Aldo Salt
Episode Four: Silent But Deadly (Revised)
You go for a walk down the street of Cryptatown. Every five steps, you run into another way to get yourself killed.
You come across a wooden box filled with apples in the middle of the street next to a cardboard sign that says “FREED APPLEZ”.
The apples have a blood red, waxy coating. When you look more closely, you see the apple skins wriggle and shift, as if a thousand worms are crawling around inside.
You brush your fingers against the hilt of the jian sheathed on your back. “Striboga," you whisper. "Ammita,”
Your sword leaps from your sheath like a missile launching from its silo. It curves through the air, descends and strikes true. The box of apples bursts into flame, a thousand squeaky helium voices screaming in agony.
When the flames die down, you beckon your sword back into its sheath and keep walking.
Halfway to your destination, you pass by a dark alley, its brick walls coated with half-rotted shelf mushrooms. Orange eyes glows at you from the alley’s shadows—shadows that shouldn’t even exist given the time of day.
You keep your gaze fixed straight ahead. As you draw close to the alley’s mouth, you stop midstride. You glance out of the corner of your eyes and stare the red-eyed shadows down. You do your best to project an air of calm, self-assured boredom.
The red-eyed shadows detach from the walls like stingrays and withdraw.
“Phew...” you say under your breath, continuing your morning stroll. “Just keep strutting, Diesel,” you tell yourself, “and they’ll clear the way…”
While turning the corner, you bump into a mummy wearing a leather trench coat.
A thick shoulder digs into your bicep and shoves you off balance. You fumble with the paper bag in your hands, nearly spilling your freshly-picked tomatoes and oranges onto the street.
You spin around, a sassy remark on your lips.
The bandage-wrapped mummy - Or burn victim? Or invisible man?—turns and glares at you from behind a pair of mirror shades. The folds of his trench coat fall open, revealing a belt full of daggers with brass knuckle-style hand guards.
You stare each other down for a few breathless seconds. Are you going to fight? Are you going to kill?
You give the bandaged pedestrian a short, curt nod.
After a moment, he returns your nod and continues on his way.
You walk north, head swimming with thoughts. They aren’t very intelligent thoughts, so in my infinite mercy, I strain past the bonds of my prison and push my thoughts into your head:
Listen to me, Diesel. You’ve accepted a case from a delirious dupe of a mangled man, a father too stupid to realize that his son was kidnapped and replaced by a faerie changeling years ago.
You’ve no idea where this changeling Ogre’s gone, or how to find him. Even if you can find him, do you think he will come quietly with the man who burned his hand to bone?
Truly, you’re in a pickle. A conundrum. A sticky situation with no way out. None of your precious spells or tricks can possibly help you close this case!
Wouldn’t it be best, then, to fall back on the one option you know will work? The choice that will get you everything—everything you want?
Use my power. Send me forth on an act of penance. Whoever you see, I can find it. Whoever stands in their way, I shall obliterate.
The Ogre whelp? I’ll deliver him to you, alive and intact. No tricks. I shall drop him at your feet like a faithful pet. And then I shall return—must return—to my cage.
There’s no downside. No outcome where you don’t benefit. So what are you waiting for?
Use me, mortal. RELEASE ME…—
You pluck the porkpie hat off your head and throw it on the ground. You stomp on it several times, in an act of unprovoked aggression! After venting your feelings, you look up, checking to see if anyone’s noticed your act of utter cruelty.
There’s a night hag pushing a cart down the street, all hunched shoulders and greasy hair and fingers long as snakes. But she has no eyes to see your crime: just wrinkled skin stretching across the hollows of her eye socket.
You feel sorry for the lady, a monster who’d suck the marrow from your bones given the chance. What must it be like, to not just be born blind but to be born old, never even having memories of what it’s like to have joints that don’t ache?
You pity the lot of a human-eater, but shed no tears for me, a lonely soul trapped within the weave of an antique hat?
Unbelievable.
You pick your hat, put it back on, and turn down the street corner into Market Square.
Cryptatown’s Market was founded by Goblins, of course: hard-working, enterprising Goblins who came from overseas to build a new life in the City.
Time and demographics have changed since then: newer Cryptids have displaced the old communities. But the Goblins’ legacy can be seen in Market Square’s flower patches and the golden statues of ancestral Kobolds, Dokkaebi and Pukwudgies.
