“HIP HIP HOORAY TO THE GEM IN THE WATERLILY,” silently said the lanky, dark skinned man, as you can see the orgasm in his eyes quickly pulsating through his body, his mouth exhibiting movements that suggested an extravagant and decadent taste was being sensed.
“HIP HIP HOORAY TO THE GEM IN THE WATERLILY,” was also silently and doubtfully moving like a wave through a hundred voices. The lanky, dark skinned man pointed his attention to his cult-like religious herd. He grasped his own hands.
“Sons and daughters of Jagger,” he annunciated. His voice was elegant as oil slicked ebony and had a relaxed glaze to it.
“Sons and daughters of Jagger, my herd, who has come here to wallow in the pleasantness of the soft, large breast of the Primordial, Boundless, The Fulfilling Void, let me into yourselves.” His tone suggested this statement was meant to be heard, absorbed, considered, unconditionally accepted.
“Allow for our ideology”, annunciated the dark-skinned man, “Metastasize. Allow for our intention to branch out, allow us the ability to demolish, and then to build, to cast.
Talk with humility and allow your souls to age and wrinkle with experience as Jaggar’s skin.” With a devout expression he held before them two handfuls of the crumple of skin that flowed out from the altar.
“Sons and daughters of Jagger, let your intentions become the same.” His herd got down on their knees as the dark-skinned man exhibited his expression, gesturing, the same way one would point across a valley to the mountain ahead.
The religious herd’s temple, the Covenant of Jagger, was on the 7th floor of an abandoned skyscraper on West 68th Street. The architectural design of the temple bore the confusing and multidimensional nature of it’s central figure – Jagger. There was carved marble in different colors adorning the walls, and six banners of various shades of magenta hanging from the ceiling onto the atrium below. Their geometrically perfect pattern in how they were ordered was meant to exhibit the organized yet undiscernible nature of their central figure.
The faces in the herd each told a separate story of their own twisted cataclysm. The lanky dark-skinned man shook a maraca-like instrument and the herd, with dimwitted, empty looks on their faces eagerly stood up, gestured an invocation with his hands and proceeded into the revolving marble slab behind him.
The herd began to quietly bellow amongst themselves.
“So fellas,” inquired some from others. “What did you think of him?”
“Not sure. Who is this guy?” One pointed towards the slab with his hand.
“His name is Vrill. The word on the street is he hasn’t had the need to eat anything since he came face to face with the Rhombus Sphere.”
“What’s that?” asked one man.
Some of the more frequent followers made a smile that didn’t do very well to hide the pity that was being felt behind it. “There’s simply no way you would be able to comphrehend it’s nature. You have to come around here a few more times before you begin to get an idea of what it is. He might allow you to read his book by then – ‘The Uncovering’. After you read his book, you can take on the ‘mooni mure ore’ he found in the jungles of New Zealand. It’s the reason why we have the Rhombus Sphere, but it’s quite a brain twister to try and understand it, even for those of us who have been here awhile.
As they were exiting the temple, there was a box by the exit in which people would drop coins in, heading out in single file order, follower after follower. There was six pieces of purple cloth hanging from the ceiling, in the middle of it a yellow star. The box itself was made out of a transparent, yet green crystal, which possibly could’ve been emerald.
Past the door the lanky, dark skinned man seemed to be having some difficulties. Detective Kartoffelmiller wasn’t buying any of it.
“First of all,” said the detective, “you don’t possess a license to prove you are a registered charity that is able to collect donations. The second thing is this all seems like some sort of fraud, like you’re running a cult here. The third thing is this building is not zoned as residential so you have to move your bed out of here and take it somewhere else.” He pointed towards a foldable, beach chair style bed made from bamboo, that was humbly put against the wall of his office. Detective Kartoffelmiller was a large, muscular man, bald and with a serious face, yet had a well sculpted chin and cheekbone that was reminiscent of German heritage. He was wearing an expensive suit, together with a red, silk tie. “I apologize,” said the lanky, dark skinned man, “which questions do I need to answer to relieve you of any suspicion you might have of me?”
“Well, let’s start the beginning. The constitution of the United States guarantees you the right to freedom of worship, but I’m sure if worship counts as whatever it is you’re doing over here. Are you a US citizen?” asked the detective.
“No, I am not. Here is my identification, together with my visa to stay here.” The lanky, dark skinned man pulled out his documents from a cheap, new, faux leather wallet.
“It says here your name is Vrill Gurkenstein and that you were born in Queen Maud Land, Antarctica, but you are a German citizen, which doesn’t make sense to me because Queen Maud Land is claimed by Norway. It says that your occupation is that of a researcher. Can you elaborate more on these details for me?” demanded the detective.
“It is as you read it on my papers. Are you planning on having me deported, detective?” asked Vrill.
“Well, I don’t know what I’m going to do as of yet,” said the detective honestly. “If you register your religion with the municipality and then get the proper documents to be able to collect money for charity, before we get any further complaints about you, I think we’ll leave you alone.”
