Out the eleventh floor window of apartment 1101 the Winter Triangle is visible: Sirius of Canis Majoris, Betelgeuse of Orion, Procyon of Canis Minoris. Although this asterism marks the coldest time of the year, the temperature in Knoxville, even at night, is sweltering. One need merely touch the asphalt or a piece of exposed metal to be harshly reminded of this fact. Yet the heat is dry, a rarity in Knoxville, as if the sands of an ethereal desert, an invisible Sahara expanding beyond all abutments—even dimensional, has coalesced via quantum leap.

An intriguing tableau: seated in a low-lying, blocky vinyl chair in the dimly lit room, lit only by the light from the hallway, is a hulking, swarthy brute of a man smoking a cigarette (contrary to the wishes of the lease-holder) and spinning a Zippo lighter engraved with the initials "BB" in his left hand. The cherry of the cigarette, in the half-dark, resembles an electric stove burner at great distance blinking on and off, illuminating his sunken, black eyes beneath a Neanderthal brow. His head would have been a perfect match for anthropologists in Britain and France during the late 19th Century, fitting every aspect of the criminal element. His pate is covered with a fiercely thick mass of black hair that continues down in great sideburns that appear on the verge of claiming his face in the name of gorillahood. Although one never sees him sweat, steam rises from his body in aery waves. Touching him is anathema—who knows what energies would be conducted? His name is Heph.

Sleeping on the floor, only the top portion of her body visible, obstructed by an identical vinyl chair and the coffee table, is Moira. Petite, cherubic, she has short blonde hair and fair skin. Why she is on the floor is not readily apparent. A bizarre child, or at least childlike woman, being twenty, she goes wherever her fancy takes her, does whatever she pleases, a pixie or sprite floating through the world on a magical, fortunate cloud. Her face is serene, blithe; her dream world must be some Elysium.

And then, in the open doorway, dashing, debonair, lit from behind is Samuel Hain. Dressed in a smart blue suit and black shoes, he sweats not, nor does steam rise from him. Instead he generates cool; he is hypothermic, almost exothermic. Having seen his visitors, he pats his hair to ensure placement. His face is closely shaved. He has good news. After much toiling, laying of plans, tilling the earth, planting the seeds, fighting the insects, etc. etc., he has landed a good job. He wants to tell the world.

"Listen," says Samuel. "After much toiling, laying of plans, tilling the earth, planting the seeds, fighting the insects, etc. etc., I have landed a good job."

"And, oh," adds Samuel, "who are you two and what are you doing in my apartment?"

Heph grunts something inaudible, perhaps (very likely) obscene. One can hardly understand a word the brute says. It is very possible that he is an atavism to an earlier species of homo sapiens, certainly a quadrumanus of some sort, perhaps the missing link!, but doubtful a member of the current human race. Nevertheless, his hand is extended in congratulations.

Samuel studies it as a specimen, declines. "No thanks, I haven’t eaten yet and…well, you know."

Heph lifts himself from the chair, limping to where Moira’s head lay, while Samuel, leaving the door open, moves toward her feet. Standing thusly, Heph inquires the name of the company that hired such a man as Samuel.

"Hyperborei, Inc…" Any elaboration is brought to a halt by Heph’s preemptive guffaw at the name "Hyperborei." Instead Samuel glares at Heph’s cigarette; Heph asks if he would like one.

"I don’t smoke and I don’t care for you, whoever you are, smoking in my apartment." Samuel makes a move as if to approach Heph, rip the offending tobacco product from his lips and heave it out the window. Such action, however, would require a direct proximity to Heph, would possibly even require touching Heph, so Samuel aborts. Comprehending the situation, a thought breaking heroically through his australopithecine skull, actually more a fortuitous primordial instinct firing and connecting epic-like across the chasm between synapses, Heph mockingly holds out the cigarette, taunting Samuel to advance. The two begin revolving around Moira, a gravitational vertex between an eclipsing binary system. Passing the door, Samuel reaches to close it, but there would be no light if it were closed (except for the ape’s cigarette and the distant stars), and the likelihood of snatching a lamp as he passed…unlikely.

Laughing his unnerving, guttural laughter, Heph asks which exit is Samuel’s.

"What do you mean? Where do I get off?" says Samuel. "Where do you get off? Who are you?"
Heph claims Samuel knows him, then inquires for a name.

"Well if you know me, then you know perfectly well what my name is." The revolution continues, but with occasional feints and reversals, almost retrograde motion.

Once more, nigh-incomprehensible, as if each word comes rumbling from some inchoate source that may one day coagulate, clump, clot into something resembling the human brain, Heph admits that he knows the suit’s name but wants to hear him say it.

"Is that why you’re here?" asks Samuel. "To play silly games?"

