The Spectre of Death
Nov 6, 2014 11:25:40 GMT -5
Post by Vinny on Nov 6, 2014 11:25:40 GMT -5
West New York, NJ
The unseasonable warmth is yielding and a dreary gray has seeped in to replace it. The sun hangs high, somewhere, above the blanket of clouds that provides a uniformity of slate to the sky. The streets are slick from the light rain that began overnight and still falls in fits and spurts. It shakes loose the leaves on their last legs, and pries off some not ready to fall. It is Autumn, writ small, in West New York outside of Alex’s Pet Shop.
Tucked between Cecelia Bakery and Frank Shoe Repair, Alex’s sits on the first floor of a red-brick multiplex of storefronts on the sleepy stretch of Park Avenue. This is small-town America in the shadow of its largest city, literally and figuratively. Lower-middle class suburbia with all its charms and warts.
Inside, scents of dog food, pet dander and an overly-strong mint air freshener hang in the stagnant air, like a collection tree-shaped relics from a rear-view mirror. On the right-hand wall are shelves of aquarium and glass tanks, filled with various aquatic and reptilian life. A snake sleeps coiled in on itself; a chameleon rests on a plastic tree branch; fish swim passively. By the front window, an old orange tabby cat licks its fur and tries to absorb whatever light and warmth passes through the cloudscape. And behind the register a pink-haired teenage girl stares at her nails and tries not to die of boredom.
Clang.
The shopkeeper’s bell over the front entrance cuts through the hum of the heating system, breaking the near-silence and tranquility as a man in a black leather jacket, jeans and black combat boots walks in. His flicker briefly to the cashier, who is caught slightly slack-jawed, before passing over towards the tanks. He offers a slight nod before brushing the long strands of dirty-blond hair off his forehead and proceeding towards the fish and reptiles.
Malcolm Drake taps a small metal sign that reads “Do Not Tap” before peering in on the set of small lizards.
“My people,” he says in a voice just above a whisper, lightly biting his tongue between his molars as if resisting an urge to flick it at the reptiles. Drake’s eyes move toward the snake tank, and his body slivers behind. The snake is a yellow-and-white Burmese python, still young enough to fit in a relatively small case. The python uncoils slightly to bring its narrow eyes to gaze upon Drake. A black forked tongue flicks out casually in his direction.
“The similarities here,” Drake begins as if addressing the serpent, “would be... too easy. While subtlety isn’t my strong suit, this is heavy-handed even for me. Oh, but aren’t you a vision, darling. Such bright colors. In nature, these markings mean danger. Poison, usually. But always PAIN… for whoever comes across them,” Drake smirks, “Where I come from they also use glitter and stickers.”
Drake straightens giving a longing look back at the snake before continuing down the the row. He almost walks past the next tank, before stopping and doubling back. He leans in close, almost pressing his nose to the glass. When he speaks, his breath laces brief fog on the exterior of the chameleon’s tank.
“Oh, well hello, Christopher,” Drake says to the chameleon, “Fancy seeing you here, old friend. I almost didn’t see you in there… but I guess that’s the point, isn’t it? To blend in. To adapt. To… survive. That’s what you’ve always been best at, Bond… isn’t it? You’ve had a long, storied career. How does a man maintain that sort of longevity? How does he stick it out for so long? And how does he do it wearing such a squeaky clean suit of white armor?”
Drake smirks and pushes back from the tank.
“But that’s just it, Christopher. You’re hands aren’t clean. In fact, you’ve been around so long there are people who might even say they’re dirtier than mine. You just do a better job of scrubbing them clean, of hiding the evidence of past indiscretions. That white armor you parade around in is metal, pitted from frequently caustic bleaching to keep the stains off. You and I both know that the twilight of your career is nigh, and that you want nothing more than for the sun to glint and gleam off you as you ride away into the sunset. A final image of greatness to mask over years of highs and lows. You’re hoping they never discover your portrait in the attic… the skeletons in the closet.”
