Satan's Librarian

C&I

The others in the waiting room have taken seats as far away as they can get from Thompson, eyeing him fearfully.  After the incident at planeside where he almost got his entire group riddled with gunfire, he clearly has not made any friends here.  But as they look like poor Middle Eastern laborer types for the most part, this isn't particularly troubling to him.  Thompson reaches into his coat pocket for the perpetual cigarette before realizing that they've been taken by C&I and curses under his breath further.

"Mr. William Thompson?" a voice calls with a lilting Indian accent.  Thompson looks up to see a man in his early twenties, with black hair and a dark complexion, dressed in a tan C&I uniform that seems tailor made to fit him.  "If you will follow me, sir, it is time for your Customs and Immigration Interview."

Standing from his seat and reaching for the (now confiscated) bag, Thompson sighs and pats down his clothing to make himself a little more respectable.

"Play nice, Bill," he mutters to himself.  "The nicer you play, the sooner you get out of here and into a warm bath and cold glass of gin."

Among the many "hats" that Smith Comma-John wears are several that are unofficial.  One of these would, if it had a job title, best be described as "monetary exchange supervisor" for several individuals who find it useful to have someone in C&I looking out for their interests.  Bluntly, Smith gets money from certain individuals and spreads it around a bit amongst the Terminal Security agents and C&I employees who are responsive to such forms of persuasion in order to see to it that he is informed of certain things.  Smith doesn't kid himself that he's the only one doing this, but it makes it possible for him to afford an apartment in Justice, so he doesn't complain.

One of the people who pays Smith is Sir Arthur Compton.  One of the things that he pays Smith for is to look for "interesting items pertaining to the occult."   So when one of the C&I agents that Smith supplies supplemental income to drops by his office with an evidence bag containing what appears to be an old book with the title The Nine Gates to the Kingdom of Shadow along with another evidence bag containing a notebook full of notes on the first book, Smith slips him an extra $50.00, then spends a few minutes flipping idly through the notebook.  Definitely satanic stuff here - absolutely proscribed by Al Amarjan law.  The individual - a one William Thompson according to his passport (Comma-John pulls him up on the C&I database and discovers that some bright boy in the basement has already ripped his ID to shreds - real name Joseph Kelly, wanted for questioning in New England in association with a murder case involving arson and possible theft as well) - should, by rights, be taken into custody, removed to a discrete and very clean room behind the holding cells, and shot quietly in the back of the head for crimes against the state.

He sounds like just the sort of person that Compton might find amusing at a party.  Comma-John decides to interview him.

Thompson follows the C&I officer out of the waiting room and through a busy office, then down a short hallway to a door marked only with a number 13 on it.

"Through that door, sir." says the officer, motioning.

Bill turns and nods as the man points and nods, he opens the door...

...to see a nicely appointed office. The throw rug on the floor is decorated in earthy tones of green and brown. The lighting is pleasant; rather than the usual florescent glare from the ceiling, the office has track lighting with the dimmer set to a comfortable level. The walls are lined with bookcases.  Seated behind a mahogany desk is a man in his early thirties, dressed in a natty blue sharkskin suit with a hand-painted satin tie of black, silver and red in an Art Deco pattern. If you were a fan of pulp fiction, you would recognize him as the spitting image of Clark "Doc" Savage. If you weren't, you would say this guy had a great build, and skin a strange bronze color, with a widow's peak of a slightly darker hue, and eyes the color of flecked gold. He smiles warmly and rises from his leather-padded oak chair and extends his hand.

"Ah! Mr. Thompson? Good afternoon, sir! Good afternoon! My name is Mr. Smith Comma-John. Have a seat! Is this your first visit to Al Amarja?" After shaking hands, he  seats himself, motions for Bill to do the same, and taps a few keys on the blue I-Mac on his desk, then settles back in his chair, steepling his fingers.

As Bill steps in he pauses taken aback first be the comforting decor and then by the friendly manner of Doc.  Bill slowly sits back into the comfortable chair; from his expression it's clear that he's quiet surprised.

