Chapter One: The Real Story

It wasn't a dark and stormy night.

The young man took note of this as he walked away from the vast stone building, trying not to trip in the dark. His path was strewn with rocks and other objects as if it had been deliberately designed to trip him up, and the night, though not "dark" as in "dark and stormy" was rather dimly-lighted, the moon nowhere to be seen, and the stars not shining a light strong enough to see by.

Which is how the young man managed to stumble over the figure lying on the cobblestones; not only was the figure just as solid as the rocks he'd been avoiding, it was also quite a bit bigger. The young man landed on the ground, half on top of whatever it was, his breath going out of him with a sound exactly like this:

"Oooooooph!"

A period of brief and ineffectual swearing followed.

From the figure there was nothing, and the young man uttered an exclamation of alarm and moved himself off the figure. Then he rolled the figure over till he could see the face—

It was a strong face, a handsome face, an incredibly dirty and vomit-encrusted face. The young man's stomach gave a lurch and he swallowed and made a small noise, like this:

"Gurrk."

Quickly he ascertained that the man, whoever it was, was breathing, his heart still beating. Then the young man stood up and yelled, in a slightly high-pitched, breaking voice, something unintelligible back at the building from whence he'd come. To the men just inside the door, listening, it sounded like this:

"HRRRRRRRRRP!"

—but it was probably meant to be "Help!" when it left the young man's lips. The men inside the building rushed out, tripping in the dark— they were tall, and wore robes of red. They did not leave the building often— mostly because they were sick of being made fun of because of the robes.

They rushed to their young friends assistance.

"What is it now, Carl?"

"Well, I— I was just going along minding my own business and there was this— this man— at least I think it's a man— is it a man? This man was lying here in the path— and I tripped over him and I— is he alright?"

One of the robed men glared at Carl. "What were you doing out here?"

"I– uh— er— I hurt myself," said Carl, grasping for distractions. "D'you think we could have the doctor look at it—?" Desperately he held up his skinned elbow.

The robed man wasn't buying any. "You were working on your experiments, weren't you? You were coming out here to try some of those infernal machines on the unsuspecting public."

"Well what do you expect me to do?" Carl mumbled. "All the monks know to keep out of my way by now— I need someone to practice on."

"Carl—"

"Look, shouldn't we see to the man? It is a man, isn't it?"

The robed one looked down at the figure sprawled on the ground— squinting in concentration, he bent down until the smell hit him. Then he stood up, rather quickly. "Bring him inside," he ordered, and the three others obeyed.

"But—" said Carl. The robed man glared down at him.

"Come with me."

"But— he's just an ordinary drunk."

"Come with me."

Once inside, the Cardinal explained to the young novice that there was a purpose for all of God's creatures. Furthermore, he went on, there was no such thing as an "ordinary drunk."

"Yes there is," objected Carl, "I've seen several."

"No there isn't."

"Yes there is."

"For the purposes of this conversation," boomed the Cardinal, "that man in there lying on the bed is the fabled Left Hand of God. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Not at all."

"Good. You are dismissed."

There wasn't a lot that went on in the next day or so. The man lying on the bed had a constant watch, in which Carl participated, and things seemed to be as usual— but behind closed doors, tongues were wagging.

The Cardinal finally called Carl up again.

"Now, what's this all about? I've walked in on three people worshiping that drunk in there."

"I thought he wasn't a drunk."

"You know perfectly well I was just trying to impress upon you the fact that each of God's creatures are worth the effort! What have you done?"

"Nothing, Your Eminence."

"Carl—"

"Well— I might have told a few people."

"Might?"

"One or two."

"And how do you account for all the acolytes who've been hanging around the man's room with flowers, waiting for him to wake up so they can make a good impression?"

"Well—" Carl shrugged. "You know how word gets around in the Vatican. Bunch of gossips, the lot of them."

"Carl—"

The remained of the interview was unpleasant, to say the least, and the ultimate outcome was that Carl was assigned to round-the-clock watch on the man in the bed. He was, in fact, officially known as the Man in the Bed, often shortened to MIB. Carl didn't have much of a problem with this, but if the fact had been generally known, future generations of filmgoers would have been terribly confused.

One day MIB woke up.

He opened hazel eyes and stared at Carl.

"Mommy?" he said.

Carl had been engrossed in his reading and wasn't paying attention. This sudden coherence, for a given value of "coherence", from a man in a coma startled him to no end. He jumped and said something rather bad.

MIB said, "But—"

Carl said something worse.

MIB said, "But— you're a monk— you're not supposed to swear— are you?"

Carl stared at him.

And the rest is history.