“Oh I see,” sighed Vrill. “You mentioned something about complaints?”
Detective Kartoffelmiller looked at Vrill with a puzzled demeanor. “Just yesterday we received a complaint about you from a man named Ronald, do you know who this is?”
“Oh, of course. His name is Ronald Verraterin. He has followed me around for quite some time, making me leave places like Sweden, the UK and Denmark. Every time I try to re-establish the Covenant of Jagger, he is there to find a way to have me shut down.” replied Vrill.
Kartoffelmiller rolled his eyes. “I guess you could say that,” he said in a manner that acknowledges the possibility and was not meant to be sarcastic at all, “you could say you have a lot of enemies secretly working towards your demise.”
Vrill started laughing in the detective’s face out of loud, tapping his knee with his hand several times as a gesture to show how hilarious he think this bald baffoon is with his assumption. “I’ve been investigated too many times throughout my life,” with a broad, joyful smile said the German, “to not be able to tell when someone thinks I’m genuinely crazy and that’s the direction they want to take in the investigation.”
“No, that’s not what I meant.” said the detective, somewhat stunned and disappointed by Vrill’s reaction. “I’m just curious if any nutjob is willing to find himself at home at Manhattan Psychiatric anytime soon.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it. I absolutely urinate on the Covenant of Jagger. It is how I make my money, but I know the most out of anyone that it’s all sham. Do you know what the greatest mystery in our covenant is? The Rhombus Sphere.” Vrill grinned, with a look of satisfaction on his face that one could only get from having screwed over too many people that makes him especially confident he can do it again.
“That’s a good and honest way to look at things.” replied the detective. “Your sense of humor is astonishingly high for someone who is religious, Mr. Gurkenstein.”
“Oh come on,” Vrill replied, “I feel as if I’m committing a sin just by having you say that about me. Those honest, good hearted men are something that I cannot compare myself against. I am beneath them. I’ve been through too much in life to be able to consider myself one of them, it’s an utter insult to who they are and what they represent.”
“Continue, I’m curious what you mean by all that.” said the detective, who was fond of reading books and thinking in abstract ways, exploring abstract ideas and debating the abstract.
The German somewhat hesitated, but he told what he perceived to be the truth: “I am something you can define as an occult engineer, and this means I know how to get mysterious and hidden things functioning in certain ways.”
“Like trying to force choke a leprachaun until he agrees into finding you a pot of gold?” sarcastically laughed the detective.
“I’m able to manifest one, certain, specific thing.” said Vrill assuredly. “Just a single one.”
“Alright,” said Kartoffelmiller, “that bed in Manhattan Psychiatric is still available if you’re interested. Don’t say stuff like that in public, otherwise sooner or later you’ll find yourself there, and quickly at that. Just keep ballyhooing about the Rhumbus Sphere instead.”
“Oh dear,” said Vrill, in a worried tone. “He’s trying to get into you.”
“Who is trying to get into me?” said the detective as he gestured with his hand, trying to find the thing that Vrill was talking about.
“Ronald Verraterin. He’s trying to manipulate you into going on a witch hunt against me.” answered Vrill.
“Oh that’s nonsense,” said Kartoffelmiller, with conviction. “What I need you to do is get your cult registered as a religion within the next 48 years, and then find yourself some place that’s more suitable for you to sleep in, like an actual apartment. I’ll hold off any charges of fraud if you do this within that alloted time frame. Just be careful and don’t do anything too strange.” The detective got up, slapped his bald head a bit and pointed his finger towards Vrill, in a suggestive manner. He then proceeded to exit his office with an arrogant, brutish demeanor.
Vrill Gurkenstein let out a disappointed exhale, knowing that the detective himself had been disappointed.
Later that night, as Kartoffelmiller was laying down on his comfy, brand new, twin sized bed in his studio apartment, and was unable to go to bed as some torterous thoughts were going through his mind. Since the detective was able to digest anything that could be deemed edible and had a conscience so clean he was able to fall asleep within minutes, it was unusual that something was irritating him so much as to keep him up this particular night.
As all bachelors, Kartoffelmiller constantly exercise due diligence, so he was very hesitant in terms of taking the sleeping pill in the drawer next to his bed, which he kept on hand for moments such as this, as rare as they typically were. As he attempted to naturally lull himself to sleep, hoping that time would take care of his restfulness and he would not notice when he fell asleep, the night quickly passed by until the morning came, and he began to heard locals piling up in the elevated train station across from the window of his apartment, followed by the characteristic screech of the 5 AM train stopping to a halt on the tracks to pick up passengers, he proceeded to open the drawer next to him and rummage through it, trying to find the bottle of sleeping pills that were there.
