slhlocrian

The Fables #722

_{“The Fables” is a weekly hybrid social commentary/investigative journalism column in the Sunday edition of the Times of New Chthon, by Abraham E. Sopp}

It’s not really a world of gods anymore.

Listen, folks. Given the ontological weirdness of our whole metropolitan identity, I think it’s actually healthy for us to take a step back once in a while to reconsider why we’re here. What it all means, living–actually living: not sold out to the mines in Asphodel; not taking the Lethe out to retirement in the ‘burbs; actually living–in New Chthon.

It’s no secret: This here is Hadestown, land of the dead, even if it isn’t totally clear if we are dead. But it’s not a world of gods anymore. In fact, none of this would be possible if it was.

You might wonder how that’s possible, and brother, I’m with you. I’m no Socrates. I’m just a poor Salukis fan hoping for another Championship win while my fingers can still type. I’m not gonna act like the metaphysics of it all adds up. But still: Every once in a while, I have an experience that reminds me that it’s actually important that we’re here, that this isn’t just Hades’ underworld that we’re only living in.

This time, that experience was the recent scandal (and subsequent administrative shakeup) at Erebus Corp with which I was either fortunate or unfortunate enough to be closely involved. As it happens, the sordid saga of Al Wyland’s research division at Erebus is a doozy, and while I promise to keep the editorializing light, this column is, at the end of the day, my editorial, a point which took my editor some convincing to relinquish.

Unfortunately, she still wouldn’t compromise on the format. The saga’s a long one, friends, and while you, my readers, are a dedicated bunch, I was informed that I would not be allowed to command an entire special issue of the Times for this story alone. You’ll need to settle for a serial. But I promise: The real story will knock your socks off, and the tepid little statement the Gazette printed this last week doesn’t even begin to cover it. You can ignore that corporate mouthpiece rag–the real story is here, and you’d best stay tuned.

For now, though, I’ll leave you at the beginning: an expansion survey out in Tartarus, a down-on-his-luck columnist on a ridealong in search of a story, and a lost god at rock bottom, in the worst possible place at a suspiciously bad time.

The Rose, the Cross, and the Sword, Ch. 2 – Flamel’s Cross

Legally distinct, as all things should be.

“Mademoiselle? Mademoiselle! A few questions if you will.”

The visibly beleaguered notary struggled to project himself over the stacked books and parchments that, if he’d had his composure, might have lent his too-tall desk an imposing air, an aura of respect befitting his station in the Parisian community. But in this instance, with his client distracted, positioned such that she could–if bothered–simply look at the desk rather than up into it, the notary had to admit that he probably appeared more like a goblin.

“Mademoiselle!” he rasped, a regrettable bit of scorn entering his voice. He was normally much better about his tone with women, but he was behind schedule. He had needed to intervene with the morning’s trouble with the fireplace, and the afternoon had been a nonstop stream of unorthodox contract requests from the sort of clients he had a distinct sense might be hiding something. And this Italian woman, dressed in gender-inappropriate academic regalia, gliding into his office at the very close of business, was very certainly one of them.

“Mademoiselle!” he redoubled, finally prompting a slight, aloof incline of his client’s head. “The collateral arrangement you’ve requested–I’ll need more documentation of these Florentine holdings than–”

“Monsieur Flamel,” the woman said, still not quite turning to face him. “This symbol you have carved into the moulding here–do you know its origin?”

“I’m sorry? What?”

“This symbol.” Her French was passable, though heavily accented. “The cross and serpent. I believe it is occultic, Monsieur.”

She turned, blank-faced, not presenting any clear intent from the otherwise rather threatening question. The woman was not ugly, though her hook nose and mud-brown hair rendered her looks middling by Parisian convention, but otherwise she seemed to sidestep all of his available stereotypes. She was well-past marriageable age, though she had arrived at his office with no chaperone, by all accounts very far from her purported holdings in Florence. She was likely not of noble blood–proof of one’s pedigree was usually the first thing established when an aristocrat requested the notary’s services, and she had provided no such documentation. Or even a claim, for that matter. Whether she was of noble means, though, was the question.

Again, she was very far from home. She must have secured her transport somehow–the notary could scarcely imagine a solitary scholar making the journey all the way from Florence unscathed, much less a solitary woman. But the name she had given–Alighieri–meant nothing to him, and her claim to lands in Florence–to funding, as it all pertained to their business–was unsupported. And she seemed more interested in his office’s walls than her own contractual viability? The notary found his bewilderment and irritation increasing in equal measure.

“Mademoiselle. Your property in Florence is unfit as collateral for your purchase,” he blustered, catching himself in time to qualify: “Without additional dated documentation, of course.”

“Oh, nevermind all of that. I assume gold will suffice as collateral?”

“Um…gold?”

“Two standard ingots and a purse of unmarked medallions, yes.”

“But that would be sufficient to buy the property outright!”

“Oh.” The woman frowned. “Well then, please write the contract to reflect that as payment, if you think Monsieur Menard would accept.”

The notary’s head spun.

“In any case,” the woman continued absentmindedly. “In any case…sorry, how long will the contract take to complete?”

“Um. Three days, most likely,” the notary replied at a mutter. What was going on? That amount of gold thrown about without a second thought at the purchase of a house on Mortelier Street? This was palatial wealth, and this woman wanted to live on Mortelier Street?

“That will suffice. Now, your moulding–I think this is alchemical. Is it not? Are you an alchemist?”

“Mademoiselle!” The notary channeled all the outrage he could muster in his offput state. “I am an ecrivain, a notary, a respectable citizen! And you have come to my office to accuse me of witchcraft?”

The woman blinked, pausing to think, as if a simple rewording might resolve the issue.

“I don’t suppose it would be better to say I am accusing your walls?” she asked.

***

Her choice of words could have been more careful, Dante admitted, proceeding away from Flamel’s office at a brisk walk. She had seen the symbol and gotten excited, and how was she to know that the implications of alchemy in Paris were so…macabre? One might have thought the Church’s taboos against alchemy would have had more force in Florence, closer to Rome as it were–there it was generally regarded as mere eccentricity. But apparently there was more geographic variation in the Church’s influence than she realized.