After a moment of stuned silence, he starts: "Ah yes, Mister Kamajon, I'm..."  He pauses to look around at the bookcases, "very pleased to meet you."  A smile begins to cross his face.  He shifts slightly in his chair as though his body had grown used to uncomfortable seats and is slowly begining to remember comfort. "This is my first time to the Island.  It certainly appears to be a lovely place..."

At a quick glance, it seems the caseworker has arranged his books by subject: poetry, fiction, theology, metaphysics, languages, even a section of children's literature.

"Lovely does not begin to describe it!" says Smith. An electronic chattering begins from beneath the caseworkers desk. Comma-John rises and walks over to an aluminum tea cart.  "How do you take your coffee, Mr. Thompson?  Or would you prefer tea?"

"Tea would be wonderful. White, with two sugars. Your collection is certainly... diverse, Mr. Comma-John."  He's attempted to correct his pronounciation of the man's name.

Amenities dispensed with, Comma-John sips of his coffee, and pulls several sheets of paper from the tray beneath his computer terminal.  "Just a few questions for you to answer, Mr. Thompson, and then it's off on your adventure!"  He smiles warmly as he hands the forms over, along with a Bic Fine Point Rollerball (blue).

"Of course...  May I first compliment Al Amarja's excellent C&I process...  Now then.."  He bends his head over the forms and begins the fill them out.  Occasionally a smirk crosses his face, at one point he stops in his filling out of the form for almost a full minute.  Eventaully he sighs and continues filling it out.  The script is as smooth as the pen will allow and is obviously the hand of a well educated man.

The form reads as follows:

WELCOME TO AL AMARJA!

Please answer all questions to the best of your ability. Please note also that any falsification of this or any document may result in imprisonment, fine, or summary execution.

Thank you for choosing AL AMARJA, and ENJOY YOUR STAY!

 1. Name (Last, First, Middle):

Thompson, William Richard

98 Prospect St.
Cambridge, MA 02173

 (see above)

 Unknown as of yet.

 Book Dealer.

 No.

 No.

 044-64-1823

Mr. Peter Richardson, ESQ.
Richardson, Richardson, and Perth
78 Commonwealth St.
Boston, MA
617.555.8923

Yes.

Joseph Peter Kelley

I feel that I can not truely discuss this as I know very little about them other than hearing rumour of them among certain paranoid social circles whose dinner parties I have attended.  My understanding is that NATO controls most of the power here though, and if they where to be commisioned then who would be paying for it? The International Banking instituion? Hardly they are a member....  As I said, further comment seems impossible from me, as even the above statement taxes my knowledge.

No.

As certain as a simple man can be.

1) My extensive knowledge of fine liturature and texts.
2) My willingness to part with no small ammount of my personal wealth.
3) My reciepe for Risatto con Fungi a la Millanase.

 I hereby certify that I have answered the above questions to the best of my ability. I further certify that all answers are true to the best of my knowledge at this time. I hereby release the government and citizens of Al Amarja from culpability in the event of loss or injury, including death, that may result from my visit.

 Signed,

William R. Thompson

Joseph P. Kelley

 form 33J-87r14

 cc: C I666

Upon completion of the form Thompson looks up.  "Mr. Comma-John, I notice there is a section here that asks about lodging on the island, as I have none I was wondering if there might be some you could recommend.  Also I am concerned about my... bags.  When I will they be returned to me?"

Comma-John smiles once again. "Of course, Mr. Thompson! In fact, I can send for them right now, if you like!" The caseworker picks up the receiver on his phone and dials four digits.  After a moment, he says, "Yes, Smith Comma-John, B Dash 665 Bravo. Code Blue.  Could you bring up William Richard Thompson's bags, please?  Yes.  Yes, that will be fine.  Thank you so much."

He replaces the receiver and looks to his interviewee.  "All settled! And I can recommend several hotels, based upon the amenities you require," he says brightly.  He takes another sip of coffee and says, as if in afterthought, "Now then, Kelley.  Kelley.  Joseph P. Kelley.  Where have I heard that name before?"

