The Fetishist (218 hits)
Category: UberMadness! EntryRating: 2 on 7 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Coyote (View user info) at 2006-11-06 10:41:14 EST
This post was an official UberMadness! entry. Click here to view the original matchup.
I.
It could have been any bedroom community in America. There was nothing remarkable or out of the ordinary about its tree-lined streets or well-maintained houses. Except that one crisp fall morning the men in black came and took away the Fetishist in a GMC Suburban with tinted windows and out of state tags.
No one knew exactly who "they" were, or where they were taking their Fetishist. But there was no mistaking the fact they he'd been spirited away. As it had always been where the Fetishist was concerned, no one came right out and talked about what had happened. As much as everyone relied on the Fetishist, and even regarded him with a certain amount of civic pride, no one had ever quite overcome the odd compulsion to avoid talking about him.
At nightfall, a lone teenage girl walked up the Fetishist's driveway and left a little doll stuffed with straw on his porch. The doll had a wild, unkempt beard and mane of hair, and a little single-serving sized bottle of whiskey tucked into a pocket, but it didn't work. The Fetishist had kept his secrets well.
II.
The airplane was not large, but the almost completely unfurnished interior made it seem oddly cavernous and out of proportion. All of the coach seats had been torn out, and in their place was a single metal bench running the length of the cabin. Every couple of yards there were shackles and straps and ankle restraints bolted to the skin and floor of the aircraft. Bare aluminum, canvas straps, and shiny stainless chains were the main design elements.
The Fetishist knew it was going to be a bad flight from the moment the armed goons strapped him down exactly halfway along the bench. If they were military, they weren't in uniform. Nobody'd bothered to read him his rights, so that ruled out cops. Based on what he'd picked from movies on basic cable, he guessed they were CIA. Whoever employed the goons obviously didn't hire on the basis of looks. Or friendliness.
"So, you're this badass sex freak they all been talking about? You don't look so fucking bad. Under all that rat's nest you're just a wussy little geek."
They were the first words that had been spoken since he'd been interrupted in the middle of cooking his breakfast by the goons, one coming through the front door and the other waiting on the deck around back. All in all, the Fetishist decided he preferred the goons quiet. He shrugged.
"The fuck you talkin about, Jimmy? This guy ain't no sex freak. He's some kinda specialist. Tech stuff."
"The hell he is. Don't you know what a fetish is? That's what they call him: The Fetishist. We dress you up in a pair of high heels and some fishnets and he'll cum all over your toes." Goon-Jimmy turned back to the Fetishist. "Ain't that right, faggot? You're just sittin there waiting for us to strap you down on the deck over here and step on your fuckin face, ain't you. Freddy's got some real fuckin smelly feet for you to lick. You want summa that?"
"Shut the fuck up, Jimmy, I ain't no queer." Goon-Freddy scowled at the Fetishist, apparently feeling that his very existence was a personal insult.
"Chill the fuck out man, this freak don't wanna suck your cock, he just wants to shine your shoes up real nice and than jack his little pencil dick on your toes."
The Fetishist looked toward the cockpit, hoping the goons' boss, or at least someone with a few functional braincells, would show up to dismiss them now that he was securely strapped down. But whoever was calling the shots seemed to be busy elsewhere.
"Izzat right, freako?" Goon-Freddy nudged the Fetishist with the toe of his boot. "Hey, look at me when I'm talkin to you. You a shoe freak?"
The Fetishist sighed. "I don't have the slightest interest in talking to you, Cletus, and I don't think you have the slightest interest in listening to anything I have to say. I'm pretty sure you couldn't even begin to understand what I am, or why your bosses are interested in talking to me. In fact I'm gonna go out on a limb here and guess that you're so fucking dimwitted and inhospitable that you're not even gonna offer me a cup of coffee to make up for the one that I never got to before you came into my house uninvited and left my omelet burning on the stove."
