Very Last Gig!
(August 10-13, 2017)
24: Everyone I Know Goes Away
Open the eye of imagination. No living human eye has ever seen this place. No dead human eye, either, nor any human eye that was once alive but now is dead, or once dead but now—
OK, look, flat out and straight up, nobody's ever been here, right? In body or in spirit or any combination of the two whatsoever.
Where were we?
Oh, yes. The scene. Imagine an appalling dome of emptiness, like a cavern that's never seen the sunshine, never felt the rain. And it is vast, like slice the moon in two and scoop out one half of it like a grapefruit rind and plump it down beneath the surface, a cavern measureless to man. To woman, too, unless she carries around one of those tiny little measuring tapes in her purse.
Anyway, it's an upended bowl of empty space, and from the feeling you get gazing up into the dizzying gulf, you know you're in deep. The first thing you'd wonder is "how in the he—um, heck am I even seeing this?"
Right you are to wonder. You stand in a dungeon horrible, on all sides round. It flames like a furnace, and yet what comes from those flames isn't light. You might call it darkness made visible. Right, Johnny Milton?*
No one would willingly go there. Well, maybe a fool would rush in, but an angel would hesitate to tread there.
Don't get me wrong. It doesn't look like a torture chamber. No chains, whips, thumbscrews, racks, crushing boots, iron maidens, breaking wheels, brazen bulls, pear of anguish (just one's no good, luv, take the whole set), no equipment for boardings dry or wet or keelhauling, not a single Palestine chair, no pincers, boiling oil . . . we'd better cut this short. Don't blame me, I'm just the narrator. Blame all your forebears who invented more kinds of torture than you're willing to read about.
Anyway, there's none of that here. Just the sense that the apex of the dome stretches maybe a mile above you and that you are most probably near the center, since you can barely make out those writhing dark flames along the circular horizon, all around you and far in the distance. It is definitely on the warm side, too. Sort of like the interior of a van parked for seven hours in the sun in Orlando, Florida.
No sounds. Those ghastly flames make no whispery or crackly burny noises. You wish they would. You wish something would make a sound before you start screaming.
Ah, wait, the host just showed up. Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you the one, the only, the original Demon of Wealth, the Duke of Ducats, the Prince of Pelf himself, give it up for Mammonus! Yes, of course he looks different now. Man gets home from work, he wants to change, right? Mr. Rogers takes off that sport jacket, puts on a comfy sweater his mom gave him, trades off his walk-a-day leather Oxford shoes for comfortable sneakers or canvas boat shoes.
Mammonus has taken off his human skin.
Now he looks . . . attractive, in a twisted way. A tall demon, and thin, fit though not overly muscular. Hey, you want muscles, go to Hades—no, don't get insulted—and look up Sisyphus. Man, that guy is totally ripped! They keep sizing up the boulders and he keeps sizing up his muscles.
Tall, was Mammonus, with friendly features (but his teeth are sharp fangs, sharkish), a widow's peak, no horns—they interfered with styling, and he never wore them unless he had to appear at some official function—lustrous wavy black hair that falls halfway down his neck, long, sensitive fingers, a forked tail, long legs, like a male dancer might—what? OK, yes, he has that, too, nothing flabbergasting, though, it's sort of normal sized for a human male, except it's scaled up because he's approximately twelve feet tall—yes, of course he's naked! What do you mean, do demons have sex? They do if they're in the mood, I suppose—oh. Oh, do they have gender.
That's complicated. They can appear in the body of a man or a woman, as they like. Normally, they don't bother with the, um, the accessories, shall we say, sort of a Ken-and-Barbie deal there, but when dealing with humans they often put on at least the appearance of male or female or, depending on the person being tempted, perhaps a blend of the two. It varies. Angels are roughly the same, except most of them make a decision early on and stick with it and if one of them, say Cupid, falls deeply in love with a mortal or someone else who has a permanent gender, then that one, say Cupid, becomes permanently male (in his case) or female (in others).
Yeah, I know. It probably makes much more sense to them.
Anyway, look at Mammonus as there he stands, one knee bent slightly, chin down, darkly brooding—no bat wings! No! Those are a Medieval embroidery. And his feet are human-looking, not goat hooves. He looks like an exceptionally tall, fit, lean bright red human who happens to have a sinuous, coiling tail. No, no more questions, please. Look, you want to tell this story? Very well, then, let me get on with it.
In this vast chamber of null time, no matter how much any random humans dragged into it might be filled with passion, jealousy, and hate, no time goes by. It seems to—but it's the eternity of Paradise or Hades, and it just keeps rolling along.
But when Mammonus decides that it is, so to speak, time to prepare, he waves an arm and a throne appears. Not one of those gaudy things you see in European museums, but a good, sleek, modest, comfortable throne of silver. Gold accoutrements are reserved for Somebody Else where Mammonus comes from. But it's a dignified, impressive throne, not overloaded with geegaws and carvings. And you can't see it from here, but there's a little lever on the left side, and if Mammonus pulls it, a footrest swings up and the whole thing reclines.