The conversation had aborted such that Dante was not sure whether Flamel would proceed with her purchase contract or not, which was inconvenient but maybe just as well? The gold which she had volunteered as comparatively unscrutinized collateral was only 20% real. The ingots were genuine, but the coins were just iron that she had plated with a leaf-thin veneer from shaving off the ingots. Were it to be exchanged as tender for purchase, it might well be used, and somewhere along the ensuing chain of commerce, it was very likely to catch up with her. If she’d had her wits about her, she would have waved off Flamel’s comment as to its worth, but she was out of her depth here and struggling to manage the details of her stay in Paris. She’d gotten separated from her manservant back in Milan, and now, given the Black Guelphs had almost certainly seized her property in Florence, all she provably had to her name was a purse of mixed forged and legitimate currency, those two gold ingots, some parchment, ink, and a small collection of personal effects she had been able to carry in her pack out of Italy. For now, she would need to stretch her real money a bit further at the inn.

The meeting with Flamel would perhaps prove not to have been a waste, though. In the shouting match that ensued following Dante’s inquiry into the notary’s architecture, Flamel did provide the indignant defense that his building had been sold to him by an aristocrat with peculiar aesthetic tastes, a “Comte St. Germain”. Flamel was, of course, unhelpful in providing the Count’s current whereabouts and proceeded quickly to a firm request that Dante get the hell out of his office, but she was holding onto hope that this Count St. Germain was still close at hand and–God willing–and alchemist, as his decor suggested.

Dante did not come to Paris prepared to act like an aristocrat. While she was an accomplished poet, that wouldn’t pay for bread. And while she was a mediocre physician, she doubted the French would suffer a foreign woman to minister to them, skill aside. If she could join some sort of venture with another alchemist, though… In her experience, siblings in the Great Work tended to protect their own–and some could even be persuaded to look past their misogyny in the process.

Asking after that name would be tomorrow’s work, though. Now it was getting dark, and she was starting to notice glances, piqued interest from dirty faces in muck-crusted alleyways that she hoped was merely larcenous. She drew from her robes the crudely-sketched map she had made from the innkeeper’s directions to Flamel’s office and attempted to retrace her steps. The cross street in front of her must have been just down the way, extended from the left edge of her drawing. If she could just get a few streets north, then–she glanced up as something stepped between her and the light of the streetlamp she’d been reading by.

Ah, rats.

“Where ya tryin’ to get to, miss?” a rough voice rumbled from the shadow before her.

“You aren’t lost, are ya?” from behind, a few paces.

Dante raised a hand, both to encourage a pause and to dim the backlight so she could make out her prospective assailant. Grubby, thick, crosseyed, black teeth, slightly taller than her–he was hunched over, but so was she–and no doubt quite a bit stronger. He was an obvious cutthroat, of the variety common to every city in Europe, a brainless pair of idle hands with few scruples as to the misfortune of whomever might wander into his cesspool after sunset. Dante assumed the one behind her was identical, since the first was already identical to all the rest she’d ever seen.

“Excusez-moi, gentlemen,” she said, rummaging in her robe’s inside pocket for a small folio. “I assume you’re looking for money, yes?”

“Oh, we’ll accept it,” the ruffian said, smiling greasily, taking a step forward. “For services rendered.” What a disgusting way of putting it.

There. She found the folio, pulled it out, flipped it open–which thankfully slowed the hoodlum’s approach, his piggish face scrunching with misplaced curiosity–and quickly paged through the stack of cut-down parchment squares within.

“Would you say Paris’ soil is more sandy or silty?” she asked, pausing with a square between two fingers.

“Huh? The fuck are you yappin’ about?” the second ruffian muttered. He’d grown closer, which was nervewracking but also convenient. Dante glanced down at the parchment, embellished with an annotated geometric array emphasizing a graduating angular progression of circumscribed triangles. She wasn’t sure it mattered. The array was meant to search, a feature she’d built in to make up for the fact that her geologic measurements tended to be shoddy and low-precision. She drew the parchment from the stack and, as carefully as she dared, dropped it, trying to angle its descent as close to straight down as possible. It fluttered, landing about three feet away, a troublesome lunge.

“Oh, apologies, I’m so very clumsy!” She tried to ham up the useless damsel persona, a role she really did not care for. She often felt useless, of course, but she–true to her father’s delusions–also could not help but bristle against damselhood. She shuffled over to where the parchment fell, which didn’t much give her an angle to run but did coincidentally–and fortuitously–put both thugs on the same side of her. Trying to conceal her excitement–as well as the nervousness at how fucked she would be if this didn’t work–she knelt, reached out, and placed her fingertips on the parchment’s array.

The sensation was immediate, as if a muscle in her mind locked into place, did not merely wait for her to direct it, but rather leeched her intent from context, from her conscious and unconscious thoughts. There was a notion of red flowing from her; the parchment erupted with white light; and the air grew cold. This was literal, in fact: The ambient energy of the surrounding atmosphere, the fire of the streetlamp, body heat from Dante, the thugs, the unfortunate tomcat wandering past the mouth of the alley nearby were all being channeled into vibrations of increasing frequency that her alchemy was directing into the street below. They were powerful vibrations, and when they found resonance with the cobbles and loam, Dante would–via the same transmutative array–delicately pry apart the stones beneath the thugs’ feet, causing the street to collapse beneath them.

In practice, the array locked in on resonance far faster than Danted anticipated, and the street, in apparently poor repair and built over sewer or other unexpected subterranean hollowing, collapsed instantly and explosively with a shrapnel spray of gravel and mud that flung Dante backward, almost fully across the street.

“Hrm,” she grunted quizzically, climbing unsteadily to her feet. The dust was clearing. By the light of the next streetlamp down the way, she could see the jagged hole before the alley opposite her and the unmoving arm protruding upward from it. Fortunately, she also could not see any curious faces in the nearby windows, and she had yet to feel that telltale sense of being watched.

A sensible Florentine woman would have taken this opportunity to run, to put distance between herself and what had become a rather serious act of public vandalism–and likely murder. But a sensible Florentine woman would never have found herself here in the first place. She would never have taken up the serious study of medicine, of geometry, of the natural laws, or of the considerably less natural ones of alchemy. She certainly would not have bought into the ambition foisted upon her that she would be the one to lead her family into a new era of prosperity and nobility, against the grain of her usurer father’s soured reputation. And she never would have led a schismatic faction of anti-papists in an attempt to secure Florentine independence from Rome, earning her exile and condemnation to death should she ever return. A sensible Florentine woman would have ebbed and flowed with the tides of that madness, probably, Dante assumed. And she would never have developed this strange fascination she had found for death.