Heph loves games. Especially silly ones.

"Well I’m not going to play." Samuel freezes.

Heph mirrors him, stubs his cigarette out on the coffee table, eliciting a wince from Samuel. Hobbling, clopping in his snakeskin boots, Heph, menacing, approaches, looms, face three inches from Samuel’s proboscis, Samuel calling, attempting to call Heph’s bluff, holding ground, proving that he is not afraid of the brute. Heat surging forth, an unknown aura of energy waiting to be conducted, raising Samuel’s temperature, setting him equal to…

"Samuel Hain!" he says, retreating rapidly into the cold dark of the room. "Samuel Hain. My name’s Samuel Hain."

Heph allows Samuel his distance, steps back himself, favoring his good leg, and asks where he is now employed.

"Hyperborei, Inc. Uh. Now! By the way, who are you?"

But where does Samuel belong? The revolution recommences, Heph eclipsing Samuel, vice versa. Silence. Only revolving. Moira still in Elysium, perhaps always in Elysium. Heph produces a pack of cigarettes and lights one with the BB Zippo. He offers Samuel one.

"I told you I don’t…"

Heph, again, inquires which exit is his. Is Samuel’s.

"Where do I get off?…"

Where? Where does Samuel belong?

A falling, down and down and down. Decaying structures inhabited by the dead built for one purpose choked with sand devastated by time the ever-increasing sand of that ever-expanding place where only death rules and is worshipped as is the sun that which blazes down relentless. An ineffable, stultifying mirage of one walking in a straight line and ending up again in one’s own footprints to the point of possibly never having left them. And then sinking, sinking, sinking, down and down and down into the death, the wasteland, the sand.

"Could you at least turn a light on so I can close the door? Whoever you are?!"

Heph gestures toward the lamp sitting next to him. Was that the light Samuel meant? Heph grabs the possible luminescence in one hulkish hand, some astronomical predator, and jacks its cord from the outlet still attached, giving forth an animalistic grunt. Again his mantra: which exit is Samuel’s. Which exit and how did he think he could transcend his humble beginnings in…, working for the Forge, and move on to a remuneratively excessive white collar job, when he, Samuel (mockery evident), is equivalently blue collar.

"Look, I worked hard, put myself through school, and now it’s paid off. The fruits of my labor…"

Heph proclaims that there is certainly something fruity in this vicinity.

"Fine! Have it your way. But in a second I will walk over to that phone," gesturing in the dark, "and call the police. Then a judge will hit you with a restraining order. And no matter your jealousy, I will still be employed by Hyperborei and you will be back in…working for the Saqqara Forge," says Samuel.

Heph wonders if that is absolute veracity.

"It is a fact. I will be Samuel Hain, success, and you will be Heph the grunt, shoveler of ashes."

A malevolent smile spread across Heph’s face at the mention of "Saqqara," expanding with the mention of his name. Heph posits that he has ensnared Samuel. Samuel stops cold, holding his ground, Heph hitches closer on his necrotic leg, primitive mind excited, until he reaches an uncomfortable proximity. The steam chokes Samuel as if it were burning sand. The cigarette smoke chokes Samuel as if it were the remnants of the ruling dead, the Thanatryannus. Dauntless, Samuel looks into Heph’s eyes:

"You smell like an armpit."

"Well aren’t you the brightest star in the sky, you mutt," says Heph.

The sniveling pup cowers before Heph. Decked out in some over-priced, too-good-for-the-people monkey suit. Ain’t that a picture? A mutt in a monkey suit. Looks like he’s twelve years old. Afraid to be anywhere near Heph. Near a real man. Won’t even admit he knows Heph. Must’ve tried to block him out. Between them on the floor is Moira. Probably drunk. Probably high. It sure as hell ain’t no act. That’s where all that pixie bullshit comes from anyway. Drugs. Then there’s Heph. Hard as hell, towering over the wuss, leaning on his good leg because his other was fucked up in the sands of Arabia.

Heph moves back for a second.

"Let me get this straight. Your name’s Sam Hain and you just got hired by Hyperborei. Just to make sure my ears ain’t goin’ to shit ‘long with everything else."

The worthless mutt nods yes.

"And you know who I am?"

Blubbers an affirmative.

"Then where you from?"

Whining, crying, chokes out that he’s from Knoxville.

"Then how the hell do you know me if I’m from…? If I belong in…?"

No answer. Which is fine. A man can hardly bear to hear a mutt talk. Heph laughs.

"I know the answer! It’s because you ain’t from Knoxville. And your name ain’t Sam Hain."

The mutt says it is, maybe. Who can tell with all that wailing?

"No, it’s not."

Still says it is.

"You’re name ain’t Samuel Hain! It’s…"

The wussy mutt begs.

