Blood on the Bow Tie: Number Ten

Kyle Burkett



Well, the Successor is going to graduate and leave us at the end of the year, so some of us are undergoing officer training after the regular meetings. Well, I should explain that we actually don’t have many members, so the officer trainees total three. Me, Shorty, and Jeremy. Jeremy comes to the meetings smoked out anyway, so I’m not sure how much he’s actually getting out of this. I’m being trained mostly in administrative work, such as setting up events, publicity, and signing Dr. Gastle’s name to checks that draw from the English Club budget. Shorty is becoming more closely acquainted with the torture and execution equipment. Freud would say he’s asserting his dominance over his beheading anxiety. Since he needs to practice on real people, Dr. Carter provides him with victims from her Freshman Comp classes.

So Dr. Railsback was down checking up on us. I was making cheerful, inviting posters to the St Patrick’s Day poetry slam, emphasis on alcohol-stained limericks. Shorty was warming up the Writers’ Block for the day’s beheading, so Dr. Railsback went to watch. Being in the other room, I missed exactly what happened, but I’m guessing the beheading went a bit messier than it should have, because I heard a scream. The victims are usually gagged first. From the shouts and servile whimpering, I gathered that Shorty splashed some blood on Dr. Railsback’s bow tie. The only thing I heard distinctly was Dr. Railsback re-entering the main dungeon yelling, “You fool! Vengeance shall be mine!” Oh no. Shorty’s in for it now.

Monday I ran into Shorty at the University Center during lunch. He was wearing a scarf. Strange, March in North Carolina seldom requires a scarf. He gave me a panicked look. “Dude, I have to show you something.”

“What?” Then he took off the scarf, only to reveal that the green stitching holding his head on had come loose and was unraveling. “Well, at least it’s not bleeding,” I told him. “That could get messy.”

“My head’s falling off and you’re worried about making a mess?” he yelled at me.

“Keep your voice down,” I said. “People might notice.”

“And they won’t notice a guy’s head rolling around on the table?”

“Well, have you seen any angelic visitors getting ready to escort you out of this life?”

“No, I thought you were the one who saw angels.”

“I haven’t seen any today. They must be taking the day off.” “It’s St Patrick’s Day. They’re all getting drunk off their asses. If heaven isn’t like that on St Patty’s, I don’t want to go.”

“Not much danger of that anyway.”

“Thank you. Now, get one of your angel buddies down here so I can find out what’s happening to me.”

“It’s not like I can order them around. And the only one I’ve ever really talked to is Azrael, and he only shows up to help someone who’s dying.”

“So, if we kill you he’ll be here.”

“You’re not going to kill me.”

“What if we just pretend to kill you?”

“Won’t work. He doesn’t come for false alarms.”

“What if he doesn’t know it’s a false alarm?”

“Doesn’t matter what he knows. God sends him around, and God knows everything.”

“Not today. God’s drunk off his ass right now.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

“Come over to the dungeon. I’ll fake the beheading, and you can talk to Azrael and get this straightened out.”

“No.”

“But if you don’t, where will the story go?”

Sigh. I hate it when a character outthinks his author.

So that’s how I ended up with my head under the guillotine. Shorty strapped me in and got his blades ready. “How do you fake a beheading again?” I asked.

“Well, you let the guillotine fall and if the guy is really innocent it’ll stop before it cuts his head off.”

“No, stop!”

“What?”

“That doesn’t sound very safe to me.”

“Well, if it doesn’t work out, you’ll go get drunk off your ass with God and all the angels.”

“This is a bad idea.”

“You don’t have any better ones, so let’s go.”

“How do you know that?”

“You’re writing my lines. You answer that.”

Rrrrg. Shorty got out the axe and cut the rope holding the guillotine up. Luckily I couldn’t see it coming down on me. That would have caused some serious psychological trauma. I just closed my eyes and tried to think innocent thoughts. I heard Shorty yell an obscenity.

Right about then I looked up to see Azrael stagger into the room wearing shamrock antennae coming out of his halo. “Sorry I’m late,” he slurred. “I’ve been (hiccup) detained.”

“Great, you’re here,” I said. “Now you can stop this.”

“Nope, I’m too late. You’re dead as a doornail.”

“Then why can’t I move out of these bonds?”

“You don’t know you’re dead. You don’t believe a word I’m saying. You think I’m too drunk to do my job. Now come over here and fight me.”

“Azrael, just tell me what’s going on with Shorty. Does his head falling off have anything to do with the blood on the bow tie incident?”

“No, the stitching’s just coming loose. He turns his head too quickly. Dr. Railsback is plotting something even better for him.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll see. Now get over here and fight me like a man, you wuss.”

“Shut up, Azrael. How can we fix Shorty?”

“Just sew him back up. He’ll be fine.”

“Get me out of here, Azrael.”

“Just float on up, that’s all you dead guys do anyway.”

“Dude, I’m not dead.”

“Okay, you’re not dead. Stay there for eternity. See if I care.” He rose through the ceiling and went back to his party.

Oh no. What if I really was dead? How would my family take it? Me, being docilely led like a lamb to slaughter, voluntarily placing my head on the Writers’ Block. What a horrible way to go. Horribly peaceful, that is. It wouldn’t be such a bad death. Calm. Balanced. I don’t think I’d mind going that way.

Shorty screaming brought me out of that reverie. I looked up to see a lesser imp pulling the thread out of his neck. “Hey, what are you doing?” I asked.

“We need this in hell for St Patrick’s Day. No one has anything green down there, so we have to borrow it from you mortals. We’ll bring it back.”

“Yeah, I’ll trust you,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Look, why don’t you come join the party? You’ll be dead in a minute, then we can have some fun.”

“What do you mean, dead in a minute?”

“That guillotine will fall on you any second. You so much as sneeze and you’re a dead man.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Just look up, you’ll see it.”

“I can’t look up, I’m strapped in.” So the imp came over and unlatched the restraints holding me in. I looked up. “Yup, I’m a goner.” So I took my newly freed head out from under the guillotine and thanked the imp. “Couldn’t have gotten out of that one without your help. Thanks, little buddy.”

“Little buddy? No one’s ever called me that. No one’s ever called me their friend at all.”

“That’s a shame. You’re a sweet kid.”

“Oh wow. Can I stay here with you?”

“I don’t know. Is that allowed?”

“You have to let me stay with you. You don’t know what it’s like down there. It’s pure hell.”

“That’s what I hear. Okay, fine. You can hang out.”

“Oh, thank you thank you thank you. You won’t regret this. I can do all sorts of things for you: curdle the milk of your enemies, tempt them to do all sorts of evil things and then get them caught, I can even file your tax returns.”

“How about you just sew Shorty’s head back on.”

“Okay.” So the little imp turned out to be quite industrious. He cooks, cleans, knows how to get my whites really white, and makes sure the glasses don’t dry with spots or streaks. It’s nice having him around. And he did Shorty’s head with double-stitching so it won’t unravel again.

March 18 Azrael came around and apologized to me. Apparently he had lots apologizing to do for his St Patrick’s Day stunts. He took some of the wrong people out of their mortal spheres, and screwed up some of the eternal rewards and punishments. I think it was a bad day for him. Maybe next year he won’t get so wasted. Remember kids, don’t operate spiritual machinery when you’re under the influence of alcohol or drugs.



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