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Cicada-Man: Chapter 9

            It took Mrs. Tolkien about a minute to remove her hands from her son’s back. The TV kept emitting a hazy blue over the edge-curling yoga mat in front of it. “So have they gotten back to you.”

            “Not since the report, no. They’ll call me.” David slumped into an orange recliner with a white tag still on it, and floated his gray jacket on top of him.

            “How’d you get back?” she asked softly.

            “Hid in the bathroom.”

            At the wobbling copper lamp upright against an inherited icebox, she knelt, “I knew this would be a bad idea. We’ll get you a new position, don’t worry.”

            “I could have stuck with it this time,” directed David to the dim dining room light ahead and away, as he rubbed his eyes. “It wasn’t all bad.”

            Mrs. Tolkien scratched her hood of hair. “You know Grandpa was in the minor leagues, right?”

            David nodded.

            “Well, he saw I was getting restless in the house, and Mom wanted peace and quiet again. We went to a big field so he could toss a ball.”

            With a head turn and little smile, David pointed out, “He didn’t even like T-stands back then.”

            “Right, right! So anyway, I was swinging away, and laughin’ at his little jokes, and he’s used to pitchin’ for dudes twice my size. I spent most of my afternoon in that stick car, crying and holding my nose. But I’ll never forget that he put his arm on me and said, ‘Well, was worth a try, ain’t it?’

            Now I did a lot of sports in high school, like you did, but never baseball. Yet I still got out of the house for one day, and I’m glad for it. So it was worth a try for you too, honey, and we’ll just try something new.”

            David brought his chin to collar and looked away.

*

            A chime echoed through the encased light.

            “Back again?” asked the shaved head above neon green and blue.

*

O1MEK8138 at l:38 AM May 25th, 2011

Say what you will about this guy, but he obviously has a genuine desire to improve his comnnunity aat least this is a private citizen wrokgin to help people and not some infefficeint and vloated government program THIS WORLD NEED MORE SUP HEROS

LANDSHARKCANTSTOP at 12:39 PM May 25th, 2011

This guy has issues, pure and simple. He's about as normal as Jake Brown in Harlem

Backinyoface33 at 9:46 PM May 25th, 2011

CCs got no life heard he wants to be called Cicadaman now or some shit. Saw some little fatsass trailing behind him. Mayne he wants a kiss ;)

            David closed the laptop with a snap, and could finally see ‘3:12’ in bright red between thick books. He stretched his neck back and groaned, hands on head. The greasy bag of sleeping aid was empty long ago, its crumbs still surrounding the clutter of passed-along articles on the desk, and he had cleared his browser history since at least around midnight. Yet vinegar-soaked eyes could still stare at the flopped jeans and shirt hanging over the chair. His pocketknife tight at hand, he remembered that before any of this, before May ended and a brown stranger fell before him, that David Tolkien wanted to die.

            He began hyperventilating and squeezing out relief tears. In the pile next to pass-alongs, there was a playbill of a distant friend, for a play that did discuss the ramifications of inhaling a plastic bag. He reached to the plastic 7-11 carrier as the heat from his belly faded, and dragged it over a pile of University of Illinois letters, topped by the last grade report he’ll ever see.

            He lifted his head and put it on faster than thought. It fluttered a rhythm, a little flap inside bouncing around. Already, his head was woozy.

            After a while, he began tapping his fingers, beginning to wonder if he would die or just kill more brain cells. He couldn’t see much from his phone now except a blinding blur. With palms out, he waited, still not falling asleep.

            Something in bright red shifted past his gaze. His stomach became tighter, and he dug his heels into the dry ripples of sheets. He closed his mouth and took in plastic, tightening sore joints just as his fingers reached the bag. His heart kept.

            Without thought, he threw the plastic bag to his side, convulsing. Now he could break into sobs, could lie on his hip and throw his sticky fists into his knees over and over. Still minutes later, he whispered, “I’ll do it.”

            There were 2 knocks below. He looked up: ‘3:15’. He tightened his eyes shut, and could see a dark ball of spikes in the midst of dancing colors. Rolling face-first on a dead pillow, he waited with churning stomach, thinking through fog. He only lifted his head minutes later, to a ‘plink!’ from ahead. Behind the thick glass within arm’s reach, there was a hole in the screening and stirring in the branches. He climbed over the bed’s smooth back and wrenched open a grating window to pick up a sharp white ball. The pebble inside quickly fell into David’s palm, and the unfolded paper read, “Your friend is not earlier.”

