Beetlesmith's

...I'd got to decide, forever, betwixt two things, and I knowed it. I studied a minute, sort of holding my breath, and then says to myself: "All right then, I'll go to hell."

—Mark Twain, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn

***

I was still on my knees when Beetlesmith began a new conversation. "Hell is neither here nor there for now. Those ends are some distance down the road. You still have a long life ahead of you, Mr. Henry, but in the meantime, there are a few things you need to do before then."

"What more could you want from me? According to you, you have my soul. What else is there?"

"We need you for Karen and Gloria, of course. As I said, they are the reason you are here." Seeing the questioning look I gave, he continued, "The Master is in need of a family, and you are going to provide him one. Sons, in fact. Two sons. One born from each of your ladies."

I finally got off my knees at this revelation. Leaning against the counter for support, I asked, wearily, "The Anti-Christ?"

At first, Beetlesmith muttered under his breath, "Goddamn Hollywood, always getting it wrong and always fucking things up." He sighed deeply before answering more clearly, "No Mr. Henry, not the Anti-Christ. Note Anti-Christ is singular. I said sons, pleural. Do try to keep up."

"Spare me your fucking condescension. What do you mean?"

"You wouldn't understand, and I couldn't tell you in either case. All you need to know is that your job is to knock-up that barren wife of yours and that virginal friend at the appointed hour."

"Okay you stupid asshole, here's something you should understand, but obviously you don't. That barren wife I have is fucking barren. Get it? That means she can't have children."

"A mere technicality, let the Master worry about that."

I ignored that revelation. In the past, I would have laughed in his face at its ridiculousness. However, with everything I'd seen, nothing was beyond the possible. I just moved onto the next flaw I thought I saw in his plans. "Then why Gloria? Because she's a virgin? If that's all you need, why don't you visit the nearest convent? The place is probably stocked full of them. Take your pick."

"I said virgin, not celibate. There's a difference. You'd be surprised how few virgins there really are in the world, inside or out of a nunnery. And they have to be of a certain breeding age. Hers is...how shall I say...perfect. Besides, her virginity is just one of the requirements. Friendship with a barren wife is another. There are several more that I won't go into, except to say you and yours fit the bill, perfectly."

"Okay, well here's something else I'll try to make you understand. Gloria isn't a virgin anymore, you stupid fuck. I thought her getting knocked-up, as you put it, would have clued you into that fact. So what happens to your fucking requirements now?"

"All that matters is that she loses her virginity to the man who leaves her with a child. It's a continuation of the process, you see. As long has she doesn't enter into carnal activities with another man before becoming pregnant again, and I can guarantee you she hasn't, she still satisfies the requirements. Now, is there any other snark you wish to spit my way?"

I sneered back at him—probably not the smartest thing to do in lieu of everything that's happened. "I won't do it. How's that for snark? I refuse to knock-up my wife and our friend."

Beetlesmith's face turned red with smoldering anger. I could see the blood beginning to metaphorically boil within him. Yet, he held his tongue for the moment, pushing it into his fat cheek as a brief, yet scalding, look of scorn crossed over his face.

Taking a moment to compose himself, he finally answered, "You do have that choice, Mr. Henry. I didn't think you'd be stupid enough to exercise it, but it is your choice. However, let me remind you that this decision of yours is not without consequences. Dire consequences to you and yours. Shall I spell out some of those consequences in detail, if you choose to go down that path?"

"First, everyone on the list, that list you're on, save two, will die. There will be a sudden rash of fatal automobile accidents, plane crashes, house fires, pool accidents, and botched surgeries across the globe. There will be a rampant string of armed robberies, home break-ins, car jackings, abductions, rapes, kidnappings, and random acts of street violence, and all of those will end in my clients as victims of felony homicide. Their names will drop off your list like flies, only to quickly reappear in the obituaries of their local papers. And if the deaths of so many reprobates like yourself doesn't faze you because they are anonymous, then let me make death more hideously personal. Everyone you know, from that big tits Jackie to that idiot Cope, will die miserably—either drowned, or decapitated, overdosed, or just so depressed with their lives that they finally put a gun in their mouth. We'll save the best for last, and for those you love the most. Gloria? She'll be slowly crushed in some industrial accident, alone and helpless. It will take minutes of screaming, torturous agony before her head finally pops. As for your lovely wife, she'll be raped by wild dogs for days. After the hell hounds have their fun, we'll split her open from cunt to collarbone with a dull knife and leave her remains for the crows. Those are the consequences, Mr. Henry. Those are your choices."