She crept toward the pit she had made, careful not to approach the arm too quickly, lest it still had that annoying capacity to grasp, and she allowed herself a little grin as she saw the carnage:

One of the thugs had apparently been buried completely, with no part of him still visible. The other, the one whose arm now reached ineffectually for freedom from his chthonic end, still had the better part of his face exposed, a shelf of cobbles embedded into the side of it, leaving little doubt that he was quite dead. It was beautiful, Dante thought, fighting the urge to sketch it on the back of one of her transmutation cards. Absentmindedly, she picked up the remaining torn half of the parchment she’d used to create the pit and stuffed it in her robe. This was just a terrible accident, she thought. Rather: She hoped the guards would conclude. There was no witchcraft involved.

But in truth she could scarcely remove her gaze from the thug’s deathmask. The vision was intensely cathartic, and the salience of alchemy in the course of the man’s end seemed to burn in her brain. This creature was Hell now, a notion of which she was certain, though which her relationship with the Church made electrically complex. Her alchemy had opened the gates of Hell and pulled this man inside. In a world of petty politics, the imprisonments of gender, of failure after failure to break out and rise, was this not a reminder that she still wielded the power of God Himself? And was that not reason for hope?

Top image: Emblematic imagery in alchemical manuscripts – Flamel, Bibliotheque Nationale, 18th c.

Praise for $20,000 Under the Sea

This is a little bit of a thank you and a little bit of a~~n ad~~ heads-up, but while my own efforts to promote $20,000 Under the Sea have been proceeding anemically, the book has received some positive critical reception that I’m grateful for. I wanted to highlight some of it:

Self-Publishing Review: “An exceptional high-stakes drama on the high seas that brims with encroaching horror, $20,000 Under the Sea by Sam Locrian is a timely historical commentary and a masterclass in psychological suspense”
Indie Reader: “a fun, action-packed addition to the corpus of transformative works in the Lovecraft mythos”
The Hemlock Journal: “a mix of thrill and fantasy”

Thank you to these reviewers as well as others who have taken the time to read and review the book.

Additionally, this last month, I was able to have my first in-person event in quite awhile. Thank you to PH Coffee, my favorite writing spot in the Kansas City area, for hosting me for a book signing on August 9th! For others in the Kansas City area, perhaps I will see you at a future event!

Top Image: The Mask

The Rose, the Cross, and the Sword Ch.1 – The Christian

Something completely unrelated. I don’t know if I’ll post the rest (or even finish it), but I’ve always found the best cure for writer’s block is to write something else.

Events have unfolded such that it is now clear to me that I must be very precise in my accounting. The world is changed now, very literally, perhaps quite irrevocably, and I am as yet the only man who has realized it. This, then, is my statement of the events which I believe accomplished this cataclysm, though the possibility remains that I will never truly understand the precise mechanisms my apprentice employed.

The signs portend a pivotal role for the cult of Jesus of Nazareth–and my faith in those signs has only grown–so it is with respect to their organization that I date my first interaction with the man who would become my apprentice at the start of the planting season 33 years after their Messiah’s death.

***

“Great Sage of Hermes, I seek your wisdom. It is said that you guard the secret of immortality, that you have gazed upon the same sky as Enoch, fifteen centuries ago.”

The man was young, by my guess no more than 30 years of age, unadorned clothes, hair that had been washed in preparation for this audience but likely no other time in the past month. Ribbons of burn scar striped peculiarly across his face, though not in the manner of any brand I had ever seen. His duplicitousness was that naive, guileless kind: no malice, but a quite foolish assumption that his provenance could possibly be immaterial to a seeker of truth. As if one could expect to read constellations in the absence of stars.

“I do,” I replied, pacing before the great cylix at the center of my temple. “And I have. But that which is guarded is kept from the outside.”

“Of course, Great Sage. It is not immortality which I seek–but the truth. That which binds the world together–fastens the material to the divine.”

I blinked.

“You are more educated than you appear, both to be pondering these notions as well as to know that I could teach them to you. But why? What would you do with the truth?”

“Is not understanding its own reward?”

“I do not believe so,” I replied. “No, I believe it is best taken as a means of doing miracles. But I also believe you have your own opinions on miracles. And truth–or at least its fungibility.”

The man’s face fell like spent wax, though he did not recoil the way exposed charlatans often do.

“You know of me, then?” he asked. I turned to regard the glyphs lining the cylix’s interior, as I often did.

“This temple is not a cloister, and your arrival in Athribis has not been silent,” I said. “The villagers have their opinions of who you are and what you flee. I make no claim that your true motives have been revealed to me. Merely that those you have revealed are false.”

The man vacillated over his secrets a moment, steeling himself.

“I seek to understand a particular miracle,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because I fear it. And I wish either to find peace or undo it.”

It was my turn to consider the unexpected.

“What miracle is it that a Christian would see undone?” I asked, my tone betraying more than a measure of confusion. The man took a breath.

“I have been brought back to life,” he said. “I died. My soul existed in the beyond for three days before the Christ returned it to my body, and then I was alive again.”

“But…”

“And I have not aged since.”

“Hm.” I had turned. This Christian had my full attention now. I had dealt with his kind, amicably but unproductively. The greatest threat their teachings posed was the possibility I might listen–an audience which might bring Rome’s attention to my village. Their communion was irrelevant to my contemplation of the Harmony or my role as a physician, and most left when they realized I would be no ally to their movement. This one was a very different dilemma. He was most likely a liar, but his lie was a strange one for a Christian, and his wish–to die, plainly–was stranger still.

“It seems to me,” I began, “that the unraveling of this miracle would bring about your end. At least, if what you have told me is true.”

“Yes, that is my intent.”

“I trust you’ve tried more direct methods to bring this about?” I did not actually trust this was the case, but it seemed the easiest way to determine if he would be a waste of my time.

“I have.”

I could not help but raise an eyebrow.

“Oh? And?”

“I shall demonstrate to you and only you, if you will consent, Great Sage.”

***

I had assumed to this point that I was facing a con, though the goal of such a deception remained a mystery. The temple of Thrice-Blessed Hermes which I kept had few riches, and all of them could be purchased at market for a modest sum, even in a village as small as Athribis. I had begun to regard the Christian’s entreaties as a test of my wits, a game whose prize was the unraveling of just what this man wanted. His commitment, though, surprised me. What I thought was a flaw in his fiction brought our shared inquiry directly to the prospect of his imminent death. But he did not back down.