He taps some keys on his computer screen, and, after a moment, raises his eyebrows.  He looks to Thompson, back at the screen and back at Thompson again.  Once again, he steeples his fingers, and leans back in his chair.  His smile returns as he says, "Of course!  Mr. Joseph P. Kelley!  How interesting!  Did you know that a man fitting your description with the name Joseph P. Kelley is wanted for questioning in Boston, Massachusetts for suspicion of murder, arson, and theft?"  This seems to fill the caseworker with amusement.  "Cambridge, Massachusetts.  That is near Boston, is it not?"

He points a single finger at the man across the desk from him.  His smile fades a bit, but never seems to entirely leave.  "Is there anything you'd like to tell me, Mr. Thompson?"

Kelley/Thompson is silent as Comma-John reads this off, and sits there for about half a minute. Quietly he smiles and says, "Perhapes you see why I was traveling under another name...  Mr. Grier, the gentleman and the estate in question, yes?  He was a..previous employeer.  He asked me to validate the authenticity of a certain text, upon completion of this task I returned to his estate to return the text. Appropriate, yes?  Yes, well Mr. Grier was... enthusiastic about this confirmation, so much so that he decided to perform the ritual detailed within immediately.

"Now, before you object, there are people who believe in many strange things in the world, Mr. Comma-John.  I have found that it's best to respect those beliefs, as such I moved to extricate myself.  Mr. Grier would have none of this and assaulted me; he shortly overpowered me and rendered me unconcious.  When I came to, Grier was standing before me, naked, in a circle of chalk, he was chanting something; he has... had... terrible latin.  When I moved to interrupt he turned and grabbed a gun that was at hand and told be to be silent, that 'the master would come for him and I would be his witness before my death.'  Alphonse then turned and continued chanting after putting down the pistol.  He culminated in crying out to Satan and then lit himself on fire; by this time I slipped the ropes and grabbed the gun.  Grier lunged at me and I shot him...."

"Then I ran, Mr. Comma-John, the first international flight I could catch was here.  If I am returned to the United States I will almost certainly be arrested and most likely executed for defending myself, it is my sincere hope that you can understand my problem and the corruption inherent in the United States Government judical system...  On a more personal level I hope you can sympathize with the fear a man feels when confronted with a rampaging Satanist...."

The C&I caseworker laughs loudly and slaps his thigh.  "An honest man!  In Al Amarja!  Wondrous!  Most excellent!"  He rises from his desk and walks over to the bookcase.  Thompson blinks, quite taken aback and unsure how to respond.

In one area there are no books; instead, there is a curio: a black cross.  "Do you see this, Mr. Thompson?" asks Comma-John.  "In 1346, at County Palatine in Durham, the Scots made a play for England.  They were soundly defeated.  In the battle, the famous Black Rood of Scotland was taken.  It eventually found its way to the shrine of Saint Cuthbert in Durham Cathedral."  The caseworker runs a finger along the edge of the cross.  "It was said, and no one ever disputed it, that the Black Rood contained a piece of the One True Cross."  Comma-John faces Thompson again.  "They say it was lost during the Reformation.  Destroyed."  He shakes his head.  "Isn't that a fascinating story?  There are stranger things, Horatio, etc., etc.  You are a collector, Mr. Thompson, who simply found himself a bit out of his league, no!?  But now you have learned a valuable lesson."

"Indeed... sir..."

Comma-John smiles once again.  "You will find that we of Al Amarja are nothing if not equitable.  We did not invent Quid Pro Quo, but we have perfected it. Are you beginning to understand, Mr. Thompson?"

"I believe so, Mr. Comma-John.  Though...  I am confused as to what will become of me.  Will Her Exaultedness be sending me back to the states?  Or will I be allowed to continue on my... holiday... and perhapes longer?"

"Well, I should think so, Mr. Thompson.  After all, you are simply a victim of circumstance, are you not?  Oh, by the way, you have, in your possession, a certain book.  I am going to give you an invitation.  To a party, being held by Sir Arthur Compton.  He's a very interesting gentleman, and I strongly suggest you meet him.  Furthermore, I strongly suggest you show this particular book to Mr. Compton.  If you do this, I will be more than happy to grant your request for entry. Have you a tuxedo in your wardrobe?"

