I don't own Mort. I only own Alexander Wright. If you haven't read Concerning A Murder, this might not make sense, but by all means, please read. You will enjoy… I think, if you have a funny bone in you.
No Sympathy for the Devil's Tool
Morton Rainey sat at his computer, watching the room below him slowly become cleaner. It had been a few years since he'd had someone in to clean the place, but his newest roommate seemed to prefer being tidy to an author's sacred haven. Mort didn't mind. The boy did a good job cleaning, and the two had become pretty close friends. Of course, close friendship is about the only thing that can come out of an ordeal like the one the two had gone through two years ago.
Mort remembered the car crash. He remembered waking up in the hospital to his doctor's frightening claim. "There was no boy, Mr. Rainey. There was no one else in or near your car at the accident. You were alone." Yes, that statement had stayed with him for the longest time. He even remembered waking up later to find Alex and Shooter at his bedside, Shooter old and weary, ready to turn in for the final rest, and Alex eager to tell his story.
It had been two years since Mort had learned of Alex's true identity. It had been one and a half years since he'd accepted the boy's all too fantastical persona. There was no relief in knowing, Mort knew this, but for some reason, he felt greatly satisfied to know that someone of such a stature had taken an interest in such an insignificant author as himself. This demon, as he'd been known, had taken the man in and brought him close to do his bidding. It wasn't much of a life, but he still was allowed to write to make a living, so he felt perfectly privileged.
Mort watched as Alex began to pace the living room, picking up stray clothing here and there, throwing things into a trash bag. The scene played out before him in silence. It was shocking, really. While Mort knew that the boy down below was not, in fact, Alexander Wright, the boy from his childhood stories, he still acted just as Mort had written him. Alex, or Lucifer, as Mort often called him just to see if he could get a rise out of the fallen angel, was no more than a boy at times, the same boy that Mort had created to match his own inner thoughts. It was amusing to see this side of his roommate shine through the hardened demon he'd been living with.
Slowly, Alex stopped his pacing and turned to watch Mort. Their eyes met a moment, and Mort turned away first, unable to stare into those red and black pupils for too long. It was moments like this that reminded him just how lost his Alexander was, how little of his original creation remained. It was moments like this that reminded him that he wasn't insane, that he wasn't just envisioning his companion, that the boy really was there, and was very much more real than even Mort could imagine. It was moments like this that brought Mort's hand up to his left arm, just where the burn had been placed. It had been a reminder, a painful lesson learned over time. He was no longer his own man. His soul belonged to someone much stronger than him, and this burn reminded him everyday of the time he'd tried to fight back.
Mort had snuck out of the house, left for Dave Newsome's house. He had to tell someone. He got to Newsome's place with no problems and stepped into the front room after hearing the other man's gruff greeting.
"Mr. Rainey?" Dave Newsome stared at his guest. "I never expected you to come out here again. You've denied my invitations to Thanksgiving for the past two years. Now, what brings you here so suddenly?" Newsome turned and led the author into his living room, his heart pounding in his chest. Of course his invitations had always been out of kindness. He'd never expected the man to accept, and that often made it easier to invite him each year. Now, Mort stood in his very living room, with a nervous smile on his haggard face.
"I can't live like this anymore, Newsome!" Mort spat suddenly. "He's driving me mad! I thought that he'd go away, that I was just seeing things, but no. He's there, always there, asking me to do things I'd never do in my right mind. God, Newsome! I've gotten to the point that even prison would be better than this! Anything!"
Newsome handed Mort a glass of water and stepped back. "Your roommate? That boy that you found out in the woods? Mr. Rainey, it's never good when a local brings in a loner like that boy, but you took him as your responsibility. He can't be that bad."
"He's worse than you could imagine." Mort finally dropped into a chair near the fireplace. "So much worse."
A sound at the door startled the two men. Then, a familiar voice caused Mort's body to stiffen and his heart to stop for an instant.