            David looked below. On the dirt path with stones jutting out, between ferns and thin plants dancing around one pine tree, a thin creature in trenchcoat stood before waving its arm rapidly.

            He quickly threw the jeans over him, one leg at a time, as he hopped down the carpeted stairs and unclicked the door before throwing it open.

            A rod arm was already in David’s face, pinching a small metal ball of blue. “Mr. Morality would like his money first, mister,” said the thin man.

            David took a glance upstairs first before attuning a damp t-shirt and stammering out, “I got home way after the banks closed, so, so could I have a trial period or something?”

            “One day. He will arrive soon.”

            “Hey,” David reached his hand out, “Any side effects I should know about?”

            “For this one, he won’t remove mask. Other than that, they tend to wear black.”

*

            Cicada-Man knocked gently on the door again. Shaking the dewdrops from his mop hair, David leaned towards the edge of the bush. The lanky man on the creaking porch shook his head rapidly a few times, then bent on one knee.

            David took deliberate steps towards his grey house, with pauses for each rustling of grass blade. One creamy car zoomed past him in a race against strong headlights. With so many clouds, everything was blue. He clutched the stiff ball with vibrating fists for each vibrating step, but halted at the bottom of glazed steps.

“…guard over them with every care and make their way easy and their labours fruitful. Dry their tears if they weep; sanctify their joys; raise their courage if they weaken; restore their hope if they lose heart, their health if they be ill, truth if they err, repentance if they fail.

Guardian Angel, watch over those whose names you can read in my heart. Guard over them with every care and make their way easy…”

            The first dirty shoe and creak on the step did not stop Cicada-Man’s lips, but paused David. He bit his own lip and gazed at the hunched lump in front of him as his legs began to melt. But with each prayer and gust of wind, David’s muscles tightened, and a chilled air shot his nostrils before he beat his legs up the stairs and slammed the ball into Cicada-Man’s prickly brown mask.

            Cicada-Man used his recoil to sweep at David’s leg, but could only twist on the ground as David stood firm with strained neck. The vigilante’s nose was turning purple from red.

            “David Tolkien, why-"

Copyright (C) 2013 by Nick Edinger

Cicada-Man: Chapter 8

She led him a block down to a squatting home with rattling shingles and flacking paint. With a twist in her hand, the lady (who began to look more as a man each minute) brought out a key and placed it in a garage’s lock before grabbing a loose handle and cracking it open with one hand. With the other, she beckoned David down inside.

            The only path illuminated by a white lantern was a hole with deep and wet stairs inside, with a large plywood hunk next to it. Once David hopped down that hard flight, the path opened up to an underground warehouse, stacked with clear boxes of wires and plugs to a ceiling only a foot above David. He could see an endless parade of junk and workbenches ahead, but the thin lady-man marched ahead and turned right. David followed, and brushed up against a line of people in casual black clothing snaking past and walking up towards the garage.

            “You are cautious in places of strife, Gunvor,” he said as David swatted away the black smoke and smell trailing from one of the rooms.

            “I’m David.”

            “Gunvor means cautious in places of strife, aren’t you?”

            The copper and red pipe maze over their heads slanted down, so David and the thin leader had to lower their necks as they approached a heavy door leaning on an angle. After catching a glimpse, however, David turned to face a child with pushed-back shoulders and a tight grip on his dirty door staring up at him. Other children shifted through piles of kid toys and magician boxes, all in pieces, within the room, each one moving with limp, slow arms. The door slammed in David’s face. With a hand on the concrete wall opposite the children’s room, he approached the open portal ahead to a room lit only by the bright computer obscured by a smooth, dark-brown chair in front of it.

            “And how is your day today, Mr. Morality?” asked the thin one, the edges of her lips pushed up.

            “I’m on my break!”

            David could almost hear the cotton balls in the chair man’s voice.

            “I brought a new friend for us today, Mr. Morality. Yes I did. He wants to know about your invention.”

            There was a dry clump of faint-black hair in the thing that turned his head to the left. “The pamplets’re over there.”

            To the left was a desk with several knots in it. The thin one pulled out a thick, flopping piece of paper and handed it to David, who walked to the bare bulb outside the room before looking at it.