"Ah well, unfortunetly my formal wear was left behind.  Certain amenities can sometimes be forgotten in haste, yes?  I'm certain there is someplace on the island that might be able to help me.  And a party seems a lovely way to begin my... holiday."  Thompson smiles pleasently.

"Oh, yes indeed!" replies the caseworker.  "And so many interesting people!  Well then."  He opens a desk drawer and removes an envelope.  "Here's your invitation.  Once you leave the Terminal, I suggest you ask one of our friendly cab drivers to take you to the famous Cesar's Hotel in Sunken Plaza.  A wonderful establishment, you simply cannot go wrong.  On the same block, you will find Senor Guggenheim's Formalwear.  You can rent your evening clothes from him.  Charming man, with impeccable dress sense.  Here, I have a coupon!"  He happily hands over a small rectangular slip of paper.  "Twenty percent off.  Now, the address of the party is on the invitation.  I suggest calling Giovanni's Cabs.  They can even supply you with a town car or limousine should you desire to arrive in style."

"Wonderful, wonderful.  My thanks again."

Comma-John pulls a wooden stamp from a small stand on his desk and stamps Mr. Thompson's form.  Finally, he hands over a business card-looking item.

"It's my business card," he declares.  "Should you, in your wanderings around Al Amarja, find anything, shall we say, interesting, I do hope you will feel free to give me a call.  And by interesting, I mean the sort of thing that caused you to run from the laws of your home country and join us.  Is there any other service I might provide?"

"Well I am certainly flattered by such a personal interst you have taken.  Is there a... feedback... form? that I could fill out?  Otherwise I think I'd like to get to this... Cesar's Hotel and commence with my holiday."

"Of course we do, Mr. Thompson!" replies Comma-John.  He maneuvers his mouse, points and clicks a few times, and the telltale click and whir of the printer begins once again.  He smiles, handing over another form.  This one simply says,

       Al Amarja Thanks You for Your Comments!

       Is there something you wish to tell us?

"I believe you are still in possession a pen?" asks the caseworker.

Indeed he is though he looks a bit shocked as he notices the pen in his hand.  A brief somewhat embarassed smile and he begins writing:

I just wished to express my sincere admiration for the Al Amarja C&I process. Mr. Comma-John is an exemplary worker who deserves a comendation for the speed and kindess he used in conducting my interview.  I look forward to visiting Al Amarja many many times if the rest of my visit should be so plesent.

William Thompson.

"Well, Mr. Thompson, if there is nothing else, you will find a man waiting outside my door who should have your bags with him.  He will lead you out of the Terminal.  Please do not hesitate to call me if you need anything.  My number is on my card.  Enjoy the party!  I'm certain you will!  And enjoy your stay in Al Amarja!"  He rises and extends his hand to the Burger, indicating that, barring any further questions from the interviewee, the interview is over.

Thompson stands and shakes the C&I workers hand.  "Well thank you again Mr. Comma-John," he pats his wallet pocket in which he has placed the card, "I sha'n't hesitate to call you."

He turns and walks out of the office.  Outside there is, in fact, a man waiting with his bags.  Well, most of them anyway.  The bag containing a certain book, however, still seems to be missing from his luggage.  Turning to query Comma-John about this, Thompson finds the door locked.

Thompson will look at the man next to his bags.  "Excuse me sir?  There seems to...well that is it appears my satchel has been misplaced."  It appears the short time he spent with Comma-John has calmed him greatly.
 
 

Smitten

If only the mescaline would clear away.  Damn that stuff anyway!  It always seems to be getting him in trouble.  Its a filthy habit anyhow - he really ought to kick it.  Only weaklings rely on drugs anyway, and Nigel certainly isn't a weakling.  Not anymore.  Not since...  since....

"Excuse..."

The word seems to drift into Nigel's consciousness through one ear, but he can't quite get a good grip on it before it leaves out the other.  He is too busy trying to wrap his mind around something - something - a CONCEPT!  Thats what it is.  Nigel tries to grin in triumph, but isn't quite certain he remembers where his mouth is.

"... me sir..."

