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OOM: The Past
Nov. 9th, 2011 05:14 pmI express myself in sculpture since I am not a poet.
- Aristide Maillol
Saturday walked beside the Italian Don, his cane tap tapping on the stone. "I see you have an interest in sculpture," he remarked, idly.
The Don, all three chins wobbling, gave a nod. "It's in the blood," he boasted. "We are descendents of Michelangelo, you know."
"A noble lineage," Saturday replied.
Down a set of spiral stairs and through a locked door. Down deep below the villa, a place for the Don's less....savory activities.
There was a man there, chained to a chair. It looked as if some of the mafiosi had been at work on him already, from the blood and the bruises. "The double agent you recently uncovered, I presume?" Saturday inquired, walking in a slow circle around the mostly unconscious man.
The Don's expression twisted with anger. "Ten years! One of my best men, a man I treated as if he were my own son! Only to find out he was a viper all along!"
"A grave sin indeed," Saturday replied, seemingly sympathetic. "And yet a terrible loss for your Family, should he be killed."
The Don suddenly focused a suspicious gaze on him. "What are you driving at? I invited you here to get me everything he's told whoever he's reporting to."
"And I will do so," Saturday replied soothingly. "But there is an opportunity here that could greatly benefit you. What if he could be made loyal to you? Serve as an agent for YOU instead of your enemy? What if you could keep his skills and have vengeance?"
"That's not possible," the Don snapped with a glower.
"Not by conventional means," Saturday replied with a small smile. "I shall use the art that runs in your family's veins as a means of explanation." Saturday moved behind the man in the chair, reaching out with one hand to touch the man's bloody temple. "Think of the mind as a piece of clay. As a child, it is unbaked, easily molded to the whims of the sculptor called life. In a grown man, the clay is fired, its form set. Only by being broken to pieces and painstakingly glued into another form can the shape be changed."
"Such methods have their uses, but there is inevitably....loss in such a process, and the sculpture born of it is by its very nature fragile."
"You propose to turn him into a child?" the Don scoffed.
"In a manner of speaking," Saturday replied, his voice smooth and unruffled. "What are we but our memories? What makes a boy a man but the blows and bruises of his life? Change those memories, ensure the blows strike where you please..."
"You can do this?" the Don asked, eager.
Saturday placed one hand under the prisoner's jaw, tilting the dazed man's head up to more easily glance into his eyes. "I will wipe the tablet clean, and nothing will be written in his clay save what will suit your purpose."
- Aristide Maillol
Saturday walked beside the Italian Don, his cane tap tapping on the stone. "I see you have an interest in sculpture," he remarked, idly.
The Don, all three chins wobbling, gave a nod. "It's in the blood," he boasted. "We are descendents of Michelangelo, you know."
"A noble lineage," Saturday replied.
Down a set of spiral stairs and through a locked door. Down deep below the villa, a place for the Don's less....savory activities.
There was a man there, chained to a chair. It looked as if some of the mafiosi had been at work on him already, from the blood and the bruises. "The double agent you recently uncovered, I presume?" Saturday inquired, walking in a slow circle around the mostly unconscious man.
The Don's expression twisted with anger. "Ten years! One of my best men, a man I treated as if he were my own son! Only to find out he was a viper all along!"
"A grave sin indeed," Saturday replied, seemingly sympathetic. "And yet a terrible loss for your Family, should he be killed."
The Don suddenly focused a suspicious gaze on him. "What are you driving at? I invited you here to get me everything he's told whoever he's reporting to."
"And I will do so," Saturday replied soothingly. "But there is an opportunity here that could greatly benefit you. What if he could be made loyal to you? Serve as an agent for YOU instead of your enemy? What if you could keep his skills and have vengeance?"
"That's not possible," the Don snapped with a glower.
"Not by conventional means," Saturday replied with a small smile. "I shall use the art that runs in your family's veins as a means of explanation." Saturday moved behind the man in the chair, reaching out with one hand to touch the man's bloody temple. "Think of the mind as a piece of clay. As a child, it is unbaked, easily molded to the whims of the sculptor called life. In a grown man, the clay is fired, its form set. Only by being broken to pieces and painstakingly glued into another form can the shape be changed."
"Such methods have their uses, but there is inevitably....loss in such a process, and the sculpture born of it is by its very nature fragile."
"You propose to turn him into a child?" the Don scoffed.
"In a manner of speaking," Saturday replied, his voice smooth and unruffled. "What are we but our memories? What makes a boy a man but the blows and bruises of his life? Change those memories, ensure the blows strike where you please..."
"You can do this?" the Don asked, eager.
Saturday placed one hand under the prisoner's jaw, tilting the dazed man's head up to more easily glance into his eyes. "I will wipe the tablet clean, and nothing will be written in his clay save what will suit your purpose."
There was nothing particularly exceptional about Jean Merlot. Oh, he was prone to skimming a bit off the top, willing to be bribed to overlook things here and there, and absolutely certain that colored folk were lesser creatures, but these things were far from uncommon. What he was was ideally positioned for Saturday's purposes, a man in a high enough position that people would notice and remember what happened to him, but not important enough to attract much attention on a wider scale...
Merlot had been amused when Saturday warned him that he'd angered the spirits, until his life had begun to fall apart. Business deals fell through and misfortune dogged his steps, negotiations ended in disaster. Merlot's former friends wanted nothing to do with a man who was hemorrhaging money, whose involvement in any affair tended to herald disaster.
There are so many ways to break a man. Twist a memory here, place a suggestion there, convince him that he is being hunted by things out of his worst nightmares. Create just enough evidence that there is a sliver of doubt among observers as to whether the thing is real or a product of madness....
Jean Merlot made his last desperate escape at the end of a rope, and not even what was left of his family's influence was enough to get him buried on hallowed ground. Not that it would have mattered, in the end.
The grave was shallower than it should have been, and hastily dug. Even the grave-diggers had not wanted to linger too long around what was left of a man who had been plagued by such...unnatural events. Saturday smiled as his more than human senses detected that a very special concoction of his own creation had been among those used by the undertaker.
There was nothing for human senses to see as Saturday extended his powers toward the shallow grave and spoke one solitary word "Rise." Moments later, a scratching sound could be heard as the corpse of Jean Merlot began to claw its way out of the grave.
Merlot had been amused when Saturday warned him that he'd angered the spirits, until his life had begun to fall apart. Business deals fell through and misfortune dogged his steps, negotiations ended in disaster. Merlot's former friends wanted nothing to do with a man who was hemorrhaging money, whose involvement in any affair tended to herald disaster.
There are so many ways to break a man. Twist a memory here, place a suggestion there, convince him that he is being hunted by things out of his worst nightmares. Create just enough evidence that there is a sliver of doubt among observers as to whether the thing is real or a product of madness....
Jean Merlot made his last desperate escape at the end of a rope, and not even what was left of his family's influence was enough to get him buried on hallowed ground. Not that it would have mattered, in the end.
The grave was shallower than it should have been, and hastily dug. Even the grave-diggers had not wanted to linger too long around what was left of a man who had been plagued by such...unnatural events. Saturday smiled as his more than human senses detected that a very special concoction of his own creation had been among those used by the undertaker.
There was nothing for human senses to see as Saturday extended his powers toward the shallow grave and spoke one solitary word "Rise." Moments later, a scratching sound could be heard as the corpse of Jean Merlot began to claw its way out of the grave.