MY MORALITY CHIP

By Mr. Morality

Thank you for expressing interest in the product. I will teach, however, a history lesson first.

I began with the concept that applying a Transcranial Magnetic Simulation (TMS) to the right temporoparietal junction (RTPJ) of the brain. My experiment positioned a TMS to volunteers as I presented four situations to them. Each test consisted of Josh firing a gun at Chauncey. In the first case, Josh used real bullets and knew so. In the second, Josh used real bullets, but thought he was using blanks and merely giving fright. In the third, Josh used blanks and knew so. In the fourth, Josh used blanks, but did not think he was.

With the magnets in place by the test subject’s RTPJ, the volunteer judged the third and fourth trial as the only morally acceptable outcomes. TMS, placed correctly, made it difficult to factor in Josh’s intention to kill in fourth test, even though volunteers would include that in decision-making otherwise.

This discovery has led to the creation of my business, the most fascinating one of the twenty-first century. Our capacity has grown in that time. Instead of a metal double lollipop emitting the pulsating magnetic field, we have condensed it down to a gumdrop-sized device that will glue itself to hair. Supplemental technologies have allowed us to move beyond just blocking intention; we can define in the mind what harm is, or even what permissible is, now.

Prices are set depending on the requirements. Thank you for joining this grand experiment.

            The thin one snatched the paper from David once his eyes got to ‘experiment.’ Her wet breath came out in short spurts.

            “So, is this for me, or-“

            “If you like it. It could also be for your friend Pericles,” said the thin one.

            David began scratching the side of his leg. “Don’t get me wrong, your product is great. Really changes everything. But I don’t want my friend to stop what he’s doing. Actually, can this thing erase homophobia?”

            “Easy. Only challenge would be if he stumbled into the sex itself.”

            “Ok, that’s a start. And I want him to give me shorter hours, so, would that increase what he considers harm, or what?”

            “We will do the design ourselves.”

            “Ok then. I’ll just come back when-“ David had turned around back to the thick, unpainted door that was slammed in his face.

            The thin one approached his side. “The price is five-hundred.”

            “It’s not,” whispered David. He turned to the lady, “I can’t. I’m sorry, it’s a question of practices.”

            “The littles are satisfied with their pay. We took under wings what none wanted.”

            David inched away from her, yet he leaned in closer.

            “If you don’t want chip, another will take your place. But you know we call ourselves ‘experiment,’ not ‘business.’ All we want, besides seeing your friend react, is enough to keep us going. And if you really want to help Pericles, who else can?”

            She stood straight. “We will leave next time you arrive. If you want the chip, however, I’ll wait for you. Always.”

*

            Cicada-Man was rapidly pacing between the buildings once David had returned.

            “Are you ready?”

            “Yes! Yes.” Cicada-Man covered his mouth after barking out the first answer. “My apologies. It is good to see you, Sir David Tolkien.”

            As they began walking towards the city again, David turned to his wrinkled master and asked, “What’s happened?”

            “I wish not to discuss it. It does not do well to complain,” averred Cicada-Man as he pulled and straightened his scratchy mask. “It does not concern you, if that helps.”

            “Oh good.”

            Once they passed another auto-repair shop, David asked his employer if he could have shorter hours.

            “Whatever for?”

            “Well, I’m just tired. Younger people need their sleep, and I just haven’t been getting any.”

            “David Tolkien, you have taken this calling, for good or ill, as your own. I am saddened that you find it taxing, but to give in now would brand you a weakling and a coward. Do you wish that?”

            David brought his elbows tight into his ribs. “No. I suppose I don’t want to be called that.”

*

            By the time they arrived at the glow of the stairway leading to the underground trains, David’s blood was struggling to seep through him. He rubbed his eyes under the stinging fluorescents.

            Cicada-Man reached out for another handshake, his other hand patting out beer stains with a dirty paper towel all the while. “We have done well again, Sir David Tolkien. Tomorrow, I will arrive a tad earlier, as we must fit in time for Mass.”

            “I- alright.”

            A heard of loud friends brushed into the peeling spray-paint of the vigilante’s costume as he strode out the door. Down the escalator, David rested, not opening his eyes until he put his hands to pockets and felt how empty they were.