He allowed me to bind his hands and feet so that I could sacrifice him to the glory of my god–a practice which I, in truth, had never actually attempted, though I adapted an older funeral ritual to the task. But I here rely on an amended recollection of the results, for when I first attempted to cut his throat, I instead, assured I had already completed the task, began to loose the bonds on his wrists. It was only when he asked what I was doing that I realized that not only had I quite forgotten to kill him, but my entire memory of the event had been altered. At first I reasonably attributed my mistake to a weakness of my own faculties, but as I began recording my intentions for the Christian’s demise in writing, it became clear that I was only a part of what seemed a vast network of happenstance and coincidence dedicated to the strangely singular goal that this man should not die or, for that matter, suffer any severe injury.

Torches would spontaneously extinguish, tools would go missing, my own train of thought would become insufferably hard to grasp as I concentrated on this theoretically simple task. The closest I came to success, I sneezed at the instant I brought my old ritual knife to his neck, accidentally striking the stone table and shattering the blade. At this, I was forced to face the notion that an order had been constructed about this Christian that, despite its evasion of my senses, had the consequential force of stone. The manner of its function particularly intrigued me: I had long thought the Christians just another whirlwind of plebeian pseudo-objections to Roman occupation. But if the force which protected this man was indeed the work of Jesus of Nazareth, it meant the would-be Messiah not only understood the Harmony of the Spheres; he had found a way to command it of which even I was unaware.

“I truly hoped you would succeed,” the Christian said, as I stepped away from the table.

“Remarkable,” I breathed, not even processing his disappointment.

“Indeed.” He offered his wrists, which I untied.

“You have convinced me that you are indeed protected by a miracle. I am afraid I cannot simply explain its nature, but if you would aid me, I would attempt to decode it.”

“Decode it, Great Sage?” the Christian asked, looking up from the partially untied rope around his ankles.

“Tell me, Christian: What do you know of geometry?”

***

The man, it seemed, had a mind for connections, influence. He quickly grasped the profundity of mathematics that most dismissed as mere useful praxis, but his actual education proved rather arid, dotted with oases of things he had picked up from some of Christ’s more learned followers. For what I judged to be the most significant subject of study my order had encountered in centuries, I needed a partner, a counterbalance to my insights, so when I determined that the gaps in his mystic knowledge would require more than just remedial instruction, I proposed to take him on as an apprentice. My first in decades and–not to get ahead of myself–the only one who would not prove a disappointment, intellectually.

His training was expedited, just five years, shorter than my own by more than half, and in that time we did not even touch upon the mystery of his apparent immortality. Before we could interrogate this divinity, I needed him to understand the language of the divine. In effect, I needed him to be a translator: This working, allegedly by Christ, was a product of insights wholly illegible to me. The Christians’ teachings seemed meant for the poor, the beaten down. They seemed political, and I had only so much interest in the organization of the polis. Still, I knew to look for the truth within truths. Plato also modeled the soul as a city; baser political instincts have always served as a lead toward deeper truth. Thus I needed my apprentice to speak my language, so I could speak his–so I could begin to chart the divine soul beneath Christ’s Kingdom of Heaven.

Up to now, my contribution to my order’s work had centered upon a particular epistemological point: Why should it be that we, creatures of fire and flux, each uncertain step, mishearing, and misapprehension, have any access to Truth at all? How could we hear the Harmony of the Spheres? More importantly, how could we possibly be sure it was actually True?

I was not the first to express skepticism of my own faculties for knowledge, nor, most assuredly, would I be the last, but my attempt to resolve the ambiguity was to collapse the Meno Paradox: “That which is above is like that which is below,” I wrote. “And that which is below is like that which is above, to do thy miracles of one only thing.” The inner circle is like–and is thus connected to–the outer circle. If the Truth is unknowable, then the self is unknowable. But if the self is knowable, then the Truth is knowable, for we are connected to the divine. I was certain that my apprentice’s condition was the product of this connection, but my theory was that his particular connection to the Truth was different, enhanced, of a higher fidelity. In imprecise but appealingly comprehensible vernacular: I believed his soul had been recreated of better material.

In search of the method of reforging, so to speak, we attacked the corpus of Christ’s teachings, subjecting them to all manner of mathematical, geometrical, and philosophical analysis. We threaded our way through the curiously complex web of translational ambiguity created by the propagation of those teachings in Hebrew, Aramaic, Greek, Egyptian, and even Latin. We found numerous insights that would no doubt have given the ancients pause, would certainly guide future inquiries into the nature of the material world, but what we could not find was any hint, any notion as to how Jesus of Nazareth had been able to manipulate not just the material world but, for the case of my apprentice, the link between the material and metaphysical. Despite all of our efforts, all of our research, analysis, and experimentation, neither of us could fathom how one could alter the laws of material existence.

We proceeded in this effort for the better part of twenty years, in which time the weight of old age began gradually to overtake me while, true to his original premise, my apprentice did not seem to age a day. And though he was, in real terms, my senior–and more ironically, though he was determinedly seeking his own death–he still fell into that sort of grief that afflicts the young far worse than their nearby, dying elders.

It was at first only an occasional day that my weakness or sickness forestalled my contribution to the Work, but as those days became more and more frequent, my apprentice began delving into solitary, increasingly esoteric, and sometimes violent lines of inquiry. I suspected that a boundary had been crossed when he stumbled into my bedchamber one evening, clearly addled–by substance, lack of sleep, or some other adrenal frenzy.

“The covenant was not sealed until Longinus spilled His divine blood,” he said. His voice was barely a whisper, but his diction was strangely perfect. “The cross links the Platonic heaven to the earth, yes, but the serpent may not be fixed to the sky without…” He trailed off, searching the room, before his gaze slowly homed to me. His mouth hung open. His lips were cracked.

“Without a Rose,” he said.

This was the first of many incidents in which I would find him amidst increasingly nonsensical ramblings. He grew difficult to collaborate with, and then he grew difficult to reason with, even on my good days. And of course, my health continued to deteriorate. It reached a point that I could scarcely rise from bed, and I was growing certain that my remaining time would be measured in weeks if not days. As my inquiries with my apprentice had consumed my time and efforts, I had never trained another to take up the duties of the temple, and I worried that the recent changes to his demeanor boded poorly for his willingness to take up my mantle. Even so, I rose one day and attempted to find him, in hope that he would take sympathy and help me complete the duty to which I had been truant.

By that time, he had taken to carrying out his research in a cave at the base of the hill that abutted the temple. It was close to the garden and offered convenient access to certain herbal reagents, though I strongly suspected he used the space for privacy moreso. In my condition, even walking the short distance there was laborious, but slowly, carefully, I managed.

I was surprised to find the entrance of the cave covered in thatch, with a piece of papyrus fastened to the exterior. It read:

“I have found the answer. I have made of myself a bridge to God, and all humanity will be made gods in turn.