“But I’m not here to… tease… you, Bond. I’m only seeking to illustrate a simple point: I know you. So when you come reading into Secaucus on Saturday night on your white horse, now that I will see that the emperor wears no clothes. I see the chameleons that walk among us. I see you, Christopher. I see you and I don’t care. I don’t care that you’ve played the hero, I don’t care that you’ve played the villain and I don’t care that you’ve played every part in-between just to stay on the stage in the warm glow of the spotlight. I don’t care who you’ve hurt and I don’t care who you’ve saved. I don’t care who you’ve beaten and I don’t care who has beaten you for one… simple… reason…”
“None of them were me.”
Drake smirks.
“I don’t care about the encyclopedia volumes of your past, but I’m glad they’re there. I’m glad of all the playbills and rosters your name has graced. I’m glad that the name “Chris Bond” carries the sort of… GRAVITAS… in this business that it does. I’m glad of all the proverbial stock you have, Christopher, because I have a very special favor to ask of you…”
“... I want you to cash it in. I want it all from you, Bond. I want the master of the stage and craft to give me his greatest performance. I want the hero, and the villain and the whole cast that constitutes Chris Bond. I don’t know what you have left in that seemingly bottomless tank of your’s, but I want you to EMPTY IT. I want everything you’ve got, Bond, because if this is the only shot I ever get at you, I want to make… it… FUCKING… count. I want the chameleon to choose. I want you stand for something, Christopher. I don’t care what it is, but choose. Draw your line in the stand. Plant your feet. Make your final stand. Face. Me. Down.”
Drake’s shoulders are heaving, his body slightly trembling and his fists clenched.
“I need this,” he whispers, “I can spit in Dom Harter’s eye. I can manipulate any man, woman or child in any room anywhere in the room. I can make anyone believe anything I want them to. Anyone except… me. I need this. I need you, Bond. I need you so that I can prove to myself that everything I say is in me, and everything I can convince the world is in me… is really there. And I need every fucking atom and fiber and piece of Chris Bond to do it.”
“So don’t hold anything out on me. Because on Saturday night, I’m coming at you. I’m bringing EVERYTHING and leaving NOTHING behind. And you better, too. Because… if you don’t… there won’t be enough of Chris Bond left to take that ride into the sunset.”
As Drake turns to leave he passes by a bulletin board at the end of the aisle. His eyes glance over it briefly before landing on the picture of a dog with the words “Secaucus Animal Shelter” underneath. He pictures the spectre of death that looms large behind every rescue animal and he whispers...
“Memento mori.”
The unseasonable warmth is yielding and a dreary gray has seeped in to replace it. The sun hangs high, somewhere, above the blanket of clouds that provides a uniformity of slate to the sky. The streets are slick from the light rain that began overnight and still falls in fits and spurts. It shakes loose the leaves on their last legs, and pries off some not ready to fall. It is Autumn, writ small, in West New York outside of Alex’s Pet Shop.
Tucked between Cecelia Bakery and Frank Shoe Repair, Alex’s sits on the first floor of a red-brick multiplex of storefronts on the sleepy stretch of Park Avenue. This is small-town America in the shadow of its largest city, literally and figuratively. Lower-middle class suburbia with all its charms and warts.
Inside, scents of dog food, pet dander and an overly-strong mint air freshener hang in the stagnant air, like a collection tree-shaped relics from a rear-view mirror. On the right-hand wall are shelves of aquarium and glass tanks, filled with various aquatic and reptilian life. A snake sleeps coiled in on itself; a chameleon rests on a plastic tree branch; fish swim passively. By the front window, an old orange tabby cat licks its fur and tries to absorb whatever light and warmth passes through the cloudscape. And behind the register a pink-haired teenage girl stares at her nails and tries not to die of boredom.
Clang.
The shopkeeper’s bell over the front entrance cuts through the hum of the heating system, breaking the near-silence and tranquility as a man in a black leather jacket, jeans and black combat boots walks in. His flicker briefly to the cashier, who is caught slightly slack-jawed, before passing over towards the tanks. He offers a slight nod before brushing the long strands of dirty-blond hair off his forehead and proceeding towards the fish and reptiles.
Malcolm Drake taps a small metal sign that reads “Do Not Tap” before peering in on the set of small lizards.
“My people,” he says in a voice just above a whisper, lightly biting his tongue between his molars as if resisting an urge to flick it at the reptiles. Drake’s eyes move toward the snake tank, and his body slivers behind. The snake is a yellow-and-white Burmese python, still young enough to fit in a relatively small case. The python uncoils slightly to bring its narrow eyes to gaze upon Drake. A black forked tongue flicks out casually in his direction.