Goon-Freddy colored with rage and clenched his fists before he grabbed the Fetishist by the shoulders and leaned down so close that spittle flecked the Fetishist's face when Freddy answered him.
"Look here you little pervert, I asked you a civil goddamn question. You're a fuckin terrorist and you're gonna go where we say when we say and answer us when we talk to you, you got that? Or you're gonna end up with fuckin alligator clamps on your dick and 6,000 volts in you. Now you fuckin answer me or you're gonna wish you weren't never born."
"You boys live in the information age and your blighted imaginations can't even get over shoes? Sex fetishes go way past ballet boots these days, Cletus. You got your leather goddesses and your smoking slaves. You could have a shaving thing or a giantess fetish. Or diapers—adult babies. Sky's the limit boys! You heard of the internet? Try using it sometime, learn a little something about the world. Hell, if you're lucky you might even stumble across something useful."
The Fetishist turned his sardonic little crooked grin on his captors. Goon-Freddy, already a little hot under the collar, slugged him in the jaw.
"How about beatin' the hell out of fuckin terrorist sex freaks? That get your motor running, pervert?"
The Fetishist blinked involuntary tears out of his eyes and shook his head to clear it. There wasn't much he could do with his hands bound and his pockets empty. He'd been staving off panic with the thought that whoever had planned his kidnapping probably cared enough to keep the hired toughs from permanently damaging him, but the sheer mindless violence he was being shown was making him doubt. He did what he always did when he was nervous: crack wise.
"Not really, but you show me the Jolly Green Giantess shaving her cunt and I'll be in seventh heaven."
Goon-Jimmy barked a mirthless laugh and said "Well, whatever the hell you are, boy, it ain't bright." He shoved Freddy aside and took up a threatening position looming over the shackled Fetishist. "Now, Freddy here thinks yer some kinda special tech op who's gonna show us how to take down bin Laden or stop the ragheads or make beer rain down from heaven. That true?"
"Could be. Wouldn't hold my breath though."
"Yeah, yeah, play it cool, tough guy. I don't care if you know fuckin God Himself's private phone number, you ain't nothin but a freak of nature to me. If you're so fuckin smart, what's your goddamn plan for winning the war? What the hell can you do that the Marines can't? Huh, smart guy? Fuckin tell me somethin I don't know."
"Your wife is cheating on you and you're gonna die lonely."
"Why you little—" Jimmy finished his sentence by decking the Fetishist again, punching him square in the face. Pain exploded in his nose and he almost didn't notice the impact of his head snapping back against the cabin wall. Through fireworks and tears he saw Jimmy winding up to hit him again, and then stop dead in his tracks and salute someone.
The Fetishist lolled in his restraints and didn't bother to look up. He listened instead.
"Knock it off, you assholes. This man is part of Project Copperfield now. You damage him without my direct say-so, you're gonna spend the rest of your lives cleaning shitholes at the South Pole. You fuckin got that? Now go take a fuckin seat and pray you haven't scrambled his fuckin brains for good, you douchebags."
Jimmy and Freddy saluted and left without a word.
The Fetishist heard the newcomer sit down on the bench running down the opposite side of the cabin. His nose was running, and when he sniffled he tasted blood in his mouth. He didn't bother opening his eyes yet, because he could pretty much guess what he was going to see: a guy who thought he was intimidating because of his military haircut, overdeveloped physique, and natty black suit.
The man chuckled. "Second sight wasn't in the profile our boys worked up on you."
Irony? That got the Fetishist's attention. He raised his head enough to try to focus on the man across from him. He'd been right about the haircut and the suit, but not about the physique: the new arrival was deeply tanned and thin as a whippet.
"That wasn't second sight, that was just common sense. I know an asshole when I see one. At my age, I should."
The man chuckled again. "Good thing he won't believe you. I'm the guy his wife's cheating on him with. Colonel Davis. My organization would like to ask you a few questions and ask for your help."