How could I doubt him now? I felt sick. I said, weakly, "Like your other assertion to me, that's no choice."

"It's a choice, Mr. Henry, and it's a choice others like you have made."

"Others like me?"

"I told you. You are not the first; although, you and yours fit the requirements most perfectly. These others had similar choices as you do, but all failed either through errors of commission or omission." He noticed my befuddled look, rolled his eyes and clarified, "They either played ball, but the requirements weren't met correctly so the plan didn't work, or they refused to play ball at all. In which case, my insurance policy was exercised to the most gruesome detail.

"And those that played ball, yet still failed?"

"Lived a happy life," he answered, melodiously. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to conclude our business. It's late and well past closing time. As I said, there are a few things we'll need you to do. An enthusiastic execution of your manly duties being the most important, but not immediately required. I said things are ripening, but they are not fully ripe. You finding out so quickly what has been happening has thrown the preverbal monkey wrench into the machinery. But it's just a temporary setback. The names are still being gathered, but it will take more time than usual."

"What names?"

"Names for the list. It isn't near complete."

"I don't understand."

"Nor will you, so there is no reason for you to know. Just be satisfied in the knowledge there has to be a specific number of people gathered on the list as one of the requirements. You needn't worry about that, specifically. That's handled from my end. However, once that number is met, the time will be ripe, and that's when you will have to choose."

"How will I know when the number is met? From you?"

"No! I don't want you coming back here until it's necessary. You might get some crazy notion of exercising your own homicidal intensions between now and then. Let me be frank, Mr. Henry. If I see you again before the appointed hour, I will execute my insurance policy. Is that clear?"

I nodded my head.

"When the time is ripe, you will be contacted by your opposite."

"My opposite? Who the fuck is that?"

Beetlesmith chuckled. "Almost forgot. It's been a long day. You understand. Your opposite is your Yin. You are his Yang and he is your Yin."

"Oh for fuck's sake, can this bullshit get more convoluted?!"

As you can guess, by now I've pretty much lost it—my marbles mostly. Everything else about me was just numb.

"Stay with me, Mr. Henry. When names are being gathered, every list produces, either at the end or even at its beginning, dualities. Nature is full of these dualities: day and night, fire and water, hot and cold. You cannot have one without the other. Yet they cannot coexist simultaneously. For example, you cannot be warm, but at the same time cold. Water cannot burn on its own. You see? Many religions around the world have it ingrained in their theology. Hindus call this duality Shiva-Shatki. You can guess what the Western cultures call it, but I prefer the far Eastern philosophy of Yin-Yang. It's more benign."

Beetlesmith looked at me for some sign that I get it. So I just nodded my head. I really didn't, but what was the point of asking further? All it would do is cause the old fuck to open up another incomprehensible can of worms.

Satisfied, he continued, "Good. Right now, all movement in the universe is due to the interaction between these dualities, between these positive and negative forces. God and the Devil, Yin and Yang, it is how the universe is currently structured." He paused briefly to smile, wickedly. "That's all about to change, and you're the key."

Dualities. Positives and negatives, good and evil, movement across the universe—it was beginning to make sense to me in a small way, at least about duality...the good and evil of it all. "This all has to do with us being the fulcrum you alluded to, doesn't it?"

"Yes, Mr. Henry! Exactly!"

"Just so I'm clear on my part. I'm to wait around until my opposite contacts me. At which point I knock-up my barren wife, who can't get pregnant, and my virginal friend, who isn't really a virgin, and they have sons. What then?"

"That would conclude your part of the deal. Have a happy life."

"What about my sons?"

"None of your concern. Technically, they wouldn't be your sons. I mean, was Joseph really a father?"