Touch the circle, and will see the Truth.”

Painfully, I hurried to lift one side of the thatch and stumbled inside. At the end of the short path to the cave’s single chamber, I found a scene far more gruesome than any my lifetime of mystical inquiry might have prepared me for.

In the circular, lamplit space, my apprentice had erected a cross, stretching from the floor to the ceiling–which had somehow been scoured and flattened, parallel to the floor. On both surfaces, bafflingly complex geometric arrays had been inscribed, incorporating symbols of Greek, Egyptian, and Judaic origin, along with markings I had never seen before. Along the perimeter of the lower circle was inscribed an incantation in Latin which I haltingly translate here:

“Divine power made me

Highest wisdom and primal love

Before me were no things created

Except eternal ones

And I endure eternal”

This was mirrored on the ceiling by a language I had never seen before and which I had never seen and which I now believe had not, to that point, ever been written on earth before. But the most evocative feature of the arrays were the two serpents: The lower circle was bisected by a depiction of a snake, stretching from east to west. The upper circle held within in the Ouroboros. This was it, I realized–the fastening of the serpent to the sky.

The centerpiece of the apparatus I describe last not because it was in any way less salient than the previous components but because I now perceive it to be, in a sense, resultant from these components:

My apprentice had nailed himself shirtless to the cross at his angles and left wrist. His right hand, now draped over the other arm of the cross, still clutched a knife, which I gathered he had recently plunged into his chest. But the blood which should have soaked him, his knife, the cross, and the ground beneath his mortal wound had taken on strange and disturbing properties. All of it had become solid, with a rough, translucent, crystalline surface, stretching improbable arcs between the base of the cross and the knife and converging at his heart. I realized belatedly that these streams of frozen blood, pulsing as if with a heartbeat, resembled the thorny stems of roses, and indeed the scarlet bloom at his chest did seem to radiate like petals of a macabre flower. It would have been a horrible state in which to find my apprentice dead, but he was not dead. His eyes were open wide, fixed on the distance but intermittently twitching and blinking, and his ribs heaved with wheezing breath. I cried out to him. He did not answer.

I moved to help him, but my first step forward made contact with the perimeter of the lower circle, and the very last things I beheld with my own mortal eyes were the sanguine glow which filled the chamber–and the beatific smile which spread across my apprentice’s face.

Top Image: Holes

Sin (from The Chimera)

Another strange piece, part of the same weird project as Maze in the Mists. House of Leaves had a lasting influence on me, and there is something just fascinating about the idea of a fictional character delivering a non-fictional analysis of a book that doesn’t exist. The difference here is that the latter will (hopefully) eventually exist. But that’s a far future sort of thing.

And if you enjoy my writing and would like to support it, please considering buying one of my books. It is timely, after all. $20,000 Under the Sea released just this month, and you can buy it in ebook or paperback format here!

Why did Taamir Ra allow himself to be taken by the Dead Queen? His companions’ reasons shouldn’t be any great mystery: For his brother, it was a desperate, knowingly doomed attempt to repel the darkness which would surely swallow the kingdom. For Tiresias and–but for an ancient pact–Jabez, it was brazen, stupid curiosity. For the masked man, it was compelled. Taamir’s reason should be no great mystery either, but it’s hard to trust you people: It was guilt.

Consider that for a moment.

It’s easy to dismiss many modern representations of guilt as melodrama since so few of you feel guilt anymore. “The weight of your sins? Grow up,” says the man with a soul of formaldehyde and jism. “Quit sulking.” Think of the last time you allowed yourself to be tormented by your past–for deeds no one would ever discover, that it would be immaterial for them to discover–and, perhaps, despair. The modern human is tormented by the consequences of their actions, they are tormented by shame, the pain of their true self being seen–the fear that it might be seen–but guilt is wallowing. An indulgence.

It wasn’t always that way. Edward Teach calls guilt the synonym of freedom: “You bond yourself to yourself to free yourself from everyone else.” If you are without guilt, then, what follows?

The lack of guilt is downstream of the hatred and envy which armors you against the terrible responsibility of that world that you–not you, specifically; it is crucial that it was not only you–have built. You became powerful, only to discover that power does corrupt. It burns like fire, and charred skin simply makes one pliable.

But unlike you, Taamir Ra still had his soul. He understood his sin and acted to absolve it. “But Persephone’s capture was engineered by Bas’ahra and the masked man. They manipulated him!”

So little wisdom remains among Christians that it’s easy to forget there is a great deal of wisdom to be gleaned from their discarded flesh. As it were, the Christian god is quite clear on this particular sin: Eve manipulated Adam–Adam still gets the boot. He had exactly two jobs to do: Follow the rules, and make sure she follows the rules. He failed at both. He did not impress upon her the importance of the task at hand, perhaps because he was too stupid to understand it, and when it came time to make sure she was actually listening, he fell asleep. The mistakes are boring, prosaic, and kind of pathetic, not the kind of thing you would think ought to cost an eternity of Paradise, but I assure you: The boring, the prosaic, and the pathetic are in fact an extremely dependable foundation for evil.

Taamir Ra should have seen through Bas’ahra’s incredible incentive to defect, he should have spirited Persephone away without telling her; failing that, he should have outwitted the masked man; failing that, he should have refused the Sun Priests’ job and left Khet, because if he were not there, Bas’ahra could not have succeeded in the way she did. By his very presence, he caused others to do evil successfully. That is sin, and sin ought to elicit guilt.

Where Adam had little choice but to accept the consequences of his failure, Taamir faced a decision. His failure caused a child to be buried alive, and his submission to the revenant which disgorged from her tomb ten years later might have atoned–but to what end? He could have simply run. Bas’ahra did.

But sin weighs on more than the sinner. The injustice of Persephone Elea’s death did not go unnoticed. Divine recompense brought about her return, and Taamir saw that, even if he could not know the particulars of the divinity. Perhaps he thought his sacrifice–even if it did not sate the Dead Queen–might adjust the karmic scales of Khet just so, might undermine the Queen’s right to the suffering she would inflict upon the city and the world. It might bring about a responsibility for those who could one day resist. A responsibility to do so, under pain of guilt.

Hey Babe, New Nautical Catastrophe Just Dropped

IT’S FINALLY HERE!! You can order $20,000 Under the Sea on ebook or paperback here!

