Here I am, at the threshold of the apocalypse, in this chamber of interrupted dreams where my boss, the vilest of swines, stands between me and the ripper of reality. I’ve been ordered to take a seat, so I shuffle towards the oasis among cables and machinery. A workbench supports a soldering iron, a hot glue gun, and a clutter of transistors, capacitors, and electronic components whose purpose eludes me. Screws and circuit boards surround a dismantled desktop PC. Affixed between cabinets and shelves littered with tools, a long-forgotten whiteboard bears the faded scribbles of equations and diagrams. Beside it, unknown hands have tacked to a corkboard printouts along with photos of men in nineties’ garb, posing in front of the office building, as well as with the spiral device. A yellowed note yells in all-caps, “DON’T GO IN TWICE, YOU WILL DISAPPEAR!” Anyway, that’s all I care to notice about my surroundings. I’m not one for poetic descriptions, perhaps as a result of having my mind stuffed with thoughts of creampies.
I leave my notebook and ballpoint atop a stack of manuals. Then, I slide aside with my foot a metallic trash bin that stands sentry over the dust bunnies, and I plunk my butt down onto a swivel chair. Its plastic, cheap and flimsy, creaks under my weight.
A headache pounds at the inside of my skull as if a tiny prisoner were hammering the bone with a miniature ice pick to escape from confinement, and I have a hard time calming down while sitting in this dungeon, a lair that reeks like raw sewage mixed with rotting flesh and burned dust, a stink that scratches my lungs with every breath. I wish I could fire a laser from my forehead to vaporize this contraption, which emanates a miasma that makes the molecules of oxygen vibrate with hostility. A laser would have a higher energy density than a bullet, and thus it would penetrate that silvery-white shell, incinerating the spirally innards. Instead of a laser, though, my forehead only sweats, and my armpits feel like they’re about to soak.
I need a more realistic plan to rid the world of this machine. Maybe I could set it on fire, or better yet, blow it up. But how? I’m a coder, not a demolitionist. I don’t know where to get my hands on explosives, and even if I did, the police wouldn’t take kindly to a woman carrying around dynamite and detonators. Maybe I could ask my interdimensional harassers for a bomb, or a nuke.
I imagine a fiery cataclysm tearing through my workplace, engulfing every shred of existence, from my boss to the computer that taunts me daily. When the smoke cleared and only cinders remained, I would strut amidst the ashes, the mistress of a barren wasteland, with mommy’s arm snuggly hooked to my elbow. After I’d finished cackling, we would raise our fists triumphantly, and bask in our victory together. We would then move to a farm and raise alpacas.
Ramsés, the man who stands in the way of my alpaca-farming utopia, the man whose mustache is a crime, puffs on the last of his cigarette, then tosses the butt and grinds it with a twist of his heel.
I shake my head.
“Is it an inherent trait of smokers to pollute whatever place they’re in? You’re sucking on concentrated carcinogens and disseminating them, so I guess it’s too much to ask that you have some respect for the environment.”
My boss frowns, revealing weary crow’s feet.
“I’m not a fan of being lectured, especially by someone with your disgusting habits.”
“Wh-what’s with that unfounded accusation?”
Ramsés runs his nicotine-stained fingers through his graying hair, ruffling it. The fluorescent lamps highlight the greasiness of his face, the sallow bags under his eyes, and the sagging of his cheeks, while shadows pool in the wrinkles and folds of his flesh. He’d benefit from a stint at a beauty salon, or an encounter between his face and a sledgehammer.
“You weren’t just hallucinating about the machine, were you…?” my boss asks. “You knew about it.”
“You could say so, because it would be true. Indeed, I knew that this reality-raping contraption was lurking down here, waiting to devour the universe, although I didn’t know where ‘here’ was in relation to this rotten planet of ours.”
“Who blabbered about it? Was it… Jacqueline?”
His piggish lips should never have dared to form mommy’s sacred name. I’m tempted to grab the hot glue gun and squirt molten goo down his throat, but I must prioritize the fate of the world over satisfying my bloodthirst.
“Blabbered? More like blubbered. And not just any blubber, but a blobby blubber of black goo, studded with slimy eyeballs.”
“At least try to make sense, Leire.”
“Alberto, that crotchety prick.”
Ramsés takes a step back. His expression has dropped as if I had announced his bank account’s PIN to a roomful of identity thieves.
“Alberto…?”
“You know, he used to work here, or up at the office anyway, before you hired our intern. I’m not sure if he ever told you about his wife, but she cheated on him and then divorced him, so he became a bitter bastard. I wouldn’t blame you if you forgot about the guy, though, as I’d rather not remember him either.”
“He told you… before quitting?”
I squint as I tilt my head at him.
“Stop bullshitting, sir. Alberto didn’t quit; he vanished without a trace. That greedy bastard walked into the machine a second time, and got yeeted into another dimension. That’s why you looked for a new programmer to replace him. You couldn’t tell anyone the truth, could you? That the previous coder had been swallowed by a spiraling deathtrap. You’d have to admit that you own a machine that fucks up reality, and there probably are laws against that.”
Ramsés’ voice sounds hoarse and dry.
“You’re telling me that Alberto contacted you after he disappeared?”
“That’s right. You wouldn’t have recognized him, though; he got out of shape. In any case, let’s focus on what’s important: this machine is bound to tear apart the universe unless I stop it. That sentient horse pal of mine tried to warn me about it from the beginning, but I refused to listen, because I’m an asshole. I would have been done with all this nonsense long ago if I cared enough about our world. Whatever horrors have been unleashed in the meantime are sadly on me.”
Ramsés massages his temples, his eyes squeezed shut. He’s not taking the revelation of the supernatural well. A shame I’m too busy saving the world to enjoy his distress.
“Leire, you’re mentally ill. You’re delusional.”
“Am I the one who keeps the apocalypse in his basement? What are you planning to do with this thing, anyway?”
“Alright, I’ll tell you, but don’t you dare interrupt me. I’m not in the mood for more of your antics.”
“Sure, I’ll just sit here and pretend that I haven’t been tormented by interdimensional abominations who harassed me until I agreed to save the fucking universe, and that the fate of all existence doesn’t hang on me destroying this spiraling death machine. What is it exactly, other than a reality-eroding piece of junk that I wish to obliterate as soon as possible?”
Author’s note: today’s song is Modest Mouse’s “Cowboy Dan.”
I keep a playlist with all the songs mentioned throughout this novel. A total of 212 videos so far. Check them out.
Getting through this part took me fucking ages. I feel like I haven’t recovered from a medical episode that sent me to the ER; I have trouble reading, and processing words in general. I’m waiting for a call that will schedule an MRI to confirm if I’ve ended up with brain damage. Such is my life, it seems. Anyway, thanks for reading and all that.
The Domains of the Emperor Owl 