"My opposite. My Yin. Who is it? Maybe we can have lunch sometime."

"Very funny Mr. Henry, but I think we'll keep their name on the QT. We wouldn't want you to do something stupid...like try to eradicate them. It would ruin everything. When the time comes, they will contact you."

"And when will that be?"

"It's hard to tell. Months perhaps, maybe even years. You finding out messed with our timetable."

"What am I supposed to do until then?"

"Whatever you like. Go sow your wild oats some more. Use those powers temporarily granted to you for fun and sport. But go big, Mr. Henry. Go big. You deserve it."

It was a tone of dismissal, which suited me. I really didn't have anything else to ask him. The die was cast, as he said. My fate, sealed. All that was left for me to do was go with the current and do what I was told. That's all I was now, anyway, human flotsam.

As I turned to go, he had one more convolution to spout.

"One last thing Mr. Henry, you asked before about 'disposition,' particularly as it concerns your offspring, and I feel you're owed some cursory explanation. For what it's worth, you may find an answer in Genesis, starting at Chapter 12 and continuing through those subsequent. It's not much of a hint, but it is something. Goodnight, Mr. Henry."

***

I sat in my car for a moment—numb in feeling, but not in thought.

What did Beetlesmith say? "Every time the Master crosses over and makes contact with you..."

His words continued to ring in my ears as I started the car. "...a little bit of him is left behind."

I believed that to be truthful, for it explained Karen. A Cruel One, the Master, this Mr. A, had been playing with Karen, as well. How else to explain that only Karen and I possessed mental powers? It must have occurred during my sobriety from the elixir when Karen played with Barbara.

As I drove through the city toward the interstate, I was grateful for the long drive home. It gave me time to think about everything else I'd just seen and heard. In light of what Beetlesmith said, all the unanswered peculiarities that never added up—with or without the elixir and with or without my newfound powers—began to make sense.

The most noticeable were the black, obsidian-like eyes and the macabre death masks I saw in many of my partners. I suspect many of those in Hell who used us as 'finger puppets' possessed such features.

The different personalities I saw in others, particularly in Karen as she changed between naïve schoolgirl, to vampish slut, to a downright evil matriarch. A different persona manifested for every new application of the elixir. Because the elixir acted as a doorway, I supposed it allowed any minion access to the host. A different minion meant a different personality was revealed. This also explained Linda's schizophrenic behavior from the party. Taking multiple doses of the elixir must open up multiple portals, allowing more than one of the Master's minions to manipulate her at the same time—Lolita versus stone-cold Linda.

The phantom? That veiled man from my dreams, as well as the ghostly shapes I've caught watching me out of the corner of my eye. Are they one in the same? Certainly, the veiled man is this mysterious Mr. A—Beetlesmith's Master. He said as much. What of the shade? Was that him as well, or others of its kind?

I tapped deeper into my memories, going all the way back to that time I abstained from the elixir, when my world was flipped upside down. I could no longer influence those around me, as my mental powers were temporarily taken away. Plus, my mental impotence was matched by Karen and Denise's libido falling through the floor. The temptation to use the elixir became stronger as well, as other women in my life, Candice and Bea for example, showed romantic interest in me.

I can see now that it was all done by design. The Cruel Ones were forcing me to choose between a life with, or without, the elixir, and making my life without it a living Hell.

The thing is, I remember I was beating it all back—beating back all of the frustrations and temptations, and the debilitating sickness associated with those temptations. Most of all, I beat back the dread of that specter, ever present by my side, cajoling me to act on my weaknesses through fear, intimidation, and enticements.

Some internal strength I didn't know I possessed kept me centered and whole, kept the debilitating wolves of fear at bay, and kept me from bowing to those external desires. I was winning! That is until I found out about Karen's infidelities with Barbara. At which point, I gave into the 'less than better,' angles of my nature.

As I thought about it, that coincidence pointed to something. A thing I had previously overlooked until now. It was that time Karen and I had our violent fight that nearly ended in disaster.

I know now that whole, miserable day, starting at work, where Candice kept pushing me into nausea with her slutty behavior and culminating at home with our violent argument, was all done by design.

