Paving the Way
Part 1
There is a place on the outskirts of the city of Townsville that very few people ever visit. Talk to people who have passed by there and they will tell you in a low voice that there is an atmosphere, and will cast you a knowing, chilling glance before passing rapidly to another subject. To walk there is to feel that strange sensation of pressure on the back of the neck that seems to suggest that someone else is present, watching, yet no one is ever there. The damp ivy that crawls over blackened and long forgotten walls seems to mutter as you pass. In the dank gloom beneath the tall trees, black, fluttering shapes dart and mock at the corners of your vision. Unnerved by the silence, you find yourself holding your breath, aware of the thumping of your own heart. Is it the sound of footsteps catching at the long grass that you can hear, over there, footsteps that seem to be receding into the distance, inviting you to follow? Is that a voice, whispering so softly, drawing nearer? You smile and tell yourself that you are imagining things, that you are spooking yourself, that there really isn't someone standing just behind you, that that sensation isn't really their hot breath caressing your ear. A bead of sweat trickles uncomfortably down your back. With sudden decision, you turn, muscles tense and every nerve in your body steeled to face whatever it is that dogs your footsteps, your eyes half-closed against the horror that awaits you. But there is nothing there, just a curious, faint, stertorous breathing sound, as of someone chuckling to themselves. A wave of icy cold falls through you body as you realise that it is your breath, that that low, manic giggling is coming from your own mouth. You run. And when someone asks you about this place, you tell them there's an atmosphere, and talk about something else.
In the middle of this tangle of ugly weeds and brooding evergreens, hidden from casual passers-by - of which there are none - there is a large, old house. Had you the nerve to walk a little further, you might have seen it, a great, grey, granite monolith of a place, its walls spattered with orange lichen and festooned with a lank, sickly pungent creeper. You might be forgiven for thinking that no-one lives here, for the wide steps that lead up to the impressive portico are carpeted with damp, autumnal leaves, and the paintwork is split and peeling, but the house is inhabited. Very few of the residents of Townsville have met the owner of this desolate estate, but many have encountered him without their knowing it. No one knows his name, although many think they may have heard it somewhere else, and instead this curious individual is known merely as 'Him'.
This creature, this 'Him', is reclusive. He rarely strays beyond the enormous, black, iron-studded front door that stares out the last vestiges of courage from anyone brave or foolish enough to venture near the house. He is unassuming and quiet, although there have been reports of the sepulchral sound of a voice speaking in a strange tongue echoing from the house on some dark nights. Perhaps it is this reclusiveness, this being wrapped in a private world day in and day out, that has warped him, or perhaps terrible experiences have torn and savaged his mind, until it resembles nothing that the citizens of Townsville, or you, or I, could recognise. Or perhaps there really is such a thing as Evil that sits hobgoblin-like in the twisted soul of this creature.
Just because his heart is cold and his soul empty, does not mean that this Being, this 'citizen' of Townsville, is stupid: far from it. He is subtle, clever and devious; he is knowledgeable, an intellectual even, and could, if put to it, be a fine conversationalist. But he is not interested in conversation; he is interested in power, and power of a very particular kind. Many times he has sought that power, and many times the other citizens of Townsville have called upon a wonderful and strange force, the diminutive trio known as the Powerpuff Girls, to protect themselves. There was a time when it seemed that all Him's cunning and deceit was forever condemned to achieve naught because of this protective power; but that all changed recently.
It was on a cold and bleak December evening that events began to unfold which would overturn Townsville's cosy assumption of invulnerability. Anyone that ever penetrated to the inside of Him's brooding abode would be shocked by the contrast with the neglected exterior. The rooms were fresh and clean, their paintwork shining and smooth, comfortably but not extravagantly furnished with a wide range of objets from many cultures and many ages. One curious feature of these rooms was that each was decorated in a single colour: one purest white, another green, yet another yellow, and so on, with stained glass at the windows to emphasise the effect. Some of the rooms could almost be described as beautiful, some even scented with fresh flowers. There was one room, however, that did not quite fit this pattern. Up a great polished mahogany staircase and through a small antechamber, one came to a large room with a huge gothic stone fireplace; in this room, there was not one but two dominant colours, red and black. The window was stained blood red and the shades upon the lamps were of a similar hue; ancient oak furniture, blackened with age, stood upon a rich crimson carpet; black velvet drapes covered the walls and black candles flickered and guttered on the stone mantelpiece; menacing, angular bronzes glowered from antique tables and cupboards. It was in this room on the December night in question that the creature known as Him sat before the glowing embers of a dying fire, his face illuminated only by that glow and by the faint light from two candles on the mantelpiece. He sat motionless for many minutes, deep in thought, perhaps watching images in the glowing coals, then leant back, causing the great, carved oak chair in which he was sitting to creak slightly.
'Well, well!' His voice fell dead against the plush furnishings. Turning to his left, he reached out with a languorous arm and picked up a small, grotesque bronze statue from a side table. 'What are we to make of this, Grimblekin?' he continued, addressing the bronze, 'Another year gone, and nothing to show for it. Are the citizens of Townsville now incorruptible, I wonder?'
His voice was level and quiet, almost mellifluous. He held the bronze, a crooked, hideous abomination of horns and teeth and hair that seemed to have pain and cruelty in every hooked lineament, before his face. 'Oh, Grimblekin, what a virtuous city! What faithful, thoughtful, honourable, trustworthy people. A place of such love and peace. Look!'
As he uttered this last word, he waved his right hand – or, rather, claw – in the direction of the fireplace and in response there was a brightening and then a sudden flaring of the fire, the renewed brightness sending shadows dancing on the velvet walls. After a few moments, a pattern became distinguishable in the flames and a moving picture began to form: slowly, houses and people began to be recognisable. It was a suburban street in Townsville. It might have been summer, for there were children riding bicycles and playing with garden hoses, and men and women cleaning cars and mowing lawns and tending barbecues.