To this day, the Goblins still run the weekly Farmer’s Market.
“Hoy, good sir!” A Goblin calls from his produce stall as you walk past. “Fresh Fruits! Fresh, juicy fruits, for three locks of your heart hair!” He holds up a peach from his basket, a fat, golden, glistening, poisonous fruit. “They’re organic!” He tells you with a wink.
“No thanks,” you blurt out, power-walking past the fruit stall as fast as you can while still being polite.
You head towards your destination, trying to ignore the bustling storefronts with eye-catching logos and signs laminated to their glass windows:
“SKIN FOR SKIN RESALE: FASHIONABLE CLOTHES IN EXCHANGE FOR STRIPS OF YOUR SKIN.”
“FORBIDDEN BOOK EMPORIUM: BOOKS FOR BOOKS OR MEMORIES OF FAVORITE BOOKS.”
“PIRATE VIDEOS AND MEDIA: STEAL FROM US AND WE’LL STEAL FROM YOU!”
You eventually find the building you’re looking for, a red-bricked number with a light bulb-crusted sign and a gleaming-white marquee over the entrance:
“THE DELPHIC NICKELODEON. NOW SHOWING: PAST, PRESENT AND FUTURE”.
Oh. This place. I remember this place.
I told you to forget about this place, Diesel.
“I remember,” you tell me under your breath.
Humph. I know my warnings will be wasted on you, Diesel…but be warned, nonetheless.
You push through the movie theater’s revolving door.
The theater lobby is an exercise in opulence, a space of red carpet, velvet drapes, marble statues and palm leaf plants. Yellowed posters are lovingly displayed inside glass cases, advertising long-lost silent film serials.
Macintosh Crate, six gangly feet of shaggy curls and rumpled sweater vests, sits inside the theater’s ticket booth, nose buried inside a dog-eared romance book. They look up as you enter.
“Diesel!” They blurt out, hastily tucking their copy of “Robot Rendezvous” beneath their desk. “Too long, man! What’s up?”
“Weird stuff as usual,” you reply, rolling your shoulders back and forth. “How you doing?”
“...there’s people in the world worse off than I am,” Macintosh tells you, a pensive look on their face.
From anyone else, that response would make you worry for their mental health. But you’ve known Mac for a while. They’re fine...or at least fine with not being fine.
“How’s Theo doing?” you ask Mac politely.
“Much better,” Mac says, visibly brightening. They hold up the felt-green dinosaur puppet covering their right hand. “He’s going to a new therapist,” Mac explains, nodding toward his hand puppet, “and I think they’re getting along this time!”
Theo shakes his head vehemently, the spiny leather sail on his back flapping around.
“Don’t say that!” Macintosh says, glaring at Theo. “She’s nice!”
Theo folds his stubby arms together, his duck-billed snout tucked against his chest in a pouty sort of way.
What kind of dinosaur is he, you wonder? Theo’s got the sail ridge like a Spinosaur...but he’s also got the duckbill of a Lambeosaurus…
You cough loudly. “Anyways!” you say to Macintosh. “I’d like two tickets, please!”
“Okay!” Mac says. Theo flips open the laptop with his felt limbs, while Macintosh types with their free hand. “Which movie?”
You pause, trying to word your request correctly. “I’d like to see The Fake Philip Lynn,” you tell them.
Macintosh types the name in and hits return on the keyboard. His computer beeps softly. “You’re in luck!” They tell you. “We have plenty of tickets for the Twelve O’Clock showing of Philip Lynn! Not exactly a blockbuster, so you’ll have the run of the house!”
A receipt machine whirs and prints out two strips of paper. “That’ll be six teardrops, please!” Macintosh says, pushing the tickets through the slot in the booth’s window, along with a stoppered glass vial.
You glance at the glass vial suspiciously.
“I’ve got some onions in the break room if you need to work up a cry,” Macintosh suggests. “Or we could watch some of the Korean dramas on my tablet!”
“About that,” you say, patting the brown paper bag tucked under your arm. “Instead of tears, could I pay with this bag of fresh produce?”
Macintosh’s eyes widen. They eye the bag in your hands, caught between delight and doubt.
