Christopher WunderLee - The Loony - a novella of epic proportions

It’s a long wait, he wonders if they’ve given up on him and then, he sees her high-heels. She’s standing at the mirror, her legs shifting. Albert’s out of the stall, got a hold of her, and back in before she can even begin to utter a sound. He puts his hand over her mouth and takes out the six-shot, petite handgun she keeps in her stockings, thus giving him the chance to slide his hand up her skirt, and touch bare thigh. He puts it right to her temple, cocks it, and releases her mouth.

“Alright, you know why I’m here.”

“I did it to protect you.”

“You did it because They told you to.”

“No… no… that’s not true.”

“You… you… want to die here?”

Eyes are moist, exhausted, pleading. Mouth is covered in white tape, shoulders are naked, save a thin strap that leads down to a black teddy Albert gave her. Her hands are behind her back, tied to a chair.

“I swear.”

“You… you… you were trained to do this to me.”

“No… they had me… trapped… they told me they would kill me, kill you…”

“That was a show, you think I’m stupid, just because you could fool me, you think I can be fooled by anything… Is that it?”

Her chest is heaving, the shadowy impressions of her breasts apparent as she draws a deep breath. Her legs are exposed, spread apart by ties to the chair legs. A hooded figure causing her to squeal enters the frame, holding a long black pole. He begins to touch her with it, running it smoothly up her leg, around her knee, up her thigh.

“I was abducted, stripped, tied to a chair, filmed… you think I made that up.”

“Damn right. I know about you, I know all about this whole operation. I thought you really loved me, I thought I’d help them make their movie and go on my merry way.”

“I loved you.”

“Shut up… You’re a government whore, They beat that out of you by the time you were ten.”

“What are you talking about — who? Who beat it out of me?”

She is jerking, shifting her weight, trying to get away, screaming in muffled sobs. Her bright, sunshine blond hair matted to her sweaty forehead. Her eyes are clenched shut. She is trying to scream. He’s behind her now, his stick running up her back, over her shoulder. He slides it under the strap of her teddy and pulls it down her arm, exposing her left boob. He taps it with the end of the stick, causing it to bounce. She is crying, howling with fear. Locher is mortified, speechless, ashamed of the aching hard-on, as he watches the film with two of Them.

“Why can’t you just stop for a second and be honest with me?”

“I am, Albie… I tried to find you, but they told me if I looked… they’d kill you.”

“Who told Them I was here, huh? Who’s roaming the countryside, not allowed to make a phone call, not allowed to see his mother, not allowed to stay anywhere longer than twenty-four hours?”

“I’m so sorry.”

“You don’t have that in your emotional vocabulary. You are a lying whore who ruined me for her paycheck.”

“That’s not true. I was the one hurt by this… I was the one that lost everything.”

He swings the pole as hard as he can, for an instant Albert thinks he’s going to hit her, but he goes lower, breaking the chair legs, sending her collapsing onto the ground. He forces her to get up, holding only the remnants of the chair; he tears off the seat, exposing her fleshy buttocks framed by black satin. Albert remembers her wearing it — turning in a siliceous pirouette, his favorite part of the teddy, the way it looked on her backside, his second favorite, its voile material. He smacks her playfully on the ass with the stick, her cheeks fluttering from the blow, growing red, she tries to scramble away.

“You were hurt? Can’t you just admit it once… just for me?”

“You think I’m a different person than I am, I never went to spy school or whatever it is you think they did to me… I was a private… I went into the army to get out of Cheesedelle… I told you this.”

“And who wrote that biography for you?”

“Albert, why do you think they move you around so much? Why do you think they haven’t just killed you?”

“Why?”

“Because, I’ve done all that they’ve asked. You’re the reason why I’m an army whore… not them. If I’d never met you, never loved you… I wouldn’t be here… with that general…”

He licks the side of her face as she cringes, the tears trickling down her cheeks. The camera zooms out; he stands behind her, the pieces of the chair littered about. She’s standing; her legs slightly bent inwards, her arms behind her back, her face wracked with anguish, her breast dangling in the open air, the hooded man’s hand squeezing it. He places the pole between her legs so that the greater part of it slides up her belly. Then he pulls it back behind her and his hands appear around her neck, down her sternum, around her chest. He grabs the fabric roughly and tears it off of her. The hold button’s pushed just as she is exposed completely, her body convulsing from the force, the shreds of the teddy falling down her sides, her face frozen in pain. The man turns to Albert by swiveling his chair…

“This is the price of the moon.”

“Yes.”

“Do you think it’s worth it?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It is a national anthem, the greatest triumph of man’s ingenuity ever attempted. It is better to believe it than fail at it.”

“There’s nothing to be done?”

“No. We’ll await your answer.”

“Yes… of course, yes… Just let her go.”

“I’m afraid it’s not that simple, doctor.”

“Fine, I’ll sign whatever it is you want me to, just don’t hurt her…”

“Would you like to watch the rest of the movie?”

“Yes.”

* * *

No one ever thought the world was flat, not in Columbus’ day, not ever. That was Enlightenment propaganda, the advent of the Dark Ages, or the concept of such a rancorous era, sometime between the high Renaissance and the age of reason. It is believed, although never confirmed, that that is when it got started. The Greeks knew the world and all the heavenly bodies were spheres, they spoke of them as such. But how easily it was to contort the concepts of history, how easy it was to make school children wear construction paper hats of Puritanical indifference and go-lucky Indians with feathers and big smiles, how easy it was to picture that great Spaniard trudging ashore of the new world, claiming the vast wildness for king and country. It was just the beginning…

One government says to another: “we would like to say we beat you in a war, what do you say to that?” And the other responds: “fine, fine, we’ll just need some reciprocation, have the historians begin their work and the diplomats draw up the papers. Of course, we’ll expect the normal provisions.” And it is so.

The children receive their textbooks and listen dejectedly as the teacher lectures, dreaming of jump ropes and water fountains, osmosisly receiving the impregnating myth.

“We would like the honor of being the first to have conquered the known world, we will call our champion Alexander and he will be lauded as the greatest military commander of the ancient world.”

“Fine, of course,” They agree, “but it will cost you. You’ll have to agree to Genghis Khan, and Julius Caesar, and a displacement of your power, a swift shift in military might, a sudden, historically speaking, collapse, and the eventual disarmament and ineffectuality of your empire. We will begin the paperwork.”

A cheap coffee smell mixed with the stench of burnt Styrofoam wafts through the air, the collective aroma of cologne, after-shave, perfume, pharmaceuticals, synthetic cotton, body odor, sweat, ink, pencil led and shavings, old olive loaf, peanut butter, cigarettes, metal, plastic, and paint permeates the room as men in cubicles talk incessantly on one-way radios and phones. A long, assembly of square tables have been shoved together in the next room for an impromptu meeting called by the honorable envoy from the French Congo, who’s currently talking in muffled tones with the honorable envoy from Finland and Chile, who are both nodding like pendulums as if the rhythm will orchestrate the course of the conversation.