He didn’t think to turn on his night stand light, and ended up dropping the bottle and pills all over the floor. After mumbling some profanity, he turned on the light and began to pluck them off the floor with his fingers and put them back in the bottle, one by one. Much to his demise, it was only when he finished picking the pills off the floor and successfully putting them all back in the bottle that he noticed it wasn’t a bottle of sleeping pills, but a bottle of some cholesterol medication his doctor had prescribed him due to his tendency to eat fast food.
He was planning to take two pills, but only then realized it might’ve led to liver failure and potentially an overdose given how strong these cholesterol pills were. He got up and walked to the little kitchen on the other side of his tiny apartment, the night light automatically turned on and he grabbed a glass, one of his few glasses in ownership, and began filling it up with water as his hand shook, both from the agitation and also from fatigue. He drank it down and spilled some of it into the opening of his shirt, down his chest. Some more profanity followed.
By this time he realized there was an over the counter bottle of painkiller that might help put him to sleep. He took two of those, filled another glass of water, drank it down this time without any spillage and proceeded to go back to bed. Due to his fatigue, he almost thumped his foot on a piece of furniture along the way.
As he drifted into sleep, he began a very vivid yet strange dream. Detective Kartoffelmiller dreamt he was standing on a white plain, with his feet bare. It was scorching hot standing on this plain. Some distance away he could see a tower made of stone that was being encircled by skulls with bat like wings. He could hear their flapping, but only the faint sound of it.
Looking down at the plain, he realized that it was fine, white sand. From this sand erupted small bursts of steam, or vapor, creating a layer of thinly veiled mist upon the sand, and blending in so it was almost indistinguishable what was sand and what was mist. He began to run away from the tower through the mist, but it was increasingly slower and harder to run, as if he was being pulled back by some malevolent force. No matter where he tried to face, he would eventually end up facing the tower. Small tornadoes of mist would erupt around the tower, a mysterious force, and then retract back into the mist. As he struggled to run away, the floor became hotter, and the mist became thicker and more humid. He attempted to fly away and leap into the air, but could only do so a few meters at a time and would slowly come down, usually not being able to control his landing. As he was moving up, he eventually got to a height where the tower looked small, and the top of the mist tornadoes looked like flower blossoms, with the vortices in between looking like petals. When he came down from his flight he would fly right into one of these blossoms.
He continued to attempt to run and fly away in the dream, but no matter where he turned, he would come back right to the tower. It felt as if the area in the desert kept getting smaller, and he was getting closer to the tower the further he tried to run away from it. Suddenly he felt a crackling noise under his feet, together with a sort of tingly sensation. He was no longer able to fly away, and running became harder.
After a few attempts of trying to fly off, something shot him into the air, but he wasn’t sure if it was him or if something wanted to let him go and help him fly up. He began flying fast towards the tower. The flapping wings of the bat wings on the skulls became louder and louder has he approached, going from a gentle flap to loud snaps. When he turned his eyes to the side to try and examine the nightmarish landscape, he was surprised at both having something that looked like his own wings, but also the fact that he was able to hear things with perfect clarity, despite being a little deaf in his left ear, after he woke up from this dream.
The acute, sharp noises he was able to hear were somewhat unnerving, given their location relative to where he was. He could hear the ticking of a wristwatch two floors below his own apartment, the water running in sewers beneath the streets he walked, the humming of electrical wires, both overhead and underground. When he would go into the police station, he would be rocked with the amount of sounds he would clearly process all at once, it was truly maddening. The breathing – inhale and exhaling – of hundreds of people, the constant dialing, ringing and clicking of telephones, the loud bang that was a cigarette case getting shut.
He had attempted to set up his bedroom in such a way that it was soundproofed and muffled most sounds. He attempted to deal with it and put up with it, despite the sounds penetrating through the soundproofing. The few inches of fibreboard certainly helped to muffle some sounds, as he was able to read a book in peace, but was still periodically distracted by the sound of air swooshing through his own bronchial tubes, the thud when he would put his hand to his face, the slushing of partially digsted food entering his intestines.
Kartoffelmiller was certain he did not reach the pinnacle of insanity as he was someone who believed in his own steadfast scientific ideologies. He believed that a government was a puritan wing of society, and wished the local extinction of all criminals that corrupted this and every other facet of society. The ear lobes was something these criminals could be detected by, together with other physical characteristics that criminals had yet regular people didn’t, in the same ratios.
He didn’t want to visit a psychiatrist or a physician as if he heard things, he might begin to see things that weren’t there also and word would get around back to the force. He would become a liability in his own profession.
The detective brushed up on Freudian psychology, attempting to interpret the meaning of his strange dream, which at this point had becoming a recurring nightmare. The book ended up giving him some combination of mumbo jumbo about wanting to sleep with a third cousin on his father’s side and he now felt guilty about this, secretly wished death upon himself, and was contemplating suicide, yet did not want to go into hell for taking his own life. He knew this was baloney as his father didn’t have any relatives that far out into the lineage that he knew of, and the detective wasn’t afraid of anything on the god given Earth.