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Evil Thugs #0002
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Release Date: 4/20/96... Trying to see how many t-philes I can release in
one day... must beat record...trying...
O C T O R O O N O G O N A G O N
by Morbus
Whether I had dreamed that night or not makes no difference to me now. I
I only know that so poignant a fear I experienced, I can only pray to the
false gods I preach about that I be spared the ordeal ever again. Gipetto
was so angry at me about my decision to leave the band, but I knew with no
sign of ambiguity that it was the rigt decision to make.
I remember feeling so alone, so lost, so wrong that night, that it haunts
my dreams in pieces, never giving me the satisfaction of my victories,
always exaggerating my defeats. And yet, I ask myself time after time: why
did you not heed the old man? . . .
"Ah, look at yourself, milady! So bent over, so crooked, aching so.
Your body is incongrous with your soul, and yet you feel you have to
suffer your life in such a pitiful state! That is simply wrong, madam!
Please, if I may ever be so bold, could you step up here with me?"
Looking down, the gypsy remarked inwardly about how well she played her
character, squinting in pain as er doctored legs ascended the
staircase. "Come now, madam. Come now, the people would like to see my
wonders more than your sufferings!" The catching smile, the
"in-the-know" posture, and the prospect of the lady actually getting
healed prevented the boy in the back from answering the call of his
mother just yet.
The crowd stirred uneasily as the woman in the blue shawl cleared the
last step and hacked into a linen cloth that she had probably stolen
from someone. "I have something for that cough too. Now, if you could
please lay down, I will give you something that will straigten that
back of yours and will ungnarl those hiderous knees." The smile was
still there, and did not seem to recognize the scowl and the unsure
look that was shot at it. The woman, a young gypsy by the name of Loa,
had worked the crowds many times before, and the medicine man could
already see bulges of goods in the inner sown pockets of her dress.
Finally, incumbent, the medicine man looked down at his partner, and
riffled through his black bag of miracles. "What we have here, folks,
is something that will astound and will heal the body pains of just
about anything. And it can be only from me: Balthasar, the GREAT!" the
medicine man ranted. "Now, remember that name unbelievers, soon, you
shall come to me!"
Why did it have to happen? Why have I been constrained to my bed, doomed to
live in my own fetid filth. Why did I not listen to the old man?
The lady had stepped down, her back straight as a man loves a woman,
and her knees giving no sign of ever being rickety. Balthasar's homily
continued: "But friends, do not think that that is the extend of my
powers and my medicine! No!" He paused, so dramatic did he intend his
pronouncement to be: "I have information that could lead me to the
ultimate panacea: the ultimate cure for everything!" An invisible sigh
went through the crowd, upsetting them and shifting them from their
right foot from the left. All except one that was . . .
Go away, please! Why am I haunted?
The old man jostled his way to the front of the crowd. His skin,
slightly brown, gave him the appearance of an octoroon, those which
were 1/8th black. They were generally shunned by the gypsies, yet here
was one in their midst, and an important one Balthasar would soon
realize.
No!
"You are a fake." The old man bluntly stated, the spittle shooting
out of his mouth in a disgusting flux. "There is no basis in fact for
your statements. And that woman was so obviously a fake." The man's
steepled back confirmed him as a real cripple and he had trouble
looking up at the gypsy on his pedestal.
"Well met, wise yet foolish one! What basis in fact do you have my
friend?" Balthasar was not worried; just another non-believer, more
daring than the others.
"Because I have the panacea.." Silence had the moment, and kept it
for more than a minute.
"Pardon me, old man? You have the panacea I have spent most of my
looking for?" Indecision, fright, what was he pulling?
"Yes, I do. And it is here." From the pockets of his pants, the man
pulled a small wax bundle which surrounded what appeared to be leaves.
Balthasar was aghast and yet undaunted. He had never been one to feel
despondently over much of anything. "Ok, old man. Prove to me that can
heal all ills. I have here on my arm a bruise that I got from tripping
on some wood a couple of nights ago. If you can heal it, then Balthasar
the Great will be not-so-great." The bruise, of course, was a fake.
Balthasar was depending on the fact that the old man did not know that.
WHY must this HAPPEN?
Again?
The old man climbed the stairs that led to Balthasar, his peculiar gait
idiosyncratic. When he finally reached the top, taking longer than the
old woman of before (who had mysteriously disappeared), his once
pedestrian look in the crowd turned into one of importance. He had
seemed to take on a gleam in his eye . . .
Like the sun shines off the ice....hehe.....
. . .as he endeavored to make his back straight. He turned to the
gypsy man and offered him the packet. Balthasar took it with animosity
and yet, listened carefully to the octoroon's instructions. "Each leaf
must be chewed three times and then swallowed. Only then will your
bruise be healed..."
Balthasar gave the man a weary look and then nonchalantly chewed the
leaves, glancing at the crowd with outstretched arms. His constituency
was slipping, becoming in favor of the ratty old man, and he had to get
them back. "You see, my friends!" A showing of the "bruise". "These
leaves do nothing! I am still bruised. His panacea is a fake." And with
the finality of the words, he threw the left over wax paper to the
ground, and rudely pushed the old man away. "Go back to the log hut
whence you came!"
Balthasar turned to his audience, and the ambience of one who had
miracles aplenty resumed.
They were once more held in his grasp as the hope of someone smarter,
and more "powerful" floated away. No one heard the silent chuckes of
the old man as he shambled off to a murky corner.
Why was I foolish? Why. . .
And with the last breaths of a man experiencing a pathological disease, but
instead really under the effects of an overdoes, Balthasar died . . .
hoping that this would be the final rest from the demons the old man had
spurned on him.
It was 2 seconds before Balthasar's heart stopped that he pleaded to go on
living, as he saw what awaited him in death.
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