He doesn't recline it, though. He sits there in his infernal majesty, nods, and murmurs, "It's show time!"
An opening glimmers into existence, and through it stumbles a furious, fat figure of a man. He swings a club, no, wait, it's just a cane with a gold orb for a handle, yelling his head off. Then he sees the gigantic figure looming in front of him and screams.
"Take it down a few notches," Mammonus says, wincing. "It's me. I'm your host for tonight. Recognize me now?"
Bratsman did not react with joy. He started to tremble. "What is this?"
"The transfer," Mammonus said. "We have to gather the parties to the case."
The air quivered. Another opening, another showed up—Mabel Pines, just fastening her jeans and looking both startled and outraged. "What the hey?" she yelled. Then she saw Bratsman.
And at the same null instant, both of them roared, "You!"
Mammonus, looking like the guy in the headache ads, asked, "Mr. Bratsman, do you still have the pen I gave you?"
Without taking his furious gaze off Mabel, the former manager of Sev'ral Timez pulled the ballpoint from his shirt pocket.
"Hey, you!" Mabel said. "Big red naked guy! Don't trust this man. He's a buttface!"
Ignoring her, Mammonus said, "Hang onto the pen. You'll need it. Now we should bring in the boys in the band and their current manager."
He waved his hand and Sev'ral Timez materialized about three feet above the floor and tumbled down to the ground in a jumble of white suits, flailing arms, kicking legs, and confused expressions.
"Yo!" Deep Chris said, rolling to his stomach and pushing himself to his feet. "Not righteous! Where's my hat? Where are we?"
"It's someplace," said Creggy G, "that looks like no place!"
"Oh, man, is this Ashland?" Chubby Z. asked in a panicked voice. "I have nightmares about playing Ashland again!"
A moment later Tad Strange popped up, standing, but staggering a little as he materialized. He took in the scene, and from his expression of near-catatonic passivity, you could tell how frightened he was.
"Boss!" Leggy P. yelled, "What's happened? Who's the red dude? Hi, Mabel. Oh, snap, there's Mr. Bratsman, y'all!"
"I'm too terrified to respond to you," Tad replied mildly. "Sir, you should put something on. There's a lady present."
With a grunt of irritation, Mammonus snapped his fingers. Clothes—a red hooded robe, anyway—materialized out of air and draped him decently. "Now, Mr. Brats—what now?"
A van—an actual automobile—skidded out of nothingness into existence tilted way back on its rear wheels, thumped down, and fishtailed as it kicked up a rooster tail of red dust. Its wheels spun furiously, sending up flashes of yellow fire and billows of clotted blue-white smoke, like—well—OK, you know those magazines your dad kept stashed in the old bureau in the attic?
No, not those, with the poor ladies who couldn't afford clothes, but the really old ones, the gap-toothed-grin, what-me-worry ones? Well, as the van slewed in its cloud of dust, fire, and smoke, it looked like one of those nightmare hotrods that Basil Wolverton or Ed Roth used to draw in those magazines. Oh, go up to the attic and find out for yourself.
The van came to a side-skidding, tire-squealing deceleration in a floating dust cloud about the color of dried blood, and before it was even fully at rest, a crowd spilled out of it.
The driver stepped out—Love God, but, like Mammonus, morphing as he straightened up into a different form, still heavy, but muscular and about as tall as Mammonus. And his wings sprouted and unfolded, many times larger than the vestigial pinions he normally sported. And his robes were samite, shining white, and a glow of golden light hovered around his head. "I object!" he thundered, making a mental note to remember that timbre for some eventual song.
From his throne, Mammonus frowned at him. "Don't you fear to tread here?"
"Not when you're pulling such a dirty trick!"
Ford held out the wooden cross and recited the beginning of the anti-demon spell.
"Oh, please," Mammonus said, rolling his eyes. "Don't waste your time. Look around you! You can't banish me from here—because here's the place where I would be banished to!"
"To which I would be banished!" Ford returned. "Grammar!"
"Yeah, that'll tell him, Poindexter!" Stanley said, reaching into the side pocket of his jacket. "Hey, big guy, let's you and me go a couple rounds!"
"How about we flip for it, double or nothing?" asked Mammonus with a smile.
Stan froze. In an Antarctic voice, he growled, "Don't you try that on me with my family at stake!"
"Whoo," said Mammonus. "You're really upset. OK, nobody can physically harm me here, all right? This isn't personal. It's just business."
"That's what they told my cousin Salvatore, and look what it got him!"
"Everyone stay where you are," Mammonus said.
By that time, Teek and Dipper had hugged Mabel. Wendy stood in front of them and unsheathed her axe, which gleamed with an inner silver light. "Anybody touches Mabel, he answers to me!" she yelled.
"Send these people away!" yelled Bratsman.
"No can do. See the guy in white? He's an angel. One of them comes here, it stays until it goes. Same with one of us that goes to visit them. What goes with us goes for our guests, too. All right, let's just get on with it. Mr. Tad Strange, my client, Ergman Bratsman, wishes to recover the contract for the services, body, and souls of these five young men."
