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Ｉ＇ｍ Ｙｏｕｒ ｍⱯｎ - Charon - 06-10-2017
I
Drive from Clinton to Moline. Fly from Moline to Denver. Survive a 16-hour bus trip from Denver to Las Vegas. All in accordance with the prophecy.
It had rained the night before.
Kat Klein dreamt she was wrapped in chains and tossed into the open jaws of the Mississippi River, swallowed whole beneath serene waves of brown, polluted water. She thrashed and struggled to slip free of her bindings, yet every movement she made only further ensnared her. Her eyes stung, her nostrils burned, and her flailing gestures in the direction of relative safety became more desperate as the shock wore off and realization set in: this was where she'd die. As the waves pulled her body deeper into the abyss despite her best efforts to defy fate, the last words she heard were her own, repeating what would've been tomorrow's itinerary.
Drive from Clinton to Moline. Fly from Moline to Denver. Survive a 16-hour bus trip from Denver to Las Vegas. All in accordance with the prophecy.
Then she burst into flames.
The words echoed in her head as she drove, half-dazed through an otherwise empty 2nd Avenue in the early-morning twilight. Her body tensed and her fingers momentarily wrapped tightly around the steering wheel every time she'd drive over a puddle and hear the splashing of the awful, awful water. She regretted not living in Illinois every morning when she had to drive almost an hour to get to work in Coal Valley (though by the time she made it to work, there was much more about the situation she regretted), but today a trip over the Mississippi did not sound appealing in the slightest.
"All in accordance with the prophecy."
She repeated the words to herself with a whisper. They sounded just as silly out loud as they did in her head. Yet, here she was: on her way to Las Vegas to carry out whatever it was she was destined to do. This is what she deserved for the string of decisions that led her to this very moment. This was the consequence for rebelling against a staunchly religious upbringing by joining a literal cult. Sure, The Children of His Divine Will could dress themselves up in sacred drag and scream that they weren't a cult all they liked - a spade was still a spade and that skeevy little golem Christopher Quinn was a rat-faced snake.
As she thought of her brothers and sisters, she wondered why she even went along with their delusions. Petulance, she concluded. Curiosity, also. She'd always wanted to go to Vegas.
Her concentration was disrupted by the shrill ringing of her cell phone in the passenger seat. She glanced over to see the word "
" at the top of the screen and giggled. Her thoughts returned to the note she left her roommate regarding her impending absence.| Going out of town. Work thing. Don't forget to walk the fish. |
He'll figure it out, she told herself as she let the phone ring. The first rays of sunlight peaked out over the horizon. Everything drew near.
Kat smiled, but did not know why.
 |
Interlude I: Hello
Hello, I scream into the abyss. Is anyone listening? Maybe if I scream louder. Maybe if I keep screaming empty words into the void, something will pierce through and catch something real. I'm rambling. My throat hurts. Nails in my esophagus, great source of iron.
You can call me Charon. I'm not, but that bit goes without saying. Bit too pretty to be him. Bit too feminine. He can't come to the phone right now, please leave a message with his beleaguered secretary.
Right, on with it. No time for delay, already wasted enough time.
Hello, Steve. Welcome to your tape, as it were. I'll be honest, that little pop-culture shout-out is lost on me. Does seem like something you'd get, though. Regardless. I have a question, Steve, and please forgive me if this sounds facetious, I assure you that is not the intent. Who is Steve Davids? Really, truly, who are you?
Please, don't play cute and act like you don't know what I mean by that. I know you're not an idiot. I don't mean that in the sense of who you've been, or what you've accomplished as a wrestler, or any other mundane, facile hogwash. I want to know who Steve Davids is. What makes you tick?
It's okay. Go on and laugh. It's a bold strategy, putting it nicely. Downright stupid, putting it bluntly. Just asking what an opponent's greatest weakness is? Of course you're not going to tell me anything. Not directly, anyway. That's fine, I'm a patient gal. We could be at this for a while. We all fancy ourselves more complex than we really are. A little while with the drill will puncture that illusion.
You can debate American foreign policy with a man named Bearded War Pig all you like, Steve. Dissect everything. Pick him apart and leave his bones for the crows.
Peekaboo: I see you.
You're desperate to be right. Desperate to be seen as threatening. Desperate to feel like a legitimate contender, isn't that right? You need this win, that's the refrain here. You need this.
How did it come to this? That's the question I want you to ask yourself. You need to prove to others, to yourself, that you still have it. That you're a force to be reckoned with. Were you ever? That's the other question I want you to ask yourself. Self-reflection is important.
