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...a wrinkled and poorly addressed envelope in front of him.
"It is from him, sir" Matcombotham told Rabrrrrr with a tone of gravity deeper and more severe than even a James Earl Jones reading of the letters "C-N-N".
"I realize, Matcombotham, that this is an exciting moment for you," said Rabrrrrrr condescendingly, "but I have yet to actually request your speech today. What is the rule?"
"The rule, sir, is that I am never to talk directly to you unless you have given me leave to, or there is an emergency, such as the stables catching fire."
"And should I run to the stables at this very moment, Matcombotham?" responded his employer with sadistic playfulness. "Should I call the fire brigade? The veterinarian, perhaps, in case any of my prize-winning Arabians have suffered the ill effects of smoke inhalation?"
"No, sir. I am very sorry. Perhaps the potential import of this postal delivery overcame my good judgment."
"Very well, then. I suggest you get up off your knees and attend to the preparations. But first, help me on with my trousers."
The last rays of sunshine had only just stretched the shadows of the linden trees that surrounded Slay Gardens into a great blanket of darkness enveloping the ancestral homestead. In Rabrrrr's study, a swollen, pallid, bespeckled hand reached to pull the chain of a desk lamp to illuminate the document now spread on top of the antique desk. He had read it many times by now and with each reading, his resolve had firmed up like aspic. Every word of the letter, written in Sharpie on a ripped-out sheet from a composition book, further inspired his murderous delight:
Dear MR. R.,
I would be happy to accept your commission of $50,000,000.00 to do a painting of your lovely estate, Slay Gardens. I will arrive on your doorstep on May 13, as that was one of your preferred dates. I am complying with all the terms of your offer, as stated in your letter of January 21, to wit: a) I have not told anyone else about this commission; b) I will be arriving alone, c) unarmed and, d) should I have a cell phone it will not be capable of receiving a signal in your geographic area, at least e) not through 6-foot stone walls and f) 48 or more feet below the surface of the earth. Even the optional requirement that I g) not worry about being poisoned and "make no preventative thereof" will be respected
While these conditions are a bit unusual, I am most happy to comply, especially considering the huge pile of dough involved.
Yours, <----S E R I O U S L Y
Thomas K.
PoL
:)
TWO WEEKS EARLIER
Matcombotham raised the whip again and, in a more demanding tone than he had ever before mustered, said to the shackled prisoner before him, "Tell me the truth, sir, if it is convenient for you to do so at this time. Again, sir, what is the means by which we can destroy this force, as you call it? Please, sir. I'll have to beat you with this whip if you don't answer, sir."
"Alright", the elderly man replied, speaking exclusively out of the left side of his mouth like some freakish offspring of Bob Hope and Burgess Meredith. "I'll tell you everything you want to know. For all my tough talk, you could break me by threatening to feed a hungry person.
"Yes, we know, sir."
"The force is weakening now," he continued, "This may be the only time it's vulnerable. The sources of it's power, a particular coalition of citizens and their plutocrat overlords, of which I am only one, are currently, well... er... imploding."
"If I may please interrupt, sir, but could you cut to the chase... or must I use this terrible whip on your honorable flesh, sir? Again, sir, how do we destroy it?"
"It's simple," the prisoner seemed to quack, "the epicenter of the force is in a place you'd never guess. It's a singularity found in only one place, and you'll never guess it."
Matcombotham held up a cell phone. "I have two other Illuminati agents holding Callista Flockhart at a KFC. If you don't talk, they will be forced to order something for her."
"Ok. I'll talk. I'll talk. Well this sinularity, it used to be on Rush Limbaugh's anus but it somehow became lodged in the bristles of a paintbrush, which found it's way into the hand of a certain obscure painter. He achieved fame and fortune by using it to imbue the beautiful works of his undocumented-worker artist-assistants with saccharine themes, superstitious symbolism and a sickly yellow glow.
"There's only one way to destroy it and it has to be done soon or there will be an incident, possibly another round of tea-parties more annoying than the first," he continued. "You need to blow it up with a themonuclear device. Nothing to worry about though, the lameness of the force is so intense now that it will suck every particle of radiation from the explosion."
"Matcombotham, have the hounds been fed?"
"Yes, sir."
"And the lawn equipment? Has the lawn equipment been put away?"
"Yes, sir. It has."
"And Cheney. Did you break him?"
"Sir, he folded like a chaise lounge of the sort suburbanites might purchase for their 'patios'. He told me who and he told me we would need a thermonuclear device."
"So we have to blow somebody up? Who?"
WEDNESDAY, MAY 13
The artist arrived as agreed, without retinue or firearm, and his cell phone was a T-mobile. After exchanging pleasantries, he was sent to the front lawn to set up his easel. One of his assistants, working from photographs, had already created an impressive painting of the mansion, which Thomas had gingerly carried, covered, to the scene.
Two figures stood at the window of the high tower with a perfect view of the painter and his ministrations.
"These special glasses allow me to identify the singularity. It's right at the tip of his paintbrush," Rabrrrrr told Matcombotham. "Now, you're sure the explosion won't kill him."
"Yes, sir. The prisoner said there would be adequate sucking lameness to absorb it."
Rabrrrrr grumbled, "Will it at least stop the paintings?"
"Yes, sir."
Rabrrrrr watched intently as Matcombotham manned the missile controls. "Armed and ready, sir. Please give me the coordinants at your convenience."
"Copy that, "Rabrrrrr replied, "Holy shit! What's he doing? He just scratched his rear end with the paintbrush. Ok. Ok. These are the coordinants...."
Innsmouth had never seen such a sight. It's ancient and worried buildings sprung erect and glowed pink and white. Flowers, mostly pink ones, sprouted on evey bare inch of soil or stone. Automobiles became nostalgically perfect horse-drawn carriages and antique cars. Every tree and turn of road was oddly off and anachronistic. The effect was purely localized but Slay Gardens had borne the brunt it. By night a sparkly blanket of bluish snow covered the estate; the sky was clear with stars strewn randomly across it instead of aligning with the standard constellations. And from the windows and streetlamps, the latter having just sprung up where none had been before, there emanated a sickly yellow glow that obscured every structural detail and reflected perversely against the snow on the front lawn and the body that lay resting there. It was the artist himself and he had survived the explosion as predicted but was no longer able to paint so treacly. Coincidentally, that was exactly the promise he had made to his creator when he had suddenly discovered that that thermonuclear device...
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