to the dining room. Our meals were already served up on our plates. The room was poorly lit and smelled spicy—like Mr. Pash, only stronger. I guessed that Mr. Pash probably did not entertain often.
As I detailed my concerns, Mr. Pash listened closely, chewing at his stringy cut of meat. Mr. Pash was a fine employer, but a poor chef. The meat was tough and flavorless and the vegetables were overcooked. I was nervous, so I drank my wine rather quickly.
“I am so glad you decided to share your thoughts with me, Roger,” he said. “I see that it is time to tell you more about myself. I hope you will not mind, Roger. You are a very special person in my life. Am I special to you?”
“You are the best boss I ever had,” I said. With a sigh, I downed a second glass of wine.
“The store satisfies more than just my financial needs, Roger.” Mr. Pash leaned closer. “Do you believe in magic, Roger? Not the kind with rabbits in tophats. Not the kind with pentagrams and candles. Do you know what I’m talking about?”
I thought for a moment, but nothing came to mind. “You’ll have to spell this matter out for me, Mr. Pash. Certainly I’ve had too much wine.”
“Too much? You haven’t had enough.” Mr. Pash refreshed my drink. I suddenly noticed that he wore a lavish ring on his pinky. A woman’s cocktail ring.
Mr. Pash followed my stare. “Do you like my ring? I took it from Bernard earlier this evening.”
“You took it from him?” I blinked like a fish as I drained my third glass. “Why did you take it from him?”
“He no longer needed it. I think I can use these stones…” Mr. Pash shrugged. “But we were discussing the different kinds of magic. Crowley came close to the truth, but he relied too heavily on ritual. The best sort of magic—the most potent—is the kind you make up as you go along.”
I found that I couldn’t stop blinking. “Could we return to the topic of Bernard? Is he all right?”
“No, he is not all right.” Mr. Pash shook a blizzard of salt over his filet. “In fact, he tastes perfectly awful.”
I rose very slowly from my seat and walked around the room, looking for the door. It was not to be found.
Mr. Pash watched me with his head cocked to one side. “I want you to be my disciple, Roger. I hope I haven’t alarmed you. Would you like some more wine?” He rubbed his new pinky ring against his stubbly chin. “Join the new Order of Uranus. Consider it a promotion, if you like. That may make it seem less threatening. Less like a religious endeavor and more like a business proposition. What do you say, Roger?”
* * * *
In the basement of the narrow house, Mr. Pash showed me the four magic VHS players, the four magic DVD players, and the eight magic televisions. By this time I was halfway through my fourth bottle of wine. Mr. Pash had several excellent vintages in his larder.
He explained to me that special copies of the store’s top-renting movies had been instilled, through a series of complex rituals, with his own living essence. These mad dollops of his soul absorbed mental energy from our renting gentlemen. Mr. Pash would then take the movies and transfer the accumulated energy from the cassettes and DVDs into the magic televisions. The power built up so far was truly incredible: the merest spark had been used to persuade Mr. Trisk, with remarkable results.
Of course, Mr. Pash was correct—about magic, that is. You have to make it up as you go along. My employer handed me an urn. Her name had been Spoon, so I used a spoon to insert her ashes into the magic players. We then plucked the diamonds from the cocktail ring and tossed those into the players as well.
“Are you sure this won’t hurt the machines?” I said. I picked up a cassette, looking vainly into its little windows for some sign of Mr. Pash’s magic essence. “Mr. Spoon used to mix Holy Water with the ashes.”
“You needn’t worry. Our purpose is holy, Roger,” Mr. Pash said, removing his shoes and socks. He started to unbutton his shirt. “Are we not preparing for a wedding?”
I pushed the cassette into its slot. Soon all of the tapes and DVDs were in place.
I looked into Mr. Pash’s eyes. It had been his generosity, his royal largesse, that had convinced me to follow his path. I knew that once the new way was in order, I would be rewarded handsomely.
“Mrs. Spoon, Wanton and Licentious One,” I intoned, making up the words, “rejoice: from this moment on, you shall be known as Gaea, the Earth Mother. Prepare to receive the seed of Uranus, the Sky Father.” Mr. Pash removed the last of his clothes. His flabby body was a miracle of the grotesque; shallow, ribbonlike grooves covered every inch of his abdomen and legs.
“From this union shall spring Titans,” I cried, taking a swig of wine. “With their Father, they shall reign supreme throughout the universe. O Gaea, take from the magic televisions the mind-power of our gentlemen, our unknowing congregation…”
Mr. Pash stood amidst the magic players, arms outstretched. The tops of the VHS players bulged into round pods which soon opened, spewing forth yard after yard of tape. The tapes coiled and writhed around Mr. Pash’s body, sliding through the fleshy grooves. Curling metal vines grew from the tops of the DVD players—vines dotted with spinning silver blossoms. The vines also slid through the grooves, side by side with the tapes.
I continued to drink wine and rant. In retrospect, I believe I should have set the bottle aside. “Noble Earth Mother! Arise from death! It is at last time to meet you. What shall you be cooking for us, sweet Gaea? We have already eaten Mr. Spoon. Arise: your new husband awaits.”
A cloud of ash rose from the players and formed itself into a translucent grey succubus. Sparks danced through the apparition as it lavished its affections on Mr. Pash.
On the screens of the magic televisions, scenes from the movies played—but with a difference. The prodigious creatures now wandered from movie to movie. Hulking cannibals stormed the Atlantean city. Immense carnivorous plants tried to steal a cocooned victim from the Liquifier. Outsized winged goats trampled helpless villagers in the jungle dimension.
Mr. Pash shuddered and groaned with ecstasy. Wires snaked up from the players and plunged into my employer’s heaving gut as he consummated the marriage ritual.
The expression of rapture on Mr. Pash’s face was simply too ridiculous—or at least, so I thought at the time. Drink can turn the kindest man into an unfeeling Judas. “I’ve had a wonderful time,” I said, “but I’m afraid that I have overstayed my welcome. Where was my mind? What must you think of me, Mr. Pash? But then, what must I think of you? It’s dreadfully impolite to rut in front of guests.” So saying, I laughed and laughed and laughed like a mad boy.
Poor Mr. Pash—scoffed by his own disciple! The rapture on his face was replaced by a look of terrified doubt. With a cry of triumph, the ash-temptress fled through a crack in the basement floor. Undone by his own momentary uncertainty, Mr. Pash was at the mercy of reality. I watched helplessly as the wires in his belly fried him alive. A horrid, oily steam rose from his body. I ran up the stairs and out of the house.
Bottle in hand, I wandered the streets of a changed world.
Mr. Pash had perished, yes; but not before he had consummated the union, passing the magic on to Mrs. Spoon. I’m sure that his sacrifice had only served to strengthen her.
A