Messir?  Meese ur?  What does it mean.  If only...  if only...  NO!  Must be strong, Nigel thinks to himself.  Must be pure.  Must be clean in order to grasp the importance of what is happening.  And that, he realizes is the concept that he was trying to catch.  That something important is happening.  Something REALLY important.  And he, Nigel Timmons, is a part of that important something.  Not only that, but he is an IMPORTANT part of that important something.

"There seems to..."

Nigel suddenly realizes that the noises he is hearing are WORDS and the words are coming from a PERSON.  As things begin to move a bit more into focus he can dimly make out a shape in front of him.

Flocks of angels, cherubs, thrones.  The smooth cool feeling of marble.  The assurance of one's place in the universe.

"Well that is it appears..."

Indeed it is well that it appears, thinks Nigel.  Indeed it is.

And just like that he feels the wave of mescaline recede from his vision, leaving no ache, no craving for more, no sickness.  Almost as though it were driven from him, purged from him, by his own force of will.

Or by that of another, Nigel thinks.

There is a man standing in front of Nigel.  He is holding a couple of suitcases.  The suitcases give Nigel a subliminal nudge and he suddenly recognizes his surroundings.  The bone and chrome decorations are unmistakable - Nigel is back in the Terminal!

"My satchel has been misplaced," the man concludes, although he plainly has two.

As William stands in the corridor, trying to elicite a reaction from the guy holding his luggage, he notices that a tall black woman¹ is walking up the corridor behind the guy with the luggage.  She is dressed in a tan C&I uniform, wears large hoop earrings, and is carrying a big wooden mallet in her hands.  She approaches with considerable self-assurance.  She gives William a smile over the other guy's shoulder that somehow chills him.  It's as if she is looking into the depths of his soul.

The mallet rises.  The mallet falls.  There is a meaty "THWACK!" followed by two thumps.  When William turns back, however, he notes that the guy holding his luggage has neither crumpled to the floor, nor nor vaporized (which might well have taken his luggage as well) but is now standing rigid, his arms at his sides, with an expression of mild surprise on his face.  William's luggage rests at his feet.

The woman with the mallet is looking at him with a self-satisfied expression.  She is now holding the mallet in her left hand, and is tapping it in her right, an act which implies considerable strength on her part.  After a few seconds she carelessly tosses the mallet behind her.  Thompson blinks, amazed once again at what happens when you book on a last minute flight to a country you've never heard of.

The heavens open.

A couple of Thrones snag the hammer on the fly.

The heavens close.

William Blinks.  Capital "B"; that almost cartoonish look on his face that requires a plasticity that the human form sometimes has... well... issues, with.

The woman places her right hand on top of the guy's head and begins to push.  Rather than squishing or falling over, he merely begins to grow proportionally smaller, while still maintaining his rigid posture.

The Blinking continues until he shakes his head, must just be ovetired... seems like this whole C&I process has taken forever.  Once again he reaches into his coat for his cigarettes and find them missing.

The woman glances over in the direction of William, still smiling slightly.

"Excuse me miss, I was wondering, have you seen my satchel.  You see my cigarettes are in it and this is turning into a ver-"

William notices that her nametag reads "GOD".

"-ry wierd.... oh.... my...."  Thompson sort of slumps against the wall and wonders briefly about the politeness of fainting in front of a higher being, especially one that you don't believe in, before

"GOD" continues to push down on the top of the guy's head until he is about two feet tall, then picks him up and continues the compression between both hands.  "If you're looking for that book of yours," she says, her voice husky and rich, "Mr. Comma-John is having it delivered to Sir Arthur Compton."  She looks at the guy she is compressing - he is now about six inches tall and still rigid.

"A bit too wide," she mutters, and begins rolling him between her palms.

"I see..." Thompson says, straighting himself up; one must look their best in the presence of a higher being after all.  "Well, I suppose I should find this Compton man, certainly incentive for attending his party.  Thank you Ms. uh... God?  Yes?  Well...  Have a nice..."  He pauses to looks at the compacting man.  "A very nice day, indeed.  You'll excuse me, I hope?  Really should be running off.  Yes, a very nice day..."

"Suit yourself," says God, still rolling the miniature figure between her palms like playdough.