"Jesus Christ, I have a whole Zip Code full of people who want that. None of them ever kidnapped me before breakfast and broke my goddamn nose first."
"Hey, I'm really sorry about that. We'll have those boys peeling potatoes in Zimbabwe before the first of the month if you want. Our bad, really. I'm sure you get that we can't go around telling the rank and file what's really going on. They draw conclusions on their own, and let's just say they didn't get where they are in life by bein all that great at drawing conclusions. But don't think of it as kidnapping, just think of it as a private interview. Once we learn what we need to, you'll be dropped home safe and sound. Hell, we'll even buy you breakfast if that's what it takes to make it good."
"Screw that, Colonel Bigshot. I'm not saying jack until I can get cleaned up and get a drink of water or something. Your goon squad beat the hell out of me and I think I'm about to puke." That last part was something the Fetishist added on the spur of the moment as he noticed the plane was in the air and they were steadily climbing. The sun made a row of little bright ovals that marched down the metal deck as they turned to the southeast.
Davis allowed as now that they were en route he didn't think there was much the Fetishist could do to screw things up, and unshackled him. The Fetishist shuffled off to the bathroom, hands and ankles still cuffed, washed off his face, and jammed some tissues into his nostrils to stanch the flow of blood.
With the water still running, he rummaged through the little drawers beneath the sink. They were mostly empty, but he found a few Q-tips and some thread. The old safety decal was peeling off the inside of the door; it had a black backing, and he peeled off as much as he could and shoved the shreds deep in his pocket along with a few scraps of toilet paper.
It wasn't much to work with, but he had a lot more invested in the outcome than he would have had in, say, the safe homecoming of Mrs. Smith's tabby.
He staggered back to his spot on the bench as the plane was buffeted by a little turbulence. Davis didn't frisk him or check his pockets, and he had to repress his grin as the Colonel re-shackled him to the metal bench.
"Feeling better? Get you something to drink?"
"Whiskey."
"Little early for that, isn't it? Not a problem though, you ain't driving anywhere."
Colonel Davis spoke into a mic clipped to his collar, and another man—one the Fetishist hadn't seen before—came back from first-class with one of those little single-serving bottles of Jack Daniels.
"You gonna let me out of these cuffs, or to I have to use my psychic powers to get that bottle open and drink it?"
Davis shrugged and freed the Fetishist's hands. He was still shackled at the ankles and waist, and further restrained by a taut shoulder-belt. But he could have a drink now, and did. After he'd drained the little bottle, he shoved his hands deep in his pockets.
Davis watched him coolly, and shuffled a few papers that were lying on the bench beside him. "We've been watching you for quite awhile now. There aren't many like you."
"Not anymore. We seem to keep disappearing on unscheduled plane trips."
"No. We'd only need a few to tilt the balance. Maybe only one, if he was strong, and a good teacher. Fact is, people who do what you do barely exist anymore. That's why we picked you. You're the best of what's left."
"I guess I'm supposed to take that as a compliment," the Fetishist answered. "If you're gonna sit here blowing smoke up my ass, maybe we should get your goons back here so they can record it for as part of their fetish learning experience."
The Colonel didn't chuckle this time. "Why do they call you Fetishist?"
The Fetishist shrugged. "It's what I am."
The Colonel wouldn't be put off so easily. "Why not wizard, or shaman? Why not witch-doctor?"
The Fetishist shrugged again. He found it masked the slight movement of his hands in his pockets. "Because those things are all mystical, hippie bullshit. I don't wave my hands in the air and burn incense or chant in Latin. I see reality, make it do what I want it to."
"How? Where did you learn it? Who taught you?"
The Fetishist shrugged again as his fingers executed a deft maneuver with a shred of plastic and bit of thread. "Summer camp in the Adirondacks."
"Bullshit, you grew up in Belle Plaine, Illinois. Your file says you never went to summer camp, never had a near-death experience, never camped out on an Indian burial ground or bought a monkey's paw in some creepy antique shop in rural Wisconsin. So where the fuck do you get off doing the things you do?"
