Sir Reginald Sometimes Believes He'd Be Better Off As An Unbeliever
SUGGESTED LISTENING: “Sam Stone” - John Prine
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Come in,” Horace rasped from behind the thin, panel door.
Sir Reginald was less than eager to do so, as even in the hallway, which stunk of old beans, stale urine, and mildew, he could make out the stench of death that lay beyond the threshold. He still went in.
It was clear that everything of value in the apartment had long ago been sold, and when Sir Reginald saw the emaciated figure lying on the rat-eaten couch, he could tell upon what the money had been spent.
“Reginald,” whispered the figure, lifting an anorexic arm towards the doorway, “somebody put a curse on me.”
Sir Reginald withdrew a silk handkerchief from his pocket and held it over his nose for a moment before he realized that it would be of absolutely no use whatsoever. He walked across the carpet, littered with McDonalds’ bags, broken needles, and what he hoped was dog waste. He pulled a folding chair next to the sofa and sat down, resting his hand on the man’s forehead.
“Reginald. I let my guard down and look what happened,” he grimaced, waving down at the wreck that remained of his body.
“Who did this to you?”
“There are dozens of people it could have been…but I think I’ve narrowed it down to one of three. Maybe Erik the Redd…or Anthony D’Arcy, you know he’s had it out for me for years…” he paused and coughed up something horrible. “There’s even a chance that it was Patty…you remember her, right? Patricia…somethingorother... Slepnir! Patricia Slepnir.”
“Ah. Yes.”
“But, so, one of them cursed me…it was right after my wife left, right after Jennie dropped her ring in my lap and left. Maybe it was a little bit after that, but not long past that incident in Springfield. And I can’t remember if I lost my “real” job before or after…maybe that was part of the curse.”
“Perhaps.”
“Boy, they sure…knew how to craft a curse, whoever did this, right? I mean, such a thorough piece of sorcery. I’d be impressed, if they hadn’t worked it on me.”
Sir Reginald said nothing, merely rummaged in a particularly stuffed jacket pocket. He pulled out a cigar tube and a book of matches. Once he had it going, he offered a puff to his friend.
“No, thank you….I don’t smoke.”
“Of course not.”
“So…have you brought me some magic, then? Something that we can use to lift this curse so I can get on with things? I’d do it myself, but my gear’s all…it’s all gone.”
Reginald reached into his pocket and withdrew a velveteen pouch, covered with hand-painted runes. He undid the leather straps that kept it shut and began to empty its contents. A small rat skull, covered with red wax. A clutch of black hair, tied together with blonde locks. A half-used smudge stick. A handful of Chinese coins. A ball of clay, with three purple twigs sticking out.
“Looks good, Reginald, looks good…I don’t suppose you’ve…you’ve got…”
The last items were a needle and a small bottle of morphine. Wordlessly, he stuck the needle in through the lid, drawing the syringe full to the brim. He held it up to the light, looked for air, and squirted a tiny bit out the end.
“Right, right, then we’ll get started, right, Reggie?”
“Right. After this,” he said, finally managing to find a bare spot on Horace’s trackmarked arm. His old friend didn’t move as the needle slid in, but as the plunger was depressed, a smile lit across his face. He raised his head a bit to look.
“That…seems like a lot.”
“It is.”
“I guess I just wasn’t made for these times…”
“What’s that?” asked Reginald.
“Nothing, you horrible Philistine. Oh…is that…”
His eyes widened, looking past Sir Reginald’s head…and as his pupils dilated, his head came to rest back on the sofa.
Sir Reginald pulled out the needle and crushed the syringe underfoot. He looked at the trinkets he’d set upon the coffee table in front of him, then swept them to the floor, crushing what he could, kicking the rest across the room.
Erik the Redd had been killed two years ago, Anthony D’Arcy was enjoying electroshock therapy in Massachusetts, and there was nobody named Patricia Slepnir.
“Sometimes,” Sir Reginald said to no-one, “there’s absolutely no goddamned magic whatsoever.”
benjamin sTone
Current Music: “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” - The Beach Boys
Last Book I Read A Page Of: Don't Really Remember...