"Mort?" came Alex's clear tone. "Mort, are you here?" Alex stepped into the room and smiled at the two men. "Oh, thank God. You didn't leave a note, so when I got back from my walk and didn't find you, I thought something had happened to you. Are you okay?"
"Yeah, Alex…" Mort looked helplessly over at Newsome. "Everything's fine. I just got a phone call from Dave here and he asked me over for a small chat." He shot a pleading look at Newsome. Seeming to catch the hint, the officer merely poured another glass of water and offered it to Alex.
"Mort said that you were out walking, or else I would have told him to bring you along. I thought you two might like to join me for dinner." Newsome guided Alex to a chair and smiled warmly as the boy sat down.
"Oh, I'd enjoy that, actually," Alex smiled back, "but I don't think I have the time. I've got a couple job interviews in town tonight. I'm a night owl, so I'll be working nightshifts, you see? So, I don't think I'd be able to truly enjoy dinner. My eye would be on the clock the whole time."
"Getting a job, huh?" Newsome sat down in his favorite spot on the couch. "Sounds interesting. You decide this on your own, or did Mort threaten to kick you out if you didn't hold your own?" He laughed at the implication in his tone.
"Nah, I decided it. Mort swears up and down that his stories will keep us both well-fed for the rest of our lives, but I've always loved the idea of a challenge, and I'm very interested in getting a job and maybe even setting off on my own sometime."
Mort nodded wearily and smiled across at Newsome. "He's an odd kid. Actually wants to work."
Alex stood suddenly. "Mort, I'm going to head home. Are you coming along, or will you be spending more time with the Sheriff?"
Mort turned a worried glance toward Dave Newsome, then stood and joined the boy. "Might as well head home. Thanks for the invite Newsome, but I've got some work that's breathing down my neck. I'll talk to you later. Maybe we can plan this out better next time."
Newsome nodded and watched the two leave. Outside, on the porch, Alex grabbed hold of Mort's left arm. "Don't ever try to run for help again. Unless you want everyone in this town to fall down dead tomorrow." Alex let go of the author and Mort looked down at his arm in pain and fear. A large burn was already forming there, sharp pain coursing through his veins. It was no less than a second degree burn and the pain was insurmountable. He climbed carefully into the passenger seat of the car and threw the keys at Alex with his good hand. He spent the entire ride home trying to examine his arm through his blinding tears and see if there was anything that could be done for it.
They got home and Alex had gone to the bedroom alone, leaving Mort to deal with his burn. He managed to treat and wrap the arm just before passing out with the final wave of nausea that swept over him. He awoke the next day to a news report blaring from the recently acquired television (Alex had insisted he buy the thing).
"Sheriff Dave Newsome was found dead in his house today, completely covered in burns. Police believe it to have been an accident in the kitchen, as the stove was on upon arrival after several neighbors called concerned of smoke coming from the Sheriff's house. No news as of yet on the true nature of the death or whether the case has been officially decided…" The news carried on in the distance, but Mort's mind remained a buzz while he caressed his wounded arm and lay on the kitchen tile.
This had all happened six months ago. The burn still remained fresh, but Mort expected no less from his companion. No one had yet been able to tie the murder to Mort, though he was sure that Dave Newsome had died at his hands. The man was old to begin with, however, and Mort didn't question the death, nor did he grieve. He continued to write, listening to the news daily for any new information as to what bidding he'd carried out the night before. There was always something new, and somehow every story turned out more creative than the last.
Mort got a kick out of it, hearing the news and seeming to blend the stories into his own stories. It all flowed so well. Sometimes the story would merely be something on the news in the background of a crucial moment, or sometimes, his antagonist would be committing the very crime that Mort had heard he'd perpetrated the night before. It wasn't doing anyone harm to tie these stories into his own, and his editors and publishers claimed to be getting a big response out of these new tales. This made life a lot easier, for the both of them.