"Just have a knack for it. Guy's gotta make a living, and since the layoffs at the plant, what the hell else am I gonna do? You see anyone complaining? Fuck no. People in my part of town don't even lock their doors at night. Divorce rate's a quarter the national average and the cancer rate's a fifth. All the neighbors know is they trade a bottle of whiskey for one of my little dolls and a heart-to-heart about their little problems, and things get better. Far as they even think about it much, they don't even really realize the connection. It's all just the way the universe works."
"The way the universe needs to work is for us to be able to harness this kind of power in tactical situations. We're in a fight for the survival of our country's freedoms and principles and we need all the help we can get. Will you help us out? Or train some of our best operatives so they can do it?"
The Fetishist held the Colonel's gaze for a long moment and then slowly shook his head. "It don't work that way, man."
"Why the hell not? You can work your voodoo, make one of those charms—okay, fetishes, if you insist, you fucking goofy old bastard—and do whatever you want. You control the universe, you said so yourself!"
"It ain't control, more like pinching off a little loop in reality and twisting it so things go different there. It's all little things. Anything too big and it kicks up in your face like a mule. Like, I can't just wish no one dead. Not even to save my own life. That's too big. It's all just teasing and twisting, liitle stuff. Faithful husbands, cats out of trees, burglars scared off."
"You're a better fetishist than you are a liar. We know all about those drownings on your property in the 70's. That was the final piece of the puzzle that led us to pick you." Colonel Davis flipped pages of the dossier and stabbed his finger at an old, grainy photo as if proving some irrefutable point.
The Fetishist let his shoulders slump in defeat. "Okay, okay. Look, I'll give you what you need. Do an old man a favor though and let me up to take a leak first, these fucking benches kill."
Davis looked at him with scorn. "You have to be fuckin kidding me. You wanna be unshackled again? What is this, the Hilton?" The Fetishist just sighed so deeply and mournfully that Davis at last relented. "Fine, go take your piss. But make it count, this is the last time you're getting up til D.C., and it's only because you're gonna help me out here."
The Fetishist stood and shambled back towards the lavatory. Halfway there, he turned back to face Davis. He found his crooked grin again and tried it out despite the throbbing pain it brought from his nose and sore jaw. "Well Colonel, you know what, it does occur to me there's something I could do for you. Wanna see what it is?"
Davis tensed, sensing a trap, then fearing a joke at his expense. Finally he shrugged, mirroring the Fetishist, and fixed him with a skeptical look, one eyebrow cocked. "Please. I'm here because I want to learn as much as I can about how you operate. Just be aware that I have countermeasures."
The Fetishist laughed. "Countermeasures. Touch wood, cross your fingers, throw salt over your shoulder. Okay, I won't try no funny business." He pulled the Q-tips wrapped in black plastic and and a tangled shroud of thread out of his pocket and tossed it onto the floor between them. "Exhibit the first."
The Colonel nudged it with his toe like it was a dead mouse. "What the hell is that supposed to be?"
"That's you, my fine tangled friend. Black suit, see? Lesson one, 'if it looks like, it is'. Magic of association you might call it, if you were a knucklehead college boy."
"What's the thread mean?"
"Ah, you're tangling with fate now. Not very good, I know, but give me some credit, I don't have my tools or my workbench with me. You know, I tie flies for trout-fishing too. You fish at all?"
"Don't have time. Hate seafood anyway." Davis pocketed the crude little stick figure in its halo of twisted thread and looked slightly sick to his stomach. "That ain't too impressive, if that was your escape attempt. Now take your fuckin piss and get your ass in gear here."
The Fetishist shrugged. "No escape attempt. And I think I'm gonna be pissing my pants in about forty seconds anyway, so I'll just skip that latrine visit if it's all the same."