Thompson fetches his bags and begins heading out of C&I, looking for a terminal guide.  As he heads off down the bone-and-chrome corridor searching for an exit Thompson notes that the muzak is now playing an eerily appropriate Joan Osborne song.

"You are aware," comments "God" as Thompson heads out, "That Satanism is illegal on Al Amarja, punishable by death?"

Thompson will pause, "I'm sorry?  I'm... I'm not a satanist, madame.  Rather, I simply find those who dabble in such foo-... er... pastimes to be a rather handy source of income.  Much like people who collect turn of the century French serials, as popularized by Dumas...  In fact, until today I would have called myself an atheist... though now I'm leaning a bit more towards agnostic."  He nods politely towards her pocket.

'God' pins Thompson with an intense stare, then settles her face into a vaguely amused smile.

"I didn't say you was a satanist," she replies.  "But it's the law.  All tourists to the island gotta be told that.  Didn't your caseworker mention it to you?  For shame!"

"Oh...  Well, um.. thank you for the advice."  Thompson nods.  "Good to know indeed...  Is there a problem with satanists onthe island then?"

"Anyway, its a good thing you're not a Satanist - if you were, it would go hard for you, and you KNOW that you can't lie to God, right?"

"Well of course you can't lie to God...  Omnipotence and all that, right?  Are there any other laws I should be aware of?  Or maybe there's a guidebook I ought to pick up...?"

"God", an enigmatic smile somewhat reminiscent of the Mona Lisa on her face, replies.  Despite the rather mild demeanor on her face, and the fact that she doesn't open her mouth much, the voice that issues forth has all the power of a Marine DI backed up by a stadium quality sound system cranked to maximum volume.  It's all Thompson can do to avoid stumbling backwards, and only by holding his hands clamped over his ears does he avoid permanent hearing loss.

"NUMBER ONE:", "God" bellows, "FIREARMS ARE ILLEGAL ON AL AMARJA!  PENALTIES FOR VIOLATION ARE SEVERE!  IF YOU HAVE BROUGHT A FIREARM INTO AL AMARJA, PLEASE TURN IT OVER AT THIS TIME!

"NUMBER TWO:  ALL INTOXICANTS GENERALLY ILLEGAL IN THE CIVILIZED WORLD ARE ILLEGAL HERE ON AL AMARJA!  IF YOU HAVE BROUGHT WITH YOU ANY ILLEGAL SUBSTANCES, YOU ARE URGED IN THE STRONGEST POSSIBLE TERMS ON BEHALF OF HER EXALTEDNESS MONIQUE D'AUBAINNE TO DISPOSE OF THEM IMMEDIATELY!  FAILURE TO DO SO MAY RESULT IN DENIAL OF YOUR VISA AND EXPULSION FROM AL AMARJA!

"NUMBER THREE:  THE USE OF PSYCHIC POWERS ON THE ISLAND OF AL AMARJA ARE STRICTLY CONTROLLED!  IF YOU HAVE, OR BELIEVE YOU HAVE PSYCHIC POWERS OF ANY SORT, YOU ARE INSTRUCTED IN THE STRONGEST POSSIBLE TERMS TO INFORM YOUR CUSTOMS AND IMMIGRATION CASEWORKER ABOUT THEM DURING YOUR INTERVIEW! FAILURE TO DO SO IS A VIOLATION OF AL AMARJAN LAW, AND MAY RESULT IN EXPULSION OR IMPRISONMENT!

"It's also illegal to have anything to do with Satan or Satanism - it ain't just a good idea, it's the law!  Wasn't you paying attention when you got off the plane?" 'God' asks pleasantly, in a normal tone of voice.

Thompson reels back, vainly trying to plug his ear, but the sound just keeps coming.  "Right!  No!  Very clear now, thank you..."  The ringing continues and he shakes his head to clear it.

"All right then," says God.  "Is there anything else?"  She slips the figure she has been working on into a pocket.

"No Ma'am, thank you.  Thank you so much for being so helpful."

"That's what you're here for, honey," says God.

Thompson looks a bit puzzled, but shrugs.  "Well, I hope your day is pleasant..."  He turns and sets off to find a guide.
 
 

To Be Continued...