There were times that Mort would wake up, turn on the news, and nothing had happened. The town would be as peaceful as it had been the day before. Those were the most fun for Mort. Those were days that he got to sink back into his world, know that, while still under the demon's watchful eye and tight control, he still had his own agenda. Of course, nothing Mort did was his own will anymore.
Please allow me to introduce myself
I'm a man of wealth and taste
I've been around for a long, long year
Stole many a man's soul, and faith
I was around when Jesus Christ
Had his moment of doubt and pain
Made damn sure Pilate
Washed his hands, and sealed his fate
Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name
But what's puzzling you is the nature of my game
"Hey, Alex," Mort mumbled over Alex's music as he finally descended the stairs.
Alex turned sharply and dropped the volume on the stereo, watching the author pull a large mug from a cupboard and pour a cold cup of coffee. He watched Mort examine the mug, place it in the microwave, and hit a few buttons, setting about a whirring and buzzing that always ground on Alex's nerves.
"Honestly, I will never understand why you people do that to your food. I mean," Alex quipped, "I'm one to talk, but it seems so… unnatural. 'It's cold, so let's throw it in a box, close the door, and pelt it with radiation. Then, later in life we can complain about the cancer that's inflicted us and ask God why it hurts so much.' I can tell you his answer. It's the same answer he has for much of your actions as humans. The answer is, 'It's your own damn fault. Now, leave me alone to watch Bombay.'"
Mort laughed and smiled across at Alex. "Yeah, Bombay needs the attention."
"I picked a place. Shut up." He turned back to the messy living room. "You ever going to take up knitting again?"
"No, why?" Mort stepped around the couch to watch Alex.
"Because I wanted to know if I could throw away these bundles of yarn. They're cumbersome."
"Well, aren't we turning into quite the loquacious house-wife?" Mort chuckled and retrieved his coffee from the beeping contraption. He dumped what looked like two tablespoons of sugar in, stirred quickly, and sat at the table sipping his drink.
"It comes from living with you, sweetie-pie." Alex threw an old ball of yarn across the living room. It landed in Mort's lap, one string leading back into the living room, still in Alex's clutches. "I'm not cleaning that up."
"Funny," Mort sighed, "I was about to say the same thing."
Alex stood and joined Mort at the table. "You, out of all the people on this planet. I chose you. You don't scare too well anymore, but you do as you're told. You seem to enjoy the tasks I set in front of you, even though you woke up screaming the next morning. It took me a while to figure out how to wipe your memory of the task. Still, the news tells you what you did and you smile. If you remember doing it, it's painful, but if you just remember what the deed was, you laugh. You're one very complex man."
"And I intend to confuse you for the rest of our association." Mort stood and carried his coffee back up to his computer loft. "I've got a deadline, so don't slam the door when you take your afternoon walk. Thanks."
"Sure thing, Mort…" Alex glared up at the author. "Oh, and Mort?"
"Hmm?" Mort stood and looked down over his glasses at the other.
"I've got a very nice job for you tonight. You might want to go find those old knitting needles. I know they're lying around here somewhere." Alex turned and walked out the door, closing it quietly, and leaving the author to his deadline, and the sound of the stereo, once again turned full blast, the same song on repeat.
I watched with glee while your Kings and Queens
Fought for ten decades for the Gods they made
I shouted out, "Who killed the Kennedys?"
When after all, it was you and me
So let me please introduce myself
I'm a man of wealth and taste
And I laid traps for troubadours
Who were killed before they reached Bombay…
"Hmm," Mort looked down at the closed front door and smiled. "Bombay."
End
Simplistic, I suppose, but it felt like it needed to be done. I rather enjoyed the way these two ended up partnered and it was fun typing up this little thing. It was actually one of the ideas I thought up before the entire story unfolded. I enjoyed it very much when it came out. I hope you liked it. Review to your heart's content. Everyone knows I love a good review/critique/flame…
The song is Rolling Stones Sympathy For The Devil, though I prefer the Guns N' Roses version. Good song, check it out…