Now Davis was too amused to be outraged. The harmless little fetish had defused his suspicion. He folded his arms over his chest and looked skeptically at the Fetishist. "Now maybe I'm starting to think you're one a them sex perverts after all. What damn fool idea has got in your head, boy?"
"No idea in my head. My reality, out there. Exhibit the Second: the noble Canada goose." The Fetishist pulled his second charm out of his pocket. It wouldn't pass for origami, made as it was out of toilet paper, but it probably be enough to get the job done. He tossed it to Davis as if to help it take flight, but it fluttered weakly and fell to the deck at his feet. Davis laughed wildly.
"Jumpin' Jesus on a Pogo Stick boy, now just what in the holy hell is that supposed to be? I warned you to quit screwin around, now get your stupid ass back here and sit down before I call ol' Jimmy and Freddy back here to shove that fuckin overgrown dingleberry down your throat. Canada goose my ass!"
Davis was halfway out of his seat, moving with menacing purpose, when the entire plane shuddered under an impact from up front. Several more followed in quick succession, and the Fetishist could see flashes of black and grey through the scratched little windows. Smoke began to pour from the starboard engine.
Whatever had happened up at the front of the plane, it didn't sound too pretty, but no one came running back from the cockpit. Davis yelled into his mic, but didn't get an answer. Swearing a blistering torrent, he charged forward and grabbed two of the parachutes on the bulkhead. He tossed one to the Fetishist.
"Put this on, you fucking deviant bastard, I don't know what the fuck you just did but you're gonna spend what little life you got left spilling your guts til we don't fuckin need you no more. This fuckin tin can's gonna nosedive but I ain't goin down with it, not til I bring you in. Keep your goddamn hands where I can see em or I'll fuckin put a bullet in you before we even hit the water."
The Fetishist shrugged again. He didn't need to cover any surreptitious movement this time, but he didn't really have anything to say. He clipped into the chute and waited for Davis to jerk open the emergency exit and clear the doorway.
The whole way down, he was more conscious of Davis screaming curses at him than he was of the glittering deep blue water yawning below him or the slender column of smoke trailing up from the wreckage of the plane.
III.
The fallen leaves tumbled across well-cropped lawns in little eddies of wind. There wasn't anything in particular to distinguish the neighborhood from any other in suburban America, except that the residents found themselves with very little to complain about, memories of their odd week of uncharacteristic trouble and anxiety already fading. A pair of mothers jogging noticed the empty whiskey bottle perched carefully on the porch steps of one particularly unremarkable house, and one of them frowned with the stirring of a vaguely unpleasant memory.
"Did you hear about that plane crash over Lake Michigan the other day?"
"Oh my yes, I heard it flew right through a flock of geese. Killed the pilot and copilot instantly, and choked the engines all up. Just terrible."
"Awful," the first jogger agreed. "You didn't hear what happened to the passengers, did you?"
"Oh, I think there was only one passenger. He had a parachute, but the cords got all tangled around his neck and he drowned before they could rescue him. What a shame."
"Terrible. I'm so glad nothing like that ever happens around here."
"That reminds me, I need to run down to the package store and pick up another bottle of whiskey tomorrow."
User Reviews
Submitted by Circe (user info) at 2008-03-25 11:32:51 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Sometimes I just like to remind myself how god-damned, unfairly good you really are.
Submitted by rob_berg (user info) at 2008-03-12 01:55:06 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
That was LONG, but well worth the effort.
Submitted by Alter (user info) at 2007-09-26 20:27:33 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No, Comment.
Submitted by kaos-king (user info) at 2007-06-04 23:22:14 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by ghola (user info) at 2007-06-04 22:59:01 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Coyote (user info) at 2007-06-04 22:43:23 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
That's cool Spam, I had fun writing it so it's all good.
Submitted by Spam (user info) at 2007-06-04 18:14:30 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
my opponent +2
...and sorry again for totally flaking on this one