"Then where you from?"

Knox…

"Your name…"

No!

"Yes. Your name is Butes Boreas!"

The circle starts back up, only not like it was before. Now it’s more a fleeing on the mutt’s part and a pursuing on Heph’s.

"Yes it is, Butes."

The mutt says nothing.

"Yes…it…is. Your name’s Butes Boreas and you’re from the same place I’m from." They pick up the pace and the stupid dog tries to look where he’s going and at Heph at the same time, so he falls on his ass. Tries to crawl away, but Heph pounces like a hunter who’s got his prey, straddles overtop.

"You ain’t no college boy and you ain’t no businessman. What you are…you’re a conman."

Sniveling and scratching from him trying to crawl away. Heph moves slowly forward, knows he’s got the mangy cur. And when you catch ‘em, you’ve got to rub their nose in it.


"I didn’t know how far it’d go. Now here you are, you’ve gone off and conned yourself. Thought you could get away from your life in… Thought you could escape. But there is no escape. The heat’s on ya now. I’m here. I found ya. Hunted ya down like the dog you are."

Stops crawling, covers his head like a scared little girl. Moira’s tougher than him.

"Oh you signed up for some classes. Only it was too much work. Just like Sa…Saqqara was too much work. So you took our drunken boss’s daughter and conned your way into her, too. And when he came after ya, you conned your way out here—after he dropped you on your fool head."

Head shaking, crying, denying the whole damned thing, repeating his name’s Samuel Hain, repeating he’s reaping his harvest.

"Probably isn’t any such place as Hyperborei. What a fucking name! Who ever heard of it? You made it up, didn’t you?"

Deny.

"Yes, you did. Come on."

Deny.

"You made it up. Ain’t no such place."

Deny.

Heph is close enough to feel the mutt’s chill. Worthless cur goes slack, like some hydraulic press released inside. He comes to. Straightens up. Looks into Heph. Must figure he’s got nothing to lose. Those dead eyes. Saqqara.

A long way down. Enormous tombs. Crumbling, enormous. Dead bodies. Sand. So much sand. Like it could someday swallow up all the water. The sand and the dead bodies. The sun blazing down. On the sand. Armies of corpses walking in their own footprints. Marching. Death’s lieutenants making damned sure you stay in step. Into the sinking, expanding desert.

Heph looks out the window at Knoxville. The mutt says it used to be the capital. The main drag of the whole place. The energy was in the city. Everyone looked to the city. For everything they needed. Wanted. But now the energy had to come from somewhere else. Like a pan needs a burner to be any good at cookin’. Maybe the mutt and Heph belonged in…

They say it together: "Memphis."

Heph spins the BB Zippo lighter in his left hand. The cur pushes himself up. Mumbles something. Who can understand a guy like that? A businessman. A conman. Cold rolls over Heph. That blue suit. Those dead eyes. Hairless. Skinny. Pale. A bear hug from a dog. Never saw it this way.

A contact binary at thermal equilibrium.

Awake, well rested, she pushes herself up using the knees of Big Red (strong, scary) and Whitey (tall, thin, shady), the room smoky from the cigarettes both guys are smoking, Whitey twirling a lighter with his or someone’s initials, sitting on identical fake cow chairs, both feeling the same (except for size), she sees a vast desert, and she doesn’t like the desert, she left the desert and she won’t go back, no one can make her go back, the triangle buildings are just stone, and they’re too spooky, so it was time to go, as it is time to go now, to go outside, to get away from Big Red and Whitey, who are always angry and fighting, so through the door and down the stairs, so many stairs, miles of stairs, and people who all look different, wearing different clothes, speaking different languages that sound like a song with an always-changing rhythm, as if she would find those same triangle buildings at the bottom, but she does not find a triangle, instead a big ball, a golden microphone three hundred feet tall, and she thinks the golden microphone might make loud what will happen to Big Red and Whitey, and to everyone, so she says Big Red will go back to Saqqara to shovel ashes (inhaling ashes from his little white sticks), that Whitey will go to the Horemheb Institute where they will never say the name "Samuel Hain" again, which sounds like how they would say it in a scary movie, then both of them, BigRedandWhitey, Moira hovering above, will sink into the desert, and that Moira, well what will happen to Moira?, she will win the State Lottery and marry a white dwarf, a short little man with white hair, and they will study the stars to find which ones, like Procyon, were happy stars, and which ones were not so happy (and if there were triangles in the sky that was okay because they were alive, unlike the dead triangles in that bad place), but that they—Moira and her husband—will never again go to Memphis, they will never again see the dead triangles, the Philosopher’s Circle, or the sand. And this is the future which reverberates through the speakers of time spoken into the big gold microphone—for the future is Moira.