Copyright (C) 2013 by Nick Edinger

The Greatest Villains: Act II, Scene XI

I’ve reached a predicament. As I’ve said before, the jukebox musical interpretation will be scrapped. However, I really don’t see a way to replace the song I already have here. If you could add suggestions in your comments, that’d be great.

Scene XI

Spot goes on someone dressed like Moses (RAMSES II), who’s holding up a pair of sandals and wears a long beard over heavy stage makeup. The Dire Straits song “Twisting by the Pool,” plays from 0:00.

RAMSES II: Hi, I’m Moses, and I’m happy to present our newest product: the water-walk shoes! After years of guarding the family secret, I’ve decided to share with you how I escaped Pharaoh Ramses the Second across the Red Sea! Simply put on these shoes and you can walk across any sea, Red to Dead! Don’t tell Jesus, though… he might not like the competition! Only $19.66! Call 1-800-867-SHOE today!

He walks out of the spotlight, Music fades out.

VOICEOVER: We now return you to our regularly scheduled program.

NOAH, with a pinned-on Star Trek badge, walks into the spotlight. “To Boldly Go,” from the movie ‘Star Trek’ plays.

NOAH: Land: the desired frontier. These are the voyages of the ark known as Enterprise. Its forty-day mission: to explore strange new waves, to seek out new life and new civilizations… to boldly go… wherever that dove tells us to go.

At this time, “To Boldly Go” should transition smoothly into “End Credits” from the same movie. Two STAGEHANDS bring in a sign that reads ‘ARK TREK” in clear letters. After an appropriate amount of time, the lights go up to full to reveal a film studio (at least 10 people) and the music fades out.

DIRECTOR: Ok, that’s a wrap! Good job everyone, let’s catch some ‘z’s!

People begin to disperse. Most people in the studio go to hang out with NOAH, who’s walking calmly off of the stage. THREE FANS approach RAMSES II, who’s carelessly throwing away the water-walk shoes.

FAN 1: Excuse me, Mr. Moses?

FAN 2: Can we have your autograph?

FAN 3: We really like your ads.

RAMSES II: (dry, not caring) Go away, kids. I’m not Moses, I’m just miserable on TV.

THE THREE FANS walk away, dejected. The party (SOLOMON, JC, GOLIATH, MARTHA, PILATE, and JUDAS) approach RAMSES II.

PILATE: I was going to ask for an autograph, but I don’t think that’ll work. (Does a politician’s handshake with RAMSES II) Pontius Pilate, at your service.

RAMSES II moves his hand and looks away.

JUDAS: We have no time to dance around the issue. The name’s Bond, Judas Bond. We know you’re really Ramses, the adopted brother of Moses. That’s why you’re trapped impersonating him… you know how he acts and looks.

RAMSES II: Second.

JUDAS: Yes?

RAMSES II: Second. Ramses the Second. That’s very important.

JUDAS: Regardless, we have an offer for you.

He pulls RAMSES II aside and starts to have a silent conversation with him.

GOLIATH: Have I mentioned I am truly sorry about my stunt? Because I am.

MARTHA: Only ten times today, buddy. Sorry if I shouted before. Just smile already. (To JC) Are you sure Ramses is on the list? We can’t really double-check anymore.

JC: No worries! I memorized what I needed ta the moment I found it back there.

JUDAS stops talking and pulls back, waiting for an answer.

RAMSES II: …ok.

JUDAS: Really? No hoops you want us to go through?

RAMSES II: I don’t trust you yet. But I don’t like my job.

JUDAS: Likewise.

JC: Brilliant! We’re nearly done, we just have ta wait for Solomon ta…

SOLOMON is suddenly thrown onstage and lands on the floor. EVE, a girl with long hair and organic clothing, steps out onstage after him.

EVE: Do you hate me? Do you? Solomon, this is the final straw!

SOLOMON: But Eve, darling… there’s no denying what had happened before in the Garden…

EVE: Oh really? (Inspects group) So where’s Adam?

SOLOMON: …Adam?

EVE: That’s right. Adam! When’s the last time you read my story? Right there in Chapter 3, Verse 6: “So she took some of the fruit and ate it. She also gave some to her husband who was with her, and he ate it.”

SOLOMON: Look, you’re right. He should be on the list. But the issue is…

EVE: The issue is if I’m going to help you. And, for the hundredth and final time, Solomon, no means no. I guess the restraining order isn’t enough.

She storms out. SOLOMON is on his knees at this point, nearly frozen. GOLIATH approaches him and puts his hand on his shoulder.

