| About the Author |
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A few of Paul A. Toth's credits include Exquisite Corpse, The Barcelona Review, Eleven Bulls and Pif. He is also an Assistant Fiction Editor for Small Spiral Notebook. King's Gambit is his second short story in Nuvein. Poughkeepsie, Nigeria was his first..
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Who wanted to kill me? Ah, there were many candidates.
That gray morning, as I walked to the bus station for a ride to Boulder, I saw a man in a flaptop hat loitering under a tree, the smoke from his Lucky Strike ribboning -- it could be him, since an assassin would, it seems to me, smoke Lucky's, or, conversely, maintain a staunch purity of habit. (The latter would pose a steely exterior, perhaps emulating an aluminum-skinned superhero. The former, however, favors squalor -- pornographic magazines, whiskey and prostitutes, and is altogether obsessed with illness and bodily functions (see footnote 655 to dream 206A-301-09891).)
Such was this character, who singled me out with a coded stare -- if I should pick up the signal, interpret it correctly, my panicked expression would lead to a poison dart in my spleen.
I owed a scofflaw money, you see, for a gambling debt.
He remained behind me as I sat on the bench, and when I stepped onto the bus, sure enough I heard the sordid mud plopping from his boots. The filthy bastard coughed and hacked. (The phlegmatic, choking on their own bodies, take as many as they can into their spiralling deterioration.)
I sat in the back, squeezing myself between several people, but the shameless pig tailed me and forced himself between a pole and a fat Romanian woman, further gaining an edge by remaining on his feet. He attempted to engage the woman in conversation. I noted that she did not reply and instead checked her fingernails. The nails were jagged.
Now he looked my way. I wanted to stuff that hat in his ass. He looked foolish; it would be embarrassing to be killed by him. He appeared drunk as well. Possibly, I could turn the tables, but they would catch up with me and it would be worse for me in the end. (My theory: the assassins possessed degrees of sadism rising with each rebuff to their employers; thus, I had a merciful end in store, my tab, I think, totalling $2,219.59 for a bet placed six months before. It would be self-flagellating to crank the wheel another revolution (see my pamphlet entitled "Circles of Torture") (published by Kinko's, 1994).)
Goddamn it, how had I involved myself in such an absurd and illogical chase? Had I not calculated, with imbecilic precision, that numbers simply did not align themselves in a manner favorable to me? Yes, yes, but still I insisted, each time owing more and more, until it came to this, a showdown between me, an unarmed debtor, and this puerile fantasist who would never make it in the CIA or any other legitimate but shadowy organization? Stalking me with crumbs in his beard, a debauched leopard prowling and farting, weakened from inactivity, capable only of a slow and clumsy kill, his rotten teeth falling out with each bite, a clown's murder complete with honking horns and red noses, goddamn it!
I looked over and muttered, "Double or nothing, what do you say?"
He grinned no.
Perhaps his answer was ill-considered, or merely un-considered. I tugged at his spotted coat. "What gives?" I asked. "Honor amongst thieves, right?"
"I'm no thief," he said, his voice grainy from lard.
"No... assassin," I said, though I whispered it, being, yes, essentially a coward.
Now, another 20 minutes of silence. The impossibility of patience.
Not so long ago the identity of my murderer had been as yet unsolvable -- nature, another man, or my own hands -- now, that mystery neared the end of its pages and I, being particularly un-entertained by the story, began to resent the plot, the characters (victim and perpetrator alike), and retained only the most biologically ingrained mood of suspense -- what did I care who killed me? I had long ago lost sympathy with myself. Fear, yes, I still had that, in spades, but by Christ, author of my mystery, I needed a rewrite.
Had I learned anything? Once my gambling had a purpose. Odds on most everything are 50/50, the going rate, they say, but what does that prove? That this can happen, and that can happen, and without shove or lift we careen like pinballs? I couldn't believe it. And so, I went on a quest, by gambling to prove, without a doubt, once and for all, whether God existed. I was a dice rolling philosopher.
It became my fixation, each bet tallying up one way or the other, every win a proof of God's existence, every loss a doubt. A string of bad luck long enough would demonstrate my utter unsalvageability -- given I would thus not only be broke but more verifiably out of luck on the savior front too. If I were to grow rich, on luck alone, well, then, the crown was mine, I a noble prince under the rule of the King, hello.
But not every calculation is rooted in a viable mathematical equation, and after many months of escalating doubts (aka debt), crownless, hunted by the likes of this leprous beast, I began to rethink that equation. Surely, I soon realized, I must admit that the will, the morale and temperament of every player and every horse skewed the odds, that those defeated before a match began, by despondency or a poor breakfast, or even faulty genetics -- and, vice versa, those prodigiously gifted, too -- painted illusions poorer and richer than a worldwide accounting would prove the balance of the scales to truly be. It remained a matter unsolvable by the performance of man or animal, plastic or metal, and remained stubbornly incalculable, secret.
I went back to my usual way, placing that last bet for the hell of it.
Now my stop approached. The gray had spread its curtains and the sun shone -- surely he wouldn't brutalize me now. He might only be summing me up, devising the proper method for my height and weight.