“The similarities here,” Drake begins as if addressing the serpent, “would be... too easy. While subtlety isn’t my strong suit, this is heavy-handed even for me. Oh, but aren’t you a vision, darling. Such bright colors. In nature, these markings mean danger. Poison, usually. But always PAIN… for whoever comes across them,” Drake smirks, “Where I come from they also use glitter and stickers.”
Drake straightens giving a longing look back at the snake before continuing down the the row. He almost walks past the next tank, before stopping and doubling back. He leans in close, almost pressing his nose to the glass. When he speaks, his breath laces brief fog on the exterior of the chameleon’s tank.
“Oh, well hello, Christopher,” Drake says to the chameleon, “Fancy seeing you here, old friend. I almost didn’t see you in there… but I guess that’s the point, isn’t it? To blend in. To adapt. To… survive. That’s what you’ve always been best at, Bond… isn’t it? You’ve had a long, storied career. How does a man maintain that sort of longevity? How does he stick it out for so long? And how does he do it wearing such a squeaky clean suit of white armor?”
Drake smirks and pushes back from the tank.
“But that’s just it, Christopher. You’re hands aren’t clean. In fact, you’ve been around so long there are people who might even say they’re dirtier than mine. You just do a better job of scrubbing them clean, of hiding the evidence of past indiscretions. That white armor you parade around in is metal, pitted from frequently caustic bleaching to keep the stains off. You and I both know that the twilight of your career is nigh, and that you want nothing more than for the sun to glint and gleam off you as you ride away into the sunset. A final image of greatness to mask over years of highs and lows. You’re hoping they never discover your portrait in the attic… the skeletons in the closet.”
“But I’m not here to… tease… you, Bond. I’m only seeking to illustrate a simple point: I know you. So when you come reading into Secaucus on Saturday night on your white horse, now that I will see that the emperor wears no clothes. I see the chameleons that walk among us. I see you, Christopher. I see you and I don’t care. I don’t care that you’ve played the hero, I don’t care that you’ve played the villain and I don’t care that you’ve played every part in-between just to stay on the stage in the warm glow of the spotlight. I don’t care who you’ve hurt and I don’t care who you’ve saved. I don’t care who you’ve beaten and I don’t care who has beaten you for one… simple… reason…”
“None of them were me.”
Drake smirks.
“I don’t care about the encyclopedia volumes of your past, but I’m glad they’re there. I’m glad of all the playbills and rosters your name has graced. I’m glad that the name “Chris Bond” carries the sort of… GRAVITAS… in this business that it does. I’m glad of all the proverbial stock you have, Christopher, because I have a very special favor to ask of you…”
“... I want you to cash it in. I want it all from you, Bond. I want the master of the stage and craft to give me his greatest performance. I want the hero, and the villain and the whole cast that constitutes Chris Bond. I don’t know what you have left in that seemingly bottomless tank of your’s, but I want you to EMPTY IT. I want everything you’ve got, Bond, because if this is the only shot I ever get at you, I want to make… it… FUCKING… count. I want the chameleon to choose. I want you stand for something, Christopher. I don’t care what it is, but choose. Draw your line in the stand. Plant your feet. Make your final stand. Face. Me. Down.”
Drake’s shoulders are heaving, his body slightly trembling and his fists clenched.
“I need this,” he whispers, “I can spit in Dom Harter’s eye. I can manipulate any man, woman or child in any room anywhere in the room. I can make anyone believe anything I want them to. Anyone except… me. I need this. I need you, Bond. I need you so that I can prove to myself that everything I say is in me, and everything I can convince the world is in me… is really there. And I need every fucking atom and fiber and piece of Chris Bond to do it.”
“So don’t hold anything out on me. Because on Saturday night, I’m coming at you. I’m bringing EVERYTHING and leaving NOTHING behind. And you better, too. Because… if you don’t… there won’t be enough of Chris Bond left to take that ride into the sunset.”
As Drake turns to leave he passes by a bulletin board at the end of the aisle. His eyes glance over it briefly before landing on the picture of a dog with the words “Secaucus Animal Shelter” underneath. He pictures the spectre of death that looms large behind every rescue animal and he whispers...
“Memento mori.”