In case you’ve been counting, it’s now been almost two full years since I finished the original draft for $20,000 Under the Sea. The journey has been fun-filled and exhausting–and a lot more ultimately went into this book than my previous ones. Thank you to everyone who has been on this journey with me so far. I hope you enjoy!

Minor Turbulence

We’ve hit a slight technical snag, and it’s looking like the paperback release of $20,000 Under the Sea is going to be pushed back to July 7. Apologies to those who were looking forward to this Friday. No changes if you are an ebook reader, though, and if that’s you, you can find the book here!

Journey to the Center of Society, Chapter 1: The McFlinn Boy

For those who want to know what comes next–or those new to the adventure of $20,000 Under the Sea, this is a draft of the first chapter of the sequel.

$20,000 Under the Sea will be available for purchase in digital and physical formats on 7/4. Preorder the ebook on Amazon here!

Vincent McFlinn was feeling pretty unimpressed with New York. Some of the boys back in the Chicago Outfit had talked it up in their way. They were from Jersey, if he recalled, so they weren’t fans or anything, but those fuckers still gassed the place up: the big time, greatest worst city on earth, largest wormy apple you ever did see. Made it sound like a crazy, fourth-circle hellscape where everything was different. Like it was kinda different: buildings were a little taller. Mostly, the people were just fuckin’ twits.

Vincent–Drip, to his acquaintances–was certainly not accustomed to decorum, but this was somethin’ else. Bums struttin’ around the sidewalk like some kinda aristocracy, an idiot on every goddamn street corner fuckin’ yellin’ their lungs out in that stupid, incomprehensible New York accent, and the Lethal Chamber…just…seriously? You need the fuckin’ government to subsidize your suicide attempt? And they were mean to the pigeons, which was never a good sign–though, as Vasco reminded him, the pigeons were generally dicks.

Maybe there were extenuating circumstances. The city did seem to be on a kind of high alert, though pulling the reasoning thereof outta these citizens was a task. After maybe four conversations of the form of “hey, what’s with all the coppers, ya need five on every street, seems like a lot?” “Hey buddy wassa matta wit you, missin’ ya ears or somethin’?” Drip finally managed to squeeze a red-eyed businessman for the big picture summary that the local constabulary was embroiled in a hot fight with some sorta cult. This, combined with a far less social–but far more physically detailed–account Vasco had obtained from the local crows, yielded a more complete story: A few days ago, New York’s mayor had been assassinated by members of a cult. A manhunt ensued, and at some point, the cops had surrounded a group of the cultists in an office building in Midtown. And then a couple random citizens dove onto the cops’ perimeter, double-fisting live grenades.

Also, apparently, the better part of the harbor had been obliterated by a spring storm, which Drip didn’t think was related, but he did find it odd that neither the people nor the birds of the city seemed even to acknowledge the damage except under duress.

Anyway, fuck the cops and all that, but Drip really did have to hand it to this cult for making the most of their time together. He’d been downtown for all of three hours now, and these lunatics were already chafing his dick. Not that they even knew who he was, but with all the nest kicking, they’d gotten their enemies out in force with no evidence to go on but a mandate to be fuckin’ everywhere looking for “suspicious characters”. Unfortunately, by any reasonable definition, Drip was a suspicious character.

Because he wasn’t a dirty plebeian, he put effort into his appearance. Hair slicked, clean shaven, fashionable dark red suit tailored and pressed, matching Stetson worn at this season’s calculated tilt. He stood out in a fuckin’ crowd even without Vasco there–with the crow perched on his shoulder he was just about a beacon of salience, and he clocked more than a few significant looks and gestures from the patrols, prompting him to maneuver off down sidestreets and stations to avoid whatever questions they were brewin’ up for him.

Not so different from Chicago, really.

At this point, Drip felt like he’d spent half his life on the outs in one way or another. He grew up in a tenement in Fuller Park before the fire, along with the rest of the Irish portion of the city’s scum. His father was a pickpocket, which, in lieu of the real job the bastard was never gonna hold down, made enough money for beer and shitty soup. No mother was present–though Drip’s social understanding was so fucked that he didn’t even notice he was supposed to have a mother until he was eleven. When he asked Dad what was up with that, he just scowled, walked out the door, and didn’t come back until one in the morning. Drip didn’t ask again.

Otherwise, he and his old man got on alright, until the sap got caught red handed and beaten to death by a copper two blocks away from their house. Most of his memory of it was less painful than just fuckin’ numb. Hazy. The part that stuck out was the other cop–a different one, he was sure–that showed up at his door to let him know his dad was concussed and bleeding out over thataway. Fucker was wearing sunglasses at eight o’clock and smiling. It hurt to look at him. The cop that killed his father took a trip to the bottom of the river for Drip’s twenty second birthday–one of the rare cases he saw of Boss Nepoca’s sweet side before things went sideways–but the guy with the shades? Drip never saw him again.

Drip had a rough few years after that. He couldn’t keep up rent, but he scraped enough together between his neighbors’ charity and his own pickpocketing and petty theft to keep himself mostly fed and mostly off the streets. His streak ran out, though, when a couple of stiffs in the North Side Gang caught him nickin’ a box from their car. Things kinda went red after that, and he woke up in an alley with four stab wounds, his own knife white-knuckled in his hand, and the two stiffs dead on the ground next to him. Since it was December at the time, and “dead” was only slightly less alive than he was then, he probably wouldn’t have made it if not for the men who pulled up, dragged him into their car, and took him to the hospital.

Turned out that even though he’d stolen from the wrong people, those North Siders were causin’ trouble in Outfit territory, and Al Nepoca appreciated Drip’s sacrifice in keepin’ his streets clean. About a year later, Drip was made muscle for the Chicago Outfit, and that might’ve been history if he could’ve just kept it in his pants.

Puberty had been pretty disastrous for Drip, less for his adaptation to his body or appearance than for the Irish Catholic neighborhood’s reaction to the appearances and bodies he found himself attracted to. Refreshingly, the Outfit’s attitudes were practically progressive in comparison. They didn’t like that he was a fag, but they didn’t mind so long as his romantic proclivities didn’t intersect with gang business. Problem was, six years on, he found himself a crush. A reciprocated crush: Sal Biggs. Roman statue jawline, eyes like emeralds, those shoulders. And he was Nepoca’s nephew. They managed to keep their relationship secret for a year and a half before the big man found out, but then Drip got a no-nonsense, knuckle-accented nastygram indicating he better get the fuck outta Chicago, we don’t wanna see you around here no more, got it?

