned his head, and his blazing eyes stared into my soul. And then, in a cheesy British accent, he spoke. "Just stay right there bloke, I'll be but a minute."
I sat there, my muscles relaxing to the consistency of jello. The whole experience seemed so external. It felt like "The Fight of the Century" between two pro-wrestling super-giants at the peak of their testosterone-fueled, steroid-laced careers, both told before the match that their mothers had been murdered and their bodies defiled by the opposite man. And I, the lowly spectator, was in the ring with them. A brakeless drag racer heading toward a brick wall. A diver cageless in the middle of a great white feeding frenzy. It was the dance of madmen. The goat circled. White, frothy spittle flicking from its curled lips. I reveled in the satisfaction, as I'm sure Skeet did, at seeing a being so clearly consumed by possessing power over others, reduced to nothing more than a frightened child. It was quite a transformation. Clearly, the thing, whatever it was, recognized the desire in the animal's eyes. I kept waiting, holding my breath for the being to strike back, to reassume it's control of the situation. Lucky for you (whoever may be reading this tale,) I had to draw air. Otherwise, you might be stuck reading this page for quite some time. Because the moment I was waiting for, never came. Fear gets the best of inter-dimensional creatures as well, I suppose.
Skeet turned his attention back to me once more. He spoke quickly. "Avert your eyes, stranger. No matter what happens, do not look back. Do it now for bleeding sake, you will know when it's safe."
Feeling I had no other alternative, I turned my back, and closed my eyes. I could hear the goat advancing on his captor, his four hoofed feet scuffing up the hard dirt. What followed can only be described as, well, indescribable. To the best of my ability, I can only say that the noise I heard that day would shame even the best fictional monster that was distinctively characterized as something with a rather nasty, and original screech. This horrible sound was followed by a brilliantly intense light, which seeped through the cracks of my closed lids, and pierced my sensitive pupils. Seconds later, the light and noise died. I was left with a bright, flash bulb impression directly in front of my field of vision. It told the story of a sad, pathetic soul, sucked back into some lifeless void from where it was born. I heard Skeet's voice, much stronger than ever before.
"Turn around my friend."
V
I removed my hands from my face and stroked my temples. The cumulating amount of circumstance was enough to fray even the most stout man, and my head felt tighter than a noose around a murderer's neck. There were no traces of my former host, save for a lone patch of singed greenery. The room itself had escaped the battle unscathed, transforming it into a pathetic testament to the creature who'd built it. Skeet took a tentative step towards to remains of his victim, and sniffed at the grass.
"God, smells like a bloody burnt cat." He lifted his front hoof and ground the smoldering heap into the dirt with what looked like an expression of deep satisfaction etched across his goat-face. When he was finished he looked up to me. "Relax friend, you're safe for now."
My body slumped to the hard dirt like a sack of mashed potatoes laced with thick gravy. Although my mind was still cloudy from the effects of whatever it had been that I'd eaten, it was quite clear, even to me, what had just occurred. Skeet had saved my life, or if not my life, than at least my boyhood virtue which I held so dear. I owed him at least the courtesy of my attention. Besides, considering the events that had unfolded within the last two hours, the prospect of engaging in a conversation with a talking goat all of a sudden didn't seem so bizarre to me. At that moment, it seemed appropriate to ask the unavoidable question. "Who are you? Really, I mean."
His eyes glimmered with an unidentifiable light. "Oh, me? No one I guess. Not in any sense of what you would perceive to be a being anyway. I don't exactly have a physical form of my own, but I get by all right, borrowing or stealing one whenever it suits me to do so. It just so happens that a smelly goat was the most convenient host available, but in the past I've taken the forms of everything from complex organizations of cell structures, to women's masturbatory devices and beyond. The whole thing has given me an extremely broad spectrum of information, which I guess is what I really am, in terms which you would understand."
"And what's that," I said.
"A collector and connoisseur of information patterns. That "thing" that lured you here, he was also of my kind. I've pursued that particular trophy for what you'd consider entire centuries according to your," the note of contempt in his voice was unmistakable, "Christian calendar. Now that it's been destroyed by me, I've retained its informational structure." He sighed. "You have no idea how satisfying the whole process is."
He was right, I had no idea. I seemed to be continually propelled from one perplexing situation right into another. I felt like a character in a poorly written Science Fiction story. A realization then dawned in my ever-clearing mind. This thing, this self-proclaimed collector, hadn't really saved my life at all. I'd just fortunately been in a bind stickier than a high-powered industrial adhesive when it'd decided to reap its prize. I was more than a little perturbed.