He indeed followed me as I made my way past the various shops. The son of a bitch didn't even bother muffling his footsteps, the click-click picking my brain, Morse code for kill. I walked and walked, suddenly remembering why I had come to Boulder -- to lose myself in the crowd, to forget the entire business. I looked for the clowns and the pantomimes and the bongo players, who usually just annoyed me, but they had revengefully stayed home for the day due to the cold.
The light tunnelled around me then whistled straight through my ears. For a moment, I felt purged, baptized.
But then, yes, he was upon me, and I fell again as everyone must. It was language that did it, that and my own goddamned thoughts that the language gave voice to and then unleashed upon my nervous system, my organs, my fucking soul, signalling this and that, without traffic lights or any other restraint of civilization, manic and animalistic.
I could see it everywhere, but especially, now, in him. I turned as he pretended to slide past me. I grabbed his arm and squeezed, crumbs and cockroaches spilling out of his mouth.
"Listen to me, you mangy fucking bastard," I muttered. "I know what you're up to. I know your secret. I know the secret of everything."
"Ah, leave me alone," he said, shaking his arm free.
"But don't you want the money?" I asked.
"What money? I don't want your goddamned money."
"That's right, you don't want it, but somebody does, isn't that it?"
"Somebody always does. Now leave me alone -- I'm late for an appointment."
"I am your appointment, if memory serves. Have you forgotten? Or am I second on the list today?"
Finally, he grabbed my arm. I had to remember: patience, patience... I was second on the list. Assassins have schedules, with appointments and meetings, lunchbreaks, coffee. Besides, now I knew; I'd seen the first physical hints of the ugliness inside, the way he grabbed my arm.
"All right, all right," I said. "Don't strike me here. Go on your merry way. I'll be waiting."
"Stay out of my way," he said and pushed off, moving like a bearded ship toward his destiny.
I had unmasked him, yes, and better yet could now prepare. Had I brought -- ah, yes, there it was.
Who could say now what was self-defense, or if any were ever justifiable in their violence, or stranger still, if all were, from the most calculated to the most random to the most patriotic to the most idiotic -- YET! -- everyone abandoned by You to their thoughts and their words, which could convince them of anything at all, even something so, in retrospect, asinine as believing the existence of God could be proven or disproved by untoward good or bad luck. Laugh, now, go ahead, but it made a lot of sense, as much as this moment or any other interpreted by a half-assed reason or, worse still, romantic notions. I could look up at the moon and see an eyeball on Tuesday and a testicle on Thursday. So fucking what? Could I measure the distance, count the rocks, name the craters and still see a giant gallstone? Or the glowing face of a princess?
To shut off my running mind I fixed it on habits. To lull the ceaseless ideation I unearthed methods and patterns where sometimes none existed, yet many had proven true or, at least, beautiful.
But now, back to my body:
My toes were numb, my nose itched, I had a cramp in my calve. Still I'd managed to stay in sight of the executioner. I walked in time to the words, probably appearing to dance or stagger.
Where was he going? Where would the first one die? In an elevator shaft? Pushed face first into an escalator? A shoe store? Sea shell emporium?
Everything glittered, silver, reflecting. My "friend" sailed along as the yellow pages unfolded across the sidewalks and alleys. I hurried behind, convinced I was invisible, though doubtless he would have ignored me had I walked stepping on his heels -- for some reason the sequence of the murders was inordinately important to him. So, we had something in common. Perhaps we could have a little chat as my blood oozed out -- "Oh, you, too?"
It was then, as he went inside a "324 Parker Building," that I thought of the other possibility. But would good would it do? It didn't get at the source of the problem. Not a deep enough root, that. And where would I throw it? And would I be able to eat? Could I even cut through it, all the way, or would it require a sawing motion, which no coward like myself could sustain? And how humiliating it would be to go to the hospital and say, "Hi hink hi hut hi hounge hoff"?
There was nothing to do but wait here until he was finished, then quietly walk together to the place where the scuffle would ensue. Curious, I peeked inside the door and saw a small entry area where usually a security guard or desk clerk would be found, and a winding staircase. I saw no plaque either inside or outside. It was the kind of place a well-to-do prostitute might live and it was more than possible it might actually be one he planned to kill.
I tested the door, which was unlocked. When I stepped inside, a sterile, nose-tickling odor greeted me. I left the door ajar and moved as silently as possible toward the staircase, which I climbed halfway before seeing a sign on a door that said:
MOKBEL HASSAN, M.D.
Urology
I crept out, again leaving the door open, and wondered if my fortunes have changed, for surely a urologist wouldn't be mixed up in anything like the kind of business my sort enjoys. To be sure, though, I located the nearest convenience store, asked the clerk for a telephone book, found the "U" section, ran my finger down the page and read:
MOKBEL HASSAN, M.D.
Urology
But then, below that, in finer print:
"Specializing in the Discreet Treatment of Impotence"
Another mystery solved, and yet a new one began, for if not this man, then who was it looking for me? Whose presence did I sense shadowing me, and why did I always mistake the source of the foreboding?
As I continued walking back to the bus station, I noticed the temperature was warming, and the clowns and the pantomimes and the bongo players were taking their places, lining the street, and the tourists and shoppers were crowding the sidewalks. I began to find myself lost in their midst and wondered how much of what I felt to be true had any relevance to my survival, and suddenly realized I would never, ever know.
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