That one hurt. Probably more than his dad dying, to be honest. It probably didn’t help that before leaving, he jumped Nepoca’s messenger, sawed off his right hand to teach him to use some professional courtesy in his communications, but he wouldn’t’ve pulled that stun if he hadn’t been handed an out: a letter under his apartment door from someone named “J.B.”, offering timely employment far away from Chicago. Accordingly, he packed light, and after disarming Nepoca’s impolite associate, he got into a black car at the corner of Canal and Jackson driven by an annoyingly chatty man named Bluesummer. About forty-eight hours later, he was deposited on the steps of the Claridge Hotel in Atlantic City, New Jersey, with a prepaid reservation and another note from J.B.–this one with a wad of cash–telling him to sit tight and await further instructions. Normally, he’d bristle, but he had to admit he might’ve gone overboard. Nepoca had told him to get gone, yeah, but hitting back at his guys might’ve given him reason to call up some friends in New York if he caught wind of where Drip was headed. Better to lie low for now. Stick to this swanky hotel in this little mob bubble, just him and Vasco.

It did, however, put into sharp relief that Drip’s life up to now had been extremely unapologetic. It was fortunate that for a time, anyway, the Chicago Outfit had accepted him as he was, because he’d done fuck all to fit in. During those months he spent in Atlantic City, he wondered how reasonable that was, every day looking at his reflection in the mirror of the hotel bathroom: him, his red suit, his pet crow. That was kind of a weird thing, wasn’t it? Gangsters didn’t really walk around with birds on their shoulders, they weren’t pirates or some shit. This was real life. More to the point, people didn’t talk to birds, or rather, as Vasco confirmed, people did, but it was in the same way they talked to walls. But somewhere in those years of stealing and stabbing in Chicago, Drip started talking to birds–on the street, feeding ‘em in the park, wherever–and at some point, he began to understand what they were saying back.

Most of them were pretty stupid, in an endearing sort of way, but the crows were alright for conversation. And then Vasco stuck around after the rest of the flock flew off. After a few times tailing him to the bar after dark, he just started sleeping at Drip’s apartment. The way he put it, Drip’s life was just more interesting, whatever that meant. Vasco had good enough sense to make himself scarce around the other gangsters–didn’t trust ’em; probably wise–but Sal was nice enough to him. Yet another reason leaving Chicago had been painful. Still, Drip found it pathetically comforting that Vasco had been so willing to leave with him.

At this point, though, the possibility that he would never see Sal again was significant, and he had burned the shit out of just about every other uneasy companionship he’d gathered up to this point in his life. Drip had always been kind of a loner, but this was a distressing severity of alone. He found himself relieved that Bluesummer had been willing to take Vasco’s attendance on their journey in stride. Saved him from from wondering what sort of violence or self-sabotage he might’ve lashed out with otherwise.

In any case, Atlantic City went, Drip assumed, pretty much according to plan. Two and a half months lying low, sleeping, eating, lightly gambling, and drinking himself into a stupor as the weather warmed up, as he steeled himself for a humid summer of his discontent. Then in April, some arms dealer’s pleasure cruise out of New York turned into a national fucking incident, and scarcely two weeks later, another letter appeared on his hotel bed. It was terse, just an address on the north side of Long Island, a date, and a time: tomorrow, 4 PM.

He took the train up north, but things got screwy pretty much just as he reached the city. Whatever hand-of-god storm had wrecked the harbor had also taken out the bridge to Brooklyn, so he was forced to sidetrack through Manhattan. Between getting lost and the business with the stupid cult, he was only now zeroing in on the subway station a distracted drug store clerk had told him would get him to Queens where he could catch an aboveground line out to Long Island. It was nearly 1 PM, and Drip was beginning to realize that his chances of traversing 70 more miles east within the next three hours were closing in on zero. Before he could conclude that punctuality was impossible, though, the strident blast of a car horn beside him scrambled his calculations beyond recovery. His gaze snapped murderously to the vehicle, pulled up to the curbside. The young man at the wheel called out:

“Mr. McFlinn!”

Drip’s response was a crooked grimace and a raised eyebrow. He was careful not to offer any more positive acknowledgement than that: If this guy was Nepoca’s, there was about to be a tommy gun aimed through that window. Better to leave him with some doubt that he might be shooting an innocent. Hitmen didn’t like collateral damage. That was the sort of shit that made ‘em a liability to the boss.

The driver leaned toward the passenger door and pushed it open.

“Get in,” he said. “You’re going to be late!”

Drip let his annoyance and relief annihilate each other as he obliged.

Some fifteen minutes of adroit but chaotic swerving later, the driver broke the uneasy silence.

“You certainly took a circuitous route,” he said. “What on earth prompted you to go through Manhattan?”

“Couldn’t get over to Brooklyn,” Drip muttered. “You know somethin’ I don’t?”

“Couldn’t get over to…” The driver whipped suddenly around a milk wagon stopped in front of them. “Ah, of course, the bridge, right?” Drip blinked.

“Yeah, wise guy. The bridge.”

“You can see it, then?”

“What?” Drip’s turn to look at the driver head-on jostled Vasco enough that the bird jumped to the dashboard with a rustling, surprised caw. “The fuck kind of a–”

“I can’t see it,” the driver added, cheerfully. “Very few in the city can.”

“What?!” Drip blurted, though neither his nor Vasco’s outsize reactions seemed to faze the driver–which was surprising. He was young, maybe even younger than Drip. Clean cut, spectacles, smart blazer and tie. He looked like an assistant to an advertising executive–notably not like the type to maintain his nerve in traffic while gaslighting an alarmed gangster.

“It’s called memetic disavowal, I’m told,” the driver explained. “When the Architects take direct action on society, society just refuses to perceive it–depending on the individual’s proximity to the Architect itself, that is. But otherwise they’ll react as normal–like I wouldn’t try to take the bridge today and just fall into the bay. Hell, construction’ll get funded, and crews’ll get out there to fix it, but none of us–me, the bureaucrats, the workers–register that anything happened or anything’s missing.”

“Is this the setup for some kinda joke?” Drip asked dryly.

“Not at all. Just a personal observation of a phenomenon I find interesting–one which you evidently do not find at all. Hence the discussion of the bridge which you no doubt found lacking among the citizenry this morning. Heck, I only know about it because I was told about it by someone who, like you, is unaffected by said memetic disavowal.”

“Oh, so I’m special because I can see your Illuminati or whatever?”

“You’re special because of what allows you to see things I can’t,” the driver said. “Which is the same as what allows you to speak to animals–I trust you accept this isn’t a joke now, yes?”