I staggered to my feet, preparing to leave. Being polite was one thing, but I had more pressing issues to deal with. Issues like---
the map
---where was the map? I searched frantically for the object of my obsession. The cursed, wonderful mystery that had transported me to this strange and disorienting land. I overturned boxes, sent dusty shelves to the even-dustier floor, and generally caused a spontaneous form of controlled chaos. Just as I was about to declare defeat in the arms of lost property, I caught a glimmer of bleached-white toilet paper in my peripheral vision. There it was, wedged between the milk crate and a moldy potato, winking its seductive promise of fortune and intrigue.
I glanced back to Skeet and caught his eyes casing the paper as well. He looked up, and we both locked glares for a moment, exchanging simultaneously the desire to be the paper's soul possessor. Without warning he darted, gnashing teeth extended in greedy anticipation.
I reacted like a steroid-laced runner exploding off the starting block. My legs, which seconds before would almost certainly have been classified as non-operational, pumped with a zealousness that was strangely foreign to my character. One might think that Skeet's two additional appendages would aid in classifying him as the winner of this particular duel, but the nimbleness of a goat (whatever might be said to the contrary) pails in comparison to the brutal shrewdness of a human being. I kicked out as I ran, sending a very unfriendly cloud of gritty dust charging at the goat's eyes. The contact was spectacular.
Thoughts of retaining the map, which had only seconds before been orbiting the vacuous dustbin of Skeet's mind, vanished quicker than a thousand dollar bill in front of a criminal thief. He reeled from the path of the intended object, his usually-white fur painted thick with blinding dirt, and crashed headlong into the pot of foul soup I'd ingested earlier. He cried out in frustration. "YOU BLINDED ME YOU BLOODY BASTARD! I NEED THAT MAP, YOU HAVE NO UNDERSTANDING OF ITS SIGNIFICANCE!"
I strode casually to the slightly-soiled, but still legible paper, and picked it up. It felt electric in my palms, as if there was an invisible current of pure excitement flowing from its processed wood pulp. With my precious cargo in hand, I walked to where the defeated animal waded in the overturned brown liquid. Although he was still protesting the departure of his sight, the goat cringed when he perceived my approach.
"Ju-just leave me be human, you have what you want, don't you? Go, and allow me my pain."
He was right, I did have what I wanted, but not quite everything that I needed. Ownership of the cryptic map, and all that it represented, was simply the first bend in the ever-expanding labyrinth that was unfolding before me. The puzzle was still merely a crumpled section of sanitation paper that was just about as much use to me as what it was initially designed to do. It would not be until its proprietor unraveled the mystical spell that he would be able to reap its rewards.
Earlier, when the odds of the entity disguised as Jumping Jim Limabean were stacked against my favor of him revealing the enigmas of the map, like he'd promised, the hope of ever knowing its secrets were abandoned like an unwanted baby in a back-alley dumpster. Then, when the invader inside Skeet's body casually mentioned about his consumption and absorption of his departed prey's knowledge, my optimism re-ignited once again. Whatever it was that Jim knew, was now inside the cowering goat, waiting to be plucked from its cerebral tree and into my greedy hands. It seemed that the gracious mistress of fate was flirting with me once more.
I kneeled to the ground next to the frightened animal, grasped a long clump of chin fur tightly in my fist, and drew his sour smelling face close to mine. "Oh, I'll leave you alone a soon as you tell me what this map is for. Your friend seemed to know what it was all about, and now, as you've already told me, you two have entered some sort of symbiosis, which means that you, Skeet, know what this means."
He seemed to be cooperating without resistance. "I'm afraid I can't help you out there bloke, I'm as much in the dark as you are." The note of satisfaction, in either the genuine ignorance of the map, or in his deception, was thick on his breath.
I was growing impatient. I picked up a sliver of glass from the dirt; a by-product of my search earlier, and placed it to his bulging neck. "That's bullshit! Jim said he knew what it meant! You said it was significant! I know you know what it means, so you better tell me now, dammit, or I'll bleed you dry." I applied pressure to the glass, causing a bubble of blood to form on his neck.
The creature inside Skeet just laughed. "Your idle threats amuse me to no end, human. If you slice the neck of this poor goat, it may cause you to battle with issues of you own morality, but it will not kill me. I would simply be transferred to the form of the knife. It's extremely convenient for me, if you think about it." He chortled again. "You want the truth? "Jim" was bollocks, it's a simple as that."
Although I practically knew the answer to my next question, I asked it anyway. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that our dearly departed friend was as clueless about the map as you are. And I'm afraid that goes for myself as well."
"Shit," was all I could verbalize.
"As I am not in any threat from you, or of loosing my existence at this moment, I suggest you take head of what I say. I have no reason to lie to you. I might not know what tales that paper might spin, but there's someone who does."
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