Maybe you should ask yourself the question I asked you, Steve. Who are you?
You might find that the answer is shockingly simple. Maybe you can answer it for yourself before I answer it for you. Before I tell you all about who Charon is. The real Charon, I mean. Not me-Charon.
Maybe you can't, but it'll be interesting to hear your own delusions sing you a eulogy.
Shalom.
Until next time.
II
Kat rubbed her eyes for the fifth time since climbing aboard the rickety old bus, still half-certain she'd wake up at any moment from yet another unpleasant, confusing dream. Here, she was the only passenger. Just her and the driver, whose wild gray hair and overwhelming aroma of cigarettes and urine did little to calm her nerves. Why was this hobo driving? she pondered, before coming to the conclusion that this was as real as her death via drowning hours ago.
She couldn't for the life of her remember the flight. It was as if she simply boarded the plane, and then wound up in Denver with nothing inbetween. She closed her eyes tightly, convinced that the next time she opened them, she'd be in the air, en route to Denver.
Her eyes opened, and she was still the only person on a bus driven by a vagrant.
"Hello, Kat," the Driver said, his voice smooth as gravel. In the rear-view mirror she saw him smile, flashing yellow, rotten teeth. Vile on the inside and out.
"How do you know my name?"
"Friends told me."
"What friends?"
The Driver cocked his head, almost as if he was deep in thought over a simple question. Then, only a couple of seconds later, he slapped his hands on the steering wheel and laughed.
"You had me goin' for a second."
Kat's eyes widened as she stared at the man's reflection in the rear-view mirror.
"What friends?" she repeated, more forcefully.
"Stop playin' dumb. You know who."
Kat chuckled weakly to deflect her mounting confusion and terror. This was a mistake, she thought. This isn't real, she assured herself. All just a dream.
"Why are you here?"
"Because I'm a terrible daughter?"
The Driver sighed and grimaced in obvious frustration.
"Didn't ask for your commentary. Why are you here? Who put you on this bus?"
"The Children of His Divine Will."
"Now we're gettin' somewhere."
Is this a dream?
"You know them?"
"You could say that."
Kat's eyes were about to burst from her skull. Her heartbeat quickened and she could feel her breaths get shorter. She rubbed her sweaty palms on the legs of her jeans and cleared her throat.
"Who are you?"
"You can call me Charon, honey. Get some sleep. We got a lot of work ahead of us."
All at once, Kat felt a tremendous onset of fatigue. She allowed her eyelids to close and reasoned she would be better able to deal with whatever was happening after a good night's sleep.
She dreamt of the Driver, this Charon. In the mirror, she saw his face on her body. In her head, she heard his voice whisper:
"All in accordance with the prophecy."
 |
Interlude II: Awaken, My Love!
Hello, Joshua. You don't mind if I call you that, do you? It's just that your chosen ring name feels so... derogatory. I'm sure you won't mind.
I must admit, you strike me as much different than Steve. You're an open book. There's no questions to ask to peak into your psyche because it's laid right out for everyone to see. You're a simple man, perhaps as simple as Steve but that's another matter for another day. See, there's a certain honesty about you that from what I've seen in others is lacking. When you say you live for the violence and brutality, to maim and be maimed, I can see it in your face: you aren't lying. There's no ulterior motive, no drive for respect, no need to be seen as a contender, you just are.
And this is why I want to keep this brief. Not out of ill will or maliciousness, but simply because I don't want to waste your time.
This will not be your night.
I know, I know. That's what Steve's been saying too. Hell, if you boil it down enough, everything everybody says to everybody else is essentially variations on this very simple theme. Why should you believe it this time?
You shouldn't. You shouldn't internalize it. You shouldn't think for a second it's true because that'll breed defeatism and then you won't give your all. Charon wants to see you give it all, and then show that it wasn't enough. I just thought I'd give you a heads up is all.
Please, give him everything you got. I think you'll be amazed by how he reacts.
Ciao bella.
III
Kat Klein fell asleep in an almost empty bus in Denver and awoke in that same bus in Las Vegas 16 hours later. Groggy, she pushed herself out of her seat, before stumbling into the seat in front of her.
"Careful there," Charon said with a chuckle."Don't wanna hurt yourself on the first day."
She groaned. The sound of his voice was giving her a headache.
"What are we supposed to do now?"
"You'll know it when it happens. Now, follow me."
The door swung open and Charon hobbled outside, stretching in the oppressively bright Nevada sun.
Though every fiber of her being urged her not to, Kat felt compelled to follow.