“You think I can talk to animals?” Drip probed, attempting a façade of incredulity.

“I know why you can talk to animals, though the way you are clutching your seat suggests you may not be ready to hear that explanation just yet. Suffice it to say that my employer has had you under surveillance since before your specialness even manifested in that particular way. So can we please table the skepticism at the notion that I know who you are?”

“Sure,” Drip muttered, rolling his eyes. “Fine, whatever. Who the fuck are you, then?”

“Jonathan Banks,” the driver replied smugly. “I’ve been arranging your transportation, supervision, and lodging since slightly before your falling out in Chicago, and I daresay it is a pleasure to finally meet you in person.

Drip sighed, forcing himself to soften his posture and turn back to the road.

“J.B.?” he asked.

“The very same.”

“And your employer?”

“That’s a nosy question for a career criminal,” Jonathan said, “though I suppose it need not be a secret or anything. Jonathan Banks is my real name after all.”

“Banks?” Drip frowned, glancing back at him, trying to piece together where he might’ve heard that name before. “Wait–like Milo Banks? The M&M Corporation?”

“Alas, my father,” Jonathan replied resignedly.

Though Drip couldn’t quite tell what the M&M Corporation did, its owner, American-exceptionalist entrepreneur Milo Banks, was something like a celebrity. He had played a recurrent supporting role in the news-drama of the Great War, aiding–and then seizing and turbo-charging–the Allies’ supply chains, the movement of materiel behind and to the battle lines, and, of course, the valiant postwar relief efforts in Germany. By all accounts, every enterprise he touched became fabulously successful, and it had all made him fabulously rich. More recently, Banks had relocated his corporate headquarters to Chicago, quietly purchasing the rebuilt skyline’s tallest building and loudly renaming it the stupidest thing ever. Drip didn’t know whether the gesture was mistaken or facetious–he was not aware of any connection between the M&M Corporation and anyone named “Willis”–but he found the outrage around the city funny nonetheless.

“I’d heard he and Al Nepoca met last year,” Drip said. “Was that about me, then?” Jonathan shrugged.

“I can’t say for sure,” he replied. “But I doubt it. Rather, I don’t think it was about you yet. I suppose you spent the morning downtown–have you become familiar with the King in Yellow?”

“Those cultists that killed the mayor?”

“Right. My father has had issues with what they’ve been doing to cotton prices in Chicago for some time. I think he asked Nepoca to help him do something about it.”

“Can’t imagine that went well,” Drip muttered. “But wait, cotton?” Jonathan shook his head.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “What you’re here for is not about cotton, but it is about the King in Yellow.”

“You want me to do something with this cult?”

“To be clear about our terms, the King in Yellow is a person, and he is competing with my employer–our employer, assuming your cooperation–for control over some key resources.

“Key resources?” Drip snorted. “The businessy-fuck does that mean?”

“To be frank with you, I don’t have the whole picture,” Jonathan said, grimacing as another automobile cut them off. “My understanding is that we are meant to put some pressure on the King. In order to do that, we need to find him. In order to do that, we’re best off collaborating with some other interested parties, hence the agenda today.”

“Long Island?”

“Long Island.”

The drive to Long Island, it turned out, was longer than Drip had anticipated, even knowing the distance, and Jonathan seemed reluctant to share any more material details about the job. The conversation devolved to weather, traffic, observations about New York City–Jonathan’s outlook on the place was much more positive–and Vasco’s anomalous inability to form an opinion on their erstwhile “handler”. Jonathan was personable, Drip conceded. Rather, he was disarming, which he decided that he wouldn’t trust, even if it was pleasant for conversation. Jonathan, for his part, noted the crow’s communication with a raised brow, but did not otherwise comment.

Eventually, they arrived in the driveway of a picturesque estate backed up against Smithtown Bay. Jonathan stopped the car and got out, beckoning Drip to join him.

“I do want to warn you,” he said, rummaging through his blazer pocket before producing a key. “I think it’s likely there will be a gun pointed at us as soon as we open that door. Please remain calm. I’ll introduce us.”

Without further elaboration, he approached the entrance stairs. Vasco, expressing his distaste for firearms, told Drip to find him when all that was done, which was discouraging but entirely the crow’s prerogative. Drip took a deep breath, concerned–admittedly more for the lack of details than the threat of violence–and followed. Calmly, Jonathan unlocked the door, opened it, and stepped inside.

Crossing the threshold behind him, Drip was dismayed to find that Jonathan’s prediction had been quite prescient: Awaiting them in the foyer were three men, one clean shaven in a crisp, gray suit, the other two disheveled and sunken-eyed, in filthy military uniforms. The gray-suit man and one of the others, a familiar-looking face with a bloodthirsty snarl, were both brandishing pistols.

“You,” the bloodthirsty man growled. Seemingly oblivious to the danger, Jonathan smiled.

“Mr. Sterling!” he said. “Hello again!”

$20,000 Under the Sea – Preorder Now!

Exciting news! $20,000 Under the Sea is now available for preorder, and will be available in print and ebook formats from Amazon 7/4*! Find it here!

“Four misfits–a haunted celebrity pilot, a disgraced and vengeful heiress, a bumbling agent of a sinister cult, and a very lucky nobody–board an ocean liner in April of 1920, planning for a short jaunt and a high-stakes poker game. But none of them realize that what awaits them in the Atlantic is a harrowing adventure from the bottom of the sea to the Panama Canal.
Evading government agents and an eldritch messiah and fleeing their personal demons, these four may soon have to face the truth: They aren’t the selves they thought they were, and now they have caught the attention of dangerous powers worldwide–and beyond.

And beneath it all, the question hangs like a submarine in turbulent water: How much does escape really cost?“

*I’m hoping to launch print via non-Amazon channels as well, for a variety of reasons. If you are dedicated to the anti-Bezos bit and want to purchase a physical copy, stay tuned!

Brace for Impact

Uh oh.

Just in case you were checking out old posts and came upon a curious vacancy, let me confirm for you: All of the “Whom Emperors Have Served” posts have been relegated to hidden/password protected status. This, as the above picture might suggest, is because they have been compiled, edited, and bundled into a book which you will soon be able to buy.

This is partially for (obvious) economic reasons, but part of it is contractual (one of my publishing partners does stipulate that the book’s content may not be available for free online). So sorry, I guess. I’ll keep you apprised of any giveaways.

For those of you who have avoided my unedited detritus (or who were otherwise excited to see the finished product), get hyped. A stupid submarine is about to hit your metaphorical boat.