"No!" three of the guys yelled. Greggy C. yelled, "Don't do it, Mr. Strange! Mr. Bratsman is most unrighteous!"
"Right on!" agreed Creggy G. "He is a straight evil stevil, yo!"
"If you please!" roared Mammonus. "Let me have your answer, Mr. Strange!"
His terrifying voice stilled everyone else. Everyone looked at Tad, who was sweating and blinking.
Oh, no, thought Dipper. He's so scared he's gonna say—
"I decline," Tad said firmly.
"You little piece of—" began a red-faced Bratsman.
"Hey, hey!" Stanley shouted. "I wouldn't say nothing I'd regret if I was a guy with lipstick and eye makeup on!"
"Silence," said Mammonus quietly.
And he got it. Mabel was struggling to speak, but somehow no sounds came out.
Love God said, "Don't strain yourself. Mortals can't talk in here unless they're allowed. Sorry."
"Very well," Mammonus said. "My client offers the life of the girl, Mabel Pines, in exchange for the contract with Sev'ral Timez. Mabel Pines, here!" He pointed, and Mabel vanished from where she stood protected by her friends and reappeared alone about ten feet from Bratsman, and about twenty from the stunned-looking five guys from Sev'ral Timez.
"Nobody move," said Mammonus.
Dipper, Wendy, and Teek tried, but it felt as though their feet had grown roots.
"Don't fight the spell. Do as he says!" cautioned Love God.
"Bratsman, the wand!" snapped Mammonus, who seemed to be losing patience.
"What wand?" bawled Bratsman.
"The pen, the pen! Point it toward Mabel. Now—if you decline the request, Mr. Strange, Mr. Bratsman will grip the wand, aim it at the girl, give the order, "Die!" and Mabel Pines's life will be taken."
"No, dude!" screamed Chubby Z.
"Yo, she's our ideal, dude!" added Deep Chris.
"You are not taking our girl," warned Creggy G.
"Like, over our dead bodies—" began Leggy P.
Greggy C. had no chance to express his point of view because Mammonus waved silence over the group, too. "Get ready, Mr. Bratsman," said Mammonus.
Grinning like a maniac, Bratsman extended his hand, gripping the pen. "This is for ruining my life!" he snarled.
"Wait!" Tad yelled. "Guys?"
Mammonus flicked his fingers, releasing the silence spell.
"Do it, Mr. S!" said Leggy P.
"Solid go," agreed Deep Chris.
"We can't let Mabel die," said Creggy G.
Greggy C. was sobbing audibly.
Chubby Z. held his brother and, his face like the mask of tragedy, mutely nodded.
A single tear rolled from their manager's eye and down his cheek. "I agree," Tad whispered. "Let her go."
"Mr. Bratsman," Mammonus said, "the group Sev'ral Timez is yours. The next move is up to you."
Dipper realized what was going to happen. So did Teek and Wendy. Desperation gave them strength to break whatever force held them. Screaming defiance, they threw themselves forward.
But Bratsman had started to shriek the word.
Somehow—impossibly, it seemed, but somehow—somehow all five Sev'ral Timez guys threw themselves in front of Mabel, pushing her down, standing in the way.
"—Die! Wait! No! Not them! I take it back!"
"No!" Mabel screamed.
Too late. A jet of dire red light shot from the pen. All five of the boys collapsed like marionettes whose strings had been severed. They fell with a dreadful finality.
"I take it back!" Bratsman bawled, waving the wand like a doctor taking the temperature of hell. "They're no good to me dead! I take it back!"
"Document four, which you willingly signed, clearly states 'No Backsies,'" said Mammonus with a prim glance. "Oh, and Document five specifies that upon the death of any one or more of the group Sev'ral Timez, your soul belongs to me. Therefore—"
No wand, no shouted word, no jet of red light, just a point of the demon's finger.
Something small, shining, and wailing ripped out of Bratsman's obese body, arced to Mammonus's hand. He closed his fist on it. For a moment, Bratsman sagged, and then, not like a marionette, but more like a punctured Thanksgiving Day parade balloon, he deflated.
Ergman Bratsman was as dead as Sev'ral Timez.
On her knees among the fallen singers, Mabel reached out and gripped Dipper's arm hard, shaking him. "Do something! Some—somebody do—Teek, help them—Wendy, they were li-like little kids—Grunkle Stan, G-Grunkle F-Ford, p-please!" Her voice had risen, raw pain, and then Mabel shook with a storm of sobs as her friends clustered around her and tried to make her let go her hold of Deep Chris's lolling head.
This, this for Mabel Pines—this was the day the music died.
*Johnny Milton was the vocalist and lead guitarist for an obscure group, Satin and the Fallen Angles. He was about as good at music as he was at spelling. Fifty years after the group's three months of existence ended, he lives in Racine with his wife and looks back on a prosperous career as an alluminum sidding salesman.