“They’re from a farm upstate,” you tell Macintosh. “Goblin fruit free.”
“Oh thank gods,” Macintosh says with a sigh of relief. “I’ve been eating packaged prunes for weeks.” They step outside the ticket booth, pluck the bag from your hand, and tuck it underneath their booth’s seat.
“Right this way, my friend!” Macintosh proclaims, bowing dramatically and sweeping their arm out to the side.
Theo the Dinosaur Puppet repeats the same gesture with his stubby arms. His dark, beady plastic eyes are staring right at you—no, at the hat on your head.
Does it know? Can it know?
You’re still not sure if Theo is the ghost of a dapper dinosaur from the Late Cretaceous period, as Mac claims, or one big auditory hallucination.
It doesn’t really matter, you think as you follow Mac and Theo into the darkened theater. Theo the Dinosaur exists, whether as a spirit or an extra consciousness within Mac’s neurons.
Plus, you admit to yourself, you can hardly judge someone for hearing surly voices in their heads.
…
Surly? Why, I never!
I’d like to think I’m a damn sight more than surly, Diesel!
#
You lean back in your seat, a popcorn bag in your lap, sword unbuckled and leaning in the chair next to you.
Behind your head, you hear a click, then a thunk, then a groaning rattle as Mac gets the projector working.
Flickering, grainy black-and-white boxes appear on the screen, scratched film reel spinning up to speed.
Mac sprints past you down the crimson carpet and rows of empty velvet seats. They mount the dais beneath the projector screen and hop onto the organ bench.
Macintosh shuffles some sheet music and pulls out a few pumps. They set Theo the Dinosaur puppet on top of the organ case, where they can watch the show.
A title card flickers to life on the silver screen:
[The Treachery of Dieselnoi Worawoot, Fallen Ruesi]
Mac plays a dolorous funeral march on the organ. As music fills up the theater, the title card gives way to an opening scene….
[Your father stands on the sanctum steps, the wrinkles in his weather cheeks deep as canyons on the screen. He stretches out his hand, face filled not with rage, but with sadness and gentle, unconquerable love.]
[Your father vanishes, replaced by a flickering caption:]
[WASAN WORAWOOT, EXORCIST MARSHAL OF THE BLACK FOREST]
[The film cuts back to your father, his lips moving silently as he speaks. A new caption appears:]
[“I KNOW WHAT YOU DID TO SOMCHAIR. I KNOW ABOUT THE PRISONERS. I KNOW YOU TOOK THE HAT.”]
“Mac!” You roar, every part of you trembling with fury. “You put the wrong damn film in!”
“What?” Mac looks up. Their face goes pale. “Oh. Oh!” They leap off the organ bench and sprint up the aisle towards the projector. “I am SO sorry!” They wail as they run past your seat. “I saw your name on the tin and put it in without thinking…!”
You hunker down in your seat, trying––and failing––to keep your eyes away from the action.
[You appear on the big screen, a younger, dumber version of yourself. You flinch back like a startled rat, clutching a messenger bag tightly to your chest.
Your father beckons. A new caption card appears:]
[“COME BACK INSIDE, DIESEL. WE’LL SORT THIS OUT TOGETHER.”]
[You shake your head violently–]
With a loud ‘thunk’, the film projector shuts down. The image on the screen flickers and dies.
“Again, I am so, SO, sorry!” Mac tells you. “I can’t believe I screwed up so badly…!”
“IT’S OKAY!” You shout. “It’s okay…” you say more softly. You tug the brim of your hat down: “Just…just play the right film, okay?”
“Okay…” Mac mumbles.
You hear a lot of scrapping and clicking noises behind your back, as Macintosh Crate switches out the film reels and threads the new film into the axles of the projector.
Eventually, you hear a loud rattle, as a new title card flickers onto the screen:
[THE FAKE PHILIP LYNN, SON OF FAERIE]
Mac sprints back down the aisle, leaps back into the organ cockpit, and start playing a merry marching melody, their hands and feet flying over the keys and pedals.
You flick some popcorn into your mouth and try to enjoy the show...
[An empty stairwell descends underground, paint flakes chipping off the humid-looking walls and ceiling. Philip, the Ogre changeling, limps down the steps, leaning on the rusty railings like a patient undergoing physical therapy.