GOLIATH: I am sorry you had to bear that, but there is no reason to fret. Five out of six is not bad.

SOLOMON doesn’t respond.

JC: C’mon.

The party begins to leave until SOLOMON speaks.

SOLOMON: She was right. She really knew me.

MARTHA: What did she tell you?

SOLOMON: She said that I was a worse betrayal to God than she was.

PILATE: Solomon, if this is about those attack ads my constituents have run-

SOLOMON: All true. I’m the villain in many people’s stories. I have been worshipping other gods, hoping one of them would give me more of what I craved. I’ve hurt people- especially Eve. And for what? So I can lie back, relax, and forget the crimes needed to lie back like that? …I’m glad I gave it all up. I was never a king to begin with.

“Viva la Vida,” by Coldplay, plays. Lights go down and fill the stage with blue. Spot on center stage SOLOMON.

SOLOMON: I USED TO RULE THE WORLD…

         SEAS WOULD RISE WHEN I GAVE THE WORD.

         NOW IN THE MORNING I SLEEP ALONE,

         SWEEP THE STREETS I USED TO OWN.

         I USED TO ROLL THE DICE,

         FEEL THE FEAR IN MY ENEMY’S EYES,

         LISTEN AS THE CROWD WOULD SING,

         “NOW THE OLD KING IS DEAD! LONG LIVE THE KING!”

         ONE MINUTE I HELD THE KEY,

         NEXT THE WALLS WERE CLOSED ON ME

         AND I DISCOVERED THAT MY CASTLES STAND

         UPON PILLARS OF SALT AND PILLARS OF SAND.

         I HEAR JERUSALEM BELLS ARE RINGING,

         ROMAN CAVALRY CHOIRS ARE SINGING…

         BE MY MIRROR, MY SWORD AND SHIELD,

         MY MISSIONARIES IN A FOREIGN FIELD

         FOR SOME REASON I CAN’T EXPLAIN,

         ONCE YOU GO THERE WAS NEVER,

         NEVER AN HONEST WORD…

         AND THAT WAS WHEN I RULED THE WORLD

         IT WAS THE WICKED AND WILD WIND

         BLEW DOWN THE DOORS TO LET ME IN,

         SHATTERED WINDOWS AND THE SOUND OF DRUMS…

         PEOPLE COULDN’T BELIEVE WHAT I’D BECOME.

         REVOLUTIONARIES WAIT

         FOR MY HEAD ON A SILVER PLATE.

         JUST A PUPPET ON A LONELY STRING…

         OH WHO WOULD EVER WANT TO BE KING?

         I HEAR JERUSALEM BELLS ARE RINGING,

         ROMAN CAVALRY CHOIRS ARE SINGING…

         BE MY MIRROR, MY SWORD AND SHIELD,

         MY MISSIONARIES IN A FOREIGN FIELD

         FOR SOME REASON I CAN’T EXPLAIN,

         I KNOW SAINT PETER WON’T CALL MY NAME.

         NEVER AN HONEST WORD…

         BUT THAT WAS WHEN I RULED THE WORLD.

SOLOMON looks down, pitiful and downtrodden. PILATE enters the spotlight, and slowly, eventually puts his hand on his shoulder to comfort him. During this, JUDAHITES form two lines on either side of the stage and hold up lit flashlights as a salute to SOLOMON. As the JUDAHITES sing the “o-o-whoa-o-oooooooooo-o”s, JUDAS, GOLIATH, MARTHA, RAMSES II, and JC each approach individually and do the same as PILATE did. SOLOMON looks as if a great weight has been lifted from him.

SOLOMON: I HEAR JERUSALEM BELLS ARE RINGING,

         ROMAN CAVALRY CHOIRS ARE SINGING…

         BE MY MIRROR, MY SWORD AND SHIELD,

         MY MISSIONARIES IN A FOREIGN FIELD

         FOR SOME REASON I CAN’T EXPLAIN,

         I KNOW SAINT PETER WON’T CALL MY NAME.

         NEVER AN HONEST WORD…

         BUT THAT WAS WHEN I RULED THE WORLD.

THE JUDEAN CHORUS hums out the final “oooooooo-ooooooooo-oooooooo-oooooooo”s as the spot dims out. End scene.

Copyright (C) 2013 by Nick Edinger