'Look, Grimblekin,' said Him, still clutching the bronze, 'See the happy neighbours! There's Mrs. Grey, in her lovely garden smiling across at Mr. Green, and there's Mr. Green waving and smiling back from his front room. What could be lovelier? Except that you and I know that Mrs. Grey detests the Greens' children for running across her lawn and damaging her roses, and that she's thought of poisoning their dog for the same reason. And that Mr. Green day-dreams violent confrontations with Mr. Grey, his boss, in which he smashes Mr. Grey's face against the corner of a desk.'
Him paused to look at the scene once more.
'Shall we go next door?' he asked of the evil-looking statuette. 'No, there's just the same story. Let us elevate our gaze!'
By subtle degrees, the picture in the flames began to mutate and distort, and bit by bit another view formed, that of a richly furnished office. A large, leather-topped desk stood before a bookcase, and sitting at the desk in a high-backed leather chair was a short, balding man wearing a monocle and sporting an impressive white moustache.
'Ah!' exclaimed Him, 'The Mayor. A veritable city institution, after all these years. A simple fellow, of course. Not the brightest button in the box, but loved and trusted by his public. "He is a little slow, and a little stuck in his ways, but one feels that Townsville is in safe hands whilst he is at the helm." Dear old Mayor. You've been paying out those cheques now every month for fourteen years and no one suspects a thing! How can a man of your limited talents have managed such creative accountancy, I wonder? Dear me, those nasty photographs! What a pity that private detective you hired to sort things out turned out to be such a scoundrel! Two cheques a month now! I wonder who gave you his name? Why of course! How could I forget the ever loyal and forthright Ms. Sara Bellum?'
The scene in the flames changed once again. A view of a schoolroom gradually formed itself from the flickering orange glow. On the walls of this room, there were drawings obviously made by young children, together with some posters and a montage of photographs. The room was filled with dozens of desks and chairs arranged rather roughly into rows, but there were no children there, just one woman, aged probably in her early thirties, sitting at a desk marking books.
'We get closer, Grimblekin,' remarked Him, 'The lovely Ms. Keane, to whom the citizens of Townsville entrust their dear children. What a charming person! Kind, considerate, honest, she not only educates but instils in each new generation the virtues of compassion and tolerance. What's that?'
Him lifted the bronze statuette to his ear, and made a pretence of listening carefully.
'Shame upon you Grimblekin!' he grinned, 'Bringing up that reprimand, raking over an issue long forgotten! Anyone can lose their temper. Personally, I think the parents over-reacted. Dear Ms. Keane has made a fresh start in Townsville, and we must give her the benefit of the doubt.'
He chuckled as the picture in the flame altered again.
'Professor Utonium,' he said, as the hazy image gradually settled into shape, 'a man of learning, a man of science. A positive Renaissance Man, his talents run from genetics and biochemistry to electronics and mechanics. Science is the Ultimate Truth, is it not, and a man like the Professor is not one to be turned from the truth. Ethics committees? What do they know? A bunch of meddlesome outsiders who do not appreciate the value of one's work. Besides, what were those animals bred for? Certain sacrifices have to be made on the way to the Truth, for the common good. Besides, now that those experiments are done, the Professor has become a staunch supporter of the anti-vivisection movement. You will remember the speech in which he was most scathing of those who - what was it? – had not "the humility to see the moral equality of humans and animals nor the wit to devise experiments that avoided inflicting suffering upon sentient creatures". As for those germ warfare experiments, well, they happened before the Professor was born, and he is horrified by them. He just made use of the results, that's all. Better surely, that the men did not die in vain, that some good might come from their suffering.'
With a broad grin on his face, Him leant back in his chair once more, and the flames in the fireplace subsided, and the shadows stopped their jig on the walls.
'There is so much potential here, Grimblekin,' he said, quietly, 'Give me a day uninterrupted with the good people of Townsville and I would strip away the thin veneer of civilisation and expose these people for what they really are: creatures just like me! Make no mistake, it requires very little to turn these humans into monsters. It is their natural state. Look around the world and what do you see? Mass graves. Torture chambers. People hacked to pieces. People mutilated. The incoherent violence of the mob. I don't ask much, Grimblekin. I just want these things for my little town. You see I'm really very public spirited!'
He threw back his head and began to laugh hysterically, but then, in a sudden, horrifying instant, his mood changed, his face contorting with rage and his claw slamming in anger against the arm of the chair.
'But what keeps these people from their true state, from their true nature?' he roared, 'Conscience? Do you think it's conscience, Grimblekin? The only thing that keeps these people from the depravities they long for is the fear that they have too much to lose. Fear that what they have will be taken from them. And who will take it from them? The Powerpuff Girls!'
He spat out these last three words, the name of his fiercest enemies, as if the taste of them passing his lips was that of bitter poison.
'Always they are in my way! Always doing good. Always bringing justice' – he sneered the word – 'and righting wrongs. Well your Good is my Evil! Your Justice is my Injustice!' His voice rose to a crescendo of anger. 'Your Right is my WRONG!'
Thud! Thud! The two halves of Grimblekin fell to the floor. In his excitement, Him had sliced the statue in two with his claw.
'Well, well!' The anger had receded from Him's voice. 'Poor Grimblekin!' He stared down sadly at the two parts of the statue for a few moments, until slowly and unexpectedly a smile began to spread over his face. He leant back in his seat and began to chuckle.
'Yes! Yes!' His chuckling became increasingly hysterical, and he hugged himself with excitement. 'Oh little Powerpuff girls, you are so good, so very very good!'