Last Movie: MR. VAMPIRE 4
Next Movie: THE FRENCH CONNECTION
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Come in,” Horace rasped from behind the thin, panel door.
Sir Reginald was less than eager to do so, as even in the hallway, which stunk of old beans, stale urine, and mildew, he could make out the stench of death that lay beyond the threshold. He still went in.
It was clear that everything of value in the apartment had long ago been sold, and when Sir Reginald saw the emaciated figure lying on the rat-eaten couch, he could tell upon what the money had been spent.
“Reginald,” whispered the figure, lifting an anorexic arm towards the doorway, “somebody put a curse on me.”
Sir Reginald withdrew a silk handkerchief from his pocket and held it over his nose for a moment before he realized that it would be of absolutely no use whatsoever. He walked across the carpet, littered with McDonalds’ bags, broken needles, and what he hoped was dog waste. He pulled a folding chair next to the sofa and sat down, resting his hand on the man’s forehead.
“Reginald. I let my guard down and look what happened,” he grimaced, waving down at the wreck that remained of his body.
“Who did this to you?”
“There are dozens of people it could have been…but I think I’ve narrowed it down to one of three. Maybe Erik the Redd…or Anthony D’Arcy, you know he’s had it out for me for years…” he paused and coughed up something horrible. “There’s even a chance that it was Patty…you remember her, right? Patricia…somethingorother... Slepnir! Patricia Slepnir.”
“Ah. Yes.”
“But, so, one of them cursed me…it was right after my wife left, right after Jennie dropped her ring in my lap and left. Maybe it was a little bit after that, but not long past that incident in Springfield. And I can’t remember if I lost my “real” job before or after…maybe that was part of the curse.”
“Perhaps.”
“Boy, they sure…knew how to craft a curse, whoever did this, right? I mean, such a thorough piece of sorcery. I’d be impressed, if they hadn’t worked it on me.”
Sir Reginald said nothing, merely rummaged in a particularly stuffed jacket pocket. He pulled out a cigar tube and a book of matches. Once he had it going, he offered a puff to his friend.
“No, thank you….I don’t smoke.”
“Of course not.”
“So…have you brought me some magic, then? Something that we can use to lift this curse so I can get on with things? I’d do it myself, but my gear’s all…it’s all gone.”
Reginald reached into his pocket and withdrew a velveteen pouch, covered with hand-painted runes. He undid the leather straps that kept it shut and began to empty its contents. A small rat skull, covered with red wax. A clutch of black hair, tied together with blonde locks. A half-used smudge stick. A handful of Chinese coins. A ball of clay, with three purple twigs sticking out.
“Looks good, Reginald, looks good…I don’t suppose you’ve…you’ve got…”
The last items were a needle and a small bottle of morphine. Wordlessly, he stuck the needle in through the lid, drawing the syringe full to the brim. He held it up to the light, looked for air, and squirted a tiny bit out the end.
“Right, right, then we’ll get started, right, Reggie?”
“Right. After this,” he said, finally managing to find a bare spot on Horace’s trackmarked arm. His old friend didn’t move as the needle slid in, but as the plunger was depressed, a smile lit across his face. He raised his head a bit to look.
“That…seems like a lot.”
“It is.”
“I guess I just wasn’t made for these times…”
“What’s that?” asked Reginald.
“Nothing, you horrible Philistine. Oh…is that…”
His eyes widened, looking past Sir Reginald’s head…and as his pupils dilated, his head came to rest back on the sofa.
Sir Reginald pulled out the needle and crushed the syringe underfoot. He looked at the trinkets he’d set upon the coffee table in front of him, then swept them to the floor, crushing what he could, kicking the rest across the room.
Erik the Redd had been killed two years ago, Anthony D’Arcy was enjoying electroshock therapy in Massachusetts, and there was nobody named Patricia Slepnir.
“Sometimes,” Sir Reginald said to no-one, “there’s absolutely no goddamned magic whatsoever.”
benjamin sTone
Current Music: “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” - The Beach Boys
Last Book I Read A Page Of: Don't Really Remember...
Last Movie: MR. VAMPIRE 4
Next Movie: THE FRENCH CONNECTION