Matthew Tysz - The Last City of America

“What city?” The host seemed evasive to Grakus’s eyes.

“Hell.”

The host drew back very slightly, like he suspected there may have been some truth to the answer. He squinted with one eye. “No man has ever advertised himself to me with talk of bad things.”

Grakus laughed heartily, leaned back in the chair. “Hell is just a city ruled by a man who wants to do things his way. No different than this, just a little bigger.”

“Except that Hell is said to have powers,” said the host, shielding his fear with skepticism. “Show me.”

Few would have guessed that the host was as mad as anybody else in Chicago, at least at first glance. Maybe it was the exhaustion: the host danced every night and got little sleep. Maybe dancing was his escape. Everybody in Chicago seemed to have one. Alcohol and power weren’t always enough. The host had found a way to contain his madness in a box. It was just a matter of knowing how to open it. And when.

Still reclined comfortably, Grakus spread his arms, opened his hands, moved his head around. “Do you see an injury on me, my lord? Do you see any indication that I had been questioned by the one called Teddles?”

The host’s eyes widened. “They sent you to Teddles?”

Grakus smiled. “For hours. We became friends. He even let me hold his bunny.”

The host took his hand away from his chest for a moment. He looked across his desk, thinking. He put his hand back in place, looked back at Grakus. “Hell or not, you can do things others can’t. Perhaps you will do these things for me.” He picked up his phone, summoned a man named Studebaker. “Vladimir Studebaker is my underhost. He entertains me. He knows things. He helps me run my city. He will inspect you, and I will make a decision.”

Yes. Teddles had spoken briefly of the underhost, and gave Grakus the information he needed to make this process much shorter, and far less risky… not that risk on any level could deter a man like Grakus.

The role of underhost was domestic. Every aspect of Chicago that didn’t have to do with the military was run by an administrator: an administrator of roads, an administrator of shops, schools, hospitals and so on. The underhost was the administrator of administrators. But the most important thing for Grakus right now was that he had come to understand the relationship between the underhost and the host.

The underhost was a spiritual adviser to his lonely superior. He gave the host security. He gave the host answers. The host found comfort in this, but there was one problem.

The host always felt a disturbance in the back of his mind—an unending discomfort—something the underhost could only suppress for so long. Usually, an underhost would be killed after a year or two. Studebaker occupied the seat for nearly three. But his career was destined to end the same way. Each man—Studebaker especially—thought he had the power to be the one to hold the seat forever, perhaps even ascend to host.

“And even if they didn’t have those kind of balls,” Teddles had earlier told him, “they still think being underhost makes the pain go away. Everyone thinks a high chair makes the pain go away. I think it’s just a chair.”

Teddles had impressive insight for a lunatic. Grakus had plans for him. Grakus had plans for everyone. But right now, Grakus had a plan for the underhost.

After he and the host stared at one another in a moment any normal person would have found uncomfortable, the sound from an elevator rang outside the doors, and the doors opened.

Vladimir Studebaker was a fat man with a suit, tie, and a nose ring. He was wearing a hairpiece. The hairpiece was oiled. He stood by the host and shook his hand. He looked at Grakus, who sat motionless. “This must be the mysterious man everyone’s talking about! Look at him sitting there. All mysterious!” Studebaker twirled his hands and fingers around, articulating mystery and magic. The host seemed to like it. “Have you come to dazzle our host with tricks? Come then, stop trying to look so impressive and show us a trick!”

Survival had replaced sincerity. Grakus could see that right away. Studebaker’s words were like signs pointing in all directions. His lies were armed with a smile sharp enough to cut through the fat of his cheeks, a smile that never seemed to leave his face.

Grakus smiled politely. It was time to open the box. “What is the secret to happiness, Mr. Studebaker?”

The underhost lowered his hands. His smile faded, eyes grew ponderous. “Secret?”

Grakus crossed his legs, nodded. “Your job is to make the host happy… so you must know the secret.”

The underhost smiled. “I see you haven’t spent a lot of time in civilized society.” He set his hands on the desk across from Grakus. “Shadowpastors may be the fools to fall for your philosophizing, but you are in Chicago. Secret to happiness? Honestly, what attempt is that to cajole the men who run an empire?”

Grakus sat back, his leather jacket creaking in the silent room. “Everybody wants to be happy. Not everybody is. How can this be if everybody knew the way to happiness?” Grakus turned his head, looked into the eyes of the host. “If this man you call your underhost knows the way to happiness, and knows how to do his job, you must be happy. You must go to sleep at night excited for tomorrow, thinking warmly about everything you have. Is this what your nights are like, my lord?”

The underhost drew back from the desk. He gave a laugh that was as fake as his hair. “The host is the happiest man in Chicago! I wouldn’t have been where I am for so long were that untrue! Would I, my lord?”

“He can’t tell you that,” Grakus was still looking at the host. The host was still looking at Grakus. “Only you can. It wasn’t his talents that kept him with you for so long. It was you. You were so tired of looking for more, you decided that you’ve reached the border of happiness. That it just doesn’t get any better than this. But my lord, you can’t imagine how great happiness truly is because you’ve never felt it. This man couldn’t give it to you, even after three years. Nobody could. But they are not from where I’m from. Have they ever truly helped you? Has a single one of them ever given you a real answer? Was it too much to ask for? Because they kept it from you. This entire city has kept it from you. Give me the chance and I can give you what you should have had from the moment you were born.”

Underhost Studebaker laughed again. This time he came to the host’s side, laid his hand on the host’s shoulder. “Wilco said he was a bandit. Who knew the bandit came to steal my job!” The underhost laughed with his tongue as much as with his throat, hacking and hurling.

The host sat still, his eyes on Grakus. He said softly, “the bandit has succeeded,” and the underhost stopped laughing.

The host pulled a filleting knife from under his desk. He rose stiffly, turning only when he was on his feet.

The former underhost evaded slowly.

“Three years I’ve sifted through freaks to replace you,” the host stepped toward his inferior. “I don’t know which I wanted more—to get rid of you, or to play with your fat.” He twirled the knife in his fingers. “All I knew was that, when the time came, I would get to do both.”

Studebaker pleaded as the host came closer. He reminded the host what a good servant he had been. He started singing a song about friendship. The host lunged forward and took a slice. The underhost ran with his arm around his gut.

Studebaker was too fat to outrun the mad dancer. So the dancer played with his hunt, chasing him in circles around the office, taking a slice every now and then. The trail of blood grew thicker as the hunt grew slower. The host began strafing around him, slicing him all over. Studebaker made his way for the door. All the while, Grakus kept his gaze through the glass wall behind the desk, overlooking Lake Michigan.