The fact that I found Barbara's panties at a time I was most vulnerable to that knowledge, was, in itself, a miracle. My keys bounded under the bed as if they had a mind of their own, revealing Karen's deception while igniting the torch of my fury that almost ended our happy lives.

That rage that took hold of me. A murderous rage I had never felt before, or since, put me on a path that would surely have ended only in Karen's death, except...except something unexpected happened. A small, insignificant breath of air from the air conditioner became an imaginary tap on my shoulder, pulling me from that violent rage and saving Karen's life. That breath of air, so trivial in its nature yet so monumental in its effect, couldn't have been the result of an accident. It must have been the work of... Who? A Cruel One? A Bright One?

Then moments later, with anger renewed in me by Karen's taunts, I threw my fist directly at her face. Unimaginably, I meant to hurt her in the worst way and silence her, only...only to have it deflect away from my intended target at the very last moment.

The hole I punch into the wall is still there above the cracked headboard. Funny that after so many months I never got around to fixing it, which is so unlike me. Then again, maybe there's design and purpose behind my sloth, as well. That subconsciously, I left it alone to stand as a reminder of what could have happened unless someone or something hadn't intervened.

Thinking back on those events, and even those before the fight, there are repeated signs of intervention. The most telling was the one that led to my current confrontation with Beetlesmith—the list of names. When I saw it in his shop, it was visibly sticking out, almost overtly so, from an overall neat stack of papers and ledgers, piquing my curiosity to look at it and begging me to take it. When I did, the inevitable outcome was set; that I would discover his nefarious plans before they fully ripen.

My only conclusion to all this: they are manipulating events outside the confines of their own plane.

These weren't ephemeral murmurings, to use Beetlesmith's words, spoken for influence across a barrier. This was direct, hands-on manipulation. By the feel of each event, I could discern I was being manipulated by both parties—the Cruel Ones and the Bright Ones—where one side was pushing me into madness, and the other side was saving me and those I love from harm.

Was Beetlesmith lying again? Lying about their influence being limited, or was this something even he had never encountered?

I didn't know.

One thing I do know—know in my gut, like a mother who instinctively knows their child is in danger even if miles removed—Beetlesmith's threats of punishment are real.

As for the other stuff I'd seen? I've never been a religious man. Oh, I understood religion's appeal and respected its power to hold those weaker minds sway. It offered comfort for some, and excuses to do great harm for others. However, I never believed it to be anything other than a great, controlling fiction—"An opiate for the masses," to paraphrase another great liar in history.

How wrong I've been.

Now, as I neared my home, I remember those odd feelings of being suspended between heaven and hell. I was wrong about that as well.

I know now that I wasn't suspended, but rather, walking along a path: one as old as the stars themselves. And on that path I found myself staring precariously at a fork. From there, I had to choose—left or right, good or bad, Heaven or Hell. So long ago I had to make that decision, and so long ago I failed.

I sighed deeply as I pulled into my driveway with Beetlesmith's words still echoing in my mind. Now, I choose the only way left me. If I am going to Hell, I might as well have some fun along the way.

***

The day wasn't through with me yet.

I had no sooner pushed the key in the front door lock when the door abruptly swung open. There, standing in front of me and backlit in the bright light of my home's interior, was an old friend...

"Gloria?! What the...! When? Why?"

As I continued to stammer, she asked, earnestly, "Will, what's been happening to me?"

I ignored her question for the moment, and embraced her.

It was obvious she had been crying, as dried tears and mascara painted gray streaks down her cheeks. Holding her tightly in my arms, she trembled against my clutching arms. Losing the Tourette's babble, I asked, "What are you doing here?"

It was then I noticed Denise and Karen standing behind her, and both having the look of Medusa on the rag.

As planned, Denise had moved in this past weekend after the party. Now, with arms folded in front of her, she asked, "Will, you need to tell us what's going on with these dreams?"

Karen, bless her heart, took a more straightforward and pragmatic approach. As soon as I released Gloria, Karen stepped up and slapped me three times across the face—just like mother used to, three good swipes—all while screaming, "What the fuck did you do to us?!"