Philip slips and come down hard on his mangled leg. He opens his mouth wide in a silent, voiceless howl.]
You wince. Macintosh’s organ music turns plaintive and sad. A narration card pops up on the screen:
[WOUNDED AND ALONE, OUR HERO MAKES HIS WAY TO COLD IRON CROSSING.]
You frown. Cold Iron Crossing: isn’t that...?
[Philip reaches the bottom of the stairs and half limps, half slides his way along a wall coated with graffiti and rust stains. His pointed ears are folded back, his face etched with a pained grimace.
He reaches an old turnstile, a fence in the wall with a token-operated revolving gate. The gate’s far too small for Philip the Ogre to fit through honestly. Impatient, Philip reaches out to pry a section of fencing free. Smoke rise from his fingers when he touches the fence’s metal. He jerks his hand back with clenched teeth.]
Another caption card:
[“AGH! ACCURSED IRON!”]
On stage, Macintosh plays shrill scare cords.
How does Mac do this, you wonder? How do they get film reels that can see through space and time? How do they play perfect accompaniment to these real-world images? You’re no stranger to magic, but this...
[Philip raises his hand and summons his fiery sword. He swings: the iron fence falls into pieces. Philip squeezes through the gap in the iron and continues onward.
He descends another flight of stairs leading to a subway platform, an old tunnel with tile mosaics of nymphs and Goblins on the round ceilings.]
Another caption card:
[COLD IRON CROSSING: THE TRAIN THAT HEADS TO FAERIE-LAND.]
[Philip slumps against a wall, exhausted. Head lolling down, he waits for the train to Faerie to arrive.]
You mutter a curse and rise to your feet: if you’re quick and use up your good luck charms, you might get there before the train to Faerieland pulls in!
Suddenly, Macintosh’s organ music shifts to a minor key. They play a melody that’s sinister…villainous, even.
A new caption card pops up on screen:
[“WELL, WELL. WHAT DO WE HAVE HERE? A GIMPY UNSEELIE, ALL ON HIS OWN?”]
[Philip’s head snaps up. Three figures in gray trench coats and fedoras descend the subway stairs, sleeves tucked into their pockets. Two of the trench-coat wearing thugs have the heads of moths, with bulbous eyes, fuzzy cheeks and twin mandibles.
The third trenchcoater has a sinuous snakehead poking out of his coat collar, a head that glares at Philip with narrow, slit-pupil eyes. His fedora is tiny, fixed to his scalp with a delicate chinstrap.]
Just as you’re wondering who this guy is, a caption card pops up and answers your question:
[MORGAEOUS THE DRAKE-WORM, MEAT BARON OF CRYPTATOWN.]
[A forked tongue slithers in and out of Morgaeous’s mouth, tasting the air with glee. The Reptilian points an empty trench coat sleeve toward Philip.]
A new Caption Card:
[“SEIZE HIM, BOYS!”]
[Philip struggles to his feet. One of the mothmen pulls a long-barreled pistol from their coat-sleeve and pulls the trigger.
A feathered dart sprouts on Philip’s neck, a massive, honest-to-God elephant gun tranquilizer dart. Philip claws at his neck for a few seconds, then slumps to the ground, unconscious.
Morgaeous hisses in satisfaction, tongue flicking back and forth. The midsection of his buttoned-up trench coat ripples, as if there’s nothing underneath but slithering coils. His serpentine jaw flaps up and down; the mothmen advance, strands of spider-like web silk dripping from their fuzzy hands.]
Another Caption:
[“HE’S SKIN AND BONES, BUT HE’LL STILL FETCH A GOOD PRICE ON THE BLOCK...WAIT A SEC.”]
[The Reptilian looks down. He looks right at you. He raises his vacant coat sleeve and points right at you from his place on the silver screen. His mouth moves silently]
You blink.
[“A SPY! DON’T LET HIM GET AWAY!”]
You see the mothmen pull compact machine pistols from their pockets and take aim.
No way, you think. There’s no way they can see you. And even if they can, there’s no way...
Macintosh looks up; their sinister organs music trails off. “Oh shit!” They shout. “Diesel, run!”
The mothmen open fire. Pistol rounds punch holes through the big screen, whistling toward your head.